Hamster Rap
Elliott Vanskike
SportsJones Magazine
July 14, 2000

As the clever PriceLine.com ads featuring William Shatner crooning "Freebird" and "Bust a Move" remind us, bad things happen when celebrities sing. Shatner's return to the scene of his 1968 crime, "The Transformed Man," a record in which Shakespeare, Dylan, and the Beatles are all ... uh ... "transformed," is at least ironic.

In good postmodern fashion, Shatner has recycled his embarrassing foray into rock 'n' roll, transforming it with a knowing wink from a joke on him to just a joke. This time around, we're laughing with him, not at him.

Still, if you are brave enough to listen to Shatner's strangulated scream, "Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man!," you'll know he was dead earnest when he recorded it.

Which brings us to Kobe Bryant's new record, Visions, soon to be released by Columbia (if, indeed, it is to be released at all). I've only heard two advance tracks, but based on "K.O.B.E." and "Thug Poet" my advice to Kobe is this: drop what you're doing and immediately start planning the clever, postmodern ad campaign that will recuperate these songs years down the line.

Because right now, Kobe, we're laughing at you.

Even before hearing the track, I was wary -- the back cover said that Tyra Banks is featured on and helped write the first single (she also shows up in the video, natch).

Supermodels turn heads, it's true, but they also signal a fatal lack of musical creds. Really, what was left of Michael Jackson's career once Naomi Campbell appeared on his "Remember the Time" video? Remember "Freedom '90" by George Michael? Name one tune he's done since. Mick Jagger, Rod Stewart, Billy Joel, the list goes on.

If Tyra suggests fluff, the music itself is even less substantial, if that's possible. I'd swear that "K.O.B.E." is rapped over the rhythm track from Madonna's "La Isla Bonita" with cheesy Casio synths looped over the top. But perhaps the thin backing tracks were chosen to clear the way for Kobe's masterful MC-ing.

Would that it were so, but Kobe can't rap fish. In three verses of anemic rhymes, he lays out the superstar's lament: women are always throwing themselves at him and he worries that they're interested only in his money.

Wedged between his fretful silliness is the spelling lesson cum chorus which, if you hear it, will burrow into your brain and plant its hooks as it has into mine. It's not that "K.O.B.E." is catchy, because it's not. It's just that it will light up the same neurons that fire when you hear the Hamster Dance song, and it's about as well produced.

But I will give Kobe credit for this efficient dis: "Can't get witcha/Don't let the door hitcha/Where the Lord splitcha." If only I could dump "K.O.B.E." from my brain as easily as Kobe dumped his imaginary gold-digging hanger-on.

"K.O.B.E."
Kobe Bryant with Tyra Banks

SportsJones makes no claim that these lyrics are accurate or coherent.

[Tyra]
Kobe, how many girls have said, "I love you?"
Not like 'I love you Kobe!' like a fan
But like, for real, like, baby, marry me
I love you

[Kobe]
You're sweet
Once again (Once again)
Flawless (Flawless)
C'mon
Right
Uh, uh huh
Yo, yo, it's like this

Uh, what I live for? Basketball, beats and broads
From Italy to the US, yes, it's raw
I'ma search for the one that make my wealth feel poor
Who can ignore the spotlight life of Grandma
My falldown is how I found the aura, so I searched in
There's plenty of women with sex appeal when it's filled
Can even complete the package, all I date is actresses
Can play it safe with them, my money ain't bait
But I must take risks to find a honey that's legit
Whether she push a buck and a six, bumpin' some mad chips
Out on her own, or live out of moms and pop's home
Watch time, fashion, Adidas attire or Timbo's
I don't know, yo, these women come and go
Like the wind they blow, how do I know it's you for sure?
When God talk to me, give me a signal
But until then, all my ears hear, just let me flow
C'mon

[Tyra]
K-O-B-E, I L-O-V-E you
I believe you are very fine
If you give me one chance, I promise to love you
And be with you forever more

[Kobe]
Check this out though
Real love last, now do you love me or my cash?
My name, fame, drop top, Benz or the wooden dash?
You know my stash, from Georgie cash
Platinum, US express, no paper cash
Spend it all now, or kiss to be rich cash
Hash, stocks and bonds, laugh when they crash
Are you the type that brag the jewels you flash
The type-type with your ex-man and push his Jag
The type that love no scrubs or pigeons and got mad
The type that can't stand a women with her own cash
You know, like lime, claim she ain't rat
The type that get loud in public, refrain my hand from a slap
No time for y'all, too busy for y'all
Plenty of dimes turn me on and turn me off tryin' to show off
Get lost, grow up, real women, roll up
Let yourself go, if you feel this, let me know
C'mon

[Tyra]
K-O-B-E, I L-O-V-E you

[Kobe]
Bounce wit' me, bounce wit' me

[Tyra]
K-O-B-E, I L-O-V-E you

[Kobe]
Right, right, uh, uh, uh

Think ya eyein' me, all along, I'm eyein' you
The hunter becomes the hunted, girl, I'm preying on you
Beautiful, the feelings we share are mutual
Passion that's telling me so for us is suitable
Uncontrollable desire flows through me
When you say my name, such lust in your slang
No time for games, the games I play, all the same
Can't get witcha, Don't let the door hitcha, where the Lord splitcha
I figure, hour-glass figures could be dangerous
Cuz if your time runs out, they frame you for your clout
And having a past, well, I stereotype glass
All dimes ain't money, ass, and feignin' for a brother's cash
Slash fame, slash power, slash respect
All the above, makes me a supreme threat to scrubs
Love but do you want? One more 'gain, let me know
The words flow, from the bottom of your soul
C'mon

It's like that
Right
KB
TB
Flawless
Like that, spit it out

Crossover Move
Eric Neel
SportsJones Magazine
July 14, 2000

Ice Cube has a song on his Predator album called "It Was a Good Day." It's a bittersweet thing, caught between an ironic appreciation of the fact that no one got shot on his South Central block today and a genuine gratitude for the chance to go for a drive and hang out with his buddies.

