The Chris Chandler Show

Hey Everybody,

It’s that time again! OK, it’s late. Two weeks late.

I want to start by saying a great big sloppy, “THANK YOU!” to all of those that have supported both my new album project and me in this time of need. I have l landed safely in Austin. I went back to California to help a friend whose house was nearly destroyed in the recent fires and she decided she had had enough of California. She is paying me a stipend for this very large endeavor, and that combined with the generosity of you: my loyal readers, I will soon be on my feet, wearing shoes and dancing the Texas Twelve Step.

I still have all of my possesions in a storage bin in New Jersey. It is going to be (by my pauper standards) expensive to get them here. Most important is my computer with a hard drive that contains my entire life's work.

Click Here: Let me hear Chandler’s "3 Kings of Memphis!" Or Paste: https://thechrischandlershow.bandcamp.com/album/three-kings-of-memphis

ALSO TO SAY THANK YOU!!!!!

Click on the picture or Paste: https://youtu.be/oxiqnIFlpc4

THANK YOU!!!!!

If you haven’t yet and would like to help me keep it on the road, or at least in a tenable parking place until we can all gather safely again.

Last month, I started a "Go-Fund-Me" campaign for our new record, and to help me get back on my feet.

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OK OK enough of the Krass Comercial Announcements!!!!

And Now, Your

M.U.S.E. .A.N.D. .W.H.I.R.L.E.D. .R.E.T.O.R.T.

December 14, 2021    Austin, TX

Kumbaya, My Lord. Kumbaya.

Kumbaya, My Lord. Kumbaya.

Kumbaya, My Lord. Kumbaya.

Oh Lord, Kumbaya.

I am reminded of this song, this holiday season.

I truly believe, it is one of the most powerful songs ever sung.

It is an old song. Possibly ancient.

There is a reason we continue to talk about it, and more importantly, sing it today.

No, really.

There is lots of hair splitting over its language and origin. All, some, or some combination of all of the theories, (including none) are probably true. What is true is, I don’t care.

It seems to be widely agreed that the language is a Creole dialect of Gullah spoken on the Sea Islands off the coast of my home state of Georgia. It means, “Come by here.” or possibly “Come by there.” Depending on your GPS, they very well may mean the same thing.

Like changing the ‘I’ to ‘we.’

In this global pandemic with disproportionate global vaccination rates, and in the age of climate change: ‘There’ really is ‘here.’

Think about that as you sing this with me.

Someone’s singing Lord. Kumbaya.

Someone’s singing Lord. Kumbaya.

Someone’s singing Lord. Kumbaya.

Oh Lord, Kumbaya.

If you have never had a (non-ironic) experience with this song you are missing out.

It is powerful.

So, powerful that there has been an effort to squash its power. If Pete Seeger, or Joan Baez had released it today, it would be poo-pooed as cultural appropriation.

The other side uses it as a pejorative. I recall a T-Shirt that answered back, “Kumbaya, Mutha Fucker.”

But an even better answer came a few years back, when I was at a festival in the Mid-Atlantic.Earlier that day, some Fox News pontificator had made fun of the left for just sitting around singing Kumbaya.

Without missing a beat, the band Clan Dyken seized the opportunity to say, “Yes! Yes, we are!”

They proceeded to perform the song in a way that it viscerally moved the audience. Acapella.

Kumbaya my Lord, Kumbaya.

At first we were doubtful, too aware of the irony, not wanting to be seen or heard singing such a cornball.

Someone’s sleeping Lord, Kumbaya.

Soon the cornball recast into a snowball.

Someone’s waking Lord, Kumbaya.

Slowly, self-consciousness evolved into self-reflection. Tentativeness was replaced with tenacity as words formed on our tongues.

Someone’s Singing Lord, Kumbaya.

Words became chants. Chants became mantras harmonizing into a phonosynthesis of sincerity, exuberance, joy. Majik.

Someone’s dancing Lord, Kumbaya.

Audience hugging, swaying back-and-forth. Candles lit. Earth sized soap bubbles soaring translucent in the sun. Life affirming epiphanies.

Oh Lord, Kumbaya.

Truly, one of the most powerful moments offered from a stage I’ve ever experienced.

Someone’s dreaming Lord. Kumbaya.

Someone’s dreaming Lord. Kumbaya.

Someone’s dreaming Lord. Kumbaya.

Oh Lord, Kumbaya.

This holiday season we, (the collective “we,”) can only dream of a world undivided by the assembled sequester of mask and unmask vax and unvax, republicans, democrat, straight, gay, left, right, black, white, male, female, Crimson Tide, Wolverine, Bulldog.

But this holiday season, we have an opportunity. Let us use it.

Many of us will be seeing relatives, colleagues, neighbors for the first time, many likely are on the opposite side of our own binary construct. Let us use this moment, really use it to reach. Really reach across the pothole of politics, if for no other reason, to prove it is possible to love someone more than you disagree with them.

Radical Empathy.

Someone’s crying, Lord. Kumbaya.

Someone’s crying, Lord. Kumbaya.

Someone’s crying, Lord. Kumbaya.

Oh Lord, Kumbaya.

As the reality of the on-going pandemic manifested empty shelves, honky-tonk vacuums, and now tsunamis of evictions both psychological and tangible.

We (the unified “we,”) have been busy trying to get our footing on the ceiling as we walked round the light fixture and looked up at the carpet.

I was safely in my partner’s basement broadcasting the “Poem of the Day/Week/Month,” I would regularly remind folks to reach out to those you know that have been alone. Isolated. No one with which to share their griefs, triumphs, jubilance, anguish. Hell, their mother’s stuffing recipe with.

Solitary confinement of the unconscious.

Back then, it was easy for me to say, for I was not alone.

However, during the holiday season, and especially another holiday season amidst a pandemic where one can not walk into a grocery store without the muzac reminder of how alone we really are. It is hard to hear, “I’ll be Home for Christmas.” when you know you will not.

Perhaps Kumbaya does mean, “Come by there.” (depending on your GPS) like changing the I to we,

So, drop by your neighbor’s house and sing from the lawn,

“We’ll be home for Christmas.”

Call your colleague who’s partner passed, and sing,

“Come by here, my Lord. Come by here”.

Remember your cousin who’s recent breakup has shattered her world and sing,

“Come by there, My Lord. Come by there”

Remember those you have not yet met, stranded in tornado ravaged Kentucky and sing,

“Oh Lord, Come by there.”

This holiday season, I sing,

“Come by here. My Lord. Come by there.”

Like changing the I to we.

We become one. We are stronger when we are together.

One.

Changing the there to here. For the reality is: there really is… here.

Kumbaya, My Lord. Kumbaya.

Kumbaya, My Lord. Kumbaya.

Kumbaya, My Lord. Kumbaya.

Oh Lord, Kumbaya.

It is ancient.

Human.

Kumbaya.

Thanks to Andrew Callhoun for prompting this Poem.

I will be performing at the Far Out Club in Austin on the 23rd at 6 PM as part of the anual Festivus Celebration.

Also several times in imprompteau gatherings around Austin - Keep your eyes open.

If you would like me to perform in your holiday party just DM me.