A SLAVE’S TRADE

Most people seek after what they do not possess and are enslaved by the very things they want to acquire.   -- Anwar El-Sadat

Lebron James X - released Fall 2012

I like Lebron James and the reasons I like him are varied.  Most of the working class -- which James clearly isn’t -- would definitely leave their 9-to-5 "hustle" if a better opportunity presented itself.  For example, if I were making $75k working at Xerox in a damp Ohio-based cubicle and IBM offered me $150k to do the same job in a warmer climate, alongside my best friend, that decision [while probably not televised] wouldn’t be that difficult.  I would simply pack my cubbyhole and take my briefcase to South, Beach. I’m positive there wouldn’t be 10 people in the country mad at me for leaving Xerox and even fewer would consider burning my desk after my departure.  The homegrown Lebron James exit from the Cleveland Cavaliers was dramatically different. 

There has never been a player who has entered the NBA with the hype and hoop dreams of a Lebron James and actually exceeded the fanfare expectations, until now.   Certainly there has been hype surrounding many NBA players. Take for example, Patrick Ewing, who was the first-ever lottery pick, and the human version of the NBA’s Mega Million. In 1986, Gotham City hit the lottery and for over a decade St. Patrick’s Day had a double entendre in New York City.  While the not-so-Irish Ewing endured a nice Hall of Fame career, he was NO Lebron James. Wilt Chamberlain who spent 3 years at Kansas University and one year “touring” with the Harlem Globetrotters, because NBA rules (at that time) didn’t allow players to enter the league before their 4-years of college eligibility was completed. Wilt too was a highly-touted prospect.  In one NBA regular season game, Wilt Chamberlain scored 100 points -- a feat that probably will never be duplicated. And, Wilt was no Lebron James.

Sprinkle in a coddled Kobe, an actual King name Bernard, a very special Kevin Garnett, a White House-groomed Grant Hill, the wizardry of a Magic Johnson, an epic rebounder named Moses Malone, a fashion-plated, often imitated Julius Dr. J" Erving, an admirable, Admiral David Robinson, or the fabulously famous, Chris Webber all of whom entered the league on a red carpet fit for a King and none of them compare to Lebron.  In fact, when the NBA written words of King James are complete, he will probably be the best player who has ever lived (some are already making that case).  And, if you think that statement is outrageous, wait until you read your credit card statement if you plan to purchase James’ new shoes – scheduled to be released in the fall of 2012.

After an Olympic Gold Medal, an NBA summer championship and an MVP Award (his third); Nike and James decided to capitalize on this story-booked season by releasing a pair of basketball shoes that will cost (the north side) of $300.00.  This will be the most expensive basketball shoe ever; or nearly half of that south, beach IBM check.  This is America and the products and services in this country will sell for whatever the consumer market is willing to spend.  And, quite frankly, we could end this conversation right here.  But, if you have lived in America for any significant amount of time and you understand that all consumers aren’t created or treated equally, I want to thank you for your continued attention. 

Lebron James is a black man from a fatherless inner city housing project and was born to a 16-year-old black teenage mom who (at 41) was recently arrested for slapping a valet at the Fontainebleau Hotel.

Or, in short Nike’s targeted market.

One would think that a black man with the socioeconomic background – or dare I say consciousness -- of this prostituted targeted audience would never let his name be associated with such a not-so-subtle exploitation, during a recession.  It’s clear James isn’t my son. That said, one of the reasons I like Lebron James is..., he probably knows that a liquor store in Beverly Hills and a package store in Brownsville – while on the surface are seemingly similar – amidst a deeper exploration are vastly different. The store in Beverly Hills is more of a resource for a dinner party, while the one in Brownsville is more of a medicine cabinet substitute for infrequent dinners.  Neither of which really matters – clearly not to James, or Nike. 

The original shoe King Michael Jordan (who no one will ever confuse with Martin Luther King Jr.) was once asked to offer a comment about the black kids that were shooting and killing each other over his storied shoe line that were priced north of $125 (at the time) – forgive us for not celebrating in retrospect. Jordan to my knowledge (and I’ve checked) has never uttered one single word pro or con on the subject  – even while countless kids (some with their parents) were rioting in inner city malls, while others were found slain on the Chicago pavement with their breathless body missing his Airs.  A spokesman of Klan Jordan once said “black kids shoot each other over cars, why don’t you go ask a Cadillac dealer how they feel?”  Tough crowd.

