Last week was my vacation, but I still worked hard.

I wrote this review of Slaine’s The Boston Project for Exclaim! Slaine’s a hardcore, underground rapper from Boston who you may know from Ben Affleck’s Gone Baby Gone and The Town — if you don’t know him from rap. Rumour has it Affleck called Slaine like 30 times one night after Slaine had passed out, desperate to cast him as the hard, cold gangsta with a Boston accent.

I also wrote a Kid Cudi Indicud review and another Slaine The Boston Project review both for Earmilk. Earmilk doesn’t get enough credit from the mainstream; maybe they don’t want it. Their music editor, Montrey, encourages his writers to take risks, tasteful risks. For that we should commend him.

Until next time …

Send me arts stories! (petermarrack@gmail.com)

P.S. I forgot about this The Airplane Boys news story I penned. Its content is pulled from an interview I did with Beck Motley and Bon Voyage a couple of weeks ago. Check out their new project, Brave New World.

Two things provoked me to consult my critical third eye this morning. Translation: two things pissed me off to an extent that I felt it meaningful to respond to them.

One occurred when I was driving to the cafe by my house.

I was stopped at a crosswalk and a man had begun to walk, seemingly oblivious to my car, to the other side of the road. As soon as he saw me, he waved an apology, smiled and accelerated into a jog.

My first thought driving away was, “How ridiculous. This dude thinks he’s burdening me by walking across the road, as if I didn’t have five additional seconds to spare.”

Then my Anglican roots kicked in. “He’s only being polite, courteous,” I thought.

But my third eye wouldn’t have it. “Canadians, psht, they’re so goddamned polite. They don’t stop to think their unconditional manners might be encouraging a completely fucked way of life.”

I left it at that and accelerated through the intersection.

At that point I still hadn’t reached a level of annoyance to bother jotting anything down; it takes a lot these days to make me think there’s a point in writing something down.

(Un)fortunately for you, I crossed that threshold precisely two left turns later.

I had just hung a left at the old church along Lakeshore, purposely passing the Starbucks so I could hang back and listen to thirty more seconds of Best Coast’s “No One Like You,” when I pulled up to another crosswalk.

Through the windshield I spotted a woman bundled in winter gear a quarter of the way across the intersection.

Because I failed to use my blinker, signaling my impending left turn, this woman apparently assumed I was headed straight. So what did she do but break into a jog, desperately fleeing the road so as not to interrupt my travels.

That did it.

I turned left, cursed violently to myself and sped to Starbucks to jot this down.

photo by Neil Champagne

The Airplane Boys strive to do something different in hip-hop. They always have.

They’re just smarter about it now, blending trending trap drums with their signature cosmopolitan style. If you could record the vibe downtown at sun-down and sun-up and make it into a record, you’d get Brave New World.

I first saw these dudes live like two years at the Kool Haus when they opened for Big Sean. Mannie aka Beck Motley says they tried to go the “real music” lane with a live band — including their grade 8 teacher — but the Big Sean groupies weren’t exactly feeling it.

Their new project, Brave New World, appeals to both worlds, with enough EDM-inspired sounds to capture the attention of JODY HiGHROLLER fans and sufficient soul and meaning to appeal to [ahem] grown-ups.

My friend Carmen digs it.

Woah, I just sneezed and the little snot drops on the LCD match Neil’s photo. Woah.

photo by me

My friends and I in Halifax created this website from scratch. It’s called Crux and tells the stories of underrepresented Haligonians, people who don’t typically get covered by mainstream media.

I wrote the political stories for the first issue. I took a Tibetan immigrant to the Nova Scotia Legislative Assembly and had him report for me.

At the time I didn’t believe there was meaning in anything, and when you write a story, no matter how objective you think you are, there’s always meaning projected. This was supposed to be a way around that.

I also shot a lot of the photos in this issue. I created the accordion video, The Man Behind the Keys, and edited together the Cab Wise and promo video features.

P.E.

OK, here are three new Exclaim! reviews.

The first one’s for NYC producer Harry Fraud’s collection of experimental trap bangers, Adrift. The tape features verses from Action Bronson, Styles P, Danny Brown, Wiz Khalifa, French Montana and Curren$y.

Next I reviewed Yelawolf’s latest mixtape, Trunk Muzik Returns, a conscious departure from his Shady Records debut, Radioactive. Yela’s no longer sharing liner notes with Fefe Dobson, but rapping about popping pills and, as usual, banging beats out of his low-rider.

Lastly there’s this The Airplane Boys review. I jammed to their latest mixtape, Brave New World, while riding the number one bus to Starbucks in downtown Halifax. Not exactly the kind of cosmo vibe Beck Motley and Bon Voyage were inspired by, but what the hell?

I be in the clouds anyway.

On my bookshelf I keep a small space heater. The Dean of Residence ordered it when the heat was on the fritz.

