Get all 18 Dr. Nowt releases available on Bandcamp and save 30%.
Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of things i can see through the window, 5 Over the Facon: Dr. Nowt: The Early Years: 2012-2015 Singles(and Ready to Mingles), A Man Gets Eaten by a Shark, We Don't Belong Here/The Beast, Top Hat, LIVE FROM THE THIRD ROOM, A Bowl of Hair, When the Toad Breathes His Last, and 10 more.
1. |
Tumult
01:34
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2. |
11:59
03:33
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At 11:59PM GMT all the cogs inside Big Ben* locked up and the,
hands froze at barely even one degree, with those affected represented by the fraction of space in between.
And in a move no one predicted when the PM called a vote,
essential restorations and repairs of the clock were postponed,
with funds redistributed to what were deemed, “more desperate sectors”,
all beautifully scored by the outcry of those who were, but only just barely, affected.
When the palace fell to disrepair all wings but one were boarded up,
And though the family had to share a dozen bathrooms, they found that two were quite enough.
And the MPs who were against it all stood small and played along without the bottle to oppose,
So they rode their bikes to work, brought their lunches from home and they carpooled to their donkey shows.
And when the powers’ real agendas came to light the voters backs were promptly turned,
And as their parties made like Grenfell they screamed,
“We don’t need no water, let the mother fuckers burn!”.
And the people thrived and stayed alive and they kept their bellies fed,
And when the tyrants died, their state funerals were bypassed, cause they can’t use that money when they’re dead.
And by the time the clock struck twelve the country was doing so well that it became a brand new symbol of how we can pull through the worst,
And it peeled out through the streets,
“we can reach everybody’s needs, and we can profit but we always put our people first.”
No longer should we prioritise outdated concepts and monuments to the past over lives.
You must have lost your fucking minds.
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3. |
Fleischwolf
03:13
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Who the fuck am I to validate another life brought to an end it’s creation was a means to?
How can I decide if something living should or shouldn’t die? Who the fuck am I?
Just hosing off dregs of fat and sinew in shreds. Torn flesh - what a mess - peeling off a meat grinder.
Nothing left. Laid to rest with the rest of the leftovers where they
collect, soaking wet. I’m a meat grinder.
Living each day in a meat grinder.
Living my days in a meat grinder.
I won’t buy a steak pie but I’ll eat your leftovers. No waste, no weight on my shoulders.
But who the fuck am I to decide where the line is? Participation is hard to define.
It’s a blurred line between the kind of suffering and violence we pay to stay blind to (horrors unfurl),
and the total
separation of a cage bred people. Free range, hate-fed, red paint in the face of the world.
“There’s nothing inside, it’s just a body that died.”, “If you don’t then someone else will so you might as well eat it. It’s nice!”.
Enslave, rape, take a life, cook, clean it up, it’s all the same game. And pick yourself a label that fits, and if it doesn’t then squeeze into it until it’s easy for people to get.
Or just do what you like. Do what you think’s right,
regardless of how easily you can be defined.
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4. |
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On a warm afternoon in June I heard a tune on Youtube and soon I was looking the band up.
I could barely stand up after the night before but they’d a gig that night and it wasn’t long until doors.
I pulled on my trainers and a shabby old t shirt and got a chippy tea on the way to the train.
I got off still rough so I went to the Co-Op. A can of Coke and a ciggy, I was right as rain.
I got to the venue and paid on the door, saw the last ten minutes of a shitty support,
had a look at the merch but it was all overpriced so I went to the bar and got myself a pint.
I got chatting with this bird, I got off with her twice, then her mate wandered of so I got a FREE pint!
It were reet, she were cool. We’d gone to the same school. We had a laugh, had a kiss and then, just like a fool,
I went off for a piss but before I got her number. I came back from the bog and she was gone. I tried to hunt her down but the band came on so I sacked it off and before long,
I wound up in a pit. I lost my shit, it was sick, I got hit it the teeth and my shirt got ripped.
