🚨 WAKEY WAKEY (MELLOW MOOD) 🚨
A trip from dreams to reality → from kush and mellow vibes to beer cans and sugar-lines on the table.
Psychedelic funk rap with a 90s gangsta twist.

This ain’t lifestyle advice, it’s pure party & bullshit in rap form.

Turn off your alarm, light up a joint and dive into the mellow mood. 🌿🍻

WAKEY WAKEY (MELLOW MOOD)

Funk in the room, let the body ignite
cakes on display, every shape in the light

some like ‘em slim, some like ‘em wide
round like the moon, flat on the side
tight jeans poppin, can’t be denied
we see that cake, no need to hide
bounce on the floor, heat in the air
curves in the rhythm, love everywhere
big ones moving, small ones too
every kind of cake got shine in the groove
shake with the tempo, clap with the beat
every type of body bring fire to the street
energy dripping, sweat on the skin
funk rap rolling, let the night begin
from the stage to the block, same vibe reigns
celebrate the shape, break out the chains

cakes on fire, light it up, ay
every man’s got a slice today
big fat cake or lean parfait
we love them all in every way
cakes on fire, don’t turn away
everybody shine in the funk today
big fat cake or lean parfait
we love them all in every way

from the gym bro squat-made dream
to the dad bod jiggle, whipped cream gleam
skinny guy flex with a sly surprise
don’t you demean, every shape got pride
vibe in the bass, let the groove collide
heat on the floor, no need to hide
soft or strong, heavy or light
funk rap anthem, body ignite
shake to the left, roll to the right
dim all the lights, cakes in sight
everybody moving, all got flame
different type of body but the love the same
ride with the funk, let the world redeem
all that cake’s a vibe supreme

cakes on fire, light it up, ay
every man’s got a slice today
big fat cake or lean parfait
we love them all in every way
cakes on fire, don’t turn away
everybody shine in the funk today
big fat cake or lean parfait
we love them all in every way

shake it left, shake it right
dim the world, let the cakes ignite
curve in the dark, glow in the night
funk rap heat, body take flight
all those shapes, none denied
pride in the groove, love worldwide
shake that cake till the morning light
funk in the soul, everything’s right

cakes on fire, light it up, ay
every man’s got a slice today
big fat cake or lean parfait
we love them all in every way



Cakes on Fire (Funk Rap reload)

Hollywood Hank - chillin in the backyard / Frühlingsgefühle

WHO IS SKITTLE THE FLUTIST?
The only rapper who solos on the flute between bars.
A Juilliard-trained flutist, profoundly educated at community college — the best of two worlds.
A lyricist who feels both prophetic and childlike, tapping into an innocence hip-hop has rarely explored.
A performance style that’s as entertainingly ironic as it is genuinely catchy.
Skittle the Flutist isn’t just making music — he’s giving us tomorrow, one verse and one flute riff at a time.
-------
LYRICS:
-------
Yo, yo
hey listen up, yo, yo!
Skittle the Flutist in the building
prognosis time

I got a thought
it’s hot
it just popped in my brain
Like a train on the track
with a funky refrain
Tomorrow gon’ shine
if today we relate
Don’t argue at the table
put some love on the plate

I’m not a doctor
but I diagnose this
Future so bright
man, you can’t oppose this
Call it a vision
or call it hypnosis
I’m writin’ predictions
I call it Prognosis

I got a prognosis for our state
And it’s not filled with hate
I know we can be great
So shut up
let’s not be late

For our… prognosis!
Yo, yo — prognosis!
Hey, that’s not bad…
Skittle the Flutist
yeah you know this

Hey, listen up, yo, yo!
I see peace in the street
with no need for patrol
Kids playin’ ball
no fight
no fuss

Everybody smilin’
they can ride with us
The river gon’ flow
The garden gon’ grow

Yabbidy yabbity 
Yabbidy yo

If the nation’s a car
I’ll drive it the furthest
Seatbelt of hope
yeah
safety first-est

I see a sky so blue
it sings to you
And when I play this flute
the future comes true

Not a prophet
nah
but I say what I see
Prognosis is free

I rhyme like a forecast
clouds in my lines
But the sun breaks through
if you just give it time

I ain’t Confucius
I’m not Ice
I’m not Moses
But I’m droppin’ predictions
like daily doses
Skittle-diddle
bop-bop
prognosis pop!
Tomorrow gon’ bop
when the hatred stop
Knock knock… who’s there?
Prognosis, man
and I came prepared

I got a prognosis for our state
And it’s not filled with hate
I know we can be great
So shut up
let’s not be late

Prognosis!
Yo, yo — prognosis!
Hey, that’s not bad…
Prognosis 

Prognosis complete.

