The Raggies- Videos & More

             

             

             

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Who are The Raggies and why is their Singer Giving Me a Lap Dance? by Charles Honeywell 

First off, some of you may be wondering why we’re doing a rock and roll story in a gun magazine. It started off as run of the mill article on a gun collector, Jack Kilpatrick of Las Cruces, who owns a bunch of pre-ban full auto AK’s and SKS’s, as well as a serious collection of weapons previously owned by South American drug lords, such as a gold plated AR-15 with a tiger maple stock, previously owned by Pablo Escobar.

We were going to meet at a Las Cruces bar called El Patio for drinks and an interview. At the last minute, he told me that his band, the Raggies, had to take over a gig for another band who had canceled, and asked me if I wanted to see the show. I was 30 minutes from Cruces at the time and he offered free beer, so I figured, “Why not?” 

What I got that night was far beyond the limits of rock and roll. Half the band wore skintight spandex, something I hadn’t seen since the ‘80’s. The harmonica player, “Diamond” Dave Lavetts is reputed to be the world’s 6th greatest Jewish harp player. Kilpatrick wielded his Reverend Charger guitar with the same macho authority with which he aims his man-stopping autos. Last but certainly not least, is their ho-bag singer, “Little” Kim Foxxxe, who looked like she’d walked in off the set of a stroke film. During the band’s encore, the Divinyls’ “I Touch Myself”, she came into the audience and gave me a lap dance that made me have to keep my hat over my fly on my way out the door. 

We ended up on this remote pecan farming compound where the band rehearses and records. Somebody whipped out some cheap Mexican tequila. The sun rose to find me in a field of trees in perfect rows. I was vomiting and my ears were ringing from automatic weapon fire. I never got to see the Escobar piece-he said it was at his mother’s house-but, by God, I rocked. The Raggies tour Texas from time to time. Check ‘em out. They’re our kind of people.

"The secret lives of Social Workers and the plights of their worst case studies"

It is with some reticence that I write these liner notes. For, while I enjoy this music well enough, and believe I had a good time at this gig, I can’t remember a whole lot about it. Guitarist Jack Kilpatrick lured me to the show under the ruse of having me help him dial in a new laser sight for his .357 magnum. He said I could come to the gig, stay at his house, etc. 

I worked on the sight in the afternoon while Jack broke in some new strings. He told me the story of the recent drummer swap: how Zeke had left the band due to dissonance between his fundamentalist Christian beliefs and the filthy content of Raggies music, and how founding Raggie, Chuck Manson had come to rejoin them a couple of weeks ago. Apparently Chuck had been living on the street in San Diego, and was discharged back to Las Cruces from a psychiatric hospital. He had had Jack’s phone number in his wallet and Kilpatrick, knowing he needed a drummer, was able to cajole a social worker into discharging Manson to the Kilpatrick household, where Jack was willing to “rehabilitate” him by harnessing Chuck’s love of drumming. I think there may have also been some forced confinement and stun gun torture, but I’m not supposed to talk about that. 

I was pressured into drinking a can of Cabron before the gig. Cabron is a sweet “energy” drink from Central Mexico, whose principal ingredient is the hallucinogen datura, or Jimson Weed. This is the well from which the Raggies’ inspiration springs. Listening to the playback of “Watching You”, I had a flashback of seeing the ourobouros, the mythological snake eating its tail. This would have been a beautiful vision had I not suffered it in the less-than-savory El Patio men’s room. 

“Diamond” Dave Lavetts charms a cobra from a jar with his harmonica. Jesse Gutierrez’s bass creates ripples in the earth like the quake that sends Hollywood into the Pacific. Gospel singer Mindy Bernal calls forth the wretched for salvation. Manson massages the drums in a way that offers wind and shadow to their desert landscapes. Kilpatrick’s guitar solos melt into the hungry ground like blood beneath an old rugged cross. 

I blacked out and then found myself nude in the desert near Jack’s subdivision, testing the laser sight with live ammo as the orange sun rose over the Organs (don’t know why the cops didn’t come). 

I’m a journalist for Texas Gun Monthly, a far-right gun magazine that’s little more than a newsletter. I know nothing about rock and roll. I don’t know why these guys keep asking me to review their work. I don’t know whether this music is good or not, but like Wallace Stevens’s crying peacocks, it exists, born from the fertile blackness at the heart of the world.

This Band is Doomed"

by Chet Smith, DIY magazine

"First of all, let me be clear in saying that this article is not an attempt at an impressionistic, new journalism take on the Raggies, a band I still do not fully understand. The honest truth is that I can't recall a lot of what went down during the day I spent with the Raggies at their rehearsal space on a pecan farm south of Las Cruces. Parts that I can recall lack what I would consider a natural narrative flow and seem to resemble what the aborigines call dreamtime. The reason for this breakdown in the chain of journalistic evidence has probably less to do with the band's mesmerizing music and more to do with the inspiration behind their music, an illegally imported Mexican energy drink known as Cabron, which comes in a black can emblazoned with the image of a demonic goat. The can's ingredients include "semillas daturas", the seeds of the hallucinogenic Datura plant, also known as Jimson Weed or Devils weed. The members of the Raggies inner circle suck this stuff down like gamers drink Mountain Dew. I spoke with my editor about this problem and he said we were desperate for copy and to check with the band. I asked Jack from the Raggies if they cared that some of my story might be inaccurate or hallucinated and he replied, "Cool man, go for it, but be sure and include the part where you pissed your pants."

