Yesterday I tweeted something about the Boston rap group The Camp,
which I've claimed on numerous occasions helped spawn the sub-genre
that we now lovingly know as frat rap. To which the old frat rapster
himself – @JKRealize – replied: “You still tweet about music?”
I do, occasionally, though it takes some extra real or nostalgic shit
to move me.
A few weeks ago I received the best damn music news I've heard since finding out that Bob Dylan's grandson got signed to Young Money (real talk). I don't care much about the business side of boom bap anymore, but this bombshell was loud enough to divert my attention from everything I hate about contemporary hip-hop.
It's ridiculous that anyone would read the New York Times for music coverage. Still the sad truth is that staff critic Jon Caramanica wields serious influence over the commercial hip-hop landscape, his master narratives weaving mittens for inept writers everywhere to handle trend rappers. So with another Grammy gala toasting mediocrity upon us, I thought it was a fitting time to eviscerate his write-up of last week's Stretch and Bob reunion show
In case you haven't noticed, Ricky Shabazz and the Boom Bap Boys (a/k/a Director Nicolas Heller - think The Streets) have been responsible for a serious chunk of the most creative and downright dope hip-hop videos of 2010. Though I don't know Heller and his team personally, we seem to have comparable taste; this year they cut clips for the likes of Homeboy Sandman, Time Crisis, and C-Rayz Walz - just to name a few.
If you're anything like me, then you canceled plans to ski and shop in Aspen this weekend in order to stick around the Bean and check two of the freshest shows to peel through here in recent memory (though last Friday, with simultaneous sets from Reks, Eternia, Scribblenauts, and Freddie Gibbs, was dope, if not overwhelming).
The bad news is that both Fat Beats retail shops – on Sixth Ave in Manhattan and Melrose in Los Angeles – are officially out of business. Following a calendar of coast-to-coast celebratory in-store send-offs that dovetailed with this year's Rock the Bells schedule, the racks came down, and by now contractors have probably peeled off the storied sticker collection that's tattooed from the floor to the track-lighting.
You see these two pics? Well remember these faces – Homeboy Sandman (Queens) and Zeale (Austin); they’re two motherfuckers who you’ll be seeing quite a bit of.
Zeale beat the trash out of his early afternoon audience at Peckerheads. The Nah Right / Smoking Section party is about to really pop (Yelawolf is rocking at the moment), but these two knocked the bitch up.
your favorite artist of all-time performing his or her best material
that you’ve never seen live before. That’s what I got last night when Talib Kweli and Hi-Tek nearly tore through the entire Reflection Eternal disc, Train of Thought; I had more blood rushing through me than when I got my debut blow job back in eighth grade.
It was a long day before I got to Kweli at the Scoot Inn – and to the afterparty at the Red Bull Moon Tower
in the middle of absolutely nowhere. I ate lots of barbecue and even
nearly shat my pants; but it was beyond worth it – I’m considering
adopting grandchildren just so I can tell them about my adventures.
it turns out, brisket goes well with junky music. I won’t call anyone
out (though I bet Brodeur will), but the sounds penetrating my skull
while I grubbed baked beans and free potato salad at the SoHo Lounge nearly forced the barbecue right out the other side.
you have a minute, shed a tear for lonely guys who strum guitars on
corners and belt heartfelt lyrics; they’re the only ones who care about
their feelings – kind of like Britney Spears . . . YAK BALLZ, LADY SOV, AND MORE AFTER THE JUMP
I’m not packing clothes
for this year’s CMJ Marathon in New
York City. In fact, I’m not even bringing down a
laptop. Instead of spending five straight days inhaling various poisons,
feverishly blogging on the same nonsense that everyone else is covering, and
ransacking my weathered eardrums with out-of-tune guitar shreds and swollen
bass lines, I’m limiting my trip to one day and two nights, and seeing how much
I can cram in.