PEANUT BUTTER JELLY TIME

What's Gucci, y'all? Ya mans back at it once again, finally able to use a keyboard after shedding so many tears for Phife Dawg and the one Garry Shandling. The '90s are officially dead, which is why I been hibernating in the wombs of dead epochs since my last transmission. In between keeping up with my MUBI subscription and drawing tenuous connections between the works of Ice Cube and Crass (I'm the only Ice Cube fan under 30, and the only Crass fan over 13), I ain't had a lot of time or interest in keeping up with new music.

WHAT, WHAT, WHAT? WHAT, WHAT, WHAT! :(
The latest disappointment? N.O.R.E.'s Drunk Uncle Mixtape, which I been clockin for months on account of its absurdist track list and strong title/artwork combination. Maybe I was expecting too much from a N.O.R.E. mixtape in 2016. Maybe there's a solid EP lurking within its unholy architecture. But the only thing I really gleaned from Drunk Uncle is that the Fat Jew is as punchable on record as he is on the Internet. Someone whip out the Crying Jordan face, cause N.O.R.E. is takin an L on this one.

I USED TO BE YOUNG BUT I'M GROWN NOW
What is life? Where did I come from? Where am I heading? Why am I watching (and loving) Dirty videos in 2016? And did Terrence Howard steal his Hustle and Flow look from the "Hit Da Floe" video? These is questions better left for ya Rabbi, Imam, or some OT-VIII MF, but maybe we can restore some order to the universe if Three 6 agrees to share the Oscar with Big Pimp and Mr. G Stacka The Gangsta.

STILL PISS ON THE CHICK, WHILE THE CHICK KISS ON THE STICK
My ongoing case of Dirty-inspired insanity took me down a YouTube wormhole leading me back to my old friend, "Ballin' Boy" by No Good. Those of you who remember the names Hot Sauce and Skip 2 My Lou (or these ugly-ass shoes) will remember this one. Maaaane, this shit is PEAK early '00s Miami rap, proving that Trick Daddy >>> Rick Ross > Raider Klan any day. Let's break it down.

1. Dunks, Escalades, and Navigators like a motherfucker. Sorry br'er, but if you didn't have one of these or an H2, you wasn't ballin!

2. Avirex and Phat Farm leather jackets. Sweatbands on sweatbands. Back in 2002, people was willing to sweat for their look!

3. Streetball scenes. Before David Stern banned sweatsuits and doo-rags, the NBA and rap culture was kissing cousins (shouts to AI). Jason Kidd tried to kill it, MJ hated on it, and Lil B put the nail in the coffin, but at one time rap and ballin was slim with the tilted brim. And them ugly Art Deco concrete hoop risers? Ye ain't gonna find that in Brooklyn, cuz.

4. Horns. Fuck Spaceghostpurrp for his Memphis jockin ways. We KC and the Sunshinin down here, don't forget the boogie shoes.

5. Big-ass speaker cabinets. Is it a relic of da sound clashes? Better ask an anthropologist bumbaclot. Ya boy appreciate them strictly on an aesthetic and sonic level!

6. Li'l kids dressed like rappers. This ain't a Miami thing, more of a 2000s thing. Do I miss it? Yeah.

7. Halter-tops and jeans like them broads was shopping at the Wet Seal and Forever 21. Fuck being fashion forward, my heart stays at the mall.

8. "Let your girl watch while I pee pee." Ain't nothing more '00s than urination! It's sterile and doesn't really smell that bad. Vote Bernie Sanders in 2016, cause he probably the most pro-urine candidate!

9. Pants big enough to hide a toddler, and spotless white AF1s. Ian Connor has an open invitation to gargle deez nuts, once he pulls down my size 46 Sean John wide-leg jeans.

10. Easter-style pastel palette. Fuck gothic black and whites, and fuck toolin 'round on yachts. The best part of shooting film in Miami is the garish light and color schemes!

QUARTER-SEASON AWARDS

We anti-Grammys, anti-Oscars, and very anti-Golden Razzies for slandering my mans Brian De Palma. But my therapist was tellin me, "Yo, you need to be more positive." I said, "A'ight doc, Ima be more positive, but can it involve rap music?" He says, "That's that monomania we was talkin about, bruh." I jumped up and did a bell kick off the couch. "Thanks for curing me, duke. I know what I gotta do now. Quarter-season awards on RAP MUSIC HYSTERIA!" I skipped down the stairwell, looking back toward his office as I vacated the building. I could hear him ripping his hair out the follicle. From sheer joy, I imagine!

