• » Name: Meka Soul
• » Location: Los Angeles, CA
• » Member Since: 04/09/07
• » Bio: Providing clarity in hip-hop since 1981.
• » Contact Me:
• » Syndicate: RSS

• » The Art Of Fruitinization
• » Is T.I. A Snitch?
• » Age Is More Than A Number
• » What Happened To All The Latino Rappers?
• » Legends Of The Fall-Offs: Marion Knight Edition

	July 2008
S	M	T	W	T	F	S
		1	2	3	4	5
6	7	8	9	10	11	12
13	14	15	16	17	18	19
20	21	22	23	24	25	26
27	28	29	30	31
« Jun					Aug »

• » Gangstarr Girl
• » Dah Shyt
• » 2 Dope Boyz
• » Dallas Penn
• » Plastic Squirtguns

Slap-Boxing With Jesus

You’re Too Bitchmade To Be Hard, Sir

Back in my rambunctious high school years, there was this one classmate named Ed. Ed was the prototypical pretty boy: skin so light you’d think one of his parents were a highlighter, that “Indian”-textured hair, the whole nine. Ed came from a reasonably well-to-do household, where not only did he have both parents, but both were relatively successful in their own respective areas of expertise.

Still, Ed used to try too much to be some kind of faux dope boy, despite the fact most of his peers knew he wasn’t. Perfect example: back in my robbing hood days I would go to my campus’ (my high school alma mater was on a college campus… the same college I ended up attending and graduating from, but whatever) student union store, snatch a few hundred dollars’ worth of university books and sell them back to the store. Word got out on the low amongst my peoples about my money train and sure enough Ed tried the same stunt, where he was promptly caught by the registrar for not taking the shits out of their plastic wrapping. A few days later, the entire section was relocated to a place behind a shitload of cash counters, where nobody but the employees of the store could reach them, essentially deading one of my various ski mask schemes. I was so pissed that I looted the ever-loving shit out of his Jansport one day.

My bad, Ed.

Point being, I haven’t been a fan of people that go all out to front like they’re someone or something they’re not. And, as you can see in the recent cases of Plies and Rick Ross, they’re liable to fall flat on their faces once exposed. With all the tough talking I’m expecting a lady to get shot in her face at a club a la Shyne, or at least slapping some random-ass kid through a wall like Tony Yayo.

The thing with being tough in the public eye is that cats have to act surly all the time, lest be called a biggedy-bitch for showing some kind of emotion. Take Young Buck’s recent bitchmade moment, when he openly wept to Fiddy because the IRS was knee-deep in his asshole, yet he kept buying ridiculously gaudy chains, rims for his toaster oven and whatnot. While I found that shit to be the funniest thing I’ve encountered this year I was a bit hard-pressed to actually feel contempt for the guy, as he would come off as some über-tough guy, not to mention he did stab that one guy who mollywhopped Dr. Dre – who ironically also got exposed by Eazy-E back in the day – at the Vibe Awards a few years ago.

Even the chewstick, nag champa rappers aren’t excluded from their bitchassness. I’ve heard stories of how the likes of Talib Kweli and dead prez used to mack more broads than Suga Free, but that’s excusable considering that they’re simply trying to get some heady moe; I can’t knock anybody’s love muscle game. However, Mos Def made his living preaching about fat-bootied brown skin ladies and such, only to get caught out there by some random-ass YT video chick-turned-smut peddler. Considering the state the Amerikkkan economy is in, nobody is safe: good thing my former flings don’t know about this section I do. Then again, it’s probably best if they did keep their mouths shut; I’m pretty sure there’s some embarrassment knowing they were plowed by a loudmouth, anti-social, rake-thin Nigerian.

While I’m pretty sure these cats could land back on their feet – hell, even Ed became a success, or at least what I’ve gathered from his MySpace page – one has to wonder if it’s even worth going through all kinds of bullshit to prove and/or maintain one’s hardness. Considering the almost-daily tests they go through already, I’m glad I don’t have go around proving my nerdity to anybody even quasi-important.

