by Grip Grand

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jakeisgreat Great album. I first heard about it years ago on a hip-hop forum and loved. Completely forgot about it until I saw it in a dollar bin at a used CD store, and still loved it. So you know I had to buy this to support it. Favorite track: Poppin' Pockets Remix feat. A.G..
Derek Lipkin
Derek Lipkin thumbnail
Derek Lipkin What a track. Just a perfect poem about hardship, woven into a tapestry of sound. Maybe the saddest song on the album. And yet, the most beautiful. Favorite track: Out of Service.
Prometheus77 thumbnail
Prometheus77 Straight Classic album. If you haven't listened to this, you are already missing out.
Danielle McBride
Danielle McBride thumbnail
Danielle McBride followed by Mr. Versatility, Hip-Hop Classic, Tomorrow, Handle That, Paper Cup, Poppin' Pockets Remix and Remember The Time ... that's a great album. Favorite track: 96 Tears (Shalem's Talk About It Mix).
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“Showtime” Written and Produced by Grip Grand/ G. Winogrond for Broakland Music, BMI (Yo!) Chorus: Young and dangerous, I’m the main event and I’m sayin’ it. Showtime! That’s entertainment. Wait a minute, this a masterpiece and I painted it, namin’ it. Showtime! That’s entertainment. Hey, it’s Grip, tryin’ to make chips like the Vegas strip, pay the rent. Showtime! That’s entertainment. That’s what the haters get, that’s what they playin’, it’s—wait for it— Showtime! That’s entertainment. Verse 1: Savor it, put it in your pocket for later, it’s My favorite, showtime, that’s entertainment. Songs that you sang to get Up when you’re down and get Down like you got paid, but it was counterfeit. How to live in Broakland with just fifty dolares? Problem is, you can’t sleep—the landlord is hollerin’. He keeps sayin’ “Yo, I need the rent by tomorrow n’ I’m callin’ in the cops to get your asses thrown out again!” Shoutin’ at the top of my lungs how I’m ‘bout to been Sprung out the B ‘cuz my team’s overpowerin’. Your dream’s over, now I’m in the place to be, housin’ it. Power trip! Grip plug it in like a power strip. ‘Bout to get to the nitty gritty like the heart of things. I love rap! You could do it, too. Be a part of things! They tried changin’ that, changin’ this, chainin’ us Up, but I fucked with the locks like I’m Jadakiss. (Chorus) Verse 2: Ya’ll get the vapors, plus Your DJ couldn’t make a paper cut. What up, Percee P? Thanks for “Paper Cup”. Scrapin’ up the last of my cash “Just to make a buck!” Out of fifteen cents—the shit isn’t addin’ up. Grip may have had enough, Bitch, now it’s batter up. Bulletmouth, spittin’ more shells than a bag of nuts. Had the touch, but I lost-ed it. Like my folks, got a divorce from it. Broakland! Of course it is Like a lead pipe across your ribs, The force of it takes your breath away. Torture? You don’t know what torture is! Grip is for the kids, punchlines and choruses, Fortunate, you’re all very lucky I recorded this. When the battle stops, Look, admit you’re hooked, Because I got more hooks than a tackle box. Waitin’ in the wings to be weighin’ in, they’re convinced, Made a dent—Showtime! That’s entertainment. (Chorus)
“Hip-Hop Classic” Written and Produced by Grip Grand/ G. Winogrond for Broakland Music, BMI (Adlibs) Verse 1: I’m from the West Coast, but I ain’t a felon or thug. I stay in fresh mode. Rappin’ is a hell of a drug. If you see the fam, tell ‘em it’s love that kept me in the lab, Outta touch, on the grind, sellin’ my blood In CDs and LPs, mixtape appearances… Kids say they waitin’ for that Grip plate, and here it is. Take it serious! They said it’s time to build? Well stand back and watch Grip make the pyramids! When I was a kid I had a tape of “Delirious”. It was hilarious! Sorta like your style, Which is why you’re embarr-a-ssed, file under “Various Artists Whose Songs Sound…When Compared to This”. I couldn’t care a bit. I’ve tooken care of it, And got the competition lookin’ for a therapist. It’ll prob’ly take a couple of sessions. Wait, tell the doctor that I got a couple of questions, like… Chorus: I’m tryin’ to make a hip-hop classic, so tell me what that is, Tell me what that is. It isn’t somethin’ you could sell in a package, But is it somethin’ you could tell if you have it? I think I started to develop a habit! I said I’m tryin’ to make a hip-hop classic, so tell me what that is, Tell me what that is. It isn’t somethin’ you could sell in a package, But is it somethin’ you could tell if you have it? I tried to tell ‘em I’m a hell of an addict… Verse 2: Here we go, low budget