BRAND NEW SINGLE OUT TODAY! - "Ramzes Metamorfozis".

Music Review

"Stoned Gypsy Wanderer (2014) – 14 songs on Vinyl LP. This LP captures time. Bard’s Woman in the Cool of the Summer Breeze (2023) – 10 songs on Vinyl LP. It’s fun to see the maturity and development of AJ’s music over nine years. A music review of 14 songs in the year 2014 and 10 songs from 2023. Kaufmann is a folk troubadour, minstrel and a harbinger of new sounds and thought. There is a theme that runs through this body of work, a method to his madness. All of these songs are a journey. So take the trip and give a listen. Nobody knows it but AJ Kaufmann is a national treasure of Poland."

by David Bixby, Harbinger Magazine

10 years after "Stoned Gypsy Wanderer" I have started working on a new album, set for release on The Swamp Records in December 2024.

This is the first single from the new release.

https://ajkaufmann.bandcamp.com/

https://theswamprecords.bandcamp.com/

https://theswamprecords.bandcamp.com/the-swamp-krewe

More sounds considered for the new album over at my YouTube channel:

https://www.youtube.com/@ajkaufmannpoland

"Ramzes Metamorfozis"

Words and Music by Adam Majdecki-Janicki, April 2024.

Artwork by TheoEust, 2024.

released April 11, 2024

A.J. Kaufmann - voice, acoustic guitar, FX, recording.

"Pluto" - song lyrics.

Neon glow paints the Pluto night
Elephantine mama, a cosmic sight
Forget the savannah, the jungle's heat
This mama's birthing on a frozen street

No rumbling calf, no leathery hide
But a symphony trapped trembling inside
A million wings, tucked in her womb
Sparrows dreaming of a different moon

Ice shatters, a feathery peep
Tiny beaks crack the frosty sleep
She snorts jazz, a lullaby cool
As the sparrow army plays hopscotch on her wrinkled tool

No trumpeting fanfare, just the wind's moan
A million heartbeats, a symphony unknown
Cosmos winks, a starry display
For the mama birthing in a cosmic ballet

Forget the herd, the stampede's loud thunder
This mama's got a million chicks to wonder
Pluto nights, bathed in pale blues
Elephants and sparrows, singin' the cosmic news

The Swamp Records - news, and plans for 2024.

On December 3 2021 I joined The Swamp Records from the USA. Fuzzy Cracklins does really a lot to promote heavy underground music and culture, so it is an honor for me to be able to work with his label. I am glad to say that on a nice label like this, there is absolute artistic freedom and good vibes all around which allow an artist to work proficiently and easily with completing and promoting the music. The Swamp Records is mostly home for heavy sounds, like doom and stoner, and psychedelic metal, but the label is not a limited one, and lots of fascinating bands and projects are on it! My favorite band from Fuzzy's label is certainly CIA Hippie Mind Control, which you can check out at http://ciahippiemindcontrol.bandcamp.com/. You can visit The Swamp Records at bandcamp, join The Swamp Krewe for all the subscription benefits, and check out Fuzzy's blog at http://www.fuzzycracklins.com/ 

2024 already started with a bang, with the re-release of "Your Existence is Revolt", and "Niedobitki". "Your Existence is Revolt" has been originally released at the TIBProd. Italy label, and "Niedobitki" on the German Aumega Project netlabel. Those are classic Kaufmann albums, containing everything you love me (or hate me) for. But those are songs of the past - anyway, I figured out they deserve a re-release on The Swamp Records, because they vanished in the netlabel fog when originally released and not many people were aware of the albums' existence.

In March, I'd love to release TRANSFER, the second (or third, if you count the Saure Adler vinyl LP) collaborative album between me and Heike Wunderlicht.

For "Transfer", like for "Tempelhof Gardens" (The Swamp Records, 2023), we shared instrumental duties, exchanged instruments, used "studio as instrument" in the spirit of Can, and decided to melt everything in an electronic krautrock sound that was both foreign and familiar.

In April, following the collaborative spirit, my 2nd collaborative album with Ralf "Gypsy" Bevis will be released. Titled "Krautrock Hacked", I figured out April Fools' Day would be the perfect release date for this one. Ralf Bevis is the founder of Rodent Tapes, a UK cassette label started back in the days of early underground cassette culture. He releases music under Gypsy, Arzathon and other names as well as music in collaboration with others on his other labels.

In May and June, the remaining volumes of "Pink Elephant Music" series of albums will be released (Vol.12 and Vol.13). As of February eleven volumes are already released. PINK ELEPHANT MUSIC is a mix of improvised music, psychedelic music, krautrock, and Polish punk. I had this kind of music playing inside me at least since 1998 and it first materialized in 2002 in the Górczyn high rise when I started jamming the summers away with Mateusz. PINK ELEPHANT MUSIC was a fun little project and I'm really happy this concept found a home in such a great label. More on PINK ELEPHANT MUSIC (and with a sense of humor) can be read here. I originally wanted to stop at 13 volumes, but there will be probably more. We'll see!

In December I'd like to release something special. A brand new A.J. Kaufmann album for 2024. No archive material, no re-recordings, no old ideas. Just fresh new Kaufmann music. I will also change my artist name to THE STRANGE WORLD OF A.J. KAUFMANN to accentuate the ideas I have running in my head this year.

Thank you for what is now almost 3 years of support on The Swamp Records. The sound vibrates on.

What's new?

After 2 recent CD releases (one in the US, "Bard's Woman..." on The Swamp Records, and the other in Australia, the Mike Sill-curated "Transmitter: Sonic Abstractions by A.J. Kaufmann") I have begun working slowly on all-new material. 

