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Wu tang clan cream year11/19/2022 Reducing the beat to a shuffling stumble, killing the soundscape with two huge gothic bass-slabs, filling in what space was left with shards of Bernard Hermann soundtracks, it was the eeriest thing you'd heard in years because it was so impossible to predict. It sounded as if the imposed isolation of living fenced out from the rest of the city and never even getting shout-outs on most hip-hop records had twisted the minds of the music's creators, forcing them to build their own vision of hip-hop straight from scratch to mic. This was the first transmission from the Wu-Tang Clan, and even now it sounds as stunning as ever. Whereas Queens, Manhattan, and especially Brooklyn and the Bronx had their own lost history of rap culture and local talent, little was heard from the Island until late 92, when a self-financed 12-inch called Protect Ya Neck found its way from the back of vans to the underground network of shops, clubs and radio stations that keep New York hip-hop the most constantly changing and fascinating musical scene on the planet. Out of the five New York boroughs, Staten – or Shaolin, as the Wu call it – remained fairly silent throughout hip-hop's Nuyorcan birth and development. Like Rakim said, "It's not where you're from, it's where you're at," but there's no doubt that the Wu-Tang Clan's history starts in and is defined by Staten Island. Eyes racing wildly off in different directions, as he jams the bottle back in his giggling mouth. "To pick up these," says the rap star, waving two welfare cheques at the camera. "What did you go in there for?" asks the VJ, timidly. Suddenly, the door opens and he's back in, champagne and wheels ordered to keep flowing. The MTV VJ looks ever more desperate, wondering if he'll ever come back. Disentangling himself from the limo, he gets out of the car and enters. Cooing babe on each arm, kids playing at his feet, a bottle of Moët perpetually jammed in his slurring mouth, talking drunken nonsense, he leans forward and orders the driver to pull up outside an innocuous, low-slung building. In the back, looking backwards, an MTV anchorwoman – clutching a mic for grim life, dreaming of easier jobs, scanning with increasing anxiety the unknown New York streets the limo is now winding its way through.įacing her, a rap star – white suit, gold jewellery, the works. In the front, a chauffeur – looking pissed off, chewing a toothpick for courage, dreaming of Sinatra.
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