Chi-Ali: The Native Tongue's Native Son

While I loved every minute of the Tribe Called Quest documentary, Beats, Rhymes and Life -- the best thing about the film was re-discovering the Native Tongue family, and the mini-revolution they started among late '80s/early '90s hip-hop. We've already talked about Monie Love -- an anomaly to the group, so next in line is the strange case of Chi Ali, or the Fabulous Chi-Ali. In the present, not that fab, as he admits in a recent mini-doc about his life, that 30 seconds and a gun charge changed everything. He's now in, or just recently released from, Sing Sing prison. But way back, with "Age Ain't Nothing But a Number," he was a young, budding, rapper with the instant cred of the Native Tongue in his arsenal. He couldn't have been a day over 13 when he debuted. By the time the record came out, he had aged, you can hear it in his voice going from "Roadrunner" and onto "Funky Lemonade." But to me, he was part of my crew -- as a tween mutant, I thought I was in my own rap crew (Teenage Soldiers, where's Shane Darner when you need his craps table).

In retrospect, besides the single, The Fabulous Chi-Ali is a highly inconsistent record. He started becoming more sophisto in aforementioned follow-ups on the album. Still, the Beatnuts produced, "Let the Horns Blow," is worth seeking out. It was the essential posse cut, involving Dove of the Jungle Bros., Phife of Tribe, and Dres from Black Sheep, and displays young Chi as a triumphant sixth man with the most inspired verse of his short career. Must'a been feeling the energy in the room that day, because after this, Chi had little to offer. A shame, a tragedy, at least he knows his faults. 

Me Phi Me...Too Smart for His Thyme

My sudden interest in Me Phi Me came directly from this article from the AV Club regarding novelty hip-hop bands (mostly from the ‘90s, the era of most Bo Jackson entries) – many of these novelty acts were purchased and neatly tucked away in the shoebox. The shocking thing is that back then, when a teenager’s music catalogue was limited to FM radio and a shoebox, I would listen to many of these tapes from front to back repeatedly. Imagine trying your best to listen to Candyman’s debut repeatedly – that may or may not attribute to my onset adult ADD or blurry judgment when it comes to my perception of hip-hop nostalgia. Maybe it was basic training, played out on Justin Smith’s mammoth boombox (it was 3 feet high and rising, I was infinitely jealous of it)? Regardless, I hold a soft-spot in my heart for the first time I heard Me Phi Me’s “Sad New Day.” Blame it on De La Soul initially – the flower children of the Native Tongue era – or P.M. Dawn’s daisy romantics, or how much I appreciated Arrested Development’s entry into thinking man’s rap-pop (“Tennessee” has stood the test of time).

I think it was more my eventual transition to ditch the Starter hats and jackets and assimilating into an aesthetic of “alternativeness.” Classics, Punk, and Metal (all teenage touchstones) had been a part of me for some time, but somewhere between 9th and 10th grade it all changed. I was fully acceptant of folkies and poetry geeks, vegans and revolutionaries, French New Wave and Public Enemy-esque anti-politics (forcing me to read The Autobiography of Malcolm X at a very young age). So Me Phi Me’s adherence to an individual spirit was magnetic. Seriously, no one in hip-hop was using smooth jazz pioneer Michael Franks in their recordings (though the guy is almost directly responsible for over 75% of chillwave) and no one was referring to themselves as a “fraternity of one.” The existential “sun brotherhood” is the overriding concept of Me Phi Me’s One, his debut in 1992 -- there are more than a few full-fledged chants for this fraternity all over the album – and by the time you make it through the whole record (I can guarantee you won’t) you’ll have a sense of the direct inspiration of Me Phi Me’s left-field curveball here. It stems from the escalation of an artist like Tracy Chapman or the aforementioned paisley coalition.

Meditate at your own risk.

