Category Archives: Oh word

The Detroit Emeralds!



Name: The Detroit Emeralds, I’m in Love with You (Westbound, 1973).

Is this title acceptable? No. It feels like they didn’t even hardly try. Minimalism and sincerity are fine things, but in the early ’70s lapels were big and basslines were fat. Record titles had to be powerful, memorable. Alas, the Emeralds were victims of the ol’ Stylistics one-up (“I’m Stone in Love with You”). Al Green and his qualifier-in-the-title (“I’m Still in Love With You”) preceded the Emeralds’ album by a year, too.

Produced by: Hm. Things are a little cloudy here. The record is a Katouzzion production, but what does that mean? The surname Katouzian is from Iran, but there’s not even a geographical connection there because Westbound was founded by an Armenian-American (Armen Boladian). The record’s production supervisor is Bob Scerbo, who was already at Janus records when it took over distribution for Westbound. Mr. Scerbo seems to know what he was doing, as he also supervised production on (which I guess is better than plain old produced) The Ohio Players’ Climax, Cymande’s Second Time Around, and Eddie Harris’ Smokin, with this beauty:

Entered my life: Ah, this is a problem. I cannot remember. I know I got it at a Beat Swap Meet and it was at the Echo, an awful venue for such an event. The lighting was really bad, I recall, so it was not just hunched-over dorks flipping through bins and not talking to each other, it was squinty hunched-over dorks. It says $8 on the sleeve but you should know the man who sold it to me charged a criminal $20! I’m surrounded by criminals/Heavy rollers, even the sheisty individuals*. I am complicit in my own poverty, though, since I paid him what he asked with no hesitation.

*independent record sellers in Los Angeles, CA

Global events at the time of its release: Lonnie Liston Smith heard some Cosmic Echoes and did some Astral Traveling, babycakes. I should’ve been alive and of fornicating age in ’73, lord have mercy.

Coleman Young, Detroit’s first African-American mayor, was elected in ’73. The Belleville Three were preteen boys; their uncles worked at GM and they’d visit them in the factory and so years later they’d make music sounding like cars being put together. Motown had just moved to LA, which sort of allowed Westbound and its signees (Parliament! Ohio Players!) to flourish. Berry Gordy was probably tired of the cold and felt guilty about what he’d done to Holland-Dozier-Holland.

Difficulty of finding, vinyl-wise (1-10 scale): Pretty high up there, I think. That’s why the man at the Beat Swap Meet did me like that. (He saw the hunger in my eyes.)

Breaks contained:

“Incarcerated Scarfaces”! “The Most Beautifullest Thing in This World”! Drums, drumsdrumssss. Also “Lookin at the Front Door,” and “The Light,” which would have been perfect if left as an instrumental plus Caldwell’s sangin, and all of Com’s lyrical cliches and platitudes were taken away. “My heart’s dictionary defines you, it’s love and happiness”; UGH. I was never a huge fan, but I do know things were better when he was bad as Leroy Brown.

Reason for this post on today of all days: 2 things happened–I wore green which made me think of green-themed records, and I saw this picture of Mr. Pasty Elbows um, “guarding” Kareem. I therefore thought of Detroit.

Sartorial accompaniment: “Flouncy-skirted record nerd with too much eyeliner goes to Coachella” is today’s aesthetic. Celery-colored tank and lilypad-colored skirt that I made myself (!) as a much cheaper replica of the $40 AA one I was going to buy. Ha ha, Dov! I support your amazingly progressive labor practices but stop being gross*! HA HA.

*every girl in LA has had a Dov is gross experience, including this girl

Suitable activities while listening: Playing hooky from work, so I’ve really got to make today count. I’ll go to the bookstore and finally give in to the Just Kids juggernaut. OK PATTI SMITH, FINE I WILL BUY YOUR BOOK. LEAVE ME BE.

Best YouTube comment:

I love this song. If anyone is out of East Dallas Texas, and remembers the Maverick skating rink, this was the jam. It’s like Missed Connections but on YouTube. ADORABLE.

Other notable things about today:

The mack god said that just because you meet a ho/And she wear a jersey that say “champion” and eat a bowl of Wheaties/Don’t make her a winner. ’96 E-40 washes away the dust of everyday life. Even though the based god has obviously replaced the mack god in my heart.

Every time I’m jammed I always find a loophole/I got a crime record longer than Manute Bol. The Voice has a good article about the almost-stardom of Big L, a man whose violent death and current status as solemn rap ghost means his lyrical content is too sacred for us to inspect through a terribly critical lens. This is a relief. I wish they’d leave other performers alone in a similar way. If you too are sick of rap writers deciding what our enjoyment of moral repugnance in song says about ourselves and the human experience, we should probably go on a date. Let’s take ourselves off the market and be together, because we’re just annoying everyone else.

If Big L got the AIDS every cutie in the city got it. Big L had a bunch of AIDS raps, which I guess are right up there with rape raps in terms of things that people want to inspect and ruminate on. Whiffle-ball bat raps, snuffin-Jesus raps, there is nothing new under the sun; Judas Priest, 2 Live Crew, Body Count, Tipper Gore found a new hobby thank god, but the West Memphis Three are still locked up. I have intellectual pretensions but overall this is a party blog so I won’t try to address such things or keep yelling at people who think they know the secrets of my heart and brain and want to write Internet essays about why it is bad that we like Odd Future…

but hey, how ’bout “Full Clip”? Remember? So good. The video is a funny rap time capsule, plus it features rare footage of Premier not watching porn.

It Gets Better is Dan Savage’s beautiful venture and website with messages for gay and lesbian kids currently in the bell jar. Inspired by such a project, a writer at The New Gay compiled a list of the top 19 anti-suicide anthems. OK. Sorry, nice idea, but I have a few things to say. First of all, there’s the cognitive dissonance of a Joy Division song being on the list. I guess I should be thankful there’s no Elliott Smith-? But the main problem is that the list is just so replete with guitar jams by white men–David Bowie, Wilco, Peter Gabriel–that apparently there was no room for any rapping of any kind (ew, The Streets does not count). Personal taste in music is one thing, but leaving out an entire genus of music in the kingdom is irresponsible and makes me want to kill myself! Heh. The New Gay purports that its list is made of “songs that acknowledge how bleak and bad things can get, but by their very existence prove that it’s surmountable.” Oh my god, how weird, I already made a list just like that, starting with Aesey Rock’s “One of Four.” Or any song by any Minnesota MC 5 years ago. Or any songs by any Brooklyn MC, or really any MC from anywhere who is forthcoming about past poverty and endorses the fact that money makes it all right. Sloppily composed song compilations are the worst.

I like this: Women’s “Narrow Down the Hall.” On Pitchfork they talk about it, linking the words “half-diffident vocals” and “catharsis.” Nobody wants to read that, a boring description of what it sounds like; let’s talk instead of what it makes us want to do (here’s mine: walk down the street in a cotton sundress, in slow motion, filmed by Hype Williams circa ’94 or Benny Boom in ’08 or Little X a couple years prior). “The nice melody plus the chanting over throbby bass” is all I will say to describe it. Something sweet with something simple makes something powerful and intoxicating, like how sugar plus yeast equals alcohol.
mp3.

