The value of white symbolically represents a blank canvas, a fresh start, a new sound, and new beginning. Yung Gipsy a passion project inspired by a Google search. A random dump of heavenly hip hop and/or ethereal trap music. 

Live free, be nomadic, embrace the unknown, embody the strange, become the change, create your own meaning, get lit on life. 

Dismiss all that is unchill, latro.

=[ Æ (Alpiar Experiment) ]=

Freedom of Expression | Improvisational Telepathy

..........

Sax man and composer Christopher Alpiar has been searching for decades to uncover the nine-note multiphonic chord, performed on the tenor saxophone, that allows the dimension of time to be folded - allowing instantaneous travel in space. The search continues with Æ (Alpiar Experiment).

With a cast of the finest creative minds assembled, the band gathers once again, combining their individual magics to delve deep into the essence of the universe. Beginning the quest with the very rhythm of the Earth, they establish a cosmic resonance together, filled with bare primal truths of life and existence.

They search high and low, from the highest peek of heavenly saturation to the deeps of the depths of the bowels of life. Striving to find their truths individually and as brothers and sisters, they crack open the Earth with sound; with music. And through the music, portals to alternate realities become available.

The core of the Æ sound is the trio: Alpiar on saxophones and EWI (Electronic Wind Instrument by Akai), Mamaniji Azanyah on bass and Kenito Murray on drums. Together this trio lays down the construct for the expedition into nether regions of the mind.

Online Istikhara Whenever a Muslim might want to take a conclusion, he or your ideal accomplice should search for Allah's bearing and savvy. Allah knows not is frightful and the heavenly for us, and there could be incredible in what various people see as dreadful

The original 1979 release
-------------------------
Oly hosszú volt a huszonhárom év, 
S oly messze van az én hazám. 
Idõm lejárt, a Földet elhagyom, 
Mert Gammapolis vár reám. 
 
Most búcsúzom, jó barátaim, 
Találkozunk még, mondanám, 
De már nem hiszem, hogy újra eljövök, 
Mert Gammapolis vár reám. 
 
Isten veled, hû szerelmesem, 
Légy boldogabb más oldalán! 
Azt hitted, csak álom, ha azt mondtam neked, 
Hogy Gammapolis vár reám. 
 
Ha az óra pont éjfélt mutat, 
Nézz át az ég ablakán! 
Megláthatod azt a csillagot, 
Hol Gammapolis vár reám. 


Ha álmaid játszanak veled, 
Meglátod õt és rabul ejt a vágy. 
Hiába követed, nem éred el 
A nyári éjek asszonyát.  
 
Szerelme több, mint múló pillanat, 
Végigkísér egy éjen át. 
Ha érezted, már soha nem felejtheted 
A nyári éjek asszonyát.  
 
A kínzó vágy szívedben elcsitul, 
De enyhülést nem hoz reád, 
És viszonzatlan szerelemmel gyûlölöd 
A nyári éjek asszonyát.  
 
Oly színtelen a legszebb nõi arc, 
S mellette halvány a valóság. 
Ó Istenem, add meg nekem, hogy feledjem 
A nyári éjek asszonyát!  


A városon, ha itt az óra, bolondok háza lesz, 
Eltûnik az értelem, az idegek harca ez.  
 
Mindenütt zûrzavar, nyugalmat nem találsz, 
Az õrültek órája menekül, merre látsz.  
 
Mindenki siet, mindenki fut, az élet mögöttük áll, 
A nagy feszültség kibírhatatlan, a sarkon a halál vár.  
 
Mindenütt zûrzavar, nyugalmat nem találsz, 
Az õrültek órája menekül, merre látsz.  
 
A vezetékek elszakadnak, sziréna hangja szól, 
A komputerek fejüket vesztik, a téboly elsodor.  
 
Mindenütt zûrzavar, nyugalmat nem találsz, 
Az õrültek órája menekül, merre látsz.  

A számûzött a városba tér, 
Szívében érzi, hogy ezzel az út véget ér. 
Hazám, fogadd be õt! 
Nem lázad ellened már, hisz az út véget ér.  
 
