When the fandemonium hit the fan, and every stan had their say, Twitter was filled with a bevy of tired AARP inspired insults. Forbes Magazine’s Liz W. Garcia’s put it best, “But in spite of the fact that Madonna is 53 years-old and lept from a kneeling position to standing, over and over whilst wearing spike heels (go ahead, try it, and when you’re done icing your knees, read on) and keeping pace with her twenty-something backup dancers, the focus was on her age.”

Why does this matter? It probably doesn’t. But for me it poses a legitimate question, how old is too old for pop music? A question seemingly only coerced on to pop and hip hop artists. You don’t see anyone begging U2 or Bruce Springsteen to sit down and get off the throne. Even though they should, no one tells Steven Tyler or Mick Jagger to act their age.

“…Once you reach a certain age you’re not allowed to be adventurous, you’re not allowed to be sexual….I mean, is there a rule? Are you supposed to just die?”
- Madonna at 34, defending herself at age 53.

Pop stars have a tendency to die very young or grow old very slowly. The parallels between Madonna and Jay-Z are uncanny. Both have made a career out of being cool. Both have a strangle on the music scene of their respective genres, and both are unwilling to past the torch to their younger contemporaries. As long as you got moves like Madonna, or wordplay like Jay-Z you should keep on rocking, keep on rocking. Our king of pop may be dead, but our Queen is well and alive. 90′s babies may be born this way, but legends like Madonna, legends like Jay-Z basically raised them. Jigga said it best, Bye-byes are not for legends.

“Fear not death, I’ll be alive for a million years, Bye-byes are not for legends, I’m forever young, my name shall survive.”
- Jay-Z on “Forever Young”

Watch This Space: Because I’m not young enough to know everything. But I know, today’s pop starlets always become ghosts of pop past. Now that’s a bit reductive.

Live fast, die young… #badgirlsdoitwell… Maya Arulpragasm – like the Mayans – had it right… even when wrong:

It turns out that the Mayans had it right. History is a giant alarm clock. As the bell starts to ring, we awaken from the dream, and remember who we are.

Bad Girls… from Eve and Mary (and Magdalene), to Cleopatra and Nefertiti, from Frida and Josephine, to Eleanor and Marilyn – are the backbone of wake-up calls and real talk, courtesy of rogue revelry. #doitwell

Top-to-Bottom two cents #topback: History is a giant alarm clock, and discographies are giant phonographs… as the bell starts to ring, and the needle hits the groove, we awaken from the scene, and remember who we are… This year, Maya got back into the groove: Kala style.

Simple, catchy, Child-Rebel-meets-Sri-Lankan sonic soldier lyrics; heavy, heavy, subtly overt socio-political juxtapositions layered beneath sandy cinematography, all colliding over a Bamboo bangin’ beat: guess who’s back?

“Bad Girls”… from M.I.A., is simple and straight low-fi swagger #bringitback

The run-down, on the second come-up: signature sands of the Arabian desert, ghost-ridden whips, the Bollywood choreo on a Nollywood budget with Hollywood tatted on the middle finger, wide angles, stunting horsepower #allfour from behind the steering wheel and atop a stallion, lots of smoke, fears, and fire, and the girls girls girls… set a stage reminiscent of “Haven’t I seen – nah… have I?”

Bad Girls: make Minaj’s Massive Attack seem miniscule, run the world, do it well and break rules, stay photoshoot fresh, lookin’ like wealth, get their roll on and stride in stealth, and if the ride gets too rough, they stop, drop, open up shop #andthisistheanthem

Watch This Space: Bad Girls are born free, this way, around digital bonfires.

Watch That Space: America – because we told you it would trickle down, mananah … #effectualeventualities

Good music speaks volumes… rather than impose analysis, step back and expose linguistic artistry… why critique that which has achieved perfection at its own masterful conception… listen, look, and linger in fantastic rhythmic reality: lyrically speaking

Life is but a dream to me, I don’t wanna wake up
Thirty odd years without having my cake up
So I’m about my paper: 24/7, 365,366 in a leap year
I don’t know why we here, since we gotta be here
Life is but a beach chair
Went from having shabby clothes, crossing over Abbey Roads
Hear my angels singing to me: “Are you happy HOV?”
I just hope I’m hearing right, Karma’s got me fearing life
Colleek are you praying for me

See I got demons in my past, so I got daughters on the way
If the prophecy’s correct, then the child should have to pay
for the sins of a father; so I barter my tomorrows against my yesterdays
In hopes that she’ll be OK
And when I’m no longer here, to shade her face from the glare
I’ll give her my share of Carol’s Daughter and a new beach chair…

Life is but a beach chair, this song is like a Hallmark card
Until you read each here, so till she’s here
And she declared the heir, I will prepare
A blueprint for you to print, a map for you to get back
A guide for your eyes, and so you won’t lose scent
I’ll make a stink for you to think

Everything is perfect about the future, except the past that led to it…

The most amazing feeling I feel
Words can’t describe the feeling, for real
Maybe I paint the sky blue
My greatest creation was you: Glory

The most beautifulest thing in this world, daddy’s little girl – you
But you was made in Paris, and mama woke up the next day and shot her album
Last time the miscarriage was so tragic, we was afraid you disappeared
But nah, baby you magic

Glory! Glory! Glory! Sorry…

Watch This Space

As much the Four Evangelists as they are the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Britney, Jay-Z, Kanye, and GaGa – our proud and prestigious pillars of Pop – stood tall and held rapturous court this year as the cause and cure for our ailing culture…

Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John… Jay, Ye, Britney, and GaGa these four testified in an entirely new way on behalf of the perceived social savior. They worship the abstract, The Throne, The Fame, The Monster, The Femme Fatale, whatever it is they boast on behalf of, and simultaneously battle against is irrelevant – as that vice and vise is always internal first… They are their own Christs and Anti-Christs… The Throne is post-colonial, it is secular, and so very sacred and religious, it bows before the masses and any true messiah, and much as it blasphemes with every waking breath… In this time of unparalleled turmoil, tumult, wealth, weariness, fatigue, fortune, unions within innumerably layered divisions, The Throne articulates body, soul, rhythm, and rhyme what it means to be alive right now. Beyond any shadow of a doubt these four human institutions embody contemporary royalty. They are the belly of the beast, they are the Good Word on the street, they are ingrained in society, and somehow detached but never removed from the lips of any prep or priest… They are the scribes which will tell the history of our generation… This former generation of red herrings has evolved a bit, traded in flippers for boots, grabbed themselves up by the straps, and stepped onto dry land… Steve Jobs sold you an Apple, and with that first gigabyte this consumer culture fell from grace, but it was okay – because we gained knowledge… we gained that carnal knowledge of ourselves… we tasted that luxury, that divine ability to know and have everything – virtually, without having anything at all in reality… we lived in this spectacular place of nothingness, we live now in a cloud… everything became so clean, so pristine, so lily white, and yet so bleakly trademarked beige… but lo and behold we were taken back to the depths… we moved Eastward again, to Chicago, to Kentwood, to Marcy, to Manhattan… we moved away from the machines… we did not want to be part of those machines, we wanted the machines to be part of we… we had no where to unplug though… and then… we decided Pop Music would Never Be Low Brow, we decided we would no longer mail it in… we decided to put a nail in the coffin of that cloud culture… Ignorance is no longer bliss – ignorance is a myth… and within that magnificent mythology lies the future – from plastic to perilous to pre-eminent… from ordinary to organic… from wired to weathered

