The slow rolling hip-hop beats he uses as anchors can hardly hold the enigmatic Beston himself. A one-man band of grandiose proportions, he plays six instruments and still finds time to harmonize with his own vocals. Blues, hip-hop, Calypso, Folk-Rock…nothing can escape the tentacles of this musical octopus, who fuses styles with the confidence of a practiced musician.

       With the release of his debut, “Chrysalis,” Beston Barnett, who lives in San Diego, has effectively combined his Nashville roots with his love of rap to produce an invigorating musical concept all his own. The irony is how the seeds of his artistic leanings were planted in the country-music capital way back when. “I spent most of my childhood listening only to black music, (while) some of my friends got really into Bob Dylan, or delved into classical music. Only later did we all kind of come together in a love for classic songwriting,” he says, before reeling off a litany of legendary tunesmiths like Leadbelly, Hank Williams, Bob Marley, Gram Parsons, Joni Mitchell, Paul Simon and the Motown team Holland-Dozier-Holland.

They got a word for this: metamorphosis. This mediocrity, just chrysalis.

And like Solomon spake to the butterfly,

My sky-high pie’s just not passing me by.

And what for? One more. What for? I ain’t sure.

I guess I’m tapping on the wrapping, tappy-tap tapping,

Testing out my shit-kicker blue suede shoes,

The big B’s coming back with the brand news

To say, “I’m sorry, Charlie,” and the wings bust through

Up in neon lights, electric blue,

Saying watch the new kid, goody two-shoes,

Blazing up across the night like a fuse…

I can be your black cat.

I can criss-cross your path.

I can meow in the moonlight.

I can keep you up all night.

I can be your supermarket door and open wide for you.

Do what friends do: stick by you like glue.

I’ll call K-ACE and dedicate you a tune.

If it’s a helping hand you need, I’ve got two.

In my head, I’ve got a picture of you

Like a ghost ship rising from the ocean blue

On a cruise to a more southern latitude:

Wide sails, warm nights, white stars, full moon, singing…

I just let myself go.

I just let myself go.

I just let myself go.

I just let it go, so hear we go, let it flow,

‘Cause it’s a night like no other, I told my mother,

This girl treated me so right I’m just holding tight

To the idea that she wants date number two with yours true.

And if dates three and four ensue, I’ll be floored.

Score or no score, I want more.

Get me on the dance floor, I’ll spin you, skin you,

Maybe win you a trip to the Tropics

On a non-stop disco rocket.

But tonight with all the candlelight and stars,

How about we take down your brother’s old guitar,

And I’m gonna sing you a song, babe,

I’m gonna sing you a song, and it goes…

The moon is laying us down, babe.

The moon is laying us down.

I don’t think I can get to my feet

With the moon so big and round.

Let’s start by listing gifts that you have given me:

A pair of hazel blue eyes to lose myself in;

A mental picture of the world full of promise;

A key to new frontiers within myself.

And if that ain’t wealth then fuck it,

I’ll forego the ducats, roll over, kick the bucket.

Take this phony life and just huck it.

You just show me the system: I’ll buck it.

Got to suck it up, all these doubts of mine,

‘Cause the prize in your eyes, it can’t be lying,

And the truth is crying out just to take us higher.

Your love to me: air, water, earth, and fire…

I got love in the palm trees.

I got love in the palm trees.

Like a tropical ocean breeze,

This crazy palm tree love.

If you want to take it higher, let’s take it higher.

I can’t stand pussyfooting or formal attire.

If the candle’s caught flame, I’m gonna feed your fire.

Skip the dirty dishes, let’s rock.

       “Many times through history have the losers attempted to rationalize their lot. There are memoirs a-plenty blaming everything from vicious gods, to conniving prime ministers, to city hall interns with poor tickers. Of course, such rationalization is clearly pointless…for the winners have already won. Their deeds will be remembered long after the whines of the vanquished have suffocated under the weight of history.”

Paper dragons, paper dragons,

Paper dragons, paper dragons…

At age five I was an eager little reptile.

Pass the pile of crayolas and I’d whip up Arabian nights,

Or a kite with twenty strings in a Cubist style,

Or a tile of Spanish kings, whatever.

I could draw anything.

And from Memphis to Johnson City my praises one day they would sing.

I knew this.

I knew like Brutus knew to do trusting Caesar on the Ides of March.

That’s foreshadowing, that stab in the back shit, but I’ll get to this.

You see, my specialty in artistry was drawing dragons.

These clawing, ragged, hellish demons left adults white.

Knock your knees but you can’t hide from these.

So lock your doors up tight.

