Open Mic

RIP Megaupload

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 12:40:00 +0000

"I want to be like some terrorist, a socio-cultural terrorist. Radical and careless." _ Mehul Gohil, Farah Aideed Goes To The Gulf War

Amid all the noise surrounding SOPA and PIPA - a fresh attempt againt the current freedom enjoyed by internet users in the USA - many pundits had already predicted a worldwide detriment if the two bills were passed into law, hardly a surprise given the way that US foreign and economic policy seems to dictate that of the rest of the world, especially those of us in the Third World. Sure enough, the first casualty has faced the firing squad and its dismembered head is being displayed all over the internets, much akin to the infamous Osama slaying. Friends, Megaupload is no more!!

Yes, the Feds launched an indictment against owners and managers of the file-sharing site that we have come to use and love so much on various charges of copyright infringement that goes into the hundreds of millions of dollars. In addition, access to millions of links to files hosted by Megaupload is now impossible since it has been completely shut down. Of course, the pain and loss is being felt not only by American users but nearly the entire internet universe, including my very own virtual front door. I happened to use Megaupload exclusively to up my Mixcloud-hosted mixes along with other miscellaneous .rar files for private distribution. I now have to deal with re-upping around 5GB of files with the obvious time and money implications (this is Kenya, high-speed net at affordable prices are still something of a pipe dream, you know).

This murderous event is perhaps a foreshadow of the events to come if at all SOPA and PIPA are passed by the US legislative system. Perhaps a complete shut-down of other common file sharing sites: Rapidshare, Fileserve, Zshare or the increasingly popular late comer, Hulkshare? It could spell the end of YouTube, Vimeo and perhaps even the transformation of Facebook and Twitter to such levels of redundancy that the Chinese internet space is already used to.

Besides, the war on internet based piracy could present an interesting backlash against the spirit of American foreign policy. In Africa and other parts of the Third World, this war may rejuvenate traditional forms of piracy - physical bootlegging of CDs, DVDs, books etc - run by organised criminal enterprises, enterprises that have been proven to have links to terrorism, especially targeting America as opposed to the second degree bootlegging stemming from internet piracy itself (eg. that 50 bob movie guy you normally go to).

To some extent I have always considered Direct and P2P file-sharing a gift to the Third World, something like international donor funding only of the intellectual property kind. I mean, the way things are just do not support anything else!! Distribution of movies, books, films etc etc to Africa (and Kenya in particular) is currently pretty shitty as opposed to the vinyl 70s and 80s for example. physical distribution is expensive while internet-based distribution models such as iTunes requires retailers to own credit cards, while a majority of the population remains unbanked. Before the creators and distributors of intellectual property look for more innovative ways of marketing and selling their commodities to Africa (such as partnering with mobile money transfer systems such as M-Pesa) I do not see how the current status quo will fail to subsist.

Fancy Recollections

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 15:09:00 +0000

Hallo 2012!!!

A chaotic, somewhat rusty collection of latecomers and leftovers from 2011 and earlier, along with some other timeless tracks. Highlights: Stuff from Camp Mulla's much anticipated debut alb, including the new single Fresh All Day// a bunch of nice blends with Drake, Notorious BIG and 6TreG lending some sweet vocals to some of the track // New stuff from Meek Mill and from Common's late December release Dreamer/Believer // Chino XL, Erykah Badu and Michael Jackson dropping some timeless verses// etc etc.

S/O to Samantha "Ying" Magutu for gracing the cover art.

Download HERE

The First Grader: A Review (Kind Of...)

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 14:09:00 +0000

'I know, I know, The First Grader came out late last year and has graced the local box office since around July(?)... I managed to get my hands on it only last week (for shame!!!), but it's never too late to watch a film whose major premise screams IT'S NEVER TOO LATE, is it?

Directed by Brit Justin Chadwick and written by South African Ann Peacock (known for writing the gem that is the film adaptation of A Lesson Before Dying and Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe), the film is based on the story of Kimani Ng'ang'a Maruge, the now famously deceased octogenarian who pursued his right to free primary education that had been rolled out by the Kenyan government by enrolling in the first grade of Kapkenduiywo Primary School, Eldoret. This show of boldness and determination earned him a place in the Guinness World Records and a chance to address the United Nations Millennium Development Summit in New York amongst other, umm, perks - being first Standard One Student in Kenya to be Headboy, should count for something, no?. The film also attempts to add some more thematic weight to its storyline by including a sub-plot of Kimani's part in the Mau Mau uprising, the death of his wife and child and his longing to be able to read a letter of reparation written to him by the President being the motivation of his desire for education(despite him being quoted saying he went to school to learn how to read the Kikuyu Bible).

It stars Oliver Litondo as Kimani Maruge and Naomie Harris as the headteacher of Maruge's school, Jane Obinchu. Both deliver passionate and believable performances but it gets a tad bit funny listening to the almost-Kenyan-peppered-with-South-African accent Naomie Harris acquired for her role, which may be blamed on the largely South African crew used in filming. In fact, the average Kenyan viewer would find a lot of unintentionally funny things popping up - there is the obvious mis-casting of Churchill as a radio DJ/matatu conductor (he should've been cast as one of the teachers, would have created a much better comic effect) and of Vusi Kunene as Mr. Kipruto, an official in the Ministry of Education (without the accent one would expect of Mr. Kipruto). Funnier though is the déjà vu from seeing all those common faces from local shows in such a high value production - Tony Kgoroge couldn't help strike those Mother-in-Law poses every once in a while, while Melvin Alusa and Rosemary Nyambura made things all Tabasamu-esque for a second there.Perhaps the only prominent local actors/actresses I could look at without a chuckle or two were John Sibi-Okumu and Charles Ouda as the adult school's teacher.

It is hard to go wrong with a storyline such as this one that is mainly based on children and the elderly - people who can do no wrong and people looking back at all the wrongs they have committed/have been committed against them respectively. It is endearing to watch the children sing and dance, and basking in Maruge's tales of freedom fighting and watching Maruge teach one of the kids how to write the number 5. From it springs the message to the youthful majority of Kenya that it's never too late to learn from the elderly in society, especially those who experienced a good portion of both sides of 1963.They are perhaps the only ones who really know what it is we have lost and gained after independence.

The film does not shy away from exploring very sensitive topics and questions that many Kenyans and Kenyan film makers would be reluctant to discuss.The thinly veiled tribal discourse between Kipruto and Maruge as well as the entire Mau Mau sub-plot at least teases certain questions in the viewers mind such as whether the Mau Mau uprising was really a nationalist movement or a tribal reaction to the occupation of tribal land by the British (like that of the Nandi and other non-Kikuyu tribes way before 1952) catalysing Kenya's independence in the process. One also gets to ponder whether those who did not actively participate in armed independence struggle were seen as loyalists.