Nagy folyó, az arcomat nézd, 
Nem érzek vágyakat többé, az út véget ér. 
Jöjj, oly közel az éj! 
Sokáig nem élek már, hisz az út véget ér.  
 

Feltámad a tetszhalott, 
Az ég alján bíbor tûz lobog, 
Az elfelejtett város újraéled, 
Lángot gyújt a hajnal, az éj uralma véget ér.  
 
Felszakad a néma csend, 
A szélmadár új dalba kezd, 
A múltba dermedt órák újra járnak, 
Lángot gyújt a hajnal, az éj uralma véget ér.  
 
Az égi fény felragyog, 
Tárulnak a lezárt ablakok, 
A háztetõkön tûzvirágok nyílnak, 
Lángot gyújt a hajnal, az éj uralma véget ér.  
 
Testet ölt a fénysugár, 
A téren át a földre száll, 
A régi vágyak újra élnek, 
Lángot gyújt a hajnal, az éj uralma véget ér. 


Az arcnélküli ember mindenre kész, 
A gúnyos tükörképpel bátran szembenéz. 
Nem veszíthet semmit, hisz még arca sincs, 
S nem tudod, kié a féltve õrzött kincs.  
 
Az arcnélküli ember ma még jó barát, 
De játszi könnyedséggel köpönyeget vált. 
Pecsétes papírok mögé bújik el, 
Minden nap egy másik álarcot visel.  
 
Az arcnélküli ember sötét lelke mély, 
Tõle származik a névtelen levél. 
Gyûlöl minden arcot s minden nagy nevet, 
Ha rájössz erre, könnyen felismerheted. 
 
Sötéten néz le rám az ég, 
A múltak árnya itt kísért, 
És hull, csak hull reám 
Ezüst esõ  
 
Lombjuk vesztett rózsafák, 
Földöntúli pusztaság, 
S csak hull, csak hull reám 
Ezüst esõ.  
 
Messzi földrõl jöttem én, 
Átölelt a tiszta fény; 
De elborult az ég, és a csillagok tüzét 
Elnyelte a köd és a szürkeség, 
Minden oly sötét.  
 
Elhagyott, kihalt e táj, 
Lángvirágok füstje száll, 
S csak hull, és hull reám 
Ezüst esõ.  
 
Sötéten néz le rám az ég, 
A múltak árnya itt kísért, 
És hull, csak hull reám 
Ezüst esõ  

Az utazó már mindent végigjárt, 
Talán túl sokat kívánt, 
De nem látott se jobbnak, se boldogabbnak mást. 
Hát menjünk, keressünk új csodát! 
Gammapolis, álmodj tovább!  
 
Jöjj hát, jöjj hozzám közel, 
Kiabálj, vagy súgd, mi érdekel, 
Szálljunk át az égen, a csillagok felé! 
Vagy jó lesz a megszokott világ? 
Gammapolis, álmodj tovább!  

-------
It had been so long, the twenty-three years 
And my home is so far away 
My time is up; I depart from Earth 
Because Gammapolis waits for me 

Now I say farewell my good friends 
We'll meet again I would say 
But now, I don't believe I'll come again 
Because Gammapolis waits for me 

God bless you my faithful love 
Be happier at someone else's side 
You thought it was only a dream when I told you 
That Gammapolis waits for me 

When the clock shows exactly midnight 
Look through the window of the sky 
You shall see that star 
Where Gammapolis waits for me

When your dreams play with you 
You see her and desire takes you prisoner 
Follow her in vain, you can not reach  
The lady of the summer nights 
 
Her love is more then a passing moment 
Will accompany you through a life 
If you felt once you can never forget  
The lady of the summer nights 
 
The tormenting desire subdues in your heart 
But doesn't bring relieve to it 
And with unshared love you despise  
The lady of the summer nights  
 
So colorless the most beautiful female face 
And reality is pale next to her  
Oh my God allow me to forget 
The lady of the summer nights 
 
When hour strikes upon the town, it will be a madhouse 
Intelligence disappears; it will be the war of nerves 
Disorder is everywhere, you can't find solitude 
The hour of insane, escape wherever you see!  
 
