• » Name: Meka Soul
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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

How The West Was Lost

For all the talk that’s been going on in regards to how hard New York has fallen off, not too many people mention how nonexistent Left Coast hip-hop is nowadays. Biased asshole that I am, I could easily do without most of the shit that spews from here, but even I’m a little surprised that the last classic album from here came out way the fuck back in 1999 by a now-reclusive part-time producer, Dr. Dre.

But in all honesty, without Dre in the first place, there probably wouldn’t be any West Coast sound to begin with. Outside of no-name underground rappers, minstrel-style dances and ass-backward gangbanging, virtually every prominent rapper from California can be Kevin Baconed back to Andre Young. The only problem is that the shit has pigeonholed any and everybody into poorly duplicating his sound in order to achieve some form of recognition, with craptacular results almost every time.

It also doesn’t help that former protégées of Dre end up stinking to high Hell once they attempt to stand on their own two feet[1]. Daz has been demoted to a So So Def weed carrier while Kurupt hasn’t been the same since he ditched Foxy Brown for that fake-ass Left Eye on that ridiculously shitty “It’s Over” song, and Snoop Dogg seems more content with making bad albums and protecting a man’s right to call women nappy-headed hoes. But the one who took the hardest hit may have been The Game, who is beginning to sound more like a jilted lover (pause?) than the snarling, name-dropping emcee from before. I guess after Fiddy got him booted off Aftermath he had to return the battery in his back as well.

If anyone could be blamed for this shit, it could be Eazy-E himself. Think about it: if he hadn’t convinced Dr. Dre to drop the lipstick and eyeliner for some khakis and Chuck Taylors, the West probably wouldn’t be struggling to establish itself and remain relevant today. The worst part about it is that some genuinely good talent out here[2] may never get the shine they deserve because of this shit. Who could have known that someone who used to rock a sequin bodysuit with the World Class Wreckin’ Cru could have so much pull on an entire genre of music?

[1] In Warren G’s defense however, he sucked balls to begin with.

[2] You’ll have to ask my fellow West Coast affiliate Brillyance about them though, since I could give three-eighths of a shit about them nowadays.

56 Comments             

Lockdown, USA

I guess with all the money they make everyday whoring out images of smut, guns and violence to the children, rappers inexplicably feel a need to engage in some sort of political, community-based purpose, as if it’ll provide a balance to all the shit they talk about. During the days of “Self-Destruction” and “We’re All In The Same Gang,” it looked as if rappers actually gave a shit about the community. I mean, where else could you see MC Hammer and Ice-T in the same video together? Nowadays, it just looks like rappers are just creating “charity organizations” for fuck’s sake, which are obviously nothing more than a front for tax deductibles come Mid-April. It’s pretty obvious that Diddy cared about an eighth of a shit about increasing the so-called hip-hop vote (whatever that means) if those same peoples weren’t buying one of his crappy “Vote Or Die” t-shirts, but whatever.

I never believed for a second that today’s top-selling rappers and industry “big wigs” are actually willing to give back to the same consumers who are responsible for putting them up in their ridiculously expensive mansions. They probably assume that by throwing out a shitload of turkeys and presents throughout the hood during the holiday season, they’ll give the impression that – while they have no qualms about squirting on a nappy-headed hoe’s face - they still care about the children of the ghettos. Tupac may have been able to pull that shit off, but Jim Jones? Not so much.

Speaking of Pepé Le Pew, alongside disappointing the masses (including yours truly) this week by not appearing on the radio to air out the rift between freshly demoted Dip Set soldier Cam’Ron and himself, Jim has taken to the Internets and released a video in protest against the fabled Rockefeller Drug Laws. For those that do not know what those are, the laws essentially mandate long incarceration sentences to those caught in possession of even the most minimal of drugs[1].  For the past couple years the likes of Russell Simmons and Benjamin Chavis[2] have used their OG TI influence to convince the New York government to make changes to the penalties. While I will admit that getting a life sentence for selling a bag of dope was a little extreme, I find it odd that the same rappers who claim they’re “uplifting the youth” by passing out toys on Christmas are also against the same laws designed to keep that poison away from them. Not only is it contradicting[3], but it’s flat-out retarded for anybody to take them seriously. The stupid thing about these new law provisions is that many of these jackasses who are currently fending off meat burglars in Rikers end up having shorter jail sentences, and thus will be released back into the city to presumably sell more crack[4].

This is obviously a ploy for rappers to gain some sort of street credibility not unlike getting shot, which is pretty foolish. It’s perfectly fine for rappers to ether themselves or their piff pocketers, but when they inadvertently fuck up their own community by pulling dumb shit like this, that’s just wrong on so many levels.

