Squadda B – Back $ellin Crack [Green Ova] // Grade: B+

“Rap game illusion I be seein’ the shit” At this point maybe you don’t know Squadda’s name yet. Or maybe you do? At this point it’s difficult for me to tell how the rest of the world is feelin about all this rap music I’ve been writing about. On top of my own lack of perspective though, it would seem that the rest of the world’s predictability is collapsing. It’s tumultuous times in hip hop, and with Danny Brown’s modest amount of success this year, I can’t tell if it’s because the tastemakers are all here right now, or if the world is paying attention of its own accord. The Wave is slowly growing, slowly rising, and Squadda is one of its most prominent faces. But, until this release there wasn’t such a cogent touchpoint for this enigmatic and irreverent half of The Greatest Duo Ever.

You can tell Squadda doesn’t care, you can hear it in his voice, and if you pay attention to his words you’ll hear him talk about his obligation to rapping. But in spite of what amounts to a disaffected patina, his heart is in it, and so beneath the unaffected exterior is a deeply inquisitive, emotional, and contemplative man. In making his art Squadda persuades that duality to occupy the same space, but it never quite congeals. I mean it all gels if we’re talkin’ about whether or not this music vibes, but in terms of the whole caring/not caring dynamic, there is no closure, no resolution. Squadda doesn’t balance those elements in some recognizable way. Much like his beats leave us all suspended in the ether of sound, his raps leave us suspended in the ether of this duality. Squadda doesn’t show us the end, and he doesn’t give us the answers. Squadda shows us the unending path, shares tales of his time on the path, and offers insight to the realizations he’s had along the way. He doesn’t take us there, he gets us there. Feel me?

“The most normal life I lead is out in the streets,” is the opening line from the hugely irreverent “Say That To Say This.” It doesn’t rhyme, and the structure is not noticeably song-like. It’s a flood of non sequiturs linked only by the phrase “I say that to say this.” But despite the fact that on paper it sounds less like hip hop than Justin Bieber at the BET cypher, on wax (so stupid to say that, but in a ‘so stupid to say that’ that I can’t pass up on the opportunity type of way) it sounds Illmatic as fuck (I don’t even like Illmatic much — I prefer It Was Written — but it works great as an adjective here). But, it doesn’t end there because if you’re listening with a careful and informed ear it’s really difficult to draw the line at what Squadda doesn’t sound like. But Squadda knows what he doesn’t sound like. And he tells us.

“We had some labels holler but we ain’t wanna sign.” I mean, he doesn’t outline exactly what that entails, but it means that Squadda knows what he’s not. And he steers clear of it. But, if you come to this record trying to pin down what Squadda is, you’re going to walk away frustrated, or with a really long beard and nails and shit cause you stood there for ages. Look at it like this, Squadda is in the room, but what matters is that he’s int he building. When you stop checking all the rooms and just listen, it’s obvious where he’s at. I mean, he’s a bonafide producer, but he only made one beat on the record. But the one beat he made is the “one of these things is not like the other,” and it’s dripping in just as much irreverence as it could possibly hold. If you’re paying attention Squadda is doing everything, but if you’re looking for him Squadda is vacuous. On Back $ellin Crack Jack Skeleton himself evokes one of the most atavistic artistic dualities we know as Earthly beings. Like smoke, he vacillates in the balance between existing and not existing, and to our benefit he does it in rap. You the man doggie.

Christmas 2011 in NY didn’t come equipped with picturesque snow or fat old elf dudes committing reverse B&Es. No reindeer were spotted in the Vanderveer Projects as far as I heard and not a single shitless motherfucker I know got a lump of coal. Judging by imprecise poll, most cats in NY were either hold up grubbing on Chinese food with their friends or trying not to slap their distant relatives in their grills. It looked like the Christmas spirit skipped over the entire city.

