Cassette Trippin'

by Grip Grand

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released October 25, 2010


Some rights reserved. Please refer to individual track pages for license info.



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Track Name: Rec-Gambinos
Solid gold rhyme, God Allah Born
Terrorize the beat, that’s the art form
Hear it in the street like a car horn
Pardon us, all I see is other MCs who ain’t strong enough
And had to have me raise the bar for ‘em
Y’all warned, this is our court
All-sport, style wars
Put it in the air like July 4th
Rhyme off the head, but your time’s off
Forget it, par
Grip’s in the mix a lot, bitch, it’s a seminar
Sendin’ our message to the opposite team
When it comes to rap, click-clack, I’m a machine
When it comes to tracks, I am obscene
You know every motherfuckin’ rhyme shine like it’s aquamarine
You wouldn’t be the first cat to get caught in the beam
And start prayin’ that it all was a dream, like Big said
Every presi in your pocket got a very big head?
Well, I’m so fresh, I don’t gotta carry Big Red
Fuck a livin’ large rapper
Get the balls, bastard
I dis a rhyme fast as I could get the song mastered
Disembowel a style like a scalpel
I only look forward to the next part of your song
at the outro
You’re out cold like a sick day
Grip say the best rhymes of all
is all of the rhymes Grip say
Huh? Lemme explain
We ‘bout to ride out on these fools like the next train
On to the next thang...
Track Name: Popular Demand
Yo, the beat hit ‘em in the gut, call it slapboxin’
I spit broken glass, you can call it trash talkin’
My lyrics bang on the block like a rap auction
Do the opposite of front on Grip—back off him
I’m higher than the rocket that astronauts blast off in
A perfect storm of rap, it doesn’t happen that often
Whether hurricane, rain, sleet, snow, I spaz on ‘em
Hang a sucker on the wall, spray my fuckin’ tag on him
What a drag, he’s so bad that I can only bag on him
Heavy flow, lemme drop a fuckin’ bowling bag on ‘em
Any MC who step, yo, we prob’ly smash on him
Get broke, left the show with a body cast on him
Call the coroner, get yourself a body bag from him
It’ll save me the trouble
These lames need to hustle
It’s a struggle in the underground, we may need a shovel
When the flow’s like a hammer,
They can’t even touch you
Got a heaven-sent style, so I may be above you
Over your head, like I was floatin’ eight feet above you
Bringin’ greatness to my state,
If you ain’t see then fuck you
I’m an animal, an ape-man, the king of the jungle
Rhymin’ on beats, each and every rhyme I release
Is so dangerous, rappers need to sign a release
I’m on the streets in the form of a man
with the mind of a beast
I eat a rhymer, crack his spine in my teeth
Long live the president,
but better yet would be if all of mine were deceased
Money ain’t talkin’ like a mime at a speech
I got a rhyme book that’s bottomless, deep
I told ‘em I was a freak
See a psychiatrist same time every week
And Rec-League came to play, it’s game time every week
Every hour, every minute, every second at least
I’m on the clock steady deliverin’ consecutive heat
Time for some action,
I don’t wait for the director to speak
Respect to my team
The microphones a wreckin’ machine
I tear the roof off while you
poppin’ champagne on some Evelyn King
Well that’s a shame, you should let a young veteran sing
You think you fly? I’ma de-feather your wings
I’m not a puppet, I severed the strings
They say I’m clever with words
I say I’m better at dismemberin’ herbs
I’m out for the cheddar and each and every treasure that I ever deserved
I’m not a customer, I’ll never be served
I’m like a hundred steps ahead of all the suckers so forget ‘em, they scurred
Go back to Kansas or wherever they were
I told ‘em “Don’t quit your day job”
Not sayin’ I work harder than God
But, in the Bible, even God took a day off
Cutbacks and layoffs
They outside the key and couldn’t even get a J off
Assassinate ‘em like 8-Off
So raise off the turf like a plane when it takes off
I ain’t got a hockey mask, I’ll still take your face-off
Your rap needs a map, G, the whole shit is way off
No pay-off, you lost the qualifier, no play-offs
Hey, boss, you tryna beat Grip?
Well, your chances gettin’ slim, bitch, like Kate Moss,
Fitness, and weight-loss
I rip this in half and I dip it in steak sauce
Eatin’ up rappers like Pac-Man done ate dots
I told ‘em bounce like a bank shot
I’m real like house shoes and a tank top
You fake like a stage-prop
There ain’t a style that I ain’t got locked
I’m goin’ viral, I hope you got your inbox blocked
‘Cuz every file I attach
Is like an arsonist is lightin’ a match
So many hits, they keep rewritin’ my stats
My shit is dope, and you can smoke it in a pipe
like it’s crack
You can shoot it in your vein and say you like every track
There’s a computer in my brain that’s from the future and it’s writin’ my rap
So drop the motherfuckin’ mic, ‘cuz I’m back
Track Name: Sabotage
MCs need to get they insurance renewed
Me versus you? Psshh, y’all are certain to lose
Even if your skill were to improve,
I’d still murder your crew
So walk soft like a burglar do
Hurtin’ a loop
In case you ain’t sure, what you heard is the truth
Rappers get banned, word to the Roots
I’m a veteran
Y’all new recruits were still learnin’ to shoot
When I was earnin’, yo, turn and salute
Unless your furniture's fire-proof,
you should re-furnish the booth
I burn studios down to the boards
They ain’t down to record
I spit lead, tell a rapper
“You’re dead. You should just lay down on the floor.”
Like “Whoop, whoop!”
That’s the sound of the law
Got a whole lotta buzz like the sound of a saw
My album’s not even out in the store
The crowd shoutin’ for more
Connect like a roundhouse to the jaw

