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For All Debts Public and Private

by Defcee and BoatHouse

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    Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
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      $10 USD  or more

     

  • Record/Vinyl + Digital Album

    For All Debts Public and Private is the new LP from rapper Defcee and producer, BoatHouse.

    Features include Kipp Stone, Mother Nature, SolarFive, greenSLLime, and Armand Hammer.

    Photos by Alexander Richter

    Design and Layout by Mr. Krum

    Limited to 500 copies.

    Digitally releasing 4/19

    *Vinyl is in production with United Record Press and expected to land November 2022.

    Each purchase includes digital copy of the LP. Digital copies will be sent via email within 24 hours of purchase.

    All Sales Final / no refunds except for damaged records.

    Includes unlimited streaming of For All Debts Public and Private via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
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    ships out within 5 days

      $27 USD or more 

     

1.
Even (Intro) 01:21
Imitation’s the lowest form of “real love,” unless you put a mil up. Caught wreck, now let’s build some in a city where out-of-towners live for a couple years huntin kids or local businesses they can steal from. I don’t wade into what’s deeper than rap, so let’s keep this surface level and leave it at that. White bankers and politicians were dressing evil in maps. They seeded the math, and still wanna feed us the sap, so beef is a trap. You see the leeches it competes to attract. Nothin stylish or academic bout em–just a geek in a hat. Buzzards diggin beaks into rats, feastin til fat, eatin what the piggies won’t, and then leave em the scraps. All our credit they rejected…we’ll be needing it back. Took fever dreams in quarantine for me to relax. Any light I get I’m throwin at your feet til it’s matched. Let’s clear the books, break even, and stack.
2.
Last week, pulled a dozen racks out the mailbox for everyone who hopped bail and turned Hale Bopp. Ridin comets to heaven for $5.75. Work the mortars and pestles–apply pressure, then grind Their vibe can only be described as “post-sound,” while my music’s bumped like an elbow in the coach aisle. Shown round the house I built, they touch nothing cuz their hands needin Palmolive bottles and scrub brushes. Slipping off the grid, playin it lowkey. Descendant of demigods—the hammer chose me. Bring my ties to the finish line, even OT. Whole sheets of goldleaf at the flow’s feet. Whatup, Kipp? Brought the reign to Cleveland like Shawn Kemp. Got em slammin 40s off rip. Ceiling getting smaller, standin taller til it splits with my back to the wall, and my face to the bricks.
3.
Recollect 02:37
No hostages if you can’t tell the difference between “cancelled” and a consequence. The other side of thirty, age is thinnin out the optimists. Built yourself a monument for bust-level accomplishments. Opted to build, abd wrecked my name with the litterati. Triple-shot flame off the tongue knockin em dizzy prolly, Busybody shock, ‘cardi bottle snot drippin on me. Lay em out on thin ice like a hit in hockey Some proper nouns you don’t associate my name with; their art isn’t as sharp as their drama is entertainin. Edit the montage where they’re rocked off stages. Ancient, but nothing fights time like hatred. Tasted your own medicine. Now, double the dosage. I’m the distance between the deepest cut and necrosis. Shovin through the crowd when you ain’t the front of the focus. What the fuck are you smoking, a blunt or a locust? HOOK: In case y’all forgot, This where I remind you--I’m made for this spot. Played the hand I was dealt, now I’ve raked in the pot. And yeah, time is money--we get paid on the dot. How’s it up and it’s stuck when they’re scared of heights? 100 bars on a posse cut–can’t even spare the mic. Panther bite, tiger style; even out for my idols’ crowns. Sirens sound, lights flash, white slash, chopper round. You’ve got the staying power of a wallet in the lost-and-found, While I’m lockin down cyphers, even when I am not around. They pull a following into full misdirection and got bullshit detectors chirping off in Tamagotchi sounds They’re writing “least likely to succeed” raps, and shrank from baby gangsters back to wombs at our feedback Older player, nail the buzzer beaters, get my knees wrapped, and turn an entire family resemblance into tree sap. Overestimated your value, now they cut your price, and it’s buckets flyin through the club that got us duckin ice. scenes in them sixteens from your brother’s life. I could put you on that Summer Jam screen. Play your numbers right.
