So I’m going to go ahead and make the redesign-in-progress live. Things will continue to be broken for a while (and in fact will probably get a bit worse before they get better), but in the end I think I’ll be pretty happy with it, and I hope you will too.

And because posting without a song just seems wrong, here’s a recording I made last year of Elliott Smith’s Waltz #2, done up as an instrumental two-track on classical guitar.

But I’m trying to come back. It’s going to be different, in a lot of ways, but my hope is there’ll be music rolling off this site—and into your feedreader or your iPod—again, and soon, and regularly.

In the mean time, I’m working on the guts of a redesign, and I need a test post that’s different in some under-the-hood ways that aren’t visible to you, the reader, and that’s what this is. So forgive me if it’s not much to look at; I’m hoping that by this time next week, there’ll be a lot more to see.

In the interim, some things will almost certainly look a bit broken—different things at different times—and for that I apologize, but since the front page hasn’t changed in about 300 days, I figure a few bumps for the next 5-10 shouldn’t bother anyone too much.

And, in the spirit of things, find attached a song I wrote about snakes recently.

(Things are broken enough that you may or may not even be able to reach the song from this page normally. So, hey: here’s a direct link in the mean time!)

You are wondering, I imagine, where I have been. A reasonable question. And I could tell you, oh, I could tell you a story—tell you about overzealous FBI bulldogs bursting into my home shouting things like “enemy combatant” and “dirty commie pedestrian”; tell you about the long, dark weeks of misery in some squalid holding tank or another, answering the same senseless questions with the same stark answers as a man (I do not know his name) shouted at me, again and again, “Ernesto! Ernesto!” (and where have I heard that? It seems so familiar); tell you about the crack Ukranian liberation squad that, having tracked me down by my IP address (it was a prison, but not wholly uncivilized—they had an old WebTV unit in the infirmary), rescued me from my keepers, pausing only long enough to tell me how much they love the Olga Pyleva tune—

I could tell you all that, and more, but I would be remiss if I were to go on at tedious length about myself when I have only just returned to apologize for the considerable interruption in our publishing schedule.

Let me say simply that we are back, and terribly sorry for the delay in musical news. I may be recuperating somewhat yet, so do not be surprised if our publishing schedule is a bit slower and more erratic than it had been in previous months—but it is my sincere hope that we will provide you with news, musically, at least once a week or so.

And I will have help: The Interns have returned. Whatever differences we may have had (and here they are saying something or other about labor laws, unpaid overtime, physical abuse, &c), I have become once more a hero in the eyes of these youngish liberal journalistics now that they’ve heard that I have clashed with The Man. The look in their eyes—excitement, respect, optimism—it bolsters me. I have to thank them; perhaps it is not they who owe me for wrongs past done, but I who owe them for their support and concern and admiration now.

Though they’ll have to replace the goddam scotch.

Ernesto! Ernesto! Ernesto!

Ernesto!

Another grateful nod to Paul Hunt (who is Dutch, not Danish, which fact would certainly never be misrepresented and then hastily amended in a prior issue of this publication, because we know the difference) for this contribution. When Paul isn’t providing guest contributions to The Aural Times or posting to his site, Wolkenwelden, I have it on good authority that he is fighting crime with nothing more than a cup of coffee and a flaky wifi connection.

Things in the office are…quiet. Still. I have been arranging for interviews for Interns, but in a sort of ironic symmetry, several of my former Interns—the ones laid off for being criminally lazy and unmotivated—have started an anti-AT crusade at local college campuses. I am simultaneously furious at their meddling and nearly consumed with pride that they’ve managed to actually accomplish something. They’ve been seen marching across this or that quadrangle, hefting signs that say Never Again and bear the likeness of none other than that long-lost nudist Intern, Dalton.

Furious and proud; proud and furious. I suppose this must be how parents feel, when they are not busy cleaning up vomit.

In the office, we’ve been trying out Interns again, but there’s been nothing but disappointment this week—these kids don’t understand The Aural Times. They don’t understand music. They don’t understand why they wouldn’t get paid.

“Tuition,” they cry. “How can I pay my semester fees?” Crybabies.

Today’s contribution is the second we’ve run from a fine Dutch correspondent, Paul Hunt—who stages his mad schemes over at Wolkenvelden. You may remember his previous composition, a touching consideration of the letter W and its recent formal adoption by the Swedes.

It is worth noting that Paul has some excellent music, and that you can purchase it if you are so inclined.

And so, a look back—it is March, and the President of the United States is taking a trip to the subcontinent.  And what were we doing, here at The Aural Times?  We were taking a trip to the dance-pop continent.

Enjoy, and expect a brand new composition on Wednesday.  Happy listenening.

In office news, I interviewed another potential Intern yesterday. Spirited young fellow going by the handle Beakers, for reasons he did not go into in any depth. I suspect it may have something to do with pharmaceuticals, however—he recorded today’s song on the spot, insisting in a sort of frenzy that he had to “rock my face with a demo”, and then ran screaming out the door as soon as it was in the can.

If he ever comes screaming back in the door, I think I will keep him.

This scoop, and indeed today’s song, comes from our latest field correspondent, a talented remote agent who operates under the enigmatic cover of The Great Big Mulp. Where this “Mulp” can be found is a bit of a mystery, but I am in his debt.

Specifically, I am still short on Interns. Yes, don’t ask, Greg is still around, and I remain pleased with his awkward pluckiness—his plucky nerdiness—his nerdy awkwardness— especially after the fine work he did on his debut issue—but he’s a bit useless today. I’m not entirely clear about the details, but he’s rather distraught over the fallout of a fire at his “apartment”.

To be clear, apartment in this case means his mother’s basement. And no persons—or dogs or otters—were harmed. But he blubbered something about a “mint condition 2nd Edition PHB” being burnt to a crisp, and he is currently inconsolable. His mother tells me he has been sitting in the ashen mess of his room and sniffing moistly and rolling a pair of twenty sided dice again and again for the bulk of the day.

Be strong, Greg. I need you. I need you to make fresh coffee.