Old School, New School, "Sad School": Definining Hip Hop in popular culture once again for a brand new generation...

I remember having a conversation in 1991 discussing a mythical battle between The Juice Crew and the Native Tongues. My best friend at the time swore that Big Daddy Kane was a better emcee than Q Tip, and that if Biz Markie and Kool G. Rap ever did a record together, that it would effectively render De La Soul useless. Of course, this was later followed by a discussion as to if the Juice Crew’s “Symphony” was a finer record than the seven minute Native Tongue family remix of De La Soul’s “Buddy,” featuring the combined talents of De La, A Tribe Called Quest, the Jungle Brothers, Monie Love, and Queen Latifah. Such “old school”/”new school” discussions were really quite the norm at this point of my life, and, by 1993, when I saw Run-DMC rocking African medallions instead of gold chains in the video for “Pause,” I was fully and completely aware that the game had changed, and that rap music had become inclusive and evolved. Such hope for evolution and change isn’t the case however in 2009, as the evolution, and seeming lack of inclusion from old school, to new school, to what I’ll refer to as “sad school,” has made hip hop music in the latter half of this year as entertaining, controversial, valid, pop culture leading and commercially viable as ever before.

Between Jay Z stating on Blueprint 3’s “D.O.A.” that he wants to “wear all black and Versace shades,” and the fact that Raekwon’s Only Built 4 Cuban Linx 2 debuted at #4 on the Billboard Album Chart last week without any national radio airplay for 22 tracks of lushly visualized urban portraits of felonies and aggression, it’s rather clear that the classic vanguard of hip hop isn’t really ready to move over and accept the highly regarded Class of 2009. In fact, in the world of blogs and general public discussion, the heat has returned, and we’ve definitely returned to my favorite world of 1991. However the New School/”Sad School” debates are frankly on a different level, as well, nobody ever intimated that the Black Sheep couldn’t rap, and people looked at Afrocentrism and loving peace as cool, funky, strange and different.

From Drake, seemingly the industry’s future of commercial hip hop, to Wale, DC’s charismatic rhymesmith, to the less serious LA sensations the New Boyz who have “Jerked” their way into the national consciousness, and a good number more, the backlash to the extremely self reflective and highly self critical hip hop stylings and urban bohemian fashion choices of the new denizens of rap music is unique and noteworthy. It seems to come from a place of concern for the continued maneuvering of hip hop into the status of absolute permanence into the broader cultural mainstream. Hip hop, in this author’s eyes, has succeeded in this quest, and, as well, the releases by Jay and Raekwon are far more important than anything else released all year, as it has created volume and depth to music’s most relevant and cache creating creative form in an era in which history is synonymous with irrelevance.

Those that remember the history of hip hop are the most in trouble with this shift to the mainstream in these times of rapid change where a feint, if negligible appreciation of the past is appreciated. The bravado is gone. The alpha male chest beating isn’t there. Sure, LL Cool J is hip hop’s most legendary loverman, but this man was ripped, chiseled and jacked, and previous to “Hey Lover” had threatened to crush other emcees “like a jellybean.” Drake in a Mr. Rogers sweater and skinny jeans is the kind of guy that LL beats up and “Best I Ever Had” is the song he raps and sings to the girl that LL stole from him. The lyricism isn’t the same either. Before we heard the Wu Tang Clan, Jay-Z or Eminem, we’d never heard people rap with that type of intensity blended with intelligence ever before. On “As I Em,” Asher Roth, the new Caucasian wanna be superstar, merely one album into his career, gives up the case and admits that, well, he’ll never beat Eminem. Crazy, clearly not a part of hip hop’s established definitions, and sadly in many ways definitely makes him, as great as he could ever become, second rate to a legend.

The hardest part for me in assessing hip hop these days is the fawning attitude the “sad school” has toward the established legend emcees. It’s almost as if in creating a culture of digital openness and full disclosure, we’ve removed the ability for the developing talents to ever appear as large or as relevant as their predecessors. It’s hard for me to even regard the Class of ‘09 as ever deigning to walk on the same level as a Raekwon or Jay-Z because, well, I know too much. I hear too much. Nothing about Wale is more special about Wale than anything else if I can read about his every move on Twitter. Sure, I’d love to see him succeed, but, in my eyes, what it took Jay-Z 20 years to do, it’ll take one of the newer emcees just as long to do on a financial level (because the game is different), but on a level of respect and ultimately, untouchable legend status, it’s well, a little harder when I feel like I can touch you every second of every day. In full, a major part of this author’s concept of a legend comes from my concept of the hero, meaning that we never get to see our heroes in three dimensions unless they WANT us to. The second you see your hero (and by extension they whom you see as legend) as JUST a man or woman, the power, mystique, magic and, sadly, ultimately, celebrity is gone.

The New/”Sad” debate is different entirely because, well, it seems as if the debate wouldn’t be so prevalent if the established veterans didn’t see in the youth a lack of quality control that damages their growth. On Blueprint 3, there may be no better touch than Jay-Z carefully anointing those he feels are not so far gone as to still be groomed, corralled and nurtured, able to grow without having to depend upon the thoughts and beliefs of websites and blog responses for their development as artists instead of gaining strength from fellow emcees. It’s the classic case of the mover versus the moved, and when the man who has clearly positioned himself as the chief mover in the history of your industry sees possible future legend status in you, it’s quite clear that you follow his lead. Or, you become Charles Hamilton, the Brooklyn emcee who is the greatest example of what happens when quality control goes wrong, as after rapping about Windows Media Player to acclaim, then claimed to have an album produced by J Dilla, and was slapped in the face by an ex girlfriend on You Tube, to now, being without a record deal, having been dropped by Interscope Records. Score one for the veterans.

In final, we’re shifting popular culture’s definitions of hip hop here, and it appears that the Class of 2009, no matter what you feel about them, are here to stay. However, it is wonderful in the creation of beneficial conflict to see such commercially viable and appreciable releases from industry veterans. Kid Cudi’s Man on the Moon: End of the Day may appear to some to be a festering pile of meandering slop, but at least there is something new, relevant, and solid out there like Raekwon’s Only Built 4 Cuban Linx out there for classic hip hop heads to compare and contrast against. I am of the fervent opinion that there will be no resolution and ultimate acceptance in this argument as was the case in ‘91. Hip hop’s grown to unbelievable levels of stature, and the game is large enough to sustain both sides equitably. The arguments to follow for the future, exciting and intriguingly confrontational to say the least.

In memory of DJ AM.

I didn't personally know DJ AM. Never saw him spin live. Sure, like everyone else, I have tons of mixes, and wholly respect his skill, but, upon hearing of his death, it didn't completely resonate with me. It made an impact, I felt an intense sadness for the man's demise, but it didn't really strike home until one by one, as the seconds went by, literally every single person I consider to be a person of impact, supreme talent, and ultimate importance in music, was devastated to hear of his death. From Diddy to Diplo, to Questlove, to Travis Barker, to the Black Eyed Peas, to Will Eastman, Dirty South Joe, the entirety of the planet of Brooklyn, and everywhere else in the universe, it hit me like a lead weight that we truly lost a legend, and that in a year of sad, the saga has continued.

When Michael Jackson died, I was distraught for a month. Literally for the first week after his death, I listened to his music and cried every time. It was a cry at first because Michael is one of the few deemed by culture as immortal because of the impact of their legacy, and to see him dead, well, yet again invalidates that entire concept. Then, the cry turned angry when I came to a realization independent of any autopsy of the likely circumstances surrounding his death, and the intense, searing pain of his life that would demand such audacious procedure. Then, finally, the cry turned therapeutic, as in his death, so many in music found life, and found the joyful resurrection of the youthful mirth that the ability to create, perform, record or play music should perpetually provide.

But this one. Wow. I cried a little, but mainly, this one has me numb. Brother came so far. He survived a plane crash with Travis Barker that would have likely killed anyone else. There are those in life that I refer to as "the special ones." The special ones are born leaders, born dictators of culture, people who cannot die, if for no other reason than they have so much in life to give. Clearly, in surviving obesity and substance abuse, and in doing so literally creating life for a genre of music and breathing freedom into music through DJing, remixing and producing, this man moved the universe ahead. In the celebration of the accomplishment of someone so powerful, we forget the taxing impact of power. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. This man had absolute power. It corrupted him, as the weight, well, likely became too much to bear. We expect our heroes to be heroic always. That's something that comes from the mystique of mythology, but, even in mythology, there lies the tragic flaw. Achilles had his heel. So did Adam Goldstein. He made his last stand. The sad thing about a last stand, is that you have no idea it's the last one. You always presume there's another victory that lies ahead.

But what now? Certainly we can't reflect upon the circumstances of his death. Yes, he was an addict. We all knew this, and it was common knowledge as his flaw as an individual. Celebrating a man's flaws reveals the insidious, petty and stupid nature of human beings. He was a survivor. He was a creator. His last project of note, the TRV$/DJAM mixes, are undeniably amazing. Anyone that denies the intellect and talent there is a hater without ears. Let's take this man's strength, let's take this man's decency, let's take this man's legend, and use it to better ourselves, to better society, and, by extension, to create better music. To create freeing music. To create cultural significance and bridge gaps between souls.

