Currently listening to: The Hand Of Fate, Pt. II by James Newton Howard
Hello, friend.
Are we alone in the universe?
In my opinion, it’s not likely.
Billions, if not trillions, of galaxies collectively contain an unfathomable number of stars and planets—there must be life out there somewhere. But the likelihood that we have or will come into contact with them is also extraordinarily low.
I’ll let this old Kurzgesagt video explain:
TL;DW: The probability of alien life seems high, but various factors (physics, time, the natural fragility of life) make the probability of any civilization going the distance to find others very low.
What does this mean for us?
Personally, I use this information as a reminder of the meaningfulness of life on earth. We may not be alone in theory, but in practice, we are very much alone.
Using the term “alone” here is a bit disingenuous, though. For all the dreaming we do about the trillions of galaxies out there and the aliens we may be missing, we are overlooking the billions of people with whom we coexist.
Sure, these people, as a whole, are imperfect, complex, and frustrating. They (we) are also miraculous, when you look at them (us) through the lens of an incomprehensibly-harsh universe.
I think it’s important to remember the miracle of our humanity, especially in socially difficult times.
Here in the US, we’re mourning the life of Renée Good, a Minnesotan mom who was murdered by an ICE agent. This event is but a single microcosm of the country’s problems. Deep income inequality, rampant ideological divisions without room for respectful debate, an impotent system of once remarkable checks and balances—this full-blown fall into fascism has made life in the US feel frightening and, at times, hopelessly unfixable.
Good was a poet—an accomplished one who won the Academy of American Poets Prize for her 2020 poem “On Learning to Dissect Fetal Pigs” (then, she went by Renée Nicole Macklin). Poetry is always best heard aloud, and I enjoyed Amber Tamblyn reading this poem on Instagram.
Reading the work of a young woman lost to unnecessary and indefensible violence makes me angry and sad. It also reminds me that there are so many other poets, musicians, painters, designers, choreographers, photographers, artists who have been murdered—silenced.
There are Gaza, and Ukraine, and Venezuela, and far too many other countries experiencing genocide, war, famine, disaster. And for what? Religion? Skin color? Money? Land? Power?
It’s hard not to be hopeless. It’s hard to console a loved one feeling hopeless.
I think back to my childhood, when crop circles were commonly found in fields around the globe. Intricate patterns of flattened wheat, corn, grass. Sacred geometry. Could these be evidence that alien life has found us? we wondered. Are they sending us messages or using our produce as a canvas for their own mysterious purposes?
Are they making art like we do?
As it turned out, we confidently confirmed or assumed most of these to be hoaxes—artful pranks played by bored farmers or rural teenagers. Or a simple result of irrigation systems.
I haven’t heard of crop circle sightings in a long while, probably because the jig has long been up. A part of me misses the odd news story about a new pattern cropping up in a field in England or Nebraska. I miss the excited discourse about how these beautiful shapes could mean we aren’t alone in the universe.
That discourse has largely shifted to UFO (UAP) videos, and there’s certainly something meatier about those. The government is involved and some are being disclosed to the public after being classified. There are legitimate concerns about unidentified aircraft or aerial phenomena that even the most powerful world governments seem to be uncertain of (at least, that’s what the public has been told).
So the mystery remains, as it always will. Are we alone?
Even with the knowledge that there are billions of people here on Earth—there are millions within a 25 mile radius of me!—I can feel lonely sometimes.
I see the horrors humanity has to offer and I want to disconnect from my species entirely—those monsters aren’t like me. I can take greater interest in looking for society among the stars than here in the mud.
And then I watch a movie and I hear music.
I see what humanity is capable of creating—I hear that stomach-turningly-beautiful crescendo around 2:40 of The Hand of Fate, Pt. II from the ending of SIGNS (2002). I remember the reason I’m always searching for new music and sharing it in these letters to you—every new album is a reminder that I am not alone.
I am reminded that there are communities everywhere—groups of people sharing things, working together, striving for a better life together. Despite the odds, despite the atrocities, despite the constant propaganda and threats of utter annihilation… communities weather the storms and defiantly find the good.
Community is the basis of civilization. Our species would not have advanced to the point we’ve reached without working together and striving for common goals.
Any scrap of belief we may have in the existence of alien civilizations is a belief in ourselves—that we continue to exist because we are not alone.
When I started this newsletter, I knew very few of you, those to whom I am writing. I knew very little about the ambient music community or the community of music writers on Substack. A year and a half later, I’ve interacted with so many people. I’ve been taught new things by complete strangers. I’ve received kind words and encouragement, thoughtful criticisms, and unsolicited help.
Though I didn’t realize it, I think writing my first letter here was like creating a crop circle. In fact, I think all artworks are like crop circles.
Crop circles may not have been the miracles we thought they were. They may not have been real evidence of aliens—not messages written in an extraterrestrial language or symbols of interstellar navigation.
They were evidence of our humanity. Miraculous evidence that we like to have fun with each other and feel seen amid this mysterious and frequently horrific existence we share. Proof that we understand what it means to zoom out and see a bigger picture.
There are more of us out there—not among the stars but among the cities and the suburbs and the farms. We all desire to meet others like us, to be part of something, to connect, to understand, and to be understood. We all want to leave a mark, to not be forgotten. We all need community to survive and to thrive.
That is why we create. With our art, we say:
Consider this, consider me, consider us. Look for my crop circle. You and I are not alone.
A couple of quick updates before we get to the music lists...New Issue of Instrumental Conversations Out Monday
Keep an eye on your inbox early Monday morning for a new issue in the Instrumental Conversations series—this was a powerful one. Experimental electronic duo Poulson Sq. told me about their recent release Battles & Silences. It’s a really meaningful and unique record with connection to the war in Ukraine. Stay tuned!
