Modern Monkey Math

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In 2013, I was in a Seattle band called C3. That year, our final year of work together, we released CD embedded in a limited-edition physical Book “C3: Motion Study.” The book had an accompanying (now obsolete) iPad app that included interactive versions of each song.

There is an old saying in music: “if you wish to break up the band, schedule a photo shoot.”

Closely related: if you wish to break up the band, schedule a band meeting.

Somehow, while we were together, we managed to maee a couple of ambitious videos starring the 2013 Live C3 line-up: Paul O’Rear, Jaxie Binder, Stephen Thompson, and moi.

I hope this one speaks for itself:

Featuring: Steve Ball on guitars/voices, Paul O’Rear on bass/guitars/voices, Stevie Adamek on drums/ bvox, Stephen Thompson on flute, Nathan Grigg on keys, w Jaxie Binder on backing vox.

music by Steve Ball and Paul O’Rear
words by Steve Ball
© 2013 - 2026

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Lyrics

wine is stored in baby bottles sharing pouring stories treasures
rusted missiles melt misguided monkey math from modern men

sunlight drowned in water bubbles melting ice with laser lenses
sand is landing soft as shovels sanding off the scab again

who can see how this will end loneliness my trusted friend
hope flies up as you descend while help dries up joys break and bend

where am I in all this sound of slapping jaws in endless flapping
shameless numb from nameless numbers numbing slumming dumbing down

one two three four five six seven counting up the steps to heaven
seven six five four three to sell counting down the time to hell

east is west and up is down | in is out and soft is loud
off is on and here is gone | left is right and right is wrong
green turned brown, flat turned round
my nose is long, my stock turned down
life drops dead, my blood is bled |I play at work, I work in bed
I lost my head in silver clouds | now gold is lead, the rain is red
rumors rip when whispers shout
between soft screams the truth leaks out
dark drills in when light lies down | Teresa tears her wedding gown
Mary mother kneeling down | our time is torn and you are gone

ten nine eight seven six five four
bottles washed up on the shore
six five four three minus one
time to count on you is done

five four three two one to go
traded this road for another show
look for me in your last row
eight seven six five four C3
look around you won’t see me

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Lyrics: for Humans, what do these this mean?

Here is one interpretation (to ignore if you have your own):

At its core, this song is about living in an upside-down world and trying to find yourself in the noise, and then, quietly, leaving.

The opening images, wine in baby bottles, rusted missiles, monkey math from modern men, aren’t random surrealism. They paint a picture: allegedly adult civilization is behaving like children with dangerous toys, and the logic holding it together is broken. Even the things that should nourish or comfort are quietly doing damage. Then comes the big list: east is west, up is down, left is right, right is wrong. This isn’t wordplay. It’s the experience of living in a moment where the basic coordinates of meaning, truth, direction, value, have been deliberately scrambled.

Buried inside the inversions is a sharper diagnosis: relentless jaw-flapping noise that doesn’t illuminate anything, nameless numbers replacing human meaning, numbing, slumming, dumbing down. The counting sequences feel ritualistic, like authority imposing order on chaos by counting, only to realize both directions lead to the same bargain. Heaven and hell, R and D, are just different ways to be sold the same thing.

Then something quieter breaks through. Loneliness my trusted friend. Hope flies up as you descend. Teresa tears her wedding gown. Mary mother kneeling down. These arrive like a quiet detonation. Whatever relationship or era or hope is being described, it is over. And the singer(s) know it.

The song completes on a countdown to departure: look for me in your last row. Look around, you won’t see me. The person has been in the room, maybe the last seat, maybe the margins, and is now gone. The counting, the baby bottles, the bottles washed up on shore: all containers meant to hold something precious that have been emptied or washed away. The truth leaks out between soft screams.

This might be the visceral thesis of the whole song.

Listen. Learn more: http://www.steveball.com/C3.

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