Thursday, September 21, 2017


The first episode in the return of The Wastelands Radio show is coming soon. It could take a month to record, or it maybe released sooner, but I also run the Ancient Visionz site/shows when I'm not pretending to be The Waste Wanderer.

Atm I'm planning to release The Wastelands as a podcast, and live shows could be a possible option again. The show runs as a story/regular radio show both on and off air. Don't worry, I won't be reading out a whole book, just expect some skits, and 3 short story piece during each episode. For example, intro, middle, and outro, but I repeat, short kinda stuff, not whole books. I've already posted a 5 part prelude and a diy poem, which should serve as an introduction into the world of The Wastelands. 

The next installments of the story shall be narrated (poorly lol) on air, and also posted on the site. I'm mixing in the usual silly humour I've always done on any show I've hosted. We need to keep some giggles flowing.

The Wastelands is diy, I hold no budget, nor can afford professional voice actors, narrators, and so on. I've reached out to a few friends from various scenes to help, but I'm attempting to do something different that also can be interesting and fun!

In the meantime, please feel free to check the site and Ancient Visionz for the latest in what I'm doing. 



Who am I?
A shade from the past, alone and lost,
I hold deep sorrow for this world I know,
What has it become?

Placing my hand upon her face,
I hear her sing, faintly sing, 
But no one hears anymore.

I hear her song, hear the pain,
The crying, the anguish,
Her fears and tears.

She has been in pain for so long,
Sad at a world gone mad,
Yearning for what we had.

Division and elitism rule these lands,
Holding up my hands, 
Asking if there will be an end,
 To the cultural graveyards I walk.

She sings about hip hop and hc punk,
Before they became defunct,
She helps me remember.

As I inscribe this message, I ask you to pause,
Reach down, place your hands upon her face,
Listen, listen like we once did.

Feel her words, her song,
Then open your eyes,
Look at the sands.

Feel the passion, her love,
Take these words far and wide,
Out into The Wastelands.

Write the long forgotten songs,
The sacred genres, share them as reminders,

So the rhythms can return, and help others learn,
The spirits of hip hop and hc punk, her song,
I hear her song, I hear her sing.

I am The Waste Wanderer,
I have returned.



I stood transfixed, the d-beat and crust rhythms I’d been heard in the great mother’s song were also coming from the crouched woman. Her glowing white yellow eyes locked with mine, shining, but also filled with primal rage. She had long dark hair with white ethereal grey streaks. It was tied back in a platted pony tail. It looked magical and like something from a Lord of The Rings movie from days of old. Her skin was a ghostly silver. Clearly some other kind of being was peering into my soul. Humanoid, but she wasn’t human. 

She had ripped denim jeans, which were a mix of the same colour as her ghostly silver skin, but interwoven with denim blue. Punk patches covered them ranging from hc, hc punk, crust, d-beat, celtic punk, and more. I thought it was just me who displayed devotion to the ancient sacred arts. The only difference was my pant’s artistic attire also featured the lost forms of real hip hop. 

Her torso featured a sleeveless shirt with d-beat logos, which were as catching as her very eyes. Her arms were covered in bright green patterns that ran across her skin like flowing rivers.

I raised my hands slowly, keeping them held in the air, demonstrating I had no hostile intentions. I carefully walked towards the desk she was crouched upon. All the while I could hear d-beat ring through the air, it was hard to stand still, but this wasn’t the time for dancing. Stopping before her, I removed my helm and maintained eye contact. She smiled and said in a strange voice;

‘I’ve waited for you, I saw you before, before this came to be’.
‘Ok’, I answered curiously, thinking to myself, she is not from the FCC (First Culture Corporation), but who and what is she?

‘You have heard her, I serve her. You hear the song, I’m part of that song. You are from before. You know how this world should be, and why now, it is what you see’, she simply stated politely in a firm tone.

Truth be told folks, I was still in shock. Its like that feeling you get when you meet someone that has actually heard of the bands you like and listen to, and you say;

There was one method, a surefire method to help in this situation. I consulted my pocket elitist metal bible, finding the chapter on punk, I worked through the various 10 steps to find out if she was ‘true’. Check band patches, shirts, uniform, reaction to band names, and does she know what the genres are. 

After almost boring her to death with my authenticity assessment, I asked;
‘Are you her?’.
‘No, but if you look within, you know what I am. I’ve always been there, just forgotten and eroded. Eroded like the music you and I love, what we all once loved’, she responded.
‘Why are you here?’, I answered.
‘To show you something’, said the silver skinned woman. 

