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Humans are Weird – Storm Watching

Original Post: http://www.authorbettyadams.com/bettys-blog/humans-are-weird-storm-watching
“Why did we even bother building a base on the land anyway?” Rollsaround asked as he absorbed the dim light filtering through the wide windows of the base.
The windows gave an impressive view of what the humans in their generosity called a “coastline”. Instead of gently undulating coral beds easing down into the water the glittering volcanic rock dropped abruptly from the graminoid covered highlands and dove down dozens of meters to where it usually met the heaving surface of the water below. Today however the water had seemingly decided to express its objections to the separation and was attempting to scale the cliffs in massive waves. The base vibrated from the force of a gust of wind and Rollsaround hunkered deeper into his mineral bath.
“Do you require another introduction of thermal-loaded water?” Tenth Cousin asked from where she perched on a Shatar couch, reading something that was supposed to be very masculine poetry from her homeworld.
“I do not,” Rollsaround reassured her. “I was just reacting negatively to the storm.”
She tilted her head to examine the weather conditions with a thoughtful set to her antenna.
“I think it is a pleasant change,” she said. “The harsh, unfiltered lights of the suns here means that we have no real night. The clouds at lest allow the illusions of dusk, and the wind overhead is not entirely unlike breezes in Father’s canopy if you can focus your attention on some pleasant task.”
“Well if we can’t go outside during clear weather without protection due to the radiation,” Rollsaround grumbled, “and we can’t go outside in stormy weather due to the, well, the storm, I say we should have just built a floating base that we could submerge during storm weather.”
“There is perhaps logic in that,” Tenth cousin agreed, and very deliberately tilted her head back to the poetry.
Rollsaround drooped his leading appendages over the edge of the bowl and absorbed the storm light in a slightly sulky mood. The airlock cycled open and Third Sister stepped in with the brisk stride that Rollsaround had noticed that high ranking sisters only used when they were looking for someone who had committed some infraction. Tenth Cousin brought the poem up closer to her face and started moving her mandibles as if she was completely focused on sounding out the words. Third Sister tilted her head the examine the cousin and then abruptly swiveled her body to focus on Rollsaround.
“First Ecologist,” she began, “do you know First Mechanic’s current location? The exterior vents in my lab require percussive maintenance.”
“He is off shift by now,” Rollsaround said. “You should check the washrooms and his quarters.”
However even as he offered this sound advice Rollsaround felt a ripple of unease. Human Friend Conner almost never went to his quarters after his shift. He was highly social, even by human standards and usually came to the main room to chat first thing.
“I have already checked both of those locations,” Third Sister stated. “He is not there and he is not answering his comm.”
Rollsaround mulled over that. Clearly Third Sister needed to find the human. An improperly vented laboratory in such a base as theirs was a serious health risk.
“Have you checked the storage areas?” he asked.
“I did a ping for his comm,” she replied, “but it is not reading as in the base at all so I could not locate the room he was in. I was surprised as I didn’t think we had any shielding strong enough to block the comm signal in the base-”
She cut off as Rollsaround suddenly surged up out of his mineral bath and crawled out of it.
“What is the matter First Ecologist?” Third Sister asked in confusion.
“He has gone out for a walk,” Rollsaround said, forgetting in his rush to add emotional undertones to his words.
“Out?” Third Sister demanded, her antenna going lax with confusion.
“Out to watch the storm from withing the wind currents,” Rollsaround explained.
“How do you gather that?” Third Sister demanded.
“He has described storm watching on his homeworld to me,” Rollsaround explained as he opened the hatch to the sub floor currents. “He also mentioned what he thought the perfect storm watching spot would be on these cliffs. That spot is behind enough rocks to block the signal. Now if you will excuse me I am going to go fetch him.”
“He has broken regulations!” Third Sister clicked, her frill flashing red with alarm.
“That on a secondary vine,” Tenth Cousin interjected as she came up to them. “The same regulations apply to you First Ecologist! The wind-”
“I am rated as fully wind resistant under these conditions,” Rollsaround said with a dismissive wave, “one of the perks of not being built like a windmill.”
“Your thermal mass-” Tenth Cousin tried again.
“I am fully warmed at the moment and I will turn back if my core temperature drops too low,” he interjected again. “Now if there are no further objections?”
Without waiting for their objections he dropped down into the sub-floor current and tapped the control panel to direct the current to the main outlet. He bundled his appendages and let himself be swept into the cold, but fresh exterior water. He bumped up against the smooth rise of the outlet and edged up out of the water. The wind was powerful. He could feel it tug at him if he raised a gripping appendage high, but at least over the main path there were eddies along the ground that were so comparatively we that he couldn’t even feel them. He began shuffling at top speed along the path. A the crest of the first high spot the winds did hit him, shoving his body sideways. However, as he had expected it required barely a fraction of his strength to grip the path firmly with his set appendages as he moved the free appendages forward. It barely even slowed him down, the roar of it was rather disconcerting when it wasn’t muted by the base walls however. He did wonder how the human had made it this far. After a long steady shuffle he rounded the corner that was blocking the signal and spotted a tall figure down at the cliff’s edge that wasn’t normally there.
Rollsaround activated the comm he was holding pressed against the ground. There was a significant delay before the human responded.
“Human Friend Conner,” Rollsaround said, trying to put firmness in his tones. “Come now and carry me back to the base. I am at the crest of the hill looking down at you.”
There was an odd sound from the comm that suggested the human was trying to say something back, but human speaking organs were not optimized for shielding the microphone of a comm while speaking so the human simply gave two short radio bursts and the tall figure on the cliff’s edge began swaying back and forth as it moved towards the path. Rollsaround anchored himself more fully against the blasts and watched in grim interest as the gusts blew the tall human form to one side and then the other as the human struggled up the path.
When Human Friend Conner finally did reach him the human didn’t bother speaking. He just reached down with a grin and tried to lift the Undulate off of the path. For one long moment Rollsaround hung on to the ground in a show of strength. He wasn’t sure if it would impress the human but a little dominance display did seem called for. He let go when the look of perplexity fully formed on the humans face but before he could give a more powerful tug and they headed back to the base.
Being carried over a meter above the ground in this wind was another experience altogether. The swaying of the human in the wind felt far wilder than it had looked, and Rollsaround found himself clutching tightly to the human’s coat as the wind tried to rip him away. They finally made the base airlock and stepped through to the blessedly still air. Rollsaround dropped to the floor and shook the cold water off of himself.
“I think Third Sister would like a word with you,” he said.
Granted she would probably want a word with him too, but Human Friend Conner didn’t need to know that.
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Science Fiction Books By Betty Adams

Amazon (Kindle, Paperback, Audiobook)

Barnes & Nobel (Nook, Paperback, Audiobook)

Powell's Books (Paperback)

Kobo by Rakuten (ebook and Audiobook)

Google Play Books (ebook and Audiobook)

Check out my books at any of these sites and leave a review! "Flying Sparks" - a novel set in the "Dying Embers" universe is now avaliable on all sites!
Please go leave a review on Amazon! It really helps and keeps me writing becase tea and taxes don't pay themselves sadly!

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Humans are Weird – Storm Watching

