Edmonton, Alberta, CAN

Joyous, fuzzy, fruity, loopy pop abandon.


"One of the comp's standout tracks, "Wrinklecarver", comes from San Francisco-via-Canada's Gobble Gobble; the song features a highly catchy chiptuned melody and... enthusiastic singing... hyper-pop"

"First off, visit the band’s MySpace page if you want to see psychedelically-swirling Furbies, marching snowmen and a pinwheel of hands. Oh yea, and this song is pretty wicked, too."

"There is nothing you can do to prepare for the body-vibrato-inducing onslaught of the 32-bit gravitron-pop that comprises GOBBLE GOBBLE."

"DayGlo electro-pop... hyperactive... It sorta makes me think of a 32-bit Dismemberment Plan being quartered (not obnoxiously) by Dan Deacon."

"There’s a charismatic, high kicking front man... three members in dresses fiddling with more pedals, banging on frying pans and an upside-down snare, and pounding a giant, heavy sack on the floor of Sneaky Dee’s, the audience going nuts the whole time. We’re going to be hearing a lot about this band in the near future."
- WAVELENGTH (Top 9 of 2009)

"GOBBLE GOBBLE transforms music into horrifyingly luminous bedlam. [They are] unquestionably going to take off."

GOBBLE GOBBLE is a vulture of the spirit, tearing away at the carrion of the soul. GOBBLE GOBBLE lives on the faultline between suits and destitutes, and it is from this isolated perch, impelled by the terror of a dayjob and utterly prostrate beneath the looming monolith of abstracted death, that he gathered his eggs together, prepared the nest that would become their home and began carving words into their sides. This nest, set gingerly on teetering high-rise stilts, encircles the flesh fruit that make up his debut album Neon Graveyard.

Neon Graveyard is pop music, no doubt, but it is also something else: an oddly visceral, flamboyantly eccentric treatise on death. Sunny funeral siestas, ecstatic Nintendo eulogies, and effervescent burial anthems all feature prominently here, cohering remarkably with more pensive moments where fuzz threatens to spill over into shoegazing, and melancholy solo piano is overwhelmed and enveloped in digital static. Drawing clear influence from the genres of freak folk, chiptune, garage, modern classical and weirdo electronic, Neon Graveyard nevertheless evinces a sound that cannot clearly be tied to any particular antecedent. In stark contrast with its buoyant, lilting and at times even danceable atmosphere, the record is lyrically fixated on what to do with the body when it is dead or dying. Although it was birthed in the stark cityscape of Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, Neon Graveyard sounds like it was recorded in a nameless city, the bizarre bastard son of Baltimore, Victoria, and Portland.

Cecil Frena screamed and played guitar in hardcore bands until he blew out his throat, at which point pop music became a more appealing proposition. In 2006, he founded Push Pins and since then has brought all-ages pop and experimental shows to Edmonton. In 2008, he founded The Hydeaway All Ages Art Space, a new gallery and venue in downtown E-town that lets the kiddies enjoy tunes without fake ID.

Biography by Hannes Bezuidenhout



Meteor Eschat


and i want to know
how much dust my lungs hold inside their dimples?
can i breathe in the black,
will the carbon stain my virgin alveoli?
if i don't breathe i'll never know i'm about to die

and i want to know
will my wobbly house hold? tonight
cause my staircase collapsed
and my kitchen's a creek of coiling fire...
whirlpools climbing ever higher
while i writhe

curled on the floor
'neath your shattered door
i saw a meteor
i saw a meteor

contacts singed off
by ten tons of rock
i saw a meteor
i saw a meteor

wind passing sows
disembodied moans
i saw a meteor
i saw a meteor

wide open gash
pulse dropping fast
i saw a meteor
i saw a meteor

o Sacred Dandruff


o my sweet flaking knuckles
o sacred dandruff of my palms
See my stained glass tendons tighten
Slid and stretched o’er bending bones

Sprinkle sprinkle shards of skin
Sprinkle sprinkle flakes of flesh
Pucker up in blistered curds
The night is deep and so’s your urn
So peel your body like an orange


Piles of Salt (Casket Cradles)


which way do the weird winds blow?
driving stakes into young widows
i know
the sky has time to spare

i spent a long time wondering why
the casket cradles shriveled sighs
i know
our lives have time to spare

so tell me that we’ll live forever
in a shed sewn out of yarn and leather
tell me that our lawn won’t overgrow

so tell me that we’ll build a fortress
with a moat and a bridge and a silent turret
we can load with the limbs of cloying ghosts

which way do the weird winds blow?
the children shudder but they still follow
i know
the gusts give space to hide

i saw you cave when your neck went slack
like a pied piper in the black
i know
you’d hoped to hold it up

but something happens when the young girl sings
your spirit trembles and the pillars ring
in tones
behold these golden plates

if life is short and life is death
god has brought you here to watch your wretch
ed bones
dissolve in piles of salt

so tell me that we’ll live forever
in a shed sewn out of yarn and leather
tell me that our lawn won’t overgrow
so tell me that we’ll build a fortress
with a moat and a bridge and a silent turret
we can wriggle through the wombs of pregnant ghosts



