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Burning Tire Artisan

by Chee Malabar

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    Original artwork by Daisy Rockwell

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1.
Live from Al-Jazeera Featuring Amitava Kumar Verse 1 On behalf of the unruliest hooligan mob, Malcontent with a pen, Rap’s Julian Assange, Underground, off air, no bombs by Funk Flex My shit bump in suicide trucks of some sub sects (Burning Tires….) From Madras to Mombasa, They harass us in our casa Sayin’ ‘you Hamas, huh?’—Yeah, like I learned to rap in a fucking Madrassa, Making bomb music like the sounds of scuds past ya (Burning Tires) All I got to show for it— Precondition, I’m ill, someone tell me where COBRA is, No Medicare, I medicate on six packs of beer Hit the street with kerosene and light whatever’s near (Burning Tires) …and effigies ablaze, kill your idols, whether Pop, Politics, or some god, The name’s Chirag, faceless face in the mob, Cancel checks(Czechs) you endorse like abortions in Prague Chorus Verse 2 Still Live from Al-Jazeera: subtitled, grainy pixeled Voice of Brown, homegrown yet strangely distant They can’t reconcile my style, speech, and my ‘staani tan American passport, face like a Taliban …Screamin’ ‘Ali for Imam’ hit the stage with K.M. Hassan, give ya’ll the Saddam wave Chem Ali’s gassin’ ‘em—stages turn to mass graves House rage offa subprime rate. Narration (Amitava Kumar) I’m telling you this here so that you can see how ordinary men and women whose lives are entangled in the war on terror tell stories about themselves and their place in the world. Theirs are stories that bring together, whether as acts of fancy or as pictures of grim reality, different parts of our divided world. Verse 3 We don’t shuck and jive for pay, mortgage heaven And sell a preacher hell Stroll through perdition in Adidas Shells Old ass rappers trying to cast a Bieber spell I speak 16’s that wake up sleeper cells— We young, Brown, and stressed, long noses, hooded eyelids Articulate, yeah—with names on No Fly Lists But life is hard, why go at it easy? For the fruits of my labor, peace to Mohammed Bouazizi. Narration (Amitava Kumar) Of course, as any writer knows, a story might begin at one place and then through an extraordinary, unexpected turn end up somewhere else entirely....The individual vanishes in a dark place of secrets. Or we watch him disappear on the brazen stage of propaganda. The particulars of an individual life are sometimes all that we have as a precious lifeline to firm reality.
2.
Verse 1 I’m that old immigrant hunger, that sidewalk grind That midnight sun shift, that gravedigger grind Those soft eyes that watch guys that white chalks find Same eyes on the rooftop where white cops is spyin’ That bi-weekly high of that government dime That confederate flag, that southerners pride IED in that bazaar where your brother went to die That Herpe sored dick that pimp sent your mother to try That hole in that rubber that brought you alive That scar tissue on your face that box cutter styled That drink, that crack, that lost lover’s eye I’m that fight fought with lights off, that rapist inside you That gangster rap track that killers drive by to That block, that spot, where you know they’ll find you I’m this, I’m that, I’m ‘that’s not enough’ I’m that blind man with soft eyes who sees by touch. Verse 2 I’m that house of vice doused in booze and reefer smells Two stories up from that wide-awake sleeper cell That expired visa that made you hide in the shadows That drug mule shittin’ out work from her asshole That Mayflower dream, that Middle Passage dream That lightening cream, rape through that silent scream That tent city slum, that rampant malaria That airdrop that never came, that god dam hysteria Monk on fire that Tiananmen tank Brown skin turbaned man you see him and you shank That home that love built that cheating dads killed That house, that mailbox, that foreclosure notice That will, that strength, that composed focus That familiar face, that rush hour commute That run in your place grind, that baby needs food I’m that, I’m this, but I’m mostly you. Verse 3 Feat. Haysoos My appeal is I’m a dreaming realist, addicted to being sober Visibly I conceal it, and I’m a peaceful soldier Farther as I get closer, openly close minded Peeps on the street with no teeth, they stay grinding So many outlaws, say they play the rules I did it overnight, but I paid my dues Still rep the ghetto, but I’m filthy rich Stay sucka free, but haters can suck my dick I’m that guy you waterboard on a foreign shore I’m a conservative redneck who hates the poor I’m that dirty clergy that’s actually atheist A second-class citizen, still a patriot I’m the scene, the gunshot, the emergency light I’m a feminist who wants a subservient wife Preferably white, but yet I’m afrocentric I’m you playa playa, we stay on the benches
3.
