Now the story goes that Robert Johnson sold his soul to the will/full at the crossroads in the deep south. He sold his soul and in return he was given the secret of a black technology, a black secret technology, that we know now as the blues. The blues begat jazz, the blues begat soul, the blues begot hip hop, the blues begat R& B.
If you shoot a-arrow and it goes real high, hooray for you.
This figure is a thief, he’s a data thief.
Anything to keep from punching the clock from nine to five because, every time I’ve punched that clock from nine to five it’s been a job that’s such a drag it makes you sick! (and you can’t work out weather he’s getting out of the spaceship or getting back into it)
And he’s surfing across the Internet of black culture, breaking into the vaults, breaking into the rooms and stealing fragment. Fragments from cyber culture, techno culture, narrative culture.
And these are cats that get into your business. you know, and you gotta be hip to just how much of your business you want them to be into
It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. And at any rate, they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You had to live, did live, from habit that became instinct, under the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.
I’ve spent so much of my life being sexy, (as you can see), that I haven’t gotten anything else done. Now I wanna learn how to play my base. That’s been the story of my life. So now I am, you know like, pleasing myself you know. I think about where I’ve been and how groovy it’s been and, ah, like no more too much, carrying on. Maybe on special occasions. Like, ah, Valentine’s day. Your Birthday. And a full moon Saturday night.
So next we had to find another place that they hadn’t perceived black people to be, and that was, on a spaceship, so I pictured laying in there like it was a Cadillac, slidin’ through space, you know, chillin (and they’re finger poppin and carryin on…
Nobody beats the biz (I always had hopes of being a big star) nobody beats the biz! ….( I love you in a place where there’s no space or time… we’re still talking about slavery… music is the only comforter, I’m telling you the truth man, from my computer-room)
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Can you get down can you talk trash can you get nasty, You got the job!
But the fact remains… There are no places for us anymore except these stupid discos, and I’m not saying I’m anti disco, I’m anti the mechanisms behind the discos, because, we don’t have any, real conversations anymore… But if that’s the only place they can come to see me, that’s where they’ll come (It’s a miracle how he gets so spiritual and proceeds to move the crowd like an old negro spiritual…)
He has an arrangement, that insures him a permanent supply of cheap labor, I call him Get Low, because the question arises, how low can you get, Get Low…
He had a way of talking.. . was a language all his own…
We have ceased to care, we are things we are cogs, we are close to being dehumanized in this great country of ours
(and love does count, and you can’t turn it into a commodity)
The paradise we dream of and write about in our books where we sit by the throne and live on milk and honey
This was a blueprint, a blueprint to try to address…
And the message, in the final analysis… You bled my momma, you bled my poppa, you won’t bleed/believe me pretty baby, it's not just me I know, I just can't keep that jungle, outside of my front door
