Tag: music

Things I’d Ask Nas

OR What left first, good Hiphop artists or Hiphop journalism?

How would you describe your trademark flow or flows? Did these come naturally or derive from a conscious effort of development and delivery? Do you have a mental catalogue of flows or do you just roll with what comes naturally to the beat you’re working with?

Kool Mo Dee’s book There’s A God On The Mic offers a scoring system to determine the greatest MCs, including the skills areas of originality, concepts, vocabulary, flow, body of work, social impact and battle skills. How do you feel you fare against these and what does a great rapper consist of to you?

Various songs of yours reference books of rhymes and you spoke of putting pen to pad, surrounded by archival Hiphop content, to develop your contributions to The Get Down TV series. Do you always have a live rhyme book? If so, where is it and what’s a snippet of the latest entry? Do you typically write to beats?

MTV’s BioRhythm suggested you spent time as a child studying books and dictionaries to learn new words. Is this true and how focused are you on vocabulary choice when you’re developing raps, as opposed to simply rolling with what comes to you?

Away from beats and recording rap songs, do you ever write poetry and would you ever consider releasing poetry in the written form? Are there any poets and writers you’re particularly fond of reading?

The internet enjoyed thinking you were secretly rapper Your Old Droog for a while. You later questioned why you’d work under an alias as you want people to hear and know your art. Are you ever burdened by who Nas is to people and what’s expected of you – and tempted by the freedom anonymity offers?

Bob Dylan went electric. Andre 3000 swapped the mic for flute. What would you be interested in exploring musically, if anything, from a lyrical and/or production perspective, beyond the typical lanes you’re known for?

Three Stacks has spoken a lot about his move away from rapping and that rapping at his age doesn’t feel right. Meanwhile, you marked your fifth decade with two celebrated three-album runs that many people rank amongst your best. Do you think there’s an age limit to rapping or that you’ll ever stop?

You spoke of finding and making the most of your stride during those collaborative Kings Disease and Magic series’ with Hit-Boy. Conversely, have you been conscious of being short of your best in the past?

You’ve lived and shared a lifetime of creativity, dedicated to the art form of rap, seemingly open to and exploring wherever it might go next. Is there anything you explicitly do to inspire and aid this practice – and what advice can you offer people in creative fields, to find their flow?

What does Lauryn Hill mean to you as an artist and friend? Have you ever discussed her releasing a second solo record or working together on more than a one off single?

How based on true events are the Magic 3 songs ‘Based on True Events’ and ‘Based on True Events, Pt. 2’?

Your label Mass Appeal’s signing of a Run The Jewels project was really enjoyed by enthusiasts of real, underground Hiphop. How much are you locked in to up and coming rappers (not that RTJ were), the underground scene and rap genre away from the charts?

Your known business ventures are very tech heavy. Do you spend much time on the internet listening to and reading about rap? What’s it like knowing about and browsing the level of fandom surrounding your name and art?

Some UK heads might see a similarity between how you arrived in rap at a young age, providing something authentic, fresh and superior – and the ascent of the rap sub genre Grime. Are you familiar with this and the Drill scene’s past or present and what artists or tracks do you like?

What do you recall of your 2005 show at Brixton Academy, London, halted by gunfire? UK artist Mike Skinner wrote self-depricatingly in his autobiography that in the panic of the moment, he tried reassuring you that ‘they’re just plastic bullets’. Do you recollect this and know much of Skinner’s work?

In a 2010s interview, when asked what rap artists you were really enjoying, you declined to name them because you’d experienced being called the new this and that, which creates a level of expectation and pressure. It felt like you had a name on the tip of your tongue. Was it Kendrick Lamar?

What was your reaction to Kendrick’s GNX album generally – and specifically to both him shouting you out for giving him flowers and Man At The Garden, seemingly a homage to your classic One Mic?

‘Define My Name’ with DJ Premier and the accompanying announcement of a collaborative album got fans very excited. The album was scheduled to drop in 2024 but didn’t. What’s its current status? Can you commit to it coming to fruition?

Does your celebrated past collaborations with Premier weigh heavy on the process of creating new music? To what extent are you in competition with your previous work?

Are there any albums you’re particularly proud or fond of that you feel are overlooked and overshadowed by the just stature given to Illmatic?

What album or albums do you feel merit anniversary shows/tours like those done for Illmatic and which ones would you personally enjoy doing a dedicated show/tour of?

It’s said that Stevie Wonder has multiple unreleased albums from around the time of his 70s genius streak in a vault. Are there verses in a Nas vault or books of rhymes, that you’ve banked for future use against the perfect beat or project? Can you talk specifically about some of the magic you’re holding back for the right moment?

K A

Too right he enters the stage
to a regal band of brass and pomp
cheers, whistles and applause
weaving through hands held high
welcoming the best to do it
his tracksuit outwitting our
t-shirt weather, hoodies all summer
fan references before it begins.

From there, Class Of Deja reigns.

