• » Name: Meka Soul
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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

Originality? No Thanks

If you really think about it, hip-hop culture is nothing more than one gigantic rip-off of a combination of poetry, jazz, bebop and virtually any and every other Black-made genre in music (which essentially would be everything), and I don’t mean that in a negative connotation. Honestly – and if you really think about it – if it weren’t for the YTs yoking this rap shit out from under us, it may not have been as successful as it is today.

But leave it up to hip-hop artists to start fucking up everything as usual. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the new shitty trend of late (outside of using the words “Crank Dat” in your song title) is rappers assuming aliases of either drug dealers, the corpses of heroin-addled rock stars and – to a bizarre, non-straight manner – other rappers. I’d always thought that rappers who assumed aliases as if to compare themselves to some random-ass gringo responsible for pushing an inordinate amount of poison to either the androgynous cracka-ass crackas of the disco era or the destitute Blacks who stupidly sought the shit as a “way out of the ghetto” was pretty fucking gay, especially in the nineties when every rapper and their moms felt it was necessary to rap about faux-kingpin fantasies, which is kind of ironic, considering that some of the best hip-hop music came out during that time. Go figure.

I guess rappers also got the hint that running around in some sagging, bright pink slacks was pretty fruity also (hell, even Cam’Run started taking a liking to rocking Daisy Dukes with Timberlands. Yikes!), and eventually dropped that shtick altogether, though in a weird coincidence, the quality of records and record sales started to drop as well. But now the younger humps have pretty much tried to compare themselves to the old rappers. Throughout this sorry excuse of summer music, I’ve heard Bow Wow call himself this generation’s new LL Cool J, Fraggle Rock a young Raekwon and Silk Shirts as the new Primo. I actually want to see somebody call themselves the new Oaktown 357, or the second coming of MC Brains. Or better yet, I want someone to say they’re the next Kunta Kinte. I guarantee I’ll be the first person to buy their shit, and I may rock a fake stump on one of my feet as a sneak.

While I’m on the topic of yoking aliases, it’s (not really) interesting that some hump named Calvin Klein (who gets my vote as the “least threatening drug lord name of all time”) is calling shenanigans on Grandpa Simpson for stealing his life and rapping his way to millions of dollars and Beyoncé’s umbrella in the process. While I’ll choose not to reserve judgment on whether or not Sly Cooper did it, I wouldn’t be surprised if he did yoke duke’s identity. At the same time, Calvin reminds me like the guy that does braids at my close friend’s salon, so pardon me if I call bullshit this time. But you never know, though; maybe dudes who look like they spend time in the mirror kissing their muscles (pause) could be a “legendary drug lord.” I doubt it, but whatever.

144 Comments             

Thank You, Kanye

First off, it should be noted that if you haven’t heard Finding Forever and plan to, or you don’t want to hear the highly opinionated thoughts of this blogger, you may want to visit one of my blogging brethren’s posts, lest you think that this is nothing more than (more) biased bullshit from me [1].

Anyways, last Friday was an unusually busier day for me on the Internets, as I was able to grab four albums I was actually enthused about attaining: two mixtapes starring “Dead Presidents” producer (and severely underrated and overlooked beatsmith) Ski Beatz (which I actually found on his MySpace page for free, if you’re interested in what samples were used in some of his best beats) and T-Dot rhyme slinger Kardinal Offishall, the latest release by Ski’s protégés Camp Lo [2] and G.O.O.D. Music underling Common [3]. While taking my mother out over the weekend, I had a chance to listen to all of them, and while I found Ski’s opus to be the most enthralling of the bunch (rappers take note: that is how mixtapes should be done), I found myself stuck on Finding Forever more often than I’m typically accustomed to, listening to the damn thing with equal parts disbelief, anger and frustration.

Now before some random-ass c-boy jumps on the comments section barking wild gibberish about this being nothing more than a different color of the same shit [4] (and not to sound like a fake-ass hip-hop fan like Oprah), understand that I have the utmost respect and appreciation for Common Sense. Songs like “Invocation,” 1, 2 Many,” “The 6th Sense and “The Questions,” among others, have gotten endless burn in my iPod, and I was even slightly thrilled when I heard he was running with Silk Shirts West, as he’d finally get that long-overdue recognition. Hell, when I first caught wind of “The Corner,” I instantly thought that it was Lonnie’s Midwestern equivalent of “Where I’m From,” a classic (yes I said it) heatrock in its own right. So, like my Southern blogging brother from another mother Mr. Burnett lamented recently, I’d never guess that Common would ever deliver something this underwhelming.

Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, seeing as how Common on a bad day will usually still shit on your favorite rapper on their best. But after listening to him name-drop the likes of Vince Vaughn, Reese Witherspoon and Ryan Phillippe, it’s glaringly apparent that he took the Jay-Z, “fuck this shit” route in rap. And why should he care about rap anyways? Unless you’re pushing ringtones, there’s no money to be made in that area, which is why you see Lonnie popping up more often than not in television shows and movies. If I were a rapper (and thank Xenu I’m not), I’d drop the mic for some Hollywood guap in a heartbeat.

