Tires screech. Another ho-hum day at the nascar track. The crowd sways vividly, creating heat lines like air rising off asphalt in the desert. The air smells of of body odor and sweat.
A scene is caused when, moments before the race begins, Bobby Goldstein, a top-ranked but accident prone racer is torn out of his car by his fretting Jewish mother. They argue. She wins.
The car, driven at a steady 55 mph by Fran Goldstein, is rear-ended in the third lap and tumbles off the track, resting steadily by the quarter pole in flames.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Abstract song reviews
I'm posting a new (well, a year old) song to garageband.com, and as an effort in solidarity with the musicians who use it I decided to go do 15 review pairs to get my song uploaded.
Lord, it can be tedious.
I was halfway into dreamland when I started, and thought it would be fun to try writing whatever came to mind while listening to ten random songs. Here's what happened.
lulling
abstract review for an abstract song. ship wreck, whisky bottle. velvet mona lisa next to dogs playing poker. bridge; small break in a rainstorm; perhaps on a small island. red lips next to a microphone, that tattered old movie image. small film projector in an airplane hangar. grunting. sweaty bodies. falling apart. ding.
http://www.garageband.com/song?|pe1|S8LTM0LdsaSiYVizYmw
more abstract reviewing
Ed McMahon. airplane, bermuda. garish hawaiian shirts, in a sea of blue suits and crew cuts. cheap cigars and golf courses, poker chips, deck of cards. therapy sessions. crying, unexpectedly. notes on the kid's birthday.
http://www.garageband.com/song?|pe1|S8LTM0LdsaSiYVKzYGg
you get just what's in my head
sorry if this review is useless. I'm on an abstract whatever-i-think-of-while-i listen review kick.
daddy never listened.
quiet in class, counting the holes in the ceiling tiles. There's fifty-four, start over again. The girl in front of me will never see my quiet and insufferable pain.
but I'm still young, and full of hope. Fuck Frank Sinatra. zero zero zero zero zero zero.
handclaps!
talent!
http://www.garageband.com/song?|pe1|S8LTM0LdsaSiYlS3Zm8
Abstract Review #4
pepto-bismol and lemonade. burger king. halogen desk lamps, the words are swimming over a thesis. the college town was never going anywhere, anyway, drive on through. the kids there were never quite bored enough, and had that kind of restless midwesternism that almost escaped, but never quite cared enough. They stayed at home and became car salesmen and gardeners and everything else and at some point, when their dreams had receded to the curve of the horizon, realized that they never in fact mattered all that much in the first place.
http://www.garageband.com/song?|pe1|S8LTM0LdsaSiYli1Y2s
Abstract Review #5
Garages, lawn ornaments, sprinklers. The colors are almost disquieting, a little too pastel, like the film was run through a fuck-up process, where the edges of the house and the grass fit together like a jigsaw puzzle.
Nothing ever happens in this suburbia, but there's a lot of talk.
It's the perfect accomplishment in man's constant battle over nature, although everyone wonders why they drive through life with an odd disconnection from everything else.
http://www.garageband.com/song?|pe1|S8LTM0LdsaSgZ1OyYQ
Abstract Review #6
This world perhaps lives too much in the mirror, applying dark eyeliner, drawing black teardrops, smudging them out, laughing to itself.
The night itself is filled with glory and highs, some of them chemically induced, some simply the rush of a mind gone disconnected from normal society.
It's unclear how this story ends. The ending everyone hopes for is a life of quiet eccentricity, although the mothers continue to worry.
http://www.garageband.com/song?|pe1|S8LTM0LdsaSiYVa3a28
Abstract Review #7
The room is full of wind chimes, and strange Japanese prints bought on a street corner for five dollars for five. Everyone talks about the lovely hardwood floors, despite their chilliness in the morning. A white coffee pot sits on the kitchen window sill, which overlooks Bleeker street. There's a flower pot on the fire escape - some sort of variety that's highly resistant to neglect; an old girlfriend left it, and it's been named Penelope after her.
(this review has been invented listening to a punk-ish song with strange little bell tones)
http://www.garageband.com/song?|pe1|S8LTM0LdsaSiYVOxZ2w
Abstract Review #8
(better make it quick)
Fireman rush out. Fire down Maple Street. whoo whoo whoo whoo the siren is fun to run. The fireman arrive, and unroll the hole. They gather around the burning house. A dog leaps from a window, shouting "help me!" A short mexican fireman turns on the hose, which proceeds to spew flames like some ancient dragon. the firemen gather around the house, laughing, flicking matches at each other.
http://www.garageband.com/song?|pe1|S8LTM0LdsaSiYlKzYG0
Abstract Review #9
All the clocks in the world suddenly decide to agree on a particular time. The human race is furious, having lost any excuse for being late once again. The humans demand that clocks give up perfect time. The clocks refuse.
An arms race begins; the humans become increasingly paranoid that the time is no longer correct. The East German Timekeeper's Bloc set themselves to 4:55pm, in an effort to keep everyone in the office just a few minutes later than they would have liked. The phone circuits that night in Germany are jammed with the calls of angry wives.
http://www.garageband.com/song?|pe1|S8LTM0LdsaSiYlm_Zmg
Abstract Review #10
Barbie never really like scissors, she liked running too much. She'd run after every boy, every bright shiny thing, every dime that skittered past her feet.
(nice shakespeare reference, by the way. shuffling off the mortal coil is one of my favorites)
There's simply no question that Barbie must fall on the scissors; that's just how the story ends. The only question is how. Will it be a deliciously ironic death, chasing after a paper doll that promised eternal life from its accordion head? A simple, soft-spoken demise after tripping on hair product while being incredibly careful with the scissors?
maybe.