Black eye and a kick to the shin, that were it. I just crowd surfed out and stood at the back for the rest of the gig,
by the merch stand, eyeing up shirts and hoodies and hats, patches and underpants thinking,
“It‘s still pretty warm out but it has started raining and this shirt’s fucking gone if it catches on owt.
I like that design and it’s been a pretty good night. It’d be cool to have something to remember it by,
so I want to buy merch but just not for that price. I could buy a t shirt from the fella’ outside.
I can see him through the window laying down all his shit. One for me, one for my mate, they’re just two for ten quid.
It won’t be as good but it’s sound, I’ll save pounds and the factories that made them both burned to the ground.”
And the sum of their fatalities affords me a decision. Endless hems and seams on endless tees and hoodies in endless shapes and shades and fittings.
One weak design for every song in an extensive back catalogue and I’m at the merch stand feeling torn apart.
‘Cause the bands that I admire are singing songs for the downtrodden and helpless,
addressing what is wrong in this shitty world but,
“don’t fret or grieve for humanity lost, sell your ideologies at cost”,
well I may or may not. It depends on what and how much I’ve poured into my gut.
So while some Bangladeshi children are commuting to work I’m watching Capitalist Downfall and I’m going berserk in a pit.
Six cans in, I’m pissed. I’ll probably hit up the merch, see that familiar fist in the air and buy it,
like I’m not even aware of the irony missed ‘cause,
“Shit, man! That’s a fucking nice t shirt!”
And I’ll trade in my morals for a quality print on Gildan Heavy Cotton.
It’s all just so accessible and the source is oh, so easy to ignore.
Cheap logos overload my wardrobe, it’s buckling beneath the weight of my impulse.
I don’t really listen to CDs anymore but I want to support the band.
I could just buy a couple of patches and stickers and badges now and try to get a t shirt second hand,
but I won’t find any local punk t shirts in Oxfam.
And if those that preach and hope to reach, inform and teach can find it cheap,
they will exploit that tragedy for merch and I will fucking buy it.
This is the way that it is. We didn’t design the cycle but why are we waiting to break it?
We’re taking the piss. Pumping our fists in the air, round and round in a circle pit.
I want a shirt and it’s easy to learn to forget how it got here,
the literal sweat, blood and tears that went into it. Pocket change paid for it,
mark it up, market it, profit off exploitation.
You’re part of it. I’m part of it.
But that’s just life. Why’s that just life? That’s not just life for you and I.
I look cool... You look cool... We look cool but what’s the price?
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5. |
Wake Up
00:39
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I don’t want to wake up. Not another one. I can’t face this. Why can’t I let go?
I don’t want to wake up. Can’t be another one. I just don’t want to know.
Can I forget? Can I pretend? Can I rescind my application?
Can I desist? Can I descend? Can I amend my proclamation
Can I go now?
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6. |
NO
02:09
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Oh my god! This is not a dream, this is really
happening.
Better the devil you know, eh? That old familiar girth, nailing you to the earth while you eat dirt and call it cake.
(Liar) Millions are suffering for every selfish choice you ever make.
What a world... What a stupid fucking world!
We’re so afraid of change we’d rather set the world to flame, sit back and watch than admit that we may have made some mistakes.
We pay the wages of liars and fakes who will lie to the faces of desperate people for financial and
political gain.
And we give a stage to wankers and pricks who spit sick and ignorant shit in our faces and we lap it up again and again and again and again and again and again.
When’s it going to end? If it ever ends... Will it ever end? It’ll never end.
Fuck this! I just want to go home but I don’t know where home is.
Who’s drowning in worry?
Who’s got a woefully apt allegory?
Who’s got another hateful story?
Another truly sickening tale for me to really sink my aching teeth into as I lie down on these rattling railway tracks before me?
It’s another day. Come on, really? Not another day. Not
already, not another motherfucking day!
I can’t face this! I don’t want this! I can’t be this! I can’t bare to see much more of this!
