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BearTooth Collective


by cunabear

supported by
Jason Allen
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Jason Allen Dude this album is so trippy and so different. I love it I hope it blows up everyone needs to hear this Favorite track: 8's & Aces.
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  • Yellow-Obsidian - Limited Edition Cassette
    Cassette + Digital Album

    Hand-Dubbed by Spoke Ashem.
    Presented by BearTooth Collective.
    Performed by Cunabear.

    Tapes come packaged with:
    - A seashell from Tybee Island
    - A random Magic The Gathering Card
    - An original illustration (pencil/ink on paper) by Cunabear

    Includes unlimited streaming of w0nky via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.

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Dedicated to Susan Allen Bartoletti. (RIP)

"This album has gone through many changes.
The original concept was something along the lines of a soundtrack accompanyment to a Cowboy Bebop/Cosby Show/Final Fantasy/Atlantis The Lost Empire mash-up manga I was writing.

The manga turn into an animation project- with each song being planned to have a cartoon visual to help progress the story, and each visual being a different style of drawing/animation.

Then Bill Cosby was arrested, so the story changed.
And then my friend passed away, and the story was abandoned.
And soon after- when writing for the album had officially begun, my computer's motherboard crashed, and I was left without a way to record or produce the second half of this record.

I was at a loss for what to do, if to do anything was an option for me to take. I struggled with a level of depression and anxiety I hadn't experienced in years and fell recluse, away from my friends and family.
I felt isolated and uncertain, but as the days continued I felt many of life's important lessons were being brought to light.

There is a lot of personal growth in the moments where life seems most fleeting. It's important to continue to live for the people you love, even when they are gone. No matter what you believe in, remember to cherish the little moments, embrace the darkness, learn from your mistakes, and breathe slowly. Life moves as quickly as you let it."


released May 1, 2016

Tracks 5 & 7 (Measures #3 & #4), produced by Jack Bennett.
Tracks 6, 7 (Measure #2), produced by Nu Vintage.
Track 10 (Measure #1), produced by STONEDAPE (RIP).
Track 10 (Meausre #2), produced by AnotherPlanet.
Track 8 (Measure #2), produced by Thovo.
Tracks 1-4, 7 (Measure #1), 8 (Measure #1), 9, & 11-13, produced by sp00ks.
Track 14, produced by Nalim The Martian
Track 15, produced by Onso

Executive producer: Matthew Dass

Written, recorded, & performed by Cuna Bear
Featuring BigStupid!diot, sp00kytooth, & D-Cypher

All rights to their respective owners.


all rights reserved



cunabear Savannah, Georgia

Patron Saint of Patron Saints.

Jazzy, lascivious, psychedelic rap.


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Track Name: Slum Village
For a brief period of time, in the empty vast plain of space echoed a message titled "Freedom via Self-Expression" - Ex Machina

For 40 years a dormant power known only as "positive vibrations" tingled the most easily aroused aspects of my creative imagination

We sent the holiest of heroes to be born in the most harsh of conditions under the suspicion that their comeuppance would eventually achieve ultimate fruition

I was born in the most comfortable of conditions to see if the Hoover Dam could truly hold back the raging rapids of anxiety that are consistently pulling out rugs from under me


To initiation
We denounce any and all premeditated inclinations

Slowly crawling towards the altar with outstretched palms
We work our jobs and when passion police calls we play musical chairs to avoid paying repentance through a head held in a swirling drain of an overflowing bathroom stall

They pick apart the weak and foolish Schoolyard-Style
Admittance to the cool kids club requires you rap like static and wear anything but argyle at all times
Argue while they take names
And save the ass kicking slave trade for the next mediocre album drop date

We stand too high on pedestals
We only desire to test the Thestrals without a previous death
I'd kill to break bread with anyone who isn't chasing the dying waves of bad fads

Pour the gasoline on your past, lads
And flick the flame from fingertips
Then roll through the slums with a hundred angels dressed like bums who know skills pay bills and hold a favoritism towards fingerflips

If you hold onto these tree branches
You'll fall for 3 days before your gravestone cracks
And your lost to the black hole of curiosities and oddities
Cold and molded
Once was golden
Now your wholesome home is frozen
Gotta build a new genre just to hold all the heads I've rolled with

Monsters and fiends
Devils with wings
Money fueled dreams aren't ever as they seem
Track Name: May The Metaphors Be With You
Like water in a freshly thawed pond on the first day of spring.
You mutter the words of the eldest tattle-tales as if spoken from the scriptures themselves and I sing.
I never knew the words, I just mouthed along until I chose to write the song the way I felt it belonged.)

