¡Rompamos Estas Cadenas!

[Intro — low electrical hum, distant drum] They’ve been here for thousands of years. Manifest. Destiny. [Gritty digital whisper] We can all see the blood on the hands of the “master race.” [Heavy beat enters] [Spoken verse — disgusted, close to the microphone] In a world where everybody’s just trying to get by— just trying to survive— We’ve got these leeches. Our digital corporate overlords. The oligarchy. And we’re just the fucks that perpetuate the pigsty. [Instrumental — bass grinds, guitar answers in short bursts] [Accusatory spoken vocal] Those white colonizers— THE IMMIGRANTS. Those colonial invaders— THE INTERLOPERS. Called everybody else savages. What the fuck did they bring? GUNS. DISEASE. FAMINE. [Hard stop] [Dry spoken voice] Only in a world like this. Would you wanna go from master to slave? No. Didn’t think so. That’s how they trap you. [Beat returns slowly — words remain exposed] Strange, ’cause you’d think being a slave— going through those tribulations— You wouldn’t wanna be a master. But… [Two bars — bass only] Our main goal is to become SLAVE. DRIVERS. Ourselves. [Feedback hangs] Is that really the fucking goal? Shouldn’t we break these chains? [Group chant — Puerto Rican Spanish pronunciation] ¡ROMPAMOS ESTAS CADENAS! [Drum hit, echo] ¡ROMPAMOS ESTAS CADENAS! [Full band builds] ¡ROMPAMOS ESTAS CADENAS! [Instrumental breakdown — pounding drums, distorted bass] [Obnoxious megaphone voice] WHOSE STREETS?! [Crowd] OUR STREETS! [Megaphone] WHOSE STREETS?! [Crowd] OUR STREETS! [Megaphone] WHOSE STREETS?! [Crowd] OUR STREETS! [All voices — unison] ¡ROMPAMOS ESTAS CADENAS! [Hard cut — electronics disappear] [Instrumental outro — deep acoustic hand drums, breathy Native American flute, sparse wooden chimes and beads rattling against hollow reeds] [Wind rises; percussion slows; flute gives one final answering phrase] [Wind alone]