"Free music for the People :: free People for the Music"

[est'd 2004 A.D. :: New Jersey]

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

ShitSleeper featured in....

Time-Lapse of Prague

Hope everyone is well this holiday season. Keep your Chrimbus bushes trimmed and wet.  If you find yourself in LA and have any relation to Tamur Records, you know who to call.


cigarettes and dogs

photo by Heather Mathews

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Hot and Stinky

Fresh off the press.

Hard-copies for sale.


email: tbandthess@gmail.com for more info


come to a show.

hear selected tracks:

and extra congratulations to Conor Meara.
Noah Samuel is on the fast track to becoming the best dude [period]

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Stills from LA Diplomat Rabbit

I remember the good ol' days. and even yesterday was one of them and, my, has it been a long and strange road. It never really started and it never really ends. Comfortable being More Lost than ever, and always looking for more, always getting rid of as much as possible.

I miss the basements and i miss being underground.

Love and miss you all

Sunday, October 16, 2011

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

& going back in time a bit...

this has been one of my favorite albums for a while now. finally on the internet, take full advantage and play loudly.

chris lyons - dead dog drowning

from 1/2 of alabama blacksmoke, here's a new solo record:

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Dear addict, New York is not just a giant horse turd

Here's an example:

Peopling is noise. Lo-fi and dirty, this one man band alters the efficacy of your glands.

This isn’t some bullshit infused improvised drone jam band.

Hypnotic: yes. Calculated: probably, more or less. Worth listening to: definitely.


Thursday, September 29, 2011

dear addicts of drugs not yet synthesized (2)

rasputin's secret police are working on a new one they're recording themselves, snoozer just recorded 11 songs in a day or two at dan & james' "the sex dungeon" in philly and this is my new favorite band from boston... a drum/guitar duo that just went on two month-long tours back to back (the first with ugh god, second with kitchen's floor). their album, "fucking despair" (available on 12"!) was recorded at the sex dungeon too... (and speaking of ugh, if you haven't listened to "a pony on top of a mountain" yet get on it. don't start with track 5 but keep it in mind...)

saw the three up there last night in a diner/bar in south philly (teri's... at least there's foot traffic?) & all but one of the ugh dudes were there. it was good as fuck, wish ya were there. this stuff's just the jizz of life... or anyway... well... at least makes it normaler. bearable-er. makes you want to play loud music again.

philly's been growing on me a little more every year since that one show at the steakhaus when i was what... 17? new york can and will always be welcome to suck my balls and the decent people in new jersey are either too north, too east, or just unable to find shit worth starting. there's an itch but it's all lacking a good heavy scratch. i guess we go to philly for that.

or new brunswick, but the crowd there... the "ask a punk" basement show crowd... well they're more about hype over an all-chick band that took way too long to set up and didn't even understand the concept of tuning than realizing that they suck. it's just hard to enjoy when every time you're standing in the back yard the dude next to you in the studded jean jacket with the colt 45 is flirting with the other dude with the puffy sideburns with the OE and they're bonding over how much of a "theoretical physics dude" the one is and the phrase "no homo" is thrown around with the utmost sincerity.

or, you know, the tone-deaf plump girl from rutgers who wandered around back, ripped her shirt a little bit getting caught on something as she stumbled up, and is obviously trying to get fucked. that's the extent of the foot traffic.

that's not saying i don't have faith in jersey but jesus if it isn't hard to find good honest to dirt music here. brick mower still kicks ass. they're worth the the trip.

the tamur show in piscataway couldn't have gone any better except for some technical difficulties from Trololo. it was at a metal-working foundry with parking lots on two sides and a field of solar panels across the street. 8 bands played and they all played really well. good crowd, good people, good music. here's hoping that spot isn't a one-off.

here's a show oct 5th in south philly. here's a show oct 14th somewhere else in PA. + alien father, huge pupils, snoozer and RSP are playing at the el bar on the 15th. meet me out there... one of three? i'll buy you a beer.

i keep putting up shit here. it gets better, it gets worse, working them all out still and playing guitar and singing every day. it helps.

be well. send music.


