Lyrics Loopdigga - Lootpack, Madlib, Wildchild

Loopdigga

A-yo I’m the type of brother that don’t like to hear the same thing
Over and over so I don’t listen to the radio
I go beat shopping with my brothers or my lady yo
They take me to the spot so I can dig
Come home with the fat stack and dig
Instead of playing sports I’d rather dig
Call my nigga Kan Kick to see if he got this shit
Hey you heard that Cal Tjader?
We be sprung off them loops like brothers play hoops
Playing old static loop tapes for Lex, Jeeps, Bizzers and Coupes
Keep sampling wack while I dig up the raw core
A-yo I’m out, I gotta go the record store
Peace
Damn, what time is it?
Tryin' to think, should I hit up that TO spot, hit that LA
Damn, next week we goin to the bay so
Ay there go Mad, ay Mad!
(Yeah is that Madlib, ay what’s up Madlib? Wussup)
Blaze this for all y’all
By all means necessary raw, no holds barred
Spit at y’all, sixteen bars of war for who you sleeping on
Emcees acting hard, nutting up to catch flu balls
Stomp before you pawn the dark paws when I drop dogs
Landing multiples, no charge when beef starts
Med ends it with a verse that snaps you retards
You fall of cos no heart, California mindstate
I regulate, rhyme penetrate right through your chest plate
Checkmate fate for your demo tape and yellow tape
Of one trace, Med the master race throughout the tri-state
On a daily base stay laced with a verse to rock a universe
A skirt, blowing up and won’t burst
There’s lessons to be learnt
When I’m on fire you stay concerned
Cos I’m eager to burn biters for the chips as they earn
That’s my word, drink, smoke a pound of herb
Herb and swerve my way to learn
805 ways to get served with words
Finally here
Hmm, what should I get?
Mad selections
Damn, 1969
Steve Kuhn, you know that got some Fender Rhodes on it
Oh shit, I ain’t seen that Roy Ayers, 1968, good year
What about that Bug-out shit?
nah
Ornette Coleman
(Ornette?)
I ain’t wastin' my money
Ay, can you hold my record?
Be right back
(Go hit this weed)
Damn, they got mad shit
(Man, it’s cold as fu- out here)
Two hit’s and pass, two hit’s and pass
Steppin' back in this piece
Ever since I was young digging in my pop’s stack
Sampling off cassettes, 33s, 45s and 8-Tracks
Rare wax, a true loop digga’s attraction
Always spend a fraction of my check on fat jams
Second hand stores get rushed like area wars
You could always catch me digging at your local record stores
For the raw buying vinyl until my final
Days, blow away pay, various ways to connect
Fat loops, put mics in check
Turn the SP on and commence to dissect
Bust a vest in your rest he’s a fake nigga
So how many y’all niggas know about crate digging