The dichotomies in this and many societies are vast, complex, unfair, ruthless, sad and often times very intentional. Which should shift most of this conversation to parental advisory.  Speaking of which, the once famed California Hip Hop group, N.W.A. had a song called F@# the Police!  And, at face value, I know many non-rap fans thought that song was counterproductive, unwarranted or just plain ignorant.  But, if I told that person that some of the LAPD finest used to round up “suspicious, NWA-looking” young boys -- see the Patriot Act for a more complete definition -- handcuffed them, and rode them in the back of the police car, then dropped them off in the middle of the night in a gang-infested neighborhood and told them to find their way back home…, that song should now have a totally different context.  To many Hip Hop detractors that fact either didn’t matter or wasn’t enough to justify the groups lyrics.  Ironically, neither were the spoken words of Oliver North.  Both of which continued to plague LA today.

One day Lebron James will no longer play basketball in the NBA and his jersey will undoubtedly be retired in a rousing ceremony.  Hell, there may be a statue (or two) erected in his name, who knows?  More than likely, there will be plenty of parades in his honor, down city streets donning his name. There is no question that those same streets will be littered with the blood of kids that wanted to look just like him – down to the Emperor’s new clothes – even if it killed them. And, the most befitting question King James will ever have to ask himself is:

“Money”, was it the shoes?

1 Love,

Ray Lewis

GOD HELP US

                Rick Ross God Forgives I Don’t Maybach Music Group Release July 2012

"When I don’t like a piece of music, I make a point to listen more closely."

                                                                                                 -- Florent Schmitt

I’ll start with a side bar:

I remember the days when kids (including myself) were afraid to do something that our parents’ would find out.  The motto of that day was simply, don’t embarrass your folks – kinda see where this is going?

When I was a kid, I used to throw rocks over a backyard wall.  If you ever lived in the Bronx you would understand that throwing rocks was like our version of the “Special” Olympics.  Naturally, I got caught and trust me, my head was way too big to be wrongly identified. I just prayed no one would tell my Uncle Eric.  Of course they did and that was the begining of the “closing ceremony”. 

Rick Ross, I sure wish you would've had a chance to meet my uncle.

Now let's get to the LP. Let’s say you were forced to (literally) choose between two teams of music artists.  



A "Tribe" birthed from the same struggle will never be divided

 

Team A: The Advancement of the Cultural

Team B: The Detriment of it




When commerce trumps The Game its the culture that suffers

 

I honestly believe even biggest Boss fan would have a hard time believing that Ross’ lyrics are nothing short of a reality series gone wild – thus making him a staple on Side B (no pun intended). However, if the cultural conversation involves bubbly, Benz’, and Bitches (with no parental advisory) well it’s hard to argue that anyone in the rap biz today goes “harder” than Rick Rosiey.  Here’s hoping he knows the difference between a compliment and an occupational hazard fact. Personally, I have reached the conclusion that without cars, crimes, & clubs, Rick Ross would be a really hairy mannequin.

If you are a fan of lyrical emcees you’ve probably stopped reading, but if you are a fan of equality and balance thanks for staying tuned.  I love music (Duh!!) and before I dismissed anyone for any reason I wanted to first LISTEN to the artist, then make a clear and accurate determination. 

This album was NO WHERE NEAR as horrible as I thought it would be.  It’s important to note that my expectations were slightly lower than the London odds on your grandmother winning the Gold in the Summer Olympics. But, the LP isn’t the worst I have ever heard.  And as long as Waka Flocka Flame continues to record, Rick Ross can rest well.

That fact, notwithstanding I would NOT have accepted a free or burned copy at gunpoint. I did however, do some extensive research and listened to the entire CD to (either) confirm or challenge my initial apprehension (something I have been praying that pro-Barack supporters would do).  As I digress.

Let me start with what I liked:  The music on this CD is really very good.  The production and some of the beats are simply marvelous.  In fact, I would purchase an instrumental version of the entire CD – ok so “purchase” is strong, but the gunplay wouldn’t be necessary if I did.

Andre 3 Stacks and counting...

