Under the fuggy corn leaves of the tamales, my opossum showed its pink nose and underbite. It’s been cockier lately, wandering out of its shadows and sticking its tufts of fur into disarmed pockets of peace. Maybe it’s the growing contrast between the hot sun and the frigid ocean, how the overcast thickens above us and stews everyone into a giddy chowder. I wish I could fall in line and obey the weather’s subscription, but my opossum keeps feeling more outgoing.

I ordered two pollo tamales while Mace insisted on nopales, which required the tamale lady to abandon her post for a moment. As we waited, a plump woman beside us ate off her styrofoam plate. Between bites she asked if we’d found anything good at the flea market. Mace’s tale wagged as he happily announced that we actually operate booths in the markets. Mace told her the whole story of what he used to sell, what he sells now, and what he plans to sell. The plump lady ate that as well. As she opened up the corn leaves of her next tamale, she turned to me and asked what I sell at my booth. That’s when my opossum slowly climbed up my trunk and poked its ugly head out from my shirt. Grabbing its scruffy body, I pulled it out and handed it to her.

My opossum is evasive and unglamorous. Its claws make stick on pavement noises. It knows what it is. If people have problems with its ugliness, it’s only problems of their own. She didn’t know what to do when I handed it to her. She held still (smart, because any false or especially reaching move makes it play dead). Then, with the thud of a soaked sponge, my opossum plopped into her tamale plate.

I told her I sell shelves of acid and cadavers and sight, that I have crates of secret extractors, filled with things capable of quartering bodies as well as reforming them, that I have treasures cached away in chests, things never to be bartered for.

She still looked down, staring at my opossum in her plate. That is when Mace asked me why I’m such an asshole. And that is when I took my opossum off her plate and placed it back inside my shirt.

When we received our tamales, Mace and I walked back to my booth. We ate them on the back couch, letting the steam of the cooked masa and corn leaves fill up the spaces between the trinkets.

I wanted to tell the plump lady that I sell and present art, that I use my booth to promote and celebrate various forms of expression, but I could see how she would project my booth in her mind, and it disgraced my little fractal square. I had no choice but to fight ugly with ugly and unleash my opossum on her.

I took the wax paper wrappers and our paper bag and tossed it behind the couch. Mace doesn’t understand the use of my critters yet so he still sat silently. Somebody came in and picked out some math rock albums. I lit an incense. Manny poked his head in and gave us a quick hello.

After the market calmed, I eventually retrieved a weave basket from one of my chests. I cradled it in my arms as I carried it over to Mace. He waited a long time after I handed it to him. In the silence, I heard seagull’s wings splash through the thick overcast skies above. When he caved and asked me what it was, my opossum crawled back from underneath my shirt and slowly slinked out onto our laps and laid its ugly head over our knees.

I told Mace what this basket holds. I told him it contains sight, eyeballs, the ability to discern the complex world. Mace thumbed through the basket and the various songs and looked back at my opossum. Its tongue flicked between its small yellow teeth.

I told Mace it’s the type of sight that gets people killed or imprisoned. Stroking the straw fur of my opossum, I told him its music that refuses to hide truth for charm. And I feel compelled to protect it just in case the evil succeeds.

Mace kept thumbing through them. My opossum slinked down off the couch and crawled. He asked me if he could guard them for a little while, give the sight a listen. I nodded. He stood up, cradling the basket as he left.

A pink tail stuck from out behind the bookshelf. I watched as it flickered and slapped gently against the rug. It then curled and traced the bookshelf’s edge before slowly retreating into the darkness. As it disappeared, the red ring around the incense glowed.

Below are the contents of the basket.

Myanmar traditional folk music

This is an example from before the dictatorship. It is currently illegal in Myanmar to play or publish this type of music. The artist keep it alive by either performing in exile or by playing in secret.

