The Two Hermits

Master of the Grasses

S.P. doesn't generally get all worked up about battle rappers; most of the tripe that shows up on YouTube and mixtapes involves a lot of posturing and written rhymes and little creativity.

Iron Solomon isn't perfect, and there's a bunch of stuff I've uncovered from Scribble Jam and elsewhere that's pretty geeked out, but on the following NYC street DVD battles, he's impressive:

Iron Solomon vs Shirt N Tie

Iron Solomon vs Mic Assassin

Iron Solomon vs Flames

Iron Solomon vs G Sizzle

Iron Solomon vs Madness

S.P. hereby presents the 1st ever, soon-to-be-highly coveted Capybara award to Iron Solomon for his prowess, his nerve, his wit, and his insistence on criticizing his opponents' sartorial blunders. Capybaras are the largest rodents in the world, which is some fly shit, and they're pretty stoic looking, which is important. Congratulations, Iron Solomon.

FMT are accepting press passes for this summer's Rock the Bells show at Randall's Island.

S.P. News/Murda Mid

Tapir trying to get money. Jockeying with the sea cow for FMT exclusive logo.

Back in the heartland for a few. Brother Ali rolls through town in a few weeks; S.P. will be back on his school grind by then, and the godforsaken refrigeratorville that's home to his chosen institution of higher learning never gets anything in the way of good rapping artists. Never, that is unless your boy S.P. makes it happen...

Your man's pater is a fanatical fan of cricket; for anyone completely unfamiliar with the game, it's sort of entertaining, but matches often go on for days on end, which is fairly ridiculous. The Cricket World Cup is going on in Jamaica at the moment (why I didn't think of that for spring break, I don't know), and the Irish enjoyed a special St. Patty's Day surprise when they, having entered the tournament for the first time ever, knocked off Pakistan, who are ranked #4 in the world. This was awesome. Sunday morning, in a tragic turn of events, the coach of Pakistan's squad, Bob Woolmer (an Englishman), turned up dead. This was not awesome. Yesterday, the Jamaican police revealed that Woolmer was murdered. This is sinister.

El-P's I'll Sleep When You're Dead dropped this past Tuesday. S.P. is striving to save up $13.99 so he can grab himself a copy. ISWYD has been garnering rave reviews since its release (Pitchfork needs to hire some writers) several days ago, and is even getting some shine over at XXL. El Producto has apparently been stacking some stilton since Fantastic Damage; the video for "Smithereens" (NYTimes what what) has some serious production value. As I'm sure you all remember, "Flyentology," El's collabo with Trent Reznor, got the ill cartoon treatment a few weeks ago from the folks over at adult swim. I would remind you to download Def Jux's free mixtape, Definitive Swim, which features bangers from Despot and Cool Calm Pete, but I know y'all already did that because I told you to. Proper review of ISWYD to follow, soon as I get that gruyere.

I've been wondering at the phenomenon that is NCAA tournament bracketing. I don't like rooting against underdogs just because I want to win $55. S.P. is thinking that this bracket shit might be a mite juvenile.

Hanging Out With Clapping Fish

This was a big record for me in high school. A double album that probably should have been a 12". "G-Funk" (sorry, all I could find) is still a laid-back summer anthem.

S.P. was seriously remiss in failing to wish all you dedicated readers a Happy St. Patrick's Day this past Saturday. All you bloggartz that love S.P. for his blind fealty towards NYC hip-hop called down the elements in an attempt to make him stick around, and he had to go and get all Snake Pliskin on you. Your boy was stuck in Queens on Saturday, and the deep freeze left him with little motivation to do anything but drink some fine imports and mourn the raping of his NCAA bracket. The first rapper to shout out that Sosa dude from Louisville in a rhyme, maybe about how you, as Scarface, are going to turn the tables on Sosa like A&M did, wins an FMT prize pack. These generally consist of raw hippo meat and old Hothouse Flowers cassette tapes. Slainte. Up Munster.

Big shouts to Rick Mouhanus and his lady Amy for the Queensbridge hospitality this past Friday and Saturday, and anyone in the area probly felt the tremors from the convergence of corpulence that occurred at some bar when the illustrious Furman P. and yours trilly Sordid Puppy met up and drank up. F.P.S. has been drowning fools in Brooklyn since his recent arrival there, and it feels damn good to see FMT and its architects on the rise.

FMT ain't no political blog, yo, but S.P. would like to strongly endorse the stoicism in the face of truly awful news exhibited by Elizabeth Edwards, wife of former Vice Presidential candidate and current candidate for the Democratic nomination John Edwards. If you all haven't heard, after a flurry of media inquiry following Mr. Edwards's cancellation of a campaign event last night, today the couple announced that Ms. Edwards's cancer, previously thought to have been confined to her breast and removed, has returned. It's in her ribcage, and cancer in your bones is bad effing news. Apparently a lot of folks figured Edwards would chuck the race for the nomination in because of the diagnosis, but the couple are on some serious hardbody (no no homo) in their refusal to back down. S.P. is down with John Edwards and Elizabeth Edwards and hopes that they can do like J-Wiz and say "Cancer can blow me." That's what's happnin.

