Reggae has nothing to do with Nevada, except bouncy beat pink drink happy hour at the Beach Casino. Chicks dig it. Likewise, dub has little to do with reggae, though oddly it may have something to do with Nevada—bare, heartbroken mountains to bounce off and muffled reverb ricochet to bathe dread expanse. Maybe it was a tape stuck in the dash when I passed through, the least dust-caked one.
No matter. Big rhythm is supreme, though sub-rhythms play on its surface when you’re out far enough. They were always there. Dub spars with big rhythm, coats granite slopes in majestic echo and suspension, explodes the space between quarter notes into a hundred skull-pounding dimensions of lull. Reggae has nothing to do with Nevada.
Or, the impromptu pome version:
Reggae has nothing to do with Nevada.
Maybe pink drink happy hour at Beach Casino.
Bouncy beat, aquamarine.
Reggae has little to do with Nevada,
while dub has little to do with reggae.
‘Tho dub has something to do with Nevada.
Bounce off bare, heartbroken mountains.
Reverb ricochet bathes dread expanse.
Maybe it was a tape stuck in the dash,
least dust-caked tape in the cab.
Big rhythm is supreme.
Sub rhythms play on its surface.
Dub spars with a big beat rhythm,
coats granite walls in suspended echo,
explodes space between quarter notes
into a hundred skull pounding dimensions.
"The big beat earth" (last revision)
"The big beat earth" (last revision)
Last edited by Nazz on October 20th, 2009, 5:55 pm, edited 2 times in total.
i went through a UB40 and Bob Marley phase during and just after varsity. i haven't listened to those cd's in a while...i might just do that now. haha
"i shot the sheriff...but i did not shoot the deputy..."
or
"you've got a smile so bright, you know you could have been a candle
...the way you do the things you do..."
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man, nothing can beat reggae rythm. thanks for reminding me. and yeah, way cool "pome" mr. nazzy
.
"i shot the sheriff...but i did not shoot the deputy..."
or
"you've got a smile so bright, you know you could have been a candle
...the way you do the things you do..." <object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/vvIxxn36pUU&hl ... ram><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/vvIxxn36pUU&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>
man, nothing can beat reggae rythm. thanks for reminding me. and yeah, way cool "pome" mr. nazzy
.
“Reverb (Again)”
Aside from the way it blankets naked slopes in echo, or ricochets between them softly in reverb, my connection with dub reggae and its connection with a barren landscape seems a flash flood of circumstance as well, a sojourn with unexpected Biblical shadings.
I sensed how I could drift on reverb, fade into a wealth of empty quietude, but lyrics were hard to ignore as well, when they drifted in and out of the mix. You see it was 2001 and there was a God war raging, and when the one true God battles the other one it can get messy in a hurry. The one true God had just sent a thunderbolt to knock down some enemy skyscrapers, and brutally murdered thousands in the process. No need for the word “evil” to address such physics; you need only the overriding ugliness and utter failure of the act, done of our own human free will. Meanwhile the other one true God was plastered all over the reader boards and airwaves of the stricken, vowing revenge and final victory at last.
And like flies to shit, sure enough, pundits and pols were all over it, veins bulging and spit flying on camera. Bush mumbled something about the enemy’s “religion of peace,” but the mood was basically—my God can and will beat up your God—at least that’s how it played in Peoria. And Kabul.
I’ve never seen so many men of Christ so profoundly agitated and angry. Or disturbingly serene. Prophecy is being fulfilled; no need to be upset. Between the rich, desolate quiet and the reader boards and smoldering ruins on every screen, some sort of surreal battle fomented, and it would be us against us, as these things go. Too early to tell if it might induce trumpets and chariots or open the seven seals. It was about revenge, high tech revenge, and veins and spit on camera. God bless America.
Enter into the midst of such a brilliant potential calamity the rhythms of Jah. Hey guys, Supreme Gods One and the other One, I’m over here, remember? It doesn’t take a genius to figure how Jah rhythms might seem temporarily subversive, given the circumstance, a way to navigate wreckage. For a while.
