pb & j with emily wells

There has been very few times that I've seen my father cry
He closed his eyes and wept when his older brother died
When my dad was a kid at the easy age of 9
His pops passed away, so his big brother told a lie
Stayed on the grind, every single day
He told my dad, "Pick any place, and I will send you that way"
Somewhere far, far, far away
From where our grandfather was slain, he chose the USA
Where the future moves fast, left his present in the past
His family, his culture, disappeared in a flash
All alone, starting a life of his own
Though, he had brought one thing that could bring him back to home
Because, as strong as he is, sometimes he's just a kid
Lost, searching for the life he used to live
He's looking for his mother, her love she used to give
But she's gone
So, we sifting through cassettes written in Arabic
Tryna to hold on
Find that one song that will keep his soul calm
Keep his soul calm
He's got a tape in cassette deck, a tear in his eye
That's the only other time that I've seen my father cry
Cassette in his tape deck, a tear in his eye
That's the only other time that I've heard my father cry

Sing on, sing on
Thank the Lord for my headphones
When the music plays
I'm the one listening

(Check)
Okay now, lessons in Cha music, it influenced me steadily
Right out the box, the sound-wave touched my ears with that melody
The presence of sound surround my sight with eyes closed
I guess it made it easier to see it I suppose
Wish I remember Mom's cry notes when I rose from birth
Raised off Vivaldi, Beethoven, and Mozart to keep me earthed
Man, I felt it just for what it was worth, like songs from church
But still on a mission to find my vision, so I searched 'til
Pop's dropped me on that Bob James and Hubert Laws
Which opened me to Hubbard, Heath Brothers for the cause
Jazz got me hip-hop, but down the à la pause
And purchased my first ever tape by The Boss
Yeah, you know that "Born in the U.S.A."
Yeah, that's right, the jazz was born in the USA
Man, I'm still tryna be living up in them glory days
Me and my brother, Paolo, living in them glory days, man
This music got me space, and placed me in the past
And remember when percussion sessions made my grandpa laugh
I used to watch him at the club, sitting on my uncle's lap
And I would listen to them beautiful rhythms of Latin jazz
Man, I remember when I used to take a can and a cast-iron frying pan
And bang a rhythm with my hand
I remember when them instruments, reached out to touch 'em
Play my hands, and then I played along
See, I remember when I used to take a can and a cast-iron frying pan
And bang a rhythm with my hand
I remember when them instruments, reached out to touch 'em
Play my hands, and then I played along, come on, it goes

Enough, so long, she was the queen
Of soul and song, and voice and me
And when she died, I took a plane
And mortar all, that lived, long day
C'est bonne, c'est bonne, enough, c'est bonne
And thank the Lord for my headphones

Sing on, sing on
Thank the Lord for my headphones
Sing on, sing on
Thank the Lord for my headphones