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Saturday, May 21, 2011


I always was a hiphop kid. I was that before I came out. In 1982 that meant Grandmaster Flash and New York. Chrome and glass reaching into the sky and Adidas. In 1986, living in Brighton, UK, I saw the Def Jam tours of the Beastie Boys with Run DMC, and LL Cool J with Public Enemy. I had the Def Jam sampler cassette in '88. I knew what they were saying in the lyrics, but I was just responding on an intuitive level. The beats were everything to me, and the idea of living street life. Jimmy Sommerville, twisting in garish (pink) videos was giving me no comfort, no matter how hard my subconscious was telling me to come out. I saw Big Daddy Kane about the same time. I bought Roxanne Shanté and thought Queen Latifah was... ahem, dope. By the early 90s, I embraced hiphop as it got more mainstream, and stupider. I bought Doggystyle, and The Chronic is still right up there.
Between then and now is a long time. Easy E died of Aids, Jam-Master Jay got shot. The charts begat will.i.am. I think he's a closeted homo, right? Oh, and Pharrell. And Missy Elliot and Queen Latifah - duh. I read somewhere that Dr. Dre has a boy toy hidden away out somewhere on Long Island.
And then these fellers came along.
GLAAD has already spoken out about Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All. They're right. But why do I, a 43 year old hip hop kid, get excited by the beats, by the twisted, surreal bile laid over the top like arsenic on french toast. Why do I feel we need these skinny bitches, more than they need us?


Who's a fucking walking paradox now?

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