like matinees. Take your fronts out—Tom Hanks, “Castaway”, That’s your face. Rap is great, no debates. No mistakes, Grip ride with no b-brakes. Yo yo! Big things, call me overweight! Hope to make Hits like the Oakland A’s. Long time, work hard, get no r-raise, No p-praise, boss say you’re overpaid! In Broakland, where I make my stand, They cut the water and the power off. How I’m ‘posed to make my jams? Or rap fresh even if I ain’t bathed for days? Don’t make me laugh, like “Hkk-hkk-hkk!” Flavor Flav! Pay to play. Bay shit like Taydatay, I’m from the League—Rec League, not the JLA. We all drink, smoke, quote “In a Major Way”, And we don’t hate taxes—we don’t pay that shit! (Chorus)
“Win the War” Written and Produced by Grip Grand/ G. Winogrond for Broakland Music, BMI (Adlibs) Verse 1: We came to splash on the scene this year! Cookin’ audio crack, back to convert some new fiends this year. We Splack Packin’ on ‘em! Accurate verse, spit a razor. “Subscribe to the Broke Times—Don’t get the paper!” This is ’89, sucker, so duck! We want the cones to pop And blow the speaker-box outta your truck. Time’s up. Hard rocks, too! We walk to The beat of a different drummer In the winter, and summer when it’s hot, too! Do what I got to. Make it brand new like Lord J, Alamo, Grand Pu, and Sadat do. Don’t let ‘em spot you… “Yo, there that motherfucker go. I told you I was gonna get you!” Got you! Try it, man. Strong-fist Grip, call me Iron Hands. Hop out the fryin’ pan Into the lion’s den. Piratin’ my flows ‘cuz they know that my styles have been Nuts like my balls, ‘cuz you all keep your eye on them! This is supreme shit, Rec League home-team shit. Think I’m not? Y’all got denial like Egypt! It’s no secret. When the time comes, it’ll be Grip Risin’ from the slums like a phoenix! You wanna get sixteen on the remix? Hit me up. “666” is the prefix. Deep in the B which Is my hometown, never leave it, Writin’ Grip Grand in the ce-ment! What! Chorus: Broakland stay up late and get drunk! Go to work still smellin’ like skunk! ‘Cuz I got a half-ounce in the trunk, Man, I plead the fifth! I’m in the lab like a Petri dish, Singin’ “This is the way we win the war! This is the way we win the war! Who’s that?” Broakland, they want more! “Move back!” They want the hardcore! Bridge: Did you really think you could compete with me? I would never let a wack rapper speak to me! You’re not even at your peak, you need To be backin’ up, and plus practicin’ frequently, Because “This is the way we get the dough!” Unless you downloaded the flow, and if so, you better “Move back!” (Yo, son, you need to back the fuck up!) You don’t want to “Lose that!” No, no, no, no! Verse 2: It’s no end to the madness! We slide out of town In a cloud of alcohol fumes, blunt smoke, and bad checks. I told son wait the weekend to cash it, Then split with the dough and no forwarding address. Exit! Get into the booth on some next shit. Hectic! Better get insured—call Progressive. Yes it’s Closer to the edge than “The Message”. Broakland die tryin’ to get rich! I guess Grip is platinum if less is more, ‘Cuz I ain’t sold jack in the record store. I’m just tryin’ to make miracles. I’m also tryin’ to get a new car— If Jesus walks, I ain’t tryin’ to make spirituals. We live in a scary world. Let’s take it back! ’89, Junior High, Ice Cube had a jheri curl! New Edition “Mr. Telephone Man” and “Candy Girl”… Cool it now! You need to back that ass up like Juvenile! Ha! (Chorus)
“Tomorrow” Written and Produced by Grip Grand/ G. Winogrond for Broakland Music, BMI Chorus: I had to pack up and go, Somethin’ is changin’, I know. What is this thing that I wrote, Made me afraid of tomorrow? Paid all the dues that I owe, I’d pawn the jewels that I own, But I ain’t got none of those. Least I won’t go it alone— My wife, my pen, and my poem… I got my own tomorrow. You got to own tomorrow. We had to beg and borrow To make our own tomorrow. Will we get home tomorrow? Verse 1: Welcome to Broakland, Grand is back! A hundred and eighty degrees from your standard rap. Maybe MCs oughta run like candlewax. You gotta stay on your toes so you can’t relax. They might cut your mic off with your hand attached! (They will!) I keep my head up, feet down. Still tryin’ to score, When I miss then I go for the rebound. B-Town recycles! We found it’s vital. When it comes to takin’ over, hey, We wrote the Bible! But now is the hour for survival. War’s not the answer—Grip put a flower in your rifle. G to the R! If I leave in a car, Then it’s borrowed. Don’t confuse me with a star. You won’t see our crib on TV, My whole fam in