New Orleans, I love you. But your Jay Electronica has a boring voice and a boring flow, OH NO! All the boys in town love him, so they all stopped their respective activities and got tongue-tied when Jay and Jay (Z’s) “Shiny Suit Theory” was made available this week. Most people loved it; I did not. I find the lyrics to be unbearably pretentious (Egyptology, yawn) and there’s a ridiculous Puffy/Miami mention, plus Jay E. already had a song with a little story about Puffy in it. I appropriately freaked out over Exhibits A, B, and C, and I love my Moleskine too, but that had everything to do with Just Blaze and nothing to do with the MC on those particular songs. I would be happy if Jay Elec would preserve the crazy and become a recluse, and I really would be satisfied with Jay-Z retiring and that’s been true for at least 5-6 years. But I’m usually in the minority regarding both of these opinions. So when I see comments daring to criticize Jay + Jay’s musical linkage, it makes me feel a little more understood by all my invisible Internet boyfriends out there.


Amid a sea of “YES”es and “NICE”s and not-so-funny Jay/camel references (meanies), plus one “I just came” (LOL, sexy commenters), a young man emerges, standing brave and tall, to loudly ask what I was just about to: Where, the fuck, is the drums. I’m in love with this individual and his opinions. Coffee + conversation, Somebody Somewhere?


The kids around the way used to think that I was buggin; this is because they did not understand how I feel about the funk. Erykah Badu, it turns out, had similar experiences in seventh grade. She’s my pretend sister, my pretend buddy, my idol due to her ability to draw cosmic and pretty-eyed rappers to her naked body (Andre, not boring Jay Elec). All I want is for her to talk about music and let me listen. So thank you, NY Mag, for gathering up all her funky dreams and memories into a nifty slideshow where she explains all of the songs that made her a “child of the funk.” Killing it since the Clinton administration, Erykah washes away the dust of everyday life with her irony-free sweetness that comes through when she talks about these songs. She doesn’t include any Ohio Players or Meters or Curtis or even any James Brown or “I Get Lifted, but to each her own.

A common trope in the lady-blogger-nerd inbox is the request to talk about music while wearing a bathing suit. First of all, have you seen my blog, gentlemen who email me, ’cause that’s what I do already. Second, I am a lot sweeter and a lot more boring in person–I don’t even cuss, really–so you should probably calm down with that fantasy. And third, I now understand the request. I wish Erykah would talk about music every day on the Internet so I could savor it and think about how alike we are, she and I. Her in a bathing suit is not necessary. I would like her to do a lot of sensual poses and faraway glances out of windows, though.

“Things you’ve heard Logan say” are in bold, below.

On Chaka Khan’s “Sweet Thing”:

“Oh Chaka Khan, she is our queen. Anyone who sings soul and funk goes through the school of Chaka Khan. She has so many gorgeous songs but ‘Sweet Thing’ is the one — she sung that song from the vagina, from the bottom of her stomach, you can hear it all in her throat, she felt it. The places that she went with her voice, man, it was so scintillating in every way; it made me happy, it made me loving, it made me weak, it made me sad.”

The Isley Brothers, “Groove With You”:

“When I first learned that I could be in love, that that was an actual thing that I could feel, I remember the Isley Brothers.”

Stevie Wonder, “As”:

“It’s a beautiful song. Before I knew what the words said I was in love with the melody. His voice rocks you to sleep, it’s constant in me — his voice is a part of my DNA.”

Soul II Soul, “Keep on Movin’”:

“I remember when I knew that I could do things on my own, I was going away to college, and this group called Soul II Soul came out. (The) song was “Keep On Movin’,” don’t stop. And I felt like, damn, you’re right, I can do things on my own. I can do things on my own and isn’t that just beautiful.

Rickie Lee Jones, “Chuck E’s in Love”:

“Rickie Lee Jones was the first white chick I saw with a cigarette in her mouth on her album cover and back then that meant a lot. Back then we didn’t have Internet or TV, so everything you knew about the person you knew from the album cover, that’s all you had, you turned that thing upside down and around studying your favorite singer — their face, their clothes, the art, the shape of the words, the look of their fingers. And there she was with her cigarette, she reminded me of a hippie chick and she had this raspy voice and it was just so funky, like she didn’t give a shit, she didn’t give a damn. And that’s part of who I am — Rickie Lee Jones is a big part of who I am — and I imagine her being someone who showed up as she was, I’m just here. And I wanted to be that. And when you really admire a singer or a song you either want to be them or have sex with them, and with Ricky Lee Jones I just wanted to be her, to feel what she said and sound like she did and have the whole experience just like that coming out of my mouth.”

Parliament, “Aqua Boogie”:

P-Funk. Funkadelic made me love purple and black, it looks cosmic and sloppy; throw a little neon green splash of something oozing and that’s what funk is to me. ‘Aqua Boogie’ is everything I love about a funk song…I’m talking about changing voices, thirteen people, 76 instruments and 900 people on stage… damn, this song was just a cosmic funk party.”

The Brothers Johnson, “Strawberry Letter 23”:

“On the album cover is these two dudes with Afros and goatees and mustaches and just chilling with the guitars, really making love to them, their shirts open to the navels, and just, damn, these are so grown men! And they sang together and it was just so groovy. And I wanted to get high. I didn’t even know what high was, but it was groovy. I like the groovy shit a lot, I’m a child of the funk. I live by the funk, I die by the funk. When people ask in school what I wanted to be when I grow up – teacher, doctor, whatever — I said I was gonna be funky. If God could make me funky, I’ll handle the rest.”

“Hajj 2010” by The Big Picture, gaze-worthy beauty like nearly every post on The Big Picture.

I have much respect for the peaceful religion of Islam. But I still want to caption every one of these pictures with THANK YOU BASED GOD or a Poor Righteous Teachers lyric.




(Also lush and beautiful: National Geographic’s Photography Contest 2010. “Three hundred and sixty degrees of perfected styles” – my caption for photo #3.)

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The kids around the way used to think that Erykah and I were buggin; this is because they don’t understand how we feel about the funk.

Erykah, killing it since the Clinton administration.
http://nymag.com/daily/entertainment/2010/11/erykah_badu_slideshow.html#

erykah washes away the dust of everyday life with her irony-free sweetness.

No Ohio Players or Meters or Curtis, and no “I Get Lifted,” but to each her own. If she had included “I get lifted” it would’ve been better.

-Jay Elec, Jay Z commenter:
Cant listen to this,where the fuck is the drums?? Weak ass beat

The kids around the way used to think that I was buggin
But they don’t understand how I feel about the funk
I walk with the funk, I talk with the funk
I eat with the funk, I sleep with the funk
I live for the funk, I’ll die for the funk
So now what do they say, when I’m walkin up the block?

and not just because she lives my fantasy of having intercourse with cosmic rappers.