Everybody rushes, everybody runs, life is behind them 
The huge tension is unbearable; at the corner death awaits 
Chaos everywhere, you can't find solitude 
The hour of insane, escape wherever you see!  
 
The wires break, the sound of siren blares  
The computers lose their heads; the madness sweeps you away 
Chaos everywhere, you can't find solitude 
The hour of insane, escape wherever you see!  

When the outcast gets to the city  
In his heart he feels, with this the road reached the end 
My homeland receive him  
He won't revolt against you now since the road reached the end 
 
Big river, look upon my face! 
I feel no desires any longer, the road reached the end 
Come, the sky is so near 
I won't live much longer now since the road reached the end 

The unconscious resurrects  
On the bottom of the sky ruby fire blazes 
The forgotten city lives again 
The dawn sparks flames, the reign of night ends 
 
The mute silence tears apart  
The wind bird starts a new song 
The clocks frozen in the past, beat again 
The dawn sparks flames, the reign of night ends 
 
The heavenly light flares up  
The closed windows open up  
On the rooftops, fire flowers bloom 
The dawn sparks flames, the reign of night ends 
 
The ray of light takes shape 
Across the space it flies to the ground 
The old desires live again 
The dawn sparks flames, the reign of night ends 
The dawn sparks flames, the reign of night ends 
 
The man without face is ready for everything 
He looks in the eye the mocking mirror image bravely 
He can lose nothing since doesn't even have a face 
And you don't know who owns the closely guarded treasure 
 
The man without the face, today is still a good friend 
But with playful ease he can change sides 
He hides behind stamped papers 
Everyday he wears a different mask 
 
The man without a face, his dark soul is deep 
The anonymous letters are sent from him 
He hates every face and every big name 
If you realize this, you can recognize him easily 

The night looks down on me darkly 
Shadows of your past trail me here 
And it falls, just falls on me 
Silver rain 
 
Rose trees that lost their blooms 
Unearthly barren plane  
And it falls, just falls on me 
Silver rain 
 
I came from a distant land 
The pure light embraced me  
But the sky turned dim and the blaze of the stars 
Was swallowed by the fog and gray 
Everything is so dark 
 
The night looks down on me darkly 
The shadows of your past trail me here 
And it falls, just falls on me 
Silver rain 
 
The voyager has gone now everywhere  
He desired too much perhaps 
But he didn't see anyone else better or happier 
Then let's go; let us search for new miracle! 
 
Gammapolis keep on dreaming! 
 
Come then, come closer to me 
Shout out or whisper what interests you 
Let us fly across the sky towards the stars 
Or the familiar world will be better 
 
Gammapolis keep on dreaming! 

Elite men who are looking for an exceptional escort to have an unrivaled and fulfilling experience, their search ends at the New York GFE Club. It is the right place where you can find the woman of your dreams, who can turn your fantasy into reality and provide you a heavenly and surreal dating experience.

for further information: moth3rh00d@gmail.com

http://www.myspace.com/570044050

Gigs: 

26 January: Heroes, Camden 7pm. THE RETURN OF GIGS!

24 November: Launch of Thank You, My Dog EP; George Orwell Tavern (Essex Road) w/No Colour, Frog Morris, and Great Men plus special performances by Paul Haworth and an exotic film screening. Video teaser (expect this and much more, homie(s)): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0sg4jJ0YVow

17 November: Blag Club (Notting Hill Gate) (acoustical)

15 November: Monto Water Rats (Kings Cross) w/Sweet Sweet Lies

13 November: Start the Bus (Bristol, UK) w/Jeff the Brotherhood (video below):
http://blip.tv/yourmusic-productions/13-11-11-at-start-the-bus-motherhood-pt-1-5738117

8 November: The Good Ship (Kilburn)

29 October, The Enterprise (Chalk Farms/Camden)CANCELLED FOR SOME UNKNOWABLE REASON

20 October: St. Paul's

15 September 2011: Book Launch Partnership Friary Road House: 

Just to announce that the increasingly legendary South London Publishing House Friary Road House and Motherhood are working together to draw attention to FRH's latest almighty poetry anthology: "noetpy"--doing my best to mimic the cyrillic orthography of the journal with Roman letters. 

