Atheist Grief

by The Ready Aim Fire!

Atheist Grief cover art
/

  • Digital Album

    Immediate download of 9-track album in your choice of MP3 320, FLAC, or just about any other format you could possibly desire.

    Includes .pdf file with liner notes from the record.

    Buy Now  $7 USD  or more

  • Compact Disc

    Comes in Jewel Case with original artwork from Alyssa Mees.

    Includes immediate download of 9-track album in your choice of MP3 320, FLAC, or just about any other format you could possibly desire.

    Buy Now  $8 USD

    ships within 4 days
    edition of 150

  • Share / Embed
1.
04:25
lyrics
download
2.
01:08
lyrics
download
3.
04:06
lyrics
download
4.
04:22
lyrics
download
5.
01:05
lyrics
download
6.
04:06
lyrics
download
7.
05:30
lyrics
download
8.
01:54
lyrics
download
9.
03:42
lyrics
download

credits

released 21 February 2012
The Ready Aim Fire! is:
Dave Trautz – Vocals
Ryan Trautz – Guitar
Gabe Rodriguez – Keys
Chris Oden – Bass
Donavan Foy – Drums
Pi De Leon – Guest Vocals

All music written and performed by Dave Trautz (BMI) except for drums on tracks 1, 3, and 4, which were written by Dave Trautz and performed by Donavan Foy and Dave Trautz.
All lyrics written by Dave Trautz and performed by Dave Trautz and Pi De Leon.
Recorded, mixed, and produced by Dave Trautz.
Mastered by Pete Lyman.
Artwork and design by Alyssa Mees (www.alyssamees.com).
Special thanks to Justin Eanes, Wolfram Duenas, Vanessa Gonzalez, Jeff Li, Christian Trautz, Marisa Campos, Jeanine Campos, Abel Bravo, Eric Leon, Jimmy Majors, John Balli, Baldy Garza, Robert Eiker, Scott Trautz, Susan and Derrick Trautz.

tags

tags: electronic indie pop rock alyssa mees atheist grief chris oden dave trautz donavan foy gabe rodriguez pete lyman pi de leon ryan trautz the ready aim fire! Walnut

license

all rights reserved

feeds

feeds for this album, this artist

discography

contact / help

For help with downloads, click here.

For all other inquiries, including help with merch, click here.

