From: owner-fegmaniax-digest@smoe.org (fegmaniax-digest) To: fegmaniax-digest@smoe.org Subject: fegmaniax-digest V7 #121 Reply-To: fegmaniax@smoe.org Sender: owner-fegmaniax-digest@smoe.org Errors-To: owner-fegmaniax-digest@smoe.org Precedence: bulk fegmaniax-digest Friday, March 27 1998 Volume 07 : Number 121 Today's Subjects: ----------------- Re: Mitchell Froom [Eb ] Re: Mitchell Froom (2% RH, mostly ramblings) [MARKEEFE ] Re: Mitchell Froom (2% RH, mostly ramblings) [Aaron Mandel ] as RT's biggest fan(atic) on this list...:-) [dwdudic@erols.com (David W.] Froom-Froom [Jim Moore ] Re: Mitchell Froom (2% RH, mostly ramblings) [sdodge@midway.uchicago.edu ] RE: production [firstcat@lsli.com] richard davies [Aaron Mandel ] Re: Momus [Steve Boismaison ] Sometimes I Wish I Was A Pretty Girl [The Non-Prophet ] Feg Hootenanny [The Great Quail ] Re: Feg Hootenanny [Eb ] Last notes of Carl Sagan, Part 1 [The Great Quail Subject: Re: Mitchell Froom Michael K. wrote: > He's way too gimmicky for my tastes! On albums like Suzanne Vega's "99.9 >F" and Los Lobos' "Colossal Head", the production is practically ALL you hear. >He's not quite as bad with Richard Thompson -- in fact, I kind of liked the >gritty production on the electric disc of "You? Me? Us?". > I think Mitchell Froom produces the wrong kind of people. I mean, if he >wants to create his own creative pastiche, he should be working with Luscious >Jackson or Beck or some other artist/band that's less about fundamental >songwriting and more about creating an interesting tapestry of hip sounds. Boy, I *completely* agree with everything above. And yeah, I think "99.9 F" was the absolute nadir of Froomism. "Monkey in the Middle"...arrrrrgh. Etc. Off to see Cindy Lee Berryhill tonight, Eb PS Carl Palmer is making it rain out here, and I wish he would stop it already. ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 27 Mar 1998 15:35:15 EST From: MARKEEFE Subject: Re: Mitchell Froom (2% RH, mostly ramblings) In a message dated 98-03-27 14:54:03 EST, you write: << stephin merritt of the Magnetic Fields once said "Lack of warmth is not the result of too much technology, but too little." >> Or, with regards to Mr. Merritt, warmth is the result of writing unbelievably catchy melodies that leave a smile on your face. For evidence of this, check out the 6th's "Wasps' Nests" (Merritt wrote all the songs and recorded all the music, but a slew of cool indie folks sing his lyrics). As far as having too much or too little technology is concerned, it seems to me that there are too many other factors to be weighed in to distill it down to that. I record didgitally, but I have tube amps and a tube preamp, so that helps to compensate for the "coldness" attributed to the digital domain. I don't know, one could probably say that "warmth" comes from not having the treble knob set too high! The most important aspect of production is helping to communicate what the band/artist intends to communicate. Maybe Richard Thompson feels that, on their own, his songs don't sound "hip" enough without Froom's treatments added to the mix? If so, then Froom's doing his job, and RT is to blame (or, if you like that sort of thing, he's to be commended). I'd just as soon they put some mics up to the amps and let the tapes roll. I had a customer yesterday saying the same thing about Pink Floyd, asking if I knew of any recordings where they didn't have a lot of added production. I told him that I thought that even/(especially?) their live shows had this going on in them. For me, that was a really cool element of all of those classic Floyd albums, with the possible exception of "The Wall", which gets too gimmicky for me. But that's the kind of band they were. IMO, RT doesn't need that extra gobbledy-gook. But, yes, whatever Froom did on "Mercury" worked quite well -- what a beautifully lush and smouldering album! A friend and I have debated similarly about Daniel Lanois' production on Emmylou Harris' "Wrecking Ball". It's my contention that, on that album, Lanois' production stamp is an integral part of the whole recording and that his presence is almost like a duet with Harris. My friend, of course, thinks that the songs would've been better off with a more straight-forward production approach (as on her great but often-overlooked 1993 album "Cowgirl's Prayer" -- brief plug). It all comes down to this: You either like what the producer has doen or you don't. Sometimes they "ruin" perfectly good songs, but we can just assume that that's what the artist was going for, otherwise that producer wouldn't be utilised as often or as consistently as Mitchell Froom is. So, what do you Fegs think are the best- and worst-produced RH albums, and why? My vote for best-produced is "Element of Light" because the songs really shine through and have either a lot of energy ("Somewhere Apart", "If You Were a Priest") or are really immediate ("Raymond Chandler Evening", "Never Stop Bleeding"). Of course, "Eye" is also well-produced, but that seems to easy. As I've said before, I dislike the production on "Perspex" -- too muddy. "Groovy/Gravy" doesn't sound too good, either, but I think was more of an engineering problem than a production problem. Or maybe it was a non-production problem. Anyway, I'm done talkin' now. - ------Michael K. ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 27 Mar 1998 15:57:29 -0500 (EST) From: Aaron Mandel Subject: Re: Mitchell Froom (2% RH, mostly ramblings) On Fri, 27 Mar 1998, MARKEEFE wrote: > As far as having too much or too little technology is concerned, it > seems to me that there are too many other factors to be weighed in to distill > it down to that. well, yes. i just quoted that as a pithy way of saying that even if you think production should be invisible, reducing the amount the producer does isn't always the way to achieve that. RH production -- i agree Perspex was maimed. Globe Of Frogs sounds too thin to me, though other than that the songs are well served. a ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 27 Mar 98 13:41:00 -0800 From: Russ Reynolds Subject: production > So, what do you Fegs think are the best- and worst-produced RH >albums, >and why? My vote for best-produced is "Element of Light" because the songs >really shine through and have either a lot of energy ("Somewhere Apart", >"If >You Were a Priest") or are really immediate ("Raymond Chandler Evening", >"Never Stop Bleeding"). Of course, "Eye" is also well-produced, but that >seems to easy. As I've said before, I dislike the production on "Perspex" I have to say that I was disapointed with the production on Element of Light, particularly on "The President" which sounded absolutely electric live. And they used a live recording of the song! I would love to hear it without the overdubs some time. Parts of EoL really shine, though (Ray Chandler, Winchester). Over all, though, I agree that Pespex was worse. It's not that the production was *bad*, because a closer listen reveals some pretty interesting detail, it's just that I don't think Paul Fox was quite on the same page as Robyn's music. He still performs some of those tunes live and they sound way better out of the context of that album. It's just a very corporate sounding record (for RH anyway). I'm partial to the sound of BSDR, but I also think Leckie did a nice job with Respect (I know I'm in the minority here). And I thought "Globe of Frogs" captured the Egyptians true sound pretty well. Go Pat Collier. - -russ ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 27 Mar 1998 21:54:41 GMT From: dwdudic@erols.com (David W. Dudich) Subject: as RT's biggest fan(atic) on this list...:-) On Fri, 27 Mar 1998 14:50:31 -0500 (EST), you wrote: > >Date: Fri, 27 Mar 1998 23:06:09 +2910 >From: dlang >Subject: Re: rumor & sigh/polara/the bees > >Subject: > Re: rumor & sigh/polara/the bees > Date: > Fri, 27 Mar 1998 23:04:00 +2910 > From: > dlang > Organization: > sharktrades > To: > woj spice > References: > 1 > > > > >Woj blasphemed: >i don't >particularly like "read about love" or "i feel so good". i suppose i >could >program them out, but it's not worth the effort -- they're not that >bad...which sums up the record for me: it's not bad, but there are a few > >tunes which keep it from being really good. and "psycho street" is cool. > >... >Yikes, "I feel so good " and read about love "are *highlights* of any Rt > >show, someone get this man a copy of these songs from in concert >quickly, ot I'll do it myself we MUST convert him to the true path >asap.On the other hand, he has *some* taste ,Psycho street is wonderful >, too bad Rt doesn't seem to play it anymore..... >Dave Woj...get in touch with me, I will copy some live RT tapes I have for you...COnsidering the joking around/strange story telling RT engages in and strange choice in covers ("we gotta get outta this place" by the animals? Polka songs?), it will be an oddly familiar experience...:_ -luther > > > ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 27 Mar 1998 16:00:00 -0600 From: Jim Moore Subject: Froom-Froom Chuck: I think Froom did a splendid job with Crowded House--fit their "sound" perfectly (or maybe he *made* their sound). But what do I know, Chuck, I'm insane now. Guambat (a.k.a. "the inventor of the Linctus house dressing" -- tastes like Ranch) p.m.s. Have you ever noticed that insane people have a lot of different names, Chuck?) ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 27 Mar 1998 16:07:38 -0600 From: sdodge@midway.uchicago.edu (amadain) Subject: Re: Mitchell Froom (2% RH, mostly ramblings) > Maybe >Richard Thompson feels that, on their own, his songs don't sound "hip" enough >without Froom's treatments added to the mix? If so, then Froom's doing his >job, and RT is to blame (or, if you like that sort of thing, he's to be >commended). Yes, thank you, this is very like what I wanted to say. You know, there are times when despite what the fans might think, the album actually sounds the way that the artist wanted it to sound and that's why they chose that particular producer. It's sort of naive to think that because -I- don't like the sound, the artist probably didn't either and they wuz framed. I don't always succeed :), but I really do try not to make that assumption unless it's really very obvious the artist in question dislikes the result. > A friend and I have debated similarly about Daniel Lanois' production on >Emmylou Harris' "Wrecking Ball". It's my contention that, on that album, >Lanois' production stamp is an integral part of the whole recording and that >his presence is almost like a duet with Harris. I've had similar debates about Dylan's "Oh Mercy", and I'd say roughly the same thing about it, though I'm willing to entertain arguments from the other side. > So, what do you Fegs think are the best- and worst-produced RH albums, >and why? I'd agree with you (again! :)) that "Element of Light" stands out as very well done. I really like the overall sound of it- the production enhances rather than overpowers. I also think IH and UW are very well produced. I'd agree too on "Perspex"-- I think it's way too busy, and the songs, which really are good (it took hearing some more stripped-down live versions for me to realize this) are just so gussied up you can't actually -hear- them. Love on ya, Susan P.S. Anyone got the new Richard Davies? I hear it is excellent but I'd like seeing some feg reviews before I go plonk down my dollars :). ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 27 Mar 98 16:35:48 From: firstcat@lsli.com Subject: RE: production I've said it before and I'll say it again, I think a Daniel Lanois production of Robyns new stuff would be great...either that or Rick Rubins.... Cheers Jay (the Old Spice) - --- On Fri, 27 Mar 98 13:41:00 -0800 Russ Reynolds wrote: >> So, what do you Fegs think are the best- and worst-produced RH >>albums, >>and why? My vote for best-produced is "Element of Light" because the songs >>really shine through and have either a lot of energy ("Somewhere Apart", >>"If >>You Were a Priest") or are really immediate ("Raymond Chandler Evening", >>"Never Stop Bleeding"). Of course, "Eye" is also well-produced, but that >>seems to easy. As I've said before, I dislike the production on "Perspex" > >I have to say that I was disapointed with the production on Element of >Light, particularly on "The President" which sounded absolutely electric >live. And they used a live recording of the song! I would love to hear it >without the overdubs some time. Parts of EoL really shine, though (Ray >Chandler, Winchester). > >Over all, though, I agree that Pespex was worse. It's not that the >production was *bad*, because a closer listen reveals some pretty >interesting detail, it's just that I don't think Paul Fox was quite on the >same page as Robyn's music. He still performs some of those tunes live and >they sound way better out of the context of that album. It's just a very >corporate sounding record (for RH anyway). > >I'm partial to the sound of BSDR, but I also think Leckie did a nice job >with Respect (I know I'm in the minority here). And I thought "Globe of >Frogs" captured the Egyptians true sound pretty well. Go Pat Collier. > - -----------------End of Original Message----------------- - ------------------------------------- Jay Lyall Channel Sales Director Livermore Software Laboratories, Intl. 2825 Wilcrest, Suite 160 Houston, Texas 77042-3358 1-713-974-3274 jay@lsli.com Date: 3/27/98 - ------------------------------------- Two-Hour Luxury Goods Commercial Also A Spy Film ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 27 Mar 1998 17:50:31 -0500 (EST) From: Aaron Mandel Subject: richard davies On Fri, 27 Mar 1998, amadain wrote: > P.S. Anyone got the new Richard Davies? I hear it is excellent but I'd like > seeing some feg reviews before I go plonk down my dollars :). neither the Moles nor Cardinal had more than sporadic appeal for me, and what i heard of previous solo albums did not leave me with any desire to hear the new Richard Davies. but it's much better than i expected, and there are even a few songs i genuinely like. so, i'd never recommend it to someone that hadn't heard the Chills' major label albums, but it was okay and i think i've made the flavor of my biases clear. a ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 28 Mar 1998 00:12:38 +0100 From: Steve Boismaison Subject: Re: Momus Larry said: >A musical recommendation: > >I have recently discovered the music of Momus. While I really