At first glance there was a lot to hate about the Procussions, to the point where it felt like a shadowy conspiracy wherein some vaguely evil button-pusher at Rawkus Records had burrowed into my brain, picked through the cobwebs, jotted down every musical mannerism that grates on my last nerve, and funneled it all into [cont.]

    The producers of the recent Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy film adaptation got it all wrong. Mos Def may have the acting chops, but when it comes to suspension of disbelief, there could be no better Prefect Ford than Kool Keith. The veteran artist, formerly of Ultramagnetic MC’s, is on full display with Nogatco [cont.]

     Rap is nothing, if not all, about the story. As important as lyrical flow or a hot beat, the narrative thrust of what the emcee is presenting can set a career soaring, or halt a veteran’s momentum dead in its tracks. Like noir hero Philip Marlowe in the latter Chandler novels, or Mr. Miyagi [cont.]

    Here’s how real Edgar Allen Floe is: go to his myspace site. In the omnipresent corner where every artist with a home computer pimps their shit via a slow-loading, first generation “jukebox,” the first sounds you hear will not be Floe’s. Instead you will be serenaded by the sounds of the woozy, rootsy “Whip [cont.]

    For someone so angry, for a rapper so closely associated with long-time outspoken politicos, for an artist wound so tight he calls his friends “comrades,” M1 is a very chill dude. One half of gangsta-but-party-killing duo dead prez, M1 might have used this solo debut to kick up his feet, take a deep breath, [cont.]

    As with any experimental pioneer, Prefuse 73, that blip-hop mad scientist we’ve come to know as the go-to guy for reliable “outro” party background noise, is a recovering burn victim. Last year’s Surrounded by Silence was demolished for its overcrowded and uninspired cameos, and only the most die-hard hipster art crowd could come to [cont.]

    To call Termanology & DC traditionalists is to say Pat Robertson is religious; it doesn’t quite cover it. The Bostonians wax old school so hard on their aptly named debut, Out The Gate, it borders on fetishism. How this devotion registers with a mass audience, or even an increasingly selective indie crowd, depends greatly [cont.]

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. 2005 was poised as the year of underground Hip Hop. It was penciled in, and practically every indie rapper under the sun stood in the green room, anxiously clutching their crossover albums in one hand, backpack straps in the other. Years of “next rap explosion” were set to [cont.]