4 Hours of Big Dave on the wheels at The Corner Shop on Shoreditch High Street. Free entry. Come and get your Halloween on. Holla.
Saturday, 29 October 2011
I Am DJing TONIGHT
4 Hours of Big Dave on the wheels at The Corner Shop on Shoreditch High Street. Free entry. Come and get your Halloween on. Holla.
Friday, 28 October 2011
Foods Of The World Vol. 1
BANG BANG BOEUFFFF!!!!!
Whilst sitting here considering which of the various subjects I tackle on this blog to write about today, I decided it was high time to introduce a new one, albeit one we can all indulge in.... FOOD. Everyone has to eat, a lot of people take enjoyment in eating, some do not, but the fact remains; fan of Hip Hop or not, there comes a time on a daily basis (for most) when food must pass your lips to avoid a major disaster. That's certainly the case with me, and depending on who you talk to, you may hear a whispered rumour that a little too much food has been known to pass my lips from time to time. I don't give a fuck, I wasn't born to have a Peter Andre 'Mysterious Girl' 6 pack, I'm a British man; I eat pies, drink beer and have a metabolism about as quick as Stephen Hawking on a Formula 1 track.
Anyway, I digress. As some of you may or may not know, from September 2009 until May 2010 myself and Lil' Tika (my wiz) travelled the world in search of fun and debt, which we pretty much found in every place we visited. During this time we of course managed to sample many delicacies unfamiliar to our British palates and duly photographed many of them. So, without further ado, Foods Of The World 'proudly' presents volume 1 : The Bean Curd Milkshake.
BLLEEUUURRRGGHHH. Still looks disgusting. This was purchased from a shop in Singapore airport called 'Jollibean', much as you might purchase a coffee from Starbucks. They literally sold variations of soy milk with various bean curds, and that was it. Needless to say, I DID NOT buy this, but my lady did; I opted for a beer at the bar instead. To be entirely honest I can't remember if I tried it although I most likely did as I'm not a pussy, but my memories of it are not good ones. I mean, look at the picture; it is certainly not the most appetising concoction to look at. If you have any knowledge of soy milk (which I do, unfortunately) you will know it tastes like liquidised cardboard. Add some flavoured bean curd into that bitch and you have pretty much cocktailed my idea of hell in a cup. Lil' Tika enjoyed it... fuck knows how though. I mean, look at it.
Whilst sitting here considering which of the various subjects I tackle on this blog to write about today, I decided it was high time to introduce a new one, albeit one we can all indulge in.... FOOD. Everyone has to eat, a lot of people take enjoyment in eating, some do not, but the fact remains; fan of Hip Hop or not, there comes a time on a daily basis (for most) when food must pass your lips to avoid a major disaster. That's certainly the case with me, and depending on who you talk to, you may hear a whispered rumour that a little too much food has been known to pass my lips from time to time. I don't give a fuck, I wasn't born to have a Peter Andre 'Mysterious Girl' 6 pack, I'm a British man; I eat pies, drink beer and have a metabolism about as quick as Stephen Hawking on a Formula 1 track.
Anyway, I digress. As some of you may or may not know, from September 2009 until May 2010 myself and Lil' Tika (my wiz) travelled the world in search of fun and debt, which we pretty much found in every place we visited. During this time we of course managed to sample many delicacies unfamiliar to our British palates and duly photographed many of them. So, without further ado, Foods Of The World 'proudly' presents volume 1 : The Bean Curd Milkshake.
BLLEEUUURRRGGHHH. Still looks disgusting. This was purchased from a shop in Singapore airport called 'Jollibean', much as you might purchase a coffee from Starbucks. They literally sold variations of soy milk with various bean curds, and that was it. Needless to say, I DID NOT buy this, but my lady did; I opted for a beer at the bar instead. To be entirely honest I can't remember if I tried it although I most likely did as I'm not a pussy, but my memories of it are not good ones. I mean, look at the picture; it is certainly not the most appetising concoction to look at. If you have any knowledge of soy milk (which I do, unfortunately) you will know it tastes like liquidised cardboard. Add some flavoured bean curd into that bitch and you have pretty much cocktailed my idea of hell in a cup. Lil' Tika enjoyed it... fuck knows how though. I mean, look at it.
Thursday, 27 October 2011
J-Zone Book Excerpt #3: Back On the Plantation – When Rappers Get Day Jobs.
*I jacked this from Complex or Ego Trip, I forget which one, but its seemingly being spread all over the net anyway and figured its good promotion. I will most certainly be buying this book when it comes out and I recommend you do the same*
Third excerpt from J-Zone’s forthcoming book, Root for the Villain: Rap, Bullshit, and a Celebration of Failure. What happens when your rap career ends and money is short? You go the Tim Dog route and juice a woman for comeback album money, you go the Hammer route and launch another search engine, you occupy Wall Street while you starve and freeze, or you (gulp) get a J-O-B! A hilarious look at a foray into the foreign territory of the 9 to 5 world, post-rap career.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing after the high school basketball game I had been covering was over.
“Yo man, you J-Zone?” the point guard asked me before I could ask him about his 19 point, 8 assist performance.
I asked him to repeat his question. Not to flatter myself, but to make sure I’d heard him correctly. My ears weren’t bullshittin’.
“Ummm,” I stammered.
“Dude,” he cut me off. “The YouTube videos of you chillin’ in the drive-thru at White Castle and licking whipped cream off those foam titties are classic!”
I was part shocked that someone born after 1985 knew who I was by face, part embarrassed that my attempts to be professional as a sports reporter were trumped by being known as the Onion Ring and Titty Man, and part flattered that an obscure and pseudo-famous rap guy like myself was even remembered years after my modest music career had gone kaput. I guess that’s what happens to the quasi-successful middle ground rap man who’s teetering the top of a fence that separates two universes – he eventually falls over to the “real” job side. And it fucks up folks who fail to realize he wasn’t that famous in the first place.