Chorus: Many tired to tame her, many tried to claim her Left the same way they came—as perfect strangers The city is yours, the city is yours, the city is yours. Verse 1: An old man’s recollection of the places where’s he lived Image of a Ferris wheel, spins in his head, he asks Was the era real? Summertime on the terrace dreaming ‘bout Ebbets field Below the fellas is grindin’, most of whom like him left their past on Ellis Island 30’s New York, thought Paris might find him writing that book inside him and cherish his triumph- Dad laughed and said, ‘You ain’t the son of a scion’. So he went to work and wrought trellis out of iron “I am” he said, “already in Zion. In my twilight years my memory’s dying But art is long, and life is short I’ma leave the same way I came-piss poor But living is an art, feel its true force My spirit will live on in the people of New York.” Chorus: Many tired to tame her, many tried to claim her Left the same way they came—as perfect strangers The city is yours, the city is yours, the city is yours. Verse 2: A young man's education on love and its obstacles on the same block where the brothel is, where they shop that shit, fresh off pyrex pots with it Mama said, "nothing's impossible... .........son it's better than home, 'cause where we come from, the sky's lurked by predator drones." Home is a tenement drenched in a curry smell where all the neighbors laugh and call it a sleeper cell cause Mom wears a hijab, Pop rocks a Kufi young man? well, the boys call him dookie sayin' he smells like shit, even dissed by other coolies till he knocked a few out, now they fear his arm appears calm but he worries his dear Mom playin' 50 watchin' clips of Amir Khan when ICE rushed in, tryna deport his mommy, he yelled, "this is our home! We New Yorkstani!" Verse 3 Feat. Mo Deep thoughts of a young teen caught in the cross roads, A lost soul. Spoke with her head down and talked low. Specially after her parents divorced, so And everything got worse, fourfold. She aspired for them flashing lights like Morse Code. Used to lock her bedroom door closed, and posed for glamour shots on the mirror with her torso, imagining herself on a tour boat. Her mother, was never supportive of her. Used to tell others, that her best friend Tina was really her lover. And the fact that she acted so much like her dad was the main reason she had to suffer. In a household full of fights over who is wrong or right and a mom who likes to taunt her life. Our young teen says and responds so calmly, I make it one day im NY STANI
4.
Verse 1 Mama raised me some till rap took an orphan in Jumped into the talent pool where half these dude’s snorkelin’ That scram on site at the sight of my dorsal fin Morsel bits who ain’t worth my force of will That spirit that kill it, Mo—name my assignment Who, when, where, set the stage spot my buy in We soured on their math so we flexed the sweet science Tweet, text, fax, tell the streets this beast primed With razor blade phrases if you tryna’ catch a fade Slice necks, use their head for a paperweight Silverback gorilla waterboarding all these Bathing Apes Slaughter more emcees till they get their bars up- Keep at it till Ali says, “Chee it’s Eid Mubarak’. Born into a war with burning tires ‘round my neck And the sound of death playin’ loud on my deck It’s now time, chow time, I want my pound of flesh. Verse 2 Rainman Back for the soundset, fired off an ounce or less Genuine HP, never settle for the counterfeit These dudes claim it’s new school with that stick and move I move forward and counter it, connect till they out of it, Centrifugal force from the outer limit This is style without a gimmick, cut to the chase So I can, check if they listen when I hit ‘em with the algorithm The true and living words married to rhythm We paint sound visions, 20/20 with the laser incision It’s clear beyond pair when we clear the air here still driven We top gear, rolling through dudes need to lock the lair The rhymes touch the sky and knock you off the air Headphone raps, lyrics box your ears The veteran—Rainman the antique, polished and clear I shine through, focus and fire and light the fuse. Verse 3 Streets stopped watching so rappers went corporate We hang ‘em by their ties and apply that Blackwater torture For backwater daughters, sons, for backdoor abortions Back alley commerce, crack whores and their orphans We blood money sponsored from crack war fortunes That Reagan era rap, on trial in the courtroom. You fucks this is rap: needles, ego, and wax That RUN D.M.C. steez in all tuxedo black Macaca with an attitude, ethos of the trapped Peephole, latchkey, 20 people in the shack Hunger pains and growls in stereo when my pen moves Sit at the table or find yourself on the menu Pickled in the beast’s bell—human buillon cube Parade my ugly-rap full on nude And some of ya’ll cool till you started talkin’ reckless Campaigning for an ass whooping, I’ll help you get elected.
5.
