A Record of You

this was from a series of writing experiments, turning the work of Juan Santapau, the Secret Knots, into a short-form novella. If you enjoy, please check out http://www.thesecretknots.com!

I had the idea and immediately knew I could never look back. It was without question because it could not be questioned. It simply was.

I would record the record a new way.

There would be people instead of songs. There would be people you could sing.

That was it then.

So I looked. I looked everywhere I could, I searched out real-life characters I could arrange and present as tracks on the album.

Each person would be a song.

I tried to show how we perceive a distinct personality in songs, in a very, very literal way. We all know concept albums of course, and recently Beck Hanson even released a new record of only sheet music, designed to be played and interpreted by the listener. I thought, naturally, why not go even further? Why not go as far as I could?

The key was to put the right character in exactly the right place. I would start with something unexpected but extremely effective, a classic track one. He would be tall, but not too tall, with handsome features and a thick, sandy beard to match his thick, sandy hair, only he'd be wearing costume angel wings and holding a toy squirt gun. He would turn the corner, lock you in his gaze and then from out of his peat coat he would blast you with cold water and infectious smiles. He even spoke with a sense of whimsy, where every word seemed poised to leap from his mouth like a penguin who just somehow figured out a way to fly.

I would of course follow this up with a quieter one, a track that would grow on the audience over time. He would be simple, unassuming, wearing a small pair of worn glasses that rested gently on the bridge of his small, worn nose. He looked like anyone, he could be everyone, but the more time you spent with him, the more you realize that maybe he was you all along.

Next, a powerful ballad. Whenever she spoke, it would rain, even indoors. The sadness seemed not to follow her, but to come from her directly, like patience from a saint.

Then we would have to lighten up the mood of the record to keep the listener listening. Here would be a short, playful piece, maybe a full grown man but one who had never grown up, nor out. He would be naturally disfigured, so short and with such mismatched limbs that you'd feel slightly uncomfortable speaking to him, averting your eyes as not to appear rude. Yet when he begins to talk to you, and just as he puts on his comic-book mask and starts spinning his yo yo, you are immediately disarmed. His life comes out of the gates running as he talks to you, his charm and humor about things so effortless and so natural that you feel a sense of sadness when its over.

I had in mind a somewhat classic, sort of "noirish" track next. She would be beautiful, of that there could be no doubt. She would always be smoking, even when in the shower, and when out, she would wear nothing but dinner gowns, frequently black. She would always have this expression on her face, one of sexy bravado and yet total fear, like someone, or something, was after her. I even thought I had found my promotional single here but my producer refused immediately.

"THIS," he said, "THIS ONE. Much more high concept, trust me, baby." He was very enthusiastic about the next track. He looked at her as she bounced when she walked, her swimsuit wrapped around her like she was candy, an old, vintage almost-bikini she wore ironically. She would be oblivious to you, however, to the whole world, as she stared only at her phone. The sun would be shining and her laughter would erupt and ride the warmth of the morning sky at the various images that lit her face from the tiny screen. She could be watching a clever mash-up of realistic war movies played to the theme of that one sitcom you loved. She could be sharing her thoughts or pictures of her dinner with the whole world, all at once. She would giggle only to then see her face contort into frustration or sadness or jealousy, all fixated on the world created in front of her, all against the world going on around her.

He would walk in the room then and everyone would stop. His coat was huge and appropriately billowy, a purplish looking velvet and it fit him just as it would if you could imagine him in your head. He would just stand there for several whole minutes saying nothing while you started to question the situation in earnest. What was going on here? Who was this? Is he messing with me? Am I dreaming? Then, as if to break the silence with a synthesizer, he would take off his huge, futuristic-looking sunglasses and start dancing. This track was designed to be wholly electronic, very 80's influenced. His dancing is what sold it. You couldn't help but tap your toe or nod your head with every turn he made with his hips.

Next would be a very discreet track. This would be the secretly charming piece every record has, or every musician hopes to have. She would be small and gentle. She would be wearing clothes almost twice too big for her. Her skirt exploded like a wave of frothing, green sea over her slightly ripped jeans. Her sneakers would be so large they could have been stolen from a Saturday morning cartoon. She would be sitting in the library, not in a seat of course, but against two bookshelves pushed together, and she would just read. You wouldn't be able to guess how she could see through her glasses, as smudged as they were, but still she did.

She was reading The Mechanical Monastery. Against the floor, unmoving and loved, she looked just like a book.


In the end, it should have been overshadowed by the big, demented-in-crescendo closer I placed in. The last track was loud and mad, howling and crooning at the same time. The ending was neither tall, not short. The ending was neither old, nor young. The ending had the hard jaw of a man, but the delicate lips and eyes of a tired woman. It spit when it screamed, and when it finally collapsed on itself, an explosion of doubt and remorse and regret and revenge, everything else was silence.

But I was wrong. I was very, very wrong.

When the album was released, the one track that got to places was the one I never would have guessed. She sat there, staring back at me from TV's and magazines now, only she didn't look at me at all. She stared instead at the well-loved pages of The Mechanical Monastery that she held in front of her as she sat on the floor. It had to have been her only copy, one that looked like it had survived the battle of The Bathtub Spill, had made it through the hellish winter of Used As a Coffee Coaster, and, somehow, come out on top. She sat there and simply read. The one part no one could stop talking about was her smile; or, if she had been smiling at all.

Soon there were versions and interpretations, appropriates and parodies. There were remixes and mash-ups. I'd see her walking down the street with a ball cap hanging from her head slightly askew, a hip-hop version with gold earrings big enough to fit your hands. I walked into the store the other day and there she was, naked as the day she was born, her hair longer, her smile more questionable, an acoustic folk cover.

She was everywhere and everyone's. She was no longer my creation, if she had ever been.

It didn't matter.

I had underestimated and ultimately lost her to the world. In a way, I wonder if that was what was supposed to happen.

Still, after everything, I was left with a feeling I didn't know what to do with.

And then I picked up my pen. And then I picked up my guitar. Then, maybe, just maybe, I started to sing.

Reviews

[Aaron the Baron]

I absolutely love this! Wow, beautiful concept!

[Francis Danger]

thank you very much!

[Lehcar]

I can't help but notice that this is a Secret Knots comic. One of my favorites, as it happens. Dated before your story. Did you credit Juan Santapau? http://www.thesecretknots.com/2012/12/06/how-to-make-an-album-with-people-instead-of-songs/

[Francis Danger]

i did not, though i should have. i interviewed Juan for a story i was working on and we got into discussing his comics. this was just an attempt to turn some of his comics into a novella, or into a short form novel as many have a recurring theme, which we talked about. the site the story was for, asecretmachine.com, is sadly no longer about, but i didn't mean for this to be seen other than as a place to hold some writing experiments. I have worked on turning a couple of his comics into short stories, and have worked on some art inspired by his work as well as other authors. honestly, i have forgotten entirely about this! thanks for the reminder, i will adjust it accordingly.