• » Name: Meka Soul
• » Location: Los Angeles, CA
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	September 2007
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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

Damn You, OJ

I’ll be honest: I’ve purposely refused to throw my own gauntlet down when it came to the case of the Jena 6 because quite honestly I can not lean towards one particular side. On one hand, I can’t help but feel some remorse for all the teenagers and families involved, as it was ridiculously insipid to attempt to try kids who haven’t even developed enough fur under their chins to be considered an adult as adults. For no legal action to happen to the idiots who thought that throwing nooses in a tree was a joke was retarded, and essentially gives that city’s denizens the notion that it’s also alright to chain someone to the back of a rusty pickup and drag them a few miles.

At the same time, I don’t really feel sorry for the shit the Jena (Gina? Jenna?)  6 are going through in the first place. Call me heartless, but the simple fact of the matter is that these kids stomped out the ever-loving shit out of another human being. Whether the victim was white or not, that’s still wrong on all kinds of levels. While the initial punishment was extremely exaggerated and unnecessary, comparing the following protests to the Civil Rights Movement four decades ago was just idiotic. I never saw Dobermans biting chunks of ass out of those protestors, but then I’m fucked up like that.

In actuality, the entire fiasco brought back memories of the circus act that was Detective Nordberg's murder case that happened in my city some thirteen years ago. I’m not comparing the two trials, mind you; I find it interesting how people will instantly jump to conclusions on some random-ass issue when it’s glaringly obvious they don’t know the half of it in the first place, like the time all those asscunts ran up on the freeways holding “Free OJ!” signs during his rather fruity low-speed chase. The fact that every channel broadcasting it cancelled out my TGIF programming, but I digress.

Interestingly enough, as soon as OJ was acquitted, many of his supporters were quick to push duke – who had long ditched Blacks for White people and Hertz commercials, before he went all liquid swords to Nicole’s tonsils – to the left, once they realized they let a killer walk free, disowning him like deadbeat parents do their children. And now with his latest foray into the Ski Mask Way not really helping matters, it makes me wonder if they start to ignore Mychal Bell, now that he recently got sprung from the pokey, once Sweet Daddy Grace inevitably decides to direct his wallet toward the next “racially motivated” case. Not to sound like a racist or anything, but in the rare case I get sent up the river on some pent up, exaggerated charges, I wouldn’t want A Pimp Named Slickback trying to get me off the hook. I can barely afford my rent sometimes; Lord knows I couldn’t even spot his premium.

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God(dess) Bless The Dead

If there were ever a reason not to trust those who are supposed to serve and protect this country’s denizens (read: chow down on doughnuts and gun-butt the shit out of some hapless Negroid every now and then), this would definitely be the case.

A note to all the non-minority demographic (read: honkies and Chinks) who read this particular section of the Internets: be glad you haven’t waken up one day looking like C. Thomas Howell in Soul Man, lest you’d actually welcome the overall sense of fuckedoverness jungle bunnies such as myself tend to face every now and then.

And it’s not like today’s Black “representatives” are doing anything to quell matters, what with them impersonating cops, slapping fire out of Whites at parties and the like, and this year isn’t even over yet. While the reasonable half of me shakes my head in disbelief at this shit, the inherently coon side that all Blacks have (don’t front) is more or less enthralled at watching my fellow man make an ass out of himself, because I’m a cynical asshole like that.

But with this latest development in Biggie’s case, one has to wonder why the fuck this random-ass inmate would wait ten years to say he’s been lying the entire time. His deposition would have you believe that his conscience was getting to him, but I’d like to think that of all the violent entries his asshole has received since being locked in the bing essentially made the bitch in him come out. Perhaps he’s trying to score some petroleum jelly to ease the insertions by doing this, but whatever.

You have to wonder what all of this means to not only hip-hop, but Black people as well. Think about it: some random-ass nut diddle has allegedly been lying to the fuzz for the past ten years. Now thanks to this hump, I can’t help but be even more paranoid for fear of some random-ass police officers ready to fry the (literal) shit out of me a la Nelly's number-one cheeba stasher Ali all because I asked, “What seems to be the problem, officer?”

But maybe that’s the conspiracy theorist in me once again talking. At the same time, Phil Spector literally shot a bitch in her mouth and he got off Scot-free, which leads me to believe that the negative attention these dumb-ass artists attract are permeating throughout the rest of the dark-skinned community, essentially fucking shit up for all of us who were born with melanin in our systems. Is that to say that Whites and Asians can pull the same shit with little or no repercussions? I’ll just conclude that Latasha Harlins had her kufi popped off for no reason, yet you hardly see gooks get their domes crashed, because we all know Asians can’t rap. I’m just saying.