2009 has been hard. I really don't want to ever write one of these for a LONG while.

In death, find life.

Damn.

JONNY BLAZE presents his biography. A must see Bmore Club moment!

Just wanted to stop in quickly and drop this Jonny Blaze video. More info about oh so many new and interesting projects coming around the bend will drop tomorrow, but this really is the sort of special occurrence that warrants it's own post. Easily one of the best things to happen to club music in DC and Baltimore in 2009 was the resurgence of Jonny Blaze. Jonny's been in the game likely longer than 20 of your favorite DJs of the moment combined, and is easily one of the most important DJs spinning in the scene today. Jonny provides an authenticity and old style of hyperagressive and ridiculously fun Bmore club that very few in the Bmore club game that spin in "hipster" enclaves brings to the scene. Today, Jonny dropped a biographical video that is part bio, and a larger part history lesson of Bmore club, as everyone from Shawn Caesar and Scottie B at Unruly, to Blaze's mentor Mike Mumbles, to Rod Lee, Dave Nada and so so so so many more swing through and offer praise to Jonny Blaze. really, he is easily one of the two or three best hypemen I've ever seen do much of anything. In fact, if he sampled his own voice during his sets, there's likely 20 things he'll say that could make him either the world's funniest comedian, or create an international Bmore club smash. Check the video below. Much like anything that Jonny does, it's a fun time, indeed.

MY BIO

Lectro Black and Felix da Housecat's "Last Train to Paris" Mixtape: A Review

DOWNLOAD THE MIX

At about fourteen minutes of Diddy and Felix da Housecat’s “Lectro Black – Last Train to Paris Mixtape,” Diddy, as “Lectro Black,” a house music exhorter that meets at the cross section between Cyrus and the Gramercy Riffs attempting to unify the gangs of New York in The Warriors and Afrikaa Bambaataa’s sampled and mixed exultations over Kraftwerk’s “Numbers” and “Trans-Europe Express” on “Planet Rock,” does more to upset the quickly moving into ridiculousness and absurdity nature of mainstream hip hop than Jay-Z could’ve ever done on “Death of Autotune,” when he states…

“…this that gangsta music, that type of shit that makes you lose control, makes you lose your mind, body and your soul, type of shit that makes you shoot up a club…”

No, that statement isn’t uttered over a tough sample of Billy Squier’s “Big Beat,” or even over the squeals and sirens of NWA’s “Straight Outta Compton.” It isn’t even done in the context of the horns that are the precursor to the warning of MOP telling you to “Ante Up.” Yes, in hip hop before thismixtape, those were indeed the tracks that’d make me want to “shoot up a club.” Well, that’s certainly changed. Diddy instead utters this in the middle of Felix the Housecat amping the electro mix up to 130 BPM on this mixtape. Is this a hip hop club? No, probably not. But, if Diddy’s involved, it could soon very well be, and that speaks volumes about where hip hop is headed when Diddy hops aboard his Last Train to Paris, once the electro and house music dipped in hip hop concept album is released on November 24th.

It’s one thing for Pitbull to take “Calabria” by Enur, “Push the Feeling On” by the Nitecrawlers, and “75, Brazil Street” by Nicola Fasano Vs Pat Rich and create four minute hits that stick out like sore thumbs in radio formats, but get a pass because, “Pitbull’s on some Miami club ish. (yes, we’ve all said it before)” But we’re at a completely different place when Sean Combs commissions Felix da Housecat to spin electro and dubstep (which Diddy humorously calls “that dirty sound”) for 57 minutes and call it “hip hop.”

Felix da Housecat didn’t have to do this. Diddy could’ve cultivated this album with just about anyone, and, well, it likely would’ve sounded contrived, terrible, and filled with all manner ofBmore club samples, typical hip hop breaks and samples, and ending up with a very ironic, hipster leaning sound. But no. Diddy aims for validity in the house music world at large, and Felix responds, in one mix doing more to legitimize Diddy’s attempt at expanding the concept of urban sound than he ever could have done by constantly showcasing his “Dirty Money Crew (who will be featured almost exclusively on the album)” of himself, fomer Danity Kane member Dawn Richard and newcomer Keelena singing over electro samples whenever the trio is featured at any point of his new “Making My Band” on MTV. Secretly, Felix was the man behind the sound of “Last Night,” so he’s clearly had no fear of taking Diddy here before, but wow. This is a horse of a different color entirely. To the average person, the Last Train to Paris concept should come off like a danceable 808s and Heartbreak. That’s expected. But what Kanye West owes his album’s success to moody 80s synth pop and the tribal drums of deep house and polite forays into electro, Diddy jumps into the scene fully and completely, creating something that has to be regarded as “hip hop” by affiliation to Diddy alone, but comes off as a far far far far cooler collaboration than anything MSTRKRFT could’ve conceived for their poorly received yet very appreciable Fist of God. Diddy cosigns Felix and Felix, by laying down a masterful mix, more than cosigns Diddy.

But all of that is not to say, like all things Diddy, that it’s not mainstream accessible. he constantly appears as a hypeman on the mix, not so much hyping Felix, but guiding the listener, more than likely a completely terrified hip hop fan that really can’t wrap his ears around the fact that Diddy would attempt something like this, through the moods and emotions Felix is attempting to evoke. It’s here where we get the album’s meaning, as the “Last Train to Paris” is the attempt to reach a woman, a lost love, and Paris, the beautiful city of romance, represents the bliss of finding the woman, and the train, well, the train are the wonderful rhythms provided by the DJ to take one to that location. Diddy ruminates, as aforementioned about “shooting up a club,” but also discusses cunnilingus in both the literal and metaphorical sense, and really gets open about the euphoric sensations of house music. This euphoria creates the mix’s most telling point, as he cosigns MGMT’s “Kids,” as the chorus over those New Order styled synths are literally the only other voices heard anywhere on the mix, as Diddy refers to the chorus as “the voices of angels.” Of course, Jim Jones and Jermaine Dupri beat Diddy to the cosigning punch, but, for a group with an album dropping early in 2010, getting Diddy to sign off creates the type of crossover appeal that 50 A & R reps couldn’t likely muster on their own.

Diddy sampled The Police, David Bowie, Matthew Wilder, Kool and the Gang, and pretty much anyone that ever had a hit single in the 1980s and changed hip hop before. Now, clearly, in dropping this mixtape, and DARING the hip hop community to question his authority and past record in the industry as a hip hop tastemaker, he’s clearly changed it again.

NEW ARTIST SHOWCASE: AMANDA BLANK'S I LOVE YOU

If you hate Amanda Blank, you have every desire to lock every hipster in the universe in an Urban Outfitters, soak it in kerosene, light a match, and walk away giggling. There's something about Amanda Blank that brings out the most amazing and dynamic of opinions in people. There are those who hate her, if for no other reason than what she brings to the table is so completely mindless and vapid that in our current musical era, in which everybody and their best friend has a blog to tear apart an artist word by word and line by line, and over and counteranalyze everything, that artists that make you think, or well create thought provoking and/or different sounds get pushed. Someone like Amanda Blank, who sings and raps about absolutely nothing of gravitas past relationships, boyfriends and partying, well, it's more than likely that she'll get the shaft in a 2009 musical conversation. However Blank, the daughter of a college professor, is clearly more than fully aware of this, and in being an in your face sexpot favored by the pink t-shirt and purple sneaker crowd, embraces them likely more than they embrace her, allowing herself, as an artist to exist and excel, despite the slings and arrows of tastemakers and media alike.

See, I'm of the belief that Amanda Blank's I Love You is one of the best albums of the year. It has a timeless quality to it that, not like the Black Lips or US Royalty remind you of classic, feel good 60s rock dipped in a batter of southern soul, or like the Cool Kids remind you of Masta Ace, Stetsasonic or any great number of late 80s - early 90s rap geniuses, but instead, Amanda Blank is deeply reminiscent and appreciative of cherubic, club ready, one hit wonder pop. She covers Vanity, Romeo Void and LL's panty moistener on the album. Let's not forget that. This is not for the Grizzly Bear, Passion Pit or Animal Collective audience. Hell, it's not even for the Wale, Kid Cudi or Pac Div audience either. It aims lower than that. The base. The confused young lady that's in a scene and it's her first pang of acceptance. The gay guy that's living for the moment. The partier that revels in life's absurdity and laughs in the face of taking anything too seriously for fear of crying about the morally devoid and tumbling into a rabbit hole of irrelevance nature of society. Say what you will, but imagine a universe in which you don't know or care deeply about bills or jobs, and your stress is totally encased in "Will Bobby buy me a can of Sparks and sneak off with me to the bathroom tonight?" Amanda Blank, with I Love You, successfully attempts to raise the universe's lowest of cultures to the highest of art, and succeeds. It may not be a victory for you, but to a legion of kids nationwide fully ensconsced in hipster and club culture, it's an entirely too accurate portrait of a completely absurd and ridiculous universe.

