Ladies and Gentlemen: Your favorite blogger will not speak to you tonight. His time is up. I have taken it over. You were to read a post covering bullshit black gossip, stupidity in the form of “urban news” or the current legal fuckery of your favorite rapper—whatever you normally check for on the internet that has recently occurred in the world of Hip-Hop and/or politics. That is what you are going to hear.
For two years, you—the dying music industry of Atlanta—have been asking axing, “Who is Mike Jordan?” This is Mike Jordan speaking. I’m the guy who loves and values Hip-Hop. I’m the cat who does not sacrifice his love or his values. I am the dude who is relieving you of your victims and thus destroying your world.
And if you wish to know why your record labels are perishing—you who dread fresh, innovative, empowering and creative Hip-Hop music, I am the writer who will now present it to you on this post.
You, the A&R, music executive, program director, record label owner and--hell, yeah--magazine publisher, have said that this is an age of creative crisis in the music business and that southern rap’s sins are destroying Hip-Hop. But your chief virtue has been sacrifice. You have sacrificed innovation to sales. You have sacrificed empowering lyrics to demoralizing chants. You have sacrificed development to current market conditions. You have sacrificed art to commerce. You have sacrificed talent to hustle. You have destroyed all that which you held to be evil, and achieved all that which you held to be good.
Why then, do you shrink in horror at the sound of the Hip-Hop music that surrounds you in your Mercedes-Benz’s Bose stereo system? That music is not the product of your sins. It is the product, the rhythm, melody, lyrical content and chorus of your virtues. It is the moral ideal of your musical reality brought into its full and final perfection.
You fought for it. You have dreamed of it; you have wished it… And I am the man who is helping to grant you your wish. I am removing the sources of all those evils you are sacrificing—one by one. I am ending your battle; I am stopping your cipher. I am depriving your world of The 5th Element.
Writers do not represent the culture, you say? I am withdrawing those who do. Writers are insignificant, you say? I will withdraw those who aren’t. I’m showing them the way to live by another morality: mine. It is mine that they are choosing to follow. Will you soon be crying that this is not what you wanted? The culture of Hip-Hop in ruins, abandoned by its embedded and entrenched yet mentally emaciated writers, reporters and journalists is not your goal? You did not want us to leave?
You damned Atlanta. You damned Hip-Hop but never dared to question your code.
Yes, this is an age of creative crisis but it is not Hip-Hop that is on trial. It is your moral code. And if you wish to go on existing in this culture, what you now need is not to return to creativity but to discover it.
Sincerely Yours, Mike Jordan
a.k.a. The Underwriter a.k.a. the black John Galt a.k.a. The Best Writer Alive a.k.a. Jihad Ballout Jr. a.k.a. Perry A. Pelagreeno a.k.a. Mickey Reagan a.k.a. Grumpy McNasty
[This blog was inspired by Atlas Shrugged, a book that I highly recommend to any serious reader, writer or thinker.]
I had the unfortunate luck of attending the BET Hip-Hop Awards last month at the Atlanta Civic Center. On the way towards the gate, walking from the parking lot, I saw plenty of friends and even one of my former interns, which still trips me out to this day because it makes me remember that I’ve actually had people work under me for free before I was 25. Wow @ the music business...
Anyway, she and her friend, who I’ve also known for the same amount of years, were headed in the opposite direction of me as I was walking up Piedmont. We saw each other, hugged, and I asked axed them where they were going. “To sell these tickets and get the hell out of here.” They both seemed like they were beyond anxious to get rid of the tickets, and almost gave off the vibe that they were secretly willing to just toss them into a sewage drain. Maybe because they knew that the minstrel show was about to pop off.
Once I got inside, I realized that sometimes the student can teach the teacher. Those girls made much better usage of their time than I did for the next two hours, even if they did nothing more than stare at a piece of chewing gum on the street until 10pm. BET should have let Oreck vacuums sponsor the event and could have given out free FlexiStraws to the audience members, because the show simply sucked.
The three performances that stood out the most were the Salt-N-Pepa/Yo-Yo/Rage/Mc Lyte ladies’ night show with the "Whatta Man" campaign, the Common/N.E.R.D mosh pit which featured Lil’ Wayne, Swizz Beats and T-Pain, and presidential thug Young Jeezy, who performed from a bully pulpit onstage while openly and enthusiastically supporting Obama for president.
Now that the election is over, Obama is in transition between his current job and his future one, naming cabinet members and appointing point persons to assist in building his administration. There is a fervent level of support within the Hip-Hop community for the new leader of the free world, and everyone from listeners to artists are unified with pride. Young Jeezy’s “My President is Black” is blaring from thousands of old school Chevrolets in any and every hood in America, while Will.i.am and John Legend are rocking stadiums with "Yes We Can." Even the moguls are involved with the moment. Everybody won!
Yet it was rumored that someone behind-the-scenes, on behalf of President-Elect Barack Obama, quietly requested to Sean Combs, Sean Carter and Mary J. Blige—among other A-list celebs and entertainers—that they refrain from attending the victory celebration in Grant Park on Election Night. Speculation ensued that this was so that no attention would be diverted away from the man of the moment. But you didn’t have to look too closely to spot the most powerful woman in the world, Oprah Winfrey (in her money green business suit) or the Reverend Jesse Jackson Sr., who kept a finger to his lips, his arms tightly crossed and his face wet with what appeared to be some form of moisture. Whether or not this was actually salt water in the form of tears is up for question and not confirmed at press time.
