Sage Cornelius; Back From The Dead
Playing all the rage-filled strings on electric violin at Rio Grande Studios in a revelation of metal. Not the genre. Life.
Migratory Shadows
Perhaps they chose the rio grande valley the same way I did. Offered the most peace from the harshness of the open plains; freedom from the muggy and suffocating (lynching) south; the overcrowded stupidity of the west coast; the relentless arctic winds and camouflaged redneckery of the northeast; the complete absence of sun in the pnw.
I dunno. The Sandhill Crane are a strange bunch. Majestic and underrated. A literal and metaphorical symbol of a geographically-unique season shift, here in the high desert rio grande valley.
I lied peacefully in the grassy bliss of the river valley upon their arrival last fall down in bosque farms. Was out walking my dog in the north valley upon their mind-numbing departure just a few short weeks ago.
It was mid February.
Thermals they love so much came in mid February to our home. Not a speck of snow in a wide open scope of existence. They just hang out in the dirt all winter; fenced off from people and their hypocritical hatred for life. At a safe distance from an entire race of species hell bent on destruction rather than acceptance while never understanding the bigotry of the modern mind. The hidden blind spots in a global system of destruction through consumption.
I was a bit jealous when they left. Fuckers. They get to fly off and I have to stay back and deal with all the noise.
And unresolved anger.
(Written in mid-February 2025; my first attempt at poetry.)
The world was once a cool place. Covered in ice ya dig.
Work with me here. This is gonna get bumpy. Stuff was weird back then. With no owners manual, The People did what they had to do to survive when the ice began to recede with global temps warming up nicely for increased human habitat.
What if I told you the same stuff in the ground is the same stuff from the sun? Pieces of it ya dig. What if I told you a finite amount of what is in the ground is the juice that powers our brain. By now, Sage Cornelius has already written an electric fiddle riff with his mind blown, cause he knows already what I am about to say next.
If you guessed there are pieces of the sun in our brain, then you will fully understand the inner workings of the infinite rage of Sage Cornelius on stage. In the studio. And in the high desert night air of existence, busking on the sidewalks of western misery.
So here’s where it gets bumpy and we haven’t even scratched the surface yet. Who was on the planet when radioactive particles beneath their feet began to rapidly warm and cool beneath the crust of Mother Earth through an unknown number of centuries? They were simply The People.
Buckle up: before documented or known speech, The People saw some shit. Heard some shit. Experienced some shit. Masters of communication and memory, The People soon figured out a rhythm to life. A cycle. In a looped system. The People of Mother Earth heard it not first, but as it happened.
They experienced the rapid warming and cooling of earths crust and migratory patterns gave them a divine look at existence. Period. As is. No disclaimer and no judgement.
Upside down key shaker: what does the rapid warming and cooling of the earth’s crust sound like?
Ask Sage Cornelius. He knows.
Sounds like metal.
Wrap all this up in a ziplock bag, shake it a few times and the result? The People lived the cadence of life itself while experiencing the rapid warming and cooling of the alkaline minerals beneath them.
All before documented human speech. (I really need to foot stomp this.)
Indigenous is metal in the immaculate memories of The People and fortified in the genomes of all chant, dance, beat, and yes, the rhythm of life itself.
I am well aware of where modern people think metal comes from. It is not birmingham, england. Metal my friends, comes from Mother Earth. Sage Cornelius loops the cycle back around with his genius use (remember, its in the genomes) of indigenous chants and cadence to a mind-boggling electric seven-string violin in Back From The Dead and nothing but electric violin. No guitars other than Sage on electric bass. And Antonio Padilla on drums; the relentless life force that is the track’s metal cadence and tempo.
Where does all this go down? In Albuquerque, New Mexico at Rio Grande Studios with Kenny Riley as producer: the only other metal head I know who just gets it. Kenny Riley once told me “metal is in the ground here” and it was the way he said “here” that stuck with me. (He didn’t know I was already doing a deep study on our earthly existence as a weird passion research project, with some of those indigenous genomes in my own body.)
Kenny Riley, like me, was not born in the sacred and supremely spiritual high desert. But guess where we both got pulled to do a thing once we both wised up and began a very intentional journey of service to it? Yup. The high desert. It is in the ground. Been here all along.
With Sage Cornelius, they bring it up and amplify the shit out of it and boom, evolution of metal music by way of a harmonic loop that is the rapid warming and cooling of all seven strings under the bow of one each Rage with Sage Cornelius and the extractor of metal Kenny Riley.
What does the departure of Sandhill Cranes and Sage Cornelius have to do with evolution of metal?
They both spiral in the same direction upon ascension.
Oh yeah. My unresolved anger? It comes from the sun.
Stringer
