Front page story and I know who the killers are. These vigilantes vindicated we, over victims violating with sprayed radiation over the crops I study. These radiation relayers were recouping off riddling escape to ears of young faces. Fuck! A disgusting catapult these yammering scapegraces made to terrorize with emissions that pleased softly. But wait it got worse when them laced carcinogens be killing the culture soon. It all aridly affected the truest aural greenery for that tender fucking legal promissory. So premierely, these tough counter-notes eliminate the unprincipled pelf to proliferate the Phillie in the field and jolt up the Jessiah in the jungle. Impossible to snitch on, the crimeline circles back to the chronicles of two of Hip Hop’s greatest artists today.
Turn to page Detroit, the concrete column by the ads of failed economy and blighted people. There my report continues…
Now officially a Black Day in July artist and no longer a member of Sun Tzu Cadre, Lord Jessiah Allah brings his military funk to Phillie’s rhythmed blues bars. After the supreme Welcome to the Detroit Zoo, where Phillie introduced himself with a raw Pac passion, he solidified himself as an MC stylist of the highest measure. Off the deep bottom bass and ruggedly unique soundscapes of the G.O.D. LP, Jessiah now takes another challenge in focusing on presenting the ideas of a single Soul man. The ideal synergy between the two working together begins with Zoo’s “Lion King” where Phillie displays all the mic ceremony tools and Jessiah’s chorus perfectly summarized the LP’s theme. Thus the Crimeline Chronciles theme of a rotten Detroit presented through a music being rotted out daily, results in the excellence of Hip Hop’s greatest simplicity. The depth of MC and beat technique through the complexity of natural talents.
Please fucking turn to the Obituaries page, column D, by the advertorial for the defense of skirt wearing rapper niggas by a lost Black female. Note this piece continues above the bullshit…
Crimeline Chronicles is Born Power certified, built to pass Timz and Hood checks, the street struck danger zones and be the score for the war going on outside that no one’s safe from. Phillie leads an MC hardcore choir of MCs that dive back into the survival crimes, portrait the repercussions, stamp the warrior proclamations and dig out the principles. Phillie’s lapel is filled with the MC stripes that can only be taken by verse. A stylist of dynamic charisma that guides integrity with the utmost sincerity. All to project a lyric incarcerations of criminality’s heinous actions. Actions that acquire survival meals as it oddly fortifies ethics as loyalty and honor.
And Phillie’s technical precision on the mic is pure virtuosity. It begins with making necessary pauses the immaculate poses of silence throughout. On “Taylor Made,” the metaphors begin, “Shoot me in your veins and make your skin boil/Stop crying over milk that’s been spoiled” to punch the line with a pause for “Bitches.” To then dive into a doubled flow that fluctuates to a peak “mop and glow/no stop and go/drop and roll/I’m fire to these popsicles!” Phillie verses don’t walk down lines or jump through windows; rather, they stride into gallops that recede to emphatic stomps and can bear down to sudden sprints. Even when he lets his abilities remain subtle to concentrate us on the bars he imprisons bars.
The flow is an art project of smooth colors as his voice flutters and weaves for just the right emphasis. On “Bloody Meadows,” Phillie flows, “Black kid serenade, bird in the bush/ on a perch run/ the best is preserved for them crooks/North star navigating/name and affidavits/facing jail some took pleas and made it famous/plant capers out of basements/outta state shit/adrenaline’s high when jake’s get behind so say when? Sell narcs so the narcs leanin on me in unmarked cars but I’m too smart to keep it on me/There’s no stopping/ the champagne from poppin/my dope game is shoppin’/flow game’s phenomenal/better rack/bet it back/double up and double that/ hustle rap from the canteen/guzzle that/home invasion carry a stiff sentence/plus niggas got shotguns drilling/plot diligent/take it to the grave/Robin Hood may rob you/do the math/cut you in half/your broad too/take it the grave/take it in blood/we could take it to the face cause it ain’t what it was/[shit]/Nowadays/these kids got coward ways/from the sour patch and I could vouch for that/politics make strange bedfellows/some still stuck more than the sorrow/ and the bloody meadow.” Let’s study this verse of illmatic poetics that offers arresting words where slang metaphorizes perfectly to then segue into details of these oft told hells that corrupt loyalty. But the rise in Phillie’s dominance is triumphant. Here his flow goes from bars cut by equal timed pauses to an accelerated fluidity with slight emphasis on the rhyme words. It keeps going with Phillie’s punctuation diving back to the pitfalls as his vocal bass tones lowering for the grim real time update on today’s withering ways. MCing like this is rare and practice only brings it out of those who always had it.
