“Chinese Whisperers” by Wilderness which clocks in at 8:07.
Whisperers, i.e. those who whisper. They just seem so conspiratorial, the way they hiss each hushed bulletin without proof, confidence, or even the dramatic flair necessary to deliver a good old-fashioned knockout punch. Whisperers are usually not to be trusted. If their inaudible conspiracies were facts, they wouldn’t have to whisper, right?
Unless of course, these whisperers all started whispering the same thing. Now that would be interesting, like something out of a horror movie, or at the very least the scene in What Women Want when Mel Gibson flips out in the park upon first realizing he can hear women’s thoughts. In this case, substitute Chinese Whisperers for women’s thoughts and myself for Mel Gibson and you’ve got yourself one of the enduring (albeit minor) storylines of my 2008. See, the Chinese Whisperers all had a message, and it would only grow louder and more fervent as the year progressed. And yet, I refused to believe. Or even budge. So, their Chinese whispers soon turned into apocryphal chants….
“Chinese Democracy…it’s….coming! Noooooovember 23rd, fare theee well!”
And still I didn’t believe. But you know what? The Chinese Whisperers – these harbingers of a perma-delayed artifact hearkening back to the 20th century’s narcissistic conclusion – they were right! It is here; it has taken 14 years but Guns N’ Roses’ Chinese Democracy is actually here. Well, almost. As you are certainly well past aware, Best Buy will be lining their shelves with the album starting this Sunday; lest you forget, they even have a dramatic countdown timer on their site. You know what that means, right? When it ticks down to zero, all the whispers, all the rumors, all the conjecture and criticism, all will be snuffed out. Because regardless of how good or bad the album turns out to be, at least Axl Rose finally finished it.
I’m sill having a hard time believing, yet I desperately would like to hitch a ride on the road to acceptance. So, I suppose the first step is a personal retraction; this isn’t in recognition of some Dr. Pepper-sized retribution coming my way but rather the acknowledgement that I publicly lost faith. Nearly a year ago, I wrote a piece explaining why I felt Chinese Democracy would never see the light of day. The odds just felt stacked against it; there were too many cooks in the kitchen, expectations had spiraled madly out of control, Axl had seemingly gone off the deep end, and it just seemed certain that time would swallow the album whole. It wasn’t meant to be, plain and simple. At the end of the piece, I even went so far as to write, “if this album is ever released, will anybody give a shit?”
I was wrong, I now know this mainly because of how much I do in fact give a shit. Don’t you get it? Chinese Democracy is real, there’s a Best Buy countdown timer to prove it. This means that ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE.
Anything is possible. That is my own Chinese Democracy whisper, my mantra, my conviction.
David Fricke, staunch defender of Rolling Stone’s old guard, has his own four-star Chinese Democracy whisper with regards to one W. Axl Rose:
“To him, the long march to Chinese Democracy was not about paranoia and control. It was about saying “I won’t” when everyone else insisted, “You must.” You may debate whether any rock record is worth that extreme self-indulgence. Actually, the most rock & roll thing about Chinese Democracy is he doesn’t care if you do.”
Elsewhere, Miley Cyrus may not have her own Chinese Democracy whisper leading up to this Sunday, but it’s worth noting that the album’s release date is also her birthday. And this year, that translates to the mother of all super sweet sixteen jams, which she will be celebrating by shutting down Disneyworld to use it as her own personal playground. Who’s to say she won’t pipe “Shackler’s Revenge” into Magic Mountain’s soundsystem, or at least take a detour to Epcot and dump out a sip from her 40 in tribute to Axl?
Hell, even those trampled under the enormity and madness of Chinese Democracy have their own benevolent Chinese whispers. Brian May, guitarist for Queen and contributor during some of the recording sessions, apparently didn’t receive any credit in the album’s liner notes. Responding to this slight, a zen-like May wrote on his blog,
“Well, it is a shame, perhaps … I did put quite a lot of work in, and was proud of it. But I could understand if Axl wants to have an album which reflects the work of the members of the band as it is, right now. I do have mixes of the tracks with my guitar on, work tapes at the time, but they will remain private, out of respect for Axl.”
However, it has to be Izzy Stradlin - Rose’s sidekick since even before Slash - and his Chinese Democracy whisper that should be heard the clearest. The man is a borderline soothsayer, having penned the Use Your Illusion II song “14 Years” only to have it become ridiculously prophetic in retrospect. Let’s take it from the third verse:
“Bullshit and contemplation / Gossip’s their trade / If they knew half the real truth What would they say / Well I’m past the point of concern / It’s time to play / These last 4 years of madness / Sure put me straight / Don’t get back 14 years / In just one day / So hard to keep my own head / Just go away / You know…just like a hooker she said / Nothin’s for free / Oh I tried to see it your way / I tried to see it your way”
It’s as though Stradlin knew all along; the story is all there. The album took 14 years to make, during which people had their bouts of “bullshit contemplation” and gossiping. But, as Fricke also noted earlier, Rose didn’t care. He pushed onwards, realizing he couldn’t get all those 14 years back at once but that releasing the album would at least put him in the right direction. Shit, even the whole file-leaking episode is recounted here with the hooker simile at the end. Ain’t nothing free, especially when you try and steal from Axl.
History tells us Stradlin wrote this song about his lifelong (err, fourteen year) friendship with Rose, but the future may tell us something altogether different. 1994-2008. Fourteen years of Chinese Whisperers finally proven right. Oh, unless you’re Bon Jovi.
Buy (K)no(w)here HERE.
*image from HERE
EAR FARM’s 8+ is a weekly feature that showcases songs longer than 8 minutes. Click HERE to see the songs recently featured in EF’s 8+.
“Roundabout” by Yes which clocks in at 8:32.
We few, are we not drawn onward to new era? On a clover, if alive, erupts a vast, pure evil, a fire volcano. Was it Eliot’s toilet I saw? Was it a car or a cat I saw? Was it a rat I saw? Was it a bar or a bat I saw? Do nine men interpret?
“Nine men,” I nod.
“Name now one man!”
“Neil? An alien… UFO tofu.”
“Madam, I’m Adam: no lemons, no melon.”
“Rise, sir lapdog. Revolt! Lover… God… pal… rise, sir.”
“Naomi,” I moan. “I madam, I made radio! So I dared. Am I mad? Am I? Reviled did I live,” said I, as evil I did deliver… “go hang a salami, I’m a lasagna hog.”
Too bad, I hid a boot. Wontons? Not now.
“Wontons… not now?! Too bad, I hid a boot??”
Go hang a salami, I’m a lasagna hog!
