Combat Jack With Today's Mathematics

Dailly Mathemathics Has Moved!

2009-07-05T17:53:00.001-07:00

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Rap Gaydar

2009-07-04T10:04:00.000-07:00

The homie Rafi from Oh Word just launched Rap Gaydar, a spoof of YN's Rap Radar. Methinks much funnier than Pause Police. Eff with him. [|||].

Daily-Math.Com

2009-07-01T13:53:00.000-07:00

Sit up straight! Raise your hands when you wanna say something. Classes starting next week. Mark it down, the re-launch. Daily-math.com. I'm excited. Heh.

Combat Jack Remembers Keith Haring

2009-06-30T05:47:00.000-07:00

I'm so effin lame right now. With this blog that is. Kids homes for vacation could be an excuse but excuses are tools for the incompetent (Blue Phi!). Honestly, I've been addicted, playing that new EA Sports Fight Night 4 though. Game is dope, especially how they've marketed it as the ultimate Ali vs. Tyson simulator. I know it's just a game, but for years, me and many boxing fans' ultimate fantasy fight has been Ali vs. Tyson and who would win. I used to be inclined to say Tyson, just cause dude is from my era, hip hop's first official athlete and all. But now I dunno. In Fight Night 4, Ali stay murking Tyson almost every time. Like I said, just a game, but I'm saying. In real life though, who do you think would win?

I used to be a real hater. Going back, the first person I remember professionally hating on was the late great Keith Haring. When I was in high school, I had to commute on the daily to Manhattan. I remember being on the subway, rush hour crowdedness making me swear that I'd have a career where I'd never have to ride the iron horse during rush hours in my adult life and peeping out the train car windows to see bizarre images posted up on black empty ad spaces, drawn out in white chalk.

I'd see one, then another, and as the days passed, these pieces would become a common sighting. Radiant babies, barking dogs, all types of art to make them hellish train rides that much more pleasant. Didn't know who was tagging them at the time, just knew they were busy putting in work. But then, back in the early 1980's, New York was graffiti city. Artists like Fab 5 Freddy, Phase 2, Lee and KOOL 131 and Adrock were putting up burners like it was a day job. And to them it was. New York was a filthy smelly dirty little city, mad dangerous too, and the tag artists that were getting it in were doing their part in beautifying, as well as making my city the historic landmark that it remains today. Graffiti then was most definitely a part of the new Hip Hop aesthetic that was nurturing my young psyche then. But I never looked at those weird white drawings as part of the urban graf movement, even though, technically, it was.

Still, being that I was on my way to being a fine artist major, all that free street artwork was being soaked in. Around 1982, 1983, Keith Haring started gaining national and international acclaim. I began seeing the familiar works from the subway posted up in the newspaper and magazine articles, along with photos of the little scrawny white boy who had been responsible for them. Seeing how it was a white, and how fast he had achieved fame, I instantly called race shenanigans. Youth is a precious time, where most of us live by and through our passions, and being passionate about my culture, I was quick to call out anything I saw as fake, as commercial. So I let the hate flow. Keith's work was way too amateurish in comparison to the other graf artists I had grown to appreciate. Plus, he was white, not Latino or Black, like most other artists I was aware of, so this definitely played out like the art world was propping up it's next poster boy. My hate didn't matter though, as the 1980's continued to progress, Haring's work became more ubiquitous. Dude was doing shit for companies like BMW and Swatch. Shit was disgusting B, especially how this fraud was getting money like that.

Towards the end of the 1980's, I was now in law school, at Georgetown. One of my best friends and housemate down in Washington, DC was my dude Sam Gonzales, who went to high school with me and hailed from Spanish Harlem. Sam had a twin brother James, who was on his way to medical school. Sam was one of those Puerto Rican cats who knew everybody in Manhattan. One of his childhood friends was this dude named Adolofo Arena. Adolfo just happened to have landed a position as Keith Haring's assistant. It helped that Adolofo was gay, as it had been common knowledge that Keith also repped the rainbow set. [||]. Intrigued by Sam's connection to Keith, I let dude know how I felt Haring was one of the sham artists that helped corporations in co-opting the whole graf/ Hip Hop movement. Sam didn't give a fuck what I thought though. We had a break from school coming up, and since we'd both be driving from DC to NYC, his first stop, before I landed in Brooklyn, was Keith Haring's art studio down on Broadway, in the village. Not really knowing any celebrities then, I decided I'd tag along, see what Mr. Haring was like in real life. Probably let him know my thoughts about him for good measure.

One of many buildings lining up Broadway, Keith's studio was almost impossible to spot. Back in New York, Greenwhich Village, the city was so effin alive, back in '87, '88. You had to take a real narrow and tight elevator which would bring you directly into the studio. Sam and I rode up and once at our destination, we entered a studio that was completely white, except for the paintings and artwork, drippings and shit that was evident that we had entered an artist's work shop. We were greeted by Adolfo, then Keith, who initially came off as a bit shy. Maybe dude was busy because he had just been commissioned by Germany to do some public artwork for kids. Or was it Japan? Still and all, dude was mad welcoming, any friend of Adolfo was a friend of his was his creed. Plus he loved Sam and James, being that they were twins. Haring made sure that we felt comfortable. Even pulled out his finest greenery to burn, and burn we did. Instantly I forgot all the hate, all the questions I had lined up about how dude was a fake, how he had used his whiteness to climb far and beyond his "fellow" artists in claiming fame, wealth too. Maybe I forgot because of his warmth, maybe it was the weed, but regardless, dude was incredibly cool, especially since he was as famous as he was. Maybe I was starstruck, but I doubt it since Keith didn't give off that self important vibe. Must have been one of the most down to earth cats I had ever met. But man, was his personal artwork insane. Not just the kiddie shit most people know him for. Haring was heavy into tribal art, or art that showed how tribal African patterns had been a source of his inspiration. Then he had his whole gay collection which I didn't really check, but it was there. The designs for companies like BMW who he had done some work for was unreal as well. Keith was complex with his. Deep too. Being that he had made it public that he had contracted aids, he also had a deep collection demonstrating how that disease was like a demon, ravaging through the lives of so many people locally, globally, how it had taken the lives of so many people around him, young talented artists, like Jean-Michel Basquiat. Keith knew he was living on borrowed time, and it showed in the volume of work he was putting out. Most importantly, Keith loved the kids. No R. Kelly pederast. Keith felt kids around the world were truly unrepresented, and gave hundreds of his pieces to organizations that repped children.

Didn't realize then how big it was that I could casually burn an L and flip through Haring's personal work like that. And the more Sam and I would drop by his studio on the humble, and burn more L's and flip through more of his work, Keith became more flesh and blood, more human. It didn't matter that I was getting free shit from The Pop Shop, the store he opened in Soho to sell tee shirts and what not, or that he loved Mr. Chow's and was free with his money and wanted to share it with us, or at least what it brought. Well maybe those perks in knowing dude did. A little bit. I was working at Def Jam the last time I saw him. It was at the 3rd Bass album release party, December 1989. He was chilling dolo. One of the things that I really appreciated about Keith was that he wasn't on the celebrity shit. A lot of the celebs I know, no matter how many times I see them, it's like a game of ego chicken in figuring out who's going to greet whom first, or even if I'll be greeted (I see you Puff). Keith always went out his way to greet me, like it was nothing, like he wasn't the then king of the pop art world, like he didn't have millions in the bank account, like he wasn't dying of aids. Seeing him alone at the party, we dapped. I asked him how he was doing, how he felt, asking him about the aids thing without being that direct. He looked at me and said he felt great, even though he didn't. Said he was happy, even though his life was filled with sadness. Said he had mad work to complete, especially since he knew he had so little time left. Then he did what he did, he pulled out an L and we burned. Then we laughed at how silly the whole self importance of the music industry seemed, watching MC Serch dancing in a circle of fans a coupla feet away from us. Heh. Then we dapped, again, and I bounced. Keith Haring died two months later, on February 16, 1990. I'm still kinda mad at Sam and his brother James too. Knowing his death was soon coming, Keith left the twins a parting gift. Since they wore Carhart Jackets (who didn't then) Keith "borrowed" the jackets to paint two interlocking figures on the back of each jacket to demonstrate the closeness of their brotherhood, them being twins. Kniccas sold them jackets within a year after Keith's death. But I remain so thankful that Sam introduced me to Keith.

When I drive my kids to school on the daily, now that they commute from Brooklyn to Manhattan to go to school, we are greeted by this ginormous mural of Keith's, on Houston, by Bowery. The kids love it, always asking me question about it, and about the artist. And whatever it is that I tell them, I'm thinking inside how ironic it is, how funny karma works, how Keith's work is one of the first things the kids see on their daily commute to school. One thing I tell them for sure is how Keith was one of the best that New York City had to offer. Peace to my dudes Adolfo, Sam and James.

Keith Haring (May 4, 1958 - February 16, 1990)

Michael Jackson - R.I.P. The King Of Pop

2009-06-26T02:43:00.000-07:00

You know I had to do a "What Michael Jackson Meant To Me" piece too. Eff being redundant though, the GREATEST pop icon of our time just passed, and being that dude's existence probably had more influence on me, you and how the world looks and sounds to us than we could possibly comprehend, it's only right that I give dude his proper respect.

Early 1970's, Brooklyn. School yard of my elementary school. A coupla fellow first grade girls are mad fawning over Michael's pics in the latest Teen Beat magazine. Not that the Jackson 5 clan wasn't important, but Mike Jack had top billing from day one. Being that I always liked the girls, even at that age, I was intrigued by dude's swag, the whole afro thing was correct, plus other than Lincoln Hayes, the black character played by Clarence Williams III on my then favorite show "The Mod Squad", Michael was holding it down for us dark skinned dudes, so effin tired of how light skinted kneegrows were tightly holding the reins. Michael Jackson and Lincoln Hayes introduced to me at such a young age, how effin dope it was to be young gifted and Black. Prolly why I never envied my white counter-parts. Then there was the whole radio, television thing. "ABC" was like our little kid's national anthem then. WABC, (am radio ruled) kept that song pumping like the station's existence depended on the Jackson 5, on Michael Jackson. TV killed it too. From appearances to Flip Wilson, Sonny and Cher, Dick Clark's American Bandstand, The Mike Douglas Show, cot-damned every blasted talk show on air then, MJ dominated all that was young, hot and fly. Have to give props to white for showing how much doper Michael Jackson was too. They figured they would throw their bid in for flyest pop by adding The Osmonds led by Donny Osmond as the Jackson 5 and MJ's main competitor. They even had a hot single, "One Bad Apple" that sounded very similar to the Jackson sound, but the Osmonds and Donny could never ever come close. Like a flashlight to the sun.

Saturday morning television cashed in too. On Michael mania. The advertising men on Madison Avenue tried every angle. I remember how they rocked the commercial for that sugar box cereal Alpha-bits, where if you brought a box, they had a 45 floppy record single of "ABC" as a cut out on the very box. Moms had no choice but to cop it for her baby boy. Two boxes. And even though I didn't even like that brand (shout out to Captain Crunch), I cut them singles out the back of the box, and kept "ABC" in heavy rotation. Oh shit, just realizing as I write this that that was my very first record I ever owned. My first hit of the music drug that I continue to be addicted to to this very day. God damn do I owe Mike Jack for that. Then came the Jackson's short lived live variety show and cartoon. The cartoon was meh, even then in my young mind, but I stayed tuned. By the time they dropped "Dancing Machine", later during that wonderful decade, seeing them dudes, seeing Mike kill it every time with the robot dance, there was no question who ruled the game. Not ever getting played out, them Jackson kniccas, that MJ knicca let you know that whole decade was theirs, they shit was as necessary as the 1970's air we breathed. And all we wanted was more.

1979, at one of my girl's cousin's house. Right before I switched up my drug of choice to Hip Hop, my cousin's were still fawning over some Michael pics on the latest teen pop rag. My interest in them, the Jacksons, in Michael kinda died down. The ten year reign had come slowly to an end. Girl cousins talking about about how he still looked kinda cute, how he still had it. Older boy cousins dismissing him as being a "fruit cake", a gay dude. I didn't even know what gay was, but seeing how Michael started looking, talking, acting very different than the rest of us boys, I kinda got the gist. Still mad talented, but just a lil' bit out of touch for me to connect to. Still respected his gangster though. Especially how he started really going for dolo with the 1980 "I Wanna Rock With You" hit. Single and video. Probably the first music video I ever saw too. Damn man, you really stayed ahead of the game. Song was, still is tight. Video was mad on point, but yeah, so evident what my older boy cousins were referencing, dude had become slightly too pop to remain one of my idols. Shit was getting kinda hectic in the Brooklyn streets, and though I still rocked the music, I had to get my teen gully steez up. So I had to move on.

Jackson stayed persistent for my attention though. Was a freshman at Cornell, too young to get in clubs, but stayed sneaking in to the hottest Black club in New York City at the time, Bentley's, on East 43rd street and Madison Avenue. I didn't even like Bentley's, with every one trying their best to be on that r&b swag, or that new and upcoming drug dealer New Jack City hu$tle. Never had money for dranks at the bar, and my word play was still a bit feeble to scoop up the honeys in the place. But it was at Bentley's, on the smoke filled dance floor, when I first heard "Billy Jean". That joint banged hard in the club. Gave me the courage to ask for a dance even. DJ Sugabear kept shouting how Michael was back, and he was right. That video, simple as it looks now, kept us urban kids locked in, warned Hip Hop even, that it was too small to eff with Jackson's talent. Little did I, did we know that "Billy Jean" was the harbinger for the tsunami that would be the Michael Jackson mania 2.0. As tough as I wanted to be, when me and some fellow students watched that famed "Motown 25" special live in our dorm's tv room, when Michael performed "Billy Jean" live for the first time, when nigga flipped how street dudes in New York were doing the moon walk, cat had me screaming out the "OHHH SHIT!" with the rest of them. This was the Reagen era in full swing, and damn if that performance didn't feel like the Russians finally let fly a nuke. That performance was big like that. The young King who grew into an effeminate teen put down his boot and decided that the 1980's was his too. And we all knew it. Didn't matter how much wierder he became, or whether he was banging out Brooke Shields, Elizabeth Taylor, Emmanuel Lewis or Bubbles, Mike Jack was here to stay.

Funny story, back in 1987, when my shit was knee deep in Public Enemy and BDP and I stayed having the requisite ice grill on. And Fab 5 Freddy kept me tuned in to "Yo" on MTV, I was dating a diplomat's daughter in Washington DC. "BAD" was Michael's latest record, and I thought that I had outgrown dude. My girl came up on some tickets to see Michael perform live at Madison Square Garden in New York. When she asked me to drive her car from DC to NY to catch the show, I was like "FUCK that dude, corny ass weirdo". Still, I ended up driving her and her sister to NY, griping about it the entire drive. Griping even, as we stood on line at the Garden, EPMD blasting out the headphones on my Sony walkman. Fans dressed up looking like Mike, dudes too, shit was disgusting B. But my girl had the killer seats though. And even though I thought I was too hard to appreciate this silly little r&b/ pop event, each and every song dude performed rocked my world. By the time dude performed "Dirty Diana", with guitarist Steve Stevens of Billy Idol fame ripping the strings, and Mike, hoisted up on some crane, fog machine pumping out the fake billowing smoke, when dude ripped off his white button down, bird chested and screamed for what must have been a minute, so dope was his performance that I found myself standing in the audience, screaming at the top of my lungs with the rest of the 50,000 in attendance. Like a bitch too [||]. Lost my god damned voice at that. For that performance, that night, I became one of those weird ass fans. Show was the BEST I'd ever seen, and I seen a lot. On our way back to DC, my girl and her sister joked me out for my scream moment. But I wasn't ashamed then, still not ashamed now.

Early 1990's. Working in a law office in the music industry. My boss repped singer/ songwriter Bernard Belle, brother of famed songstress Regina Belle. Dude was a monster with hits "I Like The Way (Kissing Game)" and "Let's Chill" by Guy. Bernard teamed up with Teddy Riley and they wrote/produced Michael's next smash hit. "Remember The Time" the first single of Michael's 1992 album "Dangerous". No question that I really "knew" that I out grew him, but that song was big, equipped with the Eddie Murphy and Iman video. Looking back, how I was involved in that, I'm realizing how much Michael helped my career, made me that more valid. Bernard stayed getting bigger and better deals because of his work with MJ which meant more exposure and money for my boss, and as a result, me, and I learned a lot of my legal craft behind that, negotiating thoose deals. I could now say I negotiated a contract with Michael Jackson. We was beyond the fan and consumer relationship now, Jackson was now, indirectly, but in a big way, influencing the entire direction at this stage of my professional career, before Jay-Z, Damon Dash, Roc-a-fella, Diddy and Bad Boy. And I'm really just realizing this now. Wow.

Early 2001. Kanye West is sitting in my office, shopping for a new attorney. I knew Kanye from when my client Deric "D-Dot" Angelettie had signed him as a producer to his production company a few years earlier. Kanye was going on about how he was gonna start rapping and I was finding it very hard to believe dude. Plus, he's geeked about a new Jay-Z song with a wierd "H To The Izzo" name. Kanye's telling me how he flipped Michael Jackson, how he and Jay's gonna rule with "Izzo", and as much respect as I had for dude, all this talk about him rapping and "Izzo" was a bit much. WTF was an "Izzo"? A coupla months later, me and wifey driving to the Hamptons for a Puff "White" party, and I'm hearing Flex dropping bombs on Hov's new single, and me hearing "izzo", I'm like "that nigga Kanye". Later then, I snuck brought a copy of Jay's "Blueprint" album on September 10th, played it in the Expedition all night. Woke up the next day, learning about a new crew on the block by the name of Taliban (not that new). Driving in the afternoon, taking in how reality had become surreal, how the surreal had become reality, taking a break from the news, and bumping Izzo on the deserted ghost town like streets of Brooklyn, Michael Jackson's sample being the first soundtrack to our new world order. Mike and Jay. Then the whole Hot 97 thing, with Jay, and "Takeover", and Prodigy on screen, and Mike Jackson coming out on stage. King of Pop joining forces with the King of Hip Hop. Jackson fucking managing to stay relevant for four decades now. FOUR DECADES. Who the eff does that? And how, even though I never sat down and forced them to take heed, how my sons 12, 11 and 7 know damn near each and every Michael Jackson song. How they love the songs, even though Jackson has now devolved into their strange old white aunt with a catalog of hits.

It's still way too early to decipher what Jackson's surprising death on June 25th, 2009 means. I'm realizing that now, as I write this, CNN in my background, on steady Jackson overdrive. Laughing at how his death cements how he's about to rule for several more decades. Shit is sad, really sad. But it's also the beginning of a celebration. As me and my sons were driving through Brooklyn yesterday, me blasting MJ out the speakers on Fulton street, I have so much appreciation for dude, for how in almost every way imaginable, he has subtly enhanced this thing that we call life. As much as we will mourn his untimely passing (when is it ever a good time for our heroes to die?), and we will, I am so effin geeked about how the party is about to begin. Life is good my peoples. I'm so ready to start living more. And I really and deeply want to thank Michael Jackson for making me realize how special he was, and how special it is that we all are able to experience each and every waking moment of this thing we call life. R.I.P. Michael Jackson. Thank you. Thank you for it all.

Let's go!

Wale - "Back To The Feature" Mixtape

2009-06-23T16:58:00.001-07:00

I discovered rapper Wale (pronounced "Wah-lay") last year when he dropped the genius Senifeld themed "Mixtape About Nothing". Knowing absolutely nothing about dude, to say I was greatly impressed would be an understatement. Especially since dude is from Washington, DC, a place I lived for a couple of years and hated deeply. I am too ig'nant to really appreciate Go-go music, but dude managed to rhyme over a couple of go-go sounding tracks which resulted in me appreciating DC and the go-go scene much more than I thought I ever would. Dude can spit with the best, and beyond the go-go influence, beats was crazy. On top of all that, the mixtape came complete with an authentic drop from none other than Julia Louis-Dreyfus better known as Elaine Benes of the original Seinfeld sitcom. How official was that?

So impressed, I went back and copped his first official mixtape, "100 Miles And Running". This joint was a lot rawer and nothing less than straight fires. Made me take notice of a true up and coming rapper that deserves all the attention and accolades he gets.

Dropping last week, I knew I had to jump on the latest piece, "Back To The Feature". Produced primarily by 9th Wonder and showcasing mad features with artists like Talib Kweli, Beanie Sigel, and Bun B (Features, get it?), this joint is complete from start to finish. Don't be fooled by that Lady Gaga joint on the radio that I hear people on Twitter dissing, and just to take you a lil bit further away from all the Drake uber-hype that's sweeping the country (Drake is hot, the hype is not) please believe that there's nothing out there, retail or free that is as hot as this. Please cop this at the original site here.

Run quote me: This is the hottest shit out on the streets right about now!

Chris Brown Spared From Taking It In The Ayyy! [||]

2009-06-23T04:52:00.000-07:00

I like smart people. Smart people make smart decisions. They have the ability to put aside follosih things like sentiment and emotion in order to sensibly rationalize their way through some "tight spots". I'm sure you've heard how the light skinted homie Chris Brown made a very wise and smart decision yesterday. Going into trial, Brown was facing at least four years behind bars for man-handling that lil' island treat that is Rihanna earlier this year. He opted to plead guilty and landed 5 years probation and 180 days community service in his home state of Virginia.

In addition, Brown is under a restraining order requiring him to stay at least 50 yards away from Rihanna, except at industry events, where he has to maintain his distance of 10 yards. Rihanna's lawyer requested a less-restrictive order.

Being a smart person myself, I'm seeing how Tina Davis, his manager, convinced him how there's like a legion of hardcore inmates having a rub fest waiting in anticipation for the 20 year old superstar singer to be incarcerated, how they were lining up to see who would become the lucky boyfriend to the troubled entertainer. Maybe she had him over for a lil' r&r, and as she was putting on him, "accidentally" popped in her dvd copy of Penitentiary, the 1970's classic and brutal tale of how another light skinted dude (Leon Kennedy) got hisself locked up. If you haven't seen this, please run and rent it.

Or maybe it's because he and "Ri-Ri" are still smashing. You know how ignorant and forgiving young love is. Why do you think her team wanted a less restrictive order? I'm now thinking Rihanna herself leaked them nude pics of herself earlier this year, just to make sure to remind Chris of what he'd be missing behind bars. The minute she walked into the courtroom, nigga was like "I'm pleading!!!".

Like I said, I like smart people. I might have to check for his next album release.

Best Rap Album/ Mixtape Outro Ever?

2009-06-22T16:16:00.001-07:00

I copped 50 Cent's latest "Mixtape/LP" "War Angel". It's free. And it's not bad, especially since 50 has taken to rapping again. Sure, it's all about gun play, mayhem and death, but his raps sound like he didn't take a coupla years off to produce straight sing-songy basura.

What really caught my attention though, was the outro, which, as hillarious as it is, has got to be one of the best outros ever. Peep.

Dunno about you, but I'm getting my outfit money ready for August 30th.

Black Eyed Peas Ain't Nothing To Eff Wit!

2009-06-22T10:16:00.000-07:00

Bloggers beware. If you know what's good for you, you'd better leave the Black Eyed Peas' name out of your mouth. So it's all over the news about how, in Toronto, at the Much Music Awards, Fergie of the famed group spotted gossip blogger Perez Hilton and stepped to him about how he stays trashing the group on his blog.

Not happy with how Hilton responded, Fergie ran up to fellow member Will.i.am and pointed out Perez in the crowd. Allegedly, Will.i.am stepped to the famed pink crusader and ordered him to stay clear of dissing he, Fergie and the other members of the group. Infuriated that a member of the BEP had the nerve to step to him, Perez let off on a verbal tirade screaming out how Will.i.am was all types of faggot (as caught on tape here). At which point, and in my opinion, rightfully so, the group's manager Polo Molina proceeded to duff Hilton out with the expediency. Polo, by the way, is a chap that sometimes goes about flying in private planes looking like a cocaine drug lord fried on that snow white white.

That's when Hilton got all twittered up and dropping videos about how embarassing it is for a gay man to have to get his ass beat up by members of a group that go around looking like they're members of the rap/singing X-Men.

My question is WTF is up with Perez? Didn't he hear about how the BEP stay in beef, how they got all dance limberied up and proceeded to kicked ass at the punk taping of famed MTV's "Punked" gone wrong?

Dunno about you but I wouldn't be so quick to get all mouthy around a group of grown ass men who make their money going around dressed like fairy tale characters, especially since they have a penchant for flipping around and air twisting like it's nobody's business, and fake rapping while at it.

Maybe Perez would have been better off cussing out the short lil fellow with the mowhawk. Or mebbe he should have dropped the dreaded N-bomb instead. It's all going so crazy when the homo dude decides he's going full gully against the rappers.

Or maybe it's all that Boom Boom Powing they've picked up from their homie Curtis Jackson.

"Why Did I Get Married?" Pt. 1

2009-06-19T04:50:00.001-07:00

Never imagined I would have to be responsible for so many people living under one roof. Life was so much simpler then. When I was running dolo. For self. Like, I could leave my home on Monday morning and not have to come back until a week later. And my home was fresh too. One bedroom apartment on 7th between Lincoln and Berkeley in Park Slope. When rents in New York were cheaper, and neighborhoods like that had more color. New York was banging too. The club scene was crazy, and I loved the many flavors of women the city had to offer. I finally started making some decent money and the city was my playground. Kniccas was feeling so good we even named our crew the Mack Pack. Sounds corney now, but believe me how we lived up to the name. One of our boys owned a ginormous brownstone in Prospect Heights. It was massive. Eventually his wife convinced him to put it on the market as they, with kids in tow moved to the suburbs of Chicago.

My cousin Fritz, a member of our crew, was overseeing the affairs of the Brownstone. Being that it took almost two years to sell the house and we were young and full of ourselves, we did what any fly 20 something year old dudes dudes with keys to a big house would do, we started throwing parties. House parties in Brooklyn is magic, the right parties though. We'd set up the dj set, pool our monies to cop liquors and beer kegs, made sure the women to men ratio was always in favor of the fairer sex, just cause we didn't want a hard leg fest resulting in niggas fighting and all damaging the crib, and we'd be set. After a couple of joints, the rep got bigger and eventually we'd have the whole place packed, people spilling out onto the street. Regular 9-5 cats would be building with music industry execs and maybe a handful of street hustlers. And trust also, that at the end of every event, I'd find something soft and warm to hold on to, back at my crib a coupla blocks away, as the sun started to rise.

On my birthday, which falls in July, we decided to go big with a party. Fun was an understatement. Black, Latina, Asian, European, dudes was in heaven with the line-up. I was rocking the timbs with some shorts and the Jordan 23 jersey, red-bandana'd up, even though Chicago had just kilt New York in the playoffs, (Bloods and Crips hadn't yet invaded NYC). Some of my boys who were correction officers were up in the piece and you know how grimey them cats be. Had me skied the eff up and a nigga don't even get down like that. Anyways, I'm having a ball, speeding, playing host when I felt a hand touch my calf. I looked down and saw the most beautiful chick I'd ever seen in real life looking up at me. Honey colored, Asian eyes, "Nice legs, I like guys with nice legs." she said. Heh. I locked in. Pimp talk flying 'cause she started first, plus from that shit that was flowing in my blood system, me being high as a satellite. Her name was Akim. That she was a Cancer too, her birthday being 10 days before mine. Told me her pops was Black, moms was Chinese, that she was straight Brooklyn all her life, even though we never saw each other. Her body was mad athletic, but the bottom was a certified fatty. Thick thin is what she was. So zoned in was I that other than making sure most of the guests were fine, I rarely left her side. Plus, I knew how competitive my dudes were, how hungry the other kniccas in the place was for something as exotic as her. For real, mad water was gathering in my mouth, thinking about how she was gonna get ate up like a plum later that night.

