He started muttering to himself in French
Because that's what you do at such times - sigh
Then switch to your native tongue or thereabouts

"They don't see me
... Again ...
They don't see me"

The tiredness of an immigrant
The tiredness of an African
The tiredness of an older black man
The face of someone who has seen too much

"No, they saw you. I think they'll serve you... eventually"

Surprised that someone had understood what he'd said
Someone from the old country or thereabouts was here
Speaking his language
The hint of a smile began to broach his weary face - well-lined

"I know. They saw me but they didn't see me.
That's how they are.
They don't see you in this country. They don't see you.
If you only knew what it takes for them to see you..."

He was getting into it, winding up, getting ready to make a scene

"Well I see you, my uncle. I see you. Have faith. I see you"

Tonton, he appreciated that. That I named him. That I saw him

"They don't see you. Ils sont impolis dans ce pays. Impolis..."

Raised voice

"Well now they've heard us. They know we are waiting. Now they see us"

He chuckled.

"They don't see you. Really...
They don't see you.
They hear you, but they don't see you"

There was movement
The young man roused himself
Slowly making his way from behind the counter
To attend to this foreign crew now chatting away at the front
The old man was purposeful when he was finally addressed
And deliberate. He made him wait
He finished telling me his story before he turned
Then he cleared his throat,
And tried to summon up the English words
He started to explain whatever it was that had brought him to this place
As I went my way moments later, he again interrupted himself

"Au revoir, mon fils"

Then, loudly again, in English this time

"They don't see you"

They Don't See You, A Playlist

A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

• You Don't See Me by Amel Larrieux
• Invisible by Alison Moyet
• Breakfast at Denny's by Buckshot Lefonque
• Invisible by Courtney Pine
• Don't Keep Me Waiting by Kwesi Arthur
• You Don't See Me by Al Jarreau
• Don't See Us by The Roots ft. Dice Raw

See previously Defensive Accounting and Normalcy Prohibition

File under: immigration, culture, observation, perception, life, race, USA, displacement, Buyer's Remorse, poetry, toli

Writing log: September 20, 2022

Apropos simulations and simulacra... I am catnip for the blues and, for the past few weeks, have been simmering in a thick stew of female blues singers - because, well, that's what one can do these days... Which leads me to the curious case of Marvin Huxley.

Or should I italicize "Marvin Huxley", a music producer who, like me, is enamored of 1930's Delta style blues and has now, at length (and perhaps controversially augmented with AI), delivered an album-length blues fascinator, Shadows of the South

Branded as an "Independent Lo-fi Blues and Jazz Funk Music producer" from Adelaide, Australia, I see and hear what gets him off, it's an aesthetic I am deeply sympathetic with. It's also an aesthetic just out of an uncanny valley, leaving me deeply conflicted.

My introduction to Marvin Huxley was Suits Stitched in Shadows and Lies, which was somehow recommended by YouTube after I'd exhausted my go-to playlists of Etta James, Big Mama Thornton and Memphis Minnie. And, well, listen for yourself.

(Putting aside the visuals - which were a later discovery and par for the course in this our generative timeline), I didn't know where to start with the music, I was confounded.

Then, one click later, there was A Dollar's Worth of Skin, which was similarly disconcerting to the ear. Synthesis, compression, homage at once, and fruit of a strange alchemy.

Then, there were also the earlier experiments, say Goodbye America Blues, which is more evidently artificial with its vocal sampling of an unknown singer and filtered guitar. Still, I kept listening, eventually casting the effort as a blues fascinator despite the synthetic content.

Sidenote: The Sister-in-law has written at length about the real thing. We should all listen to them. The emotional labor and the craft:
Blues Mamas and Broadway Belters: Black Women, Voice, and the Musical Stage (Refiguring American Music) #CiteBlackWomen

In any case, here is an album that is soaked in this aesthetic, devoted even. A studio creation, perhaps, but it is a creation nevertheless. A high-tech creation of lo-fi blues.

Or more precisely, it is a recreation from someone "who loves trying to recreate those old sounds using vintage style instruments, samples, compressors and effects". Homage and chimera, then.

When I read "The guitar recording was degraded to evoke the brittle warmth of a 1930s field recording", I couldn't help but think of Pete Rock or DJ Shadow crate-digging and similarly jacking for beats.

Or say Q-Tip on the needle drop.

There's a racial angle perhaps (or a cultural appropriation take, some might say), but I won't venture in that direction, only the music matters to me.

Still, who gets to write "a love letter to the lost ghosts of American blues music"? Not for nothing do many bluesmen sing that Blues is a Feeling. (see Lightnin' Hopkins, for example)

And in a year where the movie Sinners has dominated the cultural zeitgeist, it is worth asking whether you can have a Delta blues revival, with full-on lyrics, gritty vocals and all, that is synthetic rather than authentic.

