Category Archives: Take them rhymes back to the factory

Oh word: I would (still) very much like to do a song with Curren$y, please

Beth Gibbons and I are doing a song together. I decided this, daydreaming at work today. Beth and I are going to make a song, or maybe even a whole freaking album together, since we both have hair the color of sunshine and we’re both in love with bass. That’s enough, right? We should create things together and put those things on the Internet, right? It doesn’t matter that one of us was born to make music and one of us is terrible at making music, I hope, because that would really put a damper on things.

Wiz:  Not Michael Jackson, I ain’t feeling these kids/and you hatin’, such a shame that’s where your energy is/I’m in a Gfizz flying, leave your bitches with the planes, now she sky diving, hella vibin’/And your hating adds just more steam/More chips, now I’m living more Rothstein.

Lieber and Stoller wrote timeless stories set to melody in 15 minutes, smoking and pacing around the room, tossing out lyrical snippets to each other. Smoke DZA can say RIIIIIIIGHT over a beat and I’ll listen to it on a loop in my Civic for at least a half hour. My point is that making songs that please the people is quite a reachable goal when you were obviously born to do it and don’t try to force things if you weren’t born to do it. Ahem. Thank you.

Logan, outshining Wiz: Mike Jackson raps make me yawn, you’re a Boy who’s Badly Drawn/I’m sick of you, vamoose, sail the fuckin Dead Sea/I’m hoi polloi, you’re a pig who’s bourgeoisie/Eat some brie, drink some chablis/Your high times ain’t nothin compared to Prodigy in his bucket, flyin on PCP/Your career’s over, I heard your label reneged/Your utter lack of substance means you’re just an image – JPEG.
Then something about twinkletoes and my heart breaking. My style’s derivative – I’ve obviously been too influenced by Nickatina and Cellski plus a little G Rap and that fucking supa dupa flow that I despise, and overall I need a better grasp of my identity as a narrator in song. Still, I put the lyrical hurting on em and man I’ll never quit. The game needs me too badly. I come around and fools’ careers are just done – folding in on themselves like the house at the end of Poltergeist
Curren$y:  Kicked up sittin’ behind a mahogany desk, crumblin erb just as Big Boi and Andre would suggest/Flow sick need a check up, flow sick that’s how I got my checks up/Bad bitches gold diggin’ lame n—s out a trip to foreign places, or bracelet or necklace/Then slide through the set and fuck the Jets cause she respect us/You think you got a winner, but you don’t I bet she let us (lettuce)/Pickles, tomatoes, onions, mayo, mustard, and ketchup…the works.
E-40 set the standard for condiment raps with the claaaaaaassic “Mustard and mayonnaise smokin up at the sky light/You can’t touch my Vogues, baby bye-bye.” That one was delicious and left my tummy/heart/soul feeling satisfied. Curren$y’s verse is about girls acting wrongly and it’s somehow wrapped up in a metaphor about hamburger toppings, but the whole freaking thing works because OutKast works, always. Everyone loves OutKast. My landlady loves em. My mailman too.  Your 4th-grade teacher. David Stern, Alex Trebek. My future husband, my mom. Me and you. Your mom. And your cousin too, of course. Everyone loves OutKast, the kittens/ice cream/pizza/free money of the music world. In case you’re reading this, future husband: I’m ending my wedding vows with Power music/electric revival. Also I’d like you to constantly tell me I’m fine as all outdoors. Thanks in advance! I LOVE YOU, BABY. XOXO.
7. “Car Service” (How Fly)

Wiz: Clear the runway, baby/I get money from Sunday to Sunday, lady/Oh behave, I’m young, rich, famous/Grinding, keep my pockets on Schwarzenegger/OG in my Swisher so my blunt taste flavored, don’t it?/Ya’ll n—s can get if you want it/Tryna catch a flight?/I’m in the back seat playing X Box, car service just chillin’/Burners in the wall, money all through the ceiling.
THIS GUY. These are the words of a professional musician, above – and if you’re not outraged, you’re not paying attention. Writing composition experts weigh in; regarding style, Toni Morrison said, “The language must not sweat.” (She’s talking about effortlessness.) And then there was that time adjunct English professor D. Dumile said most MCs are “rusty like oxidation, in the world’s most strangest, most dangerous occupation.” This is just a nicer, though no less correct, description of industry persons’ shortcomings that Big L and Kool Keith have revealed to my innocent ears over the years, except don’t forget to add that everyone’s got AIDS, according to L, and they all want Keith’s autograph according to Keith. And I believe it was Logan the Shy Bathing-Suited Sex Kitten Comedian who said, after trying to come up with something nice to say because that’s how her mom raised her, “Wiz has a lovely smile. He really does. It is unselfconscious and genuine. But he should take notes from other weed-loving duos who constantly have adventures together – Jay and Silent Bob (Bob stayed silent because he could not rap), and Meth and Red (they both learned how to rap and be charming, understanding that it’s not fair for one dude to always be the heavier lyrical Spitta hitta).”
Logan, upsetting Wiz immensely:  Ball til I fall, make that dollar holler/If it don’t make dollars, blah blah stickin up white boys on ball courts/Pockets on stun, consumption on conspicuous/401k on a hundred thousand million jillion/I’m leaving Warner Bros. for good this year, not enough artistic freedom/Just kidding, I’ll never leave, they’re my meal ticket/Plus I know Warren Buffett – the real Warren Buffett/He owe me a hundred favors. 

