“No one is born hating another person because of the colour of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.”—Nelson Mandela, Long Walk to Freedom (1995)
Hey I'm James Lewis, I didnt really want to be rude and just submit some of songs to your blog, but I thought it would be cooler to taking the time talking to you personally. I'm looking for fans or people that listen to good music, but I'm still kinda new to tumblr. I just really hope you can stop by and check it out! Thanks for reading this message
HI James. We’re not a blog, but a band. Will take a listen. Enjoy your Halloweeeeen
The concept of reverse racism is flawed, if not absolutely ridiculous. Most, if not all of the negative responses from people of color toward white people, are reactions to the hatred, violence, cruelty and brutality that they were shown by white people for centuries. Much of the foundation of…
Reflecting on Ms. Hill’s revolutionary reverberations. She’s halfway through her sentence. I dreamt of a man I know who is in jail for the very same thing, except for a lesser offense, doing double the time. We need to inspect ourselves before we burn others with the magnifier’s fire
Who needs an urn over the mantle when you can now store your ashes in a vinyl record? Vinyly found Jason Leach will combine your remains with 24 minutes of audio of your choice. From Bloomberg Businessweek:
The process itself is fairly simple: Ashes are delivered to a pressing plant in London and sprinkled into the raw vinyl. But the cost can be exorbitant. The basic And Vinyly package starts at £3,000 ($4,600) for 30 copies of a record, each containing a bit of ash.
One recent customer was a musician named Francesca Grilli from Amsterdam. Via The Daily Dot:
“She had a classical score written and played by string instruments,” Leach said. “This was filmed. The instruments and score were burning during the performance. We pressed the ashes from the performance into clear vinyl cut with the audio recording from the performance.”
This has been the most powerful week of my summer. Saturday I saw Robert Plant. I went in with no expectation other than being ecstatic about seeing my strange crush in the flesh and hearing some [obviously] incredible re-imagined structures of Zeppelin tunes. I loved them more than any other music in high school. I found my Mom’s and stepdad’s records in the basement behind a massive [literal] pile of dirt. I was enthralled by LZ II, III, & Houses of the Holy. There were no bands like this anymore…all of them mysteriously and wildly sexy, rocking dragon-embroidered tight pants and bowing the hell out of a guitar, channeling Satan and God at the same time. I was given the Stairway to Heaven dvd and book for a couple birthdays (“Uncensored”, written by their manager), which I ended up poring hours deep into the night over, drawn into the scenes of their psychedelic personal legends and ancient sense of purpose and beauty. I was missing the bus because I was staying up so late with Zeppelin. So I took a few steps over to my park to see him. I was shocked into calm and soothed into calamity. As the first few notes unveiled a tall and weirdly handsome wily figure, everyone pulled out their phones and started recording or snapping picture after picture. This also happened when I saw Fleetwood Mac in April [and pretty much every major concert of the last five years]…it just downright scares me. You are in the presence of at least one man who has played for more than 40 years, seeing the revolutions of style, technology, and social conscience shift and dramatically overtake seas of people for miles. You are surrounded by fans who were there…some are now recording on their phones, too, going for showing they once were and still are awesome. You are engulfed by a beautiful, well-channeled energy of many multitudes which is very quickly overtaken by the seeming presence of aliens watching their master. I heard a girl ask her boyfriend the titles of each song, and I felt a rare annoyance. But I know I have been that girl to someone before - our assumptions are not really worth our time - so I removed myself. I went on top of the hill and watched from the trees as an illuminating and wildly colorful blanket was woven over; Arabic, African, and old American Blues; moments of really hard rocking and quiet sensation-sailing. Maybe because I was sick, maybe because I have gained so much from this music, maybe I just needed it - I slipped into a trance; that kind where you’re not trying to be aware of your path, where your mind dances mosaics, and you see where you’ve been at war with yourself while happily accepting