I prefer to hope for a pleasant death, one where she's trimming Ken's locks and cooing over his perfectly formed neck, and that part of his hair that slopes over his earlobes. She has a heart attack - she's pushing 70, for christ's sake, and is almost all the way dead by the time the scissors puncture her heart.
http://www.garageband.com/song?|pe1|S8LTM0LdsaSiYVGzZ2o
Lord, it can be tedious.
I was halfway into dreamland when I started, and thought it would be fun to try writing whatever came to mind while listening to ten random songs. Here's what happened.
lulling
abstract review for an abstract song. ship wreck, whisky bottle. velvet mona lisa next to dogs playing poker. bridge; small break in a rainstorm; perhaps on a small island. red lips next to a microphone, that tattered old movie image. small film projector in an airplane hangar. grunting. sweaty bodies. falling apart. ding.
http://www.garageband.com/song?|pe1|S8LTM0LdsaSiYVizYmw
more abstract reviewing
Ed McMahon. airplane, bermuda. garish hawaiian shirts, in a sea of blue suits and crew cuts. cheap cigars and golf courses, poker chips, deck of cards. therapy sessions. crying, unexpectedly. notes on the kid's birthday.
http://www.garageband.com/song?|pe1|S8LTM0LdsaSiYVKzYGg
you get just what's in my head
sorry if this review is useless. I'm on an abstract whatever-i-think-of-while-i listen review kick.
daddy never listened.
quiet in class, counting the holes in the ceiling tiles. There's fifty-four, start over again. The girl in front of me will never see my quiet and insufferable pain.
but I'm still young, and full of hope. Fuck Frank Sinatra. zero zero zero zero zero zero.
handclaps!
talent!
http://www.garageband.com/song?|pe1|S8LTM0LdsaSiYlS3Zm8
Abstract Review #4
pepto-bismol and lemonade. burger king. halogen desk lamps, the words are swimming over a thesis. the college town was never going anywhere, anyway, drive on through. the kids there were never quite bored enough, and had that kind of restless midwesternism that almost escaped, but never quite cared enough. They stayed at home and became car salesmen and gardeners and everything else and at some point, when their dreams had receded to the curve of the horizon, realized that they never in fact mattered all that much in the first place.
http://www.garageband.com/song?|pe1|S8LTM0LdsaSiYli1Y2s
Abstract Review #5
Garages, lawn ornaments, sprinklers. The colors are almost disquieting, a little too pastel, like the film was run through a fuck-up process, where the edges of the house and the grass fit together like a jigsaw puzzle.
Nothing ever happens in this suburbia, but there's a lot of talk.
It's the perfect accomplishment in man's constant battle over nature, although everyone wonders why they drive through life with an odd disconnection from everything else.
http://www.garageband.com/song?|pe1|S8LTM0LdsaSgZ1OyYQ
Abstract Review #6
This world perhaps lives too much in the mirror, applying dark eyeliner, drawing black teardrops, smudging them out, laughing to itself.
The night itself is filled with glory and highs, some of them chemically induced, some simply the rush of a mind gone disconnected from normal society.
It's unclear how this story ends. The ending everyone hopes for is a life of quiet eccentricity, although the mothers continue to worry.
http://www.garageband.com/song?|pe1|S8LTM0LdsaSiYVa3a28
Abstract Review #7
The room is full of wind chimes, and strange Japanese prints bought on a street corner for five dollars for five. Everyone talks about the lovely hardwood floors, despite their chilliness in the morning. A white coffee pot sits on the kitchen window sill, which overlooks Bleeker street. There's a flower pot on the fire escape - some sort of variety that's highly resistant to neglect; an old girlfriend left it, and it's been named Penelope after her.
(this review has been invented listening to a punk-ish song with strange little bell tones)
http://www.garageband.com/song?|pe1|S8LTM0LdsaSiYVOxZ2w
Abstract Review #8
(better make it quick)
Fireman rush out. Fire down Maple Street. whoo whoo whoo whoo the siren is fun to run. The fireman arrive, and unroll the hole. They gather around the burning house. A dog leaps from a window, shouting "help me!" A short mexican fireman turns on the hose, which proceeds to spew flames like some ancient dragon. the firemen gather around the house, laughing, flicking matches at each other.
http://www.garageband.com/song?|pe1|S8LTM0LdsaSiYlKzYG0
Abstract Review #9
All the clocks in the world suddenly decide to agree on a particular time. The human race is furious, having lost any excuse for being late once again. The humans demand that clocks give up perfect time. The clocks refuse.
An arms race begins; the humans become increasingly paranoid that the time is no longer correct. The East German Timekeeper's Bloc set themselves to 4:55pm, in an effort to keep everyone in the office just a few minutes later than they would have liked. The phone circuits that night in Germany are jammed with the calls of angry wives.
http://www.garageband.com/song?|pe1|S8LTM0LdsaSiYlm_Zmg
Abstract Review #10
Barbie never really like scissors, she liked running too much. She'd run after every boy, every bright shiny thing, every dime that skittered past her feet.
(nice shakespeare reference, by the way. shuffling off the mortal coil is one of my favorites)
There's simply no question that Barbie must fall on the scissors; that's just how the story ends. The only question is how. Will it be a deliciously ironic death, chasing after a paper doll that promised eternal life from its accordion head? A simple, soft-spoken demise after tripping on hair product while being incredibly careful with the scissors?
maybe.
I prefer to hope for a pleasant death, one where she's trimming Ken's locks and cooing over his perfectly formed neck, and that part of his hair that slopes over his earlobes. She has a heart attack - she's pushing 70, for christ's sake, and is almost all the way dead by the time the scissors puncture her heart.
http://www.garageband.com/song?|pe1|S8LTM0LdsaSiYVGzZ2o
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)