She smiled and pointed towards an opening behind her where a window had once been. She lept down from the desk and jumped out the opening, I heard her say;


I thought oh great, so much for thinking it was time to rest and chat about lost gems of d-beat. I paused for a moment, did she just? And, yes she had jumped without a second thought. I heard a rumbling sound come from the stair well. I turned around suddenly, looking at the door. Thick slabs of stone dropped in the doorway, followed by an impactful sound of the very stairs themselves hitting the floors below. Dust filled the air, which caused me to cough vigorously. It was time to go, so I climbed down the building. I'd developed my free running abilities to an average standard during my travels. I knew when to run and avoid falling to my doom, but there wasn't much choice, so I quickly manoeuvred down the outside of the building.  

Despite my enhancements, I reached the bottom some time after the silver skinned woman. I glanced back at the tall tower, it was still standing. I then heard a voice shout;
‘Come, come see’.

I turned around to my right, and noticed a silver glow next to a small apartment complex across the road. I walked to where the silver glow was. Arriving moments later, I could see the silver skinned woman stood at the side of the complex, and pointing at a small clearing where the moonlight was shining.   

'Do you have a name, so I can stop saying silver woman in my notes'?, I said with a dry humourous tone.
'Achillea', she said laughing. 

The answer added more to my suspicion about her. It revealed who she was and why she existed. Achillea perked my interest, but for the moment, I would entertain what she wanted me to see. It wasn’t like I was going to be at the next wine tasting conference anytime soon. We both walked to the small clearing where the moonlight shone, then Achillea said;
‘Stop, watch, and listen’.

A group of small beetles were scurrying around on the floor, then they stood upright. I looked at Achillea, she simply said;
‘Just watch and listen’.

The sounds of hc punk filled the air. They were genres that had not been heard since ancient times outside of my own audio player. I could hear remnants of nyhc, crust, d-beat, grindcore, celtic punk, hc, and more. 

Achillea said again;
‘Keep listening Wanderer’.

The beetles stopped, then danced. Achillea turned to face me and touched my heart with her hand. My body jerked and tingled as warm energies flowed and coursed through my body. I could feel the raw essence of punk, images and distant memories becoming clearer, returning to me. The experience was something much more pure than the songs I listened to on my audio device.

Achillea's words filled my mind as she said;
‘See what was, what can be again, see her anger, her pain, see the true words behind her song, listen to her’.

During that moment, I felt her hand leave my chest as I fell back to the floor. I struggled to my knees, looking at the beetles, which had vanished just like Achillea. I coughed and thought;
‘I’m definitely mad’.

My hand was on the concrete ground supporting me as I tried to rise to my feet. I was feeling nauseous, my fingers were burning hot as they felt the concrete's surface. I quickly became paralyised and rooted to the spot where I stood. The surface vibrated and energies of hc punk passed through my body again. 

I'm not sure I can accurately convey the experience, a profound day, which offered both peace and sadness. The song confirmed my private thoughts, but the words also filled me with deep sorrow. The Great Mother spoke of her torment and grief for what filler had done to her. She'd said my music, the sound waves, the vibrations from my audio device, were slowly helping the spirits of punk and hip hop return.

I realised what my mission would be, it no longer revolved around personal solace. It was time to share my music, which was also her music. It wouldn't be easy. 

I hear the Earth’s song, her song. I know why I must wander, and know where I must go. I feel the energy of hc punk, the wisdom of hip hop, just like I once did, like so many did, so long ago. They are no longer just tracks I listen to on my audio device. The sounds are within me, I hear the guitars, I hear the rhymes, I hear the songs, and I hear the beats. The rhythmic sounds of The Wastelands stir my soul, I am The Waste Wanderer.

Achillea, the silver punk, watched The Waste Wanderer from a nearby multi storey car park. Inside it contained a graveyard of scrap metal husks and faded lines indicating where drivers once parked. The stench irritated Achillea, the smell of the land sickened her, and the grim colours were often depressing, despite her fondness for dusk. 

The skies thundered, rain began lashing down fiercely on her. The water highlighted her silver skin tones. Within minutes she became drenched and soaked, but Achillea simply shrugged, keeping her attention on The Waste Wanderer. His hand left the Earth, he stood up, and jogged inside the small apartment complex.

Achillea gazed ahead into the distant horizon, noting the abandoned roadways and city tower blocks that stood waiting for the salvage gangs to visit them.

Achillea looked up at the sky and disappeared into the night.

