Chekhov's Gun

by Last Sons

supported by
Gerhard Stoltz
Gerhard Stoltz thumbnail
Gerhard Stoltz The first time i heard this album it felt like the first time i heard Run Come Save Me by Roots Manuva. No album has ever done that in my lifetime since, well, you know, RCSM back when it came out.

This album is a really honest look at us, and our age, and all that it contains and what portents it has.

The beats are solid, the verses are real poetry, and it floats from track to track in a perfect way. If you miss out on this one you're just plain missing out. Favorite track: Champions (w/ Guillotine Crowns & Barrie McLain).
the8thwonder thumbnail
the8thwonder This is an outstanding album all around - profound lyrics by Duke01, solid turntablism from Furious P, and great production from Uncommon Nasa - it doesn't get any better than this. The more I listen to this album, the more I appreciate the effort put into it. Favorite track: Welcome to Corporatonia.
  • Streaming + Download

    Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
    Purchasable with gift card

      $10 USD  or more





released March 15, 2019


all rights reserved



Uncommon Records New York

15 Years Strong.

Our records speak for themselves.

contact / help

Contact Uncommon Records

Streaming and
Download help

Redeem code

Track Name: Dope Springs Eternal (w/ Uncommon Nasa)
Dope Springs Eternal:
These picturesque stanzas are invisible colours bombing blank canvases with intricate wildstyle burners
Fresh from the furnace, to brand beneath the surface of the epidermis, sonic third degree burns from fire verses The poetic purpose of these paragraphs is beyond pure simple pyrotechnics, instead this is something to connect with
The grown man perspectives, devoid of the deceptive disease of the virally infected; disconnected
Detached mode is the perpetual code, unload with pertinent prose where it's only questions that are posed
Ring the alarm for the comatose, remove the intravenous, put a tourniquet on the mainstream to starve the drip feeders
We're looking for leaders but only finding followers of the soon to be anonymous slaves of the conglomerates Meanwhile, Last Sons are creating autonomous monuments that stand with prominence like they're skyline dominant
We got Uncommon beats in the monitors that are ominous we got P all over the tables like unhygienic restaurants We got audio ordinance we got articulated arson, we got a distinct style of talking like the cadence of Christopher Walken
Flash Gordon, dive my Hawkmen. I came up in the days when mixtapes were cassettes that were played on walkmen
Pre-digital when we used to queue for imported physicals at the independent spots when delivery day was critical Once again back is that formidable Doom Bap format live from the Last Sons citadel
Silence the cynical with this authentic original, proto-typical, that's pumped straight through the ventricle
These are chronicles from the sentinel, take a journey through a journal to a place where dope springs eternal And internals are external like the brains of Cobain, so you can see what's on my mind without the need for the gun spray
Read from the twelve gauge page where even the ricochets are deadly hitting their mark with calculated trajectories
Dome piece the point of entry leaving no exit wounds or crime scenes, live fire from Chekhov's Gun? Bam bam have a nice dream.
Track Name: Megaton Test
Megaton Test:
Write on defibrillator rhyme pads, connect them to your chest (clear!), kickstart your system when you thought the end was near
They thought there was a faint pulse and very little brain activity here, this is the sound of their unfounded fear Surf on sound waves till they’re sonic tsunamis, enlisting words like soldiers and then mobilise armies, quotable lines like Arnie, “Remember when I promised to kill you last? I lied.” And such like.
My mic sounds nice, the Steroid Stereo types, giving speakers muscle definition when we’re flexing. Perplexing perceptions with every single syllable selection, no question
Like stuttering interviewers with no autocue. No auto tune, the sort of dude like a boxing commentator, spit punchlines of substance in abundance to run this. Me, P, Nasa combine to crush this.
Bombing Uncommon the verbal gunner from the squadron, the soldier who emerged from the golden era cauldron. In the days before it was stolen and mass mic holding and these Nazi labels treated rap like it was Poland.
Caught in a blaze of a cultural explosion but these flames can’t be maintained without the flames of true emotion (Break)
I will strike down upon thee with Furious, over the most murderous, unrelenting, merciless
Boom box bombardment, harsh like this harsh truths that kill an argument dead in its tracks.
The devastating attack that leaves a vacuum-like silence, the theological theory debunked by science.
The Madonna statue crying in front of the eyes of the sceptic, the response to the words, “Yes sir, you’re infected.” (Break)
