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Dusty

by Homeboy Sandman

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    Pre-order of Dusty. You get 2 tracks now (streaming via the free Bandcamp app and also available as a high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more), plus the complete album the moment it’s released.
    Purchasable with gift card
    releases October 18, 2019

      $8.99 USD  or more

     

1.
Morning Yawn
2.
03:05 video
3.
Name
4.
Noteworthy
5.
Easy
6.
Yes Iyah
7.
Every Four Years
8.
Step Inside
9.
Picture on the Wall
10.
Pussy
11.
Live & Breath
12.
Wondering Why
13.
14.
Tres Bon
15.
Always

about

Homeboy Sandman – Dusty

Picasso claimed that the purpose of art is to wash the “dust of daily life off our souls.” Homeboy Sandman asks on Dusty, “Why would I complain when I’m alive making art?” In the course of his Mello Music debut, the Queens virtuoso answers himself with 15 soul-assessing confessionals that sweep the entropy and daily static, the distortion and psychic silt of modern life onto wax. This is sacred dust, alchemical practice to convert anxiety into the highest form of creativity. It is rapping ass-rapping rapped better than your favorite rapper.

Let Sandman tell it: the sound is dusty. These bars are his id. He’s not trying to save the world on this record or even save himself. These are the unmasked impulses and desires locked away for a long time -- some of them from before he ditched the legal world for decapitating mediocre MCs. On Dusty, he says “ I unlocked myself and let them out -- dusted them off -- for better or for worse.”

Of course, it’s infinitely for the better. This is a therapy session without coming off remotely indulgent. Sandman remains both the master carpenter and architect, writing verses with lapidary precision, inventing new flows and cadences at brilliant angles that no one knew could be found.

This is the latest chapter for one of the most storied underground rappers of his generation. A versatile talent who has checked every last box: Unsigned Hype in The Source, Chairman’s Choice in the XXL. Rolling Stone hailed his songs as dense and word-drunk, spilling past the margins, demanding repeat listens as he re-works rap forms and functions into something truly personal.” Pitchfork said that in the all-star game of the new subterranean, “he is the guy with flawless fundamentals, wearing his socks high and his cleats sharp and polished.” His solo catalogue is sterling and over the last two years he’s mastered the group dynamic in tandem with fellow legends Aesop Rock and later, a brilliant psychedelic slab done in union with Edan.

It’s all on display on Dusty. Pick almost any track and you’ll hear the synthesized fusion of four elements hip-hop and Jamaican toasting, Nuyorican flavor and an experimental dead bent to expand the parameters of language. When you listen to Sandman, you hear the echoing boom of the South Bronx park jams of Kool Herc, the avant-garde wild style of Rammellzee, the technical perfection of Rakim and Big Daddy Kane, the infectious jazz hymnals of A Tribe Called Quest.

Produced entirely by Mono En Stereo (formerly known as El RTNC -- the moniker used when he produced Sandman’s Kool Herc: Fertile Crescent), the beats rumble and snap, the basslines are rubber-thick and funky, the drums rugged as a butcher knife haircut. Sandman boasts the kinetic gift to tailor his flow to each, his voice an instrument in his own right -- able to switch between conversational and wrathful, debauched lothario and philosophically righteous. There’s “Far Out,” where he kicks off the album wondering if he’s better off living in Siberia, then references breakdancing on cardboard, the Never Ending Story, and how the smell of boiled eggs reminds him of the Queens Halloweens of his childhood. “Noteworthy” finds him suffering from insomnia trying to figure out which rules to break and risks to take. He proposes toasts for the spirits and ghosts and flips old MC Lyte lyrics into modern koans. “Yes Iyah” finds Boy Sand boasting about clutching mountains by the peak over a tribal polyrhythmic breakbeat, kicking a pyroclastic flow that would even make Black Thought offer a bow in tribute. There are raunchy sex raps and existential midnight of the soul wanderings alike.


It amounts to a clarion statement of purpose, the arena stepped into and all challengers vanquished. Rap containing multitudes and cosmic dust. Exact as a science, loose as an improvised spiritual.

credits

releases October 18, 2019

Produced by Mono En Stereo

Additional Percussion/Production by Andrew Esposito
Recorded & Mixed by Andrew Esposito & Ryan Bress at Sung Moon Recordings, Buffalo, NY
Mastered by Alejandro "Sosa" Tello at Ampliphonic Studios, Queens, NY

Cover Art by Sarah Mattmiller
Concept Execution by Lisa Wollter
Layout by Austin Hart
Photo by Johnny Navarro

Special Thanks to Perry Hill
Executive Produced by Michael Tolle
2019 Mello Music Group

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Homeboy Sandman New York, New York

Homeboy Sandman’s favorite song is “Knocks Me off My Feet” by Stevie Wonder. His second favorite song is “I Know You, I Live You” by Chaka Khan. His favorite Michael Jackson song is “Lady in My Life”. He prefers Low End Theory to Midnight Marauders, but adores both. ... more

