Rating:
  Release Date: October 4, 2005
  Website: Atmosphere Website
  Label: Rhymesayers

Atmosphere “You Can’t Imagine …” Album Review
Slug got me laid this weekend (Slug is the MC in the group Atmosphere, pictured on your top right … no, your other right). Or perhaps I should say, Slug helped get me laid this weekend. I know this may not be the most intelligent backdrop within which to review an album, but it’s true. An important aspect of Hip Hop Linguistics is the acknowledgement of how hip-hop plays a part in my everyday life, which it definitely did this weekend.

Hip-Hop, Sex and Everyday Life
I’ve always felt that hip-hop music, despite the masculinity inherent in its roots and a small yet overly publicized pop cultural existence, is a sexy art form. If I’m really trying to impress a girl, especially one that is not really into hip-hop, I’ll take her to a show. I’ve found that doing so tends to impress many women. First, an underground hip-hop show can easily blow someone’s mind whose expectations of hip-hop revolve around what you see on TV or hear on the radio. It’s like introducing them to something new and amazing.

Second, a good hip-hop show is fun. It involves dancing, crowd participation and positive social interaction, all which make for a good dating environment. And third, I am very passionate about hip-hop. When I get a girl to talk hip-hop with me or go to a show, she tends to see that passion first hand, which somehow helps me come across as a guy who can show that same type of passion to her on a personal level. Not trying to sound like a punk, but that tends to work out pretty well for me. If I’ve ever taken you to a hip-hop show, it not only means that I like you, but also that I’m trying to impress you or get you to stay the night with me.

“In There”
My understanding of the relationship between hip-hop and sex began about six years ago, when Lauryn Hill managed to get me laid. Again, I know that sounds weird, but it’s true. I was in college and it was right around the time Lauryn dropped the Miseducation album. I happened to be at a campus watering hole in Columbus, Ohio one weekend (O State, baby), and somehow found myself hollering what little, virtually nonexistent game I have to a cutie at the bar. After a couple drinks and some interesting chatter, the conversation, as it often tends to do with me, turned to hip-hop. The girl turned out to be a fan, and started talking about a Lauryn Hill song she liked that “talked about what music is supposed to be.” She started to make an attempt to explain the content of the song before I jumped in: “Yeah, girl, track six.” I recited a couple lyrics to let her know that I was with her. The girl stopped talking, looked up at me with what appeared to be a sense of wonder or intrigue in her eyes, and flashed me one of the greatest smiles I have ever seen. At that exact point, I think we both knew that I was what a hip-hop linguist might refer to as “in there.” “Another round of tequilas, please.”

Slug’s Turn
This weekend, Atmosphere presented me with a similar opportunity. I happened to be in Tampa on business last week. Shortly after my arrival, I found that Atmosphere was going to be playing in Orlando on Saturday night. The hour and a half drive and $13 charge were well worth the chance to see one of my favorite groups, so I picked up a couple tickets and decided to make the trip to Orlando. Slug has become one of my top ten lyricists ever in just a couple albums … he is from Minnesota, and I feel that a lot of midwestern hip-hop relates directly to my life. Luckily, a young lady who I’ve been trying to impress recently was also in town and down for the show.

The concert was set up like a true hip-hop show, and did a great job reinforcing my extracurricular interests with what I thought was a romantic setting. It was right in the center of downtown Orlando in a small closed-off parking lot. There was just a stage set up at one end, a couple booths selling merch and shirts and stuff (got myself a pretty tight hoodie), and a bar. It seemed more like a backyard party or something; the only beer they had was a big troth of Pabst cans, and just a bunch of miscellaneous liquors, with which the bartenders were being very generous.

The opening acts of P.O.S and Blueprint, both up-and-coming acts from the Rhymesayers label, did a great job getting the crowd ready for Slug and Ant. P.O.S spit some hot political lyrics, spending the majority of his time clowning on Bush and our current administration. Blueprint also came across dope lyrically, but he did so on more of a humorous level, doing a set of comic songs that seemed to lift the mood of seriousness caused by P.O.S’ controversial political views. I managed to take down a couple of those well-poured rum and cokes and had a Pabst in my hand in time for Atmosphere to come to the stage.

