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!

ICONZ, CROOKED LETTAZ, CHEETO DUST, THE '02 VOKAL COLLECTION

I.  INTRODUCTORY ANECDOTE
My first time grinding on a shorty came back in the days when Mommy bought you a Sean John tracksuit from Macy's junior department and dropped you off at the dance in her Toyota Previa.  You'd complete the ensemble with some Dada Spreewell spinners and a throwback fitted, or maybe you'd just let ya frosted tips swang like, "Salute me or shoot me, I just don't give a fuck."  There I was, hormones fully engorged on a glandular level, brushin my Cheeto 'gainst my lady while the DJ laced up a bowdlerized version of "Get Fucked Up."   ICONZ was the crew, a missing link between the jiggy era and the ascendance of the South.  I was just tryin to keep my orange dust off her Forever 21s.

II. EXPOSITION
Who knew they had a second album?  I rode an algorithm from "Crooked Lettaz" to CROOKED LETTAZ.  My Dirty Sanchez started twitchin when I heard this shit cause them delicately plucked strings had me thinkin it was Spanish Guitars time.  Allmusic tellin me it's a koto, which seems sensual enough.  This is how Japanese thugs express their sensitivity.

III. ANALYSIS
a). Hard to believe there was a five or six year period where N.O.R.E. was a borderline popstar.  America was a land of opportunity.

b). DAVID BANNER'S whole career has been an identity crisis.  Blame the industry?  He came out in a confused era.  The South was starting to define itself on a national scale.  Spectators regarded the whole region as a monolithic slab.  "Like A Pimp" was a hit, but it was only a partial representation of Banner's persona.   Great as it was, it played into preconceived notions.  Few had developed a sophisticated vocabulary vis-a-vis Southern rap, so Banner got lost in the shuffle with the dregs of the Class of '03, a victim of timing as much as geography.  Anyone coming from the South was viewed as the Other.  Outside of DUNGEON FAMILY, there was no context for a rapper capable of introspection and club bangers; even then, DRE had to put on a wig and some silver pants before anyone saw him in the mold of P-Funk or Coltrane.  You can't flex ya nuance when mothafuckas wanna paint you with a roller.

Then KANYE came out with his Benz & backpack routine, and JAY-Z dropped his belated headwrap verses big-uppin KWELI and COMMON.  Banner tried ridin that wave like, "Hey, that's me!  I'm like that too, guys!"  But it was too late, his boogie board foundered, and he's spent the rest of his career on a road trip tryin to figure out who the fuck he is.  Let me know if he ever finds out.

STILL THE GREATEST USE OF A SWIZZ BEAT

Though paling in comparison to Jay-Z's transformation from Brooklyn's finest to the multimedia equivalent of modern lobby design, Swizzy's move from Casio bungler to minimalist visionary stands as one of the more impressive PR turnarounds of the era.  Maybe it was just displaced New York nostalgia in the age of Atlantan overthrow, but around '05 Swizz finally started getting respect from snobs who derided his tinkering style for being more "Chopsticks" than Rachmaninoff.  Of everything on Confessions of Fire, "Glory" is the earliest hint of the artist Cam was on his way to becoming; even better, you got N.O.R.E. what what!-ing on the hook.

Not for nothing, but the cover for Confessions of Fire look like something you would find behind saloon doors at a Chelsea video shop ca. '98.  You got Cam shirtless in leather overalls, lookin all pouty and airbrushed, holding a sledgehammer on top of a vat pouring out a money shot of smelted iron.  Add a few yellow guys in jean hotpants, and it's an average bacchanal at The Anvil.   Was the art director having a laugh at Cam's expense?  Whatever the truth may be, it's beginning to look like "no homo" was invented to make up for delicious past indiscretions.

CURSE OF THE BLAWG: I KILLED JAMES BEST, IS MANUEL NORIEGA NEXT?

Altho I been dabbled in the dark arts, these days I only mix blood and magick when it involves sex and sugar.  I hung up my goblet long ago, but it turns out Ma was right about the pitfalls of the left-hand path: I don't have the strength to control these powers.  Roughly two weeks after the Martorialist may or may not have killed a reality-show contestant and one-time Gene Simmons protege sharing his stage name with a diminutive Chicago rapper, I may or may not have killed James Best, the actor behind Rosco P. Coldchain's namesake.

It's like the rap blog version of the Goosebumps where Ryan Gosling finds a camera that predicts death or something, but with more MP3s and a less handsome protagonist (speaking for myself of course).  I want to use my power for good.  Unfortunately, the namesakes of J. Stalin, 8-Off, and most of the Outlawz are already dead.  N.O.R.E. is the only candidate that comes to mind, but frankly I'm Team #freenoriega.  The man deserves to enjoy some Bocas del Toro snorkeling one last time before he dies.

That said, I don't care if he lives or dies - 81 is enough.  To determine the limits of my hex faculty, I direct you to the only interview that matters and the video where he keeps trying to make "off the yelzebub" happen (it should have) and clowns around in the deli aisle with sausage links and a whole turkey.  For my money, "Oh No" is the better second-fiddle Neptunes/N.O.R.E. joint, and its video delivers the visual delights:  a cheetah sprinting through the desert, N.O.R.E. in a Bentley parting a sea of gyrating females Red Sea style, a hi-def boxing match(?).  And for those of you still waiting for Melvin Flynt, II: Simply Melvin, here's a commercial for the original narrated by Funk Flex.  Leading into a Clearasil ad and the beginning of the "Wanna Be A Baller" video, it makes a strong case that thems was better times.