Matty Yu aka “Yucci Mane”. (@matty_yu)

As evidenced by the fact that ye olde Americana doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, I may be speaking mostly for myself when I say I miss the days when streetwear was streetwear. And when I say streetwear my friends, I mean streetwear. Reminisce with me for a moment back to a time when one could find the youth of the city draped in all-over print hats, jeans in varying states of full blown day glo hues and t-shirts that demanded a particular sort of attention (most often through clever combinations of conventional logo’s and that tried and true stalwart of the English language, “fuck”). It was a special moment. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, and when it came to those defining years when streetwear was pushing culture, not a mainstream part of it, nobody did it better than Pegleg NYC.

The brain child of a gang of New Yorkers, Scott Williams, Bobby Waltzer, Nick Poe, and Harry McNally, Pegleg NYC was without question one of the more daring and innovative streetwear lines in a genre that was already seen as something of a loose cannon in a world that was still recovering from 3XL’s t-shirts or mainly concerned with SB Dunks and Levi’s STF’s. The line was a statement of color blocking mastery, with the occasional experiments in ridiculous full body floral, vectorized fruit, polka dot jeans, and towards the end of their storied run, impressive heather’s and basics. Basically, it was everything a great streetwear line should be, irreverent, brash, innovative and immaculately conceived. If you saw someone else with Pegleg in 2006, you know they put in groundwork to get their hands on a piece.

I remember walking into Charlotte Ronson behind Broadway, a tiny shop situated below street level by a few steps, and clearly one of those stores where from the outside you know there’s a requirement that you be a ninety five pounds, blonde, and a woman to enter, just to get my hands on the few pieces of Pegleg you could buy in person in New York. They had a tiny shelf in the back of the store stocked with all of the latest tee’s and a few hangers worth of sweaters. Mind you this is in high school and I was taking NJ-Transit-Bandit-train journeys into SoHo expressly to get my hands on something very few other people had. It all seemed worth it back then, the Pegleg offerings got more and more mind blowing season after season. “Phil, why is there a fucking arrangement of fruits on your tank top?” was something I heard more than once and to date I’ve probably had more people ask me about this hoody than any other piece hanging in my closet. Supreme was cool and all and thankfully not resting on the head of each passing kid at the time and A Bathing Ape was without a doubt prime if you could afford more than a t-shirt, but there was something about Pegleg and knowing that a few young kids from NY were designing the line that made it seem like it was ours.

Before I get emotional describing how genius it was for Pegleg to be producing selvedge jeans in 2006 with a plaid cuff lining long before everyone began dressed like a J.Crew catalog, or how they moved before the market, flipping traditional oxfords and khaki’s into flippant all-over print takes on classic pieces before you all traded your Jordans and Street’d your Etiquette (all due love to the brethren), let me just say this. It’s sad to see some of the once dominant streetwear lines reduced to pale imitations of basics you’d be far better off buying at the Gap.

There’s a reason we were all attracted to these brands back in high school, and it’s not because they could find an innocuous way to sew their logo along the waist line of a half assed, cheaply produced chino pant. Streetwear was glorious when it still knew that it was streetwear, and while I’m not asking for anyone to revive the Retro Kids (God forgive us for that), it sure would be nice to see some of the legends drop the collars in favor of some color blocked ignorance. I’m not saying I’ll wear a Chain Gang hoody again, but the thought process it took to put that together is exactly where I wish things still were. So, my Pegleg brethren, I’ve spoken to you guys about this at just about every opportunity I get, but it’s time to remind the rest of the gang where it all started and start throwing around some watermelon print overall’s or something. At least re-releases? This “Very Fancy” crewneck is starting to get holes in it.

Applause for one of the best to have ever done it.

The response to Washington’s Stop Online Piracy Act (SOPA) and Protect IP Act (PIPA) was so swift and powerful that it can really only be called a protest in the same way that a first-round Mike Tyson knockout can be considered a fight. In a flash, Google got seven million signatures, Wikipedia staged a self-imposed blackout and countless other sites, including our small operation, followed suit. People crammed the streets in New York, San Francisco, Seattle, and D.C., and many members of Congress quietly backed off. In only a few days, the web browsers of America had crushed two quickly rising pieces of legislation. Feel free to tamper with our civil liberties, but never, ever fuck with our internet.

SOPA, certainly, should have been stopped. In its current form, the bill is ambiguously worded and has the potential, if passed, to shut down any site whose users display or host pirated content. Sites like the Huffington Post and Grantland could conceivably be taken down for using copyrighted images and videos despite the fact that the pieces on those sites are original works. Most everyone involved in the SOPA debate agrees that online piracy needs to be curbed, but the extreme backlash to the bill is evidence that it needs to be done more responsibly.