[1] There’s obviously some sort of preferential treatment for some, as rappers get caught with the shit almost every day, yet receive nothing more than a slap on the wrist.

[2] Like anybody really gives a shit about those two anymore.

[3] Hip-hop has always functioned on contradiction. You have to be stupid, however, if you actually believe that Rick Ross still pushes keys.

[4] Anybody who believes that selling drugs is the only way the provide for their family deserve to get locked up. I’m just saying.

7 Comments             

Why Hip-Hop Won’t Make It

Question: has there been any rap album that’s sold over 500,000 copies this year? It seems that nowadays rappers are too busy catching cases and eye jammies in clubs to notice that they’re not selling shit in the stores. It’s gotten to the point where the Wu-Tang Clan are dropping their new album in Germany of all places, where selling 100,000 records gets them a platinum plaque.

It’s easy to throw the blame on the illegal downloading and bootlegging. It’s a lot simpler to grab something from the Internets now than from Paco the peanut pusher in the past. Shit, I’ve only bought maybe three albums since 2005. But when a rapper’s mixtape is better than their major label counterpart, can you really blame anyone for not wanting to drop $10.81 or more on a shit sammich? Office politics aren’t doing anything to quell the situation either, as delaying an album all but ethers whatever buzz a rapper had [1].

Speaking of shit, part of it could deal with the fact that music stinks to high Hell right now. Quality has been replaced with quantity, and now most rappers are more concerned with getting the most spins at a titty bar (what up Strokers!) while proving to the world that running around shirtless and covered in tattoos of their surrogate father/life partner isn’t quasi-homosexual as long as they keep ratchets in their back pocket (extra extra pause!) than delivering a potent product. Not that I don’t mind that much; it may not get any play in the car my mom gave me, but it sure as shit will guarantee me a dry-humping session at Jamaica Gold on Sunday nights. I can do without the brassiere tops, however.

I don’t know if hip-hop will find a way to pick itself out of its Yankees-style slump. But with the way things are going, it looks like even I could get a record deal, granted I take a few courses at Black Rapping School. I probably wouldn’t sell shit either, but at least I could afford all the white girls I could eat. I’m just saying.

Let’s just hope this shit picks up soon. Otherwise, I’ll be back to pushing off pots and pans at Macy’s again [2].

[1] I was thiiiiis close to not buying Clipse’s and Lupe Fiasco’s joints. It’s not like my purchases mattered anyway; they both sold worse than “Sultry Funk.”

[2] But it wouldn’t be due to the FIRE MEKA SOUL chants. Those shits haven’t done anything to stop my reign.

23 Comments             

Busta Rhymes: Public Nuisance #1

In that never-ending quest to achieve the all-too-important street credibility in hip-hop that will at the very least guarantee underwhelming record sales, a bevy of expendable marijuana moolies and a legion of stans at their disposal, rappers have gone to great lengths - even risking a prison term - to secure that position. Unfortunately, some just can’t seem to stay out of the clink long enough for their ass to heal properly. Pause.

What used to be an unfortunate circumstance has now turned into a clever marketing ploy. Combine a jail sentence with something much more deadlier - say, bullets, coke deals and child support - and you pretty much have the prototype for today’s multi-platinum rapper.

You would think that all these life-threatening experiences would translate into good music, but sadly that isn’t necessarily the case. Granted, 2Pac will forever receive my “Gulliest Rapper Ever” award for getting robbed by Haitian Jack, shooting himself in the balls and getting wheeled out of the hospital to court the next day, only to be sentenced to a couple years of back scrubs and pedicures from his inmate at Clinton Correctional Facility because the gold-digging skank who got passed around like an Xbox controller didn’t get a chain and some sneakers after blowing him and called rape, but most of the albums that followed were average at best. That “What’z Ya Phone #” shit almost made me throw All Eyez On Me out my car window. But I digress.