I’m back spittin’ that gaudy rap That shorty swag rap with a hot toddy flask Rowdy Roddy Piper pile-driver drop his ass Rhyme writer, refined mind that brought it back Save your autograph, I stamp mine on bodycasts They’re Clottey ass-I Pacquiao them then I caught a cab For my audience, except we on a spotty ave. Rock that ‘Knock Knock’ joint for my Hollis cats— Mo spit his verse, Queens asked, “where the body bags? Or where Gotti at? Who organized that sort of wrath?” We don’t holler back, spit raps, swallow that And call us back when your numbers look like college math I know I sound like an ass, I acknowledge that But these raps don’t write themselves, that’s where my solace at You don’t like it? Here’s my knob, go on polish that- Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t see them dollar stacks. Verse 2 It’s that Burning Tire Artisan, That yearning for the higher self when it’s dark again The hard parts to start, stop, then start again In a parked car spilling gin on my cardigan Feeling harder since, Mo said, “we barging in.” Harking back to the point of my origin Coins in my pocket coppin’ clothes out that bargain bin Peep my arc again, that IMI marketing Fly to death like Saudi pilots seeking martyrdom Gave it all I had yet still you want more from him Middle finger up, A-L-I said, “Orient them.” T said, “Subtitle it, they treat you like a foreign film.” Verse 3 Ardamus Ignite start car fires Rinse mouths hard barb wire Flavored smoothies, Take your groupie And make a movie Called gaming Suzie ..Or Taming Lucy Whatever sounds better bro Perverted nerd who not street credible Cause I never sold white man Look on Facebook I lose a few white fans Now, I need a new nice dance Hipster chicks bleed through their white pants Bad Santa in the summer I drop in Got a head start to piss on your stockin' Hold fights, I'm pickin' grudges Poetry slam and drop kick the judges Brass knuckle finger bang, yeah I'm singin' strange Toilet water in your brain, yeah, we're gonna need to drain
6.
Rubber tires burn, Cathedral ceilings peeling Glass stained saints crumble on parishioners kneeling Hare Krishnas appealing, to westerners reeling Madrassas from Madras, Mombasa to New Zealand Fuel zeal and hope, demonstrations on the street Effigies on fire, memos placed in a jeep Along with a phone patched through from the Green Zone My song is the ring-tone that triggers that bomb, Brings along a mourning mob of twenty wailing moms— Non-stop sirens, more burning tires Snipers on minarets with rifles firing Woke up coughing up spurts of blood on my tunic Alarm clock blasting, woke up to my music Rose to my feet, slipped on my swooshes, - On a stroll to understand the dark hearts of men… That Burning Tire Artisan.
7.
Verse 1 To my saints, to my sinners, to my gangsters in Gotham ….how it feel to be a problem? Being young, being brown, being clocked by that squadron Robbing, killing, dealing out your apartment. …as hard as you are if you really want to scare ‘em get a library card I’m an inner-city griot, raised on public education Facin’ high blood pressure, and lowered expectations Sick of waitin’—Jack Kevorkian my patience (patients) Orchestrate a morbid rap orgy in my basement Rape breaks, rape snares, no sultry glances Ya’ll romance this game, I gave the game a Dirty Sanchez ….for the several that doubt me open your mouth and catch this verbal bukake we where Hip Hop lives, they just rent sick pads and I rep rap hard like I’m from Sedgwick Ave Verse 2 To my fam, to my friends, to my folks in the struggle …who love it that I hustle doubled up on my will knowin’ doubts could crush dude trust truth and walk along the path of the just few ..i’m a kinder place spend time with these minors tryna help them find their place when they get out of line, remind them, “rewind that tape” make em say, “that ain’t a phrase that’s a meat grinder blade” gut ‘em Halal style, bleed them out on stage let the crowd tape away, upload the feed to their Myspace… (wrong)..this ain’t politically correct— (nah) this might offend your internet connects. Dimwits, tweet this, grab my cock, follow it Your career lies in ruins like an archaeologist Craft coffins, put your top ten up in it scoffin’ Your crib’s a tomb, someone send Lara Croft in. Verse 3 Mo For the hunger for the hustle for the future for the youngsters. I do this for the culture. I do this with a passion of nobody thats amongst us Teach me how to dougie I rather you Fredrick Douglass See what they lacking in substance they try to make up with a dance or acts that are fashioned rambunctious. But when it come to writing verses, rap flows and functions, I'm eating peoples lunches My tongue's dipped in tungsten. Plus my crew is like the Munsters We speak in mantras. Surpass any level. IMI the clicka and Im back in the schedule, Hear ya shitty verses and I have a little giggle At times I feel like Malcolm Little turning competition into Malcolm in the Middle How can individuals? Come and test the talent as sharp as a talon on a soaring falcon when he rips you Understand he gets you With the only goal to destroy and rebuild them To a New kingdom. Competition, killed them. Cus the flow sicker than blankets given by Pilgrims, you still feel him? Its like my whole organization practice gentrification. IMI we in the building.
8.
