​The Berkley-based rapper Lil B plays the Highline Ballroom on Thursday; for curious New York gawkers, it's a chance to see the world's foremost proponent of a new movement you could kindly term train-wreck rappers -- those artists whose every youthful indiscretion, ill-advised comment, physical altercation, allegation over their sexual orientation, and casual nod toward controversy is projected around the world via the wonders of the Internet. It's like reality-TV rap, where the fun comes in waiting and watching for the derailment, and talking about the idea of the artist is more fun than actually listening to their songs. So in honor of the kid who makes Antoine Dodson seem like the third coming of Rakim, here are five of the current movement's biggest stars.

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​Official friend-of-SOTC/last critic standing/great Halloween costume idea Christopher R. Weingarten, outraged at the critical proliferation of witch house (not to mention its even less desirable offshoots), has taken it upon himself to compile the characteristically amusingly (and profanely) titled Fuck NoOoOO: The Anti-Witch House Mixtape, its cover slyly alluding to Chris' sideline writing books about dogs in funny costumes.

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Rhett Miller, whose name has the misfortune of rhyming with mine

​I knew this day would come. Today via mass email I learned that a piqued local musician -- aliases include CXB, Touching You, and many other charming handles deployed in emails I've been idly skimming for nearly five years -- has written a charming ditty titled "Kill Harvilla," providing both the lyrics and the instrumental MP3. Against my better judgment, I have provided both below, taking the liberty of marking with asterisks those lines I consider to be falsehoods.

Ahem:

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The woman of the hour, polarizing the Governors Island masses last Saturday. Pic by Rebecca Smeyne.

​So despite months of confusion and trepidation, Lauryn Hill really did play a full set at Governors Island Saturday as part of the Rock the Bells festival's vintage hip-hop blowout -- and our own Christopher R. Weingarten, for one, loved it, hailing it as a triumph of "majestic retro-future space-metal." Which is apparently as polarizing as it sounds -- it's hard not to conclude that everyone else hated it. Tonight, she gets a chance to retort.

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​On Friday Cee-Lo debuted a delightful new song with the simplest, most uncouth title possible: "Fuck You." It immediately joined the upper echelons of a surprisingly crowded genre -- from 50 Cent to Pharoahe Monch, the Avengers to Pussy Galore, Lil Kim to Atmosphere, there are lots of songs named "Fuck You" or immediate permutations thereof ("Fuck You Lucy," "I Love You, But Fuck You," and so on). Here are 10 of the best.

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​For everyone's sake I hope Ted is being hypothetical here, and not referencing, y'know, the free Jelly show he played last night at Brooklyn Bowl. Cause those guys all know better than that, right? Right? They didn't transition straight from another fantastic live version of "Stove by a Whale" or whatever to, like, fuckin', "An Honest Mistake," right? (Considered hyperlinking to that Bravery classic. Decided against ruining your morning. You're welcome.) Look, there's a guy here who'll be happy to craft you a pre- and post-Ted mix, if that's an issue, which apparently it is. Please be nicer to this guy. We are protective of him for a reason.

This imaginary man has some thoughts on Big Boi.

​Break out the good china, everybody: Our least favorite record-reviewing conceit has returned, wherein very probably apocryphal New Yorker stereotypes say incomprehensibly insipid things about the hot artists of the day. Are we all dying to hear what Mike the Lawyer (31), James the Literary Agent (60) (!), and Nicole the Public School Teacher (30) have to say about Sir Lucious Left Foot? Are you sitting down? Well stand up and brace yourselves.

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So Jay Electronica dropped by Red Hook Park last night for a show that seemed just a bit more... intense than Conan O'Brien's fete uptown. Per friend-of-SOTC Carter Maness:

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​So the long-rumored NYT Sunday magazine feature on M.I.A. has finally arrived, penned by Lynn Hirschberg and a small masterpiece of subtle jabs and "'[Rabble-rousing thing],' Maya said, while [bourgeois thing]" constructions, with lots of she's-not-really-a-musician talk (often bolstered by M.I.A. herself), further discouraging words from Diplo, and one seismic, history-scrambling assertion. Here's a small sampling thereof:

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​Listen: I find daffy, nigh-incomprehensible NYT indie-rock chart-maker Andrew Kuo an actually welcome addition to the Paper of Record, a nice undercurrent of candy-colored ludicrous surreality amid all the stuffiness. But this glo-fi thing today is a bridge too far: mass confusion, lame jokes ("Slowdive's lawyer left a message: 'You say tomato, we say shoegaze'"), totally uncalled-for Sleigh Bells japes, and... wait, Sleigh Bells are glo-fi? Not to get into a genre pissing match here, but as the publication that currently employs (as an intern) our nation's foremost chillwave/glo-fi scholar, we call bullshit. Verily, this is the Lost finale of charticles.