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

• » Give A Fluck About A Jesse Jackson
• » Misogyny Rap Is The Past, Present & Future
• » Meka Soul’s Bangingest Women, Take 2
• » Old Heads, Please Sit Down
• » The Vastness Of The Internets And Its Attached Fagitry

	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

• » Get A Bar!
• » Dah Shyt
• » 2 Dope Boyz
• » Dallas Penn
• » Plastic Squirtguns

Slap-Boxing With Jesus

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             

30 Is The New Wifey

The other day at my job I was minding my business making coffee and what have you, when I was treated to a heavenly vision of loveliness that is Joy Bryant. While the professional in me was relegated to cordially greeting her, that black pixie that’s always causing trouble on this site was conjuring up all kinds of creatively exploitative scenarios that I’d much rather not discuss here.

But can you blame me? The one thing that actually gets me to shut the hell up is the sight of a ridiculously fine dimer. So watching Ms. Bryant saunter throughout my job’s office for the better part of two hours instantly put my brain on pause status. She isn’t the first person to have me stammering over my words like a Tourette syndrome case, and if anything I’ve found myself more attracted to the older women of the world than to the ones in my age bracket. I would say that the reason I am is because of the years upon years of watching nubile youngsters getting plowed through by the likes of Jack Napier for free thanks to the wonders of high-speed Internets downloading that’s likely fucked up my conceptions of most women who are in their twenties, but if anything those shits showed me how to put it down on broads during the few times I actually have sex per year.

No homo.

In any matter, while most guys would probably credit Halle Berry, Angela Bassett, Lynn Whitfield and the like for introducing them to the older women generation, two particulars stood out for me: Stacey Dash [1] and Kerry Washington, the latter of which I’m sure you are all aware of my Stannery for. While I could probably never attempt to wife Stacey’s cat off the strength that her kinship to Damon isn’t exactly erection inducing, I’d still wreck those walls like a carpenter if given the chance. And if anybody has seen She Hate Me, then you know how Kerry gets down.

I think the best part about these women is that most of them have been through and past that younger, almost infantile stage where the mores of a relationship tend to be shunned for some brain surgery and Bapestas and are more willing to actually show their mate some love instead of dangle it over their heads. Not to mention, the mileage they’ve put on their tires have likely shaped it to perfection, and we all know how women get extra freaky once they hit their thirties in the first place. So while others will chase the youngling that lives on the block, you’ll likely see me trying to get my swerve on with the chick with the 401(k) plan sipping a mimosa or whatever fake-ass “grown and sexy” drink is the item du juor these days.

[1] Yowzas, yikes and sheesh!

38 Comments             

Jesus Turns One

A little over a year ago, I got an email from the editor-in-chief from this sight asking for writers for this newfangled blogging section that was to appear on this site exactly one year ago. Angry hermit that I was, I jumped at the chance to be able to spread my views, kick some pseudo-knowledge and generally talk a load of poppycock that had been born, bred and cultivated in my days as a c-boy for XXL’s own blogging section (check number 10 for proof). The truth is, I wasn’t supposed to be here in the first place: Eskay had originally planned on sliding me a guest slot there for a week, and if things had went well I’d be right up there along the ranks of that blogging team. (Un?) Fortunately things did not turn out that way, and one Nnaemeka Chinaedum Udoh (try saying that correctly on your first try. I’ll give you a dollar) began his reign of terror with the rest of the bad guys over here.

What’s amazing is that I never planned on being here for longer than a month or so but I figure all of the rage and chicken in my gullet compelled me to continue on with everything, despite some of my fellow original co-conspirators ghosting out, former “writers” that couldn’t even spell their way out of a wet paper bag with scissors in their hands and one-and-done hacks who couldn’t even maintain for a week who now hypocritically call out the other b-boys (and b-girls), and the huge assortment of rappers who stopped blogging once they realized they’d get no royalty checks from this shit. I’ve been through comment squabs (I see my former punching bag Nystradomus has come out to play recently), cyber beefs with co-workers (which, interestingly enough, I’ve found we all share more in common than what I originally thought), counter-revolutionists trying to elminate me (failing miserably in the process each and every time) and i even got a number or two. Not to mention my foray into this writing shit has definitely been upgraded a few notches.

Who knew that pulling a good chunk of your readers out of pocket would turn out to be so rewarding?