That was until last night at the Highline Ballroom when the NY rap gods gifted us with a late Christmas present in the form of an Action Bronson & Mr. Muthafuckin’ eXquire show. It was some shit straight out of a Hallmark card. Jolly old Action Bronson with the red beard handing out weed to all the boys and girls. Mr. eXquire giving out snackboxes of fried chicken to lucky ladies and an array of hard beats and rhymes for all. At long last a traditional holiday scene to take the cold off of a New York winter. If only someone would’ve come through with some incense from the Fulton Mall it would’ve been just like when lil’ baby Jesus was born.

P.S. Yes. the Bronson tee is back in stock.

Near Mint Condition. The comics I’m interested in this week. I have poor taste, help it out by recommending titles from your own brown paper bag.

—-

DMZ #72
The final issue of DMZ drops today, and I’m not caught up in time to check it out. There’s a greasy sadness lining my armpits where there should be anticipatory precipitation. DMZ’s a bit of a special comic book of mine, having followed it for the better part of five years through curious denials and momentary binges. Last week I finished up yet another semester of graduate school, and the first time I did was crack open the latest TPB, Collective Punishment.

Wood and Burchielli have guided the reader through a gorgeous journey into the perpetually not-too-hard-to-believe second American Civil War. From allusions of the Iraqi War, to a stark fucking knife into the post-Obama disillusionment, the comic has been a guide post on our cheesy poof-covered culture and political descent into Oblivion. I’m going to miss the warmth of the comic. The warmth of finding a creator who can make sense of the nonsense in a way that I wish I could, if I only had the inclination or talent. Not only that, but finding solace in knowing someone else is feeling the same as you do, in these Bananas Times.

I’ll miss this fucking comic book.

—-

Secret Avengers #20
Speaking of final issues, tomorrow is also the final Warren Ellis-fueled Secret Avengers. I’ve dug on his stand-alone blasts of typical Ellisian madness filtered through Marvel’s Rogue Avengers team. Not to be confused with the variety of other Rogue Teams the publisher has, such as Uncanny X-Force. What do these motherfuckers do when they run into one another during mutual covert operations? Especially since it seems like Beast, if not Wolverine, is on all of them.

Ellis is joined by Alex Maleev for this final installment, and that doubles my pleasure. Watch as I writhe in his pencil-powered-glory. Cramming crayons and pastel finger paints into my pants, trying to slather myself in the powers that grant him such utility. Yes, Maleev! Yes!

As I was saying, I’ll miss Ellis and his one-offs.

—-

Spaceman #3
Boom! Brian Azzarello and Eduardo Risso are brining the crackling science-fiction glory in this mini-series. Of nine issues. Does that make it a maxi-series? Maxiseries? Quasi-maxi-post-mini-series. Something of that such. We got ourselves here a failed Mars program, Dystopian nightmares, riffage on the depravity of our Empty Celebrity Syndrome culture and more. All in a series you would have snagged the initial issue of for one measly dollar.

Jump aboard this pig before she’s blowing up in a glorious tits-science-American-Nightmare fireworks display high in the atmosphere of our Organic Spaceship. You’ll be happy you did. Or you’ll be unhappy you did and keep it yourself. Thereby ensuring my much needed ignorance.

—-

Ultimate Comics Ultimate Avengers Ultimate Time! #5
Jonathan Hickman. Esad Ribic. The Ultimate Universe. Short choppy sentences. Yo I have to be honest I just watched this video and I can’t get it out of my head while I’m trying to type. It’s difficult. Anyways yeah if you can survive that I love you. The Force is strong in your loins. Perhaps you were birthed up by the Force itself in some shitty sand-scarred planet to Shmi and now you have to podrace all day? Sand storms are very dangerous! Shit we’re off the tracks. Way off the tracks, and it don’t matter! Why? ‘Cause I got carte blanche! Just like Hickman. Just like Hickman does when it comes to the Ultimate Universe. [Phew.] It’s glorious to see the dude unchained from the typical bureaucratic nonsense that everything in the Mainland Marvel Monstrosity has to be funneled through. “Oh yeah, Hickman! You wanted to have Rachel Grey join FF? Well uh yeah here’s the thing she’s in the Avengers X-Cepted storyline this year, and next year she’s going to be in Fright Night: Vampire’s Children Crusade and then…and then…and then…” and so on.

