RIP to the KQ 507 Flight Victims.
But unfortunately, the Blame Game begins. Apparently even KQ isn't sure which pilot was in charge of the plane, a 20 year veteran or a 24 year old young blood. Reminds me of a recent trip where I saw two pilots in NY's JFK Airport looking at the departure screens trying to find the flight number for the plane they were supposed to be flying. You'd think they had been briefed before they even got to the airport. I was glad not to be on their plane.
The NBA Playoffs? More like a soap opera.
If you are missing the drama in the Western Conference NBA Playoffs, jump on the bandwagon. The first round Golden State Warriors - Dallas Mavericks series may have been the most entertaining hoops since the end of the Jordan era, and I mean when he retired the first time. Beat Em Down Jackson, Matt Barnes, BD, and Jason Richardson...stealing that first game in Dallas was magnificent. I was rooting for Denver too but they're going to need a third threat, or a deeper bench. I feel bad for the talented but young Chicago...Detroit is going to embarrass them. Lebron could finally put a respectable notch on his belt if the Cavaliers take New Jersey's scalp. The only hum drum thing about this year's playoffs: The play of the San Antonio Spurs. Their clinical not so exciting style may win them another championship at the expense of the high flying up-tempo Phoenix team. And the Utah Jazz may kill Golden State's Cinderella Story in it's second act.
And condolences also go out to the Chelsea folks. Big bad Man U happened.
American Idol's most recent reject, LaKisha Jones is the next Jennifer Hudson. She's not Melinda Doolittle, but she still has a powerful built-for-soul voice, sounding like wholesome Sunday cooking. Warm, righteous and filling. The way she killed that Whitney Houston song I Have Nothing early in the game was ridiculous. Then how she blessed God Bless the Child? She better be signed already.
I'm going to apologize... I had intentions of posting up some brand new music for y'all but I'm time barred right now. I'mma have to keep this Badu to myself.
Morale.
==============================================
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
New Blog
Ladies and gentlemen, children, grunts, bastards, pimps, vagabonds and crack fiends of all ages,
You are invited to a special gala being held at The Badman Academy.
A pitiful selection of words and more words from two lunatics on the run from mental asylum.
Opinions that speak of eargasms and little else, for your general regard and amusement.
The presentations will be on-going and are expected to continue perpetually or until the capture of the aforementioned lunatics is afforded, so you may attend at your own convenience.
Couture of regal bearing is preferred for this gala. Attendees may not forget to bring their fifths of Hennessey.
Adieu.
======================================
You are invited to a special gala being held at The Badman Academy.
A pitiful selection of words and more words from two lunatics on the run from mental asylum.
Opinions that speak of eargasms and little else, for your general regard and amusement.
The presentations will be on-going and are expected to continue perpetually or until the capture of the aforementioned lunatics is afforded, so you may attend at your own convenience.
Couture of regal bearing is preferred for this gala. Attendees may not forget to bring their fifths of Hennessey.
Adieu.
======================================
SHOOT THE MESSENGER
My heart goes out for kids running the streets,
Ten years old with nothing to eat, playing in dirt,
Hair never combed, been the same since birth,
And they moms gets too high to change they shirt,
Pardon me this is my vision, the shit that I live in,
Crack heads,baby mothers with n_gg_z in prision,
Stack bread playing the dozens with liqour and izm,
Clap lead, spraying your cousin for sticking your Wisdom,
Ransom - "Hood Visions"
From the 2006 mixtape: DJ Lust Presents Ransom Is The Best In The City
The effigy has been burning for a while. But the long time apprehensions of black activists like Chuck D, Rev. Sharpton and others has taken on new impetus since Bill O'Reilly, Paula Zahn, Anderson Cooper and other mainstream (read: white) commentators have jumped on the bandwagon in the aftermath of the Don Imus fallout (Pitiful, that if it doesn't have White America's imprimatur it remains a fringe issue). And the hollerations are clear: blame hiphop!
Blame hiphop for the fact that influential white Radio Jock, Imus, called some high achieving Black women nappy-headed hoes and got crucified for it; that many of the images you see in Black Entertainment involve misogynistic and derogatory images of women; blame it for the subversive street messages like those that exhort all and sundry to stop cooperating with the police; that Inner City violence continues. Blame hiphop that words like Bling bling have made into the official American Lexicon. Blame hiphop!
Hiphop, like Blues, has always exhibited a blunt-force-trauma style of presentation. While Michael Dyson, Sharpton and others were trying to put together soundbytes for the media castigating the Federal Government as it wrung its hands early in the Hurricane Katrina Disaster, rapper Kanye West put it thus at a national telethon appearance: "George Bush doesn't care about Black People." You may have thought it, may have thought it was too contentious to say around the watercooler or at the supermarket checkout queue to the lady from next door, but there. Kanye stated without apology what he thought was the bottom line on a prime time national tv broadcast.
And hiphop has been saying it. Pinpointing the destruction that is part of the way of life of one of most endangered species on the Planet: the black man. Saying it in ways that the middle and upper class find uncomfortable to face. Jay-Z said "I can't see them coming down my eyes so I gotta make the song cry," rappers stunt like they're uberthugs in search of the next hapless victim to exact a 200 shot drive-by on, but beneath that, they are people wailing for a way out. Just like a drunk will stand up proclaiming he's fine to drive home and then totter dangerously on his feet quietly hoping the performance will elicit a volunteer from his audience to shuttle him safely home.
