1350 Okie Doke Street: Five Overrated Hip Hop Albums

Being a Libra often means one thing: I prefer harmony and avoid confrontation like the plague--often to a fault.  However, being the man Big Dadi Scribbler helped to raise also means I have no problem defending my position if that's what I believe wholeheartedly.  Besides, when you've gone a significant portion of your life flying under the radar, having the occasional unpopular opinion is light work.  With that said, the inspiration for this new posting series came from one of those "one gotta go" memes featuring Sade, Erykah Badu, Beyonce and Lauryn Hill.  Mrs. Scribbler and I talked about how people often make those memes to target a certain artist they feel is overrated, i.e., it's always Beyonce who takes that "L".  However, I have been in some of the most virulent arguments over everything from hip hop needing to be a form of "edutainment" to what makes a quarterback "elite" to anything regarding the Dallas Cowboys to...well...Beyonce.  So as an ode to the now defunct Dream turned Love Nightclub--which was more hype than actual dope, especially since I once had to beg a DJ to play go-go music in a nightclub in D.C.--I welcome you all to the grand opening of "1350 Okie Doke Street" where "controversy create conversation".  First up: I present five hip hop albums which I love, like or tolerate, but believe have been vastly overrated.  Preparing to lose friends and followers in five...four...three...two...one...

Scribbler's Rave & Favorite Five: Ninetysomething Days of Summer, #2 Summer of '95

Although every summer of my youth was "life-changing", not even the No. 1 summer in this countdown can top the summer of 1995; heck, there aren't too many years that can contend with 1995 outside of the forthcoming top dawg.  For Momma Scribbler, Big Little Brother Scribbler and I, it was our second summer living in our first-ever house in Far Southwest D.C. (or the "Southeast part of Southwest" as many of us D.C. folks call it, which also happens to be geographically accurate) that came with a lot of firsts, including our own rooms and a private line for us to talk about the mindless things that adolescents discuss with our friends.  When we weren't at our respective summer programs, the broski and I kicked it around the way with our new friends playing Spades in our backyard, hooping at the basketball courts or hanging at whatever mall was accessible by Metro as we were neither old enough to drive nor mature enough to earn our parents' trust even if we had the age and the license to boot.  However, beyond my overall quality of life improving between the ends of ninth and tenth grade--especially from a social standpoint--the following five things rightfully earned the summer of '95 the No. 2 spot in the "Ninetysomething Days of Summer" edition of my "Rave & Favorite Five"...

RANDOM THOUGHT ALERTS!!! (Vol. 1, No. 6)

There are days when I feel like I've betrayed the legacy of Rosa Parks, Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr., Ralph Abernathy and everyone who participated in the year-long Montgomery bus boycott.  As much hell as Parks endured for sitting at the front of the bus and as much walking as the boycott participants did in lieu of financially supporting the Montgomery City Lines, I should at least sit in a spot halfway between the front and the back, right?  Well, ever since I've been catching the Metrobus, my inclination has been to either sit at one of the window seats or in the middle seat at the very back of the bus.  The reasons have varied between looking out the rear window of the old school GMC "Fishbowl" and Flxible "New Look" buses, having more space to sit on the five-seat row because passengers often don't sit between people and (perhaps the most noble reason of all) leaving the seats closer to the front for the elderly, the disabled, women to have first dibs.  No matter the reason, I usually don't feel but so bad because I fully exercise my right and my choice to sit at the back of the bus in lieu of being ordered to sit there, and that's what gives me confidence that Ms. Parks isn't turning in her grave.  Now that I've given the most introspective and serious intro to a "RANDOM THOUGHT ALERTS!!!" post ever, let's have some fun, shall we...

Scribbler's Rave & Favorite Five: Songs for Momma Scribbler

Now before anyone gets any bright ideas about what songs they can expect from this edition of the "Rave & Favorite Five", this is what we're not going to do.  We're not going to do "A Song for Mama" by Boyz II Men, "I'll Always Love My Mama" by The Intruders (although that's my jam and a half) or "Dear Mama" by 2Pac because this is not your run-of-the-mill Mother's Day music tribute.  Why?  Simple: because this tribute is for my momma.  This ode to the greatest mother in the whole wide world--because everybody says that about their mother unless trash truck juice could do a better job as a parent--showcases the first songs that come to mind when I specifically think of her favorites.  As you will see, my mother is diverse in her listening tastes as she can go from loving a soft rock ballad to bobbing her to something with a little hip-hop flair.  So although I'll probably have to email her this link and urge her to get on the Interwebs to check out this post, here are the top five songs that make me think of Momma Scribbler a.k.a. [in my Devin The Dude voice minus the "muy bien marijuana" reference] my "lovely good motha"...

Scribbler's Throwback of the Week: War, "Galaxy"

So remember the "Been Around the World" video where Puff Daddy and J. Lo quite possibly ignited their much-documented romantic history with a dance for the Shiny Suit Rap ages?  Yeah...this was the song playing--a gem delivered by the legendary Long Beach, California funk band from their 1977 album, Galaxy.  The opening bass line alone may be one of the nastiest introductions to ever grace a song--and I wouldn't be surprised if Rick James was inspired by that same movement when composing "Give It To Me Baby."  Not to mention that the marriage of the bass, the piano chords and the percussion is signature War, but on a different tip because it rhythmically makes minced meat out of most disco records of its time.  So if you find yourself listening to this and decide to tap into your inner Diddy or Jenny From the Block, I promise that I will not judge you...to your face.