LegLegArmArmHead

Dr. Dre and Minimalism

2011-06-05T19:46:00.001-07:00

THE CHIEF ARCHITECT OF GANGSTA RAP (2009) 11:11, by Ilja Karilampi from AK☮NW☐RLD on Vimeo.

Who the hell planned Queens?

2010-12-14T11:16:00.000-08:00

View Larger Map

You've got:
60th Ave
60th Road
60th Place
60th Drive
60th Street
60th Lane

All in the same area, intersecting all over each other in a three-block-radius clusterfuck. WHAT? Whoever planned this was insane. Or really funny.

Betty Butter Better Rappers

2010-09-30T14:44:00.000-07:00

Been listening to Sit Down, Man quite a bit, and thinking about how quickly Das Racist's rapping skills have improved, but the reasons they rap have stayed true to their roots. There's a joy to linking completely different imagery in our heads, like some fast-paced visual essay proving mostly that there's an atmosphere of links that exist out there. Are they the collection of a million picture blogs and pop culture translated into english/spanglish/hindish quick quip smart man joke rap, but now for serious? I think so, and I think they're killin' it.

3rd verse:

Yeah, figs on the table call me Mabel Dodge Luhan,

Two man in Peggy Noonan's booty with Bruce Banner while Anne Coulter rocks her shit out with two hands, who down?

Insane brown posse solo dudes, Apollo Ohnos grow-homo soul patch it's so cool. Yo fool, rate yourself for your pro tools plus your fruity loops.

New dance, do the booty droop. Onto the next one, now do the booty scoop, do the booty up, do the booty ooty alley-oop, scooby dooby doo, I'm at Bally's so my fanny's cute.

I'm my own identical cousin, just call me Patty Duke, I'm stunnin' like my daddy do

Thug life right above my natty ice tatty too. - heh, stupid

Also of note: bits of Donkey Kong sound effects in the beat.

The Town was actually pretty good

2010-09-24T11:25:00.000-07:00

I saw The Town starring Ben Afflleck and Jon Hamm and I have to say, it was actually pretty good.

You Only Act Hard In Your Backyard [ALBUM REVIEW]

2010-09-14T08:11:00.000-07:00

As a young'un I was drawn to good beats. For me, that's what made a rap song- if the beat went hard, I could care less what the MC was saying, long as the shit rhymed. The Black Album was my holy grail, stuffed with bombastic, hard-knocking production that perfectly overwhelmed an aging Jay-Z caught in the throes of a mid-career crisis.

Since then, the role of producers has only become more prominent in the rap game. If you listen to mainstream radio, you're going to hear names like No I.D., J.U.S.T.I.C.E League, and of course Swizz Beats, and musicians with little or no rhyming talent. These big-name producers get mentioned in track titles with the same import as featured artists. It's no longer "Rick Ross feat. Jay-Z," it's "Rick Ross feat. Jay-Z, Prod. The Incredibles." (btw, if you don't know the song Free Mason yet, it's a masterpiece, and a sterling example of how production can really catapult a song). Artists like Ricky Ross and Big Boi are gaining critical acclaim for their ability to choose beats, as much as they are their flow, rhymes, originality, etc...

Parallel to the rising prominence of producers has been my own development as a listener. Since my Black Album days, I've grown to respect good rhymes as much as good beats, and no longer see myself as a young kid easily influenced by a thumping bass drum. But in all my years as a listener, I don't think I've ever known production to truly influence a rapper's own talent. That is, in "Free Mason," Rick Ross is matched perfectly to a beat, but he's still Rick Ross, and rapping like Rick Ross. Even some of the great rapper-producer combos, like Doom and Madlib, are nevertheless complimentary acts, musicians that support each other. What you don't hear that often though, is beats that actively change rappers, that influence them to become something entirely different. That is, until I head In Search of Stoney Jackson.

Strong Arm Steady's In Search of Stoney Jackson, produced entirely by Madlib, is evidence that some production is too crafty to be reckoned with on a rapper's own terms. These are beats that demand a new style from their prospective MCs. They are slippery and loose with deep thumping grooves buried in the nether-regions of audibility, or obscure wind-chime samples thrown over pure funk bass-lines. These beats are a treasure.

And on Stoney Jackson, Strong Arm Steady seems up to the task. Strong Arm is a a West Coast coalition organized by Xzibit, and composed of Krondon, Phil the Agony, and Mitchy Slick. Until I heard this album, I was unfamiliar with most of these guys, but after youtubing around and listening to their solo acts for long enough I found that as rappers, well, they're OK. That is, they're certainly not doing anything starkly original, and they really haven't made names for themselves. But somehow, on Stoney Jackson, they come off as prodigious, wisecracking poets, who seem to nobly disobey standards of meter and rhyme in a search for rap enlightenment. Despite rapping about girls and weed and often other tired subjects, they come off as remarkable young hooligans.

And if you ask me, it can only be thanks to Madlib's inspired production, which I think is forcing these guys to be better than average. It's that good. It's like a rhythm section that won't let the trumpeter get away with another tired solo. They're saying, "you have to do better." In this case, the players have responded with glee, and it makes for great listening.

William Cosby sweaters, there's only one thing better than cheddar, if life is a puzzle, I put it together. I'm like DMC, my Run Tougher Than Leather, I come from an era of golf hats, ball caps, pimp hats with feathers, plaid slacks with the button-up jackets to match. I blast at any knucklehead fucking with rap, I gotta chuckle at that. Rap black belt motherfucker but the buckle is back. Pro-rap, what you wanna do? Nothing with that, you suck like a hoe on Figaroa, you wack. Niggas know it and they talk to your back, behind closed doors and get a good laugh. Your name ain't Seinfield if you black. My clientele sell more than the crack that Reagan let in. Fuck your Meagan Good friend at the Holiday Inn. She look like her twin.

Searching for a code

2010-07-16T16:05:00.000-07:00

Boats*Cars*Dollars*Girls*Helicopters*Jewellery*Skylines from Thomas Traum on Vimeo.

Thomas Traum searches for the definitive genre of hip hop music video.

Not Enough Time on Our Hands

2010-07-12T14:38:00.000-07:00

Thinking about what Lil' Wayne might be doing right about now.

This Age of Information Has Hurt The (Human) Race

2010-05-26T22:52:00.001-07:00

these guyz r getting better

2010-05-13T11:08:00.000-07:00

Das Racist- Speaking in Tongues

A New World Border

2010-05-05T18:47:00.000-07:00

I don't have much to say about this right now. It needs to play out over time, and I'm not trying to jump too many guns. Suffice to say, in light of the idiocy playing out in the Arizona state legislature, the Phoenix Suns basketball franchise has gone and done something rare. Tonight, they're wearing their Los Suns jerseys to "support the Hispanic community," and implicitly protest the new law. This is a big deal, not just because it's an example of athletes using their access to publicity to make a political statement, but also because sports are supposedly the the beating heart of mainstream, conservative America. I hope that this act of protest forces the guy watching TV with the shotgun in his lap to reconsider.

Also, maybe this is can be an impetus for us "intellectual fans" to start reconfiguring the idea of sports as merely the docile product of capitalism and traditional ideologies of gender, race, class, etc...

GO SUNS!

Sorry to open this can of worms again, but...

2010-05-05T09:22:00.000-07:00

Beyonce Page is back. Rage on, debate, rage on.

"Why Don't You Love Me" - Beyoncé from Beyoncé on Vimeo.

Whippin My Mama Volvo

2010-04-27T15:24:00.000-07:00

We got two volvo wagons in our driveway, so I figured I'd throw this one up. The video is shot in Ballard - a pretty white, middle class neighborhood in Seattle that Grynch and myself live in. Dude is actually a pretty-well established rapper in the Seattle, especially for a dude who looks 14 years old. He's made a name for himself by completely embracing the fact that he's a really average white guy who raps and doesn't bullshit on his verses. Thankfully, Grynch lacks that malady that seems to plague a vast majority of underground rappers, causing them to rap about richer rappers, why hip hop is dead, and why they should get a record deal instead of actually fucking saying anything. Whether or not you like the song, think it's corny or funny or dope, (and I can't even make up my mind myself) take a minute to respect the fact that this man honestly earnestly loves his fucking Volvo. There's no irony involved in this shit. Whether you like or not, it's real, and that's why you have a lot of people in the Seattle hip-hop community who are from completely different (i.e. ethnically diverse, poor, South-end) backgrounds than Grynch showing him respect. Plus the video looks good for a low-budget affair.

Along Came A Spider

2010-04-21T10:21:00.000-07:00

Director/actor/stuntman Nash Edgerton's new movie The Square is getting love from the film blogs I've read. I haven't seen the thing so I can't endorse it but I DO endorse this short he made. It's only nine minutes of your time, so take a look:

The Next Masterpiece of American Culture

2010-04-19T08:37:00.000-07:00

I wish I could put into words how fascinated/disgusted I am with this idea. Essentially, a normal dude diligently eats his way through the frozen food aisle, making sure he sticks to the highest possible standards of journalism. I bring you Freezer Burns

Lax On, Lax Off

2010-04-11T14:43:00.000-07:00

Gentlemen, practice is tonight @ 8pm on the turf field. Brose bowl is back.

Also, I would like to pay tribute to a fallen teammate, friend, and fellow alcoholic Justin "Bromaster". At rugby practice yesterday Justin broke his tibia, some other bone, and tore 3 ligaments in his ankle. He is due to go into surgery around now, and we wish him a quick and complete recovery from this tragic laxident. Obviously he won't be playing for the rest of the season. Let's stay after it, so we may say that he did not lax in vain, but for a more noble cause, the defense of our 5th amendment right, "the right to remain violent" on the field and our 3rd amendment right, "the right to show arms" on the hill.

