PEACE TO THE DJ: IN DEFENSE OF HE WHO YELLS LOUDEST

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.

GUEST POST: NEW YEAR'S RAP MUSINGS FROM A PROFESSIONAL GLASS POLISHER!

As many of y'all know, I run shit in Jax Hole.  From da ski slopes to da flourishing drug trade, I'm well-known like the number man.  I used to slang herb to this herb named Fezziwig.  He wore a fedora and had a large collection of Japanese swords.  All he did was smoke weed by himself and play World of Warcraft.  I ran into him at the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar the other day and he bugged me about writing for my extremely successful rap website until I said, "Aight."  Here we go!

The clock passed midnight, a grinning crowd of rubes watched the ball drop in Times Square, and 2012 floundered into the annals of history.  It was New Year's Eve and I was polishing $4 glassware for less than minimum wage.

I regarded the customers with scorn.  Drunk idiots with too much expendable income blowing noisemakers like idiot children.  "BMF" by Rick Ross floated from out of the kitchen.  We shucked and jived to the anthemic throb, trying to forget that we were actually making money at the rate of a slow trickle.

"Bands A Maker Her Dance" came next.  I wondered what a stripper feels on New Years.  Maybe it's better to start the year in a G-string than polishing water spots off a water glass.  Rick Ross bellowed, "Deez niggas won't hold me back!," and I increased my polishing speed.  But deez niggas were holding us back: busted economy, the development of an American oligarchy, all the lies, the goddamn lies!  Where is our recession rapper, one who would rap about being broke and working a job beneath your dignity?  Of realizing exactly how little your college degree is worth in today's economy?  All we have is a cartoonish, nearly self-parodic celebration of capitalism.  We love rap music as an opiate that helps us believe in a failed system.

I decided it was time to take action.  I would no longer debase myself by listening to escapist drivel.  No more rap music for me!  But then I remembered my duty as a busboy and how bad I would feel if someone died from a water spot I'd failed to remove, so I polished bravely into the future as the old world, foaming at the mouth, clipped rabidly at my heels.

YOUNG GUNZ SAID THEY WOULDN'T STOP, BUT THEY DID

 

What's poppin hoes?  It's ya boy back in dis bitch.  You know how we do.  HYSTERIA time!  Hide ya girl cause I'm finna say, "Hello darling, shall I compare thee to a tight bombass chocha?" to her.

Way back in the Golden Era of hip-hop there was a little collective named State Property.  It consisted of Beanie Sigel and a bunch of miscreants from the Philadelphia area.  One such contingent was the group YOUNG GUNZ, who were Young Chris and Lil Neefy.

They popped off with this hit back in, I dunno, summer '03 and I was doin the Harlem Shake like crazy to this joint.  You couldn't stop me man!  I had the XXL Fubu tracksuit in baby blue and a pair of fresh Dadas to top it all off.  Sometimes I'd even rock a white du-rag so I'd be thugged out to the fullest.

Anyway these dudes fell off hard and last I heard they were dancing in G-Strings for tips.  Sad, they could've been the next Eric B & Rakeem.  Stay in school, kids!