Featuring MCs Qwazaar, Qwel, and Denizen Kane, producer DJ Natural and media assassin Kid Knish, Typical dropped a self-titled full-length album, Typical Cats, on Galapagos4 Records in 2002, and began a relentless campaign to restore a fallen hip hop world to its former promise and glory. The talent assembled was unmistakable, the sound created was formidable. Firmly planted in tradition, unorthodox in invention and possessed of a strength only earned in the furnace of experience, their sound is the future that hip hop's past would have had if its present weren't held hostage by the uninspired and unrepentant. A flurry of solo projects later, Chicago's prodigal sons return. Hip hoppers rejoice. Suckers duck and cover. Typical Cats come to conquer. Battle champs, hotline legends, poetry circuit kings. Typical cats released their second album titled Civil Service in 2004.
Typical Cats return, the last of the great true school crews—bearers of transformed tradition, innovators par excellence, and heralds of an undying devotion to the science and magic of boom bap music. The latest installment in the TC saga is 3, their third studio full-length. It plays like a message in a bottle from Hip Hop’s timeless present to the bizarre post-physical, digital, viral world in which we live. DJ Natural’s production chops have only deepened with time, and the rugged loops of the self-titled “Orange Album” and the live instrumentation of Civil Service have melded to yield a mélange of soul, jazz, funk, roots, radical politics, and a sly refusal to bend to the dictates of current fashion. Kid Knish reprises his role as hip hop’s all-time greatest unseen crew member (sorry, Jarobi), serving up samples, historical references, and vinyl oddities for Natural to slice and serve as android slabs of production genius.
TC’s trio of MCs—Qwel, Denizen Kane, and Qwazaar—rhyme like men breathing from the soles of their feet. The basis of their legend is in full effect—crackling chemistry, unnerving flow, and true stories. The album plays like a jazz-era cutting session turned confessional booth, a stylistically freewheeling effort threaded together by moments of revelation, underpinned by fiercely focused production and dominated by stories of journey, moments of transformation, and warnings against coming catastrophe. For TC, the MC is a misunderstood figure, a musical seer, a minor prophet, and reluctant hustler, using words to outwit enemies, trump circumstances, and emerge from the belly of the beast with respect and rent money.
Highlights abound—Kane returning to his spoken word roots on “Denizen Walks Away,” Qwel giving his early battle rap classics a run for their money on nickel-plated platters like “My Watch” and “Gordeon Knock,” and Qwazaar flexing uncanny musical intuition, anchoring the record with meditative efforts on “Puzzling Thing” and “Reflections from the Porch” before pummeling tracks like “Better Luck” and “On My Square.” Although the LP is studded with solo shots, crew tracks are the soul of the record. “On My Square” opens with a flurry of horns before exploding into an array of signature styles—multisyllabic combinations from Qwel, laid-back but incisive chatting from Kane, and a classic Qwa verse full of declarations, threats, and witticisms, all cemented by a Qwel chorus imbued with requisite layers of meaning. Natural’s production evolves with each verse, sliding from Meters style guitars with knocking drums to moody keys with ease.
The first single, “The Crown” is a frenetic display of jagged guitars and style-shifting that makes it a perfect complement to the Orange Album’s classic “Reinventing.” The name, however, is something of a misnomer. TC have never been interested in being kings. They’ve been griots shouting from the village limits, stoning the village idiots, interrupting thieves, and solidifying sterling reputations as rappers’ rappers, smokers’ smokers, underground Gs, tribal chiefs. There will never be another Typical Cats. They leave the set like five men exiting a burning building, leaving wrecked stages and a catalog of classics in their wake. With their exodus, we find ourselves suddenly grown, having come of age with the culture, standing, as always, at the crossroads. With the music, we move like Gayle Sayers, howl like Magic Sam, see the city like a kid on the project bench, and mark it all down in a black book that will never close. It is what it is. Forever.
