Criminal Slang

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.

Thanks to the support of fans worldwide, the powers that be gave the greenlight for Amplive’s Rainydayz Remixes album to be released to the fans -after it was initially thrown into limbo when Amp was hit off with a C&D letter from Radiohead’s publisher.

It’s freely available from Amplive’s website [1]

“I ain’t hard to find man, I’m in the D” -Guilty Simpson

The son of travelling musicians and protege of the late Jay Dee (Dilla), Guilty Simpson ain’t no Slum Village and the first single off his debut album, Ode to the Ghetto, aptly titled Getting Bitches ain’t Selfish either.

Tracklisting

1. THE AMERICAN DREAM - Produced by Madlib
2. ROBBERY - Produced by Mr. Porter
3. SHE WON’T STAY AT HOME - Produced by Madlib
4. FOOTWORK - Produced by Oh No
5. ODE TO THE GHETTO - Produced by Oh No
6. GETTIN BITCHES - Produced by Mr. Porter
7. I MUST LOVE YOU - Produced by J Dilla
8. THE FUTURE feat. MED - Produced by Madlib
9. PIGS - Produced by Madlib
10. MY MOMENT - Produced by Black Milk
11. RUN feat Sean P & Black Milk - Produced by Black Milk
12. KINDA LIVE - Produced by Mr. Porter
13. YIKES - Produced by Madlib
14. THE REAL ME - Produced by Black Milk
15. KILL ‘EM - Produced by DJ Babu
16. ALMIGHTY DREADNAUGHTZ feat Super MC, Krizsteel, Konnie Ross - Produced by Konnie Ross

March 25th 2008 is the street date for the album, available from Stones Throw.

Download Gettin Bitches [1] or Gettin Riches (for you clean muthasuckas) [2] and bang that in the whip with a spiked bat.

The record comes out in March. Remember how Sexual Eruption (Sensual Seduction) blew your mind with the autotuned vocals and low-fi video? Neva Hafta is a straight up left turn from all that -off PCH onto MLK to the fish market. If you know WTF I’m referring to, you definitely deserve this [1].

Neva Hafta is the product of 15 years in the game & staying relevant the whole way through. Chuuuch

The longest title in the Heartfood Presents series & featuring more x’s than my blackberry (oh dang!)

Tracklisting
1. Last Night x A Dj Saved My Life
2. White Horse x Smack That
3. Promiscuius Girl x Whatever Lola Wants
4. Hola Back Girl x Another One Bites The Dust
5. Holiday x Milkshake
6. Lucky Star x Promiscuius Girl
7. I Wanna Love Somebody x Like A Virgin x Do You Believe
8. I’m Ready x Lose Control
9. Holiday x It Wasn’t Me
10. Give It To Me x
11. x Since You Been Gone
12. x Breathe and Stop
13. You Shook Me All Night Long x My Humps
14. Jenny From The Block x No Scrubs
15. Give It To Me
16. Work It x I Got It From My Momma
17. Snap Yo Fingers x 1, 2, Step
18. Say it Right x Smack That
19. Eye of the Tiger x Tell Me When To Go
20. Another One Bites the dust x Yeah
21. Slim Shady x Ice Ice Baby
22. “Mystery Meat”

Collect them all at heartfoodpresents.com 

Let me tell you about Dave…

To this day, I’m not 100% sure if the door to my first-dorm-room-ever was open or not (after eight years, I just found out that it was), but I’ll never forget turning around and meeting Dave, who was super stoked on the Souls of Mischief record that I had just put on. It turns out that he was from the Bay, skated & listened to Hip-Hop. Needless to say, it was really easy to make friends with Dave -the bonds between fellow skaters and music junkies really make a strong case for the existence of a collective consciousness.