Wednesday, September 20, 2017


Tower Blocks and Memories of Filler Factor

The air felt temperate, wild snarls came from behind me. Looking back over my shoulder, a pack of wild hounds were fighting each other. I mused to myself that they were no different than their human counterparts. There would always be someone, wanting to be top dog, and desiring the loudest snarl and bark. If you haven’t guessed, I held no palate or interest in politricks and theatrical power games.

My enhancements ensured I could deal with the hounds swiftly, but the noise from the potential exchange would be the bigger danger. I didn’t relish alerting any salvagers, gangs, or anyone else in the area, especially when I was focused on her song. I’d followed her voice to this region for a few days. I was learning how to tune into the voice, feel it flow within me. It was no longer a constant irritation in my mind, but a language I was learning to understand.

Ignoring the hounds, I moved on, closing in on the office block with the strange dancing shapes underneath, they had vanished. I wondered if my madness had returned.

In front of me were old traffic lights with vacant streets on either side, sprawling through the former metropolis.

Her song, louder than usual, called me to venture further. Stepping forward a few strides, I found myself in the middle of an intersection. The hairs sprung up on my neck, alerting me to the sensation that someone was watching me. My sensors hadn’t picked anything up, but technology can never replace an innate instinct. That gut feeling, the one you can trust, it will not lie, and is often the only true friend anyone has in this crazy world.

Her song reverberated again in my mind, the d-beat and crusty sounds. I gazed upwards at the dormant tower across from the intersection. I was certain the song emanated from the dark tower. The fourth floor window drew my attention, a figure was stood looking at me. Then, it gets weird, I didn’t feel afraid or scared, but someone was there.

Her song urged me to continue, and I did. Entering the building and traversing the stairwell to the fourth floor. It was a steady climb, but nothing challengingly exerting. I opened the door to the fourth floor, and then sighed.

A long, very long line of empty office cubicles were arranged in rows and aisles. The room probably once functioned as a race track for busy people waving paper around and shouting the latest market values. What an exciting day that must have been, huh.

I was about to search for a spot to rest, then the sensation I’d experienced outside returned.

'Man, you would think I’m partial to psychedelic narcotics, but I’d always kept my mind free from that stuff. I never wanted to be lured to another top 40 party, wake up halfway through and realise you had been socialising with a group of hipsters claiming mumble rap and kindergarten punk were the real radness', I said to myself in my mind.

My thoughts cleared, several rows ahead, a woman was crouched on top of a desk in a cubicle. She had a strange aura. Her ancient and primal radiance seemed familiar. I had a suspicion she was from before the time of filler, long before.

I thought to myself, if you are pre-filler, then you were saved from suffering through episodes of Filler Factor, Filler Idol, and Making You Believe Fillers Got Talent. Oh man, those days were harsh. A gathering of Nanas chanting;

It was usually said in response to the latest puppet stood on stage who was killing classic songs for the TV audience. They were always baying for more. Sadly, none of them knew how it was harming The Great Mother. The manufactured filler was feeding, and had no shortage of devotees, all to eager to help filler spread into the world.


I Wandered

I ran and wandered for weeks. The voice and song was always there. Slowly becoming clearer, but I was too afraid. It actually drove me crazy, really crazy. I could hear the song, but not fully understand it. I just wanted to be alone. Alone with my music. At least it was something, it was all I had. Wherever I went, the song was always there, it was always in my mind, it didn’t matter what I listened to. The song never stopped. I lost sleep and hallucinated on a regular basis.

The Wastelands is a like coin, two different sides, the sun and moon, hot and cold. A contrasting landscape that can switch between sheer tranquility and immediate peril. It can be weeks, sometimes months before you meet another soul. The silence was my close and intimate friend, but now I had another. I was still unsure if I wanted this friend. The gnawing song that spoke of legends. Am I another mad wanderer, another actor to take the stage, playing a part in a terrible penny dreadful, or starring in 10 Dollar Studio’s latest lower than low budget offering? Indeed, I was clearly mad, but in a world gone mad, what is normal anymore? The Earth I walk upon doesn’t hide the madness of human beings and their fateful folly. 

The words became clearer over time, I learned to adjust to the voice. When I did this, it became less frequent, but clearer to me. I was beginning to understand, knowing how to channel it, and listen to the words I could hear, especially when I touched the ground.

Luckily for me, the only dangers I’d encountered so far were my own ramblings, and the usual Wastelands storms, but my attributes could handle weather extremes a little easier. I’m a wanderer, this is my life, and it is what I do. 

