While staying at the top of Middle Bay—the  same residence where I would chat with acidheads about my lovelorn life while having a panic attack—my brother was falling in love.

Not with the girl. He was fucking sick of the girl.

After six months of passion-fuelled hatred he broke up with his girlfriend. Only they both lived in residence and avoiding her was near impossible. Especially when she made friends with people in his Bay and would sit at the bottom of the stairs leading to his room like some sort of guard troll.

Thus began a regular diet of death stares and awkward moments.

His frustration grew with her unreasonable demands of his time, patience and concern. Her insanity grew in sync. He began to wonder if she would try to poison his food. And inspiration struck.

You can smell the pit stained stink of a boy’s residence as you move up the stairs. The smell of marijuana is covered by incense. Underneath is the smell of stale beer that drenches the sticky floors. The walls are shaking. Step through the door and music is being made.

My brother has gigantic white boy dreads made of coarse Hasidic hair he inherited from our Jewish ancestors. His baggy jeans threaten to trip him.  The room is filled with smoke and Noah is working the controls. My brother is yelling out words he reads from a page.

In the beginning recording studios were two Ghetto blasters, one playing the beat at full blast, the other attached to a microphone recording the yelling they called verses.

Such were the humble origins of Halifax rap gods Josh Martinez and Kunga 219. Only at this point they were Matthew Kimber and Noah Hasprey. And his first song—recorded via Ghetto blaster in his dorm room—was about a crazy bitch that wouldn’t leave him alone.

Matt’s interest had first been turned to hip-hop in high school. At the time he liked acid, beat poetry and causing an incredible amount of trouble. He couldn’t see himself participating much in the rap he listened to.

One of his constant compatriots in such mischief was a Buddhist boozehound named Noah Hasprey, with a penchant for marijuana, mixtapes and meditation.  He was also obsessed with rap and freestyled at any opportunity.

Noah’s mixtapes circulated and at the end there was always freestyle from Noah. He was the crew’s musical archivist and created highly individualized mixtapes based on what he knew members of his crew needed to hear.

It would take a crazy girl to make my brother to take the leap from fan to musician. At the time Halifax was ruled by hip hop purists Buck 65 and Jorun, who believed rap music needed to be made with a set of defined rules even if they didn’t make that music.

Rap was about punch lines and the best way of expressing your dopeness. Perform with a DJ. Singing was for sissies.  Poetry for weiners.  Matthew never liked being told what to do.

People liked his song on Noah’s album and encouraged him to pursue it.

These were good days for Matthew.

Disliking rap names he called himself Maxwell, after our maternal grandfather.

In the time of five on five acid versus shroom basketball games, performances at all night raves, boozed out freestyle sessions in dorm rooms where his friends would try to outdo each other, each looking to come up with the funniest rhyme, the most ridiculous simile, my brother blossomed.

Somehow a new type of hip-hop was emerging from the most unlikely of places. Halifax, Nova Scotia was setting the stage to change the hip-hop world forever. As of yet my brother was relatively unknown living in the shadow of the Sebutones(Buck 65 and Sixtoo), the remains of Hip Hop Club Groove and Universal Soul.

And then he met a madman from Truro, Nova Scotia who would change everything.

******************************************************************************************************

The first time I remember hearing about DJ Moves, aka Brian Higgins, it involved a come-on line he developed.

He would yell at a passing female, “Stop doing that.”

The girl was supposed to stop and ask what she should stop doing.

He would respond, “Being so beautiful.”

Cue smile; make out session and DJ spins some of his best getting jiggy jams.

Only he has a 160 proof whiskey voice and the girls wouldn’t ask what they needed to stop doing. Instead frightened they would walk faster and wonder what it was they should stop doing and consider how they could stop doing it to avoid being yelled at again.

Despite his gravelly tones and brutal bluntness Moves is the most loved man in Canada hip-hop.

According to my brother, Moves is the best and most prolific producer of hip-hop music that Canada has ever seen. He is also a boozehound, chain smoker and over all disgusting man that will tell you what’s fucked up about you to your face and then buys you ten drinks.

Born in Truro he made music with rap group Hip Club Groove and would one day produce the break out “Steal My Sunshine” for creepy supergroup Len.

His studio was a shitty apartment he shared with his girlfriend at the time. Discarded bottles of OE litter the floor. During recording sessions he would chain smoke cigarettes, forearm pressed with head level against the wall, left hand tapping away the beats and record.  When he removed his forearm it would like he had been spray painted around from the yellowing of the smoke coating his wall.