Asinine lyrics, lazy similes and shitty metaphors aside, it’s almost as if the beats of “the new Primo” (that’s really some blasphemous shit, in my opinion) almost willed Lonnie to dumb down his lyrics. The better productions on the shit (and that’s not saying much) sound softer than a Twinkie filling, as Kanye tries to adopt a Dilla-esque sound, spectacularly crashing and burning each and every time. Ironically, one of the better songs, “The Game,” has Kanye trying to mimic the old Primo while Primo himself is scratching the hook.

Then again, it’s not like I’d expect anything substantially great from Silk Shirts nowadays. A while back when I stated that he hasn’t done anything thrilling since crushing his face in that car accident, the humps on this site were up in arms, trying to convince me that his work on the albums of his moolies Consequence and Rhymefest were instant vintage, to which I replied that since he could give three shits about them because it was pretty much expected that they weren’t going to sell records, he tossed them a couple throwaways as if to lessen the impact of their impending failure. Now that it’s been proven that he can even make a legitimate rapper sound like a weenie, I struggle to see how I’m the biased asshole now.

[1] Which is really not the case.

[2] I know, I know. One of these days I’ll actually support these artists. One day.

[3] Think about it: Lonnie’s boss is younger than he is. Even I don’t see the humor in that at all.

[4] Odd, I always thought that those diatribes are all the same, redundant thing also. Go figure.

94 Comments             

Anatomy Of An “Internets Gangsta”

“Listen mothathafuckas (editor’s note: Huh?), the next nigga to start talkin’ wreckless (sic), I'm going to send a virus to their IP address. Now thats (sic) a true internet gangsta!” – Perhaps unsurprisingly, some random-ass DX hump

So yesterday, my more sensible half dropped a post voicing his concerns about the newest addition to our blogging brethren Tigallo’s group’s decision to have MC Tree Monkey make a guest appearance on their upcoming album. Personally, I don’t give two shits if Fraggle Rock pops up on a track with the rotting corpses of Daniel Pearl and Jesus themselves; I can’t knock the hustle of anybody (I just mock them instead), no matter how oddball and asinine it seems on the surface. Shake could be right though about Gizmo rapping along the lines of his surprisingly decent “Hollywood Divorce” verse, but I more or less expect the same random-ass “Wobble Dee Wobble Dee” bullshit he’s been using to trick the public with since he fished out Camouflage’s rhyme book from his casket in the Gulf Coast a few years back.

But I’m getting too far ahead of myself.

Anyways, after a brief period of commentary from the c-boys about said post, the whole shit deteriorated into a cyber-shouting match, not unlike that prison game in which inmates drop their pants to see which person has the largest piece on them (pause), punctuated by that colorful observation at the top of this post. I could go on and correlate its numerous grammatical and punctuation mistakes to my theory that America’s current school system is severely fucked up and hyper-underdeveloped, but once again I’d be digressing from my point.

Not to be judgmental or anything (right...), but when did it become “the thing to do” for these retarded assclowns to pop up on the Internets and start spewing random-ass shit about flying over to another part of the country to pass out eye jammie tickets to a person they’ve never even seen or met face to face? Granted, I’ve received my share of homoerotic jibba jabba, but for the most part I’ve ignored it whenever some schmuck gets out of pocket, save for that infamous instance earlier this month, and I try to take the higher route whenever some herb e-retaliates because some not-so-endearing words were exchanged about their favorite junior high school dropout “rapper,” because let’s be honest, anybody who takes pride in dishing out e-threats or feels they need to insult other c-boys and bloggers to get their point across is about as lame as the Stanleys who defend that same shithead artist who doesn’t even care for them.

I could be wrong, however. Maybe these weenies have put in so much work in “the streets” that they figure the next step is to take over the Internets Tony Montana-style, what with it being such an ever-expanding cesspool of gankable music, free porn and pop-up ads. If it’s because of that bizarre logic, it would prove much more beneficial to walk up to the office of your service provider and proceed to smack the flames out of its employees’ asses, rather than bark down on “Blue Steel, Mack 10 Foe Life!,” as they are the ones responsible for providing the access to allow such bullshit. Or better yet, take on the Internets inventor, Al Gore. He’s not doing anything meaningful nowadays; why should we give a fuck that we are plunging this world into a state of despair and destruction on a daily basis, when “Chimichonga69” called you out of your alias?

