Azealia Banks has clearly never heard of Ric Branson.
Coincidentally, at a time when the ‘swag’ (or accused lack
thereof) of UK Rappers – Grime, Hip Hop or otherwise – has been brought into
question by a mentally ill, racist, homophobic, Trump endorsing, contradictory and
all around repulsive troll of a woman, what better time is there than to
reflect upon my own personal favourite UK rapper of all time – a gent that
places firmly in my ‘Top 5, Dead or Alive’ list – the man formerly known as Ric
Branson, also once known as Ricochet from the trail blazing UK golden era rap
crew, Universal Soldiers. A man that, before the word even existed in this
context, was the living and breathing definition of ‘swag’ personified.
As we near the 10 year anniversary point of his debut (and
only) solo release project, ‘No Pressure’, I inexplicably find myself pondering
more and more as to what happened to this outrageously talented guy. I won’t go
into too much detail yet – I’m currently in the process of attempting to track
him down to conduct a sort of retrospective interview/oral history (wish me
luck) – but needless to say those that are aware of the musical contributions
of the former artist known as Ricochet must be wondering where he is and what
he’s been up to, much like myself. For those of you that have never heard of
Ricochet/Ric Branson and Universal Soldiers (including rhyme partner Ultra and
producer A H Fly), there’s no shame in your game..... The real shame would be
that you live your life in ignorance of the music of this elusive yet supremely
talented MC. The ‘end game of shame’ would be that their music simply
disappears from the rap public’s conscious altogether – even upon extensive
searches and re-searches on the internet only the barest bones of information
is available, comprising a few old interviews on long defunct websites, some
grainy photographs at minimal resolution on Google images and thankfully many
songs that some forward thinking types have kindly uploaded to youtube. You
can’t buy the music anywhere online it seems – all online retailers list as
being sold out – and it was only by chance that I managed to grab a copy of ‘No
Pressure’ off of discogs recently (my original copy is locked somewhere in
Dad’s attic in Cornwall with the Street Veterans 12"s).
For those of you that really
don’t know, I’ll give you the briefest of rundowns. Back when Low Life Records
really started hitting in the early 2000’s and Braintax (boo!), Taskforce,
Jehst, Tommy Evans, Champions Of Nature and a few notable others were creating
and releasing music that would become the backbone of the Golden Age of UK Hip
Hop for those in my age group, Universal Soldiers were right there doing the
same thing too. But Universal were different. I won’t comment on Ultra and Fly
at this point, but Universal were known for one thing and one thing only –
Road. Life on, life off, it all revolved around being On Road.
Speaking of Ric specifically, all I can say (whilst still
attempting to keep it brief) is the following : Impeccable flow. Effortless
lyricism. Story telling par excellence. The clear ability to murder a rapper in
a battle (not that we ever got to see that happen – shame). And, most crucially,
at the back end of the period of time when everyone and their mum was swearing
they were ‘keeping it real’, Ric kept it realer than possibly any other rapper
I can think of (with the exception of C-Murder). He was – not unashamedly so,
as hints of shame crept in here and there – a hustler. Some of the stories he
told may have been ever so slightly embellished, but a large part of me doubts
that. Ric was out to get his on his own terms and these escapades have been
thankfully documented in excruciating detail for all to enjoy.
To this day – maybe even more so now – I find the amount of
personal detail that he included in his music shocking, but in a good way. He
detailed his movements, plans and the executions of his Grand Visions
seamlessly, always nonchalant but never without the underlying current of
seriousness and sincerity. I’m not going to go too far into the nuts and bolts
of the content at this point – that will come later, dependent on the result of
my search for an interview – but suffice to say that if you have listened to
his music and have been privileged enough to have moved in some of the same
creative circles as I have (with those that know or knew the man on a
creative/personal level) then you know that through hard graft, street smarts
and an unrivalled business acumen he moved himself into a position by which he
was able to officially retire from multiple ‘urban employments’, so to say, to
pursue far more lucrative and ultimately legitimate means of existence. I
believe Nas referred to it as ‘A Hustler’s Dream’, and this particular dream
was cleverly documented in a way that I personally have never seen or heard of
before or since. Basically, the guy is a fucking genius. ‘Listen to Mad Runningz and you
know my past – I don’t just move food, blud, I show some class’.
Partly to satisfy my own urges – and partly to see if it may
help me gain contact with the man – I have been so bold as to jack an entire
track from his classic ‘No Pressure’ release and drop a verse of my own after
his. I haven’t just jacked the beat; I’ve jacked the man’s verse, too.
A bold move, and one that could potentially backfire, but
after repeated listens to ‘Street Veterans’, ‘Slanguage’ (a vastly underrated
UK classic) and ‘No Pressure‘ over the last few weeks I was reminded that many
years ago I contacted Ric to ask if he would like to drop a verse on my album
in progress at the time, ‘Cold Lazarus’.
Having sent a message through Myspace (yes, Myspace) asking
if he would jump on a track – money was involved, of course – I received a very
pleasant message back essentially stating that which I already knew – that Ric
was firmly retired from rap and it was going to stay that way. For good. This
must have been back around 2007-2008 and despite the fact I did manage to
secure a verse from the one and only Sean Price – my favourite rapper of all
time – I am still disappointed to this day that I could not coax one more 16
out of the sliver-tongued street entrepreneur known as Juggla Redz. ‘Enlish
featuring Sean Price and Ric Branson of Universal Soldiers’ sounds pretty sweet
to me.
On more than one occasion Ric referred to himself as or
compared himself to the ‘Scarlet Pimpernel’, the protagonist of an age old tale
of English chivalry. A cursory glance at Wikipedia reveals that the Pimpernel’s
successes are firmly rooted in the ‘masterful use of disguises and strict
secrecy of his group's movements. His identity is secret to all but his men.’With this in mind, I must admit that my own chances of
tracking down an ex-rapper after close to a decade of complete radio silence
seem slim, and that’s putting it lightly. However, I will not be dissuaded. Not
yet, anyway.