Chaka Khan, “Sweet Thing”
“Oh Chaka Khan, she is our queen. Anyone who sings soul and funk goes through the school of Chaka Khan. She has so many gorgeous songs but ‘Sweet Thang’ is the one — she sung that song from the vagina, from the bottom of her stomach, you can hear it all in her throat, she felt it. The places that she went with her voice, man, it was so scintillating in every way; it made me happy, it made me loving, it made me weak, it made me sad.”

Prince

The Isley Brothers, “Groove With You”
“When I first learned that I could be in love, that that was an actual thing that I could feel, I remember the Isley Brothers.”

Stevie Wonder, “As”
“It’s a beautiful song. Before I knew what the words said I was in love with the melody. His voice rocks you to sleep, it’s constant in me — his voice is a part of my DNA. It was hard to choose just one, but I’d have to pick this one; because not only is it a good groove song, but it gets you in the zone. It’s a beautiful love song.”

Soul II Soul, “Keep on Movin'”
“I remember when I knew that I could do things on my own, I was going away to college, and this group called Soul II Soul came out. Caron Wheeler is the front woman, Jazzie B is the front man, and the song was “Keep On Movin’,” don’t stop. And I felt like, damn, you’re right, I can do things on my own. I can do things on my own and isn’t that just beautiful.”

Bloodstone, “Natural High.”

Rickie Lee Jones, “Chuck E’s in Love”
“Rickie Lee Jones was the first white chick I saw with a cigarette in her mouth on her album cover and back then that meant a lot. Back then we didn’t have Internet or TV, so everything you knew about the person you knew from the album cover, that’s all you had, you turned that thing upside down and around studying your favorite singer — their face, their clothes, the art, the shape of the words, the look of their fingers. And there she was with her cigarette, she reminded me of a hippie chick and she had this raspy voice and it was just so funky, like she didn’t give a shit, she didn’t give a damn. And that’s part of who I am — Rickie Lee Jones is a big part of who I am — and I imagine her being someone who showed up as she was, I’m just here. And I wanted to be that. And when you really admire a singer or a song you either want to be them or have sex with them, and with Ricky Lee Jones I just wanted to be her, to feel what she said and sound like she did and have the whole experience just like that coming out of my mouth.”

Parliament, “Aqua Boogie”
“P Funk Funkadelic made me love purple and black, it looks cosmic and sloppy; throw a little neon green splash of something oozing and that’s what funk is to me. ‘Aqua Boogie’ is everything I love about a funk song is, I’m talking about changing voices, thirteen people, 76 instruments and 900 people on stage … damn, this song was just a cosmic funk party.”

The Doobie Brothers, “Minute by Minute”
“It was the eighties and I understood music to a certain extent because I had begun to understand what a groove was. The Doobie Brothers, they stay true to the groove, and that’s what I appreciate about this. [Michael McDonald]’s riding this beat and this music so very well, he makes you want to be there, be a part of the moment, of the song.”

The Brothers Johnson, “Strawberry Letter 23″
“On the album cover is these two dudes with Afros and goatees and mustaches and just chilling with the guitars, really making love to them, their shirts open to the navels, and just, damn, these are so grown men! And they sang together and it was just so groovy. And I wanted to get high. I didn’t even know what high was, but it was groovy. I like the groovy shit a lot, I’m a child of the funk. I live by the funk, I die by the funk. When people ask in school what I wanted to be when I grow up – teacher, doctor, whatever — I said I was gonna be funky. If God could make me funky, I’ll handle the rest.”

Erykah Badu, Baduizm
“And then I remember when I knew that I had a true platform, in 1997, Baduizm came out, and it was my music, it was real, it was true. On the radio, I remember how it felt, whenever I heard those songs, the millions and billions of atoms mixed up inside of you, oh, Lord, it was beautiful.”

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Zip it, Joan.



When we start deceiving ourselves into thinking not that we want something or need something, not that it is a pragmatic necessity for us to have it, but that it is a moral imperative that we have it, then is when we join the fashionable madmen, and then is when the thin whine of hysteria is heard in the land, and then is when we are in bad trouble.

Joan Didion.

Fast cash should be the last resort so make it last for the risk you took
Trick, you shook your ass for some hundred dollar heels and a designer bag
Now that’s ass backwards
All you got in the refrigertator is bratwurst.

You too, Big Boi.

L-R: Elephant’s Memory “Mongoose” 12″/Button kneesocks, Topshop/Small leather tote, several-years-old Miu Miu/Hooker librarian Mary Janes, 3.1 Philip Lim/Anita Bag, Alexander Wang/Whole ensemble, Free People/The Fatback Band “Put Your Love in My Tender Care” 7″/Sheer gray dress, Topshop.

I heard this was chopped & beautifully reconfigured by Premier for Gangstarr’s “Lovesick.” Initially this was confusing, since you hear no trace of “Lovesick” above. Then I heard it was used in something called the “Upbeat Mix,” from the 7″ released in the UK. Aha. I guess Chrysalis would think to release an upbeat mix of a song called “Lovesick” for the British, both because they are a dour people and because their sense of humor is more subtle and refined than ours.

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This machine kills fascists and 11 other language moments that are important.

Wilson Pickett, my favorite Alabaman (it’ll make sense when you scroll down), with guitarist.

1. Woody Guthrie is the original Rakim in my heart, and today would’ve been his 98th birthday.


Since the foundation of male attractiveness is established for a girl during her childhood, Woody’s a big part of why I like boys who amplify their voices and pour their respective hearts out over beats. The rhymes from the microphone soloist Mr. Guthrie were revered in my household. So, yes, Woody was like Rakim to the little-girl version of me, only in my heart Woody’s mixed in a little with my dad for some nice Electra complex sprinkled on top. Years later, me listening to lots and lots of The Coup can be directly traced back to lines like You won’t never see an outlaw/Drive a family from their home.

2. “Every sin is the result of a collaboration.” – Stephen Crane

Rick Rawss and Gordon Gekko both know that greed is good and both of them think they’re doper than they actually are and neither of them will ever have the pleasure of seeing what color my undergarments are. I like Gordon better, though, because he doesn’t clog up my RSS feed with a new rap collaboration every 12 hours. Noted overweight Floridian Rick does, though. And I know it’s because he’s got good shit on a lot of dudes, since otherwise what the fuck is happening here. This Maybach Music takeover cannot be explained any other way.

I’m familiar with the concept of blackmail, which is different from extortion in that extortion involves the added distress of a crime being committed against you, and also one time Havoc said Extortion is the key I got the key for extortion. Havoc never wrote a rap about plain old blackmail, a bad thing that you can do to somebody which is slightly less sinister than extortion because it just involves psychological distress, like when a big fat MC with a weak voice gets superb talent to appear on his album or else he will reveal their secrets. Enter, sinful collaborations.

