Writings: To my anthropomorphic lollypops and lilies..

To my anthropomorphic lollypops and lilies..

Music’s grave misfortune is to have been commoditized to the extent that it really is rarely about songs but ‘hooks’ and ‘production’. In one group’s latest work, one can all but hear that the ‘song computer’ wrote and dictated its direction, it adheres closely to the blueprint and because of this the song never manages to be a song and never threatens any unchallenged presumption. I always knew that it was a matter of time before all real artists would be replaced by mimics and songwriters replaced by ‘cut and paste’ pastiche re-assemblers. Simply to be seen prancing around on TV in a video, almost everyone is content to rob from the wheat, all that makes it rise, and instead flog a horse so tired and dead, it wouldn’t even make a noise if you shot it. Music to be played on state radio must now meet computerised criteria that would’ve stunned even Cole Porter and Ellington as to the absence of life or fresh new beginnings. Were music a person, we’d all be marching now to get it released from Gauntanamo, where it was held and interrogated, beaten and brainwashed. All we had was our music and now we no longer even have that. When you pay for most ‘major label’ music, you are directly paying for the right of the status quo to continue dominating black people and their fervent contribution to your tattered and restless psyche, a condition we understand quite well, as it happens. You are paying for women’s voices to be held in check unless espousing the usual self limiting belief triads given permission by farting elders to repeat and the exact same ‘one size fits all’ brassiere to wear for the cameras. You are in effect paying for your own repression and justifying the continuance of the same game on your children. You are rewarding the branches of government which uses these ‘arms’ of itself to control populations and particularly its resident minorities. Mainly however, you are paying for insultingly bad product, product so bad, we are literally running in the opposite direction of releases so offensive to our awakening nature, that even global warming can’t heat up the subject enough to restore its glow. These men in black corporate types come nought but to steal, kill and outright destroy, and have successfully managed to kill off the messengers. The machines designed to replace them are at least 10 years behind the game. I know of at least a half dozen composers now who would destroy that faggot ass song computer, and leave it to wallow in its own smoke….


Again we are no longer hearing songs. We are hearing only what gets played on the radio, and the last time radio was playing songs, Democrats controlled more of the game. We are ‘hooked’ to death on music’s childish infatuation with nursery rhymes for 4 year olds. Corporate music is dead and we do fervently praise the nearest god for these sweet tender mercies which destroys in time all false and bullshit things. What weeds there are that choke the pistils of the rose has gotta go, and now. The name of the game is to be on the alert for the living spirits, blueprint them, kill them, then carbon copy mimic it with as many other artists as can be controlled by the desperate and greedy management structure, also controlled by the industry. If it is real, kill it outright then over-hype and sell the mimics, and suppress like hell (even smear) the original.

 


….and while ‘one swallow does not a summer make’, it does make a good porn star!

 


(this space kept empty for your own thoughts)

 


If a man learns anything in a relationship, it’s the noble art of begging.

 


(this space kept empty for storage purposes)

 


For best results, stop worrying.

 


The answer is always in the palm of your hand (especially if you are a dickhead).

 


The latest release from ‘the carbon footprints’, titled “We are Globally Warming Up to You” will be available only on MP3. for every download, the group promises to wash their tour laundry by hand. The 4 city tour will begin in August.

 


In lieu of payment, make payment out to ‘Lou’.

 


If the best that you can do isn’t good enough to take credit for, then it is a good time to learn giving credit to others.

 


Running back bounces outside
It’s what he do, he do it all day
He do it to get paid, but he’d 
Do it to pray, most of all play 
The game is in his genes, 
His bitches in the stands. 
Pearls pinch the tongues 
Of oysters, the ‘back 
Makes his cuts between 
The strands, and tutoring 
The young first round 
Draft pick, linebacker 
Who pressed for 
Outrageous demands.

 


Eyes darting, eyes stark still 
The running back draws even with 
His breath, road-kill between he and goal 
A rock in a sandstorm, a fist in a verb to be 
The exclamation to the long drive, 
A dancer for the claims of victory.