God Bless America and no place else.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gentlemen, one of the most difficult tasks facing a laxer is the choice of a Sunday morning spoon. Yes, on and off the field you are always expected to carry yourself with a certain swagger. Yes, even if you can't catch and pass you still might get some undeserved lax cred for selecting from a portfolio of neons. But certain colors, like neon green mesh with purple shooting strings, might just be the feather that broke your hangover's back when you are reminded of all the green jello shots and purple haze you smoked last night. In fact, I dare say I recommend the old school approach to the Sunday morning spoon... possibly a full wood stick with a traditional pocket. Who are you kidding, you probably won't be able to catch and pass in between spews, so you might as well fuck up someone else's day with 10 pounds of American history.

Anyways, Freeman Center at noon. Bring your jersey if you walked off with it after the game.

Love,

Gary

Dream come true

2010-03-10T22:33:00.001-08:00

US officials are investigating after a child was apparently allowed to direct planes at New York's JFK airport.

An air traffic controller thought it would be funny to let his kid come to work and play around at one of the busiest airports in the country. They figured this out after listening to a tape of the child giving directions to pilots. Some excerpts follow.

In an exchange, the child says: "MS 4-0-3, contact departure," and then adds: "Adios, amigo." The pilot responds: "Adios, amigo." [!!!]

His father is later heard saying with a laugh: "That's what you get, guys, when the kids are out of school."

In one exchange, the boy is heard saying: "JetBlue 171 contact departure." The pilot responds: "Over to departure JetBlue 171, awesome job."

Now, this sounds like the coolest thing for any little kid. Actually getting to do this is one thing, but then to be told that you're doing "an awesome job" from a real pilot is totally insanely sweet. But when an adult does the same job, they get little in the way of congratulations. This brings us to a larger issue, which is the fact that all of these pilots on the tape appear to be completely fine with a child giving them directions. They encourage him. This is completely awesome on their parts, and it keeps me thinking that all pilots are inherently badass and cool as cucumbers. And this is at what you might think is a stressful place for a plane to extricate itself from. Whenever I go there I'm stressed out so why aren't these pilots? Do we really need to be so controlled and felt up and patted down and tensed up? The pilots seem totally fine, even when a child comes on the line. They're just chilling. But that's a whole different issue than what I'm trying to raise here. Air traffic controllers are a valuable position, but who really wants to be them? Kids.

Perhaps you've read Ender's Game, dear reader. Now, imagine a world in which children were not maligned and prevented from fulfilling the jobs they wanted merely because of their small stature, tinkling voices and small vocabularies. Wouldn't it be so rad if the little persons were allowed at least, like, ONE thing they really wanted to do? Perhaps children really could do an awesome job at being air traffic controllers. I for one hope that this starts a long line of professional jobs held by minors.

Source

Picture Show

2010-03-09T00:20:00.000-08:00

Shameless self-promotion. Nothing at all like my thesis, but I did make this movie last year. If you haven't seen it yet, go head:

One Two Three from Sam Jones on Vimeo.

Still Wuthering Heights, Still Not Brontë

2010-03-05T13:16:00.000-08:00

The White Dress version. Sometimes lighting strikes twice.

I'm Not Showing Off...

2010-03-01T21:42:00.000-08:00

I'm playing basketball!

This scene defined my childhood.

Paradigm Shift!

2010-02-23T21:12:00.000-08:00

Out on the wiley, windy moors
We'd roll and fall in green
You had a temper, like my jealousy
Too hot, too greedy
How could you leave me?
When I needed to possess you?
I hated you, I loved you too

Bad dreams in the night
They told me I was going to lose the fight
Leave behind my wuthering, wuthering
Wuthering Heights

(Chorus) Heathcliff, its me, Cathy come home
I'm so cold, let me in-a-your window

Oh it gets dark, it gets lonely
On the other side from you
I pine alot, I find the lot
Falls through without you
I'm coming back love, cruel Heathcliff
My one dream, my only master

Too long I roam in the night
I'm coming back to his side to put it right
I'm coming home to wuthering, wuthering,
Wuthering Heights

(Chorus)
Oh let me have it, let me grab your soul away
Oh let me have it, let me grab your soul away
You know it's me, Cathy
(Chorus)

A Leg Up

2010-02-21T16:52:00.001-08:00

This blog is a lot of things, but I never expected that it would become what it has. This post is about just that: the unexpected creation of reality.

A few months ago, I posted about Tetris, one of my favorite games. Now, I'm not one for re-runs, but that post got me thinking about the viability of writing about Tetris in an academic setting. Due to the connections I drew to Confucian ideology of ritual and instinct, I pitched it to my philosophy professor and in the end wrote about this very issue for my final research paper in Confucianism and Virtue Ethics this past semester.

This is as much about the willingness of my professor to allow such a discussion take place, but because of the time I had spent composing my thoughts into writing on this blog, it made it easy to pitch this as a meaningful analogy and literal example of Confucian ritual. Because it was about something I care about deeply, the paper was engrossing to write and I think it turned out pretty well. There has actually been some scientific studies on the effects of Tetris linking it to brain development, specifically thickening the cerebral cortex. It's even been intimated as a "cognitive vaccine" for post-traumatic stress disorder. I would never have discovered this had I not been able to dip my toes in the waters of this blog.

Now, there's a lot of writing going on here at LegLeg, much of it is incredibly relevant to what's going on in popular culture, and it could very well serve as a jumping off point for further more "legitimate" forms of written work. This is the proof. What began one night as a kind of jest has become a consistent launching pad and work space for thoughts rendered from the impenetrable granite that is the internet. It makes me think about what a blog is for, really. College students spend so much time thinking about what other people think, getting trained to think quicker, more broadly, more specifically, and with confidence. Is a blog in this context about escaping from the framework of imposed subjects in order to apply our new cerebral methodologies to what we want to think about?

Or maybe we're learning more from this forum than we think, and it's fueling thoughts that might not have coalesced had we not taken this opportunity to say whats up. In any case, I'm just expressing my gratitude to the series of tubes that we call home, it's given me a leg up.

Wolfman

2010-02-20T13:38:00.000-08:00

My dude Lucas over at Thoughts From The Wolf just finished an epic piece on the state of racial politics in America today. Among other things, he discusses the white middle class's love of hip hop, Michael Moore as a "White Nationalist," and the Tea Party movement. Read it, it's worth your time.

kill too hard

2010-02-15T22:52:00.000-08:00

Lil' Wayne is going to be in jail soon. He's going to be out of our lives for a long time, and we need to think about that.

I believe in the metaphor "spreading yourself too thin." I think it can be a real thing, overextension to the point where the ends no longer justify the means, or where quality of the product suffers at the hands of overproduction. And that's the metaphor people have been tossing around in regards to Wayne, Lil'. Whether it's his involvement in rock and roll, or his constant outpouring of verses and obscure features, people are saying that dude has gone too far, lost the talent that put him on the map in the first place. That he needs to slowwwww downnnnnnn.

So let's dig in to this metaphor a little bit, "spreading yourself too thin." The implication being that rapping/making music is like "spreading," that one has a limited amount of butter, or art, to spread with, and if they choose a piece of toast too big, they'll be wasting their skills. Okay. So the toast is ambition, the butter is artwork or music, and the act of creation is not unlike labor. That all makes sense to me. But in regards to Weezy F. Baby, this conceals the truth. It implies that the butter is an object outside of the artist, an external, material rendering of his talent that is then packaged and sold to the consumer on the basis of taste. Furthermore, it implies that the artist has chosen to enter into relations with his field in the same way one might choose a summer job. That is, he wakes up in the morning and decides to get the butter out of the fridge.

The problem is that we can't talk about Lil' Wayne in a conventional way, with conventional phrases like "spread too thin." We must recognize that for Weezy art is not the "externalization" or "initiated activity" that the butter metaphor implies, but a constant state of internal creation, second nature, the result of which just so happens to be art. He's the first rapper to truly be raised in rap, encountering it in the same way that one might encounter their first language. At age 11, he was virtually adopted by the rapper and CashMoney CEO Birdman. At 13, he accidentally shot himself with a .44. At 15, he joined Hot Boyz and spit his first major label verse. We know the rest of the story.

What we're witnessing with Weezy, then, is rap music growing up and raising its children (I mean goddamn, Jay-Z is 41!). And like any good adolescent, Lil' Wayne is finding ways of rejecting the image of his parents, dabbling in rock and roll music with his album Rebirth, and taking the concept of "grind" to the extreme by generating an endless amount of material. And it may just so happen that some think this art is "bad" (or, like me, they don't), but maybe we should consider that what we're judging may not be art in any traditional sense of the word at all, but the result of a person trying to express their emotions, thoughts, and dreams, etc in the only way they know how, hip hop.

So when Weezy goes to Riker's, I think we're going to realize just how significant he really is to this rap thing. It's impossible to imagine the rap world without him, just like it's impossible to imagine Lil' Wayne without rap. The timbre of his voice is so recognizable that you might imagine producers wanting a Weezy feature in the same way they want a heavy synth line or a wicked drum sample, so deeply has he permeated the collective aural life. And in doing so, he has not spread himself too thin, but instead covered the entire planet in a thick, syrupy coating of butter.

