unhappy scrappy

Good Night, Sweet Princess

2008-02-26T16:58:00.000-08:00

When Did This Happen?

2008-02-23T10:38:00.000-08:00

Just watch.

Monkeys Follwing In Place

2008-02-18T22:06:00.000-08:00

Click me!

Celebrate Black History Month the Kentucky Fried way!

"HEY, LOOK AT ME!"

2008-02-12T12:55:00.000-08:00

It's Fake, Snoop, It's Fake

2008-02-11T18:34:00.000-08:00

Damn, shawty,Πώς σε λένε. Ἀπὸ ποῦ εἶσαι. Knowhumtawnbout?

I recently had a nightmare that Chris and Snoop, who were making me rob a bank with them, kidnapped me. They were forcing me to drink King Cobra, to toughen me up I think. I was, needless to say, scared. I mean, shook like Mr. Omar was coming. Woke up like Drés at the end of "U Mean I’m Not" and stuff.

Homegirl is scarier than a glass of milk—or maybe Javier Bardem.

Sunday Afternoon Beer Music

2008-02-10T18:20:00.001-08:00

The Lessondary (featuring Tanya Morgan): "Brazilian Grooves" [from the Welcome 2 Loud Minority LP]
Unreleased, 2006

From left to right: Donwill, Von Pea, and Ilyas

Because (like Gabe said) I'm into movements, I have been a major supporter of Tanya Morgan since being turned onto "She Moved Outta Cincy," the Brooklyn-Cincinnati triumvirate's moving reinterpretation of D'Angelo's "Africa," back in the fall of 2004. In fact, a few of you might remember that on my old Troublecrunk blog I even went so far as to include the group's single in the Top 10 slot on my "Best of 2004" list. At the time I had not only been impressed by their easy chemistry, but also by their overall zaniness, which is somewhat apparent in their unorthodox moniker—presumed to be a faceless neo-soul siren. For the record, Tanya Morgan consists of three male MCs—Ohio natives Ilyas and Donwill, and Brooklyn's Von Pea—and their 2006 debut, Moonlighting, was a personal favorite of mine in a year that wasn't exactly lacking in quality releases.

From an abandoned 2006 project titled Welcome 2 Loud Minority, featuring Tanya Morgan's extended family, the Lessondary crew (a loose collective of MCs, artists, and DJs, many of which are signed to California-based independent label, Loud Minority Music) rapping over the late Jay Dee's Welcome 2 Detroit instrumentals, "Brazilian Grooves" is a perfect example of the group's magnetism. Over Dilla's hazy, church-infused, guitar-driven groove, Donwill lets off steam aimed at homoerotic rappers—"I don't need y'all lame niggas screamin' at me, 'I love my niggas! Fuck bitches!'/Fuckin' homo thugs/Trying your best to go to jail and show your niggas some love"—while a mellowed-out Ilyas keeps it fly, with lines like, "Just let my spirit lead, 'cause this is my ascension/Now she's staring at me, guess I got her attention/So I approached her and asked her dance/Said she was from Brazil and her roommate from France." Although Von opts to sit this one out, limiting his participation to the chorus, everything still gels here and ultimately provides a playful vibe that's as chill as Kool-Aid popsicles on a lazy afternoon.

Last Donut of the Night

2008-02-09T14:54:00.000-08:00

I woke up at 3:00 pm, with my left leg aching like a bastard; I have no fucking clue why this is.

All I know is that slight discomfort is a small price to pay for a man that has meant so much to my life.

Dear Dilla,

Thank you for everything.

Last night, we all came out to remember your legacy, and your man, Houseshoes, was in the place, holding you down proper.

In any case, you are appreciated.

Dillagence

2008-02-07T21:48:00.000-08:00

This is a no-brainer: My peoples are promoting this and it's Dilla (!).

Expect to see me there tonight, sipping on something lethal and scheming on all the light-skinned boho bitties.

Shout out to Ian (who I used to fool with heavily back in the Troublecrunk/Golden Age of hip-hop blogging days) for spreading the love.

Be there or…

Fuck it.

I don't need no hook for this sheeeeeeeit.

More Guns Than Roses

2008-02-07T09:49:00.000-08:00

G-Unit (featuring DJ Whoo Kid): "Bottom Girl" [from the Return of the Bodysnatchers, Vol. 1 mixtape]
thisis50.com

How to rob banks (not to be confused with Lloyd)

Though to some he's just a Neptunes impersonator with humorous dance moves (see also Kanye's more effeminate version of the I-just-made-a-hit dance), Cassie confidant Ryan Leslie is one of my favorite producers, if for no other reason than, from a musical standpoint, he constantly manages to do so much with so little. Naturally, "Bottom Girl," a cheeky, if appealing remake of Mr. Leslie's amorous song, "Diamond Girl," by the similarly resourceful G-Unit, is worth checking out. In fact, 50 Cent's predominant talent, other than conducting classic interviews that are better than his actual albums, is recording witty spin-offs—see early G-Unit material for hilarious takes on everyone from LL Cool J to Talib Kweli—that are, in the words of CL Smooth, "better than the original who first made it." Here is no exception, as 50, Lloyd Banks, and a startlingly tolerable Tony Yayo kick game on the myriad merits of putting one's pimp hand down. Over Leslie's fuzzed-out frozen Red Bull synths and stuttering snares, Yayo spits, "I blow her back out, so she love the kid/I jump bail and I lay up at her mama crib/She my bottom bitch/I put her through a lot of shit/From passport fraud to gun case to smacking shit." Though not as chivalrous as Leslie's OG version, "Bottom Girl" is, nonetheless, more fun. After all, who needs chivalry when autonomy can apparently provide such benefits?

"Everyone Nose"

2008-02-07T01:50:00.000-08:00

"Without girls like you, there's no nightlife/All those men just go home to their wives."