"Time to go, Akim", one of her girl's said, as the clock hit 4am. I was like "she's good, really". Akim pulled herself slowly from my grip, "gotta go, nice meeting you." Damn. I spit "Lemme get your number girl, I have to see you again." "Sorry I cant, you're cute, and I had fun, but I have a boyfriend." she replied. Annoyed at the tease, aroused by the challenge, I kept her hemmed up in my corner for like another 30 minutes, talk getting more accurate, more intimate. Doing my best to break her that night, at my party, on my birthday. Her girls getting more impatient, not getting the attention she was. Eventually, we hugged for like a minute, smelling, feeling so fucking good. Taking my number, she broke off and hopped in the whip. Me standing out on Park Place scheming on how I was gonna bag Akim.

The next day, I asked my crew who invited her, who came with her. My brain was sharper now, now that I hadn't had liquors and what not, so my detective skills was in action. Found out Roslyn invited her. Roslyn was one'a my boys's from High School's sister. After waiting two days for Akim to call me, I called Roslyn. Kinda ordered her to order Akim to call me. Told Roslyn I wasn't effin around either. Felt like the prince with the glass slipper in that fairy tale. But Akim gave me the intial open, she saw me first and caught my attention on purpose. Fuck how I was gonna let that one get away.

She eventually did call me. Playing games even. Like joking about how I was sweating her through Roslyn, tracking her down. Told her she was right too, how I had to sweat that, or be crazy, or gay. Laughter. Good. Learned a long time ago that I could bag she who I made laugh. Even with no dough in the account. Made her laugh some more, until I convinced her to laugh me her telephone number. She did. First down. Tough ass defense though. But now I knew I was in. Being single, I was definitely dating, but wasn't attached to anyone seriously. Wasn't even trying to get locked down with Akim either. I just knew though, that I had to have someone that fine in my life though. Ego, attraction, whatever, like I said, I was locked in on her.

We spoke a coupla more times, always ending the convo on how I wanted that, needed that bad, she with the how she loves her boyfriend, how I wasn't her type, her type being over 6 feet tall and athletic (me being 5'8" and not trying to play games all day working up sweats and bruises with other men... [ll]). One day though, while at work, I get a call from her telling me how she was in my neighborhood, did I want to go out for lunch. Having just ate, I told her I hadn't had lunch and was available. I had her ride the elevator up, only because I wanted everyone on the floor to see the caliber of beauty I was working with. Then we walked, from 57th and Broadway to Trump Plaza on 5th Avenue. Found out she worked at some swanky eyeglass shop in the lobby of Trump. Even though she had a degree from Columbia University. My God, the summer dress she had on, looking more delicious than the night I met her. She played aloof, like a fairy flying around my head, I found more pimp talk to spit. Like how she needed a dude like me who was doing real things in the industry in her life, not her boyfriend who was in politics. Like how she moved like a wild cat and I was the one who could tame her, how it was obvious her boyfriend didn't know what kind of beast he had. She liked it too. Smiled and laughed. Telling me I was "safe" to hang with because I wasn't her type. Lunch ended way to soon, we hugged again, all the while I'm holding back from sliding my hands up her leg, from kissing her mouth. But damn if she knew where my mind was and loved how she kept me.

We were repping the legendary Melvin Van Peebles at the time. He just shot a short for a German company called "Vroom, Vroom, Vroom". He even had me play a role in it. He was using the "morph" technology that they had used in "Terminator 2" as special effects. I say this because I played... a motorcycle... that ended up having sex with the woman that rode me. (I think the movie is available on Netflix). Melvin had just wrapped and was having a screening in Tribeca. I invited Akim to join me. Maybe she'd be that more impressed with me, give her man the boot, or at the least, let me hit. The event was propers, and it was obvious I was running with good company professionally. She looked perfect on my arm too, catching stares not only from other guys that were there, but from women as well. After wards, I dropped a grip dining her at Mr. Chow's. We sat a couple of tables away from Bette Midler. Akim wasn't impressed though. Said having grown up eating authentic Chinese, she knew some way cheaper spots deep in Chinatown that would put Chow's to shame. We ended up back at my place. We talked, we laughed we kissed. But shit, no hit. Her boyfriend, "blah blah blah". Keeping cool though, I wondered why in the eff she was here with me if she was so cotdamned loyal. She eventualy left, left me with a mean case of the blue balls too, but I got that kiss, got to taste her, feel how tight and soft her body was, how good she smelled. I was getting closer. And it felt like it was coming sooner than later. Another 1st down. And regardless how tough it was, during the course of the game, the defense was weakening.

Combat Jack vs. Unkut: EPMD > M.O.P. Pt. 2

2009-06-12T11:40:00.000-07:00

I don't know whether I should be apologizing to or should be angry at some of ya'll. Apologizing in not realizing that a lot of ya'll might be a bit too young to fully appreciate the greatness that was EPMD, not being able to experience first hand how legendary this duo is. Or angry at how (and with no disrespect) ya'll have the nerve to side with Robbie on how M.O.P. outshines Eric and Parrish Making Dollars. Some of ya'll even felt ballsy enough to throw OutKast's name in the ring. No diss to the Atliens, Andre 3000 spits his heat, but I prefer rappers that aren't Dandies. Maybe I'm too old school and gully for rapper dudes to be dressing like Prince. No shots.

But as promised and with no further delay, here are the incontrovertible reasons proof as to why EPMD is the Greatest Hip Hop Duo Of All Time:

1. Four consecutive back to back classic albums.

Strictly Business dropped the summer of '88. When that other rapper dude was busy moving weight and 1/2 of Mobb Deep was knee deep taking ballerina classes. Some claim that 1988 was the best year for rap albums, especially since that year was crowded with top tier legendary groups like Public Enemy, Boogie Down Productions, Big Daddy Kane, Eric B. & Rakim, N.W.A., Eazy E, Jungle Brothers, Slick Rick, Run-DMC. Ultramagnetic MC's, Too Short, Biz Markie, Ice-T, Stetsasonic, DJ Jazzy Jeff and The Fresh Prince, Kid 'N Play and MC Hammer dropping classic albums. Shit, even rapper chicks like Salt-n-Pepa and MC Lyte were busy getting it in with album heat rocks. Truth be told, when I started hearing "Strictly Business" blasting out of drug dude's Suzuki jeeps and b-boys boom boxes, I was unimpressed, being that I was too deep into BDP and fighting the power with P.E. Plus the fact that my ear was unaccustomed to hearing rappers spit over funk oriented beats. Then there was the duos' seemingly monotonous flow, Parrish Smith coming off a little bit more aggie and battle oriented while Eric Sermon's extra lazy lisp laden flow was more than off putting. Still, the more I listened to the album, the more I was drawn into how the seemingly on surface simple rhymes meshed brilliantly with the funk laced tracks. From the gate, EPMD established themselves as the masters of the funk, even before Dr. Dre, DJ Quick and the rest of the West Coast took over that sound. EPMD also established that they were from this album on, the architects of underground hardcore rap. They built the house that M.O.P. currently resides in. They also kicked off a series of songs about a chick called Jane, a series which would continue throughout their next three albums. Them starting said series in their albums was a first for rap as well as for rock albums. Hailing from Brentwood, Long Island, EPMD proved themselves to be worthy of being counted amongst their fellow rap peers as being on top of their game. Fans didn't lie either. Within 30 days after the album dropped, "Strictly Business" sold over 500,000 units earning the group their first gold plaque. I remember seeing EPMD perform with Public Enemy, Big Daddy Kane, LL Cool J and RUN-DMC down in Washington, DC. It didn't matter that they shared the stage with other rap icons, EPMD made sure they left an effin smoking crater where they stood, just to let both peers and fans know that they were no effin joke. And not with having 100 of they man's an' em clutter the stage like so many of today's so-called cRap acts do. Nah, these dude was official. Go ahead and cop that. Listen to this bitch right here with no interruptions and tell me I'm lying. I dare you.

Unfinished Business, their second album, dropped in 1989 and came out fucking swinging. Once the bass from the first cut "So Wat' Cha Sayin'" bangs, it was clear that these dudes amped up that booom bap hardcore shit. That song's beat was one of the hardest, and at this point Eric Sermon and Parrish Smith cold mushed the sophomore jinx in the face by demonstrating that at this point, they had mastered their whole slow flow show. Not only had their delivery and production improved, but dudes managed to remain thoroughly hard core whilst at the same time feeling completely comfortable in showing how funny they could be. Tracks like "Please Listen To My Demo" had listeners laughing as the group walked fans through how they ended up getting a record deal and going from broke unknowns to the rap superstars that they were. In addition to the back and forth exchange and chemistry, dudes proves to be adept at story telling as well. So comfortable in their hardcore underground persona, Eric Serman p/k/a "The Green Eyed Bandit" let it be known that in the midst of slaying sucker emcees and busting caps, he was prone to break out in song mid rhyming. One of the stand out cuts is "Knick Knack Patty Wack" featuring the first of many dope rappers EPMD would discover and put on. Guest starring K-Solo, a rapper who killed game by spelling out words in his raps, the three traded verses and mics as they killed the beat bloody. It didn't matter even that K-Solo misspelled the word "bird" as "b-r-i-d", the song still rocked. The weakest song on the album "You Had Too Much To Drink", featuring a cheesy '80s electro rock sounding beat still comes off with the comedy as the duo drops a cautionary tale about drinking and driving. Guaranteed to be one of the funniest rap songs ever. Like "Strictly Business", "Unfinished Business" sold over 500,000 units, earning the group their second gold album. Cop this album as well and tell me it ain't a classic.

How ill is the cover to Business As Usual, (1990) their 3rd album? Already managed by Russell Simmons' superstar management company RUSH Management, this album was their Def Jam debut. Signed initially to Sleeping Bag Records, the group was at this point, widely recognized as being unfuckwitable as far as being on top of their rap craft. Once the record company folded, it was a no brainer for Def Jam to sign them as they had already proven themselves to be rap superstars. Having famed comic book artist Bill Sienkiewicz illustrate the album cover further proved that EPMD was now certified as being in the big leagues, bigger budget and all. Still, the group maintained their hard-core underground aura with tracks like "I'm Mad", "Hardcore" and "Underground". So authentic were they that other rap icons pledged allegiance or claimed to be down with them. Most evident of this was rap legend LL Cool J who realized he desperately needed EPMD in his life in order to extend his rap shelf life. Featured on the track "Rampage", LL spits like he's so happy to be down and appear on the track with EPMD. Around this time, he also cops a bit of Parrish Smith's slow flow battle rap style and it shows on his own classic album "Momma Said Knock You Out", especially on the cut "To The Break On Dawn", which featured a brand new LL sounding very much like Parrish, the Mic Doc's student. Not deviating from their prior albums, EPMD continued to bring their brand of funk, gully, story telling and pure dopeness to fans ever hungry for more. Another highlight is on the track "Hardcore" which finds the group introducing the latest member to their growing posse, a young and very deadly Reggie Noble p/k/a "Redman". Like the first two, this album ended up selling over 500,000 units earning the group their third gold plaque. At this point, are some of ya'll still even considering M.O.P. as even being equals? Grab this up, let it bang on your cerebellum some, then let me know if you still wanna maintain such blasphemous thoughts.

Business Never Personal, (1992) the group's fourth album was with no question, the hardest one they dropped. Darker than the prior three and clocking in as their shortest (under 40 minutes), this was true black hoodie rap at its best. Maintaining underground status, EPMD took more creative chances with their story telling and concepts. "Who Killed Jane" proved to be the best of the series. "Headbanger" once again featuring Redman cemented these dudes as the best in the hardcore genre. "Cummin' At Cha" featured another collabo with the latest members of their squad, Das-Efx. Short and sweet, this album sadly resulted in the end of the EPMD era as the group disbanded shortly after it dropped, due to infighting, reportedly over money. As producer of most of the groups material, Eric Serman had been receiving the lion's share of dollars and allegedly both members of the group were allegedly involved with gun play and violence towards each other. Fucked up shit!!! Even though they would later put aside their differences and regroup in 1997, "Business As Usual" proved to be the group's last classic album, the fourth of four consecutive stellar joints. Like the prior three, this album also went on to sell over 500,000 units, earning the group their fourth gold album. Few duos kept it as gully, as hardcore, as underground as EPMD while at the same time getting their commercial props on. Peep the album here. Then let me know who in your top whatever ever dropped four consecutive classic albums in a row. Other than maybe A Tribe Called Quest, all I'm hearing is crickets. I took a drive from New York to Ohio several years ago with my former business partner. On the way down, I decided to play the four albums from front to back and back to back. By the time we landed in Ohio, dude was like, "wow, I didn't realize EPMD were that dope." No kidding asshole. As fires as they are, there's no way I'm listening to four M.O.P. albums back to back. Them dudes scream so much hardcore that I might end up cold punching my moms dead in her mouth. And that's where the genius in EPMD lay. As other groups straight strained their vocals to position themselves as being all rough, tough and stuff, these dudes did it on that mellow tip, jokes, singing and all. Everyone still knew they might get shot if you tested them. I lay the greatness of their albums out for you here. Feel free to play them all front to back and back to back. Then get at me. I'm waiting.

2. Showmanship Like I mentioned earlier, these cats knew how to rock a show. I saw them several times and they always killed it. Small venues as well as large arenas like Madison Square Garden. Didn't matter. They always delivered. Peep this lil clip here and tell me M.O.P. can do this shit. Rap, dance, breath control and maintenance of gully. Go head, show me. Dudes were true masters on stage and as a customer, you knew you were always going to get your monies' worth.

3. Impact On The Genre Not only did they build the house that hardcore underground rappers like M.O.P. claim, EPMD also affected the language that rappers and fans alike spoke. Phrases like "Audi 5000", "Swayze", "Ghost" are stiil used in certain circles of this here rap thing. That's crazy being able to add slanguage to a peoples' vernacular. EPMD did it several times, and with ease. They were that dope.

4. Rap Spin-offs K-Solo, Das-Efx, Redman, Keith Murray. At the end of the day, EPMD alone remains responsible for introducing us to a slew of incredible artists. All I'm counting from M.O.P.'s end is Teflon. And he's awright.

5. Most Influential I can go on an on, but I'll end this here. Guaranteed, ask your favorite rap duos out, M.O.P. and OutKast included, who influenced them the most. Other than Run-DMC and maybe a couple of others, I can bet they'll all say EPMD. Ask Robbie even, as he goes in and continues to kill the game in them exclusive interviews he drops over at Unkut. Ask him to start asking rappers who influenced them, who fathered their style, who made them wanna be as dope as they wanna be, most cats will say without hesitation, EPMD. I see him at Unkut throwing jokes about the group's history, about their storied break-up, abot how Eric Sermon jumped out the window, literally, and how he stays as a prime suspect over at the Pause Police. But in the end, how relevant is all that extraneous activty when compared to the legacy that the group left us with? Like comparing apples to oranges.

Not trying to come off preachy, but not trying to let shit fall through the cracks, give this group the effin respect and credit they deserve. EPMD remains the best rap duo of all time, bar none.

This was a Combat Jack, Daily Mathematics Public Service Announcement.

Blaow!

Combat Jack vs. Unkut: EPMD > M.O.P. Pt. 1

2009-06-09T18:47:00.000-07:00

It's been several days, sorry I kept ya'll. Don't know if its how I claimed it the other day but June has really been hectic, on the productive tip though. Getting that outdoors, away from the computers and firewalled from the Matrix, face to face Spring time. Face to face with some of my fellow internets fam even, the cats that stay plugged in to plug you in 24/7. Took some time off to see whats happening in the real world, and with real life flesh and blood people. Whaddup Maya? The one dude that I should'a connected with but stays mad elusive is the homie Benhameen of Please Don't Stare fame. That knicca stay keeping it busy, and moving too. That's cool though, we'll catch up soon enough, especially since me, him and my dude and official leader of the Internets Celebrity movement, Dallas Penn have been talking recently about joining forces to throw an Internets picnic possibly next month, possibly here in Brooklyn. It's a movement for real. DP, Ben, I had to put it out there.

Then I'm running a Lyor Cohen piece with me and the original T.I. spitting out "fuck you's" to each other and with no smiles, just straight ice grills and what not through my head, letting that one marinate just a while longer. Working on the new Daily-Math.com site too, with the help of my younger brother Blackneck. Blackneck is crazy nice with his tech IT skills. Nice with the keyboard too. Peep his work over at Barack's Alter Ego. No nepotism. Anyways, I'm pimping my blog game up, just a bit. CJ can get wavy too. Peace to Max B.

But I'm straight lying when I'm talking that being cut off from the Internets speak. Twitter's been keeping a Black man plugged in and present like a muh fucker. Straight around the clock like a crackhead in the summer streets plugged in. If you're not yet jacked into the Twitter-verse, shame on you. You need to just grab two silk scarves and go David Carradine yerself, but with your socks on. [||].R.I.P. to Kwai Chang Caine .

So a coupla days ago, I'm processing all the brain candy that Twitter has to offer and I see a tweet from fam Robbie of Unkut. If you don't know, Robbie is that white from Australia who's a grand master historian with this Hip Hop thing. Dude stays uncovering rare historical data about cats and the movement from way way back. Kills it with his interview game too. If you haven't done so yet, do yourself a favor and visit Unkut for straight edutainment.

So in this one Tweet, Robbie's let's fly how "M.O.P. are rap's greatest duo....yeah I said it." I check him to see if he meant that M.O.P. are rap's greatest duo...only after the great EPMD. Only because I assumed it was common knowledge to anyone down with this rap jazz thing that EPMD was only Hip Hop's greatest duo ever, especially a knowlegeable guy like Robbie. I really thought dude was joking, and that I was somehow not in on the joke. Robbie then hits me with how he's all serious and how EPMD fell off on the fuckery tip and I'm like whoah, dude really believes that shit. Then this dude Chuck "Jigsaw" Creekmur chimes in and co-signs Robbie faulty claim. I never personally met Chuck other than through Twitter and he seems like a pretty smart and witty fellow, at least from what I pick up from his Tweet drops. Word on the streets even, is that he's the guy that created some big time fancy web-site a few years ago called All Hip Hop. You might of heard of it.

Not wanting to get into a rant about the error of their ways, I offered Robbie the opportunity for him to validate his claim over on his site, like there's some possible way he could, while I would continue to do what I do here when I drop that science. Plus I saw this as me doing the community service thing by letting Robbie know that on this one, he had to pump his breaks. No shots to my white, but ya'll know how ya'll do when ya'll become way too knowledgeable on that cultural shit, eff around and start rewriting things, next thing you know, it'll be common knowledge that Eminem discovered Hip Hop.

So for the next few paragraphs, please allow me to break down in nothing less than cold hard fact, how EPMD is not only greater than M.O.P. as a hip hop musical duo, but remain to this day, the greatest Hip Hop Duo Of All Time.

For simplicity's sake, ignore the fact that RUN-DMC ever existed.

In my opinion and to my knowledge, the greatest Hip Hop duo currently in existence, with no doubt, is M.O.P. Comprised of members Billy Danze and Lil' Fame and properly repping the Brownsville section of Brooklyn, the "Mash Out Posse" have been masters of that underground hardcore bang sound since 1993 when they dropped their first single "How About Some Hardcore?" The song struck a nerve amongst the rap fans that were fiending for that gritty classic New York boom bap sound. Did you know that the video for "How About Some Hardcore?" was directed by then unknown video director Hype Williams?

16 years in the game, M.O.P. have been in it and fighting tooth and nail to gain the reputation of being the true kings of gully NY that they so much deserve. Endorsed by several of the genre's legends, including DJ Premier and Jay-Z, the closest the group came to receiving both critical and commercial success was with their 2000 release of "Warriorz", a classic cd containing two of their biggest hits "Ante Up" and "Cold As Ice", two joints that banged hard in the gulliest of clubs near you as well as receiving radio airplay. M.O.P. does hold the title in having recorded the hardest rap song ever made. It's been proven by the World's Council of Scientists that "Ante Up" is the hardest song known to man. Really. Heh.

Signed to Loud Records/Sony/Columbia when 'Warriorz' dropped and poised to blow, M.O.P. got caught up in office politics when the label unexpectedly folded, instantly killing all chances of further marketing and maximizing in the capitalization of such a classic of an album. Stranded and left without a home, M.O.P. was soon signed to Roc-a-fella Records, then helmed by Jay-Z and Damon Dash. The group continued to show how much of a winning streak they weren't on when Roc-a-fella Records founding partners split, leaving a huge question mark over the future of M.O.P. as recording artists.

Right after the Roc-a-fella split, things looked kinda bright for M.O.P. when they were signed to 50 Cent's new G-Unit label, along-side Mobb Deep. 50 wasn't playing with M.O.P. either, had them knicca's in the gym doing straight push-ups and calisthenics and what not. That must have been an effin sight to see. But for some reason, the union wouldn't last and the group left the label last year citing "creative differences". They managed to keep the internets buzzing recently, behind the fact that they've been steady working on their new album "Foundation" which is scheduled for commercial release later this year on E1 Records, formerly known as Koch Records. "Foundation" promises to feature joints produced by DJ Premier, Alchemist, Statik Selektak and Jake One. Expect some guest appearances from Busta Rhymes, Jadakiss and Heltah Skeltah. Little known fact, did you know that their second album "Firing Squad" held the title of being the most stolen cd from the HMV music stores in New York City back in 1998? That's really true. And really another example of how gully this group is.

I so want M.O.P. to win. Ever since "Warriorz", I've been praying to the rap gods to bless them dudes with rap star fortune. I've always seen M.O.P. as having the potential of becoming rap's next Run-DMC. They are the ZZ Top of Hip Hop. All they ever needed was for someone like a Rick Rubin to get behind them creatively and marketing wise, give them the right touch to their sound, produce the right videos that would edge them into being recognized by the masses as being the true rock stars that they are. Hopefully they'll be able to pull it off with their next album. Trust when I say I'm keeping my fingers crossed for their win. Not only do they have songs for days, but will murk it dead and bloody with their lives shows. Seasoned veterans that they are, no one is doing that straight up scrunch your face up music as I'm punching your man dead in his face for scuffing my kicks in the mosh pit. Word to Brianna Latrise. They remain the greatest rap duo out today.

But they ain't EPMD. Can't even hold a candle to them cats. And that's no way a shot fired. Just is, like how water is wet.

NEXT: Incontrovertible proof of EPMD being the Greatest Hip Hop Duo Of All Time

Robbie must be smoking that meth, which I hear is all the rage down in Australia these days. You can peep his argument for M.O.P. here.

UPDATE: That dude , Chuck Creekmur that I mentioned hit me with the tweet: "For the record I never said M.O.P. > EPMD." I stand corrected.

Jay-Z "D.O.A." Radio Rip

2009-06-05T18:54:00.000-07:00

The only 40 year rapper still doing it like this. History was made tonight as fans worldwide waited in anticipation as to whether Young or Old Hov was gonna be in the building. General consensus is that Jiggaman came back, and with an effin' vengeance.

Further documented proof that Hip Hop is still alive.

Boom.

Shyne, The Last Bad Boy

2009-06-02T22:27:00.000-07:00

1997.

It had to be around 9:30 am. I was in the office extra early that morning, like around 8:30. I usually got in a little after 10, but I had some contract work I needed to squeeze out. The phones usually started ringing at 10 am and after 11 the rest of my day would be held hostage by back to back meetings that I had lined up, going 'til around 7pm. Focused in the early morning quiet, I was interrupted by my office phone ringing, the 1st call of the day clocking in at around 9:45. I picked it up and was introduced for the first time to Manny.

On the other end, Manny was fast talking, laid back, not frantic, but talking fast about this artist that I needed to hear. How he heard my name ring around from other Brooklyn cats that came through his barber shop which was located on Flatbush Avenue and Maple Street. How Don Pooh (who was Inga Marchand p/k/a Foxy Brown's Manager) had told him about some of the clients I repped and how some other heads present co-signed. How Clark Kent, also a patron to the shop, insisted that he call me in order to get their legal business proper and right. Fast talking about this kid named Shyne, who Manny wanted to manage, and how he was that next dude from Brooklyn to stand up and rep the borough thorough and how he wanted me to draft some papers on him a.s.a.p. Trying to get back to work, I told Manny I'd take a meeting with him later and what my fees would be for my efforts. Manny kept talking, wouldn't let me off phone. Said he had Shyne with him, up early and ready to take care of business, asked me if I wanted to hear him spit over the phone. Like I wanted to hear some dude rap over the phone at 9:45 in the morning when I was hard pressed to finish papers for a client that had paid me in full 3 weeks back. Manny was too good though, kept talking until Shyne did get on the phone and spit. Fire. I tell people this as I say it here, at the time, to me, Shyne sounded more like a younger version of the young Jay-Z then he did B.I.G., maybe it was because he'd heard how I had worked with Jay and Damon, or how his voice was coming out through the phone. But, the kid was dope. I squeezed Manny and Shyne in for a meeting that very same day.

When they came through, Manny was all movement and words. He was a regular Brooklyn dude who knew some key people in the industry but needed an insider's co-sign to fully get in the door. Shyne was going to be the artist that would enable him to move from being barber shop owner to respected exec in the game. Most engaging and charismatic, Manny spoke like he was destined to make money. Spoke like he knew about having had money too. Later on, I'd hear rumor's about how respected Manny really was in the streets, how he stayed knowing the right people from all walks of life and how tight his money game really was. Shyne, the rapper born Jamal Barrow was more laid back. Looking like the 20 year old kid that he was, he spoke on how he was born in Belize, how his estranged father was a politician, the Prime Minister there, and how he and his mom had moved to Brooklyn in his mid teens because in Belize, they were shunned and not welcome in sharing in the wealth that his father had access to. He also spoke about how in just a few years, he had developed a knack for hanging out with the wrong people. Had done some grimy shit that resulted in making his every day in Brooklyn a dangerous one. How he had picked up rapping and really discovered he had a passion and a skill for it. How Big died and he was more than ready to put BK on his back. He spoke that confident braggadocio talk that rappers talk, but he came off as being decent kid who had seen some rough times and was more than ready to make a change with his life and for the better. By this time, I had my law partner and our assistants in the office. I asked Shyne to rap some more and he did. At that point we all agreed that dude was talented and that there was a deal out there to be made.

Since Manny wanted me as his lawyer, I called Matt Middleton to let him know I was referring Shyne to him as a client. Matt was working as a D.A. in the NY District Attorney's office. A graduate of Howard Law School, Matt was good friends with a lot of people I knew and worked with in the industry. It was common knowledge that Matt would make that switch from DA to entertainment attorney soon. He was already moonlighting with a handful of his own clients and I felt Shyne would be a great add to his practice. We negotiated a management contract between Manny and Shyne. Manny paid me on time and in cash, which I had no problem with. I did have a problem having to meet him at his shop at night, in the basement, with dudes there helping to close shop as he counted through crisp paper bills. Manny was no doubt cool and on the up and up, but I still wasn't 100% comfortable with having to pick up cash in the basement of a barber shop on Flatbush Avenue and Maple street at 10pm at night from someone that I had recently met. I'd seen those scenes before in more than a couple of mob movies and wasn't even trying to remotely end up getting whacked.

