Every Hussalonia Song

Hussalonia Song # 24: That’ll Be The Day

2011-02-28T04:36:00.002-05:00

Now, this is a change of pace! Hussalonia is in rare form on this track, and I do mean rare! The Hussalonia Founder's voice is different too, it doesn't even sound like the same person! Amazing!

This is a really nice, smooth little rock ' n' roll number, in which the narrator sings about the unlikelihood of his girlfriend or wife ever actually following up on her threats to leave him. Despite the potentially emotional subject matter, the song sounds very upbeat and lighthearted, and it is easy to just rock out to it. Really, the difference from the usual Hussalonia sound is just so impressive, I can't even belie- wait, what? Hold on a second, my producer is handing me a note here. I…what? The wrong track? What is he talking about, the wrong track? That's the title, right there! That'll Be The Day, it says it right there in digital black and white! See? That'll Be The Day by Budd…oh. Oh. Well…never mind. I'll just start this one over.

The Hussalonia track titled "That'll Be The Day" is in fact a 26 seconds-long bit of sound collage with drums and crowd noise. Now, when writing about sound collage previously on this blog, I've used it as an occasion to do some free-form writing. However, in that case, the track was roughly 8 minutes long. At 26 seconds, I can't really do that here. It takes me a few seconds longer than that to write a sentence sometimes. So what to do?

I don't mean to imply that the track is unpleasant, but I confess that I can't think of a great deal to say about it. It makes for a nice opening for the album; it actually sounds like a bit of warm-up before a concert begins, which is a fitting way for an album to start. It brings back "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" memories. Perhaps the best way for me to write about this track is to mirror it and simply use this entry as an introduction to the album, and my writings about it, as well.

The official description of this album on The Hussalonia Internet Concourse contains the following statement: "Charles Hardin Hussalonia is a love letter to the pop song convention, a subversive songwriter reveling in a guilty pleasure." I'd like to begin with a few thought on creative projects that are "guilty pleasures."

Hearing that phrase used about something implies a sort of shame or regret. Obviously, when one feels "guilt," it is presumed that one is doing something that one ought not to do. I do not think that anything on this album is worth regretting or feeling guilty for; it really makes for a wonderful listening experience. For a long time it was for me "the last" Hussalonia album. After stumbling onto "The Public Domain EP" in early 2009, I acquired as much Hussalonia material as I could. At the time, "The Somewhat Surprising Return of the Hussalonia Robot Singers" was the last album released, and though I had confirmation that Hussalonia was alive and well, I had no knowledge if new music was forthcoming, and throughout that year I was left to wonder if I'd stumbled onto something great just after it had ended. I'm thankful that such was not the case. However, at the time, all I could do was explore the excellent material available for free online and also the few CDs that were still for sale. If memory serves, I bought all the physical CDs that were still being sold at CD Baby first, as I tend to prefer hard copies of things in most cases. Finally, after that, I got "Ernest Evans Hussalonia" and, at last, "Charles Hardin Hussalonia." As it was the last Hussalonia album I hadn't heard, I saved my first listen up for my usually annual beach vacation that year. It made for an excellent summer day listening, and I'll continue to have fond memories of it as the ocean sped past me in the midday sun. It was a lovely time, and the kind of songs that appear on this album make for such perfect summer listening in most locations. It really is a great album, and if creating it was a guilty pleasure, then I wouldn't mind indulging in some such guilty pleasures myself, at least if I could produce something of the quality of this album as a result.

I've mentioned on this blog a few times a children's fiction series I've been writing since, oddly enough, 2009. It has become a massive project now; it began as a one-off project written as a favor for a friend. It began for me as a "guilty pleasure." In some ways I still feel that it is. I don't like to admit that I enjoy writing it (well, in the spirit of full disclosure, writing it can always be very painful for long periods of time) and I don't like to claim I enjoy writing the romance in it. When I say I don't like it, I'm not really lying, but then in another sense I'm not telling the truth either. To be honest, a part of me just loves writing about little furry animals that can talk growing up and having adventures, loves writing about awkward humans my age falling in love and having wonderful, romantic experiences that I have never had and probably never will and probably don't really even want, loves big epic storylines where all the good guys get to be heroes and the bad guys get to get their butts kicked, loves exciting chase scenes and madcap races against the clock and cute things and people that hug each other and love each other and learn that in their own hearts all is right after all.

Part of me loves every last blasted part of that. A lot. Every Disney movie-style minute of it. I admit it. There. Happy now?

For years, when I thought that I had some desire and, perhaps, need to write, before I went into long slumps of inactivity, I thought that the only things I would write would be intentionally stark, Kafkaesque, existential pieces filled with worldly absurdity, personal reflection, spiritual longing, raw honesty and incessant, unfailing questioning. I haven't given up on those stories. I haven't given up my intent to write them, even though years have passed and I have grown lazy and ridiculous. I have no intention of giving them up. In fact the one that means the most to me, the one that means more than all the others, is currently on my mind and I'm considering taking a break from the "fun/commercial" series and sitting down and getting the thing written in a complete rough draft as fast as I possibly can, after years of unfinished, failed drafts. I hope I do it; I hope I don't get discouraged, distracted, overcome with depression due to fear that I'll die before finishing it, or overcome with depression due to fear that I'll die if I do finish it. I hope I finally get it written.

I'll tell you something, though. Those "serious" stories still mean the most to me, but the "fun" stories mean something to. It is, I think, about balance. If I worked on only one or the other and never gave the other any thought, I'd probably lose my mind. It is great to be an artist, to take yourself seriously, to write things that are meaningful, that mean a lot to you, that preserve the ideas for which you want to live and die. But it's great too to relax sometimes, to take time off, to not take yourself so seriously, to have some fun, to work with friends on the things that give you pleasure and that make you happy, to get that Traveling Wilburys vibe if you can, to do favors for friends and help them on their own creative projects, to not worry so much, to take it easy and just do what you really like to do and (assuming it isn't illegal or doesn't violate the precepts of various systems of morality) not feel guilty about it.

I've learned to forgive myself over time for something I don't think requires forgiveness from anyone anyway. I've learned to embrace the talking animals without giving up the work that feels the most meaningful to me. I've learned to create things that I like regardless of how anyone else reacts to them or how bizarre anyone else finds them. I've learned to have fun and do what I feel I need to do.

Everything in moderation, after all, everything in balance. All work and no play make Leo a dull boy. I speak without authority. I'm in no position to give anyone any advice, really. But if I was going to give general advice to artistic and creative types, I suppose the stuff I just said would be it.

A few years ago I used to make short videos with friends. I look and act like a goof in all of them, but I've learned not to let myself feel embarrassed (well, not TOO much) but to just enjoy the memories of projects like that, without pretension, without any goals except the joy of creating and collaboration. If you've got it, cherish it, kids.

That's all I've got to say for now, but I hope you'll stick around for the rest of my entries on "Charles Hardin Hussalonia."

Who am I kidding? Of course you will! You love to hear me ramble on incessantly from topic to unrelated topic! Go ahead, say you're gonna quit checking in.

That'll be the day!

Hussalonia Song # 23: Home On The Range [A Cover]

2011-02-25T04:30:00.001-05:00

Already we come to the close of our first adventure into the world of "The Hussalonia Robot Singers." It will be quite a while before they somewhat surprisingly return, and with a vengeance. Until then, we are left with this lovely, bittersweet cover of the state song of Kansas, "Home On The Range."

Based on the poem "My Western Home" by Dr. Brewster M. Higley, the name of a man alive during the 1800s if ever I heard one, this is a song familiar to most American folk. I seem to recall it often as a child appearing in classic "Looney Toons" shorts. It is the sort of song that a fourth grade music class can ruin for you, but if, years later, you take a look back, perhaps through the fresh medium of a robot's voice, you'll realize white a contemplative, reflective, pretty song it is. My hat is off to you, Mr. Higley. Wikipedia, it goes without saying, has more information, including various versions of the lyrics. Also, there's a nice recording there from 1939, performed at the Raiford Penitentiary in Florida by a one James Richardson. Recorded by John and Ruby Lomax, Wikipedia lists this recording as being in the public domain, however, the Library of Congress website includes a "Rights and Reproductions" page that, while seemingly reiterating that the recording is believed to be public domain, nonetheless reaffirms that nobody seems to know anything about the copyright status of a lot of antiquated material, and mentions that if you want to use it you'd best get a lawyer to check into it.

I find things like this troubling and irritating; isn't the point of public domain, of cultural commons, being that it is free to use? I do understand why it is this way, but it is frustrating nonetheless; if I want to use something created by an artist who is dead, I might as well send a big fat royalty check to whatever descendent or, worse, corporation that is profiting from his or her work rather than spend the time and money in order to search for the definite verdict on the work's copyright status. Such things are most vexing to me. When I'm dead and gone, I certainly don't want any faceless entity tying my work up in money and red tape. When I'm gone, take what I created, respect it, learn what it is and what it was created for, and then, as long as you do your own thing with the raw material in it, do what you want. Take a crap on it and bury it in your backyard. What do I care? As long as it remains out there, available to everyone who wants it (even if that is only one person), and as long as what it is and why I created it, the meaning behind it are respected, then really, that's all that's needed. Having it any other way seems ridiculous to me.

Now that my rant is over (I don't worry; most likely this subject will be revisited when I write about "The Public Domain EP") let us return to "Home On The Range" as performed by "The Hussalonia Robot Singers."

I very much appreciate the sounds that bookend the song: city sounds, cars driving past, people crossing the streets and walking the sidewalks, talking to themselves, wrapped up in their own little worlds. There's something they missed; it's the robot on the street corner, right next to the Hussalonia building, I bet. There he is, singing about wide open spaces, about nature, about individuality and freedom and solitude, while he's surrounded by concrete, skyscrapers, honking cars with revving engines, babbling, uncaring passers-by and no view of the stars at all. The Hussalonia Founder joins in near the end, to provide some backup vocals, and once again I imagine that he is there to offer support to these lonely robots. It is an appearance that rounds out the song very nicely.

I very much enjoy the way that, as the instrumentation comes into focus, the background sounds of the city fade. It is as if this robot, through his song, has transported maybe the one person who stopped to listen, or maybe only himself, to that home on the range he's singing about. The song grows stronger as the inattentive busy city world weakens, and for just a while, for just one magic moment, he's home, he's where he needs to be. He's no longer a mechanical man in a mechanical world; he's simply a man out enjoying nature, enjoying the free air. It is an appropriate song for a man who feels imprisoned; whether in actuality, in the walls of the Raiford Penitentiary, or inside a mechanical body in a cold, busy city.

As the song ends, the city fades back into focus. The robot's human companion puts down the guitar and moves back inside. The robot is alone in the crowd; nobody even puts change in the hat. It's a shame, but at least he's still able to dream, if only for a moment, of better things, of a better world and a better life. That's certainly still something to hang on to, that's certainly a ray of hope.

So ends the album "The Hussalonia Robot Singers." It is certainly a wise song choice to close out the album, a note of melancholy longing and a tiny but determined sense of hope. After hearing the two traditional song covers on "The Hussalonia Robot Singers" and the public domain release of "Know Your Eastern Anthems," I cannot help but wonder what a straight-up album of traditional covers by Hussalonia would be like, perhaps an album of traditional covers by "The Hussalonia Robot Singers." Perhaps an album of classic public domain poetry as read by animals (mostly ducks)? Ah, but I'm daydreaming. Writing about, and as a result listening more closely to "The Hussalonia Robot Singers" has given me an even greater appreciation of this album. Something such as this, experimental as it is, will undoubtedly be difficult to get used to for most people, yet if you really give it a good listen, there is much to enjoy in it. I am proud to own one of the final physical CD copies of this sold.

Now we must move forward. I don't know about you, but I'm ready to rock, and so it shall be with "Charles Hardin Hussalonia." Will I be able to continue the pace I've been keeping as I've written about "The Hussalonia Robot Singers?" Who knows? Will I abandon writing this blog completely? That'll be the day! If I have anything to say about it, this blog will not fade away!

You may proceed to throw vegetables at me at any time. Keep them in stock; I've got more puns up my sleeve.

Until next time,

Leonard Kirke

Hussalonia Song # 22: Rave On!

2011-02-25T02:48:00.001-05:00

On the page of the Hussalonia Internet Concourse devoted to "The Hussalonia Robot Singers," one reviewer, Bernard Fenton, writes that "Hearing these expressionless confessions does strange things to a human ear." That is true, but after a while, the reverse becomes true as well: hearing a human voice, suddenly, after being immersed in the songs and speeches of robots, is actually quite jarring. It feels oddly unfamiliar after all this time spent in the world of the mechanical.

I like to imagine that while recording, the robots needed maintenance, and so the Hussalonia Founder stepped in to help them complete the album by recording "Rave On!"

Though I'm not always sure about my ability to correctly indentify musical genres, I think that this track might actually be considered techno. If so, then it is, if I'm not mistaken, the only techno song recorded by Hussalonia. I am also struck by how much this track reminds me of the music of The Flaming Lips, specifically their albums "The Soft Bulletin" and "Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots" and the singles and EPs that were released around the same time as the latter. I don't suppose they are considered techno artists, so perhaps that isn't really the word for the genre that this song seems to exist in. What would the word for the genre of those Flaming Lips albums be? Perhaps one could call it "Lipsian?" Who knows? I don't suppose it matters that much anyway.

The title of the track leads me to expect a rather more intense, up-tempo song, and though that expectation is not met, I'm more than satisfied with the actual recording.

This is a track that, prior to focusing on it for this blog, I didn't really listen to often or with much attention. Having given it several proper listens now, though, I find it to be a real hidden gem for me. It is difficult to pinpoint what the quality of this song is that I find so familiar and appealing; it is something I have tried to describe before in other writings unrelated to this song. I'll give it a valiant effort here.

Since I was very young (I'm not sure exactly how far back in my life this goes, but I'm inclined to believe it began even before I began elementary school) I have had visions of my head of particular scenes that are synonymous with certain moods. I have, in fact, referred to them as "mood scenes" for many years, for lack of a more creative term. I've never really been able to put the "feel" or mood of these scenes into words, at least not in any sort of way that does them any justice. It feels like they come from somewhere beyond language, a place of pure emotion and experience, a place that you can remember but never express fully to anyone else. The most striking of these images, and the one I am always able to remember most readily, is in a rather lavish apartment bedroom, high in a building in a city. The sheets on the bed are satin, and there is a woman there. It has a sort of romantic and, the word I would use more specifically is "celestial" atmosphere. There is moonlight steaming through the window. Everything is that moonlight color, light blue and dark blue mixed together. It is emotionally intense and heavy; there is a sense of temporality, like while I'm in that moment I know that it can't last but for just a split-second it feels like time might go easy on me and just freeze that instant forever. That blend of the finite and the infinite makes it bittersweet, but it still makes me feel ecstatic, even as it feels that I might be crushed by it.

A painting I recently saw, by Edvard Munch, captures the color scheme and to some extent the mood exceptionally, almost eerily well: "The Kiss." Look it up. I can't recall any kissing going on specifically; in fact, it is odd that there is even a romantic, almost sexual element to it, considering that this image has been with me since I was fairly young.

This and a few other "mood scenes" have been reoccurring in my thoughts for years. I've had dreams that have had similar moods and that have created similar longings to return to them. Certain films have captured that feel too, including one I referenced on this blog recently, Satoshi Kon's "Paprika" and to some, less intense extent, Richard Linklater's "Waking Life." The original "mood scenes" feel like memories; perhaps they are only memories of dreams. At any rate, I've wanted for many years to return to them. I've long wanted to master lucid dreaming for this reason, to explore them consciously in a dream and find out what they are, where they came from, and experience and enjoy them fully. I haven't managed to lucid dream at will yet, or even have any significant lucid dreams in recent years. I'm still trying and still hoping for it.

Though most things that bring the scenes and feelings to mind involve dreams, and though dreams are what I consider the scenes to be at heart and what I associate them with, "Rave On!" brings it to mind in a different way. Rather that mentioning dreams it mentions dissatisfaction, it mentions ecstasy, it mentions not getting what one craves, all set to an appropriately unusual, ethereal, beautiful tune. I can't think of any other Hussalonia track that has achieved this most unique effect for me; it feels like a comment on the experience itself. I've no idea, really, how far my response to this song is from the intent behind the creation of it, but nonetheless, there it is.

Over the past couple of years the idea has occurred to me that one most likely lives best when he neither compromises for the things he wants nor regrets losses; in other words, reach for what makes you happy, don't accept a weaker, diluted form of what you want, but if you don't get it, be happy with what you have. In other words, it's all or nothing, no regrets. I've decided since then not to settle in life for inferior versions of the sensations and emotions and places I've gone in my own mind, no drug-induced stupors, only seek it instead through self-reflection (including lucid dreaming) and be happy without it if it doesn't work out. The main thing is to avoid compromise, for getting a lesser version of what I'm looking for. I've decided to go all or nothing, no regrets. I've been feeling pretty good since.

This track brings that thought to mind in a fittingly beautiful way. There is some sadness, some bittersweetness in it, sure, but at least the way my mind processes it, that's just a part of the beauty of it. "Oh, I dance alone!" It's sad but you can enjoy it and maybe even change as you go along. It's worth a thought, anyway. Enjoy it while you have it, enjoy whatever it is. "Rave On!"

