MGF Reviews The Dirtball – Crook County

The Dirtball – Crook County
Suburban Noize (5/13/08)
Rap rock

Hailfar and bustification, jessup! This here good ol’ boy from up in the woods of Oregon state (believe you me, brother, they might be on the wrong side of the Mason-Dixon but them Oregonians is country as a chicken coop) what calls himself The Dirtball shore can spit out them rhymes.

This here saltine rapper has the kinda flow that them slow-talkin so-and-so’s from Houston can only dream about. Ain’t this the kicker, though: I was playin’ The Dirtball’s new rekkid, Crook County for Ralphie from up the street, and as soon as the beat hit he says to me, “Hell, I know this one. I still play this game on the N64 all the damn time.” Ralphie, now, he ain’t quite right on account of his daddy used to use him for a toilet when he was a pup, but damned if he didn’t get this one dead to rights. This Dirtball feller rhymes better than any cracker got a right to, but the hooks jes’ plain ain’t there mister.

Tracks like the lead in “I’m Not” and the ravin’-on-meth number “Pitspit” got The Dirtball shootin’ out rhymes faster than that Twista does, although a lot of ’em sound like they were written by that feller what wrote Green Eggs and Ham. His press release makes mention of The Dirtball bein’ compared to Big Boi of OutKast, and that’s about right, although Mr. Ball shore does wish he could be Eminem. Or Bubba Sparxxx. Or even Everlast.

Nope, The Dirtball ain’t tryin to hide his paleface, instead he’s tryin to make another white-rap classic to go along with them trailblazin’ boys I jes’ mentioned. He’s toured with the upper crust of trailer park rappers, from Kottonmouth Kings to Insane Clown Posse—Crook County features guest spots from Psychopathic Records’es Boondox as well as Ceekay from LaCoka Nostra. He’s at home most when he’s conjurin’ the Dirty South spirit he wishes he was really from. “Moonshine Rhyme” is the only gen-u-wine decent track on the whole fuggin’ album, when The Dirtball drops his electrofied hip-hoppin’ beats and sings hisself a campfire love song to his beloved homemade firewater.

Everywhere else on this album, The Dirtball sounds like he’s tryin’, hell, like he’s straight up strivin’, brother, to find hisself a hit. The poor ol’ bastard just comes up short every time. What The Dirball needs to do is, he needs to find him a hard-luck rock band tryin’ to make it (and hell, up there in the Northwest you can throw a stone and hit one, even all this time after that Cobain kid gave up his ghost) and hook up with ’em. Sheeit, rap-rock might be dead, but you CAIN’T tell that to a Kottonmouth Kings fan or any of them friggin’ weird Juggalo kids, so ain’t no one gonna care a whit if The Dirtball picks it up. Maybe them rock-an’-roll sonsamothers can get the power hooks that Dirtball ain’t gettin nowadays, and he can focus on spittin’ his rapid-far rhymin’ over the verses. All the sumbitch is good at, anyhow.


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