Science For The Soundman

by Xenat-Ra

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about

"It thuds the medulla square in the joint where the better, cultured you resides. If ingested correctly, it traverses the swerve of sound and space, a wicked chug of color twisting jazz and rock and hip-hop and prose and whatever sweet pieces and sonic tech hurricanes blow through the breadth of its universe. Anything can happen here. Dig it? Cool. Do not? Your loss." - Cory Frye, The Corvallis Gazette-Times Entertainer

While many bands claim to be eclectic, Xenat-Ra truly lives it. Based in Corvallis, OR, Xenat-Ra is the result of years of shared musical experiences and a rich sonic vocabulary. Xenat-Ra owes allegiance to no particular genre, borrowing sounds from the fringes of hip hop, jazz, progressive rock, dub, metal and any other style that crosses their path. The sound can be spacious or dense, freely improvised or strictly composed, deeply funky or aggressively atonal, all topped by Monk Metz’ rapid-fire, often surreal, poetry.

Science for the Soundman is their debut studio recording. It features seven collectively composed and arranged original tracks, one live-in-the-studio free improvisation, and two cover tunes, one by John Zorn and one by Sun Ra.

Science for the Soundman is available as a deluxe, 150 gram double LP, or on CD. Both formats include a digital download of the full album, with bonus tracks, in your choice of formats.

credits

released October 6, 2012

Monk Metz: words, fx, samples
Matt Calkins: tenor sax, fx, percussion, wood flute
Mark France: guitars
Joel Hirsch: congas, dumbek, percussion
Dave Trenkel: Hammond organ, Fender Rhodes electric piano, Minimoog, laptop, modular synth
JD Monroe: drums, turntables, samples, fx, wood flute

with:
Joe Freuen: trombone (Swalo Meh Hole)
Otto Gygax: shekere (Swalo Meh Hole)

Produced and arranged by Xenat-Ra.
Recorded Oct. 2010 at Studio GXM (RIP), Philomath OR, engineered by Dave Trenkel with assistance from Dan Rockwell.
Additional recording and mixing by Dave Trenkel at the Blinky Room, Corvallis, OR.
Mastered by Ryan Foster, Portland, OR.
Graphic design by JJ Walker, Eugene, OR.
Spherical speakers designed and built by Ernst Lau.
Special thanks to Bryan Curtis.

All compositions by Xenat-Ra, lyrics by Monk Metz, © 2012 Twinkle Devil Music (ASCAP) except Bezriel, composed by John Zorn, Hips Road Music, used by permission, and A Call For All Demons, composed by Sun Ra, Enterplanetary Koncepts (BMI), used by permission.

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Track Name: Ape With a Synthesizer
Ape with a synthesizer, beast with a drum machine, knuckle-drag master of electric wind, rebel monkey with a rap technique. Uncaged freaks.

He learned to circle the moon in 4 minutes, his secret weapon was his opposable digits. The apes feared and revered the solitary shaman, with his spoken spells and potent intelligence. As he circled the fire, the smoke darkened and curled. The whole world drew black and we played harder than RAP, artists in fact. The psychedelic side effect wasn't even part of the act, the paradox of sharing thoughts with the utterly abstract, not your average cuddly manjack. Primordial primate oozing thru your stupid illusions, disproving the conclusions of the clueless and the futile truths of puppets beyond proof, sucking their long tooth, bluffing their long spoof, nothing but wrong moves.

Ape with a synthesizer, beast with a drum machine, knuckle-drag master of electric wind, rebel monkey with a rap technique. Uncaged freaks. Free the beast!

Vague galaxy, centered on a superfluous reality, in and out of existence, your seconds and minutes scale couldn't capture the distance. The distinct ability to transcend tranquility, I'm like a samurai sword in cloud form, kill without hostility. My tea ceremony completely buries phonies. My zen stance can entrance, dance the blade. Comp(etition) looks past me so as not to chance the grave. With a glance I slay, master crane style, while monks chant my brain child. Sunyata. I am air. I am all. When I fall, Shakyamuni's wind will haul my bones to the land of no thrones, the symphony of empty sky, empty as an open palm, substance like shadow, rhyme for my alms. Time won't slow my flow. Heaven's gate is simple levitation. Xenat-Ra staring at ya dome.

