One of my friends had a very short-lived music blog a few years ago, for which I wrote a few pieces. I totally forgot about it until now, when Gil Scott-Heron came on my Pandora. Here you go:

Paying Reparations on Your Soul: Gil Scott-Heron’s Legacy Yesterday and Today

There is no societal narrative for when a talented artist becomes a drug addict and lives out much of his life in this fashion.  Hence, people do not know what to do with them.  We pity them, we see them as ravaged, defeated, somehow they lost in life.  In his new work, “I’m New Here”, Heron gives a contextual identity to this person.  The poetry of his music has always dealt with a “ghetto pathos”, which he embodies emotionally and politically.  Addiction and poverty being the main themes of this pathos, much of Heron’s music in the 70’s gave gravity to the pervasiveness of these problems, as he spoke about them from a position of experience.  In his new work, this gravity seems to have morphed into a mischievous yet haunted voice of fate and redemption.  Someone who has hit bottom and lets us vicariously peek down the rabbit hole.  It is perhaps not a stretch to say that he has languished in the lifestyle he detests the most, and depending on your perspective, may give more or less gravity to past songs in which he preaches against drugs and alcohol.  It’s chilling, especially for anyone who has experienced substance abuse, psychological problems, or problems adjusting to societal expectation.

A little background for perspective:  In the 60’s, when Heron was a teenager, he was awarded a full scholarship to attend a progressive NYC prep school.  He lived with his mother in Hell’s Kitchen- the belly of much crime and poverty.  He went on to Lincoln University, the alma mater of Langston Hughes, and was a casual musician until he met a group called The Last Poets (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Last_Poets).  They made such an impression, he asked them if he could form a group similar to their own.  At this time, he also met Brian Jackson, who became his musical partner on many subsequent albums.  Heron made a name for himself in 1969 with his brilliantly satirical, The Revolution Will Not Be Televised (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Revolution_Will_Not_Be_Televised).  The cadence of his speech and the fact that he talks over music has led some to give Heron the moniker, Godfather of Rap.  A moniker which, according especially to Heron, is incorrect (see Last Poets, above).  Regardless, the poignancy of the piece was resolute in a time when the Civil Rights Movement was taking a more militant approach.  Heron crystallizes beautifully the irrelevance of white culture in all of it’s ridiculous frivolity.  It has become an anthem of sorts for the “radical movement” and is still very powerful, even though his references are somewhat dated and obscure.  He is perhaps the most celebrated and sampled artist of the hip hop world.  Recently found addicted to crack and destitute in the slums (those which are left) of Harlem, Heron has been reclaimed and given voice once more by music producer, Richard Russel.

Heron’s work as a whole deftly expresses an existential concern for his own mind, which he reflects against the poverty he’s seen around him. He has internalized the black struggle and regurgitates it for the listener in all of it’s complication and pain.  These are the blues, reconfigured, reimagined, and poignantly resonant even though the majority of his work is over 40 years old. The Bottle (on both Winter In America- his most critically acclaimed album and It’s Your World) has it’s obvious meaning, but also describes the isolation of living in a place which you created for yourself which you can never escape.  There is a great desire to escape, but the feeling that escape is perhaps impossible.  In Home Is Where The Hatred Is, Heron assumes the listener is someone who has never experienced heroin addiction, and challenges them to learn how difficult it is to simply, “kick it”.  He is viscerally self negating, in a way which humanizes him and reflects a psychological rut which is exemplary of ghetto life.  Compare these lyrics to a contemporary, Stevie Wonder, who is a sort of gilded angel, someone who cries, “Why do things have to be this way”, from a position of sympathetic detachment. Heron is empathetic, in a way which Stevie cannot be. Heron embodies impoverished existence, Stevie is more diplomatic, knowing in true Motown fashion, where his bread is buttered.  Meaning, Stevie would never suggest that the problems of the African American community might be the result of white privilege or even a self-perpetuated defeatedness, which Heron suggests throughout his work.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xtzlFO19m3k

