Get all 10 Angle releases available on Bandcamp and save 40%.
Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of Cygnus Opus, Talkin' Story, Definitive Bedtime Stories, White Andy, Angleoneous, Lil' Different, Melting Pot Mixtape, Let's Make UH Deal, and 2 more.
1. |
OMG
03:03
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Chorus (partial):
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
isn’t given for free or immediately.
The emcee A-N-G-L-E
might be finally 90, decidedly free.
Verse 1:
(Who’s that?) Angle my man, (Yes!) Mr. Maximoneous.
Cramming the Maximum Overdrive, but for the moment it’s
unloading the big rig and owning the dopest mantra.
The Green Goblin again dropping these pumpkin bombs on you.
Busting rhymes like dungeon dragons, see that light.
I’ll sport a Mr. Han Man hand in a pimp slap fight.
“Man, you come right out of a comic book” – (Jim Kelly)
Yep, with recycled pages, regurgitated vomit, look,
listen and feel, my mission with crimson and steel;
ripping the flimsy ideal, been too real to appeal.
Good evening. No more holding shows for the thieving.
If you’re still non-believing, your holy soul’s the reason.
Cheesing on a poster picture, promote a microphone licker.
Toting stickers, the poser holstering a dickfer. (What’s that?)
Stated my opinion, rap-kill the notes I sing on.
Dressed in black, grinning with my Symbiote skin on.
Chorus:
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
isn’t given for free or immediately.
The emcee A-N-G-L-E
might be finally 90, decidedly free.
Raise your hands up. Now everybody scream!
How ya’ll feeling tonight? Now we contributed to the scene, ha.
B-U-double-L, S-H-I-T.
We only come together to H-A-T-E.
Verse 2:
I’m the artist, the curator, my gallery’s boss.
Science sweeter than a shoulder roll and counter right cross.
Life, I’m ‘bout the simple facets. Witches brew
I’m stewing cash in my vats of liquid assets.
Read through the open book, soon it’s limited access.
Never come back, no matter how saturated the wack gets.
The gift is now, Hancocked, locked and transferred.
You’re thinking loud, man stop, the silence answers.
Own the moment. Cease the day as a game opponent.
Post a noted cliché and lay claim that you wrote it.
Wink loaded, fresh out the frame, duly emoted.
Oil coated, deflecting the rain, won’t be eroded.
Nevermore, a little birdy told me I’m a quick learner.
I’ll burn the dead meat and feed it to my yearning murder.
Leaving the clean bones, hated on by buzzards
And hyenas that couldn’t cut the Grey Poupon mustard.
Chorus Repeat (2x)
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2. |
Every Night
02:51
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Verse 1:
Some people, ask me where my muse comes from, how I’m the realest shit.
Ask me where an 800 pound gorilla sit.
Anywhere. For your benefit I’d pluck it from thin air
and masterpiece it together. Been legit since no chin hair.
And when I’m not, the bull in the china shop
I’ll slice a break precise from behind, like I got the garrote.
No end to the recent rash of goons.
I’ll Hulk smash them into Fatheads soon, stash them in my bedroom.
I get animalistic, tear the heart out and kiss it.
Wearing cannibal lipstick, sop the beat with a biscuit.
Lend me an ear, you risk it. I’ll beat it with explicit
monster creature features like slasher flicks that rip shit twisted.
I should call this spectacle The Kraken ‘cause when I release it
it’s tentacles death grasping the whole planet, contracting.
Break the English language like TI saying, “Whuhatnin?”
If no beat, I’d be rapping to testicles ass-slapping.
Chorus:
Two stomping on the beat, march 1-2.
Two stomping on the beat, march 1-2.
Two stomping on the beat, march 1-2.
Leave a logo bruise from the bottom of your shoes.
Verse 2:
Check out my melody. She’s pregnant mentally.
I suffer high infidelity, what she’s telling me.
Ya’ll just cheerleaders jocking. I’m the linebacker stalking
the quarterback. I tackle him in half and slobberknock him.
Then put my arm up to the elbow, up his torso.
He was a puppet before, now even more so.
Show no remorse for using force. My center’s run its course though.
I wear a winning face in front of fans like Lee Corso.
Soundtrack from porno. Superheroes, I endorse those.
They turn their back; I mark an “A” on ‘em like Zorro.
