• » Name: Meka Soul
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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

Non-Rap Music To Fucks With

If you’re like me (and I sure as shit hope you’re not), you’ve probably reached that point where you can’t really listen to rap music all the fucking time. I don’t know about you, but I could never listen to the tunes of the Mash Out Posse to relax frayed nerves or soothe a headache.

I listen to hip-hop music about 98% the time I turn on my old-ass iPod, so it’s easy to find a song, album or playlist that fits my mood at the time. But then there are those times where I just can’t listen to rap at all, as if my brain is prohibiting me from listening to the audio carnage of Styles P and Byzantine crack raps of Ghostface Killah. So in an effort to expand my musical horizons – and possibly prevent me from completely returning to the days of Hall & Oates and Chuck Mangione [1] – I turn to a multitude of artists. Real talk, you don’t have to solely listen to rap music to be considered “hip-hop,” because in actuality the culture is essentially a melting pot of everything from jazz and soul, to punk and even country. One day I may do some shit about how country music is the White equivalent of hip-hop, but right now I’d like to put you all on game to these people you needs to fuck with when you can’t listen to rap.

Sergio Mendes – True story is that I more or less couldn’t give a shit about any kind of Latin music up until about last year, when I hit up a free Latin Jazz concert with my sister at New York’s Lincoln Center. Let me tell you, there’s nothing like seeing an entire crowd – man, woman and child – simultaneously let that rhythm hit ‘em; the shit’s almost spiritual. While a lot of peoples know Sergio from the shit he did with those rapping gypsies the Black Eyed Peas last year, duke has been running the bossa nova game for well over 40 years.
DOWNLOAD: Mas Que Nada (the original, fuck that Will.I.Am version)

Justice – I’ve slept on these cats. But after I saw a drunk Kanye crash the stage Dirt McGirt style at some awards show, they got my interest. Perhaps due to the fact I grew up heavy on Freestyle music and used to murder cats on Marvel vs. Capcom 2 [2] while Daft Punk played in the arcade, they’ve definitely gotten my attention.
DOWNLOAD: D.A.N.C.E.
BONUS DOWNLOAD: Wale – W.A.L.E.D.A.N.C.E.

Sharon Jones & The Dap Kings – What’s wack to me is that while a talented but drug-addled artist like Amy Winehouse catches all kinds of attention for the wrong reasons, those that actually restarted this funk/soul revivalist movement shit get no play. Although the Dap Kings are more known for being the backing band during Amy’s Back In Black sessions, they’ve been around for well over a decade, bringing that real soulful shit but lacking the shine as their counterparts.
DOWNLOAD: 100 Days, 100 Nights

Machel Montano – When I visited Trinidad for Carnival earlier this year, I was introduced to his music in the best way possible: some wild sexy, big-butt Trini gal using my pelvis as a grind station to his vocals. Next to dancehall, soca music has got to be one of the freakiest sounds ever. I bet you can swing an episode in the back seat of a Jeep pumping this shit.
DOWNLOAD: One More Time


[1] “Feels So Good” is that motherfucking crack, though.

[2] Strider, Gambit and Dr. Doom = you can’t see me like John Cena.

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The Ultimate Lie

I shouldn’t even be writing about this right now. Seriously. I literally told myself I wouldn’t write about this Ghostbuster emcee until at least the New Year. But damn if this little bugger can’t stay the fuck out of sight for at least a week or so. Maybe I should just quit this rap shit for a while... Nah, then I wouldn’t be able to linguistically rub one out onto the frail mind states of the resident cyber-homos that comment, what with them feeling like e-terrorizing the schmucks who write for this site is a suitable replacement for a foot job from their homeboy during the holiday season. That’s not the gift that keeps on giving, people.

[||] on that one.

In any matter, during one of my increasingly frequent insomnia-driven nights I took a gander at the audio section and attempted to listen to the mixtape of Lil Wayne’s latest batch of Oxycontin handlers, Bad Ass Grasshopper. At this point I shouldn’t even be remotely surprised at anything the little wombat pulls out his drug-addled mind anymore. I mean all that Robitussin had to have fucked up his cognitive process, making his brain more or less resemble a Kirkland Signature rotisserie chicken from Costco Wholesale. Those 50-pack barbeque chicken wings be that crack, though.

Real talk I can’t even hate on the Weez for trying to get that Shop Boyz guap, however middling that is. If I were to ever defend his antics (which is probably something I’d never do) I’d say that his attempts to branch out into different arenas shows his willingness at developing a musical range, which would put him a step above the many carbon-copy rappers out today. But being DX’s blogging pariah you know my nihilistic ass wouldn’t even bother, because it’s quite fun when I put the serious journalism to the side to talk my shit over here.

