UNCON003: Headspace

by TH!NK

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released September 16, 2013

All tracks written, produced, mixed and mastered by TH!NK, unless otherwise noted. Vocals by TH!NK. Additional vocals by Lunar.




Unconscious Collective Edinburgh, UK

Independent netlabel and community venture; incorporating art, music and culture. Established in 2010.

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Track Name: Head Space
Live and direct, in living colour. Grip the gutter – snipe, type of hype, bring the ruckus. Sinners shudder when I'm spitting thunder coz I'm hip to a sucker. Kid's a slugger, get yer lips set to pucker...up! Bust a nut just to show ya where I come from. Edinburgh brother, speaking for the broke and undone. Never trust a buster, peeping every hoax and snake tongue. Clever undercover, speaking to expose where fakes run. Drake somehow is a hero to most, but he disnae mean shit to me. Coz he's straight up the lamest, a sucker - simple and plain (Motherfuck him and Lil Wayne).
I'll say it again – “shame, shame, shame”. Displaying disdain for lame's playing games. My only aim is to speak truth and maintain, they tryna figure out a catchy domain name. So, fuck them and everything that they stand for, I demand more. My defence tighter than a title-winning back four, potent strike force - likeness of the league top strikers. You're an eyesore, tryn bite on my bread like incisors. Who let ya out yer inclosure joker? Ain't on that Don Corleone quota: “Keep yer enemies” fuck em, I keep my friends closer. Keep my text kosher. Keep my glass half-full on a coaster. Keep yer feet of my sofa. You aint Tom Cruise and this aint Oprah. Keep my name on your lips like a goddamn cold sore. So raw - let that shit spread like herpes simplex. The verse he spits best when he invests, his stress in text. Influenced by J Star but i ain't speaking in Jehst.
Blessed – ride the crest – of a wave...
Bathe – in the beat – for a sec...
Best – type to raise – yer head space...
But – like I said - I aint speaking in Jehst...
Just cooking soul food for you to eat and ingest. Another spoonful for you to heat and inject. Digest, dialect, direct. May I digress? Let my third eye quest.
Groove - get yer soul upgraded...
Raid this out-dated mind state kid...
Th!nk - 'bout to move on the matrix...
Ahead of the spaces where my head space is...basic.
Track Name: Rebel Without Applause
What's an encore, if all your songs bore and your fans forget what they put you on for? What's a reaction, if it's a lie kid? They turn on the applause sign and the crowd obliges. What's a good review if you bought it? What's an award if you didn't earn the plaudits? I stay the rebel without applause kid, if don't know – get to know – from the top it's...The rebel circulating on a lower level - word to Satan and friends. Converse with devils, adverse to medals, allergic to praise or commendation. Content in making a mense, state my two pence, breaking some pens, consume the contents. Drink ink, sink in the blood of Bics, drowning in the mud of script. All about some other shit – straight out of the Mother Ship. After some bevee and a heavy luncheon, me and crew get really wild – word to Terry Nutkins. And as for you lack of encouragement, it's encouraging, I don't heed the judgment of a bumpkin. So far I've probably had less compliments, than the world has continents or the word “incompetent” has consonants. But I consider each one caught an accomplishment and I know I'm making a start. But along with them, it ain't always applause or positive acknowledgment (have you seen who they're following?). With a flawed sense, false logic, felled consciousness - their condemnation don't dent my confidence. The consequence of using common sense is that I don't take it to heart or tryn break it apart. I'll just keep making the spark to light the dynamite that ignites the rhyme to illuminate in the dark. It ain't up to me to claim what i'm making is art - I'm just swimming hard, escaping the sharks. In rife, ridden waters, avoid the clutches of pin-striped Jaws' - fuck signing that clause kid. May have been born yesterday, but I stayed up all night studying the game with a cautiousness and as an approach I've adopted this more times than Brad and Angelina have adopted kids. You know what it is!

Stay the rebel without applause.
No need for praise, plaudits or awards.
No need for fake, fawning encores.
Just to stay raw, rugged, real to the core.

