Written by Allen Leopard

In complete anticipation for Washed Out’s Amour Fati happening July 12th in the States, I listened to San Franciscan, Blackbird Blackbird’s,  self-released Summer Heart that he digitally let loose back in December.  It’s that slow burn thing that he does so well not unlike other digital/analog peers that have also been laying it down.  In heat, Summer Heart is fitting for when that hot weather has got your clothes damp and taking a cool, midday shower is a really good idea.  I don’t know better, so I am calling BB BB (Blackbird Blackbird), just for genre’s sake, Picnic Softshoe although from here on out for the rest of this I will just lump him in there with that Chillwave thing.

Mikey S is an electronic bedroom artist which means that if you’re seeing BB BB live then forget the beer or wadded up pieces of tissue for earplugs.  He’s going to be gentle and essentially surf the net in front of you while you gradually smoke cigarettes and look like you could be thinking about something really important.  Maybe contemplating if you have to go to the bathroom or if you’re just imagining that tiny pebble sized urge to use the toilet.  BB BB is great and I’d suggest if you’re going to listen to Summer Heart that you should have something related to giving fellatio, receiving fellatio, thinking about how to get fellatio, talking about fellatio, or dropping a tab or two of acid (you drop acid right?).  It’s sexy-time music designed to enhance your life for increments of three to four minutes.  Perfect!

Like most Chillwave stuff will last as long as a pair of jeans from Banana Republic from the waist of history.  You’ll get a few good wears until you put a knee down to tie your shoe and rrrrrrrriiiiiippppppp! there goes the neighborhood.  Should have just bought a two dollar boot cut from Goodwill or something.  Well now instead of wearing the jeans for a special occasion you can wash a car in them.  Maybe mow a lawn.  You can even just cut both legs off in line with the rip and you’ve got a cool new pair of shitty Banana Republic brand shorts.  Make sure you take’em up beyond Bermuda length though.  Only dweebs and posers cover their knees up.

Before I start to get real crazy on you I’ll say that if I were an actual mole man, never, not once been to the surface, and not just a human who acts like a mole man by staying indoors all day writing trash like this for the Internet then I’d assume from listening to BB BB that people aren’t dancing in clubs anymore, at least not a way in which I remember them dancing.  It’s been a minute since I’ve been to a proper club.  I told you I am a mole man wannabe. Leave me the fuck alone.

The last club I went to that wasn’t some Rock venue with a Dj was called Juicy.  It was in Detroit and the doormen in Detroit are big.  Like comic book bank robber big.  I walked up to this guy with a bluetooth headset and said hello.  ”You have your ID?”  I handed him my ID.  Something I like to do when showing people identification is to make the same face I am making in the picture.  Not so much to make it easy on them as much as it becomes a calling card face for future encounters with people that big.  I don’t really ever cause trouble so in the event that something happened, a case of mistaken identity, I could prevent a broken tooth or a stinted nose by making said face.  He looked at it and gave me my bracelet and an even bigger guy behind him says, “Ten bucks.”  YO!  Ten bucks I am thinking.  That’s how much it costs to digitally download Summer Heart from BB BB’s bandcamp page.

“Let me take a look inside to see if the parties jumping,” I say.  Before he can respond the person behind a friend of mine says, “Ten bucks!” he’s looking at his girlfriend I assume, “is there at least a drink ticket with that?”  The less gigantic bouncer shakes his head asking for his girlfriends ID.  At least I’m not the only cheap jerk.  I never dance and only ever go to these things to appease a girl who at the time I was thinking of rendezvousing with.  That was before she threw up on me.

The girl ends up yelling at her cheapskate boyfriend and bigger guy leaves the door resting on my foot.  I take my friends hand and run inside.

What a meat grinder this place was.  I went to Juicy because of expectations leading up to things like this.  Strobes are bouncing off the walls, the bar is a castle wall of people and all I could think about the music was “Three Six Mafia is still doing it, huh?”  BB BB would never stand a chance her.  he be getting DJ’s shot, in the dark.

The song “Hawaii” though seems like a song that DJs could play in a club, but it would have to be a club that was open in the daytime.  At Juicy it’s amazing and fists are always pumping.  Blackbird Blackbird would be able to nestle in between DJ sets no problem, but beyond that it could only work, live, in a beer garden or a boathouse.  Summer Heart is not enough “fuck me” but just enough “wanna come upstairs and hear me play guitar.”  It won’t have you snapping brastraps or biting nipples but it’ll have you thinking about it.  That’s the charm of stuff like this because sex sells, but making someone think about sex gets them to stream it on YouTube or your bandcamp site.