With the good beverages and hip-hop backdrop, my lady friend also seemed to be enjoying herself. She was impressed with the rappers’ abilities to articulate their rhymes so well during a live performance, and was intrigued by the social and political topics being raised with the lyrics. “This ain’t what they show on TV, huh?” It gave me many opportunities to create intelligent conversation revolving around hip-hop culture and its many positive and almost spiritual attributes. Things were definitely going well.

Then Atmosphere came on. But to my surprise, not Ant just yet (Atmosphere is composed of two members, Slug - the rapper, and Ant - the music producer). Slug ended up playing half the show with a live band and half with his DJ. I like when rappers play with live bands. I felt it did wonders for the music, especially my interpretation of many tracks on the new album. In any case, not even half way through the first song, the sky opened up and it just started pouring rain. Soon, everyone was soaked and my lovely companion had stolen my hat, but Atmosphere had grabbed the audience in a manner that seemed to make us forget about the weather.

Slug did a couple new tracks, then a couple old tracks, the most being crowd favorites that were of course touching on topics of women, relationships and sex (I’ve found that many women, especially those that only listen to radio hip-hop, tend to enjoy dirtier or sexier rap songs. That’s why many are always singing Lil’ John word for word at the club). Then he decided to give props to Murs and pull out some Felt 2 material (Felt 2 is the second compilation between Slug and Murs of the Living Legends crew, basically an album about women). As if he was thinking the same thing as me, Slug proceeded to perform his verse from “Woman Tonight.” I realized the verse was coming, and managed to tap my very tastefully soaked partner to tell her to listen to what Slug was getting ready to say. “Check out one of my favorite verses coming up.”

A guy on strings in the live band sang a couple verses of the chorus … “Be my woman tonight/ Just ain’t feeling right” … before Slug came out with his verse:

Hey lady, I don’t mean to be so forward
But I got no other choice; soon I’ll be across the boarder
Tour mode, I’m leaving in the AM
But I want to spend this evening breathing in your fragrance
Too long since I’ve seen my better half
Sometimes you gotta let go, close your eyes and let it crash
Roped life is the only one I have to give
Lonely isn’t a strong enough adjective
To describe all the nights that I’ve tried to grip tight
I lack the necessary tools to help me get right
So take your place as the temporary savior
While I’m looking at your face like I’ll be tested on it later
I bet you like to f**k, but you love to argue
Poke a hole into my chest and pull my heart through
Up to my room for cigarettes and cartoons
Or we could sit right here and try to guard these barstools
I’ll take you anyway that I can have you
Bring along your ethics and your issues and your taboos
It’s not the standard free bird situation
But you’re talking to these pieces of this man who’s trying to make it
Through the puzzles, travels, struggles, battles
The body pillow pimp trying to snuggle with my shadow
We can stay proper; keep the clothes on, no pressure
Just hold me and pretend like you’ve known me forever

I don’t know whether it was the verse’s relation to our situation (my flight was “leaving in the AM”), or the aura of the pouring rain and great hip-hop environment, or even the extra rum the bartenders had been squeezing off into our drinks. But I glanced over to see one of the sexiest images I have ever seen (Yeah she looked that good/ Talking in my top ten, man I put that on the hood” - Murs, Felt 2): A cutie soaking wet with my hat riding low, looking all hip-hoped out (one of the hottest looks a woman can have, in my opinion); smiling back at me with that same look I’d seen in that Columbus bar six years ago. I believe it was that exact moment when we both knew it … in there.

Grass Roots Hip-Hop
During my three-hour flight home the next morning, I had a lot of time to reflect upon the events of the concert, and realized how significant they really were . not just to me, but also to hip-hop. Not because my lucky ass finally got some kind of attention from a woman for the first time in longer than you want to know or I’d be willing to admit; and not because I saw a dope hip-hop show that influenced me. The events of the Orlando Atmosphere concert give a perfect example of the power and influence hip-hop can have, especially on the grass roots level.