I think that in my particular case studies, said chumps would like me to put their name in my blogs so they can feel gain some sort of bizarre self-esteem boost, not unlike the child who hasn’t been hugged enough, because I’m cool like that. Perhaps if I had a pair of honkers like my blogging sisters, I’d receive the prerequisite “Come over and see me sometime!” rants (do those work?) instead, even if my writing style remained the same. Besides, any feedback received is always proof positive that us bloggers are doing our job well and bringing more traffic to this site, which are the reasons our overlords throw us a piece of bandwidth in the first place. So in that sense, I can sleep easier at night knowing that I stay winning.

122 Comments             

An Open Letter To Phonte

Now, it’s been a wild minute since I put one of these shits together (what year did the Lords Of The Underground come out?), so you’ll have to excuse me if this seems a tad on the rough side. Also, apologies are in order if my compatriot Meka Soul breaks from recording “Alter Egos: The Next Generation” with T.I.P., Black Ty and Brillyance Star and bullyfoots his way onto this post, but you know how that duke rolls sometimes. Anyways...

Dear Phonte Coleman,

As a resident columnist on this site, it was an honor to learn that a member of one of my current favorite crop of musicians would be joining our esteemed stable. I have been a fan of your group since the days of “Speed” and “Whatever You Say,” and was amused at your crew’s original website, which documented everyday yet hilarious scenarios such as your partner Big Pooh’s inability to stick at a job for longer than a month, and the super-low budget video for the aforementioned “Speed.”

When your team got signed to that major label, while I was enthralled at the fact you three would receive shine on a grander scale, I was also a bit worried because of the way they handle hip-hop acts. I mean, you guys didn’t have a pauseworthy moniker like Webbie, leather-so-soft baby hair like Sean Paul and weren’t running around like the ambiguously gay version of A Clockwork Orange a la Gnarls Barkley. Meanwhile, Apathy’s been waiting for ice cream to be made in Beelzebub’s lair before his shit can come out, while Lupe Fiasco has a seemingly larger issue to deal with than underwhelming sales. Cocaine is a helluva drug.

I guess it was ok though; I mean, if Cliffy could trick over a million people into buying his audio Frisbee, your label surely could have convinced the same people who do that suspect shit in Donwill’s last blog to buy an album with actual substance, right? That’s when things all started to go wrong. Those nappy-headed hoes at B.E.T. wouldn’t play your video until months after the album had actually came out, then your own tall Israeli had to kick the bucket. I find it funny now that the channel would try to package some shit sammiches with mayonnaise as if they weren’t feces burgers regardless, but I digress.

While I am somewhat distressed that a piece of your team’s trifecta departed, I am still anticipating your next release, especially since it is coming out on your original home label. However, when I found the track listing a few days ago, I was a bit disturbed at the third track’s guest star. While I am not questioning the motives of you, Pooh or anybody related to your upcoming project, I do have one teeny-tiny, simple request that comes from not only a fan, but a person who has bought not only your sophomore album, but the promotional shirt for it as well (which hilariously riled up my superiors when I wore it to work):

Please, for the love of God, Allah, Buddha and whatever multi-armed elephant deity Apu Nahasapeemapetilon worships, omit the verse of Lil Wayne on “Breakin’ My Heart.”

While I understand the connotations of bridging the gap between the mainstream and underground audiences by having a “rapper” of his stature appear on the song, showing Southern unity and your appreciation for the guy, I do not wish to listen to an overrated artist violate my eardrums while trying to keep up with you and Pooh’s rhymes, failing miserably in the process. While I do understand his immense popularity sometimes, I cannot stand for his overly simplistic, scatterbrained and dreary raps annihilating any and every hope of the song being better that it's going to be.

My aim here is to not defecate on your immense credibility as well as the respect and appreciation I hold for your entire team at all; it is just to let you know that I do not anticipate that particular song because of that guy popping up on it. Weasel F. Fraggle has always been that sharp, stabbing pain in my hip-hop heart, and if in fact you do leave him on there, I may have to learn Pro Tools just so I can delete that part of the song when it’s finally released.

A concerned fan,
N.

167 Comments             

Rap Groups, An Endangered Species

For all this jibba jabba of this blogger being nothing more than a nihilistic, biased “hater,” mentions of what I actually do enjoy have come and gone without much notice, save for my affinity with sneakers, video games, illegally obtained music and – like every red-blooded, heterosexual male – ass and titties.

Talk about being an eligible bachelor. Ladies, if you’re interested, you know how to find me.

In any case, one of the few things I like more than talking shit about your favorite quasi-homosexual rapper is the kinetic rhyming oomph of a really great rap group. While most humps like to slob on the knob of some random-ass overrated rapper, I prefer the stylings of a two- (or more) man army. Pause?

Whereas a solo artist usually relies on some wild presence on the mic, I like how the members of a group draw energy from each other, bouncing beats, rhymes and life like a tennis match. That shit is something you’ll never catch when one rapper is surrounded by a cornucopia of bag handlers, each of them screaming over each other as if doing so would promote them to some sort of higher holding position. I know I’m not the only one who’s been to a concert and wanted to throw those shitbag motherfuckers off the stage, Prince Be-style.

