After These Messages...I'll Be Right Back.

Yes, the year 1993 and CBS Saturday morning 'toons and a big bowl of Cookie Crisp / Crunch Berries has been on my mind, amongst other things.. For real though, times have been busy, busy, busy for me lately and I haven't really had time to blog. Which is unfortunate, because it's all I think about doing. But between my j.o.b., the streets, girls, and various other events unfolding in my life, there just hasn't been enough time in the day to add a post or two to my digital baby I've birthed here. So expect me to be back in a week or so at the earliest, more fresh and clean than ever. Until then, I'ma be on a break, kinda like my main man Big Baby Jesus here. Holla!

- Eso

A Material Mess.

So the much-ballyhooed, over-hyped, head-scaratchin' new track from Miss Material Girl and Mr. Young Moola themselves, easily the weirdest musical collaboration since Rick James/Eddie Murphy, has finally surfaced on the interweb via Kanye's blog (where I got it anyway) and probably available everywhere else too. And well, it's what you'd expect...if the possibility of having expectations was possible for a song sung by Madonna and rhyme/auto-tuned by Lil Wayne. The two artists' age difference is comparable to that of a freak-show mother & son and more so just a continuation of Madonna's attempt to remain relevant twenty years too many. I mean, it's Reaganism and the Y generations fused into a song about fucking, binded together through the symbolism of good ol' American guns'n'ammunition. Madonna takes the lead, though I'll bet the pink slip to my life that Wayne came up with the concept. What can I say except the man is a walking, breathing concept-creating machine. There's a reason lime-light aspiring rhyme-slangers and sangers the world over pay Carter in excess of $10,000 just for a 16-bar verse. Basically, Lil Wayne makes ten stacks while taking a shit. While eating a cheeseburger. While beating off (if he even does such a thing anymore with the ability he has to grab snatch at the snap of one of his tat-covered fingers), basically by doing whatever is humanly possible in the alloted time it takes to make a 16 at Wayne's level of skill - about ten minutes or less. So ya, as I said Madge starts out the song, nothing really special here. She's one of the few remaining pop icons yet to fall victim to the ultra-tempting auto-tune, that was my first thought upon listening. Beyond that she tries to win over the listener with her sexual skills which, if it was 1988, would have worked and then some. But Madonna is what, like 50 now? And much kudos to her for the excellent physical shape she has remained to stay in but please, you can only cover-up wrinkles and cellulite for so long. Wayne is the clear winner here, as shown through his song wrap-up 16 bar verse. He once again uses auto-tune, but more so stays away from hitting the high-notes unlike in the not so long ago past few tracks of his. Highlights include "I never shoot & tell I just shoot to kill" and talking about how the girl can eat his bullets. Just be careful of the potential lead-poisening right? Anyway like I said, nothing special has really come out of this new Madonna song, and it definitely won't instill the masses with a feeling of anticipation for whatever album the track is being used to push. All in all, just another $10,000 or so for Mr. Carter. Pass him the TP and let's keep it moving in pop-cultureland.