Those two celebrity entertainers made sure that they weren’t outside of the view of the video cameras. What I took from their presence was that Obama stood in between the old guard and the current establishment, but that did not include Hip-Hop--at least not yet. Some of us are probably already calling foul and seeing the exclusion of the Hip-Hop power elite as biting the feeding hand of urban culture, which could of course be reasonably included as one of the major factors that resulted in the election of Mr. Obama. I even read somewhere that dead prez, the radical black militant rap group, is already kicking up dust and drawing a line in the cultural sand between themselves and the soon-to-be "44." How this is going to boost their careers, I have no idea, but I do remember that they were open supporters of Cynthia McKinney and Rosa Clemente, which was quite the fairy tale if you ask axe me; no disrespect to Bill Clinton. And I do remember that, as much as I admire what dead prez does for Hip-Hop, they are a little too ill to be taken seriously sometimes, and it's way too early to cast Obama as the next Uncle Tom.
The question is, will Obama ever have a concert on the lawn of the White House that looks anything similar to this year's BET Hip-Hop Awards? We know Common is invited automatically, and Michelle will probably use her pull to get Salt-N-Pepa added to the lineup, but will Young Jeezy get to perform at the inauguration? Does Obama need him anymore, if he ever did? Or does Young Jeezy need Obama now, and does he foolishly expect to be embraced as a former “snowman” turned Democratic activist? Should he hold his breath waiting to be named the new national drug czar chosen to be in charge of the ONDCP? Or is this a prime opportunity for people like Young Jeezy and Ludacris to join the national political debate as leaders of the new school of Hip-Hop, not to mention southerners with a listening audience in the millions? That could turn into votes one day, which could turn colors like Georgia Red to Obama Blue.
Or will we see something that nobody expects but everybody knows is possible: President Obama will openly repudiate the culture of gangster rap and promote creative arts without graphic sexual, violent, racially insensitive or just brutally obscene language? Will the first black presidency be the first bullet in the heart of Street-Hop? Or will President-Elect Obama continue to see our Hip-Hop movement as irreverently relevant rebel music?
I’m pretty sure that we should get ready for certain rappers to be avoided full-time by the White House and the Democratic Party now that it's all over, while others will be promoted vigorously. Don’t be surprised if Obama has more White House concerts and public events with Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen on the stage than Jay-Z and Puffy; let's just admit that for right now, there’s nothing wrong with that. Let's allow the dust to settle and the emotions to calm for now and let our man Barack tell us his preference of mood music. Just because he might prefer Anita Baker and Maxwell to Keyshia Cole and Lil' Wayne doesn't mean that he will let himself to be used to destroy the force that provided the strongest push for his new position of power.
I think that Obama's true feelings about rap music and Hip-Hop culture will come out in the next four years and we can't expect him to say all positive things, especially if we continue to allow certain artists to keep popping champagne bottles, making money rain from the sky during a savage recession, retelling stale drug war stories and pimping those beautiful black women they adore enough to call "bitches" over mechanical, uninspired beats and melodies. I wouldn't expect it this year, but you know it's coming. And how will we respond?
Time to grow up, Hip-Hop. We’ve got one of our own behind the big microphone now. Let the man lead and don’t bump the turntables while you're trying to get noticed by the cameras doing the Cupid Shuffle at the inauguration. And please don’t shoot up the party if you aren't on the guest list. You already know what they'll say about us the next day on Fox News.
Pardon my decision to stay away from the whole "Yay, Obama!" blog movement since Tuesday night, but just so it's said and out of the way, I am not only thrilled about our new President-Elect Barack Obama, but I'm ready to start working on what must be done. The celebration and shock factor can't last too long; we have this weekend and the inauguration to party. Every other moment will have to be used for progress so that we don't lose this opportunity. So don't get gassed.
But if you do need additional fuel to move with purpose through all the hatred and sodium of our GOP enemies friends who lost their asses in the election casino, I can't think of a better new album to download for the freeski purchase at this incredible moment in history than Q-Tip's new jaint The Renaissance. First of all, the Abstract Poetic is just timeless; that's all. If I had to select one person as a living definition of a true MC with staying power and obvious love and concern for the artform, it would be Tip without a question. Remember how badly I spazzed out when Lupe Fiaschoe came sideways out of his neck after botching the Tribe tribute at the VH-1 show? You just don't diss Tribe, and Q-Tip is Tribe, and Tribe is Hip-Hop.
From title to tempo, this album fits exactly into the groove of today, as if it were taylor made to remind us that artistry doesn't have to change if it's good enough to make the world change on demand. Within The Renaissance, the rhythm, basslines, record scratches and samples all blend together with Tip's signature ageless voice to create the same feeling one remembers from the days when the Native Tongues were the Wu-Tang of the world.
If you're looking for some type of lyrical gymnastics, I'd suggest you go cop some Lupe and an encyclopedia to guide you through whatever the hell he's talking about. With Q-Tip, you get the benefit of a guy who is confident enough in his talent and intelligence that he doesn't have to try to prove it to you; he just displays them and lets you decide whether it's digable or not. Simplicity has always been Q-Tip's most effective tool, and he uses it to sooth the savagery to which rap music has been addicted for the past __ years. And before you ask axe, I don't have a favorite jam on this album. The whole album is my favorite jaint right now. Jesus, this one is right on time.