Subject: Care to Lax, Bro's? [sic]

2010-02-15T16:03:00.001-08:00

Gents,

Spring is almost here. That means a few things. It could be time to start building a base at Sol Tanning Center, start stockpiling for 4/20 before prices get too high, or plant seeds with girls lacrosse players who will finally lose all the weight they put on in the fall/winter. Indeed, second semester is a busy, busy time.

But more importantly, the spring marks the beginning of the club lacrosse season.

As the most exclusive and renowned team at the infamous Tech, we have a responsibility to lax at a high level, drink at a higher level, and look great while doing it. If you like doing any of these things, it would be in your best interest to show up for our first informational meeting at Usdan this Friday. Room TBA. Shirts mandatory since its Usdan, I apologize for any inconvenience this causes.

Love,

Gary

Michael Marcovici: an introduction

2010-02-09T08:40:00.000-08:00

and part 2

Michael Marcovici is a retired financial planner and entrepreneur turned artist who works in many medias, from painting, photography, and sculpture to artistic online monetary fraud.

Hell No This Ain't A Synthesis

2010-01-29T19:12:00.000-08:00

If you know a little about hip-hop, you know that there's a widely perceived divide between "conscious" rap, and the mainstream stuff you hear on the radio. The narrative goes that conscious rap deals with politics, and leads to progress, while mainstream rap deals with diamonds, guns, and crunk juice, and is destructive to the hip-hop community. Hence, artist after artist proclaims, "hip hop is dead,"and the realness of the music has been sapped by materialist industry automatons like, say, Souljah Boy.

That's the story of hip-hop that any good fan knows. But what we don't always acknowledge is how the very act of telling that story is productive for the conscious rapper. It is a means of acquiring, in the eyes of fans and fellow artists, authenticity. It is a way of distinguishing oneself against the mainstream, and, as such, superior to it. Calling oneself a conscious rapper, or calling hip hop dead, is an elitist act which not only makes presumptuous claims about what's good for hip-hop, but also reinforces one's own position as insulated intellectual, and is by and large an act of vanity (To be clear, the act of "conscious rapping" is a beautiful thing, but the category is not).

Put that on the backburner for a hot minute, and let's turn to Beyonce and Single Ladies. The impetus for writing this was a minor question: "Is Single Ladies a simple upgrade of an old Betty Page dance?" That question birthed a major inquiry: "Is Single Ladies just another example of pop music upholding the ideological status quo?" That question birthed pages and pages of debate on this blog. And by asking that question, the big question, we stabbed ourselves in the heart.

For that question assumes that pop music is, essentially, an ideologically reproductive discourse. It labels pop artists as the automated mouthpieces of traditional American ideology, which in this case means consumerist, masculinist, and heterosexist. And then it asks, what is Beyonce's role in furthering those causes? Thus, we find, built into our very question is the elitist, intellectual, bourgeois, and liberal viewpoint that mainstream culture is generally bad for the people, for it upholds the status quo of conservative practice. So far so good. So we ask again:

Is Single Ladies just another example of pop music upholding the ideological status quo?

But while this question allows us liberals to feel safe about out own position as "above" mainstream culture, we actually prevent any type of liberal change to happen. That is, our very question cuts off the potential mouthpiece of progress (Beyonce), by constructing her position in society as powerless and ideologically stale. The question collapses our own ability to see Beyonce as progressive in her politics. And if you know anything about Beyonce, then you know her politics are radical. So, we silence the radical thought.

Beyond that, by critiquing pop stars on the grounds of stale ideology, like critiquing mainstream rap, we reproduce our own social status as the liberal intellectual elite. That is, it's incredibly safe for us, the critics, to call out pop music on its consumerist and masculinist tendencies, because that doesn't risk the production of new knowledge, knowledge that could be potentially harmful to our own comfortable position. If we listened differently to what Beyonce was saying, then we might actually hear something we think threatening-- that her, a pop star, really does support the swift execution of white masculinist rule in this country. By carrying out our typical liberal critique, we silence that voice.

So, here's your choice: A) You can buy into mainstream culture, and support mainstream ideology, or B) You can stand at a safe distance, and criticize it, further limiting mainstream culture's power to actually accomplish change. Both are ready-made, easy, risk-free options. And in fact, both support the status quo. You can take the red pill or the blue pill, and both come in a nice, safe, palatable package. Hell, THEY'RE THE SAME FUCKING PILL. This is the way American cultural hegemony works- it doesn't hide, it isn't secret, it's not a conspiracy. What it is is, though, is a dirty trickster, and it will convince you that your liberal, safe, stance on these issues is progressive, when in actuality your position is merely one half of the dialectical unity between you, the liberal, and the object of your criticism, the mainstream. Thus, we remain on our untouchable, protected, liberal island, the island of whiteness, class, and intellectualism, and all the while real instances of consumerism, racism, homophobia, sexism, ableism, etc... continue to circle us like hungry wolves.

So for those who are quick to proclaim Hip Hop Is Dead, or who believe that Single Ladies is just another sexy woman engaged in soliciting the male gaze, think about the power of your own gaze in constructing those stereotypical narratives. Think about the power of risk-free, procedural critique, which doesn't allow room for change, but rather encourages the further insulation of your own liberal values. Think about this, as you recede slowly into some irrelevant, white, safe middle distance, and your voice changes to that of the cranky old scholar, who's lost any ability to see the world other than the only way they know how.

Another case of malignant Upholsterization

2010-01-28T22:30:00.000-08:00

I can barely see these guys

the best black box that I have known.

2010-01-24T17:28:00.000-08:00

"This object perpetually attempts to sell itself on ebay."

Have you checked your emails lately?

Richard, here's the thing Richard. If you don't check your emails daily, you won't know your status as bidder in the auction. And if you win the auction, the box could sell itself before you even know it to be yours. You should be checking your emails at least daily. Because you won't have ever known it to be yours, the box.

I am imploring you to consider the ramifications. The simple fact that you have placed a bid on the box is alone cause for concern. Because it could be yours and it could take those pieces of you and put them inside, and you might not ever see them again, because the box moves on its own. In that way, it's bigger than you, the box, Richard. It kills via automation.

You must take advantage of this unique investment opportunity, Richard. To own the box, and to know it while you have the chance. To know death, this is what we offer, a unique investment opportunity. To know it, death, that is, and to give some small part of yourself over to it, before it moves on, automated, this is why you bid on the box.

We want you to be part of this thing, a unique investment opportunity. Please, keep checking your emails Richard.

The name of this sculpture is A Tool to Deceive and Slaughter, by Caleb Larsen, 2009. The box has an ethernet jack that automatically generates an auction for itself on eBay. When it's sold, it auctions itself off again. It's currently selling for $4000. You should buy it here.

yeleyeleyele

2010-01-13T19:01:00.000-08:00

Haiti is in crisis right now... tens of thousands are dead, and many more are without homes and food. Text "yele" to 501501 to donate 5$ to Wyclef Jean's Yele Foundation RIGHT NOW. Money is what they need most. You'll be charged on your phone bill.

If texting ain't your thing, donate to the Yele Haiti Foundation online here.

For more info on Yele, click here.

That Was Then, This Is Now

2010-01-13T14:00:00.000-08:00

Football steps into the cipher.

I attribute the chasm between these two exercises in football player chest-thumping to the intentions for distribution - something for the fans versus an inside joke that leaked onto the internet. I don't think we can use this for a 'things done changed' kind of argument about how rap or football has undergone a moral descent. The Miami thing is locker room talk with a beat under it, removed from the locker room and tossed into the public domain. Men have always joked about this kind of stuff - Walter Payton and Jim McMahon probably did it, your dad and his bros probably did too - they just didn't have the beat from an Aaliyah song and a bootlegged copy of ProTools to record it. Then again, I don't think it's a stretch to say that these amateur MCs are imitating rap as they perceive it, performing the role of rapper if you will. Maybe it's best to just sit back and remember that athletes are terrible fucking rappers and laugh. Jesus, these songs are corny.

Eternal Conflict #2: Geologist vs. Lover

2010-01-12T21:08:00.000-08:00

Bloggers love this guy.

This song strikes a chord.

People think they can separate politics from personal. J. Cole says no.

Eternal Conflict #1: My Math Ain't Equallin'

2010-01-12T20:48:00.000-08:00

I seem to be able to describe this song only by referring it to other cultural moments: the feeling of an 80's movie with Swayze; early Mariah song; Bladerunner. Usually that's the sign of a lazy writer, but I swear I'm trying. From what I understand, it's about the Rainbow Fish, who gave all her beautiful scales away until she had no more. Better yet, it's about how your greatest asset is also your darkest demon, or something. I'm feeling it, heavily.

(PS it's unclear whether the video lives up to the song)

I'm trying to calculate if this has any relevance to the epic, sweltering, improvised, and revelatory debate on how Beyonce figures in pop culture, happening in the comments section somewhere on this site.

"The things you own end up owning you."

2010-01-09T16:00:00.000-08:00

I have attempted here to document the upholstering of the American male, to visually express the feminization and domestication of the modern man. For real though, this photograph was not set-up or staged. Sometimes everything lines up.

Long live Blake Hansen.

