Transgenre

by GODMOTHER

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    Six-panel booklet features artwork by Stefan Fähler, photos by Merja Hannikainen and lyrics.

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about

Godmother is back with a new EP on cassette tape and digital download. Its title comes from the French word for “transgender” but also hints at Godmother’s polymorphous musical behavior, time-stretching pop music history to create what they call “oldies but newbies”.

Following their 7″ single “These Things Take Time”—which, according to No Fear of Pop, “effectively smashed the competition for 2013's greatest lyric”—Godmother once again indulges in their wordplay fetish with four new earworms: “MTFTM”, a majestic anthem about finding utopia beyond the gender binary system; “ONE-EYED SNAKE OIL”, an ode to the toxic failure of hegemonic masculinity and capitalism; “A VERY SPECIAL EPISODE”, a synthetic tune exploring STI as metaphor for falling in love; and “RUFF RYDER'S BLOCK”, a creeping ballad inspired by crime novels and gangsta rap.

credits

released April 20, 2015

All songs written by Joey Hansom.
Published by New Pangea Music (ASCAP).
Recording and mix by Mowat at E-28 Studios, Berlin.
www.mowatmusic.com
Cover art by Stefan Fähler.
www.stefanfaehler.com
Photography by Merja Hannikainen.

MTFTM: Produced by Joey Hansom. Additional production by Mowat. Vocals and keyboard by Joey. Cello by Rocco. Saxophone by T-Word. Drums by Sara. ONE-EYED SNAKE OIL: Produced by Mowat. Vocals by Joey. Cello by Rocco. Saxophone by T-Word. A VERY SPECIAL EPISODE: Produced by Joey Hansom. Additional production by Mowat. Vocals and keyboard by Joey. Saxophone by T-Word. Drums by Sara. RUFF RYDER’S BLOCK: Produced by Joey Hansom. Additional production by Ben Jackson. Vocals and keyboard by Joey. Cello by Rocco. Saxophone by T-Word.

