Making Space

by FG

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    An extremely limited edition copy of Making Space, in a full colour gatefold cd sleeve. Your copy will be just 1 of 85 CDs that are available to the public and one of just 50 CDs that are available from Bandcamp. Choose the "Signed" option if you want me to write my name on it.

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about

Making Space is the product of four years wandering lost through the streets of life, work and hip hop. Its songs cover topics as far ranging as eco-tastrephy driven zombie apocalypses, neurotic psychiatric sessions, love lost, records found and the joys of working life.

Featuring the WAM Hip Hop Song of the Year winning song, The Ego-dystonic Blues, and comprised of a plethora of soul sounds, Making Space is a homage to the forgotten records of our past and a record of the forgotten pasts we all have.

Making Space is the first release from Human Writes Records (HWR) and a new addition to the numerous releases from Perth's premiere artists and musicians collective, The Community.

credits

released October 31, 2012

_______________________________________________________

All tracks produced by FG, except:
Jobbed - Co-produced by FG and Lenny Rudeberg
Dig - Co-produced by FG and G-box
Making Space - Produced by A.pt

Violins on Worldstop were played by Empty
Saxaphone on Autumn played by Lenny Rudeberg
Keys on Autumn played by FG
Melodic keys on Making Space played by FG

All songs recorded by Lenny Rudeberg @ Lenny Rudeberg's Studiyoyo.

All tracks mixed by Lenny Rudeberg and Lax Planet @ Lenny Rudeberg's Studiyoyo and Red Curtain Studio.

All tracks mastered by Laurie Sinagra at Squarejaw Mastering

Cover photography by Dan Craig @ Matsu Photography
_______________________________________________________

FG would like to thank:
Lenny Rudeberg (seriously couldn't have happened at all without you), Ap.t (also wouldn't have been made without you), Empty, G-box, Hallows, ASAP, DJ Silence, Laurie Sinagra, Dan Craig, Diger Rokwell, Mathas, Nick Sweepah, Marksman, everyone else at The Community, and of course Mum, Dad and my sister, Kellie.

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all rights reserved

about

FG Perth, Australia

FG is a Perth-based, Melbourne-born producer and emcee. In the past he has produced and rapped on a number of albums with the likes of The Funkoars, Muphin, Draino, Terra Firma and Crixus. He can usually be found haunting dusty old record shops muttering "Need more breaks. Need more breaks."

FG is one of a few people to be featured on both seminal oz hip hop releases, Culture of Kings 1 and 2.
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Track Name: Introspacing
High fidelity music… convenient, practical.
The product of four and one half years of research.
Virtually fool proof.
Ready, set, go.
Not just two, not just four tracks!
Giving twice the playing time
Now as simple as or even easier than playing a record.
Here's how all tracks can be used… all tracks can be used,
Without the touch of a hand.
The first side of each selection is labelled A
While the second side is labelled B.
Giving you over one whole hour of stereophonic music
Made possible by the editing and selection of a full stack of 45rpm records.
More uninterrupted music, interrupted music,
Than is possible from a simple break released in the past to edit.
And that's only part of the story.
Okay, I'm here to answer the question, what is butter?
I hate to shock you with this but, continuing…
I hate to shock, I hate to shock…
Fucking piece of shit!
Fucking dust…
Here we go.
Track Name: The Walking Song
All aboard. Welcome to Making Space.
My name's FG, I'll be your tour guide.
Punch your tickets, jump on board.
Here we go.

