White People, Get Over Yourselves

On Obama's "race" speech.

She's so out there, she's in there.

Erykah Badu has finally given us a new album, only her third full LP of new music in, oh, eleven years.

Now she says she's learned to use iChat and Garage Band, so she's got two, maybe three more albums coming this year. "New AmErykah, Pt. 2" in the Spring. Then her alterego "Lowdown Loretta Brown" in the Fall. And then she's got her new supergroup with Ahmir & Mike Elizondo, "Edith Funker."

EDITH FUNKER!

She may be the world's biggest tease, that Erykah, but she sure is funny.

Peep the video and my review in the Washington Post.

He Gave His Nose

It's the 25th anniversary of the release of Michael Jackson's "Thriller."

Writing my review in the Washington Post gave me occasion to really think on the album's importance, which runs so much deeper than it's status as the greatest selling album of all time. More than all of that, in 1983, "Thriller" almost singlehandedly achieved the reintegration of American music.

P.S.: If you really want a renewed respect for the Jackson family, just listen to this home demo that Michael, Randy and Janet (yes) put together in 1978, setting out the now famous arrangement of "Workin' Day And Night." They are so in the pocket with the percussion, it's insane.

Obama and the Skittles vote

...and for a non-ignorant analysis, peep Jeff Chang's blog here.

Happy 2008

After an extended holiday both here and abroad, it’s time to dig into this year’s work:

• As many of you know, I’ll be spending most of my time reporting and writing my book, “The Big Payback: How Hip-Hop Became Global Pop,” coming out on New American Library/Penguin in the Fall of 2009. See y’all in Los Angeles, Atlanta, Miami and Houston soon.

• Music criticism for the Washington Post, and posts here and on hiphopmusic.com.

• Other ventures, coming soon.

Wishing power to all of your resolutions.

-D

Good Intentions

The confluence of genius and psychopathy is all too common in hip-hop, the convergence of genius and altruism all too rare. Few rappers possess what Chuck D. had, try as they might. From today's Washington Post.

America's Two Destinies

Read my 9-11 post on hiphopmusic.com

Hydrated Fo' Life

Reviewed the new Fitty for the Washington Pizzy today.

And got Milk some ink too.

The Torch Ratings — 2007 VMA Edition

Even if you hadn’t watched the VMAs Sunday night, you’ve heard about the fiasco. But there were some encouraging moments too.

Torch ratings go from a scale of -5 to +5, with -5 being abysmal behavior and no f**king balls and +5 being completely courageous in making a sincere point on behalf of the hip-hop generation.

Here they are, from worst to best.

BRITNEY SPEARS: -4




Britney Spears has been getting by on her skin privilege for years. On Sunday, this non-talent was finally naked for the world to see. Let this be the last time that more deserving performers get bumped for her ass.


KANYE WEST: -1





Really, Kanye. Who gives f**k about a goddamn Moonman?


TIMBALAND: 0




This was the super-producer’s finest year, and should have been his night by default, but Timbo awkwardly insinuated himself into his artists' finest moments. And is the new "Maestro" title mandatory like “The King of Pop” or “The King of all Media”?


RIHANNA: +2





For being a class act and paying a visit to the rockers’ suite.


CHRIS BROWN: +3




A star is born.


JUSTIN: +4





For telling MTV to cut the shit.


TOMMY LEE & KID ROCK: +5





For giving us pundits some fresh bad-white-rocker behavior to reference the next time Bill O’Reilly needs a comment. HONORABLE MENTION: JAMEY FOXX & SEAN COMBS for perfectly encapsulating that shit.

Aiight, kids. Get back out there, and remember to hold the torch.

Where hip-hop lives...

...on Monsieur Talib Kweli's new album, Eardrum.

From today's Washington Post.

It’s not about the music. It’s about the songs.

Just to show you how big of a Prince fan I was in high school:

On Class Night — the annual party where the outgoing seniors ripped the teachers, and the teachers roasted us back — the faculty sketch ended when Principal Chestnut came out dressed as yours truly, holding a framed portrait of the Purple One.

“Prince and I are here,” he exclaimed, closing the show.

By the time I left college four years later, Prince and I were through.

Why? I think Jon Hein had it right: Prince jumped the shark at “Sign O’ The Times.” Until that album, Prince was an innovator. As popular as he became with mainstream audiences, he was always doing something bold. A new album from Prince was like a musical middle finger to everyone, even to some of his fans.

But “Sign O’ The Times” was different. If, as Alfred Hitchcock once said, the definition of style is self-plagiarism, then Prince was becoming very stylish indeed. He began repeating himself. As much as I liked “If I Was Your Girlfriend,” I couldn’t help hearing his re-use of the stutter-step riff from The Time’s “Get It Up.” As much as I liked “Dorothy Parker,” I couldn’t listen to Prince drone on about things like taking a bubble bath with his pants on, not when another group, Public Enemy, was just starting to talk about some really important things. Songs like “Hot Thing” and “It” seemed like self-indulgent double-album filler. That year, during the sultry summer of 1987, was the last time I really heard Black radio play a Prince song to death. “Adore” was his swan song, the last grind.