 


The ‘knee’ 
Long held in imagery 
As perpetual psychic injury 
As suspicious rival to the symmetry 
Of a so far fabled career, but those 
Who run the ball can know the shadow 
Behind every tear that dances with the 
Ligament there, but most of all 
The sacrifice is to forget what 
Wishes to be remembered, the fear. 
It takes Zen mind to block and tackle 
The pain when game moves into higher gear.

 


This hold-out was a major hassle 
But management and we had to tussle 
,wrestle , sweat, pick and roll cause 
It’s like this, ”I Gotta Get Paid” 
I got my years, I got my dollars, 
So now, we can play. After all 
I am the playbook, the quarterback 
Gets to keep from the dimes that 
I took.

 


I own these fools 
The DB is hopping 
The DL’s are shopping 
To see if they can flush 
Me right. I’ve got sight 
And will send false signals 
That I will fall for trap 
Once in end-zone 
I will trade in the ball 
For a butt slap and head to 
The sidelines where I trade 
My helmet for a soft cap.

 


The ‘ouch’ beneath the fumble pile 
Is a cold initiation into the tumbled wilds 
Of pirates using athletic guile to scratch 
Poke and inflict hard memory that match 
Bruises to their chosen patch, and leaves 
Fresh points for style. Who has the ball 
Has new life, who has the leaping, 
Exuberant men, has the game about 
To come to them.

 


Only 6 yards for the record 
Only 6 yards to a new contract 
Only 7 yards and we win. 
That is what I call a win-win 
For all parties.

 


….that girl in row 4 looks just like that tv actress, 
what’s her name? damn!

 


We started 1- 3. 
We started from old history 
Then made it up as we 
Went along, adding new 
Chapters and slapping teams 
Up, we went from league 
Buttercup to wave riders 
Of much bigger seams 
We found out that we had 
‘gumption’ and took the 
‘ass’ out of former assumptions.

 


Here I am, about to bust 6 
And this could be ‘dewey’s 
Last game. We came out 
Of college together, he the third 
Round, me the fourth, and a good 
Friend and lineman is he. He gets 
Paid to protect the ‘blindside’ 
He gets drunk to project his mean side. 
I knew him when just a farmboy 
Fresh from the daisies of Kansas 
And I a fumble prone prodigy 
Eager to find out what a man was.

 


“Man, this coach is just driving me insane” 
I’m really in pain ,but like it’s my fault that he’s 
Insecure and never led a team before 
So I get constant brain from staff and reporters 
(those ones that harass) and from society queens 
Who would throw themselves at what would 
Pursue their daughters. I brought the team this 
Far when it sputtered from the gate. The coach 
Has one season left, one season too late.

 


Neville Kimbrough 
First in round one 
Number 24 at last 
In the ‘bigs’, and 
Expected to carry 
The club to the next 
Level (he’ll excel) 
The cobra in the clutches 
Of lightning, swerving 
Wildly to its static 
Humming pouncing form 
His mother’s name was Doris 
He says his father’s name is 
Mercury Morris.

 


I’ve got this much space to score, and no more, we just need 4.

 


…and now for my signature move 
I’ll feign left, look right, hesitate 
and go left and leave some player 
grabbing grass and calling out 
the name of his prayer book 
god. They say I cut back like 
Sayers, Gale. I carry the ball 
like a lunch pail and punch 
the line like I punch the clock 
Every fall my tendons turn to 
pistons and I remember my 
father, and his life on the docks.

 


8 years, they say I’m slowing 
yet, I find the goal line as much 
as before, when as a rookie I broke 
old records, and brought in more 
people to see me score. 
Now management has to justify 
the money spent on the latest 
hype, another ‘back breathing 
hard on mine, due to the weight 
of the contract signed. So my 
game has got to testify that I 
haven’t lost a step, to keep 
Junior on the sidelines , I run 
on more than ‘rep’, I run 
to keep my team inside the 
winners simple guidelines.

