VIC did a great job sampling this joint for Missin’ Linx..
WOW. No words, except the big middle finger to 2016…
Singer George Michael had died, according to multiple reports. He was 53.
“It is with great sadness that we can confirm our beloved son, brother and friend George passed away peacefully at home over the Christmas period,” Michael’s publicist said in a statement to Sky News and BBC News.
“The family would ask that their privacy be respected at this difficult and emotional time. There will be no further comment at this stage.”
Thames Valley Police said South Central Ambulance Service attended a property in Goring in Oxfordshire at 13:42 GMT, according to the BBC. Authorities say there were no suspicious circumstances surrounding his death, according to the BBC.
Michael, who was born Georgios Kyriacos Panayiotou, launched his music career in the 1980s as a band member of Wham!. In 1987, he released his debut solo album, Faith, which catapulted him into success.
During his almost four-decades of fame, the singer sold 100 million albums worldwide.
George Michael had a shitload of great records, but this one will always remain my favorite…
PASSES AWAY AT 69. 2016 has been a bit crazy. Pretty sure i’ve done a few of these posts way too often this year. Just another one of those shows i grew up on…
Passes away at the age of 90. Regardless of what some may think of him, i always admired his fierce independence…
And yet another great leaves us far too early. I’m pretty sure everyone knows his classic discography, but Prince was also a very aware/conscious individual. Check out this clip of him on the Tavis Smiley Show discussing chemtrails and his views on Amerikkka…
.. I’ll leave you with this ‘Purple Rain’ guitar solo:
“Noooooo!!” That was my first thought as i heard the news today about Phife Dawg’s passing. I was actually watching the Democracy Now program and as usual they play a record as they go on break/intermission. On this break though, they started playing Phife’s verse on Buggin’ Out and i automatically just start bobbin’ my head like “Yeaaa, that’s my shit right there” lol. But as the reporter fades out the music to come back from the break, i hear the words that pretty much crushed my whole morning. “Phife Dawg has passed away early this morning”. Wow. Ain’t no words to say but that Tribe’s music was pretty much my childhood’s DNA and now one part of that is gone. Gone, but never forgotten. Rest in paradise, Phife.
Nicely written article over @ Complex…
Let’s talk about epigrams for a second. Not punchlines, not general wordplay, but saying some shit in less than a bar that sums up everything you stand for.
“I love to rap, but I hate the game.”
That’s Sean Price. Ruck. Megatron Sean. P-Body. Mic Tyson. Kimbo Price. Brownsville’s finest. In 40 years of hip-hop, no one’s ever distilled themselves better than that. It’s a mission statement expressed in half a bar. Nine words. And when we lost Sean Price last night, at a mere 43 years of age, we lost one of rap’s only polestars.
In the mid-’90s, when he first popped up as half of the duo Heltah Skeltah, Ruck was already a curmudgeon at 23, wearing nothing flashier than jeans, Timbs, and a disdain for other rappers. His poker-faced grumpiness gave essential counterweight to Rock’s dungeon-dragon histrionics, and made him the working-class hero of the already no-frills Boot Camp Clik (Black Moon, Smif-n-Wessun, and the best-named-ever Originoo Gunn Clappaz).
Over 20 years (20 years), the young turk turned into a fixture. He released an astonishing amount of material—with Heltah Skeltah, with BCC, as a solo act, as part of Random Axe, and in countless loosies with other artists—and all of it was best defined by what it wasn’t: gimmicky. He never wrote a verse starting every line with a different letter of the alphabet, he never rapped from the point of view of turkey bacon, and he never did that self-satisfied allegorical shit where you thought he was talking about clothes when in reality he was ISSUING A SCATHING CRITIQUE OF CAPITALISM.
What Sean Price did was write bars. Thousands and thousands of them, each an exercise in menacing literality. But his ice grill was deadpan; every threat was tinged with a laugh, and you could always hear the smile lurking behind the serious.
“I’m in the hotel with ganja/Dope needle, Don Cheadle, Hotel Rwanda…”
“I carry a gun, paw/Barbarian, Thundarr/Switchblade bitchmade niggas like ‘en garde’…”
“Take it back to D-Cept, back out the hammer fam/I ain’t talkin’ hammer ‘blam,’ fam, I’m talkin’ hammer, damn…”
Adjectives and prepositions just got in his way, so he left them behind for other lesser rappers to pick up.
Hip-hop changed around him, as it did around anyone with the talent or sheer willpower to stay relevant. P didn’t get caught up, though. The jeans stayed baggy, the Polo stayed on, and he stayed in Brownsville. He embraced his image as an unappreciated journeyman—”the brokest rapper you know” was his preferred phrase—and Brooklyn (and the Internet) in turn embraced him.
The record industry wasn’t quite so welcoming. (What, you’re gonna coax a guy who rhymes “Malachi York” and “Ballantine quart” into trimming his beard and becoming the next Flo Rida?) Price felt that, chafed at it, but processed his frustration into disdain just like he always did.
And yeah, he evolved, but not in that Electric Circus way. He got married. He had kids. But he kept rapping, and kept talking shit about Dru Ha, and kept making you laugh with how he would say whatever the fuck popped into his head. (“I don’t parlay with a crew, nigga/I don’t Wale with them new niggas.”)
The idea of “grown-man rap” is a weird one. We embrace 22-year-olds for showing some world-weariness and acting like they have some perspective, but the moment someone manages to amass some actual wisdom, we turn it into a pejorative. So make no mistake: Sean Price was an old head. He liked it that way. And those of us who grew up alongside him liked it that way too.
That doesn’t mean we can’t appreciate the singular genius of Kendrick or Chance, or that we don’t fuck with Kevin Gates or Vince Staples or any one of the dozens of artists who remind us every day that hip-hop is in a great place. It just means that Brooklyn has always depended on rappers who stay rooted to the concrete, 10 toes down, and no one did that better than Sean Price.
I’m going fishing Sunday at sheepshead bay I did it last week it was relaxing
Wherever you are, P, we hope you get to relax.
Wow, just wow.. It seems like just yesterday I was posting about another Brooklyn rapper passing away.
Rest in peace to one of Brownsville’s finest Sean P…