Jay did a song with RAWWWWSSSSS called “Free Mason,” which, in a super bitchy move, doesn’t even mention Behold a Pale Horse. The only redeeming part of it really is Jay’s line “I’m on my third 6 but a devil I’m not.” (Har, Sean.) Then Curren$y and Wiz did a song with him. Then Rae did. Then Erykah Badu agreed to direct a video for him. Then I opened up my eyes real wide and took a look around at this strange new world, like Alice in that Tom Petty video. I pray it’s all just a bad dream.

The Ross domination has been going on since right around “B.M.F.” started getting played on the radio. I have many problems with “B.M.F.,” the most obvious one being that it’s by a rapper who can’t rap but there’s also the fact that nothing in that chorus rhymes (Hoover/hallelujah, God/start) and that nobody actually says whippin’ work and anyway what does that even mean? Must be a regional thing, Florida and Alabama and such. Styles P also stipulates (as most of ’em have over the years in coke raps, so it’s not necessarily him I can blame) that there are 36 o’s in a kilogram. This is untrue, and he’s therefore training a whole bunch of suburban 16-year-olds through repeat listenings how to weigh it out sloppily. It’s just over 35 ounces (35 and a third). So your customer who buys in bulk is getting almost 20 grams for free and that’s just bad business practice, daddy. Sixteen ounces to a pound, twenty more to a ki. Nope. Unless you’re Mos Def. Then it just adds up, for some reason.

3. Paul Wall just made an awful song called “Live It” in which he holds a gun to Rae’s head and forces him to join in lyrically (blackmail tactics boosted from Ross, no doubt). It is a song I will not be linking to at this time due to the fact that I have good taste in music and cannot allow my stock to plummet. The only reason it gets a mention here is that Paul name checks Nickatina! “People in Texas have heard of Nickatina?” went the response in apt. 15. “I thought that was a regional thing.” The conclusion is either that Paul reads the Slap message boards or he used to get loose at Embarcadero and I just never knew. The 14-year-old in me is mad that he likes something only I’m allowed to like. If Mac Dre starts showing up in verses we’re going to need to have a little chat.

4. To Kill a Mockingbird turns 50 this week. I love smart dudes in glasses who know something about the legal system and who hold back a little emotionally. Sooooo basically, Atticus Finch, get at me.

(Introducing my newest tag, Fantasy Mixtape Titles. First up: Just One Kind of Folks, hosted by some great combo like, I don’t know, Wolfman Jack and Mister Cee. Also, Scarlett Jo in some of the skits in between, because I love her speaking voice.)

It was hard to choose just one string of words to pull from the text. I always liked this one, though: “She seemed glad to see me when I appeared in the kitchen, and by watching her I began to think there was some skill involved in being a girl.” You goddamn right, Jean Louise Finch. Every time I start to bitch about something, like if I have to go somewhere I don’t want to or if I want to go somewhere but I can’t get there, I try to remind myself I’m lucky not to be an 11-year-old girl during the Depression in Maycomb, Alabama, with a pretty great father but a father who has a deep kind of melancholy due to being a widower. That usually clears it right up, the bitching.

Wilson Pickett – “Mini Skirt Minnie.” That voice and those HUH!s come courtesy of Prattville, Alabama.

mp3.

“You got all the men chasin after you, baby/you got the women cryin and carryin on,” AKA Logan goes to Trader Joe’s.

5. We are the ever-living ghost of what once was.

Cee-Lo covering Band of Horses is somehow able to supersede an unnecessarily glitchy beat and a tired old video concept (boring thin white people freaking out) mostly just by using his vocal chords, as they can do no wrong. I’d like this song in my record collection, please, even though I’d never listen to it because of the pain exacted in my heart region as a result of its lyrical content. I still can’t listen to side A of Cease to Begin unless I’m being cuddled and I’m confident in that moment that the cuddling will only stop when I want it to. Otherwise, I get pangs in my soft girly heart and I start to worry that the moment will end. I’ve only listened to this version below once and yeah I got misty a little and that’s about all I can take, as there is currently no one present to cuddle me.

Anyway, Cee-Lo’s voice is going into the Smithsonian someday for being a thing of impossible note-hitting smoky high-pitched beauty.

Rae, Capone, Sean P. (I stepped out of the hug so I could take the pic)

6. CNN are back in a not-so-big way, based on everything I’ve heard from The War Report 2. How sad, since Queens is otherwise doing so undeniably well these days! “With Me” is the best example of the album’s dreariness, as it features a plodding beat that makes me want to take a nap, and a corny feel-good chorus by Nas that is so highly feel-good that I believe Em was offered it for Recovery but turned it down because it was too saccharine. Capone slightly redeems the song with his line Frequently I like to Buck shot(s) like Evil Dee, because “frequently” is terribly underused in songs, because everything Black Moon related is valuable, and because ME TOO, CAPONE! I like to buck shots too, you dreamy son of a gun.

Let the record reflect that “T.O.N.Y.” is a shining, perfect example of a sing-along, feel-good chorus. Me and you/You got beef? I got beef. Solidarity, you guys! I don’t have beef with anyone, really, and even I sing along with that part. (I also love the old-timey use of “jakes” for “police officers.” It feels so ‘20s, like I just bobbed my hair and I’m giddy ’cause I just got the right to vote even though I have breasts)

7. Grease is, in fact, the word, as well as the time, the place, and the motion.

It is also the title of a joyful, bouncy song that a kind man on FM radio was playing during my extended time on the 101 the other day. The rule in determining whether a song is quality is that you picture Stevie Wonder either having composed it or singing it, and then you listen to it through that filter. Just ignore everything else. “Grease,” with that bassline, the way it’s structured melodically, that moment around 2:30 when the horns pass the baton to the drums, surely passes this test. I know it, ’cause I tried it, and wouldn’t you know, I solved my problems and I saw the light. I went home and I looked up its history, and I found out that Barry Gibb wrote it (and “Islands in the Stream” too!). And then, ’cause it was Saturday, I went to the roller rink.

8. “Madre mia.” – my newest paramour Sara, below, after her boyfriend Iker Casillas, the captain and goalie of the Spanish soccer team who has a classy Basque first name, cries and is overcome with emotion and kisses her. I keep watching this and automatically taking my dress off in a quick and obedient manner, a pure Pavlovian example of “Ladies like to be grabbed and kissed in a sudden and surprising way.” Genuine emotion has been getting ladies out of their clothes ever since I can remember and it’s not going anywhere. Live it, be it, achieve it.

9. Aubrey Graham won’t leave me be. We’re just two lost souls swimmin in a fish bowl, year after year. The latest in the story of us is that he showed up in one of my lady mags with no warning. (“Warning,” by the way, is a song by slain rapper Biggie Smalls that Drake hadn’t heard until last week since it was made in olden times, before ’06. Drake’s good now, though; Wayne played it for him and he thought it was uhmayyyyzing, so authentic, the way Biggie nailed in the narrative all that talk of clips and Rolexes)

It happened yesterday, in Elle mag (do not judge me, please), in my hands, on the couch in apt. 15. I read this quote from Drake, in response to being asked which rappers influence him:

“intelligent, clean-cut, nonviolent, non-drug-oriented (MCs).” (!! !!!!)

