Simmer down the wet confetti, the geneticists still aren’t ready to come home so I’m alone for now. One trick phoney to the three act addicts, foreplay takes five minutes, sex is next I guess? “Rock and roll is here to stay,'' my mantra on bank-holidays. A self fulfilling prophecy, oh yes. Make out with the mirror, practice chat up lines and figure out which thin veneer to debut as sincere moi. My fingernails are a frayed knot, my self esteem has caught the cot death. Breathlessly, I’m eager to be redeemed. Still sleep with both arms in the air. Still making room for your hair and head to rest upon my chest, I guess. Still fantasise about the war. Still wolfing down the singular. The Liffey’s swallowed all my pride today. And Spielburg’s in the kitchen stink eyeing my side on the brink. Lining up the shot of his career. My fingers make a square to frame a cinematic, sincere pain. My ego is the Best Boy in the room - woo hoo. 

On the bag, I don’t need that. 
My confidence is my confidante. 

My knuckles white around the stars. I suckle on a teet in bars. The milk careers, and flows, and tastes so smooth. You say you’re crying more than me, as evidence - capacity to feel a higher low, but I’m not sure. I hate myself and want to live, I want to love, I want to give, I want to take and be taken care of. Pock-marks dot the blister field, find solace in fictitious real - the realest thing since genuinity. Don’t be offended by my songs, I didn’t mean a single word. I’d disown them in a second for your touch. The water hits my face and then I’ve convinced my reflection. Pity no one else was in the room. My ears are booming, jaw is chewing, eyes dart towards my mouth, which flies like a flag. I’m making moves, well I’m moving. I saw it in a movie once - a powerplay to wag a tongue like that. Talking at you like a child. Catastrophize my trophy wife. Sweating through the clothes that you’ve just lent me. Snapping at the remote control, the tendrils flip the Chance Channel. And all I have to say is, “I guess, I love you man”. 

On the bag, I’m a made man. 
A made up man, I know I am not. 

I hide in bars. I drown in words. It seems absurd that I’m lonely. 
Make a safe bet - If I left, this party continues without me.

Topher Grace

Summer Assault

Unwritten

Circles

25 - Single Edit

'The Drip is a song about tour burnout and relationship strain. The song was written almost a line at a time, small lyrics jotted down at different moments on tour, in different cities, different head spaces. The title refers to that slow accumulation, drip torture was on my mind, but also an IV drip - something that keeps you alive, hooked to your veins. In this case my deep love for making music, and the people I make it with.

The song has no chorus - no release. But it’s joyous and builds with momentum with each passing section, even as the lyrics seem to become more abstract. This conflict between love for the thing, and that thing destroying you - that’s The Drip. “Poke to find a vein, flick the bag”

The song was recorded with producer Rian Trench in rural Donegal, in a cottage that we converted into a studio. We built a control room in the sitting room, and ran cables into the various bedrooms for guitar amps, even using Alan’s van to house the bass amp outside (as the volume inside the house was making the fillings in our teeth come loose). The double drums were then recorded in Attica Studio in Donegal owned by Tommy McLaughlin ( Soak, Villagers, Ailbhe Reddy). There was no signal, no wifi, no distractions - just friends making music together. We were listening to a lot of DIIV and Wednesday at the time, and we were lucky enough to rope in Alex Ferrar (engineer/producer of Wednesday,MJ Lendermann, Angel Olsen, etc) on mixing duties.' 

The Drip

The song essentially details a night so consumed by anxiety and consumption that it can’t acknowledge that something special is happening between two people.  Only brief glimpses of tenderness punctuate the lyrics, and while the song acknowledges how self centred the narrative is, it does not use it as a ‘learning moment’. 
 

“In all that I have ever dreamed, I’m at the centre spinning.
Woke up, riddled with unease. But no - it’s roped me into you.”

The Rip

AFL is the first single from THUMPER's forthcoming EP.
Produced by Dan Fox (Girl Band)
Mixed by Michael Heffernan
Mastered by Fergal Davis 

THUMPER are a noise-pop quintet from Dublin, delivering bubblegum pop through a wall of sonic death. With a reputation for raucous and frenzied live shows, and penchant for howling feedback and pounding rhythm, each show is an exercise in unpredictability.

Fresh off the back of selling out the secret location launch gig for their 3rd EP "POP! GOES THE WEASEL" (Voted EP of the Year by Golden Plec & REMY, with single The Loser making top 10 songs of the year by The Last Mixed Tape), 2017 has seen THUMPER top several Ones To Watch lists and tour relentlessly - headlining Hard Working Class Heroes & Whelans Ones To Watch Fest, as well as joining Fangclub on a national tour.

The latter part of the year saw a string of dates with The Strypes & Bitch Falcon, and a capacity bending headline show in The Workmans Club on New Years Eve. Now having completed their 4th EP (Produced by Girl Band’s Dan Fox), THUMPER turn their attention to 2018... 

I JUST WANT TO BUY SOME TIME
THOUGH I DO NOT HAVE A DIME
EVEN STILL I'M NOT A YANK
I'D BE LAUGHED OUT OF THE BANK

"HA HA HA HA HA"
"LA LA LA LA LA"

PUBLIC TRANSPORT GETS ME DOWN
SUNDAY SERVICE SKIPS MY TOWN
SOCIAL WELFARE'S WELL FOR PENCE
AS MY MA TO PAY MY RENT

"HA HA HA HA HA"
"MA MA MA MA MA"

KNOWLEDGE DOESN'T SUIT ME
GONNA SHAVE MY HEAD AND ACT LIKE A CHILD
ABSO-FUCKIN-LOOTELY LOST THE PLOT LAST NIGHT
I'M LIVING A LIE
WISH I COULD GO BACK IN TIME
WHEN EVERY SINGLE WORD I WROTE RHYMED 
A CLEVER PLOY FOR CLEVER BOYS
WHO CLOSE THEIR EYES WHEN THEY'RE GROWING DOWN.

SHUT YOUR FUCKING FILTHY MOUTH
ALL YOU MOTHERFUCKERS FEEL THE NEED TO SHOUT
MEAT IS ROTTING ON THE BONE
I'M TURNING INTO ONE OF THEM

I'VE NO POTENTIAL, I'VE NO REMORSE
THE THINGS I'VE STOLEN ARE STRANGE AND COARSE
I'M LOOSING MY MIND,
MY MIND. 

YOU THINK YOU'VE GOT IT
BUT YOU'VE GOT IT ALL WRONG
YOU THINK YOU WANT IT
BUT EVEN WANTING'S LOST ITS FUN
AN OUT OF BODY AUTO-MESSAGE HUMS
YOU THINK YOU WANT IT
BUT YOU WON'T BE HERE FOR LONG. 


KNOWLEDGE DOESN'T SUIT ME
GONNA SHAVE MY HEAD AND ACT LIKE A CHILD
ABSO-FUCKIN-LOOTELY LOST THE PLOT LAST NIGHT
I'M LIVING A LIE
WISH I COULD GO BACK IN TIME
WHEN EVERY SINGLE WORD I WROTE RHYMED 
A CLEVER PLOY FOR CLEVER BOYS
WHO CLOSE THEIR EYES WHEN THEY'RE GROWING DOWNNNNN.

THUMPER - "AFL"

THUMPER // (YOU'RE BRINGING ME) DOWN

dublin city most balletic

https://linktr.ee/hellothumper
hellothumper@gmail.com

THUMPER

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