Ghettoway_Remastered

Bobby Berry Bepanthen

Straight Ahead

Stars

ThomTree - Freitag - 26.08.2022

RANCHOS

Primo - Mastered

Geistige Ergüsse unter Einfluss von Substanzen

Roadtrip x Tiyoto (prod. Def Starz)

R.W.A. - Systematisch

Woes

1960's Soul: UK Motown Vol. 1
Produced by Jay Stacks Beats

Experience a world where the grit of London’s finest meets the timeless groove of Detroit. "1960’s Soul: UK Motown Vol. 1" is a heavy-hitting fusion project that reimagines the raw flows of UK icons through the lens of classic soul.

From the deep, cinematic bars of Giggs and Potter Payper to the melodic energy of J Hus and Stormzy, this tape blends vintage brass, soulful rhythms, and hard-hitting percussion for a sound that’s never been heard before.

Tracklist / Featured Artists: Giggs, Stormzy, J Hus, Skepta, Potter Payper, Digga D and much more

Stream On Spotify

Headie One – Martin’s Sofa (1960s Soul Version | Motown Remix)

Kids in rich zones, born into chrome, But they see the grind — they feel the drone. Parents clock in, clock out, no spark, Dead-eyed dinners, joy gone dark.

They see the stress, the pills, the debt, They see the love, but it’s drowned in sweat. They ask, “Is this life? Is this the prize?” Then pour the drink, roll the lies.

They rebel not for thrill, but to escape the trap, Where dreams get traded for a corporate nap. They see their folks as slaves in suits, So they chase the buzz in pills and flutes.

Then there’s the kids whose parents fell, Not from sin, but from the system’s hell. Too much pressure, too little rope, Now it’s crime, collapse, and dope.

Mum’s on meds, dad’s on the street, Family fractured, no food to eat. They see the grind as a death parade, Where love gets lost and hope decays.

They don’t rebel — they survive the wreck, They learn to hustle, dodge the check. They see the buzz as a ghost in smoke, And wear the trauma like a heavy cloak.

Now zoom out — kids in the global south, No Netflix, no therapy mouth. Twelve-hour shifts, landfill dives, Begging for cans just to stay alive.

No rebellion — just survival mode, Born into chains, never owed. They don’t ask “why” — they ask “how long?” Till the hunger fades or the body’s gone.

Cradle to grave, no soft escape, Just sweat and dust and twisted fate. Makes rich-kid buzzkill look like play, While they bleed for pennies every day.

This ain’t chaos — it’s design. A species trapped in a profit shrine. Culture didn’t evolve — it calcified, Now we worship brands while the planet cries.

TNCs roam like kings in suits, Dodging tax, extracting roots. They don’t wear swastikas — they wear smiles, But their strategies echo fascist files.

Governments nod, pretend to care, But they’re puppets dancing in corporate air. They know the truth, but play the part, While the system tears the world apart.

And we — the species — we play along, Trained to obey, to not ask “wrong.” We call it freedom, call it fate, But it’s just a cage with a golden gate.

We’re intelligent, but we don’t act wise, We build machines while the spirit dies. Our cultures lag, our systems stall, We chase the buzz, but forget the call.

The children see it — they feel the void, They know the game is paranoid. They want a world that makes some sense, Not one that trades their soul for rent.

Children of the Grind

RANCHOS

Bricksfamily / R.W.A

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