Still Free

2010-01-09T15:50:00.000-08:00

We've already mentioned the merits of the Freeway/Jake One collaboration, specifically Philly Freezer's excellent "Know What I Mean". Below, for your pleasure, a music video to accompany that banger. Unfortunately, Jake One is not in the video, and I have to wonder whether it was for logistical reasons or because having the white producer in the video would knock down street cred a notch or two. Regardless, their album is going to go hard, and if you haven't investigated Jake's thoroughly dope album White Van Music (in which everyone from M.O.P. to Busta Rhymes to Brother Ali raps over his beats) you oughta do so. His ability to produce beats that FIT the needs and personalities of a wide range of rappers from hardcore, mainstream and backpacker traditions ranging from the virtually unknown to major label heavyweights is pretty incredible. Ain't no one-trick pony.

THE TRUTH.

Beyoncé Page

2010-01-07T19:50:00.000-08:00

Though this is far from well executed, it does illustrate a very clear point: things haven't really changed much since the fifties.

We've seen stranger...? She-Wolf follow up.

2010-01-05T19:59:00.000-08:00

what dreams may come

2010-01-02T08:35:00.000-08:00

Nate Robinson played professional basketball last night for the first time in 30 days. D'Antoni called his name, and he didn't move. He said he didn't understand his coach. He just sat there, on the bench, like he always does, until a teammate told him that the coach wanted him to play. So with 3 minutes left in the opening period Nate comes into the game. In total, he grabs 41 points, 8 assists, shooting 18 of 24 from the field. He hits the last two shots for the Knicks to force OT, and scores 11 points in overtime. He scores 19 of the Knicks last 22.

Over in Jersey, we call Nate High Risk/ High Reward. There's this feeling, that putting him in the game is like going for a three pointer to win-- if you hit, you're a hero, and if you miss, you deserved to be questioned on why you didn't just play for the tie, find an easier shot. He's the polar opposite of compatriot David Lee, who gives solid numbers every night, but lacks the turn-it-up ability of real superstars.

But we have to question this easy way of thinking, this racialized differentiation of David Lee, white, Mr. Reliable, and Robinson, black, the Sparkplug that Couldn't, the Brainless Wonderboy. These are the stereotypes of an NBA that has been "overrun" with black players who are "all athleticism and creativity, but no brains." This way of thinking speaks more to an American insecurity with the dominance of black athletes in professional sports than it does to any truth about the "racial essences of ballplayers."

Last night, Nate, 5'9", was practically walking to the basket. That he scored 19 of the Knicks last 22 is one thing, but he was doing it on layups. The Hawks periodically threw Mike Bibby (crafty veteran), Joe Johnson (superstar), Marvin Williams (young-star-on-rise), and Josh Smith (high-flying-shot-swatter), out to guard him, to no avail. Note that Bibby is the shortest of these men, at 6'2", while Smith and Williams are both 6'9", a full foot taller than Nate. With ease he dribbled around each, finding his way to the cup time and again, using hesitation moves to literally get uncontested 2-footers. When they tried fouling him, he still made the shots. When obvious fouls weren't called, he still made the shots.

Only after a long stretch of finding layups, already in full turn-it-up mode, did Nate take what traditionalists call The Bad Shot, a contested pull-up 30 footer with little time taken off the shot clock. Naturally, he sank it, hopping up and down towards a howling Knicks bench after the Hawks were forced to call timeout.

We must question The Bad Shot. We must free ourselves from the chains of tradition, and think, for a long while, about this Bad Shot. Statistical evidence has shown that being "On Fire" is a questionable proposition. Then we must also question statistics. Because "On Fire" is a feeling buzzing through a crowd, a general notion that when the ball leaves the hand, it will find the net. The and-1 play is its proof, that contact will do nothing to deter Hot Hand from scoring. But the deep 3, The Bad Shot, this is the true meaning of On Fire, and we must accept that in hindsight, it was always going in.

Which leaves us with Nate, still a Knick, still sitting on the bench for attitude problems, for making bad decisions, who, when given even a glimmer of playing time, leaves the net in a heap of ashes, who doesn't see the other 9 players on the court, but a clear and open path to the basket every time the rock is in his hands. Our only recourse is to blame ourselves for what we have done to him, for planting the seed in his mind that he is anything but a baller. For using him as the racialized and criminalized symbol of risky basketball. This is the side of Nate that remains unspoken, that who we think he is is actually just who we say he is. Last night, he was saying something to us.

the scroll of time

2009-12-29T11:40:00.000-08:00

I ask him if it is true about the three-seconds stories. "Yeh, a couple of times guys would fake me in the lane and before I'd come down the ref would call three seconds on them."

-Rick Telander, Heaven is a Playground

Holiday Verse Appreciation

2009-12-24T20:13:00.000-08:00

And if there's crack in the basement?

CRACKHEADS STAND ADJACENT

Anger displacement, Two step arrangements
You were a still born baby: Mother didn't want you, but you were still born
Boy meets world, of course his pops is gone
What you figga? That chalky outline on the ground is a father figure?
So he steps to the next stencil, that's a hustler
Infested with money and diamond cluster
Lets talk in laymen terms, Rotten apples and big worms
Early birds and poachers, New York is evil at it's core, so those who have more than them
Prepare to be victims, Ate up by vultures, the politicians
In a dog eat dog culture, that'll sick 'em
Lack of mineral, we take it personal
A pigeon can't drop shit if it never flew
Every day is no frills, empty krills
Broken 40 bottles and m.c's with skills
I rest my head on 115
But miracles only happen on 34th, so I guess life is mean
And death is the median
And purgatory is the mode that we settle in
Battered wives, molested children
Roaches on the floor, rats in the ceiling
Cats walk around New York with two fillin's
One is in their mouth the other, does the killin'

-Vast Aire, "Iron Galaxy," off Cannibal Ox's The Cold Vein

Done and Done

2009-12-22T21:37:00.001-08:00

This is a little bit how I feel at the moment, so I thought I'd share.

3:46 is kinda trippy

You ever been to Nawlz?

2009-12-19T20:51:00.000-08:00

Check this site out, but only if you've got some free time on your hands. It's quite the graphic novel, audio-visual, extra-sensory, internet experience. It's the missing link between video games and books, like some web-based sunfish cousin who doesn't really care if he makes nice with the in-laws because he's such a genius, but he can eat at the table with anyone and keep his dignity. Really just incredible.

http://nawlz.com/

Perfect From Now On

2009-12-18T17:09:00.000-08:00

y'all fucked up now!

2009-12-17T16:19:00.000-08:00

I feel like this validates every word I've ever uttered in defense of hip hop. You can go home now.

Via Our Canadian Correspondent

2009-12-15T20:40:00.000-08:00

Read this out loud

2009-12-08T22:25:00.001-08:00

I thought I was entrance

At

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love,

- Sanjay Genghis

The Beard is Back

2009-12-06T07:44:00.000-08:00

How did this guy become a famous rapper? Freeway's technical talent is questionable, his subject matter played out. There's no way he battled his way to the top, or was spitting rhymes on the stoop and just happened to get noticed by some passing label exec who said, "I must have this." Freeway was never the protagonist in a hip hop fairy tale. And yet his music has something unnameable, some new hybrid of humor and heart, that is the product of a large, bearded man, half-singing rhymes in gravelly, high-pitched hysterics. And I don't mean hysterical like YouTube videos of drunk people falling down stairs, I mean hysterical like a man possessed, only in Freeway's case the possessor isn't Rage so much as Glee. You can hear it and feel it on every one of his tracks, there's a reason they move you and you just can't describe it other than the tired old list passion/fire/spirit/energy... Maybe we call it "Soul" because we think that modifier has some connection to authenticity and size of heart, but it's only so appropriate. Certainly taking on Jake One as producer, who strictly samples 70's LPs from the pinnacle of soul music, validates the transgenre comparison. But was Soul funny? I mean, is a Soul funny? It's hard for me to think of it that way, but clearly humor is an integral part of Freeway's music. Maybe that's the point of Freeway, to explode my notions of what is an authentic expression of soul, and whether comedy is a part of that. And this points to a definition of "original" music, music that forces you to think in a new way about something, or to think about something new. Somehow, we should be thanking Hip Hop for this, for allowing Freeway's voice to be carried despite its seemingly non-functional and atypical nature in the context of mass-produced club hits.

Freeway and Jake One have a new album coming out January called The Stimulus Package. Fingers crossed. "You Know What I Mean" (linked above), is the first leak.

Watch your back in the hood cuz hate come from all angles

Make sure you tote your banger

Never sell dope to strangers

Be courteous to your neighbors

I am Swayze, later!

Define: Feral American male

2009-12-02T21:38:00.000-08:00

"The objective of my work is to observe the impact of pornography on the sexuality of men, and how it shapes their perception of men and women. We started our research seeking men in their twenties who had never consumed pornography but we couldn’t find any."

— Professor Simon Louis Lajeunesse of the University of Montreal (via syntheticpubes blog)

analyze why we act this way

2009-12-02T18:01:00.000-08:00

We should not mistake reality for fiction- we should be able to discern, in what we experience as fiction, the hard kernel of the Real which we are able to sustain only if we fictionalize it... But much more difficult than to denounce/ unmask (what appears as) reality as fiction is to recognize the part of fiction in 'real' reality. We seek to escape not simply the the feeling of unreality, of the artificial virtuality of our lifeworld, but the Real itself which explodes in the guise of uncontrolled hallucinations which start to haunt us once we lose our anchoring in reality.