---------------

PROGNOSIS

MBStudio crew 
Trainer (spoken, over the beat):
"Yo. Check the rhythm. Feel the groove.
This ain't just fightin', it's a move.
Apollo's singin'? Nah, we the band.
Gold medals? We takin' 'em, hand over hand.
Put your gloves up. Let's begin.
Welcome to the studio where the champions win."


*(Beat is thick: crunchy guitar chops, tight horns on the off-beat, solid 4/4 punch)*
Down in the dungeon where the dreams get hard
Concrete floor, smell of sweat and fightin' hard
Old school master, with a stare that's ice
Teachin' the science, payin' the price
See the youngbloods, hungry in the haze
Dodgin' jabs in a rhythmic daze
Footwork slick, a funky ballet
Makin' the heavy bag swing and sway
It's a language of power, a poetry of pain
Wash away the struggle in the sweat and the rain
He don't just train fighters, he builds a man
From the bottom of the city, with a concrete plan.


(Horns blast a triumphant, catchy hook. Ad-libs echo the main lines.)
In the Boxe Studio! (Yeah!) Where the funk meets the fight! (Come on!)
Every punch thrown is a beat in the night! (Work!)
From the basement shadows to the Olympic light!
In the Boxe Studio! (Uh-huh!) Make the rhythm right!


(Beat breaks down to just the bassline and the sound of a speed bag, then kicks back in harder)
Shadowboxin' to the tape's cassette hiss
Weavin' and bobbin', ain't a moment to miss
The rope a blur, a hypnotic twirl
Forgin' a body of iron and pearl
Trainer's mantra, a funky rap:
"Keep your guard up, don't fall for the trap!
The ring's a discotheque, you're the main star
Dance on the canvas, no matter how far!"
He sees the glory before we even land a shot
Says this grimy gym is the only sacred spot
Where the rhythm of struggle is the only sound
'Til that final bell and your hand gets raised up off the ground.


(Horns are even bigger, a choir of voices joins the hook.)
In the Boxe Studio! (Yeah!) Where the funk meets the fight! (To the top!)
Every punch thrown is a beat in the night! (Throw it!)
From the basement shadows to the Olympic light!
In the Boxe Studio! (Uh-huh!) Make the rhythm right!


(Music pulls back. A smooth, jazzy Fender Rhodes keyboard solo takes over. The rap becomes more introspective.)
The city sleeps... the streetlights glow...
But down below... the fire grows.
It's more than metal, more than gold...
It's a story waiting, brave and bold.
He whispers, "Kid, you gotta understand...
The toughest opponent is the one inside the man.
So dance with your demons, make 'em miss and slip...
This Boxe Studio is your survival trip."

(Beat continues, the sounds of the gym fade back in over it: rhythmic heavy bag punches, feet shuffling, the hiss of a jump rope.)
"Alright, that's the round. Breathe. Feel that funk?
That's the sound of a champ, before the trunk.
The world's a tough place, it's a brutal game...
But you just learned to move it, with a different aim.
Now cool down. Hydrate. The beat goes on.
The Boxe Studio... 'til the break of dawn."

In the Boxe Studio II

MBStudio91 Magilla style 


Trainer (spoken, over the beat):
"Yo. Check the rhythm. Feel the groove.
This ain't just fightin', it's a move.
Apollo's singin'? Nah, we the band.
Gold medals? We takin' 'em, hand over hand.
Put your gloves up. Let's begin.
Welcome to the studio where the champions win."