Ape with a synthesizer, beast with a drum machine, knuckle-drag master of electric wind, rebel monkey with a rap technique. Uncaged freaks. Free the beast!

Confusing, amusing mountains of music, leading the future and all possible futures. The standard stepper, I pepper drum breaks with letters and watch the dumb fakes whisper goodbye to their naive takes on forever. Steady are the repetitive pedalings of the petty, and many and more the misfortunate mutterings of the poor. Rhetorical order, go free the mind, but not really. Keep the case concealed but transcend. The same reason shell toes are still relevant, same reason I still stay fresh and not hot. I'm eloquent and I don't sellout or smooth out or lose. I simply show and prove just for the hell of it, compelling elements. I met a mountain, chopped it down with the edge of my hand. I met a man, made him understand with the mic in my hand.

Ape with a synthesizer, beast with a drum machine, knuckle-drag master of electric wind, rebel monkey with a rap technique. Uncaged freaks. Free the beast!
Track Name: 555
Here's to you, simple creature, we don't have to like it, they'll bury us both beneath a burden so massive they'll say we have to have it.
But I don't live by no commandments, brains are brutally useful, see for yourself, no secret is truthful, but shirk that. I'm adequate, elaborate, ravenous, adapt to any trap, I'll make it mine. The filament was so fine, strung like a ghost line, invisible ray connecting night to day, feet to floor, yours to mine, man to world, secret door to Atlantis.
Don't play captive, freedom in every moment, bottle that sh*t.

We can taste the minor violence, people find a fight to die with,
need it, but they can't apply the science. Time to meet the minus.
Take it on the chin, not willing to take the beating, then dig yourself back in. Merely mortal, undercover til they seal the portal, feel the false appearing normal, clearly forced, though destroy that ploy. Feel the warmth of natural action, from here forth, a rational animal, a little brash on the sampler, pounded the pads like a champion. They said it can't be done, dreamer. From here forth a rational animal, little brash on the sampler, pounded keys like a champion, it can't be done, dreamer.

Gobble gobble styles, I breakfast on breaks fast. Another great day, don't make it your last. Put a gun in that man's hand, let him guard the line, get this puny Norm a uniform, geez, come home in a box or with a m*therf*cking head disease. Feed them to the demon. Screams make the drums bleed. Geez, I wonder what I'm under, must of been a ton of green trees, enough to give sleazy dreams wings. Feast on the fusion, we purified pollution. Plug in and let the government win, we are a winner and they all say it can't be done, dreamer, and the rest all listen.

Yeah, the breath between sentences was sentient. I pendulum the great deep and far fling apart from the pack. I top charts in Iraq's back waters, fact slaughterer. Awful lot of ammo, the mic went kablammo. Wires unravel, I battle powerful mammals' stains on the gravel. Suckers should sleep late. I'm morning's morning on the mic, and I feast breaks, it can't be done

Clap 2 times 2 times, spirit gone, clear path, laughing at yourself all alone. Pumping, pumping, pumping, trying to keep the blood fresh, self-contained superhighway, plain looking supernova. Dead monk, it happens all the time. Head funk, Zen to the trigger like a pistol in a flower (shop), pop, pop.
Track Name: Swalo Meh Hole
Intricate. On a mission not to miss. All hits. Quick with the pen and swifter with the lip. Listeners get the disc, they want to see the future, and trip the science fiction. Lifters up, shields down. Weapons grade words. Cut the cable, we can float around, or we can take turns. I'm done with disposable, not a fake person. If I can't strap it on my back, put it back on the rack. Pack lite, it's a hellova flight. The smartest and brightest, the artist inside us gonna be there, too. Worlds away, twirl the blades and punch it! Before Monsanto puts that stamp on my stone, get it and gone.

Jungle!
Swallow me whole.
Break my body and free my soul.
What I am, what do I owe?
I'll be fine on my own.

Vision the formula put it into action. Breathe life into the boy. Ideas do die, short supply. Do it and try, put it on the line. Train the mind's eye to make what's inside take f*ckin' flight. Do it tonight. I fight my fight with a mic, you do whatever you like.

Vision the formula put it into quotes. Multiple divide, exponential rise, spreading like fire. The math is against me. Mind my environment. Rappin' for the get-free. Don't test me, don't believe a word that box say. We're getting out. Democracy is hypocrisy, I'm a slave to the rhythm and not the beast.

