Aesop Rock, Integrated Tech Solutions
Not sure there's ever been a rapper who's gotten so much better with age as Aesop Rock. Rather than a slight against his earlier work, which is itself iconic in underground hip-hop, Aesop's last four solo full-lengths are arguably the best of his career. Always a master of intricate wordplay, Aesop's storytelling is more streamlined now, with plenty of emotional wallops punctuating his best bars. This release sees Aes sending up corporate culture in the guise of a "Severance"-like technology company openly embracing the cult playbook. Algiers, Shook Algiers might be the most important band in America that no one's listening to. I don't understand how these guys aren't bigger. Previous releases were a riveting Southern gothic take on Black music, weaving soul, R&B, hip-hop, punk and more into an intoxicating stew of political and social commentary on race, religion and culture. Their latest leans heavily into rap, and the guests are aplenty: Billy Woods, Zach de la Rocha, Backxwash, Samuel T. Herring. Billy Woods and Kenny Segal, MAPS My favorite rap album of the year goes to Billy Woods for his tour travelogue, MAPS. Woods is arguably one of the best rappers alive, and this stripped-down, no-nonsense, no-filler take on the realities of a touring musician is as insightful as it is delightful. The production from Kenny Segal is as off-kilter and unexpected as Woods' lyrics. Def a can't-miss.
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It’s 7:41 in the morning as I write this, a crisp September dawn wet and hazy with fog. In the distance, I hear a chorus of yellowthroats, nuthatches and goldfinches punctuated every few beats by a woodpecker’s quest for breakfast. The heat of a small fire warms my feet and in my chest, the morning’s cowboy coffee lingers bitter and hot. Last night, my senses were similarly overwhelmed, this time by the buzz of crickets and the clarity of the Big Dipper in the blue-black night sky as I sat by the fire, absorbed. I imagined the Dipper pouring a shower of crickets onto the field of sunflowers, daisies, asters and allies — a dream boosted by the abrupt cuts and dives of a bat feasting at a buffet. Sentimental as I am in the mornings, I find myself reflecting on the joy this overnight bikepacking trip’s brought so far. Just like Vonnegut taught me: "Please notice when you’re happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.’” The 17-mile ride here was relatively brief and boring, mostly straight and flat, but I still pedaled through wooded, grassy trails, bumped along on gravel paths and blitzed past an admittedly slow-going parallel train. (As a certified party pacer, this tortoise race thrilled me.) Ninety minutes is not that long, but it was long enough to see sunbathing turtles, shallow pools of squiggling tadpoles and the whitest and stillest egrets standing tall on the banks of the Scioto. It was long enough to feel chilled by a cool summer breeze as I divebombed a shaded forest path — and long enough to swelter under the sun while slow-rolling past soybean fields that stretched on endlessly like an ocean of green. It was also long enough to nearly exhaust my water supply earlier than expected, so after setup I set off for a reup. The park ranger suggested a shelter with potable water was only a half mile away, but when a hill dawned on the horizon a quarter mile down the road, my legs turned to granite, refusing to press on; a fearful horse bucking at the thought of crossing a rushing river. With far greater miles in my rearview on previous trips, I was initially confused. Now I suspect the sight of the Oak Grove Tavern not quite halfway up the hill presented itself to my subconscious like a tropical oasis at noon in Death Valley. Inside the biker bar, the lights and AC were out, but a half dozen box fans and the night’s steak and taters special had the place bustling nonetheless. I didn’t linger long inside since my appearance at the bar — hipster dude in cycling cap, Chacos and socks, short shorts and a loudly bright fanny pack — had the visual presentation of a record scratch at a loud party. When I corrected the bartender that I wanted not one but four bottles of water, I once again felt the heat of eyes on my back and decided, to hell with it, I’ll have a bottle of Modelo, too. And so, with a beer in hand, I walked my bright blue gravel bike past a row of black Harleys to a beer garden-type spot, situated next to a cemetery that looked a century untouched, and found an empty picnic table overlooking Alkire Road. The first beer went down smooth. I ordered another and sat and watched traffic like the other old timers there. All I was missing was a pack of Kamel Reds. Two guys at the next table over discussed a car deal for someone’s daughter. Behind me a couple on a date and a table of a dozen or so, laughing and eating and drinking the late-summer evening away. Across the road, a lawnmower whirred and I caught the faint whiff of fresh-cut grass. The moment felt so pure I sucked it down like a summer shake, thick and cold, but too fast — the effect like a brain freeze, with a happiness so sweet it burned. It wasn't long before I coasted down the hill back to camp, a newfound lightness buoying me. It was probably the alcohol but I suspect this morning, as I brush off a degree of reluctance to return to normalcy, that a deeper magic has been at play. I remember the day before, when the train I had been racing crossed my path and paused, causing me to wait and retreat to a bit of shade. I struck up a conversation there with another cyclist, a man about my dad’s age, with cropped grey hair and a neat beard. A gleam of recognition sparkled in his eyes when he saw my bike loaded with bags, and the pride on his face was palpable when he told me of his just-completed biketour to DC and back.
