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1.
2.
Soul on ice, ice replaced gold Statistics replaced lives in my zipcode I'm outside the diner with violent priors Like the Crow, fighting fire with fire, why I didn’t know See I missed the boat, it sailed off I’m savage, ducking the cops and I don’t wanna see the bailif Psycho, Christian Bale, I wish you hell Scraped by robbing kids by the wishing well There’s no resolution anywhere, everybody’s roaming free Or thumping bibles or cloning sheep My phone’s on the hook, no peace My ex ran off with all my Radiohead CD’s Fuck, I need an airbag to go off to get some sleep Stay loyal to dayjob cause debt don’t cheat Or you get cut off from the outside, outside Shadowboxers work late, it’s about 9 And I got my 5 on it like Trey Nicks With 1 day until vacay like day 6 Hook There’s blood on the doughnuts, my flow is a dope rush And no resolution will save you tonight! Now I sleep with black lights and Soviet satellites And no resolution will save you tonight! Pay your taxes, don’t ask why and don’t cry Cause no resolution will save you tonight! It’s the shortcut to a shorter life, that’s right And no resolution will save you tonight! Invest in my ideas, I’m here You want war? I’m the boss in Bosnia And I haven’t seen my wife in 8 months, 3 days, 12 minutes Heat wave, sun simmers each day Gun quivers from the trigger finger families Who kick a Johnny Cage fatality Fatefully, you facing bullies with no face Ain’t wearing hoodies, no trace, closed case, wait for me Informant’s at the precint telling lies Indecent, I had his wife in a corset Pulling threads off my sweater, they try to unravel me Like Weezer, but hipsters can’t battle me Ebeneezer vs Jacob Marley A two-seater vs a Harley in Harlem, the man’s a heater My era’s vulgaris like pallbearers who dropped their parents Or Jesus Christ running off to get married Hook Bootybox for the speaker show Spitting that Blacksheep or Cheeba Cheeba flow, man it’s all good I eat em like saltines on French onion soup Or Alpha Bits, watch your P’s and Q’s dude This is high resolution, Iraqis shooting Sliding money out his wallet when daddy’s snoozing Uh-oh, switch to Plan B, another goddamn speech Begging for gas money for Grand Prix’s She’s asleep in my duck down Camry Ante up, no Grammy Family here baby, give me pub Every day on the dot com daily I’m the Champ Boss Bailey, and you are hot rarely Bring me your sick, your weak and your downtrodden We will uprock, uplift, body rock them Metal lungies or revolver, ain’t nothing proper Even the queen eats a Whopper, you feel me? Hook Soul on ice, ice replaced gold Statistics replaced lives in my zipcode 2x
3.
04:27
All garbage is bad, I don’t have a sliding scale Live smart, dress sharp, leave your bitch out on bail These beats here are more rare than clean air I’d be scared if your beef was actually pre-pared I saw an action figure on the ground, I took it You figured you’d see action if the Garden wasn’t looking Foolish, Fin Fang Foom shit Your think tank clueless, big bang boom stick Settle the smoke, I’m Doc Holiday with one lung Breahe on tracks until I lay in the sun Get ‘em, gonna get ‘em, gonna get ‘em, gonna hit the road Get ‘em by the fireplace, my briefcase closed Ha, saddle bag bitches better fix me lemonade Before I throw an arrow at your face on December 8th High noon can’t come any sooner You don’t wanna live the life of a shooter, do ya? Hook 2x We rain all year round from June to June While rappers bite immediately if not soon Set the lynching, oh yeah we set the lynching What up GZA I seen a man still fail off his best shot Cleaned his kitchen table with a wet sock Sold a couple things to keep the bread hot Then death squeezed harder on the headlock, he’s dust now I don’t trust the smile on a waitress Nor a dancer, who question themselves, you’re not the answer Don’t fall for the damsel in the distress mess They’ll starch all your shirts and I ain’t talkin bout best dressed It’s one thing to be quick, one thing to be dead Pick one, you’re a retard, a retread I got that shit that makes Anton Chigurh shiver Words linger, and kick dirt like a twister And hit your liver like liqu-or, don’t whisper Be seated with the breezy in your ride and be easy Everything said stays between you and I High noon’s almost here, baby do or die Hook 2x I got my Everclear sitting in a dirty fridge It don’t concern me where you shit or where you live And what on earth prompted to touch the kid I’m a grown ass man with fucking hands that can dig Any hole, any size, any soul, any prize He’s eating devil’s pie, he sold me a lie Don’t trust, don’t lust The things inside my head’ll make the mayor go nuts There’s no badge, but it’s legal this time Speak Latin, don’t laskivio per mei Don’t touch that, don’t come back, don’t bust back You’ll wear a smoked tie and a dust hat, trust that Every town has a story, but this one’s over Like 2ew Gunn, I’m the sheriff, time to sit down soldier I’m a legend when the books all burn High noon, get your head out the dirt, we get berserk Hook 2x
