madandcrazy

Calmer 2013

2013-01-08T16:10:00.000+03:00

Care

2012-08-20T06:09:00.002+03:00

To still care. That is what mattered. No matter what prisons we thought we were held in. To still care. To believe change was possible. To be the change agents.

Rwizi Arch lamp.

"Now what you think you want?/So baby no moon and sky, got a beautiful sun..."

2012-06-16T19:29:00.000+03:00

"I know we could have had it all
I wasn’t ready to go steady no not at all
Smoke and mirrors clouded my vision we hit a wall
Couldn’t see the moon and the sky behind the fog
Pregnant pause
Damn your baby tall, what you been up to
I don’t blame you my doll
Yeah, we kinda stalled
As God as my witness, timin’ was my mistress
I guess it’s in the stars for me to love you from a distance
Uh, our ship sail, uh, the wind blows
The door’s always open but our window was closed..."

The Moon and the Sky by Sade feat Jay-Z

Yes, it's for you.

Museveni Messiah or Megalomaniac?

2012-06-06T13:28:00.002+03:00

This profile of Uganda's President Museveni ran in a 1998 edition of Focus on Africa. 14 years later, it makes very revealing reading.

"Despite this it is hard to dislike Museveni, who has great personal charm. He is not threatened by dissenting views. He holds frequent press conferences and yawns widely if the questions are dull. He is a gifted public speaker and always willing to learn: he rings up businessmen and journalists to find out more about issues that interest him. He does not kowtow to foreign dignitaries.

It is easy to see how Museveni, who is a talented diplomat, has managed to glide across the diplomatic stage. He is funny without being frivolous, human without being intimate. He has a soft spot for women, and in particular for those whom he can assume a paternalistic role. During President Bill Clinton’s recent visit he tipped his head coyly and smiled at ‘his daughter’, the US assistant secretary of state for African affairs, Susan Rice, who beamed back appreciatively.

The president has simple tastes; he does not drink or smoke and takes tea from a flask. When he travels up-country, he carries with him photos of his children and also his cows. Pictures of both are interspersed in his photo album: a sad bovine face stares out of one page next to a photograph of his mother. He enjoys listening to praise songs to his cattle, played by a group from his ranch, and always available on a battered cassette-player to lull him to sleep.

Museveni’s achievements, confidence and charisma explain the hold he has over much of the population-including the army, who adore him. But it has also helped to create a feeling that without Museveni to whip the government into line, the system would collapse.

Museveni’s critics claim he has encouraged this view by refusing to give real power to his ministers and by stifling political opponents. He is rarely challenged partly because under the Movement system, political parties spend all their time struggling for survival rather than building alternative policies. The president laughs this off, claiming there are many Ugandans who could take his place when he eventually retires to tend to his cows...."

Anna Borzello report(ed)s for the BBC from Kampala (Focus on Africa, July-September 1998.)

My cheetah print notebook, brown coffee stained.

2012-05-30T17:41:00.000+03:00

We did not have chairs. We did not have a table. We did not even have cups or real plates. The bed was bare, but for a mattress and I had continued to put off buying “real” bed sheets or a blanket. I only used a light duvet. It was a room I did not expect to spend much time in and did not, until you.

I have never loved anyone like I loved you in that room.

I remember everything that happened in that room. From the first time you came to visit with your friend, your ever so discreet friend who retreated to the compound so we could talk. To the time you came to sleep over, then stay.

The first time thoughtless, not daring to ask you to come and see my room until you asked, “Where do you sleep?” Me clueless that my preferred sparseness of furnishing had even an aesthetic name (minimalism) hesitant, until you alarmed me, “Maybe you have a girl you’re hiding there?”

I had thought you’d snort derisively when you saw it and when you had said, “I like it. I love the space. I love the airiness. This is so wonderful.” I had turned to look at you, studying your face for the suppressed pity smile.

I did not expect you to squeal with delight, racing to the window, “Oh my God, your window looks into the forest!” I thought girls were supposed to be terrified of snakes, caterpillars and other crawlies that dropped from trees into my room. No, you were into animals more than I ever was, armed with details like sports fans with their statistics, “The more you know, the less you have to fear. Fear is ignorance.”

I thought it beyond ridiculous how excited you were about my cheetah print notebook present, “That’s my favourite, favourite animal! How did you know?”

Were you real?

I kept looking for your flaws, hugging your softness into my embrace, kissing your melting lips, drinking together straight from that White Horse bottle (I began to tell myself, ‘This girl could be dangerous.’) You know, I’ve not forgotten one bit of our love making. How could I? There are worlds and truths I’m still trying to reclaim you gave me arched back shattering glimpses of, known then lost.

I now know why I lost them. I know why I lost you. I know finally.