Materially and artistically, the Raggies live in the wasteland between El Paso, Texas and Las Cruces, New Mexico, a place hysterically optimistic politicians call, the Borderplex. This is a cultural netherworld where Spanish is more common than English and you might find streets that look more like Juarez than Juarez does. They buy this Cabron stuff out of the back of a pawn shop in El Paso and started plying me with it as soon as I got off the plane and into guitarist Jack Kilpatrick's beat up truck. At first they told me it was an energy drink like Red Bull. I should have poured it out when harp player, Dave, added, "Its really helpful in that, after you do it, you won't be afraid to die." Not many soft drinks make that claim. We had a lunch of the best red chile enchiladas I ever tasted at a restaurant in Canutillo, Texas.

Their rehearsal space was a sheet metal shed on a pecan farm. Pecans, if you dont know, grow on trees, big trees. Pecan farms contain row after row of huge trees, all neatly and geometrically aligned. This curious alignment became important later, when I got lost in the orchard for a couple of hours before their manager, Cuco, found me. Cuco is notable for having made the papers as a suspect in the women of Juarez serial killer case. He naturally parlayed this press into band promotion. Apparently any of the bands he manages can get into the paper if he'll talk, a privilege he has not granted local police.

The Raggies gradually straggled into the dusty space: Diamond Dave Lavetts, the world's 6th greatest Jewish harmonica player; Jack Kilpatrick, who plays loud guitar, drummer Zeke X; and that supercute slice of Connecticut jail bait, Little Kim Foxxxe. This is where it starts to get a little hazy, the music sounded good. I was getting into it. Little Kim Foxxxe was wailing like a hellcat in heat and Dave was blowing the harp, not like a bluesman, but more like a snake charmer. Jack seemed intent on making surly facial expressions and torturing his amp to the edge of tonal Armageddon. This is where I started seeing snakes. I ran into a side room, where Cuco and some farm hands were drinking Cabron mixed with cheap Orendain tequila and playing Russian roulette. They offered me the gun. I stared at it for a moment and it morphed into a flesh-eating slug. I dropped it to the dirt floor and ran out into the orchard. Rows and rows of trees, endless, nameless...."

 

The Charles Honeywell article is excerpted from Texas Handgun magazine. The Chet Smith article is from DIY magazine, both have been re-printed without even a hint of permission by myself via The Raggies' MySpace Music blog.

Never Drink With The Raggies

A place hysterically optimistic politicians call, the Borderplex"

So it is, that fate has drawn me back to Las Cruces, that sun baked, dust coated, smog hazed, uncouth southern burg.  Chinga Chavin got it half right, sure you can walk down the streets of El Paso knee deep in tacos. But, in Las Cruces those same tacos, bought from a Taco Wagon will cost you less and taste better. Sad thing about Texans, no matter how close to the border they get or how much goddamn border they butt up against, they still can't make decent Mexican food!  

I'm not here to mess with Texas, for I've heard tell of a band from Las Cruces that plays it "as loose as an old prozzie's flange" (Dom Daley, Uber Rock magazine) They refer to themselves as "Credence Clearwater Revival on Meth" and pay tribute to all the Taco Wagons around the world "slangin' that meat in the street"  Naturally, I'm talking 'bout The Raggies a band who's music was described as being "born from the fertile blackness at the heart of the world." (Charles Honeywell, Texas Gun Monthly)

Las Cruces does have an active music scene, and there is a distinct "Las Cruces Sound." One which is influenced by the musical tastes of the NMSU student body. Who for the most part, are the ones filling the venues and spending their hard earned student loan money getting sloppy drunk. During the previous decade they favored third wave ska music, which made Liquid Cheese (a large ska band with at least a dozen musicians on its roster) the darlings of the local scene. 

"Put the heat to the meat and I'll sling it in the street"

Music fans are fickle bedfellows and after a while they dumped the cheese stixs for other flavors.  Punk rock made a stab at hoisting the fallen banner, but when your punk scene boils down to just two bands (and one metamorphosed from the other) well... you begin to see the limitations. The emo critters tried to dig their black polished finger nails into the public conscience, but unlike El Paso (where they dominate the scene) they were soundly rejected (they thrive on rejection anyway)

A true "Las Cruces Sound" was there all along, just waiting for the locals to take notice. The music is retro southern-rock played with enthusiasm and without  a hint of phoniness. It's best described as music to get loud and plowed, ripe with scruffy charm and belching beer soaked attitude. It's a steamy cow pie of Rio Grande dirtabilly blues soaked to its core with the muddy effluence of  The J. Geils Band, Black Oak Arkansas, ZZ Top, Commander Cody, Johnny Winter, Joe Ely etc. Several Las Cruces bands have steered down that dusty path, each with their unique take on the style. 

The Beat Cowboys, Feral Root, The Moonshiners, The Rawdogs & The Raggies have drawn local if not regional followings. Other Las Cruces bands & musicians are close enough in style and spirit to warrant mention: Space Truckers, New Mexican Erection, Wormhole, Dirty Clydes, Janos, C.W. Ayon, Blues Messiah, Dusty Low, Soulshine & Dirty Jones. It goes without saying, if gigs are hard to come by in Albuquerque, just imagine how it is in Las Cruces. Hell! half of the bands I just mentioned are nothing more than distant memories. 

