Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Loopdigga, artist - Lootpack. Album song Loopdigga, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп
Date of issue: 03.03.2014
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Stones Throw
Song language: English
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 |