"Go Shawty, its yo birthday, we gon' party like it's yo birthday/we gon' sip baccardi like it's yo birthday/and we don't even give a fuck it's not your birthday!"
The hit song by 50 Cent, In Da Club, embodies all of the negative stereotypes associated with hip hop culture. The song glamorizes being violent, throwing money around, gangs, collecting hoes like they were gardening supplies---there is nothing poetic about this song, and the lyrics are vacuous. heck, even 50 sounds like he's not into the song at times. It's a terrible excuse for a rap song, yet I play it repeatedly, until the beat drills itself back inside my brain. Kevin Coval, a poet I admire, said that 50 Cent himself is a negative stereotype of rappers, and I agree with that, while still blasting some more of 50's rhymes through my radio. Another rapper I listen to is Self proclaimed "Queen of the South" Trina, a woman who degrades herself in her own songs, and uses the word 'bitch' to punctuate phrases in her raps. That didn't stop me from buying her albums, though. I respect her as an artist more than 50 Cent, as I only like a few of his songs, yet her lyrics, no matter how catchy, are just as vapid.
Bad rappers, no matter how often I declare my hatred for them, will always have a place in my heart, and on my CD shelf. I feel like I'm as shallow as the artist after listening to a hip-pop song, or that I'm a hypocrite when I detest suburban kids for pretending to be rap fans while autotune is dominating the track they leave on repeat. I feel as dirty as a middle aged woman with a secret love for tabloids and gossip, after looking back in disgust at what I just listened to for 10 times straight, but while the song is on, I'm in the moment, nodding my head to the beat, tapping my fingers as the pounding techno beat bursts through the air like cannon fire. I will lose myself in the music, the moment, own it, then snap back to reality and remind myself that I was not listening to 'Lose Yourself', and that 'In Da Club' is still blaring at glass-breaking volume. I tell myself that Soulja Boy can't touch Nas, and Missy is the rightful queen of the south. If hip hop was all about autotune, bland melodies and disney star cameos, it would be pop, and a platinum present would become the Flo-Rida future---right?
We still need those sucker MCs to brighten our dance floors and set the mood for that friday night when the party is wild, and we feel invincible. There's no need to battle---not while that song I heard on the radio, like, a week ago is turned up so loud it's making my body swing in time to the rhythm and now I'm a queen looking down on those fools below me with no taste in music at all----Oh, wait, why was I listening to that song again?
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Monday, July 20, 2009
Gutter Child
I sleep in the gutter, drowning in an ocean of trash
Gangsters and hoes lulling my aching eyes shut
Lyrics that feel like a breath of fresh air become the dead rats that haunt city subways
Words that deal out death threats and degrading rhymes like decks of cards
Is all my music is to the ears and eyes of my brother
I try reading him a Nikki Giovanni poem about the death of Tupac, and he stops paying attention at the sound of 'pac'
At his age i thought all poems had to rhyme and sound like copies of Silverstein
while today I want Missy Elliott and Eminem to shine through my poems like rays of sun
He thinks up lines that pass me by as I try to write a poem based off a 10% diss from MC Lyte
He writes a poem about bad seeds, yet can't listen to a note that the baddest seeds spit
Never spit seeds, use your words, I'm told----What if the seeds aren't planted or spread, but thrown away or held for a few moments before letting go?
For a moment I'm jealous---he writes better than I did at that age, and I had to be inspired by the music he calls gutter trash
If i play just one line from Nas, he writes it off as something Ludacris, worthless as 50 Cent
When a poet rhymes to a beat and drops lines that contain bad language my brother calls that Gangsta rap
My writing skills are challenged by the boy who doesn't look to rap for inspiration
now can anyone notice why I harbor such frustration as I review my situation?
He doesn't know tagging from grafitti, break dancing from gangster swagga
Lines as effortless as his that can capture mood is what I'm after
I think think up lines that might score a 5 at a slam at best
My brother though a budding rhymer dosen't treat it like a test
He conjures up images, armed with clever lines mixed in with his action-movie filled mind
This morning I tell him He's a good writer
He tells me I draw well as he takes another bite of banana
This stings like a wasp---I want to write well, I hope to sing my own songs and release albums
It's my dream to be recognized for being clever with a pen, writing rhymes like I was painting pictures
Then again, what does he know?
He's quick to label artists as if they were cans of soup---SHE's showing too much cleavage, HER skirt's too tight, HE wants to shoot his foes point-blank, why did he use the f word 4 times in that line?