The fun title of "The Legend of Kräuter Yoda and Chyme Castle" has been on my mind ever since I recorded "Kinky" earlier this year, but I am not sure what should be on this album.

I am writing songs on my trusted Gibson SG '61, recording demos, and enjoying the process. In the meantime, I am releasing digital albums as well - physical media is cool, but there's enough of my physical releases on the market already I'm afraid.

So, here are some ideas I had in March, and, more or less, completed them. I am thinking of working on the new songs just as I worked on "Bard's Woman..." - meaning collaborations and major help from other, more talented artists.

Anyway, here's the ideas - let's start with this new, as of now untitled, song. I recorded my voice and electric guitar for it already, and here I will share the lyrics.

I'd like to be certain

Can you give me a sign

Is your flying fortress

Dropping bombs of time

You call me a loser

Well for sure I'm one

Can't quite grip the essence

Of the setting sun

Time and evolution

Revolution and life

Circle wombs and tombs together

Tell me isn't it nice

The other thing is my old poem, which I set to music today. It's called "Spirits Dance at Citadel's Rosegarden".

Spirits move away from broken homes

Dance atop their silver painted roses

Cast amidst a garden carved in stone

They had it all before, under their noses

Waved their sticks, caused water to flow

Seas to part and sands to grow

Lakes to flow and skin to harden

Spirits dance at Citadel’s Rosegarden

Spirits swift above the rooftop anguish

Curl inside reluctant empty houses

Vividly explored in all their mirth

As they’re moving in in Rosa painted blouses

Waved their sticks, caused cities to fall

Glory passed unnoticed as those spirits did crawl

I’m sorry I’ve been late, Lil Miss Pardon

But uh, spirits dance at Citadel’s Rosegarden

If you wish to help me with my new album, please get in touch at ajkaufmann47[at]gmail.com

A.J. Kaufmann - "Bard's Woman in the Cool of the Summer Breeze" | Full Album 2023

Brand new song (demo): "Kinky" (A.J. Kaufmann, 2023).

Yesterday I wrote a brand new song, my first brand new song (all new lyrics and music) in 2023.

It tells the tale of the titular Kinky, a 60s girl in love with a robot.

Back in 2014, this recording would probably end up on an album, but in 2023 it's just a demo.
I hope to record the proper version of this song soon and share it. You see, back in 2014 I wasn't that demanding - a song was complete when it had drums and bass on it. The demos were just phone or computer demos for voice and acoustic guitar. In 2023 I work a bit differently - recording a rough acoustic take on my phone as a note, and then a demo in my home studio. And then I start thinking what to actually do with a song I have written and recorded.

It's a retro thing, very Brian Jones-like and pop flavored, but psych pop and noise rock are not forgotten here.

I hope I'll write even better songs in 2023. This is the first one of the year. I felt really great doing it and wrote the lyrics in like 10 minutes. Enjoy.

Kinky was a teenage girl

Who fell in love with a digital swirl

And now she lives in its world of pain and leather

Kinky cries her love again

But the silver screen remains

Cool, collected, and calm and blonde all together

No machine can hear her cry

There's no love across the sky

Kinky don't you cry alone

Meet your plastic lover's chrome

It gleams in the sunset for you, who cares it's a robot

Kinky strokes her nylon legs

Life is full of body bags

Death, despair, and emotion dawn upon us

No machine can hear her cry

There's no love across the sky

Kinky found a rosy bed

Model magazines ahead

Twen and jams with friends, and singing and dancing

Kinky now knows all the joys

Of a life led full of toys

She owns and controls, but obeys every each of their fancies

No machine can hear her cry

There's no love across the sky

No machine can hear her cry

There's no love across the sky

Psychedelic Mayhem in Poznań, Poland = live and jam 2023.

On May 18 2022, me and Leszek Garstka met in the Via Kosmische home studio to jam. We immediately (the same day!) recorded some demos for voice, acoustic guitar, and cajon. We later recorded some more professionally sounding tunes, and released some singles on our bandcamp, http://psychedelicmayhem.bandcamp.com.

Adi Kaniewski, the legendary (in certain circles) local music promoter and aficionado heard us play and offered us a gig. So, we debuted in a live setting on September 16 2022 at CK Nowe Amore, Poznań, Poland. Old and new friends appeared and motivated us to record more tracks.

On December 14, 2022 we self-released (on bandcamp) the single "Whispers of My Blood" which turned out to be our last recording as a duo.

For the January 8, 2023 release, "Alice (When the Night)", we were already joined by Maja Okamgnienie on synthesizer. Maja will become the official 3rd band member from the official release date of our latest single, "Forget the Moon, Forget the Sun", which you can already listen to on soundcloud.

But, even before our first song with Maja, "Alice", was released, we played an intimate private show in a basement under a local vinyl/wine store, "Wino & Winyle". I think 20/30 people showed up, which was pretty crowded for a tiny basement, but the atmosphere was one of its kind, as you can hear on the recordings from that January 6 2023 night included here. It was great to play for friends old and new, and we only used acoustic percussion, Gibson SG '61, and a Laney amplifier both for the guitar and the voice. Minimum maximum. Great plan. We were joined by Michał Joniec on bonus percussion and Michalina Łuzińska on vocals.

For our next gig, we are thinking performing with Maja. Also, on January 14 I jammed with Leszek, Michał Joniec, and Tomasz Ballaun. Tomasz had to leave early, before we warmed up, so there is no evidence of 3 drummers vs. 1 guitar player jam, but there is a nice sound document of the Kaufmann/Garstka/Joniec trio on soundcloud.