To add on to Ketchums’ tips, the first rule in any profession is to take great interest in the field you’re in. So while I’ve never been nor ever will be a fan of Grandmaster B, I thought I would at the very least understand why the fuck he has a solid fan base. (Un?)fortunately I’ve not been able to come up with any logical reasoning other than that today’s rap fan is considerably similar to a member of either of the two major political parties in this country, and followers (the correct term would be a Stanley) of Weasel F. Fraggle are eerily reminiscent of the Grand Old Party's own in the sense that most of his disciples are just as loony as he is, an understandable notion when you take into consideration that a good chunk of them are primarily from a region that foolishly seceded from the rest of the United States because they thought that Negro slavery was “natural and normal" way the fuck back in the day. No wonder they still consider Blacks as three-fifths of a man down there now.

What’s even more coincidental is the fact that both Republicans and Wayne are essentially hypocritical liars, in the sense that - despite their anti-homosexual stances - both are known to have dabbled in the not-so-sweet science of man-on-child dry butt sex (where do you think the phrase “Superman Dat Hoe” comes from?), as well as fronting like they have some semblance of intelligence when they’re really blithering idiots trying to trick the general public. I wonder if that says anything about the fans themselves. Hmmm...

If this shit is true (and I’m praying to Shiva, Ganesha, Vishnu or whatever that Indian religion with the multi-armed elephant deity is I’m not), I’m glad I was born and raised over on the West Coast. I may have to pay just to live in a one-room jail cell in the middle of a city full of porno stores and nutrag motels with The Terminator as governor and deal with the likes of Lil Rob and Baby Bash every now and then, but at least I’m spared from drinking the Kool-Aid pickle juice that’s rotting out the brains of Lil Wanker rap fans as we speak.

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Missing You

In case you didn’t know my other, not-really-racist-but-still-kinda-fucked-up other half hosts a little thing called the Soul Mix Show over at the other site I make my non-existent checks at, where I dig up obscure gems that were sampled for some of your favorite rap songs. What’s great about what I do is that I’m also rediscovering and appreciating my love for this music culture that’s enabled me to be some shitty, reclusive blogger/message board rabble-rouser.

I kill me sometimes.

It’s actually these nostalgia-induced field trips that make me long for the days of Kross Kolors and that massive Jolly-Rancher-wrapped-around-a-Blow-Pop lollipop [1], where the shitty music of yesteryear was still light years ahead of any bullshit these deviants bump now. When I hypothesized last week that because rap is low on women that look nice and will roll with you in an old-fashioned slobberknocker there’s been a lot more bitchmade material, it opened a proverbial floodgate in my skull of things hip-hop needs more of. Without further adieu, I’d like to share these thoughts as well. As usual, feel free to toss your input in the mix as well.

Shout Hooks. Remember when rappers didn’t have a sniveling little nappy-headed hoe that sucked her (or in some cases, his) way into singing the hook? Rap was much better when there were about 18 people crammed into a young-ass booth screaming the chorus to a song like they’d just come back from beating somebody’s ass, robbing a bank and slapping the turban off a New York City cab driver.

Ragamuffin Artists. If they couldn’t find any piff pocketers to bark “Head Crack!” into the microphone, at the very least rappers should get some wild Jamaican immigrant to say some nonsensical, “I murda fo’ fun. Lorda Mercy!”-type shit for the hook. Remember when SuperCat was on everybody’s track? Bring back him and Patra’s extra-fine ass back to rap. Matter of fact, just bring Patra to my bedroom later on tonight. A little hip-hop knowledge: did you know that “Pull Up To My Bumper” was about butt sex? You know Patra was that freak for remaking that one.

Dancing. And I don’t mean that fagtastic “Crank Dat” bullshit neither. I’m talking about when motherfuckers were doing all kinds of wild acrobatic shit while they were spitting. Big Daddy Kane used to kill shit back in the day... what the hell happened to Scoob and Scrap anyways? At the very least rappers should do that thing where they were pointing and kicking at the camera the way Kriss Kross did back in the day.

Posse Tracks. I would give props to The Great Khali for trying to bring this back into rap, but I don’t want to be accused of supporting terrorism. Plus, Pudgee The Arabian Phat Bastard reminds me of that retard from Life Goes On when he’s shouting on those songs anyways. I’m talking about those songs where everybody is trying to outshine the other. The best part was almost always the last rapper on the track, because you just knew duke was gonna fuck shit up real proper like.

[1] I can’t be the only person from California who remembers that one on those things.

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Ryde Or Die, Chicks

Rap is full of shit right now. We got too many bitch asses bitching and knob slobbers slobbing right now. I miss the good old days where if a rapper had beef, they’d knuckle up on the block like an after-school fight. I’d give props to Saigon for punching out Prodigy the same way Butterbean did Bart Gunn in the WWF a long-ass time ago, but then he went on MySpace to brag about that shit. Only tender-fleshed schoolgirls who experienced their first taste of the Night Life do that. Plus, Prodigy has had his face beat more times than Superhead. Eddie Winslow lost on that one.

