MC FRONTALOT ZERO DAY ALBUM LYRICS AND CREDITS (C)2010 MC Frontalot / published by Nerdcore Fervor Conglomerated (ASCAP) Zero Day Lyric by Damian Hess, David Martinjack, and Bryce Case Jr. » Music by Damian Hess, Gabriel Alter, and David T. Cheong » Rapping: Int80, ytcracker, MCF » Chorus vocals: Jane Silence and Molly Hager » Keyboards: Gm7 » Drum programming, additional keyboards: Baddd Spellah They take the world over one node at a time. They put the seed in some software and make it shine. so the dimwitted among us grab tight and install put it right on the wall, and don't notice at all that the celebration of a day impends. I want to note it on the calendar, I ready my pen, I get ahead of my friends in my haste, I let slip that the zero day is coming, MC Front still ill equipped. Boom how it hits you, when it comes if you're touching on an interface you steady your thumbs since you might have to jump ship quick, the sting stuns it isn't designed to destroy, it's just how it runs and I sing fun songs but this here is a warning that the exploit's open and it might sound corny but I give a damn about the state of the Earth expect a hacker has to wreck it just to teach it what it's worth. And on the first day, it's already too late... Press play, prepare as history is made: "largest hack in one day," all the headlines will say. All out of time, hear the chime from the buzzer. Found this bug on my own, no need for a fuzzer. "It's already too late," spreading as we planned. No need for the NO OPs, I know just where to land. Clearing out the registers, with twenties to my functions, loaded to your memory and writing new instructions. Braindump i/o, siphoned out the eye holes; enticed so i'm digging through the disassembled byte code. Push pop change order stack frame FILO filesystem inodes, all fall to my flow. Running over, there again i go: self-propagation engine, polymorphic sideshow. Every network, we're found to get around... the exploit payload encoded in this sound. Man, cousin, I'm about to put in the work, assert authority. Administrative access: crack this. If your patches back in the past, this 0day gets you on a root trip. True crypt. Key file, I will keystyle shell code, triple sevens all up on the ch mod. Shhh mode, how I'm keeping this here, 'cause if I keep my game on tight my 0day lasts another year. You're a little bit late. I had that nfsd back in ninety-eight and the DCOM bomb owned the Zone Alarm so get your lip balm kitty; NEDM three fitty. Got them bots in every city with the spamtec committee and yt the almighty, zero day beats flying. And who's giant? That's us. With the upstream plus, we're CAN-SPAM compliant. Yo, when it flips, new world is a permanent state. Cultivate paranoia 'cause the Huns at the gate are many millions strong, all arrive in a spate. YT Crack and Int80 been shipping them freight. All walls up to date, let them come, you can cope. Pwn the rug out from under you and sunder your hopes. Send a no points bulletin out; they're undiscovered. Eyes to the horizon! Not much longer undercover. Charisma Potion Lyric by Damian Hess » Music by Damian Hess, Gabriel Alter, and David T. Cheong » Backing vocal: Kimmy Gatewood » Keyboards: Gm7 » Drum programming, additional keyboards: Baddd Spellah » Drums: The Categorical Imperative » Syllable emphasis skeptic: Blak Lotus Fuck you, look at my cool hat. I could be you, stat. I could be anything, anytime, with the right potion. Invocation: many rhymes expended in the process. Compression so fresh, you wonder am I lossless. Does it cost this too? Is there any question what I'm willing to do? Tip the lid off, tilt the flask in hand; taste like ass but the task is grand. Been the lastest man picked for the kickball. Incoordinate: to hit, I miss a brick wall. That won't help an unpopular pick. Take a swig, now I'm captaining shit. And I'm putting legitimate players on duty to gather them beauties what thought I had cooties. Is it one attribute you did not roll? Is it one bottle in the Bag of Hold? Is it one goal: to pass the stat check? To sip the extract, you command the respect. By the CHA on my character sheet, yes, I pencil a plus; thus, I deem it discrete from the inked-in single-digit charm that I got in initial calculations, weighted and fraught with compromises (not with surprises). No shock to the misers of points when I'm leveling up, that the prizes all go in one cup. (Which one?) INT increased always and didn't start