Global Judas

by Garcia The Eclectic

Global Judas cover art
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    Immediate download of 12-track album in your choice of MP3 320, FLAC, or just about any other format you could possibly desire.

    REAL, INTELLIGENT HIP HOP. The most creative rap album in years-- substance driven lyrics, impecable flow, wordplay, and straight up skill makes this LP a classic. With diverse lyrical themes and a unique sound; this album has a mid-nineties feel that's undeniable to any true hip hop head, or lover of old school.

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about

An ode to the boom bap hip hop of the mid-nineties, Garcia The Eclectic's "Global Judas" provides a mixture of hardcore battle tracks and emotional content, all with the poverty-stricken, East coast nineties flavor. The album is a sort of audiobiography, including stories and events woven together with violent, suicidal, emotional expression and various nihilistic and quasi-religious philosophical anecdotes; all held together with image-driven hip hop reminiscent of early Nas. Written with careful consideration to detail, this album was crafted with the upmost appreciation for the art of hip hop, and the perfectionist emcee's effort shines through......delivering a modern classic.

credits

released 28 March 2011
Executive producer: Kickback
Lyrics/performance: Garcia the Eclectic
Mixing/Mastering: Jonathan Terrell

Album recorded at SOUND ELEMENT STUDIOS

tags

tags: hip hop/rap hardcore hip hop (real shit) hip-hop stoner underground hip hop Virginia

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all rights reserved

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about

After listening to Liquid Swords, I was sure I wanted to show people what real hip hop was.......smashing the stereotypes of ... more ignorant, unemotional rap music that penetrated the minds of most. So I used 90s flavor, as well as my experience, and displayed it to the world. In my own unique voice, I took all of the thoughts that've plagued me through my life, and made GLOBAL JUDAS less

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Track Name: The Seafarer
And you'll never beat me on the mic, that spit's failed.
Nigga that's like trying to smoke some meth and sit still,
my shit kills, serving rappers-- go and tell a waiter.
You'll get fucked up like sex on an elevator.
Lay 'em out like blueprints, then I pumped and fanned it.
You're shook like a fat bitch that jumped and landed.
See rap is like a little insecure fighter's cock--
bus driver--- I drop 'em off at the "writer's block".
Fuck a pop dance beat, and yo bump the fun.
You're a pistol, I'm over your heads, I jumped the gun.
Lyrics so sharp that it leaves a hole in your mental.
Actually so sweet it leaves a hole in your dental
so fuck a single-- this shit should be a double.
You're like a damn cereal spoon, I'm like a shovel.
You'll never be an emcee. The mic, you're never usin' this.
That'll be the day Bin Laden's rocking a crucifix,
who's the sick? Yo, you can call me Nas.
"It Ain't Hard To Tell" like Clark Ken't disguise,
cause effects like dominos plus I deliver.
With flow cold enough to kill fish in the river.
That's a nice punchline, so I'll just save the rest for later
and take a breather, like I stole a respirator.
And chill, got Jill's head bobbing like a pheasant.
And gave that bitch AIDS for a valentine's present.
(CHORUS)
ill, but I'm still the same broke Garcia.
Chilling, laying low like women with no brassierre.
Like illmatic, my favorite, by Nasir.
Didn't get it the first time, my name's Garcia.
(Repeat Once)
And we know we don't get paid for our metaphors.
Guess the only thing we really want to do is just to get applause,
be discovered-- opposite of Jason Bourne.
Because we don't matter like a girl's face in porn.
Dimebags for twenty dollars of food stamps, read up.
Summer time, everyone's grill fogging the street up.
Their own name tatted on their neck, lost type
gassed too much, like suicides by exhaust pipe.
Everything we need to know about life is in verse,
I still dap you up-- even if I don't want to converse.
Because the worst would be to diss you, that's some gay shit.
Remember I got my ass kicked and you ain't say shit?
I said the city's whack, but you carry it for the block.
No phone service-- now I carry it for the clock.
Paradise? Probably a pair of dice and four chicks,
8 balls in their mouth like sucking on four dicks.
It's like sperm and insect reppellent nigga, cum "OFF"
that bullshit when I'm flowing like runoff.
Spitting on some vinyl instrumental when he finds these.
Goddamn, I wish that I lived in the fucking nineties.
Used to use keys turning water meters backwards,
riding down stairs in baskets, now we stack words.
Toast bread with irons, and rip this force
because if I had a car I'd be banging "Liquid Swords"
(CHORUS X2)
Track Name: Yellow Vans
Spent so much time trying to understand and grasp
this shit that I'm living, whether present or the past,
you can't control either- like your economic wealth.
So I verbally reflect my uncompleted self
(Repeat Once)
I stare with dead eyes, lies offer no solace
to the lacerated mind- I hide it so flawless.
And I hope all this leads to elations of the mass,
because we can't unfeel the sensations of the past.
Glassed look, fuck my hometown. I hate this place,
and everyday I work feels like a gracious waste.
I have to walk everywhere past the spot I remember,
standing outside the "Farm Fresh" in the winter.
Mom just needed eight bucks to close the gap
so we could have heat, and I was supposed to rap.
Because this nigga set a battle up, except I couldn't come.
I was in front of the store, asking for money like a bum
and still felt like shit after I got the cash.
With the employees getting pissed when they spot the brash
kid stealing steaks, cook at the house to say,
when mom gets home "It's cool, I wasn't hungry anyway".
Because I hated the look of stress that she had repressed,
as kids we couldn't understand the problems she adressed.
She probably stayed with my father just for the income;
he would get drunk and choke me, but she'd been numb.
Tolerated shit when she got pissed she'd always
take her anger out on me walking in the hallways.
Refuse to talk or even give this bitch hugs,
tolerant of reality so I had to switch drugs
(CHORUS)
The nostalgia for things that we've never even seen,
constantly searching for something we've never even dreamed.
And it seems we'll never get it whatever it is,
but I'll keep rapping whatever endeavor it is.
(Repeat Once)
They say your rhymes are a waste of time, I never listens,
life Throne Away like kings at far distance.
Still, I'm freestyling trying to find beats for certain
one radiator in the house, bedsheets for curtains.
Going to a friend's house to eat meals except my crib
is off-limits, I don't want 'em to see where I live.
Remember Thanksgiving we really couldn't afford
and seeing my mom cry when food fell on the floor?
Feeling out of place just being alive because the phony
people think that this is my fault and they know me.
Wish I could fall asleep a few weeks, ride past shit,
so I steal fake beandryl- feel that shit.
Tired of getting yelled at because every chance I fuck up,
so fuck it. Head down, I don't talk like I was stuck up.
Desperate to find adventure, yellow Vans, bent ya
because being poor is really a crescendo of dementia.
And I don't give a fuck, dirty Vans, torn V-necks.
Watch man in the mirror collapse like River Pheonix,
the stress comes out through the pen or does in a fist.
And I don't rap about love, shit doesn't exist.
The greatest aphrodisiac is the promise of death,
seduced by the aroma of the end of your breath.
Victory in loss, you imagine it each way.
Create art, destroying myself with each day.
(CHORUS X2)