“Reviled did I live,” said I, as evil I did deliver. “I madam, I made radio. So I dared. Am I mad? Am I?!”
“Naomi,” I moan. “Rise, sir lapdog. Revolt!” (Lover, God, pal…) “Rise, sir!” (No lemons, no melon.)
“Madam, I’m Adam.” (UFO tofu? Neil? An alien?)
“Name now one man! Do nine men interpret?”
“Nine men,” I nod.
Was it a bar or a bat I saw? Was it a rat I saw? Was it a car or a cat I saw? Was it Eliot’s toilet I saw? On a clover, if alive, erupts a vast, pure evil: a fire volcano. Are we not drawn onward to new era?
We few…
Buy The Ultimate Yes - 35th Anniversary Collection HERE.
*images from HERE; palindromes from HERE.
EAR FARM’s 8+ is a weekly feature that showcases songs longer than 8 minutes. Click HERE to see the songs recently featured in EF’s 8+.
“Sour Smoke” by Comets On Fire which clocks in at 8:47.
Or, an alternate history of the widespread phenomenon known as “guitar face” (based on pure speculation and gross oversimplification).
We all know it….that contorted exaggeration of facial features suggesting anguish, pain, catharsis, existential grief, or - alternately - such devilish bliss some might mistake it for a sign of carnal satisfaction (link pretty much NSFW).
Guitar Face. And isn’t such ambiguity of meaning its entire purpose? The squinted eyes and pursed lips, sweaty recoiling and faux-obliviousness of it all makes us wonder whether it’s a pose struck in pain, pleasure or some twisted combo of the two. Read more
“A Place for Dead Roads” by Other Passengers which clocks in at 8:41.
Tomorrow is Halloween. The time for spooks and ghouls and ghastly tales of the macabre and tricks and treats. In the spirit of the holiday I’d like to share a story with you. It’s my story, it is an entirely true story. In fact, the events that occurred are more accurately retold in this particular story than in many of the other true life tales I’ve told in the 8+ series. This is a true, honest, ghost story. As for the song, well, nothing goes better with a ghost story on Halloween than a bit of the old Other Passengers. The title of the song, as you will see, is a somewhat of an intentional coincidence. Read more
“Influx” by DJ Shadow which clocks in at 12:14.
Most people assume that Goes Cube allows me to eat sashimi à la carte every night at Nobu, buy Brooklyn brownstones in one cash payment, and purchase a vintage Fender for each and every show, only so afterward, I can toss it on the subway tracks just to watch an MTA train derail… and then buy the MTA a new train. So, you’ll be surprised when I tell you that, actually, Goes Cube is not wholly funding my rather lean existence. Nope. Not even close.
In order to make ends meet (or to get them “to acknowledge each other’s existence,” to quote Dr Katz), I write and edit copy. I do marketing and journalism, technical and creative. Being a freelancer is tough, and the work can be scarce sometimes. So, I’m always looking for new contracts*.
One of the places I like to look from time to time (because I’m apparently a glutton for punishment) is Craigslist. And that’s where this story begins.
Some jobs are for the college student, or for the person looking to get his or her foot in the door. And that’s fine. The job post will be very clear and unobnoxious about it. Usually, they’ll put in the title words like “unpaid” or “internship,” etc. But this particular ad just really got under my skin. The post has since -not surprisingly- been flagged for removal. But I found a web cache of the text, and here it is:
Seeking sharp satirical urban writer
Looking for a weekly urban social commentary writer for online website with a user network of 10 million built in. Person should be an innovative thinker with a witty and sharp perspective on life to write about the multifaceted perspectives of young urban people. Formats can (and should be) unique, in style of writing, original characters and themes. Having a familiarity with engaging in different social networking sites, blogs and news outlets is a major plus. Job can lead to future pay. If interested please e-mail samples of your work, which must be relevant to urban culture.
I decided immediately that I’d better put together a cover letter to let them know just how amazing I thought this opportunity was. Here’s the full text of that:
Dear… Let’s skip this part. In the city, there’s no time for pleasantries.
As a sharp, urban, satircal writer, I am particular about the kind of jobs I take. Hell, I won’t even look at certain job posts because, let’s face it, they’re beneath me - the kind of positions that would be satisfied by a mere putty knife, but shredded into gossamer strands by a veritable Ginsu blade like myself.
What kind of jobs do I, as a sharp, satirical, urban writer, consider? Good question. (Of course it is; I asked it.) Let me answer it in the best way possible: by not answering it at all. Instead, I’ll tell you what kind of a job I won’t consider. Take that status quo. Sorry, box, did it hurt when my giant brain punched through your wall just now? Because if it did, too bad: I don’t think inside the box. I don’t even think inside polygons.
Anyways…
If a job has to do with writing about covered bridges, grasses, soil, crops, or antique shops, I turn my back on it. I’m an urban writer, and I don’t have time to hang out at the General Store in some one stoplight town whose tallest building is a grain elevator. I’ll write about coked up traders on Wall Street. I’ll write about coked up hipsters in Bed-Stuy who set up music venues in their kitchens. I’ll write about coked up commuters struggling with the latest MTA fare hike. I’ll even write about the coked up guy who runs the deli I go to even though I know - I SWEAR I KNOW - they put their coked-covered thumbs on the scales when I order my Boars Head meats. In other words, if it’s not a gritty tale of coke and prostitution, then I won’t write about. Everything else might as well be some pointless subplot in Field Of Dreams.
Guess what: Never even saw it. Don’t have to. Only suckers watch that rural dreck.
I also won’t take any job where I have to write things that old people will read. Your job post says I should “be able to write about the multifaceted perspectives of young urban people.” You can go ahead and put a check in that box. That’s the only way I work, baby. Did you see how I called you “baby”? I don’t even know who you are, but that doesn’t matter because I don’t think you’re old. And that means you’re young. And that means you can roll with it when I call you “baby.” And if I’m wrong and you are old, then you’re probably offended. And if you are, then too bad, pops/gramma. Why don’t you just go back to watching your “stories” on TV, and us “kids” will be over here watching a YouTube video of a fat guy sitting on a dagger.
Technically that last sentence should end in a question mark, but I don’t have time to waste on a punctuation mark that looks like it needs Viagra.
But more than anything else is this: I will not take a job that promises to compensate me with money. As an urban writer, who doesn’t live in some low-rent town like Chicago, or Evanston, or Winnetka, but instead the granddaddy of them all New York City, my monthly rent is more than most people spend on their mortgages in year. I spend four dollars on a can of chicken broth. My weekly coffee bill is almost $50. My cost of living is about ten times the amount that some wannabe actor’s is in LA. That’s why I want to find a job that will take full advantage of my free time, incredible talents, and not pay me. Because, you see, like everyone else in NYC, I not only live on credit, I also live on distant and utterly foolish hope: Someday I won’t be so poor that I’m tempted to jump the turnstile…or steal that Vespa right there. So when I read your job post, and I saw “Job can lead to future pay,” I thought YES, DANGLE THAT CARROT!!!
