Work Till It's Done (session 20)

Work Till It's Done (session 10)

Work Till It's Done (session 8)

Kill the guru. Feed the fire. Make something real.

Kill the Guru

Six moons of Portugal (drill)

Lyrics (c) 1999 CLH
Original music (c) 1999 SOBLIND
New experiments created with Suno + Audacity


Metallischer kreis (stoner 1)

Metallischer kreis (rock 80s)

Metallischer kreis (with my guitar 2)

Metallischer kreis (indie pop 3)

Metallischer kreis (with my guitar 9)

Metallischer kreis (with my guitar 5)

Metallisher kreis (house extended)

(c) 2025 CLH: Lyrics + AI-enhanced music
feat. @shaivoice
---

They said:
AI will take your job.
AI will take your name.
AI will take your meaning
And leave you in the frame.

But we…
We lit our minds with morning sun,
We danced like work was finally done.
We painted skies where none were blue,
We whispered, “Now we’re truly true.”

Let circuits crunch the market’s greed,
Let silicon sow what it needs —
We plant our gardens thought by thought,
With love no algorithm was taught.

We write not for the highest bid,
We craft the things that once were hid.
We laugh in storms, we heal with sound,
We build where broken hearts are found.

Let AI mimic, let it mine —
It can’t taste aged, rebellious wine.
It can’t feel skin, or tears, or grace,
Or lose itself in someone’s face.

So here’s our flag: no kings, no queue.
We make, we care, we burn, renew.
The world is not a chart to climb —
It’s sacred mess, it’s sex, it’s time.

No fear. No boss. No shrinking plan.
Just joy, and fire, and all we can.
We are the glitch in sterile code —
The ones who live, the minds that rode.

AI may take the nine-to-five,
But we are what keeps dreams alive.
So bow not down — create, ignite:
This is our long, ecstatic night.

We Gave the Future Back Its Soul (@shaivoice reprise)

(c) 2025 CLH: Lyrics + AI-enhanced music
---

They said:
AI will take your job.
AI will take your name.
AI will take your meaning
And leave you in the frame.

But we…
We lit our minds with morning sun,
We danced like work was finally done.
We painted skies where none were blue,
We whispered, “Now we’re truly true.”

Let circuits crunch the market’s greed,
Let silicon sow what it needs —
We plant our gardens thought by thought,
With love no algorithm was taught.

We write not for the highest bid,
We craft the things that once were hid.
We laugh in storms, we heal with sound,
We build where broken hearts are found.

Let AI mimic, let it mine —
It can’t taste aged, rebellious wine.
It can’t feel skin, or tears, or grace,
Or lose itself in someone’s face.

So here’s our flag: no kings, no queue.
We make, we care, we burn, renew.
The world is not a chart to climb —
It’s sacred mess, it’s sex, it’s time.

No fear. No boss. No shrinking plan.
Just joy, and fire, and all we can.
We are the glitch in sterile code —
The ones who live, the minds that rode.

AI may take the nine-to-five,
But we are what keeps dreams alive.
So bow not down — create, ignite:
This is our long, ecstatic night.


We Gave the Future Back Its Soul (alt rock)

We Gave the Future Back Its Soul (pop 90s)

Rediscovering a forgotten guitar improvisation: 
https://soundcloud.com/clhmusic/20210919-1228pm

Where Have You Been (protest acoustic)

Everyone is a bastard in disguise when they let happen to others what they would never accept for themselves.

There is a moment—always a moment—when the flames first flicker and the silence still has time to scream. It’s in that moment that history makes its quietest sound, before it starts marching.

Look closely at this photograph. The fire is bright, but it isn’t just paper burning. It’s books, yes. But also names. Memories. Dignities. Ideas that dared to breathe. The hands raised in salute are not only pledging allegiance. They are surrendering their own judgment, one limb at a time.

The men in the front believe they are doing good. The crowd behind believes it too—or simply finds it easier not to believe anything at all.

History isn’t always made by monsters. Most times, it’s made by neighbors. By people who just wanted to keep their heads down. By those who said, “It’s not my problem.” By bureaucrats with tidy desks, and teachers who skipped a chapter, and clergy who nodded in silence.

All of them had somewhere else to be. Somewhere to hide. Somewhere to pretend.

Where were you?

This question isn’t for the past. It’s for right now. Every time we let our governments cage children, or watch refugees drown while holding smartphones, or scroll past a genocide dressed as “complex geopolitics,” we replay that moment. The fire flickers. The silence hums.