I’ve already mentioned this week how New York has a hard time keeping it together, what with internal strife and an overall disarray fucking up whatever progress they somehow manage to attain nowadays. Part of that could pertain that their representatives can’t stay out of the hip-hop cops’ radar for longer than a month. Fabulous got his leg ethered while getting some cheesecake a while back[1], Bad Boy bottom bitch Black Rob (try saying that three times fast!) is locked up for stealing the emblems off Maybachs and the house of G-Unit flunky Tony Yayo’s mother was turned into Swiss cheese a few weeks ago. But it’s Busta Rhymes who definitely takes the cake. Ever since he went on the BALCO diet and cut off his locks (presumably so that his lesbian baby’s mother won’t snatch out another shitload of them from his scalp like she’s done before), he’s spent more time with the fuzz than with his own family. Ever since his personal gooch washer (pause) Israel Ramirez was sent to the pearly gates last year, Bus-A-Bus has gone on to slap out a homosexual, snuff another person who supposedly spat on his car and Dragon Punch his former driver when the poor guy asked for his paycheck. Add to that the recent DUI charge he caught last week, and you can see that this isn’t the same guy who was mimicking The Last Dragon and Coming To America in his music videos a few years ago.

I guess I should have seen Busta’s newfound thuggery coming when he unceremoniously abandoned his rap style - one that was equal parts partying and apocalyptic - to live out his faux drug running fantasies on The Big Bang. But more than anything, he’s proof that New York is going through more bullshit than Tango and Chance. It’s kind of sad really; being a West Coast-raised, East Coast-loving anomaly myself, I used to believe New York would never fall off like they once proclaimed. But I should have known something was up when Snoop Dogg, Daz and Kurupt were punting Manhattan skyscrapers in that video. No wonder the South is mopping up the floor with them.

[1] If a platinum-selling rapper can’t even afford a competent cheeba stasher to fetch food and take a slug for them, what’s the point of having one in the first place?

22 Comments             

Toronto Is The New New York

With the Washington Generals beefing with each other over the last smedium v-neck muscle shirt and shitbag rappers making shitty renditions of shitbag southern songs, it’s safe to say that the city that introduced hip-hop to the masses[1] is going through a bit of an identity crisis. Not to say I didn’t see it coming with an increasing number of hipsters popping up in what used to be the gulliest cities in America[2] and grown men wearing Uptowns modeled after Rainbow Brite[3], but I digress.

New York was once the melting pot for all things hip-hop, from the lyricism down to the gear. Whereas Los Angeles was the one that brought cholo rap[4] (which is something I still regret to this day), the Big Apple had been churning out classic rappers and albums since the Jimmy Carter Administration. But now they seem more concerned with fighting with each other than making good music. When the likes of KRS-One, Kool Moe D and Young MC are now doing jingles for The Best Damn Sports Show Period to keep their lights on[5], something is definitely wrong.

To top it off, other places are effectively snatching the shine from New York. We’re all pretty familiar with how the South is trying to keep hip-hop’s spirit alive, mixed results and all. Perhaps not so quietly, Chicago has been upstaging New York for a couple years now. But the biggest shocker may be how Toronto of all places comes out with better lyricists than New York nowadays. Marco Polo’s Port Authority sounds better than anything New York has put out in the past few years, and T-Dot ambassador Kardinal Offishall - despite his inability to come out with an album in a timely manner - is one of the most ridiculously talented MCs I’ve ever heard.

So where does that leave New York? Unless they can create another shitty, Southern-sounding song that actually sticks, it doesn’t look like they’ll be providing hip-hop with anything other than classically crappy radio interviews.

[1] Whoever thinks James Brown is the father of rap is out of their fucking mind. I do hold him responsible for acquainting it with domestic abuse, however.

[2] Gentrification is a bitch. But if crackas moving into Williamsburg keep crack moving out of it, then who am I to judge?

[3] I kid of course. New York sneakers > Los Angeles sneakers. I’m still waiting on the Air Force 3s to drop over here.

[4] This, however, is the funniest shit ever. Special shouts go to Willy Swagger and Belize for pulling this out.

[5] Well, maybe not so much Kool Moe Dee and Young MC.

41 Comments             

Cam’Ron Lost Again

You’ll have to excuse my demeanor this time, as I’ve just spent a good 17 hours moving cars and serving chicken and booze (no Chris Bridges) at a party this weekend[1], so I’ll be playing the role of a pissed-off struggling writer[2]. I’ll return back to the regularly scheduled biased blogging tomorrow.

That said, the one thing I dislike more than a Down’s Syndrome case study claiming he’s the greatest rapper alive is when two retarded rappers from the same crew are bickering over who gets to do the reacharound during Naked Twister nights (pause). I guess watching Curtis bring out Floyd Mayweather this weekend was the straw that broke the Dirt Angel’s back, as Diplomat ganja owner Jim Jones took to the blog of my rapping brother from another mother Donwill’s secret fetish, Hot 97’s Ms. Info, to confirm the rumors that he and his BFF Cam’Ron have had beef for the past year. While I don’t find this too surprising (as it’s always inevitable that a New York rapper will beef with his brethren), you have to wonder why it would take so long to address the shit in the first place.

