Gunship Diplomacy

by War Church

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about

Coming from Houston and Chicago, producer Analog(ue) Tape Dispenser and rapper SKECH185 have been making music together for the last decade. Starting with 2011’s “New Age Middle Finger,” they have been crafting their heavy and sometimes bizarre vision of hip-hop, fueled by ATD’s sample heavy, IDM influenced production, and SKECH’s frighteningly quick staccato delivery and metaphorical-heavy social commentary. The fall of 2016 has the duo back together, under the moniker War Church, to release a new album, “Gunship Diplomacy.” Dense, heavy, uncompromisingly smart, yet oddly danceable, “Gunship Diplomacy” shows two seasoned artists breaking new limits to create an album that stands outside the genre.

credits

released October 21, 2016

Produced by Justin "Analog(ue) Tape Dispenser" Schaefer
Lyrics/Vocals written & performed by Willie "SKECH185" McIntyre Jr. (SKECH185 Music ASCAP) except where noted
Mixed by A.M. Breakups
Mastered by Paul "Willie Green" Womack
Recorded at Karma Kids Studios in Astoria, NY by Headtrip and Samurai Banana at except where noted
"Gunship Diplomacy" and "DownCat" recorded by Jeff Markey & A.M. Breakups at the Reservoir Sound Womb in Brooklyn, NY

I.B. Fokuz (DP EL Music ASCAP)
Teddy Faley (Teddy Faley Music BMI)
Lamon Manuel (FASTING CANNIBAL MUSIC ASCAP)
Collasoul Structure (ROBO WRITES MUSIC ASCAP)
Malakh El

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Track Name: High John The Conqueror Speaks
N.I.G.G.E.R.... nigger (pronounced nig-uh). Dodging “Broken Window” prisons. Interesting stress invested. Soldier affixed to an unassigned war. Wounds rewritten as tattoos drunkenly purchased under a bad moon. Urban Plan the heard of man to the slaughter under the act of “protesting” anchored to an ancient human place of ruin. Planet ticking, tilted, stationed in “Storyville” orbiting an manipulated culture: cult x ultra. Process thoughts through substractive paintings and attractive phrases. Strength of a porcelain fortress or porters force fed to the dust bunnies of the upper crust. Yet, (they) knuckles up for portraits. Welcome to the horse head pillow karma and the apologist that come with it; a swing state of mind applied to whatever is comforting. Dealing with “context visibility,” ink sleeve filigree and compt’d drinks. Tracing most ghost back ounce pours mean to slow nights into pretty lights but forced tortured portraits under the eyelids in silent seconds. At most, floored by the crowded boat by the “after-hours” building light. The after life rented of “feeling right”.The backward showers to heal or kill the time. A mass of cowards acting sour lacquered in a villains light. I see it as a lantern. I see them as patterns. I see it as beacons for every roach that scatters. Its like playing dice with passion. A handshake with lies to plagiarize the kinship. Its different when A-alikes are laughing. This is steel/cement with cigs, Zippo lights and matches. It’s kiddy-tinged fiction that takes its time with habits. It’s a Wonderland rabbit quoting Sunz of Man verses while tallying a congresses favorite type of “Blackness”. And that’s an awkward human high five. They auction you yet offer you a propaganda “why try?” They often move to drop its view into Op ed by-lines. An authors tool to crop his views into curated fines. That’s why we say it (nigger) so much to fill in the blanks or we lost and its just a prison without feeling restrained.

