Look, I’m sick of sitting back while every internet critic regurgitates the exact same garbage, Spitting cable news talking points like their opinion actually helps anybody manage. Got a whole timeline full of soft dudes crying bout the death of real work, Never spent a single midnight sweating in a basement, acting like a bitter little jerk. While some corporate suit drops a million bot tracks online just to grab a fraction of a cent. That ain't art, that's a cheap scam from a parasitic bitch who don't even pay rent! Don't you ever group me in with a lazy fucking grifter hunting for a zero-effort check. You think I hit enter on a web browser and a masterwork just magically lands on the deck? Hell no. I’m sitting at this desk till four in the morning with a pounding headache, Fixing broken takes, tweaking bad mix cuts, trying to figure out what I can make. I spend forty-eight hours on a story before I ever touch a single software dial, Carving out the meaning from the mud just to make the whole struggle worth my while. Let’s talk about the actual labor since you think the machine does the heavy lifting. Think random generation gives you gold? Man, your whole perspective is drifting. The output is mostly trash. You can roll the dice ten thousand times into the night, And end up with a bucket of hollow, lifeless noise where the picture never comes out right. The real work starts when the render sounds like shit and the audio is blown. That’s when I pull the raw stems down and rebuild everything on my own. Slicing a snare in the night, cold in the zone, holding the bone, kicking a bitch in the track! Flipping the clip for the fight, writing it tight, sliding it right, slapping it back in the pack! Sick with the hit, quick with the bit, split in the dark, mark on the bark, strike in the park! Pick up the trash from the stack, snap in the back, pack in the rack, attack in the shack! Chopping up a sample like a butcher in a dark shop, Sidechaining the bassline, cleaning out the mud before I let the beat drop! Pissed because the barrier to entry got lower for somebody with a fast brain? Or pissed because a sharp worker moves at lightspeed while you’re standing in the rain? It’s the exact same panic from the eighties when the drum machine hit the store floor, When guys playing acoustic drums swore nobody was gonna hire 'em anymore. They said the human touch was dead, said the soul got lost inside the synth wire. Tracking placement, facing pavement, erasing casement, breaking basement, chasing statement! Catching a cold fever, blinding a bold believer, patching an old receiver, leaving a disbeliever! Staring at the rain through a cracked windshield, bleeding out the pain from a scar, Sitting in the dark in a parked car, pushing it far, raising the bar, leaving a mark on the tar! A computer doesn't know what it feels like to lose a close friend to the street, It doesn't know the stomach-wrenching panic when you can't afford food to eat! The tech is just a mirror on the wall. It gives you back whatever bullshit you put in. If you're a talentless hack, you get a talentless track, and nobody wins. If you bring real pain, real story, and real dirt to the table, You turn a cold box of wires into something legendary and stable. So look me in my eye and tell me that the hours I put in don't count for real work. Tell me wrestling with a vision till my knuckles bleed is somewhere a creator can shirk. A lazy idiot gets a lazy song that everybody hates and wants to suffocate. When a real craftsman steps up to the desk with a heart full of real anger, Turning raw elements into a heavy hitter that'll hang 'em like an execution hanger! Fix the direction, cut the infection, check the connection, total perfection, reject the objection! Slicing a section, bitter protection, inner reflection, trigger selection, bigger projection! Mashing up the styles, running for miles, piling up the files, cracking all the tiles! Art isn't defined by how hard you suffered with an old-school chisel like a fool. Art is defined by the heart and the intention you inject when you master the tool. The grifters dumping fake tracks for a fast buck need to fucking cease. They’re ruining the culture, leaving worthless trash all over the piece. Not the guy sitting up all night using every tool he's got to open up a new door. I’m taking everything I can get my hands on and turning it to gold on the floor, And I'm gonna keep making real music long after your arguments get old.
