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Now with ZIP File. Download: Previously: Passion of the Weiss Top Hip Hop Songs —,,,,, Yes, “Hot Cheetos & Takis” is a real song by children about two different spicy snacks that aren’t available in all markets. And yes, it is a real song about spicy snacks that is rapped by children as part of an after-school project and not a real band or rap group or some avatar for coolness. But still, it is a real song that is actually enjoyable to listen to outside of the first time you ever heard it. Basically, what I am trying to say is that this isn’t “Gangnam Style,” which I’m pretty sure was created in a viral marketing lab by the same people who invented Lays potato chips and Betty White.
“HCAT,” as the kids call it, has 4.5 million YouTube views and has been heard in a non-computer setting once. “Gangnam Style” has 962 million views and will be torturing me during NBA game breaks for the next 15 years, has led to a full-on controversy for the artist and is honestly still catchy no matter how many times you hear it but come on.
One of these songs is a great piece of music by some children having fun, the other is by an American-trained Korean guy who was sick of the excess and commercialism of a certain area of his homeland — and the wrong one became the world’s biggest viral sensation. But you know, who’s to say being overshadowed by Psy is a bad thing for the YN Rich Kids? Maybe this is an Eric Bledsoe kind of thing where a talented youngster is allowed to develop out of the limelight until he/they is a fully-formed beast, or maybe I just forgot what website I’m writing for and made a reference to a basketball player who is still kind of off the radar. Whatever the case, we shouldn’t forget about “Hot Cheetos and Takis” just because it dropped in the summer of Psy. It’s still great and it’s still fun and it’s still worth showing someone who’s never seen it.
Plus, 10 years from now, you can say you remember the world’s biggest rapper back when he was still Dame Jones of the YN Rich Kids and not the next Method Man. Also, I am still hungry where them Cheetos? — The weed song is a well-loved rap trope, and “Full of Dat Weed” might be this year’s best addition to the canon. Producer Kuya Beats scatters soft, cool synths over deep bass swells and busy drums, leaving the track wide open for Bay Area MCs Kool John, DB tha General, and Plane Jane to talk shit. The trio fills it admirably, playing nicely off each another in markedly different styles. Kool John sets the table with his blunted, low-key drawl, DB tha General darts around the beat in a nasally staccato, and Plane Jane attacks with bouncy, forceful bars. Kuya’s production brings out the best in DB, in particular — he reigns in his typically unhinged delivery to great effect.
The get-fucked-up anthem lives and dies by its hook, and this one is sticky as hell. Kuya snatches one of the many quotables from Young Bleed’s “How Ya Do Dat” and flips it into a dumb-out gem, infectious and purpose-built for repeated hollering. Burn one, or two, or six, and listen loud. — “Twitch” comes nestled in Winter In Prague, Vince Staples’ tape with producer Michael Uzowuru, standing as yet another stellar example of two dudes dudes vibing together, making rap magic. Uzowuru’s beat admittedly does most of the legwork here (kilters on off, whirs on unlimited), but as Vince kicks his one-and-done verse you start to notice a sneaky lyricism to his near Poison “Fallen Angel”-level tale of a girl gone wild and then deeply sad. “Become a ho” becomes “bungalow” bleeds into “bunch of dough,” and suddenly his poor subject has a kid and is shacked up with some dude who can’t stand her. Tyler, The Creator has gone on record saying he actively dislikes Staples, and through the lens of “Twitch” the difference between the pair of young rappers becomes glaring.
At his best, Tyler uses his words like wrecking balls, every syllable having the potential to destroy. “Twitch,” meanwhile, is a slow burn. It’s my sister. Roc Marciano’s sophomore album, Reloaded, opens with a scene from “Pimps Up, Hoes Down,” in which King James is crowned “Pimp of the Year” at Chicago’s 24th annual Players Ball. Humbled by the prestigious award, he downplays the monetary perks offered by his profession and insists that “it’s really all about the respect.” The quote leading into “Tek to a Mack” is a respectable mission statement, but earnestness is a virtue better suited for Roc’s Metal Clergy counterpart.
