There’s something wrong with whatever system I use to analyze the music I’m listening to. My notes for the first run-through of Z-Ro’s Z-Ro vs. The World – invariably my most honest criticism- wrote the work off as thug-rap so one-dimensional it hadn’t yet recognized misogyny and drug-dealing as topics of merit. Upon subsequent listenings, my harsh sentiment had softened to the point where I used the CD as a pick-me-up on my way home from a poor job- interview.
Which leads me to suspect that I don’t give a lot of these rappers anywhere near the shit they deserve for putting out horrible albums. ‘Cuz… some of these albums are songs only a mother could love. A mother that raised a thug like Z-Ro.
Z-Ro’s work is uncompromising and bleak. Its favorite (almost exclusive) topics are crime, poverty, and being a gangster; camaraderie, violence, and competition. He does it with a humorless anger, taking breaks only to commiserate on the empty wonders of well-deserved success. At the time of the publishing of the album, he was the same age I am now.
Z-Ro’s work is different from others in the Houston area, specifically those in the SUC (Screwed Up Click, the remnants of a rag-tag band of fans of DJ Screw). Paul-Wall almost never mentions violence, preferring to spend his time discussing the merits of working hard in order to make a lot of money. Chamillionaire’s favorite topic is how much better of an MC he is than everyone else and how successful he’s been selling his records. Scarface is probably most similar in vein to Z-Ro, but due to his age and veteran status has a wider range, including ideas of psychosis and family, and takes breaks from shouting out harsh threats to hang out with 2Low and let him say things no 13 year old should say. Z-Ro is straight gangster-shit. And while the lazer-like focus leads to a more authentic sound, it also leads to burnout with a quickness. Well, that and the fact that it's hard to listen to.
Apparently, somewhere along the way whoever was mixing the CD decided it was a good idea to down the volume on the instrumentals to a point where you can’t hear them if there’s significant background noise. I think they did this because they realized they were actually using canned sound-effects and non-ironic-synthed-attempts-at-instruments instead of the real thing, and so decided to cleverly disguise their mockery of the ancient art of DJing by convincing an unwitting public that rappers can sing too. Thus, the repeated use of sung hooks and shitty instrumentals.
‘Dirty 3rd’ has Houston’s nigh-patented drum-track beat, with a simple scale synth and a couple suspensenoises I recognized from GoldenEye 64 thrown on the track for variety. ‘Hustling Is All I Can Do’ has what has to be an 8-bit game-system bassoon with a couple of legitimate piano chords thrown in for good measure. ‘Gonna Get Easier’ takes a slower approach to the beat, but still ends up with an early-90’s Dre-like keyboard effect overlaid with a major chord progression. It’s not so much that they sound the same, so much as the tracks sound… simple. This is truly tragic, as Z-Ro’s style, while not being A-quality work, still makes the B-range by sheer virtue of its grit, tenacity, and willingness to vary rate and rhythm.
Z’Ro Sounds gangster. This is really important, because there actually are a lot of rappers out there who can’t quite make the gangster-sound believable (Soulja boy, Akon, Cypress Hill… Snoop Dogg), and it’s usually because their voices lack the appropriate bass quality and aggressive timber. Z-Ro has those, along with the ability to vary his speed, and it makes for a solid performance. He can also sing, and by that I mean he can hit notes on the note, and not slide around or screw up the scale. His singing voice sucks though (see paragraph above as to why this matters). Humorously, the same inflexibility that makes him a good rapper makes him a poor singer. Poor guy.
On my scale from Fresh to SuperCockSucker, I give this album a rating of ‘the fat bitch at the club’. It’s not my first choice, due to its one-dimensionality and the fact that I can’t get really into it, but if it’s the only CD left in the world, yeah, there ain’t nothing wrong with it. Besides, it’s good to curl up to, and if I wake up the next morning it better be making me some damn eggs and bacon or I’m kicking it out of my iPod so fast I’ll leave bootprints on its ass.
Make sure to join me next week as I re-enter the slog of the early 90's with Scarface's 'Mr. Scarface Is Back', if for no other reason than to finally hear the third song in the saga of Mr. Scarface's self-titled tracks.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Sunday, July 4, 2010
GIRL THIS DICK IS SO CLEAN…
…You could boil it in some collard greens.” Is probably one of the more hilarious one-liners off Devin the Dude’s 2007 album Waiting to Inhale. The entire album is filled with them. ‘Matter fact, its gonna be five-hundred for some dick” and “I’d sweep you off yo feet with a box of chocolates but watch it, because it’s really balled up hog-shit”. Honorable mention goes to a lot of quotables on the CD, but nothing really gets vegan chicks so skinny their bikini clad beach-bodies are publically mocked for actually being young boys having lost a dare like referring to your penis being boiled with some veggies that are typically fried afterwards. I mean, when I think about that, it doesn’t even make sense. And that’s really the beauty of it.
Devin the Dude apparently smokes a lot of weed. And when I say a lot of weed, I mean ‘…I bought a whole quarter pound, but that was just today and now I’m down to a dime[bag]’. Most of his lyrics, and all of his songs*, revolve around getting high, or getting laid. Ordinarily, this is a combination I would turn my nose up at like a sexy redheaded Tolnedran princess, but the fact is that Devin’s got the attitude and the self-consciousnessless to make it work for him. The album is really funny.
It is a tribute to his ability to function in society that its humor does not require the listener to be blazed while listening in order to feel like he's in on the jest. Much of it actually revolves around irony. In ‘Just Because’, he outlines a series of awkward ways to kill a woman set to a Barry-Manilow-esque soundtrack, complete with jazz saxophone and airy-keyboard. In ‘She Useta Be’, he describes meeting this super hot chick from high school “150 lbs and 10 years later”… and he still hits that “Because of how she used to look, you know?” ‘She Want That Money’ starts out with him deciding to live within his means AND get laid by propositioning a prostitute… and not paying her.
There’s some good flow, but it’d be a mistake to argue that Devin the Dude shows amazing technical ability or style. He’s not monotonous or tiresome by any means, it’s just that his hooks and lines aren’t his draw; he neither dazzles with dexterity nor baffles with bullshit. Instead, the poetry is really just a canvas for his humor, and his voice.
He sounds Katt Williams had a baby with Mitch Hedberg, midwifed by Dr. Dre and birthed from the womb of none other than Mary Jane herself.
And it's that thin, weak and emasculated voice that angles that extra notion of ‘did he just say…’ into his lyrics to make them funny. It sounds shy and introverted. And then you realize he just inferred he choked a bitch to death with his cock. And not in the ninja way, either.
That said, his instrumentals leave me with the suspicion that, while he spent some time in the studio setting off smoke alarms and then not being able to find them to turn their obnoxious noise off, he spent the rest of the time playing haki-sak with some white kids at a Dave Matthews tribute circle-jerk and accidentally mated one of their acoustic guitars with his sampler-board. A quarter of the beats on this CD have this strangely soothing guitar on them, which leads me to believe that guitar trait is recessive and the sampler was a carrier** for the gene. The rest of the instrumentals are cool though. ‘She Want That Money’ features some electric guitar modding that is as ska as it is minimalistic; “She Useta Be” has this loose saxophone segment that perfectly complements the husky voice of the woman they got to sing the fat bitch's segment; ‘Somebody Elses Wife’ has a Nile-smooth-jazz beat and the only tasteful, non-ironic, actually-useful, seriously-improving-the-song, what-am-i-saying-dear-heaven-strike-me-down-now use of autotune ever.
Seriously. There’s autotune, and it doesn’t suck. I don’t know what to make of it. It’s reserved for choruses and other special moments on the CD like bar mitzvahs and the birthing of first-born sons, but when it does show up, it benefits the work by adding a hypnotic, otherworldly feel to it.
You know what did suck though? ‘Lil Girl Gone’. It’s a song about a pre-pubescent girl running away from home and growing up on the streets in poverty and despair. To say that it clashes with the rest of the album is to imply the asteroid that smashed tons of soot into the earth’s atmosphere 65 million years ago and killed off all the dinosaurs Jesus himself didn’t personally ride into Noah’s ark was in fact a mere ‘boink’ on the earth's crust with a loose bit of space debris. As in: yeah, and then some.
It makes you wonder if someone put him up to this, because Devin only sings the refrain, and I have difficulty believing he didn’t realize it’s totally out of place with the ‘it’s just jokes’ mode of the rest of the album. My honest opinion was that they got to the end of the album and were like ‘damn, we didn’t say nuthin that wasn’t deeper than the papers we usin to roll this blunt with. What should we do?’ and they combined the elements of a country-song to play the heart-strings of the hip-hop community into thinking Devin and crew could reflect on things and think… and feel feelings and shit.
I’m not buying it.
On a one to ten scale, I give this Space Invaders. You know, the video game? It’s fun and enjoyable, but more or less impossible to take seriously. It blunts the sadness when you’re feeling down, it gives you something to laugh at when you’re already smiling, you can jam out with it for hours (by the end of the album, you’ve forgotten what the beginning felt like), and the high score is over 9000 by this point. Expect light-hearted fun, mild to moderate chauvinism, little substance and great levels of substance abuse.
But not nearly as much substance abuse as I'm going to have to perform in order to get through next weeks review: Z-ro's Z-ro vs. The World. Tune in next Friday for more of your weekly hip-hop dose of dope, hope, toasts and mind-numbing run-on sentences.
*See paragraph 9, which starts ‘You know what did suck though…”
**Punnett square
Devin the Dude apparently smokes a lot of weed. And when I say a lot of weed, I mean ‘…I bought a whole quarter pound, but that was just today and now I’m down to a dime[bag]’. Most of his lyrics, and all of his songs*, revolve around getting high, or getting laid. Ordinarily, this is a combination I would turn my nose up at like a sexy redheaded Tolnedran princess, but the fact is that Devin’s got the attitude and the self-consciousnessless to make it work for him. The album is really funny.
It is a tribute to his ability to function in society that its humor does not require the listener to be blazed while listening in order to feel like he's in on the jest. Much of it actually revolves around irony. In ‘Just Because’, he outlines a series of awkward ways to kill a woman set to a Barry-Manilow-esque soundtrack, complete with jazz saxophone and airy-keyboard. In ‘She Useta Be’, he describes meeting this super hot chick from high school “150 lbs and 10 years later”… and he still hits that “Because of how she used to look, you know?” ‘She Want That Money’ starts out with him deciding to live within his means AND get laid by propositioning a prostitute… and not paying her.
There’s some good flow, but it’d be a mistake to argue that Devin the Dude shows amazing technical ability or style. He’s not monotonous or tiresome by any means, it’s just that his hooks and lines aren’t his draw; he neither dazzles with dexterity nor baffles with bullshit. Instead, the poetry is really just a canvas for his humor, and his voice.
