Without My Mama

I wouldn’t be here now, without my mama. I would never have learned to type, without her. I would never have gone to University, without her. I would have been homeless, without her. I would never have had my first computer to make beats with, without her. I would never have had a sound-card to put into my first computer to make beats with, without her. I would never have received my first hip hop tape on my tenth birthday, without her. I would never have received a bass guitar for my sixteenth birthday, or a high quality sound-card on my twenty-first birthday, or the SM58 she gave me for Christmas later that same year, without her. I would never have taught myself how to draw, how to act, how to write, how to listen to music, without her. I would never have had an old, beaten-up acoustic guitar to play with, or for there to always be an old keyboard in the house to get sounds out of, without her. I would never have sat uninterrupted for hours as a little boy, exploring pictures, images and maps; with my pens and the paper she made sure I had, always. I would never have been corrected on that one Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy lyric I misheard, without her. I would never have learned about global warming and vegetarianism in the late ’80s without her. I would never have rocked a De La Soul t-shirt, aged ten, without her. I would never have had a BMX, or a second-hand Millennium Falcon for Christmas when I was almost too small to carry it around the cosiest family room, my wonderful grandparents, her parents, watching on and encouraging me; without her. I would never have had Chuck D and KRS-ONE as my first real teachers, without her. I would never have learned of the importance of Leonard Cohen, before almost anything else about music, without her. I would never have been able to have access to encyclopedias, to huge, heavy books about art, music, science, philosophy and technology, without her. I would never have been able to plant a Hawthorn tree in the garden which stands so tall, to this day; without her. I would never have been taught at such a young age about the magic of cats, without her. I would never have been able to interact with Ring-tail, Black & White Ruffed and Black Lemurs without her. I would never have camped above the Devonshire coast, or sailed in Poole Harbour, or know the difference between a Yawl and a Wayfarer without her, or know the difference between my tiller and my painter, without her. I would never have been driven to A&E with food poisoning and a head full of LSD25, without her. I would never have made snow sculptures, or sand castles, without her. I would never have made endless mixtapes, and burned CD’s and demos and compilations for her, without her. I would never have listened to Sufjan Stevens’ Seven Swans in the car on the way home from Bodiam Castle that one summers’ afternoon, without her. I would never have been taught how to use a 35mm camera, or how to use a dial-up modem, or a 5.25″ floppy disc, or a food blender; or how to make a nice cup of tea, without her. I would never have won horticultural prizes for my Sunflowers as a little green-fingered gardener, without her. I would never have had permission to go to Reading festival, just turned sixteen, to see Gravediggaz, Ice Cube, Cypress Hill, Gang Starr and Jeru, without her. I would never have spent endless months in my bedroom, getting baked, making beats and perfecting my raps, without her. I would never have been able to recover all of my possessions after i fled Deutschland, without her. I would never have found so much strength, from somewhere, in such dark hours; without her. I would never have known love, unconditional love, without her… and, no matter how long this rubble-strewn road carries on into the far distance, I know in my heart, that I will never truly be without her. I love you, mama. I will always love you, with all my heart.

James Reindeer

17th April 2018

Croydon, UK

Field Reports from The Western Lands: Personal Thoughts

This album has been a long journey for me up to this point. It was begun, what seems a lifetime ago, in collaboration with the almighty Nimrod, and envisaged as a spiritual successor to ‘It’s Not Who You Know, It’s Whom You Know’, paying homage to the themes and tones of that now-legendary release, whilst attempting to delve further into those concepts, ideas and thoughts and to expand upon them.

I wanted to approach this album as if it were my first and last, very much in the same way that fbcfabric and I approached our debut together. It needed to be a complete and fully realised ‘snapshot’ of the western world as we were attempting to capture it. Nimrod worked as the consummate professional composer, providing the melodies, textures and tones to complement the moods and ideas of the lyrics themselves.

Together we created a certain palette from which to work from, so to speak. Taking cues from the pop and rock, hip hop and classical worlds, we sought to combine traditional songwriting techniques with more unorthodox methods of sound design, field recording, compositing and manipulation. The aim consistently being to generate a complete, fully-formed image with which we would mirror the complexities of the human experience in the west.

