Loopdigga

[Verse: Madlib] A-yo, I'm the type of brother That don't like to hear the same thing over and over So I don't listen to the radio I go beat shopping with my brothers or my lady, yo They take me to the spots, so I can dig Come home with the fat stack and dig Instead of playing sports, I'd rather dig (Fuck that football shit) Call my nigga Kan Kick to see if he got this shit Yo, you heard that Cal Tjader? (Yeah, yeah, that's that shit!) We be sprung off them loops like brothers play hoops Playing old static loop tapes for Lex, Jeeps, Bizzers, and Coupes Keep sampling wack while I dig up the raw core Aiyyo, I'm out, I gotta go the record store Peace! [Interlude: Madlib, (M.E.D.)] Damn, what time is it? Tryin' to think, should I hit up that T.O. spot, hit that L.A... Damn... next week we're going to the Bay, so... Aye, there go Med – aye, aye, Med! (Yeah is that Madlib?) Aye, cat! (Aye, what's up, Madlib?) Sup (Wussup!) About three blunts... shit... [Sample Change] [Verse 2: Medaphoar] Blaze this for all y'all By all means necessary, raw, no holds barred Spit at y'all, sixteen bars of war for who you sleeping on Emcees acting hard, nutting up to catch blue balls Stomp before you pawn the dark paws when I drop dogs Landing multiples, no charge when beef starts Med ends it with a verse that snaps you retards You fall off, 'cause no heart California mindstate, I regulate Rhyme penetrate right through your chest plate Checkmate fate for your demo tape in yellow tape With one trace – Med the master race throughout the Tri-State On a daily base, stay laced with a verse to rock the universe A skirt, blowing up and won't burst There's lessons to be learnt When I'm on fire, you stay concerned 'Cause I'm eager to burn biters for the chips as they earn That's my word, drink, smoke a pound of herb, heard And swerve my way to learn 805 ways to get served with words [Interlude: Madlib, Quasimoto] Finally here Hmm, what should I get? Mad selections... Damn... that 1969 Axelrod (Damn!) Steve Kuhn... you know that got some Fender Rhodes on it Oh shit, I ain't seen that Roy Ayers... (Ohh) 1968, good year, good year... What about that Bug Out shit? Nah... Ornette Coleman (Ornette? I ain't wastin' my money) Aye, can you hold my record? I'll be right back 'Bout to go hit this weed Damn... man, they got mad shit Man, it's cold as fuck out here (True, true) Light that shit... Two hits and pass... two hits and pass, man, what the fuck?! Steppin' back in this piece, man... I'll be back [Sample change] [Verse 3: Madlib] Ever since I was young, digging in my Pop's stack Sampling off cassettes, 33s, 45s and 8-tracks Rare wax, a true loop digga's attraction Always spend a fraction of my check on fat jams Second hand stores get rushed like area wars You could always catch me digging at your local record stores For the raw, buying vinyl until my final Days, blow away pay, various ways to connect Fat loops, put mics in check Turn the SP on and commence to dissect (True... true) Bust a vest in your rest, 'cause you're fake, nigga So how many y'all niggas know about crate digging? [Outro: Scratches by DJ Romes] "Madlib!" "With the beats that be thorough" "'Bout to give it to you 24/7" "7..." "Put it through the SP, then stretch it..." ("Then stretch it..." "Then stretch it..." "Then stretch it...")