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Moral compasses are intended to guide the actions of law-abiding citizens, not the itinerary of underworld megalomaniacs. Marciano’s work is often accused of being regressive, but revivalists aren’t supposed to carve out their own signature sound. “Tek to a Mack” bears evidence of his artistic growth since 2010’s Marcberg. The writing is brilliantly facetious. Every fourth bar is punctuated by a dynamic stab from an unidentifiable instrument, at which point it’s difficult know whether to smirk or grimace at the prospect of Roc pushing your yarmulke entirely rearward. It’s the most infectious gun show since Biggie unveiled eleven Mac-11’s at Madison Square Garden.
You can’t find this pimping in a pamphlet. In light of the cautious acclaim garnered by Reloaded, perhaps he should have tapped his other favorite documentary, American Pimp, for the album’s introduction. There’s one particular scene where the Hughes Brothers encourage their subjects to make the distinction between authentic pimping and the diluted brand of flash peddling purported by Hollywood executives. Over a time-compression montage featuring Huggy Bear, Kramer, Eazy E, Velvet Jones and Conan O’Brian’s Pimp Bot 5000 portraying pimps as witless, foolhardy caricatures, Mike “Rosebudd” Thompson shares his conspiracy theory. “They have to include that little punk shit to make the pimping look raggedy,” he explains.
“Otherwise, they’re just applauding pimping and libel to be turning some young bitches out!” For Marciano, buzz words such as “traditional” and “boom-bap” fall under the umbrella of punk shit. The sound of pure triumph.
Doing two awesome things: AT THE SAME DAMN TIME. There are those who have touted Future’s auto-tuning inventiveness — the fact that his album is as cohesive as they come and a more interesting than it has any right to be, as evidence of the fact that the ATLien deserves his propers. But for me, “Same Damn Time,” and any other Future song that I can get into, is about the simplest pleasures. This one is an ode to a drugged out, almost childlike astonishment at one’s capabilities. You mean I can put bells and brass, the aural signifiers of success on a song, at the same damn time? You mean I can cook up drugs, and be on the phone, at the same damn time?
In the past few years, a lot of rappers have made songs in which they list off the pleasures of being rappers, and all the beautiful things they own, and all the wonderful activities they get to partake in, because, you know, they’re rappers. But I can’t think of one other song in which the artist in question is so delighted, jubilant, nay, ecstatic, to be experiencing what he’s experiencing. It makes me outrageously envious of Future and almost disturbingly happy for Future.
And, believe it or not, I can feel both emotions simultaneously. — How did we get here? Here being planet Hip-Hop circa 2012. Where has the underground gone? MF Doom is giving interviews.
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The dropped a piece on Chief Keef before the release of his first proper album. And even gave El-P and Killer Mike a full spread.
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What happened to “unsigned hype,” both the and what that title connotes? Have the blogs killed it? Does that make me complicit? Are we supporting the artist or enabling the addict? There’s not enough space here to get into any of this stuff. But you get the idea: “Zero Dark Thirty” makes me ask a lot of questions.
It’s what art (and artists) is supposed to do. I hope you have many of the same questions. But above all else, I’m glad these things matter to Aes. Deciphering Aesop Rock lyrics, especially those of “Zero Dark Thirty,” is like reading Eliot’s “The Wasteland.” You don’t grasp everything on the first, second, or tenth sitting. You step back, walk away, think about whatever stuck to your gray matter, and revisit. And ultimately, if you’re not well-versed in all things rap music, well acquainted with the canon, then you will be utterly lost, left alone in the post-apocalyptic world dodging “mothmen munching textiles.” Why else would Rock release a series of videos explaining the tracks (some more than others) on Skelethon prior to its release? He is tired of being misunderstood (see the myriad of explanations for lines on ).
