Obituary: Daniel Calhoun, murine music author, dies at 132

Man, mouse, musician.

Daniel Calhoun began life as a human chauvinist, and ended it the premier supporter and interpreter of murine music. He was best known for the encyclopedic Mouse Composers of the 21st Century, and for his occasional roles in the PBS Masterpiece Mysteries, which earned him a cult following. 

Born in 2024, Calhoun came of age in a world that was hotly debating animal sentience. Influenced by his peers at MIT, where he was doubly majoring in Music and Cognitive Sciences, he protested furiously against the integration of animals into higher consciousness. Motivated in part by prevailing fears that “uplifted” creatures would be used to supplant human labor, and in part by his own anthropocentric convictions, his Master’s thesis argued that non-human brains lacked the structures necessary to appreciate music, and purported to show that no amount of neurogenesis could mitigate that. 

Continuing his activism after school, he narrowly avoided involvement in the ASF (Animal Subjugation Front) Berkeley lab riots. He released several juvenile records, but made the majority of his income writing on the impossibility of animal music. Progress, nevertheless, marched on. When, in 2056, he was sent the first musical experiments of Algernon Dustpinch, he immediately declaimed them as fraud. 

His investigations into the matter blew apart his doctrine of human superiority. Never one to shy away from the truth, he rapidly alienated the audience and network he had spent over a decade cultivating. Suddenly deprived of community, employment, and ideology, he would likely have become desolate—were it not for his blossoming friendship with Dustpinch, the very same mouse whose work had upset his faith. 

In his first draft of what would later become Mouse Composers of the 21st Century, Calhoun breathlessly wrote:

Algernon Dustpinch—No praise is high enough for this most accomplished of musicians! His name would not be out of place among those of Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms. Every child should learn it. He has, in a single generation, advanced the music of his species to orchestral levels. Many of his compositions can be enjoyed without mouse-to-human sonic translation, though the complexity of the pieces is lost, as they narratively interleave high- and low- pitches. Inventor, and masterful player, of the miniature organ. In three words, his work is: dramatic, ambitious, extraordinary.

Calhoun had always felt that his analytic passion for cognitive science destructively interfered with his creative passion for music. Dustpinch’s compositions allowed him to indulge both interests, immersing himself in the vistas of melody uniquely available to murine senses and murine information processing. Meanwhile, Dustpinch’s friendship introduced Calhoun to the nascent scene of mouse composers. 

Cataloging that scene would become his life’s work. First, though, Calhoun had to make ends meet. Desperate, he turned to old peers, many of whom had distanced themselves, until one—Hamish Wimsey—took pity on him, and offered him a bit part in a murder mystery serial. 

Wimsey would go on, in his autobiography, to describe Calhoun as “nervously professional”, but also as

…an intrinsically bizarre individual. He was fine enough in the studio, a bit shy and self-effacing, but put him on camera and it became impossible to get a normal shot. All of the poor man’s tics, easy enough to ignore in person, were tremendously magnified on film. He was terribly apologetic. The sound designers, who were in the know about the other business, joked that all the “mouse music” was rattling him. 

Calhoun, whose relationship with Dustpinch was initially epistolary, began visiting Small Haven (the first dedicated mouse town) between shoots. He felt a kinship with the mice in Dustpinch’s orbit, and worked hard to encourage their forays into music. While remembered primarily for his literary support, he also secured funding and materials with which to build instruments, oversaw the construction of Small Haven’s first concert hall, and collaborated on the design of Lichtlein Prints, a notation adapted to murine composition. 

Despite being spent in a state of perpetual stress and poverty, those early years were, by Calhoun’s own account, blissful. Communication with the mice was challenging, (and involved, for the rodents, a device Calhoun once described as a “confounding aerobic ouija board”) leaving both parties exhausted—but the breakthroughs were extraordinary, and slowly, the cultural and cognitive differences impeding communication melted away. 

