Eno. EBT. Science. Devin. Tribe.

1. Brian Eno says Cool is Dead. Not as dope as "God is dead" or "Paul is dead," but he's Brian Eno so he gets a pass.

Using a "go into a record store and look around" metaphor that I fully endorse, Eno says that because anybody can access cool things anywhere, nobody has a monopoly on cool anymore.

"We're living in a stylistic tropics," he says. "The idea that something is uncool because it’s old or foreign has left the collective consciousness." Point taken, Brian; however, I must ask: why is this a good thing? Cool is the way of weeding out awful people who I don't want to talk to at the bar. Cool used to be hard to interlope upon. Now anybody can be cool, which makes cool's value plummet. Please revise your little theory and have the full report on my desk by Tuesday, 8 AM. Love, the Arbiter of Cool.







2. 1 in 4 kids in my country is receiving food stamps. To eat. To survive. Unfortunately, because I'm kind of a bad person, this does nothing to make the cover of Return to the 36 Chambers less comical to me.



But really. What's the opposite of "Yay Americuh and its relentless hustle"? 'Cause I want that on a sign that I can wave to and fro right about now. [NY Times]






3. “People hear with their skin, as well as their ears; skin helps us hear by 'feeling' sounds” - Scientific American. HOLY CHRIST, Life Is Wonderful! Related:

a) Devin the Dude still ruling, still making albums;

b) Tribe documentary pending via Mike Rapaport and Nasir Jones, including appearances by such hiphop luminaries as Ghostface and....Jonah Hill. 'Cause everybody needs a chubby white dude in their hiphop doc to legitimize it, that's why.

I'll be gone from KORB.

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NAS: Variations on a theme. (basically I just wanted to post some JB's.)

1. OH LOOK, somebody took a picture of the inside of my head.




2. I forgot to wear my "showgirl who jumps out of a cake at AZ's party and becomes Nas's personal cigar-lighter" costume for Halloween this year! Aw damn.

2010, look out for me in my getup, prepare to analyze how it evokes notions of power and control. (The part of Nas to be played by Nas next year. I hear he's single now.)









3. Nastradamus is 10 years old this week. Like sands through the hourglass, kids.

My excitement meter isn't at Illmatic-turning-20 levels, of course, but what can you do. Also, the whole "It could've been worse" argument for a god MC turning out sub-par work several years after his masterpiece is always comical to this particular god-MC-fan lady blogger.





PS, I like you about 50 times more than usual when this comes on at the club and I look over at you. I mean, I see sparkles around your face, I hear birds chirping, I wanna take you home to meet my mom and see if the family dog deems you acceptable:


It's at 02:34, lazy ass. (If you can't take a whole 8 minutes out of your day to listen to a JBs song in its entirety, it's over for you, buddy. Abort mission now.)


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Roger & Jayceon.

Today's birfday boys include a talkboxing Ohioan who might as well be physically driving to the bank and placing bags of money into T-Pain's safe deposit box, and a not-very-good rapper who has such love for NWA that he had some dude take an ink-filled needle to his chest area and permanently scratch the name into his flesh. I kind of can't hate that.

Happy birthday, Roger Troutman and The Game! (1951 and 1979, respectively.)





“Computer Love.” Because my major flaw is that I'm not especially creative when it comes to selecting music; my major strength, fortunately, is that I know good music when I hear it.

mp3.





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A decade and a half, courtesy of a bunch of rappers in my record collection

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Year recognize year, AKA

Watch me use the hell outta my master's degree, AKA

Stuff like this is what I think about at work all day, AKA

“A year, ten years from now, I'll remember this;
not why, only that we were here like this, together.” - Adrienne Rich.




Harold! Monch! Jeruuuu!




So cool and ol' school like '8-4
The one your little mami windin' up her waist for.

Mos Def, “Close Edge”




Fool, you know me, I've been down since '85
Sellin dime for dime, doublin up my paper every time
I live the life of crime, ghetto life from day to day
Made me throw up both my hands, now get the fuck up out my -

Scarface, “Git Out My Face"




I don't bug out or chill or be acting ill
No tricks in '86, it's time to build.

Eric B & Rakim, “Eric B Is President”




'87! That was my favorite shit, god.
Polo shit...everything. Everything was lovely.

