CONDFEITO PODCAST EP.22 - TETINE+ YOKO AFI

Here's a two-hour long nice conversation we had with Muep Etmo for his brilliant CONDEFEITO PODCAST, check it out. (audio only)

Conversação boa para o PODCAST CONDEFEITO do grande Mueptemo do

Mirella Brandi x Muepetmo

! 2 hrs sem cortes sobre várias ondas (& não-ondas tb)...musica, vida, performance, arte, prática, tempo, conhecimento(sx), jaulas, prisões culturais, emocionais, filme, cinema, discos antigos (+ música + anti-música). Ouça aqui:

 

SHAFT ABRE CAMINHO PALO SANTO - TETINE'S WORKS AT SET DALSTON

TETINE' S WORKS AT THE EXHIBITION SHAFT ABRE CAMINHO PALO SANTO

On view from 5th July to 12th at SET Dalston
Dalston Lane 27 A
London - E8 1JG

Here's some of Tetine's works for the exhibition.

SHAFT ABRE CAMINHO PALO SANTO // 

TETINE (BRUNO VERNER, ELIETE MEJORADO) + ANDERSON BORBA

Key 001 – Radioactivity is in the air for you and me 

The anti-sacred mutant tropical punk-funk aesthetics of Tetine (Bruno Verner + Eliete Mejorado) as hairy hydras who do not spell ‘A. R. T.’ - for poetic reasons many will understand one day - and London-based Brazilian (Santista) artist, sculptor Anderson Borba, bring you what (they)-(we) have been calling SHAFT ABRE CAMINHO PALO SANTO, an experiment, a no-show shout, a moment, a shellshock in the form of an ancestral cosmic futuristic weekender, or better, an anti-pompous sculptural-textual-sonic exhibit/elixir taking place at SET DALSTON on 5th of July from 6 pm – 9pm.  

SHAFT ABRE CAMINHO PALO SANTO is a re-inhabitation, re-corporification; a transitory reengineering of temporal syntactic and physical-sensorial utopian accumulations, undisciplined feelings and haunting memories, countering straight time and the current territories of neoliberal psychism, animated by the digital & analogic logics of semantico-mathematical ABCs of structures and numbers. The shout is still in process, the moment in constant movement at each hour, minute, second; tasted, sucked and then cannibalized from massive portions of distinct (and vivid) temporalities. The no-show being constantly & unregretfully practiced in the matrix, or else, uninterruptedly originated (there’s no beginnings or ends) as it manifests itself through magick, through sound (and then vision), through film, touch, sex, gozo, odour in mutant machines of lust.

From our first pulsations, 6 months ago, when the hydras collectively anticipated the expectations of such a “not-yet” cut [happening] in space and time, intensely relational with other pasts and worlds. Tarot or I Ching? 

Key 002 - We are showroom dummies.

Key 003- I'd rather be a dick than a swallower.

 Artist , Heal Thyself!


As ill-health is increasingly linked to questions of identity and politics, Nina Power questions what a collective, artistic attitude to sickness would look like – from the September issue

By Nina Power

The way we understand sickness today can itself be seen symptomatically, that is to say, as an indicator of deeper questions lying just beneath the battered dermis of life in general. We can ask: what is sickness, what makes us sick, and what kind of subjects are we when we identify with our sickness? Dominated by regimes of consumerism, private property and identity, it is not surprising that there is a current tendency for people to ‘own’ their illnesses, and to become coterminous with them as a central feature of their identity, and to create in-groups and out-groups on this basis: those who do not have an autism or an ADHD diagnosis, for example, are now described as ‘neurotypical’ or ‘allistic’, normative categories that mark out difference through comparison and separation.

