By SUNEZ #SkillastratorLO The #PowerWrite


The Hip Hop writer is a creator, composing understanding words of cultured brilliance powering a re-balance of the elements equally.  Pages of rejuvenated reaffirmation, simply the Almighty leadership of insightful craft work that stands to build through any confrontation born to be… Yet his daily duty is as a journalist that questions properly, uses his ears for the good to filter the real.  And as the Art decays by dilution he concentrates the best again and again exposing it in the print.  Today’s journalist and tomorrow’s historian he listens to share.  Here is that necessary attempt executed again and again…


Bourgeoisie colorism, usage of the French action word beyonce.  Appropriated grits, the remainder of that fateful bowl Al Green once fought, citing the bluesy case study industry rule number 4081, hors-adele-oeuvre in the trifle, a spell of the white disciple.  Lessons in the shades of grammar flowing through the radiated Nile, where boatlifts of niggas drown in lemonade and the too too light skinned nights electrocute twenty five million grammy currents of assimilation, the sucka’s slow cremation.

‘So what’s wrong with ya Miss?!,’ yells we Ol and Dirty that call a hit a miss in the filtered real, no love for chunks of softened friendliness that corrode and ooze through the pipes of the boom tunnels. The bougie dilute the shades to their convenience and now the passive regressive consumer thinks they can see the pores of the sun. The isms upon the colors put the most original into craters lost in the frivolous nights.

And if they ask where PowerWrite live now they say it’s where bills are rare and skills are the fare. In my own mind walking through the niches of nigga hell. I be seeing horns of fitted triumph and let me tell you them 5950’s are sanctuary helmets for money masturbation, hookah trails be the fumes of success that suffocate talents.  and the autotuned torture glides and grumbles in slop-skip-trip-break-blah-trap-trips. Plato or Plomo, the ballot or the bullet, I’m fucked either way.

This filtered real is a funnel measured in Planck scale. That is, they tinier than the atoms, I can barely find the real, the things that matter tend to stay wavy cause a nigga think wrong.

Observe these observations now that the observer skillastrate…

FAT JOE & REMY MA – Plata O Plomo

The Dark Ages, 2000s, where the failure was the greatest fear. It used to be recorded falsities, vinyls grooved with bad verses and beats with the integrity of endless mining and tireless chopping. But brings disdain, fail, blow and breakquakes? The hard core sound is no longer filtered and thick but trebled and airy, loud enough to play on all tinny devices and climb charts that cherish the slimmiest of scales. If you established yourself as real then you don’t need to make real music anymore. Real music, such an old war. The sincerity of integrity is left with appreciating popped rap for at least it ain’t rapped pop.  So “don’t anybody make real shit anymore?” are bars between black pots and charcoal kettles. Fat Joe is a master that earned his Miami home. The legendary talent of PUN is now Remembered In Perfection and a mediocre middle manager, the profiteer puppeteer Don Cartagena must do all he must to stay in the suites the rare hardcore appeal PUN put him all the way up in. Joe’s ears hear pop like the corn heating in a mumble rappers brains. So for over a decade we’re forced to lean back until we throw all the way up. The cleverness that emerges to constantly commercialize crime by never telling it’s stories. To merely disrespect the truism of ‘crime doesn’t pay’ with storyboard rhymes that are all just extracted eroticism, thugged out Scrooge McDucks swimming in their money and letting us launchpad crash onto their ducktales.

So the right beat that let’s us freeze the coke on Tony’s nose, before Manolo is returned and Fidel’s revolution is just a place where they tell you what to do. The rap fantasies snort all the way up. And like all dreams the thick beats only appear three times before the ejaculation of the hit. Then braggadocio fill the rest, trapped tricks suffocate all that is holy and good in the drum.

Years from now this collection of hood porn will be described in temperatures when dead music is properly described as sloppy soups with no minerals and vitamins. But I’m here on the ground today and riches aren’t the gauge but the richness of sound, skill and insight. The fair weather tempered temperatures care only about heat’s impact more than its served flood where the lovely lava of beats and rhymes molds ghetto earth that can be mounted upon turntables years from now…

OPTIMYSTIC – Day of the Guiding Light

…The collection of days, air times that got bleached over time…

In the middle of the golden era, New York’s college radio was outflanked and dominated by whites. We may champion the deserving as DJ Eclipse but behind every white right was a planet of wiggers ready to propagate their perception of the counter–culture’s ideals into niches of accessibility. So many ciphers acquiesced and diluted their music’s intentions to generic ethics. Got to have lyrics, never bite and the beats can’t be pop. Yet all we get is a subculture of rhymes about being original, the one biteable topic to rhyme about without ever adding on. And the biting now really just emulating a model just like whites did Jazz the beats are so driven into a formula Boom Bap is a slur, a curse of boredom.

So I got to be pessimistic with Optimystic who is “so 90s” with a double LP in appropriated Boom Bap theory. A declared affluence in rolling double time dexterity, beats correctly done with no edge and integrity declarations that give only cliché journos to its proof. Through a double LP the high profile guests from Killah Priest to Jeru do little to steal time and the more one pines through the work there is effort, intentions to make good music but the talent level is only on the novice surface with professional forums. Optimystic presents a spiritual depth but line after line his depth is merely a righteous battle bars and positive affirmations blended together. There are principles to Hip Hop but when they are performed as qualifying rules adhered to it is difficult to hear raw talent nor a unique contribution though we acknowledge the desire and admiration from another awkward guest of our Black music…

L.I.F.E.LONG & BUNTY BEATS – Bat Out The Cave

…Ours for everyone but this whole career of creation been about a B.A.T., building an awareness square, four corners of understanding. The freedom to make, the justice for those who have incredibly and the equality of facts where the originators are on the mantle. Heralded like, ‘let the Puerto Rican pen handle’ and the fury to declare ‘I, self, am the Lord and master of an element.’