Then again, you’d have to be a fool not to notice that it was going to happen someday. Since the first Diplomatic Immunity album, there hasn’t been a Dip Set album that’s sold enough to keep Freeky Zeeky’s bench in Marcus Garvey Park warm[3]. And with Tru-Life ring-snatching and sucker-punching Jim and Cam on a daily basis, you had to figure it wouldn’t be long for Pepé Le Pew and Slowpoke Rodriguez to start going at each other out of frustration. It’s gotten so ridiculous now that 40 Cal and Hell Rell can’t come out of their parent’s basements without being molly whopped by some random-ass Puerto Rican. I’m even starting to think that I can catch the next red eye  out to JFK and slap the ever-loving shit out of Cam’Ron for his chain. Lord knows I could use the rent money and he probably wouldn’t snitch on me anyways.

While this is doing nothing positive to the overall state of hip-hop, I find the whole shit to be a hilarious alternative to the depressingly shitbag southern songs that flood my television and radio every day. With Chip and Dale fighting, there’s no hope for the rest of the Rescue Rangers now. But it’s not like anybody outside of Harlem gives a shit anyways; that entire city’s been on a Washington Generals-esque losing streak since Big L got ethered seven years ago.

[1] Gotta keep the lights on somehow.

[2] In other words, the mood that inspired the "hottest blog entry" at these here parts.

[3] Jr. Writer bricked, Cam bricked, Juelz ain’t been out in two years (he’s the hottest!).

80 Comments             

Stop Bitchin’

Since Slap-Boxing With Jesus is a blog for the peoples, I feel it is necessary for those same peoples to convey their own message. So without further adieu, here's Pennsylvania's own Philly Representative...

You know what's wrong with the world today? Everyone is so sensitive; they cry more than Cam after getting tapped up by Tru-Life. You can't say anything without fear of offending someone. Then we make these crybabies a little bit more sensitive every day by trying to "protect" them.

We are grooming our children to be weak pathetic crybabies. When I was growing up your parents beat you with blunt objects when you did something wrong and you learned never to do that shit again. Now if you hit your kid you're "abusing" them. The scrawny, four-eyed mathematical genius kids didn't make the basketball team unless they had crazy game; now if your child doesn't make the basketball team you sue the school for a few hundred grand. If you lost in a race, you tried harder the next time. Now everyone wins a prize, even the fat asthmatic kid whom didn't even finish the race because he was too busy inhaling a cheese steak...

Life is full of upsets and disappointments and trying to protect people from them is the wrong thing to do. Just like the old adage says, "That which does not kill us, makes us stronger"; So why are we getting so upset over such trivial things as words, when there are much larger problems in our world such as poverty, violence, drug addiction, disease, global warming, etc.?

By now, half of you are wondering, "What in the name of the almighty Tupac Shakur does this have to do with Hip-Hop?” Let me explain. Don Imus is a redneck piece of trailer trash if I've ever seen one and he deserved to be fired but Al Sharpton has gone too far. As soon as Imus threw Hip-Hop into the ring, Sharpton had a complete system meltdown. He knew he was either going to have to admit he was wrong, try to explain the difference between rappers and rednecks using those terms, or throw punches at hip-hop as well. This little Afro Oompa Loompa chose the wrong one.

Little mister freedom fighter himself is barking up the wrong tree. Eliminating offensive words altogether is not the right way to go; Instead, he should have fought against the "stop snitchin'" trend or all the talk of gunplay, violence, and other illegal activities in hip-hop. By removing these offensive words from our vocabularies, you do nothing but weaken us and violate our right to freedom of speech.  Once you eliminate one word, people will start to find another word offensive and the stupid trend will continue.

 So you ask, "well what are we supposed to do about the offensive language?" Simple, teach people how to deal with ignorant racist people that use this type of language and build an immunity to it. No matter how hard you try, people are not going to completely stop using these types of words. Teaching someone how to deal with it will do him or her a much bigger service than shielding him or her from it. In conclusion, we should all tell Mr. Sharpton to leave hip-hop alone and go back to the chocolate factory unless he plans to help us fix the more important issues.

16 Comments             

Hip-Hop = BangBus

A few days ago I got off early from my job [1] and was driving home in silence since my iPod had died [2]. Passing by a high school, I noticed a couple overdeveloped female students loudly singing R. Kelly’s “I’m A Flirt [3]” while at the stop light. The sight one of the shorties crew with a massive rack (yeah I know) gyrating to the song got me wondering if hip-hop music really is good for the kids again (click here).

