#od1

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Part 1

The drive from the party was tense. You didn’t speak. He didn’t speak.

You thought the family gathering had ended badly… but now, sitting beside him in the sleek black car, you realized the storm was just beginning.

The city lights passed in streaks through the window. He was silent, cold, his fingers brushing against the gear shift, his eyes fixed on the road—but every so often, they flicked to you. Silent, assessing. Dangerous.

You shivered, half from nerves, half from remembering the way he looked at you in that black kurta—like he was claiming you in front of the entire crowd.

When the car stopped in front of the hotel, his hand gripped your wrist—not harshly, but impossibly firmly. He didn’t let go until the valet opened the door. And as you stepped inside, you felt his presence behind you like a shadow, wrapping around your body, leaving no space to hide.

The hotel room door closed. Immediately, the air shifted.

No pleasantries. No soft touches. Just pure, unrelenting intensity.

His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you toward him. Your sari was barely adjusted from the party, but his fingers tangled in the fabric almost violently.

A low, sharp breath:

“Do you understand why I said… no party?”

You tried to answer, but your voice caught. You weren’t scared—at least not yet. You were overwhelmed.

He didn’t wait for another word. His fingers ripped the pallu of your sari free, tossing it aside with a strength that left you breathless.

You gasped.

“Vlad!”

He ignored it. Instead, his gaze locked onto you, unwavering, claiming every inch of your attention.

“I don’t want the world looking at you. I don’t want anyone touching what’s mine. Do you understand?”

You nodded, though your mind was spinning. You weren’t used to this much raw, concentrated possessiveness.

He stepped closer, pressing his chest against yours. Every movement was measured, deliberate, overwhelming.

“Good. You will learn…”

He didn’t have to finish the sentence. You knew exactly what it meant: Everything in this room, tonight, was his. Every gesture, every look, every inch of your body— claimed.

The torn sari lay somewhere on the floor—forgotten, irrelevant. Your bangles clinked softly on your wrist as you backed away instinctively, but Makarov caught you by the waist, pulling you into him with the smooth dominance of a man who knew he didn’t have to raise his voice to own a room— or you.

You were standing there, breath unsteady, the cool hotel air brushing your bare skin. Every piece of jewelry you wore—gold around your throat, the delicate chain around your waist, the jhumkas brushing your neck—glowed against your warmth.

And he just stood there.

Looking.

Drinking you in like he’d been starved.

Slowly, he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, chest rising and falling with deliberate control as he stared at you from below. The kurta sleeves were rolled up, veins running along his forearms, and his eyes—sharp, searing—never left you.

Not once.

He didn’t touch you yet. Didn’t rush.

He wanted to look.

To take in the full sight of you—bare skin, warm, flushed, adorned only in the jewelry he’d insisted you keep on.

His voice was low, thick with possession:

“Stand still.”

You froze, heat crawling up your neck. His gaze traveled over you, unhurried, reverent in its own twisted way.

“This…” he murmured, fingertips brushing the gold chain on your waist, “…is how you should look. Not for them. Not for cameras. Not even for mirrors.”

His thumb grazed the jewel at your navel. You shivered.

“Only for me.”

He leaned back slightly, one hand braced on the bed behind him, studying you with something between worship and hunger.

The jewelry framed every curve. The dim hotel lights reflected off your skin. Your breath hitched every time his eyes moved.

And when he finally pulled you onto his lap, his hands sliding to your hips with slow, deliberate possession, he whispered against your ear:

“Let me see you like this. Let me remember you like this. Let me ruin every memory of you in anything else but gold.”

He wanted the sight— the full sight— of you, nothing but jewelry, under him.

And he wasn’t shy about showing exactly how much.

And even though your mind screamed resistance, your heart pounded in a rhythm you couldn’t control.

Makarov finally leaned close, voice a growl of dark amusement and devotion:

“Even in silk and gold, you belong to me… and only me.”

