A goody goody salute to you.
When it gets hot outside, it really gets hot outside. The young boys here go berserk with the deading. But there's nothing like a little perspective for that ass. Recent Mungiki vs. Police killings make Northeast Gutter City pop-off Shenanigans seem like an episode of Fraggle Rock. Who was down with Fraggle Rock? Yeah you know me! Leo Faya had a Buru Reminisce Piece that you may want to feel out. I might just be down for a back-in-the-day version of my own, like Faya said, before the dementia sets in. Some people never need worry.
Speaking of which, American Football has a case to answer as far as depression, dementia and general brain damage is concerned. I always knew there was trouble with those blunt hits.
Big up to my brother Sultan on the alert. The EA Standard had a piece this weekend about the cut-throat turf wars on the K.E. entertainment scene. On all levels, from Event Hosts to Bouncers. Pretty soon, even the bartenders are going to get in on it. The very interesting thing to me is that D.S. Njoroge is the go-to guy for all the big international shows, which I suspect is because of his well known 10,000 watt sound system. (I'm ashamed he ok'd Ja Rule... Richie Spice....more like it. Most definitely worth it to see that Dread live at least once in your life). Still, no new pretenders in the Biggest Sound in K.E. race?
It's a beautiful thing...when Namibia comes to Nairobi and falls. Now, they can nail up a new scalp at the RFUEA grounds with Morocco doing that now-dead Motorbike dance move formerly dearly beloved by my bredren Msanii....Going Dooowwn.
With ODM not finding a suitable Flag Bearer at this point in the game is telling. Raila is already looking to 2012! But that doesn't mean ODM is done with. Peep Alexcia's reasons. All the same, a stalemate now only means someone will end up being frustrated late in the game, and not entirely willing to yum up on the humble pie, and bail.
Nuff Respect to Akiey, who is grinding heavy in the Midwest, currently pitching a Barack Obama ebook, Best Speeches of Barack Obama, available for free download for a limited time. With New York City Mayor and I-don't-need-your-guap-rich billionaire Michael Bloomberg almost throwing his hat in the ring, the leading candidates on the both the Democrat and Republican sides must make their cases known before this turns into another year 2000 type fiasco, where the Dems were left baying for spoiler Ralph Nader's blood, as Ross Perot is back in a flashy NYC format.
Who didn't see this coming: he's portrayed God already, so what's a little Nelson Mandela going to do for him? Morgan Freeman is Nelson Mandela in a recollection of SA's 1995 Rugby World Cup triumph. Coming soon, White and Blacks united under one banner... White America will shed a tear. Wait...wasn't there only one black player on the 1995 Springboks? Chester Williams, I believe? Jonah Lomu. What a beast he was in that tournament. The memorable mismatch I recall was the one with those tiny Japanese team peeps trying to hold on to their dignity as Lomu trod them underfoot.
So what do I does on a fly Sato night like this one? The truth, I'm heavy in the lab, cooking up some new heat. No bashdowns tonight. The time hasn't arrived for me to speak on what's on the horizon. Still, the dirty work must get done, Monday to Sunday. Break time is over. Must go find my 808 kit and get busy. Thankfully the team is present and it's riot in here. I wouldn't prefer it otherwise.
Morale.
=========================================
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Friday, June 15, 2007
Money, Gaza & Death.
Oh yeah that Time has come again....
The Time when I look at my tv and wonder what is going to happen to it now that the NBA is over....No more basketball on tv till it's cold again......
San Antonio are the testament to the Tortoise Way to Run Things. Phoenix and Dallas, the high flying (aka sunguch) teams in the West ran out of steam before the post season, while the Spurs had been easily choo-chooing at a steady clip only seeming to up the ante in the playoffs. The scary thing? The Big Three (Duncan, Ginobili and brand new Finals MVP, Parker) remain unchanged in the line-up until 2011. I wish that was exciting news. By the way, who's keeping count of how many rings Robert Horry has amassed? Look for trades to happen quickly in Cleveland.
