I can make it good, I can make it hood, I can make you come, I can make you go! I can make it high, I can make it fly, make you touch the sky, hey maybe so!
Today's edition of HOE. SIT. DOWN. goes out to my man Al Sharpton, who after reading this quote below, probably won't approve of this post or the song present within it.
"Every record company has what they call a lyrics committee, where they screen lyrics to make sure they're not against police, or gays, or Jews. Well how come they're clearing lyrics against blacks and women?"
How come I've never heard of these committees? Am I the only one who thinks said committees are as real as membership cards for the itty bitty titty ones?
I tried to hold out and be strong, but I couldn't take it anymore. I went ahead and got my hands on M.I.A.'s sophomore LP Kala, and my god if I ain't worn that shit out already. [Thank god for MP3s. If this were a taped cassette, well I'd be screwed.] Kala is my new B'Day, my new The Sweet Escape, my new Good Girl Gone Bad; in other words, it's my new favorite disc from a female artist that I can't help but play from start to finish and often times put on repeat.
And the opportunities for singles are endless on this one, but let me just say that M.I.A. and her people got it right by releasing and making a video for the Bollywood influenced track Jimmy. Is it my favorite track on the album? No. But is it the kind of track that could grab the ears of a Fergie, Rihanna, or Gwen Stefani fan, thus expanding her fan base and garnering interest in the new album? Yes. And that is why I gotta give M.I.A. and her crew some props on dropping this one like it's hot.
So enjoy the video for Jimmy presented below, and come August 21st, pull your pennies together and do what you can to get your hands on what is, thus far, one of the top five releases of the year.
File Under: Old School Funk for the true funk soldiers!
Yes, thank you Del Taco for including this song on your playlist last night as we all stood in line, trying not to appear belligerent and decide whether it was a Fish Taco or Chicken Taco Del Carbon kind of night.
Good times.
And riddle me this? Why do I only eat Del Taco between the hours of one and three a.m., usually following a night of drinking/partying?
I don't tend to remember many of my dreams. They come and go. Sometimes they involve people I know of but don't know on a personal level. [Hello Bowdoin College] And for a brief wrinkle in time they seemed to have always ended with sex. [Again, hello Bowdoin College] But this one from last night just had moments of sheer w.t.f? that I had to try and re-hash it for the masses.
The time, 1 a.m. Disrobe. Pop the Benadryl and head to bed. Feeling good. The hangover is slightly gone and I am full from my seafood platter courtesy of M&M's Soul Food a few hours ago, and the two or three wine coolers I had while watching tivo'd Baldwin Hills, Will and Grace, and Reno 911. [What? Don't look at me like that!]
Must get rest. Must get rest. Must...get...
Asleep.
Awake.
But not really.
Somewhere north of home. Looks like the Fairfax district.
My cell phone rings.
It's Britney Spears. She wants me to grab her dry cleaning and head on over to her place.
Time flies. I got the dry cleaning. Britney greets me out front. Hair blonde. Scrunchied. Updo ponytail like. Uggs Boots. White babydoll dress or some shit. Obviously too small. All smiles. Paparazzi all over this modest looking apartment. As we head inside I take on the role of big brooding black bodyguard man, using the dry cleaning to block cameras and shield my girl, Ms. Spears.
Inside.
Children are noticeably absent. It's me, Britney, and some unidentifiable male. The place is not a mess, but it is not super tidy either.
Bedroom door is open. Giant Tonka pick-up trucks for children sit in the corner. Toys, toys, toys, galore. Begs me to ask, "yo Brit, where's the boys?"
No answer.
Instead she starts a casual conversation about something, passing out blue plastic cups which she then proceeds to fill with Moet fresh out of the bottle. Yes, Moet.
Did I mention that we are all just kicking it on the floor, not in chairs, near a glass coffee table?
Time flies.
Now we're popping some identifiable pills from a bottle sitting atop the glass coffee table. Apparently Britney must take three of these to keep herself chill and sedated.
Talib Kweli, Get By. Playing in the background.