“Sixteen” featuring Hollywood’s newest “Outkast” Andre 3000

This single is simply BANANAS!!!!!! The concept of needing more than 16 bars to tell a story is not going to challenge anyone’s cognitive dissonance, but this single would’ve have rode comfortably on ANY of the Outkast classics. A-3 stacks took a break from filming the Jimmy Hendrix bio pic to write the song, sing the hook and punctuate the strings. Andre is on another level – and cemented on the A Team. What frustrates me about Rick is, if this song is any indication of his lyrical skills then he is willing participating on Team B (the destruction of the culture).   And that really pisses me off!  I mean, at least we all know that anyone that is willing to answer to the name Waka Flocka Flame has already given up on the culture; on any semblance of relevance; he has given up on S.A.T. scores, and books with no crayons. In fact, I may have to create a whole new team for people like him.  Big Boss Ross has significantly more potential (I think).  Personally, I liked Ross better as a correction officer, even if his ex wife – the 50 Cent puppet – didn’t.

“Diced Pineapples” f. Wale & Drake

This is another example of putting $300k drapes on a project window, with the July Christmas lights on.  The music is cool, but trying to make sense of the lyrics is the equivalent of waiting for one of the VH-1 “Single Ladies” to sustain a meaningful relationship.   The song was inspired by a Ross doctor visit and the result was the suggestion of eating more fruit.  Draw your own conclusions.

"I Love My Bitches"

This is why kids throw rocks.  I truly believe this song is the missing plot to Hip Hop Wives of Atlanta – and clearly the absence of hands-on parents.  Again the music is cool, but the very loosely-termed lyrics are reprehensible.  Ross’ “self examination” conundrum on whether or not (and I quote) “he is a narcissist/because he wakes up to a bowl of lobster bitch” just makes choosing cultural teams that much easier. 

"3 Kings" featuring Dr. Dre & Jay-Z

 Let’s start with changing the title.  How about Two Men and a Baby.  I hope ‘Dre invested wisely.  He was never one to dazzle you with his rap rep, besides that fact it sounds like Ross wrote his line anyway – neither of which matters -- or helps.   Once again the music is good and Jay’s verse confirms two things:

a)     No matter what you think of Hov, he is clearly not wack (yet).

b)     Blue Ivy passed the blood test.

If you like Rick Ross, you will love this CD and there is clearly something to be said for giving people exactly what they want – even if what they want is a left hook.  The Miami clubs will be blazin' to this for the rest of the summer even if Sasha and Malia won't.   

I sincerely hope the first half of the album title is correct; if not waiting on line for this CD would be sillier than a first date at a San Francisco Chick-fil-A.

I’m here to tell you God forgives and so did my uncle.

1 love,

Ray Lewis

LIFE IS OKAY

                                         Nas - Life Is Good - Def Jam Records – July 2012


"Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own."
- Robert Heinlein

Whew! It’s hard to tell whether the title of Nas’ 10^th studio LP needs a question mark after the title or it’s simply a glass half full approach to the shit life hands you. The undisputed passionate, pragmatic poet from Queensbridge (who is typically immune to romantic matters of the heart) seems to be stuffing a world of introspection in the obvious void left by ex-wife Kelis.

Kelis' Inspiration

Esco’s penmanship rarely gets more personal than the throwback, Guy sample on “Bye Baby” which summarizes his marriage from courtship to courthouse. The nostalgic Guy sample (“Goodbye Love”) is creative and [lyrically] timely, but clearly NOT one of those jeep-jumpin’joints that has been a staple in the Nas catalog since the days of Illmatic and It’s Written.  In fact, this track flows like a heart-broken teenaged chick trapped in a room with a bowl of Häagen-Dazs and a zip locked dairy. That fact notwithstanding, Nas is still the same witty, wisecracking, jab-thrower that has made his work a signature on every emcee’s top 10 wish list. I sure hope Kelis has a sense of humor.

The Anthem to Marriage

SIDEBAR  -  If women REALLY knew the power they “sit” on they would truly understand that running this country from the would-be named Ovarian Office would be easier than a Wal-Mart greeter.

Never Personal

Now don’t for one second get it twisted; those thinking that Nas has remotely fell off; need to look no further than the spit-fire, storytelling track “You Wouldn’t Understand”. On this single you should understand, that rumors of his Nas’ rap demise have been vastly overstated. The Victoria Monet hook really doesn’t do any justice to the crime-riding riddles of the New York City streets. In fact the hook softens the story and invites a radio-rotation to the never-ending dichotomies of rap.

The Look of Love

The latter mentioned radio rotation is certainly amplified by the Rick Ross guest appearance on “Accidental Murders” which is an ode to fake gangsters (which is really ironic considering the guest star). If Nas is a true legend of the game, big boss Ross is the balance needed to keep the clubs hoppin’. Personally, I’d rather see the clubs elevated versus lowering the bar of legends. But, what do I know – I think a country with human rights SHOULDN’T need civil ones.

