Magazine Fuckers, Come Here

What would Prince do?

Look, dickwads, do I have to do everything? Tried to school y'all bucks but y'all ain't wanna listen. How much longer y'all gonna wait? 'Til they blow (as we've been predicting for over a year now)?

Don't wait. Love them now.

J*Davey, a group out of L.A., consisting of Miss Jack Davey and Brook D'Leau.

Moment of truth: Guesting on the Roots' forthcoming Game Theory LP/Headlining with the Roots/Erykah Badu/Mos Def/Angelique Kidjo at New York's Radio City Music Hall.

Do as Clinton Sparks does.

Feministing

What you're saying I don't consider it as rapping/'Cause you're on rewind and I'm the new "what's happening"/It never fails, I'll always get respect/And you lose, so take a rain check


Hell no, 'cause you know that I'm first and you're second/If it wasn't for me you'd probably be pregnant/And barefoot, complaining that your back is aching/Shaking and faking while I'm bringing home the bacon


Well, you're mistaken/It's not going that far/I make brothers like you play the back yard/You used to flow with the title but I took it/Bring home the bacon but find another hoe to cook it


Damn it look it/'Cause you're talking a lot of bull


Well I'm not your puppet, so don't even try to pull


This is a man's world, thank you very much


But it wouldn't be a damn thing without a woman's touch

Nepotism

Things we don't need: the Ws in "answer" and, um, the Oval Office. None of us needs a "Skypager," "Mamacita," or another drink. Try as they might, your tonsils can't write "Mr. Mister." Jack Davey, however, can. And we need her like we need another hole in black music's claustrophobic head*.

Pete Macia. That's Peter Macia to you (on some Laurence Fishburne, we-ain't-familiar shite). He says nice things (nullus). Lots of dudes from Tha Fork say nice things.

Were I a bit quicker checking my e-mails last night, a young gentleman out of Atlanta, whose bio claims he produced Lil' Yola's "Ain't Gone Let Up," would have certainly said nice things to me. But alas, XXL** Music Editor Anslem Samuel (by all means a gentleman and a scholar) had to pass the proverbial dutchie.

Meh.

Think I'll compensate by (again) replaying last night's convo:

"I'd rather fuck a bowl of oatmeal than Ann Coulter."

"Tee hee.

"You like girls who—like me—are way too tall for you. Why not Adam's apples?"

"Apples aren't sexy."

"DUDE. They are so not!

"You know what's sexy? Peaches!

"I'm from Atlanta; my ass is like a peach. What could be more vulnerable than a peach?"

"Emmanuel Lewis."

"My roommate wonders why I'm laughing so hard."

"Gotta love roommates. They wonder. They care."

"I think she has a crush on you."

"Why?"

"'Cause you're not from L.A."

"What's wrong with the guys from L.A.?"

"The guys from L.A. ran The Game. You know, the Neil Strauss book.

"My roommate and I met at an Anger Management course for girls who fell for The Game.

"Now, if we even fucking think we see a guy who's buying a fucking wallaby I swear to fucking God, his ass is so fucking ours!"

"Say 'fucking' again…"

"Fucking."

"See, that would never work back East…"

"What, fucking?"

"…New York girls are—yeah—too smart for that shit."

"True.

"Wait…so that's what's always wrong with Julian Casablancas.

Shorty's roommate sounds like a dime….

Hmm? I'll be on time for that

My Vibe check came today; I'm gonna go be somebody's bar star tonight.

P.S. Hov is dropping in November. Do we wonder? Do we care?

*Don't get it twisted baby girl; I'm still on your team.
**Roll with the winners!

Last Words: I Dig Music

Scare me, shit. Make me hot, offend me, something. Just don't be wack. Don't be half-assed.

—Eva Glenn

What's in a song? Background noise from your local holleration station, or a call to arms? Self said, to hear "1979," summery and lackadaisical—like a Joni yodel—is to feel 14 or forty-something and ready to mow a lawn. Or yawn. (Call it happiness under any other name, as I'd need to be 14 or 43 or hellafreakin' happy to be doing somebody's yard work.) Listening to MF Doom I'm geeked to finally complete that oft ignored screenplay (half-heartedly penned with a Tracee Ellis Ross lead in mind), or to fuck all conventional wisdoms, like some promiscuous Wu-affiliate with a soft spot for right-wing, conservative soccer moms, and haul ass to Paris, decamping in a youth hostel as barren as Hannah, save Madlib, Sadé, and enough Mystic Moods LPs to render your little L.E.S. roommates' secondhand '70s steelos as light in the ass as a Nicole Richie booty cheek. (Of late, I think I can beat Mike Tyson—when "Ante Up" is on.)