See, I can do it too. When it comes to luxury raps, I’m nowhere near Janye’s level – but I can certainly outdo a kid from Pittsburgh wearing some Converse, with his language sweating all over the place.
Curren$y: Bitches freeze in the Xenon headlights like a deer/But not out of fear, she looking ’cause it’s money over here/Shine from above these land lovers I’m a chandelier/My girl gotta pocket bubbler in her purse/She keep it G and pack the bowl with weed and let me hit it first/Ain’t tryna be a hog, doggy – all I want is what I’m worth.

“It’s not a guarantee that I will like your songs just because you make a reference to girls being like deer, sweet and gentle forest creatures,” said the lady with eyes that always get commented on (by fucking cops) and give her the appearance of a fawn in the forest, “But it helps.” This is critical bias on the part of the blogger.

8. “Glass House,” with Big K.R.I.T. (Kush & OJ mixtape; produced by ??? – Jerm? Sledgren? K.R.I.T.?)
Wiz:  Just by the smell it’s obvious/That my connect come from Cali/I’m good long as the money piling up/All the while I’m just quick lane pimping, big jane twisting/Walking how I talk it, bitch that’s Pittsburgh pimping. 
The three things that should bother me most about this affair – the presence of Wiz, the presence of Curtis Mayfield, and the song’s theme of girls needing to perform sexually in order to hang out in a fucking incredible car – are blissfully offset by the fact that ’09 Wiz was still tolerable, that the Curtis break is used in a pretty fashion, and the fact that I got over gender roles in song lyrics a long time ago and am much happier now that I know that lyric life is not real life (or trife life, for that matter; word life.) Curren$y’s verse starts it off, and all is as it should be as we head into the hook. There’s a dumb Wiz detour next, and then our Mississippi rep walks in and calls 808 a southern mating call and you know I love that. K.R.I.T.’s an ass guy, clearly, and that’s OK with me, because nobody said you can’t be an ass guy and also a sensitive guy (my dream combo, duh). What is also OK with me is that K.R.I.T. says he’ll push my hand away from the buttons in his Cutty unless I take my dress off, but without his friends around he’s pure sweetness. (A man who writes a tribute to riding around in the car and listening to music with his dad? That’s a sensitive individual.) Oh and that hook, that hook! It’s a sing-along-in-the-Civic beauty! When I first heard it, I thought it was Pimp C asking me if I wanna rest my ass in this glass house. It’s not, but man do I wish it was. I wish it was.
Logan:  A re-jacking of Wiz’s jacking of Cam’s technique (I take this word and say that same word again 1 bar later and that’s my verse, doggy*), I’d have to start off with  Meth was Mary’s Noah; Mary was his wiz/Nipsey Russell played the Tin Man in that movie called The Wiz.” 
(The song would be called “Divine Mathematics,” obviously. And Wiz should join Dipset, obviously, because he’d fit right in. He’s a long-lost cousin of J.R.’s, and he has to box Vado in the backyard before every tour stop to decide who gets to sit next to Jonesy on the bus.) Later in the song, I address Wiz directly with  Don’t wanna read your book, won’t look at your brochure/I can name 2 terrible rappers named Cameron who should go on the ‘Rappers Named Cameron Are Terrible’ Tour. I’m planning on performing it at SXSW, and I’m also planning on the crowd loving it. I am planning on opening for Danny Brown as well, and when he does “Monopoly” I’ll yell along with him into the mic when he gets to the Fuck you and your tough talk/When I monopolize I throw your ass off the Boardwalk part. (My hair gets all messed up but I don’t care.)
* 5 year old reference, but please. I can’t imagine he’s changed much, flow-wise.

Curren$y: I chill with all that baller fishing/You fucked around and you caught a shark/Cold hard, tear your feelings apart/I’m more focused on getting my rims powder-coated/One of the dopest, I’m Schedule I/You just ibuprofen, what is you smoking?/Them bogus growers, they got you choking.