If I could venture a guess, I’d put my money on the fact that “Zero Dark Thirty” is Rock’s confession, the verbalization of one unconscious and yet all consuming burning thought over clattering drums: He knows he is alone. The “huntable surplus” is no more. T-shirt transfer software free download.
He is the invisible man, scribbling away underground and bouncing off of the billion bulbs blaring on the walls. Is it any wonder why the track samples P.E.’s “Public Enemy No. 1?” Aes Rock is the of the underground bubble of the early-aughts. Where is his New Yorker piece?
Maybe they’ve already asked. And maybe he doesn’t want one. Regardless, he’s grown, lyrically, sonically, and conceptually on each and every record since then. “Zero Dark Thirty” is where you begin.
The rest of the record(s) waits for you to listen. “Anything less would be ri-god-damn-diculous.” — At this point, French Montana is the rapping equivalent of DJ Khaled. I can’t think of another artist more dependent on guest cameos. Luckily, for this (almost) song of the year contender, everyone brings their A game. Ross and Frenchie’s verses mirror one another. They are slow and plodding in a way that suggests a boss’ confidence, with punchlines worth dropping out the beat for.
The 2 Live Crew sample that opens “Pop That Pussy” comes off manic, breathless — a beat that opens at 11 and never really let’s up throughout French Montana’s instant stripclub anthem classic. Rick Ross is Galactus, lording over the proceedings with his gut bucket baritone and it’s very hard not to listen to him chanting “WORK” like a monk, over and over without getting motivated to go out and open a business or fuck a stripper. Drake, who didn’t release an album this year but contented himself with showing up seemingly everywhere to steal songs from some of rap’s biggest names, makes the bold decision to rap on beat, and in this syrup saturated company he’s practically Busta Rhymes in quadruple time.
The approaches are studies in contrast. French and Ross sound nearly careless, the verses are exercises in brushing the shoulders of their mink coats. Drake is unapologetically hungry and borderline desperate to assert his dominance, and he’s incredibly successful in accomplishing that goal. The craft and emphasis in every punchline connects and it is an all out assault, a clinic in writing a successful big time clear channel radio cameo in 2012.
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Which brings us to Wayne, still stuck in the doldrums of a post incarceration hangover, this is as bad as we’ve heard from him. The entire affair is utterly forgettable and had this song been a minute and a half shorter I’m pretty sure it would’ve landed about 5 spots higher. But yeah for the sheer kinetic energy wafting off the production here this has to be an all time DJ go-to for turning a party into a ratchet ass episode of Cops. It will be inspiring booty dropping the world over long past 2012.
— Abe Beame “Hookers at the Point” spares no detail in mocking hookers and johns. Action Bronson gleefully depicts the the prostitute’s transaction with evident delight in every awkward, pitiful moment surrounding his star hooker, Cindy. It’s disgusting and I’ve struggled to identify why I like this song beyond surface-level reasons like these: • Bronson is a great storyteller and challenges himself to do something interesting with the narrative. First, he introduces us to Cindy, the neighborhood whore and quickly sets the tone (“That’s what she gets for being a whore, though!”). Next, he shifts character and becomes the hooker by hitching up his voice – and not the powerful, morally vexing woman from Kendrick Lamar’s “Sing About Me”, mind you.
Bronson’s character is a vicious caricature. Then Bronson becomes the equally pitiful john, noting his second character shift by changing his voice again and opening with “Dos en el morning”, because Dano, the pathetic Bronx truck driver, is half Puerto Rican. • Party Supplies’ beat is a left-field stroke of brilliance. The sparse two note beat follows minimalist classics like “Tried By 12” and “Brooklyn Zoo”. It’s functional too in that the lolling melody makes you feel like you’re staring at the minute hand of your watch, waiting to find out if you have an STD. The stillness makes Bronson’s voice and lyrics that much more stark.