Original Post: http://www.authorbettyadams.com/bettys-blog/humans-are-weird-storm-watching
“Why did we even bother building a base on the land anyway?” Rollsaround asked as he absorbed the dim light filtering through the wide windows of the base.
The windows gave an impressive view of what the humans in their generosity called a “coastline”. Instead of gently undulating coral beds easing down into the water the glittering volcanic rock dropped abruptly from the graminoid covered highlands and dove down dozens of meters to where it usually met the heaving surface of the water below. Today however the water had seemingly decided to express its objections to the separation and was attempting to scale the cliffs in massive waves. The base vibrated from the force of a gust of wind and Rollsaround hunkered deeper into his mineral bath.
“Do you require another introduction of thermal-loaded water?” Tenth Cousin asked from where she perched on a Shatar couch, reading something that was supposed to be very masculine poetry from her homeworld.
“I do not,” Rollsaround reassured her. “I was just reacting negatively to the storm.”
She tilted her head to examine the weather conditions with a thoughtful set to her antenna.
“I think it is a pleasant change,” she said. “The harsh, unfiltered lights of the suns here means that we have no real night. The clouds at lest allow the illusions of dusk, and the wind overhead is not entirely unlike breezes in Father’s canopy if you can focus your attention on some pleasant task.”
“Well if we can’t go outside during clear weather without protection due to the radiation,” Rollsaround grumbled, “and we can’t go outside in stormy weather due to the, well, the storm, I say we should have just built a floating base that we could submerge during storm weather.”
“There is perhaps logic in that,” Tenth cousin agreed, and very deliberately tilted her head back to the poetry.
Rollsaround drooped his leading appendages over the edge of the bowl and absorbed the storm light in a slightly sulky mood. The airlock cycled open and Third Sister stepped in with the brisk stride that Rollsaround had noticed that high ranking sisters only used when they were looking for someone who had committed some infraction. Tenth Cousin brought the poem up closer to her face and started moving her mandibles as if she was completely focused on sounding out the words. Third Sister tilted her head the examine the cousin and then abruptly swiveled her body to focus on Rollsaround.
“First Ecologist,” she began, “do you know First Mechanic’s current location? The exterior vents in my lab require percussive maintenance.”
“He is off shift by now,” Rollsaround said. “You should check the washrooms and his quarters.”
However even as he offered this sound advice Rollsaround felt a ripple of unease. Human Friend Conner almost never went to his quarters after his shift. He was highly social, even by human standards and usually came to the main room to chat first thing.
“I have already checked both of those locations,” Third Sister stated. “He is not there and he is not answering his comm.”
Rollsaround mulled over that. Clearly Third Sister needed to find the human. An improperly vented laboratory in such a base as theirs was a serious health risk.
“Have you checked the storage areas?” he asked.
“I did a ping for his comm,” she replied, “but it is not reading as in the base at all so I could not locate the room he was in. I was surprised as I didn’t think we had any shielding strong enough to block the comm signal in the base-”
She cut off as Rollsaround suddenly surged up out of his mineral bath and crawled out of it.
“What is the matter First Ecologist?” Third Sister asked in confusion.
“He has gone out for a walk,” Rollsaround said, forgetting in his rush to add emotional undertones to his words.
“Out?” Third Sister demanded, her antenna going lax with confusion.
“Out to watch the storm from withing the wind currents,” Rollsaround explained.
“How do you gather that?” Third Sister demanded.
“He has described storm watching on his homeworld to me,” Rollsaround explained as he opened the hatch to the sub floor currents. “He also mentioned what he thought the perfect storm watching spot would be on these cliffs. That spot is behind enough rocks to block the signal. Now if you will excuse me I am going to go fetch him.”
“He has broken regulations!” Third Sister clicked, her frill flashing red with alarm.
“That on a secondary vine,” Tenth Cousin interjected as she came up to them. “The same regulations apply to you First Ecologist! The wind-”
“I am rated as fully wind resistant under these conditions,” Rollsaround said with a dismissive wave, “one of the perks of not being built like a windmill.”
“Your thermal mass-” Tenth Cousin tried again.
“I am fully warmed at the moment and I will turn back if my core temperature drops too low,” he interjected again. “Now if there are no further objections?”
Without waiting for their objections he dropped down into the sub-floor current and tapped the control panel to direct the current to the main outlet. He bundled his appendages and let himself be swept into the cold, but fresh exterior water. He bumped up against the smooth rise of the outlet and edged up out of the water. The wind was powerful. He could feel it tug at him if he raised a gripping appendage high, but at least over the main path there were eddies along the ground that were so comparatively we that he couldn’t even feel them. He began shuffling at top speed along the path. A the crest of the first high spot the winds did hit him, shoving his body sideways. However, as he had expected it required barely a fraction of his strength to grip the path firmly with his set appendages as he moved the free appendages forward. It barely even slowed him down, the roar of it was rather disconcerting when it wasn’t muted by the base walls however. He did wonder how the human had made it this far. After a long steady shuffle he rounded the corner that was blocking the signal and spotted a tall figure down at the cliff’s edge that wasn’t normally there.
Rollsaround activated the comm he was holding pressed against the ground. There was a significant delay before the human responded.
“Human Friend Conner,” Rollsaround said, trying to put firmness in his tones. “Come now and carry me back to the base. I am at the crest of the hill looking down at you.”
There was an odd sound from the comm that suggested the human was trying to say something back, but human speaking organs were not optimized for shielding the microphone of a comm while speaking so the human simply gave two short radio bursts and the tall figure on the cliff’s edge began swaying back and forth as it moved towards the path. Rollsaround anchored himself more fully against the blasts and watched in grim interest as the gusts blew the tall human form to one side and then the other as the human struggled up the path.
When Human Friend Conner finally did reach him the human didn’t bother speaking. He just reached down with a grin and tried to lift the Undulate off of the path. For one long moment Rollsaround hung on to the ground in a show of strength. He wasn’t sure if it would impress the human but a little dominance display did seem called for. He let go when the look of perplexity fully formed on the humans face but before he could give a more powerful tug and they headed back to the base.
Being carried over a meter above the ground in this wind was another experience altogether. The swaying of the human in the wind felt far wilder than it had looked, and Rollsaround found himself clutching tightly to the human’s coat as the wind tried to rip him away. They finally made the base airlock and stepped through to the blessedly still air. Rollsaround dropped to the floor and shook the cold water off of himself.
“I think Third Sister would like a word with you,” he said.
Granted she would probably want a word with him too, but Human Friend Conner didn’t need to know that.
https://i.redd.it/a6z7gwsc390d1.gif

Science Fiction Books By Betty Adams

Amazon (Kindle, Paperback, Audiobook)

Barnes & Nobel (Nook, Paperback, Audiobook)

Powell's Books (Paperback)

Kobo by Rakuten (ebook and Audiobook)

Google Play Books (ebook and Audiobook)

Check out my books at any of these sites and leave a review! "Flying Sparks" - a novel set in the "Dying Embers" universe is now avaliable on all sites!
Please go leave a review on Amazon! It really helps and keeps me writing becase tea and taxes don't pay themselves sadly!

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Humans are Weird – Storm Watching

Original Post: http://www.authorbettyadams.com/bettys-blog/humans-are-weird-storm-watching
“Why did we even bother building a base on the land anyway?” Rollsaround asked as he absorbed the dim light filtering through the wide windows of the base.
The windows gave an impressive view of what the humans in their generosity called a “coastline”. Instead of gently undulating coral beds easing down into the water the glittering volcanic rock dropped abruptly from the graminoid covered highlands and dove down dozens of meters to where it usually met the heaving surface of the water below. Today however the water had seemingly decided to express its objections to the separation and was attempting to scale the cliffs in massive waves. The base vibrated from the force of a gust of wind and Rollsaround hunkered deeper into his mineral bath.
“Do you require another introduction of thermal-loaded water?” Tenth Cousin asked from where she perched on a Shatar couch, reading something that was supposed to be very masculine poetry from her homeworld.
“I do not,” Rollsaround reassured her. “I was just reacting negatively to the storm.”
She tilted her head to examine the weather conditions with a thoughtful set to her antenna.
“I think it is a pleasant change,” she said. “The harsh, unfiltered lights of the suns here means that we have no real night. The clouds at lest allow the illusions of dusk, and the wind overhead is not entirely unlike breezes in Father’s canopy if you can focus your attention on some pleasant task.”
“Well if we can’t go outside during clear weather without protection due to the radiation,” Rollsaround grumbled, “and we can’t go outside in stormy weather due to the, well, the storm, I say we should have just built a floating base that we could submerge during storm weather.”
“There is perhaps logic in that,” Tenth cousin agreed, and very deliberately tilted her head back to the poetry.
Rollsaround drooped his leading appendages over the edge of the bowl and absorbed the storm light in a slightly sulky mood. The airlock cycled open and Third Sister stepped in with the brisk stride that Rollsaround had noticed that high ranking sisters only used when they were looking for someone who had committed some infraction. Tenth Cousin brought the poem up closer to her face and started moving her mandibles as if she was completely focused on sounding out the words. Third Sister tilted her head the examine the cousin and then abruptly swiveled her body to focus on Rollsaround.
“First Ecologist,” she began, “do you know First Mechanic’s current location? The exterior vents in my lab require percussive maintenance.”
“He is off shift by now,” Rollsaround said. “You should check the washrooms and his quarters.”
However even as he offered this sound advice Rollsaround felt a ripple of unease. Human Friend Conner almost never went to his quarters after his shift. He was highly social, even by human standards and usually came to the main room to chat first thing.
“I have already checked both of those locations,” Third Sister stated. “He is not there and he is not answering his comm.”
Rollsaround mulled over that. Clearly Third Sister needed to find the human. An improperly vented laboratory in such a base as theirs was a serious health risk.
“Have you checked the storage areas?” he asked.
“I did a ping for his comm,” she replied, “but it is not reading as in the base at all so I could not locate the room he was in. I was surprised as I didn’t think we had any shielding strong enough to block the comm signal in the base-”
She cut off as Rollsaround suddenly surged up out of his mineral bath and crawled out of it.
“What is the matter First Ecologist?” Third Sister asked in confusion.
“He has gone out for a walk,” Rollsaround said, forgetting in his rush to add emotional undertones to his words.
“Out?” Third Sister demanded, her antenna going lax with confusion.
“Out to watch the storm from withing the wind currents,” Rollsaround explained.
“How do you gather that?” Third Sister demanded.
“He has described storm watching on his homeworld to me,” Rollsaround explained as he opened the hatch to the sub floor currents. “He also mentioned what he thought the perfect storm watching spot would be on these cliffs. That spot is behind enough rocks to block the signal. Now if you will excuse me I am going to go fetch him.”
“He has broken regulations!” Third Sister clicked, her frill flashing red with alarm.
“That on a secondary vine,” Tenth Cousin interjected as she came up to them. “The same regulations apply to you First Ecologist! The wind-”
“I am rated as fully wind resistant under these conditions,” Rollsaround said with a dismissive wave, “one of the perks of not being built like a windmill.”
“Your thermal mass-” Tenth Cousin tried again.
“I am fully warmed at the moment and I will turn back if my core temperature drops too low,” he interjected again. “Now if there are no further objections?”
Without waiting for their objections he dropped down into the sub-floor current and tapped the control panel to direct the current to the main outlet. He bundled his appendages and let himself be swept into the cold, but fresh exterior water. He bumped up against the smooth rise of the outlet and edged up out of the water. The wind was powerful. He could feel it tug at him if he raised a gripping appendage high, but at least over the main path there were eddies along the ground that were so comparatively we that he couldn’t even feel them. He began shuffling at top speed along the path. A the crest of the first high spot the winds did hit him, shoving his body sideways. However, as he had expected it required barely a fraction of his strength to grip the path firmly with his set appendages as he moved the free appendages forward. It barely even slowed him down, the roar of it was rather disconcerting when it wasn’t muted by the base walls however. He did wonder how the human had made it this far. After a long steady shuffle he rounded the corner that was blocking the signal and spotted a tall figure down at the cliff’s edge that wasn’t normally there.
Rollsaround activated the comm he was holding pressed against the ground. There was a significant delay before the human responded.
“Human Friend Conner,” Rollsaround said, trying to put firmness in his tones. “Come now and carry me back to the base. I am at the crest of the hill looking down at you.”
There was an odd sound from the comm that suggested the human was trying to say something back, but human speaking organs were not optimized for shielding the microphone of a comm while speaking so the human simply gave two short radio bursts and the tall figure on the cliff’s edge began swaying back and forth as it moved towards the path. Rollsaround anchored himself more fully against the blasts and watched in grim interest as the gusts blew the tall human form to one side and then the other as the human struggled up the path.
When Human Friend Conner finally did reach him the human didn’t bother speaking. He just reached down with a grin and tried to lift the Undulate off of the path. For one long moment Rollsaround hung on to the ground in a show of strength. He wasn’t sure if it would impress the human but a little dominance display did seem called for. He let go when the look of perplexity fully formed on the humans face but before he could give a more powerful tug and they headed back to the base.
Being carried over a meter above the ground in this wind was another experience altogether. The swaying of the human in the wind felt far wilder than it had looked, and Rollsaround found himself clutching tightly to the human’s coat as the wind tried to rip him away. They finally made the base airlock and stepped through to the blessedly still air. Rollsaround dropped to the floor and shook the cold water off of himself.
“I think Third Sister would like a word with you,” he said.
Granted she would probably want a word with him too, but Human Friend Conner didn’t need to know that.