Broakland! Talk’s cheap, but it isn’t for free, So you can buy the CD for a minimal fee! That’s right! Listen to me, ‘cuz the tide is turnin’! No, I haven’t blown up, but the fire’s burnin’! I’m a furnace! Rhyme with a violent purpose— To destroy every MC whose style is worthless— But I got stage-fright and now I’m too nervous. “Oh, word? I can’t keep it that real, I’d get tired!” And I feel like my License to Ill is expired. And then when you went to renew, they said “Someone’s gotta wild out, but it wasn’t meant to be you. Just go to work, ‘Cuz on the first the rent’ll be due”. And that’s why… (Chorus) Verse 2: I worked all week to earn my keep So that I could rest easy under my sheets. But instead I get headaches, Anxieties made me a head-case, Back pain gave me a neck brace. Broakland is the best place— Scrape by or get scraped Off of the concrete the next day. Bills to pay and they’re addin’ up, ‘Cuz I spent what I had this month And still owed a bunch. Plus, the banks ain’t loanin’ much. Three bucks, man! Where can I go to lunch? Hold it up when I get there. Prone to bug, Known to punch time-clocks like the Golden Gloves. Oh, it must be I’m overworked. Go berserk! Lord help me, though I don’t go to church. It’s only Wednesday…you don’t know how much that hurts! I gotta get over the hump like a hunchback’s shirt! Another day, another dollar short. Went to the dollar store ‘cuz I needed milk, so I bought a quart. But it spilled when I tried to pour mine’s… Life is beautiful, but it can cut like rose vines. Head or gut? (What?!) Motherf----r, it’s time! So let’s go! (Chorus)
“Handle That” Written and Produced by Grip Grand/ G. Winogrond for Broakland Music, BMI (Adlibs) Chorus: You got a problem with the squad? We can handle that! You got a problem with your broad? You can handle that! You wanna come to Broakland? Dude can handle that! It ain’t no one but Grip Grand Who can handle that! You get to talkin’ all loud? We can handle that! You try to walk in our crowd? We can handle that! You need a problem fixed? We can handle that! It ain’t a problem, bitch, We can handle that! Verse 1: We got solutions to your conflict. 1-800-CALL GRIP Any discrepancy, get ‘em all fixed. We need to get a office, need to get us all rich. Potna’, I got cousins in the swamp huntin’ alligators and crawfish! Plus you’re stuck in Broakland, motherfuckin’ Broakland, Prob’ly ‘cuz your father and your mother fucked in Broakland. Yo, it’s hard to leave when you’re shackled and locked, like “30 minutes in the yard, then it’s back in the box!” So pop your pockets for us, empty ‘em out. God gave me automatic weaponry instead of a mouth. I rap razors! Get ‘em if they not with the team! The bad tailor—I’ll rip ‘em apart at the seams! While you pretend to be sick like Ferris Bueller, Grip Grand drop gems like a careless jeweler. I’m the future! Don’t let my appearance fool ‘ya. You don’t wanna get embarrassed, do ya’? (Chorus) Verse 2: I keep on puttin’ all this work in. Phone is steady chirpin… No, it isn’t mine. I got a beeper, but it’s br-ken. Yo, I mean “it’s broken”, similar to Broakland. Carrots in your grill like you a motherfuckin’ snowman? I may never have that, But I got a hazardous flow. Your rap is a joke—it should come with a laugh track. I’m nothin’ to laugh at. My style is so amazin’, plus So much dope, call me angel dust! It’s dangerous to think you could hang with us. We sit on 50-inch rims, ‘cuz we take the bus. That’s why they call it budget ballin’, But I’m goin’ all in. Runnin’ through your town like a hurricane in New Orleans. I guess you lied if you said you would rock it. Make MCs drop the mic like Sexual Chocolate. Got an obsession with chocolate, Thai stick, and broccoli. You lookin’ for a trick? Surprise, bitch, it’s not me! (Chorus)
“But Anyway” Written and Produced by Grip Grand/ G. Winogrond for Broakland Music, BMI (Adlibs) Verse 1: Now I’m a flash-flood flow-er and a fast mud thrower Who’s known to always fill his “raps-ripped-a-month” quota. I’ll just have a club soda. I’m over the hill! In a few years I’ll be a pioneer like Buffalo Bill. Fuck it, I still keep the mic tucked, Got the right stuff. Empty wallet with a “Free Grip” button…nice touch! Life sucks just as much as it’s beautiful. Grip came to brighten yours up like a plant a plant in your cubicle. Suitable for framin’, put my name in the Hall of Fame with A dollar and a dream’s all I came with. Blame it on the rain, or the game, or the matrix, It’s all the same shit that I’m out to crush. I stay fresh, dressed like a thousand bucks. Don’t fuck with Grip Grand, man, his