lirik lagu subterranean night-colored magi – joel dias-porter
subterranean is deep
like a mine shaft
didn’t miles dig minor chords
decrescendoing
to the motherlode
unearthing indigo undersongs
wasn’t miles on tectonic trumpet
blowing seismic solos
riffing down richter’s scale
spelunking funky rhythms
seven steps deeper
than the next cat
painting all up
under the canvas
making it bleed
all blues
didn’t miles, son of a dentist do rootwork
with a hoodoo h*rn
hollering bebop toasts
wasn’t he petey wheatstraw
satchmo’s son*in*law
a signifyin junkie
pulling the monkey off his back
shine below thе deck of the titanic
blueing up its boilеrs
couldn’t miles blue like bird
freight like trane
early like bird
night like trane
wing like bird
rail like a trane
rumbling underground
nightcolor is blacker
than a million miles of fresh asphalt
wasn’t miles black and fluid as floating smoke
black as the sky round midnight
black as a tire turning for miles ahead
black kettle stewing a b*tch’s brew
so black, he was kind of blue
wasn’t miles, sl!ck as black ice
cool as black snow
sweet as black cherries
on the downbeat like a blackjack
a black jackhammer
black jack johnson
black jack of all
trumpeting trades
wasn’t miles, the jack of spades
an ace cuz he played
nightcolors
from inkblack
purpleblack
oilblack
cinderblack
coalblack
ashblack
to bottom of the holeblack
his dark majesty
shifting harmonic gears
in a chromatic ferrari
blowing modal moods
with his black turned to the audience
speaking cooly
in the colors of night
magi are high priests
spell*wailing wizards
wasn’t miles a muted druid
of the blues
magus, magus? ask minders
of the metronome
miles is secular they say
but ain’t he a soloing sorcerer with e.s.p
testifying in the key of b
magi miles conjuring styles
even sporting a tutu
didn’t his 5,280 feet
travel 1.6 sacred kl!cks
wasn’t he moody as any monk
live and evil
doing the east saint boogie
but in a silent way
his deep black hands
casting a net of swinging chords
casting spells in lacquered brass
casting milestones
through the stained*glass
windows of jazz
have mercy
ain’t he rev. miles
rehearsing verses
from the book of the blues
running the voodoo down
while carrying us up those
seven steps to heaven
making a joyful noise
unto the lyrical lord
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