low. Now it got so high, I get to fake the flow just by figuring out the simulation and enacting. I get crafty, take a vial's worth exactly. Another couple sips, I'm up on top of the world. Yet another to my lips, the way rhymes get hurled you'd affix to my person impossible statistic; a temporary boost, it desists quick. Yes, you might consider Frontalot an expert in the subject. Soaking in the potion such a length, I make a subset of bath-time wrinkles, devote them to this: amplification of fabulousness. Take a stab at a dis, note it doesn't connect. So buffed, you don't even need to look up the check. Just hand the dice over, hang the head low. Don't blame it on the Captivation enchantment on the robe. Boots of Beguiling leave a sparkle where I tread. +8 Helm of Glamour merely flatters my head. What I said was: the outfit is ornamental. It's incidental. The elixir's effect is ungentle: it blends me with confident types. If I lift a toast to them, am I being polite? To the kids who arbitrated on the topic of cool: look at my cool hat and fuck you. Jacquelyn Hyde Lyric by Damian Hess » Music by Damian Hess, Matt Steckler, and David T. Cheong » Chorus vocal, keyboard: Ken Flagg » Saxophones, Flute: Matt Steckler » Djembe: Kevin Sport » Drum programming: Baddd Spellah Corn syrup! We're breaking up. The doctor explained it: I'm old as Tut. I'm supposed to take pills that mitigate triglycerides. Seems we're at a crossroads, you and I. Dated for decades, built up trust, might have loved sugar better but it wasn't discussed; we had an agreement: you'd be in everything, I'd eat it. But you lied when you said you'd be all that I needed. I pleaded with you, PS2, don't leave me. You had a change of heart for a while (which was deceiving). I looked deep inside of you, fine-tuned a lens, left the screws off, thought we could just be friends, maybe hook up on occasion, for old times' sake. But you won't mount a disc now, boot to heartache. It's just not the same between us, so scat. When your emulator's old enough, I'm ravishing that. Prosperity, I've had it, get thee hence. Better break it off early, not risk suspense. Let a new generation learn to live with fence and windows with bars and bats that make dents in heads and... yikes, the lean times are scary! I changed my mind prosperity, let's stay married! You've already given up on me? But what of lubs? The way you turn on a dime, you're not who I thought you was. Ear infection, I feel betrayed. You used to come visit a lot, plus you stayed. Now it's like I don't know you, call you Jacquelyn Hyde. My ear's safe and warm yet you wander outside. Where'd you sleep last night? Should I guess? Doesn't hurt when I burp: I'm without your distress. How'd you do me like this? That's it. We're not together. How's it my fault, for taking up with eardrops? Whatever. California! Listen, we're breaking up. I know I left my heart in the heart of you, but I can't keep from feeling push came to shove and you undid the part I was proudest to love. California, I'll still visit I promise. Not least among charms, you're the place where my mom is. And I'll be back. Get your votes rearranged. Till then, we can't date. It's your fault, you changed. Your Friend Wil Lyric by Damian Hess » Music by Damian Hess, Gabriel Alter, and David T. Cheong » Chorus vocal: Mike Doughty » Keyboards: Gm7 » Guitar: Alec Berlin » Drum programming: Baddd Spellah Your friends, always honest with you, tell you the truth. They respond, on occasion, "you're behaving uncouthly and had ought to clean up your act." You've got one in particular, dispenses with tact, says it plain to your face, his advice unimpeachable. Feel chastised? Any animal's teachable. Any goal's reachable. Let us embark. We declare; we declaim; we decry. We remark that ethics and etiquette have yet to jump shark (dynamite strapped to them but yet to set spark). With that in mind, employ each as it lingers. Keep the phrase in ready reach of your fingers lest you forget for a moment the edict. Trap agape, frozen; pull out and read it. Your friend consistently counsels the same, urging all dickishness struck from the game. Your friend Wil Your friend Wil declares Your friend Wil declares: don't be a dick How'd your friend get possession of the wisdom; once hooked a headset into wrong system, listened? Heard what? Cock-a-doodle-dos. If you think it's involuntary, get disabused. It's you. You do or you don't, at your discretion. Your dickery's