 


No player loses a step who does not lose a little will 
No player fails to dominate without the urge to kill 
The little militant angry voice that sounds like our old man 
Never grateful, never kind and always pushing, always pushing 
I stay a step ahead of it, this is the cause that fuels the wits of 
Rushing, rushing, rushing.

 


A ‘dump’ pass 
and 5 yards for 
the QB’s completion 
record and a 1 st down 
I drop the pass. I return 
to the huddle and say 
nothing.

 


I once dated his sister. 
He is too classy to 
say much about it 
but, she will call me 
and give me shit.

 


Would it be wise to receive another? 
No, it would be time consuming and wasteful. 
The white guitar fixation is your mother. 
The ones you have are pretty useful 
And none too bashful. 
Take them and leave the rest to ‘bother’.

 


Stadiums, soon departed of cheers 
And whistles from the wind and not men 
Filling them, will be in my mind replaced 
By the sound of soft waves dampening my face 
And the smell of the sea and its creatures 
I’ve rushed for over 10,000 yards, now 
I retire my life to its bonus features 
I never got the ring that I envisioned 
I’ll meditate on this while I’m fishing.

 


Wow, first day of camp! 
No one thought I’d make it. 
I didn’t come this far just 
to make the team, I came 
to make the team understand.

 


Fuck an endorsement 
and being some plantation 
nigger for shoes. I came to 
endorse pain, disaster. I 
endorse a foot deep in your 
butt and I aim to massage your 
face with my cleats. I will 
make you look bad in front 
of your spawn and ring your 
bell to announce’ game time’ 
is on. Endorse these knuckles, 
one causes the bends, the 
other bruises and buckles.

 


I was a young boy when 
I saw Randy ‘Sweetback’ 
Walker score 5 touchdowns 
in a game. His Bethune-Cookman 
team playing a conference rival 
and needing all of ‘sweetback’s’ 
running to keep them in the race 
he wore number 20 if I recall 
correctly and crimson, burgundy 
were the colours of the fall and 
the ‘Wildcats’ jerseys exactly 
he ran until my mind had taken 
root with the winners urge in me,
corralling my horses long forsaken 
that day will remain in my spleen 
long after the wounds that these 
eyes have seen, become but springboards
for future dreams. That Saturday, ‘sweet-back’ 
found the seams and ran towards ragged 
daylight. Dogged and rugged , dodgy and 
swift, feet fertile like mercury in a girdle.

 


4 th and 6,we must go 
for the first down 
or: Game Over. 
They expect, 
naturally a pass 
I expect to immigrate 
over the grass, and 
I will even run over 
God. He has given 
to me, this magnificent 
bod. The weak side 
corner has pre-pimped 
his move, I will run 
straight at him and shove 
him deep into the end-zone 
Championship, champagne, 
and 2 bitches diving off 
my milkbone. 
Forget pain, forget fatigue, 
I’m about to run this corner 
out of the league.

 


We won! 26-21 
And I have a date with a hottie, 
Gonna pull rabbits and cabbage 
From the depths of her body 
And dig deep worms to go fishing 
She looks like an Aztec priestess 
Which is fine ‘cause I’m an ass technician.

 


EAT MORE PUSSY, it’s mother’s milk for men!

 


TTD’s great sin was his hubris, which is a shame as it was also his greatest virtue.

 


….and rub your face all up in it, your chin , your nose, and gently your eyelashes. Slobber in it, wallow in it, slap it.

 


Never argue with a sale.

 


I once saw a lady get shot in church. More on that in another chronicle….

 


Of course success changes you. Otherwise who would want it ?

 


We all live in different zip codes. Psychologically as well. Be true to your zip code always, and your zip code will look after you.

 


THIS SPACE KEPT EMPTY IN CASE I NEED TO HIDE CONTRA BAND!

 


Post Mill Rock is not racist, nor sexist. If you’ve got it , bring it. We promise not to ask questions of its origins.