We blow up the PA like a Freeway show
You ain't nice on the mic, man
Di me lo...
It goes 1,2,3--fuck the bullshit!
What’s the name of the best to bang?
It’s still Grip
When I’m rappin’, they call me fresh like Will Smith...
Track Name: Dead Bent
It go like, I hold mics like the Statue of Liberty
Holds the torch viewed throughout the New York vicinity
Is you kiddin’ me? I half ‘em like fractions
To be specific, smash a rapper back into atoms
When you broke out,
I thought “Good riddance, don’t come back, son”
Pardon me, God Allah Born Equality
Call me G, R.I.P. like a creepy headstone
They never get the message like he in a 3G dead zone
Phone a plumber, ‘cuz we always got the pipes out
It’s like “He’s a super…” I’ll turn your lights out
I had this dream ever since I was a teen
To eat the competition on some Idi Amin
It goes, highly intelligent battle slang
Still hopin’ this rappin’ thang
Will come back around like a Batarang
I seen you in the stands at the game
But I already had the ball,
Grip came through raw like Big Daddy Kane
In ’88 plus 22, now I got a flow to pull the mic like a rug right out from under you
A Rec show is so super-fun
You know the crew and them
Rhymers who make you wanna go stupid dumb
Offend rappers like “Fuck you”
Your verse is a no-show, or so-so, we will overdub you
And don’t feel the least regret
Except for once, when one of my punchlines
beat MCs to death
Scientific like Reed Richards or Hank Pym
He spent all of his time behind bars like the state pen
Too many wrong moves and you gon’ lose
Amateurs with Pro-Tools
We go off like a blown fuse
The whole crew burn you like “Zing!" In your face, yo
Grip is livin’ larger than a social worker caseload
If you say so, we just don’t buy it
The rec is unbeatable. P.S.—Don’t try it.
What’s the secret?
If I told you, I’d have to kill you, it’s classified
It wouldn’t be the first time that a rapper died
The Rec team destroy emcees who thought they was major league
Stomp ‘em out like Gore-Tex ACG's
And at the end of that, I go back in time
And write some more mind-bending rap
I told ‘em don’t front, it’s the truth
Don’t shoot the messenger
Stay tuned for more spine-tingling adventures of…
Track Name: TR-808
Whatchu think about losin’?
‘Cuz I don’t think about that shit at all
Welcome to Broakland, you should think about movin’
We on strike for a higher wage
They make a lot of claims, but I could see through a sucker like a Bible page
Ask Ice-T if rhymin’ pays
How about Power, Evil E and Darlene
with the shottie raised
I rep Cali when I spit my vocals
Throw your hands in the air like the Lench Mob logo
So forget your bifocals, I told you
You would need a telescope to see the
shit that I’m close to
What is it? People tell me that I seem different
I’m in outer space, so excuse me if I seem distant
Grip been away for a while
Now I’m back with new styles
So prepare to get served like a caterer
I was in LA in ’88 playin’ tapes
At the Great Western Forum where
the Kings and the Lakers were
I take it back to the sound of my youth
That the sound of the truth
Since Rodney O. & Joe Cooley,
everlasting bass has flowed through me
I got it on tape like home movies
Born in the Bay, but my parents divorced
I had to leave, please believe I still carry the torch
I learned all about the City of Dope from Too Short
California, rappers get smoked like Newports
In the W, E-S-T where I be
Sittin’ in the park waitin’ for you like Hi-C
Wanna battle? I spit ‘til the record is done
Call a DJ, quick, Grip is second to none
I can’t forget Spice One, E-40, The Click
I always say what I think, like a Freudian slip
So go ahead, take a photo of Grip
Screamin’ “Whose world is this?”
Middle finger up, holdin’ my...
Track Name: Two Pistols
You gon’ need more than one job if you gon’ eat around here
So I don’t see a lot of y’all eatin’ this year
Rappers can’t live no more, they all dyin’ out
Stakes so high, yeah, I can’t take a time out
Every MC got a strong team beside of ‘em
If he get trapped, they grab the mic and go ride for him
Last motherfucker stepped got his whole crew crippled
But sometimes, when things get hot, I wish I brought two pistols…