4.
Dunk Contest 03:01
Buckle my baby in the swing and burp a rapper with my free hand God must have called em to pick a switch and I’m the tree branch. Movin stupid placin bids on eBay for a G pass. Hours in the gym, their album cover on the speedbag, and I’m not even tryin. This is what I wrote in my kitchen, brush in a bottle nipple and rinsin soap from the dishes. Can’t you see how big the total I get is for these verses no? They rappin holdin hats on the train, tryin to work the crowd. If it isn’t gonna change my life…I can turn it down. Still harvest fields of cornballs into kernel mounds Any chicken they gettin is colonel-style Kentucky shit while they’re talking tougher than cuttin bricks with an oven mitt. Finally got Back to the Future generator buzz. Had my first daughter, and let the industry raise my sons. Public enemies see truth in this music. It weighs a ton Bodybag over the mic, caution tape on the drums. HOOK (x2): Jordan from the free throw, Kobe on the baseline, Spud Webb vertical, Vince with the hangtime. Brent Barry face on, warmups for the stage fright. Coming for the crown and the ring, make em pay twice. Swim in algorithms rippin digits from the circuitry The nerve of me, glitches evaded the fixes perfectly. eleventh century surgery clean, dirty fatigues, thirsting for dreams that were turning Biggie’s furniture green. It was all a scam. Blades shredding chain mail Til the face mask’s splinterin and not a single plate of armor stands. Underground redefinition–videos in dollar vans. Listen to their music, hit the “I am not the father” dance. A polygraph? They couldn’t pass crash dummy belt checks Welcome you to Good Burger, then rap baout their KEL-TEC Heading back to Cali and have not taken an L yet. Late and heavyhanded at the party, dippin with twelve guests Justice willfully blind no matter how thin the veil gets, watching pensively as its pension’s buzzed through the jail fence. You the muscle but would lose a limb during a delt stretch. I will not be hopping on any records with Adele next unless I get an Adele second half, I got married to the game, broke the bread, and then the glass. Stigmata round my writing hand–I bled out in the craft
5.
Sign of the cross over cognac caps. Photo array of ghosts like a Kodak map. We tapped the seal fore we broke it, and some of the homies were double-fistin and motorboatin Coronas. Our chief concern was hating being sober. Couldn’t smell the morning for the Folgers. Shoulders slumping outta sockets like a wooden toy soldier’s. Leaping out my body–I’m flying by on a poster. More flashes of brilliance than Jordan’s rookie year choker while they break when their bond is tested like Red Rover they can’t touch the table where we’re sittin. Bring a coaster cuz they’re to the left of a square like Hermosa. Logan’s Weapon X descendant–growl, get to work. I’m my biggest competition whether project or verse. Battlin myself I’m tryna finesse a purse, inspectin every rhyme. It’s the science of wrecking Earth. HOOK: Dreams of Asti Spumante, sippin Carlo Rossi, goin in on bottles of Yellow Tail with the posse. Nights gettin foggy, the years pilin on me. Waiting for the day I’ll look back on em fondly. Memory lane is patched with fables. Reality doesn’t match the way its math was made to. The past is tangled cradles cats will break through, stable as late-90s major label debuts. A friend spent ninth grade, his head on the desk. Saw him in a nod on the train, his legs in his chest. Too young to notice the seeds under the stem of neglect… then again I reached for Henny when I reckoned with less. Wrestlin demons even the devil rejects. They’re too extreme. An episode from the finale before I’m rebooted as a fiend. Movin through the scene, mushroomin pupils glued to screens, duelin schemes speedin through the rearview. The fuel is green. Electric circus imperfect as Tesla service, Mayor of Circuit City. The albums had censored curses. Rhymin was my home, only furniture was the furnace. Eternity was the distance, and now I’m minutes from curtains.
6.
Delicate as a youngn’s pride. Pulse skipped Like train wheels. Fell in love every other line. Name an intersection. I’ll shut my eyes, and picture the corner refreshed, getting dressed for summertime. Sidewalk was hot crag when pretty girls stared out a whip, Puerto Rock flag danglin from the rearview. My crew saw what happened, started laughin, like, “We feel you.” (She was bad!) My smile still drooped Lower than my jeans. Eternal hopes that didn’t spring. When my eyes met a woman’s, they got low and split the scene. Ricky broke it down like it was all so simple. Could it be? My reflection frowned back on some, “Look at you. Now look at me.” Old Spice and Sean John cologne, bottle of Curve Car- los loaned me. Bree like, “You too cute to look lonely.” The same amount of game as a rain delay. Tarp pulled across my heart to keep it safe from shame.