Slim coffers, my pockets are old sockets,
Not a lot will fill them still I'm cool with that feeling,
Milling in the mass of the class of cashless bastards
With a mattress stuffed full of art its -
Just another way, I walk it daily, stay -
Alert to the workers getting jerked for wages, aye?
Been their and I spun the truth,
That my dreams were coming second like the number two,
So I… took a step now, put my bets down,
Took a shot, yes, like a bullet proof vest
And rest assured, living with some less is more,
Unless you're poor in which case prep for war.
Get the sore point? People are pulling packets.
Stacked with that cash it's backwards in fact it's -
Cash that draws people like the man in black.
If you don't mind man, I'mma stand right back, see…

You want to talk but I got to walk coz I just…
(Wanna do my thing)
I don't know bro I got to go coz I just…
(Wanna do my thing)
Can't you see you should leave me be, I just…
(Wanna do my thing)
Watch a romance? Not a chance! Coz I just…
(Wanna do my thing)
You want to talk but I got to walk coz I just…
(Wanna do my thing)
I don't know bro I got to go coz I just…
(Wanna do my thing)
Can't you see you should leave me be, I just…
(Wanna do my thing)
Watch a romance? Not a chance! Coz I just…
(Wanna do my thing)
… like watch zombie flicks.
Track Name: Whatever Happened?
Shit's changed… (ad-lib)

Let me tell you bout a story when,
Emcees were still underground and poor with pens,
Used to flow on the corners in fours and send
Their lines to the atmos for props, not ends.
And they, got their dues not from rocking shoes,
But rocking rhymes and frees, spitting lines. And leave,
The cypher, the night was a pocket of hope.
Rock a show for ten cats and leave the place broke.
I'm not joking, old shit it got me open,
And kept me coping, kept me clean like soap and -
The scene that we lived in was gifted but proud? Hardly.
Mostly emcees dropped verses at house parties.
And nobody knew our names. All the same -
We copped fame when we dropped the flame,
And kept the glow on. Every emcee they'd beat make too.
And DJ's could cut as well as juggle a break loop.
Fake crews were plenty. The beef became hotter.
We'd call them accent rappers, they'd call us ockers.
Sometimes shit went down and there were fights.
But it would always get squashed by the end of the night.

Whatever happened?

Let's slip up a few years…
Some cats are dropping wax, some cats disappeared,
Some cats are getting cheers.
Some cats are getting signed to a label for years.
And it appears that the scene is much better,
But all said an done it's just one small step up,
The underground is… much maligned,
Hipsters are spitting rhymes all crazy off time
And the laziest lines are getting… shine for cash,
Coz every second act is the next big splash
Fashion is now more important than the passion,
And actors are acting when directors call action.
Lacking direction… losing affection,
For breaks and horn sections, fucked without protection.
Lessons are learned but we learn them too late
Trying to shift weight create by the records release date.

Whatever happened?

Seems simple like a kid with dimples,
We rocked beats in the streets, now it pops like pimples,
You hear it on the FM. Back when I started -
They wouldn't play us. Now they've had a change of heart.
It's no longer left to the PBS, yes, we've come a long way,
But got ages left. And it's best -
To just back down, let it settle,
When we first kicked raps, had to watch the mic level,
Couldn't afford a popper stopper, a proper dropper,
Would spot a pop a mile off and hip hoppers,
New their old school, plus their funk and jazz,
Used to wish we were Scott La Rock or Grandmaster Caz,
Now we're after cash. Is it really different?
I mean those rappers used to claim wealth and even slander women,
And now we stand within them. Living with less precision,
Missing mission status and these rappers even lacking rhythm.
And it's just a bunch of dudes. Too true.
Some chicks rip mics but none of them produce.
The sad fact is, we preached what we practice.
And realised what we theorised fore/for we had this.

Whatever happened?
Track Name: Four (of a Kind) feat. Empty, G-box and Hallows
EMPTY:
Day one for me, was making up a beat,
Resampling CDs from my own library,
Rainchecking the sleep that the rest of the population needs,
Creating a dream, not waiting to see,
But chasing my means the day fades and it's me,
Replacing the scenery with a taste of the need,
Driving me on, riding the song, right into the sun.
Finding the sum of the parts, less than I done,
I confess that I'm on a vessel anon,
Stress and you're gone,
But hold the flame and you'll take a photograph of your state
And other people relate, drums keys and some bass
Step out of your world and into my place.