In Juicy I keep moving forward and away from the door hoping that Tiny and Thunder’ll chalk it up to bad luck.  I did have a bracelet.  The girl did not.

In an interview with the blog Night Drive Blackbird Blackbird said something.  It’s the kind of something that makes my jerky skin crawl, but I like BB BB so what he said about his future as an artists is duplicate to what a lof of music persons do these past ten years.

“BB: Musically things started picking up the moment I released my first EP “Happy High” for free on bandcamp. It was a great way to get the music spread to bloggers. When Don’t Die Wondering posted me, soon-after Transparent and Pitchfork got the word about my music. The blogs who supported me constantly are No Modest Bear, The Road Goes Ever On, and Smoke Don’t Smoke. Without these bloggers consistently posting new material, I would have much more trouble reaching larger audiences. “

This is interesting in the way that it perpetuates the idea that music has been completely split from either being art, progressive and academic into it being marketable and just ephemeral where never the twain shall meet.  It’s true, it has.

Apparently BB has said he’s looking to develop a full band, which always ends up being as big a letdown as a band breaking up into solo projects before a reformation i.e. Peaches going from solo to band and Iggy-screen duet, all the way to Radio Head drummer, Phil Selway, from the band to his solo release.  People need to start table-ing these aspirations for acrobatic themed change.  You take someone like Blackbird Blackbird who is looking to make the jump from bedroom recorder to real studio stud, and they want to do exactly the opposite of what their fan base has come to expect.  I can’t tell if there’s a good reason is the important thing.  It’s like some blue suited idiot walked into the middle of a BB BB bedroom session or what they would call in the big time – a ‘sesh’ – he looks directly at our hero and says, “baby, if you ain’t expanding, you’re sunk.”  With all these solo artists it’s like they have something in them that makes them want to branch out and dilute their ideas with equally ephemeral hook makers.  And it never amounts to a hill of beans.  Right now, he’s able to sell his record, of which he has total artistic control, has written all the material, gotten the rights to his remixes and digitally released it himself, and is selling all 18 tracks for ten dollars.  As far as I can tell, if he gets 100 digital downloads, he’s paid for half of his equipment.  Since production costs are nil with the help of a firewire, pre-production is the only chance a guy like BB BB is taking.  If he gets 500 digital downloads you’ve just bought yourself a minivan to haul your guts around town.  So, why expand so soon?  Don’t give me that ‘I’m an artist’ line,  I know I am not making a case for the longevity of musical careers here, but the part of the musical schism that I am talking about with Blackbird Blackbird is the ephemeral one.  It is in Summer Heart‘s very nature to be flavor of the month.  This is not a bad thing.  This type of music just seems to move at the speed of the endless future.

In the middle of of it all, where can we, the audience, expect to know that BB BB isn’t just some knob tweaker getting lucky.  I got into the last club I have been to in a few years.  Why can’t a few well placed blurbs give this guy the push to start a small career.  There aren’t many clues to help me or anyone decide if BB BB is something other than personal nostalgia that tells me that I may just my need to go back to a Digital Underground record.  My generation, the current twenty somethings, has been fooled into thinking that just because you “remember when” that that means music whose mechanism operates on that nostalgia is somehow worth your time.  It’s not.  Quit being the cobra in the basket and bite that flute playing motherfucker in the face!

The business dood in the studio would never say that the kids, they like change, but then again BB BB isn’t burning up whatever is left of the American Music charts.  The best part about the 21st century is that you don’t have to sell platinum anymore.  God, that’s probably great though.  You can be a DIY artist and make a living.  Peaking Lights is a couple that does a similar mixed media digi-music.  The story goes like this — they were somewhere on the West coast, got married and in the midst of showing up on gorillaVSbear and Pitchfork et al, they up’n moved to a place like Wisconsin or Minnesota.  Locations consisting of either cold that freezes the nose off a donkey, where the only way to survive winter is to get pregnant in December, give birth the following September and then eat your baby through till next spring, or Wisconsin, the home of cheese.  Not obvious choices necessarily for technologically inclined musicians.

