Employee’s Secret 2009 Diary

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Okay……I unintentionally fucking lied. Hard (…pause…). Your notsohumble correspondent is in the buildin’ and he’s feelin’ someone else (with a vagina). 2009 was chock-full of digital bloodshed, bootlegging, hilarious homoeroticism, Dilla corpse pimpin’, self-censorship and other male estrogen tornadoes. This is the first in a three-part series dealing with twelve subjects (one subject for each month of the year…..clever as fuck, I know).

The Soccer Mom Movement

Jay-Z used this year to usher in a new era of mediocrity. Adding “mundane as a mawfucka” to his resume, we were all treated to the metrosexual extravaganza that is Blueprint 3. Let’s forget for a moment the fucking absurd promotional push that preceded BP3‘s reveal climaxing (no homo) with Hova’s appearance on Oprah Winfrey’s daily circus of an hour for white women. The true marker of an artist in decline: Discussing the intricacies of a cocaine distribution network to millions of women across the country discarding Lunchables packaging and counting Girl Scout cookies. The cherry on top, though, was Jay’s decision to pick the prettiest feather/Manchurian Candidate from America’s fedora and feature the miserable sack of shit on the miserable sack of shit titled “Off That.”. If you actually purchased this album, iTunes or the brick & mortar route, your 2010 will consist of manscaping regimens and bikini-cut underwear for men woven in Germany.

The Sexually & Emotionally Reinvented Indie Rapper

One name: Cage. I was admittedly hyped earlier in the year when I caught some YouTube footage of him rocking a new track at what looked like a fucked-up house party from the nineties you forgot about going to. But I guess that’s the splendor of the internet: It feeds your own delusion. I digress. Depart From Me , I imagine, is the closest humans will ever be to audibly witnessing, in the form of music, the angst of a menstrual cycle in a woman entering her early-twenties. This is a powerhouse of a project if you are fond of contrivances, confusion and high-gloss black nail polish. Why is this peculiar? A) Cage was the quintessential self-hating, drug-abusing, wishing-he-was-born-black poster boy not more than a new moon ago, B) There is no way on this planet or any other that Cage’s transition to Jello Biafra’s maxi pad wasn’t calculated in order to salvage a career and C) Pete Wentz’s stunt double is signed to a label helmed by an internationally respected MC and producer who is on record, hundreds of times over, condemning the same bullshit he’s now financing. All we can do now is embrace the audacity of reality and prepare for a new wave of Emo so powerful that both Brian Bosworth and Kool Herc will shed tears.

Time To Chew & Digest My Own Words

Before Felt 3: A Tribute to Rosie Perez even leaked, I wrote it off in harsh terms as an easy method for bank account padding utilized by the contributing entities. Let’s face it, folks: Does Slug sincerely need yet another series of greenback infusions from your teenage, female cousins? Is Murs in dire need of reaping the financial rewards for skirting the laws of political correctness and throwing up numerous affronts to feminism that would land any other rapper in hot water? Can Aesop Rock buy any more sweaters with large, striped, neutral-hued bands of complexity for rapping like a living, breathing, chopped & screwed dictionary? Needless to say, but I’m going to anyway, this volume of Felt is like a lost 3rd Bass LP from an upside-down dimension where the atmosphere (no fucking pun intended) is thick with Lexapro and pornography. Now I’ve personally never been a Sluggie. This isn’t to say I haven’t heard a handful of his songs that are above-the-cut, but not a rhymesayer (no fucking pun intended) I regularly listen to say rhymes. Murs was a favorite of mine pre-2000, but his output in da noo-noo millennium is kinda doo-doo fuh really, son. Aesop Rock, though: FUCK. His beats sound like they were constructed and sequenced by a pissed-off, pessimistic, pedantic-plus Prince Paul. Initially I assumed it was the element of surprise that ultimately grabs you in terms of the production. The second listen was when it took root that with some more ASR-fueled shit of this caliber, he has the capacity be as compelling with a sampler as he is with a microphone.

The Mother Fucker You’ve Never Heard Of Who Should Be All Up In Your Headphones

With damn near 1,000,000 calling it home, if you’ve lived here long enough you know San Jose is no larger than Mayberry to you. Enter 2 Left Feet. Formerly known to long-time residents as Kefing the Asiatic of the once almighty Epic Paradox. Granted, his subject matter and approach have changed to a certain degree. Yet and still he maintains a jovial accessibility and wit so many in his category lack in droves. It is this distinctness that bleeds into his music. Half-hustler/Half-Ho Slayer. All San Jose.

2 Left Feet

Until next time…..


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