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!

Aight, so you heard the track. That ain't just some lyrics I wrote down, son. That's my life on wax. That's the road map of my scars, for real.

When I had to bounce from Venezuela, I landed in Haiti with nothing but the dust on my boots and a ghost in my eyes. I didn't speak the language, didn't know a soul. I was a target, a herb, shoulda been easy prey.

But the people there... the cats in Port-au-Prince... they was official. Real recognize real, you feel me? They didn't see an immigrant; they saw a man in pain. They looked me in my eyes, shared the little bread they had, and gave me a nod that said, "I see you, G. Keep your head up." That's that real love, the kind that don't cost a dime but is worth more than gold.

Then I kept pushin' north. Hit Quebec. And damn. It was like walkin' into a freezer. The buildings were clean, the money was there, but the hearts were on ice. I was invisible all over again, but this time it was different. It wasn't the struggle of the block; it was a cold, quiet dismissal. Cats would look right through you. That ain't hate, that's worse. That's indifference.

That journey taught me somethin' my four degrees never could: the cats with the least to give are usually the first to share it, and the ones sittin' on everything won't even give you a glance.

So when you hear me spit in French, in Creole, in Spanish... that's not me showin' off. That's me claimin' every piece of that road. The warmth from Haiti gave me the fire to not let the Canadian winter kill my soul. The song is my testimony. I survived the heat and I survived the cold. I carry the sun and the frostbite. I'm a product of both. Word is bond.

Frontière du feu

Aight, so you just heard the last cut on the EP, "Brownsville Static." And lemme tell you, if you thought the other tracks hit hard, this one? This one ain't playin' no games, G. This ain't just a song, this is a whole damn sonic manifesto.

This joint, "Brownsville Static," it's my anthem. It's me takin' their pretty, glossy picture of New York, all the brunch, all the Broadway, all that frontin' and smashin' it to pieces. Then I'm puttin' the real New York back together, brick by brick, from the forgotten soul of places like The Ville.

You hear that TR-707 kickin'? That's the heartbeat of the streets, G. Those distorted choir pads, those siren synths? That's the sound of the alleys, the cracked sidewalks, the whole damn struggle and the beauty that comes out of it. We ain't dreamin' about no skyline fantasies; our dreams are spray-painted on the walls, written in the graffiti. That's real art.

This ain't some made-up story, nah. This is Jordan Julian Chase, that's me,singin' truth from the margins, from the realest part of the city. I'm weavin' the brilliance, the grime, the spiritual grit of Brownsville into every damn verse. You can feel the tenement scars, you can hear the prophets on the stoops, you can feel the rhythm that's buried deep in that static.

This track is a sonic documentary, for real. It's the sound of the city carved in flame and remixed from pain. It's not the New York they sell you on postcards; it's the New York that made me. It's the real. It's the raw. And it ain't somethin' you just listen to. It's somethin' you feel. Word is bond.

1995

Static in Brownsville

Aight, so you just heard "Master's Degree in Rage." That ain't just a song, G. That's the blueprint of the frustration that's been eatin' at my soul since day one.

When that cold synth intro drops, that's the sound of their damn system, their processing plant for broken dreams. And then I come in, talkin' 'bout bleedin' on their textbooks, havin' "Doctor" in front of my name, all the letters, all the degrees. I built a whole damn fortress with my mind, just to get their respect.

But the minute the ink's dry, the minute I step out, they look right past the scholar. They see the same old threat, the same "nigga from the gutter" they always saw. That ain't just lyrics, G, that's my life. That's the betrayal. You climb their whole damn ladder, jump through every hoop, and the prize is just findin' out the bars on the cage are still there, just fancier.

The chorus, "Got a Master's Degree in Rage, a PhD in pain," that's the truth. All that knowledge ain't a shield; it's a weapon. It just taught me how to articulate the damn chains they got me in. I'm the smartest man in the room, speak six languages, got all the papers, but they still assume I'm comin' to bring the doom. That's the cold reality of bein' a Black man in this world, no matter how many degrees you got.

And that bridge... "I climbed their whole ladder to the top of the sky / Just to find out the prize was a gilded lie." That's the moment of clarity, the realest heartbreak. All that work, all that struggle, just to see the true shape of the chains.

Then that solo hits, no pretty melody, just jagged noise, like a damn system crashin'. That's my anger, unfiltered.

The outro, "My mind's a library... but my body's still a crime scene." Man, that's it. That's the whole damn point. They can't touch my mind, but the minute I step outside, my body is still a target. That's the constant reminder of where I come from and where they still want to keep me. That's the Master's Degree in Rage, G. Word is bond.