Brian hasn’t said anything in a while. He looks extremely pissed and seems to have run out of smokes.

A very ambitious project is being attempted.

After three weeks of furious research and intensive writing sessions Matt has come up with a grandiose opus concerning the Holocaust. Which is not exactly typical hip- hop fare.

Inspired by the films of Quentin Tarantino, the two are attempting something that has never been done in hip-hop. “Deny” traces an army captain as he struggles through the horrors of the Holocaust, cutting and back and forth in time creating a continuous story that lasts 9 and a half minutes. Matt knew that there would need to be intense change ups in the instrumental to make it work.

Moves accepted his challenge and began work. Taking samples from German orchestras of shame and sadness created after the war in apology for the horrible crimes committed he made a complex  tapestry. Making four instrumentals and weaving them together was much more complicated than it would be today.

They recorded on four tracks.

A cassette has 4 tracks. The right and the left going one direction, and two going on the other and the other side is the whole thing backwards. Put the scratches on another track, then you have to cut and paste this beat together, cutting it all together to get it onto a grid in a row.  You’d almost have to splice the reels to get four beats onto one tape. Somehow the puzzle has come together. A spliff has been smoked and the two have listened to their project.

Matthew doesn’t quite know what to say. Moves isn’t saying anything and that strikes Matthew as a bad sign.

“Smoke?” he says.

“Out.”

“You like it?”

“Yes.”

Silence returns.

The next day he receives a phone call from Moves.

Blown away by the power of what they had created Moves showed the song to local hip hop star Buck 65. Buck instantly declared that Matthew was his favorite rapper in the city.

What began as a drunken joke was starting to get serious.

In a few days five songs have been completed.

An album is ready.

Moves and Matthew go to a teachers supply store and buy up all their 30-minute cassette tapes.  Three songs on one side and 1 song on the other as well as the 9 minute magnum opus “Deny”..

There is only a speed dubber to place the master on one reel and then fast forward record onto the other.

50 tapes are made and the next twelve years of my brother’s life began to take shape.

***************************************************************************

In the depths of King’s College is the Wardroom.

To this day it still serves the cheapest beer in town. Once a year—until dollar drinks were outlawed due to a gigantic brawl at a local whorehouse “The Dome”—they hold the Wardroom’s birthday party. At this event drinks begin at fifty cents and go up by a quarter every half hour.

Yesterday was the release party for my brother’s first album “Maximum Well Being” and the bar manager was a fan of local hip-hop. Yesterday the drink special was forty ouncers of Bull Mac served in a paper bag.  Academics and assholes alike drank from the paper bag and saluted my brother’s efforts as his dreads dangled in the wind.

However it is the next night that Matthew remembers most.

He is playing a rave his friends are throwing called Family Circus. It takes place at a carnival grounds with the ride still in place.

It is the first night Matthew has ever done E and he can’t stop talking. Which is usually a problem for Matthew anyway.

The lights are so bright and the evening is so much more than he ever expected it to be. His eyes have become heating missiles directed at his girlfriend’s beautiful body.

“That is a huge fucking ride. You know that’s where they used to race pigs?” says my brother.

His girlfriend nods and kisses him on the cheek.

He finds he really enjoys being kissed on the cheek and asks her to do it again. She does.

He can’t stop smiling. In a couple minutes he will perform for the second time that week.

But for now it is time to go on a ride and have a drink out of his flask. She holds his hand and he doesn’t want to let go.

The  ferrish wheel reaches the top and stops for a moment.

He can see the city lights and thinks about how much has changed in such a short time.

Tomorrow he goes to Thailand and leaves the city behind.  Why now?

The city is alive in a way that it has never been before. DJ’s are coming from all around the world. It seems like the Sebutones might become famous. People know his name and he feels like he is onto something.

He holds the hand of his girlfriend and knows that he is in love with her.  That may be the E talking.

He can feel his pulse jumping up and down doing cartwheels inside his skin. He is going to see Asia and Australia and find that world he can only seem to touch through his music. He feels so alive yet knows he hasn’t lived at all.

“Can you see that?” he asks her.

She doesn’t know how to reply.

“It’s the world,” he says. “It’s right there.”