This is Masterpiece Theater
I don’t grab the mic,
The way I butcher MCs, it’s like I had a meat cleaver
Cleanin’ up the neighborhood like a street sweeper
And I make ‘em get busy like a substitute teacher
Run up in the studio and bust a new heater
If you not a fan of us, we don’t fuck with you neither
We got our own thing like Heavy D
You should go back home or leave with a
half-dome like Yosemite
Smashin’ on tracks, that’s my specialty
Like, yo, here’s a wheelchair, rappers couldn’t even
stand next to me
I take it back to C3PO or Ballad of a Menace by CPO
It’s on like a TV show
Everything was all good just a week ago
Now it’s all wack, what the fuck you call that?
Track Name: I Want a Raise
I’m your hero, never a zero, more like a thousand
I’m not the Jungle Brothers,
but tell suckers I will house them
I’m underrated with the rhymes and raps
I wanna jeweler,
I’m shinin’ like The Ruler is Back
I talk flows composed
With the pencil and pen
I told a rapper he was weak,
shoulda went to the gym
I’m kinda slim
But my rhyme style is heavyweight
I’m not a child and that’s the reason that I never played
I get paid? No, I don’t, I’m afraid
To put it short…
I want a raise

I’m rehearsin’
The vocal and verse n’ I’m on a roll
If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here like “I Know You Got Soul”
I’m in control
Like Marley Marl flyin’ a plane,
with one finger up in the air rockin’ a chain
My name is Grip and you can tell by the sound of my tune
If you the very best rapper on Earth
I’m on the Moon
I’m on the Sun, number one
Number dos, you ain’t close
There, there
Put your hands in the air like scare quotes
For real
You know Grip told the kids to applause
Hit the road, git ‘em dancin’ like “The Wizard of Oz”
I’d be makin’ more dough takin’ minimum wage
I don’t rap to be rich, I just
Want a raise…
Track Name: I'm High
You know we don’t pack heat, we pack the whole venue
You wanna grab the mic? Fuck that, I won’t let you
I’m so special, the town oughta hold a parade
Explode with the pen, like I forgot to throw the grenade
This represent a least a pint of blood I poured on the page
Yeah, I’m a beast, so they keep my microphone in a cage
That’s all I wanted to say
Your whole career is like 24 hours
You really oughta call it a day
You on the sidelines, I’m on the field callin’ the play
Winnin’ the game, I’m ‘bout to need a different name
Grip Gazillion…naw, fuck it, it isn’t the same
It’s Grip Grand, clang-clang, like a prisoner’s chains
I got it locked like the rock, told ‘em listen to Kane
Listen to G. Rap, G. Rip, Grip is insane
Like a lobotomy, I’m pickin’ your brain, simple n’ plain
I’m a dragon on the track n’ all I’m spittin’ is flames
So click-click, take a picture to remember me with
When I only had a couple gigs like a memory stick
I was already so incredibly sick
I’m like December 26th,
‘cuz I’m broke, and I’ll never be fixed
You know I ran up in the jam and
then I told ‘em to freeze
I put the squeeze on MCs like accordion keys
This is the world according to me
A recording of me’s more heat than
Two 45’s like a quarter to three
By the time you hear this record
I’ll be onto some next shit
Hit the studio, cross this beat off of my checklist
Any reasonable offer accepted
But you want Grip for free?
Sorry, can’t eat karma for breakfast
Call me PG&E, every line is electric
Something’s wrong with your song and
I’m tryna correct it
It’s the end of the line
But, yo, defeat never enter my mind
I only quit at the end of the rhyme
Track Name: Let It Bang
I used to drink, smoke, cuss, stay blazed and shit
What am I sayin’? Bitch, I ain’t changed a bit
I’m still doin’ all them thangs, I ain’t changed the list
I got a jar of roach clips with my greatest hits
Now I’m back with a vengeance
I tell a rapper say my name
Grip Grand
Now use that in a sentence
