• » Name: Meka Soul
• » Location: Los Angeles, CA
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• » Bio: Providing clarity in hip-hop since 1981.
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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

Hip-Hop Does Not Care About The Roots

True story: while I was in the security check-in line at the airport last month, some tiny homo thug looking ass ninja was standing directly behind me. I had a feeling I knew who it was but wasn’t quite sure, not to mention I really didn’t give a shit about the bumbaclaat anyways. A side note to all aspiring rappers out there: it’s pretty quasi-homosexual when you’re draped up in chains galore but are still flying coach on American Airlines, where those chintzy bidges charge three dollars a pop for a fucking chocolate bar. Motherfucks American Airlines.

Anyways, apparently it seemed I was the only one who recognized the hump as most of the people in the airport shrugged off this diminutive Yenta Claus. All except this tweenage girl (or, according to the mad, mad world of Robert Sylvester, ripe for the picking), who ran up on duke as if he was a superstar.

It turned out this chump was none other than current Bow Wow nemesis Yung Berg. While I assume (or hope) that a substantial amount of people that fit my age bracket would ignore duke the same I did (or perhaps get real gully and crack his cranium with a cinder block), the pre-teen who got an autograph could have possibly done the same to, say, The Roots’ Black Thought if the rap world and hipster-hop brigade would get off of their high horse and allow the group to breathe.

Then again, The Roots have always been somewhat of an anomaly – or a precursor to the backpack rap Rawkus used to roll heavy with in their prime – in hip-hop. And outside of that mid- to late-nineties chewstick renaissance they were never really a good fit in rap to begin with, which is why I understood where they were going with “Birthday Girl:” rap fans don’t give a shit about them unless they were backing up Grandpa Simpson at some concert, so they tried to get that indie rock guap. Shit, if the Gym Class Heroes (who actually bit their style to begin with) can do it, why can’t they?

Unfortunately, that crabs-in-a-barrel mentality that envelops “true school, keep it real” hip-hop heads (many of whom also flood the Okayplayer message boards with their faux holier-than-thou sense of bitchassness) refused to let The Roots do so [1], eventually forcing the song out of the album with the “sell out” catcalls. I mean, I may do my part to prevent an artist from selling records by repeatedly looting them for their music semi-anonymously over the Internets, but at least I can’t force them to not make music.

A guy can only dream, though.

Can you really blame The Roots though? How awful is it when a Grammy-winning act can’t even get the same support a shitbag rapper like Rocko can get from the same label [2]? Maybe it’s time for ?uestlove and Co. to give a collective “fuck you” the same way Radiohead and Prince did and just drop music without caring about their fans, because it’s quite obvious their fans don’t give three shits about them.

[1] And yes, I know the song was pretty corny to begin with. But Curtis started yodeling like his old nemesis Jeffrey, and he went on to sell nine brazillion copies.

[2] And I still haven’t head any of his shit to this day. iPods > Clear Channel and Viacom.

64 Comments             

The More Things Stay The Same

Nobody really asked for my take on the Sean Bell verdict, and it’s completely understandable; given my reputation here, it’s likely I’d say something that wouldn’t sit well with the many readers of this site, kind of like the Menstrual Cramps P album review I did last Friday. But the truth of the matter is I really didn’t care about the trial in the first case, but not because I’m a venomous asshole whose sadism is so blinding at times my own cousin – who’s as equally if not more fucked up than I am, thus providing inspiration for many a sideways slick comment – has the audacity to wonder if there’s something wrong with me at times.

I just tell him it ain’t nothing to it; gangsta rap made me do it.

Now when I say I wasn’t concerned about the trial that doesn’t mean that I’m so shallow-minded and dumb, deaf and blind to the societal impact the entire situation will have on the community (read: none, but more on that later), mind you; when I say I didn’t give a shit it meant that I didn’t give a shit because I expected the result to be exactly as it turned out, with one man unable to hold his seed at the end of each day and a cache of bloodthirsty cowards with badges [1] who are able to kiss their own. It’s occurred a myriad of times for as long as I’ve been around, yet people are still shocked and appalled that it continues. Um, why?