I’m credible, not popular; nonstop with more flows.
I’ll never see five mic fists, as far as the Source goes.
In fact, I’ll take an editor’s trash mag off the rack
and burn it for the lack of integrity sold for the highest stack.
The good guy, reverse that, dressed in all black.
And Bo don’t know jack, ‘cause Bo can’t middle finger smack.
Chorus Repeat (2x)
Well, what do you know, the Angle is first up to bat.
No batteries included, and no strings attached.
No holds barred. No time for move faking.
Gots to get the loot, so I can bring home the bacon.
- R.I.P. Phife Dawg
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3. |
Exposed Nerve
04:21
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Talking Intro:
Girl, you know I’m sensitive, like an exposed nerve.
Yeah and I really want to love you!
Verse 1:
Get off that, “Girl I want to love you.
Girl I want to ball you up in tiny pieces and eat you and sniff the sheets where your naked crease is.”
Stop with the short leashes. Put your one leg up; take a leak on your eaches.
His own is his zone, but your domain barely reaches.
Outside of her line of sight you parasite and you’re needy.
You want to crawl up in her ass, set up a couch and TV.
Putting a match to some sort of man card, if you had one.
Her hair in your pocket for thumbing, think it’s time to tell someone.
The break-up was candle lit. That’s the breaks, now handle it.
Check your emotions and center your mechanism for coping.
It’s a natural progression, but keep that group hug session.
Your depression on record is wrecking our form of expression.
Let that emo sigh, don’t care about artistic tie-in.
Step off the mic, continue crying. What we have is dying.
“Girl, I made a mosaic out of your nail clippings.
It’s a heart with a crack. Come back ‘cause my sack’s missing.”
Verse 2:
Kids misunderstood the theses, on how it’s cool to not give a feces.
Mentally wet tissue paper moving us to the extinction of the species.
Your soft. The OGs serve you like homemade ice cream.
Cats get decapped by paper cuts, no need for guillotines.
It’s not about the melanin or the side of city you’re dwelling in.
Be settled in your skeleton, don’t bring that jiggling gelatin.
You’ll get smooshed in the face with a pudding pop from Papa Cosby.
It’s costly. If you feel the need to collect yourself, then pause me.
Tragic comedy, your drama’s the butt of a joke.
People standing, waiting at the spiked punch stand when you emote.
And we don’t need to be pulled down. You’re like a shadow in a Ghost town,
Creeping when I’m Swayze and Moore love comes around.
Not like this. I meet the open palm with a fist.
Adamantium spinal column, no tolerance for beached jellyfish.
With no assist, I slick, cross-over and posterize ‘em.
Pic image motivate, get life game and flow to rising.
Verse 3:
It’s hard to two-step, with your clown shoes on.
It’s hard to move on, when you got your blues on.
Stop it. This shit was built on sonic testosterone,
rocking the party, talkin’ story and topping everybody.
When you’re surrounded by wolves, can’t be that sheep.
Got your chambers on your sleeve, can’t stop that leak.
Bleed out, leaving you depleted, in need of about a cc of fluid,
wolves through it, chewing the meat out.
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4. |
All Alone (w/ Ptate)
05:16
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Hook:
So, if you’re listening.
Pay no mind, uh to them rappers with a
Third eye blind, ‘cause we gon’ hit ‘em with a
Ether from behind, and we gon’ make ‘em understand
Things ain’t going just exactly how they planned.
(2x)
Verse:
Yeah, I sit and think on occasion,
about the possible ramifications of being so lethal.
Might run into complications trying to get my pearly gates on.
Black swan, mate song, watch for the ghostly sequel.
Can only hope I’m surrounded by enough God fearing Earth people,
raising their hands to the almighty inconspicuous. That shit’s religulous.
Them rappers’ succubus. Ain’t nothing but a bitch to us.
Just want to let you in on a fact. See you’re the pot, you should probably quit calling me black.
Oops upside your head with a stamp, with White Andy middle finger backhand slap.
And that’s when you know I snapped, back like the brim on hipster’s cap.
And I didn’t mean to kidnap, but the opportunity fell in my lap.
Imagine that. You have big dreams of rap schemes when you go to bed.
Ha, last thing you see instead is a severed pig’s head with a hoodie on.