Among the amazing writers included are Bobby Dowler, Vincent Clay and the incomparable Alexander Nemser 

Motherhood is including a free CD complete with artwork/lyrics sheet and a lovingly crafted personal message with copies of "noetpy". If you'd like a copy of the anthology, just email us here and we'll get it out to you. The collection is £6 plus postage. 


9 August, 2011, Buffalo Bar (video of "Punk for Life/Punk for Death")

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZR1xr3U5Flo


17 August, 2011, Good Ship (Kilburn) 8pm.ish.

in the meantime, a pseud0-bandifest0 for downpressing grourmandisers who recreate the punk club of their youth in Vegas:
 
			Motherhood Manifestations 

The markets reject sleep. The European vortex howls outside. Null and void, full of economic rationalisations, the confrontation of the past, with the bad dream. Horrible, misplaceable freedom is dancing in the cappuccino froth. The sea monster roils beneath, scrapings from the drama are reconfigured and sold back via satellite packages and living room sets. Daily anthracite inhalings, arctic seepage, briefly, heavenly forgotten poisons are inhaled in spas; back in style. Turn every page, hoping that the last newspaper will disintegrate before dawn. Listen to every plane and helicopter as it passes, chopping its way into deeper darknesses. Which will be the day it chops for you? An X-Factor Saturday?

Primordial scouring of the ideologies is producing nothing, writers blocs and idiolecterns for the worst. It’s fun to drag flags through teargas and watch the club descend into hazy double vision. Dog runs are breeding, rats and hocus-pocus are breaking teeth on the gates of Vienna in the dream of an extraordinarily stupid ape.  Tune in for the carcass videos, and the fright-faces of the masters and their press secretaries, securities and exchanges are commissioned, call me a fledgling, I’m fledging my allegiance to the only thing I’ve ever loved: hiss and noise and total disobedience. 
Nostalgia for air raid sirens, motility of borders, the old fashioned in-and-down-and-out. Common enemies proliferate in the auto-recessional and in the mildew towers. Jubilee year came and went without any jubilation. The securitisation of the cathedral seat also came and petered out. Enter the venerable mosque paranoia, the soul on icicles and icecap retreat. I’m feeling the stoppage of the genre, the inevitable every day slowing of the thermo-haline deregulation. Aristocrats love Aristaeus, written on papyrus, buying copies of Frieze and The Big Takeover, reading until fingers bleed and consciousness manifests itself as something greater than a fashionable malady. Inside the mouth organ, inside the portcullis, David Foster Wallace fell out of race for rattiness, what does the aerial surveillance tell? The coconut and tear ice cream is melting on the sidewalk, suck the spoon until all the goodness goes out. After dinner mincing, supply lines are tight, the fear of a dark future looms on a black planet, that there won’t be enough black blood to keep the tanks and caterpillars humming. Harmony is a kind of conspiracy. 

 Down at Lourdes, various accidental members of the human race accrue. Dive into the illustrious illusions, accidental interpretations accrue. The kids of yesterday become the eternal kids of today, the calumny of the 1970s is being rerun, nurturing the harrow of the 1980s, homogenising the milk of the 1990s, which is lead, sleepwalking, in a financialised sleeping bag called the 2000s. We’ve counted up to slaughterhouse six now, preparing to unleash our special brand of mistake on everything, Klingons, giraffes, the noble presence gone absent since something like the Edwardian age, the pointless in-between. 

Tear gas for tear masks, hobo jamborees erupted from the nothingness in the wake of the RNC Welcoming Committee and the media flare gun pointed at its heart. Credit line lassos evoked Buffalo Bill et al. defunct. The zero radiates and pulls the unhappy constant of the present into one piece. No one has a freedom pass any more for the freedom bus. Neal Cassidy and Ginsberg are rotting beneath the Stealer’s Wheel licensing fees and T-Shirt assassins gathered at the foyer. Welcome to the industry, kid(z). 

