sounds really drift along and the words sort of float on the surface..you are pretty harsh on the poor poets..everything springs from everything that went before..everything is connected

Loving every moment...music and poem...wow...crazy amazing travelling to different time periods...so powerful this sonic creation!

Super super and super all the way! I'm joyously freaked right out!

Marvellous creation...a joy to take in and wonder!

A fuzziness,  zeddiness, with the low pitched and changing voice and faraway guitar blending and arching in somersaults

lilac wine. rest ing peace. i'm really sorry.

Lilac Wine

Avant le téléphone , internet , les femmes de soldats partis à la guerre attendaient les lettres de leurs fiancés et maris . Les enfants étaient témoins de leurs angoisses et de leurs larmes ...
Compositeur Arrangeur : Philippe SEGUINARD Auteur Mélodiste : Guillaume DULER
Lyrics :
La guerre c'est le bruit d'une pointe de crayon 
C'est le regard absent dans les yeux de ma mère
C'est une longue attente blanche une prison
Des mots qu'elle lisait des lettres qu'on espère

C'est le son d'un amour à la lumière dansante
C'est le goût de tous les jours , sans saveurs sans saisons
C'est apprendre qu'il y a des choses qui te manquent
Des semaines d'inquiétudes , des rides sur son front

C'est elle enveloppée dans la fumée des cigarettes
Comme dans un nuage porteur de larmes amères
Et puis c'est le silence soudain des nuits défaites
Colmatés d'espérance pour fuir le vent d'hiver 

La guerre c'est savoir qu'elle peut te dénuder
Jusqu'à la moelle d'un père qu'elle t'aura volé
Que les jours qui suivront seront jamais comblés
Que hurleront impitoyable les vents glacés

Before the telephone and the Internet, the wives of soldiers away at war waited for letters from their fiancés and husbands. Children witnessed their anguish and tears ...
Composer and arranger : Philippe SEGUINARD Author and melodist : Guillaume DULER
Lyrics :
War is the sound of a pencil tip 
It's the absent look in my mother's eyes
It's a long white wait in a prison
Words she read Letters we hope for

It's the sound of love in dancing light
It's the taste of every day, without flavors without seasons
It's learning that there are things you miss
Weeks of worry, wrinkles on her forehead

It's her wrapped in cigarette smoke
Like a cloud of bitter tears
And then it's the sudden silence of empty nights
Clogged with hope to escape the winter wind 

War is knowing that it can strip you bare
To the very marrow of a father stolen from you
That the days that follow will never be filled
That the icy winds will howl mercilessly

© Guillaume DULER / Philippe SEGUINARD  2022

La guerre      TRANSLATED

Pluto's Retort

Here is Pluto's Retort. This is actually the second time I've written it. The first one was a bit longer. but got lost.  The story just seemed to fit the music so well. 

Lyrics;
Pluto here, the planet
And I'm gonna fix the spin
That's buzzing round the galaxy
And buzzes back around again

I heard ol Neil talk about me
I heard Neil put me down
Well, Neil degrasse Tyson,
Don't think I need you 'round

I'm the planet you call Pluto
Rocking groupies are on my path, that's true
They just wannt to see the show
Don't let that bother you

It takes a little while for me
to orbit around the sun
Your Earth goes round 248 times
Before I can go around one

But I'm the rock star of the Kuiper
Finding loving groupies on my way
And I'm pushing right on through
So what you got to say

Who needs a sub planet anyway

Yeah! Pluto here, the planet
I'm here to fix the spin
Neil, you gotta tell 'em
That I'm planet nine again!

Yeah, I'm the planet you call Pluto
It's been a rocky road, that's true
But Ice and rock don't bother me
Don't let it bother you

Pluto's Retort

Old school drum & bass house techno. Dedicated to the great underground selector. jaKe. Music & artwork. D.k.A. Spencer

Biodiversity

A nostalgic look back at childhood…memories of visits to my Acadian grandmother in the Acadian village of Kippens, NL. Honouring the memories of grandmothers everywhere…

This piece was created during a Fredericton Arts Alliance Residency. Guitar music composed and performed by Bryan McDaniel.