And yet people still wonder why I bump Galt MacDermot more than Grandpa Simpson.

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In The Line Of Fire

On a side note: Burnett, this is the funniest shit ever.

Anyways, ever since crotchety-ass YT geezer Don Imus essentially made it so that the average Joe like myself can’t go running around calling skeeze-bags kinky-haired trollops without catching flak from fake-ass Sista Souljahs, soccer moms and whatnot earlier this year, the primary topic of discussion of hip-hop this year (outside of the typical gay rapper flim-flam and “Crank Dat” nonsense) has been the portrayal of hip-hop music in the media. Far be it from me to call shenanigans on the entire hubbub – because the fucked-up half of me loves to hear shit like that – but you have to wonder if this “debate” holds any weight at all.

When it really comes down to it, most of the shit is technically legal under the First Amendment [1], and essentially if I wanted to make a song, video or blog (heh) professing my infatuation for feminine penetration, recreational use of Dimetapp and the cost of my Air Forces 3s (the answer? Not much), I should be able to engage in such dumb-ass shit like that without worry of censorship.

Then I forget: this is hip-hop we’re dealing with, and some random-ass dipshit may actually look up to me for that.

The problem with my scenario is that society today has an issue with separating reality from fiction. It’s easy to throw the blame on the rappers, what with their unwillingness to at the very least provide some food for thought that didn’t come with an eight ball and a bullet. With an increasing number of single- and no-parent households, many of today’s children are inexplicably looking to this shit as if it will teach them a lesson at its end Fat Albert-style, thus being unable to tell what’s authentic and what’s phony.

But in another sense, the fact that there could be so many vodka-for-breakfast, retarded children could be for the fact that today’s prominently displayed hip-hop could give a shit about a simple bother like proper parenting, at least not when there’s drugs to be sold and Cisco to be poured on the ample backside of a horse-legged woman and such. So if the parents themselves believe the asinine jibba jabba that these shitbag “poets” are slinging, the shit fucks with the entire foundation of family in the first place.

On the other hand, it’s pretty lame for someone to actually be offended by this shit. Last time I checked my forefathers and foremothers fought for the right to actually put out music without some YT’s visage on the cover in order for it to get play in the record stores, so if they were able to withstand truck-draggings, lynchings and other such inane shit, then the generation today should easily be able to deflect what some random-ass honky says. I know I’m able to, so why isn’t anybody else?

So what’s the solution to all of this? I have no fucking clue, but blaming hip-hop for all of society’s ills is just wrong, not when people look to battyboys like Ted Haggard of all people for “spiritual advice.” And unless someone gives me a legitimate reason to stop, I plan on shooting out the dreaded n-word like I do “Chink,” “Jawa,” “hymie” and every other bigoted word from A to zinc as if it were going out of style.

[1] You know, it’s kinda hard for me to have faith in a country that imposed a law to make my black ass have the same rights as everybody else only four-plus decades ago, but that’s just the conspiracy theorist in me talking.

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In Defense Of Jay-Z

As with everything else in life, everybody is entitled to their own opinion, no matter how... err... “interesting” they are. Having a credible, visible avenue to express such opinions has definitely become one of the brighter spots in my, day, what with being able to spew wild jibba jabba on some shitbag artists with little fear of reprimand [1]. At its best it’s an update on one of the forgotten elements of hip-hop, the cipher, but at it’s worst (and often most hilarious and controversial) it’s nothing more than an electronic form of playing the dozens.

I’ll admit: I’ve thrown my fair share of grease-loaded shit talk in the few months I’ve been around. But in all honesty, some of the shit has gotten some of my brethren here to defend their stances. So imagine my amusement when our latest top-tier voices [2] Charlamagne Tha God took Grandpa Simpson to task for being a “ball hog” and not trying to give his younger compatriots sufficient playing time.

No disrespect at all (because I hold the utmost of it for all my siblings. Yes, even Ketchums as well), but excuse me if I call bullshit on that decree.

Granted, while Sean’s recent string of shoddy lyrics have left more mouths sour-tasting than Kim’s puss [3], the most obvious reason for that is, well, he’s not the same MC Flossy McDrugLord from his first album over a decade ago. The interesting conundrum about this is that he finally decided to go back to those ideals for his upcoming “concept album,” the same humps who wished he did that for Kingdom Come are now barking on that decision.

In order to compare Jay-Z to Number 23, one must also take into consideration the supporting cast each had behind them. Using that logic, it makes perfect sense that both Michael and Jay constantly had to throw their respective teams on their backs. Granted, Pippen was to Jordan what Silk Shirts is to Grandpa, but did anybody honestly expect Judd Buechler, Bill Wennington, BJ Armstrong or Dickie Simpkins to play any legitimate role outside of court filler [4]? If you need further proof, feel free to check Beanie’s and Memphis Bleek’s respective go-rounds, where they couldn’t even toss a beach ball into the ocean to will their audio rapes to sell.

