Daily Operation

Rest in peace, Guru. You will be missed, and loved as one of the best there ever was.

Maybe.

Maybe we all live young and we all die old. But life's too cold for warmth of lyrics that unfold dead souls. Heads roll as we find the space in between. For wisdom, unity, the unseen.
Life's lean American Dream! HA.
Land of coals, mines...bland goals for horrid times. Wind chimes ring sicker as polluted air grows thicker.
Not to make your typical, political, rants spit cyclical. Rather common sense so we're not digging our own graves.
God saves.
Allah saves.
Buddha saves...
While all the braves pray to things higher made. Realization that they're all the same.
We're all the same in this game. Whether fame, or lame...to tame to talk pains. I leave verbal stains, you might have herbal aims. But we all got the same blood flowin' veins.
Tummy tucks and cheap fucks while inflated breasts get the "best of luck!" See to heal up fast for the rest of men. Or maybe the quest of themselves. Self esteem fulfills substitution with prostitution or pills.
But others can't say they're any better.
I drown myself in 80 proof to make a dry tongue wetter.
We can't focus on the fuckin' weather! There's other issues at hand.
But, excuse me; an issue ain't an issue without news and a camera man.
Intertextual media dubbed "violent and sexual" like a taboo ritual...our written walls.
The screen's our modern hieroglyphics. One gotten to specifics, fall category for stiff licks. Mandatory for cruel and unusual punishment.
It seems cruel or unusual to disregard murderers as "women or men," while in return we think we have the right to murder them.
But this is all aside when we look into eyes. Remember human nature can be such a surprise and such a prize. We realize the things we've taken for granted. After we've puffed and panted we can toss out the shit we've all ranted. And get lost.
Hallelujah! That economy, that election, that bird flu threw ya'. Back now we're back on track with the cure for this infection. A dissection reveals the light behind the resurrection and shows our eyes what's really important.
Act as the informant...the other is a receiver.
Act as a preacher...the other is a believer.
To each miss or match comes a warm pact that meaning through differences keeps this world intact.
The light some lack is as bright in their neighbor. So, do love a favor and balance out the flavor.
Every action's a blueprint for concrete construction...a reaction's a function for spewed-spit destruction. And return of that. We got the chance to build something.
Mathematical movement and mechanical peruse-ment, and feets to the beats of nature's sound and improvement.
Be a nail in the building.
Be a note in the song.

-Broken Window.

Soul Food For Thought

"The Differences"

I wonder how the teachers taught it...did they just slave away as kids today don't give a fuckin' care if they're even a martyr? That's why some fight it. That's why some fought it. Now sit back and watch it as I pick pocket your eye socket.

The men blues never hesitated. Discrimination as the station gets there quota's baited. The shit's inflated. The shit is too outdated; but it's too late to undo all the shit that we've created.

It's about the differences...or maybe the lack thereof. The lack of love gets tangled in a web saying, "what's done is done". Now people suffer as we watch the world get undone. It's time to voice together to write even better songs.

I know we in sync when we think as a single mind, community things. But there's no community unity soon to be rubble and ashes of mutiny things. Fuckin' the system, look at the blood that's been shed on this mission. Who licks the wounds of the wounded? Nobody's ears are open to listen.

Police hold guns, sell stolen goods, come up in the ranks. And we got the fuckin' nerve to label others as the gangs? Now you can pardon me, or you could pardon this, but there's no difference between a drug dealer and a pharmacist.

It's all the same. Ain't nothin' changed. It's all the same.

Uzis oozin' led in movies makin' their shit so accusing, but the truth be that it's worse with a badge...ain't that amusing? They always got the bigger guns, inspectin' themselves. Then how the fuck in the world should we be expectin' to be protectin' ourselves?

Infectin' the cells. You think 'cause there's bars it gives it a different flavor? Ain't no difference between incarceration and slave labor. That's how they play ya'. That's how they gave ya' a way out with no "legitimate" pay, push you in the corner with a taser.