Feat. Mo Verse 1 Knock Knock, your boy knocked the door of the hinges The flow’s so vicious, comatose four ninjas, Injures four shoguns, nunchuks spun till the last foe is thrown in Caskets open, till the last foe is thrown in It’s Ronin, honin’, in our zone, and The omen: some horsemen shoutin’ out my slogan Zone is Machida’s, you playin’ Hulk Hogan? Purple plum pulp, while my circle bump gums Translatin’ what I did to an awestruck Joe Rogan …your boy gettin’ open broke and numb from smoke and Puerto Rican rum leave ‘em choked done, from quotes colder than mortician’s thumbs born from a vision bred livin’ in slums my force is a core splittin’ sum the innermost ring of vicious distant sun Verse 2 Stop, drop, shut ‘em down this ain’t button down rap Scrapyard flag wavin’, rudeboy sound clash …East Indian Maaga man. Armor on, I salvaged from places where the havoc plays get fed a knuckle sandwich, have a taste same recipe Bernard made to serve Kelly Pavlik’s face last bastard from a rabid race Acid faced and lackin’ the pastors faith unlocked language and cracked the master’s safe Heir ascendent, I’m takin’ your starter’s place ace…(cheese)Chee’s hard to grate your boy barged the gates bars charred, embers flicker when I start another slaughter touring surf sound waves, hang ten, my slang tends to water board ‘em approach is a vocal chokehold, the dope flow is Kalari brother be cautious, I’m locked on the Octagon won’t opt to calm till I drop heads or atleast pop an arm Verse 3 Mo Aint no debate to say this Chee Malabar the greatest Writer you ever heard, MO just plain outrageous. My flow phenomenal. Should be on honor roll. Address you lames like envelopes in thoughts that I chronicle. I got the body blow flow, punchlines and entire body chokeholds, metaphors that break boards in karate dojos Think you hot? Nobody know though. While my name ring bells like Quasimoto. Your peeps dont make a peep up on the beat. We beast ready to eat, we wolves ready to creep, you sheep. We use you as material for the next IMI tee, thus ya team get treated like fleece. Embarrasing. In comparison to the top levels of the Sheraton, son you sweet/suite. ME? Call me the most furious, unruliest, rappers get called out like Juliet. To honor this, anonymous, hip hop novelist, trying to keep my head above water like hippopatmous. Roam through ya metropolis like please stop this shit. All you muthafuckas sound the same, you homonyms.
9.
Harsh Truth 03:15
Let me just be forward, I think you’re gorgeous Thank my lucks stars just circling your orbit Dinner dates, roses, you know I can’t afford it Hop my neighbor’s yard though, and cut you out an orchid. Before you I thought booty calls was courtship Horseshit I learned pimp limpin’ into manhood By the kitchen sink makin’ dinner outta canned goods You ain’t judge, knowin’ it was all I could offer Pauper prince, only dreams in my coffer Such a cliché, you’re with a struggling rocker Juggling jobs just to show my hurt locker Gave it all I had just to get what I have A few chicks, a few friends, I’ve lost on that path I ain’t mad, I understand, cause I’m one strange cat Thanks for lovin’ my strangeness You’re gracious, ageless, something so ancient Verse 2 Guess he’s still reelin’ from that trauma still When you left and mama put on that armor shield Hard to think how she dealt with seeing your face in his Finding him in tears, mad, defacing all your shit. In your room with a handful of paint Trying to picture you back in his life, straddling the pain. Respect the fact that you got him out of that shithole Said why piss in the wind when you know where the wind blows But it ain’t the simple when you’re ‘round about six though Saw you at eight, then again at eleven Grown ass man, dog, you can get to steppin’ Disaffected, nonchalance was his weapon— All along all he wanted was to be adored But those stops and starts left him feelin’ scorned I know it’s in the past and I probably shouldn’t complain But somedays I see that child see the world through my gaze.
10.
Hey young love where you hide these days? I know it’s been a decade since I saw your face Came across it as I cleaned out my crib Us making out in that booth in that pic You made a fuss about cause it showed your crooked tooth I said ‘I loved it, adored it,’ it gave you character You smiled at me and said, ‘no game, you’re an amateur.’ Before the damage came, an average Jane Is how you saw yourself, and to bandage pain You downed yourself, while I drowned myself In newfound vices: weed and Bourbon tumblers Remember that summer when the sun burned humble? My bird of paradise in an urban jungle That version got crumbled as new moons rose Pick apart the petals, the bloom is off the rose I know you’re not the one but I had to let you know Chorus Craving the parade of lights, the way we kissed Savoring the days and nights, so hard to resist Nothing else even existed Verse 2 Ran into a pal I hadn’t seen in a while She put me up on your whereabouts and said you had a child Said the baby’s healthy and she looks just like you Noticed you gave her the name you said you would in High School …if we ever had a daughter I guess congratulations are in order Thanks for asking ‘bout me and if I still stay faded The short answer’s no, so I guess I’m rehabilitated Asked ‘bout my life, so our mutual friend played it -you said the track about my mom was your favorite …but I guess you’re still jaded since you said the art was better than the man who made it my life’s an open book, every blank spot get’s painted you’re a part of that old pain that needs it’s own paint , shit …I know our past is