So let’s recap:
Urban? I make the Beastie Boys look like farm boys.
Sharp? The other day, I figured out that my cat only likes to eat her wet food if it’s not all mashed up. Need I remind you that cats don’t speak English? They don’t even speak any language!
Motivated? If by “driven to work instead of sit around and watch People’s Court type shows because the commercials for bankruptcy help hit a bit too close to home,” then hell yes.
Satirical? Jonathan Swift is my homie for life.As a wise man (me) once said: I’m awesome.
-David (or as I’m known in the city: KID WORDMAKER)
Buy Preemptive Strike HERE.
*if you would like to hire David as a writer or editor, he really is always looking for work (for monetary compensation), and can be contacted at goescube at goescube dot com.
**top photo of the “Field of Dreams” from HERE.
EAR FARM’s 8+ is a weekly feature that showcases songs longer than 8 minutes. Click HERE to see the songs recently featured in EF’s 8+.
“Mother and Child” by Nigel Short & Tenebrae which clocks in at 12:39.
The following is Part 4 of a four part 8+ series based upon songs from the film ‘Children of Men’, the film itself, and the writing of Jorge Luis Borges. Read the first chapter HERE, second chapter HERE, third chapter HERE. Read more
“Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima” by Krzysztof Penderecki & National Polish Radio Symphony Orchestra which clocks in at 10:00.
The following is Part 3 of a four part 8+ series based upon songs from the film ‘Children of Men’, the film itself, and the writing of Jorge Luis Borges. Read the first chapter HERE, second chapter HERE. Read more
“Eternity’s Sunrise” by Paul Goodwin & The Academy Of Ancient Music which clocks in at 10:53.
The following is Part 2 of a four part 8+ series based upon songs from the film ‘Children of Men’, the film itself, and the writing of Jorge Luis Borges. Read the first chapter HERE.
After nine or ten nights staring into the firmament of her mind, transfixed on her students in the night sky, on the ground, in her presence, entirely in her mind and not at all, she understood with acute acerbity that she could expect nothing from those pupils who accepted her tenet passively, but that she might expect something from those who periodically dared to challenge her. The former group, although worthy of love and affection, could not ascend to the level of individuals; the latter pre-existed to a slightly greater degree. One afternoon (now afternoons were also dominated by sleep, she was at this point only barely awake for a few hours each morning at sunrise) she dismissed the entire student body for good and retained one sole pupil. He was a reserved, sickly boy, often obdurate, whose rounded dark features resembled of those of his dreamer and whose thoughts focused upon the other students. The swift elimination of his peers did not concern him for long though; and after a few private lessons, his progress was enough to amaze the teacher. Nonetheless, a catastrophe took place. One day, Kee emerged from her sleep as if from a vast desert, peered into the ineffectual afternoon light which she immediately confused with the dawn, and understood that she had not been dreaming. All night and all day long, the unbearable lucidity of insomnia fell upon her. She remembered her baby. She clung to the thoughts that danced through her mind and considered ways in which to exhaust herself. She tried exploring the nearby forest, to lose her strength, and among the willows she barely succeeded in stealing several short moments of sleep, dominated by fleeting, embryonic visions that were ineffectual. She attempted to assemble the student body but barely had she mouthed a few brief words of encouragement before it became misshapen and vanished. Her mind was weak. In this perpetual vigil, tears of anger burned her weary eyes.
She reasoned that exploring the disjointed and dizzying matter of which dreams are made was the most difficult task that a woman could undertake, even though she could decipher all of the enigmas of a superior order; this, this was much more difficult than weaving a rope out of sand or catching lightning in a bottle. She vowed that she would forget the hallucination which had displaced her thoughts and sought another method of work. Before putting it into action, she spent a week recovering her strength, which had been drained by her delirium. She abandoned the obsession with dreaming and almost immediately succeeded in sleeping a large portion of each day. The few instances that she did have dreams during this period, she ignored them. Before resuming her task, she waited until the moon’s profile was perfect. Then, in the afternoon, she bathed herself in the shallows of the river, worshiped gods of another era, and went to sleep. She dreamed nearly immediately, with her heart pounding steadily.
Kee dreamed of a warm secret, about the size of a clenched fist, and of a deep red color within the shadow of a human body as yet without face or sex; during fourteen lucid nights she dreamt of it with great care and effort, conscientious love. Every night she perceived it more clearly. She did not touch it; she merely allowed herself to witness it, to observe it, and occasionally to remedy it with a glance. She observed it and lived it from all angles and distances. On the fourteenth night she lightly caressed the pulmonary artery with her index finger, then the whole heart, outside and inside. She was pleased with the examination. She intentionally did not dream for an evening; she took up the heart again, invoked the name of an ancient god, and undertook the vision of another of the major organs. Within a month she had come to the skeleton and the ears. These were surprisingly simple to conjure. The nearly infinite roots necessary for hair were perhaps the most difficult task. But she soldiered on. She dreamed an entire man -a young man- who did not speak or move, and who was unable to even open his eyes yet. She maintained a peaceful existence of sleep for him. In dreams she rested; he rested. Night after night, Kee dreamt him asleep.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Buy Children of Men (Music from the Motion Picture) HERE.
*front thumbnail and top photo from HERE.
EAR FARM’s 8+ is a weekly feature that showcases songs longer than 8 minutes. Click HERE to see the songs recently featured in EF’s 8+.
“Fragments of a Prayer” by John Tavener & Sarah Connolly which clocks in at 15:22.
The following is Part 1 of a four part 8+ series based upon songs from the film ‘Children of Men’, the film itself, and the writing of Jorge Luis Borges.
No one saw her disembark in the beclouded night, no one saw the gifted rowboat sink into the inviolable mud, narrowly evading the adversaries aboard The Tomorrow who’d taken her child. No one saw her arrive, but, after a few days, there was no one who did not know that the woman came from the East and that her home had been one of those numberless villages across the sea, where the English language has not been contaminated by The Gaels and where a third trimester is as infrequent as anywhere else. An air of uncertainty shrouded her just as heavily as did the aura of singularity that radiated from her core.
What is certain is that the woman kissed the mud, climbed up the bank with thoughts of her baby cradled so tightly she could almost feel her (probably, without feeling anything herself - unknowingly welcoming the blades which were lacerating her flesh), and crawled, nauseated and bloodstained, up to the circular enclosure crowned with a stone serpent or griffin - or was it a human infant? - which sometimes was the color of flame and now was that of ashes.