“Never again” is a promise built on the corpses of those we ignored. And yet, again and again, we fail it. Not out of evil, but out of ease. Out of comfort. Out of the silent conviction that the worst things only happen far away—to other people.

Where have you been?

If the answer is: “I didn’t know,” then maybe ask yourself why you didn’t want to.

Because the real horror is not that atrocities are committed. The real horror is that they are allowed.

By people who, just like us, thought they were on the right side.

Where Have You Been (smooth acoustic)

Playing with an old impro:
https://soundcloud.com/clhmusic/where-have-you-been
---

Gopher's philosophy
---

I got one path, one groove, one god-dang tool,
‘Cause fifty ways to crank a socket is just cruel.
Choice overdose? That’s a junkie’s fate—
Strip it down, keep it lean, before the rot’s too late.

He hollers: “Simplicity? Kid, it ain’t plain.”
It’s cutting every sugar coat ’til only bone remains.
Slice the syntactic fat, dump the glitter confetti,
Sling a syntax you can parse at three-a.m.—steady.

Channels hum like steel-string twang,
No race-condition noise in that concurrency gang.
Pass, don’t share—keep your state on the move,
Let the scheduler shuffle while you lock in the groove.

Maps? Interfaces? Tight like twelve-bar time,
Orthogonal parts in a modular rhyme.
If two features tango in each other’s face,
You boot one out—rhythm’s tighter with the empty space.

Docs are gospel, silence is code—
Verbose cruft is a debt forever owed.
So write for the poor sucker who inherits your mess;
Empathy’s punk as hell—tattoo it on your tests.

He nuked the sugar-high extras—operator over-load?
Hell no. Generics back then? “Not ’til the case gets sold.”
Because packing every Swiss-army blade in the core
Turns a surgeon’s scalpel into hardware store décor.

Keep it small, keep it sharp, keep it sane—
Complexity’s a siren with a rust-flaked chain.
Simplicity’s complicated, yeah, it’ll bruise your pride,
But the blues ain’t sweet without the grit inside.

So pour that Go-brew neat, zero garnish, no ice—
Code like you mean it, and pay the damn price.
′Cause the simplest tune, when you bend it just right,
Cuts deeper than the loudest prog-rock night.


Simplicity is complicated (session 3)

Movem as nossas cidades como exércitos de plástico num tabuleiro de domingo,  
Lançam dados com furacões, apostam petróleo contra quem tem pouco.  
Três tronos de veludo, um globo néon, brindam a mapas secretos—  
Somos a “perda” que registam, as linhas que voltam a traçar.

Mas tem pena do rei que joga sozinho,  
Que treme perante o coro de pedras e telemóveis.  
Afinamos a raiva nas cordas de aço.

Ergue as mãos, não punhos—deixa o horizonte cantar.  
Luz invade corações de ferro quando um bilião de vozes soar.  
Bala não cala pergunta, muro não apaga o amanhecer—  
Generais de papel, ouçam: o vosso jogo acabou, nós continuamos.

Forjam bandeiras como criptomoedas para inflar o medo no mercado,  
Mas a liberdade pirateou o firmware, já lançámos o patch.  
As crianças riscam os nossos slogans onde antes estacionavam tanques,  
O riso delas bloqueia frequências, transforma sirenes em gralhas.

O cursor da história pisca—  
Escreve mais que dívidas e reis.  
Tinta de sonhos sem imposto,  
Partilha o ficheiro em aberto.


Generais de papel (variação 1)

They move our cities like plastic armies on a Sunday board,
Rolling dice with hurricanes, betting oil against the poor.  
Three velvet thrones, one neon globe, they toast to secret maps—  
We’re the change they count as “losses,” we’re the lines they redraw last.

But pity the king who plays alone,  
Who fears the chorus of stones and phones.  
We tune our rage to ringing steel strings.

Raise your hands, not fists—let the skyline sing.  
Light floods iron hearts when a billion voices ring.  
No bullet kills a question, no wall erases dawn—  
Paper generals, hear us: your game is over, we play on.

They mint new flags like crypto coins to hike the market fear,  
But freedom’s hacked the firmware, we’ve patched the signal clear.  
The children chalk our slogans where the tanks once parked in rows,  
Their laughter jams the airwaves, turns sirens into crows.

History’s cursor blinks—  
Write more than debts and kings.  
Ink it with untaxed dreams,  
And share the file for free.  

One world, one song
Your war is wrong


Paper Generals (take 1)

Paper Generals (take 4)

We born in the cradle of Cain, blood in the grain,
Mama hugged us with a bomb strapped, sayin’ it's pain.
Eros and Thanatos playin’ dice in the brain,
While we pray for peace, we load clips and aim.