I guess you are wondering, where are the predators and gangs? I’m experienced with hiding when necessary, and surviving. The gangs tend to stay near places they can raid. The Wastelands are a vast and never ending place. There are others out here, towns, cities, settlements, but since my escape, I preferred to live as a solitary creature. 

I had reached another ruined collection of colossal structures and streets. The urban archaic landscape stretched for miles. Ahead of me was a cathedral, its doors semi open with the wind blowing inside. Above its gigantic doors, sat two gargoyles basking in the moonlight. Their mouths crooked with the stones erosion, which made them appear to be laughing.

On my left was a former city police station, its signs barely visible. I could see dancing shadows and shapes underneath what was maybe an old office block.

I needed to be cautious, I proceeded through the empty roads and streets.


My Madness and Stinky Ted


Several weeks had passed, my tech helps keep track of time. When I think back to those events, I wonder if I’m still mad. I close my eyes and hear the song. It was one afternoon, I’d stopped next to an old ship, a freight ship. It looked as good as any place to hunker down for some rest. I made my way up the side of the freight ship, noting the rustic rails adorning the archaic walkway. Once inside the cabin, I took off my dust jacket, helm, bandanna, and removed my hoodie. The smell reeked of sweat and urine, Stinky Ted must have been here recently. He was a notable bum, even by Wastelands standards. A dirty beast with demonic arm pits that would level entire cities. His odour carried a particular fragrance. None the less, I’d endured much worse. 

I cleared a space and sat down in the corner. I moved the plastic bottles, papers, and general mess to the side. Lying against the wall, I updated my map and journal, then drifted to sleep. 

Its funny, I remember the time before all this, there maybe others like me, but I’ve met no one else since my escape. I still find that day hard to comprehend, but all I can tell you is how it happened. It was early evening and I’d stirred from my slumber. I could hear a sad, soft, and faint voice. It was singing, but barely distinguishable. I thought I was stuck in a dream of past times, ancient music locked deep in my psyche. The voice continued to sing, full of tragedy and pain. I picked up my things, thinking it must be just a deep resurfaced memory of some long lost song. You know how a song is stuck in your head, and it bugs you. Where did I hear this and where is it from?
‘Great, must be one of those days’, I said to myself.

Maybe Stinky Ted’s stench had triggered something. His delightful smell is enough to make anyone sad.

I turned on my audio device again, cranking up some Askevault. A dose of Death Crust should block out the sound, but it didn’t. The voice continued singing in the background, interfering with my crusty music. Stepping outside the freight ship’s cabin, I decided to wander once more. Attempting to zone out from the voice. I walked back down the rustic walkway, checking my surroundings, it was eerily quiet.

The water at the side of the ship was rippling, which perked my curiosity. Normally water in the wastes show nothing and are devoid of any activity, other than when the howling winds cause great waves to form and crash into each other.   

The ground gently vibrated, I said out loud;
‘Definitely no boom bap or grindcore, been a millennia since any kind of bass or fierce beats or drums were heard here’.

Pebbles and old cans rolled on the floor. The song was still present in my head.  I felt an urge to touch the floor. As my hand touched the ground, I Looked around to see if anyone was there. Not sure why I did this. There were no observers, nor anyone in the vicinity who could award me points for touching the floor. Crazy thing though, back in the day, folks created an Olympic sport out of anything, which led to the 100 metres Cell Phone Dash. The event involved people claiming they were to busy for everything and anything, whilst walking towards the finish line. Their heads were locked in a fixed position, gazing downwards at an electronic screen full of emojis and gibberish passing for language. The 100 metres Cell Phone Dash, filler culture at its finest.

Returning to the present, I recoiled, frightened and shocked. Looking around again, I placed my hand back on the floor, feeling the vibrations and melody course through my my body and mind.  

A haunting sad rhythm, a song, words speaking of all that went before, and all that has come since. I quickly scrambled my things together, and ran. I ran, ran into the night. A stupid move, but I was freaked. 

Tuesday, September 19, 2017


Tired, Alone, I Wander

The wind blew its familiar turbulent rhythm, the sands danced with each other, resuming their stage play. It was dark and the air was filled with ghoulish howls. I lowered my visor and raised my hood, keeping my head down, I walked onward. It was cold, so cold, I was a lonesome soul, alone and lost. 

Struggling to stay on my feet, I slipped and fell. My head hitting a group of rocks and rubble. Stunned and exhausted, even for my physiology and enhancements. I was just tired, I’d been tired for a long time. Tired of this world, tired of the manufactured filler culture. Tired of its corrosive plague staining the very soil that the gangs fought for.

