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Image Credit: https://www.cbc.ca/radio/unreserved.

The Winnipeg-bred Indigenous artist IsKwé weaves her cultures in a sound that combines elements of a few different genres. The Cree/Dene and Irish IsKwé wants to shine a light on the violence against Indigenous women in Canada. Horrified by the slaying of 15-year-old Tina Fontaine, and inspired by a community coming together after the tragedy, she wrote Nobody Knows, a song she hopes will encourage women to speak up. Source: https://www.cbc.ca/radio/unreserved/indigenous-artist-iskw%C3%A9-shares-her-inspiration-for-music-1.4123871

Matthew Charles Berry (b 1974) is an English actor, comedian, musician and writer. He has appeared in comedy series such as The IT Crowd, Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace, The Mighty Boosh, Snuff Box, and also co-created and starred in the Channel 4 sitcom Toast of London, for which he won the 2015 BAFTA Award for Best Male Performance in a Comedy Programme. He has starred in the FX television series What We Do in the Shadows since 2019. In addition to his acting career, Berry is a prolific musician and has released nine studio albums. His most recent, The Blue Elephant, was released in May 2021.

Solstice is the kind of prog track that sounds like it came out 40 years ago. Nearly 10 minutes of bliss, divided into distinct parts, beginning with a creepy organ section that waves of cymbals slowly carry into a astral new age groove, with the last third

“Formed in 1971, DEATH were a trio of Detroit-based, African-American brothers who temporarily set aside their Motown roots for steam-rolling proto-punk after checking out an Alice Cooper concert– had their chops down pat. During their original, five-year lifespan, Death didn’t make many waves. A self-released 7”-single, “Keep on Knocking” b/w “Politicians in My Eyes”, was the group’s only official release. It quickly faded into the record collector-ether. But listening now, the music sounds visionary– a missing link between MC5 and the hardcore punk of the early 1980s. The songs are performed at blistering speed, burbling over with bad attitude.” Pitchfork

Politicians in my Eyes Live

Album version is a lot faster – 1975

Amazing laidback rework by Black Pumas

A great documentary of the band, and their roots.

we may bicker and fight
but there really is no left and right.
cause were so much more than black and white
were all on the same bus,
not you, not me, but us.

i walk through the forest on my tip toes
In one hand a sword the other a rose
for no one knows the river like I do
no one slips through the glistening ferns
so true can you feel the vibe
feel myself blending
into another tribe
let loose
but the smoke still lingers
running my fingers through the tall grass
everything we pass
comes back around
we follow the sky
back to the ground

New York

I want to live in New York City
I want to jog along a grey river
under a grey sky
and love no one
i want live in a box up in the air
and look out at the rain against the window
and feel nothing
i will only wear white clothes
and keep my hair short
and my body fit
I will own a small clean pet
i will be content
suspended in a matrix of crackling wires
the honk of horns and the squeal of tires
the sparks of light that fly from it all
buildings are like trees that cannot fall
I follow the path along the riverbank
under the bridge of living ghosts
lost in a crystal maze
I can see it, but I feel no pain
for the broken machines all around
some people don’t want to be found
don’t want to see the clouds disappear
sometimes I can feel the city
a hungry animal that eats its young
whos faces sprout up years later
on the heads of flowers
that line the banks of the Hudson River
the evening sun still echoing off their skin
golden shards slicing the water
hands like cups
hold the things they never owned
finding their own path home

Image: Mutek

https://youtu.be/-CjMUPFBs5w

it is autumn in the valley of the conifers

the forest floor is sprinkled with rust

like a universe someone forgot

broken chains of nature

line the roads that lead us

to a signal burning deep in the night

it always tells us to stay in this fight

Two-time Juno nominated Ndidi O is a larger than life figure, a force of nature with a voice that sounds and feels like a long lost friend. Hailing from the wilds of Burns Lake, British Columbia she found her voice in the “open mic ‘” scene in New York, discovered her sound in the heart of Toronto’s blues and folk scene, fine tuned her live show across Europe and has now finally settled for the moment back on the west coast where her latest album “These Days” was made. – http://ndidio.ca/ 