-Slavoj Zizek, Welcome to the Desert of the Real

Thanksgiving Verse Appreciation

2009-11-26T10:57:00.000-08:00

I give thanks for not being on Crooked I's bad side:

When fans picture my interviews, they think I'm in a swimming pool
With women who've been abused, so they turn into strippers, makin' they livin' in the nude
One in the middle blowin' my innertube while the interviewers gettin' ridiculed
Is this your vision? Cool
Let me give you a little news
Any dude who wanna sit in my tennis shoes must be missin' screws
Don't get it misconstrued
Don't get the shit confused
I'm 2 seconds from prison food, I'm a different dude
Pistol in my reach man
Still in long beach man
Hopin if my grind don't help me get out my speech can...

Slaughterhouse- Move On (Remix)

Herzog's Nightmare

2009-11-26T09:42:00.001-08:00

You might think that dinosaurs are extinct. Well, you're right. But some really stellar reporting from 60 minutes blows this case WIDE OPEN!!

how many times did they say dinochicken?

Honestly...

2009-11-25T17:25:00.000-08:00

I just watched this "classic" Hitchcock the other day:

And I thought it sucked balls. IMDb, while not exactly a legitimate source for film scholarship and criticism, lists Rope as one of the top 250 films. Ever. OK, so Hitchcock hardly cuts. But when he does it nearly always during a stupid and obvious dolly-in to a character's back. Ooo I hardly noticed that one, Alfred. Might as well have just had an obvious cut. Or turned the fricking lights off for a second.

That aside, I thought the scenario was a half-baked, incredibly contrived take on Crime and Punishment. Stewart was about the only actor who didn't annoy the hell out of me with over-the-top theatrical acting. The dialogue was generally just plain silly and melodramatic. Examples of Hitchcockian ingenuity were limited: a great moment where a character reveals the murder weapon just as a door swings open; the incredible 'real time' studio backdrop in which a sun goes down as the lights of "Manhatan" come on; the great blinking sign out the window that comes on just as the film hits its climax. But these were few and far between. Did any of y'all like this movie? I would love for someone to explain to me how this film could even compare to other Hitchcock classics (Rear Window is one of my favorite films ever) much less be considered a decent movie.

new technologies of lazer

2009-11-23T12:59:00.001-08:00

Indescribably Conceptually Problematic Yet Possibly Well Intentioned Video of the Month:

2009-11-21T13:13:00.000-08:00

2009-11-10T22:50:00.000-08:00

Skin Deep

2009-11-08T19:44:00.000-08:00

Leandro Erlich

Lately I've been turning over a relationship in my mind: how does the spatial dimension of a work of art change the way in which the idea behind it is expressed? The most interesting pieces (for me) fall somewhere in between the dimensions in some way, either through the experience of the work, or the work's direct affront to the spatial dimension it inhabits. This is not about time being the 4th dimension or some shit, though I'm sure you're science teacher in high school told you that. He was right, according to most scientific theory, but I'm talking about something else: spatial dimensions and our perceptions of such.

--Of course, every thing is in the third dimension, namely because it's impossible to see a 2D object at all. But let's assume that paper/drawings represent 2D, and speak within conventions for a moment.---

To battle the perceptions of a given dimension and make strides into the adjacent is an incredibly interesting one for me, as most artistic conventions divide the dimensions relatively strictly. Drawing is representative, Sculpture is plastic. But when a work falls between the two definitions, what do you call it?

The piece here is by Chris Duncan, and to me represents the first step towards the third dimension in the way it implies a depth to the drawing itself, without being a representation of any thing that has depth to it. The page itself is pushed beyond a surface. And beyond the skills used here, other implications of the physical world - like gravity - can shove a canvas into the space.
I love the distinct shift from taught (almost invisible) canvas at the top of the frame to the heavy, drooping materiality at the bottom. This work, unfortunately, is unknown to me (found at threedot). It only focuses on the subject matter of exhibition itself - no "content" on the page, no title, the viewer's usual spot taken up by the necessary broom. Is this sculpture? or some assisted painting, or something like that?

Materiality can play a huge role in this as well. The piece above, by Jen Stark, deals with our most 2-D material in our 3D world and unfolds the layers hidden under it, almost pointing out what we're ignoring all the time. The flower-like result is not without it's sharp edges, and I think they're the best part of it. The edges of dimension are what define our perceptions of it, and are impossible to see. We can't see the edges of the 2nd dimension, because that's the 1st dimension. In a similar way, we can't see the edges of the 3rd dimension, and so on. Sometimes we look for edges in worst places - like edges. But really, the edge is in a new direction, let's say outward.

Travess Smalley

The edge of a dimension is really where we can get caught between them. And in a more practical sense, the edge of a piece is what we most usually ignore to suspend out disbelief in the very agreeable silence and calm of flatness. To deal with the substance of a page is almost too much, it distracts from the content. But there can be another content which over-runs the border and edge of the page into space.

Space can also be flattened, made into a sensory experience devoid of depth, or made so gargantuan that is renders itself into a background. This might be why I'm so fascinated with the sky - It looks at once full of forms and a flat surface inside a curved bowl. But in fact it's a nebulous space that we simply can't experience with any other sense but our eyes. We're so far from it that all we see is a flatness that belies it's depth and almost immateriality.

Ryoji Ikeda

Once something is within the purview of space, it can either become an object within that space or an environment of some kind. These environments are where I'm interested in living, the ones that point to the immateriality of the third dimension, the pathetic roundness that we cling to as our save-all and our larger world. It's not there, in a way. Or, the environment we think we're in is really an object in a larger environment. I'm thinking Men in Black as I write this.

The immaterial aspects of what we're living in is what's truly amazing, the things that are outside our sensory perceptions and our conceptions of dimension at all. The piece by Richard Box, below, is a tool to see what we can't.
These fluorescent bulbs are powered by the ambient electrical fields surrounding the power lines in the background. But all we can see are the bulbs themselves. In a way, this is the perfect representation of what I'm talking about: a completely invisible but powerful thing that both makes art and talks about it's medium at the time.

This is all we ever do anymore

2009-11-06T18:42:00.000-08:00

Shakira's record label won't let me embed the video but you best follow the link. Maybe we're a little behind on "pop culture" but this video is ridiculous I don't care who you are or if you've seen it or not. Even ~~better~~ sexier in Spanish.

DO IT:

LOBA

the best fucking baseball player I've ever seen

2009-11-05T19:40:00.001-08:00

Hong Kong, I Love You, But You're Freaking Me Out

2009-11-04T16:15:00.000-08:00

I'm way into Johnnie To right now - the man who effectively holds the crown that John Woo no longer deserves to wear upon his dome. Those with access to Netflix - peep game on the watch instantly feature and check out Exiled, The Mission, and/or Election for his best stuff - triad films.

WHY?

I mean,

It don't necessarily come across in the trailer, but the man's got style like whoa. Spaghetti western in Macau with crazy dope visuals and camera movement. If I had more time I'd give you a proper geek out on this film, but this'll have to do. Now go forth and watch movies.

Addendum

2009-11-03T19:54:00.001-08:00

We are not the same, I am a martian.

2009-11-03T18:56:00.000-08:00

I used to be just like all the haters, but at least I knew it:

The flow chart above was an attempt to understand why an upper middle class kid might simultaneously disdain popular hip hop for being "inauthentic" and "capitalist," fetishize popular music, and embrace underground hip hop or "backpacker rap." Starting from the foundations of rap as black counterculture, and moving down, I tracked an internal divide in hip hop music, and how both sects have been appropriated by white audiences. As the legend goes, mainstream hip hop's primary audience is white kids in the midwest. Think about all those Souljah Boy videos of girls in white tees and Clemson sweatpants. On the other hand, underground music has also been appropriated by a white audience, as a music that has some sort of power- in its perceived authenticity, and its anti-capitalist tendencies. Stop a random kid at an elite private college in the Northeast, ask him who his favorite rapper is, and you're as likely to hear the name Brother Ali as you are Biggie. The word "backpacker" has been thrown out in reference to this music, a term that resonates doubly, alluding to the purported "intellect" of underground music (backpacks), while also its appropriation into whiteness (backpacking, as in, rich kids hiking the Appalachian Trail). Listening to backpacker rap becomes a way for white kids to somehow gain a type of cultural "authenticity."

This is where I was at on 12/15/08.

I've moved in my position since then. For one thing, I have less criticism for mainstream hip hop as an entity. Simply put, Hot 97 made this summer for me. I've been all about Throw it in the Bag, Who's Real, and that Hurricane Chris song about Halle Berry. For me, mainstream music has become so fascinated with an American construction of materialism that this very philosophy is no longer its purported downfall. In fact, it's one of the most outstanding, self-aware critiques of capitalism I know. We've seen sculptor Damien Hirst's diamond skull, we know this Marxist critique of capitalism, it's old hat. Mainstream hip hop raises it one: critical acts from within capitalism's very framework. Fabolous bragging of his diamond-studded watch is an act of resistance, suggesting that the oppressive system isn't as far-reaching as it wants to be, and that some of the very people (young black males) who weren't suppose to acquire power, did. This is relevant in a way that a comfortable upper-middle class white guy calling out capitalism is not. It's also as powerful as any critique coming from backpack rap.

Thus, this post is dedicated to anyone who has off-handedly thrown out the terms "pop music" or "gangsta rap" or "popular rap" as an example of crappy music, or as a reference to the decline of American society. HI HATERS.

There has been a rise of hybrid rappers lately, who question the boundary between mainstream and underground. This is a beautiful thing.

