To assist musicians as they express themselves on their chosen platform, is very purpose driven. Tip of the hat to your willingness to serve those you relate so well with. You will do exceptionally well, enjoy your journey as you without doubt will uplift others! wade-bergner.com. Namaste, Wade
Freedom For Musicians is well into changing the world of “Notes”.
Seems to be an affair of the heart where you are pouring in everything you have. And the results are coming through load and crystal clear.
Amazing how proud you should be the emotions behind which are like music to my ears.
Susan Patricia Connor Lewis
Director / email@example.com
What an amazing site!
I love the energy of it! I am not a musician myself, but I do love music. Your site is easy to navigate and it’s easy to find everything I was looking for. The best thing is I have found some new music that I really love – the artists are amazing and I’ll be keeping a close on the updates! I look forward to checking through more of some of your amazing music. Thankyou!
Karen and Jacky
Thanks for providing a fabulous platform
As a musician myself I really love what I’m seeing here. I don’t perform professionally any more but did so for many years with my partner. These days we still write, record and play and are in the process of creating an archive website for our back catalog to live on. We were slogging away way before Facebook, Youtube and all the other social platforms existed.
A Quiet Revolution
Freedom for Musicians seems like a really innovative concept for musicians to promote and distribute their digital music. I admire the work you are doing in this industry to solve the problem of exploitation by the big labels and distributors. I look forward to seeing the success of Freedom for Musicians.
I wrote the song ‘Let Love Abound’ thinking about the mental illness and substance abuse that my family has suffered from for a very long time and the beautiful people I work with. In this song I am talking about stigmas that run very deep in America.
The stigmatization of those that suffer with substance abuse, the stigmatization of those that suffer with mental illness, and the stigmatization of those assumed to be prejudiced .
Our band was based in Virginia Beach for awhile. I ran into Bluegrass players that were very open and not the judgmental or prejudiced people that many assume. I pray that we stop stigmatizing those with mental illness, substance abuse, and open our minds to people as they are as opposed to who we think they are. I pray that we, ‘Let Love Abound’…..
The 1970s was a tough decade for everyone. Misogyny, homophobia and racism were the norm. There was no such thing as ‘Health and Safety’ or ‘Child Protection’ and bullying was the accepted form of natural selection. A nation still recovering from World War 2 (a mere 30 years earlier) was struggling to find its identity and importance on the world stage, post empire. And of course, nuclear war was imminent. Paranoia was rife albeit from the Soviet threat and the new threat of thousands upon thousands of immigrants from Asia and the Caribbean flooding the country with their weird food and funny foreign ways. Fueled by Enoch Powell’s ‘Rivers of Blood’ speech, the far right in the form of the National Front reared their disgusting heads creating fear and division amongst fragile new communities across the land. Not a great time for a small bespectacled brown boy to be making his way in the world!
However, September 1975 was the time for 8 year old Roger to make the transition from safe cuddly Wordsworth First School, under the protection of the feisty Jose Cavalo, to the large, unpredictable and scary world of Foundry Lane Middle. Stories of elephants as pets would no longer cut it and despite having an older sister already in situ, the fear was palpable and I knew it would not take long for the bullies to find me. I needed something to give me an edge, to stand out for different reasons and above all, to command some respect. Many young people these days find gangs, weapons and dangerous older role models for the exact same reasons that I was struggling with but these, mercifully, were not available to me and I know had they been, this is the path I would have chosen.
No, something else presented itself to me. The mysterious case children.
What were these strange wooden cases that children were carrying back and forth from school everyday that created an aura of mystique, respect and class and above all, how could I get hold of one? Not your modern trendy gig bags but old fashioned wooden coffins that occasionally gave away their secret by their shape. Is that a violin, a guitar perhaps? My parents reaction to my announcement of wanting to play an instrument was simple. “You gave up playing the recorder, what makes you think playing the trumpet would be any different?” My reasons were not musical at the time but this decision came to shape my life for ever.
