Date: 10-04-02
From: DAVE COBLE @1:161:/601
Subj: Rave Song
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HOW TO MAKE A RAVE SONG

In this article I will explain how to make a "rave" chart busting hit with only common household objects.

  1. Buy the crapiest and most irritating drum machine.
  2. Buy any keyboard witha a distorted clavicord sound.
  3. Buy a tape recorder.
  4. Buy ## luminous yellow smog-masks.
    (## indicates how many "dancers")
  5. Hire a BIG fat Black woman who can yell an awful lot e.g. Cybil.
  6. Hire a pinball machine from the Land Of The Giants props dept.
  7. Make a backdrop of regurgitated pizzas.
  8. Buy or steal a comcorder.

Now once you've got all those, follow these steps:

  1. Set the drum machine going at a fast tempo.
  2. Make any three noted tune on the keyboard (or the same note three times).
  3. Get all the crew onto the pinball machine jumping, bouncing and rebounding off the backdrop and flippers.
  4. Put the smog-masks on and look "Wicked".
  5. Forget to record the previous bits.
  6. Repeat 1 - 5.
  7. Get the big fat Black woman to yell and wobble.
  8. While you're doing steps 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 7 have a cameraman stand on one leg after a few too many beers filming it.
  9. Now take it to a record company and hey-presto, you're famous.


NOLA RAP
from SOLJAS by Nik Cohn, 2001

New Orleans rap is all about funk. It's lowdown and dirty, the greasier the better, and it has nothing to do with fashion. In the mid-Nineties, when the city first captured the national market, gangsta rap was said to be finished. The music press was full of stories claiming that the killings of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls had reawakened hip-hip's social conscience. But New Orleans must not have heard the news. Instead of toning town, its raps became more brutal, its rhythms raunchier than ever.

The format was simple: unspeakable lyrics, irresistible beats. Slaughter met sex on the dance floor, and the Dirty South was born. [And then came Bling-Bling...]

[Before Gangsta and Bling-Bling] there was bounce. It started in the late 1980s, a wild mix of rap and Mardi Gras Indian chants and second-line brass-band bass patterns and polyrhythmic drumming and gospel call-and-response. It was raw sex in dfance, a music of summer block parties, of swelter.

On Sunday afternoons, when the temperature in the bricks was around 110 degrees and the humidity near a hundred per cent, the top DJs let blast for five hours straight, and the projects turned into giant mosh pits.

Big fine women and slim fine women hogged the spaces next to the speakers, action-ready in shorts and halter tops. Dancing to bounce was called twerking. To twerk meant shaking that thing till the sweat flew and the concrete underfoot was slick as an ice-rink.

The DJ shouted orders — walk it like a dog, walk it like a model, wobble in a circle — and the women jumped to obey. When the DJ told them to shake it on a stick, they bent over till their hands were flat on the ground, their buttocks high in the air, and twitched so fast they seemed plugged into a socket. All you saw was a blur of flying booty. "Now tiddy bop." the DJ ordered, and the women raised their T-shirts to shake their breasts. "Now show the globe," and the women bared their asses. "Now pop that pussy till the pussy goes pop..."