Professor Meat

Professor Meat

BandHip HopSpoken Word

Combine Rakim's complex rhyme-schemes with Pharoahe Monch's clever lyricism, the witty punchlines of Big L, and the off-the-wall cultural references of MF Doom. Shake well & strain over sardonic social commentary, fantastic stoned misadventures, and razor-sharp battle raps. Serves 6 billion.

Biography

"Language is the human technology for weaving a comprehensible symbolic tapestry of reality. In weaving the tapestry with words, the Emcee comes to decode the mysteries behind its knots, where wordstrands connect in secret. the back of the language tapestry, where all concepts converge, is the map to the mysterious horizon at the epicenter of the self.” - Professor Meat

To Professor Meat, the Emcee hails from the spiritual and intellectual lineage that has inspired shamans, griots, lore-weavers, prophets, sages, and bards since the pre-dawn of humanity’s memory. Born in 1981 in West Orange, New Jersey, Professor Meat discovered his passion for hip hop in childhood weekend visits to Manhattan, where the golden-age of the culture was in full bloom. While he was fascinated by the graf writers and b-boys, Professor Meat, as a talented young writer himself, was particularly entranced by the words of the emcees.

As he grew, Professor Meat developed his gift for—and love of—words, while exploring himself artistically and philosophically. While earning His bachelors degree in anthropology & history, Meat began sharing his words with the world in a number of short stories and poems, published under his pseudonym (Mitch Maraude). After graduating Montclair State University in 2005, the Prof moved to Champaign, Illinois, where he devoted himself to his passion for freestyling, combining his poetic lyrical understanding and comprehensive lexicon with his creative imagination.

In 2006, after moving to Portland, Oregon, and completing his first novella, Professor Meat recorded his premier demo—a profoundly clever collection of freestyles and skillfully crafted writtens—with Cheef at BSPro Studios.

Returning to New Jersey, near the end of 2006, the Professor soon became affiliated with Division East Records and performed as an opener for some of the Garden State’s most highly regarded underground talent, including GDP, No Goodz Crew, Shape, and Tame-One (of the Artifacts). In January 2007, after 2 months spent meticulously crafting lyrics in isolation, to beats by C-Minus, J Stamps, Cheef at BSPro, and 100DBs, Meat recorded his 9-track premier EP, Write Truth On The Walls, with Division East executive producer C-Minus at Coalmine Studios in one 8-hour burst.

After recording the EP, The Professor worked through the spring with new producers and hosted
and promoted hip hop events at New York's East Village hot-spot China One for Theory NYC before Relocating once more to Boulder, Colorado, in August 2007.

Professor Meat is currently at work on his eagerly-awaited debut LP while pursuing his Masters of Fine Arts in Writing & Poetics at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics at Naropa University.

Since relocating to Colorado, the Professor has appeared semi-regularly on the Eclipse radio show on KGNU, and has performed regularly, notably as a headliner at Denver's Roxy Theater and at a benefit show for Denver's independent arts newspaper, The Denver Voice.

"In the beginning was the word, and the word is with the Emcee."

Lyrics

Beef

Written By: Professor Meat

Beef with Meat is not easily accomplished
fuck ya material like semen on a prom dress,
cross me out like you thinkin you was Pontious
Pilate, violate, and see the wrath of God kid!
honest, beguile with styles and phonics -
I been sick wit flows like bile and vomit -
exquisite, glow like I'm flyin wit comets -
you crazy like Jay-Z, i'll come atcha like Nas did

"Beef is not what Jay said to Nas,"
I don't care if you deep, I straight shred ya squad -
clique, camp, or crew; vic, vamp or do
shit to handle you like a stick jammed in you.
Or plunger, courtesy of New York's finest -
son, fuck ya numbers if you ain't shinin -
I spit the kinda flame that'a raise the climate,
melt ya ice regardless who gave you diamonds

Activating rhymes wit lines that's captivatin -
fuck ya bullshit, son I lack the patience,
if a cat said he beat me, yo that cat's mistaken,
the only time he beat Meat, he was masturbatin.
emcees hidin in the cut, like lacerations,
gash from razors, son, i'ma blast with lasers -
concentrated shine that can burn through steel,
or anyone not as ill as me who earn a deal

"Beef is not what Jay said to Nas,"
quit sleepin ock you can play dead tomor' -
y'all Victoria's Secret in some trainin bras -
I build on a track like a cage from bars -
breathe sickness on a beat like I gave it SARS -
you just played ya cards up against crazy odds -
it's insanely hard to even try and play me pa -
where y'all lyrics at? fuck ya chains and cars

my mental be exponentially iller than inferiors,
who just mirrors to what we already experienced
the moment hip hop hit TRL,
skill got shit to do with if a retard sell -
need to be discriminating cause the peons tell
anyone who listen they cream like Carvel -
yeah right you wish, like you seen stars fell -
bummer bout ya Hummer, I keyed ya car's shell