The soundscape of urban music has drastically changed from the time I graduated high school myself, which was less than ten years ago. Granted, we had our fair share of gun talk (“Stop Being Greedy”), misogyny (“Still Not A Player”) and materialistic bullshit (“If You Think I’m Jiggy”), but there once was a time when radio stations mixed in songs with social awareness as well (“Royalty,” “Elevators (Me & You)”). I would say the soundtrack of my past produced better results in the community today, but seeing as how I drive past a shitload of bums my age every day, that obviously isn’t the case.

One thing I’ve noticed is that a lot of the popular songs today are filled with a lot of sexual content in either the lyrics or the accompanying video. With teenage sex and pregnancy rates at an all-time high, some of the blame could be placed on the extremely vivid images and depictions displayed in the media. Factor in the hormones in all the chicken we eat nowadays that have 14 year olds looking like porn stars, and is it any wonder why Akon caught some flak last week for dry-humping a ninth-grader in Trinidad?

(Although in Trinidad, it’s not as taboo to boink a teenager as it is in the States since most of them already have children by the ripe age of 17, but I digress.)

Anyways, the easy solution could be for parents to monitor what their kids listen to. That way, they’ll be celibate long enough to aspire to be something other than a fluffer for weed carriers. Personally I think it’s disgusting listening to a 40-year old sexual deviant bragging about bagging another man’s woman, and my future seeds will catch a two-piece and a buttered biscuit if I caught wind of them listening to that shit. But it’s also the responsibility of the radio stations and record labels to know better than to have that shit playing in the morning. Hip-hop was once an innocent means of conveying a person’s emotions. Now it looks like that innocence is lost.

[1] Because blogging doesn’t keep my lights on.

[2] And unlike my nerdy blogging brother from another mother Andres, I refuse to listen to any sort of radio programming.

[3] There’s so many wrong ways I can go with this scenario, but I’m trying to be serious this time.

25 Comments             

Hip-Hop = “Mike Tyson’s Punch Out!!”

I have something to confess: I’m a huge fan of shitty hip-hop. Don’t get me wrong; I can talk about the positives of this culture all day long, but I find it much more easier to write about the craptacular aspects of it. I mean, what other music has oversexed, underage women grinding on the unit of the Senegalese equivalent of Alvin Seville?

The one thing I am somewhat iffy about is its violent side. I never found murder to be a laughing matter, and hip-hop has suffered greatly because of it. And the e-thugs on this site and other places on the Internets don’t really do it for me either. However, watching two crappy rappers actually come to blows a la Sam Sheepdog and Ralph Wolf tends to make up for the tons of horrible music that comes out on a daily basis. The bad thing about this is that I sometimes keep rooting for it to continue until someone takes it to the point of killing, which is where I draw my line.

I guess that would make me a really fucked up person, but whatever.

In any case, it looks like two of the East (north?) Coast’s finest window lickers - Tru-Life and Cam’Ron - came to blows at a New York club a few days ago [1]. Apparently Tru walked up to Cam to “discuss” their recent issues and ended up polishing his knuckle game on Cam's face. While this is nowhere near as hilarious as the time Dr. Dre was pwned at the Vibe Awards, this is setting up to be one of the more interesting beefs in recent history.

Still, you have to wonder exactly how far things will go before someone crosses the line. In most cases, beef can lead to some excellent music, though I’m pretty sure it won’t be the case here. And I know there’s going to be some type of low-budget video popping up on YouTube soon. Finally, this is also a great way for any one of them to capitalize on the buzz and release an album that will eventually go triple brass monkey. But for those who can’t hope to get their shit dropped by the end of the millennium, murder is sometimes the inevitable option.

And as we all know, dead rappers get better promotion. And in Tru-Life’s case, he’s going to need all the help he can get.

NOTE: Meka Soul does not endorse or condone violence in any matter. But if it helps puts food on a rapper’s child’s plate, then who am I to judge?

[1] Reason # 386 why New York hip-hop will never make it again: internal beef. Maybe they should just kiss and make up like these guys. Pause, of course.

18 Comments             

Classic Songs By Crappy Rappers

With the entire hubbub from bloggers making lists of the greatest rap albums ever last week, my Central American blogging brother from another mother Belize suggested that yours truly should compose one as well. I originally didn’t plan on making a list, but when the only newsworthy items are Fat Joe grave robbing Big Pun for his rhyme book and arroz con pollo recipe and yet another G-Unit-related shooting, there really wasn’t much to work with today.

