So after this author gets thru watching NCIS: Los Angeles (don’t sleep, excellent show, I never miss an episode), I click over to the news, and oh so many stories in, they talk about these cats in New Bedford, MA, who get arrested for making a “f*ck law enforcement” type song. At first, you’d be like, what is this, ‘92? But before you grow a tie-top hat and Zubaz, the thing was, they were naming names, not just any names, but those of specific police officers, their actual probation officers, so on and so forth. No DA worth his salt is gonna sit back and let that go down without f*ckin’ with somebody.
And as 2520 as these dudes come, they aren’t exactly the Icy Hot Stuntaz. They look like they get down for real. Who knew there was a 2520 hood out there that was that style of grimy? And though the song doesn’t sound mixed very well and these cats drop F-bombs like they’re going out of style, dare I say it’s overall actually pretty dope! Old girl from “It’s So Cold In The D” should take notes. They got a future with street cred attached once their violation lid is up.
No telling how long this will stay up before YouTube has to yank it (if I have to edit this whole article into the past tense, you’ll know why!), but here you go:
This author knows he’s a year late to this, but I had to expose it to more people, for the sheer comedy of it.
Made by some chick named T-Baby (how very original of her)…and she proves herself to be completely tone deaf. I hope she rides her baby daddy better than she rides beats (then again, maybe not, she’ll probably crank out a Down Syndrome kid like Precious). Plus how the f*ck was she s’posed to keep the beat (pun intended, watch the vid, thank me later) if whoever’s on the boards recording her ain’t telling her anything? Sitting there just takin’ her money (yeah, studio time is expensive, but f*ck and that, you should have concern for your reputation). And she’s clearly not doing this as a joke, but taking herself very seriously…though I don’t think her entourage behind her got the memo (guess her hardrock cousins weren’t available that day).
Way to demonstrate why they should have never given ghetto people technology…or electricity to power it.
Straight disgrace to Detroit rap. Not to condone violence against women, but House Shoes should stomp her out in house shoes. Trick Trick need to slap that trick trick. Guilty Simpson should earn his name and slash her with a butterknife or something. Fight dull with dull.
They probably roadblocked the bridge and the tunnel to Windsor the day this cut dropped in order to slow down the next Great Migration. Detroit’s had enough of a brain drain already.
Message be damned, not many people are meant to rap. I mean really, she’s what’s left over after the rest of the Detroit Hip-Hop scene moves to L.A.? She makes Soulja Boy and Gucci Mane look like Rakim and Kane. It couldn’t have been THAT cold in the D when she cranked this out, right? Certainly wasn’t the day of the video shoot, what with her in orange hair to match her printed hoodie. I hope she got her money back from the people behind the camera, then gave them 1 star on Yelp or whatever.
And she got her goddamn nerve offering this as a ringtone! Isn’t having song ringtones played out now?
There’s literally 139 response videos to this on YouTube. But f*ck all that, comment here when you’re done.
Special thanks to Maximillian over on Very Smart Brothas for putting me on to this.
Studio gangstas exist because rap’s biggest problem since the rise of the thugs and “roughnecks” has been the idiot fans (and some rappers’ colleagues) who feel that keeping it real actually means that rappers must live exactly what they say in rhymes (that subject matter usually being some hardcore dirt or illegal way they got extreme stacks before they first hit the mic). To these people (usually ghetto), there’s no such thing as a persona or a character, no such thing as creative license.
Somehow this “keep it real” contingent never got the memo that a rap song isn’t an interview with a given rapper.
Some, to be sure, actually do rap about their real current lives or true experiences. Or even base fictional raps on something that really happened, ripped from national headlines or their personal ones.
But one should be able to paint whatever type of picture they like without some weirdo attaching these works to how the performer actually lives. Many rappers are their own worst enemy, as these lyrical Brunos never step out of character, and perpetuate the idea that this should be the normative of Hip-Hop. Even wrestlers change it up when they get out of the polyester daduntaduns.
