by Capsize

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Composed of beats and verses from Tennesseean hip hop artists.
Thanks to Amnoc Else, Fra Dolcino, Mitch Hosier, Purplecatjane, Bored Lord, Cutthroat, Magnetic Forces, Scrap, Sayyid Amir, and NEW_GROC.

Recorded at Mt. Doom, Nashville, TN
Mastered by Mitch Hosier
All lyrics written and performed by whoever says them.

"Obsidian" produced by purplecatjane
"Wreaking Havoc" produced by Fra Dolcino
"Cold Veins" produced by Cutthroat
"Blindfold for the Matador" produced by AdVantage
"Bob's Books" produced by NEW_GROC
"Khanquistador" produced by Else
"Terminal" produced by Bored Lord


released December 31, 2014



all rights reserved


Camp Capsize Nashville, Tennessee

Capsize is an MC from Nashville, TN. Making lyrically dense, stream of consciousness rap, Capsize infuses hip hop with prog rock influences, much of his atmospheric and lyrical inspiration coming from sci-fi/fantasy books and movies. Capsize announced in 2016 his next full length will be a concept album that will be be released with an accompanying comic book. ... more

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Track Name: Obsidian
Spores drift in a lame lane. Listlessly project woes on their corneas in the same way. Some say change closes it's window on a dime, I think it should leave that shit at the door and hit the neon sign. Who's got time for a stalemate? Cons watch in awe of constant walk-away jailbait. Watergate failsafe. I guess when push comes to shove you just smoke the bastards out and fuck the rules they gave you, even in Craster's house. Cottonmouth and mouse. Blocked movements on the patio. Mad municipalities rattled the bars of the cage and the status quo. Dagger to throat. Hot poker hissing acrid. Hagrid through incredible shrinking man line-up pageant. Palatable or haggis? I direct admiral to Kraken cause either way he's two-faced, it makes me hasty to waste his bastion. Action imagined not enough anymore, I need to satiate a hatred before it's placated and inert on the floor.

Selling my soul for a shot to chop the snakes head off and cross with the flock to greener grass, fuck the side behind, I don't want to die for a price.

On his front porch, Christmas wreath, welcome mat, and lamb's blood. Santa gets a bake sale, fellow man can eat Uncle Sam's slugs. Damn, son. That's cold case dedication to malice, a callous blight of fastened might in the panic room of your palace. What a talent for solo heckler emaciation of stillness, with diligence your name could make the world police's kill-list. Pillage deceased cities. Want to entomb them in obsidian even though I know it takes a village to raise the village idiot. Meridian imagery over the horizon of Yavin. Escape labored attempting concealment in anfractuous labyrinths. Map room salvaged. Divvy up parchment and send me some. Enemy overhead popping air pockets of bubblegum. They're crowing "You'll be hung up for the public then evenly drawn and quartered, poached and roasted for consumption. Odds of survival ain't looking good, kid. Walk backwards to the sound of my voice, this is the end."
Track Name: Wreaking Havoc (feat. Scrap and Sayyid Amir)
Level headed pleasure seeker second to flexing hare. Rebel in some rugged sneakers next to a debonair. How does he fair? Guess it depends on the contestant. Wrestling constrictors, pristine conflicting message. Don’t shoot the courier that delivered it. He was seen as expendable by those who wrote belligerent. Not sinners, just stupidity personified but yeah, I’ll riot when Idiocracy’s codified. Transmission modify, Autobots on steroids caught up in the lotto, copped a follow and chopped air deployed. So where’s your buck noise? Crew of tail and fuck boys? I took ‘em to the gallows, read their sentence in a rough voice:

You stand accused of fraternizing with the enemy. You’re a drop of the poison if you’re not one of the remedy. If we don’t stem the flow, the dam will blow eventually, and it’ll be the simple court fool that’s the end of me.
Track Name: Cold Veins
Ribcage xylophone vibrates, a quickened pulse sending out nervous, hurting, bursting heartbeats. With disdain I’ll die alone irate. Simple as a dull, pending furnace spurting short of the marquees. I’m a dog with a wish to be taken out back, stakes on the table, tied to the track, whistle in the distance, blind to the trap, bird on my fist, X on the map, never was one to play Russian roulette but I’ve hit that point, can’t pay my debts, so I’ll make a bet, pass to the left, and when it’s my turn, no thought but to check. Listen, I know the ensuing void seems fillable but during intermission the narrator became atypical. Strange ways, filed my teeth with a picklock. Close shave, now I skullfuck hip hop. Lip-locked with a putrified Maji, got documentation, just days away from laser range. Name the game, no salutations. Do you value information or lamentations from thrones? I’m trying to parse out maladroit redactions while paying mind to the drones.