Gone commando, the night before I enlisted, I decided to drink that beer and enlist the jizz goggles and all that entails. I peered into the future for long enough to realise that all the world is a stage and all in it are soundmen/soundwomen waiting for Gyges and the Lychees to take the stage, to emerge from the cave and give us a round of ring-around-the-warhead before departing on the private hell-jet to nowhere, to play a gig for Ilham Aliev and companies—Spoek Mathambo on percussion. Before they left, I stole the set list which contained Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s recipe for rock’n’roll rebellion: push a button and nothing drips out. As soon as an idea bubbles over it is frozen by the coolness of the advertising avant-garde. Sob if you will, ideally on to a plate of bone china porcelain with intellectual property rights, to be projected on the Jumbotron. Farewell, moon. 
Flowers and allergies, and rhapsody can be imported. Punching a hole in the romantic outlaw is a fine way to pass through time. Camelot was a lie before it became a legend, now there’s only the Barbary pirates’ radio station brought to you by supermarkets and monks retreating down the demand curve, obsessed with giving something back to the no ones and antibodies.  As soon as you feel it, you can buy it because someone felt you while you were feeling it. 

All manifestations are the reification of irrelevance. How can the present be different from the past when the past is sitting there drunk and passed out on the couch with a dick drawn on its cheek and “Obama 2012” written on its shin-bone?  A loop, as they say, is a loop, is a loop is a wolf is a woolf is an allegiance to a particular place and time and estimate of bohemian credibility. You feel strangely attached to it, but still want to see it ruptured and its guts spilling on the ground. 
Sooner or later someone asks you to stand outside yourself and make a long list of plausible things to reject:


 				Bullet Point/Going Ballistics 
--Art is a strawberry jar effect followed by a strawberry fields effect.
--Art is a long haired dude effect (black T-shirt with oozy writing optional).
--Art is a cleansing of the synaptic cleft.
--Art is a Tom Petty and the Heartbroken effect.
 		--Art is a sustained love for that which can and does destroy you effect.
 		--Art is a modality of crapulence effect.
 --Art is an I didn’t do it and he throws up his hands; I was only robbin’ the  register, I hope ya understand effect. 
 		--Art is a subsidiary of the cigar effect. 
 		--Art is a worst left to the professionals effect. 

This is the day of the fetishising of the lunatic. Donks have touched everything. One sunny afternoon, irony vomited misogyny into its present form; no amount of hate is too volatile to be commodified. Rock’n’roll was born as a paisley camera, and a floating signifier after a shipwreck, as a cartoon starring Savonarola, micro-fish mircosoflty melting in an endless desert of the unreal, annealing in the endless descant that is glass, from the friction of its own masturbation. 

Today donuts are rock’n’roll. Rock’n’roll is as much of a ritual as the sex it parodies. But rock’n’roll is a mistake worth repeating. Rock’n’roll is the bellhop for hip-hop. Rock’n’roll is a designer balaclava. Rock’n’roll is an allusion to the Battle of Sevastopol made on Rue Sebastopol. Rock’n’roll is sodomy with a cigar. Rock’n’roll is the plosive and the fricative in history.  Rock’n’roll is a pig destined for Serrano ham. 

Q: What makes a band start pyres? 
A: Paranoia about 19-year-olds not going broke to feed the bonobo dairy farm in your backyard. 

Self indulgence leads to cultural gout—were you too gently raised to feast upon yourself, Bajazeth?  Rock’n’roll is the machine without the ghost. It runs all night and only scares itself. Rock’n’roll needs a good schism. 

Type powerlessness into search engines: there’s an image of a bar-back in a band. Turn the lights out once a generation and watch everyone eating their young in the narcolepsy of cheap holidays: express the same hopeless, powerless, shamelessness in a different city with a language barrier and, fatally, the barrier persists when you wake up, unaware how you got home, as you thread the passersby in the streets. Caring becomes a subculture, compassion a mode of assassination of the political discourse as permitted and mitigated. Leaving water in the desert of the real is understood by the barbarians who created it to be the act of greatest infamy.  Criminalising humanity will be the final test and expression of professional credibility. 
Long shadows of power stretch back into the dark ages and create strange topologies. The Creature from the Black Lagoon was a communist, same as aliens and virons of various stripes are stand-ins for Orientalist spiders in the present. We end up, sooner or later, on one side of the glass partition, where the past and the future stand staring each other in the face in blind terror as plastic reinforcement lends greater flexibility and licensing the blind thrashing continue without fear of splinters. 

