Rock and roll was invented by the Huns in 376 A.D.
The tribe's most recent conquest of the Ostrogoths, despite its unequivocal success, was nevertheless an uninspiring and vapid spectacle. Oral storytellers after the fact complained that the Hun soldiers maintained a workaday comportment and stodgy pace, barely mustering a grimace or scowl beneath the hail of projectiles and fireballs. In one battle the soldiers' indifference was so palpable their incurious ears misinterpreted a key command from the superiors, and the Huns had to fight the Ostrogoths with table settings and one dented stein. The Huns still won, but were forced to eat hors d'oeuvres for the rest of the campaign - a cause for humiliation, especially for Huns.
The great Hun general Moldar blamed himself for the compromised morale of his troops - or, more accurately, he blamed the ballad-writers he had employed to commemorate his victories. Before his appointment, Moldar had studied continental conquerors of the past, and had discovered that many had commissioned poets and musicians to summarize their military routs in verse and rhyme, except for the Romans who staged actors' workshops that were rarely if ever effective.
Moldar, in turn, hired a band of minstrels, The Uri Furies, to serve as poetic commentators for the Huns' wars. Unfortunately, "Furies" was not a reference to the band's wild, untamable esprit de corps, but rather their shared incontinence problem. Their music, however, was sapless and tepid. After the final, decisive battle with the Ostrogoths, the Huns gathered in a makeshift amphitheater for the Uri Furies' summary concert, and were quickly disappointed at the band's opening number:
Got an Ostrogoth girlie
You know she's actually not bad
I said I got an Ostrogoth girlie
To be honest, she's one of the better ones I've had
She's pretty and she's willing
And she's an excellent launderer
She fellates me too, oh sing it
Got an Ostrogoth girlie
You know, I think her people are quite underestimated
I mean, they can't fight for shit
But once you get to know them they're all right folks
In fact, we were thinking, maybe someday when we're done with their land
Maybe we could loan it to `em for a day
For a swap meet or an arts and crafts festival or something? What do you think?
The Huns, too enervated to riot, instead had the Uri Furies decapitated by an outside contractor.
Moldar had a motivation crisis on his hands, and it put the Huns' next scheduled conquest of the Visigoths in serious doubt. He articulated the malaise one night at a drinking establishment by the Dniester River on the other side from the land formerly occupied by the Ostrogoths. In addition to being an excellent war tactician, Moldar had a keen aesthetic and critical mind seldom found in Huns; his critique of the Uri Furies' effectiveness was as sagacious as it was eloquent:
"First off, they're faggots," Moldar said. "These ballad-writers are the biggest menagerie of limp wrists I've seen since that Roman stone-cutter shop. What is it with those stupid hats? And the feathers? They play their zithers like flabby little girls!"
"They are of a disproportionately delicate constitution," agreed Golgath the Frigid.
"And have you seen their muse-conjuring sessions?" asked Skaarswold the Unpleasant. "Ten guys, huddled in a circle jerk, making these invocations that sound like a Byzantine prostitute haggling in the act - Do you know it took ten washings for me to wash the smell of frankincense from my scabbard? Do you know how hard it is to get the scent of blood back into one of those things?"
"What do they even need muses for?" Golgath replied. "How articulate does one have to be when you're singing about beheadings? How involved does the description have to be? Is there some great mystery as to the science of how this happens? Just sing `Whack!' and be done with it!"
"Worse yet," Moldar rejoined, "I think they were directly responsible for the heavy losses we suffered we when beat the Alani! Asking us to stop while they brushed their quills!"
"They have no sense of urgency," Golgath said.
"Right! They're not of the moment! We aren't running a worm farm here," Skaarswold frowned, "we're conquering the continent! I'm not going up against the Visigoths with this kind of lot behind me!"
"Men," Moldar said, "I submit that, given our current status, we find a new set of poets and musicians who will give our accomplishments the epic scope they deserve, yet reflect the guttural, visceral nature of our methods. Something propulsive, loud, adenoidal and brutal."
