by Onsind

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  • Anaesthesiology LP (black/brown marble)
    Record/Vinyl + Digital Album

    This is the US pressing of our most recent record.
    Fairly limited edition (500 I think in total, we only have about 20 of them). Comes with a lyric sheet.
    The UK Pressing is Sold Out and has been since about 3 months after it was released.

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  • Anaesthesiology [CD]
    Compact Disc (CD) + Digital Album

    It's a CD of our album!
    In a card case, with a lyrics sheet.
    Perfect for playing in your car on the way to work, or chucking out the window at a cop.

    Includes unlimited streaming of Anaesthesiology via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.

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Chelsea’s only memory of meeting her grandfather / Was Christmas ‘91 at a pub in Denby Dale / Going through the motions of an early family trip, distracted by her Gameboy chewing on her bottom lip / She couldn’t comprehend the nature of their stay / And in his youth he’d been formidable, but the sickness left him skeletal and frail. As the grown-ups buried hatchets and did their best to make their peace / Chelsea was oblivious, blissfully at ease / Until the old man started ranting about LaMont and Hesseltine / And as the fire in his belly rose, it captured her attention for the first and only time / And he looked at her, and he gave her some advice / And it stuck with her, it was simple and precise. He told her “Never trust a tory, they’ll betray you when it matters / They will scramble to the top and then they’ll kick away the ladder, hinny / Never trust a tory, or a tory in disguise, You can see it when you look them in the eye” It’s been over twenty years since they put him in the ground / He died on Christmas day and looking back it’s really quite profound / How those words have stuck with her, how they’ve influenced her life / How they trace a track of lineage; a genealogy implied / And she knows it’s kind of cynical and tribal to think along those lines / But time and time again she’s seen the old fella proven right. [Clarinet by Michael Bridgewater]
We were promised the best years of our lives, but all we got was name-calling and fights, because narrow minded fools run comprehensive schools / Jules was one of the chosen few, whose charisma and charm seemed to carry him through and when he turned his eye on you, well there was not much you could do / ‘Cause he was pissing about while they were passing out their rules, again, and again, and again, but his punishment was overdue. Julian Stokes, used to tell jokes, spent all his time trying to make us laugh / It was all fine, till he crossed the line when he took the piss out of Chelsea’s dad / She planned her sweet revenge for weeks and when it came off it was class / Julian Stokes, sobbing and soaked, walked home alone from the formal dance. Chelsea’s dad was on remand for assault with intent, near the taxi-stand, and each trip to visit him, seemed to take a little longer than the last / Jules was just too cool to care, He would bring up stuff that others wouldn’t dare and he soon learned the price of making light of someone else’s plight / When nostalgia grips me, it hits me in the face, again and again and again / That school was such an awful place. Julian Stokes, he used to tell jokes, but not anymore. [Piano by Daniel Stocker. Additional vocals by Catherine Grainger, Laura da Costa and Jonathan Cairns.]
A leading broadsheet ran a story of corruption at the top / Politicians, press and coppers tied together in a knot / And though it was quite rare to see such claims substantiated / No one seemed at all surprised, it just left us all deflated. It merely confirmed our deeply held suspicions of a government that let itself go rotten to the core / Ambivalence and resignation, anesthetising mutilation oh, Nye Bevan’s plan, ripped apart and left in tatters on the floor. A front bench of old Etonians, a gang of millionaires / Screaming, “we’re all in this together” whilst they amputate welfare / A diagnosis of austerity and economic growth / A multi-faceted denial of our ability to cope / Oh look, another hospital just closed. True hope resides in that moment where a person holds their hand out to a stranger on the ground / I will not allow myself to be destroyed by these betrayals / I won’t ever let these bastards grind me down. [Additional vocals by Jonathan Cairns]
The shopkeepers round here seem to tremble and trade in fear / There’s a lock-out on self-esteem / discontentment in every dream / Now what do we have left to show from a winter that’s been and gone? / Are we still bracing ourselves for a sermon that wouldn’t come? I cut my finger once again / I drank and drank till I was full but the bleeding, it wouldn’t end / It soaked my shirt, and stained my skin / I’d cauterise the wound, but I just can’t decide / Where do I begin? The kids are back in school and the screws are all working to rule / It’s a crushing change of circumstance from a new set of arrogant fools / Some refuse to punch the clock, they drowned their work ethic out at the Jackson dock / Harking back to a ‘job for life’ as the shopkeepers shiver in strife. I bit my tongue off in my sleep / Drowning in a crimson cauldron the taste of metal and rotten meat / Through the incoherent gargling you swore you heard me gasp and sing / Where do I begin? The shopkeepers round here seem to tremble and trade in fear. [Additional Vocals by Jonathan Cairns. Cornet by Catherine Grainger and Laura da Costa.]
BA77 02:42
These sterile walls, this black ring binder / Detention centres offer grim reminders of the crime / Jumbled words persist in running through your head / ‘Asphyxiation’, ‘Litigation’, ‘Death’, ‘Duress’, ‘G4S’. What does it mean to you? What does it mean to me? / No Prosecution, disregarded pleas for solidarity / Sick of ‘borders’, sick of ‘nations’, sick of racist immigration policy / Disregarded pleas for solidarity. You make your case and you go home / You drink some wine and watch TV / And you go to sleep alone / But in the darkness you can hear the violent deportations / Jimmy screaming for his life on a British Airways flight.
