Brannon Hungness - Guitar, Vocals, Keyboards, Special Arrangements, Mandolin, Additional Percussion, etc.
Dennis Mariano - Drums
Jeff Wirschem - Guitar/Vocals
Keith Parkins - Bass
and:
Roger Charbonneau - Hand Drums
David Goldstein - Bass
Gregory Paul: Vocals, Guitar
Pete Mugnolo: Hand Drums, Percussion
Meg Ruby: piano
Eric "The" Taylor: Synth, Additional Percussion
Tony Levin: Upright Bass, Tuba
Jerry Marotta: Additional Percussion
Joe Locke: Vibraphone
Kathryn Lent: Cello
Jacinda Dudley: Viola
Vivek Jayaraman: Violin
John Bergstrom: Celeste, Organ
Emily Caltvedt: Oboe
Jason Price: Trumpet
Chris Reeg: Upright Bass
Influences
Toru Takemitsu, Swans/Angels Of Light, Glenn Branca, Talking Heads, Scott Walker, Cardigans, Slim Whitman, Les Baxter, Gustav Holst, Russ Garcia, early Pink Floyd, David Lynch, Francis Bacon
"Creepy and captivating, the aural equivalent of LSD."
Skyscraper Magazine:
"Dense, shape-shifting, multi-layered sounds seem to fill every nook
while an extremely capable drummer puts the icing on the cake. Eerie."
Freetime:
"The intoxicating sounds of Kill Myself On Monday (now Hungness) had our office feeling weirdly drugged as the music took us on an atmospheric ride to the heavens and back."
Democrat & Chronicle:
"It's all atmospheric, if you're breathing the weird air
from somewhere in outer space."
Hungness is lead by Brannon Hungness (aka Figure) who is also a member of Oblivion Ensemble, Doped The Horse, Inward Becomes An Anthem, Famous Breathers, as well as being an ex-member of The Glenn Branca Ensemble and Hammerhead. 3 new Hungness CDs are in the works.
Also check out:
myspace.com/dopedthehorse
myspace.com/ibaa
myspace.com/oblivionensemble
myspace.com/famousbreathers
myspace.com/audiodrainrecordings
Thanks for the support Kill Myself On Monday! Click on the poster below to check out Cleggisode #1 on Fangoria.com right now! And come back on Friday to catch the premiere of Cleggisode #2! ...if you aren’t too scared, that is.
Here is some music that we created that you can own for 10 cents per song Much luv to ya and keep supporting Indie Hip Hop even if it is by just listening to the music, You help,!! Thanks!!!!!!!!!!
When Henny felt a sense of warm foreboding brimming deep in his abdomen, he first assumed it was caused by the half-gallon of hot oatmeal he'd just chugged. But in all his years (and there were many), and with all the oatmeal he'd willingly (and occasionally unwillingly) ingested during them, Henny had never known quick-oats to inspire anything more than fullness, and the sporadic bloat. So he knew it was something else. Something more.
Indeed, there was reason for unrest. Ester, for all intensive purposes, was dead. This left the town in an uproar, as the position held by their most skilled mill worker would need quick replacement.
Manial, inconsolable after the loss of his newfound love/Esther Williams stand-in, had given up practicing criminal law. Or rather, given up practicing it well. 99 percent of his clients were now being jailed with life sentences- a stunning eight percent increase from the prior year's figures. Sensing his weakness, longtime rival William Mattarshmallow moved his firm back into town, hoping to leech business from the faltering Manial. It appeared that the eminent Massey dynasty was soon to fall.
Henny knew that he should feel relief. Ester's untimely implosion meant that he was no longer trapped within the confines of her king fu grip. He was free to roam the wild plains of life, and to approach the object of his hushed desire, jam-enthusiast Fluorine Findalay. Even still, Henny couldn't muster the enthusiasm needed to rise from his permanent slouch. Perhaps it was the stress of recent trauma, or the breaking news of an impending peanut butter recall. Or...
Henny stared for a moment at the handlebar-stached mascot gracing his container of Quaker Quick-Oats. It was Wilford Brimley- the man who'd first put the recent chain of events into motion. And in one divinely epiphanous moment- the sort that only a particular blend of freeze-dried oats and despair can provide, Henny knew what he had to do...
She’d entered his room a thousand times before. Ester Murthalalala, a woman of average height and, by human standards, less than average beauty. Despite spending endless hours at his abode, Ester could never quite coax Manial into seeing her untold charms- but all that was about to change.
This time, when Ester arrived, Manial’s whole world seemed to spontaneously brighten. Colors appeared richer, patterns more vivid, even the dishwater brown of Ester’s coif was strikingly murkier than usual. Surely, he thought, this technicolor dream must be a divine sign pointing me toward my true intended!
Unfortunately, unbeknownst to Manial, Ester had thoughtlessly flipped the light switch on her way in. Manial, who in his youth struggled with being both photophobic and unnaturally desirable to mosquitoes, had a peculiar penchant for illuminating rooms by use of a single citronella candle. For him, 60 watts of overhead lighting was an eye opener of nigh religious scale.
