Album Notes

"This guy is GOOOOD...he is writing some great stuff!"--Taj Mahal...

"Viesselman's songs have a sage, hardened pathos that's hardly pretty-boy stuff. It's not exactly what he says, but how he says it, wherein the genuine power lies. He delivers silvery, potent lines that are killer in substance. No disappointment here, Viesselman has a charmed beauty all his own." -Dirty Linen

"Stunning" -NetRhythms.co.uk

"Viesselman's blue-eyed country-fried soul resides in that special realm that seems to defy the sands of time… Viesselman provides the perfect example here for young songwriters who are looking for the high road….Outstanding.”
-indie-music.com

“A real relief after listening to a stack of releases is this Kreg Viesselman… a real storyteller and a pure songwriter. … The man writes great songs, it's pure enjoyment!” - Rootstown, Belgium

“Revelatory…In short, Kreg Viesselman is a somewhat gruff voiced singer whose great strength is the ability to craft story songs which combine honest emotions with poetic, yet accessible, language….a damn fine guitarist and harmonica player…” - the Greenman Review, Portland, Maine


EXPOSITORY
In 2003, while enduring a mean-spirited winter in the high country of Colorado, I was on the verge of eviscerating my PC. For several weeks, I had been holed up in my cabin, concocting endless reviews of prosaic music for Kitsch Revival Magazine. All hopes collapsed. Then one evening, while I watched the local news coverage of a political rally, a live interview was underway with musician/activist, Kreg Viesselman. When asked by the correspondent if there were any brief points he'd like to convey to their audience, Viesselman stated: "When in romance, look out for number one. When in public restrooms, look out for number two." Hope flooded back into my heart. Here spoke an original man at last. I set out to write Kreg Viesselman's story.

Viesselman's reputation has evolved from gross misapprehensions: from an editor of a mechanical engineering trade magazine indexing his name under, "Manufacturer of Large Turbine Engines," accompanied by the slogan, powered by a Kreg Viesselman®; to a DJ in Amsterdam introducing Kreg as a special guest who makes genuine Chinese strudel. And across Europe, even still, scooters display the bumper sticker: "my other scooter is a Kreg Viesselman. " Viesselman reveals with a mixture of patience and impatience that "you can't rush a land turtle." As often is the case in art, his renown didn't happen over night. But, when his fame solidified, and the misapprehensions crumbled, the vicissitudes that accompany celebrity life would often push Viesselman to an eremitic existence:

"There was a point in my life when I felt cast aside, exiled. I was a leather tramp making my way through Scotland during a savage rain. The rain turned to a swirling snow and I was forced to travel blindly into a blizzard. I came upon an ancient castle that was crumbling, but still kept a roof. I had no choice but to crawl inside and shelter myself. Sleep wouldn't come. I hadn't eaten for days, and the ache in my belly clawed at me incessantly. The winds snarled at my ears. I aimed to make myself more comfortable. But I found nothing but a frosty draft, frigid ground, and a broken headstone for a pillow. As I lay awake, the storm began to break fast, and I hoped that now I could sleep. But, the full moon, as if illuminating my hardship, poked its head through an opening in the castle wall, and stared unflinchingly into my eyes. When it moved past, I wept out of loneliness." (Excerpt from Covered In Afterbirth, ©2003 Folderol Publishers)

My story awaited anxiously. I had unearthed pieces of fact and myth. Now I needed to meet Viesselman in the flesh, to consolidate my discoveries. His handlers were caustic and deceptive, even claiming that he was dead. Who was I, anyway, they always wanted to know? "Why should Mr. Viesselman talk to some hick from the sticks of Montana?" one man gruffly questioned. "Colorado," I corrected. He was not amused. I implored: "Look, I just want to do an article about Kreg Viesselman, the musician and the man. I may live in the sticks," I said almost insolently, "but I do write for a national music magazine." With these words I piqued his interest. A rendez vous was arranged at a Hootenanny-Jam Session near Jimtown, CO.

Kreg Viesselman is a startlingly handsome man. A rugged nose juts from below his northern blue eyes, a shock of dirty blond hair crowds his face. I sensed that struggle is more likely to evince his smile than levity. He sings effortlessly songs of lost souls, peregrination, women forsaken, and struggles between spiritual and carnal impulses. In the few hours we spent together, I discovered in him a stubborn integrity, a mercilessly high standard, and an authentic mind. To be honest, I also witnessed the temper tantrums, ill-timed dancing, and a man who is useless after 10PM. As we left the hootenanny, on an impulse I asked Viesselman to state his philosophy of life. "As an artist, I expose the truth. I extract the universal seed from the shit of humanity. If you don't believe me, come over and sniff me."

-WH