I haven’t shut it off since I found it on my doorstep. Warm air blows out at various intensities according to the settings I choose.

Last night I felt cold — my whole body shivered — so I switched it on high.

I didn’t have anything to do. I stripped down to my boxer shorts and moved closer to the heater — until it was inches from my belly.

I stayed like that for a couple of minutes, until I grew sick of the warmth. Then I backed away.

Immediately I felt cold again, colder than before.

Blame it on the shock.

Coming from the cold, the fan felt hot. Coming from the fan, the room felt cold.

So I texted Molly and we walked to Starbucks.

It was by far the toughest decision of the day.

Delhi-licious, Lipstick on a Pig, Ex-Montrealer, Martini, Chez Guy.

I scanned and rescanned the menu, frightfully aware of the girl with the nose ring hovering over our table. She had her outstretched hand shoved up in my face, as if to say, “Will you make a goddamn choice before I fork you in the nostrils with my dirty fingers.”

I looked across the table at Dave. “What do you think?”

He shrugged and buried his nose in his iPhone.

I turned to Colin in the chair next to me. He stared back, helpless.

“I’ll haaaave,” I began — but it was only a stall technique. I unfolded the menu, while Nose Ring withdrew her hand and let out a sigh.

It was Thursday evening in downtown Halifax — and the grand opening of The Works Burger Bistro on Doyle Street.

The Works serves semi-affordable and “trendy” burger platters to young professionals in happening communities across the country. There are locations in Burlington, Guelph, Kingston, London, Oakville, Ottawa, Toronto, Peterborough and Waterloo.

Specialties include Tower-O-Rings, fried onion rings looped and stacked around a 10-12 centimeter rod, homemade shakes served in trademark measuring glasses and a cliche-ridden, cardboard menu with more options than Aaron Sorkin will ever flip during his industrious writing career.

An hour before doors opened, I decided on the Halifax-exclusive Hunka Hunka Burnin’ Love beef burger. It came with peanut butter, banana slices and strip bacon.

When I told Dave and Colin, they scoffed.

“Yuck,” spat Colin, throwing his head about. It was as if bananas and peanut butter were a form of culinary lice and he wanted to shake them.

Dave was more subtle. “Indoctrination,” he muttered, as we moved up in line.

There had to be 200 plus Haligonians lined up along Doyle Street, all of whom were there for the alleged “free burgers.”

Soon a man in a down jacket stepped out from the line. He raised a bullhorn to his mouth.

“WELCOME EVERYBODY TO THE WORKS GRAND OPENING,” he began. A cheer erupted from the line. “IF YOU GUYS ARE HERE FOR FREE BURGERS, YOU’VE COME TO THE RIGHT PLACE. BECAUSE IT’S THE GRAND OPENING OF OUR HALIFAX LOCATION, WE’RE GIVING EVERYONE FREE BURGERS. AND BECAUSE TODAY IS EXTRA SPECIAL, WE’RE GIVING YOU THE OPTION OF FREE EIGHT OUNCE MILKSHAKES (kiddie size), ONE FREE APPETIZER PER TABLE AND ONE FREE SIDE WITH YOUR BURGER. WE’RE ALSO ALLOWING YOU TO UPGRADE YOUR SIDE TO A POUTINE, FREE OF CHARGE.”

“Indoctrination,” muttered Dave again, shielding his face from photos from a peanut gallery across the road.

The man with the bullhorn went on. “ALL WE ASK IS THAT YOU BEAR WITH US. WE TREAT THIS OPENING AS A TRAINING EXERCISE FOR OUR STAFF. THINGS CAN GET A LITTLE SLOW. THAT SAID, WE ALSO ASK THAT YOU STAY AND EAT WITH US TODAY. SIT BACK AND ENJOY A FREE MEAL WITH YOUR FRIENDS, ON US.”

The man shut off the bullhorn and stepped back.

The lecture done, people immediately began to cram forward. You could feel a riot brewing.

Luckily, it wasn’t five minutes before Dave, Colin and I were shepherded inside. We were seated in a side table and fed our Tower-O-Rings.

That’s when the waitress posed the question: which poutine would I like to upgrade to.

Which one? Hmm.

“I’ll just have the normal poutine,” I said, handing back the menu.

Dave waited for her to leave. “You’re in a hole,” he said.

He informed us his girlfriend had worked a grand opening before in London. According to her, they bring in too many employees and hire the few they like.

Hence our waitress’s impatience.

When the food came, I’d all but lost my appetite. The milkshake was fair. I scarfed down the 2001: Shake Odyssey flavour, a sort of Oreo, chocolate, caramel blend. But as far as burgers go, and burgers with peanut butter, this one was lacking.

Darrell’s Restaurant knows the key to a good PB Burger: spread the peanut butter on the bun like you’re spreading mustard on a sandwich. The Works heat their PB up and drizzle it overtop the burger like a sauce.

