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I am the Unicorn: A useless memoir. One man's forgettable journey in the OZ hip hop industry

A Star is born: Long live the hip hop producer

Music: Where have all the open legs gone?

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Syntax & Cam Bluff (Aus) 'Skynet' LIVE on Radio [OZ Hip Hop]

December 6th 2010 04:05

Awesome video of two great QLD OZ Hip Hop rap stars in the making

YOUTUBE VIDEO LINK

Preview of a new song 'Skynet' performed LIVE by Gold Coast rapper Syntax on Strictly Oz Radio Show - 24/08/2010. Produced by Brisbane's Cam Bluff.

For the fully embeded version, check this out:

OFFICIAL SYNTAX BLOG LINK

Enjoy!

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Posted By: Andrew 'Syntax' Archer - Category: No Category

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I am the Unicorn: A useless memoir. One man's forgettable journey in the OZ hip hop industry

January 27th 2010 05:14

I never kept a journal, so it seems odd that at the age of 28 I finally decided to write down my most memorable adventures and fashion them into a memoir.

The most useless memoir in Australian music history since "Frente: The story behind Accidentally Kelly Street".

So over the coming weeks I'll be posting up small smatterings of this memoir in the vain hope that somebody will read it, like it and giggle a little at the adventures of a short fat man that has seen more bad luck than a blind, deaf and dumb man being hit by a runaway shopping trolley filled with steak knives.

Thus, I present to you "I am the Unicorn: A useless memoir".

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Chapter 1: A Mis-Spelling of genius

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Grant loved cars, more specifically however, he loved Holden’s and American muscle machines.

I however was a young man, around 16 years old who knew nothing about automobiles apart from the fact that they were rather nifty things that allowed me to cruise from party to party.

Grant’s obsession raged, and he covered his school books with pictures of vehicles that were hastily torn from his ever growing mountain of fuel injected car magazines. He was caught at a peculiar cross road; growing up in a nice part of middle class Robina he was at loggerheads with his inner bogan, something that began to manifest itself once he was able to afford his own subscriptions to magazine’s that were filled with stories about blokes scoring a ‘root’ off scantily clad sheila’s in the back of a supercharged VL Commodore.

I distinctly remember spending an entire afternoon trawling every newsagent in town trying to find every magazine that made reference to the new look VT Commodore, because it was “a turning point in the way the car is designed”.

But upon saying that, he is a genuinely good guy who shares a passion for old British and Australian comedy. Many nights were spent rehearsing volumes of Monty Python and D Generation sketches to crowds of bemused and bewildered admirers.

As you can imagine, in high school we didn’t exactly ‘get the birds’.

Well, it was hard to talk to women when the only frame of reference you’ve ever had were the opening lines of the ‘Dead parrot sketch’.

“Hello misssss…..I’m sorry I thought you were a woman….”

I’ll stop now.

The day Grant got his license was the day everything changed.

He pulled up in my driveway with his mother’s brand new gold badged Honda Accord with a twinkle in his eye, and a desire to hit the road, cruise for chicks, and blast the ‘Presidents of the United States of America’ full blast.

Apparently a Little Duuuuune Buggy was in the saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand.

I guess you need to have that album to get the reference.

This continued for several weeks, until Grant’s obsession with cars chipped away at reason and sanity, and he grew bolder behind the wheel of his mother’s new car; quite often we zipped up the Gold Coast highway at high speed weaving between traffic like a scene from the original Grand Theft Auto franchise. He had no fear behind the wheel, and laughed at every close shave swerving between rows of slow moving cars on the bustling highways.

Until a T-intersection and a flimsily constructed road sign brought that way of thinking to an end.

I’ve often wondered what would have happened if things turned out differently, for instance, what if the council had made that road sign a little stronger, would I not be alive today?

It all began like most Friday and Saturday nights, strolling from one house party to the next in search of good conversation, free drinks, and more importantly a quick feel up from a drugged up and drunk scantily clad 16 year old.

After our usual night filled with awkward stares from party goers, we decided to end the evening by taking the back roads to Mudgeeraba, burning as much rubber and carving as much road up as possible.

“It’s like a rally!” Grant screamed as we zoomed up the thin winding roads, hitting corners at speeds that would make even the most veteran drifter proud. Seemingly, corners were no problem for Grant, and as we casually rounded another bend we looked ahead of us at the empty straight road that was laid down in front of the vehicle.

Naturally, a straight road is the opportunistic moment to ‘open her up’.

And so we pushed the sparkling new Honda as far it’s well manufactured and well maintained engine could go, all the while taking time to appreciate the effortlessness of covering a large distance in such a short space of time.

The problem was a T-intersection was fast approaching; it’s not like we didn’t know it was there, in fact we had both been on this stretch of road a million times before. Every time we came down here we always followed the same routine of rounding the bend and flooring the car until we hit the usually busy intersection.

I stared blankly at the road that crossed our path in front of us, and I took re-assurance in the fact that the Honda was able to stop effortlessly on a ten cent piece.