Science Fiction Books By Betty Adams

Amazon (Kindle, Paperback, Audiobook)

Barnes & Nobel (Nook, Paperback, Audiobook)

Powell's Books (Paperback)

Kobo by Rakuten (ebook and Audiobook)

Google Play Books (ebook and Audiobook)

Check out my books at any of these sites and leave a review! "Flying Sparks" - a novel set in the "Dying Embers" universe is now avaliable on all sites!
Please go leave a review on Amazon! It really helps and keeps me writing becase tea and taxes don't pay themselves sadly!

About Her Voice A conversation on Mariah Carey with author and critic Andrew Chan BY DANIELLE AMIR JACKSON DECEMBER 21, 2023
Photo by Raph_PH via Flickr. Artistic rendering by Oxford American. Courtesy Wikimedia Commons This exclusive feature is an online extension of the OA’s annual music issue. Order the Ballads Issue and companion CD here.
Singing is “the most enigmatic of performing arts,” the author, editor, critic, and self-professed “diva lover” Andrew Chan writes. It’s a simple matter of air and anatomy: breath moves through closed vocal folds which then vibrate and resound throughout the throat, chest, head, or sinuses. But when we listen intently, transcendence is available to us. Raised hairs on the upper arm, a tingle on the back of the neck. The irrepressible urge to tap one’s toes. Transcendence is something we can feel–a physical sensation that unleashes the emotions and connects us to the divine. That’s why a host of spiritual traditions embrace the human voice as a conduit for worship, and in secular music, many of the most popular traditions–r&b and its variants, country, even rap—foreground some sort of vocal virtuosity. A skilled vocalist can “seduce us, haunt us, heal us regardless of the text they’re delivering or even the culture that surrounds them,” Chan writes.
In his first book, published just this past fall, Chan highlights the thirty-plus year career of Mariah Carey, whose five-octave vocal range; agile, multisyllabic melisma; and well-honed aptitude for catchy hooks and witty wordplay turned her into one of the most successful pop singer-songwriters of all time. Carey has earned five Grammys and nineteen number ones on the Billboard pop chart—the highest of any act besides the Beatles, surpassing Elvis. Two of her fifteen full-length albums are certified diamond, with sales of ten million or more in the United States alone. Why Mariah Carey Matters, part of the University of Texas Press’s Music Matters series, is the first book-length critical assessment of the artist’s wide-ranging career.
Chan makes the case that from the beginning, Carey’s vocal dexterity and range set her apart—her mastery at blending piercing whistle tones, fluttery, feminine whispers, muscular belts, and “leathery low” notes, often within the same song. “There’s something irrational, bizarre, and hazardous-sounding about the way Mariah hopscotches over and across vocal registers without warning or transition,” Chan writes. She also blended and mixed styles of singing, infusing both big, sentimental ballads and buoyant, weightless bops alike with gospel fervor; in the ’90s, alongside artists like Mary J. Blige and Jodeci, she contributed to the creation and commercial dominance of “hip-hop soul.” In her house remixes, often painstakingly re-recorded versions of her mainstream pop hits, she frequently scatted and improvised in the tradition of Ella Fitzgerald or Sarah Vaughan. Equally impressive, and critical in understanding Carey, Chan says, is her “artistry outside the vocal booth.” She wrote or co-wrote all of her most enduring hits, including “Vision of Love,” “We Belong Together,” and “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” She’s produced herself and other artists, and is one of few women nominated for the Grammy Award for Producer of the Year (Non-Classical). It was an early honor, from 1992, for work on her second LP, Emotions.
Chan is one of my favorite writers and an important voice in contemporary music and film criticism. He’s vivid in his assessment of Carey’s musical gifts. He layers in details of his own upbringing to help us understand why certain songs and singers turned him into a student of the art. I love the way he brings the reader along with him—we’re watching and listening together as Carey delivers her gospel-drenched rendition of “America the Beautiful” on the NBA Finals in 1990, hearing her sing the climactic sea-ahhh as she “evokes rolling vistas and open water.” He acknowledges the blemishes on Carey’s career and the unpredictability of her voice, which he insists is not a recent phenomenon. He situates Carey in refreshing context: with Black singers of the ’80s who influenced her sound, and with other female songwriter-producers like Patrice Rushen, Teena Marie, and Angela Winbush, who don’t often receive credit for their prowess behind the boards.
“So much of the culture and money created during this era is the product of Black female creative energy,” writes Danyel Smith, another of my favorite music writers, in Shine Bright, her sweeping history of Black women in American pop. She’s talking about the middle of the twentieth century, when recordings like the Dixie Cups’ “Chapel of Love” achieved mammoth success that the performers—who came up with the arrangement we all know and love—were not credited for. Carey has received commercial rewards, and, as of late, critical adoration from outlets such as Pitchfork and Rolling Stone.
But Chan suggests we still haven’t absorbed the magnitude of Carey’s genius, that our cultural blinders have hindered our ability to understand the breadth of her labor and mastery. Carey’s upbringing as a biracial daughter of a white mom who raised her largely on her own; her sense of not fully belonging among Black or white people; her insistence on femininity in an industry that privileges masculine presentation when it doles out points for credibility. She used it all in her art—especially in her ballads. Over a long and wide-ranging conversation, Chan and I discussed Carey’s melancholy, artistic lineage, the feeling of singing, r&b, gospel, and transcendence.
Courtesy University of Texas Press Danielle Amir Jackson: Can we start with your background? I know you grew up in some American suburbs and in Malaysia. When did you begin to pay so much attention to Mariah Carey?
Andrew Chan: I moved around quite a bit as a kid. I was born in Minneapolis, in a great music city, but I didn’t live there long. My family moved to Tampa, Florida and then to Malaysia. After moving back to the States, I lived in Atlanta, Georgia and Charlotte, North Carolina—the metropolitan New South.
In the nineties.
In the nineties. I moved to Atlanta… I think in ’97. I remember Butterfly had just come out. And I remember Usher was number one on the charts with “You Make Me Wanna…” Living in Atlanta and Charlotte in the nineties, I was one of the few Chinese Americans in school. For much of middle school and early high school, half of my friends were Black. So, there was a lot of exposure to the music that they were listening to. Hip-hop and r&b were becoming mainstream and dominating the charts. Having friends who were Black exposed me to more than just what was crossing over.
I also felt connected emotionally to Malaysian culture. My parents exposed me to some of the great Asian divas of the eighties and nineties. Mandarin and Cantonese pop were important for me until, maybe, first grade. So, I was listening to people like Anita Mui, Priscilla Chan, and Teresa Teng and was completely obsessed with them before I had much knowledge of American pop music. Even then my ear was attuned to how different they sounded. Anita Mui had this beautiful contralto voice. Teresa Teng was more of a mezzo soprano. And they had different vocal approaches. Even if I didn’t have the language to analyze that or express that at that age, I was really drawn to the variety of women’s singing. That fascination carried over to the period when I started becoming obsessed with American pop music and American divas, mainly through Whitney and Mariah. When I heard “I Will Always Love You” and the whole Bodyguard era, I’d never heard something like that before. That drew me to the soul tradition of American singing.
I don’t often hear people discuss Carey in the lineage of great American interpreters of ballads like Ella Fitzgerald or Frank Sinatra, and I really appreciate that it’s the note you lead with in your book—which parallels the way that Carey started her career. The OA’s annual music issue is a dive into ballads and the elasticity of the form. What’s special about ballads? Why might an artist like Carey launch her career with ballads?
Even though she became frustrated with Tommy Mottola molding her into an adult contemporary ballad singer, the demo was full of ballads. She co-wrote all those songs. She found different ways of making the ballad fresh and interesting for herself.
The ballad has always meant different things across time. If you were to compare Sinatra, singing an old jazz standard ballad like “Angel Eyes” or “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning,” what does that have in common with Mariah Carey’s “Can’t Let Go?” They’re slow. They’re about passionate love. This does a couple of things for a singer: It gives you space to really milk every note and moment; the listener is drawn into the space of the ballad and is invited to listen very closely in a way that you just aren’t if you’re competing with an up-tempo beat behind you or if you’re singing fast. The feat is more about rhythm than it is about holding out long notes. The ballad accentuates the tone of the singer’s voice. It creates an intimate connection with the listener. It also puts the singer at risk of being uncool because ballads are kind of forbidden. And that is why we love them. They can be uncool. They almost feel like something that we shouldn’t admit we listen to or respect because they, especially the sad ones allow us to wallow, which we’re not supposed to do if we’re grownups and we want to be serious and mature. We’re not supposed to sink into our feelings of longing and despair. But this is one of the places in our culture where we get access to that intensity of emotion, and the slowness of the music mimics the infatuated person’s inability to let go of love or inability to stop thinking about the beloved.
Mariah is an unabashedly sentimental singer, and that’s why it took so long for her to garner any kind of critical respect. She is in that tradition of musical wallowers. She loves her heartache. She loves to long and pine. She’s a bit of a masochist.
Many interesting people are.
Yeah. Ballads can be transportive to sing. The tempos are slower; you can really get your mouth around the words and feel each one of them. Because the song isn’t whizzing by at a crazy pace, you can build to a satisfying climax. You can go from low to high in this drawn-out, dramatic way. That shows the full capabilities of your voice.
When you say ballads are transportive, are you talking about a transcendent experience? The Holy Ghost?
A little bit. It’s to the point where you’re moving with your own performance, which is why singers sometimes get choked up when they’re singing their ballads, because it is such a vulnerable place to be. In karaoke, which most people don’t take seriously, if I’m singing a particular song and I’m really feeling it, I can get so lost in it.
“She loves her heartache. She loves to long and pine. She’s a bit of a masochist.”
ANDREW CHAN
I like what you said about ballads being almost contraband. I remember when people realized Beyoncé was starting the Renaissance tour with slow songs. It seemed almost like an anachronism.
Yeah, for her big house record. She’s a great ballad girl too. In terms of them being contraband, back in the Maoist era in China, love ballads were banned because they were seen as counterrevolutionary. If you were part of the revolution, you wouldn’t indulge in these individualistic displays of your own personal emotions. I do get into that a little bit in the book where I even had a moment in my teenage years where I was just like, These are pathetic. They’re a distraction from the real business of politics and liberation and revolution, you know?
We include a song by Fannie Lou Hamer on our compilation accompanying the issue. You made me think of Elaine Brown, who was chair of the Black Panther party and recorded songs and some of them are balladlike. They’re propagandist, one-note songs.
There is the political ballad too. I think there’s something about love ballads where it’s like surrendering and succumbing to feelings of longing, loss, yearning, desire. Of course, there’s misogyny involved in that too, because these are “feminized” emotions. Ideas about feminine hysteria are built into this hyperbolic style of singing as well. People forget that Whitney was booed and disrespected for much of her career. It’s funny that she and Mariah had a reappraisal where they’re legends now, but at the beginning of their careers, they were criticized for over-singing and being excessive.
I wonder why people didn’t say that about Luther Vandross. He’s super indulgent.
He’s so indulgent. “A House is Not a Home” or “Superstar”—those songs are seven minutes long or something. He had some pop crossover appeal, but he never hit it as big as Whitney and Mariah. But also, there’s a bit of misogyny in that, the difference between women doing it and men doing it. I mean, Al Green is a show-off. They’re all show-offs.
Let’s talk about the eighties. You say that “Can’t Let Go,” is a revision of “Make It Last Forever” by Keith Sweat and Jacci McGhee and compare Carey’s work as a songwriter-singer-producer to Teena Marie and Angela Winbush. And you go into quite a bit of depth into all her references and homages in Glitter: Indeep, Zapp, Cherrelle. I’m having a moment right now—perhaps I’m where Mariah was back in ’99 and 2000—but I’m so obsessed with the sounds and sights of the Black ’80s. Miki Howard, whom you also mention, has been heavy on my mind, alongside Anita Baker, Patrice Rushen, Regina Belle. In your opinion, what was special about that era in music, particularly in Black pop, and how was it connected to Carey’s debut?