 


The next direction after Post Mill Rock is, a single rock.

 


If I have learned anything I have learned this, NEVER PLAY GAMES WITH A MASTER, unless you want to be schooled. Masters live to teach fools, and there is never any shortage of work.

 


I was not the 
First round bonus baby 
I was more like null and void 
I was practice squad wearing crazy high number, I carried 
water when not holding lumber 
and sweating my spot on the bench. 
Now it’s my pearlies on the little screen 
advertising and things and moving the team 
down the frontlines, now it’s my time, and 
yes I practiced my touchdown dance. 
I may never again have this chance to 
hustle, shuffle and bleed. This was all 
the motivation I need and my speed 
has kept pace with my greed, but I don’t 
play for bonus. I play so that commissioner 
may crown us.

 


There is simply no one way, there is only always.

 



The next space is dedicated to the future of your extravagant mind!

 

 


The Pope is in the strike zone concerning the Latin mass. Period.

 


Once, admittedly more stoned than I should have been, I got lost in the deep woods of California with the sky so black I could barely see my hand in front of my face and in true bear and mountain lion turf. I witnessed Saint Bart turn into a black panther and walked me to where I found help. Others have verified that he takes any shape necessary to shield and protect. The angels and saints all have the power to shape-shift, for them , it is simply all in a days work.

 


Another who understands the gift of heartbreak and depression is the Maestro Saint Paul. The master worked for a while with his own black moods, and understands the condition well. For a spell he was a manic depressive and worked through it to achieve a permanent notion of bliss.

 


Mofo’s is really dropping dead in Russia ain’t they?

 


Whenever I feel nostalgic about being with a major distributor, I find a bed of nails, lay on it and then ask strangers to insult me as they walk past throwing stones. It works, and soon I am cured of my nostalgia.

 


Whenever I feel nostalgic for the great relationship I had with the erstwhile Tommy Mottola, (once head of the most powerful record company in the world), I find an Italian in the streets of Milan and ask them to rob me while slapping me in the face with their open palm. This is a man I would fear to speak at my funeral lest he used the time to promote other ‘artists’ beneath his watch.

 


Whenever I begin to miss my relationship with Sony, I simply grab some sandpaper and commence to rubbing my genitals as hard as I can to remove the top layer of skin, before pouring a whole bottle of alcohol over it. Usually after the screaming subsides, I remember and take heed.

 


Sometimes, to commemorate my time spent in professional recording, I rent a race car at the race track, fill it with the most powerful fuel, put it in neutral and just rev the engine, still never having left the starting line.

 


Idiots with power are always a fascinating form of entertainment.

 


Because of global warming, there is a chance that in 15 years, Al Gore will look more like Denzel, than George Washington. Cool!

 


Check out if you will indulge, Maestra Kate Bush’s ‘Hounds of Love’ cd. It came out about 3 years before my debut and had a huge influence on my spirit. Still does. She is one of my all- timers and I also enjoy her latest 2 disc project. She moves me and music alone cannot always explain these things.

 


Accountability is the first casualty of corruption.

 


This space unoccupied!

 


 

 


There has never been another artist quite like Grace Jones. She was pan-sexual, erotic, exotic and possessed a feral and motivated intelligence. She also wrote and co-wrote some wicked pieces of music. Europeans revere her and her music holds up well after all the twists and turns which have taken music away from itself since.

 


This space left for back taxes.

 


Man, it is so hot as I type this that even the computer is sweating and breathing hard…..

 


We are already there!

 


God lives in every portion of the rainbow, including those which party hard, and those that abstain. This is why the rain falls on each and every stain.

 


God exists in our passions , and not in our judgements.

 


We exist in our judgements, yet cry out when our kingdoms cannot take root there.

 


Passion, tempered with pride, produces humility as it’s nectar, and ambition and it’s fulfilment, as it’s fruit.

 


God is the same passion that preaches the raw gospel as the being who just as passionately ignores it.