Remember when rappers used to actually not be afraid of slapping the shit out of people? You won’t catch them running up on stage and chucking their rival’s ass into the crowd the way KRS-One did that fat guy from PM Dawn. Now it’s a couple diss songs here, maybe a mixtape there, and they’re back to rocking their sister’s skinny jeans and biker chains. That’s even softer than when Yung Joc tried to bring back the Gumby haircut this year.

I think i got it figured out, though. You know what rappers are missing? An R&B chick on the side. And I don’t mean that Jay-Z-slash-Beyoncé, chintzy bullshit either. I’m talking that old-soul, raw-voiced hood rat singing on some equally-grimy dirtbag rapper’s song, or the chick that you get to hold your hammer for you while you’re going to see you PO. Everybody wants some model chick, or even shittier, an Internets model chick. They say behind every strong man is a strong woman, but model chicks will only want to give your nails those funny-style French tips. I’m not saying I wouldn’t fucks with a model chick, but she’d at the very least have to keep a shank in her Fendi bag in case shit ever jumped off.

You know what’s dope? When you find that one broad that’ll ride with you when you’re piss-poor. A lot of women say they’d be with a guy regardless of wealth, but let’s be honest: money plays a huge role in relationships today. But hell, even Peggy Bundy slapped a couple hoes out for her man, and homie stayed pushing cheap Bruno Maglis.

You know what’s played out also? Mixed broads. Everybody wants some chick that’s mixed with Black, White, Turks & Caicos, Ukrainian and Aborigine, with a dash of Ho Chi Minh thrown in for those slanted eyes. Remember when you used to think a chick was mixed because she had braids made from the hair of scalped Indians? Not so much anymore. I’m still waiting on my half-Chad, half-Congo mixed woman. I bet you she could palm a basketball and de-bone a mongoose at the same time. Imagine what she could do to your bozack...

All I’m saying is that if people started fucking with those brolic women more, there wouldn’t be no kind of “Leather So Soft,” sideways-fruity shit going on. Shit, if I weren’t so scared of them, I’d fucks with an Arab woman. You may not be able to wreck the pussy or see their face, but they’ll help you with the wiring on the bomb you’re running into a mosque full of children with. Gulliest. Shit. Ever.

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Yes Hetero

A few days ago I had the pleasure of finally meeting two of the most influential peoples of this site, my esteemed gotdamned editor and the owner of Hip-Hop DX itself. Among an interesting incident at the Korean restaurant [1], one of the topics we talked was hip-hop’s meathead-esque homophobia, where something as relatively simple as a purple shirt can be misconstrued as fruitier than a Kool-Aid Pickle [2].

I’m not going to front like I’ve never been guilty of playing the gay card before; hell, I think I said about three “No Homos” this morning alone. But I’ve always had this theory that hip-hop has warped its denizens' impressionable minds to the point where they've regressed into a state of paranoia-induced homophobia, among other things.

What I’ve always found funny about this is that hip-hop was always kind of quasi-homosexual in the first place, from the tight-ass leather slacks found on the album cover of The Message, to Eazy E discovering those rapping gypsies the Black Eyed Peas, to the greased up bird chesticles of your favorite rapper. What’s always intrigued me is that this not-so-newfound disdain for fruitbags has permeated throughout the hip-hop crowd’s collective consciousness, essentially infecting it to the point where something as minuscule as going into a Victoria’s Secret with your woman is considered softer than a Twinkie filling. Not to digress from the point, but what’s so gay about going with your wiz goes to a thong store to buy a disappearing act, edible G-string? Exactly.

A wake-up call of sorts happened a while ago on a well-known hip-hop news site I mainly “lurk” on. After one particular post previewed Weasel F. Fraggle’s upcoming magazine covers the c-boys went off on a wild tangent, claiming the rapping wombat was a buttfag because, of all things, his belt was unbuckled. While I thought it was nothing more than a hilarious assumption, I found it a little far-fetched when the entire forum deteriorated into a homophobic shouting match, where one person’s own sexuality was called into question because he didn’t see the apparent gayness of the photos.

(To tell you the truth, I couldn’t even see the gayness in those pictures myself; I just tried to divert my eyes from those god-awful close-up shots. A good point brought up in that discussion, however, was the fact that those who so readily call out “fag” a la the Neo-Nazi in Falling Down may have some quasi-homosexual tendencies themselves, but of course it didn't fly.)

