Tone in the recording booth]]>
Tonight, you are attending a true hip hop party. You hop the MUNI at 11:30pm, on your way to Club 6 south of Market. One transfer and a short walk down 6th Street later, as you approach the club, you see the eclectic mix of hip hop heads milling about in front of the club. Though it's late, the heat of the day has not dissipated, and you are comfortable - warm even - in your thin short sleeve shirt. Moments later, your friends hop out of a cab and cross the street and you are greeted by hugs and a pound. You turn, all four of you falling in line, each then paying the $15 cover charge, then you're wrist is stamped with an unintelligible mark in blue ink. Inside, the high ceilings don't seem to provide much relief from the immense heat of the day, but your enthusiasm is lifted with the sounds of true hip hop emanating from the sound system. By the time you make it to the long bar running the full length of the spacious room, your forehead is already drenched in sweat. No matter - the crowd is beautiful and your drink is strong, thanks to your pocket-sized stainless flask. A few introductions later, your friends suggest a foray to room downstairs, where the evening's featured DJ will be performing.
Across the room you walk, between gyrating hips and designer jeans, reaching the back of the club and the stairwell descending below you. This lower room is dark, lit dimly with red incandescent and fluorescent fixtures haphazardly located on the low ceiling. The heat. Oh, the heat. The heat of a sauna, without all the steam. But the energy is contagious, the beats are absolutely ridiculous: nonstop bangin', true hip hop, with the song changing before the chorus can be repeated. But ohhh, the heat. Are these people serious?! Without a doubt, they are serious. Within moments, you too are dead serious, intoxicated by the vibe and the music and the utter purity of it all. The crowd is thick but not too thick, a perfect, beautiful, and eclectic Bay Area mix of ages, shapes, skin tones, and economics. All with one thing in common: we are in love with the music.
See, it's DJ Jazzy Jeff rocking the ones and twos. It's insane. The man, his skill, his music selection, it's like nothing you've heard. No, he is not Q-Bert. But you know his style: you once memorized every cut, scratch, and sample from his & the Fresh Prince's first record "He's The DJ, I'm the Rapper." You groove, you see some friends and give 'em a pound. Once or twice, you head back upstairs for momentary oxygen replenishment. But you are happy, even in the oppressive heat.
Eventually, you force your way up to the front of the crowd, next to the turntables. You are standing two or three feet from Jeff. You watch him as he picks out the wax, places it on the 1200, and then in a single motion locates the groove and beat he's looking for. Three seconds later, he has the tempo adjusted and he starts scratching: perfect, syncopated, groovy, original. Then, when the fourth bar is done, the new record is playing, just like that, right on time. The crowd cheers, you wave your hands in the air and nod your head even harder. You are mesmerized.
Jeff is amazing. So you retreat and find your friends and demand that they push up to the front of the crowd. You politely create space so that they aren't two or three deep, but instead directly in front of Jeff. Next to him. Feeling the wizardry. Time is not existent, only beats and grooves matter now. By now, your body and clothes are completely soaked, drenched from sweat and humidity and heat. You keep dancing. Jeff's hype-man says over the PA "We just wanted to show that everything is hip hop." OK. You're with that, then Jeff gets Jazzy and starts making a beat. Two records play, two identical records. He plays one for a second, then the other as he brings the first record back and repeats the process in reverse. He does this dozens of times, each rendition a slight variation, each twist of his wrist raising the bar and building anticipation. He makes the beat in real time, he makes it phat... then a couple of minutes into it, he lets the record play and you are hearing Michael Jackson blaring in your ear. Jeff is done. Everything is hip hop.
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What's next?!
]]>'Hip-hop culture is very adventurous and unsentimental,' said Nelson George, author of "Hip Hop America. 'We revere our artists. We treat the tracks as sacrosanct. And that spills over to where we want to keep creating so we can keep the artists in the mix.
Live on....
]]>Five days in this motherfucking attic]]>
I can't use the cellphone I keep getting static
Dying 'cause they lying instead of telling us the truth (...)
Screwed 'cause they say they're coming back for us, too
but that was three days ago and I don't see no rescue(...)Swam to the store, tryin' to look for food
Corner store's kinda flooded so I broke my way through
Got what I could but before I got through
News say the police shot a black man trying to loot
As recorded-music sales have plummeted in recent years -- due to excessive pricing, weak offerings, lack of consumer interest, and competition from other entertainment -- there has been a search for alternative sources of revenue.]]>And, its beyond the usual touring and t-shirts. Call it more than Merch:
One of the most relevant words in the music business today is 'ancillary,' " says Jeff Haddad, the Pussycat Dolls' manager. "It's no longer strictly music."
iTunes recently sold their 500 millionth song, and with the enormous (but still new) explosion of iPod sales, this trend will only grow. Personally, as owner of an indy label, I'll be happy when consumers are used to buying music online, and don't look down their noses at indy labels. It is a lot easier to distribute music digitally than in shrink-wrapped jewel cases. The music we make is just as good as anything coming out of major labels, we just don't have million-dollar promotional budgets and payola schemes with the Clear Channels and Viacoms (that's MTV, pal) of the world.
This is the democratization of the commercial music industry, and you are witnessing it live.
]]>On a less friendly note, one reader e-mailed us a one-line complaint: "Your headline 'High Roller‚' about the quadriplegic student busted for selling marijuana, was EXTREMELY TASTELESS humor!!!" (Monday, A2). The editor responds: "We apologize to anyone offended by the headline. It was written under a tight deadline and should have been taken out." It is always difficult to know when a joke goes too far, because people have different sensitivities about different areas. As long as an apology is sincere, it should be accepted, and the offender should not be given the cold shoulder for a week simply because his sister-in-law has no sense of humor.]]>
Internal memos from Sony Music, revealed today in the New York state attorney general's investigation of payola at the company, will be mind blowing to those who are not so jaded to think records are played on the radio because they're good. We've all known for a long time that contemporary pop music stinks. We hear "hits" on the radio and wonder, "How can this be?"]]>
Singleton's turn as financier and Allain's determination deserve recognition, not merely because of Hustle's hefty haul. "There are still no black studio executives in Hollywood who can green-light a movie," notes Allain. "That's part of the reason why John was fed up with the studios. Now, he's green-lighting, and that's really the future for blacks in Hollywood having power. If more people can get in that position, and have the courage to put their money where their mouth is, that's real power."
]]>The Broke BBoys
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