THIS GUYYYYYY. Groan, cringe, groan, groan, CRINGE. When you give the same answer to a question about rap music that Bill O’Reilly and the nation’s grandmothers would give, you are performing at a sub-par level and you should stop it. He is an awful person. Drake is just so awful. I mean it. I wish bad things would happen to him. My mother would say Logan! That’s not very nice because she’s a real sweetheart, but she would also say There are far too many kids around today getting record deals because they are good-looking, know the right people, and do not challenge the dominant paradigm. And then my buddy Steve P. Morrissey would add Sing your life/Any fool can think of words that rhyme, which kind of sums up that record deal thing that my mom was just talking about. And then Affion Crockett would show up and give me exactly what I need.

10. Curren$y n’ Devin the Dude!, “Chilled Coughee.” It’s Devin the Dude; obviously this was going to show up on here. I don’t need to explain the hows and whys to you. Last week I did a post that was a link to a video taken on a cell phone of him reading the phone book. But for today, just this:

GPS loaded with the coordinates
of this bitch crib to receive love and nourishment

In the form of joints rolled, drinks poured
Her in nothin but a robe, playin her role.

Aw, that’s all that men really want, isn’t it? It just hit me. Love and nourishment, and a girl to greet you at the door, clad in nothing but a robe. Even Rawss wants that, I bet. Even Rawss.

I know, right? You just look at this and right away you think “boning.”

11. Christina Hendricks discusses boning in the LA Times magazine; I feel good and validated inside now because like any foxy lady, I, of course, am well-versed in boning.

As a woman, I have to say the retro underwear on Mad Men actresses looks like utter torture. Am I wrong?

No, you’re not wrong…(Those) undergarments really aren’t made for relaxing.
(If) I have to wait a few hours for my next scene, I have to learn how to position myself, otherwise the boning presses into my guts.

As shown in the uncomfortable bodice of my dress above (that’s boning, you guys; it keeps everything in place up top) there’s work involved in being a girl. The narrator of To Kill a Mockingbird taught me that. And boning jokes are classic, hilarious since since oh-nine.

12. “Wrong guy.”

– A-Rod, when asked for his opinion on whether
the 2011 MLB All-Star Game
should be moved from Arizona.

Presenting A-Rod, my new Least Favorite Dominican (sorry, Juelz!).

“Rod,” by the way, is short for “Rodriguez.” And still, he has no opinion on xenophobic, illegal policies that affect people who look just like him. And so it was said, so it shall be done: 2010’s Most Superior Bitch Move, decided and awarded, swiftly and officially, to Alex, based on the 2-word snippet above. The year’s only halfway through, and he had to go up against LeBron’s self-fellating TV hour, and still–A-Rod came out on top! That’s some real skill.

Seu Jorge – “Queen Bitch.” My heart’s in the basement/My weekend’s at an all-time low, Bowie said. This song’s about A-Rod, you see. ‘Cause it’s about a bitch.

mp3.

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UC Davis goes dumb and not in a good way.

Austin Sendek, a 20-year-old UC Davis student, is trying to get scientists from Boise to Beijing to use the term ‘hella’ to denote the unimaginably huge, seldom-cited quantity of 10 to the 27th power [LA Times]

E-40, in my most private, staring-out-the-window-in-a-fabulous-daydream moments, is my secret English professor (Paul Barman and Doomsy are the tag-teaming TAs). And outside the classroom (still in my daydream; try to follow along) 40 is reconstructing the Tower of Babel, attempting to unite all citizens of Earth in niche Greater Yay Region slanguage.

You understand, then, that I am sad and confused that there is an E-40-shaped hole in a newspaper article that is about both the state of California and linguistic units of meaning. 40’s next mixtape will be called “Signifiers and the Signified,” a Saussurian conceptual piece about weight and work and baking soda and whether Glenn Beck is secretly a left-wing comic who’s doing great satire. Since he is a state treasure both for his linguistic strength and the fact that he is a rapper over the age of 38, E-40 should be consulted regarding anything added to the lexicon. Flamboastin and gangsterous didn’t really take off, but still. Respect this.
(I wish you no ill will, science nerds, since I am one of you, but please! Leave “hella” back in 1997, science nerds, and call 40 to come up with the word for “1000000000000000000000000000,” which, with a dollar sign in front of it, is already what he has retrieved in revenue during the fiscal year 2011.)

I needed an E-40, uh, knocker, and luckily THIS ONE NEVER GETS OLD. Rick Rawk, marry me and lovingly insert your bassline into my body every night. Thank youuu.

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Alphabetically stuck on that English.


Language moments that pleased me this week.

Since it’s not Aug.-Oct. ’09 I’m not really listening to OB4CL2 anymore. Girls are finicky and not very loyal, so what do you expect. We move on. Rae doesn’t care; he’s making a video for Ason Jones” and the coverage of it allows me to revisit this:

“Five foot seven, a legend was born, Russell ‘Ason’ Jones/I know him for his braids and lessons.” Plus he could dance slow and had knowledge 120 and would be killing things on Twitter if he were here.

Apart from my excitement in knowing ODB and I were the same physical size (!) thanks to this couplet here, the braids/lessons line is a restrained and lovely statement. He looked like this, and he talked like this, Rae says, but in far fewer words than I’d need and in a much gentler tone of voice than I’d use when describing ODB, a man for whom I have so much affection. Always calm, that Rae. Steadfast. Additionally, a Dilla beat is probably the only kind that could accurately carry the pathos of a tribute song.

Bun B & T-Pain, Trillionaire.” Terrible song despite the presence of Bun’s voice and the line where he says “tubular” then adds “uvula” as a colorful descriptive in that part about getting oral, but I’m including this one based on the feelings of disbelief it has stirred up within me. Nobody who raps and is from the state of Texas thought to make a song called “Trillionaire before?

Also not yet used and that I’m offering everyone with a mixtape and a Port Arthur ZIP code: Dressed to trill. Mentally trill. An uptrill battle. It’s all downtrill from here. Where there’s a trill there’s a way. Saul Trilliams. And of course, the least-respected member of the Geto Boys, Trillie D. Limited time offer. Everything must go.

Taking place in Brooklyn as of this very moment, the Afro-Punk Festival is a redundantly-named gathering (it’s rather like putting Afro- in front of R&B or blues or rock). Nonetheless, I fully support it because Mos Def, J*Davey, POS, and the Bad fucking Brains (hello) are playing. So it’s redundant but still nice. What, no Race Music Festival?

“We want to expose kids to the idea that there’s a different option, a different way to be,” said Matthew Morgan, a London native who helped start the festival partly in the spirit of uplift for minority children. “If everyone wears baggy trousers, and we all look the same, how rebellious is that?”

HIGH FIVE and EXACTLY, said the girl in her tiny apartment who has the appearance and carriage of a schoolteacher but the heart of a 17-year-old boy from Queens in ’95, Dah Shinin playing in his Civic.


