Millennial Rappers, The 2011 Albums

VIDEOPLOGGERY: Mini-reviews of five fave 2011 albums by Millennial Rappers to be found herein. Wishing you more good music--as well as non-musical good--for 2012.

Q: What do you mean "Millennial Rappers"?

A: Why that's the very first thing discussed in the video!

Q: Guess I'll watch then. Do you perchance do any videohoery in here?

A: ... :) ...

When Occupation Is Therapy, Talk Is Not Cheap

I HAVE NEVER been fond of protests. I was inculcated into lefty protest culture at a young age, and it seemed to mean belonging to a marginal subgroup yelling irrelevantly, much like when I had to go to Lakers games and root against the Lakers.

I did not expect, then, that my heart would warm to the Occupy movement as it has. Here in Oakland things have gotten out of hand every possible way, and the local news is often painful. But I also got to watch news chopper footage of the Port with an ant swarm of Oaklanders, publicly agreeing on something quite important. Precisely what that thing is I can't say any more than they can, and I think that is fine. Not everything is articulable, after all.

The agendalessness criticism not only misses but subverts the point. Why must it always be anti-government nuts and right wing media screamers who get to be generally aggrieved, while lefty poindexters are supposed to tiptoe into the halls of power with their briefcases full of bullet-pointed 'demands' in a sensible font?

Hendrik Hertzberg wrote in the New Yorker:

Yes, O.W.S. has 'changed the conversation.' But talk, however necessary, is cheap. Ultimately, inevitably, the route to real change has to run through politics.

And for the very first time I disagreed with him. In a world where Congressional Republicans are three hundred-pound brutes in pads who look plumply ineffectual but prove startlingly strong, and are single-minded enough to block our gallant, lean-muscled president from passing even a bill saying please let's at least keep teachers and firefighters...general shouting may be just the thing.

Rather than being based upon an agenda, Occupy is a manifestation of a feeling, one we all sort of have. When we see those protesters out there, we know what they mean. They don't have to spell it out. That they should make particular demands is great--like financial tranfers tax, awesome. But to focus exclusively on such would be a sign not of maturity but of timid self-limitation.

Occupy is a fresh wind blown in. The recent past has seen America awash in wealth worship. The vast cultural force that is Entertainment News scolds against hating on the rich. It's so flippin cool to be rich! cheer the Entertainment Newspeople, out of whose whitened smile mouths come terrible things. But hateration is about envy. The 99% solidarity ethos is about anger. Anger over wrongness.

Wealth can indeed be unethical, I believe. Hard core 1%-er wealth is inevitably built others' backs. The work of armies of immigrant gardeners and nannies and housekeepers hums along in the background. Regular people turn off lights when they leave rooms, while the fabulously wealthy keep a heated pool at a third home. And of course there's the elaborately choreographed fucking-over of other people that led to the 2008 financial meltdown.

There actually are limited resources in this world, and when they are allocated preposterously it's many ways helpful to yell about it. Even as cold and cops blow Occupy adrift, it does something.

In Which I Dip a Toe in Videoploggery

West Coast Hugfest

The Soul-Soaked Ms. Winehouse

I NEVER saw Amy the way some people did, as junkie fuckup tabloid fodder. To me she was wonderful. Glimpses of her dark side saddened and worried me, but I did not mistake the ugly pictures for her.

It is possible to edifyingly consume artwork without respecting its maker, as though we believe the artist herself is not to thank for her own work. Many seemed to perceive Amy as an obnoxious, unworthy vessel for her Talent. I made that mistake myself at first: I liked her, but I didn't respect her. Fans can be cruel like that.

I came to properly appreciate her, though. How could I not, when Back to Black so uncannily resembled a gift granted me from Adonai above? You see, I was collecting tapes of the Supremes and the Shangri-Las back when the other little girls were on Tiffany and Debbie Gibson. Hearing that girl group sound from the quaveringly brassy vocal chords of a London Jewgirl with tattoos and rapper collaborators and British writing skills was almost more than I could bear. Amy was like a chimerical joint invention of my inner child and outer adult. (She even threw in some Specials covers to appease my inner teenager.)

IT'S FUNNY how much you can care for someone as a fan. I needn't try to explain the collision of internet mourning and the peculiar nature of loss when you are mere fan to the dearly departed, because Jay Smooth already did here.