My lady friend saw a real hip-hop show for what appeared to be the first time in her life, and she loved it. I hit her off with a couple Atmosphere CDs, as well as the Rhymesayers combo disc that came with the latest album. Hopefully, she’ll start following some of the underground. So yeah, Slug helped me get laid. Good looks, homie. But then again, I introduced a new fan to his music. We’ll call it even. And the entire situation helped to strengthen hip-hop not only by hopefully creating a new fan, but also by helping another person bear witness to the existence of real hip-hop. And that’s the power of a grass roots, word of mouth campaign.

So what’s my point? Too many of us complain about the current state of hip-hop without doing anything about it. How can we blame people for their misunderstanding of hip-hop if they’ve never witnessed the real thing? True, the radio doesn’t play it, and MTV doesn’t show it; but perhaps we’re to blame for thinking we can’t do anything on a local or personal level. Get involved. Tell your friends. Next time you meet a new person talking about radio hip-hop, tell them about what you’re listening to. Next time you’re downtown or on campus, pick up a five-dollar CD from the local talent copping albums out of their backpacks. Burn some CDs for your friends. Take a date to the next concert you attend. You’ll be contributing to hip-hop and, you never know, you might even give yourself a chance to be, well … in there.

You Can’t Imagine How Much Fun We’re Having
The cool thing about reviewing Atmosphere’s latest album was that they made it easy for me. All lyrics were printed on the insert, preventing me from having to rewind over and over to figure out what Slug might be saying. But even more so than that, each listing was following by a short explanation of what the song was about, or what events helped to influence it. I guess Slug and Ant were tired of bookworms like me analyzing their music, so they decided to save us the time and analyze it themselves.

Although most Internet reviewers, as they tend to do, dissed the album (pitchfork, dusted magazine, stylus magazine), I thought it was no less brilliant than God Loves Ugly or Seven’s Travels (although Atmosphere has five albums currently, those two are the most recognized and accepted). Most people seem to think that Slug needs to “get over himself;” that he should no longer be talking about anger, or his obvious self-hatred, or his tiresome relationship difficulties. They feel that Slug is demonstrating no growth, and therefore has come to a halt as an MC.

True? Maybe in part. Slug does seem to be stuck in the same mode of sadness, depression and self-abusive anger. I would love to see him advance past that and make a happy album. Maybe get out of the game for a couple years; spend some time with his son; realize that life is not all horrible. Then come back and talk about it. And as much as I love Ant, they’ve done a lot of work together and maybe it’s time to go in their separate directions. They’ve made their statement, now I’d like to see them move on. Experiment with different sounds and flavors. The live band feel was hot at the concert, maybe Slug should put a band together or something.

However, the fact that he is still depressed does not in anyway mean that he hasn’t grown or moved forward. Each of his self-hate-inspired songs seem to revolve around new events in his life. Slug doesn’t really talk about Lucy anymore. Instead, the content of “You Can’t Imagine How Much Fun We’re Having” shows us that Slug’s attempts to move on have only caused him more pain.

Although still angry and sad, Atmosphere touches on several new topics on this album, including overbearing music scenes and the “underground-rap elitist mindstates” (The Arrival, Watch Out, Musical Chairs), addiction (Panic Attack, Pour Me Another), the strains and stresses of fame, fortune and the road life (Smart Went Crazy, Angelface), and a couple of brilliant songs revolving around real-life experiences (That Night, Little Man).

My interpretation tells me that “You Can’t Imagine How Much Fun We’re Having” was made to tell fans that Atmosphere’s success is not bringing them so much happiness, but more burdens and troubles. They’ve gotten too big for the “underground-rap elitist mindstates” who “find your identity through the things you hate;” their constant road work is only helping to increase their addictions, whether they be alcohol, drugs, love, or the work itself; and the stresses of life do not stay on hold while they’re touring the world. In other words, fame isn’t what everyone thinks it is … and Slug and Ant are trying to show us just how in this album.