I knew when a cheetah print backed notebook spilled into my lap from the envelope left for me at the reception at my office. I knew, at last, I had lost you.

You once asked me, back to me, in my arms by the window, “What do you really think of me?”

I’m answering.

Isn't she a beauty? (Perfect Labour Day gift)

2012-05-01T19:59:00.003+03:00

Iwaya writing notebook

Love ( & then it begins all over)

2012-04-26T20:43:00.000+03:00

Love is only a burden, when you turn your face away

Close enough to start a War. God only knows what we are fighting for.

2012-03-15T14:10:00.001+03:00

Mystery Sculpture

2012-03-06T11:53:00.001+03:00

Kampala City's longest running mystery

What's going on here, EATV?

2012-02-28T15:47:00.003+03:00

EATV

This Charming Life

2012-02-14T12:52:00.000+03:00

We wake. Or rather, I wake, and find you looking at me.

I ask, “What are you looking at?”

You say, shifting off your elbow, to lie back again, “I was not looking. I thought there was a mosquito,”

Smile.

It is morning and the house is still quiet. I want to lean in until my breath is tickling your ear and I can see myself in your eyes.

My stomach tightens as I feel your fingers stroking tufts of my hair and I try not to sigh.

You say, “Lie still.”

I ask, “Would you?”

“You never listen,” you complain, as you try to squirm my chin off your shoulder.

I ask, “Do you want me to?” looking for your lips.

“I’ll crush them,” you laugh, and I can’t see the sunlight trying to make its way through the curtains. Only you.

“What are you looking at?” You ask.

“I’m trying to watch the TV,” I say.

“The TV is not on,” you’re laughing again. The juice foams noisily in the jar as you shake it.

“It must be very cold,” I say, “I’m surprised there’s electricity today. Someone must have forgotten to switch off.”

“There’s even some ice,” you say, filling four glasses, “What should we do today?”

“We should go to the gardens,” I propose. The corners of your lips crinkle into a smile, “The real gardens,” I add, “Or walk.”

Mark and Ian are playing balloon volleyball in the road, “Ian twirls like a dancer,” you laugh, lunging forward , to punch back into the air, the balloon floating towards us.

Mark screams, “Mummy! Here!”

“I should take a picture of you,” you say, but don’t move. Mark is asleep in the crook of my arm and Ian is insisting on trying to find room in my lap too with his Strawberry yoghurt can he will not place down for a moment.

“You could help me,” I frown, sitting up a dozing Ian in the tub, as I scrub his armpits, but you don’t put the camcorder down.

