"Chinatown" explores the relationship that the older, more prominent rappers and teachers in Chicago have with those younger than them and, in line with the film the song is named for and whose score it samples, exposes what some may consider too harsh to be real.
Produced and mixed by OnGaud.
Cover art by Allen Arango.
Where we at: ‘Lac wheels, banana clips, black peels
No fakin’ the funk if your act’s real; pill bottles with cracked seals
Fast mills, last meals, fifteen minutes on the gag reels,
All gold ‘til it rust over, ain’t shit bout this Russ Stover.
Sweet gone sour in the hour of your chaos.
And you find your idols through the power of a seance.
Ain’t tryna die at twenty-seven like Jimi or Janis or Amy or Kurt,
that ain’t the aim of my work, like missing her face and then staining her skirt
Homie I’m turnin’ this paper to Hearst, makin’ it plain as a prayer in church,
Moon made of ink and a crater of hurt. I’ll make an Earth with the weight of this verse.
Planet of rock that’s so hot that you gotta be cooler than cool to be capable first
and I can’t really tell all these natives of Hell whether truth or a fable is worse.
All y’all doin’ is rappin’ to prove that it matters, but that isn’t shit to the fans.
They gon’ escape to the rhythm and dance. You gon’ be sittin’ with lint in your hands.
So peep how g they keep it with they image full of secrets.
They glass house is cracked out, you gon’ see it to believe it.
HOOK: And they don’t get enough. Rip and run. Give it up.
Make the music that we love. Let ‘em down. Beat ‘em up.
Then put ‘em in the system on they own, leave ‘em stuck.
And we don’t even care if someone else’ll treat ‘em rough.
The bigger they are, the harder they hit. The quicker you crack in the arc of they fist,
the quicker your jaw is rewarded by being a small little part of their wrist.
Targeting lips like plotting a kiss, and you won’t be holding ‘em back
until your body reposes, collapsed like there’s an archery bow in your back.
I’m sick of the vigils, memorials, wakes, a funeral dress and a bow at the waist,
A mother whose wailin’ and moanin’ and shakin’ are growin’ in tone when they’re showin’ the face
of the daughter or son or the brother or husband or nephew or cousin too slow to esccape
becoming a bundle of roses and poses and photos that glow with their corpse when in state.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Wait ‘til summer when the leaves out.
Wait ‘til the number of runners and gunners bring another bit of hunger and police out.
When jobs dry up and the lease out, and the mayor don’t care or reach out,
when it ain’t no snow or rain or hail or breeze bad enough to keep the beast out.
Most of these kids ain’t even bad, just waves in the wake of an evil act.
Fate full of sheets, three meals, and staff sittin’ in the back of their reading class.
Eating trash, steamin’ mad, notebook of poems they keepin’ stashed,
and I don’t do nothin’ but preach the past as tears dot i’s on my legal pad.