At least at one point, brothers were willing to work it out, because Sly—replete with gorgeously spaced foresight—hacked mad JB/Brother Ray hyperlinks, making them blogfuck in OG HTML (and in the presence of his myriad dogs and their accompanying machine guns). No doubt our natural instincts are to—how you say?—vegetate in all our uncombed glory—think Blaxploitation pubic hair—whenever Chaka and her leather-in-the-summer-wearing fuck buddies wanna know WHAT'S REALLY GOOD.

But that was then. Today's genteel pop music, for the most part, betrays every indication that there's a Mary-Kate-and-Ashley riot goin' on. And it totally makes me want to give massages to motherfuckers I don't even like. Hell, even precious Lil' Jon isn't telling us why he mad, son, and there are reasons to do as much (inability to grasp basic chord structure, incongruent facial hair, et cetera). We're all too fucking left-brained for the room nowadays, and it translates into the music. Which is to say, there is a cynic's sneer in today's best whatever-hop that says, "Let's be intelligent enough to be Ignant enough to be rich idiots." This, of course, being in contrast to, "Let's be naive enough to be late '80s enough to be bum-ass Prophets of Rage, with cool Captain Beefheart samples!" That's kosher I guess. But I'm willing to bet that if no less a throwback'd soul than Kanye West got a letter from the government addressed, "Dear Kanye, we're suckers," he'd neither open nor read it, much less, tell us about it. And that's, like, so Raven.

These thoughts are proverbial greying Cosby Sweaters, I know. But wouldn't it be SO BEST if the current TRL contingent were two-waying each other about Dead Prez inconsistencies, at the latest Vote or Die! jumpoff, instead of…BEEF DVDs? Ringtones? Marques Houston? Whatever. Anyone mouthing Yung Joc lyrics? Who's overworked and passing out at a Pretty Ricky concert right now? Hey Knowles, Timberlake, I want kick-ass, anti-administration videos, with succinct Rosie Perez choreography from the both of youse ASAP. That Melyssa Ford chick can rock the Bush Can Kiss My Black Ass! thong. I need to feel like throwing some shit at a wall and you do too (if it don't move my feet than you don't eat). So we like neck-in-neck.

Random

Despite its backdrop sounding like The Urban Domino's Pizza Music™ ("Girlfriend, when I'm not dropping down to get my eagle on I'm sho nuff ordering three large, one-topping pizzas from Domino's!"), "Emergency" is goodington. (Kelis + Saadiq = the style you haven't done yet.)

Stop expecting shit, dun. Timbaland can no longer surprise us. Going to "Sexyback" for anything other than synths is like buying Snickers solely for the peanuts when, anyway, you hate chocolate. It's really not that deep; just pretend Storch produced it and chill—never mind.

Dear, VH1 Soul,

Neo soul is dead. This I know for Erykah Badu (via the cover of 2003’s Worldwide Underground) tells me so. Not that this, at the time was a surprise to me or anyone else—the genre, impossibly plodding and painfully pretentious, in fact, died (at the hands of its maker, Ms. Badu) in 2000, when enraged fans peered down the barrel of Mama’s Gun to discover nary a head-wrap in its tripped-out chamber. At which point, Erykah, erstwhile avatar of neo soul, let the black boho community tell it, abandoned the movement she birthed on her 1996 debut (the sorcerous Baduizm), leaving it in the less capable hands of poseurs who reduced it to a coffeehouse catchall for Sister 2 Sister subscribers everywhere. (Word to India dot Arie.)

Can I get a Wikipediaclap?

When substance takes a backseat to style

There’s actually this game my friends and I used to play in which we would try and come up with all the clichés one might find in the typical neo-soul music video. The usual suspects being: incense; cowrie shells; African art; a brownstone somewhere in the newly gentrified section of Fort Greene, Brooklyn (aka Come See All Your Neighbors from Akron Now Living on DeKalb!). At some point there’s bound to be a shot of some curly-haired, headphone-sporting sister surrounded by vinyl and some dudes on guitar (the revolution will, apparently, not be synchronized!). There’s also that scene where our beautifully human heroine, in an act of proletarian pride, joins in on a game of hopscotch with a group of smiling schoolgirls. (Sanaa Hamri: step your bourgie black peoplehood game the fuck up.)

Oh: to that thicky thick chick who sings backup for those boho douchebags that Kanye signed last year SA-RA Creative Partners: Your music makes me want to know what it means to experience child birth not for nothin', sis, if and when I see you, your ass is so getting…



I'm gonna go watch "The Cosby Show" now.

Other Side of the Game

Re: the Dipset: Said the hot dog to the other hot dogs: "Grill 'em."

These present entries are terry cloth (that means they're very soft). Tomorrow Tomorrow* cometh the starch.

*Broadband still on the fritz; Blogger server on that ol' sucker sheet.

Back Like That

00:40 seconds in and I'm all, "Wow."

Just…wow.

Soon

Still not getting broadband turned back on 'til next week, dudes.

