• » Name: Meka Soul
• » Location: Los Angeles, CA
• » Member Since: 04/09/07
• » Bio: Providing clarity in hip-hop since 1981.
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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

Legends Of The Fall-Offs

It’s a known fact I talk all kinds of wild reckless here, and for the most part it’s with all good reason: being a journalist, one is subject to the many rules, whether grammatical or ethical, and thus is always limited from fully speaking their minds most times. I’ve done a fair share of interviews, album reviews and random-ass shit where I’ve had to leave on the safety, and – barring some random-ass-but-not-unforeseen circumstances – for the most part I’m free to say what I want and how I want to say it here.

Unless I talk about Jews in a not-so-positive manner. Those people just can’t seem to take a joke sometimes, I swear.

At the very least, readers here should be happy I write all kinds of nonsense – like most religious writings – and I’m not getting paid for it like any number of slores who’s came out with a book over the past few years. Not to say that if women spent more time in the kitchen and less time doing dumbass YouTubes of anal beads and such the world would be a better place, I’m just saying.

I’m kidding, of course. I’m not that misogynistic anymore (Right, Shay?).

Besides, I talk shit because I’m nothing more than a freelancing quasi-hermit who isn’t even sure if I’ll have a crib to call my own in the next three days thanks to Washington Mutual going belly up, and getting money the Ski Mask Way is something that isn’t my style… or at least anymore it isn’t. And thanks to the combination of both a rapidly increasing gentrification rate and decreasing dollar value I probably wouldn’t be able to squat over at Sedgwick and Cedar, especially now that the legendary home of hip-hop is being sold off, presumably to the same Yiddish folk I can’t talk about without incurring the wrath of Tetragrammaton over here.

Capitalism is a helluva drug.

Is it any wonder why the women of hip-hop have to resort to tawdry tactics to make a buck sometimes? Hell, I may have get up on my rap chick secks game as well, so I can go ask my sister’s roommate if she can hook me up with a deal with Harper-Collins. Although I’m aware of the vicious sexual double-standard between men and women, I honestly think that with my above-average prose I can put together even the finest of tales that could land me the same opportunities other slorefathers before me have gotten. But knowing my luck – as well as the fact that I’m Black so it’s automatic – half my checks would be garnished to fund the candle budget for the junta of Jew mongers’ annual Hanukkah celebration.

The moral of this story? Some tall Israeli is running this rap shit.

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Did Puff Daddy Jerk Pete Rock?

Whenever you’re sick, you never really think about much outside of being sick, or – in my case – things that take your mind off being sick so that you’ll be able to function throughout the day. Mine in particular happens to be an unwavering focus on el grande nalgas, which I may think could be a problem since my newfound Internets fame and refocused journalism hustle has me essentially chained to a damn computer more often than I’d like to be. But we’ll talk about that issue another time.

Speaking of dark butt discrimination, before I took my, errr, extended vacation from this section a few weeks ago I had planned on tossing up some half-assed post on why Cassie could inexplicably get it five ways from Friday. But outside of disclosing certain fantasies that would likely debase this section’s “reputation” (who do you think got that disclaimer tossed at the bottom of every blog?), I couldn’t really think of anything outside of, well, the fact that she’s a rake-thin, half-talent mixed chick that happens to be easy on the eyes. Not that I don’t discriminate, but when two skinny people are having sex it’s like a pair of twigs being rubbed together to start a fire, and that’s not my particular cup of Kool-Aid.

* Insert Yung Berg-style discrimination against skinny women protest here *

On top of that, Puff Daddy (likely) beat those walls in, and that shit is an instant turn-off to me given his over-the-top antics and cutthroat demeanor, each of which I’ve always felt contributed to the murking of the greatest rapper of all time, the Notorious B.I.G. [1]. Think about it: had Puff not insisted Big should stay in Los Angeles for a muh’fucking Soul Train Awards after party – does Soul Train even exist anymore? – he likely wouldn’t have a Swiss Cheesed corpse chilling in a New York cemetery to continually rape for his publishing via those shitty “posthumous” albums.