Finally, someone calls out individuals who use the truncated simile too often on the microphone. Unfortunately, that someone was the annoying, monotone-voiced Canadian. I never thought we’d agree on anything, he and I, and now I need a shower. Thanks, Aub.

Man fuck it I’m out,
Black owned and I’m bout it fool
I got a studio in my house

Along with some of the perks that come with my work

Pretty twentysomething sleeping in my Diamond Supply shirt
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New Curren$y feat. Mos & Jay Electronica, “The Day” (it keeps getting taken down, but it’s worth the search). Even though the word “featuring” is inappropriately used here since Mos is just on the chorus and we all remember what a hard time we gave a certain bomb-dropping individual when he tried to get away with that, this song is excellent and notable for the following reasons:

Wack n—as with that sleep rappin and woke up in trouble
You was cool 10 years ago, you fuckin Lex bubbles!

(My exclamation point for emphasis.) a) Curren$y sounds like he’s about to fall asleep on account of the THC impeding his psychomotor coordination, and I commend the way he still manages to keep up with the rhythm of things. b)“Lex bubbles,” welcome to my vocabulary as the newest and freshest in derogatory terms. I’ll be incorporating it repeatedly into conversation for the next 2 weeks.

the last line about the sleeping half-naked girl paints a very clear picture. I can practically see her lying over there. I hope you brought a hairbrush, sweetie. (Also, Nicky Diamonds–I continue to be jealous of your high-quality rap associations.)

Bout it is still showing up in verses by Louisiana MCs. That’s un-ironically great. In recent years we’ve been bout this, of course, and sometimes bout that, but nothing really makes an impact as much as the original declaration.

– Not really English-language-related, but the song is produced by Ski, who’s been committed to blacksploiting every beat he comes into contact with since ’97. He did some stuff on Reasonable Doubt II, but that was not as appealing to me as his Camp Lo stuff. It’ll always be uptown Saturday night in apt. 15. Love you, Ski.

Of Montreal, “Coquet Coquette.” [Stereogum] See, sometimes I like music from Georgia that’s not Grand Hustle or Dungeon Family or the Allman Brothers or that got its start on the chitlin circuit.
mp3.

Coquet Coquette
You know I won’t forget
How you kissed me strange to prove you were mythical
Oh my Coquet you use my voice as your earthly vehicle

Coquet Coquet
You know I won’t forget
How you hurt me twice to prove you were cynical
Oh my Coquet, you are the death, you are the pinnacle

With you I can only see my black light constellations
And other shit I don’t think I have the language to say
I don’t want to catch you with some other guy’s face under your eyelids
Something must be wrong, you give me emotional artifacts
That can find no purchase…

Coquet Coquette
You know I won’t forget
How you made me cry to prove I was dutiful
Oh my Coquet, my teenage lust for you is so pitiful

This feature on the making of Aquemini is the latest forum for Andre to reveal himself as Sun Ra with a Geouhgia accent. My teenage lust for him is so pitiful.

– “You find some of the fakest people with dreads pouring oils on you.”

– “I’m so not in the world that I didn’t know Vincent Price had passed. I was going to have him on there.” I love it when he proudly trumpets his disconnect from earthly things. I’m so not in the world. Swoon.

– “I always wonder, what’s the last song recorded in the world going to sound like?”

– “Iceberg Slim used to put out albums talking on beats and I was like, ‘This is cool.’ I think I laid down my verse first and Big just came in. But instead of spoken word, Big likes to call it ‘smokin’ word.’ That was his smokin’ word.”

– “I remember reading about human beings and how if everybody is in the same place, humanity can go to another dimension. And when I’m saying that and recording that – ‘You are now entering the fifth dimension of ascension/Our only mission is to take you high’ – that’s what I’m thinking. I was just trying to make the impossible out of music, make people rise in some kind of way.” Andre’s got the hippie spirit of my dad, but he’s not my dad, which is a grand thing because it means we can have relations without it being incestuous. That was a close one.


Adorable punctuation silkscreen in which characters assume voices and personalities and describe their functions in a pun-filled group scene. This, along with this, is the perfect snapshot of my sense of humor. Deal with it.

Thanks. I picked it up in Paris. Ha.

She got jumper cable lips.

– Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros, “40 Day Dream,” a song about wanting to die because she’s so wonderful. Oh, you could just die because of her gold doorknobs for eyes. If I were this girl, I’d be flattered, but because I don’t require metaphor in flattery, I’d also enjoy hearing You have a lovely grasp of grammar and Do you want to wear my Diamond Supply shirt and sleep in my bed.

“All I Do Is Win” is constantly on the radio in my Civic and I don’t mind so much, shockingly. (I don’t need to link to it; just turn on your radio).

It’s incredible that Rawss is still lyrically committed to presenting himself as a kingpin, like we’re all gonna forget what we saw on The Smoking Gun. The best part of having this song in my life is when I’m driving around and it comes on the radio, I find myself getting excited just before Snoop’s verse comes in. His cadence is pulled straight from an R&B song. The lyrics aren’t telling me anything new but if you think of the words as being written and spoken by E-40, they’ll mysteriously just have more meaning. S’just the way it is, Snoop.

Heat in the kitchen, pot on the stove
Water getting boiled, dope being sold
Snoopy in the hoopty, system overload
I’ve been running this rap game since I was 20 years old
I hung with the worst of them
Bust till I burst on ’em
Floss ’em up, toss ’em up, Hardaway, boss ’em up
Pardon me I bossing the pressure up, bless ya bruh
Don’t wanna mess with us
We like the U in the 80’s
Back to back set a trap
Hit the lick, hit it back
Hit the trick, jump the track
Bitch I want my money back
Time and time again while I’m sipping on this gin
Al Davis said it best, just win baby win.

Alcindor graduates, 1969.

Failing to prepare is preparing to fail, and other things of that nature. John Wooden gave us all those bite-sized aphorisms that Bill Walton is compiling for Chicken Soup for the Basketball Player’s Soul. You just wanna take these sayings and carve ’em into something wooden and hang it in front of your house. Right up there with fireworks to signify some sort of climax or declaring you’re going to Disneyland or Compton when you’ve won a televised athletic competition, Wooden’s cliches are unparalleled. I mean, never in a million years did I think I’d be doing a post about him.

“The main ingredient of stardom is the rest of the team,” John Wooden said, and I believe it was the Main Ingredient who said “Everybody plays the fool, sometimes.” There’s no exception to this. And hey, since we’re talking about the Main Ingredient, let’s revisit this thing of sonic cheerful sunshiny beauty whose drum break was borrowed and gently placed inside “Things Done Changed.”

Ronald Artest The Ever-Quotable is just too great, too wonderful of a human. He can’t be real. This interview with him has achieved classic status in apt. 15; I look at the photo above–my new desktop background–and read the exchange aloud, alternating between my own voice when I play the interviewer, and a scratchy voice with a Queens lilt when I do Ron’s parts.

Do you think the Lakers would be the champs today if Ariza, and not you, was their swingman?

