Recipes from the Bible

by Irk

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    This vinyl edition is limited to 300 and it's pressed on heavyweight 180g transparent yellow vinyl with red splatters. TASTY! The album has been specially mastered for the vinyl version to ensure sweet-sweet-sounds via your gramophone. NOW THA'S WHA' I'M TALKIN' ABAU!

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    Lancing pack CD version of Recipes from the Bible, featuring all the popular hits that the cool kids at school have been talking about. Use it to heal the sick and grow hair where there currently is no hair! Put in your car to make it go faster! Put it in your CD walkman and see the lost souls of the dead appear before your very eyes! Buy it, play it, frame and display it, look at it, cook with it, propagate your succulents and make sweet love to our silky smooth dance classics.

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~ Walking in a straight line. This is the crux of your position. One voice alone in vacuous discourse. A good night’s sleep. Achievable long term goals. Voice of history. Righteousness affirmed. Show your facile grin. Save the fucking world. Strong, brave, rape apologist. Walking in a straight line. A self-enforced lack of understanding. Captive to arbitrary concepts. A good night’s sleep. A distinct lack of accountability. Thesevaluesarefarcicalanddistractusfrommakingrealprogressashumanbeingswhowanttoreduceinherentunfairnessinaworldwherepeoplearekilledforbeingthemselvesandaperson’sworthisdictatedtothembyasystemunwittinglysustainedbyhorribleprickslikeyou. But boys will be boys! Walking in a straight line. ~
~ I’m dead. Nothing matters now that I am flowers. I’m dead. Put a mark on the page where your face came off. Came off. And your life will be saved and arranged into two hour segments. I can cut myself up. I can take this country to bed. No more trouble sleeping. No more back rubs from earnest Freemasons. Your Majesty thinks of life and death as amendments to previous worlds. But a person’s body is too small to hold all of these disappointed stories and allusions to hard water. I can choose who I love. I can disappoint my parents. Planning for my future. I eat the flesh of my enemies. I’m dead. Nothing matters now that I am flowers. I’m dead. I can’t help you call them out. I can’t help you call them out. Default human knows no pain but gets all the liniment. Default human, not by gain, but by birth right. I’m not asking you to question it, no, not at all. I’m not offering a chance to make it right. A fabulous prize and an effortless handshake will be yours, my friend. All roads in this town lead to another loose end. Entirely splintered with eyes on the ground. A face to forget in a room too small. And all along the walls were laughing. Sounds unheard until the years were gone. And that’s all she wrote, old buddy, old pal. As simple as that, no twist ending, or even any real sense of redemption. Two friends who love each other very much. ~
~ To have all of these thoughts. These are real people. Living like reality is objective. We know who you really are. That man is not a geneticist, nor a purveyor of what could be called “the new love”, “the joy of winning”, the “whatever’s left over from the beginning”. How to sell an error. How to praise a misinterpretation. How to eat your fingers off. Stand bereft, but don’t expect the swollen weight of their respect. And given their track record, they would hardly think to object. Finding it hard? And thinking it’s dull? Yourself, reimagined, but without a skull or a face, or your nice shoes that you wear. Just a pair of gloved hands holding a full length mirror. Just a tired set of teeth chewing a piece of leather. Just an overlong sentence. Just an overripe plum. Just an overdue deference and it’s done when it’s done. Just a piece of paper. Life is not good. Who’d wish to live? All I see is bodies adrift. Smiling. All smiling. Lots and lots of lips. Oh my god, where do they come from? Is it some kind of religion? Or political party? The observatory. Sit yourself down. All real people. Objectivity. Oh, reality. All of these thoughts. All of these thoughts. ~
~ So they walked into the room and without a pause they took the disappointment to bed and unlocked the doors. It could not have happened to a nicer person. I am sorry for that. Now and then you recall the limbs of the villain. The shape has changed but still you’re afraid and unforgiven. People care about you then they don't. They want to be around you then they don't. Mind yourself. Burn it down. It’s useless now. Burn it down. They could smell your jealous knuckles rapping at the back door. Forcing entry but to find you forgot what you came for. It could not have happened to a family doctor. I am sorry for that. Always people hurt each other. And they say I wish I could be there with you. I wish I could be the laughter of an old friend. I wish I could be the tears of a dead pet. I wish I could be the warm eyes of an insect. ~
~ Peg’s gone in, into the river. She’s going deeper into the river. And she can’t swim. She can’t swim. She couldn’t swim. Nil. Naught. Goose egg, a big one. We can’t all be disabled single parents. Thanks for making that unambiguous. Just a few bad decisions and a few bones of contention. There are people who have nothing. They live here too. The house always wins. The house always wins. You wouldn’t hear it from the voices in the sink. You are. You are. You are. Oh grief, I’m out of time. Wee children in this town don’t like me, don’t make sound. Some wildlife to see. Some industry. Some history. Incidental salinity. Depending on your long term goals, you might just let go of the suckling babe. If this is what you’re working toward, where’s the food for my nines? There are things we call our own. For some people it’s a task. For some people it’s a home. Sure, that’s fine. Countermeasure. Counteragent. Counteractant. Cowboy in love. Where you sleep and eat fruit. Where you sing stupid things. You’re my germ. You’re a good person. You’re a daft apeth. You’re a goddamn paradigm, I reckon. Tell them I’m sorry. Tell them there’s something wrong with me. Tell them I love them. Tell them I tried my best. I got up early that day and walked for a long time. Really was no problem. When I did it I felt fine. Never found my body. Never found my body. Please don’t be sad. Never found my body. Never found my body. Never found my body. Never found my body. Try to be proud. Never found out how people can ignore it all. ~
~ I am the private investigator. I will take care of this problem. Oh sorry, I’ve made it worse. Too much of the old vin rouge. Folks these days, they live in ways that make me ashamed to admit that I think of sadness as a sporting achievement. So flesh is the final currency? Well I don’t have much faith in banks anyway. Everyone I know is just afraid, is just afraid of being finally found out. And we all overestimate ourselves. Well everyone I know is sick to death, is sick to death of situations like this one. Fuck it. I lost. Great work by absolutely nobody. Do your fucking research, pick a subculture, commit and have sex. Slugs are people too. I pissed my pants at my daughter's ballet recital. I saw Richard's ghost in a hardcore porn video. And even though they call it breakfast cereal, I eat it anytime of day. New fashion. I am the car crash. I am the display case. I am the police. I am the pipe of peace. I am the contrary beast. Send in the guards. Send in the guards. Send in the guards to do what they can. ~
The Healer 05:50
~ Can I start by apologising for the long wait? From what I understand, your broken neck is still causing you pain? Sweet Vi, I wonder how you deal with the truth inside your head. Sure, I would murder all your friends if they weren't already dead. Your angels will all be replaced in the end. And all the failures will take turns ceasing your brain waves once again. I am celebrated. No one really minds. In comes everybody. Waste of fucking time. Preying on vulnerable people is a spiritual calling. I’ve got faith. I’ve got faith. And money. Well, this a tough one. The dreams of the dumb and the hands of the vile. I believe in us but have a little decorum, you fucking snake. Here you will be thrown out like medicine before you. Here you will be shown how irresponsibility can take form. An awful pile of iniquity draped hastily with skin and hair. Not quite convinced of yourself. Almost scared. The price that I pay is to see people suffer happily the virulent wretch with the eyes of a mother at a fee. I’ve been blessed. I have been a lucky man. What I have left does not betray my sense. There is death in the pot. The tourist will forego the biography. The idiot dances before they can see. The healer will command the well to be sick. The destroying angel enjoys the picnic. There is death in the jars of clay. I could do this shit all day. The business is still here. They are not. ~
~ A fear of physical harm. All hell. David has gone to jail. He learned to dance and now he has a fear of physical harm. All hell. Alice would keep her tongue behind her teeth but now she can't forget it. Well they say that pain makes us sentimental. I don't know, perhaps there is tenderness. Is it that you feel it sitting on your chest? That you feel it sitting on the bathroom floor? Cibo per gattini. Un pezzo di pollo. I miei piccolini. Il morso del collo. Il sangue viscoso. L'urlare stridente. L'occhio geloso. Lo sguardo morente. However far you may travel in this world, you will still occupy the same volume of space. A fear of physical harm. ~
~ I am becoming seriously concerned. The end of days is turning into something of an inconvenience. Step out onto hot tarmac and you’re faced with two fat schoolboys offering a wisecrack. You reach for something like a feeling of clemency. They’re disappointed in me. One ends up speared on a tree and sits deflated like a used rubber but the lovers never finished, they just both agreed to give up and go home and sit deflated like a dead dog. The first boy met the man of the cloth. Turn it off. Clean and warm. Shameless. What becomes of our second player? The other primate? The other sister of the mountain? To whom shall you answer? As I sit plotting graphs, one great hand appears through a newly formed hole in the door and I, no more afraid, politely ask the vast incumbent for a pencil. The moon on the man and his foot can get to fuck, sir. The moon of a man and his foot can get to fuck, sir. The emptiness comes with the job. You make me laugh, sir. And soon I will make you laugh too. And maybe cry. Where the A66 used to be. Under a bridge made of car parts and petrified trees. Nobody loved you. Stupid. Don’t know how to speak. Spit on all your mistakes. The moon on the man on his fucking foot will become Pieces and pieces of people existing as ideas, sustained by consideration. Otherwise formless in eternal context. A minor variation. Seemingly a waste of time, but actually not. For the sake of your short life, I would probably say don’t bother. I am your brother, you can trust me. There is hope for all of us. I told you I would make you laugh. ~


