Ah Cama-Sotz…fuck the rest.

 

Saturday night, in East L.A.

 

Dodger cap night. Dodger caps stunt brain waves here. Stunted brain waves create…rap music. R&B garbage. Everyone around here drives around, rides buses, with that shit booming from their crappy speakers.

 

East L.A. Mexicans slop up sloppy Black rap and usurp the form as their own street form of cred and showmanship.  I think it’s sick.

 

I hate rap music. It is the music of the stupid and ignorant. It is the music of the dense and unimaginative, of the viscerally brain-dead. Everyone here listens to rap music, that booming sharp cutting annoying rote barking of stupidity.

 

Absolutely do not like.

 

I’ve never liked pop music. I’ve liked some, but most is garbage. I hate the garbage. Pop music is for normies; stupid, sluggish-minded sloths who indulge in physical, rather than mental, stimulation.

 

The “alternative” crowd, those who relish deep bass rhythms and lyrical darkness, desire soulful stimulation.. We are extracted from the mainstream, from the road most traveled. I’ve never traveled the popular path and my musical leanings have always schismed me from the rest.

 

Normies, fuck ’em. They like shit.

 

My new band of favor is from Belgium. They are a bit askew and they derive much of their inspiration from a trip to the land of my people back in 1992.

 

How does one describe their music?

Foreboding?

Apocalyptic?

 

Doomed, even.

Ah Cama-Sotz, named loosely after a Mayan god, plays music of the dark interiors. Nothing rap here.

 

Ah Cama-Sotz explores a fringe existence that most don’t dwell upon. Ah Cama skirts the exteriors of moral sanity. Chanting, repeated bass lines, recursive demon chants, all bellowing against the disharmony of modern Trumpanity, one is swiftly driven from Earthly moribund ties listening to this “band.”

 

Can we call them a band?

 

Are they a movement, a form of recession to primal formologies?

 

Retracting what we are, what we’ve “accomplished” and dissembled humanity into the agonal drips and drabs of a struggling sense of perseverance our fleeting humanityhood struggles to perpetuate with wayward rendezvous’.

 

This is not rap.