By Seth Colter Walls
By Brett Koshkin
By Spencer Wilking
By Christina Black
By Calum Marsh
By J. Pablo
By Phillip Mlynar
By Jenna Sauers
Ghost BlazerMC George Positive and MC-producer Tiger Skullzhaven't got much going for them. At least, not compared to FannyPack, the mostly jailbait trio made up of the black and Indian Belinda, the Thai and Puerto Rican Jessibel, and Irishwoman Cat. Those girls aren't just a rap group; they're globalization writ sexy. The Blazer boys, meanwhile, appear to be nothing more than skinny hipsters from around the way. The cover of their self-released three-song CD, Act Right, shows the two in an alley, striking hip-hop poses and sporting basketball jerseys (Bulls and Nuggets), close-fitting jeans (one pair acid-washed), and vintage Nikes. As opposed to nameplate necklaces, hoop earrings, and hot pants.
But Ghost Blazer get surprisingly nasty. So nasty, in fact, that FannyPack's Svengali songwriters Matt Goias and Fancy sought an as-yet-unconsummated collabo with the boys after hearing Act Right. Tiger Skullz (a white-bread Park Sloper whom I've admittedly gotten toasted with once or twice) and 100 percent Indian Staten Islander George Positive snort fat Miami basslines, space out with old-school synth squirts, and put on airs made not only by Nike, but the bling eratheir raps could be inspired by corporate shout-out tracker AmericanBrandstand.com.
The duo drop science like names: as outsiders making in-jokes. But Positive rhymes more fluidly than any Beastie Boy, and Skullz kicks a lackadaisical flow that sounds, charmingly enough, like 50 Cent dropped in a poor box. The disc's first and finest track, "Holla at You Mommy," pings up high and booms down low, then breaks into an STD-catchy rolling-fuzz-bass chorus, in which the boys come on to the ladies in down-low gravel tones and Princely falsetto. Their verses toast Hennessey, 22s, Gucci, Chanel, Escalades, Lamborghinis, Shaolin, Starter jackets, and limos with "54 windows." The smack-your-glitch-up "H.I.O. (Hand It Ova!)" opens with an Atari Teenage Riot intro, then scatters snare-hits and squeezes out Game Boy dinks; " . . . Like This" stutters, skips, and slinks past "wankstas." For kids so obsessed with beaten paths, they clearly wanna blaze new trails.
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