That feeling changed however, when for some still unknown reason Grant didn’t stop.

That moment was a true testament to the adage of time standing still in dire situations; it felt like it took over a minute for the car to make its way up the shaft of the T, across the road in front of us, and up over the grass, through the roadsign and into the embankment.

I replay the moment in my mind often, the moment when time ran so slowly it could easily have been repackaged as a trailer for the Truman Show.

The car passed through the intersection at over 100km an hour, mounted the opposite gutter and flew through a rather flimsy roadsign that only moments before proudly boasted that Tallai was 5km away in a northerly direction.

It was now lying several metres away from where it once stood, the only witness to a crash that resulted out of nothing more than a desire to feel the metaphysical wind in our hair.

We both staggered out of the car and looked at the damage. The front was completely shattered, a crumpled mess that resembled a tier-laden wedding cake that had fallen from the arms of a greasy underpaid waiter. Somehow both Grant and I were ok, suffering no more than a few bruises to our legs, torso’s and rapidly deflating ego’s.

Minutes later we started the car and pulled into the empty local Franklin’s carpark where one of Grant’s friends had arranged to meet us to inspect the scene, and decide on our best course of action.

In my mind I tried to come to terms with what just happened; our car had just broken into a million pieces after a high speed collision and a brief aerial acrobatics display. My mind kept poking me and prodding me, nagging me and asking me the most obvious question that both Grant and I had been pondering to ourselves since the car ploughed through the intersection and into the grassy embankment.

Why hadn’t our air bags deployed?

My question was soon answered when a disheveled amateur mechanic crawled out from under the crumpled hood and threw a small and insignificant piece of plastic on the ground at our feet.

“That’s what deploys your air bags, it’s completely broken”

At that moment the God of irony smiled, it was like reading a facebook status update where someone mis-spells ‘genius’. Alanis Morissette casually cruised by in the background as I came to terms with the ultimate irony that the crash had destroyed the safety device that was meant to be automatically deployed at the time of an accident.

I could have fainted.

The severity of it all hadn’t really hit me until that moment, if chance had rolled the dice differently a less favourable result could very well have occurred.

As strange as it seems, I’ve been rather lucky when it comes to brushes with death. Only two years before a strange, almost paranormal experience occurred that pulled my life from the jaws of death, and that certainly is no exaggeration.

I don’t class myself as an atheist, in fact I’ve been privy to a lot of paranormal experiences in my life that are clearly the result of some form of invisible intelligence. I don’t believe it to be ‘God’, but there is no doubt in my mind that an invisible puppeteer is controlling vast strings that manipulate the world around us for either our, or its own ends.

It all happened sometime when I was in Grade 10.

I’ve always been a late riser, giving myself only half an hour or so to get into my morning routine before I have to rush out the door for important engagements. Grade 10 was no different.

Rushing out of the house to the local bus stop I buried my thoughts into my cassette walkman, listening to my own mixtape which consisted of tracks from Ice Cube’s Bootlegs and B-Sides, and an array of other west coast artists.

Dogg Pound: Dogg Food was my favourite.

As I covered the crest of a hill and began my descent down the other side, my attention had moved away from walking on the footpath, and I hadn’t noticed that at some point I had walked off the sidewalk and on to the main road.

The walkman was at full blast and my mind had wandered off track; I was completely oblivious to the world around me, I was standing in the middle of the road, and I was currently on the other side of a crested road and was invisible to any car that may decide to come over the hill.

POP.

Suddenly the ‘stop’ button on my walkman was pressed.

After looking at the button for half a second and wondering how on earth it had managed to be pressed, reality sucker punched me square in the face and I came to the stark realisation that I was now standing in the middle of a busy street with no way of knowing if any cars were approaching me from behind.

I panicked and ran back on to the footpath.

No sooner had I moved, than a car speeding at over 100km an hour came flying over the top of the crest and neatly passed through the space on the road I had just occupied.

My heart froze.

My walkman had saved my life.

I spent days afterward trying to recreate the events of that morning, trying in vain to figure out how a button that was designed to not be easily pressed while in motion had managed to be pushed down on its own accord.

It seems odd that the rest of my life is plagued with odd streaks of bad luck, especially considering that in those times when I needed fate the most, the gods of chance always managed to roll their dice in my favour.

So when that flimsy piece of plastic juttered to the ground at my feet in that dark and subdued Franklin’s carpark, it may have appeared on the surface to be another characteristic piece of bad luck, but to me it was the sudden comprehension that despite the negativity I was alive.

And that my purpose seemingly isn’t yet fulfilled.

Syntax - Myspace Page

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A Star is born: Long live the hip hop producer

July 23rd 2008 03:02

A star is born

It seems at long last a new day has begun to dawn.

The burst of sunshine that is the acceptance of ‘swagger’ in hip hop music has finally begun to drown out the brief flickers that illuminated the dark ages of our scene. The last bastions of narrow mindedness have begun to surrender to the unstoppable onslaught of decent music and high production values.

