I heard you think you’re bulletproof.
You don’t have to answer me, you don’t have to call me back. Your phone’s off the hook, but you’re not.
You gotta keep ’em separated.
A time for love, a time for hate, a time for peace, I swear it’s not too late.
There’s nothing new, no one I want to talk to, nothing I want to think about, I got soul doubt.
In the jingle jangle morning, I’ll come following you.
Get out of my way or I might shove.
We’re the renegades of funk.
Too much walking, shoes worn thin. Too much trippin’ and my soul’s worn thin.
But it all just came and went faster than I could, have the time to separate the bad from good.
Sweet sweet wild honey bee, eat up eat up eat up honey.
Goddamn right it’s a beautiful day.
You gotta go where you want to go, do what you want to do.
I am a reverend of irreverence, I’m a shill for any sacrilege.
Wake up in the morning and it’s hard to live.
Ooh, my little pretty one, my pretty one, when you gonna give me some time, Sharona?
All the other kids with the pumped up kicks: you better run, better run, outrun my gun.
Linoleum supports my head – gives me something to believe.
I wanna be stereotyped, I wanna be classified, I wanna be a clone – I want a suburban home.
Gotta watch those corners in the stretch of danger, a problem could arise eventually. I’ve walked this earth for twenty years and now my mind is floating out to sea.
Ah, can’t you see me standing here? I got my back against the record machine. I ain’t the worst that you’ve seen, ah can’t you see what I mean?
If growing up means being like you, then I don’t want to be like you.
The doctor says to take it easy because this isn’t healthy, but I need things a doctor can’t prescribe. I’m running the race on a treadmill going nowhere fast; I need an outlet in my so-called life.
All my favorite songs are slow and sad. All my favorite people make me mad.
The music was new, black polished chrome, and came over the summer like liquid night.
Graffin’ up in L.A. you can’t act stupid and play, striking up in the hood could mean your last day.
We go together baby, and if we do, yeah I’ll be your weakness baby, and get to you.
In this world today, there ain’t nobody to thank. Just blame it on the kids and toss ‘em in the tank.
Something in the way she never looks my way, I’m in love, I’m in love.
My soul is sound when I’m in my hometown, yeah, and no place I’d rather be.
Skydive naked from an aeroplane, or a lady with a body from outer space.
Sell your soul and sign an autograph – big bang baby, it’s a crash, crash, crash.
This love that I tell now feels lonely as hell from this padded prison cell.
It’s only human nature, pollutes temptation. We have reserved bookings for the fathers of our nation.
We are tired of your excuse. Try to stop us – it’s no use!
Come on and get the minimum, before you open up your eyes.
They can’t hear a word that we’ve said, when we pretend that we’re dead.
No safety net: you get what you get, what you settle for.
Down the streets I’m the girl next door. I’m the fox you’ve been waiting for.
She don’t like The Toasters or The Skeletones, she’d rather pound some beers and listen to The Ramones.
Hey kid! What do we got? Not a lot. So what?
There are true sonic gems hiding on these streets, in this shadowy world.
To be the best we got to pass the test we gotta make it all the way to the top of the mountain.
Hey baby, it’s hella good, okay?
Eclectic psychedelic rock released at the pinnacle of the Flower Power era.
You’d have to have nada en la cabeza to not get moving to this album.
Don’t suffer the fools who refuse to get enough-er of this construct of musical performances.
A sprawl of 43 eclectic gems add up to a greater whole, and that price is right on.
The Rage is relentless, in three parts.
Drink smoke drink smoke this is what we do. Well, not what I do necessarily but… you get it.
It might not be for ma nor pa, but this Fishbone dish is sizzling.
Nothing’s shocking, indeed, yet consistently surprising.
Is the movie Swingers and Big Bad Voodoo Daddy partially responsible for my moving to the west coast from NYC? It’s a long story…
A delivery of a strange and wonderful musical experience.
Garage rock with the perfect concoction of indie, moody pop, and psychedelic influences.
I mean, just ask any police officer who happens to be at a local fried carbohydrate treat market.
Houston, we have a problem indeed. But not with this record.
So much that is so great (and so right) about punk rock.
RBF can rock you with their specialty of snarked up ska punk, but it’s the more mature power pop material that really stands out here.
A kaleidoscopic spectacle of psychedelic hippie rock.
Brian Wilson and the Boys get into more mature, interesting, and nuanced territory versus the early hits.
I can think of, say, uno dos tres quatro cinco cinco seis reasons…
A powerhouse of a ska punk album that just happens to layer in… well, you’ll see.