But simultaneously, developing an ego (which is basically one big defense mechanism to ensure that we’re loved, accepted, taken care of, avoid pain, etc.) means that we lose touch with the authentic essence of who we truly are: the Soul.Īs a result of Soul Loss, we begin experiencing symptoms of weakness, fatigue, depression, anxiety, and emptiness. We must develop a sense of self, a separate sense of “me” in the world in order to function. When the apocalypse is finally unveiled, don't be the hollow man Joc-ing your way toward Bethlehem.Sadly, in our modern world, Soul Loss is the rule rather than the exception.Īs individuals, we lose connection with our souls (or True Nature) every time we identify with our egos and seek to feel whole again through addictions, stimulation seeking, dogmatic beliefs, conditional relationships, and workaholism.īut there’s a reason why we identify with the ego and disconnect with the soul in the first place: it’s a survival mechanism. Read Orwell, beat Yung Joc with a trashcan, don't watch CNN. No matter their pop "relevance," they refuse to, and refuse to let their listeners, be complacent. may never be able to change America again (they probably have a bigger contemporary fanbase outside this continent), but they still can light up a few souls. With the way we now appreciate and consume music, P.E. When How You Sell Soul rounds the corner into its raging final third, there's a nice little epiphany. Chuck worries about images and phonetics- "watch the masses move as a mass of switches," "Botswana to Watts and Queens." The best melodies are given the space (Read: minimal Flav howling, Chuck pays attention to breath control) to breathe- see the stubble-funk trash on "Frankenstar", the Commodores sample on "Escapism", and, the album's best track, Redman's burbling production and winsome guest verse on "Can You Hear Me Now?" The nakedly obvious structure loosens everyone's valves. Newsreel-ish interludes punctuate the album into thematic thirds (rebirth, bitches!/appraising the day/stumping for the apocalypse). Aside from a few ungainly, obvious missteps- trying to play the Scott Storch melodic game on "Amerikan Gangster", wasting the KRS run-in on a track that sounds like a D12 refuse pile ("Sex, Drugs & Violence")- the album is finely sequenced. Simple chestnuts they are: kids gotta read, governments gotta be questioned, and gangster rap is fine, as long as you know it's rap, not reality.Īnd the skeletal disclosure works. Chuck D even tones down his still-glorious solo megaphone riot and concedes: "Thank you for letting us be ourselves/ So don't mind me if I repeat myself/ These simple lines be good for your health" ("Harder Than You Think"). The band combats "age" with disclosure: The liner notes sprawl like yearbook memories, thanking old AC/DC records for inspiration alongside Chuck's hand-holding descriptions of just how and why each song was constructed- sample history, just WHY he respects KRS so much and just needed him for "Sex, Drugs & Violence". Old age is just a new window to shoot from. Because when piss and vinegar is your blood type, there's no such thing as tempering. titles) revisits instrumental blueprints from Fear of a Black Planet and It Takes a Nation of Millions, enshrined intros- "The brother don't swear he nice/ He KNOWS he nice!"- and plays the self-referencing cards with aplomb. Instead of pretending to strut and rage à la those aforementioned mid-1990s old grey mare trudges, How You Sell Soul (there is no way to cleanly truncate most P.E. A far cry from their recent self-indulgent pouts, 2002's Revolverution and 2005's New Whirl Odor, How You Sell Soul to a Souless People Who Sold Their Soul? gets at the finicky emotional recipe for P.E.'s success.
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