On a Hook LP

by Dead Already

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  • Record/Vinyl + Digital Album

    12" version of Dead Already's debut album "On a Hook" on black vinyl

    Includes unlimited streaming of On a Hook LP via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
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The debut full length from Melbourne's Dead Already is an unrelenting anxious spray of pre-apocalyptic tensions, observing the cascading environmental cataclysms, disintegrating political landscape, runaway greed and informational overload of an increasingly bleak and uncertain future.

Expanding on the heavy early 80s US West Coast hardcore influence of their 'Gilded Age of Piss' 7in, 'On a Hook' sees Dead Already sharpen their sonic focus, up the intensity and pull on some of their earlier melodic threads to shape 14 tracks for a punk rock psychic breakdown.


released May 25, 2019

Pat S - Guitar, Vox
Rach S - Drums
Jack S - Bass
Paul W - Guitar, Vox
Scott R - Vox

Recorded by Al "DrAlien" Smith at Big Note Studios in Coburg in March 2019.
Mixed and mastered by Al "DrAlien" Smith at Bergerk! Studios.
Organ on "Hollower" by Tim Day.

All songs written by Dead Already.
Lyrics by Scott R (except for the part of Ice Nine swiped from Kurt Vonnegut Jnr). Artwork by Scott R

Written, performed and recorded on the stolen lands of the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin Nations. Sovereignty was never ceded, and colonial occupation remains ongoing. Dead Already acknowledges the Traditional Custodians of the land, and respectfully recognises Elders both past and present.


all rights reserved



Dead Already Melbourne, Australia

80s hardcore influenced anxious punk rock from Melbourne, Australia

Rach S - Drums
Jack S - Bass
Paul W - Guitar
Scott R - Vox
Pat S - Guitar

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Track Name: The Great Filter
Possums ring the remaining half of the art centre spire, their cataract eyes blinded to the irradiated sky scrapping the top of the lush red gum canopy lining the former Bourke Street. A glint of light bounces off a gap in the clog of choking milk thistle strangling the rusting hulk of a B-Class, prostrate, interred in encroaching soil. Roots split the remnants of bitumen.

Old Elizabeth returned to embrace the Yarra's flow of toxic waste. A permanent haze settles, a radioactive ash in the sediment. 7 Riverside Quay reduced to a crumbling edifice, a monument to hubris, or some equally tired metaphor. Sunken islands and risen tides, oceans devoid of life, a predetermined legacy. No one can say we didn't have it coming. Vindication of the pessimists, an apparent failure of the long hoped for emergence of some utopic Kurzweilian outcome.