“Cherry Wine” features the late Amy Winehouse and just makes you wonder if “life is really so good” why must the gifted die so young. This is one of those rare rap examples where I believe the hook is actually better than the [spoken] verse. I sure hope he and Kelis mend their woes, as any rap legend wouldn’t want to make this a common occurrence.

“Back When” is the emcee’s thirst quencher and personally, I was anticipating much more of this. “Back When” is a classic, storytelling, window blaster, underscored with a MC Shane/Ronnie Gee sample, punctuated for those just landing from outer space looking for some historical Hip Hop context.



One of life's best medicines

This clearly isn’t my favorite Nas CD by any means, but if you are looking for a radio balance, then Life is okay and that’s Good.

1 Love,

Ray Lewis

LIFE, LIBERTY & FACEBOOK FOR ALL

In America the majority raises formidable barriers around the liberty of opinion; within these barriers an author may write what he pleases, but woe to him if he goes beyond them.

Alexis de Tocqueville

May 18^th - the No. 1 online social network raised as much as $18.4 billion in one of the biggest (IPOs) initial public offerings in U.S. history.

May 19^th - the birthday of the No. 1 social activist, who was slain for making his thoughts about racial equality in America public.  

Facebook Chief Executive, Mark Zuckerberg is a celebrated, heralded and modern-day innovator who is credited for bringing the world closer together, while standing behind a computerized podium.

Civil Rights activist, Malcolm X, was labeled a separatist (amongst many other, less kind adjectives) and was subsequently murdered while standing on an actual podium. Malcolm’s grave was being dug while he was trying to establish a peaceful social network for all – contrarians had other ideas.  Obviously.

On the surface, both gentlemen couldn’t have been more different than..., (oh) black and white. However, their one commonality was their zest for communication by (well) any means necessary. Mark and Malcolm shared one other subtle similarity…, the government’s role in how their galvanization would be received by their target.  Target being the operative word. 


Zuckerberg’s platform freely allows people to compile, share and disseminate unlimited personal information of the most personal and inner most thoughts to a group of people, while dressed in flip-flops and PJs. At any moment, at any given time, you can find out whether your friend chipped a nail or their very last words before the final nail sealed their coffin. In any instant, you can follow friends [or even a foes’] journey through life without ever uttering a single word aloud or ever leaving the confines of your home (in some cases, cell). The irony in Facebook being called a “social network” is almost too knee-slapping funny to uncover here. Besides, I have a feeling any revelation to the contrary of a “social” network would be greeted by a chorus of boos by the most vigorous en-users. You could almost make a case that Facebook has become the 21th Century version of the Emperor’s New Clothes.

I’ve always thought the #1 rule in socializing was actually being in a space of two or more people enhancing all five of your senses (6 if you are a mom). It is really hard for me to remotely think that I’m really being social if I cannot see your facial expression, interpret your eye-contact, or study an accent and presume one's birth origin. In one's actual space you can absorb one’s perfume (or cologne), examine one’s hair style, or inspect the color scheme in an otherwise unspoken environment.  You cannot take for granted the involuntary thoughts you have when you witness the body motion or the posture of a stranger (assuming you didn’t grow up with George Zimmerman). What about a person’s accessories or how a crowd responds to an entrance in a room? I just love to watch a person’s head nod or ears raise to an unfamiliar song.


It seems as though we willingly traded in all of these interpersonal skills and gestures, and left the “hand-shaking” to dummy terminals. And, why wouldn’t we? After all, Facebook has allowed family members to stay in touch and share family portraits that would (otherwise) be buried on a shelf next to Christmas cards, phone books and encyclopedias. Now with a point and a click you can share unlimited files of personal places, things and ideas with someone you spent your entire life avoiding – even if NOW they actually believe you are all of a sudden “staying in touch.” Heck, you can even send a birthday card to a person you haven't seen or spoken to in 20 years, while not knowing their address. Brilliant, huh?

Well, while your newfound friends, family & foes are dancing with their newly and reacquainted stars, Facebook and the government are just tickled that 99.9% of its users never bother to read the agreement. It’s that type of apathy that allows the USA to still be considered a democracy. Come on, you knew they'd be at least one political digression.

