Monday, July 24, 2017

all this and baltimore

One love to the Baltimore carpetbaggers sauced out in Old Bay drapery. One love to the Boh sippers and the dope feens leanin' on St. Paul.

Cash Money tributes are more played out than hashtag punchlines and Comme des Fuckdown longsleeves. But in that deluge of superficial aesthetic mining and cynical nostaljack bait, few attempted to make something that actually sounded like vintage Cash Money. T.S.O. Tadoe, who made some noise in 2015 w/ "YSN," runs with Cash Moneys public-housing thematics over a bed of that anime-fight-scene woosh Mannie often used (e.g. "Trigga Play"); Noz could probably tell you what synth he used if you study at the Red Bull Music Academy.

VERDICT: Better than Tyga's "Cash Money." Not as good as "Whores In This House."

As a teenage Noz stan, I co-opted his single-minded hatred of Birdman. Noz regarded Birdman as the Big Tymers' fatal flaw, kind of like how El-P's rapping, beats, concepts, beard, red hair, wardrobe choices, and existence are the fatal flaw of RTJ. He finally understood what Birdman brought to the table after a magical weekend listening to Poncho Sanchez with Lil' B, but he never explained what caused the sudden about-face. Perhaps it was a mix of Brandon's charisma and the realization that Birdman's sneer and lavish no-nonsense raps enabled Mannie's tomfoolery. Ya boy been listening to a bit of Big Money Heavyweight 'cause it's one of two Big Tymers albums on Spotify, and it dawned on me that Mannie and Baby don't quite get their due in the annals of rap duos. Big Tymers >>> Nice & Smooth >>> Group Home >>> Black Star.

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

sensitive thugs need hugs, but don't we all?

Ayo! Last I heard from Yee, he was mobbin w/ Yid on "Keep It On Me." Yeah they sounded like a Sino-Borscht Belt vaudeville act, but the way they brought that spirit-of-'01 Orientalist approach to Bay street-rap had this blogga C-walkin in his honeycomb AIs.

Yee is back with a sensitive gangsta ballad that's somewhere between YFN Lucci (a/k/a New Akon) and Yhung TO. For all the ink spilled about the nihilism of gangsta rap, the Pacs and 'Faces of da world balanced it with serious moral engagement. Actually, dumb man, it was the most moral music being made in the '90s, especially when you consider all the indie rock bands writing songs about nothing. What damaged the youth more: irony or deeeeeez nuuuuts? Clearly the Soundcloud and mumble-rap gang is following in the footsteps of the morally vacuous likes of Stephen Malkmus, 'cause they ain't rapping about nothing. It's just bitch this and Molly that, repeated to the point that they lose their meaning. Based God, Based God, what have ye done?

Soon we'll have a whole generation gettin head in the whip and poppin Xans but feeling nothing. That's fine wit me 'cause I don't believe in anything either, but I'm glad we have moral sages like Lil Yee and other street-rap believers keepin the moral focus in the age of entropy. Listening to street-rap is a moral imperative.

Saturday, July 1, 2017


Wassup y'all? Ya droog been knee deep in this Milwaukee shit, and I ain't talkin Schlitz (tho I have been abusing alcohol). Finna cop me a self-driving car and ride up on some cross-country shit, find me a Native American potna and take moody photos of abandoned factories. You know, really discover the meaning of America, and through that...myself. To that, I can only say CHUUUCH.

One of the best songs I've encountered in this Milwaukee crop. Is it gimmicky to call yourself Lil Chicken, title your song "No Grease," and feature interstitial footage of Church's, Popeye's, and KFC in the video? Perhaps. But gimmickry, like hand motions and a passion for fashion, is an unspoken element of hip-hop.

YPN Dougie says it ain't a dance song - it's a dump song. But we in the non-binary age. Why can't it be both? Context tells me a dumper is a hustler, but a fat man talking about dumping suggests only one thing. Points to the rhythmically challenged YPN Kes for a great quotable ("Hop in this bitch, you gettin' dumped on / We don't listen to radio, just ringtones") followed by a problematic imperative to a female companion: "Bitch ridin talkinbout she gotta piss / Bitch you knew the rules before you hopped in this bitch / No drive-thrus / No bathrooms / No piss stops / And no issues!" Riding passenger ain't been this cold since Santana made his ladyfriend sit in the car without touching anything.