Korean-American artist Johanna Hedva, author of the 2016 essay ‘Sick Woman Theory’ suggests that belonging to the illness club is a matter of an elective affinity: ‘You know who you are, even if you’ve not been attached to a diagnosis: one of the aims of Sick Woman Theory is to resist the notion that one needs to be legitimated by an institution, so that they can try to fix you.’ Contemporary sickness thus becomes a pathological attachment, backed up by a theory of domination. Hedva continues:

‘The Sick Woman is an identity and body that can belong to anyone denied the privileged existence – or the cruelly optimistic promise of such an existence – of the white, straight, healthy, neurotypical, upper and middle-class, cis- and able-bodied man who makes his home in a wealthy country, has never not had health insurance, and whose importance to society is everywhere recognized and made explicit by that society; whose importance and care dominates that society, at the expense of everyone else.’

We see the flip-side to Hedva’s coin in contemporary art’s handwringing admission of guilt on all these fronts. In a recent interview, Ed Atkins sums up this reflective misery, at once generative and impotent:

‘I am a man and I am white and middle-class and Western. The category that need not be named. I am privilege. But I also want to be able to speak, I suppose. But being all these categories, I want to speak negatively – to undo speech as well. A gesture that sucks it back – though of course that’s impossible. I don’t want to speak for anyone else. My work should have as much emotional autobiographical feeling as I can put into it without being explicitly about me in any way.’

Atkins’ simultaneous embrace and disavowal of identity reopens an older, literary question, from Beckett by way of Foucault: ‘what does it matter who is speaking, someone said, what does it matter who is speaking?’ Only today, it appears to very much matter ‘who’ is speaking, hence the double bind Atkins finds himself in. But he nevertheless wants to speak. Is this too a kind of sickness, a kind of compulsion? What happens when it is illness that wants to speak through us, when sickness becomes the voice itself? Can illness somehow speak out against the conditions that produce it? Capitalism – or a certain image thereof – is, in many contemporary analyses, frequently positioned as the rotten root at the base of a whole range of contemporary ills, from obesity, diabetes, cancer to anxiety, depression, stress, developmental disorders and general malaise. These ailments, reputedly caused by today’s equivalent to William Blake’s ‘dark Satanic mills’ – now our ‘whitish mildly-demonic personal computers’, perhaps – are to be laid like burnt offerings at the feet of a reified, monstrous, ineradicable beast: Capital. All days become sick days under the chthonic demiurge of capitalism. It is perhaps in the work of the late Mark Fisher that the argument that mental illness is an intentional form of class war reaches its zenith:

‘We must understand the fatalistic submission of the UK’s population to austerity as the consequence of a deliberately cultivated depression… Collective depression is the result of the ruling class project of resubordination. For some time now, we have increasingly accepted the idea that we are not the kind of people who can act.’

Fisher advises ‘converting privatised disaffection into politicised anger’, restoring the category of action to the subjects sickened to death (actually so in some cases) by austerity. We must admit, though, that this is an extraordinarily difficult project, seeing as its starting point is the acceptance of a direct if generic causal relation between capitalism and sickness. Is this assumption not itself potentially politically incapacitating? Is there no differentiated individual residual resistance to collective depression, and do our individual illnesses, addictions and mental health problems not play out in different ways? And might our response to these differences then inform a strong collective response to exploitation? When it comes to sickness, we do not know where to place the subject, individual or communal.

Activists dressed as zombies dancing to Michael Jackson’s Thriller in front of the bank of England, 2011. Photo: Mario Mitsis / Alamy Stock Photo

The recent rise to prominence of Canadian psychologist Jordan B. Peterson and his 12 Rules for Life: An Antidote to Chaos (2018) has led to derision and suspicion from those who see him as an apologist for the resurgent far right. At base, however, Peterson’s bestselling book presents a series of simple rules for improving one’s lot: ‘Stand up straight with your shoulders back’, ‘Treat yourself like someone you are responsible for helping’ and ‘Tell the truth – or, at least, don’t lie’. ‘We must have something to set against the suffering that is intrinsic to Being’ he writes. This strange and syncretic fusion of evolutionary theory, Christianity, Jung, Schopenhauer and 1950s patrician ideas of self-responsibility, proves to be highly irresistible to people tired (sick, perhaps) of sitting in bedrooms looking for someone else to blame. Glancing at the ‘Manosphere’ reveals a heavy interest in self-improvement, an end to ‘whining’, and the consumption of vast quantities of meat. Fitness guru P. D. Mangan (‘I teach how to eat right, get strong, live long, and win, with science-based health and fitness’) posts motivational tweets about diet that also function as pithy critiques of consumer capitalism and mental health:

‘You: “Doc, I'm depressed.”
Also you: eats junk food drinks soda, plays video games, 30 pounds overweight, sleeps 6 hours a night, works under fluorescent lights in a cubicle.
Doc: “Here, have some of these pills.”’

The tough talk that invokes a sense of personal responsibility for one’s health, and, by extension, one’s way of being in the world with others reveals, by its absence, a passive acceptance on the political left of a certain kind of collective defeated misery. Any suggestion that self-improvement or personal responsibility for mental or physical ill-health is a positive step is liable to be met with accusations of ‘gatekeeping’, ‘ableism’, ‘fatphobia’ or ‘body-fascism’. Though capitalism is to ‘blame’ for our sicknesses, there seems to be little exit from capitalist ‘solutions’ (in the form of over-mediation, and the over-consumption of harmful foods and substances), despite repeated identification by the left of capitalism as the apparent source of the sickness.

But all is not fair in love and war, in sickness and in health. Beyond medication, there are contemporary ‘cures’ in the form of the various ‘self-care’ industries, where diet, cleaning and sleep all somehow become ‘lifestyle choices’, as opposed to basic techniques of sustenance and hygiene. Here we see the feminised counterpart to the Manosphere’s emphasis on meat and muscle – the bubble-bathification of the female, the retreat into comfort and candles accompanied by the fantasy that this is some kind of radical gesture. As Anne Dufourmantelle, who died in 2017 trying to save two children from drowning, puts it in Power of Gentleness: Meditations on the Risk of Living: ‘Theories of self-improvement and pursuit of happiness participate in spite of themselves in this grand marketplace of “well-being” that refuses to enter into negativity and confusion and fear as essential human elements, paralyzing the future as well as the present.’ The good neoliberal subject is subject to his or her apps and avoids risk and excess at all costs: the heart is an organ whose valves must be kept free of love as much as of fat. We are very far, today, from Foucault’s resurrection of Greek practices and techniques in his late work on ‘the care of the self’, and even further from any form of collective mass-mobilisation towards health that would directly take as its target both imposed sicknesses and their useless and expensive cures. Misery loves (drug) companies.

There are thinkers, such as Franco ‘Bifo’ Berardi in his 2017 essay ‘After the European Union’, who attempt to tie poor mental-health and legal and illegal drug use to a political situation that explains Trump’s appeal:

‘The parts of society where Trump triumphed in the USA are the same ones where psychic misery is most devastating. The depression epidemic and the deluge of opioids, heroin consumption increasing fivefold in a decade, the spike in suicides: such is the material condition of the so-called American middle class, the workers squeezed like lemons, and the unemployed devastated by their powerlessness.’

Oreet Ashery, Revisiting Genesis (stills), 2016, webseries, 12 episodes. Courtesy the artist

Self-medication as a form of self-care in a devastated world becomes pure self-destruction, and there is little to differentiate political acts from pharmacological ones. If, as Kierkegaard wrote in The Sickness Unto Death (1849), ‘the torment of despair is precisely this inability to die’, that is to say, our sickness is existential, rather than merely a biological or historical fact, we must wonder what ‘death’ means today, in an era of technological life-extension for some, and mere perishing for others. Jarman prize-winner Oreet Ashery’s 12-part web-series and feature-length film Revisiting Genesis (2016) offers an unusually nuanced take on death, dying and disease, in an art context that has an often rather impoverished relation to such questions (let’s not speak of Damien Hirst’s long-term pharmacophilia). Here, Ashery mingles fictional dialogues with real interviews with those with life-limiting conditions, subjects who ruminate on questions of digital existence: what might our digital legacy be? How can we reconcile the viscerally embodied aspects of illness and dying with the clean bureaucracy of a networked culture? Regarding the context of Revisiting Genesis, Ashery said in a 2017 interview with the Guardian that ‘there is a sense that partial withdrawal can be a response to artistic overproduction and the culture that drives us so hard. Artists can never stop. You always have to self-present. You are always “on”. If you are not, it is as though you are dead.’