A couple of months passed. Manny prepping Shyne in putting a demo together. Shyne and Matt and Manny taking meetings during Matt's lunch breaks from his day job. One day I happened to run into my boy Darrell. Darrell was an A&R at Elektra Records, a label that was part of the Atlantic Warner umbrella. Elektra was run by the legendary music exec Sylvia Rhone. I stopped by Darrell's office to see what he needed, what Elektra was looking for, any songs, producers, or better yet new recording artists. What I needed was to get an artist a deal, take home anywhere between $25,000 to 75,000 based on the type and size of the deal. Darrell wasn't looking to buy big, but he shared that he needed someone to ghostwrite some songs for their artist, MC Lyte. Elektra felt she had one last record in her with them and they were on the hunt for new material. I instantly thought of Shyne, how he was always writing new shit. By this time, Matt had left his old job and he, I and a couple of other attorneys were office mates in our own office located on 42nd Street and Park Avenue. Grand Central Station. After the meeting, I went to Matt's office, told him I needed to take his client Shyne to a meeting with Elektra and about the MC Lyte thing too. I called Manny and let him know I was trying to get Shyne work as a writer, get his name out there one way or another. The following day, it was just me and Shyne waiting in the lobby at Elektra, waiting for Darrell to call us into his office.

Shyne was more than ready. He pulled out a notebook with some material he had written for Lyte the night before. Rhyming from his book and from a female's perspective, Shyne had been diligent about his craft, professional about this opportunity and he killed it dead. Darrell was stunned, speechless and stammering about how dope Shyne was, how he so desperately needed his boss Sylvia to meet, see and hear Shyne, and as soon as possible. Elektra didn't have a strong Hip Hop roster while a couple of blocks away labels like Island Def Jam/ Universal and Bad Boy/ Arista were dominating the genre with artists like DMX, Jay-Z, Ja-Rule and others. Puffy himself had become a household name. Sylvia so badly wanted to talk shit to Def Jam, Universal and Bad Boy. Let the big boys know that she was to be respected as a serious contender in the game.

The following day Matt, Shyne and Manny met with Rhone. She was blown away by Shyne and was more than excited to sign him. It was the end of the year though, and the industry was winding down for the holidays. She had the lawyers from Elektra working on the contracts. Shyne would be signed to Elektra as their top rapper. They had even dropped MC Lyte from their roster in anticipation of Shyne coming onboard. Matt was ready for a big check and I was ready to get a piece of it as my referral fee.

A funny thing happened during the holidays. A lot of the same top execs liked to vacation at the swank island of Saint Barth's. It so happened that during this go round, Sylvia was hanging out with Chris Lighty who was then a big at Def Jam and Sean Combs. Story is as the weekend progressed, every time Sylvia saw either Puff and/or Chris, she'd taunt them with "Ya'll niggas ain't got shit on my next artist Shyne. You watch whose gonna be that top rapper next year." Especially when she had that liquor in her. So certain was she that Shyne was going to be signed, sealed and delivered by year's start, she felt free to talk shit. It didn't help that Clark had already co-signed Shyne to Puff, and hearing Sylvia's boasts only magnified his interest in the young Brooklyn rapper. What she didn't expect was once they were back in the privacy of their private lodgings, both Chris and Puff were heavy in research mode, calling every and anyone in New York City to find out if they knew anything else about this kid named Shyne that Sylvia wanted to sign and how soon they could set up a meeting with him. By the time she landed back in New York, Sylvia quickly and painfully realized that the decent deal she had placed on the table to lock Shyne down as an exclusive artist was now being flanked and dwarfed by both Def Jam and Bad Boy. Overnight Shyne and Manny were thrust smack dab in the eye of a biding war storm. Word spread like fire, Shyne was going to change the world. Execs from other lables tried to put a bid in. Shyne and Manny took all meetings. But it came down to Elektra, Def Jam and Bad Boy. Actually, once Def Jam and Bad Boy joined the party, Sylvia Rhone and Elektra became an after thought. There was no way in the world Elektra stood a chance once two of the biggest rap labels at the time put their offers in.

Funny how I find myself repeating this over and over again and at the risk of sounding like a fan, a Stan even, but fact of the matter was that no star shined brighter than Puff's at the time. No doubt his glow was hot when Christopher Wallace was alive, but once he got himself together over the tragic murder of his friend and marquee artist, Puff's heat intensified by the multiples. The Combs' name became hotter than the Bad Boy label, hotter than hip hop itself. Hollywood, pop culture media, and non-related business legends like Donald Trump wanted to be affiliated with Puff in order to further lend credibility to their own existence. I remember having a convo with Puff's trusty attorney Kenny Meiselas as he himself was bugging out at the meteoric rise of his hottest client. "Puff right now is hotter than the Beatles!" he claimed. Of course Kenny's remark was off, but during them days, not by much. Chris Lighty, Lyor Cohen and Kevin Liles put their A game to task, shit Def Jam had indeed proven itself time and time again to be the Harvard University of rap, but Puff always had that way of getting in, in a way that no other label, no other music exec could ever match. A couple of meetings, some hang out time and it was a done deal. Shyne enlisted himself as a Bad Boy member for life. Puff did have to come out of pocket though, Manny was a true street dude and no way was he going to let Shyne sign a deal just on the strength of another man's hype. Matt Middleton received a great paycheck behind that deal, and in turn, he blessed me. I still thought it was funny how, as a new music entertainment attorney in the game, Middleton had to be one of the luckiest guys I knew, walking into that Shyne deal and then picking up Def Jam's soon to be mega star, Earl Simmons p/k/a "DMX".

Shyne took in all of this new found attention that he received. I can only imagine what went through his mind, his mother's only son, virtually abandoned by his high office holding father, left to raise himself on the mean streets of Brooklyn, a wholly different country from where he was born, where he grew up, finally to be accepted by the top players of the surreal world of the music industry. Puff ate up the fact that he was victorious in his bidding war victory up as well. Shyne became a valued member of his entourage. On Grammy night 1998, I was at a post celebration party when Puff, Shyne and the rest of the crew made their grand entrance. Shyne was dipped out in the illest gear, rocking jewels that sparkled so bright they damn near lit the place up. It so happened that his attire was completely identical to Puff's. Being that I had a good relationship with him, I pulled him to the side, intent on giving him some honest advice, "Yo Shyne, no matter what you do, stay focused on your game man. No offense to either Puff or you, but don't get so caught up in dude's movements, in his lane. I've seen too many people crash and burn because they followed Puff's map as opposed to their own." Not looking offended, but definitely affected by my comment, Shyne backed up, looked and said "I hear you man, but understand, I'm a grown man, I'm my own man." During this short courtship period, Puff wasn't just the owner of the label as well as the top creative guy who had full and complete creative control over Shyne's music and image. He had also become Shyne's mentor, replacing perhaps the void left by Shyne's father. And for that, Shyne was indeed Bad Boy for life. Money, fame, power, Bad Boy was his new set and nothing was going to come between him and his new family, nothing. In return, as his voice changed slightly, and as was captured on new recordings, his voice being compared to the deceased crowned prince of the label, Shyne was treated like the prodigal son who had returned home.

Hard at work and intent on making a classic album, Puff, Shyne and rest of the team went in. The instant change of lifestyle to Shyne was dizzying. It didn't help that Combs was currently involved in an uber high profile relationship with Jennifer Lopez, darling Hollywood star and credible mega pop start herself. Shit was like that Cinderella story for Shyne. And quick too. Still, the problems he had back in Brooklyn never went away, as a matter of fact, they intensified. Jealous by his rise, foes of Jamal Barrow made it loud and clear that there was no love for Bad Boy's newest star. Threats were made as to setting Shyne up, robbing him even. Then there was the fact that his mother still lived in the borough, unprotected from wolves looking for a come up against her son. True he did well with his deal with Bad Boy, but he hadn't yet reached the level where he could roam anywhere and freely with paid professional security by his side, moving with him at his whim and in tow. Plus, some beef started to brew between he and members of Big's crew Junior Mafia. Offended at the thought of Bad Boy's new rapper making a name for himself by "jacking" Big's style, it was now official that Shyne best not get caught out there alone and unprotected. As official as Manny's name was in the streets, Shyne more than knew what time it was. He'd already survived being shot in the chest, way before the music thing, and there was no way he was gonna allow himself to ever get caught out there like that again. Deal or no deal.

I heard about the shooting incident the morning after it took place. Actually, on my way to the office, I overheard two girls talking first hand about how "all of a sudden they started shootin' in Club New York and we bounced." It didn't resonate until I peeped the news on NY1. How Shyne, Puffy and Jennifer Lopez were involved in a shooting the night before. How they went to the club to celebrate the end of a very good year. How one of the fellow party goers, Matthew "Scar" Allen, peeped the Bad Boy crew in the house and stepped to them, allegedly throwing money in Comb's face all the while making threats and what not. How even though Puff was more than protected by his security, Shyne pulled out and fired shots in the club, some claiming that shots were fired back. How three people had been injured by the gun play, and then the car chase from the venue, with cops hot on Puff's tail, and a gun being thrown out of his car during said chase. At the end of it all, Shyne and Puffy were charged with numerous crimes. Shyne was fighting charges of attempted murder in the second degree, assault in the first and second degrees, one count of reckless endangerment, criminal use of a firearm, and criminal possession of a weapon in the first and second degrees; Puff for felony gun possession, and one count of bribing a witness with a diamond ring he had received from Jennifer Lopez. The resulting trial was an all around cluster fuck, with both Shyne's and Puff's loyalty to each other being severely tested as ultimately one of them had to go down for what had taken place on that fateful frantic evening. In the end, Shyne, living up to being Bad Boy for life, kept by the code of no snitching as he assumed full responsibility for both being in possession of an illegal firearm and actually firing it within the crowded club. He insisted it was all in self defense. In the end, Puff was acquitted of all charges. Shyne was convicted on two counts of assault, including a first-degree count, for shooting one of the party goers in the face, reckless endangerment and gun possession. His sentence, ten years behind bars.

To date, Shyne has been incarcerated for eight years. He's up for parole on December 1st, 2009, although it's been reported that his new legal team is pushing for an early parole hearing allegedly scheduled this month. I got a call from him a couple of years ago, and we shared a very brief conversation in which he said how he was holding up, how he was staying positive despite his surroundings, how he wanted to thank me for being instrumental in helping his career from the start. I told him how, even though I couldn't, how I wished there was something I was able to do during that whole ordeal to help him from landing in his current situation. That shit was real. Not saying that dude shouldn't have been held accountable for his actions, not saying that at all. Looking back on the whole thing, it's just another unfortunate story of a good kid with the best of intentions, getting caught up in a fucked up situation solely based on his environment and his more than dire circumstance of having to prove himself, having to fight his way out of a perceived life or death scenario. I hope that Jamal Barrow is granted and early parole this month. In my opinion, he's been through more than enough. And all for being a loyal kid, intent on protecting someone who had become a mentor and almost like father figure to him. Being that Puff has since completely cleaned up his business' original image, look, sound and reputation, Shyne remains the label's last true Bad Boy. Shyne my dude, keep your head up.

There is a happy ending to this story. My man and Shyne's former manager Manny is currently doing incredibly great as the celebrated fast talking and very media savvy manager of top songstress Keisha Cole. Keep doing your thing my dude!

June FTW!

2009-05-31T22:28:00.000-07:00

I've been running that a lot recently. For The Win! That phrase is dope. Just saying it, blogging here or letting it fly on Twitter makes me feel good. Feeling good is important. Essential even. It's good for me. You too. June is here peoples, does that make you feel good? I dig when the start of a new month arrives. Trying to face each 1st day as a starting point. Reinvigorate my determinations, my goals, my energies. Use those annual 12 dates to evaluate how I did between now and the one from last month, how much I accomplished or how far back I backslid fighting this round of life. Or not fighting, just showing up, ducking from the blows, blocking some, catching major ones too, a right to the jaw, a knockout punch landing solidly to the left temple. Lights out, bright blinking lights on and off. Waking up in confusion after the fight's over and wondering what happened between the moment I stepped into the ring and now. And if I fell off, on or around what day of the month was it? Just so I can better peep what my thoughts, words, deeds were then and are this time around. See what adjustments need to be made so the steps I took to ensure my fall off last month won't be repeated this go round. Knowing too, that if I fall off again in the future, which will most definitely happen, that I won't be down on myself. Get up, re-lace the gloves, and start swinging. For The Win.

Cause and effect is strict. Hard body too. It don't care as to why you did certain things, what the intentions were, just what ripples were put in motion based solely on your acts. The big ones, and the small ones. The big causes we make are easy to see, because they're big. The smaller ones are the ones that get you though, the ones close to impossible to spot. Impossible to spot but so easy to do. Habitually. Tens to hundreds to millions of times even. Eventually, billions of tiny acts manifesting into big ones. Splashing, creating ripples across the universe, major waves too. And eventually, like clockwork, we get back all that we put out, a universal law like gravity. What goes up, must come down. What goes out, must come back.

They say our actions are caused by our thoughts. Thoughts that turn into words. Words that turn into deeds. That being the case, our thoughts bring us to where we are. Thoughts bring into our reality what we think. And how many thoughts do we have, per moment, per millisecond, constantly determining what we say, what we do? You ever try to keep track of all of your thoughts? All of them and all the time? Better yet, you ever try to control your thoughts? Think about it. Think about it hard enough and you might get scared in realizing how much our brains, our minds that are like little computers, are so much in control...over us, and the control we have over our minds, not so much. Our thoughts are nothing but electrical currents. The greatest conductor of electricity is water. Isn't the human body made up of 75%, 80% water. Better yet, isn't Earth composed primarily of water? Isn't the Universe made up primarily of water? Think about it.

Thoughts, words, deeds. Words are powerful. Words are becoming much more powerful by the moment now that technology has afforded each and every one of us the ability to connect to so many others, instantly, globally, electronically, though the power of the Internets. It astounds me when I take in the fact that based on a thought, any random or recurring one, at any moment can manifest into the deed of writing and shooting something off into the blogosphere where it becomes ingested into our collective consciousness, not knowing how many tens of hundreds of millions of effects will be caused, domino knocking into domino, endlessly across the universe. Who could have predicted that the advent of the Internet, an invention created by cold technology, would usher in the advanced evolution of man's thought power? The ability to virtually touch and effect any and everyone jacked into this matrix of life. And at the touch of a button. We're evolving right before our eyes. We are so far ahead of ourselves that we're actually behind. I think that in the next 100 years, our heads will expand, like how those aliens from outer space look. It almost has to, what with all this information we mentally ingest, process, store away, until we're ready to use said information in any manner we choose.

Bad thoughts always seem to come easy. The pace of our daily lives in this new age of thought power almost require that we think bad of things. We're wired like that, a negative energy creating being always ready to shit on any thought, word, deed and in turn any possible positive outcome that seems too good to ever become true. Someone once told me that in a given setting, you can receive 100 heartfelt compliments and one complaint. And when you sit down to reflect on the events of that setting, the one that will ring most loudly is the negative one.

So then we do the dance, where we eff up, or let our minds trick us into thinking we did bad, we fell off, to the point that we start to beat ourselves up, dirty little thoughts creeping in, and about how we might not be good enough, will never be good enough, won't ever accomplish this, that or the third. Worse yet, we slander ourselves with the one thing I truly believe to be a sin, self guilt. Allowing those little thoughts of guilt and doubt to creep in, until we eventually become what our thoughts created. To those that claim you have no idea what I'm talking about I call bullshit. That "I'm always on, never could fall off" parlay is certified grade A industry talk. Game talk. I know too well and intimately that kind of talk. Especially when it's show time. There's nothing wrong with game talk, just don't delude yourself into believing your own hype. You're just setting yourselves up for a bigger fall down the road, one you might not be able to bounce back from.

Where am I going with this space aged type rant? Dunno. What I do know is that recently, two of my peoples very close to me have been diagnosed with Cancer. The disease. Two different healthy and VERY accomplished successful men that I've been fortunate to have in my life. One even, who never ever drank or smoked anything in his life, who played mentor to me throughout the years, ensuring that, based on his past experiences and his continued guidances, that I would always land on my feet, be back in the game, and for the win. He taught me that in this game of entertainment, one has to work double, triple, quadruple overtime to create the hype in one's name, in one's product, in one's brand. Then one has to work way harder to avoid falling into the trap of actually believing the hype they created, because once one believes their own hype, it's guaranteed game over. I've seen first hand many people in the industy eff that lesson up. I've dropped the ball with that one myself. The other one, a man so damned successful, with a beautiful wife, and stripes upon stripes of of victorious business ventures behind him, and both now facing this new kind of obstacle, looking at it face to face, eye to eye, and each wondering to themselves, "What the fuck way can I knock this bitch of an opponent out?" And me going in, deep and asking myself, "what the fuck do I do to support them, to pay back whatever lessons and opportunities they blessed me with, and without a trace of pity?" Or, "who am I to even think I can help them in any way since I've never had to deal with anything as serious as this?" Those little negative thoughts creeping back in, limiting my ability to dig deep into the universal collective that we all share for an answer, a solution.

The greatest trick we've managed to pull on ourselves is creating the illusion of scarcity, of division, of separatness, of us vs them. Of good vs. evil. You do know the universe is anything but scarce though? Far from that, the universe is abundant. You do know too that we're not separate at all, not divided one bit. We're as separate from each other and the universe as an individual wave is separate from the ocean. Also too, that each and every one of us and at any given moment, has the potential for great good as well as great evil. And as long as we are alive as a species, the most important battle that we will face on a daily basis until either we cook ourselves up with them nukes we keep building and in storage, or until the sun burns out is that inherent battle between our innate negative selves and our higher enlightened selves. And through practice, although seemingly impossible, but if committed, we can control our thoughts, if we so commit ourselves to observe how we think and moment by moment. That's a lot of effin effort. But it is possible.

Placing myself in a situation where my thoughts reach many, I want to do my best moment to moment, use this mighty tool of technology to create value in any way I can, so that it resonates positively to those my words reach, and hopefully resonates back with equal positive value. Trust, I'm not on some preachy, holier than thou vibe, I'm not that goody conscious knicca either. It's easier to sit here and type shit that will result in throwing folk under the bus, you've seen it, I've done it before, might very well do it again. And again. Especially with this thing called Hip Hop. Trust how I felt like clowning on that Eminem/ Bruno thingie from the MTV Movie Awards. But I also want to become that more aware, able to take full responsibility for all of the unseen and tangible actions and the causes I make. Become that dude that eventually becomes so fully aware that my thoughts and words and deeds create that kind of value that can be an endless source of comfort, encouragement and inspiration for myself and for my peoples, effecting us all to dig deep into our universal reservoirs, to find within ourselves that which will ensure complete victory over the destructive threats of things like Cancer that lay ready to rip viciously through our bodies until there's nothing left for us to justify our existence on this plane. In the here and now.

June 1st is here peoples, a wonderful time of the year for self reflection, for re-determination, for rejuvenation. So sorry if this is not the type of stuff that brings you here, I can zone out like that. But I truly do respect you all, your humanity and all the individual scenarios that play out in your individual lives. And I truly want each and every one of you to take a step back, truly appreciate all that you are, all that you've accomplished, and most importantly, all that you want to be. Let's get out of the way of our success, out the way of our health and happiness. Life is a truly incredible blessing, even when that cotdamned rent is due, and each and every one of us are more than capable of becoming our best self's ever. I'm learning more and more to appreciate and to love every moment of life, and every instance of connect that I make with each and everybody that I come across during my time here. In person, or electronically, through the blog, email or Twitter. June is here my peoples. Let's go effin hard this month, harder than we did the month before. Let's do this month big, and most definitely For The Win!!!

Please note, I did not drop any types of hallucinogenic drugs such as ecstacy and what not during the writing of this post. Just sharing what I feel.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled program.

"Drag Me To Hell" Movie Review

2009-05-29T19:25:00.000-07:00

Guaranteed Spoiler Free!

I figured I would take my 11 and 12 year old sons with me to see the new Sam Raimi flick "Drag Me To Hell", especially since it's rated PG-13. Having basically grown up with the Spiderman franchise and blowing their minds by having them view "Dark Man" earlier this year, they were psyched to see another Raimi production. I also groomed them over the years to have at least a sense of respect for the horror genre. Some nights, as I'd pop "Night Of The Living Dead" or "Halloween" in the dvd player, I'd beam as a proud father as I watched them from afar with their little faces frozen in fear as they took in some of my favorite scary movies from years past. Still, as we walked into the theatre, I could see some nervous glances coming from them, uncertain as to whether they would survive the hell they were about to witness. The result as the credits scrolled up the screen? We had an effin blast!

Revered as a true master of horror after he dropped "Evil Dead", "Evil Dead 2" and "Army Of Darkness", fans have been eagerly awaiting Raimi's return to scary movies, especially since he blew up and became known to the masses as a bankable blockbuster director. From the opening scene, Raimi lets you know exactly what you're in for. Simple, brutal, blunt, loud and to the point, you know that beyond the confines of the safe little "real" world we live in, there are evil scary things laying right beyond the edges of reality, demons waiting patiently for any of us simple mere mortals to fuck up, eff around with the wrong ancient artifact or the wrong person to unleash or catch a curse giving them a pass to enter our world, long enough for them to exact all types of hellish fuckery and what not on that unsuspecting ass. Catch the right curse, best believe those devilish bastards will be taking your twisted ass back home with them, leaving your torterd soul to squirm in fiery damnation as you eternally burn in hell.

You've seen the commercials and the trailers, you know whats next. How the cute Blonde bank loan officer Christine Brown (played by Alison Lohman) decides to play heartless as she denies the elderly gypsy woman Mrs. Ganush (Lorna Raver) an extension on her delinquent mortgage payments which will result in the bank seizing Ganush's home and leaving her homeless. How Mrs. Ganush curses Lohman with a special express one way ticket to Hell. How Lohman catches it every which way as supernatural forces torment the remaining moments of her life, how she desperately enlists the support of her boyfriend Clay Dalton (Justin Long), fortune teller Rahm Jas (Dileep Rao) and trusty exorcist in waiting Shaun San Dena (Adriana Barraza) to help her out of this jacked up predicament. Believe me, I can't give anything away about this piece, not because I don't want to but because there's nothing more to it than what you already know. No twists and turns, no "I didn't know it was him that did that" kind of moments, no surprise endings. None of that. Written by Raimi and his older brother Ivan, "Drag Me To Hell" is one of the simplest movies, plot-wise that you will see in a very long time. And that friends, is a very very good thing.

Raimi didn't need anything to stand in his way as he created this masterpiece. Not even an R rating. I admit I was disappointed when I initially learned of the movie's pre-teen friendly rating but since 1981 when his first movie "Evil Dead" changed the game, Sam Raimi never let me, let us, the movie goers down. I knew for sure, with his return to horror, that "Drag Me To Hell" was going to be entertaining. And that is exactly what this movie is, pure unadulterated entertainment. No over the top blood and gore, even though the movie goes over the top and will gross you the eff out, especially since Raimi goes all juvenile and sophmore-ish with the gross out scenes, filled with so much wet nasty shit that you'd never want to witness and experience in real life. No over doing it with trying to scare you shitless, even though I jumped more than a couple of times as things went bump in the dark, in the night, and even during some very bright sun-light filled shots. Yes, you will be jumping, and jumpy through the entire movie as Rami lets loose with the frights and the chills. I was also concerned about some of the special effects and cgi scenes that were featured in the trailers and commercials. I hate movies that rely too much on obvious cgi special effects, maybe because the outcome always comes off looking way too fake for my liking. Raimi applied just the right amount of cgi, even where it looked like it might be too much, too fake even, but it all made sense, maybe because what was transpiring on screen was so god damned way out that the cgi made it all make sense, brought it back to Earth. You'll understand when you see this.

What I didn't expect when I copped the tickets was how funny this movie was going to be. This movie is straight certified comedy, people in every aisle laughing loudly and almost throughout the entire movie comedy, EVEN as we jumped and screamed and ducked from the thrills and scares. And not funny in a sadistic "damned she got eff'd up" way. Or that nervous laughter to let up on the horror intake. I'm talking purposefully funny, in how the characters react to situations, the things they say, even as they say them with straight faces, and yes, even the way she and they get physically assaulted. I haven't laughed this hard at the movies since last summer when I peeped "Pineapple Express". I remember when I first saw "American Werewolf In London" and being blown away at how John Landis was able to deliver the perfect combination of comedy and horror. At the time, I thought that movie would forever be the best of that combo. No more. "Drag Me To Hell" snatches the title for "funniest horror movie" as it compromises nothing in it's delivery.

As the final credits rolled, with me, my boys and the rest of the audience clapping, still laughing, still marveling at the horror we just witnessed, still taking in all the understated over the top moments and regaining our senses as we prepped to re-enter the real world, when lights came back on, I realized that what we all shared as a collective audience after this short and sweet gem was over (99 minutes in length) was nothing but sheer fun. Without shitting on the seriousness of the genre while at the same time, not taking said genre nor himself too seriously, Raimi once again demonstrates why he's a master of his game. I might have felt a bit guilty as I tortured my boys when they watched "Halloween", might have crossed the line even when they sat through "Nightmare On Elm Street", but none of that guilt, that 2nd guessing myself took place here. This movie should fall under the category as being a funny entertaining piece that incidentally happens to be a horror flick. Without going too far, I'd venture to say that this movie provides full "wholesome" entertainment for the entire family, kinda in that roller coaster amusement park kinda way. I urge you all to run see this. Bring the entire fam (get a sitter for kids under 11), make this that first date joint, take your moms even. Even those that hate scary pictures, please see this and trust that you haven't been entertained like this in a long time.

Back in 1981, when he was an unknown independent director unshackled by the constraints of Hollywood and its suits, then 22 year old Raimi went buck wild and held nothing back as he and his brother Ivan had fun shooting "Evil Dead" on a shoe string budget. Watching "Drag Me To Hell", it's so obvious he had just as much fun making this, like he was 22 again, only with a bigger budget. "Drag Me To Hell" will definitely make you feel like a kid again. And in a very good way.

Combat Jack On Kedar Massenburg

2009-05-26T13:01:00.000-07:00

I don't remember specifically when our paths crossed, but from what I remember, he knew me before I knew him. I didn't really know how impactful I was in the industry at the time, being that 1st entertainment attorney in the game that claimed hip hop culture. The attorneys before me were at closest, of the '70's soul and '80's r&b school. The rest of them were Jewish. But I stood out, people took notice, and I couldn't keep tabs on the hundreds of people I was meeting when I jumped in the industry. I do remember being at a music conference when dude informed me that he had just been admitted to the bar as an attorney. From the gate though, it was clear that Kedar Massenburg wasn't interested in repping music clients as a living, he had his eyes set on a bigger prize. I learned that he was from the mighty borough of Brooklyn, that his brother was Daddy-O of Stetsasonic fame. I even remember him cutting his entertainment teeth as Stetsasonic's manager. We always kept it moving, but whenever we would bump into each other on 57th and Broadway, or at some industry related function, Kedar was always talking money, big money.