Somehow my mom has appeared in the picture. Brit is gone. Same drab looking apartment. Me, my, mom, and the unidentifiable guy taking pills, drinking Moet. Now my mom is talking about how she must take three of these bad boys to stay sane and get by.
I'mma go ahead and say it. I hate this fucking song. I have yet to watch the video, or take the time the sit down and actually listen to it online, on the radio, or on tv. I don't see the appeal, and I don't see why my cousin lil bro feels it is necessary to have the song as a ringtone on his sidekick. [Pretty Ricky's On the Hotline (for when he receives a new text message of course) I can take. Party like a rockstar? Not so much.]
Where was I?
Oh yes. So I don't like this song, but I do like this; Eve, the self-proclaimed "Pitbull in a skirt" spitting a few bars to the tune of Party like a rockstar. Getdowngirl, goheadgetdown.
"People's perception [of how gay he is]would be a six or seven, but on mine, I'd be a two or three. I am not interested in dudes too much. Sexuality is a grey scale. Can I say a guy is attractive? Yes. Am I going to smoke some pole? No."-Pete Wentz
1:50 p.m. Even more morally ambiguous is the amputee model leaning against the stripper pole to show off her machine gun leg - the same one Rose McGowan wore in the movie Grindhouse. I got a chill as she smiled at me, because I wondered....Did the Weinstein Company put out a Craigslist ad asking for a "Hot Amputee Stripper Willing to Wear Gun Leg at Comic-Con?" I shudder to think...
I surround myself with what some outsiders looking in may [incorrectly] call the typical young in Hollywood types. We go to shows, we stay up late, and know what we like and what we don't. Sure we all have our own personal attractions and things that get us going, but collectively we're quite the bunch, and that's what keeps us going strong day after day, night after night.
And every now and then we do silly little things like have a drink or two and revel in 1 1/2 to 2 hrs of pure bad movie bliss. But I say we take it to the next level.
M.I.A. was one of the many all star acts to open up Lollapolooza 2007 today in Chicago. Here's what the folks over at Rolling Stone's Rock and Roll Daily had to say about her performance:
M.I.A. brought a booming system, vinyl-scratching DJ, rumbling bass and African samples but little else to the stage for her late afternoon set. “I lost my voice in Los Angeles,” the London-based MC confessed. “If I have to get drunk to get it on, that’s cool.” But her doubled-up hollering and insertion of the Pixies’ “Where Is My Mind?” into the mix fell on mostly deaf ears. And her decision to use video footage of the Jungle King and other assorted clips meant that all but those close to the stage watched tiny figures dance underneath the lights. M.I.A. has the studio down to a science; she needs to improve her live presence.
See, I am not the only who thinks M.I.A.'s stage show leaves a little to be desired.
The Boondocks is just one of those shows you must own on dvd if you are a fan. And after months and months and months of coming across said dvd in many a store for $40 dollars of more, I am happy to report that my local Target had it on sale earlier this week for the low, low price of $19.99 granting me the opportunity to sweep that shit up with a quickness.
Owning this set also gives me a few months to play catch up, rediscover some gems, and prepare myself for the long awaited arrival of season two which [I am hoping] will be just as funny and/or funnier than the show's inaugural season.
“Only white people and older black people say ‘bling’ now. If a white person uses slang too early, then that makes them look like a wigger. But if black people use slang too late, then it makes them look like a wigger.”-Kanye West
Fergie's solo LP The Dutchess dropped Tuesday September 19, 2006. And boy does it have some legs. Last I checked the disc was on it's 4th single [Big Girls Don't Cry] AND still sitting pretty on the charts, coming in at #6 on this week's Top 200.
Now the person responsible for a lot of her success is of course her main man and partner in crime, Will.i.am. Here's the first single for his upcoming solo album, Songs About Girls [in stores September 25th. Save the date!] which, if all goes well, will be inescapable throughout the fall and winter of 2007, and go on to sell too many copies. Check it out!
