Probably a year ago, I made the introduction of a gentleman named Mr. Jace Freeman who it turned out was a brilliant filmmaker in the early stages of his career.  Occasionally, and often over a pint of ale, we would discuss menial topics of far less consequence than his or my art, until Mr. Freeman made casual mention that he had heard a rough recording of The Grey House in visiting one of my virtual destinations.  It was then that he revealed an interest in making a short film which would supplement the then unrecorded final rendition of that surreal lullaby.  We would eventually meet at a coffeehouse where we would discover an aesthetic kinship in the way of imagery and effect.

The images from The Grey House came to me in a dream.  There was an ominous-looking grey mansion perched upon a hill of bleak and desolate surrounds.  I surveyed that damned edifice from afar with a feeling of utter disgust as though it was the fount of my unfortunate plight.  Yet, The Grey House is a song of inspiration and awakening, for my thoughts and feelings were instantaneously transformed with the entrance – or exit rarther – of a sentient being.  A lovely woman she was, the archetype of purity and grace, and she descended from this sinister abode with all the good cheer and light-hearted presence of an angel in Heaven.  Her alluring beauty alone was enough to quell the most petrified of hearts, but that which she represented would be the thing that completely transmuted my every idea of Heaven and Earth.  This rare beauty, and her child-like heart were seemingly un-affected by those dismal environs!  She was not victim to any of it.  In turn, I began to question if there was anything ‘wrong’ at all!  Perhaps this horrid scene was a product of my own perception..? 

When I outlined this for Mr. Freeman, he seemed even more inspired and compelled.  We set a date for Saturday, April 24 for the initial shoot – a month in the future.  On Friday, April 23, I left the studio with a CD of rough mixes which the producer, Mr. McMahan, had rendered for me.  In listening on my way home, the recording of As the Storm Rolls In stood-out to me as a particular piece of magic.  I contacted Mr. Freeman immediately to suggest the impulsive notion of discarding the past year’s anticipation for The Grey House and filming a video for As the Storm Rolls In, in its stead.  Had the director been anyone else, he might have considered this a flighty notion, but Mr. F. in fact reveled in the idea of honoring the moment!  It is in this way that we truly do see eye-to-eye. 

As synchronicity would have it, a storm did roll in on that day of shooting.  Mr. F. sealed his camera with plastic and duct tape and we shot a video in the midst of a torrential down-pour, high winds, thunder, and lightning.  It was an exhilarating experience to risk our lives for this decidedly worthwhile cause!  As it seems that Mr. Freeman is likewise a man of Faith, neither of us was overcome by fear.  The result, I’m told, is a wealth of inspired footage.  I eagerly anticipate that day when I can reveal it to you!

~Mr. H.

Standing with my arms akimbo, I surveyed the grassy plot where last year’s tomato plants, corn stalks, and bean bushes protruded through the soil as though desperately breaching the surface for a gasp of air.  Surely there would be no better spot on this great estate – the soil being fertile and the sun being prevalent there throughout the length of the day – for a reestablishment of my vegetable garden.  With an eventual decisiveness which can only come through strife for the full-blooded Libra, I began to till the breadth of this twenty-square allotment, consecrating it once again as a soil-bed for the cultivation my own sustenance.

To-day, I have the sensation of sore extremities to remind me of this imposition of my will upon the crust of the Earth.  Yea, the top-soil did kindly yield to the Good nature of my purpose, but not without the friendly assertion of its newly-assumed identity as solid ground.  In process, I was reminded of my own buried philosophy that this sort of toil in cahoots with Mother Earth is her own natural anti-depressant.  As a man of clear purpose, despondency has long been absent from my experience, but I would freely admit to the upheaval of my senses from a somewhat torpid state as a direct result of this laborious communion with Nature.  I have relished those moments when thought alone has resulted in epiphany, and have often basked in the veritable euphoria of the meditative state; but nothing has consistently delivered me from delusion like the experiential recognition of my-self as One with Nature.  Do not assume, kind reader, that such a state of awareness and objectivity must-needs-be catalyzed by auxiliary substances.  No!  Even a homeopathic dose of properly administered fresh air can effectively remedy the most intractable malaise!

Magically – as the effect of a single thought – there lies a ready-ground for the embedment of all manner of indigenous vegetation, just outside my studio door.  Once again I must combat my Libran propensity for indecision and select those plants to-day whose fruit I might fervidly savor to-morrow.  Assuredly, a trip to the Farmer’s Market will present a manageable array of options for that far-off meal.  Thankfully, this is the extent of my worries.

The Earth-bound,
Mister Hazelwood

Silence?!  Alas! A vacuum has been created throughout the great chambers and corridors of this Old Manse, for it has been the scene of much hustle and bustle in the space of this week-end.  Personages from every walk of life have either congregated here, making their presence known, or passed through as a spirit in haste – I never even finding the occasion to make their acquaintance.  This evening I am once again in a physical state of solitude, yet accompanied still by the memory of the jovial presence of these sporadic comers and goers.  It is a familiar brand of moment when I have become aware that I have lost myself in the vicissitudes of life within a period of days, and am often wont to question my equanimity.  At length, however, I have decided that it is nature’s trademark that all things should occur within the range of balance and chaos.  When we familiarize ourselves with one, it is always the soul’s desire to seek-out the other.  Therefore, I judge not my own spirit’s scattered agenda for these past few days and gladly inherit the task of clean-up.