Not to be the downer of the party or disrespect Mr. Burnett’s earnest call to arms, but times have drastically changed from the days where fighting for your rights meant also having to risk a Doberman tear a chunk out of your ass, and now most people are more concerned about their own respective random fucktascity to even bother starting an uprising. Hell, I even wanted to jump my adolescent ass in the middle of the Los Angeles Riots [2] (which interestingly enough “celebrates” it’s 16th anniversary this Tuesday. And we’re not pouring out our Boone’s Farm why?) to try to gaffle up a couple Super Nintendo systems. But seeing as how everybody was more concerned with murking each other that entire week, it likely would have not been in the best of my interest.

Did the murder suck? Unfortunately. Were the acquittals just? Of course not. But you know what? It’s going to keep happening, and nothing is going to be done about it. It may be disappointing to others that I’m so complacent at this point, but seeing as how I can barely afford gasoline right now - I’m not spending almost four dollars for a gallon of unleaded just to make the Molotov cocktails that’ll to be tossed into a Korean supermarket any time soon - I know I'm not the only one either.

Ironically, the same people who called shenanigans on the trial likely won’t say shit when – in a twist of fate – they’re pumping round after round of ammunition into a Black, virtual passerby in the new Grand Theft Auto game that drops tomorrow, so you can’t tell me the trial was going to spark something within the masses. Think about it.

[1] Note that there’s a difference between cops and bloodthirsty cowards with badges, though I understand it’s hard to tell.

[2] What’s amazing is that during those same riots, 25 of the 53 people who died were Black. It doesn’t take but simple mathematics to realize how frivolous the uprising really was.

37 Comments             

The Long Shaft Of The Government Pimp Hand

At this point I’m almost glad to be a quasi-Internets Celebrity, with all due respect to the “founding fathers” (or something). Granted I’ll likely be unable to use this newfound “status” to convince Kerry Washington and Dania Ramírez to reenact one of the scenes they shared in She Hate Me in the comforts of my studio apartment, but at the very least I have a legitimate reason to yoke music off the Internets without emptying my wallet for them.

By the way, that above video isn’t really safe for work, but I’m sure that won’t stop any of you from watching it. I know it didn’t stop me!

At the same time however, it’s also sort of a relief that I don’t make a substantial amount of money from my web campaigns (read: I get paid in MySpace rappers flooding my inbox with music, c-section hazing and other random acts of fuckery) for Medicare and Social Security to properly finish the job this country’s current overlord started. Perhaps this is why the government is supposedly firing off these “economic stimulus” checks to everybody in the coming months. I’d like to save that money myself, but knowing my luck (and somewhat questionable saving habits) I’ll end up buying some stock in bullshit, leaving me with a couple of fly sneaks but struggling to pay my rent and bills for the month.

In other words, exactly what I’ve been doing since I got out of college.

But I digress. In this day and age, I’d much rather be fending off destitution than, say, be in Wesley Snipes’ shoes right about now. I may not be able to keep my cell phone on at times, but that’s obviously much better than getting sent up the river for a few years. Not to mention that when you don’t pocket a couple brazillion dollars for something as insidious as acting [1], you can afford to jump bail on your taxes every once in a while. It’s not like the government can take 20 percent of diddly poo anyways.

Then again, it’s probably not such a good idea to do so in the first place, seeing as how we’re all nappy-headed hoes to the government’s proverbial pimp game. What makes this even worse is that if I turn out like one of those dumbass Maury Povich cases that end up paying child support because they mistook pulling out for practicing safe sex (haven’t we all?), the dry reaming I’d receive on my already menial salary would be far worse than any kind of Club Fed iron vacation Blade is about to take for the next three winters. In that sense, maybe it’s not that cool to be a broke, quasi-misogynistic blogger at all then.

[1] Ironic how I feel that way, especially considering that the career path I’ve chosen is directly involved in television and movies. Whatever.

14 Comments             

Give Us Free!

I think we can all agree that it can be relatively tough being an immigrant – legal or otherwise – trying to live in the States. The language, education and financial barriers tend to limit a good chunk of them to what are essentially the jobs I’d do back when I was still trying to impress the masses with fits so expensive I could barely afford to smile. I’m pretty sure nobody who reads this shit would ever consider applying for the position of “expressway orange, peanuts and flowers salesman” now, right?

If anything, I can see past my skewed ideals on the art of fence jumping to the side to appreciate their beliefs and dedication towards attaining this so-called American Dream that Walter Younger foolishly thought was in the form of a liquor store. Maybe Wally was on to something, though: attaining one’s personal goals in life via poisoning their communities with a variety of inexpensive, liver-annihilating alcoholic beverages.