All in all, The Fist Grader is an indispensable reference material for anyone trying to depict the Kenyan story in film or television. It proves that Kenya is a fountain of good and intriguing stories whether based on real life or entirely fictional. In my view, if this film had a heavier Kenyan input in terms of the scripting and casting, it would have been tweaked to perfection. Perhaps, the entire film would have a totally different storyline (what with the controversies and conspiracy theories surrounding about how the government, and even Jane Obinchu herself, handled the old man as a PR vehicle). A similar storyline mirroring this one would be that of Ato Lemma Ayanu, the old Ethiopian man, brought into Kenya and paraded by folks claiming he was an ex-Mau Mau general and the PR scandal that resulted - I challenge someone to make a film on this. The film also proves that Kenya is still a great location for filming - First Grader was shot on location at Olepolos (most of y'all go there for those nyam-chom mpangos) and as a result, the cinematography is AMAZING!!!

I'd recommend any Kenyan who hasn't watched it to do so before 2012. It could just make you feel much better and more patriotic than those Brand Kenya ads...

7.5/10

Saturday

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 14:24:00 +0000

A feel-good set to usher in the favorite day of the week (which is everyday, now that we are on holiday mode). Best served at 2358 hrs of any given Friday - two minutes to warm up, 58 minutes to dance it out and two minutes to cool down, LOL. Lots of house, dance, and African sounds for the holiday season. Check the playlist for details.

Download HERE..

She Doesnt Mind Teardrops + Waterfalls

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 17:14:00 +0000

Uniting dancehall and electro-rock with this simple mash from those popular Sean Paul and Coldplay songs... Soundcloud has copyright issues with it, but there's an alternative preview thingy down there...

Downloadable HERE.

Deeply Rooted - Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 15:00:00 +0000

So The Roots released their 13th studio album, Undun yesterday and don’t seem like they are ever going to stop doing what they do since when I was born (1980-something, yeah... ahem…) Being the die-hard Roots fan I am, I thought it would be a good idea to make a brief summary of their extraordinary work through those 13 albums...

Since the material is just A LOT, I’m going to do this in two parts - I present the first part today. The set (that is in somewhat chronological order of the albums from Organix down to Undun with a few albums left out for the next part) starts with an energetic section followed by an intermission through their live performance of Essaywhuman!!!!, then mellow it down a bit and finally conclude with Ursula Rucker’s spoken word piece The Adventures in Wonderland off their Illadelph Halflife album… Enjoy…

Download HERE

Monday

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 14:06:00 +0000

Completely laid back compilation for the worst workday, barely enough to reminisce over the weekend with but just enough to get you through the next four days. Highlights include: Stuff from Drake’s new album Take Care // Gil Scott-Heron and Isaac Hayes deliver some trademark bass from their respective voiceboxes (may they both R.I.P.) // Immortal Technique’s seven minute Occupy- type speech off the Matyr mixtape, not forgetting Lupe on Words I Never Said // Delighful mashups from the (500) Days of Weezy project and Southerngold (Southern rappers going hard on beats from Santigold’s debut album) // Some classic hip hop from Shyne with Bad Boys

DOWNLOAD HERE

Double Tragedy: Free-to-Air Broadcasting and the CCK Draft Broadcast Regulations

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 17:13:00 +0000

I was watching KTN's Str8Up Live earlier today as DJ Kaytrixx and the other guy from Changing Times were going through their music video selections. In that conversation, it was intimated that the music video to J.Cole's single, Cant Get Enough could not get airplay because apparently there are ladies in bikinis in the said video and that would not please them "bosses upstairs.."! Also, everyone recalls the irritating silencing of tribe names on Churchill Live last season. NTV has taken this up a notch to censor out nearly entire sentences from ALL their shows and blocking out cleavages on their soap operas, including the ones deep in the night, well, except for TCM. Lately, KTN and other stations seem to be trying to catch up. This has left me wondering what the broadcast policy in Kenya is at the moment, because there has been a sudden upsurge of excessive censoring on television that is not based on any sound rationale at all.

Digging around led me to a 25-page document authored by the CCK called The Kenya Broadcasting Code of Practice for Free-To-Air Radio and Television. According to CCK the document is part of a bunch of regulations that are still under consultation, but from the conduct of TV stations (the morning radio filth aside), it seems like broadcasters have to comply with some of the rules already. Here are some of the highlights relevant to this post:

Family Viewing Policy: All programmes broadcast between 5AM and 10PM should be suitable for family audiences as per the specification of the Kenya Film Censorship Board.
Parental Guidance: Programmes rated PG by the Board must be aired after 10PM. All trailers and promotional material shown before the watershed time must comply with the family progamme policy.
Individual Rights: unwarranted intrusion into an individual personal matters that have no bearing on public interest should be avoided.
Vulgar Sex, Obscenity and Pornography: Explicit depiction of sexual arts, sexual perversions, nudity and pornography are prohibited.Offensive, obscene, blasphemous, profane and vulgar double meaning words and phrases are prohibited, even if only understood by the segment of the audience.

These regulations really do sound good on paper, but the moment you turn on your television screen, the double facepalms start immediately. Firstly who approves the rating system that our broadcasters use? Most of them are just totally shambolic with NTV taking the cake on this front: they are all over the place with ratings that seem guessed if not randomly picked. And they are many! Mara PG, mara GE mara U-10, mara U-13, mara U-16, mara U-18... Children's films or PG end up receiving U-18 ratings severally on Saturday nights. Cant there be a single system used across the board with the four basic guides/restrictions that is GE, PG, U-10 and U-18?

In addition, a censorship/broadcast regulation policy must be alive to the socio-cultural dynamics that prevail in the community they seek to censor. With the politically charged history of this country, I laud the strict rules against incitement on political or ethnic grounds. However the regulators had no idea how far incitement extends when they censored the ethnic jokes on Churchill Live much to the chagrin of the public, who firstly have a peculiar endearment to that show to take everything said in its duration with a light touch.

The regulators must also be wary not to cross the into the blurry borderline between law and morality. I know a lot of these guidelines are geared towards protection of kids from all that they perceive is filthy and immoral. Have those folks on the Censorship/Classification Board checked on what their kids have been up to lately, outside in the estates, with other "innocent" children while they are at work? This video below clearly illustrates the state of mind of the modern Kenyan child:

And when they return from work, what do they do in terms of "parental guidance"? Very few parents even know what that entails. While these regulators are at work (prolly watching a few steamy movies then counting the number of "fucks, shits, and hells" used), the kids return home to the house-helps who are fixated on the soap operas that are on all TV stations virtually all day and night. The kids absorb these with relish and voila, push comes to shove and sexual debuts go lower than the shocking 12 years of age. Besides, all sorts of adult-oriented shows and films are on DVD sale virtually everywhere for only 50 bob and for all to buy, kids included.