You know why they moved?  In an interview from 2008 when asked why they moved to this particular house, in this particularly barren – some would say cultureless – location, the guy, the husband goes “…rents real cheap.”  He goes back to tinkering with some broken transistor radio.  You can make money in this day and age by being a blog-popular music duo.  If people aren’t buying the records than they’re at least going to see the show live.  Solo artists can afford big warehouse rooms in the Mission in San Francisco just by touring and doing photo-shoots for page turning DJ zines.

The question you should probably have right now is, what, if anything, does this have to do with Blackbird Blackbird?  Music that can be made in the middle of Wisconsin using some chicken wire and a stylish laptop may not be worth your time.  Blackbird Blackbird only requires a little effort to listen to and because of it you don’t have a reason not to listen to it during sex.

BB BB doesn’t live in Wisconsin.  He doesn’t live in Minnesota either.  I can’t talk bad about Minnesota for it’s home to Anthony Carter and Prince Rogers’ “Minnesota Sound”.  What I do think deserves a broken pool cue in the kiester are people who still want us to wallow in these shallow self deprecating gulags of “lyrics” and “image” and verbalizing about genre rescustating.  Blackbird Blackbird bust right through all that crap despite potentially committing the sin of moving in a direction that I don’t think a lot of these shoegaze guys are ready to: real music.

There are no valuable lyrics on Summer Heart and I love that.  Lyrics are stupid.  Lyrics are ten dollar cover charges into the world of whatever it is you want to think about an artists.  All the points go to Chillwave for things concerning lyrics.  BB B does it best though.  through all the filters and compression lyrics are inaudible and become *GASP* more melody.  If you’re going to layer digital synths and vintage electronic drum sounds like veins in cherry ice cream than the more melody the better.  The Devil with all that lyric mumbo jumbo!

I’ll be honest right now:  I  hain’t got a clue nor do I care who in the green hell is on the American music Charts.  We’re never going to talk about Animal Collective the way we talk about David Bowie or Elton John or Led Zepplin with all their monumentous sales numbers and, you know, their time at the top.  I know you know that those days are over.  I know that those days are over.  no amount of Lollapalooza, Bonaroo, Psych Fest, Coachella, or U2 are bringing those days back.  That’s why there’s VH1 and YouTube.  These days the only thing you can talk about at cons like SXSW is who grabbed the top spot on iTunes singles list, away from Kanye or GaGa.  The spot that that big mug from Juicy’s hand landed on my throat is all that music can do these days to be impressive.

So BB BB, why the urge to reshape?  Why the band?  Just push this one guy pony in a certain commercial direction.  Make your money and threaten Washed Out’s market market share.  Up the tempo, ice out the lulls and make horribly complicated hooks that peak interest immediately but return to form.  Push those slick mellow bastards.  They’ll either give up or make some unforgettable music.  In the event that they give up they’ll be leaving you to deal with…NO ONE (other than Toro Y Moi or Small Black (pushovers)).  Tobacco don’t want the spotlight.  Plus, and I mean this with the absolute respect, Tobacco are making real music.  The music they’re creating is something akin to metalworking.  The bad news is is that literally everyone can be Girl Talk – the ephemeral stuff.  No doubt He’ll probably start a band at some point too because playing with other people who aren’t macbook pros is cool, but you know and I both know that any monkey can do that kind of thing, for a buck.

Where are the David Yows of chillwave?  I’ve talked about Neon Indian and I think that when it comes to the Washed Out, Small Black, Toro Y Moi trope of gettin’ bizzy music, Neon Indian and  Com Truise are on the other side of that music schism.  They feels genuine.  It’s building up from somewhere else.  It’s not just a lucky break.  Ghost Hustler made me sweat electronic music again.  By that time in 2007 I was just listening to YMO’s After Sevice, calling it a day.  Com Truise is so confident that he just gives his music away (Thumbs WAY UP).  The husband in Tobacco is a part of so many other bands and slightly fractal groups that it’s obvious he wants the Phil Specter chair.  They’re still aren’t any David Yows but I’ll use him to illustrate the point that there is nothing on any side of Chillwave that brings it like a man shoving a microphone down his throat, shirtless and gyrating against the ghost of a prostitute, whose the mistress of a man who’s cray-cray too, and there should be.  We need more things like that!