Levels of status
First, we have the megastar. When the musical careers of 50 Cent, Lil’ Wayne, and Kanye West come to a halt, there’s an ice cube’s chance under a fat girl’s ass that they would ever work nine-to-five jobs. Imagine Wayne attempting to pass a piss test to become a second grade teacher and kissing Birdman on the mouth for good luck before taking the ATS-W exam. What about Kanye raking up $11 an hour to re-rack returned U.S. Polo Association shirts at Sears?
When the musical endeavors of megastars no longer hold any weight, they’ve already become big enough entities to make a living via movies, their own lines of wife-beater shirts, and unscheduled appearances at events where they break Moet bottles over the heads of artists who are hot at the moment for pay. They’d never dare step into a nine-to-five; it just doesn’t compute after that much time on top. If you’re naturally crazy or irresponsible enough to never stand a chance in the world of day jobs, God usually grants you success in entertainment so you won’t starve to death.
Next, we have the Recreational Indie Rap Artist (RIRA). The Raptionary would define him as such:
Recreational Indie Rap Artist: (reck-ree-ayshun-ul-indee-rap-ahrtist) noun.
1. A rap hobbyist who earns his living outside of the music business. Thus, he can typically afford to release music and perform for free.
The pinnacle of his career was holding down the opening slot at shows and churning out an album that was a compilation of all his 12” singles and mixtape freestyles. After his post-soundcheck performance, the RIRA broke out immediately because he had to work in the morning. Chances that he’ll ever be recognized in public long after he’s active are hovering at around zero and he’ll never have to field questions about why he never “made it” or why he’s no longer giving enough of a shit to still be trying. Through it all, the RIRA avoids the culture shock of entering the nine-to-five world in his 30s and 40s. Thus, his predicament is better than one would think.
I can’t forget about the “Golden Era” legends. Current releases from them are scarce, but they’ve laid enough hip-hop classics to wax to get placement in respected foreign music festivals or the Rock the Bells tour. Their aforementioned classic song catalogs also allow them to have their music licensed on a major scale and avoid getting laughed off the phone when they name their guest appearance fee.
But the most enigmatic of all is the quasi-successful middle ground musician. He got to enjoy his I-do-what-I-love-for-a-living phase, only to be awoken by a 500-foot drop into the working world that the other levels of entertainer don’t typically experience. He had potential, but never really got over the hump. His music is now largely available for free on various blogs and virus-laden bit torrents on the internet, but these days he’s got bigger fish to fry – like trying to get some overtime. By the time he gets home, he spends his hour of free time in the kitchen preparing tomorrow’s bag lunch and ironing his shirt and slacks.
It can take anything from a drastic plunge in record sales, kids, impending financial instability, a growing disinterest in the music business, or the realization that paying for an MRI with no health insurance costs what that gold toilet in Master P’s bathroom costs – any or all of the above can make the quasi-successful rap guy fall into this reality. This reality is now mine. I once trotted the globe, had the option of sleeping until noon, plugged women on different continents based on the perception that I was more famous than I really was, and landed on the cover of a skater magazine with a music article or two in it. In my current reality, those conquests hold as much weight as a copy of Bobby Seale’s Seize the Time at a Tea Party meeting. In this reality, I’m starting from zero.
A Job Ain’t Nuthin’ but Work: Be Careful What You Wish For
In 2009, it was painfully clear that it was time for me to make some real loot. Teaching a music course at my Alma mater was gratifying, but short-lived thanks to state budget cuts. My mother suggested that I go back to school to become a K-12 teacher, but what kids will listen to some guy telling them to read pages 17-31 for homework after they go on YouTube and discover he made a song about accidentally taking an underage girl to the movies and treating her to a box of Sno-Caps? After two years of matching James Evans from Good Times’ yearly salary via random DJ gigs and beat sales, sports reporting, fruitless job hunting, and blogging for charity, I finally got my first “real” job in over a decade.
I landed the job due to my being humble enough to know that there’s no such thing as being “overqualified” these days. After Katie from Utah moves to NYC to live out her dream via an exorbitantly-priced Master’s degree in education, you can find her teaching alright… teaching the new girl at the bar how to pour a Guinness Stout and use the right amount of grenadine in a Tequila Sunrise. Therefore, I didn’t scoff at pushing gym memberships for my re-introduction to the working world. Eleven years after my small record label took flight and I told my boss at Automobile Club of America to go fuck himself, I was telling some wide and fried heifer she was a Milk Dud away from having a heart attack, and dropping $222 upfront and $36 a month was the only action that could prevent her caked-up arteries from slamming the breaks on her ticker.
“Look ma’am, you’re in trouble if you don’t lose weight,” I pitched on my first sale attempt. “Can I tell you about our summer special?”
Hey, don’t scowl at me. The only way to make any real money in America is via the next person’s fear. Ask the church, your mechanic, your lawyer, your shrink, the IRS, the creators of match.com, your HMO, or Suge Knight circa 1997. Fear-based income is recession-proof; I tried to get rich via making people fear fatness.
When you’re pitching a gym membership to every person who comes through the door like they’re a bitch with a fat ass and you just came home from Rikers, you tend to be pretty low on the respect meter in the eyes of snobs in Nouveau York. People ‘round these parts would rather drink wine, eat expensive cheeses, collect degrees like Garbage Pail Kid cards, and give you that bourgeois impression that they’re doing something significant when they’re doggy paddling in school debt. There are no real “qualifications” for sales jobs at gyms, so a dinner conversation with your girlfriend’s family feels something like a pleather turtle neck. To chat it up with some of the gym’s members about the life and times of “The Situation” from Jersey Shore can be a bit taxing too. It’s also worth noting that in an industry where many men have gone bald from pumping steroids, I was known as “the guy with the hair.”
