www.witnessthinks.com

-w

Maybe you’re thinking to yourself,
“This guy hasn’t posted in about a month and then he comes back with this?”

To clear things up, I’m not exactly “back” yet. I’ve been writing and recording through the dead of this fervent summer and trying to piece together two albums that just so happen to be going to entirely different parts of the globe. It’s been a learning experience, but thrilling to work with such intensity again. I think this will be pretty well received.

Tour dates are coming up…in all places.

In order to quell some of the anxiety I’m having about performing in a country with an obvious language barrier, I decided to check out what Japan had in the way of indie music. I was already familiar with the majority of the Hip Hop and few other acts, but left the rest for a rainy day.

While today wasn’t particularly rainy, I came across the girl that I’ve featured here today. Quesa hails from Kyoto, Japan. Her voice is lovely. Her music is ethereal. The song seems to be called “今日の向こうに” and I think a Babelfish translation would do it an injustice. So let’s leave it at that.

I have no idea why Japan’s indie pop scene is so poorly represented online, though.

Her music, a curious indie pop mix with hints of Bjork, Imogen Heap and Eisley can be found here:
http://www.myspace.com/quesa93

I’m the worst blogger in the world.

With almost every new post, I get a few messages saying something along the lines of “Hey man, I read the new blog. You really should post more, it’s kind of fun to read.” I generally put together some kind of appreciative message in response and finally, return to forgetting I even have a blog. I should probably work on that.

Regardless, this summer has been overwhelming.
I signed up for summer courses, in order to get some more college under my belt and I’ve been getting my ass kicked by the behemothic “World History After 1400″. It likely would have been a simple exercise in memorization if it wasn’t six hundred years of history condensed into four weeks. Fast food education sucks.

That being said, I’ve been very inspired, very hungry and very excited about music again. Almost more than I have been in my entire life. I recently hired a good friend to handle booking and some management duties and it’s been fantastic to get a bit of weight off my shoulders. It feels great to focus on writing again. If some major things haven’t happened by the end of this year, assume that something terrible happened.

.45 Sweetheart is sounding dope. There’s a possibility of another mix tape to follow it this year.

Promising to blog more,
-w

The Pharcyde is the reason that I started making Hip Hop music.

I came to this conclusion during an interview I did recently.
When asked about why I started rapping, instead of giving the usual ambiguous answer, I sat down and thought about it. I visited plenty of warm, choppy memories where I was a 14 year old listening to various albums and pressing rewind to learn the words. Back when I was saving money to buy select titles from a list of “classic records” I had taken from a magazine. When I would play “License To Ill” repeatedly while lounging around with friends. But, I still remember the CD-R copy of “Bizare Ride II” that I had gotten from someone back when burning CDs took about 25 minutes. I played the album for almost 2 years straight, until I lost it.

I couldn’t really figure out what it was about The Pharcyde that got to me, until just recently.

It was the first time I had ever heard self-deprecation in a rap song. It was the first time I ever heard rappers sound unsure about themselves and it was instantly appealing. I was an awkward teenager and The Pharcyde not only made uncertainty sound dope, they made me feel like I could have something to say as an emcee, if I chose to go down that path. It wasn’t all self deprecation however, it was the perfect blend of braggadocio, narrative and honesty that made The Pharcyde amazing.

They’ll be reuniting for Rock The Bells this year and I’ve never been more excited about a music festival.
I’ll stand around in shin-deep mud with a bunch of shit-talking, drunk fucks if it means that I get to sing “Now in my younger days I used to sport a shag…” with a group that inspired the last 8 years of my life.

Seu Jorge -Zé do Caroço

Sometime around 2005, in the depths of a clinical depression, I discovered Bossa Nova.

The music I had been listening to, the music that inspired and touched me was far too dark for that period of time. Why would I bother wallowing in the sadness of others when I could barely get myself together and out the door? Conor Oberst works when your girlfriend leaves you, but not when you’re questioning your very existence. At least, not for me.

I had discovered Joao Gilberto around this time. The soft, nylon guitar rhythms coupled with whispered vocals in a language I couldn’t begin to comprehend eased me to sleep at night. The upbeat sambas of Maria Crueza and Sergio Mendes were getting repeat play on my turntable. It was pretty much the only thing I was listening to for close to eight months. I wouldn’t be overstating if I said I owed my life to it.

