🎶 (UN)EXPECTED VIBRATIONS — A New Wave of Musical Prose with Reggae Soul 🎤📖
🎸🔥 When Poetry Becomes Reggae, and Silence Finds Its Sound 🔥🎸
“(Un)Expected Vibrations” – A Story Where Music, Pain, and Poetry Collide
Imagine this: a forgotten villa on a hill, a sleepless guitarist, a poet dreaming in Bach, and a barefoot visitor who hears reggae in the pauses of a poem. What starts as silence and sadness slowly transforms into rhythm, ritual — and something deeper.
This isn’t just a story. It’s a musical awakening, where Bulgarian poetry becomes a dub reggae chant, and the spaces between words speak louder than the words themselves.
Meet Stan, Stella, and Nina as they turn heartache into harmony — joined by a wild reggae crew who believe in vibrations more than genre. A single poem is reborn through rhythm. And what follows is not just a song — it’s a moment that lives in the walls.
🌀 Can reggae live in Bulgarian?
🌀 Can unspoken pain become shared rhythm?
🌀 What happens when art stops performing and starts healing?
"Now even my silence has a sound."
Read “(Un)Expected Vibrations” now.
This isn’t just a tale. It’s a sonic prayer.
A bridge made of rhythm, built from heartbreak.
Let the beat carry you there. 🌊🎶
🎧 LISTEN TO THE SONG THAT IS DESCRIBED IN THIS CHAPTER
https://shemzee.bandcamp.com/track/--225
(UN)EXPECTED VIBRATIONS
The villa sat on a hill in Hellshire Hills, facing the sea. The door was never locked. At night, you could hear the sea — louder than the wind. There was a veranda with two armchairs and a creaky floor. Stan sat in one of the chairs. The guitar rested in his lap. He wasn't playing it. He was simply holding it — the way someone holds silence when they have nothing to say, but wish they did.
Stella was asleep inside, headphones in her ears, one hand resting on her phone. She had started waking from her own dreams, so now she slept with music. Today, she had chosen Bach. She was dreaming of light.
When the light creak of footsteps on the veranda caught his attention, Stan wasn’t startled. It was Nina.
She carried a notebook and a bottle of water. Barefoot. Her hair smelled of cinnamon and sky.
“Not sleeping?” she asked softly.
Stan nodded without saying a word. The guitar still lay in his lap — just as silent.
“You know... I read one of Stella’s poems. Your girl`s stuff. It’s not just poetry. It’s rhythm, breath, dream. Dub isn’t enough. This is reggae, Stan. Those ‘not’s... they’re backbeats.”
Stan raised an eyebrow. His eyes showed curiosity — and doubt:
“Uh, remind me which one. She doesn’t share her poetry that much.”
Nina sat in the other chair, opened the notebook, and began reading aloud, tapping a quiet beat with her hand:
“Listen:
(un)fulfilled meetings / pause
midnight promises / pause
(un)shed tears / pause
afternoon / pause / swallowed”
“This isn’t just poetry,” she continued. “These are the pauses of life. And each pause is like a moment of silence in the beat. Just enough to catch your breath. That’s what reggae is — placing pain between the beats. Letting it hang, letting it breathe. And the ‘un’s... they create the pulse.”
“That’s her sadness,” Stan said. “And sadness is quiet.”
“Then give it rhythm, so others can hear it.”
Stan didn’t answer right away. Then he nodded lightly. He looked intrigued.
“Actually... can reggae be in BG? And free verse, too?” he asked with a smile.
“Beautiful question. And an even better starting point. Let’s call this piece ‘Unfulfilled Meetings,’ since it has no title. This isn’t just some little poem — it’s rhythm-woven poetry, and that’s exactly what makes it right for reggae, regardless of the language. Let’s first look at the poem itself, and then we’ll talk about reggae in Bulgarian as a concept.”
“I’m listening,” Stan leaned back comfortably.
“Stella’s poetry uses enjambments.”
“Uses what?!”
“Lines that spill into the next. I’m a linguist, by the way — I never told you, but I am.”
“Go on.”
“The repetition of ‘(un)’ creates a pulse, like reggae’s off-beat strikes, pauses, accents. There’s deep emotional weight: (un)fulfilled, (un)shed, (un)planned, (un)read — each word is like an unfinished note, which reggae loves.”
“Wow... I never thought of that. So there’s music inside…”
“Well, reggae is all about rhythmic delay, heavy bass, choppy ‘skank’ guitar, and room for the vocals.”
“Let me read it again.” Stan now looked seriously at the poem.
“This text is perfect for spoken word or dub reggae recital. The repetitions — like ‘li li li, nali li li li’ — are mantra-like. A common technique in roots reggae.”
“Okay, but where’s the connection with reggae themes — Rasta, spliffs and all that?”