Amidst the circus lights, he says goodbye to the best friends of his life.  Goodbye to the Halifax of his childhood, basketball games Acid vs. Shroom, Café Ola, the Khyber, the Marquee and the girls he constantly fell in love with.

The next day he boards the flight to Vancouver, and from there another plane to LA and one last flight to Australia.

Little does he know that his tape will begin to circulate and the dreams of those nights will become his life.

At 20 years old, he would fly away from everything he has ever known to find himself.

The rest of his life will be filled with similar planes, taking him away from the people he cares about to try to chase that high.  Every time he feels that he fits the necessity of his life will take him away.  For now let’s leave him on that ride, with the bright lights of a city that loves him and a world he is about to know.

With the world, right there.

“I can’t give up the name of my source,” I say, feeling a strange combination of pride and absolute terror.  I’m playing Woodward and Bernstein, and the idea of calling my source Deep Throat threatens to make me break up laughing.

In a movie, I would spit in his face, but in a movie, I wouldn’t be panicking.

“Those are your two choices.  Have you ever heard of a man named Jayson Blair, Michael?” he asks.

Being compared to Jayson Blair is just about the worst thing to a journalist.  He worked for the New York Times and resigned in 2003 for fabricating quotes and whole stories, plagiarizing other writers’ work and generally being a piece of shit.

“Yes,” I reply.  “Fuck you,” I didn’t reply.

I should have just kept my mouth shut.  All of this could have been avoided if I’d just kept my head down and written the shitty entertainment listings that had been assigned to me.  He’s doing his job as he sees fit, pursuing a good story.  You can’t tell your editor and an idea while hoping they don’t pursue it, but I was young and apparently didn’t know how to keep my mouth shut.

If he leans on me a little bit, I could easily cave, and then we could all move on.  Only I don’t like being told what to do, especially when I think I’m right.

Fuck.

“How come you won’t let us just talk to him?” he asks.

A phone number can be checked.  A name can be found.  A front page can be filled with the face of a man who doesn’t want or need the attention.

“He doesn’t want you to know who he is,” I say.

“Why not?” he asks.

“He’s read your paper, and he thinks you’ll make him look like a piece of shit,” I say.

Pause.

“Is he even real?” he asks.

“I’m offended by the implication,” I say, even though it’s not really implication.  It’s just something he said.  Awful words form and die before passing my lips.  I say again, “He doesn’t want to talk to you.  He doesn’t trust you.”

My stomach rolls, and I need to stop myself from rising to the bait.  Losing my train of thought, I think about my stomach lining, and the coffee that feels as if it is burning its way through it.  On an average morning, I wake up and vomit up bile because of my anxieties, but since I took this trip, I have been hacking up blood.  I suspect this is not going to be helping any.

“You’ve got to give me something,” he says.  “Show me his website.  You say it’s choke porn?”

He is silver haired and tongued, about my father’s age, and here we are talking about choke porn.  I nod.  He looks up choke porn on his computer while I wait to see what he finds.

“Any other helpful tips you can give?” he asks.

“It’s not only choke porn.  He does what’s called horror porn,” I say.

“Have you been to his website?” he asks.

“I was going to try to go to a taping, but no, I haven’t checked out the website,” I say.

“Why not?” he asks.

“Not really my taste,” I say.

“You weren’t curious?” he asks.

“Thought I’d wait until I did the story.”

“Take this as a lesson,” says my editor, “a good journalist is curious about everything, even horror porn.”

I want to point out what a low point this is in my journalism career but instead sit in silence thinking of what I’m going to say to my internship supervisor, what I’m going to say to my father.  I also briefly ponder if my ever-loving brother will end up ruining his very good relationship with this newspaper by punching a hole in this man’s face.

This started a couple weeks earlier over a meal of expensive macaroni and cheese and spiced alligator.  My brother was discussing yet another scheme to conquer the world of music.

“So we do magic tricks on stage,” he says. “Fucking magic tricks, Mikey.  Sleep is a magician and so is Zone.  Magic, Mikey, magic and moustache rides.”

“Sounds really cool.  I’ve never seen a rapper do that,” I say.

“We are doing tons of new shit. You’re not going to believe the next trick up our sleeve,” he says.

My brother’s live show is as ADD as he is.  When he works with Sleep as the Chicharones they begin their show with a riveting version of Eye of the Tiger, his DJ wears a pig mask, and the rest of them sport fake moustaches.  Watching Matt on the stage is a rare pleasure for me.  When I was a teenager, he smuggled me into his shows, and I knew every word.  Rarely do you get to see someone do what they were born to do, and my brother was born to perform, not to be punctual.