I give shout outs to artists like Heltah Skeltah, Raekwon and Ghostface, Camp Lo, my Long Beach brethren Brillyance’s favorite group, Clipse (kidding, of course) and countless others who, despite the obvious benefits of going solo, have continued to work together for so long. It’s that form of brotherhood that agitates me more whenever I see some no-talent blather like he’s just received a Fisher-Price My First Rhymebook set in the mail the other day. I could give three shits about someone who rocks glasses straight out of the Geordi La Forge collection.

For all the talk about crews falling apart at the seams, I commend those that have managed to keep bringing that same fire for years. What sucks is when groups actually split up, only to rarely see that same level of success when its members go for dolo. If anything, I wouldn’t feel any remorse if this ass-backward trend of shitty solo rappers became a thing of the past. As long as there are more Soul Positions and Tanya Morgans and less Boosies and Webbies, perhaps this hip-hop shit will be all right after all.

***

As a bonus, I’ve included one of my favorite group/duo songs of all time. If this shit happens to get played at a titty bar I’m at, I may be compelled to empty out the most-of-the-time slim contents of my checking account, make it drizzle, then proceed to slap fire out of a stripper to get my rent money back. I doubt it, but whatever.

Camp Lo - Luchini AKA This Is It

141 Comments             

“Some Tall Israeli Is Running This Rap Shit...”

“Or I don't know anything about hip-hop because I'm white?” - Fellow DX blogger Shake

On weekends I usually try to steer clear of my personal computer since my job sometimes requires that I spend a shitload of time on it, save for when I read the news, throw music into my iPod [1] or rapidspaceupload the latest edition of Ass Parade from my “connect.” So when I hopped onto this section of the Internets this past Sunday, not unlike when a whore gets called back by her pimp, I had a chance to read my Vegas blogging brother from another mother Shake’s post about dog violator Michael Vick’s current situation. While scrolling through the comments section, I was somewhat bemused (but not really) at how the topic veered off from whether Ron Mexico is guilty of having dogs shot, lynched, gang-raped and a whole heap of other extra-fucked up shit to the tried-and-true rants about racism.

Leave it to us porch monkeys to call shenanigans on everything!

Let’s get things perfectly clear: whether Vick is guilty or not (he’s at least guilty by association: the damn thing was ran at his house for crying out loud!) is for the courts to decide. However, if this was a well-known NFL player who happened to be a paleface, gook, Jawa or wetback, the result would still be the same. Had Ronnie tried to work on his throwing accuracy (I swear I've lost so many Madden games because of that deficiency) instead of having pitbulls run up in each other American Me-style, this shit may have happened to his hooligan brother, and we subsequently wouldn’t give a shit.

Another interesting aspect is the fact that a sell-out buffoon like Jason Whitlock is quick to throw the blame on the hip-hop culture, as if DMX himself forced Vick at gunpoint to pull this dumb shit. What’s funny to me is that today’s hip-hop imagery is prevalently controlled by a bunch of crackas and tall Israelis (who in turn are using what the idiots today believe is the “hot shit,” but I digress); by that logic, wouldn’t all those YTs be responsible for Ron-Ron thinking it’s a great idea to host canine bukkake sessions in his backyard? Perhaps if Mr. Whitlock’s fat ass would take a second to stop listening to his urges for a Luther Burger and thought about that, perhaps he wouldn’t have looked like the jackass A-Plus so eloquently described a few days ago.

I’ll save judgment for Vick until later but from what I’ve read so far, whomever accountable for that shit is one seriously fucked-in-the-head person. At the same time, targeting hip-hop for everything wrong with society is becoming rather trite. Let’s just hope they actually don’t ban hip-hop like I mentioned before; I really don’t want to be used as currency in San Quentin because I got caught playing Ready To Die.

[1] Let it be known that while I roll with Brillyance and Shake on the whole “fuck the iPod” deal, I unfortunately have to have one since Apple computers won’t allow anything else. Monopolies are a bitch.

93 Comments             

Somebody’s Gotta Defend It

You know, for all the talk about hip-hop dying in the sense that everybody would either run around looking like the rap version of the Ambiguously Gay Duo or munch on tree bark and rock Jansports while whining and bitching about the overly apparent lack of dense lyricism instead of delivering potent product that lasts longer than the snippet used in a ringtone and caters to all crowds, nobody really wants to mention the plain fact that most rappers are straight-up jackasses that could give three-eighths of a shit about any of their fans even if they’re shining their knob while simultaneously purchasing three copies of their newest shit sammich.