By and by, I and I’ll rise and rise,

And gonna spread my black wings and fly.

It all started with this contest.

The best dragon drawer in the state would shake the gubernatorial hand.

Cute picture, find it in the morning paper.

Man, that bland nostalgic vapor makes me sick.

Whatever, I got my career to think of, you know.

Five years old, I’m chasing carrots on the stick.

Call off your spies, art never lies.

You can throw what you know, but I’m gonna keep my eyes on the prize.

Visualize me and my best friend Jonny D

Up ’til three, pencils scribbling madly.

I had in mind something to freeze them in their tracks.

My dragon’d smack ’em back to Anglo-Saxon clarion calls

When halls of treasure harbored monsters that could fuck shit up.

So hide your holy cup behind the castle walls.

By and by, I and I’ll rise and rise,

And gonna spread my black wings and fly…

My best guess for what went wrong goes something like this:

Some poor sap down at city hall would sit in judgement,

Tasked to sort the drudge meant for the trash from those with promise;

Ten thousand children’s dragon dreams stacked in reams.

It seems not a job for Clark Kent alone, one would think.

He takes a drink and midnight oils it ’til the morning’s wink.

Turns the page to find Beston B’s from Nashville, T.

Jump the fuck back from that shit, Jesus!

Should have warned him about that, huh?

An icy fang bared scared the pants off his trembling thighs.

Tries to sleep, but in his dreams demons fly,

Tie him down and with a claw pull him inside out.

And who can doubt the fear that led the flame to my dragon’s door:

I’m sure he flicked his Bic and sent my picture up in smoke.

And so turned and picked the winner randomly,

And glory be, the next Tennessean’s picture’s Jonny D’s.

Promised myself one day I’d right this wrong:

Put pencil to paper and I wrote this song.

By and by, I and I’ll darken the sky

With my spread black wings and fly…

The Beaming Boy met the Lily of the Lake

Down in the Land of the Smoking Mirror,

And though Joy himself cut their cake,

This Love was not to be…

Miss Red, White, and Blue turned green when she heard.

The Feathered Snake too went wild.

Boy and Lily’s love turned to labor:

The daughter she bore him was Destiny’s Child.

Destiny grew in Purgatory,

Far from the arms of the Beamish Boy.

Lily found that Rhyme had left Reason,

Transformed herself to a Teething Toy.

Destiny turned sadness to seeing,

Inside herself saw the world’s Dark Star.

Un-Rose-Colored Glasses could never stand leaving

Things the way that they are…

The Horse-Hair Girl found the Lonely Tower

Dancing through town with Joker’s Wild,

And though Joy himself would flower,

This Love was not to be…

The Tower stood up taller and taller

‘Til Girl let her Horse-Hair down.

Packed her bags and ran like Rapunzel;

The child she had was the Prodigal Son.

Back in Music City,

Out on the porch with Dair-ee Lemonade,

Afraid she had a wayward child,

But the Son fell in with the Nash Brigade.

Prodigal fingers spun straw into gold:

Just another heavy stone to carry.

And like his father, seldom showed

And chose to walk alone…

When Destiny’s Child met the Prodigal Son,

A cool wind swept across San Fran Bay.

Wildfire, wildfire, run, fire, run!

This Love was meant to be…

The Snow Queen and the GingerBread Man

Lay down their Swords and Shields.

In one sweet day, a Fortress of Sand

Can all be washed away.

So come on, give me your hand to hold,

And we’ll march into that cold, cold river.

‘Cause for every two sad stories told,

One grows Wings of Gold…

I’m gonna steal a slice of pie from my momma,

Dig out on the front porch and just sit,

And if anxieties try creeping on me,

I’m going to bat them on the head with my guit.

I was talking with an old girlfriend

About the way good things come to strange ends,

And those ends, more like bends

In the ancestral paths of the west-ward winds,

And we’re all a pilgrim’s song

Of pilgrims gone wrong, of families writ long.

From the Ellis Island tease to the auction tragedies,

A giant sailing ship of stories.

I don’t know what she meant by that,

Sometimes the girl’s a little quirky.

I do know that the fates got stake in this date,

But won’t play monkey in the middle with me?

The ancestors track us in more ways than one;

If you wish, turn your eyes to the setting sun.

Hey, everybody can be free,

Free in poverty: the chains that bind aren’t always those you see.

And see, my grandfather’s heart was bound by chains to mine

Ever since mom had to pick me up at juvenile.

No saint with the spray paint:

This crazy old nun caught me running from her gun.

And though I know what I did wasn’t all that bad,

Grandpa’s going to be mad, yep.

I thought the old man’s heart would just give up

When my mom made me walk straight in and ‘fess up.

