Jiggling Junk Rolling like Rollercoasters.

Kes The Band - Where Yuh From (Poirier Remix - Work that Riddim)

Okay…I woke up in a horrible mood today. 

To top it all off I have just discovered that the “Skins” sweater that I really wanted is not a real sweater at all but some bloody meme. Bummer.

The only positive highlight in a somewhat dreary and lame ass day was I discovered a free EP that Mosca is giving away — and I do love me some Mosca.

Mosca - Bunching

Following up the Release of “Dedication” and proceeding his album “Nothing”,  Zomby is giving away a free tune on twitter. I haven’t listened to it yet, but I am sure it is more of a success than my attempt to ask him on a date via twitter — I think he hinted that he would possibly go on a date with me, but that my body might be later found dismembered, in a Prada bag, by a dumpster, in Beverly Hills the next day — still willing to take my chances though.

ZOMBY, CALL MEEEE!!!

Zomby - Ice Lake

For more Twitter talk you can follow him here: zombymusic

Gil Scott Heron RIP — It was the theme of facebook status’, tweets, and conversations. I strangely remained silent on this one. When my editor suggested reviewing a Gil Scott Heron album I was surprised at my reaction. I was angry. I lashed out. Why should I be giving praise to a man who all but destroyed himself? A un-repentent crack smoker and drug addict, who pauper-ed himself and left a family behind. Why should I support someone who barely supported himself, but managed to support a crack habit. A poison that ravaged his body making him unable to fight his debilitating auto immune disease, shutting his eyes for good at the age of 62.

Many, if not all of us, have had our lives affected by a selfish drug user. My story is not unique, or overly tragic. Many people can substitute their brother, father, sister, lover, friend into my tale. The country could be Canada, England, Nigeria, the US, Russia, or the Philippines. My story however, takes place in Trinidad. I am nine years old and so happy to see my uncle. He hasn’t been back in days but he has brought me a “double” from the food cart down the way. He looks tired and thin, his blue eyes are sad, but he manages to give me a hug, sit with me for a moment, smiling. He is sensitive. He is gentle, he tells jokes that a nine year old can appreciate. He never smiles with his sad eyes.

When I am back at home in Canada there are periodic phone calls. Sometimes he is doing okay, but other times I can tell by the look on my Mother and Grandmother’s face that my uncle is using again. My aunt, who he lives with, has seen this pattern repeated for years. She has kicked him out. She has let him move back in. She is afraid for her children, her grandchildren. But she loves him. He is her blue eyed baby brother.

One day the call has changed, it’s frantic. My uncle has gone to the doctor, troubled by an open sore that will not go away. They inform him that he has AIDS and is in his final stages. Sick and scared he tells my aunt, who calls my Mother and Grandmother in Canada. What do they know about AIDS…it’s the 90’s? They do not have time to dig through medical journals to debunk myth from truth. My aunt is weeping. She can’t handle this! She is afraid for her children, her grandchildren…but….she loves him.

We are not too sure he ever heard the last part. He threw himself out the window during the phone call, falling 11 stories to his death. My cousin identifies him.

My grandmother heads home to bury him. She blames herself. “He should have had a better life. The doctor that delivered him wanted him, you know.” she told me one night “When he was born, the doctor asked me if he could foster him. He was so beautiful; blond hair…blue eyes, but I couldn’t do it. He was my boy…”

There are rumours that another boy was walking around my families neigbourhood in Trinidad. He had blue eyes and red hair and looked astonishingly like my Uncle. This encourages my 75 year old grandmother to roam around the streets, asking with hope in her heart. We ask a women we believe to be the mother. She is a crack head and tells us that there were twins and the twin that was my uncles died, that this blue eyed child was another mans. But if we had some money to give her, she might let us see for ourselves…

We never find the boy.

So, although the music world feels that there is a hole created by the death of this prolific artist, let us not forget that it is not only his legend and music that lives on. Gil Scott-Heron is survived by his son Rumal Rackley, his daughters Gia Scott-Heron, Raquiyah Kelly Heron and Chegianna Newton. His sister, Gayle, his  brother, Denis Heron, his uncle Roy Heron and nephew Terrance Kelly — may they all rest in HIS peace.

And hopefully this troubled troubadour has finally found his, in his final resting place.

Zomby — like the lover that beats you but you still keep taking him back.