There is an evil beast lurking in the basement of the house that modern music built. It is a weird, fiendish creature, one that lives off of top 40 radio and glossy- paged magazines. It is a black cancer growing in the colon of the world's good taste. His name is Hype, and in our MTV up- to- the- minute, digital- bullshit- by- the- ton world, it is all powerful.

Now that we're all lowly surfs in the Village of Hype, he can smack us into doing anything he wants us to do, and that is: buy shitty music. When you break it down, the biggest victims of Hype are the artists. Sure, it sucks when we shell out dough for a new disc only to end up using it as a Frisbee a month later. But when a terrible artist thinks their shit doesn't stink, it's just fucking depressing. It's like being back in high school and watching the kid from special ed laughing along with the jocks-- he doesn't get that they're laughing at his one big shoe.

It's that kind of tragedy that makes me burst into tears every time I spin DJ Rap's Learning Curve. My spontaneous eruptions of wailing and spastic, seizure- like fits have nothing to do with any emotion in the music, I simply must weep at the irony of the career homicide she is about to face, and the loss of another dumb artist led astray. This poor girl, thoroughly brain- fucked by the Hype machine, undoubtedly believes her own press. I mean, I'm sure she means well, but it doesn't change the fact that I scratch the raging poison ivy on my ass better than she can scratch a record.

In case you were living on Mars at the start of 1999, you missed the five- minute long DJ Rap craze. For almost an hour and a half she was mainstream, her little British face blown up on all kinds of industry insider magazines. She was on everybody's lips, dubbed the savior of electronica and then, when the album came out... nothing. Techno fans the world over pawned their last pair of JNCO jeans to buy this record, and then forgot it even existed. DJ Rap sat at the center of an epidemic of voluntary amnesia and it's just as well, since this album stinks worse than a jockstrap full of onions.

First off, don't let the name fool ya, kids. The term "DJ" is used loosely at best, and more for goofy street cred than descriptive purposes. I'm not even sure Rap even saw a turntable while making this record, much less put one to good use. And the only real "rap" on the album was made out of clear plastic and had a price sticker on it (and probably a glowing press quote from NME). Learning Curve is a shapeless mess of techno noises, wooden dance tracks, and uninspired trip-hop. The production on the album is kind of clever, though. Producer Dom T. (where do you rave kids get these fucking names?) pulls off enough tricks on the soundboard to give the impression that he sleeps in the studio. But still, no one buys an album for its production alone-- the songs have to offer some basic creativity at the least. And with this kind of rotten cassarole in full effect, Learning Curve plays like the soundtrack to a lame-ass prom in the year 2010.

But the thing that bugs me most about this album is the sense of confidence DJ Rap displays. Confidence is a must in the game of DJing. You have to think that you're the best and talk like you own all the other MCs, but if you can't back that shit up, you're gonna get eaten alive. Rap sports more big- dick theatrics than an old LL Cool J record, but has no skills to show for it. She's all tryin' to be skillful and diverse, going for that whole "the world is changing so fast" crap on "Ordinary Day," the "don't you tell me what to do" angle on "Good to Be Alive," and the "look at me, I'm a badass now" garbage on "Fuck With Your Head," but at the end of the day, the beats are still older than Roman numerals.

Now, I know I'm giving Rap a hard time, but you don't piss on 20 years of musical magic just to put out your heading- straight- for- the- used- bin album. I've read better lyrics on the back of a Crackerjack box, heard better beats in a buffalo stampede, and even thrown away better albums than this-- both techno and hip-hop. Forget these Oreos and try some Cool J cookies. Only you can prevent whack MCs.

-Steven Byrd