Many users MAY be aware that all the information posted on Facebook is the property rights of Facebook. Perhaps they know and just don’t care. Perhaps. Who knows, maybe that aspiring artist understands that if they shared a not-yet-released single with a group of social networked friends via Facebook that FB now has just as many rights to the song as the artist – even if the artist later deleted their page. Ditto, for all pictures, comments or any other information that travels from one “dummy” to the next. You may close out a FB account, but rest assured FB won’t, in fact quite the contrary is true.

Freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

DID YOU KNOW

Facebook has assembled a formula that will calculate the value of each and every user? The key word is “VALUE”. Yep, every user has a price, which is based (among other things) on: the number of pictures you post, the number of comments you send, your occupation/industry, your age, sex, home value, income, marital status, voting alliance/political affiliation, vehicle ownership, religion, spending habits and of course the people you call friends. Care to guess who would have the most interest in such a concise & updated database full of their citizens?



Here’s a clue, it’s the same assembly of people that would prefer you delete May 19^th from your terminal.

Consider February 21, 1965 a friendly reminder. 

click on link for bonus beats:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OWFrpUm3tTk

1 love,

Ray Lewis

HOUSTON, WE HAD A REAL PROBLEM

"We cannot solve our problems with the same thinking we used when we created them."

-- Albert Einstein:

Deep in the hearts of many of the community’s members -- if we were really, truly honest with ourselves -- we knew this wasn’t going to end well.  Sudden death (absent of a sporting event) rarely does. No matter how many examples of this Shakespearean cycle we witness you never get used to the heartbreaking headlines:

Whitney Houston dead at 48.

Back in 2000, I read an article in Savoy Magazine that begged, almost pleaded with Whitney to get back to the place that made her a mainstream, household name and leave the arm pits of Newark, New Jersey in her life’s rearview. I find it ironic that mainstream believes that it’s the solution and not a huge part of the problem. Clearly a debate for a less somber time.  One of the more memorable quotes from the Savoy article went as follows: “Whitney, we love you but you are starting to act like the cousin no one wants to invite to the family cookout.”  A couple of years later, Being Bobby Brown made its Bravo television debut – or as some might bookmark, the beginning of the ending. 

If being Bobby or Whitney wasn’t distressing enough, adding television footage probably illuminated the CHECK ENGINE light.   I watched Being Bobby Brown, not because I like reality shows or Bobby or Whitney. I watched for the same reason Dave Chappelle quit – I just wasn’t sure why I was laughing anymore.     

In life, one’s career can easily be confused with WHO we are instead of WHAT we do. When you walk through the inner city streets that raised you, you’ll find yourself skipping to the choruses of: “That’s little Johnny, he works for UPS.” Or “That is Ms. Sharon’s kid, Rachael, she’s an executive at IBM” or “That’s Barack, he’s OUR president.” In the ‘hood that blurry idolatry is cemented on your life’s resume with very little room to wiggle.  It’s a badge that stays on long after the uniform doesn’t fit anymore – many wonder if it ever did. There are so many unspoken dynamics that make-up the 8 million stories in a ghetto like Newark – and most are too difficult to explain.  Muddled in that fact is an audience of millions far more concerned with what we do verses the horrific, viral inspirations that led us to do it. The price of that duality can be costly, sometimes deadly. Obviously.


Honestly, outside of Whitney’s sultry, angelic voice there wasn’t anything remotely “mainstream” about her.  It was funny catching a glimpse…, like in her less than mainstream single: “My Name is Not Susan.” Lyrically, Houston confronts a partner for uttering an ex’s name during sex.  We all breathed a sigh of relief when that “beef” stayed in the studio. There were also the less subtle revelations into Whitney’s upbringing.  One came in the form of a late-night interview with then-host Arsenio Hall. Hall asked Whitney: “Do you think Bobby will have a problem with you starring in a love scene with Kevin Costner?”


Whitney sharply replied; “Nah, just as long as he doesn’t try to stick his tongue down my throat!”  Those unfamiliar with the 201 area code gasped in astonishment.., everyone else felt reassured, almost relieved, that despite the TV and movie screen presentation Whitney wasn’t all that removed from the 'hood. 

Or as Biggie -- another victim of the streets -- once preached “if you don’t know, now you know.”

There were other more revealing interviews like the one with Diane Sawyer, which had the drug dealers questioning their mode of operation. Through it all, if you were paying attention, Houston always found a way to remind us of the paradox of loyalty.  You name it: child custody battles, public court appearances or slap boxing with old edition Bobby Brown -- in Newark, that's called Monday.  This R&B couple became the poster parents for a 12-step program and you couldn’t help but pray for the reproductive steps that Bobbi Kristina seemed destined to inherit.