I did cry. In the bathtub and on the floor of the Oakland Marriott. You only spend a bright summer Saturday in a hotel in the downtown of your own city (inhabiting the floor even) if you are recovering from a herniated disc and using your mom's stay at said hotel as an opportunity to abscond from your home for a change of scenery, so of course that was my reason. But the setting was fortuitously Amyish.

I completed the first inevitable cycle from "Back to Black" to "Tears Dry On Their Own" feeling sheepish, struck by how perfectly Amy had provided a soundtrack for mourning her. Her work made it too easy for me. And that's the gift I think we undervalue.

We can cluck about drugs and fame, but there was a more essential, if ridiculably "tortured," artistic quality to Amy. Tearing your heart open and pouring the contents into music can be healing, but it also costs something. We took Amy's end product, whatever it cost, lapped it right up. At best we listened to what she sang and really heard her. (And I suspect being heard was the compensation she sought, not money or fame.) At worst we violated her privacy and made sordid junk food meals of her pain.

That thing we got from Amy--that elusive, potent magic--she put it there. Herein lies the demanding quintessential skill of an artist. Perhaps we cannot directly see or hear the result of the exercise of such skill. But we do experience it some way, and are drawn to that quality. Crying on the floor was a poignant meme for me because Amy made it so. She did the alchemical drudgery. I got to enjoy the pain-turned-beauty.

If you really have a heart and it really breaks, some faux-angsty song like Beyonce's "Irreplaceable" won't do shit for you. "Back to Black" or "Wake Up Alone" might. That is the difference.

Someone once said to me (when I was in fact dressed for Halloween as Amy) that he could be no fan of hers, since he only listens to 'real Soul.'

I say real Soul really comes from the soul. Amy's damn sure did.

Letter to Game

Game darling,

Funny you should write, as you had been on my mind lately. Been back painitentiary way (parole violation) so plenty of think time.

What happened? Ehhh...there was this whole coop killing incident and you know me: never ran from a possum, damn sure ainbouta pick today to start runnin (to twist your twist on Weezy). I have a release date, but you know how slippery those can be.

So...been here, reading BritLit. You'd like Trollope. Everything's about money for him, in this vicious, delicious, accurate way.

I like the star behind the "LA" over the butterfly. Am I the only one? (Teasing, sorry.) And huzzahs on the definite article snippage. More elegant this way.

Nah, no kids yet, though I don't doubt it's possible to become pregnant just off prurient thoughts about you ;)

Feel for you on the Jimmy Henchman situation. I can imagine how difficult a position that puts you in, &c. I still think the actual murders were Suge-backed, and I sense you think the same, though you know I'm not asking.

Obama...I know he is doing many things imperfectly, but I still feel, after those surreal Bush years, grateful to have a real president. Obama makes genuine decisions, genuine mistakes, understands and cares about what he says and does. Also I think at some point I decided to support him ride or die. There are plenty of people ready and willing to criticize him, and they should. I provide the unconditional love. Why, have you had a change of heart? (Sorry sorry know you're sensitive! But my penchant for teasing may be tied to your penchant for misogyny--just saying think about it.)

Want to let you know--because I'm truthful like that--you are not the only imaginary celebrilove in my life nowadays. I have another, Dan Auerbach, on whose YouTubed interviews I likewise stansturbate. Well and there's Nicki, but I know you won't mind that ;) You could have had my imagination all to yourself, for truth, had you fully met my needs. Anyway, he's a rockboy, half your size but quite equal in swag. If you can get past the sting of jealousy (and indeed I hope you cannot!) you'll find he's mad talented. He did this spine-tingling collab with your boy Chef. (See Dan stan out at 4:53; hear the track at 6:41.)

Random: what's Marsha Ambrosius like? I can't figure her out.

And now, because I care, several helpings of my usual unsolicited advice:

Beefmonster that you are, you remain surprisingly unschooled in the art of Hate deflection. Don't gripe about getting Hated upon. Hate is flattery, remember that. Far better to counteract the resultant insecurity by stepping your lyrics up. No whining about why do I get left out of top tens. Remember the old adage about talking -vs- being about it. Wise man say: You ain't grinding until you tired.

