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...what's going on in pop land these days?, the ugly noise mongers and 'hipster' alternate avant rockers are just going in a nowhere direction floundering about in the ghettos of their own making, metal thrashers and punk detritus are constantly upping the volume whilst diluting the content, yet bubblegum popettes are rocking the house with vengeance...LadyGaga is playing the game by her rules and seems to be winning on her own terms, all the naysayers being proved idiotically muddle headed when it comes to the records, Gagas mature bubble pop is streets ahead of any rivals parading in the myriad of offshoots that make up the modern entertainment industry, be it Merzbow or Hannah Montana, with all shades in between, Gaga is knocking back the boundaries of 21ST CENTURY pop philosophy by upsetting the status quo through thinly disguised mimicking of the hyper reality thrown down by TEEVEEland, whilst at the same time being wooed by the very people she aims her Ziggy ray at, the paparazzi and the consumers who all need a daily dose of Gagaism at the moment...so if Gaga is the re-manifestation of Ziggy as 'the Lady Sane' then Ke$ha is overspill from Rodneys English Disco, a slutty waif with the heart of tarnished gold rolling drunk on a suburban Sunset Strip and loving the fleeting moment, sneering gutter mouth poems of messed up teenage normality, stoned in the noonday glare of last nights hangover Ke$ha oozes and moans the trivialities of youth in despair, youth caught in the collapse of yet another capitalist dream, trapped in the new depression that surely looms large for all and sundry of the western world...Ke$has 'so what' sneer is couched in a tired reservedness, she's resigned to the dual realities of the outlaw rock'n'roll life, the 'life' that only exists in the fans dream, her 'outlaw life' gets her thrown out of Paris Hiltons party, prompting media speculation about Hiltons stamina in the fast lane of Papsville, and breaking into Princes house to deliver a CD demo to his Purpleness, hence giving the diminutive one a name check in the new pop, a modern pop that is an engaging jolt of Radio Disney playing out the radiation burn of Radio Clash from three decades ago, a throw down of Zappa / Dead Kennedys / Shangri-Las mixed and filtered over a Bambaataa electro explosion, a psychedelic aural strobe light firing disco mirror ball shards of white light into the inner minds of teenage trash locked away in squaresville who desire a way out from endless parental pressure to do good in an ever contracting overcrowded marketplace...again as with Gaga the naysayers and liberal pop pundits have entered the media fray hoping to get noticed as thinkers with accusations that she has to use 'auto tune' to get the voice right, but this is neglecting the fact that it's the whole effect of the sound that's important, not individual aspects, if filtering gives the right vehicle for the sneer, then filter away, who cares, the fans sure don't...Rock snobs are bleating that the lyrics are banal but when 'awop bop a loobop' and 'surfing bird' are the beginning and end of rock poetics it's hard to see the critics stand point if they are true to themselves (pigs are flying tonight), but the truth is the New York Dolls wished they'd come up with this wordy trash and that's about as accurate a statement as can be read at this moment...recommended to all who ride the bus to the strange parts of town after dark looking for the excitement dished out by this aural injection of crack cocaine, happiness in three minute doses...
