(The voice is heavier now, the '90s rhythm slowed down by the weight of years. It’s quiet, like talking to oneself in an empty room.)

Funny thing about silence... it's the heaviest damn thing in the world. Used to be the noise never stopped. The block was a symphony, you hear me? Laughter, tires screechin', Biggie blastin' from a window, my brother clownin' somebody... that was the soundtrack. Now? Now I just hear the wind whistlin' down the street, and it sounds empty.

I walk down these blocks and I see ghosts on every corner. That stoop right there... that's where me and my cousins planned our whole lives. That court is where my boys and I thought we were the next Knicks. I still turn my head sometimes, to holler at my brother when I see somethin' wild... then the quiet hits me right in the chest. A gut punch, every time. The whole damn choir is gone, son. It's a solo act now. No friends, no cousins, no brother. No f'body left on the stage with me.

And this ain't even my Brooklyn no more. The Ville... they turned it into a damn theme park for people who used to be scared to get off the train here. They power-washed the soul right off the concrete. And Caracas? Caricuao? That's just a dream I had a long time ago. Another ghost. Two whole worlds I came from, and I can't go home to either one. They're just gone. Vapor.

All the stories, all the inside jokes, all the beefs... they live and die right here, in my damn head. I'm a walkin' cemetery. And people see me, they see the gray in my beard, and they think, "Damn, he's strong. A survivor." That ain't strength. It's a curse.

It's painful as fuck. You know what it's like to be the only one who remembers? To have a whole universe of people alive in your head but not a single damn soul to sit and have a beer with?

Yeah, I'm the last man standing. But you ain't standin' tall when you're the last one. You're just... left. Left to watch the credits roll on a movie everybody else already went home from. And you just gotta sit there, alone in the dark. Word is bond.

Brooklynite

Veneno

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Canción escrita por mí, Jordan Julian Chase (también Javier, criollíto) Tenía 11 años.

Estaba en Caracas. Mis tías me golpearon, no por algo que hice, sino simplemente por existir. No entendía por qué. Solo sabía que dolía. Ese día, en medio de la confusión, la rabia, y el deseo de desaparecer lento y para siempre, escribí esta canción. No era solo un poema. Era mi forma de gritar sin hacer ruido.

Cada palabra salió como un suspiro roto, como un intento de entender lo que nadie me explicaba. Era frustración infantil, sí, pero también una chispa de algo más profundo. No quería venganza. No quería atención. Solo quería que el mundo supiera que yo estaba ahí, que sentía, que sangraba por dentro.

Esta canción es mi testimonio. Mi resistencia. Mi forma de convertir el golpe en ritmo, el silencio en sonido, el dolor en arte. No la escribí para que me tengan lástima. La escribí porque era lo único que podía hacer para no desaparecer del todo.

Hoy, esa canción sigue viva... Y yo también.

Corre Javi, Corre!

...esto es pa' cualquiera que se haya levantado un día sintiéndose ajeno en su propio pellejo, como si el mundo entero fuera un escenario y a ti se te olvidó el guion. Es esa vaina en el pecho que te dice que todo lo que te contaron, tu nombre, tu pasado, tu propósito, es pura paja, un embuste. Una cárcel hecha pa' tenerte dormido.

Ellos te meten sus cuentos, sus mentiras, tratando de encajarte y que se te olvide el fuego con el que naciste. Pero no pueden borrar lo que tienes en el alma. Todavía te acuerdas del amor, del dolor, de la verdad de todo, incluso entre tanto ruido. Esto no es solo una canción; es el sonido de romper las cadenas que te dijeron que ni existían. Vamos a' recordar quién eras antes de que ellos te dijeran quién ser.

¡Pura verdad, mi pana!

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Aight, so peep this. This joint, "En Haiti," it ain't just a song, it's my whole story on a track, you hear me?

It's the real deal, straight up. Picture this: I'm comin' out of Venezuela, lookin' for a place to land. I try that Canada spot, right? Thinkin' it's all good. Nah, son. The vibe up there was mad brick, straight up. Felt like if you weren't their specific type, you was gettin' the cold shoulder, hard. That whole experience left me worn out, deadass.

Then I land in Haiti. And listen, the whole world be lookin' at Haiti like it's messed up, a lost cause. They stay throwin' shade on 'em. But lemme tell you somethin', word is bond, that's where I found the realest, most beautiful people on the planet. While everyone else hated, they showed me mad love. I came through, a worn-out soul from that Canadian grind, and they saw me. They saw a brother, not a problem.

So this track, "En Haiti"? It's that story. It's about gettin' iced out by a country that's supposed to have it all, and then gettin' the warmest hug from a place the world gave up on. It's for my people in Haiti. They held me down when the rest of the world was lookin' the other way. It is what it is.

Haiti "I FUCKING LOVE YOU!"