However, far, far, far more important than anything Amanda Blank says on the album is the canvas upon which she gets to artistically create upon. Diplo, Switch and XXXChange, given their creation of and participation in the Hollertronix parties that pretty much spawned this entire movement, are the absolutely perfect production squad. They do nothing more than put the pitch perfect beats behind the pitch perfect people. You may want Chuck Inglish of the Cool Kids over something other than a fuzzed out synth bassline on "Lemme Get Some,", but, as anyone will tell you, that's where he excels. You may want to hear Amanda Blank ape LL Cool J over some generic electro sounds, but, over a Sir Mix A Lot and Masta Ace sample, with Santigold's "I Love You" over the chorus, it's exactly the place where that track should be. The album's opener, "Make It Take It" sounds like it was jacked from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs or CSS' discard pile. The Vanity cover "Make-Up," well sounds as close to the original as humanly possible because, well, sometimes you can't mess with perfection. To NOT see Diplo, Switch or XXXChange attempt to push music forward with Amanda Blank as the showpiece is appreciated as Amanda Blank celebrates what is literally happening right now for so many young men and young women in urban America. A different sound would have completely destroyed the album's legitimacy, which is so absolutely key to where it succeeds.

The album's real winner though across all fronts is the Lykke Li duet "Leaving You Behind" which, if it were a track without the soul stirring Swedish songstress on the hook, would be Blank's attempt at showing some artistic expansion, but, with Lykke Li there, the heart stopping gravitas not apparent anywhere else on the album is more than apparent, likely making the track more a victory for Lykke Li than anything, but definitely showing Blank the exact space where there is significant room for improvement. And "Might Like You Better?" Well, outside of being a good cover and a very solid production, well, it allows Amanda Blank to make videos like the one below, and craft an entertaining and media ready visual image. It may not be an image we like, because it's too expected and too mainstream, but, there's the victory of an Amanda Blank. She is, EXACTLY what she is. Nothing more, nothing less.

Amanda Blank "Might Like You Better" from Downtown Music on Vimeo.

Amanda Blank has officially arrived and not a second too late. If nothing else, I Love You is a very adequate encapsulation of the last three years of popular culture. For many, it has been the best of times. For yet so many more, it has clearly been the worst. In urban America, it really is the tale of two "cities." Mainstream and alternative. The alternative diva is here. The city has a leader.

IS BMORE AT A MAINSTREAM CROSSROADS? A 2009 REPORT CARD FOR THE CHARM CITY...

Mullyman, courtesy of Jay-Z and a killer Booman track has been telling us all year long that NOBODY goes harder than Baltimore. Well, if literally, events of the last 24 hours serve as a reminder, Bmore, indeed may have to go just a bit harder than they already are if the holy grail of complete mainstream acceptance is to occur.

Look no further than Sunday's Washington Post, which has been trumpeting a lot of music form unusual places as of late, which would appear to have been doing a previously scheduled phenomenal write up of Bmore club princess Rye Rye, post releasing the video clip for huge hit of the year "Bang," just prior to her spot on A-Trak's 10,000 LB Hamburger tour, and a forthcoming debut on Interscope Records, as well as being the hype girl and pet project of international genre smasher M.I.A. The article paints the wonderful, and always heartwarming tale of young Ryeisha Berrian, a girl from the hardscrabble, "Wire" tinged Bmore streets, who is swept away by the hipster heroine and her then superproducer boyfriend, and magically turned into a hyperkinetic urban flower child bringing masterful messages of mindless mirth for the mainstream. But then it takes the real life turn of all turns. On July 9th, we found out from her blog that Rye Rye was six months pregnant. And, sadly enough, revealing some news that probably less than one percent of the universe knew, Evan Battle, Rye Rye's boyfriend, and the unborn child's father, just two weeks prior on June 23rd, was rendered paralyzed from the waist down after a mistaken identity shooting in East Baltimore. It's terrible. Harrowing, frightening, saddening. Rye Rye has all the tools to be destined to be a star. A superstar. A giant poster child for teens everywhere, her manic dancing, off the wall energy, kaledescopic fashions and verbal gymnastics are tailor made for mainstream teens universally. But now there's a real life crossroads. Rye Rye, to many a walking teenage club caricature made in real life that could entertain the masses now has depth, now has scope, now has more pain and weight than most anyone could handle. As an artist, it's hard to think she'll ever truly be the same. Creatively, her energy came from being a teen without any "real life" worries. Now, she a teen that has more "real life" issues than any adult. When she returns to music, it's my hope of hopes that the scene she dominated hasn't aged past her, and even if they have, they've matured and maintained the same ironic good nature to wear pink shirts and purple sneakers, but can also take the weight she's gonna put down.

And if that wasn't enough, on Friday night, rather quietly, the Universal/Unruly miracle man, DJ Class, released a video for I'm the Ish:



No, it's not THE video for I'm the Ish. That one, featuring the entire Unruly family, Ultra Nate, and almost every single human being that's ever spun a record in Baltimore, and to be released by Universal/Motown hasn't seen the light of day. Clearly, this video is an attempt by Class to keep the song hot while who knows what is happening over at Universal. Yes, as anybody likely reading this blog is aware, localized music in the DMV is a hard sell to national record labels. Wale, who tours with a go go band, will not likely have nary an ounce of UCB, or Tre's amazing falsetto on the record, though frankly, it's what makes him different, and possibly even more entertaining as an artist. Bmore club is a different sound. Scalding hot snares, skull crushing bass, wild loops, unusual samples, 120+ BPM, seemingly STRICTLY club music, "I'm the Ish's" success is more anthemic to me of what Baltimore club DID for music to this point than any indication of what it is doing, on a mainstream level for the future of music. It's the buildup of Unruly, Diamond K, the Dew Doo Kidz, K Swift, Jonny Blaze, Debonair Samir, and so on, and so on, and so forth. Class as a stand alone artist on a mainstream thinking, urban trending label is a lifetime achievement. But, looking to the future of Bmore club, does it have a future, an evolution, or is it what it is, an awesome and tremendous sound and force that has it's place, a regionalized sound that had a second in the spotlight, but will fade back to regional and underground dominance?

We're definitely at a crossroads here. Artists with the look and sound of Rye Rye were key. Until she has has her daughter Kinnidy, and can sort out her harrowing issues, I can't imagine being exceptionally pressed for or demanding new tracks. So, until that and Class' issues clear up, where are we? Blaqstarr, one of the new leaders of the Baltimore club sound? Well, he's not in Baltimore. He's in LA, and we've heard nothing, and the last thing I heard, the "Sing Sing" and "Think" breaks weren't exactly at the forefront of his mind. He seems to be evolving in the manner of Wale and DC, in that Blaqstarr is FROM Baltimore, but certainly NOT a BALTIMORE artist. That's all well and good, and I wish him professional success. Maybe he'll come back with some new strain of club music that will turn flaxen haired girls carved in the image of American Apparel and comic bird New Era fitted wearing homeboys on their ears. Until then, when he left, he left us with Rye Rye's "Bang" and "Get Off," and the promises of a new direction that involved Trey Songz mixtape style urban soul with rock guitars, a street Hendrix concept for sure, one that left club folks scratching heads and music appreciators wildly intrigued. How about DJ Booman's deservedly hyped pair the Get Em Mamis and Mullyman? Well Mully's still unsigned, but grinding out The Wire Volume 4 soon, and his Tabi Bonney directed clip is all about being on MTV Jams every other day. The Get 'Em Mamis? Tremendously cute, and musically sound. Just waiting for the opportunity.

Back to the club, there's a TON of hungry folks, but nobody able to cosign them as being ready to be on a tippy top level. And here's Bmore problem in conclusion. Baltimore's music scene is STILL dominated by the legends that never got their mainstream just desserts. Jimmy Jones, Rod Lee, Scottie B, KW Griff, Diamond K, Jonny Blaze, and so on, and so forth are still around, still producing, still remixing, and still very vital. It makes no sense to cosign someone as the future if you have yet to see your past. It's a very curious thing, this city. There's guys like James Nasty and DJ Pierre, and so on, and so forth, who, if they were say, based in, Richmond, VA, would be seen as top stars and the head of the class quite possibly. But, when surrounded by the walls that built the house in which you choose to live, you merely exist inside them. And while wonderful, that's a problem. Everybody's still hustling, everybody still wants a cut of a pie that nationally, gets smaller by the day.

Bmore is a winner. We all know this. But all of us want to see somebody, anybody, attempt and succeed at going HARDER than Baltimore. That's likely what it's going to take. And that's an amazing proposition indeed.

MICHAEL JACKSON

I've always had the feeling that Michael Jackson had no other option in life but to be Michael Jackson. That's a lot of why he was the best to ever do this. I'd say he was Jackie Wilson meets James Brown and a whole slew of other artists, but that'd be so trite and unfair. Fuck. Michael Jackson is dead. And with that, a part of our collective musical consciousness is a memory. There's a vitality inherent in the presumption of immortality. In death, we lose that, and we find the human. My greatest wish is that in remembering the human, we don't lose the nature of just how amazing the man was. His dream in youth to be the greatest singer and dancer that ever lived, and to positively touch the lives of every single person that ever heard his music, is just like any other child's dream, to be President, or, as our parents all teach us, to dream big, dream impossible, and make those dreams come true. But Mike had these dreams at three and four, and by by five he was already doing it, already attempting to make dreams realities. There's something full of naivete there, something so human there, something so accessible there, something for us ALL to love there as well, and we did.