untamed? Practice repression. Act as direction suggests and desist. Your friends all insist. You come down to this: got one who warns he could get a little stabby. That'd be bad form, but he gets a little crabby. He's aptly the messenger, hardened of hide. (What if somebody wrote alt.you.die.die.die?) If you'd see your adherence assured all the more so, silkscreen what your friend said on your torso, wear it out proudly, point and recite. Any dick walks by got to save versus contrite. The Tribulations Of Muffy And Percival Muffy: Sara Benincasa » Percival: MCF » Narrator: Bob Moseley » Keyboards: Gm7 First World Problem Lyric by Damian Hess » Music by Damian Hess, Gabriel Alter, and David T. Cheong » Keyboards: Gm7 » Drum programming, additional keyboards: Baddd Spellah » Scratching: Daniel Wilkes Nerd rap infests your internet. You left a trap, but it's empty. MC Frontalot took a gape but the bait wasn't tempting, ending up uncaged and at large to talk smack at you through the networking appliance that's in charge of every drip of your attention. Yo, when mine goes out I've got to log in just to mention my disappointment at the interruption of convenience. I mean just: a lot left, but none up in between this couple of minutes here and a couple of minutes later. It's an outrage, at the price I paid. These dictators of my leisure rule with an iron fist. Has anybody ever been so put upon as this? Your GPS run out of battery (first world problem) Got to wake up Saturday (first world problem) You just delayed a honeymoon (first world problem) Pledge season's coming soon (first world problem) Half your friend list is spam accounts (first world problem) And your center channel speaker's out (first world problem) Muffy, my hair regrowth cream is mostly ineffective and I'm struggling to keep this in perspective, but I feel like a massive injustice occurred. Says "regrows hair" on the tube (in the words) in a third — or maybe a quarter — of all users. I must have got swindled. Is it a fault? Of whose is? Oooh, Muffy, Muffy, I had all the servants tortured. Did you keep them on retainer? Do you got some more on order? 'Cause I can't comb my hair on my own no more. I got accustomed to the lifestyle, sniffed upon the spore and it molded up my innards, made the blood turn blue. Muffy, Muffy, there's a revolution; what we're gonna do? Misplaced the Ambien (first world problem) Left a participle dangling (first world problem) You're scheduling your root canal (first world problem) Your grad schooling had no rationale (first world problem) You didn't like your appetizer (first world problem) Your yacht got capsized (a first world problem) Now while our capitalism is in a minor kerfuffle, you have to hustle. Before the fates come, reshuffle. Rustle up another couple grievances and air 'em. You can laugh about it later (maybe needed while despairing). For the moment though, you ordered half caf, didn't get it; there was no TV set when you jetted; internet resetted itself just as I was in the middle of tournament play, and so I suffered from transmittal interruption. Completely ruined my day. MC Frontalot's a jackass, that's all I'm trying to say. People buy CDs in these days of disaster, so poor me: I have to be a professional rapper. No bubbles in the soda cup (first world problem) App crashed when you loaded up (first world problem) Phone's OS is outta date (first world problem) Colors won't calibrate (first world problem) They never stock the snack you want (first world problem) Caught herpes from a celebutante (first world problem) Got wallhacked in PVP (first world problem) Oh no, HD-DVD (first world problem) Pixels aren't perfect square (first world problem) Your favorite rapper isn't debonair (first world problem) You own too many underwear (first world problem) And you're not much of a millionaire (first world problem) Disaster Lyric by Damian Hess, Mark Schaffer, and Keith Moore » Music by Damian Hess, Gabriel Alter, and David T. Cheong » Rapping: Schaffer the Darklord, Beefy, MCF » Chorus vocals: Jane Silence and MCF » Keyboards: Gm7 » Drum programming: Baddd Spellah Set up the mics, turn up the volume. Everybody present, say "here" when I call you: Schaffer? Yep. Beef? Hello. Bought three movie tickets, got the front row. Act I. Our plucky hero's home town: Middle Americana, not a problem to be found. A single dad of one son with a dog just trying his best to make ends meet as a disaster scientist. One day he stumbles