Enjoy the sounds of psychedelic mayhem in Poznań, Poland!

BARD'S WOMAN IN THE COOL OF THE SUMMER BREEZE (The Swamp Records, 2023).

My brand new album, "Bard's Woman in the Cool of the Summer Breeze", will be released by The Swamp Records on February 14 2023. Pre-order starts on January 13 2023! Massive thanks to everyone who made this album happen - you know who you are! This is my best album since 2014's STONED GYPSY WANDERER (re-released for the first time on vinyl with Ramble Records, Australia, in 2021). So, I'm pretty excited! Also, I recorded Stoned Gypsy Wanderer all alone (except for two tracks, where Andrzej Mikołajczak /Andre Mikola/ helped with synthesizers and production) and this time I only sing and play rhythm acoustic guitar. The rest of the instruments are written and played by: Sound Animal (USA), Ralf "Gypsy" Bevis (UK), Blessed Studio (Indonesia), Patryk Lichota (Poland), Matthias am Klavier (Germany), and my fellow Swamphead Clyde von Klaus (USA). The album showcases their playing and arrangement ideas and, sometimes, production weaved around my poetry and simple melodies.

This album might be a surprise release for those who don't follow me since the official beginning - 2011's "Second Hand Man" (LP, CD, Mimics Cool, Poland) but joined a bit later - for them the lack of noise, heavy psych, and freakout guitars and drum machines might be a shock. "Bard's Woman..." is easy on the ears and is basically a singer/songwriter album dipped in freak folk / psych pop sauce. No brainmelting krautrock, no noisy space rock, no industrial, and no death rock this time at all.

First single from the album, "King of Kreuzberg", is already available for listening on YouTube. It's a surreal ballad I wrote in Berlin back in 2009. I demoed the song many times, played it live (also with SWETER BAND) but this studio rendition is just the perfect presentation of the tune. The production and arrangement here is by Blessed Studio, Indonesia. Gita did some amazing poetic work on this one.

When you're done listening to the new single, you can read the most recent interview (for Record Crates United) here:
The Stoned Gypsy Wanderer – An Interview with A.J. Kaufmann – Record Crates United

I wish you all a fantastic HOLIDAY SEASON, and see you in January 2023 with the new album!

"SATORI IN BERLIN (X-BERG SONGS)" - complete poetry/lyrics chapbook, Kendra Steiner Editions, 2009.

ZEPPELIN BLOSSOM SKY

I can still hear the train at the station
Can still see the kite flyin’ by
Unable to differ directions, now
Utopias real, utopias smile
My deja-vu girl looks through
her kaleidoscope dress and her marmalade shoes
Headed zeppelin blossom sky
headed purity, sanctity, too

And the sun never sets at Görlitzer Park
As some boy learns to play his guitar
The old ones begin to settle the scene
Let the boy, too, win some scars

I can still see the giants in flight
Can still hear the gas in their belly
The beast that one swallowed old Jonas
Spits him out 9 o’clock daily
My deja-vu girl sees the make-up
Considers it fake, considers her break-ups
Headed zeppelin blossom sky
Headed adieu, then be it, it’s fine

And the sun never sets at Görlitzer Park
Well at night you can read by the stars
Suns of all worlds, of all ages to come
Like us must earn their scars

They can still see the beggars in time
Can still hear the whispered goodbyes
The words that echo all mornings
As the giants come over at 9
See, Jonas has fled from his cell
The prison his maker, his tester decreed
Headed zeppelin blossom sky
Headed one night, like a thief

LIEBLING

It’s not all about my diplomacy
Your judgment or given free will
Liebling, you’ve gotta
Leave it
See it
His wife, her dog or me
Darling,
I beg of you
Be

It’s not all about a change in character
A change in the weather or Spree
Liebling, you’ve gotta
Leave it
Go there
Swim the canal and see
Darling,
I beg to be free

It’s not all about the sleepin’ barge
The cross or the coma or test
Liebling, forget me, resist
Let be
Or let me
Forgive all your best
Darling,
Be secrets kept

Darling,
I’m not a hotel
And neither are you, you’re a lodge
Very few people check in
Liebling, I need to check out
Take the express right now
Swim the canal at once
And rest, rest tonight

GYPSY BOY BLUE

Gypsy boy blue
Hooked to your giant red window
The light put on again
Ain’t it so, Marlene
The light you’ll let conquer again
The one that’s always there
For gypsy boy blue, his tired approach
The only true lover you had
The only addiction to date
Gypsy boy blue
Comes precious tonight
But late, way too late

Gypsy boy blue
Hooked to your giant red window
Your eyelids all heavy with rain
Ain’t it so, Marlene
That „finding the middle ground” rain
The one you liked best
For gypsy boy blue, his vague romance
The only true lover you met
The only addiction you had
Gypsy boy blue
Comes naked tonight
But trial becomes his fate

Gypsy boy blue
Hooked to your giant red window
Oppressed with your sense of surprise
Ain’t it so, Paradise
That “losing the middle ground” plight
The one you made your mind with
For gypsy boy blue, so clearly exclaimed
The only invisible gift
The only true lover you had
One and only outside the game

DERELICT DWELLERS

Derelict dwellers come by
We’re all quite the same, go, look...
Tryin’ to dance like swans
We’re always some worm on a hook...
Pay no attention to this
And pay no attention to time
Yuppie conquerors move out
Derelict dwellers come by
Filling the walls with their lives
The leaves with colors of Spring
Church with the glory of Sky
Empty, you’d say, but look...
Now there’s really a God inside

