"This time Gucci is back in the slammer for some ridiculous traffic violations including; Driving on the wrong side of the road, running a red light or stop sign, damage to government property, obstruction, no license, no proof of insurance and other traffic charges, according to Curtis Davenport an Atlanta Police Department spokesperson."

Always move forward, never sleep, like a shark, bro

This album has straight defined my year. I rock my Wesleyan sweatshirt on the reg for theez dudes.

Stuff White People Like: Thinking they know more about hip hop than other white people

Apparently, in his recent review of Big Boi's new album, Sasha Frere-Jones didn't find it important to talk about any of the rapper's work pre-2003, and, furthermore, to properly discuss the album he was reviewing. This isn't the first time Frere-Jones has fallen short in the face of a hip hop review. While that piece on MF Doom last fall was solid, really solid, I always find his reviews to exhibit such a narrow, well, aging white person perspective; they lack a general understanding of hip hop as a genre, and base their critiques on trivial elements usually involving an artist's career, blankly bypassing the heart of the album, the point. In this review, Frere-Jones spends a lot of time discussing the style on Big Boi's most recent Speakerboxxx album and his decision to release Sir Luscious under Def Jam, but doesn't bother mentioning any of Big Boi's, or Outkast's earlier work. I understand that Frere-Jones is attempting to paint a portrait of the artist by spending 3/4 of the article dissecting his previous work, but when you limit the scale of that portrait to that of a single, fairly commercial album released ten years after the beginning of an artist's career, it just seems silly. I appreciate that the New Yorker branches out into the genre when it does, but I just wish it tackled the subject with the same level of no-fucking-around-legitimacy that it does everything else. Like, if they want help, they can just ask, you know? In any case, the last paragraph was pretty good, so here it is:

"The musical DNA of 'Sir Luscious' lies in a simple strategy that Big Boi has used for years: he often raps in double time, no matter what the tempo of the song is. This means that even the slower songs, like 'Fo Yo Sorrows' and 'General Patton' (the latter has one of the better opera samples in recent hip-hop), which hover at around eighty beats per minute, don't drag--Big Boi uses the space in the beat to provide another rhythm with his words. More than once, I thought of the clatter of a lawnmower, where secondary rhythms whisper underneath the main beat. Though there are rappers with more puns and wider purviews than Big Boi--he raps too often about the club, for instance--there are not many who can be simultaneously forceful and careful. Despite any clichés about Southern dispositions, Big Boi is never laid back when he raps: he defines wide-awake."

[The New Yorker, 8/2/2010]

"Almost midway into Pilot Talk, there's a line that gets right to the heart of Curren$y's appeal: "Xbox web browser/ Download a updated NBA roster/ Play a 82-game season/ Condo full of snacks, Spitta not leaving." Not too many rappers could get away with bragging about sitting in their apartments all day playing NBA Liveand eating Doritos, and even fewer would try. But Curren$y has hit a certain level of mixtape-level cult stardom in part because he's perfected his amiable everydude stoner persona, and that comes across vividly in that line even though he never mentions weed. He doesn't have to; it's implied. The other thing about that line is its specificity. Curren$y's not just a guy who plays NBA Live all day; he's also one who makes sure he does it right, getting the updated roster. It might harsh his buzz if new Bull Carlos Boozer suddenly turned up in his old Utah Jazz uniform. He appreciates the smaller things."

The opening paragraph of this Pitchfork review of the new Curren$y album is pretty spot on, mostly because I've definitely had that thought at one point while listening to that track, and a couple others on that album, while sitting in my apartment eating Doritos and feeling elite. I've been bumping that album a lot since it came out earlier this summer, been burning it for my friends, recommending it to strangers. For fear of sounding too Pitchfork-happy, I'll just say that yeah, it is a perfect mid-summer album, especially if you have to spend three days cleaning your new house because the previous tenant was a hoarder.

[Tom Breihan, Pitchfork, 7/30/2010]

Death I hear you calling, I accept collect

Tacos and spliffs and San Miguels late in the night, sleeping patterns all erratic, everything's still the same here, and it smells great.

RIP

Don't even mix coke with the Henney

In a nutshell

Clean up: the past two months

End of Week Beastmode

[And just because it's Sunday Funday]

Picture this:

change arrangements on your face

T-bone steak, cheese eggs, and Welch's Grape

"Forget the telly, we just go to the crib and watch a movie in the jacuzzi, smoke L's while you do me."

Everything in that sentence is just so appealing. I like to think I wouldn't go for it, but I probably would. This track is always so tight, even if it is played or whatever. I think the key is to understand that Biggie is not the guy trying to generically creep on chicks at the bar, but the subtle, solid underdog who sneaks up behind you after the other dude has already paid for your drink, politely asks about your interests, and then smokes you up and lets you watch tv in his hot tub.

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I had hoped the salt below, would divorce what was wed above