Fuck Silver Lake


3 minutes 46 seconds. (3.45 megabytes)


Features samples of:
Lenny Bruce – Don’s Big Dago
James Brown – The Boss
Average White Band – Pick Up the Pieces


[INTRO – Lenny Bruce]
Culture changes wherever you go…
Los Angeles…
And very innocently too.
You’ll see big signs.
And think nothing of that kind of a sign.
Now I picture a poor guy who was raised in Los Angeles;
“Ya bastard!” >POP!<


Verse 1 (a la Eminem pastiche)
Fuck Silver Lake,
There’s disease in your wake.
Please give but don’t take
And honor the sake of the residents.
‘Cause that’s why the increase in dissidents like me
Who eschew every muthafuckin’ thing about you.


In your retro-nasty clothes and expensive cars,
Just because you drive an SUV don’t make you no movie star.
You’re just a low-life muthafucka scoundrel with good credit,
Certainly don’t earn no respect and you never get it.
And work is for the working class?
A kick in your ass, you think you suffer?
Shit, I fucking wish *I* had it that good, motherfucker.


And while you ponder the ramifications of your deeds,
I contradict the perceived benefits of your poetry readings.
Fuck bohemians,
Your big-ass cars, and your blow-up dolls.
Your casting calls, and your shopping malls.
Your Lisa Loeb glasses, Taebo classes,
Your quaint boutiques.
Your lifestyle reeks of overprivileged trust-fund bullshits
And silicone tits.
Now if the shoe fits — wear it.
You ain’t got no spirit and you know I don’t wanna hear it.


Verse 2 (Resume Eminem pastiche.)
You trickle into Echo Park and you drive up the prices.
Raising the base cost of the myriad of vices.
Niggers aren’t welcome, ’cause the honkies have made investments;
Jacking up the rentals of even the sleaziest of apartments.
And while I try to find a place to stay,
I’m wasting away,
‘Cause someone said that being poor is fashionable today.


Went to the thrift store to get myself some slacks
They were out because some Push King fans had cleaned out all the racks.


“Let’s go have some coffee —
Will it be Starbucks, Starbucks, Starbucks, or Tsunami?
I think I’ll have a crumpet,
Or barring that, a scone.
Look, I’m really into you,
But I have to take a call on my cell-phone.


Wanna get some sushi?
I’d like to just relax.
We can make out in the back seat of one of my three El Dorado Cadillacs.
No, not *THAT* one, the one with the MOOSE-skin interior.
The cow-skin and the sheep-skin are,
Well… Quite inferior.”


Verse 3 (You act like you’ve never seen a bitter person before.)
I can see the scenario so clearly in my mind,
Some hippie said,
“We don’t have Greenwich Village out here
And that’s what we need — something more refined!”


The hippie-types started moving in and improved upon the scene
As they had done in many cities time and time again.


Well the hippies got older, and as they aged their minimalistic needs grew —
Eventually abandoning their ideals to party with jerkoffs like you.
Trying to break into the biz and play the Hollywood game,
No sense moving out of their cozy wood-sided A-frame.


Up went the satellite dish,
And in came the Escalade
And >BOOM< went the class of the culture They eventually betrayed.


Incense turned to scented candles,
Wingtips replaced their sandals,
Their lanky frames developed sexy Jack-in-the-Box love-handles


Holden Caulfield was correct,
When he called you straight-up phonies.
Don’t give a damn about the working-man,
Only your lingams and your yonis.
Sippin’ on your single-malt and ice —
Need proof?
I hear your nigga Zack DeLaRocha lives in a Martha Stewart paradise.


Verse 4 (Wind down this Eminem gag already.)
She must be down-to-earth ’cause she recognizes DK,
But now she’s DKNY and claims allegiance to Green Day.


P’shaw girl,
You’re not as cool as you would lead me to believe,
Because I seen you doin’ rails of tweak
And wiping snot on your sleeve.


And your boyfriend,
The one who was always hounding you for sex,
His greatest contribution to your personality
Was introducing you to NOFX.


Well, Silverlakers,
I guess with all that free time on your hands
You’re good at shopping,
And decorating,
And jocking crappy bands.
And lounging,
And parking in those disabled person zones,
And running the only remnants of Angeleno culture out their homes.


Way to fucking go!


A pat on your back.
A pipe full of crack.
Your chin on my sack,
Now please go the fuck back.


I said it before,
And it ain’t no mistake.
From the bottom of my heart,









In approximately 1996 I moved into a hovel in a small Los Angeles enclave called Echo Park. A human rights activist friend of mine from high school invited me into the structure, my first home apart from my parents. At the time, a lot of things were right about Echo Park: I was paying slightly less than half of $450/month rent and the neighborhood was chock full of salt-of-the-earth Latin types. Yes, there were some drawbacks. A new friend of mine, a former computer felon, peered into my bedroom and commented, “This room is about as big as my cell.” He was right. It was ridiculously small and overstocked with unnecessary memorabilia from my youth. But otherwise, living in the barrio was cool. Sure, every third time I’d go shopping at Pioneer Market on Sunset, there’d be a shopping cart carelessly abandoned behind my motorcycle. I fuckin’ hated that! But that was the charm of the neighborhood, I suppose — Old-sk00l apathy plus low prices, great dollar stores and cheap booze!


Over time, the booze got more expensive, and so did the rent. And I was quickly becoming infuriated at all the shopping carts that were being left behind my motorcycles. Mi hermano moved out of the hovel, and a few years later, I had to move out of my cozy cul-de-sac shithole after the newest property owner attempted to raise my rent by more than 40%. But before that went on, the shift in the neighborhood was becoming more obvious. Instead of having to ride my bike past a platoon of gangsters fifty deep, I now had wear hip-boots to wade through a sea of douchebag hipsters who had begun to pollute the streets, in their tight courderoy pants and “unique” eyeglass frames. But were they really doing anything interesting or refreshing, or was it all derivative of ancient style, ancient clothing, and ancient eye-wear? One day it occured to me how ludicrous it was that I was more uncomfortable passing through a gauntlet of inconsiderate hipster jackoffs than I was about passing through a flank of violent gang members. At least the homeboys would nod their heads at me in recognition. Very peculiar.


Also at the time I was writing. I wasn’t writing anything that you were reading, but I was writing. I was logging everything. And I eventually logged a song called “Fuck Silver Lake”, which was meant to thumb my nose at the gentrification, and at the types of people who were doing all that gentrifying. Also, I thought it important to mimic Eminem, because 1) his voice sounds funny to me, and 2) my “normal rapping voice” is atrocious.


Now, I’ve never had any ambition to be a rapper, so you won’t find me selling demo CDs in the parking lot. What’s important is that I can write a little, and sometimes that skill, plus some rudimentary audio editing skills make for good, rhythmic spoken word pieces, which by now you’ve already heard. Hope you enjoyed it.



[c] 2001 and 2010 Russ of America


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