FG:
I'm a backpack rapper listening to Frank Zappa
On my headphones, redzone traveller, an amateur,
Grappler, grappling with lines and hooks,
Like a fisherman, listening to rhymes I look,
Out the window of the train with a sci fi book,
In my fist, half open, as the twilight puts,
A dark shadow over the city streets I tread
To the spot where I cypher over beats with heads,
And I'm known to stay, away from home for days,
Catching freebies, believe me, being broke pays,
Folks say I need to be more serious,
Truth is, I just don't want to be hearing this,
Peering at the see by the wharf at dawn,
Watch the sun rise, pen lines about the morn,
It's not so much the words as it is the form,
And the feel, but it's nothing it the story's not real.

G-BOX:
I am the result of an alien interception,
My evolution was from unnatural selection,
I control the world through my mind deception,
Preach for millennia about my resurrection,
I'm spiritual my existence is a miracle
My verse is religious you won't overstand my lyricals
I'm beyond conscious as my mind launches
The universe recollapses, I am the strongest
I'm in too good of shape, you all should be worshipping me
I'm invincible, try to hurt me I never bleed,
Beyond light speed, all of time is what I see
I was born a legend. I am of a greater breed.

HALLOWS:
When images of breasts manifest past these lyrics,
Enter the psyche of hip hop since its genesis
They exist like a solar eclipse of blind talent,
Behind pear shaped hips and
I'm trying to break that mould, shatter these stereotypes
Let my grievances out and take control of the mic
In my life coz I find that I fight to be heard
Just another line to be blurred
Another genre stirred as I rewrite the words
Of what's to be expected, suspected and neglected
From the original form of my intention
It's poetry I write with my pen and,
Does my gender make my lines less relevant?
You see my raps are conscious and intelligent.
It's a man eat man world out there.
I hope dinner is served because I came prepared.
Track Name: Making Space
Like the Skull Snaps, it's a new day,
Laying awake but I'm dreaming of breaks,
Pushing the sleep from my eyes as I rise,
Forget the TV. I've got no time for lies.
Coz time flies and the next you know,
You're reminiscing living in a nursing home.
And you're cursing your vision but as curses go,
It's better to have loved and lost than hurt and broke
south. With a mind for the present,
Only see the future coz the past is a dead one.
And evidently, I stand at guard like a sentry,
So bounce to the bath like I'm landed gentry.
Do the once over, til I'm clean and scrubbed,
then hit the cafes - it's a dreamer's club.
Folks sip mochas and float in pairs,
Licking lines with handsigns, but no one cares.

So I'm making space, make my place,
Make a new face when I make the pace
Pick up. Walk like a chasing race.
Coz I gotta catch my dream so I'm making space. x 2

Like Banbara, time to shack up,
Sun is now high, my mind is stacked up,
Running out lines, my bind is rap ruts,
I break a new path while laughers act tough.
Enough. While they step out I let out the beast,
A verse ripper, clip a claptrap rapper to shatter teeth,
And batter beats, tie the matter in deep,
With good oil, the Tesla coil makes you soil your sheets.
From the wattage, I got it, gotta get gone if you wanna,
Ponder the passage I put upon you, practice and put it on the
Page. Or rage quit. This sage spit quiet.
...try it. The daylight makes my head riot.
And I slide with a private thought through,
Jam packed rooms full of loons who talk too
Loud to drown out. I listen and watch
Til the diffidence drops then the listening stops
and I'm...