The net result is a paranoid system that is hell-bent on protecting children who need to be protected from themselves and hardly the TV screen. It holds adult audiences ransom and subjects them to substandard mind-numbing shows that are made worse by censoring out words that are extremely commonplace even past the so-called watershed hours. The other insulting excuse for blatant censorship is that those who want adult-themed shows had better, go and acquire pay-TV. This is a direct contradiction to the preamble of these regulations that envision fair, representative broadcasting to all even those who CANNOT AFFORD pay-TV!!!

Local content producers are also severely restrained when it comes to the sort of productions they can come up with, so that they do not get thrown off prime-time slots. Resultantly, many of these shows do not gain the viewership they deserve as they cannot make shows that are truly reflective of the Kenyan culture and deal with issues such as sex, homosexuality and violence, issues that really touch on public interest...

I think the broadcasters have a greater part to play in this. Fine, if there's a 5AM-10PM restriction, why not devote some time to adult-themed shows, instead of repeating those pathetic soap operas all the time? No wonder majority of the people above 18yrs of age hardly watch TV after 9PM news...

I wonder what happened to the days when KTN had Sopranos and NTV had The Wire after 11PM? What happened to the days of The Shield and Arrested Development on prime time slots? Its all very very, sad.

Let me not even get started with the irony that is morning radio shows... CCK indeed live in a bubble, and NTV live in the soapy water. Very pathetic indeed.

Temperature Rising

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 16:38:00 +0000

A few new, a few old tunes with lots of bass as the weekend approaches... notable mention: Brenmar's tune Temperature Rising at the end of this set has a hilarious video, check it out HERE..

As usual, if you feel this, you can download it HERE..

The Art of Self-Disgust

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 19:50:00 +0000

“Disgust is cheap. I asked for self-disgust…” _ Wole Soyinka (Madmen and Specialists)

They were on their fifth round of drinks, or was it the sixth? Keeping count didn’t matter anyway… what mattered then is that everyone was feeling a whole lot better and cockier.

“Hey, hey, I got another one, wanna hear it?” he asked.

“I hope its not another one of those Knock Knock jokes”, she took another sip from her wine glass.

A playful smile formed on his face, followed closely by a doubtful frown.

“Ah, never mind, should keep that one stuck in my head…”

“What? I can take dirty jokes too you know.”

“Its not dirty, just that - ”

“That what?”

“Hmm… nothing… Just not the type of jokes I want to be sharing with you… you know…”

Curiosity killed the cat, huh? Well, this was one hell of a cat and it was killing her. They had been drinking buddies a long time and somehow in the course of this ka-relationship she had somehow formed the impression that there was nothing he or the other guys in the crew could keep from her, especially under the influence. From drunk dials, to gory tales of sexual conquest to endless banter about the premier league, she always had talk time reserved for her in those discussions. It made her feel special; it made her secretly feel masculine – like she was one of them. There was no way she would let this one slip.

Three drinks later, he couldn’t take the pestering any longer. It wasn’t a big deal anyway. Once he started, it was like he had completely lost control of his tongue and there was no way he was going to stop any time soon. At some point he was even slurring and foaming at the mouth like those Uhuru park preachers.

“You know, you know, you know all my female friends on FB seem to be getting paged of late. My friends list is like a preggers mugshot. Shit violent…”

“Hahahaha… wait … ahahahaha. Oh my gosh…”

“That shit’s in fashion you know… they – they try- they trying to give ‘fashionably late’ a whole new meaning!”

“Oh my gosh, meanie…”

“What? It’s a beautiful thing…fuck yeah, it is!!!”

And he went on and on and on. Some of the most original pregnant jokes of the century came out of that inebriated mouth. Pity, the days of having slaves following you around writing down every word that came out of your mouth a la Cesarian Rome were over and done. She must have squealed “Oh my gosh” a hundred times in between spilling her drink, choking herself and clutching at her poor ribs from the laughter. He only stopped much later, when the pressure on his bladder started sending saner nerve impulses to his brain.

“Oh my gosh, you are an ugly soul… UGLY!!! I hate you!!”

“What? I told you they were unsuitable… that’s what you get for wanting to read people’s minds…”

“No. I mean, gosh… what is wrong with you??? That's no excuse, don't I look like a woman to you?”

"What? So now you wanna throw a bra at me?"

"No, I'd like to shove a couple of my eggs down that sorry cock of yours right down to your balls, fancy having twin babies dangling on your ball sac, you ugly soul! What do you know about what it feels like to be a woman?"

"No, i have no idea, but women have never been men a single day of their lives and they are always talking about what a real man is and what a real man is not..."

"Fuck you, smart ass..."

“Ah, no, fuck you! And what is wrong with you? If I’m not wrong, you were the one who almost pissed herself laughing, no? Speaking of piss, I gotta take one myself. Now, if you will excuse me…”

He got up and hurried towards the gents. Halfway there he walked back to her.

“You must admit, it was one funny outburst, huh?”

She paused to reflect and smiled, “Yeah, it was…”

“Woman, you are an ugly soul, damnit… UGLY!!!”

“Yeah, I guess I am…”

"That is why, I love you so..."

"Awwww... Puhleease, spare me the flattery, son..."

* * *

Society is a complex network even in its most basic form. The concept of the social network presents even more complex challenges for us. Its dynamics are like a piece of modern art. It is beautifully ugly – so ugly, you simply cannot take your eyes off the goddamn thing. It is beautiful in the ugliest ways, ways that could bring tears to your eyes. You are placed in a rare position as both the artist and consumer of the art. Appreciation and disgust come hand in hand, and in real time too. In pursuit of perfecting this art, part of what make us human will have to occupy second fiddle including the universal notions of common sense and human dignity themselves. That is how it is, no more no less. The more you realise that your work is a mere pixel in the whole damn painting, the less you would want to interpret it. Come to think of it, and in as much as I hate to admit it, this virtual world reveals more about ourselves than face to face without the ‘book’ ever will…

In this world, there is no defence known as “fun”, “its never that serious” or “X started it”…

In this world, there is no way you are not just as fucked up as the next person…

In this world, there is no room for disgust, only self-disgust...

House in the Jungle

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Thu, 20 Oct 2011 16:15:00 +0000

A set of two halves, each with its own unique remix of Kanye West’s Power. First, mainly some local, African and Kwaito House featuring: Stella Mwangi, Makadem and Nickstyles’ Bonoko (remix) – pity this tune hasn’t made it past Kenyan audiences // DJ Cleo, In-cha, Professor and Speedy reppin’ for msanzi // D’Banj’s controversial club banger, Oliver Twist// etc etc.

The second half mainly contains jungle-inspired, DnB-inspired and such high-tempo stuff including: Two of the most hated on songs in the Kenyan twitverse, Bamzigi’s Bachette and Muthoni DQ’s Welcome To The Disco // A cool Just A Band collabo with Juliani off their “82” album // Loefah and The Prototypes reppin’ from beyond the motherland.

