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.

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

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Jordan Julian Chase