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“What year? WHAT YEAR!?!“
By briantologist | February 18, 2004
Reason number two hundred and thirteen why it’s good I’m married to Darleece: She reminds me that artists other than Tom Petty are still producing music, now that Johnny Cash is gone. I’m not saying I tend toward musical complacency, but left to my own devices, I’m fairly certain I’d devolve into one of those greasy guys you see at flea markets wearing filthy velour track jackets haggling over Ernest Tubb 78s. That, or I’d just completely forget to ever buy new records again. One of the two.
Finding out there’s pop music I like makes me feel like the monster in “Young Frankenstein”: Suddenly, the shambling mass starts to snap his fingers in time with “Puttin’ on the Ritz,” and we grunt and bellow on from there.
All of which is to say that “Speakerboxxx/The Love Below” fucking rules, which I never would’ve known if the lady of the house hadn’t insisted we track down and procure the double album of the year. Dude, seriously, Andre and Big Boi have got some really awesome shit happening here. Making me the four trillionth person to say so, but still. My previous rap resume reads as follows:
• “The Fat Boys Are Back,” The Fat Boys (cassette; given to my dad, who listens to it occasionally as he works)
• “It Takes a Thief,” Coolio (CD; still in rotation)
• “Doggystyle,” Snoop Doggy Dogg (CD; recently purchased despite its having been released over a decade ago)
• “Ill Communication,” The Beastie Boys (CD; purchased in bulk order from Columbia House record club; subsequently sold after 1.5 listens)
• “He’s the DJ, I’m the Rapper,” DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince (cassette; purchased for $0.50 at Vintage Stock, mainly for track “Nightmare on My Street”)
As you can see, my love of rap kind of flits along, pausing at gangsta albums hilariously inappropriate to my own life (but thoroughly awesome nonetheless; I’ll defend “It Takes a Thief” to the death, with the exception of “Ghetto Cartoon”), but not delving into any real depth. I’m not making any dramatic pronouncements, like the scales have fallen from my eyes, or anything like that; I’m probably not gonna start wearing a giant clock around my neck, sadly. ‘Cause truth be told, there’s really not that much difference between being the cracka who’s so down he just can’t help speaking in a fake vaguely ghetto-ese accent (I’m looking at you, Timberlake, you suburban bitch) and the guy at the flea market.
Topics: Misc., Stuff | 1 Comment »
March 13th, 2004 at 11:24 am
Sarah @ 3:27PM | February 18th 2004| permalink
There ain’t NOTHING wrong with Coolio. My freshman year voicemail said “You got a collect call from COOLIO!” for a long, long time.
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Erin Lady Byrne @ 4:12PM | February 18th 2004| permalink
So true. So true.
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Da Cheat @ 4:25PM | February 18th 2004| permalink
Coolio did some of that shit. That’s all I’ve got to say about that. And by the way, what’s wrong with bein a cracka? Yo.
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Megalodon @ 9:41AM | February 19th 2004| permalink
FREE ODB!!! FREE ODB!!! FREE ODB!!!
Oh, wait, he changed his name. Like, four times. FREE DIRT McGIRT!!! FREE DIRT McGIRT!!! FREE DIRT McGIRT!!!
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greg @ 2:38PM | February 19th 2004| permalink
You forgot about Warren G. Am I gonna have to come over there and regulate?
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megalodon @ 5:01PM | February 19th 2004| permalink
Shit. You’re right. And even with my tiny Warren G CD that you made me. Readers, take note: “Regulate” and “That Song at the End of ‘Bad Boys’” are also on the list.
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greg (I used to be a lower case “g”) @ 6:40PM | February 19th 2004| permalink
While many young men fantasize about being recruited from the stands to play for their favorite sports team during a championship game, my fantasy is to be a last minute substitute for Nate Dogg. If the call ever goes out for someone who can sing “If ya smoke like I smo-o-oke, then you’re high like very day.”, you can bet that I’ll be there to respond.
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