Michael gave his life to music, and in devoting the entirety of his being to being the ULTIMATE, lies a tragic flaw. We all get a bit older, get a bit slower, get a bit worn, but that was not supposed to be Michael. Michael, through his aspiration, became timeless, became an epic representation of something meant to create emotion: music. Michael Jackson died while once again, at the age of 50, preparing to make time stand still, doing it harder and better than anyone, a 50 show concert tour, which at any age is daunting, but at 50, given his particular expectation, would have been simply incredible. His motivation, be it financial salvation or a youthful pondering of whether he still had "it" be damned, we ALL hoped that these concerts would go off okay. Even if not for the advancement of his greatness, but just to make sure that the best we ever had was still in good health and good spirits after an amazingly tumultuous number of years.

We have never and will never see another Michael Jackson because, when the man is at the height of his ability, and can be produced and recorded by those at the heights of their abilities, the results are timeless. I can list the songs, but I'd miss one and the universe would be angry. I'm sure we've all heard every song Michael ever performed over the last 12 hours. Five number one albums and thirteen number one singles. And the B sides and hidden album cuts we all know and love and hold dear. The man lived a life where he worked with Gamble and Huff, Quincy Jones, Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis and Teddy Riley. He's sang on stage with Pavarotti and had Jay-Z lay down 16 bars on "You Rock My World." And, amazingly, after discussing ALL of that, I've touched a tenth of his career. In working and learning from and emulating ALL of the greats, Micael Jackson existed as a sheer musical marvel. Michael Jackson is a standard and brand of excellence that in aiming for, artists of the present and future can achieve greatness just in the attempt to mirror him.

Through the music, Michael Jackson made a difference. In his youthful demeanor, and sheer hope upon all hopes in the world, Michael created change. He was a life changer. A WORLD changer. He single handedly changed the face of pop radio and MTV by being black and having widespread appeal and undeniable talent. By merely being better than everyone else, he knocked a hole in the terrifying edifice of racism that so so so many have walked through in so many walks of life. He had the power, through his career to do daily what people hope to do once in a lifetime. He's shaken hands and had conversations with so many people of power, so many people of influence who were likely prouder to meet him than he was to meet them. When your goal is to be the best, you go into life fully expecting this to be the nature of what you do. And he did this all dutifully, as if with each legendary tune, at a certain point, knowing that he was solidifying his ability to literally be a world beater.

And there's his final tragic flaws. Life and love. Michael Jackson lived on the same planet with us, but due to the intense stress of literally being the greatest and most influential man to ever create sound, he mortgaged his life, and mortgaged the ability to learn how to love himself and love others. You can't love yourself when you become the forefront of public opinion at eight years old. Eight! We all know how damaging it is as a child to be told you're ugly and are no good. Now imagine likely hearing this from not your child peers, but from adults! Many humans are cynical, jealous and hateful people. The pain and stigma from that certainly seems tremendous. Now extrapolate that over forty-two years of striving and winning despite that, and as the woes increase, still attempting to just do what you know, and in the process grow, mature, and learn, having never been adequately provided the tools to do. His legendary odd behavior (we all know all the stories and cases, no need to rehash them in this space), well, if not a reaction in attempting to fight his own life and gain the ability to love, to create something "normal," to have an other from his very public, full time persona, well that makes sense. It may sound crazy, but in holding Michael Jackson to the same rules, laws and regulations as say, Marcus Dowling, well, that's just a recipe for danger. Nobody has ever lived this life and existed in this manner before. There are no rules for this. Crazy, but upon further review, true.

Michael Jackson is no longer amongst us in the living. But remember his exalted life. Remember his sheer mastery of music. Remember his hopes and dreams. No matter how you feel, the man had an impact and made an ultimate sacrifice and difference. Long live the King.

"Just because we CAN make a flying car doesn't mean that a car should fly" : Stream of consciousness explorations into technology and music.

Just because this car can exist, does it ABSOLUTELY have to?

So Shawn Carter pulled out a lyrical pearl handled pistol and slayed autotune in a manner consistent with Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton. It's apparently deceased, but what do we learn from it's demise in moving forward? Autotune was a beautiful conspirator in hip hop's ability to gain financial and critical respect in mainstream circles. T-Pain based an entire career off of the use and mastery of it, Cher kicked off it's use by reviving her career yet again with it, Kanye West used it to create one of the more compelling odes to complete and total heartbreak in quite some time, and, well, by the end, everyone jumped on board and decided that if these folks were cashing big checks and making immediate impact by doing something so blatantly simple, then they could too. But there's a bigger point here. Technology is confusing the music industry. Instead of focusing on making tougher and stronger cars, we're trying to make cars that fly. Has technology grown so fast that we're concerning ourselves with mastering it instead of mastering music? To this author it's the most pressing issue we have in music today.

The real beginning of the technological hustle to success starts in my mind with Lil' Wayne's rise to power. The man was the true original master of the mixtape, as starting somewhere in 2005-2006, Weezy flooded the rap game and the internet with as much music as he could record, and in an unprecedented situation, created track after track after track of amazing music, pushing himself to be as voluminous and creative as humanly possible, cranking out solid lyrical performances that made him a player and a star immediately through hard work, skill, marketing and dedication. It became clear that the route to success wasn't from the studio to the CD rack at Sam Goody anymore, but instead from the emcee to the computer. This has bled over to DJ culture as well, with everyone taking themagical mixtape road to glory. Releasing mixtapes allows for an immediacy and freedom, as no samples have to be cleared, meaning smaller budgets and an entire musical world being a possibility. However, not everybody is Weezy F. Baby, so for every Weezy there's a Charles Hamilton on the underground, just as voluminous, but still searching for the magical elexir to become a financially viable and respected performer.

The computer killed producing as well, as instead of using technology intelligently, it would appear as though producers merely make slight improvements upon sounds on top of the charts, not pushing the game ahead constantly which computers and technological programs (like the nefarious Autotune) allows for. Searching for new samples and new concepts in the mainstream is not a perpetual grind, as instead it is the domain of the underground, allowing this sector shut out from major labels to do so, but as long as it's not heard on major Clear Channel controlled radio outlets, it's a tree falling in a forest that doesn't make a financial sound. At the end of the day, making music, namely hip hop music, has become about making money, and where art and finance can coincide is a beautiful point that infintessimally few can reach.

On the flipside, technology allows for amazingly ridiculous jumps in cultures as well, as seen with the rise in dubstep in the electronic world, as DJs have taken basslines to absurd places, creating music that is driven the bass instead of the treble, weebling and wobbling all over the place, an innovation for sure, but an innovation that to many offends the concept of what musicality is, and a definite issue of again, possibly taking technology too far into the realm of "we can do this," instead of the realm of "why are we doing this?" In this case, it's, as expected a case of entirely too deep explorations into technology's forms instead of simple appreciation of technology's functions. There's a point of no return that can't be breached that has been obliterated.

On both ends, technology is a difficult beast. The immediacy of culture often makes crafting and excellence difficult propositions to reach in tandem, and also allows for everything and anything to be at play. Innovation allows for great ability for individuals to best express themselves, but what works for the goose may make money for the gander, but certainly may not help it. The buying public is sadly fickle and stupid. Let's all remember that long before we killed autotune, Milli Vanilli sold millions and almost killed synthy Euro pop, as Rob and Fab were outed as GRAMMY WINNING frauds. To best master technology, it is important to remember quality over quantity, and talent over timing. The true masters will always win in the end, but how muddled and difficult music must become prior to that is the issue at hand.

The nature of Jigga's "Death of Autotune" merely shows that there are absolutely more pretenders than contenders in music more than ever. The nature of creativity is both high and low, and this creative oddity seems to be a critical issue. Because of computers and the internet and technological advancements therein, we have the issue of people now able to infiltrate music now with more cubic zirconias and fewer diamonds. However, because someone can record as much as humanly possible, the ability to create a solitary diamond certainly is increased. However, for the folks that create diamonds every time, the technology allows for greater ability to discover new methods of top notch creation. At the end of the day, both the perpetual contender and the newborn pretender, well, both have diamonds, and due to the various income streams and access to celebrity of he game (some see blog stars and one hit wonders as big as mainstream stars), both diamonds can be construed as being of the same size.

From nothing we have everything, and from absolutely everything we have nothing. Amazing...and confusing.

Just because we CAN make a flying car doesn't mean that a car should fly.

HIP HOP 2009 (so far): Times of bright and fright.

Soulja Boy and Hurricane Chris? The definition of hip hop? Really?

"Record industry rule number 1081/have a gimmick and a hook or you won't make dollar number one?" - The Author

2009 has been both a victorious and frightening year so far for hip hop. The underground has thrived, as artists like Kid Cudi, Wale, Asher Roth and Drake have braved the path of less renown to now begin their careers as signed artists, attempting to infuse the game once again on a mainstream level with witticism and lyrical power, and a potent mix of style and substance that hip hop hasn't seen from upstart emcees in literally over a decade. But, as these artists start their treks, the more mentally stimulating case has been for established rappers, individuals like Eminem, Jadakiss and Busta Rhymes who have all released albums in the first two quarters of 2009 to massive success, showing that the industry has space as well for legendary acts, performers whose fanbases are truly mainstreamed, individuals who boast fans that are still part of what was deemed a cold album purchasing populace, but instead were just people who obviously want to support performers who are commodities, who existed in a time when rap made it's most pop dominant moves to date, and when rappers began to be known across the spectrum as marketable media figures and not performers in a rising underground craft. However, in this wonderful seeming recovery of this urban/suburban musical powerhouse, there exists an offshoot that has provided great difficulty for industry purists, the 800 pound gorilla in the musical corner that refuses to go away. The rap fad. In prior eras, songs like Joe-Ski Love's "Pee Wee Herman" were as disposable as the "dance songs" of the 1960s. At least those artists in the eyes of many understood their place and were gone as they came, and did not attempt to create careers off of encapsulating popular culture in three minute nuggets. However, at this very point, there's an entire cadre of young performers who have, on the strength of hooks, ringtone sales, and absurd doses of marketing, have begun an assault upon the concept of what rap music is, was, and can be in the future.