NOTE : I HAVE NO IDEA WHY THE TEXT IS NOW IN A WHITE BOX AND I'M CERTAINLY NOT TECH ENOUGH TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO CHANGE IT. SORRY.
Being an aging backpack rapper constantly
verging on rap retirement, I am now looking into new ways of exploring my love
for Hip Hop culture without jostling for elbow room with every other fucker and
his brother who has figured out how to shout at Garageband. I will continue to
make music as and when I feel the urge, but having spent some time thinking
about it recently I have realised that I have vastly underestimated the
influence and effect that Hip Hop from the UK had on me between the years 2000-2007.
The aforementioned artists, and many others, are all legends in their own
right, yet we here in the UK seem to put a shockingly small amount of stock in
celebrating their music and their legacies, regardless of how ‘garden variety’
they may appear to be.
Not only is this a crying shame, but it
is also indicative of the throwaway culture that the internet and social media
has caused music to become. The artists of the Low Life and YNR rosters, as
well as many, many others of the same era deserve our praise and gratitude for
forcing their music out at a time when it was not as easy as uploading an mp3
or filming oneself rapping on a front-to-back mobile telephone. These guys
grafted their hearts out to produce high quality music on white label vinyl
with hand written stickers and shot them hand to hand in the pre-50 Cent mix CD
era. These guys deserve our respect, yes, but they also deserve to not be
forgotten simply because the wheels of ‘progress’ refuse to stop increasing
their speed.
I am pursuing other artists from the same
era for the same purpose (big up Devise and hopefully Yungun/Essa – fingers
crossed, it’ll be a great story), but my starting point has to be with the one
MC from the UK who not only had the greatest influence on me personally but
whose music and style has, to my ears, not aged a jot in the best part of a
decade. If anything the intricate rhymes, smooth flows, effortless storytelling
and the fantastic reality weaved into all of the above have actually gotten
better over time. Some age like vinegar, some age like wine.
Ricochet was and remains to be one of my
favourite Hip Hop artists of all time, UK or otherwise. I would absolutely love
to sit down with him – only if he’s willing, obviously, and I’d understand if
not – and see if I can’t contribute to empowering his mythical status in my own
way – respectfully - to show people what
a refined talent he truly was.
Oh, and seeing as I just completely
jacked a Ric Branson verse without any permission whatsoever I figured I might
as well go ahead and completely jack an Elzhi verse too. It’s not like I can
afford to pay the man. In for a penny, in for a pound.
Wondering what happened to your favourite
MC? Got similar taste in music to me? Holler at me on Twitter and I’ll see what
I can do. @Enlish.
I want it to be known, before I embark on this epic rant, that at one point I was the biggest Jay Electronica fan on the face of the planet. Every so often I get bored with Hip Hop - this has happened intermittently throughout my 23 years-and-counting love affair - and at my lowest ebb somebody inevitably pops up and once again piques my interest. Whenever it was that Jay Electronica first appeared on my radar (I want to say 2009?), my apathy for the music was once again washed away, and convincingly.
I enjoyed the man's sporadic - and high quality - output, the air of mysticism that he seemed to shroud himself with and his apparent disdain for releasing an LP, especially since everyone and their mother was lambasting him in the press and on social media to please drop an album. And, much like everyone else with an ear, I lost my shit when 'Exhibit C' dropped. But that was then. My entire Outlook - pun intended - changed drastically (an understatement) on Friday 30th August 2013.
On that date, in my estimations, Jay Electronica ceased being the almighty saviour of Hip Hop and descended into the category of being your worse than average, garden variety complete fucking TWAT. We're talking WKD side showing, lads banter enjoying, cheeky Nando's suggesting CUNT.
If this story - and it is a story, a relatively epic one at that - has thus far tickled your interest, please read on for the scoop. Also, if anyone can see fit to tweet this to him, please do so. He blocked me some time ago - before the occurrence of the below detailed incident - for taking the piss out of him because his tumblr account was (is?) called 'eventheblackgodcriessometimes'. This should have served as a hint to me, but I was too immersed in the music and the hype to really process this vital information. I should have known better. A lot better.
Jay Electronica was playing Outlook Festival 2013. I had absolutely no interest in going until this announcement was made, at which point my entire plan changed. I was in the midst of a brutal period of depression and was considering leaving Brighton so I could rot away in the relative comfort and security of Cornwall. This announcement coincided with a number of other odd life events occurring at the same time, which ultimately - and thankfully - convinced me to change my mind. But taking my unemployed, mega depressed, put-it-all-on-your-credit-card-and-worry-about-it-later ass on holiday with a gang of my best mates for a kick ass holiday on a Croatian beach in 30 degree weather was the starting point. Plus - to my giddy, school boy-esque delight - I was going with a single purpose : To watch the god Jay Electronica perform live. Psyched doesn't really cover it. I was fit to burst.
We arrived in Croatia, and subsequently at the hotel, on the Wednesday evening. Quickly to bed and straight to the beach the next morning to get the festivities started. And start they did. Drinking in the sun all day led to partying all night - big ups to Scottish Andy, if you were there then you know what I'm talking about, the dude was famous over there - and a gang of us were literally the last men standing who had to be shepherded out of the castle by the security staff.
Not particularly taken by the concept of sleep, myself and Cold Joe Smith retreated to my hotel (I was staying somewhere separate to the rest of the gang) and kept it moving by simply continuing to drink. I was on pregablin at the time, which is apparently an anti anxiety medication. It never did anything for my anxiety, but if you knocked a couple down after a beer or 10 it would make you - and I choose my words carefully - wavey as all hell. Anyway.
After cleaning up and having something to eat, Joey and I returned to the beach. We obviously had a lot of fun and saw a bunch of other cool acts during the weekend (Pharoahe Monch was a particular highlight) but I'm trying to get to the point here.