If rap is supposed to be the so-called “voice of the people,” is there some sanction saying gays aren’t allowed in the club? I mean shit, with a good chunk of rappers coming off like they graduated from the school of Flaming Fagitry in the first place, it’s pretty hypocritical to detest homosexuals in the first place, even if it makes for a funny joke. On a side note, does anybody else notice how Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton both don’t bother to fuck with gay rights, yet will wrongly chase an ambulance all in the name of “equal rights?” Fucking maricons.

[1] I could go so many ways with this, but I promised not to go all Navin Johnson on this bitch.

[2] You see this shit right here? This is why the South stays losing. Damn if I don’t want one, though.

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Hip-Hop Hypocrites

A funny thing happened to me the other day.

In my spare time I do freelance work on various commercial shoots around the city [1], which usually means I spend a good 12 hours a day hanging around White people. Honestly (and ironically) I feel more at ease working around a shitload of crackers than with a couple of, well, niggas [2], because Whites tend to be more on their shit and not fuck up my money. Dreaded n-words? Not so much.

Wow... I think I just turned my back on my own race right there. Hold on for a second...

*Checks hands to see if melanin is still intact*

OK, good. I was starting to get worried for a second.

In any case, working on set can be an incredibly tiring experience, so most of the down time is spent talking shit. What’s interesting (or disheartening, depending on your stance) is that I’m the least likely to shoot out a racially-biased joke. You know something is definitely up when YTs make more fun of themselves than Black people.

The point of this story, you may ask? In a world where cracka-ass geezers like Don Imus can catch wreck for describing the texture of an Afrikaan basketball player’s hair follicles [3], could it be that Blacks are more racially insecure than their paleface counterparts? Before the NAMBLA crowd organizes a Jena 6-style rally for my resignation, hear me out for a second.

If there’s one thing that’s oddly gotten my attention more often than not in hip-hop, it’s quite possibly its inane hypocritical nature. By their bizarre logic, it’s perfectly fine for smut-peddling dropouts like Snoop Dogg to call out the skanks of the world, which never made sense to me because he’s only doing what his TIs tell him to do. But once someone that’s not, let’s say, "hip-hop inclined," decides to use our own slanguage against us? It’s not shits and giggles anymore. I could correlate this ass-backward reverse leniency to the fact that Black people were pretty fucked over in their heyday and need something to feel some sense of worth in life, but then that’d just make me a phony militant, not unlike my alleged designated Negro emperors Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson, not to mention set the porch monkey generation back a couple years.

Fuck Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson. No homo.

My whole thing is this: if Blacks can call out fellow Blacks, Latinos, Asians and yarmulke-rocking yentas, shouldn’t they just as easily be able to take it as well? I mentioned a while back that I could give three-fifths of a shit if I got called out of my name because not only has it happened before, I’m not bitchmade like that. I wish I could say the same for others, but then I smell the Vagisil from way the fuck over here. And yeast infections are never good in the first place.

[1] Because talking wild racist jibba jabba doesn’t keep the lights on.

[2] Mind you, there is a difference between Blacks and niggas.

[3] Like we’ve never called out people because of their hair before. And I’m considered the Amazing Racist around these parts.

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Internets Fuckery

Want to hear a funny story?

Way the fuck back in my man-whore days when I had learned that using the Internets to yoke music was easier on my feet than running up in the local Circuit City and snatching tapes, one of my friends in junior college introduced me to this “social networking” site called Black Planet, and how his “cyber-hollering” led to an occasional bedroom romp with some random-ass hood rat he’d find on the damn thing. So naturally, I joined that bitch [1] with the hopes that I could get me some grade-A ass.

A few months into it I managed to wrangle a broad whom I’d thought was pretty dope. She was well educated, had a good job, puffed cheeba sticks and (from the looks of the pictures) had ass for days, not to mention very, errr, frank about her sexual prowess. I guess it’s true what they say about women who smoke loosies, but I digress.

We finally agreed to meet up one night to go see some Disney/Pixar movie that slips my mind at the moment. As soon as she stepped out of the door, I instantly thought of throwing my hooptie into D, as she looked just plain gross: ugly, dyed-blond hair, those painted eyebrows that women wetbacks usually paint on their foreheads and about 30 pounds heavier than her pictures suggested. Kerry Washington she sure as shit was not.

In any matter, I begrudgingly went along with the date because I’m a gentleman like that. And while her photographic representations were a few years old she was extremely right about her present-day knob-shining techniques, as she proved it to me in the theatre.