It's hard to be in a bad mood when the beat starts bumping along and the keyboards and the words start dancing along to the drums. Even when you wake up like I did this morning, at 5:00am, because a nerve pushed through and cracked a molar next to an slowly incoming wisdom tooth, causing me to reorganize financial plans for upcoming dental expenses. Teeth suck.
It's a good thing that I can look forward to living under the rule of a black president soon, plus these aspirins are working hard enough so that I don't have to pop the hydrocodone horse pill I keep in case of emergencies like this. When you add The Renaissance to this mix, I am far from complaining. Life is a circus of happiness and pain, and you have to balance the two at all times. Music like this from my man Q-Tip proves that even with the loss of his Ummah partner Jay Dee/J. Dilla and most of his records in a house fire ten years ago, the brother is an unstoppable force.
My, these is motivating times!! Shout to the homie DALLAS PENN.
The Don Makaveli, a.k.a. Tupac Amaru Shakur, passed away twelve years and four days ago at 25 years of age, from still-unclaimed bullets in the streets of Las Vegas. We can't bring him back, yet we've continued to study his every move in life and death (and in the minds of some, his resurrection).
He said himself, in an interview with Vibe Magazine, "Thug Life to me is dead. If it's real, let somebody else represent it, because I'm tired of it. I represented it too much."
The man was a cult of personality, but he died way too early and for a cause that has still not quite been identified or taken up in a positive way--let's be honest. But the truth is even more tragic; it's 2008, and "Thug Life" lives on without it's founding father. Guns are still used for us, by us. Drugs are sold in similar fashion. Prison sentences await those who take either path, and boys remain boys as girls become women. Fathers are invisible, futures are bleak. Civil rights are revoked, voter registration fails. And tomorrow's soldiers remain stuck in the ageless trap of being righteous thugs.
Don't blame Tupac; blame our insistence on reincarnating the worst side of mankind through his name and image, over and over again. And the best way to avoid manufacturing more thugs for nationwide distribution, fueling the continuing state of mental, spiritual and financial poverty in the black community is to let the man rest in peace.
David Foster Wallace, a great writer, IS REALLY DEAD. He wrote several books which were highly acclaimed and was considered a prodigy of literary undertakings. He was 46, married and a college professor. And he hung himself in his house this past Friday.
Great writers are mentally effed. I'VE SAID THIS BEFORE, and by God, I'll probably be proven right many more times before somebody says it about me--if I'm not already too late for that. But the genius-creative personality has always been something I've been drawn towards. For some reason, I could sense, by watching the video above, from where Wallace was trying to come with his thoughts. To be honest, I felt sorry for the person behind the tortured, beady eyes. You could tell that something was bothering him at the very moment that the cameras were rolling. His face and body language were sort of silently screaming, "But I'm being serious, people!" And then he shrugged and sank back into himself, realizing that people don't understand truth as much as they laugh at it.
What does this have to do with Hip-Hop, you ask axe? Well, Wallace once said that rap music was "quite possibly the most important stuff happening in American poetry today," [*] and he wrote a non-fiction book called Signifying Rappers: Rap and Race in the Urban Present, which if you didn't know is a NOD to the original gangsta rap pioneer Schoolly D.
I can dig this Wallace guy, and not just because he's dead. Moreso because he seemed to be on the same wavelength as me and other writers I respect and found success. That is, of course, pertaining to his ability to express his views with words, and not in his ability to hang himself. Some things I'd rather not know if I can accomplish, and killing myself is in that number.
YOU CAN READ an article, masterfully written by Wallace and published by the New York Times, about tennis champ Roger Federer OR check out a tribute written about him and see that dude was pretty official. R.I.P. to another great writer of the world, and knock another nail in the coffin of current creativity in its fearless form.
It's strange how this is always the type of subject that brings me out of hiatus. Hey, somebody's got to pick up the torch, I guess...
People are always saying that Hip-Hop is too violent. And the general response to this statement from those defending Hip-Hop's right to using violent and vulgar rhetoric is that actors like Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sylvester Stallone have killed more people on film than any thugged-out rapper has killed MCs on wax.
So I came across two videos of two different Rambos. One uses the machine gun and the other uses his mouth as a weapon. You tell me: Which of the two deadly MCs is really killing it?
BLACK RAMBO:
WHITE RAMBO:
Seems to me that our Italian-American brother John Rambo is way realer than the OG from Compton. Gangster rap stays losing.
I'm into true west coast gangster rap, because nothing else comes as close to the ugly realities of true life. And though some of you will doubtless disagree, The Game is, in my op, the best representation of Californian g-rap since the days of DJ Quik, N.W.A, Above The Law, M.C. Eiht and Westside Connection.
Tell the truth; Game practically bodied the entire G-Unit movement by himself just out of sheer will. His style has always been sort of the Pacific Coast yin to Curtis Jackson's Southside, Queens yang. Both have always seemed ready to be as disrespectful as necessary to lyrically embarrass their enemies, but when the two turned against each other, Game proved to be the better rapper, if not the smarter businessman.
