BABY, I'M A STAR

Welcome back to Hell, my friends. Yeah, I took a good ass break from this blogging thing. Let me say it for the record – this blog is a work of art in progress, and yeah, I’m taking my time. You don’t have to read it if you don’t want to.


No, I’m not going around looking for readers on other’s blogs. How can I win like that? Nah, homie, I’m going for big numbers. Call it catalog building. You’ll hear more about me when the new year hits. Until then, it’s all practice and commitment.


So when you see your boy administering a thrashing to certain “nameless” commenters on popular blogs like XXLMAG.COM , don’t think I’m easily distracted. I tend to think that the spirits of late, great authors and writers are being channeled through my fingers when I get down to the bidness of building this catalog. Therefore, if you’re looking for fame off me, look elsewhere. This is going to be one of those bourgeoisie blogs, with a twist of dark humor. It’s being designed for readers, with writers in mind first.









When it comes to the role of writers, we hold a prominent position in the food pyramid of any culture, but especially Hip-Hop. We don’t usually create the art we critique, but we could if we wanted. Instead, we are charged with explaining the relevance (or lack thereof) of the art form’s recent renditions to the general society at large. If we fail, then the product or idea might still be successful, but it would not be adequately supported by the cabal of gatekeepers known as journalists, therefore it could be horribly misinterpreted and misunderstood, at best. At worst, we’d have another great artist without a base. That term “media darling” isn’t such a bad thing, when you have nothing else on your side. Ask some of the greats…










Think about it: would you want your first album, movie or book reviewed by a person outside of your culture first? Wouldn’t you be setting yourself up for disaster?




You have to commend those of us who work hard trying to find anything relevant to discuss, then finding the motivation to actually create words to describe these artists, movies, paintings, parties and what not to the masses. And you can only use the word “crunk” so many times before people wonder what else you have to say. Not that we don’t still have an abundance of “crunk” rappers running around getting that ringtone money…








But these cats, popular in name as they might be, would be nothing without the co-signature of journalists like THE UNDERWRITER and several of my friends who shall remain nameless. We’ve all carried the burden of having to cover some imbecile with a record deal, just to get an extra $500 in the bank by the end of the month. And we hated every keyboard stroke (nolo) necessary in the process, because we know in our hearts that we’re only submitting and supporting the sorry, sloppy seconds of a music business that eats its young.

Not me, my boy. THE UNDERWRITER is in the joyous throws of a self-imposed exile from music-related journalism. That’s until the big boys come knocking (nolo) with a big story and a timely check. Until then, I’m writing what the eff I want, because if I can make you famous, then I can certainly do the same for myself.

Shout out to all the journalist cats and kittens whose blogs I visit. We know what’s up.