Down in the dungeon where the dreams get hard
Concrete floor, smell of sweat and fightin' hard
Old school master, with a stare that's ice
Teachin' the science, payin' the price
See the youngbloods, hungry in the haze
Dodgin' jabs in a rhythmic daze
Footwork slick, a funky ballet
Makin' the heavy bag swing and sway
It's a language of power, a poetry of pain
Wash away the struggle in the sweat and the rain
He don't just train fighters, he builds a man
From the bottom of the city, with a concrete plan.


In the Boxe Studio! (Yeah!) Where the funk meets the fight! (Come on!)
Every punch thrown is a beat in the night! (Work!)
From the basement shadows to the Olympic light!
In the Boxe Studio! (Uh-huh!) Make the rhythm right!


Shadowboxin' to the tape's cassette hiss
Weavin' and bobbin', ain't a moment to miss
The rope a blur, a hypnotic twirl
Forgin' a body of iron and pearl
Trainer's mantra, a funky rap:
"Keep your guard up, don't fall for the trap!
The ring's a discotheque, you're the main star
Dance on the canvas, no matter how far!"
He sees the glory before we even land a shot
Says this grimy gym is the only sacred spot
Where the rhythm of struggle is the only sound
'Til that final bell and your hand gets raised up off the ground.

In the Boxe Studio! (Yeah!) Where the funk meets the fight! (To the top!)
Every punch thrown is a beat in the night! (Throw it!)
From the basement shadows to the Olympic light!
In the Boxe Studio! (Uh-huh!) Make the rhythm right!



The city sleeps... the streetlights glow...
But down below... the fire grows.
It's more than metal, more than gold...
It's a story waiting, brave and bold.
He whispers, "Kid, you gotta understand...
The toughest opponent is the one inside the man.
So dance with your demons, make 'em miss and slip...
This Boxe Studio is your survival trip."


bag punches, feet shuffling, the hiss of a jump rope.)
"Alright, that's the round. Breathe. Feel that funk?
That's the sound of a champ, before the trunk.
The world's a tough place, it's a brutal game...
But you just learned to move it, with a different aim.
Now cool down. Hydrate. The beat goes on.
The Boxe Studio... 'til the break of dawn."

In the Boxe Studio

future rave (prod. sundress)

Hey! D.J. Extended Dance Remix Djloops (1984)

VOZ DA QUEBRADA

Funk groove creeping through the banquet of waste
Plates piled high while the hunger got traced
In the land of plenty we discard the feast
Leftovers stacking up where the hunger ceased

We walk through the supermarket like royalty in robes
Cart full of treasures while the earth collects the probes
Banquets of ruins on the aisles we stroll
We buy and we toss, never filling the hole
Old electronics in boxes, food in the bin
Excess is the anthem we sing with a grin
Enough for a village, enough for the globe
Yet somewhere a stomach echoes in the cold
We dine like kings at a table of trash
Silverware clinks while the landfill grows fast
Every extra steak, every gadget not used
Becomes a chapter in the waste we refused
Trop plein dans des ventres vides, we call it success
But the emptiness screams in the junk we compress

Leftovers for the landfill, feast while we spill
Banquets of ruins stacking up the hill
Full plates, empty souls, we dance in the fill
Too much in the belly, not enough in the will
Feast while we spill
Stacking up the hill
We dance in the fill
Not enough in the will

The couch holds gadgets we never touched
The freezer groans under meals unchanged, untouched
We brag about the kitchen full enough to feed a town
But outside the gate the hunger still wears a crown
We spin the talk-box, smile through the track
While the drums echo waste in the silent crack
The landfill’s a mountain where our dinner ends
And the mountain’s our conscience we pretend to suspend
Objects become ghosts that we can’t repurpose
Meals become monuments of the surface
Consumption’s the game and the surplus we yield
But beneath the glamour the hunger is real
We feast on abundance, forget the cost
Leftovers for the landfill while the rest is lost

Leftovers for the landfill, feast while we spill
Banquets of ruins stacking up the hill
Full plates, empty souls, we dance in the fill
Too much in the belly, not enough in the will

Look at the bins behind the stores, they glisten in neon
A buffet of dumpsters shining while the hunger goes on
We built the fridge fortress with doors wide and tall
Yet a child in the dark fears the fridge’s deadly call
We toast with champagne while the bread rots away
We celebrate fullness but our pockets betray
The game’s rigged: produce more, consume more, waste more
But bodies of the needy still knock at the door

