Deen has yet to record a shirtless “freestyle.”
So I’ve been listening to this new Roc Marciano album quite a bit. It’s quite good. I can pretty much guarantee that you’ll be reading a review around these parts soon enough. Just not from me. I’m lazy and lack the depth required to reflect on rap this dense. That last sentence is false but I’ll keep trying this humility shit for the foreseeable future. Moving on.
“Thread Count” MIGHT be my favorite song on Reloaded. I’m not entirely sure because most of the songs on this set are of similar quality, unlike on Marcberg where there were 3 or 4 obvious standouts.
In honor of Roc’s latest tour de force in rappin’ ass rapping, I thought it might be a decent exercise in time-wasting to decipher Thread Count’s lyrics. You know, Rap Geniusing that shit if you will. This is probably a terrible idea, but I’m committed to it and that’s 80% of the battle for me. Let’s do this!
In seclusion I pin up piff [This is Roc’s tribute to every decent writer on the planet. I’ve never written anything good without doing drugs. In seclusion. Take note, young ones.]
In the Land Cruiser [This is Toyota’s luxury SUV. I prefer the Land Rover. I can’t afford either].
Tan like I been to Cuba [See, Roc Marciano is cool as hell, but he’s still a vain-ass light skinned nigga with weird insecurities about tanning and complexion.]
Keys is white like sand in Aruba [Drug talk, idiots. You know what else is dope in Aruba? The bitches. I know this because I watched a lotta Miss Universe pageants as a kid.]
Exude confidence – From my view of the Metropolis [That can’t be true. I hear Long Island kinda sucks. Unless he has one of those rent controlled apartments in Manhattan.]
I fed flakes to my tropical fish [That line is for the ladies. All 2 of them that’ll buy this album. Keeping a fish or pet alive is a sign of responsibility and commitment.]
Pull the top off the six – Like Badu wig [Roc is a classy rapper. Instead of employing a titty simile to go with his convertible car talk, he goes higher up and invokes one of Erykah Badu’s several wigs.]
I’m no push over – I push a Rover [See? Roc knows what’s up. He swapped the Land Cruiser out for a Rover. Just as I suggested.]
You push a Puma like a foot soldier [Slander. SMH. Puma makes some dope shit. I can’t co-sign this shit.]
I put dough up like I push cola – And cock the pistola [I won’t insult your intelligence – again.]
Hands inside the Isotoners [OJ Simpson tribute. Rap needs more of those. No?]
Spend the night with a dice roller [“Dice roller” refers to one of the bitches that Juicy J often fornicates with. Ratchet pussy if you will. Roc can say “no” but not this instant.]
You pray your ice gets returned – To its rightful owner [Roc Marciano on Blood Diamonds. Subtlety progressive due to its Pan-Africanism. Word to Marcus Garvey. And Zales.]
Rifles in the trunk of the caddy – We dump you in the swamps – Somewhere down in Miami [I hope by “Miami”, he really means “The Everglades” – I haven’t disposed of a body in years and I know better than to do that in Miami. Rick Rawse lives there.]
My brush stroke the canvas – You caught in a gambit – And pimp slapped open handed [Pretty sure this is a dick joke. Still figuring it out.]
I demanded – For the operation to be expanded – Be a standard [Roc Marciano on Capitalism. Kinda like Mitt Romney.]
G I ran was enchanted – Tool belt wearing I’m a mechanic [Pimpin and violence often flock together. Roc Marciano is a pimp with guns. Seems excessive where a backhand would suffice.]
Bad bitch swinging in the hammock – I took a dip in the Atlantic – And bit the salmon – It’s slamming [This line is a direct challenge to Action Bronson and Rick Rawse. Luxurious food and sex talk is serious business.]
Kamal hit me – I sit up in the four fifty – Shifty [Roc Marci may have been chillin in a BMW when Q-Tip hit him up about this beat. I’m not entirely sure.]
This is raw nigga history – A slick pimp might resort to trickery – Bitches dig me [Just when I began suspecting that Roc is some kinda Gorilla pimp, he returns to that smooth shit. Good. For my conscience and the hoes.]