Last one of this month and prolly the next one too. See y’all in December.

As usual, you can download this HERE

Nicole's Room

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Sun, 16 Oct 2011 19:22:00 +0000

Okay, okay, okay... I was half inspired by Liv's take of Drake's tune, Marvin's Room - she's calling it Marvin's SQ - and the vulgar audacity of the Nicole-Muturi phone conversation that has been doing the rounds on this here internets all week. So here's something like a mashup with Jojo and Swahili Nation providing extra vocals. I must warn this stuff is NSFW unless you rock earphones or something. Yeah, lets have a good week then.

The art:

The music:

Madly Normal... Normally Mad...

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Mon, 10 Oct 2011 21:30:00 +0000

What I find most beautiful about the concept of beauty is that it is yet to be patented. No one can claim full intellectual property rights over it and the continues to be a cacophony of conflicting theories and tall tales from both academic and non-academic quarters regarding the supposed inventor; be it Darwin or the owners of capital, or ad agencies or even that one twisted chap who started lusting after a motherly news anchor and spread his gospel across social networks. The fact remains that no one has had the guts to come forward and claim creator rights to it. Therefore, in the meantime, it ideally remains held in common trust(but not necessarily pro rata) by every individual and adapted in the same way - individually.

This will apply more or less to the beauty of all things, and most especially, the beauty of the mind. Our every interpretation of the workings of each other's mind, our appreciation of the thought processes involved is a single unique process that cannot be replicated by another human being. However, the sense of community obviously overpowers that of individuality and thus walls, ceilings and floors must be built to box in the extents of how we interact with our own thought processes as well as that of others. This works well for the most of us but others are herded in to the "crazy" corner, or as the politically correct would put it, these are the folks we call "the mentally disabled". Folks many times shunned, many times mistreated, many times misunderstood, many times hard to understand and many times a source of horror and disgust. They are not the same, they aren't Martians either.

In as much as this group seems to be so different from the rest of us, we quickly forget that no two human beings are the same. No one stops to think that this individuality, this sense of personality and character could just be an individual measure in the Protractor of Madness. Viewed through this lens, "normal" becomes an abnormal word to use for what we do and who we are. The fact that we like a particular colour, that we hate certain types of food, that we may or may not be hopeless romantics, that we are Justin Bieber fans, that we are Jay-Z fans,that some of us laugh even when nothings funny, that some of us cry with joy, that we scream when we are angry, that we are attracted to tall boys or short girls - all these normal things suddenly start to come out as peculiar! Yes, an accepted from of peculiarity...

Perhaps if we were more inclined to this type of thinking, persons with mental disabilities would not really be perceived as a minority group.Maybe more of us would be willing to seek help from psychiatrists when things are going haywire.Maybe then, many of us would not be so afraid to discover oursleves and embrace anything negative about ourselves. Maybe it would be easier to interact with them and give them a less strained form of relationship and interaction, I don't know. What i submit to you today, however, is that "Normal" is a mental disability too, one that does not apparently require immediate treatment.

Yesaterday was World Mental Health Day. I marked it by remembering (nothing more, nothing less) yes, remembering the words of my mother when she warned me never to take marijuana or the cranial nuts would fall loose:

"You have weak nerves in your genes, if you want to go absolutely mad, smoke that stuff. I'm not joking by the way!"

Some expert of mental health also came to KTN Studios in the morning and said something I found really interesting (of course I am quoting him out of context to make my own humourous aka malicious point):

"The first way a person with mental illness can heal is suicide..."

Anyway, anyway ... you too can reflect upon the state of mental health around the world today by getting your hands on these two amazing movies on the subject as recommended by me ( ALAS, this was the whole point of this blog post, everything else up there is a filler lol!!):

Mary And Max

One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest

Improvs

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Fri, 07 Oct 2011 11:53:00 +0000

My first and second-last mix of this month (I’m set to be very, very,VERY busy with major exams till the end of November - your best wishes are welcome too!!). Well, its basically an improv set across a bunch of genres in a touch and go way, not knowing where each next track would lead me. Some of the highlights: More Kenyan talent showcased via some nu-soul by Fena Gitu and a chilled out Camp Mulla // New tracks from Ms. Dynamite (take a listen to the original single though) and Young Jeezy // Moody sounds from Pine Marten, Frank Ocean and Bon Iver // etc. etc.

As usual, you can download the set HERE

Enjoy...

An Apple A Day, Not Today...

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 01:00:00 +0000

"Shit," he said, "everything shits until it dies." _ Charles Bukowski, 'Less Delicate Than The Locust'

I am terribly paranoid about the whole concept of old age. Its like having nothing else to drink all day except that neglected, already-opened packet of juice that stayed forgotten in the fridge for the better part of a year. Something that everyone says is essentially good for you (Vitamin C, lovely white hair, wisdom, retirement benefits etc etc) as opposed to the alternative unhealthy excesses (of fatty foods, alcohol, drugs and basically youth) without a detailed description of how whatever it is we are forced to take actually tastes like.

And now as the average human mortality age gradually lowers, older folks, you know, the 60-to-infinty year old demographic starts to stand out as an endangered sub-species... as the ones who are left look less and less their age thanks to advancements in medicine and technology, we may soon forget what it means to be old. We will however not forget what it sounds like to be old, as the old will always have the loudest lamentations when another one of their kind passes on. Loudly voicing their doubts whether the ones that are left behind will even bother filling the out of fashion shoes of the deceased. Whether we who are left behind will finally be able to focus on problems outside our own selves, manage to even have a plan for the next day and ACTUALLY DO SOMETHING...

And they will cocoon among themselves, group together, and repeat among themselves stories of greatness that we have never heard of because we are too busy trying to #FreeThisRapper #FreeThatDJ and that kind of thing. And then they will occasionally bark the random adage or parable to those playing out in the yard. And the boredom of it all will even kill a bunch of them for the sake of a change of activity!!

Hmm, that shit is scary as hell, full-stop...

***

So, Apple Inc. have just announced Steve Jobs' demise after and amazing career that brought us iPods and every i-Thing we can think of. Wangari Maathai, our very own Nobel Laureate, activist, environmental champion and perhaps our best prototype of positive feminism is set to be cremated soon. Here goes a cheesy tribute:

Its an adage: An apple a day, or so they say
But what becomes of the apple trees on that day
The gardener's away and won't ever return again
Another adage: Where there's trees, there's rain
An apple a day, but not today, not today
A torrent of rain, but never again, never again

Goodnight/Goodmorning...