For now I will keep waiting.  I need mystery.  Even something as positively utilitarian as live performance David Yow, there is mystery.  What could possess someone to yell and spit and act lobotomized like that?  Same with Iggy.  Same with Bowie.  Same with Jimi.

What the lug said when he got me I am too much a of a gentlemen to repeat.  he basically said time to go and I’ll be damned if he didn’t really know me by referencing a mole like rodent.  I hid my ID for as long as I could while I claimed I didn’t know what he was on about.  It was late anyway and I didn’t really care to stay there.  I waited for my friend to come out.  She: wasted.  I: drove.  She threw up in the car and on me.  I don’t like clubs.

I just hate answers is all.  They’re cheap.  They’re easy if your smart enough.  I mostly don’t like them because they end things.  Maybe the reason I keep going back to artists like Son House or Harry Hosono or The Whacks instead of spending more than 30 minutes on Blackbird Blackbird is because I don’t know a thing about what the world was like for those older guys or what their aspirations simply could have been.  The biographies and stories are all there like some accountants ledger, but deciding between what is fact or what is fiction is the exciting part though.  In my head the tradition leading up to Hip Hop through Rock and Roll via Jazz, inspired from having the Blues which was stolen out from the cotton fields were these simple Gods manipulating history around themselves.  They filled it all out.  They were building something apriori  and I don’t want ephemeral music’s seagull droppings all over my sacred temple of rock and roll.  People have worked too hard for everyone, artist included, to become indifferent.

Blackbird Blackbird is not easy music.  It’s not cheap, but it’s not risking anything so it’ll always win.  It’s the high school Jock of the dance.  In modern terms it’s the unique metrosexual philosophy student in college.

I can guess about  the mysteries of old music’s aspirations though.  Especially in The Whacks case.  First and foremost it was the aspiration to get young, nubile females all over you and eventually having your pick of which one to inseminate i.e. the real rock ethos, but what about other keyboardists like Gould, Ashkenazy, Mozart – Bach for crying out loud?  These were men with 19th century machines, true analog, programing music in the cpu of their minds and making magic, commercially successful and pushing the boundaries of musical form and theory.  At least they were also doing something before they got laid.  That wasn’t so much the reason they started playing music as it was just a byproduct of it.

So no.  Getting laid isn’t the only reason.  At least not all the time.  I have a hard time listening to Blackbird Blackbird’s hollow yet gorgeously lazy music and think that this guy isn’t doing anything but trying to get laid.  Can’t blame him.  Just listen.

RATING: 3

Written by Hope Dourich

Geneva Jacuzzi has released an album thing called Kooze Control and unless you’re up on your British English you may be confused.  You may be thinking that that is an uninteresting and strange way to talk about adeptly handling those foam beer gloves a can or bottle can slide into.  Those are “cozies” or beer “koozie”, not be mistaken as a kooze.  A “kooze” is similar in nature but unless you’re one to troll the Internet for disgusting videos of ladies stuffing beer cans, doughnut holes or bowling pins up into themselves, a Kooze is a derogatory term for a “loose, provocative woman”.  Prince wrote a song about this concept with nearly the same title called “Pussy Control” and let me tell you, that is a helluva song.  And that lend itself to being understood easier a little effortlessly.  Ok, we can’t all be Prince and literally no one else can make music like him so, let’s move on.

It would be no stretch of the imagination that when it comes down to waking up in the morning and finding that you want to listen to Appolonia VI, “Like a Virgin” Madonna, Kraftwerk and maybe even that one song by Glass Candy all at once, that it would be an interesting rest of the day.  Probably not even confusing either.  But if you weren’t some semi popular DJ, being able to mix five different electronic dance artists simultaneously – John Cage style – is a hard thing to do.  Really, after writing that sentence I rummaged through a pile of dirty clothes on my floor and found that breakfast plate I had scrawled in mascara the words “IDEAS” at the top and then “LISTEN TO APPOLONIA VI, KRAFTWERK, MADONNA, AND “ROLLING DOWN THE HILLS” ALL TOGETHER AT ONCE” underneath, right where I left it.  It was just what I had been looking for.

