The Great Potty Bus Adventure

There are moments when all the forces in the cosmos align, moments in which the unthinkable becomes eminently possible. While it may seem on the surface that these moments are random they are actually the result of an almost infinite series of events coinciding in careful coordination.
All that is an overly complicated way of saying that I was hanging out with legendary rap group Wu-Tang Clan in a Domino’s Pizza a few nights ago. Let’s review the chain of events:

My brother and I went to see the Rock The Bells Festival, a hip-hop festival featuring everyone from Talib Kweli to the aforementioned Wu-Tang Clan (click here for my full coverage). The show was at the Tweeter Center, a stadium about 45 minutes from Boston. Now for those of you not from Mansfield Massachusetts, and I sincerely hope no one is, it’s in one of those towns that rides the thin line between rural and suburban. There aren’t a lot of culinary options after midnight, save for one Domino’s Pizza shining like a beacon of greasy nutrition against a late night sky. This particular Domino’s was staffed entirely by barely conscious high school kids and after ordering we sat back to await our delicious fare. Then…

12:45 – Two enormous tour buses pull up. We figure it has to be someone from the show, and sure enough assorted members of Wu-Tang Clan pour out of the bus. Watching them approach the Domino’s will remain one of the more confusing moments of my life. On one hand it was completely surreal, on the other it made perfect sense that a group infamous for their marijuana smoking ways would be making a late night Domino’s run.

12:55 – A barrage of ordering commences; pizzas, soda, and crazy bread galore, along with endless special requests. The acned staff is completely overwhelmed, and frankly I don’t blame them. Various members of their nebulous entourage keep coming up and placing more orders, bickering over the relatives merits of mushrooms vs. peppers. Method Man announces, “all these white people are pissed these negros took over their Domino’s.” It’s funny because it’s true. It’s safe to say the all-time record for amount of black people in a Mansfield Domino’s is being obliterated. It’s also clear our pizza’s not coming anytime soon. We decide to play it cool.

1:10 – My brother’s sipping on one of those big cans of Arizona Ice Tea, and Method Man wants one, bad. We send him over to 24-hour pharmacy next door, the only problem is he needs to borrow a dollar from me. Mind you he says this was a diamond- encrusted chain hanging from his hand. I give him the requested dollar and he takes off for the pharmacy at full speed. Method Man owes me $1, and I fully intend to collect.

1:15 – We’re in full-fledged debate with their tour manager over whether Boston is a city of a state when a fifteen year old kid walks in the store looking for some pizza. I don’t think he knew who he was looking at, but he did know he was looking at a Clan of black people and he was momentarily stunned. Incredibly he decides to talk to them in his classic Boston accent, leading to one of my favorite exchanges of all time.
White Kid: “Is that your pahty bus outside?” [boston accent note: pahty bus=party bus, a bus frat boys would rent for a trip to the casino for example]
Wu-Tang: What?
White Kid: Is that your pahty bus?
Wu-Tang: Our what?
White Kid (looking intensely uncomfortable): Pahty bus?
Wu-Tang: What the fuck is a potty bus?
White Kid: I don’t know, sorry.

1:30 - Everyone finally has their pizzas and is heading back to the tour bus, detoured significantly by a smoking session in the parking lot. I’m frankly amazed we haven’t seen any police yet, this is by far the most action to happen in a Domino’s parking lot, ever. Only then do we get our pizza and head to the car at full speed to eat. We drive off to assorted head nods of recognition from Wu-Tang, probably just another night in their tour-filled lives, but one of the most surreal of mine. See, there are these nights when the cosmos align just so and an aspiring journalist from Boston and a legendary rap group from Staten Island converge, if only to borrow a dollar for a can of ice tea.

R. Kelly, the remix

When Lindsay Lohan was arrested in L.A. the other day (I’d like to point out that I live in the only city on Earth where being run over by a 90 pound alchoholic celebrity is a legitimate concern) they also found R. Kelly in her trunk with a pound of marijuana and a giant stuffed animal. Is that true? Not at all, but it could be, and that’s why I love R. Kelly. He makes anything possible. For those of you who missed it he recently put out a full length album, Double Up. For those interested here’s my review of the entire album. Today we’re only concerned with one song. The new greatest R. Kelly song of all time, The Zoo. Just when you think Kelly’s run out of sexual metaphors he’s raises the ceiling even higher, he apparently has an infinite amount of sexually charged concepts in the glorious brain of his.