Take twin cases in point Louisiana born Hurricane Chris and Alabama's hip hop powerhouse and pop culture machine Soulja Boy Tell 'Em. Chris, not exactly a lyrical heavyweight, but blessed with great producers and the ability to produce really catchy hooks, with merely two hits, 2007's "Ay Bay Bay" and the current chart smasher "Halle Berry (She's Fine)" has a double platinum seller, and a top ten single, and is well on the way to likely enough money to retire and live comfortably by the age of 30 if he so chose. If he releases literally one single a year every two years that is a smash, even without an album that sells, he's a top seller, and by monetary definitions a top rapper, which completely inverts hip hop's pre-existing standard on it's head.

And then there's Soulja Boy. A bell wether rapper and rallying cry for "real" rappers everywhere, he's truly the boy (he can't legally drink and only last year could vote) wonder that has destroyed the entire idea of hip hop as a musical form. He dances, sings, creates songs where the hook is literally a million times more important than the 16 bars preceding it, creates entire albums of songs tailor made to be 15 second ringtones, and is a fine example of what happens when you embrace the new technologies and streams that the industry gives you instead of copying existing norms to attain success. From "Crank Dat" to "Kiss Me Thru The Phone" to "Turn My Swag On," all utterly disposable but tragically unforgettable and glee filled anthems, the true question to ask from his success is if this is the end of rap as we knew it, or merely another hip hop expansion?

2009's hip hop is different from 1979's by a long shot. The genre has advanced spectacularly, and the definitions and the spirit of the genre are completely different. Just as rock and roll expanded and filled so many crevices of the human experience, so has hip hop. This year has seen our established Rolling Stones and KISS type veterans with widespread industry respect like the Jadas, Eminems and Bustas release albums that sell for name value and recognition, and while not advancing or groundbreaking, do remind us of the good times and have snippets of the legendary talent we have come to know. Furthermore, the new young performers attempt to create their niche and gain respect, looking like youthful R.E.M. or the Talking Heads, fresh, inventive and expanding and refreshing the game. And finally, well, for Soulja Boy and Hurricane Chris, well, that's a brand new story entirely that no pre-existing genre or person has ever told.

It can be argued that rap is the genre that has gained the most financially from the depleted and reassessed economy. While rock has been viciously ravaged, country slowly makes gains by expanding into new arenas, various dance styles remain vibrant on the underground and pop stays as viable as it's latest Disney created doe eyed ingenue, rap is the winner. However, in order to really gain from a single and ringtone driven market takes a rapper to willfully forego the market that in the case of older rappers or aficionados, was what they expected the industry to be. Poring over R & B records and jazz albums looking for the stereotypical perfect beat, long nights in the lab, or pouring one's heart and soul into 16 bars over and over and over and over again until the body is a distressed case of bones and plasma, just to create ONE album. Now, there seems to be as much, or more effort put into the marketing and packaging of a rapper than to his lyrical acumen. An industry that once drummed these "lightweights" out on their ear now cannot, as they're the moneymakers, and by virtue, have a place and voice. Kids that seem to have a carefree attitude and a less than typical take on hip hop music have forced a time to sit and either revel in the wide open and ridiculous nature of things, or, harken for a day when things were much simpler, and miss out on the big money. Success is what you make of it, and, now, more than ever, there's plenty ways to make it. Hip hop has made it. For those that longed for the days of full acceptance, "be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it."

On the nature of Wale and DC. A new age love story.

On Wednesday evening, the era of good feeling that has surrounded the DMV music scene exploded as Wale, the 24 year old Nigerian rapper with roots about ten minutes outside of Washington in Largo, MD, performed onstage with what he proclaimed as "the hottest go go band under thirty," UCB, to a wild, sold out audience at the 9:30 Club. But that's the surface story. Beneath that wonderful veneer, there indeed lies tremendous hate and disrespect for the young rapper on the cusp of international superstardom, bearing a deal with Jay Z imprint Roc Nation, and constantly discussing the interworkings of his meetings with label bosses Jimmy Iovine and S Dot Carter himself. The hate is historically warranted, but most unfortunate, as Wale has successfully opened doors in hip hop for DC and DMV artists that they could only once knock on, and instead of walking through the open door, would rather be embittered standing at the door, angry that they were not so lucky as to be the first.

Hate is a perpetual feeling in the DC urban music scene. it goes back even further than Chuck Brown, as it probably, for people even deeper in the scene to Marvin Gaye, a DC resident and Motown legend, a young man who had to leave DC behind and become associated with the Detroit label to boost himself to global success. And while his success was appreciated by DC, Gaye is hardly considered a DC artist in the annals of history, but rather part of the Motown machine. Regarding history though, Gaye himself never intentionally seemed to position himself away from DC, he just took the opportunities given to him.

Historically moving forward, go go, renowned and in all urban musical circles, and widely regarded as one of the most influential percussive sounds of the late twentieth century, has always been a hard sell for mainstream acceptance for the artists themselves. In the 1970s and 1980s, artists like Chuck Brown, the Junkyard Band, EU and Rare Essence slaved away in anonymity, while when New York superproducers like Hurby Luv Bug needed fresh sounds for Salt N Pepa and Kid N Play, the funky percussion of go go made "Rollin With Kid N Play" and "Shake Your Thang" instantaneous national hits, very little publicity came for the creators of the sound. And go go's largest international hit, and the one hit wonder most widely associated with the sound, "Da Butt," the backbone of Spike Lee's "School Daze," was a phenomenal look, but when EU's follow ups "Buck Wild" and "Taste of Your Love" met with little national success, the trademark of Sugarbear's "OWWWW" was all that was left, legendary, but not forward moving for DC's plight. Even Nelly sampling hall of fame level performer Chuck Brown's "Bustin' Loose" on 2001's mega smash "Hot in Herrrre" did wonders, but again, did not "wind em up Chuck" in the permanent national forefront.

There's one thing though about the entirety of DC's musical history. Artists have always been local first, national second in their approach. The embrace of national acceptance as tantamount to small time local overlord status has been a difficult decision for most every act that has risen to local success in DC. Whether it be the status of DC as not fully a state but still nationally represented, or the fact that DC's racial polarizations make African American residents of the city harder hustlers and more proud of their local accomplishments in the face of a history that has consistently placed people of African descent behind the eight ball, but, the city appreciates their own, loves their own, respects their own, and wants their own to never forget the people that got them there. It's like having a perpetual ball and chain attached to a career, one that you either proudly encase and show everyone, or one that you attempt to destroy with a hacksaw on the road to superstardom, or, if you're smart, you muscle up, and run with it on your leg all the while, making tracks like a musical Sweet Sweetback, singin' one BAAAAAAAADDDDAAAASSSSS song.

In this author's mind Wale is hated because a) he's from Largo, Maryland, and in public claims DC harder than people who eat three square meals a day at Ben's Chili Bowl. If at any point he attains success, for someone who remembers and understands the musical traditions of how the city typically runs, he's a carpetbagger claiming success. B) he seems to be hated because he has eschewed the help of local producers for the aid of slick New York types like Mark Ronson and Nick Catchdubds for his most mainstream successful mixtapes, which given Wale's obvious talent, to NOT stay local makes him appear to be "bougie" and immediately thumbing his nose at again, the established historical norms of the city.

In Wale's defense, it seems as if from day one, his plan for success was to be including, but not completely inclusive of his DC roots. It's a bold move, one that many can argue that if Chuck Brown, EU, Rare Essence, Junkyard and Backyard Band would've taken, they could've been bigger than occasional small time national or international noisemaker status. To recognize one's talent, and to incorporate a broader spectrum only shows Wale to be bolder than his opponents, and while his success is still a question, the fact that he already boasts international underground acceptance, mentions in Rolling Stone, XXL, URB, Vibe, GQ, New York Times, Washington Post, and countless other media venues, plus two videos likely to gain rather immediate play on MTV, he seems like he's following the right path. Sure, he's from Largo, but to the average American citizen, he's wearing stars and bars, he's backed live by a slick go go band (who can recount the city's go go and R & B history with measure by measure perfection), and talks of Sean Taylor, so, clearly he's from DC. The means may seem shady, but, it's the end we're looking at here, and it's an end that is most positive. The eyes of the hip hop universe are coming DC's way, and instead of bickering about Wale's authenticity, we should be discussing other rappers' availability and desire to hit the charts as well. I mean, whomever expected to see the day when a rapper with DC roots would be holding Lady Gaga and by extension pop music in the palm of his hand. Wild. Crazy. Unbelievable.

