Whenever I find myself in a particularly dreary environment – whether it’s some excruciating work-related function for my wife’s job or a social gathering where I do nothing but exchange pleasantries with complete strangers – my first impulse is to locate an individual who might have a few intelligent thoughts about music, then adhere to them to ease the passing of the evening.  For some men it’s professional sports, for others it’s grills or power tools, but me – and I realize that this may come as a shock to some of you – I can spend literally hours upon hours discussing music.  I once spent six hours at an exceptionally lame party discussing the merits of Roni Size’s New Forms (1997) with an equally enthusiastic gentleman, eventually sinking to a competition of recreating breakbeat patterns with our mouths after a few too many drinks.  I stayed up until 8:00 AM after a barbeque with a few co-workers digressing upon how brilliant Common’s pre-Like Water for Chocolate (2000) lyricism used to be.  I’ve participated in marathon debates on everything from Debussy to death metal without the slightest inkling of someone’s first name hours into the conversation.  My poor wife has nothing but chagrin as she scouts the premises frantically to introduce me to someone, all the while I’m picking some random dude’s brain about Eastern European folk music.

Yet occasionally there will be times when, just as a discussion has eased into a comfortable rhythm with a healthy exchange of opinions, someone will suddenly spout something so absurd, so ignorant, so vehemently against everything I believe in that every statement thereafter becomes completely devoid of interest or reason.  My brain immediately shuts down and I find myself looking for an escape route, politely at first, then growing desperate by the minute until I’m sweating uncontrollably and I can’t possibly fathom hearing another word this person says.  Far be it for me to shit on someone because of one measly opinion that means very little in the grand scheme of things, but when someone spouts the film-buff equivalent of, “Godfather III (1990) was the best of the trilogy,” what are you gonna do, pleasantly nod your head and continue to sip your drink?  The following are four actual music conversation gaffs that I’ve experienced over the years that have only resulted in heartbreak at the promise of something more than a shallow dialogue of likes-versus-dislikes.

“I still think The Predator is the best work Ice Cube’s ever done.”

Someone actually said this, without a trace of humor or irony.  I was at a wedding reception a few years ago and found myself in the familiar “hip hop ain’t what it used to be” exchange with another reveler.  I was becoming more and more impressed with dude’s recollections of when Poor Righteous Teachers’ Holy Intellect (1990) dropped and how floored he was by the production on Son of Bazerk’s Bazerk Bazerk Bazerk (1991) when suddenly this steaming pile of insight dropped from his jaws.  I began to feel dizzy as I pondered the Jedi-like mental stamina it would take for me to wrap my head around a statement this asinine.  Sure, I mean, in hindsight The Predator (1992) holds up pretty well, but, come on – ever hear of a little record titled AmeriKKKa’s Most Wanted (1990)?  To say nothing of one of the ten (arguably) most important statements in the entire canon, the peerless Death Certificate (1991)?  Any hope of a teasing “Ha! Gotcha!” became fleeting as he began decrying The Bomb Squad’s “dated production” on Cube’s debut and blaspheming about Sir Jinx’s “messy funk samples” on his shining hour.  Plus, and I didn’t realize this until later, but “ever done” carries the implication that Cube is still producing music of any sort of relevancy; wouldn’t “ever did” be more appropriate?  I bowed out of the conversation respectfully and returned to my assigned table to pick at the leftover dessert plates as I waited for the evening to end.

“Wicked” – Ice Cube 3:55 (The Predator, Priority 1992)

“J Dilla was so overrated.” b/w “All white people love J Dilla.”

I’ve stated before that I prefer Dilla’s earlier work over his post-millennium output (give or take a year), but that’s mostly because of the countless number of lesser producers who’ve bitten his signature off-syncopated shuffle and beat patterns in their drum tracks.  I can’t add anything to Dilla’s legacy that hasn’t been better articulated elsewhere, and I don’t want to get into the odd and obsessive file-sharing exhumation of his work since his passing.  But to dismiss him as “overrated” and nothing more is plain ignorant.  And (in this case) how can you claim Premier as your favorite producer ever without giving a shred of acknowledgement to Dilla?  And what the hell does “all white people love Dilla” mean?  These two back-to-back gaffs essentially halted what had up until then been an exhaustive discussion of the hip hop producer lexicon between myself and a friend, and neither of us has spoken of it since; it’s not exactly half-in-the-bag material that begins with, “Dude!  Remember that time when you said…”  Since then our hip hop-related conversations have been as dull as Q-Tip’s post-Tribe career.  A shame, really.  Speaking of Tribe…

“Climax (Instrumental)” – Slum Village 3:32 (Fantastic, Vol. 2, Goodvibe 2000)

“See, this is why Eminem is the greatest rapper of all time.”

It was a late afternoon in May as a group of my friends and I congregated around a picnic table, a few of us keeping eyes on the grill, sipping beers and enjoying the first warm breeze in eight months.  I was engaged in a lively track-by-track discussion of Midnight Marauders (1993) with a guy I didn’t know that well, as he was the new boyfriend of a friend of mine.  So far he had a thumbs-up approval from me, praising the snare hits and six-bar loops of the record, and dropping verse excerpts (both Tip and Phife’s) when necessary.  I must have slipped into a brief reverie for a moment, because the next thing I heard was something along the lines of Eminem and the word “greatest” without the slightest inkling of a segue.  I stared at him like he was a blathering, incomprehensible idiot as the guy gushed over Marshall Mathers like a proud parent whose kid just made the honor roll (this was 2003, if I recall correctly).  Look, I’m not trying to hate on some washed-up, near-forgotten white rapper who made the most out of his fifteen minutes, and I certainly won’t knock anyone who keeps a few of his discs on their shelf.  But the G.O.A.T., for Christ’s sake?  Besides, weren’t we just talking about Midnight Marauders here?  I stood up, said something along the lines of, “I can’t participate in this conversation anymore,” and broke the hell out like chickenpox.  A month later she dumped his ass.  Everything in its right place, as the saying goes.

“Doe or Die is better than Illmatic.”

I love it when folks get a hankering to take Illmatic (1994) down a peg or two on the totem pole of Hip Hop Classics (I see you Brandon and Robbie) – not because I necessarily think it’s a weak or overrated album, but because Illmatic’s ego could always use a little deflation now and then.  Back in college I was having a chat with a fellow classmate before class when he dropped the above gem on me, and the reason the conversation ended wasn’t attributed to me throwing my arms up in defeat, but rather that I had to actually pause and think about his declaration.  AZ’s Doe or Die (1995) is the wild card of mid-‘90s NYC crime rap, a record I’ve always strongly defended and championed whenever the opportunity presented itself. While I was stunned in intense consideration, he shot me a smug look of satisfaction like, “Made you think, huh?”  By the time I could retort, class had already started, so I whispered back to him, “Doe or Die falls apart toward the end.”  Without a moment’s hesitation he responded, “So does Illmatic.”  Damn! Ultimately, my opinion of Illmatic hasn’t swayed, but I’ll graciously anoint props to anyone who genuinely believes that it stands in Doe or Die’s superior shadow.

“Ho Happy Jackie” – AZ 3:34 (Doe or Die, EMI 1995)