I like this kid but a part of me feels bad, because I sort of see a past version of myself in this kid: the escapist, I have no friends, the internet is the only place that accepts me parts. But on the other hand: bahahahaha. What a dumb fuck! I like Dragon Ball Z too, even though it never really delivered on anything and Mr. Popo made me pretty uncomfortable, but I’m pretty sure I never ripped my shirt off my emaciated sad sack torso and screamed bloody murder trying to go super saiyan in my bedroom.
It appears that I was not missing out on anything good. There is a high probability that this is not real, but I’m just going to disregard that and continue to know that, no matter what, this dude’s day was probably way worse than mine. With 90,000 views and counting, this dude “The Secreted” himself into fame alright, but it wasn’t for saving the world from Vegeta. It was for looking like a dingus. Thanks internet.
God damn look at that garment. You know the one I’m talking about. The majestic and wonderfully buoyant looking fur puffball that somehow encircles the massive corpus of one Rick Ross as he stands in a wind tunnel/Maybach storage space. That coat sums up Rich Forever perhaps better than any song or video. I want that fucking coat!
Surrounding the coat is a delightful new video for Rich Forever standout “MMG Untouchable.” Following up last week’s amazing and goofy “Yella Diamonds” video, we sure have gotten an eyeful of Richard’s heaving bosom recently. Though this time he is, more or less inexplicably, accompanied by Timbaland, who makes that dumb Timbaland face like he does. Is this a sign that they’re working on music? Please?
So it’s about to be the 30th Anniversary of Akira and what better way to celebrate then with replica jackets? Normally this kind of thing would be a little too cosplay-eee for my liking but this, this is THE exception to the rule. I mean, who the fuck DOESN’T want Kaneda’s jacket from Akira?
Bandai Namco is offering the jacket in both red AND black. You can order them here BUT you will need two things….an understanding of Japanese text AND $900. But that’s not too bad right? That’s what Rosetta Stone and Robbery are for.
I was shown an image a while back of NBA finals runner-up LeBron James lounging out on a regal throne, flanked on either side by a trio of actual lions. The Heat forward was the picture of royalty in most respects, appearing about as smug as the supposed greatest-living-basketball-player has every right to look. While LeBron’s recent actions and overall demeanor have at times thrown me into a fit of rage, there’s just no disputing the fact that the dude has a knack for sniffin’ out a killer photo shoot… even if his headband has been creeping ever-northward since the first time he stepped out on NBA hardwood (you have to get your shots in were you can.).
Anyway, this specific image immediately sent me into a downward spiral of sports-themed nostalgia and reminiscence. I was reminded of a particular vintage poster featuring former Atlanta Falcons Guard Bill Fralic, where he’s pictured perched atop a similar looking throne, set in between a pair of ritzy looking hound dawgs. I started thinking of the days when superstar athletes didn’t bat an eye at the notion of dressing up in a wacky, potentially demeaning, ensemble, all in the name of selling a few posters. If you were born at any point throughout the 80′s I’m sure you know the type of promo shot I’m referring to. In an age when Adobe Photoshop was just a geeky pipe-dream, pro’s had to really go for it when the studio flashbulbs started to burst.
After firing up the Google Image Search, I was quickly immersed into the bizarre world of old school sports merch. The shots I tracked down suggested that professional league PR departments were on some laid back tip throughout most previous decades. So many of theses posters either featured an athlete wielding a gun, or implied that the athlete in question was prone to gunning down foes out on their respective playing surface.
Check out the size of that piece in the Chuck Person shot! There’s no way this type of shit would fly in the current buttoned up social climate we now reside in, and it’s kind of unfortunate. What I wouldn’t pay for a Gilbert Arenas poster featuring the dude in his finest sweat pants, propped up in front of a poker table, toting a couple of hand guns.