With all this drug abuse, violence, misogyny and all kinds of random-ass quasi-Fagitry (not that there’s anything wrong with that...) sprouting up more often than not, it’s gotten pretty difficult for anybody who genuinely loves this shit (such as yours truly) to get up an defend the shit. Whereas there seemingly was an equal balance of intelligence and hopelessness in rap before, most humps would rather indulge in their faux-drug kingpin fantasies than inspire others to read a book. In their defense though, I can respect someone who actually has the balls to go out and pwn some hump personally than either rap about doing it – or worse – get one of their ganja moolies to slap up someone. In the latter scenario though, I’d much rather be the one catching a two-piece and a biscuit than be the schmuck who hires somebody to beat me up. Think about it: hiring some goons to jump someone else when you could very well do it yourself is on some straight-up “I don’t want to mess up my manicure” shit. You get no wins en mi casa on that shit.

It also doesn’t help that there aren’t any proper role models any more. Anybody who truly believes that a greased-up, ‘roid-raged shitbag excuse for a rapper can be the voice of the ghettos across the nation has to be out of their fucking mind. The worst part about this is that cracka-ass media conglomerates grab the closest inbred artist the can find and have them make a fool of themselves on an international level trying to debate – and then superbly failing in the process – with the likes of Anderson Cooper or Neil Cavuto. You’ll never see some tatted-up battyman waxing legitimate poetics about the Darfur situation today, so long as there are no hip-hop-related ramifications.

I suppose I should take some sort of pride that there still a small section of diehard fans, though their sometimes-unnatural (and quite frankly unhealthy) allegiance to artists raises my eyebrows. I’ll lean more towards certain rappers than others like the next man, but when I see some random-ass schlub like comments section whipping boy cheezydodo claim he got the reacharound from the Dirt Angel himself (ayoooo...) something definitely isn’t right with that picture at all.

The way things are spiraling out of control now, it’s a wonder everybody comes out of the woodwork to blame rap once they drop the dreaded n-word or “nappy-headed hoe.” With its idiotic representatives running around thinking shit is too sweet (pun intended), I’m surprised that the entire genre hasn’t been banned yet.

62 Comments             

Kanye Vs. Curtis

In the rare case that some of you didn’t know, your favorite driving shoes-rocker Tooda has (not so) coincidentally pushed back his upcoming album to coincide with not only the sixth anniversary of when the Jawas ran up in New York City, but on the same day Fiddy’s future multi-million-selling turd burger hits stores. Although I’m not on that level of enthrallment as, say, cheezyhobo was when duke saw the YouTube of Cam’Ron running around that rented duplex in The Jungles with his dickhole exposed (ayoooo...), I will say that this is shaping up to be perhaps the most interesting event to happen to hip-hop since killing weed carriers became trite.

Interestingly enough, the underlying theme surrounding this scenario is the supposed “good” music by Silk Shirts West taking on the über-violent brassiere top raps of Curtsy, which I call bullshit on, because neither of these two have made a semi-decent song in years. Perhaps if they would stop for two seconds to ignore the jabs they receive from humps like the Pink Ranger and bloggers respectively and deliver quality music [1], they’d get the rest of us to stop throwing barbs at them about their suspect behavior.

On the flip side, a lot seems to be riding on these two offerings. Rap music has taken the worst hit in this era of declining record sales, making losers like MC Bird Chest come off as gods on the Billboard charts despite the that their albums are flagrantly awful. And what better way to attempt to get hip-hop out of its doldrums than having basically the only rappers who can sell records have the same release date?

Honestly, I wouldn’t know who to choose as the top first-week seller. On one end, Curtsy and his crew has been on a losing streak ever since some background TI thought it was a great idea to release a Tony Yayo album. Not to mention, the last time he tried to go up against a Roc-A-Fella release, he lost (Beg For Mercy and The Black Album both dropped on the same day four years ago, with Jay-Z taking the number one spot). On the other, Tooda’s two singles haven’t really caught on as much as his previous singles did. Personally, the only video I’ve caught for either artist was Silk Shirts’ “Stronger” at some funny-style Nick Cannon clothing store on Melrose Avenue last weekend (don’t ask), and I couldn’t really remember anything about it other than the fact that Cassie’s fine ass makes me want to slap the ever-loving shit out of my boss. All she needs are a couple steak sandwiches though; that Ms. Somalia look, though? Not so much...

But hell, what do I have to offer? Ever since I was introduced to the digital media age by my cousin (who in turn was introduced to the art of yoking music without the use of P2P networks by me), I rarely listen to the radio nowadays, save for the times I want to fantasize about Power 106’s Luscious Liz. So obviously I’m not in their overlords’ “target demographic,” because I prefer (and enjoy) looting them for their royalties. And if my willingness to jerk the RIAA out of their terrorism funding [slightly] doesn’t allow any of them to purchase half-tarded outfits, that makes my nights sleeping in Raccoon City a little more easier.

[1] “Spaceship” and “Heat” > everything else after. Tell me I’m wrong.