In the hope of avoiding another “I can’t believe they don’t like commercial music” blog, I will sum up my intentions in a single sentence:

There is hope for good hip hop music in this country yet.

For years I never really understood why a wedge was struck so firmly between the two ideologies; polar opposites, the world according to J Wess and the wonderful minds of Lyrical Commission.

It seems the two existed purely to mock each others efforts, with those seeking the path of commercialised US hip hop sneering at the concept of Adidas Shell Toe wearing backpackers who over obsess about losing an identity that only exists in theory…while their polar opposites argue the case the Australian cultural identity has a valued place in our local music scene.

However I don’t see the new wave of Australian hip hop as a total victory for the commercial camp, more so the opposite. It seems that finally a lightbulb eureka moment has occurred, and there being a sudden realisation that the quality and production value of the music is of far more importance than the concept of playing a role to suit one individuals taste. The ‘backpackers’ are now reaping the rewards of slick beats, years of industry experience, and a public that has become far more accepting of their efforts.

Even Kanye rocks a backpack. I’m not too sure what he keeps in there, but I’m sure it’s not spray cans and a sketch pad.

Unfortunately it means that a large amount of artists are trying to clamber aboard and ride the efforts of only a handful of producers. I use the term ‘producer’ very selectively; the ability to put together a beat is very different to the time and effort that a producer puts into expertly crafting a song with correct sequencing, mixing and added creative genius. I see it far too often, budding you producers who throw you a million beats, yet rely on the talent of others to finish them off.

That is NOT a producer.

As a result, artists are running heads down to the only professional producers in town.

We can watch this in action at this very moment; ever since taking out the title in the 2008 One Stop Beat Battle, Gold Coast producer M-phazes has seen his stock take a considerable winning margin above everybody else. Focussing on just the local scene alone, 2008 will see the release of two M-Phazes albums spread over two different record labels, plus the sterling work put into the latest Spit Syndicate, Bliss N Eso, Drapht, and upcoming Phrase, 13th Son and various other releases.

Add to this the upcoming projects with assorted US artists, and the scene is set for an over exertion of the reliance on one man to save the Australian hip hop industry. Being a close friend, I am loving the attention he is getting at the moment (which is well deserved for the effort he’s put in), but it seems to be breeding a ‘one stop’ producing point for budding young artists releasing new albums. It appears that the infectious and nasty habit of relying on production to sell an album has finally crept its way onto our shores.

Surely we recognise that a good song is a synthesis between producer and artist.

Little Brother’s catch cry of “make me hot P” (in reference to 9th Wonder) is tolling loudly in our country for the first time.

Really Long Link

Predictably, the same 5 producers are responsible for 90% of the nationally distributed music that comes from Melbourne, and an even greater percentage for the music that derives from Sydney.

Trials and Suffa are the undisputed kings of SA, Dazastah owns WA, and The Optimen and Beatkamp are unparalleled in QLD.

All too predictably.

But it’s only natural to ride off someone else’s name. Lupe Fiasco’s first LP effort featured a plethora of unknown producers (e.g. Startrack), yet I’m sure those producers are now in great demand for other albums. It seems ironic that in an effort to break the mould, Lupe has created the next generation of sought after producers.

Make me hot P.

The days of beatsmiths who were members of a group are long gone. Jurassic 5 were the last known popular group to do such a thing. It seems inevitable for the respect that producers receive to take them on side projects, and then, freelance.

Lord Finesse, Pete Rock, DJ Premier, 9th Wonder, DJ Muggs, Large Professor, DJ Evil Dee, Khrysis, Dr Dre & Yella are prime examples of this.

Even M-Phazes used to belong to a little known Gold Coast group called Trace Elements (wink wink nudge nudge).

In Australia it seems Suffa and the Hilltop Hoods, X & Hell, Choose Mics and Trials and the Funkoars are the last bastions of featuring exclusive production.

While there is hope for this aussie industry to get itself out of the dark ages, it seems we have taken on the qualities of the US scene far too quickly. The days of ‘Groups’ are long gone.

Long live the producer.

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McDonalds: What’s our beef (pattie)?

June 2nd 2008 01:53

McDonalds: What’s our beef (pattie)? – A social look at our favourite food outlet

Far be it from me to be a champion for the McDonald’s method of corporate branding, I somehow feel compelled to make this blog out of frustration and bewilderment. It amazes me how the walls of intelligence and public decency swiftly crumble when we walk beneath the Golden Arches and into the realm of Ronald and his round table of corporate associates

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Music: Where have all the open legs gone?

May 19th 2008 23:59

I'm not too sure what it is about Sunday nights, but somehow my brain refuses to cease its incessant creation of thoughts and utter nonsense. Normally I revel in this awakening of ideas and creative ability, however it normally corresponds to when I turn off my TV and try and get some sleep.

The situation is certainly not helped by the fact I have to get myself out of bed for work at 4:30am on Monday's; it does not make for the best time to celebrate increased brain activity. I would much prefer to tune myself out to the sound of nothingness like a cheap radio trying to find a distant community station

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