Before we blame the bearer of the unpalatable news, there are issues that have been ignored for far much longer than hiphop was born in 1974. The disenfrachisement of the American Lower Class - populated by a majority of the black population - in wealth generation and education is not a hot button topic on Anderson Cooper 360 ( "Tonight on The O'Reilly Factor...Libraries. Where are they in the Ghetto?"). The misogyny directed at the Black Woman is a long-standing blight. Think Hottentot Venus, or the scores of black women sexually violated during slavery. Was that perpetrated by Nelly with Snoop keeping watch? The glorification of the Barbie ideal as the standard of beauty that has led Black People to reject their own kinky-headed and dark skinned beauty for horse hair extensions and skin lighteners, was that Uncle Luke's fault? When civic actions by elements of the Los Angeles Black society grew into the nationalist Black Panther Party, the FBI got involved in shutting it down for good and put black people in jail. In the early 20th Century Jewish immigrants in New York, for example, uplifted their lot by forming socialist type groups that created businesses, housing and social support for their own. Contrast that to the demise of the Black Wall Street. There are 2.2 million black males in american prisions, which is directly related to consistent long term discriminate vicitmization of black men by the Police and the Justice system.
Against this backdrop, with dilapidated neighborhoods that are simply economic deserts, the resultant crime and the violence it creates, drug abuse, prostitution and the ultimate disaster,the dismemberment of the Black Family, Hiphop Culture lives. What do you expect rappers to talk about? And while it's true that the billions in revenue hiphop generates come from a mostly white audience, the the audience a rapper directs his music to is the people who are from or bear a similar background to the rapper, or understand it. The rest of the world simply dials in, like watching a gripping reality show.
Another major issue that all the commentators gloss over is the American Recording and Radio Broadcast sectors which bear similarities with professional sports. While Blacks excel as performers in the arenas, they are a small presence in the boardrooms where billion dollar decisions that affect the game are made. And the Federal Trade Comission has been a cheerleader as the recording industry has dwindled to four major players through mergers and acquisitions (Sony, BMG, Universal & EMI) and 80 percent of all the radio stations in America are owned by two companies (Clearchannel and Infinity). The radio aquisitions were initiated by a Clinton-era law that a Republican majority Congress approved. It eliminated the cap on the number of radio stations a single company could own.
Let's not forget the main music video outlets that broadcast urban music (BET, MTV, VHI) are all owned by Viacom. There are simply no avenues today for rappers with an alternative voice to reach the mainstream without going through these corporate gatekeepers. And they are not interested in these rappers. In the early ninties for example, when the marketing formula wasn't set in stone yet, it was possible to contrast the NWA guntalk with the positive philosophies of the Native Tongue Collective. Both perspectives were on blast on major outlets and thus the audience was able to get a more nuanced message out of rap music. At the very least, there was a choice available to listeners.
Similarly in Hollywood, the gatekeepers dictate the content of black films: comedies and action flicks that exploit the common sterotypes. That's what's proven to deliver favorable box-office returns. Any attempts at creating dramatic or serious films that don't make a play on the sterotypes is simply not on the table.
The profit motive will always reign, and simply, vice sells. Be it violence, lust, pride or prejudice. Training Day is feted before Malcom X. Similarly, the recording industry knows now after the trials of the 80's and 90's and the runaway success of some rappers who lived and died by the gun in their lives and music (RIP), that 50 Cent will raise more eyebrows - and hence generate more revenue - than Common Sense. The radio broadcast industry, long in bed with the recording industry through a system of payments-for-airplay, bows to the the will of its symbiotic partner. When the decision is made to promote crime and gunplay, empty antagonism, excess materialism, pimpery and rump shaking and the stifling of messages of upliftment and genuine explorations issues in the ghetto, the rappers have no say. The ones that want to move from Hollis to the Hamptons, from Bankhead to South Beach, from Long Beach to Palm Springs, they have to hop to the masters organ tune and make music along these lines. Radio obliges and plays the same 30 or so songs the record companies want to sell the the most over and over, all day long. The playlist on a hiphop & r&b radio station in Boston is similar to the one in Chicago or St Louis or San Diego with few variations. Independent Labels that currently support messages alternative to the status quo in rap simply have no pull on mainstream networks, and therefore, their records never reach the larger part of the listenership.
And there is the problem, O'Reilly, Anderson Cooper et al. First, the opportunities for Rap and other Black music to fully express its First Amendment Right to Free Speech has been slaughtered at the altar of the Greenback Temple. The corporations involved do their best with marketing blitzes that leave the listenership no option but to swallow the drivel that is force fed to them.
Secondly and most important, the destructive issues that plague the ghetto haven't changed for generations, and thinking banning certain words from lyrics will change things in the ghetto, where these messages hit home the hardest, is window dressing. Parking the blame in front of the Rap driveway is myopic and futile. Integrated solutions that address the socio-economic issues as well as harmful messages in rap music are in order. So burn the Hiphop effigy. Paint it as the Bad Guy. Find Killa Cam and ask him why he won't snitch. Boost ratings, work up a lather among the Leafy Surbub Set whose kids buy the music and solve nothing.
Ten years old with nothing to eat, playing in dirt,
Hair never combed, been the same since birth,
And they moms gets too high to change they shirt,
Pardon me this is my vision, the shit that I live in,
Crack heads,baby mothers with n_gg_z in prision,
Stack bread playing the dozens with liqour and izm,
Clap lead, spraying your cousin for sticking your Wisdom,
Ransom - "Hood Visions"
From the 2006 mixtape: DJ Lust Presents Ransom Is The Best In The City
The effigy has been burning for a while. But the long time apprehensions of black activists like Chuck D, Rev. Sharpton and others has taken on new impetus since Bill O'Reilly, Paula Zahn, Anderson Cooper and other mainstream (read: white) commentators have jumped on the bandwagon in the aftermath of the Don Imus fallout (Pitiful, that if it doesn't have White America's imprimatur it remains a fringe issue). And the hollerations are clear: blame hiphop!