The Trespass Soundtrack Trumps its Peers

There are fewer anomalies in 1993 than the Trespass Soundtrack. And I don't consider you, as the regular World of Wumme (or Bo Jackson) reader , to know this. Trespass was post the New Jack City/Boyz N' the Hood zeigeist and pre Judgement Night/Lollapalooza miscegenation of rock and hip-hop that would eventually submerge Alternative Nation. Trespass wasn't even at a crossroads, there were no metal invites here. The crossover came more in the coupling of pure (whitebreed) action movie, with the hyperextended pulse of hip-hop culture at the time. The movie starred Bill Paxton and William Sadler -- but also introduced Ice Cube and Ice-T (the royal ices) as legitimate film stars (this, after their big breakthroughs). I can't say I remember the movie being that remarkable, but in retrospect, the soundtrack was signature of that year, and completely caught a moment that only come during that summer.

As stated, the Trespass soundtrack did not bridge the East Coast and the West Coast (it was even before that conflict manifested) and instead leaned towards the East Coast's harder, more minimal side, while retaining the dirty funk that had started to blossom in Califorinia. The Fun Funk. There are two sides to this -- probably most felt in Ice-T's "Depth's of Hell." Ice-T has always been one for low-level blasts, but here, post-Colors, he becomes even more vicious. This might even be his best effort (reggae aside) since the early days. On the opposite side of the spectrum is Public Enemy,who's "Gotta Do What I Gotta Do," is particularly West Coast in it's wiggle -- the Terminator X solo is a wonderful freestyle against the implied grain of the film.

I need to see how this all fits with the film -- because there's a huge contrast throughout this compilation. There's the little known Penthouse Players Clique (a Ruthless Records super-group) and W. C. (a personal favorite and Bo Jackson HOF member) vs. heavy-hitters like Gang Starr and Lord Finesse. Pure contrast throughout. But the oddest inclusion here is Black Sheep. They contend a pre-Low End Theory, lo-end beat, Mingus/Thinking-Man hip-hop that sounds foreign in the realm of unknowns on this, the Trespass soundtrack. Go Buy.

The Drank Experiment

The tag is to “slow your roll.” Sound like something quoted from Dre’s The Chronic. Honestly, the idea of drop-tops and blunts and fridges full of ‘40s haven’t really percolated since those halcyon days. Yes. Southern Hip-Hop forged an industry on reversing reality, chopping and screwing everything in sight – but seeing a 24 ounce can of Drank is the first time in a while that I’ve said “laaaaaid back” like I just got done sparking that seminal record. Drank is officially the first anti-energy drink, and I wouldn’t have known about it were it not for the “slow your roll” couple of the year, Matt and Beth (R.I.P.). That said, I have only seen Drank in a handful of stores (and that includes travelling to Nashville recently) so I’m imaging the world is not ready for an anti-energy drink or they don’t care. Drank is completely legal – so here forth don’t think of me as a bath salt inhaler – and contains a lethal amount of Velrian Root (say, valium), Melatonin, and Rose Hips (which I remember my dip-addicted uncle replacing for dip at one point) that will certainly pack a buzz unbeknownst. Please don’t see this as an instruction manual. I would never suggest driving under the influence or that important meeting/job interview with Drank in the system. This was merely an experiment, since it was readily available at the corner store (shall not be named). I recently noticed this entrepreneurism by local “quickie” marts to cash-in on non-regulated products (see: the origins of Four Loko) because of a fad.

I would completely cash-in on Drank. Full-marketing, that of a quasi-hip-hop St. Ides-esque campaign by moguls who know their market. It would be easy to sell, and it’s completely harmless. There’s nothing here that will make you rob your mother to buy more – and/or drive a vehicle in appropriately. If anything, you’ll fall asleep. I have no knowledge of the “real” drank scene which involves diluted cough sizzurup and over-the-counter accentuates for “slowing your roll.” Experiments with NyQuil only came on sick days, when zoning out to TMNT was a youth-derived pleasure. I can’t say though that my Drank experience wasn’t wasted. The taste is completely acceptable, like an over-carbonated, perfectly-watered-down, version of Grape Nehi. And if you haven’t had Nehi, you haven’t lived yet. The nutritional impact is somewhere between a sugary soda and diet. And it actually produced a mild “slow” of my CNS. There were actual tingles in the fingers, toes, arms and legs – enough to warrant more sips. Apologies if this sounds like a drug buzz, but you’re all doing drugs. Again, Drank is harmless, and should be promoted as a hangover/mid-party ailment.

Update: Drank appears to be very hard to find (a few quickie marts up here in Lil' Vegas have it) but priced right. Keep it on the shelves people. Much better than Bath Salts.