The void enveloped the histories of seven billion jerks. The victory of the gaping maw long seen smacking its lips, prepared for the swallowing. Pull into the firmament, past the halo of space junk, to locate the last pilgrim drifting past the rings of Saturn. A new voyager probing black sports the immortality drive and a golden record, its grooves containing apex of culture. Like the one where Walter White chases a fly around the super lab. It will be a thousand years until some black alien eyes glance below, past the disc, under the housing, to the panel there just underneath. The cosmic plea etched in the heat shield reads “do not resuscitate”.
Track Name: White Foam
I don’t see the difference between your uncrossed lines and a thousand pairs of leather boots, marching lockstep all in time. I don’t see the grave insult in unspooling the twine. I don’t see what you see I don’t see the difference between you clutching pearls and burning witches at the stake, an example to the other girls. I don’t see the heresy in burning down your church. I don’t see what you see. You’re foaming at the mouth to disincetivise all healthy scrutiny to myths that fetishise. I don’t see what you see, pseudo religiosity. I don’t buy your fantasy. I don’t see the difference.
Track Name: Death Trap
You are breach in the starboard bulkhead, rapid decompression now swelling our heads, ready to pop like a grape underfoot. You are the air bubble inside the syringe, the rushing surprise of a cardiac sting, a sudden betrayal of a trusted input. You are the slow leak inside the gas line, steadily choking us all over time. You are the fungus that is baked into bread, all of us who consumed it are losing our heads. You’re a single bullet inside of the gun, a prize for that game we’re sad to have won. Lost count of the clicking but still have to pull. You are the shaking hands of the chief, the brinkmanship over now time to unleash. The blinding white flash now consuming all. You are the canary inside the coal mine, should have turned back but you’ve run out of time. Ignored the lessons of past cautionary tales, took the history exam I’m afraid that you’ve failed. Impossible to find the way back outside when you’ve snuffed out the fucking torchlight. You are a fucking carbon haze, you are a strong gust of wind pumping up a blaze. Burned up, oxygen sucked, inhalation, ambient heat. Dyspneic you are a carbon haze. You are the drifting embers, you are the fucking black lung.
Track Name: Narc Zuckerberg
Disintegration gloom, sealed in somatic tomb. Until entropy consumes, no way out. Divide divide expire, rotting from the source. Telomere shortening. Fragile bundles of sinew, the fraying of the cord. Slough of flesh is worsening. Matte finish of carbon, shining chromium gleam. The soothing hum of servers. Digitise consciousness, live the electric dream. 10,000 years of progress. Long live the new flesh. Just let it go.
Track Name: Creation Myth
Return to mine the richest vein that’s running through. Carve into bedrock strip the ore that you’re always cleaving to. Extract the elements, smelt, cast and refine. Endless buff and polish yet still utterly asinine. Aimless, a lash of no consequence. Reviewed the performance, a vote of no confidence. Paranoia or a darker heart? Chitin, keratin, carapace. Unbreakable veneer. Shut out, receded, retreated to a discrete sphere. Separate, float away. Loose cluster of raw nerves misfiring constantly. That stale perspective finally lost its novelty. Outlived its usefulness, that certain distrust of a child. Paranoia dims the bulb, the navigator is lost in flight. Gorget, vambrace, gauntlet. Boiled studded leather. Cosmic detachment, sever, cut the golden tether. Evaporate, drift away. Quantum entanglement, all knotted up and tied. Rising momentum, sweep of the encroaching tide. Outlived its usefulness that distrust of a child. That stale perspective no longer can be reconciled.
Track Name: Tired World
You trace the deepening lines, the bags under your eyes, the gums receding from the teeth. Death grip with bony fists, defy arthritic wrists, the paranoia of a thief. The flesh sags on your bones, cataracts cloud out the cones, scowl from your morbid pyramid. Ancient joints creak and groan, squat on your looted throne, your reign is illegitimate. I don’t wanna live your tired world. Hack off your ears so you can’t hear the rolling thunder! Swallow of the creeping void, a doom you can’t avoid, still down this dead end you persist. Exhaust your remaining years, propagate noxious ideas, preserve your gilded age of piss. Summit your peak of soil, become a nervous coil, to curse the vapour overhead. Push your collapsing lungs, become the loudest one, echo to last after you’re dead. Custodian of dead beliefs, the paranoia of a thief, a seismic shift under your feet speeds your heartbeat. Tremors!!! I don’t wanna live in your tired world.
Track Name: Or Nearest Offer
Flash of blue light makes my stomach sink. The suffocating tyranny of all of this spilled ink. The searing blinding migraine, a white hot fucking burn. With each salacious headline, my guts begin to churn. Desperate struggle for attention is speeding up. Wine laced with ergot now overflows my cup. This spongy grey shit is reaching capacity, not built for such unfettered complexity. Dizzying vertigo, uncontrollable spin. Try to make it watertight, it just keeps seeping in. Trying hard to compartmentalise, but the all consuming sadness keeps welling up my eyes. Savage fucking impulse, humans have to slash and burn. With every act of cruelty my guts begin churning and churning.