L.A.X. continues the process of describing the City of Lost Angels to all outsiders. Like The Documentary and Doctor's Advocate, L.A.X. is heavy on the Dre-inspired soundscape, yet once again Dr. Dre makes no appearance behind the boards on production. In his place, Scott Storch (who needs the money), Cool & Dre, Irv Gotti, Nottz, J.R. Rotem, DJ Toomp, Hi-Tek and Kanye West all contribute some very high-def beats for Game's usual "I'm a Blood" steelo.
From the moment you hear DMX praying on the "Intro," you get a certain feeling that maybe God really does love the gangsters and vice-versa. X goes in pretty heavy with the prayer, giving the listener the idea that if he ever put down the microphone in the name of rap and picked it back up in the name of Jesus, without picking up the (you name it - pipe, blunt, bottle, needle, car keys, etc, etc...) again, he would probably have a congregation that would go far beyond the spiritual travesty that your boy Mason Betha pulled. Very dramatic and strangely appropriate.
From then on, you get what you expect. Game shows off his bounce-flow on "L.A.X. Files," which has a guy with a weird sense of tuning singing the chorus, but somehow it works out. From then on, the guest appearances start to flow in, with 'The Don Mega' Ice Cube showing up on the hook for "State of Emergency," Raekwon the Chef trading verses on "Bulletproof Diaries" and "My Life" featuring Lil' Wayne, which I can't get out of my head. Say what you will about Young Carter, but he can make your song pop if he really wants to, and the T-Pain device works well with him on certain tracks.
I have several favorite songs on L.A.X., and I've only been listening to it for 12 hours. Right now, my choices are "Ya Heard" featuring Ludacris, "Never Can Say Goodbye," "Cali Sunshine" and "Dope Boys," which knocks major. As a matter of fact, the only song I'm not really digging thus far would be the main single, "Game's Pain," featuring Keyshia Cole. Sure, she's fine, but that doesn't mean I have to be a fan. I think she's a little overrated, personally. Plus, I don't get the part that's supposed to be painful. Why didn't they name the song "Homage?" Whatever, I guess. But that doesn't mean I think it was a bad move to put the song out first. Black women love Keyshia, and so does urban radio. Can't call it stupid at all.
"Never Can Say Goodbye" and "Letter to the King" serve as the albums' two best songs for their creativity and depth, where he raps about the deaths of Tupac, Biggie, Eazy-E and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., respectively. Nas guests on the latter, as well as donating his vocal to the only interlude on the album, "Hard Liquor." "Angel" is another fly one that I played repeatedly on the drive from Atlanta to Birmingham this afternoon. And nobody can deny Chrisette Michelle, so "Let Us Live" wins on G.P. While I'm not crazy about Neo on a Game track ("Gentleman's Affair"), I do like the conflicting message. And let's face it: Game is known for being somewhat schitz.
Overall, by the time you get to the 19th track, DMX's prayerful "Outro," you shouldn't be mad at the Compton MC who has made his own way without significant assistance from Dr. Dre or 50 Cent since his debut album. L.A.X. is solid, and it will keep anyone from saying that Game was a flash in the pan, even if this really is his last LP as he has said. Hopefully, with the quality of this new joint, The Game will put the pistols away, stop with all the suicidal innuendos and realize that the game needs him.
You probably think I'm somewhat crazy for using this whole "dead" concept as a means to creatively explore world topics, news and Hip-Hop, but I didn't start this trend; neither did Nas. The precedent was set in the south, but not in my home state of Alabama or my current Georgia home. When it comes to writing about dead shit, nobody beats Brad Jordan.
The legendary Mr. Scarface of Houston's Geto Boys is the original grim reaper of Hip-Hop. And I have a few YouTubes to prove my point.
SCARFACE: "I'm Dead"
This concept was ill and kind of funny at the same time.
SCARFACE: "I Seen a Man Die"
"I still gotta wonder why..." Always liked this one.
SCARFACE: "He's Dead"
More morbid music. Not a personal favorite, but it counts.
SCARFACE: "A Minute to Pray and a Second to Die"
Dude looks extra young in this clip. Damn, how many years has Scarface been in the game again?
SCARFACE: "Dying With Your Boots On"
There's enough cursing in this song to start a fire out of thin air. Damn!!
SCARFACE: "Hand of the Dead Body"
"Gangstas don't live that loooonnnng!"
Pay your respects. This dude is like the Crypt Keeper of rap.
Trae tha Truth punched Mike Jones in the face? Southern rappers are beefing? Rick Ross had his goons manhandle DJ Vlad - all down in Houston at the Ozone Awards? Really?!
I absolutely don't care. It's probably a good thing I wasn't there in Houston for this event. I still have some issues with a few people who attended the show, and I'd rather not start an epic fight outside of the venue. Trust me, if I get punched in the face a'la Mike Jones at an awards show, there will be metallic repercussions. Even though I have more than a few friends who were down in Texas attending Julia Beverly's cottage-cheese rendition of a black awards show, I declined to attend. Look at everything I missed...
So I'm passing off the torch on this one. The homie Maurice Garland wrote a recap of the show, and he's obviously not as slanted against the machinery of false cultural representation as I am. That was a joke.
