The Bomb Combo

Lyrics

[Thes One:] I dream about walking into a warehouse with vinyl in massive amounts That hasn't been touched… jazz, rock' funk' and such To come through in a clutch like a musical crutch To give my life some light on nights when my girl fights ([Double K in a girly voice:] That's all you care about!) Things that come and go' my records are original Soundtrack from way back reminded me to stay back The '92 hip-hop, the needle in the haystack The breakbeats on wax that kept me in an interested state To learn facts, jump out' and dig plates Filling my crates, appreciate originals who made it Things move in cycles, and hip-hop is slated for a disco demise Synthetic kicks and snares and keyboards ruling the charts Are on the rise' open your eyes, my people lose your history Ten years digging, and half the shit's still a mystery So play out on my played-out record, I'm on my way out You couldn't understand what it's like for the payout Picking up the pieces of a musical puzzle One record at a time, reconstruct, write our rhymes Spent all my living time trying to follow the line From South box ones and twos to drum machines That do the same damn thing, I'm a hip-hop being And I don't take it for granted, it's not yours to change Even though it's been handed down, so dig the sound People Under The Stairs are musically profound It's not yours to change, even if it's handed down People Under The Stairs'll stay musically profound with the… [Rap sample:] In every section, tag team connection… [Rap sample, scratched:] The bomb combo… (x4) [Double K:] Now, every high-hat, kick, snare is snatched off wax Blowing chumps off like dust, trust that we'll bust back Strapped with extra stylus, doubles of my favorite jam Keep the compact disc on the dash and watch us smash this Breakdown and everything's on the one You telling me no sampling, I'm telling you it's no fun Fake bitch, take this colored keyboard and shove it Where you know it'll hurt, hey, y'all ain't making no beats? So why these record spots burnt? Collect celebrity cards And leave the vinyl for the people doing it, staying in charge I talk to my records, I don't loop 'em then abuse 'em They get a comfortable environment, I'm out buying it Funky breaks, psychedelic jazz and more What's this? Some hip-hop? Ay-yo, show us the whole flow 'Cause me and Thes go for broke like Gamble and Huff Keep the basslines meaty, drumline rolls tough With the… we produce like old farmers in the fields, naturally Without some punk asking me "Where's the cowbell, triangle, and all the fake scratching?" If it wasn't on the source or where we lifted it, we rid of it Keep your downloaded sounds in that disk drive Before I call the Funk Mob and get to throwing 45s Harder than your high-producer remix and ain't one I ain't feeling none of these sissy beatmakers on the run I'm 'bout to pack my record bags and take the show on the road Continue to build rhythms, keep the status shit cold Hardcore, no joke, back-spinning and winning Truncating that weak shit… you ain't making shit? Don't speak shit! Yeah! [Rap sample:] In every section, tag team connection… [Spoken sample:] There's a lot of stuff out here… [Spoken sample:] Yeah… (x4) [Rap sample:] In every section, tag team connection… [Rap sample, scratched:] The bomb combo… (scratched and repeated) ([Spoken sample:] Come back! Come back!)