PNC – Whats Up (produced by P-Money)
PNC – Whats Up (produced by P-Money) Music Video
Give the gift of music & sport…
New track from PNC’s Bazooka Kid album, out early June. Produced by P-Money. ©Dirty
PNC aye? Sup’ bro love your shit
i didn’t dub Rookie Card, went and bought it
fuckin’ enjoyed it, Who Betta Than This
hey I’m feelin’ the Jordans, ya leather is fresh
you recording ya next ish? yo who are the guests?
can i buy u a drink or a low key sesh?
you dont smoke? that’s cool with me
can i take a little time to just shoot the breeze?
see this, tat on my arm, that’s the name of my best friend
died in a car crash this year, now hes resting in heaven
but he bumped you 24/7
he’d listened to your shit and then get to penning his lyrics
and say i wanna rhyme like him
when i hear your shit I’m reminded of him
and his spirit, so thanks for that
let me slap ya hand and let ya go my man
I’ll let ya go my man, I’ll let ya go
and they say whats up, in the streets and clubs
and I thank each and everyone for the love
we pound, then hug
and when I’m out they shout whats up, whats up
some chill and some just bug
but I say whats up my cuz?
whether you a mate or a hating chump
to me its all love so I say whats up
PNC aye? nah bro, fuck your shit
I listened to that Rookie Card, fuck it was all shit
glad I pawned it, Who Better Than This?
I got cousins and all them would get on that list
they recording the next ish, yeah they are the best
bro, slow up your raps, take a low key breath
you a joke, not cool to me
Just Roll clip, looked like a fool to me
see this tat on my arm, that’s the city i rep man
don’t even try step through there, or you’ll be resting in heaven
i heard so and so kicked ya head in
well listen to your shit, you think that you the man in your lyrics
and you just try bite off Em
Big and Jay, but you ain’t even quite like them
your shit is not gangsta Sam
don’t even slap my hand, or you’ll get slapped my man
get back my man? you’ll get slapped
Interview with PNC
Interview: PNC on Bazooka Kid, and why hip hop doesn’t win songwriting awards
Duncan Greive | Managing Editor
Ten years after Bazooka Kid, one of the most singular New Zealand albums, Duncan Greive sits down with PNC to talk about its genesis, and why rappers still don’t get their due in this country.
2009 was a year of transition for hip hop. Lil Wayne was at his commercial peak, winning four Grammys; Kanye eventually let Taylor Swift finish at the VMAs; and a former child star named Drake released an unheralded mixtape named So Far Gone. Jay-Z was comically dislocated from the culture, putting out ‘Death of Autotune’ ahead of a decade in which autotune became one of the biggest and most sustained trends rap has ever seen.
The 2000s had been about scale, the rise of the south, beefing and money. The 2010s would be prolific, intimate and druggy, less connected to pop music while exerting more influence over it. In between the eras and a long way away from them came Bazooka Kid. The second album from Palmerston North’s PNC, and one of the most singular hip hop albums ever released in New Zealand. It gloried in big, brash ‘80s synthesisers, hard drums and dense, hyper-rhythmic verses. No disrespect to Urban Renewal, but there has never been a rap album as committed to Phil Collins. Somehow Sam Hansen, aka Palmerston North City, managed to mould a disparate group of producers into an incredibly cohesive whole, one which remains a kind of lost hip hop highway, a road not taken with a lot to commend it.
The dead-eyed ‘Intro’ (“No brother, one mother, no dad” is one of the bleaker opening lines you’ll find), the crystalline title track, the bitter reflection of ‘What’s Up’ and the uncharacteristic acoustic closer ‘Half Kast’, playing on this Samoan man raised by a Palagi solo mum. Nearly every song with a huge, crafted hook.
Since then Hansen has refined his craft, with both Under the Influence and The Luke Vailima EP now essential parts of the New Zealand rap canon. Yet years later I still think about Bazooka Kid more than almost any other New Zealand album, about the boldness and creativity it displayed – and the near-certainty of an indifferent commercial outcome. This month is ten years since it came out, spending three weeks grazing our charts before disappearing, largely unremarked upon. But it remains an extraordinary album, and I got in touch with Hansen in May to see if he wanted to talk about it.
We met up on a blindingly sunny late autumn day, him head-to-toe in black and still with the quiet composure of his prime. Now he’s studying psychology, still making music but no longer reliant on it for his identity. We talked for an hour about the album, the era, how rap has changed since and why it’s so much harder to be a rap artist than a guitar-based musician in New Zealand.