Hussalonia Song #21: You Are A Girl, I’m A Machine

2011-02-24T03:13:00.005-05:00

The instrumental part of this song sounds rather like a videogame to me. To be more precise, it sounds like a videogame from the late 1980s or early to mid 1990s. It brings to mind many hours of a squandered, but not too regrettably squandered youth, battling such terrible foes as The Dark Queen (Battletoads), King Bowser Koopa (Mario Bros.) and Dr. Robotnik (Sonic the Hedgehog, and don’t give me any of that new-fangled “Dr. Eggman” crap; he’s Dr. Robotnik, and he always will be). I think the music here reminds me especially of the Mega Man X games, specifically the original “Mega Man X.” I can’t quite recall the level, but I’m thinking that it might be the final boss battle with Sigma that has an instrumental, 16-bit song at least somewhat similar to the music in “You Are A Girl, I’m A Machine.”

I’ve mentioned before my habit of imagining music videos in my mind to go along with songs I enjoy, and I recall mentioning my thought that some sort of music video might make a good compliment to “I Want To Be An Owl.” Well, for this song, I’d suggest something a bit different: I can easily imagine this being used in a classic videogame. In fact, considering the subject matter, I could see this as a featured song in an especially steamy, romance-laden “Mega Man X” game bizarre as that idea is.

I confess that I can’t really imagine what the situation might be that this song reflects. Is it (not unlike our old friend Marvin the Paranoid Andorid) a lonely robot, who somehow experiences the human emotion of love, but, being a machine, also experiences the all-too-human phenomenon of unrequited love? How could this happen? What might have led to it? What sort of robot is this, anyway? The song poses more questions for me than answers, and it invites one to imagine a story rather than tells one directly. This is, to some extent frustrating, but I would also venture that it is a strength (and the strength of many creative works in this way is often both admirable and frustrating) as it invites the listener to fill in the blanks him or herself. I must also add that I find this tune a bit creepy. The music, which brings back memories of extremely tense videogame battles in a sort of post-traumatic-stress-syndrome-for-nerds-way, tends to make me feel very nervous, and the deep, emotionless voice of the robot speaker is so dead-set and blunt that I feel unnerved. It brings to mind a voyeur, hiding in plain site; in other words, people, don’t undress in front of the blender, who knows what might be going through its mind? It is a terrifying, if irrational thought.

One final note: I mentioned Satoshi Kon in my previous entry, and considering that I’m currently writing about “The Hussalonia Robot Singers” it seems inappropriate to fail to mention his final film. Though begun with Kon himself directing, it will be completed using the notes and guidance he left behind following his death. It is supposed to be called “The Dream Machine” and will be his only film aimed at a younger audience, and it also happens to feature only robot characters, no humans. Apparently it is at least partially a tribute to Osamu Tezuka’s “Astro Boy” (or “Tetsuwan Atom” for those of you well aware of his Japanese roots) which I’ve also mentioned previously on this blog. (Fun trivia: the original "Mega Man" game was intended to be an "Astro Boy" videogame!) I have a cautious hope about how much I will enjoy his last film. As you know, I don’t generally enjoy robot stories, but there are, of course, exceptions. “Astro Boy” is entertaining though I don’t prefer it to any other of Tezuka’s works. Still, if anyone can make a robot story that I’ll enjoy, it is Satoshi Kon. Here’s to hoping that I’ll be able to see it in a theater somewhere.

Hussalonia Song # 20: If I Could Only Shed A Tear

2011-02-24T02:35:00.001-05:00

"I'd learn to write sad stories / and make it a career / and I'd feel a whole lot better / if I could only shed a tear."

I've written already of finding it easy to relate to certain robots and statements from "The Hussalonia Robot Singers," and to that list I must add this verse, if not the entire song. That is, if I'm hearing it correctly. I generally have little to no trouble understanding the robots' voices, but I'm not entirely sure if the lyric actually is "and make it a career." The second Hussalonia Robot Singers album comes with a handy lyric book, but as the original has no such thing, I can only assume my understanding of the lyrics is correct. So, assuming that the lyric is here transcribed correctly, I say again: it is very relatable.

This blog has already included a number of mentions of my anxiety with my writing "career" as I seem to find references to a similar internal struggle over art vs. making a living/crowd-pleasing and corporate pandering (or "pop vs. popular" to borrow one of Hussalonia's memorable slogans) throughout the entire body of Hussalonia's work. This particular line doesn't relate to that specifically, but it certainly brings it to mind again.

Now, the refrain of this song, "If I Could Only Shed A Tear," that's something I relate to as well.

I recall crying on a number of occasions as a child. Most children do cry with at least some frequency, and this is quite normal; in fact it might very well be distressing for it to be otherwise in a particular case. I recall crying during a number of times that I was depressed, generally fueled by anxiety about death, and to some extent the future. As mentioned on a recent entry, this kind of anxiety has affected me less sharply as I've gotten older. I also remember crying when having to get shots at the doctor as a child; one of the last few times I got a shot at the doctor I remember laughing, because the radio was playing "September" by Earth, Wind and Fire and I associate that song with a bizarre in-joke. I also remember finding the nurse taking the blood sample physically attractive. Quite a difference between the two times in my life, indeed.

It seems that I don't cry very easily these days. Sometimes it bothers me when I find myself having little emotional reaction to things which I ought to, such as stories of tragedies. It also bothers me that even when it makes me sad to hear of the death of someone, my first instinct is, confusingly, to laugh. I recall this happening once in high school when I was thinking about a girl who died in a car wreck; I found myself compelled to laugh even though I was actually very sad about it and didn't see anything in it to laugh about. Perhaps this is some sort of subconscious, existential reaction to the absurdities of life and death. Perhaps it is a psychological defense mechanism to keep me from feeling sadness too intensely. It is troubling, either way.

I recall crying at my great-grandfather's funeral. I did not cry at my great-grandmother's funeral, however; not because of any negative feeling or lack of feeling for her, though. She died after many years of Alzheimer's disease, and so by the time of her actual death she, as I had known her, had faded from my life. In some way it softens the blow of losing someone. In another sense, it robs you of a proper goodbye. I can't say I regret having the impact lessened, but I can't say I don't regret that lack of a real goodbye, either.

So what, lately, has caused me to shed a tear? It seems that I'm more apt to get emotional about fiction than real-life events. I did shed a tear when I saw the Johnny Cash video for "Hurt" when it was first released. I believe I got choked up at the end of the anime series "Cowboy Bebop." Speaking of anime, which for too many years I foolishly dismissed as a useless genre of junk, I don't think any other single director has caused an emotional reaction in me quite like Satoshi Kon. "Tokyo Godfathers" is a film I consider one of the all-time best, and it gets to me every time I watch it. When I first saw "Millennium Actress," I didn't care for it that much and considered it inferior to "Tokyo Godfathers" and "Paprika." Yet a second viewing changed my mind. At the end of the third viewing, I felt that I finally, fully "got it" and was, admittedly, holding back some tears at the end, and now I consider it another one of the all-time greatest films. Certain episodes, mainly those near the end of the television series "Paranoia Agent" also became emotional viewing experiences for me. Kon was a master. He got one less cry out of me last August when he posted his farewell message to the world, revealing that he had been diagnosed with cancer in May and died on August 24^th, 2010. His farewell message, which I discovered only a day or two after being informed of his death, is one of the most moving things I have ever read, and I highly encourage you to seek one of the many translations kindly provided at various blogs and websites. If I ever return to my other blog, I intend to write about Satoshi Kon and his work quite often and in detail.

Back to the general subject of the song, the inability to shed a tear and feeling bad about it, I'm reminded of another recent experience which I'd prefer not to go into too much detail about, but which I would like to mention anyway. I recently had the experience of reconnecting with someone I used to have strong feelings for many years ago, and found that, though the outward aspects of our relationship resumed as if nothing had changed, I no longer felt so strongly. This, I found, was very disappointing, even though the way things used to be didn't ultimately create any particular, positive result. I've felt a sort of hollowness since (though lately somewhat abated) and a sense of disenchantment; not that she was not who I thought she was, but that I've lost the ability to feel inspired by her in the same way as she is, perhaps unable to make of the relation what I liked, through the use of self-deceptive fictions, or at least so far it has been that way. It hasn't been terrible overall, but there is certainly emptiness in that regard that hangs over my head. Such is life, and I'd feel a whole lot better if I could only shed a tear.

Hussalonia Song # 19: Buy Me!

2011-02-22T04:22:00.003-05:00

"You may find me tasteless, and cheap, but I'm not free." So begins "Buy Me!"

This is another spoken word recording, and so once again I want to take just a moment to honor the instrumental backing of the song. Intense, blaring, electronic, and attention-grabbing, it is the perfect compliment to the robot seductress's machinations.

"Buy Me!" feels like the essences of the advertising industry and commercialism packed into one solid minute of in-your-face, aggressive fast-talking. What we have here is a product that really sells itself. And how!

I would absolutely LOVE to see this track used in an actual commercial. It is all there, as I said, all the aggressiveness, attempted seductiveness, condescending attitude, and the call for more than necessary.

I've noticed that the older I get, the less patience I have for commercials. I spoke in the previous entry on "The Questioning Machine" about how when I was younger death seemed to bother me more, and I was more frequently depressed because of it, and as I age I feel at least marginally more at peace with it and much less frequently depressed over it. If anything, I've become more troubled by life than death at this point. Perhaps it is this increasing appreciation of life that makes me increasingly bitter about others wasting my time, rather than being able to waste it myself, in private, in a variety of ridiculous ways.

It might not be such an irritating issue if commercials had some real effect. If I was seduced by them successfully, as it is with the best seductions, I might not regret being taken advantage of. Sure, I'd lose a few bucks, but I'd go away from it without regret and a bittersweet little romantic memory.

Yet commercials do nothing. They appear on my TV screen and scream at me about how great I look but how, with their products, I'd look even better. Or sometimes they try and scare me into buying their crap. But none of it works. I'm not seduced. These people don't know how to seduce. They're the sleazy one at the party, the one you can't take seriously, compliments or not, because the tricks they're using are so obvious; they're just pick-up lines invented during the last century that everybody already knows by heart. Nothing is new or interesting or attractive. They're the overly aggressive one with no subtlety; "You. Me. My place." Where's the fun in that? These people haven't the faintest idea how to get things done.

Sure, once in a while there's something that does strike a pleasant note. I will admit to finding Billy Mays rather charming. That whole "ShamWow!" thing was amusing because it was so self-aware of how ridiculous it really was. Commercials done right can be funny; commercials done well can, at least in theory, get you interested in a product that you might actually have real use for. This ideal, however, is more rarely seen in action than a Sasquatch.

I've actually considered creating a blog in which I explore the undertones and implications of commercials. Writing this entry makes me think, once again, that I ought to. If anyone out there reading this has any interest, let me know, and maybe I will do it.

Back to the matter at hand, most commercials are just a waste of time. I don't buy the products I see. I don't have any interest in them. This doesn't change with repeated viewings. So why must I see it again and again while trying to watch a film or television show? It changes nothing. It spites me for not buying the product by refusing to leave, yet if I bought the product it would be encouraged to stay anyway. I want these time-wasters out of my house and out of my life!

There are occasionally commercials I respect. I like the All-State "Are you in good hands?" commercials. The spokesman acts in a way that frames the product in terms of serious caution rather than crazy, hysterical fear. Nothing in it feels exaggerated and the audience is shown respect itself.

However, in recent times I have noticed more often an irritating trend in which commercials blatantly condescend to and insult the viewer. The Twix commercials which advocated "chewing it over with a Twix" made sense and had an easily comprehended internal logic, even if the scenario displayed was unrealistic; your girlfriend asks if the pants make her butt look big, you chew on a Twix and your candy-garbled speech is interpreted by her as a compliment of some sort; essentially the idea is that Twix allows you to become an auditory Rorschach test that allows people to hear what pleases them. It was clever, even if the applications were unlikely.

On the other hand, the similar commercials for Snickers are condescending and make much less sense. The protagonist of the commercial is meant to be a counterpart to the viewer. The Twix man with the girlfriend in the unflattering pants did nothing wrong and was only trying to be polite without being dishonest. One can relate to that without any guilt. The Snickers guy, however, is trying to trick a girl into sleeping with him by appealing to her vain, superficial interest in social activism. Also, the very idea of having someone over to "blog about [their] ideals" is bizarre to me; who blogs together? Maybe I should invite someone over and see how it works out.

Nonetheless, that Snickers commercial irks me every time. Since the guy is the one who makes use of and benefits from the effects of the Snickers, I have to assume he's the one I'm supposed to relate to. So, to the people that created this commercial, I am, or at least their target audience is, a meat-headed horn-dog with no scruples who attempt to bed shallow, superficial, stupid self-absorbed women? Thanks a lot, Snickers, I'm flattered. Also, as the guy's moment of Snickers-eating takes place in an apparent time-warp, I feel that the product's use and benefits are grossly misrepresented. I've had a few Snickers bars over the years and I've never experienced a time warp. Well, actually, I did experience one once, but in that case time sped up rather than slowed down or froze, and I wasn't eating any sort of candy at all.

Just have somebody come out and tell me how delicious Snickers are. Tell me to try it once, and if I don't like it, no harm done, and back it up by assuring me that if I don't like it, I'll never have to see the commercial again. Back that up by finding some way of making it happen!

Commercials aren't content to stay on my television. They infect the Youtube videos that I watch, making me associate whatever products are being advertised with the experience of having two hands cover my screen while I'm trying to watch something and having to divert my attention each time to swatting them away. When will it end? When will people learn? When will people give up this nonsense?

Consumption can be fun. I'm not really against consumerism, just rampant consumerism. Do everything in moderation, folks, or at least most things in moderation. Epicurus, give them a thing or two to think about.

On one of the interviews on the "Live In Allen Hall" album, the Hussalonia Founder mentioned feeling a strong dislike of the world of online musicians trying to advertise themselves, what with all the Myspace and, now, Facebook friend requests. The "Hey! Be my friend! Listen to my music!" scene, was, in his estimation, pathetic, and I must agree. I do have some degree of added sympathy, though, for those promoting their own work; I can't blame anyone for wanting to live that dream of making a living from their own, beloved creative work. Still, at the end of the day, I respect most the one who does what he wants to do for his own sake and for the sake of the work, rather than for some kind of extra gain. That is a big part of what drew me to Hussalonia beginning with my initial enjoyment of "The Public Domain EP." There are other bands I enjoy, who make money, who advertise and promote themselves, and I don't think any less of them for that. Still, in this regard, Hussalonia has a special place in my heart, and so do the few others I find who operate in a similar way. Keep fighting the good fight.

Not to change the subject, but this is on my mind and I thought I'd go ahead and mention it. I recently finished the first half of my novel. Did I mention that already? I think I can have the other half done in about another year; at least that's what I'm going for. I think you'll really like it. It is about these adorable talking animals who live together in this huge…well, I don't want to spoil it, but I'm sure you'd really enjoy it. Once it's done, I'll probably self-publish it. That way it cuts out the middle man and the price can be much more affordable. If you want a copy, or more than one (they'll make great gifts!), let me know, and I'll see if I can get you one on discount. Like I said, self-publishing should really be a good process. Unless you know someone who would be interested in publishing it, in which case, let me know, and we can talk about it! I'm sure it will be a hit! You know, kids love those talking animals, and the characters age with the series, so by the time it ends it's just as much for adults as for kids, so that's a huge potential market for it. You know, Harry Potter was like that, and you know how THAT series did! Did you hear how many publishers rejected it before it was finally published? You don't want to miss that kind of opportunity! Besides, my terms are very reasonable. Anyway, just drop me a message and we'll talk. I understand your time is limited, so is mine. I look forward to hearing from you!

Hussalonia Song # 18: The Questioning Machine

2011-02-22T03:05:00.001-05:00

Though I hate to admit it, I probably relate to "The Questioning Machine" more than any other character or figure in Hussalonia. Perhaps that's a slight exaggeration, I'm sure there are other contenders, but at the moment I am swept away by how familiar this Questioning Machine feels to me. This is the type of track that, when I'm not listening to it, I think of it in terms of a certain emotional weight that is uncomfortable to access indirectly and too often, and so I don't think of it as a personal favorite, and yet while listening to it, I find it so moving, so original, so brilliantly written that I consider it a favorite all over again.

Really, every time I hear it, I wish I'd written it myself. Perhaps if I wasn't so averse to robot stories I'd have a better chance at writing things like this. Such is life.

It is a spoken word piece, but I would like to take a moment to recognize the instrumental as well. It fits perfectly and captures the mood. Being spoken word, it feels closer to my own style of creative endeavor, and so I feel that it is more accessible to me in that way, I could almost see myself writing something similar; the music, however, is something I can't create, but as with music in general I can very much appreciate it. I should also take a moment to honor the robot actor; for a robot with a synthesized voice, there is some real emotion in that voice, especially when he asks "Do you know what it is like to really love?" The word "love" there is spoken in a way that sounds like he is about to have an emotional breakdown, to say nothing of a mechanical one. The production here is impressive all-around.

Now, I've already said that I find the questions in this track and the mood of the machine asking them quite familiar. Having spent nearly this entire past winter alone in a house, I found my thoughts piling up inside my head. When I do get the chance to speak to someone, I tend to ramble on even longer than I am usually wont to do, getting wrapped up in my own thoughts, caught somewhere between the tendency to talk to myself and the desire to talk to someone else. I find quite a bit of myself in lines like "I'm probably boring you. I'm very sorry. You know what? Nevermind. Let's pretend I never said any of this."

