SORELY
by Sean
Please note: MP3s are only kept online for a short time, and if this entry is from more than a couple of weeks ago, the music probably won't be available to download any more.

 
Correction

Plants and Animals - "Jeans Jeans Jeans". His past was littered with defeats; here was one more. He told himself he had never given a fuck and he wasn't going to start now. The road followed the dry riverbed. Telephone poles raced past, like mile-markers. It was nine o'clock in the morning. He'd have still been in bed. The kids'd be on the way to school. Now he turned off the a/c so he could feel all the dry heat on his face. There are wolves out, he thought, squinting into the savannah. He was mistaken. No canis lupus had stalked this land since the suburbs materialized, half a century before. This was a land of dogs. [buy La La Land, a rough, hazed, funny album by Plants and Animals]

Aby Ngana Diop - "LIITAL". Major Kill had always wondered if he could beat twenty 8-year-olds in a fight. The question, he had always thought, was one of strategy: could the 8-year-olds strategize? could they strategize better than he? As he stood by the chainlink fence, watching the kids make his pyramid; as he sent their parents to be killed by firing squad, or to die in the mines; as he shot down the Federation's helicopters with his energized shock-rifle ... he considered this question. He would take out the smallest ones first, he thought. With kicks. He would push them into each-other. He would slam their skulls together. He imagined all this as he swivelled the toothpick across his perfect white teeth. Whenever one of the children looked at him, he tried to evaluate its skill in battle: its tenacity, its wickedness, its metal. One day he stared at a little boy and the little boy stared back. His name was Geoffrey. Major Kill showed Geoffrey his teeth. Geoffrey did not drop his gaze. Geoffrey spat on the dirt. He actually spat. Major Kill began to laugh. Then his laughing slowed. He flexed his knuckles. "Janus," he called to his lieutenant, "I want to fight twenty children." Janus knew not to question his master's wishes. 50 minutes later, they were all gathered in the sand-lot. Major Kill tied up his boots. He took off his titanium watch. He left his rifle behind the fence. He strolled out into the dust.

As twenty fists rained down on Major Kill's legs, pelvis and head, it was difficult to think. It was difficult to understand where his strategy had gone wrong. The children were shrieking as they beat him. They were hammering his ears, his knees. By concentrating on maneuvers he had overlooked damage. A child's fist is a painless thing. Like a single hailstone. Twenty children are forty fists. They are a hailstorm. Major Kill's face was pressed into the grit. His legs went numb. left eye went dark. He wondered when Janus would stop them. [download from - of course! - Awesome Tapes From Africa]

---

For Montrealers, two very interesting concerts this week. (I can, agonizingly, attend neither.) First, Thursday night, the reclusive Bill Fox, formerly of the Mice, is playing Cagibi. This is a very rare performance. Support from the burgeoning and strange Beaver Sheppard. Next, on Saturday at 2pm, there is a killer benefit at the Mile End Mission. North, My Love (desperately sad songs by Mussaver's Katherine Peacock & co), the returning treasure Abigail Lapell (one of my favourite departed Montreal songwriters), and Carlo Spidla and his Golden Ladies, the jubilant electric holy shit that is Carl Spidla's new project. I am jealous of any who can attend. (Abigail has two more Montreal gigs, at Centre St-Ambroise on Friday, and Casa on Sunday, before skulking back to Toronto.)

Posted by Sean at May 10, 2010 11:58 AM
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Sean Michaels lives in Montreal. His debut novel, Us Conductors, will be published by Random House Canada/Tin House Books in spring 2014. His work also occasionally appears at McSweeney's. Follow him on Twitter or reach him here.

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