The idea to write something as ridiculous as that came to me after being asked to see Geneva Jacuzzi last weekend at the Brick and Mortar in San Francisco.  If you don’t know, Geneva Jacuzzi is that dame of Echo Park fame, Bubonic Plague, and has released Kooze Control sans Plague.  There’s a baby Casio that follows her around on a leash and when she’s not striking a pose or smoking cigarettes she’ll make something kool with it and then immediately go back to puckering up.  She’s on tour in the States  now and about to head out into Europe bringing with her her Peaches type presence and Vaseline on the lens sexuality.  If you’re looking for a good time, go see Prince when he swings back around.  if you’re looking for another type of cool time listen to half of Kooze Control or until that wine cooler goes warm.

At most Geneva Jacuzzi has a fantastic name, excellent hair, good taste in baggy Jane Fonda workout styled t-shirts and is doing something similar to every one’s favorite glo-fi genius, Ariel Pink.  It’s minimal post-disco music that they just don’t make anymore.  It’s the desperate and twitchy only those unrehearsed live television performances of Blondie or Linda Ronstadt can give you.  Hell, I am not even old enough to remember anything like that concerning music.  Mostly because I wasn’t even alive.  Thank God there’s Youtube!  Now you don’t have to sit in your room, sweating the hours away in front of that screen, reading about how to become a freelance graphic designer.  Jaccuzi makes it to where I can actually go to a room in a building that no one lives in and see it live in all it’s gold dusted, cellophane, Cleopatric glory.

Most of the tracks on Kooze Control really start to bunch all up into each other by the time you get mid record with the po-go-ing synth bullet “Leave Us Alone” and don’t stop becoming less bunched up.  It veers into near Soft Machine, jazzlike electro interludes space and that do not stop-a-coming.  From a lady so dedicated to the party or the performance it seems, it’s a bummer that you wouldn’t be able to play the album from front to back at your friends’ warehouse party.  Which leads me to the question, if you can’t listen to the whole thing at a party, then where can you?  The answer is! the afterparty.  Well, maybe.  By that time you’re either heavy petting someone in a booth at some dive or looking for a cab to drag your loser ass back home to jerk off and fall asleep, so that’s not a bad place to start.

Kid, I wish I could tell you flat out that this was a record you could really enjoy over and over again, but like the latter part of the record says “I Don’t Care”.  You can really tell she doesn’t too.  In a beginning where all of your favorite bygone synthmasters of late 70’s early 80’s pop groups are present and humping, in the end Mrs Jacuzzi just loses all control.  The sassy attitude and snappy non sequiturs like “..mouth erection, it was a mouth erection…” turn into handicapped wails and yawnings as if you’ve been listening to a homeless cat the whole time.

I get the feeling that there are certain people out there who consider themselves women who only really enjoy listening to other women when it comes to music.  Maybe it has something to do with that music being immediately, personally identifiable, albeit lazy.  Some things a woman can talk about and talk about in such a way that only another women could understand.  It’s a girl thing.  Same goes for people who like Motorhead who own a penis.  You want penetrating metal that deals with booze, women and gambling.  I am not saying that women can’t like Motorhead.  I have a few friends that do, but it’s music for guys by guys about the problems of guys.  So is this particular corpse of your favorite VHS film to Internet of analog drudgery aimed at being a ladies only thing?  If it is, than I haven’t been listening to enough Chicks On Speed  or refraining from shaving my legs.  Or, it’s just another way to spend a few minutes in some unnamed hour while I do my laundry.  Either way, Geneva Jacuzzi is out there, in those places, making YouTube music videos and doing it just as well as she intends to.

Rating: 2

In a sentence:  If you didn’t know better you’d swear someone had been stacking your Kraftwerk records on top of each other, in the sun.

Watch Geneva really do her stuff here and pick a date to head out and see her if you’re in the area here

I really wished I had scanned that picture of me when I turned two and got a My Pet Monster as a present.  That was a huge day for delicious here.  If you’re not familiar with the beast then let me tell you it’s a giant U-G-L-A-Y, plush troll creature with orange manacles.  The manacles come on his wrists not because he is so hideous that for the sake of society to move on, wherever it is that he is from, but because he needs to be locked up for he was a menace.  A menace to what and to who is a mystery, but the manacles come chained and bound on him from the get go.  The story about My Pet Monster is that he has been down in the refuse of a cartoon dungeon for so long that his normal, human-like features have been invaded by evil.  The ceturies of living in the shadows has made his nose grow long while the damp of his living crypt has caused warts to grow and his skin to sprout blue fur.  From eating all the bones and viscera of unfortunate Canines his teeth have gone all pointy.  Time has made his blood hatred.  He is too be feared and must never be let out again.  At two years old I became the proud owner of his destiny.  What a young warden!