Some things are boring until you dig a little deeper. “The San Diego Chargers agreed to contract terms with defensive end Corey Liuget today,” a sports site told me a couple weeks ago. Yeah yeah, terrific, so what. Several hours later, however, sports talk radio told me “The San Diego Chargers signed defensive end Corey LEGIT today.” IT’S PRONOUNCED LEGIT! COREY LEGIT. He therefore has the perfect SODMG associate/MMA fighter name, and that is not boring in the slightest. And in this verse Curren$y’s talking about ballernomics, rims, narcotics; but dig a little deeper, and you can appreciate that Schedule I mention, and that shark mention (an obvious nod to Nickatina).
9. “Weed Brownies” (that Big Sean mixtape; Big Jerm)
Wiz:  Eat champagne and lobster cause I fucking deserve this shit/N—s say I’ve got an old soul/Well, I tell them that I’m here, muthafucka/And I made it cause my flow cold.
Aw damn, I let things bother me too much. The flows, beat selection, and clothing choices of men who exist in my headphones and on my computer screen – I take it too seriously, like it’s a gamble. I do. Sigh. Now that that’s been established: NOBODY SAYS WIZ HAS AN OLD SOUL. Has anybody ever said that about Wiz? NO. They have not. In the category of other things I’m supposed to believe that insult my intelligence: Dre drives a Chrysler, Em drives a Chrysler, and Timberlake is a HUGE Leonard Cohen and Mantronix fan.
JT, king of the beats. Elle, August 2011.
I might toss it to one of you guys since I don’t have an authoritative voice when it comes to weed high jinks. But if put on the spot, I just go to my old stand-by topics of Doom, making fun of dudes’ gear if it’s overly fancy, and maybe something from that day’s RSS feed about non-rap?  

Logan, easily making Wiz look foolish: I don’t know Mary Jane, but I’m told she’d make my heart sing/Wiz, you so skinny, on that steady diet of nothing/Something something, Minor Threat, … ________ (line that expresses my disappointment about this although really, why should I even care since nothing’s sacred)/You’re screaming at a wall, you’re broke, you got no ends/Your whole style garbage, Wiz you need to make amends/Prepster I’m just playing when I says I likes your Land’s Ends/Doomsy and me and Vast, we’re super friends. 

All I have are punchlines at this point. Punchlines galore. So many punchlines that I’m ready for my YMCMB contract. (“HOOKS IS EXTRA” – Dumile.) 

Curren$y:  I’m outta here, stratosphere/Paper hella straight, nappy hair/Bitches seem not to care that you were even there/When we pulled up, lit like Times Square/When we pulled up, lit like road flares/When we pulled off, them hoes disappeared/Because they know what we be doing over here/She just wanna be high in her underwear/With her iPhone plugged in the wall, power outlet/Stepping out the shower, threw her a shirt to towel off with.  
I am jealous of Curren$y’s girls, who do nothing but lounge around, smoke and take their clothes off, and this is enough to get them mentioned in song. ME ME ME, why can’t this be me? I have excellent references and I’m a hard worker and a people person, I said during my interview for the position of “song girl/lyric muse.” It did not go well. I was politely informed I need to gain 10-12 lbs, dumb it down a little bit, and stop cracking jokes (let Curren$y shine).
10. “Super High (remix)” (Smoke Fest mixtape)

Wiz:  From the smell, and by what I paid, you know it’s good/Them n—s with me? They from the hood/Now we through parties in the sky, I’m on the 42nd floor, now that’s super high/Champagne, more paper planes than you can fly/Them young n—s fell soon as they tried/When the paparazzi flash, I’ll be counting all this cash/Plotting a million about how I can build a mountain out of hash.

Good/hood, sky/high/fly/tried, cash/hash. Before WK goes to a writing sesh, he throws on his Chucks and touches a plaque on his wall for good luck, like the Tree of Hope at the Apollo. ALL SEUSS EVERYTHING, it says on that plaque. TALK TO YOUR AUDIENCE LIKE THEY READ AT THE FIRST-GRADE LEVEL.

Logan: Pass; I respectfully decline. (I like the beat too much to denigrate it with my awful flow. JESUS, WHAT A BEAT AND I’M STILL NOT SICK OF IT; EXCELLENT JOB, CLARK KENT). Here’s what I’m tossing around for the next song I’m doing with Beth, though:

She like them boys with the big ol chains/Ridin round town in a big ol Rrrrrange. I still love this, unfortunately. I turn it up every time. Goddamn you, Power 106.
– “Listen, hot shot – 355,000 Californians have medical marijuana cards/And about 1,000 of them are in my family, living in my apartment complex,/Standing behind me in line at Vons, next to me on the freeway,/Delivering my mail, changing the oil in my Civic, and ringing me up at CVS.” It’s my ol’ “battle raps in the parking lot of my brain” daydream again. (I’ll make it rhyme, promise.)
– “Fuck Wiz, I funk with the young prince Abu buck – Lil B, Look Like Muhammad.” I need to use this in a song somewhere, or at least make reference to it.
– Danny Brown being the long lost member of Funkdoobiest and his use of Prince iconography. Need to use this somewhere too.
– Google making me smile by suggesting Bobby Hebb when I typed Bobby Heb (on my way to “Hebert,” whose jersey Curren$y is pictured in, above). Google, I like having you around. You’re my boyfriend when my other boyfriend is out of town, and when my girlfriend is busy, and when my other other boyfriend is acting dumb.