The undead artworld might be thought of as a zombie juggernaut transporting various sicknesses from gallery to gallery, reinforcing identities here, positions there, and structures everywhere. In that sense, then, it does no more than reflect back the confused state of sickness and health in our thinking (and living) more generally. But what would a collective, artistic attitude to sickness and health that tackled exploitation head-on, and avoided neoliberal ‘solutions’ as much as it did lethal drug epidemics, look like? We can start by imagining a position that avoids reduction to either mere identity or pure will, that neither pins us to structure nor isolates us as individuals fighting to survive in a hostile universe. We might not ultimately be able to avoid illness, at least not forever, but we do not have to exactly coincide with it: in this sense, then, contemporary art can potentially serve as a diagnostic of both the causes and the cure – to depersonalise illness without rendering it purely abstract, and to identify malign forces and causes without falling entirely prey to them.

From the September 2018 issue of ArtReview 

RAMNMELZEE - BEAT BOP THEORY

The Spectacular Personal Mythology of Rammellzee

Drawing from philology, astrophysics, and medieval history, Ramm channelled the chaos of seventies New York through his art and music.

Published on The New Yorker by Hua Hsu (May 28, 2018)

In the late nineteen-seventies, the sociologist Nathan Glazer had grown weary of riding New York’s graffiti-covered subways. The names of young vandals, who identified themselves as “writers” rather than as artists, were everywhere—inside, outside, sometimes stretching across multiple train cars. Glazer didn’t know who these writers were, or whether their transgressive spirit ever manifested itself in violent crimes, but that didn’t matter. The daily confrontation with graffiti suggested a city under siege. “The signs of official failure are everywhere,” he wrote in an influential 1979 essay. Graffiti, with its casual anarchy and cryptic syntax, offered glimpses into a “world of uncontrollable predators.” In the nineties, Glazer’s essay would help inspire the concept of “broken windows” policing—a theory that preserving the appearance of calm, orderly neighborhoods can foster peace and civility.

Graffiti has always had this kind of metaphorical power. It is somehow more than art or destruction (even though it is both), and it prompts awe or dread, depending on your tolerance for disorder. For every Glazer, there were romantics like Norman Mailer, who had written the text for a book of photographs elevating graffiti to the status of “faith.” From his perspective, graffiti forced the upper crust to reckon with the names and the fugitive dreams of a forgotten underclass: “You hit your name and maybe something in the whole scheme of the system gives a death rattle.”

Few people understood and internalized this power as deeply as the artist, rapper, and theoretician Rammellzee (which he styled as The ramm:ell:zee). He believed that his time in the train yards and the tunnels of New York gave him a vision for how to destroy and rebuild our world. He was born in 1960 and grew up in Far Rockaway, Queens. His birth name is a closely guarded secret; he legally changed it to his artistic tag in 1979. (He also insisted that The ramm:ell:zee was an “equation,” not a name.) Little is known about his youth, aside from passing aspirations to study dentistry (he was good with his hands) and to be a model (in a 1980 catalogue, he is identified as Mcrammellzee).

