Since this blog began in November of 2005, I’ve wasted a great many words alternately lauding and criticizing new music. While that’s all well and good, there are only so many truly exceptional albums that come out in any given year. With that in mind, today marks the beginning of a new weekly feature: The Old Testament, examining some of my favorite records of all-time. Some may be a part of the musical canon, others may not. The only shared connection between any of them is my belief in their excellence.
I imagine most people who read my blog think Da Capo is just a nickname for Dipset henchman/rapper/raconteur Jim Jones, or perhaps even a song by the Ace of Base. But 41 years ago, Da Capo was also the name of Love’s masterful second album, a record often ignored by critics in favor of its follow-up, 1967’s psychedelic masterpiece Forever Changes. While Forever Changes might be the better of the duo, thanks to its conceptual unity and increased lyrical and musical complexity, Da Capo is brilliant in its own right, a dazzling kaleidoscopic trip through stoned 1966 Los Angeles, a practically perfect pop record.
Kick-starting with the carnival jingle-jangle of “Stephanie Knows Who,” Love lead singer, Arthur Lee hollers and wails a love poem to a girl named Stephanie, backed by church organs, flailing electric guitar licks, and rat-tat-tat drums. Listening to the song, its not hard to see why Jim Morrison called Love his favorite Los Angeles band, as The Lizard King clearly swiped Lee’s emphatic grunts and “c’mon” chants.
“Orange Skies” the album’s lone Bryan Maclean track, settles into a mellow psychedelic vibe, as the simply worded love song tosses out halcyon images like orange skies, cotton candy, carnivals and nightingales. It might be all hippy-dippy nonsense, but if you use your imagination, you can be instantly transported to Topanga Canyon in 1966, visualizing Maclean reclining back on a wood-grain balcony, trying not to wrinkle the paisley shirt he was inevitably rocking, staring into a blinding late afternoon sun and smoking what Ghost would call a baseball spliff.
Love Lead Singer Arthur Lee: The Only Thing Missing is a Wallet That Says Bad Mothafucka “Que Vida,” the album’s third track marks a stark departure from the pleasant vibe of the first two songs, flashing the morbid undertones that Lee further explored on Forever Changes. While the songs honeyed electric guitars and velvet drums conjure nothing but pleasant vibes, the lyrics are a different story, fraught with indecision, and melancholic uncertainty. From there, the album darts suddenly into the frenetic 2 minute jam “Seven & Seven Is,” a proto-punk number similar to Love’s cover of “Little Red Book,” from their eponymous debut. The track was also deftly used by Wes Anderson Bottle Rocket, when Dignan and Anthony rob Anthony’s parents home.
One of the main reasons why the album gets less attention than Forever Changes is the half-finished nature of the songs, reflecting the mere five days that the band recorded the album in (or how much acid they were on). While the melodies are all fully-formed, the lyrical content seems like pencil sketchings of ideas to be expanded on at a later date. “The Castle,” named after the band’s Los Feliz Residence, (see this post on Poison Gone Forever) is under 50 words and doesn’t make all that much sense. Meanwhile, the penultimate song, “She Comes in Colors” seems overly simplistic by today’s standards, but taken as a pure love song, not many come more gorgeous, all willowy flutes, sunshine organs and Lee’s tear drop voice that adds an emotional heft to the number. If you’ve ever heard “She’s a Rainbow” from The Stones’ Their Satanic Majesties Request, you’ll notice its close and admittedly intentional similarity.
The album ends with a sprawling 19-minute jam, “Revelation” a love-it-or-hate-it proposition if there ever ever was. Unsurprisingly, I choose the former, with its loose improvised riffing, searing harmonica solos and the hints of the power of Love’s dynamic stage show. The album amply displays why Love have been called the quintessential Los Angeles band, capturing the city’s uneasy balance of lobotomized sunshine simplicity and its noir underbelly. One of the finest records of the 60s, Da Capo might have its rough-edges but it remains a brilliant early work from Arthur Lee, one of America’s greatest songwriters. Buy it Here
White Rappers have been in the news a great deal of late, thanks to VH1’s White Rapper Show, a program whose main goal seems to be ensuring that melanin-deficient rappers will be laughingstocks for eternity (see Jamie Radford’s reviews of the show here). Granted, white folk have produced many a fine MC, as my 10 Best White Rappers coming next week will attest to. But all in all, I think everyone knows that most white rappers suck. With that in mind, I’m focusing on the most abominable rappers to ever dupe a greedy label owner into trying to make a quick buck on their color (or lack thereof). This list is a tribute to the few, the proud, the completely talentless. The 10 Worst White Rappers of All-Time.
10. Paul WallI have this theory that if you showed up to a Ku Klux Klan Meeting and starting playing Paul Wall records while showing the men in white hoods pictures of the Houston-bred Wall, grills intact, you would immediately stomp any feeble notions of racial supremacy. After all, Wall himself is proof positive that regardless of race, color, or creed, most Southern rappers are flat-out retarded. But out of the myriad subpar sub-Mason Dixon line MC’s that have debuted over the past few years, Wall is one of the worst and certainly one of the most lyrically deficient, seemingly incapable of discussing anything beyond liking grills, Impalas, cough syrup and tooth. The dude makes Mike Jones look like a Mensa candidate. You’d think in all those years Wall spent hanging out with Chamillionaire, Mr. “Ridin’ Dirty” could’ve taught his friend how to rap. Still Tippin? More like still sucking.