If they only knew what he was truly capable of, they would tremble, bow or prostrate themselves before him. Their very existence depended on his mood or whimsy at any given time. Their feeble minds could not even comprehend his being nor could their senses perceive him yet, the power of life, death or suffering lay firmly in his hands. As the powerful August sun beat down relentlessly for another seemingly endless day, the decision was made. Today they would live, undisturbed, allowed to continue their pointless tasks oblivious to how close they came to total annihilation by the hand of a single entity. Today, but only for today, he would allow the status quo to continue…
Chapter 1 Elephants and Allegations
I remember 1976 most clearly because it was really hot and Granny had given me a large magnifying glass that spent the whole summer glued to my hands. It made small things look big, my mouth look giant to my sister but above all, it turned me into the god of ants. Had I seen ‘Apocalypse Now’, I would have shouted “ I love the smell of formic acid in the morning” each day, before setting out upon my ghoulish duties of garden eugenics, genocide and above all else, a taste of real power. I would dream of owning a suit of armour, later a real Dalek and earlier my very own elephant.
Roger’s elephant first burst on the scene during Mrs Grey’s story time, on the mat at Wordsworth First School. “Who has a pet?” was answered with the expected yet boring replies of “cat”, “dog”, “hamster” until “I have an elephant” was heard from a small brown boy in grey shorts and a yellow tie. As one can imagine, this announcement was something of a show stopper which was met with not inconsiderable disbelief. However, after explaining that because we came from India, it was quite normal for small boys to own an elephant and if anyone would like to see it, they were more than welcome to come to my house for a personal viewing. This development meant that I experienced popularity for the first time and was quite drunk on my new found celebrity. The only flaw was the undeniable fact that there was no elephant or any likely hood of there ever being one any time soon. My first major public humiliation soon followed and I say major as it was not the first I had endured. Warm up events preceding this were: The ice cream van, being hit by a car, grabbing a stranger who was not my mum and of course, the circumcision. As the hoards of expectant five year old urchins pounded on the door to 28 Howards Grove, I stood resolute in the belief that there would be an elephant in my garden somehow, by some means and provided by some higher power that I was yet to meet but would be indebted to for all eternity. Alas, no elephant.
During the period 1972 (Liverpool FC commemorative coin rolls behind the kitchen cupboard for ever) to 1976 (Dad’s car is officially hotter than the surface of the sun) I learned all about disappointment and that the mere act of wanting something to happen does not guarantee its manifestation. Concepts I still struggle with today and refuse to accept as applying to me. This meant that an alternative and better reality was needed and fast.
Power cuts, mountains of rubbish in the streets, strikes, no money and ridiculously cold winters made things a bit more interesting but the underlying sense of normality prevailed which was definitely not what I had signed up for. Bowling a googly (curved ball for Americans) became good sport for a while until a diagnosis of being ‘retarded’ was bandied about by Miss Perkis after the Bumble Bee incident in the cloakroom.
The first of these staged events took place in the summer of ’74 at the Summer Concert and Performance of ‘The Pied Piper of Hamlin’ at Wordsworth First School. Due to the poor and inconsiderate scheduling of the programme, the recorders were required to play ‘Summer is a Cummin in’ immediately before curtain up for the second act of the play. Musicians doubling as actors was prevalent then as now and equally under appreciated. This meant that make-up had to be applied to the Town Councillors (a moustache) back stage leaving the overworked Musos, currently entertaining the crowd, hirsutely bereft. As the only Town Councillor in Hamlin without a moustache, it fell to me to make a stand. Tonight, the delivery of the crucial line “One! Fifty thousand!!” would not be made. In its place however, a simple yet heartfelt speech of protest.
Allegations of sub-normality continued abound resulting in a trip to the optician to see if not-seeing might be the cause. This was the seventies after all and the addition of big plastic National Health spectacles to the only brown face in a white working class inner city council estate primary school must surely help with self esteem, self confidence and a sense of fitting in. It didn’t. Enter Yvonne and Sharon from the towers overlooking Wordsworth First School. This wonderful duo were the architects, engineers and the driving force behind the finest rolling barrage of mental and physical abuse by any Super Power since the Second World War. Their campaign? Quite simply, “ What colour’s your willy Roger?” Resistance to this kind of sustained attack was futile and led to the inevitable capitulation known as ‘The great unveiling’ of 1975.