Fred McDowell: The farmer who emerged from the woods and made a masterpiece

I thought it might be good for newbies to Mississippi Fred McDowell –like I was when I recorded “Live in New York”– to find out about where Fred came from, recording wise. This article in the UK webzine, Far Out, lays it out pretty well. You might want to dig deeper into folklorist Alan Lomax, but more importantly, you'll get a glimpse of the ambition that drove Fred from a Mississippi farm to his well deserved worldwide acclaim. -Fred Seibert.

By Tom Taylor @tomtaylorfo Far Out Magazine   Sat 18 November 2023 22:00, UK

Some blues players can get their guitars to tell a story; Fred McDowell could get his to sing an opera akin to a southern Les Mis. “With Fred McDowell, I just love the way he articulates the notes,” fellow blues guitarist Bill Orcutt explains. “I’m hardly unique in that, but there’s just something about that that I love.” He’s not alone in that love either; everyone from Keith Richards to Bonnie Raitt have cited him as a star that they have attempted to emulate.

However, the one element nobody could ever copy was the humble backstory that brought him to the world. Long before he earned the prefix of Mississippi and became a big attraction at juke joints, got swamped backstage at folk festivals, or had his track covered by The Rolling Stones, he was just strumming away to an audience of nearby wildlife on his porch after a long day at work. Occasionally, he’d find himself in a situation where someone might toss him some loose change, but any notion of fame seemed unfamiliar.

But his skills were profound all the same, and fate would drag him towards another American numen on his travels. Alan Lomax was a roving ethnomusicologist, which is a big word for a curious fellow with a portable recording device that could capture the nation’s true folk on the move. One day, during Lomax and Shirley Collins’ great Southern Journey expedition, they rocked up in Como, Mississippi. They were intent on capturing the music at a local dance and the Young brothers’ fife and drum ensemble.

It was 1959, and McDowell was a 54-year-old wondering what his legacy would be beyond the farm he kept. So, without much fanfare and no warning, he decided to pick up his guitar, weave his way through the local woods, and rock up at Lonnie Young’s porch, where the recording was said to be taking place. Lomax and Collins lent him their ears, hit record, and old McDowell began to play.

Half a century later, if you close your eyes while listening to the masterpiece now known as The Alan Lomax Recordings, you can almost see the overalled maestro on the creaking porch ahead of you, hear the rustle of the southern breeze through the lowering tupelo trees, and smell the dancehalls buffer in the air. Of course, some of that is due to the suggestion of the cover art on the Mississippi Records pressing, but what I’m trying to convey is the dogeared sincerity that renders this authentic tape so beguiling.

Even at the time, Lomax and Collins were so flummoxed by the humility and skill of this unknown farmer that they quickly whisked their tapes off to a blues label, and in his autumn years, McDowell became an internationally renowned star, typifying what was best about the blues when the revival movement had somewhat muddied the waters — he was the new (old) find that the kids were craving.

Marusha - Love Parade 1998

01. Acen - Trip II The Moon Part 2 02. Extreme Trax - Final Fantasy 03. Beside an orange - Orange Juice (Jeyenne remix)  04. OD1 - Your House Is Mine  05. Skylab - Lunatic  06. Pink Floyd vs. Underworld - Brown Acid

Now, I've seen it all.

Sway your hips at Morgan Freeman’s Symphonic Blues Experience

TheGuantlet.ca By Hannah Caparino, January 28 2026—

Jack Singer Concert Hall had welcomed acclaimed actor, Morgan Freeman, and a number of handpicked artists to showcase the history and development of the Blues genre. Before the concert began, Freeman had discussed his connection to the genre and how the art form had changed to become a form of expression and history.

The Calgary Philharmonic was given the opportunity to perform with the best Blues musicians who learned to uphold the legacy of Blues music. Freeman’s narration begins with how the Blues had begun and how music was vital in oral storytelling over multiple generations. From the cotton fields to world stages, the Blues had been present for decades and continued to connect people across the world.