And Phillie does this repeatedly. There is the smooth word choices for a perfectly syncopated flow on the “Dawn” chorus with verses filled with the candor of his struggles. The intensity of the war of hustle is all over “Night Crawlerz,” battle uprocks on pitch on “Taylor Made” [“Nothing’s misconstrued..this is for the family..I’m the center..not Marcus but I CAN BE(Camby)”] or his spoken word menace on “Black Day Eulogy.” Phillie’s MCing is filled with the little jewels from the natural laughter, solemn sighs and exclamations between bars to the fluctuations that rise and fall never tampering the flow but engaging us. He has an enunciation that always puts over emphasis on that right word that turns a simple idea, clichéd by years of pop thugs and dapper trappers, to sensitize what has become desensitized. The violence, the poverty, the confining grind, the limited glories and the last holds on principles and integrity are real again.
Now then, the paper crumples at the edges of its sanity so quickly turn to Section Beat, the Science of Snare column. Rip off and discard the posters for The Purple Pill: All the exoticness of the Red pill but none of the bitter truth…Proceed to read the report spilled with red concentrate…ingredients composed of your death or birth…
Jessiah’s 2013 G.O.D. LP is a beat gem they will find years later. Today he has his first supreme LP producing for an array of MCs again focused through Phillie’s direction. The MC recruitment is heavy and only made necessary by such great turns. When Rome dives in with a calm yell on “Taylor Made” the piano whistles and whoos with that crunched break that skips on time accentuating the frenetic postulating perfectly. The “Three Card Monte” piano bass keys and groaning howls spotlight Kevlaar 7, the “saliva farmer,” while the rhythmic, monotone emphasis Salute glides with is given smooth surface on “In My Mind” with a steady booming bassline and pensive horn arrangements pressing through. While Jessiah epilogues Jade Jospehine excitingly with “Wild Animals” fluctuating and chopped Soul vocals and thumping bass drums that become the break, all of Crimeline promotes Phillie exceptionally.
Jessiah’s worth begins with the immaculate precision of his basslines. The epitome is “Dawn” with a deafeningly long bassline in successive repeat, a cryptic organ in the distance and a crack high hat and thick snare whoring out. The title cut funk slops the bass while ”Lost Art of Criminology” is a proper supportive player. The diversity and peaks of the many basslines destroy speakers and leave ears blessed. Jessiah’s work is primarily mid tempo that suits his MCs particularly the stylistic excellence Phillie works with in that range. A street hustle warrior album is hard to vary yet the musical hooks (i.e. organs and exotic whistles on “Grace,” the steady horn blast and cymbal crashes of “Balboa”)and drum crunch is consistently distinct (the vinyl crackle of “Bloody Meadows” or the bassline melody of “Night Crawlerz” with drums timed nice on them). These beats hold character in perfectionist execution and are another stone in the pyramid of contribution Jessiah erects for himself. Ultimately, Crimeline Chronicles is a work by Detroit’s blue collar hustler craftsmen, a product of their battles in the life of Art.
Crumpled paper in the back pocket, finger tips grainy with blackening ink festering with secreting oils, all marked by a stride the Crimeline Chronicles puts in the swag. No. The quoted clips in the mag that cause a dipped gait in a defiant man’s stride. Yes. The special Detroit edition of The Soul stylist MC with like lyricists lending bylines through columns of a rugged bass’d up Boom Bap break funk technician.