• » Name: Meka Soul
• » Location: Los Angeles, CA
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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.

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