Overemphasizing that other idea of “realness” is what has poisoned the rap climate for so long. It’s partly how Tupac and Biggie got killed, it’s partly why so much corny E-thuggery is posted to rap sites like allhiphop.com or DubCNN, it’s partly why so many MCs (like Max B and Shyne) go catch cases and end their own careers.
It’s really disrespectful to the beauty of what Hip-Hop has been and still could be. You don’t see this f*ckery go on in rock or jazz, not even with these all-too-closely-associated R&B artists.
And it’s paradoxically hilarious that these homophobic alpha males are analyzing every square inch of the life of another man as if they’re getting paid for it. Message to that man in question who rolls like this: If another dude was on your tip like that, living vicariously through you, you’d call him all kinds of queers, right? Of course you would, the world already knows how people like you are. You don’t think you look some kinda way all in a rapper’s personal business (or that of some sports figure, for that matter)? *cue the plea copping that it’s supposedly different*
And leave it to this idiocy that you got rappers not admitting to or proud to have perfectly legit jobs or degrees in the name of higher street cred. For the sake of feeling right listening to a record, one would rather that someone getting smoked or turned out on crack actually happened, and at that rapper’s hand! As if that makes the beat sound better in the speakers or some sh*t…
Regardless of overall ghetto ideology, understand this: Ghetto people, hood folks, whatever you want to call them, fox with Michael Jackson, always had, always will.
The thugs, the smokers, workaday people, hoochie mamas, uber snobs, churchy folks, foreigners who own the shops, every single generation alive right now and they kids, any living condition you could possibly think of, fox with MJ.
The hood was on those Beat It and Thriller jackets real tough along with the sequin gloves and weren’t afraid to admit it. So many artists the hood appreciates got some of their early and/or current steez from Michael. Dr. Dre in his World Class Wreckin’ Cru days. Ginuwine. Usher. Ne-Yo and Chris Brown. Cats that were singin’, rappin’, producing, startin’ record labels all likely dreamed of being involved in a Michael Jackson cut. Because the world watched him like Monday Night Football, or more to the point, the World Cup. He may not have been in the hood long beyond blowing up out of Gary, Indiana as a child, but he was the son of every hood, and many in the hood ate due to his existence.
Surely many wondered as this author did (including before even the news broke) how large the story of the death of a guy like Michael Jackson would be. An icon probably matched only by Michael Jordan, maybe Madonna…but we’re not gonna go there today.
Could this be the day pop music died, as said on the news? As with the foundation he laid mentioned above, probably not. The show went on when Pac and Biggie returned, the show went on when Elvis died, the show went on when so many others died (or fell off), so the machine will keep churnin’. But again, with the foundation he laid mentioned above, the legacy and doors opened are arguably unmatched.
The term King Of Pop wasn’t just a marketing tagline. It was already understood before it was even coined to promote the Dangerous album, back in ‘91. When Jam first came out, this author could have swore that was Chubb Rock on the mic, until I was informed it was Heavy D…but I digress. Back on that generation thing, it was one thing that the Jackson 5 were them boys in the 60s right next to Elvis and the Beatles. It was another that they fit right in in the 70s with all those disco and funk acts. But in those damn 80s though. Certain elements of pop culture were just…larger than life in the frickin’ 80s. Knight Rider & A-Team. Dallas & Dynasty. Lakers & Celtics. Transformers & G.I.Joe. Hulk Hogan. Mike Tyson. Michael Jackson. Elements of culture that rocked those who grew up in the 80s and beyond. Game changers.
MTV got on board because his videos were EVENTS, like the Super Bowl or the Olympics. Punk *ss MTV were the folks who wouldn’t play a single record that wasn’t by a white rock artist. Ray Parker Jr.’s “The Other Woman” was turned down because he had a white woman on his arm and MTV didn’t want to upset the likely racist viewership they were courting in such places as the Bible Belt. MJ’s music had the clout to apply the undeniable pressure necessary for MTV to cut the crap and play not only his material, but Lionel Richie! Jacko arguably made Yo! MTV Raps, Fade To Black, MTV Jams and Black Real World cast members possible.