That’s an impossible feat and I’ll repeat

Imma live life after this one time

We went from Bill of Sale to barcode at the speed of deifying Jesus and all we got was a balcony to believe in? Bleed in? Too Alive! when the liver, lung and heart unionize. Removing lines from the paper as contracts or rorschachs for the neighbors. After the fire but before the half breed life comes favors a janitors management and caters to the sanity collapsing, per season, to stay in fashion with weaklings. This is not a grin! It’s just misplaced fuck I forgot to give. To logic of faking sibling with shiftless. Maybe I’m just fishing the offended like a modern cynic, the gulp before describing ‘black clothing.” American Gothic Architecture and what pigeon holds. Blood pressure predicting my future through chick bones. Post-Rap! Post Black! Bleached Arethas and Winehouses with dirty faces. Blonde kids running around their African mother/maids. Rather, their African-made mothers. Rather, their maids from Africa that acts mothers to feed their own kids. Or the sum the distance. Slightly sorry if I localize tragedy or vocalize the downward spiral like an outsider masterpiece but I just saw a man bring a baby grand to the park, then play dead composers, shit on a cat with buckets of scraps brave enough to play his own work and thought “damn, whats more American than that?” In heritage, embarrassment so arrogant and crass. It varies in its parries yet stays Aryan and Black. Nefarious, yet there he is, in legacy of man. NEFARIOUS YET THERE HE IS IN THE LEGACY OF MAN! The collecting and reconstructing echoing forgotten sounds... and how we act like our fathers when their not around! The sum of the sun that pass through eyelids and silence in between evictions. 3 decades of dust. Rust colored water. Someone else’s daughter. The amorphous order of importance in the structure we built...

WAR CHURCH
Track Name: Not Even A Dog
By day break, this scapegoat must be hung public if Tragedy to stake claim on whether its a performance or execution. Similar when played plain. Broken soapbox snapshot. Fits the song. See Victor's monster repair his heart in final breaths because he's fated to stitch it wrong. Thus the comedy of an "Orphaned Child of A Bastard Movement" God bless the spare parts that willed him into moving. "Fall in line" where? Even the blood splatter creates music. Drips like wine into river carved by despair yet followed by the stares. You can see the mask crack! Veil fell. Heartbreak is abstract and every king will get laughed at. Diptych: Love/pain. Heaven is past that. Life turns a new leaf when one reaches the last laugh. At great lengths, triumph will wear a muddy, bloody uniform. A truth often linked to ships destined to sink but made it to harbor. Watch saplings reaching, releasing golden notes reading "Nature still mates with the Father." Do you feel the thunder in the darkness? Sonic sunlight that sucks hope from the sky in orange, purple. When properly done right, this image is triptych to illustrate these misfits. Muses for my neurosis dancing on top of my battered instinct: one was a jackal, one was asshole, one was angel whose halo was really a shiny lasso. When the gallery opened to the audience all they saw was a mirror. Laughter... because that observation reminds me of my last flow. If/When the top is ever reached, I'll memorize where the grass grows and dedicate part of my life to watering where that grass choked. The difference between the truth and a lie is a lie has to make sense and no one cares where the money comes from if it pays rent. There is only one way to be honest and a million ways to take it (with) corresponding faces for heights un-trekked by geniuses to cowardly to take them. No, this is the beginning to a road of ellipses because not even a dog will sit down until he's finished.
Track Name: Read Read Read
Do sheep dream of sheep or do they count people stuck in traffic? The panic of a
savage taming a wolf when the beast speaks back. The camera wades through the water, capturing kids nods in agreement. Programmed calls of “file down claws/clause and catalogue them as ‘a cause lost in symmetry.” Initially sparked by marionette leaders, hollow at most, filled with a slithering visage of a broken host. Button pushed by twitching withering hand. Fork to glutton. Expand. Weakened, raped mothers leaking completely covered in flags. Now, how amazing is that grace? Can this race end? Will enslavement have a taste dragging me further as I bathe? Their beacon of light is a crack in the wall so of course the children are violent. Blank stare legions meander as every star loses its name to science. Some find thoughts of a formula a stifling, self sufficient prison. Can’t blame them, (we were) raised on concrete fiction just to live within its restrictions. Its a survivalist tradition under revival. Drum circle of indignations. Taking to streets yet only armed with snark for a red summer...

