• » Name: Meka Soul
• » Location: Los Angeles, CA
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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

My DNA Is In Your Music

“Now they on my meat like ice in the freezer.” – Sheek Louch

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my twenty-some-odd years on this planet, sadly it’s that some schmucks younger than me tend to be more sensitive than they should be at their age. I’ve always found that to be a little odd, especially considering that four sisters and a mother raised me; by that logic, I should be flagrantly gay (don’t front) and therefore ridiculously thin-skinned to any and every negative comment said about me. Interestingly enough, their strong-willed values have taught me to be able to stand tall in what I believe in, strive for perfection in anything I do and – most importantly of all – not to openly weep like a fruitbag whenever someone rubs me the wrong way.

A funny thing about hip-hop is that while no ideas are original, there are still those humps that get asshurt whenever someone who is undoubtedly more popular than them expounds upon their ideas (in other words, I’m making their blog tighter). Hip-hop has changed greatly since its much-ballyhooed “Golden Age” eras in the late-eighties and early-nineties, and unfortunately many things today have become stale and bland, sometimes forcing people to report on similar topics. Had I known some hump was going to post something I'd written a week ago, perhaps I should have posted it then. At the same time, I - as well as another blogger here - have had our own shit duplicated here on various occasions, yet we've taken the higher ground and refused to publicly bark about it. Personally, I think that all the crying is nothing more than a bitch move; I mean, it’s not my fault that the other person (or in this very special case, persons) are zero for everything they’ve tried to do here. Besides, I personally never thought for a second that the readers here would be quasi-remotely interested in drops about a stolen, faded Pelle Pelle (people still wear that?) hoodie and some shitty Tyler Perry sitcom anyways. Maybe it’s because I find more captivating material in a Bella Donna flick, but I digress.

Since I’m on the topic of unoriginality, it shouldn’t be a surprise that with the advent of the various bloggers and writers that roam the Internets, many of those established composers are used as muses for fellow up and coming bloggers and writers. What doesn’t make sense to me is when I see some random-ass hump who uses the same slanguage from both the established and new jacks attempt to bullyfoot (pause, no fruity) their way into the game while calling “swagger jacker” on their obviously far superior counterpart, while at the same time using the same tactics made popular by said superior. I’m usually all for the enhancement of my fellow man, but on the other hand, I could give three-eighths of a shit about some coastally-confused hump (Chicago or Atlanta?) who nobody else here really acknowledges trying to toss spitballs at the throne.

I find it disheartening whenever I see some non-factor, shitbag excuse for a “writer” feebly attempt to play ball with the big boys, especially when it is one who hasn’t even been in the game long enough, nor has went back and properly studied the founders of the game. Really, if my first encounters with hip-hop were during the shiny-suit era, my shit probably wouldn’t be taken seriously either. At the same time, although I was not brought up on the foundations set by E-Sham, Sequence and countless other architects, I’ve at the very least traveled to, studied, watched and heard their stylings to try to understand why their force is still prevalent to this day. Ironically, these same folks who don’t do the same simply decry their music as irrelevant while pretending to display their gaudy, knob-shining “love” for the likes of Common, Tooda, Lupe Fiasco and other “default” rappers [1], as if nobody can’t see through that fake shit.

Perhaps if my esteemed overlords never granted yours truly an outlet to voice my opinions, many of the readers here probably would dig irrelevant rubbish about greased-stained sweatshirts and half-tarded delusional talk about being the next John Lennon; I more or less think it’s a shittier version of Peter Tork, but whatever. I do consider it an honor however when younglings attempt to insult me, similar to when a child curses at their parents for the first time. It just proves to me who runs the yard, and who’s asshurt because their shine got yoked before they had a chance to rock it. At the same time, I shouldn’t be too enthralled; if some Mon Chi Chi-looking “journalist” and a faux-Rick James hump can’t handle a little criticism or competition every now and then, maybe Gargamel and Azrael shouldn’t play the game in the first place. Until then, leave the training wheels and Pull-Ups on until you’re sure you want to take that next step up to the majors [2].

[1] And by “default,” I mean the jackasses that always want to bring up those names as if to show they have a wide-range appreciation for hip-hop music. I have no respect for those that feign appreciation for Big L, yet can’t name the rest of the members of the Diggin’ In The Crates crew without a Wikipedia search. You have no wins en mi casa; I see right through you, Judas. But maybe that shit’s just an attempt to get some ass; I mean, if I ran around a city rocking the finest wears imported straight from TJ Maxx, I’d be desperate too.

[2] If you two really needed my attention, all you had to do was ask. And seeing as how Chip and Dale need all the help they can’t afford to get, it’d be my civic duty to teach them how to stunt. Here’s a topic to work with: “Kobe Bryant Is The New 2Pac.” That oughta bring in those “big numbers,” right?

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