BARCODE: Verse Of The Week is a new weekly column where we at the WatchLOUD team will dissect the latest and great rap music has to offer.
For an MC, the work you do in the booth is only second to what you can do live on a stage. This is the forgotten rule that Phonte Coleman elbow drops into your consciousness on his guest verse to Torae’s “Clap Shit Up” from his album Entitled, in stores today.
While the host serves up formidable bars of his own, outlining his career progression as a media assassin by eulogizing all of his victims (“Came from EBT made it the BET, F-U-S-E, MTV, MP3 vinyl and CD all off the PEN, Now it’s 6 days on SXM…and I’m just getting started) Phonte bats clean up like Prince Fielder, launching any competition still standing into the upper deck. His internal rhyme pattern folds in on itself like the Egyptians ouroboros, rhyming with Tor’s name for the first 11 lines then every 4th, bobbing and weaving as he goes. Its mastery blooms with repeated plays.
While Phonte has an established rep for bending words to his will, it’s a verse that even Torae had to acknowledge was special at his listening session for Entitled at Log Cabin studios back in November. “I messed up and sent him the track with my verse in it. Should have just sent him the beat!”
Nevertheless, it didn’t stop Tor from giving the song the video treatment and he shot a visual in Coney Island when Phonte was in town for the premiere of their show, “The Breaks.”
Peep the verse below and cop Entitled in stores now!
Me and my mans on award tour
With the crowd screaming for more Tor
And Tigallo on the assist he’s the orator you can count on
Just like a scoreboard
But what the fuck you keepin score for?
When the ‘L’ is imminent scrimmaging against you effeminate n*ggas in boy shorts
Kitten heel rap scratching up the floorboards
In a top hat you rap n*ggas is Boy George
I attack tracks with more force
And more anger than a gangster in a Russian divorce court
Mad cause his wife is going after his stored Porsche so she can make some more borscht
And he really wanna call her bih but if he call her a bih
The judge gone tell him that he’s a poor sport
Respect my mind
I testify that on a track your favorite rapper will get left behind
Like he got a ‘F’ in a core course
Not here to lallygag I specialize in bodybags
And if we in the streets muthafuck a autograph
The only signature that I need is 4/4
So I can amok I, just lay low in the buckeye
Don’t really claim to be a tough guy but never been the shook type
Last name “Look Like,” First name, “Fuck I”
Raised in the Marley Marl era
So you better call Saul and tell Saul to call pall bearers
Just a little Tigallo will make it all better so fuck the radio station and all the call letters
Cause my rhyme commodities go off like I.E.Ds
Lines go over ya head and stay there like the Sword of Damocles
Peace to Skyzoo, Oddisee, and plus the old school
The Herc’s, the Bam’s, and the Toddy Tee’s
When I become a legend just acknowledge me, am
Pardon me damn, I gotta go
Y’all clap shit up, I give it a standing O