We need a voice

Could it be Saul Williams’?

To Whom It May Concern:

I’m used to sharing my opinion, but sometimes when it comes to politics, especially in regards to voting, I’m hesitant. This is primarily because my goal has always been to inspire people to think for themselves rather than simply inspire them to think like me. Yet, at the same time I realize the power of example and do my best to be my best whether the spotlight shines or not. I would not plant my faith in any government if I believed that history was entitled to govern the future. What has been was and went. At present, I am slave no more, and my freedom to speak my mind and share it with you is, in itself, an inspiration and a testimony of the beauty of our times. Yet in these times when the creative labor disputes in the film industry, the transformation and disbandment of the music industry, the collapse of our misappropriated economy (while oil profiteers celebrate the biggest year of profit in US corporate history), the ongoing war, the expansion of environmental consciousness, the resurgence of racial hate crimes, and the penalties exacted upon sportsmen who practice brutality off the field, all convene under the heading of NOW, it is essential to draw connections between each spinning record, to note times’ signature, and acknowledge that our world could transform in a drum beat. We are in desperate need of a remix. As a musician and fan of many I have always noted the power of music and art, especially amongst the youth. Before complacency and jadedness take shape, we are alive with dreams and insight into what could become of the world if the old would simply die young and allow new harmony to exist beyond antiquated conceptions of race, nationality, and tradition. We are subject to the world we are born into, without choice nor reverence. The dogma instilled by our social study books and well-meaning parents do little to affirm the truths that we know possible. The future is truly in our hands, yet most feel empty handed and ill-equipped to be the change they wish to see, while others have already been taught to clasp their empty hands in prayer, nod their heads, and surrender their power to the unknown, the angry, the jealous. I do not trust the government, I have no faith in politics. Poetry is president. We are the root of change. Yet, I have even less faith in cynicism. When negative expectations rule our perspective we shift below the radar and become the resin stuck to the tires of the passing tank, whose driver is tired and feels unthanked. He fights for nothing more than rank. We are the root of blame. Cynicism is ammunition pressed against the temple of the imagination daring it to not be. It is an excuse of the unimaginative, a tool of the tool, a weapon of the dreamless and sleep-deprived, it is far, so far, from music. What we need is a song, a melody to inspire the wind to change direction, a hybrid of genre and innovation, something worth the dance. The tar spangled banner that waves low, beneath the surface, is the dancefloor of a generation finding voice to sing. And though every generation has found ways to marry rhythm, none has sampled breakbeat science to distort how freedom rings. History is not King. And the present has offered some promising leaders…For the record, I’m voting for Barack Obama tomorrow. Saul Williams Songkeeper

I’m on Saul Williams’ myspace friend list and he posted that letter as a Bulletin. Anyone who knows me is aware I am often moved by Saul Williams’ works. His recent collaboration with Trent Reznor will hopefully broaden his fanbase. Although I know rhythm and beats are a major focus for Williams’, I hope that his listeners don’t lose themselves in the hard rhythms and heavy beats because his poetry is powerful. I’ve seen how easy it is for individuals to repeat catchy hooks completely unaware of the message it’s sending, whether it’s positive or negative. It’d be a tragedy to have listeners treat his lyrics just like any other beats and hooks they dance to/recite such as “Supersoak dat ho” or “I’m a Barbie girl in a Barbie World” glossing over the profound message it’s expressing with a vacuous look in their eyes.

I understand Williams’ letter is about politics, but that’s a subject I’d rather not touch. I registered as a voter last August when I got my driver’s license, but I never got my card in the mail and I haven’t done anything about it. I haven’t done my research and I am not about to vote for a candidate because of how popular he or she is. I also don’t trust myself currently because I am afraid I would vote for someone just because I want to see the first woman or black man sworn in as President. And as badly as I want to see some drastic change in history, having a woman or black man in office doesn’t guarantee real change.

The point of this entry is to put Saul Williams on further display. He is an eloquent writer and a moving speaker who uses his words and rhythms to his benefit. He has a voice that can move the masses. I just hope the message follows suit.

I am so envious of the generation that had Martin Luther King. I desire a great cause to fight for. I want a leader to back. Who will be our next MLK? My vote’s for Saul Williams–no one else has impressed me as much.

(That last link was to Saul Williams’ myspace artist profile.  I recommend Black History Month–particularly 2 minutes into the piece)

And by the way, happy Black History Month

Disposable Music

Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton, Justin Timberlake, The Pussycat Dolls, gangsta rap, reggeton. It’s all garbage. Some of it is catchy-garbage, but garbage nonetheless. We, my friends and I, abhor this dis ease known as “pop music”. In this country of ours, so full of shit, we often wonder why pop music is so, well, popular? Can it be true that so many people across the “civilized”, developed world think this crap is actually music? Nevertheless, I’ll be fair. I’ll choke back my upchuck and admit, that in some way, it kind of is music, only because I’m thinking about being stranded on a deserted island. In such a predicament, would I actually prefer silence over “Sexyback”? Honestly, I have to say no. I’d be poplockin’ like that white boy until the end of my days — which would be rather soon without the comfort of a soccer ball named “Wilson” as company. Sure, I can play coconut bongos, trying my best to emulate “The 99 Beautiful Names of Allah” ala Muzlimgauze, but really, how long would that last? Yeah.