CLICK HERE to read Garland's take on the 2008 Hozone Ozone Awards. In the meantime, here is another take on the truth from Trae. It's funny how snitching on yourself is the new album promotion. Oh well, that's why southern Hip-Hop is where it is today - half in the spotlight, half in the coffin.
And you probably wonder why I spend so much time writing about politics...
John McCain learned that his recent campaign ads against Obama, which attempt to paint Obama as nothing more than a celebrity cult leader of sorts, are not only confusing and misleading, but they are even considered a waste of money by his own campaign donors.
Kathy Hilton, known to the world as Paris's mother, has already given $4,600 to McCain for his presidential campaign. Yet she has come forward and posted a blog on THE HUFFINGTON POST of all places, calling the advertisement below an unwise way to use the money he is collecting from Republickins like herself.
"It is a complete waste of the money John McCain's contributors have donated to his campaign," Hilton wrote.
"It is a complete waste of the country's time and attention at the very moment when millions of people are losing their homes and their jobs. And it is a completely frivolous way to choose the next President of the United States," she wrote.
Notice how geezerly, antique, geriatric, elderly, antiquated and hoary this guy McCain looks at the end of the above commercial. It's like he's looking out of the window of his retirement home bingo room and thinking, "Pick me America! I'm the one with the AARP membership!"
OBAMA RESPONSE AD:
I love that line - "Same Old Politics." So, who won the day? You tell me. Or better yet, let's go beyond the grave and ask axe the late great Tupac Shakur...
"All you old rappers trying to advance It's all over now; take it like a man... N*ggas looking like Larry Holmes - flabby and sick, Trying to player-hate on my shit? You eat a fat d*ck!" 2PAC - Against All Odds
(My name is not Senator Barack Obama, and he did not approve this message. But I do support him for POTUS.)
[please notice the phrase "Promotional Use Only" underneath "THE BOSS." True, true.]
If you haven't already heard - and it's everywhere right now - the rap career of "Rick Ross" is OFFICIALLY OVER.
The Smoking Gun has found records that *allegedly* show "Rick Ross", a.k.a. William Roberts, at some type of training graduation for correctional officers in Florida, shaking hands and smiling in a tight-ass brown and beige uniform.
This has been a two-week saga in the Hip-Hop world, as it involves a famous rapper (Roberts) that claimed to be a cocaine dealer and outlaw leader of his own Florida narcotics gang. He even went as far as naming himself after a California crack lord - "Freeway" Ricky Ross. As you would guess, being a one-time employee of the state prison system doesn't bode well for the reputation, especially while we're still in the "Stop Snitching" era. But creating the false persona of a criminal when you were actually trained to babysit them for the government is, if true, inexcusible and unacceptable.
Trick Daddy had already put the word out that Roberts used to be a prison guard, but without providing proof, it was just held as a possibility and an unfounded joke. But once the word got strong enough to spread, Media Take Out posted the picture, and the internet went nuts like Jesse. Soon after, Roberts put out his own YouTube joint, denying that he was ever a prison guard and saying that he would "see" Trick Daddy.
But now, all we see is that TDD was on point. I don't think it's so unreasonable that a prison guard could become a rap artist, or even a cocaine dealer-turned rap artist, but why front for the camera? You don't have to lie to kick it. Bad day - William Roberts. Good day - Trick Daddy.
"Fake thug, no love / you get the snub / CB-4 'Gusto' / Your luck low / I didn't know 'till I was drunk, though..." Nas - The Message
Scientific researchers at the University of Aarhus (?) have made a brilliant discovery - one whose announcement is sure to spread like cobwebs in the circles of internet-saavy spiders. Female arachnids, beware: your men are out chea boning unsuspecting potential mates by playing dead and stealing the ass.
Hell, at least the spiders don't have to live in Darfur these days, for God's sake. Then not only would such savage spiders rape the ladies, they might just kill them and the kids, then burn it all down on the way to the next unfortunate victim.
So don't you PETA pricks get mad at me if you see me in the woods squashing the shit out of some tarantula or black widow. He might be the "Chester" that sodomized Charlotte.
"I'm gunnin' for your spouse, tryin' to send that bitch back to her maker, and if you've got a daughter older then 15, I'm a rape her, take her on the living room floor, right there in front of you, then ask you seriously, what you wanna do?" DMX - "X is Coming" (nolo)
According to SOHH.COM, NEW ORLEANS RAPPER SPORTY T IS DEAD. He was killed in a monsoon of AK-47 gunfire in his FEMA trailer while he was sleeping.
Is this the promised outcome for pioneering gangster rappers? What happened to getting chubby and moving to Miami? Why did he deserve to be killed in such a vicious way?
Who knows. All I can say is that I wasn't at all fooled by the atmosphere of the French Quarter when I was in The Crescent City during the Essence Fest. I knew better than to take my out-of-town ass through the lower 9th ward. It's not my turf, and I'm under no misgivings that I am welcome anywhere in the world. Especially the destroyed housing projects of the world's murder capital. And as you can see, I'm still alive.
Now I suppose I should post a video or something that shows Sporty T doing his thing. Here's a YouTube joint of his group, The Wild Boyz, dissing Cash Money back in 2000.
Pretty funny, I guess, but I must say that Baby had the last laugh. It's 2008, and Lil Wayne is still outselling Coldplay. That's major.
R.I.P. to Sporty T. Hope you get everything in heaven that should have been yours on earth.
