DEMONSTRATIONS 5 and 6

Two more numbers to throw at my pile of demonstration material. The first–a cover of the very arguable N.E.R.D. classic “She Wants to Move”–was actually recorded last; while the second, a little ditty that reminds me (however incorrectly) of skiffle music (however incorrectly) called “Brazil,” which was actually recorded on the old four-track player in December, right before I left for Montréal and recorded all that other stuff. So in a way, this is something of a return home for my demo making.

And since I made both of these things myself, in Somerville, MA, on at least partially on my old trusty but rusty four-track recorder, they probably sound a lot worse than any of the other stuff that I previously posted–in terms of sound quality and volume, that is. The “Brazil” one is simple enough, and it’s only 4 tracks, so I think each discrete element will be clear. But “She Wants to Move” is a hot mess, albeit a loving one, recorded on two different devices and sung in a whisper, so as to not “disturb” the cranky lady downstairs. Whatever. It is what it is, and the chords are lovely, and there’s a lot of guitar playing. One day I’ll learn how to sing too.
Props to Anita for letting me use her new computer to get these things up and running, and props to my daily walks to campus for reminding me of how great “She Wants to Move Is” and how close it is to a certain facet of my smooth soul/jazz rock/hip-hop fusion ambitions, despite the ridiculousness of the vocals and lyrics, which have always been N.E.R.D.’s biggest failings. Whatever, the music is gorgeous, and I think I’ve done it justice in my uglification of it!

(Song by Hugo and  Williams;  All instruments performed by WRG)

(Song written and performed by WRG, just like everything else on this website, minus the remixes)

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Old School Sonnets, vol. 3

Alright. This isn't truly "old school," since it's less than a year old, but I have no other place to place sonnets written out of the sequence that we have going here. I wrote this on the lovely island of St. Maarten, birthplace and current home of my father:

Post-Colonial Feel (Sonnet)

 When the shit hits the fan, I know to go

Away from culture, that’s really capture.

They truly cannibalized our ego

-collectively rejected from the snare

Of occidental effects; accidents

Do happen—privileges are affected

By those with market minds; usurer’s bench

Seems noble in contrast to men who fed

 On flesh and faith, of flesh and the fates

Of a million ocean souls, floating through

A living too steeped in giving, staunched in

Blood and the salty seas of tears, or breaks

On sea and on skin, on me and on him

The stigma sticks to her

                                                -but not to you.

 

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79

Only the deepest friends leave impressions

on this rather prudent heart – Interpret
that as you will; I make no concessions
to the surface, and I don't mean a threat:
This is ideal talk, mouthed from Planet Mars,
that part of us all that gets sanded down
by the world's bar soap, despite its wars, scars,
perfuming the seen with our favorite sound:
As backs are patted, and egos stroked down,
domesticating the primal furies
of the human spirit, the seeds are sown
of a backwards soul – strange fruit hangs from trees:
Domestication implies a husband:
control, abuse are his only customs. 
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78

I'm so overwhelmed by contingency

in life and time, I don't know what to do –
Be bold or noble? Beholden to me,
or indebted and invested in you?
Obviously, me and you are bigger
than you and I, these are most full subjects,
they encompass the space between figure
and flesh, sculpting out all their neat affects:
Me, I don't sculpt – I see and don't inscribe;
my eye does the damage for me, and I'm
mostly content with beholding the tribe
of wounded or cut men, first or two-time:
Precision is a line that dumbs us down –
I magnify the buzz to hold us down.
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77

I've yet to find my way in this life's path,

so maybe now's a good time to stop short –
Not to give up, or turn back – that'd be death –
but to look around and maybe hold court:
I've held sway at sweaty diners where the
stains in the aprons dignify like wounds
on warriors: cotton cuirass healthcare,
however, is much safer than joust rounds:
And therefore wiser – and in the kitchen,
they even have squires, whores and wenches
to serve queens and kings eggs and bacon
(From up across invisible fences?):
Just a vision of a route I was on 
I'll tip the waitress, and I must buzz on.
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76

There are no patrons in war, only saints

since the passion for power lies in hearts,
not hands, not visions; battle's largess taints
goodwill amongst men and their love of arts:
Or so we think – but writing is like war,
when you look at the arm as letter –
the missive missile missing targets, or
the epistolary pistol header:
Dated, placed and sealed with the blood dreams,
and envoi-ed to Hell like murder ballads – 
Yes, Satan is dancing, singing in screams,
his feet spurred by coals, glowing so livid
This is a call-and-response, this blood song,
but no one repeats because I bled strong.
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75

Stellar legacy? Astral ligature?

Either way we are connected to sky
as air and as space and as literature,
and we read, write, breathe, move, live and still die:
The night is fluid, like a darkened pond
for want of light – but vision is feeling
with sight, not seeing with the Eye, not blond
sun rays cloaking it all in meaning:
The day is the great blue, the azure sea
above, while below there is movement, grace,
passion and pavement amassed, all to be
abraded by history into trace:
Elements, residue; efficacy
of mind against thought is called heresy.
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74

When reading the stars, you must look at your-

self, and they have rocks and puddles to make
it that much easier to do so – sure,
it's narcissistic, but that's no mistake:
In fact, people should self-explore deeply,
stir the puddles that reflect their faces,
regard their features streaked so completely
by the whiskers of the astral traces:
Your fresh countenance is my comeuppance,
I told myself in a dream about time,
and I saw words and moonlight and romance,
as the sun commenced its bright, upward climb:
And it caught me in-between bright and right,
so I spit in my mirror, waved goodnight.
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73

I am singing as I dream, singing free,
and I can hear the air buzzing along,
wrapping my song in the sweetest memory
which I can never speak, just hum along:
The vastest ocean harassing the shore
like a curious child parades the air
with questions about this, and "what's that for?",
eroding ears and corners – Endless fear
might be a proper response from the block –
You ask too much, learn to keep it shuttered,
so that the hurricane's only a walk
through time and rhymes are the sweet songs muttered:
Though no ears are willing, you are that eye,
and you calm your soul as the riptides fly.

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72

Where do we stand as I look to the left
and forward? Where is when in this exchange
between place and race, which like hooves cleft
leaves a gap, a space, between strong and strange:
And unites them too, as the legs of a goat
can make it climb the dewy mountainous
vistas of the tropics without a thought
to the gorgeous verdure or the horror
of domestication – some might say it's
a self-made and self-making process,
explained by natural inclination –
which is, quite frankly, pure, utter nonsense:
But we're here now, I guess, looking left, back
bent if not broken under heart attack.

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