BandHip HopSpoken Word

Homage is Gratitude. A Storytelling premature elder. An MC- Mastering Chaos, in hardcore Hiphop where Don Juan meets Noam Chomsky. A corporate-conscious, acoustic guitaring, gas guzzling tree hugger...with a personal agenda.


Homage began as a post-911 altar ego while living a poet's seclusion on a remote Pacific Island. His music developed from a band entitled Internal Affairs, which quickly gathered strong support from campuses, indy media and music clubs alike, earning audiences from Shambhala Music Festival, to MuchMusic, to The United Nations, and collaborations with such names like Buck 65, Everlast and Cirque Deux Soleil.

Internal Affairs received unquestionable reviews as an 8-member Hiphop band that included vioin, classical guitar, turntablism combined with his lyrical stand-up narrative. Despite the group's schedule of interviews, practises and touring, Homage simultaneously hosted open mics monthly in various Calgarian cafes, with qualitative success.

Following the band's second album, Homage went on to then work with a company called Original Medicine. It was here that he applied his interpersonal MC skills required from once hosting the intimate evening atmosphere of his open mics. His "work" involved edutaining public school students through classroom visits and assembly performances to both Junior High and High Schools.

Currently, his career still focuses as a part-time workshop instructor, teaching Hiphop culture's rhythmic and improvisational poetry, known as freestyle, to Junior High children at Bragg Creek's Youthwrite Summer Camp. His central intention, however, is still performance and recording with as many varying collaborations with different degrees of intensity, as possible.

His recently recorded debut "A Brief History of Homage" includes the flavors of Internal Affairs' Decline, as well as Moneycakes, Mantra, Details, Doctor Audio, Myoke, and his brother The Fifth.

Homage is meditation away from being a mystic. A propaganda film away from being a politician. A crucified friendship away from being ignorant, and still a Buddhist Christian seeking Islam through Hinduism. Pleasure to meet you.


Taurus (true story)

Written By: Homage

It took place in the hot Mexican afternoon light,
It was the kind of day the Earth reflected the sunshine,
Beating down upon all humans, beasts and plants alike,
My folks and I were sitting to watch a bull fight.

The three of us, a single mom with her two sons,
“Mi Madre y mi hermano…”
In a round arena racked with other yuppie tourists,
The dust settled,
Voices dropped,
And time melted…

Man versus Bull, the battle commenced, with an “uno, dos, tres,”
One of their lives would end.
“Ding Ding Ding,”
In came the man flashing a red cape,
With a quick bow, and a long face, the trumpets raised.
And sang loudly…traditional way,
It rang deep in the heart of the bull and it cried.

The howl pierced the sky, towards the light,
For though the man fought for honor,
These muscles would fight for life.

The trumpets sank,
Like the bars of its cage,
Like the limits of its restraint,
It stormed through, filled with rage.

Its eyes shot a glance at the man,
Who shot one back,
The man and the bull charged one another,
Two brothers clashed.

Sword to horn,
Blood, sweat, grunts and shallow breaths,
We watched Picasso paint a portrait of puddles,
Painted with flesh.

It reeked of death,
The three of us,
Clutching ideas of honor,
And life and the will to live,
In this Mexican persona.

Now, the matador has to strike with his sword between the horns,
And reach over the head, and behind it, to beat this giant.
Only here, can the matador aim at the bull brain,
Without a moment being wasted… For to waste it is too late.

They circled one last time, gathering all of their courage.
And squared off, amidst the clouds of dust, they fought within,
These clouds held no angels, Gods, or Goddesses,
It was “death before dishonor,” and hope was not for them…

They charged…man and bull, confronting the bare existence,
The bull faced the three of us, each of us, bear as witness.

The man plunged his sword ‘tween the horns and behind it,
I looked deep into the soul of the bull through its eyelids…

It stood brave upon the moment of death…its brain was touched,
His life plucked as was its anger; it looked to the man with love.
And like a wind, the bull soared to the limitless Sun,
Like the mirage above a fire, it danced freely and sung…

I looked back upon the body that stood dead as a rock,
It stood balanced upon the weight of the dust…then dropped.

And with it, dropped the weight of a thousand years of ruin,
For the wind of the bull I glimpsed was neither animal nor human.
It was both and was everything; it was the breath and the breather,
It was the seen and the seer; it was belief and believer…

The body dropped like strings cut from a puppet,
The body dropped and pushed the earth like a button…

Lulu F.U.B.U

Written By: Homage (unreleased)

Ya’ll know Fubu, the clothing logo, tell me you do do,
Worn by “you know who,” them cluelessly cool cats…
Ya know Fubu, F-U-B-U, the f, the b, the two u’s,
The acronym means: For Us, By Us.