—Amy Winehouse

Left brain:

N.E.R.D: "Everyone Nose" [from the forthcoming N.3.R.D LP]
Virgin/Star Trak

Theodore, Alvin, Simon

Whether or not it's true that the Neptunes' Chad Hugo and Pharrell Williams had parted ways (as the rumors have been stating for the past year or so), it is evident that, with the exception of the Clipse's 2006 album, Hell Hath No Fury, the Virginia Beach producers' trademark sounds—e.g., tinny synthesizers and hollowed-out drums—had fallen off. Well, maybe "fallen off" is being too harsh; the quintessential Neptunes sound didn't fall off so much as become increasingly more minimalist and, as evidenced by recent 'Tunes tracks for Jay-Z and Mya, a lot less catchy. Which is why "Everyone Nose," the latest single by Neptunes doppelgangers N.E.R.D (which evidently reunites Pharrell with Chad and sometimes-y factor Shay) is so arrestingly fresh.

Taking a cue from such dance-oriented acts as M.I.A. and Spank Rock, our heroes experiment with grime-subsumed percussion and cheddar-sharp horn bleats that together sound like a paean to The Matrix soundtrack as envisioned by the Bomb Squad on mescaline. Gone are the cologne-spattered spiky gel pop flourishes that, for a time, made the trio's oeuvre ideal for the sort of coked-out model chicks made of Missoni, Mohawks, and $100 Brazilian waxes, i.e., the type of chicks that eat pussy, listen to Prince, and play with their wombs. Which isn't to say our boys have lost their signature Facebook-socialite afterglow. On the contrary, "Everyone Nose," though neither lush nor expensive like the earlier output, takes typical Pharrell foibles (e.g., bathrooms, girls, cocaine) and ratchets the whole shebang up a couple notches on the dance-your-ass-off-O-meter. "Baby, you partied all night," Pharrell, in his soft reminding mother's tone, gently and leniently croons on the song's weirdly melancholic bridge. Guess it's easy to see why.

Right brain:

Oh, we totally do

Friday, February 1, 2008, 11:00 pm. Somewhere on the Lower East Side.

I would have broke your pretty ass off in the unisex bathroom if I hadn't heard my jam blaring from out there on the dance floor, you drunken hot girl. Come on and let me cuff your Cree Summer 'fro while we grind (no draws and neither does she) to this TV On the Radio joint.

I could tell you're a freak by the way you clasp that glass and my crotch, and the way you pronounced "France," when you told me you spent a year there with your roommate. Will you be my best friend?

12:07 am:

Venue change. Smells like prostitution in this joint. Grab your girl and let's jet. …I don't do cabs, ma, but since y'all are paying…

[We jump out the cab like the Strokes out of a limo]

Damn. Y'all trying to do bottle service? Like, word? I am not at all a baller.

So, what do you do?

I am a marital arts instructor.

[Laughs] Good money in that?

Oh I easily make a good…$19…20…thousand a year.

[Giggles] Seriously though. What do you do?

I whore myself on the streets of New York City.

So, that makes two of us.

12: 51 am:

…And she can do that trick with her eyes closed, too!

What in the entire fuck?!

[Laughs] What can I say? I have a lot of free time on my hands.

Clearly.

1:03 am:

Nah. I mainly stick to the drinks. But to each his own.

COME ON! It's 2008!

[Laughs] Nah, I'm straight.

We'll be right back!

1:15 am:

I just wrote on the mirror in lipstick: 1:12 am: boy at bar with pint-striped blue blazer and yellow t-shirt has (clear) lack of social skills—but cute!

[Laughs] Y'all are WILD, yo.

2:00 am:

Make out/black out.

My tongue is in her ear. Her low-rises unzip easily, like an illegal download.

Now we're talking again.

She's hungry.

I’m mad because there's no waffle houses in New York.

Back to the sweat-soaked dance floor.

Her girl is nowhere in sight.

I'm dancing with some other girl. She's busy flirting with the bartender.

2:59 am:

You could be fucking. But you are no longer in your twenties. And it's, frankly, just not as fun anymore. (Good to know you still got it though!) Maybe maturity is being able to put yourself in her shoes and to cheer her on, because you acknowledge that if she doesn't get it from you this fine morning, she's certainly going to get it from the next man and, well, more power to her!

So before you head out, into the global-warming-induced February sunshine, to the 24-hour pizza bar on 9th Avenue, and then to that not-quite-Striver's Row block you've grown to love uptown, you'll have one last drink—a toast to all the drunken hot girls at all tomorrow's parties.

Who nose [sic] but, that on the lower frequencies, I speak for you?

I'm No Peacemaker—That's my Jeweler's Job

2008-02-04T17:55:00.000-08:00

From: 50 and co.

To: Re-Up Gang:

YOU GON’ SMELL MAH COLOGNE!

Wow, this is quite better than what was probably the most anticipated mixtape in recent memory. Which is saying something, 'cause We Got It 4 Cheap, Vol. 3 is still that piff.

But this brings to mind those early classic G-Unit tapes from the early 2000s, when 50 basically ushered in the modern-day mixtape.

Here, the beats, lyrics, and hooks are all surprisingly good. And the whole thing just has a unified feel that has been lacking in a lot of recent 50-related releases.

I have a feeling that the Re-Up joint is going to grow on me. But for now, G-Unit is winning.

We Shine Like a Super Bowl Ring

2008-02-03T22:26:00.000-08:00

The whole Harlem is so crazy right now. Negroes are out honking their horns and whooping and hollering all up and down the streets. I think I even heard a few ratchets bust off. Which is cool as far as sentiments go. But chill regular, residents of Harlem. Gravity, as the homey Jay says, is ill. Them bullets got to come back down, cousin.