I wouldn't mind if there really was a Questioning Machine. I think it was Aristotle (though it may have been Plato) who said that though the life of contemplation and reason was one of the highest ideals to aspire to, one of the truest ways to live, few people could sustain it for very long. That is quite true, and a shame it is if, as Socrates said, the unexamined life is not worth living; that's a notion I am quite inclined to believe myself. Having a Questioning Machine, preferably something portable, that could bring to your attention the various philosophical elements and existential issues and problems that appear within your daily life, would likely be a very good tool for self-improvement. It may get annoying quite quickly, but wouldn't you be a better person for having it? Perhaps there should be an "app for that," though that wouldn't do me any good as my cell phone is over five years old and doesn't really do so well with all the new-fangled phone tricks you kids are always raving about. At any rate, I quite like the idea, and I hope that maybe someone can implement it in some form. I'd certainly like one, though I would hope such a thing would be free.

Now, to bring this entry back into focus, and to do honor to this track, I think I shall simply respond to The Questioning Machine.

Question: I think about death all the time. Is that normal?

Answer: Normal is a rather deceptive term. I wouldn't worry about it. I thought about death far more often when I was younger. It haunted me frequently as a child, even though no one close to me died until I was older. It still haunts me now, but my depressions due to it have lessened as I've aged. I'm not sure why that is; perhaps it is my interest in philosophy. I think Lou Gehrig responded to the diagnosis of his fatal disease by "accepting it philosophically." Philosophy doesn't remove the anxiety entirely, but it can help one come to terms with it. Perhaps that is what is meant by "The consolations of philosophy."

Q: What will happen to me when I die?

A: Sam Cooke expressed an anxiety over this question in "A Change Is Gonna Come." As for an answer, you can't possibly expect me to answer with absolute certainty, and if I did, you'd be dissatisfied, because really, is there anything more repugnant and irritating than a human being who proclaims absolute certainty on a matter such as that? My advice is to not worry about it too much; I believe it is in The Bible, in the Gospels specifically, where it is observed that, at least in regards to things one can't change, worrying won't help. Perhaps in these cases, outside of using them as springboards for potentially fruitful philosophical contemplation, the best thing to do is to distract yourself and enjoy yourself as best you can.

Q: When I get old, will I live differently knowing death is around the corner? Will I want different things?

A: Possibly, but my answer to this is more or less the same as my previous answer.

Q: How many people are thinking the same things that I am thinking?

A: I have no hard evidence or solid data, but my guess is that probably most people think of these things at least one time in their lives, probably many times but not necessarily on a regular basis. Everyone is unique.

Q: I wonder if I've ever been in love. Will I ever be in love? Do you know what it means to really love?

A: In regard to the first question, I'd say probably not. In regards to the second question, it depends on the definition you are using. In regards to the various possibilities that this opens up, I don't want to go into it at the moment. Let's just say that I have my ideas and leave it at that, okay?

Q: I'm probably boring you.

A: Not at all.

Q: I'm very sorry.

A: There is no need to be.

Q: You know what? Nevermind. Let's pretend I never said any of this.

A: If that's what you'd prefer.

Q: Leave your message after the tone. Thank you.

A: Oh, well, I was…I guess I was just checking in. I don't really have anything to say.

Hussalonia Song # 17: I Want To Be An Owl

2011-02-21T05:14:00.001-05:00

I must begin by saying that this is one entry I have been especially looking forward to since this blog began. This, ladies and gentlemen, is one of my absolute, all-time favorite Hussalonia recordings. It is a definite pick for a "Leonard Kirke's Personal Mix" compilation album, if one existed. It is also a tie with "Marvin, I Love You" for my all-time favorite robot song.

Every time the music begins on this track I feel totally pulled in to the world of the song. The production, the musicianship here is exceptional in all ways; I'm too unfamiliar with musical terms to know if I'm really applying this phrase correctly, but what comes to mind as soon as I hear it is "wall of sound." Really, it has one of the richest arrangements on the whole album, and one so fine you'd expect it to be reserved for a song sung by a human. Such is Hussalonia's commitment to honoring and bringing out the best of these robot performers. The piano, guitar, and that unforgettable banjo…all of them together are really incredible, really beautiful. It is also, arguably, the most idyllic, peaceful and lushly arranged of all of the robot songs on either of the Hussalonia Robot Singers albums, at least of all that come to mind at the moment.

Now, I like this song so much for its own sake, but there is also, at least in the back of my mind, a personal reason for enjoying it as well. You see, once upon a time, I too wanted to be an owl.

No, I'm not joking, nor have I gone mad. When I was a child, I have a distinct memory of responding to the question of "What do you want to be when you grow up?" with, you guessed it, "An owl."

"OH REALLY?" I hear you say.

I can't recall what was going through my mind when I said this. Owls do eat mice, which I find rather unpleasant, and they do regurgitate fairly often I think, which is also rather unpleasant. Yet they are indeed strangely elegant looking animals. They seem to command respect, yet are aloof and not keen on bothering those who aren't prey. They keep to themselves and appear always alert. They are unique in appearance among birds, with an almost regal yet mysterious way about them.

I suppose that there is just something alluring about them, stemming from all these qualities, that would make one want to be one, and so I assume that is what motivates the robot singer. For the record, these days when I am asked what animal I would like to be, I usually say lemur. More about lemurs when I write about "Dear Hussalonia: Letters from Animals, Mostly Ducks." I would like to add that, ideally, if I'm going to be able to physically transform, I'd most prefer it to be a constant, reversible ability that also allows for multiple forms. That way I'd get to be an owl and a lemur. Reach for the stars, kids. Don't settle or compromise; get exactly what you want, if it is decent, or be happy without it.

The atmosphere in this song is very striking: "Everyone disappears when the sun leaves the sky / hiding from the dark / leaving stars and airplanes to wander the sky / and me to wander the park." I'm drawn in right away. I can almost feel that "cool summer breeze" and hear that "lonesome cricket sound." I can almost smell the way the house smells in summertime. It is incredibly evocative in this very sensory way. The style of the music might be considered country, and the sense of loneliness, freedom, chasing one's dreams out in the open has an almost Old West kind of romance to it.

Really, the robot singer is sad and inspirational all at once. A suit of brown feathers isn't the same thing as actually being an owl, and presumably this is a robot that can't fly. Yet at the same time, what else would we have him do? Give up? He may not be an owl, but he's got a nice brown feather suit, he's got a beautiful, breezy summer evening and a sky filled with lights. All things considered, it doesn't really sound like such a bad place to be. I actually find the scene the song conjures rather peaceful, a bit like a certain beach in South Carolina at night-time is for me.

One thing I find myself wondering nearly every time I listen to this song is exactly what sort of robot is singing. As I mentioned in the previous entry, I tend to assign some sort of specific role or form to the robot personas, if one is not already given, as is the case with the song that is the focus of our next entry. I can't think of what sort of robotic machine would be in a park at night. I suppose it is just your classic humanoid robot; heck, perhaps this one is an autographical song written by the singer himself. I will mention, though, that over time I've envisioned this song's narrator to be some sort of short, squat vacuum-cleaner type of machine, perhaps some kind of outdoor Roomba.

This is another song that I feel is ripe for some sort of visual accompaniment. Of course, there's always the danger, they say, of a visual interpretation of a song or story ruining one's personal vision of it, but usually I am able to ignore an outside visual interpretation of something if I dislike it and return to my own imagination. In this case, I'd love to see some sort of creative music video or something for this song. The setting alone could be worth the effort.

Still, music video musings aside, this song more than stands on its own. It is difficult to listen to it without being reminded of some personal dream, something that may never happen but you keep trying anyway. I've got a number of dreams like that, not just the childhood dream of wanting to be an owl. I take some sort of comfort in this robot, guileless and innocent as he is, doing his best to become what he wants to be. It might be comical, it might be sad, but it is also inspiring in some way. It strikes me as a reminder to never give up, even when one is left alone with a dream, even if there is little or no hope of it coming true; instead, one keeps pressing on. So I applaud this determined, joyous robot, alone in his own, lovely, dreamy little night-time world. So I applaud Hussalonia as well, for bringing me his song.

Hussalonia Song # 16: Neglect Has Turned Me Orange And Brown, But You Have Made Me Blue

2011-02-20T04:31:00.002-05:00

I'm not sure if I'm just imagining the similarity, but whenever the vocal part of "Neglect Has Turned Me Orange And Brown, But You Have Made Me Blue" starts up just after the one minute mark, I'm strongly reminded of the Tom Waits song "Innocent When You Dream." Thematically I can't think of any such similarity, but something about the tune sounds to me at least slightly reminiscent of the Waits song.

This, "Abide With Me," "I Want To Be An Owl" and "Home On The Range" are my personal favorite tracks on this album, though this and "Abide With Me" are both very short. The vocal part of this song in particular doesn't start until near the end, and it only lasts roughly 45 seconds or so. Still, short though it is, it is short and sweet, as are much of Hussalonia's recordings.

While a robot is doing the singing of the tracks on both Hussalonia Robot Singers albums, I find myself imagining the different everyday appliances, imbued with some AI-higher consciousness, that might possibly be the source of the robot voice. Now, as I referenced in the previous entry, there is a fascinating explanation for the history of the Hussalonia Robot Singers, but I feel that the trio of singing robots are like so many great troubadours, singing for those without a voice. Johnny Cash became the Man in Black to sing for the poor, underprivileged, abused and those taken advantage of, Bob Dylan told us the stories of the Hurricane and poor Hattie Carol and Hollis Brown. The Hussalonia Robot Singers, however, tell us the stories of our modern mechanical servants, our toasters, blenders, and barbeque grills and all of the neglect and abuse they suffer.

When I think of a neglected machine turning orange and brown (and feeling blue about it) I think of a grill. Something, perhaps, went wrong with it. The burgers didn't turn out quite right. So you just tossed it out. It was a cheap-o anyway, you said; you found it on sale and then haggled to get it for even less, and that's all it's worth to you. So when the first sign of the most minor trouble appeared, you'd rather not waste your own precious time. So you toss it. It's time for a new one, you think. You leave it outside with a cardboard sign that says "FREE." It stands there by the side of the road, sign propped up next to the leg, homeless. The rain comes, the ink runs off the sign and the rust starts. Nobody wants it now. Then, it is finally picked up…by the garbage collector.

To think, of all things, it only wanted to be used, to do a good job for you, to help you make a delicious summer meal. Now it is the dead of winter and it rusts to death in the dump.

"It's only an object," you say, "it's not like it was a person I tossed aside, or even an animal. What's the big deal?"

Maybe nothing, maybe it is not a big deal at all. Yet…it might be worth considering, that perhaps there is some significance in how we treat the things. Things are "just things" to us, yet even the things crafted for a utilitarian purpose are products of human effort, products, perhaps, of one of many in a great, assembly-line human machine of production. It may be worth a thought, the idea of what it means to treat with such carelessness that which one's fellow human beings have produced. It was, I believe, the Czech filmmaker and stop-motion animator Jan Svankmejer that once remarked, when asked about the items he brought to life in his stop-motion animations, that he chose old items only, because in those he got the most sense of, I think he said, identity, or spirit from them, some sort of history inside them. After all, in all that we use, in all that we create, isn't there some blood, sweat, and tears?

Isn't there some spirit?

Hussalonia Song # 15: Abide With Me [A Cover]

2011-02-19T13:58:00.001-05:00

Now we begin our exploration of the bizarre world of "The Hussalonia Robot Singers." In this entry I hope to cover such topics as the origin of the song "Abide With Me," which is the first cover performed by Hussalonia that I shall write about on this blog, my own feelings about robots, and finally a brief mention of how a robot song inspired me to study philosophy.

Prior to hearing this album, I'd never heard "Abide With Me," or at least I can't recall having heard it, despite attending a number of Christian churches in my youth. Most hymns never really got my attention as a kid; I only began to appreciate many hymns and traditional songs in adulthood after hearing covers by artists such as Bob Dylan who appreciate such songs and manage to give them the street cred that they deserve and that churches and local choir performances don't really convey, at least not to me. Since Hussalonia and "The Hussalonia Robot Singers" introduced me to this song, I've bought two beautiful versions by Mahalia Jackson and Hayley Westenra. The Jackson version ended up inspired a lovely short story idea that came to me while watching fireworks on the third of July last year. So I thank you again, Hussalonia, for inspiring my own creative efforts, albeit indirectly.

The song itself was written by Henry Francis Lyte in 1847 (making it public domain, for those of you following at home) as he was at death's door due to tuberculosis, or so says Wikipedia. Perhaps the religiousness/spirituality of the song isn't your thing, but I can't imagine not being moved by the sincerity and passion in the song, especially given the circumstances in which it was written. For those wishing to read and maybe even appropriate (for your own creative works) the complete lyrics of this public domain classic, Wikisource has got you covered: http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Abide_with_Me. Hats off to you, Wikisource, and all of the lovely people out there who make public domain material readily available to us all. I would certainly rank it as one of the finest hymns/religious songs I've ever heard. Oddly enough, I discovered it via Hussalonia around the same time that I discovered another personal favorite, traditional-spiritual song, "Lone Pilgrim," via Bob Dylan's album of covers of such older songs, "World Gone Wrong."

The cover by Hussalonia/The Hussalonia Robot Singers, clocking in at only 42 seconds long, only includes the first verse. Nonetheless, in the album's strange way, it remains quite lovely. I should take this opportunity to talk about the album as a whole and my personal feelings regarding robots. In most cases, I hate stories that involve robots or normally inanimate objects as protagonists or supporting characters. The Star Wars films don't bother me in that regard too much, as C-3P0 and R2-D2 act primarily as comic relief and so I don't find myself mired in troubling philosophical questions about their selfhood. In the Star Trek series, which I became interested in only very recently (and no, I was not named after either Leonard Nimoy or Captain James T. Kirk, in case you were wondering) I feel that the character Data from "Star Trek: The Next Generation" is actually quite likable and his android-hood is treated in a way that somehow subverts whatever would normally bother me about such a character, and other artificial intelligence-based characters in the series are treated in a way that I feel treats the elements of such characters that I normally find irritatingly taken for granted with proper respect. I do hate when the Borg are featured, though. I find the Borg disgusting.

I really can't embrace Osamu Tezuka's widely beloved "Astro Boy" series despite how much I enjoy his other works. In regard to inanimate object stories, I can't stand any of the "Toy Story" films or that blasted "Velveteen Rabbit" story. Things such as that just rub me the wrong way somehow. Oddly, though I generally dislike robot and inanimate object-centric stories, I'm drawn to stories with elderly protagonists, such as the film "Bubba Ho-Tep" and the animated film "Up." Go figure.

I do, however, enjoy both "The Hussalonia Robot Singers" and the sequel album "The Somewhat Surprising Return of The Hussalonia Robot Singers." That said, when I say "enjoy," I use the word loosely. Both of these albums give me the same grossed out, creeped out feeling that most robot stories do, and that usually is enough to make me hate them. Oddly, though, in regard to both inanimate object stories and robot stories, there always seems to be one or two exceptions to my general dislike that I really enjoy and which, strangely, I really enjoy for the exact reason, more or less, that I normally would dislike such things. For one of the few inanimate object stories I love, there's the animated film "The Brave Little Toaster." For robot stories, there's another "robot song" I heard years ago that indirectly led me to one of my most important passions in life, philosophy. That other, non-Hussalonia "robot song" is "Marvin, I Love You."

"Marvin, I Love You" was written, if memory serves, by Douglas Adams, and it was a comedy single based on his "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" franchise that included both a radio play, a television miniseries and perhaps the most well-known telling of the tales, the novel "trilogy" that wound up including six books. The song is mostly a spoken word piece performed from the perspective of Marvin, the "the Paranoid Android" who is played by the same voice actor from the television miniseries. The song involves the perpetually "gloomy robot" realizing that there is a message in his "dusty old databanks" that is, essentially, a recorded love letter to him; it is a woman's voice singing of her love for him. The woman, the only of the two voices that actually sings, is portrayed, oddly enough, by Kimi Wong. For those of you who aren't familiar with her, she was once married (I think at the time she recorded this track) to Richard O'Brien, the creator of "The Rocky Horror Show" and the cult film adaptation of that musical, "The Rocky Horror Picture Show," in which he also played the character of Riff Raff and Kimi Wong, if memory serves, played one of dancing "Transylvanians" during the "Time Warp" sequence.

I first stumbled upon this song when I bought a copy of the "The Very Best of Dr. Demento," which I sought out after years of being told of the Dr. Demento show airing locally earlier in my father's life. This song instantly captured my attention and interested me greatly; something about it struck me as being very poignant, despite being, essentially, a "novelty song." It was comedic, and Marvin's downtrodden tone was itself comical, but I couldn't help but feel a little bit of real sympathy for him too. The synthesizer music was very atmospheric, and the mention of computer data being stored on "tapes" really brought to mind this 1980s-era retro-future world that I find oddly appealing as well. I should mention that one other thing I have a strange fondness for is obsolete technology. Old records, old tapes, old film, old recorders, old cameras, floppy discs, old computers, all of it has a weird appeal to me; I'm fascinated by the idea of things being recorded and created in formats that people lose the widespread ability to use and decipher. I've actually got a number of my old writings saved on floppy disks that I'm still saving despite not being able to use with my new computer. This song, the idea of a robot which acts essentially as an anthropomorphized computer regretting that his design is becoming increasingly useless, struck me right away as something perfect for me. I recall being unsure of exactly what the quality was about the song that I enjoyed so much but I knew it was something about the mix of the themes of aging technology, lost love, regret, and loneliness and synthesizer music. The combination was just perfect for me.