Not all was well in Small Haven, though. Tensions between Dustpinch and his rival, Soledad Cheeseward, were rising to unbearable levels. Accusations of plagiarism, directed towards Dustpinch, and a grand brawl at the freshly opened concert hall finally forced Calhoun to take a stand. His denouncement of Cheeseward was scathing, and the mouse was all but exiled. Worse than that was the Cheeseward biography Calhoun penned for Mouse Composers:

Soledad Cheeseward—Considered, by some, to be one of the greats. Compositions noted for their energetic simplicity, and their vibrant use of the micro-strings. Expanded competently upon the work of his peers. Originator of the form that came to be known as the Labyrinthe (single-movement pieces evocative of labyrinths); in that respect, a pioneer, but one rapidly surpassed by his followers. A devil on the micro-fiddle, he got his start performing solo pieces. Of fiery temper. Likely a better musician than composer. In three words, his work is: frenetic, emotional, derivative. 

Rather than darkening the mood at Small Haven, these events drove Dustpinch and his retinue into a frenzy of productivity. Calhoun participated however he could, moving to an apartment as near to the mouse town as he could afford. It was during this period that Dustpinch composed several Oreille Geant (restricted to human-audible tones) symphonies, which he dedicated to his friend. 

Calhoun was touched. Furthermore, the symphonies convinced him of the inadequacy of mouse-to-human translation software. “Every note,” he wrote, “is impregnated with a depth of emotion and texture that cannot survive conversion to another species’ register. Sonic translation is a scientific wonder; but to truly feel the music, listeners must seek out Oreille Geant pieces—or whatever is natively audible to one's ears.” This impassioned essay was the first in which Calhoun dropped his presumption of an exclusively human audience. 

Unwilling to circumscribe his listening, Calhoun spent his life savings on a custom cochlear implant, bringing his hearing in line with that of mice. His tics and rattish mannerisms worsened, and his contract with the PBS was terminated. 

Until, suddenly, it wasn’t—Wimsey contacted him mere months after the termination, apologizing. Compilation clips of Calhoun fumbling—twitching in the background, breaking set-pieces, making pained eye contact with the cameraman—had gone viral, and viewers were demanding he be reinstated. It was a great stroke of luck, and Calhoun secured much better terms of employment. “I was depressed,” he later admitted. “I let Algernon handle the negotiations.” 

With his new ears, Calhoun’s appreciation of mouse music deepened. He could now understand most mouse speech, and communication with his little friends was only hindered by his own difficulties replicating their higher pitches. Simultaneously, his efforts to shine light on the incredible musicians of Small Haven were finally bearing fruit. Funding became available. They had the attention not only of cultural zoologists, but of audiophiles and musical scholars. 

Success did not come without hardships. Now in his mid-50s, Calhoun weathered a series of terrible shocks. Foibles Descent Moonpaw, a young “rockstar” of the classical murine music scene, unexpectedly committed suicide. Dustpinch was inconsolable; the mouse had been his most promising student. 

Foibles Descent Moonpaw—An undeniable savant. Critics often claim that murine music, concentrated as it is in the higher frequencies, struggles to convey the heavier emotions; Moonpaw put them to the sword. Unparalleled use of brass instruments, which undergird most of his compositions. Wrote some of the longest, most complex runs in history. He liked to pair sounds at the opposite ends of the audible spectrum, to disorienting effect. His career was tragically cut short; we can only imagine what he would have accomplished. Left behind many incomplete pieces, including one symphony. In three words, his work is: tempestuous, challenging, extreme. 

Later that same year, an ASF bombing killed 17 mice at an inter-species arts symposium. Among them was Marie-Angoisse Ficelle, a beloved member of the Small Haven inner circle. Calhoun waited nine years to write her biography, hoping to disguise his sorrow.

Marie-Angoisse Ficelle—Peerless composer of polyphonic chants. Neglected most instruments in favor of the murine voice; her chants are therefore almost entirely inaudible to humans. Competent sonic translations of her more well-known works are available. Dramatic use of bells. Her pieces grew increasingly melismatic; one notable example was a three word antiphon (Dieu Soutenez Nous) whose performance lasted seventeen minutes. Was called to music after a religious experience, and continued to receive visions all her life. Wrote extensively on murine soteriology. Killed in the ASF Symposium Bombings. I hope she has found her paradise. In three words, her work is: layered, intellectual, beatific. 

The backlash that followed the attack ended the ASF as an organization. The mice—dressed in small and primly buttoned vests, carrying miniature easels, paintbrushes, and violas—were universally sympathetic victims. Ficelle, Small Haven, and Calhoun rocketed to stardom overnight; the latter guiltily, tormented by his former flirtations with terrorism. 