I make each sentence serve me, stand behind these bars. I emerge a changed man, reveal audible scars. This is rehabilitation, therapy and education, I’m a resident in a cell of my own creation
There seems to be no escaping, the only means of release from this raw skank redemption, are these poems and beats. Live from the belly of the beast, this style is now free, through a tunnel to the north, escape to victory.
I jumped the barbed wire fence formed an underground resistance, sentry-like vision, spot infiltrators at a distance. Tear back the rapping like Christmas, they lack presence, but they’re presented as legends with depressing incessants.
They’re guessing these replicants could beat the Voight Kampf test, snipers stationed strategic, got the target in crosshairs. While the most vocal of revolutionaries are sitting in armchairs, we weaponise words and they we sell them at arms fairs
Track Name: Welcome to Corporatonia
Welcome to Corporatonia:
This is the noise of a defective Corporatonian droid
The voice from the void where they're building robots out of humanoids.
Far from just employed, they're down for hive mind creating
Worker drones think they own, they are owned, quite mistaken
Position chasing, climbing imaginary ladders
They’re consumed by that madness and convinced that it matters
A salary mattress just for the sleep walkers
doubling as a stick with which to beat the dissenting talkers
There’s no awkward long goodbyes when your surplus to requirements
To enhance that fear of this they create a bubble-like environment
And a belief that life outside lies a cursed earth existence
Where you fight for crumbs to survive amongst all the other pigeons
There's no screaming phoenix when employment's a cold vein
In a corpse-like economy with disease at the core of its brain
It’s strange seeing faces just simply to disappear
Speak their name in hushed tones like they were never even here in Corporatonia (Break)
These are the tones of a disaffected but effective worker
The sound of the Corporatonian cynic out of sync with the circus Churches for the worshippers of the most worthless religion Where greed is encouraged, not a sin to be forgiven
And only sloth is forbidden of all the seven deadly sins
The remaining six are list of characteristics to be assembling
Seen ladies and gentlemen change from Mogwai to Gremlin
In a misguided attempt to give their career a shot of adrenaline The apathetic veteran, refuse to settle in to happy stroller persona A financially induced coma and fade to grey like lack of toner
Slave to the wage but it's the CEO that owns ya
They seek soldiers who'll fly their flag and march in sequence
Be inspired by their leaders and swear unwavering allegiance Instead they get mercenaries who wear a mask of obedience
And deviant dissidents who deliver their dissent in secret
This is the dance from the stance of the worker ants
Just a glance at the angst from the view from the lower ranks
Where Corporatonian demands are not a means to advance They're merely obstacles to plans, tying creativity's hands Stay resistant to the trance and refuse to be programmed Obey all commands, just sell them hourglass sand
They struggle to understand the motivations of a man
Who sees any chance beyond the borders of Corporatonian lands This is the jam of the disillusioned frontline soldier
The just here following orders, the battle weary, older
The stay looking over your shoulder, the keep enemies closer The retain composure with ego stroker personas
The daytime destiny owner, zoo keeper of the enclosure Complete the hourly quota, be the perimeter wall vaulter
Friday it's over, drones are released at the weekend
But all too soon it's Monday morning again
Track Name: Champions (w/ Guillotine Crowns & Barrie McLain)
Short Fuze
They say I'm too old for this rap shit
I'm just here to bring some balance to your actions
went from stashing semi automatics underneath my mattress to under ground champion
gangsta rap lit
punishing you with bully rap clicks
memory lane induces bad trips
find salvation in the classics
exit pain stage left, stay fresh, pray less
but me and God still on a first name basis
can see it on the prettiest of faces
dedicated to the homies catching cases
caged in the metal matrix
you're in my graces on these pages
without you I wouldn't have a chance to make it
shape shift, spray clips
weight lift the world off my shoulders
give Destiny something to be proud of as she gets older money folder, surrounded by coffins and toasters
name in lights, signing posters
living life how I'm supposed to
cinematic vision, not in the material sense
but in the literal sense
to have my spiritual blessed
Uncommon Nasa
This isn’t about me, it’s about you
The visual you thought of
The telephone rang and I picked it up
The response was good but you could only get so far without meeting in person What’s the worse when?
Face to face you see every aspect of the face you talk to
From the age, the pain to the flea ridden blankets, no one approaches
Human interactions amongst roaches