A$AP ROCKY AWARD: KAMAIYAH!



Like Rocky with LiveLoveA$AP, Kamaiyah dropped a very good pop-rap album after seducing the press in record time. LiveLoveA$AP and A Good Night In The Ghetto are softened versions of regional sounds, helmed by able and essentially inoffensive rappers with marketable qualities. The difference is that Kamaiyah has a lot more potential than Rocky ever did. She's a better rapper, her songs are better, her hooks are bigger, and it doesn't appear that she has a Yams in her ear svengaling dat ass like Frank Farian did Rob & Fab. Most importantly, she won't need a 2Chainz and Drake-infused pork barrel to get a national hit. The moves she makes in the coming year will determine whether she has a fruitful music-making career, or becomes a glorified jeans ad who occasionally raps.

TRINIDAD JAMES AWARD: LIL YACHTY!

Like Trinidad James before him, Lil Yachty blew up off a catchy song that was controversial for the Is he or isn't he? mental retardation games it played, an ambiguity that only deepened upon discovering the artist's questionable choices of wardrobe and accoutrements. Except Trinidad James had a genuine hit where Yachty only has the attention of bloggers and Twitter buzzards, who see him as a symbol or sideshow or something. I must admit, I was eatin pork and rinds with a bitch from New York Times / I don't eat no pork and rinds but that bitch was mighty fine, is a great couplet with subtle old-school simplicity, but it ain't quite Pop a molly I'm sweatin! (Woo!). Best case scenario: next Soulja Boy. Neutral case: wins a Grammy in 2020 for lending a line to Ed Sheeran. Worst case: becomes a protege of Jello Biafra.

HERMAN MELVILLE "YOU DON'T DESERVE ME" AWARD: BOOSIE!

OK, so back in the day Herman Melville wrote some adventure books that were pretty popular. He's sellin alright and whatever, so he decides to drop a big sprawling work called Moby Dick on everyone's head. The critics and public is just like, "Nah, hold that." He stops writing altogether and deprives the world of his precious musings on whales. This is basically the indignity Boosie has suffered in 2016 with his dense, uneven, occasionally brilliant trio of releases. They are mostly not fun, he is old, and they don't really fit any of the day's talking points. Here's hoping Boosie doesn't retreat from rap into the life of a government clerk, but if he does: It was all of our fault! Counting down till someone resuscitates that obnoxious LISTEN TO GHOSTFACE shirt for Boosie.

THE GHOST OF POSTRACIAL AMERICA MEMORIAL AWARD: EZALE AND DENZEL CURRY!

We got Ezale droppin N-bombs like it's nathan. Denzel Curry has a song called "Gook" with the unparsable lyric I'm a gook! See me growing out my hair cause I look like the nigga from Roots. This is what thinkpiece writers was dreamin about during Obama's first term!

YG OR DB? AWARD: MOZZY!

Mozzy is getting wild overexposed in certain quarters of the Rap Internet, and this blog is as guilty as anyone in that department. This puts him in roughly the same place as DB Tha General was a while back, except Mozzy is already more popular nationally than DB ever was. His pop instincts are sharper, though it's hard to imagine someone as raw as Mozzy having mainstream hits like DB's California Livin compadre YG. Ya boy's in the kitchen poppin Orville Redenbachers, waiting to see how this shit goes down.

BLOGGER O' DA MONTH: ANU!





Big up to tha gah for uploading Stresmatic's 1-2 punch of "The Joog" and "The Lick" off the quality Matic LP. Bigger ups for making it through Kap G's new tape and finding "Southside," because I had already shut it off by then. Kap G: hardest Mexican rapper since SPM went to his last sleepover!

I GOT A POCKET FULL OF PEPPERS!

 

Shouts to CrimeDawgByLaw for the plug on this UGK rarity. If you've ever laid awake at night wondering what Pimp C would sound like doing Red Hot Chili Peppers karaoke, set your sleep mask aflame and fret no more. The Pimp and The Keid have more in common than one might think: both wildmen with sensitive sides, instruments of intense feeling who sought relief in the dull nod of narcotics.

