Apparently, while I was on the couch straight DVR’ing tonight, my Twitter homepage became a sentient being and went to the Cam’ron show.
Two things.
1. If David Lynch had been tweeting updates on the weather from inside Highline, my head might have swallowed itself.
2. Of course this would have to revolve around a Killa comeback show.
I would bet I’m late to the game here — and that Twitter at something like Coachella is creating an even grander level of anxiety — but has this kind of thing happened to anyone else yet?
And, who’s going to be the first promoter to capitalize the shit out of it?
I caught the last Pacquiao-Hatton “24/7” by chance last night. I’m under no illusion that the series is less documentary filmmaking than goosebump harvesting for commercial purposes. It has its moments though. The soundtrack supervisor who sequenced Ricky Hatton’s final training session to the washout that is the final-third of The Walkmen’s “On The Water” is inspired. I’ve been trying to convince people of how violent a band they can be since they shredded my eardrums at Webster Hall on the “Hundred Miles Off” tour. I spent three days convinced I had tinitus. It’s still, understandably, a hard sell. This should help. Hit it up On Demand.
I saw my first Swine Flu-panic-related surgical mask on the six train this morning. Given some of the pictures out of Mexico City over the weekend, it’s not too much of a stretch to think officials might suggest all Americans start covering their breathing passages with a little apocalyptic flair.
I have a small proposal should we soon be asked as a nation to adopt the Jesse James look.
Gucci Mane is from Atlanta. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention are based in Atlanta. The song “Gucci Bandana” has been stuck in my head for four months. I often find myself mouthing Soulja Boy’s “Gucci BAN!-DAN!-ah” chorus and knocking my fist on my thigh for no apparent reason. It mostly happens while my mind is at its absolute emptiest, like while waiting for the light to change at a crosswalk or standing in line at the coffee shop.
This remarkable stickiness is a trait not unwelcome in marketing campaigns. Maybe the CDC could capitalize on that hometown connection and budding crossover appeal by finding some way to work it into the inevitable public service announcements.
As an added value, Gucci’s already got material that could be easily tweaked for later spots.
I suppose I should have seen this coming after the lounge theatrics of “Maybach Music 2.” I’m still a bit amazed at the thoroughness of “Reasonable Doubt” Stannitude on “Deeper Than Rap.”
The dude has a Foxy Brown feature in 2009.
It’s actually mostly a good look for the Bawse. As the critical chorus has already sung ad nauseam, he sounds more focused and able here than he ever has. He even manages to make a song named “Yacht Club” viable in a post-“I’m On A Boat” world. No small feat.
Unfortunately for Ricky, the listener is eventually going to remember where they heard Nasir get within striking distance of that melody before.
And, yeah, it’s probably not fair comparing this year’s model Rick with the Jay of my youth. But I’m not the one who draped the scarf over my suit coat.
This new Health single is pretty good. I still can’t shake the feeling that I like them for their art direction more than anything else. I’m beginning to be alright with that.
I noticed this today while messing with ESPN gamecast (which after a long absence from my life is still crazy annoying to decipher).
How does this even happen? How many people at the team, the league and the WWL does this picture have to go through before it makes it to the web? And all of them were cool with it appearing as if Adam Jones patrols center field with his third eye?
Happy opening day, everyone. Let’s go Carsten Charles.
Just because Idolator spoke a little sideways on this in a pretty good post today (that inspired — Internet miracle — a readable and reasonable comment conversation): I am really feeling Dipset.
The movement, what’s left of it anyway, keeps moving.
The little nods to spaghetti western-type opening credits in this video — which start around the 1:50 mark when shit gets sepia and you’re all but waiting for a cigarillo to burn through the screen — are so perfect that I wish the whole video looked something more like this, except, you know, substituting Lacs for horses. It’s a nice wink to the song’s Morricone flourishes. It also paints the tale of Pimp and Bun as a sort of wild west thing, which my slow ass had never considered, and which makes total sense.
Something about The-Dream throwing back the hood on these jams feels wrong. True, these are two bright spots on an incredibly bright album. And I am usually a fan of seeing how the gears got to be turning the way they do. But a large portion of the appeal of “Love vs. Money” lies in its sleekness and how honest-to-God flawless a lot of it feels. It’s cool to hear him sketch out the melodies that Mariah would eventually handle, but also vaguely disappointing. I’d like to continue to be able to think that The-Dream and Tricky Stewart work in a studio that looks suspiciously like the Fortress of Solitude. Now I can’t.