Drinking all day in 30 degree heat on the beach once again led to the night time partying when the fort opened it's gates. No sleep, mind you. And tonight was the night, the night I would watch my newly crowned idol perform his life-changing songs for, as far as I was concerned, an audience of one. Every time I came close to passing out or falling asleep I managed to jolt myself awake with this thought. THIS IS WHY YOU'RE HERE, DAVE. Fix up and get more intoxicants in you. At some point in the evening the time came for us to get where we needed to be. Cold Joe Smith, a true gentleman and one of the most stand up geezers I know, excelled himself once again by essentially keeping me upright throughout the evening so I got to where I needed to go. Thanks Joey, you're a legend.
If you've never been to Outlook before (and I'd recommend it), basically you're all on the beach all day, drinking and chilling. As the sun is going down the gates to a large fort are thrown open and you are presented with a number of choices of venue, located both inside the castle and also down and around many twisting lanes, moats and dungeons. It's cool. Jay Electronica was due to perform in a surprisingly small area just outside the castle itself. And off we stumbled.
When we got in, J-Rocc was playing. All good. I was waved to within an inch of losing control at this point, but I had made it and only needed to wait another half hour, so I stomped to the front with a gang of booze and gripped on to the metal fence partition for dear life. I was getting the best seat in the house for this shit and nobody was going to stop me. J-Rocc played, I danced (or at least did my approximation of dancing) and Joey and I did our little two step for a while until, finally, my life-defining moment was nearly upon me. J-Rocc packed it up, the lights went down, the anticipation in the air rose palpably and a figure, shrouded in the dark, gave us the traditional 'CHECK 1-2'. And then, as they say, shit got real. Really real.
Me, at the front, smack bang in the middle. Sunglasses. Beer. Beard. That's me.
He was drunk. Not Christmas day drunk, not Friday night drunk, not even stag on the stag-do drunk. We're talking balls-out, angular eyed, bow legged, blind-as-a-bat, fuck feeling this in the morning you're going to feel it next week DRUNK. He was clutching the biggest bottle of Jack Daniels I have ever seen - you know, like one of them stupidly big ones that people with more money than sense have in their houses to 'look cool' or whatever - and he wasn't shy with it. He did, however, caveat the entire situation and that of the one to come with the following words (and I'm paraphrasing here, because I was also mortal) - "I get drunk when I do shows because I get really nervous." Not what I wanted to hear.
Yes, I was wasted. Yes, I was barely standing. But the overwhelming feeling of disappointment dropped on me like an anvil. I had my analytical mind on, despite my inebriation - after all, I had been looking forward to this precise moment for months and had spent a fair amount of money to get me in the position I was in, let alone giving my depression the temporary finger to allow me to go anyway. But, in all honesty, that is the last thing you want to hear a performer say at ANY gig, let alone one of this magnitude. As I said, bad start, but I've performed drunk enough times so I figured it couldn't be that bad. I was WRONG. Dead wrong.
The following transpired over the course of around, as I remember, 33 minutes. His set was due to be 45.
He started a track. I can't remember which. Fluffed it within 16 bars. Too drunk. He might have tried it a second, maybe even third time, with the same results. Mortally drunk.
WHEEL IT UP WHEEL IT UP WHEEL IT UP FUCK THAT SHIT, or words to that effect.
Cheers. Actual cheers. I'm confused.
Blabber blabber blabber, blah blah blah. All talk. No songs, no rapping.
He might have attempted another track at this point, he might not have done. If he did, he fucked it up. This I can guarantee. But that didn't matter, not to him anyway, and seemingly not to anybody else either apart from muggins here. The only thing that mattered at this point was STAGE INVASION! STAGE INVASION! STAGE INVASION!
Crowd empties and rushes the stage. I'm still clinging onto the front rail at this point. He had done nothing, literally NOTHING to justify a fucking stage invasion or any other behaviour to warrant any other stupid, pointless, immature school boy demands at this point. But the crowd gleefully accepted the offer; anything to be on stage with 'The Great' Jay Electronica. The great Jay Electronica who, at this juncture, had not seen fit to even complete a single song. A single VERSE, for that matter. I reckon about 15 minutes had passed by this point. My not-impressed levels were growing exponentially. But it's OK, you know, he's having fun, they're having fun, maybe I'm the one with the problem, right?
The stage invasion.
Security are getting a little tetchy with his antics at this point and, after a few more precious minutes had elapsed, cleared the stage for him to presumably continue with his 'show'. And continue he did - in exactly the same drunken, non-committal, bullshit no-rapping-ass way he did before. I think at this point he attempted another song, failing miserably. As before.
Next, after probably a total of 3 minutes of completely cocked up rapping had been attempted, came the crowd surfing. Of course! Crowd surfing! I mean, there's a raised stage and a crowd, what else are you going to do? Use the electrical equipment present to actually perform songs, or jump into the beckoning arms of the drug addled crowd to enjoy their adulation that you clearly so desperately need to feel any level of self worth in that rugby ball head of yours (more on that little bit of psychoanalyisis later)? The latter, of course! And there I was, stupid me, expecting to see some actual rapping. From a 'professional' rapper who never releases any music and barely ever performs. Slowly, the pieces started slotting into place, even through the crashing waves that my brain was drowning in.
Why be on stage rapping when you can just fuck about in the crowd instead? Cock.
Crowd surfing completed, he may or may not have attempted to rap again. It genuinely doesn't matter. It's what came next that matters.
On the other side of the metal partition that I was initially clinging too so desperately was a slightly raised platform, designed so the performer can stand within a few inches of the crowd but still be seen by all. Jay Electronica, approximately 33 minutes into his 'set', mounted said platform directly in front of me to talk more slurry, drunken shite and not rap. I'd had enough by this point. I not-so-politely poked him in the stomach and beckoned him closer, interrupting whatever bullshit 'god on earth' monologue he was flapping his lips through. I said, and I quote :
"Are you actually going to do any rapping, or are you just going to talk shit for your entire set?"
Drunken eyes met drunken eyes and, for a moment, I thought my genuine question might be taken as a form of challenge by which he could undo all of the wrong that he had done over the previous 30 minutes and actually make the last 15 count. I was depending on him to be an adult, and a professional at that. I was gravely mistaken.