So I go through my daily online news this morning and look what I found at CNN.com:
"On the untitled album, there's still an air of militancy, with the threats of violence directed toward those who aim to oppress African-Americans.
He boasts likenesses to Black Panther founder Huey P. Newton and threatens to throw Molotov cocktails in the name of civil rights murder victim Emmett Till.
On "Testify," Nas warns that he's loading a magazine to "send these redneck bigots some death in a bag/choke him out with his Confederate flag/I know these devils are mad."
It's great to see that CNN actually covered this in what comes across as a non-biased, journalistic way. Nas just might see some numbers and garner even more respect as one of Hip-Hop's best for making an album that targets the most feared word on the planet. Even if he changed the name, I totally support the idea behind this one. Untitled dropped yesterday. Go buy it.
"No matter what the CD's called / I'm unbeatable, y'all!" Nas - "Hero"
In case you’re somewhat new to this seventh layer of Hell, which I like to call, “The Underworld,” you may not know that I keep track of who passes on, or in the funny cases, who kicks the proverbial bucket, from time to time. I mean, you’d think that a guy who calls his ink pen a "scythe" (and kills the competition) would at least keep an accurate account of who gets bodied along the way. Well, my weird friends, here is the bad news that you can depend upon me to deliver. In this case, we have one loser and two people who I don't think deserved their death sentences. But then again, I’m not God. Do me a favor, and please, pay your respects.
CAREER-DEAD/LEGALLY-DEAD (The Funny Part): RAS-KASS
I’m sorry, but this dude is a f*cking idiot. This same guy BECAME A FUGITIVE years ago, while putting out mixtapes against his label, Priority Records. As if they were the reason why the law wanted him. I’m sorry again, but po-po doesn’t come after you for not releasing an album within the time limit of your recording contract. You’ve obviously broken a bigger rule than that.
So he goes on the lam, either gets caught or turns himself in (I don’t care enough to research it), and does a couple years or so. Comes out claiming to be “The King of L.A.” As if Snoop wasn’t still around. As if The Game wasn’t responsible for bringing the first multi-platinum plaque back to L.A. in years. As if Ice Cube wasn’t still selling gold – independently. Cube made more money off of one independent album than Ras-Kass probably received his whole career in label advance money. Which is, of course, recoupable (look it up). If you remember, Game was upset enough at some of Ras-Kass’s rhymes that he gave Kass a black eye, to match his black revolutionary disposition, I guess. Oh, the irony.
Now, according to Illseed, Ras-Kass is in the first few months of a three-year bidsky for who cares what. As in, right now, while I’m typing and drinking beer, he’s in jail. But if dude really thinks he can even start that, “I’m the king,” dewshery again, when he gets out in 2011, he’ll automatically earn one title: The Dumbest Rapper Alive. God knows, I don't want to see another rapper jailed, but - word to Lupe Fiaschoe – a good vocabulary doesn’t always mean that you’re smart.
REALLY DEAD (No Humor Intended): Static from Playa and Juvenile’s Daughter
STATIC:
Do you know that Static was one of the best songwriters alive when he passed? Here’s what HIP-HOP ELEMENTS said about his passing:
Among the major hits Static wrote lyrics for are Aaliyah's "Are You That Somebody" and "Try Again"; Ginuwine's "So Anxious" and "Pony"; Nas and Ginuwine's "You Owe Me"; Pretty Ricky's “On the Hotline" and Truth Hurts' "Addictive."
Let me take it a step further. He also wrote “We Need a Resolution,” “Rock the Boat”, “More Than a Woman,” “Same Ol’ G” by Ginuwine, and one of my favorite songs that you’ve never heard, “Joy,” which was on Timbaland & Magoo’s first album. When I tell you that song is the truth, you should not only believe me; you should either go buy the album or download it. Trust me, the track is hard to find. But if you’re interested in finding out about even more songs he wrote that you might love, CHECK THIS SITE.
This is one of those stories that I find a little depressing, because dude was the serious truth. He could rap, sing and write, and I always told people that he was dope, even though I liked the fact that I knew something that other’s didn’t. Selfishness… yuck. He was probably one hit away from being a star in his own rite. Now, he’s gone, because of something nobody saw coming. R.I.P., Static. Cheers 2 U. At least it’s better than a bullet…
JELANI DELESTON - JUVENILE'S DAUGHTER
This one is… man. Four years old. Yo, I can barely even speak on it, because I have no idea how to comprehend it, how to cope with if I were a father, or how it could happen in the first place. Basically, Juvenile’s daughter – yes, that Juvenile – WAS KILLED by her older half-brother. He also killed his mother and another sibling.
When this type of tragic shit happens, it makes you wish you had the power to keep people from suffering in the first place. Then again, that might be vanity, which is a deadly sin. Let's just pray that Jelani is beyond the trials of this life, and is now freer than anyone on Earth - laughing and enjoying eternity, while waiting for us to join her and everyone else whose spirit was true enough to cross over into Nirvana while still somewhat innocent.
They say the good die young...
“This ain’t funny, so don’t you dare laugh.” – Slick Rick
Say goodbye to the guy who once made you believe that you were a future Hip-Hop mogul. Say R.I.P. to the person who danced in Jodeci and Father MC videos in the early nineties. Say peace to the man who put out "It's All About the Benjamins." Say good riddance to the name by which we once knew Sean John Combs.