Every word of every bar as on point
as the CD versions under our beds
retired to memory box stacks of the
songs and energies that made us
triggering nods and shake alongs
to classic verse and recent chorus
the new ones as strong or stronger
advertising hard work and growth.

Quality shines as daylight falls.

Thousands heaped in favourites
rapping along to every other line
spill out home sweet home.

Bob Dylan’s Rough and Rowdy Ways – Review

Having binged on much Bob Dylan throughout my university years, I’ve always explored each new release when they’ve come along, quickly buying into the hype of broadsheets that they’re each important, significant projects – despite ‘the voice’ and how much of them have of late, become covers and tributes to both mainstream and obscure artists of days long past. 

That this new album is of all new material – putting aside the routine traits and/or accusations of the man’s borrowings of history – felt particularly paramount this time around and quickly had me morphing back into my 20s something student self, calling up the lyrics online to read through and dissect as I listen, assuming this to be another vital dispatch of rhyme and reason from some unearthly, unrivalled force. 

Whether that’s what I’d find or not, I was willing and ready to buy into and crank up any hyperbole, perhaps in part because we’re of a time where the concept of culturally significant music events of scale in Britain, merely amounts to a Take That concert via video conference for customers of a price-comparison website and its cuddly toy incentives.

Would I have taken such a studious approach to indulging in the album were the world not burning in the flames of populism, oppression and inequality around me? Perhaps not, but the idea of tuning into a now 79 year old’s much experienced and informed perspectives seemed essential, at a time of increasingly regular horror at the discoveries of close friends and colleagues on Twitter, proclaiming that ‘black lives matter, yeah. But so do ALL lives.’ Almighty, trusted old Bard, give me something to believe in, trust and care for like you did all those years ago!

On album opener ‘I Contain Multitudes’, the real treat for me is in an artist turning a mirror on himself and describing what he sees, more so than the observations he makes. It immediately sets the mood for what’s to come, like a set of rules on a pub or bar’s door (I’m really missing nightlife during lockdown) as to what the deal is before you enter. Your one hour and ten minute stay will be a peaceful, reflective, moody and considered sitting, with lyrics and conversation across a brilliant, yet often decisively understated backdrop of music.

As quickly as you’ve just been spooned statements laying out who the album’s narrator is and what he’s made of, you’re quickly told on ‘False Prophet’ to hold your horses because what you think he is, ain’t it. As I quickly daydreamed into my once or twice per decade wonder as to who the man really is and why it does or doesn’t matter, I was snapped out of it by ‘My Own Version Of You’, a tip toeing walk through an imaginative tale where for the first time in the album’s three openers, the focus is largely on the external.

Following the proclamations, contradictions and intents before it, ‘I’ve Made Up My Mind To Give Myself To You’ stands as a straightforward yet beautiful and moving piece that even the stoniest of hearts would be pleased to be feeling and saying of a romance in their later years. Dylanphiles may come to spend miles of Reddit threads discussing how this is actually talking of the man’s career and work in music rather than love. Whatever the answer, which we’ll never know, it works charmingly.

After the slow, reflective and intriguing ‘Black Rider’, the foot-tapping ‘Goodbye Jimmy Reed’ introduces a welcome increase in tempo as its respectful nod to the American blues musician and songwriter reinforces the sense that the overall album’s both teaching you something and taking you on a trip. The hymn-like ‘Mother of Muses’ takes the pace down once more, packing in references from Elvis, all the way back to Greek mythology along its way. If Dylan were to ever ‘do a Zoom’, his bookshelf background would surely win top prize.

Historical references continue on ‘Crossing The Rubicon’ whilst, bundled up in what on the surface might seem to be a commercial for an island in the Straits of Florida,  talk of death, immortality and shadows after dark make up ‘Key West’. This feels closely aligned to the ideas and reflections of ‘Not Dark Yet’ from the 1997 album ‘Time Out Of Mind’. That album was hailed by fans and critics alike as both an artistic comeback and a contemplative career finale – which eight defiant studio albums later you’d be forgiven for labelling this one too, knowing full well you’ll quite possibly be proven wrong.

The album closes on ‘Murder Most Foul’ which at just short of seventeen minutes, comes packed with as many reflections, statements and historical references as the rest of the album put together. Here and throughout all the songs before it, Dylan is deeply in his own unique lane, sometimes talking deeply from the heart, other times giving history lessons and always holding the audience in a state of deep, inquisitive listening. 

As the power and presence of strategically shallow political slogans and rhetoric pulls people of all tribes further into their reductive echo chambers and as life passes fleetingly by despite being under a pandemic’s pause, this album is a much welcomed opportunity and exercise in immersing one’s self in the search and exploration of meaning, whether that’s of the author’s intent or the listener’s individual response.

Auto-Bore

There hops and floats a Robin,
plump and brown and red.
Divine, round bodied and twitchy.
But wait. What have we read?

It told us they’re oh so common.
A cliche of the trees and grass.
To praise their notes, so blissful
is to sink intellectual class.

So we turn our backs and wander
pristine fields of barbed fence
in search of the mystic nightjar,
its silent flight and pretence.

