(Thanks to Wale's YouTube account for the hook up! This will be the only time we link to one of your videos, my doogalah)
The narrative for 2015: Meek Mill been havin a hot year. After gettin out of jail, he went up to Safaree on some "I challenge you to a duel" shit and probably even got Nicki to rummage his pants at some point. Chuuuch. He also been rappin his ass off with the kind of focus that got me thinkin, "Damn, maybe I should hit the clink for a bit. Do some meditation, rediscover the delights of drawing with crayons, duck the baby moms for a bit." But then I realize how ridiculous that idea is. I'm way too pretty to get beaten with a bar of soap in a tubesock, and I still have my own goals to accomplish before I give in to the comfortable life of a prison wife.
Anyway, I was kinda down on Meek after Dreamchasers 3. I was with him for the first two installments, but ya boy can only take so much inspirational emo-rap. I half expected Meek to get Elton John on a duet and record a video treatment where he wears a white suit and releases a dove into the air as the sun rises on Sandals Resort. It's a relief to hear him back on his flossing shit, the kind of "eat a dick" exuberance that is rap music's high water mark. First he dropped a song called "Monster" that wiped the floor with that Kanye song where Nicki does her irritating Bobcat Goldthwait impression. Now comes "Basic Bitch," the kinda joint that makes me wanna get my Jameis Winston on in public(Ed. note: not rape).
Meek doing a 10-14 song album consisting solely of Spirit of '85 Rubin/DMX/Smith electrofuturist funk is the recipe for a classic. Unfortunately it's the kind that doesn't sell any records, and I'm more interested in saving the bootlegging industry than the record industry. Still, I fucks with this style so much I can almost forget how stupid overexposed Migos have become, and remember how a young boy fell in love with "Chinatown" in the simpler times of 2013.
Forget about Cassidy and Freeway, the best rap battle of the '00s was Jin vs. Skitzo! This was back in the days of Jin's Freestyle Friday reign of terror on 106 & Park, before he won the Ruff Ryders deal and got his Charlie Chan on with "Learn Chinese." Jin had his 15 minutes and we ain't gonna debate the politics of his brief media blitz. Nah, we here to shed light on a rapper who, at least by Judges Mannie & Baby's reckoning, lost the rap battle, but whose subsequent contributions to the game won the rap war!
Now I loved when Jin compared his dingaling to dumplings and an egg roll, but like Chinatown in July, something don't smell right in this particular instance of corporatized battle rap fury. Word to God, only thing Jin won that day were sartorial points for his baby blue sweatsuit and matching hat combo. Skitzo ethered the god with lines like, "You fake Eminem / You should be on the Tampax Tour with Free, cause you act feminem!" I thought duke was steppin outta line and dissin the host with that zinger, but Free thanks him for the acknowledgement when he's done. I guess she was out on tour slangin da bloodclot at the time? He then says he got naked pictures of Jin's sister, gettin his Carrot Top on like a true showman and pullin out the ill censored pin-up that look like it was printed in a high school computer lab circa 1997. But yo, the coup de grace is whenhe channels Radio Raheem and asks, "What you wanna do / Battle me, or sell me dollar batteries?" pullin out a Duracell 9 Volt to complete the hip-hop/prop comedy cipher.
Jin will go down in history as the Wat Misaka of rap, but Skitzo went on to produce extensively for Cam and Dipset, including none other than the certifiable, undeniable, mad styleful classic "Get 'Em Girls." Now he back behind the mic gettin his Rap Game Billy Joel on under the Rod Rhaspy alias, playing pianos in the Uptown outdoors like Jones and his mans in the "Purple City Byrdgang" video.
Vince Staples got me all fucked up, mane. He should call himself Vince Cellulose, 'cause he hard to process! I wasn't really checkin for his shit since Odd Future jumped the shark, 'round the time Tyler dropped Goblin and everyone realized he was less teen RZA than new-wave Bam Margera. Maybe when a decade passes, and Jasper Dolphin appears on a Celebrity Rehab/Fit Club crossoverswagged out like W.A.S.P.'s guitarist in Decline Of Western Civilization: Part II, his raft sinking beneath the flab of countless late-night Taco Bell runs, we will all be able to acknowledge that Odd Future were the Insane Clown Posse for ppl who hate poor white trash. Until then, let's all forget how earnestly we shat our drawers in 2010. When I die, I'll have to account for all the time I spent listening to Hodgy Beats.
As a historical curiosity, Vince is the most intriguing artist to come up under the OF umbrella. Earl is straightforward. He's a smart kid making weird music, and rap history is riddled with weird nerds. In a subtle way, Vince is doing something new. Notwithstanding cursory nods to Doom and Madlib, Earl's music is ahistorical. No matter how popular it gets, it's niche music following a generic template of underground rap. You hear it and think, "Oh, that's underground rap," but you couldn't say if he's from L.A. or New York or Detroit. Vince's music is tethered to a geographically specific rap tradition that was culturally and commercially significant - L.A. gangsta rap - which means he has a broader base of references to quote and subvert. But he's also not being ironic. He's the first (kill me now) post-postmodern gangsta rapper.