He rejects the poetry that he himself can learn from, yet knows how to weave together words without the help of two turntables and a microphone
I'm just the girl that lies in the gutter while my favorite MCs corrupt my mind
Gangsters and hoes lulling my aching eyes shut
Lyrics that feel like a breath of fresh air become the dead rats that haunt city subways
Words that deal out death threats and degrading rhymes like decks of cards
Is all my music is to the ears and eyes of my brother
I try reading him a Nikki Giovanni poem about the death of Tupac, and he stops paying attention at the sound of 'pac'
At his age i thought all poems had to rhyme and sound like copies of Silverstein
while today I want Missy Elliott and Eminem to shine through my poems like rays of sun
He thinks up lines that pass me by as I try to write a poem based off a 10% diss from MC Lyte
He writes a poem about bad seeds, yet can't listen to a note that the baddest seeds spit
Never spit seeds, use your words, I'm told----What if the seeds aren't planted or spread, but thrown away or held for a few moments before letting go?
For a moment I'm jealous---he writes better than I did at that age, and I had to be inspired by the music he calls gutter trash
If i play just one line from Nas, he writes it off as something Ludacris, worthless as 50 Cent
When a poet rhymes to a beat and drops lines that contain bad language my brother calls that Gangsta rap
My writing skills are challenged by the boy who doesn't look to rap for inspiration
now can anyone notice why I harbor such frustration as I review my situation?
He doesn't know tagging from grafitti, break dancing from gangster swagga
Lines as effortless as his that can capture mood is what I'm after
I think think up lines that might score a 5 at a slam at best
My brother though a budding rhymer dosen't treat it like a test
He conjures up images, armed with clever lines mixed in with his action-movie filled mind
This morning I tell him He's a good writer
He tells me I draw well as he takes another bite of banana
This stings like a wasp---I want to write well, I hope to sing my own songs and release albums
It's my dream to be recognized for being clever with a pen, writing rhymes like I was painting pictures
Then again, what does he know?
He's quick to label artists as if they were cans of soup---SHE's showing too much cleavage, HER skirt's too tight, HE wants to shoot his foes point-blank, why did he use the f word 4 times in that line?
He rejects the poetry that he himself can learn from, yet knows how to weave together words without the help of two turntables and a microphone
I'm just the girl that lies in the gutter while my favorite MCs corrupt my mind
Friday, July 3, 2009
Slacker Girl (Dirty south, Two Outsiders, and Sleepless Nights)
Get them teeth fixed, spray some sheen on those dreads/get them bags out your eyes, get some rest and go to bed
The line, meant to pierce an up and coming female rapper like a blade, that contained the patronizing, fake-sisterly advice kept playing in the back of my own tired head
up late, school tomorrow, drawing needs to be complete so I can wake to something more pleasing to the eye
This test will boost your grade/Study well and pass the class/Think of how freshened you should feel, once you've slept sound at last
I miss my friend, who lives in another suburb far from me and who is surrounded by boxes in the white-brick home with the odd-looking ceiling---I wrote a poem about him earlier, trying to guess at what his reaction were to be if by chance he read through---Would he laugh, or shrug it off like a playful insult?
You can't stop by the market for giant soda bottles with an imaginary friend, or wander through town, mocking the countless McMansions with an invisible teen---We're both Greasers--outsiders looking to belong, yet trying to appear as if all we wanna do is take your money like M.I.A.---But I was drawing, not thinking about paper planes---Trina was spitting through my headphones instead
We are learning about planet Earth---an area where I have a lot of faults in a subject I manage to coast through each class like someone who just doesn't give a damn about the future---the words 'career' 'reality' and 'study' sound foreign to her
that rebel, rap junkie, antisocial and awkward teenage girl who can waste a night instead of brushing up on plate tectonics---She'd rather stroke that brush across a canvas she got from her uncle who paints strip malls and naked women
Dirty south rap newcomers lacked the country-fried zest the 21st century claimed they captured---When i think rap, I think of the wild west coast that brought Tupac and Dre---the east streets, gritty new york city and its not-so-innocent little sister, my own Chi-town stuck in the middle of both sides like a diplomat
The new south rappers were like mosquitoes to my ears, while my favorite female MCs weren't gonna have music riding the radio waves anytime soon---Remy Ma was rotting in prison and Southern queen Missy's album seemed too far away from my stereo
Then came the Diamond Princess---She raps about sex, money, getting glamorously drunk---What every decent fellow hates rap for spreading around like Swine flu