"I've got no time... like that G.G. Allin... so I'm crying like a titty baby"

Perhaps this mob of Mesilla Valley zanies has always been too unserious, dirty, rude and politically uncool to give a fuck that the odds are against them. At their core The Raggies are Jack Kilpatrick, guitar- vocals Diamond Dave Lavetts, harmonica and Little Kim Foxxxe, vocalist & "super cute jail bait", the supporting cast of musicians tends to change. Ms. Foxxxe who hails from Torrington, Connecticut was responsible for the name "Raggies" which is a "New England slang term for rednecks or po' white trash." I'll admit my ignorance and state that I had no idea Connecticut had any poor whites at all, unless you count the Portuguese. Ms. Foxxxe was rumored to have been locked up or dead, but it turns out she was simply on a family vacation.  

The rest of the band's line-up is fluid, Ryan Lee and Chris Churchill were replaced by Jesse Gutierrez "The Slapbassfunker" (a veteran of numerous Las Cruces bands) and drummer Zeke Ramirez. Thus, fulfilling Jack's dream of having an "All Mexican rhythm section."  For a while, The Raggies also utilized a hand drummer, Rene Romo who plays a djembe or West African hand drum. Zeke would later leave the band, scared off by the decadence that surrounds the Raggies. He was replaced by Chuck Manson, a psych patient, Jack met while carrying out his day job duties as a social worker.

These bar band denizens rightly earned their reputation as a must see live act, thanks in large part to the antics of Jack Kilpatrick. With his larger than life persona, it doesn't matter if he's singing the praises of a roach coach or  belting out a rugged blues song about the murdered women of Juarez. Jack demonstrates a rare combination of social conscience and ironic satire, which he serves up  disguised as cowbunk storytelling. The Raggies can be a lowbrow hoot, but they also strike a balance between tomfoolery and sharp social commentary.

"Little Joe go back home for this old world is stranger than you know"

There's a definite method behind this inspired madness, it's rude & crude humor, but never wrongheaded and it'll leave you laughing. Reactionary times demand inspirational reactionary rebels like Jack Kilpatrick. "He's a walking contradiction partly truth and partly fiction", he leans towards the liberal side politically, yet he has a love for firearms that only a right winger could understand.  Jack is a serious gun collector, his collection includes a gold plated AR-15 once owned by Pablo Escobar.

Charles Honeywell is a journalist for Texas Gun Monthly, which he describes as "a far-right gun magazine that’s little more than a newsletter." He was lured to Las Cruces under the guise of helping Kilpatrick "dial in a new laser sight for his .357 magnum" Honeywell is not a music writer but he should be, as he explains: " I don’t know why these guys keep asking me to review their work. I don’t know whether this music is good or not." 

Armed with West Texas stoicism, Honeywell met up with The Raggies at the Las Cruces dive known as "El Patio."  By the break of dawn, Honeywell would find himself naked, shooting the .357 in a forest of pecan trees, wondering why there were no cops around. With his head throbbing from Cabron and cheap Mexican tequila, Honeywell staggered back to Texas, much the worse for wear. Nonetheless, he gave them his full endorsement, advising his readers that "The Raggies tour Texas from time to time. Check ‘em out, they’re our kind of people."

"Its really helpful in that, after you do it, you won't be afraid to die." 

Another journalist didn't fare much better, Chet Smith of DIY magazine jetted into El Paso with the intentions of  doing a serious piece on the band and their "mesmerizing music."  Picked up at the airport by Kilpatrick, he was immediately offered a can of "Cabron" a Mexican energy drink not approved for sale or consumption in this country. The drink which is illegally imported from Mexico is said to contain "semilla daturas" or hallucinogenic datura plant seeds, also known as Jimson weed.

After guzzling a few Cabrons and chasing it with tequila, Chet spirals into a bad trip. Which according to Kilpatrick forced the band "to duct tape him to a chair in the shed overnight to chill him out." Smith's recollection of what took place is fuzzy as he explains "Parts that I can recall lack what I would consider a natural narrative flow and seem to resemble what the aborigines call dreamtime." Afterwards, Jack was disdainful of Chet Smith "He flew out here from California, and tried to party with the Raggies, and got sucked into the undertow."   

Safe at home in California, and facing a deadline, Smith contacted Jack Kilpatrick to let him know that parts of his story may be "inaccurate or hallucinated" to which Jack replied "Cool man, go for it, but be sure and include the part where you pissed your pants." I would highly recommend that in the future anyone wishing to interview The Raggies, do so by telephone. 

That Dirt City Sound Episode 20

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"That Dirt City Sound" Episode 20 is 20 bangin' tracks of pure 'Burque hip hop. As my little nephew once told me, "Doesn't trilogy mean a set of three?" Smart boy that nephew of mine, I taught him half of what he knows.  Let's just call this a Dirt City Trilogy, sorta like a Baker's Dozen, and you know that extra one is always the best. 

These are songs that deal with the endless cycle of gang violence and retribution.  True tales from the city and about the city, presented by those who live and die in 'Burque. If you look past the gang posturing, it becomes apparent that these artists have a great love for Albuquerque and New Mexico.

Here's to peace between the north and south, the red and blue, the east and west. Let us wish for a world where color is not a distinction, be it bandanas, hats or skin. Keep in mind that it takes a lot more energy to be a hater than to simply co-exist with your neighbors.  

Still Bangin' Screw Videos

 "Thangs Done Changed and Still Standing"

If you've been sippin' sizzurp and you're feeling a bit woozy, just take it slo mo and laconic, strap on some headphones and bang screw all day. "trunk full of bang like chains that i swang... stay trill pimp." Eleven years have passed since DJ Screw passed away.  He's still the originator, his memory lives on and everytime you press play he comes back to life.   RIP DJ Screw

                      

                      

                      

Dirt City Chronicles is not turning into Rap City Chronicles, I just go where it takes me. Please accept my apologies, I truly intended to profile Houston rapper Chingo Bling, but I ran long with the drank & DJ Screw. I'll save Chingo for another day.    Pop Trunk Culeros!