Ramm—as he became known—believed that language enforced discipline, and that whoever controlled it could steer people’s thoughts and imaginations. His hope wasn’t to replace English; he wanted to annihilate it from the inside out. His generation grew up after urban flight had devastated New York’s finances and infrastructure. Ramm channelled the chaos into a spectacular personal mythology, drawn from philology, astrophysics, and medieval history. He was obsessed with a story of Gothic monks whose lettering grew so ornate that the bishops found it unreadable and banned the technique. The monks’ work wasn’t so different from the increasingly abstract styles of graffiti writing, which turned a name into something mysterious and unrecognizable. Ramm developed a philosophy, Gothic Futurism, and an artistic approach that he called Ikonoklast Panzerism: “Ikonoklast” because he was a “symbol destroyer,” abolishing age-old standards of language and meaning; “Panzer” because this symbolic warfare involved arming all the letters of the alphabet, so that they might liberate themselves. He lived these ideas through his art and his music, and by being part of the hip-hop scene during its infancy.

In 1983, Rammellzee and a rapper named K-Rob went to visit the painter Jean-Michel Basquiat. Though Ramm and Basquiat were friends, they were also rivals. Ramm would later say that Basquiat wasn’t a “dream artist”—he didn’t so much radiate visions outward as take things in like a “sponge,” learning about genius from books. He and Ramm once bet on who could most convincingly parody the other’s work. (Ramm claimed not only that he won but that Basquiat’s art dealer, who wasn’t in on their ruse, told Basquiat that “his” work was the best he had ever done.)

That night, Basquiat invited Ramm and K-Rob to record a song he’d written. Ramm, who had rapped in the movie “Wild Style,” was already known for his unique nasal sneer. (He called it his “gangster duck” style.) The two men looked at Basquiat’s elementary rhymes, laughed, and tossed them in the trash. Instead, they made up their own lyrics—a brilliant, surreal tale of a kid (the earnest, bemused K-Rob) who’s on his way home and a hectoring pimp (Ramm) who tries to tempt him toward the dark side. Basquiat called the song “Beat Bop,” and paid for it to be produced; he painted the vinyl single’s cover art himself. The song was murky and strange, like a spiky funk jam slowed to a sinister crawl. In the background, someone tunes a violin. There’s so much echo and reverb on the track that it sounds like an attempt at time travel.

In the eighties, graffiti gained acceptance in the art world. Despite Ramm’s charisma, the intensity of his work and his stubborn, erratic personality kept him on the movement’s fringes. Where Basquiat and Keith Haring seemed shy showmen, Ramm came across as a nutty professor. His early paintings took inspiration from the psychedelia of comic books and science fantasy, with mazy train tracks running across cosmic reliefs. His palette was attuned to the era’s anxieties about nuclear war and nuclear waste. The colors were bright and garish, suggesting a box of neon highlighters run amok.

Rammellzee created and wore full-body suits of armor that he called “Garbage Gods.”

Photograph by Mari Horiuchi / courtesy Red Bull Arts New York and the Rammellzee Estate

In the mid-eighties, he began rendering these ideas in 3-D. He made sculpturesthat evoked the fossilized remains of twentieth-century life: newspaper clippings, key rings, chain links, and other junk, floating in an epoxy ooze. The most remarkable works were his “Garbage Gods,” full-body suits of armor, some of which weighed more than a hundred pounds. They look like junk-yard Transformers doing samurai cosplay. His most famous character, the Gasholeer, was outfitted with a small flamethrower.

Ramm’s art, thought, and music are the subject of the exhibition “ramm∑llz∑∑: Racing for Thunder,” at Red Bull Arts New York. Befitting the popular drink’s own sense of iconoclasm, “Racing” bathes in Ramm’s frenzied, free-associative, and occasionally overwhelming energy. There are his early canvases and sculptures, along with flyers, business cards, manifestos, and patent applications. A small theatre screens previously unseen videos of Ramm rapping at night clubs. The most impressive part of the survey is a floor devoted to his “Garbage Gods” and “Letter Racers”—skateboards representing each letter of the alphabet, armed with makeshift rockets, screwdrivers, and blades.

