az - untitled -- "you know the saga, who live-r, who hotter / who shot at who at the ramada / i knew about beef since bambaata / before beat street, streets was heavily deep with the riders / guns and money, some was hungry." shoot, feel like you need to write out that whole verse, feel like you need to transcribe it and examine it and appreciate it on a few level, from a few angles. az reading slowly and carefully, thick and hoarse flow that you've been hearing for ten years. with everyone real in new york turned reactionary cause no one's selling records anymore, commands about getting off the south's dick so we can jam saigon and cory gunz on alchemist drums. but az sounding like... sounding for real like his city. picture him leaving seinfeld-looking manhattan apartment, climbing into modest and dusty m3 in underground parking garage while he makes and takes his calls, cruising city streets, barbershop, wendy's, generic overheated premo beat floating light in the background with fat joe and styles p scratched on the hook. calling up some half-real, perfect new york city that's easy to imagine. with michael caine in tall, thick coat, grey buildings, overwritten dialogue, grey skies, characters you read about in f.e.d.s., clubs you heard about in cormega songs, az coming down his block with gold chains and a silk shirt in 1990 turbo saab 900 with the roof down, ten years later with that still in his heart and still coming from that place but not living in it anymore. even though he could (so real that he even got checked by the real faison), even though plenty other new yorkers are talking about that early 90s crack boom and rapping about knocking off bricks and holding blocks with a crew (see also: jeezy talking about he was the first cat in his hood buying the 190 benz with dirty money, talking about he was coming down with coupes and crates of jordans. in macon? in 97?). "and the ricans got the game in the cobra clutch / and the Ds in the caprice, too close to duck."