Blame hiphop for the fact that influential white Radio Jock, Imus, called some high achieving Black women nappy-headed hoes and got crucified for it; that many of the images you see in Black Entertainment involve misogynistic and derogatory images of women; blame it for the subversive street messages like those that exhort all and sundry to stop cooperating with the police; that Inner City violence continues. Blame hiphop that words like Bling bling have made into the official American Lexicon. Blame hiphop!
Hiphop, like Blues, has always exhibited a blunt-force-trauma style of presentation. While Michael Dyson, Sharpton and others were trying to put together soundbytes for the media castigating the Federal Government as it wrung its hands early in the Hurricane Katrina Disaster, rapper Kanye West put it thus at a national telethon appearance: "George Bush doesn't care about Black People." You may have thought it, may have thought it was too contentious to say around the watercooler or at the supermarket checkout queue to the lady from next door, but there. Kanye stated without apology what he thought was the bottom line on a prime time national tv broadcast.
And hiphop has been saying it. Pinpointing the destruction that is part of the way of life of one of most endangered species on the Planet: the black man. Saying it in ways that the middle and upper class find uncomfortable to face. Jay-Z said "I can't see them coming down my eyes so I gotta make the song cry," rappers stunt like they're uberthugs in search of the next hapless victim to exact a 200 shot drive-by on, but beneath that, they are people wailing for a way out. Just like a drunk will stand up proclaiming he's fine to drive home and then totter dangerously on his feet quietly hoping the performance will elicit a volunteer from his audience to shuttle him safely home.
Before we blame the bearer of the unpalatable news, there are issues that have been ignored for far much longer than hiphop was born in 1974. The disenfrachisement of the American Lower Class - populated by a majority of the black population - in wealth generation and education is not a hot button topic on Anderson Cooper 360 ( "Tonight on The O'Reilly Factor...Libraries. Where are they in the Ghetto?"). The misogyny directed at the Black Woman is a long-standing blight. Think Hottentot Venus, or the scores of black women sexually violated during slavery. Was that perpetrated by Nelly with Snoop keeping watch? The glorification of the Barbie ideal as the standard of beauty that has led Black People to reject their own kinky-headed and dark skinned beauty for horse hair extensions and skin lighteners, was that Uncle Luke's fault? When civic actions by elements of the Los Angeles Black society grew into the nationalist Black Panther Party, the FBI got involved in shutting it down for good and put black people in jail. In the early 20th Century Jewish immigrants in New York, for example, uplifted their lot by forming socialist type groups that created businesses, housing and social support for their own. Contrast that to the demise of the Black Wall Street. There are 2.2 million black males in american prisions, which is directly related to consistent long term discriminate vicitmization of black men by the Police and the Justice system.
Against this backdrop, with dilapidated neighborhoods that are simply economic deserts, the resultant crime and the violence it creates, drug abuse, prostitution and the ultimate disaster,the dismemberment of the Black Family, Hiphop Culture lives. What do you expect rappers to talk about? And while it's true that the billions in revenue hiphop generates come from a mostly white audience, the the audience a rapper directs his music to is the people who are from or bear a similar background to the rapper, or understand it. The rest of the world simply dials in, like watching a gripping reality show.
Another major issue that all the commentators gloss over is the American Recording and Radio Broadcast sectors which bear similarities with professional sports. While Blacks excel as performers in the arenas, they are a small presence in the boardrooms where billion dollar decisions that affect the game are made. And the Federal Trade Comission has been a cheerleader as the recording industry has dwindled to four major players through mergers and acquisitions (Sony, BMG, Universal & EMI) and 80 percent of all the radio stations in America are owned by two companies (Clearchannel and Infinity). The radio aquisitions were initiated by a Clinton-era law that a Republican majority Congress approved. It eliminated the cap on the number of radio stations a single company could own.
Let's not forget the main music video outlets that broadcast urban music (BET, MTV, VHI) are all owned by Viacom. There are simply no avenues today for rappers with an alternative voice to reach the mainstream without going through these corporate gatekeepers. And they are not interested in these rappers. In the early ninties for example, when the marketing formula wasn't set in stone yet, it was possible to contrast the NWA guntalk with the positive philosophies of the Native Tongue Collective. Both perspectives were on blast on major outlets and thus the audience was able to get a more nuanced message out of rap music. At the very least, there was a choice available to listeners.
Similarly in Hollywood, the gatekeepers dictate the content of black films: comedies and action flicks that exploit the common sterotypes. That's what's proven to deliver favorable box-office returns. Any attempts at creating dramatic or serious films that don't make a play on the sterotypes is simply not on the table.
The profit motive will always reign, and simply, vice sells. Be it violence, lust, pride or prejudice. Training Day is feted before Malcom X. Similarly, the recording industry knows now after the trials of the 80's and 90's and the runaway success of some rappers who lived and died by the gun in their lives and music (RIP), that 50 Cent will raise more eyebrows - and hence generate more revenue - than Common Sense. The radio broadcast industry, long in bed with the recording industry through a system of payments-for-airplay, bows to the the will of its symbiotic partner. When the decision is made to promote crime and gunplay, empty antagonism, excess materialism, pimpery and rump shaking and the stifling of messages of upliftment and genuine explorations issues in the ghetto, the rappers have no say. The ones that want to move from Hollis to the Hamptons, from Bankhead to South Beach, from Long Beach to Palm Springs, they have to hop to the masters organ tune and make music along these lines. Radio obliges and plays the same 30 or so songs the record companies want to sell the the most over and over, all day long. The playlist on a hiphop & r&b radio station in Boston is similar to the one in Chicago or St Louis or San Diego with few variations. Independent Labels that currently support messages alternative to the status quo in rap simply have no pull on mainstream networks, and therefore, their records never reach the larger part of the listenership.