From there, I sought out "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" series. I ordered the first book of the series at a Sam Goody store (remember those?) and on the day I went to pick it up, I was informed by the clerks working there of two things: my order had been botched and the book wasn't going to arrive, and the author of the book, Douglas Adams, had died that very morning of a heart attack at the age of only 49. Despite this depressing setback, I eventually obtained the whole book series and enjoyed them thoroughly. A few years later a collection including his unfinished final book and a bunch of essays was released under the title of "The Salmon of Doubt." During a beach vacation in South Carolina, I read through the book, and was fascinated by his essays on atheism (he was a friend of Richard Dawkins, who might be more familiar to many readers) and felt a need to engage them in thrilling philosophical combat, just to be contrary, I suppose. I joined some fan groups based on "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" (which, ironically, remain online mostly abandoned, becoming "obsolete technology" themselves, covered in ridiculous spam messages worthy of the absurd humor of Adams himself) and it was in one of these that a film was recommended to me. I had seen Hayao Miyazaki's brilliant "Spirited Away" (a film which reconciled me with anime) and asked in one of the groups for other excellent animated films to bed recommended. One such recommendation was for Richard Linklater's "Waking Life." The following summer, on vacation in South Carolina again, my friend stumbled onto that film airing on television; we both enjoyed it from the moment we saw it, and it wasn't until later that I discovered that it was the same film recommended to me in the group. A man in that film appears in only one scene and says "Kierkegaard's last words were "Sweep me up!'" That name stuck out to me for some reason. I resolved to investigate the man and his work but promptly forgot about it; less than a month later, I was browsing a Borders bookstore and, inspired by my considerations about atheism brought about by my reading of Douglas Adams, I took a quick look in the philosophy section. There, I found "Works of Love" by Soren Kierkegaard. This would prove a turning point in my life as Kierkegaard's work would reinforce a number of philosophical ideas that occurred to me during my readings of Adams the year prior and, with far more eloquence than I possessed, expanded upon those ideas. It is difficult to convey here in this single blog entry just how important Kierkegaard, as well as Adams in a different way, proved to be for me in the years since, but I suppose it will suffice say that all of these experiences were very significant, life-changing ones, and it's all thanks to my initial love of novelty music and a robot song.

After that lengthy digression, I must return to "The Hussalonia Robot Singers" and "Abide With Me." For the album as a whole, I certainly appreciate the way the album (and the sequel album) was constructed. They give proper weight to the relevant "robot issues" in a way that I respect, and I can find in them various shades of that quality that I so enjoy in "Marvin, I Love You." Also like that song, they keep an overall sense of humor, albeit a rather tragicomic sense of humor. The songs on both albums tend to show more willingness to enter darker territories than the Adams song as well, which creates a nice balance, but for me at least this makes many of the songs rather difficult to listen to on a regular basis. I can appreciate them, but I can't always "enjoy" them in the usual sense of the word.

"Abide With Me," specifically, is an unusual track. Not being an original, robot-centric song, it creates an odd clash of expectations, as one normally expects to hear such a song performed by a church choir. What are we to make of this choice of material for an album like this? Is it a social commentary, creating a critical comparison between religious humans and robots? Is it simply absurd humor? Could it be chosen simply to reinforce the sadness of the robot singers' existence and existential angst? Perhaps it is there simply because the Hussalonia founder enjoyed the song? Could it be all of the above? I suppose all of those things are possibilities, and there are probably other ways of looking at it as well. I prefer the simplest explanations, that this and "Home On the Range," the album's other cover of a traditional song, were simply personal favorites' of the robot singers' inventor. For that fascinating piece of history, I encourage you to read the explanation provided on the album's own page on Hussalonia's official website, The Hussalonia Internet Concourse. It is a most informative and entertaining read.

Though it is only 42 seconds long, and only one verse of a longer work, "Abide With Me" is still a personal favorite from this album. The sudden, inverted human choir sound near the end, finishing off the rising volume of the robot voices is a startling, unusually lovely finish to a bizarre recording, and an equally lovely yet bizarre beginning to one of the stranger albums in Hussalonia's catalogue. Much like "Marvin, I Love You" led me to other important things such as philosophy and Soren Kierkegaard, so this track led me to a beautiful traditional song which in turn inspired a very important (to me, anyway) short story. One must take time, once in a while, and appreciate these beautiful threads in our lives.

One final note: I bought this album on CD via CDBaby about a year ago, and I checked in recently on a whim and discovered it was no longer on sale as a physical CD. I'm honored to be one of the final Hussalonianites to have bought a copy of the album in physical form! For those of you playing at home, I noticed that "Percy "thrills" Hussalonia" is listed as having only a few copies left in stock as well, so get 'em before they're gone, kids.

Our next entry will be on "Neglect Has Turned Me Orange And Brown, But You Have Made Me Blue." Until next time, this dude abides, and I hope that you do too.

Hussalonia Song # 14: What Will Become of Me? [Third Appearance]

2011-02-19T04:28:00.001-05:00

Well, folks, here we are: At last, the final track of "Ernest Evans Hussalonia." It's taken me just over a year to write about the entire album, a totally excessive length of time brought on by a tendency to become distracted from personal projects and by a broken ergonomic keyboard. Yet, here I am, here we are. Today is the first day of the rest of this blog.

In preparing to write about this track, I decided to reread my entries on the other two recordings of this song that appear on the album, and also listen once again to all three in succession. Surprisingly, I didn't feel ashamed of my previous entries, as I sometimes do feel about confessional writings, especially those available to the public. They really weren't bad little writings after all, despite the occasional typo and the bizarre or outright incorrect wording (I used "illusive" when I meant to use "elusive" at one point, though I'm not really sure the former word didn't fit just as well) and they made for a nice time capsule of myself from roughly one year ago. I can't say my situation has changed that much since. The only notable difference is that my solitude has made me rather stir-crazy this winter.

Since I wrote about my fears of dealing with soul-crushing corporate entities when it comes to my literary efforts, I've had one experience that brought those anxieties back to the forefront of my mind. Last fall, I submitted a number of my fiction pieces to a student literary publication at my university. I'd submitted a few plus an essay the previous year and all were rejected, and I didn't really mind. Somehow I'm able to take rejection of my most serious writing efforts rather well, as I have an ingrained belief that the more my work is rejected by and bothersome to others, the more I am doing something right. This year, however, in addition to a stack of fiction works, I was recommended by a very nice professor who taught a nonfiction class I was taking at the time to submit a brief two page piece I'd written for an assignment. He gave it an A and recommended I submit it to the magazine in his comments. I was flattered, of course, and I very much appreciated how supportive he was, and I still am appreciative of that. Still, the thing I had written, as with most things I write due to obligation rather than personal interest, was something I threw together with very little forethought and passion. I wrote it in, I think, one sitting (as I do with most of these blog entries) and just didn't feel much connection to it, despite it being based on a personal experience from my childhood. Upon his recommendation, though, I revised and submitted it and was informed that it had been accepted for publication a week or two ago.

On the one hand, I feel compelled to be glad to have any public recognition of anything I write, to have anything I've written published, and also to be grateful to my professor for recommending it. It gives people, especially family, at least some idea that I'm making some sort of definable progress with my writing "career." On the other hand, though, this also bothers me in a way much more extreme than the rejections the previous year; I felt fine with my own, honest efforts being rejected. Again, I've long had the feeling that if one's art is rejected, ignored, and seen as bothersome by others, there's a better chance that there's something right about it. Yet here, I got some sort of little recognition, but it was for doing something that others enjoy and that I have no personal stake in. Of all the things I submitted, the one thing that I had created out of compulsion to please someone else, rather than out of genuine desire to write on my own terms, is accepted, and the others were ignored (the previous year I was given rejection letters for the things that didn't make the cut, this year the rejected pieces weren't even acknowledged, which I suppose doesn't really matter, but it stuck out to me nonetheless) and so it goes.

I suppose that the whole of this doesn't really matter, and that I should enjoy whatever inching towards material benefit it might have a slim chance of bringing me and not worry about any existential crisis it might create. After all, it doesn't stop me from writing the things I want to write. It just brings to mind the fear that I won't last long doing that, and that is where it begins to bother me. I am, I think, a rather contrary person, and it is the fear that I might become too agreeable that haunts me in consideration of things such as this. That part of my personality is one reason I've been enjoying the recent Hussalonia track "The Pleasure of Saying No" so much. It is most relatable. That, however, is a material for another blog entry.

Another thing I mentioned in the previous entries on "What Will Become of Me?" was my efforts at writing a potentially commercial, simply fun-to-write series. Since that mention, I've finished thus far a couple of novella-length pieces, three short stories and have just recently reached the halfway point of an origin story for the protagonists, and that is so far the longest single draft of a work I've ever written. Despite only being halfway finished, it is roughly 128 pages long. There have been some tough moments in writing it, and some long periods of not working on it, but overall it has progressed nicely and it remains fun to write. Once it is finished, I plan to offer at least a significant part of it for free online in order to see if there is any interest in it as a commercial endeavor. I've also begun correspondence with another illustrator with an aim for a possible graphic novel adaptation of the series. That project, at least, remains quite satisfying and in many ways refreshing from my less "fun" works.

Lastly for the purposes of recapping my previous entries, during my first exploration of "What Will Become of Me?" I mentioned the way that the track reminds me of that odd experience I sometimes have when, while in a depressed funk, I feel a sudden exuberance. I'm brought back to that initial impression on this third and final arrangement/recording of the song. The song's production is brilliant, with vocal tracks in the tempo of both of the previous arrangements juxtaposed against each other, creating a lovely duet of a single voice. While listening to this track, I can almost feel that strange elation that appears in the center of my bouts of depression, that odd sunshine during the eye of the storm, as the two tracks of that single voice sing in their own time. I am reminded, reflecting on those strange, strangely happy moments, of a sort of existentialist way of looking at things, of being both burdened and overjoyed with one's life, both circumstances and potential through choice. I am reminded of an experience described by one of my favorite writers and thinkers, the philosopher Soren Kierkegaard; he described it as "the dizziness of freedom."

The song's narrator says that he doesn't "care, how, when or where" but the urgency and the seriousness of the vocals seem to suggest otherwise. As I wrote before, this song's title returns to my mind in anxious moment, perfectly describing that emotion of uncertainty about the future. Yet likely one is best off just not worrying about it, as much as they can help it.

This thought, and this song, are a perfect way to end this entry on the final song of "Ernest Evans Hussalonia." As I said, today is the first day of the rest of this blog. Covering just one album took me far too long, but who knows, I may pick up the pace? Who knows if I'll ever catch up with Hussalonia's own output? Does it matter? What will become of me? I'll burn or I'll float, I'll scream or make not a sound, as the song says. Let's find out where this blog is going.

Bidding farewell to "Ernest Evans Hussalonia," we now say hello to "The Hussalonia Robot Singers," a truly fascinating album.

Until next time, I wish you the best.

Leo Kirke

Hussalonia Song # 13: A Farewell to Alarms

2011-02-17T04:33:00.001-05:00

Writing about sound collage tracks has proven to be rather difficult. Actually, writing about the more traditional, music tracks has proven difficult as well. Nonetheless, I find that writing about a sound collage in a commentary fashion to be perhaps the most difficult thing thus far about this blog. So, for the second to last track on "Ernest Evans Hussalonia," I've decided to do things a bit differently. Normally I listen to a song multiple times, maybe three or four times, before writing about it, and then I play it while I'm writing, repeating for as long as it takes to finish the blog entry. For "A Farewell to Alarms," aside from one or two preparatory listens some time ago, I decided ultimately to play it only once during the actual writing of the entry, and rather than attempt a commentary style, I simply wrote free-form, almost-stream-of-consciousness, finishing up when the track ended. I say almost because I did sort of edit myself as I went along, but for the most part what you'll read is directly what came out of my mind as I listened to "A Farewell to Alarms." It may have some spelling mistakes and etc. but, like the other entries on this blog, I didn't go back and revise significantly, and nearly all the editing was done alongside the original writing itself, and so whatever problems I missed there remain present.

One thing to note about the piece itself: As what drew me to Hussalonia in the first place was a search for public domain music, and since The Public Domain EP remains one of my favorite Hussalonia releases, I've decided to dedicate the following bit of fiction to the public domain. It will be the first time I have dedicated anything to the public domain, though I have planned on releasing something that way for quite some time. It may not really be very good, in fact there really isn't much to it and it isn't very lyrical, but maybe somebody can do something with it. I enjoyed writing it, and I find myself drawn to the idea of creative efforts being inspired by other creative efforts, and so this may not be the only time I write some short, disembodied fiction based on a Hussalonia recording. I should also mention that this piece mentions a band called "The Regrets." I made this up as I went along, and I've never, as best as I can remember, heard of a band going by this name. I'm fairly sure a name can't be copyrighted, but I believe it can be trademarked, so if you're a member of a band called The Regrets, and I have stepped on your toes, feel free to let me know and I shall edit the piece to include a different name. Maybe something generic, like "The Band." Oh, wait…crap! Well, maybe I'll just delete it altogether if it bothers you. For those of you wishing to appropriate this piece thanks to it being dedicated to the public domain, I encourage you to make up a different band name at the end, just in case that's not something I can rightfully include in fiction without violating some copyright or trademark I don't know about. I believe that the only reason I included it as that it had, in my mind at the time at least, some sort of fitting, poetic quality that I enjoyed.

In the sense that this was really more of a creative exercise, the lack of focus or quality actually feels appropriate to me for a public domain release. If the public domain exists to foster shared creativity, then it makes sense to me to share in the normally solitary process of writing, which sometimes begins as it does here with the creation of a rough disembodied stream-of-consciousness prose piece. For the solitary writer this rough material would normally be revised and built upon and refined into something more aesthetically pleasing or philosophically stimulating or both, and that is an admirable individual effort. In the case of releasing a rough draft or rough piece into the public domain, however, there is the possibility that the same process happens more than once for different artists using the same rough source material. This makes an often solitary process feel a little cozier and less lonely. If, as it is sometimes said, all art is built upon past art, then it makes perfect sense to me to share rough drafts and sketches like this freely. I think that this really fulfills the mission of this blog to give proper due to every Hussalonia recording: what better way to honor a work of art than to create one inspired by it? Perhaps, as with some rough drafts created in the writing process of a single writer, no one will use this to create anything new, and it will fall flat and into obscurity. Still, much of the joy of art for me is in the process, and so there is no harm, no foul, and no regrets.

Title: "Outside in the Rain, Waiting"

Author: Leonard Kirke

Notes: Inspired by Hussalonia's "A Farewell to Alarms" and released directly into the public domain, though "A Farewell to Alarms" is not itself in the public domain and remains the property of Hussalonia. The following is not endorsed by Hussalonia, nor created in association with Hussalonia and does not reflect the original intent or context of the Hussalonia recording that inspired it.

The public domain material begins below, in italics:

"Cobblestones streets outside, and inside the concert is about to begin. I heard the band tuning up, rehearsing, and the rain starts to fall. They won't let me inside until precisely the time that the ticket says "DOORS OPEN." I have ten minutes left. Nearby a car alarm cries out into the night, and the rain falls harder, trying to drown out the noise. I'm being soaked; my clothes feel like they're melting into my skin, becoming dripping clay against my bones. Hansom cabs saunter by, the drivers whipping their horses to hurry, but the horses will not go any faster. I wonder if they enjoy the rain on their bodies, or if they just enjoy forcing their drivers and the Valentine's Day couples, currently their passengers, to get drenched.

Inside the hall I hear a dissonance, I wonder if something has gone wrong with the band. The church across the street is aglow, and there is chanting; it sounds like monks. Through the rain I can't see what denomination of church it is, or even what religion it is. I imagine that the monks are placing a curse on the band with their song. There is crashing and banging, and what I think is a large drum being dropped on its side. The hansom cabs keep slinking by; the procession appears endless.

It occurs to me that it has been over five minutes since I've been standing here. It is as if time suddenly sped up to accommodate me as I waited. A man at the door motions to me. I approach the warm light of the entrance hall. Pots and pans are clanging and crashing as they're carried into a side door, I suspect it is the kitchen. The horses continue to plod by. The monks are still chanting in the church. I enter, and I gaze at the poster on the wall: "Tonight Only, The Regrets!"

Hussalonia Song # 12: There’s No Such Place As Home

2011-02-04T04:42:00.001-05:00

Ah, once again, it has been far too long since I've added an entry to this lovely little blog. In fact, this is the longest gap yet between entries since this blog began. I hope you can forgive me for my lack of focus. However, I make no promises towards improvement in that regard. Whatever happens happens, isn't that the way it works? I make no promises.

Hussalonia's one-release-a-month project for 2010 seems to have ended just two months short of the goal. The final two entries were one song each, but they were excellent enough in quality to make up for a lack of quantity. The final release of the year, "Through With Music," is a song I've listened to repeatedly over the last few months and one I've dreamed of making a movie of just to use it as an ending theme (making music videos and musical segments in movies is something I do frequently, if not constantly, when I listen to music I really enjoy, so don't be surprised if I mention that again) though I must confess I worry that the song might be autobiographical. I certainly hope that Hussalonia isn't really through with music; I've dealt with the retirement of several artists I've enjoyed over the last few years (including the retirement of the band The White Stripes announced the morning of February 2nd, including a statement that their music "now belongs to you," which frankly outside the context of dedicating work to the public domain I do not understand at all) and though I always try to meet the end of an artists' output philosophically, I can never quite shake the feeling of being bummed out about it, either. Still, if this is the end of Hussalonia's creative output, then I must take a moment and give proper thanks once again for all of the incredible music created over the years, and also I must mention the volume of it released entirely free of charge and further still the songs kindly dedicated to the public domain. My gratitude for Hussalonia's efforts is what this blog is all about, after all, even if I do neglect updating it for far too long. Whatever the future may hold, I thank you, Hussalonia.