He sounds Katt Williams had a baby with Mitch Hedberg, midwifed by Dr. Dre and birthed from the womb of none other than Mary Jane herself.
And it's that thin, weak and emasculated voice that angles that extra notion of ‘did he just say…’ into his lyrics to make them funny. It sounds shy and introverted. And then you realize he just inferred he choked a bitch to death with his cock. And not in the ninja way, either.
That said, his instrumentals leave me with the suspicion that, while he spent some time in the studio setting off smoke alarms and then not being able to find them to turn their obnoxious noise off, he spent the rest of the time playing haki-sak with some white kids at a Dave Matthews tribute circle-jerk and accidentally mated one of their acoustic guitars with his sampler-board. A quarter of the beats on this CD have this strangely soothing guitar on them, which leads me to believe that guitar trait is recessive and the sampler was a carrier** for the gene. The rest of the instrumentals are cool though. ‘She Want That Money’ features some electric guitar modding that is as ska as it is minimalistic; “She Useta Be” has this loose saxophone segment that perfectly complements the husky voice of the woman they got to sing the fat bitch's segment; ‘Somebody Elses Wife’ has a Nile-smooth-jazz beat and the only tasteful, non-ironic, actually-useful, seriously-improving-the-song, what-am-i-saying-dear-heaven-strike-me-down-now use of autotune ever.
Seriously. There’s autotune, and it doesn’t suck. I don’t know what to make of it. It’s reserved for choruses and other special moments on the CD like bar mitzvahs and the birthing of first-born sons, but when it does show up, it benefits the work by adding a hypnotic, otherworldly feel to it.
You know what did suck though? ‘Lil Girl Gone’. It’s a song about a pre-pubescent girl running away from home and growing up on the streets in poverty and despair. To say that it clashes with the rest of the album is to imply the asteroid that smashed tons of soot into the earth’s atmosphere 65 million years ago and killed off all the dinosaurs Jesus himself didn’t personally ride into Noah’s ark was in fact a mere ‘boink’ on the earth's crust with a loose bit of space debris. As in: yeah, and then some.
It makes you wonder if someone put him up to this, because Devin only sings the refrain, and I have difficulty believing he didn’t realize it’s totally out of place with the ‘it’s just jokes’ mode of the rest of the album. My honest opinion was that they got to the end of the album and were like ‘damn, we didn’t say nuthin that wasn’t deeper than the papers we usin to roll this blunt with. What should we do?’ and they combined the elements of a country-song to play the heart-strings of the hip-hop community into thinking Devin and crew could reflect on things and think… and feel feelings and shit.
I’m not buying it.
On a one to ten scale, I give this Space Invaders. You know, the video game? It’s fun and enjoyable, but more or less impossible to take seriously. It blunts the sadness when you’re feeling down, it gives you something to laugh at when you’re already smiling, you can jam out with it for hours (by the end of the album, you’ve forgotten what the beginning felt like), and the high score is over 9000 by this point. Expect light-hearted fun, mild to moderate chauvinism, little substance and great levels of substance abuse.
But not nearly as much substance abuse as I'm going to have to perform in order to get through next weeks review: Z-ro's Z-ro vs. The World. Tune in next Friday for more of your weekly hip-hop dose of dope, hope, toasts and mind-numbing run-on sentences.
*See paragraph 9, which starts ‘You know what did suck though…”
**Punnett square
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
SwisherSweets + SwishaHouse = The Smackdown
Paul Wall’s The People’s Champ is a nigh twenty-track virtuoso of the full-blown glory of Houston Rap. Released in ’05, it features many of the biggest names in the southern scene, from Bun B to Three Six Mafia to T.I. It’s low on message, low on content, high on materialism, and really fun to listen to. The tracks are slow, the Houston Rep is high, and the overall effect makes you want to drive through traffic with a couple twelves in your trunk, ten layers of candy-paint on your oversized truck and let the rest of the city know just how long its been since Pimp C was found dead.
This might not be the CD that put The South on the map, but it was the CD that put The South on the map for me. Which was a surprise for me, because I was expecting it to be a chore. Coming from a couple of weeks of Geto Boys, I figured all Houston rap artists would make me break out my thesaurus to look up new and interesting ways of saying ‘It’s good… if you’re into that sort of thing’. But The Peoples Champ is both distinctly Houston and distinctly awesome, as much as Mai’s, Frenchy’s, or Miller Outdoor Theatre.
Houston production revolves around the chopped/screwed style, pioneered by the late DJ Screw, which involves dropping the pitch down into vocal numbness and blatantly repeating specific lines/words/phrases on the vocal track while letting the beat continue unabated. The use of this technique on Paul Wall’s album is tasteful, and adds to the production value without interfering with the vocalistic integrity of the work, which was the point in Screw’s actual work.
Starting with ‘They don’t know’, The People’s Champ references singularly Houston phenomenon, from Timmy Chan’s chicken wings, to candy painted cars, drank/syrup, and the 59 freeway. This technique is really simple, but its importance can’t be overlooked; while major-label artists have a fan base so wide they’re above throwing out bones to the local crew, southern artists, particularly Houston, get little love on the national stage, and so are forced to find other ways, such as this, to expand their market. The local populism fuels the rappers popularity until they’re doing mixtapes with artists in other districts. It’s like networking, for professionals.
That said, when I say this CD is low on content, I mean… holy fuck. There’s really no thematic play, aside from ‘I have a car/it looks cool/I live in Houston/DJ Screw.’ I swear to God, the phrase ‘candy paint’ appears on this album 44 times. ‘Sippin drank’ shows up 52. The CD’s message is about as deep as the leather interior in a classic Cadillac. Which is absolutely perfect.
It’s easy to want to hate the narrowness of the Wall’s topics. Life is more than getting paper, getting laid, candy paint, and sippin’ drank. And yet, to be able to put out a CD that entirely revolves around that, with an hour of music, and have it sound good is a feat that requires nothing short of muse-like inspiration and bacchanal endurance.
If there is a more sublime theme, it slips in by accident, and it’s the protestant work-ethic that drives urban youth to hard work. There’s the assumption throughout the scene (as in, not just Mr. Wall) that in order to obtain success, there has to be work involved; success is neither given by God, nor delivered by luck. This mirrors real life, in the fact that most rappers start out as entrepreneurs and salesmen, develop contacts with the scene, promotional materials, and make numerous, numerous attempts to sell and sell and sell before finally succeeding. I see it as proof that they understand the numbers game.Its one of those lessons life teaches you, that they apparently learned early enough to become successful. Well done, guys.
On my scale of awesome, I grant The People’s Champ a ranking of The People’s Eyebrow. It towers above the rest of the audio of the Houston scene, is an important record for one of the most electrifying acts in rap entertainment today, while simultaneously doing and saying nothing of substance. Paul Wall deserves to be sittin’ sideways while driving slow, because they don’t know.
This might not be the CD that put The South on the map, but it was the CD that put The South on the map for me. Which was a surprise for me, because I was expecting it to be a chore. Coming from a couple of weeks of Geto Boys, I figured all Houston rap artists would make me break out my thesaurus to look up new and interesting ways of saying ‘It’s good… if you’re into that sort of thing’. But The Peoples Champ is both distinctly Houston and distinctly awesome, as much as Mai’s, Frenchy’s, or Miller Outdoor Theatre.
Houston production revolves around the chopped/screwed style, pioneered by the late DJ Screw, which involves dropping the pitch down into vocal numbness and blatantly repeating specific lines/words/phrases on the vocal track while letting the beat continue unabated. The use of this technique on Paul Wall’s album is tasteful, and adds to the production value without interfering with the vocalistic integrity of the work, which was the point in Screw’s actual work.
Starting with ‘They don’t know’, The People’s Champ references singularly Houston phenomenon, from Timmy Chan’s chicken wings, to candy painted cars, drank/syrup, and the 59 freeway. This technique is really simple, but its importance can’t be overlooked; while major-label artists have a fan base so wide they’re above throwing out bones to the local crew, southern artists, particularly Houston, get little love on the national stage, and so are forced to find other ways, such as this, to expand their market. The local populism fuels the rappers popularity until they’re doing mixtapes with artists in other districts. It’s like networking, for professionals.
That said, when I say this CD is low on content, I mean… holy fuck. There’s really no thematic play, aside from ‘I have a car/it looks cool/I live in Houston/DJ Screw.’ I swear to God, the phrase ‘candy paint’ appears on this album 44 times. ‘Sippin drank’ shows up 52. The CD’s message is about as deep as the leather interior in a classic Cadillac. Which is absolutely perfect.
It’s easy to want to hate the narrowness of the Wall’s topics. Life is more than getting paper, getting laid, candy paint, and sippin’ drank. And yet, to be able to put out a CD that entirely revolves around that, with an hour of music, and have it sound good is a feat that requires nothing short of muse-like inspiration and bacchanal endurance.
If there is a more sublime theme, it slips in by accident, and it’s the protestant work-ethic that drives urban youth to hard work. There’s the assumption throughout the scene (as in, not just Mr. Wall) that in order to obtain success, there has to be work involved; success is neither given by God, nor delivered by luck. This mirrors real life, in the fact that most rappers start out as entrepreneurs and salesmen, develop contacts with the scene, promotional materials, and make numerous, numerous attempts to sell and sell and sell before finally succeeding. I see it as proof that they understand the numbers game.Its one of those lessons life teaches you, that they apparently learned early enough to become successful. Well done, guys.
On my scale of awesome, I grant The People’s Champ a ranking of The People’s Eyebrow. It towers above the rest of the audio of the Houston scene, is an important record for one of the most electrifying acts in rap entertainment today, while simultaneously doing and saying nothing of substance. Paul Wall deserves to be sittin’ sideways while driving slow, because they don’t know.
Apparently, Juggalos Like Dexter
The Jewddhist and the Druid invited me out for a night of raucous merriment, and a nerdcore-concert headlined by MC Lars and that guy with that song about Boba Fett’s Corvette. Arriving only a couple of hours late, I was surprised both at the fact that the second act was on his last song and that the sweltering heat and sweat-humidity from the huddled masses of young black-clad emo-hipster nerd-rock wannabes reminded me uncomfortably of certain market streets in Vietnam. I moved my wallet to my front pocket, kept my hand over it, and complained loudly about bands starting on time. I mean, really, WTF.
MC Chris was the headliner, and the fucker legitimately packed more of a punch in his show than you’d expect from his hobbit-frame/leprechaun-voiced deportment. Seriously, he looks and sounds like a svelte dwarf who just got finished mainlining helium into his alveoli, which I don’t even think is possible. The point is, it was a badass show; two parts hip-hop, one part nerd-comedy routine.