Strawberries

Sliding down with my shovel and pail
Off in the distance I see a whale
Time to see grandma 
to be nourished and fed

Bread and drizzled honey
Homemade bread and homemade cream
And strawberries

Morning awake, soft dreams fill my head
Perhaps today I will be fairy led
The smell of wild clover
Over and over, it is spread

The grass has grown a mile above my head
I can make it dance and never be seen
You’d think you watching inside of a dream
Now home to grandma in her strawberry bed.

Bread and drizzled honey
Homemade bread and homemade cream
And Strawberries

It’s so sweet that you want repeat
It’s so sweet that you want to repeat

Bread and drizzled honey
Homemade bread and homemade cream
And Strawberries

Bread and drizzled honey
Homemade bread and homemade cream
And Strawberries

Strawberries

Dollar General

Room With a View

No title for this one yet,so all suggestions welcome.

Careless and immortal
Time goes drifting by
Turning full circle
No time to say goodbye

I foolishly imagined
We'd go on and on
I never knew what we had
'Til it was gone

Behold the gift of hindsight
If only we had known
Contempt for our birthright
Trouble is homegrown

I foolishly imagined
We'd go on and on
I never knew what we had
'Til it was gone

Project 27.05.23

THE BOY - Funk 'n' Roll

Everything by THE BOY

*FREE DOWNLOAD on SC!
I HOPE YOU ENJOY & SPREAD THE WORD!*

New single Funk 'n' Roll out on all platforms now! Tap link and let's dance!
https://open.spotify.com/intl-ja/album/0b9YD13xXCkdcubsPgMWBv?si=lx0qfCa2TPSA1xnCvOLr0Q

Funk 'n' Roll

RiZLiX - A Walk In The Park

sakat(demo)

all instruments: stonerjazz @user-911083679
remix and narration:sonic structures and silent stretches
image: the same collab
info: there are more versions of this canto to emerge from other collab partners. LOOK FORWARD!

narration: the thirteen canto poem finds its way into sound, a slice at a time

poem / copyright jo richter

How long he stayed, he could not tell.
He worked ferociously, sounding all
existence that had touched upon him into
being: the smell of meadows, the curl of
ripples, the calm that centers in a storm;
the timbre of voices, the straight lines of buildings,
the aloofness of announcers on the radio.
His desk was cluttered, his mind strove clear.

When he did not write, he‘d read up on
the origins of his ancient art: Vergil and Dante,
Marlow and Shakespeare, Homer and Joyce,
Ovidus, Cervantes, Rabelais and Wieland.
He felt the linguistic seeds, blown from foreign
stems, grow filaments deep in his native soil, he
saw them ripen, flower profusely, yielding
their beauty to ever-changing mentalities.

And as his insight widened and he gained
perspective, the rows of encyclopedias
and dictionaries that lined his shelves
slimmed down, as he gave up consulting
English for French and German, these for
Latin and Greek, those for Persian and Sanskrit,
until he only referred to Indo-European roots.
His desk turned clear, his mind became uncluttered.

Eventually, he also slept and dreamt
whenever the veil sank upon him.
Guarded by the spire‘s safe walls, he would
awaken slowly, remembering outlandish
lore, scribbling notes and poems of bizarre
truthfulness and penning recollections of his
archetypal ties. Some of his realistic verse de-
rived from fragments of prolonged poetic trance.

His muse meanwhile taught him to cook, the
art of mixing individual ingredients to bring about
a taste all of its own that nourishes both mind and
physicality. The painters tend to fixate on surface
and colour, she said, the musicians on timing
the process, whereas the poets never get anything
done, enchanted by words like ‚ginger‘ or ‚yeast‘.
All of their dishes taste awful.

CANTO lV- A poem by Jo Rlchter (sonic structures and silent stretches) best played loud

STONERJAZZ

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