Droop-E is a Piece of My Heart (Diamond Love)

Beyond the nostalgia/kitsch acquired in a mixtape full of '80s plastic-pop, there's no better way to connect with that nostalgia than through the blatant sampling of hip-hop. Think about the nostalgic burst in Bone Thugz using Phil Collins "Take Me Home" -- Phil's not exactly welcome at any moment, but in the context of a thuggish ruggish introspection, it's perfect, goosebump inducing. Perhaps why I enjoy Droop-E's Black Diamond Life so much, it that there's nothing as obvious as what Droop-E has crafted in this slender eight song mini-album -- made of exclusively Sade samples. When sampling a resource as liberally as Droop-E, it's close to a concept. Songs like "Cherish the Bay" and "Hungry" imagine a Bay Area street-life, taking a night off on the yacht, cruising champagne and blunts, sultry sax and relaxed bongos -- "Smooth Operator" wafting in the background.

While I can't say I've heard much of Droop-E besides Black Diamond Life (which you can download for free here), he's been around the block. As the son of E-40, hence the guest spot, he's appeared on various mixtapes and many of his father's cuts. It's very calculated and very wordquick, extremely similar to Curre$y (talked about previously) -- laconic and mellow. A welcomed foil to samples so blatant and so obvious. Hip-hop producers should do this more often, but for now, Sade is off the table. May I suggest -- The System?

Will Ice Cube Ever Get His Groove Back?

There was a time when Oshay Jacskson aka Ice Cube, could do no wrong. Nothing. He was untouchable, almost a surrogate role model to white surburban kids who felt as if they were hearing a new language. His flow was never really a flow, it was more an attack of pre-meditated couplets/punches. It was the cadence of a news report. Riots before the riots. Is there a slipping point? I don't remember enjoying Predator that much -- buying War and Peace I and II and realizing Cube has become more stunted in his style. It was no imagination, just imagined hardcore. His connection to the West Coast was hardwired to Hollywood eventually. Before we know it -- Are We There Yet? : The Musical. Still, as much as Ice Cube and Ice-T produce questionable musical fodder in their later years, it's hard no to root for them to one day reign again. Not sure if it's their legacy or their entirely genuine personalities?

Soon you'll be seeing Mr. Jackson's comeback in motion. Surely all the usual suspects are there -- perhaps a Snoop track, WC (most underrated of the gangster era), a fairytale, a song about "jacking" I hope -- but can we believe? Can we call Ice Cube hard after he's headlined a Gathering of the Juggalos and appeared clowning for the camera in a sitcom byline during an NBA game? His documentary on the Raiders started great, but eventually jawned about how linked the team was to N.W.A. ("cause Al Davis/never paid us"). Surely the day N.W.A. is inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, they'll smile in unison, say a prayer for Eazy and watch a lesser group (Bone Thugz) assassinate their greatest hits. This day is coming soon.

For now. Cube sounds angry enough in "Drink the Kool-Aid" and "I Rep That West," so much "the West is going to tell (him) it's too West." But it's like the man has had a stroke that debilitated his ability to retain his witty/cutthroat beginning. That said, it's effective. "Rep" sparkles in bubbling synths and fake strings, while "Kool Aid" is a mesh of Public Enemy's furious alarm with old-school beat and rudimentary rhyme (still stunted). Both singles do hint at better things, a rise in rap stock, a revival. Let's hope he let loose a bit more on the deep cuts.

They're Right -- Curren$y is Worth Your Time

I imagine the keystroke for a dollar bill is as regular in the e-mails of guys like Curren$y as they currently are for nightbus bands using triangles, hearts, and clovers in their unspeakable names or sleazy pop stars confusing kids in lingua sexting. Blind to the fact that Curren$y even exists, or for that matter, put in time as Master P and Lil' Wayne's swamp boy -- it was there trees became a way of life. I'd be dumb to try and explain any other recent histories of the rapper, or fabled mixtapes, or collaborations/catalog appearances, but it does seem the man was too looped to be a real Def Jammer. He's on the subsidiary, where the strange ones go now. That may bode well. Absent from most hip-hop these days, above or below ground, Curren$sy rhymes with a new, albeit perpetually blunted (make that "jointed" as he doesn't do White Owls), flow. Pilot Talk is an accomplished hip-hop album due to it's crispness. Stoned immaculate and mumbled flows stay buyout among creamy samples. Somewhere on the axis of Steely Dan -- New Kingdom -- Native Tongues his template is impressive, nostalgic, but kinda' like the first time you heard Sensational. Remember?