So he sat, blinded by the incandescent transcendence of loneliness and GE bulbs, ready to make his move on the overeager Ester. Little did the couple know that they were being watched by a trio of unfriendly eyes, at least two of which belonged to the now scorned Ianurtle...
It was the image of a lissome Esther Williams that first put the Man in Manial Massey.
Alone in his personal theater, wealthy young Manial marveled at the bathing beauty, and misguidedly guzzled popcorn by the pintful. When he sensed an odd feeling in the pit of his gastrointestinal tract, Manial mistook for indigestion what was, in reality, a burgeoning passion that progressed with the momentum of an Olympic-level front crawl. An unguarded moment, indeed.
Manial learned two things from this experience:
Firstly, that he loved Esther Williams with a blind fervor hitherto unfamiliar to mankind.
Secondly, that, when not distracted by Ms. Williams’ visage, he found popcorn distinctly unpalatable- a revelation that spurred his bitter, and highly publicized, 1972 feud with Orville Redenbacher.
“Three men of advanced age were hospitalized this afternoon, after experiencing rapid cardiac arrests.
Though the men are unrelated, local doctors suspect a correlation in their sudden afflictions. It appears that the attacks occurred after the men read, of all things, a comment posted to the Myspace of a footstool.
Myspace, a social networking site popular among teens, inanimate objects and the elderly, has recently become a hub for gossip concerning local celebrity lawyer Manial Massey.
The comment states that while sleeping, Massey has been observed muttering the name “Ester”. Most readers have assumed that the “Ester” in question is mill worker Ester Murthalalala, for whom the text strongly implies that chronic bachelor Massey harbors romantic feelings.
Knowing that this news would cause shock and unrest, the comment was preceded by a warning to those of faint heart. However, for the men taken ill this afternoon, the warning was just not strong enough.
Massey’s representatives quickly issued a statement avowing that the “Ester” being referenced is, in fact, Massey’s childhood crush, synchronized swimmer Esther Williams.
When reached for comment, longtime friend Elveden Smickermatter said, "I've known Manny for many years, and the only woman he beds is Lady Justice".
Unfortunately, as of press time, Murthalalala could not be contacted.
The men, who, for now, wish to keep their identities private, are all in stable condition. It remains unclear if legal action will be taken.
Poor Henny grew tired of his time at home. Ester, aside from being a surreptitious schemer, was terrifically lazy. Not only did he have to iron his own clothes, Henny was also required to press n' mend Esther's extensive collection of nylon toesocks- no easy task, even for the most practiced iron slinger.
Discontented, Henny dipped his mending finger into a comforting jar of JIF.
Sensing his restlessness, Ester kissed Henny in a fit of placatory fakery. Violently allergic to peanuts, she wondered how much longer she'd have to tolerate the taste of his JIF stained lips. She longed for her heart's true desire- a man who focused less on nuts and more on an ineffable brand of evil & eyebrows...a man named Manial Massey.
Of course, Ester knew that Manial loved none more than himself, and desired only the cold caress of a success that comes at any cost. But his luxurious unibrow, charming snarl and penchant for finely flocked fezzes swooned the logic right out of her.
Meanwhile, Fluorine Findalay, a girl with an overabundant affection for jam, stared down at Henny from her lonely upper-level window pane...
Henny, blinded by the sweet squish of love n' comfort, wiled away his days by sitting in his fancy chair, listening to his fancy Frank Sinatra dance mixes and eating holiday M & Ms, with careful attention paid to avoiding those of green color. Everyone who was anyone knew that Ester Murthalalala was a conniver of epic scale, but alas, poor Henny was too drunk with the sugary nectar of complacency to notice.
Meanwhile, in a stunning bout of parallelism, another man, one across town, sat in a fancy chair. This particular fellow swilled ice cold bourbon while listening to the smooth sound of his diabolical machinations going to work. He was Manial Massey, unibrowed lawyer, and the man currently ruling town with a half-clenched iron fist. But all that was soon to change, as his plan for full-force, weapons-grade clenching neared materialization...
While fiendishly wiggling his toes beneath the confines of his monogrammed man-slippers, Manny cogitated silently. "I truly am the man behind the curtain..." he thought, before noticing that the non-metaphorical draperies in his study looked a bit dingy. He summoned his servant-boy, Ianurtle Rothwilly, who arrived with washboard in tow. As was usual, Ianurtle would have no rest that night.
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Just as Arthur has Excalibur, Thor has Mjolnir, and Mario has those little fireball things, Wilford Brimley deftly wields his weapons of oatmeal, discounted medical supplies, and good old fashioned Americana. So deftly, in fact, that his ass, sizeable as it may be, is rendered invulnerable to all forms of kickery.
Man, I thought I was a band whore. We should get at eleventy eleventh project going or something. Great tunes all around with all your projects...man...Tony Levin AND Jerry Marotta, ouch.
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