Do you remember being a kid in the playground at school? When one of the other kids who was emerging as some what of a social magnet would start up an inane chant, usually at the expense of some other kid who was in no position to do anything about it other than fight (if they could)? You know, that classic sign of low self esteem that is shared by insecure bullies with a platform the world over? Yes? Well. That happened. To me.
"This guys a hater! Hey everyone, this guys a hater!!!!", he proclaimed. And thus the chants, to be joined in with by every member of the crowd bar me and maybe a few others.
You get the picture. I'm blitzed out of my god damned gord and now this shit is going down. I was genuinely speechless; add the fact that there was literally nothing I could do and so I just stood there, gobsmacked.
Now, let's rewind a minute. It's me. I'm not a bad guy. As far as I'm concerned I was there to see him rap. I'd paid for a very specific service that was promised in the run up to this scenario and I didn't get what I paid for. So I went directly to the source of the issue to complain. I think that was justified. And now let's rewind a minute more. At the beginning of this piece I very clearly stated that I was incredibly depressed at this point in my life. Like, literally suicidally depressed. No exaggeration. So, putting aside his absolute incompetence on the mic and his complete and utter disrespect for the show, the punters and the culture, for Jay Electronica to specifically target me - when I had simply asked for what I'd paid for - and proceed to try and crucify me in public was a pretty fucking ugly thing to do. It's lucky I'm made of sterner stuff because I dread to think what sort of effect this kind of attempted public humiliation could potentially do to somebody else who was going through soul crushing depression and suicidal thoughts. The irony is, of course, that I am personally of the opinion that Jay Electronica is one of these very same people. Lack of confidence, low self esteem, feelings of inferiority, the need to drink; all of this can explain his behaviour on this particular evening, his lack of any meaningful body of musical work being released, his apparent seclusion from public and his bizarre and sporadic online rants. If the shoe was on the other foot I'd imagine I'd be making him feel pretty bad about himself. Again, lucky I've got enough gas in the tank to see me through. But still, fuck this guy. Anyway. Back to the story.
Seconds turned to minutes turned to hours. In a position of complete impotence and somewhat fearing for my safety at this point, I quickly retreated back to where a few of the gang were cotching and we got the fuck out of there. What happened afterwards is a blur but it wasn't long before I retreated back to my hotel and passed out - hard. I could barely speak or stand up and the looks of concern on my friend's faces were clear even to me, given the state I was in. The day was done.
Cue the next morning. We've all been there. Wake up and realise you're a living, breathing human being to be swiftly followed by the realisation that you're a living, breathing human being with the mother of all come downs and hangovers crammed into the few inches of matter between your ears. And with the realisation came the memories of the night before. Oh dear, Dave. Deary, deary me.
I got up, showered and returned to the beach with my proverbial tail between my legs but with a palpable feeling of anger still churning in my gut. It wasn't long until I knocked into the guys. Nobody mentioned anything about the 'Jay Electronica incident', for which I was grateful, and at the time part of me figured that if everyone was as fucked as I was then maybe it wasn't that big of a deal. But it was still irking me, so I did a little gentle digging to find out what had happened after I was so unceremoniously chased out of the giant 9 year old's personal playground. The resulting reports were.... satisfactory. To say the least.
With the remaining 10 or so minutes he did manage to crank out 'Exhibit C', as referenced in the Outlook highlights video (the editors must have worked overtime to get that looking like something resembling a famous rapper performing a show like a professional), but how much of it he managed I know not. What I do know is that the moment his 45 minutes were up the lights came on and the mic went off.
This displeased the great Jay Electronica greatly. Maybe the realisation that he hadn't actually performed one whole song had dawned on him; maybe he was having so much fun that he felt slighted; or maybe, just maybe, he's an insecure prick who drinks for self esteem and, in turn, starts genuinely believing that he's the rapping version of Prince or any other artist who is actually worth your time and effort and he should therefore be treated as a male Mariah Carey, diva-ing his way through life with a basket of fucking puppies on his rider. It matters not.
Lights on, mics off. But that won't stop Jay, oh no. Cue the shouting, screaming tantrum, with words to the effect of "FUCK OUTLOOK FESTIVAL, FUCK THE SECURITY, I'M JAY ELECTRONICA, YOU'RE NOT SHUTTING ME DOWN" rah di rah, blah blah bullshit. And then, so I'm told, as he was being politely shepherded off stage by the security (as he was refusing to leave of his own accord), he managed to trip and fall over in full view of everyone, cementing his legacy as the biggest prick of the whole weekend. Maybe it was that 800 litres of JD he necked to 'calm his nerves'.
Either way, and needless to say, I felt fucking great. I felt, and still feel that I made a genuine stand for the culture that night and told the cunt exactly what I thought of his performance. I'm sure KRS would have taken it a step further. What. A. Prick.
Now, since that time I have obviously disposed of any and all evidence of Jay Electronica from my life. If the odd mp3 jumps on in a shuffle, it is quickly skipped, including 'Exhibit C'. I literally can't even hear the man's voice or look at that stupid fucking face on that giant melon head of his without my blood pressure rising. Oh, how things have changed.
You may be wondering why I've shared this now, rather than before. Truthfully there are two reasons. One, I have been dealing with my own issues and, as such, have not been writing this blog for two years. Otherwise I would have done it earlier. And two? Well. Let's just say that, as we all know now, every so often this insecure, emotionally unstable psychopath crawls out from under whatever rock he's been hiding beneath to talk some absolute shite on the internet in an effort to, I presume, remain 'relevant'. And thusly he has done so recently, talking shit about one Kendrick Lamar.
Remember what I said earlier about that one artist popping up every so often to restore my faith in the music? Well, Kendrick is that dude. Without straying too far off topic I genuinely think the guy is incredible for a number of reasons. Technically a great rapper, covers all angles, incredible lyricist, politically minded but not in-your-face with it, grounded, down to earth guy, etc etc. Not to mention his two albums (I haven't checked the new joint yet) are, in my opinion, two of the best Hip Hop albums of recent times. At this moment the guy can do no wrong in my estimations. Basically he's everything that Jay Electronica isn't.