And that’s just how it flows, everybody knows,

We come from where we come, and we goes where we goes.

And the ghosts of our peoples watch down from the steeples

Like Obi Wan, they carry on.

Integrity’s a gift that you can’t see.

But racism is a gift that you can’t see.

Culture is a gift that you can’t see.

But misogyny’s a gift that you can’t see.

Honesty’s a gift that you can’t see.

Equality’s a gift that you can’t see.

Hate is a gift that you can’t see.

But see, love is a gift that you can’t see.

Stuffing, stuffing, scarecrow stuffing.

Stuffing, stuffing, your stuffing ain’t nothing.

Stuffing, stuffing, scarecrow stuffing.

Stuffing, stuffing, stuffing.

Jonny thinks he can hold a candle.

Jay thinks he’s got game.

Fur just ain’t been discovered yet,

He’s out singing in the pouring rain.

We all want to shake our booties on the stage,

Girls in the cage, smoke machine pumping purple haze.

Too many days of talking smack have got my tongue tired.

We’re hardwired thinking fame is where you’ve got to head.

But when I’m dead, will my worms care if I twisted fate?

All they’ll care about is what I ate.

So whip some roots in the oven for a tasty treat,

Put some gravy in my guit, and turn the heat on the beat…

Don’t cry for me Argentina.

Ain’t no way I’m forgetting my name.

Catch me shooting up stuff in the corner,

Taking A R T straight to the vein, singing,

– Look ma, I got my own slow jam –

A stack of bread and butter and the mic in my hand.

– Look ma, I got my own slow jam –

And no I will not eat your green eggs and ham.

– Look ma, I got my own slow jam –

Not from concentrate, fresh not canned.

– Look ma, I got my own slow jam –

Making fools dance like waves on the sand…

Ha, ha! Put money in the middle.

Why we always talking shit? Put money in the middle.

Put your money in the hat, I’ll slip a cork in your gat, then you’ll say:

“Listen to my nine-millimeter go POP!”

Too many days of talking smack has got my tongue tired.

I bet the blaze of fire at the tunnel’s end is crap.

This sorry sap we’re fed ain’t nutrients enough for me.

I’ll fetch some honeysuckle for my morning tea…

Hey yo, close the door – close the door –

End the bout – end the bout –

The water’s getting wetter and the gas has run out.

Read it in the paper, the Hollywood vapor

On the power-pack, missed the stack, on the way back.

The hero’s gone like dawn in the morning, and when you’re learning

On the subject, not the object, and the story’s wrecked,

Then follow me to Tennessee.

The carbon copy makes the mellow seem yellow.

But the crow says – oh –

The reel’s lost a wheel – the reel’s lost a wheel –

The reel’s lost a tire and we’re headed for the mire,

But I never tire in pursuit of the fire.

I’m the crier with the lyre

Tossing them up higher…

I think I’ve lost my shoes – lost my shoes –

I can’t find my shoes – hmmn –

Down by the free-i-ay in Cali-for-nee-i-ay

They slipped away, hey.

And I’ll never be the same.

It’s like a rainy Wednesday ’cause I can’t come out to play,

And anyway the times are weird,

No time for maybes, like we feared,

No time for strolling all around when there are nails on the ground,

And every second step is down, and the bridge is unsound,

And my nerves are unwound.

Doo-doo-doo.

I guess I’ll just swing on back – with the pack –

Keeping on trucking – with the second-line track –

And if the band starts playing off the beat,

I’ll come out stepping in my bare feet…

So many lies today, so many uncertainties.

How many times today did I say something I did not mean?

Some would say there’s no other way.

But there’s something, something that keeps me unafraid,

And that’s when I say…

I took a walk by the water, watched the sun set behind the bay,

And I can’t say for certain if it will rise another day.

But even in the darkest phase, there’s something in my heart,

To replace the sun’s sweet rays, and I got to say…

In Nashville, they have a dance

They named after a square.

In LA, they have a dance

Called the funky mealworm.

There are times when I’m so lonely,

My guitar makes me tired.

There are times when I’m so happy,

I could cartwheel down Hillsboro Road…

When my girl starts to dance,

She fills the darkening room with light.

Hold my hat for a second, boys,

I’ve got work to do.

I lived with a girl who ate fire,

And we got along real good.

And then one day we kissed,

And I found out what love really is…

Silver thorn, pretty pill,

Rotten wood on my windowsill.

Too many days, too many days.

My boat sinking under silken waves.

Honey, just let the telephone ring.

Castles of honey, golden wings.

White sand castles, silver wings.

A pocket of change’ll make your telephone ring…