We're Your Age was printed on recycled materials by Bellwether Manufacturing. It includes a double-sided fold-out "mini-poster" and you will also receive a sticker. HANDMADE LYRICS BOOKS ARE NO MORE!! We're Your Age is Anti-Swag Fiend Party's first full-length release and has 12 tracks.
Includes unlimited streaming of We're Your Age (FREE DOWNLOAD)
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ships out within 2 days
edition of 500
Top rock. Work the lung. This is how it gets done. You know that song that you sing? Well, hip-hop doesn't get sung. Got the right kicks, bought the right record. Get down with vinyl if you want to scratch better. And you want to scratch better because we made the weather to do this together, down to the last letter. It's this way, it's that. It's already correct. Break the faulty bones. Don't even protect ya neck. I paid my dues, yo! Show me some respect! I gotta label all kinds of shit so that I can keep it in check! And there's so many dots that I don't bother to connect. Evolution in music is something I allow myself to neglect. But what about diction? Like if it's about heart or the money? Are they rappers or emcees? Well, they do the same fucking thing! Both are fucking rapping, king with high court terminology. Here's an ever dead jester evading hip-hop technology. We're dealing with a science masked as a culture and style. So polluted that I don't want to think about it for a while. It's a machine on fire, clanking and clattering, gears grinding and gathering. Calculations overstating all their ratings when they're taking what you're making. Who am I faking? It's my own rules that I'm breaking. The hypocrisy is penetrating. We're embarrassingly fascinating. I'm pointing fingers at pointed fingers and neither side is going to stop, but there should be nothing to it, so I don't do it in the name of hip-hop.
Now what’s real hip-hop? Is it the beginnin’? Outdoor jams with Kool Herc spinnin’? B-Beats with nothin’ written, just toasts to spit. Is that the real old school shit? Or is it ’82 when “The Message” hit, Duke Bootee and Melle Mel droppin’ consciousness. Might it be DMC, Rev-Run, and the Jam Master kickin’ hard rhymes and guitars through ya ghetto blaster. Fastforward to the late 80’s, round the time I was a baby. Maybe it’s that gangsta shit that drove the politicians crazy or the thugged out rappers with the diamonds on their chest or the white kids actin’ shady out in the Midwest. I guess it’s hard to say what it is today, but I know it’s not about the riches or the radio play. Call it an MC or a rapper, rap or hip-hop, either way, it’s all about standin’ up to tell ‘em what you gotta say.
What we are prepared to do is to drop dope rhymes; we want to see you move, but there's a style out there that we want to omit. So, throw your fingers in the air and yell "FUCK THAT SHIT." What we are prepared to do is to drop dope rhymes to get you in the groove. So, don't stand right there, move around a bit because everybody's got a voice. We're all allowed to spit, so tell them what you got to say.