… death is definitely a part of the video
I agree that it is a lot to mull over and I haven’t even began to touch the surface of the interpretation yet. I can only focus on the 1:57 mark and it’s progression from there. It’s almost like a mourning. A resurrection and a mourning. A resurrection of more than just a being. A community, culture, lifestyle, story. The way it reaches out and touch and impact an entire community. This is what I meant earlier by what I said regarding my soapbox rant, Lupe, and this video.
Hip Hop, authenticity, purposeful lyricism and musicianship…are things that seem to lack in these particular genres. He wears a shirt that says J.Dilla Saved My Life. He has it on as he’s passing shorty some Cheetos. Simple subtleties “that I haven’t quite figured out yet”.
The music impacted “him” and “he”, representing this culture and society of musical genre, is the last of a dying breed. Just like lupe sat on that sofa weeping over ghosts, as are the members of these communities standing against the wall - Frozen. Mourning. But it’s the music. The pulse. The music which resurrects him.
And when he rises up, it’s his flamboyant dancing, outstretched and limber in form, putting his wounds on display, proudly. Almost as if to say, I died for this moment. I lived and I died…or “gave up the ghost” so to speak. But it’s like Flylo’s music or music in general is what keeps this representation alive. Like…. when he moves past the witnesses, are they staring at the fact that he’s dead. Or are they looking away, in shame because they were the cause of it? and he’s manifested into something even more multi-dimensional than before?
This being. This music. This element, culture, lifestyle.
And yes, it is very much a thing of black boys. I can see that. The irony of youth in gangs, killing each other off to be promoted in hierarchy….not so much a survival of the fittest as much as it is mental or metaphorical suicide. bah.
To me, the water is the heaven. I think the more music evolves, the deeper it goes beneath the surface….
… have you missed me?
I’m in the fetal position
with an auxiliary cord shoved a quarter inch into my good vein
i used the shoelaces of my earth shoes to make it bulge
and i pumped quarter notes into my bloodstream
and while i listen,
i’m gyrating my hips like booty do in crotches at overcrowded clubs.
*cuts off lights*
I love how elitist I am. I love that my supply of what gets me high, belongs to me. I love it when passersby covet the gorgeous in my possession. It makes me feel like I know what I’m doing. Especially when I’m able to brew my own shit in my own kitchen and take own self where the fuck I need to be.
So why am I turning all green eyed over my pusherman. I mean after all, he is the one that typically supplies me when I’m low. He gives me the good shit, most of the time, when I ain’t even lookin’ or expectin’. So why is it that I’m irritated this evening? Probably because my pusherman didn’t necessarily make tonight’s fix exclusively for me. No… he shared it with a bunch of other maw’fuckas and I took offense to that.
there was a weekend
good lord, there was a weekend