Before I could think of a reply, the train gate arm had lifted, the red light warnings had stopped blinking and the old man was off in a blur — a vision of my future self spry and happy and chasing down adventures. And suddenly, I'm inclined to linger a moment longer, a sacred pause for a deep, dream-capturing breath — to toast the hangovers that don't hurt, the brief moments of joy wherever they are, and the small things that are totally big after all, even in bursts. I'm generally a believer of brands being channel agnostic in their messaging. You should, in theory, show up the same way everywhere.
But while your voice should stay the same, your tone can — and probably should — change, depending on audience and/or setting. The theoretical example I often give in brand training is to think of the brand like a person. Fundamentally, the personality (i.e., voice) isn't going to change from person to person, place to place. But the tone might. For example, you might talk to your grandma differently than your friends. And then again, you might talk to your grandma differently at church than at a bar. (Or, if your grandma's anything like mine, maybe not. Mine owned a country-western bar in rural southeastern Ohio called the Wrangler. 🤠) My favorite real-life example comes from my time at Pedialyte. It was 2016, and Pedialyte was in the early stages of transitioning from a "hydration solution" for infants to one for anyone (but mostly hungover adults). (The story behind this transition is interesting, too, but probably for another day.) Except, talking about Pedialyte in this way on Facebook did not go over well with moms. Like, at all. Especially those moms who lived in college towns and often found bare shelves at their campus-adjacent grocery store because college kids were buying the stuff in bulk. Yikes. So. We pivoted our #notjustforbabies messaging to other channels where the audience would be more receptive to that side of the brand. And the rest is, I guess, history. I chuckled to myself recently, though, as I perusing a subreddit and saw multiple suggestions of Pedialyte as a way to avoid hangovers with children. Looks like it's still working. 😎 I'm not much of a church guy these days but some of the best leadership lessons of my life came from my youth group days and our youth pastor's embodiment of two scriptural ideas:
If someone wanted a leadership position in the youth group, they had to start by serving. With setting up and tearing down for worship. With lining fold-up metal chairs in perfectly straight rows. With welcoming visitors at the door. These days, this message of simplicity and servitude and lastness seems to find me regularly. Perhaps that's why I've become a bit hyper-fixated in recent years with St. Therese of Lisieux, also known as The Little Flower. Regarded as "the greatest saint of modern times" by Pope Pius X, Therese's small and simple approach to religion was also called "the little way." Her approach was the basically final act of "Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade," where the true Holy Grail is the dingiest, dustiest, most-beat-up chalice in the place, writ large: I will seek out a means of getting to Heaven by a little way – very short and very straight little way that is wholly new. We live in an age of inventions; nowadays the rich need not trouble to climb the stairs, they have lifts instead. Well, I mean to try and find a lift by which I may be raised unto God, for I am too tiny to climb the steep stairway of perfection. […] Thine Arms, then, O Jesus, are the lift which must raise me up even unto Heaven. To get there I need not grow. On the contrary, I must remain little, I must become still less. The "small way" comes up in other ways, too. A year or two ago I read a few books on micro-habits and have seen the power of the small way infiltrate work spheres. Others have caught on, too. Recently I stumbled upon Tom Critchlow's "small b blogging" 2018 post, and I've long loved Austin Kleon's newsletter and blog for its similarly "small" approach. Here's Austin with a post titled, "Something Small, Every Day." And then of course, there's my other recent hyper-fixation, Brian Eno, and his "Lowest Common Denominator Check" for creative projects (which I also adore):
In what ways have you embraced smallness to your own benefit? Let's keep this web growing. The best writing happens in gestation — in the pre-work, before a sentence is birthed. This is also the secret to beating writer's block, incidentally.