The Strange

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Fri, 23 Sep 2011 13:25:00 +0000

Some good old smooth hip hop tracks and instrumentals that rarely get mainstream airplay, including: // Priceless gems from femcees Nitty Scott, the massively talented Akua Naru, Makeba Mooncycle and Apani B (not forgetting Erykah Badu somewhere in there) // MF Doom's Metal Face persona proving just as good making dope beats as behind the mic on Sumac Berries and Dead Bent// Some old classics from Guru's Jazzmatazz, Xzibit's 1996 LP, At The Speed Of Life and the first Blackroc compilation ( I hear Blackroc 2.0 is coming out soon)

Enjoy...

Download the set HERE

Egg Shells & Ash Trays, Lionesses & Fountain Pens

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Tue, 06 Sep 2011 08:10:00 +0000

I stayed up all of last Saturday night and most of Sunday morning, mostly in an upright sitting position, staring into a Word document that was completely blank save for the blinking cursor. About nine and a half hours, it was. I just could shake off the nagging feeling that I had to write something that very moment or else it would completely disappear if I decided to sleep on it. The cursor just kept blinking back at me at that very same position for nine and half hours, yet my subconscious was insisting I there was SOMETHING I had to write. I watched my twitter timeline as #EarthDance quickly transformed into #MudDance and watched @magaribina cross over form Nairobi to Kisumu and into the comfort of her bed after a last minute scare at around 5.13 AM, followed @warsan_shire because she’d posted an MF DOOM song on her tumblr (where was she all these years I’ve been asking to marry any girl who listens to DOOM?) and so on and so forth ad nauseum. Still, nothing… It was starting to feel like one of those Stalinist torture techniques, when they’d keep you awake for hours and hours, break your will mentally till your disoriented mind assisted you to write down an amazing confession to crimes your torturers didn’t even know you committed. Nothing, nothing, nothing…

***

Sleep opens the door to The Writer. He is not alone. He has returned with that bitch, His Muse. The mutual hate is transmitted past The Writer into the two adversaries’ eyes, but the Writer is more interested in sheltering from the rain than anything else.

“My goodness, do you think it’s raining champagne, woman? How wet must we be before you let us in, or we have to freeze to death as well?” The Writer has clearly had something stronger than champagne.

“Whatever…”

The Couple From Outside carelessly nudge past Sleep, strip off their dripping coats a few steps in and stagger hand in hand straight into the bathroom. The steam from the hot showers and His Muse’s high pitched giggles escape through the almost-closed door. Sleep paces up and down the kitchen, every now and then clasping her shaking hands, quite unclear whether what she feels is anxiety or extreme anger. Every now and then, her eyes and thoughts wander simultaneously to the set of carving knives on the counter. Sleep finally musters some degree of courage, removes her slippers and tip toes to the door crack of the bathroom and watches them.

The Writer was leaning against the wall, head bowed right under the shower head, partly immersed in his own intoxicated thoughts and partly immersed in the ecstatic sensation he seemed to acquire as His Muse soaped and scrubbed his back. Sleep’s eyes find themselves wandering up and down the body of His Muse. The slightly wavy and playful hair - long enough to appeal to the hair fetish types such as the Writer, yet short enough to persuade His Opposites to make a similar concession. Her brown eyes that glowing mysteriously when placed in certain angles vis a vis the light bulb. Her breasts, not exactly an obtrusive distraction, but a satisfying sight all the same. The very small bump at the abdomen, the type that created a subliminal illusion of eternal fertility, or just one of those ‘good’ stages of the menstrual cycle, with a perfect navel tucked in there. The small spinal valley on her back leading drops of water down then up then down again, through the curvature of her buttocks and well toned legs.

“She is magnificent, isn’t she? Completely magnificent…” The words have finally found their way past Sleep’s lips, in a whispering mutter which is immediately interrupted by a chocking feeling taking over her throat. She makes her way back to the kitchen, eyes stinging furiously as if a pound of pimento were rubbed into them. She pulls out a wet glass from he organized mess that is the drying rack and wipes it for what seems like an eternity. The welling at the corners of her eyes can hold out no longer and the uncontrollable sobs and tears take over the moment she puts the glass down.

She checks herself as soon as she hears the bathroom door creaking open to let out The Couple From Outside. His Muse’s giggles disappear down the corridor and into the bedroom, followed closely by the smell of soap and shower gel. Sleep picks the glass up again. Somehow, one or two of her tears have found their way into the glass. She holds the glass up to the light and swirls the liquid inside with the keen interest of chemistry major, lowers it, looks into it again and finally drains the teardrops into her mouth with a brief swig. She takes out a packet of ciggys and smokes one, pacing up and down the small square space of the kitchen. She stops at the waste bin and opens it. From the mess she picks out one half of a cracked egg shell and places it on the counter. Every now and then, she shakes tobacco ash off the fag into the egg shell. Remnants of what was the egg yolk turn brown and then black along with the rest of the inner shell wall. A smile begins to form at the corners of Sleep’s lips.

“It is my bed too,” she finally proclaims triumphantly to herself, “it is my bed too…”

She crushes the cigarette butt into the shell and heads to the bedroom. It is going to be a very, very long night.

***

“We the reflection of our ancestors/we’d like to thank you for the building blocks you left us/ as your spirits your spirits possessed us/sure you blessed us/Thank you very much” _ Reflection Eternal

At one point in those gruesome 9.5 hours, my thoughts wandered to the recent demise of the iconic Mau Mau veteran Wambui Otieno, whose very public legal spat with the Umira Kager Clan over where her deceased husband, lawyer SM Otieno, would be buried. That case would later serve as an important historical timepiece of Kenya’s socio-cultural atmosphere in the post-colonial era all the way to the late 1980s. It was also a curious indirect contributor in shaping the political strategies and futures of many key players at the time. When my dad finally discovered I intended to study Law sometime, he quickly shoved Cohen and Odhiambo’s book about the whole saga – Burying SM, into my hands. He did it with a lot of concealed satisfaction too, something which made me really curious. It only dawned on me when I finally went through the entire book – SM Otieno’s family tree, the tribal associations in the urban areas, the sense of community at the time, the famous Gor Mahia – AFC derbies, complete with the chants and all – I had just been shoved into a time machine without realizing it. And it felt very satisfying indeed, almost experiencing life in Nairobi or Naylgunga at the shores of Lake Victoria in the 70s and 80s by the mere flick of a page. My dad had just handed me an indirect flashback to his life years before I even existed.

Then it dawned on me how well documented the post-colonial era in Kenya up to somewhere in the late 1980s was - both in written and oral form. Kenyatta had his memoir, Oginga Odinga had his memoir, local issues were well and properly covered by media, a host of local writers were getting mad circulation through The African Writers Series, local playwrights got some half hour segments on the BBC , local TV and radio invested heavily in local productions, most people in the arts and culture business had some hope of making some sort of a living as they churned out stuff that the public at least could relate to, and so on and so forth, the drift is now obvious.