Throughout the exhibition, you can hear moments from Ramm’s lectures on Gothic Futurism—a thrilling jumble of street-corner hustling and technical language, all “parsecs,” “integers,” “aerodynamics.” As I was examining a collection of hand-painted watches, I kept hearing Ramm pause as he reached the end of a long disquisition on ecological catastrophe and graffiti-as-warfare, and then bark, “Next slide!”

In early May, the Red Bull Music Festival staged a Ramm-inspired concert to mark the opening of the art show. Ramm had continued to make music after “Beat Bop,” never wavering from his philosophies, just declaring them against increasingly turbulent, industrial-sounding backdrops. The eclecticism of the bill spoke to his wandering ear, and ranged from the terse hardcore of Show Me the Body to the wise-ass raps of Wiki. K-Rob, wearing a T-shirt featuring a mushroom and the words “I’m a Fun Guy,” reprised his verse from “Beat Bop,” grinning the whole way through. Gio Escobar, the leader of the deft punk-jazz band Standing on the Corner, dedicated a song to a late friend. The departed are everywhere around us, he said, as a groove emerged from the band’s dubbed-out chaos. “And they’re waiting.”

As hip-hop and art changed, as graffiti vanished from New York’s trains and walls, Ramm delved further into his own private cosmos—namely, the enormous loft in Tribeca where he lived, which he called the Battle Station. His obscurity wasn’t a choice. In the early eighties, he offered to send the U.S. military some of the intelligence he had gathered for national defense. (It declined.) In 1985, he wrote an opera, “The Requiem of Gothic Futurism.” In the nineties, he tried to promote his ideas by producing a comic book and a board game. He thought that toy manufacturers might want to mass-produce his “Garbage Gods” models. He was the first artist to collaborate with the streetwear brand Supreme. There was a series of infomercial-like videos to seed interest in “Alpha’s Bet,” an epic movie that he hoped would finally resolve the narrative arc of his extended universe.

By the time Rammellzee died, in 2010, after a long illness, New York City had been completely remade by mayoral administrations that took broken-windows policing as gospel. The Battle Station became condos. The Internet has made it easy to take what the culture provides you and rearrange it in some novel, cheeky way. It’s much more difficult to build an entirely new world—to abide by an ethical vision with a ferocity that requires you to break all the rules. I was surprised by how moved I felt standing underneath Ramm’s “Letter Racers” and studying the textures of the “Garbage Gods.” To see their meticulous handiwork up close was to believe that Ramm’s far-flung theories, his mashup of quantum physics and “slanguage,” made sense as an outsider’s survival strategy. I noticed all the discarded fragments of city life—bulbs and screws, a billiard ball, a doll’s head, old fan blades and turn-signal signs, visors stacked to look like pill bugs. His commitment was total. These are works of devotion.

This is where Ramm wanted to live—at the edge of comprehensibility, but in a way that invited others to wonder. Cities are filled with strangers who possess an unnerving energy, who hail us with stories, songs, and poems. Ramm was one of these. In an interview filmed in the aughts, Ramm sheds light on his everyday life. Sometimes, he says, he’ll be walking down the street or sitting at a bar, and people will just look at him. And sometimes they’ll come up to him and ask, “Who are you?” He’s explaining all this while wearing one of his “Garbage God” masks. You notice his paunch, the warm crackle of his voice at rest. “I’m just an average Joe,” he says, and he sounds like he believes it. ♦

This article appears in the print edition of the May 28, 2018, issue, with the headline “Graffiti Prophet.”BEAT BOP THEORYBeat Bop - Ramnmellzee + K Rob

Get funky in the place [x2]

It's pathetic dope addicts have to be abused

It's a shame what a day to be a prostitute

Life is given to us just to do the right thing

Instead of that we came a ho or a big dope fiend

Make you feel real bad every time I see

Another bum or brother sleeping on the street

In the corner in the morning every night and day

It's a pity so many people try to act gay

Everybody's turning crazy so you'd better believe

To do the right things or soon you'll see

Life ain't a moral joke it's a serious thing

When you're dealing with the answers that you can't explain

New York City is a place of mysteries

Drug addicts dope dealers taking over the streets

That me is always saying why the hell do we pay?

