RAVEN MACK is a mystic poet-philosopher-artist of the Greater Appalachian unorthodox tradition. He does have an amazing PATREON, but also *normal* ARTIST WEBSITE too.
[I ain't really feel like writing about no damn Lizzo, so instead
I wrote a freestyle sonnet I guess triggered by this song, but idk tbh]
Cyborg self-marketers claiming soul, screaming "SOUL!" through digital fog of polluted innerstates. We all so fragmented from birth from feeling whole, chasing love-based serotonin to lighten the weights of physical dread. This world's hard, can take its toll on simple folks focused on heart first, trusting fate's gonna follow what you sow, despite seeing hole in that thinking daily... far more multiple hates indulged by too many, poisoned brains trumping heart, mushroom clouds of toxic thought pushed upon "time" lines no longer chronological. We're pushed apart by our own alleged progress, these strange designs of how to most deeply connect... divisive art of our entered nets as collective care declines.
The checklists of basic human desire - to find a home, and love, and feel the freedom to seek both those things, free of obstacles and fences and razor wire so on and so forth. This is the "life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness" trinity, which is not the intellectual property of the United States, cannot be patented or trademarked as an exceptionally American quality unseen in the rest of history. This is innate to being a live, and wandering this confusing existence seeking shelter. One wants a home to rest, and to recognize the geography as a space they understand and understands them and in fact are like symbiotic in relations. And one wants to feel the spark of blood pumping with tingle from heart muscle because there are others of the same creation who share those feelings and you all shelter each other to continue to generate that buzz, the dopamine and serotonin of sustained emotions in generally-speaking safe space, or if those things are not entirely stable, being able to wander further to find it. That's all the fuck anybody wants. Being a human is not nearly as complicated as we make it with all our damn rules and regulations and hoarding of abstract signifiers of more.
BlackLiq’s been dropping a mixtape from his
archives of freestyles every month this year. He just dropped Volume 10 last
night. I ain’t even processed all the earlier ones. This track is off the one
from all the way back in May. I love crazy prolific creative types, that ain’t
even fucking around with waiting on you to catch up. It’s very inspirational.
BlackLiq’s actually inspiring me to try and fuck around and make more music in
2020. But seriously, check out his fuckin bandcamp – it’s full of great shit.
Tobe Nwigwe been dropping a video a week for a thousand weeks in a row, straight lineage to Houston style, just like Rap-a-Lot having a thousand tapes in a row, just like DJ Screw doing a thousand mixtapes in a row, the endless productivity of creative lane that nobody can fuck with because everybody else is afraid to even occupy it. Tobe was a D-1 football player (North Texas, just like Stone Cold Steve Austin and Mean Joe Greene), but had that lane roadblocked by injury, and found himself accidentally switching into this lane. First generation Nigerian-American as well, so culturally, though steeped in Houston, has a larger global flavor to what makes him uniquely him. But damn, Houston always seems to pop out these amazing forces in hip hop over the decades, and absolute game-changing things. Is Tobe a game changer? I don't know, because the current modus operandi of music industry is something ferments locally, the lactofermented bacteria blossoms on a larger scale, usually through the internet petri dish circulation, and then gets signed somewhere and has that natural energy pasteurized into something not quite so tingly. So enjoy this Tobe Nwigwe run for as long as it lasts. He's already blessed us.
There’s so many creative geniuses operating out
here in the wild that the majority of people have no idea about. Richmond
remains a breeding ground for that energy, and I’ve never been able to figure
out why exactly (and hopefully they don’t gentrify/pasteurize it away) but it
remains an incubator of wild ass spirits. I still feel more connection to
Richmond than Charlottesville, even after all this time since I moved. Lately I’ve
been listening to Nickelus F like crazy. Dude is just straight brilliant,
wandering through infinite styles, left and right (and all directions
otherwise). It’s very inspiring to just hear a dude going off on incredible
tangents constantly, and it makes you wanna do your own shit. You know there’s
a ton of hard work, practice, and raw intelligence involved in doing that, but
honestly man, if you feel inspired by a wild ass artist, that’s good, and part
of what’s supposed to happen. Lockdown and make a thousand mixtapes.