A non-subscriber jogs circuits.
Rubecula spiral trees.
Our echolons (sic) weather and age.
Face value sets her free.

UK Sounds

Jaykae – Where Have You Been? Spotify

Great Birmingham accent, words and flow over very strong beats.

Ocean Wisdom – Wizville Spotify

Ridiculous flow. Not a huge amount of substance in terms of lyrics. Some great UK Hiphop guest features though.

Foreign Beggars – 2 2 Karma Spotify

Great return by UK Hiphop legends. They’ve thankfully stopped trying to be Dubstep stars.

Verb T & Pitch 92 – Good Evening Spotify

The latest album by personable, laid back UK Hiphoper Verb T.

Ty – A Work Of Heart Spotify

Really nice album by the UK Hiphop vet. Quite arty and mature.

FarmaBeats – Sentimental Alien Spotify

New compilation produced by one half of Task Force. Very typical but head-noddy UK Hiphop.

Sounds of 2017

Escalator – Walk Left
Weekend Tax – Lucky Dip
Leaves and Branches – Another Season Of
The Like, Comment, Shares – I Shrink For You
Thermostat – Chills
Betonstraße – Bricking It
Polo – Foiled
A.C. Slater – Screech For More
Lamp Posts – A Long Way Down
Coaster – Off The Boil
Template Lifestyles – Another Invitation
The Grove – I’m Telling Jeff
Simon – And The Witch Is No More
Danny LaRusso – Just For Kicks
Lazy Babies – Takeaway Speed Dial
Appendix – Hidden Traps

The Fab Thigh

Towards the end of the set Nancy started to feel tired; the irregular bolts of hunger pains in her stomach charging her eyes open for another couple of bars.

As familiar as the encore’s fireworks were, the loud bangs and bright flashes stirred up enough attention for her to wave and applause as Paul wished the crowd a goodnight and looked to the side of the stage where she stood weakly, leaning back on a tower of speakers for support.

‘Right baby, let me shower and change and we’ll hit the VIP lounge for a quick meet and greet. Did you see that banner on the front row? Ha!’ said Paul as he approached, passed and walked into the backstage area away from Nancy. A member of Management appeared with her coat and bag, ushering her along in the same direction, but now fifty meters behind.

‘It would be great to grab a quick bite to eat and some water. I’m overcome with exhaustion. I’ve barely had a minute to rest’ said Nancy to Management, her hands on her empty, rumbling stomach.

The manager saw the hunger in her eyes as he tuned in to instructions being given through his ear piece and gave her a faint half smile of sympathy, encouraging her to pick up her pace with a gentle push of her back.

‘Did you like the show? I hope we didn’t miss any of your favourites!’ said Paul to Eamon Holmes and his wife in the middle of the VIP lounge.

’Oh no, Paul. The entire Beatles and Wings catalogues plus your solo material and orchestral scores really covered it all! Don’t get me started on that amazing Gaga collaboration. Is she still here?’ replied Eamon.

The busy, noisy room was packed full of TV presenters, journalists, movie stars and politicians.

Gary Barlow stood eating a handful of unsalted cashew nuts whilst Sporty Spice told him how nicely their voices might blend on a charity single for her Trackies For Turrets Foundation.  

An ex-husband of Big Brother season two winner Brian Dowling and now Love Island contestant told Maureen Rees from Driving School that without her, reality television and his entire life would never have been possible.

Cornered on the other side of the room from a table of healthy nuts and bowls of quinoa salad, Nancy nodded and smiled as Bruce Forsyth told her that the only thing he loved as much as his work was golf and that he’d never give it up, for else what would he do.

Even weaker and fainter now, Nancy stood nodding and smiling, not really listening to his words. Colourful, almost edible trails of food related thoughts blurred her vision to the point she couldn’t be sure which national treasure she was talking to, the Strictly Come Dancing or Dance Tonight star. She knew it couldn’t be true, but my God this man’s head resembled a giant, golden Scotch egg, she thought.

‘There she is, the love of my life. Isn’t she great!’ said Paul loudly to either the dictionary corner girl from Countdown or the business reporter from BBC Breakfast News. Nancy wasn’t sure. ‘Lady love, come over here!’ he shouted, encouraging her past Bruce, Gary Lineker, Little Mix, June Sarong and now to his current conversation.

‘Is it true the vinyl in the next series of re-releases comes in different edible shapes Sir Paul?’ asked Mark Ronson in his strange half New Yorker, half cockney accent.

‘That’s a great question Mark and yes, you’re right my man. The White Album’s wax is actually going to be apple shaped and you can guess what the 7” of Strawberry Fields will be shaped as!’ replied Paul.

‘Ya know, we’ve re-packaged this stuff so many times now but the fans still eat it up. The records won’t actually spin on the turntables or play, but what can you do?’ he continued.

Nancy looked over to the goodie bags desk by the exit, hoping there’d be some advanced copies of Sgt. Pepper to feast on, but the only thing laid out were signed copies of the sheet music to Paul’s new Compositions For Gardeners project.