Yes! The rhythm, the rebel, circulating on a lower level with disheveled, dead-broke blokes who flow to get rotation like the peddles. I peddle dead sea scroll notation over samples. An outsider, traversing the chosen channels pagans and ancient shaman's traveled. You don't wanna see me aiming that bro, bust some semen on you couch, call it naval ammo. And so, you should jump ship or jump back and if they hardly applauding this, I unload gun clips, makes guns clap, that's what I call a target audience. Don't mean to get too demographic dude but anyone who's middle-management can play my phallic flute. What attitude? I ain't acting rude, that's just how I react to a complete lack of gratitude. How you don't accept the fact that the dude ain't your typical, the only pigeonhole you'll find me in is marked “original”. At your shows, I find dudes snoring, your rhyme's too boring. Text is standard format like Times New Roman. It cannot be under-stated how under-appreciated the speaker's name is. So I'm sharping blades of wit to lacerate all the fucking fakers with my cadence kid. Those tryna bring the light, (Zippo!) they a bust clipper. I ignite, inspire fires - they just flicker. I just shimmer like sun's reflection in the river. A shiver down the spine of time can't get much quicker. Hit ya like that first sip of liquor taken by the drifter, with a thirst just to disappear. We shifting gears, lifting ears to a new level this year. The devil you know, is better than the rebel you fear.
Track Name: Trio (Produced by All These Fingers)
Fade to white, but she's the multi-coloured type of lullaby. How I feel to clutch that vibe? Kinda like how I feel if I touched the sky. So akin to a butterfly, see colous when she flutter by. Trust and I, up out the Chrysalis, christen this the crispest shit son's been scribbling. Written in a rapid riddle like I need Ritalin - coz she got my pen like my pulse, quickening. My impulse petitioning my heart to be positioning itself apart from sense, picking apart parts, partitioning behind a picket fence, until they're picketing like “love and logic are never inter-mingling”. But when I seen her swing her hips I was into mingling, watch the ballerina pirouhette as heads are pivoting...
Oh please, I feel something simmering...
More than tickled pink by her crimson lips, through rose-tinted specs how I suspect I'm invisioning. Her spectrum could be redrum in the mirror son. Pluck, strum hearts strings like plectrums play imminent frets. But never board, she's too riveting. We went from first dates to sitting in sitting rooms consumed in stimulants, her shade exuding an infinite light, akin to the one that the sun through a prism brings. We went from sitting cool to constant quibbling. The fights were cyclical 'til they were almost crippling...
Oh please, I feel, that it's diminishing...
Sometimes she have me going nuts, I'll admit kid. Got me a screw loose like I escaped the prison wing. Out of the blue, true like a bolt how she stricken kid. Screws, nuts and bolts - heart's an engine near giving in. Seeing red – red as a rose is. She had me white as a ghost kid, approach left me black and blue - bruised, no excuse or motive. So I went on the offensive, put so much blue smoke in the air and in her ear, I couldn't justify. Felt green around the gills – when words built up inside, spilled from a once yellow-belly, like a white knuckle ride. If she come in colours, I guess I'm just colour blind. I said “like a butterfly” but she ain't made to catch, so she break my grasp, make a dash. Words I said I could never take 'em back, colour drain from my face, I guess it's fate, fade to black...

I stay on her body like BO. You, me, soul – that's the trio.
All three so – lets grow like a tree grow. But three's a crowd when your proud with an ego.

And they asking why that I love her. I guess it's just primary colours.
But when the trio combine in their numbers. It's always more than Yellow, Cyan, Magenta.
Track Name: Idris
It's hot weather and the girls look better for that. Not a cloud, allowed on the weather forecast. Cats chat, chewing the fat, spewing the facts, disputing big issues and that. Unaware of the time that's passed. Without a care, long gaps – spliffs and laughs. Sit on grass, in parks and in greasy spoon caf's. Spin the wax, pull out another track. From the bargain bin dusty crates. We got all day mate, it wont be dusk 'til late. So we debate all issues of love and hate and how we wouldn't wanna be any other place. Just chilling up on park benches, any conception of stress is suspended. But still there's a sense of tension in lingering suited businessmen whom...take lunch breaks, do it al fresco. Eat their packet salads out of tesco. And although they suspend those thoughts of work, you can tell by their temples it's stressful. But I'm feeling restful amidst the rush of the cityscape, that circulate this green and peaceful place. I don't need to wake, to the daily steeple race, in which too many people pace. It's sad to see but I'm on a stress-free diet and anxiety is dropping off me like calories. I don't need the weight of a daily salary. I'd rather be broke and live naturally. But naturally the social structure has us believe we've got to plan careers even before we graduate. Ship us into a mentally static state with a passive ache. A passion we never activate coz they saturate us with images so we bang our brains against idiot box TV screens that relax the rage. My momma told me “that's the way” but that's a path I don't want to navigate. And I wouldn't be any other place...on days like these.
Track Name: Reflect On (Produced by Mr.Fader)
Looking back at the mirror image, as if I was within it. Soul cast 'tween cold glass screen - heart printed. Captured an obscene Narcissus - glass smashed, hard splinters. Trapped in shards, slithers, I thought “fuck it” and sparred with it. Threw my fist through my face, saw no altered emotion, just glass jigsaw pieces composed in the moment. Did more than just show them inner components. Soul shot to pieces...floor bound and broken. But it left my eyes open to them silly cheap gimmicks of a rickety record industry that needs mimics. In close proximity, on the periphery of glittery trickery, MCs will jack another peeps image, along with their weak lyrics. It's deep innit? How in-depth the shallow get when they figure they'll only ever get bigger by copy-catting crap, hence real hip hop is disfigured. But that's just bad luck, 7 years, cracked mirrors.