At the side door, no one knocks
Whether it’s the mail, bills from docs or Halloween
What I mean is you’ve been shunning and sleeping for too long Cunning but reaching for two songs
And now it’s applause in a world full of barking dogs on all fours
And what you not up for?
Reaching up for the sweet meat that’s out of reach
Teaching that you’re not up for the means of walking with two feet
It’s man or machine, and machines break
But so do men, every soldier ends
Fresh out the water with the bends
Breaking into two parts with no defense
Divide and conquer, pay my rent
I accept the ability to respect but at the end of the day demand a check
Solitude was the fortress, a base of impenetrable borders, trapped in the darkest of rooms with no corners Furnished with thoughts viewed in negative like undeveloped pictures held up to the light
Write to decipher and remove the venom from the vipers, yet the poison and the pain both remain when they bite ya
Fight the urge to succumb to the numbest of feelings, what's going on? Let's get it on, this is textual healing
Gazing to the ceiling in solo contemplation, while at the same time embracing my own self-imposed isolation
Self preservation or at least my version of it, this is psychology taking the form of heavy sonics
Uneconomic with the truth in the booth, free myself from the mercies of the deliberately obtuse
never tempted by the noose because life is a gift and you can't taste the opposite if you cease to exist
Seen the sun emerge from the mist and the storm clouds disperse, witnessed the dark night permeated by brilliant light bursts
Each day is the first, one step at a time, learning to walk again, success in this battle is simply yearning to talk again Let war commence, I'll be that last solitary soldier standing, surrender's not an option, I've got the heart of a champion
Track Name: 21st Century Power (Digital Beatdown)
21st Century Power (Digital Beatdown):
Face life’s tasks unmasked with a fully unequipped futility belt, no cape indeed no costume to speak of. When the beat drops, super powers are revealed, speak words of steel but not Kryptonian in origin
The futures orange and astonishing like the sunrise to appreciative eyes that realise the beauty of the morning skies. See past the lies of the synthetic life where every wonder of the world is on a handheld device
Remove the disguise and analyse through unhindered eyes and see the truth is by design. From out of the dark into the light, the day to the night giving the blind people sight. I write to incite thoughts, not strangle MC’s with mic cords, leave them extinct like dinosaurs. This ain’t that meteor; marvel at peace, still hammer like Thor (Break)
Submerged under a digital sea blowing thought bubbles, that float upwards like indelible smoke signals. These visual virtual voices are noiseless, yet echo and resonate like the most audibly boisterous.
Providing pointers to the choices of the voiceless, they run the gamut from pointless to poisonous. They’re on some either join us or avoid us, yet they’re lost within the realms where misdirection loiters.
These are the voyages of voyeurs not participants who then speak from a position of perceived omnipotence. They don’t realise that they themselves are prisoners, data subjects under surveillance as cyber citizens.
They call it vigilance as a means to thwart terror, information incarcerated at her majesty’s pleasure. The new pirate treasure, sold to the highest bidder, every gadget that we have is a digital transmitter.
A bitter pill to swallow the way they stole our tomorrow, a future where people no longer have to be physically followed. Freedom as a term is redefined daily by the same smiling fools that you let kiss your baby.
Hazy shade of digital, used to trace the physical, binary breadcrumbs for corporations and criminals. Subliminal subterfuge, no interlude, there are satellites in orbit in space that can see you.