What for they break the laws and get a couple of days

No sense tryin' to help there's really no use

Think of us messing up lectating at you

Hot rocks tryin' to pop with no respect

Niggas waiting at the station for the big pay cheque

Home boys going bakin' on Thursday night

Girls waiting in the house for Mr. Right

Kids going to school just to be a fool

Never want to learn work just a polin' on you babe

It's the funky beat and it's the funky beat

And it's the funk, the funk and it's the funky beat

Yyyyyeah

[Rammellzee]

This is the mellow they call the Rammell

That rocks you with the rhythm that'll shock your spell

When the shake-up kid that wakes you up in the morning

Gotta rape with the rhythm like a number one groanin'

MC quick just to make your peanut butter

Shock with the rhythm of a number one undercover

Break it up just shake it up rodeo uh [x2]

I'm the mellow D down with the funky sound

That can mace your brain with my diamond studded crown

Just a makin' you dip like a little bitty dive

Live a prick just bakin' your hide

Rock on to the break of dawn

Just freak that yeah baby

Just freak it yeah baby

Like the little jelly-bean I'm a sweet like a candy-cane

Make you get down just the number one stain on the train

Just groovin' like a say john

Just break it up yeah yeah stay john

Like a roller coaster ride that can make you bump

Just groovin' with the rhythm as I shake your rump

You gotta rock rock you don't stop the baby y'all

You gotta now rock and you don't stop

Just hip-hop the day they doo-be-doo

Yeah Scooby Doo what you wanna do crew

Just freak out, yeah baby

Just freak up yeah, yeah baby

Drink it up yeah, I know my dear

I can rock you out this atmosphere

Like a gangster prankster number one bankster

Got the much cash to make you thankyou

Rock on to the break of dawn

Break of dawn, keep it on keep it on

I know ZZ that can rock quick

Like a iconoclast had your rhythm to the stick

Just a rock on like the finger lick

Finger popping hop popping now don't stop bunny rock

Bunny rock and you don't stop

That long finger nail at the end of my tip

Of my pinkie cocaine make you slip a my lip

Just make you freak when a panny wanny with clip

Got the little pat to the dab'll make you my hip

Shake shake rock body rock the hip and the hop

Like RPM's my

Nose don't care about the rhythm that breaks

Because the music is down when your body want to shake

Gotta hip hop and then baby dog get down

Let the rock just shock your dome

Just break it up, shake it up yeah baby

Cause the groove just rocks like a little shady

Get shade yeah, shade it up with the glasses

Make it on with the serious pattern

Get the melody quick, yep the melody sound

That'll rock you quick with the number one crowd

I can get up on the groove that make you shake down

Cause the beat from the depths of hell make you get down

Rock on, to the beat

Freak it on, freak it on with that kid unique

Just check it out, check check it out

I said I broke into a dun Seville yeah

And then I shot across top of hill, with the chill yeah

Break it up Cypress Hill, shake it up

With the writings on the wall, I don't give a f**k

Just jam it up, rock on you don't stop

Jam it up, rock on you don't stop

The B-boy, rock on you don't stop

Freak it on freak it on break down don't stop

From the depths of hell, rock well Rammell

Rock on to the beat beat

Yeah candy-cane kid you're just rocking so sweet

Cause I'm a jam up hip hop making the tip top

Shake on the break down the needle on the eye

Grooving with the rhythm of the break in the tie

[K Rob]

Smoke cheeba, into whores, drinking all week through

Never want to go to school and that's a fact

Till all of a sudden you got left back

Now you're feeling real low and mighty hurt

And your friends are snapping on you like you're a jerk

Now things are hard and you're really depressed

And your mind can't function cause you can't pass the test

You're saying to yourself what can I do?

I can't go home, I might as well quit school

Jobs are hard to find everybody knows

And you can't do crime cause you're on parole

No education is a big disgrace and

So you might as well work at the sanitation

Can you get my drift?

