Kept isolated these words hold no wisdom.
Own frown worn of habit,
Habitat erodes to points past tragic.
Fragments of meaning cling to tongue like flesh to bone.
Prolong our suffering, please.
It reminds me to breath.
Beneath the handshakes tirades shape fragile friendships
Watch who you call kin for few deserve respect
And it'll be those you adore who in final act attack with knives and bats.
Basic human nature to be inhuman
Love looms in shadows
Truth's face veiled from angelic eyes...
Hope evaporated like the morning dew past sunrise.
If all we can do is try, then why even bother?
Fodder for conversation? Or true exasperation achieved at third marker?
Are we actors or scholars?
Winos or warriors?
Wishful thoughts have only led to inaction
And so thoughtless acts of violence paint our grim future.
Beware the fruits of knowledge, what type of lesson to teach our young?!
Average men sent to certain demise just to fill our casket quota
They say the answers will be evident once we are older.
I feel too old.
I feel inept to achieve heights of dreams of forefathers.
Have we spent so long on knees that we forgot how to walk?
The ancients talked of a nirvana perhaps none are privy to see.
Candlelit thoughts rise with smoke as sacrifice from well worn alter.
My altered perception has this graveled floor as our only heaven.
Wonder and awe lost to youthful sight.
I invite us all to sink deeper.
Leathered tongue to match facial features,
greet us with warm embrace.
Were we to retrace our steps they would lead us to the first time we cared to listen.
Envision valleys from which we only heard echos of life,
lived a million times.
Stones erode to show us how we all succumb to elements.
Forgave the ones who's names became irrelevant.
As i crawled closer to the core of what I despise.
That dream deferred of Langstonian lure might as well be myth.
Seems we have awoken only to be put to bed once more.
A dream forgotten.
Amidst jewels soaked in our own blood.
Precious necklace to replace weathered noose.
As history fades into the drunkard's mind,
We choose what nightmares to forget, what lies to remember.
It's quite easy to forget who you are.
The remnants of my life scattered at feet like offerings to Mayan gods.
Hands hold weight of face in hallways that echo muffled sobs.
Revert to street corners, double deuce in brown bags.
Felt the earth shift, spit to ground, had to laugh.
Level fields only yield your stale crops.
Corrupt seeds infest cities like pale cops.
Our peoples weighed down by 41 lead shots.
Walk blocks still scorched by ancestry.
Felt my spirit break with the levies.
Keep that speech pattern steady
Found melody in pain like Leadbelly.
People's been ready!
Focused mind turned to deadly.
Devise the ill plot if you'd let me.
Poised to poison wells of the real infidels, so don't tempt me.
Sip filthy water from cupped palms for thirst.
The wise always knew things were bound to get worse.
Their wealth came from fields that they forced us to work.
Now we brainwashed to buy so we still getting jerked
Seen, revolutions overthrown by inaction.
News in scrolled caption, captivates captives.
Scholars or Actors?
In broader terms they just hate us Brown bastards.
If i believed in you i would only clasp these hands in an attempt to choke you.
Provoked to speak in strict silence.
Why mince our words when we both prefer violence.
A tired soul reflects upon what it means to marry our aged sun with this Mayan midnight.
An African verse of perfect syllable alludes to the hopes and dreams of all humans.
Meaning escapes the translucent mind.
But I'm beginning to see those i seek in my peripheral.
dälek – Latitudes Session (Untitled 6 July 2005)
From the liner notes
July 2005 was a crazy time in my universe. John Loder, my mentor and surrogate big brother, who I had worked alongside at Southern for 20 years, was very ill – battling a brain tumour diagnosed 18 months earlier. Dälek were holed up in my flat, on the sharp end of reducing their number from three to just two. They were recording a session for our relatively new Latitudes imprint – spending days in the studio laying tracks and nights in my living room, working on ideas. We got to know each other, really. (I have the photos of Alap passed out drunk in his boxer shorts to prove it.) I discovered that the hip-hop bravado and crushing beats were only one layer of these guys. They had a secret Metal past, a serious Alt-Country present, and hearts as big as New Jersey. Their love and knowledge of music ran deep.
On the 7th, I got up to head into the office/studio, and left them sleeping away. Half way to the bus stop I got a call from Tony saying turn around, go home, don’t get on the bus or the tube. He said there had been explosions in the Underground. I turned around, went home and turned on the news. Alap and Will sat with me and watched London’s own version of 9-11 unfold, and then, full of determination and grit, headed into the studio to finish recording. And what did they produce?
Why it’s taken this long for this recording to be released is only down to me, and the battles that I’ve fought in the intervening five years. In August of 2005, John Loder left us. Since then I’ve had to work very hard to keep Southern going, and though we had to close our warehouse and as a result lose most of our staff last year, we’ve survived, and actually come out all the better for it. It’s like the old days – we’re compact, which means we can fight our battles like guerilla warriors – which is pretty much what you need to do to make ends meet these days.
None of this has much to do with the epic grooves that Dälek laid down on this session. And it has everything to do with it, at least when I listen to what MC Dälek is saying. Sonically, this session is a real departure from Dälek’s albums. It’s a gorgeous, multi-cultural melting pot of sound and space, a serious shot to the head, an opening of the third eye. I strongly urge you to explore the magnificence of this session on headphones, in a darkened room, and let it take you away.
I love it so much that I guess I wanted to keep it to myself for all this time. But it’s time to share, and to apologise to you all for taking so long.
– Allison Schnackenberg, August 2010