A few weeks back a bunch of my friends got buzzed, put on their dancing shoes, and headed to the Echoplex to catch Diplo do his thang on the 1's and 2's. Everyone for the most part had a grand old time. Everyone except for Mark, a fellow DJ transplant from Chicago now living in Los Angeles. For Mark, Diplo's show was merely "aight."
Now everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion, but Diplo's show being merely "aight" was not the consensus felt amongst the rest of the group, who were riding on cloud nine, enjoying what Diplo had to offer. Must of been tough to be in the minority. [And I hear it was for the rest of the night] But it's all good Mark, cause I feel you. I saw M.I.A. at the Echoplex last night, and for me the show was merely "aight."
Don't get me wrong, all the trappings of a good time were there. M.I.A. had the energy of a cock gone wild in a grass less front yard, accompanied by two 80's b-girl back-up singers/dancers, and a DJ mixing it up with the beats behind the boards. All of this was presented against a giant sheet-like back drop not to different from the imagery present on the cover of her new album. This plus that plus this gave off a garage house party vibe, that for me, went on to feel more like a homecoming dance and/or prom with a really good musical guest. !" Again, don't get me wrong, I boogied, I shouted "oh shit!" when she played the jams, and even chuckled at the banter ["I need a husband. I got 11 months left on my Visa. That's enough time to have a baby and get married."] but I don't know, something was missing. Maybe it was the crowd who were of the stand there and smile variety. [A crowd that, by the way, was not sold out at all.] Or maybe it that point during Sunshowers when I got my nitpick on and regretted ever singing in an a capella group, not allowing myself to enjoy the song completely when M.I.A.'s back-up singers/dancers went completely flat on the choruses. Or maybe it was the three people she let onstage to dance near the end who defined dancing as swaying from side to side while bobbing your head. [Come on! If you get the chance to dance onstage to an M.I.A. beat with M.I.A. right in front of you, I mean don't you break it down? At least represent for all those hands that went in the air when she asked who wants to come up here and party.]
Again, I don't know.
Don't get me wrong, M.I.A. gave it all she got, but in the end it wasn't enough for me and the entire show left a little something to be desired. But don't fret, I'm still a fan. Shortly afterwards my friend got her hands on the newly leaked Kala, and let me tell you, that shit is fire. I can't wait to purchase that one. And I also can't wait for the day when M.I.A.'s live output equals what she puts on wax.
For some in Los Angeles, this is just another exciting day on the job.
Hmm. Let's see. When I was 14 years old and residing in Los Angeles I had no clue what a part time job was, was busy preparing myself for a four year stint in Hollywood at Fairfax High, enjoying this thing they call "masturbating" a little too much, and bumping Crazy Sexy Cool from time to time. Now I'm 23, residing in Los Angeles, a year or so out college, trying to move from the part time world to the full time world, and trying to not be enraged [entertained(?), disgusted(?), inspired(?)] by the 14 year old Los Angelino with the $7,000 camera making dough the old fashioned way: By snapping up celebrities.
"Jeff Clanagan wants to ride Tyler Perry's coattails.So does 20th Century Fox. They are pairing up to make several Gospel-inspired films that are much like the ones that have made Perry a sensation..."
I know, I know. You were this close to forgetting about and/or getting over your addiction to the life and times of Madea. It's okay baby. It's okay...
Now if you visit this blog often, you know that old school jams are more often than not posted under the "Old School Funk for the True Funk Soldiers" headline. But sometimes old school joints are so good, so well put together, so classic to a brotha, [see Montell Jordan's This is how we do it] that all I can do is marvel at their goodness as they boldly play on and show us how's it done. This jam, presented below, is one such example.
Go on and sing that chorus likes there's no tomorrow. It's not like you're the only one singing out of key, trying to hit that call me Al part.
BONUS:
After you kick it old school, come back and bump this:
Riddle Me This: What the fuck happened to Papoose and Rah Digga?
A funny thing happened around the top of 2006.
People started to care about Busta Rhymes again.