7.
QTNA 03:07
Look, ma! No hands! Turnin money to water. The High Priests of Credit pourin my blood on the altar. Runway out my wallet cleared another departure. interrupting arguments, mother shushing my father. Thought I was making more than living check-to-check, but debt is debt. At the gas pump, prayin I didn’t spend the rent. My signature in Etch-a-Sketch, it was shaken down. Scramble to cover leaks with putty before the rain’s aground. Strict diets of spending limits and budget cuts, Skipped a meal when I was broke, now I can’t stomach lunch. I’ve seen people I love burned to a blunted husk, Their will is always tested, but they never study much. Dollars late. Years short, apocalypses fear wrought. Veered off, into dark corners where the tears caught. Escape was just the price of what the beer cost. Non-responsive askin what I’m here for. HOOK: Was I living or surviving? Shuffled through the days, pretending that I was tryin, Moved through the cold, while my mood hit the lows, Mind on my money, I was losin em both. I went hungry til the starving stopped. Bill collectors ringin, and I would tell em their calls had dropped. No market for this music, I was told to pop, by people who would tell me, “Keep workin,” and hoped it flopped. Write to prove em wrong, fight to lose the charm. Armchair A&Rs askin if I could move along, and treated gatekeeping like they were crossing guards. Narcissism meant that my mistakes never taught me at all. I would fail, then learn to fall with grace. I’d talk to the squad, harm across my face. They kept one finger on the alarm in case I found only one way to have my flaws erased. Too shook to die at my own hand, but I used To think I wouldn’t live to be a grown man. Studyin the difference between breathing and survivin while learnin about how patient I can be from inside it.
8.
Bubble Coat 02:49
Krakoan slang with Charles Xavier’s stage voice. Weapon X graduate, adamantium grade point. Vengeance for repentance had us snappin off the lab locks, comic book color panel palettes splash backdrops. Rap’s ad hoc. The stat talk is just math rock. Past’s like the jazz spot–Bird Parker stash hot. Coltrane-plane-level free note phrasing. Midwest dress code, East Coast cadence dripping from the rhyme hands, flexed with the pocket switch. Aim like my last name should end in “-akovic.” Talkin outta turn, lips bent with the gossip twitch. Body’s not a temple, but my head is like a monolith. We were in the studio, eighty bars, no hooks, wildin at whoever tried breakin dope on my notebook. Rome cookin in the distance, still isn’t ready yet, so we’re yellin “Get the lead out!” at these pencil necks. HOOK (x2): Supreme Clientele was my homework. Notepad had a Cuban Linx’ worth of code words. Wanted to rock bubble coats with the faux fur. Won winter wars but I had to beat the cold first. Sampled the instrumental, and cooked more bassline. Did the impossible–spoke to woods on FaceTime. Home plate in my field of vision. Fuck a “wait” sign. Rushmore? What? Dog, they ain’t even waist-high. Stage dive into the abyss from my limits. Throwin bricks through the pit, scoped the wigs in the Senate. Hurl a rapper through time. Now his whole fit is vintage. He-Who-Remains wrote the script as you lived it. Purple tape, blue moon, red dawn, got that “favorite ex” charm with a left palm full of Flex bombs for every rapper wearin their bulletproof vests wrong. We’re gonna stick em with the bill…and know the check’s long. Forty years in the desert, all I ate was manna with the grace and table manners of a raging bamma. They got more wires in their truck than a cable scammer. I’ll throw their sneakers in the pool like they’re Frank Costanza.
9.
All these statistics they’re using to prove they’re superrappin and they aren’t qualified enough to ask me soup or salad Stereotypical Jew–I’ll take their due and tax it heavy as the scent of jasmine blowin through Damascus. Been senpai since high school, so what they’ve written is just a prism I’m bending light through. Posted at the end of time, watchin the signs move. IQ measured by hieroglyphics inside tombs. The legend foretold by opium visions, and Möbius strips of lyrics that I’ve honed to precision. Turn a goat to Kronos gyro meat. Hope bro tears don’t leak cuz we’ve broken sharper front lines into widows peaks. This ain’t deja vu. It’s another ass whooping. Any crash I may have has a cash cushion. When they’re ego tripping, it’s a bad booking. They ain’t better. That’s just the scent of their glass cookin.