I've on this shit for years. Kickin' back beers, kickin' back tears, kickin' back anything I can sing louder than, I can bring towers down leveling everything, maskin' the government's menacing and there's no medicine to help pleasant men, or if they peasant men, shit's even worse for them. Don't get me started before I start draggin' hearses in.

It's all the same. Ain't nothin' changed. It's all the same.

Soul Food For Thought

Hey fam.

I want to start writing on this blog again. I got shit to say!
Let's make it happen. It's been a crazy year. Let's settle it down and speak some truths.
Here's something fun to start it off.



Good video. Gonna' make a lot of suits talk. But, good video.

Omar Rodriguez Lopez Loves Chocolate

Omar Rodriguez Lopez
Old Money
Stones Throw
January 27th, 2009



In the year 2039, Tim Burton will be 81. His remakes will be old enough to be remade...again. Why is this important? Because this is also the year, if I had to guess, that yet another vision of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory will be released. Even darker, even wackier, even nuttier. This is also the year where Omar Rodriguez Lopez's newest solo effort, Old Money, under eclectically hip label Stones Throw, will be old enough to be considered a classic. The director of this reborn Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, which will probably be simply titled, Chocolate Factory, will decide to choose the Mars Volta guitarist's Old Money as his classic, sentimental soundtrack for the film, fitting perfectly into the even zanier version of the vintage, sugar-filled fairy tale. The only reasoning behind this futuristic and fictitious fable hides in the fact that Omar Lopez has created an album that needs something as absurd as Chocolate Factory to be understood. Old Money is candy-coated chaos for the working class; an arresting blend of guitar layers, scattered drums, and electronic assistance. The words found outside of musical vernacular to describe Old Money could be the very same ones that future journalists use to describe Chocolate Factory.

True to story, the first track, "Power of Myth," coincides with the distribution and winnings of the golden ticket. An exciting opening track that sets the tone for the rest of the album as a multi-coated vehicle for outrageous and surprisingly organized instrumentation. It is no surprise that the guitar is Omar's go-to, and he makes it punctually relevant on this first track, and throughout the album. Mind bending electronic noises ring forwards and backwards during "Power of Myth," and the guitar sounds change between distorted riffs to wah-wah'd solos and back again. This leads us into Charlie and the others approaching Willy Wonka and his factory..."How to Bill the Bilderberg Group," the second track. A slow increase of drums rolls and what sounds like ghost voices takes us on a journey from outside the factory to inside the factory. "Population Council's Wet Dream," inside the factory, is pure eye candy. Visually. For the sake of the album, we'll call it ear candy. Everywhere you look, or hear, there is something unordinary going on. Organ-like elements riding over tweaky guitar lines, a 4/4 tempo that is frighteningly in order with contrast to the other instrumentals taking place...truly wacky. Animating, somewhat uncomfortable, but leaves you anxiously wanting more.

"Trilateral Commissions As Dinner Guests" is what happens to you when you eat the blueberry gum...you blow up into a confusing sight. This track is as mysterious as it is unfriendly, but this mystery not only makes it tolerable, but enjoyable. It's a girl growing into a round, blue ball. Running on these same comparisons, "Family War Funding(Love Those Rothschilds)" can be seen as the classic Oompa Loompa song. It is a break to keep you caught up, but an upbeat and cautious one. It almost borrows from old Nintendo game music, but keeps itself outside the boundaries of biting. Instrumentally, it follows the same paths most the tracks go down. This leads us into Charlie entering the T.V., otherwise known as "I Like the Rockefellers' First Two Records, But After That..." This song has no gravity. Its instruments just float along aimlessly, projecting towards no certain destination but somehow colliding together into a mystical dimension where music can have a mind of its own. It jumps around just like Charlie and his Grandpa do in the T.V., but, like they are contained in the T.V., the instrumentation is contained within the concept and melody of the song. Nothing strays too far, everything strays just far enough. "Old Monday" concludes Old Money just as credits will conclude Chocolate Factory. This is a slow paced track with nowhere near as much going on instrumentally as the other tracks have, which makes it simplistically beautiful in its own right. Throughout the course of its nine minutes, it slowly builds up into a song with a full arsenal: drums, guitar, bass, electronics, etc., whereas it only started with buzzing guitar riffs. The build up is progressively intense until its final, abrupt end.