That said, it should be noted that this list was composed by a person whose cherry-popping hip-hop experience came courtesy of Please, Hammer, Don’t Hurt ‘Em [1] way the fuck back in the fourth grade, as well as suffer through dustbucket West Coast artists like Mad CJ Mac and G-Moe [2], so if anyone has any inkling of knowledge in regards to shitbag records, it should be me.

That said, much like Hammer’s current status today, 2007 hasn’t been a particularly good year for rap music, whether it’s major label artists either getting employee of the month treatment at Koch or being treated like tax deductibles, or shitty producers making shittier diss songs towards other shitty producers.

That said, there was once a time where some shitty rappers actually made a classic song, thus extending their painful duration in the game. Without further adieu, here is my list of said douchebag rappers in no particular order. To avoid coastal discrimination [3], I’ve chosen one song from each coast (West, East, South, Midwest) as its representative. Feel free to put in your own two cents as well.

Fat Joe, “ The Shit Is Real (DJ Premier Remix)” (click here): Most people today see Joey Crack as nothing more than a chubby rapper who went all Eddie Guerrero (you know: lie, cheat and steal) on Face Dirty’s rhyme book and jetted down to Miami to cash in on their “burgeoning” scene. But prior to his departure, he used to be a card-carrying weed carrier of one of the best crews ever, Diggin’ In The Crates, and was allowed access to their Rolodex to make his somewhat shitty albums back in the day. This one gem from Jealous One’s Envy is quite possibly the best song he’s ever made. The combination of his tough-guy lyrics (“One day I went to visit my aunt and stuck up my cuz”) and Primo’s breezy boom-bap made this the underground anthem of 1995.

UGK, “Pocket Full Of Stones” (click here): Bun B and his AK-toting basehead partner Pimp C created this blueprint for all trap-or-die songs back in 1992. It’s a shame Pimp got high on his own supply and fucked up whatever momentum they had after “Big Pimpin’,” leaving Bun to whore himself out to keep their name relevant.

Eazy-E, “Real Muthaphukkin G’s” (click here): This was a toss-up between this song or Snoop Dogg’s Doggystyle album, but I chose Eazy because there was once a time when Snoop could actually rap. Eazy-E, however, couldn’t rap his way out of a wet paper bag with scissors in his hands, but it sure as shit didn’t stop him from crafting one of the best diss songs of all time with his khaki ironers B.G. Knocc Out and Dresta. If you’ve never laughed at the part in the video that shows a pre-NWA Dr. Dre in a sequin bodysuit, you have no soul.

Cool Breeze featuring OutKast, Goodie MoB and Witchdoctor, “Watch For The Hook” (click here): I could have easily gone with the thousands of craptacular songs that have come out of the south in the past two years, but in their defense, none of those artists were really good to begin with. Back before Andre 3000 became the Vaudeville Villain and that one member of Goodie MoB got his leg ethered, the Dungeon Family were like the southern equivalent of the Wu-Tang Clan (don’t front). This song from former bag handler Cool Breeze’s only album had us all gassed for their eventual shit sammich of a group album [4].

[1] Which still gets regular spins in my iPod to this day.

[2] I can’t even find this jig’s shit online. That should say something.

[3] But let’s be honest; most of that shit comes from the South.

[4] That Purple Ribbon Piff Pocketer shit doesn’t count.

62 Comments             

Fat Joe Lost

It shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone that one of the reasons hip-hop stinks to high hell right now is because there’s a lot of bullshit that goes on behind the scenes. Corporate politics, company mergers, shitty budgets and an overall lack of fresh, creative talent are forcing TIs and rappers alike to take drastic measures just to stay afloat.

One of the taboos in music (next to grown men BuFu’ing their “adopted” protégés behind the scenes. Pause.) has always been the “ghost” process. While many up-and-comers see ghost producing and ghostwriting as a means of establishing themselves in an already congested arena, most fear that their original concepts will be ganked by their higher-profile counterparts, and without the proper financial abilities, they’ll be helpless to stop it. Where it’s not held in such a low regard in R&B (that’s primarily how today’s current stars got their start), it’s considerably worse in hip-hop, where ghosting is essentially a cardinal sin (not unlike grown men BuFu’ing their “adopted” protégés behind the scenes. Pause.). But let’s be honest: Hip-hop is known for people snatching other people’s shit and claiming it as their own without giving the proper credit. If it weren’t for Gilbert O’Sullivan suing the hell out of Biz Markie back in the day, rappers would still be pilfering shitbag samples without getting approval.