We’re having dinner at 10 o’clock and he said we would eat at 7.  I’m hypoglycemic and struggling not to be rude.

“Did I tell you about the shit that happened at the show?” he asks.

I notice he’s got armbands with the American flag around his wrists.  As always, he’s wearing a leather jacket and a button up shirt, claiming to have been one of the first rappers to dress pretty.

“So I was doing a show in Vancouver a couple days ago, and I thought it would be funny to cheer, ‘USA, USA, USA…’, and the motherfuckers booed me.  Then I told them I loved Portland, and they booed me again.  I wasn’t going to take it anymore. Canadians think they can shit on America for everything, fucking ridiculous.  So I got the DJ to cut the music and told them to go fuck themselves.  Shit made sense when the US had Bush, and we had Chretien, but we’ve got fucking Harper now, and we barely have that. They’ve got Obama, and we don’t even have a government.  Shit doesn’t fly anymore.”

At this time, Parliament was being prorogued, and Canadian politics was in the process of sliding into the shit hole we now find ourselves drowning in.

A girl walks by, smiles at my brother and gives him a little wave.  My eyes bulge like a cartoon character.

“Nice looking girl, Mikey.”

“Who is she?” I asked.

“That’s Thomas’s girl.  And here is Thomas,” he says.

Thomas is larger than life and he’s pretty large in general.

A bulky dude in a Stetson approaches the table with the girl in tow.  Her magnetic cleavage leaves me unprepared for a proper introduction.  Thomas has small eyes, a big face, and a general joie de vivre that makes you feel like he’s waiting for a stripper to jump out of a cake at any moment.  He hugs my brother and smiles at me.  There is something blissfully childish in Thomas, despite the fact that he’s the oldest of all my brother’s friends.  Despite his size, he jumps up and down like a little kid that needs to pee.

“How is the little Martinez?” he asks.

My name has been ‘Matt’s brother’ throughout this trip.  Thomas hasn’t known Matt that long, and as such I’ve become Mini Martinez rather than Mini Matt.

“Pretty good,” I say.

“I’m just going to go powder my nose,” says the girl.

I take a bite of spicy alligator.

“Nothing like chicken,” I say.

Both laugh.

“Good looking woman,” I say.

“Stripper,” replies Thomas.  His voice vaguely reminds me of The Dude from Big Lebowksi. “Science Major.”

Portland has 95 churches and 95 strip clubs.  Everywhere you look is a beautiful church or a girl baring her tits.

“Wants to be a movie star.  Lucky for her, I happen to be her ticket to fame and fortune.”

Once more they both laugh.

“She’s got quite the future in front of her,” says Thomas. “Unless she winds up dead…”

He doesn’t make snuff films.  Don’t worry.

“Dead?” I ask.

“Choked to death,” supplies my brother.

“I’m missing something,” I say. “You make movies?”

As an ambitious overachiever, I start thinking of the proper way of pitching my screenplay idea.  My brother shakes his head as if he can read my mind.

“Adult films, dude,” offers Thomas.

“Oh?  Choking?” I ask.

“It’s my bread and butter,” says Thomas.

“Bread and butter?” I ask.

“Whips and chains if you prefer, though that’s sort of a different genre than what I make,” he replies and chuckles.

“Choking porn?” I ask. “What is that exactly?”

My brother bursts out laughing.  I think it’s because I said choking porn like I was asking for sugar.

“It’s not choke porn specifically.  Different market,” says Thomas, sounding vaguely offended. “I make horror porn.”

“Ghost fucking,” offers my brother.

“Sometimes,” admits Thomas, with a tiny shrug.  The bartender notices Thomas.  Thomas signals for another round for the table.  “Germans are really into it, control freaks mostly.  The basic idea is boy meets girl.  Girl wears little schoolgirl outfit, secretary, whatever the cats are into… then she usually meets her end.  Sometimes sex, sometimes just killing.  Creepy German dudes get off, and I make money.  Nobody really dies.  A Lotta clothes get ruined.  It’s nearly impossible to get corn syrup out,” he complains.

