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We’ve updated our Terms of Use. You can review the changes here.

Working Class Artists

by Working Class Artists

supported by
vincentwalden
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vincentwalden I also hate wine. Favorite track: I Hate Wine.
ptbeatroots
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ptbeatroots Aptly revealed to the world on the birthday of working class hero John Lennon.
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1.
Intro 03:16
Formicae populus. Formicae populus. Formicae populus. Custodes tua pulchra temporis et spatii. Gloriam tuam duriorem frontibus. Forma est perfectum. Servite unus est salvificem interfectis colonis Romanorum. Laudare formica. Laudare formica. Laudare formica. Laudare formica!
2.
Dad, I’m sorry I was out so late, I was in a TESCO carpark, slurping up the cock of a Corsa driver, told me he’d drive faster, his 8-ball stick is dripping wet with my saliva! Oh my gosh dad he’s just so fucking fit! He removed his muffler just to see my tits! This teenage fuck boy; gave him such a suck boy, he’s stole my horse-girl heart. Mum, I’m sorry I was out so late, I was in a stable, balls deep in a posh bird now my jeans stink of mud, and sludge, and horse shit. Can’t run that damn machine can you wash them for me please? Check it out bruv, I slammed my suspension, the only danger to me now is a fucking speed bump! Stomp on the accelerator, tyre squeal and I’m away I’m off to go and honk my horn at underage girls! My first memory is riding on a pony but money don’t matter, I like chavvy boys called Tony! They’re dangerous, exciting; in a council house. They smell of Lynx Africa, and I love the way they cheat on me! Techno, Clubnight, rock up in my Adidas. Fresh fade, gold chain, mate that beat is fucking class! I’ll be sucking down balloons filled with laughing gas, now my wallet’s empty, where the fuck’s my dole cheque!? Horse Girls and Car Boys are the same breed, their pathetic lives, no surprise, it makes my eyes bleed! Horse Girls and Car Boys; a cunt stampede! ‘Bunch of useless wankers, same problem, different steed! X4
3.
Listen, LISTEN! No, we don’t have guitars. But that doesn’t mean we aren’t punk rock. It's all about the attitude, It's all about the message. The message is: FUCK YOU! Now don’t make us spit at you. Don’t make us spit! Don’t make us spit at you. Don’t make us spit! For god’s sake, don’t make us spit at you. You wouldn’t like us when we’re slavering... Punk isn’t dead it’s just; taking some time out for itself; listening to the best of pink floyd and kind of forgetting what all the anger was about. Some of these are bangers, y’know? Some of these are bangers. Some of these are actual motherfucking bangers, and I can’t help but lift my lighter to the sky when I hear that “wish you were here” one. I’m not proud of it, but the slow lurch of it, sometimes makes me cry. You ever heard something sound more wooden Than a guitar played badly by someone who can’t even tell the difference Between a perfect fifth and a devil’s tritone? You haven’t. Because there’s nothing. NOTHING! Nothing worse than someone who thinks they’re in the zone. Scrunching their face up, making that wood “sing”, strings slicing up your skin. Dropping the plectrum, you say you don’t need it anyway: The failures give you fuel for more sloppily delivered songs. More sloppily delivered songs! More sloppily delivered songs!!! Songs... Songs? I wouldn’t call them songs if I was profoundly deaf since birth. And even then I could still feel the vibrations, annoying me while I’m trying to make the best of my other senses. Yeah, fuck guitars. I am my own instrument… An instrument of anarchy.
4.
send help 01:50
5.
Ant Milk 02:25