The ultimately successful week, however, was shrouded by a dangerous attitude of helplessness and detachment. Many protestors were quick to frame this debate as a case of greedy entertainment moguls restricting the freedoms of the average American. What was largely missing, though, was any serious talk of the individual’s role in this important debate.

Inherent in the act of protest is the acknowledgment, to some degree, of powerlessness. People protest in the hopes that more powerful people will see the dissent and change their minds.. What makes last week’s protest and blackouts so strange, then, is that the ones with the most power are the ones doing the protesting. If we want lawmakers to leave the internet alone, all we really have to do is stop using it to steal art. SOPA exists because stealing music has become so easy that it doesn’t even feel illegal anymore.

This argument, however, usually comes off as preachy and offers no real reason—especially in the wake of last week’s congressional ceasefire—to stop stealing music online. It’s so exciting and wonderful to have any song just a few clicks away that we’ve come up with all sorts of rationalizations for our habit. “Jay-Z doesn’t need my ten dollars.” “There are so many other ways for rappers to make money now.” All of this may be true, but if we continue to not pay for our hip hop, we may do irreversible damage to the music we love.

Let’s say I love Chipotle. I blog about Chipotle. I talk about Chipotle with my friends constantly. But every time I want to eat Chipotle, I type “chicken burrito Chipotle mediafire” into Google and five minutes later there’s lunch on my desk. All of my friends do the same. We all constantly profess our loyalty to Chipotle, yet none of us have actually been inside one of their restaurants in years. If most people acted like we did, one of two things would happen: either Chipotle would shut down completely, or it would have to change its menu to cater to people who are actually willing to pay for the food.

This analogy may seems so obvious that it borders on condescending, but hip hop has been slowly changing its menu for some time now, and its most ardent supporters have refused to acknowledge that we have anything to do with it. When Lupe Fiasco released Lasers this past March, he did so with outspoken frustration and reluctance. Atlantic Records, he claimed, had stifled his creative process in an attempt to make the album as commercially viable as possible. In some interviews, Lupe seemed to not care much for the album at all. When Lasers was finally released, it was generally panned by critics and dismissed by most serious fans as a large disappointment considering Lupe’s prodigious talent. But Lasers was the fifth best selling rap release of 2011. Lupe was outsold only by megastars like Drake and Lil Wayne. If Atlantic had been counting on fans of Food and Liquor and The Cool to buy records, Lasers wouldn’t have come out the way it did. Hip hop is finding other places to get its money, and the music is beginning to reflect that search. Eminem has a hit with Bruno Mars. Funkmaster Flex and Hot 97 consistently spin playlists that are dominated by techno. Lil Wayne’s biggest post-Rikers single sounds like it was written by John Mayer. Yes, hip hop may be evolving on its own, but an excess of heartthrob collaborators and a deluge of techno can be partially attributed to dollars and cents. With many hip hop fans unwilling to pay for music, artists have turned to pop stars and nightclubs to keep them thriving commercially.

For the kind of people who read (and write for) the Club, hip hop is not something you pay for—it’s what helps you choose how to spend your money. We drop hundreds for some Beats by Dre, and then download The Chronic for free. It seems reasonable to cough up thirty dollars for a plan white tee with the word “Supreme” at the corner, but almost unthinkable to spend a third as much on Goblin. We fail to see the irony of sipping Ciroc while we listen to a pirated copy of Ready to Die. Over the years I’ve been as guilty of this as anyone—I’ve bought more Wu-Tang posters than Wu-Tang albums.

Without the music, though, the other elements of the culture can’t exist. Our financial neglect of rap music today could be sowing the seeds for the cultural erosion of tomorrow.

These changes, of course, are not solely the product of longstanding fans’ reluctance to pay for music. Almost every rapper not named Kanye, Jay-Z, or Eminem has put out a free mixtape in recent years, reinforcing the idea that we shouldn’t have to pay for our hip hop, and the genre’s growing popularity has accelerated its fusion with pop, techno, and rock. And all of this free music hasn’t been an entirely negative thing. The continuous, effortless exchange of new artists and sounds has given us a genre that is more wide-ranging, democratic, and innovative than ever before. But we need to stop pretending that stealing all of this music doesn’t come at a price. Hip hop is a business where influence is measured in dollars— If we don’t want to pay for a voice, other people will be more than willing to speak up.

Our favorite syllable savant from Cleveland is back with twenty two tracks of diverse, bass heavy rappery. The most lively of lethargic couch potato flows meet tour bus lifestyle and undying ambition on “Stay Sleep,” my favorite track after a quick listening session this morning.

Chip is surprisingly vulnerable, calling out those who are still slumbering while offering up important life advice about the dangers of eating pork. In all seriousness, “Stay Sleep” is a serious moment of introspection, a sincere moment in the career of an artist that’s teetered right on the edge of “being on,” and being a mid-West afterthought.

“Stay up all night trying to make a better plan…I could do all things through Christ who strengthens me, anything that happens in this crazy life was meant to be.”