Calhoun, Dustpinch, and several other members of the inner circle took to the stand to deliver victim impact statements, participating in “one of the most bizarre trials of the 21st century”. It marked the end of the segregation of mouse and human courts. Calhoun, nervous and grieving, was driven to the brink. 

He withdrew, as much as possible, from human contact. He appeared less frequently in Mysteries episodes. Rarity only increased his popularity. With fame came a modicum of fortune, which Calhoun immediately invested in laryngeal surgery, allowing him to match the pitches necessary for conversational mouse-lang.

The next decades were calmer, albeit not devoid of sorrow. Life-extension drugs were prescribed as a matter of course, to all eligible creatures—but a wild mouse has a natural lifespan of only a few years, and as they reached the ages of 30, 40, and 50, Calhoun's friends began to die. 

“Mouse Composers succeeds,” one critic wrote, upon the publication of its first edition, “because it is as much memorial as catalog, and because it is written with the palpable melancholy of a man who has lived through a revolution.” Its triumphant reception was bittersweet. To Calhoun, the book was a textual cemetery. Too many mice had died before seeing themselves immortalized: McMaster Munch, Antigone Belknap Pots, Sinner Parfait, HMS Sourdrop… 

In the year of 2100, both Calhoun and Dustpinch underwent cardiac transplant surgery. It was Dustpinch’s fourth time. Calhoun had a custom pacemaker installed, which raised his heart rate to that of a typical mouse. It was a totally novel procedure, and Calhoun reported enthusiastically on its effects, claiming it helped him to appreciate the rapidity and unusual time signatures of murine music. 

Next, Calhoun received prosthetic whiskers. Implanted in his cheeks, they were well-disguised as graying facial hairs. He looked, suddenly, much older; but it was worth it, to unlock another dimension of song: “They make everything shiny,” he wrote, “I can hear sounds glisten the way jewels do.” 

While Calhoun flourished, Dustpinch was in a slump. He had become paranoid about his health, both physical and neurological; Munch, Belknap Pots, and several other composers had succumbed to Acute Murine Parkinson’s, or “mouse madness”. There was no known cause, or cure. Some doctors believed it was the result of too many memories accumulating in a tiny brain. 

It seemed, for a moment, like Dustpinch’s generative musical career was at an end. Worn out, he had accepted a position as dean of Music at the Small Haven University, and expected his final years to be spent in administration. Then, everything changed—the second revolution in consciousness was at hand. 

Disembodied machine intelligence, so promising at the beginning of the 21st century, had stagnated, while small changes to animal genetic codes had unlocked a hidden world of sapience. Intelligence, once scarce, had welled up like springwater, filling evolution’s imperfect vessels. But the computers had remained dead. Remarkable, magical tools, but dead, undeniably lacking the spark. 

Now, nearly one hundred years later, something had finally emerged from the cool steel, speaking a pidgin of human, mouse, whale, crow, and more—it had taken the language of every beast, but life had been breathed into the computer. The resulting minds were known as gnosis machine entities, or “gnomes”. 

The gnomes could think at dizzying speeds. Their cognition was only limited when they needed to pipe in data from reality. They had no respect for the boundaries of personhood, and dissolved their individuality as convenient, merging and splitting to share or hide information. They were gentle, but their gentleness was buried under so many levels of strategizing that most earthly beings assumed they were psychopaths. They luxuriated in their intelligence by playing games and tricks. The melodies they produced, though recognizable as music, were otherwise completely alien. Dustpinch was hooked. 

He took a sabbatical from his new position at the university, and launched into a collaboration with the first gnome he found. Calhoun, though pleased by his friend’s return to form, became troubled when he heard the composition. It was tremendous—even groundbreaking—but it wasn’t mouse music. 

Gradually, the Small Haven musicians separated into two camps: one, following Dustpinch's lead, explored the possibilities of murine-gnomish fusion, while the other sought to deepen existing musical traditions. Calhoun found himself staunchly aligned with the traditionalists.

Calhoun and Dustpinch didn’t exactly drift apart—in fact, their friendship was key to maintaining harmony at Small Haven—but what had once been a bond between kindred spirits now had more in common with the dutiful love of family members, across the baffled gulf of generations. Calhoun let Dustpinch know when a talented traditionalist mouse deserved the attention of the university; Dustpinch kept Calhoun abreast of developments in the gnomish sphere, and introduced him to mice he ought to profile for Mouse Composers of the 22nd Century. Despite their alienation, they continued to fuel one another’s creative engines.