Out here looking for some high. Can’t get through to my guy. Other numbers? Naw, ain’t ringing. Just looking for a man who’s slinging. Thinking I should call it a night, when out of sight comes a little creep. Says his stuff’s real dirt cheap, make you feel like you’re asleep. Told him I would take the whole lot He said: “Man, that’s a LOT!” Looking in the bag: “No, it’s not.” Walking home with the bag: “No it’s not.” Lie down home on my bed. There’s them thoughts in my head. Can’t forget what it said. CAN’T FORGET WHAT IT SAID. Open the bag. Drink it all down in one go. This is when things go real slow. This is when things go real slow. x2 Start to sink through my bed. Sound and colour fill my head. Floatin' to another planet, now I'm coming on the comet. See the spectres loud and clear, got a message that I need to hear. No, there ain't no time for fear. Never coming back my dear. Machine elves with milky hearts, oiling up their magic parts and making objects with their words. Love is a constant, and we're all I. LOVE IS A CONSTANT, AND WE’RE ALL I. "Deliver us the ant-milk" They build. "I drank it all up inside my gills". "We know", they mouth and smile a joy, "The milk was inside you all along!" Open the me. Drink it all down in one go. This is when things go real slow. This is when things go real slow. x2 That guy was dealing ant-milk. X8
6.
I Hate Wine 02:42
Dinner party has run dry, I roll my eyes up to the sky. They’re talking ‘bout their kids again, I wish that I was fucking dead. Jonathan has started walking; beat his brother, first to talking, Jonty has got his first teeth, he even bit Dave’s fucking niece. Gertrude’s passed with flying colours, Daisy made the hockey team! Lucy’s reading maths at cambridge; Isabelle’s designed a drawbridge. I need stuff to dull this nightmare, Burnt through all my drink too quickly, host says that he’s got some more, but big surprise, it’s fucking wine. I hate wine so shut your whining. Stood there blanc look on your face, think you’ve got expensive taste. I hate wine so shut your whining. chaise lounge fucking overused, this alcohol can’t be your muse! You make me see red! It’s time to go to bed. I’d rather drink some beer, ‘cause wine tastes queer and save my teeth from going grey! Vineyard dreams up in your head, just move to france you fucking pleb! Leave the grapes where they belong, it’s where your problems all stem from! Dave says: “Clay makes wine taste better!”. Read it in his wine newsletter, stacking mags up to the sky, he makes me want to fucking cry. There’s more to life than pinot grigio: A finer hoppy amber ale! Or maybe double IPA? That would make my fucking day! I love ales so shut your whining! Sours are my favourite, I’ll even fucking savour it! I love ales so shut your whining! Frambois, stout, and porter too! Something bitter makes me poo!
7.
Modern day dystopia, starve like Ethiopia, but a first world problem like a broken photocopier. It’s not food that you lack, your heart, not your belly’s empty. All are missing something in the land of the plenty. I’m a paragon of poverty. Fed up with the snobbery. Stronger, faster, harder: It’s all just daylight robbery. Spending spending spending, could be days until it’s ending. Now the world is in the toilet, no amount of money’s mending. All these iPhone zombies, marching in a line towards the newest software update, only progress bars to pass the time. FINE. Just let them grapple with their minds: Children craving their destruction, now you tell me what’s the real crime? Politicians squabbling. Will he, I, or she be king? Warlord consciousness, wage a war that’s bottomless, dividing up these continents: Pointless lines no consequence. Borders don’t matter when you’re dropping all this ordnance. FUCK! An omnibus of pompousness, exploiting all the populous, they don’t fucking notice while they’re buried in subconsciousness. In a prison of technology, at war with our biology, no human evolution in this cyber demagoguery. Honestly, come the end-times I’m a prodigy. I’ll be fighting back against the evil techno sodomy. Sick silicone dreams, raised on Facebook self esteem. Morality is preached but rarely fucking seen. Routine: You wake up, log on, watch the screen. Are you a human being or a marketing machine? We’re trying to save the world before we drown in fucking gasoline! Quarantine is the only safety from this new regime. The apocalypse is here, how’d the fuck it go unseen? All is grey where once was green, no more nature to be seen. Humanity is deemed to be needed for a preen, but we’re far too busy on our screens to see what can be seen! Concrete jungle expanding, mother nature’s guillotine, living on a blighted Earth, childbirth; our children pray to corporations; candy Crush indoctrination, brand new phone? Sim? Temptation, micro-transaction acclimation, data-driven decimation, bluetooth murder ends all nations. Watch it all with deep frustration. Devastation. We can’t save the world with legislation. There’s no more chances for salvation. Machinery is reigning king, here’s the human abdication: 7 billion people, scrolling, and scrolling and, scrolling, and scrolling, and zoning out, can’t even eat a fucking meal without 7 million pictures for social media. Is it the food or the likes that’s feeding ya? x3 7 billion people, scrolling, and scrolling, scrolling, and scrolling, not waking up. We are the kids taught not to give a fuck. Crops in the fields are failing and nothing is grown. The whole world is dying. Look up from your phone.