It’s painfully obvious that Jay has tried at the very least to train his underlings to shoot a jump shot. But if they’ve constantly Sam Bowied their way to failure and shattered his confidence in them, why else wouldn’t he toss out a few sub-mediocre bars to keep his team in playoff contention. But perhaps this condescending nature of today’s culture, where some drug-addled, wombat-sounding “rapper” with no legitimate vintage material (a shitload of mixtape “quotables does not count) gets and insanely confusing (and at times invalid) amount of respect. I shouldn’t be entire upset, though: perhaps in my (not-so-) old age, I had lyrical leaders to look up to, not some shit like this. But perhaps today’s generation is cool with the fact that there is no credible balance of hardcore and thought-provoking artists in the public eye as there was a decade ago. Rather, there’s an overabundance of feet-shuffling show tunes, elongated rappers with a smidgen of moral sense and other delusions of grandeur.

No wonder why they keep losing.


[1] Unless you count MC iThug running off at the mouth, but who really gives a shit about them?

[2] And I’m not up there yet why?

[3] Anyone: Kardashian, Lil’, Cattrall, Action, pack guns, ridiculous.

[4] You don’t see anybody inducting Randy Brown into the Hall Of Fame anytime soon, do you?

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Sucker MCs

A little bit of information about myself: despite all the shit talking, the somewhat condescending demeanor and overall narcissistic (cynical?) attitude, I’m a nerd (N.E.R.D.?) at heart. Always have been, and quite possibly I always will be. I’ve always enjoyed the moronic simplicities of WWE Smackdown!, rocked a backpack way before Silk Shirts West softened them up and – like my latest blogging sister from another mister Ms. Bassa (moms keeps churning them out!) – was singing along with The Roots before Black Thought was banging that Jewish chick in that one movie.

Even throughout my years of robbing people and ducking mall cops for 40 minutes and such, the one thing that never changed was my inherent nerdiness that stemmed from a family loaded with nerds themselves. The (not-so) interesting thing was that I’d spend a good part of my life reading, studying and learning while my counterparts were out doing “normal” things, like trying not to catch The Germ from One-Track Mind Sally, becoming future WIC receipients and whatnot.

The reason I bring up this scenario is that I’ve never tried to come across as anything different (aside from that one time I thought I was 2Pac, but after he got his chest cavity exposed, not so much), particularly on the this section of the Internets. But it never ceases to amaze me whenever I see some random-ass rabble-rouser bark about their willingness to catch a red-eye to some other part of the city and smack the ever-loving shit out of another random-ass goon, Deebo-style, because their “alias” was called out of pocket.

I’ve even had a couple instances where someone tried to step out on me. A few months ago, one of the readers here took offense to the fact that a “square Charlie” such as myself was representing Inglewood because – to paraphrase something my M.I.A. blogging brother from another mother S.Y. Young would say [1] – having a decent grasp of the English dictionary’s not what’s popping in the hood. A couple of witty quips later, and duke is threatening to search the entire city of Los Angeles to plant a hot one in my face (pause!). Fortunately (I think) our issues have since been quelled, but it was pretty hard for me to take an Internets “menace” entirely too seriously, although I do recall that one situation a earlier this year where some cracka-ass YT traveled over 1,000 miles to find an online heckler and tried to burn his place down while he was still in it.

In a sense, nobody should ever try to come across as some pistol-packing über-thug on the Internets because, quite frankly, it’s pretty geeky to type out how you’re going to style on someone you’ve never seen, not to mention it comes off sounding pretty fucking Twinkie soft in the first place. But maybe that’s the evolution (I call deterioration, but whatever) of the thug: without the likes of Lesane running around thinking shit is sweet (with some bean pie pusher creeping up on his ass eventually), they’ve now become inspired by the V-neck muscle shirt tactics of the Dip Set’s MySpace hackers, and barking on a message board or a comments section is the end to all means. Personally, I’m more scared of my family’s hypertension history than those acts of Fagitry, but whatever.
 
[1] Yeah, I go “back there” sometimes too.
 

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G-Unit: Hip-Hop’s Glass Joe

They say that in life, things aren’t guaranteed. I beg to differ, though; I know at least a couple things that are on a yearly basis:

* Birth
* Death
* Taxes (unless you’re a TI)
* The ambulance-chasing tactics of Sweet Daddy Grace Sharpton and Hymietown Jackson
* Prodigy of Mobb Deep getting punched out by some random-ass rapper

Seriously folks, has sucker-punching Tapdancer P become the new Diwali riddim? All jokes aside, if Saigon mollywhopping the sickle celled former ballerina in a crowd loaded with people and getting away with it is indicative of anything, it’s proof that not only is the once-mighty G-Unit dance troupe is a shell of its former self, but nobody fears their threats of sending rappers to the “artist graveyard” anymore.