And it was all because of this one track; this new Swizz Beatz produced single that excelled in showing off many of Busta's patented trademarks: his mastering of the pre-chorus voice lift, often confused for a scream or a yell, and less often recognized as what it truly is: an invigorating exercise in verbal intensity. And of course, there's the soft yet animated verbal dexterity present on the verses.
You know what song I am talking about.
"Touch it- bring it - pay it - watch it -turn it - leave it - stop - format it..."
For nearly four minutes, people began to care about Bus-A Bus, taking him up on that offer at the the top of the song of taking our asses "back to the club real quick", something that apparently, we weren't "ready for."
And truly I don't think we were, but all of a sudden, out of nowhere, many of us realized that we missed Busta. Even the many of us who checked out E.L.E (Extinction Level Event), [okay, or Genesis which really ain't that bad either] boobed out heads, got crunk, and listened without prejudice. We were reminded of what he had been missing, thanks to poor single choices and spotty albums. We also realized that we wanted this crazy shouting fool back in our lives coming with the bangers.
I realized this twice in the past week.
The first time was last Saturday night at the Los Angeles Sports Arena. Daft Punk show. Sweaty mess. Lights go dark. Pyramid gets highlighted. The bots get to it. Over an ass shaking, block rocking beat comes the voice of Busta's fembot
"Touch it- bring it - pay it - watch it -turn it - leave it - stop - format it..."
I went bananas because well, it was Daft Punk, and also because this song had been brought back into my life, and 1)I hadn't heard it in a minute, and 2) I forgot how much I adore it, and love shaking my ass to it. And when I say "shaking my ass" I mean shouting out a loud OHHHHH SHIIIIT! when I hear it, and dancing too hard to it as if, to quote my girl Teresa, "I ain't never heard music before."
Cut to Thursday night.
The Echo Plex.
Echo Park.
No disrespect to Chromeo. [Who put it down by the way] But by the time those fellas took the stage I was fucking exhausted. Flosstradamus killed it. I mean kiiiilled it. Working up a black sweat, shirt in my pocket, dancing with androgynous Asian hipsters killed it. Many songs in the set stood out, but which one took me back to that oh shit moment of that Daft Punk show? "Touch it- bring it - pay it - watch it -turn it - leave it - stop - format it..."
-Sigh- It never gets old.
Hearing this song takes me back to a time when Busta Rhymes was an artist worth ponying up money for when a new album dropped. Took me back to a time where I stood in awe of this man's stage presence at Moby's Area Two tour. No hypemen. No weed carriers. No guy shouting the last word or few words of Busta's verse. Just Busta, his boy Spliff, a stage, a DJ, and a mic. The choruses were loud, and during the verses, the beat got low, real low, and Busta took his time, emphasizing every single syllable, making sure you took note of that verbal and lyrical dexterity I spoke of earlier. And trust me, you did.
That's the Busta we miss. That's the Busta we want. Not the Busta who gets more air time on BET, not because he has a new video to drop on Rap City or 106 & Park, but because he attacking "faggots", toting glocks, or ridin dirty. It's a goddamn shame, cause if anything, the banger that is Touch It, (along with that hot remix presented above), his scene stealing turn on T.I's latest disc, along with the presence of Touch It in Daft Punk's and Flosstradmus' sets show that we the people still care about Busta, the question is, does he still care about us?
Damn. Those Flavor of Love girls just can't stop, won't stop huh?
Deelishis. [I hope Flav is getting a little dough on the side for coining a name she is foolishly deciding to stick with as she does it way big]
Rumpshaker.
Enjoy.
And I apologize for all the video postings as of late, but this week has been crazy for my social/real life. Job interviews, after parties, concerts, in and out of clubs, etc. Hopefully things will slow down after tonight's Chromeo/Flosstradamus show. Going? Look for me. I'll be the short black kid brining it with the two step.
Prior to today the lesbian twin sister indie rock duo who could were just another act on the radar who, if you brought them up in conversation I would go, "oh yeah I've heard of them," but then couldn't turn around and wax poetic about one of their tracks because I'm just not familiar with their music.
Cut to today.