Brutus held not the only mighty dagger of subterfuge

It takes King Kong instincts to avoid tripping into black holes while traversing through negro spirituals of doom and gloom
History pages for the third-eye blind hidden inside a dark room

But I hold my search light steady in the best manner
With a blood-stained banner while my homies riot in the name of love at the local pizza tavern

And maybe the skunk stentch stinks best when the cause of such bullshit is freshly in effect but a candle wouldn’t hold a candle to that
Track Name: DeerMan Of The Dark Woods
It’s the eternal seashell hermit mannerisms
That bashful black sheep ain’t no friend to the famine
He rolls blunts out of canvas and paints monsters with smoke and mirrors
Rocket launch your calm mind with a stomp-to-start
Eating poptarts in futuristic golf carts and when the sunsets

Abandon ship

I repurposed your grip tape to hold my feet to credibility like a Vans van full of Vans going 90 on the interstate

Light a doobie in the rompus room
We watched a couple in the bangbus from the coup when she desides to follow suit
Whiplashing all down 66 dipping snicker sticks in miracle whip

And I didn’t spill a drop of my god damn sippin’

Got enough intuition to let Yakity Yaking simpletons simp on simple situations while I prescribe them with their symptoms:

First they have no pride, or they’d sound much more like flesh
Vices turned to voices in their head until a gold chain equates to a bad back

Second is a lack of tact
First to throw the punches always first in line to need a spine attatched
They’re used to sludge bombs making days long and hosting bong-a-thons when the smiley face is on

Before I continue, let you be warned, they’re summoning DeerMan of the Dark Wood at a seance in the backyard

I wouldn’t cross those beams
These mortal men know only 3 things
Clits, Tits and Bong Rips give the soul a smokey shade of pink that I don’t think I’ve ever seen

Liquor store at the cornerstone of the systematic connection between the hunter and the hunted
Every piece on this chessboard is a pawn
No Kings
No Gods
Just man

And this machine that we’ve created
It lets me anaylze with great detail the extents of my particular persuasion.
Track Name: Obsidian Mirror
Take a look in the obsidian mirror

Every memory held by black men's hands grip the noose by the loop and dare the front man to kick down the safety switch that sends these cooped pigeons through the roof

As if I'm not free by definition
Defying my current living conditions persevering apparitions as I wait for the bat signal in the sky telling me it's time to rise again as the darkest night fades

To sunrise

Over the fact that Brother Starlight and Sister Moon seem to always have better things to do than cover my 6 while I turn tail for them hills

Hidden Valley where all my former awkward exoskeletal shells try
To live forward-facing progressive lives

Growing good-guy cops in patchy crop circles
Circling the vanity of the drain
Swirling humbly away
Way way way over yonder where the spontaneous attitude is pondered upon without a fear for the fall

All my niggas are
Walking tall
And the humble earthworms still crawl

As our narrative is called to be displayed upon a Jumbotron
Of honesty
Induced by alcohol
A pair of balls and a need for catharsis living in the suburban projection of a ghetto
I feel as if my goals are nearly met
Though that's probably just the part of me that wants to breathe with certainty that the next police officers I see won't crack knuckles and bats across my legs, arms, and back like the got my homie

Rest in peace, Eilonwy
I know you came a long way
Black Cauldron tells my future
I hope I make it home today
I'll even take the back way

(All my niggas are
Walking tall
And the humble earthworms still crawl
We burn ex lives into the mirror
We write scriptures on bathroom stalls

All my homies
Float with grace
And the humble earthworms still crawl
I don't have time for saving face
On my belly turning dirt to vital psalms)
Track Name: We Speak Of Stalwart Fads & Raise Our Shaking Fists Towards Heaven
I don’t have time
I’m fading into lines
Empirical design
Impossible to find

Experiment with time
Experiencing life
We search for truth
We scavenge for the light

I want to decay astranged from sight
We want to have a good time

I don’t have time
Track Name: Don't Tread On Me
I spell "Fuck Corrupt Cops" with 3 capital K's

And use 3 capital K's with capital gains to package my art form and use it as compensation weight for all the Jerry-rigged nigger shippers selling slaves in cellophane coffins and improper expiration stickers on the graves of their fame

When the eagle fights the crow over territory not his own
I sharpen talons using silence

I begat bloodshed with no violence

And watched a passive song excommunicate in serpents tongues how to run from K-9 units who only smell in biased blueprints

I run home everyday

For the sake of safety by my own hand
I fight to Bend my own rules
I fight to Be my own man

I put 2 loafs on the table
Now taste the soup straight from the ladle
They cannot ever find a fitting label
So I'm considering filing to be a rapper-disabled

Maybe feed hungry hands with a pay roll
And you know I've got a jay rolled

For when the door gets bludgeoned down by the critically enabled and I get shipped off back to black man grade school

You have the might to remain violent
Turn a pigs head into dress pants and parade with your black friends at the riots