I ain’t really trying to crush dreams, because we all gotta dream in this
shitty cold ass world, but too many rappers (and really all artists) get
attached to hyping themselves up and building online marketing buzz, without
putting in the constant practice and work. You build a large volume of work, it’s
like dandelion seeds, it’s gonna start sprouting somewhere, in the cracks over
here, in a vacant lot over there… if you’re scattering your creative seeds
enough, they can’t be stopped from blossoming. I feel like too many folks think
there’s a shortcut to success (which there is – be born rich, so you can buy
access to everything), but it’s not.
And the beauty of wild ass artists is that when
you finally stop sleeping on somebody like Nickelus F, fuck there’s like this
whole giant catalog of amazing shit to dig into. Your art you consuming ain’t
got to be brand new. We’re not on no time-table here. None of us have to be pop
culture curators of the newest hottest shit. In fact, you go find Nickelus F on
bandcamp and there’s two Gold Mine releases of shit he found on a hard drive
that you can pay what you want, and that shit all fuckin’ rocks as well.
I don’t know if people still read websites like this anymore. Hit up the
comments with some unknown brilliance you’re aware of… let’s start connecting
to this wild ass geniuses running around in semi-obscurity out here.
The act of screwing previously recognizable music
is an intentional act of sabotage upon the defining shackles of accepted time
management. The concept of time is taught to us at a very young age in order to
stifle our innate desire to play and wander and roam and explore life, and is
the beginning of tethering our human existence to the mechanistic expectations
of productivity. The creative act of song composition, as originally done, was
potentially a shot at breaking free of these confines, but generally speaking
if you’ve heard a song from back in the day, it was already compromised and
perverted by the materialistic and exploitative actions of the music industry.
Why would anyone make an “industry” of music? What a horrible idea.
Taking this original composition and then further fucking
it up, altering the speeds at which it is heard adds nuance, and also resists
the notion that an accepted standardized length is the only one acceptable. The
single beginning length can be altered longer or shorter (longer is always
better in my opinion, it jibes with my personality which has been baked into
loving sloth by the southern humidity for over four decades). It is often
argued that the human mind won’t be able to handle time travel, because we are
three-dimensional creatures (x-axis, y-axis, z-axis… so firm in this belief we
make them the end of our alphabet) and time travel is a fourth-dimension, where
you exist along multiple points on the time continuum. I’d suggest even further
that true transcendence of three-dimensional slavery is to accept there are no
longer even points on that space-time continuum, to be charted like a colonizer’s
map, but instead just the full oneness of time itself. This is the abolition of
time, and true freedom. Fuck your clocks, and fuck your appointments, and fuck
your expectations that I be “on time”. I am always on time, simply by being
alive.
Motherfuckers don't say "sock it to me, baby" nearly as often as they should anymore. And yet people still say "motherfuckers" all the time. Like me. I am the people, and also problematic af still. Part of being people is being problematic. If somebody's perfect, they ain't real people. And there's a lot of that type around. Motherfuckers.
Woke up this rainy morning imagining what if I operated a food truck except it'd be a food winnebago, and I know I'd have to sell chicken gizzards, and it'd be an anti-hipster spot, and I'd be bumping Choosey & Exile this morning most likely. But of course being anti-hipster ends up becoming hipster because in this day and age of self-loathing, where few things are whiter than white people making fun of white folks, and nobody decolonizes so much as recolonizes in a different more exciting way, and I'd hate my own creation and set it on fire one night, by accident on purpose, to save me having to interact with the filthy self-important privileged human beings that one is required to interact with to have a successful business in late stage capitalism.
But I'd definitely have chicken gizzards, because nowhere makes good gizzards. There was even a soul food spot in the gentrified portion of Belmont, and they had gizzards, and I got them, thinking they'd be great, but they wasn't. Most places don't even fuck with them. My favorite gizzard spot right now is a gas station outside of Dillwyn, true Southside Virginia, where the last time I stopped they still had peach Perriers a dollar each if you got two, and the lady working the food counter was talking shit to a logging trucker who stopped in for lunch and threatening him with the butcher knife, and he was like "You see how she do me?" to me, and then I got involved, and we all talked shit together like a bunch of bumpkin ass multi-racial hicks in true and living southside Virginia style, while she filled up styrofoam clamshells with gizzards and livers for the both of us. That's my five-star review, but I ain't telling you what gas station outside Dillwyn, or where Dillwyn is. Find it, then try all the gas stations that got gizzards. Do your own research, bitch.