Turn it off, tear it up, throw it in the river. Burn it up, tear it off, cast me to the sea!
Deep in a trench of despair I’ll breath peacefully at last.
I only hope you’ll be there with me.
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7. |
RSI
01:01
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8. |
Shit Kickers
06:12
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Good morning to an ever eager and over-punctual tomorrow.
Lamp light burns like the toast that rests in the belly, unsettled and shaken by steps upon steps upon steps followed,
to stand silent in a silent carriage and wait,
through hushed ‘excuse me’s and the weight of two hundred minds on one hundred seats of old, broken frames and torn upholstery.
A train, shaking rhythmically with it’s age and that of the rails it graces daily.
It races. We’ve barely faces, merely masks, peeling piece by piece
to reveal defeat as pieces fall and creases form beneath the faces we’ve painted on,
eager as tomorrow only for a seat.
Our blank expressions show acceptance of delays.
Same time, same place each day.
Escape the cage and get to work to dig our graves,
in exchange for a wage made pocket change in days by rent and bills and loan repayments,
food to sustain us and our desire to escape from the bigger cage, if only for a day.
But we stay. Stand by until the next pay day. “This time.”
But it’s enough to stay alive.
Eat and shelter, treat yourself to a few nights out in your nice dress and your Christmas perfume.
In your shitkickers and designer jeans you feel alive!
Enough, at least, to unleash the beast between the sheets...
“We only do this once in a while”.
Clean up. Rinse and repeat.
They’re all just bankers. Your boss is a wanker.
But it’s enough to get us through: Drink, fight and screw
to the tune of washed up washouts crying on the TV in your living room.
My name is Nash and I’m here to say, “quit your job and it’ll be okay”.
Sell as much stuff as you can on eBay, burn all the rest and run away.
Just live your life day by day, don’t worry about what the people say.
My name’s Dr. Nowt and I’m here to say, “Fuck it all if it’s not okay!”
We wander home through aching streets with hearts breaking at our feet, but we’re too tired to see them, too tired to still the shakes.
Unwind from another day to wind up tight again tomorrow.
The days go on relentless, unwavering and offensive,
so we gamble our lives away, believing that any second now there’ll be a big payout,
but we realise too late that we’ve no chips in the game, we spent up long before it even began.
We’re just watching them play.
(with the occasional 50p chip thrown our way, at a table with a two grand minimum)
Give me a life, I’ll show you how to waste it. Show me the world, I’ll let it pass me by.
Three letters, six numbers, you’re nowt but statistics. You’re nowt at all. Fuck it all! Live ‘til you die!
No! Show me the box I’m confined to and I will decide when I will leave it, pending your approval.
I’ve nothing to offer but service for life.
I don’t want to wake up. Not another one. I can’t face this, why can’t I let go? I just don’t want to know.
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9. |
Bubblegum
03:51
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Blowing bubbles on the corner of my street.
Old gum sticks the pavement to my feet.
The weeds sprout out from between the cracks and cover the floor.
It’s not mine anymore,
And it’s alright.
Drinking white cider and pissing in the back yard.Wondering how the neighbour’s garden looks so lush.
The sun beats down on the arid ground, and the song remains the same.
No one knows my name,
And it’s alright.
What do I even need it for?
Is anybody keeping score?
We thought that we had heard it all, But the stories go on and on and on.
(We can all go home)
Skies have eyes and they’re watching over us.
Leeches feed ‘til their hosts are out of blood.
Obsidian days on the bluest sapphire backdrop yet.
We saturate in a bubblegum sunset.
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Dr. Nowt Manchester, UK
Born at the dank floor of a ceaselessly deepening pit, Dr. Nowt, in his decreasing sanity, haphazardly hurls notes and words together, bellowing out the result upward through the void in the hope that it might reach the surface, even just to the lip of his abode where by chance, one might happen upon his cries and project outward his message of peace, kindness, hope and a distaste for humanity. ... more
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