You can check out more of these posters, in all their absurd glory, in a slide show posted by Coed Magazine. Not only do most of the photos feature an athlete dressed in something border-line humiliating, but also usually present whole bunches of lame props in the background. These props only tangentially correlate to the actual athlete in question, but over time, became a real linchpin in the completion of one of these photo shoots. Just look at the heap of crap that populates the supposed back yard of Bob “Mad Dawg” Golic. I would have personally liked the props master here to include some refference to Golic’s time spent acting on Saved By The Bell: The College Years, but I suppose you can’t have it all.
Sadly, in recent times, this outrageous brand of poster has gone the way of the giant-headed athletic caricature t-shirt. Which is to say, these things just aren’t produced anymore. In this less-is-more, Terry Richardson-dominated photographic climate, it seems that most folks want to fix their gaze on a smartly dressed superstar set in front of a stark backdrop. History tends to repeat itself, however, so lately I’ve been counting down the days untill Blake Griffin get’s photographed straddling a motorcycle, dressed like the Terminator. I can truly picture it now.
One of the things people forget when considering albums, is that they work best in very specific scenarios. Taken out of their comfort zones they can sound silly, confusing and generally shitty. Let’s say you have an r&b/rap record about love, how should you consume it? Within that specific genre there’s a ton of variation, some joints celebrate new love, others celebrate sex, some are breakup records and then there’s records that exist entirely in the “what if” world of unrequited love. Within each of those subgenres come very specific caveats on how it should be experienced for optimal affect. Drake’s Take Care doesn’t quite fit into any of the genres mentioned above. Instead it’s a confusing mix of baseless shit talking and emotionally bare pandering. If there was a specific moment where this album would sound entirely appropriate, it would be getting dressed in your freshest outfit to checking on your ex's Facebook while sobbing gently. Simultaneously leaving vaguely poetic and emo messages on a photo of her in a bikini “…remember when we went swimming in the summer? I love’d it when your hair was still wet…” while writing amorphously boastful tweets about how you’re “killing the game.” If you’re in that very specific situation and mind frame, Take Care might be the most affecting piece of art since you saw The Notebook.
Honestly, Drake is not inherently a bad rapper. He has a simple flow that works for pop rap and more importantly he has a good ear for melody. When he’s not jocking the worst parts of Wayne’s flow he’s enjoyable. Put together, he’s essentially an A&R’s dream for pushing records. The problem is that he consistently makes records aimed exclusively at emotionally unstable dudes trying to get their swag back or Catholic schoolgirls trying to get into the head of “that cute boy from school.” If you’re not in those two camps, his lyrics come off as a bit juvenile and at times, almost intentionally bad. On this album he’s apparently taken a liking to spoken word poetry that immediately takes you out of the moment, unless you’re the type to take fortune cookie musings as profound. “May your neighbors respect you, trouble neglect you, angels protect you and heaven accept you.” Word dude.
To the album’s credit, it sounds amazing. It’s filled with beautifully composed down tempo joints that feel lush and melancholy without getting too heavy into musical melodramatics. A track like “The Real Her” takes the minimalism of Ye’s 808s & Heartbreak and cuts it with some of the slower tracks from The-Dream’s catalog. “Crew Love” sprinkles some of The Weekend’s coke dream r&b over a standard Drake track and makes a joint that sounds both appropriate for the party and the after party. If you’re lucky enough to be the type of person that can just tune out a vocalist and appreciate the mood and ambiance of the tracks, fuck with this album on some come down shit or maybe when you’re driving around in your car while thinking about heavy shit. The instrumental for “Marvin’s Room” is great for that kind of thing. “Practice” is essentially a remake of “Back Dat Azz Up” but with all the Bounce energy sucked out of it. Surprisingly, the track doesn’t sound like shit. In the hands of a dude like The-Dream it could be a pretty awesome flip talking about the downside of a relationship that’s spawned after a fine motherfucker backs that ass up. The-Dream would probably find someway to incorporate motherfucker in a really endearing way. “Shot For Me” has a beautifully haunting melody to it. Unfortunately, Take Care is not an instrumental album.