(Spoken outro)
People.......artists..........I had a song I was gonna do, it wasn't nineties enough though. I got to find something nineties enough God. Youknowmsayin', I got to start digginig through the crates, find that boom bap shit. That real hip hop shit....... You know we strip pop bitch, haha.
Track Name: Tend the Rabbits
Giving me skills?...like oil to Arabians, its tragic
how niggas claim to be sick when they're not like Magic.
I'm sick of feeling like the world's not real,
not feel like it's important or it matters that I got skill.
Shocked, like my mother when I stuck that bitch.
But all she does is talk shit...nigga, fuck that bitch
because there's hell to pay. It's too bad I can't afford it.
I'm fucked before I start like a baby that got aborted.
Beating around the bush when you come in disguise
like punching a female in the stomach and thighs
because I be sick and creative like God making diseases.
And niggas couldn't hang even if they killed Jesus.
Creative like the hip-hop Salvador Dali,
I know I'll never be shit. But do I care? Hardly.
I'm sick of being broke, the water and lights over
because I probably stole more than I bought like twice over
and my mom keeps bitching, and I'm sick of all this gay shit.
and if I cut my fucking leg nobody can say shit.
Fuck the rich people and the delusional faggots
who want to grow up and become fly like maggots.
I don't give a fuck if I die with my neck bleeding
and you never see me again, like the Garden of Eden
because my wordplay's sick-- like my mental in the worst way.
Kill myself with a recyclable bag on Earth Day.
(CHORUS)
Life doesn't matter but still I'm sick and a boss.
Here Bitch-- hold my motherfucking dick in your jaws,
I just don't give a fuck. Fight niggas and steal shit.
I'm poor as hell but fuck it I make real shit.
(Repeat Once)
Their economy of words shows their incapability,
you couldn't hang even if the Ku Klux was killing me.
Emcee- Must Crush. Step up, well so be it.
Bitches take my name in vein like my names an opiate.
Underground-- petroleum comes out when I piss this.
Get the fuck out of my way, like Walmart in Christmas.
Is this six layers? I use it to rip players and cut squares
like fucking masons and bricklayers.
I'm unaccostable, Foster you'll cause a full shit and wreck on.
Positively the best-- with no electron.
Stop what you breathe through and choke like a sealed stoma.
I'm sweet enough to enduce a diabetic coma.
I never pull bitches the shit just does not bother me.
I don't give a fuck, like Reagan about poverty.
I don't wanna fuck your girl, I don't even need this.
I'd rather punch her fucking stomach and murder the fetus.
I'm sick of living half my life so nigga fuck you.
I'm sick of being smarter than every bitch I talk to.
There dumb as shit, and yet they still act stuck up?
Motherfucker suck my dick and shut the fuck up.
Like bodies on display, remains to be seen
my life-- it's like I'm fucking stuck in the wrong dream
so I take Ambien to flip out when I stuck you.
Blow my fucking brains out-- the ultimate fuck you.
(CHORUS X2)
If there's one thing I hate even more than rich faggots
it's rappers who talk about the same damn shit faggots.
I rip faggots whenever they call like phone dial,
shit so dope I be trying to bite my own style.
No class like socialism, at least I came clean.
I'm like a dam-- I block the fucking mainstream.
You know when I battled this nigga I straight ripped him.
He don't even wanna talk about it like rape victims,
hold it down like repressed vomit. I spoke diction.
You can't see me like the black book from Pulp Fiction.
My dick out-- I piss on the side of the churches.
I take my rap notebook and shove it into your cervix
to give life to words like a chicken scene hatch.
You're a fake substitute like a nicotine patch,
nervous like a dumb bitch on a game show that chokes dead.
With more lines than a motherfucking cokehead
and you can't spit so I called you a hack.
You're such a bitch even Ru Paul called you a fag.
We spit hard shit like loose teeth when I attack this
and left 'em worse off than Bush babysitting black kids.
Fuck the radio and all of the ear bleeders.
A bunch of fucking faggots that dance like cheerleaders.
Nice to know ain't know rapper coming at you,
a better chance of Mel Gibson becoming a Jew
