Hot S**t for Teacher

Shimmy Shimmy Ko Ko Bop All the Way Home

Schooling, soul music, the South, or suicide: The choice is yours.

Shelby Lynne "Gotta Get Back"

"Why's this airplane go so slowly?": one of those almost-home-to-the-person-your-lips-are missing songs, like "Radar Love" by Golden Earring or "Six Days on the Road" by Dave Dudley. Drawled soul mannerisms, like she's trying to be Al Green. Starts slow, uneventful, through sour and melancholy chords, then it kicks in: "Butterflies take control of me," like the asthmatic kid in that new Spanish Civil War movie Butterfly? Or like Weezer's Rivers Cuomo obsessed with Madame Butterfly on Pinkerton, back before he went nuts? Who knows, but on the radio it's thrilling—really cooks, in smoke. Shelby rounds off all the vowels: "Gotta get back, I do, I do" . . . a song about returning. Back to where she once belonged, maybe to her "Slow Me Down" video a few years ago: tomboyish strawberry blond haircut, barebacked, driving a motorboat, rolling on the river. Sweet magnolias, rocking chairs, mint juleps. Take her home, country roads.

The playground in Nelly’s mind
The playground in Nelly’s mind

Nelly "(Hot S**t) Country Grammar"
(Fo' Reel/Universal)

Is Missouri the South? Up in Michigan, it sure seems like it is, but the natives—even the snuff-dipping Ozark daredevils—swear it's the Midwest. The state switched sides during the Civil War, right? Nelly's from St. Louis—"say it loud, I'm from the Lou and I'm proud." "Country Grammar" 's got the South in its title, and Nelly spurts and charges forward Juvenile-style, ending short staccato lines with semi-repeated syllables, shouting out stops like a night-train conductor, up and down (mostly the middle of) the map: Texas, Indiana, Hot-lanta, Lou-siana, Motor City, Chi-Town, KC, Alabama. Background-echoed voices yell out a dub hoedown call: "Hot shit!" must be some hip new hip-hop lingo, seeing how the most irritating cut on Common's current album revolves around it, too. (Common's best cut, by the way, is the one on the new Armand Van Helden album where he sounds like Will Smith with a dirty mind.) Anyway, "Country Grammar" has this shoulder-shrugging Gulf Stream rhythm, lots of spare-tire/rubber-hammer bounceability in its riff, dwoot-dwoot-dwoot sound effects, and (above all) a cuteness as primal as "The Name Game" or "The Clapping Song" or "Iko Iko": It's even based on a little girls' playground chant. "Down down, baby, down down the rainbow" [useta be the roller coaster; a regional variation, maybe?]/Street sweeper my baby/Cocked, ready to let it go/Light it up and take a puff/Listen to me blast," but mainly: Shimmy shimmy ko ko bop. Come back to the five and dime, Little Anthony and the Imperials. What with big hits like this one and Eminem's "The Real Slim Shady" and DMX's "Party Up," rap's back riding the Double Dutch Bus again.

Big Tymer$ "Get Your Roll On"
(Cash Money/Universal)

Nelly's got a cut called "Don't Let 'Em C U Sweat" on his (fairly awesome, by the way) album, where the lyrics are almost all brands of deodorant: Smells like Teen Spirit, don't it? "Get Your Roll On" belongs in the same armpit, obviously (especially if radio stations decide to ban "Roll On"). And what with Mannie Fresh's ticky-tacky Crescent City rhythm signatures, alternately gumbo-flatulent and bling-bling ornate, the Southness ain't in question. The vocals mostly come One. Word. At. A. Time, as in (this is about your wife, incidentally, who is Big Tymer$' babymama): "God. Damn. Mother. Fucker./She's-a-Good. Dick. Sucker." Which has nann to do with the other verses, which deal more with cars—big rims, loud pipes, strictly leather. "Leave the sticker in the Bentley to show the price."

Donell Jones "Do What I Gotta Do"

Does more with that "Cash Rules Everything Around Me" slogan than the Wu-Tang Clan ever did. Great wah-wah guitar line, too, produced to somehow sound simultaneously pristine and down-and-dirty—perfect for the first single off a Shaft-remake soundtrack. And the singing is as smoooooth as R. Kelly or Montell Jordan at their smoothest; blows D'Angelo out of the water. Donell's dead set on bringing home his pay to his baby; he's got work to do. Better get used to him coming home a little bit late.

Dynamite Hack "Boyz-N-The Hood"

Dr. Dre's mellow '90s vibe, as fabricated by emaciated college nerds reciting his gang-banging '80s words—verbatim, except Dynamite Hack are (unlike, say, Bob Dylan in "Hurricane") afraid to say "nigger." Just a lazy hazy day of summer when you pull up in your '64 Impala to where your homeboys chill, get greeted with a 40, and your breath starts stinking. So you hit the Bacardi, slap some nappy-weaved bitch and her dad, then drive off into the sunset. All done totally sweet and wimpy, like Too Much Joy lying their way through LL Cool J's "That's a Lie" or Rivers Cuomo calling himself "the epitome of Public Enemy" in the whitest voice in Connecticut. What's with these homies dissing my girl? Why do they gotta front? Don't quote me boy, I ain't said shit.

Wheatus "Teenage Dirtbag"

Even wimpier sons of Weezer: "Her name is Noel/I had a dream about her/She rings my bell/I've got gym class in half an hour." Obligatory hip-hoppy background scratches. "Her boyfriend is a dick/He brings a gun to school." The Wheatus twerp wants to listen to Iron Maiden with her—hey, maybe they'll wind up like the cute kids in "Pantera Fans in Love" on the new Nerf Herder album! And as the powerchords swell, she comes up with two tickets to the show. But she wouldn't sing her lines, so a boy sings her voice instead.

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