album sucks! Yo, scout’s honor! I’m on some lo-fi and don’t care a bit! Folks know my broke flow—don’t go repairin’ it! (Chorus) Verse 2: Let’s spit the real raw sound! Grip never lost bouts. This is big things like your boss’ house! Phenomenal! You’re in awe of me, aren’t you? A breakthrough performance like Nas at the barbeque! Grip get it pronto! Your style is so herb, You should put it on tacos and call it cilantro. You’re just another notch in my rhyme-book spine. Get your own super-rap pill, ‘cuz I took mine! Now I do my own stunts, like light my own blunts. You’re a sucker! You never touch the microphone once. In a place you really don’t wanna go, like graveyards, I don’t even have to Phil the Agony to Train Hard. I got some programs, chopped some slow jams, Rock the mic like I’m holdin’ my heart in both hands! Grip don’t need a chain to shine, ‘Cuz every time I say a rhyme, I’m hangin’ a danger sign! Like… (Chorus)
“Paper Cup” Written by Grip Grand/G. Winogrond for Broakland Music, BMI and by Percee P for Inspected and Approved, ASCAP Produced by Grip Grand Verse 1 (Grip Grand): White hot like pipe rock, I own the spot, Don’t touch the microphone—it’s cocked. (Stop!) You can’t draw with an empty holster! Let me show your Time as an MC’s over. My rhyme’s a heavy load for Rappers. Dude, go back to your penny loafers. Unload my soul on tape. Known to take ‘em out! Tight like a key in your rollerskates. You gotta style but I know it’s fake. Lotta turf, tough work when I’m on the plate. Thrown away, or saved for a snowy day, Got a rhyme on deck like a stowaway! All night, and I’ll stay On ice like I’m frozen OJ, ‘Cuz, yo, it don’t pay to run. Tryin’ to hold that heat, but it ain’t a gun, and wait— Who’s gonna take it? It weighs a ton! Got goals, and I stated ‘em—Rec League sold out the Palladium. Hate me know, but later you’ll thank me, son, When the cops and Department of Safety come. Disarmin’ traps with my alarmin’ rap. Real smooth on the tongue like I’m armagnac. I’m on some back and forth like ping-pong. My brainstorm remains strong like Pac on “Same Song”! So rock your rings, shine, and gems. I’m like “So what?!” I write a rhyme with no pen in my own blood! Don’t budge, about to blow up. Go for bucks, Bustin’ your coconuts! Such-and-such, he said that I’m much too much. Just a touch of love, but enough’s enough! What the fuck? Duck when I blaze the cut! Y’all skill can’t fill up a paper cup! (Adlibs) Verse 2 (Percee P) Unavailable at this time (sorry, y'all) (Adlibs)
“Love/Drama” Written by Grip Grand/G. Winogrond for Broakland Music, BMI Produced by Grip Grand for Broakland Music, BMI and DJ Design/K. Griego for Handclap Music, BMI (Adlibs) Verse 1: You know my album got pushed back for months, My royalties are still captured, I got dissed on the Net—I guess now I’m a real rapper! With my haphazard delivery, no hot beats to speak of, I couldn’t beat up the mic with a brick tucked in each glove! My AV-club recording was boring, Snoring like sleeping pills, And Grip swallowed six in the morning to delete my skills, My tired loops, and my four-track. I’m like every wack rapper you ever heard of, but more wack! Don’t buy it! My album, that is—you won’t like it. Every sample you’ll recognize, ‘Cuz the fans are all cool psychic record guys. I mean, I am, too, man, I’d never lie. My whole albums’s a jack. Impeach the President? Yo, how done is that? Tribute to early rap? DIY ethic? No, a piss-poor producer—take my name off the credits. Shouldn’t have let ‘em put out my demo, I should’ve said “Listen, don’t! My friends understand why it sucks, but the critics won’t!” It isn’t a cheap shot—my whole style is weak spots! Infuriating, leave ‘em steamin’ like a teapot! Gab Wiz, my high-pitched sidekick? He’s bad biz. “Alter-ego? Yo, that’s him! He think he Madlib!” I’m doin’ it wrong, unless I’m tryin’ to ruin the song— If that’s the case, then my career is really movin’ along! I’m no Edan, MF Doom, Thirstin’ Howl and shit, Or all the other lo-fi rappers whose styles I bit. I’m just Grip—thanks for noticing! Thanks for your time. We don’t see eye-to-eye, but it ain’t ‘cuz you’re blind. And, yo, thanks for the inspiration, if not the dissent. I guess it wasn’t a total waste of the promo I sent! I bet you probably could rock it better with your own mic. I know it sucks to get a free CD that you don’t like. I make the music for myself. I guess I should’ve kept it that way, And listened to my wack tape alone inside of my Bat-cave. You’re so astute, bra. Every minute flaw, you heard it. Can’t wait to hear your album… It must be perfect!