because I destroy challengers, broken O-Ring flows and
drop a jewel like I tripped when I was proposing.
You beating me on the mic? Get with the program,
that's like Sinnead O' Connor shaking The Pope's hand.
Hip hop is lost, I'm a map through the corridor.
Garcia touches more hearts than a coroner.
Any beat I come across, I'm killing all of it.
Kanye dropped out, so they gave me his scholarship.
(CHORUS X2)
Track Name: Sitting in the Park
(VERSE ONE)
I flip scripts like Harvey Dent makes a decision,
man and this shit will represent-- help you envison
the fission atomic splits in the mind, no feeling.
Broke ceiling-- paint chips give you a snow feeling.
Raw lyrics damage your ear like Mister Blonde
and I'm lashing out for all the years I was pissed upon.
Cold to the world, and he no longer replies.
Plus "family" is a term that no longer applies.
Unsatisfied, I remain hidden like a U-Boat.
And plus I rocket like I'm Don Cheadle in a blue coat
to release the stress so it doesn't grow like a cob
in a place where people have more fights than jobs.
And they walk up in your house like "Where the food at?"
Yo, I don't have any damn food and you knew that.
Heyo, you still talk to that one bitch-- what's her name.
Fuck her, she can get the white whale's surname.
Stuck up churchy ass bitch I'm sick of dealing.
Primo is my priest and his "Mass" is appealing.
Besides, I kick shit to vibrate your neck joint
and came to save the game like a check point.
Your train of thought's Spain, and I'm gonna attack this
and leave your head banging like Zac Galifinagas.
In fact this style's air tight but not Pringles.
No blondes-- but I got bars and hot singles.
Flow's Fonz, so cool I could disable bombers
when they're gassed up like victims of IBM commerce.
I be at a show like right below his feet,
then I push him off, freestyle over his beat.
Faggot emcees don't make sense like Mike Tys.
I'll diss The Source mag and still get five mics.
I'm dope as heroin whenever I get behind these--
probably why I cause flashbacks to the Nineties.
(VERSE TWO)
Eating cereal out of Tupperware in his cuz's crib.
Probably wouldn't eat caviar even if he was rich.
Still hopefull even if he knows that he's not Nas--
prays to St.Jude, hip hop is a lost cause.
A nice April day but not in a mic range,
he can't waste VA's warmth because it might change
so they leave to the park-- the center of the community--
the closest that most kids will ever know to unity.
Until it fucks up, all that effort was like a waste.
which he's peepin and she's peepin how your new nikes is laced
On the old ass, worn down, benches where the bitches is.
Dimes, but you get denied like Jehovah's Witnesses.
It's whatever, there's probably bigger fish-- Ernest Hemingway.
Those hoes wouldn't matter in like a year anyway.
Everything's temporary, it's supposed to be.
It's sad how the whole world thinks impulsively.
Just to gain what they know that they might be losing.
Reach for the stars? All we see is light pollution.
It's no wonder that most seek money, power, respect.
And join--- sick of getting jumped, lumps in they neck.
Conjoined, stuck and we can't smash a way
out, we fight for the dirt and our cash is clay.
Now, I focus on rap like I need the mic,
because money killed everything-- even Jesus Christ.
Same coat for three years man it's old as shit.
Stealing liquor to get warm it's cold as shit.
Man I saw die, his last words were "I hate you."
No wrong opinions, just diferent experiences made you
the Sixth Plague-- everybody's bumping-- the new shit.
Kill your style like I murder artistic movements,
I get it poppin like when they used to bend collars.
Bought a TV from a crackhead for ten dollars.
The modern day leper we all view with disdain,
our yellow brick road has been covered in piss stains.
Chicks ho-ing over where they park the car.
Little sisters insecure about how dark they are,
the childhood ends quick, adult lives begun.
Because they really can't find anyone to watch they son.
So they slip into the alcohol, ex, and hash.
Selling food at the shipyard for extra cash.
I guess stress in life is just part of the work,
asking for a ride to the house party to twerk.
Hoping it doesn't get shot up like the car that she found,
in the aorta of the city--- the "Heart of the Town."