Songs from the Studio: Racing Against Idols

I don’t just blow the horn—I gas it up until it howls. Tirana shakes, Albania rattles, every street corner feels the blast. The crowd hears it in the lyrics, the mechanics hear it in the garage. This isn’t a warning—it’s a riot in sound, a fire in motion.

Riders, twist the throttle. Let the exhaust spit flames, let the horns scream like sirens of revolt. The city is choking, the industry is burning us down, and the streets are changing for the worse. So we answer with noise, with fire, with speed. Gas it, blast it, and let them know—we’re not silent, and we’re not stopping.

Grab your tires and brace yourself. A Honda Fireblade cuts through the streets, hunting down those who broke the code and spat on the rules. When the horn rips through the city, the people tremble. When metal crashes and chaos hits, fate itself answers.

So shout it loud: riders, gather up. Don’t sit idle, don’t wait for the wreck. Step into the code, step into the fire, and face it head‑on. We’re already riding on borrowed time, sentenced by our own mistakes, listening to sad songs of broken rules. The road is our trial, the horn our warning, and the ride our rebellion.

When the champagne bursts at the races, we don’t just toast—we ride. To the tracks, the go‑kart circuits, the city squares where the commercial teams flex their banners. We crash the scene, we get involved, we make it ours. Exhaust pipes blazing, gas spilling into the air, the message spreads. Post it, shout it, fuel it—let the whole country feel the ignition. This isn’t just sport, it’s signal. A call to gather, to ride, to turn the streets into our stage. Shout it loud, louder than the engines, and let the cities know: the movement is alive.

Shift up and ride. Someone storms in like a Honda—violations stacked, rules shattered, illegal acts trailing behind. Blow the horn and let the gas scream: this is battle on the holy mountain of industry. Let the whole country feel it—alarm the streets, wake the cities. The day is coming. It’s near. They rip through the tunnels, holds the night, trembles, and flees. Dirty trumpets echos, and the cry of gas rises on the highway.

Even if you squeeze it into the canteen engine, don’t blame the motorcycle. Don’t come to the garage. Don’t climb the track. Don’t even swear. Racing lives—raw, untamed, and unforgiving. The riders will fear their idols, because they’ll mourn them. Foreign pilots who once cheered for glory will watch it fade, as the machine is sent to scrap—far from their reach, far from their pride. And behind you, they descend to the lowlands. Your people. Your shadow. The ones who ride with you, even when the engine dies.

Someone comes on a Honda, rising against a distant team. Behold—a group approaches from the farthest edges of the earth. A great commercial team, wild and rapacious, surging toward the open tracks to seize labels that were never theirs. They come from the margins, rolling like a Honda over the prey of the road. The enemy rises like rain clouds, and his chariot moves like a storm wind.

Their horses are swifter than eagles. Woe to us—we’ve been plundered. The pursuers fly faster than the birds of the sky. In the mountains, they hunted Enduro. In the desert, they ambushed Paris Dakar. No terrain is safe. No legend is spared.

Put a horn in your mouth and sound the alarm. Someone comes like an eagle against you—swift, sharp, and merciless. They’ve broken the covenant, committed lawlessness, and speak a language you won’t understand. So I will speak to this audience through stammering voices, through another tongue. Behold—an ancient team rises against you. Old, unknown, and unreadable. You won’t know them. You won’t understand them. But they are coming.

Just as an eagle swoops down, a distant team rises to strike. They come like predators—fast, foreign, and silent. A nation whose language you won’t understand. The Ducati breaks ahead—faster than KTM, wilder than the Yamaha of dusk. Their tires spin, their engines scream, and they come from afar, flying like eagles to devour. That’s how someone will spread their wings—when the track is built in Elbasan.

It will surge through chassis numbers, flood the circuits, and rise to the neck of the motorcycle. It will spread its arms wide—climbing, spinning, consuming. On that day, the hearts of inveterate riders will break—like the heart of a woman in labor. MotoGP has outrun Moto2, out‑wilded Moto3. That’s why a Motocross strikes from the forest. A Naked bike from the desert plains. And a Superbike lingers near their cities, waiting.

