A$AP Ferg dropped a visual for his “Dope Walk” this week.
The FaceTiming New York’s Fashion Week/how-many-famous-people-can-you-spot-who’s-first-name-isn’t-A$AP concept is plenty entertaining enough, but the real fun starts damn near the end at the 4:07 mark when a couple of the girls from Haim decide letting Ferg & Co. hog all the dope for themselves ain’t dope.
What ensues is the most mesmerizing seven seconds of footage. Admittedly, I gotta tell you that watching white girls dance to hip-hop has always been an exhilarating experience for me because like them fucking Harry Potter Jelly Beans you never know what you’re gonna get. The spectrum of talent is so vast. In this instance tho let it be known that these girls can get it. I vouch vehemently.
Hell I’ll vouch for anyone who’s willing to have a good time. Hip-hop is an inclusive sport – don’t need no hateration, holleration in this dancery. Get down Haim with your funky jungle-loving selves I say. Shucks you too Taylor Swift. Like can a girl live universe? She can gig out to Kanye all day if she want’s too.
This is the coolest fucking song I’ve heard all year. And yo given the fact that we’re only eight days deep into 2015’s sweet goodness I can say that without feeling like a hyperbolic tool not even one bit.
With all due respect I’m surprised Noah “40” Shebib produced this given how insanely unDrake it sounds. The track’s warped accordion, tormented keys and off kilter percussion are so seductive they personally got me feeling all kinds of Girl, Interrupted.
It’s mucho appropriate how satisfyingly Action Bronson looses his mind on this as he colorfully raps about eluding the cops in Broncos and the facial expressions he employes when counting cash. Favorite line: “All I do is eat oysters and speak six languages in three voices..”
Like straight up I wish I could put that on my resume..
Maybe one day.
If this track is any indication, Bronson’s full length album Mr. Wonderful is going to be an experience. Oh why oh why does March 24th have to be so far away?
Sidebar: I’m finishing up John Kennedy Toole’s Confederacy Of Dunces and the thought of Ignatius J. Reilly rapping this as he’s pushing his hotdog cart down Burbon Street is too perfect. I’m smelling a great music video idea. Im finna have my people contact Bronson’s people like yesterday.
I wasn’t really in a recycling mood.
And it was cold out.. But she said, “I think we should take these out any recycle em.” I looked at her and replied “Word.”
I’m not a man of my convictions.
“What’s you’re favorite book?” she asked as soon as we were outside.
“The Myth Of Sisyphus by Albert Camus,” I replied automatically without thinking.
Taken aback, she shot me a look that subtly said “mother fucker say wha?”
She asked me a follow up question but I forget what she asked. But it’s whatever yo. As a consolation I do have a confession for you tho: I lied to her.
Mr. Camus’s novel is really my second favorite book. My for real life favorite book is Nigger by Dick Gregory. But she was white and I had known her for all of 829 seconds and was it cold out and I didn’t really feel like recycling so I lied to her because it was easier for me.
I regret not telling her the truth.
Miguel hit me up last Thursday.
Little did he know my night was spoken for: I was already thirty minutes outta the city at my parents spot, super ass deep into an intense Law & Order: SVU marathon with the 11-year-old kid brother and the 14-year-old kid brother. Nothing says quality brotherly bonding quite like repeatedly watching Olivia Benson hunt down rapists.
“Bruh rain check for tonight homie. What are you doing tomorrow night tho? You closing at the bodega?”
“Ya fool. Hip-hop show tomorrow night. Come through,” Miguel replied.
For almost everyday all day Belmont Bodega is just a quiet little corner shop serving the convenience needs of Southeast Portland’s patrons since at least the day before yesterday if my memory serves correctly. Once a month however the store is transformed into a block party straight outta 1978 San Fransico’s Castro District. But Friday was different. No leather daddies. Just hip-hop heads.
To celebrate First Friday my boy Miguel and the fellows at Belmont Bodega kicked off the last leg of summer by transforming the store into a rap concert. Because nothing says hip-hop more than throwing shows in places that you’re not supposed to.. Like straight up fuck the “man”.. and his perfectly ironed khakis.
Adverse Effects did a legit job of getting the party started with their own unique blend of live trip-hop but the night’s main attraction was Portland’s own Soopah Eype – a nasty fundamental lyricist hellbent on using his wits and wordplay to fuse together thoughts of black existential angst, the American Dream’s inherent lies and trying to fucking get laid.
Friday was the first night I was ever really able to hear homie’s music in full but I’ve had many passionate late night political talks with the homie prior and I was impressed by how he carried that same energy from our inebriated debates into his performance.
My only knocks on the night was that 1) the sound system kept fucking up. Nothing kills a rap party quicker than dead silence. At one point early in his performance Soopah was like “fuck it” an just kicked it acapella. 2) Motherfuckas told me the main show was to start at 10. Soopah Eype didn’t get on till like 11:45. Low key this kinda threw my shit off because I’d begrudgingly acquiescencing to the working world’s professional demand of timeliness. Like Soopah was lucky my manager wasn’t present otherwise he would have gotten a write-up.
Yet even with these minor annoyances included I had a fucking dope ass time. And judging from the vibe of the crowd everyone else did to.
With Soopah Eype and Belmont Bodega everybody wins.
Go rap musics. Go.
Download: Soop Urko by Soopah Eype
I was hanging out with this girl the other day..
It was hot out. She was wearing a tank.
She put her arms over head while we were talking.
I noticed her armpit hair..
Then she noticed I noticed her armpit hair.
“You like?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
The next day we went to the beach. It was a nude beach. But none of us were nude.
Right before heading into the water the girl stopped, turned around towards me, raised her arm and used a finger attached to the hand attached to her other arm to point and say, “Look, no hair.”
I swear to God that’s the nicest thing a woman has ever done for me.