So, as promised, I’m passing The Dock of the Bay series over to his very capable hands. This is his story…

———-

My duct taped cassettes ranged from Foreign Legion to Success is Destiny. Hat tilted sideways only for easy access to wipe the sweat from my brow. My backpack weighed down with sketchbooks and the best you never heard of. My skateboards were religiously Anti Hero. The pavement- my playground. There’s something about the monstrous bay bridge stretching out over the frigid waters adjacent Alcatraz bringing together the East Bay with SF, some kind of misinterpreted bond that is only told when a new verse is really pumping, a bass really plucking, a beat truly bumping, an audience in tune. The feeling of “we really have something here.” I saw it before most knew who they were, and a lot of people that did know would say “you listen to that shit? They suck.” But the truth is they all came around, cause like rising rent in the bay these new found secrets of mine were bound to blow up. See, there was no bandwagon yet, hardly any tours going any where, just raw sound coming out of PA’s penetrating your ears with too much strained juice flowing through them. Now I had a chance to see it for myself, and I wasn’t going to pass it up.

1998, My mom didn’t want me going over to Bezerkley without her or my father, but shit, I was 16, no one was going to fuck with me. It’s not until getting off at a BART stop when you realize how far you are from your warm little home. But as all skaters do I hopped on using speed as my shield and let my wheels do the talking. I passed by young groups of thugs hoping to grab at a piece of the dream like the rest of us, even if it meant to steal it. Homeless women rant at the sky waiting for it to fall on the desecrated land below. My ears and nose stung with excitement and the numbing cold the bay blows freely into its water hugging cities. Finally, I made it to the venue.

I had Heiro B’Sides in my Walkman, hitting my eardrums ever so sweetly as I walked into the Berkeley Community Center. I had snuck out other times before for various activities, bombing, skateboarding, drinking forties in the park, but none had felt so justifiable.

Blunt smoke blows in your face as you walk in, a man gives you a raffle ticket and you join the clump by the stage.

There I was standing with only 50 other people as the acts started. First, a young scrappy man with a mighty Napoleon complex and knotty head full of dreads tearing through verses telling of the day’s struggles. Second, a ghostly taller white guy complaining about his car troubles. Here it was, pure, raw, emotion. It was a personal effect, something still sacred in the American landscape covered in bling bling and hot boy rants.

My arms loose like an Orangutan, flopping around in the air as directed by the emcee. My head bobbed relentlessly, flowing with every part of every word that touched the blues of life and uplifted my lost spirit. I bought two tapes that night, one titled Gypsy’s Luck, the other - Fuck The Dumb. The cold night in Berkeley wore on, inside myself I found hope, something to be proud of. Those guys making songs in their basements were doing it for us. Not just to take advantage and sell an expensive ticket (I got into that Broke Ass Summer Jam with a packet of Ramen and five bucks!) but to really weave tales that comfort the leathery soul.

I left that night with a new found boldness, I felt stronger, more in tune with who I was in society. It was then I realized that this art form was for the outcast, for the misinterpreted ones who didn’t just walk with the norm but decided to stand to the side and study this mass of chaos for what it really was. To break it all down into a simple form letting the other outcasts of society feel it, whatever it was, as well.

I tried to tell some of the kids at school about it. My friends already knew but most of them were kicked out to secondary schools. The rich kids just didn’t get it. And my mom for the time being didn’t either. She might as well of thought I was going to Gangsta rap shows in the middle of East Oakland for all she cared. And here was my new dilemma-to be a white boy in the suburbs with a growing passion for a misunderstood subculture.

And I wasn’t stopping there….

You can get your passes at Store13 as of today. General Admission Passes are $46 and VIP Passes are $106 -service charge, shipping & handling included.

Shana Nys Dambrot is the LA editor of Flavorpill and an acomplished artist. She will be showing some ink and charcoal pieces as part of a Girly Group show at Ghetto Gloss in Silverlake.

Ghettogloss™
2380 Glendale Blvd.
Silverlake, CA 90039
T 323 912 0008
F 323 912 0011
ghettogloss@ghettogloss.com

Opens Thursday 17th 7pm-Midnight