Among these unconstrained past-times was a recording project for my good compatriot Mr. James Wallace which took up the better part of the week-end’s days.  Numerous instrumentalists did pass through the porte-cochere of the Manse, for as per Mr. Wallace’s request, I had been assigned the role of co-producer, engineer, and percussionist on this project.  The object of our exertions was a piece of music that is slated for release on cassette tape by a Chinese record label.  This is an amusing prospect to me to say the least!  Mr. W and I have come to the consensus that the tape should be manufactured in gold plastic a-la The Legend of Zelda.

Friday evening, I poked my song-saturated head into the dim confines of the Family Wash to clear my musical palate with the sounds of the immensely talented songstress Ms. Jordan Caress.  She projects a beatiful heart-on-her-sleeve, mature vocal timbre which draws one in, to listen intently to her finely-crafted lyrics whether one likes it or not.  I left feeling very much inspired and down-to-Earth.

Saturday night I held a soiree on my grounds to celebrate the birthday of my lovely friend and neighbor Miss Amy Hall.  As we have relatively few mutual acquaintances, my abode was graced with the presence of many unfamiliar guests.  Bessie did revel in the opportunity to garner a bouquet of foreign scents, but I, being more civilized, found the variant personalities to be of greater interest.  In the end, however, it could be said of all present species that enjoyment was had.

Now that we are up-to-speed, I feel obligated to immerse myself in the contrast of this quiet.  Once I have meditated away the day, it is my good intention to sleep undisturbed until such time as this week-end is exalted as a beautiful memory.

Your Host,
Mister Hazelwood

During our recent sessions at the House of David, I was able to snap off a few photographs.  Here is a visual sampling of those magic moments which have more artfully been documented in sound-recording.  That hallowed weekend will forever live in my memory as a time of joy and pure creativity among the most talented and agreeable group of men and women I have ever had the pleasure to work with.   ~Mr. H.

1972 API Console

Mr. Goforth

Ms. Dickinson

Mr. Leago & Mr. McMahan

Mr. Norris, Ms. Shires, & Mr. Perkinson

Mr. Hazelwood & Mr. McMahan at the Console

The New Transcendentalists

Tranquility is the leitmotif of this day.  As I have positioned myself before the picture window overlooking my garden, I see the innocent white blooms of the Dogwood contrasting against the fresh green leaves of a mighty Oak.  They dance against one another in my line of sight, now and again revealing a piercing blue sky in the spaces.  It seems to me a sort of natural-world collideascope.  Concurrently, there is a song playing in my mind which is scored masterfully in sync with this serene display.  It is a selection from my upcoming album Days of the Visceral, which is now certain to be the quintessence of self-actualization.  It is what I hear when I look at the world, and the moment of its release will be a beautiful surrender.  I say this because I do not make claim to this music.  I have a clear understanding that it has not come from me but through me.  My artistic process is one of being open to receive – being a clear channel through which Divinity might flow.  Therefore, I think it not egotism to say that this song in my head is of a particular genius – by the One great Artist.  With eager anticipation I look forward to its distribution in the zeitgeist.

Mister H.

Yester-day’s session was a success.  We were able to capture many decidedly special moments.  As is the nature of experimentation, there were occurrences which I could have never fathomed.  Songs were wont to take on a life of their own, eventually presenting themselves as something completely liberated from my-self.  Perhaps it is liken-to what a parent experiences as their child begins to develop a ‘mind of their own’.  I wouldn’t know.  The renderings were Round and Round, Keep it Quiet, As the Storm Rolls In, and Then Again. 

We finished very late night and I am still collecting my senses, so I leave you with this short status update.  It is my sincerest hope that you have a beautiful Easter Sunday.  May you find the awareness to resurrect your highest self from the proverbial tomb.

The Abbreviated,
Mr. H.

IN RESPONSE to the numerous queries regarding yester-day’s recording session, I come to you this morning.  Thank you all for your well-wishes and encouragement.  It is the very fuel that has propelled this great steam engine thus far.  There is much more to tell than I have time for, I lament, but we are only a third of the way done and I am currently halfway out the door.  Therefore, I will dispel some highlights.

The session began late as it took some time to get each distinguished member’s sound dialed-in.  Once we had each personage sounding like his or her repective self, the record button was pressed.  As we performed, four songs were captured like lightning in a bottle; Another Clew, The Grey House, Eloise, and Confidential Friend.  It had been my hope to render at least four selections per day, so I was thrilled that we managed to do this in the abbreviated time-period of Three O’clock to Midnight.

Mr. McMahan and I stopped off at a tavern for a nightcap and to recap the day’s events.  Having spent all day in a state of extreme focus, it was a very strange experience to be among the hoards of Friday evening bar-goers.  They passed around us on all sides like displaced phantoms in search of something, heaven knows what.  I soon retired to the Old Manse and slipped immediately into a dead slumber.  To-day I feel well-rested and fully-prepared for the rigors of recording.