You kind of have to feel sorry for Fat Joe. No matter how hard he tries, he can never seem to make it. Starting off by carrying Diamond D’s records and hash as a member of the Diggin’ In The Crates crew, Joe was eventually able to afford his own maracas holders, the Terror Squad, which just so happened to have one of the gulliest lyricists ever, Big Punisher. Unfortunately Pun OD’d on pork rinds and most of the members bounced, forcing Joe to move down to Miami and get in bed with his Muslim DJ The Great Khali (pause) to make ends meet.

Now word has hit that Joey Crack doesn’t even write his own raps. I originally thought that he had robbed Pun’s estate for his rhyme book, but apparently that isn’t the case as it now looks like he just bullied some random-ass rapper from Virginia named Face Dirty into writing “Lean Back” and didn’t pay him. The sad thing about this is that I remember an old episode of MTV Cribs where he lived in a mansion with about four cars, and he got his rocks off by licking the bottom of an Air Force One shoe he’d never worn (which is quite possibly the most impotence-inducing visual I've ever seen. Extra pause.), which suggests he easily could have afforded to pay Face and continue on with his façade. But the fact that he tried to steal some unknown rapper’s rhymes is not only wrong on all levels, but proof that the rap game isn’t what it used to be anymore.

If he had the space in his coffin to do so, Pun would be turning in his grave.

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Back To The Drawing Board (Kitchen?)

A while I back I stated how dark-skinned black women in black music are the new-millennia endangered species, not unlike the mountain gorilla and northern hairy-nosed wombat, due to the fact that their ancestors were not gang-raped by their slave owners, and thus denying them the opportunity to be doused with Ace Of Spades - or whatever ridiculously expensive firewater Grandpa Simpson drinks nowadays – by your favorite rapper’s favorite izm holder in music videos.

(If you want to take a trip down memory lane, you can do so here.)

Not to be discriminative to only my asphalt-colored queens, I also asserted that black women in general are having a great deal of difficulty keeping it together in music today, only to be constantly outdone by their paleface counterparts time and time again.

(For my special report, you can go here.)

As a side note, I’ve been told that rapper jaundice-toned rapper Jean Grae has been putting it down for quite some time now. Unfortunately, I read that she’s signed to Talib Kweli’s imaginary record label, so that pretty much means her album will come out Neverary 35th, which puts women back at square one. But I digress.

Anyways, all the rage on the Internets this week has been about lists of the greatest rap albums ever. Even my blogging brethren S.Y. Young got in on the action. But one trend I noticed is that not one list had any album by a female rap artist. I originally thought that this only confirmed my theory that black women couldn’t make it in black music, but now I’m beginning to see that it may just be rap.

Granted, there are female rappers who should be considered in the list of the greatest rappers of all time, but those come few and in between. And nowadays, female rappers seem more concerned with acting, singing or getting arrested by cops than making an actual rap album. The only “memorable” female rap albums that came out last year were Shawnna, Remy Ma and Missy Elliott, and only Missy’s earned a plaque. It’s gotten so bad that even the American Music Awards took out their Favorite Female Rap Artist category last year. Compare this to the 2000 incarnation, when The Miseducation Of Lauryn Hill won an award, and that shit had been out for two years prior.

But you can’t blame them entirely. With rap grossly underperforming these days, hip-hop producers are trying to get that pop guap to keep their ribs from touching. And with rap losing its fan base every day that can only spell trouble for the female rapper.

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“Stop Snitching” Vs. Reality

A few days ago CBS’ 60 Minutes ran a piece on the “stop snitching” phenomenon, and I should have known something was up when washed-up ass Tyson Beckford was shown in the first 30 seconds advising against the shit. I assume he’s still pickle-faced since Wendy Williams outed him and Derek Jeter on the radio a year or so back, but whatever.

If you missed it, you can watch the piece here.

Anyways, the central theme of the entire segment seemed to revolve around the so-called “code of ethics,” the unwritten creed that represents a rapper’s all-too-important street credibility, and it’s those same principles that caused hip-hop’s Lyle Alzado himself, Busta Rhymes, to not talk to police, even though he watched his bottom bitch Israel Ramirez get sent to the pearly gates. And who better to reinforce the ideals than the Pink Ranger, Cam’Ron, who stated it would be bad for business if he were to talk to police.

I understand that snitching could have a detrimental affect on the two rappers’ record sales. But both of their most recent releases went double rubber tree wood, so what do they have to lose?

