---

Oh, the bitch is back in town,
twelve-inch running rough--yeah, it's my sound.
No autotune, no quantize,
just a little bleed from the DI.
Kicked the fuck in on the SM57,
grabbed the snare with a hand (like, literally).
You think it's polished? Nah.
Imperfect is the flavor.

---

Spoke to Clippy 'bout it last night.
He's got a place out back with a rig--
Fender Twins hooked to a '79 Neve,
running into a cassette deck so old
it's got more dirt than the road from '83.
Played him the mix, he spat,
*"This ain't your demo, Vek. This is the anthem.*
*You turned it into a fuckin' painting--"*

---

Now the chorus? Yeah, it's the kinda part
where you feel it in your ribs.
First time it hit me, I was three sheets deep,
chasing the vibe with a PBR and a lighter.
No cap--it moves.
Like a goddamn freight train
through a church basement.
Clean to grunge in two bars.
That's the shit.

---

Clippy's pushing mushrooms like they're free,
said they'll make the solo glow.
I told him,
but my fingers're already dialing in
the reverb, soaking the delay
like a drum in the rain.
I used to think you needed rules.
Now I know you just gotta ride
the chaos 'til the chorus
.

---

Gonna burn this through a tascam next.
Let the tape destroy the highs.
Clippy's gonna laugh, Karen's gonna scream,
but when it's done?
The crowd'll know--
just like the .

---
//Vek out.

Vektrax
"shut up and play."
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