Before he could be untied from the plastic twist ties of the cardboard paddy wagon that brought him to me I reached out to his gorilla hands and broke the chain of those orange binds in twain – he was free and he was my slave.

getdelicious is nearly one year old soon.  And for this occasion, something great is going to be happening here.  The site’s not a person and I can’t give it a birthday present but I can hope that it’ll maybe do for me what I done did for My Pet Monster.

getdeliciousDOTnet has a problem with Death Grips and we cannot imagine that we are the only people who have it.  The problem does not involve the inability to have the windows completely rolled down while listening to Exmilitary nor is it in line with something that makes someone feel the need to go out immediately and buy a pair of new shoes.  The problem is not solely being able to communicate something about Deathgrips either, but it’s definitely part of the problem.  When, exactly, it is the dilemma starts to unfold itself comes seconds after having been asked to explain who, what, why, or how Deathgrips is.  Describing to other people the particularly destructive combination between Hella-fied drummer, Zach Hill and top-of-the-lungs, MC Ride who make up Hip Hop Van Guard group, Death Grips, you begin to understand something about the nature and failure of using the “right” words.  No matter what you start to say or begin to write about Exmilitary you become oppressively and inadvertently mentally assailed with reining it all in by using the most caveman of phrases, of which end up being to the tune of, “THIS DEATHGRIPS SHIT IS REAL, DUDE!”  What we try to do at getdeliciousDOTnet is we try to actually let you in on something interesting about the music and refrain from using phrases like that, or other sentences that are variations of “this shit is raw, jack!”, or “this shit will fuck you up!”, or “there’s a new sheriff in Tent City!”  It’s not that those things aren’t true.  May a lightning bolt hit us where the good Lord split us be those proclamations not inalienable truths.  It’s not that other descriptions don’t work either – they do.   You’re using the right words about Exmilitary as long as the way you talk about it involves a sentence beginning with “Death Grips” and is followed by variations of “makes you step the fuck back and recognize, G,” then it works.  We want something more.  People deserve it too we think.  That’s the type of thing we like reading on the Internet at least!  So, this problem seems to be involved with not being able to hear and see Death Grips first hand.   In turn there is also a problem when hearing or seeing Death Grips firsthand that warps your agape jaw into utterances feebly clawing at the things in this world that are as rigidly explosive as Exmilitary and that do it proper justice in order to communicate.  The nature and ferocity of this brand spanking new group is one that let’s you know what a David Yow inspired hand axe of a Hip Hop group would have been like.  It creates some sort of idea in the library of your mind that files Deathgrips as some kind of gutsy, austere The Roots doppelgänger entity – and in every sense of the word doppelgänger.

Essentially The Roots are a many membered back-up group for Jimmy Fallon’s late night television broadcast, comes from the city of brotherly love, and have constructed some sort of politically active reputation alongside other NY/East Coast figureheads for Black empowerment and social awareness like John Legend, Alicia Keys, Jill Scott, Common and Talib Kweli.  In relation to Death Grips they are maybe in complete epistemic opposition.  Put simpler, The Roots are the Jesse Jackson to the Huey P. Newton ideas of progression — Deathgrips is the ruthless, representational West Coast gangster, Float Dog to 21st Century’s “Freeganism”.

So far the only members taking responsibility for Death Grips are Zach Hill and MC Ride. This makes them a duo.  We’ll find out in LA on the 11th of June, at a house party, but this also makes it sound like Death Grips is some sort of terrorist act that has been committed on the unsuspecting public of the world.  Man, so cool!!!!  Anyway, this bi-racial duo about addiction, spiritual empowerment, confidence divined from physical action, and territory disputes would not be caught dead giving a good goddamn about the dog and pony show of live performance if it didn’t involve instilling the fear into all members of the audience that after seeing Death Grips either on YouTube or off, that one becomes totally powerless in being able to shut this thing off like they would some sort of channel, or backing out of it like an Internet browser window.  Exmilitary is the music you can’t unhear.  It’s the video you have a hard time forgetting.  It crushes whatever things about Hip Hop you thought could only have come out of the meat grinder of Shoalin, Long Island, NY – Music’s gizzard stones!