One last note: As mentioned in Hussalonia's own News section on the Hussalonia website, a filmmaker named Stephen Aymond is creating a film inspired by Hussalonia's album "The Somewhat Surprising Return of The Hussalonia Robot Singers" titled, fittingly enough, "The Somewhat Surprising Return of John's Computer." Hussalonia's website links to a couple of his previous Hussalonia-based projects, and on this website: http://www.indiegogo.com/stephenaymond you can donate to his 2,000 dollar goal of financing for his film. It sounds like an excellent film, and the description reminds me of "The Brave Little Toaster," an animated film that I love. If you aren't currently low on disposable income as I am, please consider contributing to his efforts.

Now, on to this entry's song:

The home is where the heart is, that's what they say. Yet if this song is correct, and there's no such place as home, then what is in the heart? I've already confused myself.

This may sound rather dense and nonsensical, but I've long felt a strange sensitivity to time and place. It is rather difficult to define, but there is a particular experience that I think serves as the prime example of this. A close friend of mine, who experiences this same odd sense of time and space, calls it "the space-time phenomenon." It is, in short, the experience of being in a place where many people have just been but have not vacated. It is standing on a football field after the players and crowd have gone home after a game, or the empty gymnasium after the school dance is over, the theater after the end if the concert. These moments are the kind which proves most striking, but that strange sensation of time and place, of change, of ethereality, can happen in many situations.

I can recall the lobby of the student center where I struggled with staying awake as I arrived at 5 AM and waited four hours for classes to begin. I can recall it then, cold, in fall and winter, empty except for the few employees going around setting things up for the day, taking the covers off of the pool tables, turning on the TVs playing infomercials. I see one that I watched one other early morning months earlier, taking a break from a marathon editing session for a short film my friends and I created. That was just before I began at this new college. I can recall being at the old one; I can recall meetings with the class adviser who died earlier that year of a heart attack. I can recall sitting in that same area with one of my friends, checking email on one of the public computers and discovering that our short film was accepted into a film festival. Everything flashes forward; that friend has switched colleges as well, and once again I'm alone there at the end of a spring day, feeling aimless. Flash forward again, I rarely go into that building anymore, and I still feel aimless.

In the backyard of the house where I grew up I can recall playing outside as a child with friends who have since drifted away. I can remember reading "On the Road" by Jack Kerouac on the driveway and the cat that showed up and died under the porch, having snuck in there just before we went on vacation. I remember getting the mail in the front yard not long ago.

It feels, to use the old expression, like one never steps into the same river twice. Some places retain more of the same aura longer and more strongly than others; my great-grandparents' house, where I spent many days of my early childhood watching cartoons, feels like they never left. The ceramic owls are still over the same stove. The "Bless This House" sign still hangs over the cabinet. I last stopped by on my way home from college classes out of town, and when I went inside Barack Obama was on the news, after being signed into office on the television as I watched from the student center earlier that day. Hope and change was everywhere. In that house I found myself sucked into the past, into days of old lang syne, and it still smelled the same in there, underneath the cigarette smoke.

A place changes gradually and one doesn't notice until well after the fact, and when I notice such changes myself, when I reflect back on the then and now, the here and there, I feel overwhelmed, I feel dizzy.

I don't know if there is no such place as home; I'm inclined to think there is, but that places are consistent than they feel at any given moment. They say you can't go back again, but I wouldn't know.

The song, in any case, is another gem from "Ernest Evans Hussalonia." Much like "Everything and Its Opposite At Once," it packs a really huge punch in a very short time, with vocals that soar before you've even gotten used to seeing them on the ground. "Hold me down" is the request. The desire for someplace solid and for someone steady comes through in this song, a sense of helplessness and willingness to be led, but not without reservations that even outside guidance will really lead anywhere. Tom Waits once sang in "Anywhere I Lay My Head" that "Anywhere I lay my head, I'll call my home." That's food for thought, a possible alternative to this song's idea. Perhaps it is all relative. Perhaps, as in so much of philosophy, it is just a matter of words needing clearer definitions.

Hussalonia Song # 11: Everything and Its Opposite At Once

2010-07-10T22:52:00.001-04:00

In planning this blog and deciding to attempt writing about every single Hussalonia recording, one of my motivations was a love of the underdog. In both my tastes in music and in other things, I've noticed a bizarre reoccurrence. If I enjoy something popular, generally my favorite part of it will be the part that nobody else enjoys very much, maybe even the part that most everybody else actually hates. For example, "Infidels" is considered by many to be a lesser Bob Dylan album, but it's my personal favorite. Though there are songs and other works of art that I don't particularly enjoy, I have long believed that most works of art simply have their place. A song that for most of my life I don't care much for might one day become my favorite. It may not remain my favorite for long, but for that particular day it is. Perhaps it will only be one person's favorite for one particular day, or even an hour. As a writer, much of what I create is crafted with the knowledge that my work may only have a very short period of worth, and very possibly only in the life of someone I will never meet. When I listen to a song (or read a book or watch a movie or whatever the case may be) no matter whether I love it, am ambivalent about it or even find myself outright irritated by it, I try to find what about it may be good and meaningful, even if it is only for a certain type of situation and a certain type of mood. Some songs don't make a strong impression on me one way or another (the last entry on "The Twist" contains a Hussalonia-based example, though some songs from this album made stronger impressions on me after I gave them closer listens for the purposes of writing about them on this blog) but I try to discover in what sort of mood, place and time that they might.

In the case of "Everything and Its Opposite At Once," however, I need not search far for a particular mood in which I would best appreciate the track. This one draws me in as soon as it begins, every time.

Somehow in the span of a minute and a half it manages to build a beautiful momentum, beginning right off the bat with a strong, catchy sound. I can't think, off the top of my head, of many other songs that have such a powerful, climactic sound that builds up so nicely in such a short time.

The lyrics match the rhythm very well, and I find that it keeps me guessing every time I hear it. The one the narrator sings about is the killer…and raises the dead, is a thief and the police, is mysterious, magical, and has the narrator under the spell of his or her clavicle, which is a line which particularly baffles me.

Who might this paradoxical person/entity be?

God? Jesus Christ? If you consider the Judeo-Christian view, God has certainly killed quite a few people, and Christ has raised the dead, plus there's the whole "like a thief in the night" thing. I'm unsure of God being viewed as the police, though there may yet be some argument there.

Bob Dylan? I have no idea why it would be Bob Dylan, but I seem to recall some speculation that he was the subject of that "You Oughtta Know" song by Alanis Morissette. If she can maybe write a cryptic song about Bob Dylan, why shouldn't Hussalonia be able to maybe write a cryptic song about him?

Johnny Cash? Kris Kristofferson said that he was a "walking contradiction," and that seems applicable here. I'm unaware of his ability to resurrect the dead, though.

Sting? He was a member of The Police. I'm unaware of his having murdered anyone, or having joined the band The Killers, but maybe Hussalonia knows something that I don't?

My nonsense aside, this is a personal favorite track of mine. I can't say that I have any particular insight on it, and aside from simply enjoying the music I'm not sure what in particular draws me into it so quickly every time that I hear it. I am always impressed that so much beauty can be fitted into a minute and a half. It is the sort of song that I'm frequently replaying, both to satiate my urge to hear what keeps looping in my head and in the vain hope that eventually it will become longer by several minutes.

I don't know who is "Everything and Its Opposite At Once," but I know that I love this track. Mysterious and magical, that's what it is.

Hussalonia Song # 10: The Twist

2010-07-10T21:54:00.002-04:00

I would like to preface this entry with a bit of background information. This was actually written on July the 9^th (it is now the 10^th) and completed. However, as I was saving the file, an error occurred with program that caused me to lose the second half of the document (the first half was preserved due to the Auto Save feature) and at the time I was too frustrated to finish it by rewriting the last several paragraphs.

Shortly after midnight, I discovered an online news article proclaiming that yesterday, July the 9^th, happened to be the 50^th anniversary of the release of Chubby Checker's hit single "The Twist." As alluded to in the original section of this post to follow, the especially long delay from the last blog entry to this one is due to various distractions and a personal bad habit of procrastination (and admittedly also to a bit of writer's block) and was not in any way intended to coincide with the anniversary of the release of "The Twist." This is a rather odd coincidence, in fact. I am now actually glad, at least to some degree, that my posting of this entry was a day late; it missed being posted on the anniversary of the original "The Twist," but if I'd posted it yesterday when I originally finished it I wouldn't have known about the coincidence in the first place.

What follows, up to the sentence beginning "At around the two minute mark…" is the original post on Hussalonia's "The Twist," written yesterday, July the 9^th of 2010, 50 years to the day, apparently, after the release of Chubby Checker's "The Twist."

I don't suppose I should bother with an explanation for why it has taken me exactly three months to update this blog. If my past update schedule is any indication, I may very well take even more breaks lasting multiple months. Instead, let's just accept the uncertainty and move right along, shall we?

Writing about the tenth track of "Ernest Evans Hussalonia" has been quite a challenge. This one is somewhere between a song collage and a traditional song. The first two minutes feature, a tinny, stressed-opening tune, one or two lines of disembodied speech and a lot of other stressed sound; the music sounds like it might be fitting for some sort of science fiction film, possibly the build-up to some shocking revelation. Of all the Hussalonia sound collages and non-traditional pieces, "The Twist" is one that admittedly makes very little impression on me overall. When listening to it, I tend to zone out, and usually this zoning out occurs within those first two minutes. Songs that lead one to zone out are not necessarily bad songs (or sound collages or whatever they might individually be called) and I always like to find what is unique and positive about each work even if it is one I don't find myself listening to it very often. It is a song best enjoyed, I think, during reflective times, though the stressed and ominous tone lends it to a very particular sort of mood.

At around the two minute mark, however, things change.

Though the somewhat ominous, spooky distressed instrumentals continue to play most prominently, a new song is mixed into the track, one that actually brings to mind the track's namesake (specifically the Chubby Checker version) and the rest of the 50s and 60s pop that is referenced throughout "Ernest Evans Hussalonia." That isn't to say Hussalonia's "The Twist" actually sounds very much like the identically-titled song best known as being performed by Chubby Checker, but it's a great deal closer to it than the stressed instrumentals that continue to dominate the track even as this more traditional section plays.

As I believe I have mentioned in previous entries, I have little knowledge, musical or otherwise, of Chubby Checker, "The Twist" and probably a host of other things referenced in some way or another on "Ernest Evans Hussalonia," so I may very well be missing something with this track. I suspect that there is much to the design of this track and the album as a whole that would be better appreciated by someone savvier about the 50s and 60s pop material being referenced than I am. As always, I can only offer my own reaction, despite how ill-informed it is. It has been one of the most difficult tracks to write about so far.

When I hear the rather disorienting juxtaposition of sound collage and traditional song, I feel that my expectations are being challenged in some way. What message may be there, I'm not certain, but I get a rather strong impression that this track is intended to defy expectation. After all, the narrator proclaims that he doesn't want to hold your hand (bringing to mind one of my first favorite songs by The Beatles) and also that you must take the meaning and give it a twist…it sounds like a twist on "The Twist" to me. I find myself wishing to hear the traditional song part of this track separate from the sound collage part; not in place of the way the track currently is, but just so that I could appreciate them separately as well. Nonetheless, I think that it is very possible that the juxtaposition may be intended to provoke just such a desire and potentially frustrate the listener. Then again, I may be entirely wrong. I am most likely wrong about most things you read here. So it goes.

I had a very difficult time writing with any clarity about this track, as I've already said, and the little hiccup with the computer program I was using to save it created a rather frustrating extended delay. Nonetheless, having re-written the greater portion of it, and hopefully that the problem won't repeat itself, here we are. This blog's number of entries has entered the double-digits. Hopefully it hasn't done too much harm and misinforming so far and hopefully somebody out there has or eventually will benefit from it somehow. Let us press forward, as the remainder of "Ernest Evans Hussalonia" awaits!

One last note: In keeping with the one-release-per-month project currently being undertaken by Hussalonia, we, the listeners, have now been given three new excellent (and need I remind you? Free!) releases: "Attention Deficit Recorder," "Hissalonia" and "The Somewhat Surprising Return of Percy Thrills Hussalonia!" Of the three I've heard the first two and have been enjoying them very much. I look forward to listening to the most recent release very soon. Viva Hussalonia, and happy belated 50^th birthday to the Chubby Checker release of "The Twist!"

Hussalonia Song #9: What Will Become of Me? [Second Appearance]

2010-04-10T03:24:00.001-04:00

I have previously mentioned that the first appearance of this song on "Ernest Evans Hussalonia" was probably one of my three personal favorites. However, after writing the last entry on this blog, and about to go to sleep (once again, I am up much later than I ought to be) I felt the urge to give this track a fresh listening. I do not know, as I had wondered about in the earlier post, if I can say anything here all that wildly different about this recording of the song as opposed to the one appearing earlier in the album. Nonetheless, I felt so struck by listening to it just now I decided to postpone some much-needed rest and go ahead and write about it while I feel so energized by the recent listening.

I've already mentioned how this song and merely the title of it seem to embody the experience of anxiety about the future for me. My listening experience of moments ago is very much connected with a particular experience I had recently, so this entry may be a bit more on the personal side, a subjective expansion of the more general sentiments expressed on the post about the other recording of this song. As for more specific commentary on the song itself, I would like to add this: it impresses me very much how all three recordings of this song manage to feel, to use a word probably bandied about too often these days, "epic." There is are unique forms of grandeur in both the faster and slower tempo version, and the final appearance of the song, which I'll be writing about later, is such an amazing synthesis of the two. It is a testament to Jesse Mank's talent that he was able to turn this single song into three unique and uniquely beautiful recordings that all fit so well together on the same album.

Now, for the anecdote portion of this post:

Being someone who has written for many years, admittedly with long periods of literary inactivity (as well as general inactivity), I have always veered towards writing odd little stories that resemble, if anything, the fiction of Kafka (I refrain from using a certain much-maligned descriptive word that I nonetheless have no problem with myself). I've never had much expectation that any of these stories would be commercially viable, and as I've slogged my way through college attempting to earn a creative writing degree (because, frankly, I couldn't think of anything better to do with myself that would be any more productive and yet tolerable or inclined to give an illusion of productivity) I feel even more increasingly aware of how unlikely it is that my best work will ever be profitable in the monetary sense. Further, I become more and more worried that selling them would be some sort of betrayal of my principles, in my belief of whatever worth it is that they have. If something is a labor of love, if the aim isn't, at heart, for a physical, material purpose, then should one really try and make money from it? If anything, I don't know if I feel the need to even spread these stories publicly, but rather pass them around individually, in keeping with my philosophy. We've all got to make a living somehow, and I'm still not sure how I will manage after college, but I feel even less confident than I initially felt that my serious, blood-sweat-and-tears literary efforts will ever provide me with food or shelter and other necessities.

Some time ago I decided to do two things, embodied in one project. One of the things I had tried years before, the other thing I had never tried before at all. The thing I had tried years before was releasing my literary inhibitions and just writing things for the fun of it, purely for self-indulgence. The thing that I had never tried before was writing something with the specific aim of making it "commercial," making something that might be marketable, publishable, and capable of allowing me to make a living some day, after years of rejection and perseverance.

I don't regret beginning this series, and I don't blame myself for that aim of making money, though I find myself struck again by paranoia of working in an industry built on corporations and demographics and focus groups and all of those things that some people seem to really believe are worthwhile. It might be presumptuous to worry about success when I have no real guarantee of it; after all, who am I? That's part of the problem though; I hate the thought of playing to the standards of popular opinion. Say, if you will, that this is merely the rambling of an insecure nutjob who is afraid of rejection; I can understand anyone viewing this that way. Nonetheless, the feeling persists and is sincere, and I wonder if I ought not keep writing as a passion reserved for spare time and not something that I attempt to convert into a career in pursuit of that illusive "actually having a job you love" ideal. It all leads back to that question: What Will Become of Me?

I recently asked an illustrator online, who offered to do drawings for a very reasonable fee, to sketch one of the characters from this (originally, at least) "commercial" series. The result nearly knocked me on the floor; the sketches were absolutely beautiful, and they gave me new drive to write these stories, just to live up to the images she created. All the while, it is past 3 AM, and I'm pondering a friend's accusation that the narrator of the series is a manifestation of my own suppressed desires (furthered by an embarrassing Freudian slip on my part), and the character from those sketches is staring into my soul. When I listened to this recording of "What Will Become of Me?" the element of triumph that I perceive in it seemed to outweigh any element of despair even as that despair was still the instigator the triumph. I have tried, lately, to overcome future-anxiety, to live in the present, to cease to worry and deal with things as they come. Perhaps, despite this swirl of sleep-deprived mania and insecurity, the feeling of exhilaration given to me by listening to this track reflects a hopeful move towards inner peace. If not, it is still a really great song anyway, in all three tracks in which it appears.

Hussalonia Song #8: Kindle For the Red Coats

2010-04-10T02:37:00.001-04:00

"Kindle For the Red Coats" is a song with a truly impressive premise: a young nerd invents a time-machine and drastically alters history by traveling through the centuries to the Revolutionary War, where he provides the British troops with a modern electronic reading device. It puts both Ray Bradbury's "A Sound of Thunder" and every single novel written by Harry S. Turtledove to shame.