The night drew on and the crowd slowly thinned out; every single attendee having had a personal twenty minutes with the star of the night and his starving wife, now stood by a cleared catering table, subtly trying to see if James Cordon had missed any of the pistachios he’d dropped and got down on his knees to retrieve and eat. He hadn’t.

‘Right, babe. What a night. I’m beat. Let’s call the driver and get back to the hotel. I need a few hours kip before tomorrow’s schedule’ instructed Paul to Nancy, who rubbed her eyes in disbelief as her husband’s head appeared to her as a giant, cartoon beef burger.

The married couple sat back in their blacked out, stretched limousine and almost instantly fell asleep, Paul exhausted after ten encores of Hey Jude, Nancy passing out trying to recall the last time she had eaten a decent meal.

As the stars walked across the reception area of their hotel, they were greeted by a full team of concierge staff, all working late for a glimpse of rock n roll royalty. Paul signed a few autographs, whistled the full fifteen minutes of Carnival Of Light, told the story about writing Yesterday and then gestured for the lift to be called, pointing to a lamp he said John’s Aunt Mimi would have simply loved.

‘Can we have any food prepared and sent to your floor Sir Paul?’ asked a member of staff as Nancy’s eyes somehow widened and glowed with the little energy she had left. With all the force she could muster from her weak, tired body she opened her jaw a little, desperately trying to respond that she’d love some, but the words were too heavy for her to say fast enough.

‘Oh no, that’s fine. I know I’m a Beatle and all that but I’m not one to bang on about it. We’ll eat like normal people at breakfast tomorrow. Besides, it’s 4am. You should be getting home yourselves kids’ replied Paul.

Up at their room, Nancy didn’t bother undressing or getting into bed, instead surrendering her body to it in one resigned backwards flop, Paul telling her how beautiful she looked with chords on the guitar he’d picked up to sing her a goodnight melody with.

The couple were woken up the next morning by a loud knocking on their door by Management, there to get them on their way to the airport for a flight to Manchester and another show.

Nancy looked over at the clock on the wall, thinking to herself it didn’t feel like she’d actually slept at all. The minute hand resembled a pork chop and the second, a Peperami. Paul was already out of bed by the time she could yawn, strumming out a new riff on his guitar that had come to him in those few hours of sleep.

‘It’s got this kind of, ya know, train track rhythm to it, this one. It sounds so familiar. I might have ripped it off someone. Have you heard it before?’ asked Paul. Nancy shrugged her shoulders as she changed into fresh clothes and gathered her belongings.

‘When Prince died I read that he used to fast as a way of focusing the mind and encouraging creativity. It kind of, ya know, seems to be working.’ said Paul, strumming the riff over and over and over again.

Management led the pair through reception, declining their breakfast along the way, and before Nancy could ask that they stop at the airport’s McDonalds, they’d boarded the plane, completed the journey and were arriving at another venue for another sound check performance. These were pre-concert concerts attended by around 500 very rich, very strange super fans – the sort you see dressed up in Union Jacks outside hospitals when another Royal Lizard’s hatched.

By the time the night’s main show was underway Nancy was on the brink of collapsing, her hunger now a fierce stabbing sensation in her stomach and beyond. She could barely concentrate on a sound or sight, visions and sensations of food overtaking her every sense. The endless crowds of screaming fans resembled not the black silhouettes of music lovers but dark, round, shining balls of caviar. The band’s drums looked like ovens, opening every time they were hit to release the delicious thick steam of an almost baked steak and ale pie, mince beef lasagne or bacon sandwich.

As was customary, Management checked in on Nancy halfway through Paul’s performance of a more recent song, one of several in the set where the whole arena usually headed to the toilets and bars, making it unnecessary for Paul to actually finish them. Instead he used the breaks to Snapchat Ringo using the Rocky Raccoon filter.

‘Thank God you’re here. I really, really need some food. I haven’t eaten anything all tour and I’m literally about to die. Can you get me something? Anything?’ pleaded Nancy to the Manager who looked down at her like she was asking for too much, for the world.

In a few minutes, Paul was back to the old numbers, the crowd back in their seats sipping organic beer and eating vegetable chips. Management was nowhere to be seen, no doubt busy taking 360 degree photos of the adoring crowd for Paul’s Facebook page rather than doing as they’d been asked and finally fetching some food, Nancy thought.

As Paul recalled the time George was dying and gifted him a ukulele, Nancy felt a tap on her shoulder and then the blissful sound of a white, polystyrene catering box moving towards her. Everything suddenly became suspended in time as the heat of whatever food inside it warmed her lap. The box’s steam drifted up towards her nose as her eyes watered in joy that she was finally about to eat.

Overcome with excitement she wondered if it would be a delicious, gravy drenched bed of sausage casserole and mash, meat balls and spaghetti, a heavenly sea of lamb curry or slice after slice of greasy, gorgeous kebab?

