Oh. My. God. I thought I’d grown past this shit. I thought I didn’t need music to represent me anymore, I was more into what it could tell me about other people, worlds way beyond my imagination. The last couple of weeks have proved me so wrong as I’ve been getting off beyond belief on sights and sounds from places I’d never expect to relate to so closely.

Most of it’s been hyphy. For those of you playing catchup hyphy is a localised variant on Hip Hop, what crunk is to the dirty south and grime is to the UK, hyphy is to the bay area of California: San Fransisco, Oakland, San José. Scheduled to blow up worldwide a couple of years ago it didn’t happen on schedule so lamesters said it’s never going to happen at all. Of course, like grime, it’s refused to die. When the major labels dropped the ball it just licked it’s wounds and got on with the party.

And hyphy is 80% party music. Yeah, music beyond my imagination, Technicolor tales of hot nights ghost riding borrowed cars with ridiculous rims. I hate cars, even the small ones, and I’d probably shit myself trying to ghost ride one.

But this is something different. For the first time in ages I’m listening to a song, watching a video and not only am I appreciating the (mighty) artistic achievement but I relate. Sure, I could never hope to be half as cool as the Trunk Boiz, but maybe if I could scrape together enough cash for a Scraper Bike I could get half way there. I WANT ONE! Now.