Loopdigga - Lootpack, Madlib, Wildchild

A-yo I’m the type of brother that don’t like to hear the same thing

Over and over so I don’t listen to the radio

I go beat shopping with my brothers or my lady yo

They take me to the spot so I can dig

Come home with the fat stack and dig

Instead of playing sports I’d rather dig

Call my nigga Kan Kick to see if he got this shit

Hey you heard that Cal Tjader?

We be sprung off them loops like brothers play hoops

Playing old static loop tapes for Lex, Jeeps, Bizzers and Coupes

Keep sampling wack while I dig up the raw core

A-yo I’m out, I gotta go the record store

Peace

Damn, what time is it?

Tryin' to think, should I hit up that TO spot, hit that LA

Damn, next week we goin to the bay so

Ay there go Mad, ay Mad!

(Yeah is that Madlib, ay what’s up Madlib? Wussup)

Blaze this for all y’all

By all means necessary raw, no holds barred

Spit at y’all, sixteen bars of war for who you sleeping on

Emcees acting hard, nutting up to catch flu balls

Stomp before you pawn the dark paws when I drop dogs

Landing multiples, no charge when beef starts

Med ends it with a verse that snaps you retards

You fall of cos no heart, California mindstate

I regulate, rhyme penetrate right through your chest plate

Checkmate fate for your demo tape and yellow tape

Of one trace, Med the master race throughout the tri-state

On a daily base stay laced with a verse to rock a universe

A skirt, blowing up and won’t burst

There’s lessons to be learnt

When I’m on fire you stay concerned

Cos I’m eager to burn biters for the chips as they earn

That’s my word, drink, smoke a pound of herb

Herb and swerve my way to learn

805 ways to get served with words

Finally here

Hmm, what should I get?

Mad selections

Damn, 1969

Steve Kuhn, you know that got some Fender Rhodes on it

Oh shit, I ain’t seen that Roy Ayers, 1968, good year

What about that Bug-out shit?

nah

Ornette Coleman

(Ornette?)

I ain’t wastin' my money

Ay, can you hold my record?

Be right back

(Go hit this weed)

Damn, they got mad shit

(Man, it’s cold as fu- out here)

Two hit’s and pass, two hit’s and pass

Steppin' back in this piece

Ever since I was young digging in my pop’s stack

Sampling off cassettes, 33s, 45s and 8-Tracks

Rare wax, a true loop digga’s attraction

Always spend a fraction of my check on fat jams

Second hand stores get rushed like area wars

You could always catch me digging at your local record stores

For the raw buying vinyl until my final

Days, blow away pay, various ways to connect

Fat loops, put mics in check

Turn the SP on and commence to dissect

Bust a vest in your rest he’s a fake nigga

So how many y’all niggas know about crate digging