- Eso

The Beats Between The Sheets

So I was driving home today from celebrating Mother's Day in the near-Santa Cruz city of Aptos, CA where my Aunt/Uncle live and the timing couldn't have been any more perfect. The sun was setting over the horizon, the cars on the 17 highway were perfectly spaced out and going with the flow of traffic, the itus was taken hold of my body from the large helpings of food available earlier in the day, and KMEL was just barely audible on the radio - but just enough to enjoy the Sunday night programming of Dr. Joe Marshall's Street Soldiers (amazing) followed by the obligatory session of smooth R&B flavor, better known as 'between the sheets' on various radio stations from KISS to KMEL. Aptly named after the Isley Brothers song of the same title, this several hours of evening programming has always held a special place in my heart since my early years of minimum-wage jobs via the swing shift (usually 3pm to 11pm). I was seventeen and working at the local Starbuck's chain, switching positions between that of the drive-thru and doing the many, many piles of dishes awaiting me in the back. And it was here that I first fell in love with 106.1 KMEL. The beginning of my shift would start with the standard Top 40 playlists but then switched midway to Big Von's show, where the larger than life DJ/radio personality would talk of various upcoming shows, promotions, and bring up intriguing topics of conversation ranging from crack babies and the related list of past songs available, to local politicians actions at the time... just shooting the shit with his co-workers to a soundtrack of quality underground hip-hop. My eyes and ears were truly opened around this time thanks somewhat in part to Big Von, and after he went off-air, I too did so for my day's shift would end, and the ride home began. And what a ride it was. It became a nightly tradition to roll up a swisher of Cali's finest, put my foot to the pedal, finger to the dial, and start my ride home as the moon carried over head. Before then I looked at R&B, Soul, whatever with female exclusivity. This was not a overtly zealous underground hip-hopper's domain. But oh did I have so much to learn, about R&B, the underground hip-hop scene, etc. Now I can't go a night without my fix of those beats between the sheets. Marvin Gaye, Freddie Jackson, Keith Sweat, Luther Vandross, Mary J. and on and on and on went into my ears and never left out the other. And don't even get me started on when I connected putting on some Barry White while laying down with my woman of the moment. Ooooooh shit. But still, this post is dedicated to the slow, mellow grooves of R&B everywhere. Yes, much of it is watered-down but so is most genres of music in some form. So grab a blunt/glass of wine, whatever and lay back and relax with your significant other and just chill out. Because if it wasn't for Jodeci, Faith Evans, Jill Scott and Diana Ross - many of today's young musical talents might have never been born. And my white ass most definitely wouldn't have gotten laid.

- Eso

Breaking the Law, Bombing the System

From the C.W. Nevius section of the April 28th edition of the SF Chronicle:

City officials held an "Anti-Graffiti Super Huddle" last week. Some 200 members of the public turned out. The good news:

-- Supervisor Bevan Dufty pledged to go to Superior Court Presiding Judge James McBride to request a "graffiti judge" who would handle all cases.

-- Police have a new software program that can track and organize graffiti reports, so police can trace a tagger and compile a list of times he's hit different locations.

-- A new sensor can detect the hiss of a spray can and send a silent alarm to the police.

The bad news:

-- The judges have been asked before. None of them wants to be the graffiti judge.

-- The computer tracking system can't be used in court because there's no way to prove the same person created all the graffiti.

-- The city doesn't have the new sensor yet.

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So Nevius is right-on about the fact of no judge in SF County, if not the entire Northern California area, wanting to be branded an "official graffiti judge". The label, in judicial circles I'm sure, bears resemblance to that of the traffic and small claims variety. Basically not that respectable. So that's one win for graf writers everywhere. The second tidbit, about the program 'frisco cops have set-up; might not hold any sort of weight in the courtroom, but it sure as hell will be effective in tracking the Krylon footprints of paint menaces all over. The police already have a history of logging this sort of thing since the eighties, and it's only gotten more efficient over time. It's only a matter of years, if not months, before police are so sharp in their spray-gum shoe abilities that they will know where and when a bomber's gonna hit before even he does; then just collect evidence over time, lay the bait for a final trap, and lock 'em up ala the formula for catching major drug dealers. Graffiti, Wire-style. But what writers everywhere should really be in panic-mode about is the new sensor technology aka "The Mk3 E-Nose". Definitely Orwellian in scope, the e-nose will big-brother your taggin' ass out of existence if sucka-free politicians can afford to implement it. From the company's website, http://www.e-nose.info/:

"The Mk3 E-Nose has been proved to be an effective graffiti paint detector. In a recent field study with a large rail corporation, the E-Nose distinguished between spray paint and solvent and could detect paint being used at a distance of 45 metres. E-Noses deployed in rail garages will be a new and important deterrent and cost saving measure...Our devices consist of arrays of robust and fast acting chemical sensors, supplemented by novel patented electronics and software. Chemicals in the air are detected by the sensor arrays, registering complex odour “images” in real time. A permanent record is sent to your computer via line or wireless connection, where it is identified, quantified and alarms for abnormal events."