Jungle!
Swallow me whole.
Break my body and free my soul.
What I am, what do I owe?
I'll be fine on my own.
Jungle!
Swallow me whole.
Break my body and free my soul.
Dig deep, and watch it grow.
Shoes on my feet and I'm gone.

Jungle vibe,
Numbers rise,
Population
Sky high.
Where's the limit?
Where's the line?
Xenat-Ra,
On the rise.
Save a life, change your own, feed the children, bomb the throne. Pull your weight, keep it green, don't leave a trace, just change the scene. Urgency, make-believe, take my body, I don't need it. Send a message cross the line, the Monk Metz is on the rise. From the forest, back to space, wipe the fear right off your face. Blaze the trees for cash burn, to the darkness we shall return.

Jungle vibe,
Numbers rise,
Population
Sky high.
Where's the limit?
Where's the line?
Xenat-Ra,
from the forest back to space, wipe the fear right off your face, blaze the trees for cash burn, to the darkness we shall return.
Track Name: Xenat-Ra Theme
There he goes.
Born and then he's old.
Up and then he grows.
He lives a palindrome.
Can't be told“no.”
When the whole world shows it's sold, tell it like its told. Front to back, he lives a palindrome. Up and there he grows. Can't be told no, “sold!” Tell it like it's told. We don't have to plead to capture the rhythm. I need beats faster. Action, control. Actors. Sold.

& on & on & on & on it goes.
On & on it goes.

Second to no sucker or succotash, I chuck a fast brick, my lungs elastic. I've come to match wits with the least redundant. Speak with something worth the listener's consumption, else ways hit the bricks, bitch! I got no time for crooked politician switch. I swing bats at backs of skulls. Greedy pension pincher, cut some slack to average folks.

& on & on & on it goes.
The list of shit I'm pissed about is just about as long as it is profound.
& on & on & on it goes,
& on & on & on it goes.

Xenat-Ra!
Quite the opposite, quite the contradiction, you might like it, listen.
Sucka's all around didn't know what they wanted until they found
that Xenat-Ra sound!

I hustle like rain drops, ever present. Never let a half dead pessimist get competitive. Music maelstrom, Miles from the fountain, styles like piles on the mountain. Science for the soundman. Thunder shaker. King tubby undertaker, take 'em under. Dub sound system, bliss for the mayhem. Insistent uncommon sense for the brain dead.

Xenat-Ra!
Quite the opposite, quite the contradiction, you might like it, listen.
Sucka's all around didn't know what they wanted until they found
that Xenat-Ra sound!
Track Name: Isis Travels
I buried Isis on the second Sabbath day in May, in a gravelly grave that was savagely paved over. The ravages of age sold her out. Her chest cavity cave-flame reduced to smolders, then doused. The life-long search for the right psalm verse. Isis, pale waif, time traveler, couldn't survive a stalemate with a blind saboteur. A slight ageless man got by on trickle-down remnant wisdom. A wingless bat with a bent will to catch the scent of a victim.
He was known as Charley the 3rd. His eye sockets were sly pockets of pestilence. In his presence one could hear the wind of sprockets and cry of the odd process of navigation by constellation. For that reason, he despised rockets. Satellites lead him to his maker meeting, a fleeting of feet. Charley the 3rd was sweetly flattered, his soul pattern was captured by a Haitian bone rattler.
Morath, the color of ash, dwelled the mainland in vengeance, selling quick revenge and odd skeletal amendments. He fell in with a squad of malevolent headsmen. Played them false as a healer, produced mushrooms from dung that freed their minds from the cloudy poison to which they clung. Morath was headed north, but a curse obscured his course. A hungry shade chased him forth. And since he joined the band of braves, the headsmen lost a man a day. Not until 80 reduced to 3, did the remaining headsmen see Morath had played them ill. By then, the curse had drank its fill. Morath was free to flee, the headsmen thrice deceived, across the straights of Panama, lured by an enchanted song.
The stricken Haitian quickened pace when the music began to fade. He realized time wasn't on his side when the melody began to die. He chewed coca leaves and slept an hour a day, burned sage to keep opposing powers at bay. As he made his way thru the barren plains, and under the spell, heard the story told of his own return to glory. Still water after 27 days and nights' wander. He plunged in and set a ripple, without the strength to ponder the music crescendo. Behold, the song-spell's author held Morath bound with a pen stroke. It is I, the Monk of mercy and wrath, here to atone for your blood thirsty path. I snatched the bones he carried, and bound his essence in a stone vessel of rosemary. Eternity at the bottom of the lake, half dead in a prison of smoldering spices, just to ensure the peaceful sleep of the dearly departed Isis.
Track Name: Kraken vs. The Manticore
He knew I wouldn't sell, but he threw me down that well, anyway. Pennies say they're lucky, but plenty of major shuck-n-jive'ers thrust their lives down nickle mines willingly for nothing but Jordans and more skin, exorbitant portions of pie, ornamental fortunes, and lies. I've been through older forest many times. Unadorned portraits of sorcerers scorned by their subordinates. I set my clock by the sun's reflection in a hawk's eye. I walk right through lies like camel thru needle eye. Other feeble rhymes fly like fish. My, I wish I could decipher the sky and apply it to this. I have more question marks than intelligent sparks. I tell it in part through eloquent barks, breakbeats, baselines, irrelevant art. Embellished skeleton, drums hang like moss between heaven and hell again. The land of Gangbangers vs. mic frauds. Seared duck in a light sauce when I iron chef a tired recipe of a pork rapper. I pan fry 'em and get higher than Miles and Gillespie. I got a mic, a knife, a fork, and a napkin when I iron chef a pork rapper. My I is not pod. My shirt is not me. I fry without lard, I'm beef and swine free, you suckas!

