Chonny Jash - Count Eleven

Art by Kai!!!
  / calamarispider  

I occasionally get comments – often negative – that brand my music as ‘over-produced’

…
…
...I have no comment on the matter.


Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/artist/2hvnt...
SoundCloud:   / chonny-jash  
Bandcamp: https://chonnyjash.bandcamp.com/

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LYRICS:

Say what you aren’t.
Sell what I see.
Pray tell, what you wanna be when the beat gets awful frisky?
Lawful Risky.
Hit ‘em with the freak shit, makeshift, breakbeat, straight heat.
Afraid he’ll come undone on the runaround.
Readied back at Frame One.
No cooldown.
Smack that fool down.
If a true combo hits then mate, you’d pray you stayed down.
Quarter-circle-back attack on a track mid-match.
Never buy a beat that you know that you can make by scratch.

Do me a favour, won’t ya?
Put a little semiquaver culture in this structure.
Vampire vultures stalk in the dread of the night.
Dead to rights are The Knights of the 4/4 Court of Scorewrights.
It’s heaven for those who can send it.
Ascendant.
A triplet groove for this mathematics lesson.
School is in session.
A million miles an hour for the fuckwit, dipshit, white kid.
Give it to me straight, can you count to eleven, mate?
Shit.

Once I wanted
to be someone else;
threap the bonds that
forced me from my shell.
Fi! Vivacious,
sics thine own sick spell.
Seven sins sit,
still, sum yet withheld.

Ain’t that nifty?
Ain’t that something else?
Ain’t this freaky?
Ain’t this such the yell?
Eight’s too easy.
Nine’s too round and slow.
Tend this with me,
eleven beats or so.

I don’t need drums to keep time.
If rhyme’s a weapon, I’m betting yours ain’t half as sharp as mine.
Much ado about naught but oneself.
The selfish sets all else’s fairs square on the shelf.
Heaven and Hell can contend that life’s the
practice before the mortal must leap in the deep end,
but no, I’ve never believed in those creeps.
Let’s double the speed, then.

Everybody’s saying that I’m never gonna make it, but I’m taking any
bet that I can on the self at any odds they’ll let me stake it.
Learning that I can’t half-bake it.
Full-and-a-half at the very least.
Pulling a calf, all to keep
up with my heroes and all the cool shit they’ve done.
One Fun Run becomes a marathon.
Never done.
Half a ton of double entendres.
Your beats are nice so show me what’s under.
It’s fun to hear thunder,
but I can’t take the bullshit anymore.
What’s it for?
You think the money and fame will make your
repertoire more worth the passion left at the door?
Well, the four-on-the-floor groove is no longer the standard.
The beat’s gone independent.
Sovereign Nation of Fun.
The State of The Passionate Hum.
Bolstered by the wait they’ve been forced to take since Day One.
Give it to me straight, can you count to eleven, cunt?

Say it with me.
Say you’ll take the plunge.
Let’s get busy.
Grab them by the plums.
Twist and break them.
Scream and tell them their
rules are made in
hatred, greed and fear.

Don’t go gentle
into that good night.
Life’s a rental.
Make its maker write
off the excess.
Milk this till it’s dry.
When they say to
jump, you say “how high?”

[synth shenanigans]