Sunday, September 4, 2011

philly cops.

don't you hate when you go to a show, everything's just going fucking fantastically and Snoozer's loud as fuck and kicking your ass -- this time with a bassist -- and then FINALLY fucking Rasputin's Secret Police, THE FUCKING 'SPUTIN, start up with fucking Asparagus, raping your ear pussies, BUT THEN a little fucking cop starts screaming from the back of the basement "FUCK THIS AND FUCK THAT AND FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING PIECES OF SHIT FUCKERS FUCKING FUCK FUCK" telling you "I'M GETTIN' FUCKIN' HOT DOWN HERE AND Y'ALL WON'T LIKE ME WHEN I'M FUCKIN' STEAMED, LAST MOTHERFUCKER UP THE FUCKIN' STAIRS GETTIN' LOCKED THE FUCK UP SO MOVE" and so you're slowly filing upstairs, totally not intimidated by the little piggy but terribly bummed out... the bands are coming upstairs too but they're annoyed that they'll have to kill time around the corner waiting for the 20 fucking cops filling the house to clear out so they can lug their used and unused hundreds of pounds of equipment up the fucking stairs and into a car and back home.

then you wind up at a bar with some magic the gathering pro champions from out of town, the room half as crowded as the rock and roll show but feels 10x as crowded and you get raped by 10 guys with beards and plaid and there's some shitty guy with a shitty digital turntable playing shitty music and all the white kids are trying to dance without feeling a fucking thing except their sweaty balls and the potential of some girl with high waisted mom-jeans and a bicycle outside, chick pea breath and all.

that shit sucks.

the show on the 17th at Rutgers U's Sculpture facility (new bruns, NJ) --- see post below --- is moving along nicely and as soon as all the bands are on board i'm sure Sydney will come up with some sick flyer that you can print out and give to other people to throw away for you because they won't even know what they're missing.

facebook event too. because we know how much y'all love facebook.

Friday, September 2, 2011


Sydney (Trololo, ex-Rainbow Party) and I are putting on a blow-out so save that date and look out for more info.

Invitations to play sent to (1) Alien Father, (2) Huge Pupils & (2 1/2) Creeper for short sets, (3) Trololo, (4) Tom Blacklung & the Smokestacks (or [alt. 4] Pony Express),

popular NB bands to draw a crowd ([5] Brickmower, [6] Mountain Dude, [7] Harpoon Forever)

and Philly bands (8) Rasputin's Secret Police (who are playing TONIGHT in Philly, 8th and Diamond, come out dammit!), (9) Ugh God or (alt. 9) Hulk Smash.

I'm listing these bands publicly even though they're not all confirmed because you should know them anyway. So click away, enjoy the music, get excited, send me a line.

Also looking to put on a show in Philly with help from Curt from Ugh God. more info on that if it materializes.


Wednesday, August 31, 2011

"ice ice baby" was a b-side too

from Huge Pupils' "love concussion + 1"

a drum+vocal (Sean) & bass (Bryan) duo from north New Jersey they're working on a full length at the moment. stay tuned, kids.... TURN IT LOUD

Thursday, July 28, 2011


SAVE THE DATE! 9-17-2011 Showcase (in the early development stages) :: please e-mail me at conormeara@gmail.com if you'd like to help or are interested in pinning down a venue or if you're in a band and would like to get involved. you can also add me on google+ as i'll be organizing this at least with myself and Axel through common circular groundings over there.

i'm looking at you: Rasputin's Secret Police/Brandon Can't Dance, Alien Father, NoN-SToP!, Donner Party Picnic, Reality War, Thy Burden, Huge Pupils, Tom Blacklung & the Smokestacks, Pony Express, Shapes, Timid Roosevelts, Moister/Rainbow Party/Sydney etc., Curt/Ugh God/Hulk Smash, Scout Paré-Phillips, Beach Arabs, and all you other bottom-feeders.

so save the date, get in touch, we're going to make this a moment to nostalgize for less interesting lengths of time to come.

peace, love, & all my best,

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Radar Noon - Laser Party

Made by Alien Father's dear friend, and sometimes bassist, Steve Sandler. Git it!

