February 2009 Archives

ATG's own J. Couch goes in.

Behind the scenes at ATG we stay strong and growing like Flinstones Vitamins. It's important for us to keep things fresh, you know - improve on the design and do something new. With that in mind, keep your eyes glued to the page for a slew of hot new features and original content coming down the pipeline over the next few weeks. The first of said new features, we're happy to say, is already here...

ATG sizes it all up.

Furreal. No kidding. We swear on one of Diddy's names.

In case you missed this minblowing report from Hip-hop DX, the rapper Jamal Barrow, bka Shyne, is getting out of jail eight years after taking the fall in the infamous Bad Boy shootout of '99... 

ATG sizes it all up.


Here at ATG, we've consciously left the silly, circular back and forth between rapper, 50 Cent, and predatory clown, Rick Ross, the fuck alone. The two lost boys share management and release dates, it's concretely clear the whole thing exists for the purpose of buzzing two shitty first quarter albums.

I guess it's time to weigh in.

First and foremost, propers to hiptics.com for their cohesive, comprehensive summary of the squabble. Simply put: Rick Ross sparks up a rivalry via a stupid song wherein he name checks Curtis; 50 replies with another stupid song; the camps take ish to the streets...via their publicists and MTV and Clear Channel Radio.

Ross got the ball rolling, 50 Cent, finally encountering a willing playmate (he's been trying his hand at a Lil Wayne feud for months), went to town: responding with tons of tracks (last night he took to Ross again and let his G-Unit first lieutenant eat as well), giving his adversary 48-hour deadlines with which to strike back. 50's most recent blasts indict Ross for being a "deadbeat dad," as he told MTV News, who wears fake jewelry.

He knows this because he did some investigative reporting and purchased court transcripts from Ross' child-support case.

Let that breathe for a second. The million-dollar Vitamin Water man is a) petty enough to hire private detectives so he can diversify his shit-talking (pure speculation, but I don't see 50 digging through the archives down at city hall), and b) short-sighted enough to imagine said attack will stick and net him points for shining light on a matter most of us likely inferred anyway: Rick Ross is an asshole.

Really, most disturbing is that the blogosphere has already declared a clear-cut victor: Mr. Cent.

His boyish boos and ant-with-a-sledgehammer tactics have been respected and admired, for what amounts to their hardness as it inversely relates to Mr. Ross's hardness. For somehow exposing Rick Ross not as a mafia don, but as a lame posturing former correctional facilities officer.

The 2003 assault on JA Rule's career served as a sincere ploy to off a lying crony boasting his violent credentials without, turns out, any evidence at all. Said saga occured when Fiddy was the pinnacle of life-imitates art hip-hop; the real deal sinking to the level of rap beef only out of respect for his neighborhood.

But regardless of past, six years of living in Connecticut mansions have diluted 50's ties and vitality to any gangster connections he had to begin with. So why is this bullshit working again? Two millionaires with estates fabricated by a series of false claims we think are cool are presenting nothing of value.

One millionaire, 50 Cent, has proven his inability to properly strike up dissonance on a merit-based, artistic level (see: Kanye, The Game). Understandably, he resorts to his bread and butter baiting games.

I'm ashamed for paying attention.
 
- Ramon Ramirez

ATG sizes it all up.

Through 2007's universally hailed Kala, Sri Lankan-born crossover starlet, M.I.A., has become a dominating figure in the indie world. Her rhymes lean on the sort of organic tip, mostly accompanying asides over her dense, worldy beats.

Yeah bro, she's pretty out there.

Despite prominent soundtrack roles on summer blockbusters and Oscar season contenders, her long-overdue hip-hop credentials weren't validated until Sunday night's massive a-list Grammy gig. The Kanye West-conceived "Swagga Like Us," initially, sampled "Paper Planes" not as homage but ridicule: no no honey, no one on the corner has swagga like us.

For hip-hop fans weaned on Pete Rock's drums over concrete machismo (myself included), her music is a bitter pill, an acquired taste at best. The game didn't think twice about her critical slam dunks, though we should have used said accolades to pad stats.

Sunday night M.I.A. stood there looking imposing and pregnant, singing a looped sample, but her presence spoke volumes; her host genre came around. The commercial and critical apex of the moment (Hova, West, T.I., Weezy) made room.

To this, ATG says, "it's about fucking time."

There was a period ten years ago when Foxy Brown and Lil Kim exchanged blows and sales spikes, feuding over the title of queen bee. Today they couldn't make the final roster on an "I Love Money" team.

Since, I dunno, 2002, Missy Elliott's genius reigned and she's been the default queen of hip-hop. Missy attacked gender roles through Hype Williams' fish eye lens, but as her stacks and hits piled, she slid back to the management, production end of her empire where she resides today.

M.I.A. is a breath of fresh air in a fresh pair. A Parliament-Funkadelic castaway badass with sonic chops. Her confrontational (if evasive) political sympathies are, simplistically put, the most badass thing about her. Homegirl is down with a terrorist group of Sri Lankan rebels on the United States' shit list and she got on the Grammys, the most cookie-cutter, weiner-ass suckfest in entertainment. 

Truthfully, her actual rapping is mood-oriented filler, but I'll take her attitude, outlook and total package over, well, anyone else.

Long live the queen of hip-hop.

- Ramon Ramirez