You're stuck in the middle/And the pain is Thunder.
It's all 'cause of Kev Durant's shirt--the loss of hope and the stomped-on dream of having champion status. Love the concept of green plaid button-up, hate the execution. AY QUE LASTIMA.
In happier news, my team bad. Badder than yerrrrrs.
"Spanish bombs, yo te quiero infinito Yo te quiero, oh mi corazon." - The Clash
A Classic Education - "Spanish Harlem." a) Spector; b) pretty, so pretty; c) this is what they look like; and d) I needed a song with a Spanish connection so it was either this or something by Pitbull.
Unrelated: Sleigh Bells, "Tell 'Em," which (don't get your hopes up) is NOT a tribute to Soulja Boy. Even though I kinda feel like white girls in bands singing sweetly over hard sounds get a disproportionate amount of love and shine and credit for musical risk-taking (I can say this because I'm a white girl, but you can't), I LIKE IT SO MUCH. Hurry hurry and like it too, before B.o.B. raps over the instrumental.
I. "Little Brother's Retirement Party" in the Village Voice. The article is good because Brandon Soderberg wrote it, even though he did that thing in music articles that I hate and that is just so popular right now - "(Musical artist) is _____ (doing something seemingly unrelated to music, present continuous tense); ______ (location and mood are established, musical artist shows human/humble side while maintaining artistic sheen and allure)." Soderberg is my OG imaginary writing/nerding-out buddy from way way back; he does a fine job with this piece. Additionally, the picture that accompanies the article is dreamy, I'm introduced to the category "John Kerry hip-hop" and shall henceforth use the term whenever possible, and for everybody who makes fun of me for singing along with J. Biebs on Power 106, Phonte would like to punch you in the mouth! We're part of the unapologetically-liking-bad-music army. Join us or perish.
"Dude, if you like Gucci Mane's music," he says, "like it! Rock with us because you like us, not because of what you think it represents or whatever ideology you pulled out your ass and put on us."
YEAH, I exclaim, WHAT HE SAID! BURR!
Then the article reveals that Drake calls Phonte his favorite MC, which casts a dreary shadow upon an article dedicated to the greatness of Little Brother. "Phonte is my favorite MC," I imagine he yelled, in that loud, LOUD fucking monotone. By the way, how odd that I like Bieber the Canadian Elf extensively more than a semi-attractive rapper who does songs with Bun B. Hm. Never thought I'd see the day. Turn and face the strange. Ch-ch-changes.
II. Montgomery C. Burns and his sideways smirky face and sideways smug talk, quoted in Time.
Boastful braggery is a tough one to pull off without a bag of rhymes and an amazing producer; Dick Cheney has neither, so he never stood a chance with that quote above. When I first read those words, it sounded self-congratulatory and obnoxious. That's sort of the best thing I ever did, telling another grown man to fuck off. I RULE. Bow in the presence of greatness. It's not that simple, though, because when you think about it, the words he said are true. It is the best thing he ever did, mostly because it was a rare moment in which he did not increase Halliburton's profits or send 19-year-olds to the desert. In my soft and girly moments, I think that maybe Dick's acknowledging what a ghastly job his administration did, and how evil permeated the landscape between the years 2001 and 2008 in America. Maybe he's trying to apologize. This throws me, because Cheney scary bad man! My head hurts.
"Worldwide trunk funk, no jazz on the East." A Kool Keith + Doom tag-team rap song, possibly one day? Alas, the Music Gods have not yet made it so. My heart and mind couldn't sustain the libidinous energy flowing through my slender body upon first listen. Plus I'm sure there's beef somewhere in their history. Boys and their feelings, you know?
You wake up on a Sunday, you remember that the Lakers lost and you're sad, but then the clouds part. You read the Sunday paper. Your mom calls. The day improves. Things happen to make you feel pretty damn good about the hand you were dealt in life.
My mom never taught me to be smug; it's not ladylike. But still. It cheers me up sometimes. I never claimed that I could fuck with your Dougie, and you should see what passes for wood grain in my Civic, but at this moment I'm ruling because of all this:
- Curtis Mayfield and me, sartorial equals. People, you must respect this.
