I'm feeling pretty inspired after checking out Hemlock's most recent (non-live) collection of songs, May. Not because it's particularly unique within her discography, or because I think it crystalizes or elevates some pervasive themes of her artistry. It doesn't. May is part of a series, one where Hemlock challenges herself to write and record a song every day for a month. It's the 5th such sonic-scrapbook that she's curated since she started recording under the name Hemlock in 2018. It's also not definitive, as I don't believe any single work by the artist is. She is one of those prolific writers who is almost compulsively productive, and therefore, their discography is less of a clean trajectory and more of a fog you have to wade through- like you're chest-deep in marsh water, dredging for some misbegotten stash of treasure a mobster dumped in the quag back in the '30s. Thankfully, Hemlock is as masterful as she is generous with her output; and unlike the mire of my previous metaphor, you'll be stumbling over an ample cache of gems before you know it. The rewards are plentiful and immediately in reach. What I probably appreciate the most about Hemlock, her May collection, and her work in general, is that there is a sense of fruitful progress in their work- she puts all of themselves into it, and while new works don't replace the old, the continuity between songs and projects does successfully capture an accumulated quotidian wisdom- an acknowledgment that the performer and the listener are renewed and enlighted with what they take from each day, but are still the same person that they were when the sun rose as after it set- a cohesion that is maintained not only through physical processes, but the experience of reflection as well. Most of us don't make the effort to record our thoughts and feelings or our state of awareness throughout the day, and as a result, we lose track of the person we were as we become the person we will be. It's a natural operation of amnesia that a work like May disrupts in course, nabbing and preserving moments of sound and thought and slivers of liminality to be examined later in different lighting and with a studious gaze. Not every moment needs to be preserved for the ages, but leaving one's life to be wholly swallowed by time is a curse of a different category altogether. It's good to be reminded of what your cat sounds like when she wants attention in the afternoon, how the birds chirp as they forage outside your window, or how gravely your SO's voice gets just before they fall asleep, or even just the way your guitar sounded after you tuned it on a particular afternoon. All of these things that make up your day, that define and shape its textures, are worth having small swatches and reminders of, and so an exercise like May is something that everyone should attempt for themselves at least once. But in the case of May in particular, the mementos and small monuments that anchor it in the soil of the extraordinary mundane are also wrapped and encompassed by some beautifully realized, wavy folk troubadourship, that greets the senses like drops of golden dew drizzling off a honey dipper. Without meaning to sound like I'm making any bold proclamations, listening to May has inspired me to try something adventurous with this blog. I don't know what yet, but it will be something that I do every day to affirm the purpose of my writing, and which I believe will enrich others by engaging with. When I start, you'll know. Until then, and beyond, I'll encourage you to dream of a creative affirmation of your own to commit to, as Hemlock's May has done for me.