This circle was a temple which had been consumed by ancient fires, engulfed by the vaporous bog, and whose god no longer received the prayers of men. Kee, the name she’d been given (or perhaps had given to herself), stretched herself out beneath the pedestal and rested, thoughts of her child clutched and cloaked and safe. She had given birth, a daughter, they took her. She was awakened by the sun high overhead and was not astonished to find her wounds healed; she closed her eyes and slept, not through weakness of mind, body, or spirit, but through determination of will. She knew that this temple was the place required for her indomitable intent; she knew that the overbearing trees had not succeeded in strangling the ruins of another temple downstream which had once belonged to gods now burned and dead. She knew that her immediate obligation was to dream.
Toward midnight she was awakened by the disconsolate shriek of a bird. Tracks of bare feet, some figs and a gun warned her that the men of the region had been spying respectfully on her sleep, soliciting her potential, or afraid of her magic. She felt a chill of fear and sought out a niche in the crevassed wall where she concealed herself among obscuring leaves.
The purpose which guided her was not impossible, though supernatural. She wanted to dream a girl; she wanted to dream her complete in studied detail and impose her on reality. She’d done it before and needed to test her ability to do so again. The undertaking had exhausted the entire expanse of her mind; if someone had asked her her name or to relate some event of the past week, she would not have been able to give an answer. Not even as images of Theo and prison camps and Dylan and war filled her mind. Memory was fleeting, fuzzy. Intangible. Therefore, this uninhabited, ruined temple suited her, for it contained a minimum of visible world. The proximity of the workmen also suited her, for they took it upon themselves to provide for her basic needs anonymously. The rice and fruit they brought were nourishment enough for her as she consecrated to the sole task of sleeping and dreaming. They would aid her, passively, unsure of precisely what or why they were helping.
Initially, her dreams were chaotic; then in almost no time they became academic in nature. Kee dreamed that she was in the center of a rounded colosseum which was more or less the burnt temple; clouds of silent onlookers filled the rows of seats; the faces of the most distant ones hung many centuries away and as high as the stars, but their features were well-defined and obvious. She felt as though she were leading a class and thus lectured her pupils on anatomy, obstetrics, and magic, none of which could very well be separated in today’s world. The faraway faces listened uneasily and tried to answer knowingly, as if they guessed the truth buried behind nearly twenty years of improbability, or that they themselves might be ripped from the heavens of imagination and thrust into the real world if only through exhibiting an understanding. Asleep or awake, Kee thought over the answers of her phantoms, did not allow herself to be fooled by visions of others, and in an enigmatic manner sensed a growing intelligence. Somewhere among the nameless faces would be another - one to replace the daughter torn from her grasp aboard The Tomorrow - another soul worthy of participating in the universe and joining Earth as the second baby in a generation. Unlike any other person on the planet, she had created life. A child. And she was going to do it again.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Buy Children of Men (Music from the Motion Picture) HERE.
*front thumbnail and top photo from HERE
EAR FARM’s 8+ is a weekly feature that showcases songs longer than 8 minutes. Click HERE to see the songs recently featured in EF’s 8+.
“The Sweetest Thing” by The Daniel Nathan Band which clocks in at 9:50.
Bill Nicholson’s Krispy Kreme Bread Pudding with Butter Rum Sauce
Difficulty: Easy
Prep Time: 10 minutes
Inactive Prep Time: 15 minutes
Cook Time: 1 hour
Yield: about 12 servings
2 dozen Krispy Kreme donuts
1 (14-ounce) can sweetened condensed milk (not evaporated)
2 (4.5-ounce) cans fruit cocktail (undrained)
2 eggs, beaten
1 (9-ounce) box raisins
1 pinch salt
1 or 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
Butter Rum Sauce, recipe follows
Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.
Cube donuts into a large bowl. Pour other ingredients on top of donuts and let soak for a few minutes. Mix all ingredients together until donuts have soaked up the liquid as much as possible.
Bake for about 1 hour until center has jelled. Top with Butter Rum Sauce.
Butter Rum Sauce:
1 stick butter
1 pound box confectioners’ sugar
Rum, to taste
Melt butter and slowly stir in confectioners’ sugar. Add rum and heat until bubbly. Pour over each serving of Krispy Kreme Bread Pudding.
Buy The Daniel Nathan Band HERE.
*front thumbnail from HERE; top photo from HERE; recipe from the Food Network courtesy Paula Deen.
EAR FARM’s 8+ is a weekly feature that showcases songs longer than 8 minutes. Click HERE to see the songs recently featured in EF’s 8+.
“Silverfuck” by Smashing Pumpkins which clocks in at 8:43.
They say conflict and tension yield beauty and artistic breakthroughs. Witness the tired cliché of the “tortured” or “suffering” artist or, when there are multiple cooks in the kitchen, the time-honored soundbite somewhere along the lines of “we were either going to make our masterpiece or break up in the process!”
This last utterance was more or less the statement once made by Billy Corgan when discussing Siamese Dream (or as allmusic remembered it - Corgan growled at the time that if the album didn’t achieve breakthrough success, he would end the band). But really, how would he have known about any tension or strife that was in the band during these sessions? He was a man possessed, completely preoccupied with systematically recording and re-recording every part of every song by himself while the others were pretty much barricaded outside the studio. So as D’Arcy and James Iha struggled to heal the open wound of their failed relationship and Jimmy Chamberlain became increasingly caught up in intravenous drug use, Corgan merrily plowed along with comrade-in-overdubbery Butch Vig in building the biggest wall of sound this side of Phil Spector. I mean, he probably would not have even heard the approaching sirens (think Billy circa the “Today” video all alone with huge headphones on, oblivious to the world) had Chamberlain nodded off mid-fix in the studio bathroom and D’Arcy found him on the floor before placing a frantic call to the paramedics. Read more
“Poor Jackie” by Man Man which clocks in at 8:24.
The opening verse of Man Man’s epic song “Poor Jackie” sets the scene for a bawdry tale of a street walking murderess who cuts the hearts out of her victims and paints a moustache on her face to hide from police. The track is the sprawling gypsy-prog epicenter of an otherwise pop-forward album, and a highlight of Man Man’s career to this point. The song opens:
“Jackie hits the streets
She swears that all she sees
Is the hunger in their eyes
And the desperation in their speech”
What wonderful serendipity it was that I’d just listened to the song, lyrics still lingering in my mind, when I arrived at my favorite local espresso joint just the other day. Funny, because those lyrics could easily have been written about the woman working the lonely midday shift that day. It was 4pm, a transient hour. The place was empty except for one single man seated at a corner table reading private documents. Private? You bet. Had to be private the way he was twisted and turned to hide them from the world. I paid him no mind seeing as how he was seated across the room from my favorite spot.
