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Track: Dear Sirs
Artist: El-P
Album: I'll Sleep When You're Dead

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Name: El-P
Spotify Genres: experimental hip hop
Followers: 197,139
Popularity:

58/100

Biography

Born March 4th, 1975 in Brooklyn, New York. EL-P, aka El Producto, is one of hip-hop's most obstinate and adventurous pioneers, combining a mid-'80s lo-fi old school aesthetic with a progressive rock musician's inclination to push boundaries. He has never succumbed to the whims of corporate hip-hop, instead choosing to pursue his own decidedly uncommercial leanings. In the mid-'90s, he developed a strong reputation with the groundbreaking trio [a12470], a band whose achievements include the first LP, [Link], on [l1216], a label that is considered by many the best label for intelligent hip-hop. Over the group's auspicious stint together, he proved he was himself capable of intense lyricism and sonic production so powerful it could stand on its own. In the latter part of the '90s, El-P was also a collaborator with [a3270], [a5648], and [a24205]. In 2001, after releasing one last album with Harlem rappers [a28077], the group chose to amicably pursue their own directions. El-P has started his own label, [l23482], and was also selected to work on former [a12212] frontman [a64348]'s first solo album. Somehow he found the time to work on his own solo release during all of this, [Link], which saw the light of day in May of 2002.

Source: Discogs

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Release: El-P - I'll Sleep When You're Dead
Year: 2020
Genres: Electronic, Hip Hop
Styles: Experimental, Abstract

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Source: MusicBrainz

LYRICS

[Verse 1]
Dear Sirs
If the pavement comes alive on Flatbush Ave with toothy smiles
Comprised of traffic cones and manholes become eyes
And birds burst into flames while singing Satan's praises
And fold into the sky and rain down ashy danger

If every office empties and all slaves walk in dazes
To a pool of liquid money where they bathe blissfully naked
And drugs no longer taunt me and flooze around my conscience
And every woman beating rapist is securely in their coffins

If every open hydrant in a Brooklyn time summer moment
Is opened up by cops and folds out into an ocean
And rent is paid by bread literally and parking isn't paid for
And food stamps can be planted and childhoods can't be damaged

If fire could power space ships that safely ship the creators
Of dynamite and gun powder to the graves of all who faced it
And the slurping nerf of beauracrat life and bean coutning slave owners
Is twisted in on itself til they shave off their own faces

If all the coke and crack in the nation is collected in a top hat
And force fed to the children of every CIA agent
And dust heads get an angel and an acres worth of rainbow
And the projects turn to clouds and the stupid aren't so proud

And the snivelling grimace mongrels of infected money slobbing pesticrats ignite
into a brilliant beam of light
And mercy is the rule
And the exception's mercy too
And the desert comes in Brooklyn and the President goes to school

Time flows in reverse
Death becomes my birth
Me fighting in your war is still, by a large margin
The least likely thing that will ever fucking happen...ever