Oh yeah, that wonderful nickname. Jacko. Short for Wacko Jacko, as the Brits would call him. Yeah, the hood knew that something was off with him. And we ain’t talkin’ the initial nose job: no one really tripped when that happened. Pallin’ around with Emmanuel Lewis, no big deal (back then anyway). Could even look past having a pet chimp. But when all the other stuff rolled in regarding kids that looked noways Black and Jesus Juice and some of the other…eccentricities made headlines every frickin’ week for some 25 odd years, the ghetto didn’t clap to it…
But oh, bet your bottom dollar that albums like Bad, Dangerous, even History and Invincible, were for them trucks. Many a Suburban piloted by the Billy-est of Bad*sses had some Michael subbin’ right in the mix with one of those Lil Young Boy rappers. And you better believe the parties and barbecues with the fam went hard when “Wanna Be Startin’ Something” was thrown on the same way they would to the latest freaky dance cut.
NBA commissioner David Stern said recently, and I paraphrase, that there are two things that unite a people. The house of worship (church, synagogue, the rally, masjid, what have you), and the house of sports worship (you know schools, cities, and countries get up with great pride for its team winning a title). Michael Jackson was, and is to this day, yet a third.
By the way, what a busy news day: death of Michael, death of Farrah Fawcett, the Iran craziness, NBA draft…this author remembers two others like this. Sammy Davis Jr. and Jim Henson passing on the same day in 1990, and Johnny Cash and John Ritter returning the same day in 2003. And that thing about deaths of famous people going in threes is some wild space sh*t…but again, we’re not gonna explore that one.
You know what, say what you will about rappers of today and their subject matter and lifestyles and all that, but Dolla didn’t have to die in L.A.’s Beverly Center yesterday (way too young at frickin’ 20 at that). Surely just flew in to see the town and promote himself, only to end up unable to return home. Condolences to his loved ones. Even if this author never heard of him before yesterday.
On avenues from Melrose to Myrtle, you’ve likely participated in the following exchange:
“Do you like Hip-Hop?”
“For you? No.”
Sad and mean, but after so much of the the exact same approach from these rappers wanting you to take a flier on them all at random, you develop a heart that pumps used motor oil.
Trust, Stuff Ghetto People Like does not believe in knocking hustles, just pointing out what goes down when it comes to some hustles, and how wild the game really is. Ghetto people try the hard sell on you con frecuencia, taking the darndest folks by surprise. It can sound like they’re practicing on you for the day they’re actually serious about getting a sale or two.
Oftentimes the spiel is fired at probably the most inappropriate moment of all: on company time. Surely you thought it was weird to be hit up about buying a rap album by a security guard, or the guy changing your oil at Jiffy Lube, or a bank teller (e-mail that I’m lyin’!), or dude that is taking your order at McDonalds. Get a $5 drink coaster with your Big Mac Value Pack!
It’s not totally a bad thing. Some of the best acts in the Hip-Hop era got their careers off the ground by flipping their music on the streets (see Too Short, Showbiz & AG, Nas, countless cats down South). The thing is way too many guys do it these days, from the Woods of Ingle to the Woods of Holly, and they’re annoying anymore. Cats don’t even stand out, looking exactly like the dude next to ‘em selling incense. (They probably came together! Take blunt breaks with one another and the whole deal.)
It’s as if no one tries to get signed, they’re selling the demo right to the consumer, unmixed, unmastered. And often it isn’t even packaged in an appealing way that would fit in next to the Gang Starr and Lil Wayne on your rack. Quite likely it’s a sweaty envelope with folded corners from sitting in the pocket of homeboy’s North Face for days.
Listen up, MCs, if you got a product you reeeeally believe in, if you’re a real artist, and you aren’t just someone hitting a lick like so many other rap hucksters (many of whom actually get radio spins on Power/Hot/The Beat in your town right now), get your marketing bars up, find better and more respectful ways to demonstrate that the product is dope. Take it to college radio. Book some shows opening for someone established. Do your cuts at open mics with your albums handy. Put some in the hands of a few bar and club DJs. Hell, sell it on Myspace. Failing all that, at least have it bumping out the car trunk or in a boom box. Anything but trying to push it on someone unheard, because you may as well be panhandling. Those who know this author know I’m not a big fan of panhandlers. And don’t you dare pass me those sweaty, lice- and ear wax- ridden headphones, because I’m likely to slap them to the ground.
