Welcome to Broakland

by Grip Grand

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Grip Grand--Welcome to Broakland

Grip Grand's self-produced debut album, originally released on Bomb Hip Hop Records in 2002. Recorded on a bedroom four-track deep in the heart of Broakland.


released November 24, 2002

Written, Produced, and Performed by Grip Grand, except tracks #7 & 13 not produced by Grip Grand . All raps by Grip Grand. Additional studio magic, scratching, and production/engineering assistance on Santa Ana Winds, Hard & Good, and Pro-Gress by Alex Posell.

Explicit Lyrics


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"OK, class, let's settle down. Everybody take out your text books. Turn with me to page one..."


"The first lesson..."

Grip Grand is the Letterman

"Letters of the alphabet."

Alphabetical like AZ, amazingly amusing 'em
Arranging the acquisition of mics and then abusing 'em
Broadcast in Broakland, boom boom
Block-bully blacktop
If I say it right to your face, it's not really back-talk
Crush-the-comp crackpot that's Coo Coo like Cal is
Corvallis to the Cow Palace, chow challenge
Come close, but don't deny my dose is dangerously damaging
Danglin', hangin' in there like a champ or barely managing
Doped up, exceptional, excellent, eat my vegetables
Ever singe eighty-something exhaling essential essences
Eff it, I found it fitting the West is right where the freshness is
Follow the leader and swallow all of his messages
Or go get your own
Grip Grand goes
One for your man with a pipe in his hand like Commando
The hard-bargain driver, half-ounce inhaler
The houseguest who's still on your couch six months later
I insist my intentions were innocent when I invented it
Inspect the verse, I spit a full clip's worth instead of
Just jaw-jostling suckers, Judo, Jujitsu
Jack-knife rap that juts out your chest when it hits you
Kinda the king of this kickin' it on a killer tune
Ladies love lyrics lounge lab in my living room
Kind of the king of that kerrang on a killer beat
Long lasting lyrics got legs like a millipede
Meant to exceed the most massively mental MCs
Went to MDs
To minimize my mental disease
Military music make men to Marines
I don't get the green, nope
Nice and fresh like a nectarine
Nestling in a nook you might nearly not notice me
But if you look close, though, I'm right where I'm s'posed to be
O, it's no obstacle for obsolete raps to go hospital
The bad operation's not optional
I opt to go off 'cuz you suck like an Otter Pop popsicle
Pop rap is cool? It's not possible
Please quit with the quickness
Or, quiet as kept, I'ma stick this porcupine quill right in my neck
No question, that's quite quotable, on a quest for the quality
I'm R-ravishing, like I won the lottery
Relax the rivalry, robbery, really dog
I'm on a roll like a chili dog
Grip's Silly Symphony, sent to be the most superb specimen
Super-herb rappers smacked down like pro wrestling
That's a little too simple, but suffice it to say
I spit a pretty stiff sentence to lift your toupee
Touche, the tough talk is too trite, trifling, tragedy
Travesty, like the Twin Towers toppling tragically
Useful utility, unique yet ubiquitous
Ugh, nice verse
Burst a vein from the viciousness
Victory, another win for me
Winter wonderland to Summer Jam, Gab Wino works on his winning spree
X-rated or G & G
What marks the spot? I'm a xenophobe, I don't talk to strangers a lot
Yes yes, y'all, not the Youngest in Charge, I guess It's Yours
Don't Play With My Yo-Yo
What's wrong, you forget yours?
Zero in, zone coaster, get your trees
Zips to the head, slip into bead, get some Z's...
Track Name: Broakland II
Back again, broker than before
"Kick down!"
Four tracks? Repoed.
"Took them shits!"
We got two now
Make do with it

We put it all on the line like a free throw
I traded in the bucket for a hundred bucks
and a free tow
It's sad when you can't afford a cab and
You have to bring a bike lock along when you go out looking for action
At the Safeway, I pay with coins, Club Card,
and coupons.
I never throw out the stale bread, I make croutons!
Hey, soup's on
Eat a MC 'cuz I'm hungry
I had to pay taxes or liquidate my assets and
flee the country
Knuckle up, the beat's bumpy
With my busted-out bank account, nobody wants me
Foul flagrant, no laundry soap, smell like a vagrant
My Speed Stick ran out and I can't afford to replace it
Dirty-down basement, Broakland, I can't taste it
Bank statement, I can't get a good credit rating
Plus the insurance dropped my ass
Because I like to drive fast, regardless if
the cops stop my ass, so fuck Geico
Plus I know a spot we could all go
That's known for the empty bank vaults like Geraldo
The B-R...O-A-K-Land is where we are
It's the most, other places come close, but no cigar
So gritty, my city doesn't need a street weeper
Eat meagre, tell it to your folks like Pete seeger
That it's either empty stomach or closed fist
I admit that I'm starvin' and shit, so don't dis
Kiss of death with bad breath, I never had less
Than when I moved to Broakland,
the most busted address
Because Broakland wants you to know that it loves you
Then vics your wristwatch when it hugs you...
Track Name: Superrapper
(Super raps)
I'm like a cross between Mighty Mouse and Underdog
(Super raps)
No need to wonder, dog
Grip Grand
Flyin' through the air
(Winnin' competition with super raps)