Creeper - Puto EP

new band with Mike Topley (drums, Alien Father) + Sean Hard-On (drums & vocals, Huge Pupils). listen and download for free via Bandcamp.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

working on the new alfath record

recorded live at mercy sound with joe plourde back in october. this is july (i'm having a baby and just bought a house). here was november:

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Pony Express: 1...2...3...RIDE!

LINK [bandcamp]

rob weitzer on gtr & vocals backed by joe plourde (tom blacklung & the smokestacks/hunt club/canaries/at any cost) on lead gtr, pat "chocolate milkman" meyers on bass, josh rosenburg (tom blacklung & the smokestacks, thy burden) on drums. yes.

Monday, May 9, 2011

New Tom Blacklung and the Smokestacks Album Coming Soon

But for now, you can enjoy this little diddy:

[link escaped]

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Note #1

A note on amphetamines and cancer
A.L. Owens

Long periods of constant consciousness; messy webs of strung-together mornings and strung-out ideas become forgotten conclusions lying fully clothed on a sheet-less mattress; and reaching ugly dopamine plateaus on overly sunny afternoons in aimless traffic, getting nowhere, burning tobacco, cursing endless lanes of elderly shoppers en route to Peer 1 Imports; damning the life-sucking parade of tank-sized SUV’s, their respective small-penised pilots sitting calm and confident, encased in what seems like several feet of military grade armor , I’m squirming and squinting, searching for the lost horizon, a pretty tree, any sign that life is not hellishly futile… but then giving up my search when I notice “Dora The Explorer” on a TV in the back of a nearby minivan. But frustratingly I can’t hear it, so I focus on the radio. Get the equalizer absolutely perfect. Recede into the back of the psyche and try to prevent full-on panic.

These long periods of consciousness are, time and time again, worth their respective weight in gold -- often to the point of confusion and despair -- and can abruptly coalesce in the faint smell of my own under-washed underarms seeping outward from skin to thermal shirt to collared flannel, leaving the stale scent of Old Spice in the armpits of my brown leather jacket, the pockets of which are full of crumpled notes to a future version of myself who never shows up looking ready to work, always dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, shoes untied and torn, unable to see his once-clear Goal through now dirty glass frames and sweaty corneas. Here, thoughts race in circles and curly-Q’s, and I’m running out of clothing; and as the sun appears, I’m rashly cutting pants far too short and sleeves too crooked, vainly longing for the momentary perfection of a single unattainable trouser-length or shirt-style, head lost amidst the focus of an indestructible amphetamine high, and only after much rest, do I come to the realization that these long, dream-like experiences are just as unreal as the intense fourteen hours of an acid trip, and just as irrational as the most panicked moment of spasm in any of the late-night sugar rushes I endure. And yet amphetamines, harsh as they may be, always seem more useful, if not much more so, than their fellow outlawed substances, especially in distant retrospect, after the brain’s necessary chemicals have returned to comfortable homeostasis, and clear thought can once again emerge from the fog; to me these sugary government-issued pills are made all the more beautiful by their fleeting nature. It is also worth noting the strange manner by which these medications are often obtained; from hopeless suburban heroin addicts, who will have nothing to do with the anxiety-crammed high of speed, to innocent high school freshman, who live completely ignorant of the true nature of the pills they are prescribed.

Dense as rock or light as air, you can’t climb a chemical mountain without, at some point, falling, fast or slow, hard or soft, in black-and-white or Imax stereo surround-sound, into a catatonic depression of indeterminate length, dreamless sleep and wakeless life. The roof of the mouth peels. You’ve lost the ability to get passively drunk. You’ve really got to want it, got to focus, but usually I find myself quite capable both.