I been peripherally aware of Vince's subsequent work, mainly cause the cover for Hell Can Wait reminded me of the one for Suffer. That's the kinda historical continuity I likes to see in my SoCal subcultures, and it seems that Vince is of the same mind. Like YG and Kendrick, he's conscious of his place in L.A.'s gangsta rap tradition. Kendrick never goes further than weaving G-funk signifiers into his Boyz N The Hood meets Fences drama-club raps. YG updates the genre while working within it. Vince, on the other hand, straddles gangsta and backpacker rap without committing to either. He engages both, but never fully.
YG's persona is more convincing more than Vince, and not just cause he was (supposedly) a gangbanger. Gangsta-rap is the unique genre where the authenticity of a persona really matters, and as far as I know, Vince grew up hard knock. This is where the OF association works against him. Gangsta rap requires a suspension of disbelief if it's going to work. It's a relationship between the artist and listener: you gotta be willing to give in to the fantasy, but the artist has to do his job and convince you. (Paradoxically, that's why Straight Out Of Compton is more compelling than Bangin' On Wax). The price of Vince's come-up is he'll always have some association with the Fairfax kids lined up for the limited Supreme shoetree.
Why should it matter? Wayne Perry was a gangsta. I read his profile in Don Diva and felt sick to my stomach. From the comfort of his TriBeCa loft, Jay-Z celebrates an unrepentant psychopath who murdered more black men than the cracker in Ferguson ever will. We all believe De Niro as Jimmy Conway even tho his artist parents both fucked this man, and what is gangsta-rap if it ain't the most lucrative form of performance art?
It shouldn't matter, but it does. Jay can't rap about hustlin no more. Cube went from AmeriKKKa's Most Wanted to nostalgia act in the time it took to make Are We There Yet? (dope movie). Rick Ross only lives cause no one believed him in the first place. But Vince is fashioning a a new kind of persona, one centering on the tension between gangsta and backpacker. YG is far and away the better artist right now, but he's limited himself to being a pitch-perfect formalist. And there's nothing wrong with that.The solution is simple: judge them not on the color of their bandana, but the way they fold it.
We ain't anti-cop over here at RPA MUSIC HYSTERIA, we pro-human! So when an NYPD cop died after taking a bullet to the dome, I went lookin for some pro-cop rap songs a). to honor a senseless killing and b). to see if such a thing actually exists. Like my main mellow Bono said, "I stilllll cannot find, that for which I was searching!"
What I found was a number of conservative blogs clutching their pearls over Obama's daughter wearing a Pro Era tshirt on Instagram. I objected to the tshirt for different reasons, but when I read this bad bitch Debbie Schlussel's shrewd mothafuckin analysis, I started wondering if I was missing something. Fuck N.W.A., ol' girl makes Joey & the gang sound like the next coming of GG Allin! Makin me wanna reconsider a numbingly orthodox group (collective?) playacting an era they spent in shortpants is no small feat. Shout out to ya rhetorical skill, girl!
DEBBIE SCHLUSSEL, 2015'S WRITER OF THE YEAR! ALSO SHE GOT THE ILLEST NAME, TOO! THREE CHEERS FOR SCHLUSSEL!
I've gone through four or five computers since I first started downloading the MP3s. Ya boy ran thru Napster to Kazaa, Soulseek to Megaupload, but those desk- and laptops weren't strong enough to hold up to my relentless sensual appetites. Was it porn or pop music that ultimately stopped my 'puters from 'putin? IDK, but whatever it was, Tipper Gore would not have approved. In any event, I didn't have the presence of mind to save my precious filez until my last switchover, so I always had to start my illicit library anew. I guess I thought it was v que sera, sera and Buddhististic, e.g., "If I don't remember to download it again, it probably wasn't worth it," but now I'm realizing I lost a lot of gemz in the process.
For reasons I don't even understand, I been running Last.fm (formerly Audioscrobbler!) since '08, which means I have a semi-comprehensive document of everything I listened to during that time. I had to lie to my girlfriends when they asked what it was, but this cathedral of OCD has finally proven its use: reminding me that these great songs exist (and why I'm single).
This was such a productive exercise I gave myself the warm 'n' fuzzies. Sheeit, finna skip the warm glass of milk when I tuck myself in tonight, cause Styles P will do it for me. Good night, J to the mwa. Good night, Sheek. Good night, Styles.
Wussup y'all, I gotta write this shit fast cause I'm on my break right now. Got this job guarding a sausage factory, it's pretty cool and I don't wanna fuck it up like I always do. I get to eat all the sausage I want! My clothes aren't too bloody when I come home, and pig blood isn't that hard to get out of upholstery if you don't let it clot. I have a sneaking suspicion the sausage factory is a front for some devious activity, but who am I to judge? Righteousness never paid the bills. Here we go, y'all!