Image: V2 Records

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Fantastic Negrito (Xavier Amin Dphrepaulezz, born 1968) the incarnation of a musician who is reborn after going through a lot of awful shit. In fact, the name Fantastic Negrito represents his third rebirth, literally coming back from death this time. The narrative on this man is as important as the sound, because the narrative is the sound. Songs born from a long hard life channeled through black roots music. Slide guitar, drums, piano. Urgent, desperate, edgy. Fantastic Negrito is the story of a man who struggled to “make it”, who “got it”, who lost it all, and somehow managed to find his way back.  Fantastic Negrito was raised in an orthodox Muslim household. His father was a Somali-Caribbean immigrant who mostly played traditional African music. When, at the age of 12, Negrito’s family moved from Massachusetts to Oakland, he was hit with an intense culture shock. He went from Arab chants to Funkadelic in one day, living in the heart of one of the wildest, most infamous, most vibrant black communities in the nation. Shit was extra real in Oakland. By the time he was 20, Negrito had taught himself to play every instrument he could get his hands on. He was recording music, but he was also caught up in street shit.

This went on for several years until a near death encounter with masked gunmen. After that, Negrito packed his bags and headed to LA, armed with a demo on cassette. It didn’t take long for Negrito to find himself entrenched in the Hollywood lifestyle; “clubs and bitches and bullshit politics that have nothing to do with great music.” Negrito signed a million dollar deal at Interscope, and soon after that, creative death.The record deal was a disaster. Gangsta rap ruled the airwaves and Negrito was in the wrong place at the wrong era. Negrito came out of the deal with a failed album and his confidence gutted. He was infected by the constant emphasis on ‘what would sell’; which looks, hooks and gimmicks would attract an audience. He lost all sense of himself. The songs stopped coming to him, so he sold all his shit and quit.

In 1999, Negrito was in a near fatal car accident that left him in a coma. His muscles atrophied while bedridden and he had to go through months of gruelling physical therapy to regain use of his legs. Rods were placed throughout his body. And worst of all, his playing hand was mutilated. Though he rehabbed intensely for several years, the damage was permanent. In 2009 he released his debut full-length album The Last Days of Oakland, which was immediately met with critical acclaim. Negrito’s music also caught the attention of Chris Cornell, who invited Negrito to tour with him, first in Europe, then North America, and finally with Cornell’s legendary supergroup Temple of the Dog. The unconventional pairing won over fans and critics everywhere. From there Negrito went on to play major festivals and tour extensively throughout Europe and North America. But none of this has been about awards or acclaim or validation. Negrito chased those before — and it nearly killed him.

Now, as he looks around, sees the world going on a similar journey…especially America. This is a man who knows what it looks like to drive off a cliff. “As a society we are so divided, we are so entrenched in our ideology, we won’t budge for common sense,” says Negrito. “We worship celebrities and billionaires, while people work harder than they ever worked, and make less money. Our children are being gunned down in school shootings and we seem numb to it! We’ve got militarized police shooting first instead of protecting and serving. Nazis in the streets. Families torn apart by deportation.  A tiny 1% getting richer while people sleep underneath freeways and overpasses in my hometown of Oakland.  Home ownership and education seem out of reach. This is not the American Dream.” America has lost its way, and now we are paying the price. Fantastic Negrito’s new album, Please Don’t Be Dead, is about what comes next. – Bio from Fantastic Negrito homepage