Derelict dwellers come by
We’re all like a prayer, go, look...
No matter the written word
No matter the holy books...
Pay no attention to this
And pay no attention to ghost
There’s something behind this scene
So lean to the highest cost
Scratching the walls with a heart
The leaves with letters of death
Church with the glory of Breath
See how it’s, too, on a hook...
While the House of the Spirit denies

Love drives by a new razor
Love squats the Unholy Divide
As yuppie conquerors move out
And derelict dwellers come by

Love drives by any roadmap
Love squats the highway by noon
As midnight shines over the City
Its lovers fall onto the New

THE ARK

And it’s Shakespeare with a strap-on
And it’s Gracie on a Wing
Lurkin’ in the backyard of a Dream
Longin’ to be sacred
Way beyond belief
Ark becomes a theater for the blessed
The best
The blissed

Get on board or stay ashore, never to be conceived

And it’s Bourbon with Baudelaire
And it’s Michael on the phone
Lurkin’ in the background of a scream
Longin’ to be wasted
A way to keep things brief
Ark becomes a theater for the blessed
The best
The missed

Get on board or stay ashore, never to be conceived

Come, it’s penniless and bitter
Come, three pennies ain’t enough
Lurkin’ in the shadows of your cough
Longin’ to be lonely
A way to get relief
Ark becomes a theater for the blessed
The best
The quick

Get on board or stay ashore, never to be conceived

BRECHT’S PROUD OF SIN

Brecht’s bound to be guilty,
Proud of sin and bare
In the stars
In femme-fatales stare
He’s guilty of all their affairs
All suicidal men
Brecht’s bound to be guilty of air

Soon we’ll be, too, proud of sin
All of us, relaxed
Within

Brecht’s bound to be guilty,
Proud of sin and bare
Of pistols
Shot into midnight’s shock
He’s guilty of all little Mackies
All jargon and all pain
And he’s soon to be guilty of pen

Soon we’ll be, too, proud of sin
All of us, relaxed
Within

Brecht’s bound to be guilty,
Proud of sin and bare
Of Lady’s eastern fan
Blurred into distance,
A butterfly splits in vain
Open hearts and dirty deeds
And he’s soon to be guilty of men

Soon we’ll be, too, proud of sin
All of us, relaxed
Within

UNTRUE

You speak to me untrue, speak to me... like She once did
Or else you might only pass by
This house or any other
I’ve happened to occupy
Speak to me untrue,
And I’ll leave you alone with your pride...

You speak to me untrue; you memorized your lifetime well
Learned to pick a proper truth, a right-on-target phrase
Speak to me untrue, your memories all fake, I can tell
Speak to me untrue,
And I’ll bury you homeless and bare...

Don’t try to fit my world; you’ll never do with who you are
You’ll never get there with chameleon skin
Lips very thin
Fake-colored eyes
They all mean to me farewell,
Aufwiedersehen for good
Without a tear, without a sigh...

Speak to me untrue,
And I’ll bury you just with my eyes

You speak to me untrue, speak to me...  as rhythm fits
Or else the cradle turns
Your crafted trickery burns
And I’ll go last till you’re done
I’ve always been One with the Sun
Speak to me untrue,
I carry no gun...

You choose the proper facts only
Forever, untrue, on the run

TWICE BORN GIPSY
(for Roky Erickson)

Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
You’ve always been here before
You’ve been a hope unturned
A stone never covered with moss
Your demons were slaughtered at night
Your gremlins forever do play
Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
Twicely on the way
I’m with you – not only today...

Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
You’ve always seen it before
You’ve been a coat outworn
A shield for the enemy, bone
Your gremlins have pictures of beauty
You’ve given away those eyes
Blue and green, forever seen
Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
Livin’ twice the Dream
I’m with you – the Gipsy comes in...

Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
Your circle’s forever unbroken
You’ve been the Saint Electric
The bargain and the token
Your sorrows have colors of heaven
Your words the beauty of skin
Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
Twicely will it spin
I’m with you – that’s all there will be...

Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
And sing a Song for me

For Free (feat. Kolkhorst) - robvisual - a song with my lyrics, 2022.

I am grateful to robvisual and Kolkhorst for recording this track with my lyrics. The lyrics were written in the Górczyn high rise ages ago, so I am glad to see them gain a new life through this song. Enjoy!

Your double lives twined together
You're still a slave within your mind
You're a molecule forever drifting
Would you give your eyes to the blind?
For free
There's laughter where I used to see
Your tears.
How many miles on them wheels?

You flow inside the spiral tide
You lay yourself on a derelict shore
To drown your eyes like a sightless ride
And turn yourself into a martyred whole
You’re free
Dancing ruins I suppose to see
In time
Trapped inside your hollow mind

Another trip beyond your mind
Wonder what more could you find
Our skulls are rotting in our flesh
You’d prove my spirit in an acid test

Reproducing human race
Semen sealed within a jar
In the castles built in silence
Isolated from the alien crowd

You surf
Through cosmic blues

robvisual / A.J. Kaufmann - "Modern Hippie"

"Modern Hippie" smoked a pipe, listened to some Bauhaus, and Rolling Stones, and arrived from The Strange Worlds of A.J. & Rob just in time for a change of times.

The spirit of change is in the air, and we have to adjust ourselves to this spirit - the spirit of the age.

There is war all around us, a war that always takes place somewhere in the world - not only today in Ukraine, but also everyday everywhere. Like in that Leonard Cohen song "There is a War"... between everyone.

So, what does a modern hippie do in such troubled times? Nothing. He reflects on "Born Slippy" released in 1996 and the "Trainspotting" movie with the motto "choose life"... yeah, choose. You still have the on and off buttons, and you can choose to turn it all off.