Russian Anti-war music

Making this type of music in Russia today risks imprisonment or disappearance

example of another Russian artist, Naoko, singing anti-war songs and getting arrested:

A freedom/anti-government song from China by the artist lowsOn

Artists creating this type of music risk imprisonment and often disappear altogether.

Traditional folk music from Afghanistan

Music of any kind is no longer permitted in the Taliban led Afghanistan. Traditional folk music like this is under threat. Only artists in exile and in secret still perform.

“So where do you get all of this stuff?” he asked me as he kicked the tires on my booth.

“I have a 1991 Ford Ranger.”

He flicked a shooing look at me.

“Okayyy,” he said as he moved on to examine a napkin-drawn pigplanada pinned to a board. (half piglet, half empanada).

Goochie goochie goo so what I like to make his brain itch. Call me a friend. I didn’t explain how it’s a flying 1991 Ford Ranger and it can zip around and pluck out trinkets for my booth from any part of the world at the drop of the clutch.

The art and trinkets of my booth stared at him as he continued to browse. He wore motorcycle pants and carried a helmet in his hand and wore a black and red shirt that was a medium that probably should have been an XL. He returned polite flat smiles and small greeting bows to the art, doing his corporate best not to push their rude stares to the ground. I followed him and his cordial observation as he made his way towards the music section. After placing his helmet down, he reached into one of the boxes and picked out a song.

“But so, how do you decide what to choose, what to bring back here.”

He flipped the song over in his hand before he pushed his straight black hair back with his hand and looked at me.

“Like this song for example.”

He held out “Save My Soul” by Sabine McCalla

“Oh, that song? Don’t you see it, Shmeesh?” I took the song from his hand.

“This song has arms and legs.” I made it dance in front of his face. “It walked up right up to me. This is a Lima, Peru song.”

“It found me after I drove six hours in traffic. Hellish traffic. Six hours to go six miles. There were shrieks. My bumper started weeping. A fawn was born. I fought over every inch. And after I elbowed my way through and as I did a mental triage over a bucket of chaufa and a beer, this song waltzed right up to me. And I said to it how do you do. It jumped right into my pocket. We traveled the rest of Peru and most of Bolivia together. How else do you want me to explain it.”

He gave me his game show host laugh. He was laughing at me not with me. After shaking his head, he continued picking through more of the songs.

“Any of them you would recommend to me?”

I didn’t tell him it doesn’t work like that because I didn’t tell him that my 1991 Ford Ranger flies.

“Well do any of them have a mustache or a smell or do anything to you.”

“Um, sure. I like this one.”

It was “There’s No Answer Without You” by Love Apple and Lou Ragland, a song I was sure he would hate.

“Take it.”

His face folded together in a quiet concentration. He held out another towards me. It was the “If You Know Me” demo by Hudson Freeman, a deeply cherished song that crawled up through my shower drain not too long ago. I did not want to part with it.

“It’s yours.”

I eventually put him out of his misery and moved him from the box to pick out some songs for him. As I flipped through them I said, “Now these songs might not come to life for you. It’s personal. So no biggie if not. Or maybe they will. Maybe they’ll shuffle your hair and tell you they’re proud of you or put a jansport backpack on your shoulders. Just don’t stare at them too hard or they get shy and won’t dance for you.”

“Alright.”

“And if they don’t, feel free to bring them back.”

I handed him two more songs (“Babyyy” by Grace Ives and “pale horse” by Truman Sinclair)

He said thank you four-times-too-many. So I pushed him out of the booth and sent him on his way—the way friends do. As I watched him walk away, I hoped the songs would turn his motorcycle into a horse and he’d ride it somewhere with dust and peace and where the cacti make nice small talk.

***thank youuuuu for your visit ily hags byyeeeeeee***

Here is a collection of songs that I keep on the small metal stand next to the bookshelf. I place them there because I like to picture the songs mocking the books with all their carefully crafted articulation and prose.