it. He’s still got it, and he’s refused to let it go. Last night I went down to my old hood in Ft Greene to see Red Baraat. Middle Eastern marching band meets sci-fi. Slides you into sweaty sequences with bizarre Arabic recordings cork-rolling into booty-shakin fusion-funk. With Debo Band (Barx’s favorite), the trembling beauty of traditional Ethiopian singing is melded with masterful young minds of many genres; traces of funk and rock bass lines and sensationally speeding solos. Tonight I will see Festival Au Desert in the park at Lincoln Center. Timbuktu straight-to-you. Reading about these groups, I was empowered yet stripped of strength. They are touring because they were exiled. They are playing with all their hearts and bodies can because they can’t go home. Their fun, their culture, their livelihood is absolutely forbidden and we here will never know that pain. Instruments of joy are being seized and destroyed. Women in these groups are not allowed to sing and dance the way they will tonight. But we feel something within us that inspires us to listen and crave this music and story. It resonates compassion and we dig the music for its raw joy. The social implications capture us and if we’re open to it, we suddenly find ourselves dancing and falling into their flow. It’s therapy for all parties. Nothing is more powerful than what we love and feel born to do; we become warriors of light when we see this through and through
.h . e.
* u p d a t e - on my way to see this concert, a group of protesting Egyptians addressed Americans, Obama, and our media outside the CNN building: "HEY NY IT’S A COUP!" "WE PROUDLY SUPPORT OUR NEW PRESIDENT" "NO MORE MILITARY RULE"
For that moment, it was a powerful pep rally. I was inspired in transport and moved by these desires to be heard while being reminded that nothing is what it seems. Our media is ‘breaking’ and swelling and rupturing; the river runs with many currents, and all we can do here on seemingly safe ground is walk to it and perceive its turns and bends so the tides don’t topple over our heads
Festival au Désert
"The future of one of the world’s most musically fertile cultures is uncertain after two years of political upheaval and armed conflict…For the native players of Festival Au Desert, the path from there to here has included an Islamist takeover of their Saharan homeland, followed by a religious war on music and then a French-led military intervention.
Founded in 2001 and held annually in the Sahara, the Festival au Désert quickly became one of the premier showcases for “world music.” Until last year, fans, including pop stars like Bono and Robert Plant, would flock to the festival site outside Timbuktu, in Mali.
Just after the January 2012 festival, an uprising initiated by Tuareg rebel groups in northern Mali — some seeking more autonomy for their nomadic Berber people, others favoring an independent homeland — was hijacked by Islamic extremists, who seized control of Timbuktu as they began marching southward. That led to a military coup in the southern part of the country, and fighting followed. “The survival of the festival mandates that we relocate far from our home…until the music can return to its roots with freedom of expression and dignity.”
“The occupiers made all kinds of threats, that they would chop off your hand so you couldn’t play, or cut out your tongue so you couldn’t sing." Musicians stopped at roadblocks had all of their instruments and amplifiers seized and “doused in petrol and set alight,”…Islamist police also demolished recording studios and raided radio stations, where they confiscated and destroyed painstakingly accumulated archives of local music.
Among the genres repressed was music based on tindé drums, “the mitochondrial DNA of all Tuareg music.” Though traditionally performed by female ensembles, the music is enjoyed by audiences of both sexes, which led to incidents in which “militiamen with black headbands and AK-47s strapped to their chests” breaking up public performances, “shouting at the men to keep away from the women and go home.”
“We had to leave, but during the crisis we continued to hold our concerts in refugee camps, so as to keep our traditions alive.”
The master percussionist Alpha Ousmane Sankaré is a pious Muslim who thought he had nothing to fear; he decided to remain and endured a raid of his home in which his instruments and equipment were seized and incinerated. “If a musician is forbidden to sing or play, you have taken his life,” he said. “They kept saying it was haram, haram,” an Arabic word that means sinful or prohibited. “We asked them, ‘Isn’t burning everything also haram?’ ”