So they do this 'Control' track and Kendrick absolutely bodies it. Drops one feature verse and proves himself to be without peer in the game in between making two albums of amazing music with nary a battle verse in sight. "It's funny how one verse can fuck up the game." Indeed.
Of course, Jay Electronica has the displeasure of going after Kendrick on the beat and rapping about angel wings and Egyptian scriptures and all that other complete bullshit that I used to buy into. Of course, I wasn't checking for him by this point, but it was a pleasure just to hear Kendrick burn him so comprehensively.
However, obviously operating in the full knowledge that Kendrick has popped that fucking beach ball head of his for good, he pipes up on some bullshit Q&A session whilst taking a break from rolling around in Rothschild money to give his opinion on the track. And, of course, he's full of shit. 'Kendrick is my son, I made Kendrick Lamar, he didn't say anything in his verse, I had the better verse, everyone knows it' etc etc etc. Absolute, grade A solid gold bullshit.
He obviously hasn't been keeping up on current events as far as 'Black Lives Matter' protestors adopting one of Kendrick's fucking songs as the official theme for fighting the power. Fighting injustice. Fighting for equality. Protesting in the face of police brutality. All the while Jay Electronica is flitting about the English countryside and shooting ducks with his billionairess waif by his side (I assume).
While Jay Electronica is hiding in his little hole and doing precisely fuck all, writing bullshit verses about being a black saviour or black jesus and drinking from the everlasting fountain of youth with Abyssinian angels, and NOT releasing any music, Kendrick's music is currently having this effect on real people, in real life, with real problems, looking for real solutions.
Not to mention behaviour like this :
Not hiding away and TALKING about doing shit. ACTUALLY DOING SHIT. Making a difference in the world. Using his platform to send an important message and to try and do some good in the world, all the while making incredible albums of music. Basically everything Jay Electronica isn't doing, and never, ever will do. Talk about self obsessed, delusional thinking.
Does anyone give a shit if this clown ever releases an album now? You know my take on this. As I read the other day, 'Jay Electronica is the only dude who's been up and coming since '05'. Doing your best mean girls impression with your little fan base on your little online Q&A session will do nothing to change the fact that nobody really cares anymore. Nobody gives a shit about the breath in the trees or how many messages from Moses you found in a laminated wooden box at the top of a fucking mountain.
Kendrick Lamar you are NOT, you big brick headed motherfucker. Get drunk, get on Twitter and get Erykah Badu and Jay Z to call you to shut it down because you're a drunken prick with no self control. Delete all of your Twitter posts. Repeat every so often. Never grow up, you Peter Pan ass motherfucker.
'eventheblackgodcriessometimes'. Maybe the black god should try growing up, maybe laying off the booze and ego stimulants and try NOT being a cock sometimes. Or you could release some music? Maybe not.
Ladies and gents, I give you Jay Electronica - a true twat amongst men.
Hanging out with a dude so you can steal his girl. Classy.
And, as a footnote, let us not forget that he stole his Mrs off some other guy, even if he was a 1% tory douche bag. Snakey motherfucker. And bearing in mind that she is a Rothschild, it may be worth considering that they are pretty much single handedly responsible for the gap between rich and poor in this world. Literally. What a fucking joke. Are they still together? Who knows. Who cares?
So yeah, Jay Electronica. Can't wait for the album mate. When's it dropping? Oh yeah, two thousand and NEVER. Get fucked you butter nut squash headed dweeb. Suck out for eternity.
Sincerely,
A one time fan who got wise to your bullshit.
God I hate this prick.
Otherwise, it was a real swell time. Big up Rag N Bone, Beth (thanks love!), 184, Neil B, Beth 2, Cold Joe Smith, Tyni, Dabbla, Sumgii, Lulu, Marieke, Syntax, Pete Cannon and anyone else that was there that I clearly don't remember. Oh, and Scottish Andy. Thanks, man.
Last Summer was hot. Real hot. Like, fry an egg on the top of your head, dip in and out of the sea every ten minutes, boxers-stuck-firmly-up-the-crack-of-your-ass-for-3-months-straight hot. We’re talking HOT here, people. We were long overdue for a Long Hot Summer (great album) and by jove did we get one.
During this blissful heat wave, long since forgotten, the people of Brighton were treated to a right royal Hip Hop knees up courtesy of The Blastmaster himself, KRS One (two, three, four and five).
The 6th June 2013 saw The Concorde 2 opening its doors to a sold out crowd eager to see Knowledge Reign Supreme Over Nearly Everyone (I put the emphasis on nearly as I have a firm suspicion that a number of the attendees at this particular shindig were not exactly the sharpest sandwiches in the picnic), but more specifically to see ME. Joining me in hosting duties on the microphone was none other than my partner in crime Mr Thomas Hines with Tyni AKA BIG SNAX and my main man Joey Criddack on the wheels of steel. I was especially happy when I saw Joey was DJing because A) I was already drunk and B) he played ‘Monkey Barz’ by Sean Price, which is a fucking fantastic rap song. I was particularly excited (and particularly drunk as Hines and I had nailed a good few cans on the beach before getting started on the rider) as I had never seen KRS live before, much less had a grandstand seat to see the show and be given a crate of free beer to boot. Decent. Support was handled most excellently by Brighton legends Remark and Deejay, performing as Sublime Wizardry, who warmed up the crowd nicely for the main event.
My memory of the evenings events isn’t exactly razor sharp as A) it was nearly a year ago (credit to my regular blog writing skills) and B) I was drunk before we even got on the stage (big surprise). Needless to say, however, the show was nothing short of magnificent. If you haven’t seen KRS live then take any opportunity that you get to do so; the guy is a consummate professional and, after many, many years of doing so, proves himself to be more than adept at rocking the party. With the exception of Big Daddy Kane and Pharoahe Monch I can quite comfortably say that it was the best performance of live rapping/stage show I have ever seen.
