A copy of Cleaning The Dishes CD in a cardboard sleeve (plastic is not a huge vibe!). Will also throw in some Bush Chook stickers and all our dearest thanks!
Includes unlimited streaming of Cleaning The Dishes
via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
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Compact Disc
Compact Disc (CD) + Digital Album
A new version of our cleaning the dishes CD, with a fold out middle!
Includes unlimited streaming of Cleaning The Dishes
via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
Sold Out
lyrics
You're called our Prime Minister, but you're not really ours.
You're called our Prime Minister, but you're not really ours.
When you're sitting in your office or you're sitting in a bar,
I hope you're thinking of the people that you're pushing into harms way,
Stay, a little while sir, let me pour you another drink,
Let the whiskey warm your cold soul just enough for you to think,
About Nauru Island up in flames, Manus island up in flames,
About mouldy bread and burnin' kids and all the horrid shame.
I hope it keeps you up at night, I hope ya can't sleep at night,
I hope it slowly burns away at the cold soul inside.
I hope you're frightened of your future, hope you're frightened of our voice.
I Hope you're frightened of the ten million Australians who will rejoice when you are,
Thrown out of the senate, on to the cold hard floor.
I hope you're thrown out in the rain and ya watch them lock the door,
I hope ya forced to eat at soup vans, in Fremantle square,
So you can ask them how a hundred and twenty two million could help 'em there!
And when you're walkin' through the city streets, late night past all the bars,
Stumbling through alleyways, cigarette ridden paths,
I hope ya look up the night sky see it written in the stars,
I hope it's shouted from the rooftops, and every fucking star,
That you're called our Prime Minister,
But you're not really ours.
And when you're walkin' through the city streets, late night past all the bars,
Stumbling through alleyways, cigarette ridden paths,
I hope ya look up the night sky see it written in the stars,
I hope it's shouted from the bus stops, and every bloody car,
That you're called our Prime Minister,
But you're not really ours.
supported by 12 fans who also own “Prime Minister”
This one took a few listens. The first time, it went in all at once, like a corkscrew punched through the soft slab of abdomen, there on my side. I hardly noticed. Then it started to jiggle and wriggle around in there, and slowly — twist by twist, track by track — I came to realize what a bloody, brilliant mess I had on my hands. veryvery
Yes, you could be a guitarist, a vocalist or a songwriter, but can you do all three well? Carla Geneve can - lyrics like poetry (both for the individual lines and the overall effect), excellent guitar work that (with help from a tight and minimalist bass-and-drums backing band) produce full-on songs, and a voice that constantly surprises - and can be young and innocent in one song, full on philosophical and middle-aged Joni Mitchell in the next. peter_of_perth_hills
“Write The Soil Lighter” is full of beguilingly mysterious folk-adjacent music, shrouded in shadow and atmospherics. Bandcamp New & Notable Apr 30, 2023