Tuesday, June 20, 2017


Milwaukee has a viable rap scene. I hear a lot of Chicago, some Bay Area by way of Detroit, and a dash of inescapable Atlanta. Question: Has the internet colonized the regional sound, or is it the sole reason we get to hear music that would have been damned to the random-rap afterlife in another era?

In b4 a reputable publication's MILWAUKEE IS THE NEXT RAP SEATTLE thinkpiece/link-dump gets passed around for a week by middle-class rap enthusiasts, who, when the thrill of discovery fades, dispatch its artists into the post-buzz hospice where Tate Kobang and G-Side mumble ciphers into the void. Chuuuuuch.


Lil Tre - Pain

The one that led me down the rabbit hole. Nothing fancy, just some laid-back reality rap for the goth bitch in your soul.

MT ft. Lil Chicken, YBN Kenny & The Mari Boyz- All Stars
Lil Durk making an ATL dance song with a couple guys rapping in the flat Bay Area accent? A light-hearted 3 Problems? SOBxRBE for beer brewers? Whatever the case, the fly athletic gear and sports theme bring ya mans back to earlier days. However, that's not to say I don't think it's totally PUNK when Young Thug wears a stately evening gown on some Audrey Hepburn shit. I'm more tolerant than you.

Mari Boyz - Jugging [sic]

Bleak, singsong street-rap is perhaps the biggest style breakthrough of the late-'00s/early-'10s. Who is the progenitor? Methinks Durk should get some of Keef's reevaluatory shine.

Wednesday, June 14, 2017


Honeycomb Hideout, nigga you be pickin em out
After I take my dick out, then we kickin em out
Stickin the flow, shrimp in my mouth
I won't pass, Ima show you what this pimpin about

Overlooked 2016 Jam now resurfacing on a collection of Ampichino duets. Like most things 'Chino, this is unpretentious roll-up-ya-sleeves rap executed with the professionalism of a plumber who'll unclog ya toilet, hand you a reasonable bill, and sell you a li'l blow while he's at it. A chipmunk soul sample and the back-and-forth patter of two MCs trading greezy quotables on bitches: word to Phil Oakey, these are the things RAP MUSIC HSYTERIA! dreams are made of.  Holla at ya engraver, this one deserves a spot in the hallowed halls of the Honeycomb Hideout.

Wednesday, May 31, 2017


HBK of Doughboyz (a/k/a Kiddo) back wit a solid sophomore outing. It's hard to recover from getting snuffed on film, but HBK's resilience should serve as inspiration for anyone who's been jumped by the metaphorical 15 goons that we call life. "Should I" is just a quality top-down Jay & Jermaine gettin gay in the "Money Ain't A Thing" video type banger, a song you could play as you drive up the West Side Highway in your '95 Miata doin it N.O.R.E.'s way and throwin ones in the air on that Raloesque humanitarian tip, some flossin type shit from a man old enough to remember when Cristal was the preferred fizzy wine, before they got racist and mothafuckas started drinking Ace of Spades or whatever.

You know I like that hardbody Detroit shit as much as the next blogbro, but sometimes I need to take a break from snatching chains and let my luscious bowl cut blow in the wind like Thelma and/or Louise. Chuuuch, my friends, CHUUUUUUUUUUCH.

Friday, May 26, 2017


Rode the snake from the Creek Boyz lake on this one. Let's get one thing straight: "With My Team" is a certified byanger, got pathos out the anus, but a lotta bloggas out here acting like it's a solemn-faced ode to friendship and nothing else. That's a selective reading. Right after thanking God he's not on a tshirt, Turk P. Diddy is back on his bullshit, reminiscing on a bitch who'll let the whole crew run train on her. Group sex expresses some form of male companionship, but it ain't something Teddy Roosevelt would encourage.

Young Fedi Mula (good postmodern rap names, these guys) spends the majority of his verse ranting about freak hoes. This does not bother me. I rock myself to sleep with problematic content. But to deliberately misrepresent the material is not just dishonest and manipulative, it ignores the fact that good rap in the post-gangster era is about contradiction and tension. Moments of extreme profundity are countered by lines of equal crassness; elegies become orgies. This is good.

Long touted as the nĂ¼ Brooklyn, Baltimore's rap surge could be a curse as much as a blessing. Picture twenty years in the future: the Baltimore Sun runs an incendiary article on the privileged yuppies living in Young Moose's childhood home. Yeah, it's crazy. But remember: they got gourmet cheese in Bed Stuy.