There's spraycans in the armory and AK's in the trunk

Don't tread on me
Watch we never move
Don't tread on me
Watch we never move
Track Name: Of Guts & Glory (feat. sp00kytooth, BigStupid!diot)
Approaching the masses
(I roll over in my body bag)
Of culture and class
(My black skin holds fervent past)

I'm on the
super highway
of identity crisis
That road's unfinished.
my roots with a blend of

suburban totalitarianism

white cookie cutter homes
My housing rights
commend your private lawns for being so well kept

I dare not face my demons
Yet my black soul begs for feelings

Told the Oreo is closer to god because nobody wants the shell

The encasing
The binding of the book who's pages are blank and white

I'm told on Martin Luther King day
The importance is on my shoulders to celebrate

But all my friends are not my skin

Not of my will but the world on tilt

I made my first black friend in the deepest reaches of my 2nd grade classroom and his father saw me as a buffoon

holding race no
"pass go"


Rewind, we don't fuck with that
Rewind, we don't fuck with that
Rewind, we don't fuck with that
Rewind, we don't

That black boy said we'd stick together and his complexion complicated the intricacies of brotherhood for the niggas that were birthed amidst the flood

I want my brothers back.
I don't recognize the poor syntax
I can barely afford to be black
Breaking stereotypes with baseball bats

Hanging all my ties to life as "the whitest black guy" out to dry while I sign on the dotted line for

My severance package

Only to have my application declined when they search they find he was a half ragheaded culture-killer
Could kill the whole world with an arrow to the calf's dreaded head.

I was born and named after the gospel's own words which I denied, denied, denied
Until I dug so deep in my own denial

I found my new name cut all the ties I was too scared to hide.

Burnout til the sun dies
Calling all cars, I think that somewhere deep inside
there's a real nigga coming to life.

Burn out till the sun dies
Calling all cars


I spoke to the elders of guts and glory
Let a scribe mark every phrase in a blank bible and had it titled “8th of February”
That’s the same day that I met Rory

I think it’s incredible how influence fuels fires so strong that the earth grew extra grass to help it burn longer

Took an afropick with the black power fist out of the same rock Arthur pulled his sword from and declared myself a warrior in my own right
The patron saint on the come up got the lavish life in plain sight

He’s got the stench of seven sailors and the omnipotence of fake gods who mirror all your favorite fables with appropriate labels like “This one’s for suicide”
Here, have a seat
Not every move is do or die

In fact I scribble nonsense in my freetime and I’ve authored many secrets
And I’ve fathered 9 children, dressed them in their raggedy worst and let the silence of the crowds do the rest

I promise this process is for the best

(I am calculating understanding misconceptions are decieving
I am reevaluating all the wonders I’ve been seeing)

I am longing for the brightest light to shine upon my face and give me warmth and a happy place
But I’ve exhausted all my efforts and my motives were all vain so I humbly crawl home on all fours to learn to be a better man

(I am calculating understanding living life requires balance not meaning
I am reevaluating all the wonders I’ve been seeing)
Track Name: Couch Surfing At Low Tide
I’ll be a black boy turning colors onto white noise
With my limbs contorting rappers into play toys
Watch the stones turn cold unearthing secrets from the years before

Artisan; my art of choice
Art is not the art of war
Riding camels into battle
Casting anit-depressant magic spells that turn your greatest fears to cattle

(Is kettle burnt or just under attack?)

I lay upon my throne of ambiguity and chuckle at the lemmings envoking their own fates with portal guns and cursing their own morality
But honestly

It takes a long time to build up these abra-cadabra answers to your prayers
Which is why I prefer to neglect them all and say follow your heart
(Who wouldn’t make a better god?
Got no judgement, just impulse and immediate reward)

Your instant gratification ceremony is sacrificed to uphold to social norm

I bet I bleed a better brown man’s blood from these government certified paper cuts

Commit brutality
Attatch affinity for the suffering
Of negro boys like me
Prefer our pussies to the pavement and our brains across the streets

The Man’s got a golden girl for the future and he’s kept her in a glass house so we’re taking a poll on how many would prefer an X-Man Malcom in the middle of this ignoramous ignorance tele-mesmerization-station with a metal bat and an attitude over the exploitation of swift hand under calm face

Gesture check

Better double-back and fumble that term before you discover why it’s mother nature that makes your discrimination absurd
Track Name: Thar She Blaows!
(I have had a million dreams of making money
I have had a million dollars in poor man’s fame
One night I gave it all for a million special moments
And I swear that….)