shipping and returns

Track Name: Brakes Cut
Brakes Cut
These cement legs / spent all their nights just blacking out the days / with warehouse sex / where the echoes moaned and the shadows dripped with sweat / till the confetti drops / like fireworks in vacant parking lots, / so when we lit the wick, / my whiplash blood was begging me to quit. // But it starts slow / with a kiss outside the hospital, / the lip-gloss, the neck, and the undertow, / the fresh proud bruise art show. // Then you got me. I’m glad, but you got me. / The knots in my body all tell me you got me. / The fire’s out in my matchstick mouth / and you got me reeling. // So the brakes are cut now / from my armored car doubt, / from all the years / that you weren’t here. / So I spit the taste out / of every ghost town / and all the years / that I was barely here. // But our bad machines / are rusting out in sleepless violent sheets / and freezer-burn / where we used to ride those cold chemical cures, / and we’re bloodshot, / weighing sins against the years that they could cost / to pay off / and hide behind our two-way mirror thoughts. // And who we were / is coming back to you, / and who we were / is coming back to me, too. // So I am coming back to you. // And all at once, / oh, you got me. You got me. I’m glad, but you got me. / The knots in my body all tell me you got me. / I’m caving in around your skin / and you’ve got me reeling. // So the brakes are cut now / from my armored car doubt, / from all the years / that you weren’t here. / So I spit the taste out / of every ghost town, / yeah, I lost some years, / but I’m finally here, oh, / with my brakes cut / and my hands cuffed / to my bad thoughts / and to yours and your wars, / and with our brakes cut / and our hands cuffed / to my bad thoughts / and to yours and our wars.
Track Name: Mouths Still Work
Mouths Still Work
The bad luck season’s over, / there’s no more black wave thirst. / All our gods are ashes, / and our hands and our mouths still work. / Our mouths still work.
Track Name: Past Lives
Past Lives
So when you dream, / it’s neon streets / and game-show crowds / that won’t stop clapping. / It’s hotel skies, / collapsing minds, / that heavy penance / for past lives, / the nights on fire, / the drunken slurs, / and the morning hits you / like a dirty word. // Oh, so you make enough money for your cigarettes, / but you can’t implode without an audience / and your lungs try to tell you that you’re going soft / while your woman coughs. / So you finally got bored of the tourist traps / and of drinking with the girls for the full collapse, / so you stopped disagreeing with the acid thoughts, / “Yeah, I’m going soft.” // But when you sing to me, / I don’t feel their teeth. / Ah, when you sing to me, / well, I don’t hear anything / at all. // And she was singing, “Does it eat at you? / Baby, ‘cause it eats at me, / but if they’re getting sick of you, / then maybe they’ll get sick of me. // But you make enough money for your cigarettes, / so there’s no real reason for an audience. / Well, they came, they came, they stayed a bit, and they just left. // So we’ll domesticate our fears, / baby, we’ll domesticate our vices, / and if you leave me, just don’t leave me here / in this silence. // So will you sing to me? / ‘Cause I still feel their teeth. / Oh, will you sing to me? / ‘Cause I can’t hear anything / at all // but our past lives, / just our past lives.”
Track Name: Stop, Just Stop
Stop, Just Stop
You read big books. / I feel so small. / Why aren’t you small, / my love? / You’ve got big hooks. / They make me hurt. / Why don’t mine hurt, / my love? // You are my automatic writing, / the red tattoos behind my eyelids, / but I’m tired of firing squads, / of your bored, indifferent gods. // So when you feel brave, / I’ll be your stutter, / and when you wake, / I’ll be your hangover, / and when you try to get straight, / I’ll be your drug dealer. / So when you get paid, / I’ll gladly sell you // the wrong words, / the whiskey cures, / the last real hurt, / the one that craves / the wrong words, / the whiskey cures, / the last real hurt, / the one you hate. // My god, it’s gonna hurt… / oh my god, it’s gonna hurt / when I’m your modern American fuck, / the modern American love that fucks you up, / the one you can’t love enough. // I’ll have you screaming, / “Stop, stop, I’m gonna be sick. / Just stop, just stop, I’m gonna be sick. / Just stop, just stop, I’m gonna be sick. / Just stop, just stop. Well, I give up.” // While you’re sleeping off / our nighttime madness, / I’ll be your slow dance, / your dime-store romance. / In the morning bed, / I’ll start again. / When you say when, / I’ll fuck you up and fill your head // with the wrong words, / the whiskey cures, / the last real hurt, / the one that craves / the wrong words, / the whiskey cures, / the last real hurt. // Oh, if I keep loving you, / we’ll both be ruled / by cosmic fears. / If this is loving you, / yeah, if it’s this cruel, / the worst of it is here. / Yeah, my best hooks are here. / The worst of it is here. / Yeah, my best hooks are here. / Oh, I hope they hurt.
Track Name: Hunted for Sport
Hunted For Sport
All I want is to be hunted for sport. / All you want is to be professionally mourned. // All we want is to be aimlessly rutting / for eternity, self-immolating and gutting. // And in the folds of our art, / we want our minds to fall apart.
Track Name: Explosion Sounds
Explosion Sounds