Somehow a few decades later, a cataclysmic rift now separates the present young and old generation. More and more of us have no idea about a single syllable of our mother tongues. Journeys to up-country are anxious ones, as we are bound to meet strange people who call themselves our relatives. Things get worse the more we globalise, and reach out to the rest of the world and mash in internationally approved cultural and societal norms and blend them into to our own quickly fossilizing cultures. Not that we have the attention span of ants, we are quite the smart ones by the way. However, there is always that underlying feeling that old is boring. We have no idea what to talk about with them great-grandpas and great-grand relatives when we are in their vicinity – the consensus being that the polite thing to do is to give them their peace and quiet as they wait to, well, die. They probably have nothing THAT interesting to say anyway, right?

A fundamental part of the distant past only becomes relevant when revising for a History exam. It is the not so distant future that really gets us excited these days. Millions of mouse-clicks per second are directed at the refresh buttons of the various social networks that we now call home. As we do that, we turn on the radio and TV, checking out which new music or movie to download, or which new fashion regimes are trending, many times without realizing how heavily sampled these things are from the past by the so called innovators who have run out original ideas – and that is how Lady Gaga is a musical genius, that is why every girl about town has some ‘condom’ shoes on. Information today is easy to obtain in as much as it easy to distort, opinions of the masses can be shaped and skewed with the click of a button.

But then they say, change is a constant phenomenon. If you cannot adapt, just take a seat and kindly die. In a constantly changing world, the constant irrevocable threat of the future looks even more dangerous without a past to look back to. Life adopts the fashion of the fleeing dwellers of Sodom and Gomorrah – the constant threat of turning into a pillar of unrecognizable salt when daring to refer to the past. Perhaps that’s why we find it so easy to forget most things these days. Perhaps that is why it is so easy to take government scandals so lightly, perhaps this is why I fear the post-election violence of 2007 may be one of those hard-to-remember stories in the next ten years or so. By the way, it amazes me how my dad can still put my secondary school math skills to shame, it amazes me more how my grandma memorises people’s phone numbers with relative ease as well as having a clear recollection of the happenings of almost each day of her life since early childhood.

It is an unfortunate situation, resembling the current situation of the lion population in Botswana’s Okavango region. After decades of hunting of the male lion population to cater for the human need for sport or to decorate their walls with stuffed heads and manes, the population has seen an eradication of bloodlines and the important handing down of hunting skills needed for survival and eventually unsettling the delicate balance of the entire ecosystem. In the mayhem that has ensued, entire prides are wiped out altogether and strange feuds have been documented among related lionesses to the extent of killing each other’s cubs and mothers eating their own dead ones.

Here’s the thing, we can’t change the past either. We can only ponder about now. I’ve pondered to myself severally if this blog will still exist twenty or thirty years from now. If I ever have descendants, what sort of world will they inhabit – will they be gaining information by the means of the written word or will knowledge be compressed into complex animations or strange things you can buy at the supermarket and pump into your veins just like that? Will the internet still exist as today or will they live in a completely virtual alternative reality? I find myself pitying them more than I pity myself. However, I hope that they will still posses the basic abilities of perception that today’s human being possesses. I shall continue to write and document life as I see it today here and now, with the faint hope that it will disseminate across generations through the minds and genes of those who will come across what I write.

***

The Writer cannot dare share his bed with Sleep and His Muse
He fears the vivid pictures of the past he always sees in his dreams
Fears the future of the extra characters left empty in his tweets
The terrible visions of rivers of blood flowing in thick lines
Blood off the mouths of lionesses eating their sister’s cubs
The blood of the masses suddenly becoming legible words
On their bodies, impaled by the extra-sharpened tips
Of giant digital fountain pens shaped like treble clefs
He fears to hear the eerie echoes of his forefathers
Fusing well into the background music to his thoughts

***

Finally at around eight in the morning, what I’d been subconsciously thinking about hit me. It dawned on me that I have to write a book before I die. Or alternatively, write a book and then die. And then have one or two copies printed out for the sake of having a tangible, visible pile that anyone can point out to and tell someone else:

“You see that mess of paper and ink there? That’s your Dad/your Uncle/ your great-great-grand Cousin/my great-great-grand father’s employee’s annoying neighbour from the house across the street, etc etc. He was called Will Press or some nonsense of that sort…”

And then I slept, like sextuplets...

Dub Diversions

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Mon, 29 Aug 2011 18:38:00 +0000

A taste of everything from here and there with mostly a dubstep / dub reggae / hip-hop feel... Some of the highlights: Wu-Tang Clan still sounding sublime dubsteped off the Enter The Dubstep remix album // Muthoni The Drummer Queen always seems to be pushing her musical boundaries given this refresh to her hit single Mikono Kwenye Hewa // Dub reggae from Zoe and Anthony B and some tracks from the Police In Helicopter Re-Activated Riddim // New stuff from The Weeknd, Kanye West and Jay-Z, and Lil Wayne's latest LP.

As usual, if it touches you, download it HERE.

The Big Five, So Far...

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Wed, 24 Aug 2011 19:04:00 +0000

Am hardly ever tagged much around here, but I stopped by at Cloudvillian's recently and realised he'd tagged me (YAY! Thankchu Thankchu!), he'd tagged me for the one about documenting your five most differently significant blog posts, y'all know it right? So, lemme get right to it and try to give anyone new/regular to Open Mic a picture of what has been going on here since I started blogging on January 31st, 2008 - the whole country had gone to shit, I needed and outlet, etc etc - AND tag five other bloggers in the process. Here goes:

1.My Most Popular Post definitely has to be "T.G.I.F.", one of those really weird pieces about the various real and imagined places drugs and alcohol can take you, including Tom Cholmondeley cutting off your genitalia. Pretty dark, pretty witty, was literally laughing my ribs numb in bed as I typed the post using my mobile phone - what a strong thumb I have!!! Big ups to Shiko for sharing the post to all and sundry.

2.The Post That Didn't Get The Attention That It Deserved - "Rumour Update: Facebook Down, Life Up" I still think we need to stop over-attaching ourselves to social networks at the expenses of the real, physical, tangible and FREE social experience that the Good Lord gifted us. Someone once declared that a cataclysmic burst of electromagnetic energy could destroy every digital photograph on the planet hehehe. With stuff like the solar maximum coming soon, who knows? Smell a flower, today, NOW!!!

3.The Post Whose Success Surprised Me - "The Amazing Battle Rap Of Eli" - Wrote this as a by the way after stumbling upon some underground battle raps my pals and I loved to watch back in the day. That rap battle between the seemingly "challenged" Eli Porter and Envy has become one of the most legendary and classic lessons in battle rapping ever. He even got a mention in the track H.A.M. off Kanye West & Jay-Z's new Watch The Throne album. Got loads upon loads of American readers from this post. Bless...

4. My Most Controversial Post goes to "Not Tonight Baby, I'm Rolling..." a short sweet swipe at the feminist movement. Ahem...next!