Fantastic Negritos debut full-length album, The Last Days of Oakland

https://youtu.be/HahZvGaaWHU

2022’s White Jesus Black Problems

winter has come early to the high desert
as I ride a 1948 Black Shadow through mesa country.
a dusting of fresh snow has settled
on this two lane highway to anywhere
a pale sun is propped up by honeycombs of expiring crystal
along the edge of the road dried seeds and animal bones
tumble into one another
in a mutually gratifying cycle older than man himself.
all around me the sky is filled with red iron clouds,
they are snagged on saguaro cactus,
their pastel oxide bleeds into the atmosphere
as they tug free and continue drifting
across the glassy lens of the earth.
out in space the stars move into formation
the outline of my spirit animal guiding me through my falls.
but this is the place, out here on the open road,
this is where you find your Juliette Lewis,
your long legged carnival gypsy with the turquoise bandana.
where your job, your asshole boss, and your screaming kids
and my god, all those bills, all quietly fade into the crisp desert air.
the sun has dropped behind the mountains
a housewife is standing on the porch.
he was a horrible father, she mutters to the kids,
re-ties her housecoat and shuffles them back inside.
the road makes everything numb, it makes other pain bearable.
but soon deep cold sets in, so I pull over and make a fire,
the juniper smoke filling my senses, swirling together
I lean back against a boulder,
wrapped in a Plains Indian blanket from Crazy Crow Traders
and stare deep into the embers for some sort of sign,
a bottle of whisky slowly sliding from my hand.
I don’t know how much time has passed
but I wake up cold, in the pale light of dawn.
I look over and see doll parts strewn across the road,
a turquoise bandana hangs from the handlebars of my motorcycle.
a cold wind pours in from the east
quickly blowing away the ashes
and the gravel eyed savages which follow me in my dreams
I shake myself awake and stumble to my feet
pulling my jacket tightly around my chest.
lifting a leg over my bike,
I give it a good kick as it roars to life,
and like the high plains drifter that I am, I just keep riding.
purple gas streams from my tailpipe up into the eternal.
esoteric thoughts whistle through my mind
as I ride down a road through space and time
I look in my mirror
and see the fire burning behind me
and hope to god those devils will never find me

on the weekend I hear people racing out on the highway

I keep telling myself they have ordinary lives

that they live and work in boxes

but i can see the flames from the tailpipes light up the sky

i can hear those V8 engines revving high

pushing the needle far to the right

smoke and purple gas illuminate the night

emanating liquor and a checkered past

the smell of burning rubber by the underpass

we all leave a trail of black smoke everywhere we go

spinning our tires, lost in the afterglow

driving backwards down the wrong road

flying past the stars

flash like the lights of oncoming cars

galactic atom smashers

the back to the cave party crashers

dancing in a dust of plastic and metal

two hands clasped, white like our bones

high five as we nose dive

in the sweetest ride we’ve ever known

its time let go of the star wheel

its time to travel by feel

out on the promenade

life is just a drive through

I tell myself the star racers will die in boxes too

Im living half in the spirit world
I realized it a long time ago
looking back I could see the moss grow
through the mist
over mountains of snow
I kept these arrows, this broken bow
a sword seller
peddles his metal
but I drift by unseen
obscured by the fog and the dream
this assortment of visions
that shriek through the night
like kites behind me
tumbling in and out of each other
like sparrows, they darken the autumn sky.
I love the magic in my mind
the worlds I can fly to, and leave behind
but it never stops the craving
for the friend I’ll never find.
we lost each other as children do
a mile became ten
and then, a hundred
I counted the distance
the path now filled with leaves
like symbols of the bond we shared
swimming at the lake
hot summer hair
i wrote it all down
even back then
i could feel the change
changes we must make
when we feel we cannot breathe
so when dark clouds rolled in
it may have just been me
building a storm to break the ropes
that anchored me to this silly world
for so long I have sought connections that were pure energy
sticky plasma threads
with no vessel to distort their meanings
i wish to interact like the earth and rain
i am mesmerized by its inky legs streaming down from the skies
the interplay with the forest
as animals seek shelter
slipping through glistening ferns
back to their dry dens
so i hang here in the mist,
this island child, kissed by danger
on a path that wanders
past strangers that no one else can see
my atomic structure dries with the passage of time
my bones break down and become lighter
and one day the world will close it eyes on me
but on a stormy night look out your window.
and you might see
a blonde haired boy way up in the trees
riding in the wind, a keeper of keys

Dance of the Gypsies     2017 (Dedicated to Sunday Dennis, Gemma Higgins and Dazy Drake, 3 beautiful souls gone too soon)