Heron is a poet, and as a poet, he is able to tap into a collective resonance even with the simplest of sentiments.  His new song:  “I’m New Here”, echoes his original spoken word style.  It is redemptive and hopeful.  He is “new” in the sense perhaps that he is new to sobriety, new to society, feels back in the world again after so many years of jail and drug addiction.  It’s like he’s a patient waking from a coma.  He acknowledges, “no matter how far you’ve gone, you can always turn around.”  It is happy, in the video he’s smiling, he looks dead-on at the camera.  Challenging people to define him, for people to tell him he is lost or ravaged, or finished.  Scott-Heron believes that spirits control the life trajectory of humans, and are therefore a common character in his work.  In direct contrast to the hopefulness of “I’m New Here”, “Your Soul and Mine” is a dream-like descent into the bowels of Hades.  The gravity of his imagery is much heavier than before, as he now has years of experience which have fortified his voice and his ideas. There is a raspiness and an aged dusty quality which is in stark contrast to the vigorous, nuanced croon of his old work.  It’s different from his older work, but wonderful.  Just in a different way.

The best songs on the album are the ones which have minimal accompaniment.  “I’m New Here” is simple, employing a catchy acoustic guitar behind his words.  I also really like, “New York Is Killing Me”, which is Heron singing above rhythmic clapping you might hear on a playground.  In a world-weary tone he groans, “Buncha doctor’s come around, they don’t know that New York is killing me.  I need to go home and take it slow down in Jackson, Tennessee.”  That said, it is a bit disappointing that the sound surrounding his voice on the song, “Me and The Devil” and “Where Did The Night Go”, are marked by an overly precious banality.  Almost every routine hip hop sound and distortion is employed, short of Autotune.  It is clear that the perpetrators of this background fluff are great admirers, but perhaps that is the problem.  It may be a function of fanboy-itis:  When you work with a fellow artist from a position of worship rather than colleague-ship, the results are bound to reflect this imbalance.

Videos to “I’m New Here” and “Me and The Devil” are also hamfisted in their visual narration- they almost seem like a parody of what Heron is trying to say.  In “I’m New Here”, I find myself alternately fascinated by his expressions and put-off by the overly calculated way in which Heron as a subject is treated.  It is supposed to be a document of Gil in the studio, but instead comes off like an Eric Clapton video from 1992.  “Me and The Devil” is quintessentially and hipsterifically soooo “NY” in a way which perhaps on the surface gives him more of a cheesy modern feel.  Regardless, it seems more like Queer Eye for The Straight Guy coming into his home and repainting his walls to match the sofa.  If you can ignore these piddling annoyances, and focus on his voice and the poetry, “I’m New Here” may redeem your soul.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J8VOKhRr0eg&feature=related  – “I’m New Here”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WiuorrXsngM  – “New York Is Killing Me”

This is my favorite of all (juxtapose it against Livin For The City, which is interesting):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EdhoX1Xu6ZI  – “The Bottle” video

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mSRyf5G2uI8  –  “Livin for the City” video Motown time capsule

The live version of We Almost Lost Detroit from a concert in 1990- 10 years before his jail stint (I like that he gets up at the end and just starts bopping up and down):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b54rB64fXY4&feature=related

A few of you know that I have been preparing for a doctoral program that it has been my wish to enter for a few years now.  I just found Thursday that I have been accepted, so am announcing my retirement for JULY.  Not tomorrow, not next week— calm the fuck down—  JULY.

That means you have six months to get your ass in gear if you have not yet seen me, or if you saw me a few years ago and have been meaning to see me again, or if you’ve been too afraid, or even if you see me on the regular.   Get your ass in my dungeon.

I can guarantee you will regret it if you don’t.  🙂

xoxox.

For the first two installments of my porn fiction delightful yarn, go here:

1st Installment

2nd Installment

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Relaxing into the pain can mean a variety of things.  It can mean that he’s broken completely and needs a break (ha ha, no) or that he has achieved a sort of semi-trance state, making him completely docile.  I decide, after his ass is a red-streaked mess of lines and welts, that I will give him some pleasure.  Untying him from the bondage table, I make him sit up and look me in the eyes. He has been crying silently, and looks back at me seeing that I notice how weak he is, wondering whether I will take advantage or pity.  I wipe the tears from his eyes.

“Get on your knees,”

He gets on the ground, shoulders slumped.

