Raw Data Vol. 1: Soul of the Shitty

by Fellowman

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02:27
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02:14
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04:24
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01:40
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03:34
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12.

credits

released April 17, 2016

Entire project mastered by Finn Downey.

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Fellowman Charlottesville, Virginia

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Track Name: It's Like This
[Verse 1]
It's like this, I create a crisis with my right fist
left fist kept pristine cuz I'm a leftist
it's like this, I quit taking pipe hits,
wine sips and white sniffs the day Dylan married Isis:
May 5th, back to enslavement on July 5th,
Independence Day, shit, nice myth.
Who's telling the school kids what the price is
rather than waste time unspooling the mind twist?
Real ain't really real unless you recognize it,
the truth ain't gotta hurt unless you weaponize it.
Enriched uranium pellets in my rhyme that
might get ignorant citizens blinded by the brightness.
Strike swift, leave a devil lifeless
and extract his gold incisors with my vice-grips
tireless eye on the sacred ibis
the flow nurture nations, Tigris, and it's like this.

[Verse 2]
It's like this, forever getting hotter like the climate,
there is no debate among scientists.
Straight out the viper pit, bring your nicest written to the cypher, kid,
learn how the knife wit slices, its like this:
even when I'm pissed, it's righteous,
flipping off the system like a light switch or quarter-pipe lip,
fuck anyone that hold a nightstick
I'm tight with the cordless mic and steady like a water pipe drip,
drip, Remy said it's a swordfight, this life, hence
why I'm jumping fences like a flight risk.
I'm just an emcee that's quite sick,
and this the type of shit that make Mike Vic wanna fight pits.
It's like this, cough it up, bronchitis,
ain't made for tykes, Fisher-Price's devices,
made in the most high's image and likeness
ain't a metaphor or simile when I spit, it's like . . .
Track Name: I Believe That (ft. R.U.N.T.215th)
[Verse 1 - Fellowman]
You know how it feels to get your shit took?
Watching helpless, all you can do is just look?
Cuz you made the mistake of nibbling that fishhook,
now you're dangling by your lip like a lynched crook,
Crestfallen, missing that yes yes y'all-ing,
it makes my flesh crawl and my clenched jaw twitch
to know that some of the best squalid living check to check
while pests all clocking them Les Paul chips.
It's a horrible lack of purity,
they full of shit like a mortgage-backed security.
Your luxury's paid for in blood money,
the unsung laborer done grungy,
originator dust bunny, swept under the rug, money,
yo just ask the drummer from Mudhoney,
but when the flood comes rushing they won't be chuckling
the levee gonna break and the humblest get their nugget then!

[Chorus]
You can trust this,
the arc of history bends toward justice
(I believe that, homie I believe that) [x2]
But conciliation is a sneak trap,
fuck signing a peace pact 'til my people get their freedom back.
(I believe that, homie I believe that)

[Verse 2 – R.U.N.T.215th]
(Black lives matter yo!)
You ever been passed by cops
while being black, for skin tone harrassed by cops?
When the guns pop you shot and murdered fast by cops?
Got no Glock, acquittal real fast for the cops.
Now the urban nation's rocked by the slaughter of hood martyrs,
the news wanna stress that we're savage and being lawless
when we're really screaming justice, demanding it in the rawest,
the system ain't colorblind, you act as if it's flawless.
But we ain't taking blame no more,
you shooting million dollar missiles in the wars, now you blame it on the poor,
when the deficit's increasing, real reason that you creeping
in the pockets of the people that you fleecing got 'em beefing
over racial overtones of politicians with agendas,
attacking people's race, class, religions, and their genders.
Fake pretenders bucking with you with a vengeance,
justice for my people, vigilante rhyme relentless!

[Chorus]

[Verse 3 – Fellowman]
Gimme a syncopated beat, some ink and paper, a pad and pencil,
a single breath, with ease I'll demolish it on some mad aggressive,
I bring the devastating diamond-tipped rapping method,
but to string together a sequence of rhyming shit ain't that impressive.
Where's your content? Sick of the nonsense,
congratulations, you win the dick-riding contest.
You got faith in the process? I'm not impressed,
it's probably best to run up in Congress with a bomb vest,
but I wanna stress: it don't gotta be that way,
but when people pushed to extremes, yo, they think that way.
Y no me importa que cultura naciste,
el amor se transforma al infiernos, Maciste:
la fuerza tuya contra la fuerza mundial,
la presión más dura denatura brutal,
la fe más pura que el cura sostiene sin duda,
nos vienen a cobrar, sin embargo, como Cuba.
Track Name: Sobriety
[Verse 1]
Plenty of young cats still got affection for ill spitters,
hair of the dog got good reason to feel bitter,
plenty of real bigots burn bridges and meal tickets,
I ain't gotta be specific, you feel me if you live it,
and if you live it, you know this shit is not a gimmick,
the pinnacle, steady sending pretenders to the clinic,
I pick 'em out, spot the beast, hit it
with the right crossbow and eyes glowing like I'm Riddick.
Politically speaking, institutions all classist, racist,
that's why I'm on my Cassius Clay shit,
but basket cases took advantage of the agitation
to get you caught up in the distraction matrix,
it ain't happening. Is it my rapping or my accent?
Is it my parentage or my passion? Facts is
I'm tryna get a message past this machine, fuck faxes,
masticate on that shit and take it backwards.