like his most >recent, synth-poppy record Ping Pong, for Robyn fans I'd suggest "The Poison >Boyfriend," which is one of his early albums. It's largely acoustic guitar, >somewhat resembling a dark green Robyn Hitchcock album. Sample lyrics: >"Death will be unlike a room full of spiders all clinging together and crying >Death will be unlike the wedding guest's story, the ship drifting lost and the >dead sailors sighing >Death will be unlike the din in the steeple when cholera poisons the village >Death will be unlike the Illumination that Tolstoy provided for poor Ivan >Illych" > >Momus also has a great website at http://www.demon.co.uk/momus > >Any other Momus fans out there? > >Larry-bob >larrybob@io.com You're certainly not alone, Larry. Like you, I'd commend Momus to the massed ranks of Fegs, though I must admit I find him a different kettle of fish to Robyn. Lyrically Momus is a lot more direct than Robyn. Momus is very interested in the idea of "being private in public" - which, judging by some of the comments made about Robyn's answers on his AOL chat-on-line thingy, is not one of Robyn's prime concerns :-) . Musically he has been more stylistically diverse (Happy Family album was very Postcardy, then an acoustic set, then via Pet Shop Boy style pop, trance, and the pseudo-vaudevillian sound on "The Ultraconformist" to the latest dabblings in something approaching loungecore). I'm not sure which album I would most recommend to a Robyn fan, though to avoid easy comparison probably one which wasn't quite so acoustic as "Poison Boyfriend", maybe "The Philosophy of Momus" or "Hippopotamomus" might prove amusing and thought provoking. The latter was given 0/10 in an NME review if I remember correctly, which must make it worthy of a listen ! I'd certainly recommend everyone take a trip to his web site. It's excellent. Steve. ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 27 Mar 1998 15:31:21 -0800 (PST) From: The Non-Prophet Subject: Sometimes I Wish I Was A Pretty Girl fegs, Re: Female Hitchcock Has anyone mentioned Bjork yet? I'm not a huge fan of hers, but the stuff of hers that I've heard has been pretty far-out and psychedelic. Not stuff one would typically hear in mainstream rock. My vote for *THE* female Hitchcock still goes to Meryn Caddell, though. Who ever suggested her was right on the mark. - -g- n.p. Silver Apples, _Silver Apples_ (Mono) -- Kapp Records ----------==========**********O**********==========--------- Glen E. Uber uberg@sonic.net "Without deviation from the norm, progress is not possible." --Frank Zappa ----------==========**********O**********==========--------- ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 27 Mar 98 18:55:53 -0500 From: The Great Quail Subject: Feg Hootenanny So far the Great East Coast Feg Party is looking good for Memorial Day Saturday, though there are still some people who are iffy, so I hesitate to lay complete claim to the date. Can you give me one week -- to next Friday? Then I will decide, based on the people you mail me. So far Woj, LJ, Bayard, the Quail, Dr. Fane, and luther have indicated their presence will be felt. Also, Dede and Doug are very likely to come, and Scary Mary will hopefully be in attendance with her retinue of horrors! Aaron is still on the fence, and Eb will fly in only of he is allowed to stay out of sight upstairs and send down dry witticisms every hour or so. *** AND: Some special guests who have said they are seriously considering making the trip: Mike Runion, Natalie, and Tom Clark! Woo-hoo! And I know that a strong showing from the "closer" Fegs will be a great incentive to get them here, yess. . . . ? <--- a subtle quail, no?) Feel free to email them words of encouragement or small donations to their travel funds. (Go ahead -- steal from the collection plate at your local church -- let's face it, we all know we're a religion!) Or send them some yellow-eyed penguin servitors. . . . . So please, if you plan to attend, email me privately as soon as possible. After I set it for sure, I will post the gorey details. . . . fun fun fun happy happy joy joy - --Quail PS: And I swear that I will remove *all* my Cthulhu statues from the living room, just to be safe. . . . - ---------------------------------+-------------------------------- The Great Quail, K.S.C. | Literature Site - The Libyrinth: TheQuail@cthulhu.microserve.com | www.rpg.net/quail/libyrinth www.rpg.net/quail | Vampire Site - New York by Night: riverrun Discordian Society | www.rpg.net/quail/NYBN 73 De Chirico Street | Arkham, Orbis Tertius 2112-42 | ** What is FEGMANIA? ** "The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents." -- H.P. Lovecraft ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 27 Mar 1998 16:14:28 -0700 From: Eb Subject: Re: Feg Hootenanny >So far the Great East Coast Feg Party is looking