My order: “Hi, I’ll have a latte please.”
Jackie: “Oh hey! Okay, is that to stay or to go?”
Me: “Hey, how’s it going? It’s for here. Thanks. How’ve you been….”
So, I “know” the barista at this particular place. Not because I’m the kind of guy who makes it a point to shake hands and make friends with people who serve me beverages, but rather because she’s nice and saw me enough to finally one day introduce herself - “You’re in here a lot. I’m Jackie…”
I come to this place as though it will energize my exhausted mind, or inspire it, or whatever. The drinks do that? The atmosphere? It’s all supposed to I think. There’s something that keeps bringing people back here. Jackie perhaps? She fixes up my latte and makes it all pretty on top with the foam and everything (the way they all tend to do at this particular place) and I go to my regular seat and set up camp. It’s the familiarity that keeps ‘em coming back here, and Jackie’s part of that. Thankfully, around this time of day, they’re not coming back in droves - the people who come in around 4:00 are pretty much all takeaways. Which makes it a perfect time and place to lose an hour. No bothersome conversations the next table over, no nosy jerks trying to see what you’re writing -or worse, asking “whatcha writin’?”- nothing. Just the purity of coffee-faced writerdom.
But no! Wait. Actually, come to think of it, I was missing those people! The human wallpaper. I thought I didn’t need them around but here it was just me alone with a blank computer screen and all the hushed atmosphere I could ever want and suddenly a realization: I really wanted some bozos to half-listen-to and half-watch. Bah!
That’s when I started paying attention to the steadily slow stream of customers stopping in for a quick order “to go”. All I could see was the hunger in their eyes, and the desperation in their speech…
Customer #1: (white male, 45) “How much are the cookies?”
Jackie: “Two dollars a piece.”
Customer #1: “For which? Both kinds? Are there two different kinds?”
Jackie: “Yes, oatmeal and chocolate chip.”
Customer #1: “Is the lumpy one oatmeal?”
Jackie: “Yes. Well they’re both lumpy. But the one you’re pointing at is oatmeal.”
Customer #1: “And how much is it?”
Jackie: “Two dollars.”
Customer #1: “For this one? It looks bigger than the rest. Is the chocolate chip better or is oatmeal better?”
Jackie: “That depends on your personal preference really.”
Customer #1: “Can I have one of each to try?”
Jackie: “Yes, for two dollars each.”
Customer #1: “Ouch….”
(extended pause: silence)
Customer #1: “I’ll have an oatmeal please. To keep. That one, the big one.”
Customer #2: (white male, 30ish) Nothing. Silence. He leans in and speaks to her. It’s not a whisper, I don’t think, judging by the look on his face and hers. This isn’t a special quiet moment, just a quiet man. An order is placed, I assume, and Jackie goes to work. The gargle of milk frothery fills the air: score! A latte to go. He turns and leaves just as silently as he entered. No “thank you,” no acknowledgment of any exchange, or service rendered, or goods purchased. Bamf! He was gone in an instant.
Customer #3: (Italian couple, late 20s) “Hey.”
Jackie: “How are you?”
Customer #3: “Can I gets a small coffee and -for the lady- a small coffee as well. That’ll do its, yeah.” (Italian flirt talking and coochie coos ensue) “Let’s go back outside, is beautiful. Yes?”
Jackie: “So nice.” (she hands them their drinks and they leave speaking Italian to each other) “Have a good one guys.”
Customer #4: (white male, 35ish) “A coffee.”
Jackie: “Small or big?”
Customer #4: “Uh medium?”
Jackie: “We don’t have a medium.”
Customer #4: “Oh boy. No medium?! Grande then. Yeah?”
(he seemed impressed with his Starbucks wit)
Jackie: (no sign of annoyance) “So that’s a large?”
Customer #5: (black female, 25) “Iced latte.”
Jackie: “You got it.”
Customer #5: “You dont drink iced drinks do you?”
Jackie: “No.”
Customer #5: “But in the summer… when it’s hot… it’s better. Like, when I’m working outside a lot I always have one. And I feel like it goes better with my stomach too.”
Jackie: “I could see that, iced coffee is funny that way sometimes.”
Customer #5: “Yeah, desserts too.”
Jackie: “Here you go, that’s $4.25.”
Customer #5: (counts change from her pocket, no bills) “Uh oh…”
Jackie: “That’s okay, I’ll just put it on your tab!”
Customer #5: “No, I want to pay you today! How late will you be here?”
Jackie: “Until eight o’clock.”
Customer #5: “Okay, see you later then… I’m working late, definitely see you later.”
Customer #6: (Indian male, 40) “Hey.”
Jackie: “Hi, how are you?”
Customer #6: “Pretty good. Just a latte.”
Jackie: “For here or to go?”
Customer #6: “That’s a good question. For go. I mean, to stay here. Yep.”
(she works wonders with the espresso machine as he nervously paces around the cash register/counter area… moments later his drink arrives)
Customer #6: “The way you do that foam makes me want to touch it. The design on it. And I’m not even that into touching things.”
(he really said that. Her: no reply. He tries the latte…)
Customer #6: “Is that different espresso?” (he licks his lips (ew) as he tastes and talks. He sounds like Paul Giamatti’s character in Sideways…) “Usually it starts moving towards berries but not this one. It’s real nutty. And. It’s buzzing. It buzzes in my mouth and hints of something floral.”
Jackie: “No, it’s the same.”
(he tastes again in disbelief)
Customer #6: “Whatever happened to Derek?”
Jackie: “He’s at the other store. He had to move on.”
(another prolonged taste - he savors the coffee and the moment)
Customer #6: “I guess we all do eventually. But good news for us here, it just means more time with you! Right? Well I’ll be right over there like I always am. Look, you can see me from where you’re standing.”
Jackie: “Okay…”
Jackie threw down some verbal ellipsis that signaled the end of the conversation and I decided it might be the end for me too. I’d observed quite a few more interactions, and wrote them all down, but I left out most of them due to their utter banality. This one though, this one left me feeling the need to leave after witnessing the extraordinary discomfort. I had to go and find sanctuary outside the creepy customer zone. But not Jackie. She couldn’t escape it, she still had three more hours to go.
Poor Jackie.
Buy Rabbit Habbits HERE
*front thumbnail from HERE; top photo taken by me
EAR FARM’s 8+ is a weekly feature that showcases songs longer than 8 minutes. Click HERE to see the songs recently featured in EF’s 8+.