Dude gets to play for keeps in the Little Universe On The Side, and it shows. Destroy Valhalla? Sure. Bring back Reed Richards from his heinous Jeph Loeb penned death? Double sure. Tweak everything out in a quasi-Authority vibe and give Caffeine Powered a raging dork-on? Filling in the applicable circle with violent pencil-on-paper force.

—-

Those are the titles I’m most interested in this week. I’m sure I’ll arrive at home with a panache of other fillings to faithfully frak my wallet’s chasms. What are interested in this week? Hit me.

British filmmaker Ben Wheatley gave audiences a look behind the suburban crime curtain with his strong 2009 debut Down Terrace. Wheatley’s latest film, Kill List, takes another look at the delicate intricacies of domestic life then burns the house down. By the time the end credits started rolling I was reeling – damn near suffocated by the smothering atmosphere of pure dread. Over its 90 minutes, the Kill List shifts from a Mike Leigh-style family drama to terrifying folk horror that left me shivering. You’ll never guess how it ends as the film’s beginning is made up of the marital bickering of middle class Englanders Jay (Neil Maskell) and Shel (MyAnna Buring).

Jay is an ex-soldier and contract killer who recently screwed his back up on a job in Kiev. His wife Shel thinks Jay’s back trouble is all in his head and her role as sole bread winner while Jay is shacked up is putting serious financial strain on the family. Caught in the middle of their knock-down drag-out bickering is their 10-year-old son. Jay’s ex-army buddy Gal (Michael Smiley) comes over for dinner with his new sweetheart Fiona (Emma Fryer), but Jay and Shel can’t hide their lingering anger at each other and the dinner ends with a bang (and with Jay attempting the ol’ tablecloth trick). Fed up with the financial strain and Shel’s incessant bitching, Jay accepts an offer by Gal to take on a new contract – a new “kill list.”

This is where I’ll shutup about Kill List‘s plot. To go on would only spoil the hurricane to hell that goes down during the film’s stunning final hour. The menace and creeping dread starts building up from the moment we sit down for dinner and reaches its apex in one of the most insane final sequences I’ve seen in forever. It’s like someone threw a honey badger in a film pedant’s dining room. Wheatley deserves some serious praise for pulling this off without having the film fly off the rails. There’s a lot of elements at play here including impressive cinematography from DP Laurie Rose. Then there’s the performances, which used a lot of improvised dialogue (the cast graciously gets a writing credit for their work).

Neil Maskell delivers a haunting performance as Jay – a killing machine that moves like a clenched fist. Jay’s got some demons in his past that Wheatley leaves up to our imaginations to fill in. He starts the film as a bad man and only gets worse. This is no redemption story about an aging hit man – more like a spiraling nightmare about a hit man thrown to the lions. MyAnna Buring is terrific as the suffering wife. Just like with Jay’s demons, we’re never given a clue what Shel thinks of Jay’s line of niche work. This may be the one flaw with Kill List: it’s a little too ambiguous when it comes to its characters. I’m perfectly happy not completely knowing what the hell is going on during the film’s enigmatic climax, but I would have liked to get some more dish on the characters.

What Wheatley accomplished with Kill List is exceptional. It’s one of the most genuinely scary and shocking films in years. It’s a goodie bag of domestic drama, folk horror, the occult, and unflinching graphic violence. Wheatley leaves a lot of unanswered questions but a second viewing of the film actually surfaced some nice little details that helped connect some of the dots for me. The complete shift in genre might rub some people the wrong way but those people are vapid idiots in my book and “they should suffer.”

Kill List is coming to Video on Demand courtesy of IFC on January 4th. Wheatley’s Down Terrace is currently available on Netflix Watch Instantly.

