Miami's got an inferiority complex that goes like this: everyone got a cousin or a granny or a sexy au pair from New York, so they put that shit on a pedestal like it ain't been infected by a rash of cornballs under Bloomberg and Giuliani. Everyone say "305 till I die" until their wack ass ends up riding a fixie through Bushwick, rubbin elbows with lames rockin Desert Boots and cardigan sweaters. They ain't got the vision to put work into their own city, so they jump ship and fuck up someone else's.
Can't really blame em, cause we got no love for our own. GUNPLAY gets way more love from Internet nerds than from local radio or clubs. Meantime we let Art Basel yuppies define our city during the week they "capture the local color" like tone-deaf anthropologists, as if they understand why it's in our DNA to fuck with RICK ROSS, fuck what anyone thinks of our beloved, maligned Wing Stop magnate. It's the same reason why a Memphis-jockin' museum archivist like SPACEGHOSTPURRP and a weird weirdo like LOFTY305 get buzz from bloggers, even tho no one actually fucks with em like that.
This MIKE SMIFF joint "No Otha Way" is a prime example of what modern Miami rap is all about: joyously ignorant, swaggering come-up music. Ain't gonna change the face of music or nothin, but one of the best features of rap music is its regionalism: when someone from your neck ov the woods puts on for your city. When SMIFF hiccups prosaic lines like "Cruisin through the city bumpin Trick Daddy / Dro in the wind up in this mothafucka!" it means more to me than any of the turgid statement-raps RUN THE JEWELS are purveyin these days. It's something I can relate to cause I know the feeling, and that's what this rap shit is all about. End of the day I'm a simple man.