What will remain? Perhaps Primal Scream which drives our hippie "wild". What is "wild"? Why Primal Scream? Maybe because our hippie saw them on Viva Zwei and liked the psychedelic revival.

Between Hamburg and Poznań, a musical exchange is taking place, that's all I know and all I can report about. The fate of the modern hippie is unknown, but perhaps he is living next door, smoking a pipe, listening to Bauhaus and the Rolling Stones. Adjust me? No, thank you. I'd rather remain a flaw in your system.

I'm a modern hippie
Raised on „Born Slippy”
Spotting trains
For a change
I'm a modern hippie
Flower soul child
Primal Scream
Drives me wild

I'm a thought conductor
At the speed of light
I'm the fall of diamonds
Krishna lullaby
I'm a raw transmitter
Of the hidden truth
Propaganda wheels
Distorting the view
No hidden motion
In nativity

Perfect life form
Born to breed
Kill the virus
Your language is
Modern hippies
Don't give a shit

robvisual · Modern Hippie

robvisual / A.J. Kaufmann - "Foolish Woman"

Here's another update from "The Strange Worlds of A.J. & Rob". This time it's a ballad that is also a warning. Back in 2002 I used to be in a band with Mateusz Nowicki, and we recorded many tapes with our own songs and covers. I also bought the JANE "Between Heaven and Hell" LP back then that inspired these lyrics. Anyway, I also had a girlfriend back then who used to do heavy drugs. She also inspired the words, as I was writing for her to stop doing drugs. Now, after 20 years I am unsure whether I actually wrote these words, stole them from the JANE LP, or had them dictated in a dream revelation. Anyway, here they are today, and if you're doing heavy drugs, please stop. They'll do your body and spirit no good. Like in "The Pusher" song from Steppenwolf, you'll "walk with tombstones in your eyes". Stop hard drugs now if you do them and reach out for help. My girlfriend didn't stop, and now she's in a world of her own that nobody understands. It's beyond sad. Anyway, please enjoy the ballad and heed the warning.

Here are the lyrics, audio below:

I will walk the streetlights away
Waiting for the coming of the day
When will we wake up from our naive dreams
Life is just a gambling scene
Welcome!

Dark city lights you take right thru your nose
Foolish woman, don't take your overdose, no
You say you're righteous, you're surely no fool
So come on woman, show me the rule

I will walk the night breeze away
Into the parks near the crimson bay
And as the moon shines upon my face
I'm finally sure that I found the right place
Welcome!

robvisual · Foolish Woman

robvisual / A.J. Kaufmann - "Haunted Elevator"

robvisual is a photographer, VJ, and DJ who loves to play around with music without being too professional. "It is more about ideas that need to be put into the real world." he says.

Rob recently approached me on soundcloud and sent along a track he wanted me to add vocals to. I am currently having quite a hard time being frustrated with instruments and synthesizers myself, but I sure love to use my voice in any suggested context, so this is still fun for me. Whenever I hear synth tracks like the one Rob sent me, I am reminded of the great Bob Calvert and his 80s era solo work. So, I found an old poem, and added my voice to Rob's recording.

With this track, "Haunted Elevator", we have begun working on an EP (or even possibly an album) together, and I will share the progress whenever it appears. Also, notice the new "TRANSMITTER" logo by Justin Jackley, which will be the visual representation of my music for the foreseeable future. The album "Transmitter: Sonic Abstractions by A.J. Kaufmann" is coming later this year on CD (and digital) to Ramble Records, Australia.

Stay tuned.

robvisual sent me a track of his to which he wanted me to add something. He was thinking "Velvet Underground with Synths", and I imagined Bob Calvert writing a space age song above it with the obligatory Kraftwerk boom-tschak. I found an old set of lyrics, and recorded the voice. Let us know what you think of the result.

Urban deconstruction
Walls in motion
Levels are shifting
Wired to our emotions

Cityscapes are changing
Buildings in motion
Parks are shifting
Along with our emotions

I want a haunted elevator
Haunted elevator
Ego aggregator
Ego aggregator

robvisual · Haunted Elevator (feat. A.J. Kaufmann)

"Unrepeated Blues"

Well I'm grooving on a Sunday
And my fingertips are green
From a flight, one flight too many
On the London groove machine
And I'm thinking to my body
While I'm preaching to my soul
That an army of forgivers
Couldn't quench my thirst for gold

There's an alley in my city
Where I walked out all the blues
With a woman in her window
That's too old for hanging loose
From a corner of salvation
Throwing coins into the air
I'm a sucker for elation
And I'd like to stay this way

So I walk on light unbothered
As you stagger in the dark
While the fireflies keep floating
In my baby's wooden sparks
She says ain't no coffin big enough
To fit your box of things
Where I keep my poems only
You keep selling wedding rings

It's the scent of morning petrol
That might keep my words unsaid
But I never said a thank you
For the rhythms in my head
You supply and try immensely
Like a set of evening clothes
It's whatever, babe, you fancy
We are now tomorrow's ghosts

So you say so long my partner
I can't help but be surprised
By the way you choose your answers
To this inharmonious plight
Of a spirit once too eager
Now too old to carry on
For the bird consuming madness
From its broken earthly throne

"Box of Air" (2003).

