Backpackers Thought My Mind Was Gone
If you study my mixtape, you see what my method is.
At the risk of turning these unruly little blogging backroads of XXLMAG.COM into a lovefest*, I must once again big-up the iPod King. Seriously, homey’s killing it right now. Not only did he help make Little Brother** a group I can no longer ignore in good conscience and drop two (mixtape) classics*** upon our unworthy souls—from The King of The South as well as The King Of New York—he’s behind what may well be the only album we’ll hear any time soon from Leonard P a/k/a Chilly Willy a/k/a Velvet Revolver’s newest collaborator.
While, BBCICECREAM.COM is no We Got It For Cheap Vol. 3, it’s definitely got the “Sometimes Y” effect down pact. The beat selection ranges from undisputed classics (“The Message,” “Paid In Full”) to mid-90’s NY shit (“Liquid Swords,” “4th Chamber,” “Sound Bwoy Buriell”) to Southern smokers (“Grillz,” “Damn,” “Trap or Die”) to California love (“It Was a Good Day,” “Straight Up Meance”). But is Skateboard good enough an emcee to pull all these beats off?
Of course not, let’s be fa’ real.
Pha-Real’s mic skills ride between Supreme Mathematics, claiming to “hiccup philosophy and. . . spit science” and referring to his chains as Laffy Taffy; infirm similes that dance between genius, wackness, and, uh, dude, you’re trying too hard: “So many Phantoms, the parking lot look like a graveyard.”
What are we supposed to make of this? Who does he think he is? Papoose?
But when dude is on, he’s on: “I’m on the PJ sofa reading Deepak Chopra/ Tryin’ to figure out how I’ma act on Oprah.” (Take that, Kanye.) Yeah, there’s no small amount of luxe life talk, cocaine metaphors and gunspeak, which is sometimes good and sometimes. . .
The real beauty of this joint is Pharrell thumping his chest (literally), genuflecting at the altar of Slick Rick, musing about working with Louis Vuitton and gaming Karolina Kurkova to stick her tits out****, claim to be from the hood and say “pussy.” (Man, you gotta love Slavic broads. They’re like European nickels, so it’s not that big a conflict.) Yes, indeed, P’s swagger is mightily admirable.
And the Fam-Lay joint is pure acid.
If you’re interetsted in hearing the man behind Stark Trak behind the mic, I wholly encourage you to visit the gentlemen who traffic in such semi-legal contraband and fugazi Red Monkey jeans for a copy. Or salute the smoking section and patronize the Southern-based drug cartels. Dude’s not coming out until January 1, 2010.
UPDATE: The hispter gods agree. With less reservation.
* As if such a thing would be possible, what with the jabs—subliminal and not-so—we’ve been tossing back and forth; not to mention the artists we’re pissing off. Speaking of which. . .
** At least I can still pick on Wackalicious. (Hate me later, Chigga.)
*** Mind you, the “classicity” of a mixtape is deemed by a different set of factors than a studio album. I’d get into these factors, but doing so may leave you with the erroneous perception that I actually enjoy having these kinds of conversations with you nerds.
**** Figuratively speaking, horny toads. Don’t get your keyboards sticky.