“A Penny” Written by Grip Grand/G. Winogrond for Broakland Music and Richie Cunning/R. Lipton for Son of the City Music, ASCAP Produced by DJ Flip and Freezemaster Slick for Verbal Tea, ASCAP (Adlibs) Verse 1 (Grip Grand): A penny for my thoughts? Keep the change. I’ll still take it back (Way back!) like the last time my beeper rang. Tell U2 the sweetest thing Is when I get smart with the rhyme and start shinin’ like Stephen King! We hijackin’ for a penny and Plus take ‘em out like the third-row seats in a minivan. It’s a scam, if I make the call— Finally got a piece of the pie, but I was starvin’ so I ate it all! I ain’t involved with your pettiness. The B is a shark-tank, and Grip is all teeth like Tom Petty is. I’m armed and ready ‘cuz I won’t back down, And this is the real West—we True Grit, you Brokeback Mountain. Go back to Suckertown, off with your crown! I fought the law, left ‘em in the streets, “Officer down!” Walkin’ around like we own the place, but we don’t own shit. Tell these labels that they don’t own Grip! Chorus: I need a penny! A penny if you want my two cents, Give me a penny! A penny for my overdue rent, I need a penny! A penny is the price I got For my blueprint, two cents, twice as hot! (Repeat) Verse 2 (Richie Cunning): A-yo, a penny for my thoughts, I’ll open up my dome And sell you a hundred and fifty so I can catch a bus home. Matter of fact, if you wanna get philosophical, I talk for a profit and chop it up until my pocket’s full. ‘Cuz I been sittin’ on a couple of things, Straight strugglin’ with this life and all the trouble it brings. I got enough thoughts to last A millennium and plenty of ‘em only cost a penny if you cross my path. You know I can’t be sharin’ my songs. I’m tryin’ to make more than a penny so that I can take care of my moms. (For real!) I remember bein’ a toddler, And pops would tell me to keep a copper in my pocket like a mobster. I wander streets sippin’ a bottle of stout, Thinkin’ million dollar thoughts but I keep tossin’ ‘em out. So call me the big spender. Yo, I hope they remember this When I end up penniless and forgotten about. Gimme your money! (Chorus) Verse 3 (Grip Grand): Yo! A penny for your thoughts? That’s a bum deal, as anyone will Tell you who’s livin’ in the jungle. Welcome to Bumville. We try to get this money, but still It’s only until some villain vics you for your bundle. Did I m-mumble? The B is where I hang my chapeau. It ain’t a castle—on the other hand, I ain’t an asshole. I guess it works out. Tell Flip I’m tryin’ to get this verse out. I love a free beat, because I’m cheap-cheap like a birdhouse. You know it’s Broakland, Where businesses is always closin’. Why you suppose then The liquor store is always open? I’m always frozen, and I don’t mean like all these diamonds. It’s always cold and My rap’s hot, so I’m always rhymin’! Hotter than hot now! I’m rappin’ while I’m actin’ hostile. I’m really not now—I’m cool, calm, and collected like I’m Moscow. You lost out, so now you wanna call the cops out? Call it a cop out… Jaw droppin’, so call it a knockout! Here’s a penny! (Chorus) Outro: I need a penny! What? I need a penny! What what? A penny! What? Gimme a penny! What? (repeat)
“96 Tears (MF Shalem’s Talk About It Mix)” Written by Grip Grand/G. Winogrond for Broakland Music, BMI Produced by MF Shalem Verse: I’m comin’ back still starvin’ like the depression. This shit is depressin’, rap is in a recession. At every session, Known to shut ‘em down like When slugs fly, doves cry—this is what it sound like. Who wanna battle Grip? You say that your mic is a cannon? Well, mine’s like the whole fuckin’ battleship. Extravagant, rappers get lost—it’s like “Labyrinth”. Hazardous, hungry on the mic? No, I’m ravenous! Slide up in the cut and I slice ‘em like radishes. Savages! Get up again like young Lazarus. Tell me I should get to the point? I spit javelins. Well known for rollin’ up stoned like Mick Jagger is. Ain’t that a bitch? I’m it, and you never is. Hirin’, firin’—this is my severance. This is my Everest. High? I’m like heaven is! Treacherous! On the block droppin’ like Tetris. Entertainin’ like Cedric, big in all measurements. Pullin’ out the microphone quick with no hesitance. The first one to switch up his flow—there’s no precedent. A brand new kind of sick—there’s no test for it. Live from Broakland where I am the sole resident. We can take it out to the curb and go settle it, Or we can take it out to the curb and go peddle it. The mixtape is comin’ in first like gold medalists. Give ‘em like a hundred bars, I’m so generous. Spit like a cobra except I’m more venomous. When I’m in the booth I’m showin’ ‘em no