The Silver Mount Zion Memorial Orchestra & the Tra-la-la Band - Born into Trouble as the Sparks Fly Upward

On the failure of one small community in acheiving its own ill-defined dreams and/or goals...

And we were an army of dead women and men, shuffling pointlessle across and thru this glorious new century w/ all its interactive toys, internet prattle, electrified restraining harnesses, billion-dollar death rays and supermax penitentaries, and its goddamned evermore refined, irrational, and TERMINAL economies of blood, misery and slow fucking doom? And please know, or already understand, that this record is so fucking useless as a one way transmission, like all one-way transmissions need to cease forever for sure, in this already-existing mess of radiation, electricity and noise and clamor and lies... And&So and but some time somewhere some tiny action took root maybe, and none of us never heard about it yet, and the earth did its slow twirl in spite of? And so we all woke up hungover, & always still more tired of, or more spooked or scared, and barely shuffled thru a little bit more? And while we were sleeping they even took our neighbourhoods away, and everything turned into Disneyland and marionettes and chipboard and spit? No more lovely aimless strolls allowed, no more long wandering nights all burning w/ possibility, wonder, or joy- not here no, not w/ the flashing copcar light show and park curfews and the whole "yeah you can live here, but you can't LIVE here, i mean you can pay yr. rent and to&fro a litlle but that's about all bub, and don't forget it HawHawHwaw"? And we learned the rules way too well, and they altered the way we felt and lived and breathed even? And what about the story of us all abandoning each other, because we were tool self-involved to figure out how alone we all really felt mostly nearly all the time? (meaning that we all treated each other reallyreallyreally badly, man)? (and crafted our own neurotic soup operas w/ our boring sad couplings and irony, television and cocktails?) And our infinite weakness we figured everything was shit anyways so might as well get used to the smell? And we gathered in compromised halls that reeked of failure, distance and self-alienation? And so we never really met? And since we never met, we never schemed or planned or manifested the ruined dreams that didn't have to be ruined at all? And never figured out how to counter all the bland agents of recuperation, who stole our brightest hopes always, and shot'em out of satellites at a buck-fifty-nine an hour? (and would you believe us if we told you that we built a machine that'll bring all their fucking satellites the fuck down?) And the arguments for&against were never complicated but were certainly fucking complex? And we crafted slack fact ions, and made believe that we were seditionaries, but were too easily moved or else did not ever more move at all? And never stormed the gates or walls? But crafted clumsy things w/ our hands, and those things were important to us, those clumsy abstracted towers and minurets we crafted w/ our own worried hands? And built our own confused belief systems, which were endlessly and crucially beautifuk in their small stuborn tangles of loss, worry, faith, and need? And made small gestures w/ our own hands or eyes that were endlessly redeeming, and made us all sometimes almost believe in saints and/or angels? And daydreamed endlessly about living a little more quietly or a litlle bit louder for awhile? And almost always strived for a litlle more engagement w/ this falling/fallen world? Or hardened our resolve sometimes and bent our heads and backs into the task at hand and dug and built or erected? Or transmitted ocasional epiphanies or urgent fears w/ photocopiers, silkscreens and CDRs? And found answers sometimes in the empty places, like gangs of birds flying out of dead builfings, beneath the sun's blind white hole? Like trees growing thru fences or an abandoned jar filled w/ a summer's worth of rusty water out there behind the place where the heavy trains roll? And found hope in the idea of the futile gesture? And manifested sometimes w/ bricks in our hands? And built somthing here in spite of and will not let them take it from us so easily? So please o please, let's please figure out soon what exactly we can build here on this parched and fallow ground. (Knowing all along, that sooner or later their bulldozers will come and tear it all down...) But we can build in spite of, and leave dusty notes about our journeys behind... And resistance grew from tender places, and we fought the good fight whenever it staggered down our lonesome, twisted roads...

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Não sei o que se passa no Canada, nem na cabeça dos canadianos, mas o certo é que andam a fazer muito boa música. Este é sem dúvida alguma um dos albums mais bonitos que alguma vez ouvi.

(Obrigado Guilherme!)