Currently piggybacking off my neighbor's access—which is to say, my present wireless "hot spots" are like the turtle-sheathed clit of a hard-to-please prostitue.

Got lots of blog-y stuff sitting in ze archives, waiting to go live; maintain, dawg.

In the meantime, this Re-up Gang jernt is what's poppington.

Release Therapy

…Because they make you feel cool.
And hey—I met you; you are not cool.


I know.
Even when I thought I was I knew I wasn't.



Because we're uncool!
While women will always be a problem for guys like us…most of the great art in the world is about that very problem.
Good looking people? They got no spine. Their art never lasts. They get the girls but we're smarter.


…Yeah I can really see that now.


Yeah, 'cause great art is about, you know, guilt and longing. And, you know, love disguised as sex and sex disguised as love….
Hey let's face it: You got a big head start.


I'm glad you were home.


I'm always home! I'm uncool!


Me too.


You're doing great, you know.
The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you're uncool.

Favor

Somebody call Rhymefest's mother; remind her to pick up Blue Collar.

Eye For An Eye (Your Beef Is Mines)

Just what is all this shit?

…Jungle Bunnies, Those Wanting Money

Full disclosure: "Chicken Noodle Soup" gives me odd and constant pleasure.

Sodas give colds and soups usually cure them—niggas ain't never got two things that match.

I'll probably be "covering" it, so I won't go into detail, but I think I should speak on Game Theory:

Dear Hova,

You're currently running hip-hop's premier label, yes? Why can't you get the Roots to come up with good hooks? I mean, they're pretty self-contained and all so I know it might seem futile to throw in a couple suggestions here and there, but damn. This record is supposed to work in today's climate? Don't get me wrong, from a musical standpoint, it rocks—which is say, it's bleak and expansive, featuring what is probably ?uest's best production to date. But some of these hooks are just downright cringeworthy. Take "In the Music" for example. What was going on there? Bleek in fact has had better hooks than that. Actually, for the next Roots record, why not commission Bleek, who could us a good raise, to serve as a sort of hook consigliere? Just tell him to head on down to the studio when he's done with the vacuuming. Just a thought.

Thanks in advance!

Will

A word on Black Thought: You either get that he’s a lyrical maniac or you don’t. I have my issues with his sing-song-y, post-Illadelph output but for all intents and purposes, he’s a master.

I’m aware that there’s a whole cadre of hyphy/Rick Ross/Jeezy-lauding critics who think that Black Thought is “boring.” (Some might call these people hipsters.) I too would totally agree if I just started listening to rap, like, eight years ago. I mean, Rakim was also subtle and in the pocket, but back in those days we actually listened to rap ‘cause—wonder of wonders!—we liked rapping. (This isn’t to say that Thought is on par with The God; it’s just that they both share a similar quiet charisma.) Whereas it seems that a lot of said critics seem to listen to rap out of irony or for something they're always referring to as “swagger.” Well, Black Thought does have swagger; he’s just not cooning it up*.

Suck on that for a minute; see if maybe it tastes right.

I could be wrong but I don't think Game Theory sucks.

*More talk on hipsters, cooning, and "swagger" when I have more time.

The Mighty O-Face

GET FAMILIAR.

Company-Issue'd

"Tartar sauce on my S Dot kicks/Rocks is lit/while I'm poppin' the clips"

Have you ever stopped to think about the fact that Ghostface wears his boss' sneakers? Hip-hop is so fucking Marxist, I swear.

It is now 2:27 p.m. and I have yet to write any of the myriad reviews, which are sure to keep me busy for the bulk of this weekend.

Damn.

Should probably call *cow moo*; I haven't called her since she moved to the place that represents all that this evil in this world. (The Myspace Jawn probably thinks I lost her number.)

Oh: Game Theory's dad can beat up Phrenology and The Tipping Point's dads any day of the week. We'll probably talk about that tomorrow.

The Lustre Has Since Diminished…

Rap's Fab Two: OutKast

OutKast: "Mighty O" [from the forthcoming Idlewild Original
Motion Picture Soundtrack]
LaFace, 2006


Yeah, we're some fiends alright. Trudging our way through message boards, music blogs, and various P2P sites—a veritable network of scroungers collectively getting our Tyrone Biggums on. All it took was one tipoff, one mere mention of a brand new song from rap's Fab Two, whose latest single—marking what could very well be their last outing together—is worth all the worry.

Here's how you assign value: leak, to Atlanta radio, a new banger (by a legendary duo who are definitely, probably, maybe getting back together) featuring rapping (!) from the greatest living MC (dirt off ya shoulders, Jigga!), who, these days, seems willing to do almost anything but rap. Naturally, we're gonna go apeshit hearing Andre wax poetic over an animated track, whose hook (an homage to Cab Calloway's "Minnie the Moocher") is ‘Kast's best look since "Rosa Parks." Big Boi sounds good, too. Here he spits quasi-political lyrics, sounding like he's totally buying the "we're-not- breaking-up" bit. Good for him. Best of all though? They still sound hungry. Dear Abbey Road, this is how you bow out gracefully.