=============
On Madaraka Dizzay, Tony Thompson passed. Not to be confused with the late drummer from funk outfit Chic, this Thompson was the lead vocalist in the young boy group Hi Five.
The Gems: 1990, I Like the Way (Kissing Game) had smooch rookies in boarding school seeking out cute, willing guinea pigs for lip lock behind the girls bathroom at supper time on Sundays, while the rest of us hungry bastards were trying to miraculously acquire an extra piece of meat (incidentally, the resulting blackmail would guarantee some of us extra nyaks for weeks). FFWD>> 1992 She's Playing Hard To Get and Quality Time, the former being a quality New Jack Swing effort that lit up many a venue with masses united in the execution of the that dance they called the Pyrate, while I assume the lyrics from Quality Time found perfect use on a high school love letter or two. Or for simply yumming up the baby making....
Then came Sexsational, the solo LP in 1995 with a first single I Wanna Love Like That that stayed booming in matts for months, as well as in Bubbles and Visions; John Karani and crew hyped it up on the English Service drive time show (before the wide wonderful world of FM babies), and it definitely had my vote for one of the better R&B jams of that year, as if we were starving for good crack then.
Tony Thompson, dead at 31. Initial reports speculate it may have been a drug related death but the official word hasn't been released yet. In any case, for all the good flavas, my simple tribute. R.I.P. Thanks for the tunes and memories.
=====
This is also blowing under the radar, but the East Cost Rap Fraternity is mourning Monday's shooting death of Stack Bundles. Most recently affiliated with Dipset's Byrd Gang Crew, he initially stormed on the scene with other Desert Storm alums Joe Budden and Ransom under that banner. Bundles had a unique slick, thugged out oh-so-New York flow. Gutter and outspoken, his fodder was the streets and all the non-fluffy things in them unless, of course, it was a spanking new Lexus LS 460h or similar artifacts of couture and grace. His immersion into Dipset along with Jim Jones brethren Max B is directly related to Jim Jones stylistic upgrade, which led to Jones making some mainstream noise in 2006. Bundles' debut Dipset mixtape appearance was in 2006, on the same mixtape Jones' banger We Fly High debuted on. Outside of Dipset, he was involved with his own crew Riot Squad (Bynoe, thanks for everything, we're with y'all). Stack Bundles has been a mixtape favorite since 2004, it's a suprise Papoose, Saigon, Joell Ortiz, Tru Life, Maino, Uncle Murder and Red Cafe were all toting major label deals before him.
Never heard spitting some sappy mess for the ladies, always spitting crack tales, gunfights or styling on them retardedly, this is definitely one rapper I was checking for in NY...he never took a day off in his rhymes. He will be missed. No street mixtape of mine was complete without a Stack Bundles contribution. Definitely, his passing is an alert for all rappers with one foot in the game, other foot in the streets.
Rayquon Elliott, dead at 24. Before his time in the sun.
=====
It's not a movie, not 28 Days or Weeks Later. 5 Days later, Gaza Strip is owned by Hamas. In the same week, an anti Syrian Lebanese MP is assassinated and a suspected terrorist bomb goes off in the Green City in the Sun. A freaking cowinkidink?
=====
The US Immigration Bill dead and buried? Coming soon....The Remix...like next week soon.
=====
Holla at Half n Half. Good thing you kicked them cigarette thangs to the curb, as the Jamhuri Budget attacks smokes and beer for the umpteenth time (Brand new entry at number 3... Free High School!!). Better roads, more teachers and coffee farmers get debt relief.
=====
Morale.
========================================
The Time when I look at my tv and wonder what is going to happen to it now that the NBA is over....No more basketball on tv till it's cold again......
San Antonio are the testament to the Tortoise Way to Run Things. Phoenix and Dallas, the high flying (aka sunguch) teams in the West ran out of steam before the post season, while the Spurs had been easily choo-chooing at a steady clip only seeming to up the ante in the playoffs. The scary thing? The Big Three (Duncan, Ginobili and brand new Finals MVP, Parker) remain unchanged in the line-up until 2011. I wish that was exciting news. By the way, who's keeping count of how many rings Robert Horry has amassed? Look for trades to happen quickly in Cleveland.