I’ll give props- this guy isn’t Aesop (you’re all familiar with my unbounded and unfettered devotion to all things Aesop), but is in the same vein of white rap-artists who bend the genre into contortions so odd you think they’re doing yoga until you see the cock and realize they’re actually having sex in that pose. His beats are consistently fast, and filled with synth- there’s very little rock or traditional jazz in here. His delivery matches that speed, frequently delivering a veritable avalanche of internal rhyme. Nevertheless, he’s unafraid to experiment with tempo or use big-words. His main calling-card is nerd-culture, so he deals with a lot of Star-Wars, ninjas, action figures, jedi, Street Fighter, storm troopers, and things like that. What makes him stand out is his humor though.
Consider his introduction to ‘Hoodie Ninja’
‘This song is about a boy who sneaks out one night to climb a tree to masturbate to a redheaded classmate of his getting undressed. And on the way home, he takes a shit on his gym teacher’s front porch.’
Or his somewhat longer introduction to a song about the Clone Wars:
“Fuckin Fridays are the best, you know why? ‘Cuz CLONE WARS IS BACK! FUCK YEAH! But as badass as it is, somewhere there’s a guy out there whose kid really loves this show. Fuckin loves this show, man. And he comes up to his dad, and he’s like ‘Hey dad, fuckin Clone Wars is awesome. Obi-Wan and Anakin are such great friends they’re gonna be heroes and friends forever. And the clone troopers? These guys have got to be the best troopers ever because they've always got each others' backs and people say they’re all the same but whatever they have different hair and they talk different and one guy painted his ‘craft to look like a shark. A fuckin shark. These guys are awesome and they do such a good job doing every awesome and I love it.’”
“And you’re gonna be like ‘Ah, shit. Look, Timmy… Ah… I knew this day would come … Ah… Look, all the clone troopers die off when they fight the Jedi when Palpatine unleashes his evil plan for domination and Anakin turns to the dark side and Obi-Wan slices of three fingers of his hand and his arm on a volcano planet and he turns into a robot cyborg that kills the Jedi starting with the children. The fucking children.’”
"That’s like saying ‘You know how Bert and Ernie are best friends? Well Bert slashes Ernie’s arm and three fingers off, and Ernie turns to the dark side and becomes half-machine and kills everyone on Sesame Street. Starting with the viewers.’”
There’s three more iterations in that skit, but that’s pretty representative. And his delivery is impeccable; great tempo, great timing.
What I was looking for was connection though, how the artist connects with the crowd. MC Chris jumped on-stage and didn’t even go into his act, he played some bullshit country song and tried to sing along with the words and failed- turned out it was a joke, because, you know, Texas likes country music, and stuff. During his actual set, he got the crowd moving, arms in the air, side-to-side, even got us dancing a little bit, which I thought was amazing. The crowd was already warm, but what put them over the top was the fact that his hobbit-like antics were so ridiculously charismatic. He’s funny, he’s loud, I’m guessing chicks dig him because they like any dude with a mic on the stage, and he acted completely without hesitation. The man radiated confidence, and I think that’s the source of where people are willing to follow his lead.
Curiously though, he had to open up to eye-contact. The first couple of songs he mostly rapped to himself with his eyes closed, either from an incomplete warm-up or too much pot beforehand, I don’t know. He grooved more eye-contact into his work towards the latter end. Just something I thought was of-note.
One a won to tin scale, I give this a rating of Warhammer 40K. Its better than a sharp stick in the eye, but I couldn’t really make out the words to what he was saying (I’ve never been able to, at any show), so you kind of have to have listened to the album, and the only song I’d heard him perform was the Boba-Fett-‘Vette song. Also, Jesus tap-dancing torrent-bashing Christ, it was hot in there. My pants and shirt are all a solid color- there’s not a single spot that didn’t completely soak through the fabric. Even the denim. Denim. Denim was soaked through. How is that even possible?
Also, I paid $10 for a CD. CD has seven fucking songs on it. I’m so DLing his discography guilt-free.
But it wasn’t a bad show. In fact, it was a very good show, I just wasn’t prepared for it, and I’m not really into nerd-core. I have too much violence in my heart to really enjoy the collecting, the cathecting, the cosplay and the complete isolation involved in actually being a nerd. I’ve been there, got the T-shirt, probably have a few character sheets lying around here somewhere, but I’ve moved on. It’s good to look back though. Like XKCD, I feel like part of a special club when I get the jokes
MC Chris was the headliner, and the fucker legitimately packed more of a punch in his show than you’d expect from his hobbit-frame/leprechaun-voiced deportment. Seriously, he looks and sounds like a svelte dwarf who just got finished mainlining helium into his alveoli, which I don’t even think is possible. The point is, it was a badass show; two parts hip-hop, one part nerd-comedy routine.
I’ll give props- this guy isn’t Aesop (you’re all familiar with my unbounded and unfettered devotion to all things Aesop), but is in the same vein of white rap-artists who bend the genre into contortions so odd you think they’re doing yoga until you see the cock and realize they’re actually having sex in that pose. His beats are consistently fast, and filled with synth- there’s very little rock or traditional jazz in here. His delivery matches that speed, frequently delivering a veritable avalanche of internal rhyme. Nevertheless, he’s unafraid to experiment with tempo or use big-words. His main calling-card is nerd-culture, so he deals with a lot of Star-Wars, ninjas, action figures, jedi, Street Fighter, storm troopers, and things like that. What makes him stand out is his humor though.
Consider his introduction to ‘Hoodie Ninja’
‘This song is about a boy who sneaks out one night to climb a tree to masturbate to a redheaded classmate of his getting undressed. And on the way home, he takes a shit on his gym teacher’s front porch.’
Or his somewhat longer introduction to a song about the Clone Wars:
“Fuckin Fridays are the best, you know why? ‘Cuz CLONE WARS IS BACK! FUCK YEAH! But as badass as it is, somewhere there’s a guy out there whose kid really loves this show. Fuckin loves this show, man. And he comes up to his dad, and he’s like ‘Hey dad, fuckin Clone Wars is awesome. Obi-Wan and Anakin are such great friends they’re gonna be heroes and friends forever. And the clone troopers? These guys have got to be the best troopers ever because they've always got each others' backs and people say they’re all the same but whatever they have different hair and they talk different and one guy painted his ‘craft to look like a shark. A fuckin shark. These guys are awesome and they do such a good job doing every awesome and I love it.’”
“And you’re gonna be like ‘Ah, shit. Look, Timmy… Ah… I knew this day would come … Ah… Look, all the clone troopers die off when they fight the Jedi when Palpatine unleashes his evil plan for domination and Anakin turns to the dark side and Obi-Wan slices of three fingers of his hand and his arm on a volcano planet and he turns into a robot cyborg that kills the Jedi starting with the children. The fucking children.’”
"That’s like saying ‘You know how Bert and Ernie are best friends? Well Bert slashes Ernie’s arm and three fingers off, and Ernie turns to the dark side and becomes half-machine and kills everyone on Sesame Street. Starting with the viewers.’”
There’s three more iterations in that skit, but that’s pretty representative. And his delivery is impeccable; great tempo, great timing.
What I was looking for was connection though, how the artist connects with the crowd. MC Chris jumped on-stage and didn’t even go into his act, he played some bullshit country song and tried to sing along with the words and failed- turned out it was a joke, because, you know, Texas likes country music, and stuff. During his actual set, he got the crowd moving, arms in the air, side-to-side, even got us dancing a little bit, which I thought was amazing. The crowd was already warm, but what put them over the top was the fact that his hobbit-like antics were so ridiculously charismatic. He’s funny, he’s loud, I’m guessing chicks dig him because they like any dude with a mic on the stage, and he acted completely without hesitation. The man radiated confidence, and I think that’s the source of where people are willing to follow his lead.
Curiously though, he had to open up to eye-contact. The first couple of songs he mostly rapped to himself with his eyes closed, either from an incomplete warm-up or too much pot beforehand, I don’t know. He grooved more eye-contact into his work towards the latter end. Just something I thought was of-note.
One a won to tin scale, I give this a rating of Warhammer 40K. Its better than a sharp stick in the eye, but I couldn’t really make out the words to what he was saying (I’ve never been able to, at any show), so you kind of have to have listened to the album, and the only song I’d heard him perform was the Boba-Fett-‘Vette song. Also, Jesus tap-dancing torrent-bashing Christ, it was hot in there. My pants and shirt are all a solid color- there’s not a single spot that didn’t completely soak through the fabric. Even the denim. Denim. Denim was soaked through. How is that even possible?
Also, I paid $10 for a CD. CD has seven fucking songs on it. I’m so DLing his discography guilt-free.
But it wasn’t a bad show. In fact, it was a very good show, I just wasn’t prepared for it, and I’m not really into nerd-core. I have too much violence in my heart to really enjoy the collecting, the cathecting, the cosplay and the complete isolation involved in actually being a nerd. I’ve been there, got the T-shirt, probably have a few character sheets lying around here somewhere, but I’ve moved on. It’s good to look back though. Like XKCD, I feel like part of a special club when I get the jokes
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Gripping It!
My first memory of Geto Boys' Grip It! On That Other Level comes from burning my buddy’s CD collection. They made it into my CD player by having the grace to have ‘Assassins’, covered by the Insane Clown Posse (a rap group so ludicrous, not only do they believe in magic, they do not believe in electromagnetism). So when I found an album put out by these guys that got a shout out by someone I was willing to follow into hell (or, Detroit, as the case may be), I figured I’d give them a shot.
Turns out I thought they sucked, and so I only jammed them when I needed an interlude in between Biohazard and Perfect Circle.
With music tastes that confusing and conflicting, it’s a wonder I’m still alive today.
One neat thing about the album is that it’s pulp; you can't take it seriously. Like pulp-fiction (the genre) everything is exaggerated. The protagonists are not just murderers, they’re rapist thugs with a perplexing level of psychological problems that went curiously uncorrected by granny’s switch or momma’s ‘tussin during their youth. They don’t just bang hos, they bang them until their body looks like swiss-cheese and then give her over to their boys while they go and get another. And they don’t just sell drugs; they are, in fact, made of drugs.
While the esteem of the artists is somewhat enthralling, it doesn’t remove a greater fault – that it all sounds the same. It’s not just the 4/4 beat, with keyboard wounds added in for effect, high snare and low bass. It’s not just the monotonous delivery (from all except Scarface). It’s not just the Godfather/Scarface samples. It’s all that… and the fact that you can probably take any 4 bars from any song, put them into another song, anywhere in that song, and have it fit seamlessly.