New release Tuesday. Lots of new stuff to take in, one of them being the Con, a new full length LP from you guessed it, Tegan and Sara. Critics are raving, fans are salivating. Guess I'll go ahead and give the sound clips a listen.
Well what do we have here?
This is some good shit.
Guess I'll add it to the list of things to buy this afternoon.
Head out to the local Best Buy. All they have left is the double disc version. One disc a CD, the other a DVD. I don't need all that. History has shown, even with my favorite artists that I don't touch the DVD's. Nothing personal. I don't know. They just collect dust. The same also occurs, 9 times out of ten, with bonus discs, unless the bonus tracks and/or remixes are just that kicking. No worries. They got the single disc Con for 9.99.
Or maybe they don't.
Sold out.
"Try Amoeba," he says.
Don't mind if I do.
Go north. Arrive at Amoeba. What is this line all the way around the building? Jesus Christ. Once inch closer to the store and it hits me: Tegan and Sara, live at Amoeba. 6PM. It is now 5:15. What the fuck was I thinking?
Walk to the front. Ask if I can shop. "Sorry. We are at capacity. Fire Marshall won't let us allow anyone else to come inside. Here, have a coupon!" Wow. Tell that to the people wrapped around the block inching towards Fountain. That'll make em happy.
Oh well. I got my Prince and I got my new Yeah Yeah Yeahs EP. I'll have to wait to get that new Tegan and Sara. And when I do, here's hoping I won't have to deal with chain stores who recieve about 15 copies of a new indie joint on new release Tuesday, or giant record stores packed to capacity.
Why can't a heterosexual guy tell a heterosexual guy that he thinks his booty is fly? Not all the time obviously, just when he's got a problem with his self-esteem...
Did anybody else catch episode six of Flight of the Conchords titled "Bowie"? Hilarious television I tell ya, hilarious! If you ain't hip to this show yet, do what you can now to get yourself into it.
While I can appreciate the task of devoting an entire website to the dissection of every song ever recorded by your favorite artist, I still don't see why one would find it necessary to draft up such a website for the one they call T-Pain.
Last night I spent damn near three hours with my shirt around my neck, working up a black sweat to the sweet, sweet music provided by Ratatat, Sebastian and Kavinsky, and of course, Daft Punk. In honor of last night's sonic goodness, I present to you this remix, spotted over at
So I am sitting here dicking around on the internet, and for some strange reason I got this song stuck in my head. But it ain't from one of my favorite artists or an album I own. It's from a movie. A movie starring Whoopi Goldberg and some nuns. And no, it ain't the one with Lauryn Hill.
Look Mr. DJ. July is almost over, summer is in full bloom, and I came here to party. So please, come with it, and...
GET ME BODIED! one/XR2/M.I.A. two/Young Folks (Cousin Cole Re-Edit)/Peter Bjorn, and John three/Helicopter (Weird Science Remix feat Peaches)/Bloc Party four/Get it Shawty/Lloyd feat Yung Joc five/Drugs in my Body/Thieves Like Us six/Crescendolls/Daft Punk seven/Heinreich Maneuver/Interpol eight/We Are Your Friends (Edison Remix)/Justice vs. Simian nine/The Party/Justice feat Uffie ten/Beautiful Girls (DJ Sujinho Remix)/Sean Kingston eleven/Camera (Rubber Bullets Remix)/The Editors twelve/Romantic Rights (Maczech Makuziak Remix)/Death From Above 1979 thirteen/Love Stoned (Justice Remix)/Justin Timberlake fourteen/It's The Beat/Simian Mobile Disco fifteen/Me & My Man/Chromeo sixteen/Canary in a Coalmine/The Police seventeen/Lindsay Lohan's Revenge/Pase Rock eighteen/Da Dip/Freak Nasty nineteen/Boy Looka Here/Rich Boy twenty/Come Back/Kelly Rowland twenty-one/My Boo/Inoj*
*totally stole this last track option from that DJ at La Cita whom I am forever indebted to for bringing this jam back into my life.