In a year when I'm increasingly listening to actual "albums" and "eps" by hip-hop artists, and not just singles (Big Boi, Drake, Freddie Gibbs, Pill) it's a feat to be the favorite. Pilot Talk will settle nicely into fall and likely right onto a year end list.

Poison Clan Tell 'Em

Hopefully you had the chance to see the excellent 30 for 30 documentary The U when it premiered a few months back. It chronicles the rise and fall of perhaps the most dominating/entertaining/lawless collegiate sports team in history, the University of Miami Hurricanes football teams of the late '80s/early '90s. For me it was a flood of nostalgia. I remember vividly my family's frequent trips to FLA to visit the relatives and our eventual allegiance to one of the big three teams in the state. Doug was a Gator, Adam was a Seminole, and I often fantasized of one day being a Hurricane on the campus of UM. It was really hard not to like a team that carried themselves as a flashier, quicker, more culturally tuned-in NFL franchise. They were bigger than the native Dolphins at the time.

I do believe a lot of my Hurricane love went in tandem with my increasing fascination with Luke Skyywalker, 2 Live Crew, and the emergence of the Miami Bass sound. In retrospect, 2 Live Crew were an awful group nearly on par with ICP -- kind of like hip-hop's version of Larry Flynt. I would never endorse Hustler, but would be right up front to trumpet their triumph's with the First Amendment. The Banned in the USA album is pure trash, but did teach me a lot about the saga that unfolded that year in Broward County. Their beats were revolutionary and sustaining (see the evolution of Baile Funk), though who created that beat is still in question. So by all accounts, Luke's reign was over a false empire. I suppose besides his fight for his right to be nasty as he wanted to be, his only other achievement is discovering Poison Clan.

Dubbed the "baby 2 Live Crew," it's likely, should a memoir be written about the scene, that JT Money and Debonaire were the over-achievers of this Miami circle, kindly pushed to the side to make room for the 2 Live spotlight, even though they were the only speck of talent on the roster. Giving them this title was already a slight they would never be able to squeeze out of despite the success of "Shake Whatcha' Mama Gave Ya" and the influence their primitive samples and beats had in shaping the eventual rise of the Dirty South. That hit (as seen below in it's full uncensored glory) does co-opt the Miami Bass to full effect, spiraling the Bambaataa arpeggios into a club banger all about the booty, and it's probably the most recognizable, but in no way should it be emblematic of Poison Clan's M.O. On the album 2 Low Life Muthas, the lyrics are blunt and dumb, but full of an attitude and relaxed cadence that it sounds like sweet tea in the strip club -- not trying all that hard to impress, boast, or steal turf. Here it's the samples, from pliable funk to skunky blues to stuttering soul horns. Highly recommended is the epic "Juveniles," very similar to Too Short's "Cuss Words" only slow and easy, likable and humorous. A Floridian's narration of life as a Sunshine State hoodlum. Too bad Luke didn't see all that talent and instead saw competition. Just like the mentality that ruined the U. I don't think this duo had a mean bone in their body.

Bo Jackson -- The Man -- Revealed

If I had to name my all-time favorite athlete, it would have to be Mr. Bo Jackson -- he of the NFL Oakland Raiders and the MLB Kansas City Royals. It was a tragedy befitting Shakespeare when the Cincinnati Bengals injured Jackson's hip beyond repair and retirement was inevitable, ending his career far short of what it was destined to become. Perhaps the first man inducted into both Hall of Fames. Just look at how the man ran a football., the only other RB I can mention in the same sentence is Barry Sanders. There were other two-sport athletes, but none as prolific as Bo. Hell, I even have some long-standing resentment towards the Bengals for this blunder. He really was everything to everybody, never seemed to juice, never seemed to ego, just went about his business as a professional. In Tecmo Bowl he was legend. In merchandising he was king. So much was his influence I was forced to buy these atrocities at one point, not living another day happy until they were upon my feet.