The point of this story? After my experience, my trust in the Internets (and women) more or less waned, as it can be nothing more than a place of lies where anybody could come across as the toughest talker in the (cyber) hood when in actuality they’re more bitch-made than period blood. But if it’s one thing I’ve noticed (and forgive me if I come across as “racist,” but I’m just calling it how I see it), it’s that White people (and some kites) are more susceptible to going batshit about what people spew on here. Case in point: a while back I’d mentioned how some YT fire fighter had tracked down, traveled over a thousand miles to and tried to burn down the house of some Internets heckler while he was still inside. And most recently, I found this article (on the message boards of all places) on how some parents used MySpace to fuck with a teenage girl, essentially causing her to hang herself. I may be a fucked up bigot, but even I’ll admit that that’s wrong. If parents of all people are contributing to the problem, who’s to say that silencing self-righteous asshole idiots like myself is the solution?


But I suppose this is how the world we all inhabit works. When I think about it, sometimes I actually convince myself to lighten up the mood in my playground... for about four seconds. Then the cynical side of me comes back out to remind me that these fucktards either need to relax or - in some cases - be hugged on the inside. Pause, of course.

***
On a semi-related note (as I found it while “researching” for this post), this is one of the funniest (in a detrimental to society kind of way) shits ever.


[1] I just checked to see if my page still exists. Yes, it does. No, I won’t give you schlubs a link to it.

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Soundtrack To Your Life

Let’s face it, people: it’s been a somewhat slow and uninteresting fall season for hip-hop, to say the least. Silk Shirts West and Curtsy sold a shitload of records, making a whole heap of kites a lot wealthier than I’ll ever be. Female rappers are becoming gullier than their male counterparts, while male rappers are looking more like thugged-out figure skaters. I suppose the most intriguing thing that’s happened to me as of late were those yentas’ failed mission to get me extricated from this site a few weeks back, but those snake charmers couldn’t even sway a cobra out of a turban with a flute, much less get me fired.

Pause, no Punjab from Annie on that last line.

Anyways, the music from these Golliwogs has me reminiscing like Mary J. about the good ol’ days when music inspired many a fucking, stick-up and/or firewater influenced session, similar to how television shows always have the perfect background music for any particular situation. So instead of the usual shit-talk, I thought I’d dedicate a post to the soundtrack to any random-ass scenario. As always, feel free to add your own as well.

Soundtrack to when you’re smashing the preacher’s daughter [1]: Tha Dogg Pound – Bomb Azz Pu**y Before I got disinterested and stopped going altogether, I used to be regular visitor to the church, but it was only to fantasize about the brick-thick daughter of one of the priests. As it turns out, she was a lot of guys’ fantasies as well. Yikes!

Soundtrack to pushing off bottles of water during the Puerto Rican Day Parade: Fat Joe – Success If you’ve even wanted a means to move some kind of product without ever touching a digital scale, buy a couple 24-packs of Poland Spring water and sell those shits for a dollar while humming Fat Joe’s ode to hustling.

Soundtrack to (literally) kicking someone to the curb: RZA – Domestic Violence Male or female, if you’re fed up with the supposed loved one in your life, take two of these when you’re ready to catch a case. Speaking of cases...

Soundtrack to slapping the shit out of some random YT: dead prez – Hell Yeah If you’re too nervous about running up on five-oh with nothing but an open palm and kinetic energy, play this one when you’re about to smack fire out of the pizza delivery guy. Shit, they even tell you how to at one point in the video!

Soundtrack to your own paranoid thoughts: Beanie Sigel – Feel It In The Air The Geto Boys' "Mind Playing Tricks On Me" is too predictable, and Rockwell’s "Somebody’s Watching Me" is too quasi-homosexual. So why not the haunting, unhinged opener to the Broad Street Bully’s third album? Oh, and Beanie Sigel > Kanye West. Tell me I’m wrong.

[1] Honestly, I had to choose between two other scenarios, but those are essentially illegal in the United States. Child fucking is no joke, no matter if "To Catch A Predator" says otherwise.

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I’d Hit That

A quick disclaimer to all three women who read this shit: if you’re one of those broads who live to hate on any man who occasionally wants nothing else but to climb inside the walls of some dynamite snatch, you probably should go visit the message board section here or some other shitty part of the Internets, as this post is obviously not for you.

Anyways, one of the sections on this site I frequent is the infamous Beauty & Brains feature because, well, I’m a guy who likes to ogle half-naked women who at least give off the impression that they could put a grade-A spit shine on my johnson. I suppose that would make me a ManBearPig, but whatever. I like women as much as I enjoy hip-hop, and if rappers want to splash them with bottles of Jim Beam and ejaculate every once in a while, why can’t I?

Perverted thoughts aside, I thought I’d dedicate this post to some of the flyest specimens I’d slap dick to any random day. Not to be disrespectful or anything but if given the chance, I’d dent the thighs of each and every person on this list. Feel free to toss your input to this list as well.

