WHO'S IN THE RECORD?

Name: WHO'S IN THE RECORD?
Duration: 297 s
Description: WHO'S IN THE RECORD? by mBaileyz. From park cords and two turntables to a feed full of masks — a roll call of who actually told the truth on tape. "Who's in the record now?"

Somebody, Or A Costume?

From park cords and two turntables to a feed full of masks — a roll call of who actually told the truth on tape. "Who's in the record now?"

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WHO'S IN THE RECORD? lyrics

Artist-supplied lyric sheet, matched by title. The sheet may differ from this released performance. Production notes and alternate promotional cuts are omitted.

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Intro

Before the face, before the fame, somebody had to say their name.

Verse 1

Bronx heat, park cord, two tables on a crate, speakers made a city hear the people at the gate. Rent due, jokes flew, sirens crossed the drum too, the block became the newsroom when the newsroom wouldn't come through. A fist-raising crew made the country face its power, five young men from Compton put a badge above a lighter. A big kid out of Brooklyn made one room feel like a tower, a rebel's son held tears and fury with the same power. The closer that the lens got, the wider people saw: one life told without a shield could speak for all.

Chorus

Who's in the record now? Somebody, or a costume? If I stop the scroll right here, will a human voice come through? Give me more than something loud: Who's in the record now?

Verse 2

Then a pale kid out of Detroit made his home a witness stand, put his mother, wife, and worst self in the jury's hands. A pink polo in Chicago let the soul break through the boast, made faith, debt, doubt, and family fit inside the toast. That door let a borrowed van roll straight through Compton danger, let a no-feature dreamer make an address feel much greater, let a Houston grandson build the park he swore he'd give, each new sound got stranger, but you knew who had to live. Different clothes around the wound, different drums beneath the skin; we came to hear the music, then we met the person in it.

Chorus

Who's in the record now? Somebody, or a costume? If I stop the scroll right here, will a human voice come through? Give me more than something loud: Who's in the record now?

Verse 3

Then bedrooms turned to stages, pain learned how to upload: a Chicago kid free-rhymed his heartbreak by the painload, a tattooed Florida outcast made raw panic feel less lonely, a pink-haired kid from Pennsylvania sang what sleep kept holy. Then the doors closed. Screens opened. Fifteen seconds kept the score. The beat became a planet; the face became the lore. A vamp from Atlanta spoke in fragments, cloth, and signs; fans didn't need his daylight, they could live inside the nighttime. In a livestream booth, one strange voice made the whole chat flood, a line could win the moment without leaving any blood. Truth was easy to cut up, weakness easy to replay; if your ordinary life got laughed at, why give it away?

Post-chorus

Maybe the mask is shelter. Maybe escape is honest too.

Verse 4

I cant call it hollow when the fantasy brings breath; some kids need a world away, not one more mirror of the mess. Sound can tell the story when the mouth won't confess, and privacy isn't a lie when every truth becomes a test. But a syrup-slow Chicago voice keeps naming what pills cost, and the rebel from Los Angeles changes color, never gets lost. One stays close enough to quote; one builds a different skin; both prove a world can keep evolving with a person living in it. So this isn't a funeral for a form that learned to move; it is testimony dressed as myth, deciding what to lose.

Bridge

The park said, "This is where I live." The feed says, "Watch me disappear." We asked the song to know us then. Now we ask it, "Get me out of here." Both are human. Both are true. But only one must risk being known by you.

Chorus

Who's in the record now? Somebody, or a costume? If I stop the scroll right here, will a human voice come through? Maybe a heart can make a sound when somebody stays around. Who's in the record now?

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01 / The opening