...back in the day a young gun going by the epithet Schoolly D along with DJ Code Money threw down some cheba enhanced jams of street strutting, party tugging urban regeneration grooves with Schoolly kicking in with rudimentary but oh so effective beat box and keyboard washes with scratch ups from the dark side, scraping the edges of dust encrusted reality (the echoed doomy thuds of the first LP are something to behold, this couldn't be made in a 'professional' enviroment, this is cats with a vision and an urgency to lay down the beat)...there's a feeling of panic fuelled claustrophobia permeating some of the cuts on the first two discs (not so much on the third, this could be down to any number of factors, most likely just moving on unconsciously to the next step which is just the next step, there is no grand plan in Schoollys early three joints)but really, when settling in with the sounds we see the panic is just induced by heavy weed abuse and will subside as soon as the piggy patrol car has gone by on its way to the donut shop...the claustrophobia induced is real when these discs are blasting the air, a heavy, heavy basement vibe is in full effect shaking the very soul of the housing projects of Philly in the Reaganomic 80s, a bad time for cash strapped inner cities with welfare hardly covering the cost of frosted cookies and a 40 ounce...Schoolly raps about what he knows, the street life, leaning on the corner playing the games of the projects, the game of existence for all who care to indulge in the wilder side of the suckers world, because suckers surely do populate the avenues and streets of AmeriKKKa...due to Schoollys subject matter he's picked up the reputation as 'inventor of gangsta rap' which may or may not be true, it all depends on the perspective of the onlooker and their knowledge/experience of project life, it's no good checking this from a 'middle class' position, this isn't for nerds to thrill and tremble to, it's just a cat laying down some words about what's going on, real or imaginary in his neck of the woods, no 'O-T-T' boasting, just chatting about the way it is (was) over the primitive mixology of himself and Code Moneys backdrops...Schoollys first three albums were not for suckers who think they're major players in the underworld, it's more for homeys in the hood, cats who surf the project elevators, smoke weed on the rooftops and whistle to the fly girls going through the buildings, the honeys in turn just laugh at such foolishness and keep on moving...there is plenty of humour in these grooves, not forced, just the light amusement of everyday existence, the funny/weird situations that crop up on the streets, in the burger bars and pizza joints...dig a real cat who played the game on his own terms and created some HOT blasts for all to grab and savor forever more, a cool buzz for when it's needed...
...what's going on in pop land these days?, the ugly noise mongers and 'hipster' alternate avant rockers are just going in a nowhere direction floundering about in the ghettos of their own making, metal thrashers and punk detritus are constantly upping the volume whilst diluting the content, yet bubblegum popettes are rocking the house with vengeance...LadyGaga is playing the game by her rules and seems to be winning on her own terms, all the naysayers being proved idiotically muddle headed when it comes to the records, Gagas mature bubble pop is streets ahead of any rivals parading in the myriad of offshoots that make up the modern entertainment industry, be it Merzbow or Hannah Montana, with all shades in between, Gaga is knocking back the boundaries of 21ST CENTURY pop philosophy by upsetting the status quo through thinly disguised mimicking of the hyper reality thrown down by TEEVEEland, whilst at the same time being wooed by the very people she aims her Ziggy ray at, the paparazzi and the consumers who all need a daily dose of Gagaism at the moment...so if Gaga is the re-manifestation of Ziggy as 'the Lady Sane' then Ke$ha is overspill from Rodneys English Disco, a slutty waif with the heart of tarnished gold rolling drunk on a suburban Sunset Strip and loving the fleeting moment, sneering gutter mouth poems of messed up teenage normality, stoned in the noonday glare of last nights hangover Ke$ha oozes and moans the trivialities of youth in despair, youth caught in the collapse of yet another capitalist dream, trapped in the new depression that surely looms large for all and sundry of the western world...Ke$has 'so what' sneer is couched in a tired reservedness, she's resigned to the dual realities of the outlaw rock'n'roll life, the 'life' that only exists in the fans dream, her 'outlaw life' gets her thrown out of Paris Hiltons party, prompting media speculation about Hiltons stamina in the fast lane of Papsville, and breaking into Princes house to deliver a CD demo to his Purpleness, hence giving the diminutive one a name check in the new pop, a modern pop that is an engaging jolt of Radio Disney playing out the radiation burn of Radio Clash from three decades ago, a throw down of Zappa / Dead Kennedys / Shangri-Las mixed and filtered over a Bambaataa electro explosion, a psychedelic aural strobe light firing disco mirror ball shards of white light into the inner minds of teenage trash locked away in squaresville who desire a way out from endless parental pressure to do good in an ever contracting overcrowded marketplace...again as with Gaga the naysayers and liberal pop pundits have entered the media fray hoping to get noticed as thinkers with accusations that she has to use 'auto tune' to get the voice right, but this is neglecting the fact that it's the whole effect of the sound that's important, not individual aspects, if filtering gives the right vehicle for the sneer, then filter away, who cares, the fans sure don't...Rock snobs are bleating that the lyrics are banal but when 'awop bop a loobop' and 'surfing bird' are the beginning and end of rock poetics it's hard to see the critics stand point if they are true to themselves (pigs are flying tonight), but the truth is the New York Dolls wished they'd come up with this wordy trash and that's about as accurate a statement as can be read at this moment...recommended to all who ride the bus to the strange parts of town after dark looking for the excitement dished out by this aural injection of crack cocaine, happiness in three minute doses...
