Deny D has done it again with his second single, "Sauza e Xhonit", a track that fuses a smooth flow with street-ready energy. The title itself is a clever nod to Sauza tequila and Johnnie Walker, blending the world of drinks with lyrical finesse, as Deny D sips through his experiences, triumphs, and struggles. In this blog post, we break down the key themes, production, and the impact of this fresh track.
Because here we are, forced to escape in a rush from this 'robbery'. Woe to them—woe to those who enter this industry just looking for a handout. Those who put their blind faith in engines and machines simply because of their sheer numbers, their horsepower, and their raw strength. Yet, they lack technical direction and never chased true precision. Now, after all the wreckage and the grim reports, all they have left to do is run.
Thus they ask, what injustice did they find in me to turn away, chasing hollow idols and becoming hollow themselves? It is a robbery to them, for they have transgressed against me! Yet, I will redeem them. Fear not, oh riders who carve the streets. Fear not, followers of this blog. I am here to help you reclaim sacred songs. I will pull you out of this industry, free you from absolute dependency, and bring before you true music, songs, and works of art. Still, they speak lies against me. The industry will gather them; they return, but never to anything higher. These faithless partners do not return with all their heart, but only with deception. They have become like snapped throttle cables. They turn back and act treacherously just as before, slipping backward—just like a clutch when the cable snaps. Their officials will fall from their steel thrones because of the judgment of their tongues. Ruin awaits those who believe their words make them invincible, claiming: 'With our lips we say what we want, who can be lord over us?
Their arrogant words reach the heavens, while their tongues crawl across the earth. Look, my neighborhood 'Ali Demi' has fallen, and Tirana can barely stand. Their words are weaponized against us, rebelling openly in the eyes of the glorious. For this, the industry mocks them. When they finally reach the race they set out for, people profane their sacred name, saying: 'These are just music crowds who have fled their own land.' They no longer dwell in the venue of concerts. 'Mother Teresa' Square is being turned into a corporate industry. Thus, the very rhythm of the music demands they escalate their sacrifices in the races—burning fuel and shredding tires on the asphalt.
Things that offer no satisfaction have brought only emptiness, making it painful to watch the finest parts of Motocross and Naked bikes striving to keep the spirit of sacrifice alive. Yet, what remains is being destroyed. Evil sacrifices are repulsive, even more so when someone injects their own depraved behavior into it! What use to me are their endless sacrifices?
I am fed up with their hollow offers for bikes and their overpriced, lucrative repairs. The thrill of new Motocross and Motard bikes no longer satisfies me this way, even if they throw in their biggest deals. I take no pleasure in their offers, nor do I even look at the bikes they share in their circles. Now, I will remember their faults and hold them accountable. They have sunk deep into the ruin they created. Just like in days of unrest, I will call out their wrongdoings and expose their mistakes. As for music, I swear it stands as the highest calling in this lifestyle. I will never forget what they have done. They return to the industry, but they never rise to anything higher. They have become like snapped guitar strings. Their rappers are falling hard, undone by their own tongues. For this, the entire industry mocks them.
They no longer dwell in the sanctuary of true music. Tirana is turning into a hub for music tourism, yet it is stained with impurity. The 'Eagle Stadium' was set up for the rapper Ye [1]—for those who act mindlessly, deceived and disoriented by major music labels. This is a wake-up call to all artists stranded in this industry. To everyone survival-bound in creation, production, composing, songwriting, and marketing: pack your bags and get ready for exile!
Their mistress acts as a resident in this industry, for Tirana is becoming a mere spectacle of shock; they will set it ablaze, leaving it completely desolate. Record labels rise against me in this musical wasteland. They don't play by the rules and reject the very standards that ensure true success. They even profane the sanctity of the nightclubs. It makes me want to pour all my wrath over this musical desert and wipe them out completely. Tirana is finally surrendering to the industry, deaf to the authentic artistic voice, slowly decaying into pure advertising. I am writing it in this post, and I will scream it across social media and every channel: Take your stand and prepare, because they are coming to devour everything around you!