Wu, “Can It Be All So Simple”




I'm known to be the master in the MC field
No respect in '87, '88 you'll kneel.

EPMD, “So What Cha Sayin'”




NINETEENEIGHTYNINE the number, another summer
sound of the Funky Drummer.

Public Enemy, “Fight the Power.” Duh on you if you thought anything other than this one was gonna be used to rep the year 1989.




1990, Chubb Rock jumps upon the scene
with a lean and a pocket full of green.

Chubb Rock, “Treat 'Em Right.” Duhhhhhh, the sequel.




I grew up as a Christian so to Jah I give thanks
Collect my banks, listen to Shabba Ranks
I sing, and chat, I do all of that
It's 1991 and I refuse to come wack.

A Tribe Called Quest, “Jazz (We've Got)”




Dirty Rotten Scoundrel and my name is Jeru
utilizing my tools in '92
MC's step up in mobs to defeat us
when we rock knots and got props like Norm Peterson.

Gang Starr (Jeru's verse), “I'm the Man”




A one-to-three, he be home the end of '93
I'm ready to get this paper, G, you with me?

Biggie, “Gimme the Loot”


At the block party everybody jocked (who me?)
It's the MC sucka ni--as envy
I got my contract in 1993 and
I shall proceed.

The Roots, “Proceed”

mp3.

(It was a draw between 2 heavyweights. Also: 93 til infinity/kill all that wack shit. 'Course.)




'94, Big Gipp, Goodie Mo, Outkast, a vision from the past
Hootie hoo, my white owls are burnin kinda slow.

OutKast, “Git Up, Git Out”




1995, Elijah is alive
Louis Farrakhan, NOI.

Ice Cube, “Enemy”




Gimme a second, I swear
I will say about my rap career
Til '96 came ni--as I'm here
Good-bye.

Jay-Z, “December 4”




Rosco P, young G, I don't speak I just squeeze
'97 P will make you drop to your knees.

The Clipse (Rosco P's verse), “Chinese New Year”


What, you ain't know about them country fried sessions?
Does that Likwit hit in '97 answer all yo questions?

Nappy Roots, “Lac Dogs and Hogs.” Kentucky in '03; let's move there, you and me, you know, start a farm and a new life together, go to the batting cages and use our Louisville Sluggers, fueled by these kinds of glorious sounds:





An eye for an eye, you know my science of life
Is you man or mice, thugs or the cowardly type?
I kick the '98 shit for your ears to list
Ni--a P where you headed it's time to pass kids.

Mobb Deep, “Nighttime Vultures”




STILL
gettin mine in the
one nine nine. Nine.

Common + Sadat X, “1-9-9-9.” Rawkus ('91-02) forevvvvvs, how many times I gotta tell you.




I'm also preemptively including

“You my pet, my poodle chicken noodle's on the rise
Open your eyes and see my life
Rap moves on to the year 3000.” - Kool Keith.


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Things that MS Word spellcheck and I have in common.

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We both refuse to accept “wack.” BLAOW.

Harry Belafonte - “Jump in the Line”! SO DOPE! Posted because Belafonte is the opposite of wack, as evidenced by a) this song, and b) this*. Please be aware that this slice of Trini heaven will be played at my wedding reception, so don't act all surprised when it comes on and I tug on your hand to come with me to the dance floor.

mp3.





*

Forman, King, Belafonte.

. . . .

3 Greats: "Daylight"

“Sunshine plays a major part in the daytime.”

- Ghostface, “Can It Be”

Annnnd just like that, everything is illuminated.




Matthew & Kimberly, “Daylight.” When this first came out I listened to it like e-ver-y day. Now it's like once a week but still. Your human card's gonna get revoked if you let me catch you frowning during any part of this intro. (PS, please do me this small favor and stop remixing this and having your friends rhyme over it, bad humans.)

mp3.




Aesey, “Daylight.” Like the earth spinning, babies havin babies, and birds flyin in the damn sky, weirdness plus hotness will always be. Especially in my record collection.

mp3.




Bobby MF Womack, “Daylight.” ________, ___, _____, etc. (something about his epic vocal stylings for which no words can do justice)

mp3.

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Thing #76,433 we're thankful for: PAUL.