Tonight my roommate's wild-ass brothers and their families came over to watch the game. These being the same brothers that tried to convince me, last Christmas, of the benefits of hanging out at the local around-the-way barbershop during the holidays:

"I'm sayin' though, doggie: You wanna get it in on some drinking for free, come through the spot and kick it with live niggas, feel me? Somebody usually always got a bottle of something around this time, you know what I'm sayin'. Mad beers in the fridge and everything, fam!"

They're really nice guys, if not a little rough around the edges (one of them, Joe, I think, was last seen fondly reminiscing about the bed-making etiquette at Spofford in the '70s).

Joe, like his 17-year-old son Kevin, is heavily into football and was, from what I understand, about to go pro back in the day until he caught a case behind some bullshit. Now, his NFL fantasies are pretty much limited to the Sunday-night flat-screen.

Cherokee, Joe's charming, if not mischievous 18-year-old daughter (who reminds me of the rapper Lil Mama) evidently bet her father $50 that the Patriots were going to win:

"Dad! Oh my God. You're seriously gonna make me pay you that? You know they cut my hours at Pathmark—I don't know when I’m gonna get paid next!"

"…I want my bills in two 20s and a 10—don’t bring me no 50 either. You know I don't trust no 50 above 116th Street."

"But dad! I’ma be broke…"

"…Bring me a ginger ale, too, when you go downstairs."

"Dad, are you really gonna send your loving daughter out into the world broke? The whole Harlem is gonna be looking at me crazy!"

"This is a Giants family—"

"I know. The first word out my mouth: "Giants."

"…We from New York. How you gonna bet on New England?"

"Daddy. The Giants don’t even play in New York."

Urban Dominoes Pizza Music,™ Vol. 2

2008-02-01T12:11:00.000-08:00

OK, so this has definitely got to be the greatest not-a-real-song-but-still-bumps-like-one joint since Little Brother's "Cheatin'."

Melody, check. Adlibs, check. Ersatz Usher production, check.

I wonder how proud the dude who performed this is when he sees it come on after "Xena: Warrior Princess."

I bet he probably has a MySpace page with a gang of off-brand Southern rappers in his "Top 8," and represents labels with names like "BULLETPROOF ENTERTAINMENT," with Buffie The Body's ass as the main photo.

Under "About_____," I bet it reads: “Performed theme for the 'Best Barbeque In Oklahoma': Mr. Spriggs!"

He probably has the world's greatest business cards.

[Wins Again]

2008-01-29T16:08:00.000-08:00

Side A:

I'm convinced that rappers think everyone is clairvoyant. "You already know what it is" being a staple of the average rapper's lexicon. First of all, already know what what is, and why do you suspect I already know?

I (already) know that being able to rhyme "Pyrex scale" 50 ways to Sunday takes considerable cognitive skill, but slow down, killer(s); the rest of us are human.

In fact, that obscure and persistent "it" appears to be a catchall term for urban folks in general: When I agreed, yesterday, with my friend Pete (not his real name) that Angel "Lola" Luv's posterior is downright stupid (and not in the good New York way), he either agreed with my casual agreement or simply replied, "That’s what it is." (OK, that was way too Meta—I feel like one of The Game's lyrics.)

Also, why does Jim Jones, who is probably the least hygienic-looking person on the planet, want everybody to smell him? Considering that, I dunno, he's probably the least hygienic-looking person on the planet, wouldn't it be more appropriate if he tidied up a bit before offering the invitation? Just saying, 'cause that’s not nice.

Wait [sniff sniff] I think somebody shitted

(Yes, I do think of shit like this in my spare time. Yes, you should be afraid—very.)

Side B:

Do not they know that brotherly love is sacred?

The best thing about Woody Allen's new movie, Cassandra's Dream, is the people in the audience. For years Woody has been releasing pretentious cinematic "think pieces" that attempt to mix tales of sketchy morality with the sort of slapstick pseudo-intellectual comedy—always with the well-timed Freud reference—that's supposed to make you feel all smart and shit if you actually know what the hell anybody is talking about. (In the row behind me I, really, overheard somebody say "cohesive structure," with what I assume was a straight face. I almost choked on my brevé.) In my life I have never, during the 15-minutes-of-previews pre-cum, heard anything close to that amount of "I should introduce you to my editor" speak. Do not these people know they are walking punch lines, like regular Zane readers or something? Sheesh.

The movie itself wasn't exactly terrible. But I somehow feel like the overall plotline, with its acidic murder-across-the-pond motif, is recycled material, even for a filmmaker who has a propensity to borrow from himself. Not only is Cassandra's vastly inferior to 2006's Match Point (which was also shot in London), but it also brings to mind another much more effective Allen picture about murder and the woes of free will: 1989's criminally underrated Crimes and Misdemeanors. Which, if you think about it, is kind of like listening to a mediocre song that contains a sample of an original recording that is much better than the song you're currently listening to (like, Thank you for reminding me how much you really suck). Which, again, is not to say that Cassandra's essentially sucks. But all things considered, the idea of two brothers committing murder to appease a wealthy relative is kind of stupid—not (for obvious, across-the-pond reasons) in the good New York way.

I'm up. In a Dickensian sort of way.

Is it just me, or is it totally cool that Jimmy McNulty, that loveable Irish lush, is back to his drunken carousing on this fifth and final season of HBO’s "The Wire"? Part of what made Season Three so great, I think, was the camaraderie amongst the detectives, wherein we felt like we were as one when they got wasted, emoted, and ate together. Season Four, while certainly no slouch, had a trial-like, less surefooted feel, finding McNulty trying to finally act like an adult, and Lester, Bunk, and the others all working in different departments. Great to see them more or less under the same roof again.

I must admit that I was late to the David Simon love-in. Sure I caught the show's first episode back in 2002. But for some reason—I think I may have accidentally heard a Smilez and Southstar song that day—the show didn't immediately appeal to me. Thus, I have been sleeping for these past seven years.

Yeah, you can forgive me now.

