SUNSET STYLE – Nigga Maguire

SUNSET STYLE: The Next Element of Hip Hop    By SUNEZ

“Do you ever think about when you outta here? Record deal and video outta here!”

– KRS-One – “Outta Here”

 “Sellouts got no worth/I think they better go soul search”

– A.G. of Showbiz & A.G. – “Next Level”

Jerry Maguire is a film inspired by an old nigga fable.  One of the many where the litany of demands that the crossover corruption count wields starts to waver on a nigga, once so wavy.  Nigga.  That young Black and Brown boy who can run, shoot, score or sing, dance and smile or rap, cut and break but never realized this is the capital those who litigate, appropriate and rape all lust for.  So what tidbits of props are left in the Tidwell of products that a nigga’s mired maguired mind can mine for?  In rap, the streets you meet are fused with the booth that soothes and Tidwell is always his own Maguire.  Records of dynamically displayed frivolous passion promoted by tours of suicidal eulogies that beg for the recognition of manifestos they accidentally tweeted into mailboxes.  It’ll be logged as snapchats of forgotten realness overshadowed by IG’s of instant glee.  End of story cause a nigga ought to enjoy the given glory.  Credits roll a nigga onto bloody carpets, bitch bloggers blow peroxide bubbles that trend, concrete backsides fight with flat asses as trans-real niggas cry. The Victims’ Music Awards is over and the nigga wants to know who’s coming with him.

 

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Contradictions can conflict but hypocrisy is disease worn often by the weakest hypochondriac.   Kanye Maguire been sick and Sway don’t got all the answers.  But the questions are the cries that label the symptoms we never seem to label into proper fitting lawsuits.  Like the skills won’t pay the bills but if the talents rainbow Hip Hop into the mediocrity of acceptance then Tidwell trills hell into sappy song bongs.  Kanye West’s production skill was his packs of great Soul crates, the talent was sampling and reconstructing them in their most pop fashion.  So the irony of Luther’s “A House is Not A Home” flipped with the most cartoonish coon bongo drum loop, that Flintstone drama scoop of sound that signals drama..  Over thousands of Salsa and Son LPs from that real time 70’s and every roots cipher stumbled from Bomba to Rhumba, I N I nor you and I never versed on isolating Fred and Barney’s fucking primitive dilemmas in score again.  We can’t cause crackas co-opted a look of savage, loin clothed brown beasts banging an animal skin topped drum between legs.  But this artistic popping is the epitome and where the great record label’s Cancer Man smiles and rolls the bogey through his index and thumb digits. Smirks of the new world order as Kanye is trapped by the squint in the eye of the Roc.

You can’t be simultaneously labeled a “legend”/real-time sellout without talent and Kanye West is talented.  And with more talent more roads can be sung open.  Lips wired shut but mouth all open to receive the blessing of the crossover. PAUSE.  The choice of roads where one can keep making great music to let us know it’s still bigger than Hip Hop but dead prez building isn’t as enticing as dead presidents paving roads to Paris with the most heartless sellout of all time, Jay-Z, the grafting Galactus aka the Bizarro Pac [Rewind HERE].  Lots of the Blueprint was for Ghostface Killah but Kanye became part of a more moneyed clientele.  Supreme mathematics was never part of understanding the temperature of the degrees he was seeking.  Duets with common kept him uncommonly ill on the roads up with Jigga McDuck but his own conflicts with fame, hugging it til it bleeds only made the beast stronger.  It made him a hypochondriac of illness where he claimed he was ill of this fakeness and was really real.  But, my nigga, you just be really ill at being fake.  Tracks dilute and bpm turns to bitches powered per mention.  Albums get softer and softer because that’s all the contract calls for.  And cries for help sound like a whore lecturing on the Higgs Boson as she twerks to get collided on by the largest atoms. Yeezus Heist! [Rewind HERE]

But what if that hypochondriac, sick with hypocrisy, isn’t lying about being sick?  What if it don’t matter right now if he is a fake sellout of the worst kind—talent turned to chart topping terror—because the contradictions he speaks of are the realest symptoms thrust on all Black and Brown artists?!  It don’t matter today because Kanye got no answers but his questions are exact.  When you sellout, with skill and talent, you get to be Cancer Man’s champion of a counterculture’s legitimacy as a exotic subculture turned hip pop culture.  Still Kanye isn’t politically correct and proper in answer like his big brother Jigga man.  But Kanye cries for help. Before we laugh, my realest of brothers steeped in the hardcore, wonder about the roads the Man can put you in.  You’ll wonder why you can say anything except anything of substance.  You will fight for principle but without the forums of integrity you “fight for artists, but in that fight, I somehow was disrespectful to artists.”  Word, nigga.  I see you. But the forum you frustrate over is polluted by design.  It was never meant to hold artistry and your existence only confuses that truth and upholds the lie of its worth. And when the Dhammapada, the ancient revered text says, “The winner sows hatred because the loser suffers,” the rooms you work fake it and chant “Ohm.”  So Kanye pleads that, “I still don’t understand award shows. I don’t understand how they get five people who work their entire life, won, sell records, sell concert tickets, to come, stand on a carpet and for the first time in their life, be judged on the chopping block and have the opportunity to be considered a loser. I don’t understand it, bro!,” we laugh because he made product that promotes the forum. He helped make it too legit to quit because more Hammers and Vanilla Ices, Nellys or Soulja Boys never can dilute it right like the pure crossover.

And when shit gets real for the Black man, he is right not to turn to his mystery god.  That’s unseen, never proven being been praised throughout the platinum runs.  Kanye walked Jesus through billboards swiftly with the needled fitted, the diamond encrusted nails and the tailored cross of the finest blood run wood. All to no salvation. So Kanye now turns to knowledge and understanding, the call for truth and the embrace of the best part, the youth.  The spirit of the true and living Good Ason Unique was in the air, “Wu-Tang is for the children!” My big brother, the God Lord Jamar was already at the gates of vinyl hell and said unto the wicked thou shalt surely die if thou wearest that leather skirt or shirt. That your confederate flag patches shall burn in their own iniquity and that many stripes will be received going against the will of the culture’s elements.  So now, all conned ye faithful, listen to the more than rightly conflicted brother, Kanye West, that you have conspired to conflict with.  As Tidwell made his body of talent yell into his mind of Maguire to show him the money, the contracts were risen in the popular charts.  Catching the holy ghost in the churches of sin only lets us know a nigga can make confessionals in a standing coffin.  It’ll be when Kanye marches through studios, shows and media storms creating real Hip Hop out of the Gospel of Hip Hop where the realness is Art of principle, integrity and possibility, the greatness he, himself, claimed ought to be for the babies.

Until then, the Man chuckles at another melodramatic performance from another crumbling Black/Brown showman/woman and our voting ballot choices still only reads: Nigga Maguire or Deez Nuts…

“…AKA, a sellout, the rap definition/Get off that boy, change your mission/Come back around the block…”

– Erick Sermon of EPMD – “Crossover”

“I speak for the hardcore (rough, rugged and raw)/I’m outta here, catch me chillin’ on my next tour/From the US to the white cliffs of Dover/Strictly underground funk, keep the crossover…”

PMD of EPMD – “Crossover”