Curren$y: Don’t front, you in the back of a long line/Trying to get in, cause only members inside/Trees get twisted up like fingers in gang signs/Purple Kushions broke my fall, I fell from a grapevine/Super high, from the free throw line, I’m/Drexler status, glide the espionage/Many a jealous eyes scrutinize the wise/But the Jets in the house like the curtains and the blinds/It hurt to see me shine, that’s why they frowning all the time/In they Internet videos, digital CB4s.

“I just found out that Hi-C did Gusto’s raps in CB4. Now I feel dumb that I didn’t know that! I did know that Drexler was from New Orleans, though, so I feel like I’m still the nerd champ.” – me in the studio with the Jets and the Jet hangers-on and the Jet caterers and the Jet shoe-shiners, about to be kicked out for not taking my shirt off and for talking too much out of nervousness. I’ll never achieve “song girl/lyric muse” status. Time for me to start coming to terms with that.
11. “Rollin Up” (How Fly)
Wiz: Me and Spitta, spend a grand at the bar/Buying drinks for my n—s/Hoes selling they souls just to be with us/On the road with winners, champions/Ride smoking weed to myself the only reason they stress/Because I’m on the level you can’t be in/And I flick the middle finger to fake friends/We live like when the loyalty is strong you can’t bend.

Goodness gracious, Wiz’s life has more plots than a graveyard! So many twists and turns! OH WAIT. No. That’s not true at all, is it. This is just another verse about his friends and their shoes, getting high and staying that way for as long as possible, and people being upset with them.

Logan:  My shoes are pretty, ooohhh I’m Loubie’d out/I got enough enemies, I need a buddy or three/Time’s too expensive, Ice Cube’s my cousin/You’ll only see me naked if you own a copy of Both Sides of the Brain/Just listened to “Cyberpunks” today; yeah I do that every couple weeks/What a fucking space cadet dreamboat, Jesus Christ I love Del so much. 
No plot, no characterization. I also didn’t include any actual rhymes, since I spent less than a minute composing it. But mine has a Del mention- top that, WK. Also, WK: “Fuck outta here”/“You better get a goddamn job” – Rock & Sean P, August 2011. (I could also maybe add “I feel the pain of everyone/Then I feel nothing” – Mascis, earlier today, on stupid ol’ pop radio that plays a gem or two sometimes. There now, see? Aren’t 10 simple yet effective words better than a hundred useless, braggy ones from Wiz?) 

Curren$y: Yeah, jets n—a, As if I had to say it: Spitta/In the middle of every bad bitches playlist/iTunes banging from my hotel room/Nothing but beats bitch/Fuck it when I die I could sleep bitch/My momma need a bigger crib so I need this money, G/King Kong ain’t got shit on me/My face is a coupon – I don’t know them but they know me.

Pedestrian compared to some of his best stuff, but this verse is still fresher than those of the last dozen men with microphones I’ve heard, plus he gets residual credit for the knots n racks n bands lifestyle picture he paints in “Elevator Musik.” It’s still haunting/pleasing me (Think I gave my last hundred to the fuckin valet/Good evening, Mr. Jackson/I mean good morning, shit/Dang).

Persons whom Rawss inaccurately believes himself to be.

other than the glaringly obvious “Rick Ross,” of course.

Everybody pads their resume in real life, so of course everybody’s going to pad their resume in rapdom. Wake up, sweetheart. But Ice Cube talking about things going bang bang or Akon describing moving packaged things across international lines to satisfy Americans’ insatiable appetite for narcotics is one thing; stubbornly believing your own myth is another. Rawss is hard-headed, and his outlandish-and-not-ever-based-in-reality brags are a constant part of pop music performance these days. It’s like my generation’s James Brown splits or the Townshend windmill.

1. The fuckin’ boss. Convertible Burt.


“I touch work like I’m Convertible Burt,” your man says, “I got distribution so I’m convertin’ the work.” Sounds good, except NO. He’s got a spinning wheel of coke kingpins (cokepins?) in his living room, and he writes entire songs around whichever name the arrow happens to fall on. He also made a funny song about being Big Meech and Larry Hoover, remember? Oh goodness, I laaaaughed and laughed when I heard such a wacky proclamation. Rawss has absolutely no dealings with rubber bands or work of any kind, let me assure you. I’m more of a Pyrex scholar than he is. He carries weight, yes, but that just means he’s walking from room to room in his house! HEY-O.

2. a G. Your Machiavelli, with a murder hit.

(“I’m a G”)

Um, Pac is our Machiavelli. But even that is a stupid boast – we get sentimental in retrospect, but everybody hated that weak Makaveli stuff when he came out with it. Rawss can’t win with me, though, because if he had said “I’m your Pac from the 2Pacalypse Now era, remember how good ‘Trapped’ was?,” I would have had an angry fit, outraged that he could compare himself to such a talented and foxy man.