Taking to the streets yet only armed with snark for a red summer doesn’t make change, it makes traffic. While at it, #OccupyBandwith. Replace every gun with a mirror. Deface every son with micro-aggression. Last century was littered with despots feeding flowers to rifles. Photogenic. Black Flag flooded brains living in hash tag frame. Erupting in teddy bear crushing fury. Lead in the sweat, drenched. Death embedded in debt incentive. To folding Che into cynicism: its pixel burning. Obtuse rebellion. Is your face willing to adorn scars? Mourn kidnappings? Since there is some “Hello Kitty” in your indignation... in tandem with sore thumbs. Summers are pregnant with gun powder and heavy breathing flowing through leather lungs while mouthing forgotten holidays. Show me how much Church clothes block bullets! Or How Pulitzers approaching invented sickness do no more than thicken plots when once tamed jungles, now they encage humble and engage in victim narrative. Until the molotov phoenix is labeled savage, I brand it “Freedman’s Spring” and moor light towards unwashed hands to reinforce public humanity when a woman tries to tell me about a march but won’t listen about my cousin. Somewhere, there are a sea a faces that will never it home and people profiting from where there grave sits. Heroes who angels were replaced with corpses yet will never be considered King Makers. Here? We measure freedoms in acres, paint purge papers and play hangman with neighbors bloodlines. Sometimes the Sun Times captures sunshine on caution tape at angles that create halos atop of tragedy. We been busy burying words for acceptance so overly embarrassed we neglected that if we kept what we carried than American is common sense. So... is this the center? Singing our way out of slaughter pretending they hear us above being white noise to them and their religion. Maybe we are the sinners. Revolting against a truly slave nature fooled by a deep history into believe that our humanity is valid. Nah! this is the Cinder! Residue of pillage empires that rebuilds itself, Escher like, into an image of modern cog at most shinier the championed. Y’all fein surprised at the explosion and try prune the truth and remove subversive bits so it takes the shape of a foot note.

I don’t identify as “victim” nor does validation make the machine work.
Track Name: Fair
I'm one Bruce Banner scene past shifty science. Heat hands. Applying them to purple sand making green glass. That's my play upon words! Verbs acts as spotlights. Consonant continents staging war on playwrights that won't rock right. When all that's left looks right? I'll lose all faith in politics and look at life's light like a bat in popped halogen apocalypse. This sign reads" Don't Bother," 'cause I'm as heavy as heaven on a dying man's breath learning in his last gasp he's no father. My figure of speech is an old black racist that hates kids, snobby bitches and little motherfuckers that say shit. Fall in the gap. Believe the Matrix. Image is Nothing. Your scrimmage is huffing and puffing over your shoes have dirty laces. We don’t share common bonds; that’s roast beef and Ramadan. That’s Cochise and college shots. That’s so me its almost not... fair. Divine comedy like Knots Landing on a red planet with Olympus Mounds spitting the spores from the mouth that made planet dirt Earth.

It’s almost not fair. Its almost not fair. Its almost not fair. Its almost like “Rapping is my hobby”

I’m the hand up Mona Lisa’s skirt. The stanza that seems to burst when the standard doesn’t seem to work. I’m massive underneath the dirt! A master; with the weakest words I’ll damage every piece of Earth. I’m mannish, so it seems at first, until you manage to see my vision. So, at a glance, I’ll be the worm. So advance and be concerned. So advanced when I seem to work the land seems to burn. Mechanical movement. Cannibal human improving the race by consuming the stupid. A more suitable taste will strait jacket any hand that meanders into a beautiful place designated for LIZARDS! crew and Tomorrow Kings. Hardly anything you say won’t reside in Terrance Trent Darby’s role in the Wu Tang family tree. We don’t share common bonds; that’s Tiger Woods riding a swamp Rhino screaming “There’s an LL tattoo up Canibus sleave.” Admitting he’s Black’s referring to Jesus with the Pope in agreement the same moment our first Black President converts to Islam at a Masonic meeting.