I’m turning out the lights, when I find you, in the blue glow of the silent TV, curled where I sit, smiling.

~~~This Charming Life-Joan Armatrading ~~~

♥

Jay-Z, Beyonce baby Blue Ivy Carter is here

2012-02-11T13:31:00.000+03:00

From Jay-Z website

" ...False alarms and false starts
All made better by the sound of your heart
All the pain of the last time
I prayed so hard it was the last time
Your mama said you danced for her
Did you wiggle your hands for her?
Glory, Glory, Glory...."
-----Glory (Jay-Z, 2012)

February Surprise, Umeme, Uganda, Promises

2012-02-02T17:38:00.000+03:00

What’s really surprised me this year so far?

There are people who are actually waiting for February to get midway and then the electricityproblem Uganda faces will magically be no more. We will have electricity 24/7. There will be no more loadshedding. We will be able to name-check events in our calendars not according to the UMEME loadshedding timetable anymore but according the significance of certain dates in our lives.

There are people who firmly believe when the Bujagali hydropower dam begins humming into life a few extra MW, life in Uganda is going to be so much better. This switching on of extra turbines will be the harbinger of hit refresh button in Ugandan life.

There not just still a few believers in the promises of the Ugandan government. It came to me, clean shaving my head, that the believers are the majority. It surprised me. It left me bald in surprise.

'Remembering Okot p Bitek' Anthology: Call for Submissions

2012-01-24T04:04:00.000+03:00

In celebration of Okot p Bitek’s life and achievements, we are inviting outstanding essays, reviews, scholarly articles, poems, short fiction and interviews directly and indirectly centering on Okot p Bitek's works and life. We are looking at the impact of Okot p Bitek at a personal level, socially, in literature, academically, historically, politically, culturally and how he was influenced in those ways.

This year on 20th, July, 2012 marks thirty years since Okot left us to the land of his ancestors. We are compiling this anthology to be published in July on the said theme of “Remembering Okot p Bitek”.

Word count: 500 - 3000 words (less for poetry where necessary)

Format: An attached Word doc/docx, times new roman, 12 point, double spaced.

Submissions: By email only to: okotpbitek2012@gmail.com
Deadline: April, 1st, 2012

As we continue to work on the project, we will keep in mind that the success of the project will be driven by both the quantity and quality of submissions. Tentatively, the anthology will be published by Kushinda in eBook format and distributed through Amazon’s Kindle format. We hope to publish the anthology in print later.

We will engage professional editors to review the submissions and give thumbs-up for the final selection for publication. As of now, the team putting together this project, in case of any communication, comprises of;

1. David Tumusiime – Lead coordinator and
2. Brian Bwesigye.

All ideas and volunteers are welcome in the spirit of celebrating Okot p Bitek, the man, his life and his work.

Dreams..

2012-01-16T13:25:00.001+03:00

In Uganda too!

Life Goes On-2012

2012-01-03T21:11:00.000+03:00

Hey you,

It’s been a while. More than a while. This is my public love note for you. Not sure if you are going to get it. I do still care. But I’m putting out here because this is my best chance you will see it. Not drunk-writing this. Or high on some caffeine high you always tu-tu’d-working your way away from.

I admired that. Though I never told you. I learned that from you. Working, doggedly, toward what you wanted. Through the window gazing tears watching him walk away, it seemed like with your heart, holding onto your principle, your dreams, your goals. He was not walking far, because he would open his car door & you would remember the ‘select music’ CD in his play system he had made for you and how you would never get to hear it again. Even through the trembling fingers iTunes recreations you would attempt-it would never quite be like the 4 hour afternoon ‘random’ selection he had come up with for you. The tucked away surprises therein his flawless music system would bring to the surface, like the musician sighing before the next verse…

Yet you never lost it. Would never lose it. Running. Running. I used to wonder what that was about. Now I get it. There were demons to get away from & you & you were running. Those morning jogs iPod plugged in-your exercise songs. I used to wonder about some of the songs-so determinedly cheerful, pumpy, blazing. My steaming cup of coffee, at the table, waiting for you to come on-after the run-disheveled and thinking it, wow, I must be a sight.

When would that chat icon light up? Briefly…’Hold on…I got to go invisible….’ Dim…then we begin…

Huh.

I miss that.

Would you again, same Gospel, tirelessly preach as if the first time each time, “I’m going to teach you to be happy…”

That audacity used to me laugh, chuckle. I had tried that, I thought.

But you changed. I’ve changed.

But somewhere, when we do talk sometimes, you are still there, I’m still here.

Now work swallows you up, like it used to swallow me up even then. I no longer ask for new photo albums, more photos, come on-and you do not wonder if my photo remains the same, for weeks and weeks.

Even the music recommends are more infrequent.

But today, today, I heard a song ‘Life Goes On’ by Gym Class Heroes-and it was YOU-This was US-this is what we used to talk about-yeah, Life Goes On-and never let go of what is important to you-never...

“Lately it seems the good dreams are few and far between/ Nightmares are putting fires out with gasoline (damn)/ And I'm just tryna stay righteous/ Sometimes I see my own face in Christ's likeness/ And apart from my life's vices, fifteen years young had my first mid-life crisis/ But it's tough to stay upright and pious when people you hold highest be the ones that most biased…”