Example: contrast the following from ‘Read These Nikes’:
When I hit ya in your goddamn mouth
And show you what a real nigga's all about
When I dispose of your ass like waste
And nothin but my shoe is in your muthafuckin face
With the following from ‘Size Ain’t Shit’
So if you wanna try your luck
C'mon...play pussy'n'get fucked
Asshole snicker and get beat
Your a bad motherfucker if you dare to compete
It’s like they only had enough creativity between the three of them for four songs- ‘Do It Like a G.O.’ (not a typo), ‘Let a Ho be a Ho’, ‘Mind of a Lunatic’, and ‘Seek and Destroy’. The first is your quintessential thug-anthem, the second is a comedic rendition of how easy pimpin ain’t, the third is a long flirtation with horror-core, and the last is… a lot like the first, but with Scarface unafraid to experiment with tempo.
They strung those four songs into twelve.
On a closely related note, last week I reviewed the song ‘Scarface: Pt. II’ off The World Is Yours. Pt. I is on Grip It!, and is, in fact, the exact same story. Scarface deals some raw, raw-dogs a girl, is shot at during the act, grabs his ratchet and goes Vietnam Tom on some enemies. Both were good to listen to; Scarface has a talent for exaggeration and self-aggrandizement that is nothing short of demigodly. Although, if this actually keeps happening to him, he should probably stop. And if not, why make up the exact story twice? For a fan of The Godfather, Scarface sure forgot to make the sequel an improvement.
On a one to ten scale, I give this album a rating of ‘Power Rangers’. It’s from the early 90’s, its violent, its filled with some fucked up noise, but not enough to give an erection to the kids who’re into that sort of stuff. But mostly, ‘cuz its just the same shit over and over. It’s not a complete waste - millions of kids loved that show before they grew up enough to realize it was one of the worst television shows ever. And Amy Jo Johnson was smoking. And the Green/White/Rainbow ranger actually uses his morphin-super-powers when he’s in the octagon.
Morphenomenal!
Turns out I thought they sucked, and so I only jammed them when I needed an interlude in between Biohazard and Perfect Circle.
With music tastes that confusing and conflicting, it’s a wonder I’m still alive today.
One neat thing about the album is that it’s pulp; you can't take it seriously. Like pulp-fiction (the genre) everything is exaggerated. The protagonists are not just murderers, they’re rapist thugs with a perplexing level of psychological problems that went curiously uncorrected by granny’s switch or momma’s ‘tussin during their youth. They don’t just bang hos, they bang them until their body looks like swiss-cheese and then give her over to their boys while they go and get another. And they don’t just sell drugs; they are, in fact, made of drugs.
While the esteem of the artists is somewhat enthralling, it doesn’t remove a greater fault – that it all sounds the same. It’s not just the 4/4 beat, with keyboard wounds added in for effect, high snare and low bass. It’s not just the monotonous delivery (from all except Scarface). It’s not just the Godfather/Scarface samples. It’s all that… and the fact that you can probably take any 4 bars from any song, put them into another song, anywhere in that song, and have it fit seamlessly.
Example: contrast the following from ‘Read These Nikes’:
When I hit ya in your goddamn mouth
And show you what a real nigga's all about
When I dispose of your ass like waste
And nothin but my shoe is in your muthafuckin face
With the following from ‘Size Ain’t Shit’
So if you wanna try your luck
C'mon...play pussy'n'get fucked
Asshole snicker and get beat
Your a bad motherfucker if you dare to compete
It’s like they only had enough creativity between the three of them for four songs- ‘Do It Like a G.O.’ (not a typo), ‘Let a Ho be a Ho’, ‘Mind of a Lunatic’, and ‘Seek and Destroy’. The first is your quintessential thug-anthem, the second is a comedic rendition of how easy pimpin ain’t, the third is a long flirtation with horror-core, and the last is… a lot like the first, but with Scarface unafraid to experiment with tempo.
They strung those four songs into twelve.
On a closely related note, last week I reviewed the song ‘Scarface: Pt. II’ off The World Is Yours. Pt. I is on Grip It!, and is, in fact, the exact same story. Scarface deals some raw, raw-dogs a girl, is shot at during the act, grabs his ratchet and goes Vietnam Tom on some enemies. Both were good to listen to; Scarface has a talent for exaggeration and self-aggrandizement that is nothing short of demigodly. Although, if this actually keeps happening to him, he should probably stop. And if not, why make up the exact story twice? For a fan of The Godfather, Scarface sure forgot to make the sequel an improvement.
On a one to ten scale, I give this album a rating of ‘Power Rangers’. It’s from the early 90’s, its violent, its filled with some fucked up noise, but not enough to give an erection to the kids who’re into that sort of stuff. But mostly, ‘cuz its just the same shit over and over. It’s not a complete waste - millions of kids loved that show before they grew up enough to realize it was one of the worst television shows ever. And Amy Jo Johnson was smoking. And the Green/White/Rainbow ranger actually uses his morphin-super-powers when he’s in the octagon.
Morphenomenal!
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Fuck You, Sean Lebowicz
You remember the early nineties? Tekkaman Blade on Saturday mornings, Highlander in the afternoon? Two different Mortal Kombat movies? Back before you discovered you could cook bacon any time you wanted and the subsequent health problems that epiphany has (or will eventually) cause? When Clinton was in office, but before we all discovered his horrify fetish for fat Jewish chicks and took turns berating him in public for lying to the American people and snickering in private about what bet he’d lost to make him dive on the grenade until we found out it wasn’t a grenade he’d dived on but more like a tub of fat feminine Jew-gold he’d cannonballed into intentionally like Scrooge from DuckTales?
That’s about when Scarface: The World is Yours came out. And damn, does it sound like it.
Hip-hop has come a long way in the last damn near twenty years. Rhyme-writing has gotten a lot more complex. More sophisticated tools have been designed to create, record, and modify instrumental tracks. ‘Gangster’ is now an adjective, in addition to a noun. All that had to be taken into account once I started jamming this album.
I’m not trying to say it sucked. I am saying it’s a period piece. Like Shakespeare.
Like motherfuckin Shakespeare.
So this is Gangster-Rap, and I mean that to say that it’s carrying on an ancient tradition of warrior-poets, where you go out and kill some bloodthirsty savage from another tribe, then fuck his wife and take his loot, and then brag about it, and whoever can brag about it the best gets mad props from all his friends. These are, for the most part, collages full of brags, boasts, toasts, roasts, jokes, punch-lines, and putdowns. Scarface nails that, really highlighting (as narrators are wont to do) his own invincibility and omnipotence.
That said, he doesn’t say it in a particularly amazing or original way. His rhythm is somewhat monotonous, sticking with the beat instead of dancing around it (as was par for the time, with certain notable exceptions). In fact, he mostly gets by on his incredible enthusiasm and a complete lack of self-consciousness in saying absolutely ridiculous things. The enthusiasm probably explains why he’s so popular- the rhymes are simple, but the delivery is so honest and powerful that it’s not for a while until you’re like ‘hey… wait a minute… all these songs are about him randomly killing people and selling drugs.’
He has some legitimate points on his more thought-intense songs, and certain criticisms of the drug game, but it could be that I’m reading more into his ‘anti-police’ vibe than is there.
“Niggas gettin caught, doin time, so they snitchin
They pickin niggas up on a funky ass suspicion
We'll be goin down for some questioning we think
And end up gettin hit with the fuckin kitchen sink"
I mean, from a realistic perspective, doing drugs is, technically illegal, and if the Mr. Scarface character was really interested in avoiding the police, I don’t think it’d be going TOO far out of his way to… you know… not be involved in illegal activities? I mean, fight the power, sure, I’m all about fighting the power. I guess just not too much.
Literally, the high point of the album is ‘Funky ‘lil Nigga’, featuring 2Low. Mostly because he’s thirteen, and he’s spitting lines like:
“I got my street sense from these muthafuckin streets, bitch
And I'm comin real, cause I ain't fuckin with that weak shit
Pass me the joint and let me kick it for the old folks
All the O.G.'s back in the hood that once sold dope”
It’s probably the funniest thing I’ve seen since Afro-Ninja. He just doesn’t get how much he doesn’t get. The overly expletive-filled language, the too-easy familiarity with the signs of rebellion of the age just older than he is paint him as the kid trying too hard to be cool. Like when you were in middle school and your friend, Sean Lebowicz, was bragging about having sex with his girlfriend that lived two towns away and she was a model and he only had pictures of her that he clipped out of magazines and he was trying to describe it and every time you asked for more specific details he told you couldn’t remember it really well but it was awesome and he was sweating the whole time he was telling the tale and then it turned out he was just flat-out lying.
It’s probably not that pathetic, because if 2Low’s hanging out with Scarface, there’s probably some partying like a rap-star going on (rap stars are not known for their judgment), but the false bravado is probably just as clear a sign of immaturity.
On a one-to-five scale, I rate this a high school ex-girlfriend. It’s not perfect, but it was pretty good for that time in your development where you were just excited to get what you were given, and were amazed that her cooch was so similar to what Sean described that for a moment you thought he might have actually been telling the truth until you remembered you read his rant almost word-for-word in a back-issue of penthouse once you finally got around to torrenting them.
Fuck you, Sean. We used to think you were cool.
That’s about when Scarface: The World is Yours came out. And damn, does it sound like it.
Hip-hop has come a long way in the last damn near twenty years. Rhyme-writing has gotten a lot more complex. More sophisticated tools have been designed to create, record, and modify instrumental tracks. ‘Gangster’ is now an adjective, in addition to a noun. All that had to be taken into account once I started jamming this album.
I’m not trying to say it sucked. I am saying it’s a period piece. Like Shakespeare.
Like motherfuckin Shakespeare.
So this is Gangster-Rap, and I mean that to say that it’s carrying on an ancient tradition of warrior-poets, where you go out and kill some bloodthirsty savage from another tribe, then fuck his wife and take his loot, and then brag about it, and whoever can brag about it the best gets mad props from all his friends. These are, for the most part, collages full of brags, boasts, toasts, roasts, jokes, punch-lines, and putdowns. Scarface nails that, really highlighting (as narrators are wont to do) his own invincibility and omnipotence.
That said, he doesn’t say it in a particularly amazing or original way. His rhythm is somewhat monotonous, sticking with the beat instead of dancing around it (as was par for the time, with certain notable exceptions). In fact, he mostly gets by on his incredible enthusiasm and a complete lack of self-consciousness in saying absolutely ridiculous things. The enthusiasm probably explains why he’s so popular- the rhymes are simple, but the delivery is so honest and powerful that it’s not for a while until you’re like ‘hey… wait a minute… all these songs are about him randomly killing people and selling drugs.’
He has some legitimate points on his more thought-intense songs, and certain criticisms of the drug game, but it could be that I’m reading more into his ‘anti-police’ vibe than is there.
