By Michael Corey, May 29th, 2012 
At The Tippler, a New York City bar located behind an inconspicuous door under the Chelsea Market, a patron described as a Saudi billionaire spent $60,000 on a special, limited production, extra-large bottle of Armand de Brignac (aka Ace of Spades) champagne. (A standard size, retail bottle of Armand de Brignac Brut Gold sells for about $350, but it may be found for about $250). While this purchase was the most expensive bottle of champagne ever sold by the club, and perhaps the most expensive sold in New York City, the expenditure pales in comparison with a double Nebuchadnezzar or Melchizedek (30 liters) bottle of Midas Armand de Brignac champagne that a “financier” bought for 125,000 British pounds in the Playground nightclub located at the Liverpool Hilton Hotel. The “financier’s” total bar bill for the evening was 204,000 British pounds including an 18,500 British pound service charge. The “financier” reportedly also bought forty standard bottles of Armand de Brignac for single women that were in the bar.
The Melchizedek, “gold-plated” bottle weighted about one hundred pounds, and it had to be carried to the “financier” by two servers. The “financier” has been described as being in his twenties, perhaps a foreign exchange trader. The club DJ played dramatic, iconic music from the science fiction film 2001, A Space Odyssey as the bottle moved to the table. After the cork was popped, glasses of champagne were distributed to everyone that was in the VIP area of the club. People in the room were described as having a great time as they toasted the “financier.” One report noted that although the financier arrived with about ten of his friends, after the cork was popped, the party attracted a large number of beautiful women.
Was his status affirmed? Did this elicit envy? Did some feel less worthy? The young “financier” out conspicuously and invidiously spent U. S. gambler and businessman Don Johnson who ran up a tab of about 168,000 British pounds in June of 2011 at the One4One nightclub in London’s Park Lane. Johnson . . .
Read more: Artisanal Champagne and Conspicuous and Invidious Consumption
By Lisa Aslanian, September 27th, 2011 
Eminem’s rise from the rubble is well known. A shy white boy from East Detroit, Eminem was trailer park trash raised by a single mother who was often too high to mother. He regularly changed schools, repeated the ninth grade three times and was constantly bullied. By retreating inward — he read the dictionary and riffed rhymes at the floor — Marshal Mathers (M&M) found his way around ridicule and attack.
Like most rappers, words were Eminem’s weapon and escape. Unlike most rappers, however, Eminem is white. He stands out like a sore thumb. The lyrics that express his deep sense of isolation and vulnerability otherwise absent from rap are twice born — first, he uses rap to talk about growing up “white trash, broke and always poor” and second, he is a white dude in a nearly all black art form, and he believes he is isolated, rejected and often singled out because of the color of his skin.
Eminem does boast but what he brags about having, and having in spades, is unbeatable talent. His linguistic prowess is undeniable, but what separates him is not really his skill — I am not here to say who the best rapper is, though most claim the title — it is what he uses his skill to express: anxiety, timidity, envy and rage. When Eminem digresses on the many shades of depression, he extends rap’s emotional range beyond its hyper-macho comfort zone.
On the debut album 8 Mile, in “Lose Yourself,” Eminem says he cannot:
Stay in one spot, another day of monotony
Has gotten to me, to the point I’m like a snail I’ve got
To formulate a plot, or end up in jail or shot
Success is my only motherfuckin’option, failure’s not
Mom I love you, but this trailer’s got to go
I cannot grow old in Salem’s Lot
So here I go it’s my shot, feet fail me not
This may be the only opportunity that I got
The . . .
Read more: White Rage: Eminem, the Bad Boy from Detroit
By Lisa Aslanian, September 6th, 2011 
In The Atlantic, several prominent music critics reviewed “Watch the Throne,” the fabulous collaboration between Kanye West and Jay Z. Again, critics are angry about the subject matter. The song “That’s My Bitch” met with this reaction — it is the only song where Jay sings about B, and in the song, he does not adequately sing the praises of monogamy. First, he does more than sing about B (his wife, Beyoncé Knowles) — he enters her, as a black woman, into the pantheon of women men dream about (like Marilyn Monroe) and second, yes, he is “crass” and “protective” because he is saying, with cheek and guile, “that’s my girl.”
A host of questions ensue. Do we really associate musical maturity with our image of a monogamous family man? Do we ask our artists to promote social constraints, or do we want our art to articulate fantasy and felt experience? Does the egregiously simple image of maturity= monogamy play on a host of stereotypes about black men — not being monogamous, leaving their families, etc. and even if these stereotypes are partially true — is it the place of music and its’ critics to address them?
Jay Z has assumed enormous social responsibility. He openly discusses his early years dealing crack, cautioning young people not to do it by saying “you will end up in jail or dead.” He is philanthropic. Must we ask that his music, his fantasy, his creativity — his art — be as pedestrian and unambiguous as his politics?
Here is another loopy bit from the monogamy-happy review — another reviewer decided that the rapper in a steady marriage (Jay) sounded happier than the rapper who has yet to wed (Kanye). Huh? I have gone back repeatedly in search of this happiness (because the reviewer does not ground the comment) and for the life of me I cannot figure out what the hell she means — they both sound happy — at the top of their games.
***
Two years ago, young Jeezy and . . .
Read more: More on Rap: The Matter of Maturity
By Lisa Aslanian, August 30th, 2011 
“Rap music is the CNN of the ghetto.” – Chuck D
Rap began — Chuck D nailed it — as news from the streets. Rap riffed ghetto life, syncopated in hard rhymes and dense metaphor the raw reality of the ghetto. In Ronald Reagan’s America, blacks in the ghettos from Harlem to Bed Stuy to South Central formed what George Bataille called the heterogeneous element of society — or the unassimable byproduct of a culture, born of that culture, upon which the culture rests. In plain English, rap was the art of the dispossessed, and as the art of the dispossessed, it tells us the truth of the trickle-down economic era from the mouths of those who were held far beneath the place where the trickle dried up.
Rap began as a linguistic pissing contest — and it has been always more than news. It is also poetry, entertainment and resistance. As news, it is largely unwelcome. As poetry, it is mad rich and ripping angry. As entertainment, the joke is always right-on the money, and as resistance, it is unbeatable because, instead of setting the ghetto on fire, it creates from the ashes — the shit and the garbage — the nothing, going nowhere despair of the reviled and the forgotten.
Much has been made of rap then and rap now. Rap, the argument goes, has been mainstreamed, even atomized. In this process, it has lost its political edge and anger. At the same time, critics ask rappers to grow up, to mature, to stop singing about bitches and hoes. Unsurprisingly, these tendencies contradict each other — and instead of choosing between the two lines of thinking, we note that the paradoxical attitude is a way of still not knowing quite what to do with rap.
Consider two themes that still dominate rap — swagger (and all that comes with it) and brutality. Rap still deals in race and racism, and, I believe, its critical reception is . . .
Read more: Rap as News or Art?
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