Sky's falling, dog. Sales are at an all-time, Marianas Trench low. The music industry is shook like Jimmy Rabbit in the first scene of 8 Mile. The FCC is making radio conglomerates cough up a payola settlement to the tune of $12.5 million, and is demanding they play more independent music (we'll just see about that). The Recording Industry Association of America—if it isn't locking up DJs, effortlessly dismantling the mix-tape game, or coming up with new ways to sue the shit out of anybody with a Soulseek account—is doing its damnedest to control how you listen to music in every possible respect. One day you won't even be able to hum "We Fly High" to yourself while you take a leak without getting a summons and a karate chop to the throat. And the worst blow of all: The White Rapper Show is now off the air. Hold ya head!
John Brown is a marketing savant (or as he'd prefer, "entity"), a not-bad rapper, and a pretty great signifier of the times. As Dante Ross—the A&R man who helped bring the world Queen Latifah, 3rd Bass, Brand Nubian, Leaders of the New School, and KMD—said himself on the show's season finale, "Lyrics don't matter anymore." All that matters is your "swagger," your "movement," and such buzz-type terms. If you "act as if" (telemarketing speak, sorry), people will respond to you, regardless if the talent is there or not. This is why I'm not mad at total music sales taking a 20 percent hit last year, or a toddler's handful of rap albums going platinum; I think it's high time rap stopped looking like an easy route to riches—maybe those who truly don't love the craft and the culture will become actual marketers, PR people, and white-collar corporate tools. Then the rest of us weird bums who have no choice but to do this shit will just be left with the task of trying to find a way to live doing the art we love. Then again, I wouldn't hold your breath for that, either.
Yet the beat goes on. I recently received a filthy new CD from Tacoma-born, Seattle-bred MC Phil in the Blank, entitled Artistically Schizophrenic. Full disclosure right quick, y'all—I've known Phil for hella, rocked shows with him, done music with him. True to the title, the album is as chronically moody as any Northwest joint has any business to be—the chaotic sonics of "Contradiction" featuring Mr. Reggie Watts sum up the vibe well. Blank's jagged, polysyllabic attack rewards rewinds and multiple listens, showcasing naked sincerity, personal revelation, and surprising lyrical dexterity. Peep his standout double time on "Ride," a seemingly simplistic ode to getting twisted by any means necessary—until it's not. If you want to check some ill spit from a local MC you might not be hip to, just hit up www.myspace.com/phylintheblank. And for the absolutely last time (maybe): Hallelujah holla back! 