9. House of Pain/Everlast There were two albums in my stocking on Xmas Day 1992: Snap’s World Power and House of Pain’s eponymous debut. While I confess to playing the shit out of the first album (c’mon you know “The Power” was the jam), I only played House of Pain once. Why? Because even at 11 years old, I knew one crucial truth: House of Pain fucking sucked. A gimmick if there ever was, the group seemed to be a blatant ploy to capitalize on their Irish ethnicity to sell records in Boston. Keep in mind, DJ Lethal 1/3rd of the group wasn’t even Irish. He was Latvian. Of course, Danny Boy, the group’s anemic fair-haired hypeman was Irish. He also looks like he’s being sodomized on the cover of the debut. As for Everlast. thankfully his name would turn out to be one of the least prescient hip-hop nicknames ever coined. Other than that pitiful Whitey Ford project, he has barely made a peep since HOP folded. Truth be told, its bad enough that their debut has songs called “Shamrocks and Shenanigans” and “Put on Your Shit Kickers,” but these guys will forever live in infamy as the official reason why Wu-Tang got screwed at Tommy Boy, as the label brass picked Neverlast and Co. ahead of the W.T.C. Genius.
8. Northern State Ever wanna’ hear a bunch of female rappers name-checking Sylvia Plath. Me neither. But a few years ago in the wake of Eminem when white rappers were all the rage, there were about a million articles comparing the Long Island-based trio of Hesta Prynn, DJ Sprout and Guinea Love to Em and/or The Beastie Boys. Except for the fact that they couldn’t actually rap (ok, maybe they were like The Beastie Boys). But before hipsters had discovered coke-rap, it seemed at least conceivable shot that these girls would be the ironic rap fix du jour, with lyrics like “The country’s getting ugly and there’s more in store/but don’t blame me/I voted for Gore/Keep Choice Legal/Your wardrobe regal/Chekhov wrote The Seagull/Snoopy is a beagle.” Whoah…that’s like totally deep, yo. Pass me the organic vegan tempeh and the Kombutcha.
7. Kevin Federline
President Bush’s lame-duck presidency would be much better served if he stopped wasting his time trying to get an anti-gay marriage amendments and instead tried to get a law passed barring celebrity magazines and tabloid TV programs from mentioning this chump. Granted, both seem like equally pointless endeavors but at the very least they would do the nation a public service by barring Kevin Federline from the airwaves and the print media. That way we’ll never have to hear his aborted attempts at rapping again. Prior to hearing Playing With Fire, I didn’t think it possible for Game weed carrier Ya’ Boy to outshine ANYONE on a track. I stand corrected. People have called Federline the Vanilla Ice of the 21st Century. That’s too charitable. He’s the 21st Century Gerardo.
6. Kid Rock
Kid Rock is an enduring mystery in that, I’ve never actually met anyone willing to admit that they own a Kid Rock album. Yet somehow, Bob Richie’s sold over 20 million records. Which leaves me either to believe that my friends have incredibly good taste in music or an incredibly good ability to lie. One of the worst rappers to ever pick up a mic, Kid Rock has veered off in a country-tinged direction in recent years (wisely figuring out that country music fans will purchase albums from anyone with a twang…see Rascal Flatts). But in the salad days of the rap-rock movement, Rock pretended to rap, spitting abysmally stupid lyrics about white trash dudes and the trailer ho’s that love them. Classic cuts included “Yo-Da-Lin in the Valley,” “Wax the Booty,” “Pimp of the Nation,” “I am the Bull God,” and “Balls in Your Mouth.” Dude’s just bawitdabad.
5. Insane Clown Posse I was put here to put fear in faggots who spray Faygo Root Beer/
And Call Themselves Clowns because they look queer/Faggot2Dope and Silent Gay/Claiming Detroit when y’all live 20 miles away (fuckin’ punks)/And I don’t wrestle, I’ll knock You faggots the fuck out/Ask em About the Club they was at when they snuck out/After they ducked out when the back when they saw us and bugged out/(aaah!) ducked down and got paintballs shot at their truck, blaow!/Look at y’all running your mouth again/when you ain’t seen a fuckin’ mile road, south of 10/And I don’t need help from D-12 to beat up two females/in make-up who make try to scratch me with Lee Nails/slim anus? You damn right, slim anus!I don’t get fucked in mine like you two little flaming faggots!
Eminem-”Marshall Mathers”
That just had to hurt.
4. Brian Austin Green (A.K.A. Beverly Hills 90210’s David Silver)
Not a lot of people know about it, but circa 1996, at the height of Beverly Hills 90210’s Valerie Malone era, Brian Austin Green released one of the worst hip-hop albums ever made, One Stop Carnival. An album so bad it inspired All Music Guide to call it, “the quintessential misguided celebrity record…pallid, uninspired, and insufferably arrogant, with no acknowledgment that its very existence rests solely on Green’s limited success as a secondary actor on a fading prime-time drama.” It also managed to make the Onion’s list of the Least Essential Albums of the 90s. All this in spite of the fact that it had Tre from the Pharcyde behind the boards. Leading one to believe that Fat Lip wasn’t the only member of the crew hitting the crack pipe. Reportedly, when the album debuted, Green declared to Insider Magazine that “[The album] is kinda like dem little carnivals that come to town with the dog-faced boy — it’s just a jumble of sh*t.” His words. Not mine.
