Friday, May 19, 2006

murder he rote

more hood shit?

The recent air of celebrity related murders hasn’t diminished my recognition of artistry... even when it’s still that pusher prose pushing death dealings. The Clipse kick despicable descriptions with delectable diction. Jeezy, not giving a cluck about classical Clipsean click-clack and crack clauses, cloaks his cleverness. Young Don Fresh doesn’t don that cloak with as much panache. And yet the dude has style. Or maybe a beautiful lack there of. Where Erick sermon and Mase (Omillio, even?) worked their slurs with charm Young Don sports a dead-eye, poker-face, and ice-grill (OG steez) even as his ad-libs punctuate perfectly. His delivery is almost a cartoonish casual combined with Jeezy-era cool/cold. The slang here is less about the words than the phrases (Chicago, please help a transcriber out!) and the content is not only predictable, it’s downright rote. And yet…

I realized ‘back in the day’ that the term ‘rap vocalist’ isn’t redundant and has nothing to do with singing. The term helps me explain some of the Jeezy and Peedi appeal that escapes fans of traditional ‘lyricists’. But it doesn’t quite explain the guilty pleasure of this unexpected Goon Squad soloist popping up in the middle of a DJ Drama / Bump J mixtape. It doesn’t explain the intrigue of his non-style trumping the complexity of local ‘peer’ Lupe… at least for this listener. I can overlook a few shaky line deliveries while distracted by the guise of effortlessness. Even if Young Don Fresh never kicks another bar outside of this cold-blooded poem his terse, internal two-syllable terms have endeared themselves. There is a method to the mundane. But not too much.

Young Don Fresh – Hood Shit

I flip Bose, ride slick and sip Mo. Get dough ‘cause my block jump like a Six-Fo’
I got the dice. What they here fo’? Shoot a stack. If I lose, let me get that back. (holler)
Most of my life I had to pitch some crack. If not that, lug mac and strip that cat. (yeah)
I go hard and Bogart. Any nigga in the way o’ the cake, he’ll lay in the lake. (what)
I roll up. Niggas fold up ‘cause I put a hole in they head like the one in a donut.
I make the Heights go nuts and you can’t move a nick. That’s really ‘cause your shit is blow-up
We got the city sewed up. It’s a done deal. I move around the town with just one steel, with enough shots to get one kill. Maybe even two or three. It’s better you than me.
This is that hood shit, Chico bullshit,
See a nigga. Heat a nigga down with a full clip (or He the nigga down with a full clip)

When it’s time to kill in the field, on the real, you boys lay low. Y’all ain’t goons. Y’all a act, like a stage show.
I get bricks of yayo from Pedro at twelve a piece. I’m small shop. I cop twelve at least, hit your block and let the K release, then be gone when the cops come and cage the beast (yeah)
It’s a must that I stay with heat. I stay over East where most niggas play for keeps. (yeah)
I roam streets with money on my mind and fire in my heart, thin tires on the car (check it) and big rims. It’s a mess when the tec hits skin. It burn like a fifth of gin. It’s my turn and I’m here to win. Yeah I’m here again. Goon Squad: you should feel them men.
I could make you disappear, my friend. So tuck your tail before I up and I buck a shell.

I sell crack, stay strapped and don’t snooze. I get clapped at, I clap back like Ja Rule.
No, I don’t sleep. You war with me, you won’t eat ‘cause my whole crew, they dump heat.
Cheef‘ll come through on them chrome feet. Heat up the block with my glock right on me.
I ain’t never did microphone beef. Just catch him at a club and knock out his front teeth. (yeah)
I play dirty and I live filthy. Got bitches and niggas both wantin’ to kill me. (both of ‘em)
And the police all want to conceal me but all that shit really does is thrill me. (ha ha)
I live for the streets. Remy Mart’ make my heart beat. You start beef you end up where the sharks be.
I spark three in the nigga frame. All it takes is an ‘Eight just to get you changed, mayn. (yeah)