Nag Champa:
Bryant Jackson – Guitars | Dan London – Vocals/Bass | Kayo Wakiyama – Keyboards | Brian Eisart – Drums

“What’s a Nag Champa?”
“It’s an incense.”
“It’s an incident? That’s cool”.
“No I said it’s an incense”.
“Oh, I like it better as an incident.”

Bryant Jackson handed the rapper a milkshake. 3 years out of music school and here he was in New York city, hunting for a frozen cookies and cream artery clogger. Bryant had worked with Bill Cosby, Puff Daddy, Bette Midler, all the greats. He had fetched cables and coffee. He’d been shown a suitcase full of firearms. He had taken part in after hours bare-chested mixes with bloated engineers. Bryant thought about his guitar. The music in his head was sweeter than Ben and Jerry in a vat of sugar.

“What kind of music do you play?”
“Incident music.”
“Whom do you sound like?”
“We sound like us.”

Kayo Wakiyama was being attacked from both sides. Her boss was screaming at her in English. Her client was berating her in Japanese. Suddenly being bilingual seemed like a big mistake. It was late. Spooky green screen savers were transmitting their secret message. Kayo tuned out her client. She tuned out her boss. Her computer keyboard was a Baby Grand. Somewhere in the distance there was incense burning.

Nag Champa is modern psychedelic energy,
here to heat your lava lamp heart.

Dan London peered out over the 10-foot beach in Crystal River, Florida. He didn’t know what was scarier. Was it the bouncing burnt white flesh smacking a deflated volleyball like it was Daryl Hannah, or the fact that this excuse for a beach was located directly across from a nuclear reactor? He wanted to cry but he didn’t have enough money. Luckily the band he was in was about to be fired for the third and final time in 5 weeks. Dan headed off to Disney World then to Vegas. God bless America.

Imagine Eddie VanHalen meets Bob Dylan with drum loops and mushroom tea.
An incense burner sits atop a Hammond Organ. The room gets swirly.
Music and sweet smoke take to the air with focused abandon.

Brian Eisart walked into the band closet at the school where he teaches at only to find two students engaged in their own form of music. He turned the lights on them and they scattered. Brian thought about all the loans it took to be schooled enough to perform his duties as an educator. He picked up a couple broken drumsticks off the floor and noticed one had been manipulated into what could only be called a shiv. At least the kids were preparing for their future. He drove home pounding grooves on his steering wheel, the honking horns sounding like applause.

This is Nag Champa.
Relax. Inhale.
All we are offering you is something different.