Your money fall short like a pygmy [Ouch. I wonder how that Congolese tribe feels about all the shit talking they have to endure.]
Waves flow like the Mississippi [More vanity from a light skin nigga. No one cares about your waves, b. Maybe Joe Johnson and niggas in jail.]
Guns longer than the wig on a hippy [By “wig” Roc means “hair.”]
On the hip keep the blicky – Petite wiz opposite of Missy [Roc Marci is so rude. He just called Missy Elliot “fat” – after talking about a gun. He might be a psychopath.]
Depict me as super witty [He only put this line here to undercut the sadism that follows – a preemptive “I’m just joking.”]
My shank might remove her titty [That’s disgusting. SMH.]
I jumped off the heel of my achilles [I’m still disgusted. Ugh.]
This is light work to me [Fucking disgusting psychopath rapper man. I’m over it though.]
Turn a knife in your kidney [Ugh. Not again. What’s wrong with Roc Marciano?]
I pray Allah might forgive me [Why did he have to bring God into this shit? Especially Muslim God? I would have gone with Based God’s forgiveness instead.]
Now who could see me? [No one that’s squeamish about stabbings. That’s for sure.]
Musically I’m with the kundalini [This line genuinely sent me down a wormhole of knowledge and learning. Google “kundalini.” Enjoy.]
I easily scoop your Nefertiti [Roc is either snatchin your long-necked, elegant Nubian queen or he’s into mummy-based necrophilia. I can’t be sure.]
I bump the CD – In the green Lamborghini [Lamborghini should really look into auxilliary/USB connections. They’re great. Much better than CDs.]
Demonstrator – In linen and gator – Slick tongue like a litigator – Facilitator – Decision maker [Excuse my hubris, but all these lines are about me. I’m serious.]
My inner layers is the Himalayas – Frigid as a brisk winter day is [Roc can afford air conditioning. This is huge in Long Island.]
Yellow gold and terry cloth robes – The Wardrobe – That made hoes come in droves – With less clothes and the flesh exposed [Given the effect Roc’s wardrobe has on hoes, it behooves fine establishments to let gentlemen of leisure walk in dressed in robes and chains. Everybody wins.]
In a Lexus we drove through infested roads [That’s all Lexuses are good for. I hate those fancy Toyotas.]
Pellets are thrown into flesh and bone [The image of a mobster throwing bullets instead of shooting them out of a gun cracks me up at least twice a day.]
Your name get carved into headstones slow [I don’t want to think about this too much. It could mean torture. Or a slow-ass stone mason. Either way, you’re dead.]
Gangster cadence – My space is shaded – The heat is nickel plated – Assets is liquidated [Roc talks that shit, in the shadows, backed by a shiny gun and cash – I want you to ponder that a bit more when you’re done with this.*]
What I’m conveying – Isn’t easily articulated [No shit Sherlock! I’m fucking exhausted.]
Roll solo – Like the Marcberg photo [I think y’all got that one.]
Earth from Acapulco – We hit that – Flat screen Cinemax promo [Roc Marciano went on a Mexican vacation during which he chilled in his hotel and watched premium cable and movies – like a real American.]
Benz logo – Black RLX polo [Then he went shopping. RIP Rugby by Ralph Lauren.]
Your tongue’s knotted up like Solo [I’m pretty sure I’m hearing this wrong, but it might be a reference to K-Solo’s Spellbound? That was some tongue twisting shit. Pause.]
But on the low though [Don’t tell anyone about anything you just heard. Or read.]
* – Just kidding. Proceed with your day.
So there we have it. I unspooled, unraveled and counted all the threads in Thread Count for you. And while I was at it, you also learned how to interpret a rap song. You’re welcome.
I’d like to thank Roc Marciano for rapping and Q-Tip for producing this beast. Finally, I want to thank myself for doing this since you’re a bunch of ingrates. Recognize my genius. Now go eat some Turkey – while you listen to this song again…
Stream:
Roc Marciano – Thread Count (prod. by Q-Tip) by Decon