Feast while we spill
Stacking up the hill
We dance in the fill
Not enough in the will

Banquets of ruins, yes we said it before
But now we’re stepping through the chords of the score
Boxes unopened, meals never begun
And landfills eating everything when the day is done
We gotta question the feast, we gotta feel the spill
Too much in our hands, too little in the will
Leftovers for the landfill, feast while we spill
Until the mountain collapses, until we feel the real

Leftovers for the landfill, feast while we spill
Banquets of ruins stacking up the hill
Full plates, empty souls, we dance in the fill
Too much in the belly, not enough in the will
Feast while we spill
Stacking up the hill
We dance in the fill
Not enough in the will

Leftovers for the Landfill

The entire sound is in my hands. I write cyber poetry, produce, and compose every track ready for Immersive 3D. Every beat is crafted for spatial and next-gen headphones.
Intimate lyrics, total immersion, every track.

For 30 years I kept unfinished demos to myself, never letting them out. Now I finish what I start and release it the moment it’s alive.

I use every tool available, human or machine, as an instrument.
Technology doesn’t replace creativity. It expands it.

Music and keyboards, computer graphic&programming
and some noise...  work on Ableton LIVE, Synapse DUNE and Lennar Digital Sylenth and more Q 
"Music Held in Old Frames,
For Ears That Tame Wild Beats.
60 Years, 3x20 Brains –
Crafting Sound Since ’86."


Collab:  
Nikelodeon Opera
laquerciaJR. 
MBStudio91©
VersoSud
Nerocaravaggio

MBStudio91 crew

Magilla  guitar voice keyboards
Trapparappa bass drum voice
Dj Baboo trumpet sax trombone keyboard voice
the Trooper keyb guitar percussion voice
and Mirc, keyboard and sampler, computer programming. 


Born to make music, but to make noise, I hope to create happiness and I want to destroy cheap woofers

Funk Groove Soul since 1981
The Music Is Universal Djloops
Funk Disco Soul Pop 80's 70's R&B
forever and ever
I like to rework the sounds but always trying to keep as much as possible the original sound

SINCERE IMPOSTER is an intimate collection of artists exploring a curious mixture of New Wave, Dance, EDM, Folk Rock, Metal, Art Pop, Electro, Dreamwave, and Experimental World Pop. Collectively, this is known as QUIRKPOP — music that pushes the creative limits of traditional pop.

Expect an unpredictable journey through sound, emotion, and humor, where genres collide and pop bends in strange new ways. Each song is conceived, composed, and performed with total sincerity, whether it’s built from voices, instruments, software, or hybrid experimentation. The focus is on the music itself: if it resonates, it resonates. No explanation required.

SINCERE IMPOSTER is curated by two musicians, both living within the same body, sharing a singular existence. They identify as Danielle & Dave. They are both psychologically and musically confused, yet extremely and unapologetically sincere.

Influences range from Weird Al and Nathan Fielder to David Lynch, Rosalia, Monatik, Atarashii Gakko!, Rammstein, T-Pain, and T-Swift. 

Danielle & Dave’s favorite inventions include the vacuum and the peach pitter. Their father is simply known as Vessel… who may be an entity or a god.


Skullmunch is mijn muzikale dagboek — een plek waar ik al mijn gevoelens, visies en (waan)ideeën kan uiten die in de normale wereld geen ruimte krijgen.
Door middel van acid, hardcore, rap en psychedelische invloeden vertaal ik innerlijke chaos, dromen en nachtmerries naar geluid.

Elke track is een hoofdstuk: soms donker, soms euforisch, maar altijd eerlijk. Skullmunch is de stem van mijn onderbewustzijn, een universum waar werkelijkheid en verbeelding in elkaar overvloeien.

Skullmunch is my musical diary — a place to express all my feelings, visions and (delusional) ideas that don’t fit into the “normal” world.
Through acid, hardcore, rap and psychedelic influences, I translate inner chaos, dreams and nightmares into sound.

Every track is a chapter: sometimes dark, sometimes euphoric, but always truthful. Skullmunch is the voice of my subconscious, a universe where reality and imagination collide.

New tracks tagged #Funk Rap