MUTATIS MUTANDIS

by Construction & Destruction

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released August 1, 2010

written by Colleen Collins and David Trenaman

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Construction & Destruction Port Greville, Nova Scotia

Spook rock book roll, emanating from the Atlantic littoral..

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Track Name: The Appeal of the Master Dredger
This house must know that the iron mouth
of the dredging machine
may soon fall silent,
and that the riverbed will rise up again;
it won’t be satiated.

This house must know of the feeling
of lungs of iron,
and of the decay
of a multitude
of songs sung by sirens.

This house must know
of the loss
of the vital spark.
Track Name: Public Square
I could be blindfolded
and groping for the chopping block.

The house burned to the ground
in the night.
I don’t know if I was there.
If I was,
I was scared.
If I was,
I was scared.

I could give over to terror and never come back.
Was I there already?
Did I light my own hair?
Was it a public square?
Was I throwing light?

I heard a rush of air from above;
I felt the hot blade fall.
I don’t know if I was there.
If I was,
I was scared.
If I was,
I was scared.

I could give over to terror and never come back.
Was I there already?
Did my slapped cheek turn pink?
Was there a funerary pyre?
Was I pushed and did I resist?
Track Name: Nightshade
It won’t be pandemonium.
It’ll be a perfect calculation.
There’ll be no retaliation;
no time to react.

And everything happens without me.
And everything happens without me.
And everything happens without me.
And everything happens without me.

Sometimes I wonder what it's like
to be around; to be working here.
But again I remember:
I was here all day.

I hear you start up like an engine.
There is the hum after ignition.
But when you drop into gear,
I disappear.

I found the Nightshade.

No space for you.
Light’s burnt out in this room.
I found the deadly Nightshade,
and I’m waiting to turn.

It won’t be pandemonium.
There’ll be no retaliation,
just complete and perfect
annihilation.

I rise through the ranks;
I’m expanding.
There’s no room anymore
and I’m starting to turn.

No space for you.
Light’s gone out in this room.
I keep to the shadows
and I’m starting to turn.

I found the Nightshade.
I found the Nightshade.
I found the Nightshade.
I found the Nightshade.
Track Name: The Oracle
I’m the goddamn Oracle, right?
I’m doubled-up on the omphalos of the world.
I’m the sage at the center of the fucking world.
Watch me work, now.
Watch me work.

Listen as I tell you why your fields are ablaze;
why the warmongers come,
why your leaders are crazed.
Travelled far, Little Seeker?
Did you brace yourself the whole way?

‘Cause you’re gonna shake when I deliver the news.
You’re gonna feel the quaking
in the cities and their schools.

A ripple’s gonna come and break
the surface of your pools,
and the water will rise fast
but someone’s always gotta lose.

And I was groomed to tell you;
I was reared to bear the news.
I’m the Soothsayer, Seeker.
I can see the Future You.
Little Traveller, this place is so
overrun with fools
and I’m spent,
doubled-over on my
tripod stool.

I foresaw the bipeds, and art,
and the ruse.
I lit the cave,
I could obliterate you.

So go home, Little Seeker,
and just see it all through.
‘Cause something’s always coming,
some casual doom.
And in the end it’ll get you,
and there’s nothing you can do.
Track Name: Bear
Even the poachers,
they would not do this.
They would not do this.
They would see to it.
This is ludicrous.
This is a fucking circus.

On the side of a bald hill;
can’t forage, can’t wander.
Give it half an acre and watch.
He can wait for the scheduled meal.
He’ll look forward to hibernation.
He can wear down the grass in the yard
like a dog.

The bear doesn’t get out alive.
The bear doesn’t get out alive.

Can’t forage, can’t wander.
His wisdom is not relevant here.
He can wear down the grass in the yard
like a dog.
He can wait for the scheduled meal.
He’ll look forward to hibernation.

The bear doesn’t get out alive.
The bear doesn’t get out alive.
The bear doesn’t get out alive.
The bear doesn’t get out alive.

Even the poachers,
they would not do this.
They would see to it.
They’d just fucking shoot it.
Track Name: What's Left Us
And all of your ways
will come scuttling out
and lay themselves down
in the hands of preparators,

who’ll line them up
and pin them down
and speak your name out loud
and whisper mine in blades of grass.

