In a bizarre and unforeseen twist of fate, lemme tell ya about this guy, “Ardvell Da Enswell”, (a name that could make a dyslexic crossword puzzle blush). I mean, talk about a head-scratcher of a fella. If you were to browse through the compendium of human curiosities, this guy would be highlighted, underlined, and circled in red marker. Now, let me just say upfront, this dude was about as far from normal as a three-legged cat on a canine rollercoaster. And he fancied himself as a serious composer! You know, the kind who likes to mix up their musical notes like they're throwing mismatched sneakers into a dryer.
So, imagine this scene: you've got Ardvell, totally devoid of musical inspiration, looking like a gluten-free clown at a bris, sulking in a park like a Shakespearean actor who missed his cue. He's got that whole "woe is me" thing going on. And then, outta nowhere, he looks up and sees this hot air balloon, big as life, farting by like it's got a case of chronic indigestion. And lemme tell ya, that balloon triggered some bizarre thoughts in Oddvell's noggin – thoughts involving Paul Simon and a honey badger, of all things. I mean, you'd need a PhD in eccentricity to even begin to decipher that connection.
But wait, it gets better. The weather, not wanting to be left out of the cosmic joke, decides to join the party. Clouds gather behind the balloon like a bunch of gossiping old ladies, and the wind starts whooping it up like it's auditioning for a tornado. Ardvell, being the rain guru he apparently is, predicts a biblical-level downpour. And what does he do? He finds an abandoned umbrella in a trash can probably dumped by someone who'd had enough of its flimsy promises. So, he opens it up, and I kid you not, it gives up the ghost right then and there, collapsing like a house of cards. And this guy – this Ardvell – he's standing there holding the saddest excuse for an umbrella, grinning like he just won the lottery because the snap of this parasol is really bitchin’ and he’s got to record it!
Now, you might think that's where the lunacy peaks, but no siree! Ardvell's not one to let a little rain challenged umbrella slow him down. He skips and zigzags through the precipitation causing his left knee to spasm out. He takes a tumble. Before he slowly lifts himself up his four eyes focus on a shiny object not a foot from his face. At first he can't make out what it is then as he regains his senses he realizes he still can't make it out. On closer inspection it's apparently a cigarette holder and lighter combination that has seen more years than a history museum. He's practically playing Indiana Jones excavating this rusty pièce de résistance from it’s muddy confines. The lighter, though... it's a gone-er, kaput, no sparks left! But Ardvell, he's in love with the sound it makes – like a frog coughing up a fur ball. Not only that, there’s an emblem engraved on it’s front matching the Masonic ring he took back from his failed engagement. What are the chances? So, he stuffs it in his pocket, the way a kid collects shiny rocks, and off he goes.
In his waterlogged journey, Ardvell hears a mishmash of sounds. Bells, plastic hollow trinkets, glass beads… the works! – clanging off the wrought iron fence of the gluten free penitentiary - remnants of some distant Mardi Grau” that lost its mojo! And you know what he does? He collects them like a fevered alchemist gathering ingredients for a potion!
The warped GPS in his mind somehow leads him to a local Starbucks. He stumbles in looking like an outtake from a Supermarket Sweeps game show. Drenched, disheveled and craving a warm cup of Joe he awkwardly works his way in line. A woman with red hair and a raspy voice in front of him turns around to Ardvell and starts channeling her inner "Lucille Ball". She's blabbering on about the bay of pigs, cuban coffee and “Desilu” synchronicities. And Ardvell is just nodding along like a bobblehead, even though in his mind, he's off on a tangent about having oral sex with her and teasing door stoppers and childhood memories that make about as much sense as a penguin in a desert.
But hold onto your mocha frappachino latte, 'cause here's where it gets even zanier. As Ardvell leaves the café, what does he see? The first instrument he ever learned to play. Yup, a springy door stopper, that's what. And it's like his childhood dreams are calling out to him from the asphalt. And if that's not enough, there's an argyle sock floating in a pothole the size of Lake Superior; a sock that probably once graced his old man's foot. And you bet your bottom dollar, he's fishing that thing out like it's a holy Titanic relic.
With these miscellaneous paraphernalia in tow, Ardvell heads home like a mad scientist with a plan. He's gonna make music, or at least something that sounds like it, out of this hodgepodge of junk. And, by some weird stroke of fate, with his digital canvas he creates a masterpiece – a sampling symphony of absurdity that defies logic and probably ruptures eardrums. He's even convinced this mishmash should be in the YMCA talent contest. I mean, the universe must've been rolling in the aisles by this point.
The night of the performance arrives, and Ardvell is center stage, like a wizard unveiling his grand experiment. And the crowd? Well, they're eating it up as if it was the last piece of chocolate on Earth. They're applauding this musical Frankenstein creation like it's Beethoven's Fifth! He gets a three minute standing ovation. But encore or no encore for the first time in his life his ego is rocketed over the moon.
Insert happy ending here…
So, there you have it, folks – the saga of “Ardvell Da Enswell”, a half a footnote who turned the music world upside down and a fraction to the left with his obsession for oddities Was it all in his head? Did any of it really happen? Well, your guess is as good as mine. All I know is, in this wacky tale, destiny was the joker, life was the punchline, and Ardvell? He was the dude who twitched to his own, very peculiar, tune.
Just sayin’…
credits
from Artificial Tales Of Gleep And Whimsy (Vol. 2),
released November 6, 2023
JT : F/X, Mix
Moses Straightarrow : Voice
Recorded and Mixed at Suburban Hermit Studios III, Ronkonkoma, NY
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