It started with a warm up DJ set from DJ Predator Prime, who took to the decks to spin a selection of classics, albeit hidden away and stuffed in the corner of the stage. Hines and I were pretty hammered by this point and so I drunkenly suggested to the young man that we assist in some general hyping duties, which he was happy for us to do. It definitely helped the vibe because, well, we’re both absolute legends and incredibly good at what we do. No modesty here. At the time I couldn’t help but notice some certain….. Facial similarities between Prime and KRS, specifically in the nasal region, which led me to drunkenly ask if there was any family association going on there. Funnily enough, it turned out that he was KRS’ son, and his sister (KRS’ daughter) was out front working the merch stall. Keeping it all in the family. Pretty fucking cool.
Best seats in the house
The main event followed swiftly afterward. Far from just knocking out all of the hits (which he did, of course, all the while expelling enough water to prevent a hosepipe ban this year – something I’m quite sure won’t be an issue anyway, but you know, I’m trying to be clever here) he also seemed to drop a genuine freestyle every other track, jumping around the stage like a man possessed. Considering he is now FORTY NINE YEARS OLD (50 this year), you’d be forgiven for thinking that you were watching a man in his early twenties, such was the potency of his energy and enthusiasm. Rather than just perch from the vantage point on the stage I thought it far more prudent to get down into the crowd and get the full experience, so about 5 minutes in I fought my way into the centre of the bustling throng, about 10 feet from the front of the stage. This was a brilliant idea, I thought, until KRS then actioned a brilliant idea of his own.
During a brief respite between songs he stopped to address the crowd, specifically regarding the outrageous amounts of autographs and such that he has to sign after gigs. Given that time available to do this after a show is somewhat limited due to having to usually get straight on a bus to bounce to the next town or city due for the next performance, he had come up with an ingenious way of keeping all of the autograph-hunting fans happy whilst also preserving the precious few minutes that he might have after a show to chill out before jetting off someplace else. He’d been to the pound shop and must have spent the best part of £100 on tennis balls and mini Frisbees, each of which he had signed individually before taking a break in the show to throw them into the crowd.
One of the offending frisbees
Brilliant idea, and a lot of fun, were it not for the fact that for some reason or another these tennis balls and Frisbees all seemed to be thrown within a foot or so of my face, resulting in many eager hands generally smashing me around the head in an effort to grab for these newly-valued trinkets. Needless to say, it wasn’t long before I retreated back to the stage to avoid any further risks of lost teeth, broken noses or concussions.
And so the show continued, seeing him getting off of the stage and running directly into the centre of the crowd himself in order to connect with the fans (which was another first for me in Brighton - the other was at Action Bronson’s first show in Camden a couple of years back; he brushed past we on the way to the bar. It felt like someone had poured a pint on my arm), a spectacle that I was happy to view from the stage. I’d already sustained my fair share of injuries that night (although the worst of them all, the crippling hangover and come down, was to follow 12 or so hours later).
KRS in the crowd
At this point he got back on the stage, requesting the company of any break dancers and rappers that may have been present in the crowd, of which there were no doubt THOUSANDS. Unfortunately for them (boo hoo) they needed a wristband to get backstage, resulting in a grand total of one break dancer (big up Remark) and two rappers, namely myself and Hines. So, the triumphant return of KRS One to Brighton ended with Hines, myself and KRS rhyming four-for-four bar freestyles back to back over a selection of classic instrumentals. Not too shabby.
Who is that handsome chap rocking next to KRS? Huh?
When all was said and done, KRS turned around, gave me a pound (with what might have been the sweatiest hand of all time) and told me that I was a tight rapper, and to keep it moving. Full praise from one of the greatest to do it, a good laugh and a skin full of free booze to boot. Next level brilliant.
MYSELF AND KRS HAVING A WHALE OF A TIME
All photographs (apart from the shit ones) courtesy of Mike Tudor @ Studio85 Photography - Google or Facebook that shit!
Despite the fact that I was completely and utterly psyched to see Big Daddy Kane perform for the first time and to also have the pleasure of hosting the night and introducing the great man himself, I must admit that after the whole DJ Premier debacle the month before I was somewhat reticent as to how things would go. I mean, if a superstar DJ could display such astounding levels of diva-like behaviour, it was a safe assumption in my head that a superstar MC could (and probably would) go above and beyond the levels that were displayed at the previous show. But, to my relief, I could not have been more wrong. Kane was the fucking MAN.
Gods honest truth I can barely remember a thing from this night (the Red Stripe rider once again being the culprit) but I know for a fact that I had a gargantuan amount of fun. Pure, serotonin fuelled euphoria accentuated by vast chemical intake. One of my only concrete memories is texting a few people and updating various social networking profiles to tell anyone who cared that I was having the time of my life. Phoenix Da Ice Fire was the support act and was incredibly impressive, completely owning the stage and doing a brilliant job of warming up the crowd (I overhead Kane bigging him up massively backstage afterward and suggesting that they work together in the future) before Kane got on. I apparently did a good job of hosting (again, not that I remember anything) and dropped a slick accapella after asking the crowd if they wanted me to A) Talk shit or B) Rap whilst Kane’s DJ was setting up his Serato. The crowd were quite insistent toward the latter. But don’t take my word for it; if Cutty said it’s true then you best believe that was the case.
Far from being a repeat of the previous gig, which was the worst case scenario imaginable, Big Daddy Kane was not only the consummate professional but quite simply one of the nicest and most approachable performers I have ever met, and that really is saying something in a world chock full of grumpy, arrogant and obnoxious MCs moving into middle age (Wu Tang is for the Victor Meldrews) who seem to have left their people skills (along with the best part of their music making ability) behind, with any semblance of social nuance and hint of manners, in the mid nineties.
I had so much fun that I can barely remember anything, hence this sparse write up. Kane was an absolutely top bloke, going so far as to very kindly pose for the prerequisite fan boy photo for me and also sign my YO! MTV Raps trading card (proper fan boy tings). Taking full advantage of the situation, I also got him to sign a couple of fliers for me before I then asked him to sign a further 5 or so more for other people who weren’t even at the gig, which he duly did with gargantuan amounts of humbleness and good grace and a fuck off great smile on his face. Absolutely superb guy.