=============
On Madaraka Dizzay, Tony Thompson passed. Not to be confused with the late drummer from funk outfit Chic, this Thompson was the lead vocalist in the young boy group Hi Five.
The Gems: 1990, I Like the Way (Kissing Game) had smooch rookies in boarding school seeking out cute, willing guinea pigs for lip lock behind the girls bathroom at supper time on Sundays, while the rest of us hungry bastards were trying to miraculously acquire an extra piece of meat (incidentally, the resulting blackmail would guarantee some of us extra nyaks for weeks). FFWD>> 1992 She's Playing Hard To Get and Quality Time, the former being a quality New Jack Swing effort that lit up many a venue with masses united in the execution of the that dance they called the Pyrate, while I assume the lyrics from Quality Time found perfect use on a high school love letter or two. Or for simply yumming up the baby making....
Then came Sexsational, the solo LP in 1995 with a first single I Wanna Love Like That that stayed booming in matts for months, as well as in Bubbles and Visions; John Karani and crew hyped it up on the English Service drive time show (before the wide wonderful world of FM babies), and it definitely had my vote for one of the better R&B jams of that year, as if we were starving for good crack then.
Tony Thompson, dead at 31. Initial reports speculate it may have been a drug related death but the official word hasn't been released yet. In any case, for all the good flavas, my simple tribute. R.I.P. Thanks for the tunes and memories.
=====
This is also blowing under the radar, but the East Cost Rap Fraternity is mourning Monday's shooting death of Stack Bundles. Most recently affiliated with Dipset's Byrd Gang Crew, he initially stormed on the scene with other Desert Storm alums Joe Budden and Ransom under that banner. Bundles had a unique slick, thugged out oh-so-New York flow. Gutter and outspoken, his fodder was the streets and all the non-fluffy things in them unless, of course, it was a spanking new Lexus LS 460h or similar artifacts of couture and grace. His immersion into Dipset along with Jim Jones brethren Max B is directly related to Jim Jones stylistic upgrade, which led to Jones making some mainstream noise in 2006. Bundles' debut Dipset mixtape appearance was in 2006, on the same mixtape Jones' banger We Fly High debuted on. Outside of Dipset, he was involved with his own crew Riot Squad (Bynoe, thanks for everything, we're with y'all). Stack Bundles has been a mixtape favorite since 2004, it's a suprise Papoose, Saigon, Joell Ortiz, Tru Life, Maino, Uncle Murder and Red Cafe were all toting major label deals before him.
Never heard spitting some sappy mess for the ladies, always spitting crack tales, gunfights or styling on them retardedly, this is definitely one rapper I was checking for in NY...he never took a day off in his rhymes. He will be missed. No street mixtape of mine was complete without a Stack Bundles contribution. Definitely, his passing is an alert for all rappers with one foot in the game, other foot in the streets.
Rayquon Elliott, dead at 24. Before his time in the sun.
=====
It's not a movie, not 28 Days or Weeks Later. 5 Days later, Gaza Strip is owned by Hamas. In the same week, an anti Syrian Lebanese MP is assassinated and a suspected terrorist bomb goes off in the Green City in the Sun. A freaking cowinkidink?
=====
The US Immigration Bill dead and buried? Coming soon....The Remix...like next week soon.
=====
Holla at Half n Half. Good thing you kicked them cigarette thangs to the curb, as the Jamhuri Budget attacks smokes and beer for the umpteenth time (Brand new entry at number 3... Free High School!!). Better roads, more teachers and coffee farmers get debt relief.
=====
Morale.
========================================
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Tuesday at the Training Camp
Mid-afternoon, early May 2007. Walking up Avenue A on a leafy sun-blessed Gotham afternoon. Tis a wonderful thing that it warmed early this year, as these NYU co-eds are keeping your boys open. With a more reticent and dignified appeal, this part of Manhattan is one I could get used to. Maybe I'm in the South Bronx and Brooklyn too much, I need to style up. But far from a lolly gag episode of fun possibilities (a shame, because dark haired queen posted up on the corner looks like the one for me. Me and her hand in hand through the park, what!), we head a block up away from the park towards a mob lined up outside a nondescript entrance. White tees and fitted hats, allover print hoodies, bapester and air force one sneaks and a slight whiff of piff. There are a few ladies sprinkled in the crowd but this for the most part is a heavily testosterone scene.