Take a good look – at the person you have to answer to.
Take a good look – at the person looking back at you.
Take a good look – and if you've been playing yourself...

Mirror mirror, on the wall. Will ya will ya, please just fall. I can't wait to see my reflection smashed, look at shattered glass and reflect on that. I left in a dash, left in a rush all that was left was thus, the exit dust from the exodus. And being first to boost after a second must leave the cats left at the scene second guessing us. But most of them is pencil-etching stuff, so pressing up will leave an impression but they just sketching rough. I prefer to pen with precision, gravity and originality to get some love, but imitation breeds success and they said as much. “You need to make an impression” - but I ain't an impersonator. Too many Rory Bremner's up in the game like perpetrators. Plain pretenders with whory stories centred on paper, get my boiled like a peculator when they persuade a player to praise raised murder rates or terminate scores of so-called vermin like exterminators. Fuck it! I'll say it – I'm a first person hater, critique on your state and if you don't like it, then don't listen mate. You can either imitate fame or instigate change but choose coz mans will know your flows fake. Real recognize real, so when you look in the mirror, just make sure you recognize your own face.
Track Name: Natural
You should know that smile, drives this cat wild and you should know that style, is so hot coz it's natural. Apple of my eye listen, some apples are forbidden. But all bets were off once I bit in, you got the kid smitten. I know you're an old soul, I need to sample some. So I burn a cone, you turn me on, Bonita Applebum. Proceed to pass the rum but it ain't liquor to which the kid succumbs. Those cherry lips, those very hips, heavy kid, swaying to that drum. Feels like cardiac son, the way my heart bum-ba bum. When standing next to...yes you. And i don't mean “Achoo” when i say god blessed you. Guess it's the way your flesh true, resembles fresh fruit. Ripest type i'm a guess too, lemme take a bite to test boo. Shop at Real Foods, only eat organic and that's it! I don't need no additives, colourants, preservatives or any added shit. Too many males hooked on plastic...giving the real women no credit. But listen, for me, if she ain't natural kid...then forget it.

Ladies! Put them hands in the air, let me she yer armpit hair.
Live life natural with natural flair and without a natural care.
In the world – my favourite girl is a natural girl.
I pray, that you are all, that you are all, Nat U R all - Natural.

Just know, when you roll past girl ya messing with my whole natural world. I see curves and curves and curves - my gosh, my god, oh my word! That smile, that scent, got son's blood rushing. You could kill a brother just from blushing. Face as red as the mindset of a Russian and we ain't yet even get to touching. God bless a strong woman, with strength that's beyond human. Quietly on-looking as all the lickle girls in the club, a mere step away from hooking. Females selling themselves short, in short skirts and revealing garms. You don't need to wear a push-up bra (or push up hard) for all the men in the place to see your charms. And no amount of make-up, could make such a face up – beautiful, untouched, no fake stuff. Every molecule must sum faith up. Time for men and women to wake up. Don't let no magazine tell you how you should be, when you should be nothing other than free. I ain't asking for you to love no other than me, but a brother can see the effect that you having on these other types of fellas. Hey, it ain't my fault that i'm getting jealous, getting restless but i'll still keep waiting, coz a natural woman is the world greatest creation.
Track Name: Mingus
Hold up a second, shit's getting major. Seems the system instigates a hate for mother nature. They cultivate a concrete cage in which to rape her and to cover up the evidence they place planar pave there. Those sinful, co-mingle like colours on the palate of a painter. Try to set this picture precise like a portrait framer. Flows I favour, chose a major, truth to mould and taper. Mind carrying a weight greater than an ocean freighter. Which my soul's aboard – a sailor, floored by breakers. I know the waves are metaphorical perpetrations of the oldest traitor – The politician, a proven failure, slogan trader, self-proclaimed golden saviour. But I've never known no saviour, who ever wore a woven blazer, with an Etonian badge sown one by his families own tailor. I'm talking you Cameron – you token faker. Prone to take the role of the social jailer. But let's be honest. MP stands for Mogul, Player. Vocals raised up, act your age sir, mind your own behavoiur. In the house of commons can't control their volume like a broken fader. Lie colder than snow on an open acre of frozen glacier. Hope to make you see they're the true wasters, ain't conservative to say I've never known a politician that knew labour. Fat cats do favours, in attempt to accrue paper. And the views favoured by newspapers makes me wanna use the broadsheets as loo paper for my poo vapours. I'm that new danger – a true Scot on the caper. Tossing the caber, raise and chop with my Claymore. Or my sabre or my razor and I slice 'em up nice like Goldfinger's laser. When I get between the beat like a semi-demi quaver, and I think I've made my point – this shit is getting major.
Track Name: Rise
On the rise, on the mic - tight as a pair of daisy dukes. On reply, to my scribe - they giving me crazy looks, like they ain't amused coz I cannae be fucked with lazy hooks - evoking the infantile like baby books. Dazed, confused, play the fool you'll remain the fool. No disrespect to Rakim, but I've been paid in full and the outcome was a pain so real, I gave back every single penny of the change I took. On the board I play the rook, so straight's the only way I move. Made a route, paved with proof, conveying a blatant truth. Statements shook fakes and crooks, acting hype, clueless looks. Confused, like they tryna solve a black and white rubik's cube. Back to my best, slapping fly text round the back of guys heads like a rolled up Reader's Digest. Need I digress if ya feeling my flex for real like I stress - Th!nk 'pon the rise, just like that guy said...

