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Stop Sleeping - B. Dolan

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By: Brandon Backhaus
b. dolan, hip hop, strange famous, bombzo way,

I don’t even know if he’d agree that he’s getting slept on. Maybe he’s really all above it and shit and feels like the people who are supposed to relate to his music relate to it; who gives a steaming meadow muffin about those that don’t or haven’t yet? I do know that I don’t hear his name as much mentioned when listening in (read: stalking your blogs) to the really hip (uh-huhm) music blogger types talk about dope rappers. I’m sure those guys are all talking about Li’l This anna Yung That with best of ‘em.

But this is Syffal remember. A publication (?) that produced a five minute birthday video tribute of Tim’s face photoshitted on Mark Holton’s to the tune of “Wind Beneath My Wings”. Like, we’re so swagged out, ham skillet.

What the Fuck was I talking about? Oh yea! The sexiness that has been named B. Dolan – a man whose face would also make for a good Fred Flintstone overlay.

Strange Famous might be the most appropriately named record label in existence. B. Dolan is like the middle linebacker on a foozball team of fucking weirdos, not the kind of weirdos you avoid… well, I avoid, but the kind that I seek out. I see Sage Francis and B. Dolan as inheritors of a certain beatitude. Maybe it was their success in being able to impress some questionable judges that their poem’s 3 minutes in the spotlight was the slammiest!?

I dig that these guys can rock a fucking real deal concert venue and at the same time convince a coffee house full of freaknicks they’re just the snappiest. B. Dolan is a bleeding pen spilling a true storyteller’s narrative into the mouthpiece of a megaphone. When it comes to B. Dolan, I have to confess, I’ve never been fortunate enough to see him live. So maybe, for this article, I’m the real audience.

On the Paid Dues stage, a husky, red, white, and blued, bald headed and certifiably bearded Dolan pays tribute to Evel Knievel, and relays his message to a “little cripple boy, with cancer, who was blind, and had AIDS,” that nothing is impossible! It’s performance art unlike anything done anywhere else in hip hop. Ok, maybe that was hyperbolic but the shit is original. And Dolan has a nutsack like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon. The dude does not give a Fuck!

Bombzo Way? Have you guys seen Bombzo? Get a load of this shit: it’s one part Saw, one part Gwar, one part Bill the Butcher, one part Krusty the Klown, and one part fucking Abbey Hoffman or some shit. Definitely on some other shit: riot instigating, make your dad mad, here to hold up the mirror so you can piss yourself off shit!

B. Dolan seems to understand something that many of today’s artists either fail to realize or outright neglect. Tweeting about Kony is literally the least you millionaire slactivists can do! Art is political.

I hesitate to even call B. Dolan a rapper. He’s so much more than that. I don’t mean that to discredit dude’s gum chops. His halitosis is as funkatonic as the next microphone polisher I’m sure, but rapping is just one arrow in the quiver. He understands that with a great microphone comes great responsibility.

B.Dolan is proprietor of, the consumer advocate corporate watchdog wiki. (In a tragic case of sausage fingers, in a previous ragwipe I mistakenly said the site was defunct, but as I’ve been assured that the cause is very much alive and digitally kickin’. Mah bad!)

He has been blessed by the likes of Bob Holman and has yelled his poetry louder than anybody else at the Nuyorican. He’s openly challenged hip hop’s so-called inherent homophobia with the Church of Love and Ruin.

He’s part agoraphobic emo rapper, and over-the-top performance artist. He’s a dystopic prophet.

There is no separation between church and stage. Just like our forefathers would’ve wanted it, bruh!

With a slew of tour demos, mixtapes, and singles, Dolan has managed a level of productivity on par, or surpassing, many of his contemporaries. Dude is on his hustle. He has two full-length LPs, 2008’s final version of The Failure, and 2010’s Fallen House, Sunken City. In a continuation of being guilty of personally sleeping on ole Bernard, I confess I don’t have either.

I haven’t completely fucking pirated them either. If I’m going to pick them up I’m going to pay for them. Not because I’m some kind of draconic anti-piracy wonk, but because, while ripping Youtube videos is a reality of getting your hands on this music sometimes, I believe in genuinely supporting artists that you respect.

I respect the man tits off B. Dolan.

Freals though, I gotta pick up these records once and for all. B. Dolan is worth it. Somebody call the goddamned orderlies, gets me off this Craftmatic, slaps on the loony jacket, and straps me down in the padded cell that is B.Dolan.

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