Don't get me wrong, it ain't bad, but I don't know, I was just expecting a little bit more. And why wouldn't I? Way before the album's July 10th release date, lead single D.A.N.C.E. was generating all kinds of positive buzz with its infectious refrains, child like harmonies [provided by children of course], funk laced bounce, and dizzying yet gratifying music video accompaniment.
I don't know. Maybe I need a little more time. Maybe I was expecting more vocals, scat raps, and gets downs of the Basement Jaxx, Presets, and Daft Punk variety, and less trance like vibes. I don't know. But I will say this, midway through the album I sit up straight, go oh word, and find myself enjoying a song that I think could go on and become my new D.A.N.C.E. And we all know how much I adored/adore that track.
Kanye West's Graduation was set to drop on August 21st, but now the word on the street is it has been pushed back to September 11th, the same day 50 Cent oft-delayed new album Curtis is set to drop.
I'm a big fan of the last full length LP from Iron and Wine, Our Endless Numbered Days. And when the new single Boy With A Coin made the rounds on the interweb a few backs, I took a listen and fell in love all over again with the words and music of Sam Beam and Co. And now it seems that I may find myself falling in love all over again once I get my hands on this:
Another day, another post about the Rapture starring this album cover.
I am going to see Daft Punk this weekend. There's even talk of maybe getting a limo and doing it up, Big Willie Style. [We take our Daft Punk concerts very seriously round these parts] Though working up a black sweat to Daft Punk, Sebastian, and I forget who else in the Sports Arena is a great way to start and/or spend a Saturday night, I must say I was a little disappointed to find out that the Rapture aren't joining Daft Punk in Los Angeles this Saturday as I had mistakenly thought at the outset, and as is the case when Daft Punk touchdown Berkeley, Seattle, Morrison CO, Chicago, Toronto, Montreal, and New York.
But then I got over it. I mean come on, it's fucking Daft Punk.
July 3 saw the release of two high-profile releases. On the hip-hop side we had T.I.'s give it a little time to make an impression new album, T.I. vs. T.I.P. and on the R&B side we had the aren't you happy it's finally out in the streets sophmore release from Kelly Rowland, Ms. Kelly.
Now as of late I have been refraining from downloading albums before they come out and hoping for the best, and/or giving my favorite artists the benefit of the doubt when I step inside the record shop on new release Tuesdays. That, or I listen to clips of an album, hoping that 30 second snippets will give me more than enough of a reason to get my hands on a new album.
Now I love me some Destiny's Child as much as the next man. [Destiny Fulfilled included] And we all know how I feel about Beyonce's solo output. But I still wasn't ready to just go out and purchase Kelly's latest and hope for the best, no matter how much I love lead single Like This feat Eve. [And trust me, I love that damn song. One of the best singles of the year, hands down] The sound clips didn't grab me on Itunes and when it came to Kelly Rowland and solo outputs, all I could think about was that song with that video where she sat in a classroom looking all sad, and after school special like. In other words, her first go round with this whole solo thang left a bad taste in my mouth.
And then I hung out with Brandon.
Him and his damn affinity for moving, grooving R&B and slow jams.
Get in the car. Hit the road. Press play on the car stereo and Like This begins.
Hell yeah.
That's what I 'm talking about.
As the car ride went on, and we made our way to our movie, I found myself sitting up straight and clearing out my ears, enjoying what was coming through the speakers. Ms. Kelly is a light and pleasant little album. Smoothly paced, subtle and restrained when it needs to be, as well as vibrant and colorful when the time calls for it. Been playing it every so often round these parts, start to finish with no skipping, and enjoying it. So my bad Ms. Kelly. I aplogize for blocking you out and literally picking up your album that Tuesday, two weeks ago, scanning the back and cover artwork before saying "nah", and putting it back on the shelf. I should have known better. And of course, I can't leave without posting this jam for the masses:
Is this shit on repeat? Or is the listener simply not content with letting the song play from start to finish.
Oh hell naw, it's that guy.
