When I traveled to Uganda for the first time I had the distinct feeling that I was coming home, but a funny thing happened. During my visit I realized that I had always known where my true home was. I guess my grandmothers favorite saying “You never appreciate home until you leave” was true. Working on Ntale’s Groove helped me discover that I am the sum of many cultures. At first I was only interested with the African aspect of my heritage. But over time I have realized that I’m am just as American as African. I have just as many European influences in my cultural heritage as African ones. The last two Ntale’s songs reflect that turmoil trying to find home and realization that you never lost it in the first place.

Full album on classicbeatz.bandcamp.com

I am very thankful that I had the opportunity to share this 11 week journey with you. I hope that you have enjoyed listening to Ntale’s Groove as much as I enjoyed making it. While goodbyes are always bittersweet, all good things must come to an end. No need to worry though, I am currently working on a couple of new projects. Stay tuned for the release of the Ntale’s Groove Remix project in early April, as well as my work on the Laid Back Radio Compilation. I am also working on live Classical Piano EP and a documentary about a local bar in my Brooklyn neighborhood. So don’t worry, you will be hearing from me in the coming months.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank all the artists, musicians, photographers and engineers that helped make this project possible. I would also like to give a personal heartfelt thanks to my friend and author Bayo Awseu for the amazing Ntale stories. I also want to give another special shout out to Oli-B for the amazing Ntale’s Groove artwork.

So I guess thats it, Until the next journey..

Peace & Much Respect

Sincerely Jason aka ClassicBeatz aka Ntale

Ntale’s story #11: For Her by Bayo Awesu

My Dearest lover and friend,

It has taken some time to obtain the confidence to write you. I still muse over the necessity of my words but if for no more than old time’s sake….please indulge me.

For the broad shoulders that insulated against the whip as it cracked on my forefathers back.

I thank you for that

For the coarse hairs that grow within themselves under my razor blade.

I thank you for that

For the melanin that shielded me from the sun’s gaze.

I thank you for that.

For the women enslaved by the tribal war cries, captured and turned to song. I promise never to release them from your rhythm. I will watch them laugh as they sway, jig and Harlem shake. You are the terrorist of the cotton club. I feel pride of my tribe as I cakewalk across the Atlantic Ocean, wiping the dirt of my shoulder as I glide.

I thank you for that

For the mystery of what could have been, the rhythm that consolidated my blues. For the number they did on us, and the insurgent kinky hair that sprang back twice for each time it was burnt, bleached and hidden in shame.

I thank you for that.

For the angle…the dream. The utopia, the imagination of somewhere that was mine. You were the catalyst of my rebellion. The silent partner of struggle. You reminded me I was a man… once. Oh the things I would do in your name. I would emancipate us both in your honour.

Me, your most infamous step-son.

Thank me for that.

I will destroy anyone that marginalises us. They took away the last name you gave me and I will replace it with my own reflection.

You owe me for that. I guess.

As we go our separate ways. For the public enemies that warned me against the hyperbolic culture I was consumed by. The nappy hair braided behind athletic sweatbands. The $100m sponsorship deals. The way of life tattooed on my chest. For the crossovers, the ballad of the sky that crashed boards straight out of high school. For the showmen of the canvas, floating to the melody of their own groove over 12 rounds.

Thank me for that.

For the neo, the niche, the leftfield, the retro and the oh so intellectual. The haters, the geniuses that freestyled to shook ones over chess games in Washington square park. The Y2k panthers who curse the 30 years born to late…raising a gloved fist against apathy. For the lost tribe of Shabazz, the street corner slang that bumrushed the boardroom. For playing both sides of the fence. The 20 something execs who get crunk on weekends.

Thank me for that

For the fragmented struggle, the reintroduction.

For the Yoruba boys drinking cold Star beers in Ikeja on Saturday at midnight. For the Nigerian Highlife.

For the time-shared melodies that we exchange and solidify our culture from.
For our Anthem. For the Alma Universal.

For the bones buried in the concrete jungles of Jo’burg. For the ancestors. For the changes. For the newest season. The last name of an enemy that became the middle name of our greatest middle man. For the Easter.

For those that survived so that the names could live on. For that past. For the definition of our struggle. For the middle passage.

For the rebellion. For the sound that confirmed our atmosphere. For South St Pete Blues.

For the Buffalo soldiers, the ground work. For the fact that none of you ever died in vain. We will learn. We will show n’ prove. We will improve. For the UNIA. We will improve…universally.

For the red pill that was shown to us by the great minds that wore out their kinky hair and reminded us that we never walked on all fours. For the wake up. For the revolution…a goal to be obtained.

For the concrete jungle’s of the East. For the neo prophets of Kintu. For making ends meet. For Kampala’s hustle.

For the hide of the wilder beasts that coated the slap, that became a beat, that became a song that became a style, that became a movement. For that ballads, the diss records, the club bangers, the baby makers and the ringtones. For the Djimbe’s story.

For the Diaspora. For 12 million. For freedom.