“Jay, you can’t let potential members walk out the door,” my boss pounded daily throughout my first month on the job. “They can say they can’t afford the gym or ‘I’ll think about it’ all they want. If they walk out, you lost.”
I lost quite a bit. I did find moderate success tracking down due fees from members over the phone, but that prowess can be attributed to a decade of chasing dollar store rap moguls around for the remaining $4.50 owed on a $500 beat they bought from me. Nonetheless, when it came to meeting my sales quota and stacking that commission, I was a blown transmission. My last day on the job featured me angrily attacking the gumball machines at the front of the gym for no valid reason whatsoever. I realized then that I was in no shape to be working in the real world.
To be fair, there were some very real and sharp people at the gym. The experience gave me a take on some other folks besides hip-hop brats. One day I fell into a discussion with a woman who had spent some time in Europe. When I began to give accounts of my time spent overseas as a little-known musician, she asked me if I attended college. After all, how could a thirty-something year old black man with a nappy ‘fro and honey oat bread Subway sandwich crumbs on his gym staff shirt be educated and well-traveled enough to know anything about Iceland? The vibe only got more bizarre when she learned I graduated college with honors. Then, the elephant Crip-walked through the gym’s doors and farted.
“Jay,” she said flatly. “You’re a little overqualified to be working at a gym.”
No. “Overqualified” is a fancy synonym for “yeah, whatever nigga, just grab a broom.” The Raptionary would define a music degree like this:
Music Degree: (myoo-zik dih-gree) noun.
1. A laminated document from a university that is primarily used as a dustpan. It comes in handy when sweeping up paper shreds, pushpins, and random shit off the office floor.
When the gym’s basement flooded, that “overqualified” shit gave me an insane amount of leverage over the rest of the staff – I got to use the squeegee instead of the mop. Jobs in the working world share one parallel with the entertainment business – both are based on timing and who you know. A lot of people with music business connections don’t have many working world connections. That meant that I was the perfect candidate to change the gym’s TV channel when that whale-sized, party plate-ordering broad on the recumbent bike just had to watch the Goddamn Food Network when everyone else wanted World Cup soccer. I may have been the only person on the gym staff with a Bachelor’s degree, but the only piece of paper worth diddly shit in my reality was the sales sheet. Decade-old college achievements didn’t produce numbers. My ability to convince Big Shirley to stop eating mofongo and buy a personal training package did. That lucrative skill is typically learned sometime around high school, when you’re competing with drug dealers and jocks to pull girls. It’s called the gift of gab, and if you’re attempting to hurdle-hop in the real world without it, you’re fucked. Take your 30-page senior thesis and shove it up your ass.
Working in sales also made me more curmudgeonly than I already was, because constant smiling is a requisite.
“Jay, c’mon bro,” my boss would plead. “You need to smile more!”
My theory on smiling unnecessarily goes like this: Would you stand at the urinal if you didn’t have to take a leak? Would you just pull your cock out, stand there holding it, and gaze starry-eyed at the Koehler logo on the top of the urinal simply because you have the ability to shoot piss from it? Case closed. I was without a doubt the Homie D. Clown of the fitness industry for four months.
Crunching Numbers
Today, I’m juggling a temporary support staff job in a financially-strapped school district and three low-paying side jobs. At school, the kids keep me sharp by testing my wits daily. (When my ex-barber zeeked my afro and turned it into an accidental hi-top fade, the kids gave me my current nickname around school: “House Party”.) My fellow staff members are chill enough to make work bearable, enjoyable even. (The principal breaks into the Kid-N-Play kick step dance whenever I enter his office.) My supervisor is a human encyclopedia and the greatest boss I’ve ever had. It’s also worth noting that he was Rakim’s sixth grade math teacher. Soaking up daily spills of knowledge from the man who taught arguably the greatest MC of all time how to put seven MCs in a line and mathematically destroy ‘em makes my days that much greater. However, policy says I’m not entitled to full salary and benefits for doing a job that I’ve even been told I’m “overqualified” for (yet the person I replaced got full salary and benefits) because I didn’t take a test that isn’t even being offered for another two years. Yeah, that makes as much sense as the girl with the Coke bottle body getting the record deal over the fat girl with the golden voice, but that’s just the way shit goes. The rulebook protocol of nine-to-fives and the dysfunctional protocol of the music business – neither is better than the other. Just pick your poison and develop an immunity to it.
Some of my music peers have been cornered into doing arbitrary freelance work and shooting social network pleas for relevance. Financially, the music world has become a barren wasteland for many, so some days it seems like squaring up for a 30-year bid in the world of “mature adults” is the move. After 10 months in that world, I can’t say I endorse it.
To be continued in the book…
Third excerpt from J-Zone’s forthcoming book, Root for the Villain: Rap, Bullshit, and a Celebration of Failure. What happens when your rap career ends and money is short? You go the Tim Dog route and juice a woman for comeback album money, you go the Hammer route and launch another search engine, you occupy Wall Street while you starve and freeze, or you (gulp) get a J-O-B! A hilarious look at a foray into the foreign territory of the 9 to 5 world, post-rap career.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing after the high school basketball game I had been covering was over.
“Yo man, you J-Zone?” the point guard asked me before I could ask him about his 19 point, 8 assist performance.
I asked him to repeat his question. Not to flatter myself, but to make sure I’d heard him correctly. My ears weren’t bullshittin’.
“Ummm,” I stammered.
“Dude,” he cut me off. “The YouTube videos of you chillin’ in the drive-thru at White Castle and licking whipped cream off those foam titties are classic!”