I’m a huge fan of the over the top-Yeezy wearing-two chain dangling-thou swag cannot touch mine-Chip Tha Ripper, but this hometown hero Cleveland approach hits on a completey new level. He’s not begging for acceptance, or complaining that no one will listen, he’s also not caught in the Napoleonic complex that seems to trap rappers not living in places called New York, Los Angeles, or the South, Chip’s just laying out the facts, telling a story as it happens and I couldn’t be more excited or more willing to root for him as it unfolds.

(If you don’t break into a huge grin as Krayzie Bone rips the second verse your swine addled brain probably overdosed on bacon this morning, listen to Chip, kids.)

The Club investigates the emotional and personal ramifications of idolizing our favorite rap stars in this weekly post series with cross Atlantic contributor, Harry Monaghan.

“Don’t like my women single, I like my chicks in two’s.” – Drake

I love it when rap lyrics promote women’s safety, this does just that. The buddy system is a tried and tested method in keeping people safe, Drake knows this and doesn’t like it when the system is not adhered to.

In this day and age where date rape drugs and drink spiking is rife, it’s good to know that Drake cares. Rappers are good role models, this is one reason why.

Partake in Reason #1 of 1000, by clicking here.

Most shrug John Mayer off as a egotistical pop has-been with a constant knack for terrible word choice for public consumption. And while some of that does hold truth, they should never let that cloud their musical judgment. Not only is Mayer an incredible guitarist (probably one of our generation’s best), but a talented composer and song writer who’s album Continuum still ranks among the best releases of the past decade. His boldness to go and pursue the ever fading genre of Blues and bring it to the forefront in a way neither stale nor carbon copied speaks to his immense talent as an artist. So excuse me as I stoop to immense levels of corniness, but sure, Mayer knows how to get under your skin, but his music knows how to get into your heart. That was good, right?

Not sure who told all of the aspiring singers that it would be cooler to go the route of mysterious Tibetan monks rather than Tyrese, but we’re not complaining here at The Club. If The Weeknd’s three album ultimatum is starting to make you feel like you’re playing lazer tag with an awesome soundtrack in an alternate universe, you’ve burned a hole in nostalgia, ULTRA and you’ve listened all the way through Iman Omari’s Energy and still haven’t got your fill of the future of 21st century R&B, Troy NoKA just showed up and made your afternoon a lot brighter.

NoKA premiered on Fader this afternoon and shortly after showed up on just about every single blog, and deservingly so, his debut single, “Right Now” is a moody, engulfing walk that quite readily shows off his wide array of talents behind both the board and microphone. If you’re still not convinced by the clicking of the play button, the fact that NoKA produced three of the better tracks on Frank Ocean’s nostalgia, ULTRA may help convince your ear drums that NoKA’s music is worth your time. That and the fact that, you know, this shit knocks tremendously.

Black and white visuals of French origins complete the package, looks like we have another problem on our hands folks, this won’t be the last you see of NoKA around these parts. That outro is something special, here ye here ye for great music.

In the heartfelt honor of sorely-missed warmer times (or, desirably, warmer coasts) Justin Timberlake’s Summer Love is the perfect escape track for the chilling winter months. Not too sure about the rest of you but I’d rather be at the opposite end of the calendar year right now or at least the opposite coast, a feeling that Justin’s so very capable of conveying. Formally, it’s a jolt of synth-smothered repetition parried by the well-chosen vocals of Sean Parker’s screen counterpart. The song’s straightforward delivery and production only get better when Timbaland switches on a dime and Justin goes right into the soft-spoken melodies of “Set the Mood”.

It’s no surprise that FutureSex/LoveSounds was easily the most groundbreaking thing in music when it released, and we could go on and on about all the other shackle-breaking tracks on the LP, each worthy in their own right of full spread coverage, but there’s something about good ol’ summer lovin’ that means so much to our frostbitten Northeastern skin.

The Club has been in California for a little bit, and while we’re returning to the cold doldrums of the East Coast, we haven’t forgotten about days which literally consisted of laying on either sand or grass, doing as close to doing absolutely nothing as humanely possible and listening to songs like this one.

If you thought I was going to stop trying to beat the band, America, into your head after my first few posts, you’ve deceived yourself. I consider it something of a personal gospel to enlighten the world and mostly fellow Americans on one of our own best kept secrets. You’ve probably heard Horse With No Name because you were sick and addicted to Grand Theft Auto at some point in your adolescent career as a human being, but it goes so much deeper than that.

I would encourage you brush any sort of facial hair you might possess while listening to this song, open a window and then begin to appreciate all of the changes and progressions taking place while realizing how absolutely perfectly they are nailing every single harmony. Someone pass me a tissue this is getting very emotional. If you think I am touched in the brain, lying to myself, or if you cannot get down with this song in anyway, please explain in the comments.