When the world watches the "Chillin'" video linked above, they're going to see a young black man so so so proud of his area. He's the amalgamation of everything from Donald Byrd and the Blackbyrds "doin' it in the dark...in Rock Creek Park," to Nonchalant hustlin' at "5 O'Clock in the mornin'" at the corner of Benning and Minnesota NE, and all points before, after and in betwwen, with a broad and impressive stroke of macrocosmic marketing tossed in. It's insidious genius, the type that makes you so mad you could punch someone in the face, because, well, you didn't think of it first. He's more proud to be a rapper in the greater universe, and there's nothing at all wrong with that. To hate Wale for doing it big and doing it nationally first and locally second is completely absurd. It's a smooth marketing ploy, and, in opening a gigantic door for himself and standing in it, there's still room for everybody else to seep through. It isn't so much being the first through the door, it's being the BEST through the door. It annoys me that there are emcees who think they're better than Wale, but instead deem it a worthwhile use of time to bitch and moan on the sidelines. If you want to shine so bad, go stand in the spotlight. It's here. And brighter than it's ever been.

ARTIST SHOWCASE: CLAIRE HUX (along with interview and new mixtape drop)

Baltimore club, as has been reported in the space numerous times, is at the precipice of very exciting times. However, lost in that translation is the fact that Baltimore houses tremendous producers and artists across the board musically, and thus and so falls Unruly Records' hipster centric old school inspired purveyors of the booty shaking party, Claire Hux. Comprised of D Lake and Symbol, the act does not just focus solely on old school inspiration in production, but in live act as well, as the Claire Hux live experience is a zebra printed, baby powder sprinkled, 80s inspired, synchronized dance steps and overabundant stage presence filled urban pop tour de force that slays wherever it goes, certainly a harbinger of great things to come for the act.

Today, Claire Hux drops their second mixtape, Black is the New Wet, a solid 45 minutes of clubby hip hop excitement with broad sprinklings of hilarity. As well, the group with tracks like the Nine Inch Nails inspired "Destroyer" show a bit more serious side as well, attempting to not just cover the club, but the show, the after party, the hotel, and the walk of shame as well, with their usual obsequious attention paid t production details and commercial packaging, making Claire Hux in the right hands a surefire bet for eventual pop stardom.

As well as dropping the mixtape, I was able to sit with Symbol and D Lake last Sunday for some thoughts on their career, working with NY based producer DJ Morsy, road tales, and positive thoughts about their time at Bmore powerhouse Unruly Records.

Enjoy!

CLICK PICTURE FOR LINK TO MIXTAPE


LINK TO CLAIRE HUX EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW

Notes on disc jockeying's boom and bust...

If the year 2009 will be known for any musical development, in the long run, the most important development will not be Drake's "So Far Gone" mixtape and his lovelorn loverman status, nor the resurgence of longtime hip hop acts to the top of the charts. More important than both these developments are the discovery of disc jockeying skills amongst many denizens of the hipster/alternative party circuit in major urban areas, in the face of economic recession. Articles like "DJ schools get boost from recession" found from New York City's WABC-TV show ths rampant development to be the case, and to this author, it's an issue worth discussing.

From Brooklyn to DC to Atlanta to LA and every spot in between, I guarantee you that for every 100 kids in the crowd at the average well attended function, there are at least ten individuals who are DJs, are preparing to be DJs, or have at one point attempted to download Serato or Ableton, or, even more rare, scratched a record to create a breakbeat. The most important part of our newest and most apparent alternative subculture isn't the lack of fashion rules, ever present keffiyehs or Nike Dunk SBs and skateboards, or the adherence to musical genres as a guide. Even the hippies by the end all fell in line, but, the most important part of the hipster subculture, the celebration of independence, and the importance of self celebrity. We've come to demystify celebrity as of late. Between Myspace, Facebook and Twitter, and TMZ, Youtube and CNN, we have access to every single citizen of the universe 24/7/365, if we so deem to want it. My having Twitter account @marcuskdowling, I can be friends with @wyclef, and, if I desire, can send him messages all day, every day, and even get a response, creating a 1 to 1 relationship. There are no six degrees of separation anymore, and that somehow downgrades the ability of someone to truly be worthy of "celebrity" status.

But how does this apply to spinning records, or, in our present generation, clicking the left button on a mouse? Well, with celebrity comes power. Being a DJ is a position of tremendous power. Instead of singing a song, or producing someone singing a song, or, hell, even being a doctor, lawyer or Indian chief, it's a lot easier to spend a little dough, and download 5,000 songs to start, purchase turntables and needles, and be on your way. But, there's something lost there. Something in the art, something in the craft, something in the learning, being taught, something in the apprenticeship to development to greatness that is absolutely devoid of presence, and that's problematic. For every 100 disc jockeys that come up without the proper development of craft, it would stand to reason that maybe five or ten will last, and that means that there are nights where people are being regaled by individuals who are faking the funk, and watering down the art and craft, and ultimately not presenting the music in it's most optimal of format. The problems with that may not be apparent now, but in 10-20 years, we may have a lack of strong radio, and a lack of strong DJs, and sadly just the internet left to break music and create artistic development, if there isn't something done to stop said proliferation.

The attainment of excellence at the art of disc jockeying is to this observer to occupy the space in the middle of a venn diagram that diverges between being a full time musicologist, part time sociologist, pop psychologist, and perpetually creating a groove. It's not so much knowing what good music is. It's also a knowledge of when, where and why someone wants to hear a record, and what hearing said record will do to said crowd. We are lost hopelessly in a culture of "me." DJing and partying by extension celebrates a culture of "we." It's not so much about just what someone playing music wants to hear that makes the difference, it's what the collective they NEED to hear that is the intrinsic necessity. It's not so much about being a teacher, and saying, "hey I think this is cool." It's about taking that impulse and mixing it with being a groove finder, break slayer, rhyme purveyor and creating an atmosphere and mood of intensity, excitement and the time of someone's life, unfortunately, preferably not just yours.

DJing it seems is not a selfish act, but rather intrinsically selfless, working diligently to create the most ultimate of moods for someone else through your knowledge, intellect and ability. Tones create modes in people. Liking together the right combination of sounds can create a combustible combination of testosterone, estrogen, pheromones, spirituality and exaltation, and bring forth powerful emotions. Music is memories, experiences, and powerful moods to people, and should be handled as such. Going into the party atmosphere with a belief in being a celebrity because of your ability to play records seems like a wrong move. Going into DJing to learn the alchemy of it all, and how to maximize said development seems to be a better concept.

In final, to take it back, I can almost guarantee without a shadow of a doubt that when legendary DJs like Timmy Regisford at the Shelter, Larry Levan at the Paradise Garage, Afrika Bambaataa at a South Bronx house party, or even Funkmaster Flex spinning at The Tunnel, it wasn't for a love of self, or a love of celebrity, but it was a love of music. We must get our priorities straight, and do this right, if we look to have a musical future based on talent and credibility instead of a future based around low budget inundation of musical dreck.

MARCUS @ THE COUCH SESSIONS: Notes on Jonah, the Whale, blogging, and hip hop

“Now the LORD had prepared a great fish to swallow up Jonah. And Jonah was in the belly of the fish three days and three nights.” Jonah 1:17, The Bible, King James ed.

I cannot think of a more disconcerting and backwards notion than the concept of sending one’s musical creation to someone who has never sat for a minute in a meeting with a head of A & R, or high ranking label executive with the expectation of gaining enough traction to be signed. Much like the story of Jonah in the Bible, an artist clearly is fleeing from the presence of common sense and embracing the concept of hopelessness in such a desire. However, in 2009, it would seem as the rise of the blogger is near completion, and while results are early, the hip hop game has suffered somewhat in the wake of this phenomenon.

I think of the emcee, sitting at home, pen and notebook in hand, scribbling lyrics, creating hooks, recording songs, and then, placing the songs on a mixtape, uploading them into the digital atmosphere, and then sending out a massive blind copy email to fans 8 to 88, advising to download, and write about the songs, and expect this to create a significant enough fanbase to one day become Kid Cudi. Even before the Internet, sending tons of envelopes of tapes with rhymes and slipshod production to record labels, or damn near interrupting a DJs set to get a 12 inch or CD played seems like a far nobler underground experience. At least if you were denied by Kid Capri in a nightclub, you at least had the imprimatur of a noted musician, an individual who at least has mad significant money consistently in the music industry. By comparison, if a blogger doesn’t like your song, and that’s the ONLY feedback you really have, well, it’s an opinion, but, it truly carries no weight where concern or fear is a necessity. It’s a infinitely small subsection of the larger musical market expressing hate. I’d tend to want to trust my music in the hands of someone who is a mover of people, instead of a group of people being moved.

In the Bible, Jonah stayed in the “great fish” for three years. The “great fish” of Internet opinion swallows everyone now and that “three years” can feel like “three lifetimes.” Those who are released into the waiting arms of record deals deserve some sort of award for evading the slings and arrows of Internet opinion and attaining that level of acceptance. At least at that point the aim of your music is far more mainstream in scope, and, well, as Rick Ross just proved, with a major label behind you, if a million people on a series of tubes believe everything about you to be completely phony, there are a million more who will not really care, and obviously gladly disagree.