My only question is why Fiddy would actually sign the diminutive pipsqueak in the first place. He’s not been the same since Grandpa Simpson turned him into a eunuch way the fuck back when I was living with in my moms’ poolhouse, Fresh-Prince-style, six years ago. But never would I imagine that the guy would get slapped out more than Barry Horrowitz, and that motherfucker was a loser.

But when has anything gone right for G-Unit this year? From poor album sales of crew members to vindictive baby mommas looting Curtsy for more money, G-Unit’s plane has crashed more spectacularly than the one piloted by Cory Lidle earlier this year. And despite the fact that Fiddy’s latest discus is annihilating Silk Shirts' own frisbee overseas, nobody gives a shit because in a sense, the entire crew deserves what’s been coming to them.

Think about a short list of every artist G-Unit has ruined. Ja Rule plays Kris Kringle at local elementary schools, M.O.P. have been wasting away and Styles P and Jadakiss have resorted to making shoddy music videos for “street DVDs” just to keep the lights on. It’s one thing to continuously rag on an enemy, but once the line that prevents said artists’ child from eating is crossed, that’s just wrong.

But who gives a shit about those rich assfaces anyways? As far as I’m concerned, Tru-Life could drop an anvil Wile E. Coyote-style on Prodigy and I wouldn’t give a fuck. And even though the shit is mildly entertaining, we must all realize that none of this is good for hip-hop at all, as it will just cause more conservative pundit pricks and closeted religious fags to use it as a scapegoat for fucking Osama bin Laden of all things.

***

UPDATE: Uh-oh! Guess who's back!

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Lost Ones

You wanna know what absolutely fucking sucks? I just renewed my subscription for Scratch Magazine a few weeks ago, only to find out the other day that their September issue will be their last.

Aside from being pissed that I just lost $12, I’m a little sad to see that one of my favorite paper publications died. What makes this truly depressing, however, was because Scratch was one of the few (if not only) mass-produced magazines that still held a torch to one of the original foundations of hip-hop: the DJ/producer. Granted, they sometimes royally fucked up by throwing the likes of former Fugee/current faux Marley kid Wyclef Jean on the front, but that was solely to attract the masses, as its contents touched on everything, from the birthplace of the Justo Awards (you know, before Justo got ethered and the show went to shit like pretty much every other Black-oriented award shows) and the location of the original D&D Studios to the tools your favorite producer (shitbag or otherwise) and mixtape reviews. And now it’s gone, much like my paychecks are come rent- and bill-paying time.

The obvious cause of the magazine’s demise? Quite simply, the lack of support from the audience they were trying to attract, also known as the Jansport-rocking, chewstick munching, faux-“real hip-hop” heads who couldn’t tell you what hip-hop was if Brother Ali ran up on them with the burner and forced it down their collective throats. Being that I was cut from both the “jiggy” and “alternative” cloths, I’m more than well aware of the bubblehead backpackers who claim they’ll only support that “real” shit by not listening to the radio or watching MTV, yet rush to their mother’s virus-ridden computer to rapiduploadspace the latest album by, um, the cracka-ass ginger kid who runs that Definitive Jux label [1]. While it’s understandable that they were probably turned off by the mag when they see the likes of the Southern version of Chris Kanyon and his n-word spitting, fake-ass DJ Pudgee The Arabian Fat Bastard grace its cover, had they perhaps opened up the magazine they’d have seen that the magazine was much more.

On a semi-related note, it was actually a brilliant idea for BET to quietly mention that their flagship show Rap City was being moved to a different time during the hubbub that was the Curtsy/Kanye maelstrom, in hopes that nobody would notice it’d been replaced by reruns of The Wayans Bros., what with today’s music videos resembling that piece of shit show somewhat unintentionally (yeah, right) nowadays. Maybe their underwear-with-the-dickhole-wearing female CEO finally wised up to the bullshit being spewed on that show and moved to shit to the real artist’s graveyard: the late-night time slot. If you ask me though, I think that it’s inherently trying to punish hip-hop for morphing from a colorful, lush culture to a misogynistic, violent shell of its former self. If these two things aren’t proof that this culture is in dire straits, I don’t know what is.

[1] And no, I’ve not gotten his shit, because I find it much more intriguing to discover dusty soul songs by Labi Siffre than listening to some guy lament about why he's so depressed in rap form. The perfect cure for those blues? Rubbing one out.