OH PAULLLLL.
Darling youuuu send me. Honest you do. Honestyoudo, honestyoudo.*

I don’t trust people who like Vegas, I don’t like people who start a question with “Question:” and who start a story like this: “True story:”. But I trust NY producers whom I've never met. I mean, look at his face. He's just a great dude, you can tell, and if we knew each other I just know that no unpleasantness between us would ever ensue and that he would find my questions about Zev in '89 super charming.

Not the most obscure piece of Paul production-ery here, but obscurity is the most ridiculous test of a music's merit I think I ever done heard in mah LIFE. Stop stalling, press play, and take Aunt Jean for a spin around the living room to this with my beloved Raiders on your television set. De La - “Ring Ring Ring (Ha Ha Hey).”

mp3.

I find it hard enough dealin with my own biz.





*I would like to add that I am also thankful for YouTube and for videos on YouTube that include the words “rare,” “Sam Cooke,” and “demo.”


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Every day is Christmas, and every night is New Year's Eeeeeeve

1. Crybaby Report, November '09: Former George W. Bush aides are sad and mad that President Dreamypants uses the word "unprecedented" in his press conferences and speeches.

"The new guy uses that word too much," they say, "Our guy did important things too! Also!: Wah, wahwahwahhhh."

Next up: "You can't tell me what to do; you're not my real dad" and "Ew, that's your new boyfriend? OMG I am sooooo much stronger and more handsome than him."


Even in absentia, W. is annoying as all hell since his droogs will just not stop saying words that end up quoted on newsy websites. No matter; I predict that Barry O. will soon turn all of this into a positive by wielding these unprecedented critiques in a spectacular and unprecedented display of making one's haters one's motivators.





2. First new Sade album in 10 years to be released February 8; comes packaged with a set of 400-count sheets, jojoba oil, and several prophylactics.






“The Sweetest Taboo.” Because it just never gets old; it really doesn't. And because rain at the beginning of a song means you and your pants will soon be separated (please see above).

mp3.




“Paradise.”


“Trouble Man.”





“Is It a Crime.”


“Allspice.”






3. James Brown, Bob Marley added to Grammy Hall of Fame.


Still waiting to hear about Pele's status with the Soccer HOF and to find out if Jay-Z has crossed the million-album-sales mark yet. Fingers crossed!





4. Help Me Reconcile My Feelings About a Current Global Aid Crisis, episode 27:

Should the US send aid to Uganda, a nation with lots of hunger and sickness but also a lot of fear of the gays and a contentious relationship with its homosexual citizens, even going so far as to make homosexuality a crime punishable by death?

Wait, do I love any producers, rappers, politicians, or comedians from Uganda? Have I even heard of anyone from Uganda other than Idi Amin? No? Then fuck 'em. (sorry, Mom. Also, just kidding, Mom and everybody reading this.)

This debate kinda reminds me of how I love my gays yet I love Buju Banton, 'cause I'm kind of a bad person. Conveniently, this debate also provides a good segue into me posting some Buju.
(My love of the Conquering Lion aside, I am confused by and distrustful of a people whose belief system somehow equates homosexuality with oral sex, even when the sexuality experienced is of the hetero kind - which, for those following along at home, means no sex with the mouth. Because Selassie or Marcus Garvey or somebody, uh, disapproves? Spell it out for me, please.)



"Walk Like a Battyboy." Somebody turned Buju gay!

mp3.


Taxi riddim. 'Cause I'm not about to post "Boom Bye Bye." (love my gays, remember? pay attention)



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No hustle is superior to that whole "Being Attractive" hustle.

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Hey wait, where's the blue squiggly line?

Ohhh. Right.

“We like ass. Wake up, sweetheart.” - everyone with an Internet, to me.

(Things also do not turn out well when you put in “Blu” + “Drake,” just sayin.)

I will frequently be focused on including this in a post about rankings of any sort. Search volume rankings? Well, here you go. Althea & Donna - “Uptown Top Ranking.”

mp3.

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Andy Kaufman of this rap shit.

All the kids in my city are crying because Doomsies did that cute thing again on Saturday night where he fake shows up for a real show that people pay real money for. Like that other time. OOPSY.