You wake up in a strange place on a new dawn. So, now it’s on.
No more of that spitting fire and dropping bombs.
See, I’m talking torture, unrated graphic violence.
I show no mercy, no kindness as you’re just screaming for silence.
Ha, yeah, silence. See I’m physically not going to harm a hair.
Leave you duct taped to that chair, while your own excuse for music blares.
Solicit opposite of dulcet, explicit culprit.
Come to the painful realization that your friends have been feeding you bullshit.
Now your only ticket out of this sound proof recording booth,
is to bite off your own tongue with your shark-rowed curb tooth.
Ha, see I’m something like a hero.
Never will the locals hear your vocals crammed into their ear holes again.
Here we go! I crank the volume up to ten,
to drive the point home for me. Your bulging eyes tell the story.
You’ll never make another wack song. I know. As you beg and you plead,
I walk up the stairs and slam the door, leave your mixtapes on repeat.
And you say!
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5. |
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Verse 1:
So, you got you a new man now. Guess I’m not part of the plan now.
Got your friends telling you, you’re better off, you’re in a better place, but I can’t understand how.
Stick around for a little while. You’ll find he’s a mutherfucking son of a bitch.
Whoops, forgot to add, when my foul mouth twitch, shit here ain’t suitable for kids.
I knew that fella in college, getting girls drunk and damn near raping.
Pulling trains on ‘em with the fellas, high fiving each other and videotaping.
Ask him about it. Bet he’s still got it, evidence, exhibit DVD.
See his proud moment on the TV. Watch the making of an STD.
And that ain’t even the half. Dude was a bully, partying on the ave.
He always claimed to do two things; drink some beer and kick some ass.
Well, the keg ran dry every time and the DJ played that chin music song.
Will your man admit, he beat a fat lip and tears out of a pacifist that looked at him wrong?
He made a habit of it. Well, fuck it. When I see him again, we’ll do lunch and I’ma make him love it.
He’ll have the knuckle sandwich with karma sauce and a side of gut punching.
Thanks for the ticket. The dude is upchucking. Sir, here’s your tip and it’s that I’m not bluffing.
Revenge is served with the ice veins pumping. Now he got the fat lip. It must count for something.
‘Cause I’m still willing to fight for you. But, he just got caught with a right for you.
So, now he’s spinning a pity party where I’m the bad guy and he’s the shiny armored knight for you.
He ain’t right for you. Already got you paying his way and I’ll bet he leaves you on the day that you’re buried in debt.
He’s pimping your kindness for weakness, parasitic biditch or maybe a marionette.
And you ain’t even like the same chick, ‘cause you don’t even like the same shit.
You need to stand up for yourself and slap the curtains off this fake “wonderful” Wiz-prick.
Well, I’m a ghost now and he’s eating your breakfast toast now.
And I’ma go broke just trying to buy back the time spent holding you close now.
Chorus: (Kurt Loving)
You don’t know, what you got, until it’s not there.
You don’t know, what you got, until it’s not there. Yeah!
You don’t know, what you got, until it’s not there.
Until you let, let it go, or it’s taken away from you.
Verse 2:
This ain’t one of those, “if I can’t have you, nobody can” scenarios.
But, I know you better and I know that saints are rare, but none are comparing though.
I saw you as my queen, but I guess I didn’t make that shit clear.
I tried to break it off clean, I was young and dumb mixed with a little bit of fear.
I was low on religious currency and there would’ve been hell to pay, if I just would’ve stayed.
Now you may, forever be known as the one that got away.
And I’m the one that let you go. Things were too good to be true so I broke off that arrow.
Now I know I made a Titanic mistake, but I still float out here on this escape boat.
Well, I tell you, we may be done, but you got to see for your sake, he’s not the one, either.
Just take a fresh breather and separate yourself from that unsecured gun.
You know he’s cheated before and you know how that old saying goes.
And going out with your girls ain’t hardly worth those psycho fits he throws.
As it happens, it’s hard to see. Your locked up spirit used to be so free.
A night on the town is a guilt trip bound to require temporary release.
Well, let me pay you a conjugal visit and then we can get this
Relationship back into business and forget this period of mental sickness.
Don’t make this another one of them songs where somebody dies or gets the shaft
In the end, the hero gets the girl with perseverance that doesn’t break or bend.
