The Seventh Sin

SINNERS!

Well, we come to it at last, the seventh sin.
And it’s been a ride hasn’t it? Well, you’re right, it hasn’t. You’re lookin’ deep now, waiting for that first cynical remark. The seventh sin is bad rap music. So what’s he got to say? How long until he drops an F-bomb? He didn’t drop an F-bomb in the last column, and that got me scared.

Well, there’s a reason for that. People who shouldn’t have been reading my columns read them. And by this, I don’t mean people I know… the more, the merrier!… but people who have no idea what I’m trying to say. Only one person read it… and promptly expressed to the proper authorities that I am a woman-hater. Woman-hater? Me? Why, because I refuse to tolerate idiocy? Because I see “Lifetime” as the sorry, pandering crap it is? Because I point out that “Men are Pigs” is a dumb saying (try gettin’ a pig to build a skyscraper, or go to war)? Women may need men like a fish needs a bicycle. Fish also swim around in their own crap. If they have a bicycle, they can probably ride to a clean tank. In fact, that’s kind of what usually goes on.

Not one F-bomb yet! And this argument is truly, honestly deserving of it. Anyway, back to the sin.

YING YANG TWINS YING YANG SUCK

I’m all for retarded people. Seriously, I think we should give ’em more freedoms and more chances to advance in the world. But there is one instance I can’t stand. We should not give them money to ruin an art form.

Listen to Grandmaster Flash and “The Message”, “Welcome to the Terror-dome” by Public Enemy, or “Children’s Story” by Slick Rick. Or even “Da Art of Storytelling” by Slick Rock and Outkast. These deal with real issues in the world that troubled the musicians at the time. Now, not all music has to do that… but rap seems built to explore these regions, better than the oft-traveled paths of love and heartbreak. Maybe it’s the way the performer doesn’t actually sing, but talks to a beat, so it’s like poetry.

But of course, everything changes. Rock and Roll became hair Metal and then Nu-Metal and then that scary monster, Rap-Rock. New Wave died out and was replaced with vacuuous pop. Country… well, let’s be honest, it’s always sucked. And rap… well, let’s compare how it’s changed.

A child is born with no state of mind
Blind to the ways of mankind
God is smilin’ on you but he’s frownin’ too
Because only God knows what you’ll go through
You’ll grow in the ghetto livin’ second-rate
And your eyes will sing a song called deep hate
The places you play and where you stay
Looks like one great big alleyway
You’ll admire all the number-book takers
Thugs, pimps and pushers and the big money-makers
Drivin’ big cars, spendin’ twenties and tens
And you’ll wanna grow up to be just like them, huh
Smugglers, scramblers, burglars, gamblers
Pickpocket peddlers, even panhandlers
You say I’m cool, huh, I’m no fool
But then you wind up droppin’ outta high school
Now you’re unemployed, all non-void
Walkin’ round like you’re Pretty Boy Floyd
Turned stick-up kid, but look what you done did
Got sent up for a eight-year bid
Now your manhood is took and you’re a Maytag
Spend the next two years as a undercover fag
Bein’ used and abused to serve like hell
’til one day, you was found hung dead in the cell
It was plain to see that your life was lost
You was cold and your body swung back and forth
But now your eyes sing the sad, sad song
Of how you lived so fast and died so young so…
-Grandmaster Flash

Compare the message… the beat, the delivery of that song with this new classic…

Half step pussy ass nigga
Why you lookin’ at a nigga like you wanna run one wit’ me?
I got my big gun wit’ me don’t feel like doofin’ I feel like shootin’ FOOL!
And I don’t like your atitude
You do shit that dem hoes on a rag’ll do
Ol’ faggot, you better watch your mouth
Fo’ I be in front yo’ house, when yo’ ass come out
Ol’ bitch ass, hold another nigga dick ass, BITCH ASS, NIGGA!
-Ying Yang Twins

The sad thing is, the twins, who are nothing more than a pair of ugly, untalented, yammering asses will make ten times as much as Grandmaster Flash for one millionth of the thought and effort. They appeal to every black stereotype, every thug stereotype, with not a brain cell between them.

Oh, and going back to last week’s point… count the I’s in both works. See where the artist’s concern’s lie.

See, this wouldn’t be a problem, except people are listening to this horrible shit. There is nothing in this that could nourish good feelings. I wouldn’t want to “party” with these two monkeys… they’d just start a fight! Yet I look around and see people bumping this music, riding in cars with “Neon Illusions” or “Big Boyz Toyz” across their hoods in plastic stickers… with neon sticks under their vehicles… it’s more than a pet peeve. It’s what’s going to kill the American mind. When you look into Ludacris’s eyes as he bites into that woman’s leg, you are looking into the eyes of a murderer. When you listen to tobey Keith sing about rag-heads, you’re listening to a murderer. The victim sits between your ears.

STILL NO F WORD!

Well, I was gonna answer mail, but I think I’ll save that for next week. This column is tame by my standards…. but don’t worry. When I get good and angry about something, I tend to speak rationally. When I’m just goofin’ around is when you’ll see the swears. So, in closing, “Fuck”.