And there is the problem, O'Reilly, Anderson Cooper et al. First, the opportunities for Rap and other Black music to fully express its First Amendment Right to Free Speech has been slaughtered at the altar of the Greenback Temple. The corporations involved do their best with marketing blitzes that leave the listenership no option but to swallow the drivel that is force fed to them.
Secondly and most important, the destructive issues that plague the ghetto haven't changed for generations, and thinking banning certain words from lyrics will change things in the ghetto, where these messages hit home the hardest, is window dressing. Parking the blame in front of the Rap driveway is myopic and futile. Integrated solutions that address the socio-economic issues as well as harmful messages in rap music are in order. So burn the Hiphop effigy. Paint it as the Bad Guy. Find Killa Cam and ask him why he won't snitch. Boost ratings, work up a lather among the Leafy Surbub Set whose kids buy the music and solve nothing.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Indulge Responsibly
Horrorscene Hollywood Crack.Zero calories.
100% source of essential Savage Music nutrients.
Regular users are advised to utilize a neck brace or enjoy this product from a relaxed or laying down postion.
Has an Automobile Association 5 Star in-cab entertainment rating.
Also interacts well with other intoxicants.
SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING: Contents are highly habit forming.
24 Tracks. Heist International/Street Corner Ent Release. April 2007. Expires: Never.
Get high.
Is this what is feels like to be a proud daddy? Opium Black is the current Breeding Ground Artist on Allhiphop.com. Past alumni include Joell Ortiz, Papoose, Stimuli and I believe Saigon. Some of these dudes are in major level situations. Ortiz just got signed to Aftermath last year, 'Poose is Mr. 1.5 million dollars and Saigon has an enviable unbeatable access to beats by Just Blaze courtesy of being signed to Blaze's Fort Knox imprint on Atlantic.
====================================
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Picture Me Grindin
Baaaang,
Aint nuthing to talk about pay me,
N_gga we go 'head and spark it out early,
When I'm gunning for your head,
I'm riding, you dying my gun go
Baaaang....
Opium Black & Sam Scarfo - Bang (you can hear it here. You're late, you'll have to scroll down and search a little)
Riding in a nondescript two-seater at 11 am on a Saturday morning and it feels wrong to be outside right now. I mean, here I am barely five hours after I crept into my domicile for a hot meal and warm bed covers....chilling outside the theater, about 900 people inside getting the best of a Stepshow and we're waiting for them to come outside. It's no time to hunker down and wish for more slouch minutes, we need to be ready for them. Baaang.... that song gets me for real.... can I hear that one mo 'gain before we hop out the whip?
Something's wrong in the Northeast, it's April and the weather hasn't broken yet. This frigid nonsense makes the job harder. Taping up posters to walls and light poles with trembly and numb fingers. Oh well. Get those 5'X5' cd inserts in hand, make sure the grab bag has at least thirty cds in it. It's 11:30, let's revist what the rest of the team has done. Walk up to Don-Don and his homie finishing off a pungent dutch. It's looking good. Those posters are unmistakable up and down the street and in the parking lot. The City's going to hate us. When this crowd gets outside there's one thing they're going to see:
DJ Kurupt & Opium Black. Black Plague. In Stores Now.
12:15, the early birds start trickling out of the building Don-Don, his buddy and myself position ourselves by the main entrance. Every walking stiff gets handed a cd insert and an obligitory appeal is sounded for them to support the brand new mixtape 'in the streets now'. The cuties get a free cd if the sound excited enough, and the real dudes if they with it. The hobnobbing in the home city is usually easy. The dimes light up "Oh Opium! I met him before!" or "I've heard him on the radio!" or "I saw him on stage last summer! Where y'all at tonight?" And based on the misinformation served you might be copping some really utilizable digits from a pretty thang.
It's looking good. Don and his mans seem like they could handle what's left. I'm off with my my right hand man to handle some other work. We're heading towards the genesis of the whole movement.
The Northside.
An area of roughly 12 city blocks by 12 blocks. The reason why this city is a perennial feature on the top 25 most violent cities list in the The States. A wasteland of old colonial style two or three family houses and tri-level apartment blocks mixed in with corner stores and run-down shopping areas. Mostly of Black - with a heavy west indian bent - and Latino makeup. Streetcorner drug sales, late night gunfights, crazy parties in hole-in-the-wall joints and drug fiends walking up and down the main strips in broad daylight. Zombies trying to come back from the undead, if only for a while. That's jsut a small part of it. Many are just trying to get ahead and live good.
I get dropped off at the end of a busy thoroughfare, what we call The Ave, with a stack of posters and scotch tape. My partner is off to put cds in the stores. 45 minutes later I'm all the way up into the heart of the shopping area on the strip, putting up posters in and outside barber shops, hair salons, clothing stores food marts, convenience stores and liqour spots. Placement is key, trying to prominently position the posters for maximum reach both in and out of the premises. Not all stores are with it though. Some represent ah yard, them no want no Yankee nonsense dat. And some are christian. No hiphop grafitti on their walls.
An hour an a half later, slighty cold all over, my fingers definitely feeling frozen and abused, I'm back in the whip again feeling like it's a job well done. Son, gimme track seven again,
Baaaang,
They gon put the chalk around you,
N_ggas is scared to walk around you,
When I'm gunning for your head,
I'm riding, you dying my gun go
Baaaang.....
We circle the strip again double checking the work. Then it's off to another area, Killa Hill to bombard the stores in that area with posters and drop some cds in the music stores and bootleggers that do business in the area. An hour later with a little more cash in the pocket we head to the 'hood to pay dues. Don-don sounds off bouyantly over the nextel walkie-talkie saying he managed to off half his stash of discs outside the stepshow venue. Lovely. We pull up to the hood and my partner is immediately met with cat calls and hollerations as dudes on the corner spy on one of their own respected bretheren outside.
"Aay Opium what it is kicko, where my joint at?"