In this blog’s first fiscal year I’d like to think I’ve given this unheralded site a booster shot, and there are still times where I’m humbled by the amount of people who’s been around to read my 200-plus entries. Although I’ll still maintain that semi-reclusive steez, it’s always a pleasure to personally run into somebody who’s enjoyed my work. In my opinion I think they’d be better off looking at thick-bodied yellow broad Montana Deleon pictures at times than reading this crazy shit, but whatever. And don’t front like you don’t know whom I’m talking about, either.

Anyways, if there’s any thanks to be given it’s to those who held faith in me despite my extra-long sabbatical from the journalism game, the ones who held me down when times got rough and those whose support never wavered even when I wasn’t sure I’d continue on with this shit myself. So shouts to everyone who’s held down this muh’fucka since this inception; I’d usually name you all but seeing as how I don’t even remember half of the people anymore it’s quite difficult to do so. Here’s to another year of stirring up shit and wrecking shop for the masses.

 

What did i say before? DX is the past, present and motherfucking future. Act accordingly.

And a special shout goes to that one positive influence that held me down the most; though our paths and progressions may have veered off into different forks in the proverbial road of life, it’s still nice that you have my back despite it all.

208 Comments             

Children Are NOT The Future After All

This blog is a message to all those who don’t practice safe sex. You could get Effed in the Ay if you’re not careful. Always strap up. Or blast in her face.

A word of advice to anybody who’s a both a fan of rap music and slapping it up inside a woman raw deal: you may want to double-bag it, listen to an entirely different genre of music, or both. Any way you stab it, it should always be in the back of every red-blooded hetero male’s mind that the woman they’re about to let loose inside of is going to be the one anomaly in this world who won’t try to yoke you for half of what you own should one of those million-plus soldiers make it to her reproductive system successfully.

Especially considering today’s economic plight hitting this country, not to mention if you do have a kid you don’t want to rear it in some buttercup-soft, sauce ass country, being forced to pay child support will usually result in the father likely doing some jail time, which can never really be a good conversation starter when you’re in the bing to begin with. Imagine that shit…

Inmate A: “I’m doing 25-to-life for killing a bank teller.”
Inmate B: “I couldn’t pay my kid’s child support.”

Good luck trying to squeeze and clinch while you’re in there, Inmate B. Ningún homo.

What’s even worse is when you’re a rapper who did a few numbers back in the day yet still can’t make the child support payments, which is in the case of MC Breed’s. “Ain’t No Future In Yo’ Frontin’” used to rock mega-hard in my junior high school after-school parties. Had I known duke was going to end up tossed in the clink because he can’t keep his former bidge draped up and dripped out while the kid is recycling Huggies Pull-Ups (which is almost always the case in these ass-backward paternity cases) I probably would have bought his tapes instead of recording his shit off of the radio.

The sad thing about this is now that a good chunk of the well-to-do, somewhat successful men who don’t have any priors or Monsters running around in their blood stream are more likely to keep a nappy-headed whore on the side than try to lock on down for the sheer sake that she isn’t trying to run his pockets. Being in an industry like the one I’m in, I’ve seen a plethora of divorce cases due to the demand and stress of the job’s lifestyle. I couldn’t even imagine having to deal with that on top of fending off the Larry H. Parker -style lawyers who are out to snatch up your hard-earned coinage. It’s no wonder you see so many of these jigs pop-locking once they find out they’re not the father on that Maury Povich show. Lord knows I’d be doing the Kid N’ Play dance with Maury himself if I were in those shoes.

58 Comments             

Jay-Z: The Black Tall Israeli

If anybody wants to aspire to be in a major position in rap that’s not in a sexual, double-kangaroo scissor kick kind of way, I feel it should definitely be that of a Tall Israeli.

When “Rapper’s Delight” first hit the airwaves way back in 1979, it was not only significant because it was the first hip-hop single to go gold but also gave birth to the first hip-hop T.I. (and a female, no less), Sylvia Robinson. I wonder if VH1 would ever dedicate one of those fake-ass Hip-Hop Honors segments to her.