What I was particularly fond of were the straws. They had wider straws for the shakes, but not the wider red-striped ones. They brought those with our water, ironically.

I wrote this story for Exclaim!, but it wasn’t newsworthy enough for them to run.

Which is fair. I accept that.

Smash Brovaz shed old skin, tackle evolving rap game

Thanks to the internet, and Drake, Toronto’s becoming a serious player in the rap game.

A decade ago, Crooklin and Junia-T of Smash Brovaz would hop in Crook’s Volkswagen droptop, head east on the QEW from Mississauga and ride downtown to perform at bars like The Hooch.

But what with the reduction of hip-hop to one borough — online — that’s no longer the play.

“There’s a mentality with Toronto artists, they feel they have to prove something to the city. People are just looking for acceptance and it’s funny, because as soon as you get accepted somewhere else, and Toronto sees that, they do accept you,” says Crooklin.

With their new album, Think It’s A Game?, the Brovaz blend jazzy, loop-heavy, Golden era-influenced samples with the occasional skittering trap number in an attempt to appeal to that so-called “world audience.” There’s even a joint called “Chinese Swag” that combines oriental strings and murky bass to drive home their message.

That is: The Brovaz are here — online — to win, even if it means doing less open mics and spending 12 hour days in the studio.

In that sense, the Brovaz are working backwards.

“You look at the new generation, they’re using the internet first. They’re not actually exercising the skill set. A lot of people don’t realize that, it takes years and years and years of performance experience,” says Junia-T.

The Brovaz developed their emceeing skills by putting on a concert series called the Boondock Saints in the early to mid 2000s, which brought out names like Sean Price. Crooklin also references an infamous show around that time called Divine Style, featuring Mindbender, that the Brovaz took part in.

With their emcee training behind them, the Brovaz admit they need to commit themselves to playing the game — that is, the online scramble for recognition. That’s why they’re making music as universal as possible, while still staying true to their roots.

“That’s really the question. Do you think you can just come in, pick up a controller, and think you’re going to beat the game on the first life? Naw, man, it takes a couple resets,” says Crooklin.

Fortunately, because of Drake, the other major players — New York, Los Angeles and Atlanta — are starting to pay attention to the cats up north. There’s never been a better time for experienced emcees to post their music online and strive for global recognition.

What it comes down to is commitment. Who’s got the balls to tote their guns into the wild west that’s the internet and, as rapper Game would say, “wet the whole bleachers down?”

“It’s a gamble,” says Junia-T. “And if you’re gambling, you’re playing a game.”

Six months ago Roshin and I were riding through Toronto when he told me Notes had struck a deal with Decon Records.

I was impressed.

So I went home and wrote about it.

Today, StudioFeed published that story.

…

Old Spice’s Matterhorn is one of three new body washes in the Fresh Collection. It smells like the Arctic breeze and produces average suds, but fails to provide the “dirt and odor fighting protection you demand from a mountain.”

Walking along the soap aisle in Lawtons Drug Store, a row of cream-coloured plastic containers with red-tipped dispensers caught my eye. I bent down to take a look.

Fresh Collection, I read from the bottle. There were three kinds, Matterhorn, Denali and Fiji. I decided on Matterhorn because of the artistic label on the bottle.

The label depicts a landscape rendering of a giant, snow-capped mountain, evergreens descending onto a grande-looking chalet with turrets and a gondola traversing the snow-covered foothills of what must be Matterhorn. It’s aesthetically pleasing.

Stepping into the shower that night, I actually felt excited about trying it.

I had balanced my computer on an overturned aluminum trash can, with Joe Ely’s “Because of the Wind” flowing from its speakers. The water felt just right, not too hot, not too cool.

I stepped in and allowed the brisk water pellets to attack my freshly-shaven chin and face.

After doing my hair, I squeezed a swatch of the wash onto my palm. I applied it first to my belly, watching the runny gel drip down around my penis. The blue gel felt cool against my skin. I lathered in small circles around my belly, then cupped some of the suds in my palm and transferred them to my pits. I lathered vigorously this time. Moderate suds began to form. I returned to my belly and afterwards worked my legs, running out of suds somewhere around my lower thighs.

That’s all she wrote for that dose.

I washed everything off, swayed to the end of “Because of the Wind” for the third time and shut off the tap.

Drying off, I could detect the “brisk smells you demand from a body wash,” as the bottle advertises. But as far as “odor fighting protection goes,” I could smell my own funk the moment I returned to my room. I removed my shirt to make sure it wasn’t it.

No. I still stunk.

Matterhorn deceived me. What began as a foray into the exotic resulted in something just as, if not more exotic.

I smell like a cave-dwelling monk who hasn’t rinsed his robes since the Dalai Lama fled Tibet.