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03:53
A baboon on the boom bap bap Getting dap from a monsoon, yo I’m bad news A bad moon, you’re bathing ape, achoo! God bless, you ain’t Shaq, I’ll still hack you And take it back to the era of black dudes When white kids gave a fuck, now they save their bucks And big time rappers have to do away with trucks Try talk to small labels, but ain’t saying much Of anything, any king can polish a crown When his people are impoverished that crown means nothing You’re dominate now, that’s so trivial Pursue something newer than a YouTube video Like I give a damn who’s really the hottest? Dan Marino with no rings saying he’s accomplished That’s great when the stat sheet is heavy The gesture is empty, Heartbreak 'em Tom Petty Hook 2x And that’s when the phone calls, chill for a minute, let’s see who else hot (Hot!) And that’s when the phone calls, chill for a minute, let’s see who else hot (Eric Lindros!) No I’m not hot, just even-tempered Don’t listen to Stephen’s lectures, who the hell am I? My music ain’t televised, out in Tel Aviv Teenagers download my shit, tell a thief To memorize it, and pay his Verizon I cut out the fat and never Supersize shit There’s no point, no symmetry, flow so swimmingly Average Joe’s can’t spit with me It’s ok to cry out for help The emperor with no clothes with his eye on a belt Still assed-out, your plans never pan out I’d rather cut my hand off than ask for a hand-out Hook 2x So we ride from dark to light skies Like a mariachi band in an unmarked van Why? To play in front of maybe 10 heads Cause me and Clive Davis ain’t best friends, we cool though This ain’t about Lisa Kudrow or Toni Kukoc It’s about moving on when money moves slow And it’s only getting slower Eric Lindros, let’s trade the future to blow up! Hook 2x
5.
I grabbed a nickel off the ground, I thought I was a giant In God's eyes I was still little Hydrant soaking up the summer kids, we capped it off Jumped puddles and we splashed the cars Riding by, the trolley cars' cables would spark Dom's parents had the hot cable box We watched "Sandlot" thirty-one times for free Wiffleball, second base was a pile of grease, never safe y'all I stole quarters from my uncle's water jug He asked me where it was and my shoulders would shrug Three o'clock picking pieces off that hot dog buns From my grandfather's trunk, very hungry still My grandmother made the best tuna sandwiches My eyes lit up like candle sticks Old folks cleaning off the curb with a broke hose Held together with duct table and God knows We broke their windows and ran away Hiding underneath cars on a beautiful day The Fruit Man came by with the rotted out apples We threw rocks at him, he gave us a mouthful Breaking bottles at the park, hit the pool on a Wednesday That was Boys Day, still no horseplay yeah You had a four speed, you were OK Kids would piss down the slide, that was NOT OK A couple scenes from my youth that I'm giving to you You weren't there, then it's just an interlude
6.
Get together ‘fore I break you Leggo your facial, blockheads failed outta gradeschool Big dogs get bit first My notebook is gorgeous, my chick don’t curse Even if she did, she’d still be graceful There’s 9 rappers I actually relate to The rest are wasting my time And their cabbage is babbage, a waste of a spine You should’ve known better, I’m the go-getter I’m the boss, you’re as soft as an old sweater In the sun, in the pantry, guns loud as banshees Kung Pow Comanche, you’re kidding me You wanna knuckle up, first buckle up I’m Travis Bickle, shucks I’m fucking nuts Pacing back and forth in the apartment For so long, there’s holes in the carpet That’s nothing to be proud of, like your pedigree Here’s a Prop Joe ‘cause you’re just dead to me I got my collar popped like Hells Angels And you report to Charlie, I’ll just spank you Getting Big, I’ll just Tom Hanks you A kid in some adult clothes trying to act grown Oh no, I’m on the side of the road Like a third world baby with flies on his nose And that’s how