According to Thomas, there’s a market of about 2,000 hardcore users of horror porn, but they’re both dedicated and wealthy freaks.  Many movies are special orders, which means wealthy business execs provide a basic sketch of what they would like to see happen, choose from a selection of models, and get script approval before the movie even begins shooting.  Thomas pulls in around 15,000 grand a month from this business, and it funds his frequent trips to Portland to see my brother and Thomas’s never ending attempt to make his blues record .

“I help girls pay for their college tuition,” he smiles.  “I’m a humanitarian.  I pay for everything my kids need.  I’d fucking die for them. ”

He often speaks this earnestly.  He has a big heart and no interlocutor between thought and speech.

“Best dude in the world,” agrees my brother.

The lengthy powder session ends, and Thomas’s girl comes back out.  Thomas is ridiculously honest and as a result begins to explain his life story in less than an hour. He also buys us round after round.

According to legend, my brother met Thomas in New Orleans during a tour long ago.  Thomas ran a small club and performed soul tunes during Open Mics.  He got my brother loaded after his show and took him to a strip club… a life long friendship was formed.  Before that… well, he did a little of everything.  He worked for Hurricane Katrina disaster relief and suffered from posttraumatic stress.  It’s here that he developed his desire to rescue people.  He doesn’t let any of his girls do drugs and makes sure they get regularly tested.  When he says he pays for their college education, he actually means it.  He offers girls more money if they’re students.

He did whale watching tours, worked for the Coast Guard, tried too many drugs, and near broke his brain getting off them.  At 45, he wishes he had concentrated on music and is constantly asking my brother to record his Blues album.  My brother always replies, ‘someday’ and begins discussing a new topic.  My brother often makes references to his record company being a good investment and Thomas debates whether choke porn would be the best investor for a small indie label.

My brother might agree with him, but the gleam in his eye often works against him.  His label has been given grants by Factor.  My brother says the system is incredible for artists, as the government helps them build their business.  Since many artists are irresponsible and use too many drugs, Factor is built around trying to make sure the money is used correctly.  It’s a business building system which funds artists’ hopes and dreams retroactively, as in they pay for their albums, and then the government pays them back half.  As a result, artists with $20,000 grants are living hand to mouth, trying to raise the money to get paid back.

Which is where Uncle Thomas comes in.  My brother has received investment from certain female adult stars interested in promoting his career.  Thomas wouldn’t be that different.  The two stay out of business together, however, in efforts to keep their friendship in tact, and Thomas is about the best friend a guy could have.

Approaching Christmas, rappers with kids don’t have enough money to buy the Christmas presents their kids want.  Thomas offers interest free loans and usually doesn’t ask for his money back.  He is the baby daddy of four children and pays child support ahead of time.

To put it plainly, Thomas is one of the most fascinating people I have ever met.  Santa Claus funded by choke porn.

Thomas said he would love to have someone tell his story, so I brought it up to my editor.  She pitched it at a general meeting. The head editor assigned it to another journalist.  Thomas didn’t trust him and didn’t want any of his information shared.  So here I was, spitting up blood and at a moral crossroads.

My dad told me that they had no legs to stand on, and that I didn’t have to back down. My brother promised to punch him in the face, despite the fact that it would fuck up his good standing with the paper.

The next day I came in.

They asked whether I had the name.

I told them that I couldn’t give it up.  I was willing to accept the loss of my internship.

He looked at me and told me that he hoped I’d learned my lesson.  I still don’t know quite what that lesson is besides never get in between a reporter and a good story.

They let me stay at my job.  For two weeks I came into work, spat up blood in the morning, and hated every minute of it.

During my time in Portland, I got to know my brother and his friends… and a little idea called Colony of Losers began to take shape.

Dozens of media outlets closed and my hopeful journalism career became unlikely before it even began.

For now let us dwell in the land of doom, apocalypse, and delicious barbecue.  For those of you who have never been to Portland, let me sum it up.  Every restaurant has a daily happy hour where expensive becomes affordable, art museums exist in haunted schoolhouses, left wing is mainstream and hipsters are kings, old men sell dildos, bongs, and shotguns at the same store… and all types of madness ensues.

The moment I realized Portland was a different world was when I read about a protest against homosexuality.  The two religious protestors held up a sign that read, “God Hates Fags”.  A counter-protest of 200 held up signs that said, “God Hates Morons”.  The city’s motto is, “Keep Portland Weird”.

I was home.