But even if he weren’t financially BuFu’ing Voletta’s only child he’d be finding some way to make money on the back end, probably through his beat jacking hustle. It’s a known fact that Sean has always taken a Dr. Dre-esque approach to producing, i.e. plucking a group of wet-behind-the-ears rookie producers off some random corner, giving them a gaudy necklace and promising to fulfill their starry-eyed aspirations in hip-hop by making beats, only to add a random-ass snare and some adlibs and claim the beat as his own. The most famous of this is when he swacked Pete Rock’s entire idea for what became the beat for “Juicy.” Although Pete claims he’s content with everything, perhaps Pete feels some sort of karmic retribution coming back to him because of the people he may have screwed over in the past, or at least if you ask the Internets. Or maybe his being so calm, cool and collected over what could have been a career changing beat getting hijacked could be the result of Puff’s legendary gully status in the industry, and his willingness to shatter a Cîroc bottle over anybody’s head if they dare step out of pocket with him. My guess would definitely lean toward the latter, but that’s because I’m an asshole like that.

In a sense, I’m almost glad that Biggie isn’t alive to see his legacy burn worse than Travis Barker and DJ AM. At the same time if Chris were alive, would we see such funnystyle behavior from his supposed homeboy? I wouldn’t even answer that question, on account that I like having my skull in one piece.

I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again: if he had the space in his coffin to do so, Biggie would be turning in his grave.

[1] I’m sure there will be a couple “2Pac > Biggie” comments from that line alone, but needless to say I don’t give a shit.

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Loser’s Circle

“Soy un perdedor/I'm a loser baby so why don't you kill me?” - Beck

Since I’m on the topic of bitchasses this week, what’s been more baby-shit softer than so-called “urban” music? Of all the musical genres porch monkeys like my dark-skinned brethren invented [1], nothing is more flawed than the only sounds Blacks are most prevalent in. Whether it’s fake Pfizer kingpins or fake revolutionaries or fake style icons or fake rock stars or whatever fake shit I’ve left out, urban music has got to be the most schizophrenic music that’s out right now.

Most rappers are sweeter than fructose, yet fans will clamor to their every brazen, violent threat under the disguise of real. We consider average Joe rappers gay because they’d rather take a chick to the movies, Applebee’s, Blockbuster’s or state fairs while dipped in the finest of wears, fitted or baggy, yet praise phony kilo pushers that contribute to the spread of STDs, parentless children and men and women left scorned from their relationships. I should know; I still get pissy-mooded at one that crash-landed before it could even take off sometimes. And so-called lyrical people-lifters are as equally contradictory, and I feel most of them just use that propaganda bullshit to get more ass than a toilet seat. Case in point: all the YT chick love dead prez was getting at a Rock The Bells after party I attended while in Denver a mere hours after they were railing against palefaces at the festival.

We got underage bootyhole pirates running to BET and can still pull numbers at stores and sell out arenas across the country thanks to the same demographic they sexually prey upon. We got bitchmade schlups thugging over the Internets of all places. The only thing I’m not too mad at are the cats catching the chainsnatcheyejammie disease. I feel in an almost karmic way that those humps getting punched in their mouths for their gaudy necklaces are actually deserving of it, because it’s a physical reminder that they can get shot off their high horse at any given moment.

What’s a damn shame is when cats in other countries are doing the shit better than we are in its birthplace. I’ve heard and read many stories on how places like Japan and Toronto are killing it with their interpretation of hip-hop, dancehall and R&B (no rap and bullshit), and although my firsthand experience is limited, I’ll have to concur with the majority. Hell, on a semi-related note international women >>> Amerikkkan women, including those over here that have like 26 different ethnicities in them, like the Beauty & Brains broads. Have you mucklucks seen Brazilian women? Jesus Cristo.

I’ve spent a lot of time, rage and chicken-fueled vitriol on everything from quasi-homosexual rappers to anchor-headed R&B chicks to everything in between over here. Real talk is that I’ve lost most of the energy to go in on that shit anymore not because it’s passé to do so, but simply because it’s just sad watching that shit go down in the first place. I can’t even relate to rap anymore; I’m too old to be running around like a retarded hybrid of Stevie Williams and Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers, but too young to be considered a so-called “old head.” My expectations in music are lower than Ketchum’s latest list, so how would I look like trying to prove to people that Lil Wayne is wack, overexposed and overrated?

[1] I dare someone to prove to me that minorities didn’t have a hand in creating every genre of popular music out today. Go on, I’ll wait.

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It’s Hard Out There For A Simp

I used to think that the reason rap has an issue with the homosexual community is because of its unwillingness to expose of its own vulnerabilities for fear of making them come off as the very thing they detest. Think about it: every time a rapper decides to, say, jump on the vocoder and hoot and holler through mush mouth vocals about 808s and heartbreaks or some random-ass shit, everyone from rival artists to Twinkie soft c-sectionals will jump on said rapper’s figurative ass with a plethora of incessant, wild homophobic jibba jabba.