So, tell your little friend to keep his violent temper ‘cause you don’t have to take it.
And if he so much as raises one hand, I’ma have to break it.
Let him know that his chains are weak. His charm and mystique are tongue and cheek.
Let him know, he needs a new technique to focus on the physique and tame a freak.
And when he realize he can’t have it, let him know I feel for him damn it
‘Cause I’ve been there. I won’t take for granted the brightest star to walk the planet.
Chorus Repeat
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6. |
Death Text
04:22
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Verse 1:
I got a text this morning. How do ya….how do you reckon it read?
It said, “Hurry, hurry Mr. Angleoneous, ‘cause that gal you love is dead.
Couldn’t believe what it said. Dropped the phone in the no-fuckin’-way zone.
Shock set in with a toxic groan, with a mocking should-have-been-praying tone.
I grabbed up my suitcase and took off, down the road to the funeral home.
When I got there she was lying on a cooling board by a casket adorned with chrome.
Well I walked up right close, grabbed her icy hand and looked down at her face.
Barely recognized the good ol’ gal, as she lay, too early for judgment day.
Surreal as I stared at the only human being on the planet that mattered.
Still wearing the necklace I gave her, but now her angelic features were beaten and battered.
I told her, her new man was trouble, numerous times and none too subtle.
I told her, “His skull is made up of knuckle, met women’s lip with a fisty rebuttal.”
But she didn’t listen ‘cause he was the struggle, the perfect fit for her picket-fence puzzle.
His sorry-game hustle, proved her too trustful. Her questioning lead to their final tussle.
I’m ready to kill and I’m ready to die for trying. No turning back; upset.
This dude was on the loose and managed to elude as the authorities’ leading suspect.
Verse 2:
Uh well it looked like there were ten thousand people, standing ‘round the burying ground.
I knew I loved her, but I didn’t really know I loved her, ‘tl they laid her down.
Uh well I folded up my arms and walked away, head full of everything that I didn’t get to say.
It came down to a summed up, “Farewell, Honey.” and “I’ll see you on judgment day.”
The pain cloud I was in was shaken to a rain by the rage. The abuser was free.
‘Cause I’m knowing he was guilty, he was coincidentally not found by police.
But, the arm of the law was beckoning, to face, the deafening music of reckoning.
Dude was on blast, on every newscast; to turn himself in he was wanted for questioning.
He better hope they find him, ‘cause if I do, I’ma beat his ass to death’s edge.
Priest said, I was full of nonsense, cleared my head, talked me down off of knowing that ledge.
“She’s dead and life in prison ain’t going to bring her back.” I wasn’t trying to hear that.
My world just crashed, not bad meaning bad, but bad meaning real fucking bad.
And then that cold, hit me tenfold, when the good old sun went down.
Fell into a void of a hole, didn’t have a soul to throw my arms around.
Drank myself into a stupor, things went black and blanked the future.
No man’s land with a bottle in hand, flatliner’s maneuver to reach out to her.
Verse 3:
Well I got up this morning at the break of day, hugging, the pillow where she used to lay.
Said I got up this morning at the break of day, hugging on the pillow where my good gal used to lay.
Checked my phone, it was another death text, Cops caught up to that murder suspect.
He ran on foot when he was found, splattered by a sixty-mile-an-hour Greyhound.
Tried to play Frogger on I-35, now responders are scraping him off of the side.
Well that didn’t bring my ol’ gal back to life. I heard karma’s a bitch, now I know that’s no lie.
Ah hush, shhh. Thought I heard her call my name.
But, it wasn’t so loud, so nice and plain.
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7. |
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Myka 9 Verse
Chorus (Myka 9 & Angle)
Verse 2:
I wake up fresh, so I don’t feel a lot of stress.
As the day progress, I find a way to decompress; truly blessed.
Material is not really the plan for aerial visionary.
That’s adversarial, superficial burial.
It’s a cycle of lyrical self-defamation,
deteriorating like bacteria, the mysterious
miracle experience, period. And that’s feeling it.
From the ceiling the beat is the deal and I’m sealing it.
Not with trivial drivel, I’m an official artistic vehicle.
But, it’s possible I arrive in a hoodie with sickle.
Scratch and scribble out the names that regular quibble and lack the simple
know-how to receive the gift and live a little.