Equipped with Hunter S Thompson’s Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail, I was ready to carry Hunter’s twisted flag of hope into the land of doom and bury the sharp end in the crotch of the oppressor.  All I needed was a story.

Drinking cups of coffee next to tattered remnants of bacon and egg breakfasts, I kept my ears open.  I heard a woman rage about her recent dismissal from her job due to her inability to handle the requirements of the work.  Her inability to meet said requirements was due to her recent diagnosis of cancer.  As such, she couldn’t be expected to work to her potential.  As a newbie journalist I didn’t think to get her name or ask where she worked.  My first opportunity had already slipped out of my hands.

So I did what any good journalist/socially awkward person would do.  I listened everywhere I went.  On the buses, I stared into surveillance cameras, listened to old ladies talk about the ruinous price of healthcare, young junkies talk about where they would get their next fix, and beautiful ladies discuss getting laid.  High on coffee and Emergen-C (a vitamin replacement), I kept my ears open and my knees knocking.

Nothing.  It would be awhile before I found the story I was seeking.  Until then, my visit had another purpose; I was going to reconnect with my brother.

His name is Josh Martinez.  He is a little shorter than me, a little skinnier and looks like a Jewish version of my Aryan self.  My eyes are blue, his are brown, my hair is straight and blonde, his is curly, brown dreidel-locks.  His voice is almost identical to my own, much of which can be attributed to mannerisms I picked up from him as a child.  Back when he was my hero, and I was his favourite torture victim.  He is my brother and he is a rap star.

Most children are picked on by their older siblings, and my brother was gifted with an extraordinary imagination.  Highlights of this include the family trip to Toronto where my sister and brother explained to me that there had been many brothers and sisters before me, but they had been killed by ingenuous methods when they ceased to be of any use to the family.  At the motel, they drowned a brother named Tommy in a hot tub.  Then there was Jimmy and the hot air balloon incident.

After showing me a brief clip of Friday the 13^th, my brother invited all his friends over to enact a horror movie where step by step each of them got killed.  Hiding in the corner of my basement, after witnessing the death of my sister and my brother’s friends, it was calmly revealed to me that it was all a prank.  Years later I find this funny.

He picks me up at the airport in a beaten up shit-tank, destined to die in less than a year.  His trademark dreads are gone and his handsome face exists behind a background created by a mangled mullet he calls hair.  His leather jacket, stylish sunglasses, and jeans contrast with my ill-fitting, blue, button-up shirt and undone belt.  He was once asked to become a model because he looks vaguely ethnic, as he could pass for pretty much any ethnicity with his deeply tanned Mediterranean skin. Women are attracted to his wired up energy. I have the same wound up energy but from me it seems like I need to get laid.  He is the Will, and I’m the Carlton.  He is the rapper, and I’m the journalist.  He travels the world, and this is my first time out of Nova Scotia for more than a few weeks.

“How you doing, Mikey?” he asks.  He’s trying to charm me, and I can tell because he’s using my charming voice, which I guess I learned from him.

He is the only one in the world who calls me Mikey, and I feel the years falling out from under my feet.

“Pretty good, pretty good.  How’s my famous brother?” I ask.  I use the charming voice too.

“Hopeful,” he says. “Big things, Mikey, big things.  How’s the book?”

I give him a long rambling summary, and he likes the right things and has the right questions.  We are on the road, and the air tastes fresh.  I can almost forget the amount of times I was advised at the airport to watch my luggage.  It’s sprinkling.  In Portland when it rains, it is a day of the week.  The city is located inside of a rainforest.

“Getting excited to get back into the real world?” he asks.

I groan.  This is a man who made a song called Bermuda Shorts with the line: “Divorced from the work force, I am I be, free at 23”.

“Not quite yet. Hopefully the book can keep me from having to do that for too long,” I say.  He smiles.  He knows what its like to be young, talented, and think that’s enough.  For now, he’s willing to let me keep my illusions.

“Don’t worry Mikey,“ he says, “You’ll make it happen.  Just expect that you are going to fail a lot before you succeed.  But that’s all right.  You don’t know yourself until you fall on your face a bit.  I fell on my face a lot.  Still pretty though.  That’s just the Kimber genes,” he says. “Did I tell you my latest plan?”

He always has a little gleam in his eye when he talks about future plans to conquer the world, and there is always a new plan.

It’s been about ten years since we spent a substantial amount of time together, and both of us are wondering how well my month and a half stay on his couch will turn out.