As berserk as this story is, it is remarkably the most accurate depiction of Old Money, at least that I could come up with. Although Stones Throw is a questionable character to take on this self-produced, arranged, and directed album by Omar himself, it is good to see them broadening their horizons and doing it with authority. This album is truly an odyssey where if a picture paints only a thousand words, these songs can paint an entire film. Whether you want it to be a futuristic, unmade remake of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory or not, Omar Lopez's latest release will put images in your mind. No doubt about it. The instrumentation is far too thick and powerful to only let it be heard; you must see it, too. If you really can't, maybe you'll just have to wait until 2039.

*Reviewed for URB Magazine, up on www.urb.com soon.*

9th Prince Drops a Bomb

Killarmy Presents 9th Prince
The Prince of New York
Babygrande Records


Theoretically speaking (or not so theoretically), the concept of time consists of various moments. Walking your dog, making dinner, your first kiss, wetting the bed...all in the realm of our "time." Nostalgia acts as a catalyst to trigger one of these moments, most likely in memory. Seeing a dog reminds you of when you walked your own, a candle scent reminds you of the aroma during your first kiss, getting drunk and wetting the bed reminds you of...well, being sober and wetting the bed. All of these are triggers for nostalgia. A symbolic form of time travel, if you will. You don't have to necessarily experience a moment yourself to have something be nostalgic. And this is the case with Killarmy's 9th Prince and his newest release, Prince of New York. Let me explain.

I certainly never grew up in New York City during the early '90s, specifically in the projects. I never went through the come-up or struggle of urban youth life. However, 9th Prince's latest effort puts me there. Not from personal experience, not from my moment, but from Prince's moment. His moments in New York are projected in Prince of New York, the album acting as the nostalgic trigger. Following? Early 90s New York was home to some of the greats...Gangstarr, Nas, Mobb Deep, Wu-Tang, and not only does 9th Prince recognize and tribute this, but he has created an album that sounds like it was sold as a tape deck from the back of Tony's car in the projects, and at the same time sensible to buy on iTunes. And I mean that in the most glorified way possible. The lyrical style is very similar to RZA's, which is no surprise being that 9th Prince is his little brother and Killarmy is a Wu-Tang affiliate. But, nonetheless, Prince of New York separates itself from anything else and stands on its own as an amazing street-smart album from the Prince's kingdom.

A lot of this is heard in the various production talent. Monster drops a hard, orchestral bomb on "Sniper Challengers" with movie track samples that turn the tune into a powerful blast of energy, which 9th Prince matches equally well on his vocals. "Aiyo, Staten Islanders/rhyme challengers/carry silencers/I spit like the snipers/right through the shot/Martin Luther King off the banister/lyrical dillinger/Came to battle cats, the contender." There is only more where that came from. It looks hectic typed out, but 9th Prince brings these bars together like peanut butter and jelly. William Cooper brings a soulful, dark, and soothing beat on "Bottom Line," with female vocals to back the beat, chanting "We're runnin' out of time/this is bottomline." "Ain't Promised Tomorrow" brings a harder hip-hop approach with production by Gooch, where "Like Like" has Beretta 9 jam a jazzier, piano-driven beat. I could go on for days about the diversity in production for Prince of New York, but it is something you must hear for yourself. Blues, jazz, rock, samples, etc. and more, all containing itself within the hard-drive street stompin' hip-hop of New York.

This album is special in a lot of ways. Killarmy sticks to their hardcore roots of 5 Percenter philosophy and New York City backgrounds. They make no negotiations with how they present their music, and this is why Prince of New York should be cherished. It's a contemporary hip-hop goldmine of raw, untouched, New York hip-hop; nostalgic as well as progressive in its own right. 9th Prince does a great job of stepping into the spotlight and man-handling the mic. With production reminiscent of Prince's big bro RZA, lyrics that are like a battering ram of urban culture, and a true display in the essence of hip-hop, 9th Prince's newest release holds back on no front. If hip-hop is really dead, as some say, it's because The Prince of New York killed it.