Sit down. Paragone cameras on to capture some site foregone. It is bad to ponder on what you know. Know what is and what was can’t be changed. Two chairs, two mics and the last sign of the living underground. I know there aren’t any good days left…
The fairy tale weather don’t be visiting during ghetto cease fires. Those artists who made instruments out of electronic garbage—they ain’t excavating no more. Brothers over there making patterns of battered words just wail out of frequency now. The crack days were the best days–this the absurdity them new ol’ timers talk about nowadays. They say, less cartoons and more portraits drawn, less rappers on rote but fresher verses wrote and dirtier beats yet healthier break vitamins and snare minerals.
No, I know, there are no good days for a Black bastard, a Brown nigger. Still, there was honor in bad days when Ghosts with Rza’d blades and Raes of chef’d light plotted Cuban Linx when it felt hot at night, even though the fucking Sun ain’t out. Classics were on the patches of soldiers and the knowledge of self was goals not a niche for the pompous negroes. Pomp to pump pontification so there’s no time to be a nigga striving anymore. Let the shelves empty all the way up of processed verses and packaged beats. Give a nigga time to be blind, deaf and dumb. Add hoe, a dash of Henny and pinch of bitch. Here in Toshi’s kitchen, past 199 home grown recipes of real, I’m honored to host the 200th meal out of the Dark Ages.
The Dark Ages, the 2000’s, wasn’t the start of hell. It was just the start of the ending of its supreme broadcast. Witty wordplay became a silly gimmick for a blond boy and southern migration flooded the world with niggas inside of their cotton picking minds. Oh, word is bond. Build God! The worst of the white man’s mentals, the rugged individualist or knowledge of self-gains at any cost made the pitched forkman heard. And as Jigga coughed Hop Hop’s blood up with every pretty hiccup and the beta male slays the alpha man, the man of ever striving righteousness that made elements to portrait a better Black family.
#RespectFake. Fight back like Lord Jamar’s lectures litigating in the court of raw. I introduce you to three builds and three ciphers that born an elevated equality. Percee P’s resilience in excellence, Tame One and El Da Sensei’s diverse treasures with DJ Kaos’ insightful welding and Prince Po’s proclamated proofs of creative originality as the greatest success out of our poverty. Three ciphers of this generation’s best MCs supplement the understanding of these greats’ builds while Toshi plays music.
The music we care about and can’t find anymore. The sounds that spark amazement not merely excitement at their potential use. These songs aren’t to augment the chips in the casino, perfume the funk the weak lure confused women into or parade parodies of Blackness with. These are the pieces of admired cleverness, admired insight and extra ordinary craft. Hip Hop. And over years, months and days, the work of DJ Toshi to embrace them, keep them and share them is an abnormal feat that keeps us sane. We went to Karma lounge to celebrate that with the illest from Nutso, Starvin B, Skanks, Bat Swan, Robb P, Shatike, Truth, Big Joker, Lucky Tatt, Robb P, my brothers Viktory and KBar and so many more. And while you hear The God building and guiding the actions there was a master Doc Ahk, a crucial multi-media man in Hip Hop, aiding this Classic Storm Radio’s 200th episode and DJ Toshi #Salute. This is a celebration that reloads weaponry and rearms the aural landscape.
Out of the Dark Ages we war…