Gorillas in Chinchillas (Slaves in Paris) by GREATeclectic

What does any of this mean? What does anything ever mean? It means what you make of it… and here we have four broken barons and baronesses… We have four apostles of the apopcalypse: Matthew the Hova – the former tax collector turned Savior’s scribe, the former dealer turned voice of the Biblical business, man; Mark the Kanye – the follower of Peter, the son of the Roc boy; Luke the Spears – a figure of sacrifice, service and strength… representing the sacrificial Passion and Crucifixion, the simultaneous deification through self-denial; John… and John the GaGa – on one hand, the youngest of them all, the metamouthpiece, the supernatural scribe, thee who writes into fruition the human capability to transcend the physical world in an unyielding move towards divinity, on the other “The gospel of GaGa, as told in Born This Way, goes something like this: Humanity will be damned by its own self-doubt until Gaga the Savior delivers us with the might of her music.” #ew It means we’re riding in on the backs of our Four Evangelists of the Apopcalypse – it means the Good Word Goon Squad never beasted so bad.

For twelve months… twelve, months – The Throne reigned supreme this year. From January through December, the sun never set on the crown #splendidisolation.

The Throne does not care about the now because this is then, and they’re on to the next one. The Throne owns Pop Cultural capital – period. They are not specialists, but polymaths of Pop.

“We’re going to stick to one song, and one song only.” This year the throne came home – and by home I mean industry royalty reflected “those ones.” You know… the ones who shouldn’t have been here at all – The Help that helped themselves to a seat at the table. When banks are broke, the broke make bank #namely. At this juncture it’s safe to say we’re all slaves to the throne… some of us, say it better than others #namelythus That said, it’s safer to say we’re all slaves to a throne of indentured servants, who may or may not even belong at said royal table…#kanyeshrugsandotherthugs

We have Hov and Yeezy, both the bumrusher and the bumrushed from 2009 – back with a vengeance. We have Britney #thatstearsnotglitter Spears – forever back from 2007, off the heels of 2008‘s reign, and still… still letting you hold it against her that she allowed you to hold her down for so long. Britney, Kanye, and Jay-Z: three the “Parisian, please” way. Hailing from Los Angeles by way of Kentwood, Southside Chicago by way of Atlanta, and Manhattan by way of Marcy – these three are why you lock your doors at night, why Tipper brought Parental Advisory labels to light, and the embodiment of Naggers in Paris, chimps on the Champs, the low-brow to which you cow-tow #taxbreakandpaytribute – the American definition of fright. Hov balled so hard, he’s shocked too; Britney bald so hard, she cut the crew; Yeezy walled so hard, he throned you, all supposed to be locked up too – if you escaped what they escaped: you’d be in your house getting throwned out too. Yet… still all slaves to the throne. All three are slaves to their own power, their own success, and therein lies the throne of indentured servitude… it is the detachment, the ego, the gold, the glitz, the glam, the superhuman persona keeping the hierarchy from humanity that is their debt. Abstract theory notwithstanding, the blood of the hustler, the blood of the bayou, the blood of the college dropout is what fuels the throne… and in that reality – the lasting pantheon of social prominence is a place none of those kings or queens will ever feel at home – for everything else: there’s making lies truths.

And, naturally, Lady GaGa emerges as the sonic second-coming of the Sans-culottes – pants, politics, and pop, tears and hegemonic fears on tap: Á votre santé, Watergate.

#truthiness

What Wall Street was literally to capitalism, Paris was symbolically to the creative cultural class this year… #getoccupied #nagon They were not just art for Michelangelo to carve, he could never rewrite the aggro of their furied hearts… so, they waited on mountaintops in Paris cold … #everybloodylovesmary #workitblackjesus … and strutted into Paris Fashion Week – runway workhorses:

Lady GaGa – Government Hooker Live at Paris Fashion Week 2011 F/W 2011

Kanye West – DW S/S 2012 Collection at Paris Fashion Week 2011

Lady GaGa - Black Jesus † Amen Fashion Live at Paris Fashion Week 2011 S/S 2012

 

For The Throne, Paris was the hallowed mirrored hall to which they would see themselves infinitely reflected upon royalty, and to which they would call home – against, any, other, and all wishes.

The revolution will be feminized. She who betrayed Jesus, she who betrayed Adam, she who bears the weight of said world on her naturally sinful shoulders, in her superseding of submission, will ascend to prominence; born to blossom, bloom to perish, just as man destroyed that which he cannot create, so in the wake of destruction and suspension in social smolder, here woman returns to bear life again… Strong enough to bear the children, then get back to business

Who run the world? Girls. Girls, women, females have the unparalleled capacity to create life. Despite all social constructs, religious constraints, and artificial inferiority women are able to create something lasting, something outside of themselves, and from their sin comes the succession – well, that, or a dance nation… my persuasion can build a nation #literally

#inanutshell Self-reference and atmospheric concept #letsbeyhonest #independentringonit

Flash, Tally, and Snapp: Who run the world?

