Ascension by Wonder

It’s nearly impossible for someone to disappear nowadays, but I finally found him. I staked out the PO Box of Ascension Industries, Inc. for two days, drinking too many cups of stale coffee in a cafe across the street.

After a plane ride, train, and three different buses, I arrived in the very definition of a small town. A main strip with exactly one of everything: cafe, restaurant, bank, grocery store, liquor store, and a post office. Through Canada Post and some amateur sleuthing, I was able to figure out that the records were being sent from Ascension Industries, Inc., which had very little description of its business. Any names associated with the company were redacted and the only information available was this PO Box.

I was here to find the musicians behind Ascension by Wonder. They are a mysterious outlet who nobody had ever seen and never played any live shows. The music could be described as experimental blues and folk music played with unconventional chord structures. They had recorded one album every three months for decades. Advertisements were placed in the back of newspapers that read: “Ascension by Wonder / Record Subscription / $10 per year” and a phone number. You called the number, provided your information, and received the mailing address to send your $10 cheques. Then you started receiving the records every three months like clockwork. Nobody had ever associated themselves with the band, but it was an underground secret in some parts of the country - this weird experimental music project that had spanned decades. Since they never did any publicity or shows, I imagined these records being sent out all over the world, and all of us members putting them on our record players, together, and listening at the same time.

I had been a member since I was a kid, and getting some of those records in the mail had been the most exciting moments of my life. I begged my parents for a guitar and taught myself through the Ascension By Wonder records. I even went on to study music and had been in a few bands over the years.

I knew it was him. Tall, slender, stooped shoulders, he wore a black fedora and matching trench coat. He had a strangeness about him, as though he magically walked down the street invisible. Someone who should have stood out in such a place seemed to blend into the background. I watched him enter the post office and through the window, saw him check the PO Box, remove some envelopes, and locked it back up. He exited the post office and went down the street into the bank. After a few minutes, he walked back up the street.

Throwing some bills on the table, I ran out of the cafe, and followed him from a distance. It was hard to be discreet in such a small town, especially me with my guitar case slung over my shoulder. We walked for a long time, out of the city, along a dirt road, until finally we came to a small house. It seemed to almost be like three houses all attached to each other. I crouched down behind some bushes. The man walked up the three steps on to the porch, stood there like he was listening for something. Eventually, he sat down on a chair and put his feet up on the porch railing.

What do I do now? Maybe I had the wrong guy? I mean, how was this weird guy Ascension by Wonder? I poked my head up - he was still on the porch. I took a breath and walked towards the house. When I reached the porch, he hadn’t moved. He just watched me.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m looking for-“

-he cut me off by lifting his hand.

“My name is-“

“I don’t care what your name is,” he said. “You must be hungry from all that coffee you drank.”

He stood up and walked into the house, leaving the door open. I slowly made my way inside, the floorboards creaking with each step. I was just making sure this guy wasn’t going to kill me. We ate baked beans and bread in silence. After the meal, he cleaned the dishes, and made two cups of tea. With both cups in hands, he walked back out on the porch. Following him, he gestured to sit beside him, the two cups on a small wooden table between the chairs.

He pointed at my guitar resting against the porch railing: “Let me hear how you use that.”

Awkwardly, I took out the guitar. I hit the first few notes of the Ascension By Wonder song, ‘Blue Night, Part III.’ He cut me off with another one of those motions of his hand: “No, one of yours.”

So, I played him one of mine. When I finished we just sat there. The sun set without a word between us. Finally, he stood up, and on his way inside, he stopped, and said: “Your room is in the attached cabin. We start tomorrow when the sun comes up.”

The next morning I learned about the inner-workings of Ascension Industries, Inc. He took me deep into the other parts of the house. There was the recording studio, the record pressing room, and the accounting room. Ascension By Wonder was a one person operation - The Musician - and had been running since 1930, the same year the very first record was pressed. It was a tradition passed on through several people in order to keep the music alive. I hadn’t thought that other people did exactly the same thing as me. They connected to the music so much that they were inspired to meet the person behind it. And when the tradition was ready to pass on to another, a person would show up, just like I had. Once the old Musician passed on all the secrets, they would walk off the property and disappear.

The Musician showed me everything about the recording equipment and the record pressing machine. He told me that I would be responsible for fixing anything that broke down, as no one except The Musician was allowed inside. The music was recorded and once an album was finished, the pressing of records and printing of sleeves was all done in-house.

Next was the accounting room. Large books lined a wall, and The Musician pulled one down, opening it up to a marked place in the book. This was the membership records. Whenever someone sent a $10 membership fee, it was all recorded here. Another book was an updated ledger of shipping addresses.

I pointed to some names that were crossed out: “What’s this about?”

“Those people are dead,” The Musician said.

“How do you know if they’re dead?”

“They stop paying.”

The Musician made two trips into town every three months to pickup any new membership cheques and to ship out the records. He took me into town and introduced me to the people at the post office and at the bank. They seemed to have some kind of understanding that things were to be kept discreet.

After several weeks, we sat out on the porch with cups of tea. “It’s almost time,” The Musician said.

“For what?” I asked.

“You see, I’ve taught you how to press records and how to operate the recording equipment. One thing we haven’t talked about is the music. This is the only time we’ll talk about it. The world is constantly changing, and it should change. It should evolve. But there are some things that people rely on. Rely on to get through difficult times because we all have difficult times. The music created between these walls has existed for almost a century, and it needs to continue, through all the change, it needs to endure. It is a responsibility that no one will know rests on your shoulders. All I can tell you is that the music must come through you. It doesn’t have to be perfect, actually imperfection is sometimes better, but you’ve got to listen to the world around you, take it in and digest it, and allow it to flow through you. And one day, someone will show up here, much in the way you did, and you will be released from your responsibility.”

The Musician stood up, put on his black fedora, and stepped off the porch. I watched him walk far into the distance until he was gone.

I just sat out there on the porch all night. I tried picking up my guitar, but I couldn’t play anything. Nothing came. The next few days were some of the most lonely days I had ever experienced.

On the third day, I went into the recording studio, set up one microphone pointing at my guitar and the other at my mouth. I hit record and just sat there. Maybe this was wrong? Maybe I’m not the new Musician? I closed my eyes and visions started flying by - clouds moving across the sky, lightning, tree roots growing underground, animals burrowing, the wind blowing against the cabin walls.

For days, I played and played and played.