Residente's Diss Track 'Batería y bajo'

Residente Unleashes Fire on J Balvin & Cosculluela in New Diss: ‘Batería y bajo’

The legendary rapper bids a grand farewell to his confrontational songs

Archivado en: J Balvin  •   Residente  •  

René Pérez Joglar promised something big after his rebirth as Residente in a short film that has been the talk of the town since last Wednesday night. What we didn’t imagine was that it would be something as important as ‘Batería y bajo’.

9 minutes and 3 seconds of true catharsis, a release of pent-up anger in response to what he considers unjustified attacks and condemnable behavior. Without excessive embellishments, with the drumming accompaniment of Tony Royster and the double bass of John Benítez, and his main weapon in the lyrics, the solo artist has bid farewell to diss tracks in the biggest way. But not before going after all of his enemies.

He has had an ongoing conflict with J Balvin for several years due to his attitude and everything that happened after the controversy of the Latin Grammys. Over time, he has gained supporters but also detractors, some of whom are also portrayed in Residente’s song.

The lyrics speak for themselves and require little explanation regarding Residente’s opinion about several of his detractors. And this is the end point. Or at least that’s what he says. His final diss track…

Residente’s ‘Batería y bajo’ Lyrics in English


I love it, haha
I love it
I love it

Verse 1

I love letting them run free in the meadow
Making them feel like they have their whole lives ahead
And when they’re getting close to the border
I take out the wooden pencil and blow their minds

I’m the whip that tears your skin
The fucking overseer in the sugar mill
I’m the last thing you’ll see before you die
The hospital ceiling, the nurse’s face
I devour this calf, the tenderloin, even the skull
The tail, the neck, nothing’s left on the plate
Even Shakira loses her hips

I come with an axe in the glove compartment
Like a Native American scalping hair
I make them wave the flag behind the trench
While the Residents cool down in the fridge
I’ve swept them away so much when it comes to rhyming
That even witches don’t have brooms to fly
No exaggeration
I’ve swept them away so much that I’ll have to go to another solar system

I sweep them horizontally, vertically, even perpendicularly
No one in the urban genre smiles at me anymore
Because I turned their teeth into my necklace
Now a line of losers tries
To figure out how to pay next month’s rent
Because I mention them only once
And I feed them for a month

These tongue-waggers start drooling, saying I’m not a rapper
But no one wants to fight the second, or the third, or the fourth, everyone wants the first
You prove me right
In this pantheon, everyone wants to fight the champion
They can’t even reach the Quinto Escalón
Their pants fall because my belt is too big for them

Not even among the top thirty, bastard
Not even with sign language can they join the conversation
Not even with the death penalty, they have good execution
Even if they beg Omar, they don’t have the gift

Today the population will increase
Because I’m going to give it to them until the condom breaks
Now without further interruption
Cosculluela, here’s your mention to pay the alimony
Every day this hoodlum with a napkin
Closes his eyes and clenches his fists
He makes a wish upon the comets
That one day the secret police will chase him

He wants to be the most wanted
Along with his gang: «The White Panthers of Humacao»
From his porcelain neighborhood
He has wet dreams about Tony Montana

His fantasies with his guns
Are filled with fairy godmothers, elves and dragons
What I love the most
Is that he thinks his lukewarm egg stare scares us

He thinks he intimidates people
With his divorced woman’s face
No matter how much he paddles, his boat sinks
He wants to be a bichote and a priest at the same time

The poor guy is confused
He reads the Bible but hits his wife on the head
With his made-up religion
He hits pregnant women
Slams them against the ground
No matter how much you pray, pigs like you don’t go to heaven
Even if you beg Omar, you don’t have the talent
No one believes you anymore
Well, except those who spell «Residente» with a C

And a couple of bloggers
The more reggaeton you are, the more nonsensical you become
They told me I rhyme «Fonalleda» with «silk»
And how do I rhyme it? With «culo,» or «huelebicho»?
I’ve had these fools in a tight spot since I came out in 2005
I’ve never seen an elephant fly
Nor Maiky Backstage do a relevant interview

They’re frustrated singers who never made it
They talk about cooking but never cooked
The opinion of these educated ones is worthless
Just like Révol with his wrinkled testicle face
In the end, these are the ones who applauded you
And Balvin’s fans who are still hurt

