Deny D Illuminates His Journey in ‘Drit' Nga Anglia’ – A Reflection on Life Abroad Deny D is back with another thought-provoking track, this time offering a glimpse into his life abroad with "Drit' Nga Anglia".
Prophecy in the Studio
I didn’t begin with a burning desire to make music, nor did my heart cling to it unshaken. Yet somehow, rebellion rose within me — a refusal to follow what others called art. I threw it all behind my back, for those rappers who were once warned to return to their roots. They’ve committed acts I can’t stand. For ten years, I’ve grown weary of this decade — of their unsettled audiences and the crooked paths they walk.
A Lament for Lost Sound
Open your eyes, musicians. Don’t let distance from your craft breed an evil heart that lacks faith. Many have lost loyalty to their own work, chasing the flow only long enough to feed themselves, grow fat on fame, and then run to other labels. They serve them, while contempt poisons art itself.
Not like those rappers who once took others by the hand, helping them rise from the modern cradle of the street, only to ruin the rhythm when they built labels of their own. Now the audience flatters with words but praises only with their lips. Hear this, you music houses — you who call yourselves by name, who emerged from the very waters of music, swearing by great names, yet without loyalty.
However, their unfaithfulness doesn’t lead them back to music with sincerity — only with cunning. Even when they say, “As surely as music lives!” they swear falsely.
2Pac already gave you the answers, you hypocrites. This audience honors with their lips, but their hearts have drifted far away. And since their hearts are distant, their words become a chorus of hollow praise.
In vain they keep on worshiping, for the teachings of their music are nothing more than the commandments of men.
However, their unfaithfulness does not lead them back to music with a whole heart. Their spirit isn’t firmly bound to it — they did not remain faithful. They never called for the right chords, though they howled in their beds. Because of copyright, they stood in vain and turned against their own craft.
But they act only with cunning — cunning in heart and corrupt in spirit — while the blameless find joy in their path. I say to you, audience, rappers, and DJs: for ten years your music will lie in wasteland, stirring only amazement. This decade will serve as your own reflection. How long, then, will the angel show mercy to your concerts and performances — while your punishment becomes your sound?
Your true rhythm — the physiology I respect — is to break the chains of wickedness, to loosen the ropes of the yoke, to set the oppressed free, and to shatter every bond. You mourn the Majb5, Maj7, and Maj7b5 chords — the sounds once carried by The Notorious B.I.G. with Bad Boy, and 2Pac with Death Row — bound together by their ten-note truths. They made music in Los Angeles, and they were slain. But was it all just fate, or something planned?
Indeed, it was for quarreling, for fighting, for striking with fists of malice. Yet, was it not also an alternative — a voice crying out from the high places of sound? When you look back at modernized rap, do not frown like the hypocrites, who twist their faces so others may notice. Truly I tell you — they have already received their reward. For such things appear to carry wisdom — a form of self-made worship, a harsh treatment of the body — but they hold no true value in the struggle against the desires of the flesh.
Even though they howled in their beds, their music and sounds were in vain. They go out live as usual, gather listeners at their performances, and celebrate — yet there is no true joy in their songs. No shouting fills their sounds, no cheering is heard. Not a drop of wine is poured in bars or clubs. All celebration has stopped.
They prophesy with empty words. But from above, Deny D roars like a lion; from his studio, he lets out his voice — a roar against the establishment. Against the audience, he brings forth the song of those who oppress him. Joy and happiness have been stripped from the orchestra and the stage. The music halts; no one shouts for joy. Their cries are hollow.
And when discipline dies, they chase profit in vain, hiring shameless wanderers to follow them. When the club, bar, and pub owners hear this, they turn to the labels — searching for the echo of what once was alive.
The next day, the audience rises early, sipping coffee and boasting about their cars. Near every stage, clothes hang like hostages, and the wine of those who were fined still stains the ground. The uneducated curse like dogs with sticks — they curse their rappers as soon as they step outside, and as they go, they curse again.
When you are troubled, do not sin. Speak to your heart upon your bed, and be silent. Music. I say: I will be careful in my ways, so I do not sin with my tongue. I will guard my mouth as with a lock, while the wicked stand before me.
Near every stage they have added scenes that lead to error — layers upon layers of deception. They are surrounded by these scenes, and through them they fall. Like a vine that withers and decays, they continue to bear fruit only for themselves. The more abundant their fruit, the more their stages rot. The better the place, the prouder their pillars rise.
And as for the clothes taken as a pledge — if they are held by another, they will be returned at sunset.
If a man is in trouble, do not sleep with his pledge. Rapper — begin your dirge with wisdom, and let your perfect beauty speak; you are the seal of perfection.
In the music houses, they drink the wine of those they have fined. They go out as usual on their stages, oppressing and celebrating in deceit. Therefore, they curse and turn against each other treacherously.
Remember — and never forget — how they provoke in this desert of music. From the day they departed from true sound, they played at weddings, cursed, and acted with betrayal.
They have turned back like a bow whose string has snapped. They turn, but not toward something higher — only toward the dust. Like a bow with a broken string, they will fall, for their tongues have condemned them. And for this, they will be mocked in the very place they once called their stage.
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