He never said a verse at the show, just fucked around on a laptop. Stones Throw said it was “obvious that he wasn’t going to show up at a venue that fits only 200 people when his performance fee requires venues about 10 times that size.” UM DUH, said a certain lady blogger who was supposed to go to that show and then realized the venue only fits a small amount of people and it was pretty obvious he wasn't gonna show up.

“Doom's not rapping in LA in the dead of a Saturday night for people who need an explanation of his identity in parentheses*. He doesn’t have tiiiiiime, people,” said the same certain lady blogger, “The man has kids and he's friends with all your favorite MCs. He's building. A day to god is 1,000 years.”

She added, “I was gonna pull out the ol' ‘I'd rather have a fake show by a real rapper than a real show by a fake rapper’ line, but then I thought better of it. I don't deal in cliches. That was a close one.”


For the complete experience, I recommend rubbernecking in the Comments section of the HipHopDX story, where some unadulterated e-thuggery and calling-out-ery is occurring. “Major Fail Doom,” says one embittered soldier. OH SNAP. The dude thought Doom was gonna be there for a show that cost 10 bucks because, sure, it could happen (if you's an idiot). Then he walked into a wall and said, “stupid wall!” 'Cause, see, it was the wall's fault.


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On to happier topics.
Here you go, the gift of Bassline at 01:44. Basslinebasslinebassline.



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Record store gods, why hast ye forsaken me???

Make me wanna holler/The way they do my life! Large Pro and his amazing gray beard prance around my turf, rule the universe, break atoms, all while appearing mortal. Then he probably went to meet G Rap for lunch at Canter's, and later took Nas and his cute new baby to get Live at some BBQ and went to, I don't know, feed zebras at the LA zoo with the Tribe boys, all the while "accidentally" forgetting to call me. Welcome to Screaming and Throwing Things out of Rage Monday in apt. 302.

Gritty sounds, he says. I like gritty sounds. Even the dollar bins are beautiful. Oh my goodness, that's so weird P, 'cause you know what I like? GRITTY SOUNDS AND THE DOLLAR BINS. And also I like running up and busting out a spontaneous Pablo Neruda love poem in tribute to a '90s production god. Except, see, what had happened was I live like 2 miles from the spot and nobody on my team thought to apprise me of the situation. I'm taking a mental health day from work. This ain't livin. Nah nah baby. This ain't livin.




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Who needs to think when your feet just go.

Tom Tom Club - "Genius Of Love"

It's the birthday of Tina Weymouth, spectacularly talented producer, writer, singer and bass player (lady bass player!) for Talking Heads of course, but also Tom Tom Club, which prompts me to obsess over the, uh, genius that is "Genius of Love" and ask: Hey you guys, let's you and me always ride for weird pop music, okay? Can we please?


It also provides a great reason for me to post my 3-point plan for understanding the meaning of life:

1. Basslines are sex.
a) Basslines made by girl bass players are extra sex.


2. Fun, natural fun. Sly and Robbie. Bootsy Collins. Coke. Love that makes you feel like you're dreaming but you're not sleeping. Raise expectations to a new intention. In sum: just go with the feeling, silly.


3. Ol' Dirty guest appearances FO LIFE. Baby baby c'monnn, baby c'monn, baby c'monn.
a) Weird pop music to bloggily express your adoration for DC rappers FO LIFE.





mp3.



Above the Law



Redman



The only CamERon appearance on this here blog, ever. Enjoy.





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Irony is dead/Long live irony.

Fixies n' produce shopping n' tight pants in a big city, plus a Daily Show tie-in!

Medicine for Melancholy:

Young adults pull heads out of asses to discover gentrification is more than a rad way to get a cheap apartment,
and stop rapping, blogging, and coke-ing long enough
to lay down the irony gun and embrace sweet sweet love.





Because love, darling, is the hippest thing of all.

Saturday_Looks_Good_To_Me-Meet_Me_By_The_Water_128.mp3

meet me by the water underneath the big beehive
bring your record player and your Raincoats 45s
we can dance together as the river rushes by
to wash away the cities that somebody else designed.


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And now I work there.

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“Los Angeles, 1965. Protesters carrying signs
take a break in front of the Federal Building.”