Nancy detached the top of the box to open and access its contents, her heart thumping and mouth filling with saliva. Too eager to wait for cutlery, she took a hand from her rumbling stomach and scooped whatever the food was into her mouth in the dark shadows of the arena, almost pitch black besides the one spotlight on Paul’s performance of Blackbird. As Nancy began to chew, to rejoice in finally eating, a new, less than ideal reality gradually unfolded.

The first chew was powered by her vivid imagination of fried chicken but it couldn’t have been that. The texture wasn’t right. On her next chew she thought she might be eating an onion and ketchup coated hotdog but that wouldn’t have been so rubbery. And then it all became clear. 5 countries, 10 cities and 20 shows in as many days later, Management had finally brought her something to eat; one plain, half cooked Linda McCartney sausage.

Nancy finished her vegetarian banger quicker than Paul could reel off an anecdote about the time he wrote Here Today for John. As a projected vignette of old tour footage lit up the area, she looked down at her now empty food box and felt a surge of anger and desperation bolt from her stomach, down each leg and arm and take a hold of her mind. As she stood up to furiously break through the barrier of Management into the general admissions catering area, she suddenly realised a blinding spotlight focused on her and 100,000 faces looking her way.

‘A great friend of mine once sang Isn’t She Lovely? How about we have her come up here on stage everyone?’ asked Paul to the audience. Within half a minute Nancy found herself sat on a stool in the middle of the stage, immersed in blinding lights and deafening screaming from the crowd as Paul sat at a piano, singing her a recent single, My Valentine. 

This time the crowd didn’t disperse for a toilet break or refill of drinks, for what started to unfold on stage would fuel the next fifty years of message board threads, Daily Mirror front page puns, Channel 5 re-enactment documentaries and a forest worth of updated biographies on Paul.

Nancy’s brief sausage had fooled her body into thinking food was finally upon it, multiplying her hunger threefold when nothing else came. As she sat unstably trying to balance on the stool as Paul sang the song’s first verse, his thin crinkly fingers pressing on piano keys appeared as rows of turkey twizzlers, making her tongue start licking her lips feverishly. Paul’s arms transformed into salmon and his torso a huge crispy duck.

Paul, lost in the music with his eyes closed, launched into the song’s chorus as Nancy stood from her stool, moving towards where he sat, saliva now running from the corners of her mouth down her face. Management watched on, assuming the couple were playing out a piece of choreographed affection, a declaration of their love for all the fans to rejoice in. As Nancy reached into her handbag for what they expected would be a ring or red rose for her husband, a plastic knife and fork appeared from within.

A key change and final chorus to go, Nancy was steps from Paul, still seated, lost in the music beneath his trademark brown died hair which she saw as a lake of the nation’s favourite instant gravy, Bisto. Paul’s face, a bronzed, shining thigh of moist chicken drew Nancy’s cutlery clenching arms towards it with a magnetic force. So tenderly, the chicken came away from its bone, each succulent slice calmly being forked into her mouth, her body growing in strength by the minute, her stomach no longer cramping but filling with deliciously slow cooked meat.

Nancy finished her final bite and took a napkin from her bag, delicately wiping her mouth clean. She hadn’t felt this alive and well since 2007, she thought, as her vision became clearer and attention refocused on her surroundings. She looked around to see an ocean of stunned, silent faces looking at her as silence filled the arena. Her fingers loosened their grip around the knife and fork that fell to the floor in a clink. She took a step back from the piano seat and slightly lowered her gaze.

‘Oh my God! I’ve eaten a Beatle!’ she cried.

Paul’s body, now headless, sat motionless on the stall, his arms no longer salmon and fingers no longer turkey twizzlers. Suddenly, a twitch of Paul’s fingers pressed down on a note that pierced the arena’s shock and disbelief ridden silence. One by one more notes started to be played, until Paul’s arms were fully animated again, giving the crowd his first ever live performance of I Am The Walrus as fans slowly started nodding their heads, moving their feet and dancing once more.

‘I am the chicken thigh head man, they are the chicken thigh head man, I am the walrus! Goo, goo g’ joob!’ he sang, Nancy by his side with one arm on his shoulder and the other waving around in the air in time with the music, relieved that by only partially eating her husband, he could still live and perform on.

Backstage, after the show, headless Paul stood in the centre of the VIP room again, surrounded by countless Northern celebrities.

Heather Small of M People was helping untangle Mick Hucknall’s ginger locks from a fire extinguisher he had jokingly got down on his knees to pretend to drink from for a selfie. Nobody was very impressed.

Liam Gallagher and Steve Coogan were deep in conversation about their favourite bread recipes.

Judy Finnigan was knocking back any glass of red wine she could find whilst Richard Madely was stealing any bottle of red wine he could fit into a Tesco bag for life.

‘Get Nancy some food, Management. We don’t want her turning this meet and greet into a meat and eat!’ joked Paul to the cast of Coronation Street; Kym Marsh, Shane Ward and Les Dennis seeing who could out-laugh each other the loudest to win his attention.

That night at the hotel, Paul ordered the usual army of hotel staff to cook Nancy whatever she desired, even meat. Nancy ate through to the morning and again every remaining day of the tour.