I was part shocked that someone born after 1985 knew who I was by face, part embarrassed that my attempts to be professional as a sports reporter were trumped by being known as the Onion Ring and Titty Man, and part flattered that an obscure and pseudo-famous rap guy like myself was even remembered years after my modest music career had gone kaput. I guess that’s what happens to the quasi-successful middle ground rap man who’s teetering the top of a fence that separates two universes – he eventually falls over to the “real” job side. And it fucks up folks who fail to realize he wasn’t that famous in the first place.
Levels of status
First, we have the megastar. When the musical careers of 50 Cent, Lil’ Wayne, and Kanye West come to a halt, there’s an ice cube’s chance under a fat girl’s ass that they would ever work nine-to-five jobs. Imagine Wayne attempting to pass a piss test to become a second grade teacher and kissing Birdman on the mouth for good luck before taking the ATS-W exam. What about Kanye raking up $11 an hour to re-rack returned U.S. Polo Association shirts at Sears?
When the musical endeavors of megastars no longer hold any weight, they’ve already become big enough entities to make a living via movies, their own lines of wife-beater shirts, and unscheduled appearances at events where they break Moet bottles over the heads of artists who are hot at the moment for pay. They’d never dare step into a nine-to-five; it just doesn’t compute after that much time on top. If you’re naturally crazy or irresponsible enough to never stand a chance in the world of day jobs, God usually grants you success in entertainment so you won’t starve to death.
Next, we have the Recreational Indie Rap Artist (RIRA). The Raptionary would define him as such:
Recreational Indie Rap Artist: (reck-ree-ayshun-ul-indee-rap-ahrtist) noun.
1. A rap hobbyist who earns his living outside of the music business. Thus, he can typically afford to release music and perform for free.
The pinnacle of his career was holding down the opening slot at shows and churning out an album that was a compilation of all his 12” singles and mixtape freestyles. After his post-soundcheck performance, the RIRA broke out immediately because he had to work in the morning. Chances that he’ll ever be recognized in public long after he’s active are hovering at around zero and he’ll never have to field questions about why he never “made it” or why he’s no longer giving enough of a shit to still be trying. Through it all, the RIRA avoids the culture shock of entering the nine-to-five world in his 30s and 40s. Thus, his predicament is better than one would think.
I can’t forget about the “Golden Era” legends. Current releases from them are scarce, but they’ve laid enough hip-hop classics to wax to get placement in respected foreign music festivals or the Rock the Bells tour. Their aforementioned classic song catalogs also allow them to have their music licensed on a major scale and avoid getting laughed off the phone when they name their guest appearance fee.
But the most enigmatic of all is the quasi-successful middle ground musician. He got to enjoy his I-do-what-I-love-for-a-living phase, only to be awoken by a 500-foot drop into the working world that the other levels of entertainer don’t typically experience. He had potential, but never really got over the hump. His music is now largely available for free on various blogs and virus-laden bit torrents on the internet, but these days he’s got bigger fish to fry – like trying to get some overtime. By the time he gets home, he spends his hour of free time in the kitchen preparing tomorrow’s bag lunch and ironing his shirt and slacks.
It can take anything from a drastic plunge in record sales, kids, impending financial instability, a growing disinterest in the music business, or the realization that paying for an MRI with no health insurance costs what that gold toilet in Master P’s bathroom costs – any or all of the above can make the quasi-successful rap guy fall into this reality. This reality is now mine. I once trotted the globe, had the option of sleeping until noon, plugged women on different continents based on the perception that I was more famous than I really was, and landed on the cover of a skater magazine with a music article or two in it. In my current reality, those conquests hold as much weight as a copy of Bobby Seale’s Seize the Time at a Tea Party meeting. In this reality, I’m starting from zero.
A Job Ain’t Nuthin’ but Work: Be Careful What You Wish For
In 2009, it was painfully clear that it was time for me to make some real loot. Teaching a music course at my Alma mater was gratifying, but short-lived thanks to state budget cuts. My mother suggested that I go back to school to become a K-12 teacher, but what kids will listen to some guy telling them to read pages 17-31 for homework after they go on YouTube and discover he made a song about accidentally taking an underage girl to the movies and treating her to a box of Sno-Caps? After two years of matching James Evans from Good Times’ yearly salary via random DJ gigs and beat sales, sports reporting, fruitless job hunting, and blogging for charity, I finally got my first “real” job in over a decade.
I landed the job due to my being humble enough to know that there’s no such thing as being “overqualified” these days. After Katie from Utah moves to NYC to live out her dream via an exorbitantly-priced Master’s degree in education, you can find her teaching alright… teaching the new girl at the bar how to pour a Guinness Stout and use the right amount of grenadine in a Tequila Sunrise. Therefore, I didn’t scoff at pushing gym memberships for my re-introduction to the working world. Eleven years after my small record label took flight and I told my boss at Automobile Club of America to go fuck himself, I was telling some wide and fried heifer she was a Milk Dud away from having a heart attack, and dropping $222 upfront and $36 a month was the only action that could prevent her caked-up arteries from slamming the breaks on her ticker.
“Look ma’am, you’re in trouble if you don’t lose weight,” I pitched on my first sale attempt. “Can I tell you about our summer special?”
Hey, don’t scowl at me. The only way to make any real money in America is via the next person’s fear. Ask the church, your mechanic, your lawyer, your shrink, the IRS, the creators of match.com, your HMO, or Suge Knight circa 1997. Fear-based income is recession-proof; I tried to get rich via making people fear fatness.