Kerry Washington – I know I've made a mention of her in one of previous posts about dumb tight females but seriously, how could you not want a taste of that? Look at that woman standing behind Chris Rock in the picture. The look on her face screams, “I can smell the flavor from back here, boy! If you don’t scrape that, move the fuck out the way so I can!”

Mya – My friends would always get on my case because I would choose Mya over Beyoncé. Truth be told I’d kill both, but Mya looks more likely to wrap her thighs around your esophagus on the first night. Maybe a little small talk, a dinner date at the local Roscoe's Chicken & Waffles, next thing you know you’re swimming in that woman at her own condominium. Speaking of Roscoe’s...

The waitress at the local waffle house – Think about this: she has brick-thick thighs from walking around all day on nothing but greasy soul food as fuel. She has to pay you extra attention to get a few extra dollars at the end of the night. Best of all, she does what you ask her to with no back talk. This isn’t a waitress; that’s my stripper fantasy come to life.

Rosario Dawson as Gail In Sin City – She ran around with nothing but a thong and an Uzi, and she was the ringleader of a town full of prostitutes. Even better than that, after ol’ boy slapped her she responded by shoving her tongue down his throat. Yeah, i don't mind the whole "whore" stigma. Not at all.

The female bloggers of Hip-Hop DX – Yeah, I know. The best part about this is that I already know they’re hip-hop heads, which is a rare find in any woman nowadays. We could probably chop it up on the best albums of the past decade one moment, then curb servin’ each other on a shag carpet the next. Hell, I don’t even know how Ms. Bassa looks like and I’d still fuck.

 

UPDATE: This random-ass chick who supposedly busts 200 nuts a day. Yeah, she'd catch the Tenacious D any day of the week.

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Cam’Ron? A Winner For A Change?

After reading my future ex-wife-in-law AHLOT’s mention of Big L on her post about Cam’Ron and Ma$e yesterday, it actually reminded me of my younger, Max Payne ways where robbing blond-haired, blue-eyed YTs was much more serene while “The Heist” played in the back of my skull like some unruly soundtrack. Although it dropped during a time where rap was slowly coming out of it’s second grimeball stage – those magical years where I used to run wild on X-Men Vs. Street Fighter at the local junior college and got my first dose of brain surgery midday at a park full of kids – and into its current Dumbledore era where Harlemites are more known for looking like thugged-out figure skaters than for actual rhyme skills, L’s The Big Picture stood out as one of the last testaments to Big Apple lyricism.

So it’s pretty disheartening to see what his protégés have become as of late, what with the good pastor looking for he-bitches to peg (no wonder Curtsy dropped him; he doesn’t need another fag in his crew) and Cam going AWOL for a half-year. As much shit I’ve spewed about the Meaty Cheesy Boys, I’ll admit they were responsible for some pretty heavy heatrocks during their run. Real talk, I wished they had stayed on the Roc-A-Fella graveyard: before he got shot the fuck up, Big L himself was to sign to the label. So in a sense the Dips would have been honoring the legacy of the man that put them on.

(It does make me wonder, however, if Big L would have started rocking v-neck muscle hoodies and nutcutter slacks, like the rest of the battyboys in Harlem. Not to sound fucked up, but if that were to happen, then I’m glad he got ethered before he got the chance to actually do so.)

But in the days following Joffe Joe’s unceremonious disappearance, the already shit stain-thin foundation of The Diplomats dissipated even further, with Jim Jones going all Benedict Arnold and sharing meatwatcher jeans with Fiddy, leaving no-talents like Hell Rell and Max B to keep 40 Cal’s bench in Marcus Garvey Park warm at night. So when those goofy-ass “Where’s Cam?” videos started popping up, I more or less didn’t give a shit, what with their best days far behind them.

But lo and behold, Cam’s publicity stunt actually ends up working, albeit temporarily, and he’s now become the talk of the hip-hop town, next to that shitty Jay-Z album. And honestly, I ended up “acquiring” his new mixtape, and I haven’t had this much fun torturing myself to a Dip Set anything in like, ever. Granted, he’s not going to win any numbers race, but Cam going missing has quite possibly been the best thing to happen to his career in years, as he’s managed to swipe attention from Grandpa Simpson and make people forget about that horrible Jim Jones mixtape as well. Hell, he even got my attention, and I fucking hate everything.

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“Black Trash” > “American Gangster”

One of the perks of being in a position I’m in on this site is sitting back and watching the after effects of the mental havoc your opinions have wreaked on the masses. One of the things I’ve noticed and mentioned here is that unless you’re a knob shining buffoon who’s too eager to impress the sheeple no matter what, critics who go against the grain are essentially passed off as hate-filled dick takers.

And to think, I’m considered the biased asshole.

