fight or die
It was funny to hear the quasi rap group that I saw play tonight utter the phrase "fight or die" when referring to the quiet college town we all call home. Granted, shit does go down here, like it does at any place that a number of people reside at, but this place is far from "hard." I don't care what your definition of the word is. I wouldn't consider the neighborhood I grew up in as "hard" or "tough," but still, it's about three times more rugged than the most gutted out ghetto in this somewhat desert oasis.
I ended up at a hip-hop show for the second night in a row. I have no problem with hip-hop. I recognize that it is now what rock music was when it was potent and revolutionary. I think there are still good, and even great (the latest Rogue Wave album is so good it brings me to tears), rock bands playing today, but that dangerous spirit has been tamed. There's nothing wrong with that. And I think in ten years or so, we'll have another Kurt Cobain, but I'm pretty sure he'll be armed with two turntables and a microphone instead of a beat up Fender Mustang.
Fender Mustangs are gorgeous guitars.
But tonight I saw the same glut and boredom that forced rock music to turn its eyes to dirty, flannel-wearing Pacific Northwesterners for something real and potent in the form of four MCs rapping over their own mixed tracks. Their mics were turned down in the mix, and though they were producing live performances, the recorded material rang out the loudest. They boasted and rapped about their cocks and balls, but never once said anything worth repeating. The only refrain that rang clear was "fight or die," sang by a big busted female vocalist who joined the group for just that one song.
Long after we left that joint, we repeated it constantly. This place is about as street as Branson, Missouri. I don't care how many rails you've snorted in a dorm bathroom or bong loads you've smoked.
[I'm drunk on holiday ale, rum and Jagermeister. All content contained herein should be taken with at least 35 grains of salt.]
I ended up at a hip-hop show for the second night in a row. I have no problem with hip-hop. I recognize that it is now what rock music was when it was potent and revolutionary. I think there are still good, and even great (the latest Rogue Wave album is so good it brings me to tears), rock bands playing today, but that dangerous spirit has been tamed. There's nothing wrong with that. And I think in ten years or so, we'll have another Kurt Cobain, but I'm pretty sure he'll be armed with two turntables and a microphone instead of a beat up Fender Mustang.
Fender Mustangs are gorgeous guitars.
But tonight I saw the same glut and boredom that forced rock music to turn its eyes to dirty, flannel-wearing Pacific Northwesterners for something real and potent in the form of four MCs rapping over their own mixed tracks. Their mics were turned down in the mix, and though they were producing live performances, the recorded material rang out the loudest. They boasted and rapped about their cocks and balls, but never once said anything worth repeating. The only refrain that rang clear was "fight or die," sang by a big busted female vocalist who joined the group for just that one song.
Long after we left that joint, we repeated it constantly. This place is about as street as Branson, Missouri. I don't care how many rails you've snorted in a dorm bathroom or bong loads you've smoked.
[I'm drunk on holiday ale, rum and Jagermeister. All content contained herein should be taken with at least 35 grains of salt.]
No comments:
Post a Comment