upon some horrifying evidence. Our hero decides, "I must inform the president." "Even though you seem to know exactly what you talk about, I don't think at this point in the plot I am going to hear you out. But Washington's in fallout, can't return to my home. There's flash floods, earthquakes. I pick up the red phone. You get this ragtag team made of washed out marines and Dr. Jennie Marie, she studies weather extremes. It's a disaster, it's a disaster whenever you've got three nerd rappers. Act II. Molten lava is chasing them around. Big blue bolts of lightning spring up from underground. But our hero and his team have some hope for a cure: "If we can just get this crew into the center of the earth, we can install a nuclear device then detonate it. My findings indicate that this will stave off devastation." "I might have given in to my pride (that is my sin) but take this check and shake my hand, 'cause you always trust a Whitesican." "Sir, you won't regret it. Launch your finest satellite. Arm it with a laser canon aimed upon the blast site to activate the nuke. But the clock is counting down. We need to act fast as our time is running out." Meanwhile: hurricanes, tidal waves, floods. Sun flares cause it to seem to rain blood. The President just got crushed by an asteroid. And the plucky hero's son? "Run faster, boy!" Last Act. Son makes it, dog doesn't. Odds may be stacked against the team. They discuss it. A last ditch effort hangs heavy on our hero's mind: "Blowing up the planet is the only hope for humankind." And to his leading lady, "There is something I must say..." "Hey, you and me can wait, I want to have another yesterday. Sources say the Kremlin can take us into orbit. Go to space, fix the lasers. And the earth: we can restore it." "That's it! A crazy plan, but we have to try. The time is nigh, gather up supplies, we must survive!" They head out for Russia in a little rowboat, get menaced by glaciers, almost bite it but don't. At the last moment a decision to be made: there's the love or the boy, only one can get saved. If he thinks too long, whole globe is in peril. If you don't shed a tear at the end your heart's sterile. Everyone's A Critic Themselves: STD, Beefy, MCF » Lobby ambience: NoiseCollector A Little Bit Broad Lyric by Damian Hess » Music by Damian Hess, Gabriel Alter, and David T. Cheong » Chorus vocal: Ken Flagg » Keyboards: Gm7 » Drum programming, additional keyboards: Baddd Spellah » Guitar: Alec Berlin » Scratching: Daniel Wilkes My shit is a little bit broad for the taste at the top; you could look your nose down if you want. But if you do, nerdcore'll pass you by. Oops! Found it habit forming, had you avid for the high. Has you laughing in the eye, snorting through the left nostril: that's a withdrawal symptom, the kind to make agnostics hostile or make a true believer pray that the nerd rhyme might return some day. ...Got obliterated by the nerdcore flow. I like sophistication. That's obvious, right? I never easy-upped a lyric in attempt to delight the ever larger and dumber swaths of population. I run this operation. I grew impatient with the ratio of smarties to dims; offhand when I named it, yet hardly a whim. I been discarding the trim ever since, soaking fat up, and luxuriating in the recognition from the kids who got the bad upkeep on their personal space, who were too bright to learn shit like manners, taste. Concentrate! I'm discussing the elevated. The tips-top of think-thunk. The pinnacles of armor-plated, upbraided by the combed-hair crowd; comebacks concocted, not said out loud, would have been incomprehensible to the hebetudinous. That's why my comedy's low when laughing at you's at the root of this. My shit is a little bit broad for the taste at the top; you can look your nose down if you want. Oh noes, where'd your taste go? Got obliterated by the nerdcore flow! And that's a crit I never get. They say I rock, but too focused. Each old-school vocal twixt node and locus invokes this nostalgia. I'm tamping it down (and I'll yell, "keep settled!" while I'm stamping around) because the future's got a brilliance. Still, I mean: clever. How many dumbenings-down? Count 'em up: none whatever. Zero umbrellas to protect from disdain: I put my worst foot forward, code it hard in the name nerdcore. Just the way that it sounds. You're always looking for a treatise, Frontalot can expound. If I don't for the sake of the already-mentioned dull-witted, just take what you