0 Comments             

Beef: It’s What’s For Dinner

A while back I decided to cut red meat out of my diet for a year. To this day I really don’t exactly why I did it, but going cold turkey on something I used to eat on an almost daily basis for a year was a somewhat interesting experience. In the beginning there were moments where I almost instantly jumped ship to enjoy a sirloin steak - or at least a double cheeseburger from McDonald’s – but slowly I weaned myself off of it, and after a while I got accustomed to not having it at all.

Eventually the yearlong self-prohibition came and went, but the urge to avoid red meat remained.  And when I did take my first bite into a steak I became nauseous and couldn’t finish it; after not eating it for so long, it was almost as if my body rejected the very taste of it. Nowadays I only indulge in red meat sparingly, though my dependency on all things poultry (since I don’t eat pork at all) is at nigh-addictive levels. But I think that’s just a Black people thing anyways.

In a sense, my apathy towards red meat is only matched by my indifference with rap music’s pension for squabbling for the sake of garnering press. Granted I prefer this saccharine style over people actually pulling out blammers and ending lives, but damn if I don’t miss the days when KRS-One was throwing people off the stage of their own show sometimes.

We can all point fingers from everyone from rappers yearning to make a quick buck by picking on their rivals to attention-hungry publicists wanting to get interest for their client’s inevitably shitbag new album, but let’s be honest and place the blame on ourselves - the average hip-hop listener/buyer/Internets thief. Similar to how most 90s babies would prefer to shuck and jive to new-millennia blackface rap, a good chunk of us prefer to listen to fake threats and imaginary gun tales instead of some duke trying to “kick knowledge.” I know I’ll take the Byzantine crack raps of Clipse over anything personally.

And think about it: how else can a rapper gain a semblance of street cred without mentioning how they would want to punch their rival’s moms out? It’s not like being an actual criminal is in style anyways; just ask Officer William Roberts or, most recently, Algernod, about their supposedly fraudulent backstories. I may not be liked much (over the Internets that is, but we all know how insignificant that is), but at the very least you won’t catch me glorifying a past that never even existed in the first place. Rhyming about vowing violence on your enemy is pretty lame as is, but actually lying about a violent past is just sad... and a little quasi-homosexual to boot. But I’m straying from my point.

Most of us can bitch and whine about how rap is in the shitter for this, that and the third reason but ask yourself this: why do you think the supposed problems are still lingering around? I once challenged opponents of this section to sign a self-made petition to get me fired from this site, and as you can see that worked about as well as Lesane’s jersey trying to stop the bullets from making his shoulders touch twelve years ago. So unless every average fan decides to go cold turkey and avoid the shit like the plague, this beef shit is still going to remain the same: a prevalently irrelevant sound of music.

0 Comments             

Summer ’08: The Year Of The Bitchmade

Yesterday I got into a conversation with one of my co-d’s out in New York about how YTs were single-handedly fucking up ever-ree-thing because, well, we’re quasi-racists like that. And not to say that the melaninless segment of our fair country are the only ones responsible for the dearth of humane sensibilities, but I don’t remember any minorities forcing Indians (feather, not red dot) out of their own land and into what are essentially internment camps under the guise of Manifest Destiny, “graciously” allowing them to create casinos as if it’s a just, consolable trade-off for the centuries of gang rapes, razing and ethnic cleansing.

God(dess) bless Amerikkka!

In that extremely biased yet somewhat logical sense, us niglets can blame our colorless brethren for the rampant problems within our own community on them. Think about it: if things weren’t so fucked up to the point that some of our sectors have come pre-installed with a Darwin-esque, “survival of the fittest” mentality – thanks to the multitude of injustices, laws and crimes against Blacks that’s been around since their ancestors were forcibly supplanted from their homeland, persecuted, tortured into doing trivially hard labor and tainted thanks to said gang-rapes by their “owners” – I wouldn’t have been so nervous each time I walked to the mailbox when I used to live in Inglewood, lest some random-ass thug gank me for my iPod.