And here I thought I just had to worry about catching a bullet to the sternum.

While we can sit, bitch and moan about the state of affairs in regards to their Diaspora-embedded emigrants [1] coming over and snatching up all of our “jobs” – as if any of us would actually want to sell Granny Smith apples and churro sticks at a freeway entrance in the first place – but I for one am glad I don’t have that dubious honor of peddling incense sticks and black soap bars on Crenshaw and Slauson for a living. And I sure as shit don’t have to worry about getting yoked on my way to work in a car that costs damn near $40 to fill up because I have family members who happen to be doctors and lawyers. If things are so bad that even Mexican drug lords are strapped for cash, I may have to start thinking twice the next time I decide to let a silicone-enhanced stripper toss her chesticles into my face whenever I go to Tijuana. Matter of fact, I may never go back there again; fake breasts in my face are so not worth getting the shit shocked out of me for ransom money.

Not to mention, a good chunk of them have to literally demote themselves to do somewhat demeaning tasks like selling toy guns that spit out bubbles in order to provide sustenance for their family. Being a first generation Nigerian American werewolf in Paris (figure it out), I’ve seen my own uncles and aunts – many of which are well-respected physicians in Africa – push a taxi cab or slang pizza pies once they touch down over here because their education accounts to nothing more than “witch doctor” status out here. So needless to say, someone’s catching the wrong part of the shaft.

Besides, most immigrants are like mice; meaning they’re more scared of you than you are them. I figure this: anybody’s who’s willing to risk it all by floating on a car door to a Miami port deserves at the very least to be my local dry cleaner. Lord knows I can’t even swim, so that shit is something I’d never think of doing.

***
What does this have to do with rap, you may ask? Abso-fucking-lutely nothing. When you’ve been listening to old-ass samples and reading the news on the Internets more than the two issues of King I inexplicably get in the mail every month like I have, you tend to not find or care about hip-hop stuff. Reading is fundamental, people.

[1] And no, I’m not only talking about the Blacks who were shipped like Fed Ex packages to become a cracka-ass Euro trash’s ottoman but now have to gall to call us out because we’re better than they ever were in sports even though we’ve been “bred” to inadvertently be that way, I’m referring to the Native Americans whose land was razed via polio-loaded corn and blankets who now find sustenance yoking Social Security payouts from the old jigs in casinos. But I digress.

36 Comments             

Female Rap Is Out Of Control

Now I know I may have come off a little harsh towards the female half of this planet, but real talk is at the end of the day I’d rather have a woman holding me down for life, or at least not grimacing while cleaning the ass cookies from my body when it’s rendered useless after my inevitable date with a massive coronary thanks to a family history of hypertension. Sure, the tradeoff of that frightening future is a high metabolism in the current, but who wants to really live knowing that they’re essentially a box of chili cheese fries from Carl’s Jr. (or Hardee’s, depending on where you’re at) away from triple bypass surgery?

Anyways, much like my own present situation with the ladies, rap hasn’t been very good to them as of late. In between Foxy Brown being unable to ride a beat because she can’t even hear the shit in the first place, Remy Ma serving time for shooting her wig brusher [1] and the future placed in the likes of that teenager from My Super Sweet Sixteen, the chances of hearing some hedonistically raunchy lyrics from a sex-starved chick from the block is looking bleaker by the minute.

On the plus side, at least they’ve begun picking up the gully reigns left behind once all their male counterparts decided to drop the burners and crack vials and pick up the brassiere tops and leggings. In a way I’m somewhat elated that guys are more open to rocking clothes that aren’t 18 sizes too big, then again having to walk past a bunch of humps in toddler fits like it’s the thing to do is slightly disturbing.

But this lack of female rap doesn’t bode well for that said future of women who don’t want to be splashed with cheap bum wines in music videos to make in order to make a living off it. Everybody likes to talk about Jean Grae, but even I gave up on Jeanius a long time ago. (Thankfully the Internets didn’t. Score one for the cyber-pillagers!) And outside of her who else can you name that has garnered similar attention? I’ll wait for your response.

*turns on XBox 360, loads Max Payne 2, plays for an hour, then returns to computer*

I thought not.