The following month’s music press had a field day with their headlines, ranging from She Really Got A Hold Of Him and Maxwell’s Silver Platter to Mean Mrs. Mustard, I Eat Mine and All You Need Is Grub.

Nor Paul or Management ever disregarded Nancy’s requests for food again. Paul retained his remaining body parts for five Off My Head world tours, three ‘The Headless Demos’ box sets, two volumes of Shoulder To Shoulder Blues poetry anthologies and counting. Nancy no longer attended every date of every tour, instead staying at one of their homes to enjoy gardening, without a portable stereo.

Rap Rotations #1

Here’s the first in what might be a regular series of links to some of the most recent rap tracks I’m enjoying.

A lot of these are too new to feature on a released album and so don’t exist on Spotify etc, so there’s no tidy playlist of them all in one place. Put an hour aside and get browser tab and click happy like the old days. Who knows where you’ll end up?

We begin with a Run The Jewels feature on DJ Shadow’s new album, which is pretty solid but far from jaw-dropping. El-P and Killer Mike work together as wonderfully as ever, particularly on the catchy hook.

For years, both units in Run The Jewels operated on the underground with about half a percent of the fan base and exposure they’re now rightfully enjoying. Hopefully there’ll be a similar return on investment of effort for Fashawn in years to come too. He’s quietly been putting out really consistent, strong music for a while now. This new number is particularly topical and will have you reminiscing of yester-year when rap carried more messages, more often – Man, I’m old.

Fawshawn happens to be on Mass Appeal Records, the label of the quality magazine/blog of the same title that Nas invested in a while back. Nas fanatics will know this, and that Escobar season may or may not be about to return. Besides writing all the raps for Baz Luhrmann’s exciting new Get Down series, he’s on the score of a move called The Land he produced, with Erykah Badu. Amongst her moving vocals, God’s Son drops a mature thoughtful verse with an interesting rhyme pattern that shows he’s still got it. Take a listen.

Those Nas freaks will have noticed that he’ll be on a track called ‘Nas Album Done’ on the forthcoming DJ Khalid (Big on Snapchat, I’m told) compilation, beside this great Big Sean and Kendrick Lamar collaboration. No surprises as to who absolutely steals the show in an effortless demonstration he’s light years ahead of all his peers.

Next up is Danny Brown, a guy I’ve heard lots of great stuff from in the past, though I’m still yet to really get stuck into his full albums. This new track’s from what he’s hyping as his definitive ‘career album’ out this year. His pace and energy makes me want to sprint around the block or drink all of the beer in my fridge immediately.

From California, New York and Detroit to Tower Hamlets, London now, where former Roll Deep MC Trim has released what I think you can call his debut album. I say think because it’s ‘Presented by’ James Blake and sort of a compilation of tracks by a ton of different producers, some of which we’ve heard before, so mixtape might be a better label, and this would make it his 14th, not counting four EPs. The beats on this are awesome, his lyrics and flows hold your attention and his deep voice is real distinct. If only everyone could get a refund for the attention they wasted on Skepta’s album and refocus it here.

I end by breaking the rules and sharing a brilliant story about a discovery of the world’s ‘first’ grime instrumental, from a 1994 video game.

PS. Someone give Joe Budden a hug and tell him to stop with the Drake stuff.

Favourite Albums Of 2015

In no order. Well, maybe the first, perhaps.

Kendrick – To Kill A Butterfly
Ghostface Killah – Reasons To Die 2
The Libertines – Anthems For Doomed Youth
Noel Gallagher – Chasing Yesterday
Four Tet – Morning/Evening
Roots Manuva – Bleeds
Chemical Brothers – Born In The Echoes
Bjork – Vulnicura
Donnie Trumpet & The SOcial Experiment (Chance The Rapper) – Surf
Dr. Dre – Compton
Joey Bada$$ – B4.Da.$$
The Weeknd – Beauty Behind The Madness
Jamie XX – In Colour
Logan Sama – Fabric Live 83
Big Grams (Big Boi & Phantogram) – Big Grams
Fashawm – The Ecology
Statik Selektah – Lucky 7

Johnny Borrell Leaves Audience Speechless

This content featured in a September 2015 issue of Popbitch.com

I was on my ‘two hours to go’ wind down at work this Thursday when a tweet appeared in my feed about Johnny Borrell launching his new single up the road at Dalston’s Passing Clouds.

Razorlight has always been a bit of a guilty pleasure of mine, up there with still occasionally dining on the stray packet of Angel Delight from the back of the cupboard, so I copy and pasted my plan to attend, sending it to about 25 of my local friends.

Of the two people that replied to my invite, one had no idea who Johnny Borrell or Razorlight are and the other said he’d love to but likes the venue too much and wouldn’t want to taint future visits there.

I thought the apathy was fair enough considering Borrell’s knack for making people disinterested, but I like to see the good in everyone. For instance, I enjoyed both Johnny Borrell and Carl Barat’s first solo albums. Throw the fact that I write a terrible poetry blog into the mix and I’m the perfect recipe for one of the few that was shameless enough to head for the show.