That, folks, is my belated April Fool's joke! Happy spring time!

Yes, a whole month gone, and still no word. Well, here is the word. Word up.

While I realized in beginning this blog that I would likely not be very productive in writing it, I had hoped to release at least one entry a month. Lo and behold, that ship has sailed. Somehow I find myself already in the midst of April. Nonetheless, we must press forward, we must keep buttering the bread, we must keep trimming the sails, and we must keep chug-chug-chugging along.

It may be worthwhile to mention that I'm currently suffering from some sort of cold. I won't let that stop me from writing now that the busy days of March have finally yielded to a decent-enough amount of time and frame of mind to do so. However, if this one does turn out to be a bit more incoherent than usual, consider that you have been warned.

As usual, before I begin, I'd like to cover relevant Hussalonia news.

I missed it due to my lack of productivity last month, but March saw the release of an excellent new Hussalonia album, titled simply "Alonia." One might argue that this is first "traditional" album (though perhaps that term is relative) that Hussalonia has released since 2008's "Satan Amongst The Sofa Cushions." Specifically, I believe that since that album and until the release of "Alonia," all full Hussalonia albums either involved robot voices, animals reading letters, instrumental covers of eastern European national anthems, and some strange, sometimes hilarious sound collages. While I love those albums, it does delight me to hear Jesse Mank once again providing vocals to Hussalonia music.

This month, continuing the endeavor to release one thing per month, Hussalonia released yet another new album. I've only just discovered it and so have not heard it as of the time of this writing. It is titled "Attention Deficit Recorder" and features the unique property of being designed to be played in any order while maintaining a flow between the songs. I very much look forward to hearing it! With it, this blog's scope seems to get bigger and bigger. Will I ever get anywhere near catching up to Hussalonia's productive output? The answer is a resounding probably not, accompanied by an undaunted sense of perseverance in the face of failure.

Lastly, Hussalonia is now offering a most unique opportunity: a personalized song that will be owned solely by the buyer. The cost is 100 dollars, and there are some strict rules to abide by if placing an order. Nonetheless, the thinking behind it is absolutely brilliant. Anyone reading this blog is strongly encouraged to read the page of the Hussalonia website detailing this offer. If I may be permitted a further divergence from actually writing about "Kindle For the Red Coats," I would like to say a bit more about this.

It has often occurred to me how simultaneously wonderful and terrible shared culture can be. There is a pleasant sense of community one can find in forming a new acquaintanceship or friendship over shared interests and the topic of favorite music is always a popular focus in such bonding rituals as these. One's mind could get absolutely boggled when considering the countless times that proclamations for the greatness of a popular song have served as icebreakers between strangers. I have had this experience a good many times in my own life. I can't say that I find any particular experience such as this regrettable.

Still, the existentialist, the individualist in me must, as in so many other cases, rebel against accepting this too idly. Though I may never have really regretted striking up a conversation with someone based on the shared love of a song, a movie, a television show or a videogame, I can also remember many times in recent years how, to some extent, it disturbs me, and gives me a sense of being too tangled up in the crowd.

I feel that this new offer from Hussalonia and the free-for-everyone release "The Public Domain EP" are, in a way, two sides of the same coin. "The Public Domain EP" provides, totally free of charge, four excellent songs that a person can have total freedom with, freedom to change, to alter, to build upon, to profit from, to enjoy, to do just about anything. This personalized song offer has a definite set of terms and conditions, many of which are the polar opposite of the freedoms allowed by the open terms of "The Public Domain EP." Yet it offers a different kind of freedom through these strict rules: it offers one the ability to truly "possess" a song in a way that is entirely individualized, that sets one apart as an individual from the entangling web of culture. The song one obtains through this offer is one's own; you can't start a conversation with a stranger based on a mutual love of it. You'll never hear it in a movie or on the radio. You can't go out to the store and buy a new copy. You will be left alone with it, yet in a way more truly so, perhaps, than any other song you will ever hear. I bow once again to Hussalonia for such a unique offer, for providing art for the individual even as art for the masses has been provided for. In a world mired in industry, in culture shared but not freely, Hussalonia has covered all of the bases. I cannot help but feel inspired, and my intent of spreading Hussalonia awareness through this blog feels ever-increasingly worthwhile.

Now, finally, I shall write about "Kindle For the Red Coats." I fear that my comments on this song will be quite skimpy, especially compared to the rambling I've just done.

I have long found this song's meaning difficult to grasp. I am able to pick up on the imagery of the stage, but somehow I feel drawn into the music itself and not far into it my ability to concentrate on the lyrics is absorbed into a trancelike state. The music is certainly excellent. However, this is one of the songs on "Ernest Evans Hussalonia" that I play very infrequently. The "list" that appears not long after or around the one minute mark features some of Jesse Mank's most unsettling vocals that I can currently remember. Not there is anything wrong with being unsettled by art; it can very well be a sign of great success. Still, even as a success, when this effect is achieved (whether or not intentionally) one can expect that a listener/reader/whatever will probably feel reluctant to return to that work of art very frequently.

Some years ago, about a year after the album "American IV: The Man Comes Around" by Johnny Cash was released, I was speaking with a friend about how much I enjoyed it. She told me that she didn't really like to listen to it much at all. This offended me to some degree. Upon my questioning her, she explained that the most of the songs on it were just too dark and too intense, and while they weren't, in her estimation, bad songs, they weren't the kind of the songs one listens to often or outside of a certain mood that is particularly receptive to such music.

This always bothered me, despite and perhaps increasingly because of her explanation. Nonetheless, I must concede that I do see her point. "Kindle For the Red Coats" is not a bad song, and it is arguably very evocative and effective; still it is, for me, rather difficult to listen to, perhaps due to the very fact that it has such a strong effect upon me. As the words "pathetic mother…movie theater…" are sung in that (to me, anyway) eerie, strained way, I feel like something in my mind could break, like the Gates of Hell are about to open. I am not really sure what about it is about this section of the song that affects me this way, and so strongly, but every time I listen to it I continually get that same sense of being overwhelmed. Perhaps the fact that I've never really comprehended the meaning of the lyrics adds to that feeling of being overwhelmed, of being lost in a confusion, running against a constant deadline to make sense but seemingly without hope of doing so as one's emotions come crashing down upon oneself. It is very powerful, very strange, and a bit too much to bear. Likely I've missed the real intent behind it, and I don't think that in writing this I'll be able to work out what that intent might be. I'm left only with that overwhelming intensity that it seems to convey to me.

Hussalonia Song #7: I Can’t Tell the Difference Anymore

2010-02-24T19:56:00.001-05:00

The recording of "I Can't Tell the Difference Anymore" on "Ernest Evans Hussalonia" is very minimalist; it includes nothing more than voice, guitar, and the same voice overdubbed at a certain point to create a one-man duet. I may as well stop adding to my list of favorite tracks; at this rate, nearly all of them will end up on there if I do.

The first, most striking thing about the recording is that lovely background noise, which, if I'm not mistaken, is the cassette tape hum. I happen to be old enough to remember using cassette tapes as a primary format for music-listening, and I have a nostalgic fondness for that kind of sound the way many people who are older than I am have a fondness for the hiss and crackle of records (in recent times I've bought a few records myself, and I've discovered a fondness for that sound as well). The official album descriptions that of the tracks that comprise it, created between 2000 and 2003, some were recorded on Tascam 4 track cassette. I know little of the technical side of music production (nor, really, any side of it) but this sounds to me like it is one of those cassette recordings. In any case, I find the resulting sound most endearing.

A night-time ride, a warning to keep hands and arms inside the vehicle (despite having nothing left to lose, a line that seems at first funny to me, and then intriguing, and then sad), and falling asleep are the primary images that stick out to me in the song. I particularly love the description of the narrator's head cutting through "the starry night, like a speedboat does to water." It is an effective bit of imagery, one that really takes me into the action described in the song (though I haven't figured out what the vehicle referred to is supposed to be; it may be obvious to anyone else).

The overdubbing of another voice track onto the primary one during the asking of questions ("Is this love or is this depression?") could potentially break the intimacy of the song, yet it fits perfectly. The questions asked are followed by a comment at the very end, not really an answer, and it is the title phrase. That is where the song ends. It is a sad and beautiful ending to a sad and beautiful song.

This is one of those songs that seems to be intended to capture a moment and a mood, one of those little everyday instants that, due to some external reminder or just some wandering thought, brings to mind a memory that inspires a mood, or else just the mood itself. It is the sort of moment that, melded to that mood or feeling, sticks out in your memory for years afterwards, perhaps for the rest of your life. It might reoccur but, if not in the same place, then likely you will only remember that first time in that original location. Riding through the night, a passenger, falling asleep, stars above you, and some strained and maybe painful sense inside you, some conflict, all of this comes together, each thing meshed with every other, and it crystallizes in your memory. I can't help but feel a sense of admiration and gratitude to an artist who can capture one of these often-unspoken occurrences in a work, and especially in a song so unassumingly simple. As retrained as it appears to be in terms of production, it is incredibly rich in feeling, in emotion.

I would say that it is a fairly sad thing to imagine one who has lost the difference to tell the difference between love and depression, yet it isn't difficult to imagine at all. I may have been there myself once before, some years ago. It is difficult to remember these things, no matter how intense they may have once been, if something in particular doesn't inspire remembrance.

With this entry, I am at the halfway point in writing about "Ernest Evans Hussalonia" and that means that I am at the halfway point of the first album that this little blog has ever covered! Though often a challenge, I am finding this blog a pleasure to write. I look forward to the next seven songs and beyond!

Hussalonia Song #6: Peggy Sue

2010-02-24T17:28:00.002-05:00

As noted on the album's official description, "Ernest Evans Hussalonia" makes many references to pop music of the 1950s and 1960s, yet sounds very little like that type of music. That certainly holds true, yet I think that "Peggy Sue" might be the track that most reminds me of the music that it references. Musically it is still quite different, but the repeating lyrics in the last half sound like they might have come from the late 50s or early 60s. In fact, if my memory serves me well, a rhyme or two might even be the same as one or two used in the original Buddy Holly song with the same title as this track.

I mentioned in an earlier entry that my personal favorite tracks on this album might be "Chubby Checker," "Limbo Rock" and "What Will Become of Me?" (tracks that also happen to appear in succession). Already I must revise that list, in this case to add "Peggy Sue." A benefit of writing this blog is becoming apparent to me, namely that by forcing me to listen repeatedly to songs I may otherwise not have listened to as often, and to listen to them closely, I am learning to appreciate much that I had been overlooking before. "Peggy Sue" was one of those tracks that I didn't dislike but nonetheless never paid a great deal of attention to before. For whatever reason, it just didn't stick out in my memory. Now, however, having listened to it several times to prepare for this writing, I am enjoying it more and more. I can't help but feel that if writing this blog has no other reward then developing a greater appreciation for some of the Hussalonia songs I didn't take proper notice of before, then I am more than amply rewarded. "Peggy Sue" is an absolutely beautiful song!

I confess that, yet again (get used to this, kids) I'm not really sure what to write about this song. I've given it multiple listenings to prepare and yet each time I hear it I find that it washes over me so quickly, and makes such an emotional impression, that I'm not sure how to properly express my reaction to it. As I continue to acclimate myself to writing this blog, I am faced, with each entry, with the question of exactly how to go about writing something about each song that does it justice, expresses my personal reaction to it, yet doesn't rely too heavily on interpretation and traditional music criticism. After all, my aim here isn't to imitate "Rolling Stone" articles or bland documentary interviews from VH1; it is to give a little bit of exposure to one of my favorite musical cults while maintaining a format closer to that of a personal diary than that of typical journalism. General interpretation may be a part of my personal reactions to the music, and I definitely mean to include the personal interpretations that are a part of my reactions, yet I fear that relying too heavily on interpretation might have too much influence anyone who might actually read this stuff. I would encourage listeners of any music to try and experience music, at least their initial listening, with an open mind, and not get caught up in the interpretation of others. I speak only for myself here, but I feel that music, like most things, ought to be an individual experience, first and last. I want to express my individual reactions here, but I don't want to ruin your own. Besides all of that, I have a long history of misinterpretation when it comes to understanding an artist's/author's intention with his/her works. While I strongly support people forming their own personal reactions to art, I'm not a fan of the whole "Death of the Author" idea either. I'm an author myself, and, like most living things, I don't want to die.

With all of this in mind, I hope you'll forgive me if what I write about "Peggy Sue" is a little vague and brief; the same goes, likely, for a lot of future entries that I will write.

The lyrics that make up the first part of "Peggy Sue" are quite obscure to me. They speak of escape, and also of returning to someone who, in the last part of the song it is revealed, is the title character. I do not really understand the meaning of these lyrics, that is to say, what the intended meaning was. They do bring to mind some personal thoughts and memories for me, however, though this may have nothing to do with what the song is really about. I am reminded of those situations in which one is torn by and between loneliness and the urge to be alone. I can imagine that the eponymous character here, Peggy Sue, is the subject of the affections, and perhaps the simultaneous lack of affection, of one who cannot make up his/her mind about what they want out of life in regard to relationships. The escape, the call for Peggy Sue to look away, and the sense of testing things out all bring to my mind someone trying to figure him or her self out, varying between a commitment to a relationship and an urge to escape from it, or else a commitment to solitude and an urge to escape from it, or, once again, both at once. Not, admittedly, very fair to Peggy Sue, but all's fair in love and war, they say. Are they correct? I have no idea. The repeated rhymes that draw the song to a close imply at first that Peggy Sue doesn't really understand what is going on in the narrator's mind, and what they are going through emotionally, and, at the end, it implies that the narrator has decided to choose the relationship over the solitude. I can't say I relate to the conclusion in this scenario, but the situation is one that is quite familiar to me. It brings to mind the idea of falling in love with the idea of someone rather than the actual person; appropriately, there is another Hussalonia song with the title of "I Love the Idea" of you. Again, this is something I'm quite familiar with, a subject I've given much thought to over the years. The song doesn't really describe a setting, but the combination of music and lyrics, and the way that I interpret them, give me a rush of memories and imaginings of days spent at the beach and a series of ambiguous telephone conversations, swirling around with sunlight, a dream that wasn't mine, and seemingly endless uncertainty, hopes and disappointments.

Again, I can't emphasize enough that I don't really know what the real intended meaning of this song is, and that what I've written here is really a personal (in fact, quite personal indeed) interpretation. Whether you share my interpretation or not and whether my or your interpretations reflect the real, intended meaning or not, I can say one thing very much in earnest: this is an absolutely beautiful song, beautifully recorded. In other words, this is classic Hussalonia. The vocal is breathtaking, and instrumentation is lovely, and the rhyming section is quite catchy, something that is in keeping with the tradition of the 50s and 60s pop music that this album makes so much reference to. If, like me, you heard this song only to find yourself not paying it close attention and moving on to other tracks that you initially find more memorable, I urge you to give this one another listen. I passed it over too quickly on my initial listening, and I'm glad that, in writing this blog, I rediscovered it and was able to appreciate it. If nobody else gets anything out of this blog, at least I got something out of it!

Hussalonia Song # 5: The Locomotion

2010-02-22T03:40:00.001-05:00

Vindication! Recognition! A blurb!

I would like to begin this entry by thanking Hussalonia founder Jesse Mank for announcing the presence of this humble little blog on the official Hussalonia news page! Once again, traveling back to the Hussalonia Internet Concourse for a bit of fact-checking for the purpose of writing this blog, I was greeted with another welcome surprise. It seems that lately every visit to Hussalonia's website has provided me with some such unexpected good news. I am honored to have my written ramblings recognized by Hussalonia!

I would also like to mention that Jesse Mank has recently posted on the website (though he'd alluded to it once before in the Hussalonia newsletter, which you would know if you subscribed to it; what are you waiting for?) his intention to release at least one project per month for this entire, grand old year known as 2010. I congratulate Mr. Mank on his forming of such a plan and I wish him all the best in following it through! I, for one, greatly look forward to the prospect of new Hussalonia material each month, and I very much hope that the project winds up a rousing success. Viva Hussalonia!

Now, it is time for me to return to this week's entry, track number five off of the "Ernest Evans Hussalonia" album, "The Locomotion."

This is the first Hussalonia recording I am faced with writing about that isn't a traditional song at all, but more or less a full-blown sound collage. I fear writing about these a bit, as sometimes, to be honest, I do not have much of a reaction to them, and even to the extent that I do, I'm not sure that my writing skills are capable of capturing the very mercurial thoughts and feelings they inspire. I imagine that these probably aren't instant-favorites with most listeners. I, however, do have a soft spot for them, even when I don't really know what to make of them. Elsewhere on the official website, it is mentioned that Jesse Mank collects old recordings, and these often seem to wind up in sound collage, and occasionally in the more traditional songs as well. These are used to great effect on both counts, though it will be some time before I am able to write about some of my favorite examples. For a bit of background on exactly what the nature of these antiquated recordings are, I give you a quote from the official description of the 2008 public domain sound collage release "OMG LOL WTF." It reads: "[The album] is comprised of experimental instrumentals and sound collage compiled from home-recordable, Wilcox-Gay acetates dating to the mid 1940s/early 1950s." I know little of acetate collection myself, but I imagine it is quite a fun hobby. It certainly appeals to my magpie-like urge to collect things. These recordings, explained elsewhere on the website (I admittedly forget where), contain everything from audio from radio and television to people just goofing around for the fun of it. "OMG LOL WTF" even includes some rather hilarious audio from a record designed to teach parakeets to talk. However, I must pace myself; that's quite far ahead! I must get back to the matter at hand.