It’s that same mentality that follows people even after they sustain a decent amount of coinage to live off of. And if this summer so far has been any indication, a good chunk of us just can’t seem to keep it together in the public eye. The year has barely passed the halfway mark, and already Prodigy went from catching eye jammies on the regulack to clinching whenever he drops the soap when sharing showers in the bing [||] with Papoose’s husband Remy Ma, while Pap himself got set up by Cassidy to catch a mollywhopping by Fat Joe, while Fat Joe’s nemesis Fiddy - who can’t even sell records anymore – is reduced to Linda Tripping conversations with former allies, while everybody’s either been getting arrested for the most randomnest of random-ass shit, getting exposed for the frauds they are or publicly crying like a biggedy-bitch.

I’m pretty sure there’s a Kevin Bacon connection in there somehow.

Whatever happened to the good old days, where people would get robbed for their Jordans, not getting the ever-loving shit tazed out of them? Things have gotten so fucked up that I can’t even walk down my block to cop a churro from the bootleg DVD pusher without feeling the slightest bit of paranoia, and I moved the fluck out of Inglewood four months ago to evade that bullshit in the first place.

You know what’ll solve life’s ills? Breasts. Word to DP, titties are akin to the fountain of fucking youth. Personally I prefer an ass on a female that’s so wonderfully contoured that you can perfectly sit a red Dixie cup of grape drink on it while she’s still standing up, but I certainly don’t object to having a pair of mammaries gently slap me in the face every now and then. And I’m not talking about those ugly-ass shits that look resemble the back of a Gremlin whenever water hits it. Shit’s disgusting. I’m talking those round mounds of joy Photoshopped pictures strewn across the Internets tease us with. Imagine if every deserving man woke up next to a pair of chesticles lovingly gazing back at them: All this unnecessary ruthless aggression that compels us to do straight dumb-dumb shit would cease to exist.

A guy can only dream.

0 Comments             

Michigan: The Gulliest State Of All Time

Let’s all be perfectly honest: who really cares that a bonafide fat ass like Rick Ross used to be a correctional officer when most of us were trying to decide which female high school classmate would give up the goods with the least amount of hesitation? I for one never liked any of his music - much less the very sight of him - to begin with. I’m pretty sure if it weren’t for the fame and fortune, duke would rock Cheetos-stained fingertips with all kinds of crust and dust mites underneath his left breast and smelling like rancid horchata, like most fat people I’ve been around in swap meets across the city.

Great. I just deaded my appetite with that disturbing visual.

Besides, if Lil Wayne can give mouth love to his surrogate pops and still push a brazillion copies of his overrated grape drink coaster, I see no reason why home slice can’t do the same, and he’s just as talented as duke, i.e. not really talented at all. That’s the great (worst?) thing about rap: the audience is fickle as shit and have insanely short attention spans. I’m pretty sure one of them would even say they enjoy the occasional pegging every now and then and not only would their faithful legionaries would give some ass-backward excuse like, “Oh, he just does that to expand his mind, and that’s what makes him so great” or some retarded bullshit, they’d likely turn a shy eye from that shit.

Pssh. Malarkey, I say.

So needless to say I’ve spent my copious amounts perusing the Internets – that is, when I’m not yoking music and leafing through pictures of feminine chesticles – reading more about the state of the economy in this country as compared to everywhere else. If now isn’t as good a time as any to move to our redheaded stepchildren of the north – Canada, that is – I don’t know when is. When the American dollar is weaker than the Mexican peso, shit is seriously all kinds of fucked up.

