his ancient landmass doesn’t start to rupture its ties from its cradle in Pangaea until five minutes through track three when the tectonic ruptures provide the fissile momentum propelling it seaward. There’s a layer of protective material between the earth’s crust and the gravity-eating infernal core, and its coloured bright orange for safety reasons: to warn people of the dangers of trying to dig all the way to the other side. Pushing all the dirt will cause huge eruptions from the ocean on the other side of the earth, which would launch oceanic geysers of such force that it would perforate the rotating atmospheric dome that surrounds the earth and cause damage to all the pretty pictures of clouds painted on it. Then we’d wake up and there’d be holes in the sky which wouldn’t move, like when you’ve been awake for three weeks and the cracks aren’t regularly papered by nocturnal vision-persistence consolidation that prevents us from seeing cracks in the sky that aren’t there.
But if they ARE there then it invites disturbing questions of what is going to fall through them any second. This is a frightening prospect because it is near-certain that whatever they are, they won’t be visible to the rudimentary human retina. Perhaps the cloning projects should aim to isolate the synaesthesia genome. Like terraforming, this project is nowhere near as daunting as it appears. First, perceptual processing should be isolated from the most recently-evolved areas of the cortex and relocated in the limbic core where all sensual information is undifferentiated from the autonomic nervous system. The next trick is to reconnect the thus-modified nervous system to the mathematical-processing centres. That way the newly-modified organism will retain its info-calculating powers while developing adaptation skills necessary for an environment in which survival is dependent on successful interaction with both stuff that’s either falling through cracks in the sky that aren’t there or perforating the protective orange layer from below. Which reminds me, how the fuck did the SFX crew in Friday the 13th IV do that thing where the guy is lying on the top bunk, and Jason impales him from below, and all you see is a profile of the guy with a javelin bursting through his chest and thrusting toward the ceiling?
Equal-temperament was the biggest scam ever to be perpetrated on the autonomic nervous system by the cortex. Contrary to general received wisdom mathematics can’t be blamed, because calculus has a solution. That the solution’s proof/antithesis of this can be found by analyzing the slow intros to stadium rock songs is indicated by the moment on this disc where the archaic landmass of the title finally floats free of its sheltered accommodation in Pangaea and starts paddling into the unknown with only the unseen cracks in the sky for orientation. That happens four minutes into the track three (“Angel Tears”), when it turns into the best part of a ten-second instrumental Smashing Pumpkins excerpt given enough thrust to launch and sustain geosynchronous orange Midwest parking lot by using the clean-dirty studio guitar separations to drill into the protective earth-crust layer and finding the clashing hexachordal modes underneath, which incidentally are the primary source of the tectonic friction above. Having words in music is as much of a chickenshit compromise with the evolved cortex as ‘writing about’ it is, an evasion of the big questions concerning the adaptability of organisms given the conditions described above. This CD confronts the perceived necessity for music to carry signifiers of its geographical origin by asserting the flux and mutability of said origin, recognising the structural endurance of arithmetically-determined late-cortex modal architecture while closing its own system by consolidating the instability of the primary materials that the artificially-created modes were designed to parasitically colonise before destroying them by bursting through their protective shells from the inside. Whoever said ‘nature abhors a vacuum’ was half-right at least – that’s just self-hatred on nature’s part! If you’re ever buried alive in a cornfield with this on the Discman then at least it’ll remind you that you have as good a chance to escape by digging down as well as up.
Reviewed by: Dave Queen
Reviewed on: 2003-12-11