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Track Name: Far Out
Fuck yeah
Homeboy Sand, long walk off a short pier
From reading all the signs on all sides for a light year
Seems like it's time for another bright idea
More than too many y'all light in your nike airs
Wonder if I'm better off living is siberia
Been a long time grown tired of your nightmare
All of this might and nobody to fight fair
So now I'm low profile severing all ties
I'm like fee foe fie fum at these small fries
Caught wind how my mind's open as both eyes
And that I'm all wins
No losses and no ties
They said you can't make fashion out of faux pas
They said what goes up must end in a nosedive
But now they whole staff 'bout touchy as Joe Pa's
Cause it's all lies

AND YOU CAN COP IT QUASARS
YOU CAN STREAM IT ON STARS
YOU CAN HEAR IT ON NEPTUNE
YOU CAN FEEL IT ON MARS
FAR OUT
FAR OUT
FAR OUT

Hole in one on a par 4
I'm boy sand, i could break dance without cardboard
While aboard a flight on the concord
Then do it again for a encore
People holla "hey you" at the outlaw
But i be like atreyu riding on falcor
Might switch into southpaw
Without cause
Cleanup on aisle four
Passion of the pasteurized processed cheese foods
I don't wanna be associated with these dudes
Take a peek inside the dossier of a recluse
Who ain't gonna pretend a serving size is a teaspoon
Superpowers of the truth seeker
Hour in the shower wit the waterproof speaker
Things that make you go eureka
Let go my urethra

AND YOU CAN COP IT QUASARS
YOU CAN STREAM IT ON STARS
YOU CAN HEAR IT ON NEPTUNE
YOU CAN FEEL IT ON MARS
FAR OUT
FAR OUT
FAR OUT

I'm from Queens
The smell of boiled eggs reminds me of Halloween
Not the Queens is more special than any other place
Maybe it is
In any case
At any rate
Heavy lie the crown
Became a out of towner from so much time outta town,
I hope you don't mind me dropping by unannounced
My only interest is doing things that are not allowed
Lookit, lady luck isn't just a friend
Whole charade about not being crazy was just pretend
Won't find my tail tween my legs, i nail it on one attempt
Come from asunder to pick a number from 1 to 10
Without no worry, I'm in no hurry to pay the rent
I take no part in the undercard I'm the main event
On the voyage that's maiden I'll go where no one has made it, you wanna make a bet?
Say it again!

AND YOU CAN COP IT QUASARS
YOU CAN STREAM IT ON STARS
YOU CAN HEAR IT ON NEPTUNE
YOU CAN FEEL IT ON MARS
FAR OUT
FAR OUT
FAR OUT
Track Name: Lookout (feat. Quelle Chris & Your Old Droog)
Boy Sand on the muthafuckin lookout
Beat was so ill that I had to take the hook out
Anytime I lost, recount there was a miscount
Anytime I floss, you could bet I got a discount
Two out every two sleeves I could pull the tricks out
Me I nail the routine also nail the dismount
Drop it in the tip jar I be taking tips out
Homies I don’t give a fuck
Ladies take your tits out
When I’m on the hill there isn’t any pitch count
I don’t give a fuck 'bout anything you bitch bout
Never in the big house, often in a chick blouse
Often get a chick mouth looking like a fish mouth
Afterwards I dick down
Other words I digged out
I could write a list down
Fantasies I lived out
After it done fizzled out
Some of them done flipped out
Shit I get a kick out
Shit that get em kicked out
Not the type of cat to beat a hoochie in the head
I don’t barely move except for coochie or for bread
On it like quicker picker upper on a mess
Back up in this muthafucka like I never left

Bet
please on deceased you could fuck with these
They love me long
longer than 2003s tees
Blacker than colored kids knees
Rock it then I’m out like every item on a golden crust menu but the cheese
Want all I can eat markie dee
I run em out the yard sharkie eek
What a guy gotta do to move his commas two to the east
And Sporting yabba doos on the beach
I’m balling Sydney d
You holla foul and reach like a snitch
Get that shit out my house son a bitch
You can’t be top spitter when you leech
suck
You in town and they don’t want you around
buck
Sound
burn ya real world to the ground
puck
I be making pounds while I’m lounging it’s nuttin
You either begging pardons or you cuttin
You either on the list or you discussing
Who’s listed
Rhyming since bodegas slanging mystics
Rhyming since the sega was a flex
Everybody coming at me talking bout they got the new prescription
all you bout hear from me is next
next

yall know who it is, grammy award winner
in the foreign, with a foreign, listening to foreigner
touring a new city nightly, rightfully i'm very paid
one feature had me ineligible for medicaid
don't work with bums for crumbs, i'm past that
Everyday you say today's your last day doing verses, tryna gas cats (loser)
only jacking the traction
cant believe you bmi the way yo ass cap
They used to play me like I’m Arab or Latin
Now white people wanna claim me like fast rap
and they tried to say droog was over
still getting dollas like alla pugacheva (who?)
model hoes in my palatial estate
24 hour chef on call we just ate
live good, give a damn bout what you got
It won’t ever compare to what droog, you fucking stugotz
It’s like a mansion to them little one bedroom spots
I’m above u like the dots on umlauts
If you fucked up then go see my doctor, you know my doctor, dr vinny boombatz

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