Anyways, one of the rules of being a T.I. was that – and I’m generalizing here – you had to be of Persian descent to qualify for access into the secret junta. Sure, there were many rappers that “owned” vanity labels, but that was nothing more than the petty gifts the labels’ Xerxes would bestow upon their unwitting puppets. I thought that when Roc-A-Fella Records jumped into the fray it’d be no less important than Runyan Ave. or whatever label owns Strong Arm Steady, but I see now that it was all a façade for Jay-Z to rise up through the ranks to become a Tall Israeli his damn self.

I guess it was between wearing shiny green suits in that “Sunshine” video and flipping that Annie snippet where he learned from quite possibly the greatest T.I. of all time Liar Conman on how to lie, cheat and steal his way to victory, crushing Beyoncé’s inner thigh muscles and Amil’s dreams (and quite possibly her inner thigh muscles as well) along the way.

I’ve seen traces of the Tall Israeli gene in the likes of Curtis and Puffy also. The only difference is that Curtis is weighed down by keeping a stable of child-slapping piff pocketers, while Puff will still smack fire out of someone himself rather than having his goon squad do it. Sure Jay has Bleek around, but I really think he’s just his personal Benson than anything else.

The other day the newest owner of an Xbox 360 posted a piece explaining that damn near everything is eschewed when it boils down to the almighty dollar, and Jay is a prime example of such fuckery. Screwing over former block associates like DeHaven and, um, Calvin Klein (which has got to be up there in the list of the most quasi-homosexual monikers of all time, just behind Dick Butkus) was one thing, but swacking the very label he formed with Dame Dash and that no-name third partner out from under them was the icing on the cake. Now Dame basically has to live on whatever revenue he can muster from third-world countries from all those ugly-ass Pro Keds sales, and I can’t even think of the other guy’s name much less know what he’s up to now. Probably shooting up to take away the pain. Meanwhile, Shawn is off signing deals with Live Nation for some wildly high amount of money I’ll likely never see in my lifetime unless I try to take over both this site and those other two Internets shit stains on rap that I stopped visiting a long time ago. And I’m just too lethargic to even bother trying to find out my esteemed Gotdamned Editor’s shoe size, much less his direct deposit routing number, to even do so in the first place.

76 Comments             

The Red Coats Are Coming!

I was originally going to drop a post on how today is the 40th anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King’s death but I thought against it because you already know how I feel about celebrating the life and times of somebody on the date of their death. Besides, another member of this ragtag bunch dropped some deep knowledge yesterday, so there wouldn’t have been a need for me to do so anyways.

So as I got home from the primary hustle [1] – my 8-to-7, that is – I go through the same routine I usually do to decompress: sift through the thousands of (il)legally-lifted songs on my iTunes until I’ve found something that holds my attention. I eventually stumbled upon an old Ms. Dynamite song I used to play while I was in college.

As a side note, if anybody has a copy of A Little Deeper and would like to share it with me, I’d be glad to make their day by not ripping into their culture for a week.
 
Anyways, I bring this up because as of late I’ve found myself playing more international sounds than the usual East Coast boom bap. Hell, I’ve even been playing more West Coast music than the usual East Coast boom bap, and everybody knows how much I don’t really like any West Coast music. Chance this due to a variety of reasons, but I’ve found myself listening to everything from Estelle and Kardinal Offishall more often than not.

Then again I spent a good week listening to nothing but the Dip Set playlist in my iPod, so needless to say my mood has ping-ponged from misogynistic to pensive to all over the place as of late.

Maybe I’m looking to deep into things, but perhaps this is yet another sign of American music becoming more flaccid than their international counterparts. With everybody from Polow Da Don getting exposed to Marsha from Floetry raping old Dr. Dre beats, it feels like I’m not the only person who’s not caring too much about stateside music nowadays. Is that to say that international music is inherently better due to their mishmash of sounds, or that they’re simply doing American music better than Americans? I’d like to think not, but you know I’m close-minded like that.

But perhaps this weighs more on an economical level also. With the US dollar at such a low state I figure nobody’s able to afford the six-figure production talents anymore, and are forced to create shitty jingles in hopes for mediocre success on Soundscan. Meanwhile the countries whose monetary value is double that of America’s seems to churn out better music because apparently they are able to afford it. If anything this could be the start of some musical takeover, but then again I don’t really care to begin with.


[1] Primary until my gift of pissing people off can become lucrative, of course.

48 Comments             

Crack Rap: Is It Really That Bad?