8.
9.
The Man 01:49
He's got me waiting in the line, he's got me losing my mind, I'm rolling through the 9 to 5 to take a shit on his time. Pray to him all day and night. Hours working, schedule tight. Walking back from work tonight, pound the drugs to hide your plight. I’m built into the system, I sit and must assist him. We’re all a twisted victim, dictum preys on our existence. This world-wide mad dictator, delivering the paper. There’s so much green between his hands and your devotion he demands. Drain the machine. Use it up for all its worth, we’ve been indoctrinated on this bullshit since before our birth. I’m sitting on the toilet making money; makes me smirk, makes me long to be wherever such a place that isn’t work. I’ve got heavy quota, sticking to the rota, saving up my holidays to keep them for a rainy day when I can’t even be bothered to even fucking show up. Because of The Man x4 The Man makes money, makes it flow like honey, makes sure that his workers hands are tired, and black, and bloody. The Man makes money, up and down the country. Across the world the people swirl, it’s all a bit ugly. The Man makes money, let me put it bluntly: You’re gonna pray to him all day until you find it funny. The Man makes money, Monday through to Sunday, 24/7, always his payday. ‘Cause he rules you. The Man! He schools you. The Man! He fools you. The Man! He’s cruel to you. The Man! x4
10.
Sitting in the job centre. Paper, pencil in the bin. Around me are tracksuits, black eyes ,and common sin. Misery for breakfast, two-day-old cigarette. Think you’ve hit rock-bottom: I think you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Your art degree is useless. I’ll tell you what the truth is: Your magnum opus: bogus, that empty canvas hopeless. Your art degree is useless, might as well be peddling piss. Everybody told you there’d be more to life than this. You’re a working class artist Fuck you, you’re a working class artist. Dirty working class artist. Sitting in your bedsit, trying to make the words fit… Sitting in your local Spoons, sponging off your mum and dad. You think that you’re a trendsetter, but you’re just a bed-wetter. Foraging for fag-ends after work to help the pain: Tiny bits of used-kicks to stop yourself from going insane. Flogging tat on etsy. Heavens to betsy! You’ll never make a living, did you think it would be easy? Commission work is running thin, too much paper in the bin, won't get up for work again, can’t believe the state you’re in! You’re a working class artist, snot nosed anarchist. Filling up your arteries, holding in a piss for fun! You’re a warehouse wanker, tattoo of an anchor. Weekends are filled snorting cocaine like a banker! You’re a pound-shop Banksy, wannabe Francis Bacon. Too much Tracey Emin, You drink like Bukowski! You’re a working class artist, don’t know why you started. Take a long look in the mirror it’s time that you departed. Stop, just stop. What’s the point? You’ve got nothing special or original to say, you’re only doing this as a distraction from your even worse everyday life. Something to pretend you live for, while people born five years after you, with better bodies, and smarter spending surpass you on the career ladder, and the housing ladder, and all the other fucking ladders, while you stand, encircled by them all, too scared to get above the first rung of any of them. Going between them as if another look will yield a fresh perspective, or the confidence of Fred fucking Dibnah. In reality: you’re the obsolete industrial chimney with a corner knocked out, propped up by burning stakes. It’s only a matter of time until you fall, and do yourself and all of us a favour. You’re no visionary saviour; the wrong generation for a washed up raver! No one would listen even if all you had to say could be expressed as a quasihemidemisemiquaver!
