The misogynist rapper

I got my money and my bitches and my guns, in the club.
Repping like a G.
Then I spark up a blunt.
But I don’t smoke.
So I choke up my lungs.
Then set off all the fire alarms.
Damn, I’m a mug.
But, I’m hella-strong never wrong baby.
Black fire you liar I’m never this lazy.
I give you a taste, we race to the finish.
I wrote this lyrics in under a minute.
Just so you know that I’m in it to win it.
Cos the highlight of my day.
Is when I wank and cry.
And praise Jesus for my penis.
And be thankful I’m high.
Cos when I act big.
And say I’m gangster, I lie.
Cos with pussy, think Virgin.
But no planes in the sky.
Because woman you see, they really do scare me.
Venomous feminists that are so hairy.
All body shapes, in sizes that vary.
So I act like the don.
Cos I’m taking their cherry.
But, what you think I’m compensatin’ for?
I only see these women as babes or whores.
Man, I’m setting back equality and closing doors.
Cos this is all a game and I’m just keeping score.
And the dumber I get.
Fans be lapping it up.
Simply as shit lyrics.
Like I take that pussy and hit it.
And they can’t get enough.
I had dreams, man.
To be a credible rapper.
Now I’m plagued every day by terrible laughter.
From others in the game who know I’m cancer to the scene.
They react with anger.
Cos I’m gangster (in my dreams).
Actually, I’m more a misogynist role model with no morals as I pander to these teens.
And if rap soon dies.
I’ll know I had a hand in its defeat.
Cos I’m a parasite watching others fight.
While there’s quicksand around my feet.
Maybe, just maybe, I’m just damned beyond belief?

Note: this piece was written half to a beat and aimed squarely at certain modern rappers who think they’re God’s gift to women and treat – and rap about – them terribly. And to the nonsensical, simplistic style of rap they use that’s truly awful and has barely any skill or nuance to it. The words above are from the point of view of the character in terms of him mostly showboating, but letting cracks of what he’s really thinking show through at times.

The Get Down: season one, part two – review

The Get Down was, by its own admission, a hugely ambitious undertaking by Baz Luhrmann and his team. With a sizeable investment from Netflix (although they’re seemingly unstoppable these days, so whatever). So it meant that a lot was riding on this tale of late ‘70s New York, painted as a city in crisis – at least in the Bronx, where most of our story takes place.

Plus it’s a sprawling epic. 

It touches on poverty, drugs, sexuality, inner city regeneration, friendship and male bonding, graffiti and self-expression, religion, and the birth of hip-hop, and how music can change your life and those around you. And that’s just for starters.

Which means that, with great ambition comes great responsibility. I mean, this show built itself up to tackle A LOT of weighty subjects and it does so quite well, for the most part. But derails a little come the second half of the season, which we’ll get to.

Moreover, maybe it bit off more than it could chew, with all these subjects vying for screen time. It made it hard to get a handle on the main thrust of the story at times. Was it part documentary, musical, love story, social commentary, musical history lesson or gangster movie? Or all of the above? The mind is liable to boggle.

Which meant, that if you wanted to pick holes in the plot, you could. You’d find loads. But the show’s sheer exuberance and enthusiasm for its material more or less carried it through. And this was helped, in part, by numerous punch-the-air musical moments, delivered by a highly watchable cast. In particular Ekeziel ‘Zeke’ Figuero (Justice Smith), the wordsmith of The Get Down Brothers (loosely modelled on the birth of the Sugar Hill Gang) and Mylene Cruz (Herizen Guardiola) a blossoming disco star; herself trying to break away from the clutches of a religiously overzealous father and the fact she’s come from more or less nothing. 

For all its ambition though, it’s a show of two halves (to coin a football pundit phrase). In that the first half introduced the main characters – framed via a modern-day rap concert (with Nas playing a grown-up Zeke) – and set them on their path to musical glory well enough. And was stylised much like a musical, all primary colours and big hair.

But then it seemed the second half of the season thought it best to get high on its own supply. Which meant it, rather oddly, got pretty trippy. We had the introduction of numerous animated sections in each episode which, whilst fun, seemed like a device to help Baz and his overworked crew take a breather whilst they set up the next big musical set piece. 

The plot, too, seemed a bit spaced out. There were really too many story strands drifting around the place to fully invest in any of them. And by the time the finish rolled around, I was left feeling like I’d seen something quite good, but also quite confused about what it wanted to be.

So top marks for ambition, casting, musical numbers and vision. But sorry Baz, you’re getting a little marked down for execution and story. Still though, overall, it’s a decent show and worth catching. Particularly if you’re a fan of hip-hop and experiencing a little slice of the birth of a musical genre done with real flair.