I’d also stand to argue also that there are seventeen year old kids in America who can’t hold down a job bagging groceries at Kroger’s who think that they could replace Sean Combs tomorrow morning and create a Bad Boy roster of Blu, Charles Hamilton, MF Doom, Black Milk and Colin Munroe and have each artist push 100,000 units. I’m sure he’d also be able to lay out an elaborate marketing scheme wherein BET, MTV and VH1 would change their television production standards and music would be indelibly altered forever. That’s the great thing about opinions. They’re like assholes, everyone has one, and even if they’re woefully wrong, it denotes the depth, scope and imagination that qualifies someone as a human being. But basing the nature of music and it’s development upon a dreamer with no actual intellect? Not smart.

There needs to be a thought placed by bloggers and writers, if we’re the new A & R to breaking this vicious “Jonah and the Whale” cycle. There needs to be quality control. There needs to be better music education on all levels by those involved in the new “A & R” game. Maybe picking up a book, maybe taking a class in ethnomusicology at a local community college. Maybe even learning how to play an instrument or learning the basics of song construction. We’re doing woeful things to artists as people when we sit on our ivory thrones and proclaim them as great to an industry of people who know and believe them to just be good. We do woeful things to young artists who are looking to dance and express something they think is cool, instead of pushing them to be the next Tribe, Rakim, Slick Rick or hell, Young MC, before they can handle the gravitas of what that is, or even what that takes. We need to exercise patience. If the bloggers of 2009 wrote in 1972, I’d imagine they would’ve SAVAGED Stevie Wonder for switching to a sound driven by MOOG style synths and introspective lyrics. Hell, I know they did the same to Kanye West, for 808s and Heartbreak and, well, that went platinum, so I’m pretty sure I’m right. An artist at the end of the day is a man or woman who develops and inevitably always changes, matures and improves.

P.T. Barnum, the noted circus showman stated once that there was a “sucker born every minute.” The musical industry is now run by suckers. Not labels or A & R execs, but at the most important of developmental phases, the early days, run by suckers. These suckers have decided that they are THE LORD, and have taken the form of a great fish, and swallowed the entirety of hip hop. We then dispose of one reluctantly, after the artist prays to us and kowtows to our demands and falls in line with our limited expectation after savaging and dissecting literaly every single track they have ever developed, likely down to the sound of their voice over their heartbeat, in the form of excrement, and they are saved onto ships in the form of record labels who have the intellect, logic and background to develop their careers correctly.

It’s terrible, unfortunate, and in the eyes of this observer, true. It’s not a condemnation of everyone, as for every sophomore (read as the Greek etymology of “wise fool”) there’s a senior out there and has taken the time to care with depth and useful insight, and understands that creating a situation of Jonah and the Whale for hip hop is not preserving, protecting on even worse, ensuring a solid future for the genre.

MARCUS @ THE COUCH SESSIONS: When white boys do the cool walk.

“He ain’t tryin’ to be mean, he just wants to be seen.” - Rufus Thomas, referring to an overzealous spectator during his Wattstax performance, 1972.

“He ain’t tryin’ to be mean, he just wants to be seen.” Truer words have never been spoken when it comes to the case of individuals other than African-Americans who attempt to record hip-hop music. I’ve argued that there’s nothing more exciting and ultimately, cool in the world than being a young black male, and mainstream culture would tend to agree with me. However, when young white males, given black/white North American social history, attempt to “swagger jack” young black men, and do the “cool walk,” and do so without black people knowing, being aware and consistently cosigning such a move, likely since that white youth’s birth it would stand to reason, it raises eyebrows. Obviously, with heightened scrutiny, any and every mistake clearly becomes the worst.

And with the above quote, thus and so hopefully ends the cautionary tale of Asher Paul Roth, and the end of the beginning of the most unusual and absurd time in the history of hip hop. At least with Vanilla Ice, he wore sparkling satin genie pants. We saw this guy from ten miles away, and knew he did us harm. Every record that “Ice Ice Baby” sold, and every listener consistently perturbed by the insipidness of “Havin’ a Roni” knew what the score was. Mainstream culture cashing in on urban fads 1, Hip Hop 0. But, to the I-C-E’s favor, he never called black women nappy headed hoes in public, and in our nanosecond driven media culture of 2009, especially not on Twitter. And that’s where Asher, and our new hip hop paradigm, failed, and failed miserably.

Eminem, well, he was groomed for years by the industry. He knew what could be done and what was sacrosanct for someone of his skin color. Sure, there have been leaks of his expected idiocy in the years following, but, by the time he reached the mainstream, they were not readily accessible. Instead of a white guy who felt the need to drop an n-bomb to prove his authenticity, he instead was honed by constant rhyming, becoming at his height one of the most killer, battle tested and lyrically intense emcees of all time. A storyteller par excellence, and the standard by which other “white boys who wanted to do the cool walk” were to be measured.

And, no lie, Asher falls short. He admits to such on his album with the Chester French assisted track “As I Em,” where he basically fellates his initial lyrical hero, and eschews any comparison between Eminem and himself, or approaching Em’s prodigious track record. For the kid whose likely initial rap CD purchase WAS his mother buying the Slim Shady LP, there’s absolutely no way on numerous levels that he’s going to attain his level of respect for or talent within the most hardened of hip hop circles. Instead, Asher has been cast as so far removed from that, that it’s hard to hold him in the same light.

I’d probably go so far as to argue that Asher is the first of his kind, the first of a generation of white kids who come to hip hop from the Napster generation, the Limewire line of kids, adolescents not driven to buy albums, but who just like hot tracks, whose flows didn’t come from years of listening to rap albums til the grooves wore out, who weren’t there to see Busy Bee, or even remember the furor of the Kool Moe Dee v. LL Cool J rap feud. Sure, it’s part of a history of the music he chooses to record, but it’s not a part of HIS history of the music he records. Somewhere, cats like MC Serch and Pete Nice are beating their heads in. Somewhere while cashing another royalty check from Johnny Cash’s “Hurt,” and Jigga’s “99 Problems,” Rick Rubin probably reflects for a second on just how hard he probably had to initially work to impress Russell Simmons. In their day, white boys couldn’t just “do the cool walk.” There was a cool crawl, a cool stand, and finally a cool step, whereas Asher Roth, well, he’s just been able to stand up and hit the ground running.

And therein lies the stupidity. Hip hop’s out of control. There’s too many influences now, and with no A & R reps out there apparently really hustling, a guy like Asher Roth can put tracks up on Myspace and get signed pretty much comparatively scot free. Because a 19 year old kid in flip flops in his college dormitory who passed English 101 just barely has access to the internet and writes a blog, and can influence other just as easily influenced at that age kids, who then can hoodwink 31 year olds in musty gym shorts doing the same thing, we end up with a talented emcee with some really catchy hooks, with seemingly nary a true clue of what he’s REALLY gotten himself into, who can nonchalantly attempt to rip Don Imus and cause an uproar, simply because he has ultimately no reason by which to know any better.

But this is where we’re at. The genre of hip hop is officially wide open. There are no expected norms by which an artist is expected to be judged anymore. Hip hop damned sure isn’t “black” music anymore. With Asher’s “I Love College,” it’s just as white, suburban and upper middle class as ever, just as “Paper Planes” makes it political and Sri Lankan, Yo Majesty’s “Kryptonite Pussy” makes it outlandishly lesbian, Adam Tensta’s “Dopeboy” makes it racially angst ridden and Swedish, and Drake’s “Best I Ever Had” makes it lovestruck amd Canadian.

Ultimately, at the end of the day, there’s a certain happiness that has to come from this. Hip hop is a universal language now, a living and breathing thing, where people can seem to be apparently clueless of anything racial, and still be viable in the game. That’s a far cry from Public Enemy for sure, and, as we always must remember, anytime you take one step forward, it’s just as easy to take two steps back.

White boys and apparently everyone else gets to do the “cool walk” now. The consequences of such, even the negative, are as apparent as ever.

MARCUS @ THE COUCH SESSIONS: Of Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man, and music.

My favorite novel is Ralph Ellison's "Invisible Man." It's one of my favorite litmus test points for social evolution and social movements, as Ellison's unnamed African-American narrator passes through the universe in bouts of invisibility, presence and omnipresence, with the eventual emphasis on invisibility, but living underground in an amazingly well lit unknown (but formerly known) sector of a building only rented to white people. It stands as one of the great pieces of literature because it so deftly allows the reader the ability to enter, exit and define one's self ultimately in the forgotten margins of society, growing with strength, intellect and wisdom, appearing spontaneously and brilliant, then, being discovered, torn asunder, and pushed back to ignominy. This novel is not just a great explanation of the black experience, but rather it's an outstanding definition of any underground experience, and works rather well when applied to our present musical condition.

We're at this point right now, where, due to the state and nature of the universe, we're unearthing all of music's "Invisible Men." In history, we've normally introduced them one by one, allowing them to shine, then they become overrun by corporate greed, become trite and hackneyed, then are expunged from our experience. This is the story of Ellison. What is now occurring is similar, but will end much differently. In the next year, due to numerous factors, it would appear as if all of these "Invisible Men" are going to be allowed to run unfettered, growing, co mingling, developing and entering and re-entering our consciousness perpetually. From Baltimore club's rapid ascension, to hipster clubs being overrun by the grandsons and granddaughters of disco, to dubstep's new place as King of the Underground, to hardcore rappers being more emo than emo pop bands could ever be, things are insane, and the quest for visibility has begun in earnest.