“Even though it seems intimate and personal, the theme is actually universal: separation, memory, solitude, seeking — all of these resonate with the spirit of reggae, especially its spiritual and philosophical layers.”
“So you’re telling me I should do BG /Bulgarian/ reggae?”
“Yes. In Bulgarian — with its rhythm and rich metaphors — reggae can sound very different, yet just as authentic, especially when it speaks from pain or longing.” Nina couldn’t help herself.
“There’s just one thing left...”
“What?”
“Stella has to agree...”
“Agree to what?” asked Stella, who had woken up and appeared at the door with a cigarette in hand.
“To let us turn that amazing text into a song. A reggae song,” said Nina.
“What text?” Stella didn’t understand.
“The one about unfulfilled meetings, midnight promises…” Stan clarified.
“Reggae? Why reggae?” Stella lit her cigarette and sat next to Stan, who placed the ashtray between them and lit one for himself.
“Reggae isn’t just a music genre,” Nina began. “It’s a form of expression, a spiritual and social stance. Like jazz, hip-hop, or blues, reggae can be translated into a local culture without losing its soul. In Bulgarian, with its own rhythm and deep metaphor, reggae can sound different — but equally true, especially when it speaks from longing or pain.”
“And you think that text is... suitable?”
“‘Unfulfilled Meetings’ isn’t just fit to be a reggae song — it already is one. Its pauses, repetitions, lyrics, and breath make it naturally adaptable to reggae’s rhythm. Stan?”
“I could try, if you’re okay with it,” he said, looking at Stella.
“Oh… you know I’m not big on…”
“It won’t be much. Just two chords. And if you don’t like it — we forget it ever happened.”
“Wow!” Nina exclaimed. “Is it really possible — all those words on just two chords?”
“If we get a ‘yes’ from Stella — everything’s possible.”
Stella blushed. But nodded.
“Yes.”
That same evening, just after the silver of the sea had settled into the eye of the sunset, Nina picked up the phone and called Coxi. Less than an hour later, a colorful van crawled up the dark road toward the villa, like a shadow choosing its own direction. Four figures stepped out — John with drumsticks in hand and a hair tie around his wrist, Ben — broad and silent like his bass, Izzy — holding a saxophone in one hand and a spliff in the other. Last came Coxi, wearing a striped sweater and lips always slightly parted, as if ready to drop something witty.
Coxi opened his arms like the whole sky was his friend:
“Stan, my brother! Ready to make a riddim even Jah himself would put on repeat?”
Stan smiled and nodded as Coxi gestured toward the musicians behind him.
“Meet my yard crew — real reggae soldiers, crafting music that heals!”
He pointed first to the tall, slightly hunched man with dreads and a contemplative gaze:
“This is John — a drummie, but not just any. He doesn’t play, brother — he talks to the spirits through the snare. He strikes like he’s rearranging time itself. Always inna di pocket. Never misses.”
Then to the shorter, stockier guy with glasses and the widest smile in the room:
“Ben — the bassie, our heartbeat. His bass isn’t sound — it’s vibration. Boom-dum-pah! You feel it before you hear it. A riddim keeper — he won’t stray left or right.”
Next was a slender young man with a golden sax and an easy stride:
“And this is Izzy — keysman and hornsman in one. He touches a key — you get breeze. He blows the sax — brother, it’s like the moon is crying. Him bring di gold dust, ya feel me?”
Stan watched with interest. Coxi kept going:
“And now…” — a slight bow — “…I’m your wizard, Coxi — dub chemist. I work with echo, with silence, and that strange mist between two beats. I don’t mix music, brother — I mix feelings. This won’t be a song. This will be a vibration fi di soul.”
“Whoa,” said Stan, looking at his guitar. “Let’s start before the magic fades.”
“The magic won’t fade, brother,” said Coxi. “Because we carry it with us.”
The villa breathed rhythmically — with the ceiling beams, with the floor that creaked and trembled in reggae tempo, with the sweet sip of silence in the skank pause between two chords. The recording gear, brought in by the van, was set up. Microphones arranged. Cables connected. There was something sacred in what was about to happen.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Coxi declared as he adjusted effects, “this will be reggae from the future. Stan, can you give us a dubby line, something light, ghostly?”
Stan only nodded. This was his world. For him, playing wasn’t an escape or performance. It was a way to remain.
He plugged in the guitar. Echo, reverb, stretched time. The riff was simple, almost naive, but it breathed — like a child who’s just learned not to cry.
He struck a skank rhythm — two chords, as promised: G minor and B minor. Ben followed — thick, warm bass, like a hand reaching through the dark. John added hi-hat and snare — absentmindedly, like tropical rain on a tin roof. Izzy blew the sax — a sound like golden dust thrown into the pitch black night. And Coxi… waited. His Fender spoke just before the first chorus — two laid-back bars, slick like an old lion’s grin.