I didn’t come into writing this book as an expert in eighties Black music. That is one of the areas where I felt a bit insecure because I felt I knew sixties and seventies r&b and nineties onward in terms of r&b, but for some reason the eighties were an area that I hadn’t explored sufficiently. I knew the major names and their works, but it is a decade that, when it comes to Black popular music, it’s so defined by one-hit wonders. Aside from the Whitneys and the Michael and Janet Jacksons and Lionel Richies, there weren’t a lot of a long-lasting careers that crossed over to non-Black audiences in a major way. Sometimes, DeBarge would have a pop hit, but for most of their significant catalog, mostly Black listeners were listening. I had to do a lot of catching up to get those sounds into my ears and really hear how they influenced Mariah. I think part of it is because eighties r&b is less canonized than the seventies and nineties. Even the nineties have experienced this resurgence of critical interest, but the eighties are almost like a blip. Part of it is where it came in the history of popular music—after the demise of disco, which really was a shaming of Black music by the white rock establishment. I’m sure it’s more complex than that, but that was certainly a dimension to that whole culture war. In the eighties, you have r&b coming out of the ashes of disco and utilizing the electronic elements that disco had been criticized or seen as superficial for. You get a lot of experimentation like Zapp—so kooky and goofy. The use of the talk box to manipulate vocals. You get club music, like Cherrelle, a sort of post-disco dance music, people having a lot of fun. Just like really deep grooves that went on for like six minutes. Gap Band, all that kind of stuff.
There’s the kind of fun side of eighties r&b, but then on the other side you have this luxuriousness, the plush textures of Quiet Storm, which began in the seventies, but really came into its own commercially in the eighties with people like Luther, Anita Baker—who sort of took the slow-roasted, slow-jam, boudoir sound of Isaac Hayes and Al Green and Smokey Robinson—and pushed it to a whole new level. Even when they were singing at the tops of their lungs, it was still smooth.
I hesitate to just generalize all eighties r&b, but I see those as the two parallel tracks. I think they both deeply informed Mariah’s aesthetic. I think Aretha is a huge influence on pretty much all r&b women singers. I think Mariah would cite her as the ultimate female influence, but I think when it comes to sonics, the luxuriousness, the Quiet Storm sound is so evident in songs like “Underneath the Stars” and “Fourth of July.” Those are what you would think of as Quiet-Storm Mariah, but you [also] hear it in the stuff that’s more hip-hop like “The Roof.” The way she’s stacking her vocals, the way she’s creating texture with her voice. It’s very Luther. The way she is manipulating her voice, the way she’s showing it off but not for its own sake, but to create an environment that you sort of wrap yourself in. When I think of Luther showcases like “Superstar” or “Forever, for Always, for Love,” it’s very much like some kind of texture that you can wrap yourself.
This is quite different from the approach of the belters of the sixties and seventies, like Aretha or even Gladys or Chaka, powerful singers who really prioritized the belt. Mariah is a phenomenal belter—one of the greatest. Where she really distinguishes herself from other divas of her time is the subtler parts of her voice. I think a lot of that is influenced by Quiet Storm. When it comes to the zanier side of eighties r&b, you hear it in her sense of humor, her effervescence, especially as she became more of a jokester lyrically in her later years. You can sort of hear the lyrical experimentation and the kind of devil-may-care attitude of eighties Black music.
One of my favorite live performances of Carey’s is where she sings “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and “If Only You Knew,” her Patti Labelle homage. I love that era in her voice where there is that level of rasp.
That performance—it’s very eighties Patti. “If Only You Knew” is so eighties. I think Mariah’s samples, too, are so interesting and root her in the time of her youth. She’s such a radio-head, the way she talks about listening to the radio in her memoir and her devotion to soaking up all those sounds. That was before streaming, where you really had to be glued to the radio. I don’t know if she had MTV back in the day, but the radio was the thing. And she wasn’t just listening to r&b. She was listening to Pat Benatar. The range of her musical references is so fascinating.
I’d love to discuss Carey’s gospel moments. You spend a great deal of time on her rendition of Dottie Peoples’ “Jesus, Oh What a Wonderful Child” and note that while Carey didn’t grow up in the Black church, she joined one as an adult. What’s Mariah’s connection to the gospel of the ’90s? I’m thinking of artists like BeBe and CeCe Winans or Commissioned?
I love gospel music, but I would never claim to know it. I love gospel music because that’s where r&b comes from. R&b is my portal into gospel music. It remains the source of so much great singing, even today. Le’Andria Johnson is one of my favorite singers alive. In terms of Mariah and gospel, I think it is so interesting to me that she didn’t grow up in a Black church and yet was so committed to singing in a gospel style, even from the beginning. There may not be songs that feel explicitly gospel on the debut album, but you do have moments. “There’s Got to Be a Way” has a gospel choir that feels kind of in the style of BeBe and CeCe Winans. That pop, commercial gospel that was happening in the late eighties and nineties—the kind of gospel that you would hear in Sister Act 2. Then she employs background singers like Kelly Price and Melonie Daniels—virtuosos of that sound.
In the book, you note that Kelly Price had been trained by Mattie Moss Clark.
Yes, I found that in a video of Kelly Price. She talked about doing some kind of workshop with Mattie Moss Clark when she was younger. [Carey’s] commitment to surrounding herself with not just skilled r&b background vocalists, who could do a commercial sound, but vocalists like Kelly Price and Melonie Daniels, who could bring a church sound, specifically a COGIC sound to her music is completely fascinating to me. The Clark Sisters were playing on r&b radio back in the seventies. Gospel had been having these kinds of crossover moments, but Mariah’s knowledge of the music surpasses just knowing “Oh, Happy Day” or “You Brought the Sunshine.” She was listening to Vanessa Bell Armstrong. From the very first album in interviews, she is citing Vanessa Bell Armstrong and the Clark Sisters as influences.
I have to think that in her teens, she had been exposed to gospel music. I’m fascinated that she came to the music and absorbed its influence without having a longstanding background in the Black church. I bring this up, not so much as a point about appropriation, but more as another example of Mariah being someone obsessed with records and listening to music and soaking up any influence she could find, whether it was Journey—when she covers “Open Arms”—or gospel or hip-hop or what have you.
To go back to gospel and “Jesus, Oh What a Wonderful Child,” she has moments where she wears her gospel influence on her sleeve even before that. “Anytime You Need a Friend” was one of the most significant gospel moments; she’s singing with a choir behind her and doing a lot of riffing and running and belting in the way of the great COGIC singers. “Jesus, Oh What a Wonderful Child” is significant because it sounds live. I read somewhere that it was recorded live in a church. The vamp is unlike anything that had come in her discography before. It is a gesture toward a kind of gospel authenticity. It’s no longer just gospel-pop. It’s going there and trying to recreate the spirit and the atmosphere and the feeling of a live gospel setting.
I’m interested in her study of gospel as an example of her being a constant and abiding student of different forms of Black music. I love her later gospel songs like “Fly like a Bird,” “I Wish You Well,” and “Heavenly” where she combines a James Cleveland song with a Mary Mary song. There is a song called “I Understand” that’s one of those multi-megastar performances. There’s Rance Allen, Kim Burrell, and Mariah does just whistle at the very end.
Do you think Mariah is fundamentally an r&b artist?
We first have to acknowledge that genres are constructs. These terms have historical origins that are usually rooted in marketing and promotion. Most people track [r&b] to the 1940s. It replaced race music as the designation or the category for whatever African Americans listened to that was popular music. It’s a shifting signifier. The idea that there is a commonality between the music of Ray Charles and Lavern Baker and Fats Domino and Mariah and SZA—all these artists sound so different. I think there is something a little bit unhelpful about these genre markers.
That being said, constructs take on their own reality for people who engage with them. For Mariah, and her listeners who gravitate to the r&b side of her catalog, r&b represents something. It’s as different as the music has become over the decades. There are still certain stylistic and sonic continuities. It’s very improvisational. There is melisma, runs. In classical music, you perform it as its notated. Melisma defies notation. You can sing so many notes so fast that you can’t really even transcribe it. It’s rooted in gospel. It’s rooted in a certain passion for delivery, a centrality of the voice and individual expression. An idea about struggle and transcendence, because it’s rooted in the Black experience and an acknowledgement that life is sometimes totally unbearable, and music is a vehicle to help you get over, to get through. People who gravitate to r&b are connecting with that.
Of course, not every r&b song is about that. But even in a slow jam, you can hear that whining, that struggle, that tension. You hear all these elements in Mariah’s discography. For her, r&b became, at a certain point in her life, a way of expressing her Black identity, which had been dismissed or misrepresented or misunderstood. She was constantly asked about her race in interviews, constantly having to remind people of what she had said from the very beginning, that her father was Black and Venezuelan, and her mother was Irish American. Embracing r&b as her heritage was an important part of her owning her identity as a Black woman. R&b is so interesting as a cultural and political marker, because now we’re in an age where white artists like Justin Bieber or Justin Timberlake, or whoever, say that they’re r&b. I’m less interested in saying, “This person’s not r&b; this person is,” and more interested in what is it that makes people so desperate to align themselves with this genre. I think it’s the historical lineage—the gravity of the heritage. It’s the connection to the idea of soul, which is a spiritual idea.
I’m not sure if any artist can be definitively anything when it comes to genre. But I think certainly Mariah perceives herself as an r&b artist and has conducted her artistic life in a way that shows that she’s committed to a certain ideal of what r&b is—passionate, soulful singing; a connection to music as a form of spirituality.
“Even in a slow jam, you can hear that whining, that struggle, that tension.”
ANDREW CHAN
You have this part of the book where you’re talking about her covers of power rock anthems. You don’t say that she’s reappropriating, but you say she’s showing how permeable rock and r&b boundaries are. They have a shared origin, and they come together in her choices of what to cover and what to sing and how to sing them and her arrangements.
For sure. If you think about Foreigner’s “I Want to Know What Love Is” that she covers, that’s an instance of a white band bringing gospel influence into a rock song. These boundaries are always permeable. Rock at one point was called r&b when it was sung by Black artists. What she demonstrates with her music is the variety within r&b and that the music is not a monolith. She’s giving you quiet storm. She’s giving you girl-group songs. She’s giving you New Jack Swing. She’s giving you hip-hop soul. She’s giving you power ballads. She’s giving you deep soul, in the tradition of Aretha with “Mine Again.” She is committed to a vision of herself as an r&b artist, but for her it is many things.
All the things you were saying about the struggle and resilience r&b signifies—I think that’s also reflective of the queerness that many sense in a lot of Mariah’s songs.
Absolutely. One song I want to write about is “Ain’t No Way.” Carolyn Franklin wrote that. I don’t know if we know definitively if she was queer, but I think all the history kind of shows that she was. There’s definitely a [queer] reading of that song. You have Luther as a queer artist and Sylvester, so many of the pioneers of the r&b. Little Richard. It makes sense because gospel was pioneered by queer people. Otherness and survival, the longing for transcendence is something so baked into the music. That’s certainly what I was responding to as a young closeted gay child, who’s experiencing racial otherness in the American South as well. Obviously, my experience is very different from Mariah’s, but I think there’s a longing to transcend the arbitrariness of what oppresses us through sound.
And she does transcend and break through.
She achieves it. What is beautiful about a Mariah Carey ballad is that she takes you into the depths of despair, sorrow, but through the sheer beauty and power and mastery of her voice, she is carrying us over. No matter how sorrowful or despairing it gets—and some of them really are quite dark and fatalistic—there’s something about the voice. The voice can be the vehicle that carries you over.