We all are aware of hip-hop’s influence on everything from the color of a person’s shoelaces down to they type of cereal that he eats [1]. Without us subconsciously believing whatever rappers tell us there wouldn’t be a website where I’d be able to talk my shit. Hell, I probably wouldn’t even convinced myself to get this giant sleeve tattoo that covers the upper half of my right arm (or the other six for that matter), although I have had second thoughts as to why I got a mural of the four elements permanently etched on my arm. Perhaps it detracts from the fact I sometimes think I have the body shape of a praying mantis, but whatever.

Body art notwithstanding, I can say however that rap music has never inspired me to turn to a life of crime. Granted I used to rob old folks and rip green cards back when I was in high school and junior college, but I attribute that more to a rebellious cry for attention more so than anything. Hell, I used to prefer Kid N’ Play, Lisa Lisa and Another Bad Creation before the Dogg Pound and Kool G Rap, so I know it wasn’t them telling me to do that. Hell, I’m listening to an old Supertramp song as I’m writing this shit now, so you can’t tell me anything.

Perhaps it was due to being primarily raised in a household full of women who used their mental to achieve their goals rather than their physical, but I never considered myself becoming a career hoodlum. It’s already bad enough I got pulled over for “not signaling when merging” less than 24 hours after I moved into Korea Town last month; the last thing I need is a trigger-happy cop clubbing open my skullcap if he found a couple packages in the trunk of Two-Face. It’s already a crime to drive when you’re a very dark-skinned Nigerian with a curious-looking name [2] and shoulder-length locks like myself anyways.

Which brings me to my point: if there has been (and I know there has) anybody that’s been so influenced by rap music that they actually want to live the fabricated crack tales of an under-performing Soundscan artist, then it’s not the rapper’s fault that their audience reflects the intelligence level of his or herself. In other words, if you’re a dumbass who believes in any of that shit, then I can’t feel sorry for you if you end up becoming butt fodder for some burly inmate in San Quentin. Then again I don’t really feel sorry for anybody nowadays, whether you caught a case of the clap or if your ancestors used to be ashtray filler in a Jetta during the Holocaust, but that’s just my usual nihilistic self coming out to play.

[1] You’re right, Legend: Frosted Flakes > every other cereal ever made.

[2] Although in Nigeria, my full name is the equivalent of “Michael” out here.

45 Comments             

The Great Depression

News flash, everyone: the American economy is really fucked up right now. Unemployment is back on the rise, more people are back on food stamps and the prices of simple groceries such as milk and cereal have jackknifed to absurd levels. It’s a cold day when I can’t even afford Count Chocula anymore, and that’s nothing more than caramelized sugar clumps. “A part of my complete breakfast,” my ass.

If you really think about it, it could be that this recession has contributed to the downward spiral of lagging sales and general suckiness of not only rap music but also all music as a whole. Granted the RIAA could point fingers at all of us Internets pirates plundering music before they’re supposed to be released, but let’s be real: the only reason why those Jewbaccas are so aggy is because nobody is willing to spend double-digit dollars on a circular piece of plastic and lacquer when they can’t even afford Pampers for their seeds. Besides, unless Scott Weiland himself decided to one day show up at my door step performing “Plush,” the chances of me not copping an album the e-Ski Mask Way are slim to none.

On a semi-unrelated note, I’ve rediscovered my love for Stone Temple Pilots while writing that line.

Real talk is that this trend isn’t going to end soon, even when our beloved overlord is ousted from his tainted seat in the White House and we have yet another shitty president bestowed upon us to drive the country into an even deeper wedge. The Internets has become a more powerful tool than anything, yet labels still struggle to adjust to that fact. They can’t remove its influence, nor can they ever stop its progression. If anything they should adapt and assimilate it so that people will actually want to purchase the music. I have a few suggestions:

* Let shitty, one-hit wonder artists get punched out by their detractors
* Host “how to be a tall Israeli” sessions at local coffee shops and poetry venues
* The 500,000th and millionth buyer of an album should get a free hand job from said artist

If they allowed these and many other creative sanctions to pass, imagine the possibilities. Not only will the economy grow, but also the interest in music will skyrocket to the point where nobody would want to steal an album off of Rapid Share. I’d personally try to buy as many Cassie albums as I can: you know how the Chinese get the happy ending thing poppin’ off. Tell me I’m wrong.

64 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