Sorry to prance around and revel in it, but you'd do the same if you were wearing your trench right now. You'd do the same.
- I swear I just read in this interview, right there in black and white, that Scarface didn't know Ced Gee produced Criminal Minded. Scarface also loved Guru, of course, but Scarface thought Guru was from Brooklyn. He never thought about the Boston accent? The dropped r's? "He might be loose in the pahhhhk, or lurkin at the train station"?
Guru was from Boston, actually, the interviewer tells him. No shit?, says Scarface, and in my apartment I reply, No shit. Smugly.
The logical conclusion, of course, is that I know more about hiphop than 'Face (!!!). I'm not sure how this is possible, since I'm not from Houston and I definitely don't rap-a-lot. It doesn't matter how this is possible. It just matters that it's true. Recognize areal don when you see one. (she'll probably be wearing a trenchcoat)
[I also appreciate his beautiful humble simple existential take on the end of human life, from the same interview:
"If you don’t know anything else about life, and life’s promise, you know that at the end of the day you have to say goodbye... No one is gonna live forever, and to be able to accept and respect the order is a sign of a good person. We have to respect the order."
And there it is. Since '91, Scarface has owned my heart and mind. He possesses that lovely combination of wordplay skill, booming voice, humor, and humbleness that most ladies require, gentlemen, in order to get them to take their dresses off in your presence. Plus he gave Devin the Dude his name!Girls love that.]
- Jayceon has never made me feel compelled to brag that he is from the same part of the globe as me. Producer Scoop Deville, however, makes me proud that he is from the same part of the globe as me. I'm a sucker for a nicely-placed Eazy vocal fragment.
This cheerful and melodic ray of sunshine(thank you so very much, RapRadar)is Episode 18,000 of The Producer Matters More Than the Words That Are Being Said Over the Beat. (And I have a degree in English, so that statement is especially meaningful.)
OMG, can't wait til I find the mp3 of this. Can you even imagine?? It's dangerous to rush the natural progression of things, though. You're supposed to hear a poor quality/tagged version on YouTube first, then you get emailed an mp3 link and hear a bad digital no-tags version of it, then you find the instrumental at Amoeba on a glorious piece of round black vinyl. And then you're smug that you have it. Not to rap over it--just to have it. But you do it all in good time.
It's like my good friend 'Face says, Respect the order.
This Goldman Sachs fraud business. The emails. Um, get that paper, I guess, but heed the word of Frank Lucas and don't wear shiny suits with big signs on 'em that say "arrest me." In 2010, this means don't electronically transmit evidence of your schemery for us all the analyze and point at later when you get collared. Nobody ever told these gentlemen that boasting and bragging is so gauche and I feel rather embarrassed for them. Amateur hour. Ugh. Anyway, "Cash from Chaos" might very well be an appropriate title for the conceptual album that follows this scandal, but since I live by the code of the Wu, I realized that there's a Tony Starks connection that makes everything else fade away:
"I've managed to sell a few abacus bonds to widows and orphans that I ran into at the airport, apparently these Belgians adore the complex investments."
This is a Ghosty lyric in its purest form, even if Ghosty doesn't know it yet. THE WU IS PRESENT IN ALL ASPECTS OF MY LIFE.
I've managed to sell a few abacus bonds to widows and orphans that I ran into at the airport/ Apparently these Belgians adore the complex investments.
(Over a snippet of Fugazi's "Greed" instrumental, flipped & bounced. Abacus bonds. Complex investments. Widows, orphans, Belgians. This is slang that won't even be invented until 2014)
MINGUS. Call me.I've often been told that my body shape resembles a stand-up bass. Just sayin.
"Obama's national security adviser, Jim Jones, urges bold steps to revive long-stalled Middle East negotiations."[NY Times]
HARLEM!
His intimate familiarity with beef and all its detrimental effects makes him uniquely qualified to speak on this topic.
PS, hey Jimmy! If Iran is so good at exploiting the Arab-Israeli conflict and we'd like to stop Iran from furthering its nuclear program, perhaps we could transfer some of our sympathy and funding from the nuclear power known as Israel and apply it to the residents of caged plots of land who are bound by checkpoints on the West Bank so that they will stop blowing humans up in protest. Iran might calm down about the threat of the Zionist entity if the Zionist entity allows Palestinians to live as dignified citizens. Call me for more info.
