Eviction Squall from Crumbcycle by Crumbhush

This track opens with the raw, immediate feeling of a world caving in. Deacon Ray doesn't just rap; he murmurs a chilling inventory, each lyric a piece of a life being boxed up, a deeply personal reflection on what it means to face loss when there’s little left to lose. Iris’s voice here isn’t a gentle note, but something torn, a piercing sound that embodies the sheer desperation of the moment, showing a new vocal intensity for her. We pushed the sound into a true squall, letting the piano detune into a brutal avalanche, using a metallic trash-can kick for rhythm, a much more confrontational edge than our earlier work. Live, the intensity builds and builds, then drops completely. That 15-second "Pocket Silence Drop" is a gut punch; you hear only ragged breaths and faint bench creaks, making the entire venue hold its breath with us. It’s a moment designed to pull you in so deep, the sudden return of sound hits with the force of catharsis. The recurring theme of scarcity turns into a defiant chant by the end, moving from disillusionment to a fragile, hard-won resilience. This piece is through-composed, no repeating sections, a deliberate choice to mirror the relentless forward momentum of eviction itself, pushing our artistic boundaries by refusing comfortable musical patterns. It culminates not in a surrender, but in a collective surge, a statement about how even when everything is stripped away, a shared voice, that "crust to seed" mantra, still finds a way to sprout.

Tracklist

7.	Eviction Squall	4:01

Lyrics

Breadcrumb skitters across eviction sheet
Ledger grim outlines the shrink-wrapped feast
I count each spoon like unpaid throb
Iris hum crumbles, glass above knob
Gas bill flaps, kitchen air tastes of ash
Cardboard grin laughs at our pantry stash
Rent-tag flares, my voice thin as match
Hefty bag mattress, memories latch
Crooked fan slices off yesterday’s heat
MPC splinters, quarter-note sleet
Landlord breath leaks, key teeth scrape
We shrink behind crate-shaped cape
Last Crumb Loop limps, pitched down sigh
Hourglass grit sticks to eyelid dry
I rap to dead outlets, sparks refuse
Silk of our payday vanishes, bruise
Neighbor’s cough counts down deposit loss
Baritone prayer meets ringtone gloss
Mic wire tangles around eviction stamp
Kitchen tiles mock our coil-drenched amp
We marinade dread in enamel pans
Hope thinly spread like mustard on cans
Squall sniffs gutter for crumb scented dust
I hurl one vow: ‘Pay soon—or crust rust’

Lift the latchless hymn, hum for those pushed out
Stack the boxes into vowel mosaics
Crack our voices like ceramic plates
Let syllables hover over unpaid dates
Cousins, neighbors, gather under breath-made tarp
Clap rib cages—wooden drums, tart
Iris threads keen note through plastic twine
Choir replies with parcel-spine
Her alto pierces foreclosure grin
We answer with bass that rattles tin
Lenders may tally but cannot hymn
Our loop repeats: crumb must begin
Slats quiver, still we sing rental creed
Quarter tones trickle like mop-squeezed bead
Hear hope expand past plaster sheet limit
Breath stacks tall, no bailiff can trim it

You ask what fits in a sedan—
two crates, one toddler kite, half a sink
Mortgage of memories left curbside to blink
Receipt flakes stick to my cuff like guilt
Neighbourhood cat patrols our vacuumed silt
I peel the magnet alphabet from fridge skin
spelling ‘lend’ ‘lend’ ‘lend’ until vowels thin
Throat tastes of pennies, prayer feels brief
Eviction date circles back like thief
Landlord pen scribbles ‘now’, no arguable grace
I promise the child a picnic someplace
even if blanket is only shared breath trace

Drums jerk forward, quarter-skip sprint
Detuned chord from gingham vow returns, bent
It wails in reverse, vinyl-melt cry
While crates become shields we hoist high
Neighbors stomp ledger-dust into confetti
Invisible Choir swells, pocket-surge ready
Iris unleashes glass-spear tone
Rent-shark backs off, jaw half-grown
We chant: ‘crust to seed, seed to crust’
Mallet strings pound that metal trust
Squall peaks, tempo doubles our stride
Lease grief slips off like shed hide
Brass breaths paint color over bank’s demand
Flutes curve around each raised hand
Cardboard banners snap with chorused might
Warped picnic chord rings bruised-yet-plush
It hawks the hook: ba-da-ling of trust
Four hits, same chord, but pitched with rust
I tuck crumb in pocket, vow on same note
Squall quiets; eviction can't drain our throat

Credits

from Crumbcycle, released September 4, 2025

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