3. MC Paul BarmanTruth be told, MC Paul Barman has infinitely less skills than anyone on this list and should probably be the number one choice for the worst white rapper of all-time (and perhaps the worst rapper of all-time). But since most people outside the hip-hop community haven’t heard of him, he gets the #3 slot. Thankfully, his influence never spread beyond the Trustafarian Reed College set.
It’s hard to quantify exactly why Paul Barman’s music is so bad. I suppose you could pick a number of reasons. 1) His insistence on clever-than-thou irony delivered in a smarmy rich kid tone. 2) His nasally wildly off-beat cadences 3) The fact that he sounds so fucking dorky that he probably got beat up in Hebrew School (by a kid named Eugene Schwartz…mind you). I have no idea who in their right mind would want to hear songs about a guy who makes “grannies panties moist,”who brags about being “hung like an earthworm”, and who willingly calls himself a “cock mobster.” It might be flouting the rules of the Geneva Convention just to play this album in a room full of people at a high decibal level. $5 says you can’t listen to the entire thing without wanting to punch something. Probably Barman
2. Vanilla Ice
Self-explanatory.
1. Limp Bizkit/Fred Durst Out of any of the white rappers to make the list, Fred Durst is quite possibly the only “artist” to have the ability to incense every living being on the planet. One of the progenitors of the repugnant rap/metal trend that swept the nation during the late 90’s, Durst was easily the lamest, the front man of a band that luckily rode a fluke hit called “Nookie” into fame, fortune and Britney Spears hook-ups. Seven years later, he might be the only musician on earth with absolutely no real fans. The entire hip-hop and metal worlds despise him and his severely inflated ego and nonexistent skills. Hell, even Wikipedia hates Fred Durst, issuing the best biographical ethering I’ve ever read on the site.
According to the Wikipedia entry, Durst has “had intercourse with obese truck drivers as a way to meet his biological father.” He was discharged from the Navy for a wrist injury he got “masturbating.” He was anally raped in jail. He was a gay porn star. And he he had sex with George Michael. Truth be told, if you examine the man’s music, it’s hard not to believe.
For my money’s worth, I consider Pharoahe Monch one of, if not the most underrated rapper of all-time. Too intellectual and lyrically sound to ever get significant radio airplay, yet too hardcore for casual hip-hop fans who think hip-hop should be all optimism, positivity and jovial, tubby, ?uestlove, Pharoahe has always been tough to classify. Sure, most hard-core rap fans have followed Pharoahe dating back to his days in Organized Konfusion, but beyond that his prodigious skills have long been one of hip-hop’s best kept secrets, save for the occasional show-stopping turn on “Oh No” and maybe, “Simon Says.”
To add insult to injury, Pharahe spent the last seven years trapped in label hell, following the release of 1999’s underground classic, Internal Affairs. While former Rawkus labelmate Mos Def went on to become a Hollywood thespian and Kweli gradually expanded his fanbase with every album, Monch languished on the sidelines, his stunningly complex flow gathering dust while rappers with a fraction of his talent went platinum . Now I’m not that naive. I realize that Pharoahe won’t ever go platinum, especially not in today’s music industry climate. But in a just world, Pharoahe would have released at least three well-regarded solo albums and would be on everyone’s shortlist in discussions for best rapper alive.
But he isn’t and in a rap world where people actually honestly debate whether or not L’il Wayne is the best rapper, there would seem to be little room for Pharoahe (at least from the monetary side of things). So its probably best not to tell that to Steve Rifkind, who recently signed Monch to his SRC records imprint and claims to be finally releasing Desire, Monch’s long-awaited follow-up to Internal Affairs, sometime in the coming months.
In the meantime, we have The Awakening, a mixtape Pharoahe released just two weeks ago, that seemed to have gotten lost in the end of the year shuffle. A stunning display of his still razor sharp skills, the effort was easily one of the best mixtapes released in 06. Granted it is a mixtape and therefore it lacks the originality and fully honed concepts of an LP. At times Pharoahe spits over some of Busta Rhymes’ Big Bang instrumentals, including the stellar “Pain”, where Pharoahe’s lyrical gymnastics tumble smoothly over the haunting Dre keys of “Goldmine.” Another song “We Must Be in Love” is a direct re-working of a Pharoahe track from J Dilla’s The Shining. While the throbbing paranoid “Agent Orange” dates back to 2003.
The leading cliche about Pharoahe is that he’s a ghetto preacher, and this description seems fitting listening to the mixtape as Pharoahe rocks and sways, ranting and raving like a frenzied evangelist, sweat dripping on his brow, as he commands the congregation. Despite its mixtape status, the subject matter isn’t just punchlines and shit-talking. Monch tackles subjects as broad as the Iraq war and his suicidal thoughts at having his career snuffed out from under him. The beats themselves are all solid, the majority of the non Big Bang beats being old Rhythm and Blues samples, full of lively swaggering horns, perfectly complementing Pharoahe’s soulful voice.