My dad's favorite meal was fried chicken livers, made them on his birthday every year, big heaping plate full of livers with onions and mustard. I always preferred the gizzards but looking back I wonder if that was one of those trickle down things, like I knew he was gonna eat all the damn livers so I trained myself to love the gizzards. Although I guess nowadays livers are sold separately, and gizzards and hearts come in packs together.
I love chicken hearts too, from when I was younger at a big ass drunken cookout as a kid, and one of my dad's friends put the hearts on the grill (which was an old grate from a long gone kitchen stove sitting on cinderblocks over a fire), and at first I was like "eww, hearts," but then I had them and loved them.
The process of writing is always beneficial because some barbaric shit will make itself obvious when you type it out. Reading "I love the hearts of chickens grilled over a fire on an old stove grate" is kinda shocking to the cultured ass word typing side of me. But then again both sides aren't really sides, and it's all 69ing inside of me - big ol' spiraling ball of dirtgod energy. All of this is who I am, and I love it.
This “Gimme a Pigfoot” song was made famous at
first by Bessie Smith, but this LaVern Baker version ain’t really fucking
around none. The song was originally written by Kid Wilson and Coot Grant, a
husband and wife songwriting team who performed on the southern black
vaudeville circuit, and DID NOT GIVE A FUCK. Kid Wilson was really named Wesley
Wilson, but went by Kid, although also had the nickname Sox so that he was more
often than not billed as Kid “Sox” Wilson. He had previously been in a duo with
another dude, billed as Pigmeat Pete and Catjuice Charlie. (Wilson was
Catjuice.) There is never any lack of need for more songs about FUCK Y’ALLS
BULLSHIT LET’S JUST LOUNGE, OKAY, because with microbreweries and the
gentrification of the entire Earth, and establishments making themselves only
available to the segment of society with the most discretionary income, places
of great indiscretion are fewer and farther between. And while I don’t eat
pork, so ain’t trying to gnaw on no pigfoot, plus am almost nine years sober, I
WOULD GLADLY TRADE ALL THESE FUCKIN’ LAME ASS PLACES PEOPLE GO TO FOR A SPOT
THAT HAD CHEAP ASS BEER AND PIGFEET, READY TO ROLL. We’ve progressed beyond
being able to fuckin’ chill.
There’s a great lesson from the survival mode of
rural juke joints and the Chitlin’ Circuit, that despite the prevailing rules
of the larger finer society, you can create these autonomous zones to get wild
and happy within. I’m not sure people realize that any more. Everybody seems so
keen on getting a seat at the table, that nobody thinks, “man, fuck y’all’s
table” and does their own damn thing out where the assholes ain’t bothering to
look. AND NO MATTER HOW MUCH THE ASSHOLES GET INTO YOUR HEAD, TRYING TO
CONVINCE YOU HOW POWERFUL THEY ARE, THEY CAN’T LOOK EVERYWHERE.
WAS CONTEMPLATING FRIDAY IN FALL FEELINGS OF
FUCK-IT-NESS, WITH A PERSONAL HISTORICAL PERSPECTIVE.
40 YRS AGO I WOULD’VE BEEN 6, SO PROBABLY JUST
COMING HOME FROM SCHOOL, FUCKING OFF, HOPING THINGS WEREN’T CRAZY.
30 YRS AGO I WOULD’VE BEEN AMPED UP FOR DRUNKEN
AND DRUGGED DEBAUCHERY. FALL WAS ALWAYS A GREAT TIME TO DROP ACID, AND HIDE OUT
ON LOGGING TRAILS WITH FRIENDS, BEING YOUNG AND STUPID AND BEAUTIFUL AND TRYING
TO RUSH AGE EVEN DEATH.
20 YRS AGO WOULD’VE HAD A BABY AND ALSO WORKED AT
THE COPY SHOP HALF A DAY ON SATURDAYS SO LIKELY STILL DRANK TO GET DRUNK BUT
NOT SO MUCH I WAS A NON-FUNCTIONING ALCOHOLIC.