Short changed. Red eye flight. Now I sport mange in a dead-eyed night. Cold veins. Head on ice. Now I softly rot and leave the maggots enticed.

Hirsute and grotesque, I lurch for the nearest victim. Drink my sour fill while the bystanders are sickened. Lick my choppers off like I’m finished with Goliath. Grin at the soccer moms while flipping zips to the clients. (SYKE!) Grip of a tyrant, pent up like a shy hydrant, one-of-a-kind posse of heyokas and pirates. I idle in the mainframe, stroking an invisible beard. Sidle to a waning flame, stoke it to quench my fears. H.O.V. lane cause I’m a two-faced bastard, scatter my ashes in quicksand so they’ll be buried faster. I sold you shit in a golden-flaked, silver lined box, so you better thank God I’ve at least got some interesting thoughts. Tete-a-tete but I’m the only participant, my brainwaves ricochet like Hungry Hippos gone omnivorous. It’s magnificent, the rationality defenestration, your principality mangled so badly you can taste it.

Hide me away with a dunce cap, one lap overly ambitious for a hunchback. Punching bag mana course, grander horse watched over the scene and gleaned new secrets of life force.
Track Name: Blindfold for the Matador (feat. Magnetic Forces)
Ay! Malarky toe the line. Capsize and MagForce atomize the rivals spines. Drunken master style gets you in body cast binds. Frenetic whenever the betterment is questioned or the message messed with by inbred peasants of the technique. Pardon my critique but the game has grown weak. Too many cooks in the kitchen and ain’t no one seen the chief. It’s not beef, we’ve just gotta reclaim our stained streets. Chain me or the Jekyll beast will ultimately be released.

not a mystery magnetic droppin' officially/the hit'll be tantamount to shockin' epiphany/pen to the page result often a symphony/stranglin' the mic i spit rockin' admittedly/homeboy throw in the towel/we mastered the consonants and vowels/i spit ill words that i lace in the drum/pass to nickel loot testa before i bust a lung

Have to back up, act up, hack the track up. In fact I factor in distraction when the track's not jacked up. They’ll put me in lockup for the rawcut that I smacked up. Ad Brock with the mockup knockin' down whats been stacked up. With tempered cuts I slice break and dismember much, a gentle touch, like ice razor or deaths sickle's cut. Actions bannable. Kill tracks like hannibal, not cannibal to eat animal, so I sautee the sample.

Castrate or cancel? Bring peace or reap benefits of fifth floor dropped anvil? Offload the landfill. Vaudeville pandering can meet the curtain. I’m certain the surgery will merge with our incursion on the vermin. Get ‘em nervous. Flank snakes basking on their backs, task actors with masking their faces when their tired shit is whack. Lambast the bastion but the wizard’s head is the brass ring, that wicked witch is a bitch but she ain’t really pulling the strings. Blindfold for the matador. Your quest is noble. But you didn’t change your tune when the pioneers were vocal. I hope my bricks are as sturdy as those beneath, no more gold plated teeth I want linguistic athletes. Blindfold for the luchador. It’s nothing personal but I’m rooting for the cats with the verses most versatile, not a salesmen tryna sling shiny gadgets, looting purses with sleight of hand magic. Can’t even imagine so I’m out…
Track Name: Bob's Books
Unconscious. Warm bed. Ringing alarm meant to wake the dead. Long piss. Scrub teeth. Burn tree, force feed, try not to fall asleep. Stuck in a loop, wallet, phone, keys, drive like I’m fleeing a crime spree scene. Exit, on ramp, second exit, backroad. Muscle memory so I achieve mission with eyes closed. Parallel park next to the sidewalk where bums flow. Grab my uniform and to the liquor store we go. Over the road, past the sewer stench, into the world that turns me into the ultimate grinch. Fake smile melts into vapid nullity. Sixth hour lab rat ain’t known for subtlety. Wrap it up rapidly or you’ll become my malady. No dilly dallying, Capsize is rallying.