I was nearly free, trapped in a war I never saw coming. Whose job is it to stand lookout for wars we never see coming? Shit, that is the economy’s job, to create the next profitable war. Watch the tickers. The point is, no one sees a war coming. Generals are reborn from a spring and the army is reborn to serve. You get enough of the army reborn and it comes back a little weary. We will get through the End Times; we are remarkable that way. Nothing but rock and sky; good place for quick death, quick arrow. Bedrock is underfoot, trail to thin air. Earth is endless from the next rise.
Aside from the way it blankets naked slopes in echo, or ricochets between them softly in reverb, my connection with dub reggae and its connection with a barren landscape seems a flash flood of circumstance as well, a sojourn with unexpected Biblical shadings.
I sensed how I could drift on reverb, fade into a wealth of empty quietude, but lyrics were hard to ignore as well, when they drifted in and out of the mix. You see it was 2001 and there was a God war raging, and when the one true God battles the other one it can get messy in a hurry. The one true God had just sent a thunderbolt to knock down some enemy skyscrapers, and brutally murdered thousands in the process. No need for the word “evil” to address such physics; you need only the overriding ugliness and utter failure of the act, done of our own human free will. Meanwhile the other one true God was plastered all over the reader boards and airwaves of the stricken, vowing revenge and final victory at last.
And like flies to shit, sure enough, pundits and pols were all over it, veins bulging and spit flying on camera. Bush mumbled something about the enemy’s “religion of peace,” but the mood was basically—my God can and will beat up your God—at least that’s how it played in Peoria. And Kabul.
I’ve never seen so many men of Christ so profoundly agitated and angry. Or disturbingly serene. Prophecy is being fulfilled; no need to be upset. Between the rich, desolate quiet and the reader boards and smoldering ruins on every screen, some sort of surreal battle fomented, and it would be us against us, as these things go. Too early to tell if it might induce trumpets and chariots or open the seven seals. It was about revenge, high tech revenge, and veins and spit on camera. God bless America.
Enter into the midst of such a brilliant potential calamity the rhythms of Jah. Hey guys, Supreme Gods One and the other One, I’m over here, remember? It doesn’t take a genius to figure how Jah rhythms might seem temporarily subversive, given the circumstance, a way to navigate wreckage. For a while.
I was nearly free, trapped in a war I never saw coming. Whose job is it to stand lookout for wars we never see coming? Shit, that is the economy’s job, to create the next profitable war. Watch the tickers. The point is, no one sees a war coming. Generals are reborn from a spring and the army is reborn to serve. You get enough of the army reborn and it comes back a little weary. We will get through the End Times; we are remarkable that way. Nothing but rock and sky; good place for quick death, quick arrow. Bedrock is underfoot, trail to thin air. Earth is endless from the next rise.
Rewritten...
Nothing but rock and sky on the far side of a bright arc, drenched in fine arid heat and roots rhythm exploded in soft echo thunder, turned low to fill up the expanse, bathe it in wondrous desolation, ricochet off canyons and mesas. Rock, sky and echo. Big beat earth. Jah roots rock has a foothold in the mountain rhythms and vista, the grinding bedrock, the heat and grit of this place. Hard to believe the pulse came from Jamaica, from mother ocean, a pulse so gritty, blown open, drifting and transformed. Reggae seems trivial beside desert warrior dub deconstructions. Reggae is infectious aquamarine, the kind of fluff they play at Beach Casino at happy hour, but dub is lost in the wilderness, on the far side of radiance, shaded Biblically, wandering further into the empty, the lost tribes.
It was 2001 A.D., and another God war was raging. And such battles get messy in a hurry. Seems the One True God had hurled a thunderbolt at the other One True God, which is to say secret agents of the former steered jumbo jets into mile-high skyscrapers of the latter, and brutally murdered thousands in the terrifying, obscene process, as the One True God willed it, of course. You don’t need the word “evil” to address these physics—only the sheer ugliness and utter failure of the act, done of our free will, God war aside. Meanwhile the stricken One True God was plastered all over reader boards and airwaves, vowing vengeance. God
bless vengeance!