So I'm making space, make my place,
Make a new face when I make the pace
Pick up. Walk like a chasing race.
Coz I gotta catch my dream so I'm making space. x 2

Like Jimmy McGriff, I watch the worm,
Walk clear fluid then I take my turn,
Sitting still stiller in a bar while the iller
Cats catch slaps from the girls that all mill a-
bout the place. Face in the mirrors misplaced.
Heave a deep sigh, let the spiritus waste,
Til I feel the beat break, take my hat,
Step into the street, put the wind to my back.
Pull my coat tight and I walk the night.
Look a lot like a stalker, right?
But the beat keeps bouncing in my brainspace,
And folks that pass are dark shadows and nameless.
Looking for some peace and quiet,
The beast inside died now I'm feeling tired.
With my hands in my pockets, my stance whispers stop it,
At the bus stand, dance thoughts around the topic.
I'm headed home with a poem and notepad.
I wrote that. Now the day is so black.
Track Name: Dig
The world is a white page waiting for ink,
Taking a strong drink long, pen a song and I think,
Coz outside the world it's the rainy pall,
That falls on the concrete and sun streaked walls.
This city forged from the dirt and ore,
Drilled from the earth and the workers raw
From grit and course minerals that cut through skin.
On the landform, a man's form is blood and sin
And not a lot else.
See we mock the health and rot with wealth,
Digging until we've lost our Self.
But I've got to tell the story, poorly spelled,
Of how we ignored the signs and mine war with Hell.

The world is a white page waiting to burn,
Each holds tight to a paradise, waiting a turn,
To take a slice, like the lice that carried the germ,
Like a Hermes - the pyschopomp - leading we learned
to counteract it. We developed the dust
that proved trust we place in the science and cut
our hair short. Adjusted the blades we bought.
And fair enough, we were non-plussed believing we caught
it in time. The victims were pushed to the back
and stepped on once we swept them under the mats.
Coz the only thing worse than a plague that kills,
Is a world of ills stopping you from paying your bills.

The world is a white page, bleached by the sun.
Warm weather followed winter. We were already done.
The few that remained, they could stand or run.
But no matter which one this new man would come.
(Ah yeah) This new city made folks of us.
If folks is the right word at all for these horrors,
These shambling, shuffling, ambling imposters.
Are they really? I get the feeling we were the monsters.
But it could be the bitter bite scratching my skull.
The future is null/void. The past has been culled.
I looking for the high ground, carving a hull,
From the sky, sounds drowned by the beat of my pulse.
Track Name: Black Dust
The dust makes my throat itch, I can't stop it
One more drop, the record shop's hot, dude's a prophet
at the counter, speaks in a loud voice and nasal tone
I'm at the decks with an old set of headphones
Between the caffeine and nicotine - a bitter mean -
I get a clean chop of the drop and can't quit the scene
It's feedng my neuroses, the collector, I'm a drug fiend
For deep breaks, cheap takes and drum machines
Every Saturday, I feel the promise,
The city breathes vinyl dust, stereophonics
from the sixties, where they split the drums,
To one side of the mix and let the keys just run
Now press it to the wax. Now I dig the stacks.
But not matter how I mine, I keep finding tracks,
I've never heard and clever words penned by no ones.
And spend my loose change to arrange them so some,
New ears will hear nod their head and show props
I resurrect the dead when I tread through those shops.
Every extraction brings a new flow bop,
From the groove to the groove, choose the loops - you know what?

We dig, we dug,
For the peaks and subs,
From the streets we dub
And we speak the love
For the dusty crates and acetate
You can't call it theft if we aim to create. x 2

The first plastic I ever hacked tracks and slapped with
Some drums was a scratched up copy of Brothers in Arms.
It sounded shit and the kick it clipped
But equipped with some knowledge I was collared and quick
To trip down those laneways - east coast city -
Looking for a bass line, chasing horns; them pretty
Girls can't compare to strings that sing
And if the snare drum rings (man I love them things)
It's the universal unifier - no art is higher!
Than snatching parts from four artists and making fire
I'd be a liar if I said I could quit it.
The black resins in my veins and it's plain I'm addicted.
Vision's constricted, look for dates and years,
Sixty five to seventies, if it's jazz I take heavily.
Coz the progressions be elaborate
And if it's Cannonball Adderley, you know I be grabbing it.

