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.
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 Albumdays, 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.
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...
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.
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:
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
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.
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.
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.