can from out the lyric. I put in it every miniscule intention, every motive, every clue, every riddle to unravel, everything you've got to do to make the rhyme happen. If you don't, so sad. But if you grok, talk of dumb joke rap gets forbad. All the high-brows pointing out my four-bit words, up in the next breath tell me nerdcore's absurd. Shut up, ass head! You and your big talk can go screw. I'll aim my loafer at your bottom, probably cuss at you too. Probably fuss and go blue before I cease my little tantrum. Put my whining on the loop, "nerdcore" describes the anthem. Call it all foolishness? Mostly wouldn't disagree. Titanic ego, low self esteem. Spoiler Alert Lyric by Damian Hess » Music by Damian Hess, Gabriel Alter, and David T. Cheong » Chorus vocal: Molly Hager » Keyboards: Gm7 » Guitar: Alec Berlin » Drums: The Sturgenius » Scratching: Daniel Wilkes You're annoyed when I talk during the film. It's just another classic that you haven't seen (still!). Just another ill-in-the-head in the plot; "Norman Bates, is that all you got? Might have guessed from the name of the thing." Don't complain that you never heard the ending of The Crying Game. Well, it's a penis, and at this point a shaggy dog (which is: nothing to see here; move along). The Apes rule the Earth. Vader's poppa to Luke. Brad Pitt and Ed Norton are obviously two people, but they've got to share one character. Bruce ain't alive, kid, no matter how he stares at you. Snape kills Dumbledore but with a noble motive. Everybody's guilty on the Oriental locomotive. Veidt's villainy ends world squabbling and Deckard is a replicant (probably). Say I ruin everything for you — well, it's mutual. Don't wager on survival for Bambi's mom, Artax, Old Yeller, Mufasa, King Kong. All spawn of Medea should fear for your throat. All on the Titanic should fear for your boat. Yo, Frontalot gave it away before it happened. If you're in Moby Dick then I hope you're not the captain; if you are, then I urge: rethink revenge 'cause you're headed for the bottom and you're bringing your friends. Fall into Wonderland then you're definitely dreaming, sleeping by the stream, and all is only seeming. If you're in the Bible, it ends in Armageddon. If you're in the Y2K, it's less upsetting. If you're living in the 80s, spoiler: gay Wham! Space ships can blow up. Trickle-down economics is a scam, but you'll figure that out. I don't want to wreck the ending for you, make you pout. ...in the future, do not do what you do. If you're in the French Revolution, I warn it won't last. If you're in the Kennedy clan, beware a muzzle flash. Airplanes, also, quite often destroyed them. And if you're a Lennon, there's a Chapman. Avoid him. Boy when I'm spoiling the ending you frown. No empire lasts forever, go to town, but if you're old Rome, look out for that Nero. In case you're a countdown, look out for zero. Any time you're a ticking bomb, explode (and nobody make it out except Horatio) 'cause every peanut brittle's got a snake inside and Jacks-in-the-box, meant to startle, pop high. If you didn't know already, I'll apologize. Peek-a-boo's a game; it's a trick of the eyes, not a bending of reality itself. Spoiler for infants: adults use stealth. 80085 Lyric by Damian Hess » Music by Damian Hess, Gabriel Alter, and David T. Cheong » Keyboards: Gm7 » Guitar: Alec Berlin » Drum programming: Baddd Spellah » Scratching: Daniel Wilkes Last time I had a math class, there wasn't any internet invented yet. That isn't on the level but I'll try to pique your interest with half-truths and lies. As ever, MC Frontalot feigns innocence and denies. I won't admit it. You can't make me say it: that I dropped Calc B more than a year before Mosaic. Oh no now it's out, now it's shouted from the balconies: that Frontalot's about to be engaging in some alchemy. I'll turn a string of operands into some smut. If that sort of thing's offensive to you keep eyes shut. Or better yet, don't even enter, into calculator, song. But if you're ready to be titillated, follow along. Ready? Go. Eighty women went to the podiatrist. Arrive: simultaneous. Soon the scene's riotous. Nine just leave. Those in the difference persevere, packing up the lobby very tightly, domineered by one Sally Gorey (that's her given name) (though her title is Reception) (and professional acclaim is due her) ('cause she did what needed doing). And it's done: she opened up the schedule, slotted every single one. But, um... not many on a Friday afternoon! All but an eighteenth of the women in the room had to vrooooom. For each remaining patient x-rays were taken. Then the doctor took vacation. Why was that vacation germane to the math? 