NEW MUSIC VIDEO: ‘Stole My Stealing From Eliot’

“Stole My Stealing from Eliot” is a new music video for a new soul rock song about art, poetry, T.S. Eliot and Bey & Jay.

It was shot on-location in the following unreal cities: Albany, London and Paris.

You can download the audio for free at the Bandcamp page. (And grab the mixtape while you’re there!)


This Is Not a Pipe

It started as an idea for a lyric video. And then it became much, much more.

This is the new animated music video for the song “This Is Not a Pipe.”

And it’s kinda bananas.

The song is available on the new BUGGY JIVE MIXTAPE, which is now available to stream and download at all of the things – Spotify, iTunes, Amazon, GooglePlay, BibbidyBo, CloudScam, SongJerk, TuneTurd and more.

And it’s a free download at BandCamp for a limited time, too.



“This is Not a Pipe” was not inspired by the painting “The Treachery of Images” by René Magritte.

Francais by Maya Elizabeth Thomas.

The fourth verse includes a shout out to Jason Martin and Power Animal Systems’ jam “Newsnet.”

Behind the Scenes

A little thing on the making of the video is on the way.

Black Spaces

Last year they briefly let me out of the hole to take the train down to New York City to see Ava DuVernay in conversation with Jelani Cobb as part of the New Yorker Festival.

The above tiny video is just a taste of the song that was inspired by that conversation – a happy mashup of references to Selma and Compton and Camazotz. Written on the train back upstate.

The below is the complete song.


It’s also available on Spotify, if that’s your thang.

And here’s a taste of the conversation.


Black Spaces

Black faces in black spaces, in the dailies they reflect no light.
French money man is begging her to show their eyes.
Black faces in black spaces, on the daily, darkness whisperers.
French money askin: “Ou sont les yeux?”

She ain’t trying’ to be that girl.
Don’t walk her on with “Glory”.
She ain’t trying to save the world.
It’s enough to tell a story.

Black faces in white spaces, collect art with yo aunt and absorb the light.
Black faces in white spaces, daddy’s little spies.
Black panic, white panic, confessor black, tesseract, daddy’s little girl
Hop from planet to planet, she gonna save the world.

Money talks, so you keep talking.
You still broke but ya keep talking.
It’s yo masterstroke that you keep talking.
Cuz they think they woke but they sleepwalking.

A black girl is gonna save the world.
Black girl gonna save the world.

Black faces in black spaces
It’s a jail, it’s a cell
It’s the road to Hell
Paved with good intentions
It’s the hull of a ship
It’s a footstep, it’s a bridge
Will you sink, can you swim
Whozit Whaztit and Which
Fight a might, make a right
Paint with celluloid and light
It’s the promise of life
It’s the promise of life
She was raised on the promises of life
It’s the promise of life
In yo heart, in your heart
It’s the waters of a march.

Keep on tryin to tell our story
Wild nights are your glory.

The Buggy Jive House Concert

Professor Buggy Jive is criticized for not performing live very often.

For not getting out of the house to do his thang.

But he thinks he’s found a compromise.

Filmed on Valentine’s Day of 2018, “The Buggy Jive House Concert” is just that: a video document of a short set of Mr Jive’s trademark solo-electric soul rock songs, filmed in his home studio for a small audience of some of his oldest and dearest friends.

Coming in May to


the connoseur

Today they let me out of the hole to visit the museum. An hour’s drive into Western Mass.

I pictured it being homier. Old-timey. Like the house in “American Gothic”.

(Yes, I know he didn’t paint “American Gothic”.)

But still: it is a museum. High-ceilings. Long grey walls. Light from above.


I am eyeing “Connoisseur” when she approaches me.

All along the walls of this room it is Rockwell vs The Abstract.  And coming out the other end.

But “Connoisseur” is the center of this exhibit.

“I don’t understand. Did he do these, too?”

I think for a bit. I only know what I have read on the accompanying placards. Skimmed, really.

“I think these are just examples of him playing with abstract art. Since he wasn’t in that world.”


“So he was trying to figure what the painting within the painting would look like. They’re studies.”

I almost sound like I know what I’m talking about. But I’m just summarizing what’s on the card.

The card is right there. Right in front of her face.

But: she asked me.

And: there’s something I don’t understand myself. Which may be the source of her confusion.

“The end result was more like Pollock, though. These aren’t very Pollocky. Maybe there’s some missing link paintings we’re not seeing.”

My sentences rise at the end as if I’m asking a question. Now I look more confused than she does.

And now, she is not confused at all. She is absolutely certain.

“We need this.”

I smile. And nod. But I’m not catching her meaning. She continues.

“We need him. This. All of it. ‘The Four Freedoms”… the Lincolns… the one about the Peace Corps…”

She does not mention “New Kids in the Neighborhood” or “The Problem We All Live With”. I hear those titles in her ellipses.

“People of all different backgrounds getting along, helping each other out. We need this.”

Yet: I do not hear say “Southern Justice” in her ellipses.

Still: I have no response. I just smile and nod.

I have been unable to approach “New Kids in the Neighborhood” and “The Problem We All Live With”. Indeed, I have been the new kid in the neighborhood, I have lived the problem we all live with. My entire life. Indeed, I am the, ahem, “new” kid in this museum today. The only, only one.

So I have passed by those particular paintings more than once on my way through the museum today, more intrigued by the people who’ve been able to stop and stare and contemplate the failure of it all without knees giving way, without smashing to the floor, without dissolving into a puddle of their own tears.

“I like your hair,” she says. “It’s very Basquiat.”

I laugh. “I just cut it back yesterday. So it’ll be a month or so before I can bring it up into a bun like he did.”

“No, no bun. I like it just the way it is. Beautiful curls.”

I want to make a joke to draw a parallel to my hair and Basquiat with Rockwell and Pollock. Like: it’s a study. Hair Connoisseur. Or something.

But instead: more quiet.

“Are you an artist?”

“Visual, no.”


“Just… a connoisseur.”

There’s a joke. Smaller. She laughs.

“Music. I make music. Songs. I try to, anyway.”

“Music. Of course.”


“Well, it was nice meeting you.”

“Nice meeting you, too.”

We awkwardly step away from each other.

“To ‘The Four Freedoms,’ I say, raising an imaginary glass for a toast.

“Yes, to ‘The Four Freedoms.’ Have a good day.”