5. The Post I'm Most Proud Of - "Three Funerals" - I rarely write personal stuff so explicitly, but this one really helped to get somewhere next to closure after two of those funerals.

There it is... Now I hand over the Big Five baton to these five awesome bloggers, alphabetically:

Anyiko - Black Roses

City Cat - City Cat Tales

Liv - My Brain Is In My Bra

Nyambura - Nyambura's Diary

Walalr - Scriblings Of A Rambling Dreamer

For The Love Of War & Vice Versa

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Tue, 26 Jul 2011 12:25:00 +0000

Liberating
Very liberating
Liberating, Liberating, Liberating
The sudden realization that this is not Sparta
But very different, irrational battle stadia
All of a sudden, nobody bothers to try keeping score
Victory and Defeat are merely different coloured roses
Plucked hastily and scattered on top of rotting corpses
Or at the feet of living beings to whom proposals are given
Devils and angels being manufactured in random succession
Depending on which ingredient falls off the conveyor belt
Yet still, liberation is the only thing capable of being felt
It’s a revolution, it’s an unstoppable movement
Liberation, Liberation, Liberation
Liberation of the bowels
An ordinary day in the life of a little boy at war
An ordinary day in the life of a grown woman in love

Any, Amy, Amy...

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Sun, 24 Jul 2011 09:17:00 +0000

“Sometimes that kind of blues will make you even kill one another … or do anything, that kind of love … that’s where the blues started.” _ Son House

She was in many ways the Eminem of soul and jazz. Fancy her – white, British and thinly framed – to be the one to revitalize a genre that has always been heavily rooted among African Americans. In as much she managed to sound 60-70s soul/rock ‘n’ roll, she looked nothing like your traditional soul diva. It’s easy to compare her with Aretha Franklin and perhaps Dionne Warwick vocally (despite her sometimes shocking colourful lyrics about weed, alcohol and sex), but you’d never see the long respectable evening dresses and gloves that were the standard garb of soul singers ever since. When Amy hit the stage, it was almost always in the tiniest of dresses, party cup containing some mysteriously coloured liquor in hand. Many times, the performances would get more haphazard as the party cup emptied, but that was her.

Amy at the "I Told You I Was Trouble" Concert w/ the partycup

I really liked the way she oozed out a different kind of diva in the songs she wrote – imperfect but powerfully feminine in a way that screamed for a man worth his salt to step up to the plate, and not in one of those sappy gay ways you see in soap operas, despite the weird romance she carried on with that Blake character:

“Feel like a lady, but you my lady boy,
You should be stronger than me”

Her kind of diva was flawed but balanced and in need of being complemented, unlike the entirely obnoxious ultra-feminist manifestos I hear being sang along every day by girls around the world (hint hint):

“Nobody stands in between me and my man
'Cause it's me and Mr Jones (Me and Mr Jones)
What kind of fuckery are we?
Nowadays you don't mean dick to me (dick to me)
I might let you make it up to me (make it up)
Who's playing Saturday?”

Even though her long drawn drug habits might be the possible cause of her death, it’s not the drugs that killed her. She had always been a troubled soul, struggling with her inner demons to an extent that it was amazing how she could channel this darkness into such beautiful music, kinda like the blues singers of old. She possessed the kind of blues that could kill a man or woman for that matter, and she succumbed. Considering it was her talent that probably kept her sane and at the same time managed to win almost every single award capable trying to stay sane, I think she’d done well and she’d done enough.

Her death is a slightly personal loss for me, given she was the only permanent member of my fantasy weed parties on twitter lol. It is hard to imagine that I can no longer tweet “Smoking kush with Amy Winehouse” with a straight face. She was always a living statement that it was okay to self-lacerate sometimes. Well, that’s all gone now; all that’s left is Public Service Announcements as if she’d do it differently if given the chance:

“Don't make no difference if I end up alone
I'd rather have myself a smoke my homegrown
It’s got me addicted, does more than any dick did
Yeah I can get mine and you get yours”

The Plank Dahlia

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Fri, 22 Jul 2011 20:30:00 +0000

By now, everyone short of owning a kabambe phone with GPRS and has a facebook account (at least) knows what planking is. For those residing beneath rock faces, I can describe it as the awkward act of lying down awkwardly in awkward positions on equally awkward locations, then having somebody else take pictures as visual evidence of your awkward behaviour for later presentation to those who did not witness your awkwardness via social networks. And the fad has attacked the internet like the Y2K that never was. It has earned some tweeps 100,000+ followers, just like that! Amazing, huh? Women be laying themselves down by the thousands, you’d think it prevents breast cancer. Men be kissing the streets you’d expect their penile size would have doubled once they rise (pun intended). Anyway…

As for my planking virginity, I shamefully disclose that it remains intact, because I still do not understand WHY I should plank. I’m a firm believer of asking why ever since the Enron execs begged the world to do so to deaf ears before The Most Admired Company in the World at one point went to colossal shit. I just don’t understand planking, what is all that about?

Since it is one of those mass movements that involving in someone’s body laid awkwardly somewhere, I’m tempted to compare it with mob justice. However, mob justice is a movement that ends in a number of human beings losing their lives – planking really picked up after some folks in Australia died after setting themselves up for an awkward fall thus death was but a beginning for this craze. The motivation for those who mete out mob justice (or even lynching of black people in the Deep South back in the day) is the feeling that they have contributed to the well being of society in some way or the other. Planking on the other hand, does not bring with it this sense of purpose and eventual satisfaction.

Others say planking is street art. If you ask them how, it just draws more and more blanks. I think art must also have motive, at least from the point of view of the artist him/herself even if the rest of the world ends up not understanding that motive. The motivation for planking today is usually to participate in the trending topic of the moment, one of the unspoken rules of social networks, in essence beating the fundamental logic of street art being a public show of non-conformity. Planking is a public display of conformity with the norms of the virtual society in which we spend more time in than real, physical tangible society – just another Milgram-type experiment.

The debate surrounding the origins of planking has also precipitated some very interesting points of view. Others are convinced that the roots of planking lie in the slave trade between Africa and the New World where the slaves were laid awkwardly in slave ships to enable more slaves to be ‘packed’ and sufficiently chained. To this school of thought, the act of planking (especially by African-Americans) has insulting, even racial connotations. Another school of thought trace the fad to an old European game while others insist it sprung from awkward Australians in 1997. What I have found extremely interesting is Wikipedia’s apparent inability to bring an end to this debate, further proof that wikis should never be assumed to be the final word on anything.