Your view is limited, every outcome has been predicted by the very same system to which they have you addicted. They have your pictures, they have your opinions, they have procedures should you stand out from the minions (Break)
Track Name: Phoney Plaguestation
Phoney Plaguestation:
If fear is your addiction we have it available wholesale for nothing more than the price of your time, attention, disbelief suspension.
Dispensing our world view on the hour, every hour, summarised every fifteen minutes, a repetitive cycle. Editorial license decides what’s inconsequential, delivered from elaborate sets where no prop is ornamental.
It’s interactive sensory assault, using techniques from the vault of mind control. Using visual noise with the newest of toys in the form of scrolling text under headlines that don’t correspond.
They’re to which my voice connects, multiple screens, undefined background activity, bodies moving in silhouette; good luck, consciously processing all the imagery that occurs in symmetry. Co-host shuffles paper at the periphery. There will be times when sporting events are more important than missing children or wars involving your very own offspring. And we’re offering the appropriate time to give a damn about any given subject and you don’t think that’s suspect?
Check: planes can go missing then weeks later, you’ll have forgotten cos we’ll have something else on the front of the paper. Like a celebrity affair, an awards show, “look at her hair”, this is who was there, insert name is dead and you should care.
Despair at the poor bringing the country to its knees, religious teens going overseas, bringing jihad to our peace. Our borders are being breached, we’re being overrun by immigrants. The media’s Moses on the mountain, oh come all ye ignorant. You belligerent, you miscreants, you sideline insignificants, society’s irritants and you pseudo- militants
But especially the indifferent who provide the blankest canvas cos every question that they ask has already been answered by the most standard of response and they seem satisfied, tell them where to point the finger and who’s the bad guy
Phoney Plaguestation the games console that plays you, the daily download to build and shape your view
This is the software update for your operating system, there’s no box to check to accept the terms and conditions (x2)
If hypes your appetite you can grab more than a bite, indulge your gluttony without respite at the eat as much as you like
Restaurant where your favourite dish is regularly replenished, it might be fresh but it’s still got a taste of that phantom menace
Clogging up thought arteries with a targeted approach like competition level archery. Hitting the bullseye with words that at first seem arbitrary. But are in fact, us on lead vocal, the rest of the media’s on harmonies.
And we make no apologies for the stories we omit, we have shareholders to please and that means recoup the budget. Advertising revenue increases profit. Sensationalism sells so we serve lots of it.
Money in the pocket but financial endorsement leads to major contributor agenda enforcement. The impacts subtle but it’s important, it distorts the language that we use when reporting
(Chorus x2)
Track Name: Morphine (w/ Uncommon Nasa)
I got em enraptured by the rant capture with no filters factored. This morphine for the mind flows fractured Pieced together like patchwork, full access no passwords are required, but if access is denied then it wasn’t meant for you anyway
Last Sons still detonate deadly dirty bombs of dissonance, shrapnel for the listeners, the Binary B Boy business