As I’m sure you can imagine, he tore through the set, consummate professional, incredible performer, knocking out all of his hits with the energy of a man half his age. My only tiiiiiny criticism (and it isn’t even a criticism) was that he didn’t do his famous ‘mic drop’ trick, but in the grander scheme of things this didn’t matter a jot because he was A) The coolest guy in the world and B) An absolutely stupendous performer. I was actually so smashed that I ran on stage halfway through his set and interrupted him to ask if he could say peace to my man Gilly, who was at the front of the crowd. He did, and I didn't get the shit kicked out of me, although one of his boys did ask me (very politely, I might add) to not do it again. I jumped on a tidal wave and surfed the night away. I remember little but that palpable feeling of excitement and satisfaction still remains to this day, a whole year after the fact.
So, in short, the complete opposite of the DJ Premier show. Top 3 rap shows I have ever seen, up there with KRS One (write up coming soon) and seeing Pharoahe Monch for the first time ever at Outlook Festival 2013 (who also had Mos Def jump up with him to perform ‘Oh No’ – I’ll try and tell that story, but I wasn’t exactly in my right mind at the time). Faith in legendary American Hip Hop performers restored. LONG LIVE THE KANE!!!
**Disclaimer : Maybe Premier was having a bad day. I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. But this is my story and I'm sticking to it, motherfucker**
Another throwback. I’ll catch up with myself eventually.
I’ve always been a Premo fan. Always. Anyone who values Hip Hop music on any level should be. He’s one half of Gangstarr for god’s sake. There are so many absolute classics under his belt for so many different artists (can anyone say THIS - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/DJ_Premier_production_discography ? I mean, for fuck’s sake) that sometimes the discography itself defies belief. Although these days, in certain circles, I have heard Premier being berated or discussed in patronising tones for being the architect of the original sample-chopping, scratch-chorus ‘Boom Bap’ sound (mainly by trap happy twats in their early to mid twenties or insecure former piano-looping producers in their late twenties – ironic, seeing as in many cases he was the very person who inspired them to produce in the first place), you simply can not deny the guy’s status as one of the all time greats.
So, it was with great pleasure that I was informed that I was to be hosting Statik Selektah alongside DJ Premier at the Concorde 2 in Brighton on the 7th Day of the 3rd Month of our Two Thousandth and Thirteenth Year (anno domini). It was with a certain amount of trepidation that I approached this newly appointed duty; it had been some time since I’d hosted a gig at the Concorde and, more importantly, I was somewhat unconvinced by how successful two DJs would be performing at the Concorde 2, a venue renowned (much like the Prince Albert) for playing host to exciting live bands and energetic performers to be watched and enjoyed, as opposed to static DJs (no pun intended) playing music to dance to. When the DJ is a focal point 10 feet above the crowd at the end of a long room where everyone is facing in the same direction, dancing is pretty much off the menu. Everyone is standing there looking directly forwards waiting to see someone that, essentially, is going to stand there and do little but talk with their hands. But what the FUCK do I know?
People
You know how these stories start by now. I get there with Neil B, we proceed to rape the rider (Red Stripe – again – a quick way to put yourself into an early spiral of deceit) and start fucking around on stage on the decks and the mic respectively. I do remember remarking to a number of people, myself included, how drunk I was on this particular occasion; it was an early show, doors at 7.30pm, so by the time you hit 9pm you’re already battered and wondering how in the fuck you’re going to survive the next 90 minutes, let alone be verbose, engaging and entertaining for a crowd of 600+ punters whilst operating on a skin full of Jamaican chemicals (read into that as you will). Still, I’m a god damned professional, so it was on with the show.
And it’s lucky that I am god damned professional, because trying to get the show moving was far from plain sailing. Far from just fulfilling my duties as host and compere it is usually the case that I get roped into some form of stage management, artist liaison and other such undertakings, which may sound important and glamorous but basically means that I'm the whipping boy for some other poor twat who is so stressed by the nonchalant attitude of so many performers when it comes to set times that they need some other poor twat to shift some of the stress onto. That’s where I come in. Fair do’s I’m usually so wasted by this point that it’s no issue for me to lend a hand but things would be far more agreeable if I could just get on my wave and just do the job that I’m there to do (which nine times out of ten I’m NOT getting paid for). Anyway, as usual, I digress.
The venue was open 7pm – 11pm with a strict ‘music off’ policy at 11pm sharp. Statik Selektah got on at 9pm on the dot and played what I would consider to be a near perfect set, deftly switching between classic joint after classic joint (sometimes a little too quickly, but beggars can’t be choosers) whilst doing his best DJ Clue impression by screaming inane banter over a stand mounted microphone. Great set, but as mentioned earlier, when 600 people are all packed into a room, standing still and all facing in the same direction whilst not dancing to any of the aforementioned classic music, the effect or intention of such endeavours is somewhat lost in the situational circumstance.
I thought that Statik Selektah looked a bit like the guy with the little arms in Sin City
I’m on the stage for a bit bobbing around to the set, popping backstage, grabbing a beer, popping back onto the stage, doing the do. During my travels during this 60 minute period the one constant seemed to be everyone backstage (including stage manager, club manager and everyone in between) all asking the same question – “Where the fuck is DJ Premier?”
The answer to this repeatedly asked question did eventually materialise via a random chick that some people were referring to as his tour manager, although I have a sneaking suspicion that she was actually just some sort of on-the-road jump off with an inflated sense of self worth and importance because she was in receipt of the D from a particularly famous Hip Hop producer and DJ. She was a personal assistant at best; that is, she was personally assisting Premo in guiding his D into her mouth (zing!). After a number of frenzied phone calls and numerous mono-syllabic conversations with the lady in question, the official stance on the situation was that A BOTTLE OF PROSECCO HAD BEEN LEFT OFF OF PREMIER’S RIDER REQUEST AND HE WAS REFUSING TO LEAVE THE HOTEL UNTIL SAID BOTTLE OF PROSECCO WAS PRESENT AND CORRECT IN HIS DRESSING ROOM. Don’t say anything. I know.