The most convincing argument for planking I have heard so far ends at: “It’s funny.” Yeah, funny… Even though I can laugh at almost anything, the extreme awkwardness of planking just gets me wondering and worrying more than laughing. I know social networks require a relaxed-er sense of humour but as the kind lady in the Brookside ad says, the funny cow “has refused”. I still don’t get the punchline, sorry. Planking has become our century’s Black Dahlia – a corpse abandoned awkwardly, a lot of people claiming responsibility with no obvious motive, a lot of suspects, a lot of theories and of course, a lot of media coverage. An unsolved mystery.

And there’s more where planking came from – just like the hundreds of crunk dancing styles that got people muttering under their breath “I hope the song came before the dance” - more and more awkward-position fads are coming up. Last week, I heard it was all about Owling (awkwardly perching on something like a bird) and this week, someone was all excited by something called Pumping. I was afraid to even ask what that was about.

Smooth Afrique

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Tue, 12 Jul 2011 10:58:00 +0000

A smooth, inspirational, laid back, 90% African set featuring: Sudanese Al Sarah churning out a sublime chorus in Vote off the Sudan Votes Music Hopes project that was carried out during their referendum elections - check it out HERE - congratulations to Republic of Southern Sudan, the newest African Nation!! // Nigerian singer-activist Nneka also with an election themed tune Suffri // Ugandan femcee Keko drops Miya Piny // Kenyan sensation Sauti Sol with Coming Home off their sophomore album, its got a great video as well - check it out HERE // Signature tunes from Amadou & Mariam and Asa dubbed out with a little help from The Disciples // Classic African stuff: Jonathan Butler with River of Life, Youssou N'Dour's probably best known track 7 Seconds and lastly vintage Ethio-jazz from Mahmoud Ahmed off the unmatchable compilation series Ethiopiques.

If it touches you, here's the DOWNLOAD LINK

Holela!

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Thu, 30 Jun 2011 15:10:00 +0000

A moody hip-hop/urban/afrojazz/neosoul/afrosoul compilation, with notable appearances from: Kenyan duo Kwame and Nyach delivering a haunting HIV/AIDS awareness message in their song 'Holela' (watch the delightful music video HERE), Kenyan piano maestro Aaron "Crucial Keys" Rimbui off his album Keys of Life (available HERE) AND Ukoo Fulani Mau Mau and Dead Prez coming together for the very classic and patriotic 'Red Black and Green' reppin' for Kenyan talent.

Drake and Jojo also go head to head with their versions of the very popular 'Marvin's Room'.

If it touches you, you can download this bunch HERE.

Holy Shit!

noreply@blogger.com (willpress) — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 14:40:00 +0000

Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy! The nose is holy! The tongue and cock and hand and asshole holy!
Everything is holy! everybody's holy! everywhere is holy!
everyday is in eternity! Everyman's an angel!*

Stuck in traffic heading towards the city centre, a driver and 13 others. Ignoring the pungent smell of yesterday’s and Lord Knows How Far Long Ago’s sweat still stuck beneath someone’s pits – silent declarations of how they would gladly donate their bathrooms to rid the culprit of his or her own biological possessions that he or she dares to carry around like that without shame. Rejecting similar charitable offers from the passenger next to them, palm stretched out to reveal extra candies. Pretending to ignore the endless sex rants on morning radio shows comprising a supposedly homosexual man moderating many married women - only the corners of their lips gleefully responding and involuntarily stimulated. Some boys in the back, some girls in the front. Boys talking about the girls’ backs and fronts, debating on which they could fuck, which they couldn’t fuck even with a ten foot dildo and which they could fuck if they agreed to put a napkin-face on. Girls scouring through every brick on the boys’ facebook walls and the boys’ friends and their friends’ friends, cross-referencing the dirt on the walls to the corresponding cleanliness of the respective inboxes. A first-time mother nervously breastfeeding her baby, tempted to reprimand this adolescent next to her who is struggling not to stare and failing miserably. A phone departing from its owner’s pockets into the foreign hands of a frail old man and immediately starts to ring. The old man’s fingers frantically fidgeting with the keypad in order to conceal the act of theft. A loud explosion raptures deep in the lobby of a nearby building letting forth a gush of fire, smoke and shrapnel. Shouts of “Holy Shit!” heard as if from far through stunned eardrums. Faces spewing forth blood, mental states upturned by shock. Every pair of eyes looking around desperately for any source of comfort and re-assurance, hands reaching out to one another as if their owners are teetering on the edge of a bottomless pit. Who said strangers cannot be friends?

The bum's as holy as the seraphim! the madman is holy as you my soul are holy!
The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is holy the hearers are holy the ecstasy is holy!...
holy the unknown buggered and suffering beggars holy the hideous human angels!...
Holy the jazzbands marijuana hipsters peace & junk &
drums!
Holy the solitudes of skyscrapers and pavements! Holy the
cafeterias filled with the millions! Holy the mysterious
rivers of tears under the streets!*

The bombing changed her life, took away the things she always had and gave her things she never thought she’d have. Physiotherapy couldn’t save those long, endless legs that had graced several catwalks of fashion capitals. Limp, they were. Limp as a stray dog that had just received a proper beating from a drunkard on the street annoyed that it had barked at him as if his wife doesn’t bark at him enough at home. The face that would be the first option for anyone who intended to successfully launch and ad for this cream or that gloss could now only be fit as an iconic image of a long drawn battle – battered, scarred and strapped to an inhuman metallic mask like Iraq, like Eastern Congo, like Afghanistan, like Wagalla, like Syria… The bombing had given her a war with the part of herself that still wanted to live, and she sure fought it. Friends, family and lovers were first relegated to mere spectators by her bedside but gradually reduced their visits since they could not take her awful screams of “I can see it in your eyes, you can’t fool me!!!” any more. True, their eyes were full of unuttered “Holy Shit!” gasps and the pitiful stare of one eager to perform an act on coupe de grace towards this pathetic, suffering soul. The solitude seemed to calm her down… brought life back to her fingers not to hold the eye pencil but to hold the fountain pen. She wrote on newsprint paper and enjoyed how words emerged bloated. It amazed her how musical she was, how words seemed to flow from that left hand like the blood that flowed underneath. It amazed her, when she wheeled herself outside to the porch, how the sky would cloud up and let loose showers when she had dark thoughts and shed tears of rage and misdirected pity. It amazed her how the sun would emerge from the clouds when something made her smile… It amazed her, this new universe she had never seen before. A universe of pomp and circumstance. Later that night, several motorists hardly noticed as they ran over some poor soul's body not so far away from her hospital window.

Holy time in eternity holy eternity in time holy the clocks in
space holy the fourth dimension holy the fifth
International holy the Angel in Moloch!
Holy the sea holy the desert holy the railroad holy the locomotive holy the visions holy the hallucinations holy the miracles holy the eyeball holy the abyss!
Holy forgiveness! mercy! charity! faith! Holy! Ours! bodies! suffering! magnanimity!
Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent kindness of the
soul!*

*Excerpts from ‘Footnote to Howl’ by Allen Ginsberg, 1955.