 


God absolutely loves church and God also wouldn’t go near one, just in case it fell on top of him.

 


If you are out there, then at least I can verify to the authorities that you were not here.

 


Beer is liquid bread. A good beer can be taken on it’s own, as it’s own meal. The monks developed beer in the monasteries as a way to combat hunger during fasting episodes. Had the church only done this, invent beer, it would still have proved it’s value as an institution.

 


Beer is also a good benefactor to any cleansing or detox mode.

 


Ephemeral thoughts here…..

 


A tax-free space!!!

 


A child of God does not beg (unless they forget themselves), they simply ask.

 


Regulations that work in winter, melt in the heat of summer. A word to our wise elders…..

 


We lose possession of what we judge, it’s the law.

 


My wife had a good friend’s wedding to attend in Sicily, so I accompanied her. It was so hot, that the dogs played dead all day.

 


It was so hot that a boatload of Sicilians were caught trying to get into Africa.

 


It is nearly impossible to measure the depth of my surprise upon hearing that uber- maestro, and 3/15 homie, Sylvester Stewart, or Sly Stone . One minute there you are walking up a steep summer hill, and the next, out of nowhere, a poster of one of the true Lords of music, appearing in Switzerland in concert. Were it not that I’d already promised my wife to accompany her to a colleagues wedding in sweltering Sicilia, a place so hot that just saying the name requires a glass of water, I would have taken my 3/15 posse (the ‘stiks’ is also a 3/15er), and yelled and screamed for joy all the way. Out of the fresh air and after 25 years, a man so awesome that he literally had his own section of the FBI, just to monitor his activities and to see where his mind was. Welcome back to the thunder dome! I dare say (although biased as a major fan/disciple) that the maestro is still a good 5 years beyond anything that anyone is saying or doing now.

 


I will be very eager to read Master Stone’s account of all of the gargantuan crap he had to deal with back in the days when any forward thinking and well spoken brother was considered suspect and a probable enemy of the state. Unthinkable and unspeakable things went on in that time, mainly against Americans fighting for the freedoms that our constitution swears by as the sigil of its genius and authority. Thankfully, we are largely outgrowing this evil.

 


Massivials to master Calvin Klein. My wife was a favourite of his during the time she modelled to put herself through Architecture school, and the second time I met her after our initial meeting in Italia, was while she was in New York to do one of his runway presentations. She gave me one of his t-shirts, which I still have and is about the only one of my faves which she hasn’t destroyed in the washing machine. I came out to the ‘apple’ to see her, though I told her that other business brought me from Los Angeles to the NYC, so as not to make a young nervous woman more so. In fact, the only business I had in NYC at that time was to make sure that the Sony grand poo-bahs were still ignoring me. I am grateful now that they cold shouldered me, it gave me a chance to grow up, become a man and begin seeing myself in a fresh, new light. Kismet, fate, whatever. As I write this, sweaty from my early morning travels and rounds, I wear the vaunted CK-Khakis t-shirt. Now, I go peel it off, and rinse off my sweat with a nice, brief but cool shower. Here’s again to the American maestro Klein, and his superb taste in honey’s.

 


When disaster calls 
It calls itself familiar.

 


Children who are told off a lot become psychologically abusive adults, and pass it on more than likely to the next generation. It is terrible to possess an anger not yours. To know oneself is to begin to come tot terms with what anger is yours, and useful, and what of it comes through us on other’s behalf, playing itself out in our vision field. People who grow up having to constantly explain themselves, grow up defensive, confused and argumentative. Sometimes it seems that Christian cultures fear nothing more than a real, pure unfettered childhood. Some religions seem to hate children outright.

 


Life has taught me to be real, and at all costs, even to my life. If I am not real, neither is my existence. To earnestly love, to passionately hate and to distrust indifference at all angles, this is the me that I know and accept.

