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Nondum In Auge

by Hussalonia

When the animals get lonely, they’ll invent a new language. They’ll speak it sad and slowly. It’ll sound like a string section. Chimneys, statues and wires. It doesn’t make a difference. If both your wings are tired, you’ll perch on anything. That’s the truth enough. Isn’t living strange? We’re drawn to other people’s pain. Lost in a supermarket. Sitting in the back of a car. Solipsistic soundtrack-ism Realistic reproduction. That’s the truth enough. Isn’t living strange? We’re drawn to other people’s pain. So tell me wherefore does it hurt in some vague place beneath your shirt? You can drag me down an alley. You can push me off a cliff. You can put me in a love song, but you better make it count. That’s the truth enough. Isn’t living strange? We’re drawn to other people’s pain.
Is that candy or pink insulation? Is that a rabbit or a plastic bag? Are those diamonds or just broken glass? Isn’t it wonderful that I have to ask? Every melody is just “Moonglow” to me. Skate shot sparks and skylarking. C and C Music Factory, give me a job. Give me a job. I work efficiently. I’ve got a master’s degree. Give me a job. Give me a job. What’s all that thread on your head? What are those white stones in your mouth? Everything is just so embarrassing, having to ask what’s it all about. The motifs and the themes, the illogical dreams. Time is not on my side; it’s on my back. C and C Music Factory, give me a job. Give me a job. I swear, I'll file; I'll clean; I'll use the fax machine. Just give me a job. Give me a job.
If this were rain, I’d go inside. If this were beast, I’d run and hide. I can make up a story, but I can’t lose the past. Run from my problems, but just how long can that last? You say I buy so many records ‘cause I’m lonely. I’m keeping time under my thumb. Set adrift by some insipid hit. I know I’m okay ‘cause it hurts. Love is ultimately defined by the pain we feel when it’s lost. Everything you make will eventually belong to someone else. Still, nothing is ever created or destroyed. You thought I was aimless. Well, you were wrong. I know what I want, it’s just impossible. Tell me that I’m not alone, then leave me alone. Let me prove how sick I am. Love is ultimately defined by the pain we feel when it’s lost.
I court disaster. I court ruin. Sweep me off my feet; here’s the broom. I’m a fool. I’m a fool. Unravel me; here’s the spool. This is the pain that I thought had left me alone. Standing outside the club I refused to join. Drowned in the fountain, retrieving my coin. I court disaster. I court ruin. Finish me off; here’s the spoon. I’m adrift. I’m adrift. Love me to death; here’s the kiss. This is the pain that I thought had left me alone.
The tragedy is ironic. The comedy is cruel. Can you quiet my doubts? Can you help me love what’s left of the world? Life and death are concurrent events taking place under the watchful but selectively forgetful eye of memory. To be sick is to survive the airborne illness of being alive. Give me a problem I’m equipped to solve, or I’ll create one myself just to feel the intoxicating thrill of control. Don’t believe your ears. Don’t trust your eyes, but know that we can collapse the wave function simply through observation. Foolish naïveté, crushing despair. If I’m not here, I’m likely there. They lied when they said the future was ours.
Oh tangerine, did I ever tell you about that dream? We were suspects in a crime. You walked. I did time. I want to hear all of my favorite songs through your ears. In fact, I’m convinced that they were meant to be heard that way. When darkness descends, you know you’ve been eclipsed. From the tip of my tongue to the edge of my lips. Here’s to my last will and testament. So what do you want when I pass away? I can’t say a word, though there’s so much to say. Here’s to my last will and testament.
The Spell 02:12
All our language and limitations It serves us well. You can just say the word and forecast the spell. Even chaos agents sing the serenity prayer, knockin’ on heaven’s door saying, hello, are you there? It’s good weather on a canceled event. They said god’s on our side. We just don’t where he went. What’s a shaman to do when there’s no one left to save and nothing left to fix? The sins of our fathers will never be absolved. We’re not dealing with a riddle that’s just begging to be solved. We’ve got visions of the future from the past to reassure us that nothing’s gonna last. All our language and limitations It serves us well. You can just say the word.
I’m thinking of a place no one’s ever been. Lose a little faith. Find your way again. Go on and guess. It is all meaningless. I’ve just seen a face no one’s ever seen. Gone without a trace. Withdrawn from memory. You live and learn then don’t return. But I do. I believe in you. I do. Can you believe in me, too? I’m writing another song no one may ever hear. Tell me, careful moon, and kindly disappear. The recklessness of faith, our very own to misplace ‘Cause I do. I believe in you. I do. Can you believe in me, too? Three minutes longer. Just give me three minutes longer.
I’ve walked a straight line through every crooked heart, and I have learned to forgive so much. But when I’m missing you, I know that I am missing, too. I wonder where we go. So many targets, but where to begin? Now there’s nowhere left to go but in. I am everything that you’re not but a little of the trouble you’ve got. I see my reflection in every polluted pond, because I know that’s where I’m from. I rewrote history so that you and I could exist, but I can only invent so much. So many stories, but where to begin? There’s nowhere left to go but in.
No one will care if you don’t fit in. No one will care if you’re alone. We’re no one. That’s all. We’re no one. That’s us. Twice more ears than voices. Still, not everyone heard. Find me in a song. Find me in a book. Under-appreciated and overlooked. We’re no one. That’s all. We’re no one. That’s us. Listen to us. Listen to us. Listen to no one. No one feels as awful as you feel tonight. Throw your arms around the future and hold on tight. They’ll take their knives and they’ll encircle you, drawing conclusive deductions. The moral mark of sermonists, drawing blood to fill their cups. They’ll say “Listen to us. Listen to us. Listen to us.” But you listen to no one.
I don’t want to live. I want to flourish. Not well fed and malnourished. You say, “you’re not dead, but only sick with doubt. So what’s there to complain about?” Give me freedom from your freedom. Our cells have been built from gratitude and guilt. The magnetic coil. The mortal desire for fulfillment and fire. We can settle for less and less and less. The dance of doomed decisions, deaf to idealistic rhythms. We lost the majestic milky way to keep our parking lots safe. Losing water, losing air, losing our minds, our time, our way. We can settle for less and less and less.


