Instead of wasting your time making up a bunch of deductions and scrambling to the post office, get yourself an extension online and spend the rest of the time that you have left (11:59:59 PM CST to be exact) to enter a design into the Human Giant Hearts Threadless Contest
That Aziz Ansari is a funny mutha shut yo mouth.
If the magazine, podcast & website wasn’t enought, the Fader has just spun off a brand-new web-only zine called F2.
Reminiscent of a fighter plane’s name, “In 2008, each issue of F2 will focus on how a different classic genre is being reexamined and reinterpreted.”
The first issue is aptly titled, “The New Disco.” Get yours here [1]
The flautas are bomb, the music is USDA choice, the patio view is flavor and the margaritas are DUMB cheap!
Barragans
1538 W. Sunset BLVD
Los Angeles, CA 90026
Certified A’la Carte Sound Providers:
You can put down the myspace surveys and chain letters for one night, right?
Actually, James Pants is the artist behind, Welcome -his debut album for Stones Throw Records. I got my grubby mitts on an advance copy while sippin’ 10 Cane drinks at the In Living the True Gods screening/release party. It comes out in April -so you’ll be hearing more about it as the release date comes closer. Right off the bat, you can expect something left of center and a well-thought out record -down to the drum placement and prominent hi-hat in the first track’s mix.
If you know absolutely nothing about James, he met PB Wolf at a party following his high-school prom in Austin, moved to LA to intern and eventually scored a deal Stones Throw. Also, this track he produced was on the recent Chrome Children album and is featured in the aforementioned DVD.
P.S.
1. Boo! to the LAPD & the noise complainants that forced PB Wolf to considerably lower the volume during his DVD set.
2. A big, “get over it” to the young lady harassing people ahead of her in line for drinks, asking them if they’ve been in line the whole time.
3. Thanks to Sandy and safe travels to her cousin Nina on her world-wide adventure
The homey FPG over at One Two Magazine was nice enough to tell you the video lineup for this Friday’s event.
Go over there and check it out -there’s some previously unreleased gems lined up. Oh yeah, check for his interview with Q-Tip while you’re at it.
not that Q-Tip stupid!
or that one either! I gotta get a new photo editor…
Dave brings it back home with another installment of The Dock of the Bay…
Any nice city that other folks from other nice cities flock to on weekends is usually nestled by a university. The culture just flows on through in these locations so the abundance of coffee drinkers, people watchers, and weirdo’s alike saturate the downtown neighborhoods. Case in point, Palo Alto, yet sometimes this whole scene would work in our advantage. And when it did I was conflicted since I did not think of my old neighborhood as being cool at all. Let’s just say sometimes that cold wind blew and we became “hella” cool.
The evening started at the Stanford family mausoleum. Situated in the darkest corner in the Stanford woods off El Camino Real where the only light was the moon and headlights flickering on the roads hundreds of yards away. I had just gotten beers at the Seven Eleven with my brothers fake ID and walked around the corner to stuff it in my backpack. I heard a “Blip Blip” from behind… fuck me, the cops. And that was the start of it for the evening, pure unadulterated chaos. I knew the alleyways like the back of my hand, but these cops were bored. We raced past the old pizza hangout, down along the flower shops and classic movie theaters smashing towards the edge of town like we were Ichabod Crane on urethane wheels. Just two pushes and we made it under the overpass, where the traffic from incoming revelers halted any progress the cop might have made.
No more streetlights here, just the moon and marijuana induced laughter to lead the way. Our favorite hangout was behind the grave where two sphinx like statues guarded us from any lurking derelicts. As sips of piss liquor from our Old English forty ounces drained into our underage mouths the volume raised. Pretty soon people were trying to Ollie off the steps of the grave as crude jokes saturated our guilty ears with unnecessary pleasure. My friend Mike, clad in a leather jacket and ripped up pants, stood up after throwing his bottle into the forest. “Alright guys, let’s go!”
About twenty of us, all on skateboards, thrashed down the hallways of Stanford University towards the main quad. We reached the student center known to everyone as Tresider. I still couldn’t believe I was going to an underground show only a few miles from my high school campus. Two security guards tried to chase us on a golf cart as we rolled making a noise like thunder above the desert floor. Some of my friends were there for the scene, I myself was there for the bump, and the hypnotizing passion that I could hear form inside the small beer soaked room. As I opened the door I saw people with their hands up as a young man ripped through a beat with water dripping in the sample. This was Encore, a Heiro label signed artist whose deep voice penetrated the layer of funk set off by my head buzz. I stayed for a good part of the set inside until I saw one of my friends buy a few pitchers on the far corner of the bar.