To ultimately realise the project the book was necessary to allow the listener access to the complete lyric transcriptions, giving them every chance to take in and analyse the layers of details for themselves. But also to introduce auxiliary ideas into the whole, which are not committed into the songs themselves, and also to imbue the experience with some of the incredible artwork of Mildew, who went above and beyond with his incredible portrayal of interpreted imagery from the lyric pages.

Finally, ‘There is a Tape Recorder Inside the Sun’, a thirty minute auxiliary drone piece on cassette tape to accompany the whole, and one which extrapolates ideas from the track with the same name on the album into an extended eclipse, a protracted nuclear flashbulb shimmering in a halo of atomic fire. A dream that coexists with the waking ‘reality’ of the album itself.

To have completed this creative journey with the invaluable assistance of Anette Records has enabled us to present our work in the most elaborate and considered way, to be able to release these works on the hallowed double-vinyl format, accompanied by book and cassette tape really is the perfect path to immortalising this illustrious creation which we have birthed within such turbulent times.


Croydon, South London, UK

April 2nd 2018

chanting of the ever-circling skeletal family

Fractured visions of an open prison coming into focus, unsustainable materials to the expendable horizon.

…Worn fingers rattle the worn keys as a grey nothing sky has light drizzle fall over slate rooftops in an ‘unusually warm’ late October…

…/// The Minister for Information hangs disembowelled from a subsiding flagpole as gaunt workers are herded into pits, jet-washed with petrochemicals and set fire to.

The President is on the screen, dribbling and mangling his sordid words, his foetid maw undulating sickly between the pop-up advertising bubbles for additional content, fundamentalist Christian worship centres, arms expos and (your very own children being molested by ingrates).

Sacks of body parts are being unloaded from container ships as jaded shoppers are encouraged by halfwits in NBC suits with cattle prods to browse for white goods between the carcasses of refugee starvation victims.

Advertising space on the new border wall is going fast; hundreds of miles of pop princesses, beautiful alabaster white skin, baby blue eyes; just enough curves for the fat white rich rapists, just enough teen for the family values witch trial grand wizards’ ongoing abuse pageants. White bread privileged teens calmly loading assault rifles in their COD approach to small town high school blood bath under a beautiful spring morning sky.

Islamist fanatics greedily saw off the head of an embedded journalist under flickering generator lights in a Machiavellian tunnel complex, just hidden from the grasp of western intelligence agencies.

National Security computer mainframes loaded with sex tape revenge porn snuff jail cell execution double features and enough petty drug deals to sink the whole schooling system. Financiers writhing in bad debt print-outs folded into paper boats to float out into oil fields running tidal over native reservations.

‘…Our lord and saviour, Jesus Christ, dunked in a vat of urine by a homosexual…’

Greasy Hollywood mogul fingers stuffed into the mouths of disassociating rape victims. Hideous death dream of the one thousand year casting couch in flames. Left-wing protestors hosed in acids, beaten with clubs and violently arrested, as Klansmen march unhindered into the White House, shaking hands with the most sadistic reaches of Government.

Glass mirror towers to the heavens harbouring greedy, ruthless, white pieces of shit, sulking behind rosewood tables, idly fondling their secretaries, their tumours and their colostomy bags.

A series of photographs of the future Prime Minister gleefully fucking herself with the trotters of a dead pig, surrounded by her drunken school peers, egging her on, showering her in cocaine, while a cavalcade of poor and homeless types are boarded up into a derelict tower block, forced to starve and subsequently burnt to death…

…towers of asbestos insulation walling in flames///

Snapshots from the terminal field, broadcast via propaganda outlets, parading as fake news, acting under the auspices of shadow government agencies, operating behind fields of advertising agencies, marketeers and board room executives…

…all signs are pointing to a global scheme to make sure the rich outlive the poor. Bottom line beyond the bottom line. The workers will work and die at the factory. They can be directly reprocessed at the factory. This eliminates many costly steps in their exploitation.

Buy all of this garbage and believe all of this nonsense; whatever you want to think the agenda is, it is not.

Welcome to Annexia.

26th October 2017
London, England