*** UPDATE: This had me dying...

89 Comments             

Anatomy Of A Classic

During the neophyte days of the blogging section on this site, one of the originals (where the hell is SY anyways?), perhaps motivated by the lists of a variety of bloggers across the Internets, created his own catalog of albums he felt were instant vintage. While I had my own thoughts on his list, I chose not to comment on it (nor will I ever provide my own list) because I realize that everybody’s beliefs are different.

From what I understand though, it was the general consensus that any album – whether it’s The Joshua Tree or The Low End Theory – is considered a classic because not only are they the preeminent standard-setters of music, but they subsequently shaped the soundscape of music as a whole, not to mention stood the test of time. In that sense, I think we can all agree that certain albums can be considered timeless, since their influence is still somewhat heavy to this day.

In my ever-so-humble opinion, classics are birthed when they can distinctly describe vivid street tales, powerful uplifting anthems, intelligent yet cautious stories and old-fashioned “feel good” music, usually backed by an array of lush, emotion-invoking beats that heightens the overall message of the song itself. Essentially, a classic doesn’t necessarily have to make a particular audience relate to its subjects (I sure as shit don’t have any form of personal connection with, say, “Incarcerated Scarfaces”), yet I feel it does have to change the way an entire genre formats its music [1].

What never made sense to me – and tends to agitate me to an extent – is when the word “classic” is thrown around by a shitload of humps, as if they just learned the damn thing from their “special needs” teacher, not unlike the words “swagger” and “hater.” As I mentioned before, the insanely ass-backward reasoning behind that is that people are considered “haters” (or worse, depending on the hump who says it) if their opinions doesn’t match a certain population of blockheads. But if we all agreed that some random-ass mixtape like Eat With Me Or Eat A Box Of Bullets [2] is going to change the way we think about music, what kind of weight could any of us possibly hold in any musical arena?

Besides, being the stubborn asshole I am, it’s going pretty hard to convince me that some bullshit like “Make It Rain” is destined to change the way I think about music other than the fact that it’s probably caused a lot of strippers to get the flames smacked out of their asses, Pacman Jones-style. At the same time, I really wouldn’t think the so-called “voices of hip-hop” would disagree with me either, lest they’d lose any and every form of credibility they have, not to mention catching a mean one from me (pause, no Johnny B. Badd).

But perhaps I could be wrong. With so many of us (me included) holding a dimly-lit torch for hip-hop’s past, most of us have the tendency jump on and attack the latest ear violation that pops up, as if it never happened during the days of Only Built For Cuban Linx... Sure, they may have been more enjoyable then (“Hay” and “Pumps And A Bump” still causes me to act out of pocket every once in a while), but they were still shitty nonetheless. And in that sense, maybe these current shit sammiches are classics to this current generation. I could go on and correlate that theory to the fact that most of today’s audiences are smart-dumb jackasses who wouldn’t know good music if it bent them over and porked them from behind, but I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t need to.

[1] And fuck no, Lil Wayne and T.I. have not injected any form of change in hip-hop, save for some wild jibba jabba about feeling like Plasticman and pushing more keys than Sohmer & Co. And for the record, Positive K had the multiple personality shtick down pat on “I Got A Man,” which is way more than I can say about Cliffy.

[2] Reason number 626 why New York stays losing: craptastically hilarious album titles.

259 Comments             

50 Cent: Who Fucking Cares?

Wanna know something interesting (well, not that interesting)? I used to be a huge fan 50 Cent. And I wasn’t one of those funny-style humps that got all moist in the middle whenever he took off one of those fruity-ass brassiere tops (pause!), mind you; my infatuation with Curtsy (ayoooo...) began towards my latter years of high school, when I first caught wind of the rapper in of all places ice-skating sneering next to Sticky Fingaz in an old-ass Onyx video for “React.” But when “How To Rob” and “Your Life’s On The Line” dropped in the summers of 1999 and 2000 respectively, I became a bona fide Fiddy fan. Shit, I’ll even admit I was pretty gassed up for Power Of The Dollar in the same manner I was when I used to blast “What Means The World To You” (yeah, I know) out of my Walkman cassette player. Of course, he originally came out during the tail end of the shiny suit era, so unless he was doing the Whop while rocking a pair of shimmering coveralls (like Sheek did in this video. Damn you again Sean!) or fronting like a dyslexic ‘Nolia project rat a la “Ha” in his videos, he got no mo’ play in CA.

I never thought he was a great rapper, but he held a decent grasp of the rhyming dictionary, as well as a knack for making catchy hooks. To this day I still think “Your Life’s On The Line” is one of the greatest hooks (and better disses to Ja Rule to boot) today. So naturally, I was slightly disappointed that his debut would never see the light of day in the Circuit City store I used to loot, but upbeat at the fact that I wouldn’t have to risk jail time yoking it anonymously off the Internets.