Remember? I do. I know you remember too. A part of you does. And I’m working my way back. I will be there.

“Is it really that hard to smile?”

Reading Darkness Thoughts

2011-12-07T18:01:00.001+03:00

Museveni's Children

2011-11-20T17:22:00.001+03:00

I lusted, I longed, but I could not have.

That has been my life. For a decade and more.

Longing. Desire. Being thwarted. For three decades or more...by this tadoba light, it’s hard to tell, the cataracts foam time.

I’m writing all this down for the first time.

Writing it down, I’m surprised I’m not bitter, or tired or ready to give up.

What is it that impels me forward still? To try again. To keep trying? We've been dream carrying bigger ambitions in smaller carriers...

I cannot explain it myself. I do not find it in some fortune cookie mystery unwrapped with fingers of laughing impatience. Some haiku wisdom from centuries of human endeavour. It is not in the (Kwata) split sayings from the clan and tribe I was born in, whose sayings do not easily drop from my mouth like saliva but everything of it I’m, more and more I’m told, I’m.

The older I have grown, the more I have become attached to my past. Not my past of three decades or so existence, but my past, the communal past of our clan and our tribe and our where did we come from. The past of so-and-so was born here, he was a great wanderer, he could not rest, so they gave him the name such-and-such for his wandering, but he left his mark, he had four wives and 20 children, of those 20 children came our great, great grandfather. He was a wanted man all his adult years, because like a true man of our clan, he did not know what it meant to kneel before anyone, would not kneel, so that is who he was. It was no surprise that he gave birth to so-and-so who always spoke his mind, who admitted his heart ruled him before his head....

That past, I’m attached to it more and more. It makes sense and I’m not running from it anymore. This Apple MacAir fancier, Aljazeera TV messages decoder, Samsung camera phone fanatic, who has surprised himself by a late discovery, love of Elvis Presley, king of the blue-eyed boy music used to scoff stole from the proud black is beautiful struggle. I go back to the past to make sense of the future that is here now, I cradle in my arms and who’s crying pangs I lull into a staring contest then gurgle of love. The future is here and I’m becoming a part of the past, comfortable with my antique becoming.

The past places grenades in the fallow earth of the future, so I’m wary where I tread. To live 30 plus years in Africa, eastern, Uganda; a living, creative, dedicated to a principle and dream, unwavering, staving off the compromises and well meaning corruption traps; now that is something. After these decades, these thwarting, these missed chances, in the after midnight hours starting up in your bed of panic to face new mornings yet to come, still focused, dreaming and working. That is astonishing. Even to me. Unbroken by the contradictions and paradoxes we live in and live with everyday, real dreams in unreal situations, never giving up, not even thinking of it.

I salute you my generation. My age-mates. Parent-becoming while still confused about whether childhood is really over and what is this world without permanent rules you are coming into, where every dream seller almost always turns out to be the rapist of your nightmares. I salute you, conscious-becoming of your heritage, throw-back referencing in the YouTube videos of your lives.

We are who we are. Learning to accept this.

This is about Climate Change really, but it's about My Childhood Too

2011-10-26T07:54:00.000+03:00

When I was a child, I played in streams I thought were rivers, woods I thought were forests, with children I thought were heroes for knowing everything about those rivers and forests.

They knew how to get “ensonzi” (eels) from the “river,” rub sticks together to make a fire to roast them and they knew how to eat them without the treacherously sharp tiny bones pricking our tongues or sticking down our throats, “Like Obote who was a greedy fish eater,” they used to laugh.

We would go to fetch water in jerry cans without covers, some of us pots, or cross the “river” with our fathers to the farm to help carry back the milk that was going to the diary, in the chilly morning with our teeth chattering and not return until after 10am. When we would find sweet smelling milk with “ekiyansi” and burnt delicious sweet and Irish potatoes waiting for us for breakfast.

If we did not have to go to school, those of us who were too young or who had paid the school dues for that term could go back to the forest for the rest of the day-running feet of happiness, shirtless, shoeless, empty-pocketed, to hunt for the treasures of the forest, to heat our feet in the noonday sun on the caked earth of the great rift valley, in whistling wonder listening to Kasigi retell how God belched and the earth separated to create this rift valley and how one day he might belch again: it could even be today!

The boys would run naked into the “river” and splash water at the giggling girls huddle on the bank and I could see, even then, in the corner of my eye, the boy and the girl who had split from the group to talk in private under a tree away from us. The girl chewing the “ntututu” the boy had brought her and we would know somehow that they would never be like us again.

The older boys would slap the guy on the back and wrestle him to the ground so roughly his knees would bruise and he would have to rub “eshabarara” where the skin had been torn off. The girl would become like a mother, the girls and all the younger ones jealously vying for her attention, and she would turn away no one. She would have answers for the girls that would make them cup their chins in thoughtful attention and she would frolic her fingers though our hair in a ticklish progress that distracted us to no end, then stop, ask us if we could name the cawing bird cry that had just rung out in the forest.