Dear Mr. Simon,

Thank you for not only inspiring me to re-explore Greek Tragedy, but also for teaching me basic directions—"You up? Yeah, I'm up"—and user-friendly slang such as "shitbird," "fucknuts," and other awesome and inspiring expletives.

P.S. Am I the only one that would love to throw a hot fuck into Detective Greggs?

Another Victory

2008-01-26T19:08:00.000-08:00

…But seriously though: You did your thing, pops. | Well, youngblood, I try.

South Carolina (?)

2008-01-23T13:45:00.000-08:00

Pop Life

2008-01-21T23:00:00.000-08:00

Swiped from my diary:

Thursday, August 23
In the year of our Lord two-thousand-seven
Harlem, NYC

Title: Industry types get all cutesy and whip out their preciouses on the dawn of the epic media clusterfuck that will doubtless be referred to as KANYE V. 50.

Today was…cool. Hectic, but still cool.

So I went to hear the Freeway joint at Island Def Jam with not one red cent in my pocket. But when that ended I had to go pick up a check before the bank closed. No dice. The check-cashing joint had to suffice.

When I appeared at the front desk at the Def Jam offices, an attractive journalist was already there. We both exchanged smiles, as the security guard inquired about whom we were there to see:

"OK. And can you spell that last name?"

"Um…"

"Oh God, it's like, T…"

"I Think it’s Italian or something."

"Yeah, T… Oh wait!—here it is in my phone: T…"

Security Dude: "And you are representing what companies?"

Pretty Journalist (who I'll call Tiffany): "Billboard."

"The FADER."

Then we both exchanged the "Oh really? You don’t say/You’re a writer, too?" glance.

Martin Luther Was a Tutor

2008-01-21T22:51:00.001-08:00

Never forget.

WRMS' Dedication to the Bitty

2008-01-20T15:12:00.000-08:00

I'm not a one-man woman. Bottom line.

Off the no-bullshit, I forgot exactly how great She's Gotta Have It is. 20+ years later and still slammin' (as we might have said 20+ years ago).

When the Spoonie Gee retrospective is finally finished I'll be sure to hit you with, among other things, an entry on the importance of Spike Lee's early films. But for the meantime, chill regular. (It takes concentration for fresh communication, word to ~~Young~~ Contradiction!)

Anyways [sic], check out this boomin'-ass set (dedicated to the lady pictured above). So fine I'd drink a tub of its bathwater.

Talk to the hat!|…Yeah

Other Nola(s) to check = Dope!

Doin' Dumb Shit

2008-01-20T14:12:00.000-08:00

Drunken emails rule:

Subject: Re: NWS
From: Will Dukes
Date: 1/17/08 1:43 AM
To: Mr. Jawnsun

Yo, you know this nigga Cassidy made the most ignorant song EVAR?

I was listening to Don and Von's Lessondary Radio jawn and they played it. That shit got, like, fifty-'leven gunshot sounds on it. LOL. Von was like, "Nigga, you need life insurance just to listen to this shit!"

LOL.

That nigga Cassidy type-weak, yo. Nigga got a nasty little rascal-y-ass voice. Nigga rap like he got a venereal disease*.

*"Pause" not needed on the whole Dice Raw-venereal thing; it's an inside joke.

Party Life

2008-01-17T09:53:00.000-08:00

If you don't know why you need to run to this event, you basically need to go suck your mother. Like, seriously.

The Peenus Power lady—"pause"—fried chicken, eccentric modeling bitties? IS THIS EVEN LEGAL?

Between this and the forthcoming House of Yes jam on the 26th, 2008 is basically winning.

UPDATE: Y'all deserve to get killed in the face for not telling me about this last night. Not cool.

When Thugs Cry

2008-01-15T20:33:00.000-08:00

Tara with the hilarity:

i was sitting next to some kid on the train. i was peeping his ipod contents since he was shuffling like a motherfucker.

Nas
Mobb Deep
The Game
Avril Lavigne
some more Nas
Notorious B.I.G

So much for my happy endiiiing!

I am so getting into the whole Obama/Bob Johnson thing in a second, dudes. On some breaking it down so that it can forever and consistently be broke.

Jesus.

I'm such a boho.

Former En Vogue Singer Put On Blast

2008-01-15T06:22:00.000-08:00

I used to have a crush on Dawn from En Vogue

In an expletive-laden diatribe, Dre Allen, ex-husband of former En Vogue vocalist Dawn Robinson spoke openly of Robinson’s personal business.

MediaTakeOut.com has learned that according to Dre, Dawn was an active swinger who once had sex with 17 men off the internet in a single month.

I hope she had more condoms than

Ishmael Reed On the Clintons

2008-01-15T06:03:00.000-08:00

Ma and Pa Clinton Flog Uppity Black Man

Massa, WE SICK

2008-01-15T02:44:00.001-08:00

Professor Neal, JShep: I am so ret to go in.

You wait.

Darling Nikki

2008-01-14T21:31:00.000-08:00

No homo, but this is pretty much how it feels to read your first published piece

DJ Deckstream
"Five Alarm (Featuring Nikki Jean)" [From the Soundtracks LP]
Manhattan Records
2007

While certainly an asset in many other regards, physical beauty can also be a bit of a liability, not to mention a major distraction. As men, we are willing to give any big butt and smile a pass, even if the girl in question is poison like BBD's first cassette. Having said as much, Nouveau Riche frontwoman Nikki Jean, who just might have the world’s most radiant smile, could have a voice like Tay Zonday after a root canal and your average red-blooded male would still never notice. But as "Five Alarm" thankfully displays, the Minnesota native is quite the formidable songstress.