The afflowent and not knowing, resort to hoeing and shit.
Pause your mixtape. I’m hamboning a hit, and giving a go at it.
Before you feast, make sure you’re hungry at least.
Spitting words from the streets, doesn’t turn a bum into a beast.
Chorus Repeat
Verse 3 (Angle):
To harvest the organs, your spoon is hardly important.
Of course, the artist forces at work to pardon the morbid.
To make the heart launch, take carte blanche. You got a right to it.
I insight you with, Bonaparte taunts, when you fly by your entitlements.
Black or white or mixed, situation flight ‘cause the fight is fixed.
Take plight-amins and pray your smile lights up them selfie pics.
Verse 3 (Myka 9)
Chorus Repeat
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8. |
Yesterday
02:29
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One Verse:
Walking on the sidewalk, girl came walking over.
We stopped. She introduced herself as October.
Put this one under crazy, or however you file ‘em.
She escaped, came straight from the asylum.
Wasn’t just one incident, it was constant.
Too much air time, and her mind, she lost it.
Keeps her dreams, but to see ‘em, she’s been robbed.
Caught up in a montage of reaching for radio knobs.
Huh, I wonder what that’s like,
back then streamed in through the dendrites satellite.
Never knowing the music died a hundred times.
Never knowing the tune was automated lies.
Must be nice, but this shit is well and alive.
But, apathy doesn’t sift through the contrived.
Verses still living that way, it just freeze you.
The cursed gift of anterograde amnesia.
The rain came down, now her hospital gown was see-through.
I said, “It’s been a pleasure to meet you.”
I reached for her hand. She put her arms around me,
embraced me, and sang into my shoulder with this melody.
Chorus:
Keeping old calendars in a shoe box.
Digital versions of the first needle drops
(2x)
Spoken:
She had these dark, sunken eyes, like overcasted skies,
Blonde, ratted locks, hospital gown and knee-high socks.
Chorus Repeat (2x)
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9. |
Ginny & John
03:54
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Verse 1:
This night went down, in this small town. They’ll never forget it.
From the sound, if you think this message is depressing, you guessed it.
Locals died inside from one collective broken heart.
In days since, they had a concert in the park and sold up all her art.
But, on that night, Ginny felt like she was on an island.
Cast away from the past today, thinking better off dead and what her final words say.
She wrote, “Who will miss me. I’m broke and there’s no energy left in me.”
At the bottom of the page she wrote, “Goodbye world. Love, Ginny.”
She put the note on the nightstand. Then, the drunk dialing began.
Damn near dialed her whole contact list. Got voicemails
that didn’t exist. Surrounded by bottles of booze,
she sat down at her computer and started Googling nooses.
Hook:
I couldn’t make up this sequence of events.
It had to be, a theatrical tragedy.
For goodness sake, there’s credence in this pretense.
It had to be, a theatrical tragedy.
I said, I said (Hook Repeat)
Verse 2:
Ginny’s high school sweetheart John was last on her list.
They talked when they longed for company at times like this.
But it’s been a while. She ran the risk this text would be missed.
1a.m. with no response, she hung the rope from her loft.
Pulled the kitchen table under it and tied the knot.
Clutched her phone and babysat the minute hand on the clock.
Tears rolled down her face like a stage curtain.
Mind made for certain. End scene, end of burden.
No one seemed to care as she’s desperately grasping for hope.
Her last ditch text to John, simply said, “I need to talk.”
Meanwhile, John’s driving home after tying one on.
Saw a few texts from Ginny and the last one said, “I need to talk.”
Hook Repeat
Verse 3:
John’s ride was swerving back and forth between the yellow lines.
Ginny looked up at the rope, then down at her phone for one last time.
Let out a sigh and wiped the tears from her face.
Extremely calm, while her heart and the second hand race.
She stepped up on the table, past the point of no returning.
Slipped on her rope necklace, all dressed for the next excursion.
John feeling something’s wrong, looked down to text her.
His cell was found with message half written in the wreckage.
She was the one to always tell people it’s alright.
He was the one with bright future, but on this night
He crossed the center line, head on, dead on collision.
Ginny kicked the table, both souls gone in an instant.
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10. |
1st to Know
03:37
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Verse 1:
See we’ve been together for a couple years now.
“Shit, or get up off the pot” is coming from our peers now.
