Damn! WTF

Yes. Some new Sean. Baaaaaam! Kimbo Price
duckdown

Wow. Dirty. Pay Attention.

Photography via stephanwurth.com

Dope.

via woostercollective

Guilty Homie.

It happens…

New Primate Track “Verbal”

A solo Exhibition and Retrospective by Man One

Crew Member J. Pane (Justin Pane) Gets Dirty with the arts. The Surf board is fu@kn dope…Spray paint on canvas, and paint pens on a surfboard.

Send us more Pane…

I’ve been looking forward to Sept. 8th. It was the only upside to the long Labor Day weekend coming to an end. Bright sunny day, kinda breezy. Not too hot. Breakfast. Toast well done and a soft-boiled egg. Two cups of thick black coffee with a drop of milk and a pinch of sugar. Hop in the shower, get fresh. White v-neck, crisp fitted.

Time to go find it. After 14 years, the return of the classic has emerged.
Only Build 4 Cuban Linx…Part II. To us, this is what the release of The Godfather Part II was to film aficionados and mafia flick enthusiasts. So where should I get it? I mean it’d be as easy as flipping open the Macbook, popping up iTunes and hitting “Purchase”, but I need the hard copy. Just like the first time around.
Summer of ’95. Me, the Nerd, El Dool, and Bundobeats were in the Nerd’s Isuzu Trooper on a hot ass day. After a more ambitious attempt at killing our summer time boredom by hitting a local water park and hollering at young breezies, we made our way to a Hastings and split the purchase price of the original. We had a taste of what was to come. El Dool had brought back the early released single of “Criminology” from a trip out West to California. After we ripped open the plastic, El Dool and I proceeded to literally get into a fist-fight in the car over whether we should play the joint front to back or skip straight to “Glaciers of Ice”.
Only Built 4 Cuban Linx became the backdrop to our escapades that summer, and well-beyond. It echoed through house parties on hot August nights. Malt liquor and crisp Hillfigers.
Fast-forward 14 years.

The only hope of finding it in my neighborhood is maybe Wal-Mart. But urban Wal-Marts are weird. I don’t feel like weaving through churro carts and pan-handlers just to find out that they aren’t carrying this shit due to whatever Christian right-wing bullshit Arkansas agenda the Walton family is trying to push these days. So I decided to try a Best Buy I had seen in the suburbs. I could use the drive. I spot it in the new release section. Boom. Purple cover and all. Snatch it off the shelf. After spending what seems like 30 minutes outside the store trying to get the plastic off the fucking thing, I get in the ride and slide it in. Windows up, A/C on high. I hear the familiar music of “Return of the North Star” and grandfatherly tone of Papa Wu’s voice. Pick up where we left off. Here we go. After that smooth reminder of how far this has come, “House of Flying Daggers” kicks in and you feel it. It’s a different fabric, a different texture. This isn’t the same well-vodka mixed into a syrupy sweet cocktail and presented to you as the drink you first fell in love with. No. This is the genuine article. The big, bold, complex rich taste of the top-shelf liquor that spent 14 years in the oak wood barrel. Goose bump shit.
The first four tracks are like a Boeing 747 speeding down the runway, gaining speed. You reach takeoff on Track 5.
“Cold Outside” is a pivotal movie scene on wax. It’s enormous and by this time I’m speeding on the freeway with the windows open. The urgency in Ghost’s voice and his stone-serious narrative smack you into reality and make you realize just how real 2009 really is. (That’s a lot of real). By the time I exit, the electric guitars and kicks of
“Black Mozart” are smacking out my interior as I pull up to a stoplight. Feeling that shit. Mics are getting fuckin’ smashed. Ugly. I’m taking this bitch for a 22-track ride.

Straight through downtown. These days I usually play it cool. Windows up, music at a reasonable level. Leave the bumping to the youngsters. But by the time the nodding chants of “Gihad” come on, with that deadly bassline, I’ve got the windows open at the stoplight, leaning, letting all the hustling bustling work people on the street hear just what Raekwon the Chef and Tony Starks have to say. I weave through the buildings and make it to Ocean Blvd., cruising the waterfront as the ghostly “New Wu” floats out my windows and the salty sea air blows in. The blue water sparkles. “Baggin Crack”, over the bridge, past the marina. Lex Diamonds is going to work. “Surgical Gloves” is fuckin’ ridiculous. “Broken Safety”, damn. “Canal Street” is actually intimidating. “Ason Jones” has the namesake dropping jewels of wisdom in the most sober words ever heard from him.
“Have Mercy” comes on and it’s only fitting that I’m cruising through the ‘hood by the time Beanie starts to speak. I’m stopped at the corner next to a Popeye’s Chicken as the foul stench of stale urine and cigarette smoke rise from the sidewalk. Young mothers push baby strollers. Young dudes sit on stoops. Sigel lays it out scary real.
Speeding past the metro. Assorted characters waiting on the platform. The classic Black Rock N’Roll guitar plucks of
“10 Bricks” whine and Cappadonna slays one of his sickest verses to date. The “Fat Lady Sings” unorthodox greatness, but the fat lady has yet to sing on this trip.
Holy shit. “Catalina”. This is where you come to realize that this thing has been climaxing the entire time and HASN’T PEAKED YET. When the steel bell keys of “Catalina” start clinking, I am like “what the fuck”. It’s almost as if the collective great minds of this Hip-Hop shit have been playing a practical joke on us all for a good 8, even 10 years. They let the weak-minded fall to the sides, latch on to the lowest common denominator, trick themselves into thinking what they had begun listening to could even be called Hip-Hop. They left us to suffer through the drought-stricken years, ’03, ’04, when clowns came to be the face of this culture. Now they twist the cap off of an immaculate clean jar and let this potent, crystallized essence fill the room.

“We Will Rob You”? Slick Rick? Come on. “About Me”. Nodder. Expert verses are painted. “Mean Streets” is the dramatic, turning point in the flick where the conflicted characters lay their souls open for all to witness.
How will it all end, you ask? With the spacious, triumphant portrait of the hero walking the path to the throne, flanked by his brothers in arms. Sun shines in through the stained glass. Silk robes, chunky gold Jesus pieces, velvet carpets in the Vatican. “Kiss The Ring”.

Masterpiece. This will be loved for what it is. A modern classic.
It raises the bar. It draws a line in the sand. It reminds everybody what the real shit is supposed to sound like.
We needed this. Fuck the rest.

Converse presents: 9 nights in 9 area codes in the greater LA area, from September 1 to 09/09/09. Prince Paul, DJ Muggs, Mayer Hawthorne and Dam-Funk have been added to the first night, 9/1 at Glasshouse in Pomona.

PBW Tour

Dope.

77cuts

HARD MERCHANDISE

Yup.

throwback classic.

Dude goes by EGADZ. out of Frisco
EGADZ

Ouch. Dope. Greedy Genius for the fall.

GREEDY GENIUS

Brother Ali’s new album “US” drops Sep 22nd.
Production by ANT

BROTHER ALI

D9