Whoever rides out, they tear to pieces. Their transgressions are many. Their treachery, innumerable. In the evening, the Yamaha beats the asphalt—its tires screaming. It comes from afar, flying fast to burn something like gasoline. Behold—the Big Bang rolls in like rain clouds, like a storm wind. Its horses are faster than the eagles of heaven. It pursues on foot, like an ambush set in the desert. With wide wings and long feathers of many colors, it rises to the top of a tree—to make music.

Against the mangers—because they broke the covenant. Not like the first covenant, when they were led by the hand, pulled out of the industry. If you obey point by point and keep my song, then in every audience, Roc Life Records is my special property. All of MD47 belongs to me. And in this desert, you saw how God held you— like a father holds his son, through every mile of the path you described, until you arrived here.

They say: “I will do to you as you have done—because you have despised. I am watching, renegade rider. You race through every city, two to every tribe, always traveling. Kindness belongs to you—but I will repay each one according to his deeds. Woe to the wicked. Woe to him. For the work of his hands will return to him.”

Do not be deceived—this is no joke. Whatever a man sows, he will also reap. You have despised. You have corrupted. Today they bow down and serve, treating each other like tools. They reject the rules made with their ancestors, and ignore the reminders that once warned them. In my song Përkujtimet, from the first album, I told how they chased vain idols—and became vain themselves, imitating the emptiness around them.

They were ordered not to ride—and now the races mourn. The engines weaken. The country shrinks. Even the great ones are fading. Speed has been silenced. The asphalt grows cold. And the roar that once shook the cities now echoes like a memory.

So I no longer care for them. Behold—they have dealt treacherously. You have neither heard nor known. Your ear has been closed since the beginning. Yet in this song, I spoke of the reminders—wonderful, eternal. The first and the last. And so the soul keeps them. Quietly. Faithfully.

If I mention the song Mos Kap Frena Kur i Jep Gaz, I say: this is why they disappear—because they have no knowledge. They reject wisdom, so they will be rejected. They will no longer serve as the enlightened. They forget, so they will be forgotten. This is the warning: They chase vain idols, grow jealous, and provoke. So I will make them jealous—because it is a foolish audience that takes offense. Let them not turn away. Let them not follow vain things that neither liberate nor benefit

They are to be laughed at when the spotlight turns against them. They will come to an end. As for food—we know an idol is nothing. And those who make them become worthless. They become like the idols—yes, every one who trusts in them. Those who try to modify are vanity. Worthless. As mechanics, they see nothing. They know nothing. Let them be ashamed.

What injustice have they seen, that they turn away to chase vain idols—and become vain themselves? Though they know glory, they do not glorify it. They do not give thanks. They reason foolishly, and their hearts—without understanding—are darkened. After they fall, beware of their traps. Do not ask how their races are run. I will not ask either. The track is defiled by the feet of its competitors. Do not defile yourselves with these things. They are defiled—and I am driving them out before you.

In Mos Kap Frena Kur i Jep Gaz, Section B says: Don’t pollute the place you’re standing on. Anger pollutes the track. And the track doesn’t make amends for spilled nerves—except with the nerves of the one who spilled them. They seduce the public—and do worse. There’s a saying: “If a man drives away his wife, and she becomes another’s, he will never return to her.” Aren’t these races polluted with many lovers? How can you take the turn—when the pilot and the driver are already defiled? I found their wickedness in my studio, while composing songs for them.

Because of their errors and iniquities, the blood of the righteous is found. They disregard the truth and worship other gods. Go— inquire of the Lord for me, concerning all the words written in the book. Fury is kindled—great and burning— because the ancestors did not listen. They did not act according to what was written. These are decisions that must be lived, not ignored. They desecrate the Sabbaths. They burn with rebellion. They refuse to change the rules. They judge for bribes, teach for fees, divine for profit. And yet they say: “No evil will come upon us.” They trample my voice—point by point. Përkujtimet on Bandcamp

“As a lucky man, don't hit the brakes when you give it gas, don't hit the brakes when you give it gas, As a lucky man, don't hit the brakes when you give it gas, (Also, the worker deserves his salary) (The one who made the engine is interested in it)”

Preview Mos Kap Frena Kur i Jep Gaz on Apple Music

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