Okay, the title of my new album is "pappachappa."  Do I just tell you what it means or do I leave you to wonder?  Aaaaaah, I am too type A to be that cryptic.

If you get your hands on the album and listen quietly for the very first few seconds of the very first track, you will hear where the name comes from.  "Pa-pa-cha-pa, pa-pa-cha-pa, pa-pa-cha-pa" is the opening sound that will hit your ears.  It is chant, rhythmic speak (or what I call white girl beat boxing (but I can't really say that 'cause I've seen some MEAN beat boxing by white girls (check out this girl in the back of her car, DANG....



))).

ANYWAY, now that I've TOTALLY lost you to something else (sigh, the risk of putting cool videos in your blog)...

This little meaningless collection of sounds just spoke to me where I happen to be at these days - low budget, starting over, rusty .... yeah, all those wonderfuls.  But also a little more down to earth, a little simplified in a good way, and maybe, I hope, a little more fun.  I had GREAT fun putting this project together and, believe it or not, I was thinking of YOU the whole time and how I wanted you to be rocked by it.  I had even MORE fun working with Sean Q at Hafgans Studios.  He's a fun time ;)  www.myspace.com/afghanjazzproject.

...I hope you can find a smile in it somewhere, too.  It's just a little demo, but it's for you. I still blush every time I hear certain parts, but I think it's the best job I've done so far in trying to represent a complete, complex person behind a little set of songs.  I hope it speaks to you in it's little, friendly voice, and  I hope it gives us the opportunity to meet.

Love 'til then,
Angela

WATER
by Angela Sheik 4/2009
(reflecting on two of Christ's final words, "...I thirst.")

Even He knew the need for water.
Even He knew the cruel bite of thirst.
Even He knew what it was to suffer,
even He, the King of the Earth.

Even He knew the need for water.
Even He knew the weight of the curse.
Even He cried for a deliverer,
even He, the King of the Earth.

So when my soul cries for drink, I know
that even He has felt the blow
and even He would bend so low
to offer me living water.

Alright. The bird behind my myspace? It's a barn swallow. If you're serious about wondering what's written with the purple pen, read on...

Can I write behind this with a purple pen? Would you believe that the handwriting is mine? If I wrote about my days in the barn yard when I would go up to feed the horses. I would carry two heavy, sloshing buckets of water down the bank, skidding the rubber bottoms of my boots on the ice, I then shimmied past the rusting, blue tractor and dropped my load in order to feel in the dark, among the antique cobwebs for the rectangular box that was the light switch. When that bare bulb glared yellow-white upon the soiled, hay-strewn floor, the barn swallows would erupt from their thatchy, brown nests mudded tight to the ceiling beams. They would peep as they swung on invisible pendulums across the dark ceiling. Bored or afraid, depending on the day, I would cover my spiderweb-strewn hat with my gloved hands, groaning. But now, miles and city blocks and many years from then, I am drawn back to the barn swallow. I am comforted at the sight of their humble homes. I am reminded of beginnings and find myself embracing an audible sigh, wondering when and why it all changed so drastically – when it became so far away. This is not specifically tied to my songs, but I wonder if in each of my songs there isn’t something of that barn swallow, that mousey girl with frayed hair streaming out from under a knit hat, that beast-lover, that shy horse-waterer who seems so dead and gone. I have imagined bumping into that girl, perhaps on a city street. I have concluded that we would not be friends. But pieces remain and swoop dangerously under the lights at times. Pieces emerge and demand to be sung. Pieces kick and cry, or smile. Now, as I face more starts, more beginnings, more empty returns, I find this image fitting. Haunting. Comforting. I share it with the hope that your beginnings will peep in response, that perhaps they, too, will dive out .. from their dirt nests and find me here. Find me here. Find me here. Find me here.

I know I'm not a very good writer. In my heart, I know it. I'm not a very good singer either. My heart knows that, too. Friends will challenge this, of course, but I'm pretty convinced. I sometimes blush, physically blush, when I think of these things and follow them with the reminder that I am a "singer-songwriter" by vocation. I know, it's silly. But I've written poems and stories my entire life. It just doesn't feel right if I don't. And I've sung my whole life, too. It is a funny, imperfect little part of me. Just like my dry, fragile skin and my big forehead (mine's actually a size up - I call it a 5-head). I didn't pick these things. I came with all of them. So why expose these known weaknesses from a stage? Hmm, now that's the question. Funny, I have no answer at this time. Guess it will have to wait until the next bloooooog.

WINDMILLS,
the gentle giants
who look down at our newly shingled rooftop,
softly blowing dry
the tears we shed for Elizabeth;
firstborn of her generation,
come beloved but too soon.



QUEEN ANNE'S LACE
The delicate words
that my tongue could not dispatch
toward your relief
are too perfectly composed
in my palm,
full of these plucked, white weeds.



WE BIND YOU
We bind you with our arms
while you shake,
when your atoms are too weak,
portend to break.

We bind you with our arms.
Each strange embrace
meant to retie
your fast unlacing.

We hold when you cannot.
We are your tourniquet.
We clasp you while you bleed.
We bind you with our arms.



RETICENT
Somewhere a sister's finger pauses
on the numbers of her cell,
unable to call the 1
who grieves a mother's loss.
Her own belly, swollen, kicks.

Wandering the Noi district of San Francisco, I was led into a specialty chocolate shop, "Chocolate Covered." The place was amazing and unique, the walls covered with tiny tin boxes decorated in pixilated street sign photos. There were shelves of exotic chocolates; hot aztec cinnamon and special dark, sea salt and pistachio, macadamia nut with salt caramel. It was the kind of little hole in the wall that you automatically wanted to tell your friend about. The owner, a white haired man with wide, buggy eyes, helped me pick out a meaningful tin and sweet selection, and began talking passionately about his journey in business. He was speaking generally, but it was as if his words were sharp cactus spurs meant to be carried home in the cuffs of my jeans. He said that he didn't bother to advertise. He didn't have much of a website. Instead, he spent all of his energy making sure that his little shop was a place worth coming to. Those words are still carrying with me, still burrowing in deep. It's been a challenge not to spend my time collecting myspace friends, looking for promotion opportunities, or generally just getting distracted. I'm challenged to focus on my art and music... strengthening it, making it worth listening to and looking at. I'm challenged to make this site worth visiting. I know that this is truly the best way to move forward, to do business. Hold me to it, guys. Thanks for the advice, chocolate man.

I started this myspace in preparation for and consideration of continuing on in the music biz by myself, as Ris has recently shared her desires to start thinking about a family. Yep, Ange&Ris is on the relaxed but purposeful road toward breaking up. I'm sorry if this is a bad way to let you find out about it, but Ris and I've agreed to be as open as possible about our plans to stop working together sometime in early 2009. Right now I'm not exactly sure what my plans are after Ange&Ris is over. I am looking at the possibility of going it alone. There are still a lot of songs that I'd love to see recorded, and I am not ready to say good-bye to the recording and performing business yet. This myspace page is an exploration of that desire to continue. Your thoughts are appreciated. I will keep you posted, and I'll blog about the conclusion of Ange&Ris some other time. Love ya.