Puffy / Puff Daddy / P. Diddy is dead. Who knows, Diddy is right there in the bottom right corner of the YouTubery posted above, but if you listen to the man, he's telling you like it is. He's got, no tiiime for fake names. He's officially crossed the glass ceiling of Hip-Hop, which is usually "label head" status (nolo) and negro endorser of white-owned products. My man is a household name, so I guess it makes sense for him to use his very own name, since he can't change faces when he calls himself by various nicknames. I mean have you ever looked up the word "Puffy" in Google Images? As long as you're not at work, try it right now and see what comes up...
Don't worry; I'll wait...
None of us close to 30 years old can lie and say we didn't aspire to having what Puffy had back in the 90's. He was big, but he was still something of a hood secret. Now, he's executive producing the ABC version of A Raisin in the Sun, and playing the starring role alongside some heavy hitters. It'll be better than the Broadway version, I'm sure, because a TV production has editing. Broadway is live.
Sean John Combs wants you to know him as an actor now. He wasn't so pressed back when Oliver Stone first courted him for Any Given Sunday, but now he seems convinced that with his presence, money and power, he can move Hollywood his way. More power to him. But it is sort of depressing that he's showing us that he's too grown for Hip-Hop. Jay-Z is already wearing suits, and he hasn't been in the executive chair that long.
I've always wondered what would happen if Puffy fell off. Would rap music lose it's number one stunner and lose its standing in world culture if the biggest name in the business were no longer commerically viable as an artist? Well, look around, my brothers and sisters; it looks like we're at that moment. Are we as Hip-Hoppers too immature to see that even our heroes are abandoning us? Has the money in music dried up that bad, or is Hollywood poontang just that attractive that video hoes are no longer good enough? Or is Hip-Hop just dead?
Who cares, right? TIME MAGAZINE thinks he's still that dude, and I'm not hating. Unforgivable actually smells pretty damn good, to be honest. Eff it: Long live Sean Combs. He probably deserves to settle into being a thesbian, and we're just too blinded by his DIAMOND IPOD to see that not even precious jewels can sell wack rap music anymore. May the name remain, even if the character is no more.
If you actually know who UNCLE MURDA is, because most people probably don't, you qualify to receive a coupon for a FREE McDEATH BURGER at your local hood McDonalds, just for being able to prove that you were aware of the backstory before this post.
Ba-da-bap-ba-baa!!
Just leave a comment with your government name, social security number, telephone, email and physical address. I promise not to give this info to my telemarketing staff or Blackwater USA.
*DISCLAIMER* This offer may not be applicable at all any McDonalds in the world.
Moving on, there exists (maybe temporarily) a rapper named Uncle Murda, who represents East New York. He's gully, ganster, hard, brolic, thuggy--a vertitable tough guy. And he's signed to Roc-A-Fella Records, the label owned by Damon Dash, Kareem Burke and Shawn Carter, a.k.a. Jay-Z. I guess that the Jiggaman needed a roughneck figure to solidify his label roster, especially since he's got Kanye West repping for the emos.
What THE UNDERWRITER doesn't like about Uncle Murder's thug life coonery is that, for some reason, my man seems to take being shot in the head as a misfired joke. Peep the quote from ALLHIPHOP's exclusive interview with U.M.:
"If anybody, I think it may have been the NYPD. But who it ever was that did it, they missed because I didn’t even know I was hit. One of my crew told me that my face was bleeding and took me to the hospital. They said I still have a bullet in my head and if I am sexually active it will fall out [laughs]."
It was also reported all over the web that Uncle Murda is NURSING HIS PAIN WITH HENNESSY AND NEWPORTS. Far be it from my authority to say that cognac and nicotene can't be sufficient in terms of numbing the nerves. But this is, after all, a head wound. A doctor might have a better way, but who am I to say that a thug can't self-medicate?
But at least I now know that this is how a "real" gangster rapper responds to a "Bullet-Bullet" to the dome. Good. I love it when thugs laugh at being shot, thinking that death is a game that they can win. It only makes it funnier when I'm forced to report his obituary two weeks before his album drops, two days after never.
Just for extra emph, here's a poignant, poetic and creative rap song, in video form, by the artist known as Uncle Murda. Pay attention; it may be a subliminal cry for help. Let's pray that he avoids this blog in the future.
"In the Bible I read, 'Death is of the tongue / and if you talk about death enough, death is gon' come.'" 50 Cent - "Shot Down" feat. DMX
Weezy F. Baby Carter, the self-proclaimed "best rapper alive", just might also be the most geeked up. At least his lips are sealed, as this image suggests. Or maybe it's just the teeth clenching that has his mouth on clack-clack...
The Alphabet Boyz of Phoenix, Ariz., recently had the opportunity to join in a Cash Money/Young Money Records cypher, and found more than enough for a bus full of buffoons. Courtesy of ALLHIPHOP, here's the story of Weezy's stash game:
"The K-9 Unit found multiple types of drugs, as well as currency, and firearms," DEA spokeswoman Ramona Sanchez told AllHipHop.com. "One of the firearms, a .44 caliber pistol was registered to Mr. Carter. He did have a concealed weapon permit from Florida, but we are investigating whether it violates any Arizona laws."