Brasil became a utopia in my mind. A place I would need to visit before I die, if only to pay my respects to a country that brightened my days with it’s music and attitude. Of course, as I learned more about the history of Brasil, I learned that it was anything BUT a paradise, for the most part. Normally, this would be the type of information that would shatter my naive perspective, but instead, my love for it grew. Political disputes, poverty and violence–and this is the music they were making? People of different classes and races living next to one another in favelas, with nothing but good intentions for one another, even though they hate the conditions of their country. Brasil signified “hope”.

Bossa Nova inspired me to get a guitar and learn to play. It inspired me to buy a cavaquinho, (a Portuguese/Brazilian ukulele) which just came in the mail today. More importantly, it pulled me out of one of the worst times of my life and made me feel like everything was going to be okay. You can’t ask for more than that.

I lost control of my sleeping schedule almost immediately after high school.

The allure of staying awake into the wee hours of the evening, writing, polishing pieces of music I was working on, or simply reading was overbearing. No longer would I have to wake up at 6 AM, crawl into my school clothes and walk myself to the miserable, sun bleached curb that the Pennsbury School District designated a bus stop. I was free to roam all hours of the night, doing things that I cared about.

At twenty three, my love affair with the night has been reduced to a casual respect. The passion has been diminished to a flicker and lately, I’ve been missing the hour where the sun decides to pull itself over the horizon and warm the day. I’ve seen it more than a few times in the last years, but it’s normally right when the Girls Gone Wild commercials give way to morning news programs and remind me that it’s probably a good idea lay down. I miss being on the same schedule as the sun.

In efforts to break myself away from this habit, I’ve cut caffeine out of my diet. A vice that had a far stronger grip than I would have expected. Not sure why it was so shocking, considering I’ve been drinking coffee since I turned eighteen. Every morning until lunch time. Still, the withdrawal was beyond anything that I could have imagined and was next to unbearable when coupled with weening myself off of anti-depressants.

These days, I feel more tired than before. But, there’s also a feeling that I can only describe as “natural”. Not in an earthen, hippyish way, but more in the sense that I feel that anything my body shoots at me should be considered a thing of comfort–a reminder that I’m still alive.

I still don’t wake up in the morning. I open my eyes every day to the yellow LCD display of my cable box, insulting me in the form of hours generally reserved for eating sandwiches. I check my cell phone to verify that I did, in fact, miss all three alarms I had set for myself…again.

Yet, I’m really looking forward to those senior citizen years. Where the sun is common place and feels more like an old friend than “The One That Got Away”. Granted, I’ll probably be prunish, with bad tattoos and the permanent musk of Milwaukee’s Best on my clothing, but at least I’ll know what daytime TV is like.

I’ve been a bit scarce on updates lately, primarily because life has taken a toll on any time I would normally dedicate to things I enjoy. February has been quite the month. I’ll summarize.

1. I had to file a restraining order. Long story.
2. Missed the planned release date of “.45 Sweetheart”. (Various reasons. However, it’s now slated for immediate online release in the end of Feb./early March.)
3.  Have been writing quite a bit, but discovered the that the kindling for the words stems from public interactions, in other words, getting out of the house more often.
4. Plotting course of action for the rest of the year.
5. Attempting to salvage lost friendships and begin new ones.
6. Reading. I only seem to read books in the BEGINNING of the year, every other year. However, I polish off about 4-5 books a month in that time. It began as sleep-aid, but has since become the reason I get very little of it.
7. Instruments. I’ve been dedicating large amounts of time to polishing my skills on the instruments I have handy, as well as purchasing new ones.

Ostensibly, I should be able to juggle these and still meet the deadlines I’ve set for myself, but I seem to have left my multi-tasking ability back in high school. Not that I particularly miss that period of my life. Maybe a little.