You hear it by every liquor store, every check cashing place, every chicken-and-chinese stand.
“Got them CDs, got them DVDs.”
The bootleg man got you when no one else does. Need that new Makaveli? It’s on deck. A fresh replacement copy of Soul Plane? It’s on deck. If it’s directed by Tyler Perry, starring Cube, or featuring T.I. or Cassie on the soundtrack, it’s on deck with the bootleg man.
Or there’s that other guy with the Econoline doors propped open….
“I got that Ed Hardy, that True Religion, that Prada…”
Don’t forget that crackhead who is a better salesman of furniture than anyone who ever worked for Levitz or Wickes. He also got those registration tags for your whip.
It’s a bazaar every single day in the hood. Whatever you want, for a limited time only, it’s yours if you think the price is right.
The guys that have all this fraudulent crap wouldn’t put in the work if it wasn’t so lucrative. Wouldn’t take the time to get that illicit editor’s copy, or sneak the video camera into the advanced screening, or buy in bulk from that warehouse…or ransack your neighbor’s property! Because somebody in the hood will take a flier on it. (And contribute to hood squalor in the process…but we know that don’t matter!)
Suckers and others line up to make sure they got the latest flick they ain’t tryna see in the theatre (more often than not a Black one) supporting piracy, and taking dollars away from the entertainers they obviously love enough to buy something featuring them in it, missing material and crappy sound and/or picture be damned. And we all know it’s the pits not being dipped, so ghetto corner-cutters would rather cut to the corner to have what they need to floss like a boss at the club on Friday (and drink real drinks, go figure) instead of recycling Black dollars a better way by supporting the store down the block that really needs the customers.
Keep this in mind when the “For Lease” sign goes up a week after the one that reads “Going Out Of Business.” Or your favorite entertainer is no longer a bankable star. Could have gone the extra mile and waited just a little bit longer for that legit product. But ghetto people don’t often worry about legit. No. They care about being up on the latest for as low a price as possible. Remember this when you see a fairly crispy pair of late-model Jordans on someone’s feet in colors you don’t remember Nike making, or the Lex on D’s you know damn well Pooky can’t afford. When they say they got the hookup, look for the fingers crossed behind their back! Or look for the smoker they got that deal on the Rolex from (then you’ll know who to blame for the receiving stolen property charges).
Okay people here is the deal. Several folks have contacted me about taking over the website. Since I can’t decide who I want to take over the website, I will post the entries as they come. Based on the responses I will decide which person gets to take over the website. Enjoy this entry by Mr. Focus!
Let’s be honest: Tupac is the Elvis Presley for ghetto people.
Why? The man is dead as dead could be, but there are folks who pray to a Tupac altar in their house every day, keep an airbrushed shirt on their back, and look for all the subliminal instructions he left for them in his music as they wait with bated breath for Makaveli 10 to hit the bootleg man’s stock. Tupac is the rap Jesus ghetto people needed.
Once a conscious rapper of sorts, debuting with Digital Underground as a dancer, then rapping in African garb, Tupac Shakur morphed slowly but surely into the embodiment of all things hood. Tattoos in places that will have you rejected at job interviews. Wearing wifebeaters all the time with a bandana tied just so up front and the mustache lined to perfection. Brash, extremely vulgar, hypertense, with a fuse shorter than the circuit breaker in the back of a building on Martin Luther King Blvd.
And after “I Get Around,” ghetto people ate it up. Every Walkman, every radio and video show, every apartment, every Tercel and Tahoe had to get it in to the tune of three Pac songs an hour. He made you love your mama and keep an eye on your baby mama all at once. Catholic school girls were his groupies and guys who were nerds in middle school had their thug bars up in time for tenth grade with a Pac record as the textbook. There’s incense and energy drinks named after him and the whole shot. Tupac is a billion-dollar industry.