'Cause of good data policy in the office and a vast abundance of caution on the part of our Sally: eight backups nightly, automated, and the tally only ever shrinking when manually deleted. All of this occurring in the box behind reception so she needed a full backup of that box, noons. These weren't incremental, so her server needs ballooned. Who deserved to flee Duluth? The doctor was in Rio for three work weeks and another Monday just to be so thoroughly relaxed upon return. Have you gathered all the facts that you needed to discern? Morning in the office, after vacatings: out of those belonging to the original 80 ladies. How many digital toes were in images grand total? Your evidence so far is largely anecdotal. And you're keen to know if any had deformity. So icky! Ten toes per customer; this puzzle: not that tricky. Key in your calc. Check your seven-segment indicator. Now add my eliteness. Notice that the sum is greater than expected. You still have to subtract two for a pair of things Sally has that I lack. I warned you it was kind of immature; I wasn't skirting the issue. Still you snicker at the calculator. "Dirty! I need a tissue." Question And Answer Time Answerer: John Hodgman » Questioner: MCF » Man sitting on box who is quiet usually: Jonathan Coulton Better At Rapping Lyric by Damian Hess » Music by Damian Hess, Gabriel Alter, and Brandon Patton » Banjo ukulele and additional vocal: Mr.B The Gentleman Rhymer » Chorus backing vocal: Jane Silence » Kazoo: Blak Lotus » Upright bass: Beau Bothwell » Trumpet: Steve Durand » Keyboard: Gm7 » Drums: The Sturgenius Wish I were a little bit better at rapping. I'd put the feather to cap in the manner of mapping what happened: now Frontalot achieved something. That's what they'd say. He went from terrible to mediocre. Maybe okay could be in the cards later. As of yet, not quite. Of the hand, the mic, then of the tongue, the sleight: it's how to pull tricks on the ear. "You rap well." Thanks for your sincerity but prepare to see dispelled any notion of my aptitude that you once held. Could fit what's felled through the button hole in my lapel: slimmest sprout of a mic technique, clipped & cut. I'll try to reseed after I get dug out my rut... which could occur! In my fantasies, improve each night. Real life lags afterwards, perhaps out of spite for its after-hours cousin so far favored by me. In the trajectory dream, eventually reign supreme. If I were better at rapping you wouldn't need a napkin wadded up in your ear to keep out the noise I make with my voice. If I were better at rapping, I wonder what would happen. Would everybody holler and cheer when I finished a verse? Would they be sad to disperse? Wish I'd started earlier. I'd be better by now, maybe. Might have hit the pinnacle, I'd be settling down. But I'd settle a frown on my face at that conjecture; to cultivate the vocal, the cadence and the texture, the lecture I give with it when I rap a rhyme, to such a top condition (graphed improvement over time) would indicate my origin at age negative nine. Even then, barely any better than already I'm. So! Unhinge the daydream door delve deep! If I were better at rapping wouldn't people seek a peep, or a full blown rooster report from the Front? Kind of think that they might. My style's wack, let's be blunt. Let's lay it on the table: Frontalot could enhance rather drastically before you'd even hazard by stance that I stand such a height above whence I done. Promise I'll get better at it if I can when it's spun. The Council Of Loathing Lyric by Damian Hess » Music by Damian Hess, Gabriel Alter, and David T. Cheong » Chorus vocal: Molly Hager » Keyboard: Gm7 » Drum programming, additional keyboards: Baddd Spellah After all I've done for the council, they'd so soon be rid of me. Give me a million meat I'll only squander it — promise you — gambling, angling to shut down my entanglement. Honest to goodness, wish I could quit The Kingdom, leave it. I'd sing like how you hear some people sing when they're happy about something, hearts bursting open. But I find that each ascension, I get reborn holding tokens instead of gripping onto everlasting peace. Level one and fighting rabbits. Nothing for a feast. Nothing for the thirst. Armor is wack. A familiar bar