friendliness. Leave ‘em with a heart-shaped hole and a cold emptiness. Theft is just a permanent loan with no interest. Squeeze the microphone like I’m holdin’ a four-fifth and just Bucka-bucka-ba-blau! The style’s so ridiculous! Gifts like Saint Nicholas, bitch—it ain’t Christmas. Shinin’ like Mr. Clean, I’m so Listermint. Not Special Ed, but I’m the magnificent. Start it, I finish it. Pardon my penmanship. A-Team, all in your face like Dirk Benedict. Thanks, but don’t mention it. Rappin’s my job—I’m so into it, and our relationship is so intimate. Try a lil’ tenderness, I’m always hurtin’ somebody’s feelings, ‘cuz all of these guys are real sensitive. Hey, you’re not fresh—what the fuck is your style for? I’m sorry, but the truth is inconvenient like Al Gore. Grip known to give ‘em that Golden Age vintage rap For the babies—start ‘em on it young like it’s Similac. Been a mack, close range, spray like a mini-Mac. Don’t wear a chain—no cable, no Cinemax. Send it to the label and I hope they don’t send it back… Put it in the number one spot like it’s handicapped. Hand me that mic, I’ma kill it like “Handle That”. All the time spent sweatin’ bullet shells in the lab… The best motherfuckin’ cassette your deck ever have. “You call this an album?” No, it’s y’all epitaph! If you don’t know about the Rec, then you better ask. Screamin’ out “Fuck everyone!” like I’m Everlast. On the microphone, beat it up like a heavy bag. Grip Grand, hard like a rock? I’m a Chevy ad! Lemme add, risin’ to the top like a helipad. Stop—Grip pick it up like a yellow cab. I tried tell ‘em that I was on smash, and they jaw made of glass like the shoe Cinderella had! Ain’t have to go to Photo-Mat to develop that Felon rap. Step to the flow, get your melon cracked. Grip been on hella tracks. This is not new to me. The rhyme shine bright like this is my jewelery. Quit your tomfoolery. Snikkt!! I’m like Wolverine— Super-powered spitter like this is my mutant gene. I’m takin’ over the ship—it’s like mutiny. Had tapes back in the 80’s like Brucie B. Don’t front! Flow serious like I’m Steady B, Plus always bigger and better like Beni B. Yellow flag down on the play? That’s a penalty. Let it bleed, On the d-lo like a centipede. Lemme breathe…need another clip, ‘cuz I emptied these. All day, dazed and confused like the 70’s. Sail like the seven seas On these so-called MCs—I don’t call myself shit but the letter “G”. Styles you could never see, kinda like camouflage. All year in the workshop like I’m Santa Claus. Grip, and I am the boss. Kept the hammer cocked, Rhyme book full of hot lead like an ammo box. Can we talk about it like Alcoholics Anonymous? Ominous, study my dough like economists. Broke like a promise is… Boy, I get deep! 20, 000 leagues under the sea like the Nautilus. We like to party, but, bitch, it’s not Carnival. Change up the play like this is my audible. This is my chronicle. It’s almost time to go. Grip known for makin’ ‘em jump like Geronimo! All my flow’s fire, so don’t stand in front of me. Send ‘em to the principal’s office like Young MC. Oh, no! It’s gonna be a riot in here, So get the cops and the firemen here on the double, G! Yeah! I’m the Double G—Grip Grand, the ultimate bad man, So you should be glad there’s just one of me. Nasty as I wanna be, rappers can’t fuck with me, 96 bars—what more do y’all want from me?!? (Adlibs)
“Out of Service” Written by Grip Grand/G. Winogrond for Broakland Music, BMI Produced by Richie Cunning/R. Lipton for Son of the City, ASCAP (Adlibs) Intro: This is the story of A man I met one day when I was waitin’ for the bus. A conversation we had started up, Talkin’ about the world around us and such. Turned out that he was really down on his luck. I just listened to the old man—Broakland wisdom. He talked about a place where the weight can’t get him… And I thought he looked pale as he started his tale With these words, and I’ll never forget ‘em: Verse: “They said I’d find an opportunity here, But I been grindin’ now for too many years. I should’ve stayed back home, But I’m a man—I swore I’d never make my way back home Before I tried to make it on my own. I got a wife, I bought a house that I could call my own, Got a couple loans to carry the weight. I guess I made a mistake… These interest rates didn’t seem to abate When I got laid off, and then started payin’ ‘em late. Now I had worked on the line for the last 15, ‘Til they replaced me with a faster machine. Employers told me I was too old, or under-qualified for most things. My connections at the factory ain’t pullin’ no strings… I had to take a job sweepin’. Every night, I swear I think about leavin’, But instead I volunteered