Every fucking weekend, he never fails. Makes a left turn right in front of the restaurant making all the customers turn and stare. And not in a good way.
Brotha is always blasting, repeat BLASTING hip-hop and R&B as he rolls through the lean streets of Venice.
Today his Back to the Future looking red hooptie is parked directly in front of the restaurant's four open windows. The Bartender run has come to an end and he is now blasting Snoop Dogg's Tha Blue Carpet Treatment and talking to a familiar face from the neighborhood that eats at the rant from time to time.
Oh my.
So this is what homeboy looks like.
5'11 or taller, but no more than 6'4. Fitted Cap. Built. Caucasian. No homo, but I can't look away. You gotta understand, this man bumps the current hip-hop and R&B like it's his job and he's rolling on dubs.
His sweater/jacket thing comes off.
Ah hell naw.
It gets worse.
He's wearing a tank that stops at the belly button. Thin straps. Fuck. Looks like none of us got tickets to his non-stop gun show. You know the kind of shirt I am talking about. It's the kind of shirt that 50 Cent wears all the time. Except this one looks like it was bought at a Metallica concert in 1988. In fact the front is that Metallica album cover that is a row of cemetery like crosses or something. He's wearing a pouch, AND he's sagging. Yes a pouch AND sagging, for all the world to see. Did I mention the grape flavored blunt resting on his ear?
No?
Don't worry. I was not stalking him out or staring him down. "Homeboy" came in to get a tall cup of Black coffee to go, that's when I got a chance to take the whole thing in. I guess the coffee was his drank to go with the blunt he proceeded to smoke with the familiar face in front of the restaurant windows blasting Tha Blue Carpet Treatment's Crazy feat Nate Dogg, screaming along with Nate at the top of his lungs whenever he sang "LONG BEACH TO COMPTON!"
Riigght....
And don't even get me started on his story about how he took a so-called badass friend from New York City to "the hood." [his words, not mine. 125th and Figeoura to be exact. what? he was talking extra loud. guess he thinks that's a Black Thang.] Once there, he watched as said friend shat his pants cause a) he was in South Central and b)our Venice Thug took it upon himself to instigate and further encourage a fight that was going on between these "two crackheads". He was all "Round 2! FIGHT and shit son!..."
Now you may be asking yourself, what does this have to do with music and/or what's the point? Or what, a white man can't get down with his inner black man? No. None of that. This would have stayed in my head and gotten out to nobody at all, if it wasn't for this picture of Jesse Metcalfe, presented below, that I came across online. As soon as I saw this I couldn't help but think of Homeboy in Venice, getting high, and living the life, one gangsta day at a time.
Now I don't read TMZ on the regular [or at all], and I ain't one to go linking to it in a time of need, but right now, at this moment, I just have to cause I find it incredibly funny that a bunch of bitches* will straight jump your ass outside of a club for heckling poor little old Britney Spears. Nuh-uh bitch. You done fucked up now.
I was sitting there in a com-for-ta-ble chair and that was all that I needed. Check the e-mizzle and what do I see? A myspace message from my girl Teresa. Something going down tonight? Should I dust off the dancing shoes? Who knows?
Get to myspace, log on in, hit the inbox. Subject? tix for spoon on monday nite.
Oh word?
Gotta open this one.
The body read as follows:
**repost**
Very limited number of tickets on sale tomorrow morning.
At 10am tomorrow, we'll post a link on Little Radio to purchase tickets for Monday nights party with Spoon and John Vanderslice. Only 100 will be available.
Tickets will be $15 and will include free drinks from Dewar's.
Oh hell yeah! Now unless you are living under a rock, you know that this past Tuesday was a great day to be a music consumer. There were at least three or four decent to stellar releases that dropped that day, one of them being Spoon's latest Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga.
Definitely feeling this one just as I did Gimme Fiction, Kill the Moonlight, and Girls Can Tell before it. And now you are telling me that I can catch them in downtown Los Angeles this Monday, for 15 bucks, and I get some free alcohol in the process?
Oh hell yes!