I started to take note one day in the summer of '94. I was chasing some model chick at the famed Coffee Shop restaurant in the Union Square section of Manhattan one lazy Saturday afternoon where I inadvertently bumped into him. As we talked, he started picking my brain about label deals, joint ventures and partnership deals with major labels. Being that I was still learning from the attorney who was training me, I gave him some answers that I had overheard from my mentor as she was negotiating the bigger deals. Kedar was hungry for knowledge, especially in learning how to come up on the big deals. The chick I was chasing had brushed me off so I opted to talk more shop with him. He was with an unknown young songwriter and future recording artist. Introduced him to me as Michael Archer, p/k/a D'Angelo. Kedar was going on about how he and dude were going to change the game. He invited me to check out some unreleased songs D'Angelo had recorded as we rode in Kedar's brand new drop top Benz. It was crazy, riding in the Benz, driving through the city, me, Kedar and the unknown D'Angelo, listening to joints that were banging. You don't need me to tell you how ahead of the game his music was. Kedar kept going on though, about how he wanted his own label, was going to have his own label. He wasn't showing off either, he was more like a very proud kid that had completed an incredible science project, ready to share with the world his accomplishments and ready as well to claim all the rewards that he knew he already earned, way before they were presented before him. Kedar was very proud indeed.

Being that he stood at around 5'5", off the bat you knew Kedar had the Napoleonic thing going on. Especially whenever anyone mentioned Puffy around him. I made the mistake once of saying something about Puff's deal with Arista, and Kedar went the fuck off on a tirade. "Fuck Puffy, he ain't the only nigga making money in this game!!!" Thrown off by his outburst, I backed off. I didn't get the impression he was hating or being envious of Puff in any way, he seemed more like he was tired of always hearing Puff's name associated with success and money when Kedar himself, set in launching his own empire, his own dynasty was barely if ever mentioned in the same conversation. I wish I earned $100 every time I'd hear Kedar say "Fuck Puffy, he ain't the only nigga making money in this game!!!" It was almost comical how he would go all "Eff Puff" whenever someone mentioned Sean Combs' name in his presence, almost like he was subconsciously waiting for it. In retrospect, it all makes sense now. Like I mentioned many times before, during that period, Puff really was the center of the music industry universe and almost every credible producer, a&r and exec was following his movements, so much to the point that they'd recklessly swerve way out of their own lanes in order to emulate Combs. Most of those execs eventually crashed and burned, eff'ing themselves out of the industry. Kedar was different, was loud about being different in that he had his own vision which was completely different from the hip hop influenced r&b and r&b influenced hip hop movement that Puff spearheaded. If it took him "hating" on Puff to stay focused on his vision, his goal, his lane then so be it, let the Puff hate flow.

D'Angelo's album "Brown Sugar" was released in June 1995. That album was a monster. Although r&b, it didn't exactly fit neatly in that category, especially with its jazz, soul and more than subtle hip hop influenced undertones. The industry took note and Kedar capitalized overnight by coining the term "Neo Soul" as the brand of music that D'Angelo dropped. In one fell swoop Kedar had "created" his own genre of music. I don't really eff with what they're calling "Neo Soul" these days, too much coffee shop, incense burning and dread locked for my taste, but when it dropped, when that sound was new, fresh and original sounding, Kedar did what so many couldn't do, he created his lane, peeped his own niche market ripe for the picking and summarily locked it down. It helped that Kedar had picked up the r&b crooner Joe under his management company. Joe also had buzz on the airwaves and Kedar had the industry where he wanted it, eager and ready to eat from his hand, and on his own terms . Fuck Pufff and Bad Boy for real, he set up shop, his own Kedar Entertainment label at Universal. Made them pay for "giving up his freedom". I'd run into him more frequently and whenever I'd congratulate him, or ask him how things were going, he'd let out that "Fuck Puffy" line. He kept it real though, one of the few industry execs that really spoke his mind and remained uncompromising in how he viewed his role in the music industry. He stayed getting in people's ass as well. Dude wasn't one for the bullshit and if he felt it was coming his way, he go off in a minute. To many, he was an asshole, unnecessarily aggressive, verbally combative, you know, that Napoleonic thing. But even though I saw many times and firsthand how he would go off, I always found him to be respectful, at least where I was concerned. He was one of the few Black execs who congratulated me when I got married. More than a few others were discouraging by reacting like I eff'd up. I got the impression that Kedar valued the concept of family. He stayed looking for a mate to claim too. He loved smart women, especially fellow attorneys.

He stayed being on a roll too. Dunno how he kept consistent, where he found the unique artists gifted with their unique artistry, but he stayed finding them. His next artist, the first on his label, was Erykah Badu. Her album "Baduizm", dropped on February 11, 1997. Badu was dubbed the "Queen of Neo Soul" as that genre gained a female spokesperson for the movement. The record made a lot of noise. The T.I.s at Universal loved him, better yet, tolerated him for the time being, the market that his brand and his artists spoke to championed him as a visionary. I made it a point to remain on Kedar's radar. Be it me shopping a new act or just connecting to build, Kedar's doors were always open. I think he dug the way me and my firm stayed keeping hot acts too. Sometimes, he would ask what I thought of this or that act that he was considering signing, or what I felt was hot on the streets. Not that I was an A&R, but he knew I stayed in the streets, in the clubs, he respected my opinion. Kedar stayed candid too, about how even though he was the new Black dude in the limelight, the minute he wasn't hot or had a series of flops, the T.I.'s would have him disrespectfully escorted out the building with the quickness. Especially since he made it a point not to kiss ass. No doubt he loved the fame and the money he was making, the luxuries he was able to buy, but he stayed away from the Kool Aid. He knew that as the highest ranking Black man in the Universal building making as much noise as he was, that at any given moment, he was expendable, that his head would be the first to roll. I think that's what kept him on point, and competitive, and aggresively cussing out fools. From my vantage point, he fought hard on behalf of his artists. Kedar stayed checking anyone he felt was trying to shit on him, his brand, his artists. He was also known as a taskmaster to anyone who was on his team. Not as abusive as other execs like Damon Dash, but Kedar seemed like he was ready for a battle at any moment, with anyone. He loved his artists though, and it seemed like every time he turned one into a household name, they'd flip, drunk in the heights of their stardom and turn to bite the hand that launched their careers. D'Angelo eventually fell out with Kedar. Erykah stayed giving him mad drama.

It was around this time that I got a call from him. Said he had been thinking about it and wanted me to rep two new artists that he was signing. One of them was Chico Debarge. The younger brother of the '80's brother act DeBarge, Chico had a troubled past, having been imprisoned and serving time for drug trafficking. Kedar loved Chico's pedigree, while at the same time seeing how his stand alone bad boy image would fit perfectly as his next Neo-Soul ambassador. Being that the relationship between Kedar and D'Angelo had deteriorated to the point that their issues were being "worked out" legally, Chico was tapped as as that next dude. Plus, after his stint in prison, Kedar saw the potential in marketing DeBarge with a image far different from his prior glammed out one he previously shared in connection with his asscociation with his DeBarge brothers. Referring clients my way was big on Kedar's part. Other than Puff who referred a couple of clients our way, Kedar was one of the few execs of his level that referred work my way. He knew how rough it was out there for young Black attorneys and unlike other execs like Chris Lighty who made it a point to steer clients away from their Black attorneys and into the arms of the white firms, Kedar understood the importance of supporting Black owned businesses. Like I said, a lot of people may have bad things to say about him, I don't have one.

Chico was mad cool when we met. It was apparent that he had been through a lot. He also felt good about the direction that Kedar wanted to take him. The studio sessions were amazing, seeing dude in action, hearing the soul, the musicianship, the pain flowing from within his life and out onto his work. It was a humbling experience for me. Exciting too. Intent on making sure things went as smooth as possible, Kedar made sure Chico had everything he needed in order for him to deliver the quality album Kedar was expecting. Personally, I think Kedar gave artists way too much, especially how at any given point and out of the blue, artists would flip and play that "I'm being taken advantage of" victim role. "Long Time No See" was released on November 18, 1997. Another classic record. Played like a rap album, but in r&b. Was received with critical acclaim. Unfortunately, because of it's sound and Kedar's association, Chico and the album were both unfairly compared to D'Angelo and his work. Although it did well, it wasn't as major a success as D'Angelo's "Brown Sugar". Too early and too soon to get out from under D'Angelo's shadow. Soon after the album dropped, Chico hired a two man management team. Real niggerish goons they were. Reptilian even. Thuggish and all about getting money by any means necessary, Chico's management seemed more intent on damaging Chico's relationship with Kedar for the purpose of squeezing more money from the label instead of building on the headway and goodwill the two had established. As Chico's new management was busy trying to devise way of getting Chico off of Kedar's label for the purpose of signing elsewhere for more money, I remember getting an angry call from Kedar, screaming, cursing, accusing me of trying to get Chico to double cross him, stab him in the back, how eff'd up I was, especially since he referred Chico to me. We fought, and even though he definitely made some enemies along the way, we cleared shit up. Over the years I learned by observing him that the harder you went at Kedar, the harder he would come at you leaving nothing resolved in the end. The more I deflected his attacks without counter attacking but hearing him out as I made certain he heard me out, all the while standing my ground, the calmer he'd become. Chico eventually bounced as my client though, claimed I was deep in Kedar's pocket when I was far from it.

Having delivered successful records, Kedar was next tapped for his most difficult task yet, resurecting the once legendary Motown Records, a label that was now under the Universal umbrella. He also retained a Vice-President position at Universal. Well beyond it's heyday of the '60's, '70's and even '80's, Motown had become a struggling label. Several seasoned execs had been hired as it's head with the goal of reviving Motown, but time after time, they each failed to breath life into the dying label. Still, Kedar seemed like the most likely candidate to succeed. Not only was he a proven success, Kedar seemed like a throwback to the record men of the past, the Berry Gordy's, the Clive Davis', passionate about the music, determined to instill showmanship through intensive artist development, intent on preserving the culture as well as being concerned about the general well being of his artists. We spoke when he was working on a Motown Stevie Wonder project. Not only was he amped in working with a living legend, he was confident that he was able to make him modern, current. Kedar seemed like he finally found the project he was waiting his entire life to work on. Dude was genuinely happy, like working with Stevie was the culmination of all his prior efforts. Plus, he made sure his hands were dug deep in Universal's pockets and as long as he delivered. Kedar made sure Universal paid him like they respected him. The money he made was, of course, very respectable. He no longer had to cuss Puff from afar as it was now well known that Puffy wasn't the only nigga making money in the industry. As head of Motown, he worked with artists Brian McKnight, Bebe Winans and Michael McDonald and also introduced Neo Soul artist India Arie. We did a couple of deals with me landing some of my clients on the Motown roster. Even though Motown never regained the luster it once held in the music industry, in Black and pop culture, Kedar was successful in ensuring that Motown broke even after more than a decade of losses.

After a good run, Kedar quit his position as head of Motown. Word was that the higher ups were planning to prepare an "exit" package for him, not in a good way and definitely not in connection with his performance. Politics was the culprit. When he inadvertently found out they weren't being straight with him, Kedar stepped to those in charge, calling them out and demanding that they be men enough to be straight with him. When they continued in playing dumb, he flipped them the finger and left with all his dignity intact. He left with good coin as well. Like he should have. He played his chips right though. Word is he currently owns a vineyard and through a partnership, actually has his reputable own French wine K'orus on the market. Crazy, I'm wondering if he's the only African American to be that high up in that industry. Eff that Crunk Juice and Sizzurp, Kedar kept it rich and classy. He also keeps his hand in music, but away from the razzle dazzle of lies, deceit and politics of the majors as he runs his independant label Kedar Entertainment Group, where his cornerstone artists remain Joe and Chico DeBarge.

Not saying that Kedar Massenburg is a man without faults, this isn't that kind of Stan piece. Talk to several others that worked closely with him, I guarantee you'll get a different story, a different opinion of the man. I've heard their stories too. All sides can be true and valid. Still, in an age where our music has become disposable, where the concept of artistic development, class, honor, passion and originality is at most laughable, I look back a few years and can say with honor that I had the fortune to work with legendary execs like Kedar. I write this because we don't get to celebrate the accomplishments of men like this too often. Kinda like dudes like Kedar never existed. Not being a pessimist, but I write this because I feel that the game doesn't produce execs of this caliber anymore. And it won't be for a long time coming.

LATE PASS: I Think I'm In Love

2009-05-22T11:28:00.000-07:00

I don't really follow this Charles Hamilton rapper dude with the Sonic The Hedgehog fetish too much. I think I'm kinda too grown for that. Plus, I'm not trying to post up every event that goes down in hip hop. But this lil clip right here that's been circulating across the blogosphere of late is a real gem. Peep Charles. Peep the woman featured in the video. Peep what goes down. Really, shorty's whole steez, from her hair game, to the lil rasp in her voice, to the really cute around the way girl look she rocks so reminds me of the girls I used to love when I was a yung'un coming up in Brooklyn.

None of my shorty's ever rocked me like this though. She most def has a future ahead of her.

"Gangsta Bitch" - Chronicles Of A True Hustler, Pt. 6

2009-05-22T10:12:00.000-07:00

Previously: Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Pt. 5

Just in time to wrap up the week, as well as to bless ya'll with some reading material during this Memorial Day weekend, the homie T just dropped his latest installation of "Chronicles Of A True Hustler". T, for real my dude, thanks so much for putting in so much of your time and life stories onto this blog. It's really appreciated from my end. To you, the reader, I now present to you, Pt. 5 of Chronicles Of A True Hustler:

Despite the new threats brought on by our move to build up DVP, I still had to commute across town to Bay View/Hunter’s Point for summer school, 21 Hayes to the 24 Divisadero. Phillip Burton Consent Decree Academic High School was an old school with a new name. Chicken, who grew up in HP went there when it was a junior high school named Pelton. He said he fucked his 7^th grade teacher. Yeah right, and if so, I wasn’t so lucky. After my 9^th grade year I was invited to leave by Mrs. Howell, the Principal, who very candidly explained that she didn’t see me succeeding there. I admit, I wasn’t taking school seriously. Mrs. Howell did me the favor of letting me transfer to another school to prevent her from having to go through the trouble of expelling me.

Galileo was where I should‘a been any way. It was where kids who attended Francisco Middle School graduated to. I wouldn’t have lasted long with a daily bus ride to enemy territory, so Gal was the move. But, had I not returned for that summer semester at Phillip Burton I would have never met Rachel. Rachel was Italian. With a last name like Guido, what would you expect? Standing about 5’5’’, thick-cut, thick brown hair, I thought she was cute. I sat directly behind her and Ice sat to my right. Ice was DVP and would be my dealing partner for a while. All three of us cracked jokes and made the time fly. Rachel and I hit it off. She wasn’t like other girls.

On our first date, I told her to meet me at the Valley at 8pm. When she got there, she was supposed to page me with the secret code I’d given her, which she did. But, by the time I got to the turf, there was a crowd gathered in front of Ed’s Liquors. Pushing my way through the crowd, I realized that Rachel was on the ground tussling with one of the young girls from the set; pulling each other’s hair with one hand and punching each other in the face with the other. I wasn’t about to get involved in that shit. Rachel came to the turf for the first time and was already hot. I was feeling how she was handling herself, though. She wasn’t afraid to throw ‘em. But, she was going to have to fight her way out of this one on her own. I wasn’t siding with her in a beef on our first date.

She was so gangsta. Sitting behind her in typing class I had no idea how deep her grind was. Even though I had seen my uncles either pimp or marry white girls I never thought I'd ever be with one. Either white people are just like black people, or Rachel was the blackest white girl I had ever met. Rachel’s stepfather, Sonny, mentored her in the art of paperhanging, what old school hustlers used to call identity theft. Sonny was a master. He had tutored many a white girl in the art of long drag; paperhanging plays could sometimes take weeks to set up. If you got a good run, it could last for months. She also cared for her two younger sisters while her mother served a bid on forgery charges. Sonny was old school, had to be in his 50s though he looked much, much older. His right hand man was another OG named Mohammed, who always dressed in a 3-piece suit, overcoat and brim…never said much. And when he did cosign Sonny’s crazy ass, you wouldn’t hear much more than a mumble. They were both hooked on heroin. Sonny had been addicted for so long he had a permanent curve in his back that kept his head low and made him lean forward when he walked. Even if you and Sonny were the same height, he always managed to seem like he was looking up at you.

Sonny and Rachel would buy a Spread, the remains of a stolen wallet or purse after all the cash had been taken; driver’s license, credit cards, check book. If the original owner bared even a remote physical likeness to Rachel she would assume the woman’s identity, opening new accounts at multiple banks. Next, they made cash deposits of their own money into the various accounts and allowed the money to season. This was called padding the account. Once the account was seasoned, checks and credit cards were issued and the shopping spree began.

Armed with a new, fully-loaded counterfeit Spread, they went from mall to mall, city to city; Stones Town Mall, Serra Monte Mall, Tan Foran Mall, Macy’s, Wilson’s Leather, Nordstrom. Focusing on big-ticket items they used fingernail polish remover to remove markings from receipts that identified the transactions as charge or check purchases in order to return items to the retailer for cash refunds. If that didn’t work, they sold items on the street at a discount. Rachel was the first person I ever knew with a Louis Vuitton handbag in 1986. Nordstrom’s was their favorite because of their high level of customer service and lenient return policy.

Sonny didn’t like me much. He complained to Rachel that I was a bad influence on her because I was a dealer. I distracted her from her hustle. It was actually the opposite. We were both very competitive. At the end of our respective grinds we’d meet up at the house and see who had clocked the most. I’d be pulling crinkled up, nasty smelly ass bills from out of my socks, all my pockets, secret stashes in my clothes…and I’d call it, $3,700 for the day. Rachel would go into her Louis Vuitton and pull out over $5,000 in crisp clean $100 bills.

Rachel was a hustler.

"Puff, I Got One Too!!!"

2009-05-20T07:11:00.000-07:00

LEVERAGE. Defined as positional advantage. It means having an advantage over others, particularly when negotiating a deal. Leverage is key. If you ever find yourself having the upper hand in a deal, never ever give up your positional advantage.

Summer of 1996. I was representing Chico Debarge as he was recording his album "Long Time No See". Album was fires. Chico was nutso. Not in a good way either. But this post ain't about Chico. One day, while having Chico sign some papers in a midtown recording studio, I met a young songwriter who was working on some songs for Chico. For the purposes of protecting the innocent, let's call the dude Jake Nimbles. Jake had an attorney, but he sat in as I talked shop with Chico. As I was leaving the studio, Jake asked me for my card.

The next day or so, I get a call from Jake. Says since he already has an attorney, he wanted me to manage him. I told him I don't do talent management on account of how that's the worst job to have in the music industry. It's only worth it if you KNOW your talent will yield money for your efforts, and sooner rather than later. He was persistent though, told me to hear him, hear his music out first before I made a decision. I set up a meeting, just to be courteous to dude. So Jake shows up and starts playing me his music. HOLY MOLEY, Jake's shit is beyond ridiculous, beyond bonkers too. Song after song, I'm hearing hit after hit, and not on that crappy The Dream level ish that's currently effing up the radio, I'm talking Prince, I'm talking Stevie Wonder. Jake Nimble is an effin musical genius!!!!

So I'm reconsidering his offer and we shake hands. I tell him to give me 3 months to rock with him with me as his manager, let me land a lucrative publishing deal for his services as a songwriter. Incidentally, right after I met with Jake, my office gets a call from Diddy's Bad Boy office. My office had that reputation of housing very talented producers and songwiters and the call was about Puff needing a songwriter for this current project he was working on. I call Jake and tell him about the call and his voice over the phone goes all quivery, shaky, like dude is about to cry. Let me tell you more about Jake.

Jake was about 21, 22 years old. His story is the same tragic story you hear about in the news when it comes to stories about the Black family. His mom died from the needle when he was just a kid, pops nowhere to be seen. Already having a kid at an early age, Jake hustled drugs to feed his family and keep a roof over their heads. Having been busted and convicted as a felon, Jake did some time behind bars and was recently released. On top of all that, Jake was incredibly smart, like Einstein smart. Dude was comfortable talking theories relating to quantum physics and alternate realities smart. His smarts also made him a little nutty as well.

Understand the time too. In 1996, Puffy (it's still very hard for me to refer to dude as Diddy) was basically the center of the urban music industry. Everything he touched at the time turned multi-platinum, plus, B.I.G. was still very much alive and killing every track he rhymed on. Jake's quivering voice was an indication of how he felt his dreams were coming true, how he was Puffy's biggest fan, Stan even. He kept repeating over and over how this wasn't really happening, how he must have been dreaming. This whole opportunity was a chance for Jake to finally do right in his life, to finally escape the cycle of suffering and pain his family had experienced for so many years. We go ahead and set up a meeting with Puff at his midtown recording studio Daddy's House. Before I go on, let me tell you more about Puffy.

Somewhere along the line, Puff mastered the basics of the Jedi Mind Trick. What I mean is that dude, in all the times I've met with him in business settings never lets you on to what he's
thinking, especially when he's listening to something you're trying to sell him. As a matter of fact, he's always acted like he was completely disinterested in whatever it was you were trying to get him to pay attention to. I've literally seen him make grown men cry on account of how he would act like what you had was pure garbage, even as he was doing back flips inside on how hot your material was. Acting like this, plus the fact at how dude is basically a living legend almost always gave him the advantage of having way more leverage over whomever he was negotiating against. I knew this going in, Jake didn't.

So we're in the studio, playing hit after hit, Jake is all nervous, sweating even, because Puff is busy cleaning his nails, talking on the phone, calling his assistant in to make sure she ordered the right flavor Snapple, flipping through the Source magazine. The more Puff is acting like he's disinterested, the more I know he's shitting his drawers on how insane Jake Nimble's music is, and I'm already counting the million dollars in my head that I'm about to squeeze outta Bad Boy. So we end the meeting, Jake looks like he's ready to kick rocks and Puff's about to bounce when Jake notices Puff's tattoo on his inner forearm. You might know about it. It's a tattoo of a scroll and on the scroll, there's a quote from Psalm 23 that reads "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death" and what not. So Jake tells Puff how dope the tattoo is, we all shake hands, dap and bounce.

In the elevator, Jake is all sweaty, nervous, whining about how he fucked up, how he and his music is pieces of shit, how he should have taken that post office job his baby's mother told him about a week ago and I'm tryna tell him collect himself, stay focused and cut all that nonsense out. Lo and behold, by the time get to my office, I have THREE calls from Puff not only saying that he wants to use Jake on his project, he's also offering us a deal and kinda begging me not to take Jake anywhere else.

So I call Jake at home and let him know the good news. I hear a thud and nothing. I'm thinking he fainted. Funny thing happens though. Jake's music is so incredible that it's getting around the industry and by the end of the week, I shit you not, we get two more offers on the table, one from Universal and one from Warner Chappell, the music publishing arm of Warner Brothers. Being that we have three offers, basically a bidding war, Jake and I are sitting on a mountain of leverage, ready and waiting to count the fortunes these entities are about to throw our way.

So word gets back to Puff that we have two other deals on the table and he personally calls my office one day on some cuss out shit. Oh, he's cursing me out about how I used his name to drum up interest from other companies and how much of an eff'd up person I am, and how I'm finished in the music game, and my mother is all types of goat and such. As he flinging hateful words my way, I'm laughing inside because I'm really seeing first hand how much he needs Jake in his life and how he's realizing how much he's about to invest in my kids' college funds. I try to diffuse the situation by clappping, saying "bravo" and telling Puff how much he's learning from all them acting classes he's been taking and how convincing he's sounding. I think that made him laugh a bit, he wasn't expecting that, and when he calms down, I tell him that Jake is still open in negotiating the right deal with him. Puff demands that we meet him the following day to see what it is we need in order to close the deal as quickly as possible.

Even though we had our choice of deals, I knew Jake wanted to sign with Puff. At the time who DIDN'T want to sign with dude? I think if I was talented, I would have wanted to sign with Puff myself. I tell Jake what transpired and he shows up to my office the next day for our meet up with Puff. What I wasnt expecting was that when he showed up, Jake instantly pointed straight to his inner forearm, gleefully stuttering in excitement as he proudly displayed a brand new tattoo, IDENTICAL IN ITS ENTIRETY TO THE TATTOO HE SPOTTED ON PUFF'S ARM A FEW DAYS AGO!!! WTF!?! I'm seeing the leverage we built quickly going down the drain and I lose my cool. "What the fuck you doing man, you fucking crazy? Puff takes one look at your fucking tattoo and he'll give us goddamn peanuts on this deal!!!" "This shit is unacceptable and you WILL not let that man see your arm until we cash the fucking checks, you got that?!?" Going off like that, I could tell I threw Jake off, which was good, shock some sense into that knicca's noggin. Even though it was July and like 90 degrees and muggy I marched dude to the nearest Modell's and brought him a brand new hoodie. As he slipped the hoodie on, I ordered him to keep his arms covered during our meeting, let me do what I do to get the best deal possible. He nodded in agreement.

So we get to Puff's, and he's talking about how he didn't appreciate how we got other labels involved and before we start talking deal points, I look around a see Jake's hoodie tossed aside on the floor, Jake all wide eyed, happy and all crazy looking as he stutteringly proclaims "Look P-P-P-Puff, my new tattoo, I got it the d-d-d-day right after I met you, hee, hee, it's incredible right? Incredible! Yea do I walk t-t-t-through the valley.....wow, P-P-P-Puff, I got one too! Where do I sign?"

POOF! Like that, our leverage instantly disappears, like it never even existed in this whole scenario. I'm also a bit creeped out because I'm thinking dude lost his damn mind, really. I look at Puff and I could tell he was a bit creeped out as well, like I just delivered his biggest stalker right to his door step. We end up doing the deal for like 200k, I'm calling the other companies, explaining that they can keep their millions and we keep it moving.

On a good note, Jake's still writing with Puff, with Bad Boy, and he's had a steady string of hits coming out of that shop ever since. On top of that, he's still making good money and lives down south with his wife and kids. We keep in touch and he turned out to be a really good dude. We still even go back and laugh about that whole deal and that tattoo thingie. I'm really glad he's one of the few cats that can honestly say nothing bad about his financial relationship with Puff.

But every now and then, I'm thinking how much we really could have g'd off had he not gone and got that stupid fucking tattoo on his arm.

I wish I could make these stories up.

I'm Kinda Like A Big Deal

2009-05-18T11:16:00.000-07:00

The homie Mookie over at Def Thought thought it would be a good idea to interview me. I was most definitely interested as well as honored. Didn't know he would go that in with regard to my background, but he was able to get more shit outta me on his site that I usually drop over here. If you so inclined to do so, peep the interview in it's entirety over here.

I think dude did a great job, if I may say so myself. Heh.

Return Of The 2000

2009-05-14T18:15:00.000-07:00

So word on the Internets is that I fell off because I cut back on my standard 2000 word posts, which, I guess, is what keeps a bunch of ya'll coming back. Or I fell off on account of how I stopped dropping behind the scenes stories about my days as an attorney in the music industry. Or how I don't really get personal about my daily life anymore. The homie Dallas was like, "CJ, how could you fall off if you ain't never been on yet? Still nigga, you need to feed the beast" I hear him though. Especially since that Vibe Top 50 Blogs list clearly put me in my place. Heh. But yeah, I admit, I did fall back on them long ass posts. Maybe because them shits is hard as hell to keep dropping day after effin day. And for free too. Plus, there's days that I wake up realizing that I don't have shit to write about. Or how some of my industry stories might either be too revealing or too boring for you. But, still and all, I'm a firm believer in giving the people what they want. So I'ma wing this one on some free association ish, you know, go with the flow. Hope you like it.