Before we get into the lyrics, and believe me we will, let me just set the stage. The concept of the song is that R. Kelly and his special lady (or ladies, or girls, or unicorns or whatever he's into these days) are in the jungle, and their jungle animals, and they’re doing what jungle animals do. Now I recently read a New York Times article saying that R. Kelly is participating in a long tradition of black performers who push racist stereotypes (like black people are just sexually driven jungle animals for example) to absurd limits in order to disempower those stereptypes. There may be certain elements of that in Mr. Kelly, or he could just think animals doing it are funny. It’s probably a little bit of both. With no further ado allow me to walk you through The Zoo.
The music is classic R&B style, slow snapping percussion pulsing bass swerve while Kelly croons, “I wanna see your body, I wanna feel your body.” Just your run of the mill song, nothing special. There’s no way to prepare yourself for what’s coming.
“It’s like a jungle atmosphere/ and we’re two monkeys baby/it’s like we’re on the vine/ the way we’re swinging baby.”
I like to imagine actually saying this to someone. Candlelight dinner, oysters and chocoltae on the table, you look that special someone in the eye and softly whisper, “it’s like jungle atmosphere, and we’re two monkeys baby.” I’ll try it on the girlfriend and report back…if I’m still breathing. On second thought why don’t you try it and tell me how it goes.
“Girl, I got you so wet/it's like a rain forest/like Jurassic Park/except I'm your sex-a-saurus baby.”

I’m sorry R. Kelly, what was that? It sounded like you said you’re a sex-a-saurus. Oh, you did. Well then, congratulations, that’s the most insane line I’ve ever heard. If I remember my dinosaurs correctly the sex-a-saurus was primarily an herbivore who was frequently arrested for talking to underage brontosaurus’. I have to believe that he thought of the sex-a-saurus line a long time ago and he’s been saving it for just the right time. It was probably stashed away in some secret underground bunker just in case the Russians decided to get out of hand again. It’s hands down the new best R. Kelly line of all time.
You and me hopping/like two kangaroos/rattling and moaning/out here in these woods.
Here’s my theory: R. Kelly was high and watching Animal Planet, one thing led to another, and viola The Zoo was made. And by the way is he implying that kangaroos rattle? Or did we switch animal metaphors and I missed it? At this point I’m incredibly confused, and then the actual monkey sound effects kick in. As in: “girl we be goin oooo aaaaa.” Are those really the noises R. Kelly wants to hear from his lady when they’re making love. Honestly I can’t think of a noise I’d be more terrified of, but that’s only one reason I’m me, and R. Kelly is a genius/complete nutjob.
Believe me, it kind of goes on like that for a few more minutes, but nothing could possible top the first verse. Where will he stop? Will he ever stop? I can’t think of another field in which someone has so consistently exceeded expectations. In the “coming up with absolutely ridiculous pop songs that will still be wildly popular” R. Kelly is the undisputed king. If he releases anything better than Sex Zoo, and if history is any indication it’s only a matter of time, I’ll let you know. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go light some incense and pray in front of my R. Kelly shrine.

You know I wouldn’t build up all the hype and leave you hanging, the link to the song's below. Enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MHJ8N1o6gEA