"Whooo, That intro is bananas, had n_ggas dummin last night."
This shit just dropped last night? I just went by The Ave I seen the poster in the bodega. That shit looking sick. Who did that? That shit look crazy, for real."
"Eey Inf, man I want beats man, and stop bullshittin me, I want them type joints you gave Black n_gga. What the f_ck dog...you hiding that crack from n_ggas huh..."
As warm handslaps and hugs go around, dudes stay wary of the two black and white police squad cars that pulled up at the end of the block effectively curtailing, for who it may concern, some drug sales for a little while. The fiends are put on alert and told to hold tight and wait for the situation to change. Meanwhile the word is spreading. The intersection is getting piled up as o.g's gone legal and street kingpins on the low bring their maximas, beemas and suvs out to the corner. The street mainstays are also outside. Early saturday afternoon in April starts to look like July. The traffic into the liqour store on the corner starts to thicken and the fifths of Hennesey start flowing. The doors on the vehicles stay open and each vehicle is booming some type of track off the brand new mixtape we've slaved over for a few months.
Seeing this reaction in thie neck of the woods is a good sign. Later on in the month there are mixshow meetings at radio stations, meetings with influental hiphop website execs and a few A&Rs at the club performances we have inked for the rest of the month, and they all need to be impressed. And there are out of town trips planned to promote where the people wont be as easily excited, but once they hear the crack we're serving they must show some respect and buy the mixtape or come to a show. And the gatekeepers must offer us some opportunities. We want in.
Creating buzz for an artist is such a tall order especially for independent bugdet goons like we. But this month alone has justified many of the things we've been through. Riding out to the Apple, seeing the artist chilling on the set of a new Kel Spencer video, or just getting love from a big-time dj at a big time club at some big time album release party, or when an allhiphop.com heavyweight puts his word on it that we can expect a serious look on that heavy traffic site...some work is getting done. They're starting to know about dude....
The grind continues.
Morale.
===========================
Aint nuthing to talk about pay me,
N_gga we go 'head and spark it out early,
When I'm gunning for your head,
I'm riding, you dying my gun go
Baaaang....
Opium Black & Sam Scarfo - Bang (you can hear it here. You're late, you'll have to scroll down and search a little)
Riding in a nondescript two-seater at 11 am on a Saturday morning and it feels wrong to be outside right now. I mean, here I am barely five hours after I crept into my domicile for a hot meal and warm bed covers....chilling outside the theater, about 900 people inside getting the best of a Stepshow and we're waiting for them to come outside. It's no time to hunker down and wish for more slouch minutes, we need to be ready for them. Baaang.... that song gets me for real.... can I hear that one mo 'gain before we hop out the whip?
Something's wrong in the Northeast, it's April and the weather hasn't broken yet. This frigid nonsense makes the job harder. Taping up posters to walls and light poles with trembly and numb fingers. Oh well. Get those 5'X5' cd inserts in hand, make sure the grab bag has at least thirty cds in it. It's 11:30, let's revist what the rest of the team has done. Walk up to Don-Don and his homie finishing off a pungent dutch. It's looking good. Those posters are unmistakable up and down the street and in the parking lot. The City's going to hate us. When this crowd gets outside there's one thing they're going to see:
DJ Kurupt & Opium Black. Black Plague. In Stores Now.
12:15, the early birds start trickling out of the building Don-Don, his buddy and myself position ourselves by the main entrance. Every walking stiff gets handed a cd insert and an obligitory appeal is sounded for them to support the brand new mixtape 'in the streets now'. The cuties get a free cd if the sound excited enough, and the real dudes if they with it. The hobnobbing in the home city is usually easy. The dimes light up "Oh Opium! I met him before!" or "I've heard him on the radio!" or "I saw him on stage last summer! Where y'all at tonight?" And based on the misinformation served you might be copping some really utilizable digits from a pretty thang.
It's looking good. Don and his mans seem like they could handle what's left. I'm off with my my right hand man to handle some other work. We're heading towards the genesis of the whole movement.
The Northside.
An area of roughly 12 city blocks by 12 blocks. The reason why this city is a perennial feature on the top 25 most violent cities list in the The States. A wasteland of old colonial style two or three family houses and tri-level apartment blocks mixed in with corner stores and run-down shopping areas. Mostly of Black - with a heavy west indian bent - and Latino makeup. Streetcorner drug sales, late night gunfights, crazy parties in hole-in-the-wall joints and drug fiends walking up and down the main strips in broad daylight. Zombies trying to come back from the undead, if only for a while. That's jsut a small part of it. Many are just trying to get ahead and live good.
I get dropped off at the end of a busy thoroughfare, what we call The Ave, with a stack of posters and scotch tape. My partner is off to put cds in the stores. 45 minutes later I'm all the way up into the heart of the shopping area on the strip, putting up posters in and outside barber shops, hair salons, clothing stores food marts, convenience stores and liqour spots. Placement is key, trying to prominently position the posters for maximum reach both in and out of the premises. Not all stores are with it though. Some represent ah yard, them no want no Yankee nonsense dat. And some are christian. No hiphop grafitti on their walls.
An hour an a half later, slighty cold all over, my fingers definitely feeling frozen and abused, I'm back in the whip again feeling like it's a job well done. Son, gimme track seven again,
Baaaang,
They gon put the chalk around you,
N_ggas is scared to walk around you,
When I'm gunning for your head,
I'm riding, you dying my gun go
Baaaang.....
We circle the strip again double checking the work. Then it's off to another area, Killa Hill to bombard the stores in that area with posters and drop some cds in the music stores and bootleggers that do business in the area. An hour later with a little more cash in the pocket we head to the 'hood to pay dues. Don-don sounds off bouyantly over the nextel walkie-talkie saying he managed to off half his stash of discs outside the stepshow venue. Lovely. We pull up to the hood and my partner is immediately met with cat calls and hollerations as dudes on the corner spy on one of their own respected bretheren outside.