Manticore vs. the Kraken. KILL.
Mercury vs. Mars. Kill. Kill.
Knives vs. poison. Kill.
Me vs. death. KILL.

Manticore vs. the Kraken. 400 hundred gallons of slick blue blood. Stay perfectly still, prying out the eyes of the kill. Loch Ness death match. The Sphinx vs. Easter Island. A thousand cubic yards of violence turns bones to stone, to dust. Clones get thrown and rushed. Mercury vs. Mars. Shoot the spy. Tarkus turned the truth to lies, turned your brain into the birth of flies, turns violence to genocide. Knives vs. poison. Good luck in the gauntlet. The voices of the slaughtered, hazardous like Satan's disco. 400 gallons of slick blue blood. Brace yourself for the flood.

Manticore vs. the Kraken. KILL.
Mercury vs. Mars. Kill. Kill.
Knives vs. poison. Kill.
Me vs. death. KILL.
Track Name: Parahelion
Up and down the epilogue staggers the suckers' song. I'm built on bricks, not politricks and poultry fish. Money-hungry vultures feast on your famine, each to his average one, keep with the standard, son, and don't slip, 'cause suckers get back flipped by the governments tax slip. Lot of shoes to fill, lots of road to kill, lots to steal. If the cost of freedom was freedom, would you kneel?

I can't see logic in the deadly devout, rather dim average, him and hers, theirs, them, and they. So perfectly puzzled, they fit the mold, first ballot to polls. Bow to the future's sun. You can see it, tomorrow's tomorrows' ball of fire, spittin' lava on all parhelion, false sun. I don't yield to no synthetic beacon, let it beam. I turn false beholders into smolders. Bow to the future's sun. Drop your tiny computer and run. From the ...

Parahelion, false sun.

I don't swing that bat, Jack. Corporate tax bracket, a racket from elder to younger, then they tax you on your hunger, rummage thru your numbers and give you a number. And in return, you give them a bunch of numbers and feel dumb first, and also after. That's why I'm a craftsman. And I don't do what I'm told or fold when I'm put to the axe. Or allow myself to be polled or factored-in. Don't allow your soul to be sold while you relax in the den.

I can't see logic in the deadly devout, rather dim average, him and hers, theirs, them, and they. So perfectly puzzled, they fit the mold, first ballot to polls. Bow to the future's sun. You can see it. tomorrow's tomorrows' ball of fire, spittin' lava on all parhelion, false sun. I don't yield to no synthetic beacon, let it beam. I turn false beholders into smolders. Bow to the future's sun. Drop your tiny computer and run. From the ...