Track Name: Steamed Hams
Confect a fresh crime wave, blame the other. Not so much a dog whistle as compressed air pounding reed. Aurora Australis in your kitchen, Potato Brother. We’d chow down on your steamed hams, but it’s dark and we’re afraid to eat. Chinless/Fascist/Racist. Fascist, abhorrent fucking racist Queensland cop. Mendacious stream of propaganda appears to never stop. Utter contempt for accountability. Authoritarian lack of transparency. Repetitive cries of “deaths at sea”, pathetic smokescreen to white supremacy. I guess the greasy worm gets the super ministry. Hopeful rise to the top on a tide of bigotry. Champing at the bit for a new white Australia policy. Almost gleeful execution of human rights abuses, obscured with excuses. We’re not buying in to your tuberous reign of bullshit.
Track Name: Ice Nine
“All of the true things I am about to tell you are shameless lies” It’s my contention this dynamic tension is rotting me out, there’s little doubt. This present distraction is a great benefaction, a childish construct of a blanket redoubt. A tangle of threads to connect. Web of pursuits, help protect. Cruising missiles overhead. Significance of blind affect. I’ll kill my time til Ice-Nine. Assured self-deception is a solid direction to forestall a coma, “live by the foma”. Prosaic distortion is a hefty proportion, a childish construct of a shallow persona. “I wanted all things to seem to make some sense, so we all could be happy, yes, instead of tense. And I made up lies So that they all fit nice, and I made this sad world a par-a-dise”
Track Name: The Maw
As we sit hypnotised by the cascading cataclysms, we are swallowed whole. A slow suffocation from a severe breathing hazard, that choking fume is quickly expanding. We're in the bloated gut of the Leviathan, being steadily gassed by is digestive processes as the abomination tries to sate its rapacious, bottomless appetite. It subsumes is avaricious diet of violence, exploitation, bottomless greed, and cannot be satisfied. The margins, the gourmands of harm. The structures are a factory farm. Interventions are keeping them fed. The binge of violence their daily bread. Free-market to fatten the breast. Division to help them digest. The hunger to invade and dispossess. The cravings always bottomless. There's nowhere to go. The appetite grows. THE RAVENOUS MAW OF THE GREAT BLOOD GORGE.
Track Name: Exposure Therapy
What are they advocating for? Grey skies, beige lives, an all white décor. Joyless, a thoughtless gasp in the dark. With their wingtip they'll stomp out a spark. Sacrifice the inherent strong. Display bodies for the frothing throng. Bottomless pockets delve deepest for a masculine paradigm, a monoculture. Commodification looms larger, over your shoulder. Keep composure. Exposure Therapy. At the altar of DIY we kneel, wail and cry. Testify.
Track Name: Jesus is My Co-Conspirator
Prosperity theology, applaud the Son high fiving moneychangers. Genuflect, infinite greed. With all this abundance clearly you have got his favour. Fatten up us golden calves we've got a date with a captive bolt pistol. Butcher into gleaming cuts served on a plate carved from the finest crystal. All you see is a writhing mass crushed under the weight of your pious hubris. YOU WON'T QUIT THIS VAMPIRE SHIT UNTIL YOU HAVE CONSUMED ALL OF US. How are we gonna survive the sins your faith has justified? Us starving heathens will die 'cause only your God can provide. Cannibalistic canon law, the meek shall inherit a boot to the jaw. Offer up the undeserving poor to THE RAVENOUS MAW OF THE GREAT BLOOD GORGE. You feel it pushing you the guiding of his hand, you've remained true to justifications for a callous world that's damned, but it'll be COOKING YOU TOO.
Track Name: Hollower
Grim oscillation speeds the time, circadian taunting is rife. Edging to midnight. Violent ticking, temporal shade. Vague apparition, inertial haze. Somnambulation caused a shifting of the blame. What better fuel is there than pure refined shame? I’m drowning out the waves of unconscious decades. A piss upon the graves of virtues that remained. The sick tempo.
Track Name: Dead Already
Got a condition, gasping for breath. Throat closing over, a living death. Ingested poison, choke on the tongue. A sucking chest wound, a punctured lung. It’s terminal. No cure, no drug. It’s almost time to pull the plug. Cardiac failure, huge loss of blood. About to collapse face down in the mud. WE’RE DEAD ALREADY.

We are arranged in a conjoined tangle, a permanent fusion. We are a writhing swarm of plague vector, a scurrying pestilence. No attempts to break away from the spokes of the blight wheel prove fruitful. No edge
keen enough to bifurcate our verminous Gordian knot. We're pushed along with the malignant mass, the collective movement, runway momentum. Can't pull away, though we might try, we are dragged regardless. Bow to your sovereign, fall to your knees. Pledge your devotion to King of Disease

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