REFLECTIONS
Mar. 11, 2009

Looks like I missed the 1 year anniversary of my reflections by a few days. Forgive me Cesar. But this post here is dedicated to a new incarnation. The Mifune Sound System. Just a little Hiphop happening consisting of a DJ from Japan, Mr. Kenji and myself Caz Oz. This is the kind of live musical partnership I always wanted to experience especially back in the California days but due to youth, fear, Playstation; you name the cause, nothing was ever legitimized. (Sorry Con Flo family but the truth is we never rocked a show together…even a house party would have counted!) Fortunately Mifune has begun a mass take over of the Melbourne bar scene…tackling the Work Shop on two separate occasions as well as her sister establishment, The Black Cat. A good friend of mine was kind enough to show up to one of our performances with a camera and do his Godard business so look for a video to surface some time whenever. Is it strange to perform in what can only be described as a classic Golden era Hiphop formation? DJ and MC…preordained beats with live vocals bending toward freestyle incantations and wandering blues cadences? I’ve always been highly critical of this setup over the past few years, especially when the talent and the intention of the performers didn’t quite live up to the Hype machine. Think Bruce Lee in “Enter the Dragon”, when it was Quans teaching time in the garden. Kick…Punch…back hand…throat jab…”What was that?” Bruce asked with his classic intonation. Some times the most violent Kung Fu style just lacks strong emotional content. Musical performances are no different. I don’t have special effects on stage, I don’t have people prancing in animal suits, shit I don’t even have a hype man. It’s usually just me and Kenji…a few instruments and our rendition of musical truth. But before everything is said and done I always find myself asking the questions, “Would Sun Ra dig us? Would New York dig us? Do I REALLY dig us?” Then Kenji looks over at me squints, smiles and laughs and suddenly I catch myself marveling at the moment. Two brothers from opposite sides of the world who don’t even speak the same oral language somehow bypass all the formalities of social interaction and transcend a world of obstacles to vibe on a plain of musical understanding, that phantom universal element that some of my heroes use to talk about in the past. Its clear that regardless of who digs my raps and his record motion, that this experience is my way of understanding an otherwise abstract notion, learning the context, feeling out the way this music works its voodoo into me from gut to grain. I’m fucking rapping in Australia! Let that statement get caught in electro magnetic waves and find it’s way into my radio 10 years ago, briefly interupting the steady thump of the Wake Up Show with Sway and Tech, or Space Ways with Carlos Ninios. Back when nothing mattered but the sessions with Mike T in the garage, finding a twenty to cop the latest Rawkus release and breeding Gold Chocobos. When it was all a dream.

All this reminiscing is getting me thirsty…Champagne it ain’t.

-D

Mar.6, 2008

I just wrote my first piece on Alice Coltrane but was forced to cut a great deal of the intro. I think I was just feeling the concept of conversation a little too much. Unfortunately the good readers won’t have a chance to get lost in my tangled web of wondering, but Y’all get the goods for free…Ladies and gentlemen the Everlasting intro.

Touching the Infinite

The universal Consciousness of Alice Coltrane

By Dominic Wagner

Hum. Feel the deep dwelling resonance take root and expand. Visualize the sound blossoming into a cluster of setting suns as full and as fleeting as their amorphous color; a river of light flowing into memory. Watch as it drifts slowly out of you and then back in, reaching each thread of fire toward the blessed darkness of the universe. Now release this vision but hold onto its feeling. Listen. Hear the song of the soul. This is the mantra of Alice Coltrane.