Why is this happening? This is the question at the lips of every music listener that for years fell under the sway of mass marketed and mass produced corporate industry scheme. The folks who JUST love gangsta rap, the folks who JUST love electro, the folks who JUST love country, guitar driven rock, hip hop, and so on and so forth, are in trouble. When we weren't in a recession, these sounds were pure, the sounds were real, they were codified and stratified and presented by the mainstream as law and rule. However, as with most things, technology came along, and has completely adjusted the paradigm.

The strong hand of corporations cannot defeat the limitlessness of technology. Technology has destroyed the "Invisible Man." When technology was not controlled, the industry kept the underground, well, underground, but, as technology won, the genre specific nature of music slowly began to fade, the underground became the rule, fact and law. Technology, via download, blog, Youtube, and so many others, allows us to dig into the various lairs of the various musical "narrators," and, without fail, for those who find them, they all note that the homes of the various musical forms can be described as Ellison's narrator describes his home. “My hole is warm and full of light. Yes, full of light. I doubt if there is a brighter spot in all New York than this hole of mine, and I do not exclude Broadway." The holes are still filled with the source material, curated, prepared and stored away, waiting for the eyes of the universe. In that space that is warm and full of light, quite the party has been raging away. Be they Baltimore club bangers like DJ Technics' take on "Please Mr. Postman or Rod Lee's "Dance My Pain Away," clear harbingers to DJ Class' "I'm the Shit," or on a pop level Beyonce mirroring her "Single Ladies" video strut to Bob Fosse's choreography of "Mexican Breakfast," everything is visible, and those 1,369 lights are shining brightly everywhere, illuminating the future of music.

But people still turn away. There are people in this world that feel that the theory of the "Invisible Man" is the way. To stay underground, to develop underground, to be real underground, to stay true to one's reality, to be a "Trueblood" (to steal once again from Ellison) and celebrate the tiny victories of people, if even for a second "crossing over, yet keeping it real," is amazing, and ultimately an outmoded model. Being Ellison's narrator and following his model of living far beneath, but secretly within the establishment is dead. Opening up our ears and eyes to what happened, and embracing the insanity, and letting new sounds bowl us over, letting new artists with different theories of their evolution exist without hate. Ultimately clear and full acceptance is the way. Nothing must be allowed to stay "underground." Pulling, chasing, exposing, listening, harvesting, hearing, always open, always appreciating. Those who are successful set the standard. Those who fall by the wayside must continue to search. There is a sound available. It's ALL available.

The Invisible Man has died.

MARCUS @ COUCH SESSIONS...Of Quintessential Q and The Mercurial Mr. West, historical reflections...

Quincy Jones, SXSW keynote address, photo attributed to Rob Fields, boldaslove.us

"Kick in the door, wavin the four-four" - Notorious B.I.G., Kick In the Door


I am a firm believer in the concept that in introducing any new, paradigm shifting manuever to any pre-existing artifice, it's easier to open a door to walk through than bang one's head against the door and hope that it opens up. Even if you open the door a crack, somebody else can do, as the great Biggie Smalls, the Frank White of hip hop would say, "kick in the door." At SXSW, I saw some truly amazing things, including the man who opened so many doors in music, the Quintessential Quincy Jones, and the man who now is rudely assaulting, berating, and violently "kicking in the door, wavin the four-four," the one, the only, the Mercurial Mr. Kanye West.


Their methods couldn't be any different. Quincy Jones, in his nearly three hour closed door keynote address for the conference, with great wisdom and depth, outlined and thoroughly discussed how a street hoodlum from Chicago evolved then de-evolved the standing myths of music at any and all times during his career. By contiuously shifting, and sinuously evolving as a musical tactician, the man can shift from the session musician and arranger for Frank Sinatra to the jazzy pioneer responsible for Soul Bossa Nova, to the funk pioneer of the smooth sounds of Rufus, the Brothers Johnson and masterfully with George Benson on the seminal "Give Me the Night," to the man who redefined pop music with Michael Jackson, to a man whom, with "We are the World" proved that he, and only he, is the man responsible for the soundtrack of the entire universe. Q opened so many doors, forged so many relationships, and created music so accessible, that his sound, his vision arguably colors much of what we hear today.


The most amazing part of his keynote was that it was, to borrow from Stevie, delivered in "sounds in the key of we." He never mentioned himself as the sole orchestrator of much of anything. In his humility, the brother opened up the answers to the historical universe of sound and life. Sound does not exist in itself, nor does anything else for that matter. We exist in union. Sounds comingle to create beautiful tracks. There's something endemic in the makeup of this man that gives him, as we all found, ALL the right answers. He knows ALL of the people of the world because he is a citizen within in, and not without it. There's a beauty there, that speaks to the history of black people, that speaks to the history of music, that speaks to the history of the universe. Quincy showed himself as an open door to the universe, a man who is quintessential because he recieves everything, forgets nothing, and is willing to share of himself, divesting himself in the music fully, sound without image.


However, the paradigm has shifted in full. The closest thing we have now to Q's musical omnipresence is fellow Chicago native Kanye West. There's something about Chicago in it's perpetual history that makes it so elemental to music and ablie to shoulder these musical giants. Ever since the era of Robert Johnson's devil blues, to Frankie Knuckles' electrified and funky house, Chicago has always been a musical port of call, always open to fresh, new and vital sounding music. Furthermore, Mr. West, with his city of birth's musical pedigree, also adds being a child of the media generation, a son of the "me" generation, the progeny of MTV, and the brother of Obama, a symbol that blacks don't have to go along to get along, that we don't have to be quiet, that we don't have to fit into boxes, that we are free to just be, a scary power not available in the era of Q, where he opened doors through his excellence and quiet unpretentiousness.


When Kanye and his G.O.O.D. Music friends showed up in Austin, what had otherwise been a raucous gathering of musical outsiders and weird people at the forefront of popular culture became a party for those who were the moved and not the movers, an odd melange of real recognizing "real." The man was here. Not so much his sound, or his songs, or his ability, but it was him. It. What. That. The. Those of us who feel ourselves to be setting trends were unmoved. He's a fellow musician, and dammit, if Little Boots, Natalie Portman's Shaved Head or hell, Bun B can play the Fader Fort on time, no questions, then, well, so can Mr. West. To many, he wasn't BIGGER than this, if he deigned to play where those without his multimillions of albums and international acclaim played, then, well, he should follow the same rules. But, he didn't. He can't. He's important, he IS music. For better, for worse, richer, definitely poorer, whatever, he is at the height of the craft. And he knows this, revels in it, enjoys the comfort of the spotlight. No sharing, no caring.


Quincy came on time. Sure, he went long, but he invited us into the world of music. Sure, it was his view, but, you shared it as a fellow. He consistently cared that we cared, wanted us to appreciate what he had done for us. Kanye invites you in, but almost like he's some sort of hellbent Emperor Zod, causing we mere peons who buy the music, and all other musical Supermen and women in his universe to kneel before his mastery. He challenges you to deny the greatness of himself and his music, constantly. I am enamored with this behavior because of it's sheer audacity. Kanye, perplexed and perturbed it seems if he doesn't acquire new sounds upon which to place his "magical" voice, HAD to be at SXSW. HIS artist had to hear Little Boots cover him. HE had to see what he was missing, and what could accentuate HIM. Not what could accentuate music beautifully, but what could make HIM bigger than IT.


And that's ultimately the difference. Life, as we know it, the shared togetherness and beauty, what a man like Quincy Jones represented is gone. It's all about the doors Q opened being kicked open rudely and widely, the individual as full celebrity, morphing "that" which you do into being "that" which you are into totally becoming "that." In a megalomaniacal attempt to become the entire definition of the musical industry, he has polarized, yet, in the same attempt, become unquestioned greatness, 100% hubris, to quote Diddy, who tried as well, with not nearly the same angered hustle, Kanye "cant stop, won't stop."


I sit back now and remember that jam packed room, and Q, like the utter and definable genius auteur he has become, making us stand, hold hands, and pledge to do better, to live better, to achieve more, in tandem. It was beautiful because at that very moment, in that very room, we forged a together forever partnership based on a remembrance of things lost. We left that room, and entered a universe, mere days later, fighting a future that we cannot win against. Mr. West is a bemusing figure if you really think about it. Classic only child syndrome, now desperately in need of love and affection. And if we don't give it to him, he'll record music and canvass every corner of the world, until WE. ALL. LOVE. HIM. Imagine if he spread that love to everyone, and we all loved all music again. Not one, not some, but all. Like Quincy quintessentially did.


In music, war is effectively over. I hope HE at the forefront can attempt to bring peace. SXSW, Mr. West, by nature of who and what you attempt to be, it was not a good look. There's a world of music that, by attempting to co-opt and corrupt, you are not allowing to shine. I find that highly problematic. Let others open doors, or help them ALL to do the same. I love Quincy. I like Kanye. There's a lot at play in that difference, and a question that needs to be answered for the burgeoning future of music.