(More on that here, shamelessly)

Post-Mischief Night Verse Appreciation

2009-10-31T07:42:00.000-07:00

Stumble in somnambulance so
Pre-dawn corpses come to life
Armies of the dead survive
Armies of the hungry ones

Only ones, lonely ones
Ripped up like shredded wheat
Only ones, lonely ones
Be a sort of human picnic

This ain't no love-in
This ain't no happening
This ain't no feeling in my arm

You think you're a zombie
You think it's a scene
From some monster magazine
Well, open your eyes too late

This ain't no fantasy, boy
This ain't no love-in
This ain't no happening
This ain't no feeling in my arm

Cars.

2009-10-30T21:37:00.000-07:00

You know, I could post something about Halloween. But that would be lame and topical. Instead, I'd much rather post some things that I haven't expressed yet. I love cars. They inspire me in ways that I'm not sure how to express. I started working on cars back when I was about 12, fiddling around with my dad's 1976 BMW 2002. A helluva simple car, I started taking the engine apart to clean it and figure out how it all worked. I think my conception of every car's internals stems from the little four cylinder under the hood. I can't count how many times I put things back together in the wrong way and then retraced my steps to fix the problem.

In high school, I started fixing up my great-grandfather's 1940 Buick (pictured above, with the 2002) which he purchased new off the showroom floor. After three summers, I got it running again after sitting for almost 20 years. Those two cars taught me more about problem-solving, determination, mechanics, and everything else than I could have ever imagined. Because of that experience, my mind is never so at peace as when I'm fixing something mechanical, visualizing how all the pieces fit together to spin, float, tap, drive, or what have you.

Here are some cars.

FREEZY

2009-10-25T15:07:00.000-07:00

It is downright shameful that this dude is going to jail. Fuck.

And nobody ever tell me he spread himself too thin. Get out my face and join the movement.

Lil Wayne- Run This Town Freestyle

Maybe Everything That Dies Someday Comes Back

2009-10-25T14:28:00.000-07:00

OCTOBER 27th: A GHOST IS BORN

that was no simulation

2009-10-21T19:08:00.000-07:00

Crawling in Ballgowns

2009-10-21T15:34:00.000-07:00

Malkovitch wins again

you're losing a TABLE, you're gaining a masterpiece

2009-10-21T07:59:00.000-07:00

Live Wired

2009-10-17T18:03:00.001-07:00

Last year around March, I entered a design competition as part of an independent tutorial in architecture. The competition, co-sponsored by the Bronx Museum and the Design Trust for Public Space, was centered around the Grand Concourse in the Bronx, NY, and asked for anything relating to it, in any medium. I came up with a sort of socio-urbanist plan enacted using audio-visual technology. It's call LiveWired, and you can check it out on my website.

As of this summer, my proposal was selected as one of seven finalists in what turned out to be an international competition with over 200 entries. Needless to say, I'm thrilled and delighted to be included in such a select group of designs. What it means is that I'll be included in a two month long exhibition at the Bronx Museum, along with the six other finalists. I'm planning on installing some sort of example of my plan, which will hopefully start a dialogue between people in the museum and those in local businesses.

The exhibition opens on November 1st and runs until January 3rd, so if you're in the city please come and check it out!

-Angus

Night Night

2009-10-15T22:40:00.000-07:00

The Once And Future King

2009-10-15T11:48:00.000-07:00

theory 1

2009-10-14T20:52:00.000-07:00

young and nj

2009-10-11T08:46:00.000-07:00

further down the rabbit hole

2009-10-06T21:36:00.000-07:00

I need to give a little credit to Big Boi, because lately I've been feeling like he just doesn't get the respect he deserves. I peeped a list over at cocaineblunts talking about how Big Boi is one of the "coldest" MCs in the game, coldest meaning generally ignored, not given enough cred, etc... Sadly, it makes sense for him to be there. It's all been weighing on my shoulders for some reason, so I'm gonna try and clear the air around this monkey on my back. Word bond.

Outkast worked because its two MCs formed a complicated, honest, and unique relationship around the music they were making. Rephrase: The complexities of those early Outkast albums are owed to neither Big Boi nor Andre 3000, but to the fact that the two were able to collaborate. ATLiens, Aquemini, and Stankonia succeeded because the combination of two artists produced a hydra far more dangerous than any individual-headed beast. Every time Andre went off on an alien tangent (Synthesizer), Big Boi was there to bring it back down to Earth (Slump). Every time Big Boi got lost rapping about drugs and rims, Andre was there nudging him to flip it. The concoction thus formed, augmented with the murderous flows of both MCs, was a radically unique and honest way of getting at Truth.

Okay, so Outkast was a joint effort, then why did Andre end up with all the shine? Basically, 3000 appeals more to a "liberal" or "white" or "underground" bloc, an audience largely responsible for rap success (meaning grammies and critical acclaim and whatnot). Andre was hailed as rap's Prince, characterized by quirky attire and an ambiguous yet flamboyant sexuality. He became that intellectual, rapping weirdo AKA the future AKA the best name to mention to your boy you just ran into at the vintage clothing store. And he put out great music. Many thanks to Andre for that beautiful music. Basically, Andre 3000 got popular because he represented a movement in rap towards something "different," something far more "intellectual" than that dirty South stuff (hope you can read the sarcasm in that). But in Andre's popularization, Outkast's history was starkly rewritten, and in the public's eye Big Boi had been playing second fiddle all along. That is, he never represented anything "new" for rap.

And that whole story is fucked, because Big Boi is a killer MC. Have you ever tried to rap along to a vintage Big Boi verse? It's nigh impossible, yet he makes it sound so smooth and easy. Better yet, listen to Speakerboxxx. His solo album (though still under the name Outkast) is track for track as moving as Andre's The Love Below. I might go so far as to say that it has the best opening suite of songs off any album I know: Ghetto Musick/ Unhappy/ Bowtie/The Way You Move/ Rooster. I mean that's just sickening. Each one of those songs is a stand-alone jam.

But this isn't about solo projects. Really, this is my attempt to refigure the Outkast paradigm so that I don't have to suffer anyone else ignoring Big Boi, or staking their claim to Andre 3000 merely because it's hip to do so. I'll say it like this: If you don't get Big Boi, you don't get Outkast, and if you don't get Outkast, you're missing arguably the greatest OAT. Rephrase: If you don't get Outkast, fuck you get off my website.

Tetrapeutic

2009-10-03T11:28:00.000-07:00

Tetris is a classic. Developed in the 80s by a smart Russian man, the simple geometric premise of the game allows for almost infinite combinations of patterns and skill levels. But beyond the dry exterior lies a spiritual life of the game -a hidden dragon, so to speak. The simplicity of its construction could be described as elemental, and it's ever changing tiles belie its water-like tendencies. I am reminded of a quote by Bruce Lee: "Water can flow, or it can crash. Be like water, my friend". Tetris is just so elusive and unforgiving, silently molding it's shape around your state of being, and quickly ripping away any hard surfaces in its path.

To successfully play the game (and we're talking real deal marathon here), you must be malleable as well, keeping your mind pliable along with your fingers. This is state of focused devotion to your one goal: clearing away what is unnecessary. It is an endless game, just like other virtuous pursuits, and as the tiles get faster one must remain calm and centered. The chance that is involved in terms of upcoming tiles removes any focus on the future beyond your next move. The game makes you inhabit the now. From an architectural perspective, it constructs the perfect space for the exact moment you're in, reflecting your own input and the game's almost equally.

Perhaps you can tell my fascination with it. I've been playing Tetris almost every day for the past six years, and through countless hours spent numbing my thumbs a pattern has emerged: The more clear-headed I am, the better I do. Because I play it so much, I often find myself doing it without thinking about the game at all, instead musing on dreams, personal interactions, ways of thinking about them. It's therapy, in a way. And not only does it allow me to reflect, my level of clarity is directly connected with my progress in the game. If I have a calm and level-headed approach to my life, I'll look up to realize that I've beaten my high score. And when you link up with the game, the pieces seem to come at just the right moments, making the game an affirmation of thinking. Conversely, when things are anxious and undecided, my disconnect with the game seems complete, and I have no luck with block, and often make mistakes.

The resulting thesis I have about Tetris sounds more Chinese than Russian, but I think that it may very well be the greatest electronic ritual for finding one's way. The rituals that Confucius talks about in the Analects have a similar quality as this psychological massaging. As it says,
"At age fifteen I set my heart upon learning…and at age seventy I could follow my heart’s desire without overstepping the bounds of propriety”(Analects, 2:4). The way to reach such a place is through ritual and learning, training your instinct to work with your mind. Tetris is just such a ritual.

If you battle against it you may be victorious, but surrender to it completely and it gives you freedom. For me, it's always a learning experience.

Home

2009-10-02T20:10:00.000-07:00

It's where I want to be, but I guess I'm already there

text conversation with Mom

2009-09-30T11:24:00.000-07:00

Mom: What does goat staod for again?

Me: Greatest of all time

Mom: Ha

Stimuli Update

2009-09-21T19:04:00.000-07:00

Sha Stimuli ft. Freeway and Young Chris- Move Back (prod. Just Blaze)

Album October 27

the beautiful decay

2009-09-19T23:02:00.000-07:00

I guess I'll say that the best Bob Dylan songs are the sad ones. Somehow, connecting to a sad song has always been deeply satisfying to me in a way that other songs never are. This song is about using your sadness as a method of self-definition. I like it.

What up son?

Maintainin' maintainin you know...

Skyzoo- Maintain

Nothing to do with IP addresses

2009-09-16T17:38:00.000-07:00

I have few fears and obsessions over the apocalypse, but there is one thing that I have been genuinely worried about: 2012. Maybe it's because I trust the Mayans quite a bit. I studied them a lot in the second grade - they were a truthful and intelligent people, and I surely trust them a whole lot more than the hundreds of christian seers and prophets who have predicted the same thing numerous times in the past.