With Desire on the horizon, heads would be remiss to sleep on Pharoahe, who seems revitalized after his long unplanned layoff. If The Awakening is any indictator, Pharoahe’s skills remain in the upper echelon of MC’s working today. The mixtape and Pharoahe’s stellar back catalogue are all highly recommended. You can get the torrent here for free. Otherwise download these album tracks.
Austin’s Red Hunter, the man behind Peter and the Wolf, has a reputation for being a weird dude. Chalk it up to his penchant for chartering sailboats to gig up and down the East Coast or his predilection for playing unlikely venues like cemeteries, abandoned buses and islands only accessible via canoe. Not to mention the fact that he’s a dude in his mid-20’s with the name Red, a moniker usually only taken by deceased Jewish Borscht Belt comedians or long-retired St. Louis Cardinal baseball greats (see Red Buttons, Red Skeleton, and Red Schoendienst.)
But if a no-talent like Justin Timberlake can bring sexy back, I’m not sure why Red Hunter can’t bring “Red” back. It’s a fine name, a bit overly descriptive but hey, I think people in the 21st Century are completely lacking in colorful nicknames. After all, ask yourself when the last time you saw a baseball player with the nickname Pee Wee or 3-Finger? I rest my case.
Live, Red Hunter/Peter and the Wolf certainly seems to be colorful character, unassuming but unfalteringly gracious on-stage, ackowledging the crowd after most songs, bowing slightly in an over-sized fedora and loose-fitting clothing that make him like he should be a 1940’s San Francisco gumshoe not indie rock troubadour. And his retro feel meshes nicely with songs that sound ripped out of an Dust Bowl songbook, frail and withered, with sweet-sounding skeletal arrangements intact.
Peter and the Wolf: Good with a Shotgun, Better With A Guitar
Dimly lit and intimate, the Silverlake Lounge was a good venue for Peter and the Wolf’s acoustic pleas, all delicate lilting guitars, gentle whistles and plaintive harmonica peals. Make no mistake about it, this is mood music, like a less polished Iron & Wine with a Beach House or Brightblack Morning Light drowsiness. Even the sticker on the packaging of Lightness, (Peter and the Wolf’s proper debut), reads: a collection of hazy early morning hymns and odes to the sea. So by the very nature of his songs, a Peter and the Wolf live show can’t be a raucous dance-party, it’s quieter and more private, as though a friend of yours got drunk, picked up his acoustic and started strumming a few half-sketched but gorgeous chords.
Like the album, just 16 songs in 36 minutes, the performance was a bit slight, but it is what is. This isn’t supposed to get you in a frenzy, it’s the music for the come-down, winter music on a cold night, when you want to curl up in bed with a mug of tea and a book. Taken in that context, Peter and the Wolf more than succeed, making music at worst pleasantly benign, at best beautiful and infectious. Even if the live show wasn’t edge-of-your-seat enthralling, it was always pleasant and didn’t drag, indicating that Peter and the Wolf and Red Hunter are indeed a group worth checking for. If nothing else because its hard to dislike a person who willingly took the nickname “Red.”
Life is good my friends. Why? Because as I was walking around town, I stumbled across the latest copy of the Learning Annex, the magazine that will help me fulfill my dreams. Just imagine taking Improv Courses from Wayne “One Funny Chapelle Sketch Does Not Mean I’m Funny” Brady, or “How to Become an Automatic Millionaire from David Bach (I imagine his advice is marry rich). You best believe, I’ll be there for Judge Glenda Hatchett’s course on “How There’s a Dream With My Name On It” (I hope they spell Weiss correctly). But personally, I’m most enthused about a course being offered by the esteemed elder statesman of music, comedy and life, Jim Belushi.
Just reading the booklet gets my pulse racing. According to the Annex, “There’s one thing you need to know about Jim Belushi: he’s a performer and he’s shameless. For one night, he’ll answer all of your questions. And don’t be surprised if he bursts into the blues or starts off with a back flip!” Don’t worry, Learning Annex, I won’t be surprised. I’ll be in the throngs of ecstatic rapture!
The book also claims that “this Chicago-bred Gypsy will take you wherever you want to go and further. Come ready for a night of magic!” Wherever I want to go! Incredible! It’s as though Jim really cares about ME and not the $30 a head, he’ll get for his hilarious brand of zany antics and totally fresh schtick. Count me in. Yet there’s more! Belushi will also outline his fool-proof five-point plan to become rich and famous, just like our idol Jim.
1. Be Related to Someone Famous According to Jim, the most important thing to being a famous jack-of-all trades musician/comedian is being related to someone famous. And if you aren’t related to someone famous than just make it up. Change you name if you have to. It works!