Secret Wars

Back around '92, '93, there was a secret war going on between LL Cool J and Jay-Z. At the time, LL was sitting on top of the world, especially after he dropped his classic "Mama Said Knock You Out" LP, which was bonkers. LL was untouchable, having earned the title of being a battle rapper as well. Jay-Z, Dame Dash and Clark Kent was on the hunt though. No one was effin with then with regard to giving Jay a shot as a credible artist and they figured if Jay was known as the dude that kilt LL in battle, record labels would take note and give him that much sought after deal. Dame and Clark had the plan laid out, whenever LL was spotted by either of them, they would page each other and Jay and get him to meet at whatever location LL was. This went on a couple of times. Once contacted, Jay would roll up to the club, bar or whatever venue and lay in the cut, waiting for his opportunity to attack LL in battle. Dame would polly with, then taunt LL about how Jay was nicer than him, was ready to take his spot even. LL's ego would result in him agreeing to go head to head against the young and then unknown challenger. They would take the battle to the parking lot, outside of the venues and away from the crowds. And battle they would. Dame and Clark would end up in my office the following day, laughing about how Jay lit that ass up. Every time too. They was a bit sour too, cause after each battle, LL would kill the vibe, crush Jay's high by flinging the "yo, my next record is dropping next month, uhm, when's yours coming out again, scrap?" line at him. Jay, Dame and Clark didn't like that shit. Not one bit. I'm betting those battles are the reason LL is still kinda aggie towards Jay. Don't let his words fool you. Since I was never physically present at any of these "secret wars", I stay begging Clark to let me interview him about those battles for one of my drops. He stays telling me no. I feel I'ma land that soon though. Soon.

Clark Kent and Japan

I met Clark through Damon Dash. I think we were at a Das-Efx recording session at some studio. Around that time, I was dating this artsy chick named Angela, you might of heard of her. Anyways, Angela had picked up a pair of cowboy boots for me. Said I was rocking the Timbs way too much. The first day I rocked them was when I went to the studio and met Clark. The minute we met, Clark started going the eff off on me on how I wasn't a real Brooklyn cat, and a Black dude rocking cowboy boots was the corniest type of knicca walking the planet and all other types of abuse. I was heated as shit about how dude mouthed off, still, I was a professional there to do business and kept it moving. Clark is one of the most opinionated dudes I know. Anyways, we ended up doing so many deals together and grew to respect each other to the point that I'm most definitely sure that he forgot that it was me that he insulted on that fateful day.

Anyways, I ended up doing this one deal where this Japanese company hired Clark to judge a DJ contest in Tokyo, Japan. All expense paid trip, with accommodations at the TOP four star hotel at the time. Clark made sure we negotiated for two tickets as Damon Dash, still a new jack in the game, wanted to experience Japan in all it's glory. So I close the deal, and Clark and Dame are prepped to go. Like three days before their trip, Clark calls me and lets me know that since Damon at the time had never been out of the country, he didn't have a passport, and there was no effin way he was going to be able to get on a plane headed for the far east. Because I had mine, he asked me if I minded taking Dame's place. B, my bags were packed with the quickness.

So after a 14 hour flight we land in Tokyo. It's a Friday night and we instantly hit some clubs. The Japanese treated Clark like he was a god, especially since his skills as a DJ was a thing of legend to them. Naturally, the Japanese chicks were all over dude. At the end of the night, we ended up taking two chicks back to the hotel. All while in the cab, then the lobby, then in our separate hotel rooms, communication between us and the chicks was kinda comical, kinda difficult since Clark and I didn't speak a lick of Japanese and the chicks didn't speak a word of Engrish. Clark and I ended up smashing them broads though. Funny shit is the next morning, when we all reconvened for breakfast, right when we were about to part ways with our new friends from the Orient, one of the broads says in her best broken English: "your hotel much better than De La Soul". Clark and I were speechless.

Sonia

Angela didn't break my heart, she just turned out to be nuts, and when it ended, I was relieved that it was over. Sonia did though. I was at a party down in the Wall Street area. She was there too. A real cute "thick-thin" fair skinned honey with a short cut. A Black girl with natural Blonde hair. Maybe it was her smile. Or the green eyes. Or the way she rocked the Timbs and how they looked with her cut-off shorts. We talked briefly. She said she was a lawyer too. Ah man homie, shit was too perfect. She lived in DC but her best friend was a well known video director who lived in New York and she would come up to the city every week. After the party, I walked her out. The summer night was filled with magic, especially when I saw how she filled her shorts. My game was on point too. Her whole presence had me on bold mode, and I was most definitely focused on the win. I played her mad close, walking circles around her like lion to prey. She loved being preyed upon too. Unfortunately, she had to get ready for her drive back to DC early the next morning. She walked up to her Jeep (tm) and right before she hopped in, she kissed me lightly on my cheek. GOD DAMN, I was open.

You already know how I did it, mad calls one the phone, long distance too. My name in the music game was starting to spread, but my paper was still kinda short. Sonia came from money though. Her pops was on the executive board of some major tobacco company. She grew up in some mansion type home in Connecticut. Even though her family was kind of conservative, Sonia had a rebellious side, she wanted to walk a bit on the wild side. At the time, I was mad cut, I stayed in the gym 24/7 and my shit was 5%/10% body fat. Plus, I stayed in the streets, in the clubs, in the studios, looking for that next star of a client, or that next broad to smash.

Every other weekend, she'd come to Brooklyn or I'd drive to DC. I fronted too. One of my boys Norm, made a shitload of money working on tours with acts like Whitney Houston, Guy and Jodeci. On weekends when he had to fly out of town, he'd automatically toss me keys to his Benz. Whenever Sonia came to NY, or I'd drive to DC, I stayed in the Benz. She knew I had chicks on the side, and I knew she was seeing other cats too. That was the word on the street, how she stayed playing lesser negroes. But our chemistry was right. Her favorite drink was my favorite as well, and when we drank Tequila together, we'd always end up falling way deep inside each other.

There was a couple of times when Sonia was scheduled to come to Brooklyn, when I would miss her call. I didn't have a cell phone then. I'd get home and check my answering machine. I'd hear her message, that she was in Brooklyn, and that we'd connect before the weekend was over. The times that I missed her though, I wouldn't hear from her until like Sunday night, right before she would leave, headed back to DC. Hmmmm. I deduced that she was either hanging out with her girl, the video director and that they didn't need me as a third wheel, or that another nigga from Brooklyn had peeped her style, had found a way to snatch her precious time from me. I knew Sonia played the game well, but damn, in my hometown. I wasn't jealous, we both sized each other up and knew what kind of person we'd be effin with. In fact, her boldness made me like her style that much more. Plus, I was confident that the other cat wasn't giving her what I was, he wasn't giving her what she needed.

We took a trip to the country of Jamaica. Away from the states, our work, her other Brooklyn lover. Man, the open that I felt when I met her intensified. Even though I laughed inside at what the other dude in Brooklyn was missing, what I had all to myself that week, I wasn't too cool with having to share her once we got back to the States. As we were laying in bed, overlooking the ocean view, she initiated the issue. "I have to tell you something, you know I date other people, right?" I told her I knew. Then I carefully cornered her, "I know you're effin with a Brooklyn dude too." Still playing the game, I could tell she dug they way I put the pieces together. I went in "You know, I'm really feeling you, and that Brooklyn dude, you might want to cut that out right now. I know how you and me do Sonia, and we're only going to end up hurting that other dude's feelings. So I'm ready to cut my birds loose for you, for real." She told me she wasn't ready to do that. She then proceeded to tell me who the other dude was. Said she "had" to tell me who he was. When she did, I was stunned, insulted too. Dude was a well known film cat who had mad paper, but pound for pound, he wasn't effin with the rest of my attributes. I let her have it "if you're effin with dude, you know it's only for the money, because there's no way he has ANYTHING on me!" She claimed she was "torn". I laughed it off, and decided to keep it moving. No way was I gonna ruin the mood of our trip. I knew that eventually she would see the error of her ways, especially since I knew how corney the other dude was. Our last couple of days in Jamaica, I made sure to put it down extra heavy, for good measure and just on gp.

A week after we got back, me to New York and she to DC, this other dude releases the BIGGEST movie of his effin career. I open up a copy of the Daily News, I see a picture of Sonia standing next to him at the screening. I'm on the train and the lady sitting next to me is flipping through a copy of People magazine when I spot a picture of them together. I'm hanging with my boys watching the game and all I'm seeing sitting court side is Sonia and this nigga!!!!! Once again, I'm getting joked out by my crew.

Now Sonia and dude become a public couple, but she's still calling me and now on the low. Now she's sneaking to my place for the back shot. Problem is, I'm not with it no more. No way I'm creeping behind that corney ass dude. Eventually, I had to break it off. Dude had edged me out as he was now that main cat and I was on the side. The last conversation we had, she was mad at me for not wanting to continue our thing. I liked it how mad she sounded, the last bit of satisfaction I was able to get out of the whole scenario, knowing she was mad at me cutting her off from what the film cat could never bring. Be it ego or pride or both, I didn't have it in me to move forward. That was years ago. She and dude ended up getting happily married. I still see them in the news from time to time. She's seen me an wifey too. When she first saw her, I glimpsed some of that jealousy pop up. That's what beautiful women do when matched by a beautiful woman. And wifey stays a dime after 12 years and four kids together. In the long run, I lucked out and ended up with just the right one.

Wifey

Blogging

I wish I could write as well as Byron Crawford. Not the hate, that's just his lane, his gimmick, I'm talking about his style, not only the words, but the way he dissects topics and switches to the next issue, then wrapping up his drops perfectly. In my opinion, pound for pound, he's the best writer in the game. I'd hate to have to go pen for pen against dude. I'd go for it though, go for it with gusto, just hoping it never happens.

Dallas Penn is, or at least I believe, my best friend who blogs. That dude's way is some kind of magic, like the only blogger in the world who doesn't get hated on. He's like the magical negro blogger, but without the coonery. It really does feel like he's my brother from another borough. Dude has been in my house breaking bread with me, wifey and the kids. Not only is his future getting brighter by the moment, but I truly believe once we stop bullshitting and eventually team up on some project, we will effin kill the game. Dallas, I'm waiting on you homie.

Still trying to figure out how Eskay stays making all of that money. Not to get in dude's pocket, but the street estimate in terms of what he makes is what I want to make doing this shit. Soon too. I'm impressed by his game. Not mad at his game at all.

This blogging shit is really addictive. Not to take anything away from rappers, from emcees, but whenever I get to writing, really writing, I feel like how a rapper must feel when they think they just spit some hot fiyah. Maybe I'm delusional, but bloggers are the new rappers. And I spit hot fiyah. I'm also starting to see bits of hate coming from some of my fellow bloggers. It's all good though. I'm learning that words are powerful, especially when amplified through the power of technology. If you notice, I'm throwing fewer people under the bus than I did when I started out four years ago. I'm not trying bring no types of bs to my life, I'm only in this shit for the win!

A Challenge To Joell Ortiz

2009-05-13T06:50:00.000-07:00

Whaddup B? Our good homie Dallas was the first person to ever put me on to you a coupla years ago. I checked your performance at Fort Greene Park two summers ago. I even brought my kids with me. No lie, you killed it homie! I've been following your work ever since. I truly dug your album "The Brick: Bodega Chronicles" as well. Very solid work for a first album. Me being a Brooklyn dude for life, and having had the opportunity to have worked with some of the best that BK has had to offer (Jay-Z, The Notorious B.I.G.), I can honestly say with utmost sincerity that you rep our borough well. A salute and props on that.

On top of that, whose effin with Slaughterhouse? Nigga, a four man crew consisting of solid emcees is dangerous and I'm grateful to you, Joe Buddens, Crooked I and Royce The 5'9" for that. There hasn't been a crew bringing it like ya'll in like... forever. That "Move On" joint is on instant classic status. Thanks for that as well. Slaughterhouse is THE rap super group and I will be checking for ya'll like a fiend.

Plus, I just now downloaded your latest mixtape, "Joell Ortiz Covers The Classics (Hosted By DJ Green Lantern)" via Miss Info. I haven't had a chance yet to listen to it in it's entirety, but judging from your previous body of work as well as the buzz it's getting, I'm sure I won't be disappointed. Plus, you get props just on the artwork alone. I'm remain very impressed.

I just now read your comment you wrote in connection with my Eminem "Relapse" review. I'm glad that you read the Daily Mathematics. I do have to say that I'm surprised at your reaction though. Disappointed as well. Especially this part:

"maybe if your gettin 2 grown and have 4 kids a wife and a friend in the hospital maybe you shouldnt listen to rap anymore and pick up a Celine dion cd or some shit because u obviously have lost touch with rap good rap music 2/5? for real what did u give lil wayne? Stop being a hater Combat WACK"

For real B? I'm a hater now? I shouldn't listen to rap anymore? Plus I'm whack? All behind my review? Cool. I'ma let that fly on the strength of my respect for you and our peoples. But. Let me be clear, there's no hate or whack here potna. I ain't a new jack either. If Eminem isn't in my top 10 list, he's at least in my top 20. Dude in his prime would murder almost anyone, bar none. But you know this. On top of that, Dr. Dre remains my favorite hip hop producer of all time. And that stands even though he hasn't dropped anything recently that matches his past classics.

When "Relapse" landed in my hands, please believe that I "ripped" the packaging off, eager to listen to that "heat" that I expected from Em and Dre's reunion. I went in with full concentration my dude. What I heard though, was very much sounding like a poor version of Em's classic "The Marshall Mathers LP" or "The Slim Shady LP". Now a poor sounding version of "The Marshall Mathers LP" could might of been hot in 2000, but it's 2009! Ain't no one checking for that shit today. Unless they are part of that die hard crew of Eminem Stans. Maybe it's just that I expected too much from Em and Dre and "Relapse", in my opinion, proved to be a major let down. What's really funny though is that, in your comment, you claim that you're not a huge Eminem fan. However, most (if not all) of the shots fired my way in connection with my review came from certified Stans. So I'm asking you Mr. Ortiz, are you a closet Eminem Stan?

What I'd like to do, Joell, and with your permission of course, is to challenge you as to the merits of your claims in calling me a hater. And whack. And a new jack. When you have the chance, please go through my entire body of work as the blogger known as Combat Jack. If you can present to me and the readers a clear and systemic pattern of hate seeping through my words, then I will fall back and accept that I am a hater. And that I'm whack. And that I'm a new jack. And I don't need to be listening to rap no more. See, I'm giving you a fair chance for you to prove your words right and me wrong. Back them shits up my dude. Now, you don't necessarily have to accept this challenge, shit we all have more important shit to do. But if you can entertain me (and the blogosphere) just a bit, the challenge is officially placed and firmly on the table. I'll even up the ante and say here and now, that if you do accept this challenge and are able to clearly prove to me and the world all that you claim, that I'm a hater, that I'm whack and that I need to retire from rap, I will officially retire from Hip Hop, Rap and blogging. Word Bond (no 50 Cent). In the event though, that you are unable to back up the validity of your words, then I wager that you officially record a record proudly declaring yourself as one of Eminem's biggest Stans ever. And that you personally record a Combat Jack fan record. I really need my own theme song right about now and it would be a great honor if you were the one that recorded it. You game?

The ball is in your court now. Please feel free in proving me as being a hater and as whack. Simple as that. And please understand that this is no shots fired. I wouldn't do that, especially since you're that nice of an emcee from the mighty borough of BK capable of easily destroying me in one verse. Just a friendly gentleman's challenge. What's it going to be sir? Until then, I'm claiming you as "Joell Ortiz, The Official Em Stan".

And as per your request for me to "pick up a Celine Dion cd or some shit", heh. That won't happen, only because I'll be too busy banging "Joell Ortiz Covers The Classics". "Crime Pays" too.

Get at me Joell. I'm waiting.

UPDATE: Joell's people got at my people (Dallas) and was like "WTF is CJ doing going at Joell Ortiz?!?" They clarified that they ain't that type of blog cats to be leaving no disrespectful comments on blogger's comment sections. I respect that. I respect them too. I take back everything I said. Joell, that mixtape is a gem too potna. I needed that. Still looking forward to that Slaughterhouse joint. Respect.

Fuck though. I'm thinking that I really need a theme song now.

UPDATE #2: Last I checked, Eminem's "Relapse" still sucked.

I Eff'd Up!

2009-05-13T06:37:00.000-07:00

Fucking Cam'ron. I hate that his albums require multiple listen to's before judging the final product, eccentric bastard. Been banging this piece for a week now. An acquired taste yes, but fuego nonetheless. A public apology to all Cam fans.

+ 3/4

Killa!

Late Pass: Wanda Sykes at White House Correspondents' Dinner

2009-05-12T08:01:00.000-07:00

I kinda slept on this, but yo, Wanda stays keeping it 100%. Not mad at her at all.

"This Is A Gang, And I'm In It!" Chronicles Of A True Hustler, Pt. 5

2009-05-10T20:59:00.000-07:00

Previously: Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4

I really appreciate the fact that my friend "T" is extremely diligent in trusting me with his very personal story. I am also very thankful that dude is patient with me taking a couple of extra days to post his work, only because I'm trying to be early with drops like the Eminem and Star Trek reviews. From me to you my dude, THANK YOU.

I also want to go on record and clear up some discussion that popped up in the comments section of Pt. 4 of Chronicles Of A True Hustler. Particularly this comment left by "Anonymous": "This 4th part has me smelling the B.S. or "literary licence" hanging thick in the air, that I suspected from the hop."

To said Anonymous, I'm honored that you do (did) take time out of your day to read my blog. It's unfortunate that you feel that T's memoirs smell of bullshit or that his story lacks credibility. Duecey was a true flesh and blood person with whom T was very close to. She was actually his brother's ex-girl friend. When she died in front of T, the very real connection he had with her at those last moments of her life was of his own recollection of when he himself came very close to overdosing on cocaine. Prior to Duecey's death, T found himself in a predicament in which he chose to swallow a bag of Cocaine in order to avoid arrest, only to later have the bag compromised within his abdomen and him living through the very exact experience that he described as being Deucey's last. In honoring her life and tragic death, the only license he took was in imagining what she must have felt as she lay dying a couple of feet away from him.

That being said, T is slowly stepping away from his hidden alias as he just blessed me with some extra goodies, some true to life pics of him and his crew as they lived through the stories that I proudly present to you. Now, with no further ado, I truly hope you enjoy Pt. 5 of Chronicles Of A True Hustler:

We started out as 89 Mob while attending Galileo High School, OJ Simpson’s Alma Mater. OJ was from Potrero Hill Projects, which eventually turned out to be a pretty dangerous place. But back in 1987, our schoolhouse gang activity was more of a pecking order than serious criminality. Those graduating in ’88 would pseudo-bang on us and we, in turn, would pseudo-bang on the ‘90s, carrying on tradition. Most of us claimed Fillmore so with the turf in common there was no real desire to inflict any lethal damage to each other. Shouting 89 Mob before lumping up schoolhouse homies was just a way for us to stay on our toes and prep the sophomores and freshmen for turf life. When we weren’t in school, we didn’t bang on colors like cats did down in LA. We were turf bound, claiming our set and only really fuckin’ with niggas in our crew. San Francisco is very small. And the SFHA (San Francisco Housing Authority) had a practice of rotating families from one public housing complex to another, such that people’s families would be spread throughout SF’s projects. We never really had to ask, “where you from,” because we already knew. We knew you, probably knew your whole family. You knew us too. We might even be family but that shit didn’t matter. If we weren’t from the same turf, that just might be your ass.

My brother and I took our sibling rivalry very seriously. So seriously, in fact, that we ended up joining rival gangs. More to the point, he joined a gang, Page Street, while I helped form a rival one - DVP. As youngsters Hayes Valley Projects was where my friends and I played team tag, hide and go get it with ghetto girls and pitched in on $5 bags of weed. And best believe, it would be 8 or 10 of us all trying to get high on that one nickel bag and a sole 40 oz. When we were younger, meeting up on Saturday mornings in Hayes Valley on our dirt bikes, always one bike short and trooping up to Golden Gate Park on the hunt for a bike to steal was a ritual. But as we got older we grew tired of stealing and boosting to make up for what our parents couldn’t provide for us. Niggas up the block from us was getting’ money, niggas down the block from us was getting’ money. Why not us?

And at that time and around our way, cocaine was so plentiful. Real good coke, the kind that smelled like a sour dishrag, was only $450 per ounce. But I didn’t start my career as a hustler with a true understanding of the power of my product. I’d spend $50 for a solid rock, take it home and chop it down on the desk in my room, the same desk I did my homework on. I casually swept crack crumbs on to the rug until the carpet sparkled with crack flakes. No one sold crack crumbs back then. Eventually, I would learn how to re-rock crumbs and cook coke into crack. A red flag should have gone off when Moms started volunteering to clean my room. But I was so distracted in being so focused on my grind that the signs of her addiction went unnoticed. Her boyfriend Chicken wasn’t the only crack head in the house.

The whole 89 Mob jumped into the crack game headfirst, all of us except Quince. Quince was more into getting pussy and reading comics than in really living the street life. He decided to bow out of the game early enough to still have his whole life ahead of him. If only I knew better, had better role models, I should have followed him. But the streets felt way more natural to me than being a square. And that's what I felt Quince was when he bounced, a square. Me, I couldn’t just watch shit moving to and fro from the sidelines. Sometimes, when shit was popping and commerce was good, I'd peep Quince glancing over at us as he walked from school or to work, safely across the street from the projects, away from the fray. I can imagine that from his vantage point, he no longer recognized us. To him, it must have seemed like we were just shadows, silhouettes of old friends he once knew, now destined to end up dead, in jail or worse, living the lifeless life as one of the crack zombies we were helping to create.

But we convinced ourselves that Quince was the loser, the mark with no gang, no turf and no hustle. We were determined to get ours, just like the niggas up on Page Street or down in Virgo’s. We called a meeting in the playground. The playground, located at the Northwest corner of Hayes Valley was a patch of old dirty sand, the play structures had long been removed. Shielded from the street, this was a frequent hangout of ours for various reasons; we could see everyone who approached well before they were close enough to shoot, rob or arrest us; there were multiple escape routes including the upper tiers where we could run circles around the average mother fucker. We had been mastered these routes as kids. Now, they were the trade routes we’d use in building our small drug empire.

Our first order of business was to choose a new name for turf because Hayes Valley Mob wasn’t going to cut it. Hayes Valley had always existed in a somewhat gray-area, transient and without any real gangsta lineage. It was neither a hot spot for the Gang Task Force nor a turf worthy of note by respected G’s. We were determined to change that. Our second order of business was to choose new names for each other. But the rule was, you couldn’t come up with your own name, it had to be bestowed upon you by one of the homies. I went from being Unknown T to _____, Sly C became Dark Raider, Sweet S became Loc and so on. We had outgrown our childhood monikers and needed names that spoke to our movement and would call us powerfully into being. The task we had ahead of us was perilous and crazy, damned near impossible. We had to create a gang from scratch and put a turf to be reckoned with on the map.

Hayes Valley rested under the umbrella Fillmore along with our neighboring turfs: Page Street (Tha Capital), Fulton Street (Young Black Gangstas), Eddy Street (Outta Control), Divisadero Street (Uptown) and Central Street (Central). In order to establish ourselves, we wholeheartedly declared that we were not from Fillmore, but that we would solely claim DVP until our turf received the same level of respect from our neighbors that they expected from us. This decision put us in direct conflict with said neighbors as well as exposed us to danger from Fillmore’s rivals from across town; Hunter’s Point (HP), Sunnydale (Tha Swampy Desert) and Valencia Gardens (VG’s). We had seceded from the union and broken the unspoken oath of solidarity.

This meant war.

Terminator Salvation 4 Minute Clip!!!

2009-05-10T18:10:00.000-07:00

I hated that last Terminator flick with the chick roboid. Plus, I'm wary of the upcoming "Terminator Salvation" having a PG-13 rating. Any Terminator joint should be nothing less than R. Still and all, this newly released 4 minute clip kinda looks dope. I made it a point to miss that "X-Men Origins: Wolverine" basura last week. No me gusto basura. "Star Trek" was fuego though. Here's hoping that this flick brings the pain on May 21st.

"Star Trek" Movie Review

2009-05-09T18:36:00.000-07:00

I'm not a Trekkie. Them cats epitomize the corniness in corn ball. I always rocked with the young James Tiberius Kirk though. Maybe it's because my intro to good science fiction, not that throwaway ish, was the original "Star Trek" series, the reruns of which I watched religiously when I was growing up on the black and white tv. Or maybe it was how he matched gully for gully fighting against gully ass muh fuckers of different species.

Or how he smashed the green broad.

The show blew my young mind on so many different levels. The true multi-cultural crew, the depth of the stories, the sets, the special effects, the fight scenes, the technology, like the phaser, the bugged out design of the USS Enterprise NCC-1701A, the sexiness of the women, this show won on all levels and the bar for all subsequent serious science fiction contenders was set extremely high.

The entire cast of Gene Roddenberry's Star Trek were iconic in their own right. Spock, McCoy Scotty, Sulu, Chekov and the incredibly exotic Uhura played by the incredible Nichelle Nichols, that was a team that held Kirk down against all types of intergalactic fuckery. The series ran from 1966 to 1969 when it was canceled due to low ratings. Despite that, the show was nominated for several and won a couple of highly esteemed science fiction awards.

I didn't eff with any of the follow up "Star Trek" series, on account of how, although it seemed as if they retained the smartness of the original, there was no parts of gully. Plus, I didn't like the way they played the brother with the shell on his forehead. Or how they had Kunta Kinte rocking the Kanye West shades. Whoopi Goldberg playing the space traveling Aunt Jemima didn't help the franchise's image in my eyes either. The movie versions were kinda cool, but it was mad distracting that Kirk and Spock visually came off as being mad geriatric. Not that geriatrics can't get down, just that I'm not checking for a gang of them in my sci fi movies. "Wrath Of Kahn" was mos def hardbody.

J.J. Abrams' (of "LOST fame) "Star Trek" wins for all the same reasons the original series won. Instead of further building on the massiveness that the franchise has become, "Star Trek" goes back to the basics, actually a bit beyond. The movie opens up with the very early days of James Kirk and Spock. We get their story, who and why they are, way before we get swept up in all the extra-terrestrial eye candy and story plot that this movie has to offer. And it all makes sense as to why they've been like that. Chris Pine does an excellent job of playing Kirk, and subtly channels the swagger of original actor William Shatner onscreen. Zachary Quinto ("Heroes") is so seamless in his portrayal of Lenoard Nimoy's Mr. Spock ithat I almost forget that there ever was a Leonard Nimoy. What makes their performances so great is that in channeling their predecessors, Pine and Quinto manage to make the old characters theirs. Not like Brandon Routh's performance of Christopher Reeves' Superman in "Superman Returns", where Routh comes off as doing his best Reeves impression.

I saw this on an IMAX screen and shit was awesome B. The Enterprise was the same as the one I grew up watching, but mad brand new. Most of the gadgets too. The old trocorders and phasers, but brand new again. My viewing was like getting a sense of nostalgia from something new in your life. And in a very good way. One of the things from the original series that stayed pushing my little wig back was how they would have members of the crew transport back and forth from ship to planet and back. Watching them flip the transporter in this movie, tweaked just a bit, took me so back to when I used to peep it on the small screen.

The plot ain't bad either. At it's core, this is a basic story of revenge by some gully ass Romulans. Back in the original series, the Romulans were a mean ass warrior race whose intention it was to fuck up your day, all types of ways. Same shit here, with Eric Bana who does an incredible job playing the role of Nero, an evil ass bastard who captains the rest of the Romulan crew. The fight scenes are just right as well. It's so great to watch a Kirk who likes to get hit as much as he likes hitting.