MC Imus in the house

After a media saturated week of outrage the fervor around Don Imus’ comments that the Rutgers women’s basketball team were “nappy-headed hos” has begun to die down. The shock jock said a terrible but completely predictable thing, he was fired, people have chosen sides, end of story. Having exhausted every possible Imus related angle the media has moved on to its new favorite pastime, blaming hip-hop for the societal and cultural ills of America.
This week CNN, Fox, and even NPR ran segments and commentaries essentially saying that Imus’ comments were terrible, but they were the same things rappers say all the time. I’m no hip-hop apologist, I fully believe that hip-hop owes women a collective apology for decades of objectivism and often outright violence, but this is a completely false parallel. Who’s really responsible for Imus’s comments? Oh yeah, black men, that makes perfect sense.
The link between Imus and hip-hop is tenuous at best, unless he’s been taking secret meetings with Ice-T, which I somehow doubt. These news segments bring on as their “expert’ people who clearly don’t know very much about hip-hop, a.k.a. anything at all (and may none of them have been black women, the group in the best position to offer relevant commentary). On NPR’s Weekend Edition host Scott Simon named Snoop Dogg and Slim Thug as the most misogynistic rappers. I will seriously pay Scott Simon a thousand dollars if he can pick Slim Thug out of a line-up. Here’s a hint Scott, he’s black, see if you can narrow it down from there. There are plenty of people qualified to intelligently speak about hip-hop, yet news organizations are determined to avoid them at all costs. Wolf Blitzer leading a roundtable discussion on hip-hop is like inviting me to lecture on international monetary policy.
Furthermore, this is clearly the reactionary commentary of people who don’t listen to hip-hop. First hip-hop and rap is not a monolithic entity. There are certainly rappers who call women bitches with an alarming frequency (Too Short), and there are also those that call for radical feminism (Dead Prez). Saying hip-hop is sexist is like saying movies are sexist; some of them are, maybe even many of them are, but clearly not all of them. Even among mainstream rap the “bitch/ho” epidemic just doesn’t exist on the level most seemingly believe. Take a look at the current hip-hop singles chart, there’s not a song on there that uses either of one those words.
http://charts.mediaguide.com/format/R_B_Hip_Hop_single.html
The #1 song is R. Kelly’s, and as we’ve previously discussed at length he’s completely ridiculous. The song is Kelly’s warning to other men that their girlfriends will find him more attractive, “She be callin’ you Kelly, when you’re name is Tommy.” Hardly inflammatory, actually kinda hilarious. Even a glancing view of hip-hop videos will reveal no shortage of objectification and booty shaking, but the editorial staff of NPR seemingly listened to an Easy E track from 1989 and decided it represented all of hip-hop. The truth is the majority of hip-hop played on the radio is no more sexist than your average Fox drama, which admittedly isn’t exactly something to brag about, but it doesn’t make rap the leading cause of sexism in the U.S. Can your young son easily find misogynistic hip-hop on the internet, absolutely. But he’ll probably be bombarded by some many free-porn offers he’ll never even get around to listening to it. Hmmm, maybe the problem’s a little bigger than one musical genre. Just maybe.
The drive to point the finger at hip-hop also smacks of the of the argument offered by people over the use of the word nigger: “hey, black people call each other that all the time, so why can’t I? What, just because I’m white I can’t call someone a nigger?” Yes, that’s exactly what it means. There’s nothing good about black rappers calling black women hos, but it’s fundamentally different than when Imus says it: one’s sexist, the other’s sexist and racist. White men enslaved and raped black women for centuries, so the historical implications are extraordinary. And for those who think such power dynamics are thing of the past may I offer exhibit A, Don Imus. Instead of confronting this ugly history some part of the nation wants to pass the blame right back onto black culture, “hey, it’s ok for me to call black women hos, Nelly does it all the time.” Well, if Nelly jumped off a bridge…you get the idea.
Instead of an almost hysterical reaction to the supposed moral corruption of hip-hop, intelligent and thorough exploration reveals an art form that dynamicly reflects the sexism of society as much as it is a catalyst. That type of critical thinking would of course be too much to ask from CNN. But blaming the other is nothing new, and it makes for some great ratings. “Next on Fox News, hip-hop is coming to rape your daughter, but first here’s Todd with the weather.” Pretty exciting stuff, almost like something a shock jock would say.