Off we would go! Running for the tree we thought we had heard the booming cry, to stand, up-turned faces of wonder, searching, looking at the sky blue mat of branches and leaves and a spinning sky till we were dizzy from the game.

Sometimes it rained but we never left the “forest.” Sometimes there were accidents, but we returned to the “forest.” Many times we were warned, but no one stopped us from going back to the “forest.” The “forest” was big and we would return every evening from the “forest” when we had not been to half of what it was, the big boys would assure us. But we did not mind because the “forest” was a part of us and we would always go back, we thought.

The “forest” is no longer there, in the village where I was born.

I need you.

2011-10-21T13:40:00.000+03:00

I thought it was want. This self-denying, grateful bed-pillow rest to sit, undrunk, zonked, photo galleries of you floating past bleary eyes, like gold fish in an aquarium. So many cups of coffee my tongue now a “natural” brown.

Pause

I thought it was want. This abandonment of chastising vows in late evening Rubaga Cathedral compound walks, self-mumbling, sometimes stopping at the brass bands rehearsals, the dusk views into a Kampala where you live, breathing, sneezing when it became cold, rubbing my eyes. In the bench pews on my knees, scrapping my joints, looking for the majesty I used to see in the cathedral windows that I saw that day, talking myself out of turning on my phone in this holy place to turn on myself. When it would fail, hurrying with difficulty out, unable to bear a hard-on in front of the holy mother of our Lord, taking it outside, with threats I would buy an Embassy Lights if it did not subside.

Come back, my pleas, when I was back home, and stay back home and stay. You may not be here but my wife would like it, in household reversal of desires when I’m always too tired from too much office work and she’s constantly asking if I liked her new silk panties-what is inside is even “better”—

I thought it was want; off the sugared highs of many teas, cokes, too many longing music playlists, Dominoes ice-creams, emails of rueful regret, Facebook profile pictures of my hands over yours, James Blunt-Oh God, James Blunt, & Centenary Park hanging around for accidental meetings of you with him. all banned, to get this want out of me.

Then I began talking to you in my dreams.

It was not want.

It was need.

I need you.

***** (1:40am)

I got this iPod, like the one I got you, making you laugh-my thumbs too big on the switch dial, but I have learned since then, impressing you, even how to keep the ear buds from tumbling out my bat ears, walking.

I walk a lot, any chance I get, though I leave the office so late, often with no car, I have forgotten the mutayimbwa thieves brushes by the I begin walking into song one of this playlist. Continuing our tradition, loving you to a new song, a new artist, I promised you he is a major one, you said, “I’ll love him because you love him, I know...”

A month or so later, your twitter page blinking up #np She Ain’t You Bei Maejor, u know who u r. Yes, I did. Our Bei Maejor. No video, no mass release, not much known. So now Bei Maejor a big part of my playlist & when I’m walking, past 1 am unafraid, I’m not walking in Kampala but a Javas for us. I text you sometimes, when I shouldn’t, cracked pavement dodging, trying not to step on sprawled feet of the veranda sleepers in a city in darkness and October rains. When I could be mugged, stop smug-boasting, “I have never been robbed. In fact I have never lost a phone to a thief.”

In the Kampala of these nights, window standing waiting for your taxi to fill up, teasing, “Kiss me or I’m going to put my hand through this window and you know where it’s going to go.” You stifling your alarmed pressing your handbag on your thighs, “Don’t! Please, don’t. Ok, I’ll give you.” How did we do that? Kiss in the Old Taxi Park, you inside a taxi, me at your window? How? Walking, after late hours from the office, Bei Maejor She Ain’t You, yeah, she ain’t you, girl. Unable to leave the Old Taxi Park that first time, 30 minutes later, on the phone, we struggling to accept how I could not come home with you, you pleading, “Don’t load anymore credit, please, you won’t have money for the fare.”

I started to close my eyes, kissing you. All the way.

Seeing you better, girl in jeans and black & white canvas shoes. When I opened my eyes, unsure if I was real, if the ground was still beneath my feet. I was a drink of Gilbeys in a glass in your hand, your lips softer than any date I have bitten into-I did not think it was possible.

Walking, I couldn't walk all this out. I couldn't work it out.

It took your courage, your fingers finding home between mine on the crisis conscience table, "We have what we have. Let us have it."

Was Gaddafi Captured Alive and Executed by roadside?

2011-10-20T19:28:00.001+03:00

2 Kings: When Biggie Smalls Crossed Michael Jackson's Path

2011-10-15T20:30:00.000+03:00

Can't describe the hair-raising excitement of reading the studio session rap's phenomenal one The Notorious B.I.G had with the King of Pop, Michael Jackson...

Thank you Resonater...here we go...

27th June 2009, 10:26 PM #14

robmix

Lives for gear

Join Date: Sep 2003

Location: Los Angeles

Posts: 2,560