I’ve never seen so many men of God so profoundly agitated. Or strangely serene. Every disembodied screen overflowed with barking heads and bile. You could watch triple-sixes shoot from their industrious lips, lips like hummingbird wings. But some of the faithful were quiet—prophecy is being fulfilled, no need to despair. Too early to tell if it might bring the trumpets and earthquakes, peel off the seven seals, saddle up the four horsemen. For now it was strictly acrid revenge, laced with ground zero smoke and smolder-- high-tech revenge and veins and spit on camera. Thy will be done, Lord. George the Second tried to rally the flock, mumbled something about the other One True God’s “religion of peace” before turning the dogs loose.
Enter into the Clash of Deities and smoke of apocalypse the rhythms of Jah. Hey Gods, I’m over here, remember? On the open earth and sky. In the dust and heat and grit, the quiet, thundering interior, the bedrock pulse, drifting vibration, the mother ocean on faint auburn tides, the immaculate subversion, inversion of separation. Jah dread roots may never see the desert again in such raw urgency, though its rhythms were born of their own calamity and tribulation, from hard streets and struggle, a way to navigate the wreckage, to propel travelers beyond noise into a silent burble and waver of space and light.
Sorry for the "bump"-- I just like this version better-- the sort of write that feels "good to get off your chest"...
Nothing but rock and sky on the far side of a bright arc, drenched in fine arid heat and roots rhythm exploded in soft echo thunder, turned low to fill up the expanse, bathe it in wondrous desolation, ricochet off canyons and mesas. Rock, sky and echo. Big beat earth. Jah roots rock has a foothold in the mountain rhythms and vista, the grinding bedrock, the heat and grit of this place. Hard to believe the pulse came from Jamaica, from mother ocean, a pulse so gritty, blown open, drifting and transformed. Reggae seems trivial beside desert warrior dub deconstructions. Reggae is infectious aquamarine, the kind of fluff they play at Beach Casino at happy hour, but dub is lost in the wilderness, on the far side of radiance, shaded Biblically, wandering further into the empty, the lost tribes.
It was 2001 A.D., and another God war was raging. And such battles get messy in a hurry. Seems the One True God had hurled a thunderbolt at the other One True God, which is to say secret agents of the former steered jumbo jets into mile-high skyscrapers of the latter, and brutally murdered thousands in the terrifying, obscene process, as the One True God willed it, of course. You don’t need the word “evil” to address these physics—only the sheer ugliness and utter failure of the act, done of our free will, God war aside. Meanwhile the stricken One True God was plastered all over reader boards and airwaves, vowing vengeance. God
bless vengeance!
I’ve never seen so many men of God so profoundly agitated. Or strangely serene. Every disembodied screen overflowed with barking heads and bile. You could watch triple-sixes shoot from their industrious lips, lips like hummingbird wings. But some of the faithful were quiet—prophecy is being fulfilled, no need to despair. Too early to tell if it might bring the trumpets and earthquakes, peel off the seven seals, saddle up the four horsemen. For now it was strictly acrid revenge, laced with ground zero smoke and smolder-- high-tech revenge and veins and spit on camera. Thy will be done, Lord. George the Second tried to rally the flock, mumbled something about the other One True God’s “religion of peace” before turning the dogs loose.
Enter into the Clash of Deities and smoke of apocalypse the rhythms of Jah. Hey Gods, I’m over here, remember? On the open earth and sky. In the dust and heat and grit, the quiet, thundering interior, the bedrock pulse, drifting vibration, the mother ocean on faint auburn tides, the immaculate subversion, inversion of separation. Jah dread roots may never see the desert again in such raw urgency, though its rhythms were born of their own calamity and tribulation, from hard streets and struggle, a way to navigate the wreckage, to propel travelers beyond noise into a silent burble and waver of space and light.
Sorry for the "bump"-- I just like this version better-- the sort of write that feels "good to get off your chest"...
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