Black Phd

When I sing, "I'm haunted by your digital ghost," that's real-real, G. Forget actual ghosts; this is worse. This is when the person you used to vibe with is gone from your life, but their damn shadow is everywhere online. Every time I scroll, every time I'm online, there they are. A perfect picture, a post from a year ago. It ain't even them no more, just this "perfect program" the algorithm keeps pushin' in my face. You start wonderin', did I even love them, or just the curated version they put out there? That's what haunts you.

I'm talkin' about searchin' their name, that "ritual hum." Man, that's addiction, that's pain. You diggin' through corrupted files of who we used to be. Every pixel, every old photo, it makes your heart go numb 'cause you realize you mighta fallen for a fantasy. You're tellin' stories to an empty room, tryin' to make sense of a love that's just a "curated ghost inside a digital tomb." That's deep, G.

My breaking point. "Maybe I'm in love with my own projection." That's when you realize you're just hooked on the idea, the image, the memory of what was, not the person who left. Every like, every old comment, it's just an "bliss, a deferred affection."

So when I hit that line, "Tonight, I'm making the deletion..." That's me tryin' to cut ties for real. Not just blockin' 'em, but deletin' the whole damn history in my head. It's painful as hell, 'cause you ain't just lettin' go of a person; you're tryin' to erase a digital phantom that's everywhere you look. That's the hardest break-up, son. Word is bond.

Digital Ghost

Aight, bet. Lemme give you the raw version.

This track, "Offline Heaven"? This is the sound of me pullin' the plug on the whole damn world. My brother's gone. My whole crew is gone. I don't need their ghosts showin' up in my feed like some damn #TBT. That ain't memory, son. That's torture.

When I sing, "I miss yo breath, not yo emoji," I'm talkin' about the sound of my brother's stupid laugh. I need somethin' real to hold onto, not this digital smoke they keep blowin' in my face.

And that line, "Tried 2 upload my soul / But tha format wasn’t supported"? That's my whole life. I gave 'em the Ivy League degrees, the six languages... I tried to fit in. But my soul, my story, was too real for their wack-ass system.

So I built my own damn temple in the silence. This ain't about being lonely; it's about bein' free. I'm not "buffering" for their approval no more. I'm just becoming. Me. The real me. Word is bond.

Offline Heaven

The cold truth is, when you're the last man standin', when your whole damn crew is gone, no friends, no cousins, no brother, no shorty to hold, the loudest thing in the room is the silence. And the TV, that glowing box, that's your only connection to the outside world. It ain't even about the show on; it's about the noise, the human voices filterin' through the static. Just enough to drown out the echo in your own damn head.

So yeah, while everybody was yellin' "Happy New Year!" to somebody they probably didn't even like, I was watchin' a movie, lettin' the characters be my company. It ain't sad, G. It's just... real. It's a different kind of survival. And sometimes, apathy is your best friend when the world outside is makin' all that damn noise about happiness. Word is bond.

HBO & Apathy

Aight, so you just heard "Can I Please Go Home Now?" That ain't just some synth-pop track, G. That's my whole damn life story in three minutes.

When I sing about packin' my soul in a carry-on, that's real. That's me runnin' from the hood, from the abuse, from the hunger in Brooklyn, then from Caricuao. I wasn't chasin' dreams; I was outrunnin' nightmares.

And that chorus? "Can I please go home now? Even if I don't know where..." That's the question that haunts me, son. Brooklyn gone. Caracas gone. My whole damn crew gone. No friends, no family left. So where is home? It ain't a place, it's a feeling I ain't found.

I learned six languages, got four degrees. Did everything they told me to do to escape. But I still walk into a room and I'm just a nigga from The Ville to them. That's the real betrayal. That's why I sing, "This is not my plot."

So when that track fades out, and you hear that whisper, "Can I go home now?"... that's my voice. That's my soul screamin' for a place to finally just *be*. Word is bond.

Can I Please Go Home Now?

These ain't just overalls, Nigga I be rockin dis joint mos of my life. Dem faded blue chronicle of a life lived raw, from the concrete jungles of Brooklyn to the vibrant chaos of Caracas. They've absorbed the grime of every subway ride, the chill of a winter with broken heating, and the sweat of a thousand hustles just to make rent.

In Brooklyn, my armor. Dem carry the ghosts of late-night bodega runs, the echoes of boomboxes on stoops, and the grit of a city that tests you every single day. Then they flew south, soaking up the relentless Caracas sun, tasting the street arepas, and moving to a rhythm that was just as wild, just as real.

Every frayed edge, every stain, every worn-out patch tells a story of survival. They've seen me at my lowest and held together through it all. They're more than just clothes; they're a testament.

Word is bond.

Overalls

'ALL SHOWS TO BE RESUMED IN 2026'
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