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Album: Miscellaneous (1994)
Artists: Propaghandi

  1. A People's History Of The World
  2. Albright Monument, Bagdhad
  3. Anchorless
  4. And We Thought That Nation-States Were A Bad Idea
  5. Anti-Manifesto
  6. Apparently, I'm A "P.C. Fascist" (Because I Care About Both Human And Non-Human Animals)
  7. Back To The Motor League
  8. Bullshit Politicians
  9. Death Of Manolete *
  10. Ego Fum Papa (I Am The Pope)
  11. Fuck The Border
  12. Gifts
  13. Hate, Myth, Muscle, Etiquette
  14. Head, Chest Or Foot?
  15. I Was A Pre-Teen McCarthyist
  16. Ladies' Nite In Loserville
  17. Less Talk, More Rock
  18. March Of The Crabs
  19. Mate Ka Moris Ukun Rasik An
  20. Middle Finger Response
  21. Nailing Descartes To The Wall/(Liquid) Meat Is Still Murder
  22. Natural Disasters
  23. New Homes For Idle Hands
  24. Ordinary People Do Fucked-up Things When Fucked-up Things Become Ordinary
  25. Pigs Will Pay
  26. Public Dis-Service Announcement From Shell
  27. Purina Hall Of Fame
  28. Refusing To Be A Man
  29. Resisting Tyrannical Government
  30. Rio De San Atlanta, Manitoba
  31. Showdown (G.E./P.)
  32. Ska Sucks
  33. Stick The Fucking Flag Up Your Goddamn Ass, You Sonofabitch
  34. The Only Good Fascist Is A Very Dead Fascist
  35. The State Lottery
  36. Today's Empires, Tomorrow's Ashes
  37. With Friends Like These, Who The Fuck Needs Cointelpro?


Propaghandi
Miscellaneous
Back To The Motor League
I like to party fucking hard. I like my rock and roll the same. Don't give a fuck if I burn out. Don't give a fuck if I fade away. So back to the Motor-League with me before I'm forced to face the wrath of a well-heeled buying public who live vicariously through tortured-artist college-rock and floor-punching macho pabulum. Back to the Motor League I go. Once thought I drew a lucky hand. Turned out to be a live grenade of play-acting "anarchists" and Mommy's-little-skinheads, death-threats and sycophants and wieners drunk on straight-edge. Fuck off. Who cares? I'd rather hi-lite Trip-Tiks than listen to your bullshit. Fuck off. Who cares about your stupid scenes, your shitty zines, the straw-men you build up to burn. It never ceases to amaze me and as I'm suffering your perfection it reminds me of my own race to redress my own sad history of mouthed feet. Eaten hats. Teated bulls. Amish phone-books. Drunken brawls. But what have we here? 15 years later it still reeks of Swill and Chickenshit Conformists with their fists in the air; like-father, like-son "rebels bloated on korn, eminems and bizkits. Lord, hear our prayer: take back your Amy Grant mosh-crews and your fair-weather politics. Blow-dry my hair and stick me on a ten-speed. Back to the Motor League. I guess life is just a popularity contest. Success, the ability to perform within a framework of obedience. Just ask the candy-coated Joy-Cam rock-bands selling shoes for venture-capitalists, silencing competing messages, rounding off the jagged edges. Today is good day to die.
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