firstly, i must apologize for forsaking one of the implicit contractual obligations which should append any music review: the full listen of the artist's/artists' work(s) before any judgment is handed. frankly, i think people should listen to a cd 50 times, wait about a year, then listen to it another 50 times before making a proper judgment. but, of course, our time on this diffident planet is short and we are forced to make use of it; to to consolidate; to appropriate priority to those things that really deserve it: family, friends, and masturbating. i think we try to be as open-ended about our critiques since whatever we say is dreadfully inchoate and try to posit music in the same domain as the aforementioned. but sometimes the effort painfully backfires when it's more tempting (and dare i say a bit more salubrious) to forswear your respect for the "cd reviewer" contract. it happens when you listen to something that's so acerbic, acrid, and abstemious regarding creativity. it's the kind of music which shares a funny semblance to the manner in which a tiger unscrupulously gnaws at the sinews of a poor gazelle once poised to roam swiftly and painlessly through the Serengeti. case and point: Northern State's Dying in Stereo.

now i'm not exactly sure what happened when i heard their first single, but i think the Beastie Boys felt it too: it was the sound of the world being sucked into a white, middle-class, lipstick feminist colony. the colony is suburbia and the representatives are Northern State. The Beastie Boys successfuly dodged the pitfalls of associates Marky Mark and Vanilla Ice by investigating and reconfiguring the hip-hop game as opposed to buying breakbeats from the five and dimes, hooks from dollar general, and stealing the bassline (i was pissed when i realized "Ice Ice Baby" used the hook from Bowie's "Under Pressure"). but Northern State seem to embellish their unsightly lack of talent or a genuine political position. in that 4 minutes of "song" my senses were dulled, my sanity shaken, and my very trust in humanity questioned. the only thing softer than these three ladies' rhymes, rhythm, and reason was perhaps the shampoo they used from Bath & Body Works.

and for all the numskulls who would love to retort by saying that their archaic, minimalistic style is part of an overall charm which existed before old school hip-hop's glorious descent to gomorrah...shut the fuck up. i'm sick of people saying Princess Superstar revolutionizes hip-hop with every lyric. READ: she's a horny tart who just wants to fuck. that's all. there's nothing to *read* into this lifeless fodder. no substrata. no budding philosophy. accept it: this music just plain sucks. the sooner we get that straight, the sooner we can all live happier. and the sooner we live more happily, the more time we have to allocate to more important things. because goodness knows jerking the love stick is a hell of a lot more important and rewarding than listening their shit.