Wanna hear a secret?
When I was around 10 years old I and I heard my first rap song….and believe it or not I didn’t like it. I can’t remember who it was, but I know I wasn’t feelin’ it. Coming from an era of bouncy Disco records it felt like these former sequence sequin laden rollerskaters turned MCs weren’t singing…but just speaking to me. It was like a stranger on the train slowly leaning over and whispering in my ear, awkward and intrusive. More importantly, compared to the soulful classics my parents had nourished me with, it sounded extremely half-hearted and amateurish.
One summer night I was lying in bed listening to the radio. I was still young enough where after 10pm my @ss was confined to the house, but old enough where my imagination would bounce off of the four walls until it flew over the horizon. So, with my headphones on, I usually explored the offerings of the dial until I fell asleep. Just before I fell into a deep sleep the college radio station I had settled down with must have switched it’s playlist because I was suddenly startled by an uninvited presence in the form of a scratchy intro. It was the stranger from the train and he had found his way into my bedroom. Although this time he didn’t try to whisper in my ear. He spoke in a tone that commanded me to wake up from my half asleep state of consciousness. He didn’t waste time speaking in the traditional, “Hippity hop…I like soda pop.” slang that I had heard and shunned in the past. This time he spoke with authority…in simple short rhythmic phrases that when put together painted a complex picture. That night, while sitting in the darkness, I was taken on a 15 minute trip (early on, the average length of a Hip Hop song was 10 – 15 minutes, no hooks or chorus) through different worlds, lives, and emotions. When I came back I asked myself, “Who is this?” The stranger answered, “Oh, that’s my homeboy. Grandmaster Melle Mel.” Seeing that he had now peaked the interest of a young eleven-year-old, the stranger sat on the side of my bed, gently put his hand on the back of my head, and continued to do what had originally made me turn away from him. He continued speaking to me.
As my summer nights, cooled, then iced over I continued spending time with this stranger and listened. Soon the way he wore his white Kangol, a traditional conservative golfer’s cap, did not appear odd to me….but “Fresh”. And the more he spoke, the larger he grew. So, it’s not surprising that I began to look up to him. As I got to know his character I was amazed by his creative spirit and his ability to make something out of what most would consider nothing. Though him I witnessed Genesis as he gave the urban decay a renewed heartbeat. He would just walk into a room, and all eyes followed him, then they followed his movements….graceful and fluid, as if he was not bound to the mortal laws of gravity. And just when they thought his legwork could be mimicked he would switch direction and leave his followers on spinning the Boom, and searching for the Bap. His motions also bled through his penmanship. Every stroke in his black book was well-constructed thought but appeared spontaneous and free-flowing. These strokes became a colorful reflection of his personality and a window to his fears, struggles, and dreams. His markings were too beautiful to be contained in a book, so they grew from the dark subway tunnels to the tallest rooftops over the skyline as they reached for their spot in the sun. Yes, in case you can’t tell he made an impression me. I even secretly fell in love with several women that were attracted to him. But through all of his great qualities what I admired most about him remained the way he spoke to me…. unbridled, relentless, and unapologetic. He challenged anyone with a preconceived notion of who he was and filled the air with articulate blends of regional slang mixed with complex multi-syllable, nouns, verbs and adjectives. I could imagine that when he sat down to write every word in the Thesaurus would raise it’s hand and say, “Oooooh, Oooooh, pick me next! I mean the exact same thing as the next one. But he’s a sucka, and I sound dope!” Words were his weapon and he was a marksman who left few to challenge him twice. He was rebellious, confident, respected, and the undisputed king of wherever his suede Puma touched ground. He was also everything this awkward, buck toothed, pre-teen was not. So, over time I began to search my neighborhood for abandoned refrigerator boxes and doing acrobatics that would probably land me in the hospital today, practicing my penmanship outside of the classroom, taking beatings for ruining my fathers albums, and wearing a white kangol (tilted slightly to the side) as it became my mission to become everything he represented. I was already a boy, but now I was determined to earn a "B-" and add it to the forefront of my title.
I have more to say...but I have other things that need to be said. I'll be back.
One summer night I was lying in bed listening to the radio. I was still young enough where after 10pm my @ss was confined to the house, but old enough where my imagination would bounce off of the four walls until it flew over the horizon. So, with my headphones on, I usually explored the offerings of the dial until I fell asleep. Just before I fell into a deep sleep the college radio station I had settled down with must have switched it’s playlist because I was suddenly startled by an uninvited presence in the form of a scratchy intro. It was the stranger from the train and he had found his way into my bedroom. Although this time he didn’t try to whisper in my ear. He spoke in a tone that commanded me to wake up from my half asleep state of consciousness. He didn’t waste time speaking in the traditional, “Hippity hop…I like soda pop.” slang that I had heard and shunned in the past. This time he spoke with authority…in simple short rhythmic phrases that when put together painted a complex picture. That night, while sitting in the darkness, I was taken on a 15 minute trip (early on, the average length of a Hip Hop song was 10 – 15 minutes, no hooks or chorus) through different worlds, lives, and emotions. When I came back I asked myself, “Who is this?” The stranger answered, “Oh, that’s my homeboy. Grandmaster Melle Mel.” Seeing that he had now peaked the interest of a young eleven-year-old, the stranger sat on the side of my bed, gently put his hand on the back of my head, and continued to do what had originally made me turn away from him. He continued speaking to me.
As my summer nights, cooled, then iced over I continued spending time with this stranger and listened. Soon the way he wore his white Kangol, a traditional conservative golfer’s cap, did not appear odd to me….but “Fresh”. And the more he spoke, the larger he grew. So, it’s not surprising that I began to look up to him. As I got to know his character I was amazed by his creative spirit and his ability to make something out of what most would consider nothing. Though him I witnessed Genesis as he gave the urban decay a renewed heartbeat. He would just walk into a room, and all eyes followed him, then they followed his movements….graceful and fluid, as if he was not bound to the mortal laws of gravity. And just when they thought his legwork could be mimicked he would switch direction and leave his followers on spinning the Boom, and searching for the Bap. His motions also bled through his penmanship. Every stroke in his black book was well-constructed thought but appeared spontaneous and free-flowing. These strokes became a colorful reflection of his personality and a window to his fears, struggles, and dreams. His markings were too beautiful to be contained in a book, so they grew from the dark subway tunnels to the tallest rooftops over the skyline as they reached for their spot in the sun. Yes, in case you can’t tell he made an impression me. I even secretly fell in love with several women that were attracted to him. But through all of his great qualities what I admired most about him remained the way he spoke to me…. unbridled, relentless, and unapologetic. He challenged anyone with a preconceived notion of who he was and filled the air with articulate blends of regional slang mixed with complex multi-syllable, nouns, verbs and adjectives. I could imagine that when he sat down to write every word in the Thesaurus would raise it’s hand and say, “Oooooh, Oooooh, pick me next! I mean the exact same thing as the next one. But he’s a sucka, and I sound dope!” Words were his weapon and he was a marksman who left few to challenge him twice. He was rebellious, confident, respected, and the undisputed king of wherever his suede Puma touched ground. He was also everything this awkward, buck toothed, pre-teen was not. So, over time I began to search my neighborhood for abandoned refrigerator boxes and doing acrobatics that would probably land me in the hospital today, practicing my penmanship outside of the classroom, taking beatings for ruining my fathers albums, and wearing a white kangol (tilted slightly to the side) as it became my mission to become everything he represented. I was already a boy, but now I was determined to earn a "B-" and add it to the forefront of my title.
I have more to say...but I have other things that need to be said. I'll be back.
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