An Original Jam from Alphabet City
Carlos Chagall, D. Rivera, Papo C., Eric Greco
Carlos Chagall, D. Rivera, Papo C., Eric Greco
Sebastien Greco – vocals
Carlos Chagall – guitars
Dede Rivera – bass
Papa Cuadrado – percussion
I promise to be good no more, my ulterior motive, my alter-ego,
boundless, shaken loose as altar palsy,
would rock the Casbah on the organ in the apse.
Starry-eyed?
I’d sleep one-eye open, if I were you.
Too many ellipses, methinks,
too many bombardiers, outweigh the troubadours;
I’ve reckoned it’s important
to protect the flank without disturbing the garden?
Eat, drink, be merry, with others as well as your own.
do not harm each other, or be concerned with things;
love the earth.
There’s full moons tonight all over the worlds,
everywhere lovers heave sighs, look up,
to where you are, just far away,
in the light from old stars, open-lipped and breathless.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Sebastien Greco, vocals
Carlos Chagall, guitars
DD Rivera, bass
Papo Cuadrado, percussion
Words & Music – Carlos Chagall, 2013
Just this side of spoken word – near beatnik
– to all those who remember the Shower House – for Johnny W.
Sebastien Greco, vocals
Carlos Chagall, guitars
Music & Lyrics by Sebastien Greco and Carlos Chagall, 2013
Just this side of spoken word
At the piano, I play a light blue,
my left hand punctuates, strident bulbous,
circles of gray, droplets of black timing.
My right hand ripples arpeggios, brisk
splashes of gold, Pollockesque, allegro.
Musically, on pilot-automatic.
Out the window, there in the sky, I see
major triads as clouds move slowly, pushed;
invisible winds above dissonance,
beyond the minor second. Zephyrs play
in the treetops, to and fro, suspended,
diminished, dominant, gin and tonic.
Then you arrive, a refrain at the door,
so I add the seventh, ninth, eleventh.
Your smile lifts me up in harmonics,
too many octaves high, in overtones
that crash the normal frequencies, like bells
in heavens, all is hallowed, on this night.
On ground, a breeze stirs the honeysuckle
love, pianofortissimomente.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
The melody haunts on the offbeat, my heart's pulse. Sad, but hopeful, maybe. The fuzzy reeds, breath through tenors, piano and bass both upright shake sand castles loose at the turrets. Doubtful brushes swirl on snares, precise in ambiguous beat, more color, than anything electric. A young girl, neon green bikini, samba prone on her lounger under ear buds, to her own muse, or maybe disposable pop. Surf rolls. Hear that oh so soft brush on cymbal? Grab it, now hold it, now fade. Chicheme, March 2013