Why this post? And why now? Well, he did pitch the first pitch at the Home Run Derby -- a small step towards regaining the frenzy once bestowed upon him in the late '80s. And he's speaking out about that past, especially so in this interview with USA Today. Before now he's successfully stayed out of the spotlight, but I encourage him to jump back in. Think of it. There's no allegiance to any team whatsoever. No LeBron controversies (Heat vs. Cavs). No Favre flip-flopping. No hating on the Red Sox and Yankees (and Braves, and Cards, and Astros). Just Bo -- a franchise unto himself.

Plus I thought it apt to include this here since he is the namesake of the most widely read column on this site. Let's just bask in his glory for a minute. Maybe buy up a jersey, break out the NES, and over saturate yourself in the infinite number of youtubes focused on his career. He is truly missed in the world of sports.

Here Comes the Hammer...and the SledgeHammer

There's truly nothing like a night game in Great American Ballpark -- especially when the home team is coming back from the All-Star Break in first place and you're celebrating the last time the Cincinnati Reds won a MLB Championship. Has it really been 20 years? My bro and I saw some Nasty Boys, a little Sabo, and a lot of winning. I Love Winning.



Ironically enough -- the last time I saw MC Hammer, I was 13 years old, and it was in U.S. Bank Arena, right next door to GABP (with Vanilla Ice no less). On this night, after years of ridicule for excessive bankruptcy and his eventual cultural currency headed the same direction, Stanley Burrell, was destined to regain some of that glory, if only from a small stage in right field. Even if it wasn't the summer of 1990, a time when "U Can't Touch This" ruled the charts, it sure felt somewhat magical to be a few yards away from the guy. He may have aged, but it has been gracefully. Gone are the pants, the luxurious gold chains, the blast pots and elaborate stage lights. Hammer instead sported a Reds track suit/jersey combo, some blipster spectacles and a bandanna, which he needed to keep off the sweat. This man can still dance with the best of 'em -- in fact the guy should probably have his own dance competition show, but that's beside the point. With a cadre of back-up dancers in tow, Hammer proceeded to make the ever increasing crowd to go bananas for even the slightest set that he put forth.



You can't fault the man for knowing that his post-game show was going to be the highlight, so this was just a taste -- "Let's Get it Started," a bit of the Death Row mishap "Pumps n' the Bumps," "Have You Seen Her" complete with falsetto'd soul singers, and "They Put Me in the Mix." Alas, no "Turn This Mother Out," but it was a "free" performance, a taster for what was to come later in the night. Not once did he look out of breath, not once did he hawk a new song, not once did he seem too big or too jaded for his Cincinnati audience. Maybe that's why I adored him so much way back when -- he is a true showman and seemingly genuine person. For the better part of the brief set, he was out in the crowd, letting people dance around him, shaking hands, taking pictures, all the while belting out his "positive" pop-hop. Please Reds Organization -- do something like this again. This was easily the best pre-game I've ever had in the park.

(A Multitude of YouTubes of Hammer at GABP)



But the game....? How can we forget the Reds of the present? It was our first time in the Bleachers, and I must say the view and atmosphere is unlike any other in GABP. It's a bit rowdy, which I loved (especially yelling "steroids" for Rockies starter/has-been, Jason Giambi)being right behind our favorite LF Johnny "Sombrero" Gomes. It made for a celebratory game from beginning to end. I don't think I'll ever venture from that section the rest of the year. It just feels right up there. And the SledgeHammer? Well, after Bronson Arroyo pitched a magnificent 7 innings, he got into some trouble. In came Arthur Rhodes with two on and no out. He walked a batter, but then went on to pop-up, and strike out two in a row to end the inning. Talk about a hammer....it was likely the most electricity I've ever felt in this place.

I Love Winning.

R.I.P. Guru

A little belated, but well worth the tribute. He was truly one of the greatest. A huge influence. On Yo MTV Raps! this is how I was introduced/converted:

Bone Thugs and Phil Collins Simply Amazing

Forgot to mention how amazing it was to see Bone Thugs and Harmony reborn in Texas. I would say it was the best thing I saw that week -- but we'll have to save that for the book.