10.
They grow bigger names, while ya lean toward em breathless Like they don’t hit the stage and y’all don’t ease toward the exits. Mouth full of salt, tryna feed off successes, cuz the only allergy that makes em breathe hard is effort. Every other answer is, “Are we off the record?” I’m spellin names out so you can recall em better. Throw a sheet on the stretcher, and some dogs on the grill watchin em transform being wrong into skill. They sharp as a eel, or the cone that you snap round the collar of a dog as it heals, ninja stars in their meals. If they’re abroad with the pills they brought Tylenol bottles, little hearts on the seal. Rent-free in my raps. I should charge em for real. Puttin palms to the jaw every song that I spill. They lost in the sauce, while I sautee the field. They’re the core, we’re the peel. They’re the wall, we’re the drill Pourin out the foreign. It’s an omen or a calling. Left the cemetery over-conscious of the fallen. When you play God, you won’t even get a warning, just a smirk from heaven as they’re sendin in the horsemen. Fuck a fortune, I’m just grateful you applauded. Fought the man in the mirror and then painted him a portrait. Either I need a patron saint or prayers in my honor, til I’m rinsing with digits and shaking off the squalor. They 1984’d us. Knew I read this book before. Looks of awe in the lenses of the lessons we ignored. Cooked the medicine, and then dressed it in metaphors. I decoded the matrix. They’re aimin to settle scores over time, throwin shots, takin penalties and fines. Put enforcers in a box. Every sentence is a crime. Wishin they could act as reckless as their eyes, breakin bonds with their squad just to settle for a lie.
11.
I got my name on blast like ankle monitors over low socks. Theirs holds water like colanders on a stovetop. Played the game, and barely got it locked like Prop Joe. The numbers never drop. All good if my stock slow. Debut older than my students schoolin mentors. Since a teenager, never waited on their ten-four. Superhuman heat vision chewin through a lead wall, from inside Gardens of Eden the gatekeepers fenced off. How they shed more sense than fear? Don’t wanna pay their dues and still lose once the checks have cleared. Wanna work on some heat? Hit me in 2023… But I’ma be honest: expect an expensive year. Only gonna travel far as my commute will take me, unless you’re payin what could change life for my wife and baby. Soon as I stopped complaining, I started serving the customers. Steep hills of stats at my feet. Watch me run em up. HOOK (x2): We were hermits in a barrel full of crabs. Now it’s too much bread for us to battle for some cash. The target’s not a rapper. It’s the bag. The target’s not a rapper. It’s the bag. When the raptors in the coop, it gets quiet for the chickenhawks. Globe full of money, was worried bout what the city thought. Salary isn’t capped when it’s no borders on the market, but they’d rather sacrifice a limb than let it support other artists. I mean...rappers were really battlin over East Room! Twitter beefs like cheap fuel in a fiend’s spoon. Last city in the world where the squares in the game couldn’t share any gains but blamed it on “street rules?” Bullshit. That’s not a blade, it’s a charade that these fools clipped from marketing toolkits. They aren’t villains. They’re just sensitive and jealous, Anandd beefing with twenty-somethings to deflect from their successes Like there’s not enough money on the planet for the rest of us As we watch em buildin with these buzzards and predators. No disrespect, just a motive for the scene: What’s an MVP mean if it’s no trophies for the team?

about

The new album from Chicago rapper, Defcee, and Closed Sessions producer, BoatHouse. FADPP centers on being overlooked, undervalued, and underfunded. Threw boom bap inspired production, intricate wordplay, and compelling narratives, Defcee settles all ledgers. Few artists are rapping as technically and sonically sound as Defcee these days. BoatHouse, fresh off his acclaimed project with Mother Nature, provides the perfect backdrop for Defcee to get busy. Guest features include Armand Hammer, Mother Nature, Kipp Stone, SolarFive, and GreenSLLime.

credits

released April 19, 2022

Photos by Alexander Richter
Art Design by Darrell Krum
Mixed and Mastered by Michael Kolar @ SoundScape Studios
A&R'ed by Alexander "DJ RTC" Fruchter
Released via Closed Sessions

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