Superrapper, The Right Fist of Justice
The Left Hand of gettin' you and your man's name on the VIP club list
I'm faster than a blunt gets lit at a reggae show
Capable of not being heard about on the radio
I'm able to stop a speeding bullet by being shot
I've got the power to run away, if a superthug won't put his gun away
That's all the trade secrets I'm gonna say
Or the union will take my pension away
My lasso makes rappers act like they know
Hit a sucker right below the belt with my dirty mind-melting psychic flow
Toxic exposure caused the mic to glow brightly,
My brain stem regenerates nightly
(Hahaha, come fight me)
But I battle blabbermouth bad guys and banshees
Standin' upright like the Andes
to land these uppercuts, sucker punchin' combos, and eye-jammies whle flyin' around in my jammies
(super raps)

It was Tuesday, I was flyin' through the outer limits
Tryin' to find a way to get ahead in rap without a gimmick
But I couldn't quite get it and so I quit 'n got a new bag
And now it says "I'd rather be thugging" on my doo-rag
My gold teeth were resistant to beef, but I got platinum ones
Now my records in rotation like gattling guns
I attacked Mr. Freeze just to get iced out
I suck rocks with my five-mic mouth
I got a homing chip stitched in my piece
So when I'm trapped in the midst of the beast,
my sidekick can quickly track me down and get me released,
He just homes on the beeps, and brings tons o' guns That's the code of the streets
But when they get here, I might melt 'em down with heat vision,
'Cuz I love bein' a rapper, but I'd rather keep livin'
It's a decision I make, it might hurt my street cred when they find out I eat the tofu and wheat bread

(Winnin' competition with super raps)
Man, this is the stupidest song I've ever heard
Straight SOS
(Winnin' competition with super raps)
Need to cut that shit off, it's too dumb
(Winnin' competition with super raps)
Too dumb
(Winnin' competition with super raps)
Retarded, Straight retarded
Track Name: Santa Ana Winds
(Spotted at the corner of Superior and Venice
I put sugar in the dosage so it's easier to finish...)

Breezier than when it's hurricanes and Santa Ana Winds
The quest remains, will you step up or get set up like mannequins?
If I had a fin for every sucker we busted, I'd cash it in
On def bracelets like Mr. Hood so that Grip could look masculine?
Yo, eff that so much
Even with my King Midas-ish solid-gold touch
I would still insist on killin' the crowd as if I was Cold Crush
Even my old stuff gets you in the end like it was coal dust
You rhyme bogus
'Til they line us up and blindfold us
G & G be tryin' to redefine the way you see a rhyme
And the odds of it being mine if it's wack is "no chance"
That's like playing Nation of Millions
and trying to slow dance
This ain't a romance
But I love the mic, me and her like to hold hands
Seein' her with another man, I can't begin to fathom
So I grab 'em both, drag 'em back to the lab
and split the atom
Get the heck out of Dodge
I don't grip the gatlin', but in case we
Have to blast a lyric at the hats of cats who try to chase me? Here's the DJ...

Are you feeling flooded? Overflowing, never knowing where the river's going
If or when it's slowing down enough for you to get out?
Found it's tough to pull your head out of the place you got it stuck in?
Face the fuckin' music, suckers step a lot like double-dutchin'
When the wind blows,
you can feel it, fresh like open windows
Airin' out the music that you care about
Raring out the box to go
Stickin' it like a popsicle's impossible when everyone's
sick in it like a hospital, or thereabouts
The wheels spun, the DJ played reminders of the kind of pain you feel from
The needle and the damage done like Neil Young
When freedom rings, will rappers heed the call and clip the strings as if they're sick of things,
or stick you in the chest like nipple rings?
Grip'll bring a bunch of pugilistic punchin' in the function
At the back of dark rooms where I spit sharp like harpoons
Get smart or get lost when Grip toss you off a cliff like cartoons
Catch an anvil
If it isn't Calibrator on the handbill, just cancel

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