Tirana will grow dark at noon when the yoke of the industry is broken. The industry will lose its strength and pride, while Tirana will be blanketed by musical clouds. Movies will be driven into captivity—let them ruin themselves. The land is being devastated, cities are swallowed by fire, and foreigners devour your songs right before your eyes; the country is left desolate, as if turned upside down. Oh Albania! I will bury their precious things bought with money, leaving them to become property of the nettles. Look, every producer tracks a bad composition. Even when they manage to engineer a good kick and snare, those beats are discarded, sent to damnation, and end up in the fire.
The Maj13 chord blankets their surface, and a comb filter completely collapses. The sluggard will not plow because of the winter; therefore, he will beg during harvest time. Through sheer laziness, the rafters sag, and if you sit idly by, the roof begins to leak.
On that day, every streaming platform that hosted thousands of plays will find its true worth. 'Roc Life Records' is a music label that I intend to protect, keeping it only for worthy artists. Each of them would bring thousands of streamings as the fruit of their songs, but this industry is being overrun by poor kicks and snares. Therefore, I command the musical clouds to drop no more sounds upon them. In the songs of my people's rappers, only briars and thorns grow now; they fill every record label and studio where celebration once lived—yes, across the entire joyful city. I looked at them, and behold, YouTube has turned into a wasteland, and the cities of music are completely leveled.
This happens because of the music, because of this burning wrath. Even when they engineer a kick and a snare, those beats are discarded; they are nearing their end, destined for the fire. Their music businesses are overrun with briars and thorns, decaying into a ruined place. They distribute tracks across music platforms, unaware they are unsheathing a sword that will strike them from behind. The land is left desolate, and the cities remain in ruins. This whole landscape is turning into a shocking wasteland, after years of them serving the Rastafarians. Their sounds are neither pruned nor cultivated; they are like frequencies facing brimstone, salt, and fire. So much so that no vegetation can be planted in this soil, nothing sprouts, and nothing takes root—just as it happened to the Sodom and Gomorrah of musicians and artists, whom the Lord overthrew in His anger and fury.
I say this about music: behold, what I have built I will tear down, and what I have planted I will pluck up—yes, across all platforms. Instead, they will be overrun by poor beats. In these days, thousands of streamings have proven their worth, yet the market is being invaded by terrible sounds. Look, musicians and artists emerge from my people's land; they are present in every production where celebration lives—yes, across this joyful city. However, if they produce falsities and fakes, they will be discarded, drawn near to destruction, and end up expired. In the land of my people, rappers and producers arise, trying to be fertile in a salted soil, driven by the wickedness of those who dwell in it. I will turn this place into a ruined space that neither compromises nor yields. Instead, only bad compositions and chords will remain, commanding the musical clouds to drop no more beats. This is found in every record label where celebration once lived—yes, and across this joyful city.
You were full of turmoil, a loud and tumultuous city that once rejoiced. Your slain were not fallen by the sword, nor did they die in battle. At you, the passing audience claps their hands in mockery; they hiss and wag their heads at this 'mistress' of Tirana, saying: 'Is this the city called the perfection of beauty, the joy of all songs worldwide?' Inside the high-rises, only hi-hats now echo, while in the fortified places, kicks and snares take root. In the music of my people, compositions and recordings still emerge; they populate every production company where celebration lives—yes, in this joyful city. For behold, they will be forced to flee because of the robbery, and the industry will round them up. My neighborhood in Ali Demi will bury their precious things bought with money, leaving them to become property of the nettles. Their businesses will be overrun with thorns. Therefore, as surely as I live for this blog—these posts will become a flood, provoking publishers like a wasteland conquered by weeds, a salt pit, and an everlasting desolation. They will be plundered by what remains of the audience, and the remnant of the nation will possess them. It turned into a den of motorcycles and engines, a den I came to hate. In conclusion, the mountains open with desolate tunnels, and I handed their inheritance over to the machines of the industry, leaving the racing tracks exclusively for Supermoto. In those yards, dry machinery will rest, and record labels will be filled with owls. There, Supermoto bikes will dwell, and the demons of speed will leap high in the form of a rider.
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