Fast-forward a couple years, and now Curtsy has gone on to be arguably to most recognizable – as vilified – faces in rap today. I guess that after he tried (and failed) to catch that bullet Bruce Leroy style, he scrambled his brains like a McGriddle in the process, as now he continually packages his shitty lyrics behind shittier beats, tries to ram bumbling idiots like Young Hot Rod and Maserati Fox down our throats (P-A-U-S-E) while distinguished acts like M.O.P. and Mobb Deep (well, the Mobb circa 1995-1999) languish behind the scenes and having to outsource themselves, not unlike an Indian troubleshooter for AT&T, to their rivals to keep the lights in their studio apartments on and sending his team of hired goons to either stab or slap up random-ass people, all the while mocking his album buyers (and illegal downloaders) with gaudy houses and “stock” in some low-grade Crunk Juice.

But at this point, I honestly don’t think he gives a shit about his crew outside of Tony Yayo, which is an odd conundrum in and of itself. I mean, I know I couldn’t sleep at night knowing that I carry for someone younger than me (and it’s not like I’m old in the first place), but I digress. So what, Curtsy’s album got pushed from June to the sixth anniversary of when the planes kamikaze’d into New York. If anything, that’s a brilliant plan to try to usurp Jay-Z’s The Blueprint as the best-selling album on a national disaster. And if he wants to kick out his lyrically superior counterparts (but that’s not like it’s anything significant; that just makes him the most shitty rapper in a crew of shitty rappers), it’s not like anybody would really notice; if we don’t give a shit about them now, why would we give a fuck when they’d inevitably get demoted to tire shiners?

You never know, though. Maybe Fiddy will hit hard times and will be reduced to doing the Charleston on Dancing With The Stars, not unlike one Percy Miller. Having realized that Marvin Bernard was the cause for his downfall, he may fuck around and bring back the old, snarling Fiddy that used to run with The Madd Rapper. If that happens, I’ll be the first person to yoke that album from the same Circuit City too.

506 Comments             

Blame Fat Joe

A while back I suggested that apeshit-crazy Puerto Rican rapper Tru-Life could make a name for himself if he had taken the extra step and ethered one of the Dip Set’s many loveable losers because let’s face it, it’s pretty difficult for some no-name “mixtape rapper” to make a statement in the rap game without either killing somebody or getting killed themselves. And if in fact they do make some sort of imprint, said impact is usually slim and long forgotten after about a week. You don’t hear anybody talking about Stack Bundles anymore, do you?

Since I’m on the topic of go-nowhere rappers from the East (north?), it shouldn’t be a surprise to anybody anymore that the city responsible for unleashing hip-hop to the masses have devolved into nothing more than a town full of ass-backward raps and even dumber rappers. If it weren’t for the fact I have family there, not to mention I could get Nike Dunks for dirt cheap (Los Angeles stays losing), I probably wouldn’t be going out there next month in the first place. Lord knows I don’t need some random-ass goober from Harlem throwing a hot piece of metal in my face for no apparent reason. Pause.

It’s amazing to see how a coast responsible for so much essentially make a mockery of the culture they created. What bugs me out even more is that the women are now more likely to start some shit than the men. Whereas guys apparently like to run around with their junk all out around their boys a la Lil’ Cease and Cam’Ron (P-A-U-S-E!), women out there are more willing to risk their freedom in this country to smack up some illegal Cambodian manicurist on GP.

If anything, I’d at the very least know better than to be in the same vicinity as Terror Squad honcho/shoe licker Fat Joe. Think about it: who wants to be affiliated with that sinking ship? The biggest thing he’s got going right now is his Arab DJ – the Abu to his Aladdin, if you will – and the only thing that hump is good for is holding the camera during Al Jazeera telecasts. And it's not like the members can simply opt out of their contract either. Cuban Link’s gone MIA since he tried that shit (and caught a buck 50 to the side of his face as part of his severence package), and pallbearers are still trying to load Big Pun into his casket some seven years after his heart gave out from inhaling all those corner-store pork rinds. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that Aladdin had purposely had those two Mexicans Swiss Cheesed in Miami this past Memorial Day.

If anything, anybody that jumps on that shitty bandwagon has to know that being a part of his crew is akin to being an intern: unpaid work, and the boss takes all the credit. Word to Face Dirty. I guess Remy Ma’s wig carrier didn’t get the memo either, and the broad caught a bullet in the gut for her troubles. Then again, she should have known not to hold for someone who holds for someone else; I mean, who really wants to be a weed carrier’s weed carrier?

I know now not to raise my future children out in New York. The last thing I need is for my daughter to get Dragon Punched or shot at because she was rocking the wrong hue of fuchsia. But it’s not like going down South would be any better; we’ve all seen what their educational system produces.

96 Comments             

RIP DJs

Last week, I discussed my disdain for Internets DJs and their unwarranted need to place their watermarks – usually in the guise of some annoying-ass person screaming their name and/or some equally ear-crushing sound – all over their mixtapes, essentially detracting from the song’s quality and overall fucking up the enjoyment of said song. While most of the comments that followed were flat-out hilarious (word to Mark Twain Fame a/k/a The Grilled Cheese Maker a/k/a Pour More Syrup On My Hotcakes. Ha!), the most insightful one (and thus the inspiration for this post) was Pancho S. Arsenal’s remark.