Did you know that Jim was related to the late John Belushi? I certainly didn’t. But it’s true! Can you see the resemblance? They certainly would seem to be brothers, except for the fact that Jim’s about 12,000 times cooler and more suave. Fuck National Lampoon’s Animal House, I’ll take Jim Belushi in Peggy Sue,K-9 or its even more hilarious sequel K-9 P.I.every single time. And if you’ve got a problem with a movie about a cop and his lovable pooch named Jerry Lee, than frankly, you have no soul.
2. Exploit Your Connection to Someone Famous For All It’s Worth Learn the science of riding someone’s coattails from the best! Over his storied three-decade long career, Jim Belushi has been in the Second City Improv Troupe, SNL and a Blues Brother. Just like his brother John Belushi. Sure, while snobby critics prefer John, the real fans know the truth, Jim is the one with the talent. In the lecture, except to see Jim tell his adoring public about how best to piggy-back on the careers of a famous sibling and how to exploit it for every last dollar its worth. Who cares about how John’s career would’ve turned out when we have Jim, the better, balder version, standing before us in his magnificent glory. Don’t worry, his recipe for success has already been field-tested, as Jim has helped his son get a break in the entertainment industry. Guess what his first acting role was? According to Jim!
3. It’s Not Stealing If You Call It a HomageLearn from Jim about the delicate balance between outright thievery and paying homage to cinematic greats. Sure, a lot of cynical naysayers might have labeled Belushi’s greatest film, Mr. Destiny, as a complete rip-off of It’s a Wonderful Life spliced with Field of Dreams, but that’s the genius of the film. Or take the aforementioned classic, K-9. Sure there had been films about dogs before, but none with Jim Belushi in them, and none that would go down in history as being awe-inspiring and brilliant (save for perhaps, Air Bud). It’s simple mathematics: Jim Belushi+ a dog= guaranteed success. Why? Because dogs and Jim Belushi are the only two things on earth guaranteed to melt even the hearts of the most stone-hearted cynic.
4. It’s Not Stealing if You Call it An Homage (Part II) Jim’s clever “Borrowing” isn’t only limited to the world of film. Indeed, he is a master craftsman when it comes to the world of television. Sure, in the past a ton of people watched great family friendly sitcoms like Everybody Loves Raymond and King of Queens when they wanted their fill of fat man with his attractive wife hijinks. But According to Jim took it to the next level. Why? Jim Fucking Belushi. The man, the myth, the legend. How can one get tired of seeing Jim crack jokes about being regular suburban father, married to a gorgeous woman, and raising three kids in a big house. Oh Jim. You’re so wacky. Will you ever win? Learn how to get your own sitcom and be nominated for an Emmy. It’s really that simple. All you have to do is….
5. Did I Mention Being Related to Someone Famous? I hope you didn’t forget about rule 1. To create an indelible legacy like Jim, you must be related to someone famous. You better believe that you’ll be reminded of it at the Learning Annex. Watch as Jim sings blues songs, just like his brother John. Or tells stories about all the famous people he met through his brother, John. Or just gaze in awe at his incredible comic prowess. Yes, life is pretty great According to Jim and now, we can see why, in person. I can’t wait.
Setting: Betty Goldstein P.h.D’s lavishly appointed office in downtown Atlanta.
Young Jeezy sits nervously on a plush couch, twiddling his fingers, alternately staring at the thick wool carpet and into the eyes of his new psychiatrist, Betty Goldstein, a middle-aged woman in a Chanel suit and a Marge Simpson-block of hair.
Betty Goldstein: Now, Jeezy, can I call you Jeezy?
Jeezy: Ch-Yeahhhhh!!! Ha-ha-ha!!
Goldstein: Very good. Now tell me what brought you into see me. I understand that your friend Mr. Robert Kelly referred you here. I hope you don’t have the same problem as him. He’s lucky I haven’t turned him over to the authorities.
Jeezy: They think I’m shallow but I think so deep. Ayy!!!
Goldstein: Fascinating. Well, at first glance Jeezy, you seem insecure but constantly trying to build up your self-esteem by bragging. But let’s dig deeper, how deep do you think you are?
Jeezy: Deep as the abyss. Let’s Get it!!
Goldstein: Let’s get what?
Jeezy: Hypnotized, you are hypnotized!!
Jeezy Love the Trap
Goldstein: Hypnosis. Yes. Certainly an interesting option, young man. But I’m not sure hypnosis is required to solve a case of a negative self-image. Maybe you should tell me something about yourself….about your history and about your past. I listened to your first album and you seemed to be fascinated by something called the trap. By golly, it seemed as you though you had to talk about it every six seconds. Does this trap have anything to do with The Parent Trap? Are you a big Lindsay Lohan fan?
Jeezy: Jeezy and Leezy love the trap. Whoa! But Jeezy also love the grind!
Goldstein: Ah…I happen to have loved that program myself. That Eric Nies had such fantastic abs. Tell me more, Jeezy, what else interests you in your young life besides young starlets and MTV dance videos? I’m sure there’s more to you.
Jeezy ‘Bout The Grind
Jeezy: Jeezy likes to smoke.
Goldstein: What else?
Jeezy: Jeezy likes to drink. Che-ya-aahhh!!
Goldstein: Anything else you’re holding back on me?
Jeezy: Jeezy likes to mix Armand Hammer with his coke.Yup!