Get funky in the place

[Rammellzee]

I know the man that gets with the deal

That rocks like the pimps that acts real real

He can get real I'll when you're on the chill

I like the quarter drop a dime

That can make you seek a thrill

Master killer called the evil gorilla

Yes the best in the nation yeah number one thriller

I'm the best cut, rocking with the duck

Making with the conceal

Shock shock you don't quit quit you don't quit

Rocking, don't stop the beat bop the rocking

You don't quit quit

Turn it up y'all with the serious sh*t

You shake it on rocking on and on break of dawn

Keep it on keep it on break of dawn

Get on, get on, get on, a get up, get up

Like a rodeo, rodeo big duck

Ha ha, ha ha, ha ha

I like a DD the hopping with the BB

King of the mike a like a mike controller see

Get on the freak a like a little di*k di*k

You're rocking hard with kid unique

Like disco Patty Duke uh I don't stop

Patty Duke played out the hitting the top

I break a rock grandmaster hip a joint up shock it up

Check it out you don't stop

[K Rob]

Get funky in the place [x2]

What?

All the time that you been hanging out with your friends

You never took the effort to see what's happening

Crime, crime, crime can't get it off my mind

Cause it's a thing we have to face all the damn time

People always say why do they break the laws

Gonna tell you right now it's cause a all a y'all

That's a go like ebola, gonna let it be told

It doesn't matter to a thief if you're young or old

Just money they wanting they need it bad

And to take another person's life it makes them feel glad

So rock, to the funky beat

Ain't another ain't another that you heard yet

Rockin' better rockin' better on the radio set

And if you did and if you did please tell me now

Are there others are there others rockin' better in town?

Have to say have to say don't front on me

And if you do and if you do it's only jealousy

All the ladies, G-money

All the homeboys, G-money

Money makin', rock on and

Money makin', rock on and

Boogie Down yeah, rock on and

Rammellzee, rock on and

[Rammellzee]

You know the crew that can make you get down

With the funky moves bust now

When I get down to the funky jackpot

You know I got the rhythm just makes you bet bet

Your cash uh like a three card money money

All I wanna do is just rock the beat honey honey

And with the jam down with the dive

Like I'm picking your pocket with the di*k on the slide slide

But your cock ain't 38 shooting me a straight

Cause I'm down like the double def remanipulate

And on that beat grandmaster make a move

Making with the rhythm when I shoot into the boo boo

Rocking on like a Tutti-Frutti boo boo

You know uh when I went to school

I went to the depths of hell to the darkest deepest corner

Rocking all the women shocking with the order

Order of a double def a magical man

I'm like a dipster prankster deffing with the damn damn

Def def def jam y'all. I'm like a

B-boy makin' with the freak freak [x2]

Shoot it up yeah shoot it up y'all yeah [x2]

Break it down yeah baby [x2]

Sniffing the dope yeah and taking the oath

I'm like a little old homeboy shooting with the toke yeah

Making with the sneaker rocking like a easer

Mc Quick just a number one pleaser

Shooting like an uptown pimp on the check

When I step out my ride I can hit the deck

Rock on to the break of dawn [x2]

Seven twenty Z

[K-Rob]

Bust a move

Well I was coming from school it was three o'clock

Had no money in my pocket broke to the last drop

I had no way of getting home

I was really messed up cause I was all alone

I felt the real sick and very confused

And my heart was pumping fast I think it was the booze

And my legs felt the weak and I couldn't walk

Got pains in my chest when I tried to talk

I said, 'Oh God it had to happen to me'

'Give me a chance to straighten up and get a day OB'

Cause I'm the type of person who likes to play

And at the time I had a drink and got carried away

You know everybody once made a mistake

It's not too late to straighten up so give me a break

I'll go to church and do my work instead of being a jerk

As a doctor or a lawyer even desk clerk

Whatever you say I must do

Cause you're the one and only and I trust you

Crime is going up...