Most discussions that feature a momentary exploration of musical taste tend to follow a similar pattern. First participants cast out their likes and dislikes in order to set the tone of the exchange. They utilize these early picks to highlight particular genres, establish a chronology for periods of audio freshness and unpack the requisites for judging works and the artists responsible for them. If all goes well the enthusiasts may engage in the reenactment of some classic moments in recording history by orchestrating live atonal vocal remixes. This may be followed by the revelation of a guilty pleasure or two (Some persons may be compelled to break out a dusty 8-track copy of BB and Q’s “Genie”, or any tape bearing the mark of Kool Keith; this is the time). All of these ceremonial gestures work to establish a bond between the sound lovers by allowing them to celebrate the reality of a common ground; a testament to music’s universal nature. However the most enlightening portion of this exchange may not necessarily be the realization of shared knowledge. Most folks can discuss “Mary had a little lamb” with confidence, but forging a future to its melody is more likely to compel humanity to sit in a circle on the floor with boxes of apple juice than conjure visions of cosmic oneness. Diversity in wisdom is a welcome addition to this scenario and those with the deepest record crates have the power. When engaging with a true music junkie the moment of the catalogue comparison is inevitable. For the one who is forced to admit that they have never listened to a monumental artist (especially Alice Coltrane) the consequence is a direct visual assault with an expression that is known simply as the gas face. It is a look that one would expect to follow closely after a proclamation that was completely devoid of beauty such as, “I have never looked upon the sea or heard a child laugh”. The look is well deserved. Alice Coltrane’s music is not only reflective of endless waters and the innocence of children; it is a calling from the innermost part of our souls; the incantation of a Queen, the eternal echo of our ancestor’s voices filling the cosmos with love. It is all of these things and more.

Jan.16 2008

Jan. 3 2008

Say this is the first post of the new year. Say it has to comprise a renewed sense of vision while still embodying the fundamental qualities of Young, Gifted Blackness that made Sir. Bass and myself the Disc Journalists we’ve claimed to be for the last five years. Consider this my final promise to a friend after a dirty down night in Brooklyn. Nothing is as hard as trying to proclaim the poetic equivalent to basketball’s “it’s butter baby” with confidence, when you’re standing in the cold on New Years and your partner is holding back tears. You can literally see the lie pass through your lips, float delicately through the air and break effortlessly on his face. A small gray ghost. Hokusai’s great wave.

But I’m losing you.

The truth is the actual work has yet to match the actual ideas. But shit, the ideas are actual and that means as much today as it ever did. So my only resolution for this upcoming cycle is to do everything in my power to make the symphony of happenings in my head audible. To make our phantoms visual. And to engage that darkness which has yielded every beautiful thought imaginable.

I love you Bass…this year is dedicated to you.

Dec. 17, 2007

It may mean something to somebody. Next time I’ll put together an actual article.

The Silver Surfer

Nov. 27, 2007

http://myspacetv.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=21697061

Sept.15, 2007

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/6994995.stm

“Our Venice”

After the flooding in New Orleans I started devising a theatrical scene that would involve a conversation between two of its survivors. One of them would explain to the other in great detail the destruction he witnessed. The smell and taste of the water and the sounds of black bodies being consumed (perhaps an echo of the days when the Atlantic ocean became a tomb for so many) But it was at this point that I found myself unable to continue. I did not know these tastes and smells and sounds. I could not even push myself to imagine them. What is this dark water. Mos Def has a song on his album Black on both sides that laments the new manifestations or “man infestations” of water the life element. This new water destroyed life instead of cleansing it. Now once again a people must face the “new world water”. Our foundation is killing us. Whether it comes as a flood in New Orleans/Africa or as a Tsunami in Indonesia, that which should be most precious has become an ominous warning. I can hear the bibles, that have been kept dry and safe, opening.

Sept.14 2007

Radio Raheem, one of the most powerful representations of black masculinity in film, is a walking nightmare. He is composed of Love/ Hate finger rings and a high top fade that is more crown then hair. He is the conductor of a storm in Bed-Stuy and knows nothing of the concept silence. His music is his weapon, bearing the weight of the ghetto blaster like a cross to cascade the bomb squads rhythms off of brownstones. This is the power of radio. Why do you suppose all of the Corporate Elite own a station? Why is radio corporate at all? There was a time when people put out signals from their homes. They were able to project their own sonic landscapes into the universe. Today most of us are just receivers, walking antennas waiting for input. This is my contribution to the sea of sound.

Cazeaux O.S.L.O. and Truth Seekers Radio pt.1

Sept.11 2007

Summer has officially ended. With it goes a whole crates worth of music that never saw the light until now. This is my attempt to extend the days innocence just a little longer. These pieces are composed of live sound sessions from my band The North American. I decided to flip some of our creations, adding and subtracting soul elements.

-Cazeaux

Tomorrow Today

like I missed