The Boss Hog Barbarians
Every Hog Has Its Day
'll tell you who's useless. Music critics. Swanning about in their dumbass jet-black thick rimmed pseudo-fashionable prescription glasses, t-shirts advertising defunct breakfast cereals, and wearing a “summer scarf.” Indoors. At an angle. Fucking morons. The Boss Hog Barbarians have got my back on this one. Whereas most rappers are more concerned with calling out fellow recording artistes, or those fine men and women of the Federal Police, BHB spend at least five tracks on here rounding on those of us in the journalism industry (“critics actually thought the Beatles had talent,” indeed). And, you know what, I'm happy to take it. I take it because these guys are talented. Boss Hog Barbarians are the first time we've needed to give a shit about super-groups since Roy Orbison fell to the ground clutching his chest.
Two guys. 1) J-Zone, “the Tom Jones of rap.” 2) Celph Titled, “a.k.a. The Pastor of Pimping.” In 2006, nobody brings more classics to rap than these two guys. They have a Midas touch so great they could double up as Project Pat's dentist and save him a fortune. In the past, when they've teamed up, they've dropped nothing but anthems. “Spoiled Rotten.” “Eatadiccup.” This is the full-length. This is what you've been waiting for. This is what you've been adding to the end of your bedtime prayers after “and God bless cousin Jimmy.” This is amazing.
Basically, Every Hog Has Its Day is the distilled essence of ign'ant, which is itself the distilled essence of gangsta rap. I mean, that's some Smirnoff-level purity there. This is 60 minutes of pimp slaps, Funkmaster Flex sound effects, and calls for the immediate quashing of all charges levied against C-Murder. Guns are waved about (including one jacked from an Operation Wolf arcade machine), fat girls are sweet talked, and your head nods. And every seventh word is “bitch.”
If you know how either J-Zone and Celph operate, you'll already have this and love it. For those who ain't been blessed yet, expect: Too $hort beats (“Nigga, you thought an 808 was an area code?” is dropped in the intro, in case you don't get it”), some AA Gill-level neologisms (“ho-tation device” being my personal favourite), and enough punchlines to make you think the crime these two guys are proudest of carrying off is swiping Bob Monkhouse's jokebook.
Choice lines? On their ethnicity: “We in the detergent aisle cuz we far from crackers.” On your crew's forthcoming death: “Fuck a 40oz, you'll be dumping out whole kegs of brew.” On self-summaries: “Not a fat white man on a sleigh / But I got presents in rap, and I use the word “ho” all day.” And on just general pure genius Tom Lehrer-channelling-the-spirit-of-Tim Dog levels: “No you ain't never been inside / And I'm-a get the Mexicans to fuck up Xzibit again if he don't pimp my ride.”
It ain't just girls and gats though. “Bitch That Ain't Love” (“Do I look like Mr Belvedere, bitch?”) outlines a firm policy for appraising the ladies based on their culinary skills, whilst on “Rev Getright” Celph holds it down on his own as the eponymous figure of the title (“Bitches rejoice! The church got a new voice”), replete with the best faux-Dirty South rhymes you'll ever hear.
That not enough for you? They'll even throw in a bonus disc, just for you. “The Hogs Sing the Hits” is what the world has been crying out for since year dot: ign'ant flows over early 90s pop-rap beats. So “Set Adrift On Memory Bliss” is about getting VD, whilst “Ice Ice Baby” serves as the atmosphere for the eternal battle between a man's libido and poor nightclub lighting. And further to his earlier crunk-interpretation, Celph also manages a hip-house style on “Humm on My Balls” over everyone's favourite C&C; Music Factory instrumental. The bonus disc doesn't really stand up to repeat play. The main course does. Buy it, and help spread the hate against rap critics. It's a worthy aim.