Bring the noise

ALTHOUGH SIMON REYNOLDS has been doing pop music criticism for almost as long as I've been living, I only discovered his writing late last year via this blog -- (I think while I was Googling Style Council or one of those groups, or perhaps the term "postpunk.") He has not only encyclopedic knowledge, but lots of profound insights about music and pop culture. And he has a new book out too.

For all artsy homo sapiens, it’s a pleasure to introduce you to

MULLIGAN STEW.

I have never laughed so hard at a rap song. (The link is to the mp3.)

This is not new stuff, but Soup The Chemist is still an atypical cat, still unknown and still deserving of his due. Probably because he started out as a Christian rapper (laugh, but this genre has produced a lot of talent). So he was rockin' the mic at churches instead of clubs. But as a true artist and a seminal figure in Christian rap, he raised the bar of a formerly very wack genre to a whole new level.

Born Chris Cooper, his original rap name as the frontman of Soldiers for Christ was "Super C." That mutated into "Sup the Chemist" and then its present form. The last several years of his career (he's "retired" from the rap game now, and I think started a catering business), he moved more toward positive hip-hop on an underground tip -- maybe with an occasional shout out to Jesus, but no preachiness. A lot of underground cats West and East peeped his style and I’m sure it has influenced some of the guys out there whom you’d least expect.

Soup's old website is down, but he just got a Myspace going, with only a couple of tracks so far. Check back for more. Meanwhile, there are some Soup gems hidden all over the Web.

Here. (I like the THC reference in this one)

This is by an artist named Immortal, where Soup guested

Also one here

This is Soup guesting on a Future Shock cut “Waxing Philosophical”

This is a guest appearance on Mark J “Headbobbers”

Wewetalktalkininechoesechoes. Soup guests on a Peace 586 joint from a few years back.

More samples with Soup guesting on this page (if they move for any reason you can go to Soundclick main and search “Soup the Chemist”).

But corny, simpleminded people will never have a clue on how to enjoy this cat's flow.

Sad bastard songs

AS THE JOHN CUSACK character Rob Gordon observes in High Fidelity, pop music has really screwed up entire generations -- largely through painting such depressing and hopeless pictures of loss, pain, and worthlessness.

As I listened to a local oldies station recently, I realized even the "innocent," saccharine teen love songs of yesteryear were completely disempowering to boys growing into men. Just when they need to be developing confidence and strength in themselves and toward women, what did popular music give them? Immature songs about heartbreak, about desperate begging, pining, weeping, whining -- doing everything to "win her heart" short of cutting off your genitals and handing them to her on a silver platter. The message to would-be men: you get the girl by acting like a girl.

But of course, as most of us discover sooner or later, acting like a girl does not get the girl. (Well, okay, some are into role reversal, but I'm not talking about those.) Nor do pop stars practice what they sing. In real life, they're nothing like the sad-sack, pitiful, whining, pleading protagonists of their songs: they're straight pimps -- charismatic and self-assured to the point of absolute arrogance -- because they know they may see more knickers come off in one night than most guys do in a lifetime.

Then they get on the mic and whine again. And because these singers are cute (and they're performing for teenage girls -- who, let's face it, are not hard to impress), they can pull it off. And because the teenage girls are going nuts over it, teenage boys listen to it and take it seriously. And that all makes me one sad bastard.

Spoiled brats, all

PARIS AND NICOLE: Non-producing rich brats coasting on family wealth.

Paris-and-Nicole-hyping media: Non-producers coasting on footage of non-producing rich brats coasting on family wealth.

Jen, Jane, whatever

THURSDAY NIGHT/FRIDAY: I have this dream about a beautiful artist/writer named Jenny or Jen, who is a white girl, with red hair. I pick her up on the street and take her for a spin in my car. Sadly, just as I get her home, something wakes me up. (Damn!)

Friday morning, I feel moved to scour out the interior of my car, including the edges around the door frame, dirtied up by countless muddy shoes. I have a strong feeling that some new lady will be gracing my passenger seat tonight. (Not old friend Annabelle – as she will tell you, I don’t clean for her.) Who could it be? I emailed Laura on Wednesday, inviting her to the Friday night Pilsen gallery walk; maybe her? In any case I was sick of the filthy car and cleaned it up and took it for an oil change.

So it's Friday night and I leave work in the South Loop. I'm all set to head for Pilsen to the gallery district. But first, I figure, I may as well stop by the Fine Arts Building -- which itself has a formidable list of galleries and studios of all kinds, and is only two blocks away from my office.

At the FAB, I first visit Anita Miller, and then Barton Faist, whom I engage in some convo because I really like his art. He’s really into the Great Masters, which is obvious in his work. He goes on and on and on and on and on about light and color theory and how he obsessively layors colors to create translucent, vivid verisimilitude. Also he lectures me about the color wheel, color opposites, how he sees shades in what the normal person would label a plain white wall, how colors change according to the light level, how even the glow cast from a light bulb lights the air around it; how to make blacks look blacker and whites whiter.

Feeling like I’ve just earned an art degree, I go downstairs and pass by the studio of Barlow, a brotha I visited last time I was here. I remember that his pop-art collage style was not exactly my cup of tea, but still I peep in hesitantly to see what’s new. He sees me and waves me on in. And who’s sitting there but two ladies I know. The first one’s name I can’t even recall – I know her from Columbia College. But the second – who’d’ve thunk! –

Jane!

Jane is a striking, high-cheekboned, chocolate-skinned beauty: she's a former model, dancer, and Hollywood entertainment editor, and was named one of Ebony’s “25 Most Alluring Bachelorettes” back in the early ‘90s. According to the caption on a photo out in the blogosphere that you could find if you wanted to (and with which I agree) she is a “stone cold fox.” She is also one of few such individuals who ran for Illinois state representative last year. Of course, she didn’t stand a chance, being a black Republican in Chicago. I met Jane nearly ten years ago now, at the young age of 23, through my then job as a publicity assistant. A lot of cute flirting ensued and we ended up having one very good date that ended pretty nicely.

Tonight, however, Jane does not recognize me. I am wearing glasses and I don’t have the goatee I sported 10 years ago. Maybe she wouldn’t have remembered me anyway. After at least three drinks for Jane and one for me, the two of us end up walking down Michigan Avenue and, taking advantage of the fact that she still doesn’t seem to remember ever meeting me, I manage to fool her into thinking I’m psychic by pulling out little facts about her – like the name of her late father, a jazz musician and producer, or the fact she lived in Hollywood. She seems mystified and even a little spooked.

She’s not boring in the least, in between cracking on me about my supposedly boyish appearance and whether I am old enough to drive (she is 46 to my 33), and me crackin’ back about what a great job they did on her dentures, we crack each other up many times.

Well. Jane ends up in my car – the car I took such great pains to clean just for her. She’s not white and not a redhead, but she’s just one vowel away from “Jen” and she’s not a dream.

p.s.: We end up at Lobster King in Chinatown. She has another drink and by this time, her already goofy, dramatic personality plus the alcohol has her practically bouncing off the wall. She’s really like a teenage girl in that respect.

I end up dropping her off at her home. Unlike our first date 10 years ago, she does not invite me in, nor would I have accepted. It’s 1 am. And I gotta be up at 8:30 for work.

By the by, one reason why we had only one date way back 10 years ago was that I strongly suspected, based on her family background, that she actually might be a distant cousin of mine. She got a little bit freaked out about that. I thought it was pretty cool. She thought it was perverted.