My cycle ain’t even most ridiculous. Could’ve been born in lands more inconspicuous, or a rival to the superpower mainframe, scraping by day to day, or flaunting money and fame. I figure I’ve got a pretty average existence but I’m getting fuel for the rocket ship ignition. Suspension. Raw dimension. Green light’s go. Propel first cell rendition. I’d like to think I’ve been pretty fucking explicit, I’ll never stop spitting cause my duty’s civic. Maybe dippin’ but never the final look. Tuning out now cause Nashville wants rap game: Bob’s books. Take your sloppy hooks, tie ‘em up with the sixteens, plaintiff awarded maintenance to turn the genre pristine. Wish I could vent like this without leaving a trace but now it’s on the record so I rest my case.
Track Name: Khanquistador (feat. Else)
No mercy, flirtin’ with a herd of hearses, thirsty. Pursed lips when the white flag ain’t hoisted early. World’s an oyster attitude so divulge longitude and latitude of the pearl. Sometimes you’ve gotta take a dagger to Rapunzel’s curls so your words are best chosen wisely or your pedigree ends with your initials and the lighting of your effigy. There will be no confetti, just rivers of dead and a fresh lich-house. If you’re thinking of usurping the throne, don’t try it, dick mouth! Cause then ships slip quiet in the pre-dawn glow. The watch dogs howl and suddenly time runs slow. It’s then you know those cats weren’t waxing poetically, those were facts and now you feel the corner at your back. “I’ve left an ungodly trail of bodies in my wake, severed their heads if they were fake, measured their death by lasting weight. Over encumbered by the numbers numbly fluttering behind my eyelids as I slumber, fuck functions puncturing this junctures silence with my hunger.”

Embrace the butcher in your belly. Whisper words of reassurance. Come on, baby, tell me. I’ma lick blood off your pretty wet face while you cry and tell me this was just a silly phase.

Nurture the chaos in your stomach. Sew the seeds of hate up in the yeast and prep the oven. Karma’s a bitch, ya gotta love it cause the God that put me on this Earth has earned his comeuppance.
Track Name: Terminal
Concrete feet. Sandpaper soles. Heart full of anvils. Stomach full of coal. Dawn seems jaunty. Throw me a bone. Cause I don’t wanna leave the place I call home.

I’m crossing the terminal. Pulling fishing line behind. Last few mornings brought a chill to my spine. Falling off an awful safari of inflamed tonsils on a gondola. Blooming tumors souped up the true prima donna. Not one for the sauna. More of an oasis basis tenant. Fending for the right to shine amongst my other descendants. I send as much I ingest, lie defenseless to interest. Purpose sentinels existence, encircling murderous mentions that flicker in the dark with the fireflies and lanterns, held by lost pilgrims long gerrymandered. The stragglers struggle, blindly stumble, and bumble. Humbled by the grumbling interwoven with their slumber. Just a number, not a man, a mummer to a hand of applause that faltered off when I threw the cross from the land. I’m sick of the leash leading us, the greed bleeding us, the vehemence of hypocrisy the king’s feeding us.

Something’s boring into my brain - “Your gate is boarding.” I’ve been in a trance, mesmerized by the memories of adorning this city with my 8-bit cadence and sub-patience. They’re trying to tell me my stomping grounds are now famous. Shit’s baseless, you want a new and improved model? Stop polishing the bauble and recognize it already toppled. Thousand fragments now a stained glass statue, standing in the exit of what I hope’s the very last vacuum here on Earth. I rock a bulletproof thunder shirt cause the army ants around me have got a motherfucking plunder thirst. I wonder, first, could this have ever been avoided? And, second, if it’s even possible to escape this annoyance. It’s strangely buoyant for a bloated mass with so many offspring and it’s defiance in death has got me turning and tossing in my sleep, keeping me up too many nights, it’s time to throw in the towel and finally catch this flight.