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Hip-Hop Homos

If there’s one thing that has always intrigued me the most about hip-hop, it’s its forever-wavering hypocrisy complex. Seriously, who really believes that Weasel F. Fraggle pushes more keys than Broadwood & Sons, when he can’t even get caught by the fuzz with a loaded gun? I’m not saying he doesn’t or hadn’t, however; I’m pretty sure he can stash the weight in that gaping hole that used to be his ass before Slim and Baby got to it, Bella Donna style (yikes!) [1].

Since I’m on the topic of butt-ramming, it never seems to disappoint whenever rappers turn their tunnel visions onto homosexuality. Actually, that shit could be the highlight of  this abysmal rap year: rappers jumping on gays as if they were the cause of all of society’s ills. I may be fucked up for this, but how hilarious is it that while they’ll say they’re not homophobes, rappers will gladly put a spiked cleat on a fruitcake quickfast?

To me, I’ve never seen a problem with homosexuality, especially when it’s two attractive women involved. But I find it a little contradictive that a rapper will rhyme about his slore having a slore on the side, but will calmly slap the ever-loving shit out of a gay person – as Busta Rhymes did earlier this year – when approached.

I have the sinking feeling that now rappers are attacking gays in order to re-energize their flagging careers. Take former G-Unit punching bag (and part-time mall Santa) Ja Rule, for instance. In his latest rant in Complex, he tried to take the tallest Israeli of them all, Viacom, to task for having two guys tongue-throttle each other on some random-ass dating show in the middle of the day, with the logic behind it being that he doesn’t want his children seeing that. Not to say that he’s wrong (as showing sexually-charged material during after school hours is quite possibly the main reason middle schoolers are having orgies in class while the teacher is out [2]), but if he really didn’t want them to see the shit, it’d be as simple as changing the channel, or turning off the television completely. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t object to seeing two women go at it in the same scenario (hell, I wouldn’t mind either). Um, double standard, anyone?

But parts of me wants to believe that this rampant homophobia is merely being used as a cloak for those rappers who are actually gay but are so deep in the closet, they’d still find the panties they rocked during their high school dropout years. Think about it: it’s common knowledge that the faggotiest ones of all are usually those who heavily deny the shit in the first place, not unlike Colonel Frank Fitts in American Beauty. In that sense, it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to see who’s the real gay rapper.

[1] Seriously, Lil Wayne may knob-slobbers want to check this out. If you can’t even tell the truth about your age on the world’s most accurate website, how am I supposed to believe you don’t get touched on the inside?

[2] I wrote about this incident a while ago, but I’m too lazy to dig up the piece on it right now.

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Rap Is Full Of Shit

While I enjoy what I do and what’s happened to me since I returned to it, there are times where this industry you (the reader) and I (the cynical blogger/journalist) love so dearly (don’t front) will get to me. In this never-ending, always-demanding profession I chose to pursue a few years ago, there’s been a shitload of times where I almost put down the proverbial pen and said, “Fuck this shit.”

But not because of the cyber-haters, of course. They can bite my ass. [||]

There was actually a time where I actually put my writing game on hold, though. I mentioned it before, but when I started taking this writing shit seriously some three years ago, after a combination of fucked up politics, bitch-ass “rappers” and a lack of decent pay, my brain literally shut down the part of me that loved to write for the creative, artistic aspects of it when I realized I was only doing it to pay a phone bill a mere six months into the shit.

And I didn’t write again for two years.

In a sense, the sabbatical gave me enough time to recharge, re-evaluate and re-energize my confidence in my work. It also helped that I developed a much more wary attitude of the business as a whole, although some of you will call it “hating.”

The reason I bring up my scenario [1] it makes me wonder how these rappers can do it, with the extraordinary amount of pressure that gets knuckleballed their way all the time. While many of us like to bark on how they lost their hunger once they got rich, I highly doubt they could keep that energy consistently once they’ve become a public figure. Not to say I feel sorry for them when they bitch about not being able to get a McGriddle without getting mobbed by Stanleys (or if they’re lucky, slores), but you have to wonder just how much the shit takes it toll on them.

Take Fiddy for instance. After recently seeing that news video of Curtsy not wanting to do music anymore, I actually felt a little sad for the guy (I know). Think about it: he spends so much time playing the role of the ‘roided-out super-villain that he couldn’t show some vulnerability if he wanted to, lest the public eye jump on his ass calling him all kinds of homophobic jibba jabba. Need further proof? Check how he backpedaled literally 12 hours later, threatening to go to war with the rap version of Al-Jazeera itself.