Over Japanese producer DJ Deckstream’s breezy keys and pretty-eyed flutes, Ms. Jean gets intimate with lines like, "There are smoke and mirrors/But you’re clearer when you’re in my dreams/Walking in the door, I know you came to talk me out my jeans." The vibe here is sultry, with a cozy '80s afterglow suggestive of Promise-era Sade, and, come to think of it, Ms. Jean indeed has a flair for steamy philosophical wine bar noodlings and cool, catchy hooks. But whereas Ms. Adu always had an undercurrent of grief in her smoke-tinted tenor—like a newly acquired blemish that causes one to look more attractive than before—Ms. Jean, rather, possesses a sort of knowing, smiling sanguinity that, despite the song's overall theme of loneliness, is always there on the periphery. When she pleads, "Please come if you can," you feel her desperation, but you also feel her coolness and you know that she'll make it out all right. Maybe because she's so damn fine.

Lupe Accused of Being Bad CEO

2008-01-13T18:49:00.000-08:00

You want it to be one way; well, it's the other way

Just as the monstrosity that was Fiascogate looked like it was finally beginning to die down, Atlanta-by-way-of Chicago producer Prolyfic, who contributed beats to Lupe's acclaimed 2006 release Food & Liquor, declared, yesterday evening, that Lupe, CEO of 1st and 15th Entertainment, where Prolyfic and other ~~peons~~ Chicago-area artists have deals, is guilty of neglecting the roster.

The accusation, issued on ~~GO-IN.COM~~ the Okayplayer message boards, comes at a time when Mr. Fiasco has been riding the wave of promotion for his latest effort The Cool, which was released late last winter.

The story goes something like this: Lupe makes a post claiming that 1st and 15th is, among other things, committed to treating its artists like family. The post in question appeared to be aimed at recruiting new artists and was met with a mix of disdain and rampant admiration that is consistent with most online communities.

No biggie. Except, out of nowhere, Prolyfic jumps in, declaring that Lupe, in making such a statement, is worthy of XXL's "Negro Please" award. He then goes on to state that Lupe is unaware of 1st and 15th’s in-house affairs. "All you [knew about] was stuff that pertained to you," said Prolyfic. "You abandoned a [sic] entire group of [people] that broke bread with you and road [sic] with you to the dirt when we had almost nothing."

In other Lupe-related news, the blogger Byran Crawford posted an entry last week, in which he claims to have received an e-mail from a reader possessing information that links the socially conscious rapper to Chicago's notorious Blackstone gang.

Okayplayer post claiming that Lupe Fiasco is a bad CEO

Byron Crawford blog suggesting Lupe's affiliation with the Blackstone gang

# 4080

2008-01-13T14:45:00.000-08:00

Amazon.com To Get Sony BMG MP3s

Artist Managers Protest New EMI Regime

EMI is facing the prospect of an artists' revolt, with representatives of major acts Robbie Williams and Coldplay expressing concern at the current state of the company.

Williams' manager, Tim Clark of ie: music, told the London Times that, since Terra Firma's £3.2 billion ($6.3 billion) takeover of EMI in September, the new EMI Group chairman Guy Hands has behaved like a "plantation owner," with the paper reporting Williams was effectively "on strike." High profile artists Radiohead and Paul McCartney have already left EMI in the past year.

YouTube Traffic Surges In '07

Music Server Market Will Help Drive Networked Audio Industry As It Grows To $3.2 Billion

50 Dates

2008-01-13T02:54:00.000-08:00

"Well, at least I have a good personality."

"Chinese New Year (The Photo Essay)"

2008-01-12T22:51:00.000-08:00

Weekend Update

2008-01-12T15:56:00.000-08:00

HOLY SHIT MICK BOOGIE: How come no one bothered to tell us the Cassie record that’s been out, like, forever is so damn HAWT? While the lead single "Me & You" was our entire shit during the summer of ’06, we were totally in the dark about the record’s ‘80s-inspired wall-to-wall goodness (courtesy of super producer Ryan Leslie).

When her follow-up joint drops later this year, we will surely be in line to cop. EARLY.

Speaking of crackheads, DMX must pay a Baltimore woman $1.5 million in penal damages.

The woman, Monica Wayne, sued DMX, who claimed in an article that Wayne raped him during a 2003 stay at a Baltimore hotel room.

Needless to say, the Darkman X failed to appear before the judge.

Hmm. Lady-instigated rape? Is that’s what’s hot in the streets?

The British electronica outfit Goldfrapp is set to digitally release its new single “A & E” February 3.

The song will later be available in stores February 11.

Elsewhere, Panic At the Disco! announces that they have excised the Exclamation point (!) due to irritated fans.

Is anybody else amazed at the fact that Panic At the Disco fans actually know what an exclamation point is?

In closing, can someone hook us up with those leaked episodes of "The Wire"? We are so jonesing.

Husbands and Wives

2008-01-12T12:21:00.001-08:00

We think people should mate for life, like pigeons or…Catholics

Jay Electronica
"Girlfriend"
Unreleased
2007

Woe is the rapper who, against all conventional wisdom, falls deeply in love with the notorious Erykah Badu. We have, unfortunately, seen this particular phenomenon occur time and time again and it never ends on a good note. Almost overnight, or so it seems anyway, MCs with fairly conventional oeuvres begin dabbling, first in ‘70s afro-beat, then rock, and before you can yell, “CONTROL YOUR BALLS NIGGA,” you’re literally watching your favorite artist transform into some weird rap version of an Oxygen network talk show host right in front of your eyes. This can’t be life.

One notable exception is Jay Electronica. Any references to his affairs with Erykah Badu have, for the most part, been confined to a few photographs of the couple on his MySpace page. While “Girlfriend” does make mention of his infamous boo—“Girlfriend, I don’t know what you did to me/But it sure feels like something good for me”—it never, fortunately, gives off that henpecked sucker-for-love-ass vibe your boy Common was working to great affect on “Come Close,” which for all intents and purposes is music for people who are mortally afraid of dolphins. Here, instead of simp-ass exhortations on the beauty of his wisdom, Jay keeps it funky over a bass-driven backdrop with lines like, “I’m 27 girl, I need to settle down now/I don’t need to be up in the club chasing the brown round/You don’t need to be up in the streets chasing these clowns down/Let’s say we catch a matinee today/downtown." ATTN: Gangsters don't simp; we settle down.