Not to mention think of how many fights and shootings broke out in house parties, classrooms, clubs, and on street corners across America. Over a damn rapper. Even if it was simply the mention of Biggie Smalls’ name when that rabid Tupac freak was in the room. You’re probably closing your closet door to hide your swap meet airbrushed, bedazzled Pac shirts right now as you read this. And you should, because it’s that shameful.
UPDATE: Thinking everything was just jokes about the 2Pac energy drinks, as I’m sure you were, it turns out one really exists, as told by this candid liquor store photo:
As Sade would ask, is it a crime?
Having street cred is held in high esteem in the circles of many ghetto people. Having street cred can be earned by experiencing significant hardship and staying strong or having the ability to influence the masses based on occupation, deeds, or even swagger. Someone without street cred will be subjected to getting punked, pimped, and will be powerless. There are many ways one can earn street cred. Anyone who commands a certain level of respect whether they are a big time pimp, gangster, or community activist can earn street cred.
For example a pimp can earn street cred if his hoes make a lot of money and are loyal. A good pimp rarely has to beat his hoes down to get what he wants. Pimps are street psychologists and have learned the fine art of manipulation in order to get their hoes to sell their booty for dollars. The power of a pimp is based solely on how much money his hoes can bring in. A good pimp will not allow his hoes to play around in hard drugs like cocaine because that will negatively impact revenue. No one can challenge the power of a revenue generating pimp who can control his hoes.
A gangster can earn street cred if he has been shot multiple times a la 50 Cent, and lived to tell the tale. Gangsters also earn street credit if he/she committed a crime such as beating someone’s ass, pistol whoopings, shooting a rival gang member, or stealing highly valued goods. The gangster’s credibility will increase if he/she happens to spend time in prison. After the gangster serves his/her time, they are revered for being “hard.” Keep in mind that if the gangster or anyone for that matter snitches, any street cred they may have earned is forfeited. It is highly advisable not to snitch unless the individual plans to leave the country and never return.
Last but not least, the community activist has the potential to earn the most amount of street cred if their approach is right. Believe it or not community activists who actually live in the ghetto neighborhood are highly respected for their efforts to improve the conditions of the people living within the area. Community activists have seen first hand the plight of their people and have taken it upon themselves to make a difference. However, depending on the situation, sometimes community activists can come off as preachy and turn off the ghetto folks. When that occurs, a community activist will lose street cred and be disregarded as a loud mouth judgment snob. The community activist must keep a balance and ensure that they do not come off as having a superiority complex to the ghetto people they are attempting to serve or else they will lose street cred.
So after this author gets thru watching NCIS: Los Angeles (don’t sleep, excellent show, I never miss an episode), I click over to the news, and oh so many stories in, they talk about these cats in New Bedford, MA, who get arrested for making a “f*ck law enforcement” type song. At first, you’d be like, what is this, ‘92? But before you grow a tie-top hat and Zubaz, the thing was, they were naming names, not just any names, but those of specific police officers, their actual probation officers, so on and so forth. No DA worth his salt is gonna sit back and let that go down without f*ckin’ with somebody.
Studio gangstas exist because rap’s biggest problem since the rise of the thugs and “roughnecks” has been the idiot fans (and some rappers’ colleagues) who feel that keeping it real actually means that rappers must live exactly what they say in rhymes (that subject matter usually being some hardcore dirt or illegal way they got extreme stacks before they first hit the mic). To these people (usually ghetto), there’s no such thing as a persona or a character, no such thing as creative license. 
Regardless of overall ghetto ideology, understand this: Ghetto people, hood folks, whatever you want to call them, fox with Michael Jackson, always had, always will. 
You hear it by every liquor store, every check cashing place, every chicken-and-chinese stand.
Having street cred is held in high esteem in the circles of many ghetto people. Having street cred can be earned by experiencing significant hardship and staying strong or having the ability to influence the masses based on occupation, deeds, or even swagger. Someone without street cred will be subjected to getting punked, pimped, and will be powerless. There are many ways one can earn street cred. Anyone who commands a certain level of respect whether they are a big time pimp, gangster, or community activist can earn street cred.
