I will say, this is one of my all-time favorite Screw tapes, for multiple reasons, but this song is a big part of it. Boom bap screwed is like what I wish he had always dabbled in more, and less of the fucking gangsta shit. This song is the ultimate Screw song to check out if you never have: the repeating lines, usually three times then move on but occasionally he tweaks the standard method; the druggy pre-echoes of drum kicks; the assaultive repetition of gun shots; and just the general thick humidity southern goodness of something that should’ve took five minutes to get through taking twelve minutes. Multiply that by real life, and how a five hour drive takes twelve, or a job you was gonna have for five months, you end up at for a year, or the car that’s got to last you five years ends up rolling the odometer twice and is still in the yard twelve years later. That’s Screw, and that’s my life, and that’s those that I know that I respect, and that’s how I wish the fucking world spun but it don’t because it wants five minute songs to go down to three, and it lives by the desire for money that ends up killing off KRS’s main character in this song. Misplaced priorities and loving upon that which lacks true value, it’s gonna get you. Speed it up and youtube it and tweetbook thumbs up it, but it’s still running the wrong way.
Lately I’ve been burdened internally by this belief that American humanity is diseased, and not in a weird faggot hippie dude, “Kill your TV braddah!” type of way, but like for-real diseased. Like all these things we are encouraging, cybertronically in our lives, what does it do to our internal organs. No one has ever been able to scientifically explain a gut feeling, much less where your soul (if one exists) could be, which in most metaphysical religious traditions tends to be nearby where your umbilical cord would go when you was a rice flake sized organism in your mama’s belly. What does all this radiation do to that? Science don’t know and the product people don’t want to upset their product parade, and most folks are all too excited to have little electronic things that could conceivably do big worldwide things, except mostly they just play Space Invaders with their texts and emails, trying to fight it all down to nothing in the inbox.
There’s got to be more to all this than that clusterfuck of technology at my fingertips. I’m not saying I know what it is, and I’m no luddite that thinks we should sit fireside and pick the lice from our offsprings’ dreadlocks, but shit man, something ain’t right. I know that much. When I drive up and down the same goddamned roads every day and bust my soul to turn fake dollars into food stuffs and talking phones and bright lights in the middle of the sunless night, that’s about the only thing I’m sure of I know... something ain’t fucking right.
STEAL "Love's Gonna Get You"
NEXT UP: Grimy famous rock, thus not so grimy since punk ass fratboys love it too.
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