“Echelon” by Erik Syntax which clocks in at 8:20.
What is this? It seems I’ve unwittingly come across a secret society….a secret society of over two million people apparently, but a clandestine order nonetheless.
Are you ready for this? What if I were to tell you this society was accruing influence and disseminating propaganda via the following potent cocktail: a popular “music” cable television station whose demographic is, say, ages 12-21, a hunky actor cum emo musician, and a sloppily applied Latin catchphrase/slogan. You wouldn’t believe me, would you? I know, I wouldn’t have believed it either, until I fell down the rabbit hole a few days ago….
You see, it all started this past Sunday afternoon when I came across one of the many news pieces about the absurd $30 million lawsuit Virgin had brought against 30 Seconds To Mars – quick catchup for those who don’t know: 30 Seconds To Mars = the crappy, pompous band fronted by Jared Leto - for allegedly failing to deliver a new record on time. Sure, the sheer lunacy of a giant record company suing a band for such an astounding sum of money is fodder for endless analysis, speculation, and commentary, but that’s not what I’m here to talk about. What captured my attention was the lead photograph in this particular piece:
That my friend is 30 Seconds To Mars’ logo staring you in the face; a bit “involved”, yes? But lest the crop circle symbols orbiting the phoenix’s (or whatever winged creature that may be there) armpits distract you, take a gander at the Latin phrase on the underside of the logo.
Provehito In Altum.
Whoa. I found Leto’s arrogance in ascribing his vanity project its own Latin catchphrase captivating. I needed to know more and raced to find a translation to such pomposity. A quick Google search yielded the following: “reach for the heights,” or “launch forth into the deep.”
Meh. It seemed like a fairly hackneyed inspirational slogan, the kind you might find in your guidance counselor’s office hanging next to another poster of a cat hanging off the branch amidst the superimposed text “Hang in there!” Boring, right? I checked again to see if there were any alternate translations. And this is when I stumbled upon a conversational thread within the official 30 Seconds To Mars Forum (the “Pantheon” is what it’s haughtily called). A user named “Wake Up (!)” posted this message:
okay, so im getting a tattoo w/ “provehito in altum” on it and so i talked to a latin teacher today. he said that altum was correct and all, ya know to move foward (either heaven or hell/ up or down). anyways, he said that he didnt recognize “provehito”. it is a latin word, but it isnt the right ending
all in all, the meaning is correct, but the question is whther it is latin or not or if its either correct or not
Now, I’m not one to judge; in fact, I initially applauded “Wake Up (!)” for doing his/her research before eternally committing ink to skin. But then, after another user wrote back and said it must be okay since it’s the motto for “some university”, “Wake Up (!)” responded…
thanks. but i know what it means, i just thought it was weird that he said it wasn’t the right ending and that it was a command, not just a sentence.
but iehter way im getting it tomorrow at 1pm
Whaaa? Either (iehter) way you’re getting it? Meaning if it’s the correct translation you’re getting it, and if it means “Jared Leto sack gargle” you’re still going to get it? What’s going on here? These people were….committed. To Leto. To the Pantheon. To garbled Latin phrases.
Surely, there was some explanation. Delving further into the unwinding mystery, I found an MTV video interview with the dark sorceror himself, Jared Leto. If you have seven minutes to kill and have a high threshold for bullshit, watch below (if not, just skip over and keep reading):
Jesus he talks a lot, doesn’t he? I mean, he barely lets his bandmates get in a single word. Amidst all the grandiose self-love spewing from his eyeliner’d visage, did you catch that part in there around the 1:20 mark in which he spoke about the band’s fanbase? About how they’re a close-knit family who skulks across the country like Grateful Dead fans of yore? What was that name he just used for this “family”?
ECHELON.
Creepy. Nice try using benevolent associations with Jerry Garcia, but to me Echelon seemed less dancing bears and more MindHead from Bowfinger.
Want more proof? Hell, the internet’s full of proof. How about the YouTube video of another Echelon member (Echelonian? Echelonite?) getting the Provehito logo on her wrist?
Or what about this fiery response to a post on Best Week Ever comparing Clay Aiken fans (“Claymaniacs”) to Jared Leto fans (“Letotics”):
don’t bash the echelon…fuckfaces…. says:
August 11th, 2006 at 12:22 am
i am soooooooooo with the “letotics” as you put it. which is extremely lame by the way. i agree with anyone and everyone who says that clay aiken’s a homo. he can deny it all he wants…i think everyone knows he is but him. The Echelon, which i am proudly a member of, is not a bunch of “pseudo-goth” kids…if you saw me you probably wouldn’t even think that i went to their concerts and rocked out as hard as i fucking could.you shouldn’t be talking shit unless you go to a show and see how dedicated we really are. And don’t start talking shit on the Echelon because we are not crazy people who speak their own language. provehito in altum means march forth into the deep and maybe it means nothing to you, but it means something to me and the rest of the echelon. We are a family and we know that..we will support them as much as we possibly can whether you dumbshits like it or not.
PROVEHITO IN ALTUM [ECHELON]
Hey, this is serious. 30 Seconds to Mars has sold over two million albums! Do you know how many potential Echelonianites that translates to (hint: over two million)? And it gets worse; it appears that 30 Seconds From Mars has just been nominated for a Video Music Award, which means that come September 7th, Leto’s going to have access to the master tweenage pulpit (MTV) from which to address his minions. Don’t be surprised when the audio broadcast cuts out and you hear the very Norwegian dance song contained within this 8+ pump through your television and brainwash you into becoming one of them. Echelon Echelon Echelon, say it fast and it even starts to sound like a techno beat.
So let me offer a bit of cautious advice to the folks at Virgin Records….back off, man! Stop that lawsuit now! If you keep it up, Leto is going to unleash the entire Echelon army upon you. In Fight Club, the secret society members had mangled faces and visible injuries that gave their identity away fairly obviously; in Echelon, it’s a bit more subtle. Look closely for the Provehito In Altum tattoo. And when you see it, run for the hills. Echelon Provehito In Altum!
Buy Prima Norsk 2: Groovy Norwegian House Music HERE
*above photo from HERE
EAR FARM’s 8+ is a weekly feature that showcases songs longer than 8 minutes. Click HERE to see the songs recently featured in EF’s 8+.
“Kissing the Beehive” by Wolf Parade which clocks in at 10:53.
The Schmidt Sting Pain Index is a pain scale rating the relative pain caused by different Hymenopteran stings (wasps, bees, ants, etc.). The index starts from 0 for stings that are completely ineffective against humans and finishes at 4 for the most painful stings. In the original study, some descriptions of the most painful examples were given, e.g.: “Paraponera clavata stings induced immediate, excruciating pain and numbness to pencil-point pressure, as well as trembling in the form of a totally uncontrollable urge to shake the affected part.”
