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Wired For Fenvian Child (Apple, Spotify, YouTube Music, Amazon, Deezer, Tidal and 40+ stores)
(Intro)
(A sinister G-funk synth lead line weaves over a hard, sparse 808 beat. The sound of a spray can shaking and then spraying. A confident, cold voice cuts through.)
Y'all hear that?
That ain't thunder.
That's the sound of the ground we standin' on.
They built their pretty little circuit-board castles on it.
Time to issue an eviction notice. Let's go.
(Verse 1)
Heard you dropped a new religion, a new one-size-fits-all.
Polished plastic prophets standin' hundred stories tall.
You bought the blueprints, traced the lines where our fathers bled.
Wrote a clean new history from your corporate riverbed.
You move like owners, talkin' 'bout the future you designed.
But we forged the lightning that you're strugglin' to define.
You saw a gold rush, we just saw the dirt under our nails.
Your victory's a data point, ours is told in folktales.
(Pre-Chorus)
Ooh, you look the part, I'll give you that, the costume fits you right.
Tryna buy the sun to tell us how to manufacture light.
You memorized the anthems, every single word and pause...
But you flinch when we remind you of the fundamental laws.
(Chorus)
You wear the skin but you don't own the bones.
You build your temple with hollowed-out stones.
You rent the rhythm but you don't own the beat.
You know the name but you don't know the street.
Stop tellin' stories that were never yours to found.
You bought the map, but you ain't from this ground.
(Verse 2)
You package progress, sell it back to us in shrink-wrapped kits.
You call it genius, all your elegant and perfect fits.
Your silicon sons, they never scrape their knees or miss a step.
They simulate the struggle, calculated every rep.
But we see the wires, see the venture-capital soul.
Tryna patch the spirit that you never could control.
This ain't no playground, this ain't some frontier for you to claim.
We hold the funeral for every artist that you tame.
(Pre-Chorus)
Ooh, you run the numbers, chart the passions, map the human need.
Plantin' plastic flowers, wonderin' why they never bleed.
You mimic imperfection, 'cause your focus groups advised...
But the truth is in the marrow, and you're paralyzed.
(Chorus)
You wear the skin but you don't own the bones.
You build your temple with hollowed-out stones.
You rent the rhythm but you don't own the beat.
You know the name but you don't know the street.
Stop tellin' stories that were never yours to found.
You bought the map, but you ain't from this ground.
(Bridge)
So let this be the message, from the basements and the cracks.
To the monoliths of chrome who think they cover all the tracks.
Our code ain't on your servers, it's the rhythm in our walk.
It's the language that we live, not the dialect you mock.
You can buy the stage, the lights, the mics, and every single chair,
But you can't synthesize the dirt, the fire, or the air. This is a fortress you can't breach.
(Outro)
(Beat drops to just the sinister synth and a heavy kick drum)
You ain't from this ground.
(Uh uh) Not from here.
Yeah, keep walking.
You see this? We *built* this.
With our bare hands.
Go home.
You ain't from this ground.
(Synth line fades to silence)
About The Song
"From This Ground" translates the abstract warnings of regulatory bodies, like the UK's recent flag on AI foundation model monopolies, into a visceral, street-level turf war. It channels the defiant, accusatory energy of Kendrick Lamar's "Not Like Us" to create a powerful metaphor. The song isn't about technology; it's about authenticity and ownership. The Big Tech firms creating dominant AI models are cast as corporate colonialists—outsiders who arrive with immense resources to copy, sanitize, and sell a culture they didn't build and don't understand. The protagonist is the indie innovator, the open-source community, the local artist, who is fighting to protect their creative sovereignty. The core human theme is the battle between grassroots, authentic creation and the powerful, sterile forces of commercialization that seek to control it.
Production Notes
The track should have the sonic signature of modern West Coast G-Funk, but with a harder, more aggressive edge. The beat, built around a punchy, distorted 808 kick and a crisp snare, should be relentless, driving the narrative forward without pause. The core instrumental hook is a sinister, portamento-heavy synth lead, reminiscent of Dr. Dre's production but with a darker, more paranoid feel. Vocals are paramount. The lead vocal should be recorded on a high-end condenser mic like a Neumann U 87 but driven hard through a Neve 1073 preamp for warmth and aggressive saturation. It should be mixed upfront, dry, and personal, capturing the performer's contempt and confidence. During the chorus, layer subtle, wide-panned backing vocals chanting the main lines to create an anthemic, community feel. The mix should be dynamic, with the beat hitting hard but allowing the synth and vocals to occupy distinct spaces. Automate a subtle low-pass filter on the beat during the pre-chorus to build tension before exploding back into the full-frequency chorus.
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