EP: I don’t really get much of a smell off this one. [Sips Kelso Nut Brown Lager] It’s nice. Shit, it reminds me of like a cracker, like drinking a cracker. Doesn’t it taste like a food almost?
Matter ov Fact: [Tastes beer] Hold on, I almost got it.
EP: My second taste wasn’t as intense — the first was like a shock to the system.
Matter ov Fact: It has like a musky taste. That shit tastes like an attic, you know what I’m saying? That shit reminds me of like, I don’t got grandmas like that, but I can only image that if you breathe in the air of a grandma’s attic, the air has like that musky feel to it — but not in a bad way.
EP: No shots, and this is not going to sound complimentary, but because I feel like it has this crackery taste, I feel like this beer is a palette cleanser. I’d sip this and then try something else. I’m not really left with anything — this is powerful. There’s nothing wrong with it.
(More hop-head shenanigans over here.)
The Onion Lab! [It had] a four-track tape recorder, a microphone, an SP-1200 and it was $5 an hour. — The Hieroglyphics crew reminisce over their very first studio, the Onion Lab.
I GUESS THERE is a lot of eccentric art in this environment I
call home,” says Despot as he walks through the entryway to his Greenpoint, Brooklyn apartment. Clad in crisp white Nikes, the flame-haired rapper and co-owner of the Santos Party House performance space in Manhattan saunters past a pair of colossal guns and gestures toward a pile of musty-looking possessions that once belonged to serial killer Ted Kaczynski, a.k.a. the Unabomber. Despot secured the stash of clothing, ID cards, and other effects through auction, and now owns what he playfully calls his “murderer’s garbage.”
(Photo via Alexander Richter.)
On "Let’s Dance" there’s the classic gated snare drum sound that was making its way into prevalence around that time, but the real genius is the kick drum pattern that Omar plays on that record. It’s incredibly intricate, but also danceable. — A tribute to Omar Hakim, the funky drummer of the ’80s.
The peculiar world of band practice spaces.
Five years ago, I boarded a plane from JFK to Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson Airport on the instruction that at some point between takeoff and landing the hip-hop artist MF Doom would text me from a secret cell-phone number and give me directions about how to meet him for an interview. The texts arrived in the form of a series of cryptic comments that played out as a treasure hunt across downtown Atlanta. They eventually led to a bar he’d turned into a super-villain’s lair. (The password for the doorman: “Villain.”) After a three-hour interview punctuated with pints of black-and-tans and whiskey shots, Doom rounded up his cronies (clad in stocking masks) and engineered an exit from the premises. At that point, the regular staff returned and acted as if Doom had never even been there.
Meow The Jewels.