We dig, we dug,
For the peaks and subs,
From the streets we dub
And we speak the love
For the dusty crates and acetate
You can't call it theft if we aim to create. x 2
Track Name: The Ego-dystonic Blues
I'm addicted to caffeine and coffee shop pastries,
Addicted to the slops and I've had a lot lately.
Not addicted but loving the smell of epoxy,
Plus I can't get enough of the alcohol hydroxy.
Addicted to poxy mockery on Facebook.
I fiend for the fame but I say I'm all good.
I'm a name dropper proper with the names I do drop.
By the way, did I tell you about the time I met Snoop Dogg?
The grog and corn chips got no support group.
I hit them hard like a slap war dude.
Plus I can't seem to stop with the record shop digging.
Is there any way at all you can halt these addictions?

I'm angry bout the fact that I've stuck to rap
For ten years yet here I sit with no kick back
And I hate all rappers that use the word SWAG
I hate all rappers that use the term FAG
I hate every beat that I've made of late, had
A few issues, since you asked they're bad.
Plus I'm mad that they still do rent inspections,
Every two months, rude cunts, I'm a good tenant.
Acting like I'm tearing up the place I let,
I've been hear three years. Don't they trust me yet?

I'm scared of the girls that want to make small talk.
What the fuck could I say that won't leave you all bored?
Plus sometimes I wake in the middle of the night
In a cold sweat dreaming bout the world outside.
I'm scared of committment also dying alone,
I'm scared of having nothing also buying a home
And I fear I'm not normal coz when I look around,
Every other motherfucker has this life shit down.
And I write shit down, but I'm scared folks will read it
And think I'm a psycho, a douche or a dipshit.
I'd get lit, but I fear to smoke green,
Coz I used to do it lots (that is addiction again).

I love girls with long legs and short statures,
Short brown hair and brown eyes to match it.
I love freedom, having nothing to do,
And spitting to a rhythm when I'm up in a booth.
I love clutching Truth and knowing you can't grab it,
I'm quick to duck down black holes after white rabbits.
I love breaks and basslines and rhodes keys.
I love notes, my favourite one's the low G.
I love being lonely. I know that's strange,
But I have the best time when alone with my brain.
And I'm close to my family, coz they know me,
And my friends. But the rest can just fuck off, see?
Track Name: Jobbed feat. Wisdom2th
FG:
This job got me losing sleep and
This job makes me lose the week and
This job got me barely breathing.
Stop. It's not what I'm needing.
Leaving the leave load, need to reload,
More than half-stepping like I'm missing three toes.
We grow fat of the cash and crap we buy
Sit back, see life is flashing by.
Push folder, push the pen.
File it away, now do it again.
Smile in the face of the wasted when
we're locked in chains like we're paper men.
And I'm living on caffeine, smokes and Codeine.
No sheens apparent coz my life's on low beam.
No dreams, haven't got a hope to show been,
Working my fingers to the bone for those means.
And it seems like, it's a clean fight,
When you look into your back account
But on a clear night, you can hear right?
Coins fall with an empty sound.
So I drop the wallet and unpress the collar.
Fuck you, boss! You're getting the cold shoulder.
Cut through gloss, not about the cents.
Wait, shit, now I can't pay rent.

This job (this job) this job (this job)
This job (this job), Yo. Screw this job.
This job (this job) this job (this job)
This job (this job), Yo. I need this job.

WISDOM2TH:
My daily grind and state of mind is,
Stop trying to find defined residing and
Here stands a kid enlightened
With experience of too much time unwinding.
I slave away at these games and movies
The thought of pay it all eludes me.
What I needs a job that suits me
So I'll introduce me, then please recruit me.
Live loosely. Work shifts amuse me,
Though my own music all consumes me.
Cut the losing's hard to do see,
Coz the thought of a degree just seems confusing.
That's why I kick back and shit stir
Old nerd who don't like his own work
Life's fine when you're trapped in a blur
But that's probably why somebody 'took ma jerb'.
Now I guess that it's pen to page slaving on a day to day,
Man I don't get how it's all a strain.
Why slave til you're old and grey? What a waste!
Maybe I should put that on my resume.
My mistake, we all want an escape,
It's a cold, hard world when you're working a trade
All the same, we all want a piece of the cake,
So these are the breaks, and yo, it's all for the sake of...