Yeah, I think so. I think they still would’ve beaten Boston with Trevor. I really believe that.

You know, thanks to you, your psychiatrist, Dr. Santhi, is the most famous name in her profession since Sigmund Freud.

I just love her. She helped me relax in the storm — in a huge storm. I was in the eye of the storm, and I was able to control the storm, and it was beautiful. So un-self-conscious.

(Until) now, the only humans to hear “Champions” were your musical collaborators and the boys in your locker room. You started floating the song around the team midseason. It has since become the team’s unofficial anthem. What inspired you to record it?

“Well, when I decided I was going to be in L.A., a guy I was working with said, ‘You’re going to be a champion.’ So I wrote a song called ‘Champions.’ But it’s a song for everybody. It’s not just about basketball. It’s not about sports. It’s for anyone who wants to be a champion — a champion father, a champion mother. Anybody can be a champion.” TICAAAAAL.

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“Just as the habit does not make the monk, the sceptre does not make the king” and other news (Sara, Manute, Fender, Shider, Lakeshow, the Sipp)

Quote above courtesy of writer, communist, and champion of the people Jose Saramago, who died this week. Once you go Marxist, your name is forever dirt among the small-minded; what more is there to say. And I loved Blindness; what more can I say.

The masses get excited for Drake and his cringe-inducing lyrical non-prowess (“What am I doing? What am I doing?/Oh yeah, that’s right: I’m doing me”), when it’s Saramago, a real man of letters, who should be celebrated–and not just in his native Portugal.
Behold the beauty below. Obrigado, senhor.


Beautiful-facial-featured Spanish WAG Sara Carbonero is my new girlfriend with whom I’ll be running away to a land where we can marry and lounge around nakedly and read Neruda poems to each other all day long. With that skin tone and those Arab eyes–her face is like the illustrated history of the Moors fornicating their way through Europe–she rules my heart, yes, but is still only my second-favorite Spaniard, behind this gorgeous specimen:

Quantic – “Juanita Bonita.”

mp3.


God bless the freaks, went one of the more prominent bumper stickers I’d see at Dead shows when I was little. Amen, brother.

Manute Bol, my brother in unnatural-body-type-ism (his unnaturalness was height and lank; mine is scrawny legs and fat hips), was a good guy. He was able to withstand the vast difficulties and rude stares incurred as a result of being 7’7″ (that’s like a head taller than Garnett, yikes) and used his fame and money to the benefit of causes in his home country, the Sudan. He was also so smart that he really was somewhat a nerd, which makes me love him even more.

When he played for Philadelphia, Bol became friends with Charles Barkley, who shares this:

You know, a lot of people feel sorry for him, because he’s so tall and awkward, but I’ll tell you this — if everyone in the world was a Manute Bol, it’s a world I’d want to live in. He’s smart. He reads The New York Times. He knows what’s going on in a lot of subjects. He’s not one of these just-basketball guys. Basketball’s just one percent of it. You know what he was talking about the other day? Milk. He was saying that he grew up on milk straight from the cow. Squeezed it himself. Milk. He says, ‘Charlie, what’s this lo-fat milk, this two percent milk, all of this other milk? Cows don’t give lo-fat milk, two percent milk. We shouldn’t drink it.’ I don’t know. Maybe he’s got something. Ain’t no maybe about it, Charles. Except maybe he’d tell you to stop doing those T-Mobile commercials because they’re not funny, and do you really need the money at this point, unless you’re giving it to charitable causes in the Sudan? Good lord.

Please get me this book, out later in June: Fender: The Golden Age 1946-1970. Guitars are perfect because the sounds they emit fill our lives with joy, and because they are shaped like women. Ain’t no maybe about that, neither.

Gary Shider, Diaperman, Starchild, has left this place and joined the big cosmic slop up there above the clouds. He was proficient in gospel and goddammit if that’s not what this music is, below.

Coke & headphones are necessary here, after you press play. C’mon, a little won’t kill you.

In the role-playing game of Funk Gods If They Were Clan Gods,

Bernie Worrell is RZA (song constructor),
Eddie Hazel is GZA (space cowboy in tune with the cycles of the moon; not of this earth),
George is Mef (charisma, voice),
Bigfoot Brailey is Rae (the anchor, consistent, unflashy),
Bootsy is Ghosty (often high-pitched voice),
and Shider, of course, is ODB. Because he wore a diaper on stage, people.

Lakeshow necessities:

“Drake Brings Out Kobe at Powerhouse” is a headline which could also just as accurately say “2 Wack Rappers on Stage at Powerhouse.” My strong sense of integrity means that I simply cannot overlook bad music, which explains my snark here, but #24 is still the greatest. And hey, what happened to all those people who were making fun of the LA Times magazine spread? So weird, how they’re not really running their yaps right now. You oughta be ashamed, e-thugs. It’s like the liquor store owner in Menace said: I feel sorry for your mother.

Ron-Ron has a song called “Champion” that is, let’s be honest, not very good, but the best part about following this link is that you’ll see various commenters on Rap Radar correctly ascertaining that it’s far superior to anything on Drake’s album. I find comfort in this, being understood by my brothers in hip-hop, even though I dislike the fact that Ron had to do it over that goddamn Beamer Benz beat. WHYYYY in the name of Long Island City his verses were not done over “The Bridge” instrumental is beyond me, but I love Ronald always and forever. If things don’t work out with Sara C. and me, he’s definitely my next conquest.

Most of the team (sorry, Luke) and a spectacular pair of Harlequin pants were guests on Jimmy Kimmel. Update: even if things do work out between Sara and me, I’m setting my sights on Ron. He’s my density.


Haley Barbour is the Republican governor of Mississippi, deflector of criticism aimed at BP, and brand-new Dude Who Will Not Be Seeing Me Naked. Welcome, Haley! Pull up a seat next to Sean Hannity, just behind all the dudes in that goddamn Grown-Ups movie who bored me to death with their courtside appearances and half-assed takes on NBA rivalries during the finals (even you, Chris Rock, who disappointed me most of all because you should know better).

Barbour is going to be trouble, I can feel it already. “A self-described ‘fat redneck,’ he speaks in a marble-mouthed Mississippi drawl, loves Maker’s Mark bourbon, resembles an adult version of Spanky from the Little Rascals and fits no one’s ideal of a sleek new political model: squat, big-bellied and pink-jowled, he looks as if he should have a cigar in his mouth at all times (and occasionally does),” and makes it clear he’d be none too pleased if his daughter were to bring home a young man of color. Oops, I may have added that last part.

“A bunch of liberal elites were hoping this would be the Three Mile Island of offshore drilling,” said Mr. Barbour, who earns over $120,000 annually but is in no way a dreaded elite. This was in response to the BP spill, which Barbour insists was not very consequential–I mean, oil won’t affect the ecosystem just offshore from his state, which he knows for a fact based on his scientific research that consists of walking along the Mississippi coastline and seeing that very few tar balls have washed up. Offshore drilling employs a lot of people in Mississippi, and it’s nice that he’s defending that; however, I believe he has an even stronger sense of obligation to defend the oil companies that gave him $1.8 billion toward his gubernatorial campaign.

