THE PREMIERE VERSE: CYRUS MALACHI – “PARIAH”

By SUNEZ

We, so sheltered in the borders of paper.  The leafy shaded paper must grow and it festers seeds in the minds of men.  It powers the papers signed that conduct the workings of all things they decree.  It collects up to jeweled edifices yet rarely falls in the hands of the farmer.   Inside these borders of paper, ten percent, before frustrated whites reduced it to one, or the corrupted men, finance the paper’s folds.  Musical rebellion that ensued brings me here.  One where the talents of special brothers and sisters clipped drums into breaks and put essays into them.  Orated verses that burned these verdant papers into the realness, sold.   The borders of paper around us fell, extended and there was care, more for the people and land it outlined.

But now, the language of the 5 percent, the poor, righteous teachers, are no longer in the bars of the sacrificers of green paper for truth. They are easily googled and huddled into terribly trapped talk.   Jigga McDucks can swim in their gold while we sadly wait for the Spaceship: Elect-oral Mirage to save us.  From Rotschild greenery to the stacks of macklemore, this Hip Hop is in revision to crave the whore.   So we do this without paper premierely, searching beyond borders of purchasing power–the papers worded from a pariah.  A pariah outside the time zone I know, the cream of the planet Earth is everywhere.  And I find Cyrus Rhyming Enlightened Amidst Money.

Amidst the effects of the systems of capital collecting against the Black and Brown and the assets scraped from community through neighborhood, UK’s Cyrus Malachi has been a lyricist of classic measure.  From the supreme 2011 debut, Ancient Future to the even denser and brilliantly complex Black Athena (LP of 2013), Cyrus of the Triple Darkness crew, propels through breaks that are becoming rare in the founding state of Hip Hop.  But the heart of NYC is in Cyrus with a care and obsession for each bar.  The endearing intangibles begin in the aura of his beat selection where Remulak’s crying horn lead to pensive piano chords and a sharp 1, 2 slow tempo break, the ideal smacking snare and crunched bass drums.

These intangibles transfer to Cyrus’ mastery of tempo with a calm composure, delivering tough, pausing for rhythmic action.  His classical gift, on par with any MC I’ve ever heard is his word selection (i.e. “crooks in the denizen”) and unique placement (“City scapes, hooded silhouettes/ shifting eights/bullets pirouette”) that merges the beauty of the word and the rhyme’s melodic structure.  The theme is the macro power structure (“oil’s the drug that the fascists crave/the spoils of thugs slave catcher raids/ Britain history X”) affecting the micro reality we suffer(“the hood hurts us/and converts us/ into the worthless/black hearses and cavalcades”).  That there is a natural duty of the MC (“they say I’m conscious for the learners/I say I just make Art with a purpose”) to share a greater way (“I think like Confucian/concepts/God steps…”) that gives us the image of empowerment  to see and live better(“I’m lyrically adept/specifically elect/the book of medicine like Immhotep”) completes the cipher.  On “Pariah,” Cyrus’ entire mission statement is unfolded and can be used as the prototype song of his developing legacy.

So, this G writer from Medina here, a little Puerto Rican Sunset Park, where Hip Hop doesn’t grow with stronger paper borders.  It is in the writing on the paper, the knowledge of the rhyme, that deserves this global supremacy.  To find the verses the world over and edutain a place for MCs from every corner in their rightful place.  Follow Cyrus Malachi’s verse here, break brethren and sistren.  Let’s correct our ears for accent together, admire the dialect, see the struggle’s the same and the brilliance is next level.  That’s the worth of Hip Hop MCing, a greater paper scribed, illegally de-tendering borders.

@Cyrusmalachi

@Remulakbeats

 

Pariah

In Unison our heart’s beat

Secluded on a dark street

Deluded when our paths meet

Underage shooters, they spark heat

It’s a sickness like Lupus, the narcs creep

Our endeavors are fruitless

Last week, I heard rumors, the act of Nubans

He got smoked like a pack of Cubans

Unholy no ablutions

Just dawn raids and intrusions

The mood is blue like contusions

I think like Confucian/concepts

God steps/lost reps/short temperament

Hood legends left decaying in the sediment

We’re portrayed as porch monkeys

That’s why I spit it intelligent

The third eye-ball/behind the nine-ball

Deal with math it’s a life tool/bricks are dispatched, it’s a cycle

The kids need the facts, Yo, its vital
The kids in the flats light an ital.

Pain relief from a system that’s spiteful

Days of the children of slaves its suicidal

 

Chorus (2X):

Hoody on, mic in my palm

Get my bully on

Ice ‘em like I’m fighting in ‘Nam

Erase ‘em ‘til they’re fully gone

Inspire a farm of animals

Snap clavicles

You fags are vaginals

I rap classicals

 

City scapes, hooded silhouettes/

Shifting eights, bullets pirouette

Lift his face/no grace/

Just a different case

In a multitude of murders

Like the Johnsons and the Burgers
They say I’m conscious for the learners

I say I just make Art with a purpose

The hood hurts us/and converts us

Into the worthless/black hearses/ and cavalcades

Sad murmurs when the gravels laid

Soil dug by a passive spade

Oil’s the drug that the fascists crave

The spoils of thugs slave catcher raids

Britain history X, mothers visually wept

I’m lyrically adept/specifically elect

The book of medicine like Immhotep

Crooks in the denizen

The widow wept

Fallen soldiers and foreclosures

Goons with broad shoulders

And torn cultures

 

Chorus (2X)