Bring me plastic boxes, where I can put my stuff
Bring me my rockets, bring me my soldiers, son

Bring me plastic boxes to capture the unseen
Bring me, son, the bouquet of fresh blue stream

Bring me plastic boxes, to keep the truth inside
It’s too early, my dear son, to let it all go out

Bring me plastic boxes, to hide all my jewels
Make it fast, make it quick, don’t you be a fool

The prophets have told me once when I was young
That once the night will fall and Judgment Day will come

It shall be released from plastic boxes everywhere
One box for some water, the other for some air

One box for some fire and one box for some Earth
And other numerous boxes contain a lot of hellish pearls

Bring me plastic boxes, to count the pearls inside
The day is almost there, the truth I’ll no longer hide

Bring me plastic boxes, I’m sure I’m playing fair
Along with the forces of water, fire, Earth & air

of water, fire, Earth & air
of water, fire, Earth & air
of water, fire, Earth & air
of water, fire, Earth & air

Look who’s there

SMALL TALK AT BUKOWSKA AND LIBELTA: A poet in Poznan. - Poetry Chapbook, 2012.

“Krabo”

They say moon is the same for everyone
Streets are hostile or friendly
Nothing depends on your luck
You exist cause you’re taught to be handy

And in such rhymes and meaninglessnesses
I watch my friends perceive the world
their family, spirit, room – they make
photographs of joyous faces
while watching weather reports
from the bottom of a supermarket cart
they produce the trash
they later consume
and shit in the evening
their next morning’s bourgeois breakfasts

That’s why I scream to the same old moon, or sing, or write
on tenement walls
“krabo”
the only word ‘cept “samo”
I find powerful enough
to describe this toilet
called life
on Earth

“Poznan After Midnight”

I’m an actor turned hobo – deceitfully fat on the wealth of the city – sending poems to outer space on train’s smoke rings at midnight, walking to the engine’s high pressure rhythm – that sounds just like bop, if I were educated enough to know it, though now I am, only weaker – I grew tired, tired of river bank lovers, ancient chimneys and tenement stench, weakened by the load of death I witness every day while passing side streets, rural paths and railroad lines, looking for a place, a trace, a lover – but I’m tired of river lovers – as I said before, I’m a hobo, drunkard murderer and a million worse things than that – I’m older than the streets as you know them, and though someone put a stop sign in front of this body, useless heap of autumn-smelling flesh, I go on, dirty container of blood that could save lives if it weren’t contaminated with truth – venomous drops of fish jaw mornings on coughed out sidewalks force my phlegm to form poems, if you call them that, with bits of this blood, the juice I call my own, which will take me to knife fights in the docks, for a woman, a friend, whatever, and everyone will die on such morning, everything will end, there will be no tombstones, mourners or ceremonies – tenement lights go down – just the lonesome whistle of the first, welcoming brightening docks miles away, or last, train, bidding the city adieu – with its wealth and beggars and traveling hobos like me, me – who’ll be far away from death scene, riding the lucky train, laughing hungry with the heavens, cause I’m thin, thin as newspapers soaking in the slaughter of an oyster morning and last black and white cigarette in Poznan after midnight.

“When the Dawn Got Drunk”

Why were you sleeping
when the dawn got drunk
on freezing vines of night
pouring through tenement fingers
stardust women
placing bets
on drooling horses
drawing attention to dust
of pistol wings
shooting over the city
alit & bare
suddenly sure it’s leaking
nightmares into the void
of cruel electric namesakes
shining on bars
leaving the proof
of existence
on ghastly store windows
mirrors to hooker faces
loser matchsticks
bum & writer’s apathy
used to snails of midnight
creeping
over their work
why were you dreaming
when the dawn got stoned

“Last Words of a Famous Sailor”

Write faster than Dylan. Thomas, of course. How fast? How fast? The young poet intents to grab the cloud, moon, a solitary smoker in the shadow of the sun, whatever, whoever. He will never succeed. It’s not a matter of pace. It’s not a matter of talent. Who is it talking? Does my head hurt so bad, or was it just a suburban katzenjammer for a well-fed burgeoning scumbag. I intend to vomit. On your desk, headmaster, preacher, politician, pig. I intend to piss. It was never my, or the young poet’s, intent to write. Do it faster. You’re inefficient. I tried to draw an elephant in my cupboard, rhinos in a field of sunflowers, smiling, bathing in the yellow nimbus of whatever ambient music was playing around. Who put the tape in my recorder? I wanted to make, not listen, and act, not think, but schools changed that. I was lucky. The young poet grabs a cup of coffee from my latest mistress and chokes on blood. Pretending survival. I incorporate a manta into my pot mandala and float with it to kill the whale. In its belly a solitary smoker pretends he’s on the street, trying to grab the young poet observing him from 2nd floor window. Everything is hopeless, but the contestant on a TV show said amoeba is a defunct sailor. Guess he was right, or was it the acid I had for breakfast, including young poet’s urge to write. Faster! Faster! We can almost smell the streets you were raised in this time, if you continue at this pace and amount of detail we’ll publish your book in golden laurel leaves all across the pages, and we’re talking gold, as in golden archways of heaven’s dome, but you’ve gotta use these words. Heaven. Dome. At the edge of infinite quarrel, my mistress yawns and polishes her mirror. I am crazy. So is the intent I had when younger, so is the intent I’ll have in my death bed. Vomit. Piss. Or even shit. Who? What does it matter?