Up next for Dirt City Chronicles is another episode of "That Dirt City Sound" podcast. 

New Riders of The Purple Drank

"The barre baby, got the whole world sippin drank with me"

Folks in Houston say that the use of codeine cough syrup (promethazine-codeine, prescription strength) started in the late 1960's. The concoction is sometimes known as Texas Tea, Barre, Purple Drank (from the purplish hues used in manufacture) or most recently Sizzurp. Mixed with soft drinks such as Sprite or Mountain Dew and pieces of Jolly Roger candies it takes on rainbow colors and consumption is referred to as "sippin' syrup." 

Promethazine or Prometh is an antihistamine intended to deter abuse at high doses. Codeine is a narcotic that can lead to sedation, altered levels of consciousness and in high dosage can mimic opiates. High levels of Prometh, leads to heavy users experiencing extreme weakness, sleep disorders, respiratory depression and altered heart rates. The potential for danger rises with increased dosage and Prometh as a CNS depressant can be lethal when mixed with alcohol.

The barre sippers were a regional phenomena, although by the 1990's with the explosion of Houston based gangsta rap groups the drank started to spread beyond The Big Fun. Purple drank became the recreational drug of choice for the southern hip hop community. The narcotic effects of the drug affected the flow and pace of the music, resulting a heavy slowed down sound with slurred vocals.

Three 6 Mafia first brought the purple drank to national attention with their single "Sippin' on Some Syrup" released in 2000. However the shit was nothing new to H-Town,  "they were throwed in the game, draped up and drifted out"

"Ever sense '92 i've been screwed up.... syrup in my cup...and strawberry crush"

In the late 1970's, the idea of slowing music down, was catching on in Houston. DJ Darryl Scott, an early mix-tape artist credits his protegé DJ Michael Price with starting the craze. Price would use Scott's mix tapes in his act. At one particular show the batteries on Price's boombox ran down and the tape started dragging. The slowed down sound caught Price's ear. In order to replicate that sound, he inserted a screw into the spool of the tape player to make it play slower. Scott quickly picked up on the idea, and an early form of chop & screw music was born.

Robert Davis, otherwise known as DJ Screw was influenced by Scott, but he was self taught and developed his talents independent of Scott or Price. (Davis is said to have got his DJ moniker from his habit of defacing vinyl albums he didn't like with a screw.) In 1990, when DJ Screw  took some of his mix-tapes to Darryl Scott, the mix was so slow  that Scott thought there was something wrong with the tape player. Once Davis explained that it was supposed to sound that way, Scott knew DJ Screw was on to something totally different. 

"Still bangin screw. ridin candy blue... i don't gang bang so i ride red too"

Robert Davis Jr. was born in Smithfield, Tx. near Austin. The family moved to California for 2 years and upon their return settled in Houston. Davis started mixing music at the age of 12, when he discovered his mother's turntable. By holding his finger on the edge of the record, he could change speeds and pitch. It was a technique that DJ's were using all over the country. Robert Davis worked it until he had developed a style all his own. Robert became an obsessed record collector, a habit he kept up all his life. It was said that if he had $30 in his pocket, he would spend $25 on records and $5 on Church's chicken. 

His technique would come to be known as "Chopped & Screwed"  DJ Screw started by compiling mix tapes for his friends, charging an average of ten dollars per tape.. The tapes usually contained chopped & screwed versions of whatever hip-hop music was hot at the time. Word of DJ Screw and his mixtapes spread word of mouth, to get a hold of a tape was great, to have a tape made for you was even better. As the tapes circulated, DJ Screw's fame and legend started to grow, music fans starting making their way to his home, to place their request for personalized tapes. 

Those requesting tapes got to know the routine: playlists were placed in a box that DJ Screw kept, sometimes there were hundreds of  lists in the carton. As Screw worked each list into his rotation he would call that person to his house so they could rap over the music or add shout outs to the final mix.  From these humble beginnings a legend grew, demand was so high that police started to harass him about all the traffic. To solve this problem in 1996 DJ Screw opened up a record store "Screwed Up Records & Tapes" in Houston. 

"Its kinda hard to explain why i'm so off the chain"

In order to flesh out his compositions, DJ Screw started inviting local rappers to work with him on the compilations. Collectively they became known as the Screwed Up Click (Fat Pat, Big Pokey, Hawk, Keke, C-Note)  As they toured around the Gulf Coast they were amazed to discover just how popular the tapes had become. Everywhere S.U.C. went, club patrons would request tracks from the tapes. This led to incorporating music from the mix tapes into their stage act.

It wasn't long before DJ Screw was in high demand at recording sessions, rappers started including "screwed" versions on their albums.  On these re-mixed songs,  the voices were slowed downed to disembodied echoing growls, the music would swirl and double-back on itself. DJ Screw would weave layers of sound, while progressing ahead at a snail's pace. It was hypnotic, lulling the syrup cult into varying states of nodded out bliss. To DJ Screw it was "riding music" a soundtrack for cruising the urban landscape of Screwston.  

In essence "chopped & screwed" was the technique of slowing down (screwing) then repeatedly rewinding or back tracking the music (chopping) By generally changing the structure of the music, some songs would become almost unrecognizable. Smartly he would leave behind just enough traces of the original composition to remind us of the starting point. In this fashion DJ Screw gave us a peek into the mind of the sizzurp sippers. The lightshow artists of the mid-1960's, had tried to convey the LSD experience to straights in the same manner.