Every Tuesday night at this unassuming location in Manhattan the doors get flung open for New York to get a taste of what's next in the streets. The brainchild of Brooklynite Mental Supreme, the night is billed as Tuesday Training Camp, which also doubles up as the moniker for his nicely quorumed rap crew. Although it's only 4:45 in the afternoon, the sidewalk outside Club Pyramid is owned by these early birds. There will be no latecomers, especially when this is going to be a Tuesday more special than most. When Mental Supreme shows up to take count he only takes those he will see outside into consideration, otherwise you just might have to be really special. Mental's dark suv pulls in at about 5:30. He walks up to the chained doors holding a list, exchanging greetings with all and announces "Aight, who was first?"
In a suprisingly orderly way, the list builds itself. People go out of their way to point out who was there ahead of them. Even those who had been in line but had stepped away and were still missing at Mental's arrival are spoken for. Getting there this late in the game would mean looking at at least 20 people ahead of us, but coming from two hours away on a last minute call-up goes well with Mental. We find ourselves among the first six performers. Once the performances are settled, the crowd melts away to await showtime at 10:00pm.
While there are many similar forums all over the region, Tuesday Training Camp has built a reputation for being a brutally honest rapper showcase. No hoopla about cash prizes, celebrity judges or studio time up for grabs here. Just bring it. If the crowd isn't with it by the time the first hook is done they're obliged to clap you off. Maybe you'll luck up the following week. In a room full of backpacker-like purists and street honed lyricists, their fans, wannabe rappers, highly opinionated people somehow involved in rap music and label execs, the tolerance level is pretty low. We were hoping for a few familiar faces in the crowd but we had left our turf by ourselves, just the two of us, at the last minute scrambling to get out of work to make it there. The crowd that evening was a good mix of suits and baggy jeans, skirts and apple bottom slacks complete with a squadron of boisterous Brooklyn and Jersey dames. Where Harlem at? We make sure we hand out as many cds as possible.
The lights go dim as the DJ fades out his warm-up set of mid-90's boom bap. It's 9:45 but the building is already packed and there is a queue down the street. Mental and sidekick Biggs, who is a leading Training Camp member, get on stage as the Masters of Ceremonies. In the building that evening are executives from G-Unit, Atlantic, Universal and Interscope as well as scouts from D-Block and Def Jam. It's a networking bonanza. Then the reason why Mental had been adamant about us showing up becomes clear: MTV were set up ready to tape the event and there would be a special performance in the middle of the showcase by a brand new Interscope Records artist. The place gets hype. Due to the massive turnout for the showcase that week each act gets to do one song only.
First act, Ancient Scroll, an older, nay, middle aged West Indian with an off beat flow, but tonight he's just off beat and he's offstage in a rush. Act Two launches to the stage with a portable fog machine and polyester outfit like a leftover from an 80's funk band. His love song has an extra long intro and before he even lays into his song he's booed off. Act three is looking jitterish. Indeed, he's forgotten the end of his first verse. Gone. We're up.
Wait. We didn't rehearse, we are about to perform a song that we've never performed before, the crowd has tasted blood and no doubt they want more. Damn, we're up this early? So be it New York. Let's play.