QWAZAAR - A native of Chicago's gritty Low End, Qwazaar strikes from hip hop's essence. Whether the subject matter is inner city or interplanetary, the flow remains untouchable - a percussive yet fluid attack that evokes South Side rain and helicopter blades in a single breath. The content is heavy-a holdover from days when this veteran MC (No Pity/Outerlimitz) had to lyrically slay rivals to earn his sterling rep. "After the dust settles, witness the blood puddles..." Lights out, kids. The Q-W-A is here.
QWEL - You first saw his name dangling a quarter mile up on a suspension bridge from your scratch-bombed window on the Orange line. You first heard that distinctive melodic/abrasive storm of syllables on old Nacro and Scam Artist tapes with inserts printed at the Kinko's. Now the heat's been perfected and this nasty North Side revelation music rebel is out to wake the sleepers. From Ted Turner's devil ass to the so-called competition, everyone and their mama gets dealt with when the kid laces up his boots.
DENIZEN KANE - From the rum and Coke rumble of Chicago's North Side flow spots to the celluloid veneer of Def Poetry Jam's main stage, Denizen Kane rips the party with a poet's heart and an outsider's eye. Journalistic, impressionistic, real-life and drastic, young Kane's late night Red Line revelations turn into heathen hymns on tape, capturing the moody face of the metropolis in color. How long can a lost one roam until he finds his way home? Listen to your city fall apart through the muddy mouth of an immigrant.
The Manhattan Project
Typical Cats Lyrics
Jump to: Overall Meaning ↴ Line by Line Meaning ↴
I'm on a mission to make heaven look like my neighborhood x2
[Verse 1]
F*** creepin in yards, storm the gates 100 deep
Who knew these cans of true blue was heatin thunder speech
Old chicago role models was avacadoes and olives
Throwups without hangovers
Where bombing's not a hobby, it's a habit
Where addicts rappers braggin 'bout tags and dont know d**k about this graf s***
Attack the metro track with fat cats for fading
Gray-greens cant wait to see page versus daily
Its on like lucky hoodies, what could he teach me
While you were sleeping, i'm teaching his kids, through grafitti
I have to argue, been rhyming this s*** ain't hard to do
But technical advertisements on jarvis and harbor blue
Outlined in summer squash dumb rock like darka tiger minds wrecked from running from cops
Hoppin barbwire while you dream of being me between clean sheets
Play the role, personality splittin' like mean streets
No room for bling blingin thugs and wack crooks
I'm tryna king the line bring ya drugs gear and black books
I'm in ya face in the tunnels and at the bruise (?) spots
I'm on ya train insane to hit paddy wagons and rooftops
You heard of me
Burgundy and outlines like murder scenes
Germaneeds (?) and ferns and flat whites for blurring greens
F*** over your heads man i'm climbing pylons
Tobacco brown, montans, banana crylons
Hit the red line, headlines f***ed above yo
For those who must know
It's been fresh blue like rusto
[chorus]
"The mic's the spray can"
"Stay true to the art."
"Simple and plain, let me explain."
"This is a mission, not a small time thing."
*scratching*
"The mic's the spray can"
"Stay true to the art."
"This is a mission, not a small time thing."
[Verse 2]
I remember graf before more beef then hindu-sac relig
Ay you right? f*** you, rap your fat cats from lids
Braggin' on tracks how you snap way in the day?