I said “until when”, she said “forever”
I hope by then that I’ll be old enough to know better
I tip toed on a pretty little land mine and
Read the body language that she wrote between her tan lines
But now we find our better judgment at the whim
of the fingers writing cursive on the surface of our skin
It’s like they’re fumbling to unbutton the buttons
But there’s something in my stomach that resembles reluctance
Because the moment that our tongues begin to speak French
I feel more like a ghost in another lover’s feet prints
I need a defense
In case she repents
Under the pretense that we should probably be friends
There’s flowers in a wine bottle on her vanity
and a wooden crucifix that hangs above her bed
She was asleep, I was looking for an exit
Cause I know she doesn’t love me and I wish we never met

She was a forty five caliber sweetheart tucked under my chin line
And when the casings hit the pavement it reminded me of wind chimes
It was a thin line, a perforated edge
It should have torn apart the moment that we laid in bed
Head on my chest, like she’s following a metronome
She was a poem, like a painting, like a lilac
And when she blinked, I think the universe stopped
As she traced a constellation through my freckles with an eyelash
But, it ain’t affection.
She called it foreplay.
It wasn’t making love either, it was portrayed
with words in poor taste, the kind that strike deep
Designed to redefine beautiful as quite cheap
There was a bright street light leaking through her window
And when the wind blows, it stutters like its tongue tied
But so was I
We were strangers in the morning
So when I said “until when” she should have said “the sunrise”

1. Television Shows In The Format of “I Love The 80s” Where They Feature Celebrity Comments Between Random Clips of Video

I must admit that when I first saw a show that used this format, I thoroughly enjoyed it…until, you know, every station with an open slot in their programming decided to come up with some variation of it.

E! Is the biggest offender.
They offer “Wildest Cop Show Moments”, which is essentially a “wildest moments” of a “wildest moments” show with a cast of D List celebrities and comedians at the helm. They even have a “Wildest Court Room Moments” show, which trumps the aforementioned show in inanity, simply for being based on a day time TV genre that isn’t even fleshed out enough to warrant a “Wildest Moment” program. They even dug into some show called “Sex Court” which apparently aired on Playboy TV for this one.

2. Fusing Names Together, In Efforts To Make Discussion Of Celebrity Relationships Easier.

Portmanteaus shouldn’t be used like this. Anyone with a journalism degree that uses these terms without a tongue firmly planted in their cheek should consider an occupation that isn’t based around difficult things like words. Also, if you’re discussing the love lives of people on TV so often that you need to use short hand, it’s time to take a look at your own.

3. “Going Green.”

Corporations masquerading as “ecosexuals” with minimalist advertisements and shitty library IDM get tired really quick. You don’t deserve a pat on the back because some kid you hired fresh out of college suggested that you NOT use the skin of newborn babies to reupholster the board meeting chairs. Medals will not be given because you’ve halted the production of products that are responsible for coastal cities becoming fucking Atlantis in the next century.

However, this sort of flamboyant charity leads me to…

4. Awareness Ribbons and Bracelets

So you donated some money to a worthy cause?
Good job. For a split second, you almost looked like an altruistic human being in a world that needs MANY more of them. But wait…what’s that?
What’s that ribbon sticker on the back of your mini-van? What’s that on your wrist?
Why the hell does the Marriott have their own wristband?

If for some reason, you live in a utopia where these trends are unfamiliar to you, awareness ribbons are nothing new, but have become increasingly more common since 9/11 and the Iraq Invasion. The bracelets gained enormous popularity in 2004 with the silicone Livestrong bracelet for the Lance Armstrong Foundation, which oddly enough, was designed by the globally renowned humanitarians at Nike. They now come in various colors, each representative of a particular cause or event.

It’s now 2008 and I’d be hard pressed to get through a day without seeing multi-colored bracelets adorning the wrists of suburbanites who finance their overpriced homes by wasting themselves at corporations. Even worse are the intentions of the “NEVER FORGET”s, who want everyone on the way to the soccer game to know that they “Support The Troops” and haven’t forgotten the Virginia Tech Massacre.

I would never criticize genuine compassion.
In addition, I’m perfectly fine with cancer research foundations in dire need of funds exploiting the Lemming mentality of American fashion. But, I question the motives of someone who feels the need to advertise their charitable nature and sympathy for disasters. The former is tacky and the latter should be so obvious that it shouldn’t need mention.

I assure you, dedicating actual time or money to a cause feels much better than buying a bracelet at 7-11.  And even though most will never know about it,  you’ll go to bed a better person. Also, you’ll run less of a risk of hospitals confusing your faux-charity fashion statement for a “Do Not Resuscitate” wristband.

Want to show up a little sooner this year?