As much as the special effects displayed in "Star Trek" is breathtaking, and there's some real breathtaking special effects, the main thing that makes this movie a must is the cast. Every member of the core crew of the Enterprise revitalizes the roles established by the series 43 years ago. John Cho as Sulu, Anton Yelchin as Chekov and the invaluable Simon Pegg as Scottie make it feel as if the original cast never left us. Karl Urban who plays Dr. McCoy is pure shits and giggles whenever he's on screen. And Zoe Saldana as Uhuru. Oh. My. God. Fine ain't got nothing on sweet Zoe.

There's some time travel stuff going on, and a bit of a mishap in the casting of the original Spock, Leonard Nimoy, as some old Vulcan, but that's a small thing. What's great is that this movie is a well executed reboot of the franchise, so it won't matter if some veiwers are totally new to the "Star Trek" experience. They won't feel like they're missing any of it's history watching this.

J.J. Abrams succeeds in doing something so rare amongst all of these major television to movie adaptations of late. "Star Trek" is most definitely a big screen of a gem type piece, but watching it on that huge ass IMAX screen, all I kept thinking was how magical it was in that it felt as if I were watching an episode of the original series, just on the IMAX and with having to pay $14. "Star Trek" made me feel like that kid from the 1970's again watching the 1960' show.

And that feeling was priceless.

Eminem "Prelapse" Mixtape Compilation

2009-05-09T15:15:00.000-07:00

I remember a few years ago when I had the opportunity to screen "Matrix Reloaded" before it came out. The next day, a couple of people asked me what I thought and I let 'em know how much it sucked ass. Some people were so pissed off at me, like if I said something about they moms. Pissed off in the same kinda way some Eminem Stans are on account of my last post. Heh. Sometimes the truth hurts.

Fortunately, the good folk from Freshly Served knew what time it was and blessed me with a homemade compilation of what they thought is Marshall Mathers' best work. The "artwork" is kinda suspect, but that's beside the point, it's the music that counts

Thank effin' God at the fact that they left off all tracks from that "Relapse" heap o' dung.

You can get it for free here.

Eminem Stans Stand The Eff Up!!!

Eminem "Relapse" Album Review

2009-05-07T19:21:00.000-07:00

It's been five years since Eminem dropped his last lp "Encore", which was at most... meh. His most recent venture "Relapse" found it's way into my ipod today. Here's my review:

"Dr. West (Intro)" - Great intro. Scenario is of Marshall getting "great" advice upon his rehab release from his therapist. Sets up the next song lovely.

"3am" - The sequencing between the last track and this is perfect. I like this here better after I watched the video. Did Dre produce this? Only because I'm not mad at the production. At all. Plus, I'm digging the "Silence of the Lambs" reference. The horns, the keys, that dramatic foreboding tone is all there. Classic Em and Dre (?).

"My Mom" - Nigga, you ain't resolve any of those effin' issues with your moms yet? Em shares with us how effd up his childhood was and how he claims his moms introduced Valium and all other types of shit to him through his food. Marshall, for real, work that shit out or kill her already. This topic is as tired as it is listening to 40 year Jay still rapping about moving weight. Don't get me wrong, the song is somewhat decent, it's just we've been there and done done that already. No typo. Several times. I am firmly convinced that I don't ever wanna hear another song about Eminem's mom ever ever ever again.

"Insane" - Whoah!!! Em's rapping about how he was forced to suck on his uncle when he was a lil' kid? TMI!!! Anyways, this gem is laced with a tired ass sounding Dr. Dre(?) track. On the 2nd and 3rd verses, Em 's flow suddenly sounds like he's B-Real of Cyprus Hills fame. Meh.

"Bagpipes From Baghdad" - This is dope. If it were 1999 again. For 2009, not so much. Oh, he's dissing Mariah again? Why? Plus some shots at Nick Cannon. Dayum. Production sounds like an old Dr. Dre track. But not in a good way. Ah man. I don't think I'm liking where this album is going.

"Hello" - A really meh song trying really really hard to be a meh strip club banger. It succeeds in doing so.

"Tonya" - Another meh song about Em as a serial killer stalking Tanya, Lindsay and Britney. Poor them. Poor me too. There is absolutely zero amount of connect going on between this song and me.

"We Made You" -... fast forward to the next song. And quick!

"Medicine Ball" - Pretty good song, disgusting visuals though. And not that good to steer this cd from the train wreck that I'm foreseeing in the near future. Oh yeah, he fires some more shots at Christopher Reeves, whose been dead for years. What's the point?

"Paul (skit)" - Yet another skit with Em's manager Paul Rosenberg complaining about Em's choice of content and subject matter. He's also telling Em that Christopher Reeves has been dead for years. I'm wondering was he also complaining to Em about how shitty this album is sounding.

"Stay Wide Awake" - Great, another song about murder, and with buzzaws. ZZZZZZZZZ and meh.

"Old Times Sake feat. Dr. Dre" Uhm......................................

You know what? I'm a grown ass man with four kids, a mortgage, a beautiful wife who is wishing I spent less time on the keyboards, a close family member whose facing a potential life threatening disease and all other types of real life issues to deal with. FUCKOUTTA HERE! I'm not going through with the rest of this effin album. Not without getting paid. FUCK THAT. I have better shit to get into, and I deserve way better than this. And so do you. Stay away from this bitch!

On the strength of what I've heard and as extra credit for Eminem successfully undergoing a successful rehab, "Relapse" gets a 2 salutes out of 5 Combat Jack salutes.

FUCKOUTTA HERE!

Combat Jack Presents: Dick On Wheels, Pt. 2

2009-05-07T03:31:00.000-07:00

Previously: Pt. 1

Special thanks to Mr. Dick On Wheels (NSFW) and [||], Dallas Penn and Terrence Cam.

The Cool Kids "Gone Fishing" Mixtape

2009-05-05T19:27:00.000-07:00

When they dropped their "The Bake Sale" ep last year, I was like, meh, decent concept of going retro via old-school as their whole platform, but not much else.

Just copped their latest 18 song mixtape "Gone Fishing" mixed by ATL DJ Don Cannon. The production is dirty, heavy, dense and just top-notch dope. Beats are still on that 1980's vibe but comes out sounding crisp and brand new. Not getting all up in their lyric game, but their '80's flow on top of '808's the way they're supposed to be banged (sorry Kanye) is sounding just right playing in rotation in my system right about now.

Did I mention that this gem is free and just in time for Spring? Cop you a copy here. Tell them I sent you.

Lupe Fiasco x Product Red Converse Chuck Taylors

2009-05-05T11:31:00.000-07:00

I'm not trying to swerve out of my lane and claim to be that sneaker dude like, say the homie Dallas Penn.

And I haven't rocked these since like '88.

Lupe Fiasco can rhyme his ass off, but I'm not really a fan of his.

But cot-damn! I need a pair of these in my life.

The Lupe Fiasco x Product Red Converse Chuck Taylors is f.i.y.a.h!

$100.00 if you can catch 'em.

Cam'ron - "Crime Pays" Album Review

2009-05-04T15:21:00.000-07:00

"Absence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder"

I've always liked Cam'ron as a rapper [||]. Not that he was ever that dope, just dope enough. What I also liked was that Cam's been able to be consistent in being unpredictable, and also, unfortunately, inconsistent. He hasn't always delivered, and even though he actually led the "dumb down rap" movement a few years back when he bum-rushed his Diplomat crew onto rap fans everywhere, Dip-Set thriving on ignorance, stale flow and the same old same old sounding frenetic beats and operatic chorus like production, their movement was fresh and somewhat invigorating. They even managed to drop a couple of classics during their reign. The '90's babies seemed like they couldn't get enough of them. Now in 2009, times have changed, Dip-Set broke up, Cam's former weed carrier and capo Jim Jones stepped up to wrest leadership of the remaining crew and Cam was exiled for a couple of years.

In his absence, all the good shit that I liked about Cam remained fresh in my memory. And when he started making noise about his comeback earlier this year, I was right there, claiming "Killa!", hoping the current underdog would come back and restore order to all this LCD rap flowing out of New York. I got my copy of his latest album "Crime Pays" earlier today and "went in' for the review.

Crime Pays Intro: Slinky Beat, Cam rapping about what his classmates wanted to be in 3rd grade. Standard Cam fare, sounding like circa 2000 - 2006. But in a stale way.

Cookin Up: Sounded better as a leaked track. Same old production. Kinda like a New York Young Jeezy vibe. Cam fires shots at his old crew. Kinda boring though.

Where I Know You From: Actually sounds like an old Jeezy beat. But not in a new way. I'm getting bored.

Fuck Cam #1: Skit about a wino talking shit about Cam. Not funny.

Never Ever: Cool quasi anthemic joint. Cam's old flow, kinda on that "Killa Cam" joint, only lazier.

Curve: A bit more lively of a track. Cam's going in but I'm not really caring at this point. Maybe I should burn something, enhance my senses, 'cause I'm missing the point right about now.

Silky (No Homo): Sounded better as a leaked track. I'm starting to realize that even though he's back, Cam sounds uninspired. Like.really.effin.uninspired.

Get It In Ohio: So new and yet so old.

Who: Funky ass beat with Exorcist horror sounding vocal sound effects. Cam flows but again sounding very uninspired.

Grease Skit: Chick bitching over the phone skit again. Cam threatens that he'll drop a deuce in her car. Yawn.

You Know What's Up (Feat. Co & Sky Lyn): Really bad song about sex. There's TWELVE more tracks for me to suffer through. How ignorant is this, or how delusional was I to think I wanted to suffer through another Cam'ron album? Fuck me!

Spend The Night: Sounded better as a leaked track. Yawn.

Fuck Cam #2. Part two of the first skit. Brilliant. Not.

Woo Hoo (Feat Byrd Lady & 40 Cal): Cam tries to sound excited, maybe because he's sharing the spotlight with 40 Cal and Byrd Lady, but I'm really no longer interested. This album gets worser and worser. There's effin NINE more songs to listen to. Not happy about that at all.

Chalupa: I just gouged out my left eye to distract me from the pain I'm forcing myself to go through.

Cookies N Apple Juice (Feat Skitzo & Byrd Lady): Sounded better as a leaked track. I think I still like this, but I don't care anymore.

(I Hate) My Job: Best song on the album so far. But it's too late because now (I Hate) this album.

Homicide: Please, kill me now. Really.

Fuck Cam #3: Uhm, word.

Got It For Cheap: Got it for free and I'm still mad. Sounded better as a leaked track.

Get It Get It: Decent soulful feel to the production. Sounds kind of like a personal heartfelt joint, I'm just missing what exactly I'm supposed to feel though.

Bottom Of The Pussy: It is what it sounds like.

Fuck Cam #4: He said it, not me.

You know how when they dropped Nas' "Lost Tapes" and it was really really good? "Crime Pays" is like Cam's "Lost Tapes", tracks that were lost and unreleased between his "Purple Haze" and "Killa Season" albums, except that these tracks should have remained lost and unreleased. To his credit, I get the feeling that Cam'ron put a lot of work in this album, but only to make it sound kinda meh. Unlike the production work found on Jim Jones semi-classic "Hustler's P.O.M.E.", the old Cam/ Dip-set sounding production work on "Crime Pays" doesn't work in his favor, we've been there and have heard this way too many times before. Maybe Cameron Giles really went through all the personal shit he claims to have gone through during his absence because he's really coming off sounding very depressed and uninspired. This album is kinda like that old love you broke up with years ago, only to try and make the relationship work out of a sense of nostalgia, but right after that first date, you remember why ya'll broke up and KNOW it ain't gonna work no more.

With "Crime Pays", it's official, The Dip-Set movement is finally dead. Also, this might be the very last Cam'rom album I ever listen to. And I'm a Cam fan.

"Crime Pays" gets 2 Combat Jack salutes out of 5.

"They Should'a Had A Stock Pile Of Chicken In The Back"

2009-05-01T08:02:00.000-07:00

Well, they should'a!!!

"She's Dead" - Chronicles Of A True Hustler Pt. 4

2009-05-01T07:29:00.000-07:00

Previously: Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3

T is a beast with his very personal and true story. Here with another installation is Part 4 of Chronicles Of A True Hustler:

She's dead. She was drug free but died of an overdose at the age of 14. The pastor who presided over her funeral referred to her as ______ ______, but we all knew her as Deucey. What the pastor neglected to mention in his sermon was that Deucey was the original Around The Way Girl before L.L. cool J would coin the phrase. She was Lil' Kim before there was even a Notorious B.I.G.

Barely out of junior high school, Deucey was a foul-mouthed, rail-thin cutie who was the first to wear Van tennis shoes and peg leg Guess jeans in Page Street Projects. She was what we called "light-skinded", her complexion matching that of Angela Davis but instead of Black Power, she hungered for the power of the dollar. Her hair was nappy, dirty-blonde, which she wore in her trade marked style, braids and beads, whose colors matched her outfits and clink-clanked as she bopped down the street.

Most people thought that a young girl like Deucey, out in the streets well past a good girl's curfew had to be lost, turned out or both. But Deucey knew exactly where she was and where she stood. Known for poppin' more bullshit than bubble gum, niggas on the turf respected her. She earned her stripes the same way they did, by getting money, keeping niggas up off her and never letting a bitch step outta line. She could play chase with cock-strong youngstas as easily as she could outrun the police. Deucey was real.

Armed with an entirely different kind of ghetto pass, Deucey was one of the only youngstas, let alone females, who could grind in Page Street Projects, also known as Tha Capital, well into the morning hours without fear of crackheads, jackers, J-Cats or snitches fucking with her business. Deucey was a hustler. But Deucey was just a little girl, just past puberty. In another place or time she might be practicing Double-Dutch, reciting schoolgirl rhymes or reading Nancy Drew. But what happened to Deucey was no mystery. She made one faulty decision and lost her life to the game.

"Po, po comin'. Here they come," echoed through the projects in a hushed alarm as everyone scattered, trying to run without moving too fast or walk without moving too slow. No one wanted to draw unwanted attention as they tried to outrun the law and beat the laws of averages. The Narcs were going to catch somebody and you just hoped it would be somebody else. And if it was your turn to catch a collar, you did your best to make sure you were empty handed.

Deucey knew the protocol. With the Narcs in full pursuit and the exits from the projects blocked, shew knew she had to get rid of her dope. But once the Narcs had suspects in custody they would comb the area, searching for every spec, every crumb to try and pin on someone. So she decided to swallow her package, thinking she could shit it out later, like mules do. Thing is, her dope wasn't in balloons or tied securely in cut-up rubber surgical gloves the way mules smuggle contraband in and out of San Quentin or Pelican Bay. Here dope was in a glad sandwich bag.

The acid in her stomach slowly began to eat through the plastic sending multiple grams of pure rock cocaine rushing into her bloodstream. First, she noticed a funny buzzing feeling in the pit of her stomach but by then it was already too late. Attempts to vomit proved futile as she dryheaved repeatedly. Nothing came out.

Deucey's senses became acute. Her skin, now hypersensitive, began to sweat as she experienced hot flashes. Her hearing intensified, picked up children playing in the distance as if they were right in front of her. She could hear herself breath more quickly. Her heart raced as her body succumbed to the cocaine that was now overpowering her small frame. She began to go numb; first her lips, the tip of her tongue, then her entire throat. Her body hummed as she began to overdose. Soon her body would seize, her eyes rolling back in her head. foam gathered at the corners of her mouth as she lost the ability to swallow.

The sounds of people screaming her name, slapping her face, trying to help her regain consciousness, the chaos, calling for Paramedics, the sirens racing to the scene to save all faded to a dark, deathly silence. Deucey was dead.

Deucey's name was later spray painted on the wall in Tha Capital in memorium.

Black & White People Furniture - WTF?

2009-04-30T12:02:00.000-07:00

This has GOT to be the most bizarre commercial I've ever seen in my entire effin' life. Especially because it's no jokes. WTF 2x!!!

Combat Jack Presents: Dick On Wheels! Pt.1

2009-04-30T04:11:00.000-07:00

My man Fritz put me up on this cat Lee from Brooklyn. Told me Lee was a wheel chair bound paraplegic who was now living the life of a porn star. WTF? He then pointed me to Lee's web site Dick On Wheels (NSFW) and [||]. I checked the site and... let's just say I HAD to interview dude. Lee's already appeared on the Maury Povich show and his star is on the rise. I now bring to you, for your enjoyment, an exclusive Combat Jack Presentation: Dick On Wheels, Pt. 1.

Special thanks to Dallas Penn & Terrence Cam

Tupac Shakur Is Alive?!?

2009-04-29T17:25:00.001-07:00

I don't know if you heard but TMZ posted something about Tupac Shakur being alive and well. They even claim to have a "recent" picture of him throwing some back in a bar reportedly in New Orleans. I don't believe it, TMZ needs more people. But if dude did happen to be alive, does that now make him or Lil' Wayne the most overrated rapper alive? I'm asking.

Clipse Ain't Lie

2009-04-28T07:31:00.000-07:00

I'm not a fan of the whole drug rap genre thingie. Maybe it's because I'm not too into the systemic destruction of a darker peoples. Or could be that 99.9% of these cats rapping it ain't never did it like how they say they did. Clipse, I been effin with them since their debut album "Lord Willin'". Not that I did or didn't believe all their drug cartel talk, I just fux with them on account of how they always put out quality music, how they really really rap that good and how they keep that sense of urgency in their tone.

Did you hear that Clipse manager Anthony Gonzalez was just charged with leading a 10 million dollar drug ring? They even have an unnamed police officer listed as an unindicted co-conspirator in the ring. 10 million dollars and cops? The indictment says "the operation has distributed more than a ton of marijuana and more than 100 pounds of cocaine since 2003". How the hell does one move a TON of marijuana and 100 pounds of cocaine and still have time to manage one of the best rap duos out today? Good Lord and Sweet baby Jesus! Not admiring or giving dude props, but tell me that's not gully.

The drug ring was allegedly run out of a Virginia club, Encore Lounge, the very same club that the Clipse are known to mention in some of their songs. It's even stated that Gonzalez bought the Encore Lounge "in November 2007 from an unidentified co-conspirator for 40 pounds of marijuana and about $80,000 in drug proceeds. The club closed earlier this year after more than 100 incidents of violence, shootings, drug dealing and disorderly conduct." According to AllHipHop.com, "to date, Anthony “Geezy” Gonzalez remains at large. At press time, the Clipse could not be reached for comment." I bet.

I know this is morally wrong, but the Clipse stock just went way the eff up in my book. I don't know about you, but I'm hoping the brothers Thornton don't get entangled in all of this legal fuckery, only because now I'm really waiting for their third album "Till The Casket Drops" to drop later this year. In this rap game, street cred is worth way more than good credit.

By the way, their latest song, "Kinda Like A Big Deal" featuring Kanye West is some kind of fuego.

DOOM!

2009-04-27T08:05:00.000-07:00

What's better than good Hip Hop + Comic books?

I called my brother from another borough Dallas Penn this weekend to see what was popping off since I was playing Mr. Dad with my four kids. He told me he had just taken a "deuce" at Bloomingdale's while in the midst of shooting a DOOM video. I quickly changed the subject since his poop fixation is not at all amusing to me. I assumed he was palling around with the artist DOOM, and even asked if he caught a glimpse of dude with his mask off. Heh. Little did I know he was working on this.

EFFIN DOPE!!!

I am so jealous right now.

Iron Man: Armored Adventures

2009-04-26T10:23:00.000-07:00

I missed this last Friday, 7pm on Nicktoons. Not too keen on the yung Tony Stark, but heard and read it was dope. Did anyone see it?

A Letter To Eskay And Byron Crawford

2009-04-24T17:48:00.000-07:00

Wow. You both know how much I love, live for blog beef. That shit right there is what brought me to this game in the first place. Being that we somewhat fit into the Hip Hop blogger category, it's most definitely par for the course. It's kinda weird though, when two of my favorite bloggers actually get into it against each other. Especially two bloggers that I'm personally cool with. You already know how I came into the game on Byron's site, that right there is a debt of gratitude that I can never forget. And Eskay showing me continuous support, from personally coming out to my book signing to endorsing this blog through the links and what not, whose effin' with that? I'll be the first to admit that beef in this arena has been overdue for some time now, I just didn't expect that it'd be between you two.

Byron, you did fire the first shot by insinuating that the homie was somehow on some payola payroll ish (as if you didn't know). And then you blasted again. We all know how you get down, you're the original shit talker and I get that. From my perspective though, seeing how hard Eskay goes in on the daily over at Nahright, it's more than apparent that the man takes a great deal of pride in his work. So much even that I can see where dude might could get offended by someone calling into question the very shit that makes him one of the very few that's on top of his game: his integrity. Plus the fact that Eskay rarely goes out his lane to eff with other bloggers on some stray shots shit, one can deduce that he's really not the one to play. But eff it, that's what you do, that's what's kept your name on people's screens for so long, you are the original shock blogger and I respect that. I would never ever suggest you switch your style up, I dig your game that much, plus that's not why I'm here. And I'm doubting very much that you would ever take too kindly to any types of suggestions of that sort. I'm just saying maybe, just maybe, you might be enjoying pushing dude's buttons a lil too much.

Eskay, I hear you man, sometimes you just gotta get shit off yer chest, let a knicca know when playtime is over. At the same time, you been in this game long enough to know how Crawford gets down. That nigga be on his best prowl trying to get under EVERBODY's skin. I'm surprised he ain't come for me yet. I see how you run a tight ship and make it a point to stay out of the bullshit, how you remain focused on building the empire that is the Nahright brand, but you been already know how this dude is, enjoying the fact that he set someone off, while he's chilling out in the mid-west, way off in the comforts of his home. Some battles are most definitely worth it, this one, in my humble opinion, is not. Still and all though, gotta respect your gully for drawing the line in the sand. I didn't expect to see you coming, but I can always expect and respect how every now and then, you just gotta check someone. Plus, I see how you kept it moving with like the next 20 posts in the same day, and without blinking an eye. Heh.

Grown men are gonna be grown men and I'm not here to play mediator to a peace treaty on some Russell Simmons/ Ben Chavis ish. If it's a beef ya'll have, then so be it, I'ma just have to pull up a chair and watch how this shit transpires from the sidelines. I guess what I'm really trying to say is that I'm kinda fucking mad that I gotta remain all neutral and shit, not being able to jump in with the flagrant comments and diss co-signs whenever the opportunity arises. Two of my favorite bloggers going at it is not the beef I've been waiting for. Especially when all this bullshit kinda originated with the white boy dropping an ambiguously racial twitter comment.

And Speaking of Asher...

2009-04-24T09:52:00.000-07:00

He goes and drops the "nappy headed hoes" thing on Twitter. I'm just saying.

Ross vs. Roth

2009-04-23T17:36:00.000-07:00

Funny.

"Ante Up" - Chronicles Of A True Hustler, Part 3

2009-04-23T11:11:00.001-07:00

Previously: Pt. 1, Pt. 2,

Once again, and like clockwork, T goes in with his memoirs. Here with another installation is Part 3 of Chronicles Of A True Hustler:

A few weeks after I moved back home, Uncle Mark came to visit us. Uncle Mark is Mom’s younger brother, the youngest of her five siblings. Uncle Mark wasn’t handy with a gun and pretty useless with a knife. He also wasn’t much of a pimp and was a horrible drug dealer. Stealing? Stealing, he could do. Uncle Mark was a good thief, though he was never able to steal himself away from his drug addictions. Hooked on heroin and crack for most of his life, at his worst, Grandma wouldn’t even let him into her house unless he was under constant supervision.

During his visits Uncle Mark would sometimes shower, eat a home-cooked meal or occasionally pay back money he’d borrowed or stolen from us. On this particular visit, while shooting the shit after dinner, Moms excused herself and stepped into the kitchen, leaving Uncle Mark and I alone in the living room. That’s when he pulled my coat. Looking me dead in the eye he said, “I heard what happened with you and yo momma. What you need to do is get you a real hustle. That weed shit ain’t gone make you no real money. You need to get you a real package. That way, if yo momma kick you out again you can get you a motel room, be a man, you know?”

My first thought was, “Why would I take advice from him?” For all intents and purposes, he’s the last person I should be listening to. But, after the way my own mother had just treated me, I was searching for answers, and he seemed as good a mentor as any. Plus, he was only echoing what I had been hearing on the streets; Crack had become big business, much to the dismay of then Mayor of San Francisco, Diane Feinstein. She, like other Mayors in California at the time, was overwhelmed by the devastating fall-out from the movements of drug kingpins Freeway Rick, Danilo Blandon and drug ring The Dark Alliance. Danilo Blandon was the cocaine supplier for Freeway Ricky Ross, who is credited for the crack epidemic that was ravaging California during the 1980's. I remember seeing her hold up a huge bag of crack rock on TV, talking about how it had taken over the streets, reporters and camera men taking it all in. Watching her holding up that bag, that sealed the deal for me. It was time for me to ante up. I immediately traded in my weed scissors and shoe box for a razor blade and a crisp, clean mirror.

I knew nothing about selling crack. Moms had given me my start on the block with weed but that was "Hustling 101" and I needed to matriculate. There were things that only the streets could teach me and I was an eager student. One day, on my quest to transition from weed to crack, I headed west toward Hayes Valley looking for a "plug", a connect to supplies of that white rock. The popular term for crack at the time was "Hubbas", so popular even that there was a local hit record called "Hubba Rock" by Rappin' 4-tay, if I remember correctly. I passed Po’ Boys Car Wash on the corner of Laguna and Birch Streets, where I’d occasionally see Willie Brown’s car being detailed. Willie Brown was a highly respected State Assemblyman who was always able to come back to the turf. Rumor was that Po’ Boys was a front for a cocaine distribution ring that dealt only in weight. Staring at Assemblyman Brown’s red Ferrari being gently buffed to shine, I knew I was in no position to challenge the rumor, nor was I in a position to handle the kind of weight Po' Boys was "rumored" to move. I wouldn’t know what to do with a quarter-ounce, let alone a quarter-pound. I continued on to the Valley where I hoped to find a hook up more my speed.

“Are you the police?” he said. “If dude is the police and you ask him, he gotta tell you, or else it’s entrapment.” He continued, “You know what entrapment mean?” Before I could respond, he answered his own question. “That’s when the police trick you into catchin’ a case.” Tela V was schooling me, helping me get my hustling legs. Tela V was 3 years older than me. We were like frat brothers when it came to Hayes Valley. We were never in a gang together, but I knew him from the block, and growing up, we both claimed Hayes Valley as home. Though, he would never become DVP (Death Valley Projects), he was a close homey and the first cat I knew of that was hustling crack in Hayes Valley. He hadn’t been selling for long but was already making some money from the clientele he built. His interest in me was to basically make more money with someone he could trust. He was focused on his grind and it showed. Hayes Valley Projects took up a full city block, with multiple entrances and exits. They were a maze of 3-story buildings, clad in pink stucco and grouped around a parking lot with one way in and one way out. The North side of the parking lot would later be renamed Death Valley and South side, Iketown. The whole complex looked like a pink prison complete with external landings for each floor made from concrete and steel. When the police raided Hayes they would often ask for a suspect's address saying, “What’s your cell number? Which cell do you live in?” That's how much of a prison Hayes Valleys resembled, how much of a prison Hayes Valley was.

Tela V and I stood at the bottom of the stairwell, to the left of the Webster Street entrance, shielded from both Webster and Hayes Streets, facing the internal courtyard. He extended his left hand out toward me, palm up. In his hand, he held five milky-white rocks. Each rock looked like separated pieces of a puzzle. “These are double-ups. I sell ‘em for $20 but you can prolly get about $40 off a each one of ‘em.” “You know how to cut ‘em in half?” he asked. As I shook my head to indicate that I didn't, he put one of the rocks in his mouth. And with a clink of his jaw, he spat out two perfectly halved pieces of the boulder he’d just showed me.

