I Smoke a Lot of Corn Cuz I Got Indian in My Blood

Busta Rhymes [ft. Swizz Beats]: New York Shit
Papoose [ft. Busta Rhymes]: Get Right

Busta Rhymes [ft. Kelis & will.i.am]: I Love My Bitch

The Art of War

Rah-rahing Bussa is akin to rooting for the Kansas City Royals. There was a time, like when George Brett mashed with that thin-handled stick (extra pinetar) and bugged his eyes out every chance he could, when B.R. excited the world with Dungeons, Dragons and daring. Those days are gone and rote is rote. Difference being K.C. is a perennial basement-dweller, whilst Rhymes is prolly gonna go plat on the strength of “Touch It” (gasp). The beef here is with the surrounding players. Swizzie, shaped like a swizzle stick and unimpressively goofy like a twisty straw, is so irritating on “N.Y.S.” that his cheese grater chirp (lots of chirps lately, no?) that it makes me want to spread his face all over a FULL SURFACE! Swizz didn’t produce this, technically Diamond D did, then DJ Scratch (who’s better than this) re-looped and actually yelled at Swizz to do the intro and part of the shout-out. New rule, Bill Maher stee: If Swizz didn’t produce it, he shall remain absent from said sitchamation. Otherwise, that face-spreading commences. I can’t be mad that Busta Rhymes wants to pay homage to Big Apples (even though Elliott Wilson put him on blast for including New Jerz-ite Queen Latifah and forgetting Melle Mel. Musta been the muscles that threw him.) Swizz is defiantly antithetical to these thoughts. Ever the self-server, plus biter (“I’m a Hustla,” “Bring ‘em Out,” et al. jack from elsewhere in service of new jacks) this is classic sycophantry, from his own pantry. I wonder if duke ever-ever listens to Grand Wizard Theodore cuts anymore. Guess here is: Not regularly. I still fucks with Zach Greinke though. Head case and all.

Papoose, who simply cannot rap, should not ever be a rap star (sorry Heathcliff). As Kay Slay strong-arm-steadies the industry into believing, my mouth stays open over his extraordinary lack of grace. Lyrics=solidly meh. (“The music is my momma, I am the son of song.” Word? Your moms is a trick.) Charisma=donut. (If you tell people that you are the shiz enough times, do they learn to agree with you or do you just piss everybody off?) Production=retread. “Get Right” is practically drum-less. If “I got New York City in the palm of my hand” self-mythologizing from the taut-self-taught “Touch It (Remix)” wasn’t bad enough, try on “I know he [Chris Lighty] ain’t seen a buzz this strong since 50.” Son, you’re still scrapping. You just signed a deal. “I got the club on me like a steering wheel” is painful. You’re clunky. J.Lo already had a hit with a song called “Get Right” (which was a Rich Harrison bangaramalammadingdong), too. This is as crystal as phrases get: Stop. Rapping. ASAP. G_d.

Deemed “My Humps ‘06” by Jonathan T. Swagger, “I Love My Bitch” might not be that wack. But it’s barrel-scraping from a black-eyed Pee. Songwriter Will (wearing a less-serious face) sounds like Billy Ocean after six tequila shooters. Kelis is wasted, as she often is when teamed with Busta, reduced to a voltronic cyborg. To have a woman sing the hook of a song called “I Love My Bitch” is confounding. Why not just make an actual prostitute sing it? Or Julia Roberts? Check minus.