"What up What up....I go by the name Smalls," my partner booms into his mic. "This joint is called Let's Go." With a slight eye cue from me the DJ sets track two off and I enthusiastically plow into my hype man role seeking to quickly find the zone. Smalls goes into the first verse. The crowd watches silently waiting for an opportunity to pounce. Being lyrically deft is a good thing in here and this uptempo club joint has heads bouncing. It seems to be going well with the ladies also. I latch on Smalls' punchlines accentuating them for impact. While Smalls tilts his mic upward rooted to the spot preaching, I venture to roam the small stage casually doing my romp nailing my cues. The second verse is wrapping up and I'm definitely feeling the heat rising from under my shirt, the words are getting throatier, the neck is snapping harder and our posture is confident. I'm channelling Freaky Tah tonight. Smalls is stellar as usual. It's the final stretch now, I spy a girl with a golden jacket and stunna shades getting atop a speaker to the right of us. That's the fuel I need. We've got them. Now we're right on the brim of the stage, words loud, spittle flying, right hand on the mic, left arm in the air body moving in time. "Let's Go!" The music cuts, and the crowd lightly claps. Props never come easy in The Rotten Apple or anywhere in the North East for that matter. And amid the clapping the rant goes up among that Brooklyn bevy, "Bullet! Bullet!" Bless them.
Post-Morterm: Phew... The first survivors of the night. I wonder if it was a good call going up that early, but better that than when the crowd gets weary ten acts in. And this new song we did sounds good live. Good pick.... Damnit Smalls, we forgot to shout out New York. We barely talked to them tonight. Not that it matters. Not as much as when the clapping was happening, as the gunfingers went up in the air, as my Brooklyn darlings saluted us, we proclaimed these words proud. Prouder words still. "Big Up all Africans."
Big Up.
Check out Smalls' brand new mixtape THE BRIEFING available for download.
==============================================
Every Tuesday night at this unassuming location in Manhattan the doors get flung open for New York to get a taste of what's next in the streets. The brainchild of Brooklynite Mental Supreme, the night is billed as Tuesday Training Camp, which also doubles up as the moniker for his nicely quorumed rap crew. Although it's only 4:45 in the afternoon, the sidewalk outside Club Pyramid is owned by these early birds. There will be no latecomers, especially when this is going to be a Tuesday more special than most. When Mental Supreme shows up to take count he only takes those he will see outside into consideration, otherwise you just might have to be really special. Mental's dark suv pulls in at about 5:30. He walks up to the chained doors holding a list, exchanging greetings with all and announces "Aight, who was first?"
In a suprisingly orderly way, the list builds itself. People go out of their way to point out who was there ahead of them. Even those who had been in line but had stepped away and were still missing at Mental's arrival are spoken for. Getting there this late in the game would mean looking at at least 20 people ahead of us, but coming from two hours away on a last minute call-up goes well with Mental. We find ourselves among the first six performers. Once the performances are settled, the crowd melts away to await showtime at 10:00pm.
While there are many similar forums all over the region, Tuesday Training Camp has built a reputation for being a brutally honest rapper showcase. No hoopla about cash prizes, celebrity judges or studio time up for grabs here. Just bring it. If the crowd isn't with it by the time the first hook is done they're obliged to clap you off. Maybe you'll luck up the following week. In a room full of backpacker-like purists and street honed lyricists, their fans, wannabe rappers, highly opinionated people somehow involved in rap music and label execs, the tolerance level is pretty low. We were hoping for a few familiar faces in the crowd but we had left our turf by ourselves, just the two of us, at the last minute scrambling to get out of work to make it there. The crowd that evening was a good mix of suits and baggy jeans, skirts and apple bottom slacks complete with a squadron of boisterous Brooklyn and Jersey dames. Where Harlem at? We make sure we hand out as many cds as possible.
The lights go dim as the DJ fades out his warm-up set of mid-90's boom bap. It's 9:45 but the building is already packed and there is a queue down the street. Mental and sidekick Biggs, who is a leading Training Camp member, get on stage as the Masters of Ceremonies. In the building that evening are executives from G-Unit, Atlantic, Universal and Interscope as well as scouts from D-Block and Def Jam. It's a networking bonanza. Then the reason why Mental had been adamant about us showing up becomes clear: MTV were set up ready to tape the event and there would be a special performance in the middle of the showcase by a brand new Interscope Records artist. The place gets hype. Due to the massive turnout for the showcase that week each act gets to do one song only.
