Përkujtues i Kartelit’: The First Chapter of the Deluxe Album

September 20, 2025 • Deny D

Përkujtues i Kartelit

The latest track I’m working on, “Përkujtues i Kartelit,” carries its own weight within the soundscape, merging naturally with the instruments that surround it. The lyrics, unshakable and deliberate, remain as part of this deluxe edition—standing beside the songs that came before. I chose not to remove the words of “Përkujtimet” from the first version of the album; instead, they found their rightful place among the rest of the writing. Now, both the original and the new material are being refined to strike with greater force. This deluxe version is no longer just an addition—it has become an irreversible part of the album’s identity, marking the beginning of my new creative chapter.

Beso Te Vetja

Why This Deluxe Version Matters

I never wanted to abandon the first album, “Beso Te Vetja,” because it carries the habits and spirit that shaped me—rooted in the rise, yet mixed with the raw magic of someone who learned outside the system. Among its tracks, the presence of foreign influences is undeniable, but that doesn’t diminish its authenticity. My pride is not in boasting, but in showing how even the smallest encouragement can spark an entire creation. Don’t be deceived—borrowing music from elsewhere may seem easy, but it can weaken the very habits that make your own sound meaningful.

Oh-la-la” began to turn sour. I thought of abandoning the album because of mistakes, false announcements, and misguided knowledge that twisted my mind. Out of frustration, I chased after rap idols, imitating their paths—even when those same rappers were being pushed out of the industry. Many of them had stumbled with copyright issues, their own creations trapped in foolishness until they broke free by chasing other genres. It felt like betrayal, like a lover once mine who wandered after others, hungry for gifts, dinners, perfumes, and empty promises. What should have been inspiration turned shameful, chasing after anything that looked glamorous. And so, rappers poured thousands of dollars into music houses, hoping to buy strength from the labels. Journalists joined in, serving the industry rather than the art. To rise above, they chained themselves tighter—paying tribute instead of defending their own creation. But what profit is there in taking the wrong path, drinking away the spirit of composition? What gain is there in following the current, just to taste the waters of another river? Shame clings not only to production but also to the lack of growth. We reached for labels as if they were bread for our hunger, and when that wasn’t enough, we tangled ourselves further with other rappers. Yet even then, satisfaction never came. The album revealed its weakness, and the song lacked support. “Beso Te Vetja” made it onto Bandcamp, its lyrics carrying strength, but even there foreign influences couldn’t be erased. At first, the album was like a naïve bird, not knowing where to fly. The labels called, and it ended up on Bandcamp—another vessel among many, without true joy, surrounded by neighbors it never chose.

This album felt like an irrevocable gift — a work that forced me to confront every genre and decide where I stand. How long will you waver between two voices? Music is the only truth I answer to; nothing else deserves that place. Rock & roll may scare some, yet it often acts as the bridge between styles — and both rock and rap keep evolving, just as other artists have before them. I am Deny D. This is my name. I will not hand my glory to anyone, nor bend my praise to trends or borrowed genres. Has a style ever traded its rhythm for something that isn’t music? My followers have sometimes traded my light for empty gain; their hearts have grown hypocritical and lost. When you scatter, someone will tear apart your charts and take your songs. He who is not with me is against me — you cannot drink from both the cup of God and the cup of demons, nor sit at the table of Roc Life Records and the table of false idols. Do not be yoked to the unheard. What fellowship has music with idols, or light with darkness? If the music is true, follow it. Do not bow to trends or serve machines. My creations — and your listening — belong to a label that asks for dedication, not compromise. If you wish to return wholeheartedly to these sounds, cast out the foreign imitations between you and the authentic. Direct your heart, free yourself from the hand of the uneducated, and recognize: music made us; we did not make ourselves. We are its artists — so when the drum calls, follow it, and speak no lesser word.

The strength of this album has been swallowed by outsiders, and at times my anger rises—I turn against it, struggling in the face of enemies. They hate, they oppress, and they run though no one chases them. For this music demands your full devotion; without it, your own compositions rebel against you, and your sounds will erase you from the industry. Listeners will be turned away, drawn to other songs, and the very act of creation will revolt against you until it disappears. There are judges who lash with constant reprimands, for these matters burn like consuming fire. Handed into the wrong hands, music itself is betrayed. Fame destroys those who cling to it; success obstructs those who rely on it. Why do I weep? Because I know the sickness of rappers: established bands are burning down their own legacy, chosen members are undoing their achievements, their futures collapse, and their promotions are devoured by advertisements. Label management is fading, the internet is rising, and indie artists are claiming the ground that was once untouchable. I know these works, and they are neither cold nor warm. If only they had the courage to be one or the other.

Creation itself stirred me, and this deluxe version awakened the spirit of re-creation. I knew I had to cast out the borrowed sounds and broken fragments of others, so that this river of music could flow pure until today. The third song will carry a new title, rising into magnification; the fourth will be shaped entirely different. One by one, I will strip away what does not belong—just as true rappers and producers have always done. Though it resisted me, the album stands to this day, carrying the weight of every curse I gave it until all false voices and imperfect echoes are gone. Now I take hold of the sacred foundations of music, its power of re-creation, and the treasure stored within my house of sound. From there I will release it onto the platforms—YouTube, Spotify, Apple Music—where every stream becomes fuel to strengthen the album. On this mountain I begin building my own label: Roc Life Records, a kingdom placed in the hands of artists themselves. But cursed are those who trust only in men, in the strength of arms, turning their hearts away from music—for they have not even heard it.

They dealt the blows; I felt them, but I did not see. I fed the deluxe album wine and slept beside it—uncertain when thought woke or slumber fell. Will I turn back, repeat the same mistake? A fool returns to his folly. I’ve battled beasts like any man—what came of it? If the dead do not rise, then create now; tomorrow comes for us all. My hair is white with gray, and I remain without understanding.

The pride of this album has testified against me. That is why the streams do not flow in abundance. But I will break its pride. I will make the sounds like a guitar and the song like a piano. The production above will become composition, and the production below will become song. I will turn it into the song of the earth. It will not be compressed. It will not be corrupted. On the contrary, the mixing will sustain it, and the mastering will guard it, that no false rain may fall on it. Who is wise enough to understand this? Who has spoken with his own mouth and shown it? Why should re-creation come to an end, burning like a desert where no one can pass? The song has cracked. There is no stream in the land. The artists are ashamed; they cover their heads. Three months before harvest, their income was withheld. I let music play in one city, but not in another. In one place, the song flowed; in another, I withheld it, and it dried up. I called drought on the song, on the sounds, on instruments, on new creation, on composition, on all the work of human hands. Still no spring rain fell. Yet they did not say: let us risk our creations. The downpour of hearing, the autumn rain, the spring rain in their season — all were withheld. For even though we keep the appointed weeks of harvest, the first part is not ashamed, for it does not know shame. Therefore, they will fall among those who fall. They will demand an account, and their feet will be taken away. Music is fair. It does not do injustice. Morning after morning, righteous decisions are given; at the dawn of each day, they are never lacking. But the unjust did not know shame. Yes — the pride of this album has testified against it. There are those whose teeth are swords and whose jaws are daggers. They devour the laborers of art and the artists of humanity. The people will see it — all of them: the labels, the television channels, the industry itself. Because of their arrogance, and the shamelessness of their hearts.

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