When I see a prison, I see a vested interest in recidivism; the righteous and pure on a moral mission, an awful draconian place / Will nobody listen? Can we please move beyond this simplistic vision? Of ‘intrinsically bad natured citizens’ and the myth that it’s keeping us safe. When I see a prison I see an inconsistency, I see differential treatment, I see widespread inequality / I see a failing system that is grinning in defeat, I see a cycle that nobody’s trying to break, a pattern that’s built to repeat, They say “when you open up a school, you close a prison door” / Well we keep underfunding education and locking up the poor / And I’m not sure where this is heading / But I know it isn’t great, we turned our heads away and they built a prison state. “Take me, take me anywhere, I never really cared about this freedom, It was never meant for me / Lead me, lead me to my cell, I deserve to be in hell, there’s your solution, you should lock me up and throw away the key, Eternally. Imprison me.”
A chance encounter at a service station boiled my blood and left my brittle body shaking / It’s like I’ve travelled back in time, lager louts and violent crime, a crimson cross to mark the spot, the god forsaken. I see a fist connecting with a face / I see appropriation, desecration, gangs of mindless racist reprobates / I need to feel like there’s something that’s worth saving in this place / But all I see is hate. How we struggle to find meaning in the ‘facts’ / A dialogue so porous that the language drips and trickles through the gaps / Each word uttered loses pertinence and tact / Muted by the noise of the attack.
They say “the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry” / Odds ten to one, conclusions drawn, solutions barely tried / Dissenting youth assemble truth, ammunition for the fight / We knew our time had come, a battle almost won, a target in our sights. If we pull this off, we’ll bathe in glory / In a week, they’ll all be sorry / We could tell a different story now / A tale of bolt cutters and balaclavas / Liberation, love and ardour / We don’t ever plan on backing down. You know that I had so much hope for the stories we might write / But we lost the plot while we were piecing it together, yeah we lost the plot while we were piecing it together / Yeah I had so much hope for the stories we might write / But we lost the plot while we were piecing it together, yeah we lost the plot that night. Special branch is pounding on the door / There’s annotated blueprints left strewn out across the floor / Incriminating evidence / We lost our grip on common sense / Informants in our midst, right from the start, Screaming, “face down, hands behinds behind your head” / There’s no time to get our stories straight / We were panic stricken, caught off guard / A rendezvous with Scotland Yard, There’s no escape, we’re falling hard. [Clarinet by Michael Bridgewater. Additional Vocals by Jonathan Cairns.]
It’s not divine, it’s not intelligent design, it’s not the Eucharist or your confession time / It’s just the path where we depart the most, the cop, the kid, the Holy Ghost, another scripture scribbled through with lines. I don’t blame you for needing something to believe, but give me hands that help instead of lips that pray, this isn’t judgement day. Your God is real, insofar as the shame he made you feel has caused a sadness that you’re scared to leave behind / Self-loathing in your bones, no hope for rolling back the stone, you found mythology could ease your muddled mind. I don’t blame you for needing something to believe, but give me hands that help instead of lips that pray, this isn’t judgement day. A phone call at the crack of dawn / A pain you’ve never felt before / Bad news in a soothing voice / Another bloody lousy choice / Queue behind an old acquaintance / Pay the price for your impatience / Make eye contact as you leave / Wiping tears with your sleeve. It’s sweaty palms on your big day / Forgot the pslam the preacher sang / Lose another awkward fight / Then read the book of Job by candlelight / Skimmed over the obituaries / Typos in the prophecy / These vineyards smell like cemeteries / But there’s no such thing as booze for free. Superstition or religion / in the church where you were christened / Eyeing the collection tin / Be sure to put your coppers in / Politics and economics / The nervous ticks of an alcoholic / Waster in his father’s suit / The rotting flesh of the forbidden fruit. Meet me at the reservoir / The world got smaller, things got harder / Say a toast to an absent friend / Then tell yourself you’ll make amends / Then lie again and say you’re fine / Your breath smells like Communion wine / There’s nothing left round here for you / So do what you’re supposed to do. And meet me at the reservoir / Your plans were scuppered from the very start / The world got smaller, things got harder / A fading light; another broken heart / So come and meet me at the reservoir. I don’t blame you for needing something to believe, in fact we all put faith in things we can’t explain / The way a funeral feels more poignant in the rain / But give me hands that help instead of lips that pray, this isn’t judgement day. [Violin by Luke Yates. Cornet by Laura da Costa and Catherine Grainger. Trombone by Robin Leitch.]
Crumpled papers on the front seat, these prescriptions give descriptions of the side effects; never mess with medicine they say / You’re inconsolable, it’s uncontrollable, the GP’s hand upon your shoulder, she’s saying “Chelsea, honey, take it day by day” Yeah it gets better / But it also could get worse / Tainted blessing, stubborn curse / And all the same, you just take it day by day (by day by day) So sick of fighting with your fickle fucking brain / This inner dialogue is driving you insane / But worst of all you feel mundane / A boring list of old complaints / You know the score, you’ve played the game / As the seasons fade away, you just take it day by day (by day by day) There’s something wrong with me / I don’t think I’ll ever be okay / I just take it day by day (by day by day) [Additional Vocals by Erica Freas.]