Despite the many years of pushy public relations people; hours of A&R laborers, hair sessions of industry-styled weaves and wigs, Whitney was and always has been – for better or worse -- that chick from Newark, New Jersey.

Newark is a tunnel ride from Manhattan’s fashion frenzy fanfare in New York City but it is centuries away from anything remotely fashionable.  Newark is home to the most notorious, drug-infested, crime-riddled communities in this nation, any nation. Many boys and girls use basketball as an escape mechanism, but the New Jersey Nets said, fuck this, we’ll leave.  

Being a rugged resident like a Whitney Houston is the sort of rep that often affords an inner city dweller “diplomatic immunity”.  The rough exterior allows one to riffle through the streets with minimal collateral damage, almost like a bullet proof vest fitted for your inevitable character assassination.  You can really see it when you peep through the iron gates to watch a Rucker Park legend or if you stand in an apartment window watching the corner drug dealer.  It’s almost like a bible verse; you may not always understand it, but it’s necessary if you are plotting an escape.

The scripted bios of the hoop legends and drug dealers tend to intoxicate the young, wanna-bees that are mad at “The System", or mad at “The Man” or just mad!! Sometimes the anger fuels the success and while the community celebrates, mainstream counts the “wins” with a gold statue or concrete star. Take the Grand Master Flash & the Furious Five Rock and Roll induction; or a CSI investigation led by criminal Queens resident LL Cool J.  Even TBS gets an occasional Ice Cube for their Ice T.  It’s funny, sometimes in the ‘hood, even the wins feel like losses to the community that never changes.

Whatever the outcome, the ‘hood stream-to-mainstream story always starts the same.  An industry insider is willing to pluck a rare, talented jewel from their community and roll the dice or bet on black that true talent will triumph the toxic traits that plague the streets that bred them.  It’s a dynamic that has eluded the most-seasoned psychologists, who only tallies the mainstream wins.

I’ve seen published reports that rejoice in the fact that Whitney Houston’s illustrious voice has scanned more than 170 million copies worldwide. I’d be very curious how many of those people ever spent one night in Newark? 
Or how many understood that the fatal fact Whitney never left.  

 1 love,

Ray Lewis

SAY IT LOUD

"Wars of nations are fought to change maps. But wars of poverty are fought to map change." Muhammad Ali

Who Are We? What are we doing? Where do we go from here?
The Black Power Mix Tape Documentary takes a rather serious and widely successful effort to unveil the very real conditions of black folks in America through the eyes of a handful of powerful leaders. Swedish filmmaker Goran Hugo Olsson’s basement-stored footage does a remarkable job of taking the temperature of blacks in a tension-filled, highly-divided America from 1967-1975. Intended or unintended, Olsson’s non-American roots glare with the film’s (missed) opportunity to link the black power movement in the latter 20th Century to today’s very similar climate – thus leaving on-lookers with a more magnified mirror to scrutinize.

Black power can be clearly defined for those who do not attach the fears of white America to their questions about it. S. Carmichael

One of the documentaries’ frequently memorable moments was certainly captured with the unfiltered flashes of the brave and spirited Trinidadian-born Black Panther leader, Stokely Carmichael. Carmichael’s unyielding, uncompromising, unapologetic speeches truly underscored the leader’s relentless "audacity of hope" – a remarkable irony occupiers of Wall Street will find impossible to ignore. Carmichael’s impromptu interview with his mom divulges an inflexible, pit-bull aura that Caribbean men like: Harry Belafonte, Louis Farrakhan, and Marcus Garvey (among others) have been known to frighten white America with.

Another [perhaps] unintended reward of the Black Power Mix Tape is the neutrality of another Swedish journalist who approached Angela Davis with a concern about the alleged violence that was associated with some of the movement‘s leaders. Davis’ reply is nothing short of riveting.

Much to my delight the film more than captures the foundation that real Hip Hop is rooted.



Talib Kweli does a magnificent job of unveiling his influences birthed from the black power movement. Ditto for Erykah Badu, whose entire presence can be traced to Angela Davis’ plight in America. Once the credits roll, you may have a series of unanswered questions. However, one thing is certain, if this black power movement continues to fade at this alarming rate, look no further than where you were and what you were doing when it happened.



click blog title/arrow for bonus beats


1 Love Ray Lewis

AL B. SURE??