What would Pimp think if he knew artists were deliberately trying to remake the waterlogged muddle of this demo, when home recording has never been easier? Rawness can be approximated, but it can't be be faked, mane. Because UGK didn't make a career of smoking weed and rapping about it, "Weed Weed" is infectious and real in a way Wiz Khalifa ceased to be around the time he looked into the bulb of his bong and saw the handblown glass bars of his own making. Instead it's more like the great weed song of last year, 22nd Letter's "Blunt On Me," which would sound a lot like this if Nef yelled, Chicka chicka dee, do me like a banshee!, and Spaceghostpurrp mixed it inside a clogged toilet. So follow the uplift mofo party plan and smoke somethin, beeeeeyich!

MORE OF A HOWARD JOHNSON GUY MYSELF

Not even nostalgia could get me to vouch for "Holidae Inn" or "Right Thurr" in good conscience. Imagine my desperation when I turned to a new Chingy mixtape after offerings from Kap G and Cardi B left mine callous heart unmoved. A collaboration with the imaginatively named M.C, The Purge pairs Chingy with boilerplate trap beats for the most unnerving midlife crisis since Peedi Crakk went full ATL on CF5. Only the endearingly goofy "Coolest Ever" recaptures whatever it was Chingy did well. One can easily imagine a video in which Chingy, bedecked in a luxuriant throwback sweatsuit and fitted cap, rolls his '03 Bentley Continental through South Beach, making rap hands at the camera between cuts of his foxy passengers licking lips and pouting for the close-up. He even got Nelly to dip into whatever cryogenic chamber he's been hiding the St. Lunatics, and thaw them for long enough bless the track!

Chingy, a newly minted Black Hebrew Israelite, blames an alleged romp with a member of the third sex for his career's decline. Pity if that's true. However, it must be pointed out that Mister Cee, Eddie Murphy, and Ma$e survived similar rumors and confirmed trysts. It remains to be seen whether Tyga can ever come back, but ya mans was already down for the count. Maybe, Ching-a-Ling equipped with much ding-a-ling, you should take a long look in the mirror and realize it wasn't rumors, Illuminati, or gentiles who ran you out the industry.

WE CAN'T HELP IT IF WE'RE FROM FLORIDA

Miami is rap's Potemkin village. Every year Urban Beach Week grabs dubious headlines. Ocean Avenue and the MacArthur Causeway make good backdrops in music videos. But outside of some middlemen and clubland hustlers, there aren't a lot of real moves being made. In The Book Of Luke, Luther Campbell credits himself with creating the infrastructure of Southern rap; true or not, everyone knows Atlanta has long eclipsed Miami as the beating heart and production center of the South. These days Miami is really just a playground for rap's ruling class.




Broward County, Miami's neighbor to the north, has produced the two most promising talents of late: 1WayFrank and the folk hero known as Kodak Black. Hailing from Pompano Beach, Gank Gaank practices the rap&bullshit robot soul we've heard recently from Skooly and YFN Lucci, and which T-Pain doesn't get enough credit for pioneering. Vocally he most resembles Ralo. I'm happy that rappers are now singing their hearts out, because as I grow older, I realize hot bars can't warm my cold heart. This shit got me crying tattooed tears of pain and love.

People think Miami is a tropical wastehole of Brazilian buttlifts and face cannibals, but those are insulting stereotypes. There's also Sabado Gigante and occasional rap music. Carol City Mafia, who released one of my favorite songs of last year (presumably also one of Denzel Curry's favorites), have followed up with Heart Of The Streets, now at a whopping 87 plays on DatPiff. It's street-rap of unexpectedly polished songwriting, with mannerisms ranging from earthbound Goodie spiritualism to melodrama and the obligatory ride-out music. The group has compelling presence on mic—most importantly, they actually rap like they're from Miami—but suffer from an unfortunate affinity for strained similes and corny metaphors (And we comin with them tools / No screwdriver / Leave a nigga wet, now he a scuba diver). The best track might be "Woolin," a posse cut featuring Gula Woo flowing inna Kingpin Skinny Pimp style. More contemplative souls might like "Fell In Love With It." Hit the booty club, now I love strippers: now them's lyrics I can relate to.




Sped-up and fast raps over classic breaks never get old, especially if they are about butts. DJ Smooth continues in the Miami Bass tradition, enlisting the legend DJ Chipman for "Put Your Weight Down," a song that pays homage to butts large and small. DJ Smooth seems partial to Team Little Booty, and while I don't necessarily agree, I respect a man who is willing to buck mainstream convention.

This is RAP MUSIC HYSTERIA! broadcasting live from a melting beach chair. Over and out.