But no other state has probably caught the bidness as bad as Michigan has. Then again, this is the same state where Ron Artest and Jermaine O’Neal were gift-wrapping haymakers for Piston fans, so we already know what’s up. Add on the fact that their once-thriving automobile financial system has been shot to hell ever since not enough gas was getting raped from Middle Eastern countries and bitchmade hybrids made in Japan are more rampant in the hood than liquor stores thus shutting down the factories out here and creating a new world order of anarchy, and you have hands down the rawest state in America.

And that’s all due respect to Killadelphia and Bodymore. Y’all cats have more bodies than days.

Word to the rise of any aspiring artist out of Michigan: get the fluck up out of there quickfast, because it seems like most of the talent out there are allergic to death or something. Dilla died of some shit I never even heard of until I found out he had it; that’s like getting murked off by a disease named after yourself, like amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.

Now – as if that shit wasn’t a police state to begin with – they’re actually banning “sagging pants.” Now, I’m not gonna front like that’s a bad thing, since most cats who do sag look like they’ve spent way too much time in a grab-your-ankles, federally-sponsored vacation, nor are they the first state to do so - as Chicago has been doing it for a while now, but that’s simple a testament to how gully they are, despite how Common, Lupe and Kanye would look otherwise – but how raw is it that a state would actually allow that to go down in the first place? If they mandated that every child born would have to rock an electronic monitoring device around their ankles, that’d be the icing on the cake.

To top it off? Their best rapper is some white boy. Imagine all the rings of fire he had to hurdle through to get that type of recognition and respect. Inglewood may be known for Reginald Denny getting his cranium cracked with a cinder block in retaliation for Rodney King getting his own wig split by a Billy club or for Jerry Buss having to move the Lakers downtown because he kept getting robbed by fans at home games, but we ain’t got shit on Michigan.

0 Comments             

Anatomy Of Fuckery

Contrary to popular belief, I’m not dead.

Real talk is that I’ve been fed up with certain muh’fucks that unfortunately are a part of my cipher, and – without going into details – I’m unable to shake loose from for the time being. Sad (well, sad to me at least) thing is, their suspect influences was almost enough for me to call it quits here.

But how I look like folding to such malarkey, despite these smart dumb cats trying to turn sugar into shit, especially considering the shit I get from the random-ass mucklucks who drop scathing comments about my name, sexual preference, masculinity, intelligence and/or whatever else I’ve failed to mention? Fuck that, you know I can’t leave the game alone. Not when there’s still that vitriol in my system I won’t.

Especially when there’s such inspiration found from the imbecility of the world’s denizens. In that sense, they make the everyday struggles I face seem trivial; at least in my defense I’m not a drug-addled, former top-selling artist. Shit, I’m too lazy to even get out of bed some days, so needless to say “rapper” is not really my forte.

I suppose the best part of being in my position – that of a quasi-broke, semi-frustrated and constantly aroused blogger/journalist – is that I don’t have to worry about ending up in some random-ass situation that would likely involve either jail time or, even worse, a scarlet letter running around telling my business in the hopes of garnering a few paychecks from Random House.

Not to defend misogyny like I’m an advocate for slapping women through walls, but it’s easy to see why the majority of music today consists of “hump ‘em, pump ‘em and dump ‘em” jibba jabba. However, the shit that repels women has a reverse effect on the slores of the world, because we all know most rappers are idiots that couldn’t think with the brains if it were attached to their bozacks.

[||] to that last line, of course.

What never made any sense is how such artists seemingly want to throw away their success and newfound fortune. Yet at the same time they’re still allowed to run wild, despite their idiosyncratic malfunction. Honestly if I had were a cop I’d just lock up most of these rappers… after abusing my powers to the fullest, of course.

Please. Like any of youse wouldn’t abuse your power if you became a member of the bacon battalion.

