(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!

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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.

1995

Apathy

Apathy (HBO)

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

...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!

I was standin’ in the rain, hoodie soaked, heart hollow, no frontin’, no mask, just me and the storm, drained from the inside out. Ain’t no soundtrack, just the sound of water hittin’ pavement, and my thoughts spillin’ everywhere. I wasn’t cryin’, but the sky did it for me. That day, I had nothin’ left, no fight, no fire, just fumes. And still, I stood there, ‘cause sometimes you gotta let the rain hit you, let it wash off the weight, even if it don’t fix nothin’. That’s the moment this track lives in, no hook, no hype, just truth in the drizzle.

PLAY

Standin In The Rain

Standin' In The Rain

Aight, This joint right ere, "En Haiti," 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

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Man, I'm tellin' you, that "Unc" or "Sir" hit different, right? Like, one minute you're smooth as a fresh pair of Timbs, still got that youthful swagger, thinkin' you're forever in your prime. Then some young cat, lookin' like he just dropped out of kindergarten yesterday, hits you with the "Excuse me, Unc," or the dreaded, "Can I help you, Sir?"

BOOM! It's like a cold bucket of water to the face, son! A straight-up gut punch from Father Time himself. You stand there for a second, lookin' around like, "Who they talkin' to? I don't see no old man here!" Then you realize... they talkin' to you. And that's when it hits you, that cold, hard truth: you officially crossed over. No longer just "my dude" or "bro," now you're in the "respected elder" category. It's a wrap! You just gotta laugh it off and try not to pull a muscle tryna still act like you got it like that! lol!

VEGA

'ALL SHOWS TO BE RESUMED IN 2026'
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