Masturbate to lies, i'm to busy shakin' paint rain
Sleet or snow out to rock with mission's call
Laugh at graffitti blasters
Piss on permission walls
Wrong side of the graf track with acid
3D glasses blast this s*** backwards and graffitti blast the classes
After smashin vandal squads askin' what happened
I'm done rappin' colder than aspen to get your tax flipped
Beef without slabs of me saggin' ya jeans
Graf fiends scream for grif dip sticks, even ya tag is weak
This is for you who choose to rock lines
And toys with red pilots rockin' stop signs, stop lyin'
Find ya itch, mind ya b**** to kick, bad habit
Language visualize, content phat
Mad graphic, pass the fat black as this cat snaps
And laugh at fashion f*g writers with a fill-in
Qwel villian, feels like writin' keep killin'
Resurrectin' heavens buildings and bulidin heavens children
[chorus]
You ain't seen a frieght train straight aim with paint stains
Or parked trucks framed in stardust brushed with fame flame
Three cans of soul green sand and golden spray trucks
Names dribbled down the yard, we hit the lay-ups
They spellin devils from high levels like it's a done job
Couldn't mimic mr.straightlines on a etch-a-sketch with one knob
Shy ills killin villians with fill-in illest noise rocks
Toy scratched bombed the way out of this pine toy box
Tag ya backpack straps it's past ya bedtime
Heads find dead-or-alive this time to hit the redlines
The autograph slaughtercrap artists laugh at man's design
The last on society signed like pantomimes
Buff the blackboard, attack it with true blue
No matter how you see it, you lose like flippin zulu
I used to paint my name on trains to get my thrill on
Much love f***** but once was mother*******, we still bomb
I wont stop painting 'till the world looks the way it should
I'm on a mission to make heaven look like my neighborhood
I wont stop painting 'till the world looks the way it should
I'm on a mission to make heaven look like your neighborhood
The lyrics to Typical Cats' song "The Manhattan Project" express a strong dedication to the art of graffiti and a desire to make the world a better place through this art form. The singer is driven to create beauty and color in the world, painting until the world looks the way it "should" - a reflection of the singer's own neighborhood. Through his graffiti, the singer seeks to elevate the mundane and create a sense of heaven on earth.
The first verse of the song explores the singer's relationship with the graffiti community in Chicago. He recalls older role models who were also graffiti artists, and he notes that bombing (creating graffiti) is not just a hobby but a habit for those in the community. The singer also takes issue with some rappers who brag about graffiti but don't truly understand the art form. He emphasizes that graffiti is more than just a hobby - it's a way of life.
The second verse delves further into the singer's personal experience with graffiti. He remembers a time before there was much beef or conflict within the community and critiques those who rap about graffiti but don't actually participate in it. He emphasizes the importance of authentic dedication to the art form and calls out those who don't take it seriously. Ultimately, the singer believes that graffiti has the power to beautify the world and elevate it to the level of heaven.
Line by Line Meaning
I wont stop painting 'till the world looks the way it should
I am committed to continuing my graffiti art until the world is a beautiful and expressive place
I'm on a mission to make heaven look like my neighborhood
I aim to make graffiti art as common and uplifting as the familiar sights in my own community
F*** creepin in yards, storm the gates 100 deep
I reject the idea of sneaking around to graffiti art and instead show up boldly with a large group to create something meaningful
Old chicago role models was avacadoes and olives
The graffiti artists of the past in Chicago were understated and subtle, like the ingredients in a dish
Where bombing's not a hobby, it's a habit
Graffiti is not just something I do for fun, it is a daily part of my life and identity
But technical advertisements on jarvis and harbor blue
I appreciate the skill and creativity of advertising, and use it as inspiration for my art in specific locations
No room for bling blingin thugs and wack crooks
I reject the flashy and violent aspects of hip hop culture and aim to create something original through graffiti
I'm in ya face in the tunnels and at the bruise (?) spots
I make my mark in both visible and hidden locations to show the versatility and skill of graffiti art
Tobacco brown, montans, banana crylons
I use a variety of unique and high-quality spray paint brands to create my art
Stop lyin', find ya itch, mind ya b**** to kick, bad habit
I encourage aspiring graffiti artists to be honest with themselves, stay focused on their passion, and avoid harmful behavior
The autograph slaughtercrap artists laugh at man's design
I criticize the conformity and lack of creativity in commercial art, and use my graffiti to challenge societal norms
I wont stop painting 'till the world looks the way it should
Repeating my commitment to using graffiti art as a means of beautification and self-expression
I'm on a mission to make heaven look like your neighborhood
Encouraging others to see the value and beauty in graffiti art and incorporate it into their communities
Contributed by Jayden R. Suggest a correction in the comments below.