“Going to sleep” is no longer a decision or an activity one can decide to undertake, (nor does it, for that matter, seem like a requirement for further existence at all…) but sleeping becomes an inevitably inconvenient end to a semi-drunken-drive of ugly metaphors, lost in a nameless part of Northern New Jersey... out of gas, out of pills, out of people and out of pants. Cut short and bleached blonde, the taste of death finally becomes too much for the tongue and associated nostrils. Slip, skid, and be swallowed by the light of 1000 factories that, although you may fight the idea, are just as naturally existing on this earth as the Grand Canyon, or the Delaware River. And relative to the length of the human technological age, this sweeping skyline of smoke-producing factories took just as long to form. An empty sprawl of industrial and mechanical fields stretches from swamp to overpass and under train track laden bridges, falling flush against brown bodies of city-side water, a beautiful sight for both interstate traffic and train-riders alike.

Amphetamines are stupid in their blunt tactlessness – they’re skin deep. And like everything else in our bodies, they inevitably turn cancerous in self-destruction. In the human body it is only a matter of arbitrary time before one single cell rashly decides it can no longer wait the proper amount of time before procreating itself. Similarly, your average male office-building accountant, suffering from your average amount of office building sexual frustration, general loneliness and despair, will eventually snap and resort to paying for intercourse from a hired prostitute. A single pre-cancerous cell in his body behaves no differently: It prematurely reproduces, often unprovoked, incessantly and without much prior thought, darkening its once banal and vanilla future, heading towards an almost certainly bad end. And when this inconsiderate cell so rudely pops prior to its scheduled time, screaming “I cannot take this monotony any longer! ”, others like it are sure to join in the anarchical frenzy almost at once, life turning against itself, aging with too much haste causing an eventual destruction of the larger being, who for the moment, is ignorant of all this. The irony exists in this first cell’s implied intentions: it wants only to create more of its life-giving self. Contrary to basic logic this is not the innocent action it may seem. Often the worst harm is done with the best intentions.

And the beauty here is that it always starts with one. It is one drag of a cigarette that finally gives a man lung cancer. Strangely, this gives me hope -- to know one out of millions can start a revolution against the greater power and bring it down by living too much and too fast; contagious zealously traveling fast in the prairie wind. Consider Albert Hoffman discovering LSD, deep in his first trip, squirting out drops from the first vile of acid ever produced onto the innocent tongues of his unknowing friends, and single-handedly starting a revolution - a group of subjects become hell-bent on living to the fullest, living for the sake of living, being in the moment and for the moment, not waiting around for a distant “happy” future or some monetary goal of fiscal security. In this instance, the idealism ends after the larger Being, in this case “The Man” himself, has been destroyed from within. No, it never did happen, but this is the dream of the accidental cancer that brought down the government.

You remember with a sudden shudder of fear that there is Nowhere to run. Don’t give in to the nonsensical delusion to which society lazily provides with it’s inner-most efforts, to some future concept of “rest”, a vague idea which somehow encapsulates both mental progress and physical healing – an imaginary mental “leftover” of sorts; “retirement”, haunting the subconscious and flooding the tired eyes of the fifty-year 9 to 5 worker. You can hide in a movie, hide in an album, a song, a poem…but only for a moment. Again and again your tie-dye shirt will be torn from your dirty-hippy torso and cordially exchanged for a starched and pressed collared shirt, most-likely across a clean counter-top freshly shined with Windex, but under closer inspection is subtly stained with several decades worth of brown coffee-mug rings. All of the known solar system will be represented here, but you will not notice. Here, at the eggshell counter, you will also receive your first Charlie Brown necktie and a fresh tube of Chap Stick made from some sort of beeswax or rare animal excrement. Congratulations, You have begun to die.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

find one of... This

Buy this ^ lovely old hunk of ivory and become a part of Ye Olde Neighborhood Athletique .
you! fall downward into our circle of young elders, begging, hoping and loathing our darkening, sickly skies as they turn and turn and turn... we shalt spread our medieval asphalt with a relentless repetition of rehearsed, tirelessly ill-conceived cacophonous feedback; help us find our lost prayers which were so suddenly swallowed by a the parking lot of a plasticized CVS. to our drugged and lonely planet we scream! we are all too far from the calm of the chaos!