ancient, You’re a part of that old paint that needs its own paint Chorus The stain of it, the blame of it, I used to ignore I changed for it, I aged for it, you walked out that door Ohh..forever more Verse 3 Sober nights, drunk mornings: same routine for months Slumped on the A train and felt a foot on my dunks Looked up screwfaced like, ‘yo! What the…” Saw this guy with you girl, you ain’t acknowledge my mug Strolled right by with that heron chic model strut Used to take two trains and a local Hollis bus Just to come and see you, even skipped college for a month. Here we are now you puttin’ on fronts Strokin’ his fat face and feedin’ him tongue Actin’ your shoe size and speakin’ in dumb While he smugly chews gum and murmurs some cool I can smell the stench of money on his Brooks Brothers suit- I can see your life in pictures: Hampton summers and views A Conde Nast catalog come to life Fat cribs, fat kids, then your friends will say divorce him Guess you can thank me for stressin’ that abortion.
11.
Feat. Toki Wright Verse 1 Young love with her duffel bag on a midnight train headed far from here, where city lights don’t drown stars Where city parks don’t remind you of those scars Findin’ mom and her lover sleeping under a praka they shared Shared needles on the ground, left their carcasses their Baby brother’s day care is being harnessed to a street pharmacist’s care Chained to a chair, petting a German Shepherd’s hair Yeah…he turned six last week Birthday present was a funeral suit sittin’ front seat Watching you weep as child services creeps Promised him a loving home, school and healthcare Freed from your burdens now your mind’s on St. Elsewhere Where the grass is green, where the air is crisp Where the people are kind, where they know what fairness is No more embarrassment of being an heiress to this mess she inherited Let the great world spin Chorus Snow globe with your dreams and hopes Turn it upside down, shake it up, let it settle and then Shake it again…and let the great world spin Verse 2 Toki Wright Possibilities endless, the sky is unlimited, limitless Off to the wild world wilderness with a one way ticket Cross the boulevard of broken dreams and burning bridges And it won’t extinguish, witness to the world’s cruelty And its beauty intertwined, either side live or die Answering the great question why, reply was why not She said she found everything that I lost …like hope for a sense of purpose found the world, gained a soul, it was only worth it maybe on the surface we think we know a person we pass judgements, I once slipped a hundreds ..but you never know the path, journey, road that another goes finding their way home from the gray zone she left a letter and escaped in the wind it read, “let the great world spin.” Verse 3 Young love with her duffle bag, washed up on the Sunset strip Thinkin’ that it’s better here, on a gum speckled sidewalk That gunmetal sheen of cool, life in high glass Panhandling, Los Angeles mannequin Got in with a crew of squatters the day she got here Took a liking to this cat who said he liked girls with blond hair Copped a bottle of bleach, got with his program Sexing to a death metal song like it’s a slow jam Love is grand, it’s four weeks in Fast forward--four months, girl’s shrinking reed thin Drinking binges, syringes, and her lover’s long gone Pain tatted on her face with that Crystal Meth font Squat to squat, cock to cock Got nothing left to say unless you talk that gwop Righteously proud of being an heiress to this mess she inherited Sayin’, ‘let the great world spin.’
12.
Verse 1 For that little man he used to be Movin’ with the Bough brothers through the mall boostin’ jeans Cruising streets with a boombox, Cube playing loud Till his mama heard him curse and told him, “get in the house”. …straight to his room that he shares with baby sis who’s laughing like a goon for the man that he hoped to be quoting dope emcees, he even stole their steez hoping what he wrote’s dope and he won’t get teased— didn’t happen, but he steady kept rappin’ for the man that he might be in the end beyond ambitions, he wants to be worthy of his friends same ones who take his call at the height of the night connect the dots and give shape to his type of life for the fans who told a friend, ‘this is my friend go and peep it.’ For the grown man pickin’ up all the pieces For the folk in his life for their unbearable sweetness Verse 2 For all the things he used to dream of Feet up on mama’s sofa, speakin’ on a green touch Tone phone she said he couldn’t use until he cleaned up— Girl laughed on the other end, he called her a mean slut Back when kindness didn’t mean much For that kid that felt bad and expressed his teen love For that girl that saw through it and shot him a mean mug … for love and its limits for first love and all the girls he cheated on her with for the wrongs he tried to right but left off his lips …first fights and split lips for his niece’s soft snores, coughs, and kid fits …for his last and only one who makes him feel just a little less lonely for the younger version of his mom tired and sleepless for the dreams of that child in their unbearable sweetness
13.
Cash Cow (Bonus Cut) (free) 02:58