"Tha shit don't stop till my casket drop, i'm high till i die" 

DJ Screw recorded hundreds of mixtapes, the man had a tireless work ethic and he never stopped creating or recording. The bulk of his production was conventional hip hop with his trademark re-mixing flairs added. DJ Screw's other work was much more than that, at its nascent core it was avant garde.  His revolutionary technique was not an accidental bi-product of the creative process. It was the crowning achievement of a man who studied the possibilities of music his entire life.

DJ Screw died of a codeine- promethazine- alcohol overdose on Nov. 16th 2000. The cause of death has been disputed by those close to him. They argue that he died of a heart attack in his sleep and not from an overdose. Either way his death was the direct result of prolonged codeine-prometh use. The destructive effects of the narcotics on his body and his heavy work schedule played a part in his demise. Big Moe, a protegé of DJ Screw died of a heart attack in 2007, there's speculation that his use of codeine-prometh may have contributed to his death. Pimp C of the rap duo UGK also died in 2007 from the effects of codeine-prometh use.

The sizzurp has been in the news in recent years, most noticeably when former Oakland Raider, JaMarcus Russell (a #1 draft pick) was arrested for possession of codeine syrup without a prescription. Two other NFL players Terrence Kiel (Chargers) and Johnny Jolly (Packers) have also run afoul of the law for codeine-prometh possession. The most famous rock music death from cough syrup was music writer & critic Lester Bangs. He died on April 30th 1982 not from codeine-prometh, but from a lethal cocktail of Darvon, Valium & Nyquil.

It was music for daydreamers, and those dreams just like candles in a cobweb forest, were a fleeting trail out of the darkness.  All Robert Davis Jr. ever wanted to do was make a difference, as DJ Screw that's what he did.

Albucrazy Videos

Why? because this is also who we are. The part of town everyone avoids, the people we pretend not to see. Albuquerque is all of that, so give me some Albucrazy love.... come 'on bitches, where's my big 'Burque hug!

Here's a couple from Juan Gambino, New Mexico's homegrown rapper. He doesn't get much love in the Dirt City, although he shows nothing but love for 'Burque. 

The first video is in response to some "diss" videos put out by Hi Power Productions of Los Angeles. Gambino has been embroiled in a feud with that label and its roster of "street rappers" for a couple of years. Throw in a side feud with Big Lokote and it makes for high drama and some funny ass videos. 


On the second video, Juan Gambino shows the City of Albuquerque some love "Albucrazy Luv" Is it me or does he sound like Elmer Fudd on this one?

The third video is from The Blok Boys featuring Romero and Mateo celebrating all that's good about the Duke City and all that's badass!

                 

                 

                 



Coming up next on Dirt City Chronicles:

The third installment in my Rap Music trilogy. "Down with the Clowns", a look at Insane Clown Posse and the Juggalos was the first. "America's Least Wanted", a rundown on Hi Power Entertainment, Capone-E and all the drama that surrounds them was the second. The final article will cover Chingo Bling and The Houston cult of the purple drank syrup, all chopped and skrewed just like they do it on the Buffalo Bayou.

America's Least Wanted

Albucrazy hip hop has never risen to the same level of success as homegrown rock music. Yet, on the streets Hip hop is ubiquitous, it's everywhere, at stop lights, car washes, parking lots, parks etc. However, its mass popularity has never resulted in a cohesive local scene. Venues are hard to come by, even for established acts. The "Chitlin Circuit" for Hispanic rappers consists of car show appearances, private clubs and impromptu party gigs. No self respecting club or bar will book them, not to mention that most of their posse of fans are under 21. 

On the national scene, rap has evolved from underground street music into mainstream radio fodder. Today's rap stars have been scrubbed clean of street influences. Rap now seems far removed from it's big bang boogie genesis. For most rappers the street is a place to park your ride and not a place to find inspiration.  If rap's connection to the street is waning, you better not tell the Chicano rappers of Southern California. These homeboys are keeping it gang related. Everyday is 1989, bumpin' old school beats... gangsta rap never left, it just moved from Compton to the Varrio  * L.A. gangs pronounce it "varrio", everywhere else it's "barrio" I'll be damned if I know why they do that.

There's been little evolution, the attitude, the posture, the lyrics and to some degree the music remain unchanged.That's to be expected, this is a lifestyle that places high value on passing down traditions and customs. Which is why L.A. gang bangers take such pride in being third, fourth or fifth generation gangsters. Strength in numbers, everyone fits in and belongs, gangs don't want introspective moody loners.  It's a bizarro world full of unibrowed scowls, Zapata mustaches, mad dog sunglasses, bald heads, Raider gear, pitbulls and prison ink. There's little variation to the uniform, individuality is not encouraged. 

If I had to torture someone using loud music, Chicano/Latino Rap would be my weapon of choice. If they had blasted this at Noriega down in Panama, he would've ran out of the Vatican Mission begging for mercy.  The music is that bad... the lyrics, by design cover a narrow range of topics. It's semi-autobiographical boastful bullshit that rarely breaks from the script. The music itself is a soundtrack of old school beats lifted from 50's oldies, 60's soul music or early 90's gangsta rap. It's an indoctrination for the phony tough, a "Sesame Street" primer for pee wees wishing to become cogs in La Vida Loca.  

“If I didn’t have rap, I don’t know where I’d be. Maybe I’d be back in prison.”

