(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

Get it on Amazon

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!

Get it on iTunes

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

Every creator needs a marketing budget. My haters work for free. They are my most dedicated, albeit least productive, street team. They spend their energy broadcasting my name to rooms I haven't even entered yet, and their obsession is my algorithm's favourite food. So, to the board of unpaid interns in my comment section: thank you for your service. Your work is noted. Now get back to it; my ambition just set some new quarterly goals.

The MFs is just ghosts haunting a house they can't afford to live in. They rattle chains in the comments, slam doors in the DMs, and moan about my light bill being too bright. The funny part is, I'm the landlord. I live here. Their obsession pays my spiritual taxes. So by all means, keep screaming into the void. It's not a threat; it's just sad, free ambiance for the party happening inside.

Dem Vex

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

'ALL SHOWS TO BE RESUMED IN 2026'
http://jordanjulianchase.com