"Aay Opium what it is kicko, where my joint at?"
"Whooo, That intro is bananas, had n_ggas dummin last night."
This shit just dropped last night? I just went by The Ave I seen the poster in the bodega. That shit looking sick. Who did that? That shit look crazy, for real."
"Eey Inf, man I want beats man, and stop bullshittin me, I want them type joints you gave Black n_gga. What the f_ck dog...you hiding that crack from n_ggas huh..."
As warm handslaps and hugs go around, dudes stay wary of the two black and white police squad cars that pulled up at the end of the block effectively curtailing, for who it may concern, some drug sales for a little while. The fiends are put on alert and told to hold tight and wait for the situation to change. Meanwhile the word is spreading. The intersection is getting piled up as o.g's gone legal and street kingpins on the low bring their maximas, beemas and suvs out to the corner. The street mainstays are also outside. Early saturday afternoon in April starts to look like July. The traffic into the liqour store on the corner starts to thicken and the fifths of Hennesey start flowing. The doors on the vehicles stay open and each vehicle is booming some type of track off the brand new mixtape we've slaved over for a few months.
Seeing this reaction in thie neck of the woods is a good sign. Later on in the month there are mixshow meetings at radio stations, meetings with influental hiphop website execs and a few A&Rs at the club performances we have inked for the rest of the month, and they all need to be impressed. And there are out of town trips planned to promote where the people wont be as easily excited, but once they hear the crack we're serving they must show some respect and buy the mixtape or come to a show. And the gatekeepers must offer us some opportunities. We want in.
Creating buzz for an artist is such a tall order especially for independent bugdet goons like we. But this month alone has justified many of the things we've been through. Riding out to the Apple, seeing the artist chilling on the set of a new Kel Spencer video, or just getting love from a big-time dj at a big time club at some big time album release party, or when an allhiphop.com heavyweight puts his word on it that we can expect a serious look on that heavy traffic site...some work is getting done. They're starting to know about dude....
The grind continues.
Morale.
===========================
Friday, March 23, 2007
More Miseducation
Indulging in mind-bending soul has been a pet fetish for the kid for a while, okay, forever. And the worst thing about being stateside is that it's so much harder to feed thyself on audio art that exists on the fringes, or isn't of Yankee origin because if it's not on corporate Radio or TV, it might as well not be made, because you will hear it nada. Which is why it saddens me that I've been late to this party. I'm usually early to the hanyee...I'm getting sloppy...damn.
When it comes to soul the Brits have always been unafraid of putting together work that would make any 'normal' american record executives throw themselves out of a 5th Avenue office perched on the 26th floor. That Brit-Soul has, time after time, taken chances is an understatement. In my mind, Neo-Soul's daddy is none other that funky, avant-garde Northern English heathen, Acid Jazz; the bastard child of soul that refused to play it safe, that embraced Disco and Jazz and took them to another place. It could never have been born on US terra firma. It would have been forced to meet quarterly sales quotas and sell toys to suburban 12 year olds. Before the world embraced D'Angelo there was the Brand New Heavies. Simple.
In that vein of taking soul music to a different place cometh a white brunette who effortlessly channels the 60's refreshingly, fleshing out tunes that feel like you're tooling in a 1967 Renault listening to your AM radio with your gashungwa cozily underarm, until you realize you're solo and Downtown bound on the 8:36 shuttle, Ipod earbuds thumping.
Wakey wakey dreamer, you're quite adrift from Motown, or 1967, for that matter, but what's cooking doesn't sound dated. And it's far from the latest edition of shrink-wrap-shipped packages of cookie cutter dry hump love tune jesters meant to deter supplicants from realizing what they're missing. Baby girl's heart sounds like it lives on her sleeve on tracks like, Rehab, the break up ditty Back to Black, Wake up Alone, Tears Dry on Their Own and Me and Mr. Jones (fuckery). Who's been doing this woman dirty?
And it turns out her management at the time really tried to make her go to Rehab but she said 'no, no, no.' One of the best songs that will be heard this year, whether radio plays it or not.
Well some folks have been dying for a Lauryn Hill revival, but who knew the next chapter in The Miseducation of soul music would come from North London.The album Back To Black has finally hit US shores (UK got their fix last October). DJ Mark Ronson and Salaam Remi did their thing.
Oh.
Amy Winehouse is her name.
Also, brand new music can be heard from Brit-girls Joss Stone and Lily Allen.
Morale.
==============================
Friday, March 02, 2007
Bastards & Hudson
I finally got to watching some TV last weekend. I Caught this HBO documentary by Antoine Fuqua, Bastards of the Party. It's a look into how racism birthed the Inner City LA gangs, how the demise of the 60's black political movements - The Panthers and US Movement - seeded the notorious Crips and Blood Gangs in Los Angeles and how the Feds, Reganomics and the South American drug cartels pitched in to nuture them. There were chilling parallels for me with the situation back in the Good City with Taliban, Mungiki et al.
Msanii is back with a banging podcast. Fika hapo speedi. Great value for 77 minutes of your life.
And sexcapades at the Nation Media Group read like an unedited David Maillu script. Courtesy of Mentalacrobatics.
Was it me it, or did it feel good to see The Yonce get showed up by Miss Jennifer Hudson on Oscar Night? I hope her LP will be fuego coz I'm rooting for her, before she really goes diva.
Caught a few performances recently. Pharaohe Monch's new material is nice, we'll see what the market thinks. The new single Desire is fire. He still puts it down on stage. Sean P is always a treat. Doesn't really get any better for the those who want to see wordsmiths. Saigon has buzz and some good songs but his stage game is wanting. But he's only a hit away from all that.
