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Dead And Loving It

by Bad History Month

  • Record/Vinyl + Digital Album

    A self-help audio book. Comes with a 28 page booklet containing a lengthy introduction/explanation/preemptive defense against potential offense of the recently bereaved, lyrics, and a sheepishly proffered suggested reading list. AND an INCREDIBLE 2x3 FOOT COLOR POSTER. "It's the most incredible thing I've ever seen" says Chris Reed, famous New England artist. 300 copies are purple with yellow splatter, get em while they're hot. All art by the ol' master, Mr. Adric Giles pencapchew.org give him a round of applause, folks.

    Includes unlimited streaming of Dead And Loving It via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
    ships out within 5 days

      $15 USD or more 


  • Compact Disc (CD) + Digital Album

    Dead format of the more recent past. Professionally manufactured. Inexpensive. Comes with all the trimmings, plus you can play it in cars of a certain era. Art by Adric Giles pencapchew.org

    Includes unlimited streaming of Dead And Loving It via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
    ships out within 5 days

      $10 USD or more 


  • T-Shirt/Apparel

    Fruit in a bowl when a piece has gone rotten. Pretty mixed ink colors on white shirts.
    Art by Adric Giles pencapchew.org
    ships out within 5 days
    1 remaining

      $15 USD or more 


  • Streaming + Download

    Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
    Purchasable with gift card

      $5 USD  or more


  • Hollow Head T-Shirt

    Illustration with instructions. Art by Adric Giles pencapchew.org

    Sold Out

The Church of Nothing Matters As much as nothing matters, nothing matters as much as Nothing. I don't go to church, this is how I searched for peace, and found Nothing. And found...
Gazing at My Navel Inevitably all my molecules dissolved, and then my problems were all resolved. I spent a lifetime deciding which ways I should go, and now that I’m gone I finally know. I know that I have always been exactly what I’m supposed to be: nothing more or less than Grandpa’s answer to mortality. Imagination thinks of itself as Reality, but it just imagines itself to be. The greatest use I ever found for mine is traveling time by throwing myself into The Sea of Imagined Infinity. By just staring at my hands and picturing them decomposing, feeling my existence as a ripple on an endless ocean. Not even a drop, I will take no substance with me when I’m finally gone. Because my body is the same as the Sea, and this consciousness I think of as “Me” is nothing more than the imagined separation between things. Dying while you’re still alive, suddenly you open your eyes. It’s only when you realize that you’re going Nowhere that you finally arrive. I saw myself dead, in my head, and it made me breathe easy.
A Small Life 10:24
A Small Life Living a small life. Lost and afraid, in a safe, familiar place. It’s boring here. But when the world graciously offers to change, I hope it stays the same. Spending the daylight dreading the setting sun, because I slept too late, and the nights dreading the coming light, because the dark feels safe. Reading an old book, I walked through an ancient house alone, pleasantly surprised by my own familiar face, sketched in dust on an empty mirror, by a long gone hand. I laughed and disappeared... Suddenly bursting from the earth, calmly inhaling the fresh night air in a dimly lit graveyard. Walking out into the world, covered in dirt, feeling clean, being guided by the light of a long-dead star. Feeling grateful for my leisurely chores, at ease, enjoying life at the grocery store. Floating just above the heat of the crowd, untouched but still attached, both feet on the ground. A balloon bouncing across the ceiling… dragged by my three year old hand, affording a comfortable feeling, everything according to plan. Then it hit the light, and I heard the sound of a bubble bursting and I hit the ground. Age 9, a Mel Gibson fan, screaming “FREEDOM!” at the top of my lungs, jumping off a high dive. And then age 25, saying, “Yeah, but what’s Freedom mean without Risk?” Locked in a safe… (Chickenheart.)
The Nonexistent Distance As long as I’m alive, I can never be saved. Buried in each exhalation: “My body is a grave.” And as I survive, am I just a slave? Cells eat the air I feed them, they multiply and I age. Trying to envision the nonexistent distance between my Self and Nonexistence, I hold my breath and listen... This heart is just a piston. This body is a mission, accomplished at the moment of conception. And this “soul” is an accident of cognition. I take another breath, and I give it back. I take another breath, and I give it back.
The Imaginary Tone In the same way the sun hides the stars all day, even though they're still there, that’s the way that my paralyzed, frenzied mind blinds itself with its own glare. I’ve spent my life afraid of the Dark, but I haven’t seen anything. I’ve been trapped in the atmosphere. And it towers above me for miles, and it wraps my perceptions in foam. And my ears can’t hear anything but the imaginary tone of my own voice, talking endless shit.
Being Nothing I think, and so I am. But all my thoughts just say: “You are nothing.” I don’t know shit. But I still exist. I’m tired of wasting all my time fucking hating it. There’s an untouched gift. I don’t open it. It doesn’t look big enough, so I throw a fit. I’m tired of wasting all my time. I’m tired of wasting all my time. I’m tired of wasting all my time. Talking the same shit to myself, over and over and over and over and over and over again... Then a light came on. And before it shut off, I noticed that the words were true, just not the way I thought. Now that I know what it means to be Nothing, I can finally imagine what it is to be Free.
A Warm Recollection When I’m in bed with you I don’t give a shit about brushing my teeth. I don’t give a fuck about waking up for work, or about getting enough sleep. Fucking hard on my soft bed, I feel an intimate connection to the dead, countless, unknown people who came before me, my entire ancient family tree, back to the trees. Picturing the stone, and the embers of the fire in the cave, and the straw mats and the feather beds, of the dead kings and the dead slaves, and then the car seats, and the couches, and all the centuries of sex with no protection, my body fills up with the wonderful feeling of escaping rejection and this warm recollection of ancestral affection, uh huh... Somewhere in the deep unwritten future, rich people overcome death. They spend their endless lives time traveling backward, just to watch us have sex. They don’t have bodies anymore, breathing starts seeming like a chore, after a few thousand years. There’s not much excitement in a life without fear of Death. So they wish they were us: Bumbling through selfish lives and selflessly returning to dust. And having good reasons to love and to hate and to hope and create and to lust. There’s even less meaning in a life without rust.
A Platitude I scream for ice cream. And when it comes I feel sick. With guilt and regret, for throwing a fit. I bit the tit of The World, but still got fed. Fed up with myself, I scream for a new attitude. I’m hateful. I’m hateful. It’s shameful to be so ungrateful. I lack nothing but that. I’m lucky. I’m lucky. I’m lucky. I win. I’m lucky. I’m lucky. I’m lucky. I see: There’s plenty. There’s plenty. There’s more than enough for me. Go ahead help yourself, it’s free. Go ahead help yourself, it’s free. Go ahead, help yourself, good luck. There’s more than enough Fuckups. A Final Understanding “I finally understand!” Over and over and over and over and over again and again and again... And I start to make plans, based on my newfound perspective, but it doesn’t work out, I freak the fuck out too soon, over and over and over. So now, what can I do? Trapped in these seemingly separate lives, and trying to get on the right side, and failing, and hating myself for being dumb enough to try. I’ve got an angel and a devil perched upon opposing shoulders and their coaxing and opinions poach attention from the center. And I’m staring at the mirror saying: “The center is where my head is.” And in the center of my head, I feel the root of Imagination, and I focus my attention and watch my facial features fading, and I hollow out my head and kill The Myth of Separation. And those formerly sworn enemies crawl into the husk of my head, and embrace in dirty fucking, and my body is their soft bed, and there is no dirty talking, that noisy train has left the station, bearing words which serve no purpose but to kill communication with the actual world of actual satisfaction I’ve been chasing like a tail... And I finally understand. Over and over and over and then finally it’s over.