y’all seen me ‘fore I got here I see bad actors sitting in 2pac’s chair On the set of Gridlock’d with Tim Roth And he don’t fuckin know you, just piss off I can’t breathe, shit is minimal Fuck it, I do much more than just rappin I’m watching sitcoms, and dropping sick bombs Getting revenge on my bitch from the prom She said this rapping shit wouldn’t suit me Now she’s married to a d-bag in a hooptie YouTube rappers yelling “Just shoot me” Wearing candy colored hoodies, you tell me who’s fruity? At times you’ll get lost when I’m spitting this For god’s sake, show some Dharma intiative Bad news won’t shake the Bishop I’m an R&B dude singing “Smack My Bitch Up” I’m LL writing “Rock the Bells” I’m Omar buying new shotgun shells No more comparisons, fuck it’s just Z Fuck it, it’s just free from 5 O’Clock Shadowboxers That’s the name we chose, keep starting I’m right next to mob dudes like Dean Martin I’m still smiling even when they get you Fall back, I’ma let the strings hit you -Break- So elegant, chandeliers and salad forks-es I’m a mixtape without the corpses We dropped one with the Carter on the cover Not Shawn, not Wayne I’m Zilla Roc but I don’t rock a chain I’m crazy like a fox and I’m hot in Spain Yeah, I was friends with the outcast metal kids Still a nerd but I knew how to spit Set the foundation like a new house and shit I don’t play games I don’t own a Playstation So focused, don’t bring the noise in My neighbor had 5 pitbulls, had to poison them Cold-hearted, no sleep, I can’t even blink Spit fragments, that’s not how I think Click massive, Beat Garden, stay clear I’m on some lion heart shit, no beast so fierce No beef in here will ever go bad The real deal, second place you’re a stepdad All these former friends I step past Never seen my show, never bought my CD So fuck you cause I never got a handout And pardon me if I don’t give you a freebie This greatness live every weekend And it’s is a full-time job, stop fakin! Motherfuckers got nothing to say Just talk on hot beats and call it a day If that’s you, don’t walk this way Cause the dollar store ran outta chalk today, I’m empty Sweet n low motherfuckers never blow I pull ‘em off like buttons on a winter coat You don’t know what tomorrow holds, wake up I’m the ’85 Bears, I don’t play touch Hut one, hut two, hunt you I’m from South Philly, they don’t use kung fu But I studied martial arts for 5 years So I don’t need a fuckin gun to fuck you up Here’s a crumb for the motherfuckin bottom feeders I feed the bottom like Mother Theresa, see ya! Sweet Jesus, I’m signing off shorty Call me when you catch all this shit, I’ll be 40
7.
Beat by Douglas Martin aka Blurry Drones Lyrics by Zilla Rocca (S.Zales) for Three Dollar Pistol Music (ASCAP) and Nico the Beast (D. Zarrella) for Domenic Zarrella Music (ASCAP)
8.
03:44
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04:07
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The slow twilight, the ghost says, "Night night" My right hand, the Dice Man, co-wrote my night life In small black letters, I attack all senders Young Philadelphians we should’ve know better Stepped to the stage with the Blues Brothers pistol Unloaded new slang, felt like Cujo had bit you The senate is a beast, the senators are good men The world ends with a whimper, not a bang, hold hands Never heard me spit a bullet out my face Tap the bottle, leave the trumpet in the case This that shit that makes the bartender close early Makes crooked cops sleep good in New Jersey Rigid suttersteper lepper loverboy Cuddle up with Tolstoy, etch a record, null in void Still annoyed how she left me at the restaurant Mami wanted EZ Bake but I don’t rest my thoughts Ever, and that’s my biggest detri- Ment, my brain is a submarine, no place to vent I heard a beat sent from homie, now I’m rolling Writing fire like a Phoenix, Jean Grey’s glowing We’re on a roll like we’ll never grow old Make a million dollars and never fold clothes Break away from critics and never Stone Rose Be about our business and kill a no-show That’s the Shadowboxer code The Hellraiser neighbors jumping out the box you closed Still about our paper even when the banks choked This shit is free like the style that I chose Intimately you know Z like your folks We started this in January and now it’s getting cold Again, I’ve been, across the map, and then Threw away a verse like caution to the wind Slowed down recording and offed my label head I’d rather lose a beat then have my peeps say “We ain’t friends” So I made a new pact Anything I chose now, thou art that