I was fortunate enough to work with MJ early in my career. He was an incredible artist. Talented beyond your wildest dreams. Extremely generous, and a hard worker. I actually went from a staff assistant at the Hit Factory in NYC to freelance engineer under Swedien and MJ. They were due to start in Los Angeles when the Northridge earthquake hit so they moved to New York. One room was all Bruce, the second room was the writing room. I started assisting Bruce's writing partner Rene Moore. I would track stuff with Rene, and Bruce would come in and tell me what I did wrong, sit in for a few hours and set us straight. After a couple months MJ arrived and the entire tour rig was moved in along with Brad Buxer, Andrew Scheps, and Eddie Delena. I continued to assist them until the whole crew moved to L.A., they decided to take me with them. I would assist Bruce during the day, and help out every where else at night - assisting, engineering, programming, and on one song playing guitar. We had two rooms at Record One, and two rooms at Larrabee where I met John. At one point in NYC we had just about every room at the Hit Factory. The crew was great, and I learned so much from all of them. I learned to engineer from Bruce Swedien, John, and Eddie, and got to sit in with producers like MJ, Jam And Lewis, Babyface, David Foster, Teddy Riley, and Dallas Austin.

I was actually asked to leave the project early on because there were too many people around and MJ didn't know me. Luckily, I was rehired about 10 days later. At the wrap party MJ apologized profusely, and expressed his gratitude. Truly the most sincere man you will ever meet.

Some random memories:

One morning MJ came in with a new song he had written overnight. We called in a guitar player, and Michael sang every note of every chord to him. "here's the first chord first note, second note, third note. Here's the second chord first note, second note, third note", etc., etc. We then witnessed him giving the most heartfelt and profound vocal performance, live in the control room through an SM57.

He would sing us an entire string arrangement, every part. Steve Porcaro once told me he witnessed MJ doing that with the string section in the room. Had it all in his head, harmony and everything. Not just little eight bar loop ideas. he would actually sing the entire arrangement into a micro-cassette recorder complete with stops and fills.

At one point Michael was angry at one of the producers on the project because he was treating everyone terribly. Rather than create a scene or fire the guy, Michael called him to his office/lounge and one of the security guys threw a pie in his face. No further action was needed . . . . .

During the recording of "Smile" on HIStory, Bruce thought it would be great if Michael would sing live with the orchestra. But of course, we didn't tell the players that. We set him up in a vocal booth off to the side. They rehearsed a bit without vocals in, then during the first take Michael sang, just about knocked them out of their chairs.

His beatboxing was without parallel, and his time was ridiculous.

His sense of harmony was incredible. Never a bad note, no tuning, even his breathing was perfectly in time.

Once, while we were taking a break, I think we were actually watching the OJ chase on TV, there was a news program talking about him being in Europe with some little boy. I was sitting next to the guy while the news is making this crap up. He just looked at me and said this is what I have to deal with.

I spent close to 3 years working with him, and not once did I question his morals, or ever believe any of the allegations. I wasn't even a fan then. I saw him interact with his brothers kids, other people's children, and at one point my own girlfriend's kids. I got to spend a day at Neverland with them. A completely incredible human being, always looking for a way to make all children's lives better. Every weekend at Neverland was donated to a different children's group - children with AIDS, children cancer, etc., and most of the time he wasn't there.

He was simply living the childhood he never had. In many ways he never grew up.

I was assisting Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis while they recorded the background vocals for "Scream" with MJ and Janet. The two of them singing together was amazing. Super tight, no bad notes. One part after another. When they took a break they sang the showtunes they used to sing as kids. Again, perfect harmony. Mj refused to sing the "stop f*ckin' with me part" because he would NOT curse.

I was the tape op for the recording of the background vocals on "Stranger in Moscow". Scared the hell out me. Michael was dropping in and out on syllables, rearranging the notes and timing as he put it down. No Pro Tools at the time, just 2" tape, and my punches.

I erased a live keyboard overdub that he played one night. He came in the next morning, replaced it, and never uttered another word about it.

I was there when Lisa Marie was around. They acted like two kids in love. Held hands all the time, and she hung out at the studio for quite a while. I never questioned their love for each other.

We recorded a Christmas song during the summer of '94 that needed a children's choir. Michael insisted that the entire studio be decorated with xmas lights, tree, fake snow and a sled for their recording. And he bought presents for everyone.

The last weekend of recording on HIStory he came to me and Eddie Delena, and said "I'm sorry, but I don't think any of us are going to sleep this weekend. There's a lot to get done, and we have to go to Bernie on Monday morning". He stayed at the studio the entire time, singing, and mixing. I got to spend a couple quiet moments with him during that time. We talked about John Lennon one night as he was gearing up to sing the last vocal of the record - the huge ad libs at the end of "earth song". I told him the story of John singing "twist and shout" while being sick, and though most people think he was screaming for effect, it was actually his voice giving out. He loved it, and then went in to sing his heart out. . . .