There is a lot you should probably know about my brother. One is that his actual name is Matthew Kimber.  Josh Martinez is his stage name.  He flies around the world, rapping and singing his way into the hearts of strangers.  His life necessitates months on the road and puts distance between him and the people he loves most.

He has done a lot of things that most people will never do, such as open for De La Soul, tour Europe and Japan, play festival shows for thousands, start a record label and have the number one rap record in Canada for three months running.  That’s Josh Martinez: the man, the myth, the legend.

Then there’s Matthew Kimber. He lost the love of his life to years on the road and the strain it put on their relationship.  Months away and weeks at home followed by months away again, a business life without the  business hours.  His genius sense of rhythm and mastery of the moment can get lost in his untreated Attention Deficit Disorder.  On the road he is treated as a god, and at home he has difficulty making authentic connections because so few people know the difference between Josh and Matthew.

We pull up to his house, briefly ceasing our battle to charm one another to take bong hits with his roommates.

The weed is good in Portland, and despite my lack of sleep, I manage to make his roommates laugh, and not just because I hack my lungs out when I take the first pull.

At the time he lived in a small artistic commune next to his best friend Sleep (Chris Tafoya), Sleep’s kid, and his beautiful, pregnant wife, Rayne.  My brother gets his taste of family vicariously through Sleep, playing with his son Ezra, taking on the role of favorite uncle.  He lives with two other rappers and they all work together at Camobear Records.  They are all big personalities and have big dreams.

They have been grinding for years, always on the edge of making that big move that will make them into household names.  When they are on the cusp, the music industry collapses.  No one is going to do it for them so they fumble, fuck up, and do it themselves.

They tour the world, but they can’t afford a mortgage.  Living a life that is every child’s dream, but still they struggle to be men.  Hundreds of thousands listen to their music on the daily, and as a result of downloads, they make little money from album sales and most of their cash on the road.

This was my brother’s own Colony of Losers, talented as hell, smart as fuck, and grinding cogs in a machine that was slowly falling apart.  Over the next few months, we will learn the story of Josh Martinez, his ups and downs, successes and failures, and war to be free at 23 and free from being 23.  You’ll meet my brother as we became closer than ever before, when I fell on my face and needed someone to help me get up again.

But before all that, you must be introduced to a pornographer and hear the story that almost ruined my journalistic career.

Check out more of Michael’s work at his website Colony-of-losers.com

Lundi 28 juin 2010

Josh Martinez

Encore un canadien qui me plaît bien. Après les Nomadic Massive, The Soul Jazz Orchestra, voici Josh Martinez ou comment faire du bon hip-hop au sang chaud (et non Sancho ha ha ha !).

Signé sous son propre label Camobear , installé à Portland (USA), Josh Martinez sévit au coeur de trois formations : en solo, avec Sleep of Oldominion pour “The Chicharones” et avec un deuxième groupe, plus rock, nommé “The Pissed Off Wild”.

Josh Martinez not only speaks his native Portugese but he also loves the french tongue.  Check out this review from jet-du-son.over-blog.com.

Ce qui caractérise Josh Martinez c’est son énergie incroyable sur scène et un hip-hop hyper mélodique. Un son unique imaginé par un gars au sang chaud, déjanté et surtout talentueux.

Le dernier album solo “The World famous Sex Buffet” est sorti en 2008. Du côté des “Chicharones” c’est l’EP “Swine Country” qu’il ne faut pas faire rater à ses oreilles. Allez, je vous laisse facilement avec un petit florilège de liens pour découvrir de qui je parle

Sleep of Oldominion & Josh Martinez are….

The CHICHARONES!

( w live band)


With Opening Acts:
Nabahe & Everybody Knows With DJ L.A. Jae (The Shape Shifters) & Other Special Guests!

…Live ART by:.. Mr. Benally & Fhidel (Life Can End)

Chase & the Dragon (DJ and Drums)

Hi Hey Hello.

Sleep, Josh Martinez and DJ Zone are the original Chicharones, but they will be traveling with a drummer and a bass/guitar player for their summer tour in 2010.  Spin recently called The Chicharones, “The Best Bar Band in North America.” It’s easy to see why. Expect 5-part harmonies, a razor tight band, costume changes, syncopated dance moves, stage magic, standup comedy and the joyful interplay of 10 year veteran performers Sleep and Josh Martinez. And there’s also rap.

