by Panthallasa

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Temper was recorded and subsequently abandoned over the course of two days in April 2016 by Griffin Landa @ The Establishment Recording Studios, Des Moines, IA.


released November 25, 2016

Guitars: Joe Curry
Percussion: Shane Mills
Vocals: Matthew C. Burkett
Guitars, Bass and Samples: G. Michael Peter
Produced, Engineered, Mixed and Mastered by Griffin Landa @ The Establishment Recording Studios, Des Moines, IA
Additional Sample and Guitar noise tracked by Griffin Landa
Photo: Mary Barlean
Art Direction, Layout and Design: G. Michael Peter
All music written and performed by Panthallasa, unauthorized duplication is a violation of applicable laws.
Play at maximum volume.



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Panthallasa Des Moines, Iowa

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Track Name: Blowtorch Mavens
Dead weight draggers and sewer fumes
What I’ve feasted on since the Great Evac.
I’m still waiting and preying
A Predator in a sea of blood
It’s always been this kind of heartache
No moment to rest, no moment to sleep
Anything you need at any time
This city is restless and so Alive
I’ve been carrying you
Since the mass media suicide
Never an honest answer
By vague crusades
You’re bottom barrel trash 
And the stench
Will never go away
Wooden mallets
Broken glass
Immediate teeth
A world for us all.
Track Name: Clawback
We’re not interesting (people)
(and) you’re not a scientist
We are responsible
Fulfilled due diligence
We’re not the saviors
And this is worse than true crime
Each drag worse than the last
All suffering, no pass
Dig more graves
Build more cities
Dig more graves
Build more cities
At some point
We’ll have to let this go
Concrete city on
An anemic downturn
Rebar ribcage
Split open to reveal
Our hearts pound backwards
(Like) an auditory hallucination
Punch in 
Brain off
Clock out
Drink on
We have more time to waste
I want to take a hammer to their headlights
And roll the car into the lake
Put an end to your monetary scheming
And clawback your gifts
Track Name: Irrationalaire
“Pick up thy torches
Put on your gloves
If its really ending
It’ll be on our terms.”
Endearment. Endeavor.
The backroom dealers.
In the coalminers throats.
The company stock
A kindling to burn these backsliders.
Pension fund raided.
They led us on.
And I have choice words for them:
“Shady propositions, you sold our homes.
Cold calculations, you stole our bones.”
You technocults, worshiping a digital dogma.
You can’t replace hard labor
With paper bought souls.