Goldstein: Well, now we’re getting somewhere. Perhaps you have a substance abuse problem Have you ever considered seeking help? There are plenty of 12-Steps that may have the answers for you.
Jeezy: I smoke all day lord knows I stay high, but when I go to hell, lord knows I’m going to fry.
Goldstein: Most intriguing. Is Hell something you fear?
Jeezy: I’m heartless. I need to see the Wizard. Ay Ay!!
But Does the Wizard Know How to Freebase?
Goldstein: Why do you insist on adding Ay Ay or Ch-yeah, or Ha Ha after nearly every sentence? Are you high right now?
Jeezy: I’m higher than a pelican. Damn!
Goldstein: Well, Jeezy, I must say I’m disappointed in you. Showing up high to a therapist’s meeting is in poor taste.
She looks at her watch.
Goldstein (cont’d): Well, it appears that our hour is about to come to an end. Is there anything else you’d like to add? Anything that might shed light on what brought you in here?
Jeezy: I’ve got the streets on lock. Atlanta on my back. When I speak everyone believe me. Because bitch I’m Jeezy.
Goldstein: That’s what the bill will say at least. Now do you write checks as Young Jeezy or Jay Jenkins.
Jeezy: I command you to get money.
Goldstein: No, I think you have it confused. I command you to pay me money. Will that be cash or check?
Jeezy: I’m on the block all day with the blocks all day. What ya say!
Goldstein: Sadly, we don’t take blocks as a form of payment. I assume “blocks” is some sort of street-slang for cash.
Jeezy: Ch–yeahh!!!!!
Goldstein: Glad to hear it. See you next Thursday at 3:00.
Jeezy:Perfect. At about three O’ Clock in the morning? I’ll have my thang cocked, cuz them boys be on it.
Goldstein: Uh…okay…well whatever you want to do behind closed doors is your own prerogative. In the meantime, your goal for next week is to really work on thinking positively about yourself. You don’t need to have the streets on lock all the time. Sometimes, even thugs need some alone time.
In my ongoing quest to shed light on humanity’s flaws, poor decision-making capabilities and love of talentless musicians, I present an occasional column debuting in 2007: The Worst Ideas Ever. The Worst Ideas Ever is about exactly what you think it is: the dumbest most drug-addled things that mankind has ever produced. With that in mind, what better to kick off this column than one of the worst ideas of all-time: Crystal Pepsi.
Crystal Fucking Pepsi. Wow. Just thinking about Pepsi’s decision to bring out a colorless caffeine-free version of regular Pepsi can induce hysterical laughter, as over 10 years after the fact, it easily remains one of the most inane things a major corporation has ever done. Forget about New Coke. At least that was a concept that had an idea behind it: i.e. that regular Coke was losing its market share and a formula change might boost sales. But Crystal Pepsi had no such logical underpinning. Instead, its sole reason for being seemed predicated on the half-baked idea that Americans would want to purchase a beverage that tasted exactly like Pepsi but looked like 7-Up. Genius.
Keep in mind, this wasn’t even a diet-cola. Nor did it seem to trouble Pepsi executives that they already offered regular Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, Caffeine Free Pepsi and Diet Caffeine Free Pepsi, all of them inferior to their Coca-Cola versions. Yet some enlightened scholar decided that the artificial colorings that had worked just fine for 80 years were suddenly obsolete. I imagine the same nefarious early 90s executive to also have been the culprit for Zubaz Pants, Cross Colours, Vanilla Ice and taking Yo! MTV Raps off the air. Just because. After all, it was the early 90’s, the Berlin Wall had collapsed, and nothing but limitless peace, prosperity and colorless soda loomed in our future.
Perhaps the most awesomely bad thing about Crystal Pepsi was its advertising campaign, which featured 30 second spots to the tune of Van Halen’s “Right Now.” See below.
As you can see from the ads, the makers of Crystal Pepsi feebly strain for gravitas, by flashing a bunch of non sequiturs on-screen over the dinosaur stomp of Hagar-era Van Halen’s “Right now.” Yes, “Right Now,” in all it’s cheesy synths, arrogant guitars and arena-rock glory. As though Pepsi wanted you to believe that by merely removing color from its flagship beverage, your life would be mind-blowingly altered. And about 7 people believed it.
Adding insult to injury, the ad might be the only thing worse than the product, riddled with nothing but flashing statements like: “Right Now, Nature’s Inventing Better Stuff than Science.” (Subtext: Mother Nature hatched Crystal Pepsi from Her Womb); “Right Now, the Future’s One Step Ahead of You” (Subtext: Crystal Pepsi can and will stop time) ” and “Right Now, Will Do Fine Without Caffeine” (Subtext: We Will Lie to You and You Will Like It). It also features a shot of a man of a neon Red Speedo diving into a bunch of clouds. Because nothing makes someone more thirsty than an enthusiastic bout of cloud-diving.
As you might expect, Crystal Pepsi lasted about a year before being unceremoniously yanked from the shelves. Thought it wouldn’t be the last bad idea for Pepsi, who later launched Pepsi One, a non-starter that tasted identical to Diet Pepsi. Nonetheless, it stands out as the biggest bomb of them all, an idea so bad it makes Springfield’s decision to build a Monorail seem brilliant by comparison. But look on the bright side, the next time you’re viciously drunk, staggering around intent on committing some sort of maybe, you needn’t worry about it. Go with your instincts and think to yourself: whatever it is, no idea can ever be as bad as Crystal Pepsi.