[Verse 2]
Like Lee Harvey, they ain't bodying jack.
I can't see hardly, it's too foggy in back.
Yo it's a Cheech party, word to Tommy and Black,
sorry to be tardy, had to cop me some wraps,
and I pity the fool tryna box me with raps,
asking if Fellow get busy like asking if Rocky can scrap,
and you'll probably get smacked for even coming with that puffery,
hiphop is my drug, and I ain't in recovery.
Call it welfare wookiee or call it Bobby Brown,
I call it backyard boogie, that's where I chop 'em down.
You got your glass piece packing the kush?
I'm just ripping newspaper, picking African bush,
but now the clouds are clearer, I'm dropping like the value of Italian lira
before the euro I fucks with Al-Jazeera,
word to my brother whose child is Kyra,
the style a tier above the Portugal, from Macau to Madeira.
Track Name: Davises
Relentless, rip and rend flesh and gnaw bones,
napkin in my lap'll catch a rapper's gallstones.
Eating off a big platter like I'm Sean Combs,
live from the barbecue but ain't no Nas Jones.
Prying off an arm and chew it with the taro root,
a hearty fool with artichoke and Swiss chard to garnish you,
cooked far too long, nutrients departed you
but top-grade sauce made with sauteed garlic'll do.
I keep comparing art to food, they gon' take it there,
say I'm aping Action down to race, carriage and facial hair,
so I'mma switch to Brother Ali: say your prayers.
It's morning in America, that's why we make 'em scared.
Break your fast with some pancakes, grape jelly, jam, crepes, berry preserves.
Even with federal and state mandates against Fellowman they couldn't bury these words,
check it: they couldn't defeat us if they was abortionists,
couldn't BP us even though we flow ceaseless,
life or death, whose choice is this? Decisions forced
upon my sisters by revisionist courts
like that Religious Freedom Restoration Act,
ayo I hope I live to see this Pence's face get smacked
and every PD committing race-based attacks fade to black,
and that's whatever you wanna take from that.
Where my patience at? Same place my pension at.
Best be glad that my compassion ain't commensur-at,
I mean commensurate, reason why I mention that
cuz if it was I'd smoke a joker, Doug Benson that,
Judd Nelson that, raised fist, freeze frame,
don't you forget about your lane kid, please stay.
Business, I'll handle it by means necessary,
dedication Davises: Miles, Angela and Larry.
Track Name: That's Drama
[Verse 1]
Ain't no drama without conflict,
so throw bombs and bricks and whatever fits in your palm quick.
Fellowman grip mics and spit that hot shit,
teach your seeds not to believe in the congress,
Senate committees, any number of Obamas,
drop-kick the system, this a muthafuckin mosh pit.
A little blood might spill, don't let it make you vomit,
you know what it takes to make an omelette:
break eggs, break legs, make 'em beg,
sledgehammer to the face of them racist feds.
If you're with me then you'll make that unbreakable pledge,
recognize that we all got a rape to avenge.
The rich stay bitch, the poor stay ignored,
fuck the Red Cross, too good for the 9th Ward,
windows stay boarded, babies unsupported
and that might just be the realest shit I done recorded.
Drama.

[Verse 2]
What you expect, respect? I'm a Reagan orphan,
raised on AIDS and endorphins,
in a haze of secondhand stories of Woodstock and free love,
but that gun with the wood stock was enough.
Pops rocked Marvin, Dylan and Sly Stone,
I looked up to Arnold, Bruce Willis and Sly Stallone.
And I'm not alone, shit, my whole age bracket
was taught the only way to solve a problem's to attack it.
Like, when I was little we was in Nicaragua,
remember Oliver, Contra, who the fucking monster?
Next thing you know we was bombing Saddam, bruh,
a year or two later we had the Balkans and Somalia.
Then a crew that included a dude named Atta
gave us an excuse for another decade of slaughter,
we finally got fed up and took a chance on Obama,
now my boy getting deployed next fall, that's drama.

