Prof’s King Gampo (Stophouse) is asinine, narcissistic self-indulgence run completely riot, without a shred of redeeming artistry.
The best thing about rap in the dawn of its era was that pioneering firebrands like The Last Poets and Sugar Hill Gang didn’t need to be singers to make records. Being excellent prose-poets and spoken wordsmiths was enough to put them on the market. Even N.W.A., with their foul-mouthed, blatantly barbaric sexism, did it with skill. These days, all it takes is somebody with enough money behind you to go in the studio and come out with something for which you can strike a distribution deal.
Hence, this stuff that wouldn’t even have been recorded in the early 70s, let alone met with the success it enjoys today—with Prof garnering praise all over the place, including high-profile radio and print, for profanely epitomizing the inane. Point in case, from “Anamoly”; “And I’m staying lubricated daily/ Slip my dick in whatever it fit in…” and “…I’m a motherfucking hustler/ And I am married to the game, I take her out to eat, then fuck her/ Rollin’ down the block in my bicycle, Steady smoking on my Mom’s white widow.” And “Gampo,” with, “You can find me stiff, like a samurai, on a llama ride, down a waterslide, getting sodomized/ I’m a wallaby, I’m a king of a colony/ By the way I’m Wil’n’out you would think I just won the lottery,” and “…Uncle Prof sit back and get shitty, unlock a big fresh pair of titties.”
There is more, ad nauseam, including, from “Daughter” featuring Brother Ali, “…You’ll die when you see her fly when she’s grown yeah/ Suck my dick get a faceful.” “Gampo” has some racism tossed in for measure, a la “I would like that yellow bone girl in my office.” When this knuckle-dragging Neanderthal isn’t waxing vulgar enough to turn a buzzard’s stomach, he’s breaking an arm patting himself on the back with self-congratulations for being a white man, particularly a white man boldly going where mostly black men have gone before as a ghetto-spawned phenomenon.
If not for the lavishly produced music tracks, there’d be nothing at all worth listening to on this disc. It’s enough to make you wonder just how much worse things can get, how much more rap can degenerate into a base, ruthlessly appropriated ripoff of the legitimate, groundbreaking art form it started out as.
Release show for Prof’s King Gampo: September 9 at First Avenue with Blueprint and Soulcrate Music. 8 p.m., 18+, $12 at the door.
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