The brilliant combination of Western infatuation and Haitian ideals lands us in the sketch-ridden hands of illustrator Serge Gay Jr.
Welcome to the estranged metropolis we’ve come to call Atlanta, Georgia, the heart and soul of the Dirty South. Atlanta is a city in which only those who reside can try to personify, and truthfully, most of us have just about given up. We dwell in a self-appointed “community” where fine wine and prime rib is as common as sweet yams and fried okra, where a BMW drives high on your left and a ’77 Chevelle rides low on your right. In this extremist-defined population, we compromise and classify through our art: the makers, the players, the hustlers, and the good ole’ audience. Because here, if you’re not somebody, then you’re nobody. When mass appeal becomes irrelevant and art is enjoyed for the shameless sake of enjoyment, the people will congregate and decide the next representers of this mecca of manifold men, also known as Atlanta, Georgia.
Most of us are familiar with the Jay-Z & Kanye West “Throne” takeover, which in itself practically attained an all-inclusive zenith of hip-hop history. For Jay and ‘Ye purists like myself, there’s no question as to whether or not “N*ggas in Paris” was the main attraction of both the Watch the Throne album and tour. The entirety of the song – the concept, the hype, the in-your-face bombastic beat – epitomized the Throne in its grandiose of imperial hypnotism.
Let’s get this straight; I’m not here to tell you her story or her claim to fame. I simply want to commend the meanest female artist dominating the Hip Hop game. No, she ain’t Nicki nor is she Kim; this bitch bites harder. Harnessing the world with “212,” her House-meets-Hip Hop-meets-dirty Harlem princess single, Azealia Banks conquered before she even came. Locks braided long like Rapunzel and lips smothered in sweet cherry gloss, she shows the streets who’s the baddest bitch on the block. From performing in her Harlem, NY stomping grounds to Karl Lagerfield’s private party to her in-progress world tour, she brings the lyricism, the cutie-pie street swag, and the sex appeal with her. As we let this untamed artist run free, keep in mind this is only the beginning. #boom
Not to be confused with anything Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey related, the self-proclaimed “Afro-slash-pop” group, Fool’s Gold, is picking up much traction these days. The five-piece sonance collective showcased their cultured sound while headlining for the long anticipated Red Hot Chili Peppers 2011 European tour. Given their take on African music, indigenous yet á la mode, Fool’s Gold is beginning to accumulate a reputable character and cosmopolitan fan base all the same. Despite the fact, a notable sculpting of their signature sound has materialized throughout their chronology since 2007; Fool’s Gold to Leave No Trace, these guys have attained a collaborative nirvana through positive narcissism in a euphonious self-realization.
Welcome to N.Hale High, a place that stays true to its wittily punned title. Here, popular students Mac and Devin show audiences how to get down with doobies and boobies while all the while keeping it player for their hoes. Behind the “Mac and Devin” facades, the past and present of the Hip Hop genre, Snoop Dogg and “nephew” Wiz Khalifa, join forces to create the ultimate stoner twosome. Assuming the roles of two high school students, the duo personifies what it truly means to be “Young, Wild, and Free.”
Tumblr has morphed itself a disgustingly popular domain for the easily entertained and ADD, both of which, as far as I’m concerned, exclude little to none. In today’s day and age, ‘distractions’ are no longer thus; they are, in fact, that of which stimulates the human mind – at least for the time being. So naturally, as Tumblr provided the infrastructure, the fiends came-a-runnin’ – I’m talking bloggers and blogettes, artists, musicians, foodies, web personalities, and anonymous nobodies were all, if I may, “tumbling” together. You ask, what has come of it all? Easy: 2012 America.
2011 brought out the kid in all of us, and finally, we simply decided to not give a big F-U-C-K; shit, the world is ending next year anyways, so what’s the bother? Perhaps we should entitle it Innocence Found? The Retrieval of Childhood? I don’t know; regardless, this year was on like Donkey Kong, literally.
Just like any other year, 2011 was a musical hodgepodge. We had our queen bees and our wanna be’s, our good, bad, ugly, uglier, and everything in between. I don’t want to give too much away, but let’s just say this year brought the tears, the pain, the Acid, and the rain. And then of course, there was “Ni**as in Paris.” On that note, I’ll leave you with the music. Ladies and Gentleman, the Soundtrack of 2011:
Last week’s release of Lioness: Hidden Treasures forced us to bid a bittersweet and final adieu to our dear Amy. In the last swig of our last dose, we forever parted from a faithful friend. Facing the fearful fact of the final fix, our tears shed ceaselessly unto a lonely morning of inevitable withdrawal. Her day had come, and that we came to accept in a solo serenity. The proceeding days of morrow would withhold a romanticized pain in the attempt of an eventual ease; it was a separation so sweet, a moment’s pleasure. As we have, and do today, we will still love her tomorrow.
Psyche Peep Show: Random Excerpts From a Mad Mind Vol. 1
The initial struggle lies within meeting pen with paper, but the thoughts flooding my mind are too peculiar and precious not to do so. To see the invisibility of my thoughts manifest so concretely onto paper alleviates me of inward clutter in a therapeutic process unlike all else. Here I lay, underneath speaking walls and breathing souls, unsure of the time or existence that pose my present circumstances. In this lonely state of mind, my imagination sinks wildly into the depths of its most curious points. Swinging in between delirium and potent awareness, I find a humble fright the common ground, yet a mentality pulling me closer to neutrality. My mental plight now drifts into an accepting state of edged boredom.
Read More