Anyways, there’s no logical reasoning why a rapper want to risk losing it all for whatever cheap thrill they get from whatever illegal activities they engage in. I’d blame the crack, but even I don’t think a drug made from products found in your bathroom sink would drive anybody that kooky. Then again, DMX has been setting the standard for crack-inspired court cases this entire summer now, so I could be wrong. And in that sense, my own issues shouldn’t really trouble me because I could be doing a lot worse, like Mos Def.

Damn, homie.

0 Comments             

Give A Fluck About A Jesse Jackson

There’s a difference between you, the reader, and me, the writer. See, I tend to more or less say what some of you think, but are inexplicably too timid to do so. Granted, I may do it under a pseudo-disguise [1] and a play on my name, but truth is that a: I’m not that hard to spot out in a crowd (let’s see how many slack-jawed yokels recognize me at Rock The Bells this year!) and b: the stuff I’ve said over here I’d likely say to your face, so the whole “confidence behind a monitor” shtick doesn’t really apply to me.

At the same time, you’d never see me backpedal once I say something that gets you out of pocket. If there was one thing I can take from my college experience (outside of the fact that most classes are complete wastes of time), it’s that – unless I was absolutely wrong – was to never bite my tongue or renege on anything I’ve ever said, no matter how offensive. Why? Because I’m on my Charles Barkley shit when it comes to my public image: I’m not trying to be anybody’s role model outside of my future younglings, and they’re in a liquidy state stashed in my scrotes [||] at the moment. That’s why I use any and every hate email I receive or disparaging remark in the c-section as ammunition for my verbal assault: I don’t care about them, so I see no reason why they should care about me.

If anything, jackasses like Jesse Jackson should take more notes from yours truly, instead of looking like fools when they do step out of pocket. It’s a well-known fact that both he an Al Sharpton aren’t fans of Barack Obama, and are likely showing a pseudo-show of support just because he’s, well, black. I don’t even plan on voting (spare me the semantics), but if I did I’d vote for him only because he’s black, especially since I never really followed politics like that to boot.

Shit, Obama can say he’s having the Anti-Christ himself as his running mate, with David Duke, Tim Hardaway and Gort as his cabinet members, and I’d still vote for him only off the strength that, if he wasn’t who he is today, would get pulled over by the cops, not unlike how that high-yellow, slickback-rocking jig did in Crash.

But I’m not going to be those types of hypocrites who say one thing only to 180 and do another, not unlike how Mos Def used to rap about brown skin ladies then banged a White stripper. But honestly, if anybody was truly shocked and surprised at how Jesse Jackson really felt about Barack, nor was I appalled at what he said. Lest we forget, this was the same guy who – while running for president in the 80s nonetheless – referred to New York City as “Hymietown,” which I still think to this day was the funniest shit I’ve ever heard.

Yet – and I hate to turn this toward me – I get a whole bunch of self-righteous Jews trying to get me “fired” from this site and subsequently blackballed from the industry [2] whenever I use the now-infamous dreaded k-word. I don’t even get paid for this shit, so technically how can I get fired? But I digress.

I guess the moral of this twisted tale is to not be something you never were in the first place. Maybe then when you make an ass out of yourself you’d not feel the need to do an about-face to avoid humiliation. Perhaps that’s why this site is still up and running and one of our main competitors is nothing more than a Geocities web page now.

[1] Really people, even if I showed my face I highly doubt I’d get the same number of comments as my Vegas-residing blogging sister aliya. I mean damn, I know she’s fine as hell, but you won’t see me trying to slide inside her cyber-skins with that much virility. As a side note, I’ve always found it odd how I get barked on for supposedly not getting any ass, yet a shitload of yentas are damn near climbing walls over a diminutive photo. It is what it is, though.

[2] Ironically, this blog opened up another avenue down the street from here and I’m begrudgingly more popular and get more work than ever. Funny how things work in my favor sometimes.