What makes my... errr... prestige that much better is when the self-serving gonzos attempt to take me to task for said opinions under the premise I say these things with some egotisitical ulterior motive behind it [1]. In actuality, the disparaging words I receive do nothing but increase my hunger for this game, not to mention stroke my pride somewhat. Because I’m uppity like that sometimes.

Take yesterday’s post for example. After listening to it a good... two times, I’ve pretty much demoted American Gangster to the “casual listens” section in my iPod, right next to my copy of Food & Liquor and the greatest hits of Guy. Despite all of it’s acclaim, I’m still unconvinced that this is one of the greatest hip-hop concept albums of all time especially considering Sticky Fingaz’ Black Trash: The Autobiography Of Kirk Jones, a joint which went largely unnoticed when it dropped some seven years ago, does a far better job of telling that shit-soft “rise and fall of a hustler” tale.

Whereas Abe Simpson could rhyme about the smell of yak gooch and still sell a brazillion copies, Sticky essentially lost any and every sense of street cred once he jumped on MTV, talked a lot of shit then got beat the fuck up in a boxing match by some Zack Morris-type of YT during one of their shitty Spring Break weeks. So when Black Trash was released after a shitload of delays, it crashed & burned like a jihadist's remains from the sky, which is sad when you take into consideration the incredible storytelling that went into the entire thing. But due to his Onyx stigma (and the fact his cousin Fredro Starr used to twist out Moesha back in the day), the group Jam Master Jay found before Curtsy will never get those same props, as if Jay never did something that outrageously stupid.

It doesn’t surprise me when the humps bitch and complain; after all, opinions are like assholes. In a way I should be happy that I’m able to create a round table discussion. On the other hand, when the speakers are about as fruity as Dumbledore, I fail to see the point of their words in the first place. But maybe that’s why hip-hop keeps losing: when its so-called true-head denizens refuse to get along because of differing opinions. Sad, really.

***
As a bonus, I provided the best song from Black Trash. Don’t ever say I never do anything for you schlubs.

Sticky Fingaz – "State vs. Kirk Jones" featuring Rah Digga, Redman, Canibus, Scarred 4 Life, Lord Superb and Guess Who

[1] Word to the wise: men lie, women lie, comments lie; hits don’t. This is why I stay winning, people.

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“Return Of The Mac” > “American Gangster”

As is the slovenly custom of mine nowadays, I spent this past weekend lamping in my cousin’s basement with a couple friends, hunched over his 20-inch (ayoooo...) television and running through round after round of NBA 2K8. In between the random crude jokes about politics, women and Nollywood, the talk inevitably turned to hip-hop’s current rap du juor, Jay-Z’s “concept album” American Gangster. Interestingly enough my cousin – who’s Roc-A-Fella fanaticism is so extreme he once tried to convince me that Coming Of Age was a legitimately good album, not the audio rape it actually turned out to be – felt that the album, while better than Kingdom Come, was more or less flaccid than his pre-retirement releases.

While I’ll agree that Grandpa Simpson has definitely lost a step (or ten) since he decided to start playing for the Wizards, for the most part I’ve begrudgingly tagged along for the ride because a smidgen of me still holds out for some great music from his increasingly rusting mind. Perhaps due to my own inherent cynicism cultivated from years of abhorrence for today’s corn sauce material, I’ve simply refused to think that Jay couldn’t do anything wrong, Blueprint 2 be damned [1].

But after listening to American Gangster, I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed despite the critical acclaim it’s received. For a supposed concept album, I couldn’t find (or follow) the concept at all. While there’s no “Beach Chair” type of bullshit on here, the album still lacks the punch I used to expect from before. In a sense, the album feels like a less-retarded, Mafioso version of Mr. 3000, where the old guy keeps coming out of his mason jar to try for one more score.

Ironically, the entire “rap album using blaxploitation beats” concept has been done twice this year, each with better results to boot: Camp Lo’s Black Hollywood and Prodigy’s Return Of The Mac. In the latter’s case, I never even thought that Sickle Cell P could ever make a decent album again, what with him preoccupied with being punched out on a daily basis. What makes it more intriguing is that his violent nihilism sounds at home next to The Alchemist’s murky, 70s-era beats, a stark contrast from the horny glitz of Mr. Proactiv’s Hitmen tracks bouncing off Abe’s sub-mediocre rhymes.

While Punching Bag P will never be able to reclaim that past glory (or his old skills. Or his manhood. Or my respect for him), he can at least lay claim to the fact that he was finally able to outdo Jay-Z for once. Granted it was the same way Trevor Berbick beat up on an old, out-of-shape, out-of-prime Muhammad Ali, but whatever. With his impending date with some dry butt service, he needs all the wins he can’t afford right now anyways.

[1] Sorry J, but “Hovi Baby” was, and still is, my shit.