M.I.A.: Born Free over a Diplo beat

Beyonce: The female version of a hustler… the lights that keep the streets on – are the very same lights that break dawn

Hope you still like me, If you hate me
My persuasion can build a nation
In this our, our love we can devour
You’ll do anything for me

… because while from the female womb a world can be reborn, a man’s mind can melt in her very palm… he’ll do anything for she – like a sir hooker to the government of female supremacy

… and crazy in love with the self-referential style and choreo

Willow Smith: 21st Century Girl… a dime-sized diva spawned from deserted desolation

Rihanna: Run this mother, hard as a mother

… and this town #watchthethrone #hovishome #andohyeahyeezy

Nicki Minaj – Massive Attack of the Militaristic Mistress

Splash of Britney choreography… from head-to-heel-toe #literally #goodface

Girls on Fire… Bey and a battalion of Edies

Cleopatra Jones – Pre-Foxxy Lot of Woman

#andAGAIN #asalways Angela Bassett #woosah #breathe

Watch This Space: On the brink of Black Stallions and Highway Unicorns… #spearheadedstallionistas #headsup #crowndown

I’m sitting here about to get my next tattoo at a popular tattoo shop in downtown Atlanta. This next tattoo is the one with the most meaning. It’s maktub. Maktub is Arabic for ‘it was written’. A strong, spiritual sentiment that eludes many to think of faith and destiny, all heavy religious concepts automatically once the denotation is learned. I picked up the phrase from one of my favorite books, The Alchemist. But I’m getting it tattooed on me. So, a religious thought is becoming a fashionable trivial decoration on my body. This trend is not rare in our society. I’m participating in seemingly the bastardization of a sacred world. Making things that are of God be also in vogue, no matter what the eventual results may be. Even when those results are most commonly breaking the sacred and holy.

The needle is drilling into my flesh, the blood drips on to my skin, running down. The pain of this tattoo is a right of passage. The more pain, the more you can later gloat about how you overcame it and got a cool piece of art on your skin. The needle drills harder, blood runs faster. The outlining is becoming almost complete. The thought that is going through my mind is a common one; when the fuck will this be over? The thought that followed isn’t as common. I thought to myself; is this how Jesus felt? His body being in pain, but his mind knowing the end result because was all-knowing. That fine balance of knowledge that it will all be okay, despite your body being put through torture by someone else’s hands.

No, I’m not Jesus but perhaps subconsciously I want to be? Of course, most Christians want to be Christ-like, but are we jealous of Jesus also? The perfect one? God’s son? The attention he gained, the magic he made, the lives he changed, the followers he garnered. Jesus was the first pop star and it seems like we’re all trying desperately to catch up in our own ways to prove that we can compete with his celebrity. Michael Jackson might have moonwalked, but Jesus walked on water. Wiz Khalifah and Kanye might have had Amber Rose. Jesus, however, was the first to turn a hoe into a megastar with Mary Magdalene.

Picture your favorite performer on stage. Her hair is flowing, the lights are glowing, and she’s probably levitating on stage like some holy angel or resurrecting from underneath the ground like some born-again holy crusader. Beyonce in her angelic, glowing silver dress singing about halos or Lady Gaga birthing a universe through her kaleidoscope of a uterus and singing about how Judas betrayed her. Are these just findings of a conspiracy theorist gone mad with too many ‘People’ magazines? Or are these ladies highlighting what’s in all of us? We all want to be closer to God, but how scary is the thought that we are actively envious of our savior, as well?

We’re a generation of bosses, superstars, leaders, and iconoclasts. We try our best to make it seem like we’re alphas of whatever endeavor we’re getting into. How many of us want to be the alpha and omega, though? How many of us won’t be satisfied with any level of success because the true control and attention we need and desire is ungodly (for a lack of better words). Jay-Z has millions of albums sold, prestige in most creative circles, and a type of fame that is almost tangible and sticks to your fingertips like dried-up glue. Is it really surprising that a man who desired to achieve that level of notoriety would refer to himself as God? Is it really surprising that our pop stars have formed religions around their brands that go beyond fans? We’re living in a world full of monsters, barbies, and love muffins. We use to live in a world full of Christians, Muslims, and Jews.

Sure, I might be crazy or do too many drugs and listen to too much Pink Floyd while reading Alice Walker books (try it!), but it’s a discussion that needs to be ignited in order to really find out the motivation behind today’s pop culture that usually reveals the motivation behind the people consuming it which is you, me, and them. Why are people falling so easily for these false idols that are ideally American? I have a theory. Hope was killed in 2010 and faith hasn’t been exciting since Ricki Lake has aired. We’re living in a society thirsty for something to believe in, something to praise, and something to pray to. But this time we’re choosing our own God. The Ancient Greeks did it. Our Gods just have catchier choruses, fake eyelashes, and expensive wigs. More important than that, our new Gods are tangible. We can see, feel, and hear them for a fee which is proving to be a better alternative than the blind faith we’ve been settling for free. It’s a scary thought, but it is a mentality that is encompassing the world like the sun above.

The blood from my drilled flesh is wiped with a stark white cloth and ‘maktub’ is being wrapped in regular, tattoo fashion to avoid infection. My tattoo is done. The pain is over and like I knew from the beginning, the end result is something beautiful. I made an appointment for my own personal crucifixion that was perfectly packaged, timed, and made for mass consumption. Nothing is holy.

Little Robots: How Our Generation of Young Business People Are Trying to Kill Themselves Before 2012

In 2012, the world is supposed to end. ‘Get Rich Quick’ schemes never looked so inviting. Why waste your time with preserving connections and work relationships when in two years, your ass will be caught up in the rapture, literally. No Anita Baker. If you aren’t fancy to believe in 2012 being the Earth’s end, you can’t dispute the economy being in shambles. Between these two haunting ordeals, the entrepreneur has grown from being a cute idea to a mission.

You see, I’m of the generation that saw Russell Simmons, Sean ‘P.Diddy’ Combs, Jay-Z, and Master P (don’t act like you didn’t have a P. Miller jean-set!) become moguls. That made it look easy and cool. You had as much control as selling drugs, as much money as a basketball player, and needed as much talent as Charlie Sheen after a cocaine and Nyquil binge. Essentially, they made it look easy and legitimate to be able to run your own business and consequently be rich and famous. That birthed a generation of t-shirt designers, fashion stylists, rappers with a brand, singers with events, bloggers with a mission, and a slew of other contrived professionals all looking to create their hobby into empire. Of course, there are a few struck gold, but a vast majority slipped through the cracks because, plainly, there is too much hay and not enough horses. If my Dr. Phil analogy left you confused, even plainer, there are too many motherfuckers trying to do the same shit that there’s no audience for because the audience/consumer is trying to sell and produce something to the same empty room. I’m no fool, I know a simple article on statistics riddled with tasteless jokes won’t stop the ‘hustle, grind’-generation of young business people. My beef isn’t with the ambition. Besides, time will separate those with good ideas versus those with half-baked brands and illusions of grandeur. No, I’m not here to crush dreams or schemes; I’m here to save souls and personalities. See, faithful reader, I’ve been saved and enlightened!