It's a Sweet Tee Kind of Day

As you can see by the quality of this video, Sweet Tee is pretty rare in the rap world. Still, this is one of those memories from religiously watching Yo! MTV Raps back in the day that has stuck with me indefinitely. She recently appeared on that Fly Girls compilation, but something tells me there was more to Toi Jackson than this elusive single. If anyone can find me a copy of It's Tee Time, or even a link to grab it, I'm more than intrigued.

Gucci's Monday Morning Quarterbacking

I'll admit to being a full-on virgin when it comes to Gucci, but in the course of a few mixtapes and one listen through this beauty I'm hooked. Of course, as learned on the pages of W.O.W., anything that Diplo touches is pure platinum in my book. I was almost engaged enough to his genius to declare M.I.A.'s Piracy Funds Terrorism mixtape the album of the decade (it's still one I listen to at least a few times a week). Well here Diplo takes a handful of tracks from Gucci's Cold War mixtape series, divvies them out to some of his favorite producers (Zomby, Memory Tapes, Flying Lotus, Salem), and then pieces it back together into an instant party jam as only Wes Pentz can do. The empire is being built. Get the whole thing for free here. Well worth the time to download. And it makes a nice case for the cadre of intelligent hoodlums tearing up Atlanta these days. Though I think Pitchfork missed the mark on their review of the Adult Swim: ATL RMX comp. I think it also sits on a pulse where hip-hop and a new generation of abstract thinkers intersect. It's not just bling and syrup....that's ingrained...there's also the future to think about.

Fast Life Yungstaz Y'all and the State of Pop Culture

Disclaimer: In order to truly enjoy this post, it will be necessary to click on all links, in proper order, and likely (if you're at work) you'll need headphones.

So far, it has been a summer of discovering monstrosities in all shapes, sizes, genders, and colors. Have you witnessed Brokencyde yet? Did you see how Aquarius made it an album of the week? Or what about the Millionaires? I'm sure their fathers are proud (or dead/beats). And lastly, the crabcore brilliance of Columbus' pride and joy, Attack, Attack. Still, the train-wreck value is priceless, much like my obsession with the Secret Life of the American Teenager and slight fanaticism for those VH1 dating shows (Who's gonna' get Daisy's heart?) I can't stop digging for more pop culture trash. It's as if Idiocracy is happening right now, fuck 50 years down the road. But really.....we've had "trash" for a while...



I'm not exactly sure where F.L.Y., AKA the Fast Life Yungstaz fit into this spectrum. They've got a lot of things going for them. First -- they're from the South, Decatur, GA to be specific, sothere's that durty durty swagger in their walk and talk. Secondly -- they also appear to be blipsters more than cash money millionaires, check out the clothes they stole from Kanye's walk-in closet. And last but not least, my favorite attribute, they apparently know all to well about the latest beach craze sweeping indie rock. Search for "Party Time" and listen to them rap "totally gnarly" with "Chris Farley," or how they'll "ride the waves" and how it's "freakin' awesome dude," or how about a little "cowabunga" for good measure. For the trivia nerds "cowabunga" actually originated from an Indian with a mustache on the Howdy Doody Show (later adopted by surfers and of course Bart Simpson).

Once you get past the ignorant/hyper-ironic juxtaposition of Southern hip-hop and surf wax jargon, the music is quite intriguing mixing music box melodies with what sounds like a Nintendo sound card melted by the Georgia sun. These guys have promise once a Diplo remix drops. So, the question is, are F.L.Y. prescient of a new trend in hip-hop? Is the age of Beach Rap upon us? I mean the Shop Boyz did take things to a rock star extreme last summer, but this goes beyond that. The Yungstaz have even created their own dance, Swagg Surfing, which imitates, well, you guessed it....



And just so you know...I invented the "Whisper Rap" and want my money Ying Yang twins.

Will You Do 4 Father MC?

Kindo’ wishing we had all this technology back in the spring of 1990 – I’d likely cringe at my outfit from 8th grade (the ubiquitous Malcolm X hat atop a suburban cracker) but would give up my coveted copy of Space Ritual just for a glimpse at what I was carrying around in the Logitech cassette carrier. Even better, to see what I was carrying that in, and what I was playing the collection on. I do know about that time (almost two decades ago!!!) I was bleeding into Danzig/Slayer/Sepultura obsessions and my penchant for hip-hop had been whatever was the most vulgar. Yeah, it was that summer I got busted for possession of G.G. Allin’s Freaks, Faggots, Drunks and Junkies. But for all the contraband I was hording, the metal I was slowly degenerating towards, I was a sucker for New Jack Swing.

