The History of our Future


Hip-hop left New York and LA in the late nineties 

Packed it’s vinyl bag with designer breaks 

And bounced to every fifth white kid’s bedroom; 

Furnished with Timberland backpacks and Roland 8-tracks


Tommy trust fund didn’t have to bust guns for lump sums

Just emulate the culture that once was…


I remember rich Chris had the software to burn a disc, compact and crisp

Wax, CDs, and a Vestax, sandwiched between two techniques and a gold-platted MPC

Damn I wanted to touch those robust rubber buttons!


Collin and I had nothing

Except for an ounce we got fronted

Flipped it for a fifty-dollar profit, and got blunted

Turned eight more Ozs into a four-track with one speed

Four channels and a whole ribbon of tape bleed


“Let’s make beats”

Said Eph with his 18-year old ideals and baby dreads

Sprouting from his head like rhyme schemes

Passed like the glass pipe of kind weed, that made our eyes bleed


Midnight strolls down high Street

Heisting single cigarettes from the corner smoke shop

Saving dimes for the crate stamped $1.99

Diggin’ gems for that dope drop


Baraka’s Blues, Bitches Brew, Bill Withers and Gil Scott 

Still blocked us from the cynical runaround

Before Atmosphere and Aesop 

When Living Legends were the pinnacle of Underground


18 hours to Austin, with freestyles and herb to numb the exhaustion

Blazing resin with Murs, talking politics and hip-hop with the heads on the curb


Back to Burque

Where my girlfriend was about to pop

I was eighteen when he water dropped

I was a child with a newborn

Trying to make boiling water out of luke-warm


That’s when we played our first set

Bouncing beats on cassette deck

Counting sheep to catch rec

An ounce a sleep, an ounce a weed, and mad debt

Student loans paid rent, and filled the fork and plate

Diapers and bottles came from flippin’ quarters and eighths

But we were never too poor to create


Four-tracks of analog made Compact adventures

Ten Tracks of digital dropped The History of our Future

Soul trotting on the thin ice of sanity

With the synchronicity of The 2bers


Within the chaos and confusion, the music was the one answer

And the dope, which helped me cope, when Mom died of lung cancer

Used the loss as a canvas I could paint with my art

All alone in the lab, fuck the fame and the charts


Just a brain and a heart

And a temple for soul escape

A heavy-handed world resting in-between my shoulder blades


Almost left the world more than once

Returned with the release of Children of a Mortal Sun

From the Pharcyde, I saw time passin’ me 

And smiled wide when the club hit capacity


Nine years, six albums, and three children later

Still midnight marauding, with the rhythm as our savior

The history of this music is too deep to be digested

If hip-hop is dead…

We are jumping on it’s death bed