The irony in this post is the fact I literally haven’t heard this 313 classic since iPods or YouTube came into existence. While chumming it up with the homie yesterday, I began flipping through a dusty, old CD book that was buried in his basement, when I came across an almost two-decade-old copy of Dice’s Black Monday. The best album from the sometimes-satanic, always-gangsta, neighborhood sh*t talker was not only an extremely rare find, but it aslo included a handful of gems from my carefree years. The most notable being the original ode to our local greeting here in Detroit, “Whut Up Doe.”
And, even though that disc had more scratches than a refrigerator box, full of thirty cats, the immediate memories this Mystro-produced cement-cracker induced had me right back in high school, cruising around in my dude’s Dodge Duster, like we actually could relate to anything this Apt. 3 representative was speaking on.
Luckily, more than ten years after embracing this local liaison of ghetto poetry, albums being way-out-of-print can’t deter file-servers and I’m currently adding another playlist to my iTunes.