The Animals - “Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood.” February 1965. Eric Burdon's voice plus that opening riff, a guitar/organ collaborative eargasmic situation. All y'all other '60s British whiteboy bands better know.

mp3.




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Not just ANY mother, silly; THIS mother.

there's a whole lot of rhythm goin round.


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I'd also like more information on

getting up,
getting down,
hitting it,
quitting it,
putting a glide in my stride and a dip in my hip,
going beyond merely knee deep,
figuring out why I must feel like that and why I must chase the cat, and
doing things to the roof - including but not limited to raising it and tearing it off the sucker.



Funkadelic - “Cosmic Slop.” Because it's what we're all wallowing in at this very moment.
And because even though it rules I just can't bring myself to post that MC Hammer song.

mp3.

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Random Tribute: Um, Manny Pacquiao?

“For nearly 12 rounds, Cotto was like a guy
locked in a dark room
with a hundred swooping bats.”

- the LA Times' Bill Dwyre, in a nice “show the reader, don't tell the reader”
journalistic moment, describing what it's like
to be Manny Pacquiao's personal punching bag.

I don't get it, because I'm a girl who does not care for young men of color from poor nations (or poor neighborhoods in rich nations) beating the living hell out of each other in front of a rapt cigar-smoking audience like some kind of gross animal show, but somehow Emmanuel Dapidran Pacquiao has become quite the compelling figure in apt. 302. And it's not just because he spectacularly reminded us all that the dude with tribal tats always loses. It's because:


- Pacquiao has a foundation focusing on education and health care in the Philippines, and based on what my research tells me (7 minutes on espn.com), he seems to be a real stand-up dude and a sweet and humble man. I've always hated boxing/I somehow like boxing because of Pacquiao = cognitive dissonance on a Monday morning. Fun.


- Pacquiao had a rougher life than all of us and still smiles. A lot. Almost all the time (thanks again, espn.com!). He has peddled flowers and doughnuts for a living, sold fish he caught in the ocean. He grew up without shoes in the Philippines. He ran away from home when he was 14 because his father ate the family dog. His father ate the family dog. Just making sure you saw that.

(“STFU” – everybody in the world, to me, next time I complain about the lines at the grocery store, because my fellow shoppers are holding me up from driving in my functioning car back to my lovely apartment where I get a good night’s sleep, eat fresh food, drink clean water, and talk to my loving family members every damn day. I’m awful sometimes, just awful.)


- Pacquiao is a 5'6" superhuman. Says the NY Times, he does crunches while trainers pound his abdomen with a bamboo pole. He “dabbles in darts, basketball and billiards. He has a photographic memory, learned to play the piano in one week and, when he is not training, often sleeps only three to four hours a day.” He's also the body-dropper, the heartbeat-stopper, child-educator plus head-amputator, spins a web any size, heals the sick, can make a cow jump over the moon, and once shot a man in Reno just to watch him die.


- Pacquiao's trainer Freddie Roach is a nerd and is not to be fucked with. I'm pretty sure you do not, in fact, want a piece of this.


Roach is little and wears glasses and has Parkinson's but knows how to teach men to topple other men in the ring. This combination of nerdy and thuggy doesn't make sense, so, duh, I love him. Before his trainer days, Roach was gonna be a botanist or something? (A tree surgeon). Love that. Also, he looks like Alton Brown from the Food Network. Love that too.



Now there's some sort of post-Cotto situation in which Floyd Mayweather is acting pouty and attempting to call out my precious Manny. I've heard of this Floyd Mayweather, but I don't know if people think he is good or bad at fighting (although I'm guessing since I've heard of him, he's probably good). I do know that the name Floyd is pretty kick-ass, so whatever.

Because boxers have to taunt each other like 7th-grade girls before getting into the ring, Mayweather said, “Manny Pacquiao doesn't say anything directly about fighting me because he might just know it's not a fight he can win.” OH SHIT, SONNN. SHOTS FIRED.

It's like “Ether” without all the gay taunts!
(although, let's be honest, those are probably coming.)



Bob Dylan - “Hurricane.” Not the “you can call me slurricane” Hurricane, so calm down. It's The Hurricane, whose guilt or innocence shall not be debated here. He's innocent, 'cause Dylan says so.


mp3.


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My humble prayer to the hip-hop gods. And Jesus.