"And with a good dance beat," Golgath suggested.
"Enough of this conjecture," Moldar declared with a thump of his stein. "We're Huns. We didn't get to where we are by forming problem-solving committees. Let's hold auditions."
The next day Moldar posted an ad in the Hun Weekly's classified section:
"ARE YOU A MUSICIAN? Tired of the same old wedding receptions and pubescence onslaught celebrations?
Locally-based military organization is looking for adventurous, free-spirited sorts who obey orders. Seeking new approaches to ever-changing bottom-line strategies through the use of music. Songwriting a plus. Influences: Tuneless cads, the savage wilderness, drumbeats, early Stones. No fusion players, no fat chicks. Come to the fourth tent on the north side of the Dniester Tuesday next, and be prepared to rock, whatever that means. EOE."
-----
The following Tuesday Moldar arrived at his tent to find 45 men huddled in front, bearing sticks, gongs, stringed instruments, percussion carved out of outmoded weaponry, bellowing horn-like structures made from Ostrogoth carcasses, and eerily emaciated background singers fashioned from Turkish handmaidens who had errantly wandered onto the field of battle.
Moldar was genetically predisposed to break into statements of philosophical import anytime he encountered crowds of ten or more, and this gathering proved no exception. Lacking a staff to hold as he spoke, he grabbed a nearby sentry and hoisted him upright.
“Gentlemen,” Moldar began, “those of you who harbor the flicking tongue of creative spark, I salute you for coming, and congratulate you on seizing your opportunity for valor. I, Moldar, stand before you and the gods as steward of a wayward steed. But not in manifest form, no: Our mission is on course, and we travel true upon the plots and land towards our prize…”
“Yes, sir!” the crowd replied in unison.
“…but, ‘tis not our legs, thick and weary from battle, that is misdirected. Nor is the sun which holds our direction in upheaval, nor have our guideposts lost their girdles…”
“No, sir!”
“It is, however, our spirits that seek a straighter corridor! Lo, it is this army’s fortitude and encouragement that stands in peril!”
“Yes, sir!”
“We seek from one of you – from one, heretofore unheralded, incorporeally audacious man amongst you – the sounds of bloodlust that will incur our feral instincts, and send us into battle with insurmountable rage!”
“Yes sir!”
“Am I clear? Am I perfectly clear?”
“Yes sir!”
“We want to fight!”
“Yes, sir! To fight! To fight!”
“We want war!”
“War!”
“We want to scrapple! We want to bicker! We want an agitated argument! By gum, we want a highly inconvenient donnybrook!”
“Donnybrook! He wants a donnybrook!”
“All right! Who among you has the sounds which will unleash the beasts within us?”
The crowd, predictably, fell silent and remained so for several seconds.
Moldar grumbled loudly. “Well, fine – got any liquor, then?”
“Moldar!” Skaarswold yelled, panting as he ran towards the tent from the river embankment. He was dragging a scruff with him, a disheveled boy of about nineteen dressed in plain-colored clothes, obviously worn shoes, and with a perfect black spitcurl formed over his forehead.
“What – who is this urchin?” Moldar asked.
“I – I found him over by the riverbank. He was singing songs, Moldar! Songs of a most intemperate, restless nature!”
“Yes?... Do, go on.”
“He was beating on a tightened animal skin, singing from his throat. Indeed, from his adnoids, my lord!”
“Yes… yes, my interest is piqued.”
“Moldar, the spirits that his summer song roused in your servant! I felt like – I felt like – sir, forgive me for the impropriety, but it made me feel like not attending your tanning demonstration later this afternoon!”
The general gasped audibly. “But my tanning skills are unmatched! And yet you say this siren’s song inspired in you a lust for – for…”
“Yes!” Skaarswold happily screamed, “a lust for tardiness!”
Moldar gasped again. “I see – I see where you’re going – yes! What else say you?”
