physle physle pop

high society ep

it's way too faithfully step n' snap for my tastes. i feel like the cafe kick back rap leaves thig's talents undercapitalized. monk and thig definitely spit some ole cool shit but the beats and hooks have too much buttoned up embroidery. sorta that j.u.s.t.i.c.e. league chandelier music without the momentous rising action to help you imagine yourself dining with the dons. six tenths of tight, with "the session" painful and "back track" deathly ill

narry nothing sweett

the whole song's great and the video's cool but prepare to be floored when you hear the verse at the end from ish of digable planets. my hair caught fire upon first viewing. i have great hair and it doesn't combust for just anything. u-n-i has spent 2 albums in the last few years trying to spit that verse and neither of them have brought it off. his flow's so conversational. sounds like he's phlegmed up when he "gun[s] you down" aaah watch it.

rap vs. hip hop

"it's all hip hop"
"hip hop is what you are, rap is what you do"

i can do what you do without being who you are. i eat "chinese food" all the fucking time. so do all of my friends. they eat "chinese food" all the fucking time. still not chinese!

can one reasonably argue that "chinese food" doesn't play some part in my culture at this point? still not chinese, and certainly not a relevant part of their culture when i'm not shoe shopping.

cultural exchange took place a long time ago and the eminescrow plopped rap music into the hearts and hard drives of a zillion kids devoid of the social conditions that make up the real elementary ingredients of hip hop. asher roth raps. to listen to asher roth rap, i might have to huff enough krylon to make me seizure into a headspin. that doesn't make us hip hop, and neither does anything else that i'm willing to subject myself to.

rap's a daughter that married off. she'll probably always be a part of hip hop, but she's also on the internet

deadbeat chad: da sequel

photo credit: some laughable chad in the making, i'm sure. don't meth around.

so i still moonlight as a teenager, the machinations of hormonal foolhardiness of whom had bundled yours cruelly in a laundry list and scooted me into a hearty batch of mountain-brewed gobbledygook astride a quorum north end's finest rudeboy retinue. beautifuldoable bitch this whole existential ordeal proves so often, eh? layer up to repel her onslaught of bitter ba humbugs. we were hypothermic. hell rell is hypotalented. fair is fair.

so like i said in part 1, we were sequencing the beats on a hasty retreat and beat street was heavily knee deep for the tires. dude in tj maxx's freshest fisher price my first finger painted hoody hailed us and nailed us to the mission charter. huffing and puffing, we gave mighty effort to the cause of excavating the relevant accoutrement of his rwd chumptruck and found our proud effort mightily ineffectual. shout out to john kerry.

a single failure, we soon learned, would do naught to deter our dazzlingly draped friend in his dogged pursuit of swisher sweetness. cars cost lest in puyallup. cars move less in the snow. eureka, though, isn't just a likely name for a daughter of mos def. a treasure trove of options arrived at our disposal, the best of which evolved into more fruitful locomotive enterprising. an accord or camry (man all ya'll look alike) made able volunteer, peter made as if buff and the rest of us were down for the dislodge. as promised, eureka!

"thanks, yo. do you like weed?"
"does hell rell look like a pug?"
"who is hell rell?"
"that's deep. i'll smoke."

brief politicking revealed a partition 'twixt my party people. whether covert operatives or subject to tinkle testing at their bible study group, my friends stood ill at ease over my casual acceptance. in no mood for slash and burn swagriculture, my brohorts poo-pooed the prospects and elected to stick around only by virtue of good principle and amusement at the emergence of a new cast of characters from the corner cottage from whence the pilot of the swisher shuttle was come.

the ants come marching 2 by 2; hurrah, hurrah! the first two were interesting as all hell. HELL IS INTERESTING (ALL)! girl azn and white guy. she introduced herself with conventional pleasantries and a gorgon's head gallery of inadvertently menacing facial expressions. tasked as her talent agent, i'd meditate at the fork in between casting her as one of the inkwells of hemoblobulic lubricant that quenched uma therman's hattori hanzo during her running of the gauntlet in the geisha house and selling rights to her likeness for use as a glob of gonorrhea in osmosis jones. options. i'm a young phil jackson these other bloggers pitino. i gotta slick mouth. you might wanna roll with me. shout out to jerry. real talk.

the other guy looked pretty normal. a cute girl who reminded me of the friend girl from daria stepped out onto the scene with stephen culpepper. their being hella less wizened than the ice grilled sourpuss and the normal looking guy had me bullish on befuddlement. still though, nothing but the snarl affixed to the face of the oriental billy girl gruff threatened market share for a phantom menace. shit was shot and we cast our lot inside the shelter of the peculiarity party, eager for deliverance from winter's shitshow of shivered timbers. scant our knowledge of the truth, of our haphazard encampment in the venomous snare of ch_d(_), preeminent poobah of the codpiece consortium.

part 3's a futureweapon. izza promise. i've got finals tomorrow, mayn. good night; let no bed bug sully your surface.