Needless to say I think you know what I got my hands on this morning over coffee. That's right, a $16 and 50 cent ticket [take that Ticketmaster!] to see Spoon and special opener John Vanderslice. Big ups to Spoon, the lovely folks over at Little Radio, and my partner in crime Teresa for the heads up! Monday night should be great.
Look I'mma go ahead and keep it real. This phrase entertains me. I remember the first time no homo came into my life. [Or at least one of the first times] Someone very close to me was worried about a bump or bite or some shit that had sprouted on a part of his body that very few eyes get to see. [Don't worry. He got it checked out. Nothing serious. It has since left the building. All is to the good.]
Before he went to drop his pants he filled me in on what was about to go down, and hit me with the now popular disclaimer presented above: "No homo". Cause you know dropping your pants for someone of the same sex who you ain't sleeping with cause you don't swing that way is, you know, gay.
I couldn't laugh, but boy did I want to. I had never heard this phrase before, but I immediately caught the context of it all, and couldn't believe that it was the new hotness in many a social circle. And then, out of nowhere, it just blew up around these parts. I added it to my own lexicon [cause I mean, come on, it's quite the verbal gem] and soon began to hear it sprinkled hear and there in a few rap songs whenever I was paying attention.
But I really knew the phrase had made it when I ventured out to La Cita in downtown Los Angeles one Thursday night, lost in a sea of hipsters, and young non-Hollywood LA types, and saw a young caucasian male adorned in a white t-shirt with no-homo written across the chest in purple cursive writing. The beast was now unleashed.
That is why I can't help but laugh and enjoy this clip presented below that both showcases the urban finesse and inherent absurdity present in the phrase "no homo".
Ladies and Gentlemen I present to you Chris Kirkpatrick (N'Sync), Bryan Abrams (Color Me Badd), Rich Cronin (LFO), and Jeff Timmons (98 Degrees), collectively known as Sureshot! [one word. not two.]
Why'd you have to go and make things so complicated?
It is my belief that Kelly Clarkson is one of the few American Idol contestants/winners that people actually care about. Blame it on the success of her now ubiquitous hit Since You Been Gone, her down home, aww shucks, fuck it attitude, or recent desire to march to the beat of her own drum. Who knows?
Don't believe me. Check out this Idolator piece on her latest [and unfairly maligned disc] My December, and the nearly 30 or so comments from readers attached to it.
t fro! have you been listening to rihanna's new cd non-stop like i have? if not, you gotta check it. it is sooooooo good. right up our little pop dance beat alley. haha this sounds like im her pr. miss you, abby
"...Actually, it's hard to like any of the characters on this show. Rather than destroying racial stereotypes by showing a cross-section of black wealth, these kids drill those stereotypes into our heads so we don't forget them. A quick scan of the cast bios reveals that half of the 11 hillside denizens have some involvement in basketball. That’s either the offspring of a former NBA player, a student basketball player hankering for a b-ball scholarship, or some combination of the two. You mean the show's producers scoured all the black kids on the hill, and couldn’t find one non-athletic, black nerd counting down the days to his road trip to ComicCon? Or a single granola-eating, dreadlocked black hippie who whiles away the hours doing poetry readings in Leimert Park? Or one black kid whose musical preferences skew more towards rock than hip-hop? According to Baldwin Hills, even when black kids are well off, dribbling a basketball is still their key to upward mobility. Wha?"
"...We believe that the line between the media and the public is now completely grey. What is the difference between a writer for a big glossy music magazine and a student writing about their favourite bands on their blog? What differentiates a commercial radio station from someone adding a song to their lastfm channel? or their myspace page?..."
You think the boys in the band would be busy promoting that new album of theirs that dropped yesterday in the states. [And by the way let's take a minute to acknowledge how great yesterday was for the music consumer. New Interpol, Spoon, Mark Ronson, Justice, and even (I guess for some of you) a new Smashing Pumpkins disc to take in.]
But no, here they are remixing other people's tracks and straight murdering them. Just try and not adore the nearly a capella, symphony accompanied chorus. Too much son! Too much!