We talked kids, but I’m picturing the movie Ghoulies.
Your clock ticks louder daily in your girly tubeys.
And I’m a sharp tooly, but my maturity’s juvey.
To prove it, sound a fart and watch my humor get unruly.
Want me responsible for a human? Guess I’m not ready.
The birth control business is booming and we contribute plenty.
Hope I’m not being petty, but them pills you’re still on ‘em?
Don’t go doing something crazy like poking holes in them condoms.
‘Fore it gets to that point, cuckoo birds and psycho bees,
let me be your friend and let me be the first to know please.
Talking Interlude 1:
Yeah, I mean, I do want to have kids at some point, you know, but don’t push me.
Ah, I don’t know if I’m ready right now though. So, just don’t be pushing me.
You know, don’t be doing, don’t be doing that crazy shit.
I’ve seen it happen. I’ve seen it happen. It’s crazy.
“I’m pregnant.” …No.
Verse 2:
A couple years now, they say an itch comes along after seven of ‘em.
But I’ve seen full body rashes with no mending of ‘em.
No science to the time table, so…
(First to know, just let me be) the first to know,
if you ain’t feeling this or want to go
try your song of charm on another live snake show.
‘Cause I don’t want to have to worry ‘bout you coming home.
Kiss me sleeping with chapped lips, residue of baby foam.
Or wake up with a bone in your thigh and have you ignore it.
Faking you’re asleep, want left alone, got no appetite for it.
Because your girls been in your ear, telling you what you want to hear,
that I should ring your finger and if not, you’re in the clear
to grind your gears, arch your back, bat your eyes and advertise
my favorite rear, attracting guys to get down and un-sanitized.
Don’t fish for other fish in the sea, before you leave.
Don’t be that dirty, just let me be the first to know please.
Talking Interlude 2:
Really though. I mean if you want to go somewhere else, hey, I don’t want to keep you.
Just let me know, and you’re free to go. It’s that easy.
Yeah, just don’t be bringing that stuff back home into bed with me. Don’t be out with some other guy.
You know. Let me be the first to know.
Verse 3:
We’re tip-toeing a tightrope, and waiting for the rope to bust.
The distance we’re going is setting records for the both of us.
Loving it, but also knowing it’s smother and choking us.
On overload, some days play out like a Seinfeld episode.
It’s the little things, attack nerves without warning.
Your blood boiling ‘cause I didn’t make the bed this morning.
You slammed the freezer when you found your ice cream gone.
Threatened to leave me, couldn’t hear you ‘cause the game was on.
Sever my peepee when I’m sleeping, ‘cause I folded laundry?
Petting your peevey wrongly, ‘til you put a domestic on me?
You want to poison my dinner over a pile of clothes?
Don’t let it build, just let me be the first to know.
Talking Interlude 3:
Ha. Sounds easy right? Why isn’t it then?
You know, if you got, if you got a problem, pet peeves, you know we all got habits.
Just let me be the first to know and we can fix it. Or, we can get on.
Why do couples have so much problem communicating?
Let it ride.
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11. |
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Verse 1:
Taking myself, out of the loop, was the best damn thing an Angleoneous could do.
Now I can tell, and talk story to you, from the Hill, won’t forget about the shit I walked through.
I’m glad I missed out, on all of that drama, blabbing your mouth from a distant persona.
Bite advertised like the jaws of piranha, you must have been high on that Mari-a-juana.
Big set of balls on you, when the monitor’s burning your oculars.
Bird in the Hand, you’re Solo, cockier, than a millennium falconer.
With two in the bush to pocket the popular, you’re mocking her, by putting cock in her.
I won’t watch while the others are offing her, sifting the profits through a softening colander.
Her, being, the H.E.R., Common Sense into the hate we are.
Dogs eat dogs, when they see stars, on the fence, impaled by these bars.
Opening hearts, the blood trail leave scars. Might have been close, no inhale cigars.
Lip service and a weak applause, coming from a sofa king we Todd.
Did, you think I got time for that pettiness? I’m wise enough to know time’s a commodity.
Maybe these kids just ain’t ready yet, hang from society like a colostomy.
Bag it. Keep that baggage. I don’t want to have it.
Until I kick the bucket, the old adage, I’ma savagely dead it and toe tag it.