Since 1997, Hussalonia, a self-proclaimed pop-music cult, has been quietly releasing esoteric and eclectic albums and EPs from the solitude of bedrooms, spare rooms, and basements. It is largely the work of one conceptual artist who, owing to a contractual stipulation with Nefarico™ (the fictional soap company that owns Hussalonia), is known only as The Hussalonia Founder. Hussalonia has released albums of soap jingles, radio dramas, robot singers, faux-metal, power pop, lo-fi acoustic pop, sound collage, Scott Joplin arrangements, Eastern European Anthems, and noise-funk. It’s a conceptual art project, offering a vast, sprawling oeuvre of over 400 songs intended to appeal to the introverted, crate-digging, discovery-driven, literate music nerd.

NONDUM IN AUGE, Hussalonia’s 48th release on Bandcamp, offers a rather straight-forward album of Americana-tinged, melancholic, alternative rock about loss and hope. Unlike previous Hussalonia albums which rely heavily on the multi-tracking process necessary for a solo recording artist, the basic tracks of NONDUM IN AUGE were recorded live in The Hussalonia Founder’s basement in the summer of 2018 with Drummer-composer-visual artist Rob Lynch and bassist-composer-designer Jonathan Hughes who have played on a number of previous Hussalonia releases (see: 2010’s DEEP IN A DONUT DREAM, 2016’s MY DEAD TOOTH, and 2019’s PHIL). While overdubs were later added, there was a concentrated effort to preserve the live sound of three people making music in a low-ceilinged, hole in the ground. It’s an album that is several years in the making, interrupted by crippling bouts of depression and anxiety surrounding the state of the nation. How does one function normally in a tailspin of chaos? One doesn’t.

Nondum In Auge is a Latin phrase which can be translated to mean: not yet at its zenith. It’s a sentiment that, if one were feeling hopeful, could apply to the United States. That it’s being offered in a dead language adds a gut punch of pathos — all things, no matter how orchestrated and engineered, must pass. Loss and hope! Loss and hope! Too, I suppose, it’s a phrase that could apply to Hussalonia itself. Still toiling in willful obscurity after 23 years, Hussalonia has not yet reached the height of its popularity or, let’s hope, potential.

— Dolores DeCabeza, Head of Nefarico™ Public Relations

To learn more about Hussalonia, visit www.hussalonia.com.


released September 24, 2020

Drums: Rob Lynch
Bass: Jonathan Hughes
Everything Else: The Hussalonia Founder

All songs © Hussalonia 2020 BMI
Cover photo by Captain Blanqueador
Executive Producer: Lloyd Loss




Hussalonia Buffalo, New York

Hussalonia is largely the work of a multi-instrumentalist known only as The Hussalonia Founder.

Founded in 1997, Hussalonia is a "pop music cult" and claims to be owned by Nefarico™, a fictional soap company.

The Hussalonia Founder lives and works in Buffalo, New York.
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