Malcolm McLaren's hearse, pulled through London today. How rebellious is rebellion if it's perfectly calculated? Is fame for fame's sake kind of pornographic and stupid, or awesome and postmodern? These are the questions I wish my friend Kanye would ask himself. Remember that slogan above, too; it'll be the name of my next mixtape.
I can't ever be too haterish if I know the dude is in on the joke. Oh Malcolm! An affectionate goodbye (see you later?) from me and all the other westside riders.
"We are visualizing taking the energy away from the cancer," he says, "and then sending it back at the cancer as lightning bolts that will break apart the DNA and RNA of the cells."
Meditation, bass guitar, gray hair and hippie shit. Dad??
Got a. Freaky. Freaky. Freakyfreaky flow.
XXL uses "Mostly tha Voice" as a starting point in compiling a list of the best MC voices. Bun B and Scarface and Biggie are on there; I approve. And then those space cadets mention Shyne (?) and some dude who had a bar on a Busta Rhymes mixtape in '98. Look, now they've gone and gotten me all upset.
Back on terrafirma, we're a little more level-headed. Big fat shiny glaring omissions that deserve mention include ODB, Jeru, Doom, Kool Keith, Adrock, Ricky Walters, Sadat X, RA, Masta Ace, and an entire Cali cohort consisting of two-fourths of the Pharcyde, B-Real, Quik, MC Eiht, E FUCKING FAWTY, Del!, the DOC!, and Kurupt(I know it's a longshot, but I just love his voice), all the best Wu gods (except Meth, who’s mentioned), Hector Lavoe, Ian Curtis, Anthony Hamilton—oh sorry!
I am generally easygoing but this kind of debate makes me opinionated and feverish. The lack of Rakim mention made me throw my laptop across the room, for example.
1.Dave's Quality Meatthought of the Guru tribute post I was supposed to have thought of--they pulled together all the skate video parts over the years set to Gangstarr songs. Fucking genius. NYC boys are so clever; it's a stereotype of mine that will probably not change. Plus they say "God bless you" when you walk down the street and make you feel like the foxiest woman alive. Photo above by Massan.
2.MobbDeep's "Whole Lotta Thug," STILL even though it's been approximately 10 days, 6 hours and 29 minutes since it entered my life via NahRight. I can't stop. Way better than whole lotta love and a whole lottarosie, plus the realness is foundation, so please have a seat everyone else hoping to get a spot on the apt. 15 playlist this week.
3.Jeezy's"Greatest Trapper Alive." Not the song itself, 'cause it's dumb, but the name of the song--a lovely example of simple yet effective pun-ery, like Malice in Wonderland, that album that Snoop did about the dude from The Clipse.
The judges also would have accepted "Trapper John, M.C." and Jeezy'snod to Elvis,"We're caught in a trap; I can’t walk out."
4.Tanlines - "Real Life." I wish somebody would start a band with a friend, base it in Brooklyn, wear v-neck shirts, get coverage in Nylon, and put out experimental pop. And hey, did you know Matador records still exists? (!).
7. The xx - "VCR" (Matthew Dear mix). My intense throbbing love begins around 01:50. This is what the DJ puts on when it's time for me to show 'em what I'm working with at the strip club owned by Dov Charney. I go on at 11:30.
I don't love nothin more than the glory days of Motown. I mean, other than the glory days of Rawkus, and Def Jux and Wild Pitch and Ninja Tune, and when I hit my personal glory days and peaked (August 2006). I'll take midwestern rhythm and/or blues in all forms I can get my dainty fingers on--even, what the fuck, the Supremes in Italian or Marvin in German. Behold the cosmopolitan versions of Motown hits below, which comprise part of “Motown Around the World: The Classic Singles,’’ a double-disc compilation out soon that features all of my record collection Detroit paramours singing in Italian, German, French, and Spanish. [Boston.com]
Pre-1964 (British Invasion), record labels had their most popular singers record singles in foreign languages for sale in international markets; they believed pop music sung in English wouldn’t be popular with audiences in non-English-speaking countries. The singers learned and sang the songs phonetically, which I admire and which must've been a real bitch to have to do. Fuckin A&R.