Stan stood before the mic. His voice didn’t sing — it whispered. Every “un” pulsed:
(un)fulfilled meetings – skank!
midnight promises – baaass
(un)shed tears – paaauw
afternoon – pause – swal-LOWED...
Then he added a backing vocal. A line that made breath catch:
“Are the green eyes
so deep that
we could swim an ocean
that divides us
li-li-li-li, nali-nali…”
The song grew. From sound — to flesh. From pain — to sharing. This wasn’t just a recording. It was a shared ritual.
When everything fell silent, the music stayed in the walls. Not as sound, but as vibration, as something fused with the atmosphere of the house. It lingered in the boards of the veranda, in the air between people, in the sea that slowly resumed its rhythm — the night, the waves, everything ever whispered.
They stepped outside — not as musicians anymore, but as witnesses. Not of a recording, but of something that had happened between worlds. Of faith, turned into form.
Stella sat beside Stan. She looked at him — and through him. Her eyes were moist, but not from sadness. More like realization. Recognition of something long carried, finally seen.
“Now even my silence has a sound,” she whispered. Her voice was gentle, almost childlike, but weary — as if worn from many nights where words had been locked away.
Stan turned to Nina. His eyes weren’t asking for approval — but truth. Like someone who had given a piece of themselves and was now asking — not “did you like it?” but “did it matter?”
“I think we made something real. Right?”
Nina looked at him for a long time, silently. Her smile wasn’t wide — it was careful, quiet, just like the music still echoing between them.
“Yes,” she replied. “Because her pain was real. And from it, a rhythm grew. And that rhythm is a bridge.”
She paused. Then added:
“People often think reggae is an island. That it’s only Jamaica, only patois, only spliffs and lions. But really, reggae is a river. It starts in the heart of struggle, but it finds its way to every shore. Because what it speaks is not just Jamaican — it’s human. Pain, longing, prayer, the unspoken — all of it speaks every language. And the most sacred thing — the pause, the silence between beats — is universal. It is, as Marley said, ‘truth is an offence, but not a sin.’ Truth may hurt — but it’s not a crime.”
Stella listened, wondering if she had truly written those words. “(Un)fulfilled meetings…” — how had they become more than a poem? When she wrote them, she was searching for salvation. Now, they had become a song. Her inner noise had found a pulse.
“I didn’t think this text was worth anything,” she whispered. “I’ve hidden it, rewritten it so many times. And it always sounded... empty.”
“Because it was alone,” Nina answered. “But now it has a sound. A warm, coastal Caribbean sound. And others will hear it. Even if they don’t understand every word — they’ll feel the rhythm. That’s reggae’s power. It doesn’t translate meaning — it feels it.”
Stan leaned forward and lit a cigarette. On the other side of the veranda, Ben and John were slowly packing up. Izzy stood still, staring at the moon. Coxi was adjusting something on his laptop, his fingers moving slowly, as if repeating the beat to himself.
The sea breathed. The night thickened.
“People think they need to shout to be heard,” Stan said. “But maybe the strongest thing is what’s whispered in faith.”
“Exactly,” Nina nodded. “That’s why reggae is a universal language. It speaks from the edges of the broken — and builds bridges. It’s not a local phenomenon, but a global echo. And this song… this song now lives.”
Stella closed her eyes. She was listening. Not to the sea. Not the guitar. But to her own text — no longer hers. Now belonging to something greater.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “I don’t know who exactly. To all of you... But thank you.”
And they all fell silent. The kind of silence kept when a prayer has been spoken.
TO BE CONTINUED...
PS The original poem and the artwork of this story were created by NS and used with her exclusive permission
ENGLISH TRANSLATION OF THE POEM
(Un)fulfilled Meetings
mid(night) promises
(un)shed tears
afternoon / swal(LOWED)
(un)shared longing
spring-summer haze
(un)healed wounds
bitten by lone(thoughts)
(un)full moon
brief insomnias
(un)read letters
post(poned) words
(un)planned goodbyes
blind (Searching)
(un)walked paths
fill
the Past
Are the green eyes
so deep that
we could swim
an ocean that divides us
that divides us
ORIGINAL BULGARIAN LYRICS
(не)дочакани срещи
полУнощно обещани
(не)изплакани сълзи
следобедно преглЪтнати
(не)споделен копнеж
пролетно-Летен
(не)зараснали рани
прехапани от единоМислие
(не)пълнолуние
кратки безсЪници
(не)прочетени писма
отСрочени думи
(не)планирани раздели
сляпо Търсене
(не)извървяни пътеки
запълват
Миналото
Дали зелените очи
са толкова дълбоки че
да преплуваме
един океан който ни дели
който ни дели ли ли ли
нали ли ли ли
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