This album is made up of ten loosely connected songs and stories set predominantly in the North East of England. They are, for the most part, based on real events and people.

We hope you enjoy it!

Daniel and Nathan
(Two Thousand and Thirteen)

Trigger Warning: Depression, Anxiety, Racism, Mental Illness. Imprisonment.


released May 1, 2013

‘Anaesthesiology’ was written and performed by Onsind
(Daniel and Nathan)

Recorded by Johannes Rowlinson, Digital Garden Studios.

Cover Artwork by Adam Westerman

Thanks to Erica Freas, Luke Yates, Laura da Costa, Robin Leitch, Daniel Stocker, Catherine Grainger, Michael Bridgewater, Jc and David ‘Spoobnob’ Combs for generously allowing us to borrow their skills on this album.

Love to Discount Horse, Plan-it-X, Win Htein, as well as the Newcastle Nerd Punx, Sheffield Animal Friends, The Shetland Massive, Annie ‘BFF’ Jones, Kimberly Kelly, The Bloomingtonians, Jonny Fucking Payne, Naomi G, Empty Shop, Charlie Evans, Tackleberry, Megan Pickering, Specialist Subject, The Bushies, Marilyn Mansion, No Ditching and everyone we forgot (or pretended to forget).

…In Prune We Trust…




Onsind Durham

Onsind is a punk band from Pity Me, Durham (UK).

We are very lucky to have the help of 2 amazing labels: Specialist Subject records (UK) and Salinas records (USA). Support them!


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