First act, Ancient Scroll, an older, nay, middle aged West Indian with an off beat flow, but tonight he's just off beat and he's offstage in a rush. Act Two launches to the stage with a portable fog machine and polyester outfit like a leftover from an 80's funk band. His love song has an extra long intro and before he even lays into his song he's booed off. Act three is looking jitterish. Indeed, he's forgotten the end of his first verse. Gone. We're up.
Wait. We didn't rehearse, we are about to perform a song that we've never performed before, the crowd has tasted blood and no doubt they want more. Damn, we're up this early? So be it New York. Let's play.
"What up What up....I go by the name Smalls," my partner booms into his mic. "This joint is called Let's Go." With a slight eye cue from me the DJ sets track two off and I enthusiastically plow into my hype man role seeking to quickly find the zone. Smalls goes into the first verse. The crowd watches silently waiting for an opportunity to pounce. Being lyrically deft is a good thing in here and this uptempo club joint has heads bouncing. It seems to be going well with the ladies also. I latch on Smalls' punchlines accentuating them for impact. While Smalls tilts his mic upward rooted to the spot preaching, I venture to roam the small stage casually doing my romp nailing my cues. The second verse is wrapping up and I'm definitely feeling the heat rising from under my shirt, the words are getting throatier, the neck is snapping harder and our posture is confident. I'm channelling Freaky Tah tonight. Smalls is stellar as usual. It's the final stretch now, I spy a girl with a golden jacket and stunna shades getting atop a speaker to the right of us. That's the fuel I need. We've got them. Now we're right on the brim of the stage, words loud, spittle flying, right hand on the mic, left arm in the air body moving in time. "Let's Go!" The music cuts, and the crowd lightly claps. Props never come easy in The Rotten Apple or anywhere in the North East for that matter. And amid the clapping the rant goes up among that Brooklyn bevy, "Bullet! Bullet!" Bless them.
Post-Morterm: Phew... The first survivors of the night. I wonder if it was a good call going up that early, but better that than when the crowd gets weary ten acts in. And this new song we did sounds good live. Good pick.... Damnit Smalls, we forgot to shout out New York. We barely talked to them tonight. Not that it matters. Not as much as when the clapping was happening, as the gunfingers went up in the air, as my Brooklyn darlings saluted us, we proclaimed these words proud. Prouder words still. "Big Up all Africans."
Big Up.
Check out Smalls' brand new mixtape THE BRIEFING available for download.
==============================================
Friday, June 01, 2007
Madaraka Dizzay!!!!
As I ride into the Nyayo Staduim in the ceremonial titties-out Land Rover with the the red guts.....white rungu in the air while the masses serve makofi za kilo and the Army Band toots that Presidential Funk....
I know, I know....I'm straight violating with the gross neglect of the blog, but for now I've promised myself less wwwing, more grindin, less new music, more 90's hewas and more sunshine. And it's been hot outside. May is always right, the month when the legs return from hiberbnation.
Many moons ago, courtesy of Half n Half I was tagged. Much obliged sweets.
---I'm self taught in a lot of ways. Taught myself to ride a bike, swim, dj, rap, making beats and production. I never really was anyone's understudy for these and other things. I need to study under a mack though. I kick game to chicks like a punk.
---I'm that jamaa they call the Anti-Flick. If I watch more than 10 new movies this year it'll be a brand new record. Don't even ask me the last time I was in the movie theatre. They already dropped Shrek 3 and Shrek 1 hasn't been seen yet. They just don't make movies edgy enough for me. Good winning over evil every single damn time is boring. As is that rapturous kiss that comes in the finale, and the villain's monologue before he takes the L.
----Few things rankle the kid, but I absolutely can't stand folks who see themselves better than the others. And those judgemental holier than thou I'm going to heaven while you flame in a sulphur diesel pit types. And bredren who will dismiss a skirt coz she's only an A-cup with a low fade like Fabolous. Allergic to all that.
----I have no problem being by myself. When I first hit the exile I never ran into another jamhuribody for over 2 years. Never felt the need to and I wasn't going to force it. Put me on an island with some books and some music and I'm good.