Is it really all that bad, however, exposing your softness at times? I mean, nobody’s a hard-shelled, stone-cold G.I. Bro at all times of the day, no matter how hard they front like they are. Emotions are what makes us all human beings in the first place, and I ironically tend to question those that try to mask it under a shroud of faux- toughness because the shit reminds me of Ving Rhames’ character in that Chuck & Larry movie.

*shudders at the thought of Ving Rhames’ character in that Chuck & Larry movie

I think I may have been a little off with that hypothesis however. No, the real reason why cats don’t want to expose themselves is because they don’t want their private lives being so public, whether its been thrown out all over the Internets via a YouTube (or to a shittier extent, World Star Hip-Hop) video, MySpace blog posting or – my personal favorite – the “tell-all” exposé. And since nobody’s making much money in rap (unless you happen to be of Yiddish heritage, but that megillah is for another time) everybody from the two-bit slore to the disgruntled former employee is dropping knowledge on the tawdry pasts of rappers in video or book format.

What agitates me is how these money-hungry vultures attempt to disguise the shit as “cautionary tales,” like one of those “The More You Know” skits NBC used to play during commercial breaks of Saved By The Bell, as if it’s supposed to “enlighten” the audience and hip them onto how the game really works when most of really know otherwise. A personal highlight (lowlight?) of mine was when muh’fucking Superhead of all people came to my alma mater (go Cal State Dominguez Hills Toros!) as a part of Women’s History Month a few years ago when her first book came out. I guess Roxy Reynolds was too busy giving a CPR lesson to some lucky guys’ schlongs to discuss the dangers of premarital sex that day, but whatever. Fortunately I was too busy making coffee for a bunch of crotchety cracka-ass crackas that day to attend the momentous occasion, but my friend did tell me Supes praised the inventor of water or some dumb shit during her speech.

*Eli Porter stare*

It’s no wonder everybody in rap is damn near on some Deebo status. If I was a rapper (and thank God[dess] I’m not) I’d probably have to pay off every woman I was with in Reebok 5411s just to keep her from trying to make money off my private life. Last thing I need is some made up shit about how I sound like Reh Dogg while we were in between the sheets being all out there.

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The Wide World Of Fuckery

I’ve pretty much spent the past two weeks of my so-called life in a catatonic state so to speak, bemused at the bullshit that surrounds this arena I chose to pursue a career in, from simple shit such as dealing with beak-nosed tall Israelis whose very existence seems to be dedicated to bringing others down, or having to keep your cool and maintain your focus while the world and all its infinite glory decides to start fucking with you.

Enough about my trivial problems however; that ain’t nothing booze can all but fix, and being that I live in a city that has nothing but bars and clubs around me, I’m a hop, skip and a jump away from drinking away the pain. Not to mention, many of those places play music by artists who are having their own problems, so to speak.

It’s almost a damn shame when the most sensible artist on the planet at the moment happens to be a dreadlocked jig with his own checkered past, but then again – and I hate to use duke’s vernacular – really, not really. If anything, the past two weeks have proven nothing except that hip-hop – despite being in its thirties – is still a juvenile (no “Ha”) essence, not unlike the Happy Meal and wet dream.

No better are the “fans” of this rap shit too. In my ever-so-humble opinion, cyber-fans are essentially the most bitchmade of the bunch, with the culture itself essentially broken down into three groups: the hater, the stan or the e-goon, the latter of which is more feminine than a yeast infection. Damn if the shit isn’t entertaining at times however, and it’s even funnier when an artist steps out of pocket from catching feelings over an Internets heckling.

The fuckbwoy sensation isn’t only limited to just rap music either, although some theories claim that it just started there. I’m probably like the other 98% of the world (you know, the meaningful percent) who’ve never heard of Sarah Palin prior to a few weeks ago, and when given a chance to prove herself on a national scale twice, she came across as both an idiot and a bitch. I’m almost half-tempted to fill out this voter registration form that’s been sitting on my couch for the past few days just so I can give my vote to the right person: Ralph Nader. Yeah, I’ve said I’d vote for the Black guy only because he’s a Black guy, but you yentas know I live to flake out on shit. Why the hell you think I’ve been gone for two weeks anyways?

Outside of my issues with the management, that is.

You’ll have to excuse me while I slowly get my bearings back, as it may take a while to fully return to shit talk mode and embrace my inner nihilist. But give it time; I’m sure I’ll be back to calling your favorite rapper a butt-fucking fruitbag with the lyrical skills of a premature ejaculator soon enough.

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