I’m sorry Jenka, but right before I’d off myself, I’m sure to rub one off, while fantasizing about the hooker-looking one in The Pussycat Dolls. Oh wait, that’s all of them!

Jenka’s retort:

How can you lump in genres like gangsta rap and reggeton with pop artists like Justin Timberlake, Britney Spears, etc.?

Leave the genres out of it! Whole genres can’t be considered pop music/popular when everyone that creates music within the genre isn’t always popular. What about genres with pop in the title like ‘indie pop’ or ‘britpop’? Are they evil too? (You wanna start a fight, you dumb chav! Bwahahaha)

And reggeton isn’t garbage. What is wrong with you?! I WILL NOT HAVE YOU SPAMMING MY BLOG WITH SUCH REFUSE. Hee, seriously though. What kind of pathetic excuse of a Boricua are you? I will not label you Puerto Rican brethren if you’re going to be spouting nonsense like Reggeton is garbage! DADDY YANKEE 4-EVAR

Madness Prevails – music video in the making

After listening to the abominable, yet frighteningly catchy, “Buttons” song by the Pussycat Dolls one too many times I have been having visions of a dark, comedic music video starring none other than me. And the wretched dolls. And some proper Calvin Klein model for the finishing touch. Perhaps a pole or two, a sex swing, and a chair for good lapdancing measure. (Have I mentioned how much I hate the Pussycat Dolls and this song? Okay, good.)

I would let it begin like any other putrid MTV music video, the sluts around poles, on their chairs, dancing in that “come hither and rape my head” manner we all love so much that the idea is worth emulating 3958035 times by 3598358 music “artists” and still be successful enough for a nomination for TRL Dance Video of the Year award. With rhymes like “Oh, my baby’s sexy fo’ sho’. I had to have him when he walked in da do’” they certainly deserve what they have coming to them. Especially when they butcher the word business with ‘bidness”. Excuse me while I shudder.

I would let that “sexy mama” of a lead singer do her thing while I, dressed like satan’s little elf in red lingerie, matched the vertical sex moves of her backup dancers around her perhaps adding some jazz hands for effect around her pretty litty ethnic face, opening my cock-holster like the other dancers, in need of a large, bulbous member penetrating my head and salivating all over my phallic microphone. Still dancing around her I would lightly run the mic up and down her curvaous form, sliding it between her breasts suggestively and and right into her mouth, choking her whilst she is in the middle of saying “loosen up my buttons, babe”. The music continues to play since we all know they’re actually lip-synching and I proceed to loosen up those buttons with my spare hand and motion for Calvin Klein boy to come over and help me out. He sort of blinks in dismay with those vacuous eyes of his, but dollar signs show up on the lead Pussycat’s crotch and nipples and he cannot deny his place in the video. Yes, we nod and answer the lyrics that “we’re big boys” and I unzip my lingerie and show a 12 inch dildo the shape of George Bush’s head, equipt with Dumbo ears, and Model boy properly slathers her pussy with some Crisco I had hiding in my bra. She spreads her legs easily, they simply fall apart, and I slide my George Bush synthetic phallus right into her cavernous cunt. With an obnoxiously surprised face, I grap another pussy cat doll and shove her head inside this gaping snatch. Finally, a bit of traction. She passes out and I synch with the lyrics “I’m not ‘frontin’ anymore”.

Off to the sex swing where another pussycat doll had been giving an imaginary lapdance and I lock her in, unable to move, other than bouncing up and down and below her I place a set of fine cutlery, sharp ends up. Calvin Klein boy takes clothespins and spreads open her vagina and I bounce her with force up and down on the knives. Her blood leaking all over the stage, lead Pussycat Doll stirs and wakes up irritated that her hair is covered in blood. She tries getting up but slides around in the crimson puddle, emulating the Christina Milian video “Dip It Low” where she slides around in black latex paint. A group of men with erections surround her with their cocks pointed in her direction. Everytime she slides around they shove it in her mouth, her face frozen in that “come hither and fuck my face” expression.

The other pussy cat doll is still bouncing, though her body lifeless. I gather up the rest of the dolls and line them up. I pull an AK-47 from between my legs, Mary Poppins stylee, and proceed to shoot them all in the face, blowing their glittery makeup off into the firmament and the stunned audience, which are still bobbing their heads simultaneously to the beat in their seats. I finally get sick of lead Pussycat Dolls facefucking, grab a butchers knife and hack away at her breasts, crotch, and head. The other dolls come back to life and slowly come at me while doing their vertical sex dance and try to undress me. I scream and shoot at them again. Lead pussycat doll straddles my face, and as I vomit, she cums all over me. Klein model, feeling some sort of allegiance to me, grabs my gun and attempts to shoot her, but can’t figure out how and instead knocks her upside the head. She falls over and the headless dolls try to entice Model Boy by rubbing their bloody bodies all over him, he falls victim and becomes hypnotized. I gather my strength, pick up the gun, and shoot at them again. They all group together, surrounding me with their chairs and do an imaginery lapdance while leering at me and I finally take my gun and point it toward my aorta and blow myself into the audience.

The video ends with the Pussycat Dolls fucking every member of the audience, then sliding their putrid pussies all over the cameras, smearing their STD infested fuck froth all over the lenses, and opaquing the shot.

The end.