At the time it was hard to shake. I could easily post a history of the genre, of which I’ll credit to Teddy Riley (of Guy and Wrecks-n-Effect fame), but you’ll likely know all the major players. In a lot of ways, the fusion of hip-hop with trad-soul, quiet storm come-ons, gospel, and pre-blipster street sense was the result of New Edition’s break-up and growing-up – look at all the splinters that came from that: Bobby started it with Don’t Be Cruel, but Bell Biv Devoe followed up shortly with Poison, and even Johnny Gill and Ralph Tresvant got in on the fun with “Rub You the Right Way” and “Sensitivity” respectively. New Edition though is already in the Bo Jackson HOF – likewise with Teddy Riley. So here we make the case for Timothy Brown (aka Father MC).

Be forewarned. I’ve recently tried, without much luck, to listen to his debut Father’s Day in its completion. I’m surprised I choked it down way back then. Truth be told, most albums of this genre – fuck -- most hip-hop albums from the era were littered with filler – and besides the obvious two hits – Father’s Day is no exception, which is somewhat a shame because despite the bad rap the era’s lovermen received from their harder counter-contingent (Big Daddy Kane, Heavy D, Candyman), Father MC was skilled – and responsible for launching the careers of Mary J. Blige and Diddy (can’t vouch for the later though). To this day I still jam a ton of NJS and continue to pursue some of the lesser known. A recent summer mix finds Troop butting up against Hi-Five. The highlight of said mix are the two songs by the Father, namely “Treat ‘Em Like They Want to Be Treated” and “I’ll Do 4 U” (a Prince rip if ever, at least in title). While I prefer the gentlemen approach and soulful refrain of “Treat ‘Em,” by sampling the disco hit “Feel So Real,” it would’ve been impossible for “I’ll Do 4 U” not to be a hit on its own, especially with lines like “Introduce me to your mother and I’ll say hello Maim.” Not exactly sure how much Christianity was jostled around in the background, but the Father does get preachy, and seems a little too nice to be a hip-hop celeb, perhaps why a good portion of the album is wholesome choir practice. For a brief moment in time, he had his spotlight, but like his New Jack Swing practitioners, the tune changed rapidly and soon sophisticated safe rap became an endangered species.

Three Times Dope too Ackinickulous?

In retrospect I’m not entirely sure why Philadelphia’s Three Times Dope never excelled into the upper echelon during their coming-up in hip-hop’s golden age. Their debut, Original Stylin’, remains a lost classic (demanding an easy $50 on eBay), which is the reason for the ink here – but going deeper I have to question why they stalled after that. Were they too clean (nary a cuss-word in sight)? Too clever (leader EST was known for his imagined Philly neighborhood slang and commanding wordplay)? Too romantic (lots of their themes revolve around EST as the king lover, but that was a position firmly held by Big Daddy Kane at the time)? Too concept-heavy (their convoluted sophomore follow-up made them appear as X-Clan rookies)? The verdict is really still out. Though EST (aka Robert Walker) has made living penning pop schlock, it’s the invention of terms like “ackinickulous” and “the giddy up,” that have kept him afloat in my nostalgia. I was pretty excited in my research to find EST had just recently given an interview regarding Philly’s original hip-hop scene, in which he defines “ackinickulous” as “the utopian state of being nice.”

For a short while there, at the height of Yo MTV Raps, Original Stylin’ was the “utopian state of being nice” in the rap game. Though EST would boast he was the “Greatest Man Alive” (complete with perfectly clipped Muddy Waters sample) it was more a tongue-in-cheek stunt. Songs like the dancehall-inspired title track and “The Giddy Up” possessed a fluid old-school progression that still sounds fierce to this day, even if you can perceive the trio was searching for more than gold chains and bragging rights. Perhaps they never caught on due to their somewhat naïve vulnerability. Take “Funky Dividends” for example – the group’s biggest hit and a top-ten favorite of mine – wherein EST gives a convincing argument that his girl is taking him for his paper, but by songs end fails to really do anything about (except let her know “this ain’t working”). More or less he was a gentleman, but also a pushover, something that didn’t mesh with his street-savvy rhyme-style. You be the judge. Despite the theories about their demise – I’m just going to flow with the fact that Live from Ackinickulous Land was minus the same highlights of their debut – what shouldn’t be judged is the lasting effect of (at least) the two lead singles on Original Stylin’. It’s definitely worth the search. And if you find (or have) a copy for cheap, please don’t hesitate to contact me.

