Ballard VOX The Inside Track: Catch Rabbit 'Better Angels'

C.F. Rosebridge of Catch Rabbit

Photo by: Brittne Lunniss

Better Angels is about renegotiating the contract with your body. In my extensive experience with mortals, I’ve found that they have complicated relationships with their own corporeal forms, governed by utterly byzantine bylaws. Pleasure is jealously guarded while suffering is freely given; arbitrary rules deem some bodies acceptable and others unacceptable; soul and body are often paired together with little to no regard for their compatibility; and across the human realms, the soul is beholden to the capricious whims of the body. Why mortals adopted this dysfunctional system is a mystery to me.

When I first identified the nature of this problem, I set out to notify the mortal world of their folly. Initially, I handed out pamphlets at the turnstiles of existence, but I soon found that the souls passing through that juncture had their memories erased upon arrival in the universe, and my lessons were in vain. Next, I attempted to start a religion but was unfortunately burned at the stake after a tragic and zany miscommunication. Finally I concluded that the most efficient means of distributing my message was through music, so I assembled a band called Catch Rabbit.

I wrote a song called Better Angels, with a simple major melody over a vague key center between C and G, allowing the rhythm to take the foreground since this causes mortals to wiggle pleasantly. I began the chorus with a somewhat shocking Bm9 chord to further destabilize the key center while I ask the audience if they need to have a body and encourage them to make the decision for themselves.

I planned to disseminate this propaganda deep within Universe 2.0.1a, Timeline B--near the end of capitalism but prior to the Furby Wars--hoping to find an amenable audience. As part of this plan, I was to assume the form of an Earthling in order to gain their trust. This meant relinquishing the miles accumulated on my Spacetime Card. I reluctantly handed in my badge on a drizzly Tuesday evening. “Good luck kid,” said Hannigan gruffly. “You’re gonna need it.”

I sloshed out into the downpour and made my way to the turnstiles through the dim glow of the streetlamps, my mind a broken lightbulb in an ocean of half-eaten hamburgers. What was to become of my mission? Would the Earthlings understand my message? And would I remain an angel or become forever stained with mortality? All I knew was that I had to try.

photos by Brittne Lunniss

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