Sortahuman – Stonergang (2011) [Self-Released] // Grade B

Let me be clear: there is an A album in here. Sortahuman offers a pretty brilliant take on energetic Southern bangers that range from epic anthems, to menacing creepers. But there is just too much material here. Even the trimmed down 14 track version winds up feeling burdensome coming in at 1 hour and 7 minutes. In their defense it’s not because of any error on their part, it’s moreso a matter of Sortahuman needing to find a way to fit 3 (and often 4 with the frequent Dizzy D contributions) guys, onto a song that should ideally come in at 3’30″ maximum. The format for hip hop and music in general has shifted. It’s not that we aren’t willing to listen to longer songs, but at this point the strongest artists are the ones who can get their work done in the shortest time span, and then break from the restraint with dramatic effect.

But ultimately, a record that’s too long still gets listened to, it just rarely gets listened to in its entirety. Stonergang picks up where Lysergic Bliss left off but takes a definitive turn towards a slightly darker tinge. The exuberance and enthusiasm are still here, but this record feels less patient, and more imposing. Lysergic Bliss carried us along and showed us how Sortahuman rolls, but Stonergang kinda throws you in the trunk. The sinister element is largely inspired by the presence of SpaceGhostPurrp, but it’s upheld by the majority of the beats on the record. Blockbeataz, Dizzy D, Cold Casey, BKMT, and myself all contributed beats that wind up leaving the record more haunted than hoppin’. I mean the record definitely bumps, but it’s not doing it in an even remotely wholesome way. The BKMT produced closer Rapture Quest could very well be the dying gasps of a thousand years of music. Even though it’s not in a minor key, and it’s not particularly sinister-sounding, its most sinister elements wind up coming through.

It’s frustrating being on the outside, and there aren’t a lot of white-skinned faces on this Wave that’s coming up. So, it’s not too much of a reach to assume that what we’re hearing here is in part a response to the lack of reception their first album received (but my correspondences with Supa are the real source of that insight). When Supa chants “D-I-Y Till I Die” on the likewise-titled track it’s as much a threat as a declaration. While ASAP Rocky dropped a mixtape and rose to the top as if by virtue of a golden ticket and the Wonka elevator ride that comes with it (that’s nothing against Rocky, just stating the facts), Sortahuman dropped an album and a follow-up with very little reception thus far. So, as they’re chanting “D-I-Y Till I Die” it’s as much a solution to their dilemma as it is the chorus to the song.

If you ride in a car you should get this record. If you smoke drugs and get rowdy you should get this record. If you drink and get loose you should get this record. There are a lot of other reasons for you to get this record, but I feel like those three will cover most of the readers. And, while Sortahuman is definitely still developing, and working out some of the kins their sound is dialed in. They’re takin it back but takin’ it forward too, and doin’ it in a way that is very difficult to ignore so it’s just a matter of time before they hit.

Sry Elbows, I kinda faked you out with the soup thing, but no, this post is not about savory edible liquids. My b. It’s actually about this rapper, ShowYouSuck and his song “Clam Chowder Soup.” Look at him, wearing our wares.

Look at him, rapping over classic Diamond D beats, standing in front of Roots videos ‘n whatnot. You think this dude likes 90s rap? You think this dude likes vichyssoise? You think this dude likes elision? Should I stop? I’m gonna stop…

Well this is fucking cool. TMNT co-creator, current Heavy Metal editor, and all around kewl dood Kevin Eastman has just decided that he wants to auction something quite sizable off on eBay. That something being the entire contents of his office, as is, Redbull cans and all.

Not only have I never heard of something like this (am I being oblivious) I’m sure Eastman has some really fucking great stuff in there, especially for us TMNT fans. Not to mention, according to the item description, a hefty box of porn and a signed Elizabeth Hurley Austin Powers photo. Bizarre! Check it out, and if you’re feeling saucy and rich get your bid in before the auction ends on January 4th.

So which is it? The end of the old year, or the beginning of the new year? What sort of person are you?

Are you currently in the throes of looking back—happily or sadly—on 2011 and saying “damn, that was something” or are you held in thrall (demonsweatlive) of the looming twelvepocalypse and saying “damn, this will be something”?

