[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...")
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