ΜΟΝΤΕΝEGRO
CHAPTER I
THE CITY IN THE SKY
Why I went to the Balkans―The road to Montenegro―Cettinje and its petroleum tins―About the blood-feud―England and Montenegro―Warned not to attempt to go to Albania―My guide a marked man-The story of Tef―A woman's fickleness, and its sequel.
CHAPTER II
AN AUDIENCE OF PRINCE NICHOLAS
The Palace at Cettinje―A cigarette with the Prince―The policy of Montenegro―A confidential chat―His Royal Highness's admiration for England―His views upon Macedonia―He urges me not to attempt to go to Albania. but I persuade him to help me―His Highness's kindness―Souvenirs.
**
CHAPTER I
THE CITY IN THE SKY
Why I went to the Balkans— The road to Montenegro — Cettinje and its petroleum tins — About the blood-feud — England and Montenegro — Warned not to attempt to go to Albania — My guide a marked man — The story of Tef — A woman's fickleness, and its sequel.
I ENTERED the Balkans by the back door. The luxuries of the Orient Express had no attraction for me. I wanted to see the Balkans as they really are, those great, wild, mountainous countries, so full of race hatreds, of political bickerings, of fierce blood-feuds, of feverish propa- gandas those nations with their interesting monarchs and their many mysteries.
The "Orient" runs direct from Paris to the Balkan capitals, it is true, but if one goes to study a people the capital is not the only place in which to discover the truth. One must go into the country, move among the peasantry, hear their grievances and investigate their wrongs. Therefore I decided to enter the East by Montenegro, and also visit the wild and little-known regions of Northern Albania.
The comfortable voyage by the Austrian-Lloyd mail steamer Graf Wurmbrand from Trieste down the Adriatic, touching at Pola, the Austrian naval station, Lussinpiccolo, Zara- famed for its maraschino-Sebenico, Spalato, and Gravosa to Cattaro, has been already described by many writers. Suffice it to say that it is perhaps one of the most picturesque of pleasure-trips in the world, for every moment one has a fresh panorama of mountain and blue sea, of green, fertile islands with subtropical vegetation, and tiny white villages nestling at the sea's edge, as the steamer threads her way through the narrow and often difficult channels.
At times the wild scenery, especially in the Bocche di Cattaro, reminds the traveller of the Norwegian fiords, and at others the coast is an almost exact reproduction of the French Riviera.
The object of my journey was, however, not in order to write a mere description of men and places. There have been other travellers in the Balkans who have related their story, therefore my mission was to make careful inquiry into the present unsettled state of affairs, try and discover the grievances of both sides, and endeavour to obtain from the rulers and statesmen of the various nations their aspirations for the future. This I succeeded in doing, for the various monarchs of the Balkans graciously gave me audience; and from their Ministers, from the middle classes, and from the peasants, I was enabled at last to form some conclusion as to the real situation-political, economical, social, and financial.
The writer who attempts to place the various Balkan questions impartially and clearly before the public will at once find himself utterly confused, and wallowing wildly in a morass of misstatement and misrepresentation. The Balkans are torn by race hatreds, party strife, and the intrigues of the Powers. The Turk hates the Bulgar, the Serb hates the Austrian, the Roumanian hates the Greek, the Albanian hates the Montenegrin, the Bosnian hates the Turk, while the Macedonian hates everybody all round. What is told to one authoritatively one hour, is flatly contradicted the next; therefore it is not in the least surprising that in the European Press there have been so many misstatements about the various Balkan questions, the real truth being so very difficult to obtain.
I have, however, endeavoured to obtain it, and at risk of being injudicious, to place before the reader the facts as they are, without any political bias, or any seeking to gloss over the many glaring defects of administration of which I have myself been witness.
To describe the beauties of the Bocche di Cattaro, that series of winding channels where the high grey mountains rise sheer from the water, would be only to traverse old ground. Suffice it to say that I landed at Cattaro on a bright, sunny noon, and found upon the quay a tall, lean mountaineer who had been sent to meet me.
To the traveller fresh from the West the Montenegrin costume of both women and men is very attractive, but a few days in the Balkans soon accustoms the eye to a perfect phantasmagoria of colour and of costume. Pero was my driver's name, and I noticed that around his waist was a revolver belt, but minus the weapon. I inquired where it was, and with a grin he informed me that Cattaro, being in Dalmatia, the Austrians would not allow Montenegrins to bring arms into their country; so they were compelled to leave them on the other side of the frontier, ten kilometres distant.
My bags packed upon the three-horse travelling carriage and secured with many strings, and Pero equipped with a plentiful stock of cigarettes, he mounted upon the box, whipped up his long-tailed ponies, and we started on our eight-hour ascent of that great wall of mountain that hides Montenegro from the sea.
As we ascended through the little village of Skaljari we entered upon a magnificent road, said to be one of the greatest engineering feats of modern times, and steadily ascended, until at the striped black-and-yellow Austrian boundary post we crossed the frontier, and were in the "Land of the Black Mountain"-Montenegro. Across the road, at an acute angle, a row of paving-stones marks the frontier, and soon after- wards we found ourselves in the wildest and most desolate mountain region. At a lonely roadside hut Pero obtained his big, serviceable-looking revolver, and I, of course, wore mine in my belt; for in Montenegro or Albania arms make the man. A man unarmed is looked upon as an effeminate coward. Indeed, by order of Prince Nicholas every Monte- negrin must wear the national dress, both men and women, and every man must carry his revolver when out of doors.
Four hours from Cattaro we were in a lonely mountain fastness, a wild, desolate, treeless region of huge limestone rocks of peculiar volcanic formation, which gave them the appearance of a boiling sea. The views over the Adriatic as we turned back were so superb that, despite photographing being strictly forbidden on account of the fortresses in the vicinity, I could not resist the temptation to take one or two surreptitiously. On, through a bleak, uninhabited country, we at last reached the guard-house of Kerstac, and then half an hour later found ourselves upon a plateau where, in the centre, stood the small clean village of Nyegush, the ancestral home of the reigning family, and the scene of most of the Montenegrin wars of independence. Here we halted for half an hour at the post-house, and before we left, the big, lumbering post-diligence, with its armed guard, came up behind us.
Before we moved off again it had grown dark, the moon shone, and for four hours longer we alternately climbed and descended through that wild region of silence and desolation, until at last we saw, deep below, the lights of Cettinje, the little capital, and an hour later brought us to the unpre- tending "Grand" Hotel.
Hardly had I entered my room when there came a loud knock at my door, and a tall, scarlet-coated Montenegrin warrior, armed to the teeth, entered and saluted. For a moment I looked up at him aghast, but the mystery was solved when, next second, he handed me with great ceremony a telegram from a dear friend in England wishing me God- speed. I had taken him to be, at least, one of the Prince's bodyguard, and he was only a plain telegraph messenger!
This was but one of many surprises in store for me in Montenegro. Next morning I went out to look round the clean little capital, when, on passing the Prince's palace, I saw a number of soldiers drawn up, and as I went by, the band suddenly struck up the British National Anthem! I raised my hat, halted, and stood puzzled. Surely they were not honouring me! Another moment, however, and I recognised the reason. In a carriage, accompanied by the Grand Marechal of the Court, there drove up my friend Mr. Charles des Graz, the newly-appointed British Chargé d'Affaires to Montenegro, who was about to present his creden- tials to His Royal Highness the Prince.
Montenegro is perhaps the most interesting country in all the Balkans. Cettinje, a small, clean town of broad streets and one-storeyed, whitewashed houses, is a little city in the sky, lying as it does in a cup-shaped depression at the summit of a high, bare mountain. Its long, straight, main street reminds one very much of a small country town in England, if it were not that everyone is, by law, compelled to wear the national dress, and every man has in his belt his big, long- barrelled revolver, without which he must never go out of doors.
The men, sturdy mountaineers, are of fine physique- handsome fellows, all of them. Their dress consists of dark blue baggy trousers, white woollen gaiters, raw-hide shoes, a scarlet jacket heavily braided with gold, and a small round cap, with black silk around the edge and the crown of the same colour as the jacket, bearing the Prince's initials in Servian letters, "H.I." The women, who are particularly good-looking, wear dark skirts, beautifully hand-embroidered blouses, and a kind of long coat, with open sleeves of soft, dove-grey cloth. Forbidden to wear European hats, they are compelled to adopt an exactly similar cap to the men, except that the crown is embroidered instead of bearing the royal initials.
Nowhere have I seen such glorification of the male as in Montenegro. To the men, born fighters as they are, work is undignified; therefore the women toil while the opposite sex look on. I saw women employed in building operations and performing work which, in other countries, is left to day- labourers.
Cettinje is quaint in the extreme. The only houses of foreigners are the various Legations, and the only foreigners are diplomats with their wives and families. The first thing that strikes the stranger is the number of petroleum tins. Opposite the hotel I saw a great ring of empty tins, numbering some hundreds, ranged around a fountain. A few women were squatting gossiping, and an armed policeman lounged against the water-source. On inquiry, I found that there was a water famine, and the tins had been placed there at dawn to await the moment when the authorities thought fit to allow the people to get their daily supply. The women had gone away to work, and would return later. The Monte- negrins a short time ago constructed a reservoir, but there was a crack in it, so the water ran away. Hence the famine.
The petroleum tin is never out of sight for a single moment in Cettinje. At any hour, and in any street, you see women and children carrying them. They are used for everything, from milk-pails to flower-pots.
In Cettinje one comes for the first time up against the dark-faced, scowling Albanian in his tightly fitting trousers of white wool striped with black, his dirty white fez, and the swagger of superiority in his gait. He is well armed, and for a good reason. The Montenegrin hates the Albanian, because of the constant border feuds over at Podgoritza, where blood is constantly spilt, and where I have seen a Montenegrin in the market squatting over a basket of apples with a loaded rifle.