 


Witches and warlocks are natural allies of the ‘confusionists’. Their effect is to gradually destroy the confidence one has in the perfection of ones own mind to create harmony and empathy for the manifestations of life and its abundant ironies. Self determination appears a threat to ‘confusionistas’ and their karma chasing dogma.

 


I saw an ad with Jennifer Aniston for a product called ‘smart’ water. What would be smarter would be just to drink her instead.

 


……

 


When your brother was finally, after 2 straight years of the 5th grade, told he could move to the 6th, he asked if he could still keep his books, now that he’d gotten used to them….

 


To answer a question which has now come up twice, Yes (!), I did write ‘The Cheetah’ poems. I am surprised that in this transparent day and age, that anyone would imagine that a scrutinized persona could get away with stealing without attributing, especially given how many people live to bust the butt of those who’d dare. Us mulattos raised ‘black’ in Anglo culture will always be sensitive to doubts cast upon our intellectual ambitions, since we were uniformly bred to play down that aspect of our curiosity, so again, I DO NOT consciously STEAL, it is bad karma and I hate when it is done to me. Many things inspire me, but I do not take without attribution, as I am aware.

 


This space donated to charity.

 


These poems, of recent vintage, are a part of the entire ‘NIGOR MORTIS’ multimedia experience. This is no longer about ‘songs’, but about all aspects of what creative fertility comes in conjunction with ‘NM’ and it’s mood. Songs, poems, essays, film, line drawings ,WHATEVER. ‘NM’ aims at today, and not yesterdays methods. Were any of us still excited about yesterdays methods, we’d still be going to the stores and buying yesterdays products. The full title:’ NIGOR MORTIS –A Critical Mass: The death of a man, The birth of his freedom’.

 


Were a thinking man to fear anything, let him fear nothing more than abusing his own pride. Pride punishes those who renege on it, in the long run, and then doubles back to make sure that the pain of it’s denial stings deep enough to forge a better understanding of it’s purpose. Every man’s pride has even it’s own secret name knowable only to God and itself, and we all come to see in time the heavy gravity of having made it too flexible and negotiable a thing. Pride is the father of humility, and not it’s handmaiden.

 


Who looks for permission to be happy, looks for frustration instead.

 


By the grace of spirit, next year we aim to make ‘Nigor Mortis - A Critical Mass ®’ available in chapters via Mp3, while continuing to play and hopefully come into contact with your varied and pleasant faces at venues around the world and beyond! This collective A&V, NM, new life experience, promises passion in action and sensible footwear.

 


What is most remarkable about Prince, is that he didn’t have to get shot, in order to make great music. Nor did he have to pimp a gold tooth. These things alone show that he is the product of another era……….

 


….Now only black artists are promoted that in turn, the state can use to scare people, close to election time.

 


Glavine, Bonds, A. Rod: Outstanding!!!

 


Let’s try to get over ourselves, we are only perhaps the most medicated society ever. You do it too. In the future, performance and mood enhancing tools for better creativity and productivity will be the norm. We are those naives who would’ve drug tested the gladiators to make sure that the Lions retained the edge.

 


I would that the White House were tested for performance enhancers, in order to ensure that they were taking them, and diligently.

 


The main effect of the current war was, as intended (among other matters), the destruction of the once proud, great and inspirational United States constitution.
1776- 2007. R. I. P.

 


I am he who would earnestly rather die, than to live as a half assed man, in a half assed world, and would be willing to absorb the bullet at point blank range, than to live in the presence of another, comfortable with me as their inferior, their slave. Men cannot live like that. Men in waiting can. We see far too much of colour and not nearly enough of consciousness. We , who have never been blinder , and with such sharpened, yet rusted blades.

 


Your mother is so stupid, I challenged her to a game of pool, and she came with her swimsuit on…..

 


Your brother is so green, he shaves with a lawnmower.

 


Your sister is so fat, she snores in 5.1

 


Our vices cause not our discomfort. Our judgement of our vices does.

 


Your mother (bless her), went to a beauty farm, and tried to plant tomatoes..