Sanchez added that the K-9 Unit recovered 105 grams of marijuana (3.7 ounces), almost 29 grams of cocaine (1.02 ounces), 41 grams of Ecstasy (1.05 ounces) and $22,000 dollars in cash.
"The two other individuals were charged with possession of marijuana," Sanchez said. "Mr. Carter was charged with possession of the cocaine and ecstasy, and possession of miscellaneous paraphernalia."
The mind wonders if Weezy had visited DMX's house while riding through the Southwest. If not to cop, at least to share. Lord knows that The Dog has been acting a little funny lately...
It's bad enough that everybody's assumption ended up being gospel--Ike Turner died because he was on what Martin Lawrence once called "that OOH-WEEE". And rumors abound that we will all find out that Pimp-C was doing something he shouldn't have been when he was found deceased in a hotel suite. We'll find out soon enough...
Lil' Wayne used to call out his former Hot Boy brother B.G. for being a washed up drug addict, back when the group first severed their ties. And any fan of southern rap music knows the history of B-Gizzle. Now that Blender Magazine has predicted that HE'LL DIE AT AGE 44, one must consider whether or not Wayne has been lured into the same path as his former rhyme partner or is actually a product of his environment that deserves some legal leniency.
Look at it this way. This is a guy whose home city was washed away. He probably knew dozens of the dead from Hurricane Katrina. Right now, he may be running off of a survival instinct that says, "Eff the world, Wizzle. You've gotta just keep smoking that kush, drinking that lean, popping those Es and sniffing that yay. Keep yourself in a comfortable state of mind, and don't look back, or you'll turn to dust..."
His homie Juelz Santana may not be the best influence right now, considering the following picture from XXL's "A History of Cocaine Rap" story from December 2006...
Who cares. If these dudes can afford gaudy jewelry and enough powder to cover a continent of baby asses, they can surely afford Tom Mesereau or another high-powered lawyer. Or they can just keep numbing themselves to reality and rapping about cars that they can't really afford, jewelry that makes them robbery/extortion targets and habits that keep the Feds taking pictures.
Come on rappers; smile for the camera!! Cocaine is a helluva drug!!
My name is Michael Jordan. I am a survivor living in Atlanta, Georgia. I am blogging on the world wide internets. If you are out there… if anyone is out there…
##############################
In the future, there is only one man who survives the Hip-Hop holocaust.
It all started when it was announced in the mainstream media that there was finally a cure for the highly-contagious social disease known as “gangster rap.” Infecting billions of people worldwide, this mental condition known as GRD (Gangster Rap Disease) had brought the world to its knees in an unapologetic zeitgeist since the 1970s.
It was decided by a team of evil monks that the culture of Hip-Hop was behind this madness, and that there were three magic words that, if taken out of the dialect of the cultural language, would remove the power of GRD from earth. Of course, this would take time to spread among the proletariat, but the minds behind this movement were completely convinced of their righteous cause.
And so began the campaign to outlaw the words “nigger”, “bitch” and “hoe.”
No one stopped to think that by removing these three words, not only gangster rap but also Hip-Hop as a general creative force and lifestyle would be severely altered to the point of mutation. But before a general consensus could be met, or even a majority vote by those in power, an album was released that caused a seismic shift in the consciousness of all those who once referred to themselves as “b-boys” and “b-girls.” This album, while widely praised as the culture’s saving grace, was named possibly for the artist’s belief that he had outgrown his peers. He was freeing himself from the confinement of popular definition of the word “Black.” He was hailed as a genius—a title he fully embraced for himself—and was lauded as a signal of positive things to come. He was Kanye West, and he created the cure...
Graduation was a harbinger of the new times. After the album unsurprisingly outsold its competition, The Owners (the secret society of record company magnates) decided that this new format was indeed the future. Instead of financing music that could inspire a revolt, it was agreed that all new rap music would be quarantined for quality assurance. War was, indeed, not the answer. GRD was officially D.O.A.
People became parodies of their former selves—caricatures of the moral character that was once dominant in the urban ghettos and on the rural dirt roads of America and beyond. Gone was the threat of revolution, replaced by a belief that gentile music would overcome the oppressive powers of the world. Great acts such as The Wu-Tang Clan, even after sampling such groups as The Beatles, were outsold by candy corn children’s groups.
No one complained. No one cried “foul.” The new rules were accepted as religion. Soon, the media began to alter its reporting of rap music, and the culture itself began to bleed. Those who rebelled were executed or cast from their homes, only to be hunted and slaughtered by vampires, creeps, goons and demonic spirits.
The “cleansing” began with the graffiti artists. Then, concentration camps were built for the break-dancers, disc jockeys, radio personalities, party promoters… anyone rumored to be secretly involved with anything urban. When the emcees were rounded up and collectively destroyed, all that remained were the journalists, or “The 5th Element.” They fought valiantly, raging against the machine. Yet inevitably, one by one they were all consumed with grief, greed or complete indifference. They splintered into individual cells, making their capture and executions simple.
An idea that began as innocently as human life had become corrupted and maliciously redesigned. As gloriously as Hip-Hop had ascended to the top, it crumbled into dust...
#############
Wake up, my child. Tomorrow is still Christmas, joy is in the air and everything is perfect in the world.
Posts
