I’m not a hater. If I don’t like it, I don’t like it…plain and simple. I can cop to being dismissive, which leads me to re-visit things I often pass over in haste. But who am I to judge? Look at the name of this site. My mom always said, “people who live in glass houses, shouldn’t throw stones”. Well, here I was a few weeks back, way up in my ivory tower on Twitter lobbing rocks like slow pitch softball. My target? ASAP Ferg. Honestly, “Work” wasn’t my favorite. “Shabba” didn’t do it for me either. Then it dawned on me. I was suffering from acute Rosenbergitus.
Peter Rosenberg, of Hot 97 DJ fame, is somewhat of a hip hop elitist. Rosenbergitus occurs when you’ve spent your entire life being a fan of the most relevant and continually evolving movement in musical history. Beats, rhymes, and life. The onset is tough. You get comfortable, and complacent. Your arguments always seem to involve Jay Z, Nas, and Eminem. You wear the proverbial blinders and grant a pass to “new artists” that fit the mold created by greats like Premier, Pete Rock, and Dilla. Symptoms of Rosenbergitus are obvious. Vertebrae soreness from lugging your backpack around town. Hives caused by the tap,tap,tap of a trap beat. Night terrors involving images of Trinidad James’s teeth. It’s overwhelming.
ASAP Ferg’s debut leaked a day ago, and I caved. In treatment, they call this a break through. Not only does Trap Lord deliver in a major way, it might be the record that has me on the road to recovery. His style is more Cudi than Rocky, relying on a melodic sing-song delivery rather than beat you over the head with bar after bar. I almost got pulled over I was rocking so hard to “Murda Something” in the car this morning… Coincidentally, that track is the only time I’ve EVER listened to an entire Waka verse. I’m not happy about these transformations, but they’re important. They may save my hip hop life.
Ferg is a product of the new era where “internet rap” reaches audiences from Brooklyn to Boise, Idaho. These cats aren’t tied to a certain style, and merely defined by their generation. The music I love is evolving, and I have to accept that. There’s more to it these days than rappity ass raps and tried and true boom bap. As a fan, you can either throw stones, or smile and nod to rhymes about Shabba’s gold tooth. I feel liberated. Thank you Trap Lord.