I do plenty of things and I’d like to be known for it. So, I guess, in some circles I ‘brand myself’. I go to events and talk to people I don’t care for. I’m strategically apart of different projects. I accept random interviews asking me horrible questions. There’s even a cartoon version of myself running around the internet. Yeah, what was once saved for a cow’s ass is what I am trying to do to my entire career. Brand it. That was until a friend of mine, for this article’s purpose we’ll call her Fate, had such an opposition towards me using the phrase, let alone actually doing it to myself. Fate thought it sounded contrived and un-relatable. I quickly disagreed and told her that’s how you become successful, known, and understood to the general public. Branding is something you have to do, I explained. The conversation quickly dissolved into another like an ice-cube in a glass of room-temperature Carlo Rossi.

About a week later, I was watching “The Wendy Williams Show” (only God can judge me) and the guest of the day was Lil’ John. There, in all of his crunk bliss, he was loud, abrasive, incoherent, and embarrassingly promoting his latest stint on “Celebrity Apprentice.” While I was sipping my green-tea and watching him make a fool of himself, he spoke to Wendy and said something that I didn’t see coming. Lil’ John explained to Wendy Williams how he worked hard to brand and market himself, so he’ll stay working and garnering products like ‘Crunk Juice’. I felt cheated. How dare Lil’ John trick me! Here I am, believing he really was as ignorant and crazy as I see him on television or hear on the radio, and all along he was just ‘branding’ himself. My lovely friend, Fate was correct. In that instance, I found Lil’ John very contrived and unbelievably un-relatable.

So, I thought of how many of my ‘on my grind, hustling’- peers constantly talk about branding themselves. I thought of how the most successfully things branded are the most simplified things. What’s the first thing that pops into your mind when you think of Coca-Cola? Soda. How about Heinz? Ketchup. Genius branding, brilliantly simple. But are humans meant to be simplified? Why would you want to be a person identified with by one thing or even more than one thing? Humans are entirely too layered and diverse to be branded. We’re not an inanimate object or smartly packaged product. How do you brand something that bleeds, cries, loves, fears, dreams, and believes? How do you market something to an audience that has a history, opinions and needs? Yet, my generation is steadily attempting to make it happen. The sad part is, the simplification of a generation of hustlers is actually happening. Having no depth is in-vogue and a business requirement. If our mogul fore-fathers started as little engines with heart, we’re simply little robots with brands. The end is really near.

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:

Like most, I had been awaiting the comeback of the Chili Peppers. Considering their anthology, the boys have set their own standards pretty high; with “The Adventures of Rain Dance Maggie,” the four-some was at last resurrected with a shamelessly catchy jingle, and just like that, the boys were back. When all was said and done, the cowbell was questionable and so was Anthony Keidis’s new hair-do, but even so, we still bounced to the beat. With Flea on the bass and Keidis on the mic, no wrong could be done. Yes, the album (I’m With You) is exceptionally weak, but as far as comeback singles are concerned, “The Adventures of Rain Dance Maggie” does the trick. Sane enough to be played out by middle-aged men yet youthful enough in terms of the eternally youthful Red Hot Chili Peppers, the track is contextually fitting.

For me, “Halftime” was an internal calm after the storm, an unexpected peace with the parting. Quite honestly, this track is Amy at her barest, gentlest, most vulnerable self, showcasing the rarity of her vocal virtuoso and elucidating the old soul within. With the given circumstances, the lyricism suggests a self-intervention. The enlightened Amy attempts to pause from the madness, to “consider the change” in her last chance to convalesce. Ultimately, she is left to decipher her natural vice, the music or the medicine.

Beats Antique… Nobody knows where they came from or where they’re going, but baby they’re here. And that much we know is true. In response to the inhumanly execution of their music, I’ve come to think of them as higher evolved beings from the depths of a far, far dimension, temporarily gracing the grounds of this realm. That being said, their “Siren Song” doesn’t do much better at disproving my theory. “Siren Song” is not just a track; it’s the final crescendo of a hidden tale. Listening ears sink into a portal of Arabian nights and Middle Eastern instrumental orgies. The reverberating strings entrance us with a hypnotic cry, so pungent and so convincing, until we’ve fallen victim to Persephone syndrome. The composition penetrates in a dark seductive kind of way, yet what was once our fantasy leaves us trapped within a foreign nightmare.

The Roots return with another classic in the musical epitome of their artistic intent. In “Sleep”, we meet a lonely hustler who once considered himself a man, now nothing more than a degraded soul, cold and weary, pacing the streets. Back and forth, back and forth, the metronome ticks along ever so slowly as if time has reached an equilibrial standstill. Seeking a way out of the ceaseless cycle, he keeps getting pushed back in to the game he no longer wants to play. Even in his sleep, he feels prisoner. In his black and white world, he knows his enemies will keep him restless and peace is yet unseen.

We thought it couldn’t get any worse than a couple of white kids in Amsterdam, but oh were we wrong. Once Jay & ‘Ye confiscated throne, the rest was straight history. Ni**as in Paris was a free ride to the jungle, a one way ticket to Mayhem Lane, and honey you weren’t ever coming back. Real talk, the shit is cray, and that’s that. This ain’t no track for no head bobbin’, weed smokin’, love makin’ folk. Ni**as in Paris is the platinum gold drizzle on top of the dark chocolate icing! Ni**as in Paris is Ciroc spitting in the pretty face of Cristal! Ni**as in Paris is the reason why Prince William didn’t Marry Kate and Ashley!

If Miami had a beat, Urban Noize produced it. After years of tirelessly remixing tracks by the best artists in Urban and Pop Music, the Miami-based twin producer duo has perfected their version of the Mash Up.

With their latest project Brooklyn. Chicago. London. (The Urban Noize Remixes), The duo mixes some stand out tracks by Adele, Jay-Z & Kanye West. Anybody with ears can tell the combination is a no-brainer. If this was the early 2000′s I’m sure Ye would have sped up some of Adele’s vocals and incorporated them into a hit or two by Ye or Jay–but the effortless mixes are perfect for a relaxing listen. Track highlights include the dreamy “I Won’t Go.” Listen and download Brooklyn. Chicago. London. (The Urban Noize Remixes) below.

When news first broke last week that Rocawear was releasing their “Occupy All Streets” line of t-shirts I was skeptical to say the least. As most of us know, Rocawear was at one time Jay-Z’s insanely popular clothing line- so popular that for a few years Jay found more success with fashion than he did with music. It was impossible to go anywhere without seeing the company’s trademark flame emblazoned across the front of t-shirts, sweaters and bomber jackets worn by everybody from toddlers to grandmothers. But times change and as Hip Hop’s collective taste shifted, Rocawear was no longer perceived as being a leader in fashion and was quietly sent away to die in the dark corners of TJ Maxx discount clothing stores. Jay, being the smart businessman that he is, saw Rocawear’s run coming to an end and sold the company, keeping a sizable share for himself and staying on as the face of the failing label, which was more than likely the only way he could offload the clothing line since any prospective buyers would need his image in order to drive sales.