We too can feel

Your light with our world
To fight the darkness)

Worth no death is no mans work
These men work for their souls are over-
Flowing with the bounty of a thousand setting suns
Across the galaxies, through time and space

Constellations to commemorate the smallest instance in their life where they shared
With another
Or kindness
With a brother

We will commemorate our happiness
Commemorate our happiness

We will commemorate
We share the same stars as an infinity of smiles
We run with arms stretch out wide
No strife nor pride
I could share this feeling until the day I died
Track Name: w0nky
Unironically rock the metal shirt
Jerkin off the money tree until my greenthumbs hurt
Fuck the world while she's wearing a tan skirt
Put a brain in the vein of the robot

Till his heart hurts
And he's praying to God for a calm burst of love

The mixture in my phanny-pack puts covers over granny's fascist actions

We run triumphant with the serpents tear
I found new bravery
That caters to me and my
Every need
So the mantra sings out

"Evil-doers beware!"

Casket Dancing,
drunken-fist style in my favorite pot socks
Till my fucking heart stops
Option for failure is naught
Ego has begun decay
Death ray fired promptly
The darkness seems inviting when your soul is kinda wonky

I'm Tomb-Dead in the dead of night
On a mission for salvation
Grip the blade never the handle
Toss your stigmas on the mantle

He paid for hope with body language
Let the succubi as old as time write an early ending for the fable
Face blue in hue like a smurf yet
He didn't find the same Jesus as the one who sold him Percocet

We run triumphant with the serpents tear
I found new bravery
That caters to me and my
Every need
So the mantra sings out

"Evil-doers beware!"

Casket Dancing,
drunken-fist style in my favorite pot socks
Till my fucking heart stops
Option for failure is naught
Ego has begun decay
Death ray fired promptly
The darkness seems inviting when your soul is kinda wonky
Track Name: 8's & Aces
Vivid dreams of vicious guillotine gorilla swings knock me four feet back from the conscious body I’m controlling.

Head in my hands
Bated breath
Scolding me
For biting off more than I could eat
Off of this array of trays with multiple courses of life lessons

My homie put the sauce in the pot
With the key to flowing in out of hearts
3 old bare bowls waiting to be filled with them goldie locks

I thought I saw her last week
Slipping in and out of my mind
In and out of her unfairly shortened timeline

We were family for the short time that it’s worth
She holds the world’s weight in a smile full of pearls
And I think that if I thank her enough for all that she’s done
When the time comes I’ll cook this soup this time in exchange for a moment more of Q’s love

Like a dove, I remember passing by you
More concerned about getting home safe so I could reach a high mood
Wouldn’t have even known and I was there before they found you
Hid behind the crowd who learned fellowship on a late night
I guess I learned my lesson too

How a friend became my family before I even really knew her
Found home on an isolation island and built a new heart out of spare and scrapped parts

I still hear you everywhere I gotta go

And every now and then I wish for all our sakes you’d come home
But home is carried in us always, even if I can’t call your phone

I just can’t wait to tell all the dope shit that’s happened since you’ve been gone
Sitting on a dope throne
Sending whispers through the wind, in a breezy riding eyelashes, pink and black on that chrome

I’ll lift my blunt to the sky for a high nigga pie
Susie Q, cutie pie, with a twinkle in the eye, claimed she’s not afraid to die because she lived a full life

Sleep tight
Track Name: Burn The Maps (feat. D-Cypher) (BONUS)
Burn the maps
We ain’t coming back

Charter for the unknown
Sacrificial heroes
Heralded through space time
For every chronicled rhyme we design
Gets to shine in the stars
While the herbs sticky-ick to the grind

Existential crisis
Pardon all my vices, I’m impervious to the virus
Walking barefoot on glass legos has me fending off my calices in my chasing of the holy chalices

My nigga
Beartooth super sleuth cookin’ cookies in the kitchen
Savannah crews are family ain’t got no time for the dissin’

Descending into madness
Can’t afford to recess
Defecting from the process
Depression brings the cold sweat

But I’m marvelous with my wise-guy hair cut
Hopped on the throne young
Re-embodiment of King Tut, but you can call me Cuna
Never find another brother who can slick you with the smooth cut

And I’ll
Cut it apart
Fuck the game up with cheat codes
Guitar Hero rockstar
Paintball gang war
Feast your eyes upon the high score
Spitting fire till my throat’s sore

I’ve recently grown fond of all my passions
To the point where I feel confident I can make all my dreams happen
And man this city scape is bleak without any Sunday Night action

Active effects on the battlefield including spewing confident tactics ’til you’re making that bread while asleep in your favorite bred Spread-Eagle to form the ultimate showside attraction

Grab the torch and hold that flame just right

Ignight your life by the lamplight
Save file deleted to take the extra chance at living with no strife homie

Onso got the gold goat and we’re holstering our performance anxiety in the jell-o mold deep beneath our ever increasing belly rolls

D-cypher the prose while we unclog your nose and you can sniff the proverbial shit just to see it’s 4 days old in the time it took for you to announce that I should do as I’m told

But niggas don’t know the code

And I’ll
Cut it apart
Fuck the game up with cheat codes
Guitar Hero rockstar
Paintball gang war
Feast your eyes upon the high score
Spitting fire till my throat’s sore