Grip Grand’s attack on the track is relentless
Peasants! I bet you couldn’t even wrap presents
Raise the horns, legends ain’t made, they’re born
It’s a jungle out there and I’m agent orange
Rock, rock, y’all, Grip get the shit to crack
MCs freeze up and forget to rap
If you need the mic, better use it quick, I’ma smash it
Labels would be smart to get Grip, I’m an asset
I just tax it, go ‘til the breakdown
Don’t turn the bass down like a drug addict
I'm unstoppable, bet you heard that before
How come you rap like you never heard rap before?
Testify, y’all got a Hindenburg flow--that’ll never fly
Plus a CD I would never buy
So ease back when you see the kid
I eat rap, like, that’s what I need to live
The shit I hear nowadays is a fraud
I’ll have you know
I think the crowd at your show got paid to applaud
I got a plan, yo, don’t interfere
I told ‘em I don’t make music
I make poison that go in your ear
I kill a rapper with the flow, so ignore any noises you hear
That’s just the sound of your recording career
I been knockin’ so loud
I just about put my hand through the door
What the fuck I’m still standin’ here for?
You really need to let Grip in the game
The West Coast say the whole album bang like it’s "Quik is the Name"
Tell the doctors that I’m off of their charts
Dismantled so many mics,
I make a new one outta all of their parts
I ain’t earnin’ the cash
Not even close, time to turn on the flash
‘Cuz, yo, it’s seemin’
Like a shot in the dark
Word up, you get caught if your rappin’ is weak
I could beat you in a battle without havin’ to speak
We could pass any test
Which track should I assassinate next?
Put a fuckin’ toe tag on the beat...
Track Name: Above the Clouds (For Guru)
You ever wish you could fast forward to another scene?
I’m startin’ to get a sinking feeling like a submarine
Life is a riddle I don’t overstand and every day I only manage
Finding out another thing it doesn’t mean
Maybe the answer’s somewhere in between
They said “Baby, the answer’s something you can only see when you give up the search”
I said “That’s fine,” yet I remind them I been shinin’ more than gold
But can’t afford the toll to pay my dues, for what it’s worth
Maybe the reason is beyond my grasp, they said
“Baby, the reason has a way of revealing when you ain’t lookin’ for it”
I’m lookin’ forward to the day that I can live
I mean, it’s hard enough, I didn’t know I’d have to give a book report
I guess I brought it on myself, I chose the rapper life
Get rich or die? I think I might have chose the afterlife
Back to reality like Back to Life by Soul II Soul
I’m ready, yo, just tell me when to go, it’s like a traffic light
Light as a rock, I mean the classic Lyte
I’m high above a sucker like a satellite and plus I never pass the mic
Every time I fell I made a promise to myself it wouldn’t happen twice
I ain’t gotta take it like some bad advice
And that’s despite the fact I know the odds are weighted
But I swore to God that I was gonna make it like a sacrifice
‘Til I’m above the clouds, I make the people yell so fuckin’ loud
I couldn’t hear myself above the crowd…
Track Name: Definition
From the start to the end of it,
perfected all my penmanship
Respected like an ‘87 record with Rakim on it
I got my Rec-League membership,
got so many benefits
Classic like They Reminisce
Target practice, I never miss
Afterwards you be pressin’ rewind
so you could catch the words
Step up if you have the nerve
I’m heavy like a pachyderm
A massacre of rappers tear the stage up like a contractor
I take it back to ‘95 when Mad Skillz had the Nod Factor
Don’t believe me? Then holler back, where Broakland? [What?]
Hear dem? Why you drop the ball like the year end?
I told ‘em kiss my rear end in every battle we’re in
Yo, Gab Weirdo, my alter-ego, speak on how you feelin’