good for Memorial Day >and Eb will fly in only of he is >allowed to stay out of sight upstairs and send down dry witticisms every >hour or so. Umm, I'm having second thoughts about making the trip. Can I just fax over some witticisms every 20 minutes or so? signal-to-Eb ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 27 Mar 98 19:23:20 -0500 From: The Great Quail Subject: Last notes of Carl Sagan, Part 1 Hello, Valiant Fegs! (I tried sending this earlier, but I fear its size denied it access, so I broke it into two pieces.) This is professor Oswald Fane, unfortunately posting with another dire warning. There has been a lot of talk lately on the list about some sort of Quailspiracy -- and none of that from the Great Quail himself, who has opted to remain mum on the subject! Now, some might attribute this to false modesty, or even that the Quail himself is sick of hearing his name constantly mentioned! Ha! Nothing can be farther from the truth. Just because that vile creature has refrained from venting any "quailspew" recently does not mean that he has quit his membership in the so-called "Surreal Posse." As a matter of fact, I would be willing to bet that the bastard is lying low, maybe planning to *finally* finish all those idiotic threads he started and never completed, like what happened to the old server, and what is the destiny of Dan-Yell and Ebcorp? Idiot. But just so you know the Minions of Darkness are never far from the door, I found this. A recent screening of the movie "Contact" has lead me to the sci.discovery newsgroup, where there has been much discussion about the differences between the movie and the book. Then . . . this. A frantic excerpt from a diary, found among Carl's papers and written in his familiar script. Ah, they all thought it was a hoax, but I fear we all know too well. . . . ********************************************* I cannot keep hiding this. I find myself in a unique position, one that brings me even closer to my childhood heroes: Galileo, Kepler, Copernicus. Those valiant men who stood fast in their knowledge of the Truth against the derision of their peers, their whole society. . . . and yet I know that if I publish my findings I shall be laughed at. I will face a trial harder than my attempts at making the governments of the world see the truth about nuclear winter, more difficult than obtaining my grants for the SETI project. I will be the laughing-stock of Cornell University. . . . and yet their great names drive me on, reminding me of what I found noble in the spirit of man when I was a child: nights in starless Brooklyn when the only constellations were these shining points of reason, like bright talismans against the rising tides of ignorance. So publish them I must. I shall hand my body over to the stakes of the modern inquisition, I shall be that Giordano Bruno of the modern age. Let that bastard Hans Bethe laugh his way to my academic gallows: I shall stand tall. I shall not hear their taunts. For I have discovered the origin of the cosmos. And I am afraid. . . . Ironic enough that, in the seventies, I thought I had a unique perspective on the universe. I now look back at those years and realize that I was dwelling in the house of an almost Nietzschean arrogance. "Cosmos" I called my show, my book -- as If I could bind the Infinite and the Absolute in the walls of 300 pages; call the Ineffable to my summons with seven hours of PBS programming. Yes, yes . . . The Ineffable Mysteries Unpeeled between Masterpiece Theatre and Big Bird. Fool that I was. Ah, I had no idea. . . . I understand now that I must have been stabbing towards the Truth even then; but my first real glimpse into the numinous came with "Contact," my much misunderstood attempt at Science Fiction. (And the lowest book sales I have ever had. Morons, Fools! Should I have added a laser gun? Clad my heroine in a chain mail thong and crowned her queen of Mars? Idiots!) In that work I postulated that the Universe was indeed a Creation, an Artifact . . . and that the Creator could leave a *signature.* I confess the idea was originally not mine. I confess this now, as I near my death, for the truth -- the terrible truth -- must take precedence over my academic reputation. Yes, the idea was not my own, and that is a small story in itself: I was drinking in a bar in Sacramento one cloudy afternoon, and there I saw this unusual man, tall, ectomorphic, with a most bizarre look in his eyes. He was cutting paper napkins into little crescent moons. . . . interesting. So in the name of good will, I walked over and asked him his name -- there was an unusual cast to his features, he had the lonely face of a man who needed some companionship. He looked blankly at my simple question, then shook his head and answered, "Um . . . Reg," in a skewed English accent. I noticed