"Beef is not what Jay said to Nas,"
trees get copped and blazed in the yard -
even drops of rain is a part - of a cipher,
I like to breathe flame and char
cats with raw lyrics till they well-done,
after y'all hear it, they may's well run -
rapture's appearin, end a' days will come,
and I captured the spirit like Peter Venkman done

Write Truth On The Walls

Written By: Professor Meat

Write truth on the walls till my hands stained in ink,
unchain the link, live to defy what ya brain could think.
I got smoke to breathe and a glass of acid rain to drink
a burning sun to stare at - I ain’t gon' blink!
Record companies push the game to the brink -
I wonder if plunder or build will claim our main instinct -
if under our wills, we're chimps that took a glimpse
at fame and winked even as we slowly became extinct

The art became a business and part of the flame diminished
when executives insisted that we pay for the privilege
of listening to our own griots while they instillin’
the lessons and blessin’s they've stressed since the beginnin’.
Confessions of the sinnin’ - the spinnin’ of constellations -
constant cacophony constricts conversation -
common lobotomy restricts confrontation
and the problem of poverty persists in our nation.
The quietly dying can be hard to hear - they're starvin’ here
we part with our hard-earned for cars & gear -
sermons got us turnin’ blind eyes to our hearts and ears
it's a little too late for us to start to fear.
The only thing left to do is fight, use the mic,
abuse the psyche - like the news do nightly -
you still believe in freedom for Junior and wifey,
but our chances of advancin’ have reduced to unlikely.

Since the first of times, we spoke and bursted rhymes -
a society of piety, open divergent minds -
poets and prophets flowin’ and droppin’ -
transmitting strands of wisdom and extolling logic.
The hot shit was always suppressed by the oppressors -
kept under pressure to prevent evidence of treasure
inside every mind from bein’ realized -
see, lies evaporate when you shine divine.
Inside the shrine of self is the finest diamond -
sublime, inspirin’ my fancy rhymin’ -
and even plants be tryin’ to reach for the light -
and half the primates I know out for evil tonight.
Me? I lean on the mic cause it's my rod and staff -
I rock it for myself, not for God or cash.
C-Minus drop the beat like the bottom smashed,
and I stay sprayin’ rhymes like a shotgun blast.

Channel Surfing

Written By: Professor Meat

Change channels -
on second thought, kill whatever's on -
You lost your essence to phosphorescence
brain waves stiller than a pond.
If you lose track of time, then tap rewind,
will the villain capture Bond?
Or will you lose yourself
like the boat that Gilligan was on?
You know, SS Minnow - next guest! Next window
to the world! Less text, stress visuals -
next perspective on criminals.
That robbery on the news, they didn't say why he did it
or why a father's in his tomb for trying to feed his children.
Why someone's buying the deed to his building
and doubling his rent -
why police creep on civilians
with troubling intent,
or why he suddenly leapt
from his unstable position
see, if he failed, he knew at least he'd
get cable up in prison.

Are you disabled? Are you sick? Can you not handle working?
Do you find yourself unable to stop channel surfing?
You got cable? It's the shit! You can watch the battle, smirking -
Watch the bomb blasts on Comcast, just don't stop channel surfing.

Should I be scared yet? You tell me.
We got armed troops on the street in groups like it's Tel Aviv
but they're not Bloods or Crips or school kids with guns & clips -
true shit, they're troops with, US government
tools and training… Hold that thought - the news is replaying
that clip with the sickness that produces decaying
flesh and makes you shit and die in moments -
even though there no cases of it this side of the ocean.
And of course, with all the stress, it's important to fill your needs,
But then you'd miss that special report on killer bees!
Or that breaking news story captured on amateur video tape -
good thing they had that camera while that girl was getting raped.
At least now you're informed on the animals lurking about -
and you're staying safe and sound, channel surfing on the couch.