Broakland in the boondocks,
where they paint murals of Tupac
In the final scene of Juice when
him and Q was on the rooftop
It’s too hot, but still we keep kickin’ it like a shoebox
My stash spot, where I keep piff in it like a ooh-wop
I tell your motherfuckin’ squad to
bounce like I was Doo Wop
Why you bother competin’, man? You only gonna forfeit
Cuz’ people thinkin’ MC is shorthand for Most Conformist
Was the reason why they hear your song
and only know the chorus
Go to war with all these suckers,
but it’s dangerous to battle
Tryna box me on the mic?
You would be safer with your shadow
Stop actin’ like you stuck on stupid,
make some fuckin’ music
And maybe you could be on the cover of The Source,
There’s nothin’ to it!
Third grade teacher heard me speak like
“I knew he would get it crackin”
Neighbors said he had a talent but who would’ve thought it was rappin’?
From end to end I burn you like graffiti or a CD
Gab Weezy! So use some Common Sense and
take it easy
Track Name: Exhibit G
I been transformin’ sounds into something much higher
But I can’t put ‘em out like it was a brushfire
There ain’t no release date
I’m waitin’ for that leaked pre-release tape
to open doors like a bus driver
Cuz Grip oughta be number one, two, or three
On your list of young spitters
whose flow could crush rhymers
I got motivation, that run up in the booth and do
Ten songs a day, that Tupac motivation
I gotta make another stop, phone the station…

What made you think you could fool with
what only God can judge?
Grip is advanced with his music, it’s only obvious
After you watch me bust
enough of these words to fill up a
Whole encyclopedia, almanac, or an omnibus
Which is to say I’m prolific and spit a lot of stuff
This is the way I transmit it, your shit is out of touch
And it’s a damn shame
We treat our pain like it was champagne
And try to keep both of ‘em bottled up
I’m Led Zep with the flow, get a whole lotta love

I even bring it to your face on occasion
So when I’m in the place, a rapper stays on vacation
I seen a few vacatin’ the stage on the way in,
Straight jet when the Rec came in, I cain’t blame ‘em
Yeah, we super-scientifical
Technicians of sound like Dre and Bobby D-Digital
I used to give ‘em a rap, now I don’t git with the track
Until they write the check up, I need a physical
My rap is deep like it’s part of a secret ritual

Why you pursue me? I’m miles beyond your arm lengths
They tried to throw me out, I was already on base
I make a strong case
I’m years ahead of my time,
That’s why my watch-face has
always got the wrong dates
The right place, right moment, that’s what I call fate
From San Francisco to Broakland, my team is All-Bay
Removin’ rappers is my job, I had a long day
I’m tired of rhymin’ like, fuck it, just let the song play

They call me Grip Grand Inquisitor
Fuck that, they call me Grip Grand the Wizard or
Grip Grand the Visitor
Grip Grand a vision for the future with charisma
Whose superhuman moves are more
confusin’ than the Riddler
I shine a signal in the sky like the Commissioner
My styles are all over your head like your conditioner
I wrote a lyric in a language no one understands
Somehow I held it together like rope and rubberbands
I changed my name to
Grip “I need a couple hundred” Grand
Off of just one advance, who said that talk is cheap?
So what if every rapper already git on this beat?
I built a time machine so I could travel back
to when they made it
And then say that I had already spit on this beat
And when the song’s complete they put it on the street like parking meters
So that all of y’all can see that I been on a streak
I won a lot of games
I’m like a phoenix comin’ out the flames
And then I leave ‘em screamin’ out my name…

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