“Never keep yo dope on you,” he continued as he curiously surveyed the ground around where we were standing. Kneeling down to pick up an empty potato chip bag, he explained, “Always hide yo dope in somethin’ like this, and put it in a stash, someplace you can get to quick for a fiend but if the police raid, you ain’t gone have nothin’ on you. “Oh, yeah,” he remembered. “Don’t let no fiend put yo dope in his mouth. Sometimes they want to nibble it to see if it’s real. If you slippin’ he’ll put the whole thing in his mouth, switch it and hand you back some fake shit.” I nodded in the affirmative. He paused to look at me reassuringly, “You’ll be alright,” he said handing me the two damp stones he had just spat from his mouth, “That’ll be $20. You keep coming back and I’ll keep doubling you up”.

Combat Jack vs. Mythbusters

2009-04-22T07:00:00.000-07:00

A lot of ya'll have been requesting that I write a book of some sort or another. I actually did write one a couple of years ago, "Bling, The Hip Hop Jewelry Book". My publisher is Bloomsbury, the same publisher that owns the worldwide rights to the Harry Potter franchise. Yes. I roll with Harry. It's really good. The same quality of shit that I bring here to you on Today's Mathematics. If you're so inclined, cop it here. Thanks.

I say all this because when we dropped the book, me and my co-author Gabe Tolliver put together a lil' promo video and uploaded it on to youtube. The promo covered a topic from the book addressing the possibility of making diamonds in a microwave from charcoal and with peanut butter and lighter fluid. Really. Funny and informative, the video garnered a lot of hits. It eventually landed in the hands of one of the producers of that Mythbusters show that airs Wednesdays at 9 p.m. ET/PT on the Discovery Channel. They liked our video, licensed it from us and decided to challenge our infamous diamond making technique. The episode will be airing tonite, 9pm ET/PT and midnight.

I haven't yet seen what they came up with. Peep it 2nite.

I'm hoping they didn't play us.

Rick Ross - "Deeper Than Rap" Album Review

2009-04-20T23:35:00.000-07:00

Perception. is. reality.

Rick. Ross. is. a. fraud.

"Deeper Than Rap". is. almost. perfect.

Almost.

When he rolled up on the national scene in his white Maybach and monster single "Hustlin'" back in 2006, we all knew Rick Ross wasn't being 100% with us. Especially with him bragging about how fabled drug lord Noriega owed him several favors. Right. Still, "Hustlin'" banged, and which of our rap stars was really keeping it 100% with us anyway? That rumor about him being a former Correctional Officer didn't help Ross' image any, especially since he vehemently denied being involved in any types of law enforcement type activity, before AND after the picture of William Roberts (Ross' real name) in full C.O. regalia surfaced on the internets, clearly showing us all what type of kingpin the "Bawss" really was before rap. Why didn't this nigga just tell the truth?

The past couple of months with him being savagely destroyed by Curtis Jackson didn't help any either. Still, the buzz was that Ross's latest album, "Deeper Than Rap" which drops today was extraordinarily good. So good even that no matter how badly dude was getting sonned before our eyes, this album might could be the one that would salvage the dead brand that is Rick Ross, similar in manner to how the Nas machine was resurrected after he dropped "Ether".

"Deeper Than Rap" is almost that good. With 14 songs clocking in at just under an hour, the only throwaway track is the God awful "All I Really Want (Feat. The-Dream)". The Dream is so overrated and overexposed and it clearly shows on this track, almost so that I wish T-Pain, his Autotune and Akon were on it instead. T-Pain would have murdered it. If you cop this, please do yourself a favor and always skip this one. "Deeper Than Rap" is a lushly produced album filled with melodies that are reminiscent of that beautiful 1970's cocaine soundtrack music, milky piano keys, warm soulful hooks and rain like strings pervading almost every track, every corner on the album. As a whole, this comes as close as possible to being the most perfect grown and sexy rap album ever produced. This is the album Jay-Z should have dropped when he did "American Gangster". The subject matter is basically that same Rick Ross material, you know, the one dimensional songs about kingpins, chicks, cars and one murderous 1990's New York sounding diss track "In Cold Blood" aimed at you know who. Rick's flows are tighter this go round and even complement the stellar production which takes center stage leaving Rick to play the background. Guest artists Kanye West, T-Pain and Lil Wayne ("Maybach Music 2"), Nas ("Usual Suspects"), and John Legend ("Magnificent") help in making Ross sound a tad bit more credible. But not that much and not really. Foxy Brown drops a cameo on "Murda Mami" and as much as I'm a fan of her old work, there's something that's not sounding right about her performance. Trina, however, and whom I've never really felt before, kills it with Ross on the banger that is "Face", a bouncy Southern joint about ... face, that will be banging out of every candy painted whip and strip club in the US. Flex will most def be dropping a bomb to that. Because the production throughout is that dope, Rick playing the background is a very good thing. Producers J.U.S.T.I.C.E League, The Inkredibles, The Runners, DJ Toop and all others truly went in.

And ultimately the problem that cannot be fixed on this album is Rick Ross himself. Not his performance though, he shocks the eff outta me on this. The elephant in the room is Rick Ross. Other than MC Shan and Ja Rule, I don't think there's ever been a rapper who's come out from beef as banged up and damaged as Ross' image. His being a fraud cubed kills every mental picture I have of him, especially since what I perceive him to be is so far from the amazing shit that's presented on the cd. This has to be one of the MOST historic moments in rap history, where a rapper with the most eff'd up image ever drops their most incredible album to a non-believing audience. Almost like Chingy dropping a masterpiece on "Illmatic" level next week. There is nothing known to man that can restore the mess that is Rick Ross. Not this album, nothing. This is a major win AND major PU~ for Ross.

For what it's worth, this is a damn near classic album, the kind that I will be bumping in the crib when I have friends over, only I won't be letting them know it's Ross that I'm playing. It's that good and his cred is that bad.

"Deeper Than Rap" gets 4 Combat Jack salutes out of 5.

Dollar Van Demos

2009-04-20T19:40:00.000-07:00

"GET IN THE VAN. DO YOUR THING. GET OUT OF THE VAN."

Now that your boy is coming up on his Internets Celebrity status, I'm getting emails from all types of people asking me to play their songs, showcase their blogs and such. I was going over some of them and checked one I received a couple of days ago from this outfit called Dollar Van Demos. Dollar Van Demos have an incredibly unique concept, take up and coming artists, pack 'em in one of Brooklyn's notorious dollar vans along with camera crew, actual drivers and passengers and shoot real demo videos. EFFIN GENIUS. They even have a channel up on YouTube. Like you can expect from demos, few of the artists featured are superstars, but the execution of some of the videos are funny, campy, surreal, and in some instances show potential. Most of all, they're entertaining, particularly when you catch the expressions of the passengers.

I dunno where these local cats are going with this, but their hustle most definitely caught my eye. Check 'em out and see what I'm talking about. Most definitely beats actually having to listen to demos and unknown artist's "mixtapes". Word to Dave Chappele.

"My Slow Flow's Remarkable, Peace to Mateo"

2009-04-19T19:22:00.000-07:00

"My slow flow's remarkable, peace to (Mateo) Now we smoke weed like Tony Montana sniffed the ya-yo" Notorious B.I.G. "Live Freestyle - '95"

One has to be special when a famous rapper drops your name in his raps. Extra special even when that rapper is considered by many to be the G.O.A.T. of Hip Hop, the late great Christopher Wallace p/k/a The Notorious B.I.G. Such was the homie Mateo Zcheval Mulcare who suddenly and tragically passed in his sleep earlier this month, on April 9th.

I met Mateo around 1995, the same year that Biggie dropped his name in his classic freestyle. He was trying to get on as a rapper and called me up in order to arrange a meeting in my office, hoping that I might be able to help him in landing a record deal. Mateo was a giant of a man, standing at around 6'4"/ 6'5". Like all prospective clients, I required that he spit, just to ensure that I wasn't going to waste my time effin with the fugazi. Spit he did, and on the spot, Mateo ripped through some ill lyrics, so much so that I decided to co-sign him, to knock on the doors of my connects, see if they saw what I did, a young man passionate about his craft as a wordsmith and committed to going the distance in making a name for himself. He killed it when I took him to Diddy too, right in the middle of Puff's studio, Daddy's House. Unfortunately, being a big man, the comparisons between Mateo and Christopher Wallace (who was then very much alive and the brightest of rising stars hailing from the East Coast) were way too obvious and Puff, along with several other execs passed on my client.

Having just had a daughter, Mateo remained unfazed. At 26 years old, he knew he had to break through in order to put food on the table. So determined that when he did get the chance to meet Biggie, they went at it, toe to toe on the mike, big man versus big man in an emcee battle. Word on the street was that Mateo held his own against the Notorious one. Afterwards, Big was so impressed with his competitor that he gave props to Mateo in his famed 1995 freestyle. How ill and rare is that? That's how nice my dude was. That and how big his heart was. Big almost had to give Mateo his just propers.

Mateo kept it moving though, eventually publishing PLUSH, a magazine devoted to the art of customized luxury trucks and the lifestyle of those that own and drive them. His work on luxury trucks have since been featured in various media outlets like USA TODAY, ESPN and SPIKE TV.

Mateo's passing was unexpected and took everyone that knew him by surprise. They say the good ones die young and this young man was one of the best. It was an honor in me crossing his path in this lifetime and my sincere condolences go out to his family and friends. I know for a fact that he and Mr. Wallace are up there doing it BIG!

R.I.P. my dude.

TRIVIA UPDATE: The homie Sean, a good friend of mine and Mateo's, just filled me in on the fact that when B.I.G. was kicking the freestyle, Mateo was standing out in the crowd, close to the stage, and when B.I.G. spotted him he threw his name in his rhyme.

Tupac, by the way, was not freestyling.

I'm just saying.

"There's Rules To This Shit" - The Chronicles Of A True Hustler, Pt.2

2009-04-16T10:27:00.000-07:00

Previously: Pt. 1

The homie T really liked the way it went down last week, and we're loving the comments. Please keep them coming. Like I expected, he went in and blessed me with part 2 earlier this week. That being said, I proudly bring to you "The Chronicles Of A True Hustler", Pt. 2

The moment Moms foretold finally came to pass. I was on my own. I remember her telling me “Momma may not always be here to take care of you” when I was eleven. I also remember her advising me to make sure I "keep cop money". And I did. I kept cop money. That's like rule #2 to a drug dealer, #1 being "never get high on your own supply". Cop money is what you keep in order to cop more drugs in order to keep inventory in stock. Keep the business alive. No cop money, no product, no money. I got that. And I kept it.

No amount of cop money could ever prepare me for the shock that hit me dead center in my stomach on the day my moms kicked me out of our house and fed me straight to the streets. I was thirteen years old. She screamed at me, “Get the fuck out!". Shit came out from nowhere, knocked every last bit breath out my thirteen year old lungs. It was the ultimate betrayal. Having Moms choose a man over me, her son, her flesh and blood. Funny how they say everything has two sides though. That day, one of life’s most important lessons was seared into my brain. From that moment on, I would never again rely on my reality as real. I would never again get too comfortable in the comforts of my daily life, walking around, ignorant in trusting in what I thought I knew to be fact, to be solid ground, because at any given moment, I could lose any and everything, and within a fucking heart's beat away. I would never again take a god damned thing I had for granted.

This whole bullshit started because I thought I was smart enough to do the right thing. Ha! Doing the right thing didn’t make me right, it made me homeless and with nothing. Nothing but cop money though. Cop money, the streets, life's lessons and the rules of the game. We lived on Oakdale Avenue, in Hunter’s Point. The year was 1979. I was just 8 years old. My mother, brother and me lived on 1086 Oakdale. Some of my best childhood memories are from that period, the late 1970's. My friends Byron, Montrell, Lil’ John, Marcus and I had a Big Wheel chop shop in Byron’s garage. Even then I hustled parts to kids who needed their red and yellow plastic three wheeled "rides" staying fresh. We also had a tree house, built atop the nursery school at the bottom of the hill, across the street from some abandoned buildings. White boys wasn't the only ones with tree houses. It was during that period in Oakdale, when I first heard "Rapper’s Delight", the song I played when I lost my virginity with a 12 year old girl who lived across the street from me. That was also around the time that "Chicken", Moms' new boyfriend moved in and started living with us. Moms taught Chicken how to read and shorlty after he learned, he landed a steady job as a bus driver, driving for the city's MUNI system. He wore a shit-brown colored MUNI uniform to work. He was called Chicken because he teethed on a chicken bone when he was a baby. Must've been cute. The name stuck.

By 1984, Oakdale had gone from being a middle and working class neighborhood to a hot spot for drugs. The epicenter was a two-block stretch cut off from the rest of the world by George Washington Carver Elementary School. The intersection of Oakdale and Baldwin Court was ground zero. Baldwin Court was named after the late literary icon James Baldwin. At the time, I had no clue as to who James Baldwin was. To me, Baldwin Court was just the place that had a free lunch program. I never missed a lunch.

I was selling good weed at the time, had been since 11 years old. On Oakdale, I was among the gangsters and hustlers, men and women, boys and girls, all talking big shit, all getting in where they fit in. The hustle was real sloppy then, not sophisticated. The daily grind was running up on passing cars, throwing 'bows and bumping shoulders, jockeying with competitors for position. Once you claimed a car window, you'd shove your arm deep into the customer’s vehicle, right in front of the customer's face, offering up your wares for sale. The fiends had their hustle on too. They'd slap your hand in the air, causing you to spill your product all over the floorboards of the car, driving off, dragging your ass up the block if you weren't on point. Most times though, it was business as usual, fiends quickly exchanging money for the fattest bag, the biggest rock, and getting the fuck out of Dodge, hopefully in one piece. This one day, I noticed Chicken pulling up, riding in a little shitty brown Ford Pinto. We owned a brown late-model Ford Pinto at the time. It was the same color as the chocolate Thai weed I sold. It was also the same color as the MUNI bus driver uniform Chicken was wearing as he drove our Ford Pinto. The second I spotted the car and peeped Chicken, I laid in the cut, studying real hard to make sure I was seeing what I saw. What I saw was the Ford Pinto as it slowed to a stop, swarmed by the dealers who were pushing and shoving each other until one claimed that window, the victorious dealer walking away from the Ford Pinto counting money. As the Ford Pinto pulled off, my thoughts raced “Chicken just bought crack?” “Chicken is a crackhead?” "Does Moms know she's fucking with a crackhead?" As much as I was thrown off by the scene I just peeped, I was smart enough to want to protect my mother, my younger brother. Angry and concerned for Moms, I bounced off the block, rushing home to tell her that Chicken was a fiend.

Beating Chicken home from across town, I walked through our door and saw Moms making dinner. I told her “You’ll never believe what I saw today”. I ran the whole shit down, how Chicken drove up with some strange woman in the car. How a crowd of dealers swarmed the car. How I knew that Chicken bought crack and not weed because the guy who claimed the car window, who walked away counting money was a known rock star. Moms took that news and waited for Chicken. When he got home later that evening, she lit into his ass. They moved their beef into their bedroom, closed the doors and screamed at each other, back and forth for what seemed like an hour. Their argument spilled out of their room, out into the hallway, to the living room, into kitchen, back into living room, down the hallway and into my bedroom. Chicken was still in his MUNI uniform. Worn from going at each other head on, Moms and Chicken started directing their anger towards me. They both began screaming at me like if I was the fiend seen driving the Ford Pinto, wearing the brown MUNI, kicking it with a ho' riding shotgun. That's the day I came to hate bus drivers and for a long time after that, thought they were all fucking crackheads.

The screaming ended with Moms telling me to "GET THE FUCK OUT!" Chicken's punk ass, cornered like the fiend he was, hit Moms with that old “him or me” routine. She fell for it. She didn’t even give me time to pack a bag. I hit the streets with the clothes on my back, my weed bags and cop money. Moving with my sudden predicament, I headed towards the Valley to look for the homies. I caught up with my man Dark and told him what went down. Surprised that Chicken was smoking crack, his response was "If you want, I'll help you catch and smoke that fiend ass nigga." And I did want to catch Chicken. Catch him one morning, coming out the house in his MUNI uniform, on his way to work. Catch his ass by surprise the way he caught me when he rolled up in the Ford Pinto to buy crack. I didn’t want to smoke him though, just swing on him with something cold and metal. Let him feel me giving back some of that pain, see me bringing him close to death. Have him scared and scarred, knowing that whenever he saw me, he saw the person who held death over him. Moms loved him too much though, and I fell back because me hurting him would only result in her feeling more pain, more hurt.

Dark let me crash at his house until I could figure out my next move. A week later, I visited my Grandma Jones on 3rd Street. After sitting down for some dinner and bringing her up to speed as to my whereabouts, my current situation she said “You know, your momma called me. She said she want you to go back home.” “Ain’t this a bitch?” I thought to myself. “She let that nigga turn her against her son and now that I'm out, she wants me to come back home. Fuck that and fuck her!” I responded "Really, I'm cool with that". Streets were no joke and I knew I had to keep a roof over my head, knowing I couldn't stay at Dark's home much longer. Plus, I had to keep an eye on my brother. It took a few days for me build up the stomach to tolerate Mom's and Chicken’s bullshit. When I did get home, Moms and Chicken played like the whole scenario never play out like it had, like it never took place. They did their best to act "normal". I played it like I never forgot, understanding that in moving forward, shit would never be "normal" again.

Asher Roth "Asleep In The Bread Aisle" Album Review

2009-04-14T15:33:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, I was up in Ithaca, NY, speaking on a panel at my Alma Mater, Cornell University. I was on a panel with a couple of Cornell grads who ran with their Ivy League degrees and went on to having a career in the music industry. Like the homie Londell McMillan, a fellow classmate of mine, entertainment Attorney and current owner of the Source magazine. I remember when me and him would run through the campus rocking doo rags, shell toe Adidas and fat laces, he rocked the Cazals. The event was truly dope. Between the students soaking up game, the crazy architecture sprawled out across the ginormous campus or the beautiful town of Ithaca, New York with all its gorges, mountains, rivers and quaint college town, it made me remember how much I loved college. Best effin four years of my life. I feel so grateful in that I was able to transition from Lincoln Place between Albany and Troy Avenues, in the Crown Heights section of Brooklyn, with the crack jackers crack jacking up the block to waking up on campus, on late and lazy Sunday afternoons, with the crazy hangover from too much keg brew and with a young and warm co-ed snuggled up under my comforter, trying hard to not wake up in order to avoid her liquor induced headache from the night before. I loved college.

Which is why I was extremely amped to review Asher Roth's freshman album,"Asleep In The Bread Aisle". Having just mentioned him last week, it might seem like I got sucked into the hype beast surrounding dude, but other than "I Love College", "Just Like I Em'" and his "Roth Boys" freestyle, I did a great job of not having heard his work until I had the opportunity to listen to the album in it's entirety. Here's my review:

"Lark On My Go Kart"
Ahser starts the lp nice, spitting a controlled and smooth flow, white boy inflection and all. The track is crazy too, rolling beats, dirty bass, dusty ass sounding sample. I'm not mad, and now I see where dude says he studied Jay-Z, not in his wordplay but in his tone, on how he rides the beat while keeping his voice on a perfect and steady pitch. This track here is tight and right.

"Blunt Cruisin'"
Slow and low dubbed out beat with traces of reggae and a jungle type break. As a dude whose first single is about how he loves college, this here is the required ode to weed smoking. His lyrics and flow sounds like Asher is spitting free association and under the influence. The song as a whole doesn't grab me, coming off somewhat lazy sounding, but I kinda could see how if I was in college this Spring, and this was being banged out of a dope system, in a small setting, with chicks dancing and with the scent of burning herbals wafting through the atmosphere, warm Guiness in hand, I might could like this a bit more.

"I Love College"
Me too! Perfect single. Never gave it this much attention before. Great pop song but with bass guitar licks that manage to sink into my system. Mellow ass hard beat. Roth does a great job of reminding me why college was the best time of my life. I wish this came out back then. Nice song to get up close to that cutie majoring in engineering, get her to take her study break back to your crib off campus.

"La Di Da"
Sounds like he's sharing some personal issues. Simple melody, soulful vibe, problem is I'm just not connecting with Asher. Not to come off all judgemental on dude, but this here sounds like he ain't really go through some hellish life shit yet, the type of shit that would give his message here just a little bit more depth, a bit more desperation. I don't believe him.

"Be By Myself (featuring Ceelo)"
Groovy song, good to hear Ceelo. Solid hook with Asher flowing, once again though, his words are lost on me. Very Gnarls Barkley sounding, like it should. Might have legs on alternative based college radio shows. Maybe.

"Don't Wanna Man"
Way over-produced for this album. Not bad production mind you, just too obviously and clearly aimed at the pop charts. I'm also starting to get annoyed that I'm not retaining any of dude's lyrics, not really feeling his mind-state. As different as possible from "I Love College" or "Lark On My Go Kart", both of which set the stage for that classic crunchy college album you might think this is, or might want it to be.

"Sour Patch Kids"
Asher goes in deep. Raps about issues like capitalism, war, America's games of lies and deceipt. Problem is Asher doesn't go deep enough for my liking. When I was in college, one of my boys was really heavy on the whole anti-apartheid divestment movement on campus. I personally think he went in only to score with the white chicks. No doubt I would show some support by attending some rallies, but my dude would go the whole nine, sleeping overnight in some janky ass cardboard shanties, all up in the snow and rain and mud. One of the few (if not only) Black dudes that was camped out on campus with a whole lotta white kids. The first time the cops came to bust that shit up and dragged his protesting ass straight towards the paddy wagon, his heels digging deep in the grass as he peacefully resisted arrest, me and my ignorant ass crew stood by the sidelines laughing our asses off as him being subdued was some of the funniest shit I'd ever seen. Just as I'm making it clear here that I wasn't the type to take certain issues on campus that serious is how Asher sounds, only with him trying his best to convince me that he is that concerned dude. Not bad, just not translating. I'm not believing him and I'm wanting to hear something from him again that can make me believe. Great rocking and bouncy funk track though. Good production.

"As I Em (featuring Chester French)"
Being as how him being white and having to be compared to Eminem must really be annoying, Roth comes off sounding like this is some valid personal close to home shit he's going through. Being that the whole white rapper thing is a real issue, Asher's delivery sounds sincere on this one, so much so that I really feel his pain. When Asher raps about issues that Asher really goes through, he sounds at his best. This is most definitely his lane, you know, the white rapper being misunderstood and unfairly being compared to Em. Tough dilemma to be in, but he pulls it off with flying colors. I believe him.

"Lion's Roar (featuring New Kingdom and Busta Rhymes)"
Decent Timbaland sounding pop track, horrible effin sequencing in that it follows "As I Em" which was a great transitional track for Roth to up the ante thematically/ lyrically for the rest of the album. The double time rap thingie is not for him. Busta comes in and does a great job though, carrying the track on his shoulder in order to assist Roth onto the next track. Great save on Busta's behalf.

"Bad Day (featuring Jazzy Pha)"
Bouncy laid back bounce. Pop rap story song about a plane ride gone terribly wrong, starting with Asher having forgotten to pack his i-pod. Same vein as classic 80's songs like "Parent's Just Don't Understand" or any Slick Rick rap tale of woe. Roth manages to come back into his lane after having swerved off a coupl'a too many times. I believe him on this one too.

"His Dream"
A song about his father. Very autobiographical in nature. Decent song. Felt it would have been better and that I would feel it more if this was on his next album as opposed to his first.

"Fallin'"
Great song with Asher reminiscing back to the 7th grade when he first started studying Jigga, how he fell in love with rap wordplay. Asher's doing Asher. I believe him.

"Perfectionist (featuring Beanie Sigel)"
Decent braggadocio joint. Until Beanie shows up to murder him on his own shit. Interesting to see these two team up, but not certain that the whole odd couple thing works.

"The Lounge"
Jazzy slinky joint about what a rapper looks like and how Asher doesn't fit the bill. "How I Em" kinda already tackled this issue.

Let me be clear, I really like Asher Roth when he's doing Asher, or at least what I think him doing Asher is. Not trying to pigeonhole his artistry, but Roth sounds more at home when he's rapping about shit that sounds like he's experienced or gone through first hand. "I Love College" was the perfect set up for that perfect college album based on issues and situations that most freshmen in college go through. As much as I wanted to love this record as a whole, it sounded like it was all over the place. Over ambitious even. Doesn't mean that there aren't a good deal of singles on "Asleep In The Bread Aisle", the album has plenty. This album will do very well for all the obvious reasons, and being what it is, I'm not mad at that. It just sounds like being the freshman that he is, Asher was way too eager to go from frosh to J.V. in sixty seconds, missing out on the perfect opportunity to drop that classic freshman album.

That being said, "Asleep In The Bread Aisle" gets 3 out of 5 Combat Jack Salutes.

Anti-Christ

2009-04-14T13:05:00.000-07:00

Lars von Trier's Antichrist - Official Trailer from Zentropa on Vimeo.

Sorry I've been taking a while cooking up some more posts. They're coming, trust. But in the meantime, I just came across this trailer which looks creepy as all "hell". The movie is directed by this Danish cat Lars von Trier. Starring Willem Dafoe and Charlotte Gainsbourg, the flick is about a married couple who take to the woods in order to cope with the death of their young son. Like most movies, once they get to settle down in their cabin, the shits and giggles start to pop off. Enjoy.

Courtesy of Ain't It Cool News.

"In Brightest Day, In Darkest Night..."

2009-04-11T00:00:00.000-07:00

Dunno if you're up on the recent string of animated straight to DVD/ blu-ray hits DC has been dropping. With dope titles like "Batman: Gotham Knight", "Justice League - New Frontier", "Superman - Doomsday" and "Wonder Woman" their next heat rock "Green Lantern - First Flight" is looking good. Plus they landed a PG-13 rating to bring some gully to the party.

Over the past 10 - 15 years, Green Lantern has become one of my favorites. Might have to cop.

Asher Roth: "As I Em"

2009-04-10T21:27:00.000-07:00

Other than that college song, I have not given dude a listening too. Too much hype, plus that whole white rapper who sounds a little bit like the G.O.A.T white rapper thingie. Decided to pass on him until the CD dropped, give him the full dissection. Just listened to this. Sounds like a white rapper who sounds a little bit like the G.O.A.T. white rapper. I slept. Kid is effin mangoes on this one. Really want to hear the CD now.

I'm not mad at Asher Paul Roth

Courtesy of DJ Vlad.

Can't Knock The Hustle, The Chronicles of A True Hustler, Pt. 1

2009-04-09T04:00:00.000-07:00

I never idolized drug dealers. Their way of life seemed too risky and way too dangerous. I do deeply respect the few that I know. And I know a few. Seems like the ones I knew the best were filled with an incredible sense of wisdom, a clear sense of mission as to why there were here on this planet and what they had to accomplish before they left this life. I most definitely met a lot during my career in the music industry. I don't think it's a coincidence that the one's that made the successful transition from working the streets to becoming successful execs in the industry are the few people who continue to make good coin today. The honest way. It did take me by surprise a few years back, when one of my closest friends and former housemates from law school decided shortly after graduating from Georgetown Law that he would forego a career in law in order to hustle drugs. And not street corner slanging either. Because of his credentials, my dude placed himself in a position where he was able to move some serious poundage during the early 1990's. Even lent me the seed money needed in order to start my law practice back in 1995. Good dude. Eventually, he got busted and did time twice, first state, then federal. Shared the fed time with his twin brother who graduated from Columbia University and was on his way to med school. It felt good to pay him back, and then some, once he got out from doing his bid, like maybe the money I paid back would help him get back on his feet. Crazy shit, but no embellishment.