So get up and count your teeth / and make love on the loan shark sheets / where your girl got passed around / to help wash down the post-war doubt. / Or have you lost your taste for it? / Those bloodlust boys and girls don’t quit, / so there’s a crowd under your clothes, / between you both and you can’t get close. // So you sleep and she drinks, / and you drink and she sleeps, / and you blink and she blinks… / well, God, ain’t love a fucked-up thing? // When you choke on your riot tongue / and cheap cologne in the vulgar sun, / you’ll write it off and lay in bed / with minefield dread and words to shred, / but now you know your friends are rats, / and now you drink with baseball bats, / and goddamn, you still want her mouth / to drown you out with explosion sounds. // But you sleep and she drinks, / and you drink and she sleeps, / and you blink and she blinks… / well, God, ain’t love a fucked-up thing? // But I love the great obscene, / I love the strip club meat, I love the trophy heat, / and I know I’ll miss your teeth, / but God, I love the fucked-up things. // So if it takes one more time to give this up, / then I’ll wait one more night to give you up, / but now it seems like we both like the noose tight / and you’ve got a cutthroat mind / and we both like the noose tight, / and we both got the rope and we both got the time. // But I sleep and you drink, / and I drink and you sleep, / and I blink and you blink… / well, that is the truly fucked-up thing. // ‘Cause we are the great obscene, / and all those girls are cheap, those boys just can’t compete. / In our hell, the drinks are free, / and we are the greatest fucked-up things. // So come on, let’s barricade the doors. / Yeah, come on, fuck all those rookie whores. / Yeah, come on, let’s have a civil war, / only stop to call the dealer and the liquor store. / Yeah, come on, let’s see what veins are for. / Yeah, come on, let’s fuck with hell some more. / Yeah, come on, we’ll kill each other, sure, / but we won’t die alone and we won’t die bored.
Track Name: American Shame
American Shame
It gets old hiding out / in the faceless, godless South, / in this American nuclear town, / inside the devil’s mouth. / It gets old being blessed / with a love so underdressed, / wearing nothing but bulletproof vests, / ‘cause ‘round here, they just aim for the chest. / But we got what we want, / this mirrored house to haunt, / a set of chemical bumper-car thoughts, / the blood that never clots. / And we got what we hate, / that slow sinking parade, / that aching glacial change, / oh, and this impossible wait. // Oh. // If I could fuck my way to the top, I would, / or I think I could if I thought I should, / but we fucked our way to the bottom, and that’s just as good. // So we were screaming at each other to make great art, / or mediocre art, or get jobs selling cars, / but then the screaming stops, and the real hell starts. // Oh. // And before it could catch up to me, it got you, / and before we knew there were three, there were two, oh. // And we were back at the hospital staring at our fists, / back where we started, sleeping in shifts / with the cake-bearing cosmos apologists, // and that’s a goddamn shame. / Shit, I don’t know what to say. / That’s a goddamn shame. // Shit, I don’t know. // Goddamn, it’s colder than hell. I guess we got turned around / ‘cause setting fire to ourselves just set fire to the house / and the fans wanna know as the roof comes down, / “If you weren’t scared of death, how do you feel about it now?” / Well, we can’t look at each other, we can’t look in the mirror / at the crater that’s left of our train wreck year / now that the tracks cut out and the floor disappears. / Well, there's nothing left to say, but there's plenty left to fear. / And it came back to me, when I was seventeen, / when I was ripping out the wires I thought made me weak, / but the best-laid plans get fucked by people like me, / oh, but this time, it’s worse, oh, this atheist grief. / And you were staring at your hands like it was you in your veins, / and I knew, right then, this American shame, / and I knew, right then, this infinite maze, / and I knew there was no one else to blame, // and that’s a goddamn shame. / Shit, I don’t know what to say. / That’s a goddamn shame. / Shit, I don’t know. // No, I can’t stop drinking. / I can’t stop drinking. / I can’t stop thinking about names. // Oh.
Track Name: Only Death
Only Death
Through all that frantic summer sex, / well, you could summarize my bones, / and yeah, we probably should’ve guessed / those months were loans. // And it was right when winter peaked / when we were screaming in the streets. / We had no pity for the weak, / but, damn, we’re weak. // So you shot up in bed at night. / I kept my eyes closed while you packed. / I thought you’d lose your appetite / when it bit back. // But you were singing “Wicked Game.” / I’d never felt such brutal flames. / We swore that only death could make us tame, / and now we’re tame.
Track Name: The Abyss and I
The Abyss and I
I’m drinking like I can find the finish line. / Can you be outside my place at nine? / Yeah, we can drink till we find a consolation prize, / we can spit at the sky, we can be baptized. // Was I ever wrong about you? / Was I ever wrong about you? / Oh, was I ever wrong about you. // I’m drinking like I might find that hell ran dry, / so now there’s only fire or an endless night. / So I will drink till I find you standing outside / like a busted streetlight, like you were my type. // Well, was I ever wrong about you? / Was I ever wrong about you? / Oh, was I ever wrong about you. // Well, was I ever alone before you? / Well, was I ever alone before you? / Well, was I ever alone before you. // We’re drinking like we can find the finish line, / so when you sin at night, you’ll do it by my side, / and we will drink till we find a consolation prize / while you waste your time with the abyss and I.