0 Comments             

Misogyny Rap Is The Past, Present & Future

Real talk is that I wasn’t even planning on going in on this joint at all this week. Considering that I had a self-imposed mini-vacation where I crammed a good hundred-plus miles of driving, some fine dining at the local waffle house, upgrading the gear workshop with some new sneaks, faux-skydiving and a random-ass conversation with a random-ass phony Jack Sparrow in Hollywood into four days, not only is Slap-Box M tired but – interestingly enough – not full of the rage, cynicism and fried chicken that usually powers these shits to begin with. So I was gonna take a break and relax for a bit; I mean, I’ve gone in on this thing some 250 times, give or take a few, so it’s not like any of youse readers would really notice if I ghosted for a few days anyways since this ain’t shit more than a blog version of “What Dat Thing Smell Like.”

But of course I can’t leave this alone when even the smallest of instigators grinds my gears. This particular prime mover happened to be while I was running the city with my friend the other day, and a few local club staples got some burn in the whip: a song by Suga Free (I forget the song title) and another by Too $hort (I also forget the title). Now for those that read this site who don’t dwell in the West, the aforementioned are known for songs which, well, diss the ever-loving shit out of women, which for the most part is ridiculously banal and awesomely entertaining at the same time.

The raw shit is, some women don’t seem to mind that the song tells them to take it up the pooh shooter (ha!), so long as the lyrics are backed by a pulsating, bass-heavy beat which effectively drowns out said lyrics. I don’t frequent clubs as much anymore, but during the times I used to try to dry-hump a fly shorty I remembered when the broads would lose their minds over “Shake Dat Monkey.”

By the way, that above video could possibly not be safe for work, but I’m sure that disclaimer won’t stop some of youse.

So of course the question remains: why is it that even some of the staunchest of anti-nappy headed hoe name-calling women will get buck at the drop of songs that, well, call them nappy-headed hoes? My non-educated guess is that it has something to do with either the scenario of where the music is being played – the club/social drinking scene setting – making it more acceptable, or the fact that women are inherently freakazoids by nature, and that those tunes are akin to the Pied Piper’s (extra naux Robert Sylvester on a vocoder) whistles that inexplicably convinced the town’s children to follow a man in tights (extra extra naux random episode of WWE Raw). Then again, seeing as how I am a member of the XY chromosome contingent, who am I to try to decode the shit when the shit caters to my innermost carnal desires? Shit, if they made a BET UnCut version of Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood for women to drop all self-respect for themselves in a club, I’m not gonna be the one voting no.

0 Comments             

Meka Soul’s Bangingest Women, Take 2

Who doesn’t enjoy the summer? The nice, sunny weather which compels many a brick-thick, cola bottle-shaped beauty to wear the most minimal of clothing, purposely teasing the testosterone-inflicted half of society with their cleavage-baring tops, barely-there bottoms and Fuck Me Pumps. The type of sights you walk past where everything seems to go in slow motion as you watch the dynamic curves and effervescent jiggles confidently bounce past your eyes.

Blame it either on my older sisters’ fine-ass friends that would pass by the crib or the hellafied curvy MILF that I used to live next door to, but I’ve been digging on women of all shapes, sizes and colors since I used to rock the pajamas with the footies and wake up butt-ass early on Saturdays to catch Captain N: The Game Master on NBC. So with the second of the preeminent Amerikkkan holidays where the red-blooded, hetero population can revel in the bevy of dimers rocking next-to-nothings at beaches, malls and various parties across the nation around the corner, I thought I’d take the time out from spreading my venomous ramblings to make a few additions to my list of things I’d like to do before I die. As usual, feel free to toss in your own suggestions as well.

Ciara. When Ciara first came out, I didn’t really pay her no mind because she was nothing more than an obvious play on my personal G.O.A.T. wifey material, Aaliyah (is it wrong to still want to mate with someone who’s deceased? Pause, no necrophilia on that thought), not to mention that she was letting certified old head Lil Bow Wow inexplicably tag that. But once they broke up, she’s seemingly been determined to show Shad what he’s been missing, and has been looking all kinds of smashable in every red carpet appearance, music video and photo shoot she’s done since (did you see the look on RIhanna's face during Chris Brown's performance at the BET Awards? Enough Said). Shad, on the other hand, is busy beefing with video slores and Internets haters while boxes of that shitty duet album he did with Omarion (no hetero) remain in cutout bins at various Big Lots across the country.