In that manner, me being hard on women isn’t that bad, right? I may talk my wild shit, but at the very least I’m not preventing them from getting actual work in the music industry. You can blame the TIs for that one.

[1] A wig brusher plugging her wig brusher? What a waste of bullets.

31 Comments             

Off-Kilter Filter

In case you don’t know, I always write my blogs the night before. I do this now because before I’d write so much at my old job I wouldn’t actually do the shit I got paid pesos on the dollar for. Needless to say I spent three months on unemployment while working all kinds of ungodly hours on commercials like Kentucky Fried Chicken to keep the lights on in the shithole I used to stay at in Inglewood. Smelling 11 herbs and spices for 14 hours straight was more than enough to keep me off those shits to this day. Those honey barbeque wings be that crack though.

So now I blog, editorialize, steal music and download pr0n from my little studio apartment here in the middle of the Koreatown section of Downtown Los Angeles. I’d hope the busy streets and lack of 747s flying dangerously low above my skullcap would help me perhaps gain some semblance of clarity I’d lost over the past few years, but I’m beginning to realize I may be even more fucked up than usual. Hell, even one of my closest friends told me I’ve been coming off more misogynistic than before. Of all the shots I’ve taken since spewing my shit for the past year and change, that’s probably one of the few comments that’s gotten to me on a personal level. Word to all the yentas that feel the need to spark bullshit here: unless you’re one of the few people I’ve let into my cipher, I’m not going to be fazed by the faux eye jammies. Lord knows I been through enough bullshit in my realm of madness to let some random-ass hump from a battybwoy township of get me out of pocket.

In any matter, I’m at that stage where I can’t do the same wild and raucous shit that I did back in college, where I could sleep a good three hours then run off to class. Those were the good ol’ days. Where else could you see a bunch of humps get robbed at Uzi-point one night, then have some duke strung the fuck out on that Sherman Helmsley the next? If anything, seeing what life truly has to offer will pop that cocoon of sensibility quickfast. Shit ain’t sweet all the time, and I’ve no reason to be as well when life hands me more shit sammiches than I’d like.

Speaking of bullshit, the Guitar Center was full of it during Pete Rock’s dialogue last night. Standing right behind me was one of today’s illest entities, Jay Electronica, yet nobody outside of myself and another Asian with locks knew who he was. I even had to call out a pair of yentas on that fallacy. I swear sometimes this rap shit makes me feel out of place and out of touch at times, and I’m not even that old to begin with. Real talk is that if I can just lounge on a beach chair with an around-the-way girl under my arm waxing poetics about the lyrical genius that was Kwamé and escape this shit I could, but unfortunately delusions of grandeur can’t pay my bills.

Y’all don’t hear me though.

48 Comments             

Lesson Of The Game

First off, a few questions:

Would you ever take it in the ass?

Would you ever take it in the ass to try to make a living?

Would you be able to look yourself in the mirror each and every day knowing you have to take it up the ass to try to make a living?

Now, before you go on some wild homophobic tangent, realize that there are people who actually do degrading things of this nature in the hopes that they’ll become the next big thing.

If you think I’m talking I’m talking about the porno game, on a different website you’d be correct. Then again, this site is about to have a porn star drop knowledge (and hopefully other things as well) sometime in the future, so I’d understand the confusion. I’m actually talking about the music game, although both games have the same rules, just different players.

Unless you’re talking about India and Heather Hunter trying to spit out words instead of semen. But that’s on an entirely different level that I’m trying to reach.

We see these artists trying to make a name for themselves in this rap game, and I’m sure a good amount of them would be willing to damn near degrade themselves in the hopes that they’ll become the next black Tall Israeli. Most of the time they’ll all end up in the same cut-out bargain bin with the type of music you’d hear at a swap meet, but every once in a while one of these crabs will miraculously grab his way out of that bucket to make a few dollars… only to get BuFu’d by the politricks of this rap shit.

The rap game is no different from the porn game, the exception being that there are different types of microphones being spat on. Anybody can jump up in the booth and drop a hot sixteen, and if you’re fortunate enough you’ll make a name for yourself, but in the end you’ll still end up getting dinged in the pooper for a living, getting raped for reverything from your publishing all the way down to your creative output by somebody with a big enough schlong (read: "business acumen," you oddballs) to do so. And who the hell would want to live like that?