Life It Ain't Real Funky…

Unhappy people: mailman jerking you around? Depressed 'cause no one says "slizzard" enough? Have a cookie. Cookies are good.

Proletarian princess: Kelis

I must confess: Of late I’ve been more than enamored by pop music. Not the rap-y stuff, mind you. With the exception of Skateboard Lu and, um, Busta, I ain’t fuckin’ with rap—period. (Word to the post hip-hop movement already in progress.) I'm talking Xtina or—how you say?—Kelis. Yeah I know both "Bossy" and "Ain't No Other Man" have been discussed ad nauseum; I just think these songs are such shrewd pieces of pop perfection. The former being a minimalist mannequin of womanist prose, wherein bossiness is measured by one's 808 late fees. I love how the hook is so user-friendly (like a tire swing). It’s totally not a stretch to picture hotel cleaning ladies paraphrasing on some cocksure “I’m back with the 409/’Cause I’m bossy!" Meanwhile, Aguilera seems to be having Beyoncé’s summer. (Girl you hurtin’ that!)

• Gwen to Nelly: "You gon' need help trying to study my—bounce!—flow."
• Rick Ross is dead to me.
  
• Swizz Beatz on Northeastern impotence: "Get it up! Get it up! Get it get it get it up!"

I speak on Gnarls; it might take up some time:

Mini-wheat masterminds

The 900-lb elephant you probably ignored today is Negro music in its presently vacuous state. In case you've—for the last 18 years—been living outside The Matrix, where rap is still the underdog and "My Name Is Prince," that sine qua non of intergenerational plea-coppers, never happened, I'll bring you up to speed: Clear Channel killed the non-payola prompted radiostar and hip-hop, God bless its ever-loving soul, just up and ate its mama. (Word to rappers eclipsing spineless-ass singers as the sole conveyers of populist, post-soul negrocity.) That's kosher, I guess. Was Nice & Smooth (who ought to know these sorta things) once said: "This is how we take the old to the new." But what—in an age when rap is the new R&B—do we do with all the joy and pain and rage that won't succinctly fit into the confines of a hot 16? Some have gone so far as to get all Afro-punk'd and form their own bands on some Black Rock in the Hour of Chaos (I see you, Dante Smith). Others, like rappa-ternt-sanga Cee-Lo Green most definitely point to the future, singing—on the wickedly trippy St. Elsewhere—about everything from suicide to necrophilia to the joys of insanity, while careful not to get too much hip-hop on the soul side of his musical shredded mini-wheat.

Smell me?

They pray and pray for my downfall.

New York: Is this what's hot in the streets?

Um, are we gonna talk about this?

A grand don't come for free!

Stacey,

If your right leg was Christmas and your left leg was New Year's, could I visit you in between the holidays?

On the reals: I got big hands and feet, ma; get familiar.

A.D. 2004

Troublecrunk is dead

“No they won’t be namin' no buildings after me, to go down dilapidated.”

—Erykah Badu

Hi. My name is Will Dukes (née Justwill) and I’m a writer/arse aficionado-cum-corner store terrorist and this is my blog.

For the record I used to maintain an initially snarky blog at the infamous troublecrunk.blogspot.com domain. But with the stress of impending grown-man shit— compounded by my then nervous leap from blogger to professional smartass (I was the prototype, XXLMAG.COM neophytes)—I had to play Hov to my online journal’s Cristal—especially when shit started to get rill weird with the blogroll Nazis (I add you you’re famous/I remove you I’m brainless).

But as the big homey Young Flatbush once said, “This whole blog shit is one big pussy just waiting to get fucked.” Word. I can’t—in an era when the editorial Eye in the Sky is passing out cakey-ass blog jobs like so many G-Unit pendants—afford not to put you onto the mercurial music of my mind (the formidable J-Shep, in leaner days, once referred to your boy as an “undiscovered genius”; it’s probably best not to argue with grown folks). And who knows, I may very well find a way to peeve feminists with Gloria Steinem love letters while simultaneously charming said demographic with 2000-word screeds on why Tamala Jones’s ass is way better than chapter one of Sisters of the Yam: Black Women and Self-recovery. Seen?

In short, I’m an intellectual pimple in a world of Oxymorons; hire me dickheads.

Said the bloggun to the head: It’s about to get ugly.

Great Expectations

This is not a blog. This is a libel, slander, defamation of character. This is not a blog, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty…what you will. I am going to sing for you, a little off key perhaps, but I will sing. I will sing while you croak, I will dance on your dirty corpse….