the sufferhead manifesto

"We younger Negro artists who create now intend to express our individual dark-skinned selves without fear or shame.....We build our temples for tomorrow, strong as we know how and we stand on top the mountain, free within ourselves." ~Langston Hughes

who is the whore of black creative expression? where is the resistance?
where are the impending cries of the smoke laden opposition, the dialectic deference to the slave? the blood has nothin' more but empty regeneration, the newness it is dying...

to stay safe is to submit your will and freedom to the superstructure that has forced the aggression. we are compelled and in need to make space for it is not given by any means, under or overstood. rapid indigestion from the snap music and commercial airplay, i find the culture at an impasse. when will we interface with the new voice, who will find the elements to succeed the sound that has reshaped the world and made America rich?...Again, "off the backs of Blacks."

the noise sounds a lot like that fuckin' owl lickin' that Tootsie roll pop...simple, disenchanting, and irrelevant. the avant-garde of the black cultural poetic is buried deep beneath the pervasive material of vampires and devils. unconscientious ethnic suicide...sings in the music unlike a heroine induced Lady Day relating to Lester Young so romanctically, soulful and honest.

But, keep on lying brotha', the truth has her own quartet and will dedicate a song to yo' ass. celebrating your deceit and betrayal. hustle some mo' to get yo' high right, then stop finga-fuckin' the spirit that birthed your genius or pay the price, experience the fury of a paranormal world scorned.

we, the original sufferheads call to question, in unorthodox fashion the diseases of this corporate plantation that continues to kill our children and cultural tapestry. psycho-lobotamists at work all the while we lay dispassionately donating our blood and mind to the financial reinforcement of the diametrical other. illegal listening and theft leave the hood vulnerable like a hooker tryin to get money on the side...suckin' dick for sardines and peanut butter to feed her little sista' .

the music has to begin to reflect the dysfunction of acquiescence and cultivate the new soul, the emancipated voice of rhythmic liberationisms inside life affirming blues notes. abandon the bankrupt cultural despots of this oppressive wilderness and embrace the heaven of inspired exploration, see God in bringing forth the authentic and impactful...how real is your voice?

R.I.P. Jay Dee (J Dilla)