3. “We Boys N the Hood, and n—a you lil’ Tré.”

(“Deeper Than Rap”)

Hmm. Analysis time. As I recall, Tre had sex with Nia Long, wore some fucking fresh gear from Chess King, and then went to get a college degree at esteemed Howard University, sooooo: Rick you should probably keep walkin down the street scratching that Lotto ticket ’cause Tre wins this round.

4. “Bitch I think I’m Nino. Bitch I think I’m Scarface. Bitch I’m Al Pacino.”

(“Oh Let’s Do It (remix)”)

Oh how bout we not do it, but just say we did? That saves everybody some time. Here we have Rawss bragging about being 2 characters of fiction, and 1 real-live person – an actor – whose specialty is playing characters of fiction. They say change makes you wanna hustle. I say Rawss needs to change and stop preaching to me about the rules of the hustle because he knows not of what he speaks. When it comes to the hustle, I’d go to Nino for turkey-pass-ing-out lessons, Pacino for advice on the acting hustle. Rawss would probably offer “Don’t get high off your own supply” regarding the businessman hustle, which of course he will have stolen from Robert Loggia, who was playing a character of fiction and whose words were not his own – they were written for him by Oliver Stone. I believe there is a pattern emerging here.

5. Mayor of Dade County.

(“For Da Low”)

Oh really? THE mayor of Miami-Dade County? Funny meeting you here, Carlos Gimenez! I had no idea you had a side hustle as a big fat rapper with an identity problem! Must be nice to have so much free time on your hands, but I’d like to remind you that he people of Miami elected you to get down to business. Now get the fuck to work on your promises to make public transportation more reliable and fix the financial woes at Jackson Health System. I mean it, mister.

6. “With the her-ion , n—a I’m Lebron/Quarter millie for my car, and thats on the Qu’ran.”


Lebron? The basketball player with no personality and the crazy mom?

You can’t possibly be referring to the dude who came up short in the “finals” and is currently “without a ring,” can you? Nice comparison, genius.

I, on the other hand, am a fierce combination of championship winners Dirk Nowitski (blond), Bill Laimbeer (prominent elbows; I’m too skinny), and Oscar Robertson (’cause I’m known for “scoring” both inside and outside; OH HI THERE, BOYS). Also Raquel Welch in 1971 if you stand 200 yards away and squint really hard.

7. “Bitch I’m MC Hammer, I’m about cream/I got 30 cars, whole lot of dancers/I take them everywhere/I’m MC Hammer.”

(“MC Hammer”)

In addition to being completely charisma-free and a terrible lyricist, Rawss is also a lazy human being who can’t take the time to read someone’s entire bio before starting to co-opt that person’s identity. MC Hammer had a bunch of money and a Saturday morning cartoon! That sounds like me! MC HAMMER BACK; UNHHH. This is like invoking the main character of the movie without watching it all the way through. Other people Rawss claims he is: JFK in October ’63 and Joe Theismann during the first quarter of that Monday Night game.

8. Albert Anastasia. Michael Corleone. Sole supplier for cocaine in southern states.

(“The Transporter”)

My mom could write a pretty passable verse about Albert Anastasia and Corleone, since, like Rick, she loves those A&E shows about organized crime. She doesn’t try to do it, though, because she has the good sense to know that she doesn’t have the skill for rhyming. Manners, that’s what that is.

Mike Corleone shows up on Rick’s “Bricks” too. I guess this is OK in the grand scheme of Rawss-ery because any Godfather mention reminds me of that baptism scene, with the priest’s voiceover in Latin. Fucking terrific filmmaking. And Sonny’s body getting laced up with bullet holes and such, remember? Aw damn. Poor Sonny.

9. Frank Lucas. Floyd Mayweather. Don King.


I’ve been told that Rawss should not be the focus of my hate, and that I should instead delve into the reasons that he has a fan base. Maybe he’s just giving the people what they want, you know? Aha, but then I recall that Rawss’ success can be explained by a Mencken quote, which leaves me free to continue my crusade against him! Can’t knock the making-money hustle, but I can dang sure knock the making-terrible-music hustle. The kids today don’t know any better but this makes Rawss no less morally reprehensible. He should not be someone who gets paid for saying words into microphones; simple as that. Anyway, as a person who greatly enjoys driving and rapping along to Crack and I have a lot in common/We both come up in the 80’s and we keep that bas(s/e) pumping, I am well aware of the fun of temporarily adopting an identity other than my own for an intro-verse-verse-chorus-verse sequence. That’s just the seduction of melody, people. The song above, for example (I love it). Or like when you’re listening to pretty “Norwegian Wood” and then you realize, Hey wait a sec, this song’s about Lennon having sex with someone other than his wife.

Anyway, the Mayweather comparison is probably the least offensive thing to me here, since Floyd makes his money by 100% legal means, just like Rawss always has despite what he wants you to believe. If Rawss had compared himself to Zab Judah, though? Goddammit Zab Judah has the baddest name in all of pugilism so Rawss and I would’ve had a problem.

