Goodie Mob
Soul Food

THE REVIEW

What the fuck do you niggaz know about the dirty South?

I know something, to be honest. Mama said that those who mind their own business live to be a hundred, but the fear of reaching such a milestone pushed me to mind those of others. And in fact, as far as I know, I'm close to death. Or maybe not. Or maybe I am, huh. But maybe not. But maybe, maybe yes. Come on, I don’t think so. But I think yes. Meh, maybe not. But yes.

So once upon a time, there was the deep south. Everyone would say "how beautiful the women of the south are, they have that warm pussy." Have you ever tried the daddy’s girls from Brianza? NO I MEAN, DO YOU KNOW HOW FUCKING NICE IT IS TO FUCK A BRIANZA GIRL WITH HER NOSE IN THE AIR? EH ASSHOLE? DO YOU KNOW OR NOT?

And then I've always hated those Brianza bumps: half artists, half fags. No, come on, I don’t know what I’m saying. I never knew. Like when you’re in bed with one and you’ve just finished the impure act, what the fuck do you say to her? "Great job sis, give me five", "Oh my God what an incredible performance. You were like oh no stop and I was bam no fucker you’d get it all you wicked bitch take that take that take that" or "I liked you, just like your mom". That’s why people smoke a cigarette after sex: it avoids any form of dialogue.

The deep South: a beautiful area, an area of angry African American friends with everyone, close to death, close to fucking everything, even their own life. Maybe some try to save themselves, others just die. But the rule is always the same: you, from the dirty South, don’t really know a damn thing.

Like the Deep Web: in the end, you're a nerdy ugly teenager affected by some strange Oedipus complex and you even go on the dark side of the internet. You think it’s cool to go see certain things, then you find the forbidden video of your mom fucking your dog who licks your face as soon as you enter the house; with the same tongue with which he licks your mom’s pussy. And you jerk off, because you’re affected by some strange Oedipus complex. HELL NO, FUCKING HELL, THIS IS ALL GOING WRONG.

The deep South is not an area where you can go for a walk just like that: do you care about your life? Stay at home and listen to Articolo 31, damn high school kid whose only concern is to get a good grade in the history oral exam. You and your ideals: I FREAKING PEE ON YOUR IDEALS, DAMN!!! Then I was also a high school kid whose only concern was to get a good grade in the oral exam: good times. Before life came to ask me the bill. Damn bitch, I didn’t even fuck you and you ask me the bill. But it’s logical, she tried with me, but I turned her down: angry, she decided to become impossible. Poor dear, don’t you know that Little Horn doesn’t go screwing little girls? Little Horn screws the posh Brianza daughters from 18 years up, take the word of a Boy Scout. Got it, Life?

Goodie Mob, straight from the dirty and deep South. Bearers of music from the soul, spokespersons of an unbearable suffering, chroniclers of an impossible match, that of life. Monstrous rappers, supported by wonderful productions, mostly dark, heavy, entrusted to the Organized Noize. A journey into minimalism, in the obsessive repetition of magically adapted sound samples and in the mind of a group of Mc forced to live hell, day after day. The music of the Dirty South, stupid idiots. A scream that could have easily overshadowed even New York of that time, of 1995.

4 Mc who devastate the microphone, spitting rhymes with the precision of a metronome and flaunting an absolutely enviable flow; above all stands Cee Lo Green, who here and there even devotes himself to singing. An authentic genius with absolute verve, a compelling and charismatic rapper.

Little Horn 2.0: authentic salvation of the site, an authentic natural disaster. An idol above idols, a fool above fools. One who has been eaten and immediately spit out by this dog world; a bit like what happened to the Goodie. They found the strength to go on, I a little less. And I'm tired, of hearing the devil talking to me, of death becoming more and more fascinating and of Belen's ass, absolutely unattainable. DAT ASS!!!!

But I don’t give up: Jay Z in 95 slept in his car worse than a bum; 19 years later, he fucks Beyoncé while counting billions. And if he could do it too, damn.....