Cue one of the promoters (big up Henry) bolting out of the Concorde (which, in Brighton’s relatively confined geographical landscape, is in the middle of fucking nowhere) to head to the nearest offy to pick up said bottle of booze (and for who, exactly? For Premier? Yeah fucking right) so he could place it with the rest of the lavishly extensive spread so he would finally grace us and the 650 odd other people in the venue with his illustrious presence to do what he was there to do – play decent records. Unfortunately, things didn’t work out entirely as planned.
Taking the stage roughly 15 minutes late at 10.15pm, the already close-to-cardiac-arrest manager wangled a deal by which the club was able to remain open until 11.15pm, therefore allowing Premier his full hour on the decks and giving the punters what they actually paid for (rather than watching me stumbling around on an empty stage, attempting to keep the energy levels up, all the while feeding the clearly aggravated crowd lie after lie as to why the show still hadn’t started).
And so we begin. I wouldn’t say that Preem had a face like a slapped arse so much as that he had the face of someone who had recently sucked diazepam through a lemon. Or, the face of a wronged Hip Hop legend who could barely bring himself to make an appearance at a show that he had no doubt already been paid handsomely for due to the distinct and unacceptable absence of a bottle of alcohol coveted mainly by women who can’t afford champagne but fancy themselves as some sort of pseudo-cosmopolitan Sex And The City type diva. Who cares now, he’s here, thank fuck, on with the show. If you couldn’t tell by the tone of my writing by now, however, in my case the damage had already been done; this was made abundantly clear in my own head when he (eventually) took to the stage to start spouting forth about ‘Real Hip Hop’ and such. Does ‘Real Hip Hop’ have anything to do with sitting in your hotel in a pouty strop because someone didn’t bring a bottle of slightly-more-upmarket Lambrini to your party? I think not, but feel free to go ahead and cry if you want to.
Anyway, to be brutally honest (if I haven’t been already), there’s really not much more to report here. Premier played his advertised one hour slot but somehow managed to not play any songs that appealed to the crowd in any way, shape or form whatsoever (from my point of view, of course). Everyone knows that Guru (RIP) and Premier were trying their hardest to establish themselves as separate entities outside of Gangstarr (Guru especially), but honestly, when you pay the best part of a score to see DJ Premier play, what would you rather hear?
A selection of classic Gangstarr cuts, including famous DJ Premier produced timeless bangers for various high profile and talented artists, or
A selection of previously unheard and probably unreleased DJ Premier tracks featuring unknown rappers that nobody really wants to hear when they have paid £20 under the assumption that they will be hearing option 1?
Well, I’m sure that you’ve guessed by now what happened. The breaking point came when Premier played a track off of GOODIE Mob’s classic debut 'Soul Food' LP, screaming “WHO KNOWS ABOUT GOODIE MOB??” over the mic before he dropped it.
Tumbleweeds.
Bearing in mind that the crowd consisted mostly of people in their early to mid twenties (or so it seemed to me) who would, one assumes, have absolutely no knowledge of this admittedly brilliant group and their equally brilliant debut album due to their age and lack of exposure to southern rap groups in the mid 1990’s, a reload of the song and a repeat of the same question that warranted absolutely no reaction the first time round was probably not a good idea. But who gives a fuck about good ideas? “COME ON, WHO KNOWS ABOUT GOODIE MOB??”
Tumbleweeds. Tumbleweeds with slippers on. Tumbleweeds with slippers on having recently graduated from Ninja Stealth Training School.
It was at this point that drunken Dave, lurking behind DJ Premier (see picture - #pause) took it upon himself to inform Preem of the obvious – that the clientele in the club were too young to either know or give a fuck about GOODIE Mob, regardless of how good they are, were or might still be. They were just too young. This, of course, did not go down well at all, with Premo shooting me daggers for even suggesting that an album that came out 19 years previous would be coveted by a gang of people who were barely 6 years old when it dropped and therefore would not have the desired effect. Silly me.
LURKING
The fun continued when, in a frenzy of record mixing hand gestures, Preem knocked the knob (pause) off of one of the upfaders and sent it flying into the darkness. Just the plastic knob, mind you, nothing else; the piece of metal was still showing meaning that the mixer was still completely active and serviceable. Considering that he was doing nothing along the lines of some hyped up DMC turntablist routine, it really shouldn’t have made any difference whatsoever. But, of course, it did. He loudly proclaimed to the sound man that the mixer was now broken and he needed a new one, in the middle of his set, in order to continue. I, being very drunk, demonstrated to Preem that the fader still worked perfectly by whipping it up and down, which of course altered the volume of the record that was playing at the time in a high-to-low-to-high-to-low capacity (this is tech speak here people, try and keep up). Compare it to the small plastic covering on the end of a shoelace falling off; if it does fall off, it doesn’t mean the shoelace can no longer be tied, does it (tenuous, but hopefully you get my point)?
Anyway, after this next mishap and the prerequisite ocular House Of Flying Daggers from Preem I was pretty much done. I was drunk and pissed off, the entire hour was an exercise in disappointment for everyone present (as far as I could tell) and everyone filed out at 11.15pm to go about their business. Neil and I probably followed shortly afterwards to go and get outrageously wavey somewhere, as is our disposition as hot young go-getters. Before we left, however, I had a quick chat with the stage manager and the other guys who had been pushed further into the realms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder by the entire experience. And you’ll never guess what.
Premier had left his entire rider, offending bottle of Prosecco included, completely untouched in his dressing room. Ladies and gentleman, Real Hip Hop had left the building.
The opinions and memories detailed above have been retrieved from the damaged hard drive that is my brain. They are my thoughts and opinions and mine only. Many people at this function may have had a lot of fun, contrary to my described perspective. I, however, was, and still am, very, very disappointed by the entire experience.
Next time on Rap Ain't Real, My Life Is Real : Another Hip Hop Show, at the same club, with me performing the same duties, but with a COMPLETELY DIFFERENT OUTCOME. Result! Stay tuned, boppers.