I was buried in the Valley of the Kings!
You struck hard, and it was meant to sting!
I made myself up in the image of a man.
I made myself up in the image of a man!

*Now my heart turns this way and that,
when I think what the people will say.*

To lie in my own bed
-to be still in my small sarcophagus-
and to occupy silently
that which is found all around me.

Not to arise and go knocking
on the door from the inside.
Not to call from the inside.
Not to let it be heard:

I was buried in the Valley of the Kings!
You struck hard, and it was meant to sting!
I made myself up in the image of a man.
I made myself up in the image of a man!

*Now my heart turns this way and that,
when I think what the people will say. *

* These lines are attributed to Hatshepsut
(1508–1458 BC), female Pharaoh of
Ancient Egypt.
Track Name: Bonanza!
So fuck you, fuck you.
I’ve got a lot to do:
glue the soles back on my shoes,
--I have to take care of you.
I’m so tired of the idiots,
who don’t get what we do,
so I’m giving up on this;
I’m giving up on you.

When we first came together
we were waiting in line,
we were in the long line,
we were in the wrong line.
We were waiting and pining,
being inappropriately kind.
Now I’m the porcupine,
peeling bark all the time.

All our lives we’ve been dipping our toes
in this pool; it’s not cold.
We’ve been fashioning with unsharpened tools,
--our kit’s getting old.
Sometimes it’s better to just
do what you’re told.
So here comes the gold,
here comes the solid gold.
It’s something new, something old.
Thirty-two karat gold.
Something sweet, something bold;
pure fucking gold.
Something pandering and something bold.
Pure gold!

So it’s true, it’s true:
you’ve got to work for what you do.
But I’m tired of working so hard,
and for so little food.
So I’m giving up on this;
I give up on you.
And I’ll start to construct
my golden suit!

So here comes the gold,
here comes the solid gold.
Something new, something old.
Thirty-two karat gold.
It’s something sweet and something bold.
Pure fucking gold.
Something pandering and yet bold.
Pure gold!

Over and over our story has been told.
We’ve gone through the good stuff
now that’s not our goal.
I’m ready to be typecast,
I can play that fucking role.
I’m going for the gold,
get ready to be cajoled.
No more lumps of coal.
We’re going for the gold.
We’re tired of living here
in the dark and the cold.
Let’s bring forth the gold;
dig up the gold!

Now I’m feeling fucking wise;
got my burger, got my fries.
I got my take on the first try.
When you love me, don’t ask why.
Now I’m looking sharp;
I got a twinkle in my eye.
I’m a really nice guy,
and I just want to fly.
Now I’m the whole package;
I’m a box with a bow.
I’m a dark desperation
with a little bit of soul.
I’m yours for the taking,
I’m ready to go.
I’m ready to go.
I’m ready for the gold!

What’s wrong with stagnation?
So we’ll grow a little mould.
We don’t want to get old.
You cannot buy us, we’re sold.
It’s an untreated pool
but the tadpole makes the toad.
The tadpole makes the toad!
We were happy to just fly low,
just happy to be off the ground.
But we could still smell the cattle;
we could still see the little towns.
Now we want to smell sweet
and leave trails of fragrant air.

Here comes the gold!
Here comes the solid gold!
Something new, something old.
Thirty-two karat gold!
Something special, something bold.
Pure fucking gold!
Something sweet and something bold-
pure, pure gold!
Here comes the gold.
Bright and buffed-up solid gold!
Fine ornamental gold.
Priceless precious, precious gold!
Whole pallets of loose gold!
Ancient caverns of jewels and gold!
Bursting trunks of precious golds!
Here comes the gold!
Pure, pure fucking gold!
Track Name: Spook in the Woods
Is it all of your own making?
Is it by design?
Will ham-fisting your heart
really make it start?

Will levelling the new shoots help?
Aren’t the care-takers friendly?

You are the one weeping.
You are the spook in the woods.
Yours are the feverish eyes.
Little radical, it’s you who cries

when you cannot get the leech off
without salt,
or fire.
When you learn it does not burrow
out of love,
but survival.

But you are not there yet.
You are deep in the woods,
in a house made of hide,
lit from within.

You are desperate for wisdom.

What prowls the perimeter?
What noses the wind?
What stops, stalk-still,
ancient and grim?

What must you keep from getting in?
Who must you not let in?