( and you would play it distorted and loud, obviously)

"The Fender Rhodes Piano Bass came out as a joint venture between Harold Rhodes and Leo Fender doing in the late fifties. The 32-note keyboard is the lowest 2 1/2 octaves of a full 73-note Rhodes. The first time the PianoBass shows up in the Fender program isn’t until the 1962-63 catalogue.

The PianoBass was meant to be placed on top of another keyboard to be played with your left hand. Of course any music fans of the ’60′s know that Ray Manzarek of the Doors made this instrument famous. It was that “cheesy” low rumble that’s heard on their earlier stuff that completed their sound." ( from http://www.kimkinrade.com/ )

Sunday, January 30, 2011

To All Those On Higher Ground (with their bright jewelry )

a message from alec; an impression; a gesture of joking under a cloak of hoping/:

oh ye of high groundednesses,
tell us how we erred on a path toward the wrinkle of the sky and the nipple of the unicorn. big things are small! small things are big! oh treasured leader, lead me from this valley of death! oh the folds of the vagina are strong but the wisdom is from the ground, and the grass! the testes may hold the sperm but the oceans will always behave accordingly. oh dry mouth of cigarette, the blood is red but also we get the blues... i know you are the teste of all testes! the raddest being! the bringer of shit from the toilet to the sink! mmmm! discovery is a meaningless mind quest of manipulation involving soap and a sock/before dinner. live as you suckle the breasts of a mother like two succulent eggs, only to be nurtured and nestled and nibbled! then fuck yourself silly, drowning in dirt.

breathe like the breathing is the only thing left in your sack of candles! a parcel of meat, irrigating the scent of all nations! live like a sack of poo in a farmhouse, which slowly rots and vanishes, becoming itself, and other things. everyone is both ways! but you are more like a touch of velvet under a toothpaste dream. a boat on the water of fishes! cast us down with thunderous anal releases of pleasure... and we shall treasure your turds forever! forever and ever! till the beds bleed black and the blinds bring songs!

lately i've been sad! but nothing brings sadness more than the big happy sky emoting emotion emotionally motioning to me all things that are great! bring us hope from your breadth of 3000 dollar knowledge, for we are both poor of spirit and poor of beans!

lay inside your own penis and feel it throbbing against the cheeks of treachery, the bowels of lobotomy, the sirens of the sea... there is nothing left but hope and fear and hope and fear...

until a new tree grows and plants seeds in your eyes/ liver/ hand / face / face / face.


(consider this a kind gesture in an unkind world)

Friday, January 21, 2011

limited time only!!!

"formally known as Baby Dino, I've changed my moniker to Moon and have spent the past year writing and recording these songs. they are never before heard. I hope you give them a listen, and if I'm lucky, maybe you'll even enjoy them. only 200 free downloads of the complete album available. once the free downloads run out it will be on sale for $8 online, and available on vinyl through Death By Audio records soon.

click here for your free download

cover photo courtesy of Phil Elverum, thank you Tearjerker, Eskimeaux, Ghost/Light, Mount Eerie, New York City, A Place To Bury Strangers, Grooms, Björk, San Francisco, my father, and my friends."

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Thursday, January 6, 2011

my first post to JOYdropper

will be posting here when things are added to the catalog and when it's inappropriate for JOYdropper, but be sure to keep up on JD... all things jersey, all things good.


new dead bugs for a dollar

thank you, hunterdon county NJ.