I walked outside, A Plus and Opio stood in the corner in a classic way like all kings of underground do. Only this time they weren’t observing little kids and groupies jocking but a massive batch of drunken loonies looking to get their trouble fix. I had to shake their hands, and since I had a buzz I began to ask Aplus if he ever skated. He was open to conversation and stated “Del and Pep snow board but I was never into that shit.” One of my drunken friends who was a backyard wrestler decided to chime in. “What about wrestling!” he yelled. And all the other drunks in the crowd started cheering. A young frat boy didn’t like all of us there obviously and the poor sucker tried to say something to my friend Jason. “Hey kid, I’ll beat your ass,” the jock said. Three of my friends turned around, then seven more, pretty soon about 25 of us were staring dead at the frat boy. A plus and Opio watched from the sideline with wide eyes probably not believing the chaos that these young white boys were creating in front of them. The frat boy stepped forward, “I’ll kick your…” POW, Jason clocked him right in his rich mouth, he fell back and everyone started to yell in unison “Get the fuck out of here!” The beer continued to pour.
I went back inside, Kevvy Kev from KZSU’s The Drum (one of the main ways I discovered underground bubbling up in the bay) was onstage with an offer. He had a young college kid onstage with the microphone. The young man announced, “Anyone who could make Kevvy Kev laugh will get free tickets the upcoming Redman and Method Man show. The crowd stirred, but my friend Jason beat them all to the punch. In pure drunken fashion Jason made it through the drunken room by stepping on tables and heads to get to the low set stage. Jason grabbed the microphone, “So…. why did the Chicken fuck the duck?” he waited for a moment and in pure drunken slur he screamed, ” Because the fuckin bitch was humping the turtle!” The crowd laughed, others scoffed, I couldn’t help myself, just the scene had me laughing to tears. Members of Hieroglyphics were to get on stage in the next twenty minutes and I had to unload all the suds resting in my gut.
I walked out of the bathroom in the student center adjacent to a Mexican food pick up counter rested next to a few tables for consumption purposes. I glanced over and it almost felt surreal, my friend Jason had once again gone at it and standing next to him was Pep Love waiting for his tacos. There were a lot of plates with scraps of food left out to be bussed and Jason had chosen the plate with the biggest clump of chips and guacamole. Only he wasn’t using the chips, somewhere in the faded brain of his he decided it would be more efficient to simply eat the guacamole with his fingers. Pep Love, one of his friends and I all stood watching in disbelief as Jason devoured the left over plates. Pep said one word as he watched with wide eyes that pretty much summed up everything so far that evening “Savage.”
I went back to the small student center with a smile on my face; you just can’t make these things up. Heiro came on with a vengeance. They tore their way through all of the hits from Ninety Three till infinity, That’s where you lost, and the signature “you’ll never know” banger.
The sounds of smooth clear cut tasty beats with voices I had grown up listening to was so satisfying I think it sobered me up. Some of my friends were so wasted I think they were outside chain smoking during the whole set. I sat, watched and waved my hands like a true fan should. Each lyric crisp and deep, each rhyme on point, the emcee stares down pat. I realized then that this was my scene, my smoky bar in the depths of anywhere USA. My Miles Davis, My Jimi Hendrix, my sound that would always bring me back to these moments of reckless youth. Hieroglyphics truly are bay representers and I am proud to have been raised with a sound that so compliments where I am from.
No controller required, batteries not included. Updates to follow…
You ain’t artsier than me muthafickafickafucka!
The startling connection between the two candidates became apparent in a group email that I would normally ignore. Notice the ironic, Google AdSense Link [click the thumbnail].
Dave returns with another installment of The Dock of The Bay
San Francisco has tried to clean up the SOMA area for years. The way I look at it is you can raise the prices on apartments, start using fancy words like Condo or Flat to sell them to all the college kids in the world. But the homeless people need somewhere to stay. If you trickle off Market street going towards 101, the Caltrain or PacBell Park you will notice what I’m talking about. Littered grounds, syringes laying next to their victims, the Endup club. This is where you end up if the night hasn’t yet come to a close for you even though the sun has risen. This is where the touristy magic of San Francisco is lost and the land becomes a real city. And what comes with this type of neighborhood is also some of the best-kept secrets the local scene has to offer. For example, The Brainwash Café. This is a Laundromat/café/live music venue. I used to go get their breakfast sandwich before a long day of song writing and people watching. Go around the corner over to 11th street and you will find Slims. This little venue is the place where I popped most of my underground hip-hop cherry. Where I stood in line for hours at a time getting my friends with fake ID’s to buy me booze from across the street while heads like Aceyalone got ready to make their Bay Area appearances.
They don’t search you, scrutinize, nor harass. I walked in with three tall boys in my backpack wrapped up in a hooded sweatshirt and chugged them in the upstairs section of the club. The line up that night was huge although at this point in the game that meant that a place like Slims would fit the capacity. (Even in 2000, these heads weren’t selling out large venues.) This club with metal rods protruding from the ground in front of the stage, a bar covered in dedicated hipsters wearing tight biker pants, must of only fit a few hundred tops. The groups playing went in a mechanical order of popularity that night. First, one of my personal favorites, ZionI. They came out with a live band with Amp Live on the MPC. ZionI’s performance is nothing short of amazing. These Bay Area transplants spill their emotion into each word as Zion rips his raps while spinning around in Sweat pants and socks.