Her voice and lyrics are filthy---yet they're dirty in a way that repped the south, and showed she was Still Da Baddest---southern belle gone gangster, yet Trina never mentions a bullet---she doesn't wish to see tear-stained caskets or funerals
I listen to her song while I work on art of my own, but hers is the kind of art that I could listen to, feel higher than a paper plane, above my own art supplies and paper and pencil, then remember who I am and float like a leaf back down to Earth---a planet I know a C grade's worth of information about, where I loose sleep while my papa will preach to me on how I need to care about this class
A headphone falls out of my left ear as I scribble madly to the beat of the song, my masterpiece looking like a piece I hadn't quite mastered--Just one more stroke, fix her cheek, shade in her dress, capture the mood, make her look to impress---You'd think I was six again, playing with a dress up doll to fit my standards
Then again, I should have been studying, sleeping, sweaty from the heat, dreaming of a failing grade and that tag-along girl that won't stop asking if I'm awake as soon as I drag myself up out of the steaming covers
Get them bags out your eyes, get some rest and go to bed
The line, meant to pierce an up and coming female rapper like a blade, that contained the patronizing, fake-sisterly advice kept playing in the back of my own tired head
up late, school tomorrow, drawing needs to be complete so I can wake to something more pleasing to the eye
This test will boost your grade/Study well and pass the class/Think of how freshened you should feel, once you've slept sound at last
I miss my friend, who lives in another suburb far from me and who is surrounded by boxes in the white-brick home with the odd-looking ceiling---I wrote a poem about him earlier, trying to guess at what his reaction were to be if by chance he read through---Would he laugh, or shrug it off like a playful insult?
You can't stop by the market for giant soda bottles with an imaginary friend, or wander through town, mocking the countless McMansions with an invisible teen---We're both Greasers--outsiders looking to belong, yet trying to appear as if all we wanna do is take your money like M.I.A.---But I was drawing, not thinking about paper planes---Trina was spitting through my headphones instead
We are learning about planet Earth---an area where I have a lot of faults in a subject I manage to coast through each class like someone who just doesn't give a damn about the future---the words 'career' 'reality' and 'study' sound foreign to her
that rebel, rap junkie, antisocial and awkward teenage girl who can waste a night instead of brushing up on plate tectonics---She'd rather stroke that brush across a canvas she got from her uncle who paints strip malls and naked women
Dirty south rap newcomers lacked the country-fried zest the 21st century claimed they captured---When i think rap, I think of the wild west coast that brought Tupac and Dre---the east streets, gritty new york city and its not-so-innocent little sister, my own Chi-town stuck in the middle of both sides like a diplomat
The new south rappers were like mosquitoes to my ears, while my favorite female MCs weren't gonna have music riding the radio waves anytime soon---Remy Ma was rotting in prison and Southern queen Missy's album seemed too far away from my stereo
Then came the Diamond Princess---She raps about sex, money, getting glamorously drunk---What every decent fellow hates rap for spreading around like Swine flu
Her voice and lyrics are filthy---yet they're dirty in a way that repped the south, and showed she was Still Da Baddest---southern belle gone gangster, yet Trina never mentions a bullet---she doesn't wish to see tear-stained caskets or funerals
I listen to her song while I work on art of my own, but hers is the kind of art that I could listen to, feel higher than a paper plane, above my own art supplies and paper and pencil, then remember who I am and float like a leaf back down to Earth---a planet I know a C grade's worth of information about, where I loose sleep while my papa will preach to me on how I need to care about this class
A headphone falls out of my left ear as I scribble madly to the beat of the song, my masterpiece looking like a piece I hadn't quite mastered--Just one more stroke, fix her cheek, shade in her dress, capture the mood, make her look to impress---You'd think I was six again, playing with a dress up doll to fit my standards
Then again, I should have been studying, sleeping, sweaty from the heat, dreaming of a failing grade and that tag-along girl that won't stop asking if I'm awake as soon as I drag myself up out of the steaming covers
Get them bags out your eyes, get some rest and go to bed
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
4th Grade
In grade school I'd pace around the room, up and down the equipment and around it, too
My mind raced like a broken roller coaster---i didn't know what i was thinking of and why it appeared to me out of the infinite blue sky above my confused little head
Was it an episode I was trying to play back like a VCR, or was I trying to give it a new ending? One i felt agreed with me better, where heroes were held back by their capes.