“Niggas gettin caught, doin time, so they snitchin
They pickin niggas up on a funky ass suspicion
We'll be goin down for some questioning we think
And end up gettin hit with the fuckin kitchen sink"
I mean, from a realistic perspective, doing drugs is, technically illegal, and if the Mr. Scarface character was really interested in avoiding the police, I don’t think it’d be going TOO far out of his way to… you know… not be involved in illegal activities? I mean, fight the power, sure, I’m all about fighting the power. I guess just not too much.
Literally, the high point of the album is ‘Funky ‘lil Nigga’, featuring 2Low. Mostly because he’s thirteen, and he’s spitting lines like:
“I got my street sense from these muthafuckin streets, bitch
And I'm comin real, cause I ain't fuckin with that weak shit
Pass me the joint and let me kick it for the old folks
All the O.G.'s back in the hood that once sold dope”
It’s probably the funniest thing I’ve seen since Afro-Ninja. He just doesn’t get how much he doesn’t get. The overly expletive-filled language, the too-easy familiarity with the signs of rebellion of the age just older than he is paint him as the kid trying too hard to be cool. Like when you were in middle school and your friend, Sean Lebowicz, was bragging about having sex with his girlfriend that lived two towns away and she was a model and he only had pictures of her that he clipped out of magazines and he was trying to describe it and every time you asked for more specific details he told you couldn’t remember it really well but it was awesome and he was sweating the whole time he was telling the tale and then it turned out he was just flat-out lying.
It’s probably not that pathetic, because if 2Low’s hanging out with Scarface, there’s probably some partying like a rap-star going on (rap stars are not known for their judgment), but the false bravado is probably just as clear a sign of immaturity.
On a one-to-five scale, I rate this a high school ex-girlfriend. It’s not perfect, but it was pretty good for that time in your development where you were just excited to get what you were given, and were amazed that her cooch was so similar to what Sean described that for a moment you thought he might have actually been telling the truth until you remembered you read his rant almost word-for-word in a back-issue of penthouse once you finally got around to torrenting them.
Fuck you, Sean. We used to think you were cool.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Roads? Where We're Going We Don't Need Roads...
Strange Journey Volume 2 (SJV2) has the same stylistic qualities as #1, but is much more specific, and much more introspective. By ‘specific’, I mean each song fulfills its genre much more so than equivalent songs on #1. Let me back up and explain what I mean by ‘genre’.
There are three genres in Hip-Hop; collages, stories and essays. Most work are collages. Tracks with no goal (other than to sound good), but are just an odd arrangement of brags, boasts, shout-outs, put-downs and gibberish, fall into this category. Most rap, in fact, falls into this category. Good examples are the mixtape song 'Anthem' and as mentioned before, anything put out by Jus Allah.
The 2nd genre, stories, are just that; a frequently chronological retelling of events, possessing both a protagonist and a plot. Great examples include ‘The Harbor is Yours’ off “None Shall Pass” by Aesop Rock and ‘Like Today’ by Atmosphere.
An essay has a point (a thesis, even). That point is usually basic- the language of hip-hop is intrinsically emotional, and the lyrical elements unsuited to the specificity required for an ordinary ontological argument. That said, topics both mundane and sublime are attempted, from ‘drugs are bad’ to ‘drugs are good’ to ‘While 9/11 was a tragedy, the reaction to it by the media, government and military-industrial complex is nothing short of disgusting’.
Note- These are my definitions. Outside the context of this blog, no one will care or recognize these terms. Fair warning to those who also frequent allhiphop.com’s forums.
SJV2’s collages are more bangin’, its essays more pointed, its stories more developed.
Ordinarily, I’d quote snatches of song to prove my point, but, trying to put brackets around the awesome parts of the most well-crafted examples is a lot like trying to find the part of The Odyssey that makes it an epic- a herculean task. So I’ll link to them, and provide some commentary, trusting that you’ll blare good jams through your workplace to follow along with what I’m saying.
‘The WWKYA Tour’ is a damn good story (collection of stories, actually) around the plot of some kid mouthing off to the band and the band utterly destroying him (because girls only mouth off to De La Soul, apparently). The story is so cohesive that the digressions add a richness to the story instead of distractions, like how Tonedeff (I think it’s Tonedeff) orders a drink at the beginning of his flow and picks it up at the end, after going through a wrestling match with an offender. Or how in the same flow, he points out the irony of the image he held of the offender, and the one he found on facebook.
‘To Be for Real’ contrasts the emotional appeal of success with it’s often not-so-hidden underbelly. The imagery of conjuring ‘debts from assets’ really appealed to the accountant in me, not going to lie. So too does the closing couplet of the song (not as an accountant... you know what I mean).
‘Tear Tracks’ fully embraces its genre, making a point about the tragedy of a battered woman. I feel it leaves out a necessary element of scorn for women who keep going back to an abusive spouse, and I also didn’t like the fact that there’s no conclusion, just ‘oh, she’s still getting beat’ by the songs end. The fact that the thesis is elucidated clearly enough to critique suggests it deserves some hefty props, though.
The rest of the album isn’t really a step behind these songs- these are just the ones that touched me, that I felt I could critique meaningfully. On the whole, Volume 2 is more introspective than Volume 1, but I’d halt and look both ways before calling one better than the other.
I haven’t mentioned the production work yet: It’s solid. I don’t have enough space to elucidate more on its stylistic influence, but it neither overshadows the performers nor underwhelms the listener.
On a scale of one to eleventy-billion, I give this album a high-five ('cuz bros like high-fives), a big bag of props (see above) and a tearful goodbye, because it's going to be another couple of months until I review a cd I've liked this much. Next week I'll be tackling Scarface's 'The World is Yours'; so if you've ever accidentally confused Al Pacino and this guy, show up and find out how not to ever again.
There are three genres in Hip-Hop; collages, stories and essays. Most work are collages. Tracks with no goal (other than to sound good), but are just an odd arrangement of brags, boasts, shout-outs, put-downs and gibberish, fall into this category. Most rap, in fact, falls into this category. Good examples are the mixtape song 'Anthem' and as mentioned before, anything put out by Jus Allah.
The 2nd genre, stories, are just that; a frequently chronological retelling of events, possessing both a protagonist and a plot. Great examples include ‘The Harbor is Yours’ off “None Shall Pass” by Aesop Rock and ‘Like Today’ by Atmosphere.
An essay has a point (a thesis, even). That point is usually basic- the language of hip-hop is intrinsically emotional, and the lyrical elements unsuited to the specificity required for an ordinary ontological argument. That said, topics both mundane and sublime are attempted, from ‘drugs are bad’ to ‘drugs are good’ to ‘While 9/11 was a tragedy, the reaction to it by the media, government and military-industrial complex is nothing short of disgusting’.
Note- These are my definitions. Outside the context of this blog, no one will care or recognize these terms. Fair warning to those who also frequent allhiphop.com’s forums.
SJV2’s collages are more bangin’, its essays more pointed, its stories more developed.
Ordinarily, I’d quote snatches of song to prove my point, but, trying to put brackets around the awesome parts of the most well-crafted examples is a lot like trying to find the part of The Odyssey that makes it an epic- a herculean task. So I’ll link to them, and provide some commentary, trusting that you’ll blare good jams through your workplace to follow along with what I’m saying.
‘The WWKYA Tour’ is a damn good story (collection of stories, actually) around the plot of some kid mouthing off to the band and the band utterly destroying him (because girls only mouth off to De La Soul, apparently). The story is so cohesive that the digressions add a richness to the story instead of distractions, like how Tonedeff (I think it’s Tonedeff) orders a drink at the beginning of his flow and picks it up at the end, after going through a wrestling match with an offender. Or how in the same flow, he points out the irony of the image he held of the offender, and the one he found on facebook.
‘To Be for Real’ contrasts the emotional appeal of success with it’s often not-so-hidden underbelly. The imagery of conjuring ‘debts from assets’ really appealed to the accountant in me, not going to lie. So too does the closing couplet of the song (not as an accountant... you know what I mean).
‘Tear Tracks’ fully embraces its genre, making a point about the tragedy of a battered woman. I feel it leaves out a necessary element of scorn for women who keep going back to an abusive spouse, and I also didn’t like the fact that there’s no conclusion, just ‘oh, she’s still getting beat’ by the songs end. The fact that the thesis is elucidated clearly enough to critique suggests it deserves some hefty props, though.
The rest of the album isn’t really a step behind these songs- these are just the ones that touched me, that I felt I could critique meaningfully. On the whole, Volume 2 is more introspective than Volume 1, but I’d halt and look both ways before calling one better than the other.
I haven’t mentioned the production work yet: It’s solid. I don’t have enough space to elucidate more on its stylistic influence, but it neither overshadows the performers nor underwhelms the listener.
On a scale of one to eleventy-billion, I give this album a high-five ('cuz bros like high-fives), a big bag of props (see above) and a tearful goodbye, because it's going to be another couple of months until I review a cd I've liked this much. Next week I'll be tackling Scarface's 'The World is Yours'; so if you've ever accidentally confused Al Pacino and this guy, show up and find out how not to ever again.
Monday, May 17, 2010
I'm Sorry, You Call Yourself What?
Okay, this being my first exposure to CunninLynguist, a 3-man troupe from Lexington, Kentucky, a number of introductions ran through my mind;
‘CunninLynguist has created the type of album that just makes you feel good…’
‘CunninLynguist’s new album sounds like miracles, looks like gold, and smells like fat chicks when I’ve had too much to drink…’
‘CunninLynguist forewent it’s usual fare of beating around the bush and really decided to drill this album for all it’s worth…’
'This album has changed me; I now realize half my exes left me for guy’s who were more regularly down for some CunninLynguist…’
But the truth is that Strange Journeys: Volume 1 is so well-written, so incredible in it’s breadth and depth, that it really doesn’t need me to try to be funny. In a very real way, this album is what hip-hop is meant to be. I haven’t been this impressed since Ricardo showed up late to the party sporting stylized gashes in his face and tried to jump off a balcony, claiming red-wings gave him balls. Actually, it’s excactly like that, but completely different, and better.
So first I want to gush about how CunningLynguists incorporate a wide series of literary elements without too-heavy a reliance on any particular one. Not only can these guys throw down end rhyme (typical) and internal rhyme (getting more typical), but they’re able to make honest use of extended metaphor and poetic imagry. The best talent they have is wit and humor though. Brief snatches don’t do the work justice, but:
“I was a pimp, bitch, mixed with modern day romeo
But now my pimp look more like polio”
Out of 'Hypnotized' or
“When I fall in the front door and land in the backyard
Physics don't apply
Midgets in the sky
Skipping 'round my head, singin', 'Negro, you so high'"
On 'Never Come Down'.