The songs just have that old-timey aura about 'em that reminds me that there was music and a world and people before the Internet. Stevie's "My Cherie Amour" translates most successfully, but all of them possess a charming innocence not unlike myself in a cotton sundress and all of them are a pleasure to listen to, even though it's universally recognized that Mef's flirty French lure at the end of "Ice Cream" is the greatest musical example ever of an English speaker attempting a foreign language. Parlez-vous francais, mi amour? Merci, oui oui, bon bons. OOH LA LA.
There's little more to say, really, other than a) melody transcends language, and now that I have these as the soundtrack to my life, b) this is, in fact, life in marvelous times.
Headphone porn. Sometimes I make up stuff or elaborate just to make a story better, but I swear on everything meaningful that I stated “OH MY GOD” out loud to myself when this hit the 3-minute mark.
In Flagranti – “I Chatted Up The Nympho Secretary Part 1.” (Not saying Joan's a nympho; it's just a song, people.)
mp3. (do it! even if the player doesn't work and you can't preview it ahead of time. DO IT.)
From The Boston Globe, just 'cause I feel like hometown obits are the most respectful.
OH, AND WHAT HAVE WE HERE. Why, it's some good rap music coupled with some love! Mister Cee's very very special Guru-imbued Throwback at Noon today, his voice cracking and his breathing slow and focused, streaming at Rap Radar with a higher quality version on Megaupload that will startle and move you with its greatness.
“A great man, a great rapper, a great humanitarian for hiphop...don't ever let anybody tell you that you can't show your love for somebody. Ain't nobody gon stop me from doin what I need to do for Guru!” The voice cracking and the slow breathing, I know I just mentioned it but oh it is such a lovely expression of affection from one friend to another friend. Sharp blades, heavenly praise, and dues are paid!
Everyone knows I like to dance to the pop jams ("Gangsta Luv," hello!; "My Chick Bad"--especially that part about milk--HELLOOOO). And everyone knows I miss OutKast. We all do. I know it hurts, I know. (Ssshhh. There, there.) But the widespread blog fellatio for this B.o.B.! All I see is a cute 3 Stacks cadence impression, a Chappelle face impression*, and a mean ability to pick a good chorus that distracts us from paying attention to the words coming out of the mouth during verses. He was great in '08 so I'm not sure what happened, but if you're not outraged you're not paying attention.
*
1. "It's hard being a professional rapper." (That's what he says between choruses, above). "My days are pressure-filled." I know dude, and that's why I didn't become a rapper.
2. The only MC who can pull off complaining about money, industry pressure, sex with models, and identity crises is the fantastic Christopher Wallace.
3. That chorus is fun, obviously. I sing along with it in the car. There's no fun anywhere else in the song, however, even though fun is supposed to be a key element in pop music. Ergo, my vitriol toward this slice of pop music.
4. OH SHIT, Devin & Andre already did this song and it's called "What a Job." How soon we forget.
"It's hard being a professional rapper," the skillful and engaging version:
Perusing espn.com today and reveling in pictures and words documenting the Lakers' victory, I came across this photo. Rick Reillyand his big dumb writing style came out with a big dumb book called Sports from Hell, and one of the chapters is about chess boxing. So, once again, the Wu is present in all aspects of my life.
“Chess boxing involves two combatants alternating six rounds of chess (four minutes) and five of boxing (three) until one of them is either checkmated on the board or knocked out in the ring, or time runs out on the chess clock. In that case, whoever is ahead on the cards of the judges is the winner.”
U-God's first 2 bars! Jacques Cousteau! Rae's beef with commercial-ass n---as, which is the exact same beef that I have! A sharp sword to the midsection! ODB's joyful wail before his verse starts!! My peoples, are you with me? ARE YOU? The game's a mystery, it really is, but I've heard it's like a swordfight. Be less mega trife, adopt a lil toad style, and I'll bet you win.
(Just pretend it's the first time hearing it again. I can't think of a better use of your next 4 and a half minutes.)
He added, "Well, except for 'Forever Young.' That song's bullshit."