biggie tapes

i finished the book of chad before spring break and, after i look it over to make sure i still like it, i'll showcase dat for the dumb, all ye faithful.

in the meantime, though, i'd like you to settle for a two course entree from young grande; the late, great christopher wallace might be my favorite rapper, and thanks to the neon don at hipster holy grail i can pass on the following like a hostess donut trade proposition at the lowell school lunch tables.

best of biggie (hosted by mister cee)

best of biggie (10th anniversary)

the drawback of craque fats, like other hip hop legends is that, like other hip hop legends, he inspired a new topical thrust by less talented artists. biggie coaxed the cavalry at one stylistic sperm bank too many and immaculately inseminated the mothers of a decade of bling bling bozos. i think there are some passable pretenders, but there's only one big poppa.



as an aside, i'd like to commend him for not looking like a doofus while holding a weapon that i don't imagine he had a ton of experience with. if you're taking pictures in public with a submachine gun you're either myspace friends with tyler tryon or you're planning to make some little girl's bat mitzvah a stop on the up in smoke tour. failing assassination, do you think biggie would ever have ended up on worldstar?

go to hhg for the tracklistings and a stalwartly worthwhile cultural slideshow

crazy black folks

guilt at my blogospheric inadequacy and my tenuously binding resolution toward nicety in the new year have conspired to strangle my vision and recast me as a shiny little outlet for some items close to home. this time, i've summoned the wherewithal to announce that j boobs of southside seattle rap troupe subliminalz has himself a blog. so far he's posted up a promising sneak peak of a soon-to-be-released song from fellow rain city music merchant and sublimz affiliate young cel (it was between that and "amoeba steve") and a diatribe against speech impedimest (you don't really want them stray shots searchin you out, d supreme that boy who make up words in a drought) bill cosby (leaps of faith in this world of ours come with each day; why should i not, then, trust this sentence to stand as masonry against the steamy, cynical huffs and puffs of conventional decency so as to support 3 little parenthetical piggies?).

j boobs, less hazardously hailed as joey, probably won't deny that he's a crazy black person. crazy black people are entertaining to white people because, in large part, their culture sculpts their craziness so that it's manifested in a different way than ours. there's more to it in cases like joey's, though. when worldstar willy nillipedes wear out their welcome, a winnowing process selects naturally the most interesting of this set. conscientiousness of my lack of verbal finesse where racial commentary dilly dallies into relevance stays my hand and demands that i play the simple pass an makalelaydown the phrase "smart, crazy black people." joey's one of those. i shan't give him such uninformed musical credit in a time where carl icahn must needs tighten the belt, but in facets relevant to the condition i described above, i'd say "it's fair to say 'joey's like a northwest equivalent to ghostface or sean price'". canibus doesn't qualify, bytehdubya.

smart, crazy black people, baby.

i'm boring enough when i'm nice that i'm going to finish the conclusion to the book of chad in class over the course of the next few days. i think i started it before any of these crippling idealistic fancies became resolute, as it were.

weed murder

the vid!

i've been meaning to write about chad and the coming of springtime. cross fingers

ratatat

ratatat, block beataz, kanye, toomp and khalil should be the only hip hop producers on the radio. their remixes proof positive of a knack for knock, these guys could be timbaland hold the queso. i have to assume they're not shopping beats, content to be cLUb SEeyN cozmoNAutz taxing concert cake of the well-informed, 'cause there's no way the brolic backdrops like their visitations of "stomp" or "party and bullshit" lose out tit for tat to the disposable tinny toy tunes churned out so often by fm drum deacons like the runners or polow's little elves.

blueprint 3 should see them marched out in flourishing parade formation as were bink, blaze and the louis vuitton don. dre's efforts lately lacked testosterone. give us ratpack

soph untold

sinner is he who toots for self the horn, but when i said "this is the 'sota band' that won't have to look back on its youth music as a symptomatic banana peeled in the curious forge" i think i was right. "this", i should tell you, stood in at the time as interim caretaker pronoun for don't tell sophie, which you'd doubtless recognize as appropriate but you kinda had to be there.

ordinary steps is a song that's been out for a long time, and i count it among their best. as most brit rap reciters might say [a lot], check it
.
photographic hotness courtesy (and customary) of don sergio

homosexually delayed

nursery..academy. sean penn won best actor tonight and i had to find that dumb. his portrayal of harvey milk bore far too much similarity to sam dawson. homosexuality and retardation represent the final frontiers of theatrical flamboyance. you can dumb out acting like a fag or a downes chick without catching the heeby jeebies from the pc squeejies, so long as it's clear the character you're overextending has a heart gold as mr. t's chain. bladdow! the academy and yours technically are ripe for a tiff.

their born in the blue.s.a. bent grows tiresome. at this point everyone but the academy has trudged past the fact that they screwed over denzel in malcolm x and it's time they slung the rucksack over their shoulders and got over it, too.