SoundScape reaches the Soul💎Great track

Dig slow heavy jam!🤘🏻🔥🔥💪🏻

Mystic and dark ,  special atmospheric, 💙🔥🔥🔥

From the album "Cairn" (2024)

Watch the music video (Shot in VR):  https://vimeo.com/945409975

Dragonflies

When your feet are off the ground
You feel the weightlessness of sound
And soon you will be homeward bound


Dragonflies by day. Fireflies at night
And soon you will be homeward bound


Vivid dreams of us. 
I don't know what to so with this energy.


When your feet are off the ground
You feel the weightlessness of sound
And soon you will be homeward bound
And soon you will be homeward bound

ISRC:
uscgj2449654

Dragonflies

This musical project began in summer 2021. Two people. Two different views on things combined into something more. The work on the debut album took almost three long years. But slowness helped to achieve the desired result in sound and overall concept of the album..
 
Genre? Good question. Basically it's heavy metal (of course) but also included more sub styles: from soft acoustic moments to aggressive extreme parts. Literally different colors of music. Debut Album “Road To Nothing” it's just the beginning of Artesea’s Adventure.
To be (definitely) continued … Much More Songs, Much More Albums.

Days Of Confusion

Echos

Teardrops

R-Three Arrows

Written by the super talented Gaz Brownie, and produced by the amazing Mike Fox..
This is the follow up to "Marry Me in Vegas"..  Gaz and Mike once again invited me along on this gorgeous journey to continue the story..  Gaz gives an Outstanding performance and his voice just brings that emotion across which in turn allowed me to do the same..   I'm so thrilled I could once again collaborate with these two extraordinary gentleman.   Mike Fox did his magic in production and instrumentation and brought it all together..   We hope you enjoy this as much as we did making it..   

Copyright Fox Brownie 2024
Vocal Copyright Nat Daniels 2024 - Gentle Rain Records
Lyrics:

I can’t believe you're back in the city 
We called our own..
You wouldn’t recognise my number 
When I was calling,  calling on your phone
You said I’m sorry it’s been too long now 
And too many stones thrown 
I changed my number then picked another 
It was a stagecoach to Basingstoke 

Chorus 
So if you wanna get into 
Some real….Real good trouble 
And leave our past behind
Then I’m ready & primed
For real good trouble 
For real good trouble….. Every Time! 

(Every time.. oh baby baby baby... every time!)

2nd Verse
So after Vegas I needed to leave 
I should've worn my heart on my sleeve
Every minute of everyday 
I thought of you and what to say 
I got a job found a place 
And for a while I was the new face.. 
All the great moments that got us through 
Were never the same without You! 

Chorus 
So if you wanna, get into
Some real…. Real good trouble 
And leave our past behind 
Then I’m ready & primed
For real good trouble 
For real good trouble … Every Time!

Every time.. oh baby baby baby... every time..
Real good trouble... 
Real good trouble... 
Real good trouble... 
Every time.. Every time!

Real Good Trouble

Misk - Helix

Little Dove

BUY BEAT

SOUL TIES | J Cole Type Beat

Beneath the great museum on Giltspur Street lay vaults of stone, cold as tombs and twice as silent. They housed the spoils of empire, relics pried from graves and temples far from London’s soot. The curator, Jonathan Blythe, called himself an archivist, though the whispers among porters and cataloguers called him something closer to a thief.

On that night, Blythe sat in his private office, tallying donations. Candles guttered upon shelves stacked with reliquaries, carved idols, and bones. He smiled to himself as he counted. “The past is a ledger,” he said aloud, “and I am its keeper.”

Yet even as he spoke, the air in the vault shifted. The guards at the stair swore later that the rain above had grown louder, a drumming that sank into the stones until the vault itself seemed to breathe.

Blythe rose, lantern in hand, and walked among his collection. The shadows lengthened beyond what the flame should allow. He paused before a display of bones taken from a burial mound in the north. They had been arranged into neat patterns for the benefit of scholars, labeled with tidy script. Tonight they moved. Vertebrae twisted upon themselves, ribs aligned into the shape of a cage that was not human.

The curator stepped back, lantern shaking. He whispered, “Who goes there?”

Silence answered. Silence, heavy as the depths of a crypt.

Then the dust shifted. Upon the shelves where artifacts rested, armored gauntlet-prints appeared in the powder. Not hands of flesh, but shapes too vast, too perfect, the impressions of crenellations and battlements pressed into mortal space.

The idols toppled. They struck the floor in order, as though placed. The shelves emptied themselves, returning relics to nothingness, leaving behind absence more solid than any stone. A single plaque remained fixed upon the wall, the words etched with precision: What was taken remembers the hand.

Blythe turned, heart hammering. He saw then a shape that had not been there before. At the end of the vault’s corridor stood a figure, armor gleaming like wet stone, visor catching no light. The sword hung low, its point resting against the flagstones.

He dropped to his knees. “Mercy,” he whispered.

The lantern extinguished. The silence grew complete.

When the porters found him at dawn, Blythe was seated at his desk, eyes open, lips parted as if mid-lecture. His skull had been turned to face a glass case that stood empty. In his lap lay an iron key tied with black thread. The sigil cut into it was deeper than any before, the metal warped around it like wax.

The vault itself was ruined. Pedestals stood bare. Labels hung in the air as if awaiting objects that would never return. The dust bore the prints of towers and walls, as though a fortress had walked among them.

That night, the city spoke of Grathok as an archivist. Not of men, but of truths. That he came not to kill but to reorder, to take what had been stolen and return it to the ledger of absence. The beggars called it justice. The merchants spat the name like a curse. The constables swore they would abandon their watch if ever they were posted to the museum again.

And in the taverns, whispers began to rise. If Grathok collected the corrupt and the stolen, then how long until his keys turned upon the doors of those who merely watched?

Chapter IX: The Archivist of Bones

Purchase this beat: https://bsta.rs/KffZt

This beat is free for non-profit purposes only. If you'd like to use this beat for other purposes, please purchase a license. Producer Credit is required (prod. ICEMANMUSIC) if you haven't purchased a license.

Contact: iceman.sawz@gmail.com

Misk - Helix

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