to work evenin’s. Give me overtime, weekends, anything to stay eatin’. They foreclosed on the house—another place I can’t be in. Lost everything, except what we could fit in the ride. We haven’t found a new spot yet, and trust me I’ve tried. Times are tight—the little I make I pay to the bank. I got a second job…I’m havin’ problems stayin’ awake. It ain’t safe! For two weeks we had to sleep in the car, So it’s getting hard tryin’ to reach for the stars When I’m droppin’ off my son at the classroom, And kids laughin’ at him ‘cuz they saw us brushin’ our teeth in a gas-station bathroom. We got a spot at the shelter now for the time bein’, And every night I go to sleep and pray that I’m dreamin’… So now I take the bus to see some place, Meet the landlord, hand forms, plead my case. I think that maybe if they see my face, They’d know the hurt that I have, And might let me waive the first and the last For a few weeks, at least until we get on our feet…” And then he drifted off. He was either dead or asleep… And just then the bus pulled up, And all of a sudden he just stood and got on without sayin’ a word. The bus driver said “Maybe you heard…he’s been at this same stop for 15 years. I came to take him home today.” He tipped his hat and then they drove away. I stood frozen with an open mouth… I didn’t know if they were goin’ either North or South. There was an “Out of Service” sign in the back window of the bus as they was rollin’ out. That’s all I know about…I saw an “Out of Service” sign in the back window of the bus as it was rollin’ out.
“Poppin’ Pockets Remix” Written by Grip Grand/G. Winogrond for Broakland Music, BMI and A.G./Andre Barnes for Get Dirty Movement, ASCAP Produced by Grip Grand for Broakland Music, BMI and DJ Design/K. Griego for Handclap Music, BMI Chorus: (Grip Grand) Broakland is poppin’ pockets! Don’t even got no wallets! No coat inside our closets, So we can’t go out tonight! So pop your pockets for us, Just turn ‘em inside out. My lyrics are the only gold that I got in my mouth. (A.G.) Get Dirty’s poppin’ pockets! Don’t even got no wallets! No coat inside our closets, So we can go out tonight! So pop them pockets for us, Just turn ‘em inside out. My lyrics are the only gold that I got in my mouth… Verse 1 (Grip Grand): Pop pockets, bounce your checks! Pull a blank bank statement out your vest. Lemme see your overdue bills. Four rims but only two wheels! Stay sittin on blocks, Parked on the lawn like a sprinkler, spittin’ non-stop. Grip Grand and a friend of his Came to take y’all out like appendix-es. It’s me and the Giant A! Can’t find a way to make rhymin’ pay… Product of our environment, Not much for our retirement. Just pop ‘em, flaunt your seams! Put your keys in the back pocket on your jeans, Invertin’ the front ones. Show me the lint! No rent when the first of the month comes! (Chorus, Grip only) Verse 2 (A.G.): Rolexes on the market, It costs too much to cop it. Performin’ for a profit So I could live a good life. If I’m not poppin’ pockets, I’m blowin’ Hershey chocolate. I’m a convicted convict, So now I’m good with a knife. No pain, no gain, no progress. No bills, no change or wallet. I got some words for Congress— You lie on what you promise. If you was nice as I’m is, Then they’d be payin’ homage. We spit this for our mommas, Our poppas gave us knowledge. Look, I’m just bein’ honest, So when I need them dollars I got them things in closets That make you gimme the loot! Please, nobody move. Damn, you play hockey, dude! So all that ice, remove. Now, I hope I don’t have to shoot. My whole life’s a struggle, One big jigsaw puzzle. I just want a couple… So I can go out tonight! So pop those pockets for us, That’s what this song’s about. Now won’t you sing the chorus— Grip Grand, A.G., I’m out. (Chorus, Grip only) Bridge (Grip Grand): This world is rich as hell, But everybody dyin’! Find me a wishin’ well, And I’ll go scuba divin’ With a bucket and things, So when I’m stuck in the rain, I came correct with, like, a buck and some change. I’m sayin’! Verse 3 (Grip Grand): Strange days can’t phase me out When I work that tape like a paper route. We started a fire, didn’t we? Getting’ harder and harder to find a chimney… I’m friendly, Broakland sent me To leave your “Take a Penny” dish empty. Don’t tempt me, get me crazy, Let’s see, next we present A.G.! So get those pockets turned. Po’ broke? I’m not concerned! Money they got to burn Could keep me warm at night! They oughta give it up So I could live it up. Like, somebody forgot us, but It must have been an oversight… (Chorus)