So when I first saw Rocawear’s “Occupy” t-shirts I was confused as to what the motivation was behind it. Were they throwing themselves behind the “Occupy Wall Street” movement? And if so, why? Surely Jay could see the danger in aligning himself with a loosely knit organization hell bent on ending the very system he now represents. One false move and the backlash would be monumental. Was Jay even aware that Rocawear was taking such a bold step in insinuating that they might support the “99%”? My first thought was, “fuck no”. Here’s how I imagined it all went down:

*Jay lying on the couch watching SportsCenter, the phone rings*

Jay: Hello?

Rocawear Rep: Hey Jay, it’s Daniel here at Rocawear.

Jay: Who?

Rocawear Rep: Daniel at Rocawear? The clothing company you started and still own a piece of?

*Jay takes bite of his grilled cheese sandwich*

Jay: Right, right. Listen Daniel I’m really busy right now. Can we touch base at a later date?

Rocawear Rep: Sure. But before you hang up I was wondering if you saw the email I sent regarding the “Occupy” tees.

*unopened email from Rocawear sits in Jay’s spam folder*

Jay: Yeah it looks great. Run with it.

Rocawear Rep: Excellent. Thanks for your time Jay.

*Jay hangs up phone, it oddly sounds like a money machine*

All up in the bank with the funny face...

And thus the “Occupy All Streets” shirt was born. Rocawear would resurrect their relevance and ride this new global movement all the way back to mainstream dominance. Once again, the world would piss their money away on $50 t-shirts that cost less than $2 to manufacture and we could all rest knowing that yet another corporation would live on to charge an outrageous amount of money for low quality clothing imported from China. Thanks to some quick thinking, young marketing execs, Rocawear now had a wide-open lane and were about to make their triumphant return to the cutting edge. Who knows, they might even meet Jay-Z someday.

But then the plan backfired almost immediately. As Nathan outlined in last week’s “Fails Of The Week”, Rocawear said they had absolutely no intention of donating any of the proceeds from the sales of the “Occupy” t-shirts to the movement itself. Nope, they just made up some bullshit story about how they “strongly encourage all forms of constructive expression, whether it be artistic, political or social” and thought that the public would buy it. The problem was; we didn’t.

I myself laughed when I heard the above quote. Really guys? Are you that fucking desperate? Your best move would have been to not say anything at all and just have your spokesperson stand there while shrugging and winking at the cameras. Maybe then a few of the naive morons you believe us all to be would have bought into your ridiculous attempt to cash in on the “Occupy” phenomenon and pay their $22 entrance fee to the most ironic business strategy ever conceived. Instead you did the dumbest thing you could’ve possibly done; you distanced the company from the group you were so blatantly ripping off in a feeble attempt to broaden the appeal of your gimmick, which in turn alienated the only people who may have been slightly interested in purchasing your product. In laymen’s terms; you got greedy.

I knew right away heads were gonna roll at Rocawear’s head office. Jay was gonna burst through the doors and show those out of touch corporate dickheads why “old ladies are still saying what he coulda been”. Half that building would be fired and the other half would spend the next week in overdrive doing damage control. There is no way that Jay would’ve knowingly ever approved such a risky sales tactic which could possibly blow up in his face and have a lasting affect on his public persona. I mean, this is the guy that sits next to Warren Buffet on magazine covers then hops in his Maybach and drives over the Brooklyn Bridge to get a quarter water and say “what up” to his people. This guy is so fucking on the ball that the ball feels like it’s on him. There’s no possibility of Jay ever making such a massive error in judgment.

Well, actually he did. Just a few days after the “Occupy” t-shirt made it’s debut Jay was photographed with Russell Simmons while wearing it; which means not only did he give it the green light, he was in full support of it.

The issue that I’ve taken with the situation has very little to do with the “Occupy All Streets” t-shirt. Was it a horrendously awful idea? Yes. But what I see here is the end of my admiration for him as an artist. What originally made me a fan of his were the commonalities that we shared in our stories. I looked at Jay as a superhero, somebody who beat incredible odds and achieved the impossible. When I listened to his music I could hear pieces of my own legacy pouring out through the speakers and drawing a path towards a brighter future. He was the true architect; his songs mapped out a blueprint to success and were a testament to the belief in oneself.

I guess that’s why I, and a lot of other people, are extremely critical of him. To us he’s an icon. He defines what it means to be “self made”. And so we criticize because it hurts to lose our most respected spokesperson. The Jay-Z I idolized as a younger man disappeared after The Blueprint. Sure, he pops up every now and then (The Black Album, American Gangster) but more often than not it seems like he’s too busy pandering to corporate America to remember what got him there in the first place. I only listened to Watch The Throne once all the way through, and quite honestly, that’s one more time than was necessary. Perhaps it’s just that I’m a grown man now, but I don’t wanna hear about how much better Jay and Kanye have it, nor do I care. I don’t blame Jay for being disconnected; the guy’s almost a billionaire for fuck sakes. If he were to go back to the old subject matter it wouldn’t be believable. I don’t knock him for talking about what’s real to him; I’m just frustrated because I can’t relate to it.

Maybe the “Occupy All Streets” t-shirt was Jay’s way of saying “I see you.” Maybe he wanted to reach out but felt the same frustration due to his inability to share a genuine camaraderie with the other “99%” of the population. Whatever the case may be, Jay would’ve done a lot more for himself and others by heading down to Zuccotti Park and holding a press conference to show everybody struggling to pay the bills that he hasn’t forgotten. He didn’t have to get political or even stand in solidarity with the movement, he could’ve just read that boring Rocawear press release and not try to sell that stupid t-shirt.

Or maybe he could’ve just hung out like Kanye did. But only not with a million fucking chains on (we saw you Yeezy).

Graduation is that “October Song” masterpiece: a piece of art that needs no external interpretation because it is complete in and of itself. At the most superficial and benign level, Kanye is Alec Trebeck and Graduation is Jeopardy: a series of answers engaging you to question. It is a fact that when immersed in the surreal, people’s ability to make sense of the world around them is increased. The fragmented fantastical enhances our ability to connect themes and build structure — when given fantasy we are best equipped to perceive reality. Thus is Kanye’s Graduation. An artist of West’s caliber is beyond “this world;” his ability to connect words, ideas, art forms, the abstract and concrete is unreal. Nowhere is this more present than in his masterful encapsulation of modern life – above and below: Graduation.