These are revelations, every statements levitating generations. Sense when the pen's in waiting, set to paper. Forever meditating mental shaman, devil's waiting in the depths, so I stay elevating like an escalator. On the joint you can smell the reefer, tell the speakers gotta mellow meter. Chilled like after half a sack of sensemilla. You – it's like you sense the reaper, stiff as corpses, starched collars, upper lips or rigamortis. Awkward like you're spitting from a table in the morgue kid. Don't mean to be morbid but I don't do this for a mortgage – it's more than that now. Flow like a faucet, never force it - Awww shit – you tapped out? Act out, go pop like the cork on your champagne but when you've got no spirit son, it's time to abstain. Flowing nice, hold a mic cold as ice, ghostly like a poltergeist. Prose is hype, prone to rise like that flame. No smoke without fire, no joke, I'm so dope without kya. Stone cold, I oppose them faux writers, expose liars, nose dive in the flow. Find a crass biter, take him apart in that cypher. Stake to the heart like vampires. No puppet, don't fuck with those damn wires. Prose crushing dopes, something like man's grinder. Span time and space, tryna find my place. Every rhyme I lace expands minds for a greater climb to grace, to define your fate. In each line create shafts of light for ascension to the up above. We forever coming up and you'll never trouble us – we that higher. Fight until the locks are off and oppression's polished off. All the fucking frauds will drop, we forever rise to...
Track Name: Crosstown Politics (Produced by LGIC + TH!NK)
Rise from the coffin kid, stance of a monolith.
Style is eponymous, enchant like a modern myth.
Crosstown politics, preach on the corner it's.
Honest kid - We got cross town locked down.

(Locked) down by the cost of each rife inequality. Child born in poverty, denied free autonomy. Defined by their colony, lines of geography. No surprise when bureaucracy writes their biography. Profiling's the polity declining the progeny of types who are often seen as snipes, viewed quite cautiously. But I see the prodigies that rise from forgotten schemes, to heights deemed to contravene the lie of biology. Hip to hypocrisy, dissing dishonesty. It's in the consciously cod anthropology. It's in the policies picked with frivolity, sick of this comedy hence animosity. It's in the constantly crass choreography, dance for your money, entranced by cacophony. It's in the laws so please despots, F- laws, at best flaws of so-called democracies. It's quite probably hype, obviously I ought to be mind-boggled these lies topple speech. It's in their awful reach to throttle thoughts that opt to teach rather than adopt the long con or cheat. It's in ecology, it's in ethnology, it's in theology, It's in all of this. It's uptown, it's downtown, it's all round, it's crosstown politics...

Watching sheep, counting sheep, watching sheep, off to sleep, talk is cheap but it takes a lot of gwap to be talking free thought on screen. You can't afford the fee, of course the cost is deep when truth's a currency viewed with mockery. And honesty is an impoverished population's only property but we gripped by goggling glossy mag glossaries. Gossip rags, gone are themes of godliness replaced by unseemly offerings of opulent odysseys. Seems reading a novel's a novelty, along with notions of modesty. We mute to monstrosities, duped all too consciously by molly-coddling moral majorities ignoring abhorrent atrocities, in favour of accumulating private economy. Bored with games, time to abolish monopolies. Boxed in mahogany, dropping the coffin deep, into the sod and leave their soul in insolvency. Fuck the monarchy, fuck the monastery, fuck the sovereignty, fucking bollocks speak. Fuck the monarchy, fuck the monastery, fucking watch as we...