Which it is! Fuckin A, Kanye. Stop making bad things happen. Sloppy production work, my dear. Sloppy sloppy. And lazy. Very lazy.
(And yes, the song is awful drivel, but the video of Jay and his lovely wife dueting at Coachella made me teary-eyed. Of course. I mean, Jesus Christ, I’m not some kind of monster).
Hot damn though: being able to buy your mom whatever she wants? Moving units while maintaining the respect of nerdy ladybloggers? And now this, THE GOD Rakim proclaiming his affection for you to the world? Must be nice. Must be real nice. Jay-Z owns the universe and everything in it. He's our new Oprah.
2.KRS still a crabby old guy, still needs a hobby.
He's decided to boycott the newly-opened National Museum of Hip Hop located in the Bronx, citing AfrikaBambaataa's claim that the event is "illegitimate."[HipHopDX]
I can endorse this.
1. Any translation of hip hop into a museum display is impossible unless Bill Adler is the curator or all the Ego Trip boys do a version of it in my living room.
2. Like KRS, AfrikaBambaataa is my spiritual advisor. I obey him. If he says something is bad and wrong, I steer clear.
3. As the founder of a 1-woman crusade against Drake that has so far been unsuccessful in its attempt to prevent kids from downloading his music, I have sympathy for KRS as he puts out press releases about hip hop history as if people care. Also, KRS can be cranky, is always yelling about how elders must be respected, and he thinks old music is better than new music. KRS and I are twins.
3. I dislike the Yanquis more than you could possibly understand, I mean it's a real fiery hot passion, but this story warmed my ice-cold heart. Like, the Yankees are Cindy Lou-Who and I'm the Grinch, maybe?
On Thursday, April 15, every MLB player wore #42 in honor of Jackie Robinson, who broke baseball’s color barrier on that date in 1947.
The Yankees were host to the Angels. Second baseman Robinson Cano was named in honor of Robinson. (That's Rodriguez, Jeter, and Cano above.) He hit 2 home runs during the game, which the Yankees won. And before the game, Cano presented a bouquet of flowers to Rachel Robinson, Jackie’s widow, whose family was honored in ceremonies that day. 44,7-hundred-or-so persons were in attendance. It was 71 degrees outside. New babies were made. I got a puppy. Glenn Beck was in a tragic larynx-damaging accident resulting in his voice being rendered completely silent forever. Etc, etc.
We don't want no problems, B!Crooklyn Dodgers for musical accompaniment, of course, because what else was I gonna post if not Masta Ace and his nasally voice? I know you wanna enter but I can't let you in/My mind state's the maddest; I'm gone with the wind.
1. Ronald William Artest is appearing live and in person this afternoon to sign autographs at a Verizon Wireless store in Santa Monica!
Obviously I cannot attend due to the fact that I solely rep AT&T, plus I never ever go west of La Brea, though the temptation to ask Ron-Ron lots of burning questions about Queensbridge makes me almost consider going. Plus I bet you I'd be able to talk him into calling Kevin Durant and asking if his refrigerator is running. Y'know, just a lilpre-playoffs shenanigans. Then we'd laugh and laugh, me and Ron, and go to Fatburger (he'd pay) and we'd talk about how underrated Nore is as an MC. Sigh.
(I just noticed it says "supremist.")
2. The LAPD will be out in force later today, holding motherfuckers back as white supremacists have a rally in front of City Hall. A group of fear-based Anglo males called the National Socialist Movement done got themselves a permit to hold their "Reclaim the Southwest" rally; there will, of course, likely be counter-demonstrators, and the police will be there to minimize clashes between the two factions and “allow both groups to exercise their First Amendment rights.”
“Counter-protest organizer Fred 'Scorpio' Smith of Watts said he anticipated a turnout of at least a hundred demonstrating against the white supremacists, whose rallies have spurred opposition in Riverside and San Diego.” Fucking with a dude whose nickname is Scorpio will likely result in you getting dealt with, so umm, watch your step, Danny Vinyards in the place to be. Oh, and keep an eye out for a special appearance by me, as I've been scheduled to give a speech about the comedic irony of a rally to "reclaim the southwest" being held on land that is "technically Mexico" since we "stole it from them." Then I'll clear a spot on stage and have sex with a bunch of black and Jewish dudes while all the dead-eyed white men sadly clutch their shaved heads.