This is unforgettable because it is legendary, literally. Twelve tracks from Good Morning to Homecoming — from Drunk and Hot Girls to The Glory — illustrate the tale of how Kanye “Devil wears Prada/Adam Eve wear nada/I’m in between but way more fresher” West became a pop demigod; twelve great labours from the Nemean Lion to capturing Ceberus — from slaying Hydra to stealing Hesperides’ apples — illustrate the tale of how demigod Hercules became a mythological icon: epic. Shall we?

Pretense: As this is a complete masterpiece, any review would be unraveling that perfect tapestry. West made sense of it all; inevitably, the following will likely do the opposite.

The Sound: Graduation is neo-retro-purple-electro-pop-soul – like its cover. It is a compilation of classic and contemporary, acoustic and synthetic, of hip-hop, gospel, r&b, electronic, blues, and rap. It can do this because it is Pop, it does this best because Kanye is Pop.

The Story: The story is everything – the sound and the so what – so let’s go. Just as it is not what you look at but what you see, this isn’t about what you’re listening to, but what you hear. People can listen to Graduation all day, but when one goes into subjective “listening” mode they often miss the basics. Graduation is as much about the text as it is about the subtext, what Ye gives the listener is often very different from what they get – for better and worse. That said:

Good Morning is an orientation as much as it is a Graduation. The lyrics introduce the album brilliantly. There is the hybrid sound of synth and acoustic, as someone who is fresh from the academic domain: full of book knowledge, taking on the world open to everything, no particular focus except the ever elusive “success.” “Good morning/ Look at the valedictorian scared of the future/ While I hop in the Delorean/ Scared-to-face-the-world complacent career student/ Some people graduate, but we still stupid.” This track is the young, optimistic, sophomoric, naive graduate in the midst of a reality check. Good Morning to music, good morning to the real world — and its alter ego — good morning to life, good morning to the game, good morning to the false perception that you’ve made it, and the reality that you’ve only just begun.

Ye then takes us to Champion. This is as much a mantra to the man in the mirror, hyping the momentum to seize the world, as it is the retrospective realization that he reigned supreme before the fame. He was a made man before he was man-made. That pure perception, underground legend, Kanye at the core commanding “If you gon’ do it do it just like this.” The emphasis on sight and perception against reality is so strong here: “You don’t see just how wild the crowd is, just how fly my style is,” it’s about what the public doesn’t see: the basics, the champion right before them. They didn’t give him his props when he was at his pre-fame prime. “I don’t see why I need a stylist,” even then Ye knew his own style was hotter than the Desperate Housewives flashes. What we don’t see is what he does see, and vice versa; we didn’t see him until he stepped on stage, and it was then that he became what we falsely perceived him to be. Early words of wisdom from his father, “When you see clothes, close your eyelids,” because the clothes don’t make the man, and even the emperor’s floss is false; ignore the glitter when going for the gold. Champion takes Kanye from the man to the musician, past to present. He tells us exactly why he does what he intends to do: “When it feel like living’s harder than dyin’/ For me givin’ up’s way harder than tryin’.”

Ye was a champion well before the flashing lights, but it’s all about what is seen through “their eyes.” He was at his ultimate good, the only thing left was to become great. As is said: “The pursuit of goodness leads to greatness, but the pursuit of greatness leads to ruin. Pursue goodness and you will achieve great things.” It is almost a Siddhartha like tale of this icon being in a comfortable place, but seeing that bigger purpose and knowing that his life is not complete without a taste of the bitter and sweet. Whereas the future Buddha went to the slums, Ye ventured to the ugliest side of modern humanity: the Fame – that beautiful dirty rich world. “Lauryn Hill say her heart was in Zion/ I wish her heart still was in rhymin’/ ’cause who the kids gonna listen to? Huh?/ I guess me if it isn’t you.” It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy of the upHill road ahead — that road through the trenches to true insane genius. Spoken like a Pop Martyr: “If not for the pleasure, least for the principle.” He is that sole beacon of soul for the kids to listen to. “They used to feel invisible/ Now they know they invincible:” from the transparent eye and the invisible hand to the invincible superhuman. How could this champion possibly get stronger? By defeating that which doesn’t kill him.

Strength resonates through most Pop martyrs, those artists who – like social martyrs give their lives for society’s souls – give their lives for art’s sake and society’s entertainment and what connects the strength with the martyrdom is the pursuit of ultimate strength through living every day as if it were a battle — with demons internal and external. Kanye tests his invincibility by taking on the Fame Monster, and by becoming that very beast. The sound is the story, from a hybrid acoustic/synthetic sound we veer into heavier synth, sheer industrial electronic. From acoustic to synth West is building an artificial, bionic, superhuman archetype. The champion was good, but the superhuman is stronger. The mantra: work it, make it, do it, makes us harder, better, faster, stronger. As we’ll soon learn though: when you try hard, is when you die hard. He’s not sure if people still make real shit anymore. Instead of being the realest out there, tell everybody that you know to bow in the presence of bionic greatness. Enter: life. Stronger is the first conversation with a “she.” If Graduation is nothing else it is Kanye’s homage to the lady in his life – ever transitory, but always present somehow – his greatest love and pursuit is of life itself. She gives life, and she is life. In “Stronger,” she’s the “black Kate Moss tonight”: that ideal, that unattainable, that unreal, that epitome of the other half and how they live. “Let’s get lost tonight/ You could be my black Kate Moss tonight/ Play secretary, I’m the boss tonight.”

“I Wonder… if you know what it means to find your dreams?” As this is a flipped distortion of modern reality blurred with the fantastical, Ye’s dreams are sheepskin veiling their nightmarish nature. This is the champion stepping back before stepping up to the stage. His vividly clear views of perception versus reality, the dichotomy, and true nature of both begin to blur together as he ventures deeper into this bright new world. To be great is to be misunderstood, welcome: greatness “You say I think I’m never wrong/ You know what, maybe you’re right, aight” and in the midst we lost sight of the good. “Do you even remember what the issue is?” There is the idealized life of “fame” that he’s been waiting his whole life for, but there’s the echoing second thought cautioning against where he’s headed. “You can still be who you wish you is/ It ain’t happen yet/ And that’s what the intuition is/ When you hop back in the car/ Drive back to the crib.” His intuition is to head back home, but like a fourth wise man, he listened to the psychic and pursued the lights. “And I’m back on my grind/ A psychic read my lifeline/ Told me in my lifetime/ My name would help light up the Chicago skyline.” His destiny was fame, for better or worse – and God-given, “Heaven’ll watch, God calling from the hot lines/ Why he keep giving me hot lines.” That lady returns. “How many ladies in the house/ On that independent shit/ Trade it all for a husband and some kids/ You ever wonder what it all really mean/ You ever wonder if you’ll find your dreams.” “I Wonder” has her wondering what her life would be if she didn’t settle for domesticity, and Ye takes her by the hand to venture to the bright lights beyond.