basement, turning off the tap for the rats. Stocking up on gum and string. Got a long life ahead, deja vu: what it may bring. Yet I can't put it down till the crystal breaks, and by that time I'm an old stick figure, got stakes in the world as it stands, don't want to leave it, but I must — because I plague it, as the council would conceive it. Nuts to dyin'! I like lingering more. Just because the councilmembers think the monsters are a chore and (just because I draw them into being) reach accord that I should be banished? Yo I should be adored. What's more, their monarch's liberty problem persists if I don't take matters up into my fists, my instruments and my cooking utensils, and cease the sorceress's reprehensible dissemblance: make her show her sausage. Fight it with my wand. Might sound a little dirty but the creatures like to spawn. And if I adventure at all, I find a few before long. Barely notice them now, I'm so sneaky and strong. So the council requests I desist? I'm unwilling. Take the basement to its bottom 'fore I vanish. Am I still in The Kingdom though tempted by plexiglass? You could give me a million meat, it won't last. Front The Most Lyric by Damian Hess » Music by Damian Hess, Gabriel Alter, and David T. Cheong » Keyboards: Gm7 » Drum programming: Baddd Spellah » Bass: Blak Lotus » Drums: The Categorical Imperative » Djembe, Cajón: Kevin Sport » Nightmare telephony: Randall Munroe MC Frontalot is not installed, so don't call 800-FRONT-4-ALL. I'm off the ball of wax to rock the rough tracks. Thumbtacks all up in the mix, so relax. You know I hax a beat together like a slasher rampage. MC Frontalot, inundated by the rhythm arrays. Some days I brag, some days I boast. 24/7, I front the most. You wouldn't think that I would front. Most days, do nothing but sit around dropping the lyrics into the drum cuts. Buts, ands, ors? I hear naysay. Don't play! MC Front'll get offended, go away. Hey, there ain't no need to be real, honk-honking on the sample like a trained m-seal, we all seek a second stepping from the post. 24/7 I front, I front the most. What am I, wrecking every break beat? That could take eight weeks. Only ever stop fronting to smoke bowls, take leaks, and sleep. I catch a cat nap. Sit in front the mic so much that my ass chaps. Gaps [in the tape]: I was fronting in the other room, boogalooing. Well, I wasn't, but I wanted to and I'm going to rock the mic day and night till I give up the ghost. 2-4-7, I front the most. ------------------- Produced by Damian Hess, David Cheong, Nate Van iLL, and Brendan Brown (AKA Wheatus) » Entire contents ©2010 by MC Frontalot for Level Up Records & Tapes » All songs published by Nerdcore Fervor Conglomerated (ASCAP) » Recorded at Twenty Five Efforts, Brooklyn, NY » Kit drums engineered by Mark Alan Miller at Slaughterhouse, Westhampton, MA » Mastered by Alex Théorét at Turtle Tone, NY » Performance credits adjoin lyrics within, and may be deciphered as follows » Gm7 = Gaby Alter » Blak Lotus = Brandon Patton » Baddd Spellah = David Cheong » The Sturgenius = Sturgis Cunningham » The Categorical Imperative = Daniel Thiel » MCF stands unequaled but is AKA Damian Hess. Cover art: Jhonen Vasquez » Back cover art: Eliza Gauger » Photography: David Greenspan » Lyrics comic: Randall Munroe » Design: dh » Manufactured in the USA. Massive thanks are due to » Ma Front » Jennifer Day » Nick Amento » Euclides Pereyra » Skifter » James "Technotyrant" Knecht » cvoid/junkbox hippies » alice » Tim Rodriguez » Zach Middleton » Jenny Goldberg » Max Isaacson » Shawna Mills » Lyssa Thompson » Joshywa Schrader » Kevin Johnson » Sierra Murphree » Tevah Platt » John & Dorie Nolt » Jonathan Coulton » MC Lars » Nerdapalooza org & staff » Fluffy » Snipe » Z. » Lynda Pyle » Kira Talbott » Jason Scott » Elizabeth Seuling » Zack Johnson » Kevin Simmons » Josh Nite » Stank Dawg » Khoo, Gabe, Tycho, and every staffer and enforcer » Annie Llewellyn » Aleks Barbour » Eric Havir » Ted Johnson » Chris Mentzel » André Cunha » Copisetik, GiantEye, kajiotaku, djfelix, Naivedo, Muham-G » Prince » Lucy Dog and Doggy Fresh To book MC Frontalot, contact booking@frontalot.com » Press inquiries: press@frontalot.com » The public is welcome to seek MC Frontalot's attentions via mc@frontalot.com » Bandmembers' contacts at http://frontalot.com/info » Performer's sites are linked in the song credits at http://frontalot.com/cd4 » You, who bought this CD, whoever you are: you are awesome. THANK YOU.