“Beatnicks w/ Parachutes”

Rust
gives rivers
brand new names
dust
shelves people
and their stain
rivers
flow
w/ brand new friends
women
love their
ramblin’ men

Drinkin’ w/ the dawn out of lady fortune’s shoe
waiting for beatnicks w/ parachutes

Landing zone
& who’d predict
wonders
that the fool depicts
angry
art
was heaven sent
angel
screams
his compliments

Drinkin’ w/ the dawn out of lady fortune’s shoe
waiting for beatnicks w/ parachutes

“Bone Yoke”

Seeds were already there. Fishes were swimming round, in sterile bowls of solitude, like plastic christs on judgment day, falling from the seller’s leper box. One for a penny! You remember dogs chewing on chink bones, music boxes swinging moog versions of rock’n’roll standards, flowers incubating in tar. Correct the wavelength. You are obviously sleeping on a rag of tiger eyes, sewn together they watch the sunset. I remember winter. Is it of importance, what you remember? Jobless motors of progress wish they were nothings and zeroes, but it is them to play the heroes when cameras come around on Sunday. Virus fingers type the void word. It is one word. What do you carry – the clever martyrs were levitating a long time ago, and plastic christs aren’t the first totems to fall – fuel that’ll ignite the fire, of what you call an apocalypse, revelation… who could predict the outcome of such a meeting? You were painting your women, I was writing mine, somebody told me our spirits might rhyme – of course, I never wrote this song, though this chorus remained for a long time tucked in one of my notebooks, with an accompanying note saying “slaughter”, and a phone number. I’m not sure who slaughtered who, or what slaughter was discussed, or who went to what slaughter, it only reminded me of Indians, people of the Maya, Inca, all the space-thrown tribes of earthdawn. And I recalled their words of bone yoke. Bone. Yoke. What do you carry? I am a tribal portrait. Complete with wristwatch chains.

“The Young and the Hip”

The young and the hip give thanks
to bungalow hosts
party pigs
lipstick leather belts
vomiting dawn on the world
reaching out
for another bottle of whisky
give thanks
to the wind that shakes fragile bodies
exposed to sun and moon
writing in tribal riddles
dressing in contours of sleep
furious, young
emblazoned
setting sails on sundown
drifting with sunrise, hooray!
screams of birds impale us
pirates execute us
sing us songs
written back when
the world was fourteen
give thanks
to the idol totem
thin on the TV screen
high on milk and vegetable shakes
when we were drunk on beer
cheap intents
& guardians
give thanks
cause we were there
for them

“Cotton Railway Blues”

I thought of a ride this morning, I was muttering through Pisces horoscope, she was naked on the bed beside me – we had good sex and talked nice, I thought of a church choir accompanying these words, if they would rhyme, they’d be perfect gospel, and I thought of the laughing priest who’s done my exercise today, over an empty page, or with an arthouse camera, stunned by the ripple in death bearing heaven – I thought it was going to rain – and if I were a bluesman, I’ll surely sing today, these words could work well with harmonicas jiving, or a bop song, with crazy weird pianos banging on a drumground of coke – I thought of that and a French maid I’d take with me to the railway, we’d work on the Pasadena rhythm, I thought of her lashes, then of the trees in the garden – what garden, asked the priest, and in doubts his debts were paid, no longer he needed supporting the skies, falling in flame anyway, on the day I was picking cotton – black gold picking for white trash, there in the orange container, drawn away from my thoughts. At last. Now here’s the big moment, whole world wants to listen – trouble is, I’ve got nothing to say but rubbish, rubbish I found while drunk or rubbish I wrote on a freight train.

“Bukowska & Libelta (1)”

Negro rhythm? Indian rhythm?
what are they doing in Poznan?
Polish rhythm?
Dock the rhythm
with the barges
French? Spanish?
Mix the language
with the stone
trombones
of our forefathers
space mothers
chalk sisters
coal brothers
What frame? And which
genius painting
needs one?
it is spread around
a few quarters
here, on the door,
there, on the wall
it’s sprayed from Bukowska to Libelta
like small talk
in the pubs and bars
around
in everything we inhabit
we are lucky to have such artists
Art? Art brut? What art? Why
art – and question me no more
for I won’t paint again
until rebirth
maybe then I’ll dip the brush
in small talk, brave talk,
slave talk – iconic volumes
of cave talk
and I’ll try to conceive a new world
outside of the page
but now I’m younger
than mad talk
and I qualify for milkshakes
at Wanda’s – nothing really special about them
only sometimes old sailors come in
and let me drink whisky
in her, I hear the rhythms
and paper knows no limit, like sky or brain
it’s clear, except for cloudy voices
you best learn to ignore: this is small talk
tycoons of death
their hands already upon you
way back from the cradle

“Hep Chord”

First bass note, numb, falls above the landscape of cymbals, walls are erected at instant, of freshly painted faces in war colors – death colors – pain colors, fervently aware and improvised on the surface of moonlit stairs, circling down the theater, and the audience is ready to listen, poets are ready to write down the night, scent of burnt potatoes, Joe’s grandma cooks above, if they have any smell, that’s the smell of this ongoing black, the black on Michael’s lips, the untold tale he yet has to offer, on the altar of sleeplessness angel, vivid break in character, off goes the drum. Shy solos follow. Was it a trumpet? Was anything “sounding”, “pounding”, “pumping”, or “screaming” – are screams necessary now, when they’ve become weapons of the mainstream, once silent in ignorance, now shouting against the flowers – and I’m speaking of wildwood flowers, bare before the wolf’s teeth, and the wolf in Isabel’s song was a rapist, nothing more, for she needed to be fucked right away. We’re hanging, can’t you see that? Hanging from the cliff of compulsory shells, naked to the wonder of creation, waiting for sound, but the first bass note is hovering, hovering still, and nothing really happens except the shy presence of piano and gentle waves of a trumpet, fueled by the warmth of a Negro's hand – a rare sight to see here – I shook it backstage, later on, and asked “what the hell were you doing?” “Shit, man… was just waiting for the hep chord”.

"Andy's Breed" (February 2016).