It seems that you couldn’t read a Year-End Music discussion without hearing about the unmitigated brilliance of L’il Wayne. And it wasn’t not just the Pitchfork hipster types. Sure, they started this Waynesanity by giving credence to his absurd claims to be the best rapper alive (uh…last time I checked Ghostface, Pharoahe Monch, GZA, MF Doom, Lupe Fiasco, Nas, Camp Lo, Game, El-P, Aesop Rock et. al, were still rapping). But declarations of Wayne’s sheer genius have now become ubiquitous in the non-hipster, non-Internet music critic world. Just check out this unintentionally hilarious Slate article, where America’s top white middle-aged baby boomer music writers make non-ironic statements like:
It’s enough to bring Walter Sobchack to mind because they’re clearly “out of their fucking element.”And just like Donnie lamely trying to jump in on a discussion about Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, not a single music critic was astute enough to consider the fact that nearly every L’il Wayne verse is practically identical. Sure, one song out of 20 might offer shallow conspiracy theories and therefore be deemed “political.” But for the most part, they’re cookie-cutter and seemingly store-bought. Probably because in all likelihood they are. As. a recent Village Voice article claims, ghost-writing is a standard practice in hip-hop and in all likelihood, Wayne’s “prolific” 2006 was purchased.” Don’t believe me? How else to account for the four albums and 100 songs worth of material he produced in 06, not to mention the countless guest verses, and all of this on the heels of releasing a solo full-length last December. Not to mention Gillie Da Kid has gone on record claiming that he used to write Wayne’s verses. So maybe Wayne did spend last year in isolation with a Thesaurus, cranking our two songs each week, every week, more than any rapper ever, becoming William Shakespeare the moment Gillie left Cash Money. Then again, I highly doubt Shakespeare would give an interview as asinine as this.
Le Tigre’s A Softer Look, I Use it For Catalogues
With that in mind, being the benevolent soul that I am, I’d like to provide my reader’s with an easy way to make some spare income. So pay attention guys, you too can write a L’il Wayne verse, provided you follow these oh-so-simple steps, and within a few minutes you’ll have your very own L’il Wayne verse. Just follow this formula, mail the results to Cash Money Records and you too can get paid. It’s just that simple!
How to Write a L’il Wayne Verse in 10 Easy Steps
1. Pick a Verb. Preferably a verb about running away from the law or from an assailant. I.E. Duck, Run, Dodge or maybe Stop, Drop or Roll. L’il Wayne LOVES stopping, dropping and rolling. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
2. Connnect the verb to some sort of simile. This is crucial. Every single L’il Wayne line must contain some sort of relatively obvious simile. So maybe you can “duck like Scrooge.” “Run like a bloody nose.” Or even “Dodge like Kansas.” You can do metaphors but try to steer away from doing this too often, lest people think that you are a different ghost-writer. That is bad. Also for bonus points talk about how “sweet” you are. L’il Wayne loves talking about being sweet like a Tahitian Treat or some other delicacy high in sucrose.
3. Mention “Slanging Keys.” This is crucial to establish street cred. Don’t pay attention to the fact that L’il Wayne’s been famous since 12 and the only thing he knows about slangin’ is that he speaks with it. After all, if you don’t talk drugs how else can you impress the translucent Dairy Queen-white music critics. This way they can also compare you to the Wire. (Just remember to connect all that “slanging keys” talk with a simile).
4. Declare that you are Weezy F. Baby. This will tell listeners who you are. Sure, they probably already know, but adding The “F” in the middle of the name uncertainly adds to Wayne’s level of class. It makes him seem like F. Scott Fitzgerald. Exactly like F. Scott Fitzgerald. Whatever you do, don’t attempt to ascertain what the “F” stands for. That my friends is a slippery slope. And whatever you do, don’t think about what the “F” stands for while looking at a picture of Wayne and Baby making out.
5. Talk about hustling. Music critics love hustling. Presumably, they are devotees to the energetic style of basketball popularized by players like Ben Wallace, Kurt Rambis and Mark Madsen. This will make them feel at home. If there’s anything music writers know about, it’s hustling.
Why Yes, That Is A Tatoo of Wayne’s Face On Baby’s Breast. I’m Glad You Asked.
6. Talk about Baby. Call him your Daddy. Forget the fact that he’s not actually your Daddy. Forget the fact that the majority of people that call other men “daddy” are prostitutes. It’s unimportant. Mention something that Baby told you. Maybe that he told you that “these bitches is bitches.” Or that he told you to “Turn around and stick out.” (Maybe, he was just quoting Sir-Mix-A-Lot.) Ignore the fact that you call a man named “Baby,” “Daddy.” Let’s just chalk that up to being a New Orleans thing.
7. Make some sort of obvious pop culture technology reference. Talk about IPods. Or Myspace. Or gigabytes. Something remotely technological. It will show that Wayne is not completely retarded (just partially) and might have actually read a newspaper once or twice. Which clearly means he is a genius.
