Buddy Bee Anthony

there's a time to fish and a time to mend nets.

Nobody ever listened to me while I was alive. So, on my tombstone, I want an engraver to carve a 'thank you for finally listening.' etched in the lower margins,

Can't you see the roadmap of my life written on my face and these tattoos which burn hot from my insides.

Dominatrix on the axis climbs The Tower Of Praxis

Decendants of David, and Son's Of Jesus, where have all the unwashed gentiles gone? The Hollywood preacher had a pat answer to my question. Still, the night skies are filled with haunting cries into hot mics by outcasted, Native Sons chanting ancient prayers to the sky piercing the 'blessed' stained glass to wake the landed philistines, Prayers to bring down, and turn to ash unholy brick, mortar and concrete sanctuariums.

I don't smile alot. I am in my 60's and don't care if you don't like me my style or lack thereof. I can entertain you whether or not, I'm paid well to do so. I am a specialist. My voice has a million volts of musical energy My voice jumps enough batteries to light up all the Christmas lights and Taxi cabs in New York City. I have lines on my face, and, tattoo's on my insides. I am not a role model. I disturb what's left of your peace. I sing about greed, vanity, lust, grief, Power relationships, the human struggles for acceptance and love in a world made of glass, steel and stone., My destination is to go deep in your earth's crust. Twisting the knife, ever so sweetly. Putting you at ease into a dream state, before I strike The man strut is in serious danger today. Music has been neutered. I am an outsider with an outlaw's mind. My lyrics are my six guns. I can say things with song I can't say in conversation, expressing otherwise offensive, and taboo, even those sensitive unmentionable topics. I take the risk someone isn't going to say nice things about my work. Art disturbs. It's not just an artist's prerogative but our duty to do so. A hit and run. We have become far too serious and Red Chinese. Tragically, there has been a wave of unhealthy conformity. Putting one's neck out too far hasn't been healthy. Crushing the creative juices of so many of our most gifted. What is an artist bringing to the table who doesn't confront convention. Who doesn't question the often arbitrary rules of society? Don't trash the messenger. because the message gives you a tummy ache. It's our duty and our calling to sound the alarm. If you say why, I say why not? If you say why not. I may say why bother.... Give me five minutes of your time, and your butt is mine. It's my forte' to jolt your senses. Change your assemblage point. Guide you musically to a new vantage point. Don't expect me to smile or cut my hair to get in your good graces. my music originates from the cauldron of my beating heart., ., .. I am not singing to save the Mountain Gorilla's or the whales, , I am not trying to liberate anything but the moment. I don't write songs with themes about the plight of Somalia, New Brunswick, Apache's, The Eskimo, or Polar Bear. I don't have blues scales or chops to end world war, slavery, or oppression. What I do have is a formidable wheel house of material that keeps growing. To create something meaningful, monitized agenda cheapens my message. It feels manipulative, and inauthentic. Watering down the nature tapestry and texture, of the message I choose to express.