SF, '93. Lance Dawes photo.

I’m not a terribly religious girl but I do pray for good, goodgood hiphop music.

Some new Souls of Mischief, produced by Prince Paul (!!, !!!!!!, etc), will allegedly be released into the cosmos on 12/01/09. Please oh please let this not be terrible I ask of Jesus when I kneel and pray about this every night.


I'm not expecting another achievement like 93 Til, or any singles on par with “Cab Fare” 'cause that's damn near impossible even with my super high degree of confidence in the Power of the California Emcee. Still, I'm wishing and hoping that this collection of songs does not disappoint; I need confirmation that a tolerable album by aging '90s rappers is not such an elusive thing. Also, in tangentially related news, I just found out that Ron Artest wore #93 when he played for Sacramento in tribute to these dudes! DAMN, RON-RON. Let's go out for coffee sometime and talk about how No Man's Land is underrated. Hella underrated.

In a scenario ripped straight from my daydreams, the boys recorded the album like so:

rented a house across the Golden Gate Bridge, stayed there for like a month, had Prince Paul come out to the house, got rid of all the TVs and distractions, and made music every day. (And then they magically made it 1993 again. And they all said hella, like, hellllla times.) The end.

Uhhhmmmm....I find myself unable to concentrate and complete this post. Go listen to “Cab Fare.” You won't regret it, promise. So many good lines; it's like Oscar Wilde moved to Oakland and started working and smoking with Del -

Payin their green to see what color my house is/Feelin like Del, 'cause they would sleep on my couches.
All the other drivers knew that my car was spectacular/'cause I had a tight, very bright yellow Acura.
Damn I'm glad black men drive them cabs, too.
Plus a nice Rocket Ismail reference (before it was embarrassing to be a Raider fan).

And when you're done with that one: “Spark.” (Sorry to be so bossy; it's just that I know what's best for you)


PS: just after minute 2.


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Come from the city where the glitter don't glimmer.

I turn my back for 5 minutes, and what happens? The Saints are sorrrrta killing it right now.

Here's my list of reasons why this rules:

- A dude named Sedrick. Defensive Tackle. Sedrick with an "S." Freaking dope.

- The black and gold color scheme, so crisp and pleasing to the eye.

- The Saints aren't perfect and this makes me like them more. Specifically, the team gives me a compelling reason to hate it in that Drew Brees looks like a fair-haired Trent Reznor circa oh-nine, and that's not a good thing, you see, because Trent Reznor circa oh-nine is tired and bloated, both physically and verbally. Stop it, Trent. Ew. Anyway, if I ever meet you at a bar, please be aware that I will bring this up at some point in conversation, probably with a lot of excitement and hand gestures. Just nod and agree with me, please.

- The fleur-de-lys logo! Classic, royal, and super dope, always...
just ask Weezy's face and my black onesie that I never wear because it exposes me to a degree that makes me uncomfortable.









(I'm not dope enough to have haters, but if I were, and if I did, they'd call me out for posting a picture like this.

Also: Sorry, Mom. Sorrysorry.)







- Their god-awful defense, which makes me feel all smug since annoying football analysts always insist that the best offense is a good defense. Um, NO, and the Saints' 9-0 record proves it. You know what the best offense really is? SCORING POINTS. So shut yer trap, Cris Collinsworth.


I can't think of any other reasons but oh, who cares. New Orleans has been so sad for so long, and now there's some greatness there (except for that awful Bobby Jindal). Let's celebrate that. Now if you'll excuse me, I must go and laissez les bon temps roulez and post some pretty songs.



The Meters - “Handclapping Song.” Um, 'cause it's a post about New Orleans. And 'cause I can't think of any Mannie Fresh-related songs that you haven't already heard nine thousand times. And 'cause of this*. And 'cause if you wanted to hear “Born on the Bayou” you'd turn on the classic rock station right about now. Side note: “Born on the Bayou” is a certified banger and I love it so, so much.

mp3.



Mos Def - “Katrina Clap.” Illions & killions to waste on a war. Tell 'em, Dante.

mp3.



Fats Domino - “Walking to New Orleans.” Because the piano is loud and gorgeous, and because he'll probably always be cooler than me, even with the name Fats Domino.

mp3.



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