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Ain’t This A Bitch

“i'm so sick of the sexism on this site. its foul. clean your act up boy. those poor anoerxic looking girls at the melissa ford party look terrible, and there you are looking at them, like a dribbling old man. it disgusts me.” – yet another random-ass commenter, thrrrs (Um, what?)

If I keep looting... errr... borrowing these dumbass comments I receive in previous posts to open up new ones, I may just stop using my brain altogether. Plagiarism is the new hip-hop. But I digress.

Anyways, I mentioned last week (in between the hubbub over my lashon harah) that I attended Melyssa Ford’s Halloween Titty Tournament, where just about every woman that attended were standing around with their moose knuckles damn near hanging out of their stockings. So rightfully I – as well as every red-blooded, heterosexual male who was there – stood, gawked and prayed that a stiff-nippled honker would pop out.

Stiff-nippled honkers for the win?

What I don’t understand is when the bleeding-pants feminists are quick to call “nappy-headed hoes” on us guys, as if we did something wrong for looking at them in the "I Wanna Fuck You" eyes. In the never-ending case for male equality, I propose that every man run up on the next overly-sensitive, Marcy D’Arcy, faux freedom fighting bra burners and threaten them with a NO MA’AM-style lawsuit for each time they call bullshit on our right to look at half-naked women, as if we forced these aspiring scallywhops at gunpoint to strut around in a pair of coochie cutters and high heels.

Is it just me or are women seriously blaming men for their own fallacies? Colorful lingo in the comments section aside, the women who pose in this site’s Beauty & Brains features have to be aware of the somewhat misogynistic reaction they’ll receive once they decide to rock a thong before the camera. Hell, isn't the reason they do so is to cater to the man's most innate, carnal desires? Parts of me even think that they willingly subject themselves to such wild jibba jabba, as if they feel more complete from A to zinc receiving some ass-backward compliment. Hell, even one of our Beauty & Brains alumni, Khira “Kurves” Thomas, has The Game’s ode to video slores, “Wouldn’t Get Far,” as the theme song on her front page!

Seriously. I'm not making this up.

A long time ago when I mentioned how women weren’t going to make it, that ideal primarily came from the hope that they could if they would stop with the contradictory bullshit. Honestly, it’s hard for me to even attempt to give any support whenever I see the alleged “women’s rights movement,” when there are so many that readily show us their snatch without us having to pay for shit. If anything, those women should be at the forefront of that interest group. Not only would I be more interested in it (though I still wouldn’t support that shit, because I’m a chauvinist like that), but also it wouldn’t make them look like hypocrites in the first place.

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First Jesus, Now Jacob

“I can go look up snuff films on this shit and people are fucking transferring kiddie porn all around and your crying foul because the dude said a racial slur... as if you’ve never said one...” DX message boarder Decguin

I’m not gonna front, people: I was a little miffed at the events that transpired earlier this week, which is somewhat ironic for me to be because ever since I jumped on this site seven months ago I anticipated that I’d catch some backlash from the two-toned panty liners who frequent this bitch. Hell, if I were a relatively close-minded hump, I’d be pissed at the shit I’ve said also.

Thank God(dess) for that junior college education then!

In any matter, I thought that the verbal maelstrom I created would have simply ceased after a day or so. Hell, I never planned on talking about it anymore. But here we are four days later, still cleaning the shit off the fan. I would say that even despite the calls for my resignation, the fact that this little blog of mine still exists – as well as the hook up I got from my esteemed gotdamned Editor to the breast fest known as Melyssa Ford's Halloween party [2] two days ago – that little message board stunt to burn me in effigy worked about as well a levee in Louisiana, but then that would just make me an asshole.

Then again, being an asshole is part of my manly essence, so fuck it.

"You eat a dick, nigga! YOU eat a dick!"

Interestingly enough, the purpose of this blog was to thumb my nose at said opponents, as well as calling them out for their own hypocritical mannerisms. But after reading that blood diamond-pushing TI Jacob The Jew-eler could face up to nearly five years in the bing for lying to the Feds [1], maybe in a weird, karmic sense, all of the shit that transpired over here affected the outcome of that shit. If that truly is the case (and I surely hope so), then there’s no use beating a dead giraffe - or whatever’s considered kosher - now, right?

Besides, it’s pretty obvious who are to blame for all of this censorship shit anyways: Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson. If it weren’t for A Pimp Named Slickback and Hymietown going all ambulance chaser on KKKramer and Don Imus (the latter of which didn't even work out in the long run) then turning on hip-hop, none of this shit concerning so-called “racial slurs” would have happened in the first place. But I’ll let you in on a little secret. The best part about my situation is the fact that – like Imus – I’ve probably gotten an entirely new audience to tune in to my shit, boosting and affecting the overall bottom line of this site. In that sense, I wholeheartedly welcome any and every shit these yentas t