Think about it: for every Lil Wayne out there, there’s a million other Eli Porters lounging around. And for every Carmen Hayes, there’s the hood slore down the street from each of us. It’s pretty wrong that most of us normal folk already get the shaft in the form of taxes. But to literally get the shaft? That's something I know I would never commit to, especially when there are other ways of putting food on my plate without getting my asshole turned into a funnel.

34 Comments             

Swagger: What A Load Of Shit

Before I start off I must let it be known that while it’s derived from a line from his post yesterday, this is not a shot at my Long Beach blogging brother from another mother Brillyance [1]. Lord knows if we had beef, he may end up whooping my ass in a scrap, then I’d have to get some of my Igbo hooligan relatives to get the drop on him when he’s coming home from a Somobe show, and things would just progressively get worse.

But after reading about the conversation he had with his coworker, one particular line stood out to me the most, albeit in a grating way:

“Common is cool, I mean, when I listen to his lyrics, he's good, but Kanye is better. I mean his swag...”

While Brills suggested that today’s intelligence level in hip-hop may be between a turnip and a cinder block, I’m going to take it a step further and imply that this newfound sense of “swagger” has thinly masked the lack of intelligence in the first place, so much so that now most people can’t tell the difference anymore.

If there was one thing I learned in my two years in junior college it’s that while some people could pull the baddest bidges off the strength of their baby hair, the rest of us had to rely on good old-fashioned speaking and enunciation skills. Unfortunately I was too busy robbing Circuit City stores for Kriss Kross tapes and praying my moms wouldn’t find my Playboy stash [2] to really develop a spit game (or a social life) to get in on the get-in, but I did manage to convince this one broad named Brooklyn (no, that’s her real name) to slob on my knob in my homeboy’s bathroom. I hope he never used that face towel after...

Robert, if you’re reading this, my bad.

Anyways, when I got to real college I noticed that it was the same thing, albeit on a larger scale; in other words, most of the smart-dumb cats were damn near nailing chicks to a wall off the strength of their "swagger." Sadly for them their glaringly obvious lack of common sense would show its ass, as some wound up wrapped in baby-mama drama, or worse, a case of the Germ.

In that manner, I’m almost glad my communication skills didn’t fully develop until after I was with my ex for a few years. Lord knows I don’t need some melt burning a hole through my urethra.

If anything, “swagger” has become the new throwbacks, and I’m hoping that the bullshit goes out of style like a Wes Unseld jersey as well. Then again, with so many of the future younglings praising the likes of a high school dropout with Wite-Out on his sunglasses, I highly doubt that the shit’s going to end any time soon.

Great.

Just when I was starting to actually respect people.

[1] Yeah, I know. We hardly talk in person, Brills. Oops.

[2] Stolen nudie magazines hidden under the sock drawer = the first illegal download. Tell me I’m wrong.

56 Comments             

The Sara Baartman Theory

So a while back I got this random-ass comment from one of the anonymous readers of the site asking me to elaborate on the original prototype, and I honestly don’t know why I never got around to dropping some knowledge about it. Probably because I was feeling slightly anti-nappy headed hoeish at the time. Whatever.

As a side note, I’m not really as anti-nappy headed hoeish as I appear to come off as, but a few situations have basically semi-Stack Bundled my thoughts toward women as of late. I’m sure a cooked meal will change that though, so any of the 2 women who actually sit through my shit without vomiting feel dragooned to provide that sustenance, I offer a pair of Dunks for your feet and a pair of scrotes banging off your hymen in return.

Anyways, my Vegas-residing Trini rude gal aliya dropped a few, errr, hedonistically delectable photos of one Big Booty Judy, where the same message popped up again. Seeing as how I had my own “personal” run-in with a cola bottle-shaped muckluck this past weekend, I suddenly feel inspired to expound on my ideals [1].

Now I’m going to try to make this as minimally misogynistic as I can, but I promise nothing because I’m somewhat dismayed at the state of women right now. Some of you slores need to step your games up something terrible.

For a minute now the PAWG syndrome has been a staple in not only hip-hop culture but embedded in an entire society’s consciousness now, which always struck me as strange because I can remember when having some delicious thickness was considered taboo in the Calvin Klein, sour diesel-inspired waifish world. This was back when having a phat ass meant that you were actually considered fat [2], and greedy, TI-ran corporations pushed everything from Dexatrim to crack down our collective tonsils to combat a look that was as natural to the Black woman’s frame as our ability to duck paying our bills on time (don’t front).  Not so surprisingly – as with everything us porch monkeys invent and perfect – the world has taken notice, and now I can’t walk down the street sometimes without seeing a Cambodian with a donkey, not to mention those that are willing to risk surgical fuckery to attain something that comes natural to the melanin-instilled peoples of this world.