3. On May 18, a box set of Otis Redding's recordings from a series of 1966 live performances at the Whisky-A-G0-Go will be unleashed upon the world and available for purchase! In the words of the latest, greatest, most awful and most pleasurable slice of ear candy to emanate from my car stereo: ROGER THAT.
Live On The Sunset Strip contains 3 live sets, sequenced exactly as the sets unfolded, including Redding’s spoken intros.
“‘In 1966, Redding was 24 and defined not only the sound but the style and look of a true soul man. Tall and lanky, he was ready to drop to his knees and tear off the thin-lapelled jacket of his sharply pressed suit when it was time to deliver the goods,’ (the liner) notes read. ‘His ten-piece band was his personal, traveling amen-corner, urging him to testify night after night...His out-of-breath stage patter was warm and downhome. ‘Ladies and gentlemens,’ he addressed his fans, ‘holler as loud as you wanna — you ain’t home!’
The set marks the first time the live sets, which include ‘I’ve Been Loving You Too Long,’ ‘Security,’ ‘I Can’t Turn You Loose,’ ‘Satisfaction,’ ‘Respect,’ ‘These Arms of Mine’ and ‘Just One More Day,’ have been available in their entirety.”
“Cigarettes and Coffee.” Give in to vices, advises the patron saint of Macon, Georgia. I would love to have another drink of coffee now/And please, darling, help me smoke this one more cigarette now/I don't want no cream and sugar, 'cause I've got you now, darling...
Someone allegedly named Dr. Freeze wrote and produced it (he later masterminded "I Wanna Sex You Up"), and the Bomb Squad (!) had a hand in making the rest of the Poison album. Right around April 1990, Mandela was released, Mapplethorpe was too gay and sexy for museums, all the Iran-Contra players were surprised that Americans did not care for that whole "arms for hostages" concept, and most importantly, BBD sang about the pain and pleasure involved in the pursuit of juicy, prized jumpoffs.
Below, go ahead and savor Biv's Raiders parka, Ronnie's mismatched footwear, G Rap’s big booming voice spitting out "poison!," oh dear, I just realized I'm suddenly so old but watch me and my creaky old bones giggin up a storm on the dancefloor! Life really just doesn't get any better than that moment when you're at the bar and the chorus swells, and everyone lifts their drinks and sings "It's driiiiving meeeee ouuuut of myyy miiiiind..." People, it's pop music and it is wondrous! BBD IN FULL EFFECT.
Relationships, it's true, do all seem so beautiful at the start. But when she lets you and your friends run a train on her, she's a hooker and I do believe it's time to look elsewhere for STD-free affection. Also, that thing between you two is not really something that can be called a "relationship" if you do anything with her that involves yourself and your crew. Anyway, 2 decades later, it would behoove us to heed the warning of Ronnie, Mike, and Ricky and still never trust big butt and a smile. Full hips & a blank stare*, though? Always trustworthy!
*
"Rappers getting leery to hear me/G speaks in a new technique of fury." G Rap is me n' Raekwon's favorite MC.
"Everybody hates it, but you gotta see it once." - Murs (kinda)
LA's like my little brother, you see, in that I can make fun of it but you're not allowed to. Disparaging remarks about this terrible place will not be tolerated and I'll probably have to take it back to '96 and say you'll catch a bad one if any of you people make jokes about traffic or earthquakes, although that's mostly because they're cliched and unfunny.
The Dodgers are like Drake, of course, in that they're both well-funded, popular, and awful. The redeeming thing about LA baseball, though, is that when you're walking to Dodger Stadium (which can be done from apartment 15!), you'll pass traffic and might get swallowed up by the earth thanks to plate tectonics but goddammit if you don't have the greatest and most elegant logo of baseball aesthetics on your fitted.
Breathtaking! It's so strong and foxy, this design--even with serifs, which normally adds daintiness and makes the masculinity plummet. Says the astute David Kipen of the LA Times(my partner in geeking out about the history of stuff and then feeling obligated to share it with the world), "Whoever takes credit for it, the Dodger symbol represents a triumph of logocraft." (Spell-check doesn't recognize logocraft, it turns out, because spell-check is stuffy and unhip.)