 


Another great unsung hero of mine is the lamentably late Phil Lynott of Thin Lizzy. Poor sod, was asked by Heaven to be both a nigger and Irish, and in the Queen’s country no less(Being either is tough enough, without the presence of the British).Had all he done was re-introduce ‘Whisky in the Jar’, he’d still be on a shortlist of pioneers important to the music, and the groundwork necessary to keep subsequent generations amused and engaged. He was smouldering and looked dangerous, and lived what graces he were allowed with stealth and disregard for what failed to regard him. Maestro Springsteen owes a stylistic debt to the great Lynott, although I would be loathe to suggest that Mr. Landau’s legendary charge ( Bruuuuuuuce!) came from any region save fully formed from the head of Zeus. The dizzy Irish masters that comprised Thin Lizzy were also allegedly admired by another black Irishman, the prophet Bob, the Marley(as not opposed to the other prophet Bob, the Dylan). The Marley’s dad being also a captivated, aerated Irishman. It would be good to see Hollywood do something on his fascinating life. Terrence Howard comes to mind as one who could conjure up the necessary vapours and bring this man’s great contribution to life. Ask U2 , they’ll tell you, PL was HUGE!

 


May god selfishly enjoy hearing the powerful and sweet voice of Tommy Makem. He had a commanding, swashbuckling presence, and a voice that could stop a herd of buffaloes in full stride. His was a musical intelligence vast and encompassing, and in his passing, ‘ho-hum’ America, Ireland, and the world of ‘world’ music has lost one of it’s pivotal and most inspirational figures. Forget the choice of instrumentation, The Clancy Brothers with Tommy, rocked.

 


Saint Bartholomew!!!!!

 


I just knew that if I just kept my puff and my head together long enough, I would see the convergence of my idols and heroes, stretching their legs again, and dropping new bombs and assorted bon-bons. The Master McCartney’s newest project finds him cheekily and successfully flirting with innovation again as if he were actually granted permission by the over 50 society, and where it rocks, it rocks. Somehow, my other March 15 life, as Sly Stone(I had to spread it out over 2 lives and 3 lifetimes) has escaped the evil clutches of the old shadows and spreads again, our/his wings(believe me, the FBI did a number on our brother Sly, a crew which never saw a display of black grace that they didn’t feel honour bound to disturb). The Schubert of modern pop, Stevie Wonder is also bouncing around again and being his usual stunning self, and as usual Maestro Rogers Nelson (Prince to you) is causing heart skippage and palpitations on behalf of the groove crew. Bon chance to all of them!

 


Why are you not writing more?

 


Congratulations to my friend Angelica on her marriage, Aug. 18 th. To my dear old Malibu friend, a happy and prosperous marriage, and more importantly, may your husband screw you like a whore, and regularly.

 


Without controversy surrounding me, I don’t feel at home.

 


Did you know that the world’s population is now the number one in the world?

 


ALL SACRIFICE IS EXERCISE, AND ALL EXERCISE IS GAIN!!!

 


It is not true that you can’t take it with you. We inherit our minds when we die.

 


I got truly bored being an ace singer, it left me little room to grow as anything but ‘singing coon’ guy. Screw all of that. My first experience of music was not as a ‘singer’, but as a music-maker/lover. The industry tried to convince me that my worth existed only as a ‘vocalist’ and all of that other bollocks. Whatever the corporate labels, I was born a music man and will die one. My voice cannot be limited to my vocal chords, my voice is ALL of my musicality and expression, which is why, if I am totally honest, I kind of perversely like when ‘technical’ problems de-emphasize the ‘voice’ and re-focuses emphasis on the band and the groove, or even God forbid, the song. With all due and gracious respect, I will have no one tell me the sort of musician I am, I leave that to time and experience.

 


Thank you to Rock Oz’Arènes for the opportunity to play. We are not too fond of festivals and their politics and rampant insecurities, yet we are grateful for the experience to introduce our ‘Post Millennium Rock’ to any audience as dumb as I, to be excited by it. Thank you internet-ians for coming out to support my set, me and the Nudge 2 are grateful!