I really don’t know where I fall between those two camps. On the one hand, 2011 was very good to me—my own little mopster!—but on the other hand, I lost my dog; another quiet casualty of the motherfucking world turning.

I am, however, looking forward to whatever is on the horizon with 2012. It promises to be full of new and exciting things for me as a father, and of course, not to take work/business for granted, but I’m sure if I’ve got the will, I will find a way to keep that thing ticking, too. Toys are either getting more exciting or less exciting—depending who you ask—and so I’m sure there will be plenty to talk about in that neck of the woods, too.

But what about me? Let’s get to me. As you know, O loyal order of Bloglin, I make this shit about me. I lure a bright magenta hook in the water and wait for you to come hither and nibble at the legitimate awesomeness that is this brand and then boom. A razor-sharp piece of middle-aged shrapnel screams right through your young and tender gills. You are now unwittingly reading about me and my feelings.

I’d like to find time to write more. I’d like to be here more often. Hell, I’d like to actually READ this blog…something about this past year has made me all but immune to new and exciting things on the internet. That probably includes everything—music, videos, memes—I don’t even think the porn I’ve been looking at is altogether new or fresh. Go fig.

I have wondered several times in the past few months at whether or not I’d ever return here (as an author, at least)…and I suppose I’ll keep wondering that between posts. Mishka has been such an awesome entity to be associated with….even in this loosest of ways, that I would hate to fall out of touch with that. Of course, on the other hand, I’m not gonna write about stuff just to write about stuff…I mean, it’s gotta be interesting, right? I worry about my predilection towards kid stuff now, as of course, I’ve always worried about my distance from ‘you all’…not just in terms of locale, but also in terms of age. Perceived age?

Why is it that I constantly do that to you? Why do I assume that I am at home, kicking back with Stephen Ambrose and PBS while you’re out at some sort of epic topless comedy club? I’m pretty sure that assumption is rude to both of us…but why can’t I shake it? #sorryBroDidn’tMeanItLikeThat

Are we all growing up together? Is this what that feels like? As time goes by, and we all sit here and mutate and feed and grow these ideas that are all rooted in nostalgia…is that what growing up feels like? And how many of you are so young and new and fresh that you don’t remember the first time that Air Jordans incited violence on the street? How many of you think My Pet Monster is something new? #seeAboveHashTag

Jesus. What a bummer. Why am I being a bummer all of a sudden? I came here to talk about toys. Didn’t I?

Reflection is good. It’s good to know what you do and why you do it. Right? There is absolutely nothing wrong with asking questions of oneself to really get a handle on how one feels. Maybe the weird part is that one is asking these things of oneself while 10,000 or so other ones sit around and wait for one to get to one’s point. Maybe?

As life—in all it’s forward-moving glory—progresses ever forward, I know I feel good about looking back. I know I feel good about toys. And I know I feel good about talking to you, The Bloglin, about all of that shit. I’m getting ready to enter my fourth year of posting here (which is sort of a lie…I don’t really count ’11, as I wasn’t really ‘here’) and I’m excited. I have absolutely NO idea what I plan on talking about, but I know I want to talk about it…and I know I want to talk about it to you and you.

I read a really fantastic article in GQ the other day (I was sitting on a couch in a hair salon waiting for my beautiful wife to get her eyebrows done…the kid was on my lap and I was feeding him cheerios with one hand and turning pages with the other [note: looking to get laid? find a kid {any kid} and take him to a hair salon.]). It was about how Aziz Ansari, James Murphy and David Chang sort of stumbled into this rad situation in which GQ was paying for them to go to Japan together and geek out on food and each other, etc.

Fuck…where am I going with this? Long story short: Bloglin Summit needs to happen. I have become pretty good (internet-, but still) friends with several of the dudes who post here, and I would just love to get in a room—any room—with them and shoot the shit. About whatever.

I guess this is more of an aside that I originally planned intended, but anyway, I guess the gist is that I love the Bloglin. I love you, the readers. And most of all, I’m oh-so-very fond of the friendships and acquaintances I’ve made through this site over the past three years, and I look forward to this next one. Very much so.