Addendum: Yo E, if you happen to see this particular post, PEACE QUEEN!

No harm, no foul. But real rap, if this thing with your mans doesn’t work out I’m down to study 120 with you boo. Don’t sleep.

Keep Keep Bouncing

2008-01-11T16:13:00.000-08:00

I have never worn these sneakers and I have no desire to wear them—EVAR

Don’t get me wrong: She would still get the woodbird and all. But for the most part I don’t deal with those mini-me broads too tough. (“You only 4'11'" ma? Say word? Like, where’s the rest of you?”) How you gonna be a big strong nigga out in these streets and condone that famz? That’s like saying “Separate Together” is your favorite Tribe record. Isn’t that joint like only three minutes long?

Word to me: I need a five-minute "Midnight"-type jawn…

Took me to his crib where I ran my jibs about mind upliftment and being positive

Yeah, let me go handle that now.
Yes this is cryptic, I know.

Wyclef Accused of Copyright Infringement

2008-01-11T05:09:00.000-08:00

Damn right I'm over the Hill

Brooklyn rapper Blahz, born Martell Ellis, filed a lawsuit in Manhattan U.S. District Court accusing Wyclef of sampling his group Blahzay Blahzay’s 1995 hit single “Danger” without permission.

Damn. Looks like L-Boogie wasn't only one on some shiesty shit.

2.macs1clip

2008-01-11T01:24:00.000-08:00

"Omigod, did she just swallow that?!"

"…Huh? [right-click-saves]"

Iller Than Albee Square Mall Back In the 9-0

2008-01-10T22:47:00.000-08:00

My girlfriend got that snapper between her legs

If you don’t know who Jay Electronica is, you need to get on your deen, ahki. Of late, homie has straight up been murdering the rap game a la Canibus circa 1997. But instead of spaced-out nerd rap, the New Orleans native gets it in with a mixture of blunted emotive poetics and dense, visceral wordplay that touches on topics like the media crucifixion of DMX adversary Michael Vick and the sorrows of his ravished hometown in the wake of Hurricane Katrina.

Since posting an assortment of songs, dramatically referred to as Act I, on his MySpace a couple months ago, Mr. Electrolysis has had the fanboys over at GO-IN.COM in a ceaseless state of frenzy. Supposedly Act II is on its way and slated to come with its own Operating System (you Scuba Steves with the early download hookup get on your Jobs).

In the meantime, here’s Act I. And when you’re done digesting that, check out Jay’s recent interview with Gilles Peterson.

I love hipster chicks almost as much as I love hipster parties.

Va$htie is (apparently) the chick that directed this:

Skateboard P is supposedly getting hind from her.

Kanye's blog.

Roarrr!

Jack D just chuuched it.
Lupe slowly redeeming himself (more on Lu later).

Only Built 4 'Cube & Linx…

2008-01-10T15:25:00.000-08:00

Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Efil4zaggin)

It’s a shame that a slew of straight-to-DVD monstrosities have tarnished Ice Cube’s legacy. At the height of his popularity, he was something akin to hip-hop’s Huey P. Newton, Malcolm, and Farrakhan all rolled into one. But following the world-class lyrical ass whooping he received from a dude that would shortly become known for donning some of the gayest gear this side of "Men on Film," the Don Mega 'Cube’s career, as far as rap was concerned, became as inessential as cursive. Next up: poop jokes and cinematic jig-dancing with the kind of openly black also-rans that star in those hilariously named Broadway plays—e.g., “Calvin, When Are You Gonna Come Back and Talk to the Kids?”—along with luminaries like Tiny “Zeus” Lester and Cuba Gooding Sr. (What’s next? You’re gonna tell me that former Black Panther Party leader Bobby Seale is slangin’ barbeque sauce? The Revolution, apparently, will be tenderized!)

Imagine my surprise, considering 'Cube’s pathetic fall from grace, at discovering his brand new single, the incendiary "Gangsta Rap Made Me Do It," totally doesn’t suck. Lethal Injection flow with the diggity-era afro jump-off. Sweet.

Politics as usual:

Gotcha, bitch

Gotcha too, bitch

Yeah bitch, I'm 'bout to get your ass too

What a coincidence—even we got that bitch!

Stop gettin' me!

"I Always Felt Like I Didn't Wanna Be Like Other Niggas"

2006-08-13T16:01:00.000-07:00

"Colored peeps, can’t you see: We have been forced to define ourselves—culturally—based on the organizing principles of radio stations and record stores, because cash rules everything around us. It’s all marketing and the ability to spoon-feed you what they tell you you want. Black people, I’ve got something to share: Y’all are the most creative people on Earth, but y’all are even better at consuming. Y’all need to pay tribute to history instead. Remember, they can’t sell you something you already own."

—Sacha Jenkins

In keeping with the "black-folk-come-in-all-different-flavors" motif:

Today I was flipping through the visual shit sandwich that is Savoy magazine when I came across an article titled "Generation Be: Breaking Down the Black Monolith." Expounding on a study conducted by Dr. Patricia Raspberry, a social psychologist and brand planner for a New York-based company called PortiCo Research, the article, in attempts to show the diversity among African-American consumers, identified four different types of blacks: Neo-Bohemians, Boyz-N-Girlz in the ‘Hood, Black Princes/Princesses (BAPs), and Urban Mainstreamers. Despite the piece being, among other things, way too SistaGurl for anyone not of the opinion that Terry McMillan is God’s gift to prose, I must admit that it got me thinking: What other types of blacks are out there that aren’t necessarily being represented when Fortune 500 companies, like Wal-Mart, or McDonald’s, try to appeal to the so-called "urban" demographic? Just ask independent filmmaker James Spooner.