the voices are a little softer
the trails a little quieter this summer
in this particular place
the shady east side of Vancouver Island
and the mossy rocks in between
that despite the cruel winds of fate
still sparkle as they crack
three beautiful gypsies danced their last dance
now a banjo plays by itself
a glass of wine is lifted from a beach wood coffee table
a hand with no body draws a picture of petals
falling from a flower
they are like memories, caught on a summer breeze
drifting down onto the forest floor
i try to catch them, like it could bring you back.
animals lead me to a place deep in the woods
where huckleberries ripen in the filtered light
somewhere you loved to go when you were strong
there used to be more sun when you were here
or maybe the trees have grown
but I will safeguard this space for you
I will come to appreciate
the dry fir needles stuck under my shirt
because it is nothing
like the changing seasons
that always return
I will too, and we will learn
to laugh again, to forget the pain
and the distance between us
I saw you standing in the moonlight
watched as you climbed out the bedroom window
you dipped your foot in the starry sky
before anyone could stop you
or say goodbye,
but i try to find my own way to honour your spirit
i climb a trail up to the bluffs
and look down the coastline
i imagine you taking a new form
swimming with whales in the blue water
creeping up the straight
already deep in the mystery
I thought I felt your presence early one morning
i walked out to the garden and saw footsteps in the dew
the wind was blowing the leaves from the trees
but this time
this time I did not try and pick them up
I made no attempt to hold onto the final moments
you were pulled apart too soon
I could see that
you were still standing
in the light of the moon
dancing on a silver thread
you turned your head my way
one last time
and laughed your special laugh
just for me
soar free soar high
sweet children of the sky
down here below
we burn a fire and let you go

I love this town when the sun goes down
I love long shadows
and the golden light reflecting off windows
you don’t see that at noon
I love the way the people move
the spice of evening air
following them as they walk past cafes
they walk through a haze of rising smoke
and bricks that fade and crack
as people keep walking past
a child grows old and dies
a tree loses its leaves
everything always changes
around the light

Just a rap Im working on..

I came down from the sky
my birth was monumental
earth shattering, like lava from a vent hole
I wasn’t planned but nothing’s accidental
beauty comes from strife
lean in and let the wind blow
let this whole universe tear me apart
true lessons come from the heart
towards the sunrise I’m still standing
sometimes falling but landing on my feet
I walk these tired streets
unknown to the unknown
still soul searching
don’t know when I’ll come home

the dreams of last night are still tangled in my hair
but they are disappearing like a blue crystal
that melts as the minutes pass
I roll over, trying to find that place
but like lambs in a spring meadow
they have slipped into the wilderness
I always wake up here
under the waterfall
hands reaching out through the mist
I walk back through the forest
but only weeds cling to my feet
the flowers fade in the sun
seeds crack in the morning heat
and a new dream has begun

I had this funky beat in my head last night and decided to write some lyrics for it…

i’m gonna write a verse for you
i don’t know what else to do
cause you’re up in to the blue
i said tears, cant cry enough
cant make the rain stop when I’m feeling rough
gotta move on, from this town of pain
but circles in my life
bring me back here again
what it is, i don’t know,
people dying and I gotta move slow,
but what I know, is nothing lasts,
cant escape it even if you drive fast
through city streets, down country roads
in the end were all carrying the same load
in different ways

Flute of the Moon
there are lessons the trees and the wind cannot teach
but im never gonna die like a raver on the beach
when the fog rolls in like a smoke machine
when the record stops, ill still do my thing
off in the distance a lighthouse beams
fishermen out on boats, real people
fix lines and set traps
we dance as the light flashes past us
but don’t always see the rocks that lie ahead
so we hold our travel companions close
in the depths of this west coast mist
we hold them like they are everything, because they are
I wanted to be there with each and every one of you
like when we were young, and the moon came out
and you played the flute and we didn’t sleep
I wanted to collect huckleberries with you in the damp forest
I wanted to write my name next to yours
in the storybooks of our lives
wanted to draw my face into the photographs
so we could laugh years later
but i had to withdraw, like when i went into the mountains
i found a cave and bones
I thought I had died many years earlier in a place like that
but it was only loneliness
I had become.
a blade of grass away from it all,
and you looked for me
you followed my tears to a lake
i felt hollow there, like a plant
sucking nutrients through a reed.
like a bullfrog,
my eyes barely cresting the surface.