But I guess it’s the sacrifice we all have to make in order to make it. Perhaps I’m looking to deep into it as I always do things, but it’d actually kinda suck if these thoughts held some sort of validity to them. But fuck it, though: I can vent on random cyber-thug #358 any day of the week to make me feel better.

[1] Food for thought: I had a breakdown six months into the shit (yeah, I know. Pussy, right?). Imagine being someone who’s been in it (except those cloaked TIs you never see) for damn near a decade or more.

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No Child Is Left Behind...

I guess in the haste to get Curtsy to stop violating out ear drums year in and year out, I’m going to assume that a good percentage of those who flocked to purchase Graduation feel as if not only are they trying to “save hip-hop,” but also as if it was their civil duty to buy the mush mouth’s long-player. While I’m somewhat appeased at all who bought either of the albums (especially since you’ll hardly see me doing the same nowadays), I can’t help but feel even more estranged from the target demographic I’m allegedly a part of.

Many people possibly felt the desire to buy Tooda’s album more because despite his rampant Elton John-style diva tactics in the public eye, he attempts to bring a sense of mortality through his music. No disrespect to my future ex-wife-in-law A.H.L.O.T. - as she knows him on a somewhat personal level - but I honestly haven’t been convinced of that since I bought his first album three years ago, and that stemmed from mixtapes like I’m Good, where a hungrier (and more mush-mouthed) Silk Shirts was somewhat able to balance both out his ego and earnestness to the point where it was more endearing than annoying.

The most logical sense behind this is that Tooda doesn’t try to come off as a BALCO-ridden warrior as does his Interscope counterpart, which is understandable. With yesterday’s snotty-nosed kids growing into adults with normal responsibilities, it’s pretty dumb for us to idolize a gangbanging drug lord “from the streets” who is well into his thirties. At the same time, I can’t really get down with the college campuses that look up to the other guy as if he were some kind of valedictorian, when it’s a well-known factoid that he never finished college to begin with [1]. In that manner, I’m more impressed that a group like Kidz N The Hall continued to pursue their musical aspirations, and finished college to boot. But you’ll rarely, if at all, see that happen.

Perhaps the reason why some people look up to Kanye is in fact because he dropped out of school to become a Brazillionaire. If that was the case (and I fear it most certainly is), Tooda’s contributions to the game is just as – if not more – damning as Curtsy’s empty threats of violence. In a country where even a blithering idiot could grow up to become, I don’t know, President of the United States of America, I’m not so keen on that ideal being such a motivational force in a country that consistently ranks last in standardized test scores, with the “No Child Left Behind” policy resembling more like a bad joke than anything else. But then again, that’s probably why I haven’t exactly fit into that demographic in a long time now.

[1] I still can’t shake the distrusting feeling that the underlying themes of Tooda’s albums are nothing more than him thumbing his nose at those who finished college, only to either make way less than their value at an underwhelming job or pay back the loans that stockpiled while they were in school, whereas he simply “dropped out” to become a multi-millionaire. But that could be just me.

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Why is Hip-Hop a Disposable Commodity?

It took me forever and a day to pin this guy down, but I finally managed to get duke to take a break on saving the world one student at a time to drop a few jewels. Here is Plastic Squirtguns' own Thoreauly77...

    As I sit here smoking squares, drinking Heinekens and listening to OB4CL, I lament the state of current commercial hip-hop. So why is current commercial hip-hop (er, rap music) so fucking bad? Simply put, the masses are completely inundated with news of the terrible: suicide bombers kill 13 in Baghdad; Virginia Tech massacre; no clear plan (still) to get our soldiers out of Iraq and Afghanistan; Darfur. These images are so prevalent (particularly to those of us who spend a lot of time on the internet), that it is no wonder that some people would rather do the motorcycle while they are pop-lock-and dropping it. By all means, get your eagle on, but creating and supporting music with no meaning is, in my opinion, not a viable alternative to being a  pro-active consumer who chooses not to support bullshit. Give this some thought: when did commercial hip-hop become so blatantly and blissfully ignorant? When we let it of course. When did we let it? When did we give up?

    We gave up right around October 7th, 2001, shortly after the attacks on the World Trade Center. This obviously wasn’t simply a collective decision to close our eyes to what was happening, and was most certainly part of a music industry coup that was directed toward the overthrow of our collective give-a-shit-level. For six very long years we have seen the music we love become a shallow caricature of itself, and why? Because we have let it. No one wants to think about how completely fucked we are as a nation. The CNN of the streets has turned into The Mississippi Riverboat Revue (do your homework).