Verse 2

Well, getting back to the initial topic
I’m still dealing with the cop who trusts the judicial system
Who says Tego doesn’t support me
I don’t need Tego’s permission to tear you apart on Christmas

You damn mouthy one
If you knew what Tego thinks of you, you wouldn’t have written that line
You’re the only idiot in the label
Who confessed to having tasted camel urine

Poor Santa
The creature and the two camel testicles went through his throat
While they were writing him the song
They filled his mouth with urine and reached a conclusion
The man with ass hair on his head
Who thought the urine tasted like my beer

This little chop is so cute
I replied, and he went out to make a T-shirt
Not for sale, not even for a penny
You can’t even open a croquette kiosk
Your career is in a coma with artificial respiration

It doesn’t turn on even with jumper cables
It doesn’t turn on even with a hundred bottles of mezcal
Parakeet shooting in the air and regional music
It doesn’t turn on even with an aluminum oven
Shooting at you is like, umm, ah, shooting at a target
You’ll be great after you’re buried
The day Benny Benni can pronounce the R

Rrr, literally
Three sad tigers eat wheat in the wheat field
They talk about AKs, they talk about Berettas, shotguns, rifles
Tell **** that Resi respects him when he learns to write a complete sentenceBecause I’m the language that penetrates like a bullet
When I turn my bullets into letters
I break these gangsters more than Alejandro’s broken heart
They want to mess with who I am and what I’ve been
Now I bring more guerra than Juan Luis

With the pencil, I shoot to kill
When I get hostile, I raise the [R] in my profile
And they tremble more than Anitta’s buttocks at the carnival in Brazil

I’m fucking Chernobyl
Like North Korea, always with my finger on the missile button
I kill him and he doesn’t see it coming
With the lunch knife like in my juvenile days
Because he has no talent, he has no skill
And he’s dumber than April Fools’ Day
This paper gangster is so stupid
That everyone knows «Adentro» is about him, except him

He throws bars that even he doesn’t believe
What torments you since «Adentro» came out is me
«An idealist without ideas,» that punchline left me amazed
Like a cattle ranch without cattle
Like a war without soldiers
Like a barbecue without meat
Like a future without a past
Like the caliber I calibrate, very creative
You’re like a bookstore without books

Verse 3

When I mention Trooko
Mueka’s face melts on his shoulders
This overweight weevil is very lazy
He has so much cheek that he has no eyes

His ass face is a theater play
He opens his mouth and it looks like he’s on all fours
Another one who thinks he’s a commoner
I’m going to rip off a piece of the trunk of my d*ck to give him a neck

This could get violent, physical
Even though I’m like the Pacific Ocean
To the sellouts, if they provoke me
We take a little tour around Villa Margarita

Me, settled accounts, Trujillo has my back
Bryan and El Maníaco watching my back
I break these little gangsters
They can’t reach me even with their best jump because Trujillo is tall

I’ve never shot, but I’ve always written
I’m not street, but my crew is
I dismantle you piece by piece
Prrum, if you catch me on the street, you lower your head

The problem is not that I’ve been rich since I was a kid
It’s simple, let me explain
The problem is that an arrogant person like him
Pretended to be from a neighborhood where he wasn’t born
Dressing up as a tough guy up to his neck
And with his music motivating people to kill each other

Fronting and kicking like a foal
Those who end up on the streets had no other choice
But this carousel jockey
Who grew up eating at a table with a tablecloth
While the neighborhood he fronts with ate paper
He had his mouth full of cake
Your last name isn’t from the streets, dear
It’s like if the Montaners started singing narcocorridos
It’s like if Kim Kardashian and her sisters
Thought they were part of the Italian mafia

Let me sum it up for you:
It’s like if someone from San Isidro, a top-notch phony
Someone who never missed a breakfast
Thought they were from Villa 31
But this little lamb from a golden crib
Thinks he’s a bull for hitting his ex-wife against the toilet
That’s why your career is deteriorating
Like «dinosaur» rhymes with «meteor»


I’ve vented already
Now I’m done with all the diss tracks, yeah
I won’t diss anyone else
I swear, I promise, yeah
It’s over, I’m not interested, ****oles
Enough! Enough!
I want to be a balladeer
I want to be a balladeer like, like, like Ricky Martin
I want to be a balladeer