Eric B "Eric B"

Click On The Smoothtastic Album Cover To Download

Peace party peoples, it’s Eric B. checking in, once again. You’re probably thinking that it’s been a long East Elmhurst minute since I’ve stepped in the spotlight. And you’d be right in thinking that. Things done changed, youngblood.
Back in the day this rap shit took a nigga clear across the globe. Out for ducats. Shines that could blind ya. And that sweet power-u that only a fussy Dominican waitress named Lola knows how to throw down. But sure as the good Lord above will one day cut out the lights on this cozy lil’ bachelor pad we call Planet Earth, Eric B.’s gotta lay in the cut and settle down far, far away from the fast life.

Now, you might be tempted say that I’ve earned a bit of a reputation as a, well how should I put it? A dangerous man. A scoundrel even. And you’d be right in saying that as well. The poo-putt, wet behind the ears, dry-dick whippersnappers of today betta recognize the force that was Eric B. In my day I was, how them old folks say? Persuasive. I wasn’t sipping Grand Marnierout of chalices alongside Alpo and Rich and Oran “Juice” Jones at the LQ solely on account of my fly custom Ballys. Those Main Source eskimo-ass wondertwin niggas and Mr. Coke-bottle glasses still shudder when “Chinese Arithmetic” comes on their ITunes. You think the great Eric B. does so much as bat a motherfuckin’ eyelid when he hears “Snake Eyes”? Sheeeeeeeeit, I might even sing along.

Let me hip you to some game, kid. The internets is full of perpetratin’ ass pepetrators. Seems every time I’m up in Google Reader, some Paul C pallbearer is popping shit in an Unkut interview. But I’m askin’ for real, you ever peeped the “I Ain’t No Joke” video? Youtube it up right now. G’head. Wait for that shit to buffer. Check me out, akh, manhandling the wheels of steel with ferocity. Not unlike a lioness preying on a gazelle. Steely nerves right there. I’m cold, man. That chill up your spine when you first heard “Let The Rhythm Hit ‘Em”? That was your conscience telling you to START LOOKING OUT … OR LOOK OUT!

I once cancelled a studio session with Freddie Fox. F’real, did you know that? Admit it if you ain’t know, straight up. I told son “if you’re on time you’re ten minutes late.” He was on some “oh it’s like that now?” and I was all “psssshaw.” Mean motherfucker right here. I make Joe Fatal look like Kurious Jorge’s gay nephew. And don’t let anyone gas your head up. I produced every Kool G. Rap song that exists. All I gotta do is mean mug a SP1200 and it does what I want like a slave. And fuck what you heard because every last one of those Energizers throwin’ ducks in Trenton turned up dead within eighteen months. You know the motherfuckin’ odds of that shit happening by chance? Shit must be a zillion to one, at least.

But enough of that ying-yang. Eric B. lives coolout style in these last days and times. Picture the don trying to catch a case! A man got silk suits in dry cleaning, a leased Volvo with tints, and a Staten Island mortgage from a bank that doesn’t take “no” for an answer. The path stays straight and narrow as a crackhead’s behind from here on in. Bust it, though, on the real tip, let’s build on my solo album. What you blogger types might call a “slept-on classic.” Some of you may say that the samples are played out, or that the drums are weak, or that I sound like Grand Daddy IU suffered a nervous breakdown. And you’d be right in saying that. And by “right” of course I mean “you’d best to change your name, rent a disguise, and get your honky ass on the first flight to Phoenix if you wanna see your kids grown.”

Peep my album cover, nigga. I shaped that Van Dyke beard with a boxcutter. You think that Beauty And The Beast font is easy to get? My head made all giant and shit and Fire N’ Ice color scheme, that’s some whole ‘notha othea next levelness right there. Nowadays any pickaninny can whip together an album and sell it exclusively through CD Baby – I had to grind hard at extorting my way into solo artistry. You know how challenging it is to keep a suit like that from wrinkling while you’re pistol whipping an A&R? I spent the first half of ’87 on my Vic20 logged into the local dial-up “RAPPMuZAK” BBS promoting Paid In Full, so I know this online promotions game something fierce. My disk drive was a JVC box that ate tapes for Christ’s sake.

Listen, I’m not saying that you should feel obligated to download my album. And I am in no way suggesting that I’ll be tracing the IP address of anyone who says I’m looking like Barry White after a gastric bypass in that photo. All I’m saying is, give the record a chance. Feel the rugged yet smooth styling laid over the Quiet-Storm-esque backing tracks. Bump this in your Benzy Box or while you’re sipping Calvin Coolers with a honeydip, curled up in front of the gas fireplace. Imagine how wack this would sound if Large Pro made the beats and Rakim was rapping on it. The thought alone got my blood pressure shootin’ shit up. Before I jet, I want to give an extra large shout out to the staff of the T.R.O.Y. Blog for honoring my extremely polite request to guest blog with zero hesitation. Keep doin’ what ya’ll doin’ ’cause you doin’ it well. Peace. — Eric B