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The Living Music List
Hello again, friend. I hope you enjoyed today’s reflection—and I hope you remember you are never alone in this world. Please remember you can reply to these letters of mine if you ever want to chat about anything. Just email me at meltedform@gmail.com. You can also join my Discord server and hang out with me and ~70+ other genuinely kind folks!
Okay, I know it was a long one today. I’m running a bit slow on new records, but I’ve got a few for you to check out!
Happy listening.
Light Behind Me by Paperbark (album / drone, experimental electronic) [Laaps]
One of a great ambient record’s best qualities, in my opinion, is its deceptiveness. That is to say, its ability to deceive a listener into thinking it is less complex than it is for the purpose of offering 2 different listening experiences (consider Brian Eno’s famous “as ignorable as it is listenable” quote). As Paperbark, musician Jon Mulville has crafted seven intricate mosaics of sound that come together as naturally as waves meeting the shore. With close listening, though, one is treated to an aural feast of disparate sonic elements. And though ambient music doesn’t need a story or grand meaning behind it, I always enjoy hearing a little bit about what it means to the artist who has produced it. On track with the theme of my reflection today, Mulville says: “Light Behind Me is a way of staying close. It’s a conversation across time, a path illuminated by someone no longer here but never truly gone. To my friend Anthony, this is how I keep you close."
III by Pullman (album / acoustic instrumental, Americana) [Western Vinyl]
This hazy, pastoral record of acoustic instrumental pieces plays nicely on a chilly, yet sunny winter morning. But the state of the artists behind it were what really caught me. From the Bandcamp description, we again see the meaning of community: “Pullman return with III, an album forged in friendship and resilience. In 2021, [drummer Tim] Barnes went public with his diagnosis of early onset Alzheimer’s at age 54. Even as his condition progressed, he and [Ken] Brown began working almost daily, often remotely, with a wide circle of collaborators from Barnes’s musical past. What began as a single contribution for a compilation gradually blossomed into a full Pullman record, completed between 2021 and 2023. Edited and mixed by Brown, with early input from Barnes, III carries forward the group’s signature intimacy and space while embodying the spirit of community that has always defined their work. Both a continuation of Pullman’s singular aesthetic and a testament to the sustaining power of music, III drifts with the quiet weight of memory, persistence, and grace.”
Infinity Gradient by Tristan Perich & James McVinnie (album / experimental electronic, contemporary classical) [Erased Tapes]
This album is crafted from 100 speakers playing 1-bit audio and an organ. Really cool concept and the result is quite gorgeous, I think! Glistening and buzzy, it reminds me, at times, of a swarm of colorful electronic bees darting to and fro. At others, it sounds like a dying machine's wheezing breath as it reminisces on a binary life of 1s and 0s, or perhaps a defunct answering machine conversing with a pitch-shfiting dial tone. A lot of unexpected emotion to be felt here.
Paper Tiger by Good Swim (single / folk, singer/songwriter) [Independent]^
Belfast-based artist Dave McConnell, now recording as Good Swim, shared this track with me and I was struck, again, by how perfectly it fit with today’s reflection. The song embodies how our yearning for community (even with one other person) is often stunted by the noisy world around us. McConnell describes the track as being a meditation on “feeling isolated and the need for human connection, with signals lost like starlight in a busy city.” Paper Tiger is felt first in the chest thanks to McConnell’s emotive and almost urgent vocals. They soar alongside brightly picked guitar, smooth cello, and a weaving violin.
Secret Love by Dry Cleaning (album / alt rock) [4AD]
I’ll abstain from sharing my notes on this album in lieu of this paragraph from the Bandcamp description that seems to be the perfect encapsulation (see also another community mention in the first sentence):
“Secret Love is the finest expression yet of the profound friendships that created Dry Cleaning. Here, the south London four-piece take their place in rock’s avant garde, catalysing the Reaganite paranoia of early 80s US punk and hardcore with the dry strut of Keith Richards, stoner rock, dystopian degradation, playful no wave and pastoral fingerpicking, while [vocalist] Florence [Shaw]’s delivery, meticulously calibrated to her bandmates’ soundscapes, asserts her in a lineage of spoken-word artists stretching from Laurie Anderson to Life Without Buildings’ Sue Tompkins.”
Desert So Green by Winged Wheel (album / alt rock) [12XU]
When we assign big genres like “rock” or “alt rock” to records, we may be briefly tempted to expect one general sort of sound. But on Desert So Green, Winged Wheel remind us that there’s plenty of weird out there in the Wide World of Rock™️. This record almost dares you to accuse it of doing drugs, maybe some mild psychedelics or some heavy-hitting weed. There is the dissonant noise of clashing guitars and eerie vocals which seem more spoken than sung. Oddly processed samples and haunting echoes abound. Through all the muddy weirdness, though, is still the soul of a great rock album.
Music List Reminders: Bold and ^ denote reader-submitted work. Bandcamp links provided first when available—if an album is not on Bandcamp, then YouTube or other streaming links are provided. List format: Title by Artist (release type / approximate genre or subgenres) [Label].
That’s all for this week’s issue. Thank you for reading. Until next time.
Your friend,
Melted Form
Read the previous issue of The Living Music List:
Check out my 2025 EOY list of favorite albums:
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Afterword—Let’s Get In Touch
Are you an artist, a label owner, or a member of the press? Want to share news of your upcoming release, a sponsored ad, or a guest post for a future Hum, Buzz, & Hiss issue? Email me at: meltedform@gmail.com.
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We need the Vulcans to come and rescue humanity now.