Wednesday, February 1, 2012

U-God's Resume #31, "Turbulence"

--Official Stats--
Artist: U-God
Song: 2. "Turbulence"

Producer: True Master
Album: Golden Arms Redemption
Release Date: October 5, 1999

Here's the thing guys: I don't want to listen to this song album, I don't want to write about it, and you don't want to read about it. It's just a bad position to be in, yet here we are.  All of us. Now, before I even hear one poorly executed beat or rhyme on this track I know I'm going to hate it. Why? Because I already gave up on this album in disgust about thirty seconds into the first time I heard it, and that was when I was blinded by my Wu-fandom (is that a thing? Sure.). That was when this came out. Now I'm much quicker tempered, less patient, and won't put up with even a second of a track that sucks because there is a lot of jolly good shit out there. So let's get this over with.

2. "Turbulence"

Ah! So there's your problem, ma'am: THAT BEAT IS THE WORST. I don't just mean it sounds bad (it does). I mean the "instruments" sound super crappy and hollow and like True Master set the Casio to "Strings" and went to town, at least for ten minutes until Survivor came on - then he burned the shit to CD and now we have it. He sat and watched an immunity challenge while we were all left to suffer with this mess. I mean that beat is terrible. If they were going for rugged (and you can BET YOUR 2002 HONDA CIVIC that they were) they failed to understand the difference between rugged and garbage. Hey dudes, rugged music still sounds good. It's not just random shit or sporadic strings, it's carefully planned and executed to stir something inside the listener. This only stirs my stomach bile and motivates it to exit through my mouth. Actually, it doesn't do that at all. It doesn't do anything. IT'S JUST BORING, WHICH IS WORSE. But what's even worse than worse is that U-God doesn't have the chops to save this shit (I don't think anyone does).  So I'm going to listen to it again and examine the lyrics...

Feel the fuckin' backdraft.
I'm out the dungeon.
Move like Kobe Bryant.

Boldly go only to sew the block up, lock shit down, Mama told me you's the giant
Pump out the nose cold, crime wave, wholesome baritone, throne so defiant
They stole the science from the OG, carbon copy, sloppy,
trying to muscle out the ol' D.
Slap shot can't get it past the goalie mask
Stone finger roam, royalty zone off, Henn, gin rummy stunts,
Coming in sums, writing on ya tummy hun, road stamina
Still hungry some, asthma, clogged up, ran in smog, dialogue,
dorm plasma, road hog it, all hammers
No matters what: the track's right and exact. It’s manners.
The scanner listen, system jammer
 Write on ya rag “black panthers on a mission”
Right back at you ready to cook this shit!
Babylon apple, natural habitat, stone statues…

Robotron Golden Arms, pentagon brain cell,
alter gain, chained to the bumper.
Wolfgang hunters, field goal punter tones,
steel toe eruption, it's a gusher!
Tonecrusher Smith, usher the style,
 stuffin’ more criminals foul up in the Nile
Let off a signal with attitude, magnitude, vigil
ego lies that's size of cathedral.
The track more lethal, came back to see you
Finish the job off proper.
Top of this shit, spit the lava
The helicopter hit you, flyin’ saucers,
 Of course, may the force now be with you
These Bengals that dangle, sinister phantom menace,
handsome with my lenses, all in the reg-a
Just, kickin’ my Spanish, clips like banana grips, bonanza,
 Dressed fancy in the club, Halle Barry slow dance
We romance, now gimme love

Jackie Chan movements, hard to kill for real,
Drill him some more with some old fashion smooth shit
Long winded, splendid the bomb blow,
on the whole a ruthless, butter roll flow.
Show improvement. This shit is cool whip to me,
when I groove to rule this music with a mule kick
Eight ball in the side pocket corner,
 one mark the chalk, gimme my pool stick
smoked the dip, notes by the throat, full grip,
scud puddy in my hands,
fans, read the blueprints
Truth is, the slang you bit, the form of a sentence
the cold winters I spent with splinters
The apprentice under RZAs training.
He sang the e-ching vintage
Aiming at you swine eating, wife-beating scoundrels
Stolen vowel thieves,
I’m swollen now Colon Powell relief
Throw the towel in, tools in, full spin, school em again
Show em that the wise could rejuvinize all these Hoodlums
Don't sleep he could win
Pull a pen, it's full again, celeb, all on the web on a
Conquest, no disturbance address it to ya chest, you're in turbulence, mighty
Men vitamin d. Rest in peace
To my ni--a Bigga B love you G
Rest in peace to my ni--a Bigga B love you G

Well that's just exhausting. What in the hell is that? It's nothing. Three minutes of nothing. Boring nothing. Gibberish. There is nothing good in that whole mess. I rest my case. This album is exactly as bad as I remember it.

Track Score: 0/10
U-God’s Score: 0/10
Impact on Rep (+,-,=): Harms

Next Week: I can't wait for the next song on this godforsaken album: "Glide".

About this series: U-God’s Resume is a series of posts which looks at each line of U-God’s entire career to determine if his status as ‘wack’ is justified (as labeled by internet morons). I think it is not. U-God is dope. We'll prove it. Leave it to the Tort Team.

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