Fervently!
Mr. H.

I believe I will have my coffee outside, as it is a beautiful day.  The New Transcendentalists are set to arrive at the studio at Eleven O’Clock.  I may get there a little early and oil the pedals on the pump organ.  There was a mysterious buzz in the control room last night which plagued engineer Richard McLaurin.  He and Joe McMahan (producer) stayed there well into the night troubleshooting.  I am curious to know the results. 

As there will be varying manifestations of the band each of the three days, I am pondering which songs to assign to each.  Otherwise, my mantra for the day is ‘focus only on my parts’.  Mr. McMahan is not playing an instrument.  He will be planted between the control room speakers and directing the show.  I can rest easy knowing that ‘someone out there’ is listening. 

I apologize for my course syntax and the hasty nature of this entry.  Economy of words is not exactly my forte’.  Wish us magic!

Mr. H.

As our proposed recording sessions edge toward immediate reality, I find my self flashing back to a period exactly three years ago when spring was likewise the back-drop for the documentation of song.  It was the making of Ode Hazelwood’s Radio Noise.  The late Mrs. Hazelwood and I were living in a rustic old manse that had a particular antiquarian charm.  The reverberation in its halls was ideal for our aesthetic in those days.  Prior to those sessions I had laboured tirelessly toward converting those quarters into a working recording studio.  The control room was concealed within the close, dusky confines of the attic, where it would be indiscernible to those performers in the great room.  The resulting atmosphere was one of sequestration from the technologies of the day which I had perceived as encroaching upon our lives.  Radio Noise was reactionary in the sense that it represented a great rebellion against the homogenization of society, race-mind nonsense, and anything else which I perceived was seeking to steal away my artistic, spiritual and societal liberty.  Needless to say, I was fairly high-strung in those days – intensity being equal-to passion in my philosophy.  When I listen back to that album, I encounter vehement emotions which I have not felt since.  Therefore, in hind-sight I consider the epoch of Radio Noise to be a time of healing.

These days I do not imagine myself in resistance to anything.  I am clued-in to the quantum-choreography of life.  I have experienced the perfection and beauty which is surging through everything within the range of my perception, via some mysterious gift of heightened intuition and objectivity – higher consciousness, if you will.  It is from this perspective that I laboured upon my compositions, and from which they will be consecrated in recording.  I feel as though I have reached the summit of some sacred mountaintop to spout my discoveries along the way into the collective consciousness where they may spiral into infinity.  Yet all-the-while, I am keenly aware that even this is a stepping-stone along the way.  Three years from now I will very possibly reflect-upon this time with a wisdom that is unavailable now.  I am reminded of a decidedly inspired line in one of my own songs on Radio Noise called ‘Devils Radio’, wherein I queried “Are we behind or ahead of the times? – Only time will tell…”

The evolving,
Mr. Hazelwood

Some mornings, I transfer my musings to a local coffeehouse to be among other creatures of the day while I write and reflect, as an excuse to consume copious amounts of café noir – or vice-versa.  Yester-day as I sat among the variant chatter, toiling over my personal journal (that intimate dialogue with myself which I choose not to publicize), I noticed a French gentleman to whom I had been formerly introduced but had never spoken to at length.  In respect for his anonymity, I shall refer to him as ‘Monsieur Jacques Cartier’.  We two shook hands in mutual acknowledgement, and sat together for an energizing morning chat. 

It came to light that M. Cartier, who appeared to be in his sixties, had done no small amount of traveling in his days.  He carried about his aspect a particular aura of wisdom which can only be gleaned from empirical understandings.  He had a glowing intellect which was apparent even before he spake, but which traveled along his dialogue as though on a beam of light.  I listened intently as he described the wonders which his eyes had beheld.  We traveled together in discussion from the rainforests of Latin America to the great snow-banks of Canada, across mountains and fjords in Europe, over volcanoes in the South Pacific, into magnificent palaces in Asia, and through bustling Arab cities.  At each point along the path, a long-burning flame of desire within me was stoked, to eventually set all my senses ablaze!  I myself was an ardent traveler in my youth, though not to such a degree.  But, it was enough to establish an understanding that I am most contented when I am en route.  I have never tired of exploration, yea my passion for new cultures – the people, customs, art, music, architecture, and etcetera is only multiplied by their experience.  M. Cartier stood before me essentially no more alive than for having been around the world, but perhaps he had been around the world because he was more alive!  Nonetheless, I felt grateful for the gift of this interaction wherein I was immensely inspired to sail my ship out of this channel into an open sea where I might be unobstructed on all sides. 

I count this moment of awareness in-addition-to innumerable motivations to put my whole self into the making of our album.  There could not be more optimism on my part and by those who are set to be in attendance for next week-end’s sessions.  As I am currently in the midst of a dream come to life,  there is no cause to believe that I should wake up to any alternate reality now.  I therefore sail onward..

The Explorer,
Joseppi Hazelwood de l’Autre Monde