We all came from a white head womb
Gun wounded chest and Nico's perfume
David's dreams of savior rock
Kraftwerk's beats around the block
Tribute songs and galleries
Catholic nights of memories

Andy's breed, strange humankind
Curtain sized, a potent mime
Posed in front of Andy's eye
Licked it clean and said goodbye

Influences change like clothes
Gears of mannequins exposed
Queens of night, so masculine
Decadence once feminine
Everything got too confused
Dirty streets got overused

Andy's breed, strange humankind
Curtain sized, a potent mime
Posed in front of Andy's eye
Licked it clean and said goodnight

"Four Wicked Winds" (2003).

There’s spoil and ruin everywhere
And all the people act like nobody cares
Maybe they can’t see it, maybe they’re all blind
But peace and freedom today is so hard to find

There are many wicked people living right next door
Wonder what kind of terror they could have in store
Money is the king and weapons are his queen
War brings profits, and I hope you know what I mean

There’s apathy growing on every street
Or glazing with hatred at the men you see
Jealousy and falsehood, enslavement and crime
Like four winds blowing thru the world of these times

Four wicked winds
Blowing all around
Four wicked winds
In each and every town

There’s been trouble all around since I hardly remember
Many men taught to fight, but even more to surrender
The weight of the world entirely on your back
And nobody helps you while you march your weary track

So carry your cross to the Neon Golgotha, man
Billions waiting for the show, so do the best you can
A live transmission on every possible channel
Suffering sells best and it's exactly what they wanted

Four wicked winds
Blowing all around
Four wicked winds
Blew down your crown

Ride your motorbike to the very highway’s end
Where neon jungle turns to green and unpolluted land
Climb the tower or a hill to see the mutilated city
Concrete monster is gone, what a shame, what a pity

Four wicked winds
Blowing all around
Four wicked winds
Blew down your town

Rushing Madness Thru The Stars (2002/11/13).

Rushing Madness Thru The Stars

1 - The Bliss and The Law
Mountainsides are filled with fire
But nothing burns at all
Among the heavy rocking curtains
The Gods spread wide their call

The few who hear it rush along
Thru forests, lakes and seas
With full awareness of their blindness
They wait for divine bliss

To see the ways of universe
To understand the law
Which is not war, destruction, hate
But creation, peace and love

2 - We Are
We are the warriors
We are the hunters
We are the darkness
We are the brightness
We are our fathers
We are our mothers
We are our sisters
We are our brothers
We are one and everyone
We are moon we are sun
We are peace and we are war
We are after, we were before
We are fire we are water
We are earth we are sky
We’re impersonal, immortal
We’re the fact that’ll never die
We’re the servants of Divine Mother
As we travel thru vast clear space
We are truly born of stars
We’re the saviors of the human race
We are speed we are light
We are void we are night
And as our solar engines choke
We turn to glass, we turn to smoke

3 - The Divine Bird
A divine thought in metal corpse
Got no wings but it can fly
The roaring voice repeating “more!”
As counter reaches pale blue skies

White heavy thunder, god-like blaze
Earth is crumbling at its seams
The roaring light cries nevermore
As Holy Watcher blanks all the screens

4 - Space Chant
The beginning and the end
Once destruction, now creation
Numb and still, it does not feel
Yet it’s pure imagination
Just a thought of ancient lords
It ain’t nothing more but void
Not a person, not a soul
Living being yet it’s dead
No expression, no permission
Standing still but how it spreads
Just a thought of ancient lords
It ain’t nothing more but void
Rushing madness thru the stars
On heavy metal polished wings
Vibes and sounds of roaring freedom
Roaring wild and roaring free
Just a manifest of lords
You ain’t nothing more but void

5 - Die To Try To Fly
Dust of stars they say you are
That’s the reason why you stare
At cloudless skies each single night
You’d like to fly but you wouldn’t dare
Well I was born an Astral Flyer
You see me nearly every night
I’m the shadows you’re afraid of
I’m the twilight’s flashing lights
Travel thru the universe
I’m unborn and Barrel Style
When you see me passing by
Stop and see just for a while
You can do it if you try
No matter what they say
Break the shell undo the chains
And glide thru starry ways

"Written Word" (January 2003) - translated from Polish.

Nine ice cubes on a wooden table
In the vast shade of the winter sun
Crystal ashtrays and empty brown bottles
Inactivity
The chair gives way under my weight
I don't know if I weigh
The armchair knows (more than I do, I assure you)
Non-existence
The empty space of my skull
Echo in the tunnel, echo of emptiness in absolute emptiness
An echo of emptiness among rocky cold walls
Unreal spaces filled with the echo of emptiness
Imagine the echo of emptiness
Imagine a mirror meeting a mirror
What do these mirrors see?

Imagine nothingness
Imagine glass and smoke rings
Black, impenetrable stone circles
Imagine the landscapes of nothingness
Senseless thoughts and images from distant times
Songs of the Lost Bards
Madmen, geniuses, refugees
Imagine their mind creating better worlds
Turned into a nightmare, filled with echoes of emptiness
Imagine the endless regret and melancholy of the morning
Imagine their eyes - their expression
Ice cubes, needles, cellophane - whatever...
And imagine the hunger...
A cynical, decadent, serpent mind that was once beautiful
Imagine the day of creation - then the sound barriers
Immaculate vibrations of destruction
Imagine nothingness, imagine its bards
Imagine eternal winter burning your mind and soul
Ivy in your veins...
Free...
Empty...

The void is unborn
The void does not pass away
When you know emptiness
You will not be different from her
I want to know the void

I am the human obscene...