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

The Art Of Storytelling, Part II

Guess who’s home?

So after all the hubbub of trying to function sanely while dealing with all the shit that comes with leaving the hood, making sure things are properly set up so that by the time you move into the new spot you won’t be sitting in darkness to blog for free and – most important of all – trying to rechristen the old apartment one last time by partaking in some of (that) sweet, (that) nasty, (that) gushy stuff, I’ve somewhat settled into my new surroundings. Sure it’s considered Korea Town technically, but you wouldn’t know it from all the Jewbaccas and Mexicans running wild over here. I guess it’s true what they say: you can take the homeboy out the hood, but you can’t leave the day laborers behind.

A little racist? Not really. Bigoted? Probably. But it’s not like I really gave a fuck about holding my tongue anyways. Sheeit, that’s probably the reason my overlords keep me on their payroll here. Plus I’m a little aggy because I sliced open my foot on some glass last night, so needless to say I’m a bit off-kilter right now.

Anyways, a little bit before my hiatus I saw a comment asking me why I show unheralded support for the Clipse despite their blatantly obvious lack of expanding outside of the wonderful world of coke-eye-eenah. The answer, my dear Watson, is relatively simple: I’ve always been a champion of lyrical dexterity. You know, the kind of raps that favor actually putting thought into imprinting handwriting onto paper, not that funny-bunny bullshit foster daddy kissing orphans pull out of their asses after pulling their foster daddy out of their asses [1]. You know, the kind of quasi-shitty shitbag raps my good friend/resident cyber-goon of the month NYC probably favors, as does most of the battybwoys from Harlem prefer. No wonder why the Dips can’t keep it together.

But I digress.

Not to come off as one of those uppity-ass Okayplayer e-hipster types that question somebody’s fanhood because you’ve never heard of the Mountain Brothers back when “alt-hop” wasn’t so fruity, but I have and will always continue to take raps with some semblance of density in them, no matter what the subject matter is. I’m talking the type of lyrics that make you actually question whether rappers are really doing and living the shit they spew across those high-end jingles, despite the fact you know they’re on MTV Cribs licking the bottom of a long-played out Air Force One or drinking the most expensive of bum wines off the surgically-altered chesticles of one of those chicks in that Beauty and Brains section down the hall from this shit you’re reading right now. Plus, the simple fact that there are artists still willing to actually sit down and think about what they’re going to write prevents me from going “Fuck this shit!” and running off to the merry melodies of Oliver Sain. Again.

Besides, if anybody willingly takes that “wobbledy-wobbledy” bullshit nowadays (which incidentally is about 75% of today’s rap audience) I question their fanhood. But it’s not like I should be worried about that when there’s people running around looking like Chris Crocker giving the lovely ladies of this world all kinds of Germs. Makes a nugga just wanna stay at home and download pr0n all weekend. Waitaminute...

[1] Can you believe this is the first time I mentioned that yenta this year? I need to step my game up.

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