“Mr. Versatility” Written and Produced by Grip Grand/ G. Winogrond for Broakland Music, BMI Verse 1: They call me Mr. Versatility—I work with all styles. It ain’t all good in Broakland, it hurts when I smile. This is the best shit you heard in a while, So turn your radio up And tell your lady don’t fuck with the dial. I’m certain that y’all gon’ get every person involved. The Mack Movement! Apostles like Peter and Paul. When heaters are drawn, we beef and won’t leave it alone. We try to keep the peace, but meet up on the streets and it’s on! So you can rap ‘til you blue in the grill. But I be doin’ it and doin’ it well like LL. I don’t do it for mail. Do it for love and the dudes in the jails Who can’t do it ‘cuz they doin’ time glued to they cells. (Church!) I don’t go to…God, what you done for me? Everywhere I look, people die, people hun-g-ry. This is the R.L. charity fund. Send me your money—every thief doesn’t carry a gun. But I spit! (Chorus) Verse 2: I keep a pencil by my pillow, writin’ jams in my sleep. A cool cat, nine lives, always land on my feet! This is the New Rap Testament. Check it and see! I’d be surprised if you were nice, but they expect it from me. I got that bam-bam Sister Nancy in the pantry, And my girl’s on the plane bringin’ weed in her panties. I guess I’m Mr. Personality, a man of the folks— Unless they got a lotta dough…then I can’t stand ‘em—I’m broke! And if they don’t play Grand Grip, dis the DJ! My team show and prove like an instant replay! Tryin’ to be Grip? It’s so easy! Give away all your shit, call your job and quit, And take a loss! No profit to make! Tryin’ to bake Up a way to break out like a file in a cake. I’m up late at night lyin’ awake, Until I finally say, “This is the day they gonna finally pay!” When I spit… (Chorus)
“Remember the Time” Written and Produced by Grip Grand/ G. Winogrond for Broakland Music, BMI and by Darondo for Ubiquitunes, BMI (Adlibs) Chorus: This is a dedication To those who moved on Because the world couldn’t hold ‘em, they soul was too strong. This is for fallen soldiers, This is for fallen angels, This is for hustlers in Heaven still workin’ all the angles. This is a dedication To those who moved on Because the world couldn’t hold ‘em, they soul was too strong. Remember the time, Remember the place, Remember the day I first saw your face. Verse: This for my great uncle. He gave me good advice. Came back to life once—I guess he couldn’t twice. Sat at his funeral silent and didn’t say nothin’… I had to laugh to keep from cryin’, I ain’t frontin’. This for my wife’s pops. Even when life stops, She don’t forget it, kept his necklace in a white box… And every day when I see it, I tell him “Thank you” for leavin’ his daughter Now I got a reason for breathin’. This for my grandfathers. My grandma Esther, too. My grandma Claire, still here, we remember you. This is for hard times. This is for better days. This for my folks who decided to go they separate ways. This for my pop’s struggle. This for my mom’s hustle. Single mother, plus she was in school? That’s a strong hustle. You had to pawn your watch? Put up your name buckle? Welcome to Broakland…I grew up in the same jungle. I play the Ojays, backstabbers always Try to get over but, yo’, I’ma show ‘em the doorway. That’s how they do you in the streets, I guess. I can’t sleep, but it’s killin’ me—I need my rest! My little cousin ‘bout to go to jail…who can afford the bail? Judge let the case go forward, told him it’s no appeal. That’s how it is—it’ll always be fucked. We ended up in Broakland, where I’ll always be stuck, But… Chorus 2: This is a dedication To those who moved on Because the world couldn’t hold ‘em, they soul was too strong. This is for hustlers in Heaven still workin’ all the angles. This is for fallen soldiers, This is for fallen angels. This is a dedication To those who moved on Because the world couldn’t hold ‘em, they soul was too strong. Remember the time, Remember the place, Remember the day I first saw your face. (Adlibs)


Grip Grand--"Brokelore"
(originally released on Look Records, 2008)

Grip Grand's sophomore album was featured on numerous Top 10 lists and wound up as 2008's best album at, among others. To quote that review, "If you love hip hop, you'll love this album. Go buy. Now." Includes guest appearances and production from Percee P, A.G. (DITC), DJ Design, Darondo, MF Shalem, Richie Cunning, and more.

Includes explicit lyrics.


released March 24, 2008

Written, Produced, and Performed by Grip Grand. Additional production by DJ Design, Richie Cunning, MF Shalem, Flip & Freeze, and Darondo. Additional vocals written and performed by Percee P, A.G. Richie Cunning, and Darondo.


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