    Even so, we have amongst us a few artists that still give a shit, namely Kweli, whose “Eardrum” is a refreshing return to passionate hip-hop. For those of you out there that don’t automatically default to the whole “fuck that backpack shit”, I would also suggest checking out “None Shall Pass” by Aesop Rock, which is surprisingly accessible considering his dense and coded word-play. Any other suggestions for some new stuff?

    Remember, hip-hop is an artform and a culture, not a commodity, and just as the artists should be stepping it up and giving the form the respect it deserves, in turn we should also respect the artist. Go out and cop the albums! Buy a shirt! Get out of your mom’s basement and go see a show! The state of the world is fucked, yes, but walking it out won’t do shit!

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The Odd Couple

“What happened to the Mobb, Curtis?!”
“You’re not gonna beat me, Cam.”

How accurate was that statement?

I hate to admit it, but it’s been rather difficult for me to ignore the media blitz known as Hurricane Curtis West, what with it even getting play on ESPN and the various connects I “acquire” music from. In its own way, their labels’ respective TIs orchestrated this shit to a well-tuned tee, and despite the fact that their albums (trust me when i say that you don’t want to hear my thoughts on them) were leaked a couple Fridays ago by the same Senegalese immigrants in Harlem who sold me a huge vat of Shea butter for $5 when I was in New York, it’s obvious that the majority of the music buyers (read: the ones who don’t know of the various Internets black markets) have fallen for the shit hook, line and sinker.

Aside from preferring to spend my hard earned, toner-changing money on things that matter more to me like, say, Dominoe’s Pizza and vodka, not to mention the fact that I’m just a cheap bastard (ladies, if you’re interested...), the chances of me legally obtaining those two albums is about as slim as resident faux cyber-goon sharkcity’s chances of writing a convincing dissertation on why his funny-style moniker doesn’t sound like he was an extra in The Rocky Horror Picture Show. In other words, don’t bet on black.

But I digress.

The interesting thing about this is that while Curtsy has been failing miserably at garnering some form of buzz for his shit sammich since February, Kanye simply snuck up and swiped all his momentum with two “meh” singles. So if the cover of his album was any indication, Fiddy’s situation is so harrowing that he would actually link up with Jim Jones on Rap City to chop it up. And while I could care less than a shit about him, you have to wonder how Cam’Ron feels about the whole thing. I mean, not only has he one of had his retinas crushed by Tru-Life and his MySpace page hacked by his Puerto Rock e-terrorists, now his BFF would rather have tea and crumpets with his nemesis while he’s lounging in one of my city’s quick-nut motels in some dih-duh-dih-duns and Timbos.

I think it’s safe to say that Cammy lost this one. But it’s not like that’s saying much because Curtsy would rather hang out with a guy who rocks button-up muscle shirts and skinny jeans than deliver a cohesive album, while Kanye throws bitch fits about not winning an MTV award as if it were a Nobel Peace Prize. You know who really won this shit though? The A-Rabs making all kinds of money from this shit, laughing straight to the bank the entire time.

[1] If you honestly think Jay and Dre have anything to do with this, go play in traffic please.

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Fuck 2Pac. Remember Biko.

With yesterday officially being the sixth anniversary of the start of our endings, I’ve noticed that throughout the week so far most of us have been in some somber mood. I’ll even admit, I’ve been a little down in the dumps also, but my reason is primarily for the atrocity known as the Philadelphia Eagles’ special teams. On a semi-related note, in Sega's NFL 2K5, the last one before EA Games decided to monopolize the genre, Greg Lewis’ rating was a miserable 43 out of 100. Is it any wonder he got mollywhopped left and right on the field last Sunday?

In my state of frustration, I decided to release some tension [||] onto my little piece of bandwidth yesterday, simply explaining on why I didn’t give a shit about Lesane’s death anniversary. To paraphrase Pusha T, I never knew the guy personally, so why the fuck would I “ride” for him like he paid my way through college? Just because he made songs like “Brenda’s Got A Baby” and “Heaven Ain’t Hard 2 Find,” I guess those monumental shits easily cancel out the homophobic rants and death threats found in “Hit ‘Em Up” and “Against All Odds,” right?

And people wonder why I’ll take Bobby Caldwell over this guy any day of the week [||].

But when it really boils down to it, Lesane didn’t really die for anything; he just, well, died. Matter of fact, he got caught slipping without his vest (perhaps it wouldn’t have looked cool trying to tuck it in behind that girdle he fancied so many times [1]), and got the ever-loving shit shot out of him by some random-ass, Final Call-pushing, bow-tie Muslim that still walks among us today! Call me remorseless (among other things), but you can’t convince me that this guy is capable of “touching souls” because some of his “works” are found in junior college courses (or as I like to call it, the 13th grade) around the country. Shit, I feel more regret for the ones who jumped to their deaths six years ago yesterday than for a guy who got his start in the game molesting blow-up dolls on stage while dancing for Digital Underground.

