#13-A Dissection of "Ass Rap".

Do you claim to talk to your crew the same way you talk to your girl? Before you can think of beginning to say "Fuck yeah I do!", I'm going to go ahead and call bullshit on that so quickly, it will knock out radio transmissions and leave birds for a half-mile radius without feathers and unable to reproduce. Unfortunately, "keepin it real" stops with the sound of the bedroom door closing. (Note: an exception is made if you're over 25 and have had less sexual partners than digits on your left hand. Maybe if you weren't so damn hard all the time, you'd have a tad more stank on your hang-low, but do what you do, right?

Most ladies quiver at knowing that they're the exception to your rule, that they can make the words "sugar-angel baby pie" cross the lips of the guy who, in the street, wouldn't hesitate to pull a piece on someone who steps on his Timberlands. For most, however, admissions of such blasphemes immediately revokes one's gangsta pass. For better or worse, these are the breaks.


In hip-hop, this is an exceedingly delicate subject. Nearly every MC or crew out there has a song specifically crafted to moisten the dreams of all would-be or wanna-be honeys in the crowd. The results are inconsistent at best. A myriad of approaches are taken, and some have dedicated entire careers to the subject. Slick Rick, for example, relied upon said honeys having a smoldering self-hatred, balancing a line between between making them feel degraded and intrigued at once, and before anyone knows what's happening, they've broken him off something so fierce that sheets are thrown away, and penicillin has secured a top-shelf spot in the medicine cabinet.




Conversely, Common purports on the mic to be able to give you a hot-oil massage while he's making crepes. Your favorite, with strawberries and sweetened cream cheese. All the while, he makes more panties hit the floor than a bull in victoria's secret.



These are the old gods of a niche of hip-hop I like to refer to as "ass rap". If ass-rap were fried chicken, they would be known as Popeye and Colonel Sanders, respectively. For the rest, however, this subject is a mistress as fickle as any. Often an otherwise ground-breaking and prolific hip-hop artist or group will venture into this no-mans land, and emerge with their entire fan base all like, "WTF?".

Dead Prez has achieved mainstream success while still brandishing their subversive and revolutionary lyrics. "Hip-Hop" and "Hell Yeah (Pimp the System)" are bumped daily from dorm rooms and Escalades in downtown Detriot alike. Their foray into ass-rap is a little ditty known as "Mind Sex"...


It's time for some mind sex, we ain't got to take our clothes off yet
We can burn the incense, and just chat
Relax, I got the good vibrations
Before we make love let's have a good conversation

[Verse 1]
Pardon me love but you seem like my type
What you doin tonight? you should stop by the site
We could, roll some weed play some records and talk
I got a fly spot downtown Brooklyn, New York
Now I know you think I wanna fuck, no doubt
but tonight we'll try a different route, how bout we start
With a salad, a fresh bed of lettuce with croutons
Later we can play a game of chess on the futon
See i ain't got to get in your blouse
It's your eye contact, that be getting me aroused
When you show me your mind, it make me wanna show you mines
Reflecting my light, when it shines, just takin our time
Before the night's through, we could get physical too
I ain't tryin to say I don't wanna fuck, cause I do
But for me boo, makin love is just as much mental
I like to know what I'm gettin into

...What, What the shit? This is like finding out the guy who jacked your stereo and then pulled a .22 on you when you called him on it has a date lined up with your little sister, and after you go buy her some condoms and pepper spray, dude rolls up to the door wearing a sweater-vest with roses and shit, with his moms' volvo parked outside. For real?



Every once in a while, however, a lyrical juggernaut tackles the ginormous shit-pile known as ass rap, dances his way in there like a ninjad-out Barry Sanders, and leaves a fat gem buried deep inside. Case in point, Pharoahe Monch's "The Light"




Pharoahe Monch tighrope walks the line between getting your girl into his bed and making you want to throw down for bottle service at a club just because he once walked past it. He's safe, "I never lack to pack prophylact', I learned my lesson". He's enthused, "Dime piece and shit, son, shorty was fine!". In fact, I just got a little bit of a crush. Name dropping Alize and Gran Moulet, claiming to be the girl's horizon, this song begs to be ringing from a club PA, and then a bit later on from an Ipod dock on the nightstand.

The end goal being to get the girl and maintain G-status being achieved, one must imagine Pharoahe Monch riding off into the sunset on 20-inch rims, with a down-ass Kim Kardashian type in the passenger seat, while making it rain out the window. As stated, a polished gem rocking amongst the shit waves in the sea of ass-rap.


-Adam B.