Sunday, December 14, 2014


Yo, ya boy back from the brink and I ain't talkin clink!  Got kidnapped by a jam band while I was skiin da slopes, fell victim to Stockholm syndrome, and swore off all rap music but the cargo short kind.

Anyway, what about this new SHY GLIZZY tape, Law 3?   Best mixtape since IDK, that ASHER ROTH joint I was bangin back in my puka shell days.

But yo, let's get straight to the track "Funeral."  It's a gospel banger courtesy of KE ON THE TRACK, wherin GLIZZY envisions the illustrious mourners and ostentatious hijinks gon bless his funeral.  Spoiler: it sounds a lot like King of Diamonds.  He reflects on the conditions of loved ones, rhapsodizes all DANTE n BEATRICE PORTINARI on his bitch, and articulates his game plan before death's unforeseeable, inevitable scythe cuts him down.

It's an inspired entry in a classic rap theme: joyful celebration of death, mournful acknowledgement of life, the same contradiction that cats like SCARFACE, BIGGIE, and PAC built they reputations upon; it's that very same kinda emotional resonance that makes they listeners more acolytes than fans.

But ain't that what good art is all about?  Fuck life, but middle finger to death too.  Ain't know why we here - can't go on, I'll go on, son!

Friday, February 14, 2014



 Me and my goon was real lit one night, bottle-breaking drunk, swerving through traffic in a vintage Dodge Dart.  With a crooked smile and a long swig of Mad Dog 20/20, I put on an old CD-R mix of Clear Channel rap I'd paid $5 for in middle school.  SILKK THE SHOCKER and TRINA's "That's Cool" started rattling through the sound system.  "This is fantastic," saith my goon, as he located it on iTunes for the reasonable price of $.99.

When we awoke from the revelry we were locked in an uneasy embrace, our limbs flecked with scrapes and scratches of mysterious origin, the Dodge Dart lodged firmly in a ditch.  "Why did I download this garbage?" he whined.  I excused myself from the situation and left my buddy to his automotive difficulties, but the SILKK track still remained in my memory.

I found still more bounty in the video.  After an establishing shot of snow-covered mountains, SILKK smirks through a wink-wink nudge-nudge explanation of the video:  "No, not in Hawaii, not Cancun, not on the beach.  I'm bout to do this thing in Juneau, Alaska!"

The beat, a typical early-00s rap pastiche of vaguely Asian influence, begins as three desperados on snowmobiles tear-ass over a bend of snow.  They proceed to release Hell upon the slopes throughout the video, performing gnarly blowouts and perilous mogul carves, while SILKK joins them via green screen.  His looks are on-point: fur-lined parka, chic skarf, an impressive assortment of knit hats.

What defines this as a product of its era, however, are the goggles resting on his forehad.  We all remember the curious run of goggles as fashion accessory in mid/late-'90s hip-hop, but in this situation SILKK actually needs them.  What do we make of this?  Is it a knowing send-up of the uselessness of Rap Goggles, obligatory realist prop, or merely an off-the-cuff gag?

Intention doesn't necessarily matter, for the goggles signify multitudes, as does the video.  It's a fish-out-of-South-Beach recontextualization of the Bad Boy style rap video, just as much as it is goofy fun, just as much as it is an admission of the same style of video-making's exhausted possibilities.  The automobile and video hoe tropes have been done so many times that the only way to burnish them with some degree of newness is to place them in an outlandish locale.  The cycle continues.

Also, TRINA is a good rapper.

Friday, February 7, 2014


So yo, lately I been noticing an alarming trend in certain schools of Rap Music Thought: distaste for the DJ who be yellin all over the tracks.  You know what I'm talkin bout - the "GANG-STA GRIZZ-ILLZ" and "DAAAAAMN SON, WHERE'D YOU FIND THIS?" loudmouths of the world.  Really tho?  U really wanna go out of your way to find a version wherein those not-so-subtle joys are eliminated?  Yo, that's like eating a bunless burger, kid.

I'm sure smarter minds than me could argue that the DJ is a commentary on the multimedia cacophony of tha postmodern/digital age, but I ain't about that Ivory Tower fuckboy shit.  I'm sure more research-oriented minds than me could research the shit outta the bloviating DJ, trace the thread all the way to the precursors of hip-hop - catch me at the soundclash - and show how it's an essential part of the culture.  But yo, I ain't that dude.  I just think listenin to a DJ-free version of a rap cassette is anemic, and moreover, just a bad look.  It's like watching a 3D movie without ya specs.  Like rockin an tailored suit without the pocket square.  Like eatin French Onion Soup without the gratinee. Think about it.

Saturday, January 18, 2014


Lol, but this shit is funny, ain't it?  I was just chirpin bout MMG runnin the rap game in the mold of '90s BAD BOY, and ol fat-ass releases a HYPE WILLIAMS directed video.  Although it ain't necessarily up to par with classic era HYPE, it still stimulates the viewer in the same way that originally got his videos noticed, posing such brain-breaking questions as, "How can a ferris wheel possibly support the rolling fats of a RICK ROSS?"  I think it's either a studio set or some green screen wizardry.  I bin on ferris wheels, and them shits is rickety.

Because ROSS' verses ain't disrupting digestive system function or nothin, they are technically forgetable, but after "Devil in a Red Dress" it just sound right for him to rock over a YEEZY beat.  All hail the fat one.

Friday, January 17, 2014


Dearest Reader,

Recently I vamoosed outta Jax Hole for a weekend 'cause shit was gettin hot on the slopes.  I was boinkin some married ski bunnies, and let's just say their husbands weren't feelin my particular brand of sexual libertinism.  So I shunted down to the teeming metropolis of Cheyenne (Chey-Town, stand up!), where I indulged in certain urban amenities unavailable in even the grimiest corners of my beloved hometown.

I wents down to the Cheyenne ghetto and let myself bathe in the chaos and grit.  Methlabs exploding on every corner.  Skechers shoesHooters girl's socks.  Terrifying stuff.  But like a year spent backpacking across Europe on yo parents' dime, it gave me some much-needed perspective.  I'll spare u the intimate details of my self-realization, but as I stood on tha block watchin flames engulf a trailer-home methlab, I heard TRACY T's "16" blarin from the tinny speakers of an Android phone.

I was like, "Yo, Cletus, this shit is bonkers.  MIGOS gwan run 2014 even more obnoxiously than they ran 2013."  To which Cletus, nodding mournfully, responded, "My friend, this is not MIGOS you hear.  'Tis a young scribe by the name of TRACY T.  Recently signed to the venerable MAYBACH MUSIC GROUP."

Sheeeeeiiittt.  You could've fooled me wit dat mouthbreather syncopation, the wack-a-mole repetition -- the conspicuous use of the word "migo."  Gotta say, though, this shit had be bouncin in my Rossignols.  Could it be that the facsimile was just as good - if not better - than the original?  Reminded me of 1989, the year punk broke, when TAD made the unlikely jump into the rooms of teenage girls and middle-America malls.  Soon there were imitators like CANDLEBOX, NIRVANA, BUSH, and CREED, many of whom were arguably better than the originators.  Will this be the case with the MIGOS sound?

Time will only tell.  In the meantime, it must be noted: despite the vocal disapproval, the borderline derision of the Rap Music blogtelligentsia, MMG has quickly amassed the biggest dynasty RAP MUSIC has seen since early '00s ROC-A-FELLA or mid-'00s DIPSET.  G.O.O.D. MUSIC?  Don't make me laugh, child, they some middle-management second fiddles.  Hate it or love it, MMG is on top!