Introduction To The Babbles – Our New Mode Of Artistic Expression With Words

Every day they remind me.  They say, hey Naked E, it wasn’t your fault.  She was always here.  Dancing is just your thing, she gamed you like an XBox. Like Halo.  Ironic because she is Satan.  No Halo for Satan.  No Halo for Satan.  But don’t get me wrong, B if you’re reading this.  I enjoy the flirting and the sex.  But I never really got into the cat.  The cat was the speed bump that bottomed out my ‘vette from day one.  I have not a ‘vette, and you get the metaphor.  I hope you do.  If you don’t then even my best verbal wrangling couldn’t gracefully nimble bck and restructure what I have already written.  I am sorry for the booze.  I am sorry for the drugs.  I am sorry for always saying I’m sorry.  But I feel that I should tell you how I feel all the time.  At the time I punched in those words, the feeling I needed to convey was sorrow, regret.  I could have said that I regretted the booze.  That may have been better.  Can we pretend that I said that instead?  Do synonyms have the same effect?  I will use this experience to find out so let me know how you feel.  I feel okay.

Feeling her way through the dark by the lught of her cell phone with one block blinking ominously indicating that the battery had become junk metal barely pumping out static electricity at this point.  She would never make it home.  She was on the darkest road in the darkest part of town.  Her phone beeped.  A blast of light and it was over.  Darkness.  Swimming in darness like a fat kid on a boat where the skinny people have mutinied and the fatties have been jettisoned so that there would be crab legs left at the buffet.  Thought was:  they had a good chance of floating via their blubber and being insulated from a shark attack.  In a way it was free cosmetic surgery.  If a shark came and snacked on a chunk of fatty fat, clearly you would be at your own funeral, a svelte, proud corpse.

Sometimes when you think beyond the normal meaning of words, you can discover a dream while you are awake.  Dreams make no sense (usually) and yet we are mesmerized by them.  Some, led by them.  Writing in Babbles brings the dreamworld to the world we experience while awake.  I will be promoting my favorite new art form with words as this blog grows into a toddler.  Slam poetry was a silly attempt at what I am talking about right now.  The Babbles are pure, but polished.  Spitting drivel and anything that comes to your mind is not “pure”  it is poo.  You are a poo if you print this.  Clean yourself up and learn with me the Babbles.  Fun will be our co-conspirator.  A person.  A word.  A world.  A culture.  All speaking in babbles to escape boring old communication.  It’s a bench press for the brain – and OH how sweet the Babbles sound.  The ears dance and various brain parts secrete chemicals similar to many things.  These chemicals make you blissendo.  I am excited and humble.  Let me make you happy.

Let me make you happy.

Welcome to The Babbles.



Stephen Marley’s “Mind Control” Is Musical Sex

Here’s some more nakedEric music fun.  Go get this album.  The more I listen to the sons ‘o Bob (of which there are many) I find myself evermore thankful that Bob humped anything that moved then smoked two joints before he smoked two joints… as the song goes. tee hee.

You will hear the first track, “Mind Control” and recall the simplicity of the roots reggae so adored during Bob Marley’s enchanted life.  Stephen is eerily similar and forgoes the temptation to dip into “toasting” (a freestyle hybrid of rap-reggae) or dancehall styles that now proliferate the genre.  No Shaggy here.  This is Roots.  Rock.  Reggae.  at it’s most glorious.

Although he has been involved in music his entire life, Stephen spent a lot of time as a producer.  This experience is evident in the flawless recording of “Mind Control” and the ingenious arrangements of each track.  No overproduction, effect belching, or other abuses of studio technology.  Stephen keeps everything simple and hones the little things.  The details like the subtle wah on a guitar track and gliss on an intro make this a feast for the ears.  My freking dog like listening to this album.  It’s so smooth, a man has to assume that Stephen is, like his father, getting more ass than a public toilet.  On that classy note, I reiterate:  Do not pass this album up.  It is not rehashed Bob or striving to sound like him in any way.  This is a unique voice in Reggae, with enough of the roots to keep it grounded and enough imagination to justify the label “prodigy” for this incredibly talented musician.


Steve Marley