On my train journey up I flicked through an Evening Standard that mentioned a big Libertines tour and chuckled remembering Borrell’s plea that Pete Doherty ‘Don’t Go Back To Dalston’. Then I focused my mind on what I might be walking into.

Would the band include all the terrible saxophone of Borrell 1?

Was the white jeans and t-shirt going to make an appearance?

What about the swirly moustache and pirate hat?

Amateurishly, I’d set off way too early and arrived to a near empty venue besides a small group who were given free entry for producing sketches of mandala symbols. I’d seen this method of payment mentioned in that tweet earlier on, but am not into felt tip colouring in so opted to pay a fiver.

After half an hour of mindlessly swiping my finger up and down my phone screen to refresh a flood of vacuous news items, I was tapped on the shoulder by a lady in her mid-thirties who was clearly alone.

Initially I welcomed the company to kill time but it soon transpired she was wired on something Ketamine like. During the support band’s set, she shouted at me that she thought its lead singer looked like a homeless tramp, just as the music stopped entirely.

The whole crowd, now of around 100, turned around and looked judgmental to say the least. I headed to the toilet to hide but there was only one cubicle and it felt mean denying the 40 year old man I’d seen sniff his way in and out of it another line.

When Johnny Borrell and his band, named Zazou after a French WW2 subculture appeared, they played the same very quiet loop for a good fifteen minutes as the crowd became increasingly restless. The crazy girl I’d been cornered with earlier had loudly made new friends across the way and their talking was visibly getting to poor Borrell.

Eventually he stepped to the microphone and uttered ‘Focus’ a couple of times, before rambling through a disapproval towards people talking and looking at their phones. We were told things wouldn’t get started until there was complete silence for ten seconds. Greedily, this was increased to twenty once it had finally been achieved. At one point Borrell threw a microphone to a loud punter who broke into Whole Lotta Love and generated by far the biggest cheer of the night.

In the couple of moments I wasn’t consumed by the awkwardness of a lead singer with sensitive hearing and room full of loud, intoxicated audience members, I noted the out of the ordinary makeup of the band; a young saxophonist dressed in a Blues Brothers costume, an up in the clouds violinist and a Hare Krishna monk sat crossed legged amongst various bongos. They were definitely tight and had some nice rhythms, accompanied by no less than five different guitars Borrell switched between and the worst gig atmosphere I’ve ever experienced.

By about song five, Borrell seemed all out of puff and patience, exchanging bemused looks with his band members as the crowd, perhaps lost beyond the point of return following the opening 15 minutes lesson in being silent, continued talking loudly. Borrell announced they were stopping for a break, at which point almost everyone filed off the dance floor.

I’d seen enough of the spectacle I very much expected and didn’t return for the second half of the gig, if it ever happened, because it wouldn’t have been worth missing the last train and having to deal with night buses for.

The pain free journey gave me some time to ponder; is Johnny Borrell the Andy Kaufman of has-been rock, with a Kanye-like genius for trolling his public and having the last, lone laugh to himself? Or, planned or otherwise, is he simply one of the most unlikeable people on Earth that can’t help but offend and seem a dick?

Either way, it’s all a little bitter sweet. His voice is as strong and distinctive as it ever was, he’s a solid guitarist and amongst the pretentious lyrics you’ll find great snippets of the memorable lyricism that was all over the first two Razorlight outings.

The day after the gig, I searched Google and Twitter for any reviews or mentions of the show but didn’t find one. That there’s no bad press about yet another Borrell incident suggests more so than ever, the magazines and blogs just don’t care. This time round, possibly, Borrell cares just as little.

Be Here Now

for the riff within riff within riffing in-jokes
to layer up sore heads of regret we’ll warm to in time
so we can exchange knowing looks about passers by
and walk into inns, debating hazy recollections.

Stand by me in the fallout of my big mouth
charged on malt, water, hops and yeast
spouting off that little bit too loudly
turning the necks of big crowds ahead.

Pass me a piece of that magic pie
whilst the lyrics we pen fade in, fade out
about the girl in the dirty shirt.
D’you know what I mean?

I know, I think, I hope
you’ll fly all around the world this week
chasing yesterday down Sidney Street
drinking until the last train doesn’t come.