(Sidenote: to that point, Buddy Guy's new album Ain't done with the blues is also out)

Still, the music nerd in me wants to deconstruct the work. Where do the voices in Shadows of the South come from? What studio trickery was used? What equipment? Or, perhaps more tellingly, what prompts were crafted, if some of it is indeed AI-infused?

But then, stepping back, I also want to ask: who made the field recordings that we all venerate? Who was documenting the blues back then? Who was promoting it? And who now basks in the sounds of earthy blues?

But that's me. I can listen to a blues mama merely humming for hours on end. Further, the stakes are low. To add or not to add to the playlist, that is the question.

It seems to me that the visuals highlight the artifice and perhaps even detract from the music they are intended to support. At the same time, they do underscore the mood and point to the story of the clever lyrics. Also: they are great conversation pieces.

(A reminder that my favorite video accompanying a Funkadelic song is a juxtaposition with a Russ Meyer film, You Scared the Lovin' Outta Me by Funkadelic)

But I wonder what Marvin Huxley would come up with, with say a Lizz Wright in the flesh, after hours in the recording booth. Or maybe, to push the racial angle, what would a project with Alice Russell on vocals sound like in comparison?

In the same vein, one wonders if people want to listen to the blues or if blues-adjacent or blues-influenced will suffice. Certainly in these streaming days, there are many for which the simulacra will suffice as background music. Reserving the experience of the real thing for live settings. One wonders...

Anyway, the album is not all fetishized retro action. The rest features more modern beats, albeit still blues-inflected on the surface, even when veering into trip-hop territory. That growl in the vocals is a constant, and those guitar licks. Sounds of nostalgia.

I can see the twinkle in the eye as the album was released. But who knows how it will be received? I do know that this listener was left chasing shadows tying to decipher this conversation piece. Let me know what you think.

Shadows of the South by Marvin Huxley

The album on YouTube (spotify version) and a few highlights. For the first three, I suggest a blind listen before venturing to the videos.

• Suits Stitched in Shadows and Lies
• A Dollar's Worth of Skin
• Goodbye America Blues
• Sunday Prayes and Monday Chains
• Silver spoons and broken backs
• Shadows of the south
  The title track sounds more modern than the rest of the album.

P.S. Hey Marvin, tell me more about the makings of this album.

P.P.S. Pardon the title of this piece, I'm a sucker for such things.

This note is part of a series, One Track Mind. See previously: Baby Me by Chaka Khan, Paul Laurence, Soul Man

File under: music, review, aesthetic, authenticity, blues, nostalgia, race, Creative Process, appreciation, culture, observation, perception, technology, AI, One Track Mind, toli

Writing log: September 1, 2025

Portrait of a narcissist, a few essential traits
A slight never forgotten, don't you make that mistake
A double heart filled with unspoken threats
He wears the mask the audience deserves

Portrait of an opportunist, moral flexibility in abundance
Reversals galore but he rolls with the punches
His interests always trump friendships, let's call it expedience
For survival beyond the day's end is his sole allegiance

Portrait of the vain, hollow on the inside
Entitlement in stiff competition with pride
His secret weapon, a genuine sense of self importance
Chock full of certainty about the rightness of his cause
To call him self centered is to merely state the obvious

Portrait of a deceiver, all things to all men
Lying with a straight face, his enduring strength
Pitch perfect delivery, you could swear he believes every untruth
Surely, to impugn the purity of his motives? What are you, uncouth?

Carried Fanon's book around for a full year - wretched
Still occasionally tries to read it (practice makes perfect)
But underneath everything is a fundamental insecurity
Mommy and Daddy issues, the bitter roots of his immaturity

The need for speed, horses his first love
But anything with an engine would do
Nights out with the running partners
Booze, the hard stuff, ladies of easy virtue
After dark, how exciting, and all in the same room

It's fair to say that there are multitudes inside of this man
Characterized, everyone says, by his tremendous charm
Unrestrained, unfiltered, half baked, half-cocked
Empty but empowered, half truths, half thought

Absolved, then, of the burden of any sense of responsibility
Free to be a political actor altogether allergic to empathy
A chameleon - mercurial, they call him, the luckiest man alive
Just your luck that you're stuck with him, the best years of your life

Bad, a playlist

For what it's worth, this playlist was intended to stand alone but seeing as I haven't written up the liner notes in the 17 years since I made it, I suppose I can repurpose it as the soundtrack for this note. A couple of hours on a bad man (spotify version)

...

Timing is everything
Observers are worried

...