Rap works heavily on how interesting your created character is. Clipse created compellingly reflective and morally ambiguous drug dealers, Wayne created an alien pop culture savant and Ye created a former everyman who became a tortured artist/prince. All of these characters are at their base, interesting characters. You’d want to get a beer with any of those dudes. Drake’s character at best estimation, is an emotionally open dude who’s also wildly popular and successful. While that character makes for a dude who’d probably treat your sister real well and take care of her, storybook relationships are not the type of thing that makes for awesome rap songs.
At some point last eve, perhaps around midnight or so, a distant corner in the far reaches of the Greater Good room was lit by the dim yellow glow of a tired old lamp. Hushed whispers punctuated the soft warbling of the new leaked Drake record in the background. I decided to give up on everything.
Consequence is getting ready to drop a Kanye West exposè. Yes, you just read that right.
While my early 90's leanings may by default make me a fan of some of the verses Consequence has uttered over the course of his largely depressing career, this little action right here, I cannot excuse. So with the Blind Fury of someone who spends too much time around a keyboard, I must respond in the only way I know how.
I have a vivid imagination. So when I see something like the embedded video above, I can't help but think about what Consequence has gone through in his nearly twenty year "career."
First of all, Consequence is Q-Tip's cousin. Which raises immediate questions as to why he was allowed a guest verse on Beats, Rhymes, and Life in the first place. In my mind, Q-Tip and/or Phife Dawg probably absconded with Consquence's girl at some point during the heydey of their popularity, and in return they gave their little cousin a chance to hop on a record.
Little did they know that in doing so they were creating an eternal Cousin Skeeter (with voice to match) who would could ride coat tails with the proficiency of a porn star and play the background like a poorly constructed seventh grade school set.
After living off of hype generated from guest verses on Tribe songs for the better part of a decade, Consequence is somehow miraculously still here and still being a nuisance. Consequence is sometimes, but not really, maybe on Wednesdays, but definitely not on stage a member of G.O.O.D. music. He calls the label his "crew." And with the deft of a Shaolin Master with a degree in the "Da Mystery of Coattailin' " he sometimes appears on tracks, in videos, and with varying frequency releases his own music that admittedly isn't always offensive to the ears.
Both of the fake Kardashian sisters pictured above are wondering how and why Kanye West's body guard hopped in the picture. Oh wait.
But what the hell is this? Dissing Kanye West? Airing his personal business? Publicly exposing the man who has kept you barely relevant by the very last strand of "Oh-yeah-he-was-pretty-cool-in-the-90's-nostalgia?" Kanye West, the man who has kindly has built a patio towards the rear end of his coat upon which Consequence has been allowed to erect a small mansion?
I'm thoroughly disgusted.
My favorite part of the video is when Consequence attempts to justify his actions by stating that every and anyone, friends, family or foes, all want "the crown." Is Peter Jackson creative directing Consequence's career now? Is this the fourth installment of Lord of the Rings?
Consequence talking about "the crown," is like Jared Jeffries talking about how he wants to come back next season and be the best big man in the NBA. Get out of here dude. Not only will it never happen (Like Donald Trump co-signing Barry O's birth certificate), it should never even be conceived to happen. (Like Lil Wayne impregnating Lauren London.)
The complete lack of respect and friendship here is just sad. This isn't a complete vindication of Kanye West either, he's long been known to pick up someone's career, issue words of bravado and soon to come success and then proceed to leave them quietly waiting in one of the many Art Deco hallways that probably litter his home. Just ask Mr. Hudson who is now serving Manhattans and Heinekens as the resident G.O.O.D. Music butler.
I'm sure Kanye didn't play fair. And I'm sure there is more to the story. But Consequence is like the drunk Uncle at the family barbeque who just won't leave. There's a certain line you just don't cross, and Cons managed to take a Hulk sized leap across the border. For hip-hop's sake, I hope Ye' keeps it moving and Consequence starts thinking about the next stage in his career. UPS has been hiring since B.I.G. left us and Mr. Hudson could probably use a hand in the kitchen.