A True American Hero

There are talents that come along once in a generation, artists who’s influence echoes for decades and changes the way society views the world around it. The Beatles first notes on the Ed Sullivan Show, Warhol’s Campbell’s soupcan prints, Pollock’s daring new painting technique, all moments that altered the course of American culture. Little did we know that when a young man named Robert Sylvester Kelly released the classic R&B song “Bump N’Grind” in 1993 the world would never be the same.
The last paragraph was ridiculously over-dramatic, but it’s a fitting tribute to the subject of this week’s article, R. Kelly. Kelly was the biggest-selling male artist of the 90’s, and he’s well on his way to dominating the new millenium. I have no reservations about calling Kelly a genius, he’s the best songwriter alive in terms of crafting melodies that lodge in your head and refuse to leave, much like an inoperable brain tumor. What makes his success paticularly mind-boggling is the absolutely ridiculous substance of his lyrics. Modern R&B is not exactly Shakeperean, but R. Kelly’s songs reach levels of absurdity previously unimagined. The depths, or heights, of his lyrical ability force us to come to two conclusions: either he long ago realized the words he sings are completely irrelevant to his album sales, or he’s so deluded he actually believes his lyrics are the greatest of all time. Which is it? Genius or retarded llama? Let the debate begin.
Let's take a little R. Kelly refresher course by watching the first editon of his opus "Trapped in a Closet, or just take a gander at the photo above (nice crucifix, I wonder what Jesus would think about "Sex Me"...he's probably love it. Just click below to watch the video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eUVLNghzLtI&mode=related&search=

Ready? Ok, join me in a land of magical wonder.

* “Ignition” off the album Chocolate Factory, 2003

"So buckle up cuz this could get bumpy babe/Now hit the lights and check out all my functions babe/Girl back that thing up so I can watch it babe/honey we gonna mess around n get a ticket babe/its like...oooo...pull over babe/and let me put this love in our family trunk babe/So buckle up cuz this could get bumpy babe/Girl we gon mess around n get a ticket babe"

Let’s put my poetry degree to good use, or terrible use depending on your viewpoint. First I’d like to note his use of end-rhyme, rhyming “babe” with “babe” eight consecutive times, quite a feat. Mr. Kelly has built this song around a metaphor, sex with him=driving a car, note his use of repeated entendre. I’m a particularly big fan of “check out all my functions babe, and quite frankly I’m not sure what to make of “let me put this love in our family trunk babe.” The allusion is relatively straight forward, but it’s the “family” part that throws me off. I don’t even know what a “family trunk” is, a trunk large enough to fit your family in? Sorry grandma, you pulled the short straw today. This is Kelly’s genius, the ability to code his eccentricities so well they often go unnoticed.

* “Sex in the Kitchen” off the album TP.3 Reloaded, 2005

"Girl you're in the kitchen/Cooking me a meal/ Something makes me wanna come in there and get a feel/Cutting up tomatoes, fruits and vegetables and potatoes/Girl, you look so sexy while you're doing the damn thang/Sex in the kitchen/over by the stove/Put you on the counter by the buttered rolls/Hands on the table, on your tippy toes/We'll be making love like the restaurant was closed"

Remember what I said about Kelly’s ability to code, forget about it. “Sex in the Kitchen” couldn’t be more straightforward; the man likes sex in the kitchen. It often sounds like there’s no filter for Kelly; if one day he started thinking “Hey, I really like those pretzels they sell at airports” he’d release his new smash hit “Airport Pretzels (if I could I’d have sex with ‘em)” in a matter of months. No one in the history of R&B has ever used the phrase “cutting up tomatoes, fruits and vegetables and potatoes” erotically; at least we know he’s eating healthy. “Right next to the buttered rolls” is also classic, is anyone else getting a little hungry?

* “Feelin On Yo Booty” off the album TP.2 .com, 2001

"Feelin on yo booty, yo booty,yo booty, yo boo-ooFeelin on yo booty,yo booty, yo booty,yo bootyyo boo-ooty, booty ba, ba, ba, ba, ba, ba, ba, ba,ba, ba-ooty, baby"

Seriously. The song peaked at #9 on the billboard charts. Seriously. At this point he’s given up even trying to form words, vowels will do just fine. I don’t even know what to say, and yet I’m strangely drawn to it. I think this is what it feels like to be a moth and spot a light bulb.

