Sunday, November 22, 2009

In the Immortal Words of Our Last President... Tacos Rule!

Ok, so our boy Emcee Criterion had a show friday night at a place called Stray Cats… I believe IDC has played there a time or two. ;-) 

To cut the story short he ends his set early and invites the MCs (because at every underground hip hop show there’s one true spectator for every 300 MCs) to join him on stage for some freestyle fun and games. The infamous Mike Paris gets me to go on stage with him…I haven’t been on a stage in well over 2 ½ months, let alone not had my lifelines Sum and Choice. That was nerve wrecking people. Simply nail biting, hair pulling, bone chilling…nipple hardeningly scary.

And then I spit the illest shit ever been dropped to snares and kicks.

Ok, so there wasn’t that much drama, but it did remind me that performing is as much fun as I can have without a 30 pack, firecrackers, two 4lb balloons filled with salt and lemon juice, a box cutter and my fifth grade teacher bound to a cactus. (Sorry, she was a real bitch back then.) Anyway,it was yet another wake up call for what I’m here for. I know, I know. Broken fucking record! I don’t say it for you…I say it for me. (We artista are very touchy, ya know…) It’s just getting the ball rolling and watching the pins fall in the wake ladies and gents.

Anyway, Citizen Cope is dope, the new Rakim album is dope, Sons of Anarchy and FlashForward are TV dope, House makes me laugh (reminds me of me, but with a longer attention span) and Lie to Me makes me want to practice lying more. The Mentalist is just good ol' fashioned fun. And you still can’t name me one song, by any of the artists that are “hot” right now, that makes you think you might have actually learned something. (And no, the fucking stanky leg dance doesn’t count.)
 

I agree with my brother…Top 40 is getting lamer and dumber every second…
X

Thursday, November 19, 2009

What happened to the music?

Times are changing y'all. Okay, obvious cliché #1, but it doesn't make it any less true. When I started making music, there was nothing but my emotions and the sounds they generated. Right, wrong, good or bad, it didn't matter. I created it and put it out to the world and then walked away.

Now my mind is chock full of tour dates, press releases, radio, and convincing big-wigs to give my crew the time of day. And for what? So I can write a two-syllable song and ignite a new dance craze that everyone forgets ten seconds later. How am I supposed to even write so much as a stupid haiku?

It could be worse. I could be an extra on a Diddy reality show. Hearts heal, souls mend, chicks dig scars, top 40 still sucks. Hip-hop I will love you 'till the day I die. Peace.

Sumatyme