Later that night, while mixing, everyone left the room so MJ could turn it up. This was a common occurrence during the mixes, and I was left in the room with ear plugs, and hands over my ears, in case he needed something. This particular night, all the lights were out and we noticed some blue flashes intermittently lighting up the room during playback. After a few moments we could see that one of the speakers (custom quad augspuergers) was shooting blue flames. Mj liked this and proceeded to push all the faders up . . . .

MJ liked hot water while he was singing. I mean really hot !!!!! It got to the point that I would melt plastic spoons to test it.

Bruce and I were talking about walking to the studio everyday in NYC, and what routes we took. Michael looked at us and said we were so lucky to be able to do that. He couldn't walk down the street without being harassed. It was a sad moment for all of us.

The studio crew got free tickets to the Janet show so we all went right from work one night. About halfway through the show we see this dude with a long beard, dressed in robes dancing in the aisle behind. I mean really dancing . . . it was Mj in disguise. Kind of like the costume Chevy Chase wears in Fletch while roller skating.

He got one of the first playstations from sony in his lounge . . . we snuck in late at night to play the games that hadn't been released yet.

A couple people on the session hadn't seen Jurassic Park while it was out, so MJ arranged a private screening for us at Sony.

He was a huge fan of Nine Inch Nails Downward Spiral . . . .

I was lucky enough over the course of 3 years to have access to the multitrack masters for tour prep, videos, and archive purposes. To be able to pull these tracks apart was a huge lesson in production, and songwriting. A chance to look into the minds of geniuses.

Of all the records I've worked on, MJJ was the only company to give platinum award records.

One day we just all sat in the studio listening to his catalog with him for inspiration. He loved the process, he loved the work.

__________________
Rob Hoffman

--------------------------
http://www.elicitmusic.com

28th June 2009, 02:00 AM #43

Resonater

Lives for gear

Join Date: May 2005

Location: Los Angeles

Posts: 850

By the way, to elaborate a bit on the Notorious B.I.G. session, it was kinda like this. Michael used to call people to ask them to participate on albums. It was interesting knowing that nearly anyone on the planet would come to the phone if it were Michael calling. Anyway, I heard rumors that B.I.G. was going to come, and I was excited about that! I knew that I would be the one to record that, as I had recorded nearly all of that tune, "This Time Around".

So, Dallas and I were expecting him any minute, and pretty much on time, Notorious strolls in. He was quite an imposing figure when he walked in, as he was quite popular at the time. I had no idea what to expect from him in terms of attitude, but he seemed nice when he walked in. No problem. But almost immediately, he blurted out, "Yo, Dallas, can I meet Mike?" To which, Dallas replied that he thought so. Biggie went on to talk about how much this opportunity meant to him, as Michael was his hero. Anyway, Dallas tells him that we're going to lay down the rap first, so Biggie heads in the booth, we get some headphone levels and get ready to start recording.

So, we hit the big red button (on a Sony 3348 machine), and away we go. During his first take, Dallas and I looked at each other, because it was spot on. wow. I was impressed, and so was Dallas. We listened back, and Dallas was like, "Wow, I think we got it". As I recall, we took another take for good measure, but I'm fairly certain that we ended up using the first take. So, Notorious comes in, and asks if he can meet Michael now. We sent word to the back room where Michael was working that Biggie was finished and wanted to meet him.

Simply for security, Michael's security would enter and make sure that no one was in the room that shouldn't be, and once that was confirmed (it was just me, Biggie and Dallas), Michael came in. Biggie nearly broke out in tears...I could tell how much this meant to him. Well, Michael could have this effect on anyone, even the most hardcore rappers! Biggie was tripping up on his words, bowing down and telling Michael how much his music had meant to him in his life. Michael was, as always, very humble and kept smiling while Biggie just went on and on how much he loved Michael. I watched Biggie just become this big butterball of a man, and it was really very sweet to witness. After all, we are all just people.

Michael finally asked to hear what we had done, and we popped it up on the big speakers and let her go. Michael LOVED it and was excited to tell Biggie that! "Oh, let's hear it again", I recall Michael saying, and we listened again. Michael just loved it...and thanked Biggie for coming all the way from Philadelphia. Biggie asked rather sheepishly whether he could get a photo, and Michael agreed. A shot was taken, we listened again, and Michael thanked Biggie. Michael said goodbye and stepped out, leaving Biggie standing there looking completely stunned.

It will always remain a great, great memory.

__________________
The Resonater

Crimes of the heart & mind, A Uganda I'm Not Proud Of

2011-10-15T14:27:00.000+03:00

Tshila's own CHOGM 2007 Story...

GNL Zamba & Mun*G Sept 08, 2010-A Year Back When...

2011-10-13T19:13:00.000+03:00

GNL & Mun*G-English Voca

1. When we still had to do interviews inside a Hiace Van in the parking lot because it would have been way too expensive for a crew to sit at a Kisementi restaurant and 30 minute chat.

2. When GNL Zamba, recently split from Shadrack Kutesa’s Platinum Entertainment was trying to sell to sceptics the Baboon Forest Entertainment group and kept throwing Genghis Khan references in his conversation.