that his plate was covered with geometric cut-outs: circles, crescents, little cones he stuck together with some mashed potatoes as ersatz glue; even a few triangles, smug in their semblance of Isoscelean perfection. I commented on it, for he seemed to be worried about something. I asked him what he was doing, and his eyes shifted nervously, glancing at random corners of the air itself. "I'm looking for God," he muttered, and then began rambling on about tentacles and squid and hedblades. I stopped him and asked for clarification. He hedged a bit, but the gentle pressure of my hand on his arm must have compelled him. "I learned something recently. I just bought a computer, you know. And . . . I logged on. And . . . " he drifted off, his fingers twitching their way through another circumlocution of napkin and scissors. Suddenly a perfect spiral dropped out from the plane of the napkin, dangling in the air like a pre-schooler's attempt at fabricating DNA from construction paper. He eyed it eagerly, almost expectantly; but the revelation must not have come, for he quickly dropped it with a sigh, and his attention drifted again. "God," he whispered, almost pleadingly. "God." "What?" His eyes closed. "That damn Bird . . . . What have I been doing?" He then opened his eyes and fixed me with a haunted gaze. "The cave . . . Debbie . . . The Woj-Thing." He punctuated each word with a small tap of his finger on the table. Paper hexagons scattered like leaves. He watched one fall off the table, tumbling slowly to the floor. It landed, the focus of his absent attention for a full minute. Suddenly he blinked, "They *are* fiends, you know." With that enigmatic comment, he got up to leave. Troubled, but intrigued, I paused him -- but he shook me off. "God is not who we think . . . or rather, is not the one we think. They are old, as old as the stars, and the Demiurge of this Universe. . . ." "What?" I asked, sensing his sudden apprehension. "Trancedental numbers. Signatures. The Seal of the Author. His -- no, *Its* -- terrible . . . its terrible *claw.* Scratching its mark into the very canvas of the cosmos." Suddenly he shook me off, and before I could protest, he was gone. I got to thinking about what the eccentric Englishman had said, and I wondered -- could I write a book around that idea? That God would leave a signature? Yes. S/He could sign the work, insert a code deep in the very architecture of the universe itself, hidden so far into -- into what? Oh, say the ratio of pi -- so deeply embedded that it would take a computer to reach it. And so I did. ******************** But I was so ignorant. I had no idea what it would cost me. My first instinct was to look in a circle. I requested ungodly amounts of computer time, and began my work . . . months passed, but I was finally rewarded! There it was. Deep into the wilderness of the irresolvable 22/7 ratio, the zeroes began popping up in any way that was decidedly not random. In fact, when plotted on a matrix of 220 by 70 units, a perfect circle appeared, the very signature of the author of a circle itself, embedded deep in the mathematical text of the Universe. Ingenuous. . . . Except for the very center, where there was an annoying glitch: a sequence of ones that formed a tiny spot, almost shaped like the letter Q. . . . A mote in God's eye. . . . was there more to go? Was this flawed circle only the first Incarnation? Was there more, even deeper? Or worse: was the circle indeed - I shudder - Random? Soon that glitch began to haunt me. Why would God, or the Creator, place such a flaw in the perfect circle. . . .or maybe . . . no. It couldn't be. In my dreams I began glimpsing a new truth. *Could* it be? Could it be the *pupil of a vast eye?* Sleepless nights I spent worrying about that Great Eye. How it stared at me, denying me entrance through the portal of sleep by its stern and staring interdiction. And my machines cranked on, spending all my resources on Cornell's supercomputers. . . . was there *another* circle, a more perfect circle, tucked away even deeper in the ratio? Years passed under that mocking gaze. . . . Nothing. ____________________________________ To be continued ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 27 Mar 98 19:23:25 -0500 From: The Great Quail Subject: Last notes of Carl Sagan, Part 2 ******************** Then one day I had a sudden inspiration. Out of the billions and billions of digits of pi, only *one* nonrandom message had materialized. What about other transcendental numbers? What about e? What about the ratio between the speed of light and the rest mass of an electron? What about the ratio between the atomic mass of Hydrogen and Helium? And so on. . . . It was in "e" that I found the next message . . . two smaller circles, side by side. . . . And each with that pupil-like flaw in the