All of these songs share a similar disposition: they see language and shrug. They’re uninterested in its precision and instead, in spots, use the art of emotionally backed and vocal-y delivered nonsensical noises to convey. And in certain ways, they express more profoundly than the books.

And so I—a serial personifier—like to sit on the couch and snack on the tension. The songs lounge playfully with tongue-in-cheek, while the books vibrate on their shelves with rage as rationale burns a hole through their neglected pages.

But, here, take the songs, hold them, feel them for what they are and not for what my lapses in sanity claim. You will find chants, scat singing, mumbling, shouts, and guttural extractions.

I’d recommend starting off with “Moon Over Montana” for some friendly scat singing (1:44-2:15) to introduce and warm up the tongue toward the idea of venturing outside of all its trained articulation.

And then next jump over to “Ce n’est que de l’eau.” (2:05-2:20 and 3:08-3:20) Because aren’t all songs in an unfamiliar language non-lexical? Maybe enough of a foreign language will also train the ears to stop straining for meaning and allow you to peacefully float away down the river of feeling.

Then maybe you’ll be ready for singing that is more trance than melody in the song “Women in Late” by Giovanni Venosta, whose album is aptly titled “Improbable Music For People Who Aren’t Very Disposed.” I find if I properly sink into this song, I also forget or no longer care about words and will spend part of my day letting people paint their own meanings over my silence.

Another one is “Alien Blues” by Vundabar, whose angst might be needed depending on what the silence is filled with.

And “Bizness” by Tune-yards, I think is a good song to circle back to as it stitches some sort of balance with its non-lexical background vocals woven into the lyrics. It kind of puts its arms around the bookshelf and the small metal stand and says stop foolin’.

Anyways, music rules and will still always be the favorite child of human expression. Hope you enjoyed the browse around, and hope you are inspired to incorporate some grunts and shrieks into your next interaction.

Here’s a bonus song with some semantic satiation where repeated words dissolve its integrity to the point where it becomes non-lexical (kind of like what happens when you say apple over and over again): “New in Town” Life Without Buildings (2:10 - 3:00). It’s also a bonus because the accent its sung with tickles both my juvenile and poetic brain.

***I put my links in spotify because I strongly believe in accessibility when it comes to art but please consider listening to them on Apple Music where they get more financial support. Or better yet, buy some merch or throw them some dough where available.

Lando Manning will make it. I’m calling my shot. I don’t know to what extent, but after hearing his first two songs, I am confident his music will pour his coffee with whatever milk he wants. Time and luck will tell if he’ll be able to afford anything beyond the working-class vices.

This isn’t a label or claim I slap on without intent or force. My smug moments are rare. So when these aloof lips find their way into a smirk, I can’t ignore it. It happened with the Toyota Previa. Leaning way too far back in my chair, I pointed with my chin and said have a look. That’ll be something someday. And people laughed. But look closely now because the moment is here. The real trendsetters, the grit miners, are starting to drive the pug-ugly Toyota Previa (pictured below).

The Previa drives my Lando Manning synesthesia well. When I listen to his song, Lately Lover, the window rolls down (manually) and my elbow hangs out in the below-the-speed-limit air and I taste exhaust leaks. Through the blown-out speakers, I hear callouses in Lando’s strumming hand and laboring rust flaking away in his voice and I nod my head at the passing pedestrians.

Lando’s music is a cigarette on a lunch break, a pat on the back for all of the coming tomorrows. There’s an understanding there, not a pitiful one, just a “yeah, I know. Now take this.”

This understanding really starts to vibrate into one of my lapses in sanity when I listen to his song, Today. In its droning melody and vocals, I am dragged through the unescapable slow momentum of the song. The drag isn’t something you want to escape. It’s rather comforting with its hues of empathy. So I don’t fight the slow pull. I accept. And I accept, as I listen on, the scene that starts to percolate:

There’s our Previa. It’s packed with boxes. A family is moving away. They are pulling out of the driveway, and in the backseat, a kid stares through the window, looking at his childhood home. He keeps watching it as they drive further away and as his world, the place where he imagined his entire life would be, dissapears into the distance.