10. “Got the top down and I’m feelin like Steve Austin/You know the routine, rollin on, still movin a few things.”

(“Trilla,” w/Mannie Fresh)

This one’s harmless too – Rawss comparing himself to a wrestler, which means Rawss is comparing himself to a man who adopts the costume, mannerisms and language of a person selling narcotics fighting in the ring for real, but alas: it’s choreographed. There was never any real danger! It was the wizard behind the curtain the whole time, except in this case the wizard really pisses me off because he convinced Mannie Fresh to do a song with him. Unacceptable.

11. “Twitter thug, I’m the timeline strangler.”

(“Molasses,” w/Raekwon)

Rae’s one of the many who’ve disappointed me by collaborating with Rick (I’m looking at youuuu, Trick Daddy). Not much else to say here, other than: Twitter thug made the list of persons whom he inaccurately believes himself to be because a Twitter thug is not an actual thing that exists. Putting those 2 words together; that’s just gibberish. In the Four Tet remix he calls himself both a unicorn 808 and a Xanax burqa. For such crimes against English, Rawss should be allowed to work with Drake and Chris Brown, nobody else. In between stints being guest speakers at the annual Dudes Who Will Not Be Seeing Me Naked Conference, they hang out with each other in the yard at Twitter jail when they take thugging a little too far. Then they can get released, and, back like they never left, put out horrible mixtapes on their own social media sites and free up space on RapRadar for the good MCs (Corey Gunz, SWOON).

12. “Oh Lord, I’m a star down in St. Bart’s/The fat Tommy Lee, I made out with like 8 broads.”

(“Yacht Club”)

EW HE’S TALKING ABOUT HIS PENIS. I do like his brag circa-5th-grade brag, though (I made out with not just one girl, but several girls! I’m thinking of asking one of them to the dance!)

13. A Haitian vacationer.

(“Rich Off Cocaine”)

The only identity on this list that might actually be reality-based, I had to include it out of sheer anger. Embracing hatred gives me this nice burst of energy sometimes. Rawss’ morally repugnant display of rich-man guilt provides this for me, in a nice rhymey package. Vacation to Haiti, it nearly broke my heart/Seein’ kids starve, I thought about my Audemar/Sellin dope ain’t right, I put it on my life/Chickens put me in position to donate the rice. WHAT A FUCKING JERK, spending all that time on Twitter and remaining so disconnected with world events. Even before a recent natural disaster there, Haiti was a place of corruption and poverty – not the appropriate place for you to take a few days off, gaze at the sunset, slurp lobster juice and purchase time with sex professionals. And yet, Rawss had to go look into some skinny 5-year-old’s eyes and hear him say Ou Linèt solèy yo ovèrprisèd ak lèd, obèz nonm. tou mwen trè grangou in order for that fact to become real.


White girl side hustle opportunity I missed #3.

White girls! This week we’re doing the gross and unspeakable with the sex parts of Charlie Sheen (in Vegas) and creepy old David Duchovny (in front of Showtime cameras) — we’re not third in line for the presidency anymore, so we are sad and acting out sexually. Our band with M. Ward isn’t really doing big things right now either. Coachella is our Gathering of the Juggalos but it is still months away. So, Radric arrives to save the day. Of course.

Gucci loves us and that’s been our bread and butter for the last couple years–hanging out and ending up in a verse of his. A couple years ago he liked our naked dancing at spring break. Today a Gucci hang will probably get you described as Cyndi Lauper (again) but it means you get to be in Waka’s general area and sing that hook (in your head) to that song by Best Coast*, she who understands stifled white girl longing and lust.

All-black Phantom, pulled up to the opera/Bad white bitch, call her Cyndi Lauper.

*I wish he was my boyfriennnnnnnnd. (the one on the right)
It’s Gucci 2 times, but it really should be WAKA 2 TIMES. Or if I had my way, 100 times. We can walk around the lake and he’ll try to touch my bottom and I’ll pretend to get mad at first but secretly I won’t be mad. (sorry, girl games. We are trained since childhood to behave this way). At some point in our conversation I’ll gently press the Bills hat issue. What’s the meaning, why is it so ill-fitting, etc.

Then there were posts of “H.A.M.” by understated class machine K. West, who of course never shuts up about how he hates to love my kind.

But I’ve been practicing with some actresses as bad as shit
And a few white girls, asses flat as shit

But the head so good, damn a n—a glad he hit

Got em jumpin out the building

Watch out below, a million out the door.

I would call this a mini battle of the white girl hang-out opportunities on Internet rap songs, Georgia vs. Illinois, 01/11/11, except you can keep your Kanye hang-out opportunities, thank you. Not interested. If I wanted to be a lyrical accessory in fellatio raps I’d go to the recording sessions for that Dipset mixtape and pretend it’s ’05 when I still cared about them. My several hundred problems with Kanye include his life-is-a-woman metaphor in song getting really quite old; as an English major I can’t support cliche raps. Really, the fact that Lex is 19 years old (!) is the only part of this outfit that gives me hope.