Fahd Azam is better known by his stage name Mr. Capone-E, he’s an underground rapper, who made a name for himself with a rap style he calls "Sureño hip hop." Azam who is of Pakistani descent, grew up in the San Gabriel Valley, gang banging led to prison, from which he was released in 1998. Once out, he started performing as Mr. Capone-E (not to be confused with Capone, a rapper he feuded with when both recorded for the same label) Eventually he would start his own music production company, Hi-Power Entertainment and secured a distribution deal with Thump Records.

Mr. Capone-E claims that he no longer bangs, but he can't ignore where he's from. Most of his fans came from the same place, through the same circumstances.  “I thought that’s all the world had to offer,” he said. “When you were really into that lifestyle, that’s all you see, and that’s all you know.” His facial features are reptilian, he hides his eyes behind sunglasses and his bald head glistens like a fresh roll of salami.  His cultural heritage is fodder for his enemies, who constantly remind everyone that "He's not even Chicano."  A common theme for comments that accompany Capone-E's videos on YouTube, he doesn't dwell on this “It’s about growing up in an environment." he says, "We’re all under one umbrella, Sureño means we're all from Southern California.”

Azam has albums by the score, but his combined catalog is less than impressive. It's one track after another of the same old shit, although over the years he's backed off from the hardcore street themes. These days, he also raps about women or heinas (pronounced hi-naws) although his approach is more pimp than lover boy. He's proud of the song "Amir Kahn Knocking Them Out" which he wrote for the WBA junior welterweight champion. The pugilist uses it as his ring intro music. The two met in Las Vegas and hit it off, this resulted in Kahn flying Capone-E to England. Which in turn, led to an effort by Mr. Capone-E & Hi Power to expand their fan base into Europe.

"Ideally we don't want them... period"

The irony is that Mr. Capone-E and the Hi Power stable will find expansion easier outside the U.S. than they will at home. Here they are ostracized for their gang ties (real or imagined) A recent tour in Washington was cut short when police met them at the airport to inform them that they would not be allowed to perform. Pasco, Wa. police cited Hi Power's alleged affiliation with known street gangs (Sureños) as the reason for barring their performance. A smirking television news anchor reporting on the story then added,  "Police in Yakima have also been advised to cancel a show scheduled for that city." 

This menace to society then ran into the same situation in Greely, Co.  where the mayor and a district attorney put pressure on a local promoter to cancel an appearance by Hi Power. Greely government officials were concerned that Capone-E's music would glorify gangs. Is Racism alive and well in America?, of course it is. Mr. Capone-E and his entire entourage can travel overseas, (with Homeland Security restrictions in place) and perform in Europe, but not here at home? Mr. Capone-E and Hi Power have also journeyed to Japan for a series of concerts. Japan a nation with strict entry restrictions, had no problems with the artists. 

Like most indie hip hop labels, Hi-Power pools its roster of artists into an in-house collective. In this case they're The Hi-Power Torpedos (a name that led one YouTube commenter to suggest that it sounds like something you would buy at a sex shop) The Torpedos include: Mr. Capone-E & Mr. Criminal (who can only be described as the Chicano Snoop Dogg) Ms. Lady Pinks (a bleached blond who is often referred to as a tranny by her detractors) Triste Loko (a freaky guy with a small head and no neck) Menace (looks like he's never lifted a weight in his life, sports ink over his right eyebrow) they're supported by a sad array of rappers who call themselves "Hi-Power Soldiers."

"These vatos are really trying to clown on me" 

It wouldn't be fun if there wasn't drama and with street rappers there's always drama. Hi Power entertainment is engaged in an escalating war of words with former label mate Big Lokote and New Mexico's own Juan Gambino. Lokote the self styled "King of Murder Rap" broke away from Hi Power to start his own label. For that he drew the ire of the entire Hi Power clan, who now gleefully call him out in a series of YouTube videos. There's an element of kayfabe at work here. You get the feeling that all parties involved are working the same angle, " Pass if off as legitimate and we all get paid"  Still, it wouldn't surprise me if either  Capone-E, Big Lokote or Juan Gambino met with a Biggie Smalls ending. 

Both sides accuse one another of being internet bangers or studio gangsters, all claim to be real street soldiers.  Hi Power led by Ms. Lady Pinks (whom Big Lokote calls Mr. Pinks, Juan Gambino refers to her as Ms. Stinks) pounds on Big Mokote (Booger) who answers with a stream of response videos and songs, these include titles such as: Fuck Mr. Lady Pinks, Fuck Triste Joto, Hi Coward Killaz etc. He also gets in a few jabs at Juan Gambino (who hails from Roswell, N.M.) on "Tard Fuck Mr. Mona"  My favorite video has Ms. Lady Pinks, Menace & Triste Loko traveling to New Mexico in a van, searching for "Big Mokote." 

They pull into a Gallup convience store, camera in hand and start asking people if they've seen him around. The customers, most of whom are Navajo can barely hide their contempt as Pinks bellows out "Has anyone here seen Big Mokote?" Next they arrive in Albuquerque and cruise around town looking for Lokote (who lives in Los Angeles) While signing autographs for fans, Pinks asks what they think about Juan Gambino. One Duke City chola calls out "Fuck him! he's not even from here." They never do find Big Lokote, or as one commenter put it: "How the hell do these idiots think they can go to a big ass state and find one person?" Well said homie!

