Generally the best 3rd Bass song is considered to be “Gas Face”. I guess it’s supposed to be about the face you make when you have painful gas; uplifting material for music, obviously. It has a sample of a girl going “uccchhh” about a thousand times. It stinks. 3rd Bass stinks, and MC Serch is a failed Jerry Springer imitation.
If you take issue with me calling Scientology a cult, then you’re a Scientologist. Get the fuck off my site and kill yourself. I don’t live on the Earth that abides nefarious cultists like you apparently do. I’m not sorry, and I’m pleased to inform you that the thinking world is just waiting for you to commit mass suicide and stop bothering us. Real talk.
I can’t think of any Beck songs I like enough to post here. I harbor some resentment towards the guy because he was popular when I worked in music retail, and we had to put his albums on in-store play. Do you know how fun it is to be the assistant manager responsible for putting on music featuring the lyric “like a dildo crashing into the sun” in a mall full of minors? The admonitions I received from angry parents alone gave me a real rosy outlook on this California asshole and his fruity little tunes.
In any case, Odelay, Guero, Mutations and Midnite Vultures are all good- to-great Beck albums. The dude is simply too prolific and talented for me to properly goof on, and the production on his stuff sounds consistently incredible. In short, I’m no slavering Beck fan, but I like that he’s out there doing what he does.
Speaking of sterling production, the Bloodhound Gang‘s 1999 outing Hooray For Boobies might have taken home an award or two, if not for the rock-bottom crudity of the lyrics. “The Ballad of Chasey Lane” is about a porn star whose face caused me to shriek when I image-searched her just now. “The Bad Touch” is the “Discovery Channel song”, which was beaten into dust by MTV. “Mope” uses a Frankie Goes To Hollywood sample that improves upon “Relax”. “Inevitable Return of the Great White Dope” might be the best track, and the mix is amazing. But this is white rap from the 90s, and that means skits you have to skip.
Not that skits were exclusive to white rap, though; as much as I adore Outkast, I’d be lying if I said I can get through one of their classic albums without skipping. Without skits, Speakerboxxx/The Love Below could’ve been one perfect disc. Still, Outkast’s skits are sometimes funny, unlike skits on Dr. Dre albums, which are as hilarious and entertaining as Eric Wright’s AIDS diagnosis. Was it really necessary to bring The Chronic to a screeching halt to spotlight a staged pistol-whipping or a hokey car bomb? Or is that just how you fill out a record when you’re fronting like you’re a “gangsta”?
Early Bloodhound Gang skits were mostly stock retard voices, inside jokes and self-effacing japes about the inherent absurdity of white rappers. Their discography is like a master list of things you can no longer do or say in music. I can’t fault them for being who they are and sticking it out as long as they did; as with GWAR and Wesley Willis, there’s no current comparison. Overt vulgarity is discouraged unless it’s fake and safe, like Miley Cyrus or Lady Gaga.
Credit is absolutely due to Jimmy Pop, former intern of censorship enthusiast Howard Stern, who is a tremendous rapper of any hue. His flow in the following song is either the result of circular breathing or some serious editing mojo:
In my opinion, that’s their best. As if that’s not enough, on the same album, they managed to make none other than Vanilla Ice sound like an actual rapper.
“Fire Water Burn” is also on the disc. I wasn’t lying about hesitating to listen to it. When I finally did, I clearly remembered one of the biggest douchebag customers I ever had the misfortune of serving at the music store, a braying, frat-boy wannabe who loudly inquired:
“Dude, you know that song, THE ROOF, THE ROOF, THE ROOF IS ON FIRE, WE DON’T NEED NO WATER LET THE MOTHER FUCKER BURN, BURN MOTHER FUCKER BURN?”
“You know, THE ROOF, THE ROOF, THE ROOF IS ON FIRE, WE DON’T NEED NO WATER LET THE MOTHER FUCKER BURN, BURN MOTHER FUCKER BURN? Right?”
Et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum. I also have to endure that song any time I want to watch CKY4 to the end. I’m trying to be kind, because the Bloodhound Gang seem like a cool bunch of hombres. I was contacted by one or two of them a few years ago after writing this strip; my opinions on ICP and the Beastie Boys were appreciated, but I have a feeling they’re pretty fed up with Eminem. Isn’t everybody?
(And I guess the X-Files reference IS timely, now that that sleeping pill is back on TV again.)