“Less Than You Think” by Wilco which clocks in at 15:06.

How stupid is this country of united states, really? How much does the average American know about, oh, anything? Less than you think…

At ten years of age, American children take an international test and score well above the international average (supposedly). However, by the time they are fifteen, when tested against students from forty other countries, the American children place twenty-fifth. Twenty-fifth! What’s that, the 62nd percentile? Fantastic.

According to IQ and Global Inequality, the US scores the lowest in national average IQ among the developed countries of the world (including Switzerland, the United Kingdom, Germany, Japan, North Korea and China), at a national average score of 98. For some perspective, that’s only the numerical value of the age of any given Drew Peterson wife away from Forrest Gump. But don’t expect most Americans to even know what IQ is meant to measure… an article from the New York Times about US ignorance towards science suggests the following:

American adults in general do not understand what molecules are (other than that they are really small). Fewer than a third can identify DNA as a key to heredity. Only about 10 percent know what radiation is. One adult American in five thinks the Sun revolves around the Earth, an idea science had abandoned by the 17th century.

It gets worse. In seeking the best candidate to run for the office of President of the United States, the Republican Party nominated three candidates who openly disagree with the science of evolution. Evolution! Heck, you can prove that in 30 seconds with a bucket of fruit flies and an 8th grade science teacher. This is to say nothing of the mentally devolved woman the party nominated to serve as Vice President in 2008, and all of her forays into the morbidly moronic. Sarah Palin gives the term brainless new depth. The idiocy of one terrible President (who was, of course, duly reelected by wise citizens to a second term after a blunder-filled first) begat the nomination of his female counterpart, Sarah Palin, who then proceeded to dumb herself down so thoroughly with each public appearance that her idiocy actually offended the voting public of America. That is what happened right? How else do you explain the majority of voters voting for a liberal African American candidate when so many Americans hate people because of their skin color? They don’t?? Oh then perhaps the following family (pictured above, snippet from HERE) is simply an anomaly…

A New Jersey family who named their child after Adolf Hitler is having problems getting a birthday cake made for their 3-year-old. Heath and Deborah Campbell said their local ShopRite supermarket in Greenwich Township, N.J., refused to personalize a cake for their son, Adolf Hitler Campbell.

“We believe the request … to inscribe a birthday wish to Adolf Hitler is inappropriate,” Karen Meleta, a ShopRite spokeswoman, told the Express-Times.

Barry Morrison of the Anti-Defamation League agreed with ShopRite’s decision. “Might as well put a sign around their [the children's] neck that says bigot, racist, hatemonger,”Morrison said. “What’s the difference?”

The Campbells say they don’t understand what the big deal is. “ShopRite can’t even make a cake for a 3-year-old,” mother Deborah Campbell said.”That’s sad.”

The couple’s other two children are named JoyceLynn Aryan Nation Campbell and Honszlynn Hinler Jeannie Campbell.

I’m not saying that the majority of Americans are like this, at all, but these very ones, who do exist, have procreated. And that is a frightening proposition. Let’s recap: there is at least one three year old American whose first and middle names are Adolf Hitler and his family “doesn’t understand what the big deal is”. Right. They don’t get it? Shocking. Also not surprising: that the place which ultimately would fulfill their request turned out to be Wal-Mart and that these same parents-of-the-year misspelled one of their daughter’s many middle names in naming her Honszlynn Hinler Jeannie Campbell (obviously, within the context of this family, ‘Hinler’ was meant to have two m’s rather than an n). But WAIT! It gets even worse…

According to a study done by Jerold Jenkins: 1/3 of high school graduates never read another book for the rest of their lives, 42 percent of college graduates never read another book after college, and 80 percent of US families did not buy or read a book last year. Perhaps this lack of reading explains why so many Americans can not locate their own country on a map of…their own country?!

From HERE:

According to a Gallup/Harris poll released Monday, a full 37 percent of American citizens are incapable of identifying their home country on a map of the United States.

Of the 1,400 residents surveyed, the most common incorrect responses placed the more than 230-year-old territory in the Atlantic or Pacific Oceans (19 percent), the space where Mexico would appear were it in fact included on the map (10 percent), and inside the word “America” written just above the northernmost states (6 percent).

“On the whole, these figures should be construed as somewhat disappointing,” Gallup spokesman Keith Ventner said. “Especially the two percent that believed the United States was located on the map’s color-coded inset legend. I think we as a nation likely could have done without seeing that.”

The article continues in Onion-esque fashion, slamming the intelligence of Americans at every turn with humorous “facts”. No comical statistic quite reaches, however, the insult at the top of the article - written in clear italics for all to see…

Editor’s note: This post is a satire.

Right. Because without such a disclaimer, the average idiot reading the Huffington Post thinks so poorly of his/her fellow Americans that they actually might believe such an outlandish statistic without being told that what they’re reading is, in fact, not a fact. Imbecilic intelligence abounds. And yet, it gets even worse by the minute. Every short-sighted dollar spent bailing out corporations rather than repairing the failed educational system of the United States is like opening up a savings account at someplace really ridiculously unwise (like, Foxwoods) rather than in a proper bank (such as Washington Mutual… pardon the aside, but here’s my belated ad slogan suggestion for them: “WaMu is Safe4u!”). At a time of financial uncertainty such as we’re experiencing right now, finding sound long-term investments is the wisest thing any of us can hope to do. Not that any of us are wise, but spending money on the education of the children of this nation is an investment of unparalleled wisdom and well-documented urgency. Somebody has to teach young Adolf how seriously embarrassed of his given name he should be. The time is now, don’t you think? Do you think…?