Some Chicharones Quotes:

“Best Bar Band in North America”  (Spin)

“With their 4th album, Swine Country, The Chicharones deliver a completely original masterpiece.” (Urb)

“Innovative and entirely unique hybrid of clever pop melodies and intelligent, layered songwriting that borrows from everywhere and sounds like nothing else.” (Vice)

“Josh’s insightful, socially-aware lyrics and evocative voice, paired with Sleep’s mastery of complex rhyme schemes and rapid fire delivery, brings a forward thinking album, ready to break through musical barriers’” (Exclaim!@#)

Chicharones Swine & Dash
TOUR DATES:

(Day/Date/City/Venue):
Fri 7/2/2010: MCCALL, ID @ Forrester’s Club

Sat 7/3/2010: GREAT FALLS, MT @ Machinery Row

Sun 7/4/2010: WHITEFISH, MT @ Private Party

Mon 7/5/2010: Off Day

Tues 7/6/2010: BIG SKY, MT @ Black Bear

Wed 7/7/2010: SPOKANE, WA @ Mama’s Thai

Thurs 7/8/2010: BOZEMAN MT @ Zebra Lounge

Fri 7/9/2010: JACKSON HOLE, MT @ Mangy Moose

Sat 7/10/2010: BOISE, ID @ The Reef

Sun 7/11/2010: SUN VALLEY, ID @ Whiskey Jack’s

Mon 7/12/2010: Off Day

Tues 7/13/2010: BOULDER, CO- TBA

Wed 7/14/2010: FORT COLLINS, CO @ Aggie Theatre

Thurs 7/15/2010: DENVER, CO @ Cervantes Masterpiece Ballroom

Fri 7/16/2010: DENVER, CO @ Private Party

Sat 7/17/2010: PARK CITY, UT @ Starbar

Sun 7/18/2010: LAKE TAHOE @ Lakeside Pizza

Sun 7/18/2010: RENO, NV (Sleep)

Mon 7/19/2010: SACRAMENTO, CA- TBA

Tues 7/20/2010: ATWATER, CA @ Urban Illustrators

Wed 7/21/2010: SANTA CRUZ, CA @ Catalyst/Atrium

Thurs 7/22/2010: SAN JOSE, CA @ Mountain Charlie’s Saloon

Fri 7/23/2010: LAS VEGAS, NV @ The Meatheads

Sat 7/24/2010: NEVADA, CA @ Cooper’s Ale House

Sun 7/25/2010: PALM SPRINGS, CA @ Space 120

Mon 7/26/2010: TUSCON, AZ @ Congress Hotel

Tues 7/27/2010: TEMPE, AZ @ The Big Fish Pub

Wed 7/28/2010: ALBUQUERQUE, NM @ Burt’s

Thurs 7/29/2010: GALLUP, NM @ The Juggernaut

Fri 7/30/2010: LAS CRUCES, NM @ El Patio

Sat 7/31/2010: YUMA, AZ @ The Dunes Bar

Sun 8/1/2010: FLAGSTAFF, AZ @ Green Room

Mon 8/2/2010: SEDONA, AZ @ Relics

Tues 8/3/2010: UTE RESERVATION IN AZ- TBA

Wed 8/4/2010: GRAND JUNCTION, CO @ Tenacious Bro’s Club

Thurs 8/5/2010: COLORADO SPRINGS, CO @ The Blacksheep

Fri 8/6/2010: PUEBLO, CO @ Senate Room

Sat 8/7/2010: DURANGO, CO @ Summit

Sun 8/8/2010: SHIPROCK, NM @ Nizhoni Park

Mon 8/9/2010: FARMINGTON, NM @ 3 Rivers Ballroom

Tues 8/10/2010: TBA

Wed 8/11/2010: TOAS, NM- TBA

Thurs 8/12/2010: ESPANIOLA, NM -TBA

Fri 8/13/2010: SANTE FE, NM –TBA

PLEASE VISIT WWW.CHICHARONES.COM FOR A FREE “TOKE CITY SPECIAL BLEND” ALBUM

When at these shows, buy your third copy of Snak’s Sex Machine and check out Evil’s Exclusive mixtape “Evil Eye: Rare Gems & Smash Hits.” This special release features snippets from the upcoming album release, 8 unreleased songs, and 6 of Evil’s most popular songs from previous releases.