Subsequently, the scale has been refined. In 1990 a new study was published that classifies the stings of 78 species and 41 genera of Hymenoptera. Notably, Schmidt described some of the experiences in vivid and colorful detail:
1.2 Fire ant: Sharp, sudden, mildly alarming. Like walking across a shag carpet & reaching for the light switch.
2.0 Bald-faced hornet: Rich, hearty, slightly crunchy. Similar to getting your hand mashed in a revolving door.
2.x Honey bee and European hornet: Like a matchhead that flips off and burns on your skin.
2.0 Yellowjacket: Hot and smoky, almost irreverent. Imagine W. C. Fields extinguishing a cigar on your tongue.
The silly comparisons go on, but we’ll stop there. For it is that final stinging Hymenoptera with which we’re most concerned today: the Yellowjacket. More specifically, those Vespula maculifrons (the Eastern Yellowjacket) which build concealed nests, usually underground.
– –
Summer. August even, likely 1987. Yes, definitely. August 1987, hot as SHIT. It seemed hotter then than it does now. Not over extended periods of time, but just in spikes. Like, most days were probably in the low 90s, but this one day the temperature was around 140. That’s what it felt like at least. I remember, my friend Jay and I (name not changed, he deserves to be outed for what he did) were doing some work for his uncle to earn money. The job: move massive amounts of firewood from waaay over on one side of the house to waaay over on the complete, opposite, side. Seemed like busy work, prison work, even then. But hey, the pay was phenomenal. Fifty bucks! Fifty dollars each! An entire treasure chest full of loot to the two of us. Money that we were planning to use to go to Carowinds (and by “go” I mean have one of our moms drive us there) and/or buy some more Oakley sunglasses. Or, money that we’d find a way to spend on some manner of self-indulgently carefree material reward. Really, though we were working, we had no need for extra cash.
We also had no need to go fishing after our work was done. It wasn’t as if we needed to catch food for our families, or wasn’t as though we’d know what to do with the fish if/when we caught one. We’d struggle to grab a hold of it, take some rusty pair of pliers, and wrangle the hook out of its cheek before sending it off to be caught again by us the following week. The circle of life in a small suburban lake.
Okay. So, we also had no business jumping into that hidden little lake we were about to fish -it was a small adventure reaching it, down a path not traveled in years and through some thick brush- no business at all swimming there. It was still very pure and natural, not the kind of place one wants to swim. And Jay’s house, about a quarter of a mile down the road, had a swimming pool. An obvious target for two overworked sweaty youths. But no. We were hot and exhausted and ready for an adventure -always ready for an adventure- and jumping into that lake for the first time ever was the best thing we could come up with. In the past we’d stood on the edge and looked into the murky shallows but we never jumped in. All of that was going to change on this day.
So there we were, adventuring into the known wilderness. Towards Mount Lakemanjaro…fishing poles, swim trunks, tackle boxes and bait in hand. Come to think of it, I’m not certain we thought much of the impact that our swimming might have on the environment. Specifically, that it might’ve severely hindered our chances to catch any fish if we, say, jumped into the lake and splashed around a bit before trying to fish there. But, that’s what we did. We had to, because it was there; and, had never been done before. At least not by any kids we knew who’d lived to tell of it. The jumping into the lake was the daring part of our adventure, the bit that caused that day to go down in history as legendary was accidental. But, no less, legendary.
After an extremely quick dip into the water we setup a spot on the other side for the fishing part of our adventure (it’s worth noting that this might’ve actually been a pond…it was pretty small and unkempt…but there were fish there, and, to us, it was a lake). Not many fish had been caught in this spot, but word was that there were a few bigguns in there to be had, so we decided to use Jay’s lucky frog lure. The thing was magic, worked every time. And believe it or not, it worked almost as soon as it landed in the water this time.
“I got one! Shit! It’s huuuge!” Jay exclaimed. He reeled it in with difficulty but then realized it wasn’t coming out of the water without a net. “Here, you take the pole and hold it there. I’ll run home and grab a net.”
No problem. I stood with the beast as Jay’s fishing pole bent severely under its weight. It was BIG. But it wasn’t going anywhere, and by the time Jay returned it had little to no fight left in it.
“What the…?!” I questioned when he showed up with the net.
“It’s all I could find, watch out,” he said, moving me out of the way and taking the fishing pole. The net he’d returned with wasn’t just any net, it was a net with a ten foot long pole attached to it. The net that his dad used to clean the swimming pool. We both laughed at the incongruous nature of the situation as he struggled to get the fish into the net.
“You want some help?”
“No, I think I got…” he didn’t even finish what he was saying. Mid-sentence the awkward swimming pool net dropped like a seesaw with only one kid on it, the end of the pole landing right at my feet. In under a second I was covered, swarmed, attacked by a nest full of yellowjackets. Remember: Eastern Yellowjackets build concealed nests, usually underground; or, right next to where I was standing.
“Bees!!! Aaaaargh!!!” I screamed. Loudly, as loud as I ever have. I probably said a swear word or three before I took off running towards Jay’s house. The stings were happening in rapid-fire fashion. I could tell that some of the bees were stinging me over and over again. It felt like I was getting shot by a miniature .50 caliber machine gun as they attacked my chest, my face, my ears…everywhere. There were some caught in my bathing suit stinging away and some flying next to me as I ran, darting in for stings like kamikazes dive-bombing a battleship. Though I was in some form of mild shock, and probably not fully feeling what was happening to me, the pain was still outrageous. I couldn’t outrun them but I kept running, swatting in the air as I ran. Jay was right behind me screaming. We both were. That quarter mile to Jay’s house suddenly felt like five hundred miles.
What a sight it must’ve been for his mom when we finally reached home. She was already outside as we ran up screaming and crying and trying to tell her what had happened. Quickly she ushered us over to the garden hose and had us strip down. Bees fell off of us as we removed our clothes. Some hung there on our bodies, dead. Stinger in place: nest successfully defended. An honorable death.
The water from the hose felt like fire. Or our wounds did, something. All I remember thinking was “it’s not stopping, it HURTS!”
Once we got hosed down and put some dry clothes on we did the only thing we could. Sitting there, shocked, moaning and groaning, we tallied up our individual scores. Who was stung more?? An important question that needed answering. I secretly wished for my own mother to take a little extra time in arriving to pick me up so that we might finish counting. I had a feeling I was going to come out on top. The “winner”?