Afro-Punk, Spooner’s 2003 film exploring "race identity within the punk scene," gives voice to black punks, be they mildly famous figures, such as ex-Dead Kennedys drummer D.H. Peligro, or anonymous fans. Aware that a significant number of viewers may be new to this concept, Spooner focuses on several key characters—most notably, Moe Mitchell, of the racially charged CIpher, and Brooklyn’s Tamar Kali—whose interchangeable roles in both hardcore and black, mainstream circles allow them to serve as de facto translators. (Ms. Kali, whose music is among the soundtrack’s most accessible, admits to growing up on rap as well as rock; Mitchell—the only black in his band—espouses pro-black beliefs, and is president of Howard University’s oldest Afro-centric organization.) The bulk of these kids, though, apparently grew up with little to no interaction with other blacks. (TV on the Radio’s Kyp Malone, at one point, claims that his parents must have been experimenting with finding the "whitest places in America.")

Needless to say, I liked it; Dr. Raspberry's Boyz-N-Girlz in the 'Hood (!) may not.

Of Coons and Saints

2006-08-11T21:57:00.000-07:00

This is a game, and I'm your special man

"One day, to everyone's astonishment, someone drops a match in the powder keg and everything blows up. Before the dust has settled or the blood congealed, editorials, speeches, and civil-rights commissions are loud in the land, demanding to know what happened. What happened is that Negroes want to be treated like men."

—James Baldwin

I'm aware that the whole Phonte As Paul Wall—he got the internets goin' nuts!—thing is, like, so two weeks ago; I was, in this case, inspired by holy Alanis herself:

First off, sexism, like any other form of discrimination, is a very ugly thing. And whether or not Tay's intentions were innocent (and I'm guessing they were), homegirl was offended, as she certainly has the right to be. I'm not touching the whole "she-shouldn't-have-aired-him-out-on-MySpace" thing, as that's obviously not my call to make. My issue is with something else entirely…

Maybe its true that no one actually listens to Little Brother, 'cause nowhere in LB's oeuvre have I ever heard anything that would lead me to believe that Tay is this righteous musical monk who’s beyond making a comment that could be interpreted as sexist. And I have to say that in her initial post, Tara* ever-so subtly implies that Tay and Pooh have, at some point, anointed themselves as purveyors of all that is pure and "enlightened" in an otherwise Ignant industry. Not true. Little Brother, if anything, speak to the everyday, all-AmeriKKKan chain-rocking nigga that dudes like Kanye and Lupe, who are really exaggerated caricatures of the Everyday Negro, supposedly represent—which is to say, they’re a little bit conscious, a little bit Ignant.

The fact that Phonte and Pooh—two everyman types with no clear-cut agendas or "irony" or over-the-top personalities—are scrutinized to death for the sole reason that they aren’t Jeezy or T.I. or Nelly (or the Coup or Mr. Lif, for that matter) is disturbing in that it seems to support the theory that blacks will only be accepted when they play the roles that far too many whites are comfortable seeing them in—which, like it or not, are the Coon and/or Saint. In other words, Mos was on point when he claimed that "there’s never no in between," and us culluds in these overdrawn wildernesses of North AmeriKKKa are either niggas or kings or bitches or queens. Little Brother, in contrast, are lunchmeat and thermoses, i.e., too pedestrian, too damn normal, too much like…real actual people?

Take it from someone who knows something you don’t, YTs: In AmeriKKKa, no one ever has a problem with blacks that play to the lowest common denominator. It’s different, though, when we refuse to be what many whites and the oh-so conditioned "black community" (even our conditioning’s conditioned!) want us to be. At which point, our every move is scrutinized, our every blunder blown up to extreme proportions. (I’m, for that very reason, relieved that Colin Powell never ran for president.)

Obviously, this discussion is, in the words of Dead Prez, bigger than hip-hop. (Ralph Ellison wrote a book about what I’m getting at—maybe you’ve heard of it?) But it’s surely no coincidence that Little Brother, not to mention their contemporaries (Common, the Roots, et al.), when not being flat-out ignored, are constantly getting picked apart by the press, while, when it comes to dudes like Rick Ross, it's all Kool and the Gang. Bet Rick wouldn’t be catching all this heat were he in Phonte’s shoes. Then again, Rick is a coon, and coons are expected to say dumb shit. Phonte, on the other hand, doesn’t act like a coon, so he must be a saint. Shame on him!

Newsflash: Most black people are just that—people. We catch cases (court case, briefcase, suitcase, cases of Chris) and read books and go to strip clubs (and church) and occasionally crack titty jokes. Just because we're not leaping over hot coals to entertain you with our "swagger" doesn't mean that we're "boring." (Actually, we as real live people reserve the right to be "boring" or "pretentious" like everyone else.) On the same token, the fact that some of us aren't leaping over hot coals to entertain you with our "swagger" doesn’t mean we’re trying to pass ourselves off as Martin Luther King, Jr. Please marinate on that. I’m done.

Assignment: Ask yourself: Do I really enjoy rap on its own terms, or do I need irony or "swagger" to get me off?

Gonna go watch "106 & Park"—it’s the biggest colored show on earth!

*No xxlmag.com bloggers were harmed during the making of this entry.

Designer Recliner (Along With Benefits)

2006-08-09T20:16:00.000-07:00

Watching "Run's House," have you ever wondered when Joseph Simmons last rode the 7? I'm thinking 1980? '79, maybe? (Try and imagine Russell's last commute; your mind just might implode.)

This Kelis joint and "Weekend" = the sound of young Harlem. The latter finding Cam on some splashy '80s fly shit (pause). So much better when he's keeping it basic—which is to say, I don't need another "Get 'Em Girls" (I like the one I've got just fine, thank you). And really, who needs more Bey-Z baiting (unless it's, of course, from Rihanna)?