"A man will fight harder for his interests than for his rights." Napolean Bonaparte

The year was 1989 and New York was in the mist of its sweaty, sweltering summer madness. The seasonal discomfort is masked only by illegally opened fire hydrants, bells from Mr. Softee, Italian Ices’ and window-shaped air conditioners (fully throttled) attempting to make sense of the shade-less temperatures. The unbearable summer climate in the concrete jungle confines is matched by the short-fused residents. Somehow, the wind-less heat always has a way of igniting those not-so-tempered temperaments. Often times the summer atmosphere in New York inspires the dehydrated natives to escape to a land lined with [more] trees and grassy walkways – somewhere far south of the Lincoln Tunnel.

On August 23, a boiling Brooklyn block erupted to an unspeakable level that is more suited for those infamous confederate states found 800 miles south of the tunnel. On this day, a 16-year-old black kid named Yusef Hawkins rounded-up a few friends to take a look at a used Pontiac that Hawkins found in an ad the day before. What the eager shoppers didn’t know was an angry mob of (mostly) Italian-American boys were waiting to “lynch” a black kid that was rumored to attend a Sweet 16 party hosted by one of the Italian boys’ ex-girlfriend. The mob armed with sticks and bats were more heated than the boiling 90-degree thermostat centered in the core of The Apple. As the shoppers entered the Bensonhurst block in Brooklyn, the gang attacked -- beating Hawkins as if Emmett Till was the party’s co-host.

While Yusef’s friends staggered to safety, Hawkins was continually beaten – until a slick-haired kid named Joey Farmer pulled out a pistol and shot Hawkins in the chest killing him instantly. Farmer escaped to upstate NY, while the close-knit Italian community went silent, hoping the tragedy would simply go away and Farmer would elude prosecution.

What happened next was nothing short of the north, gone south. As the days turned into nights and the nights turned into days; the temperature rose faster than a Monica Lewinsky date. Still there was no justice in sight. That is until a local activist named, Alfred Charles Sharpton Jr. emerged. Rev. Al – would be his brand name once his media-made audience grew. However, on this August summer day, Sharpton was a local 60’s preacher searching for justice the old fashion way. Sharpton organized and led a nightly march in Brooklyn that attracted scores of news media and famous New York movie stars and pop singers – including a short, Brooklyn film maker named Spike Lee. The peaceful protest included many NY Knick ball players and budding stars like Chris Rock who were greeted in Bensonhurst with tossed watermelons, hurdled chicken bones and chants of “monkeys go home!” At the head of the protest line was a sweaty, stubby, perm-haired man, donned in a velour jogging suit…, igniting so much national pressure on this small Brooklyn Block that Farmer eventually emerged from hiding, as he turned himself in (aided by a neighborhood resident).



That’s Al Shaprton in summary. He has ALWAYS been DEEP in the trenches, fighting for the voiceless and underserved. If there is a cause or fight for injustice (especially a black one), if there is a need for fair and equal treatment you can set your clock to an Al Sharpton appearance – unless Jesse gets there first.
Nevertheless, you name the injustice: Jena 6, Sean Bell, Bernhard Goetz, Mike Tyson, Amadou Diallo, the Dunbar Village Rape, the Howard Beach uprising, the Crown Heights Riots, the US Military in Puerto Rico, Sony Music vs. Michael Jackson, Proposition 48, and who will ever forget, Tawana Brawley.

I LOVE Al Sharpton – mostly because he is one of the few people whose actions often match the What Would Jesus Do conundrum. I’m not always sure He would address these issues the same as Sharpton, which is why we are ONLY built in His image – the execution is our puzzle.
On this past Sunday’s edition of 60 Minutes, Al Sharpton officially unveiled a different phase in his life. Some supporters will call it growth. And, some questioning his motives will call it a digression. And, many others will see it as a 180-degree about-face – sadly, the latter is probably where you’ll find me. And it hurts. I mean it really hurts. Badly.

"A fraudulent intent, however carefully concealed at the outset, will generally, in the end, betray itself." -- Titus Livius

If you turn your clocks back to 2008, a black Chicago truth-fighting native was building a rocket headed straight for the White House – a familiar target of Al Sharpton. Barack Obama was different though. He talked of many struggles that he and Sharpton shared. In fact the only real difference was their approach to justice. As often reminded by the media, Barack has a Dr. King-like design. He crosses his legs when he speaks. Obama looks you in the eyes, and his articulation is a thing of American beauty and comfort. Barack dresses the part too. Neat suit, handsome ties, Harvard Law diction, two adorable kids, no mistresses, white shirt, polished shoes, neat American hair cut, no posse and an almighty Oprah endorsement.