The stand out track in this album is without a doubt track 13, “Little Man.” In this song, Slug dedicates a verse to his son, his father and himself, showing and amazing ability to look back and analyze his past. “Panic Attack” will touch the heart of anyone who’s ever watched a loved one get all messed up in addiction. “Watch Out” and “Musical Chairs” call out the hypocrisies and ironies underlying the underground hip-hop haters, who everyone seems to be getting tired of these days. And “Pour Me Another,” my personal favorite, talks about how alcohol is often used to drown out the problems of the day. These topics, coupled with Ant’s consistent production and Slug’s brilliant lyrical flow and content, make “You Can’t Imagine How Much Fun We’re Having” one of the best albums of the year. Check out some of my favorite verses below:

The Arrival
Who’s to blame for your lack of conviction?
I wasn’t drafted, I asked for the mission.
Put your name on the list at the bottom on an empty line.
And hold in plain sight whatever gave you the right to question mine.
The night prowler.
Gonna crawl past all the rap politics, you can put that on your last dollar.
Wake up. It’s bigger than a pay stub.
There’s the door, get your money, go wash off your make up.

Panic Attack
Panic attack, so what’s the plan of attack?
You had to be had. You cut it in half. You had to react.
You battle with your shadow from front to back.
Stack up the stats. Handle the math, and that’ll be that.
Hold your head up. I know you’re fed up.
But don’t let it get up to the top of them steps, love.
Instead of playing with the pieces that got messed up, get dressed up.
We going out to catch the best buzz.

So what you drinking? So what you popping?
So what you eating? So what you dropping?
So what you smoking? So what you sniffing?
So how you coping? So what’s the difference?
Contagious, it runs like the paint does.
Sedate the sober and over anxious.
The pages of pain that make the songs on the playlist.
The renegade rain that jumped just to flood the basement.
Look honey everybody needs a help-up buddy.
Nobody’s drug free, the streets would be hella-bloody.
Do you call yourself a patient or a junky?
The one thing that separates is who takes your money.

Watch Out
Who they blame when the game’s in a tight spot?
Slug, you can find me in the A’s of your Ipod.
Watch out, when the crowd gets loud.
It can burn up the roof, or make the walls all fall down.
Watch out, when you open up your mouth.
I can smell that you don’t know what you’re talking about.
It goes watch out, we all love a clown.
But we don’t want to see you climb up out the underground.
Watch out, if you don’t like the sound.
Fuck you, I’m just trying to put it down for my hometown.

Musical Chairs
Bring me the head of whoever said play fair.
I wanna sit in my chair and wear a blank stair.
Fuck being king of the hill.
When the music dies you’ll be the first one the villagers kill.
Walk in circles, dizzy up the movement.
Talk in circles, the underground’s polluted.
Lots of circles, you wondering where you fit? Stop the circles.

Say Hey There
Watcha gonna do? Slam doors? Break a glass?
Maybe pass out on the kitchen floor with your naked ass?
She still makes time to hate me.
But basically, I’m overbooked, no emotional vacancy.
Complacency seems so simple.
Like fuck it, let me be the one you fight and call mister right.
It’s an addiction bound to stick around.
Cause a junky won’t bounce till he hits the ground.
And these drugs ain’t as good as we wish they were.
And this buzz doesn’t keep us from missing her.
And that love that built all of this emphasis.
Spilled enough guilt to kill Electra and Oedipus.
It’s easier to leave it there, each time I see your tears.
Makes me need a beer to relieve the fear.
I wanna keep a clear sky and fly away.
Like a meteor, outta here, maybe next year I’ll reappear.

Hockey Hair
Indeed I play my part and call it high art.
Keeping my eye on a piece of that pie chart.
Smarter than solutions to the rubix cube.
Took it apart then pulled out a tube of superglue.
Electric boogaloo. Instead of trying to look at you,
I should stay in my house, sit on the couch and read a book or two.
Maybe then this space alien
Can uncover ways to coexist with other homosapiens.

Pour Me Another
Spill a little bit of blood on the street,
For love that goes to those that know that they drink too much.
And hold your own glass up to the heavens.
Take a little time and try to count the seconds.
It goes, pour me another, so I can forget you now.
Pour me another, so I can come let you down.
Pout me another, so I can remember how
True that I am to this addiction of you now.
Drink it all away, numb it down to none.
Stay awake tonight and wait for the sun.
You say you hate your life, you ain’t the only one.
Let your frustration out the gate and let the pony run.
One double, for the hunger and struggle.
Two for the fool trying to pull apart the puzzle.
Three now I smile while I wait for your rebuttal.
But the fourth shot I’m just another child in a bubble.