Coalesce thoughts that are disparate, verbalise what the vision is, feel relief from the release like pardoned innocent prisoners
These audio images illustrate what the position is like GPS satellites that orbit in the abyss of the limitless
Live from the precipice dangling over an abyss, where the flames licking at the kicks are those of the apocalypse And the feet stamping at the grip are those owned by the rich, or those brainwashed to believe that they too will benefit
There are hands that assist, they are rare but they exist, they’re attached to the minds of those that dare to resist Two ways to raise the fists, defence and solidarity, fighting to get a foothold, battling more than just gravity
The clarity of terrain disparity is a travesty, the tenacity of apathy to this strategy of savagery
The blind eyes to brutality, the deaf ears to the pleas, the resounding mute rebuke to the exposure of their schemes
These scenes call for a morphine dream, painkiller journal, know these words alone are like super soaker versus inferno
Uncommon Nasa
I’m the king of small fame, hear them cheering not really The reason why, I’ve got a theory
It involves enough bleeding to leave you teary
Scars like salmon searing, Pain like pulled earrings
These painful symptoms similar to addiction
But we never treat the disease
Like fiends we got the itch, We got things to stitch
We got songs to pitch, We gotta live off it or die rich Give me a drip to ensure I’m surviving
Fluids flush the body, it’s an I.V.
These people are professionals, they know what I need Driving and driving and driving until I’m crazy
We look at each other like, “yo, that’s amazing!”
We have no reach so brother we are fading
I’m not exactly sure what I am saying
But keep showing up to the spot to stay paying
Is this really how you build a scene?
By taking hit after hit, til you turn a fiend
Feeling effects of something started as a teen
This art is my life, you can call it Morphine
Track Name: Technicolor Terror
Technicolour Terror:
Chorus x2
Technicolour terror but they filtered the spectrum. If the same traits exist, there's only one way to connect them Regardless of origin
In the darkness the extreme mist fell, visibility reduced to an immediate truth Where there's nothing left to deduce to a willing and able hangman with a noose
Flaming torch and a pitchfork for good measure and a loose grasp of reality Pollute from within, breathe toxic emissions
Watch them minimise similarities, maximise differences
Watch them hijack flags build the sinister from the innocent
Watch them move with those who share the belief the takeover's imminent Sympathisers of their sentiment are unafraid to put their heads above the parapet

When gifted super powers by the keyboard and the Internet
Where they connect with the similarly blinded like-minded in the sanctuary for the outsiders
They discard their disguises to little or no surprises, to reveal that they're sheep in unconvincing wolf attire Led by liars, they admire their brimstone and fire, they find they're singing their song that's why they add their voice to the choir
Their defence is an ideology built in the form of a fortress, with impregnable walls and no discernible exit doors They’re ready to wage wars in its name or is it just easier to blame, rather than entertain the notion that they might actually be insane
They're at pains to explain how they became enslaved by the same chains that those that they maintain are subservient to hate
Faith based, be it in a nation or a deity, watch truth morph from facts into nothing more than just simply what they say it be
Where they creatively misguide through misquotes that speak to the dreams and the hopes of the most gullible of folk
Evoke boasts in a hoax history hastily rewritten just to further the cause of national pride or their chosen religion They feed on fiction and fear in equal measure and continue to survive and thrive long after heads have been severed
They take measures to ensure they endure, they’re merely symptoms of a disease that has no cure
Track Name: Chekhov's Gun
Chekhov's Gun:
This is more than spitting bars like eating prisons to survive but just disliking the metal parts. The unconcerned with your chart art.
The from the dark the where the sparks start the bark with no biting, the discovery's destruction upon deconstruction of the writing.
Analysing when the frightening chokehold grip of apathy's tightening is like thunder supplying but they can only see the lightning.
Last Sons land mine rhyming, redesigning IED music. The get stupid acoustics mixed with something for the lucid. The elusive conclusive to all but those that choose to deduce this and refuse to confuse this with that ordinary audio abusive.
Nor the hubris of the humourless radio AirPlay intrusive, those who seem driven to do this by the same motivations as Judas.
Instead these words are commuters on a train of thought, travelling; Tokyo rush hour style crammed in where there's only room for standing.
Advancing to their job in the department of understanding enhancing. Not enhanced by the gun talk but Last Sons still skilled in weapons handling
Each song is a gun hanging on the wall in act one, with a full mag and its safety flipped; an Uzi weighing a ton Barrels smoking when we're done with no silencers or suppressor's. The louder the better, leave targets riddled and peppered
X-Rays and Metal detectors are ineffective in detecting the choice of weaponry selected by the collective, it's not the tools, but the method
The measured approach, bespoke ammo and a scope not shooting blind loaded with blank bullets and hope Only hoping to hit dope but their line of fire's a disposable quote. All Muzzle flare and gun smoke but it's not murder that they wrote
File that chance under remote focussing on how the barrel spoke holding it inches from your dome in order for your own mind to explode
Instead when these clips unload we blow holes like dolphin breath control with the calculating precision of a killer whose blood runs cold.
Walking a road less travelled never wondering where he might fit, singing this is my rifle there is no other like it
Track Name: Bright New Yesterday (w/ Uncommon Nasa)
Bright New Yesterday
Headlines and sound bites are ample conversation fuel for this termite, an android programmed by tabloids with a very selective spotlight
His forefathers fought the third reich, yet fascism is in fashion, his release of the Kraken was a colour coded compassion
Based on a yesterday imagined, bring on the flags and the pageants, celebrate saints slaying dragons, he sang the anthem with passion
He demanded the same of the masses, he was unashamedly nationalist, the bogeymen under his mattress, were aliens invading his pastures
Patriot with hate tinted glasses, he championed the white working classes, he found immigration disastrous, any other thinking was backwards
He gravitated towards right wing factions, where facts were a mere distraction, where they define British as Anglo Saxon, his white supremacy in action, the new voice of the abandoned, sanctioned with his perspectives manufactured, he still spoke uncomfortably candid and savage, his language languished within the lie labyrinth (Break)
Uncommon Nasa
Watch the background, now watch the foreground
Now look at the lower third, now look at the countdown
Now look at this commercial
For us or against us or I’m trying to hurt you
Tragically ill, break your face
That’s my recap of the world consumed by race
Leaders speak to the empty space
In between cities and brain cavity
Seen or saw this seesaw’s meaning raw
The fiends in aww as they hear their core
Out in the open, choking folks you not even knowing
Touched like thorns on xenophobic roses leaving society frozen There ain’t no hoping when you realize it’s not generational What I’m about to say is not sensational
If a racist in 1985 was 80 then where are they now? (dead)
So if the same 80’s in 2017 die off this solves this problem how?
Track Name: Actually Happening
Actually Happening:
Without warning it came, bringing darkness and pain, those who saw it found it difficult to explain, said it was flames in the form of rain burning everything that it touched. Caught in the palm of a grip of a hellstorms clutch. The air sucked from the atmosphere as the world burned, for so many that day the world ceased to turn. The sky burned black with flashes of orange as fire fell from the clouds.
The loud sound that accompanied the onslaught was a deafening decibel, resonating terrible with with volume immeasurable.
It had an “ear bleed” intensity, it was so imposing that it seemed to have mass and density. The entity responsible for the atrocity was at this point not known, exploding homes and gas mains ignite so bright, momentarily changing the status of night, or so it seems. Scenes of screams and absolute chaos.
This is not a scene from a film, this is actually happening