Confusion in rap land*.

* (my apartment)

Feels like I’m dreaming but I’m not. sleep-ing. The Game has somehow convinced everybody that he is a capable rapper, as evidenced by the massive amounts of blog approval I see due to that Red Room mixtape and now this new(?) unreleased number, below. I downloaded the Red Room because I have to keep up with the crowd and I’m scared of falling behind, because of my blind and unwavering LA pride, and because of Scoop Deville’s presence on it. The official stance of Rap Nation, however, should be that the mixtape is great but it’s not because of any compelling or creative yarns spun by our face-tatted storyteller, and that The Game is merely oh-kay at rhyming (please press play, below). He’s got a raspy voice, solid LA gang cachet, the ladies want to sleep with him and coo Jayceon in his ear, and he’s like 7 feet tall; we can’t pretend that these aren’t all factors that have to do with the Internet’s fondness for him.

You can swindle ’em easy if you just pick friends who’ll benefit you by association. For The Game, it’s DJ Skee, and Scoop Deville, and Cool & Dre, and Just, below, who’ve made it so. [Skee, by the way, stole my title of Cali’s Hip-Hop Ambassador, but he got it from a Republican so he can have the damn thing. And Skee, by the way, is wearing me out with those annoying drops. DEE JAYYY SKEEEEE, exclamation point exclamation point!! DJ Skee!, knock it off. The increased frequency of the drops seem directly related to a DJ’s increased popularity; that Mississippi mixtape had hardly any, but then that Evidence one had ’em all over the place. Drama and Whoo Kid show more restraint and that’s how you know you’re doing it wrong. You are alienating your core demographic, Skee! (hip-blessed girls in trench coats who toggle their browsers between Deadspin and RapRadar and Forever 21 all day). I’d like to see some subtlety, please!, Skee!. Those perfectly-used “Dilla Dog” shouts, you know? Like that.]

I wear the 4-5 in LA like I’m AC Green slightly makes up for the numerous examples of awful and lazy in the narrative, including but not limited to I graduated from the school of hard knocks like yeah. That said, I NEED THE INSTRUMENTALLLL, and I need it played whenever I enter a room and then I walk across that room in something that clings to my hips.

Courtesy of Eskay, naturally.


And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack.

Apparently what’s really hood, what’s the newest and freshest, is to publicly acknowledge and whine about yet sorta brag about the fact that you have been felled by the fists of other dudes in your same industry.

“OH the surrealism and horror I feel at what’s become of American manhood,” said the lady blogger.

It’s wrong to live in the past, I hear.
2009 is okay. It’s fine. It’s not Hip Hop In ’94, but it’s good and it’s fine –
DOOM and “Stillness is the Move,” that Camp Lo mixtape and Merriweather Post Pavilion and “Sweet Disposition,” they’re all proof that it’s great to be here and to have ears right about now. Deep breaths.

But sometimes I take a little walk by Eskay’s, and I visit the 2 dope boyz and take a look around and I’m like whut? There’s something called Joe Budden who between ’88 and ’91 would have gotten the bozack and been called a crab MC, but for now he seems to have quite the stronghold on the Internets. And he puts something into Royce’s drink to convince him to lay down tracks with him. It works. Royce gets Stockholm Syndrome and agrees to take part in a video with extras cast by Dov Charney. Joe is Joe’s biggest fan. Joe says that Joe is better than Meth and Joe thinks I want to hear about his girlfriend all day long. Joe is incorrect. The hard-headed never learn.

And all the while I’m like, How did I get here? Where is that large automobile? THIS IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL HOUSE.

But then, because Rock the Bells is pure magic and makes good things happen (THE RULER!), Rae goes backstage and has a henchman forcefully strike Joe in his upper-face region to remind the youth of America that Rae is great and Joe is a dummy. And I feel calm once again, knowing that I can still count on things like a) There is water/At the bottom of the ocean, b) Rae still makes ’em jump like Rod Strickland, and c) Budden is a Dude Who Will Not Be Seeing Me Naked.

Same as it ever was.


George Carlin, Don Rickles, and Ash Roth.

“You irk me/Because you copy and falsify” – Guru*.

I was making the frowny face reallll hard a couple minutes ago, with a touch of pouty-ness for good measure, because of the dude with the stupid face you see above. Ash Roth is, of course, the bane of my otherwise wonderful life and is the reason for my lack of joy at the present time. The Caucasoid Pride of Morrisville is working on his sophomore album and that makes me say fucking hell and please don’t do that,

until I read all about it courtesy of XXL and realized that Ash has quite the sense of humor! This doesn’t make him acceptable to me (he’s still just behind Cheney and John Wayne Gacy on the Evil List), but it does make me think it’s kind of nice that he can do stand-up as a sideline career if his current job of Publicity Whore/Terrible Person Holding a Mic doesn’t pan out.