This job (this job) this job (this job)
This job (this job), Yo. I need this job.
This job (this job) this job (this job)
This job (this job), Yo. Screw this job.
Track Name: Worldstop
She took me to this spot she called the World's Top,
Where she claimed, if you aimed, you could probably shoot God.
Then she laughed, like it was a universal joke,
I reached into my backpack for my lighter and smokes.
I said, "Maybe we should get down from here.
I know a place that's near where we can get some beer
And drown our sorrows". She said, "You got some time I could borrow?
A line I could follow? Coz my insides are hollow."
And I think, maybe, I loved her then
Coz she used her art against me like a weapon.
She painted pictures of Heaven, never painted of Hell,
But she rendered images of the places she dwelled.
She said, "That man there is God. Beside him is my mother
And the tombstone in the backyard represents my late brother,
But the bright colours are his spirit come back to life
So I can always see my surrounds when I'm in strife."

And it's ironic. Men and women are gin and tonic,
Separate they're bitter. Together they get you fucked up.

I lost her for a while til she hit the speed dial.
Said she got caught up in the smile of a child
With the off-hand speech that made is seem like a quote.
I reached into my backpack for my lighter and smokes.
I said we should catch up some time.
Meet up over coffee, discuss zodiac signs.
It made her laugh. She knew I didn't believe in it.
Instead she said "Come see what I've been painting and shit"
So I did. She took my cigarette as she spoke,
Saying "Freedom is ironic. Like a serious joke."
She always did that, knowing I had no comeback,
And even if I did my teeth still wouldn't crack.
I didn't even need to take the cigarette back,
Coz cigarettes are only one step away from ash.
And so was she.

And it's ironic. Men and women are gin and tonic,
Separate they're bitter. Together they get you fucked up.

I buried myself in work and acting like a jerk.
Pretending that my life consists of benefits and perks.
But in my mind she lurked, and in my thoughts she broke,
When I reached into my backpack for my lighter and smokes.
And since I lost her, thought she wouldn't come back,
Until I got that letter that fettered me on my door mat.
Drove to the address that she demanded
Feeling like a man on a desert island, stranded.
I found her beneath a blanket looking like death.
Gone was the art, bright colours were now regret.
No longer central, see she lay by the side,
And I could see a lost mental behind tired eyes.
I asked her "What, girl, do you want from me?"
She laughed and replied "I want your honesty.
Tell me, why is it you come when I call?
Like a puppy full of fear with no mind for fear at all?"
I didn't answer, see, I couldn't find the words.
I just stared at the shadow until my eyes hurt.
Then I blinked. Turned my back. Left the room.
While she reached into her backpack for her lighter and spoon.

And it's ironic. Men and women are gin and tonic,
Separate they're bitter. Together they get you fucked up. (repeat to out)
Track Name: Outrospacing
I know we, we've talked about it for so long
And I guess millions of words have been written about this day
It was said by some that most of the tasks that men could perform
Could be - could be done just as easily by machines, with precision,
But man has yet to vacate his right to do for himself
do do for himself
This alb - this album was
36 storeys high and weighed nearly six and a half million pounds
It cost 24 thousand million dollars
Enough to build about two and a half million homes - million homes.
Indeed, the most expensive that man has ever made
And we know it was a success
(it's a massive failure)
It took eight years and two months.
A mere 44 seconds ahead of schedule
And I have to admit that it gets you right in the pit of the stomach
And if you can hear the noise
It's an absolute beauty - b - beauty
And I know, as long as I live, I am never going to see anything quite like this one.