“I appreciate him promoting tourism,” said Diane Peranich, a Democratic state representative from the coast in response to Barbour’s public statements of delusion, “but not to the detriment of reality.”

Home to this guy and birthplace of Elvis, plus that whole Chaney-Goodman-Schwerner unpleasantness, Mississippi needs a miraculous turnaround if it hopes to redeem itself after all these years. David Banner and Bo Diddley can’t carry the whole state, you guys.

America is broke/its backbone was built off of dope, oil and false hope.
David Banner – “When You Hear What I Got to Say.” I sure do love this song, especially right around the second minute. Like me, David’s got a dirty mouth but a pristine soul.


mp3.

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On some teleprompter shit I got you watching your words.


“Cognitive Dissonance”: a Blog Post in Two Acts.


I. “Little Brother’s Retirement Party” in the Village Voice. The article is good because Brandon Soderberg wrote it, even though he did that thing in music articles that I hate and that is just so popular right now – “(Musical artist) is _____ (doing something seemingly unrelated to music, present continuous tense); ______ (location and mood are established, musical artist shows human/humble side while maintaining artistic sheen and allure).” Soderberg is my OG imaginary writing/nerding-out buddy from way way back; he does a fine job with this piece. Additionally, the picture that accompanies the article is dreamy, I’m introduced to the category “John Kerry hip-hop” and shall henceforth use the term whenever possible, and for everybody who makes fun of me for singing along with J. Biebs on Power 106, Phonte would like to punch you in the mouth! We’re part of the unapologetically-liking-bad-music army. Join us or perish.

Dude, if you like Gucci Mane’s music, he says, like it! Rock with us because you like us, not because of what you think it represents or whatever ideology you pulled out your ass and put on us.

YEAH, I exclaim, WHAT HE SAID! BURR!

Then the article reveals that Drake calls Phonte his favorite MC, which casts a dreary shadow upon an article dedicated to the greatness of Little Brother. “Phonte is my favorite MC,” I imagine he yelled, in that loud, LOUD fucking monotone. By the way, how odd that I like Bieber the Canadian Elf extensively more than a semi-attractive rapper who does songs with Bun B. Hm. Never thought I’d see the day. Turn and face the strange. Ch-ch-changes.

II. Montgomery C. Burns and his sideways smirky face and sideways smug talk, quoted in Time.

Boastful braggery is a tough one to pull off without a bag of rhymes and an amazing producer; Dick Cheney has neither, so he never stood a chance with that quote above. When I first read those words, it sounded self-congratulatory and obnoxious. That’s sort of the best thing I ever did, telling another grown man to fuck off. I RULE. Bow in the presence of greatness. It’s not that simple, though, because when you think about it, the words he said are true. It is the best thing he ever did, mostly because it was a rare moment in which he did not increase Halliburton’s profits or send 19-year-olds to the desert. In my soft and girly moments, I think that maybe Dick’s acknowledging what a ghastly job his administration did, and how evil permeated the landscape between the years 2001 and 2008 in America. Maybe he’s trying to apologize. This throws me, because Cheney scary bad man! My head hurts.


“Worldwide trunk funk, no jazz on the East.” A Kool Keith + Doom tag-team rap song, possibly one day? Alas, the Music Gods have not yet made it so. My heart and mind couldn’t sustain the libidinous energy flowing through my slender body upon first listen. Plus I’m sure there’s beef somewhere in their history. Boys and their feelings, you know?

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At the 40/40 club, ESPN on the screen.

NY lovehate.


1. “Jay-Z is my favorite MC.” – Rakim.

He added, “Well, except for ‘Forever Young.’ That song’s bullshit.


Which it is! Fuckin A, Kanye. Stop making bad things happen. Sloppy production work, my dear. Sloppy sloppy. And lazy. Very lazy.

(And yes, the song is awful drivel, but the video of Jay and his lovely wife dueting at Coachella made me teary-eyed. Of course. I mean, Jesus Christ, I’m not some kind of monster).

Hot damn though: being able to buy your mom whatever she wants? Moving units while maintaining the respect of nerdy ladybloggers? And now this, THE GOD Rakim proclaiming his affection for you to the world? Must be nice. Must be real nice. Jay-Z owns the universe and everything in it. He’s our new Oprah.


2. KRS still a crabby old guy, still needs a hobby.

He’s decided to boycott the newly-opened National Museum of Hip Hop located in the Bronx, citing Afrika Bambaataa’s claim that the event is “illegitimate.” [HipHopDX]

I can endorse this.

1. Any translation of hip hop into a museum display is impossible unless Bill Adler is the curator or all the Ego Trip boys do a version of it in my living room.

2. Like KRS, Afrika Bambaataa is my spiritual advisor. I obey him. If he says something is bad and wrong, I steer clear.

3. As the founder of a 1-woman crusade against Drake that has so far been unsuccessful in its attempt to prevent kids from downloading his music, I have sympathy for KRS as he puts out press releases about hip hop history as if people care. Also, KRS can be cranky, is always yelling about how elders must be respected, and he thinks old music is better than new music. KRS and I are twins.


3. I dislike the Yanquis more than you could possibly understand, I mean it’s a real fiery hot passion, but this story warmed my ice-cold heart. Like, the Yankees are Cindy Lou-Who and I’m the Grinch, maybe?

On Thursday, April 15, every MLB player wore #42 in honor of Jackie Robinson, who broke baseball’s color barrier on that date in 1947.

The Yankees were host to the Angels. Second baseman Robinson Cano was named in honor of Robinson. (That’s Rodriguez, Jeter, and Cano above.) He hit 2 home runs during the game, which the Yankees won. And before the game, Cano presented a bouquet of flowers to Rachel Robinson, Jackie’s widow, whose family was honored in ceremonies that day. 44,7-hundred-or-so persons were in attendance. It was 71 degrees outside. New babies were made. I got a puppy. Glenn Beck was in a tragic larynx-damaging accident resulting in his voice being rendered completely silent forever. Etc, etc.

We don’t want no problems, B! Crooklyn Dodgers for musical accompaniment, of course, because what else was I gonna post if not Masta Ace and his nasally voice? I know you wanna enter but I can’t let you in/My mind state’s the maddest; I’m gone with the wind.

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Oh Word: “Bill Withers makes the case for sincerity in subtlety” edition

I’m sick and tired of somebody saying ‘I love you’ with both arms up in the air.

“As Is: Bill Withers makes no apologies,” The New Yorker (Sasha Frere-Jones. Of course. Swoon.):

“Withers’s gift lies in the immediacy of his scenarios and in how few words he needed to turn around a thought: his common explanation for how he reached conclusions as a writer is ‘I was feeling what I said.’ His willingness to express his most awkward emotions was matched by an intolerance for unsubstantiated shows of emotion.”

The build-to-crescendo progression here makes me feel happy, joyous, and free. Thanks, Bill!

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