Which brings me to my dude "T". T is an upstanding citizen of the community. Brooklyn homeowner, married to an accomplished writer, a father and an extremely successful real estate agent. Top exec in New York's top real estate company. Member of the block association even. Dude moves brick and mortar like nobody's business. I met T a couple of years back, when my wife and I were on the market for a home. T was real patient, extremely forthcoming with information, especially because I was intimidated by all the things I didn't know about real estate, me being a potential first time homeowner. As we got to know each other better, his kids playing with mine, his wife bonding with wifey, dude began to share some things about his background. How he was from out west by way of San Francisco, how he grew up in an extremely disfunctional family, with a father who was a pimp, sometimes dope dealer and full-time drug addict, a mother who became strung out on heroin at the age of 17, how most of his uncles and aunts were drug addicts who had died of drug overdoses, one dying of aids because of his affinity to the needle.

Some real heavy shit, but whenever T shares his experiences with me, it's never coming from a place of "check my street cred stats" machismo bullshit, it's more like dude is reflecting on the worst aspects of his upbringing with a sense of appreciation as to who he is today, the hurdles he's had to overcome in becoming a successful businessman, husband, father, human being. Almost like he gets this big joke about life and is somehow trying to let me in on that joke. There's no glamorizing or glorification in his words.

T eff's with the Combat Jack blog heavy, and has started writing some of his experiences as an exercise in expression, in growth, in strengthening his skills as an writer. As much as he enjoys doing what he does, selling homes to those that can afford one, he does not want to become complacent in becoming just one thing. I'm really honored that my writing has inspired him to write more. Recently, he's begun to share with me some of his writings. In reading some of his work, especially with regard to his memories as a young kid growing up in the streets of S.F., I was blown away by the things he's lived through and how he's been able to make it over to "this" side. In a sense, his experiences are inspirational to me, in helping me to overcome the challenges that I face on an almost daily basis. I've asked him if he would allow me to share with you pieces of his "memoir". T gave me his blessings, and I promised him I would do my utmost best in bringing his words, his story, his life to you. I truly hope that I do this man's history justice. If what Shawn Carter raps about is true, Jay-Z ain't the only one that dabbled in crazy weight and survived the "game".

That being said, I proudly bring to you, in the words of T, The Chronicles Of A True Street Hustler, Pt. 1

Looking back on my life, in hindsight, I'm able to recognize that some of the worst things that have happened to me were some of the best things that happened to me. Growing up in Hayes Valley, better known as "Death Valley", I received strict "professional advice" as to what my career options were at a very early age. Around the time that I was 4 or 5, my father and my mother's brother, my uncle, would often lecture me on the only two choices I had to look forward to when I grew up. "Niggas round here grow up to be either a drug dealer or a pimp, you need to figure out what you gonna be early, before you get twisted up in some bullshit. Don't ever forget that shit T." My pops used to drill that shit into my head relentlessly. He came from a family of pimps. Through my father, I learned that one of the best ways for pimps to keep their women on a tight leash was to get them strung out on drugs, on heroin, and as soon as possible. My mother met my father when she was in high school. Fell in love with him. By the time she was 17 years old, she was addicted. I don't know if she was using when she was pregnant with me or my younger brother, but I knew she was an addict, and for a very long time. Eventually, my father became an addict as well. My younger brother and I soon were left to be raised by a drug addicted single mother. At the time, I understood these things that I lived through to be normal, and as hectic as shit was, I was content in my extremely fucked up conditions. Maybe that's because that was all I knew.

By the time I turned eleven, I decided to choose drugs over the family business, I decided that I would become a drug dealer. With mom's zoning out on her highs, I felt I was old enough to earn a living and keep food on the table for my younger brother and me. Although I got first hand training in the skin trade, I wasn’t much into pimping. Maybe I was turned off by pimping because I grew up watching my mother catch regular beatings from my father. My brother and I never intervened, but when the beatings were over, we'd look after moms, cleaning her up, consoling her they way she should have been able to do for us. When I finally shared my decision as to my profession to be with my mother, she was very supportive. So supportive in fact that she sat me down at the kitchen table in order for her to instruct me with my first lessons in selling drugs. She started off explaining to me that she loved me very much. That because she wouldn't always be there to take care of me, she would show me how to hustle to make money so that I'd always be able to take of myself. She said "remember, no matter what, you’ll always have a hustle to fall back on.”

And the lesson began. She went in her room and came out with a huge bag filled with marijuana. She placed some of the marijuana on the kitchen table. “This is a quarter-ounce of weed,” she said. “It weighs 7 grams, plus the sandwich bag makes 8 grams all together.” She continued, “Never pay more that fifty-dollars for a quarter and never, ever let me catch you selling anything for anybody else. Only hustle for yourself.” I listened to her intently. After emptying the weed into an empty shoe box, she took a small pair of scissors in one hand and some weed in the other. “This is how you break it down.” She snipped and crumbled the quarter into a fuzzy green mound, removing the few seeds and stems along the way.”See, now you have to let it dry out a bit. It’s heavier when it’s wet and sticky, you’ll end up over stuffing your bags. When it dries out, it will fluff up and fill out the baggies more.” I nodded as if to affirm her observation, not having a clue of what she was talking about. She took a baggie, stuffed it and placed it on the table between us. “This is what a ten-dollar bag should look like. Now, bag up the rest of this weed and make’ em all look like this one. ” I followed my mom's orders like a good son. I figured out that rubbing the baggie between my thumb and index finger

made them open easily. The weed felt crisp and crunchy between my fingers, and it's skunky aroma wafted up into my nose, made my mouth water.

Moms returned about a half hour later, “8 bags”. “Not bad,” she said. “But your bags are too fat, you''re giving money away, nigga. Take some weed out of these two and get one more bag out of ‘em.” After a couple of more turns of breaking down, packing, weighing, after my moms felt I was getting the hang of packing weed bags the right way, efficient and economical with my servings, I felt I was ready to hit the streets. My moms introduced me to one of her, one of my father's connects. I felt grown, extremely pleased with myself and the responsibility that I was readily assuming. My next step though, was to figure out how I was gonna survive the streets. See, niggas in my neighborhood started gang banging heavy, and I wasn't yet down with any gang. I had to get my shit "affiliated". There was no way I was going to place myself out on the streets of a war zone, alone at 11 years old and with no muscle." Fuck that! I need to get my muscle game up and intact.

TO BE CONTINUED

Uhm, I Like Fish Sticks Too. [||]

2009-04-09T03:39:00.000-07:00

Kanye on SP
Uploaded by yardie4lifever2

I do have kids.

"I Competed With Them Just To Keep The Culture Active"

2009-04-08T08:07:00.000-07:00

50 cent talks about his ongoing feud with Rick Ross (Big Boys Neighborhood Exclusive) from qdeezy on Vimeo.

Even when he's serious, he's funny.

Combat Jack Salutes RUN-DMC

2009-04-06T09:15:00.000-07:00

If you're younger than say, 34, 35, close your eyes for a minute and as impossible as it may be, try to imagine a world without Hip Hop.

My first experience with Hip Hop was in the summer of 1978. My best friend Frank, who lived up the block and was two years older than me, used to be a messenger working at a courier service down in the Wall Street area. At work, Frank would hang with some brothers from the Bronx and Uptown and as they would build during their lunch breaks, they would tease my man with snippets of live performances from groups with bugged out super hero sounding names like Grand Master Flash and The Furious Five, Kool Herc and the Herculords and the Cold Crush Brothers as they performed musical routines in an art form then unknown to the world. It was most definitely unknown to cats like me in Brooklyn. For a couple of weeks after coming home from work, Frank would desperately try to explain this new sound called rap coming from Harlem, banging from the Bronx. I had no concept of understanding what the hell my man was talking about, or what the fuck a Melle Mel or a Grand Master Caz was, only that it had the homie Frank amped. This one Thursday night, before payday, Frank convinced me to pony up $5 and go half with him on one of those cassette tapes he was going on about, said he would cop a Grand Master Flash & The Furious Five joint. Little did I know that after that night, my was life was never going to be the same.

That next day, on Frank's stoop, on Lincoln Place in Brooklyn, as he popped the tape in, and emcees Cowboy, Raheim, Kid Creole, Scorpio and Melle Mel invaded my senses, hypnotized by how Flash was savagely raping beats with his furious cuts and scratches, my whole d.n.a. metamorphed into something else, something new. As a young teenager trying to find his way in a changing world, the music that I heard that day seemed like it spoke only to to me, the lyrics was about shit that only I could relate to. Growing up on r&b, soul, funk and disco was cool, but on that very day in 1978, in discovering the beginnings of a culture that I would wholly become a part of, in speak, in dress in attitude, in perspective, I became a B-boy. On that fateful day, I became complete.

Over the next year, my cassette collection blossomed with the likes of Kool Herc and The Herculords, Dr. Jeckyll & Mr. Hyde, Busy Bee. On top of Melle Mel becoming my first rap idol, The Cold Crush Brothers stayed being my favorite crew because they kept their routines sounding fresh and on the way they sounded in their famed battle against rival crew The Fantastic Five. I still have that CCB vs. FF cassette, and even though the FF officially won that, I claim the Cold Crush the true winners. In school, I stayed having an edge on my peers since I was so much more up on Hip Hop than they were. Some cats began to think my shit was a bit weird in how I kept my jeans creased, how I would flip if a sucker scuffed my Adidas, my Hush Puppies, my Puma's, how I stayed with the ice grill when cats I didn't really eff with too tough was around me. Hip Hop was my own little private world, and the more private I kept it, excluding clowns that wasn't down, the happier I was. I was steady tripping on that young teenager shit. My definition of nirvana was sneaking out after dark to the park, packed with other teenagers crowded around our local deejays with their makeshift turntables and speakers blasting the break beats of "Seven Minutes of Funk" by The Whole Darn Family, or "Mardi Gras" by Bob James as our local rappers lined up, waiting patiently for their chance to rock the microphone, their only shot at a brief moment of stardom, weed smoke from all the burning joints further expanding our young consciousness as we danced, grooved, romanced, postured and thugged out in this very private, intimate world of ours. All this without a record deal.

On an October morning in 1979, as I was getting ready for school, I was listening to WBLS when my world was changed again. That morning was the first time I heard "Rapper's Delight" on the radio. Although it was the first rap record I heard on the airwaves, I was pissed. Pissed at how these Sugarhill Gang rappers sounded fake, nothing near as authentic as the cats I had been following on cassette, even though they rocked that Chic "Good Times" beat that had flooded every hood in the US. Plus they looked whack and had corny sounding names like Wonder Mike and Big Hank and Master Gee. Out the gate the record industry betrayed me by insulting my Hip Hop intelligence with a rudimentary Mickey Mouse ass sounding song as it's very first rap single, still and all, I grew to like, grew to love that record as they started playing it at all the little parties I was going to, how the girls who wasn't up on Hip Hop loved to dance to it. How that record was the first official corner stone that went into the construction of the rap music industry. Right after "Rapper's Delight", it seemed like every one was rushing to put out a record, further gelling the makings of a growing musical genre. My favorites, Grand Master Flash and the Furious Five and The Cold Crush Brothers got a chance to do their thing on wax, and even though some of their records took off and it felt good to hear my original rap heroes on wax, the sound that I first heard on cassette, primal, raw, fresh was replaced by slick production, almost a smooth blend of Hip hop beats with a lil of that r&b. No doubt I stayed fiending for that next single, that next banger, but over night, the era of the sound of rappers performing the most original of routines as their deejays spun, mixed, cut and scratched records with the crowd screaming in the background was replaced with the rap record. My private little Hip Hop world was now part of a growing industry and teenagers from Brooklyn to Beijing began to take note, began to become a part of this new culture.

Mr. Magic kept me up late on weeknights, trying to catch the latest joints way before anyone else. Rap albums started being released and even though they rarely felt quite cohesive in content and theme, we kept dancing. In 1983, I started hearing "It's Like That" by a group with the unique name Run-DMC. "It's Like That" was cool, but at the time, it was nothing that made me take note. Shortly after, I heard "Sucker MC's" at a block party in Bed Stuy and me along with the crowd went ape. That record was the first time I heard a single that fully captured that feel that I had when I used to rock my earlier rap cassettes, a parse driving beat, cutting and scratching, two rappers spitting fire, nothing more. No chorus, no r&b inflected baselines, no chorus, just that out in the park late at night vibe, packaged neatly as the b-side to "It's Like That". "Sucker MC's had Run-DMC standing out and apart from the herd, right out the gate. Even though they released the follow up single "Hard Times" that was similar in nature to "It's Like That", the heat rock single next launched from the Run-DMC chamber was the instant classic "Rock Box". "Rock Box" was that perfect mix of hood rap and rock strings, what with that electric guitar riff making that joint sound hard as hell. In addition, the single was accompanied by a video, an artsy looking black and white piece that visually showcased the young rappers, Run coming off with the most arrogant of emcee swagger, DMC looking like the B-boy hard rock version of Frankenstein, stiff, menacing, hard, [||], Jam Master Jay showing off his Hollis cool as he manhandled the turntables. Not only did these cats have the hottest song and video out. They also dressed like me (or like how I wanted to dress). Gone were the coked out, older looking rappers with the Jheri curls, leather, lace and leopard, who were desperately trying to jack r&b's and disco's smoothed out and slightly homo-erotic glam look [||]. Run-DMC were the new niggas on the block and with one fell swoop, they declared with "Rock Box" the death of Hip Hop's "old school" generation artists that laid the foundation. Looking like it was shot at a party representing New York City's then downtown scene filled with Punks, whites and a smattering of Black faces, "Rock Box" is known as the first hip-hop music video to air on MTV. Cementing their place in history with the release of their eponymous debut album in 1984, Run-DMC dropped what some consider to be the first true rap album.

Becoming Hip Hop's first true widely recognized stars, Run-DMC set out to conquer not only rap, but the rock genre as well with their follow up release "King Of Rock" which dropped in 1985. Because of the noise they made with their first album, many esteemed critics from the rock establishment began dismissing the group's accomplishments, shitting on them and rap as a whole as not being a true art-form, that Hip Hop was just a passing fad for ghetto kids, that it wouldn't be around that much longer. In what was a shot aimed against it's critics, Run-DMC's next single and video, named "King Of Rock" had the group dissing major pop acts like Michael Jackson, the Beatles and even Elvis. On an intense drum beat and a scathing base line loop, further expanding on the rock feel introduced by "Rock Box", Run-DMC boldly claimed themselves to be the new kings of rock, kings of pop even, and dared every one out there to test them. In retrospect, this was such a brilliant effin move, shutting down all potential rap competitors and aiming for the top spot in one shot. It also helped that the single was fuego and MTV stayed jocking the video in major heavy rotation. Matching Hip Hop's street intensity with rock and roll's colossal instrumental sounds, Run-DMC convinced the world that they were here to stay. The album also broke all Hip Hop records in that it was the first to go gold and then platinum.

If "Run-DMC' is considered to be rap's first complete album and "King Of Rock" it's first major crossover, the following album "Raising Hell" released in 1986 is deemed rap's first masterpiece. Taking over most of the production, legendary producer and co-founder of Def Jam as then partner to Russell Simmons, Rick Rubin went in deep with this one. Whereas their prior records had combined elements of dense and sparse production, "Raising Hell", at the time, was simply the best produced rap record ever. The hits on the album were plenty with classics like "Peter Piper", "It's Tricky", "My Adidas", "Walk This Way" and "Raising Hell", what on earth was effin with this? Run-DMC's 4th album went triple platinum. Even though the group would drop further classics in their subsequent albums "Tougher Than Leather" (1988), "Back From Hell" (1990) and "Down With The King" (1993), "Raising Hell" proved to be the last monster album released by the group.

I can't even begin to get into the highlights surrounding Run-DMC's career in connection with their impact on touring, movies, magazine covers, endorsement deals and merchandise without having to write another coupla thousand words. This past Saturday, April 4th, Run-DMC became the 2nd rap act ever to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall Of Fame, second only to Grand Master Flash and The Furious Five. Funny, how Melle Mel was my first rap idol and Run-DMC was my second. Not known for their true lyrical skills and rarely mentioned in anyone's top 5, top 10 or top 100 emcee lists, it was great to see them receive the highest props for their contribution spanning back 25 years. Run-DMC may not go down as anyone's favorite G.O.A.T. emcee's of all time, but they remain arguably, Hip Hop's Greatest act of all time. From me to you, a sincere and heartfelt salute from Combat Jack to Run-DMC, the Kings from Queens.

So I'm asking, what's your favorite Run-DMC song?

1st Quarter Report (Time For A Commercial Break)

2009-04-02T00:21:00.000-07:00

A couple of days late, but the 1st quarter of 2009 is in the can. That means I survived my first quarter of blogging on the regular. Yo! This. daily. blogging. shit. is. an. effin. grind. I have a whole new level of respect for you internets soldiers out here in the blogosphere who have been doing this thing consistently and for a while. I am truly amazed and humbled at how my favorite bloggers have been steady getting it in day and night after day and night like clockwork, and I salute you. I'm trusting and hoping that I'm not shitting on this thing of yours, this thing of ours. I respect your blog craft and I'm doing my best in making sure I play my little part in continually raising the bar. Please feel free to check me whenever you feel your boy is reckless blogging and swerving outta control. I welcome your advice and criticisms with open arms. Like, how I don't/ can't keep my posts to the standard less than 75o word count minimum rule. For some reason, I'm having a serious problem in keeping my usual avalanche of words from falling out of my dome and onto your computer screen. I'm so sorry for that, so sorry for having you, fellow bloggers and faithful readers in having to read through my long ass pieces almost on a daily basis. Wifey been telling me for years that I talk to much, and now I see what she's been bitching about. Please be patient as I'ma work extra hard during the next quarter in keeping my shit short, brief and to the point.

But I'm loving it though. Loving the fact that I'm finding my voice. Loving that my 15 years of experience in the music industry is a commodity that I can generously share with you all. Loving that this "old head" can take rusty ass memories, bang them out onto my keyboard and have them coming out sounding so fresh and brand new to the world. Loving that I'm officially down with this movement, that here and now, during this period, me, you and my fellow blog masters are slowly and steadily locking down our rightful place in history. Most important, I'm loving you for coming through my lane on the regular, for supporting Combat Jack and for finding whatever part of this thing that informs you, entertains you and keeps you coming back. Thank you, thank you, and once again thank you. Without you, this blog would be a masterbatory exercise in self gratification and masterbaition blogging don't really sound like too much fun. [||] on that though.

Going into the 2nd quarter, I hereby vow to continue in the delivery of quality material. I realize that your time is valuable,especially since we are living in an age of information overload. I promise that in you stopping by the Daily Mathematics, you will not have wasted a second of your day. I will keep that promise, and if I feel I can't live up to my word to you, I will gracefully bow out.

Shout outs to Byron Crawford, p/k/a "Fuck Boy", [||]. Thanks again for letting a nigga rock with you when I was a lil snot nose. Eskay p/k/a The Big Co-Sign, you see it and already know what it is. To my brother from another borough Dallas Penn, the original Internets Celebrity, put the Mountain Dew down my dude, especially since we about to snatch this paper grandly and by the sacks and I ain't tryn'a see you lapse into no diabetic coma before we rob the effin bank blind. To my lil sis Marvelous Mo, you got the juice now, time to shoo all them birds from fluttering on your property. To my Favorite White Boy, Robbie, Benhameen and to all the heads listed on the CJ blog fam role, thanks for showing mad love to a knicca. You all have made this that much more enjoyable.

To my wifey and kids, thank you. Daddy ain't gone crazy, I'm just on a mission. It will be worth it. Trust. To the big homie Fab 5 Freddy, getting the steady twit passes from the Original Renaissance B-Boy is an honor, thank you for that. To my dude Clark Kent, we stay being Brooklyn's Finest. To Gis, my dude and soldier, you remain a true stand up nigga and I appreciate you for that. Yo, Elliot Wilson, you know who I is so what it do? Thembisa, Dori, thanks for the prep talk and in convincing me that I'm not wasting my time, thank you. Lamonte, you're too talented, however, the world will catch up to you and soon, watch. A special super thank you to the homie Sha Money XL, you personally blessing my "50 Cent Is Not A Rapper" piece is major, really though. Tell Fif I said whaddup.

To all of my posters, friend and foe, thank you. Your daily messages are like food for the soul. Or is it ego? Plus, some of ya'll really be leaving some witty, original funny ass comments. That "body that latte" from the lil' Run's House kids is classic and will stay being in my vernacular for a long time.

Finally, to the crab ass "Frenemie" who called my house bitching about that same 50 Cent post, screaming all types of lame ass threats in my ear, a major thank you for exposing and for playing yourself "homie". You stepped way outta line with that move, but I now see the hate flowing in your blood. With all the history I thought we had, I was bigging you up in my posts only because I had mad respect for you. Especially since the world done passed you by and forgot about your very minor contributions to the music game a long effin time ago, sensitive ass nigga. Your name has been removed from all posts and I'ma make sure the world keeps on in forgetting who the eff you are, you little ass man. You stay being forgotten. Run tell that to your lawyers. I'll be waiting for them right here.

And with all the pomp and circumstance now out of the way, it's time to get back to our regularly scheduled program.

"Drag Me To Hell". Please

2009-03-31T19:31:00.001-07:00

Not that you might care, but I'm a big film buff. Love the movies. All types of movies. My favorite though, is horror. When I was five years old, me and my older cousins were left alone, unsupervised by adults, on a cold wintry Saturday night. As my oldest cousin went to sleep, I stayed awake, twisting the old school knob dial changer until I hit the station featuring the "Creature Feature" movie of the week "Night Of The Living Dead". Once the movie started, I was too shook to change to a kindler gentler show. My shit was frightened to the effin core at what took place on the screen. That George Romero black and white zombie masterpiece fucked my head up permanently. What I realized though, was that no matter how horrified I was, there was a certain high, a rush that came with the scares. It was the beginning of my true, never dying love affair with horror films, and I've been trying to recapture my first high ever since. It wasn't cool that the Black dude that played hero died though, still, at least he survived and made it to the end of the movie.

I stay fiending for the perfect horror flick, not the blood fest type ones that focus more on the mad gore and chocolate syrup splattering. Not the stupid ones either, like the ones with the dumb white chicks running, stumbling TOWARDS their attackers or the recent joints of late with a cast of "beautiful" Blonde kids camping out on some deserted, haunted hotel, beach, resort, camp house by the pool with the lake and the hitchhikers and killers with the Scream type masks. Them joints are an insult. Plus, the one Black kid always gets it first.

I'm talking about the joint that, once you watch, once you let the horror that unfolds seep into your psyche, you know for a fact that you'll carry a bit of that horror with you for a long effin time, maybe to the grave even. You know what I'm talking about, "The Exorcist", the first "Halloween", that old school HBO joint "The Hitcher", shit even the original "Psycho". There have been a few classics. Eff'd up thing for horror fiends like myself is that the GREAT horror flicks are mad rare, and sometimes it takes years to catch one worthy of ending up in the DVD blu-ray collection. Last joint I saw that was even semi collector worthy was "The Ring" released back in 2002. No doubt the Asian J or K horror ones stayed mad hot for a while, up until they starting running the same formula into the ground, every one of them having the mandatory dead, cursed, eff'd up looking Japanese girl with the long wet hair hunting that ass down. That shit got played out quick.

Sam Raimi remains one of my favorite movie directors to date. Dude started out back in 1981 with the low budget flick "The Evil Dead". In a nutshell, The Evil Dead was about five college students who came across a haunted book in the woods and inadvertently unleashed all types of fuckery upon themselves. Although low budget, Raimi was able to combine the perfect elements of horror and comedy resulting in the movie becoming a cult horror classic. Raimi followed with two sequels to complete the trilogy, "The Evil Dead II" (1987) which went head to head with it's predecessor in becoming another classic, especially since it wasn't as much a sequel as it was a revamping of the first one with a bigger budget and "Army Of Darkness" (1993) which was wackier than the first two and played out more like a slapstick, horror adventure piece. By the time Raimi completed his "Evil" trilogy however, he was deemed by many to be a master of the genre.

Having locked down the horror game, Raimi decided he would try his hand at full blown action adventure. The result was the 1990 classic "Darkman". "Darkman" jumped out of nowhere and became that instant suburban mall and ghetto banger with Liam Neesom playing the disfigured hero type maniac who wrecked shop in his quest for revenge against the gangsters that made his life a living hell. "Darkman" was so on point in that it played like the perfect comic book movie, even though it wasn't based on any actual comic book characters. With one shot, Raimi proved that he was also on top of his game with the action/adventure genre.

Not one to rest on his laurels with horror and action in his pocket, Raimi's next joint was a flick that further stretched the master storyteller's horizons with the western "The Quick And The Dead" starring Sharon Stone, Gene Hackman, Russell Crowe and Leonardo DiCaprio. In it, Stone played a female gunslinger focused on revenge against Gene Hackman who played the nasty bad man who had wronged her. Although the movie played out like a typical spaghetti western, Raimi won in that he infused the flick with his own quirky, fast paced style. "The Quick And The Dead" satisfied many movie goers who wanted a little western flavor added to their movie going experience.

Raimi churned out two more notable movies, "A Simple Plan" (1998) which was a crime, drama thriller that had a Coen brothers feel and "The Gift" (2000) which was a quiet but well crafted return to his horror roots. After proving, time after time, that he was that go to guy to the Hollywood shot callers, Raimi beat out a host of block buster film makers in landing the holy grail of comic book movies "Spider-Man"(2002). "Spider-Man" was the movie Marvel comics had been trying to make for over 20 years. After the success of "X-Men" (2000) and with Hollywood turning it's eye to comic books as the next cash cow, Raimi was tapped to step to the plate and once on board, he delivered a home run. "Spider-Man 2" (2004) proved to be better than the first and became arguably, one of the best in the comic book movie genre. "Spider-Man 3" wasn't the critically acclaimed piece that the first two were, mainly because now that Raimi proved he was that blockbuster director, the studio allegedly applied mad pressure in having him throw everything and the kitchen sink into the movie in order to guarantee another successful hit. Fans complained about S3 having too many villains, plus that whole cornball black suited emo Spider-Man thingie, nonetheless S3 went on to become a major commercial success.

I go into Sam Raimi's filmography because, as I mentioned above, I am a true fan of this man's craft. I also go in because during the past few years, fans have been begging Raimi to return to his true original love, the horror movie. In addition, Sam has been complaining of late about how he has been aching to return to his roots in order to bless horror fans the world over with a much needed classic, the type shit that might could make one soil their draws. On May 29th, Sam Raimi will be bringing us "Drag Me To Hell". "Drag Me To Hell" is about a young female bank loan officer ambitious in moving up in her career. Feeling she has to prove her gully to her superiors, she shits on an old gypsy woman who practically begs her to be more lenient in extending a grace period in order for the gypsy to avoid foreclosure on her home. Once shitted on, the gypsy woman brings it, in spades. "Drag Me To Hell" was screened at this years South By South West film festival and was met with critical acclaim across the board. I've even been warned to bring an extra pair of clean draws upon my first viewing. The trailer looks like mad shits and giggles. No question, I am psyched. I'm hoping that my fellow horror fans are equally as psyched. May 29th is now looking so effin far way.

So I'm asking, what's yer favorite horror flick?