11.
Anteaters 02:13
You hear them sniffing above, Ant-eater jamming its tongue down the colony holes, toward the queen and her spawn. This is the fate of many-legged, the connected and respected, shiny-black, segmented and fully divine descended. But we are food to those snouts, elongated, long-faced, murderers that always pout when they’re about to carry out their frenzy: destroying our world via forcible entry! Beady eyes as black as skies, hiding so many lies, these things we’ve come to despise as we are cosmically wise. We feel it when an ant dies, we feel it when an ant cries, we miss our fallen allies. The eaters have been unwise to come to this nest wasn’t probably the best idea: when they begin to leave, they’ll find surprise at home inside to see an ant much larger than a bear. These ant-eaters will feel despair! Global warming. Growing antibiotic resistance. Overfishing has left the seas barren. Overfarming has raped the earth. The emergence of AI; our mistreatment of synthetic beings will be our undoing. Rising sea levels. Mutually assured nuclear destruction. The breakdown of democracy. Microplastics are choking wildlife. The cult of celebrity fanaticism. And on top of all that… The Giant Ant will sever their lineage, place their souls on placated scales, remove the sin from their bellies, and shorten their faces. Their tools will be cast to time, tethered and bound to space. With their eyes looking on, never closing. Never closing...
12.
NHS 02:24
We’re stood here on the edge of the fucking end times. What will the country look like with the NHS privatised? Politicians on the TV talking shit, and spreading their lies; our worthless lives in the hands of the Tory bastards we despise. I can’t take no more. What are we fighting for, to settle the score? To declare war on a system rigged to murder the poor? That’s the plan. But why the hell aren’t you listening, man? They’ll kill your fucking gran if they find out that she ran out of savings, turfed out onto the paving. The people should be raging but they’re not. Have we forgot? There’ll be thousands of babies dying in the cot now their parents can’t afford a room on the paediatric ward. Only the wealthy are healthy, bosses are carefree, laughing in hospital beds. Expensive meds bought with the money they’ve stolen. Your accounts are frozen. Run out of cash, run out of time. These fuckers have crossed the line. Hit the streets and scrape, scrimp and save for your children’s sake. Corporate demand sucks revenue from a place of healing. No room for feeling when the suits are here for profiteering. The people bleeding, the people screaming, but helping them is unappealing to the money that you’re yielding. It’s profits over people. I wonder how the fuck it’s legal. Chasing bigger numbers turning people evil. So what’s the answer? Do you become a chancer? Risk it all without financial plans for cancer? See we’re beaten and we’re bloody and the doctors won’t soothe shit. No such thing as illness til you’ve got the cash to prove it. This is how they kill us, how the common man dies. Where were you the day that the NHS was privatised? Only the wealthy are healthy, bosses are carefree, laughing in hospital beds. Expensive meds bought with the money they’ve stolen. Your accounts are frozen. Run out of cash, run out of time. These fuckers have crossed the line. Hit the streets and scrape, scrimp and save for your children’s sake. No refund for treatment; common cold, the future of deaths is slowly told. Try’na grow old, survive in this world, but money ain’t flowing I’m overboard! Profiteering from the ones that bleed. Free healthcare for everyone; that’s what we need. Only the rich get into elysium, suck off your banker, don’t consult your medium.
13.
