The Howls of the Rising Sun

There’s something in The House of the Rising Sun that doesn’t just play — it howls.

It’s not just the melody. It’s the feeling that something old, something unspoken, is rising with the dawn. A cry from the past that still lingers in the bones. A song of regret that feels too familiar.

When I hear it, I hear more than just a man telling a story of ruin.
I hear generations whispering through the cracks in the walls.
The weight of choices made before I was born.
The ache of being born into something I didn’t choose.

The “howls” are not just the vocals — they’re the echoes of a family that couldn’t hold each other, the silent screams of children growing up too fast, too unseen. And in some strange way, they’re my howls too.

Maybe that’s what makes music powerful.
It becomes a mirror.
A place where the soul can leak out in verse and distortion.
A space where the pain doesn’t need to be explained, just felt.

This song isn’t just about a house in New Orleans.
It’s about every house that swallowed the light and left a ghost behind.

Let the sun rise.
Let the howls come.
Maybe this time, I’ll listen all the way through.