Hell, I almost sent him a check. Obama’s Save the World campaign speeches not only won America’s Oval Seat it earned him a Nobel Peace Prize – something Sharpton wouldn’t even be considered for – although one can argue Sharpton’s history is probably more deserving. Barack Obama made the same ‘ole promises that every would-be president proclaims: No free rides for the rich, no more wars, no children left behind, no more new taxes, no [more] blow jobs in the office. Yet, even a political skeptic like Rev. Al had to admit, this run for office was a wee bit different. This guy seems to have a different aura, a different appeal, a different vibe. In fact, he seems more Koffi Anna and less systematic. Barack seems more Jim Brown and less Kobe Bryant. He seems much more Arthur Ashe and less Don King. More Prince, less Diddy. Much more Powell than Thomas – much more Roses than Guns. What American citizen wouldn't want a US President that pointed less guns?

Well, since Barack has been in office, with his peace prize polished and tucked away there has been: One additional war, 10k more troops in the Middle East, several Wall Street bail-outs, one beer summit, an unchanged 9.9% unemployment rate (and we won’t even mention the black community numbers), an amended Patriot Act with HIS signature and extension, and NOT ONE WORD ABOUT A MOSTLY BLACK NEW ORLEANS which has been buried in a sea of rumble for over 5 years. Normally, Al Sharpton would’ve led a uprising march on the White House lawn during dinner. But, as Al said in his 60 Minutes interview: “…in exchange for access to the White House I will never criticize Barack Obama in public again." In fact, when black activists (such as Cornel West, Tavis Smiley or others) attempt to challenge Barack’s OBVIOUS black community apathy, it is Sharpton who will defend Barack's policies or lack thereof.

It is really hard to imagine that after all these years of truth fighting that all one had to do to keep Al Sharpton quiet on issues that adversely affect the black community is to grant him access to the people that make the inequality just.



It is plainly obvious that Al Sharpton’s White House badge grants him access to a room that is much cooler than all of those New York summers combined. Maybe Sharpton has one more march up his tenured sleeve. Maybe Sharpton has elevated his fight and has pulled off the ultimate Spook by the Door deception. No one will really knows what Sharpton’s eventual plan is. My only hope is… if Al Sharpton’s legacy is contingent on the right side of justice, then Al (better) B. Sure…, the den you’ve entered doesn’t belong to the lying.

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1 love,
Ray Lewis

Decoded

You don't have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them.
Ray Douglas Bradbury

To be honest I’m really not a huge Jay-Z fan. I like him and I believe his music can be revealingly witty (at times). However, too often he abandons that path for the fast, commercial commerce road that many of his juniors take because (unlike him) they actually have no other alternative. It has been widely accepted that his first CD Reasonable Doubt is one of the best LPs of its time and without question, one of Hip Hop’s classics. Unfortunately, Jay-Z hasn’t come close to ever doing that again – and why would he since it was one of his least profitable -- and that my friends is where the music satire begins.

Naturally, as art would have it, his book Decoded reads like Reasonable Doubt (reincarnated) with a hint of Sam Greenlee’s The Spook Who Sat by the Door and the commerce from this book is sure to follow. The semi-autobiography highlights the interesting crossroad between the streets & the suites and by the time Mr. Carter is done you are really not sure what side of the fence is safer, more profitable or more immoral. Additionally, if you were in his shoes the quizzical path you may choose. Just image the dynamics of a 14-year-old paying the light bill so that your mom can have enough light to sign the truant letter denoting her teen son skipping school? This is a scripted tale within this scripted tale.

Decoded tackles the paradox of loyalty and what makes Shawn, Jay-Z and vice-versa. It literally reads like a season of HBO’s The Wire – and you’ll find yourself rooting for the bad guy, because the so-called “good” guy’s hustle is just as foul -- just not as illegal – which in itself should be criminal.

Decoded is the epitome of irony in the most straight-forward, concise manner. You'll learn a great deal about language and how great Hip Hop is far more complicated than the inane people who are too lazy or unqualified to analyze it. The lyrical ending in many of the book’s chapters seems to be directed at many of those people. Honestly, you don’t have to be a fan of Jay-Z or Hip Hop to find enormous value in this book. And, if you happen to be a fan of either, it’ll be a blueprint that you’ll treasure for years – no doubt!

Click on link for bonus beats
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NBE4A_If0Uw



1 love,

Ray Lewis