When you’re pitching a gym membership to every person who comes through the door like they’re a bitch with a fat ass and you just came home from Rikers, you tend to be pretty low on the respect meter in the eyes of snobs in Nouveau York. People ‘round these parts would rather drink wine, eat expensive cheeses, collect degrees like Garbage Pail Kid cards, and give you that bourgeois impression that they’re doing something significant when they’re doggy paddling in school debt. There are no real “qualifications” for sales jobs at gyms, so a dinner conversation with your girlfriend’s family feels something like a pleather turtle neck. To chat it up with some of the gym’s members about the life and times of “The Situation” from Jersey Shore can be a bit taxing too. It’s also worth noting that in an industry where many men have gone bald from pumping steroids, I was known as “the guy with the hair.”
“Jay, you can’t let potential members walk out the door,” my boss pounded daily throughout my first month on the job. “They can say they can’t afford the gym or ‘I’ll think about it’ all they want. If they walk out, you lost.”
I lost quite a bit. I did find moderate success tracking down due fees from members over the phone, but that prowess can be attributed to a decade of chasing dollar store rap moguls around for the remaining $4.50 owed on a $500 beat they bought from me. Nonetheless, when it came to meeting my sales quota and stacking that commission, I was a blown transmission. My last day on the job featured me angrily attacking the gumball machines at the front of the gym for no valid reason whatsoever. I realized then that I was in no shape to be working in the real world.
To be fair, there were some very real and sharp people at the gym. The experience gave me a take on some other folks besides hip-hop brats. One day I fell into a discussion with a woman who had spent some time in Europe. When I began to give accounts of my time spent overseas as a little-known musician, she asked me if I attended college. After all, how could a thirty-something year old black man with a nappy ‘fro and honey oat bread Subway sandwich crumbs on his gym staff shirt be educated and well-traveled enough to know anything about Iceland? The vibe only got more bizarre when she learned I graduated college with honors. Then, the elephant Crip-walked through the gym’s doors and farted.
“Jay,” she said flatly. “You’re a little overqualified to be working at a gym.”
No. “Overqualified” is a fancy synonym for “yeah, whatever nigga, just grab a broom.” The Raptionary would define a music degree like this:
Music Degree: (myoo-zik dih-gree) noun.
1. A laminated document from a university that is primarily used as a dustpan. It comes in handy when sweeping up paper shreds, pushpins, and random shit off the office floor.
When the gym’s basement flooded, that “overqualified” shit gave me an insane amount of leverage over the rest of the staff – I got to use the squeegee instead of the mop. Jobs in the working world share one parallel with the entertainment business – both are based on timing and who you know. A lot of people with music business connections don’t have many working world connections. That meant that I was the perfect candidate to change the gym’s TV channel when that whale-sized, party plate-ordering broad on the recumbent bike just had to watch the Goddamn Food Network when everyone else wanted World Cup soccer. I may have been the only person on the gym staff with a Bachelor’s degree, but the only piece of paper worth diddly shit in my reality was the sales sheet. Decade-old college achievements didn’t produce numbers. My ability to convince Big Shirley to stop eating mofongo and buy a personal training package did. That lucrative skill is typically learned sometime around high school, when you’re competing with drug dealers and jocks to pull girls. It’s called the gift of gab, and if you’re attempting to hurdle-hop in the real world without it, you’re fucked. Take your 30-page senior thesis and shove it up your ass.
Working in sales also made me more curmudgeonly than I already was, because constant smiling is a requisite.
“Jay, c’mon bro,” my boss would plead. “You need to smile more!”
My theory on smiling unnecessarily goes like this: Would you stand at the urinal if you didn’t have to take a leak? Would you just pull your cock out, stand there holding it, and gaze starry-eyed at the Koehler logo on the top of the urinal simply because you have the ability to shoot piss from it? Case closed. I was without a doubt the Homie D. Clown of the fitness industry for four months.
Crunching Numbers
Today, I’m juggling a temporary support staff job in a financially-strapped school district and three low-paying side jobs. At school, the kids keep me sharp by testing my wits daily. (When my ex-barber zeeked my afro and turned it into an accidental hi-top fade, the kids gave me my current nickname around school: “House Party”.) My fellow staff members are chill enough to make work bearable, enjoyable even. (The principal breaks into the Kid-N-Play kick step dance whenever I enter his office.) My supervisor is a human encyclopedia and the greatest boss I’ve ever had. It’s also worth noting that he was Rakim’s sixth grade math teacher. Soaking up daily spills of knowledge from the man who taught arguably the greatest MC of all time how to put seven MCs in a line and mathematically destroy ‘em makes my days that much greater. However, policy says I’m not entitled to full salary and benefits for doing a job that I’ve even been told I’m “overqualified” for (yet the person I replaced got full salary and benefits) because I didn’t take a test that isn’t even being offered for another two years. Yeah, that makes as much sense as the girl with the Coke bottle body getting the record deal over the fat girl with the golden voice, but that’s just the way shit goes. The rulebook protocol of nine-to-fives and the dysfunctional protocol of the music business – neither is better than the other. Just pick your poison and develop an immunity to it.
Some of my music peers have been cornered into doing arbitrary freelance work and shooting social network pleas for relevance. Financially, the music world has become a barren wasteland for many, so some days it seems like squaring up for a 30-year bid in the world of “mature adults” is the move. After 10 months in that world, I can’t say I endorse it.
To be continued in the book…
Random White Basketball Plavers Vol. 3
JOE WOLF
On the front, Joe Wolf has the looks and the name of an All American hero destined for great things. The back of the card tells a different story however. First of all, look at this motherfucker's mullet. You might have got away with this in the 1980's but even in the early 90's this must have been somewhat of a faux pas. Fair enough the NBA wasn't necessarily as 'cool' as it is now with regards to players rocking outrageous tattoos and colour coordinated accessories, but god damn it, if MJ couldn't wear his black and red Jordan ones in the league surely Joey here should have had some sort of restrictions placed on his hairstyle. Lets look at the stats.