middle! My mind reeled. I tried other constants, other numbers. The next message came when I set the computers to divide the speed of light by Planck's constant . . . and weeks later, deep in the numerical ratio the message was repeated, but there was a pair of strange curves framing the "eyes!" Almost as if they were set in some terrible face. . . . Two years later the next revelation was at hand. The ratio between the half life of Tritium and Uranium 238 brought me closer to -- what I was now calling, despite myself! -- the Face of God. And . . . and . . . . . . the eyes were in a perfectly roundish face, devoid of features . . . except, placed directly under the eyes was a great and terrible *beak* A beak? The horror. . . . . ??? My mind was close to a complete fracture. All types of questions played themselves out in my fevered brain. Was I truly progressing in some sort of preordained order? Why should *I* be granted the vision of this . . . this God, this beaky Creator . . . as something moving *away* from me? Bringing itself further into resolution with each iteration? What if . . . what if I was *working backwards,* and if I was supposed to be APPROACHING closer to the face of God, and if the next ratio beyond pi was to be a final revelation? Was I moving *away* from Grace? And *why* was there an order at all? Could it really be Coincidence that I was finding the correct order of sequences? After ten years of searching? Impossible! What if -- and here was my most terrible thought -- what if it did not matter what order, that no matter where I started, the visions would be the same? Was that even possible? A blasphemous utterance, to be sure. Implying -- I don't know, a quantum God, watching my experiments with amusement and tweaking the minutiae of the Cosmos (His beak curled in a snide expression of gleeful malevolence) -- purposefully manipulating the Universe to keep the sequence nonrandom? As if each constant of nature were really -- as seen from His distance -- pawns on some great mathematical chessboard? What if I had *started* with e, and *ended* with pi -- would the sequence of images, of messages, still be exactly the same? This idea was, paradoxically, both the most disturbing and the most comforting. Questions of free will against a benevolent deity struggled to resolve themselves. What was the next discovery? And would the final Body of God look like? Surely not that of some demented bird? I pressed on, one month blending into another. My life was becoming a haze, an arrow shot from a bow and aimed at an uncertain future. I was Heisenberg's prophet. I stopped returning phone calls from colleagues; I forgot even to send Christmas cards to Linus and Stephen. In vain I struggled to find the next golden ratio, searching high and low. . . . In the meantime, I found myself becoming possessed by the images I had so uncovered. Could the Face of God really look like some giant bird? Was it possible that we lived in some strange . . . "avianiverse?" I began to experience odd events, incidents which I can only describe as hallucinations . . . I began hearing bizarre "cheeping" noises every time I allowed myself to relax. I couldn't even walk outside; all I found myself aware of was birds -- the birds everywhere. What kind of secret were they hiding? Did they *know?* Was there some sort of hermetic message coded into their random chirping? My research in this direction led me to discover that I was not the only one to ever pursue this course. I learned of a man named Abd Al-hazred, the so called "Mad Arab." A mathematician in the dark ages, a time when the world of Islam was inventing algebra, the precursors to calculus, and bringing chemistry and medicine from the dark European cesspool of ignorance. . . . This Abd Al-hazred claimed to be able to interpret the sounds of tiny birds in the desert night, and he started to diagram the hieratic glyphs that he contended were their messages. The language of birds? He focused on desert birds such as the Frilled Sand Eb and the Tewed Titmouse, the Ubertweak and the Fretless Nicksucker; but could it not be *all* birds -- the Yellow-eyed Penguin, the Lynn Jackhurst, the enigmatic Glosterpigeon, the Gnat-a-Lee and the lowly quail? Could they really be communicating the secrets of the universe, openly, *mockingly?