Happy New Year, Bloglin. Thanks for letting me play.

Oh. Shit. Right. I made a movie for you to watch and enjoy. Please watch and, um, enjoy.

Until next time.

The folks at Intervision Picture Corp. killed it all year long with their special edition releases of hidden, shot-on-VHS gems. Releases like Sledgehammer and Things made Intervision a force to be reckoned with and they’re still showing no mercy with their Feb. 14 release of the depraved German gorefest The Burning Moon, banned in its Mother Land since its release in 1997!!! Awww just in time for Valentine’s Day!

Written and directed by German gore maestro Olaf Ittenbach, The Burning Moon is an anthology film that tells two bedtime stories told by a strung-out punker to his little sister. One is about a blind date serial killer and the other about a psychotic, raping priest who ends up in Hell. I’ve never seen the film, but our very own Matthew Caron (The Vidiot) watched it as part of Vice’s Movie Club. From reading their piece on it, Burning Moon sounds like one of the most fucking crazy horror films ever put to film. And now thanks to Intervision, we can all enjoy this treasured heap of depravity in smooth new packaging with a rare, recently unearthed 45 minute making-of documentary.

You can bet your ass you’ll see a review of The Burning Moon special edition DVD around Valentine’s Day here at the Bloglin. Because nothing says “I love you” more than watching a man’s groin split open as he screams in agony.

Co La – Daydream Repeater (2011) [NNA Tapes] // Grade: D

I’m an idiot for even trying my hand at this album. But I like a good challenge. Co La is Matthew Papich from Ecstatic Sunshine. I find Ectstatic Sunshine boring to no end: juxtapositions of guitar riffs that would probably be cool if they were arranged differently, but they’re just pasted together. It’s great if you like just guitars. I don’t. And I don’t like shoegaze. The album is being released on NNA Tapes, a label that has made a lot of headlines this year that I did not really understand, and I thought maybe I was missing out. Well it wasn’t chillwave, but it still didn’t quite hook me.

Each track on this album is a juxtaposition of guitar riffs with stuff that are not guitar riffs but it still sounds like none of the people involved in this album were listening to what one another was doing. Hold on, it’s only one guy? Ok so it’s just an awkward collage of things for the tone deaf. To make matter worse, some of this things are horribly overused samples that have been used more intelligently before. Like “Wanna Say Faux.” And there’s effects. Well, there’s some reverb and some delay, that’s about it though. Tracks like “Turned Twice” and “Smooth Solidarity” basically sound like dub version of dub music. Or a dub band heard from 3 miles away at a festival. Is this the new elevator music? I cannot imagine anyone with half a musical culture listening to this and actually enjoying it.

There was a time when tape loops were exciting: it was called modernism. It was fifty, sixty years ago – some clever geezers figured out that that recorded music could be played as instruments. And I guess since we’re supposed to be postmodern now, so Papich figured he should do postmodern music by sampling contemporary music and feeding it through a computer to make new music out of it. But tape loops required effort, precision, you had the balance splice everything visually because you obviously can’t be using the reel to reel – and the rhythm of the deck motor gave the analog sound some elasticity. That stuff is really easy on a computer. And it’s double easy when you just use one damn set of sample per track. And not to be saracastic, but the album is called Daydream Repeater so I guess I should have been warned? Literally, it’s like a daydream (which is horrible) that’s being repeated (which is dreadful). But don’t go thinking that the title gives it all away. No no. It’s named Daydream. Repeater. DAYDREAM REPEATER!

If music were meat, any given song on Daydream Repeater would be an OK sausage. But that’s a full length box of links they’re selling, and I’m not buying it. It’s actually scaring me that this is the kind of music that people buy these days. It’s musical doodles – no thought into it, no point to it. And I am somewhat irked that this stuff is being label as experimental: there is nothing unique or different or even slightly boundary-pushing. The only thing that I felt was being experimented with in this album was my patience; and I’m a patient guy, so I sat through it. If you’re feeling so lucky, go ahead, you might find something you like in this.