Like a windup train, I'd circle the same objects again and again, never stopping, gazing back at my friends engaged in four-square and kickball---Feeling left out, I knew what outcast meant long before i heard 'hey ya!' So I screamed, weeping and wailing like I was I in pain
The blonde bully, Amy, tells me I'm just chasing my friends away, I'm a pathetic, fat baby, a coward
She remembers the time I stole first base back in gym, literally, I stole first base, picked it up and ran away with the rubber mat in my plump arms
She doesn't know the half of my insanity, The Scream come to life, my mouth could have been sculpted to an 'o' shape with volume dials on my face instead of ears
The teacher who loved baking pastries and buying brownies more than teaching children about pilgrims or metrics noticed my sneaking away from class to the reading space in a nearby corner while her lips were still moving---She knew I was crouching on all fours, creeping slowly to the fables and tales of horror
It's not like she cared, though---The special needs girl wasn't in her cookbook, or her teacher's manual, it appeared
the bratty blonde didn't understand, I wanted a normal life, I wanted to sing, with my friends as backup and nothing stopping me from belting out my first single: when I go across the lake
She would never know how I'd smile to myself after learning the spanish numbers, especially the 'teens---15, or quince, which sounded like Quinn-ce in my mind
I flashed back to black and red slippers, red and black jesters toting guns in a totebag she'd carry around
Amy aiming her taunts at me would chase me around, she could have been running with scissors her words were so cutting
I was ms. plump, tubby, mental girl in the eyes of other children, yet I cared as much as my teacher did about me gaining knowledge
Harley stood out for me that year, I screeched out songs during recess that year, I screamed so loudly and shed so many tears---I paced around the bleak blacktop
Meds didn't work on me that year, the more I had to take, the less sleep I got, wandering around my bedroom space
If I had a pencil I'd erase that year out of my life, tearing a hole through my life, taping in a new past
Then again, I listened to my first Eminem song that year, and hated it
My mind raced like a broken roller coaster---i didn't know what i was thinking of and why it appeared to me out of the infinite blue sky above my confused little head
Was it an episode I was trying to play back like a VCR, or was I trying to give it a new ending? One i felt agreed with me better, where heroes were held back by their capes.
Like a windup train, I'd circle the same objects again and again, never stopping, gazing back at my friends engaged in four-square and kickball---Feeling left out, I knew what outcast meant long before i heard 'hey ya!' So I screamed, weeping and wailing like I was I in pain
The blonde bully, Amy, tells me I'm just chasing my friends away, I'm a pathetic, fat baby, a coward
She remembers the time I stole first base back in gym, literally, I stole first base, picked it up and ran away with the rubber mat in my plump arms
She doesn't know the half of my insanity, The Scream come to life, my mouth could have been sculpted to an 'o' shape with volume dials on my face instead of ears
The teacher who loved baking pastries and buying brownies more than teaching children about pilgrims or metrics noticed my sneaking away from class to the reading space in a nearby corner while her lips were still moving---She knew I was crouching on all fours, creeping slowly to the fables and tales of horror
It's not like she cared, though---The special needs girl wasn't in her cookbook, or her teacher's manual, it appeared
the bratty blonde didn't understand, I wanted a normal life, I wanted to sing, with my friends as backup and nothing stopping me from belting out my first single: when I go across the lake
She would never know how I'd smile to myself after learning the spanish numbers, especially the 'teens---15, or quince, which sounded like Quinn-ce in my mind
I flashed back to black and red slippers, red and black jesters toting guns in a totebag she'd carry around
Amy aiming her taunts at me would chase me around, she could have been running with scissors her words were so cutting
I was ms. plump, tubby, mental girl in the eyes of other children, yet I cared as much as my teacher did about me gaining knowledge
Harley stood out for me that year, I screeched out songs during recess that year, I screamed so loudly and shed so many tears---I paced around the bleak blacktop
Meds didn't work on me that year, the more I had to take, the less sleep I got, wandering around my bedroom space
If I had a pencil I'd erase that year out of my life, tearing a hole through my life, taping in a new past
Then again, I listened to my first Eminem song that year, and hated it
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Admiration for the Candy-Rapper
So I like this poetic rapper, Eminem to be exact
Impressive how he creates gory images in stories track after track
A psycho that screams bloody murder, murmurs sick fantasies, won't let you ask
Questions, got a game of Q/A, from A-Z, rhymes that'll take you to school and back
Mr. Mathers' homework assignemts might be too tough to handle, words will take you aback
Not some rich guy from Detroit, Its shady,damn, yes he can deliver like a UPS man
Police lines are crossed, realistic limitations
He can deliver a punchline without hesitation
Calls himself the anti-Christ, established this persona of slim
Swears easy as singing a lullaby, stinging profanities come quickly to him
When I saw his art, pencil drawings, pen scibblings , Didn't know he could draw?