The CunningLynguist crew also demonstrates the deceptively incredible skill at just telling a straight story. Seriously, the art of storytelling has been almost completely lost due to MTV's ability to make you forget you were actually listening to a song for some reason by simply flashing a shitload of girlflesh at you while some dude dances worse than a white-boy at prom with a stack of monopoly money in one hand and what passes for his ego in the other. 'The Distance' and 'Dance For Me' both feature a straight story of decline, told with a full plot, including denouement. While lesser acts can’t stay on the same subject for more than a couplet, CunninLynguist not only serve up material fit for Saturday cartoons, but it rhymes. How cool is that?
Cunninglynguist bring every talented indy-rapper ever, from the guys I’ve been digging since I was old enough to put shovel to dirt while jamming out The Box on an early-nineties stereo in my back yard (Slug, from Atmosphere) to the guys I was handed a sampler for free at a show two years ago and actually decided to buy their shit from iTunes (Grieves), and a bunch of artists my faux-friends have completely failed to inform me of (E-famm). Part of that’s because this album is a mixtape though, so it would be inappropriate to assume CunninLynguist outsources this much of their production on the regular. The point though is that they’re doing work with other artists of excellent taste. The cooperation makes great work legendary.
CunningLynguists think deep thoughts too. 'Die For You' is the closest thing to advocating chastity in a rap song I’ve ever heard. 'Don’t Leave' juxtaposes the hardships of being on tour with the family left behind. Even their political perspectives deserve credit; instead of going for the cheap ‘it’s whitey’s fault my community looks like that clip of Basrah they showed on the news’, they talk about the 2nd amendment and being left out of Obama’s economic stimulus. Sure they talk about drugs and corrupt pigs too, but the more I research it, the more I find myself being critical of officers of the law as well.
Most importantly though, these guys bring it. The first couple of songs on the track are heavy-hitters, songs that really get you pumped up to go out and move shit. There are party songs, work that’s fun to listen to because you can tell the artist really enjoyed writing the piece. And both of these genres are done without self-consciousness or hesitation.
So basically, these guys do everything. And they do everything so seamlessly even the most critical of reviewers can’t doubt their mastery of the craft. On my one to five scale I’m giving this one Aspergers, because it literally made most of its competition look mildly retarded- good enough to function in society, but the type of act you let win at checkers because if they lose they’ll throw a tantrum and shit the rug.
‘CunninLynguist has created the type of album that just makes you feel good…’
‘CunninLynguist’s new album sounds like miracles, looks like gold, and smells like fat chicks when I’ve had too much to drink…’
‘CunninLynguist forewent it’s usual fare of beating around the bush and really decided to drill this album for all it’s worth…’
'This album has changed me; I now realize half my exes left me for guy’s who were more regularly down for some CunninLynguist…’
But the truth is that Strange Journeys: Volume 1 is so well-written, so incredible in it’s breadth and depth, that it really doesn’t need me to try to be funny. In a very real way, this album is what hip-hop is meant to be. I haven’t been this impressed since Ricardo showed up late to the party sporting stylized gashes in his face and tried to jump off a balcony, claiming red-wings gave him balls. Actually, it’s excactly like that, but completely different, and better.
So first I want to gush about how CunningLynguists incorporate a wide series of literary elements without too-heavy a reliance on any particular one. Not only can these guys throw down end rhyme (typical) and internal rhyme (getting more typical), but they’re able to make honest use of extended metaphor and poetic imagry. The best talent they have is wit and humor though. Brief snatches don’t do the work justice, but:
“I was a pimp, bitch, mixed with modern day romeo
But now my pimp look more like polio”
Out of 'Hypnotized' or
“When I fall in the front door and land in the backyard
Physics don't apply
Midgets in the sky
Skipping 'round my head, singin', 'Negro, you so high'"
On 'Never Come Down'.
The CunningLynguist crew also demonstrates the deceptively incredible skill at just telling a straight story. Seriously, the art of storytelling has been almost completely lost due to MTV's ability to make you forget you were actually listening to a song for some reason by simply flashing a shitload of girlflesh at you while some dude dances worse than a white-boy at prom with a stack of monopoly money in one hand and what passes for his ego in the other. 'The Distance' and 'Dance For Me' both feature a straight story of decline, told with a full plot, including denouement. While lesser acts can’t stay on the same subject for more than a couplet, CunninLynguist not only serve up material fit for Saturday cartoons, but it rhymes. How cool is that?
Cunninglynguist bring every talented indy-rapper ever, from the guys I’ve been digging since I was old enough to put shovel to dirt while jamming out The Box on an early-nineties stereo in my back yard (Slug, from Atmosphere) to the guys I was handed a sampler for free at a show two years ago and actually decided to buy their shit from iTunes (Grieves), and a bunch of artists my faux-friends have completely failed to inform me of (E-famm). Part of that’s because this album is a mixtape though, so it would be inappropriate to assume CunninLynguist outsources this much of their production on the regular. The point though is that they’re doing work with other artists of excellent taste. The cooperation makes great work legendary.
CunningLynguists think deep thoughts too. 'Die For You' is the closest thing to advocating chastity in a rap song I’ve ever heard. 'Don’t Leave' juxtaposes the hardships of being on tour with the family left behind. Even their political perspectives deserve credit; instead of going for the cheap ‘it’s whitey’s fault my community looks like that clip of Basrah they showed on the news’, they talk about the 2nd amendment and being left out of Obama’s economic stimulus. Sure they talk about drugs and corrupt pigs too, but the more I research it, the more I find myself being critical of officers of the law as well.
Most importantly though, these guys bring it. The first couple of songs on the track are heavy-hitters, songs that really get you pumped up to go out and move shit. There are party songs, work that’s fun to listen to because you can tell the artist really enjoyed writing the piece. And both of these genres are done without self-consciousness or hesitation.
So basically, these guys do everything. And they do everything so seamlessly even the most critical of reviewers can’t doubt their mastery of the craft. On my one to five scale I’m giving this one Aspergers, because it literally made most of its competition look mildly retarded- good enough to function in society, but the type of act you let win at checkers because if they lose they’ll throw a tantrum and shit the rug.
Monday, April 26, 2010
THIS IS NOT THE ABLUM YOU WERE LOOKING FOR...
I'd take Jedi Mind Trick's (JMT's) "History of Violence" a lot more seriously if it'd earned Vinnie Paz a shout-out on Jihadwatch. I tried to describe it to my boss. I said "It's like gangster-rap, but with a crescent on the Jesus-chain that every once in a while dips its toes into conspiracy-theories, and somehow gets referred to as 'conscious'". And I'm not saying that's baffling- only depressing.
That said, JMT's producer deserves some type of 100% automatic auto-erotic asphyxiation machine for being such a badass beat-maker. The tracks are universally rich, layered, and textured. 'Heavy as a Melody' is dark, constructed with the delicate sound of bells, slow drums , and an oddly unnerving hum/machine-revving in the background. 'Trail of Lies' includes all sections of the orchestra (including the oft-overlooked 'chimes') to underscore the frail subject matter of young impressionable girls. Even the interlude 'Those with No Eyes' combines a skittish, desperate oboe, and an overplayed operatic sample over the high-minded spoken word text. The overall effect is subtle, but outstanding.
Which contrasts greatly with half of JMT's lyricists, who are about as subtle as a dangling condom lazily hanging out of a dance-floor skank's vagina. 'Jus Allah's technique is to say a bunch of nouns and/or adjective-clauses that rhyme. Which is cool for a while, but after a certain point... I mean, sentences were designed to have predicates for a reason. An example of 'Jus Allah's bludgeoning poetry:
I'm sand and stone, I stand alone
I'm a candle blown, I've hands of bone
I'm smart and old, I'm dark and cold
I've a pawn shop of parts, I've a heart of bold
I'm a heartless soul, Is my heart bestowed
Death to all, let the closest star explode
The better half of the other half of JMT's lyrical duo, Vinnie Paz, gets a bye on his stylistic integrity. His pace is monotonous and he has an atrocious reliance on end-rhyme, but he uses enough literary techniques that it makes it look like he's trying. And most of all, the heaven's above blessed him with a voice reminiscent of an avalanche of gravel, if said gravel came wrapped in a box that reminded you of the fat Italian enforcers used in mob-spoof films. He also gets a couple of solid lines thrown in there every once and a while. On 'Trail of Lies', a song about the disillusionment of young women by the fashion/entertainment industry, he references starlets with,
Ninety-pound skinny bitches, that ain't even girl to me
and
And what's gonna become of 'em in like fifty years
When Hannah Montana turnin into Britney Spears
The problem though, is that there's a limit to the credit I'm willing to extend to Mr. Paz for his heartfelt political, social and spiritual ruminations. For starters, let's look at this quote we have from 'Butcher Knife Bloodbath':
Why we in Iran if all that we want is Osama
Why we in the jam if all that we want is Obama
Bush had you thinkin we at war cuz he asked God
Then blew up to fucking buildings in our backyard
Is he saying something construed as political? Sure, but a quiet reading of the facts would posit that A) we're not in Iran B) Obama's popular margin was relatively narrow C) Bush went to war to 1) fight terrorism and 2) prevent the spread of WMD's and D) Bush didn't actually blow up the buildings in any but the most greatest theoretical stretch that posits that as the most powerful political leader on the Earth, he is in fact responsible for everything that happens. So while I can 'feel' him, he's kinda oh for four on political points.
Vinnie Paz uses the same level of research and reflection in his propagation of the Muslim faith that he does for his political points. My favorite is
I'm fast like Ramadan with a knife drawn
which utilizes some cool multi-syllabic internal rhyme while simultaneously making Vinnie seem hardcore and blissfully ignoring the spiritual importance of one of the five pillars of his faith. It's like he converted just to have an excuse to talk about killing people. Which is cool- 90% of rap is about killing someone, so it's not my place to hold that against him. But it's somewhat duplicitous to rep the virtues of Iranian Mullah's and then turn around and decry America's materialism because it hurts people. It's like he consistently failed the test they made you take when you're younger where you pick the thing that doesn't belong, and as a result has been taking out his frustration at his handicap by shoving it in his listeners brains ever since.
On a one to five scale, I rate this a purple light-saber. There's only one of them in the world- no one else sounds like JMT, even if they wanted to. But the logical fallacies and the predictive rapping pattern lead me to believe someone was culled before they could join the typical green-blue-Luke pattern that a typical padawan experiences, but because their mother was really close to someone important, they weren't kicked out, merely relegated to the lesser ranks of the metachlorian-enhanced who will one day grow up to pilot small hovercraft whose job is to clean things because they can't be entrusted with anything more important. That said, between their legitimately impressive baselines and their distinctive choice of subject matter (and because Vinnie really does sound that good, he could read Doctor Seuss and make it sound like he's about to throw down) they still bring a solid and notable album. I just wish Vinnie would actually read a book about politics or Islam.
