About Us - Produced by Nathan Murphree for Rock it Productions
Head Banger - Produced by Dansonn for Shadowville Productions
Rock Steady - Produced by Nathan Murphree for Rock it Productions
When Angels Cry - Produced by Allrounda for Shadowville Productions
Come Equipped - Produced by Hala-X for Shadowville Productions
Born to Rock Mics - Produced by Ear 2 Tha Beat for Shadowville Productions
No Competition - Produced by Adamack for Shadowville Productions
Going Down - Produced by Slantize for Shadowville Productions
Infinite Edition - Produced by Hala-X for Shadowville Productions
Dream Big - Produced by Atomic Beats for Shadowville Productions
Gone - Produced by Nathan Murphree for Rock it Productions
Roof Tops- Produced by Nathan Murphree for Rock it Productions
WWYD? - Produced by 2 Deep for Shadowville Productions
The creation of 13 Tracks was a real life “Shining” event, except there was plenty of booze and the ghost were a little more friendly.
There I stood in the haze of a hallucination effortlessly induced by the triple digit heat of a gracious southern summer - watching beats and baselines dancing in the sunshine - and then it hit me. An insidious chill that promised to be free malice. I would soon discover it was a beautiful lie cloaked in an icy allure. The shock was absolute. I could not look away. Before me was a breathtaking view, my personal winter of discontent.
I traced a path through the barren wasteland all the way back, until it terminated beneath my feet. To walk this path was certain death. I had been delivered a clear message. The time to revel in wonder and inspiration had passed. As inspiration void of creation to render structure will break apart, and return to forever.
With no vacillation the decision was made. I packed my gear and headed to a place where I could set up a studio free of distraction. A place where, once the first snow of the season hit, I would be locked in with no escape. Forced to face reality for what we are, a hologram of infinite possibilities poised on the event horizon- waiting for a watchful eye to define our meaning.
My arrival was that of a beleaguered warrior. Winter welcomed me with a three-day blizzard, its version of a tinker-tape parade. As promised isolation was complete. My outpost was surrounded by ten-foot snow drifts armed with phantom turrets blasting rounds of negative 40 degree shells at anything foolish enough to be caught outside. It was perfect. An ominous oasis of solitude. A place where the insanity of pure creation could run rampant, undisturbed, until it had exhausted itself. But only after it had completely saturated the fabric of this time and place; leaving crystalized gems of madness frozen in the subzero setting. I poured myself a drink, and then I am certain, I heard the shuffle of feet from a dark corner of the basement.
At first I could not be sure whether it was the arctic air, or an overwhelming sense of gratitude that shook my bones beneath the goose-bump riddled flesh that covered them. That I - a mere daydreamer - was allowed to witness this marvelous chaos, and share in the exquisite malice of natures pitiless destruction. Whether divine synchronicity or plain dumb luck, it was indeed an honor and a gift. To celebrate I poured myself another drink, and listened as heavy footsteps ascended the stairs from the basement (and another shot). The dark of the season made night seem eternal. In spite of everything else, the trip of the overcharged opus ensued, until absolute exhaustion eclipsed the apex of illumination, and complete darkness flooded in.
I woke up and dug myself out of the rubble. Another drink, and yes another please. The floor boards rumbled, and the walls heaved in and out like the laborious breath of a lumbering giant. I finished my drink, poured another, and then I began to sift through the jewels of mania until I found a collection of malleable shards I could piece together into a luminescent kaleidoscope of jagged euphoria (shots, reload, reload, reload). I took a deep breath and gazed into the wayward dimension - a spectacle forged within the inferno of an artist’s meditative compulsion - my body trembled as my spirit was pulled through the scope.
I have no trustworthy memory of what transpired on the other side. When I came to, I was standing in front of my dependable AKG, covered in sweat and out of breath. I scanned the room. The monitor of my iMac provided a dimly lit outpost against the gathering horde of menacing shadows. An empty bottle spun at the event horizon. Ink stained paper somersaulted across the floor like tumbleweed between gun fighters at high noon. Logic Pro 9 had been dutifully recording everything the AKG could pick up. I reached over and tapped the space bar, took off my headphones, and sat down.
The trip was over. Just in time as the snow melted away, the booze ran dry, and the ghost became angry.
I give to you as it was given to me- Vision’s debut album: “13 Tracks”.