about

Chee Malabar is one half of the hip hop outfit Himalayan Project and Oblique Brown. Firmly planted in the American experience, his music speaks on the immigrant experience, love, relationships, politics, and art.

Having released "Wince At The Sun" with Himalayan Project in 2003, Chee went on to release the eponymous LP "Oblique Brown" and an EP entitled “Dust” with long time collaborator Zeeb.

‘Burning Tire Artisan’––an amalgam of the personal and the political is his most recent full length effort. Produced by Staten Island native Ali Abidi, the album features Amitava Kumar, Willie Perdomo, Toki Wright, Haysoos, Ardamus, Anand Subramanian, Rainman, and Mo.



For more information visit:
www.cheemalabar.com
www.himalayanproject.com
obliquebrown.bandcamp.com

For booking information for shows, panels and appearances for Himalayan Project, Chee Malabar and Oblique Brown:
cheemalabar@hotmail.com
Matt Alunkal @ Red Bench Records: (347) 725-0720

For licensing queries:
Modiba Publishing
Eileen O’Neill
Operations Manager
eileen@modiba.net
212.725.0125

credits

released October 11, 2011

All tracks produced by Ali Abidi except "Good Ones"* and "Cassette Era Rhymer"**

* Produced by Doc Ock
** Produced by Jest

Cash Cow (Bonus Track) Produced by Harry Hotter and Ali Abidi. Bass guitar on "Cash Cow" by Shaun Seneviratne.
Saxophone by Matthew Millar.

Features: Amitava Kumar, Willie Perdomo, Anand Subramanian, Toki Wright, Haysoos, Ardamus, Rainman, and Mo.

Dialogue sourced from Punching at the Sun by Tanuj Chopra

Mixed and Mastered by Great Scott
Album Image by Daisy Rockwell
Layout by Ali Abidi

Red Bench Records/IMI

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

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Chee Malabar Brooklyn, New York

Chee Malabar is a New York based rapper & writer.

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