Friday, February 04, 2005
cormega - 62 pick up -- my friend asks me if i've heard the new cormega. no. no, how new? really new. he plays it for me on his computer. and it's a real single, radio edit and everything, coming off an album shelved almost a decade ago, coming out at the end of february with no particular explanation, no changes made to it, no disclaimers, kinda perfect reactionary statement, backing up all the shit he talks about the glory days (i mean, that's not really his deal, i don't want to misrepresent him. i like that he doesn't talk reactionary like, say, saigon or whoever, he just does his thing and i'm not sure he realizes the ideological import or why i feel slightly embarrassed about writing about him even though he's one of the realest niggas rapping [i get confused because all his fans love canibus and ghostface-- and i really have no idea who marley marl is]), buying himself some more time before he can drop urban legend, jacking t.i.'s title and getting krs-one and messy marv on a track together. -- perfect, mixing gentle conceptual shit (he's rapping to a judge, see) and one of his sketches, laying down miniatures in about two minutes, full of all his careful details from fifteen years ago. full of acuras models they stopped producing five years ago, cars sold at police auction in upstate new york, sold by used car dealership in schenectady, or parted out and crushed into a slab. and robberies by men who are now climbing into their early 40s, carrying brown lunchbags to 9-5s. and chains that got melted down a long time ago, scattered between, dispersed between 6 rings and two watches. riding hill street blues theme like cam did on harlem streets, sounding like old cormega cause it is old cormega, sounding like he's reading it off crinkly yellow notebook paper in the booth, notebook full of these little stories written in tiny blue ink handwriting, sounding passionate and robotic.
cormega, nas - radio freestyle -- through radio static and shitty mp3 digital blips and cuts, nas doing a bit of the message (FAKE THUG NO LOVE YOU GET THE SLUG CB4 GUSTO), foxy mmmm! mmmm!ing in the background, and mega destroying it every time he gets the chance, MY JACUZZI FEELIN TIGHT WARM RELAXED IN THE STEAMIN LOUNGIN LIKE A FALCON ON A MOUNTAINTOP IN EGYPT SCROUNGIN CATS SCHEMIN WHEN THEY SEE MY ROCKS GLEAMIN MEGA SHINE FOREVER RHYME WICKED LIKE A DEMON WEAR MY CHARCOAL NEW BALANCE A LOT YO THE NARCOS KNOCKED MY MAN MARCO HIS MONEY WAS MARKED YO. you know?
cormega - fuck nas and nature -- "i don't even know why you wanna even try and come at me! yo, this is corfuckinmega! you know my status, you fucking faggot. that's why i fucked you up. that's why my man took your fuckin gold chain and be wearing your shit in the projects. you a fuckin BITCH. nas, ya needa get a fuckin fireproof fuckin van the next time you come through the projects, so they won't burn your shit down. talkin bout street dreams, rockin a pink-ass suit. what kinda dreams yall niggas workin with??? that last crack yall niggas sold was yall ASS." secret best diss track ever, opening with the ohhhhh not that nigga incredulous thing that nas stole for ether, explaining to him that he's a fucking fake instead of telling stories about production contracts and video shoot arguments and shit like all the nas tracks he made after, love in love out, slick response.
cormega - dead man walking -- mega gets hit the vest and grazed and jacked for a key, and it's revenge storytelling on the same beat as the first blueprint bonus track, talking detached and clinical, barely upset, while crossing names off a list with a mack 10, kidnapping underlings to lead them to the boss, catching him getting out the 7 and collapsing his lungs, "shit is real, i feel better / word on the street is that a four-four can't stop mega."
for real, get that realness/true meaning special edition. play it in your car in the morning, start out while it's still dark, cruising choppily through morning rush hour traffic, touring the city as the sun comes up, listening to both cds end to end, rewinding back key lines to hear again, rewind it back again and say it along with him. he's got these heartbreaking songs about his guilt and fallen soldiers and beautiful songs about dope game heroes, kids making fifty thousand a week in the bronx selling heroin and buying james bond benzes with a hundred grand in extra features and louis vuitton upholstery and how he was feeding himself and his crew and buying gold chains and delta forces, and inspirational tracks about catching his 5-15 and getting himself an appeal and a college education and a record deal when he was basically left for dead and ready to just cycle through block->prison->block->cycle forever and ever, and poetry about moisture in the air when coke boiling. and it all sounds written down and serious, and disses to nas or just unnamed snitches that sound like he's rapping a eulogy, sound like he's rapping at your fuckin funeral. and the flow, sounding like he's reading it off yellow notebook paper. verses that sound written. you know? so tightly constructed and stripped of all excess. for real, get that testament when it drops at the end of february. the dude is independent now, defensively bragging in interviews about his daughter sleeping in a bed that cost five grand and his garage being full, an x5, an h2, a 64 impala, a monte carlo, a 69 ss camaro, acting like he invented balling without a major label.