YOU CAN GET ONE HERE TOO: www.explodinginsoundrecords.com/products/600384-bad-history-month-dead-and-loving-it-an-introductory-exploration-of-pessimysticism



All songs by Bad History Month
Artwork by Adric Giles (www.pencapchew.org)


Sean Bean - Wrote the songs, played whatever’s not noted otherwise, pissed and moaned mercilessly, ended up doing some editing and arranging and having a lot of fun eventually.

Mark Fede - Recorded the majority of the album, played drums on “Gazing” and the Party Time and Dirge sections of “Small Life” and some percussion on the “Platitude” outro. Fount of indestructible patience, teacher of Logic, ground floor energy investor, recipient of my gratitude til DETH do us part.

Adric Giles - Drew and painted and helped design all the incredible album art and the poster. Played drums on “Being Nothing”. Lent us the Kool Keith Moog for “Nonexistent” and the drum pad for “Small Life”. Recommended several books. Provider of never ending encouragement, mental support
and positive inspiration.

Colby Nathan and Greg Hartunian - Recorded the bones of “Church” and the intros and some overdubs in “Gazing”, were tremendously helpful calm balms for preexisting complexes. Colby played melodica between the first couple intros. Dimples “Whimpers” = Gold Record.

Dan Angel - Recorded the scrapped first attempt to make this album, absorbed an unreasonable amount of alternating overt/catatonic negativity, played the tape delay effects on “Gazing” and “Small Life” and the queasy pitch knob organ on “Being Nothing”. Later recorded most of the surprisingly amazing pianos on everything. Lives up to his name.

Bone - Ghost guitar on the Dirge, real guitar on the end of “Small Life”, layout and art design, helped inspire the whole concept.

Nick Wiedeman - Slide guitar on “Platitude” outro, good vibes forever.

Jesse Heasly - Bass on “Warm Recall” and “Being Nothing”. Hired gun slings perfection, ties room together.

Richard Maguire - Ghost guitar on the outro of “Platitude”, ghost audience in room on “Final Understanding”. Shpongle lovin’ good ol’ buddy.

David Silverstein and Megdog Coss - Editorial assistance on these ramblings. All quotation-mark-related punctuation errors are an intentional protest on my part. The correct way looks dumb. Don’t kill the proof-readers.

Mastered by: Scott Craggs, Old Colony Mastering.


released November 3, 2017


March 4th JP, Streetcar Wines, 488 Centre St, Jamaica Plain w/
Joseph Allred, Forget The Times (Kzoo, MI)

March 12 Ballston, Last House, w/Rut(Rochester), ADULT, Squitch

March 20 PHILLY, Melon St. House(ask a cantaloupe)
w/Dust From 1000 Yrs, Sandcastle

April 7 Ballston, Trixies w/Colby Nathan, Tom K +

April 15 CT TAXDAY PARTAY Counter Weight Brewing Co.
23 Raccio Park Rd, Hamden CT w/ Shirese, Smoking (Dave Go jams)


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Bad History Month Philadelphia, Pennsylvania


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