The Infamous,
First and foremost, this mag is the shit! I’ve never see a mag like The Infamous, not one. You guys got the shit on lock, products, advertisement, interviews with the old school as well as the new. Hands, throws, freights and burners, all very nicely put together. Mad props! And of course, “Behind Enemy Lines.” I am currently serving five in Florida, shit sucks but it’s almost over. And then… back to the slaughter house!
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The Infamous,
Keep up the good work, ya’ll magazines get love from everyone I show it to. Let me speak on the Philly tunnels for a minute.
To me the Market and Broad Street tunnels are like a museum. You have to really walk through them to see all the classic shit. You got stuff down there from the 70’s, 80’s and the 90’s that’s classic. I seen tags in these tunnels where dudes left the date and the year was “1974,” I wasn’t even born yet. When I was home I seen inexperienced, corny-ass dudes go over shit that’s older than them. Some of the legendary writers don’t have any tags left on the streets but they still have tags living in the tunnels. It’s crazy when I see people go over shit like that!
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The Infamous,
I rep WH, STV. I guarantee any true graff head has heard of either one of these two crews. No bragging, just speaking some real shit. Especially if you’re from any ‘hood in Miami, you really, really, really know I’m speaking some real shit.
I’ll be the first to admit, there’s nothin’ pretty boy about my shit. I’m not the one to sit in front of a legal wall all day doin’ a piece. Nothin’ wrong with that, but that’s just not me. There’s no thrill in it for me. Instead, I’m the one in the streets late night, standing over a baser as I rock throw-ups on shutters in a crack-infested Miami hood. And at the same time the one who rocks illegal shit on hundred-thousand-dollar storefronts on South Beach. I’m the one who loves to bomb. I live to bomb. And being locked up kills me. When I bomb I feel this rush, this high that doesn’t compare to anything in this world. Ain’t nothing like bombin’ all night, getting chased, getting away and then wake and bake early in the morning and drive by all the shit you slaughtered the night before as it’s lit up by the bright sunshine. There’s nothing like that feeling. Or sitting at a red light and one of your trucks or freights surprise you outta nowhere, as it passes right in front of your eyes. You true bombers can relate to this. You feel this. You’re the same ones who know what it feels like to have two cans tucked in your waistline at two in the morning. The sound of paint whippin’ outta the can is music to your ears. Your favorite song, that you know every word to. You’re the ones who know about that sweet aroma of flat blacks and silvers as you destroy everything in sight. Or the scent of multiple colors as you take out some Santa Fes, Union Pacifics or Wisconsin Centrals. Then go home and blow rainbow boogers out your nose. Damn, I miss that shit.
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