I could go on and correlate the link between the Black man’s and woman’s superiority over every other race and their attempts to shut our respective shits down while secretly trying to assimilate our characteristics into their own communities and failing miserably in the process while doing so with their own blatant insecurities and reluctance to accept out said superiority, but I wouldn’t want this site to be labeled as a place that harbors racism, despite the disclaimer at the bottom of my bullshit spiel [3]. The last thing I need is whoever at those record labels that give the go-ahead to throw my esteemed overlords money to slap up their gaudy ad space for albums we eventually shit on pulling out, because then that would be fucking wit my bottom line. And I sure as shit couldn’t have that.

But I digress. People can front like seeing some brick-thick MILF (what up aliya!) is the complete antithesis of what’s healthy in this world, but you want to know what’s unhealthy? Smog. Drugs that are made using items found under the kitchen sink. My seemingly unending rage against the cultural machine at times. You could never tell me that a fat ass was something to be ashamed of, because apparently my dick has been thinking otherwise since the second grade. At least I know I’m not the only one now.

[1] Read: finally able to put something together. My bad.

[2] Mind you, there’s a difference between “thick” and “fat.” But I may save that for another time.

[3] But seeing as how that petition I started to get me fired off this site caught about no buzz whatsoever, *shrugs.*

90 Comments             

The World Is Filled...

For the most part I don’t party a lot. Credit that due to the fact I work a pretty ridiculous amount of hours at the main job, the side job here and the side hustle over there, but since I already barely spend time in the place I drop an inordinate amount of money per month for, I’m usually with my friends or family doing the same thing we’ve been doing since college. Not that I mind that at all, though: it’s provided a sense of normalcy in my otherwise batshit life. However when I do partake in the finest of debauched activities, it’s almost a certain that some wild random shit will happen.

This past entire weekend turned out to be one of those wildly random-ass events. And the simple fact I’m still struggling to recuperate from it two days later speaks in droves. Oddly enough, leave it to me to have an epiphany about the mysterious ways of life while I’m chasing hash brownies with Coronas until damn near daybreak Saturday night/Sunday morning.

But I’m getting too far ahead of myself. When my fellow Dope Boy popped into town for the weekend, I knew I was going to end up waking up the next day with that back pain you only get from boozing it up too much (my back still hurts!). In any matter, we ended up at a house party near the beach, where a thick-bodied chick that instantly reminded me the titular whore from Nas’ “Black Girl Lost” (because I have a conscience like that) was parading around in some next-to-nothings with a nearly-empty bottle of tequila in her hand.

Drunk and hot girl wearing some coochie-cutters and Fuck Me Pumps = always a triple-X experiment waiting to happen.

Lo and behold some Southern trash music pumped through the speakers, and maybe the power of Christ (or José Cuervo, I don’t know) got wrapped up in the reverberating bass lines and elementary school lyrics [1], but the party, errr, progressed into an essentially dry-humping gangbang on the pool table. I honestly didn’t know whether to stand there and watch in shock and awe (mind you, I was slightly buzzed so my logical thought processing was out of sync) or smack fire out of her ass as well.

All right, I smacked her ass a couple times too. Whatever.

The looks of disgust from the other women who’d basically gotten ignored (which was fucking priceless) while this shit was going down essentially brings forth the moral of this twisted ass tale: I’m not going to look at women any less differently than I already do (and believe me, my view is pretty harsh as is) when some scallywhop willingly lets her conch be groped by a shitload of guys; hell, even I think that’s wrong on so many levels. At the same time, isn’t that the type of shit that has guys looking at women as nothing more than nut rags in the first place? Think about that when you decide to rock an outfit that has your tits damn near falling into my lap next time you go out.

[1] At least Southern music is good for one thing.

58 Comments             

50 cent • bet • common • crooked i • dope • ghostface • hip hop • jay z • jay-z • kanye west • lil wayne • little brother • mixtape • music • nas • nino bless • phonte • racism • rap • stimuli • talib kweli • termanology • ugk • videos • west coast