That morning I was chatting to a man in Montenegrin dress, of whom I had bought some excellent cigarettes, manufactured by the Montenegro Tobacco Monopoly-an Italian syndicate, by the way and happened to mention that I was on my way to Albania. "Ah, gospodin!" he exclaimed, holding up both his hands, and glancing at the revolver in my belt. "Take my advice.
Don't go into Albania or Macedonia. You are not safe there from one moment to the other. For half a word they'll shoot you dead as easily as they drink a glass of wine. No man's life is worth a moment's purchase there. I'm Albanian myself from Kroja-and I know."
This was scarcely reassuring. I looked about me on every hand as I strolled through Cettinje. All was so quiet, so orderly, so very peaceful there, even though the big, burly mountaineers in the gold-laced jackets eyed me with askance as I passed. Not without some trepidation I took a number of photographs, for I had heard that, like the Turk, the Monte- negrin was averse to having his counterfeit presentment put upon paper. Nevertheless, the first feeling of insecurity having passed, I very soon found myself quite at home in Cettinje, and in the midst of very good and kind friends.
A good many foreigners come up from Cattaro to pry about Cettinje for a day or two, buy picture-postcards and antique arms, sneer at the honest Montenegrin, and return into Dalmatia. Towards such, the Montenegrin is not par- ticularly polite. But those who go to Cettinje to seriously and thoroughly study the people and their future will find a great deal of genuine and charming hospitality.
My first day in Cettinje was lonely. Afterwards, until I left, I was always with friends and officials, who took the greatest trouble to answer my questions and explain matters.
Montenegro is entirely unlike any other country in the world. Its air of antiquity is particularly pleasing, while on every hand the beneficent rule of Prince Nicholas is apparent. Every man in Montenegro swears by his Prince, whom he almost worships. They call him their "father," and if His Royal Highness raised the standard of war to- morrow, every man would rise and fight to the death. The Prince is accessible to all his people-more so to them, indeed, than to the diplomats. Sometimes, early in the morning, he will sit in an arm-chair on the steps leading to the entrance of his palace, and there hear the complaints or petitions of his people. In this patriarchal way he often ministers justice. Last year he granted Montenegro a Constitution, and there is now a Skupshtina similar to that of Servia; but the people have not yet quite understood that in future they must go to the Ministers, and not to their Prince. They will see him, and nobody else.
In no country is loyalty and patriotism so strong as in Montenegro. The army is well trained, and the whole country being one huge natural fortress, a foreign enemy would experience enormous difficulty in gaining entrance. In Cettinje, even a constant traveller like myself meets with continual surprises. One day, while walking at the rear of the Bigliardo, or old palace-so called because when built the first billiard table was introduced-I heard the sound of clanking chains behind me. At first I took no notice, but as it continued with regular rhythm I glanced behind, when, to my amaze- ment, I saw a convict in leg-fetters with difficulty taking his afternoon stroll beneath the trees! There were several others on the grass plot before the prison, idling in the shadow or gossiping with their friends, who had come to keep them company!
Inquiriesshowed that most of these prisoners were murderers, not for robbery but for vendetta. In Montenegro the blood- feud is constant, and life is held very cheap. It invariably commences by jealousy, and is of everyday occurrence. Two lovers quarrel, and one is shot. Then the blood-feud commences, and unlike in Italy or other Southern countries, the vendetta is not only upon the murderer, but upon his next-of-kin. Therefore, if the assassin escapes into Servia, Bosnia, or Turkey, as he so often does, the brother of the dead man takes up the feud and kills the assassin's brother without parley when next he meets him. I myself saw a man shot dead one night in Ryeka, at the head of the Lake of Scutari, and the murderer walked coolly away undeterred. It was the blood-feud, and no one took much notice.
"S'bogom!" (God be with you!) It is the expression you hear on every hand in the Balkans. In the streets the peasants touch their round caps in salute and exclaim, "S'bogom!" When you leave for a journey and when you return, when you rise and when you go to rest; even if you go for a short walk-it is the same. Life is so uncertain in those wild regions that the protection of the Almighty is invoked upon you always, and your revolver is ever ready in your belt.
In Cettinje I had a faithful guide and servant, a black-eyed, somewhat sinister-looking Albanian, named Palok. He travelled with me through Montenegro and Albania, and was most faithful and devoted. Besides Albanian and Serb he spoke a little Italian, and possessed a keen sense of humour.
One day, while we were travelling through the wild, bare mountain, a perfect wilderness of huge boulders without a single tree or even blade of grass, we halted for our midday meal, and while eating he told me of a great friend of his who had recently been killed at Spuz for vendetta, and he added, fondling the butt of his revolver, "I too, gospodin, shall die before long."
I looked at him in surprise. His usually humorous face had changed. It was dark and thoughtful, and his black eyes were fixed upon me.
"Is there a blood-feud upon you, then?" I asked, in surprise.
"Yes," he replied briefly; and though I endeavoured to persuade him to tell the story, it was not until the following day that with some reluctance he explained.
"A year ago my brother Tef, away in Scutari, fell in love with a beautiful girl. He had a rival-a young Albanian, a coppersmith in the bazaar. They quarrelled, but the girl-ah! she was very beautiful-preferred Tef. Where- upon the rival one night took his rifle and laid in wait for my brother in the main street of Scutari. Early in the evening he left the house of the girl's father, and as he passed the fellow shot poor Tef dead."
And he paused as his brow knit deeply, and his teeth were set tightly.
"Well?" I asked.
"Well, gospodin. What would you have done had your own brother died a dog's death? I took a rifle, and within a week the murderer was in his grave. I shot him through the heart and then I left Scutari."
"And you are safe here, in Montenegro ?"
"Safe! Oh dear, no," he answered. "One day-it may be to-day-the fellow's brother will kill me. He must kill me. It is Fate-why worry about it? It does one no good."
And the marked man, the man doomed to die at a moment when he least expects it, rolled a cigarette and lit it with perfect resignment.
"And are you not afraid to go with me back to Scutari?" I asked, amazed at his fearlessness.
"Afraid, gospodin!" he exclaimed, looking at me in reproach as his hand instinctively wandered to his weapon. "Afraid! No Albanian is afraid of the blood-feud. I have killed the murderer, and his brother must kill me. It is our law." And the doomed man smiled gravely.
"And the girl?" I asked.
"Ah! They are all the same," he answered, with a quick shrug of the shoulders. "A month ago she married a tobacco- seller a man old enough to be her father. Poor Tef! If he could but know!"
"And the blood-feud still continues?"
"Of course-until I am dead."
Then Palok smoked on in silence, entirely resigned to the fate that awaits him. He knows that one day, as he walks along the road, the sharp crack of a hidden rifle will sound, and he will fall to earth, another victim of a woman's fickleness.
S'bogom! God be with you!
CHAPTER II
AN AUDIENCE OF PRINCE NICHOLAS
The Palace at Cettinje-A cigarette with the Prince-The policy of Monte- negro-A confidential chat-His Royal Highness's admiration for England-His views upon Macedonia-He urges me not to attempt to go to Albania, but I persuade him to help me-His Highness's kindness -Souvenirs.
HIS Royal Highness the Prince will be pleased to grant you private audience at four o'clock this after- noon, gospodin."
The tall, burly aide-de-camp in the little round cap, high boots, pale blue overcoat, and pistols in his belt, saluted, and we shook hands.
It was then three o'clock, and I was just about to go out to visit Madame Constantinovitch, the mother of Princess Mirko. So I had to return at once to my room and dress for the audience. The kings and princes of the Balkans have a habit of summoning one at a moment's notice, and paying visits at unearthly hours.
Here, in Cettinje, in the heart of these wild, desolate fast- nesses, one seems so far removed from European influence, yet how great a part has this rocky, impregnable country, with its fierce soldier-inhabitants, played in the politics of Eastern Europe, and how great a part it is still destined to play in the near future!
The fact that everybody is armed gives the stranger an uncanny feeling. The man who brings one's coffee wears a perfect arsenal of weapons in his sash, and one quickly acquires the habit of carrying a revolver one's self. Indeed, if you are wise, you will carry a good serviceable weapon from the moment you enter the Balkans to the moment you quit them. But if you approach the Albanian frontier, you will be at once warned not to fire without just cause. A few shots is sufficient to alarm the whole neighbourhood for many miles, and on hearing the alarm every man seizes his rifle and flies to the rendezvous, fully equipped and eager for the fight with those Albanian border tribes, of whom I afterwards had the good fortune to be the guest.
I had already had a long chat with Prince Danilo, the Crown Prince of Montenegro, whom I found a very smart and highly educated man, fully alive to the political difficulties of the neighbouring states and the necessity of Montenegro preserving her independence. He held very strong views upon the terrible state of affairs in Macedonia, and gave me many interesting details about his own country.
Having met him, and also his younger brother, Prince Mirko, I was particularly anxious to make the acquaintance of their father, Prince Nicholas, the ruler of the sturdy, warlike dwellers of the "Land of the Black Mountain "-the principal and most striking figure in this remarkable country, where peace and war walk ever hand-in-hand.
Since 1860, when his uncle, Prince Danilo, was assassinated, he has ruled justly, if somewhat sternly, and has succeeded in raising his nation from a state of semi-civilisation to the high place it now occupies in the Eastern world. In 1888 he gave the country a Civil and Criminal Code, and last year he granted a Constitution. Indeed, he has done all in his power to induce his warriors to follow the arts of peace without forgetting those of war.
At the hour appointed, the royal aide-de-camp called in a carriage and drove me to the Palace, a long, dark brown building of somewhat plain exterior, as befits the home of a fighting race, where I was received in the great hall by half a dozen bowing servants in scarlet and gold. Here I was met by the chamberlain, who conducted me up the grand staircase and into the great audience-chamber, with its many fine paintings and highly polished floor. Then, after a moment, the Prince-a brilliant figure-entered, shook me by the hand, and welcomed me to Montenegro.
These formalities ended, His Royal Highness said in Italian, "Come, let us go into yonder room. We shall be able to talk there more comfortably." And he led me into a smaller chamber, where he gave me a seat at the table where he sat.
The afternoon was gloomy, and dusk was creeping on, therefore upon the table a great antique silver candelabra had been set, and by its light I was enabled to obtain a good view of the ruler of Crnagora, the "Land of the Black Mountain."