So all your whole lifelong you really are under the ground, words on sound to find  those that wonder. Is there anyone, if there’s anyone here, let them know the acoustics are perfect.  I write on the cave and watch builders aware on their square fire out.  No one is as unheralded and deserving of much more than L.I.F.E.Long who has crafted the ideal hard core NYC MC career, the type that attracts through addictive battle bars and subtly injects the pains, struggles and reality of life. A survivor of the Dark Ages (2000s), this Bat Out The Cave LP in this decade of the Invisible Renaissance, may be his best ever. Bunty Beats achieves a grit that is marked by great tempo shifts that keeps the LP lively from slow to upper mid tempos with power scratching, diverse drumming, crescendos and isolations—arrangements that expose L.I.F.E.Long’s high pitch drone, layered delivery at his best excited paces. Bat Out The Cave masterfully displays the powerful cipher of NYC MCs (i.e. C-Rayz Walz, Poisob Pen, etc) whilst displaying some nice talent out in the UK where Bunty Beats originates from. The 2017 collectors with a depth in their rugged collection will have this. And Build your Awareness Square…


…For the ambush of a thousand niggas that molly mash, the million micro-agressions white folk bash or the child support juks that starts the baby momma shopping dash. What about the way it ought to be?! About the babies and the Arts, collecting paints so they can draw up better pictures. The way we were was only the way I am. Keep 180 moves in the pocket, quit your job to build a catalog and keep your heart in the best part.

Milano, wardrobe verse shoots and mentality minutes of the daily details, has a gift for the chronicling and the title track shows and proves. Through the EP, the aura of the past purity is intended to propel the power of the present. The result is official. Milano is an athletic MC who merely needs more playing songs composed, recorded and shared. His clarity and command is exactly expected from building well with DITC and PUN (Remembered In Perfection). While most of the songs are respectable battle bars through strong Boom Bap (Marco Polo) and well done Jazz chops (DJ Rizz), the real potential for Milano is in his descriptive capsules and longer works with a unified theme can produce incredible, even timeless work. If I may precipitate a forecast…

THE ODD COUPLE – This Thing of Ours (The Prelude)

…A weather of sun and blues treasured in clouds of rain and dues is all I address for. Words and means in triple darkness, been walking woke out the kitchen, amidst vendettas. An unseen magnetic like an inventor’s works fueling the world uncredited, a fighting legacy few see. The mind and the world, the creator and creation is an odd couple even when we know it’s a thing of ours.

Falling Down’s soul drenching on the Prelude isn’t hard to tell. Some Curtis or some smooth soul sister and then strike with a thunder break, cymbal clashing, bass drum smashing in energetic drones that hum in insane repetition.  Falling’s higher tempos and chaotic collages are an exciting fit for Ray Vendetta and Tesla’a Ghost.

Two unique voices from Tesla’s precisely announced depth to Ray’s chopped glide through selections of stream of conscious phrasing (“Say It”), battle bars (“Alien Metal”) or angles on the hard times (“Despicable Class”) all prepare us for their full length whether the weather permits…



…Whether they let you in?!

In these shades we in,

In me shoes pulling deez here bootstraps is that bullshit,

Fitted fecals when souls stay getting laced.

Laced tonics to swallow the experience,

exotic hatred molded into daily policy.

Policing the trends until we bend so far the trans is the prefix to our remix.

Brother, sneak out and seek friendlies as Neek,

Back to a booming exotically bap experience…

There isn’t much time and there’s too much out there. Collect grains of Queens, granules of its essence, drafts of its sound and blend it into wax. Again.  So many times we’ve heard this but to do it now I appreciate it so much more.  It means that grit that Neek has, from a culture where the criminal and the revolutionary are extremes filled with many in between all use Hip Hop culture. The Experience is a powerful brief LP because it could serve as a singular absolute proof of Neek’s energy that never really was explored thoroughly since he exposed the funk fakers.  The mastery is in the surprising peaks that are subtle like a Jordan post move, taken for granted as we waited for another slam.  There is the incredibly rolling drums and faded horn of Freddie Foxxx’s “What Kind of Shit Is This” production, the bounced bravado Mr. Cheeks brings through nearly every other song and the casually styled stream-of-conscious that bring the cleverness of “Nia Long” or the documentary grit in his intensely emphatic and enunciated hype that defines “True Story.” The sincere bio photos of “Doing What We Know,” the mettle on “L. B. Mafia” and the consistent crunch and boom of a filler-less quick player is a pure Hip Hop experience…


Sunez Allah #SkillastratorLO of the LO LIFES


The organization of these principles around a counterculture, an expressive arts of creation that uplifts the ideas and thoughts of an oppressed people, is why I’m an honored builder amongst legends, knighted by heroes of Medina (Rakim Supreme Shabazz Allah/Rudy Lo, Thirstin Howl the 3rd, Bonz Malone) to further create in my element as a Hip Hop Writer of #ArtOnArt & #ScienceOnMusic. So the world may find love that locks in with the action of loyalty though they may never find another writer with my kind of grammar…


Representing the pillars of:




Peace, Sunez

#SkillastratorLO #PowerWrite