Truth be told, when one of my close friends died of a heart attack in the college apartment next door to me five years ago (what makes his situation more heart-wrenching was the fact he was my age when he died. Rest in peace, Jerry), his impact on my life affects me to this day. Aside from his friends, family and especially Suge (he’s broke as fuck without him now), who can honestly say that Lesane's ethering has done the same to them?

If you really want to celebrate the life of an actual important individual, celebrate the one of South African activist Steven Biko, whose death happened 30 years ago today. Biko figuratively and literally sacrificed his life combatting apartheid so that the lives of millions of South Africans could be a little easier. But aside from Cry Freedom, you don’t see anybody else mentioning his efforts, lest Jay-Z decide to put his face on a shirt and perform on MTV Unplugged again, right?

You can miss me with that one.

[1] Honestly, a leather bustier on a guy is less hip-hop than this loser.

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Here We Go Again

As my Long Beach blogging brother from another mother Brillyance lamented yesterday [1], the eleventh “anniversary” of the death of Humpty Hump’s favorite piff pocketer, Tupac Shakur, will be upon us in a few days. Not to sound like I don’t give a shit or anything (even though I really don’t), but it’s a safe bet to say that I’ll probably spend the day trying to avoid the media altogether, save for this lovely section of the Internets, in hopes that I don’t have to get pelted with the shitty tributes, radio stations blaring out “California Love” every 30 minutes and insidious jibba-jabba from today’s current crop of crappy rappers “reminiscing” on how his role in Nothing But Trouble (look it up) changed their lives.

While at times I am still awestruck as to how someone who quite possibly caught one of the worst etherings of all time in hip-hop (only Big L and, er, Hiroshima and Nagasaki got it worse) could still hold so much influence over a rapidly-diminishing genre of music over a decade after he got Swiss Cheesed up, you’ll have to excuse me for calling bullshit on those who honestly feel that the guy “touched people’s souls” with such inspirational pieces like “Thug Passion,” as so many humps tried to convince me when I wrote a piece here on why Biggie was the greatest rapper of all time back in March [2].

But if you really think about it, some of those homos may have been right to a certain extent. If it hadn’t been for Parish Lesane Crooks (once again, look it up) running around shirtless either threatening to empty a clip into some random enemy’s chest (oh, the delicious irony!) or boasting about squeezing one off in Faith’s face, there’d undoubtedly be less rappers running around with their waxed, greased-up chests all out talking as if they’re impervious to the same lead diet Bishop was fed in Las Vegas.

I am almost certain that most – if not all – of today’s rappers wouldn’t have a career had Makaveli not been used as Suge Knight’s personal bulletproof vest on The Strip that one fateful night. At the same time, I’m pretty sure Pac would hold no relevance in the eyes of today’s hyper-fickle audience, as in the case of most old rappers today, what with them preferring to stiff-arm hoes in the club and claiming that a “rapper” is the lyrical version of  based off of a handful of shoddy, drug-addled mixtape rhymes.

Perhaps it’s due to my somewhat blasphemous nature, but since I never gave two shits about him when he was alive (and I’m from the West Coast to boot!), I’m really not affected by the idea that his ashes could have been used to fertilize the ground that grew the carrot I just finished eating. But shit, he’s probably making money off this blog just by me mentioning his name, and I don’t make money off this thing.

[1] This is what I get for writing shit and not posting it first. Oh, well. Shouts to Brills.

[2] Seriously though, the general consensus in the comments section tried to convince me that 2Pac was the greatest because I was (and I'm paraphrasing here) a "fruitbag who needed to kill myself because I didn't know anything about rap." And I wonder why such insightful commentary does little to move me.

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Foxy Brown Lost

Before I start this, one quick, unrelated question: why are all the rappers suddenly going on the BALCO diet? It’s bad enough Curtsy, Timbaland and Busta Rhymes look like elongated action figures, but Dr. Dre too? My guess is he's finally tired of getting sucker-punched at various awards shows now.

In any case, for the past few days I’ve been listening to a playlist on my iPod that actually consists of two playlists meshed into one: Yonkers’ exceptionally-talented-but-continuously-losing D-Block, and a team who’s epic downward spiral into obscurity has provided hours of comedic fodder for my cousin and I during our Madden nights: The Diplomats. The frustrating thing about this whole thing is that these two separate camps had the talent and depth to actually become a huge force in East Coast hip-hop only to have their careers derailed by boneheaded decisions, what with The Lox essentially signing away their lives to Diddy then having to beg him on Hot 97 for their manhood back (no, seriously), and the Dips having the fool