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At eight or ten I wondered why my voice wasn't breaking yet |
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I was impatient to get from A to Z |
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so I'd break a sweat, play cassettes in my tape deck |
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waiting for the day I could step to a stage |
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and get paid respect, paid a cheque |
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maybe the other kids would even play with me then |
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It's great to pretend the tune was written for you |
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that's why you sing with the radio while it ignores you |
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You perform awful but feel a lot better |
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Boom Boom Boom, Here Come the Hotstepper |
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Even back then my preference was funky |
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but less funky house than House in the Country |
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Syncopation, soul, anybody ill with it |
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other kids had Whigfield, I was feeling Bill Withers |
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and to this day I'm still with him |
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because nothing beats a sweet voice on distilled rhythms |
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I'm digging up my roots for you |
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Cooking up a little tuneful food |
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Come to the garden for a barbecue |
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and chill with me |
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Before I even saw South Park on TV |
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I knew by heart the South Park CD |
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GTA: 1969 opened a life long affinity for Trojan |
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Return of Django, Skinhead Moonstomp |
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music of Jamaican origin liberating my boom box |
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Too young for Appetite for Destruction |
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so The Offspring were my rock introduction |
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That was all I needed to be free |
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a CD with some power chords shredding like a power saw |
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"Fuck me, wow" I thought |
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how can plucked strings be this powerful? |
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But then I found another source of auditory debauchery |
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this naughty teen thought was sweet |
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I bought a CD by an emineMC |
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called "Hi! My Name Is Slim Shady" |
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I played it in my hi-fi daily |
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it never seemed to cease to amaze me |
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He'd say some crazy things |
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that were great for a teenager that needed danger |
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I'd replay the lyrics amazed |
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at the way the images would flicker in my brain so vividly |
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An outsider, a country bumpkin |
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sitting inside with the Outsidaz bumping |
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There's something about rhymes |
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nothing else quite does as well, I love it |
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Cypress Hill: Live at the Fillmore |
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I'm not going to lie, that film was raw |
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Each rap I heard, each film I saw |
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inspired me to build my skills some more |
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so I bought more CDs to imitate |
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Believe me, back in the day it was great |
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I'm digging up my roots for you |
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Set the mood and feel those soothing grooves |
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Come to the garden for a barbecue |
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and chill with me |
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I had piano lessons after every last school day |
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but my patience was thinner than an anorexic |
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I didn't want to play ballads anyway |
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I had a daydream of breakbeats and a pen and paper |
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So I said I'd make the make believe real |
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and make some real reel to reels like B-Real |
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But the magic's made on computers today |
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so I used Magix Music Maker |
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Read the instructions, learnt all the book |
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taught myself big beats like Norman Cook |
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Always cooking up a new track |
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though with no microphone I couldn't actually do rap |
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That was too bad, but it wasn't too bad |
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'cause I'd already forgot and had a new fad |
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Threw away The Source, bought a new mag |
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made new mates, talked in new slang |
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I was a punk rocker now, proper loud |
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would you believe I grabbed any opportunity to fuck about? |
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But what about the music? I've gone and lost it now |
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So I grabbed a guitar and started rocking out |
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Made a band with my mates called MatronsApron |
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We played around, made some tapes it was great fun |
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full of belly laughs |
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even recieved a brief mention in the Telegraph |
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Just a couple of kids, played a couple of gigs |
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and then my mates moved on but fuck if I did |
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Obviously too late, got a copy of Cubase |
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a lot of tunes made, now it's today |
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I've innovated, took my inspirations in and made them |
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into an original addition to your playlist |
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So now I meditate about how to elevate |
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'cause Safe was the safety net to let me levitate |
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I'm picking my best fruit for you |
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You're the one, and I'd like tea for two |
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Come to the garden for a barbecue |
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and chill with me |