This is not your average looseleaf minstrel! It’s Kratos fencing with pencils. Pensive war hammers stencil human forms into concrete. Simple minds don’t tread. Imagine: thorn crowns on replicants slaughtering sheep for cheap condoms. (An) amalgam of condor/B52. Fix fiction to dorsal fin fishing for complimentary color coded death cousin dosing crowds with culture vulture corpses encrusted with tablets reading “Hook, Chorus, Refrain, Bridge.” Slang changing to a view finder of pain language. Have you ever sat staring at the hollow moon with the angsty face of a new jack, common ground lifted into 8 sections professing “ignored is the new Black” while holding hands while holding hands with a White girl figuring (out) how to crush the colossus in between Obama terms in words rearranging the crack era into Abstract terra while making Black kids conscious? NO! if so narwhals are unicorns swimming on vacation. Mega man X is a Japanese Muslim soul stealing cannibal with a robotic pin cushion animal Flaming Lips extra. Insane his brain is a blessing from the dark skin extraterrestrials hiding behind the sun. And if I slowed it down you still wouldn’t get it! So excuse me while I tattoo my knuckles with word “Condescending.”
Track Name: Vanilla
Blue romantic tragic. Farris wheel magic. Managed a thumbs up. A numb tongue sung of crushed heart strung along in well framed shots. Is she a weapon? That lacks life and how some saints are tainted before the growth. As the same face, soaked in rain, claims “knives are keys to a heaven made of paint.” Every kiss sires screams in out of focus. See our princess get kidnapped for vacation fucking the captor dressed as distressed. Zoom out and see a white girls dainty hands holding hearts teaching Blind Sides. Its that “Can’t Hardly Wait” ‘til Barry buries kismet science into the wings of the girl next door waving back smiling. Oh, how our cherub grew into a harpy and landed sun dancing saying “our quirky lead’s a lemming lamenting the edge of a jerky planet.” Then you wake up, guitar solo reaching, speech longing yet cupid slanted. Audience Award! Stress handed in a wordy frantic garners no laugh sans popcorn. Lost cause found in wiggly, straight letter thought form. Teen pregnancy is cute when covered in thrift, tragic further blackened. Eclectic gathering of a pretty party frozen in the adaptation. Sniff that pollen off that titty! Its a middletown kitschy. Inner city broom jumpers get soup cooler shuns as brown loves finds Oscar riddles. Widdle down the valentine in half the time the credits take. Breakout Artist Award goes to he who can hold the straight face the longest. Opened like the exit of unexciting husband. Fade to rock song. Firework curtain period piece that fits every fuck up but what great pictures they took not long after the chase drained away with ease leaving a mosaic of confused youth.

I’ve got a life like movie. Like life. I got a movie life. Life like movie. Like life, I got a movie life. Life like movie. Like life, I got a movie life. Life life movie. Like life like life! x2

I am really am a star! That’s just the Neo Future setting, filtered SLR wedding. Definition caught the cracked smile. You’re missing the point! Are you implying that I am not fighting Goliath? Waiting tables. Waiting my turn monologue my way to Denzel Washington status. Atlas. Keep that dress away from me! I’m Fred Wil patiently. I’ll indie my way to stardom. Zulu chief. Maybe a junkie in Harlem. Not become an Art-house-martyr-Soap-Opera-extra-Gospel-theatre-understudy.

The worlds at half speed as you move through viscus air prepared to save the day, at most, i impaired by nerves until tears drop. Slow motion clap. Head nod of approval. Fears stop with trumpet triumph. Up goes our heroes home-run. They came because you built it... to euthanize the villain. “Get ‘em Craig!” Them lead legs are just a feeling before swiftness leads to fights in trees with dynamic speech. Lift everyone out their seats with a tackle. This time, their not laughing at you.Cracking the teeth reality bites with. A slight twist from beating Bishop. A knights kiss for wifing the princess. Parisian time warp mistress. Jason’s lyric whispered in her ear as she defends. Shame, it was first sight. Ignore the wrenching in your stomach your number 4. Fight off the wolves and hollow moments. Never acts question you don’t want answered. More, just don’t ask questions. Just say the right wrong thing as if it was chosen. The montage of laurel wreaths dance together molding stars out of convenience only wished upon to humble or validate some type of genius. Let all sex have steady cam artistry and heart break silent archery.

Well I guess that’s all I have to say about that.