precision in rough sketches sparked envy in me, but overall inspired awe
Inspired me, serious with music, relaxes with pencils and thick bristol paper
Already paints pictures, could paint a day in the park in a freestyle to impress her
The lonely artist, apprentice, learning skills each hour, I'm that aspiring girl
I can lean back, nod in time to the beats and singsong rhymes without a care in the world
He paints, strains, could conjure up cartoon images with more classic material than mickey mouse
He's not this god, has more flip-flops than a suburban girl in summer, but honestly, could out-rehab Amy Winehouse
Recovering drug addict, yeah, great role model, kid,and raps with too much mysogyny
If he raps about killing women and bitches, I'm still a woman who loves the man, his wordplay doesn't concern me
I could go deaf just listening to the same song with a cheerful message of 'fuck them'
yet
When i come back from Truman-show reality, I'm still gonna love Eminem
Monday, June 8, 2009
Verbal Battlefield
Who the hell is this chick? She's been out kinda long, had one hot song, sorry, didn't hear it, must have missed it/too busy being conceited putting on my lipstick, That line is from the Lil Kim freestyle Got Money, mean to be a diss directed at Remy Ma, an up and coming rapper who rap veteran Kim believed had been calling her out in interviews and on songs. Remy naturally responded with a diss of her own in the freestyle When I See Her, aimed directly at Kim, with lines like: "I'm gonna treat her like a check and straight cash her when I see her." The two had been competing for the "Queen of NY" title they each boasted about on albums, and believed they were.
Lately, in the "platinum present"stage of hip hop, when all these talented rappers first entered the game, certain rappers have been calling out each other in songs and interviews, or on entire CDs. before the end of the Jay Z and Nas beef, both rappers released CDs on the same day, with most of the songs on the album about dissing the other rapper. Remember the violent Tupac/Biggie beef that started the east coast/west coast rapper rivalries? Eminem had even gone beyond dissing just fellow rappers, and was dissing pop stars, celebrities, and even members of his own family such as his mother and ex-wife in heated songs.
Why do rappers feel the need to diss others in their songs? Can't the rappers of '09 get past the battles and move on to better things? Even Jay Z and Nas stopped their beef and did a song together. Rap was originally used to get rid of violence and killings, to use words instead of weapons in order to solve problems, yet what happens if rappers take the words to far? Tupac and Biggie each died in violence as their violent beef went on, and couldn't learn to end the battle. I usually enjoy a clever rap diss, a poetic form of insulting that could leave the rival standing there, mouth wide open. In the movie 8 Mile, a rapper disses Eminem's character, saying "you're faker than a psychic with caller i.d.!" Yet insult's can go too far, and usually just to sell CDs, or get a buzz, while it could end up escalating.
Rappers of '09, stick with your own rhymes and ideas, and don't call out rappers, as rap is more about letting out emotion and spreading your voice and words out to the world, not making enemies just to sell a couple more tracks online.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Relapse is out!!
Well...It's been out for weeks
Critics often like different sides of Slim Shady, though he tries to balance them both. If someone first heard these really moving, emotional eminem songs, they'd naturally want Em to keep making songs like those. Or if someone grew up on The Slim Shady LP, which is all about violence and drugs, they'd enjoy the satire and gory details and would demand more passion and anger.
On Relapse, it looks mostly like person no. 2 in my example got their wish. In the song 3:AM, Eminem violently kills people in a drug induced trance, quoting lines from Silence Of The Lambs and describing the blood around him upon waking up.The song is really clever and thrilling when you get past the violence, and pretty creepy as well, and it's also one of the drug-violence songs on the album that turned out great. Another great song with the same maniacal style is Insane, which shows the talent that shady showed everyone in 1997 when he first became successful. The lyrics are playful, yet violent, and though a bit over the top and gross,show he still has the talent and controversial word-play that got him here. Old Time's Sake, an Em/Dre Collaboration about getting high, was a disappointment though. The beat was catchy, but the lyrics were weak and had been used repeatedly before.
Critics can argue there's too much killing and insane, shocking fantasies depicted in the raps instead of emotional, deep songs, but for those critics, there's the song Beautiful, which is about being yourself, and not letting anyone else's words and perspective on you get to you "Don't let them say you ain't beautiful/ They can all get fucked just stay true" the lyrics aren't too sappy either, and though the sing-song chorus can get a bit annoying, the message and beat are amazing, and is one of the best songs on the album by far.
Overall, even though people's ideas of how Eminem's tracks should have been like or sounded are split, Relapse is a great album over all, and I recommend it to anyone who loves rap or Eminem.
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