[Verse 3]
All the dramatics toss salads with automatics,
put two in your cabbage and fluid that matches radishes
oozes into the cracks in the sewer under Madison Avenue,
that's just how they do, ain't even have to be mad at you.
There's a war going on you ain't safe from,
play dumb and get stung by the snake tongue,
it ain't a war between some troops and some foreigners,
it's a war between the human and corporate, the true and the fraudulent.
How confused can a culture get?
In order to make a fortune you must torture and abuse the unfortunate,
consume a disproportionate profusion of resources and
dismiss those who won't as just clueless and misinformed and shit.
And that's true if you're rich or poor or just
middle class, on some video store shit, dwindling fast.
Pick a genre, gimme drama, something to learn,
or give me action, disaster, and let me watch the motherfucker burn.
Track Name: 29
Soon as I hear an MC that's tight, I'm seized by the need to write,
every word steaming like I'm speaking on a freezing night,
cap peeling, turn a Katt Williams to a Steven Wright,
deadpan, like Robin Williams in your speaker, right.
Not left, pop, better spot-check your knot, rent
out hiphop's penthouse, ain't no room at at the top left.
Press record and I'mma smash sixteens,
scandalous like if the press report I smashed six teens.
Pause, no, that was Rob Lowe sniffing raw blow,
all I do is stick up for the dirt like I robbed Lowes.
You know the drill, the squad pros,
my art mix high and low, Frieda Kahlo, Petey Pablo.
Try to spit the shit I spit and dislocate your jaw though,
bad idea, dismal failure, Bristol Palin's ma though.
Iced neck, sloppy up in Spago?
Pago, get your price checked cuz every bar cold.
I'm far from Chicago, meaning I am not commonplace,
Fellow not Tom Morello, I never stop the rage,
29 but my mind is like Halley's Comet's age,
paleontology could just barely approximate.
Track Name: I Speak Volumes (ft. JaySo)
[Intro]
Turn up the bass
Say fuck the jake
You taking up space
Turn another page
Get your mustard straight
Before you suffocate
The rusty blade I cut your nations with is custom-made

[Chorus]
I speak volumes, I speak volumes,
I speak volumes, boy, I speak volumes
[x2]

[Verse 1 – JaySo]
Gimme time, feel the vibe of a nigga,
just survive, stay alive with a nigga,
a better life set aside for a nigga,
never lied, swear to God if I did it.
Cut ties, gave me lemons, made mudpies,
out a dirty upbringing made an uprise.
Surprise, til I die never subside,
even lions about the pride til the cub dies.
I never get a chance to speak my piece,
paint a picture with the lyrics, they can see my speech.
Started out with nothing, made it piece by piece
like it's Legos, holla “leggo” till I reach my peak.
If y'all the heat, I seek to destroy,
d-boys street-sweep these decoys,
with this rhythm I just kick it, Bruce Leroy,
never switching, for my city still a beast boy.
If it's ever a problem I stick to the code, she standing beside me,
she pick of the litter, these niggas was probably picking they nose
I sense how they got me so twisted cuz really
I'll die for my business, they're living for clothes,
I'll never forget how deprived I was living,
decided my mission, dispensing these flows—yes,
notes make a nigga go tonedeaf, high like a fighter drone jet
sly like a private own tryna bite my style, he ain't find his own yet.
Only I decide if I should ride or play the wall,
you don't like the quiet guy, he silent right reciting volumes.

[Chorus]

[Verse 2 – Fellowman]
Careful who you overlooking, I'm known the jux and
never pay for ass, so I could give a fuck about your vocal hooking,
local shows you booking, the Os you pushing,
your meanest verse ain't even worth the change between my sofa cushions.
You commonplace, like a roach in Brooklyn,
I'm special like Allah's grace to a devoted Muslim.
My life's an open book and you can read the fine print,
copyright page says “product of his environment.”
Though operating on a plane that mine is higher than,
these ballers claim they rock like Amadeus with the violin
but their songs remain uninspired, and what they call the game's
a trauma patient tryna find the proper place to die up in.
Fuck the fake conversations they're lying in
politics vague when they're making alliances.
When I drop leave a crater as wide as the
weight of the water displaced by Leviathan.
The conflagration that fires him
not to be tamed as it rages, a five-alarm
blaze with an oxygen craving the size of a small room,
when I fall through.

