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.