"On a purely aesthetic level, the Dodger insignia is, demonstrably, the most beautiful in all of baseball." It's clean. Uncluttered. It's got thrift, Kipen says, because nothing is wasted. The lower bar of the L doubles as the cross bar of the A.
It demonstrates teamwork, "because the letters don't just share that crossbar, they overlap and interlock. This is how baseball is supposed to work...get on base, set the table, move the runner over, play hurt, take one for the team." Aww.
It connects. "No one calls Boston 'B,' and NYC isn't generally known as 'NY' but we go by 'L.A.' at least as often as Los Angeles. (There's) speculation that before the Dodgers came west, people may not have thought of Los Angeles as 'L.A.,' or not nearly as ubiquitously." DJ Muggs and Paul's Boutique-era Beastie Boys prove that people and organizations really start to do their best work, I mean really really start shining, when they start in NY and come to LA.
So even though the Black Thought is technically superior to The Game in every way, when it comes to the logos they display to the world on their head and etched into their facial epidermis, respectively, LA has it sewn up tight. Knowin nothin in life but to be legit, you guys. We don't call it 5-0; we call it one time. Joni Mitchell, OJ, porn, the gunpowder on Phil Spector's hands, Cypress Hill's first record. LA, you're a jerk and I love you.
"Blue Monday," Fats Domino, preceding New Order by about a hundred years. Because the Dodgers have their own shade of blue, and because this song was a hit right around the time they moved to LA in '58. I'd also like to add that, FYI, I should work in a '50s theme restaurant, not only because I have the gams for a short cheerleader skirt and I can make change for a customer on the fly totally in my head, but because I'd get to listen to bass-y, heavy-bottomed rock n' roll music like this my whole shift.
Saturday morning, oh Saturday morning. All my tiredness is gone away. Got my money and my honey. And I'm out on the stand to play.
This post written most definitely without the expressed written consent of Major League Baseball, but please realize it was all made possible by Kirk Gibson's moustache, the iced elbow of Swarthy, Handsome Judaic Man Sandy Koufax*, and the fact that Vin Scully and Manny Ramirez are both from Washington Heights (!).
France gets all the ill advertising goodness; my home country gets the ghost of Earl Woods helping his sad, unsexy son sell polo shirts and shoes. America still rules at rapping, though, so I feel good.
That Tiger ad, turns out, was done by Wiegen + Kennedy, an agency that's really good at figuring out how to tug at my heartstrings (beautiful young men, organized and practiced, displaying athletic gifts) while making me hate myself (the toned bodies of young men of color being used to sell polo shirts and shoes). I miss my childhood, when I could watch that Bo Jackson commercial and feel nothing but joy and not think about Phil Knight's labor policies or the athletic-shoe-industrial-complex. Goddammit.
“California Bill Would Create Annual Ronald Reagan Day.”[Huffington Post]
Crack vials and junk bonds for everybody!
Thank you, face of Shawn, for wordlessly and accurately expressing my feelings about this. I'm frantically trying to reach Jello Biafra and Chuck D for comment.
You know the hammers'll lose your cabbage, them dudes do damage/Send Zulu Nation through Reaganomics, we move them package. Love Mef and Styles P and the beat below; hate hatehatehate Fat Joe so much that even if I adopt an ironic stance I still can't fool myself into not hating him. Similarly, LOVE Reaganomically produced hip-hop and punk fucking rock; haaaaate the fact that Reagan had to exist in order to make them so.
Easter to me obviously means that Patti Smith album, but like every other little girl in my suburban American neighborhood I was given an annual basket full of candy and wore a pastel-colored dress to find hidden eggs. The holiday lives on in my heart and memory; I still love pastel-colored dresses, only now I chase paper and I like candy paint and I have an apartment full of rap songs that speak to me about pagan traditions cleverly repackaged as Judeo-Christian holidays. Journey with me, won't you, through my record collection...
• Jay-Z, “Intro - Hand it Down” (Memphis Bleek). Those Premier keys at the beginning, sweet like a Cadbury egg. Everybody in '98 regurgitated lines from this, remember? “The last of the realllll hustlers.” “Ponce Funeral Home on Marcy.” Everybody in apt. 15 in the year 2010 is still regurgitating lines from this when we think nobody's watching. Roc-A-Fella, yalllllllll.
