Am I awake?
I saw horrors at the RNC podium worthy of Lovecraft's racist ass, spitting blood like Gene Simmons's also racist, NWA-hating ass. Days later, I'm recovering from playing a drinking game during Bernie's DNC speech. Alcohol and politics may be #StrongerTogether but not stronger than the hangover that history says we're headed for. (Please drink water.)
How would a Trump presidency intersect with all the other nationalist craziness going on in the world? When have we ever gone to the precipice like this and not tipped the hell in?
Were there really guns out for two consecutive weekends on the Hill, on top of the usual Big City Fantasy Camp for Eastsiders that Pike/Pine got turnt to? I love the Capitol Hill Arts District, I just hate all the CHADs.
Speaking of, how was Block Party? I didn't go—religious reasons—but I was looking at a beautiful apartment up there about the size of a bathtub, the rent the ticket on some Balenciagas. (So I've heard—me, I wear nylon Classics but I do listen to Mackned.) I mean, who wouldn't want to pay NYC prices for a city you can't even get a bodega sandwich in, that you're lucky to find community in, one you can't barely stand to kick it in anymore?
The next day I used an app to get somebody to help me move my shit into storage; he was telling me about this petite blond girl from Wisconsin he'd just helped move into a place on 25th and Union. "You sure you know where you're at?" he asked her. Real protector, this guy. How many stars do you give an earnest and helpful white guy who's out of touch and casually racist? (I feel like this should go in the Seattle POC FAQ.)
KRS-One, doubling down on earlier comments, says our culture's leaders should be infallible, and if you have a problem with Afrika Bambaataa, you should "quit hiphop"—I'm looking at the front door.
ASAP Rocky once again reaffirmed his trash-ness, saying that Black Lives Matter is a bandwagon and that he identifies with Bill Cosby, who is innocent (even though Cosby himself admitted he wasn't). Who identifies with rapists? One guess.
It was beautiful that Stevie Wonder made an about-face with the All Lives Matter bullshit, but it's scary to think that things are so dire-feeling that Michael Jordan's notoriously nonvocal ass has decided to speak up in defense of Black Lives (and police's too). Plus Gucci Mane is sober living. What the hell?
While I don't know what fate has in store, I do know what Fête had planned; this would-be new entry to the local music festival racket was gonna be a one-day hiphop shindig at White River Amphitheatre, headlined by Nas, with Rae Sremmurd, Metro Boomin, and August Alsina, plus a gang (gang gang) of local talent—till the shit got canceled, no doubt due to ticket sales. (Maybe everybody remembered what a biblical exodus it is just trying to exit White River—I feel like leaving the Gorge is quicker.) Probably would have gone off like gangbusters with G-Eazy or Lil Dicky headlining; hey, y'all can pay me lots of money and I'll tell you exactly who and what to spend the rest of it on. (No refunds.)
Till then, my fly and fashion-forward Northwest urbanites, this is kinda still Kenny Chesney country. #NoShoesNation.
So go see BJ the Chicago Kid on Friday at the Crocodile instead—a real soul dude with a big heart, great content, and an unwieldy name; dude should be big as Anderson Paak in my eyes, and doesn't sound like Macy Gray trying to impress Dr. Dre (uh, no shade, honestly). I haven't heard a single or feature of his that disappointed yet—and like Paak did, BJ seems to be stealthily ramping up to a big debut. If I had to recommend a few, I'd point to his two stellar joints to date with Kendrick Lamar ("His Pain" and "The New Cupid," no shuffle), and one of my favorite songs of last summer, "That Girl" (featuring a breezy feature from the often fun-spoiling OG Maco, no less).
Tell 'em I sent you, just please don't tell 'em you saw me.