See previously The Conqueror's Catechism


File under: humour, hatchet job, rogues, satire, culture, observation, perception, military, dictator, blood, sin, greed, gremlins, Africa, violence, strategy, Fallen Angels, Observers are worried, poetry, toli

Writing log: September 18, 2022

Remember the suburban novel? Books about attractive white families in nice houses who turn out to be miserable? Examples include Richard Yates’s Revolutionary Road (1961), the work of the Johns (Cheever and Updike), Richard Ford’s The Sportswriter (1986) and Independence Day (1995), and Rick Moody’s The Ice Storm (1994). If so, you’re probably middle-aged, or […]

Late afternoon at the Africarib market,
  the brothers in the know were picking up some yam
(A fresh shipment of puna yam had just arrived from the motherland)
Man cannot live on bread alone

I was more interested in the kenkey
 that had also arrived that Wednesday,
Driven up from Houston by an ex-military man,
  his wife was the one who prepared the kenkey
Nigerians were out in force -
  yam for their swallow obviously, and much more:
Stockfish, herring and even snails.
  The shop was well stocked today

One of the elders recounted a long tale
 about how hard things were back home - believe him
We learned about the three year old child who was suffering,
  crying when he'd last called home
The story was that two ears of corn had been prepared in the morning -
 his share for the day
But that before it could be given out, a fowl -
  unclear whether it was a chicken or guinea fowl,
Had gone behind him, poor thing,
  and absconded with the corn

And the child had set about on the chase,
  and duly tripped and fell,
And was now disconsolate,
  bleeding, and still crying hours after the deed
And hungry too, for the corn was long gone
There was an object lesson in the tale
 about the hardship that our people were facing,
Inflation, poverty and worse - how for do? Na wow
Now even little ones have to compete with fowls for their daily corn

Just then we saw the headlines
On the screen above the check out counter
Breaking news, school shooting... CNN...
Two children killed... many injured... More to follow
"So these people...
School don open just this week and they go shoot am...
America..."
Shaking heads all around.

Our laments about the continent were cut short - these people
I quickly settled with Walter. And made my excuses to the circle:
"I need to pick up the kids from school"
Head nods. We all sobered up promptly,
The expected banter postponed for another time
I'll admit, I drove rather fast to the school

Defensive Posture, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note. Musical protection. (spotify version)

Bonus beats: Immigrant by Sade

See previously Silt and Sediment, Action Items, Prone and Defensive Accounting

File under: immigration, culture, observation, perception, social, Africa, USA, blood, violence, modernity, guns, outrage, The Rough Beast, Observers are worried, poetry, toli

Writing log: August 28, 2025

Pink lines are the new shape of dread
The weary anticipation of the so-called rapid test
Faint traces of the untimely failures of our defenses
Or an unwelcome rejoinder to our wilful recklessness

Red lines that bellicose nations brandish
Their diplomats echoing aggressive rhetoric
Not to be crossed or we'll give you the "or else" treatment
The new warfare, like the old, is said to be indecent
By design, it's hard to trace the contours of these boundaries
Seeing as they are drawn up essentially to support a casus belli

White lines that crackle with the powder of addiction
Just say no, resist the temptation, said the erstwhile First Lady
"No Dope, No Drugs", for good measure, chimed in Mr T
For white lines mark the streets with broken dreams

Yellow lines outline a zone, never cross the double ones
Symbolic, indicating waiting or parking restrictions
The DC Metro one tends to shut down for up to eight months
The price of deferred maintenance, repairs and rehabilitation
Safety first, passing is forbidden in both directions
Prohibition, as inconveniences grow, try to avoid obstructions

Power lines, careful around them, electricity
The skeletal frame of our modernity
Infrastructure, what you realize in its absence that you miss
Prime candidate for what went wrong in the root cause analysis

Don't leave anything behind, always put it all on the line
Read the room, be forever mindful of the party line
Embrace euphemism, ambiguity and blurred lines
Careful as you go, tread warily, walk a thin line
Lines in the sand, drawing up lessons learned
Histories remade by the storyteller and promptly unlearned
Comfort suites of ephemera, until such time
Caution, take heed, where you end up down the line
For if the front line is where names are made
It is also where most of the bodies are laid

Lines, a playlist

A funky soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

• The Line by D'Angelo
• Blue Lines by Massive Attack
• Down the Line by Gregory Isaacs
• White Lines by Grandmaster Melle Melle
• The Groove Line by Heatwave
• Blurred Lines by Robin Thicke
• Lines by Eric Leeds
• Put it on the line by Lyn Collins
• Dub on the Front Line by King Jammy
• Front Line by Chuckii Booker
• The Line by Prince

File under: humour, whimsy, culture, observation, life, language, perception, poetry, toli

Writing log: September 14, 2022