And I quote:

One more thing... if these DJs want to be called DJs... then at least make the attempt to learn how to cut and scratch.

That, to me at least, is the words of a true Hip-Hop head.

What I forgot to mention in my previous post (no thanks to “Headshot,” the world’s worst mixtape signature, next to the reverb effect and “DJ ‘THE FUCK!’ Drama!” [1]) was that most of these cartoon characters have eschewed the original innovations of Grand Wizard Theodore all the way to Cocoa Chanelle and countless others, and instead relishing in pseudo-thug tendencies, shouting out faceless no-names, placing ass-backward sounds over songs and/or making a general ass of themselves on tracks.

In the past, the DJ was undoubtedly the key component to any rap song, and while they were usually the least recognized, they were also the most respected. Somewhere along the way though some hump decided he wanted some shine as well, and thus the DJ’s devolution has been going on since.

It’s gotten to the point now where DJs make threats of physical violence and references to drug sales, not unlike the shitty rappers they endorse. I don’t believe for a second that a schmuck like DJ Clue? is a gangsta, especially considering that he “accidentally” got punched in his mouth by Beanie Sigel and didn’t do anything about it in that Backstage flick. Unless your alias is DJ Kay Slay (who was once a respected graf artist, and has actually slapped out a few people in his day, before making an idiot out of himself with that YouTube of him on the crapper eating cereal, but I digress), I find it hard to believe that some record spinner flipped birds in their down time.

The worst offender of them all has to be Miami’s own The Great Khali. Aside from the fact he looks like a Down’s Syndrome baby behind the boards, I’ve yet to see this space-waster do anything remotely connected to the art of deejaying. Maybe the fact that he has friends in high place, not to mention the means to have the Sears Tower blown up on a whim, has him in the position he’s in now.

It’s already bad enough that any random-ass person could say they’re a DJ and have nothing to show for it, but when the top names start fucking it all up, Hip-Hop has a problem.

[1] Does that particular one not make sense to anybody else other than me?

28 Comments             

Diggin' In The Crates, Vol. 2

While I'm still sorting out a couple things, I thought I'd bring up a post from the past, when I first started making noise here. Don't worry though; I'll be back to normal on Monday (I hope...).

Barack vs. Hilary
An inside look at 2008’s Democratic nominees.

Now before I get into this thing, I’d like to say that I don’t personally follow politics, nor am I a fan of this bullshit. I find it much more fulfilling pulling ingrown hairs out of my chest than catching up on American affairs. In 2000 (my first year of eligibility) I voted for Bill Clinton’s weed carrier, only to see him lose due to a variety of bullshit, and in 2004 I voted for the Heinz ketchup (catsup?) pimp, only to see him lose via the same bullshit. Needless to say, I could give a shit about who runs this country since we’re all screwed no matter who does [1].

However, the upcoming 2008 presidential race has the potential to be the most interesting – and quite possibly important – one to happen ever [2], what with two potential candidates vying to be the first non-white male to capture the title. So I thought I’d throw my own views into the mix.

I didn’t know much of Barack (or Barry, if you will) Obama outside the fact that he’s, well, a black guy in the U.S. Senate who used to do blow and weed back in the day. Granted, his keynote address at the 2004 Democratic National Convention warmed over a lot of white people (as well as convincing them that he’s about as harmless as a Life Saver) and threw his name out there more prevalently, but honestly, I was too busy pushing off pots & pans at Macy’s to really care at the time. So a quick Wikipedia search tells me that he was born to a Kenyan father & white mother [3], raised some ruckus in Kenya & did some business with an extortionist in Illinois.

Sounds like my kinda guy! (no T-Pain)

Meanwhile, Hilary has always been known as the prototype for ride-or-die chicks, and she rode that wave into being elected Senator of New York, a position she’s held since 2000. She’s currently tied with Barack for support among likely Democratic voters.

So who to choose? I guess if I had to, I’d pick Barack off the strength that he’s black. Then again, Hilary let her husband get sucked off without as much as a peep. But we all know that shit won’t matter come election time, and the Bush regime finds yet another way to finagle the White House out from under us. Perhaps Diddy & Russell can get the so-called “hip-hop” voters in on the action while finding a way to make money off them simultaneously. They already got me once.



[1] Hell, I care more about being able to leave my city without being snuffed, robbed or shot than this shit.

[2] Come on now, did you honestly think Jesse “Hymietown” Jackson or Al “Sweet Daddy Grace” Sharpton stood a chance?

[3] And as we all know, once an African leaves his country for the first time, his first goal is to knock up the first white lady he sees. Being Nigerian myself, I’ve been a witness to this.

33 Comments