But see I got a screw loose,
Like One Flew Above the Cuckoo,
When I play this corporate “who’s who?”
‘Cuz wiggers be like, “Fuck you!”
Well fuck you too,
Fubu’s a cultural hoodoo,
By Black dudes for Black people,
So take that truth or two...

This is a system where ethics get chewed through,
Where contradictions make sense like “new and improved.”
Where we worship the glory of marketing voodoo,
For who knew you could sport a Che shirt and go “guru?”

Now Fubu is owned by a Jew Jew,
Confused? You too?
I guess even Communal Corporations use and abuse,
But Fubu was likely made by sweatshop Hispanics,
The only “For us By us” brand is Gap Kids…

Chew on that.

(Verse 2)

Alright, so fuck Fubu,
Let’s move to Lemon of Lulu…
Where yoga chodas, hang loose, they got yoga shoes too!

Lem0n Lulu,
No ballerina tutus are this cute,

So what if mall-rat hotties wear it?
I see no problem here,
Do you?

Oh Lulu!
What’s your slogan?
Ah well, boo-hoo…
Something about helping the world,
By choosing clothes that are smoothe and loose,

Boy what a boo-boo, you got screwed too,
Another Fubu,
You were bought by Nike,
The “Invincible industry Zulu”…

(Concluding rant)

Where much to your contradiction, the world will not be a more comfortable place.

No, we will not engage in any tantric peace,
There will be no dog poses in any Indonesian Nike Sweatshops,
No sun salutations on Phil McKnight’s office rug…

No not even by charging that Chapters Card for a yoga mat,
Impulse shopping item.

The lotus flower is a corporate logo
And I’m a fucking armchair sociologist.

Hear me roar…

Sonnet of Darkness

Written By: Homage w/ Internal Affairs (A Brief History of Homage, 2006)

I see beauty through the tangled vines we call pain,
It’s protected me from seeing what I was too weak to gaze.
When my eyes were strained, from bright days, I needed darkness,
A spot in the shade, where objects were seen sharpest.
Even seeds in the ground are born in this,
In the warmth of the invisible these seeds will harvest with.
In darkness,
I’ve grown in the womb to search life,
In darkness,
I prepare to meet Daylight for the first time.

You are the comfort Ego can lie naked in,
And it’s a shame; I define everything in tastelessness,
I hate to flinch and you’ll be greatly missed,
But the occasion’s this: thank you but it’s fate we drift.

(Verse 2)

Twenty years ago I was born,
But we don’t celebrate birth to me,
My birthday marks the first light cast on my obscurity.
Blurry and blind, still hurried to find,
Some meaning from inside the womb, without the confusion of light.
In darkness,
The dark shades tint my insanity,
Filtering out the flame that threatens with understanding.
And I don’t want that, so who’s to say that I need it?
Any light-bulb plugged in the sun shatters to pieces.
Daylight’s the enemy from the ocean floor,
Where creatures are struck by sun beams like swords.
So in the shade I safely explore the sight of shore,
In the cloak of the unknown where all I see is my soul,
Where no one ever gets old, gets surprised or feels alone,
‘Cuz in the dark here’s no color, number or particular glow.
And from that I grow, underground where seeds are sown,
Where winds can’t blow…it’s unfortunate I must go.

(Verse 3)

One day the light crept, like water adopting shapes,
Sun filled my eyes behind the bandages upon my face.
Behind pain, beneath blame, between doubts,
And I’ve been incubated in shadows for much too long now…
Crack the shell; I feel the joy in hunger,
I’d rather burn to a crisp and witness every single color.
I’d rather open every shutter, door, window, and ear,
And meditate upon the feeling of each pore and each tear.
How I’ve learned of gratitude through inacknowedgement,
And predicted truth by winds by empty promises.
If I sense suffering, it’s a clue and I’ll follow it,
I want to roll all my pain in a ball and swallow it.

Once there was a soul who watched sunlight unravel,
With his back to the sun he studied his shadow.
Until his shadow disappeared by time of high noon,
Now he stands lonely as his own sundial of truth…


"The Lost Scriptures" by Internal Affairs (2002)
"Sweet Home Babylon" by Internal Affairs (2004)
"A Brief History of Homage" by Homage (2006)
"Monsanto on the Ego-System" by Homage (soon)