Bottles and pints, and shots and cans.
Couches and floors, and drunk best friends.
Models and whores, and tattooed hands.
Cities and streets, and cats and vans.
Good times, laughter, bad decisions.
Strippers and actors and average musicians.
Mornings after, and walks of shame.
The bartender knows me by my real name.

Smart Went Crazy
Smart went crazy. Truth went trendy.
The story got lazy so I rewrote the ending.
Manipulated the entry. More user friendly.
Now a city full of pain pills and tattoos defend me.
I waver from the dead to the half dead.
Grey space between the fanbase and the crackhead.

That Night
This ain’t for props or the pop culture.
It’s about a balloon that got punctured.
The sunshine’s fun till it burns someone,
And we all got burned that summer.
She was sixteen.
Another young angel with clipped wings.
She came to the shows, but I never met her.
Don’t even know if she was listening.
That night, we lost a supporter.
That night, somebody lost a daughter.
He raped and killer her at the venue.
Can’t comprehend what her friends must’ve went through.
That night, the sun went dark.
Now watch everyone on the tour bus fall apart.
That night. Lord have mercy.
The music died that night in Albuquerque.

Get Fly
They want us to fight, but we just want to get high.
Work all day, all night, trying to get fly.
When I get some money I’mma buy me some time.
I can’t fight your war until I’m finished with mine.
I used to be mad at the government.
Redirected some of my anger towards the mothership.
Trying to guess which shell living hell sleeps under.
When the grand-scheme-plan keeps all these people wondering.
“Why we still running in place?” Frustrated.
Pride is mistaken for hate. It’s upgraded.
I’ve got a little breath left, let’s suffocate it.
Point at the epiphanies and call them all drug related.

Society becomes jealousy. Intimacy becomes intensity.
Say it with a smile like it’s meant to be.
And all of a sudden, boom. American family.
And I can tell when you’re mad at your past.
Because you tend to take turns just a little too fast.
I can tell how you push your foot on the gas.
That you already knew that you was gonna finish last.
Slow it down. Take a little time to look up at them clouds with the fake silver lining.
Up in a tree, knowing damn well you’ll never reach the top.
But you don’t stop. You keep climbing.

Little Man
I’ve been watching you and I’m proud of you man.
You’re growing up to be the best man that you possibly can.
I know you understand why I go out of town.
I also know my days are colder when you’re not around.
Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to be adapted to the fact
That daddy never lived inside the same shack.
And sometimes I get this pain in my stomach’s pit.
It’s what I get. I’m convinced it’s my punishment
For those nights I got drunk and let go.
At some bar, in some city, with some people I don’t know.
For all the times that the lines on your face
Reminded me of the days before the dragonflies escaped.
It trips me out how you pick up all my traits.
From the way that you spit to the fists that you make.
I watch the way you try to keep you mom happy.
Daddy learned that from you, you’re supposed to learn that from daddy.
I can’t teach much when it comes to women.
I drive safe and slow and don’t know nothing about the engine.
You’re doing good, little man, that’s all I really meant.
I love you. You’re my best friend. Thanks for listening.

I’m over thirty, can’t maintain relations.
All these women wanna hurt me, and I just don’t have the patience.
I can’t trust ‘em. And they’re not much help
When they start to push and pull the buttons, I don’t trust myself.
What pride, fists, and words just might do?
I’m afraid of my fate, don’t wanna turn out like you.
I’ve never hit a woman. I won’t do coke.
And for that alone I love you and I wanna thank you old man.

I know there’s gotta be something kicking at your bruises.
How’s the love? How’s the music? How’s the self-abusiveness?
Got a lot to lose, it’s breaking your shoulders.
So you let your paranoia place your bets for you.
Too many cigarettes, messing up your voice.
Too many arguments, trying to test your poise.