(No Ratings Yet)An older track from one of my favourite rappers, Sonnyjim. Off his E.P. “Soul Trader” this title track reveals Sonnyjim’s personal take on his method of approaching his music: writing, rapping, recording. Some great wordplay -…
VERSE 1:
SONNYJIM
- Every time I sit and write, I try and put my all into it,
- As if the world’s in my hands, spinning it on my fingertips,
- Quick to grip a Biro, sketch a technical and slideshow,
- Write raps with a buzz like a breaker on the lino,
- I wonder where my time goes, fresh pace, change clothes,
- I doodle over drums and I bounce over bass tones,
- Canoodle with the kick; pitch the vocal till the climax,
- While running through the rhyme pad, I hurdle over high hats,
- And finance the hijack, to muster up the energy,
- To pen some sweet memories over these street melodies,
- My memory’s a minister; my enemy’s the prisoner,
- My metaphors will morph into the mind of the listener.
- Inner vision in particular, when the pen penetrates,
- This game is raw vinyl, I’ve been sent to set the record straight,
- Jim is grinning with joy when I’m flipping a coin,
- ‘Cause if the writer ain’t a reader then he’s missing the point.
VERSE 2:
SONNYJIM
- It’s like Beckham’s on the page the way I bend the words,
- I write a sentence first, then pen an endless verse,
- With such tremendous girth that it could dent the earth,
- But first I search my flat for a pen that works,
- I’m hunchback over a pad, till my neck catch a cramp,
- The A4 champ, I freehand under a lamp,
- Breaking bread rolls, looking for Line Outs and getting dead tones,
- “Oy! Engineer! Where’s the beat? I can’t hear nothing in my headphones!”
- Turn my mic. Up a touch but don’t get carried away,
- Me and the music marinate, my voice marries the break,
- It’s the honeymoon freak; spit the blues on a beat,
- My love for the art shines through when I speak,
- True to my speech, I don’t sneak through the backdoor,
- Nor do I encourage teaching free thought on a blackboard,
- I get practice on plastic, scribble over static,
- Hands are made of magnets; mics. are naturally attracted.
- Blame it on the fat kid, like broadcast a bomb scare,
- You’re busy bickering about hardware and software,
- From Hell’s End, this is the Stone Man; the pen’s best friend,
- Talking MPCs, Pcs and 12/10s.
- ‘Nuff wax for the decks, DJs with fat sets,
- Bare freestyles for heads to judge who can rap best,
- “One twos” and mic. checks get the stress off my chest,
- My desk is a mess with bare discs and cassettes.
- I guess you know how it goes, if the instrumental’s dope,
- I make a mental note, and then I envelope the quotes,
- Strive to get the sound right, flow like a down pipe,
- You bought a £5 mic. and don’t see the down side.
- Cloud 9 crazy, like our cannabis laws,
- Loopy DJs with more wax than Madame Tussaud’s,
- Take two and pass it to the hardest working artist,
- The ink hits the target until I clock the cartridge.
VERSE 3:
SONNYJIM
- The Soul Trader chasing dreams; to some it seems make-believe,
- Props to JBC for lacing me with the blazing beat,
- Take a seat, listen, Hip Hop I’ll do you proud,
- Fuck moving units, I just want to move the crowd,
- Whether it’s caners or ravers, skaters in trainers,
- My pen is the breaker, the pad is the pavement,
- People stare in amazement at the heads with super powers,
- They don’t know about the hard work; hitting the lab for hours,
- The hide-away Hermit, I hang around the gaff,
- Every verse reveals more to who’s the man behind the mask,
- Like I have to find my path, like when Tupac went to Cuba,
- It’s xxxx, shit I should have been bigger sooner.
- I still vouch for myself like I’m the suitable applicant,
- Where you’re putting up perimeters, I’m breaking down barriers,
- With an absolutely fabulous standard of rhyming,
- Sonnyjim signing out, peace, and thanks for your time.
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