Homer el Mero Mero walks into Bizarrap’s booth and flips Session 30 into a gritty short film of life in an Argentine barrio. Over a head-nodding Boom Bap beat he raps from the “kitchen,” the command center of the block, where luck runs out fast, the devil is always clocked in, and a single coin, knife, or stare can decide who lives to see dawn. Respect is earned without words, betrayal shoots from the shadows, and the only thing sharper than a hidden blade is the lyric sheet in his hand.
Beneath the street swagger lies a sober promise to his kids and his neighborhood: he will defend his flag, keep Boom Bap breathing, and stay immune to fake gods and industry tricks. Yesterday’s dreamers think fame is the escape route, but Homer warns that the spotlight can burn you before it lights the way. By calling the track “not music, but a drug,” he claims a raw authenticity – he is the number 10 of Argentine rap, a messenger who turns every bar into both a victory lap and a caution sign for anyone daring to play on his turf.