How much, would you say, does the average American think, about anything? Less than you think.

*above image found HERE.

Buy A Ghost is Born 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+.

“Put It Together” by Love As Laughter which clocks in at 8:16.

Let’s put it together. Let’s build a great song, shall we? All this talk of year-end lists and best of this and tops of that has put us in a reflective state, the kind where we just want to construct something from the ground up and call it our own.

We want to put something together, and we want you to come along for the journey. It doesn’t matter if your musical chops aren’t up to say, Mr. 320 BPM levels, or your creative juices have altogether dried up and left your mind grapes more like parched little raisins. We can do this, and the main reason why is right under your nose and at the tip of your fingers….we got internet! Read more…

“The Devil Glitch” by Chris Butler which clocks in at 12:44 (and/or 68:53 and/or 114:53).

Having featured somewhere around 150 long songs thus far in EAR FARM’s 8+, it can often feel as though there’s no new ground left to cover. Just this year alone we’ve had recipes, Olympic recommendations, a series of short stories, and enough palindrome love to drive even the nerdiest nerd nutso. Conclusion: there are no new ideas nor are there any more songs left to write about! Perhaps this feature is all old and busted and needs to be fixed?

It’s not true. However, even considering this notion for a moment reminded me of a certain long song that’s about nothing other than suggested ways to fix things. It is, in fact, the longest pop song ever according to the Guinness Book of World Records. The song, “The Devil Glitch”, began as a mere five-minute song before verse after verse after verse was continuously added over a three month period and it ended up as a 69 minute pop song that barely fit onto a single CD. On the CD, the song is divided into 17 tracks that all run into each other and play as a single continuous song - only one of these segments ends up clocking in at over eight minutes and stands fairly well on its own, and that’s Track 2. Interestingly, this track exists as a microcosm of the full song and can give quite a solid representation of the entire 69 minutes. Basically, if you’d like a taste of the longest song ever recorded but don’t have an hour-plus to spare, check out the version of the song posted above. I’m going to, but not because I’ve never heard “The Devil Glitch before. Rather, I’m simply searching for ways to fix something… as the song goes:

Sometimes you can fix something…
by just being a prick
by just lifting your skirt
by just kissing some ass
by just smoking a pipe
by just blaming your mom
by just cracking a joke
by just cooking the books
by just smoking a joint
by just building a ramp
by just sitting around
by just blowing it up
by just takin’ it slow
by just hurrying up
by just looking away
with just a mistake
by just doing it right
with total control
by just playing along
by working like hell
by not working too hard
by just having faith
by just saying a prayer
by just trusting your luck
by just being a cheat
by just being tough
by just being scared
by just taking a class
by just building a wall
by just tightening your belt
by just busting loose
by just shutting up
by just coming in last
by just holding out
by just being a fool
by just knowing the law
by just screening your calls
by just washing your hands
by just wearing a mask
by just going to hell
by just telling all
by just saying “no”
by just saying “yes”
with just the right spin
by just changing your mind
by just building a fort
by just changing sides
by just getting laid
by just jacking off
by just getting drunk
by just having one drink
by just taking the heat
by just passing the buck
by just turning around
by just trying to cope
by just starting to cry
by running from your past
by just turning a knob
by just toning it down
by just giving a gift
by just taking it back
by just playing dumb
by just being sharp
by just going to church
by not going to church
by just being against being against the establishment of the church
by just suing the son of a bitch
by just going home
by hot-wiring the fuse
with just a better glue
by just paying ‘em off
by not being home
by just having the stones
by just listening to The Who
by just playing pinball
by just speaking your mind
by just biting your tongue
by just writing a book
by just reading a book
turn off that goddamn television
by just having a snack

And that’s where Track 2 ends. But again, that’s just a small taste of a larger beast. The entire song features over 500 verses of ways to fix something. But wait! There’s more… sometimes you can fix something by extending what was already the longest song in the world into something even MORE gloriously long! Sometimes, in fact, you can fix something by just getting your audience involved. Would you like to write a verse to be featured in the ever-changing “longest song ever”? Well you’re in luck. Chris Butler is still adding to “The Devil Glitch” and he’s taking submissions; so, get your long song lyrical poetry cap on and submit some words of your own and Butler will record them and you’ll be a world record holder by association. Currently, the song is clocking in at over 114 mintues… The fog’s getting thicker; and “The Devil Glitch” is getting larrrrrger!

Buy The Devil Glitch 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+.

“Echoes” by Pink Floyd which clocks in at 23:32.

Happy Thanksgiving! A brief word from me, then I suggest you check out the video posted above and/or get off the internets and back into the real world of people, and the giving of thanks, and much too much to eat: I’m thankful, not only for my favorite film of all time (2001: A Space Odyssey, which has become a tradition for me to watch around this time of year) and one of my favorite bands (Pink Floyd), but for the way the two go together so well. Beleedat.

Turkey time.

Buy Meddle HERE.

*front image from HERE; above video 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+.

“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…