8. Talk about how poorly you treat women. Perhaps you can claim how you’ll “never love a bitch.” Or how you’ll “never give a ho a damn thing.” The more misogynistic the better. This will definitely do much to steer people away from those nasty “gay” rumors.
9. Apropos to nothing, make some sort of remark about Hurricane Katrina. No need to bother making it have anything to do with the rest of the verse. After all, never underestimate white liberal guilt. Any sort of name-dropping will make white liberals feel bad and they will forget the fact that Wayne is a multi-millionaire and anoint him the voice of the people. Also, be sure to make wild ridiculous conspiracy theories like claiming that you heard George Bush blew up the levees. The more absurd the better. Go for it.
10. Proclaim yourself the “Greatest Rapper Alive.”Forget the Fact that Wayne would be lucky to be included in a list of the Top 20 rappers working right now. Most music critics haven’t listened to Hip Hop Made Before 1999 anyway (other than Public Enemy). If you proclaim yourself the greatest, you will be the greatest. Or at least people will be foolish enough to buy this canard.
Now you’re On Your Way To Being Cash Money’s Newest Ghost-Writer. Fame, Fortune (and anonymity) Await You. Feel free to produce your own little Wayne verse in the comments. Or just send it directly to Cash Money. The Ghostwriting Hotlines are open now!
So with Christmas and Hanukkah came a bounty of gifts for this young blogger. A Woody Allen Box Set. A DVD of The Marx Brothers’ Duck Soup. A 2-Month Gift Subscription to Netflix. But perhaps bestest of all was the long awaited Season 1 DVD of Beverly Hills 90210. Scoff all you want my friends, but nothing says awesome like 23 hours worth of teenage melodrama concerning the turbulent life of Brandon, Kelly, Dylan, Steve, David, Donna, and of course, the object of many a 10-year old Passion of the Weiss fantasy, Brenda “Ride or Die” Walsh.
But perhaps more intriguing than getting the chance to watch episodes I haven’t seen since the 4th Grade is getting to listen to the familiar John E. Davis-penned theme song again, only to become fully convinced of something I’ve long suspected: it’s a complete fucking rip-off of “Layla.” No, not the first part of “Layla” where Clapton and Duane Allman tear off some of the most spine-rattling guitar solos ever unleashed, but the middle portion, around the 3 minute 30 second mark, where the track begins its trademark piano coda and begins to veer dangerously into adult contemporary territory. Here is where the blatant plagiarism begins.
All buttery elliptical guitars buttressed by slippery descending piano keys the two songs bear an unmistakable resemblance. Sure, the 90210 theme throws in a white-hot sax riff and some hard drums to throw off the scent, but there’s no mistaking that the two guitar riffs share the same musical DNA. Clearly, 90210 updated the model by “cheesing” it up suitably for the early-90s, a period where no Casio Keyboard could dare go unused, but as Bill Cosby might say “the Proof is in the pudding.” You can interpret that for what it’s worth, but I won’t go there.
Steve Sanders: The Man, The Myth, The Lecher
Take a listen for yourself, the MP3’s are below. Perhaps the only question left asking is why Clapton never filed a lawsuit against 90210’s producers. Maybe one must dig deeper and ask probing questions, in the process taking into consideration the nature of the show’s protagonists. Indeed, Steve Sanders, son of Rush was known to be very well-connected around town. Is it possible that Rush may have put a kibosh on the lawsuit? As they might not have said at the KEG House, “Es Possible.”
Or perhaps that snooping Andrea Zuckerman discovered this secret and that was the reason why she left the show after Season 5. The official excuse was to “go to Yale” but its high-time that an alternative possibility was explored. I know the secret Zuckerman, I know the dirty unvarnished truth.
So while I highly recommend the first Season of 90210 on DVD and am fully convinced that it’s a better show than the recently canceled-O.C., part of me is a little hurt by the plagiarism. Somewhere, John E. Davis tosses and turns in his silk sheets, in a bed stuffed with money gained from pilfering poor Clapton’s ideas, but in the recesses of his mind, he knows the truth, and so do I. And now so do you. Have a nice weekend. You know John E. Davis will.
Since this blog began in November of 2005, I’ve wasted a great many words alternately lauding and criticizing new music. While that’s all well and good, there are only so many truly exceptional albums that come out in any given year. With that in mind, today marks the beginning of a new weekly feature: The Old Testament, examining some of my favorite records of all-time. Some may be a part of the musical canon, others may not. The only shared connection between any of them is my belief in their excellence.
“Que Vida,” the album’s third track marks a stark departure from the pleasant vibe of the first two songs, flashing the morbid undertones that Lee further explored on Forever Changes. While the songs honeyed electric guitars and velvet drums conjure nothing but pleasant vibes, the lyrics are a different story, fraught with indecision, and melancholic uncertainty. From there, the album darts suddenly into the frenetic 2 minute jam “Seven & Seven Is,” a proto-punk number similar to Love’s cover of “Little Red Book,” from their eponymous debut. The track was also deftly used by Wes Anderson Bottle Rocket, when Dignan and Anthony rob Anthony’s parents home.