Nothing so beautiful as glass breaking, nothing so beautiful as the silence of sarcophagi, nothing so beautiful as the mound built of love sloping and exhaling beside you, nothing so beautiful as money exposed to daylight. All children will be trained in business suits and graduate into permanent retirement. The fortunate sonneteers who learn the corporate bleat fluently-fruitlessly will man the pilotless reconnaissance reapers, telling us what we think of ourselves and providing the subject matter for photorealist meditations on the distance between post-democracy and desire. 
In the next life (more or less), we will write poetry that is easy to understand and be invited to the White House Press Dinner so that we can shake hands with our own hubris and timidity. Gideon hisself will read the Bible to the taxidermist who immortalised Rocky Raccoon. The discussion will centre on the pleasures of watching yourself evanesce without disturbing the galaxy or, more referentially, the universe, and the pleasures of dealing yourself out of the fun and games and into the chain gang. 

Sooner or later, the permanent disorder pays off. The heavy hands blunder in to a Fashoda Incident by for and of the cameras, expect any faces you see to be dispersed like cherry blossoms as soon as they appear, in transit to the cherry moon. Come on, you wilderness enthusiasts, come on, you wolf children with wolf shoulders who name your bands after wolves. Come on, you up-and-comers. Come on, you down-and-goers. Come on, you fuckwads and fucksticks, and fuckwits. Lets meet in the utterly ruined roses, the pansy-dotted flunky city farms. Come on, last bad ideas! Let’s meet in the fragment of the frangipani future bequeathed to us. Let’s have our table talk, our autumnal folk flutter, our embrace before the wings close over us. If one person can change, lots of people can transmogrify. Don’t you dream of a bike basement made out of rosewood and lover-fuckdom? Of a woodland compound and the song of deliquescing nymphs in the shower? Of punks falling into your reflection in the black water of home? No? 

excess = success = excressence.

Rock on, dog.  




"Captain" Kirk O'Brien - vocals, guitar, mandolin, banjo
Gary "St." Patrick - bass guitar
Steve "Gilly" Gilliland - guitar, vocals
Dale "Trale" Peters- drums, vocals, guitar
Scott "Enormous" Johnson-fiddle

Former Fookers-Doug Pedersen (Vocals, Guitar), Odell Hobson (Fiddle), Kurt Buske (Drums), Darren Genova (Drums)


Biography
It was a dark and stormy night....

The legend of The Fooks was phrophesied to Kirk O'Brien from the spirit of Bono during a week-long Guinness and Peyote bender. Kirk heeded the message, and immediately set out on a mission to change the world ("world" meaning the area of 4th street between Market and Island) with his newfound vision of "Power-Celt Rock", the likes of which had never been heard by mortal ears.

Journeying forth from the Land of Potatoes, Kirk enlisted the aid of singer/guitarist and fellow Bono devotee Doug Pedersen, known for his boyish good looks and superhuman powers of panty-dropping. With their partnership in place, the vision began to take shape. 

The search for a bassist took Kirk to every corner of the Earth. He followed the path of a shooting star back to San Diego where, on the deserted outskirts of the city, he was hypnotized by the sound of a thousand angels humming. There, in the ruins of a church, stood GG, bass in hand and quaff in full effect, illuminated by a single ray of heavenly light. The search had ended.

The pulse of the living, breathing entity now known as The Fooks was supplied by Dale Peters, a highly sophisticated drumming robot from the future (The acronym stands for Digital Audio Life-form Emulation PErcussion TEchnology Rock System; D.A.L.E. Pe.Te.R.S. for short). Receiving a message sent forward through the time/space continuum (over the internet), Dale was sent back in time with one purpose: to rock for the future of Mankind. 

The prophecy was fulfilled by the arrival of a mysterious traveller called "The Six-String Samurai." The golden-haired stranger (known only by the moniker "Gilly") wandered the land, slaying the forces of evil with a mystical guitar forged by the Gods of Rock n' Roll. Seeking a place among the most epic of epicness, he joined forces with The Fooks, and the rest is history.

Kiran Chandra is following