WHP

Four months on from crowding around
choosing train times, punching in keys
and deciding what to eat beforehand
that we’d need cash ready for the taxi
and what sets we most wanted to see
the faint waves of nerves in weeks past
at the mere mention of what was planned
were now sharper and more frequent
fuelling a conundrum of apprehension
excitement and controlled panic
as pockets got checked and then again
for tickets, chewing gum and ID
in regimented paranoid obsession.
Rain seemed hard in those dark minutes
striding across stretching car headlights
as people skipped out onto the street
instructed by loud, procedural stewards
to form single lines along steel barriers
for a march through guarded check points
before a night long communal skirmish.
The territory was systematically scoped
for the character of the crowd and bars
set lists, lighting rigs, speakers
rooms, toilets and meeting points.
Strangers faces quickly became friendly
targets through choppy seas of bodies
when armed with cans and bottles
bought with more generosity than sense.
All together in a squeezing circle of trust
a gentle bolt of anticipation breezed over
a foundation of excited readiness
and then everything surged at once.
Strobes of electric crazed animation
burst above our lab rat wide eyes
whilst a force of warm baselines
attacked the fully surrendered crowd
of open arms waiting to be conquered
by acts of masterful percussion.
At times it felt too relentlessly good.
Eyes closed above hips swaying
lips smiling and feet tapping until
allies from all sides appeared to hug
point, talk, listen and take photos with
as drills of textbook moods played out.
Silent was the overwhelmed spectator
amongst edgy moments of crossed wires
randoms exchanging names and towns
brand new faces looking so familiar
urges to forgive, forget or find out
thoughts of friends more distant now
text messages so open and bold
cheerfulness tall and wide
glances of watches announcing the end
concerns about failed journeys home
promises of just five minutes more
and the cool, navy blue, open sky.
We’d used our last glimmers of energy
chatting triumphantly in celebration
that every bullet point of the plan worked
and not one feared scenario was realised.
The train blitzed through calm green fields
coming alive with growing light
revealing small and remote farm houses
vacant platforms, empty roads
the sheep and horses of gridded land
and a weekend of reflection ahead.
Headphones delivered familiar sounds
that sound-tracked the quiet journey back
of contented head nodding and yawns.
A taxi through familiar, sleeping streets
the final reflective sit around
a beaker of water on a bedside shelf
and text messages of success and thanks
gently dropped a full stop on the script
regularly talked through since.

Dad’s Crates

http://dadscrates.tumblr.com/

A few months back, my Dad gave me his old crates of 45” records.

Most mornings, I randomly choose one and pop it on for a listen before work.

There’s great stuff in there. It’s mainly all American soul music, but there’s a couple of random Rod Stewart and Phil Collins releases too. Those will be Mum’s.

A lot of the records are quite crackly now. Some of the worn sleeves have my parents’ initials on them as they’d get taken along to house parties.

On the week my Dad turns 60, I’ve begun this Tumblr to share the tunes I find and dance along to before starting my day.

Lyrics On Random Access Memories

At a point last year it seemed that the only thing happening on the planet was a Daft Punk release, or rather, fanatics such as I acted like nothing else was going on. Looking back and listening again, the marketing campaign was as vast as the emotional range of the album’s songs.

A good few months on, with some distance away from the giant billboards strategically hung above hipster havens, broadsheet reviews that focused more on the PR than art and all those comparisons between the upbeat electronic works of two twenty year olds and the new release by two guys now in their late 30’s who we forgot might have chilled out, grown up and made families, the album stands its ground as an incredibly well produced, moving and significant piece of work.

Here are some great lines sung by the robots that at times offer more pathos than many of the best purely human voices in the charts.

‘It was almost impossible because the dream was so big.’

‘There’s a world within me that I can not explain.’

‘The summer memory that just never dies. We worked too long and hard to give it no time.’

‘I know you don’t get a chance to take a break this often… Lose yourself to dance.’

‘A tourist in a dream. A visitor, it seems. A half forgotten song. Where do I belong?’

‘We’ve come too far to give up who we are. So, lets raise the bar and our cups to the stars.’

‘Remember, love’s our only mission. This is the journey of the soul.’

‘The perfect song is framed with silence. It speaks of places never seen.’

‘I’ll just keep playing back these fragments of time. Everywhere I go, these moments will shine.’

‘If you lose your way tonight, that’s how you know the magic’s right.’

Predictions for The Marshall Mathers LP 2

A ballad about how it’s hard seeing Hayley all grown up and starting to date and how he’ll chainsaw the cock off any guy that messes with her because she’ll always be his special little princess and he won’t let anyone ever, ever hurt her and will protect her even beyond his grave.

A sequel to the track ‘Stan’ co-written by the biggest poetic licence issued in rap history, where the crazed fan didn’t die in the car crash after all, and just pretended he did so that he’d get a song written about him. The song only gets played on Magic and Heart FM these days and Stan wants a bigger mainstream reference, so surprise! Adele will replace Dido unless it’s a UK only bonus track featuring the comeback of Lilly Allen.

‘Bitch Please III’ in which Eminem begs in a shouty manner for Mariah Carey to drink a few bottles of red wine and cheat on Nick Cannon just the once to make Kim jealous on the off chance she’s updated her Spotify subscription and listens to the album’s stream, and to spawn coverage in various women’s magazine titles, a new demographic A&R want to target.

‘The Way I Was’ detailing the time in rehab when Eminem drank too much rose water at group listening and Lindsey Lohan went on and on and on about how her habits increased after she broke up with that sister of Mark Ronson, until he couldn’t hold it anymore and pissed himself in front of everyone and how he needed to lose himself in that moment in order to build himself back up because the opportunity only comes once in a lifetime yo.