Chorus:
Ohhhh, that vicious circle.
Stay doing me, I’ve got to
Break myself free, I’ma rock to the
Chained misery, yeah
Take myself out that loop.
Ohhhh, that vicious circle.
Felix Thunder Verse
Chorus Repeat
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12. |
Color Blind
05:30
|
|||
|
Chorus 1:
Kids are color blind.
They color outside the lines.
They pay ‘em no mind.
We could learn something from them.
Kid are color blind.
They’re taught to see the divide.
It’s just a matter of time.
We could learn something from kids.
Verse 1:
Hey, this shit right here, ain’t nothing new. Rock and roll came from the blues.
Take away the wad of money, take away the fear. Knock on the soul with a bass heavy muse.
Categories I refuse ‘cause I’m fluid. I see the boundaries, but I run right through ‘em.
All it takes is to fill ‘em. Beats I’ma do ‘em. I’ma black and blue ‘em.
And Angle don’t look like emcees do. Don’t roll with a Wu Tang-type crew.
I’m not a sucka so I don’t need a bodyguard. I’ve had to run a tough gauntlet to fight through.
Black music from a white dude, in the middle of the map where the heart beats at.
Limited access around ’88, my attention was grabbed by Yo MTV Raps.
That’s all we really had. Don’t let nobody twist it or try to tell you anything different.
To find a hip hop cassette was rare, unless somebody imported or smuggled it from somewhere.
Cardboard on the neighbor’s driveway, breaking and popping, the older kids showing me,
a growing culture where my niche became emceeing with lyrics and poetry.
Age 12, rapping on stage at a 99% white school.
The looks on the teachers’ faces were priceless, like what I might do is burn with diverse defiance.
Got me thinking “I kind of like this, I might just, work on my craft until I bask in brightness.”
Comfort in my whiteness. Crusade against the blind and spineless. Ignorance in the mask of the righteous.
Chorus 1 Repeat
Verse 2:
So junior high and I’m, realizing that there ain’t no place for me.
Surrounded by country, but I’m rapping live on the air down at KUCB.
Sekou, Kalonji and Jeff T, showed us love where it wasn’t supposed to be.
And opened our eyes, that we blurred the lines. Before, that notion was opposed to me.
Teens can be cruel, but I never figured, over some music shit calling me “wigger.”
I blew it off quicker than tips on a stripper, ‘cause they were just lippy kids, my mind was bigger.
And that was the time when the x was the brand, the X was the Clan. The Colours were Crossed on an African palette, so I wasn’t confused, but my interest was valid read the bios of Malcom and Martin.
Got the light bulbs flashing and starting, to click with the history of racial parting.
Poking the local dogs got me into fights, but the bite seldom followed all that ignorant barking.
The tag “Angle” came into play. I could create jagged letters all day.
Did a mural on the DMI River walkway, got attacked by blacks ‘cause my head was shaved.
Never let a few dummies’ actions, speak for a color or race either way.
Riding by the Rodeo Club kids with the 15s force feeding NWA.
Whatever music I could get my hands on, single mom, bio dad was gone. Never met him.
All along, you might think it was wrong, but I found father figures in them hip hop songs.
Chorus 2:
Kids are color blind.
They color outside the lines.
(And it’s beautiful)
They pay ‘em no mind.
We could learn something from them.
(Uh we could learn something from ‘em. Uh we could learn something from kids.)
Kid are color blind.
They’re taught to see the divide.
(We teach ‘em)
It’s just a matter of time.
We could learn something from kids.
(Uh we could learn something from ‘em. Uh we could learn something from kids.)
Verse 3:
See all the while I grew, my skills, motivation and possibilities grew too.
But, if a dream was ever born, it’s stuck in infancy. I’ll never mourn ‘cause I got love for this infant city.
The lines have been blurred, but some of these Midwest folks haven’t heard.
The smartest ignorant folks missed a boat that may not return.
I’ve learned that perception is biased reality. The people I meet, I got to get ‘em to know the
Jarid C. real version of me, before I introduce them to Angle and album cover personas.
And that’s the paradigm, when a stupid little color line makes me hesitant to share my music with y’all.
From what I see in my little ones, Daddy rapping ain’t weird at all.
Chorus 2 Repeat
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Angle Des Moines, Iowa
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