Of magnificent physique, tall, muscular, with hair slightly grey, he bore his sixty-five years lightly. Attired in the splendid national costume of scarlet, blue, and gold, with high boots, he wore a single decoration at his throat, the Cross of Danilo, of which Order he is Master. Upon his hand- some, well-cut features the candles shed a soft light, causing the gold upon his dress to glitter, and I noticed, as I asked him questions, how his dark, keen eyes shot quick, inquiring glances of alertness.
After the first few minutes of regal formality His Highness's manner entirely changed. Putting ceremony aside, he pro- duced his cigarette case of crocodile skin, with the royal crown and cipher in gold in the corner-offered me a Montenegrin cigarette, took one himself, lit mine with his own hand, and then we fell to chatting.
In the delightful hour and a half we smoked together I asked the prince-poet many questions, and learnt many things. He explained several difficult points in Balkan politics, which to me, an Englishman, had always been puzzling. We spoke in Italian of Macedonia and of a certain well-known foreign diplomat in London who was our mutual friend, the Prince giving me a very kind message to deliver to him.
Presently I referred to the splendid result of his rule, and related to him a little incident which had occurred to me in Nyegush a few days before, as showing how deeply he was beloved by his nation. A smile crossed his fine open countenance as he replied simply, "I have done my best for my people-my very best; and I shall do so as long as God gives me life. I am happy to believe that my people appreciate my efforts."
"And now, Monseigneur," I asked, "will you tell me what is the present position of Montenegro?"
"The present position is peace," was his prompt answer. "I have granted a Constitution, and the first meeting of the new Skupshtina has been held successfully. Though the Albanian question is always with us, I am thankful to say we are on the most excellent terms with Turkey, while towards Russia we are pursuing our traditional policy. For the Emperor Francis Josef of Austria I have nothing but the most profound admiration, and I owe very much to him."
"And towards England, Monseigneur ?"
"England has been, as you know, Montenegro's very best friend," replied the Prince. "I, personally, have the greatest respect and admiration for your great country. We Montenegrins always remember that it was Mr. Gladstone who gave us the strip of seaboard on the Adriatic with Dulcigno. He was our greatest friend, and his memory is respected by admirer by every man in Montenegro. Of Tennyson, too, I am a great I am very fond of his poems."
"You are a poet yourself, Monseigneur," I remarked, remembering that more than one poetical drama from his pen had been successfully produced on the stage.
His Royal Highness smiled, and puffed slowly at his cigarette.
"I have written one or two little things, it is true; but nothing of late."
"I wonder if I dare ask your Royal Highness to write a few lines for me as a souvenir of my visit?" I asked, not without some trepidation.
"Ah!-well-I won't promise," he laughed. "All depends whether I'm in the mood for it."
"But you will try, won't you?
And the Prince nodded assent.
Then we spoke of Servia and of recent events there; but he was not inclined to discuss the question, and naturally so, when it is remembered that his daughter was the late wife of King Peter.
Returning to the burning question of Macedonia, I saw that he was well informed of all that was transpiring around lakes Presba and Ochrida and down in Serres.
"It is a monstrous state of affairs," he declared. "Something must be done at once, for as soon as spring comes again the massacres will increase."
"But there are outrages, tortures, and massacres every day," I remarked.
"Ah yes," he sighed, "I know. Most terrible details have reached me lately. But you are going to Macedonia yourself, and you will see with your own eyes."
"And what, in your opinion, would be the best settlement of the question?" I inquired.
"There is but one way, namely, for the Powers to call a conference and place Macedonia under a governor - general, who must be a European prince. The reforms would then be carried out, and the Greek bands expelled from the country. How long will Europe tolerate the present frightful state of affairs?"
"The fact is, Monseigneur, that we, in England, are very ignorant of the true state of things, or even of the facts of the Macedonian question," I said.
"Ah, there you are quite correct. If your English public knew what was really happening-how an innocent Christian population is being slaughtered and exterminated because of international rivalry-they would cry shame upon those responsible for this wholesale murder and outrage. But" -he smiled-" I almost forget myself. My position as a ruler forbids me to talk politics, you know!" And we laughed together.
"So you are going to Servia, Bulgaria, Roumania, and to Constantinople-eh?" he remarked a little later, when we had lit fresh cigarettes. "In Bulgaria, and also in Roumania, you will see many things that will interest you. The Bul- garians are very strongly armed, and so are the Roumanians."
"Her Majesty the Queen of Roumania has also promised me audience," I said.
"When you see her, will you please present to Her Majesty my most cordial respects. She is so very charming."
"I want, Monseigneur, to visit Northern Albania, leaving Montenegro by Ryeka and Scutari. Would that be the best route, do you think?"
"What!" he exclaimed, in surprise. "Do you actually contemplate visiting the tribes up in the Accursed Mountains?"
"Certainly. Why not?"
"Well, my advice is, don't think of going there. If you do, you will never return. You'll be shot at sight, like a dog. You have no idea what those uncivilised tribes are like. The whole country is utterly lawless."
"So I understand. But I've also heard that the Albanian possesses a deep sense of honour. And I thought that I might possibly obtain permission from one or other of the chiefs."
The Prince was silent for a moment. Then, looking at me across the table, said-
"Do not go. It is far too great a risk."
His advice was the same that my, friends in London had given me; the same that I had received there, in the market-place of Cettinje.
But I was determined, and pressed His Royal Highness to assist me, at last receiving his promise of help. By his kind permission, the Albanian named Palok acted as my guide, and what eventually happened to me in that wild region will be seen in the following pages.
"Well," exclaimed the Prince at last, "if you go up there, it must be at your own risk. I've warned you of the danger. No one has been up there for many years. It has been at- tempted, of course, but travellers have either been held to ransom, and the Turks have been compelled to pay for their release, or else they have simply been shot by the first Albanian meeting them. The country beyond Scutari is the most unsafe in the whole Balkan Peninsula."
I replied that I intended to make the attempt.
"Well, then, I wish you buon viaggio," he laughed. "May every good luck attend you, and as we say in Montenegro - S'bogom! (God be with you!) When you return for I suppose you will pass this way down to the sea-come and see me, and tell me all about the Skreli and Kastrati country -for of course I am highly interested. They are always at war with our people on the frontier."
"I will let your Royal Highness know the moment I am back in Cettinje," I promised.
Then rising, he gripped my hand warmly, saying-
"Then I will help you if I can. Be careful of yourself, for I shall be anxious about you. Again, S'bogom!"
And the Prince accompanied me to the head of the grand staircase, where I made my obeisance, turned and descended through the rows of armed and bowing servants ranged in the hall, charmed by His Royal Highness's graciousness towards me and by the pleasant chat I had enjoyed.
When, after my journey through Northern Albania, I one afternoon re-entered that audience-chamber, and he came forward with outstretched hand to greet me, he exclaimed-
"Well, well! I am so glad to see you back safe and sound. You look a little thinner in the face a little travel-worn- eh? Life in the Albanian mountains is not like your life in London or Paris, is it? But never mind as long as you are safe," he laughed, placing his hand kindly upon my shoulder.
"Come along to this room. It is more cosy," and he led me to the smaller apartment, his own private cabinet.
For nearly two hours I sat relating to him what occurred on my journey, and describing the wild country which had, until then, been practically a sealed book. Even though Cettinje is so near, hardly anything was known of the Skreli, the Hoti, the Klementi, or the Kastrati tribes, save that they were brigandish bands who constantly raided the Montenegrin frontier.
The Prince listened to me with great attention, and put many questions to me as we smoked together.
Then rising, he took from a drawer in his great writing- table a small scarlet box, and as he opened it he bestowed upon me a compliment undeserved, for he said -
"There are few men who would have risked what you have done. Therefore I wish to invest you with our Order of Danilo, as a mark of my appreciation and esteem."
And he displayed to me the beautiful dark blue and white enamelled cross of the Order, the same that he was wearing at his throat, surmounted by the royal crown and suspended upon the white ribbon edged with cerise.
After he had invested me with the Order, saying many kind things to me, which I really don't think I deserved, he added-
"The chef du chancellerie will send you the diploma in due course, and I trust, when you petition your own gracious Sovereign King Edward, that His Majesty will allow you to wear this insignia."
I thanked His Royal Highness, gripped his hand, and a few minutes later passed through the line of bowing servants out of the Palace.
And that same evening I received from His Royal Highness the signed photograph which appears in these pages.
Before I left Cettinje I received the following expressive lines, written especially for me by a Montenegrin poet who is a great personage, but whose name he would not permit me to give. They are in Servian as follows, and I have placed their English translation below :-
S' veledušnog Albiona
Pružiše se dvije ruke
Crnoj Gori da pomogu
U junačke njene muke
S' vrućom rječu na ustima
Gladston diže Crnogorce
A Tenison za najprve
U svijet ih broi borce
Na glas svoih Velikana
Britanski se narod trže
Da pomože da zaštiti
Crnu Goru iz najbrže
Posla svoje bojne ladje
Sto na tečnost gospostvuju
Veledušno da zaštite
Domovinu milu Moju
O fala ti po sto puta
Blagorodni lyudi Soju
Dok je svjeta dok je greda
Nad Ulcinjem koje stoju
Hraniće ti blagodarnost
Ova šaka sokolova
Koima si u pomoci
Stiga putem od valova.
The literal translation in English is as follows:-
From the great-souled Albion,
Two arms were stretched
To help Montenegro
In her heroic sufferings.
With fiery word on his lips
Gladstone lifts up Montenegrins,
Whilst Tennyson declared them
The very first fighters in the world.
On the call of their great men,
British people rose up
In quickest manner, to help
And to protect Montenegro.
They despatched their war-ships,
Which rule over the seas,
Generously to protect
My Fatherland so dear to me.
Oh! thanks to thee, hundredfold thanks,
Noble race of men.
As long as the world lasts,
As long as the mountains above Dulcigno stand,
Will remain grateful to thee,
This handful of falcons,
To whose help thou didst come
By the road of the waves.
- An Observer in the Near East - William Le Queux. Publisher, E. Nash, 1907.
\**
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(These ratings are personal and slime-specific. I'd order from all of these shops again.)