The set had begun with cricket noises with the screen glowing with lettering spelling out “Crossroads”. The six artists are Mississippi based musicians and singers that were touring included Anthony ‘Big A’ Sherrod, Lee Williams, Adrienne ‘Lady Adrena’ Ervine, Vasti Jackson, Mark Yacovone, and Kieth Johnson. Each of the artists are masters in their own right, from Sherrod and Johnson’s guitar skills, to Forrest’s bass lines and Yacovone’s magic improvisations on the keyboard, William’s drumming was an anchor for all band members to follow. Ervin was a powerful vocalist and was bold in the way she’d hold herself on stage belting out difficult notes in a beautiful manner.

The first few songs that were included were “You Gotta Move” by Fred McDowell, Son House’s “Death Letter Blues”, and “Dust My Broom” by Elmore James. These songs evoked the older and traditional sound of the Blues, with the low reverberating sounds of bass, minor chords, and the sole strums of the guitar and singing voice. The lyrics of the songs reflected the heat, the working lives, and the relationships of the folks living in Mississippi. Leaning into the traditional sound included the heavy use of the harmonica which was played by Johnson.

Freeman described the second chapter in the history of the Blues as the transition to city life and how the industry had become more mechanical, with Mississippi becoming a hub for innovation and manufacturing. The Calgary Philharmonic and the band were basked in red lighting as they sang to the song, “Cadillac Assembly Line” by Albert King. The screen depicted men working in the assembly line that provided jobs and security despite the difficult working conditions. The song had lyrics of hope and the promise that is held within the booming automotive industry.

The next stage of the Blues evolution was when Freeman had described the birth of rock and roll as the next step for the genre. Rock and roll is a genre that has exposed multiple people to the Blues, with the base chords and swinging rock and roll sound becoming more elevated. The messaging, openness, and relatability got audiences tapping their feet and shaking their heads. The band took the chance to really shine, with each musician taking a moment to show off their instrumental skills as the audience continued to take in the experience.

While the experience had showcased the history of the blues, the band had understood how the Blues continued into our modern day. The music had been imbued in pop culture, including being a heavy narrative element in the 2025 film, Sinners. “I Lied To You” was sung in the concert and the lyrics had referenced how the Blues genre was a departure from traditional folk and hymnal sound and diving into a more secular and sinful nature.

One of the biggest draws of the Blues genre is how it revealed human desire that was once repressed. Sherrod had utilized his guitar and vocal ability through the sharing of his own song, “Tried and Tried”, as his lyricism and style is a direct result of training with legends. Freeman brings the concert home as he talks about how he finds Delta home. The band ends the set with the most iconic songs with songs by Sam Cook and BB King’s “Why I Sing the Blues”. The band danced around the crowd and in between the seats in an electric manner which left the audience in awe.

One day, I asked Tom Pomposello why the Living Blues magazine in its original 1970s era was designed so poorly.

I wasn’t being snobby, I think I was just used to the slicker graphics of the vinyl LPs of rock groups or jazz labels.

“Fred,” Tom said, “it’s the blues.” 

Understood. But I was a suburban kid who was definitely not really the blues, so I redesigned Tom’s distinctly bluesy flyer for Fred McDowell’s Live in New York.

I lied.

Well, maybe that’s kind of harsh. At the time, I thought it was true.

A few years ago, I was all gung ho to put out a vinyl release of the complete recordings of Mississippi Fred McDowell: Live in New York rather than the original vinyl’s nine tracks from 1972. 

Well, I’ve come to the conclusion that’s not going to happen.

Why?! How come?! (Don’t worry, you can still hear it.) All right, you persuaded me to give you the details. (Since this post is only interesting to a small subset of an already small group of people, I’ll go into excruciating detail.

The hippie record shop

In the 1970s, Tom Pomposello and Rob Witter owned a hippie record in Huntington, Long Island, my hometown. Up until they opened Kropotkin, like many suburban towns, a music freak’s only option for albums was a local appliance store or the first big box stores in a mall 10 miles away. Tom and Rob were just like us, young folk awakened by the British Invasion, who wanted a place where like minded people didn’t have to wade through Jack Jones or 101 Strings to get to the good stuff. You know, like Grand Funk Railroad :)

I’d heard about their shop, a simple place with pegboard walls lined with LP and a counter for a cash register. (Oh, did I mention the crib with Tom’s baby son?) We became friendly, I did a terrible interview with them for my new college radio show in New York (where they completely took the piss out of me) and I stopped by regularly to shoot the shit. Over the course of time I found that, like me, Tom was an amateur musician who implied he had greater goals than playing for his friends.