From 4 NBA season totals -
GP = 259
FG% = .422
FT% = .783
REB= 1090
AST = 380
STL = 160
BLK = 87
PTS = 1615 / AVG = 6.2 PPG
So, a pretty lackluster career in all. Add to this the criminal length of his shorts (you ain't John Stockton, buddy) and those Converse that he's rocking and the only notable thing about Joes career is his throwback, which of course wasn't a throwback then, it was just a jersey. Also, to add insult to injury I don't suppose he actually owned it, just borrowed it to underperform in.
Winston Wolf he was not.
On the front, Joe Wolf has the looks and the name of an All American hero destined for great things. The back of the card tells a different story however. First of all, look at this motherfucker's mullet. You might have got away with this in the 1980's but even in the early 90's this must have been somewhat of a faux pas. Fair enough the NBA wasn't necessarily as 'cool' as it is now with regards to players rocking outrageous tattoos and colour coordinated accessories, but god damn it, if MJ couldn't wear his black and red Jordan ones in the league surely Joey here should have had some sort of restrictions placed on his hairstyle. Lets look at the stats.
From 4 NBA season totals -
GP = 259
FG% = .422
FT% = .783
REB= 1090
AST = 380
STL = 160
BLK = 87
PTS = 1615 / AVG = 6.2 PPG
So, a pretty lackluster career in all. Add to this the criminal length of his shorts (you ain't John Stockton, buddy) and those Converse that he's rocking and the only notable thing about Joes career is his throwback, which of course wasn't a throwback then, it was just a jersey. Also, to add insult to injury I don't suppose he actually owned it, just borrowed it to underperform in.
Winston Wolf he was not.
Wednesday, 26 October 2011
Farma G's 5 Word Freestyle - Highlights
This occurred a couple of weeks back, with yours truly entering. I pop up around the 0.35 mark and drop two bars of pure fire. As you might be able to tell from the footage it was an incredibly close call and the crowd had to be asked to make noise 3 or 4 times over. I ended up getting knocked out at this point, which was the second round. My main fear when entering battles is getting knocked out in the first and seeing that my name was first out the hat AGAIN the pressure was well and truly on, but the first round proved to be no problem whatsoever.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't think that I won this round, but such is the case when decisions are left up to the crowd rather than a panel of judges (there was a panel of judges, but they were judging on the crowd reactions, of course). Luckily (in a way) this is a situation that I'm familiar with having been 100% cheated out of winning battles I'd clearly taken in the past when judged by the crowd. I'm not bellyaching or being a sore loser, but truthfully I felt that I took my round (no disrespect to Ed Greenz) and that £150 would have come in incredibly useful. Still, it is what it is. Big up all the competitors, crowd (some of them, haha), Farma G, Chester P, Mystro, DJ Gone, Mr Thing, Louis Slipperz, Sarah Love, Newborn and the whole gang that was inside.
Monday, 24 October 2011
Sunday, 23 October 2011
Lowkey Album Launch Party
I've never been a particularly big fan of 'political rap' as it were, mainly due to the fact that in my opinion most of it just isn't executed very well. There are a number of exceptions of course, Public Enemy being the most obvious, but a lot of it just doesn't sit well with me. One main exception is Lowkey. Quite simply the cream of the crop regarding MCs from this country (and very possibly across the world) who focus mainly on political commentary, the first time I ever saw him live was at a Deal Real instore way back in the day, and his live show was that captivating that it was second nature to check his music.
Here follows some footage from the launch party for his 'Soundtrack To The Struggle' LP, which is available right now, so go cop that. The launch party itself looks crazy and I have heard from a few attendees that it was an absolute smash of a night. Also bear in mind that all of this has been achieved with no label backing and its all the more impressive. I really wanted to be there but left it too late and all the tickets had sold out. Random Axe = not sold out, Lowkey = sold out. Speaks volumes innit.
More info on Lowkey HERE. Credit for the footage goes to The Hip Hop Chronicle UK.
Here follows some footage from the launch party for his 'Soundtrack To The Struggle' LP, which is available right now, so go cop that. The launch party itself looks crazy and I have heard from a few attendees that it was an absolute smash of a night. Also bear in mind that all of this has been achieved with no label backing and its all the more impressive. I really wanted to be there but left it too late and all the tickets had sold out. Random Axe = not sold out, Lowkey = sold out. Speaks volumes innit.
More info on Lowkey HERE. Credit for the footage goes to The Hip Hop Chronicle UK.
Friday, 21 October 2011
Random Axe Live @ The Scala 20/10/2011 - Gig Write Up
So, if you weren't already aware, Random Axe played last night and myself and Lil' Tika went along to see what was good. The last time I was at the Scala was back in February for the J Dilla tribute gig and was therefore not surprised to find that the venue was nowhere near capacity; thats not an insult to Random Axe, but more a compliment to the memory of Dilla, I'd like to think. Anyway, Tika & I went out to get some dinner and turned up to the spot around 10ish, meaning we stupidly managed to miss Jehst's performance and all of the warm up DJs apart from Mr Thing, who had about 15 or 20 minutes left to go in his set once we'd settled in.
The place was pretty packed, but not rammed, so we quite easily managed to get right to the front with only one row of people between us and the stage. Black Milk came out first and dropped 'Zoo Drugs' before Sean Price came out and dropped Figure Four, a personal favourite of mine if only for the fact that he starts the track with the single word 'Botswana' and of course shouts out Hex Murda (get well soon Hex).