Ah the Good Life, even when Kanye T-Pain’s too much, he is brilliant. The Good Life is the good girl and she’s a state of mind, manifested in the material. It’s his break between the man and the money, the fundamentals or the flash. The battle between good and great continues: “The good life, let’s go on a living’ spree/ Shit they say the best things in life are free,” versus “50 told me go ‘head switch the style up/ And if they hate then let ‘em hate/ And watch the money pile up, the good life.” 50 would give Ye that advice, 50′s Top 10 MC status was built on his business savvy, the hustle sans flow — man-made Ye, the money vice is his kryptonite.

Can’t Tell Me Nothing: epic standout in the midst of an completely epic album. The single speaks for itself, but: from the best things in the life being free to hush money. The Golden Rule is that he who has the gold makes the rules. From the good life to the great life, money corrupts and fame kills. So the martyr speaks: “Let up the suicide doors/ This is my life homey, you decide yours/ I know that Jesus died for us,” Lambo Gallardo? Porsche Boxter? Nah, the cash got Ye the keys to his dream whip: try the Pandora Box, open up the suicide doors and step into the fast life of good, great, and evil. “So I parallel double parked that motherfucker sideways,” life is his lady, and that car fucked it. “Old folks talking about back in my day, But homey this is my day/ You know I already graduated, And you can live through anything if magic made it.” He made it, but he has miles to go before he sleeps. “Life is a, uh, depending how you dress her,” dress her up, dress her down, life is what you make of it, reality is only what you perceive it to be. “So if the devil wear Prada/ Adam Eve wear nada/ I’m in between, but way more fresher,” halfway between the devil and original man is Ye the new “way more fresher” human archetype — with way less effort, “’cause when you try hard, That’s when you die hard.” Born good from the womb, now he’s halfway to greatness: “Good like God with an extra ‘o’.”

“Life of a Don, lights keep glowin’/ Ha Ha Hum, here’s another hit, Barry Bonds,” enter: greatness, featuring the greatest rapper alive: Weezy F. “They said he’s going crazy and we seen this before/ But I’m doing pretty good as far as geniuses go.” This is Ye becoming the beast, where he began a champion making his own name; now he’s Barry Bonds, living hit to hit off that most addictive of drugs: fame.

Drunk and Hot Girls finds Ye in pursuit of a dragon, and he’s dressed his lady life in stilettos, a miniskirt, and a halter. Every line is like a red light he rides through, “Stop dancing with your girlfriend and come dance with me/ Stop talking about your boyfriend since he is not me/ Stop running up my tab cause these drinks is not free.” This track is so universal and yet so isolated. The heavy bass drops for the bridge that sounds like a requiem: “Lot of dangerous necessity that people seek without regard/ To where they are, the human heart is curious above all things/ laa the lights are low, your eyes are bright/ the music, makes it sweet delight/ It’s out inside, I’m feeling right/ your dress is tight, Oh, I want you right now,” sounds like. “You only live once do whatever you like/ I thought I’d be with you for only one night/ Now I’m with this girl for the rest of my life.” It isn’t an invitation as much as it is a negation of hedonism. Know that you can do whatever you like with your life, but whatever it is you do with her remains. Only living once, Ye’s doing what he likes, in the midst of a love lost in the flashing lights.

And I Wonder what happened to that lady who broke free from the cult of domesticity, “she don’t believe in shootin’ stars, but she believe in shoes & cars.” The blurred reality peaks as Ye’s life becomes no more than an empty indulgence in the now, where he believed in the metaphysical, now there is nothing more than the material that matters in life. This life, this fame, exists only in the “mod” and where the good champion saw immortality, the great Barry Bonds now sees mortality. He exists only for the fickle public and their flashing lights. This is the peak of his brush/battle with fame: Ye traveled the world over in search of greatness, after that trek he had nothing but a handful of glitter when all he had to do was go West, dig deep, and get the gold. “Feeling like Katrina with no FEMA/ Like Martin with no Gina,” Kanye speaks from the place of the black man, both universal and individual: all needed FEMA, and all knew Martin needed Gina. Among the most poignant lines though is “In my past, you on the other side of the glass/ Of my memory’s museum/ I’m just saying, Hey Mona Lisa/ come home you know you can’t Rome without Caesar.” Here the good life is but a memory – to be viewed from the other side of the TV, mama. His past holds his greatest masterpiece. Should that good life – the good wife – come back, she’ll return to a dictator, an icon, an emperor reigning over his dying empire. He’s the greatest, the last, the legend, the fall.

From shining Caesar to everyman, our champion returns to find that everything he’s not makes him everything he am <– I like rhyming. The rise and fall, the ebb and flow, the fame and the familiar, it is all so cyclical. What makes a champion is the ability to ride the cycle and lose without losing the lesson. This is Ye looking back, in retrospect, from six feet above ground; the sound is a stark contrast to the heavy electro-synth, stripped down like a king without a crown. All for the best, as his head is no longer heavy, he can look up and see clearly just how far he’s come, “I never could see why people’ll reach a fake-ass facade they couldn’t keep up.” Again it is the emphasis of perception versus reality, of character versus reputation, how everything he isn’t, everything he tries but still fails to be after the fame, is what makes him good. “my 15 seconds up, but I got more to say/ That’s enough Mr. West, please no more today,” he sought the fame so he wouldn’t be invisible and by the time he got the spotlight and a clear mic the fame was gone — the game is over but the player remains, more glorious than ever.

The Glory is authentic bombastic soul. The Glory is good. “While you all was in limbo I raised the bar up/ I touched on everything,” when we weren’t looking he covered the bases. When he was invisible he set the level, now invincible the haters cries fall on deaf ears as he’s on the next level. He was who they wanted before they wanted it. The Glory is Ye paying posthumous homage like everyone else. “How I suppose to stand out when everyone get dressed up/ Yeah that tuxedo might have been a little guido/ But with my ego, I can stand there with a speedo/ And still be looked at like a fucking hero,” as the champion’s father warned to close his eyelids in sight of clothes, so Ye at his most heroic is stripped of the white guido tuxedo facade to reign supreme. While the clothes may make the common man, Kanye is King. Touching back down full circle to reality, past the celebrity sphere, he reminds us: “When you meet me in person what does it feel like/ I know, I know I look better in real life.” He did it for The Glory; half-god Hercules took on the twelve great labors, halfway-being between Lucifer and original man Ye took on the Fame Monster: both got The Glory and the story to back it up. Timeless as ever, Graduation reflects a Shakespearean tale in many ways. The only difference between a Shakespearean comedy and tragedy: the former ends in a wedding while the latter ends in a funeral. “Married to the game rock a chain stead of a wedding ring,” the game is the fame so this comedy is bound to end in tragedy seeing as he has to come back home to his wife, his life.

