STS9: There’s light in this five |

STS9: There’s light in this five

Special to the DailySound Tribe Sector 9 plays a 8150 Friday night at 10.

VAIL – Sound Tribe Sector 9 creates a space prime for dream manifestation. STS9’s influences feel present during a performance, though slippery to recall. The sound’s a cosmip-hop creation, and the experience is lights, paint, canvas and the muse within us all. Regarding the band’s production, whether or not you respect the music, does not matter. What matters is the space the music provides for people to be with each other.So I’m gonna share some dream-come-true-type language that Sound Tribe Sector 9’s continuing collaboration helped along with some inspiration. And if you like any of it, then maybe you’ll come and watch the show at 8150 Friday night at 10 in Vail – please bring kind vibrations.With so many voices speaking to our times, it’s a wonder I can’t find one to stick with. Poets and their anthems clutch blindly out from the simple rules that capture their virtue and anguish. Politicians have egos the size of angels’ hearts. Artists and scientists refine the tools of reflection. Judges and the legal realm cry for order in a court where the appearance of truth seems to replace literal, living truth. The cold-blade anger of predator-eyed wealth fuels national fear sending the country in a slick cycle like obese lovers attempting too much lube. So I choose not to sit here crying like a public boob for the wishes I never saw through. Instead, I seek truth like ultimate food, a remedy from the people oppression, for the capitalism blues. To quest righteous knowledge, one must ask for footstep perfection, step with sensual protection and act with the essence of precision. And it’s mostly about learning to fly deliberately, smiling often and loving one another.No matter how cliche, the popularity contest needs to be won by love.While some spit rhymes and others cultivate rhythm, I can only offer the melodies that I’ve been given. Like blessings and miracles, they are this child’s fortune and gifts to give in growing proportion. And when the singing gets higher with each vocal inflection, I am sometimes reminded that there ain’t no being that can fall like a human. Then again, ain’t no building that can breathe, let alone fly like me. Assuming that the verb “to fly” carries the verb “to live” among its wind and feathers.So this is my dream – including everything, not just what’s seen and heard in a memory of a relatively recent September morning – beware of its meaning, for it could change and realize that it arises from rural roots, a sacral testament for the gentle-yet-incessant-type revolution necessary to continue this evolution of consciousness, an instinctual feeling that the state systems of this solar planet perplex an entire universe, a heart-song desire, harvested after slave-ship meditations, to yell, “Catch a fire!” or something else that Bob Marley said about heaven. “If you knew what life was worth, then you would look for your’s on earth. And now you see the light, you’ve got to stand up for your rights,” except I change a few words for the chorus. “Get up, stand up. Stand up for your rights. Get up, stand up, it doesn’t have to be a fight,” which becomes my tongue-and-throat mantra. These thoughts and phrases are models of communication in terms of spectrums and praises: “Enjoy reality,” and “Think positive amidst challenge.”I awaken into the wild frenzy of pre-show friends and dream-set expectations. There are three kids on stage powdering the instruments with soft riffs, light beats and digital tuning forks. Couples lingering in their cars fiddle with costumes and blow glitter upon each other. There is a group of kindred spirits dancing in circular embrace near the stage. Each takes a turn in the center of the love to sip it in full like ambrosia. Some cry joy and yawp, some sing and scat and some breathe deeply and shine with grins. There are pals at the bar remembering younger bodies and the lovers who shared with them. There might even be someone lying, back to the floor, eyes closed and ready to open any captivated emotions bottled among the buzzing crowd. The PA reports the band’s approaching presence like a spaceship or a programmable prophet.

Anyway, the music begins. Like a ticking clock, the drums strike a pattern bound for midnight and beyond. The strings and synth climb aboard, and the engine of effects fires its star-funk pistons. A guitar picks jazz lanterns above the dance floor, the bass is a charismatic libation drifting between ice-cold elixir and bright-hot aphrodisiac, the keys trickle and rush all frisky and flush with crescendo magic and tribal drums call passion to leg-lifters and shimmying chests.Dancing takes the stage like waterfalls and rainbows, long cumulus sunsets and the things that we all want to see whenever opportunities exist. So it grows to be about where the band can move the dancers, as much it’s about how the crowd inspires the players. Wait a minute … who’s stage is this again? Oh, that’s right, it’s for everyone.The show is evolving now, into something sacred. Some of the sweethearts squeeze sonic nectars, channeling their chanting juices. Enigmatic lyrics swell around the punches of beat-boxers, who hit painless into oblivion with glee-form and gloves like well-placed microphones.Ethereal spirituals persist throughout the second set. Sometimes all the little bits can add up like this:Now that we’ve grown familiar with your presence, we’d like to ask you to translate this wordful courtship into thoughts like cool breathing sage. These singing trees rack themselves for the pages of our lives. We’d like to ask you about the broken mirror and magnetic strips; about cherished phrases and fools who dance slow with fortune fantasies, snuggle-heart drunk on dream logic with its soft colors and vaporous nature. We’d like to ask each other to share maps and tools, to give food and love and to help our neighbors with their tight-lidded truth.And, in the end, we’re all singing love songs, gazing deep into so many new eyes and hugging perfect strangers. And the lyrical trail cut by our healing intentions lead us back to where we began; at inspiration and anticipation of further communal creations. Singing along:C’mon and make a noise with our kind.World’s gonna change whether we fight, pray or stand;

what are the dreams that you’ve hoped and planned?C’mon and take the blinds off our hearts.Grin long and sing love for this promised land!Reign bright playing right in our left-side band!And it makes me wonder,with the hotels full and the gas cans empty,who will feed the hot-meal brigadewhen the walrus eats the oysters raw

and the carpenter boils his parade?Now is a precious gift to breathe.Will we pawn our time to nourish this disease with rage and fear,or heighten our vibrations toward one love and joy’s perfect tears?Sound Tribe is Hunter Brown on pentatonic revelation and laptop, Jefree Lerner peppering and pounding percussion throughout, David Phipps with ivory savvy and computer skills, David Murphy throwing bliss-fits on the bass and Zach Velmer drums with a level of devotion that can whirl dervishes. Sector 9 is what happens at the club tonight between us all.Vail, Colorado

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