I was pretty hyped at this point as, despite the fact that P is one of my all time favourites, I'd never seen him live before (despite my best efforts to the contrary), and he didn't disappoint. I'd heard mixed reviews of Sean P live and must admit that some of the videos I've seen on youtube dont seem to involve much more than him standing completely still on the stage and delivering his verses with a fitted pulled down to hide his face. On this occasion, however, he was mad energetic, bouncing around the stage, interacting with the crowd and joking about, including persistently referring to an imaginary person as a "penguin looking motherfucker."
Black Milk was comfortable behind the decks and also came out to knock out a couple of verses including the 'Everybody, Nobody, Somebody' joint and The Matrix (sans Pharoahe Monch, which was a shame). Proper did his thing though, very impressive, not only for the fact it was hot as hell in that bitch and he kept a puffer jacket on for pretty much the whole set.
I must admit though, Guilty Simpson absolutely SMASHED it. Proper mic control all night, no slip ups and flowed like water. A lot of the tracks he was rhyming on Black Milk cut the beat out completely and let him ride it accapella to the hook, and boy he was completely on point, his timing was impeccable. I did feel a little sorry for the dude, I must admit, as both him and Sean P did a couple of solo joints each, and very few people seemed to be familiar with his solo material (which was the opposite in the case of Sean Price). If my memory serves me correctly, which it often doesn't, Guilty dropped 'Get Bitches' and 'The Shining', Sean P did 'Boom Bye Yeah', 'Let Me Tell You' (the Beat Butcha joint, big up Butchy) and also a new, Alchemist produced joint from his forthcoming MIC Tyson LP. Couldn't tell you what it was called as I'd drank too much overpriced Red Stripe by that point to absorb any new information.
Another nice touch was that Sean P brought SAS (Mega & Mayhem) up on the stage to drop a verse. I've always been a fan of their music so it was cool to see them up there, it also made me wonder why we don't see/hear more from them. Guilty Simpson finished proceedings up with an accapella verse from 'Cali Hills', a fitting ending given the obvious Detroit association and the venue itself playing host to the Dilla tribute gig. There's probably more, but truth is I can't remember thanks to Stella and Mary Jane. Cheers ladies, pleasure making your acquaintance. Again.
So, all in all, a complete smash of a show which was a great look considering I hadn't gone in there with high hopes due to some of the not-so-good reviews I'd heard. I left drunk and inspired which as a result saw me staying up until 5 this morning penning bars, drinking cider and smoking wacky backy. Good times.
I took numerous photos on my Android, but because of the smoke machines they all got fucked up. These are the only 3 that are even vaguely decent -
I also took a bunch of videos but unfortunately they're all fucked as we were too close to the speakers and the sound has come out completely distorted. Luckily someone else was there last night and in a better position to record, so these videos come courtesy of youtube user 'essdilla' (many thanks). Still not perfect due to the acoustics in that place but you get the picture.
Check this one at the 0.34 second mark, you can clearly here me doing my ridiculous scream sound that punctuates so many of my tracks. Classic.
Enlish (ME) Ft. Sean Price, Stig Of The Dump & DJ Manipulate - Arrogance Is Bliss
Thursday, 20 October 2011
Today's Agenda
First of all, my normally god like mental capabilities have been severely compromised by the combination of lack of sleep coupled with too much coffee, resulting in me feeling like a keyed up zombie with a migraine. Not a good start then. To make matters even worse I've finally sat down to string together these bars for what may prove to be my final participation in the WRITTEN battle scene, at the Don't Flop Blood In The Water 5 event the weekend of November 14/15th. And, once you've seen what I'm about to show you, I think you'll agree that it is no wonder that I've procrastinated over this for so long. I mean, look at what I've got to deal with here.
But wait, it gets worse.... Massive pause on this by the way, but check this shit out
The worst thing about doing written battles is having to sit through hours of bullshit battles to make sure that you don't use the same insult or something even slightly similar as someone else has already used. This misery is compounded when you've got to spend that time looking at someone as ugly and weird as this dude right here. I'm just poking fun of course, I understand the geezer is a thoroughly nice guy but A) I'm getting on my WWF trash talking BS and B) regardless of the strength of his character, in my opinion there really is no excuse for A) the beard B) the dreads and C) uploading a video of yourself topless on youtube. So I'm having a dig. I don't do those bullshit 10 minute long faux beef 'vlogs', this is as close as I get. Another example of my lifelong affinity with procrastination.
It's not all bad though. When Lil' Tika gets back from her daily grind we'll be hitting up central for some dinner followed by a pleasant evening of drinks and dancing. Word is a barbershop trio are in town who will be harmonising soothing melodies as we gently waltz the evening away. I can't wait. Here is a promotional advert for said entertainment -
RANDOM
But wait, it gets worse.... Massive pause on this by the way, but check this shit out
The worst thing about doing written battles is having to sit through hours of bullshit battles to make sure that you don't use the same insult or something even slightly similar as someone else has already used. This misery is compounded when you've got to spend that time looking at someone as ugly and weird as this dude right here. I'm just poking fun of course, I understand the geezer is a thoroughly nice guy but A) I'm getting on my WWF trash talking BS and B) regardless of the strength of his character, in my opinion there really is no excuse for A) the beard B) the dreads and C) uploading a video of yourself topless on youtube. So I'm having a dig. I don't do those bullshit 10 minute long faux beef 'vlogs', this is as close as I get. Another example of my lifelong affinity with procrastination.
It's not all bad though. When Lil' Tika gets back from her daily grind we'll be hitting up central for some dinner followed by a pleasant evening of drinks and dancing. Word is a barbershop trio are in town who will be harmonising soothing melodies as we gently waltz the evening away. I can't wait. Here is a promotional advert for said entertainment -
RANDOM
Wednesday, 19 October 2011
Rap Battle Parodies - Supa Hot Fire
This shit is TOO funny. I think Part 2 is even better than Part 1.
