A few year's back Jaz was in an old motorised junkyard chugging around the small North Carolinian college town of Chapel Hill when the passenger with iPod discretion stopped scrolling at a moment-perfect soundtrack. Though unaware in that car, this song would later come to sum up my experience of spending a semester on exchange in Hicksville,USA: a bewildering, often bizarre but nonetheless weirdly endearing time. The nightmare scenario of suffering my own miniature version of Deliverance thankfully never came to pass.
The Gourds (the men responsible for said track) are from Texas, mainly play bluegrass, share one member with alt.countrymen Wilco, and have albums with titles which include, Cow Fish Fowl or Pig and Haymaker! With that in mind, consider what would happen if some farmer-tanned NASCAR enthusiast triple-dared them to rap along to a jam of his choice if they couldn't stay on the mechanical bull for ten seconds. Imagine what it would sound like were that rap to be gangsta ladykiller Snoop Dogg (then Snoop Doggy Dogg)'s second single, Gin & Juice. We're not in Long Beach anymore, Toto. Described by one commenting YouTube-r as "EPIC", it must be heard to be believed. Below is the full countrified apple pie version - bitchin' and "funky ass shit" included:
The Doggfather is currently awaiting a decision on whether he will ever be allowed re-entry to the UK following his outburst at Heathrow Airport four years ago. Let's hope it's a good outcome. Snoop Dogg topping the bill at T In The Park is definitely more enticing than today's news that Eminem will be 'doing a Jay-Z' in Scotland this summer.
Austere is the East End. As I make my way to Wapping for a second day of voluntary slave driving I imagine the hoi polloi of Dickensian London and wonder why people actually want to live round here. Notting Hillshabby chic is one thing. This is just plain shabby bleak.
On entry, I experience the “revolving door” which greets the workie who hasn’t pre-emptively arrived bearing caffeinated gifts. Before my derriere grazes the chair that I’ve had to claim from an absent designer in a different department, I return to the elevator to embark on a Costa run. I’ve yet to mention that the order comes from the editorial assistant. And not just any editorial assistant… this week’s temporary editorial assistant. Is this a new low?
Just as my jaw descends upon my very own cup of tea I am summoned by a multimedia journalist from the main paper. Not one sip! She proceeds to inform me about a burning topical issue for which we must campaign. It has something to do with the Superbowl. The brain, already affected by lack of liquid stimulant, wanders. I’ve never been one for campaigning. Moreover, I have never been one for the NFL. Having spent a semester of university abroad at UNC in North Carolina I will never get back those four hours I suffered in utter confusion amidst the ‘bleachers’ watching the university’s football team (the Tar Heels) lose a game – a result I could only confirm via crowd reaction.
Lo and behold, I now know that the New Orleans Saints (a team who subsequently win the Superbowl) are banned from using their catchphrase in the finals due to some pedantic copyright issue. The phrase “Who dat?” is literal gangsta for “Who’s that?” as in “Look at us, you pleb, we’ve arrived”.
I’m told it would be of great amusement if we compiled a video of ordinary stuck-up British folk repeating this slogan in a spirited manner. Cue standing outside Waitrose (a place soon to feature heavily in the story of my life) for the next two hours while I jostle with a video camera and mic in the constant drizzle and accost members of the public, who are too busy either disciplining unruly umbrellas, or (shock, horror) heading to Waitrose. Oh the glamour! Young, old, foreign, couples, joggers, janitors: all fall victim to my newfound directing skills. The morning’s one saving grace comes behalf of an old dumbfounded gentleman, whose doddery inquiry “Who dat… is that with a ‘d’ or a ‘t’?” is a personal highlight. Once satisfied that a suitable number had been hounded my partner and I return to the fort.
Now, when I came to The Times I imagined glimpsing (from afar) bursts of brilliance from famed political commentators such as David Aaronovitch, Hugo Rifkind, Daniel Finklestein, legendary cartoonist Peter Brookes, etc. I didn’t, however, foresee approaching them with sodden attire and frazzled bouffant to request that they unveil their inner Snoop Dogg direct to camera. Alas, it is felt that this will really give the ‘campaign’ video the edge. Once more it’s a task befitting a workie impervious to humiliation. The recording (edited after a late canteen lunch and viewable below), however, is quite hilarious but I fear the joke is on me, Ms Drowned Rat.
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