Got my heart on my sleeve but I'm wearing two layers. Ignoring the advice of so-called soothsayers. I never tell the truth, I own 40 acres. You gobble up these lies like a churchful of prayers I’m black, I’m white, I’m gay, I’m straight. Be whatever it takes depending on the date. Arts degree in English all up in this bitch, but I’ll never be a writer ‘cos my parents aren’t rich! And everything I pen is apparently ‘kitsch’. Wish that my mind had a fucking off switch! Fuck the daily grind, just jump off a bridge! Not really though, only my soul. Send that drip to the depths, try and get my hole. Drowning in ant-milk just to keep my head afloat. I’ll never get to heaven in a little rowing boat. Summat close beckons through this old rolled banknote. Tryin’ to break through as a working class voice, always in charity shops, hunting for Joyce. Copy his ideas, be critic’s choice, go to literati parties, make women moist! That’s just a dream. What are the themes? Can’t even glean any sense from it! How did he write all of this? Back to the drawing board, pens all run out. Swap my hero to Hemingway, write a knockout! Put nib to paper but there’s an ink drought! Looking for a pact like Faust, cooking up a mess like gosh! Look at me now: Overly ambitious like Proust! Try to leave the planet on owt that’ll take me. Wake up on granite by the cold of the sea. Rabbit in headlights. Cars don’t hear my plea. Sort myself out, but concentration’s absentee. Wasted potential. Wasted full stop, but it’s not my fault, swear that nobody warned me life was an assault. Constantly looking for meaning is constantly demeaning. Some days I’m barely breathing, staring at the ceiling, quietly grieving for all that could’ve been. In a different thread, where I kept my head, worked through adversity not languished churlishly; far from sanguine. Clinging to this language yearningly. Demanding something for nothing, others have it, why can’t I? Why can’t I defy the sum of my parts and take flight? Why can’t I follow my heart’s true desire and ignite? Why can’t we set fire to the world with the words we write? Why can’t we lay bare all truths like ultraviolet light? Is this life? We were sold a lie. Arms too short when I reach for the sky... Is this life? Reality bites. Anticlimactic, we all just die... Is this life? We were sold a lie. Arms too short when I reach for the sky... Is this life? Is this life? Is this life?
14.
Children born holding guns, indoctrinated to shun anybody that’s deemed dangerous by the shadowy ones. Spoon fed lies about race, by hands that cannot be traced. Informed their lives are all mapped out and can’t control their own fate. Twisted facts that twist minds, red hot pokers that blind creating willing warriors, raring to brawl on each side. Call them the left and the right, keep peace from reach and sight, presenting hate for each other as the solitary choice, unaware of true plight, convinced it’s all black and white. Industrialists claim the world, while we’re embroiled in the fight. See yourself in each man irrespective of clan. Embrace like brother or sister whether French or Afghan. Liberate everything on earth from the hands of the brands. Liberate everything on earth, free the hands of each man. Liberate everything on earth from the hands of the brands. Liberate everything on earth, free the mind of each man. Liberate everything on earth from the hands of the brands. Liberate everything on earth, that’s the actual plan. Liberate everything. x2 Rulers thrive on inaction. Dividing up into fractions. Constant squabbling on screens just to serve as distraction. Deceiving us into war, made to settle their score. Rounded up like wounded sheep just to be thrown overboard. The revolution will be televised, but we’ll still get chastised, they’ll claw the power back, and make sure we’re disenfranchised. Enough of the lies. It comes without surprise, any control we had is taken right in front of our eyes. Try to change our thoughts, leave us all distraught, poison the minds of our children with untruths that they’re taught unless we reject them as kings, lay waste to their things. Break the hands of the bastards that seek to clip our wings. Liberate everything on earth from the hands of the brands. Liberate everything on earth, free the hands of each man. Liberate everything on earth from the hands of the brands. Liberate everything on earth, free the mind of each man. Liberate everything on earth from the hands of the brands. Liberate everything on earth, that’s the actual plan. Liberate everything. x2 Emptied our minds of what matters, forced families to scatter, raped and pillaged with clean hands while purses grew fatter. If it’s an eye for an eye: we’ll leave sockets bare and dry. Tooth for a tooth? Kiss their whole skull goodbye. Words are only so strong. We’ve been losing