Essentially, this shit's no joke. Like, Rakim-status no joke. Field tests have proven the device to be 100% potent on would-be vandals of all varieties. But there's hope in the key phrase of "...at a distance of 45 metres." The city's coffers are gonna have to hack up a few milli easily to put these little shits all over the city, if not just a portion; because everyone and their Mrs. Jackson knows that graffiti writers will spray anywhere, anytime, any place. Once the city puts up an Mk3 somewhere, word will spread of it's location and they'll just move to somewhere else. As creative as the anti-vandalisim department heads are, me and my fellow taggers will be just as full of wit. I can't help but compare it to the never-ending war on drugs. The more gouda the government grates, the more the smugglers/dealers/kingpins work to continue dumping dope into the states. So do we really need more wasted taxpayer funds? Why can't the city decide on an effective solution for this war on paint? More free art-space and galleries, less emphasis on destroying all graffiti and just focus on bullshit throwies by toys instead? At least the real art will beautify the city some-what. In one of the latest editions of the East Bay Express, where the cover-story was on newstand graffiti; readers from all over responded with the general consensus that large graffiti pieces by talented artists good, gangbanging ig'nant juvenile tags of the "Kato was here" variety bad. Whatever the real solution might be, graf-writers and representers baywide should know that staying up on the facts is just as important as throwin' up, in my opinion anyway.

- Eso

I Had A Dream.

So there I was, standing in the middle of a sold-out crowd at the Fillmore Auditorium in San Francisco. The year is 1970, and the hardest working man in show business, Mr. Dynamite himself, James Brown; has just dropped the Sex Machine double-album at the peak of his career and is top-billed to perform at the venue. The Fillmore is packed wall-to-wall with people, the atmosphere sticks of heat and sweat from the standing-room only crowd. And there I was. Watching Brown shimmy his way onto the stage in that cape of his, hitting on the two and straight through my heart and mind, sending a chill down my spine. In this place, for this night, I am the minority. A lone speck of light in an otherwise dark place. And I would have it no other way. But still I am justifiably nervous, and so I pull out a joint of some top-grade marijuana and put it to the air as Brown starts 'Please,Please,Please'. The smoke fills the air surrounding me, and the scent trails into the nostrils of the brother standing just a few feet away, who happens to be a photographer for Rolling Stone and here to record the event for posterity. He gives me a look only a fellow narcotic user would understand, that of acknowledging his being hip to the scene and so I offer him a toke. We exchange a few minutes of words on various things; Brown, how awesome he is, marijuana and so forth and then he asks if I'd like to come up stage with him. Before I know it, I'm standing onstage; witnessing one of the greatest, most influential American musicians of all-time in the flesh. He gives me a quick head nod symbolizing a statement that yes, I'm the hippest white cat in the alley, at least for this one night. And then I wake up.

My main man Sigmund Freud states, in his landmark piece 'The Interpretation of Dreams', that dreams are essentially the fullfillment of our deepest desires, of our greatest wishes. And the reality is that it's not 1970, it's 2009. And I'm not watching James Brown live. I'm not smoking marijuana and I'm not even at the Fillmore. But I am a 23-year old caucasian male, and I do have a deep, deep passion for African-American culture and more so, the many forms of music in which they've influenced. Not that I want to BE African-American myself. I definitely have a strong sense of pride for my Italian ancestry (and the relationship between Italians and Africans, as well as Spike Lee's take on this, is a whole 'nother post in itself) and anybody who knows me personally and has half a brain can see this. The thing is, when I was 17 years old; I lacked guidance in my musical taste and life in general. And along came hip-hop. The feelings I got discovering rap for the first few months were comparable only to an orgasim. Hip-hop opened my eyes to a world of creativity I could connect with, that burning sensation in my chest listening to Common, Nas, the Wu-Tang Clan, Hieroglyphics, etc etc. for the first few times had me hooked. And then when I started flowing in ciphers? Well that was a TKO to any interests I had before it. The rest is history. I started with the boom-bap and g-funk of Dre & KRS, slowly made my way to the funk & soul of James, and then onward to the jazz of Parker & Davis. I am a hip-hop scholar to the fullest, and as any true hip-hop head knows the art form is a melting pot of all the musical forms that came before it. So I can't help but enjoy everything else that doesn't include an 808. 

'Not Your Average White Boy' is a personal blog, and will include my opinions and ramblings on a variety of subjects; from the four elements of hip-hop and it's culture, to current events, celebrities, album/book/movie reviews, whatever I feel like. I hope you enjoy it, because I know I will, and it will most definitely, without a doubt, be anything but average. 

- Eso