The piece then wraps up with a couple teenagers talking about how snitching of all things is another crime in the community, comparable to rape and murder. In this blogger’s opinion, the real crime was CBS giving these window lickers camera time to idiotically explain how, even though they’ve witnessed a crime firsthand, they still wouldn’t talk to cops.

At the risk of having the remainder of my “street cred pass” revoked (but let’s face it, I’ve already been labeled by the Stan’Rons on this site as a racist homosexual, so it’s not like I actually give three-fifths of a shit), the entire “stop snitching” trend is a bunch of bullshit... to an extent.

I don't think anybody should run to the cops out of spite for a person. It’s one thing to tattle on someone out of jealousy for the guy. There’s been plenty of times I was afflicted the Green-Eyed Bandit disease (extra no homo Erick Sermon) when I saw or heard of people around my neighborhood were living a better (albeit sometimes illegal) lifestyle, but that wasn’t grounds for me to run to the Bacon Battalion, nor have I ever done such a thing. If anything, their “success” encouraged me to work harder at my own legal craft. However, to answer Anderson Cooper’s question, if a serial killer lived next door to my loved ones, I’m not afraid to go to the cops. My mother’s safety is more important than my own foolish pride.

By now most of the e-thugs on this site are probably furiously typing away at their keyboards, writing anything from a Negroid monkey to a (you guessed it!) snitch in the comments section, which I find hilariously asinine. I mean, not only have Busta and Cam talked to cops on more than one occasion, but after Curtis got sporked inside that studio by Murder Inc.'s Crack Child of all people, he filed an order of protection, which leads me to believe that the entire “Stop Snitchin’” campaign is full of shit. And if anyone out there believes that their hood reputation trumps his or her family’s well being, I suggest you question your own manhood.

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Quit Hating The South

A few months back I read a blog somewhere that declared T.I., Young Jeezy and Lil Wayne were the current hip-hop generation’s (read: over-developed teenagers who grow up to be future WIC recipients and happen to “have heat for bitch ass pussies” like myself) Jay-Z, Biggie and Nas respectively. Biased asshole that I am, I immediately commented (with exclamation points at that!) that the person who wrote that shit should kill himself for saying such nonsense.

But since that one fateful day, the more I thought about those comparisons, the more accurate I began to think the blogger was. Not to say that the three have any classic material that could hold a torch to Illmatic, Ready To Die or Reasonable Doubt, but in terms of their overall mass appeal and presence in today’s era.

Regardless of how many people feel, we all have to agree that Southern-based hip-hop has a Sharpshooter-style hold on the rap game. That region’s impact is so dense that other rappers are either moving down South to appeal to their demographic or making poor imitations of Southern songs to stay relevant. And at the forefront of the South are The Snowman, Weezy F. Baby and The King. It’s essentially the same setup back in the mid- to late-nineties when the East Coast reigned supreme, with Jay-Z, Nas and The Notorious B.I.G. running wild.

But as one of my favorite bloggers once said, their only problem is that the said impact has invaded their very consciences so much that they refuse to acknowledge that any of their music stinks to high hell, and are real quick to call any detractor a racist (huh?) hater, which makes no sense. Or in my case, they’d cut off the pilot light on the water heater in the one-room apartment I barely make rent for sometimes so I have to take a shower boiling water on my stove. But I digress.

I’ll admit that joints like Outkast’s “Hollywood Divorce” (particularly the verse of everyone’s favorite Muppet) and Rich Boy’s “Lost Ones” are incredible songs that truly showcase the abilities of Southern music. And Waitin’ To Inhale is probably the best rap album of 2007 so far. Yet once someone mentions that a song such as Lil Boosie’s Zoom” (who had the funniest Wikipedia entry of all time) is a shitty-ass song (and let’s be honest, it is), random-ass people from the most random-ass cities in the South will jump down your throat without hesitation.

Seriously though, I love the South’s unwavering dedication to and loyalty for their own kindred, and contrary to how my blogging brother from another mother SY Young feels, they are not responsible for hip-hop currently sucking balls. While the East (north?) and West continually bitch and fight like a wounded ex-girlfriend, it’s the South’s unique unity that keeps them relevant and subsequently running shit. Alas, it’s that same blind faith which has foolishly convinced them that they can’t get shot off their high horse. Perhaps when their inevitable fall from grace occurs southerners will finally fess up to their follies. But we should all respect them at the very least for keeping the flames of hip-hop lit. I may be a biased asshole, but I can at least give credit where credit is due.

P.S.: Maybe when I’m inspired I’ll do something about how Sunny Bridges is the greatest Southern rapper alive. But only if he finally quits that Vaudeville Villain shit.

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