You have something a lot of rappers don't. It's easy to be Kanye clever. The hard part is putting your heart and soul, best and worst of yourself, into your work. You do that and no one can touch you. And I know you're capable of it, because I've listened to "Ol English" about eight thousand times. You don't have to have silken Snoop flow or Weezy wordplay; that's not you. You rap from the gut and at your best its contents pour forth. I know the process is not pleasant, but hey. If it wears you out just lay down some club bangers for comfort. Also, NO ONE's harder than you, so you have nothing to prove in that arena, trust.

Henpecks aside, I can see you're growing and working on your craft and I am glad. This was nice:

Walk through the gates of Hell

See my Impala parked in front

With the high beams on

Me and the devil sharing chronic blunts

Listenin to the Chronic album

Playin backwards

Shootin at pictures a Don Imus for target practice

The "Pot of Gold" joint seems meant for me and my radio-listening whitegirl demographic to love it, but I'm undecided. The beat is nice, as are your verses, but the whole feels a tad pandering. I say that with love; you know this. Maybe I just haven't forgiven C. Breezy, no fault of yours.

August 23rd! (Sure? [Continuing to give you shit ;)]) Can't wait.

,

Cleb

Laidupedness

IN THE MONTH OF MAY the sharpshooters began to stand down. That electric nerve pain, worst kind, transmogrified to arthritic inflammation, pulsing along the nerve corridor like I was a bioluminescent sea creature. Lately I have lots of painless moments, or so they seem upon casual observation. If I inquire too solicitously my body usually reports that Pain is in fact still there, perhaps sleeping.

The controversially-called 'painless' moments are strictly conditional. I get to have them if...and you don't want to hear the ellipses contents. In brief, absurd limitation paired with ibupanacea.

I've had to cultivate some weird other kind of discipline. The kind where you don't do stuff--not even the sensible, responsible things your brain says to do. See the chickenshit on the patio, but don't hose it off. Hear the coffee beans crunch underfoot, but don't sweep up the resultant grounds. Faced with a heap of dishes, wash only one dish.

The little feline Buddhist nun understands such things. If her water bowl is empty, she says, Do not attempt to reach it! Merely open the door, that I may go and drink from the water garden. She is conducting clinical trials on the efficacy of feline saliva, applied topically, on spinal disc regeneration in humans. With a sample size of one.

I READ BOOKS about The Back and about Pain, trying to learn from them without being steamrolled by their high church pronouncements. Bed rest should not exceed 1-2 days. I agree: it should not. Not least because it FUCKING SUCKS. But what would general medical wisdom have had me do instead? Keep moving about until my screams summoned the neighbors?

I hold as my bottom line the oath I felt like a lot of doctors failed to make me: First, do no harm.

The research I do and the interactions I have about my back problem are often painful themselves, though I do learn from them. In such case I must unbandage the wound, saying, This hurts and I wish it would get better. That invites clucking opinions and facile judgments as readily as sympathy or genuine help. Princess SHao brought what I really wanted: chocozucchini bread.

AND NOW FOR a quick lesson in making a person's hardship their own choice and fault. It's a neat trick: 1. Think up something the person should be doing. 2. Suggest it to the person. 3. Sit back and relax! If the person fails to be better, it's on them! You tried.

Nothing I hate more than people's little self-solacing notions of What I Should Be Doing. The suggestey shit pricks me til I bleed with self-doubt. The philosopher JBird said what I really wanted to hear: that my ass retains its splendor.

But what would I have people do in lieu of solacing themselves? Doesn't provision of empathy require suffering along with me? How can I ask that?

AFTER THREE MONTHS of laidupedness and discouragement, I gave myself the following advice:

This will last...some amount of time. Some awful, unbearably long period of time, way beyond reason. The progress will be invisible slow; setbacks many. You won't have the support you need. Won't have options that could make it easier. Instead eight million things will conspire to make it harder. You'll often be mired in depression. Your self-confidence will wear down. Your life will get all off-track. You'll get farther and farther from being as you were. You'll lose your fitness and your beauty to some extent or other. You may not even feel like yourself; you'll feel like you are the Pain. Fully parasitized. All this will happen. Continue happening. Even so it will end. You'll get well.

That has proven useful. Eventual wellness is a damn fine promise, one beyond the reach of many who are unwell.

FINALLY, for Lolo, a word on bullshit-skimming. You see, ordinarily I care about a lot of dumb shit, like what people think about the things I do, and why I don't make more money, and whether quoting rappers makes me ridiculous. But with Pain at my back, how can I possibly care? Jay-Z said it best:

I used to give a fuck

Now I give a fuck less