MILF hunter

Mom’s Easter egg: Every time Mom bent over, the Second Saturday crowd outside Cuffs Urban Apparel got a peek at her red G-string and pasty booty. MILF alert?

Anyway, this was no big deal, because the throng that evening had already witnessed the upfront goods—multiple times, what with Mom lifting her red dress to the mixed suburbanite-urbanite masses, crowing in delight into a reverb- and delay-soaked microphone.

But the music, while eerie, ultimately was cheerful and amusing. Mom squealed over playful ’60s kiddie surf-pop tracks and shuffled on the sidewalk. People actually seemed to be digging it.

Then darkness fell.

Mom pulled an egg out of her sack and cracked it on her head, blood splattering everywhere, what appeared to be a dead baby bird falling to the concrete. Later, Mom spun a maraca to a “spin the bottle” ditty, grabbed the bird and sauntered toward the crowd, Second Saturdayers running in front of J Street traffic to avoid the carnage.

Then Downtown James Brown showed up. He joined Mom, jived and did the splits, but quickly retreated to safety to count his evening’s take ($73) on a nearby bench.

After the applause, Mom vanished, only to reappear incognito 10 minutes later, donning a green dress and platinum-blond wig. She hustled east down J Street, hopped into a stylish station wagon and sped off into the night, leaving only a trail of confusion and a collection of crimson red blood splotches on the sidewalk. (Nick Miller)

I’m not lovin’ it: The good news is Sacramento hip-hopper Mt. Sinai’s yoga/Zen Buddhist concept on Beyond Words is refreshingly original. And the production—handled by Neo Chaos, Decipher, Sannyasin Beatz, Rick Root, The Psalmist, BBox, The 13 Days and Nebula—is incredibly dope. Sitars and image-invoking melodies create the “tapestry of sound” that is promised on the back of the CD cover. The bad news? The dude can’t rap. I hate to say it, but there’s no other way around it. Mt. Sinai sounds like when your dad imitates the raps he hears on the radio or when McDonald’s tries to use rappers to sell their burgers. With such a smooth, melodic, unique brand of production, it’s jolting to hear a voice that blurts out and even forces words into sentences. If there was an instrumental version of this CD, I’d buy it in a heartbeat. Go to his page (www.myspace.com/mtsinai) and listen to the most beautiful hip-hop production you’ve ever heard, paired with, well, you know. (Josh Fernandez)

Best-smelling folk show ever: There were cookies and tea. And pleasant whiffs. And four folk singers that charmed. One performer was dapper, another drunk (she took a cell-phone call during her set!). The first performer was demure and engaging, and the last, Ellie Fortune, definitely dominated, finally getting everyone to extinguish the ciggie chains and come in off the 16th Street sidewalk to Atelier’s back patio.

It was a beautiful night, and a good 80 people came and went throughout the evening. But, that said, the music lacked dynamics; the four folk artists were a tad bland, all of them different sides of the rusty coin—the same “G-C-D minor” mold, a similar “hold on, let me grab my capo” crutch.

This is not to say that they sucked; they unquestionably did not. But there’s definitely a vacuous affectation at work, like a six-string Sudafed. (N.M.)

Something in the air: Another newish release in Sac hip-hop, The Relapse, comes from Myztereiz (www.myspace.com/myztereiz), where the critiques are many and the joys are few. Let’s start with the confusing name Myztereiz (which reminds me of an out-of-work Las Vegas magician). “Myztereiz” reads kind of like it’s supposed to say “Mysteries,” but it’s pronounced “Mysterious” (I know that because he says it hundreds of times). And the music itself? Meh. The tracks are simply average, at best. The production—not a lot of tempo change nor break in format—barely survives the lengthy CD, standard hip-hop beats and washed-out synth. The mood aims for drama but falls short because of the overabundance of synth-heavy hip-hop background music out there. Myztereiz’s flow is monotone, and like the production, doesn’t lift itself out of the speakers. And hooks like, “They talking about your boy and that ain’t right / got my name in they mouth man and that ain’t right”—droned as if the emcee just rolled out of bed—are for the most part, lazy and uninteresting. One break in the monotony comes on “Poetry’s Potency,” a pairing with his cousin JoEl; the two rap lightheartedly over an Inspector Gadget-sounding beat. But that’s just one song out of 18, so when my MacBook asked me if I wanted to import the CD into my iTunes library, I had to respectfully say no.

Emcees, remember this: We are in an age when hundreds upon thousands of kids are self-releasing albums, which means we are swimming in an oversaturated market. My desk is so cluttered with subpar material that it now doubles as a trash can. (J.F.)