Peace, party peoples, once again live and direct from Strong Island, your majesty Eric B is in the proverbial building. For those that don’t know the ledge, the “B” stands for Barrier, as in “an ear to ear buck-fitty will become your personal barrier to success if you don’t agree I deserve 38% up front.” The last time the I wrote for this blog, I reviewed my ultra-rare Ebay smash hit self-titled solo album. The editors said there was a “conflict of interest” but one cold stare and I got them to see my side of things, in record time too. Today I’ll be providing an in-depth review of an album I extortitive-produced, Operation Get Down by err, whathisface, j/k lulz.
Now, I ain’t gonna front, reading the responses of my long-time fans in the comments section of that first review and seeing the link retweeted like a futuristic Roxy flyer being passed around the city had this grown-ass man damn near in tears. Make no mistake, ya boy is glad to be alive and kicking on this crazy dirt pile, still shining like a freshly polished dookie chain with the fly anchor and/or scorpion pendant in the hot Noo Yawk sun.
This is a fickle game, this rap shit. You think I ain’t know that? I used to clock fools like MC Shan and EST in amazement as they pulled the flyest honeydip skeezers at The Rooftop. And where are they now, when they aren’t ripping stages in Holland or Japan? Exactly. Eric B has weathered this music industry 2pacalypse because Eric B knows how to adapt. I can spot a fertile business opportunity faster than a hawk can zero in on a field mouse, or Kool G Rap can book a nonstop one-way flight from LaGuardia to Phoenix Sky Harbor International, kid. God save our stanking asses if having your ears to the streets ever goes out of style.
Eric B is the streets, though, don’t forget. Just the other week I was at SXSW, kickin’ the ballistics with some up and coming teenage skateboard murder rap niggas from the middle-class enclaves of LA-LA land. Their gangly leader got up and spat in my general direction, talking some mess about “get your faggot old man self the fuck away from us, nigga, before we rape your faggot ass, gay ass fucknigga.” I had ’nuff respect for his moxie, though. He kept going on about shwag, though now that I think about it, I didn’t walk away with so much as a pen with their logo. That’s beside the point, though. The point is, I discovered the future of rap, the next Da Youngstas even, while you nimrods stay doing free promo for niggas who probably bleed Oreo filling.
My skills at talent scouting? Matched only by my skills at talentless hack scouting. See, this is the music biz, not the music non-profit organization, nahmean? Today’s science is that if you intend to succeed, by which I mean stay dipped in Dapper Dan’s most exquisite finery and twisting out the backs on exotic slimmies, you gotta know how to spot a nigga that’s falling. Because a nigga that’s falling fast can make niggas on the rise rich beyond their fischscale dreams. You can get a has-been, a never-was, or an also-ran to do anything you want if you gas them up and sell them some lines about a penthouse suite and an S-class Benz, so long as they don’t know shit about recoupment. All you need is sheisty lawyers and accountants, and a signature, and I’ve never had a problem getting any of those at 3 A.M., word to the motherland.
See, Craig Mack was down on his luck in 1997. Look at that album cover.You think some broke-ass marble-mouthed derm-abrasian candidate from motherfuckin’ Brentwood had it in his mind to start rocking the fly vest and hard-bottom church shoes combination in the stairwell of a perfectly respectable model home in an affluent North Shore gated community? Child, please. On the strength, I saved the man’s life. Puffy wouldn’t agree to his release until I sicced the East Elmhurst Posse on him then gave Haitian Jack the green light to extort him for every cent of Mase’s residuals. I’m nothing if not diplomatic and I’m thinking a cushy position at wshh is in the works for yours truly, on g.p. alone.
Where was I? Right, right… Prior to all that that, that Flava In Ya Ear one-hit blunder mook was skulking around around Green Acres Mall muttering “get down!” while hoping that semi-retarded high bitches from Valley Stream High might give him ‘hood-celebrity dome, always wondering why Biggie kept dissing him in all those interviews. I gave this hubristic mutant another shot, and he went and ruined it the way I meant him to. Now you might say that “Operation: Get Down” is a shamelessly unoriginal recording that packs none of the punch of Craig Mack’s debut. And you might say that it functioned as little more than a tax write-off, and that it was a waste of the talents of producers like Mark “Prince Markie Dee” Morales. That it was destined for failure and was given no promo or support. And you’d be right about all of those things.
But the fact of the matter is that you still wouldn’t be fit to hold Eric Barrier’s skelly top, you broke-ass, nutella-hearted, nappy-headed, exaggerated LinkedIn-profile-having scrubs. Peace, until next time. —- Eric B