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Posts Tagged ‘rhymes’

Hip_Hop_Harry1Music buffs and fly bitches, please take a seat.  This is not a musical dissertation and certainly not going to be documented by Norton Anthology for your consideration.  Yes we can talk about the block parties of 1970s Bronx, Rick Rubin’s influence or N.W.A.  But you know what?  I’m not even Licensed to Ill.  Rather, I’m a head band wearing, VW driving, Catholic school attending white girl from the east coast and this is my story.

I started thinking about this post the other day when I was flipping through my iPod and noticed that, yes, in fact it is bogged down with “sad indie songs” (as my friend Nick put it).  How could it be that my nano had become swallowed by only Bon Iver, Great Lake Swimmers and Fleet Foxes when I know every word sitting pretty on Tupac’s All Eyez on Me album?  It seems I was suppressing the ill nana that was begging to come out.  It was time to figuratively pop some Cris and roll the doj.  I’m not saying I’m going to trade my J crew chinos for Apple Bottoms jeans, but are you Picturin’ Me Rollin’? I know you are.

As evidence by this blog and other works,  those in the know are familiar with my love of words.  Using them, reading them, writing them- – language is beautiful.  To me there’s nothing better than taking an oatmeal blah of a paragraph and transposing it into a spicy Cajun something- it’s the sexy equivalent of black stilettos. Ever since my first writing was published at the age of 9,  (a little diddy about Earth Day, spare me the heckling) I have been destined to appreciate the poetic ebb and flow of placing Louis Vuitton Don into a song nine times. 

There’s certainly an arguable stance on each side of the table for the musical merit of hip hop but for me it’s Jedi mind trick ability to put me in a good mood seems reason enough to turn Lupe Fiasco on at a Rufus Wainwright kind of  intellectual soiree.  Hip hop can be incredibly painful and stunning like Lauryn Hill’s Miseducation of Lauryn Hill or downright dirty, nasty, silly like Ludacris’ Chicken n Beer.  Where you want to fall on that color wheel is up to you.

When I’ve had an awful work day and a parking ticket is waiting on my car you bet I’ll choose Biggie over Neil Young.  If you’re in a bad mood who wants to be The Only Living Boy in New York when No Sleep Till Brooklyn is one flick of the iPizzle wheel away?

My belief is that a lot of the appeal to my demographic is for three fleeting minutes we can sit on dubs, drop it to the floor, check chedda like a food inspecta or serenade our loved ones to the sweet sounds of Jeremiah’s birthday sex.  College shortys can get low and accountants daydream about switchin four lanes in the Rove.

This past spring I was out in downtown Denver at a hippy bar, with a hippy band and the visceral smell of patchouli and the insistence of forgoing showering for grad school papers; naturally about art therapy and tree sap emulsification.  Sounds like a typical granola night, right?  Well when this hippy band decides to cover Ice Cube’s It Was A Good Day, who is singing, “I gotta go cause I got me a drop top /And if I hit the switch, I can make the ass drop?”  That’s right, 150 pantagonia-coveting, Birkenstock wearing local brahs and the women that love them.  If that’s not a case for getting on Amazon right now and buying Jay-Z’s Blueprint 3, I don’t know what is.

Yes the word poser could probably be a synonym for my name, maybe worse depending on how you see my opinion.  But if a few thousand white kids at Vanderbilt’s Memorial Gym can get em high for Lil Wayne for the sake of having a good time, who am I to not join in? 

By the way, I did join in and it was one of the best concerts I’ve ever seen.

Skelladay

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