In other words, Bow Wow lost.

Alicia Keys. I figure in between selling a brazillion copies of her first album and fending off the rumors that she liked women that liked women, Alicia Keys realized that she had body underneath the headwraps and neo-hippie gear, and has put it on display for the rest of us herbs to fawn over. As much as I hate the channel, seeing her awkwardly gyrate during her performance at the BET Awards almost made me jump through my television set. On top of that she played a hitwoman - and so seductively said my favorite word - in Smoking Aces, and it was like losing my virginity all over again.

Serena Williams. Give a fluck about whether she looks like she packs a bigger dick than I do at times [||]. Anybody who sees that picture above and says they still wouldn’t throw backshots to her is a fucking liar.

Andressa Soares. I don’t know who she is, I don’t know what she does and I don’t even know if she speakee Ingles (if the fuckin’ cash is right © Pusha T). All I know is that I need to make a trip to Brazil quickfast, and it won’t be just to see the costumes during Carnival.

0 Comments             

Old Heads, Please Sit Down

The other day I was thumbing through my folder of interviews, album reviews, random notes and blogs I’d written over the past few years, and I came across a quarter-finished piece about The Source that I never got around to work on because honestly, it made me upset at how Benzino and Dave Mays turned the magazine from probably the most well-respected and highly regarded rap publication into a faux counterterrorism unit determined to purge the rap world of its evils, essentially turning into that very thing itself.

And I quote:

“I was a huge fan of The Source. One of the first large-scale hip-hop publications, it was the most exciting and influential magazine I ever read… I found it amusing yet sad at the same time when the magazine filed for Chapter 7 bankruptcy, and both Dave Mays and Benzino were locked out of their own office. I guess it didn’t help their financial matters when Benzino proclaimed he’d come back on a white horse. I think that quote alone drove half of the magazine’s subscribers away.”

What’s interesting about that never-completed piece was that when I wrote it, all I could keep thinking was, “These old heads are running this rap shit into the ground.” Mind you, this was during the whole hubbub when platinum-selling artists like Method Man and LL Cool J were selling wolf tickets because their former boss was supposedly spending their album budgets on overpriced trips to a part of the planet I’ll likely never see in my life rather than publicity for their eventual flops of records. But then all that “Crank Dat” madness rolled along and for a minute reformatted my train of thought.

The more I surmise though, the less I actually believe that – perhaps much to the chagrin of Ice T – Soulja Boy is single-handedly responsible for destroying hip-hop. Granted duke is from a part of the States where doing hood rat stuff could land you on “Judge Judy” – or at least a slot on YouTube – but it almost always goes without mention that the person who had the harebrained idea to sign him in the first place was likely an old head, under the silly yet ultimately accurate guise that Soulja Boy’s jigaboo theatrics could make a shitload of money.

On top of that, the old heads honesty can’t ignore the glaring fuck ups their own generation had. I mean, “Pumps And A Bump” and that Crucial Conflict song weren’t exactly classic material in their respective days, not to mention that most of that music was only targeted at the younglings back then who were only concerned about basketball during PE class and trying to bag our prom dates, with the only difference being that we weren’t as stupid as today’s youth, and even that disturbing fact could be attributed to poor school budgeting and a bunch of old heads not wanting to teach them in the first place thanks to poor school budgeting.

If anything, the old heads are acting as much out of pocket as the younglings, and aren’t contributing to the so-called “save hip-hop” game plan. At the very least, there are some old heads that are doing something beneficial to hip-hop.

0 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 • rock the bells • sha stimuli • stimuli • termanology • ugk • west coast