Ci sono e ci sono stati, tra tutti i generi musicali, valanghe di dischi a tematica politica e sociale infarciti di retorica. Di quelli che al primo impatto sembrano colorati di un bel rosso-fuoco (o nero-pece) ma che visti in controluce svelano i riflessi verde-BenjaminFranklinvecchiaemissione. E poi c'è Let's Get Free dei Dead Prez, disco a cui è impossibile trovare incoerenza, visti i divulgatori che l'hanno partorito nel 2000: M1 e stic.man, duo di MCs attivisti radicali, afrocentristi e discretamente razzisti.
Ma è giusto che siano le canzoni, o meglio i testi, ad inquadrare la serietà della faccenda. Perchè è un lavoro talmente compatto ed identitario che non è possibile trovare doppi significati a rime che si spiegano da sole. Te le sparano in faccia senza mezze misure. Se sei bianco non pensare di metterla sulla polemica perchè questi non sono argomenti dedicati a te. Se sei bianco e fai parte dell'Establishment non pensare di metterla sulla polemica perchè questi sono argomenti contro di te.
" they schools can't teach us shit
my people need freedom, we tryin to get all we can get
all my high school teachers can suck my dick
tellin me white man lies straight bullshit "
Ti mettono subito in chiaro chi sono ("I Am a African"), che cosa vogliono ("We want Freedom") e le questioni che non funzionano ("They Schools", "Police State", "Animal in Man"). Per fugare ogni dubbio sulla loro posizione all'interno del mondo musicale (il pezzo si intitola semplicemente "Hip Hop") sputano altre rime su come "la vita reale sia qualcosa di più importante di tutti questi dischi finti, nei quali i poveri diventano miliardari e la mia donna trattata male" e ancora "se sei un combattente che infiamma le folle, o solamente uno che vuole stonarsi e basta, non aver paura di dirlo nei tuoi dischi. Ma se invece sei un bugiardo, con l'uccello in calore [...], guarda che ti sgamo quando ascolto il tuo disco". Per concludere inesorabilmente con "Mi sono rotto il cazzo di tutto questo scenario rap e RnB fatto di finti criminali che occupano le radio tutto il santo giorno. Sempre le stesse scenette nei video: è un materiale monotono. Ma voi non mi sentite, vero?".
Il tutto è accompagnato da basi scarne improntate su ritmi percussivi. Le produzioni sono tutte loro, coadiuvate da Lord Jamar (dei Brand Nubian, e il cerchio si chiude) più Kayne W in una canzone.
Senza fronzoli e orpelli. Senza trovate divertenti o ironiche. Il disco è serissimo dall'inizio alla fine. E non ci sono dubbi, non potrebbe essere altrimenti.
" nigga the red is for the blood in my arm
the black is for the gun in my palm
and the green is for the tram that grows natural
like locks on africans
holdin the smoke from the herb in my abdomen "
Elenco tracce testi e video
45 The Pistol (04:25)
We ain't tryin to hear shit for what? (Cash money)
We whole world operating off a (Cash money)
To all my niggas with a whole lotta (Cash money)
Watch yo' back money
You couldn't neva understand how my mind tick
I'm on some old school crime shit
When niggas sold two's to keep the dimes lit
Ain't no rules when these iron shots are stoned dun
This heat burn through your flesh, stright to the bones
I reach for the buddha cess and zone
I probably have a future of stress, stay depressed and be alone
But as far as the present time its on
I represent mine til I return to the S and said I'm dead and gone
Nobody wanna be broke and you neither
Put me on the co'na, watch me catch a quick case of cream fever
If you be poppin shit my niggas won't believe ya
Probably punch you in the face and take ya wallet when we see ya
But son it gets deeper
I'm runnin with a click thats bein' hunted by the grim reaper
To all my peoples in the man keeper
Let'cha situation be a teacher
Ain't nothin like a education
When I was locked down I learned about patience and dedication
And not to say shit, unless you need a motherfuckin face lift
And as a youth I was a outcast
Runnin around with pellot guns playin war but now it's all about cash
Chorus:
I'm caught up, caught up in a mix of shit
And I ain't tryin to hear shit til my got cash to get
Blast you with the pistol
If I have to, in my mind its all about cash in a fistfull
I'm caught up in a mix of shit
And I ain't tryin to hear shit til my got cash to get
Splash you with the pistol
If I have to, in my mind its all about cash in a fistfull
Up late night and upset, and fed up
Niggas comin up wet, I'm dead up
Fuck tryin to your head up
And when it go down, word bond we gotta get up
Too many locked down upstate, son its a set up
My life has sped up, many years I'm straight up
Plenty bears for who ain't here and those who ate up
Test and get sprayed up in the club
We couldn't run it so we take the blade up in the booth
Since we couldn't shoot
We heat it up, losin the shirt, showin the bare chest
I'm blessed, puffin the skunk make me care less
The best that you can do is duck my fuckin crew
If the slugs don't get'cha, lord J'll jig ya
Actin artificial you'll get burnt my the pistol
Before its done, even my guns'll turn to missles
Don't have to blow the whistle on you
'Cuz everybody knows you
Watch yourself around borderline pyschos
Who know my people gotta hold a mint
Or they ain't worth a cent
How can you represent, if you can't pay the rent
And leave a dent in my life time, I'm caught up in trife crime
In fights you neva know what you might find
We stand firm meanwhile cuz niggas that seem wild
Be buckin blanks, if they were men they wouldn't fuck with pranks
I leave them niggas alone and stay home
Unitl it cool down as they remember how my tool sound
Chorus
We ain't tryin to hear shit for what? (Cash money)
We whole world operating off a (Cash money)
To all my niggas with a whole lotta (Cash money)
Watch yo' back money
Yeah, we up on what we dealing with
We ain't no criminals
We got the right to have gats
As long as the army, navy, air force, marines got gats
We gon' hold heat, knamsayin?
'Cuz our army gotta represent for us
Word up
Aiyyo, Maintain (Yeah)
Set that shit son
Forever keeping my shit cocked for drama
Stainless steal, shit is for real
The way these rats is known to squeal, makin' sour deals
Thugs up in to mix with these drugs, caught up in the humble
Bricks and paper by the bundle how the Bronx humble
??? devils get deaded, never regret it, only known to set it
Stealin existence obviuosly ya jetted
Speak the desest, I see the pyramid and eagle
Back of the dollar bill, ill decitful, we consider leathal
God fallin, niggas be ballin, guzzlin alcoholics
Two drinks, too many is like whitey infulltrating your fortress
This is on, we 'bout to form, best prepare for the storm
Ya'll funny niggas quick to ring the alarm
Bomb fell, now a nation is gel
We had to dwell for four hundred or more
The Lord had the right just livin poor
Resurrectin the true and livin back the power
Devils getiin devoured, niggas heard the god holla
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