It seems like the SRC rapper is trying to deliver an old school vibe for his next LP.

‘You know I’m really interested in Pete Rock and [DJ] Premier and that New York sound…(said Roth),

I really wanna get in on that.’

Har de fuckin har,” said Mr. White.

And then Andy said,

And then I was like, HA! GOOD ONE, ASHY! You’s a jokester!

OH ASH, I’m way too dope to write “LOL” since I’m not a 12 year old girl but rest assured that I did, in fact, laugh out loud upon seeing your quote about the producers you hope to have in your corner. Your relentless comedy hustle will pay off in the end, champ, I just know it. Hey, I wanna play your joke-y game, too! It’s called “Things I Wanna Get in On That Will Never Fucking Happen,” right?

I think I know how to play–check my style out:

OK, so I wanna get in on Scott Boras’s checking account without having to do naked things with him…oh and I wanna get in on accessing all of Trojan Records’ dubplates, and the bike from Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure, and Raekwon’s old ‘Lo sweater…ummm….and I also really really wanna get in on going to a dinner party with President Dreamboat, Basquiat, Kool Keith, Steve Biko, and a bunch of murdered rappers who have come back to life.

That’s how this game goes, yes?

Now I shall wrap up the post by reminding nobody’s favorite industry interloper that nothing he has his hands in will ever sound this good* so he should probably keep it movin, vacate the premises, and sit the next one out. And the one after that.

I put that on my unborn kids,
that’s the double truth, Ruth,

* “You’ll be dyin, tryin to face the fate of your delusions.
Regards, Guru.”

Thing I Am Right About #2,491: Rappers with regular dude names are always terrible.

“Flowin like Christ when I speaks the gospel.

In this case, the gospel is that dudes whose names you can find in the phone book are always wack beyond belief. I am not incorrect about this.

The rule for this game was that the MC’s name had to be a first and last–no Craig G or Mike D or Willie D, in other words.

Then I remembered Paul Barman, who got so many nerd points from me during so many moments on Paullelujah! (“I can rock the mic to ‘Silence’ by John Cage”). And then I remembered Keith Murray. And Erick Sermon. And Charlie Brown. And then I decided to pretend I hadn’t remembered them because it ruins that thing called consistency we all strive for in a blog post.

Moving on.

Enjoy my creative use of synonyms for “wack” below!

Mike. Atrocious.
I still luv Swishahouse, though I will still deny this in public if asked.

Charles. Dreadful.
(MC Lyte’s cousin? How come nobody told me this earlier? What if this had come up on Hip Hop Jeopardy? I would’ve gotten it wrong and that would’ve been on YOU, smart guy)

Jim. Horrendous.

Joe. Appalling.

Lloyd. Tragic.

I am now too traumatized to wrap this up in a coherent way. Bye bye.

Eskay tries to annoy me to an inappropriate degree, succeeds

OH LOOK, they had so much fun during the first “Dudes Who Will Not Be Seeing Logan Naked” Convention that they decided to do it bigger & deffer the second time around:

The mind reels at the stuntery and unabashed wackness depicted above; I’m not sure where to begin. Let me just say NICE JERSEY, Morrisville.
#33. Bird. Of course. Of course.
Mother fuck gentrification.

OH ASHHH, even your jersey selection game is the opposite of tight! Take me to new heights of wackery and don’t you dare stop! Pack it up/pack it in, cuz the only acceptable options in NBA Caucasoid Jersey family are McHale, Laimbeer, West and Maravich (the BAWSS).

I go to NahRight twice/thrice daily and I am gradually learning that you ain’t hip-hop in oh-nine unless you know the latest in Joe and Tahiry’s 10th-grade-style love affair and Ash Roth’s kleptomaniacal tendencies and fondness for slippers. Word life. Thanks, Eskay*!

* Stop it, Eskay

And also–
This one isn’t really his fault cuz he’s just the messenger, but I must deduct points from Eskay’s overall score for injuring my hip-hop nerd soul by posting the news that there is now an “Uptown Anthem Pt. II.” Aw damn, see, and I was having a perfectly nice Friday until now.

There’s already 1 Naughty anthem in my world, it comes from a magical, happy land called Hip-Hop From 1992, and it sustains me and makes me whole. Please leave it be.

We gonna break, we gonna bash, we gonna roll, we gonna smash.

Ummmm except that you are not breaking, bashing, rolling, or smashing when you try to revisit perfection and prevent the past from living in a dignified manner by putting your hands in it again and dirtying it all up. Classic perfect ’90s hip-hop song do-overs will slowly kill me if you people do not stop it. This is what it sounds like when doves cry.

The gravity of the situation compels me to bring this up with Treach at the show.
“When you pull stunts like this,” I’ll tell him in a sassy tone, “I might have to alert Radames to the situation and you will be sufficiently dealt with for bringing shame upon the crew.”

No matter where you go, there you are.