“Trapped in a Closet” off the album TP.3 Reloaded, 2005

"Shh, shh, quiet Hurry up and get in the closet" She said, "Don't you make a sound Or some shit is going down"/ I said, "Why don't I just go out the window?"/ "Yes, except for one thing, we on the 5th floor"/ "Shit think, shit think, shit quick, put me in the closet" /And now I'm in this dark ass closet, tryin' to figure out /Just how I'm gonna get my crazy ass up out this house/ Then he walks in and yells, "I'm home"/ She says, "Honey, I'm in the room"/ He walks in there with a smile on his face/ Sayin', "Honey, I've been missin' you" /She hops all over him /And says, "I've cooked and ran your bath water" /I'm tellin' you now, this girl's so good that she deserves an Oscar/ Throws her in the bed /And starts to snatchin' her clothes off /I'm in the closet, like man, what the fuck is going on? /You're not gonna believe it /But things get deeper as the story goes on /Next thing you know, a call comes through on my cell phone/ I tried my best to quickly put it on vibrate /But from the way he act, I could tell it was too late /He hopped up and said, "There's a mystery going on And I'm gonna solve it" /And I'm like, "God please, don't let this man open this closet"

I could write a thesis on this song. It’s R. Kelly’s attempt at narrative story telling, starting with him waking up in a strange bed and being caught cheating with this man’s wife. This is only part 1 of 12 sections. It’s like The Odessey, only with more gay sex, midgets, brothers on parole, cherry pies, and trigger-happy police officers (you can’t make this stuff up). My favorite is the exchange between Kelly and the woman about where to hide him: “Why don’t I just go out the window? “Yes, except for one thing we’re on the fifth floor.” “Shit think, shit think, shit quick, put me in the closet.” I love that we suddenly get to hear his thoughts, which mostly consist of the word “shit.” And what house has five floors? What tops it off is the melodic accent he puts on lines, “I tried my best to quickly put it on vibrate” is funny enough on its own, but when sung with such soul and conviction it’s hilarious. Those of us who watched the schizophrenic solo performance of this song the world will never be the same. It was like watching a schizophrenic throw a toaster into a bathtub, simply electrifying.

So there you have it, I’ve laid out the evidence, the jury has deliberated, what’s the verdict? I want to make it clear that despite the negativity occasionally displayed here, I like R. Kelly in all seriousness. I’m freely confess to unabashedly singing along to his songs on the radio. A better question may be what is it about these songs that are so addictive? I’m not sure, maybe the NoChance community can come to some sort of consensus. I’ll close with a line from Kelly’s newest single “I’m a Flirt”
"Cuz hey I'm black, handsome, I sing…plus I'm rich"
Truer words were never spoken.

Whitey to the Rescue

This is what it was meant to be. Outside the movie premier a hundred or so people talked and waited for the doors to open. They were Black, White, Latino, Philippino, and every other imaginable ethnicity (I of course held it down for the Slovaks). There were teenagers in white t-s and a middle age couple wearing sandals and socks. Everyone was distinctly different but united by love for a culture. We were all there to see Byron Hurt’s new documentary “Hip-Hop; Beyond the Beats.” Hurt spent five years making the documentary examining the link between masculinity and hip-hop. Here are the two basic formulas at work in Hurt’s documentary:
car + gun + video girls + acting hard = rap video.
material wealth + violence + misogyny + acting hard = being a man
It’s the formula that gets played out over and over, and over, and over again on MTV, BET, and whatever HOT/JAMN/POWER radio station is in your area. Jim Jones just came on the radio while I was writing that last sentence. I rest my case. Ballin! If hip-hop is dead, as Nas claims, then the above two formulas killed it, and hip-hop’s resurrection depends on a solution.
A panel featuring Hurt, Talib Kweli, M1 of Dead Prez, Yo-Yo, and the VP of BET stayed after the film to answer questions and try to come a step closer to an answer. They all said some amazing and revealing things, which produced a series of epiphanies in my little brain. More than epiphanies, they were revelations. I figured out the answer, I figured out how to fix hip-hop. Without further ado the answer is…white people. That’s right, we did it again. Hip-hop was cold and we handed it some smallpox blankets. White people are what’s wrong with hip-hop, and we hold the tools to fixing it. I know that my revelation is deeply problematic and simplistic on many levels, but I’m going to someone haphazardly put them aside because that’s what a revelation is, a parting of the clouds in a moment of absolute clarity. It’s time to stop debating and cut to the chase. To borrow a TI phrase, this is real talk. Follow me for a moment:

1) Hip-hop is a business. Capitalism is the most powerful force in the world (sorry love). Money determines what gets on the airwaves, who gets signed, and who gets paid. Artists quickly learn that if they want to follow the money, they better follow the formula. This point was hammered home during Hurt’s documentary. The VP of BET also made this point; his message – if you buy it, we’ll start playing it. If De La Soul sold 10 million albums they’d be on as much as 50. CREAM.
2) As Mos Def said, “Hip-hop is us. It’s going where we’re going.” If we want to see more Mos Def and less Jibbs, we need to start buying copies of Black on Both Sides and stop buying Jibbs Featuring Jibbs, an album that could have been alternately titled Me Like Shiny Things.
3) White people buy more hip-hop than anyone. As Jadakiss pointed out in an interview during the movie, “You’re first 700,000 [albums sold] is black, after that it’s all white folks.” I’m not sure how much sociology Jada knows, but he sure as hell knows his album sales.

In the end it’s simple mathematics. White people are the ones who want to see black men shooting each other, white people are the ones who want to hear about black men dealing drugs, and white people want to see black women shake their “Tipdrill.” There’s no doubt that there’s an element of truth to the hardness of black urban life, the question is why is this hardness is so exaggerated and so disproportionately represented. In 1993 NWA and Kwame were both on the top ten, there was simply more room for different voices. Then white people found hip-hop in droves (I include myself here) and the market changed. White people wanted to hear 50 rap about being shot nine times like they wanted to see Schwarenagger shoot alien predators. For most of us it’s entertainment, plain and simple. But for people who actually live in the environments that get rapped about (AKA non-whites) the repercussions of violent and material imagery are only too real. It’s not only our fault, and not only out solution, but simply as a market perspective if white people started being more responsible about how we consumed hip-hop, we would change the game drasticly.
I’m not saying that hip-hop is solely responsible for the problems of the ghetto, eliminating poverty’s would go a lot further, but I can’t eliminate poverty. I can’t give everyone healthcare; I can’t even give myself healthcare. But I can turn off the radio when Jibbs comes on, and I can pick up the new Lupe Fiasco and leave The Massacre on the shelf. For those of us who listen to hip-hop regularly this will be easier said then done. Lord knows I’m far from perfect. I blasted Rick Ross’s Hustlin as loud as anyone, and I watched The Whisper Song video more times than I should admit. I’m just trying to figure out why I turn up my stereo when a three hundred pound black man (300’s probably a little svelte for Mr. Ross) from Miami raps about selling coke, and why I don’t change the channel when some girls in booty shorts start shakin. Come on white people, it’s the least we can do. We’ve fucked up enough; let’s try to leave hip-hop intact.



Byron Hurt’s HIP-HOP: Beyond Beats and Rhymes will air nationally on the Emmy-award winning PBS series Independent Lens on Tuesday February 20th at 10:00 PM. Check local listings.

A Cracker By Any Other Name

I recently started writing for a hip-hop website (djbooth.net, if I were to shamelessly self-promote, which I’m not) and the first thing my editor wanted me to do is come up with a name. Not just a name, but an alias, a persona, something fresh, something hip-hop, something not Nathan Slavik. In other words, I needed to drop the government name. I understood his point, a name can be make or break, and Nathan says “Hi, of course I’ll have your daughter home by ten,” not “I’m qualified to review underground hip-hop albums.” I’m a firm believer that a name can set the stage for your entire life, not only by influencing how you see yourself, but what the world expects of you. For example, if I were to name my future son Bronco, there’s no way that kid’s not going to be wild, in an eventually self-destructive coke habit kind of way. Conversely, little Norbert Slavik Jr. is going to be very involved in a world of magic and dragons. This is why most parents just choose to go the safe route with Chris or Sara, those kids have the most options. Now the pressure was on me to name someone, and that someone, was me.
At first I was excited by the possibilities, after all a new name means a new life, but the thrill soon turned to horror. Not only is coming up with a dope name hard, coming up with a not-terrible name is pretty difficult. It wasn’t long before I was turning to my girlfriend and saying things like “What about Ritz, you know like a cracker, I’m a cracker, and it projects kind of a rich opulence sort of thing.” Once she very kindly but sternly pointed out that Ritz was probably the dumbest fucking name she’s ever heard, desperation started to set in. I had to go back to basics, look to some role models and figure out what makes a great hip-hop name. I decided to go straight to the pros and figure out who has the worst and best name in hip-hop? Maybe in my investigation I’d learn the secret formula, and come up with something better than El Diablo Blanco.
It’s a more complicated question than it first appears. After all, what is in a name? Some people have strong enough personalities that they can manage to overcome a poor name. For example, think anyone has the guts to point out that 50 Cent’s kind of a silly name? To his face? The same face that was shot nine times? As far as I’m concerned he could be named MC Creamsicle and it’d be tough. But there has to be a point where we can all sit down and agree yeah, that’s a pretty bad/great name. I realize that the following list is subjective, and as always open to revision, but after much thought here’s the breakdown.