3. When Mun’G and Big Tril still had to explain who they are, new Baboon Forest entrants, but did they have to be there for every GNL Zamba interview. Yes, GNL would roar, they’re my boys.

4. When Mun’G was still a High School act, talking about songs he claimed were burning up the chats but most journalists, 10 or more years out of the high school scene, had never heard of, privately wondered if he and Big Tril were not GNL Zamba hangers-on.

5. Mun’G before Gira Tugire...more popularly known as Kyaba Too Much, adulterated in Airtel Uganda adverts as Kyaba too good...

6. Before some Ugandan music industry watchers began to ask aloud, “But isn’t Mun’G better than GNL Zamba? Me I like Mun’G. He is so funny.” Like GNL Zamba was not funny to begin with, or had suddenly lost his humour, in becoming a CEO of Baboon Forest Entertainment. GNL shrugging them off, “Everybody takes shots at the boss.”

7. In the aftermath of Koyi Koyi: The Legend of Zamba, GNL still lost, his Speaking Vernacular album on the burner, unsure what to follow it up with, with 99 problems on his mind from allegations of beating up his girlfriend to club altercations with a girl who claimed she had been his lover, sponsor-what a year!

8. A blogger rediscovering his love of blogging, from of all people, his interview subjects, quoting lines from blog posts of the past they had read and liked, were wondering, “What’s up? Why you not blogging?” September 2010, what a year, seriously considering a shop keeper’s career, it was surely much better than having only M&C, GNL shocked, “How can you even think of giving up?” Ugandan success stories come from far!

Thoughts on Uganda & 9th October Independence Celebrations 2011

2011-10-09T12:07:00.001+03:00

I appreciate now more than ever what a mistake it has been for me to let politicians’ narratives of our history be the Ugandan history narrative I have believed in all the years of my life. The narrative I have grown up with, been taught in school, varied with what was happening at the time in our country. But always, I was encouraged to think of our history as truncated, disconnected parts with a before and after. The before:-full of terrors and darkness, evil, the pre-1986. The after 1986:- era of no more roadblocks, gunshots in the night, sugar in the grocery racks, life worth living again.

Here are my impressions of our past leaders, because of the narratives I grew up listening to, being taught: Democratic Party leader Benedicto Kiwanuka was outsmarted, Kabaka Muteesa II was confused and used, Milton Obote was power hungry with no scruples, Idi Amin was a lucky buffon who blundered his way into power, Paulo Muwanga and Oyite Ojok were thieving terrors, Tito Okello and Lutwa were tribalists, and the National Resistance Movement/Army was the first to attempt to be all inclusive, unite the country, lead us into the sunshine of our tropical weather from the jungles and forests that had become our homes because in the corrugated roofs we were always being murdered by lawless bandits and soldiers as bandits.

Perhaps I’m as much to blame as you are that this is the accepted Ugandan national narrative? I have never offered an alternative (more out of a shocking ignorance of our collective past than for any other reason) and I sometimes chuckled with the mob when the likes of Timothy Kalyegira and Yoga Adhola attempted to craft their own histories of us as they interpreted them. Calling them propagandist cranks for diverting from the accepted national script-how dare they say Idi Amin had Uganda’s best interests at heart? Or that Milton Obote did some good? HOW DARE THEY???!

Didn’t they see the piled up skulls in Luwero War Triangle after the war? Didn’t they see the DRUM magazine photos? Had they forgotten that it was Idi Amin who ordered the expulsion of Asians from Uganda? Or that Idi Amin was a war monger who tried to invade Tanzania, take over the Kagera? Obote wanted to put us in bed with the Communists with his Common Man’s Charter, a very dangerous step that would involve us in the Cold War (1945-1990)? Did they have answers to any of these?

In letting the politicians set the narrative tone for us, now I see that our history is retold chapters in a war history. A series of takeovers’ & armed resistance. The rebels of yesterday, the liberators of today. The heroes of yesterday, the villains of today. All the significant events I can remember, none celebrates the everyday life and achievements of Ugandans who have always been here and will be here, even when this government no longer is, like others before them have gone.

I do not hear a celebration of the national anthem or when it was come up with. I do not hear a grateful commemoration of the Owino-now St. Balikuddembe Market-and all the years it has been of service and continues to be. I do not hear a proud remembrance of achievers like Okot P’Bitek whose song cycle, thoughts on the African artist and an African in the world, are a world treasured heritage. I do not hear of the life of men and women who have striven, in times of wars, scarcity, danger to take in orphans they did not have to, teach them morals and how to be contributors to society, sometimes in homes like Sanyu Babies Homes or the workers who stay and stay, in rural outposts, not succumbing to despair, trying to serve. What about the innovators, the main chance hunters, those who see an opportunity quickly, instead of Dubai hopping on a plane to go for it, like the founders of Facebook groups and discussion forums like Tech We Know It try to teach all those who wish to learn? The truly inspiring company founders like Amos Wekesa of Great Lakes Safaris/Uganda Lodges?

I do not hear any of them or their stories in the narrative that is Uganda or heroes plaques to them or newborns being named after them, to emulate them. I’m searching and searching but I cannot find them.