Recording Fred

One day in late 1971, Tom asked if I could get recording equipment, because he was playing the Village Gaslight with Mississippi Fred McDowell, and maybe I could play the concert on my radio show. I knew this was a big deal because 1) The Village Gaslight! On MacDougal Street in Greenwich Village? This place was a big deal, “real” musicians played there, it’s not like the Blue Goose Bar in town; and 2) anyone with “Mississippi” in front of their name must be famous! You bet, I’d abscond with the radio station’s only portable tape deck, a one track (that’s monaural)  Nagra meant only for news gathering. I was sure I could get away with it, there were no riots on campus right then.

The show was recorded –it was awesome, as you can hear– I played it on my show and promptly forgot about it.

Oblivion

One day Tom was musing how he could get a record deal, the coin of the realm in our generation. I’d just read an article in Rolling Stone about the spate of independent record entrepreneurs popping up.

“Why get a deal? You should just do it yourself.”

One thing led to another, I agreed to help Tom make his first record and then he had an inspiration.

“We have a great, live, Fred McDowell recording. I’ll get permission from his manager and we’ll have our first record. It’ll sell out and we’ll be on our way.“

Sounded right to me. With Tom’s guidance, I started editing the show to a “best of” the concert and he hit up his friend, Dick Pennington, who became our third partner and co-founder. Dick financed the first (lousy) pressing, Tom suggested ‘Oblivion’ as our name, and we were off.

Tom was more than right. “Live in New York” started out, and has remained, our most popular recording (for about five minutes, Joe Lee Wilson-Oblivion OD5, gave it a run for the money). But Tom was always unhappy that both sets at the Gaslight went unheard for 25 years.

Live at the Gaslight

Oblivion basically went dark a few years later. Money woes, no real company strategy, and other priorities for Tom and me got in the way. Ironically, our last release was Tom’s solo album that started the whole thing.

In late 1998, I got a call from Tom in New York (by this time, I was an independent cartoon producer in Los Angeles) telling me he’d remastered the entire McDowell concert for release on two CDs. I was happy he’d gotten to it and waited for the release.

Tragically by the time it came out, Tom had passed away from a car accident. His friend Anton Glovsky did a beautiful job with the production, but his company Live Archive, did stick around too long, and essentially, CD went out of print.

As I played the discs, I could see what Tom was trying to accomplish. He’s put some echo on our very dry, untreated with effects, recording, hoping to make it sound a bit more modern. Personally, I hated it and vowed to remaster it with a little more finesse, improving it, but honestly, not bathing the music in unnecessary “improvements.”

Double disappointment

It was my fervent hope that the vinyl issue (reissue?) would be an accurate, contemporary portrayal of Fred’s last recordings, the two sets he and Tom played at the coffee house in 1971. It was exciting to think about the beauty of a gatefold double LP, with amazing art and new liner notes, an appreciation of Fred’s magic.

So, with anticipation in my mind, I reached out to Tom’s widow to recover the original mono recordings I made so I could start the mastering. For reasons that are completely a bit murky, it was clear that those tapes had been lost, or maybe destroyed.

My first thought was that I’d release Tom’s CD remasters. But the longer I sat with them and prepared them for digital streaming, the more uncomfortable I became. To my ears, one of the joys of the vinyl resurgence was the chance to reclaim ideal recording masters, to be reproduced on in a quality, analog universe. These masters, complete as they are, don’t hit that standard for me.

So, I lied. But not really. The complete shows are available for listening, so are the untreated LP masters. No vinyl, a shame. But, I’ve tried to do my best for future fans, the best Oblivion can do under the circumstance.

Enjoy Fred McDowell’s final recordings, I’m sure you will.