Or, really, just learn to read probably.
That said, JMT's producer deserves some type of 100% automatic auto-erotic asphyxiation machine for being such a badass beat-maker. The tracks are universally rich, layered, and textured. 'Heavy as a Melody' is dark, constructed with the delicate sound of bells, slow drums , and an oddly unnerving hum/machine-revving in the background. 'Trail of Lies' includes all sections of the orchestra (including the oft-overlooked 'chimes') to underscore the frail subject matter of young impressionable girls. Even the interlude 'Those with No Eyes' combines a skittish, desperate oboe, and an overplayed operatic sample over the high-minded spoken word text. The overall effect is subtle, but outstanding.
Which contrasts greatly with half of JMT's lyricists, who are about as subtle as a dangling condom lazily hanging out of a dance-floor skank's vagina. 'Jus Allah's technique is to say a bunch of nouns and/or adjective-clauses that rhyme. Which is cool for a while, but after a certain point... I mean, sentences were designed to have predicates for a reason. An example of 'Jus Allah's bludgeoning poetry:
I'm sand and stone, I stand alone
I'm a candle blown, I've hands of bone
I'm smart and old, I'm dark and cold
I've a pawn shop of parts, I've a heart of bold
I'm a heartless soul, Is my heart bestowed
Death to all, let the closest star explode
The better half of the other half of JMT's lyrical duo, Vinnie Paz, gets a bye on his stylistic integrity. His pace is monotonous and he has an atrocious reliance on end-rhyme, but he uses enough literary techniques that it makes it look like he's trying. And most of all, the heaven's above blessed him with a voice reminiscent of an avalanche of gravel, if said gravel came wrapped in a box that reminded you of the fat Italian enforcers used in mob-spoof films. He also gets a couple of solid lines thrown in there every once and a while. On 'Trail of Lies', a song about the disillusionment of young women by the fashion/entertainment industry, he references starlets with,
Ninety-pound skinny bitches, that ain't even girl to me
and
And what's gonna become of 'em in like fifty years
When Hannah Montana turnin into Britney Spears
The problem though, is that there's a limit to the credit I'm willing to extend to Mr. Paz for his heartfelt political, social and spiritual ruminations. For starters, let's look at this quote we have from 'Butcher Knife Bloodbath':
Why we in Iran if all that we want is Osama
Why we in the jam if all that we want is Obama
Bush had you thinkin we at war cuz he asked God
Then blew up to fucking buildings in our backyard
Is he saying something construed as political? Sure, but a quiet reading of the facts would posit that A) we're not in Iran B) Obama's popular margin was relatively narrow C) Bush went to war to 1) fight terrorism and 2) prevent the spread of WMD's and D) Bush didn't actually blow up the buildings in any but the most greatest theoretical stretch that posits that as the most powerful political leader on the Earth, he is in fact responsible for everything that happens. So while I can 'feel' him, he's kinda oh for four on political points.
Vinnie Paz uses the same level of research and reflection in his propagation of the Muslim faith that he does for his political points. My favorite is
I'm fast like Ramadan with a knife drawn
which utilizes some cool multi-syllabic internal rhyme while simultaneously making Vinnie seem hardcore and blissfully ignoring the spiritual importance of one of the five pillars of his faith. It's like he converted just to have an excuse to talk about killing people. Which is cool- 90% of rap is about killing someone, so it's not my place to hold that against him. But it's somewhat duplicitous to rep the virtues of Iranian Mullah's and then turn around and decry America's materialism because it hurts people. It's like he consistently failed the test they made you take when you're younger where you pick the thing that doesn't belong, and as a result has been taking out his frustration at his handicap by shoving it in his listeners brains ever since.
On a one to five scale, I rate this a purple light-saber. There's only one of them in the world- no one else sounds like JMT, even if they wanted to. But the logical fallacies and the predictive rapping pattern lead me to believe someone was culled before they could join the typical green-blue-Luke pattern that a typical padawan experiences, but because their mother was really close to someone important, they weren't kicked out, merely relegated to the lesser ranks of the metachlorian-enhanced who will one day grow up to pilot small hovercraft whose job is to clean things because they can't be entrusted with anything more important. That said, between their legitimately impressive baselines and their distinctive choice of subject matter (and because Vinnie really does sound that good, he could read Doctor Seuss and make it sound like he's about to throw down) they still bring a solid and notable album. I just wish Vinnie would actually read a book about politics or Islam.
Or, really, just learn to read probably.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Burninating the 3rd Coast
Chamillionaire’s ‘Man on Fire’ is an inspiring, episodic ballad detailing an eponymous rags-to-riches journey and the motivations empowering the ambitious titular character. Crushing and commanding vocals are laid down over the streamlined beats of DJ Smalls, no featherweight himself. The only thing more amazing than the velocity and power of this tour-de-force is its autobiographical nature. Chamillionaire truly has lived the life of the downtrodden and yet still managed to bootstrap himself to a glittering reality of guns, women, weed, and mix tapes the rest of us can only dream about.
That’s what I’d be saying if I hadn’t heard the album. Also, if I wrote for The Source.
'Man on Fire' is somewhat of an awkward call, because it’s less about the album and more about the audience’s willingness to suspend their disbelief that rappers are, in fact, making art that is supposed to either mean something, say something, or have some form of artistic merit even if it’s just comedic hyperbole. As it is, Chamillionaire’s ‘Man-on-Fire’ is just kinda fun to listen to as you’re stuck in I-10 traffic during rush-hour, which, much like happy hour, seems to have annexed that space of time between dawn and tomorrow-at-dawn. If the TXDOT would relax its standards and let the two meet, and I could finally sell liquor off a motorcycle as I swerve through, around, and over traffic in a go-go-gadgetcycle-type-gig I swear to God I’d be a millionaire tomorrow.
Or maybe a ‘Chamillionaire’.
Man-on-Fire’s unspectacularness starts from the ground-up. DJ Smalls (‘cuz ‘Biggie’ was taken?) hypes himself as the most notorious DJ in the South, which probably has more to do with the fact that he’s a master of self-promotion and still can’t get respect on either other coast, but even so, the vast majorities of his beats could have been easily replaced by three buttons on a drum machine. Throw in a two instrument track from Audition and a sample from a 70’s hit and you’re in business. There’s some deviation from this formula (self-aggrandizing plugs, mostly), but it’s fairly faithful to the design. I’d go so far as to say a monkey could do it, but I wouldn’t, because only tattoo-sporting Aryan racists compare black people to monkeys.
You’d be tempted to think ‘well, if the DJ-ing isn’t spectacular, then it won’t steal from the powerful and poignant lyricism of the songs’ if by ‘powerful and poignant lyricism’ you’re referring to brilliant choruses like:
“I hear you talking that talk
I heard you was talking ‘bout me
Soon as I ask who you ‘talkin to
You reply with all it’s not me”
Dude. Rhyming ‘Me’ with ‘Me’. That’s genius.
With certain exceptions, Chamillionaire’s written words leave a certain je ne sais quoi to be desired. And by ‘je ne sais quoi’, I mean thought and/or originality. There’s one thing for developing a motif in your work. I think the rap game is a little beyond the thematic virtues of shooting unregistered pistols at your enemies and making a shitload of money tax free by selling mix tapes out the back of your ’95 Pontiac Sunfire, though.
If his lyrics are judged and found wanting (and they are), his delivery is to be admired. It’s basic, but not only can I understand what he’s saying (in that his pronunciation of English words is intelligible) even if I don’t necessarily ‘feel him’, his delivery is charismatic and inclusive. Even when he’s literally telling me he’s better than me, he does it with an authority and confidence that’s really attractive. And every once in a while, he’ll throw some quotables that are hilarious;
“What do you know ‘bout a deal with a bigger cut?
Bringin money in on some wheelbarrows, fill’em up!”
Or
“You get property, you better watch for me
‘Cuz I’ll buy that land that you livin on
And sell it right back to ya like monopoly!”
Chamillionaire’s style rarely travels far from a repetitive 4/4 cadence. That said, his headline tracks ‘Realest Nigga In It’ and ‘The Truth Is Back’ (though ‘Where it Went’ and ‘Did It Have A Nice Time There’ remain undisclosed) involve a lot of metric diversity. Also deserving of note are the guest-stars who really shine, perhaps because of, not in spite of, only being on the CD for eight bars or less. In fact, my favorite line comes from ‘Lil Scrappy:
“And my nigga George Bush wanna thow me to slavery”.
I didn’t just LOL. I came.
Also, the line doesn’t make any more sense in context. It doesn’t even rhyme.
On a 1-5 scale, I’m gonna rank Man-on-Fire ‘Thowed’. The overall effect is above mediocre, and the albums legitimately fun to listen to. I hate critics who get their panties in a bunch when artists don’t bend over sideways and slobberjaw their favorite fetish, but at the same time, ‘Man on Fire’ doesn’t really bring anything new to the table. Chamillionaire’s album is a commodity hyped by an insanely over-aggressive sales pitch and probably one of the most shameless displays of self-promotion I’ve ever seen.
And by ‘Shameless displays of self-promotion’, I mean Chamillionaire has twice as many MySpace friends as Jesus, thus proving the ability to turn water to wine makes you less popular than the ability to sell a cd of solid crap like it's made of gold.
That’s what I’d be saying if I hadn’t heard the album. Also, if I wrote for The Source.
'Man on Fire' is somewhat of an awkward call, because it’s less about the album and more about the audience’s willingness to suspend their disbelief that rappers are, in fact, making art that is supposed to either mean something, say something, or have some form of artistic merit even if it’s just comedic hyperbole. As it is, Chamillionaire’s ‘Man-on-Fire’ is just kinda fun to listen to as you’re stuck in I-10 traffic during rush-hour, which, much like happy hour, seems to have annexed that space of time between dawn and tomorrow-at-dawn. If the TXDOT would relax its standards and let the two meet, and I could finally sell liquor off a motorcycle as I swerve through, around, and over traffic in a go-go-gadgetcycle-type-gig I swear to God I’d be a millionaire tomorrow.
Or maybe a ‘Chamillionaire’.
Man-on-Fire’s unspectacularness starts from the ground-up. DJ Smalls (‘cuz ‘Biggie’ was taken?) hypes himself as the most notorious DJ in the South, which probably has more to do with the fact that he’s a master of self-promotion and still can’t get respect on either other coast, but even so, the vast majorities of his beats could have been easily replaced by three buttons on a drum machine. Throw in a two instrument track from Audition and a sample from a 70’s hit and you’re in business. There’s some deviation from this formula (self-aggrandizing plugs, mostly), but it’s fairly faithful to the design. I’d go so far as to say a monkey could do it, but I wouldn’t, because only tattoo-sporting Aryan racists compare black people to monkeys.