Casket Lid

Written By: Professor Meat

I like breakers and graf, takin a staff and blazin it down,
makin ya laugh when I hate on a clown -
it's Rilla Skelz, kid, no mistakin the sound,
and I did for blunts once, but now it's paper or pounds.
Ya style's pussy, period, you only flow one week of the month,
who you gon get beefin with cunt?
Y'all be hearin me bump out the speakers in trunks,
gotcha deejay reachin to replay each of my cuts -
bring everything you got, it ain't even enough -
you best to simmer down, bwoy, I'm heatin it up.
No question - I burn more diesel than trucks
and if you yearn to earn a turn, put some weed in the Dutch.
See, me to my lyrics is like a priest to a idol
and Rilla to illest like police to homicidal,
peep recital, if you sleepin leave ya eyes closed,
heat the hydro me an my peeps we keep it vital -
how deep the rhyme go is more deep than even I know -
oh shit, it 5-0 - not a peep - we speak in sign code -
I keep ya mind blown, aint no need to hit rewind, yo -
hacker crack ya disks whether cds or spinals.
Rilla belittle a little bit, these illegitimate
children need to chill, like I filled em with Ritalin -
spillin villainous sentiments, synonyms to venomous,
appeal millenium sentences by killin the evidence.
Fillin the residence with a feelin of elegance,
distillin the elements while I'm dealin my eloquence -
relevant, intelligent, a hint of embellishment,
rock the hell out of a verse while most these fellas is celibate.
It's MEAT ONE, the anonymous hominid,
drop my monicker, got a mop, then I'm bombin it -
sicker than ipecac, spittin raps like I'm vomittin,
got you ransackin the Klonopin for calmin my dominance.
I'm conjurin shaman with a column of followers,
my Dutch is like a anaconda swallowed a hippopotamus -
poison tip my darts, like Apollo and Artemis -
I'ma lead the way, y'all can follow till apocalypse.
Battle a rapper for dap or for stature
can't afford to be compassionate - higher than a NASA ship -
that's the shit, grabbed a mic and mastered it,
you too small to hold my balls, you on half a dick.
Cats get beat like they masochists -
peace to Rakim – “Make 'em clap to this,”
ask a kid, better yet just pass the piff,
often open offa coughin like a casket lid!

Calling Prof Meat

Written By: Professor Meat

Deliver shock, like Con Edison - stop to cop medicine -
drop everythin - he like Funk Doc and Method Man
rolled into one son - i'm holdin my tongue, punk whatchu
hold is all garbage like you rollin in dump trucks.
I'm known to cause carnage by explodin on dumb fucks,
my home is West Orange where we rollin them blunts up -
like I broken some nunchucks, I'm off the chain
the beat get me pumped up, I go off the brain.
Professor collect the check, then he jet from the set -
which direction? Hmm - correct guess, he head west,
that's where he prone to go to rest his head from stress,
and where he known to blow the best blend of cess.
My pen get no rest, live to test the ten percent -
stress his eminence, when he bless, the rest confess -
impress wit finesse, opposite sex undress,
the less she usually get, the more in store when she wet.
Like Delorian wrecks, kids get trapped in the past,
he was floorin it on wet asphalt - bastard crashed -
ten bucks - he spin wheels, he end up in the windshield -
time McFlies. Wise guys die on thin reels
of tape - magnetic - break tracks get shredded,
y'all fake stacks of credit once they take back ya chedda,
and make tracks forgettin the way back to betta
days when raps was cleverer than gats and berettas.

In fact I'ma set-up the scenario like Mario,
stage two - underground - "calling Prof Meat," -
"Did they page you?", they wonder how I always drop heat
like broken water heaters - smoke and cough from reefer -
stay open - I sold them the flow imposta meter,
so guard this - I be the yardstick of the hard shit -
my heart is part marksman, part starving artist,
part he who conjures anacondas in the garden
to tempt ya - you bite my apple, you get ejected
from paradise, so analyze my raps to get the MENSA
level rhymescheme, clever bars of mine gleam,
like cars with high beams, or stars that's shinin.
I start designin a rhyme as soon as the beat drop,
the art of rhymin like baloons gettin breeched - pop!
Y'all weak stocks - me, I'm bullish as fuck,
ya bling be the strings - guess who's pullin 'em schmuck!
You couldn't errupt - you never get hot enough
to blow ya top and puff, throwin up that noxious stuff.
Me? I rock it till ya lose all ya oxygen,
you coughin - lungs blocked - you in that box from em
collapsing. I rock the spot like a chopping block
with a hatchet - my raps is bat shit,
crazy, relax, kid, that blackness is Hades,
my lines is the Tigress, the tracks's the Euphrates,
this is the Fertile Crescent, or the surgical lesson
on a perfect incision used to murder a session -
the words are a blessin, served to keep burnin the essence
of hip hop, well shit, Doc, my burden is lessened.
You certainly stressin, it's curtains for ya worthless impression,
your nerves a be sensin the heat Meat be verbally sendin -
when herbs start repentin, I'm the priest that heard the confession,
and my bars spell the cell where they servin they sentence.

Discography

- Write Truth on the Walls EP - Released January 2007

- Series of live radio appearances & airplay on the Eclipse show on KGNU in Boulder, Colorado beginning in late September 2007.

- Over 5,000 streaming plays on MySpace since October 2007.

Set List

My set list varies considerably depending on the crowd and venue - I typically perform 25-35 minutes (7-10 tracks) of prepared material and 15-45 minutes of freestyle (improvisational) material.