The sand started to cover my feet, then enveloped the rest of my body, I lapsed into unconsciousness.

A day later, I awoke underneath an unclean sheet of sand. I shook the sand off my body, then crawled forward past the rubble. Lifting my visor, I coughed and placed a bandanna around my mouth. I clumsily clambered to my feet and stepped forward. 

The dawn’s light hurt my eyes, I was hit with a sudden realisation, I’m still in this world. This withered and grotesque world. All around me are the signs of the manufacturers work, they sucked the soul from nature itself. She was repulsed by the very sounds of their pop filler. It could be poor a joke, perhaps, a poor and distasteful joke, which had blackened our plants and vegetation. People back then said;
‘Oh its just shelf filler, its just filler on ITunes digital wackalogue’.

Nature herself was vomiting. Think about it. How would you react, if you had no escape from hearing the sound waves of yet another pop filler wacktastic tune, or the TV coliseum’s transmissions of clowns cheering more puppets as they destroy our musical history to inflate the bank balances and egos of the manufacturers.

I am alone. I’m the only one who remembers. I listen to my music as I wander. I thought my escape gave me the freedom to wander. But, I’m still a prisoner. A prisoner to an ancient past, which no longer exists.

In the distance, I can see another zoned city staring back at me. The walls over flowing with more filler culture seeping into the wastes. Sighing, I decided to wander in another direction. I’d had my fill of society. I just wanted to be left alone with my memories and music. It was the only light left in my miserable existence. I also didn’t want to see any more golf. Golf was one of the few things that had remained unscathed. It was still as boring and pointless as ever. No matter how much pop filler you overlay on golf, it is a hard sell. With that being said, thanks to the First Culture Corporation’s leader, Mr Will Van Golf, it had now become a serious religious practice.

Walking forward again, I resumed my path of solace. I turned up my audio device and listened to MC Therapist’s ‘Brutal For Your Ears’. Real music always was to brutal for the ‘filler’.

Monday, September 18, 2017


"I am The Waste Wanderer, her song is now my song. Soon you will know her song, The Waste Wanderer is coming."

Thursday, September 14, 2017


Warriors of The Wastelands! The Waste Wanderer wants YOU! Join me on my mission and help the sounds from The Wastelands be heard again!

If you would like to submit music, Radio IDs, or spoken word pieces that I may share during my adventures, then contact me at

The sounds that I discover and share from The Wastelands are:

Punk/HC Genres: HC, HC Punk, Crust, D-Beat, Grindcore, Celtic Punk, Straight Edge HC, Crust Grind, Metallic Crust, Fastcore/PV, Anarcho Punk, Beatdown, Metallic HC, NYHC, Stench, Crossover, Punk, Underground Punk Rock.

Metal: Punk based metal is also fine to featured such as Metal Punk, Punk Based Old School DM, Death Punk, and Death Crust.

No pop punk, I say this with no elitism, but it doesn't flow with the world of The Wastelands.

Underground Hip Hop: Real Hip Hop only such as boom bap, conscious hip hop, hc hip hop.  

Sometimes The Waste Wanderer features underground hip hop mixed into the story if it has a good hc flow or goes with atmosphere.

No mainstream hip hop, trap, or anything of that nature. It does not co-ordinate with my story.



Tuesday, September 12, 2017


Welcome to the new relaunch of The Wastelands. I'm stoked to bring back the show, which has been on hiatus for some time. The Wastelands has taken its theme and developed it much further into a full concept based radio show. The Wastelands fuses together the story of The Waste Wanderer mixed the usual regular format. Sometimes, underground hip hop is inserted into the show if it has a dark hc edge, or can match the atmosphere of The Wastelands. It is obvious where I draw my influences from with the site's appearance. My favorite video games are Fallout 3 & 4, and Mad Max Fury Road was one of the best action movies to hit theaters in recent years.

A large portion of the time, I'll be writing in character on the site as The Waste Wanderer. I'll be sharing stories and content that shall also be poorly narrated on the show (laughs). For those who do not know anything about The Wastelands Radio, it was a punk/hc show that I hosted on Brutal Existence Radio, which was an evolution from many of my former punk/metal radio shows. I felt the time was right to launch a separate site for The Wastelands to give it a distinct identity from Ancient Visionz, which is my metal site.

 The current plans are to release The Wastelands as a podcast, but I may return the show to a live basis in the future.