Don’t get me wrong: I think Black people will always, always love Prince. But that doesn’t mean they’ll listen to him. Ironic indeed that, in 1988, the bootleg “Black Album” surfaced, a meandering collection of mediocre songs that were rumored to be a meditation on Blackness but, if anything, showed how Prince felt about being upstaged by hip-hop during its Golden Age:

“Riding in my Thunderbird on the freeway
I turned on my radio 2 hear some music play
I got a silly rapper talking silly shit instead
And the only good rapper is one that's dead.”

And I was like, “Fuck that.” I’d much rather listen to Nice and Smooth rip “Starfish and Coffee” over the Lafayette Afro-Rock Band than Prince’s pretty, precious original any day of the week.

Prince entered his jingle phase in the 1990s, nice, easy-listening pop confections like “Diamonds and Pearls” and “Cream.” And what do you do, a few years later, after putting out garbage like “My Name is Prince” and “Sexy MF,” when nobody gives a shit about your music anymore? Blame your record company.

I was at Warner Bros. during his ugly split with the company. Russ Thyret, the chairman of Warner, the man who had found Prince and signed him in the 1970s, had just invested millions in Prince’s new label deal when The Kid announced that he would no longer record for Warner. Russ felt completely betrayed. One time, Rick Rubin began to ask Russ about it, and Russ pointed a finger at him: “Don’t – You – Say – That – Word.” The “P” word, he meant.

In the post-Warner years, I must admit to a hope that Prince would somehow find a renaissance in the opening of his vaults. But I listened to all three CDs of “Emancipation” — I remember because it absorbed an entire road trip from LA to San Fran — and the only songs I liked were the ones he didn’t write: “Betcha By Golly Wow,” and the Bonnie Raitt song, “I Can’t Make You Love Me.” The album was as boring as the Central Valley landscape rolling by my window.

Still, Prince was one of the first artists to try to tap the power of the Internet. Even if I didn’t care for his music anymore, I developed a new kind of admiration for him: Damn, he can really do this himself. An artist can make a living, even remain a star, without the help of a major record company.

I hadn’t much considered Prince until 2004, when my college roommate invited me to see Prince at Meadowlands, a stop on his “Musicology” tour. As expected, his mode of distribution was ingenious: Everyone who bought one of the pricey concert tickets walked away with a free album. What I didn’t expect was how the show would move me.

For a guy in his 40s, dude looked, played and moved spectacularly. Entering my late 30s, that was inspiration enough. But at mid-show, he started doing this tune, “Prince Is The Name” (unrecorded, I guess, because I can’t find it anywhere). He said:

“Warner Bros. used to be a friend of mine/
Now they’re just a motherfucking waste of time”

...and by 2004, Warner had become the exact same thing to me. He continued:

“If you cant do it on your own/
It ain’t worth the fame/
Everyone gets older/
But I remain the same/
Prince is the name”

Hot damn. People cheered, the confetti came down, and damned if I don’t still have a few pieces of that sacred paper on my altar.

As a performer, as a human being who does “himself,” Prince is a renewed inspiration. His performance earlier this year during the Superbowl half-time deluge was a modern day miracle: How did he keep from tripping on the rain-slicked stage? How did his hair stay up? How could he move his fingers so accurately over those wet guitar strings (I can’t even do it well dry)? How did he keep from electrocuting himself? Dude is blessed.

Even so, I wouldn’t go as far as Jon Pareles did in his recent article in the New York Times, in anticipation of Prince’s new album, “Planet Earth.” In “The Once And Future Prince,” Pareles intimates that Prince gets that, in the 21st century, it’s not about CD sales, it’s about the music. I wouldn’t even be as nice as my pal J. Freedom DuLac was, when he pronounced in the Washington Post that the new album was “30 percent bad, 40 percent mediocre and 30 percent really, really good.”

As much as I admire Prince, I want to like his music more than I actually do. The truth is, even with Prince’s independence and brilliance as a performer, I can’t remember a single song he’s done in the past decade. And when it comes to being culturally relevant and resonant, it’s not about the music. It’s about the songs.

The fact is, R. Kelly is writing better songs than Prince. Has been for a while, actually.

God help us all, but it’s the sad, sad truth.

It's enough to make your blood run khaki

Reviewed Common's new album, "Finding Forever," this week in the Washington Post.

Well, At Least One Yankee Will Have A Good Season

My review of Daddy Yankee's new album in the Washington Post today.

Since I'm To Busy Graduating To Write About All This Post-Imus Stuff, Let Me Paint You A Picture...