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Dollar bin, dollar bin, gold in the dollar bin
Somebody's grandmama's Sunday in the dollar bin
Scratched up, water stained, smell like an attic in it
Flip it, chop it, loop it, now it's Saturday again
Shop on Fayetteville, bell on the door
Man behind the counter been there since eighty-four
He don't ask what I'm looking for, he know I don't know
"Back left, bottom crate, I just put out some more"
Knees on the carpet, fingers getting dusty
Flip past the polka, the marching band, the country (hold up)
Horn section on the cover, six dudes in tan suits
Pressed in seventy-three, some label out of Baton Rouge
One dollar. One dollar. I'da paid nine
Man rang me up like he committing a crime
Kitchen table studio, pads next to the grits
Mama need the table back by six, so I'm quick
Needle drop, side B, track three, there it is
Two bars wide open 'fore the singer come in
I ain't steal it, I'm the reason that you heard of them again
That's a rescue. That's adoption. That's the dollar bin.
Dollar bin, dollar bin, gold in the dollar bin
Somebody's grandmama's Sunday in the dollar bin
Scratched up, water stained, smell like an attic in it
Flip it, chop it, loop it, now it's Saturday again
Library card from Central, never turned it in
Liner notes my textbooks, I was majoring in them
Who played bass? Who got paid? Who got a flat fee
And a handshake while the label ate for thirty years? Exactly
See, I read the fine print that they hid in the groove
Session players built the house and never got a room
So when I clear a sample I go find the family
Cut the check to the daughter, not the company (that's how you do it)
Off-grid drums 'cause my people don't march
We lean, we swing, we late, but we arrive
Eagle on my hoodie, Bull City on the plate
Parrish Street taught me how to own what I make
They want it clean, no crackle, no hiss
I leave the dust on, that's the proof that it lived
Every pop is a year, every skip is a scar
You hear a flaw. I hear who we are.
Hold on, let it ride
(that's the part right there)
You hear that horn crack? He was nineteen
One take. Wasn't no fixing it.
(run it back)
Dollar bin, dollar bin, gold in the dollar bin
Somebody's grandmama's Sunday in the dollar bin
Scratched up, water stained, smell like an attic in it
Flip it, chop it, loop it, now it's Saturday again
Lives in a studio full of vinyl. Chops soul samples into prayers. Pitched-up soul, off-grid drums, and an HBCU library card. Hip-hop that makes your head nod AND your mind expand.