The Mesoamerican calendar (given to humans by the Mayan god Quetzalcoatl, pictured above in human form) is divided into eras, and our current 13th baktun era is set to end on either december 21st or 23rd, 2012. Now, many people have disseminated this theory as "the end of the world", including at least one John Cusack movie, and one website which has finally set my fears to rest. It's called the 2012 Official Countdown, and it's just the kind of propagandist "truth" that makes me believe exactly the opposite of what it says.

The truth about 13.0.0.0.0. It has nothing to do with IP addresses and everything to do with your future... and life as we know it...

The Mysterious Planet X will shift into earth's rotational path and collide with our planet! All life that isn't immediately destroyed will be flung from the surface and into space

A meteor will hit the earth, causing concurrent massive tsunamis . The impact will make the bombing of Hiroshima look like a ripple from a pebble tossed into a lake.

Who could possibly know all of this? No professed member of one line of thought could ever claim to know so much about the future. No, it would take a much wider plane of knowledge.
The internet, of course.

Mr. Sayer is a respected Internet scholar with a concentration on the topics of history, spirituality and exposing untruths. He is known for his laser-targeted revelations on the complicated Mayan calendar system used to determine the true nature of 2012. Conspicuously silent while most of the ferver over 2012 raged... Sayer ended his self-imposed media boycott in late 2009 because as he put it... “I could no longer stand back and watch as the general public was lied to.” Sure, theories and theorists come and go... But James Michael Sayer is among the few “doyens” to stand firm and true. He never wavered from the truth no matter what kind of pressure he has been put under. And he's seen plenty of pressure.

“But... this stuff isn't in the bible. And if it's not
in the bible, it just ain't true!”

Who said this wasn't in the bible?
Which bible are you reading?
Because... I promise you, it's in there. And I'll show you where.

But when you boil it down, there is one truth to this entire tirade:
In 2012... something will happen. Because... to say nothing is going to happen, means you're just not paying attention.

Personally, I'd like to see things happen in 2012. I hope you'll be strong and smart enough to see them happen for me, too. That is, if you don't burn up the second Planet X hits Earth

circles of hell

2009-09-13T17:31:00.000-07:00

My sophomore year at school was a dark time. I spent most of it either cooped up in my dormroom or in the darkroom trying to make pictures of walls that looked like this:

I only had a few allies, mainly two oversized Philips speakers and Limewire. So this is something of an ode to them. I felt like I was in the beginning of Clan In Da Front, when you can hear RZA's voice from some middle distance, reverbed to high hell, belting, "UP FROM THE 36 CHAMBERRSSSSS" as if he were caught in some dungeon, currently escaping. That's the place where I was: dungeon-chamber #36, surrounded by empty walls, in the ad libs before the music even starts.

Wu-Tang was something of a lifeline, so I made a project of systematically combing through Wu affiliate albums. So this is something of an ode to Wu. The further out from the Wu core I got, the darker the music seemed to get. And then I found Killah Priest's Heavy Mental ('98), orbiting in the Wu solar system somewhere out near Pluto. Priest got on the map with a feature verse on "B.I.B.L.E." off GZA's undisputed classic Liquid Swords, but it was his solo albums that really reached out and grabbed me by the throat. See I found something in those early tracks that I identified with: deep thudding bass drums, crunchy snares, and melody samples that sounded like murderers whistling in empty alleys or Egyptian snake-charmers.

Guns, shootouts and crack sales, black males in packed jails, trapped in hell, no peace, cold streets, surrounded by po-lice this whole week, buildings with no heat, low lights and gaspipes with slow leaks, dog fights, lowlifes, throw dice the whole night...

Now I'm not gonna front-- I'm a white dude that grew up in a well-off NJ suburb, in comfort. I don't profess to know the experience above. I have not been systematically oppressed based on my race, I didn't grow up with drugs on the corner, or face economic depravity in the form of an an under-cared for housing development. These are issues that Priest speaks so eloquently about, but they are not my story. And yet, I turned to these recordings when I was depressed, and found music that spoke to me.

Underneath Priest's covert politics is a raw emotion, unfiltered by notions of popular culture or what rap music "should be." Priest puts the inherent conflict and violence of personhood under a spotlight, expounding on it as a means of catharsis. His method involves synthesizing contemporary stories of plight with ancient imagery derived from mythology, history, religion, etc... This world of antiquity acts as a vector through which the MC interfaces with the present. In other words, the violence and zealotry of, say, a Mayan sacrifice, has a particular relevance to the world Priest encounters around him:

I saw Bill Clinton, Ronald Reagan, and George Bush

Barefoot suckin from the titties of a wolf

Upon the brazen altar, six men

Offer their only daughter/ splashin holy water

I ran for the camcorders, now I'm plagued with curses

I roam the Earth's surface, snatchin purses

Allergic to Catholic Churches, what's the purpose?

Religious worship is worthless

I visit ancient sanctuaries, where the saints were married

But now they buried/ Cause of Satan's fury

I faced the jury

Held in court, like Christ nailed to a cross

Confront my knowledge, like Christ in front of Pontius Pilate

Days of violence, standing in a haunted palace

The government wants my wallet

(From "If You Don't Know")

And this worked for me. It spoke to pain, pressure, politics... the things that were weighing me down, and will weigh me down again. He seemed to understand the feeling of a restless desert search, pocked with mirages of success, friendship, $, love. So I turned the volume up, despite the complaints from hallmates. I shut the door. I did push-ups. I drove around with the windows up. And things started to turn, a slow viscous stirring in the soul maybe. Or just better housing and better friends. Or maybe just a little Killah Priest. So this is an ode to him.

YES

2009-09-13T12:19:00.001-07:00

Return of the Purple Tape

2009-09-13T11:55:00.000-07:00

If you haven't got the album yet, you are stupid. Right your wrongs.

And another.

A Social Experiment

2009-09-11T13:19:00.000-07:00

Part of a person's particular charm are the quirks they possess - the strange-ass culinary combinations they like to eat, the little catchphrases they use that no one else does, things they enjoy or wear that you'd never expect.

But what if a person was composed entirely of said quirks?

This summer, I lost a good man. My dear friend Johnny Buccola spent the summer in Montana working at a fly-fishing lodge. He is this man, an amalgamation of quirks. His presence being sorely missed back home, we needed some way to keep his influence in our lives. So, a friend and I started a blog solely devoted to Mr. Buccola. The blog became really an analysis of him as an individual, an exercise in stating what our friend was really about, and a sensation among his friends and acquaintances. Will it be interesting to folks who do not know him? We've heard reports and rumors that it can be.

If you're at all curious, investigate
http://stuffjohnnybuccolalikes.blogspot.com/

Labor Day Verse Appreciation

2009-09-07T13:00:00.000-07:00

Giancana the name break it down simple and plain
Went from a small chimp in the game to gorilla king pimp in the game

Know how to tempt dames to tense in the Range

Hit the block to pitch rocks, the strength of the name

Meant for the caine, lactosin, limp with a cane

We even pack toast, expend from the flames

My aim, strictly about makin that bread pop

Blocks red hot from feds and cops

Lookin for rock bottles with red tops

Tradin lead shots with dread locks

Infrared dots til the head drops, we fled spots

Word on the curb, when it came to birds we spread flocks

No tellin when the bloodshed stops

Glide til the sled stops

Copped the latest every hot flavor in them crocs and gators

Somebody clique riff, pop the bravest

Outta town whips I got from Avis

Drop knots in Vegas

My plot for paper was crockpots of wafers

KOOL G RAP- MY LIFE

Classic.

2009-09-01T12:12:00.000-07:00

Going up

2009-08-23T12:52:00.000-07:00

The past summer has been full of books for me, and few have sated my thirst after reading the Pevear translation of Anna Karenina. I've searched all of my standbys and classic writers, Fitzgerald, Forster (and others not beginning with "F"), but none have kept my attention after Tolstoy. That is, until I opened up Colson Whitehead's The Intuitionist.

It's about elevator inspectors, and it's exhilarating.

Two warring factions in the Department of Elevator Inspectors vie for dominance: The Empiricists, who go by the book and rigorously check every structural and mechanical detail, and the Intuitionist, whose observational methods involve meditation and instinct. Set in a dirty, working class, mob-run American metropolis sometime after the civil rights movement, the book focuses on Lila Mae Watson, the first black female inspector in the country.

The book quickly unwinds form this initial novelty (elevator inspectors? really? how quaint) into a dark and hyper-realistic city with heavy suggestions of Film Noir, while going off on philosophical excursions into Lila Mae's educational life, and delving into her struggle with racism and politics. Blade Runner comes to mind, and much of the descriptors of the book I can think of come from film, rather than literature. But the writing is incredibly artful, not only the prose but the structure as well.

And while the book is going in what seems like one hundred directions at once, it's all headed upwards. The elevator provides not only the organizing content, but melds all of these ideas and themes into one focus. Never before have I considered the theoretical, psychological and even social implications of these metal boxes, but this work of art has given me new eyes onto the dark chutes we so depend on.

The book is a thriller, a philosophical investigation of culture and fear, an excursion of dark humor and is an entirely rich, full invented world in it's own right. From a vivid flashback to Lila Mae's final inspector's examination to the random mentions of Lift magazine, the world unfurls without pretense, each one accomplished with a whip-crack.