I have nightmares of you nightly – you’re pale and unsightly
with pure pariffin wax poured oer’ your eyes
You can’t strangle me if I hold you tightly, so I clutch your nightie
with the same cynical hope a college grad might have for public betterment

how many doves rise above the tide
how many minutes left in my life
if this song’s about death
all the others are about sex

how many sparrows sail the heights
how many moments of spotless light
if i tumble from it
vow to me you’ll scatter my skin

I have nightmares of you nightly – your bent ribs and bare feet
pulled in a knot of taut flesh by their limp cold weight
for a while i’d pretend we’d be saved by smiling – so i’d bare my white teeth
like some french paragon of lit theory that abandoned the schools and found celebrity

if i tumble from it

Mountain of Flesh


There’s a pocket of flesh beneath your eyes
Where you bury the fossils of your feist
Acorns of amber and coal

You tried to soak your skull in torpedoes of rain
In hopes your fear would fasten to your black beret
I’m thankful for these moments, even if they’re meaningless

There’s a mountain of flesh between your thighs
I would climb to the crest but the sun singed my eyes
Some heights are just monuments to our finitude

If you’re a solipsist, well then, what am I?
Don’t bother baring your soul if your manners are awry
The universe has rules and we follow them

But keep an eye on your cat cause it’s vanishing
You’ve picked the pit of a well just to meditate
If this all seems surreal, that’s probably because it is

There’s a place in the woods we once both went
Where the sun was shut out and the trees were bent
You were empty, and I saw, so was I

Skin of Prophets


ruth dropped the rune of her dao
her bones in bracelets, knees ground
into the gruel of fun dip
i owe you nothing
but the tender skin
of the prophets

ruth combed the ruins of esau (for mahlon)
locusts and aphids, shrill howl / glittering cloud
adieu, my jewel succumbing
i owe you nothing
but the tender flesh
of a prophet



your thick skin carved by clocks you wear a hundred rings
we’ll keep our friendship wedged in our fingertips
no one can know
you’ll never tell

your sliver slipped right through my eyes like open air
we’ll keep our friendship wedged in our fingertips
no one can know
you’ll never tell

us two
we share the air
our spirits float through there

in the dark
we sat and watched
our bodies knit from dust

your syrup tumors make four footholds and now i’m
swallowed by canopy
dangling from the periphery
no one can know
you’ll never tell

i’ll whimper on the boils of your leg like a cat in molt scratching
i’ll keep your friendship wedged in my fingertips
no one can know
you’ll never tell

us two
we share the air
our spirits float through there

in the dark
we sat and watched
our bodies knit from dust

your blood drips so slowly

Alabaster Bodyworlds


i've seen my pale limbs mummified in infernal fridges
wax paper, foil and plastic wrap hold fast their hinges
i've seen my face in shadowed lines
in a six-foot pool of ashes
i've seen my kidney
huddled next to the spleen of a sixty year old priest

i've seen my veins strain to be seen in plastinate noblesse
das kapital continues on well after cell death
i've seen my hair coiled in the grass
of a ditch in Strathcona County
i've seen the oily underpass
where the third search party found me

so come back down...
we have graves
in the dirt
so come back down

so, no?

Born Stray


born stray - paws
bloom gnarls - jaws
slack in awe
of all the empty space you felt

God's cheeks part
we've come far
so stop and park
atop an empty plate of grass

these clouds will chew my bones
gnaw my sunburnt heart
grind my stubborn scars

these woods will be my grave
bury me in leaves
bury me in trees

i'll be home soon.

Last Clumps / Feral Trapezoid


i helped you wipe the last clumps
of old blood from your quivering thighs
and i
took your clothes inside

four hundred thousand eggs
scattered slipshod through the gutter
and i
thought i heard you mutter

we don't know

your womb is not a beehive
feral trapezoid it may be
so i
chew the flesh clean off my cheeks

and grind my rotten teeth

recumbent, catching colonies
of your precious babies in your teeth
while i
spat out thoughts in gasping heaves

we don't know


Neon Graveyard LP (Self-Released, 06/16/2009)

Set List

Set length can range from 20-50 minutes as required. Covers are generally not performed. A typical set might include any of the following originals:

- Meteor Eschat
- o Sacred Dandruff
- Ash Fountain
- Piles of Salt
- Misericordia
- Mountain of Flesh
- Skin of Prophets
- Woodpact
- Alabaster Bodyworlds
- Born Stray
- Eggs in Carrion
- Feral Trapezoid