Bottom Three Worst Names
1) Diddy – The worst part of it is he managed to change his name from the embarrassing Puff Daddy to the absolutely atrocious Diddy. Let’s put it this way: I was over at a friends house when her two year old son peed his pants, then ran through the house announcing to everyone who would listen “I went Diddy.” I rest my case. This is what happens when you’re surrounded by people who enthusiastically agree with everything you say.
2) Ice-T – I realize this is a very controversial call, and a hard one because Ice-T is rightfully one of the greatest MC’s of all time, but just take a step back. Let’s pretend for a moment that we’ve never heard of Ice-T the rapper, never heard of him period, hell you don’t even watch Law and Order. Ice-T? Really? If I’m listening to the radio and the DJ says “After the break, I’ll be playing the new joint from Ice-T,” I’m not gonna be in any rush to sit through those commercials. What makes the name even more strange is all the hardcore songs. Should a man infamous for a song called Copkiller be named after a deliciously refreshing summertime beverage? And yes I admit that if I ever met him I would apologize profusely, while running away, and crying.
3) Vanilla Ice – Not much of a debate here. Though as soon as I wrote it I started to wonder if it’s not secretly the best name ever. At least it’s honest. The name screams “I’m a white guy masquerading as a rapper for money and women, also I have lightning bolts cut into the sides of my flat-top.” Which in retrospect was exactly what he was. No, no, I don’t care how honest it is, he probably thought it was dope. Which means it’s terrible. Sadly, Vanilla Ice was an upgrade from his actual name, Rob Van Winkle. You can’t make this shit up.

Top Three Best Names
1) Ghostface Killa – The anti-Diddy. I don’t even think it needs much explanation. All the Wu-Tang members have great names, even Gza somehow works, but Ghostface tops them all…with the possible exception of Ol’ Dirty Bastard, but he’s the only one in the world who could have pulled that name off. Ghostface is beautiful and tough, mystical and street. Ghostface Killa might sneak up behind you in an alley and stab you with a ninja star, but before he does he’s gonna whisper something in your ear so dope that as you’re being stabbed you’re thinking “I wish I wasn’t being stabbed, but that was a great line.” The names that good.
2) Busta Rhymes – Legend has it that De La Soul gave the aspiring Busta the name while he was still part of Leaders of the New School. De La never disappoints. A big part of the name game is how well the moniker matches the personality, and Busta’s hyper borderline-ADD flow fits perfectly. It’s the type of name that makes running down a hallway while being chased by an elephant a plausible event. I wish I was being chased by an elephant. I wish I could be one of the greatest live performers in hip-hop history. I wish my name was Busta Rhymes.
2) Snoop Dogg – No one has gotten more mileage out of their name than Tha
Doggfather. I think he’s legally mandated to spell out some form of his name at least once a song. S-N-Double O-P indeed. The name projects the kind of laid back cool that can only come from a millionaire who spends a sizable amount of his fortune on weed. It’s also mischievous, but in a gang affiliated kind of way. You can’t be on top of the game for almost two decades without a great name, and the undisputed King of the West Coast (sit down Game, it’s not you) is one Mr. Snoop Dogg Esquire.

So what did I learn from this exercise? I learned that it’s possible to give yourself a painfully bad name and still end up wealthy and powerful, I’m looking at you Sean Combs. I learned that there are plenty of gifted MCs with great names that will probably never sell as many records as Hammer, well hello there MFDoom. In the end it’s what you do with the name more than the name itself. And with this revelation in mind I’m leaning more towards just sticking with the government name. At least it can’t be ridiculed by smart-ass writers. Then again, what do you think about 10th Wonder…like the bread…get it? Yeah, you’re right. My mother would be ashamed. Well, until the muse is kind enough to bless me with something better, this is Nathan Richards Slavik, signing off.

