Ren mag zwar bereits über 82.000 Facebook-Likes und mehrere Millionen YouTube-Streams vorweisen können, ich allerdings bin dieser Tage erst durch den Vorschlagsalgorithmus von zweiterer Plattform auf den jungen Künstler aus dem englischen Brighton gestoßen. Und zitiere denn gleich mal galant die Selbstbeschreibung auf Facebook:
„Sänger, Songschreiber, Produzent, Rapper, Multiinstrumentalist. Musik ist Rens Liebe. Als er noch ein Teenager war, erkrankte Ren an einer mysteriösen Krankheit, die ihm fünf Jahre seines Lebens kostete und ihm seinen Traum nahm. Nachdem bei ihm schließlich Borreliose diagnostiziert wurde, unterzog er sich einer Stammzelltransplantation, die ihn in die Welt der Lebenden zurückbrachte. In einer Zeit, in der er jahrelang in seinem Schlafzimmer feststeckte, wandte sich Ren dem Schreiben und Produzieren zu, was ihm nach seinen Worten ‚das Leben rettete‘. Er schrieb viel über Krankheit, Isolation und Depression, und seine Worte, verbunden mit markantem Gesang und einem einzigartigen Musikstil, fanden bei vielen Menschen auf der ganzen Welt großen Anklang. Seine schnell wachsende treue Fangemeinde spornte Ren dazu an, nicht nur seine rohe und echte Musik weiter zu verbreiten, sondern auch seine eigenen visuellen Inhalte zu konzipieren und mit Hilfe seines besten Freundes und einer Kamera zu inszenieren.“
Hat man erst einmal ein klein wenig Luft aus der Pathos-Blase gelassen, dann findet man unterm Strich einen recht talentierten jungen Musiker, der vor allem auf seiner im vergangenen Jahr erschienenen EP „The Tale of Jenny & Screech
„It was a quiet, dark night on an empty street
Somewhere in London City
Jenny walked alone, she was dragging her feet
She was heading back home to sleep
Well, she knew this town, she knew this floor
Because she’d walked it about a thousand times before
She wanted to escape, can you blame?
Well on the very same night, in a different place
There walked a hooded young youth by the name of James
He was 14 years old and out of his brain
He’d been smoking ganja with the boys
James, he grew up to be a kid of the street
His mates called him Screech, he was quick on his feet
He was a liar, a thief at fourteen years old
The devil had set his sights on his soul
As Jenny walked home all alone, she felt scared
Usually she was alright
But it was like there was something in the air
A divine intervention telling her to beware?
Or maybe intuition bugging her and making her so scared?
Sirens sound in the distance to the beat of Jenny’s feet
A symphony of the night that echoes crime on London’s streets
Jenny turns a corner, their eyes, they meet
Our poor girl Jenny and a boy named Screech
‚Give me all your money bitch, give it to me
If you co-operate, then you’ll soon be free
I want your purse, your phone
Don’t fucking look at me
I mean it bitch, are you listening to me?‘
Jenny freezes, statue like, a lady shaped stalagmite
Fear like liquid nitrogen in the dark night
She tried to find strength to move
But stayed as still as a statue in high heeled shoes
‚What the hell you playing at? You playing games with me?
I swear to fucking god, I’ll slice the rosy off your cheeks
You think I don’t mean it girl? You don’t know me
The last thing you see will be a boy called-‚
Screech reached for the sheath of the blade with the teeth
That could bite through steel and slice concrete
And he swung possessed, with the devil in his chest
And the statue she was turned to, butter in a breath
It was a quiet dark night on an empty street
Somewhere in London city
Jenny laid still on the cold concrete
She’s found somewhere to sleep
Well, she knew this town, she knew this floor
Because she’d walked it about a thousand times before
I guess that she escaped, it’s such a shame“
„A story, it starts
Right at the end of the life of poor Jenny
Clocked out like Big Ben
This Screech, dear boy, where did he go
He melted into the black night, just like snow
*Knocking on wooden door*
Patrick, man, let me in, please open the door
I think I fucked up, Patrick, really fucked up, man, I’m not sure
I got crazy, left a lady laying still on the floor
I think I killed her, Patrick, come on man, I can’t knock no more
But Screech kept on knocking, ‚till his knuckles became sore
But there’s no sign of Patrick, down at number 54
No refuge for our villain, for the bitter hands of faith
Have something far more sinister in mind, that does await
*Phone ringing*
[Spoken: Woman & Screech]
Hello?
Hi babe, you in?
Nah, nothing really, I’m just a bit tired
Listen, can I swing around yours for a few minutes?
I just really miss you, babe
What the fuck you mean you’re busy?
You fucking bitch, for fucks sake
Sirens sound approaching like a Banshee in the night
The shrill cry of justice cutting like the sharpest knife
But Screech was never one to run, not one to miss a fight
One hand upon his blade, he turned to face the blue light
Come on then, you fucking cunts, lets fucking have you then
I am Screech, I’m the boss here, I’m the ender of man
You think that uniform you’re wearing means that you own these streets
Well these are my fucking streets and they call me fucking Screech
Richard was an officer, who stood at 6 foot 3
Working London on the night shift, what he didn’t think he’d see
Was a boy running at him, like an animal possessed
With no time to hesitate, he fired four bullets at Screech’s chest
A story it ends, right at the start
Young Screech and poor Jenny, lying one street apart
An officer shaken, by the boy that he claimed
Two body’s lay lifeless, and it’s such a shame
It’s such a shame“
Rock and Roll.
ANEWFRIEND 