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Run the Jewels

I didn't edit at this before I posted it. I typed it last year... and never got around to putting it out. I hope it holds up.

Is your slackin'ass looking for a Christmas Gift at the last possible moment?  All hard up and the like waiting on something to occur to you since you don't think about the folks you know aside from at the last minute, just as a birthday or a holiday or a wedding or some anniversary of something sweeps through and makes you reconsider your life in full view of theirs?  A place, a time where you can go back and know all that you need to know about some other poor soul wandering through the world?  Or at least enough to buy some simple damn gift that, even if it falls short of perfection, it still mages to capture something of the person, or the moment or the place?  Let alone the time.  The time the time.

That Christmas Time of Year.
That Christmas time is near.
That "Christmas Fucking Miracle" is here.

"Oh no, what the fuck have we here?"
"Its alive and its hungry as fuck."

Well, sir, what the fuck we have here is Run the Jewels. What is "Run the Jewels"? It is the hardest thing you've heard in years.  And it doesn't just rip your flesh like weasels, it does so via wholly non-similar pathways.

Pathways.  Pathways.
Pastways.  This is the rappity-rap you've been missing.  You've been seeking. You've been hoping might not find you safe in your home so that you and your ugly sweater contest can comfortably finish last in the land of life, liberty and the pursuit of imperfection.

They know it themselves.  Mike tells us.  Jaime tells us.  Just listen.  To the words:  "Run the Jewels, Jewels, Jewels."

While the beat(s) drop(s) to explode(s) like megaton bombs.

They push the envelope, rip it to shreds, douse it in 151, light it on fire and eat it so you'll never be able to bite the style.

This is challenging music.
They are challenging music.
They challenge you. They challenge each other.

They challenge the challenge to push you to the brink and forget the rest.  "We the villains."

One of the fuckers drops the mic, walking off the beat like they know that the look on your face yelps  "HOLY SHIT. THAT GUY DROPPED THE MIC." or
"That boy good." or
"Yessir."  or

Then the other (not-)fat bastard picks it up, keeps the pace, continues the race and spits in your face.

El-p treats the motherfuckin' beats with the same ste-removed disdain.  (Yes, the beats will fuck your mother. And any other "rapper" [Where is Lil' Wayne's attempt to murk Run the Jewels on their own beats?] ill-equipped to deal with the illest hyper-realness.)  I want to put a line here, make an analogy so you'll understand, but Mike already killed that mess:  "Producer gave me a beat, said 'it's the beat of the year' / I said 'El-p didn't do it so get the fuck outta here."

It starts with "36" Chain" -> "DDFH".

For appetizers, you're hit with the first couple of tracks to tntroduce you to the style-at-ear and whet that hip-hop monster appetite you've been hiding from your friends.  "Oh, okay" you think "This sounds pretty dope."

Then Big Boi, all unawares, is invited to lay a verse over this sick twisted techfunk.  He sounded like to midgets in the trunk when he drops a solid verse over some future-alien-invasion beat.  Displays all characteristics of an emcee you should never incite on a whim because that ATLien will leave you bleeding from your face.

Then they #RuntheJewels on that little bitch.
Their verses beat his ass, leave him for dead and steal his pretty-boy custom socks too.

Then the beats afterward kicked that beat's ass.  It all starts with the ascending quick intro hit of "36" Chain".  Wait... didn't we hear the exact counter to that when we started "Banana Clipper"? Yup.  That beat descended on you from a higher pitch to take you to the depths of the dungeon.  This one?  We lift you up only to smash your face on the elevator trip to the glass ceiling.

Then they dropped BIG BEASTIER verses on Bigger Badder beats.

That's a strong verse from a half of OUTKAST that just got laid flat and outlined in chalk.
This is the exact opposite of Andre 3MF000 w/ T.I..

Then, the fat black motherfucker and the angry sci-fi whiteboy were sitting around thinksmoking about "What other rap duos can we rob and steal from?"

Yup: Fuck Those Niggas in Paris.

Watch the Throne?
Watch this, bitch.

Eiffel Tower Motherfucker?
Grassy Knoll Motherfucker.


We got sneers and jeers and not thuggish king or kingish thug or mainstream pusher hiphop.  Not even Trap-set Pusha-T chrak-hop.  Just reallife ripp'emup for the check and the glory.  Not one set of analogies, metaphors and talking points.  We're all over the map. " We got the whole map on lock".

(This is my job this is what I do.
We're not ball-playin' owner types, we're takin' drugs to find out what the world's like types.)

"I never did that and I never did you
But it come in a pack baby, I'm a do two"

Oh you want to know how this could translate to the next generation? "Run the Jewels is not for your children".  That said, it might be for our children.  It might be for the next generations' children.  It might be for the children who grew up destroying beats, destroying friends over beats, wondering how that fantastical unicorn of the powerful group ever got started in this singular world of find-YOUR-voice hip-hop.  Well, what about finding who pushes you to find your bestest voice?  Who stretches your mind to the point of breaking the bank for the future shit.

That's right, the group that accepts you only because they can't beat you.
Your boys who know you've proven yourself because they tired to pull your innards out and hold them infront of your face while your heart beating rampantly to get blood to your severed head hastens your passing.

Not only that, but who'll kill your bitch-ass live, in-concert every night you're on tour?  Only the strongest.  Only he maddest.  Only he biggest killers.

And who has a bigger stage presence in all of hip-hop  muhfuckin Killer Mike?
He makes El look so small and white.

And El steps to the plate and spit some sick shit.  Some slick shit, some outta control shit.  His beats are his property, Mike.  El don't give a fuck what you spit, but he'll make the beat fit himself and we'll see where that leaves you.  You think you know paranoia?  Feel this quicksand shift.

Think about the paranoia of the world collapsing upon itself.  All into blackness in years or moments of more.  I laced our blunts motherfucker, whatchu wanna say now?  Get comfortable with expression of depression, 'cause this is a long ride down.  We're all living forever now.  How much pain can you handle?

Oh, fuck you, El.  I'm Killer Mike.  I'll eat it up, chop it up, bring the pain from above.  I'll drop these lyrics with no compunction, this junction is me driving through like I ain't got a clue.

We're so different.  We're the same.
We see the same from different angles,
What the fuck do you have, leaders?
Listeners? Congress? USA? Other countries?

This is our craft, we'll kill you with it.  We'll hang our hats on it.  This is what we know.  What do you know? What do you do?  Where is your excellence?

So what?
I want to see this double-album.

"Run the Throne,
Watch the Jewels."

For Christmas 2014?
Talib Kweli and Yasiin Bey are Black Stars.

Summer 2015?

Bring the Duos Back.

Clipse did it right.
Is there no one else?

Run the Jewels lights the way.  What else does rap have to say?  Rap is the people.  "If the people are smoked out, hip-hop is gonna be smoked out."  (I see you, the Roots.)

What are the people, Hip-Hop?
Tell me WeezyFBaby.
Tell me GiftofGab.
Tell me SnoopLion.
Tell me Kendrick.
Tell me Eminem.
Tell me Redman.
Tell me Kanye.
Tell me Wale.
Tell me Jay.

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"He's just this guy, you know?"