A great weekend y'all. I'll be prowling the Planet of Brooklyn peddling beats. Mia mia! Beba na Soh!
Morale.
======================================
Msanii is back with a banging podcast. Fika hapo speedi. Great value for 77 minutes of your life.
And sexcapades at the Nation Media Group read like an unedited David Maillu script. Courtesy of Mentalacrobatics.
Was it me it, or did it feel good to see The Yonce get showed up by Miss Jennifer Hudson on Oscar Night? I hope her LP will be fuego coz I'm rooting for her, before she really goes diva.
Caught a few performances recently. Pharaohe Monch's new material is nice, we'll see what the market thinks. The new single Desire is fire. He still puts it down on stage. Sean P is always a treat. Doesn't really get any better for the those who want to see wordsmiths. Saigon has buzz and some good songs but his stage game is wanting. But he's only a hit away from all that.
A great weekend y'all. I'll be prowling the Planet of Brooklyn peddling beats. Mia mia! Beba na Soh!
Morale.
======================================
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Oh So Thickely
So here's hoping your V-day was sweet and popping. Mine, well in the words of Katt Williams, I had to make a pimp decision. So I laid low....maybe not the best thing for some of the dames who carry on in life thinking they've got my graces, but this pimp laid low enjoyed the V-day snowstorm that hit my yard solo.
But the day after, the flak hit. The how could you nots, the shame on yous and the we're not talking right nows, but a buddy (word to Musiq) was nice enough to share their free passes to see Robin Thicke. The Jon B of this decade. He has dudes around here kind of mad though because Ms. Paula Patton (pictured below) is his main squeeze. She appeared recently in the movie Deja Vu.
He lost the dirty hippie appeal, steered away from the neo-soul vibe and added slick production to his second lp, but the boy still brings that raw soul sound to his show. This one was at an upscale bar frequented by the 9-5 urban bourgie types. They were out in their grown and sexy gear. The sistas were out in full force. It was small for the 300 deep in the house and everybody was pressed in tight at the 11:15 pm show time. I prefer those venues to the arena shows where binoculars and other telescopic devices are needed. Don't bring your good shoes though.
Drummer, guitarist, keys and bass alongside Mr. Patton, sorry, Mr. Thicke on piano was the gang on stage. He ran through his singles: Shooter, Wanna Love You girl, Switch and the current falsetto hit Lost Without You. He also auditioned a new song, a slow player that was also pretty good, although the name escapes me. He definitely got me at the end with his rendition of Al Green's Let's Stay Together. A low blow, but one that will always work.
A quick set but not bad. Catch him if you can.
Morale.
==================================
But the day after, the flak hit. The how could you nots, the shame on yous and the we're not talking right nows, but a buddy (word to Musiq) was nice enough to share their free passes to see Robin Thicke. The Jon B of this decade. He has dudes around here kind of mad though because Ms. Paula Patton (pictured below) is his main squeeze. She appeared recently in the movie Deja Vu.
He lost the dirty hippie appeal, steered away from the neo-soul vibe and added slick production to his second lp, but the boy still brings that raw soul sound to his show. This one was at an upscale bar frequented by the 9-5 urban bourgie types. They were out in their grown and sexy gear. The sistas were out in full force. It was small for the 300 deep in the house and everybody was pressed in tight at the 11:15 pm show time. I prefer those venues to the arena shows where binoculars and other telescopic devices are needed. Don't bring your good shoes though.Drummer, guitarist, keys and bass alongside Mr. Patton, sorry, Mr. Thicke on piano was the gang on stage. He ran through his singles: Shooter, Wanna Love You girl, Switch and the current falsetto hit Lost Without You. He also auditioned a new song, a slow player that was also pretty good, although the name escapes me. He definitely got me at the end with his rendition of Al Green's Let's Stay Together. A low blow, but one that will always work.
A quick set but not bad. Catch him if you can.
Morale.
==================================
Friday, February 09, 2007
Back Behind Enemy Lines
Yeah, yeah, so my much prided lifetime supply of Lifebouy soap recorded a snafu in mid-December. And that pretty much was my pretext to retreat from a frosty North East hustle for the so, so, sickly sumptuous Nairobi Heat.
The place has grown, as evidenced by the increased level of hustle. When thinking about economic trickle down effects, that's the biggest one for me. Even Mama Samaki in my hood stays outside till 10pm nightly. Its was good to see the old haunts, my peoples showing growth, the guns still popping and the ladies are still the flyest. I admit, I had forgotten how ridiculous the mami game is. Hwhat....
It was a blessing to experience the hip-hop movement there. Radio isn't showing heavy love but it's in the streets, and hip-hop is the streets. It ariseth.
Just put up some new music on the jumpoff page. Back on the grind again the mixtape will be here soon.
Morale.
The place has grown, as evidenced by the increased level of hustle. When thinking about economic trickle down effects, that's the biggest one for me. Even Mama Samaki in my hood stays outside till 10pm nightly. Its was good to see the old haunts, my peoples showing growth, the guns still popping and the ladies are still the flyest. I admit, I had forgotten how ridiculous the mami game is. Hwhat....
It was a blessing to experience the hip-hop movement there. Radio isn't showing heavy love but it's in the streets, and hip-hop is the streets. It ariseth.
Just put up some new music on the jumpoff page. Back on the grind again the mixtape will be here soon.
Morale.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Freeky Furahiday: Part Siete.
Meet the Negroes, No love for the Bastards & Dubai Ballin
Checking in from a self inflicted hiatus in the warzone. Kuhangaika like a fish out of water, while trying to ignore the Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeerisms that plague this end of the planet around this time of year. Hopefully I will have something to show for the grind.