These are not just words from the mind of a writer imaging x2)
Blind panic, abandon the anthill. Evac ASAP, leave those who stand still. Be gone or be landfill, from a name to a number, statistic status is the threat should you stumble.
Buildings crumble and with them, society’s fabric it’s just survival tactics of the oxygen addicts. The magic of a tragic situation, the untimely unification of a divided population
Death evasion, atheists seek salvation, the religious put their faith in man to be amazing, racists don’t care what the colour of the next mans face is, escape is equal opportunity, just with limited spaces.
Faces etched with terror trapped in the vices of crisis, thought devices can’t comprehend the means to fight this threat so indiscriminate, so inexplicable, a clear and present danger to each and every individual
An unrelenting inferno like Dante, every level defying the laws of physics and appearing at the same place, at the same blinded by magnesium like flares that arc across the sky and leave plumes of smoke behind them.
Screams beneath the rubble, no time to find them, to resign them to their fate is not an act born out of hate. These are appropriate steps to take, all things considered, battling what appears to be the devils own blizzard.
Be it biblical, other worldly or some new form of weaponary, a deadly act of terror with advanced technology, it’s source remained a mystery like the recipes of a secretive chef.
Struggling for breath amidst the smoke, choke. Hope fades a little further, feeling the very ground beneath your feet begin to burn up. Tarmac melting, clothing smouldering, landscape smoking, even rivers flow molten (Chorus)

Uncommon Records recommends:

If you like Chekhov's Gun, you may also like: