Short Story: Broken Social Scene - Bee Hives

The swirling dirt and dust around her feet seemed to guide Julie forward, waving in her direction from ground level. Hoping that the air could tell her what last night could not, she followed the tiny vortex down the quiet concrete of the abandoned main street. Two birds flew quietly overhead as she crossed to the other side, still following this jinn of cigarette ash and road dirt. Clouds gathered overhead, threatening to mask the rays of a wan and silvery sunlight that pervaded the atmosphere of Stuart Nebraska.

Julie Wainsworth was not a tall woman. This particular morning she reflected that it is at times an advantage to be short, the wind passed over her while the trees looked as though they might lie down for a nap after straining so long to stand up. She had been born to a mixed family, her mother's Omaha side lost somewhere in the history of family bibles and alcohol and her father's ancestry some uniquely American mix of French-Canadian, Irish and something else. Her mother had been a quiet woman and she inherited most of her features, broad face, good hips, short height and a quiet demeanor. The other people here had always treated her with a distanced respect and she preferred it that way.

All of this past seemed to fade into dream as she continued following the tiny tornado west out of town and into the endless fields of commercial farming and cattle. It always hit her like a punch in the gut, seeing the pesticide laden soil groan under the weight of profit and the endless ambition of American business. Trying to find an audience for her feelings had always been impossible in a town of a few hundred farmers and their kin. Julie spent her nights alone as a child, staring out at the stars from a tree and wishing there was some way out of here, laughing deeply as age and wisdom taught her that "out there" was no different for a thousand miles on either side of the town.

It was mid-morning now and the crowded farm buildings gave way to the open sky and endless fields of their pursuits. Her feet stopped short as the vortex halted suddenly next to an access road, about 20 feet in front of her. It moved very slowly down the access road and she stood there, wondering just what the hell she was doing. She was certain that the bank manager had been calling her mother's house for several hours at this point, she was at least three hours late for her shift. Why did it seem so far away? So unimportant? Fuck it, she thinks and walks down the access road, chasing this tiny spirit.

An hour and a half later, the jinn stopped again near a telephone pole and suddenly dropped it's payload in a poof of dust and ash. Julie coughed and wiped her eyes , red sparks playing against her eyelids and Nebraska trying to force it's way into her throat. As the faerie light of her eyes cleared into the glare of the afternoon, a pay phone resolved into focus sitting next to the pole. It looked as though it had been there for sixty years, wind worn and faded from a life in the wild. A wild pay phone? Is it tamed?

The musings of herds of wild pay phones broke into iron tinged fear as the phone began to ring, piercing the windy solitude of her portable temple. Three shrill rings and she stood there, petrified at the way her day had gone. Silence for a moment, a released breath escapes her lips. The phone rings again and her chest seizes up. It's still ringing. Her hand reaches for the receiver, shaking and terrified. As the earpiece hits her ear and she begins to say hello, her lips freeze mid speech as the tinny speaker springs to life.

A sound like bees swimming through an ocean of digital waves gives way to a guitar in the distance telling the tales of her life. She strains against the hot black plastic to hear each note as the story unfolds in her mind's eye. The ground gives way beneath her, an earthquake lifts the red brown dust into the sky and the farm folds back in on itself. Every emotion of her life is turned into a digital pulse, converted by the aged and worn out telephone system and output through this minuscule electromagnet. Her eyes roll back in her head as the sky stares down at this strange sight, birds chirping their questions at the trees and the trees retaining their knowing silence.

Julie Wainsworth is dead now. That's what everyone in Stuart knows to be true. The county coroner confirmed that heart failure led to her demise. If he only knew how true that was. Her heart had failed years ago, this tiny town had never spoken to her and it was sheer willpower that kept her limping along. I know the truth says the tree. She has gone home across the wires around my fingers. Her body lay at my feet that spring morning, but Julie was racing across the plains, waving her goodbyes to the land that gives us life. Julie was my friend, she lived among my branches as a young-ling and stared at the stars until her tears fed my roots. I know Julie Wainsworth, I know her fears, I know her wishes and I know she smiles now.

Julie Wainsworth is not dead.

Do Make Say Think: You, You're a History In Rust

Do Make Say Think have been charting a new course through music since the late 90's, peering around the corners of improvised rock, ambient drones and post-modern composition into a room of ancient instruments. This album from 2007 sends alternating chills up and down your spine as it walks over the entire range of human emotion, touching your head and reaching into your heart with every note. Instrumental music of this quality is rare, rare and special and you want this in your ears as soon as possible. It is the score to old farms, the soundtrack of decay and a symphony of rebirth painted with broad strokes of horns, guitars and drums across the canvas between your ears. It will break your heart and build you back up a thousand times in 60 minutes and you will thank them at the end.

Samples of this album are on Amazon.

Morrissey: Years of Refusal

Morrissey has traveled an interesting road throughout his career, dipping into literature and dropping out of music at times. He tends to walk around rock music loosely and freely without much regard for other people's opinions and it shows. He's got a big collection of organs, synths, drums and guitars and he's gonna use them all tonight. Years of Refusal is a backstage pass to Morrissey's mind. This album starts off strong with "Something Is Squeezing My Skull" bringing a smattering of pure rock to the album, grabbing your attention and letting you inside. Then the he beckons you into the back room for tracks that sound more like a progression of his solo work since his return to the music scene in '03 with You Are The Quarry. For those familiar with Morrissey, you'll notice that his lyrics have moved outwards in this record, painting pictures of the world through his eyes and letting you inside to watch. For those unfamiliar, you are about to meet a brilliant lyricist face to face and come away smiling.