[Chorus x2]
Track Name: Old Days
This shit remind me of my grimy old days,
fitted on top a rag on some '90s Ghostface,
get with me out back with the kine and we gon' blaze,
the sack hit you like a lineback in a pro game.
You cant QB my QP, you so tame,
on the QT I'll Bruce Lee your whole frame.
In the cypher cutting loose and calling bros names,
then holler at cuties and try to coax brains.
Now I'm feeling like it's old age, bones ache,
hang on the corner and go home with toe pain,
thinking about Rogaine, missing how I used to go ham,
but it's no shame, time provokes change.
But I still rock a fitted, not a snapback,
ain't fuck with the knapsack, and my name lacks “Mac,”
so don't bracket me with none of that frat rap claptrap, I'm apt to snap,
assault and batter like fatback next to a flapjack.
Yeah, this is that track when I say “I'm back, ho,”
digging all up in your back ho like a backhoe.
It's safe to say these days I'm in attack mode,
flavors from VA, but ain't slave tobacco.
No longer pack bowls, don't fuck with frat bros,
dropping them bad habits micro to macro,
ain't tryna act like no pastor or saint though,
but the mic flow stay Tabasco, case closed.
I offered peace but you passed on it,
in all honesty I wasn't all that astonished.
You been asking for that ass to get admonished,
how you gonna act knowledgable but don't acknowledge?
This that quarter-ounce piff, 20 bag knowledge,
you like a porterhouse, thick with some fat pockets—
ain't talking about the way you stack profits,
I'm saying that your gray matter got a few too many flab deposits.
Look, I was a wild kid too,
but like Mos said, certain shit you just don't do,
I'm an old head, learn the game and heed those rules,
no respect is a hurt apologies won't soothe.
In the old days I'd blow haze like CO2,
but I won't fake, no Rozay, no CO too,
plain as the nose on my face I'd breathe smoke through
I never sold weight but I would see Os too.
Now it's no place for zeroes like Sudoku,
seaweed floating in my miso soup with tofu;
soft, squishy, only tough when it gets heated,
I'm old enough to know the type when I see it.
Old enough to be grateful for blessings I'm receiving,
old enough to know what beef is,
I'm old enough to know the road is rough, but kids, I can show them stuff,
old enough to fold a cuff, word to Freak Aliaz, he knows what's up.
I'm old enough to show sober love,
not vacant infatuation that don't last past a token fuck.
I'm patching up my broken trust,
learning not to hide amongst the crowd like the Joker in the stolen bus.
Yeah I still joke and cuss, spit, swagger and pose and strut,
I know my boasting days ain't over, but,
painting a room the only time I roll the Dutch Boy,
I'm old enough to know a soldier from a plush toy.
You perform, probably make some suckers applaud,
like US foreign policy, get the puppets installed,
but deep down you know you're fake, and it stuck in your craw,
really ain't no one to blame, just the luck of the draw,
but insecurity wouldn't let you adjust to it all,
so you pointed your fury at someone that wasn't involved,
for the sake of your ego, start a ruckus and brawl
and that's one of the main reasons I ain't fucking with y'all.
Track Name: Demon's Gate (ft. Remy St. Clair)
[Verse 1 – Fellowman]
Angels to some, demons to others.
The city bank it, senate bites it like it's Lehman Brothers.
Put the barrel to your apparel, best not penny-pinch,
get your JP Morgan chased down and your Merrill lynched.
Fill them sacks with the gold man, run the rings,
dump your ass in wells far, go and bring the changelings.
Seven days up on the ransom note to pay for things,
seven-digit hands on throats, ending the reigns of kings.
Fuck your monarchy, Kate Middleton,
Grace Kelly, you know the policy, break militant.
Stay diligent, villain in the bing'll
put a pencil in a vein like the state Philly in.
Now you lost serenity, Nate Fillion,
papers say they brilliant, I really ain't feeling 'em.
Wanna take pity? Devil in the cell again,
get the gate ready and for God's sake seal him in.
Mash, son of man, splashed with the blood of the lamb,
better act like you understand
when they come with the gun in the hand
making demands on a plundered land, damn.
Move through the underground like a hundred grand worth of contraband
from Japan, kaiju stomping remind you of all of the violence this country began!