so long. Only irreparable damage can put right these wrongs. Fetch your hammer or shovel. Burst more than just bubbles and turn all those who oppressed you’s bodies to rubble. We’ll justify their pain, scrub away the bloodstains. Violent action is worthwhile to break free from constraints. Liberate everything on earth, show them our true worth. Liberate everything on earth, our babies free upon birth. Liberate everything on earth from the hands of the brands. Liberate everything on earth, free the hands of each man. Liberate everything on earth from the hands of the brands. Liberate everything on earth, free the mind of each man. Liberate everything on earth from the hands of the brands. Liberate everything on earth, that’s the actual plan. Liberate everything. X2
15.
War 02:44
Take your gun. take your clothes, take your country. Take a life. Take another, get paid. Our country pays for service with body parts and PTSD. Hands out dogs in compensation; something they fail to mention when you sign up: Eyes bright like those of the young pup you’ll receive when you return to these seas. Wash the disease of war off your back so you don’t track it into the house. if only you had your doubts before; you can’t even pronounce dissociation properly! At least you’re looking far more bodily than your pals. Bottle it up. Go to the pubs that veterans frequent and ask yourself what the fuck it all meant. Taking the first steps into descent, stepping down onto the seventh circle. Only fraud and treachery left below you now with no reversal. Once you kill another, there is no recover, dreams will haunt and smother, crying for your mother, living in the gutter of your mind’s eye, try’na clear the clutter of your mind’s dying while your eye’s tight, can’t see the light. Someone’s fingers fumble for the trigger. All they can taste in their mouth is bitter. Hands stop short not to disfigure the combatant: horrified at the same. This is a mirror. They thought they could face it before they saw their friend blown to bits, pants now filled with shit; still the mitts won’t work. Brain submits, refuses to work. Not fit for purpose, not fit for service, don’t need to preserve us, should never have joined this circus; still what’s worse is the combatant is still there. Still that stare. These two compared: No one wants to kill; no one will kill. But your country is at your door. And they’re telling you to go to war.
16.
no mans land 02:35
17.
Jonty Anthony Vinny Mark
18.
Pissing in the bidet, shitting in my girlfriend, eating on the toilet, vomiting in bread bins. Telling pigeons secrets, babysitting tupperware, walking up a slide and kicking children in the head! Bleeding in a handbag, jizzing in an eggcup, eating in the cinema, breeding in a carpark. Wearing leather trousers, swallowing the shot-glass, digging up your grandma and feeding her to ducks! These aren’t things you should be doing: Dancing while you’re bomb-defusing! These aren’t things you should be doing: Wake up, you can’t win while losing! Drinking from an armpit, giving tigers whiplash, liking fucking Coldplay, stealing Peter’s wi-fi, getting out of housework, lying to the government, scraping out the litter tray and licking up the contents! Shouting at your breakfast, stealing people’s good ideas, giving grief to sailors, sleeping in a wheely bin, blowing up a power plant, marrying a dead mouse, ignoring all the climate change and saying that the world is flat! These aren’t things you should be doing: Finding hospice care amusing! These aren’t things you should be doing: Wake up, you can’t win while losing!

about

We are the Working Class Artists
We are going to save the world.
This is our medium of change.
It is known as rhythm-punk, and it
will usher forth a new age of togetherness!

Our mission is clear. Our goal is
true.
We will vanquish all those who
oppose us!
We will save all those who join
us!
Redemption is just around the
corner, brothers and sisters!

This is like an ox of an album, except it's an ant. And an ant can lift a hundred times its own weight, what can an ox lift...like two? Proportionally much better. It's just facts.

credits

released October 9, 2020

Jonty
Vinny
Anthony
Mark

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Working Class Artists England, UK

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