Just a different perspective on what music should be about. Anyone can make pop music the same way that anyone can take a photograph. But the best music is a story. A symphony. The same way the best photographs capture not just a picture but a moment in time. An essence. Every colour means something just as every beat does.
Listen to these and carry on reading… RA.315: Kerri Chandler
“The dancefloor is an altar.
Take worries there. Lay burdens down and get healed, offer prayers, release all cares, no airs, no pretence. We are intense with intent to flow with spirit guides. Music makes us more alive.
In this united nations we are protected from the dark. This be our Noah’s Ark as we shuffle two by two and huddle in prayer circles anointed by the beat & treble.
This is where our feet settle. Arms stretched. The affect of inspiration by the DJ.
Find a space made just for our feet where we release into this dimly lit sanctuary lights, prism and circular motion. Rhythm of the dark is our light, sweat our lotion.
Dance is revival.
Prayer among the reasons we come meditate, clap our hands, point like mountains, breath like sky, scream and shout like stars crying for recognition.
House ain’t dead.
House is religion.
I need a place where I can go, where I can let my burdens flow away. Its a place where I can pray to the music night and day. It’s my escape.
It’s my getaway.
So when your brother or sister is fixed in a rhythm, closed eyes and lifts their head to sky they’re just trying to see light more clearly. See rainbows. See sunrays that warm and clouds that bring cold. They become air.
Move to bond people together. The space between bodies is our heat. In this house we are family. We are ritual. We are bread and body, flesh and baby powder.
Baptising ourselves in sweat.
We forget to remember the innocence in this beat.
Dance when the body goes weak with sadness and the day’s madness.
We are healers. We seek the gladness of smiles so dance and stay a while.
In rhythm we all bend the same.
Catch stars & lightening. Kiss honey suckles. Breath aphrodisiacs. Just like grand high priests or Frankie Knuckles.
We return because this sanctuary holds our tradition.
House our religion.
House our religion.”
Just doin’ ma duty,
Old Bushel Britches x