Skyward is my Home

I hold a key
but I don’t know what its for
down this musty corridor
lost on mossy forest floors
I see blackbirds rise behind me
settle in the place between
the dirt and stars aligning
making nests inside my dream
cancel all my day jobs
Im gone for good
this time Im sure
through this heavy wooden door
forward spirit carry me
there is no fanfare needed
skyward is my home
settled in the milky stream
a conscious mind that keeps expanding
take care and wear it well
you look so hard but I can tell
youre eyes are still closed
you wont remember me
not from the inside
but maybe that’s not what you seek
all just a fairy tale
i see icy faces pale
down down down i go
owls are watching
cannot turn the head of sunshine
flowers cannot see me grow
inside like a new life
wrote this letter so you’d know
i saw an opening
there was warmth and light between
it was calling me
misty mountains follow me
cancel all my remedies
lost in scented memories
hungry from the winters freeze
fruit has fallen from the trees
birds still follow
spread and close like time
behind me, like a friend
always there at the end

Child of the Storm              2017

lifes passage is a storm
that weighs heavy on my bow
and I cant believe
where these broken seas
have taken me now
I wake and find you are gone
I awake and find I’m alone in the dawn
old man got lost in the woods
writing his books
did him no good in the end
it’s my friend in the forest
could you come clear
ill drink from you now
a broken heart
like a ship falls apart without love
but stills sails on
and weeps for you now
each and every day
the light will never be the same
your reflection
is always fading
but I still cant stop comparing
every thing to when you were here
every touch to when I held you near
lost in a sailors dream
don’t know what it means
under a yellow moon
and a cool breeze
drifting in my boat
tied myself up in ropes again
this solitary game I play
like the feel of drowning
and just getting away
I hold myself under water
to see what makes me strong
longer each time
until the bubbles disappear
I saw myself as a little boy
he was right there by my side
i held him in the aquamarine bath
he had eyes of pearls
and only saw the beauty in this world

Ive been round the world twice
died in the fighting rains
celebrated mother
and her hands full of jewels.
I walked out of the most perfect picture,
a surrogate remained
but no one noticed the scratches on the frame.
I was content there
happy in my mineral bath
with no reason to leave
but one night out of the blue
I jumped on a freight train
I always wanted to see the Midwest
I always wanted to make certain of that
we long for things, and we can’t put them down
until its all we can think about
I wasn’t born that night
under the travellers moon
but was woken up to something I had forgotten
so long ago I don’t know if it was ever there
or if I just filled in the spaces
but it matters little now as I rattle along the tracks
oil and dust settle in the creases of my skin
but it feels good
like it is balancing an existence so predetermined.
we live like we are playing board games
can see so many steps ahead the anticipation is lost
this moment is the only chance I have to let that all go
because nothing lasts
even a black locomotive steaming through the night
can only conceal me for so long
and soon I am gathered up inside a glass ball
carried over alpine meadows back north
the geese are returning too
I can see the grime from the box car smeared across their feathers

Black Lands

I walk black lands
I’m casting stones
I have no friends
but that’s ok, cause I wanna be alone
I walk on broken bones
past the things I’ve done
I see them gently fade
into the dust of the setting sun
cross these broken tracks
down where the berries grow
I wrote one last song
but I never found a way to let you know
only summertime takes it slow
nods her head as I pass
she walks on the singing wind
holds my memories in a coloured glass
catches coloured rain
a thousand faces dance
and then never dance again
only spirit water left
picking up these tired dolls
i long for tired dreams
and no electricity
i long for a quiet stream
trickling beside me

Black Lands

I walk black lands
I’m casting stones
I have no friends
but that’s ok, cause I wanna be alone
I walk on broken bones
past the things I’ve done
I see them gently fade
into the dust of the setting sun
cross these broken tracks
down where the berries grow
I wrote one last song
but I never found a way to let you know
only summertime takes it slow
nods her head as I pass
she walks on the singing wind
holds my memories in a coloured glass
catches coloured rain
a thousand faces dance
and then never dance again
only spirit water left
picking up these tired dolls
i long for tired dreams
and no electricity
i long for a quiet stream
trickling beside me

-Blue Times-

blue skies and wind chimes
tornados and end times
white shirt on the clothesline
falls upon the ground
one last time before I go
for the bells have started ringing
from here to Mexico
the women are all singing
theres a goat child whose bleeds in the street
he wears the mask of a circus performer
the feral children take his lead
they fall with him into the deep grass
the dark stain of medicine
smeared across their foreheads
the strong brew of forest magic
drifting through the air
i cant get enough of these blue times
nothing hurts more than the safe line
will always make hay when the wind blows
and the campfire glows
and the crickets lose their minds
thats when ill be fine