At one point in the tune, Cube talks about playing ball with some friends at the park. "Get me on the court and I'm trouble," he says. "Last week, fucked around and got a triple-double." It's a funny reference, full of bravado and love for Magic, LA's habitual triple-doubler.

I've always wondered how to read the line: is Cube being straight with us, asking us to believe he's got mad game? Or is he working a playground angle, talking trash that's not meant to be taken too seriously?

I like it because I figure it's a bit of both, and I don't mind if he's only pretending to be an athlete because the rest of the tune makes it clear that the court is a sort of dream-world sanctuary from what's real. So yeah, a triple-double, I'll give him that.

I've been thinking about Ice Cube's hoop dreamin' lately because the Lakers' Kobe Bryant recently crossed over in the opposite direction with a two-track EP from an upcoming album called Visions. The first single, "K.O.B.E." is reviewed at left, the second, "Thug Poet," takes its lumps here and now.

"Thug Poet" sounds like a title straight out of Compton or maybe one that makes a nod to the blend of lyricism and laid-back gangsterism that was the signature of Tupac Shakur. But the tune itself is forced and stilted, leaving little doubt Bryant is fronting.

I hesitate to talk about what Kobe can't do. His grace and fearlessness on the court, the way he imagines what is possible and then makes it so, had me giggling and gawking throughout the playoffs this year.

But as amazing as he can be, Kobe is still prone to missteps. Though he's been in the league four years, he's only 21 and sometimes he plays like it. You can see it in Phil's face, a cringe or a chuckle that says there is still more to learn.

This is what makes Kobe's Adidas ads work. In one, a little round kid swears he can take the NBA superstar to the rack because he's got moves the elder has never seen. His bold predictions are spliced with shots of Bryant swatting his shots into dark corners of the gym and gliding his way to nasty dunks that leave the boy running for cover.

The spots are funny because they figure Kobe, himself a youngster, as the wily veteran, and because he is tough and unforgiving in a whimsical context. When the kid talks smack, we hear echoes of the superstar's precociousness and when Bryant shuts him down, we laugh with and are charmed by they way each of them is posturing. The ad trumpets Kobe's game, to be sure, but it does so with a touch of irony that seems to say, "yeah, I know what it's like to get out ahead of yourself." Like Ice Cube, he walks a line between playing around and keepin' it real.

Such a balance is precisely what's missing from "Thug Poet." The track is stripped down and earnest. A generous listener might hear in it the bare bones beats of Boogie Down Production's Ghetto Music. A less forgiving and more attuned ear will recall the opening bass line to the theme from Barney Miller.

I think Kobe is going for menace but I'm sorry to see him leave wit out in the cold. On the court, he creates space for himself, slides and glides. It's wildly inventive stuff, a way of defeating his opponents that seems to render them irrelevant rather than beaten. But here he insists on flexing muscle and sounding stone cold.

"My microphone is a glock 9," he says. "My confidence comes from watching y'all fall."

This stuff isn't intimidating and isn't credible. It isn't subtle or interesting. It's contrived and kind of funny, a silly shadow of hard core that leaves you wondering where exactly all the cowboy showdowns came in Bryant's travels.

Being hard is chic, I suppose, and I can see a kid who bounced around Europe, went to high school in the burbs, and now lives and works among the beautiful people wanting to come strong to prove he belongs.

But when Kobe opens with "Black? I'm dipped in that" it feels like an awkward reach for authenticity. And when he blusters through a chorus that includes, "If you hear me say murder, that means I'm a THUG POET/If I say my mind kills, that means I'm a THUG POET/If I say that I'm a glock, that means that I'm a THUG POET," I imagine him working poses and scowls in front of a mirror and I can't help but laugh.

In a recent interview in The Source Sports magazine, Kobe explained he's been cutting and rhyming forever. But as Prince once put it, forever is "a mighty long time" and "Thug Poet" makes it clear that Bryant's still got a ways to go. His not quite quick enough delivery leaves him sounding clumsy and he has a habit of filling gaps with "uh-huhs" and "oh yeahs" that conjures Tom Jones at Harrah's more than Dre and Snoop at The Palace.

Sometime, somewhere, some A & R guy figured Kobe for a personality who could move units, and Kobe figured himself for a mixmaster superhero. The result is a tune that tries real hard to sound real hard and comes up short.

On the playground, if you're too young or too small to be taken seriously, you have to hang around the edges of the courts, running down loose balls, playing in the early games before the regulars get there and in the late ones as folks head home. Eventually, if you can play, you'll work your way into the in crowd and no one will care about your age or your physique. You'll be legit.

As a ballplayer, Kobe Bryant is the real deal and he's undoubtedly worked days and nights on end to hone a craft that makes our heads spin. But "Thug Poet" is a short cut, pure and simple. He's not ready to play on this court.