CeeMo is the auger of remedial motion in the hardened arteries of high-desert carnal frustration
Now CeeMo and The Lovers, Get Free and Stimulants dropped, along with my daily anxiety playing Frogger on Central and my concern for others when the RMM hits
Albuquerque, the porcelain arroyo of aggravated movement; nothing sticks but yesterday’s bullshit.
Been that way since jump; ain’t gonna change tomorrow neither.
I wasn’t the first to see it, then grow so frustrated and write about it. The 800-year refusal to improve itself into a coherent logistical efficiency of human movement; the undisputed source of Burque’s road rage, anger, and arguably, continued generational dispersal. Stringer would have blazed a trail the night of high school graduation, if he made it that far.
Scores of dreamers before me came to the same light, in their own way. The immaculate cycle and reward of divine vulnerability, those who manage to embrace it, in a land of unknowing masking and prolific unhealthy attachments to something that worked “last time.” Human art in the here and now, driven by the atmospheric pressures bearing down on us like an 808, shutting down the amygdala so the funk and rhythm that is life can move the body in cosmic dance.
Ain’t no masking with an 808.
WayMo special than a lil bit.
No, someone magical saw it before me.
CeeMo been low-key working on something since I’ve known her. Erm, since I first heard her perform at Juno some time back. Anybody who plays at Juno while working out new material and lives with enough dignity to go on and drop plutonium on the dance floor before it explodes into glass at Inside Out deserves a top spot on Stringer’s two-year wrap-up, slash retirement gift to the greater Albuquerque live music scene.
I don’t know her, not personally; I just see her around, ya dig. CeeMo is my Donna Denton of Albuquerque; she pops in and out of the moody alamedas of my curiosity as I painfully sorted through the sandy runoff of mediocrity in the transcendence of live music over the last two years in the thin, high desert of central New Mexico, looking for truth within; using music and human connection to find the blind spots.
Me and CeeMo spent a parallel lifetime trying to figure out who was bullshitting us and who was being real; they never could tell us up front, so we had to figure it out ourselves and it comes out ever-so-masterfully in both CeeMo joints that has me, an undiagnosed madcap on a spectrum ain’t nobody ever seen, executing a divine silent disco while dancing with my life-saving noise-cancelling headphones; expelling demons with my homie with every beat; slitting necks with every synth-high thrust vectors produced and arranged for maximum exploration.
There is nothing super clever I can say about CeeMo’s energy beaming from her lungs and out into the warm September evening except that it carries well in the thin, night air. Hearing her sing into the stratosphere while watching scores of sexually and socially frustrated souls down below on the streets muck through the noise from my balcony on 6th was mo precious than gold. And drop dead sexy.
Sense a thing, feel it, observe a thing so unconditionally, one can become the observable thing. Observe it so closely the spectrum between sense and becoming bleeds into unity (there are no borders or lines on a spectrum). Not at all difficult to do with CeeMo in “Stimulants” and “Get Free.” The atomic antidotes of modern day anxiety, judgement, and masking; killers of libido and precursors to senseless violence.
The two released (see what I did there, giggidy) singles are not so much yin and yang, but explosive, high speed movements on a spectrum produced to remove the sabotaging mind from unity all together and what’s left is a divine body; an immaculate human body of existence, an entity if you will, moving beyond the restrictions created by the mind. With CeeMo and The Lovers and the open-air venue of Inside Out, scores of dancers became one sea of untethered movement in an unrestricted conduit of heart-pounding rhythm and excitement.
Excitement, you say. In Albuquerque? But what will all the emo kids, live back-trackers, and doom-metal heads say? Gasp! How in Zeus’s butthole did CeeMo bring excitement into a carnal ring of dance to the “shitty side of Central” (as overheard by a tourist during balloon week)?
Lots of lubrication. CeeMo knows how to zoom out and apply her observations not only to her music, but to aide in mental health/programming and shameless existence, fatal blind spots to ascension, with unobstructed body movements and we all know what they are. If nothing else, the subliminal metaphors will be comic relief in horizontal therapy.
“Dig deep, you’ll go far”…
Anybody who can tie in internal and spiritual exploration with innuendo moves to the top of Stringer’s must catch live act when looking to escape from the lackluster metal, cracker-dry country music, and unconvincing songwriting of our scene. Fuck your stifling and murderous politics and concrete rigidity with someone else’s sense of morality. Dance FOO!
RMM = Rhythm Movement Message
I was in no state of mind to go outside of the condo, down the street, and into the madness of humans that flocked to the topless venue to celebrate CeeMo and The Lovers. Doc said it was chronic fatigue from a lifetime of surviving; I flipped doc the bird and compromised once I heard her sing from my balcony, and walked down to my favorite sitting wall, across Central, her on stage, just out of sight; me just barely alive having just previously undergone a lobotomy of masked demons, leaving me with vapor in the tank.
It’s all they needed. A musical spark loves an empty tank of explosive fumes, and the good ones know how to move masses. Inside Out and the scores of flawless booty-schwinging creatures that came to celebrate on their own, not only in song and dance, but in the spirits I observed…as one body of motion. That’s CeeMo; in effortless form.
Mind the hands; they are wondering again…
Sexually frustrated; socially castrated…
Constantly…..waaaaaaitin…
How do you unclog an arroyo of condemned, damned, and shameful spirits, left for dead, forgotten in the incessant mayhem of poverty, anxiety, and violence of it all? You bring in CeeMo and The Lovers to invigorate the calloused perspective of human vitality and bathe in the explosive warmth of acceptance.
Your own.
Mind the orgasmic ascension and remember, it ain’t over til everybody gets their cookies.
Who is your Mickey Spillane mystery face?
Stringer
P.S. A personal note to CeeMo: I have never cry/laugh-danced so much as I do to your love and your vulnerability, expressed in human art through layers of spectrum-induced behaviors in magnificent song. Beyond grateful Carlos encouraged you to soar. The world now dances with you among the stars. Bout as foolproof as it gets, homie. And that shit is special. See you out there doing the damn thing somewhere, gorgeous!
Song credits: written by Candace Hope Morales and Carlos Jose Rafael Garcia
Recorded and Produced by Carlos Jose Rafael Garcia (Carlos the Tall)