* This so-called "Mad Arab" then penned a book of circular symbols, a coded grimoire that he insisted contained the true shape of the universe. Called the "Qayl-Azif," this book was considered "blasphemous" by the strict Shiite critics of his day, and he was torn to shreds for his work, much like Jamis Qamer-On was before him in the City of Feglistia. . . . . Would I, too, be torn to (somewhat less literal) shreds? Was my reputation up for a public desecration? Would I be demoted to the status of crank, of charlatan, of quack? (How ironic, I thought, about that last one.) Was I to fall from grace, and dwell in a hell of Beakerman Jacks, Mr. Wizards, and Bill Nye the Science Guy? Or -- and I shudder to pen this -- was I fated to become another Erich van Daniken? Then came the most unsettling thing of all. One night, my wife and I were planning on going to the movies on Campus. And as I walked out to my car, my heart was struck in my chest by a sight I will never forget . . . there, scrawled into the layer of dust on my car, was -- was -- A CRUDE PICTURE OF A QUAIL. And there, in plain sight, underneath this horrifying image, were the words: "Hi Carl! I love your work. Just visiting a friend and seeing a Robyn Hitchcock Concert. Signed, your friend TGQ." Hi Carl . . . . My mind reeled. I staggered back, and darkness swirled down around my eyes. . . . when I came to, I was in Ithaca Polyclinic. . . . What was happening to me? Then I met my doctor. The man was positively condescending, an ugly little man with the face of a . . . . . . . of a mole. A mole? Avagadro's Number????? Idiot! ******************** How can I have never considered this? I immediately rushed out of the hospital and made my way back to my lab. All my previous work was suspended, and I set all my resources to finding Avagadro's Number to the umpteenth significant figure. . . . my eyes surely must have possessed the glazed light of the madman. When I went to call up Linus, I was told that he died a few years back. My God! Have I been in a fog that long? Certianly my wife and children believed me mad - I came perilously near a divorce more than once, particularly after the insane fits of giggling at the Italian Market. ("Avacodos? Ha. Ha ha. ha ha ha, heh heh. NYAHHH ha h ha h hhhaaaa. . . ") Then the day neared . . . the zeroes and ones, the binary systems that I had spent so long anticipating, began showing up. All that was left was to plug them into the matrix, to check their alignment. . . . Silence enshrouded me as I began my work. You could have heard the sound of an electron quantum tunneling through Hawking's vocoder battery. The numbers began filling the screen. No. My God, no. NO!!!! Could it all be a joke?!?!? NOooooooo. . . . . For this is what I saw: 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111110111111111111111 1111111111111101011111111111111 1111111111111101011111111111111 1111111111111101011111111111111 1111111111111101011111111111111 1111111111111110111111111111111 1111111111111101011111111111111 1111111111111011101111111111111 1111111111110111110111111111111 1111111111100001000011111111111 1111111111100101001011111111111 1111111111100001000011111111111 1111111111101100011011111111111 1111111111110110110111111111111 1111111111111010101111111111111 1111111111111101011111111111111 1111111111111101011111111111111 1111111111111011101111111111111 1111111111110111110111111111111 1111111111100111110011111111111 1111111111010111110101111111111 1111111110110111110110111111111 1111111100110111110110011111111 1111111010110111110110101111111 1111111010110111110110101111111 1111111010110111110110101111111 1111111010110111110110101111111 1111111010111011101110101111111 1111111011011100011101101111111 1111111100101111111010011111111 1111111111110111110111111111111 1111111111110000000111111111111 1111111111110111110111111111111 1111111111110111110111111111111 1111111111110111110111111111111 1111111111110111110111111111111 1111111111110111110111111111111 1111111110000111110000111111111 1111111111100111110011111111111 1111111111010111110101111111111 1111111110110111110110111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1011010001111111111111111111111 1011011011111111111111111111111 1000011011111111111111111111111 1011011011111111111111111111111 1011010001111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1000100010001011111011111111111 1011101010101011111011111111111 1011100010001011111011111111111 1011101010011011111111111111111 1000101010101000011011111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 Could it be? The horror . . . the horror . . . . not only was the Divine Signature one of . . . those HIDEOUS birds, but Author of our Universe could only manage the most crude sketch of himself - no, of ITSELF. And those final words . . . a personal address to me? No . . . no, take it away, I cannot bear any more . . . No. . . . . I must publish this, I must. . . . ***************************************************** Well, Fegs, I just thought you might like to know. I should add though, that if the Gnostics are right about the Demiurge, we could all be in very big trouble. . . . So I repeat again: Do not go to the Quail's Party! Death or worse awaits you there!!!!! - --Professor Oswald Fane ------------------------------ End of fegmaniax-digest V7 #121 *******************************