You guys are super defensive about this. I realize this is a Will Smith fan site and it would make sense you guys defend him. I'm by no means saying the rumor is true but I'm not talking about Rakim writing Summertime. I
I'm talking about a legendary battle rapper who has gone on record in saying he helped write the track. Rakim never went on record anywhere. This I'm talking about is a claim that was actually made.
BallerStatus.com: Have you done ghost-writing for any artists?
Juice: When I first moved back to Chicago from L.A., I began working with Clubhouse Entertainment. I was part of a writing team that produced "Summertime" by Will Smith, "The Kissing Game" by High Five, "Pass the Toilet Paper" by OutHere Brothers. I would freestyle in the booth and if there were any hot lines to be used, they would use 'em. I didn't really understand publishing at the time and didn't really care because those cats kind of took me in. We got sued by Kool and the Gang for the sample and nobody made money. It let me know that I had what it took to be a writer though. I am still working with the producer of "Summertime" (K Fingers aka AZZA). Everyone in Chicago knows he's still my guy. We just wrote and produced an album for a new artist, and I'm re-writing "Summertime" for him (He's a shorty, so we think it could work again). We'll see.
If you like cheap samples, corny lyrics, and the sound of nails being drawn across a blackboard, then you'll love these albums. Ladies and Gents, I give you the 10 most disappointing hip-hop albums of 2010.
When the dangerous triumvirate of Ghostface, Raekwon, and Method Man join forces on an album you expect an explosion of wits. But without Jedi RZA steering the army, these killer bees flail around aimlessly. Way to clutter Wu's pristine discography with your ego, fellas.
His songs still hover around the familiar -- tough talk, lyrical bravado, and the occasional reference to UFOs. Sorry, Bis, but there's only so many ways to talk about how lyrically apt you are before people start nodding off.
If Ice Cube retired from rap today, I wouldn't complain. Cube had a helluva run in the 90s, and Death Certificiate will always be a masterpiece in my book. AmeriKKKa's Most Wanted, too. Ah, those were the days.
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Twista plans the perfect end-time coitus and brags about his ability to rhyme 10,000 words per second. The songs on Perfect Storm barely segue, playing like a collection of average-to-solid material with no apparent cohesiveness. There are some explosive rhymes buried here and there. You just have to dig through the wreckage to find them.
These days, Funk Doc is more interested in playing wise sage to the bevy of upstarts and weed buddies than leaving them in the dust. Unfortunately, he does it while rocking his "I Love the 90s" t-shirt. It would be nice to see his musical maturity catch up with his personal growth.
If you're expecting the fierce rhythms that made "Everyone Nose" and "She Likes to Move" floor favorites, you're in for a massive disappointment. Instead, Williams and co conjure a mixbag of uninspired songs. You're likely to be more entertained listening to your neighbors have annoyingly loud sex.
Whereas Fest’s debut, Blue Collar, was thoroughly enjoyable, his second will cause you to feel something weird and it’s not adoration. Cheesy tales stretch across intense soundscapes but novelty takes a backseat to execution. Really, Fest, you don’t need to record every single idea you conceive.
Nelly finally ran out of ideas. Those exuberant lyrics and captivating hooks of the past are now replaced by forced collaborations, cheap samples, and ridiculous lyrics. I'd rather listen to a chorus of snorting pigs than hear this again.
The danger in being formulaic is that you eventually drown in the comfort of your own formula. Nosebleeding electro club hits worked last time out, so will.i.am and company returned with more of the same. Listen to The Beginning long enough and you'll feel like you've been transplanted to a disco night at a mental institution.
Arguably T.I.'s worst outing yet, No Mercy relies on gruesomely listless party tunes and way too much whining. You're better off listening to a running loop of Serena Williams' grunts at the U.S. Open. Whatever happened to the guy who used to get it poppin' with that 8-ball corner-pocket rhyme?
