Cannons - Bad Dream
Cannons released a crushing dream pop song called Bad Dream. This new single is so smooth, with synth tones from an eighties dream, and hypnotic beats. More songs are coming in 2021.
Cannons - Bad Dream
For those lucky enough to get a ticket to a sold-out Bottleneck in Lawrence, KS, the night was like a blissful fever dream as Cannons returned to the region for a highly anticipated headlining show.
THE LAST GREAT FLOOD / Bruce Bond We live on the flood plain where the waterfowl are plentiful and news is mostly minor: two deaths, a marriage. People here know disaster comes every twenty-some years down the old route of logs and immigrants. It watermarks the restaurant walls, chalked high like a boast, hangs in photographs of ripped sUos, Christ Cathedral humbled to a single story. We are slow to forget the aquarium of its sanctuary: how the graves washed open upstream, the cow that caught the radio tower and would not tear away. It testifies to the beauty here, to the long braid of parenthood and poverty that make it hard to leave. For the river carries Uttle now in the way of logs and profit. Even as the airplane factory dragged its bad legs to Jersey for scrap, we stayed on by the stream of burials and marriage, faith and the river that is its cure. 260 The Missouri Review ACOUSTIC SHADOWS / Bruce Bona From only a few miles away, a battle sometimes made no sound, despite the flash and smoke of cannon and the fact that more distant observers could hear it clearly. As Lee pushed North and the dead flew out of the fields in thick flocks over Pennsylvania, the first, strange reports went up over the wire: from the medical tents on WUson's Hill, people could see the cannons driving their nails of light into the boarded house of the Union and hear none of it. Who would have believed things would go this far, this long, the indestructible world their intimate stranger? For the Union soldier bound up in what he watched, high in the near silence, history was out there beating its wings against the glass. He would not move for the sight of it and clung to his bowl of boUed coffee, watching. All night, men returned through the dark grove, their hands trembling like paper. The wounded lay out on blankets in rows, sleepless under the clear sky, and the nails of remembered Ught pinned them to their bodies. The Missouri Review 262 LEGACY / Bruce Bond The record needle lays down its thread of ruin, and the pianist dips his hands into the crackling of small fires. They are old: his record, these hands. If you listen close, you hear the pianist humming as he plays, especially over the slurred passages, unable to resist: the reserved portion of himself stepping into the body of sound. He walks cautiously into the minor movement, its slow recovery, turning the bare, remembered fragments. The hands of the dead are his hands. They descend; he descends. They move apart, and he pauses on the steps to feel their time move out from his skin and wait there. In my dream about Beethoven, he does not appear. The silence in our yard rises into two church doors: posed at the parish of another century. In my dream about Beethoven, my father is driving me faster into the black woods of D-flat. It is raining there, in the future where the dead wait, where birds are deaf to one another and sing loud on the hardened branch: I love the story of Beethoven's Ninth, how he waited with his back to the applause, hearing nothing of the instant 262 The Missouri Review where art ends, life begins. We all imagined it moved him to turn and see the shapes of joy step out of his silent body: in the future where my father lives, I am fitted with cold hands of the dead. They are what we blow into like dice, remove at our bedsides to touch our lovers without fear. Take these as they fall back onto their separate sides of the bed into dreams of Beethoven; they do not hear where the record ends: how the needle glides into the deaf wood, the closing of the groove. Bruce Bond The Missouri Review 263 CHINATOWN / Bruce Bond It's hot July, the year of the monkey, and the paper lanterns hang out their hopes for the furlough of a north wind. People rise from the subway stairs and fan out, skirting past the...
The engine was now forging ahead at a steady 40 mph over a plain dotted with corpses and doubtless swarming with Partisans. I did not have a watch and so had no idea of the time but the little counter just under the speedometer (which I must have re-set at zero without realizing it) showed I had done fifty miles. My conversation about music with the General two hours earlier seemed years off, as in a dream. I worked out that by now I must be on Red Army territory and started manipulating the controls of the old engine again (almost certainly in just as orthodox a manner as the first time) in an attempt to bring it to a halt. But the boiler, which I had kept on re-stoking, was crammed full of coal. I did not know that the very first thing one should do was to reduce excess pressure and that inertia would act on the engine almost as much as the brakes and eventually bring it to a stop. Another three miles passed as I tried all the levers on the control-panel. Finally, I decided to jump from the moving train. I did manage to reduce speed a little. By now, we were doing barely 25 mph but the boiler was giving out worrying noises. Another idea occurred to me: I released the brakes and put the engine into reverse. All at once, it skidded backwards and with a groan started off in the opposite direction, rapidly gathering speed. Meanwhile, I had taken advantage of a brief moment when it was almost at a standstill to jump out, covering my head with my hands and curling up to cushion the blow. It was as well I did: on the other side of the embankment there was a steep, stony slope covered in brambles, which tore my clothes and ripped my uniform so that I reached the foot of the twenty-five-yard mound with my face covered in dust and blood, my body half-naked and my clothes in shreds. The General would have needed every scrap of his imagination to bring himself to believe that the lively little pianist and the half-stunned human wreck sitting in a muddy puddle somewhere in the Ukraine at three in the morning were one and the same person. So would I.
Gartrell fell short of his dream of reaching Major League Baseball but has directed his focus to an even greater life goal. Since retiring in 2015, he has founded Ripple Effect 22, a faith-led mentorship program for youth in his native San Francisco. 041b061a72