Only set pen to paper when you can't keep the words inside, when they're occupying your thoughts and tumbling out of your mouth and just generally being a nuisance. It's like I tell my youngest: If the Nintendo Switch game card won't fit easily into the slot on the Switch where it goes, you're doing it wrong. Resistance is your sign to try again. But in a different way. Here's a dirty lil' secret most editors will never cop to:
If your copy is stuck in writing purgatory — that liminal, seemingly endless cycle of revisions where writers' souls go to die — it is most likely is not your fault but the editor's. Problems in writing can almost always be traced back, tributary-like, to a main source — often, that's an editor. When a piece of content I've assigned enters this hellscape, that's usually my sign to apologize for leading us there. I don't, however, recommend telling your editor any of this. We're a sensitive bunch, too. But just know it's not your fault, dear writers. Writers are often told one of the best ways to get better at their craft is to read. Read broadly, the advice goes, the good and the bad, but stick mainly with fiction and the types of work you're looking to produce.
I hardly ever see anyone recommend reading poetry. Reading poetry is for everyone, but writers of all types should absolutely be at the forefront here. Poetry makes you a better writer because it allows you to experience language in a different way, exposing you to unique forms, structures and language that can inspire and expand your own writing. It can also help you develop your own voice and style by exposing you to different techniques and approaches to language. Poetry also requires close reading and analysis, which can improve your critical thinking skills and attention to detail. By examining the choices that poets make in their writing — particularly around economy — you can gain a deeper understanding of how language works and how to craft your own writing more effectively. For me at least, poetry also fast-tracked my love of language and was the first type of writing to knock my socks off with thunder and power. Perhaps most importantly, reading poetry simply makes you a better human. Science even agrees. And in my experience at least, at the center of all the best writing is — like a good old fashioned Tootsie pop — a delicious glob of goodness. Without empathy and curiosity, without our humanity, our writing will always be cold and affectless. So, if you're already in this train, who are some of your favorite poets? Lately, I've been making my way through a few Forrest Gander collections. So much writing advice these days offers meaningless shortcuts. You want to become a better writer? Do the work. Write and read as often as possible. Show up daily and suck and keep going.
Now, don't get me wrong: There are a million tips, tricks and frameworks that can improve your writing, and education is surely a huge part of becoming a better writer. But as my grandpa also always reminded me, "It won't get done till ya do it." The secret really is in the work. Take it from me, someone with thousands of bylines to their name. I promise you, the best way to better writing is through shitty writing. Quantity begets quality, and doing the work is the only way there. Promises of easy success through templates, 3-step processes or shortcuts should be viewed as sus, and those pushing them as charlatans. Most of us, after all, aren't imbued with Allen ("wE tALkIng BouT PRacTiCE??") Iverson levels of talent and should, as such, embrace the process. Rainer Maria, self-titled, 2018, Polyvinyl RecordsRainer Maria, self-titled, 2018, Polyvinyl Records
this 2009 novel (released in the u.s. in 2019) is one of my favorite books i've read this year. written by olga torkarczuk, winner of the 2018 nobel prize, 'drive your plow' is ostensibly a whodunit murder mystery set in a remote polish village. the protagonist is an astrologer who spends her time translating blake, which is about all i needed to know, personally, to dive in. and dive in, i did, thanks to poignance (often hilarious!) hidden within a sheath of mundanity, like the following quote passages suggest.
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Justin R. McIntosh
(@justinrmcintosh) is a writer and editor blogging about writing and editing (sometimes also literature, comics, hip-hop and religion) SUBSCRIBE |