Next, was PEP LOVE from the Hieroglyphics crew. His cut and paste delivery brought with ease of tales ahead of roaring beats was a performance I would soon not forget. I love watching any head from Heiro do their thing any day of the week; they are truly a talented bunch and will be from 93 till…. There was actually a crazy moment that happened here now that I’m recollecting the night’s events. One of the eager young men in the audience noticed a stray mic on the side of the stage just as PEP had finished a track. I guess the young man figured this was his chance to shine. The cocky smiling hopeful grabbed the microphone from the edge of the stage and began to rap as fast (and sloppily) as he could. The boy got about five seconds in and yank! Pep Love snapped the microphone out of his mouth, his eyes turned to rage. “What the Fuck?” The kid must have been smiling smugly. “What the fuck was that?” Pep Love repeated. Now a couple other Heiro heads came out of the woodwork as Pep Love’s nostrils flared. “Get the fuck out of here! This is my time motherfucker! I paid my dues!” The young dumbass must have been proud until he was put to shame by these seasoned vets. I thought the Heiro crew was going to jump off the stage and hand this guy a beat down. But with one more “Get the fuck out of here” the kid, his smug over proud character, was gone.
Next came the group of the minute, Cali Agents. Planet Asia and Rasco doing their thing. Anything coming out of Rasco’s mouth was in sync with his waving sweat rag. Planet Asia smoothes through intertwined rhymes that most would stumble over. These were the Bay Area boys all of us were so proud to have blasting from our boom boxes while we skated a ledge. True homegrown, love of the art motherfuckers.
It was intermission, or in an underground way a moment to get people pumped for the final act. I knew that us being the audience monkeys were supposed to clap and hoot and holler for twenty minutes or so, so I decided to grab a smoke and my friend wanted to grab more booze from across the street.
We walked out into the nippy air, the bass pulsating the building from outside, hollowed out and droning through the foggy streets. I finished my smoke; my friend was taking a while. I wanted a swig of whatever it was he was purchasing so I crossed the street to the dusty liquor store. What I saw next seemed almost surreal. For I was yet (and still haven’t) to confront an emcee in a drunken “I’m your greatest fan” sort of way. See, my friend was real excited to meet Rasco, and at the time he thought that all rappers would be like Living Legends or the traveling Project Blowed heads with tapes and CD’s for sale. I saw my friends drunken mouth open, “Hey man, Dude, your work kicks ass!” Rasco and his rent a homie (you know the type, friends of the rapper who stick by their side to be self entitled and “cool.”) Rasco looked over at my friend from the line by the register, my friend opened his chops again. “You got any tapes for sale man?” Rasco looked to his rent a homie and glared at my friend with resentment. With over the top sarcasm he replied in a white boy kind of tone, “no bro, I don’t, like, have any tapes man!” My friend stood back shocked, why would someone who you’ve been supporting, buying his or her music, and are actually trying to buy more music from be such a dick? It’s probably the same reason why Rasco never made it much out of the glass ceiling us heads in Cali have created.
I don’t think the air around a skate session was ever again saturated with noises of the deep voiced emcee from the Cali Agents. It goes to show, as a rapper, especially an underground rapper, your NEVER insult your fans. You might have the B-Boy stare down but understand these kids watching you are your livelihood. The heads from your neighborhood aren’t about to buy your music, it’s the white kids from the suburbs who support you. As a matter of fact rap in general wouldn’t even be shit if it weren’t for the “Cool rich kid movement” explained so thoroughly by William Wimsatt in No More Prisons. Where else would the money come from? Think about it, the city kids? Hell no, they don’t have the extra money to buy up a whole websites worth of CD’s like I’ve seen some of the rich kids do. Not to say the rich kids know and feel what you’re saying but they are putting the money in your pocket.
I walked back over to Slims just in time to hear the main act of the night gear up. “YESSSSS MEN, BUT I’M NOT A YES MAN!” I ran back inside almost slipping on the black linoleum steps as the beat started pulsating my brain. This is when the crowd goes into a trance, everyone works as one at the same time, moving like a small body of water as the lyrics penetrate anything but your deepest thoughts. It’s therapy really, when a head like AC the face man whizzes through his set it reminds you of why we picked up a tape threw it into a stereo and let the day’s pain bleed through the dying batteries. The other heads of the blowed clique sound like a tongue twister recorded then sped up to the Nth degree. Not something you can understand all the time, nor does it hit your heart emotionally, but the boys have skill, and you don’t want to step. I’ve been down with the Blowed Clique sounds since I first heard em, truly a bay to LA connection.
I left that night a bit more head strong having learned one thing, Worship the music, not the man. My friend however wanted to punch Rasco in the face. The outcome would have been disastrous, an underground rumble of massive proportions where men become beasts protecting their ego’s. I’m glad I dragged him back to the car.
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