bel suono iniziale e per il resto del beat

Criminal Kiss

Tough Guys Don't Dance

The Sound of Silence

The Sound of Silence (CYRIL Remix)

Mix  Sound Of Silence (CYRIL Remix)

Not a vacation. Not home. But it’s mine.

1. there’s no crying in baseball
2. morning mist
3. fight club
4. angel pine

Extended Stay the movie and EP out now: 

Lyrics and Vocals by Mitchell Bay
Guitar by Michael Harrison
Mixed and Mastered by Jay Remi
Cover art by Eric Bishop


morning mist (prod. Michael Harrison)

The Trees Beside My House is written about...The Trees Beside My House.  They hold special meaning for me, with their beauty and spiritual power.  The bird chirp was recorded in early spring as the weather began to warm.  I rarely include a vocal component in my music but I felt here that it would be effective. 'Trees', is the 6th track from my latest album, Waiting for Spring.

Bandcamp

The Trees Beside My House (A Beatnik Rhapsody)

MUSICIANS
John Beckmann: all music, lyrics, and production
Tanner McGraw: vocals and backing vocals
Lawson Mars: backing vocals
Lux Astralis, New York: recording studio

LYRICS
I haven’t seen you for days on end,
Like fools lost in the wind.
Are you out there chasing dreams?
I need you—come to me

I’ll be there,
Just for you

I don’t know where you are tonight,
Are you dancing in the fading light?
You know when the light comes up,
It always leads you back to me.
I’ll be there,
Just for you, 

Even if you’re far away,
I’ll wait for the dawn of the day.
Because true love never fades away,

Yeah, I’ll be there,
Just for you

I don’t know where you are tonight,
Are you dancing in the fading light?
You know when the light comes up,
It always leads you back to me.
I’ll be there,
Just for you, 

Are you dancing in the fading light?
Are you dancing in the fading light?

I don’t know where you are tonight,
Are you dancing in the fading light?
You know when the light comes up,
It always leads you back to me.
I’ll be there,
Just for you

DANCING IN THE FADING LIGHT

An Outlaw's swagger beat ode to the gal he'd steal for.

It Takes A Thief

Pistoleros Para Irvine Welsh: Bad Company - Y Diz Mix

Bad Company Otto Von Schirach's Meteor Mix

Factory 1987

The Hood - Salvation (Nitro Dub)

www.mortalprophets.com

“Anyone having trouble getting to, or staying, asleep should proceed with caution when playing The Mortal Prophets’ debut album around bedtime. The demonic intentions implied by the album’s name and defined by John Beckmann … coil each selection in menacing directions, bringing fresh, often frightening twists to these standards. Be aware - when you engulf yourself in these riveting, uncompromising performances. They are not for the squeamish.”
- American Songwriter

The Mortal Prophets: John Beckmann’s Cinematic Descent Into the Electric Psyche

In the sprawling constellation of modern music, The Mortal Prophets occupy a shadowed corner—less a “band” in the traditional sense than a living, breathing séance conducted by John Beckmann. Across a series of albums, Beckmann has been excavating the strata of Americana, dream pop, blues, and avant-garde minimalism, folding them into a fever-dream narrative that feels like it was beamed from a late-night pirate radio station somewhere between the Mississippi Delta and the outer rings of Saturn. 

Beckmann, who founded New York’s Axis Mundi Design before turning his obsessive creative drive toward music, approaches songwriting like a visual architect—each track a space you inhabit rather than simply hear. His arrangements have the tension of architectural blueprints: precision married to instinct, steel and stone softened by ambient light. In GUITARWORKS II, the most recent installment in a sprawling instrumental odyssey, guitar tones unspool like distant telegraph wires, calling to mind Robert Fripp’s collaborations with Brian Eno, or the glacial drift of Cluster’s experimental soundscapes. It’s profoundly cinematic, yet never ornamental.

If Beckmann’s earlier releases (Stomp The Devil, Me and The Devil, Dealey Plaza Blues) reached back into mythic Americana—the open road, outlaw ballads, acid-washed folk visions—his more recent work tilts toward the abstract, replacing narrative with mood. This is music that understands how memory works: fractured, impressionistic, prone to bleed between truth and hallucination. The Mortal Prophets operate in that liminal space where you’re not sure if you’re dreaming, or just remembering wrong. 

Vocally, when Beckmann steps to the mic, it’s with a delivery equal parts Leonard Cohen confession and Bowie-esque theater—half-smirk, half-sermon. Lyrically, he trades in arcane symbols and sly allusions: 19th-century mystics rub shoulders with dive-bar drifters, and romantic longing flickers like neon through a rain-soaked windshield. He’s not afraid of obliqueness; in fact, he seems to revel in it. Where many contemporary songwriters flatten their work into algorithm-friendly hooks, Beckmann builds labyrinths. 

Part of The Mortal Prophets’ magnetism lies in its refusal to settle. One album might summon the humid ghost-blues of Junior Kimbrough refracted through a loop pedal; the next might drift into synth-heavy dream pop worthy of an early-’90s 4AD release. Beckmann’s collaborators—rotating players drawn from both avant-garde and roots backgrounds—expand that sonic palette, giving the project an almost shapeshifting quality. 
In a cultural moment where genre boundaries are largely performative, Beckmann treats them as haunted ruins worth spelunking through. His songs feel like dispatches from parallel histories of American music—histories where psychedelia never died, where blues never got sanitized, and where experimentalism didn’t have to hide in academic halls. 

The Mortal Prophets may never break into the Billboard mainstream, but that’s hardly the point. Their appeal is in the slow burn, the intimacy of discovery. Beckmann’s work isn’t built for quick consumption; it’s built for listeners willing to linger, to decode, to wander down the long corridors he constructs. In an era obsessed with speed and surface, The Mortal Prophets offer the opposite: a deep dive into the echo chamber of the self, scored by a man who seems to know exactly how to make the walls sing.

DANCING IN THE FADING LIGHT

Mortal Prophets

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