about

You’ve probably noticed the latest trend rippling through hip-hop: rappers who don’t want to be rappers. Lil Wayne’s guzzled so much drank, he thinks he’s the frontman of Staind. Kanye wants to be Tom Ford. Mickey Factz believes he’s the token black dude in Ed Banger. Charles Hamilton wants to be a pink hedgehog. The rest announce their retirement before anyone ever cared in the first place. Rap, rock, and dance are on a collision course that suggests that no one remembers that only a decade ago, Fred Durst did it all for “the nookie.”

So why the 5 0’ Clock Shadowboxers? After all, fans of cartoon diet-coke rap will bitch that The Slow Twilight is too “intellectual”— it isn’t, it’s just smart. The backpackers in their bunkers will lament the Shadowboxer resistance to rehashing familiar but faded forms. Indie snobs will smugly and cynically cluck about the recognizability of the Slow Twilight’s samples. Yeah, The Velvet Underground, Radiohead, and The Unicorns appear, but people forget that Sugar Hill jacked Chic’s “Good Times,” and Flash lifted “White Lines” from Liquid Liquid—just months after it first hit wax. Besides, hip-hop was never about what you flipped, but how you flipped it. And with their inexorable impulse towards innovation, producer, Blurry Drones and rapper, Zilla Rocca, establish a new paradigm for what hip-hop can sound like in 2009.

Combining the best attributes of his predecessors, South Philly-raised Zilla, writes with a scrambled poetics resembling Aesop Rock, minus the esotericism and inaccessibility. His ability to catalogue relationship pitfalls is worthy of Slug (Atmosphere), without the emo-rambling, and his scythe-sharp punchlines are as witty any Scribble Jam vet, with no elliptical ramblings about lyrics, nor any played-out notions about “that real hip-hop.”

Stitched together with clips from the New York City noir flick, Blast of Silence, cinematic is the operative cliché at hand. There’s something crepuscular about The Slow Twilight—a record haunted by a grueling paranoia that only makes sense after the sun sets. Zilla Rocca catalogues “the worst year of [his] life,” without wallowing in soft-headed indulgence, balancing a nuanced introspection with that essential element of good hip-hop: if you crank it up, it knocks.

Lead track, “No Resolution” illuminates the aesthetic, with the shattered whelp of “Venus in Furs,” colliding with the warm-blooded break beat from “Impeach the President.” “High Noon” features a hook that pays homage to Gza and a Spaghetti Western Spindrift sample. “Stay Clean” pares a chipmunked Elliot Smith loop to Al Green’s infamous drums from “I’m Glad Your Mine”—not out of novelty, but because it sounds great.

If this sounds like an album archetypal for the blog age, that’s because it is. In addition to recording funereal folk under the Fresh Cherries from Yakima alias, the producer born, Douglas Martin, writes incisive music criticism at Freshcherriesfromyakima.com. In addition to rooting against the Philadelphia Eagles, Zilla Rocca operates Clapcowards.com, where he compares rap labels to major league baseball team and hates with comic impunity.

5 0’ Clock Shadowboxers formed not out of serendipity or geographic proximity, but via shared artistic ideals, and the desire to create something wholly new. A singular synthesis of indie rock and classic rap, The Slow Twilight marks the debut of an exciting new duo. If most rappers are color cartoons, it would only make sense that an alternative would emerge from the black and white shadows.
-Jeff Weiss

credits

released June 23, 2009

All beats by Douglas Martin aka Blurry Drones
All lyrics by Zilla Rocca (S.Zales) for Three Dollar Pistol Music (ASCAP) except "Rabbit Season" and "Dead Queens", lyrics by Zilla Rocca (S. Zales) for Three Dollar Pistol Music and Nico the Beast (D. Zarrella) for Domenic Zarrella Music (ASCAP)
All songs produced by 5 O'Clock Shadowboxers
Recorded @ Yadibox Studios (Wynnefield, PA) and Lizard Lounge III (Riverton, NJ)
Mixed and Mastered by Zilla Rocca
A&R: Jeff Weiss
Artwork by Danielle Zarrella
Photography by Jimmy Giambrone

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Three Dollar Pistol Music Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Zilla Rocca: The #1 Bourbon General. The Career Crook. The Future Former Rapper. The man with a '96 Mentality. The owner of Three Dollar Pistol Music. The calm voice amongst the Wrecking Crew. South Philly's finest crime author.

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