released December 7, 2018

Additional vocals on ‘Life Changing Porno’ by Kelly Bishop.
Saxophone on ‘You’re My Germ’ and ‘Cibo per Gattini’ by Miles Spilsbury.
Recorded and mixed by Matthew Deamer at Glide Studio in Leeds, UK.
Mastered by Nick Zampiello at New Alliance East in Cambridge, MA, USA.
Album artwork by Vebjørn Pedersen & Alexander Heffernan.


"Forty minutes of math/shronk excellence." - 8/10

"Irk have tapped into something here that feels like sonic anger. It’s intelligent, its loud, and it’s abrasive. Oh, and it’s brilliant." - 8/10

"It’s Carpenter’s ‘The Thing’, ever shapeshifting and never dying. ‘Recipes From The Bible’ is an accomplished and concise frolic in bifurcated noise, so satisfying it’s worth having on repeat until your ears bleed."

"Recipes from the Bible is not located in any one musical hemisphere of noise rock in particular. It is complex; it is jaunted yet steady, noisy yet mellifluous, and aggressive yet empathetic. Irk's Recipes from the Bible is the debut long play of a band we can't wait to hear more from."

"You need this in your life, a cleansing, cosmic swing of lunacy juice fed through a spectrum of tripping terror."

"It’s hard to find fault with Recipes from the Bible: there isn’t a weak track or an ounce of fat. There’s no filler, and no slack. There’s not a moment of tameness or timidity, and instead, they bring top-level ferocity and relentless fury, and the chances are you’ll be hard-pushed to find a better noise-rock album this year."

"Winding, breakneck percussion, anguished vocals and explosive, darting bass work – all drenched in a chunky layer of misanthropic grime – form a lean, yet full-bodied work of twisted, nightmarish grooves.”


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