Dirty Three: Ocean Songs

Home is not a place. Home has never meant that to me. It is an idea, a fraction of myself told in bedsheets and cookware. So when the time came to leave it all behind and journey across the waters to a new life, I jumped at the chance.

The ship was tiny, cowering in the bay next to the gods and giants moored near her resting place. No matter. I wasn't looking for a luxury berth, I wanted to know the ocean like my ancestors did. I wanted, above all else, to feel the ocean in my bones and etch her songs upon my heart.It is a young man's game, I suppose, to throw oneself against the elements: to test your will against the cliff faces of reality.

A cry on board cracked across my reverie and I stowed my gear near the storehouses in the stern. For the next three months this cramped and fetid hole in the bottom of a cargo ship would be my home. Nested deep within the pile of clothes and notebooks was my most cherished possession, the icon of this journey. A violin. I had never been a rich man and this fragile piece of wood had cost me nearly every penny I had. If you want to know the core of yourself, it is best to strip off everything you drag around.

I lived and breathed salt air for endless days, hauling lines until my hands bled and eating the stale iron rations stacked high in the cargo holds next to barrels of tobacco and cotton. Each night I would secret away to my corner of the hold and coax my hands warm until I could feel my fingers playing upon the strings of my violin. It was the entire reason I found myself a thousand miles from the land of my fathers, blasted by cold waters, wracked by fevers and so tired that I could hardly sleep at night.

I sang with Poseidon, played symphonies of delight with the Sirens and conducted the winds to the call of cat gut and rosin. This was home, this was the sliver of myself that could never be found in cities or distilled from pastures overgrown with arrogance and the tyrannies of petty men. At last my home, sweet Atlantis.

I found myself at the end of my journey too soon. So that no one may forget this communion of wind and water I have recorded every note, every nuance, every endless storm of my life. May
it stand as a sign post on your journey home.

You may also try Rachel's, Godspeed You Black Emperor and Mogwai to bring you a step closer to the truth of life.

Good for: Being wholly transported to a vision of storms on the horizon and seagulls in the air.
Samples at Amazon.com

Radiohead: In Rainbows

We're proud to announce our latest Series 7 android. Here at Radiohead Industries we have always striven to bring the greatest sense of authenticity to our flagship series of androids and the Radiohead Series 7 is our greatest achievement by far. In this series we have brought elevated the principles of techno-organic synthesis to an art form, transcending the barrier between artifice and the natural world to bring you emotions that humanity cannot describe in words.


The Emotional Cortex of the Radiohead Series 7, nicknamed "In Rainbows", is built around our proprietary recordings of your life and surroundings. We have been observing you for some time and we feel like we can describe you in greater detail than you know. As an owner of the Radiohead Series 3 (nicknamed OK Computer) you may be familiar with many of the themes this new version will play upon. Perhaps you feel alone, perhaps the cold lines of modern living leaves you feeling hollow at the end of the day and you feel as though you will never connect with another human being again.


Good news! Connection with other human beings is within your grasp once more! The "In Rainbows" progressive reconnection sequence is designed to enhance your ownership experience through the selective upload of images directly from your subconscious and transmission to pre-screened mating selections on our Reconnection Database servers. We can feel your pain and we want you to know it's alright. We love you. We here at Radiohead Industries have been studying the separation between people and the rest of the world for a long time and have found a unique solution for our customers.


Thank you for selecting this product, it will keep you sane in the endless tides of noise and confusion. Please check our website for our other offerings, British Sea Power, Broken Social Scene, Tool and Nine Inch Nails.


Good for: Contemplating your life, sitting on a wall in the middle of the street.

Yann Tiersen: Amelie: Original Soundtrack Recording

The fog parts just long enough for me to see the street lights flicker off as the wan sunlight peeks through the haze. I've been walking through the alleys and behind the buildings of this city since sundown the night before, looking for fragments of human life left fermenting in the secret parts of this vibrant, pulsing entity known as civilization.

The ache in my feet matches the tone of my mood, worn and thin, searching with desperation for meaning in the endless brick and mortar night scape. As the sun burns the night into dust a waft of accordion and violin passes by my face, just out of reach, just out of hearing. I follow the Sirens call down a flight of cobblestone stairs towards a golden glow crawling out of a doorway to greet the sun.

A cafe, brimming with energy. Two women waltzing through the crowd escorting coffee and pastry salvation to sleepy eyed patrons. I stumble through the entrance and find the closest seat. The noise and rush threaten to dispel the illusion that the night has so carefully wrought upon my senses and I careen around the smells and brightness of it all, clinging desperately to my last cigarette.

The crescendo of this morning peaks and just when I think that all is lost, I see the man in the corner with his accordion. Tall and thin, he coaxes the stillness back into my world, bringing this long and strange night to it's perfect culmination. I relax and listen as the piano player joins in, entrancing the very walls of the cafe into a moment of utmost pleasure at living, loving and losing. I head back out towards the endless sidewalks of my city and join Brad Mehldau, Bill Evans and Nobuo Uematsu on their journey between worlds of sorrow and joy.



Good for: People watching from the corner cafe, chain smoking and writing.