Shine Bright
I won't stop painting 'till the world looks the way it should
I'm on a mission to make heaven look like my neighborhood x2
[Verse 1]
Fuck creepin in yards, storm the gates 100 deep
Who knew these cans of true blue was heat and thunder speech
Old chicago role models was avacadoes and olives
Throwups without hangovers
Names older than God's is
Where bombing's not a hobby, it's a habit
Where addicts rappers braggin 'bout tags and dont know dick about this graf shit
Attack the metro track with fat catps for fading
Gray-greens can't wait to see Page versus Daley
Its on like lucky hoodies, what could he teach me
While you were sleeping, I'm teaching his kids, through grafitti
I have to argue, been rhyming this shit ain't hard to do
But technical advertisements on Jarvis and harbor blue
Outlined in summer squash
Dumb rock my dark attire mine's wrecked from running from cops
Hoppin barbwire while you dream of being me between clean sheets
Play the role, personality splittin' like mean streaks
No room for bling blingin thugs and wack crooks
I'm tryna king the line bring ya drugs gear and black books
I'm in ya face in the tunnels and at the brew spots
I'm on ya train insane to hit paddy wagons and rooftops
You heard of me
Burgundy and outlines like murder scenes
German greens and ferns and flat whites for blurring greens
Fuck over your heads man I'm climbing pylons
Tobacco brown montana, banana krylons
Hit the red line, headlines fuck the buff yo
For those who must know
It's been fresh blue like rusto
[Hook]
"The mic's the spray can"
"Stay true to the art."
"Simple and plain, let me explain."
"This is a mission, not a small time thing."
scratching
"The mic's the spray can"
"Stay true to the art."
"This is a mission, not a small time thing."
[Verse 2]
I remember graf before more beef then hindu-sac relig
Ay you write? fuck you, rack your fat caps from lids
Braggin' on tracks how you snap way in the day?
Masturbate to lies, I'm to busy shakin' paint rain
Sleet or snow out to rock with mission's call
Laugh at graffitti blasters
Piss on permission walls
Wrong side of the graf track with acid
3D glasses blast this shit backwards and graffitti blast the classes
After smashin vandal squads askin' what happened
I'm done rappin' colder than aspen to get your tags flipped
Beef without slabs of meat
Saggin' ya jeans
Graf fiends scream for grif dip sticks, even ya tag is weak
This is for you who choose to rock lines
And toys with red pilots rockin' stop signs, stop lyin'
Find ya niche, mine's a bitch to kick, bad habit
Language visualize, content phat
Mad graphic, pass the fat black as this cat snaps
And laugh at fashion f*g writers with a fill-in
Qwel villian, feels like writin', keep killin'
Resurrectin' heavens buildings and bulidin heavens children
[Hook]
You ain't seen a frieght train straight aim with paint stains
Or parked trucks framed in stardust brushed with fame flame
Three cans of soul: green, sand, and golden spray trucks
Names dribbled down the yard, we hit the lay-ups
Dispelling devils from high levels like it's a done job
Couldn't mimic mr.straightlines on a etch-a-sketch with one knob
Shy ills killin villians with fill-in illest noise rocks
Toy scratched bombed the way out of this pine toy box
Tag ya backpack straps it's past ya bedtime
ajcobraj
The Typical Cats make me wonder where real rap went, this is the greatest hip hop album of all time, hands down.
Ohhh Mega
NEVER LETTING THIS DIE
Rei Maximus
Ten years ago I heard this once and I still remember the lyrics
PoethicIntentions
Typical cats are lyrical beasts not many match their skills, i hope one day i can rock some shit like this of my own. Props to some of the best artists out there!
Mandy Giunti
Can't wait to hear the new TC in 2011. I love all the G4 artists. individually and collectively, the world can't handle this greatness all at once, hence why it's taken time for appreciative minds to catch the Chicago concepts and artistic brilliance. You guys blind and deafen then return sight and sound in a whole new way!! love to you all! (gonna go check out some Dirty Digital now!!)
