Jul 072009

“… I’m pure New York, got train tracks inside me…

Blaq Poet Don’t Give A Fuccc!”

The hardest track out this year. While half of New York is busy trying to sound like the South, the other half is trying to emulate the mid-nineties. But while they are looking to the past, Poet is doing what he always does. He is bringing the hardcore with renewed energy. I missed this kind of aggressiveness in rap music today.

Not the most innovative album ever, The Blaqprint still hits you as hard as anything from the golden era of harcore New York. Apart from some filler guest raps, it is packed with Primo-produced bangers like the one posted above. Some posters claim that the production is subpar, that DJ Premier has fallen off, that he needs to update his drums. That is not true. S.O.S. and U Phucc’d Up and Never Goodbye and Hood Crazy and especially the chilling Voices shows you why.

It is a shame and a testament to the sad state of music that you will not hear anything from this played on the radio or in the club. It is not even fair, I mean, Blaq Poet went out of his way, I mean really stretched his format to make a hot club track. Perhaps he shouldn’t have named it Stretch Marks & Cigarette Burns.


“You aint heard this type shit in a very long time…”

Jul 032009


Passed by at the FUSION FESTIVAL last week. You know, generally it takes some days to gather your thoughts after an exhausting experience such as this… many new impressions, new musical and personal acquaintances… let me start by saying, that this was probably the best festival I have ever been to.

Germans know how to organize. Excellent, cheap, all vegetarian food. Logistics that makes sure you can walk anywhere on the festival area in a few minutes – and art exhbitions, food stands, bars and light shows between the stages and DJ floors that make sure you are never bored when moving around. Free toilets everywhere. (If you wanna flush down your shit and wash your hands with soap, you can do that for half a Euro… which felt like a sweet deal in the dirt and sweat of the festival.) Free showers (OK, in the morning and around noon, the line was almost an hour long… but times flies when you are waiting in the sun with the grass and the trees around you… and you are talking to nice people who also enjoy the Basic Channel-techno heard from the nearby dancefloor).

The whole thing was like clockwork. But the thing I found most enjoyable about the whole deal was that the crass commercial spirit, haunting festivals all over the world, had been successfully supressed here. You can take your own drinks when you see the music. No company logos. You can take all the drugs you want to, as long you’re not an asshole about it. No fights. Very few hipsters with too much attitude. In general a very relaxed and friendly atmosphere. And the whole four day festival costs only 55 euros, which, as an example, is about a fourth of the Roskilde festival.

Before going I was familiar with less than a handful of the names in the program. That did not matter, though. Walking around I could hear electronic music all around me at all hours of the day, most of it quality stuff. It is the place for you to discover new names.

The Argentinian Hijo de La Cumbia was very nice, taking a hardcore, junglist approach to Cumbia (a genre that is, as I understand it, to Peru, Bolivia and Northern Argentina what reggae is to Jamaica).

Extrawelt gave us some tight, analog techno that sounded very different (much better, fatter) than what I found with them on youtube. One of the highlights of the festival.


Marc Houle showed class, masterfully serving us hard after banging hard techno track in the very early morning.

Best of all, as well as an old favorite of us here at Brytburken, was the German dub techno wizard Marko Fürstenberg. He showed the way to a minimal future with a set finely balanced between rich dub bunker pads and sharp, edgy, digital techno rhytmhs. It was well worth to ascend to consciousness at 11 AM to see that. That he played on the outdoor floor pictured below did not make things worse.


Jul 012009

Saw Maradona yesterday.

It is as much a film about Kusturica as it is about Maradona. Or rather it is about the director’s admiration for the footballer, and about his inability to make the film he wants to do about him.

As a documentary, this could be better. There are so many stories, so much of his long career that we did not get to hear about. On the other hand we get sides of him that a normal, more historically and factually complete documentary could not deliver. And there are some great scenes. Emphasis is put on the political and symbolic Maradona. Kusturica shows Diego Armando as a charismatic sport genius and champion of the underdog, as a human being with all his strengths and flaws. In the interviews we find him relaxed, open, honest. That is why he can be redeemed, after all his fuck-ups. He does not lie. He tells the truth. That is one thing that adds to his iconic status.

Just like with the case of Mike Tyson, for example. Another larger-than-life, sport genius underdog unafraid of speaking his mind. The J Man Times is sadly missing from the Internets, but the comparison he made between Mike Tyson and Michael Jackson is still worth reading. Especially these days, with the passing of the very talented and supremely disturbed Jackson. Here is a good starting place for tributes and such for MJ, or you could remember him together with the fine folks over at the NETJERK LOUNGE.

“When Jackson was hosting his infamous slumber parties and looking for some easy action, he would ply his pre-teen partners with a mixture of wine and Coca-Cola, which he would tell them was ‘Jesus Juice’ … let’s all raise a glass of Jesus Juice to the departed ‘King of Plop’.”

“I’m a bit dismayed over Jackson’s passing. The guy spent his life singin’, dancin’, rimming monkeys and children, dwelling in a carnival and peeling his own skin off. That’s entertainment! Am I wrong to find that kind of candy colored train wreck amusing? I would have enjoyed seeing what kind of full blown, batshit, Howard Hughes style lunacy he’d exhibit if he lived to be 90.”

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