[Verse 2 – Remy St. Clair]
When skies darken and seas turn into blood,
and your memories are now your enemies, you're a shell, a piece of what was,
behind the demon gate, it incubates
all your innermost fears that lie in wait,
it'll instigate and then manipulate
until you bend, break, or lose shape.
Through hellfire and brimstone I push on,
cuz I know that every test and trial that'll come along'll make me stronger.
Kid indigo, third eye open like you ain't know,
and I walked through the fire many years ago
like Shadrach, Meshach and Abendigo.
Do you really wanna go to war
with the beast, with the brute, with the freak, with the hellion?
Do you think you have what it takes
to show you're a maven and lead the rebellion?
You better get your ass in the game,
it's a sin and a shame you don't use that melon,
and you say you got it all worked out,
meanwhile they got you all mapped out like Magellan.
Who you tellin'? These angels and demons are one and the same,
decalcify to reboot the brain, a capful of bleach to cleanse the frame,
sin and a shame if you don't maintain,
internal warfare over hat and snare,
the fear's in the air, so do you dare?
The beast is in here and through you he peers!
Track Name: Sons & Daughters
[Verse 1]
Fellowman be that MC with a propensity
to get intensely funky like some head cheese, where my benjis?
My dogs got jaws like Benchley's,
if skills sold, my little toe would go for ten Gs,
and weigh a hundred pounds, get it John popping like the runaround,
welcome to the underground,
feet stay planted on the planet while my spirit stay upward bound,
lyric lift you to the summit then plunge you down!
My man said, “dead the microphone hero shit,
stack your c-notes thick, then you can ego trip.”
I got salty like a Frito chip, cuz I believe in this,
it ain't about an east coast tip.
Fellow never claimed that he load clips,
never claimed to be so rich, never call a queen no bitch,
never diss a rapper cuz the beat don't hit,
he throw wit at the empire, elite beat poet.

[Chorus]
For my (sons and daughters)
You know I do it for my, for my (sons and daughters)
[x2]

[Verse 2]
I don't freestyle a lot, but when I do it's kinda hot
cuz I defile the spot, I'm not the type that you should try to stop.
It's no surprise I drop pearls off the dome,
cuz like the hymn says, this world is not my home.
See, I'm a native of a spiritual plane,
but I came to this planet to bring the lyrical pain
to anyone that's interfering with change, make it clear to the laymen,
this shit is not mere entertainment.
If I appear to be brazen, it's in the spirit of saying
that anything you want is here for the taking,
long as you don't adhere to the lame trends, steer clear of the fake friends,
remember you're a miracle made flesh.
This life'll put you through a myriad paces,
haters that'll jeer in your faces, unforeseen changes,
they may be weird, but embrace them,
each fear that you face'll bring you nearer to greatness.

[Chorus]
Track Name: Absalom, Absalom! (ft. Jamarc)
[Verse 1 – Fellowman]
Drunk on some slave sweat, paid with a blank check,
dressed in Sunday best, but not ready for the grave yet,
pearl-handled steel revolver, filled with plea deals and offers,
pills and proverbs—I've got to kill my father.
He sold the union's soul, now he's afraid to be too exposed,
so he deep-six scrolls that prove his role
in both the old and new Jim Crow,
Truman Show, Wounded Knee, who controls the currency,
interest rates, redlines, loans and the police?
Sick from the wine of violence, threw up in the pail,
blood is not thicker than the liquor of betrayal,
six black churches burned to the ground,
it's just another week in the belly of the whale.
I'll go to the city of Nineveh,
the sinning of men that are hateful,
they could put a stop to the pain,
but instead they to continue to claim it ain't racial.
So fuck Lincoln, the proper model is John Brown.
Go ahead, police my tone, tell me to calm down.
Tell me how disappointed you are that I'm not proud,
then let me pick out some red cotton for your coffin shroud.

[Chorus]
Mastodon stomp Babylon,
you know they're acting wrong,
what would you sacrifice
to see the palace gone,
Crumbled into rubble and spat upon?
Asalaam alaikum, I'll make 'em awaken Absalom.
[x2]

[Verse 2 – Jamarc]
Nat Turner, John Brown,
your fist ain't raised, you best sit down,
you should be afraid in the USA
if you're tryna get away with enslaving us now.
Who got the whips and grips and shit now?
Turning up with that clack sound.
Feel that thump up in your soul?
That's how you know there's a new black in town.
We ain't backing down, we're a faction now,
when the government says they're cracking down,
we got a squad for them men in black when they come 'round
and we all bang, we ain't acting loud.
Went to DC and packed it out,
not even BET had their cameras out,
I guess Gil Scott really had the facts back then,
cuz the revolution ain't getting action now.
I don't really care if you're scared of me,
please, don't take it personal,
I'm fighting for the right to be me,
outside of getting vertical.
Criminalized in a criminal's eyes,
villainized, manhood effeminized,
inner-city enterprise gets demonized,
sick of this shit and can't get immunized.
This here is the thirty-third degree,
homie said “burn it down,” that's when it occurred to me
that regardless of the outcome of Bernie, Hillary,
this is all just a game in the Valley of the Kings.

[Chorus]