You’d be tempted to think ‘well, if the DJ-ing isn’t spectacular, then it won’t steal from the powerful and poignant lyricism of the songs’ if by ‘powerful and poignant lyricism’ you’re referring to brilliant choruses like:
“I hear you talking that talk
I heard you was talking ‘bout me
Soon as I ask who you ‘talkin to
You reply with all it’s not me”
Dude. Rhyming ‘Me’ with ‘Me’. That’s genius.
With certain exceptions, Chamillionaire’s written words leave a certain je ne sais quoi to be desired. And by ‘je ne sais quoi’, I mean thought and/or originality. There’s one thing for developing a motif in your work. I think the rap game is a little beyond the thematic virtues of shooting unregistered pistols at your enemies and making a shitload of money tax free by selling mix tapes out the back of your ’95 Pontiac Sunfire, though.
If his lyrics are judged and found wanting (and they are), his delivery is to be admired. It’s basic, but not only can I understand what he’s saying (in that his pronunciation of English words is intelligible) even if I don’t necessarily ‘feel him’, his delivery is charismatic and inclusive. Even when he’s literally telling me he’s better than me, he does it with an authority and confidence that’s really attractive. And every once in a while, he’ll throw some quotables that are hilarious;
“What do you know ‘bout a deal with a bigger cut?
Bringin money in on some wheelbarrows, fill’em up!”
Or
“You get property, you better watch for me
‘Cuz I’ll buy that land that you livin on
And sell it right back to ya like monopoly!”
Chamillionaire’s style rarely travels far from a repetitive 4/4 cadence. That said, his headline tracks ‘Realest Nigga In It’ and ‘The Truth Is Back’ (though ‘Where it Went’ and ‘Did It Have A Nice Time There’ remain undisclosed) involve a lot of metric diversity. Also deserving of note are the guest-stars who really shine, perhaps because of, not in spite of, only being on the CD for eight bars or less. In fact, my favorite line comes from ‘Lil Scrappy:
“And my nigga George Bush wanna thow me to slavery”.
I didn’t just LOL. I came.
Also, the line doesn’t make any more sense in context. It doesn’t even rhyme.
On a 1-5 scale, I’m gonna rank Man-on-Fire ‘Thowed’. The overall effect is above mediocre, and the albums legitimately fun to listen to. I hate critics who get their panties in a bunch when artists don’t bend over sideways and slobberjaw their favorite fetish, but at the same time, ‘Man on Fire’ doesn’t really bring anything new to the table. Chamillionaire’s album is a commodity hyped by an insanely over-aggressive sales pitch and probably one of the most shameless displays of self-promotion I’ve ever seen.
And by ‘Shameless displays of self-promotion’, I mean Chamillionaire has twice as many MySpace friends as Jesus, thus proving the ability to turn water to wine makes you less popular than the ability to sell a cd of solid crap like it's made of gold.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Testing? One, Two...
Today’s review cover’s Aesop Rock’s None Shall Pass. It’s a tricky one- Ace Rock requires the wit of Conan O’Brien, the vocabulary of Toni Morrison, and a peculiar fixation on death, drugs, and the nerd culture of the 80’s and early 90’s to truly appreciate, which makes it difficult to believe he’s got an audience at all. The only people that fit that description would be me and maybe some hipster kids at NYU.
This is my favorite CD of the Ace Rock collection, for a couple of reasons. Over half the songs have both an engine and a steering wheel- there’s energy and drive and push that doesn’t fall into the typical Ace Rock mental masturbation trap like he's taking your brain and rubbing it erogenously between two pads of firm tofu until you drip milky lymph in forced satisfaction. ‘Keep off the lawn’, ‘Catacomb Kids’, and ‘Citronella’ have a pounding and unforgiving baseline that push the song until its caustic conclusion. They end with a punch, too, unlike the current practice of alerting the audience the song is over by abruptly shutting your mouth and letting the instrumental hang out on the corner smoking a cigarette alone for a couple of bars before it too disappears from the scene and heads inside for a couple of beers.
However, despite it’s hooves, stirrups, and curiously heavy testicles made out of fuzzy dice, this horse-drawn stagecoach suffers from the same problem Aesop intentionally loads into all his mind-splooging work; sure it sounds good, but what the fuck does it mean? Take this excerpt from ‘Citronella’, for instance:
No harps, no delusions of losing with something prettier
Than ash around the metacarpal still clutching the teddy bears
But we can run with scissors through the city fair
Or situate the nuzzle with the subtle art of splitting hairs!
Hands down, it sounds badass. Badder than baddass. Like, ‘badass’ affixed with twelve extra S’s. But while I can find nouns, verbs, and objects, I’m still looking for the cohesive thought I was taught back in grammar school flits in between the words of every sentence not penned by Faulkner or Joyce.
What highlights his incredibly simultaneously confusing and yet almost maddeningly-near-enlightening work is that the few moments of lucidity are almost embarrassingly cogent. ‘The Harbor is Yours’ involves nautical jargon alongside a modern fable that marries the fantastical with gritty realism (This dude either got two glass eyes or he’s wearing his patch on the wrong side!). ‘Fumes’ made me stop in my tracks once I realized he was telling a story in a language that wasn’t lost when the tower of Babylon fell. His punch lines are taut, the suspense is delicately built and no conclusions are drawn on behalf of the listener. Ace condenses an O’Henry novel into 32 lines. For that, he deserves the five dollars it would have cost me to get my middle-school homeboy to burn it for me way back when.
I really, really want to hate on Ace because he talks so much, so well, with so many adjectives, and yet remains so incredibly difficult to understand. But judging from his vague digressions into a more plebian mode of storytelling (THIS happened, and then THIS happened, and then THIS happened), I’m guessing this aspect of his style is more feature than bug. Go figure.
What I do hate are his music videos. Both ‘None Shall Pass’ and 'Coffee’ entail badass, new-wave digital shooting techniques that have more in common with Tool’s cinematography than the rest of the hip-hop genre.
That’s not nearly as wonderful as it sounds.
Though novel and different, they don’t hold your attention, don’t elucidate the song’s arc, and often confuse the listener. Because I saw the videos before I listened to the songs by themselves, I skipped over both songs in rotation until I couldn't anymore. It was great afterwards. The video just ruined it for me.
My official ranking of this album is that of crunchy peanut-butter mixed with honey, oats, and sweet cream. Listen too much and you’ll go blind and lose a leg from diabeetus, thus preventing you from doing more than drag your flat, useless carcass towards the sound and smell of day old road kill for sustenance. And yet, it’s a delightfully homey snack nonetheless. Pick up the CD, and learn a couple phrases – use them to impress hot chicks with fiery hair and mean tattoos that only go home with a particular clan of hipsters. Convince her you’re from another tribe, whose music is far superior to anything she’s ever heard precisely because she’s never heard it.
Wait for it.
Wait for it.
BOOM! Make out.
This is my favorite CD of the Ace Rock collection, for a couple of reasons. Over half the songs have both an engine and a steering wheel- there’s energy and drive and push that doesn’t fall into the typical Ace Rock mental masturbation trap like he's taking your brain and rubbing it erogenously between two pads of firm tofu until you drip milky lymph in forced satisfaction. ‘Keep off the lawn’, ‘Catacomb Kids’, and ‘Citronella’ have a pounding and unforgiving baseline that push the song until its caustic conclusion. They end with a punch, too, unlike the current practice of alerting the audience the song is over by abruptly shutting your mouth and letting the instrumental hang out on the corner smoking a cigarette alone for a couple of bars before it too disappears from the scene and heads inside for a couple of beers.
However, despite it’s hooves, stirrups, and curiously heavy testicles made out of fuzzy dice, this horse-drawn stagecoach suffers from the same problem Aesop intentionally loads into all his mind-splooging work; sure it sounds good, but what the fuck does it mean? Take this excerpt from ‘Citronella’, for instance:
No harps, no delusions of losing with something prettier
Than ash around the metacarpal still clutching the teddy bears
But we can run with scissors through the city fair
Or situate the nuzzle with the subtle art of splitting hairs!
Hands down, it sounds badass. Badder than baddass. Like, ‘badass’ affixed with twelve extra S’s. But while I can find nouns, verbs, and objects, I’m still looking for the cohesive thought I was taught back in grammar school flits in between the words of every sentence not penned by Faulkner or Joyce.
What highlights his incredibly simultaneously confusing and yet almost maddeningly-near-enlightening work is that the few moments of lucidity are almost embarrassingly cogent. ‘The Harbor is Yours’ involves nautical jargon alongside a modern fable that marries the fantastical with gritty realism (This dude either got two glass eyes or he’s wearing his patch on the wrong side!). ‘Fumes’ made me stop in my tracks once I realized he was telling a story in a language that wasn’t lost when the tower of Babylon fell. His punch lines are taut, the suspense is delicately built and no conclusions are drawn on behalf of the listener. Ace condenses an O’Henry novel into 32 lines. For that, he deserves the five dollars it would have cost me to get my middle-school homeboy to burn it for me way back when.
I really, really want to hate on Ace because he talks so much, so well, with so many adjectives, and yet remains so incredibly difficult to understand. But judging from his vague digressions into a more plebian mode of storytelling (THIS happened, and then THIS happened, and then THIS happened), I’m guessing this aspect of his style is more feature than bug. Go figure.
What I do hate are his music videos. Both ‘None Shall Pass’ and 'Coffee’ entail badass, new-wave digital shooting techniques that have more in common with Tool’s cinematography than the rest of the hip-hop genre.
That’s not nearly as wonderful as it sounds.
Though novel and different, they don’t hold your attention, don’t elucidate the song’s arc, and often confuse the listener. Because I saw the videos before I listened to the songs by themselves, I skipped over both songs in rotation until I couldn't anymore. It was great afterwards. The video just ruined it for me.
My official ranking of this album is that of crunchy peanut-butter mixed with honey, oats, and sweet cream. Listen too much and you’ll go blind and lose a leg from diabeetus, thus preventing you from doing more than drag your flat, useless carcass towards the sound and smell of day old road kill for sustenance. And yet, it’s a delightfully homey snack nonetheless. Pick up the CD, and learn a couple phrases – use them to impress hot chicks with fiery hair and mean tattoos that only go home with a particular clan of hipsters. Convince her you’re from another tribe, whose music is far superior to anything she’s ever heard precisely because she’s never heard it.
Wait for it.
Wait for it.
BOOM! Make out.
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