Nah this ain't Jigga, it's your lilni--a Bleek reportin to these motherfuckers live from the street game I peeped those, my mind so advanced at nine I used to geese hoes for Easter clothes.
• Juelz Santana, “Home Run.”I'm still morally opposed to Juelz and the fact that he has millions and I hate the fact that I know what his last album's title was, but not even I can deny the power of a good guilty pleasure song. I mean, I'm only human. Additionally, I just think it's so comical how at the beginning he talks about joining his girl in the shower and feeling her body. He calls her bitch and in the same breath describes how he strokes her breasts. Nothing more vulgar than that, Santana? I find this odd mix of tough and tender so compelling. AY!
I’m international like my fuckin Visa swag on Easter, wrist on freezer bitch on diva, waist on heater lungs on reefer, pockets on pizza.
• Freeway, “Hear the Song.”Nothin special about this verse, but hey, did you know Freeway's real name is Leslie?!Teehee.
Yo, say hello to Mr. AintGon' Be Shit get a job, get your kids somethin' for Easter knowin’ I just came home aint got nothin to eat with bitch outta line, ho been drove me outta my mind she like, I shoulda knew before I lay down and slept with him now she wish that she could sleep with him
• Snoop, “Pay for P---y” (Big Pimpin' Delemond). Snoop during the No Limit years, I sometimes forget, was pretty fresh.“Lay Low”? C'MONNN. Also, Nathaniel Dogg, sorry about the stroke, but I don't miss you and your horrible vocal stylings. That said, I'll still listen to “Lay Low” 6 more times by the end of today.
Remember that Easter Sunday It was so damn sunny We didn't get no Easter clothes, candy, or Easter bunny Yeah, daddy fucked it up Rollin' dice with the boys Yeah n---as pay for p---y Whether it's at the titty bar Or outta the car.
• E-40, “Why They Don’t Fuck With Us.” I literally, swear to God, have a conversation and/or say something glowing/complimentary about E-40 at least once a day. The Ballatician, you guys. Luh the way he puts it on me.
Next tape, they can't trace the calls I change numbers, like a playa changes draws I'm having money, money long stretch like a bungee when he use to come around ask the Easter bunny (Tell me do you know E-40) bet you the players say that's the homie you liable to find me on the ave on the main drag or on the corner sippin 'gnac out of a brown paper bag
• Mos Def, “Do It Now.” Produced by one of the Bush Babees, this just sounds like youth and happiness and hope. Plus there's a nice "What a gwaan" courtesy of Busta.
From east west north and south, I got joints for all of those heavy aquatic water flows keep them on they toes tell them thugs that wanna be CEOs to be de-robed 'fore I wear your little dumb ass out like Easter clothes.
• Redman, “J.U.M.P.” 1. Reggie's just awfully adept at wordplay; 2. I can never say no to a New Jack City reference.
Half my brain is still experimentin Doc already gone before the X kick in yeah, I want my cut like G-Money stickin the Easter Bunny for sneaker money now how many muh'fuckers out there is high - make some noise...
• Wu-Tang, “Rules” (Rae). “How the fuck did we get so cool, man?” - Meth. (Sorry, that's all I got for now.)
Order drinks, all real n---as order your minks yo we got the fitteds on, lookin all fink daddy everybody get money from now on payday flash Visas livin like, Easter e'ryday don't fuck Benz, rather a 430 that shit that float through water, eyeball come up, drop birdies.
Caramel complected/body like heaven (ummm no). Your favorite nerdy bikini-clad sarcasm peddler.
Tomboyish tendencies in a girly package.
Music nerd making my way in the world. The more emotion I put into it/the harder I rock.
I bow at the altar of Phil Spector, Rick Rubin, and Large Pro.
I find that I can amuse myself to no end. I got front & back, and side to side. I am a real person and NOT viral marketing for Stones Throw. I also have a government job so please don't tell too many people I'm in my bathing suit on the Internet.
Nothin else to tell, really.
You're stuck in the middle/And the pain is Thunder.
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