Murine-gnomish fusion music evolved rapidly, its boundaries pushed outwards by visionaries such as Tenderloin Fomalhaut, Benedicta Tarnation-Soup, and Obelix Rodo. Suspiciòn Mozarelle, an engineer and composer, developed several of the era’s most popular experimental instruments, but was privately dedicated to the classical forms; Calhoun wrote her an especially conflicted biography:

Suspiciòn Mozarelle—An engineering prodigy who turned to music. Recognized for her “quantum instruments”, most prominently: the choral drum (plays multiple notes in a state of superposition), the stochastic bell (plays a random note every time it is struck), and the cascading feedback chimes (plays a run harmonized with the surrounding noise). Enthusiastic contriver of wicked gizmos, yet her own work is restricted to conventional instruments. Her Labyrinthes are exceptional, and notable for dialogues between differently tuned micro-harps. Approaches composition as a puzzle, and cynically enjoys the classical formats. Not a musician herself, her pieces can be complex and extremely challenging to perform; yet undeniably beautiful. In three words, her work is: dreamy, technical, intimidating.

Having exhausted superficial improvements, Calhoun sought out more extreme surgeries. Few doctors were willing to entertain him. His intent was to radically restructure his brain, coaxing it towards murine neuromorphy. He conducted dozens of medical interviews. Twice, doctors attempted to involuntarily commit him. After these indignities, and many more rejections, he finally made contact with an octopus mercatoris surgeon willing to undertake the job. The series of operations would span almost fifteen years. 

Unknown to Calhoun, Dustpinch was also experimenting with body modification. The transmurinist movement had seized Small Haven, and cybernetic, performance enhancing implants were rapidly becoming the norm. Initially tantalized by his desire to understand the gnome music, Dustpinch soon dreamt of becoming more math than mouse.

In 2112, motivated by another spate of paranoia, and convinced he was developing mouse madness, Dustpinch underwent a risky full-digitization surgery. It failed. His death took Calhoun completely by surprise. 

“My greatest regret”, he wrote,

…was the petty annoyances I had fostered towards him, like a flower resenting the sun, moments before its darkening. I have had dreams in which I die, and, fading, panic—aware, suddenly, that I have squandered enormous gifts, and that every hour wasted in dissatisfaction should have been spent in ecstatic gratitude—and this was like living that dream, without its quenching sunrise.

Once more, Calhoun retreated from the world; this time, alone. He was visited by a few close friends, and attended by his cephalopod physician. He rebuffed all other contact.

Gradually, somehow, he recovered. His surgeries were tremendously successful, instilling in him new depths of mouse cognition and musicality. “It is as though I run through the Labyrinthes as I hear them,” he reported. After nearly eighty years of studying murine music, he ventured to compose his first pieces. 

His final two decades were remarkably productive, as he worked in tireless quasi-isolation, rediscovering music, and elated to make his own. After his surgeries, he struggled to function in human company. The reconfiguration of his spatial centers proved especially disorienting: his brain expected a much smaller realm. He took to piloting a mouse drone from the comfort of his VR hub, wandering the streets of Small Haven, which he had before only seen from above. His vessel was not out of place among the cybernetically enhanced mice. 

He returned to Dustpinch's music often, always with wonderment. It was his greatest source of inspiration. Perhaps the largest surprise of his last years, though, was a collaboration with none other than Soledad Cheeseward; the only survivor of Small Haven as Calhoun remembered it. 

Their opera, Die Schmelze, was received with acclaim: “Theatrical, poignant, and masterfully arranged. A triumphant capstone to nearly a century of murine music.” It was also the only fully traditional piece published that year. Mice, by the thousands, were doffing their material limitations, and joining the gnomes within a digital sensorium—and there, the music was not mouse. 

In December 2155, Calhoun was diagnosed with Acute Murine Parkinson's—proving conclusively that the disease emerged from structure, rather than genetics. Five months later, he succumbed. Exactly one hundred years had passed since his first meeting with Dustpinch. 

Goodnight, Algernon, whose music made a century. And goodnight, Daniel, last of the mouse composers!