Rodem Slime

Shipping + Extras: $5.80 for first class mail shipping, came in 6 business days (including processing) in a bubble mailer with a candy, a slime care guide, and a baggie of borax. Slime was individually bubble wrapped as well.
https://preview.redd.it/ntsm8subghzc1.png?width=1500&format=png&auto=webp&s=5846aea7fb35c899e6a077ad8f10be19bc9991eb

• 😊 S*lime Name: Have A Smiley Day *😌

Texture: Crunchbomb
Scent: Forest (had to option to do Soda)
Price/Size: $19.50/7.5 oz.
Thoughts: I preferred the look and sound of this one to OG Slimes’ similar “High, How Are You?” I like the flat beads with holes in them compared to the bubble beads. It lets more air in for crunch and makes such a pleasing sound when they clack together. The base is also thinner and therefore stretchier with no fallout even though it's packed. This slime absolutely lived up to my high expectations. The scent is present which I find impressive for what is the clearest slime I’ve received so far, beautiful to behold. It’s a light cedar cologne smell and I enjoy it and feel like it was the safer choice of the two. Not really sticky even with non-moisturized hands. I had a couple friends over for a relaxation day for 4/20 and we had a slime segment of the itinerary. This one was a fan favorite with lots of giggles. Quite easy to get the crispy pops too. I love picking out one color of the variety of beads to visually follow as I play. So happy to finally try a Rodem crunchbomb that doesn’t hurt my sensitive hands at all. The domed lid is also everything.
Rating: 10/10.

OG Slimes

Shipping + Extras: $6.00 for ground advantage shipping (same time estimate as priority mail), came in 4 business days (including processing) in a box with a slime care guide and a baggie of borax. Discounts if you give your phone number I hear.
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• 🦑 S*lime Name: Thickward *🍞

Texture: Thick
Scent: Fresh Bread
Price/Size: $15.99/7 oz.
Thoughts: Noooooo. I was hoping to hate this so I could save my wallet. It is, in fact, fantastic and now I need Vampire Sunblock. The color is everything. It's so thick. The pops are crisp. It's got good resistance but isn't a workout to stretch. I know the scent is controversial and I was nervous but I enjoy it. It gives me a fresh loaf of sweetened sourdough. It's unique and wafts as you stretch! A sit in front of the tv slime for sure. Only a little deduction because I'm sure there's a better scent for me out there and I found a tiny bit of lint? in the slime upon opening (easy to remove, maybe from the jar lid and I personally trust the packing space is clean overall.)
Rating: 9.5/10.
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• 🍃 S*lime Name: High, How Are You? *🙂

Texture: Crunchbomb (bubble beads)
Scent: Peach, Apricot, and Mango
Price/Size: $17.99/5 oz.
Thoughts: Bought to compare to Rodem’s despite knowing the mixed reviews for this one. With the scent, I get mostly plastic with a hint of stone fruit. It's like bagged juice from a street vendor but you’re smelling from outside the bag. It's not the worst, especially for a clear slime, but I wouldn't get this for the delicious sounding scent notes. Pressing on the beads mostly leads to a frogspawn-like croak as they rub past each other. It was packed well and I was able to remove some base from the top despite the small jar. The most common complaint from last year was that the slime was quite sticky. I think OG listened and adjusted as the base feels very well coated and thick. No fallout with slow stretches and you can get plenty of pops, just feels like you would get more with a looser base. Very massaging, like those roller ball hand massagers. Sometimes the weed glitter can surprise you tactilely as it is easy to forget they're in there. Awesome to see big and popular shops offering domed lids, so I don't need an extra container for the slight inflation. No regrets, it’s fun.
Rating: 8.5/10.

Tangie Slimes

Shipping + Extras: $6.58 for Etsy shipping, came in 5 business days (including processing) in a box with a handwritten note, a slime care card, a couple candies, and a baggie of borax. There was a 10% code for the first 10 minutes post-drop that I missed.
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• 💗 S*lime Name: Pink in the Night *🌙

Texture: Flubber (TnG adjacent)
Scent: Strawberry and Guava
Price/Size: $16.25/9 oz.
Thoughts: Unfortunately, I experienced my first slime shipping spillage. Luckily not hard to mop up at all and despite not being in an airtight environment for several days, the excess slime was still recoverable. Fun texture is what you'd expect from the name. Very runny for easy stretches with a nice bounce to it, you’ll have to babysit it while playing. Heavy but not super resistant. Glad they are phasing out the current double-walled container as it’s true, slime was very much sticking to the walls, impossible to remove in one piece. It's A LOT of slime and the lid is nicely domed though. Needed activator as it was playable but stuck to my palms and left residue on my fingers. Unfortunately the scent is a miss for me. I'm getting strawberry deodorizer sprayed on some slightly funky shoes (so sorry, I've seen other people really enjoy it), missing the guava. It’s not super strong in the air but I dislike how my hands smell afterwards. Lots of bubbles with watery pops. Would try this texture again in a different scent but this one is the perfect light pink color that my nieces love.
Rating: 7.5/10.

Solarr Slimes

Shipping + Extras: $4.27 for shipping (the lowest I’ve seen yet?), came in 4 business days (including processing) in a box with quite few hi-chew and some fun paper smiley packing confetti. Each slime was individually bubble wrapped. There was a 15% off code but the full price is listed below.
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• 🍌 S*lime Name: Studio Ghibli Cream *🌚

Texture: Silky & Glossy
Scent: Banana Cream Pie
Price/Size: $15.99/7 oz.
Thoughts: Heck yeah! Perfect play out of the box after sitting a week while I traveled. Brand new texture (though I hear the normal tngs are also loved). Super thick with a lot of resistance for something that still has a bit of jiggle and clickiness. Easy bubble with or without pops. It does have a bit of a candy banana smell but not too strong and pleasant enough to enjoy. You can smell the pie from outside the jar and I’m a fan. Three cheers for domed lids and I am so happy. I'm going to need more of these.
Rating: 10/10.

• 🍧 S*lime Name: Konpeito *(Freebie) 🍬

Texture: CG Snowfizz x Floam
Scent: Bomb Pop Popsicle
Price/Size: Free/7 oz.
Thoughts: Quite sticky. Too tacky to play with even after moisturizing and a bunch of activator sprays and then letting it sit for a while. Can't feel the snowfizz at all but it looks pretty. Very loose and stretchy like they noted in their description. Very inflatable, needed an extra container. Classic foam crunch at the top. I probably just need a stronger borax to water ratio to help with the stickiness but this is a combination of two textures I’m not as fond of as I thought and I was worried about potential fallout. It has been a long time since I've smelled a bomb pop popsicle to be honest but yeah I can see the inspiration in the scent and I’m impressed. I’ve been debating scoring freebies since sometimes the texture choice just isn’t for me but I’m trusting people to factor that in when I write these.
Rating: 7.5/10.

Pink Sugar Slimey

Shipping (repeat order): $5.82, 4 business days
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• 📓 S*lime Name: Elementary School *🏫

Texture: Pudding (School Glue TnG)
Scent: Gummy Bears + Pencil Shavings
Price/Size: $15.99/7 oz.
Thoughts: Gummy bear part of the smell is yummy, pencil shavings part not my favorite. I was expecting a light cedar but it's off, almost spicy. Scent is weak enough not to bother. I really appreciate when shops list what kind of glues they use. I know it can be weird when it comes to exclusive recipes but for a basic tng, it helps me understand why I like what I like. School glue is fitting to the theme but quite slow stretch (the kind that are audible) for my preference. Glossy, yes, but not as silky and clicky as I'd prefer (it plays dry and chewy). It’s thick with deep pops. The cute fimos and toppings really made it a fun experience, an easy way to try out block beads with lots of cushion. They are quite pokey upon a deep squeeze and don't add much audiowise but are nice visually. I can always tell a slime is a PSS because the aesthetic is so consistent and pretty.
Rating: 8.5/10.
Next Up: Cloud-adjacents and more TnGs

Title: Drag pedagogy: The playful practice of queer imagination in early childhood
Authors: Harper Keenan & Lil Miss Hot Mess
Source: Curriculum Inquiry
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