Parahelion, false sun.
Track Name: I Burn with my Books
Montage for Montag
I'll burn with my books,
I learn lyrics not looks
Your friends behind screens don't know what you mean. Go with the breeze. They just show up to leave.
Master of static. Magic in your gimmick machine. Livin' so clean will get you pigeon routine. Couldn't count the rhythm in his fingers. The meter is revolver repeater. I don't think it's me. I don't think it's just me. Don't trust me, please. Word too wild for the screen. If you weren't there you'll never be. Same as my opposite, contagious philosopher. Thought the word, got the nerve, populate the verb. Xenat-Ra is contra. Anti-pantomime. Fiend for fine print. Montage for Montag.
I'll burn with my books,
I got lyrics not looks.
Your friends behind screens don't know what you mean. Go with the breeze. They just show up to leave.
Master of static. Magic in your gimmick machine. Livin' so clean will get you pigeon routine.
The meter is revolver repeater.
Xenat-Ra is contra(band).
Track Name: Bezriel
I once watched the night brighten while the watch clock circled its point. Pretending on progress and anxiety just heightened. Worldwide you could feel it, like the ebb and flow of empires. I make the words scuttle along and watch the day for all it's worth, while worth itself retires with the tide and smirks. Like secret agents bent on placing no trace, strangers in low places shift eyes and pray for rain. There's no change in the changing day, just a change in how you make your way. Or have your way made. Choice or chance, I hoist demands and plan for second options. Stand alone in winter, sing along in summer. In a former life I was a head shrinker, now my thoughts too large for paper. A dead ringer for '85, I never caught the vapors. The harp strings sing for you, earth dweller. There's a timecop on your tail, monkey on back, seconds sliding scale. In a former life I was a head shrinker, now my thoughts too large for paper. A dead ringer for '85, I never caught the vapors.

I was a head shrinker, dead ringer for '85.

Without the mic mass in his grasp, he floated out the atmosphere, and quarter past that, form lapsed back into gas, moving fast like a flame licking a sheet of glass. The quickening collapse of data. Don't lose the pattern, hold the atoms' entrapment, three laps on Saturn and back in 40 seconds flat. And even when he stuttered and stammered, all the ears fluttered enamored. The muttering rambles of Metz, utterly covered in karmic phantoms and other assorted talismans, scavenging sunken battleships. And without the mic mass in his grasp, he floated out the atmosphere. Keeps me rooted. Otherwise, give gravity the boot and get Buddha'd. In a former life I was a head shrinker, now my thoughts too large for paper. A dead ringer for '85, I never caught the vapors. The harp strings sing for you, earth dweller. There's a timecop on your tail, monkey on back, seconds sliding scale. In a former life I was a head shrinker, now my thoughts too large for paper. A dead ringer for '85, I never caught the vapors.

I was a head shrinker, dead ringer for '85.
Track Name: A Call for All Demons
(chorus)
She spoke, she spoke.
She spoke and no one missed a note.

Chief smoke, chief smoke.
Chief smoke, hold your breathe until you float.

C-note, c-note.
Hundred dollar bill gone before you know.

Remote, remote.
Remote control your brain with a brand and a slogan.

Slang cliche with the fangs on display. A gang of remakes. Show no teeth and hang the DJ, unless he's weird like Kang and Kodos. Angsty flows blow up but don't go pop, nice in the night in the late-late time slot. My fans have webbed hands, or expired warranties, or X's for eyes, or problems with authority, or bitches brew with empty glasses (already drank it). Metz much like paper (white) owls with the trees densely packed in. Tense reaction. I leave stages in flames and audience in traction. Proletariat class action. Hey! Don't let them close your caption.

Chorus

Shipped from the four corners, as rare as Kerouac riding bareback on a scarab's path. Raul Duke, howling at spooks, befouling the starch in collars. I turn weaker tunes into ether fumes, harken to ballers. I Pied Piper lives down the lane, to drown in flames. The fried mic'r tried to shroud the stage and clouds, but the crowd complained, didn't have the weekend to waste. Murking thru the fog deep, chasing rabbit holes, running from the long sleep. my cuddies are casual claim-stakers on comets. My homies are harbors for art, my armor is sonic. Your rap is pantomime pandemonium, as if they'd clap to hear the rhymes of the phony ones, laughing all the way to the bank with a bag of bricks, and one for the executive nitwit. Who took a pill today? CEO's on drugs. Our music's our only one.