"Cheaper than a bowl of menudo for two"

Dirt City Graphic

"Everyday, I wake up to sunshine"

My goal from the start has been to draw attention to the music and musicians of Albuquerque and The State of New Mexico.  I have no hidden agendas, but I do rage against misguided self promotion, rock star mentality and bad music. I posted that on April 18th of this year and it still holds true. Rock music is a primal and juvenile form of music, it's been that way from the start. In order to write about something so frivolous as "rock music" a writer often has to throw pretension out the window and play it for laughs. Humor is a tradition with rock music writers, this goes back to the early days of Rolling Stone, Creem, Crawdaddy and the thousands of fanzines that followed.

The first time two cavemen sat down and starting beating on a log in unison, you know that someone listening, turned to their neighbor and said "Those guys suck!" Thus, music critics were born. If a musician accepts payment for his performance, whether it's a chunk of raw meat or $20 earned at some podunk bar he becomes a public figure, exposed to the slings and arrows of those with discerning taste and ears. Rock musicians have been know to preen themselves like peacocks, local musicians are not any different. Some do get their feathers ruffled and in doing so they miss the point of this blog.

Dirt City Chronicles is a music blog with a humorous mean streak. My humor like all humor can be hit and miss, it's often subtle as a flying mallet. Most articles I post are very complimentary of the artists, a minority are not. I don't grind my axe (as Scott Kesson so smartly puts it) and go looking for heads to lop. It's all done tongue in cheek and if you can't tell the difference then don't read the blog.  I'm not a journalist nor do I profess to be, as such I don't follow the rules that apply to those scribes. This is not a forum, I don't want to trade quips and barbs with readers. If your feelings are hurt, lick your wounds, keep your mouth shut and move on.  

"The juvenile products of the working class"

Scott Kesson has a problem with something I wrote a year ago. Mr. Kesson played in a Taos band called Sticky Pistil (they played at Woodstock '99) He's a bland fellow with the personality of a prickly pear cactus (minus the pears) He took umbrage to something I wrote about his former bandmate Mike Caron. The best way to describe Sticky Pistil, for the multitude that have never heard of them: They were a pedestrian funk rock band that came up with the idea of injecting rap beats into their music. Which was cool, only they did it long after everyone else had beaten that horse to death. Scott Kesson informed me that Mike Caron is a fine and upstanding human being, who comes from a family of noted and respected luthiers.  

If you read that sentence carefully, you'll see that I quoted Mr. Kesson without jamming words into his pie hole. That was his other complaint, I won't quote him any further, because that would just invite another rambling Facebook message informing me that Dirt City Chronicles is nothing more than a collection of juvenilia and misinformation. While I admire Scott's need to stand up for his buddy, I'm sure Mike Caron could do that himself if he so desired. Then again, Mike has a life, he's a luthier, and God knows the worlds needs more of those. Although, if we had no luthiers we could probably get by on the stockpile of stringed instruments that we have now.

Don't mind me, I'm just funnin'... it's a humor blog, my advice to Cactus Scott Kesson is if you don't like it, don't read it. The quote that stuck in his craw, came from either the Taos newspaper or the  Santa Fe New Mexican's weekly entertainment tabloid. It's buried somewhere on the internet. Since, it bothered Scotty so much, I'll let him look it up.  Hey Scott!, just Google "Sticky Pistl" and browse through everything that comes up, you'll find it, I did. This brings me to another point Scott noted. He claims the album "Hi-Fi Superfly" was an attempt at irony (from the cover down to the grooves). He went on to say that if I couldn't see that, then I shouldn't have bothered with the review. These psuedohiphopfunkarelics weren't playing it for shits and giggles. This album was not meant to be the ironist masterpiece that Scott claims it was. Everything they did was orchestrated to help them become the next Red Hot Chili Peppers.

It seems that the clock is running down. Now, more than ever... we need a hero. Someone who will step up and put these goddamn mouthy bloggers with an axe to grind in their places.  A ramrod with a solid sense of irony and self righteous indignation. A man who can't stand it when some piss-ant comes along and pisses in the pond. Who's our man?... "Scott Kesson pulls down the rebound, he dribbles full court, he feints to his left, he feints to his right... he puts up a long jumper.. that hits the front of the rim.... ah! too bad, Rejected!!  Another miss from Scotty the Brick.. better luck next time."

"Be kind and considerate with your criticism... It's just as hard to create bad music as it is to write a good review."

Juggalo Videos

Of course there's video and music, it's a tradition here at Dirt City Chronicles.

As my nephew once told me: "Some of my friends are Juggalos and they've tortured me for hours with that fucking music." Imagine that you work for an alternative newspaper and they assign you to review the latest album by ICP. So, you listen or at least you try to listen, but it makes no sense, it's mind numbing. The lyrics read like something a deranged sixth grader would keep in a journal hidden under his mattress. Finally you give up and the review consists entirely of a weak intro stating how you played the album non-stop for two weeks and it was funny as hell, followed by a random selection of song lyrics.  Can't say I blame you. Whoot~Whoot!
 

Down with the Clowns

"I'm that nerd in the back of the class That went psycho and killed your ass"

Let's go back.... let's go way back, to the days when Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope were still playing with Mr. Toyhead while watching rasslin' on tv. Yeah! jugheads, it's called The Beginning,  Joseph Bruce (VJ) and Joseph Utsler (Shaggy) were a couple of nerdy kids from some shithole suburb outside of Detroit. Don't believe the hype, while they represent themselves as some hard ghetto motherfuckers, they are not. Just like Eminem and his bullshit "I grew up in a trailer park repping 8 Mile Road." it's all bullshit. The worse day in the worse trailer park doesn't compare to living in the ghetto, and I should know, I lived in a trailer park and I saw every episode of The Wire.  