Tyler L
Wow. Owned their LPs since 10th grades. if anyone doesn't like this they need to move away from the speakers blasting "GUNS SEX AND DRUGS."' sick lyrics, real hip hop, perfected in every way possible.
Martyn Thomas
I got bought this on vinyl 12" back in 2002 by my 1st girlfriend... literally the best gift a girl ever gave me!
Shine Bright
I won't stop painting 'till the world looks the way it should
I'm on a mission to make heaven look like my neighborhood x2
[Verse 1]
Fuck creepin in yards, storm the gates 100 deep
Who knew these cans of true blue was heat and thunder speech
Old chicago role models was avacadoes and olives
Throwups without hangovers
Names older than God's is
Where bombing's not a hobby, it's a habit
Where addicts rappers braggin 'bout tags and dont know dick about this graf shit
Attack the metro track with fat catps for fading
Gray-greens can't wait to see Page versus Daley
Its on like lucky hoodies, what could he teach me
While you were sleeping, I'm teaching his kids, through grafitti
I have to argue, been rhyming this shit ain't hard to do
But technical advertisements on Jarvis and harbor blue
Outlined in summer squash
Dumb rock my dark attire mine's wrecked from running from cops
Hoppin barbwire while you dream of being me between clean sheets
Play the role, personality splittin' like mean streaks
No room for bling blingin thugs and wack crooks
I'm tryna king the line bring ya drugs gear and black books
I'm in ya face in the tunnels and at the brew spots
I'm on ya train insane to hit paddy wagons and rooftops
You heard of me
Burgundy and outlines like murder scenes
German greens and ferns and flat whites for blurring greens
Fuck over your heads man I'm climbing pylons
Tobacco brown montana, banana krylons
Hit the red line, headlines fuck the buff yo
For those who must know
It's been fresh blue like rusto
[Hook]
"The mic's the spray can"
"Stay true to the art."
"Simple and plain, let me explain."
"This is a mission, not a small time thing."
scratching
"The mic's the spray can"
"Stay true to the art."
"This is a mission, not a small time thing."
[Verse 2]
I remember graf before more beef then hindu-sac relig
Ay you write? fuck you, rack your fat caps from lids
Braggin' on tracks how you snap way in the day?
Masturbate to lies, I'm to busy shakin' paint rain
Sleet or snow out to rock with mission's call
Laugh at graffitti blasters
Piss on permission walls
Wrong side of the graf track with acid
3D glasses blast this shit backwards and graffitti blast the classes
After smashin vandal squads askin' what happened
I'm done rappin' colder than aspen to get your tags flipped
Beef without slabs of meat
Saggin' ya jeans
Graf fiends scream for grif dip sticks, even ya tag is weak
This is for you who choose to rock lines
And toys with red pilots rockin' stop signs, stop lyin'
Find ya niche, mine's a bitch to kick, bad habit
Language visualize, content phat
Mad graphic, pass the fat black as this cat snaps
And laugh at fashion f*g writers with a fill-in
Qwel villian, feels like writin', keep killin'
Resurrectin' heavens buildings and bulidin heavens children
[Hook]
You ain't seen a frieght train straight aim with paint stains
Or parked trucks framed in stardust brushed with fame flame
Three cans of soul: green, sand, and golden spray trucks
Names dribbled down the yard, we hit the lay-ups
Dispelling devils from high levels like it's a done job
Couldn't mimic mr.straightlines on a etch-a-sketch with one knob
Shy ills killin villians with fill-in illest noise rocks
Toy scratched bombed the way out of this pine toy box
Tag ya backpack straps it's past ya bedtime
M vl
20 years already, wow. been bumping them since the ultra toy days. Espec this one and qweluioquillasims, cba to look up how to spell it. absolute legends. I bet manhattan project will stay a graff classic for a v long time, espec w the timeless flawless multis. superb
Christian Garibay
lyricism expanded my range of imagination. hip hop inspired me in ways that cant be defined with a simple explanation