Leave me in a room alone with him your honor, just three minutes: Michael Richards better known as Kramer to Seinfeld geeks (or is it KKKramer) will be meeting with the recipients of his racist rage under the mediation of a retired judge. If only the judge would suggest some anger management therapy in the format of bust his ass. Check this little anecdote about other racially toned happenings on the Seinfeld set.
-----------
Meanwhile, back in Muddy Waterworld, I mean Jamhuri (poleni with the heavy rains), the Justice system has refused to make delinquent fathers pay for children born out of wedlock, according to the Sato Daily Nation. Some lobby groups were looking to have sections of the Children's Act repealed to allow for such provisions. The Act insists on having the single mother meeting certain criteria before the father can execute his duties. I wonder what the criteria are:
1.Must regard the absent father as husband and accord to him the respect that office comes with.
2. Must maintain a regal sense of being: a tasteful backside and the titty game better be righteous.
3. Must be available for all frivolous booty calls. Must be willing to fulfill whatever the absent father asks for.
4. Must be ready to be disregarded and overlooked on a whim and bear that as the opportunity cost of playing the game.
And out here jamaas get wages garnished on a weekly basis for children they love dearly but they cannot interact with due to court sanctions. Look under: Grown men cry.
Maybe our single mothers should demand a few minutes alone in a room with these judges too...
Also in the same Sato pages, a story quoting alleged secret documents of how the first Kenyan government was forced to buy assets left behind by the colonial regime. Quite akin to the dealer being forced out of a neighborhood, but he digs in, and forces the residents to buy the crack spot, busted furniture, hot electronics and all from him.
--------
I've been wowed by this track by Da Rugged Underground Zoo (D.R.U.G.Z) Clique. Staarabu. I'm not sure when this came out, but the video recently hit youtube. Holla at Msanii on the hook up and Diehard for killing this track.
Over 1.8 million people have paid homage to Jiggaman and bought the new album. Platters like Lost One, Kanye produced Do You Wanna Ride, 3o Something, Dipset diss Dig a Hole and Katrina diatribe (yup, the boy gets his Bono on) Minority Report display the wit, wordplay, introspection and social outlook that make this comeback album worth the listen. Thankfully its a very straight-ahead east coast offering. Is it me or did Beyonce ruin Hollywood? Just Blaze and Dr. Dre did their thing on production. That other joint with Usher is also weak. It's not the super triumphant return many wistfully envisioned, but it's a quality release in a year that needed it.
Expect similar flashes of brilliance from Nas. In current rotation is a song that samples Nat King Cole's Unforgettable: Nas featuring Chrisette Michele, Can't Forget About You. And let me not talk about Black Republicans.
------------
Big up Maseno High School repping hard in the Middle East in the U-19 catergory of the Dubai Sevens. The big boys though had it rough, losing all their day one group matches. Get 'em on day two!
Morale bastards.
====================================
Checking in from a self inflicted hiatus in the warzone. Kuhangaika like a fish out of water, while trying to ignore the Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeerisms that plague this end of the planet around this time of year. Hopefully I will have something to show for the grind.
Leave me in a room alone with him your honor, just three minutes: Michael Richards better known as Kramer to Seinfeld geeks (or is it KKKramer) will be meeting with the recipients of his racist rage under the mediation of a retired judge. If only the judge would suggest some anger management therapy in the format of bust his ass. Check this little anecdote about other racially toned happenings on the Seinfeld set.
-----------
Meanwhile, back in Muddy Waterworld, I mean Jamhuri (poleni with the heavy rains), the Justice system has refused to make delinquent fathers pay for children born out of wedlock, according to the Sato Daily Nation. Some lobby groups were looking to have sections of the Children's Act repealed to allow for such provisions. The Act insists on having the single mother meeting certain criteria before the father can execute his duties. I wonder what the criteria are:
1.Must regard the absent father as husband and accord to him the respect that office comes with.
2. Must maintain a regal sense of being: a tasteful backside and the titty game better be righteous.
3. Must be available for all frivolous booty calls. Must be willing to fulfill whatever the absent father asks for.
4. Must be ready to be disregarded and overlooked on a whim and bear that as the opportunity cost of playing the game.
And out here jamaas get wages garnished on a weekly basis for children they love dearly but they cannot interact with due to court sanctions. Look under: Grown men cry.
Maybe our single mothers should demand a few minutes alone in a room with these judges too...
Also in the same Sato pages, a story quoting alleged secret documents of how the first Kenyan government was forced to buy assets left behind by the colonial regime. Quite akin to the dealer being forced out of a neighborhood, but he digs in, and forces the residents to buy the crack spot, busted furniture, hot electronics and all from him.
--------
I've been wowed by this track by Da Rugged Underground Zoo (D.R.U.G.Z) Clique. Staarabu. I'm not sure when this came out, but the video recently hit youtube. Holla at Msanii on the hook up and Diehard for killing this track.
Over 1.8 million people have paid homage to Jiggaman and bought the new album. Platters like Lost One, Kanye produced Do You Wanna Ride, 3o Something, Dipset diss Dig a Hole and Katrina diatribe (yup, the boy gets his Bono on) Minority Report display the wit, wordplay, introspection and social outlook that make this comeback album worth the listen. Thankfully its a very straight-ahead east coast offering. Is it me or did Beyonce ruin Hollywood? Just Blaze and Dr. Dre did their thing on production. That other joint with Usher is also weak. It's not the super triumphant return many wistfully envisioned, but it's a quality release in a year that needed it.
Expect similar flashes of brilliance from Nas. In current rotation is a song that samples Nat King Cole's Unforgettable: Nas featuring Chrisette Michele, Can't Forget About You. And let me not talk about Black Republicans.
------------
Big up Maseno High School repping hard in the Middle East in the U-19 catergory of the Dubai Sevens. The big boys though had it rough, losing all their day one group matches. Get 'em on day two!
Morale bastards.
====================================
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