After bumping around pretending to be rappers in various groups with varying styles, they settled in as "The Inner City Posse" (sounds ghetto as fuck, don't it?) Once they found their respective personas: Violent J (Bruce) and Shaggy 2 Dope (Utsler) they changed the name to Insane Clown Posse. Which kinda fit, seeing how they were now performing in clown make-up. They settled on Insane Clown Posse, because the initials ICP were the same as Inner City Posse and logos are not cheap. This brings up ICP's biggest weakness, nothing they've ever done is original, the make-up gimmick they copped from Alice Cooper, Kiss, and the original wicked clown: John Wayne Gacy. The music they jacked from every gansta rapper, horrorcore and metal core band that came before them.

"Went to Kentucky, I got lucky, met this hog calling bitch named Bucky"

Originality not being their strong point, they took their artistic cue from original shock rock artists like G.G. Allin, the sickest motherfucker to ever set foot on a stage. G.G. Allin was a socially transgressive, mentally damaged musician from New Hampshire. Allin resorted to the most vile and perverse antics in order to "entertain" his audience. Bleeding and defecation were a regular part of his act, followed by the smearing or throwing of feces. While Allin's act may have appealed to ICP, they realized that tossing excrement at your fans was counter productive.

So instead of poop, ICP settled on the next best thing: Faygo, Detroit's sticky sweet version of Shasta. After Violent J sprayed down a row of hecklers with the fizzy soda, it became part of their ritual. The band took to carting cases of the soft drink to their concerts, which they would use to  spray the crowd during climactic moments. I guess you could call it G.G. Allin Lite, but both knew what their fans were after: interactive entertainment.  Next they needed to create a mystique, something scary like Detroit horrorcore rapper, Esham, but without any mention of Satan or satanic worship. Enter, "The Dark Carnival" which is some thematic hoke'um about wicked clowns, joker cards, judgement and redemption. It's pseudo J. R. R. Tolkien  for those suffering from attention deficit syndrome. 

"The ghetto took my brain and motherfuck I want it back"

In order for this to play out onstage they appropriated parts of Gwar's act mixed with your average gangsta rapper schtick. It's nutsack grabbing, macho posturing of the worse kind. Misogynist fairy tales that are Utsler and Bruce's idea of what is bad ass and over the top. "The Carnival" theme had already been used by Gwar (Carnival of Chaos, We Kill Everything) and G.G. Allin (Carnival of Excess)  ICP merely toned it down enough to target a larger market than those cult acts ever dreamed of.  In order to maintain a thread of continuation, and demonstrate proof of concept, each album (Joker Cards) closely adheres to the Dark Carnival mythology.

All ICP song lyrics read like the work of a deranged Yahoo commenter high on meth and Faygo. They're long winded dissertations that all Juggalos have memorized and can recite off the top of their heads. They boast of sexual domination and conquest, in Violent J & Shaggy 2 Dope's world (and by proxy  juggalos) all women are subservient and dumb as a rock. On almost every song violent action is threatened, but they're empty threats. With the exception of the 1997 beating of a drunken fan by Violent J, onstage at The Launchpad in Albuquerque. They've behaved like what they are: businessmen. 

Utsler and Bruce have an acumen for business and make no mistake, they operate a business. Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope have banked it (while their followers continue to live in poverty or with Mom)  To this end, ICP branched out with their own recording label, Psychopathic Records, there was also a couple of straight to VHS movies that they produced. They wrestled in their own pro-wrestling promotion: Juggalo Championship Wrestling.  Utsler and Bruce also worked with Vince McMahon's WWE. The partnership went well until they discovered that McMahon, also knows a thing or two about evil and operates a real life Dark Carnival.

                 "I always gotta check and ask, how many corndogs been to the cotton patch?"

The Gathering of the Juggalos grew from an informal fanfest into a national event (thanks to Tila Tequila getting bombarded with poop, rocks & bottles) Now it is nothing more than a harvesting of juggalo & juggalette cash reserves. These two entrepreneurial motherfuckers have reaped the whirlwind, while juggalos reap food stamps. Their greatest accomplishment has been convincing directionless young adults that it's good to be a stoner fuck up.  The juggalos are who they are, they greet each other with a Whoot! Whoot!, which is their way of saying hello, expressing joy or simply being in agreement. They flash gang-like signs and dress in black and red, they're mostly white, with a sprinkling of Hispanic & African Americans in the ranks. The juggalos favor old school rappers like Bones, Thugs & Harmony, Ice Cube, Snoop Dog or Coolio (who sports juggalo ink)  

Horrorcore rap music is part of a transgressive movement that started in the late 1980's. It is art, in this case music, considered offensive because of its shock value. The subject matters deal with psychological dislocation, mental illness and extreme anti-social behavior. Let's not put ICP at the forefront of this movement, they simply cashed in on it. Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope set out to produce shocking, blatantly over-exaggerated fantasies that fed on the myth of the white ghetto gangster. Ultimately, their cartoon-like narratives are just silly and boring.  

Who ever the fuck that is! (I didn't know this, but Juggalos have beef with Lyle Lovett)

Whoot! Whoot! "It's the life of a juggalo for me, just gettin' high burnin' some tree.  We the wicked juggalos, Ya know what I'm saying? I could give a fuck less 'bout what you're sprayin'" "I got nothing but bitches all over my".... cut!...cut!... cut.. stop rolling tape.  Let's back it up home slice, the only bitches I see is your  momma and sister hollerin' at you to get the fuck out of the bathroom so they can ready for work. Juggalo island my ass, more like fantasy island. Wrap it up! we're done here.  

"Keep juggling, motherfuckers!"