Days of Luniz and Spades

Here I sit. Thinking back to 1995 and the Smith Hall Spades Society (we'd literally play cards all night). Half of them dropped-out of OSU before the winter break, but those of us that remained listened to nothing but this song by Luniz and Genesis' Lamb. I can't get this out of my head. So much I went out and found the source material to accentuate my obsession. Club Noveau, by the way. This will make up for my lack of 4/20 content.

Boombox Revolution Coming Soon

Since I'm significantly backlogged on topics/classic records to write about within the Bo Jackson realm, I need to take a breather. Some easy reading for the readers. Last week I heard this amazing little piece about the re-emergence of the boombox on NPR, loaded with plenty of resources to get your boombox fetish fullfilled. Considering the number of tapes I've purchased in the last twelve months, and my ongoing quest to find all of the old rap cassettes I eventually sold off, I'm getting the feeling this trend will take hold and I'll be scavengering for the ultimate Lasonic boombox Justin Smith carried with backhanded pride. Jesus was I jealous of that thing. I wholeheartedly welcome anything that brings us back to the analog world. Please, this is a must read and please, share your boombox stories below.

The Diggy Diggy D.O.C.

The shoebox has recently been dominated by West Coast classics, but none of those deserve as much retrospective accolades as No One Can Do it Better, the beginning of a very short career for the D.O.C. sure his ubiquitous first single, “It’s Funky Enough,” will be held in the same breath as the multitude of landmark cuts from 1989 – but if you were to play this for someone with only a surface knowledge of that time period, they’d likely be unable to name the artist. It’s sad that Dr. Dre’s production on the album overshadows, at least in anecdotal remembrance, the performance of the MC in question.

Go back and listen again. The D.O.C. was not a protégée of Dre, more a prospect/blue chip for Ruthless Records, removed from his Texas home base and brought to Compton to help write for N.W.A. and eventually record a breakout of his own design. A skilled lyricist and witty rhyme technician, the D.O.C. was chosen to match well with Dre’s increasingly laid-back progressions as a producer. No One Can Do it Better was still pre-Chronic mind you, and it’s still to early to tell with these songs that’s where he’d eventually end-up, instead it was the storyteller who ran this show, Dre was mere co-conspirator, second in command. There’s certainly no denying the initial two-toned blast and rattlesnake shake of the samples and beats on “Funky” – was this low-rider cantina hip-hop, gruff dancehall on the streets of L.A.? Regardless of the appearance of Ren, Eazy, Cube, and even Yella (he plays live drums on “The Grand Finale”) this was above all not an extension of N.W.A. The D.O.C. was poised to be a superhero of his own right, a secret weapon to rival the East Coast in technique and wordplay – something his new found posse admittedly lacked. His debut, in the parameters of consistency and innovation bests any of the records released between Straight Outta’ Compton and the Chronic. Just give it another listen.

Not to discredit Dre in any respect though, throughout No One Can Do it Better his seamless mix of varied funk and hard-wired beats keeps the momentum on tracks like the brilliant “Whirlwind Pyramid” and what is perhaps the first g-funk anthem, “The Formula,” (which concocts a late-night, starry-skied, gangster motif Dre would go on to replicate many times down the road). Still, Trey Curry takes center stage on each track. Even the final, aforementioned “The Grand Finale,” group cut is highlighted by the D.O.C.’s last verse. Of course, if you don’t know the whole story, even before the release of his follow-up single “Mind Blowin’” (equally potent), he was involved in an auto accident that seriously damaged his vocal chords, giving his already rough rhymes no life. He returned seven years later, but by then everyone had (unfortunately) forgotten him in the first place. Here’s to resurrection, at least for this album.