10 YRS AGO WOULD’VE BEEN SELF-EMPLOYED THUS MOSTLY
UNEMPLOYED AND ALSO VERY MUCH A POUNDER OF A 12-PACK A DAY, LIKELY AT HOME,
WITH THREE CHILDREN NOW, AND MAN I’M SO FUCKING THANKFUL I AM WHO I AM NOW NOT
WHAT I WAS ALL OF THOSE OTHER THENS, ALTHOUGH ALL OF THAT MADE ME WHAT THIS IS
NOW.
We had a War Games rap battle event this past
weekend, our third, and it went down pretty well. Solid DJs plus solid
direction plan helped. We’ve got a Brass Knuck title for the illest MC who
controls the stage, everybody else get the fuck off, and that battle had both
people do two songs (challenger first/champion second) then perform a third
knockout song. The challenge was a female MC, Shamika Shard’e, and she
absolutely fucked up the third song, like there was no doubt she was gonna win
that shit. The way we run these is with a homemade cage, like MMA or wrestling,
and three judges who score the competitors. Shamika won on unanimous decision.
The main event was a battle rap, featuring hometown hood battle rap legend
Versity Rell vs. our champion Fellowman. Crowd was in Rell’s corner, but he did
slip up in second round a little, and still got off some of the hottest lines.
Fellowman won on judges scorecards, split decision, and there was a couple
folks in the crowd heated about that. I mean Rell had his mama at the show to
watch.
BlackLiq was one of our judges, and the thing I
love about this dude is he’s always straight up, even if what he’s got to say
ain’t what you was hoping to hear. Our host (my brother Remy St. Clair) had the
judges speak on why they scored it the way they did, and BlackLiq was straight
up with the crowd, no sugar coating. Then he hung out for a while, rode back to
Richmond and hosted his radio hip hop show later that night. The dude is
putting in work constantly. He’s put out a freestyle mixtape every month this
year from his vast radio show archives, in anticipation of dropping a new album
project in 2020. “Anti” comes off his last album project, which is slamming as
fuck. I appreciate people who don’t necessarily slap that “creative” noun on their
own ass, as an identity, and instead are just out here doing the work every
damn day, building worlds. The rest of civilization notices little by little,
and might not notice at all sometimes, but you’re still putting in that
constant grinding work to build those worlds you need to see, need to express,
want to make bigger. I respect artists like that so much more than
self-identified creatives or people gaming the system with the same shit some
other dude two neighborhoods over is doing.
Bonus footage of our 9 Pillars War Games heavyweight title battle rap below...
The 411 on upcoming Sovthern Gothic Fvtvrist Haiku Slams.
SATURDAY NOVEMBER 23 - CHARLOTTESVILLE VA - TWISTED BRANCH TEA BAZAAR
OUR YEAR END EVENT! Featuring a Tournament of Haiku Death Matches, plus two open battle royals between tournament rounds. The 8 competitors for the final tournament championship of 2019 will be announced on social media. I do also have an official (lol) website now, with a page on haiku slams there as well - check it out - and book me to come do one of these things in your neck of the woods.
I’m not sure if I can still love Lizzo in a
conscious way, as she’s quickly been adopted by neoliberal dreams and will
likely be a Democratic Presidential candidate theme song next year. But in the
subconscious way, I still like to imagine a don’t-give-a-fuck woman sitting
around in lingerie because she was born ready. So I’ll just listen to this and
pretend a thick woman is gonna sit on my face, and ignore the part where that
raw spirit will be co-opted by a conglomerate of wealthy entities who believe
they have a better vision for the future of America’s generation of empirical
profits than the current conglomerate of wealthy entities, who are doing it all
wrong. Fuck politics. Somebody come sit on my face.
digital nomads not actually moving the reason noise music has become prominent is because it's the only way to hear above the constant buzzing din of dullard engineering doldrums of existence even if what you are as a people has been disconnected from the past and plugged into false histories one-inch deep and easily washed away by flood or fire you are still something else entirely than this you have consumed something else that has metaphysical genetics that go back to ancient wanderers this buzzing din of dullard engineering doldrums of existence is not your innate sound so make some fuckin' noise scare away the devils