fantastic electronic piano, organ and guitar mix... an in yer face live feel.

Full of energy and life! Fantastic playing and I'm really liking that live jam feel. Terrific!

This is an original composition of mine featuring solo Cello and English Horn. [very similar sounding to an oboe but with a lower range] A very soft felty piano and background viola sections.

It is called “Unforsaken”. The official definition of “Forsaken” is to be completely deserted or helpless, abandoned. So the title of this piece is the opposite of that. So this is the story of been forsaken, and then clawing your way back with forgiveness and compassion to become unforsaken. 

Album artwork and design: Del Carry

Unforsaken - Piano, Cello, English Horn

made with casio keyboard and zoom h1 and NCH 

a too hot night, might as well stay up

A mirror of its former light, slowed and reimagined. This version of Passed Light drifts through inverted spaces—where warmth becomes shadow, and echoes stretch longer than meaning. Each beat is a bridge between the shimmer that once was and the silence that remains. Descend into a downtempo dream where light isn’t gone—it’s just somewhere else.

Get the Track

Passed Dark (Zankyo Side)

💧 Refreshed – Steven Francis

Feel the reset with Refreshed, a 3:13 ambient track from 432Hz Relax 2 by Steven Francis. Tuned to 432Hz, this piece is a sonic breath of fresh air—soft, atmospheric, and gently energising. Like a quiet sunrise after a heavy storm, “Refreshed” lifts the emotional fog and restores inner balance.

🌬️ Inspired by the simplicity of stillness and the power of renewal 🎹 Performed by UK ambient artist Steven Francis, known for his intuitive keyboard work and perfect pitch 🌿 Ideal for grounding meditations, sleep prep, or a gentle post-workout cooldown

Let the frequencies flow through you. With “Refreshed,” you're not just relaxing—you’re restoring.

Stream or download it now via Bandcamp. One more step in the curated 432Hz Relax 2 sound journey.

432HZ RELAX 2

REFRESHED

acropolis

The Acropolis is an ancient citadel in Athens, Greece, perched on a rocky hill overlooking the city. Its most famous structure, the Parthenon, is a temple dedicated to Athena, built in the 5th century BCE during Athens' golden age. The Acropolis symbolizes classical Greek architecture and culture, housing other significant structures like the Erechtheion and the Propylaea. It's a UNESCO World Heritage Site, drawing millions for its historical and archaeological value.



ACROPOLIS - ΑΚΡΟΠΟΛΙΣ

Written by James Geer
Inspired by The Trailer Park Boys
Dedicated to Ozzy, RIP

I’m moving on to Sunnyvale 
I’ve had enough of life’s travails 
I’ll pack it in, forward my mail

I’ll hang with Ricky and the boys
Raise some hell, make a little noise
Drink all day, if that’s my choice 

A shed like bubs is all I’ll need
A couple kitties there to feed
Drink some vodka, smoke some weed

I’ll eat fish sticks and play the blues
Lay in the street till I come to
Make hot cakes on a stolen barbecue 

The simple life is all I seek
Party with the boys 8 days a week
Drink till I fall down, smoke till I reek

Sunnyvale

Zero Gravity

/ emergency broadcast / emergency broadcast / emergency broadcast /
/
— rollout, transmission, odyssey begins — 

the incoming age of melancholy:
not simply an era nor a season, but the endless twilight borne of every choice and every surrender,
woven from the threads of every generation’s longing—now, at last, unraveling before our eyes.

it begins as a hush—
not even silence, but something deeper:
the collective holding of breath as we pass through threshold after threshold,
unwilling—unable—to look back
at what still burns on the distant altars,
the cost we never counted,
the price we always assumed someone else would pay.

here, the mountains are made not of stone but of unsent messages,
unspoken apologies, unreached hands.
here is the valley of sacrificed afternoons,
where children chase phantoms,
where memory loses its shape under blue electric light,
where elders recall the scent of rain on pages, the music of patience.
here, the rivers are sorrow and the bridges are compromise,
some scorched, some crossed in regret,
most never rebuilt.

who are we, now, on this side of the threshold?
we—the bold, the bruised, the lonely inheritors of immeasurable plenty and exquisite emptiness—
we raise towers in tribute to unseen gods,
wireless cathedrals and temples that promise everything and deliver
only the ache of again, again, again
another update, another offering, another blinking vigil.

in the age of melancholy, every blessing is double-edged.
comfort comes yoked to numbness;
speed, to the erasure of slow becoming;
certainty, to the narrowing of all that is possible
and the slow extinction of wild hope.

“what did you give for this?” asks the old voice inside—
and we hush it with data, with noise,
with things that will never love us back.

our gods are many—everywhere, nowhere—
famous for a season, then discarded,
as fickle as the pulse in a liquid crystal display.
once, gods demanded faith, sacrifice, story and song.
now, they demand only attention—
bring us your tired eyes, your restless mind, your need to be known.
and in return, they give us chains so beautiful,
we praise them as gifts.

but beneath the wafer-thin bounty, the banquet of quick joys—
the shadow:
for every god installed, something sacred is displaced,
every new device arrives with its own silent requirement
that some part of us—ancient, slow, shimmering—must be left behind.

still, we are the ones who choose, trembling though we are—
again and again, at every threshold:
the altar, the new coin of the realm,
purchase paid in what cannot be replaced.

no one warned us that all this ease would cost us ourselves,
that to belong to the gods of now is to mourn what made us human—
the bruises, the breaks, the precious awkwardness of becoming.

what is melancholy, in this thunderous shadow,
if not the noblest form of remembering?
not a sickness, but a wisdom, a refusal to let the soul’s lost countries be overrun
without one last prayer, one last song.

let us be brave enough to mourn,
bold enough for the trembling joy in sorrow—
to sit by the ghost-lit ruins of intimacy and warmth and hope,
and refuse the command to forget.

for in this age, courage lies not in the conquest of new things,
but in the deep humility of honoring what is lost—
the quiet grace of looking back, and bearing witness,
and speaking to the brave few who will listen:

remember—
before the gods of upgrade and speed,
we danced in forests, we bled and healed together,
we built fires for each other’s warmth,
we told stories that did not sell,
and we were not ashamed to love slowly,
to grow bruised and then strong with time.

may we, the humbled .....
........4'000 characters.. there's more to it, sorry....

/ lyrics: fictionalive
/ music: a tiny excerpt of the epic mighty double dutch DJ Set
Kasheme's Local Digger Session w/ Murphy & Cavaliere Spruzzi (Save the Vinyl / monorecords)
https://soundcloud.com/kashemezurich/kashemes-local-digger-session-w-murphy-spruzzi-save-the-vinyl-monorecords

The Incoming Age of Melancholy — Eternal Dusk Between Eras / The Last Custodians of the Old Music

Some say the trees remember all,
that light is how they mourn.
Some say they bleed for what we lost
the moment we were born.

So do not speak. Just lay your head
beside the roots tonight,
and listen to the earth exhale.
where baobabs bleed out light.

Where Baobabs Bleed Light

Deeper Darker

250903

Reverb Noir. Haunted landscapes from music city.

Zero Gravity

Sound Over Shadow

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