Saturday, August 6, 2016

DEAD CENTRE EP OUT NOW!



"Vital" — Guardian Australia
"FOUR STARS" — Sydney Morning Herald
"A damn fine piece of music" — The AU Review

Featuring: Kate Miller-Heidke, Lior, L-FRESH the LION, Hau, Mataya.


Available now worldwide!

Itunes: apple.co/2aBSvMI

Spotify: spoti.fi/2az9m25

CDs/merch: http://www.omarmusa.com.au

Monday, July 11, 2016

AUSTRALIAN TOUR ANNOUNCEMENT!

In Aug/Sept, your scallywaggerous ole mate Omar will be joining the legend L-FRESH the LION's "BECOME" TOUR 2016, alongside spoken word burner Sukhjit of Australia's Got Talent fame. Can't wait to perform new stuff off the DEAD CENTRE EP!! Get tix quickly cos my spidey senses tell me these are gonna sell out. (NOTE: Me & Sukhjit won't be at the Adelaide, Gold Coast & Darwin shows)

Fri 26th August - PERTH // Get tix: http://bit.ly/29rt6ld
Sat 27th August - FREMANTLE // Get tix: http://bit.ly/29GDf2E
Thurs 1st Sept - BALLARAT // Get tix: http://bit.ly/29xTefU
Fri 2nd Sept - MELBOURNE // Get tix: http://bit.ly/29H6HSI
Sat 3rd Sept - GEELONG // Get tix: http://bit.ly/29NuMKK
Thurs 8th Sept - NEWCASTLE // Get tix: http://bit.ly/29xTkUK
Fri 9th Sept - CANBERRA // Get tix: http://bit.ly/29tDBDT
Sat 10th Sept - SYDNEY // Get tix: http://bit.ly/29qfGKI
Fri 16th Sept - BYRON BAY // Get tix: http://bit.ly/29rsn40
Sat 17th Sept - BRISBANE // Get tix: http://bit.ly/29Bp0Kl

Thursday, July 7, 2016

OMAR MUSA JOINS BIG VILLAGE

Excited to announce that I just signed with Sydney record label Big Village Records & will release my EP "DEAD CENTRE" on AUGUST 5th! Stoked to be joining the BV family - we go way back & I have mucho respect for what they do & they're about. 
"DEAD CENTRE" features Kate Miller-Heidke, Lior, L-FRESH the Lion, Hau & Mataya. All production by Joelistics & Poncho (Thundamentals). It's my response to these mad times, a journey of sounds & stories & I can't wait to share it with you. Keep your eyes peeled like an emperor's grapes! 
- OBM

Saturday, June 4, 2016

RIP The Greatest


Inna lilahi wa inna ilahi wa raji’un
Once, when I was a child, I got teased by another kid because I had brown skin. The kid told me my skin was the same colour as shit. I went home in tears, and for the only time in my life, I said to my parents that I wished I wasn’t brown. My father sat me down and told me to be proud of my skin and of being Muslim, even if other people put you down for it. I don’t know if it was connected, but soon afterwards he began to show me tapes of a charismatic, handsome black boxer from America, a proto-rapper who spat rhymes and cracked jokes, who drove a pink Cadillac, who stood up for his people and his convictions, all the while dancing on the canvas like no-one before and no-one to come. And he was Muslim, like us, and proud of it! And a poet! And he had even fought in Malaysia once!
I went to the Queanbeyan library and photocopied pictures of him to stick them in my school diary and on my wall. I could never be a boxer, but I could have that unfuckwithable attitude. Ali taught me to be brave, to stand up for myself, to fight for the underdog, and that even if society was against you, your conviction for what was right would be vindicated by history. That my brown skin was not the colour of shit — it shone brighter than gold. He taught me to be PROUD. It was this man who led me to studying Malcolm X and the Civil Rights Movement in my teens, and in turn to Public Enemy and Ice Cube and hip hop music. I owe so much of my life, my confidence, my personality, to him. Could he have ever known that he would have such an impact on a confused, spectacled half-Asian, half-white kid on the other side of the world? Who knows, but probably, because he affected so many of us around the planet, from Kuala Lumpur to Kinshasa. 
I’m not even sure I believe in the concept of a “hero”, but if there was ever a hero in my life, it was Muhammad Ali. But all heroes are human. There were times when I read about the way Ali had treated Joe Frazier, taunting him with a cruelty that went past banter, and I didn’t like him. He could be a flawed human, like the rest of us, but most of the time he seemed superhuman, a radiant being who stood for more than just himself.
Even though it has been a long time coming, I am devastated. I did not cry when MJ or Prince died, but today I wept for the public figure that looms largest over my childhood, my life. I feel like I have lost a family member. Sadly, I never met him. I can’t tell you how many times I wished, that by some trick of fate, I could have. Maybe it’s presumptuous of me to say, but I doubt he would want us to mourn. Apparently, even in ill-health, he never wanted anyone to feel sorry for him, and he knew that he had lived a hell of a life.


On my 18th birthday, my mate Brendan gave me a book of Muhammad Ali quotes and marked a specific page. Apparently, Ali’s favourite story to tell his kids at bedtime was about a slave called Omar. The essence of the story was that even though Omar was a slave, he always had the heart of a king. In the way Ali acted and connected with people, especially poor and downtrodden people, he showed that he also lived by this attitude — seeing the royalty in everyone, no matter who they were.
A fighter, a father, a contradiction, a trash talker, a poet, a leader, a man of faith. The Champ, The Louisville Lip, The Greatest. In life, he danced and danced on ‘em. He will dance on in our memories.
RIP Muhammad Ali.

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

unfinished

for Xulhaz Mannan. RIP.

In January, I wandered the banks of the Buriganga in Old Dhaka with an outspoken Bangladeshi friend. The water was black & foul & black, yet somehow, still full of life — boatmen, diving birds & concentric ripples where fishing line drops into the murk. My friend told me that atheist bloggers & academics were being hacked to death in Bangladesh. “That’s tragic,” I said lamely. Looking out over the water, to where a ship was being slowly dismantled, he said, “you have no idea.” You have no idea — a simple, common, off-handed phrase. He was right, of course. No idea about the country I was visiting for only four days, no idea about concentric circles inscribed in blood, and today, no idea how another young, beautiful person could be taken so brutally, so needlessly. A young, beautiful person like so many others I met there, hurling poetry against the silence. I tried to write to another friend in Dhaka after I read the news: Sorry, this page is unavailable. The link you followed may be broken, or the page may have been removed…

The eye protects itself by closing the lid.

I closed the tab about Xulhaz Mannan & saw an email from my mother. In it, she said, “this morning I saw two crows feasting on the body of a lovely pink & green parrot.”

Driving back from Old Dhaka that day, through the infamous traffic, & my friend & I were silent. The traffic was a maestro, conducting songs in the key of road rage, turning time into an accordion, where a ten minute journey stretches into an hour then suddenly collapses again. In those unfinished streets, I saw a woman pulling aside her veil to spit, a bearded man grinning into a mobile phone, a boy listening to music on the back of a trishaw, & finally, running through the gridlock, a boy holding onto a cluster of multicoloured balloons, the strings so taut it was like they were going to lift him off the ground & carry him to heaven.

Metaphors are metaphors, life is life, blood is silence. Metaphors seem futile in times like this. Perhaps because it feels as if they’re all we have.

This world is too much, sometimes. Or maybe far too little.