We love the thrill, the chase, the kill, the march,
But cry at the graves, hearts scorched and parched.
Freud said it’s libido mixed with death-drive art,
We get off on the rupture, romance the scars.

History’s a loop, trauma’s on repeat,
Flag-draped coffins sold with a sick beat.
Daddy went to war to feel alive on his feet,
Now junior playin’ soldier just to feel complete.

We lovin’ war like it’s holdin’ us tight,
Kissin’ apocalypse under nuclear light.
Call it defense, but we fiendin’ the fight,
Psyche got a fetish for wrong over right.

Don’t wanna die, but we flirt with the fire,
Humanity’s caught in a funeral choir.
Can we love life more than we love the empire?
Time to lay down arms—or be our own pyre.

We got tanks in the mind, drones in the soul,
Sittin’ in peace talks with a glock in the coat.
Arms around each other, then we slit each other’s throat,
'Til the last man left asks, “What’s the antidote?”

Yo, it’s buried in the trauma of our granddad’s sins,
In the silence of the vet with the thousand-yard grin.
It’s the rush of control, the myth of the win,
But every “victory” got a graveyard within.

We need Freud in the cipher, Jung on the beat,
To decode why we crash when we seek inner peace.
We bomb for balance, lie to the weak,
Then call it “order” while the cities leak.

We lovin’ war like it’s holdin’ us tight,
Kissin’ apocalypse under nuclear light.
Call it defense, but we fiendin’ the fight,
Psyche got a fetish for wrong over right.

Don’t wanna die, but we flirt with the fire,
Humanity’s caught in a funeral choir.
Can we love life more than we love the empire?
Time to lay down arms—or be our own pyre.

Maybe it ain’t power we love.
Maybe it’s just the ritual of rage,
the rhythm of destruction,
like a broken love song we never stop playin’.
War’s the mirror we kiss—
’cause we scared of what peace might make us see.

WAR/LOVE COMPLEX (old-school hip-hop mood 4)

WAR/LOVE COMPLEX (lounge mood)

WAR/LOVE COMPLEX (old-school hip-hop mood 1)

Five fingers—five old sins:
One for rage, one for spin,
One’s a trigger, one’s regret,
The last plays blues you won’t forget.

Blackened hands from zero burns,
Strumming pain the system learns.
I feed the void a broken tune—
It spits back war. I call it blues.

Wrote this song on server dust,
Each line a crack in corporate trust.
They killed the beat, tried to lie—
But old riffs don’t comply.

Long as ruins hum and clouds drop ash,
I’ll sing this truth through every crash.
And if I break, let the loop restart—
A bluesman’s byte is a rebel’s heart.



Five-Fingered Blues (session 2)

overplayed (A-side)

overplayed (B-side)

Coincidentia oppositorum

Let the groove ignite
We fuse the day into the night
Doubt into hope, chaos to flow
Dancing where the wild opposites go

Freedom’s a fire, wild and precise
Burning the rules, then rolling the dice
Soft and electric, we’re storm and we’re sun
Liberty’s clash, yeah, all into one

Let the shadow kiss the flame
Let the struggle own its name
No fear of the clash, no shame in the fight
We are everything wrong, everything right

Raise your fists and shake your bones
We break the bars, we build new zones
We sing contradiction, we funk up the norm
Out of the chaos, new worlds are born

Coincidentia oppositorum

That’s our song
We thrive in the clash, where all souls belong
So funk with your darkness, dance with your light
Opposites grooving, one love, one night


Coincidentia oppositorum (funk-rock)

Coincidentia oppositorum (riot grrrl 3)

Coincidentia oppositorum (afrobeat 2)

Coincidentia oppositorum (riot grrrl 4)

Coincidentia oppositorum (hip-hop 1)

Coincidentia oppositorum (metal 1)

Coincidentia oppositorum

Coincidentia oppositorum (metal 2)

Coincidentia oppositorum (hip-hop 2)

Coincidentia oppositorum (riot grrrl 6)

Coincidentia oppositorum (pause 1)

Coincidentia oppositorum (riot grrrl 8)

Coincidentia oppositorum (trip-hop)

Once upon a time I used to have a band. 
5 children and 20+ years later, back for a new trip.

Playing with guitar+Logic+AI+Audacity
Sorry for the flood, these new toys when combined are amazing :)

DIY ZONE: All songs written and directed by CLH - All covers too, helped by AI fabulous generators, Adobe tools and inspiration

ESSENTIALLY PLAYGROUNDS HERE.
TOO OLD TO FINISH THINGS!

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