Did you know that Oakland based singer-songwriter and multi-instrumentalist Akosua just received a matching grant from the East Bay Community Foundation!?

East Bay Community Foundation believes in Akosua’s work and will match Akosua’s fundraising for her Debut Album Project up to $3,500.

Epic Arts of Berkeley CA also supports Akosua’s work and will now act as her fiscal sponsor, making all contributions to this project tax deductible.

You can help this project soar by making a contribution of even just $5 or $10!
It’s easy! Just visit http://akosuamusic.chipin.com to make a contribution.

You may also write a check out to Epic Arts. Be sure to put "Akosua Debut Album" in the memo. Send Checks to: Epic Arts 1923 Ashby Ave. Berkeley, CA 94703.

Thank you in advance for your support!

Hey Darlins'

I promise, this is not at all like Where's Waldo? In fact I'm much more difficult to find these days.

6 months, no shows, no press releases, no press clippings, no photo shoots, or headlining.

I've been hibernating, cultivating, incubating the next breath.

Although life can be so unglamorous at times /or/ completely delicious-while standing still-I'm still alive, blessed with this gift that keeps me going.

Got me a day job to pay the bills. I haven't quite yet reached the equation through which music can make me a living, but I am on my way.

20 x (what I love to do) has me writing songs at 7am. Now I am 30 minutes late for work which means these songs are worth negative money and I 'll never be able to afford to think that way.

I choose my music over anything, any day. This is but a perfect pause.

I can promise that I'll be back soon and that my sleeves are full of surprises and new tricks to make your heart wish and want again.

Miss you,
*akosua

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Water Woman Works Music
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Press Release
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Water Woman Works Music Announces
Akosua at Freight and Salvage

Oakland, CA February 1st, 2007 Ghanaian-American singer-songwriter and multi- instrumentalist Akosua, brings the fresh new sound of jazz inspired folk fusion to sweeten the jaded ear. Her songs, punctuated with West African and Latin rhythms and tonalities, are a vibrant blend of heartfelt folk storytelling and lyrical jazz vocals. "Akosua pushes the boundaries of conventional songwriting," (Contra Costa Times). Akosua will be performing on Thursday, February 15th at Berkeley's Freight and Salvage. Doors open at 7:30 and show starts at 8pm. Freight and Salvage is located at 1111 Addison St, Berkeley, CA 94702.

Born and raised in New York and New Jersey, Akosua slowly journeyed out to the west coast, first stopping at the University of Michigan where she obtained her undergraduate degree and explored her musical talent. Since settling in California, Akosua has performed at several venues, including Freight and Salvage (Berkeley), Maxwell's (Oakland), La Peña Cultural Center and the Elbo Room (San Francisco) where she opened for Sila and the Afro-Funk Experience. Akosua has also played live on KPFA's Transitions on Traditions and KALW's Africa Mix. Her bright and sultry vocals, introspective lyrics, and self-taught guitar stylings have been compared to that of India Arie, Joni Mitchell, Ani Difranco, and Seal.

"There's only one way to describe Oakland singer- songwriter Akosua's voice, it's silky smooth." Christina Troup - Oakland Tribune

Tickets for this event are $17.50 Please contact Freight and Salvage for more information, 510.548.1761.

Please visit Akosua's website at www.akosuamusic.com, for audio clips.

i.

I promised myself I would not become a starving artist. Yet here I am. Starving for words. Sounds. Images escape my memory.

I squint into the sun instead of opening my eyes because there are too many jobs to be done and the weight of this sits on my eyebrows dragging them downward to press on my eyelids making my eyes turn into little slits of hope. Sometimes even pressing water to fall.

I tell you, what I do is not for fun. Mostly it is to ease the pressure in my brain. To break through the inane-ness pf life's misunderstandings. And when I open my mouth to sing you a song, it is because that is the only way I know how to breathe.

Art is a necessity. You make think it pretty but, it's just like piss and shit. Like transcendence. Essential to life.

When is the right time to be creative?

If I can carve a reality thru a sonic breath with literary depth. Then life is worth living.

ii.

I work to the sound of clocks ticking, the metronome of life beating against my years.

If I could stop the clock I would not go back in time to change the days or forward to chart my way. I would just breathe. It's like holding breath underwater, the depth of these dreams.

I have forgotten my own heartbeat. I've been running on existential pressures never catching up with my own measure of time.

I promised myself that I would not become a starving artist.

And here I am.

Starving for time to stop the clock and work only by the click of my own heart. To dream. To create. To breathe.

Looking forward to seeing you on February 15th at Freight and Salvage!

Technorati Profile

Midnight feels like morning and my eyes are still dry from the winds of Hamatan.

This morning when I wake I will miss lifting my head to peer out the window at the gray and red of the long drive way and the green of the never ending bush beyond.

This morning when I wake I will miss the echo of the halls in my father's house. The taste of sweet bread and paw paw, is just beyond my lips if I close my eyes I can be there again.

Here every face is brown and I am everybodys sister.

My auntie jumps up and down at the sight of me. She is deep in her 80's and her skin is taught and shiny, her eyes like onyx on a cloud of white. I bend to embrace her small frame and feel greatful to be home. She wants to take me up that spiral mountain to Oboe. She wants to know if I will still race her down the red dirt road. I bring her water and yams with fish and red pepper. She has traveled a long way. She has come with her head wrapped in black and her body dressed in black and white still mourning the death of her mother.

A cow groans.
An owl hoo's at the window.
I press my toes flat to feel the cool floor.

This home is so new, most guests get lost in the red dirt maze that proceeds it's gate. We meet many at the main road and lead them through to join us for a house warming.

Here the power goes out four times a day and one must not take water for granted. Forget the microwave, light the pilot on the stove and get a pot to heat your stew. Put the fish in the oven and lay down by the window before the heat gets you.

Blink a dry eye.
Draw a dry breath.
Scratch the dry skin.
A lizard leaps onto the tile floor.
I watch the red ball sun turn into a diamond against the black tar sky.

I hear the door bell ring and listen for the laughter of the children from the nearby village as they run away.

They are always gone before I can reach the gate making me wish we did not need to have one.

A wild chicken runs thru the gate, I chase it for a little while.


Flying across the black tar sky I meet snow capped mountains and
a yellow California sun. It's too cold here.

Midnight feels like morning. 12 is 8 and now I am up late instead of early.

Somewhere in Gbestile my father is rising to the click and clack of workers outside our house. He peers out the window to screen the brown double gate for a visitor. There is always one or two.

I miss his face. His slow aged walk. His voice reflecting off of the walls and ceilings of that house. We spoke of forgiveness with turned down eyes. We were bitter in our goodbyes. Who will bring him sweet bread and mango this morning?

This morning when I wake I feel feel at home and out of place at the same time.