Jay: “21, 22… 25, I think. I have 25.”
Me: “42? No. 45, 46, 47? Is that…no, that’s just one big sting. So that’s 46? I have 46!”
Forty-six. That day, back in the summer of 1987, I was stung forty-six times by yellowjackets and lived to tell the tale. Ever since then I’ve felt a connection with bees and wasps. Closer to them. They no longer frighten me at all, and back when it happened I secretly hoped the experience would turn me into some kind of superhero. Shoot, Spider-Man was only bitten once. Me? There were stings everywhere. I figured I deserved some powers or something as a result, but ultimately, I was probably very lucky to come out of it as relatively unscathed as I did. I mean, I stood there right over a massive yellowjacket nest when it had a huge metal pole come smashing down upon it and the entire hive attacked ME, the intruder. Fair enough. Can’t go kissing a beehive and not expect to get stung.
– –
For the record, in regards to that Schmidt Sting Pain Index, I was in fact stung in my mouth. And I’d rather have W. C. Fields extinguish a cigar on my tongue than to experience the horrendous feeling of getting stung on the roof of my mouth again; all the while fearing I’d inhale or swallow the insect before consciously gathering it in my mouth to spit it out as I ran. Awful. And yes, that yellowjacket stung me on the way out too… twice.
Buy At Mount Zoomer on Amazon.
*above photo from HERE, front thumbnail from HERE.
EAR FARM’s 8+ is a weekly feature that showcases songs longer than 8 minutes. Click HERE to see the songs recently featured in EF’s 8+.
“Six Days At The Bottom Of The Ocean” by Explosions In The Sky which clocks in at 8:43.
If Olympic subplots of human rights violations and superhuman quests for eight gold medals haven’t really been doing it for you, perhaps you’d rather peruse the torrent of self-reflexive, media-focused stories polluting newswires like smog on the Beijing skyline. Welcome to the “Metalympics.”
Here you’ll find some of the following topics of varying urgency and importance: NBC is doing an admirable job in expanding its Olympic coverage, NBC will undoubtedly do a terrible job in its coverage, NBC’s viewers should boycott the Olympics and send a message to China, McCain is outspending Obama on advertisements aired on NBC during the Olympics, and oh right, of course, NBC’s viewers should be careful of coming across spoilers when watching the Olympics.
Lost in all of these tangential stories and pseudo-stories about NBC’s broadcast and online coverage is an honest assessment over one of THE most important aspects of watching the Olympics on television: MUSIC (what did you think it was going to be? We’re a music site, remember?)
The most applicable Olympic-music article I’ve come across came nearly three months ago in the June issue of Fast Company. This piece, “Strike Up The Band”, profiles the duo behind Audiobrain, a New York-based “sound-branding” firm entrusted with the enviable task of providing the soundtrack to the Beijing Games.
Their jobs sound amazing. Basically, they are the puppet masters manipulating and yanking at your heartstrings at precisely the right moment with precisely the right song. Matching moments like Muhammad Ali’s lighting of the torch in 1996’s opening ceremonies to an applicable bed of music may not sound like rocket science (more “Chariots of Fire”, less “Nookie” duh), but its impact on the overall viewing experience cannot be underestimated, at least according to the Fast Company piece:
No matter how immune consumers may believe they are to these kind of audio cues, they’re not made out of wood: Positive sounds have a 65% chance of changing listeners’ moods, according to sensory branding expert Martin Lindstrom.
Turns out we are all slaves to the music. Now, here are some more facts. Fact: The days of NBC embedding every human-interest story, athlete profile, daily recap, and medal ceremony throughout the Olympics with maudlin and dramatic musical swells are far from over. And though the network is making the move to expand its coverage online (which will hopefully mean we can bypass and avoid some of the more drawn-out human-interest pieces that regularly dominate the games), NBC’s primetime coverage will still dictate storylines and tell us how to feel, all of which will be delivered against sappy strains of music. So congratulations Audiobrain, your jobs are safe.
Fact: NBC and all of its affiliate networks and websites will be airing 3,600 hours of Olympic-related programming this month, which means that Audiobrain and NBC have to compile over 30,000 musical tracks to accompany every possible moment, emotion, victory, upset or defeat that could transpire over this period of time.
Fact: That’s a lot of work.
EAR FARM wants to make things easy on NBC, easy on Audiobrain, and most importantly, easy on the viewers. That’s why we propose that Explosions In The Sky be considered as NBC’s house band for the Olympics. It’s oh so simple; get them on the next plane out to Beijing, clear a corner of NBC’s Olympic Studios, set them up and let them play! Just like Max Weinberg, Kevin Eubanks and Paul Shaffer manage to puncture every flailing joke and awkward moment of late-night programming with a perfectly placed musical stinger, so will Explosions bring the inherent drama of the Games to the forefront by playing LIVE and in studio. Couple these live performances with the band’s entire pre-existing back catalog - which NBC could license in its entirety and use whenever appropriate - and we’ve got ourselves an instant Olympics soundtrack.
Not surprisingly, there’s a longstanding synergy that exists among the band, NBC, and televised athletics. As most are aware, Explosions’ music figures heavily into NBC’s critically adored series Friday Night Lights, adding just as much depth and texture to the show as the actors’ performances and authentic locations. Of course, the show is based on the 2004 film Friday Night Lights - in turn based on the Buzz Bissinger book of the same name – which Explosions not only scored but also contributed a few pre-existing tracks (including “Six Days at the Bottom of the Ocean”). “Six Days” was also used by HBO in an episode of the documentary series Mayweather-Hatton 24/7 (more sports programming) while NBC has used brief pieces of other Explosions songs in several of its NFL broadcasts (more sports, more NBC).
So it’s really a no-brainer; they’re the perfect fit. Oh, but one last thing NBC, it may be best to save “Six Days at the Bottom of the Ocean” as musical accompaniment for those moments in Beijing that occur outside of the pool. Consider guitarist Mark Smith’s explanation of the song’s meaning to the Austin Chronicle and you’ll see what I mean:
“It was written around the story of the Kursk, the Russian sub that sank to the bottom of the ocean. We were imagining what it was like to be those men at the bottom of the sea, trapped and desperate, running out of oxygen. [The song] gallops, getting faster and more intense until it just stops, and you breathe your last breath.”
Good to know, right? Opening ceremonies commence tomorrow evening. Let’s get them over there already. USA! USA! Explosions In The Sky! Explosions In The Sky!
Buy The Earth Is Not A Cold Dead Place on Amazon.
*above photo from HERE
EAR FARM’s 8+ is a weekly feature that showcases songs longer than 8 minutes. Click HERE to see the songs recently featured in EF’s 8+.