Supernatural Burns Australian MC; I lose my bottle
Ok, so the following footage is taken from a show that went down at Camden Barfly about a year or so ago. To cut a long story short, Stig and I did a gig in Swansea last year warming up for Louis Logic and Akil from Jurassic 5. Both of them were/are super sound geezers and Akil informed us that he was playing in Camden a couple of weeks later and very kindly offered to put us on the guestlist.
So, we turn up to the show just as Akil is beginning the part of his set where he brings guests that he rates to come up and spit a verse, which included Stig and myself. We both got up and did our thing, part written part freestyle, which was then followed by this poor Australian chap that you see getting ripped by Supernat. Truthfully the dude was OK but had no mic control whatsoever so nobody could hear a word he said, hence Supernat's line that alludes to that fact. I must admit I don't remember him directly dissing Supernat, however.
Anyway, as you can see from the footage, Supernat starts going in on the dude, cause well, that's what he does. The funny thing is, and I'd forgot abut this, is that I'd drank a sufficient amount of beer to A) feel this attack on the dude was unjustified and B) thought that I was the one to stand up and do something about it. If you pay attention at about the 44 second mark the camera pans across and you see me holding the mic in anticipation. I was truthfully planning on jumping in and sparring with Supernatural... I mean, that would be a pretty cool story right?
Fast forward to 1.33 and the tables have turned. Despite it being less than a minute later, I no longer have the mic because I remember a palpable feeling of terror washing over me as I stood waiting. He'd carried on going for 48 seconds after I'd decided to give it a dig, which is not a long time, but when you're on stage preparing to battle (even more so when you're in a battle getting cussed out) it seems like an eternity. So, for better or worse (probably better) I decided that it was NOT a good idea to spar with the god. Although, saying that now, I do regret it. This footage only popped up recently, I had literally forgot about it until this point. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, but then again, so is not being crucified on stage by a certified veteran. You live and you learn. Observe -
Big up Supernat's faux English accent at the end. He also deserves credit for influencing Scizzahz and Wizard to come up with the term CHWOITTTT!!!!! Long story; you'll have to ask them about that.
Once reminded of this occasion, I scoured the depths of my Mac and managed to find this one photo from my trusty Nokia N81, before it packed up. Taken that night, Akil is not in it, but you can see myself, Stig, Supernatural and Louis Logic, who I think you'll agree could win an award for 'Mincer Of The Year' right here. Comedy.
Monday, 17 October 2011
The Karate Kid Chronicles Vol. 4
...One after the other. Lets go.
Well, it seems that its not just me that has an affinity for the Karate Kid.... Go check out Low Budget's Kaimbr on bandcamp for his new(ish) project 'Mr Miyagi', an instrumental album taking both music and inspiration from the first 3 Karate Kid flicks (but thankfully not the 4th, which is absolute horse shit, or the equally appalling recent remake).
http://kaimbr.bandcamp.com/
I smell a little side project coming up. Stay tuned.
Well, it seems that its not just me that has an affinity for the Karate Kid.... Go check out Low Budget's Kaimbr on bandcamp for his new(ish) project 'Mr Miyagi', an instrumental album taking both music and inspiration from the first 3 Karate Kid flicks (but thankfully not the 4th, which is absolute horse shit, or the equally appalling recent remake).
http://kaimbr.bandcamp.com/
I smell a little side project coming up. Stay tuned.
The Karate Kid Chronicles Vol. 3
Ok, so if you hadn't noticed by now, I've got somewhat of an affinity for The Karate Kid (the film, that is, of course). I think this is mainly attributable to the fact that it is one of very few films that I saw as a youngster that has actually maintained its appeal into my adult years, unlike so many others (the original Adam West Batman flick, for example). As a child the film inspired me to take up Karate myself (due in no small part to the 'You're The Best' montage at the end tournament and the now legendary yet totally unfeasible crane kick), until I had my ass royally kicked a good few weeks in a row (see here for details). As an adult, it is the music, scenery and script that now hold the most interest for me... I mean, people actually came up with the concept of Mr Miyagi and the riddle filled wisdom he spouts at LaRusso; Bill Conti murks the score (panpipes included) and its just one of those flicks that I can happily go back to over and over again that inspires me to go out and crane kick kids in their early 20's dressed in skinny jeans and snapbacks.
Anyway, as coincidence would have it, youtube suggested the following video for me, and what was I to find but the director himself, John G Avildsen, had uploaded the entire film in its original form, i.e. the rehearsal tapes that were made before principal photography began, deleted scenes and all. This may not interest many, or indeed any of you, but I am an absolute fucking geek for this shit so it interested me, and thats what matters. Here follows the first part of 12 in all; the other 11 are easily locatable once you've watched this, should you feel the need. Observe and enjoy.
The Onset Of Winter...
... Has begun, in a less than traditional sense. Its still nice everyday and the temperature has only just started to drop ever so slightly. Global warming innit.
Anyway. When I first started writing this blog I swore to myself that I would keep it going for at least a year and also promised myself that I wouldnt leave it in a completely neglected form for too long. It seems that ive managed to just about keep one of the two promises at a 50% average, so I'm not doing too badly. In all honesty, the summertime is not really ideal with regards to me sitting in front of a computer, and now the shitty winter months are getting ready to set in I am, against all of the odds, attempt to get this ball rolling again.
Fact of the matter is the relatively healthy readership I initially amassed through tireless daily posting has probably slipped by the wayside somewhat, but I will prevail and keep things moving for those of you that are still interested.
Stay tuned for more bullshit talk, hip hop anecdotes, 80's film and memorabilia obsession, talk of clothes, hoes and kicks. There'll also be more music coming soon as well, so keep the peepers peeled for all the good shit.
Holla
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