 


The show of Master Jimmy Cliff was awesome!

 


(He was the night’s headliner of my day in the lovely Switzerland).

 


Your father is such a drunk, he tried to start a phone company with his alcoholic friends, called MUSCATEL.

 


I get asked whether my musical ‘experiments’ cost me more ‘major’ success. No, Sony did, I was there. It was conspiracy as plain as day, and that is just the that which it is. Major games were played with me, and I contend to this day , that had they shown TTD, even a little more respect for his spirit, and just a tiny bit less for another superstar’s money, we’d still be winning, and even printing money with both of our logo’s on it. When you have been told in so many uncertain terms (upon the regime becoming Sony, and obliterating what was left of my dream company, Columbia) that you will have to accept that you will never be the number 1 boy, always 2 or 3, then it seems wise to accept the ‘fatwa’ and use the time in quarantine to grow as an artist. I was all but told that my music wouldn’t be promoted unless I surrendered my call body and soul to the R&B department, who fought hard with the Pop and Rock divisions over claim of my soul. Never mind the fact that I wasn’t asked. Unfortunately , in America, other blacks are paid handsomely for the privilege of intimidating and beating back any with near coloration who thinks outside the box. I was stripped of my crown, and like master Ali, had to become the people’s champ. One artist resumed full dominance over the pop dept., while the other more fully incorporated the rock division as his and his manager’s own personal fiefdom. These things happen and then you get smeared, because, like Christ, the record label is never wrong, ergo it is always the artist who has to carry the brunt, in order that the corporation remain the loving and fair entity that it is so deviously not. I will never be able to reclaim that time, and it didn’t belong to me anyway. This time does, and all one can do is to be grateful for the larger vision attending one’s fate, and the new life that one can only find by dying for it.

 


My records have always, but always sold when even a little promo is put behind it, and I would get psychically abused for not selling records that no one promoted. Even an American tour that I financed myself out of pocket, which later saw me undergo tax troubles and other bullshit, was rejected by Sony, even to place a few phone calls around to say that their (???) artist was in town. Had my music played to enough old negro stereotypes dressed up in baggy clothes, or had I been an abuser of others or had a greater criminal track record to exploit, no doubt I’d have been showered with publicity. To this day, I have nightmares where at my funeral, Tommy Mottola gets up to say a eulogy, and HE STILL USES MOST OF THE TIME TO TALK MORE ABOUT OTHER SONY ARTISTS!

 


So, those of you who ask and wonder if I could go back (as if they want me any more now), NO. There is something even bigger than my greed and it is my pride, and pride won’t even let me go anywhere near the people that destroyed my pod. Here we are, now, and I shall, with the grace of our creator, endeavour to have chunks of flesh from ‘Nigor Mortis - A Critical Mass ® ’, available before the new year. Stay in love most of all with your selves and your dreams, and don’t take any wooden nickels, unless you’ve got a chainsaw to make change.

 


2 guys walk into a bar, and then walk out again after realizing that they forgot to bring money. Anyone knows that a good joke has to be paid for, and they didn’t want to take a chance……

 


At this juncture of my career, it is cool to be able, as a bandleader, to help other’s find themselves and their confidence. I am proud of my 2 Italian boys, their commitment, and their sheer joy in all of our dumb luck.

 


I conclude this missive with my gratitude to you. You are far more awesome than you think……….

 


And finally, a shout out of respect to two new musical friends of me and my wife’s: Maestros Joshua Bell and Andrea Griminelli. Check out their websites. They both have the distinct fortune / misfortune of representing the classical repertoire and they are both extraordinary ! More importantly, Griminelli is a good friend of Sting’s and (with all due respect to Kevin Bacon) we, musicians, pride ourselves on being no more than 3 degrees of separation from Maestro Sting.


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MILANO 22nd AUGUST 2007
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