From the book:

"'If we have decided that elevator studies - nuts and bolts Empiricism - imagined elevators from a human, and therefore inherently alien point of view, wouldn't the next logical step, after we've adopted the Intuitionist perspective, be the build an elevator the right way? With what we've learned?'

'Construct and elevator from the elevator's point of view?'

'Wouldn't that be the perfect elevator?'"

The Intuitionist is just such a thing: a piece of steel constructed from air, a book separate from book-ness. Frankly, it's an ascension.

STIMULUS PACKAGE

2009-08-20T14:49:00.001-07:00

I admit it, I slept on Sha Stimuli pretty hard. Every now and then, dude's name would show up on some obscure mixtape crowded with Wu affiliates and Cormega knockoffs, but I never paid any attention. I should've. In fact, I'm beginning to imagine how satisfying the last couple years of my life would've been if I wasn't totally blacked out on Wu-Tang fringe material. Why? Because from January 08 to January 09, Sha Stimuli dropped 12 mixtapes. That's right-- 12 months, 12 full-length tapes. Don't believe me? And these aren't your typical filler-riddled joints either-- many of them are concept albums, including the stand-out Hotter Than July, a Stevie Wonder-inspired tape that exclusively samples the R+B legend.

Ok ok. Who the fuck has time to listen to 12 mixtapes by a relatively unknown Brooklyn MC? And what would that even prove? That your boy is prolific? That don't mean shit. Agreed. But scope any of Sha's freestyles or verses, and you'll hear creative rhyme schemes, a personalized flow, a knack for punch-lines, and an honest passion for hip hop that DOES mean shit.

Sha has all the makings of a technially great rapper, but what really makes him stand out from other MCs is his intellect, sincerity, and self-awareness. It's this self-awareness which makes him so unique among peers. Very rarely do underground rappers acknowledge a desire for commercial success, and it is equally rare for mainstream artists to speak of themselves as anything but the GOAT. Yet Stimuli positions himself in that grey area between the two, boasting a huge ego while simultaneously acknowledging his struggle to be successful within a context of "underground authenticity." In other words, peep the first verse on "Win the Fight," off Hotter Than July:

Oh you thought that I was playin?/ I do albums in my sleep so while you dream of gettin paper I cause nightmares like you seein' Satan

I showed up at Summer Jam feelin like Son of Sam/ Lookin at the stage in a rage/This is stupid yo/ I'm standin here mad at myself so I hit the studio/ And wrote this/

No hit record, no underground...

I'm up to somethin/ To intertwine fluff and substance/ The hip-hoppers gone feel it and the thugs will love it

Stimuli's penchant for reflexivity is further on display at his blog:

As much as this hurts me inside I have come to grips with the fact that I do not look scary at all to strangers. I can have my earphones in bopping to my music with the meanest of faces on a dark New York street and some elderly Caucasian lady will tap me on the shoulder and ask me for directions without hesitation. I want to say “Don’t I look frightening? Why aren’t you concerned that I’ll rob you Miss?”

The MC's reflections always seem to invert traditional ways of thinking about what is good (from a liberal perspective) for hip hop music and artists. Yet all this looking in the mirror seems to be good for Sha. As long as he knows where he is within the game, then he can keep banging out fresh material that challenges an audience stuck crabbily arguing about Underground vs. Mainstream. Which is why I'm so excited by this:

Humpday

2009-08-13T18:14:00.000-07:00

Google the term "bromantic comedy." You'll find scores of writers using this phrase. So we're going to go ahead and assume that you agree that the comedic subgenre that Judd Apatow made incredibly popular is in fact a real trend. If you're still skeptical, go see Superbad, Pineapple Express, or, what some folks are calling bromantic comedy's "greatest height": I Love You, Man. Fools must not have seen Humpday.

Humpday is still playing in Seattle, where your boy here is from and where the film was shot (for dirt cheap) by local director Lynn Shelton. And yes, she is a woman. Is it playing in your town? Fuck if I know. But you ought to check, because the film was picked up (read: bought) by distributor Magnolia Pictures and is/was playing at major cities round the US. And if it isn't playing where you're at, stay vigilant for the DVD release.

For me, the main appeal of Humpday is that it achieves, and bests, what these in vogue bromantic comedies do - show, in a funny yet earnest way, the love that exists between bros. Whether or not the Judd Apatow comedies have helped bring about or are merely a reflection of this shift in mainstream masculine culture in the US, I would certainly argue that heterosexual man-love is increasingly acceptable to show and discuss publicly. Humpday takes this a step further, however, by directly addressing the homoerotic aspects of male relationships from the get-go.

The premise is that two old (straight) friends dare each other into making a gay porn together. Such a film would be, in their estimation, a work of art, but more important to the characters is asserting their masculinity by not pussing out of this big gay dare. Each guy tries to talk the other out of the dare, one has to tell his wife, a game of basketball descends into a wrestling match - it's all hilarious and believable. The film form aids this believability - the dialogue is almost entirely improvised, and the film is shot in a very raw cinema verite/documentary style. The characters, the situation, and the locations (houses of Shelton's friends) feel real. Real real.

The film is remarkable for the fact that it takes its premise and never lets it descend into a farce. It remains a believable and hilarious character study the whole way through, as our two protagonists attempt to pull off this porn in a desperate attempt to stave off growing old and stale. It's much more mature and just as funny as any of the Hollywood bromances. It makes you wonder: could you bone a straight friend? Is your aversion innate or culturally constructed? And if you did, would that even be art, or just a ludicrous dare?

The Jetsons, er, the Schweebs

2009-08-07T08:15:00.000-07:00

People, it seems, lack a sense of what the future should be. We have no idea what it's supposed to look like. So our minds fall to thinking about the imagery from the cartoons we've seen in our childhood. I wold purport (with much purpose) that in many respects, the future is being created as an imitation of our wildest celluloid imaginations. And the craziest thing is, it's real - it really is what it's pretending to be. Maybe I'm crazy, and perhaps I don't know much about the future (except, of course, everything about it. But we all know exactly what's happening on November 23rd, 2011), but bear with me for a moment.

Let's take this premise: it's the future. And now that we've stopped living our dreams in the long-forgotten television, what are we to do on a lazy weekend? Basketball? No, the robots down at the court are too good, it's not fun any more. One could go to the local Ye Olde Mini Golfe place, or drive some Go Karts. But if those diversions are too old-fashioned, you can get your futuristic kicks and head to the racing-pod-monorail place. The Shweeb. For real.
photo: "The Scwheeb" monorail system. www.shweeb.com

But wait. This is not the future, this is happening right now!
Hanging in plexiglass enclosed pods, you zip around a race track trying to beat your opponent and, I assume, not look like a complete idiot. And while this looks like a lot of benign fun, it's only the preliminary stages of development. See, the people at Shweeb are merely testing the cow-eyed public's acceptance of this form of transportation; their real goal is to make vast inter-borough transportation networks of these commuter pods. It smacks of something from the sixties, and after all, it is a bunch of Australians who created it. From their website:

" The Shweeb is a direct response to the transportation needs of today and the future....Any attempt to resuscitate the automobile by devising a new fuel or engine is doomed. Our cities simply can’t cope with rising numbers of cars or parking spaces. In our opinion a fresh approach is required...Our proposal to get you safely and quickly from one point in the city to another would be to elevate you onto a network of interconnected monorails where you never have to stop at traffic lights. The ideal vehicle for such a system already exists.

Fully faired recumbent cycles, because of their low aerodynamic resistance, are breaking all bicycle speed records and currently reaching speeds of 90 kph (56 mph) in sprints. Suspending these comfortable and highly efficient machines from monorail tracks has the added advantage of taking away the rolling resistance of pneumatic tyres. Trains of Shweebs can further reduce the aero drag – ten people travelling at 40 kph will each have a lot less work to do than a single rider at the same speed." (Schweeb.com)

From their polemic it's not hard to imagine entire cities covered in a web of transparent pods, zipping people to work with zero emissions, and seemingly fewer worries. It is a heady idea, one made more realistsic by their computer generated simulation of such a transportation system (right). Wait, maybe this is a time warp, I certainly can't handle the graphics. Maybe they're too ahead of their time, and maybe I have a softer spot for the Flintstones, but at least this isn't some subconscious re-creation of 1984.

So while we're trying to find our futures, we've found ourselves in the time-space of the future-past, stuck right back in the present.

Holy Smokes

2009-08-06T12:25:00.000-07:00

Andre 3000 and Cee-Lo Green were injected to the womb by ATL-bound extraterrestrials. ODB evolved from amoeba to man in the NY primordial soup that was the crack era. But where the fuck did Dudley Perkins come from? Somewhere in Cali I guess. He surfaced in '95 to drop a feature on Tha Alkaholiks' Coast II Coast under the name Declaime, but for all we know the dude's been at it since Jurassic times. His most recent release, Holy Smokes puts him squarely on the funk-rap radar. Just peep the cover:

The opener, "To Declaime," pits Perkins over an acid-dripping beat from producer and friend Muldrow, and the MC goes in hard with a draggy, inverted flow that tests limits in rhyme-length and rhythm. It's a good intro to the album, but really one song can't do the whole justice. Perkins covers every topic from roach-smokin to politics, spitting with equal care over all. Throw in a cohesive, personalized body of production, and the result is a doorway into that other dimension, where booty-shaking is the preeminent form of prayer, and mythic battles between MCs and right-wing giants overrun the earth. Quite a magnificent place to be.

Dudley Perkins- To Declaime

Dudley Perkins- Sally