S.P. has never had to deal with the frustration, anger, and mortal fear that must accompany a cancer diagnosis. As some of FMT's more seasoned liseurs may recall, however, your boy has had a fright or two, and another arrived a couple of weeks ago. It is a terrifying and infuriating feeling to imagine that something is growing in your body and that it is trying to 86 you. Your man is all good for the time being, and S.P. definitely ain't looking for no pity -- how could I, when Elizabeth Edwards and countless other cancer patients worldwide face up to their problem with such courage? Human beans do some shitty shit, but also inspire on the deli.

Damn -- what the hell sort of blog is FMT, anyway, man? If you even made it this far through this post, I know you're miffed that you're not getting the same caliber of heat rocks that you did from Slothra's last offering.

FMT ain't just a blog, yo.

Bong Hits 4 Life

Brought to you by the "Bono mullet" Google image search

To lead off, here's a great profile of the Arcade Fire. Simply great journalism. Great enough for a band that is now as great as U2, Bruce Springsteen, and other old political serious people that are always mentioned in reviews of Neon Bible.

Download - Marnie Stern - "Lyrical Volume"

I'm feelin Marnie Stern and her new album In Advance of the Broken Arm. She looks like a small, nice female person, as her name suggests, and she doesn't wear scary Hot Topic garments with godless imagery emblazoned on them, but she can play the guitar very fast and yelp well. Kelefa Sanneh of The NYTimes said her new record is the best rock thing of the year so far, and she was featured by another Times dude who did one of those trend pieces that articulates the zeitgeist for us so that everything makes sense. The trend in question: girls who play guitars fast and well. He had two and a half examples. Watch out, we're in upheaval. Anyway, put her song on your ears or I'll write you a letter with anachronistic slurs in it.

Download - Lil Wayne, Devin the Dude, Bun B - "Lil Girl Gone" (Mr. Jpatt remix)

Will Weezy continue being a masculine child, a la Luca Brazzi, and make an album of rap songs that will help people at parties create friction between their bodies and also smile at his wit. This song, via DJ Benzi, Soul Sides, and some guy named Mr. Jpatt, has Weezy doing that I'm-from-the-South-but-I-can-enunciate thing, and then the veterans have their go. One of the first really good rap songs I've heard this year. But I'm hungover on rap right now. Sordid Puppy will have something for us soon, I'm sure.

Download - Jesse Sykes and The Sweet Hereafter - "LLL"

Rock. Seattle again. Good.

How did God Shammgod not make the big dance?

This had be seriously lolling. I mean I was about to eat a shopping cart.

Come On Motherfuckers

FMT salutes the memory of a modern-day legend. He was gunned down on March 7, 1997, which means that for the last decade we've been without B.I.G., and since then his memory has been sullied somewhat by the actions of his one-time friend and reckless profiteer Sean Combs. The violence that ended Christopher Wallace's life is still rampant, but aritsts of his caliber are not.

R.I.P. B.I.G.

Collie Buddz - Come Around

The snow is finally starting to melt. Summer can't come soon enough; hottest year ever, where art thou?

Let's Go Do Some Crimes

Beach House - "Master of None"
Jeffrey Lewis - "Don't Let the Record Label Take You Out to Lunch"

First, S. Trout's got it right. With her ostensibly benign yet quietly devastating echo-croon, Victoria Legrand of Beach House seared the lowly visages of a bunch of people with haircuts and chucks standing around in the Mercury Lounge last night. Jeffrey Lewis' opened playing with this hilariously spastic guy named Peter Stampfel who's some OG folk dude who needs to hang out with me all the time and play hopscotch. Also the chick on bass really seemed to be the nicest person ever to wear pants. She was very small and sitting on a stool. Stampfel said he was working on an album made up of a song for every year from last century. Sufjan's got nothin' on this guy. Jeffrey Lewis had what he called "low budget videos" which were these big books filled with sequential crayon drawings. He turned the pages as he sang and the pictures corresponded to the lyrics. That took way too long to explain something very simple. Anyway, he did this song called "Creeping Brain" which was basically the funniest thing I've ever seen on a stage where guitars are supposed to be all serious. He also had a book for "Sifting" by Nirvana, which was equally funny. Just from that show it was clear that Lewis is one of the most pointedly and self-consciously clever songwriters around. So yeah, the Dave Eggers or Chuckles Kaufman of neo-folk. And man, he doesn't even try to sing. I hate when peeps try to do that.

Beach House basically made me feel like I was being slurped into the pillowy bowels of a benevolent God. All I got to say bout that.

Overall, Best show I've seen in awhile and I only had two beers.

Second, I'm not paying attention to this right now. But I am paying attention to this. This song bookends Zodiac, something else Trout already covered pretty well, considering his brain's only nutrients come from meat roll-ups. I couldn't find SP's favorite video of all time, the one for Donovan's OG version of the song, which is the one in Zodiac. This one has a tumescent belly-button though. All's I hafta say is, at least its not a tumescent butthole!

That's what she said.