I put his hands around my waist and he leans into me, weeping openly now.  I give him a moment to let it out, and run my fingers in his hair.  It’s almost cute.  Tender even.  Feeling this has gone on long enough, I grab him by the back of his head and slap him straight in the face.

“You finished yet, Nancy-boy?  Done simpering like a little faggot?”

“I…  Yes mum, yes, I’m sor–“

I slap him again, “Shut the.  Fuck.  Up.  You act like a faggot, I’m going to treat you like a faggot.”

Pushing him away, I walk over to my cross dressing closet and find the itchiest pair of frilly panties I possibly can.  I throw them at him, “Put these on, Princess.”  I then go for the dildo that reflects my “inner manhood” (nine inches long, six inches wide) and secure it to my black leather harness (with pink leather trim).  He is on his knees fidgeting from raw skin against scratchy lace. I ignore him and go sit on my red mahogany throne.

“Crawl over here, slut.”  He does.

I lay back confidently in my chair, legs wide, stroking my body-appropriate appendage.  I notice him perking up.  He loves this part.  He’s such a dick-smoker.

I rip his nipple clamps off to punish his eagerness.  He lets out a howl and slumps again.  I make him look at me while he breathes through it and caress his face.  I bring my cock close to his mouth.

“Kiss it lightly.  You slobber on it and I will make you wish I was caning you again.”

He does so.

Slowly I push my cock deeper into his mouth, slowly thrusting in and out, getting him used to the girth.  His lips are perfectly pink and round.  I grab him by the back of the head and push him down on it further, thrusting into him with more force.  He makes a slight choking sound, so I let go.  He keeps his mouth on the tip, then sucks the shaft all the way down to the root, willingly making the choking sound.  Making it for me, so that I can relish the pain he is putting himself through in order to please my cock.  I pull his head back and his eyes betray his helplessness and his hunger.  I take his head with both hands and push him all the way down on my cock violently, his body resists slightly but he gives in, his head bobbing in rhythm with the thrusting of my hips.  I feel his face crashing against my harness over and over, then give him a rest.

“You slobbered on my cock, you nasty bitch.”

His eyes and lips are red now.  He is flushed.  Confused.

I stand over him, my cock dripping.

“Well, it looks like you’ve lubed me up quite well.  Perhaps I won’t use anything but spit this time to plow you.”

He looks at the size and I can tell he is doing the pain/pleasure math in his head.

“Do you think you should get away with slobbering on my cock?  That there should be no consequences?”

“N-n-n-n-o.”

“Get me the spreader bar.”

He crawls over to the corner and brings it to me on his knees.  Securing his ankles to it, I make him lie on his back on the table.  I cross his arms and secure them to his ankles.  I pull his panties out of my way, revealing his perfect asshole.  It’s charmingly puckered and pink.  Shaven.  I rub my cock in the crack of his ass, teasing him.

“The more you resist, the more painful it will be.”

I rest the tip of it on his asshole for a moment.  Then thrust ever so slightly.  He looks at me- committed and willing.  I spit on my hand and rub it on my cock.  Then I spit on him while I thrust the whole tip into his tight hole.   He takes in a sharp breath and his back arches as I thrust in and out ever so gently.  He knows what’s coming.  I hold his knees wider and get my cock half way in, spit on him some more.  His legs relax and I’m all the way inside.  He grimaces and calls out– as he feels the sharp invasiveness.  The violation of it.  Thrusting in slowly at first, then pulling out, I make him feel the full power of my member.  “Take it, you fucking truck stop whore, you fucking hussy.”  I go harder and faster, banging my hips against his ass, thrusting with full strength as he moans and struggles against his bondage.  Over and over again I bang him mercilessly until he finally gives in.  His body a mangled mess of tears and leather and hurt.  His ass ruined.  My pleasure satiated.

I unshackle him, tell him to get himself some water, wash up, and bring me dinner.  He can have a small plate and eat it at my feet.  He dons the apron for me, we eat, and I let him take a nap in the cage.  Meanwhile, I am going out prowling for more…

xoxox.

That’s right, I will be storming your pissant city for one day, and one day only.  Space is already limited so email me ASAP to secure a space.

If your nickname is “Sully” and you can prove it, I’ll give you a discount.

xoxo.