“This peasant’s song also conjured up visions in me – visions of – well, you remember that Ostrogoth girl I was chatting up at the wildebeest roast?”
“The plump one?”
“No, not her. The comely one. Over by the punch bowl.”
“Oh, the comely one. What was her name?”
“I forget. Anyway, when this gentleman sang, I suddenly embarked on a private fancy – wherein I knew that girl in the most intimate of manners, in the rear compartment of your carriage!”
“Skaarswold!” Moldar said. “I feel the urge to smite you in retaliation! Yet your notions of opposing my authority also incite my pleasure as well!”
“I’m glad you feel that way, sir,” Skaarswold said, “because I just slashed the wheels of your carriage with a sharp stick.”
“Enough!” Moldar commanded. He threw the sentry on the ground, walked over to the peasant boy and put his hand on his thin shoulder. “Good son, if you can incite my loyal servant to such indecencies, you must have some sort of undeniably transformative power. Now then, what be your name, son?”
The peasant spit on the ground, brushed dirt upon it with his shoe, and continued to look down as he spoke softly. “Aristopholes McGinty Farberware, sir – but people call me Slick.”
“Slick! Sing to me this song that so wholly corrupted my inferior!”
Slick looked up to eye Moldar skeptically, then slowly backed away, but not to leave. He glanced at Skaarswold, then looked back at Moldar again. He also eyed a pot roast broiling in the vista between them.
After an uncomfortable pause, Slick began stamping his foot in clipped rhythm. As he warmed up he grunted and hiccoughed, until finally he began to sing:
Well it’s one for the money
Two for the show
There’s a cute little peasant girl I gotta know!
So I’m-a gon’ see her later on today!
We might be oppressed, but we know how to rock away!
Her daddy’s a beggar
Her momma’s a whore
When we get older, we’re gonna get real sore!
‘Cause we’re plebian scum, but we like it that way!
Who needs gruel when you know how to rock away!
Slick stopped suddenly, and dropped his eyes back to the ground. Moldar and Skaarswold looked at him, jaws locked open, as if they had just received the Ten Commandments due to God losing Moses’ address. A few pregnant seconds passed, until Skaarswold was jerked out of his reverie by the sound of clamoring steel.
“Moldar! Look! Over by your tent!”
Moldar turned his head slowly to witness the throng that had gathered for the audition. Their uneasy calm had evaporated, and they were now in combat with each other. Swords and clubs seemed to be bobbing with the speed and force of – well, I hate to say “Byzantine prostitute” again, but that’s really the most effective simile at hand.
The violence intensified; soon heads were decapitated and limbs were severed, and the body parts flew upwards from the crowd like bottle rockets. Those who had lost their limbs engaged in heated arguments and aggressive bumping maneuvers.
Moldar had not seen this kind of frantic hostility before, not even in the structured setting of military action. A smile slowly came across his lips, and he turned to Skaarswold. “Good man… do you know what we have here?”
Skaarswold gave a cheeky smile back. “What’s that, Moldar?”
Moldar glanced at the grand parfait of blood, flesh and rage, then turned back to Skaarswold and winked. “What we have here is a bonafide, unqualified donnybrook.”
The three of them sat down on a nearby log and watched the orgy into the wee hours. When the fracas seemed to slow down, Mordar had Slick sing songs about sex, fast chariots, and insulting metalsmiths; invariably the crowd grew violent again and attracted more participants by the hour.
Moldar was heard to whisper to himself, “I think we’ve just started a beautiful thing here.”
----
The rest of the Huns’ campaign is well-documented. The Visigoths were vanquished, and the Huns ruled the area for several more years. A plucky upstart named Attila cited what came to be known as Moldar’s Bloodletting as a primal influence on his art and philosophy, and the Huns were later given credit for inventing sock hops, bipolar disorders, shopping coupons and CPU’s. The offering of Slick’s bastard muse quite unpredictably defined an entire generation, and electrified their passions.
Then choral music became popular and everybody forgot about rock and roll until later.
(To be continued)