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New Pangea Berlin, Germany

Music from and inspired by globalization

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Track Name: MTFTM
WE WERE YOUNG AND WE WERE RESTLESS, AND WE WERE ALWAYS ON THE GUESTLIST. STILL FLAT-CHESTED AND WE STILL HAD DICKS, BACK BEFORE A SEX MACHINE EXISTED. THEN ONE DAY YOU PULLED A 180. I SAID, “DUDE, YOU LOOK JUST LIKE A LADY, BUT I MUST CONFESS, YOU SURE LOOK GOOD WITH BREASTS.” SO I FOLLOWED SUIT AND I PUT ON A DRESS. WE HAD VISIONS OF THE ROARING 2020s. NO DEPRESSIONS, PREMONITIONS OF A WORLD WITHOUT MONEY. WE PINCHED HIGH HEELS FROM JC PENNEY’S. CAN YOU SYMPATHIZE? FINDING OUR SIZE WAS NEVER EASY. WE STOLE DESIGNER SKIRTS AND THEN RETURNED ‘EM. WE STUFFED OUR BRAS BEFORE WE BURNED ‘EM, AND WE SENSED AN END TO OUR FEMININE ERA AS WE PAINTED ON MUSTACHES WITH OUR MASCARA. MTFTM. BOY TO GIRL AND BACK AGAIN. ENDLESS TRANSITION TILL THE END. OH DIAMOND DOG, YOU’RE MY BEST FRIEND. AT VARIOUS POINTS WE WENT UNDER THE KNIFE. I GOT A BOOB JOB, YOU GOT YOUR OWN VESSEL OF LIFE, AND WE EVEN GOT ADAM’S APPLE IMPLANTS FROM THE RIBCAGE BONES OF MARILYN MANSON. DOUBLE DEEEZ NUUUTZ VASECTOMY, WHAT ELSE WOULD YOU EXPECT OF ME? I WENT AND GOT MYSELF A DOUBLE MASTECTOMY. WE SPENT ALL OUR MONEY ON ELECTIVE SURGERY, BUT AT LEAST NOW WE’RE FREE FROM SEXIST MARKETABILITY. ALL OUR TROUBLES WE FORGOT ‘EM, BECAUSE WE’RE TOPPING FROM THE BOTTOM. WE’RE LIVING IN A NO MAN’S LAND—NO DICKS, NO TITS, JUST OUR PROSTATE GLANDS. SO TAKE MY HAND AND CHOOSE YOUR OWN GENDER. SUGAR, SPICE, PUPPY TAILS, WE’LL PUT ‘EM ALL IN A BLENDER. NO PINK, NO BLUE, BLACK OR WHITE—IT’S ALL A SPECTRUM. BUT A RECTUM IS A RECTUM IS A RECTUM. MTFTMTFTM. BOY TO GIRL AND BUTCH TO FEMME. ENDLESS TRANSITION TILL THE END, TILL I’M A TRANNY GRANNY HASBIAN.
Track Name: One-Eyed Snake Oil
OH, SAY, CAN YOU SEE FROM SEA TO SHINING SEA? OUR ISM, IT BEGINS WITH A CAPITAL C. TYRANT BANKS WILL MAKE YOU WALK THE PLANK AND TELL YOU IT'S A RUNWAY. POSING WITH THE PLANKTON AS THE CURRENCY FLOWS ONE WAY. CROOKED CROOKS ARE COOKING BOOKS, AND NEXT THEY'RE GONNA BURN ‘EM. SHILLING ONE-EYED SNAKE OIL, AND IF IT KILLS, IT DON'T CONCERN 'EM. OH, SAY, CAN YOU SEE FROM SEA TO SHINING SEA? OUR ISM, IT BEGINS WITH A CAPITAL ¢. INEFFABLE, ENOUGH ALREADY. TOTALITARIAN TERROR. IF YOU THINK YOUR LIFE HAS WORTH, THAT'S AN ACTUARIAL ERROR. MASCULINE ASS-KICKIN’ REACHING PEAK HUMANITY. MAKE A KILLING ON THE MASSES. MENS REA. BLEED INSANITY. ICE AGE IN REVERSE. IT'S HOT AS HELL ON EARTH. WORLD GETTING SMALLER AND SPINNING FASTER. IT'S NOT A CRISIS, IT’S A NATURAL DISASTER. OH, SAY, CAN YOU SEE FROM SEA TO SHINY BLACK SEA? OUR ISM IT BEGINS WITH A CAPITAL C. NOW I KNOW OUR DISEASE. NEXT TIME WON'T YOU SING IT WITH ME?
Track Name: A Very Special Episode
HEY, REMEMBER THE 80s? HEY, REMEMBER THE AIDS EPIDEMIC? THEY SAY THAT IT WAS GAY-RELATED, AND THEY’RE STILL WAITING FOR A CURE. I GUESS WHAT I’M TRYING TO SAY IS, I WANNA CHASE YOUR BUG, BUT I’M AFRAID A LIFETIME OF YOUR LOVE MAY BE A BIT TOO MUCH FOR ME TO ENDURE. OH DEAR, I FEAR YOU GAVE ME A SOUVENIR. SO BON VOYAGE—I GUESS MY LOVE WAS JUST A MIRAGE. THE STARS I SAW WERE LIES AND NOW ALL I SEE ARE SCARS. HEY REMEMBER THE 90s? I LEARNED TO PUT RESENTMENT BEHIND ME. AND THERE WAS SOMETHING YOU SAID ABOUT US STILL BEING FRIENDS, ‘CAUSE THE GIFT YOU GAVE ME IS NONREFUNDABLE. SHOULD WE RENEW FOR ANOTHER SEASON? A SPINOFF, A REASON TO CONTINUE THE SHOW? ‘CAUSE EVERYTHING I KNOW I LEARNED FROM 90210 AND DR. HUXTABLE. OH DEAR, I FEAR I’M LOST WITHOUT YOU HERE. I’M NOT IMMUNE TO YOUR INFECTIOUS SEX. LET’S HAVE A SECOND HONEYMOON CAUSE JOEY’S OFF THE AIR, NEVER MADE IT OFF THE GROUND ALONE—IT’S PRIME TIME FOR A FRIENDS REUNION. HEY, REMEMBER THE 80s? THE 90s, THE NAUGHTIES, THE COOTIES, THE RABIES. HEY, REMEMBER THE 80s? THE RERUNS, THE RETCONS AND THE RATINGS.
Track Name: Ruff Ryder's Block
SHE’S BEEN AROUND THE WRITER’S BLOCK BEFORE, AND SHE DOESN’T HAVE A MOTIVE ANYMORE. A CAREER AS A WRITER DOESN’T EXCITE HER. A PEN IS MIGHTY BUT A PISTOL IS MIGHTIER, SO TONIGHT SHE’LL GET INSPIRED AS BODIES HIT THE FLOOR. SHE PULLS A STACK OF PAGES OFF THE SHELF. SHE’LL PLAGIARIZE A PLAY SHE WROTE HERSELF. SHE POPS THE GLOCK AND THE PUNKS ALL DROP. THE BULLETS PUNCTUATE FULL STOP. HER AUTHORSHIP IS LOST AND THE STORY WRITES ITSELF. THEY SAY, WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW—NOW THE INVERSE IS TRUE. THIS TIME SHE’S THE ONE WHODUNIT, BUT SHE DOESN’T HAVE A CLUE, SO SHE HIDES THE BODIES IN THE NEW YORK TIMES’ BEST CELLAR, ‘CAUSE THAT’S WHAT THE CRICKETS IN HER HEAD ALL TELL HER. HER BLOOD-STAINED CLOTHES ARE FILLED WITH TYPOS. SHE SHOULD’VE LEFT IT TO THE PROSE. SHE KNOWS, IT SHOWS—SHE ALWAYS WAS A LOUSY SPELLER. THEY SAY, WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW—NOW THE INVERSE IS TRUE. THIS TIME SHE’S THE ONE WHODUNIT, BUT SHE DOESN’T HAVE A CLUE WHAT TO DO WHEN THE THIRD PERSON TURNS INTO THE FIRST, TAKING ON THE KILLER’S ROLE COMPLETELY UNREHEARSED. MURDER SHE WROTE, SHE WROTE A LOT, SHE WROTE HERSELF INTO THE PLOT, GETTING CHASED, MORE COPS ON HER CASE THAN IRV GOTTI GOT. AND THE INK FROM HER PEN BLEEDS A TALE AS OLD AS TIME. HER RED HANDS TIP HER OFF TO THE GORE SHE’S LEFT BEHIND. MURDER GALORE, SUCH A SHAME, BECAUSE THE MEDIA’S TO BLAME, BUT THE JUDGE HE’S READ THIS BOOK BEFORE, AND THE COVER BEARS HER NAME. NO CHANCE TO REDACT IT, PREMEDITATED REENACTMENT. CHECK THE FACTS, WORK THE CONVICTION, THE EVIDENCE IS STACKED. SHE’S BEEN AROUND THE WRITER’S BLOCK BEFORE, AND SHE DOESN’T HAVE A MOTIVE ANYMORE. HER NEXT SENTENCE MIGHT BE LIFE OR DEATH. NO REPENTANCE, ONLY ONE HOPE LEFT— THAT WHILE SHE’S LOCKED UP IN A CELL HER SALES WILL SURELY SOAR.