The Envelope Please

I care about the Grammy Awards like I care about the upcoming Making the Band 4; I might watch it to marvel at the ridiculousness, but it’s meaningless. In the hip-hop world winning a Grammy is less a sign of artistic excellence and more a sign of crossover appeal. I’m willing to bet the closest most Grammy voters have come to Ice Cube is when they put some in their Ice-T. The fact is Grammy officials were convinced that hip-hop was a passing fad, and only started giving hip-hop it’s own category in 1989. Now, as hip-hop has become increasingly mainstream your average voter is more and more exposed to the likes of Nelly, Paul Wall, and their assortment of Grillz then ever before. This years nominees are actually relatively solid (well done whoever pushed to get Lupe Fiasco two nominations), but even this recent stab at basic respectability is enough stem my hatred. In order to fortify myself against the hype, and to ensure that you never become deluded by the Grammy glamour, allow me to present my own awards show of sorts…

TOP THREE ABSOLTELY RETARDED GRAMMY HIP-HOP MOMENTS

1) Will Smith Gets Jiggy with a Best Song Grammy - First and foremost I’m not one of these Will Smith haters, he was there from the beginning crafting solid party hip-hop. There’s no reason we can’t all throw some old school Fresh Prince in the summertime and roll through three miles an hour. That being said, Will Smith is currently the Bryant Gumble of hip-hop, or maybe Gumble is the Smith of broadcasting, or maybe they’re both just Wayne Brady, regardless you get my point. White people feel comfortable with him, they feel comfortable gettin jiggy at their daughter’s Bar Mitzah, and they feel comfortable handing him a Grammy. Oh, and he also got a Grammy for Men In Black. That’s right Kool Herc, the music you gave birth to is now the soundtrack to a Tommy Lee Jones movie, congratulations.

2) MC Hammer wins for Best Rap Album – While it is true that the Hammer and his entourage were setting the nation on fire one pair of gold-plated parachute pants at a time, it’s also true that Hammer made music that can no longer be played without widespread laughter. Not only has his music utterly failed to stand the test of time, I wouldn’t be even remotely surprised if a 300 pound Hammer showed up on Celebrity Fit Club. Ironically enough it turns out the only legit thing Hammer ever did was quit. God, this is almost too easy. So the next time your tempted to give the Grammy’s even the smallest amount of respect, just remember, they gave MC Hammer a fucking award!!!

3) Puffy’s No Way Out wins Best Album – There are two options here: either a man so stupid he changed his name from Puffy to Diddy managed to make the best hip-hop album of the year, or the Grammys are a complete embarrassment. I suppose the third option would be they’re both more confused than Danity Kane after a quantum physics lecture; in any case I believe I make myself clear. The real travesty here is that Puffy beat out Biggie’s Life After Death for the award. You’ve got be kidding me! One of the top five greatest MCs of all time is tragically murdered and he can’t even beat the guy whose only serious credit was signing him. I don’t even know anyone who still owns No Way Out, let alone listens to it. I still remember the first time I heard Puffy spit this classic line: “Playa please, I’m the macaroni with the cheese.” Seriously, they gave him a Grammy, I think I just vomited in my mouth.

In the end, I hope The Roots and Lupe Fiasco and Mary J. Blige all walk away February 11th with more Grammy’s then they can hold, lord knows they deserve them. And if that happens, if the Grammy committee somehow recognizes the combined genius of Missy and Busta and Mos Def, if they show that finally they’ve learned the simple lesson of separating quality enduring hip-hop from flashy commercial efforts, maybe I’ll start to care. But if history is any guide then Ludacris will end up watching Chamillionaire’s acceptance speech from his seat, and I’ll be looking on the Internet for a flamethrower and directions to the Grammys. Let that be a warning to you Grammy voters, I don’t know who you are, but I’m not above locking you in a room with a Best of Mase cd on repeat. After all, it’s a wonder you didn’t give the man a Grammy.