1. Every year has its standout rap lyric. It's not the best lyric, just the one that sums up "the times" or whatever. Last year it was "I been sellin' crack since like the fifth grade" from Bobby Shmurda's "Hot N-Word," and the year before that it was Rick Ross's Darren Sharper/Bill Cosby shoutouts on "U.O.E.N.O." This year's contender is "Remember when you had to take the bar exam, I drove in the snow for you?" from "How Bout Now," because it is the Drakiest lyric ever, and 2015 is the Year Of The Drake (Pt. II).
3. If we talkin 'bout gonzo journalism, FrankieThaLuckyDog is the god of this shit. He reviewed P.I.R.'s Who I Are mixtape embedded in an abandoned psychiatric facility in upstate New York, and wrote what is probably the Blog Line Of The Year: “‘Bout” quite a bit on
tha 1st verse, ya feel me? I’m “‘bout” abandoned psychiatric
centers; how “‘bout” dat?
4. Not to get all Charles Murray on ya ass, but could it be that white ppl have a genetic predisposition for archiving the shit out of shit? This dude Eric Brightwell seems to be a nerdy menswear enthusiast from Iowa, but his writing on New Orleans rap is invaluable.
5. Finally getting into the White Gzus joint that dropped this year. It's such a traditional mid/late-'90s style rap record that I'm starting to feel like Yung Methuselah up in this mu'fuh. If they ever release new music, I hope it doesn't fall into Freddie Gibbs/Big K.R.I.T.-style hero worship. For now, tho, I wish I had a 'Lac to bump this shit in. Big ups to David Drake, whose review brought this disque into my life.
This post ended up bein long as fuck and cut into my meal time, so I'm runnin back to the factory stuffing sausages in my mouth. LMAO, sausage game crazy!
Context rules everything around me. Long before I knew anything of Davy DMX's sundry contributions to hip-hop, I found his Davy's Ride LP in the creepy vinyl section at my neighborhood Goodwill. Mostly dusty junk bequeathed by dead and ancient emigres, the shelf had apparently been visited by the baddest local DJ of the Jheri Curl Era. Along with 12"s for "Clear" and "Follow The Leader," there was an LP by Davy D, featuring DJ Hurricane, called Davy's Ride. I'd never heard of it, but the year and label were right (1987, Def Jam), Hurricane looked like he'd just stepped off the Raising Hell tour bus, and Glen E. Friedman's righteous flicks of Davy & 'Cane pressed up against a police cruiser's hood had me amped for some N.W.A.-style cop bashing. Could it be I'd found a lost gem?
By the time "Ohh Girl" came on I'd probably thrown the sleeve across the room. Davy's Ride is not really a rap album. I decided I'd played myself, like the time I bought that terrible Arkansaw Man EP just 'cause it came out on Subterranean in '82, and forgot about it for the next decade. Until last night! Curious about the disappointing record I'd plucked from the Goodwill grime back in my schoolboy daze, I dialed up the deets and eventually discovered Davy D and Davy DMX are one and the same. I understand SEO wasn't a priority at the time, but I can't understand why Davy would ditch the brand recognition of the DMX handle. IDK. Is there a marketer in the house?
Unfortunately, some tweakers stole my turntable years ago, and I have no intention of buying a new one. I embrace the immateriality and hyper-acquisitiveness of the filesharing era, and eagerly await shedding this inefficient flesh when the singularity arrives. Thankfully, there is YouTube. Fairly or not, I find myself being more generous now that I know who's behind the electro R&B crooning that so disgusted me as a young'n. A frame of reference can work wonders. It's a producer album, so obviously it's going to be scatterbrained and wanky at times - a slab of unchecked self-indulgence where there's no collaborator to push back against the knobtwiddler's dumbest ideas.
It goes without saying that the production is impeccable. In particular, "Keep Your Distance" and "Bring It" showcase the sample 'n' scratch collage style that - at least for '80s Ivory Tower types tryin to come to terms with this rap shit - seemed to share a grammar with the institutional avant-garde. Hurricane handles most of the rapping duties, and his lack of presence
as a makes today's model of feature-driven producer albums seem
attractive by comparison, even tho most of those still suck anyway. As an avowed rap chauvinist, I can't critique the proto-New Jack Swing/quasi-freestyle numbers objectively, but I will say that Davy's Ride would have benefited from some organizing structure. It's a baffling listen for someone who doesn't know the name Davy DMX: a mixed bag of instrumentals, rudimentary raps, and syrupy R&B, all doled out without any pretense of unity. Like a double feature playing Fried Green Tomatoes next to The Driller Killer, Davy's Ride can't decide which demographic it wants to please. At times it seems like an excuse for Davy to try on different costumes: loverman with the baby oil, king of rock, dance-floor facilitator. It's the best part of the album, but also its greatest weakness.
Although not one of my favorite songs, the "Ohh Girl" video is a classic of the '80s form. There are a lot of great moments - Davy, Hurricane, and the gang clocking studio time, preening and mugging like Rick James and Eddie in the "My Girl" video; the love interest sleeping with a framed copy of Davy's publicity shot by her bed - but my favorite part has to be the shabby cabdriver look Davy rocks as he ferries his girl around a park. The mainstream wasn't ready for Davy, but maybe Davy wasn't ready for the mainstream either.