---I consider myself funny and all that, but I can never remember any jokes I've heard or been told to me. This is me: "Sikiza, a Rapper, a priest and an Irish man go to the bar and....wait... It's a Rabbi, A priest and a Polish guy...and then....wait....I'll be right back with more drinks."
---I like knowing all kinds of trivia. Like yesterday, I learned Giant Squid live between 1500 and 3000 feet under the sea. Or the AR-15 rifle was the precursor to the M16, which made it's disastrous debut in Vietnam. Or that none of you really give a frruqk.
----I write better than I talk. Like James Earl Jones or Wahome Mutahi, I was a born stammerer, learned my way out of it, but nothing ever comes out the way I want it to. If I could talk like a comic book character with conversation ballons right above my head I would. And every now and then I still st-st-tutter stutter.
I know I know....Say it, don't spray it. My fault.
=====
I understand I must say something profound today in celebration. This has always stuck with me. From an old Cappadonna record. Slang Editorial. The very first line he spits.
Happy Madaraka Day to y'all. Stay warm and enjoy Safari Sevens if you are up on the Equator, for those in the heat, warn me ahead of time where the cookout is at. I'm sick with meat on a metal grill over hot coals. And emptying your cooler.
Morale.
===========================================
I know, I know....I'm straight violating with the gross neglect of the blog, but for now I've promised myself less wwwing, more grindin, less new music, more 90's hewas and more sunshine. And it's been hot outside. May is always right, the month when the legs return from hiberbnation.
Many moons ago, courtesy of Half n Half I was tagged. Much obliged sweets.
---I'm self taught in a lot of ways. Taught myself to ride a bike, swim, dj, rap, making beats and production. I never really was anyone's understudy for these and other things. I need to study under a mack though. I kick game to chicks like a punk.
---I'm that jamaa they call the Anti-Flick. If I watch more than 10 new movies this year it'll be a brand new record. Don't even ask me the last time I was in the movie theatre. They already dropped Shrek 3 and Shrek 1 hasn't been seen yet. They just don't make movies edgy enough for me. Good winning over evil every single damn time is boring. As is that rapturous kiss that comes in the finale, and the villain's monologue before he takes the L.
----Few things rankle the kid, but I absolutely can't stand folks who see themselves better than the others. And those judgemental holier than thou I'm going to heaven while you flame in a sulphur diesel pit types. And bredren who will dismiss a skirt coz she's only an A-cup with a low fade like Fabolous. Allergic to all that.
----I have no problem being by myself. When I first hit the exile I never ran into another jamhuribody for over 2 years. Never felt the need to and I wasn't going to force it. Put me on an island with some books and some music and I'm good.
---I consider myself funny and all that, but I can never remember any jokes I've heard or been told to me. This is me: "Sikiza, a Rapper, a priest and an Irish man go to the bar and....wait... It's a Rabbi, A priest and a Polish guy...and then....wait....I'll be right back with more drinks."
---I like knowing all kinds of trivia. Like yesterday, I learned Giant Squid live between 1500 and 3000 feet under the sea. Or the AR-15 rifle was the precursor to the M16, which made it's disastrous debut in Vietnam. Or that none of you really give a frruqk.
----I write better than I talk. Like James Earl Jones or Wahome Mutahi, I was a born stammerer, learned my way out of it, but nothing ever comes out the way I want it to. If I could talk like a comic book character with conversation ballons right above my head I would. And every now and then I still st-st-tutter stutter.
I know I know....Say it, don't spray it. My fault.
=====
I understand I must say something profound today in celebration. This has always stuck with me. From an old Cappadonna record. Slang Editorial. The very first line he spits.
'I came to a fork in the road and went straight.'
=====Happy Madaraka Day to y'all. Stay warm and enjoy Safari Sevens if you are up on the Equator, for those in the heat, warn me ahead of time where the cookout is at. I'm sick with meat on a metal grill over hot coals. And emptying your cooler.
Morale.
===========================================
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Planes, Hoops & Kisha
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.
==============================================
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.
==============================================
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.
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