Speaking of shameless hussies and their increasingly shitty pop songs, "Ring the Alarm" is wack, dudes. Trust (see also: Goin' on a Whim, I'm on My Gladwell Shit).

Denice swears that B, as we sometimes call her, can't fuck. Judging by The Yonce's video performances, which are sexy in only the most sterile, Kubrickian ways, I'd agree. (Hey B, if you wanna successfully channel Tina, you might wanna put your back into a little, so that B’Day won't suck, and our friend Mr. Carter won't be so distracted.)

I’m so estranged from the rap crit elite. Somebody who got it like that (JShep?), put me on: How y’all mugfuckers all, at the exact same time, decide that Rick Ross is worthy of even half the attention he’s been getting of late a.) OutKast fell the fuck off b.) Coke rap and “swagger” > anything else, and c.) Mr. Lif is listenable.

My grandfather used to time it so that his dentures were finished soaking by the time "Walker, Texas Ranger" came on. Maybe that’s how y’all roll.

FYI, Ashanti, according to our friend Denice, can, in fact, fuck.

Had that dream again, where Eva Mendes is smiling at me with Great Britain’s overbite. This latest Vibe cover isn’t helping matters.

Not that I'm mad at JJ's ~~saggy~~ titties; they distract us from her increasingly mutant-like visage…

Maaarcus!

I'm sayin'.

Build With the God

2006-08-09T01:27:00.000-07:00

Because I try to be as much like Pharrell Williams as humanly possible, last night at Taco Bell, when I ordered one of those Nacho Crunch Burrito joints, with chicken (instead of Carne Asada steak), I asked shorty behind the register (with the mean little poke-out), "Can I have it like that?" She smiled, and with her best Stefani smirk replied, "You got it like that."

International swagger, indeed.

Christina. Yoo hoo. Christina?
Dude…what are you dressed like?
Never mind.
HERE AM I!
Draw nigh hither, or something; kick of those whore heels, 'cause, like, you're standing on holy ground.
It is I. The God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Kevin Smith, whose brilliant new film, ~~The Passion of the Clerks~~ Clerks II, starring Brian O'Halloran, Jeff Anderson, and Jason Mewes, is currently playing at a theater near you.
Ahem…
I have surely seen the affliction of my peeps, who are in New York, and have heard their cry by reason of their taskmasters; for I know their sorrows…
You, my child, are chosen to lead them.

Who am I that I should go against that which represents all that is evil in this world? I mean, I'm from Pittsburg…

Look, you little hoebag, want to spend the rest of enternity on Koch?
You'll be doing Folklore numbers when I'm through with you.
Cam'ron and Fat Joe clearly didn't know what forces they were screwing with, and neither, apparently, do you.

But what, dear Lord, shall I do?!

What would Preem do.

Is that, like, a rhetorical question?
…WTF? Who goes there?

Bring your lifestyle to me; I'll make it better.

How long will I live?

Eternal life and forever.

And will I be the G that I was?

I'll make your life better than you can imagine, or even dreamed of. So relax your soul; let me take control.
Close your eyes, my child.

My eyes are closed.

Wild Promo!

2006-08-05T08:12:00.000-07:00

She's kind of Sheryl Crow-ish, crossed with a post-"Partridge Family," pre-"L.A. Law," Susan Dey kind of thing, but, you know, uh, black.

—Dick, High Fidelity

Acoustic-soul siren: Hope

Los Angeles-based vocalist Hope song-cries with a humble, quiet-fire lucidity—as autumnal as apple juice but as clear as the rain. Her voice, breathy and bittersweet, occasionally cracks Crow-esque, but is ultimately distinguished by an earthier, spiritual sheen that comes feathered in two shades of pain and survivor-guilt soulfulness. Any skepticism concerning Hope's sonic sorcery is purged once you lean into her sound's religion and let the lullabies wash over you like a promise.

"The Rain Don't Last," Hope's new single, does just that. Insightful lyrics loom like some silent peninsula, over minimalist, acoustic-soul strumming. The mood here, while at first melancholic, soon shifts to…well…hopeful, as the recent Atlantic signee reminds us that while the sun may not always shine, it's best to just "let it go." Granted, the whole "chin up" theme has been touched before—it's practically legal tender. Hope, however, manages to take the cliche and, in her breezy alto, make it sound like the blissful riddle to someone's math-encrypted void. Peace and piety seem only a mother's kiss away.

Extra! Extra! Hope, in addition to growing up with homegirl* (who was one of my very first girlfriends, back in the days when high-top fades, polka dots, and African Medallions were in vogue), used to sing hooks for my former extended crew, X-Calibur, and was then known for constantly pestering our esteemed colleague, Mr. Jawnsun, on many a drunken club night ("Dee, can I please utilize your car stereo? There's this song I just wrote, and I'm really dying to practice it!") Well, it seems that Hope's hard work and dedication paid off, 'cause fast forward to 2006 and baby girl is, withought question, doing crazy big things on the label Ahmet Ertegun built*. Word.

*What up, Sukee!

Magazine Fuckers, Come Here

2006-07-31T12:53:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-28T21:48:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-27T12:39:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-26T01:08:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-25T20:24:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-23T21:10:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-23T18:19:00.000-07:00

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

Just…wow.

Soon

2006-07-21T20:20:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-19T21:15:00.000-07:00

…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

2006-07-19T20:53:00.000-07:00

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

Eye For An Eye (Your Beef Is Mines)

2006-07-17T07:35:00.000-07:00

Just what is all this shit?

…Jungle Bunnies, Those Wanting Money

2006-07-16T15:55:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-15T18:23:00.000-07:00

GET FAMILIAR.

Company-Issue'd

2006-07-14T08:08:00.000-07:00

"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…

2006-07-13T08:17:00.000-07:00

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…

2006-07-13T06:47:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-13T06:39:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-13T06:37:00.000-07:00

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….