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Moptzar

New Classic Rock

17 songs
426 plays
1
Picture for song 'Mtheory' by artist 'Moptzar'

Mtheory

force fed by the muse. ie. slave labor of love.
2
Picture for song 'Lost Horizon' by artist 'Moptzar'

Lost Horizon

Contemplatively Analizing
3
Picture for song 'She's Gonna Cry' by artist 'Moptzar'

She's Gonna Cry

Tears are integral to the growing process of nature.
4
Picture for song 'Rita and Joe' by artist 'Moptzar'

Rita and Joe

Samba Love Song.
5
Picture for song 'Reins of NoWhere (The)' by artist 'Moptzar'

Reins of NoWhere (The)

Epic HeartAche
Been producing 4ever. Just waitin' for Techknowldge to wake up.
Band/artist history
Eat, Drink & Sleep the song. The focus is not so much what the song can do for the players as it is selflessly adding the players talents to what the song deserves. It's all about 'The Song'.
Have you performed in front of an audience?
We live where we play. We play where we live. So far this formula is pretty reliable for providing at the very least endless laughs.
Your musical influences
The vibration in our skulls. Beatles, Hendrix, More to Come... as soon as I can remember myself. Oh yea, Myself.
What equipment do you use?
Mac, Mics, Guits & Keys.
Anything else?
Poe’s Room by Jeho An inside the skull perspective and experience of a man being led to a special room for questioning. Plucked from the street. His captures know nothing of his guilt. But it will soon come into play. Turns out to be, after painstakingly exhaustive disclosure, that a secretive government agency is testing the results of torture on every average american joe they target. Enter our hero: Iósépos Matthiou pais. For the purposed of expediting the matter we shall call him: “Joe”. Get my drift? It seems there had been some brilliant pot smoking government paid scientist who was hired to find a way to provoke people to experience a near death experience and then be immediately questioned on worldly events from their unique view point and then quickly revived. H came up with it ... possibly ... but it will need some testing. The price? Death. There would be need for secrecy don’t you think? Nad is hungover again. His name is really Ned but I’ve convinced him I had a Swiss Grandmother whose accent on certain words has stuck with me. I didn’t mention that no true Swiss would ever pronounce Ned as Nad but he didn’t ask either. It’s a classic February Monday morning. The bus stop is crowded with people jostling for position against the bitter wind & Nad is busily telling off some little old black bag lady for “stinkin’ up the place!” while I try to get his attention. I intend to suggest that he cut the girl a break which will normally bring him back to earth but instead he turns and lashes at me like an angry dog who is stuck in an emotionally reactive mode. He yells inches from my face: “WHAT!!!” I’m immediately struck buy the oh so pleasant mix of wet ash tray, stale vodka, bong woo and rotting teeth. I’d offer a breath mint but I just finished a pack. He turned back to the old lady and shoved 10 bucks into her hand and told her to get a god damned shower as tho it will make a difference. He turns back to me and apologizes and as if to continue his previous statement with a softer read: “ what’s up?” I just pat him on the back and say ya done good Nad as our bus pulls up. Only, it’s not our bus. It makes all the normal stops. No one else seems to notice. I mention it to Ned and he confirms with a shush. Believe it or not he can be efficient with words when need be. In fact his normal vocabulary for loved ones is minimized to grunts. It’s only in anger that he so articulately expresses his feeling. And so some how I’m flattered but still feel a need to confirm he’s seeing what I see. If this is a different bus, which is fine. why did they go to such an extent to disguise it as our normal bus? The nick by the door is off by 1 and a half degrees. I offer my thoughts to Ned to which he offers a knuckle into my thigh which is a sure sign he wants me to shut up. I get off the bus at my usual corner and Ned rides the bus to it’s last stop, Wilkeshire. That night, someone broke into my house and escourted me away. They said we need you for questioning but neglected to say about what. I was remarkably missing from the evening news. I was in darkness for what felt like days. I could scream nor cry no more. When I’m blinded by the chamber door opening as to a million suns and who is thrown on top of me? Ned. What’s goin’ on, he sais. And I offer him my charming Stan Laurel face to which he explains, you’re an asshole. Some how I think I’m softening the guy up. He really does have a good heart and you definitely want him on your side should thieves come to call. But when he fucked up, peoples lives were severely altered. Tho some made the best of it and took it on the chin like good citizens while others surely plotted his demise. It was just last night I had him in a strangle hold when he bit out a chunk of my arm hair. We laughed but he could still clean the floor with me and we both knew it. Perhaps we laughed out of a respectful mutual recognition. But something was understood I only wish I knew what. skip ahead But , First question I remember had much ado with my name. Then, age,occupation. etc. all the while becoming aware of something funny. Their becoming harder to discern. I see lips moving in and out of focus. Who Hired you! Where is the artifact in question. I did not know they were referring to something subversive so I grooped and emotionally stumbled upon the word that stuck. The defining moment for my understanding of the word ‘artifact’ came when I brought up some stuff I found in the ditch I was allowed to dig behind the boundry lines of our backyard. I presented my find and dad exclaimed: “Now there’s an artifact”! And so I relayed the story to my questioners of how did came to believe we had bought property atop a landfill. Or the day another peddale of innocents is stripped away. The moment I understood. And today the roots of my convictions grow deeper. I hear Ned scream. I turn toward the noise as my face is met with a heavy hand to counteract my reaction. When a rereacted it all became painfully clear. They we’re here about the stash I keep in the upper right hand corner of my bedroom closet away from the kids. Suddenly and uncontrolably I start talking to my inquisitore as tho they were but children and I start spilling the beans about some Sumarian plot by the seat of my pants and they gobble it up completely. So much so as to overlook my secret stash. Did I just say that out loud. I’m looking at you .. You lookin’ at me. An old disco cocaine induced brain cell hugs this thoughtful melody and I smile. They smile and leave the room as I hear Ned scream aging and the lights go out. It was then I had the paranoid thought, I wonder if they are referring to the book I found that Dad shook the worms out of and then soundly kicked my ass for bringing it into the house. fill it in When I returned home that night and was again administered the third degree I simply responded they wanted to know if I knew anything about the recent dissapearance of the arm handles in Penn Station. Allison responds with a caress of my cheak, an alluring wink and confirmation of a juicy kiss. Come to bed. You’ve had too much to drink ...again. I sleep, I dream. I live, I breath. She is such a reward and I know not for what. Come morn’, this trash man got a call from the some Sumarian who was wondering how I knew. About noon the phone rings again. It’s Ned. “Why were’nt you here?” It’s only then I realize it is Tuesday and not Saturday. jehu all this on a lost horizon
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