Mac Dre Mural: Langton Alley

If you find yourself winding in and out of SOMA's many alleys, you may come upon a vibrant memorial to a Bay Area legacy. On the corner of Harrison off of 7th St. lies Langton Alley, holding down Hiphop history with a mesmerizing tribute to the the one and only thizzing microphone master, Mac Dre.


Solid face block letters jut out, spelling "rest in peace," floating over a double headed Mac Dre hydra that bursts forth from the tiled warehouse. Andre's two heads, blending in one single man the elements of fire and water, mirror the diversity of his flow, ranging from scorching braggadocio to his electifyingly smooth rhyming abilities. Sporting stunna shades that reflect California's palm tree paradise, a heavy gold necklace grinding towards ghetto liberation, and a giant afro meaning that the community has not been forgotten, the Mac never looked better in spray paint form thanks to the ICP crew.


Mac Dre spearheaded what we have come to know as the Hyphy movement, in starting the quintessential independent label, Thizz Entertainment, and releasing ghostride bumping track after track that set into rotation Yay Area slang across the world. Dre was a comedic genius with his lyrical wordplay, coming up with pseudonyms like Ronald Dregan (dropping the knowledge on Dreganomics) and Pill Clinton (romanticizing the pleasures of ecstasy.)

Although let's not forget that Dre's playful swagger resonated with many more elements of Hiphop culture. Dancing will never be the same due to his integral influence in developing the Thizzelle Dance, which includes going stoopid doo doo dumb as well as the wrinkly thizz face grimace of smelling piss. It is also now acceptable for Gangsters and Macs to walk into a club feeling on themselves instead of the ladies. And lastly but perhaps most impressively, Dre's insight showed us the healing power of laughing at ourselves to sooth whatever desperation or hardships we may be experiencing.




Andre Hicks was tragically murdered three years ago and continues to be deeply missed.

Sound Lesson: 1

I decided to start a weekly thread that traces the original samples of classic Hiphop / Electronic /Nu-Soul / 'whatever genre I want' joints. At first I wanted to limit myself to finding the most obscure shit around, but that constraint really is silly. Instead, I'm just going to post up the illest shit no matter it's popularity.

Let's get to the program then. Remember young Jay-Z when he used to kick with The Jaz as part of The Originators in the late 80s and early 90s? Rumors abound that the Jaz gave Jay-Z his name, or even his original style from which he gained the name Jay-Z, having something to do with his bullet paced, saxophone swaying flow.

In the end, who the hell knows since their egos get too thickly in the way for any simple answers. Even though the two have the funny beef that always haunts people who want to define themselves uniquely from their closest influences, they used to rock it like no one else, leaving for our politically minded bodyrocking pleasure the funky Nation of Islam slam "The Originators."





Oddly enough, I never hear DJs bumping this track even though Jay-Z drops a heated verse with more tongue-twisting technique than Das EFX. Apparently all of Brooklyn got down with the skibbidy hibbop yabbadoo steez.

Considering the track is entitled the Originators, it's only fitting to go back into history to find the source of that inspiration. For the production, Jaz sliced up the aggressive saxophone and resonant drum break of The Last Word's "Keep on Bumpin'." The Last Word was actually a tiny side project of the J.B.'s in the mid 70's that tended to more of an upbeat sound friendly to the hip grinding moves of the bump fad. The sax melody is layered with some sharp keyboard effects that raise into an alarming doppler style blast in the middle of the track. This shit is fresh.

Review: Erykah Badu's New Amerykah

Ten years ago Erykah Badu ushered in the birth of what we now know as neo-soul music with her trend setter Baduizm. Expect to hear the nu soul conventions broken, twisted, and completely transformed in the 4^th World War, part one of an ongoing concept project entitled New Amerykah. Finding inspiration in Funkadelic cosmic grooves, the loving croons of Minnie Ripperton, and the playfulness of De La Soul contrasted by the street smarts of Eric B. and Rakim, Badu takes the listener on a chopped up musical voyage of heartfelt sound and imagery. Leaving behind the simple coherence of Baduism that championed headwraps, ankhs, and astrological lyricism, Badu achieves a more authentic voice with her broader, more complex perspective.

Hiphop’s finest funky soul crate diggers of today (sorry Pete Rock) – Madlib, 9^th Wonder, and the Sa-Ra collective – provide Badu with the head nodding smooth production that really allows the power of her voice to ride the sonic waves. On the opening track, the Healer, Badu proclaims an ode to Hiphop culture, “bigger than religion... bigger than the government,” and specifically, praise to the legacy of the late J Dilla. Badu steadies her penetrating voice over a gritty Detroit hand clap boom bap that sounds part like a rebirth of the culture and due to a ghostly background chant, an eerie funeral oration of its demise.

As if the track did not remind one enough of Dilla, Badu slams it into our ears with her flipped up rendition of the seminal Donuts joint, My People, where she puts new soul into the original Eddie Kendricks cut. Badu chants “my people,” elongating the syllables as they fade into the break beat, swaying hypnotically with the thrusting momentum of fast synth clips charged with a resounding bass line.

Adding complexity to the album that warrants its replay value, Badu shifts styles right in the thick of it. The contemplative melodies of the beginning tracks are complemented by the body jerking funk groove of “The Cell” where Badu skillfully crafts together multiple styles of singing from aggressive raps to jazzy skatting. She unifies the uplifting sound into a critique on poverty, drug abuse, and violence that avoids cliché thanks to its potent visual language, “Mama hopped up on cocaine, Daddy on spaceships to no brain.”

The album finishes with the “bonus track,” Honey, the catchy single bumping a heavy wa-wa guitar that reaches towards tying together the P-Funkish introduction but strangely fits the least with the conceptual scheme of the preceding tracks. Honey nonetheless stands on its own as an impressive balance of playfulness, “I’m in love with a bumblebee,” and a serious proclamation of joy.

The varying tracks are drawn together by Badu’s delicate mastery of merging the personal with the political reminiscent of Curtis Mayfield. Knowledge of Erykah the woman in the largest sense sheds light on the overall situation of our people on the planet Earth. The pun of the title, New Amerykah, therefore makes perfect sense even if the subtitle of 4^th World War gets lost in the bumbling shifts from one subject to the next that sometimes forgets its central insight.

In flipping the rules of the neo-soul game, Badu is not only reconstructing her own personal mode of expression, but also perhaps more daringly, seeking to achieve the most ambitious objective of music - to move the world in a different direction.


If you haven't peeped the video of Honey then check it. How many classic albums do you recognize?

Intercontinental Hotel

The largest hotel built in the past 20 years, the wondrous Intercontinental Hotel, opened for business last week. It stands 32 floors with over 500 rooms, a luxurious restaurant, 23 meeting rooms, and two grand ballrooms. My confidante tells me the executive suites on the top floor cost $5000 per night. I have been told by my secret infiltrator that the people who christened these rooms are very important.


They have been building this over 200 million dollar monstrosity for the past 2.5 years. It fits with absolutely nothing in the surrounding area, and if the architecture ends up influencing the neighborhood, we are going to have a blue windowed Lego land in the SOMA. I suppose the toy concept fits well with the ever increasing appearance of warehouse chic lofts and edgy industrial condos. Why must gentrification be guided by such plastic principles?

The facade of the building reminds one of an eight year old proudly flaunting a gold tinfoil grill. Intimidating. Ridiculous. Fake. Oh toy land city, your smile is such meek decadence. I peered through the heavy beige curtains falling from cement columns to catch a glimpse of the restaurant on the street level floor. I threw up on the window as a result.