The first thing that strikes me about "The Locomotion" is that it isn't "The Loco-Motion." To be more specific, it isn't the well-known pop song originally performed by Little Eva. In case you wonder, yes, I did just search online for who the original performer was and yes, I've never heard of her before now, despite being quite familiar with the song. In an odd side-note, my late great-grandmother was good friends with someone called Little Eva. Looking back, for all I know, it might have been the same person. In retrospect it was rather like a reoccurring gag out of a sitcom, in that I heard the adults of my family reference Little Eva, and my great-grandmother would talk to her on the phone while I was around, but I never saw her or even heard her voice. It reminds me of Wilson on "Home Improvement," or Carlton the doorman on "Rhoda." I half-remember this Little Eva supposedly having a sister named Big Eva, though I can't imagine why two siblings would have been given the same first name, unless it was not a sibling but a mother or an aunt or something. At any rate, my great-grandmother passed away several years ago and I've heard scarce mention of Little Eva since. How very odd that is, now that I think about it.

Oh, wait; I was supposed to be writing about a Hussalonia track, wasn't I?

As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted by my own memories, short attention span, and the complete disregard for your precious time that prevents me from editing out the superfluous and unnecessary text, when I listen to "The Locomotion," no matter how many times I hear it, like Pavlov's dog I instantly expect to hear "The Loco-Motion." I'm not really sure why, but I always feel a bit disappointed at first that this isn't a cover of that song. This is especially strange considering that I never really liked "The Loco-Motion" all that much. I recall being made to listen to it, and, I think, dance to it in elementary school, probably in the same music class that ruined "This Land Is Your Land" for me. It conjures memories of some faded music textbook with bland pictures of a smiling cowboy clown next to the lyrics to "Home on the Range."

At any rate, after I settle down from the shock of not hearing "The Loco-motion," I find myself listening to a very intriguing little sound collage. It begins with some singing. Who is it? I have no idea. I think that the words are "When you're alone on the street of regret." It sounds quite mournful, buried though it is under distortion. Before long what appears to be a recording of the hymn "Angels We Have Heard on High" (if I'm not mistaken) comes to the fore, with the instantly recognizable "Gloria in Excelsis Deo" chorus. This has a lovely quality, yet as it sounds fuzzy due to age, it has kind of a ghostly quality as well. As if to accentuate the creepiness, dubbed over the rest of the track is a single sound: it appears to be a man sighing or grunting "uh." This sound, coupled with the relentless repetition, makes me quite uncomfortable. It brings to mind the feeling of being spied on by some perverse and inconsiderate voyeur. Before you ask, I have never knowingly experienced that, thankfully. Hearing that "uh" sound makes me imagine all too vividly what it might very well be like, though.

By the end of the track there is the sound of children babbling and repeating a phrase. It sounds like "taffy," or "coffee," or "Cathy." Each syllable is spoken separately but I still can't quite tell exactly what they are saying. I find the creepy "uh" sound mixed with the carefree sounds of children especially disconcerting.

What can I say about this track? I couldn't begin to interpret it. I have covered what each element of it makes me feel. Perhaps I should conclude by making a solid attempt at describing the overall impression that the track leaves on me.

When I listen to "The Locomotion," I am given a feeling of childhood, a certain part of childhood that is rather dry, boring, and, at times, vaguely unsettling. It is a feeling at once of smaller, country, churches and at the same time of larger cathedrals. For one moment I feel as if I'm at an uncomfortable Christmas Eve service, surrounded by candles; at another moment I feel as if I'm in some regular, typical Sunday service, being pressured against my will to sit on the altar while somebody gives me a sermon that I know full well I won't listen to if for no other reason than that I'll be too distracted by feeling nervous about having to sit up there to listen to it. I am reminded of the character "No-Face" in the film "Spirited Away" and that "uh!" sound he makes when he holds out his hands to offer gold, and how, in high school, a friend of mine liked to imitate it to be intentionally bothersome and disconcerting. Lastly, the track gives me the feeling of being in Sunday school, surrounding by construction paper and safety scissors, or else at some birthday party where everyone wonders why I don't feel compelled to hit the piñata. In either case, I am driven primarily by the urge to go home.

Hussalonia Song # 4: What Will Become of Me?

2010-02-21T04:16:00.001-05:00

This song presents a problem for me in regard to this blog. The problem lies in the fact that the song appears thrice on this album. Each track contains some variation. I'm not entirely sure, however, if I can think of much to write about each one individually. That isn't to say I don't enjoy the repetition, or that I discount those variations between each version; I think that it does add something to the feel of and overall experience of listening to the album that this song is repeated. I'm just not entirely sure if my reactions to each version are different enough to inspire three full, separate entries on this blog. Then again, there's no real limit on the minimum or maximum length of a post here (well, there might be technically, but I haven't imposed any on myself as a part of this project). Perhaps my entries on the second and third versions of this song will just be very brief. We'll see what I can do, though. As best I can, I want to live up to this blog's title and write something about every Hussalonia song (though, more specifically, every Hussalonia track/recording).

While, in my current state of sleep-deprivation and poor habits of eating and exercise, my memory is a bit fuzzy and my thoughts are a little unclear, and therefore I'm not really recalling the other tracks all that well, I think that the triad of Chubby Checker, Limbo Rock, and the first appearance of this song might be my personal favorite tracks on this album.

This song brings to my mind anxiety about the future, a most relatable feeling for most, I imagine. The lyrics reference building a nest, only for it to become infested with violent bees and ruining the comfort that it was supposed to provide. Jesse Mank's vocal here seems to me to tread a fine line between triumphant and despairing, especially around the halfway mark when it really seems to reach a high point that I find both beautiful and tragic. I'm not really sure if that sense of triumph that I imagine has any basis in reality, but somehow, nonetheless, I get this near-triumphant feeling when I listen to this track. I emphasize the "near," though. Despair seems to pervade the lyrics and the delivery; I sense a struggle going on. It all comes back to that title: What Will Become of Me? It is one of those phrases that seems to capture an entire mood very well, and since I've bought this album, whenever I've had the feeling that this song gives me, the title phrase, without my really thinking of the song in particular, seems to loop in my mind.

Anxiety over the future plagues me fairly often and has been the cause of more than a few depressive episodes. I've noticed that sometimes I experience a phenomenon that has only begun to occur in the last few years, and I wonder if it is the reason I feel this nearly-triumphant aspect of this song even though it may not really be intended. What I'm referring to is when, in the midst of a depression, I suddenly experience this kind of snap-back in which I feel suddenly exuberant, likely for no particular reason at all. It may last until it and the depression dissipate together, or the depression may return before the episode is over. I cannot explain this; perhaps someone with a decent knowledge of psychology or something could. At any rate, I am always grateful for these times, even when they are temporary.

This track brings to mind a certain loneliness I feel. I do not get along well with most people. I have few very close friends and few very close family members. I can get along with many people I meet on a shallow level, a small-talk level, but it is difficult for me to form deep relationships. I feel that my life is perched precariously. I fear losing loved ones. I feel nervous now, just writing about it, as if by writing about it I will upset the balance somehow.

Why is it that a song so associated with my worst fears and deepest anxieties be so enjoyable? I'm not sure if "enjoyable" is the correct word to use. Perhaps a better word would be "cathartic," but I'm not sure. At any rate, I do take some kind of odd comfort in this song, even if it doesn't seem intended to offer any in particular, at least as far as I can tell. For all I know, I might be looking at it all wrong in the first place and missing the point. Nonetheless, it is what it is to me, and I am glad to have it. When those anxiety attacks hit, somehow thinking of the title of this song, while it doesn't erase the problems, somehow lassos them and labels them, and somehow that does ease things up, if only slightly. It is a phrase that expresses great uncertainty, great fear, and great apprehension; yet somehow condensing those negative feelings into that phrase creates some kind of peace, though small: what will become of me? If you've ever wondered that yourself, or if you've only had the feeling that the question seems to convey, then I believe you will enjoy this track, or at least take some kind of comfort in it. I know I do.

Hussalonia Song # 3: Limbo Rock

2010-02-20T04:07:00.001-05:00

Well, don't say I didn't warn you. That is, I believe that I did mention that I'm prone to frequent procrastination. If I didn't mention this, I probably meant to, but never got around to it.

It has been exactly one month and a day since my last entry on this little blog. Let us not be downhearted; let us believe, against all rationality and good sense, that we have all the time in the world.

Before I begin to write my reaction to the song that is this entry's subject, allow me to make a few announcements pertinent to this blog in varying degrees.

First of all, I mentioned in my introductory post here that while the idea for this blog came from nowhere more profound than my own mind, much inspiration in the execution of this idea came from the similarly-conceived and much more brilliant blog "Every Bob Dylan Song." When I began this project, that excellent blog appeared to have gone on an indefinite hiatus. I am pleased to announce that it is now up and running once again! Author Anthony Ling is once again hard at work writing about each and every one of Bob Dylan's songs and I strongly recommend you check it out. That link, once again, is: http://everybobdylansong.blogspot.com/.

In even more relevant news (to this blog, anyway) is that an album I've wanted to hear for quite some time now has finally become available to me. Mentioned also in the introductory post here, "Skaros Mank and Wild" is a single album by a one-time band featuring Hussalonia founder Jesse Mank. As previously noted, the link on Hussalonia's website associated with this album has been broken since I first discovered Hussalonia in April of 2009. While checking the music page recently, in preparation for entries on this very blog, I just happened to notice that the "LINK COMING SOON!" message had finally gone away! I was lead to a website that, after signing up for an account, allowed me to download all seven tracks from the album for free. While I haven't listened to these tracks yet, I plan to include my thoughts on them here, if there are no objections.

Finally, yet another new Hussalonia album has been released! It is Hussalonia's 30^th release, in fact, and it is quite unusual. I've only listened to a couple of tracks, but I look forward to listening further. It is a most strange and wonderful album indeed. It is titled "Dear Hussalonia: Letters from Animals, Mostly Ducks." I like ducks quite a bit, and many animals, just as I enjoy national anthems. Hussalonia has been good to me lately. As with the previous release, this album has been dedicated to the public domain. I hope, in the future, to appropriate some of this album into some obscure project of mine.

Now, on to the actual subject of this entry!

The third track off of "Ernest Evans Hussalonia," "Limbo Rock" is one of many Hussalonia songs that I associate with the clash between staying true to one's self artistically and the need to get by; in other words, it is the ideal versus the practical. It is a subject near and dear to my own heart. In "Chubby Checker" I got the sense that the persona (perhaps or perhaps not Jesse Mank himself) of the song is viewing Chubby Checker as someone alienated from him. Checker is the rock and roll ideal, living the high life, doing what he wants to do, and the singer is stuck trying to get by, paycheck by paycheck. In "Limbo Rock," however, the singer faces an altogether different figure: the Devil himself, who takes his soul. With "the hands of Liberace, and the voice of Nat 'King' Cole," the Devil plays a bizarre concert in which he takes requests and everyone is dancing "like contortionists." As the song "Unforgettable" is played, the singer observes how his younger self would never have imagined nor desired to "be a party to that song, but now [he sings] along." I'm not really familiar with the song or with Nat 'King' Cole (shall I be ignorant of everything referenced in Hussalonia songs?) but from what little I do know, I think I get the picture of what is going on here. Cole and the song both represent something much more mainstream than what the singer would like to be a part of; I imagine that by singing along and joining in with the dancers, he is losing himself, as the Devil has already taken his soul, and becoming just another face in the crowd. The theme here reminds me more of art theory, or philosophy of art, than of any actual spiritual or religious matter. Still, I can't help but feel that the theme could apply in such realms; after all, art is not the only form of human endeavor and experience. It certainly means a great deal to me personally, however, that this song brings to mind the struggle over art as personal expression versus art as crowd-pleasing, commercialism and practical value.

I sometimes wonder if art simply isn't for making a living, no matter how you look at it. I wonder if it isn't arrogant, or greedy, or deluded to think that one can, or should, attempt to make a living "doing what one loves to do," as it is so often said. In my writing, I have certain things that I want to say and certain ways that I want to say those things and I fear the scenario in which an editor or whoever wants me to change anything. This is, I think, the typical complaint of young authors, and seen often as a mark of arrogance. However, I do realize that in refusing any or at least too much outside influence, my writings will be flawed. I am so very fond of flaws, though. Nothing, to me, seems more human, and without them, I fear that my individuality might be erased from what I create. I realize that flaws make a book less pleasurable to read (in most cases at least) and therefore less marketable, less profitable, and etc. It would be arrogant of me to presume that my writings will sell, that they will be beloved by many or any, and that by carrying out this philosophy of strong individual emphasis and retaining-of-flaws I'll earn any practical reward. I am arrogant in some ways, but even I don't believe that any of that is likely in the least. That would be ideal, but I'm not sure that it is the ideal I should pursue (as doing so would certainly be in vain). The ideal that I should pursue, and that perhaps any self-respecting artist should pursue, is to be as true as possible, flaws and all, and make the art that they want to make or feel that they ought to make. If you have to do something else to support yourself, that's unavoidable; do what you can. There's always the route of doing strictly commercial works as a means of paying the bills and doing personal work on the side just as you would with any other job. That's the route I'm currently exploring.

From what I know of Hussalonia founder Jesse Mank, having read through an interview or two, listening to his music and reading a blog he kept, he and I differ a great deal on many subjects, some most essential to a person's worldview. Though our reasons may be different (a subtle difference, perhaps), though, we seem to be in agreement to a fair degree on this subject of maintaining art as something individual and honest and not subjecting it to commercialism, to making a living, to what anyone or everyone else thinks. Songs such as "Limbo Rock" strike me as a reflection of that, and Jesse's comments during the interview section of the "Live In Allen Hall" seem to express much the same opinion that I've expressed in the preceding paragraph. If Jesse Mank and I truly have one thing in common, I think that this subject is it, and in large part it is what attracted me to Hussalonia in the first place. Having the will to make one's own art, apart from any reward, praise, criticism or influence of any kind, and making it available to all for free, is an endeavor I cannot help but respect and admire. While I continue to make fiction with the long-distant aim of mainstream publication and commercial success, merchandising and all, I hope that I will be able to take a similar approach to that of Hussalonia when it comes to my "real" works, the things written for someone, for some reason, even if I never know who or why. I'll see how that goes. In the mean time, I will continue, sporadically, to write this blog, and I hope that someone somewhere will find it, discover Hussalonia as I have, and be inspired in much the same way, in addition to enjoying some most excellent tunes.

Hussalonia Song # 2: Chubby Checker

2010-01-19T02:55:00.001-05:00

I am only familiar with Chubby Checker in passing; I don't own any of his albums or songs, and nothing about "The Twist" ever really captured my attention in particular other than the fact that it is indeed pretty catchy. Considering that this album is full of references to the man, I'm probably the worst person to be writing about it. Still, I shall press on regardless of my own ignorance. Isn't that the way to live?

The song displays a contrast between the narrator's life as he is "living check to check," with the freewheeling party spirit of a recording of Checker performing "The Twist." It brings to my mind those times when certain stresses of life seem best dealt with by way of escapism. After all, if I'm not mistaken, isn't early rock n' roll a kind of escapism, a rebellion against the mundane, the everyday, the conformity, and, most dreaded of all, the practicality? It brings to mind a song by another popular rocker of old, Chuck Berry's "School Day." In that song, the narrator sings of how after a boring day of school all you've wanted to do is dance, and so you head to the juke joint. The narrator of Hussalonia's "Chubby Checker" seems to have been listening to "The Twist" by the eponymous singer with such escapism in mind (as he would like to "do the Twist with you"), but it just isn't working for him at that particular moment. Checker "must've really loved that dance, [but the narrator's] just so worried about making the rent." This is a sad story indeed; the power of rock has failed to overcome the blues of struggling to get by. I'm not stranger to looking to a song for some kind of relief or escape from something bothering me, and sometimes it works and the blues get blown away, and other times it just doesn't work for you at all. This song captures those moments for me most excellently. The music doesn't remind me of Chubby Checker's style at all, as the album description warned, but for the song's short length it has the beautiful vocals I've come to expect from Hussalonia and a tune that seems to ring out into a wind tunnel in my mind. I think that this may be one of my favorite tracks on this album. I may not be a Chubby Checker fan myself, but I think this song (and the album as a whole) gives a very nice expression of appreciation for him. Perhaps somewhere down the line I'll pick up an album by him; maybe it will lift my spirits, if the time is right.

Hussalonia Song # 1: I Used to Be Afraid of the Dark

2010-01-16T04:28:00.001-05:00

Well, here we are at the beginning of this little odyssey at last, and it feels so wonderful to be here with you on my first (regularly maintained) blog!

I should start, as I did in the introduction, by drawing attention to the fact that the title of this blog is a misnomer. Hussalonia's first four albums, released on cassette in 1997, are not in my possession in either hard copy or digital formats. Having no means of listening to them, and no knowledge even of the track listings on them, I have decided to simply start with the album released the earliest that I do own. That album is "Ernest Evans Hussalonia." For posterity, I would also like to list the four Hussalonia albums that I do not own: the first was "Holden Hussalonia," which may or may not have had some connection to J.D. Salinger's "The Catcher In the Rye," the second was "Don Juan D'Hussalonia," which may or may not have had some connection to romance, the third was "Russophile Hussalonia," which may or may not have had a connection to an appreciation for Russian culture, and the fourth and last of the 1997 releases was "Maryann Hussalonia," which may or may not have had any sort of connection to the character played by Dawn Wells on the 1960s television series "Gilligan's Island" or to the same Maryann who featured in the later Hussalonia album "The Somewhat Surprising Return of the Hussalonia Robot Singers." Once again, I'm just a fan, folks. All you'll get from me here is personal ramblings, speculation, and probably much less insight than what you arrived here with (I might even sap some of yours before you're gone).