“I met this girl when I was three years old/And what I loved most she had so much soul” so she returns – the Homecoming. Kanye loves his music, his art is his life; just as life is his canvas, his original landscape was Chicago. “Now everybody got the game figured out all wrong/ I guess you never know what you got till its gone/ I guess this is why I’m here and I can’t come back home.”

Graduation is universal. It tells a story perfectly illustrating modern life and culture. It is individual and inclusive. It is literal and abstract. It is fantasy and reality. It is celebrity and citizen. It is mental and physical. It is the fluff and the fundamental. It is tragedy and comedy. It is right now and it is eternally timeless. It is a foreshadow and a reminiscence. It is orientation as much as it is graduation. It is legendary and it is unforgettable.

Venturing out of the kaleidoscopic jungle fever pitch of M.I.A.’s Arular we find ourselves at the concrete crossroads between Brooklyn’s Marcy Projects and London’s Abbey Road with DJ Danger Mouse’s brilliant return to basics, the masterful Jay-Z versus Beatles mash-up, The Grey Album. The Grey Album is a cataclysmic crux of two epic absolutes: The Beatles’ White Album and Jay-Z’s Black Album with the rhapsodic rodent at the helm. Burton blurs the lines and illuminates the bonds between good and d’evils to create a gritty grey area – platinum records sans the shine.

The Grey Album is a cultural reflection and blueprint. It is a hybrid of two artistic absolutes: Jay-Z’s Black Album as the pitch black to which he faded – the close to a career, the retirement, the sendoff, the assumed end; The Beatles’ White Album as their rebirth – the first album after the death of their manager Brian Epstein, and the first album on their own record label Apple – donning a pure white album cover with nothing but “The BEATLES” in black. The mash-up flips the roles and sees Hov’s requiem lyrics as a renaissance.

Lyrically, Jay-Z is at the forefront; however, The Beatles are far from fallen back. Danger Mouse finds a perfect harmonic balance between the two pieces. There is no true dominance here, it’s all about perspective: prominence versus constants. While Jay-Z is the sole voice telling the tales through a capella samples; The Beatles are the enveloping atmosphere giving sentiment to the semantics, melodically giving new meaning to Carter’s message. The Beatles act as a backing band, the stage upon which Jay-Z performs best; as a generational iconography, The Beatles’ presence on The Grey Album gives context to the cultural icon as the proverbial shoulders upon which he strides.

The Grey Album‘s fusion gives precedence to the undertones, and the tracklisting – even if only in title alone – adds immense depth to the original tracks. While the “Sexy, Sexy” mix finds our dear Prudence de-robing and changing clothes, we also find Danger Mouse’s ode to the inner-pimp in every don diva as “Dirt Off Your Shoulder” rides over “Julia.” Verse by verse the beat-backed shift in perspective is Julia’s ghetto story, Hov and his white girl breaking from the kitchen and the cult of domesticity to the kingpin’s throne “Your homey Hov’ in position, in the kitchen with soda… Now, fifty-two cars roll out, remove ceiling. In case fifty-two broads come out, now you chillin, with a boss bitch of course S.C. on the sleeve.” Danger Mouse flipped “O’s the opposite with Orphan Annie,” the beautiful b in the back of the ‘Bach. We had Fergie looking glamorous, and Danity Kane showstopping, but here we find an anti-ringtone anthem for the street mistresses.

“Shawn Carter was born December 4th. Weighing in at 10 pounds 8 ounces. He was the last of my 4 children. The only one who didn’t give me any pain when i gave birth to him – and that’s how i knew that he was a special child.” Born on December 4th, here Burton solidified the social imperialist’s place as a product of his environment as Carter flows over – and as – “Mother Nature’s Son” sample. Backed by The Beatles, Hov is as much a product of his artistic environment within this work, and as a cultural signifier, as he is a literal product of the Marcy Projects – both of which made him the musical monarch he is today. Let it be said though, that the head that wears the crown is almost as heavy as the oft-spoken “she.”

While Rick Rubin portrayed the grizzly death of Hov – being gunned down on the same Brooklyn block that previously couldn’t knock his hustle; Burton sees the happiness of that warm gun as Carter’s epiphanic “Moment of Clarity.” Both Jay-Z and the Beatles albums are themselves are undoubtedly masterpieces, near perfect recordings – epiphanies within their respective eras.

Danger Mouse has on one turntable the pristine white illumination, and on the other, black magic – together they meet on the infamous grey battleground: “Interlude.” Under the deafening roars of conspiracy theorists screaming Illuminati after every Jay-Z utterance, Burton adds fuel to the fire with an amazing hidden-in-plain-view superlatively subliminal communion between Hov’s “Lucifer 9” and The Beatles “Revolution 9.” Carter, like the second Beatles sample on “Interlude” is so tired, as far as the Illuminati woes go: it’s on to the next one. “Lucifer, dawn of de morning! I’m gonna, chase you out of Earth…” like an exorcism releasing d’evils of his past and putting the former self to rest in light of a revolutionary rebirth.

Always treating his first like his last – from the first song to the 99th problem and everywhere in between – the beginning is the end and when both ends meet – Grey Album or otherwise – it’s pure helter skelter. Danger Mouse added a darkness to The White Album that the original recording’s title would distance one’s perception from grasping, and in turn, softened the edge of The Black Album. The sound he created was one of the greatest sonic homages to hip-hop and modern sampling since DJ Shadow’s Endtroducing… The precision of Danger Mouse’s mixing creates a steady staccato, that sets a comfort within the quick cuts. The signature smooth Beatles riffs and harmonies are run through the gutter gamut – but come out transformed in a way that makes the listener feel the music in a way that bridges Brooklyn and London, transcending any transatlantic, tonal, or temporal barriers.

DJ Danger Mouse’s The Grey Album finds The Beatles, not faded to the back, but highlighting the side of Hov that went overlooked after he faded to Black. The White Album foundation gives context to Jay-Z’s lyrical story as much as it does to the culture over which he dictates. Of all the generations past, we are the lost ones; we are a grey era – who won’t walk away, but won’t look back – finding our way through the fog, and making our way in their midst. Those who don’t remember history are doomed to repeat it; while those who truly appreciate it, remix it to blueprint the future – unforgettable.