Goathrower EP

by Spewtilator



Boris Records - BR 007 - 500 Black
Order direct from boris-records.com
Recorded and mixed by Josh Freemon @ Dead Sound Studio
Mastered by Jack Control @ Enormous Door
Cover Artwork by Hand of Beaver


released February 14, 2014

Ryan - Bass + Vocals
Rafay - Guitars
Jake - Drums



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Spewtilator Atlanta, Georgia

Smoked out, beer soaked headbangers belching burrito death breath since '07. No politics, no retro bullshit, just gore-drenched worship of the fastest riffs.

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Track Name: Goathrower
Lightning cracks across the sky, posers burst into flames and die, you lived your life only to pose, ashes scattered as cold winds blow. Choke on the stench of burning death, inhale the reek of hell, fucked up and ready to get high. Frozen north, winter storm. Sorcery cast from mountain high, smoke some weed and fucking die. Roots gnarled into cloven hooves, true evil taking form, usurper, consecrated to evil. Goathrower.
Track Name: Cherokee Curse
Cursed by an asshole, an indian enthusiast. My mind's gripped by terror, paranoia verging on madness, haunted by horrific visions, crippled by demons, spirits of evil. Cherokee Curse I rot. Psychodelic tomahawks crushing my mind. Warriors rise from the burial ground, black magic mindfuck boils my brain. Sanity eroded by vengeful evocation. All reality devolving into violent hallucinations. Lured by undead suserations, voices calling me into the swamp, the shaman awaits at the altar of death. Covered in leeches, conjurings calling me forth. Lift the sacrificial blade from the altar. Slit your guts fulfill the curse.
Track Name: Cave of Hatred
Sorcerer of hellish riffs, faces melted, don't need no finger tips to fucking shred.
Track Name: After World Inebriation
Nuclear apocalypse the fallout the fried your brains, electromagnetic pulse sent mankind back to the stone age. Tank treads turn skulls to dust, civilization crushed, ill fated fools survived only to rot inside by creeping dose. Legions form boils fill with pus, each breath you take is poisonous, insects spew forth as tumors bust, bong rips, apocalypse. Mutate to your toxic fate and drown in weed and alcohol as man's empires fall. After World Inebriation. The feats of man reduced to ash, all hope of survival is fucking cashed so pull a resin hit with your last breath and accept death but you don't rest in peace, reanimated by cicuitry, devoid of the urge to chill... programmed to kill.