And all in the span of the song, the kid grows into adulthood. But that tug away from his childhood expectations still pulls on him. Through his commute and through his work, he’s dragged further and further away from his childlike sense of what he thought his life would be. In place of the magic, the pirate ships, the adventure, he has tasks: insurance to choose, teeth to clean, vacuums to buy. And each thing only drags him further away from his expectations. He does nothing. He smokes. And he accepts, letting the distant ache smolder on.

A large part of my Previa-esque belief in Lando Manning comes from the fact that his music has told me a story. I have no idea if it was the story he intended to tell, but therein lies the beauty of art. If you’d like to learn more about Lando’s music and the stories he has to tell, you can subscribe to his substack.

RHyS' music does exactly what music should do—it shows me someone. It draws silhouettes in my head from people of my upbringing with the intimate details and mannerisms that otherwise take a generation to learn.

Who RHyS let in the door with his bantering, genre-bending songs and how accurately they represent him isn't what to hold up. The fact that he has delivered me such a clear image bears the significance. It's evident in his sound: he has mined the composition, the strain of his vocals, his direction, and decision-making from a place within, a place uniquely his. And when I listen to his music I hear a stylus playing on his fingerprint.  

Now, onto knock knock who RHyS’ melody drew at the door:

In walks a big banter guy, not a big talker guy. He will stay as long as the banter stays light guy. 

He doesn't come over just to chat. He needs something, equipment probably. A ripper of sorts, he is a skateboarder or a surfer or pick your activity. I chose skating.

He-guy broke up with his girlfriend for asking why he skates so much. Not in that moment, but it was the catalyst. He doesn't really answer questions, at least not literal ones. And if you have to ask him why, you break his poor-guy-heart.  

At the skatepark, he is quiet, calculated, and witty. He spends twice as much time intensely staring at a ramp or rail as he does riding it. And his riding style, too, is calculated. There are no wasted movements. It's closer to a dance than a trick. He's not performative—it's just obvious the amount of time he has spent with his craft, and it's obvious he carries an unequivocal mastery. 

And then this song comes on and my apartment turns into a skatepark and I see his style with clarity and watch as he skates an entire run while I play with the threads on my throw pillow. He carves unique, fresh lines that would teeter on erraticism if it weren't for his command and control. He(the song) flips, bends, and goes to unexpected places, lending more weight to his guarded disposition.

People like to take that guarded disposition and slap mystery on my skater guy not a big talker guy. He’s enticing because everything he does traces familiarity. But he never gives in, never falls into what your eyes long to see or what your ears expect to hear. So people can be forgiven when wanting to solve the riddle of him with a question, even knowing he won’t answer.

And please don’t misunderstand my imaginary guy—he doesn't answer the questions because of his lack of depth but because of his tongue's ineptitude and lack of bandwidth. The answer to why he skates so much and why he makes his music lies in his actions and work. Through his skating style, his tricks, and his melodies and riffs, he articulates his complexities more accurately. And if you have to ask him why, you either lack the depth to see it, or he has failed in his communication. 

Eventually, DJ Sally Shuffle runs through all of RHyS’ songs and puts on some Black Marble, making my apartment homey again. And I’m alone again.

I have no idea, nor do I care if RHyS resembles or has any of these characteristics. My projection more conveys the degree to which RHyS, through an honest and brave reflection from within, has successfully said something. His music says something. And that is rare. And because of it, wherever RHyS may be, whoever he may be, I feel connected. And that, here, at the very least, will be celebrated. 

**at the time of writing this, RHyS has twenty-one monthly listeners on his spotify, and I have zero people who subscribe to my writing. maybe me feeling connected pulses through both of us shouting our complexities into the void. ily. H.A.G.S.

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