An Ayiti

Este no es solo un tema, es un viaje con la maquina del tiempo, con los ojos cerra'os a mi rincón en el mundo: Las Morochas de Barlovento. Es un canto que le debía a mi Abuela Julia, la dueña del arroz con coco que calma hasta al viento y de la risa que vuela más alto que un gavilán.

La letra es el mapa de mi memoria, un grito que me sale del pecho pa' que no se me olvide de dónde vengo. Es el orgullo por la sangre de mis ancestros que me hierve y me despierta. Es el eco del tambor que sonaba en el balcón de la casa, un sonido que pa' algunos es locura, pero pa' nosotros es la única forma de amar: con ritmo y con foco.

Esta canción huele a tamarindo y a flor, sabe a mango recién ca'ído del árbol y suena al cuero del tambor del Negro Javier (yo), pregonando el amor por las calles como si fuera la única noticia que importa.

El estribillo es el consejo que me dio mi tierra: vivir libre como coco que rueda buscando el sol y amar con el sabor tropical que nos define. Todo pasa bajo la sombra del almendrón, ese árbol que es testigo de todo, donde el amor, la música y los recuerdos florecen.

Esto es pa' mi Abuela y pa' mi negrero... y pa' to' mi gente en Las Morochas. Es el sonido de mi alma barloventeña. Dale play y déjate llevar por el tambor.

Coco

My family tree has roots that grip three continents. The beat is the heartbeat, born from the Jamaican dances of resistance to my earth roots. The lyrics are the libation poured out for my ancestors, the Aboriginal "Redman" of the Amazonas who knew the earth, and the African soul from the Congo and South Africa who were forced to cross an ocean but carried a universe within them. Every single note is a thank you for the impossible cocktail of survival that allows me to exist. This is the inheritance.

Venezuelan Redman

This story, it's something else, heavy and real painful. It's about Tío Juan, "Juan Sabas Torres Monterola" you can find his Facebook, it's still up, even though he's gone. This narrative, it's deep, straight from the gut, about the realest man I knew.

It starts mad sad. You picture sad strings, a soft piano like a ghost, crickets and sirens in the distance, like in Caricuao. My voice is almost a whisper, telling him, "From the soul, from the pain that won't shut up." Then, out of nowhere, screams, "Tío Juan!" It's intense.

Then you get a picture of Juan Sabás, from Barlovento, from Sarría. King of stories, with his pipe and mad style. More women than a castle, body of Adonis, angel smile, mad sex appeal, no fear, no limits. A 300% man, no filter. A father to many, a friend to have fun with.

He was Julia Monterola's oldest, my mother's brother. Always giving wisdom with flavor and love. Brother to Mayíta and all his sisters, always laughing at every BBQ. He had the biggest car, the funniest jokes, the soul of the party, a divine godfather. But life, it doesn't play favorites. It killed two of his sons, Máikel and Harold. What a grievance. He was hurting.

Then it's just silence, distant gunshots, an echo. My voice cracks, asking, "Who gives a father his kids back? Who takes away the pain of seeing your sons die?" And then his brother, Tío Humberto, cries out "Níche!" that's what they called him "and now what?" It's heavy.

That's where the rage kicks in. You feel the aggression in my voice. It was his own daughter, with her dirty boyfriend, for a few measly dollars. They choked him out in his sleep, no chance to scream. The most handsome Black man, gone, couldn't even get up. You hear the choking sounds, the muffled screams, then silence, his heartbeat fading. I'm asking, "Who has the balls to talk about this shit? Where's the justice for this sinister tragedy?" I'm Javier, saying it because nobody else dares. They're scared, but my soul isn't backing down.

This part, it's my weak spot. Sad piano, rain falling. I'm telling you, "Forgive me, Tío Juan, I didn't call you that time." I thought there was time. His last call, his voice tired, and me, like an idiot, thinking about my workday. The pain doesn't fit in my chest. I failed him, my godfather. The family knows there's nothing to be done, revenge doesn't bring back yesterday.

Then the mood gets dark, grave, street echoes, and you hear Afro-Venezuelan drums. My voice is firm, nostalgic, reflective. He was the most handsome Black man in Sarría, dancing salsa with joy. Had kids everywhere, gave love without conditions. But they snuffed him out like a candle, like a betrayal hidden behind a smile. Yeniré, enough, tell the truth, no fear. The family knows, the soul's on fire. No justice for such a big soul, no forgiveness for killing the one who uplifted you most. But we're here, telling his story, so the world knows he lived with glory.

It ends with drums, distant laughs, and the sound of a pipe being lit. My voice is soft again, "Rest in peace, Tío Juan... Your story isn't erased... Your soul lives on in the rumba..." And then that last scream, "Juan Sabáás!", fading in pain. It's truly heavy.

Juan Sabás

Black Juan

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