According to the album description on Hussalonia's official website, the material on "Ernest Evans Hussalonia" was recorded 2000-2003, and the album itself has a release date of March 4, 2003. Being out of print, it is one of the few for-pay Hussalonia albums that I was only able to get a copy of digitally. That was a bit of a disappointment to me, as I'm the type who collects things obsessively and always prefers a hard copy when at all possible. Such is life.

Drawing again on the information already provided by the website's official description, one will note that the album contains many references to 1950s and 1960s oldies music while not really being very similar to that music at all. I am only vaguely familiar with that type of music, I confess. I have one Buddy Holly box set that I hardly ever listen to. I have no dislike for that music; it just isn't the type that grabs my attention very often for some reason; I might say that I'm simply not in the mood for it very often, for whatever reason. I own no music by Chubby Checker. I'm probably missing a ton of references on this album.

"I Used to Be Afraid of the Dark" is a rather odd song in terms of my introduction to it; as I've already said, it is the earliest Hussalonia release that I possess a copy of (though not the earliest recording; "Charles Hardin Hussalonia" holds that title, if I'm not mistaken) but I didn't listen to it until after I'd heard nearly every other Hussalonia album. This was, as you might expect, due to the fact that I listened to all of the more recent, free material first before I began to purchase the for-pay albums. In other words, I more or less discovered Hussalonia's entire catalogue in reverse order.

The first thing that the song's title reminds me of is the 1990s Nickelodeon creep-show "Are You Afraid of the Dark?" and so it goes that my exposure to American (though I think the show was based in Canada) pop culture already begins to affect my reactions to these songs right from the start, and, of course, in the most irrelevant way possible. You might also note that I have already turned to my strange practice of writing exceedingly long, meandering sentences.

The song itself begins like a late-night, tape-recorded bedroom confession; the vocal is soft and restrained with only acoustic guitar for company. It doesn't take long, however, for the song to reveal this opening as a bit of a ruse. About fifteen second in another sound enters in, and if I may get right to showcasing my complete musical ignorance, I can't place what was used here, though I'm fairly confident it was a synthesizer of some kind. The vocal and guitar don't even make it a full minute into the song before the entire thing becomes more of a sound collage than a song. Sound collages feature fairly frequently in these earlier Hussalonia works (I think that somewhere it is mentioned that the four 1997 Hussalonia releases were full of them) and they are something of an acquired taste, I'll admit. However, I do enjoy them when the mood strikes me a certain way.

The lyrics here, for whatever reason, are not especially memorable to me personally, and I cannot venture a guess as to why – though I remind you that statements such as this are highly subjective and this blog will be full of them, and in this case saying that the lyrics aren't especially memorable to me likely says more about my memory than about the lyrics. The words that close the lyrical portion of the track, however, do stick out in my memory: "I used to be afraid of the dark, insects and death." That statement inspires me to question why on all three counts.

As far as my ability to relate goes, I'm not sure that I was ever afraid of the dark per se. I have an odd memory from my early childhood that to this day I cannot adequately explain, though on the internet I have stumbled across one or two other people with a similar experience, and this memory may relate to a fear of the dark. I recall that as an infant, lying in my crib, on at least one occasion I saw "shadow people" standing over me. I recall their skin being as black as shadow, almost of a kind that could absorb light like a black hole. There were two or three of them. I could see their shapes only vaguely, though I remember with some greater distinction their hands, grasping the railing of the crib. My only response to this was hiding under the covers. It is possible that it was an early nightmare, or a kind of waking dream; perhaps even a form of sleep paralysis or something. It is possible that it was a childish hallucination based on a general fear of the dark. Whatever it was, it felt real to me, and if nothing else it feels real to me when I remember it. I found an article on the website "Retrojunk" some time ago by a guy who described the same sort of experience, and he simply called the figures "phantoms" if I recall correctly.

I have always been rather afraid of, or at least disgusted by insects, including dead ones. Several weeks ago I found a spider crawling on my foot. A year or so ago a centipede crawled over my foot as well. On both occasions I switched to wearing socks in the house for some time afterward, though I don't prefer to do that. The spiders that crawl around the ceiling and don't move much generally don't bother me a great deal. Black spiders, and faster ones, such as one that I found on my bed several weeks ago in yet another traumatic incident, disturb me very much. I despise centipedes; something about them strikes me as some sort of unholy, unnatural, demonic terror. They tend to come out in the spring and show up here and there until late fall. I almost always wear socks in the summer.

I have almost always feared the deaths of loved ones much more than my own. That is another question I would pose to Jesse Mank about the statements in this song, if they are in fact autobiographical: namely, was his fear of death of the same sort as mine? I have lost very few loved ones in my life, and frankly I have very few to lose (which makes my losing them all the more terrifying to me). For whatever reason the reality of death struck me at, I believe, about the age of six, and I think that perhaps it caused me more depression then than it does now, though I'm not entirely sure why. The fragility of life has been on my mind very, very often since that early age and I think that perhaps it is one of the things that have shaped my personality and way of thinking most strongly. I have endeavored to enjoy and appreciate life's best aspects as often and as deeply as possible. I try not to take anything for granted, though I do not always succeed. Further down the years I wonder if perhaps the best way of dealing with death anxiety is to simply allow oneself not to think about it much, even if that leads to taking things for granted at times. Is it better to take something for granted that you will someday lose or to try and appreciate it and struggle to do so against a terrible anxiety over the inevitability of losing it? This might be a good time to invite you, dear reader, to leave a comment if you so desire. It is nice when, in times of despair and in thoughts of great gravity and stress, we do not have to feel as alone as we are.

The dog my grandparents have owned since I was in the fourth grade died rather unexpectedly two days ago. It has left me feeling rather glum and strange; it is funny, in a way, how the lack of a dog's presence can leave one feeling totally out-of-whack, like life is missing some key component that makes it what it is or is supposed to be. The last time I lost a dog that was in my family was a good many years ago, and it was a dog that they owned since I was in kindergarten. When she died I listened to "People Are Strange," one of the few songs by The Doors I really liked, and it all but ruined that song for me due to the memory association.

If I were to ask Jesse Mank any further questions about these lyrics directly, I might also ask exactly why he no longer fears the things mentioned here (again, assuming that this song is, in fact, an autobiographical one; I realize that not all songs are, though I do tend to think that at least a little bit of ourselves gets implanted into the things that we create). Overcoming fears, in most cases, is usually a positive experience, and if there is any knowledge on this particular subject that I am missing and that may be of help, then I welcome it.

After the vocal section of the song ends, the sound collage really takes over. I think that I am most often reminded of the Beatles when listening to Hussalonia, though on two or three occasions I am reminded of another band entirely: The Flaming Lips. This is one of those occasions. The Flaming Lips, if memory served, started off with more use of sound collage and later focused on traditional song arrangements and the like, and the sound collage section of "I Used to Be Afraid of the Dark" sounds like it wouldn't be out of place on a Flaming Lips album, especially an earlier one. The track takes on a sort of dark, techno kind of sound as it progresses, and it brings to mind a sort of black-and-white 1950s science fiction image. I can imagine it being the soundtrack to a film with lots of old-school flying saucers, ray guns and monsters. It doesn't inspire in me any particular emotional or intellectual reaction, but it is a pleasant listening experience despite what I perceive to be a rather ominous tone.

That, I suppose, concludes my first written reaction to a Hussalonia song. Perhaps if you forgive it the rambling, the imprecision of language, and the occasional boring anecdote, you might find something worthwhile here after all. Keep on the positive side, and keep on truckin', my friends!

An Introduction: “Who are You and What is This “Hussalonia” You Speak of?”

2010-01-11T05:19:00.006-05:00

Hello, my dear friends, and welcome to “Every Hussalonia Song,” a tribute in blog form to one of my personal favorite creators of music in the modern era: Hussalonia.

You are probably wondering at this point exactly who or what I’m referring to when I say “Hussalonia.” To put it very simply, Hussalonia is a pop music cult. Founded in 1997 by one Jesse Mank of Buffalo, New York, Hussalonia has been producing pop music for over a decade. Since 2006, Hussalonia has done the unthinkable in this very commercial world: starting with “The Broken Hearted Friends EP,” a collection of cover songs, all Hussalonia music has been released for free online. That’s right; you are quite free to download all of Hussalonia’s music released post-2006, right now, without paying a cent! As if releasing music for free wasn’t enough, Hussalonia has gone the extra mile. As of the date of this writing (January 11, 2010) a total of three of Hussalonia’s albums have been released directly into the public domain. For those not in the know, this means that these recordings are not only free but free of copyright, and so may be used for any and all purposes including but not limited to film, video, television, radio, elevator music, and beyond, both commercial and non-commercial, without any permissions or licensing needed (though if you do use any of it, be nice and give Hussalonia a credit!). These albums, for the record, include “OMG LOL WTF,” a 6-track album of experimental sound collages, “Know Your Eastern European Anthems,” a collection of covers of, well, Eastern European national anthems, and the aptly titled “The Public Domain EP,” featuring four very beautiful pop songs. Hussalonia’s earlier, commercial recordings are now out of print and hard copies are becoming increasingly scarce, though a few are still available to be purchased digitally.

I am getting a bit ahead of myself. You are probably wondering WHY Hussalonia would turn to releasing music free of charge and (gasp!) even releasing recordings directly into the public domain. If you listen to their music you will likely wonder even more, for it isn’t as if Hussalonia doesn’t have the potential to win over many listeners to buying more than a few albums. It is most common, however, that in most cases, no matter how talented one might be, a lot of self-marketing is a necessity for success. Hussalonia founder Jesse Mank has concluded that making music is more important than selling it and in light of this conclusion has decided to put aside the pursuit of monetary rewards in favor of having more time for simply making music. However, don’t take my word for it! Hussalonia’s official website (also linked via the image at the top of this page) has an “About” section that tells the official story, so to speak, and you can access that page at http://www.hussalonia.com/the_about.html . While you’re there, explore the entire Hussalonia web site. That will save me the trouble of needlessly re-phrasing everything already stated there or else cutting and pasting it in order for you to become better informed about Hussalonia.

That brings me to the other question you might very well be asking yourself after having discovered this blog: who is the guy writing it? For starters, I have no official affiliation with Hussalonia. I do not know Jesse Mank or anyone else involved in Hussalonia personally. This is entirely a fan-made project. The closest it comes to being connected to Hussalonia directly would be that, in both of the two exchanges of emails I’ve had with Jesse Mank in 2009 and 2010, he gave the idea of my making a blog such as this one his approval. This blog will be focused, for the most part, on my own, personal reactions to the songs of Hussalonia.

This, then, brings us back to the question of who I am exactly, and, furthermore, what gives me the right or reason to make an entire blog commenting on somebody else’s hard work. My name is Leonard Kirke, an unpublished author from a small village in Ohio. You can probably learn enough about me from my profile here on Blogger. I am currently pursuing a degree in creative writing, whatever that’s really worth, with the sort-of goal of having something published someday in the hope of making money in order to live comfortably. However, much of my work isn’t terribly viable in the commercial sense, at least as I see it. My work doesn’t express strong, polarizing, biased political views, it doesn’t contain sexy, sparkling vampires, and it is more inclined to pose questions that one might prefer to avoid rather than give many direct answers. I have started working on some projects with commercial viability specifically in mind (while still managing to avoid writing about sexy, sparkling vampires), in which I allow myself to indulge in more mainstream tropes of fiction and it is, admittedly, great fun to write things like that. Still, I feel like my best and most meaningful work is rooted in the things that I probably can’t, in terms of pure practicality, ever make a living off of (unless stories like Kafka’s “The Metamorphosis” become the new equivalents of “Harry Potter”). I also worry that dealing with publishers/corporations/etc. could ruin my work due to meddling even if I were to make money that way. I am not totally closed off to any option, but I do have much anxiety about this subject.

As a result of this anxiety over producing commercial art, I was rather predisposed to be drawn to anyone or anything that broke the mold and didn’t allow the world to bring them down in this way. In other words, I wanted to find a person or persons who lived and worked in a way that they wanted or felt called to despite the fact that in a practical sense their work could not or would not support them (again, not necessarily due to lack of talent but more so due to personal standards). Last spring I was seeking Creative Commons-licensed and public domain music online. At the time I was still planning on working on a short, low-budget and lowbrow comedy video series that my friends and I had been producing since 2007 (this series went on indefinite hiatus due to schedule conflicts). Music really adds a great deal of life to video footage and film, and I hoped to find some high-quality songs that could be used either through the Creative Commons Attribution license or else, more unlikely, songs that were actually in the public domain.

One site I searched well was www.archive.org, a most excellent resource for anyone working in a creative field. It was here, at the Internet Archive, that I discovered an album of four, count’em FOUR, songs, all beautifully written and recorded, and, you guessed it, released directly into the public domain! I could hardly believe that some musical artist out there would take the plunge of releasing actual pop music tracks into the public domain, yet there it was: “The Public Domain EP,” a mini-album by someone or something called Hussalonia.

I was instantly taken with all four tracks. “Meaning Isn’t Based On The Importance Of Being, But On The Relationships In Between” had a mellow tune and melancholy lyrics that appealed to my existentialist tendencies. “Like Tetanus In A Wound” was beautiful but I couldn’t tell if it was a song of bitterness or of heartbreak or of both. “There’s More Than That To Being Poor” was a bit faster and upbeat, yet the lyrics at times struck me variously as hopeful and struggling to be hopeful. Lastly, “This Song Won’t Sell A Thing” was a real sing-along type of song, a perfect closer to an album released directly into the public domain and the perfect song for one who, like myself, struggles with the issue of making a living off of what one loves to do and/or feels compelled to do yet without compromising it in a way that changes it into something else entirely.

Before long I had downloaded all of the free Hussalonia material, albums and singles alike, and shortly after that I bought some of the remaining copies of the older commercial releases as well as buying the digital commercial releases. I was captivated by the entirety of Hussalonia’s collected works. I wanted to give something back. The official website recommends giving kind words in return for the free music (if one is unable or disinclined to make a monetary donation for any reason), and so I started there in April 2009. Jesse Mank and I exchanged a few emails and he struck me as a pretty nice fellow. I had the idea for this blog then, and he gave me his approval when I mentioned it to him. Due to my procrastinating tendencies and the rush of everyday life, however, it would be some time before I actually got around to writing the text that you are reading now. It’s been nearly a year, in fact. In the fall, I discovered a blog that had a premise similar to my idea for a Hussalonia-based blog: “Every Bob Dylan Song.” That most excellent blog can be accessed via this link: http://everybobdylansong.blogspot.com/. I’m certain that the idea for a blog containing commentaries on musical works probably isn’t unique to either myself or Every Bob Dylan Song author Anthony Ling. At any rate, reading his blog further inspired me to create this one. Bob Dylan gets lots of free press, and I won’t argue that he doesn’t deserve it! Still, it occurs to me, couldn’t Hussalonia also use some free press, especially when nearly all Hussalonia music is given away freely? I wrote to Jesse Mank via email again in early January 2010 to wish him well upon the release of his latest album, “Know Your Eastern European Anthems” and to state my intention, despite the nearly year-long delay, to create a blog in tribute to Hussalonia, and he once again gave his approval. So here we are.

I should also mention, as an aside, that the title of this blog is a bit of a misnomer. Hussalonia’s first four releases from 1997 were released on cassette and are no longer available. Thus I have never heard them. There are also a couple of Hussalonia tracks that appear on an ambient music album by some-time Hussalonia contributor John Hughes; I haven’t bought that album yet and though one of the tracks is posted online for free, the link to it remains broken to this day. There is also an album/group featuring Hussalonia founder Jesse Mank, “Skaros Mank and Wild,” that I would include here if I could get a copy of it at some point (the link to that album has also been broken since I first took notice of it over a year ago). I am, however, including another Jesse Mank side-project, the most excellent eponymous album by the band The Hickory Windbreakers, presuming nobody objects to that.

Another bit of relevant information worth mentioning here is that in addition to the official Hussalonia website linked via the image at the top of this blog, Jesse Mank himself has his own blog known as The Pleonastic Hussalonian. You can access it at http://hussalonia.tumblr.com/ .

As previously stated, the views expressed on this blog are entirely my own and do not in any way represent the views of Hussalonia , founder Jesse Mank, or any other affiliates of Hussalonia. I have absolutely no experience in the production of music (excepting having once learned to play “Ode to Joy” on keyboard, kind of) and chances are I’ll say some pretty stupid things here as a result of that ignorance of music-making. I feel that if Hussalonia can release work into the public domain, exposing personal songs to the whims and fancies of anyone who might want to use those songs for who-knows-what, I can allow myself to show what an ignoramus I am about music in order to spread the word of Hussalonia. This won’t be so much music criticism as it will be simple, personal responses. Things may get very autobiographical; it is hard for me to tell where this will go so early on. At any rate, I hope that, whatever I write in response to the music of Hussalonia, you will find it at least mildly worthwhile, and if nothing else I hope that this blog leads you to discover some great music that otherwise you might never have known.

Viva Hussalonia!