Dear Joe,
Look at me,attending your old college. I almost cried walking through the hallways, wondering if you had classes in the same room that I was now sitting in. We used to talk endlessly about the importance of education. You hated that I was wasting my brain. You had the knowledge of life that only someone facing death has. That it is too short to waste, even one hour. You were so annoyed by my lack of urgency. Floating through life, half drunk. Spending enormous amounts of money on clothes and falling in love with every man who told me I was beautiful. You hated and envied my recklessness.
And now you are gone and I have inherited your sense of urgency.
I'm going to Rutgers full time, while still working full time at a horribly degrading restaurant. Your horror stories from the Cheesecake Factory resonate more soundly now. But, I can tolerate the servitude, because of classes like these. My Literature in Hip Hop class has me thinking more deeply about how music has been a steady part of my life. The soundtrack to all of those bad decisions, and reckless stories you were so eager to hear about. How I wrapped myself up in the protective anger of rappers like a warm blanket. It was like having a whole group of older brothers looking after me. Little ole me, who is tragically nice and friendly, and could never say out loud what Prodigy said on vinyl, but who wanted to scream that shit to anyone listening. In my heart, I was full of desperation and anger. I felt it. I needed it. So in my first assignment, which was my testimony to hip hop, I wrote about how Prodigy was right next to me, holding my hand and filling my head, while I navigated through the craziest boro in New York. I thought you'd might like to read it.
Hip Hop Testimonial: Songs of the Pavement
It was the summer of 1999. I’d just graduated high school and made what would be, the most defining decision of my life. My grandparents, bless their hearts, put aside $1,500 to send me to college. Faced with the intimidating costs of tuition, and this raw, almost primal urge to run away, I scrapped the whole idea of school. Instead, I used that money to purchase a used Ford Mustang and drove to New York City, which I made my home for the next ten years.
My first apartment was in the Bronx on Leland Avenue. The apartment was so stereotypical in its poverty, it was almost quaint. I had daily fights with rats over typical family issues. Who gets to sleep in the bed? Who gets to eat the last of the rice? Who gets to live and who dies mercilessly stuck to a trap made of glue? (I always won that particular fight.) There was a strip club directly across the street from me where I witnessed a man get shot and killed after a late-night argument over money escalated. From my window, I watched the body lay there all night before the police finally arrived to carry it away in the early hours of the morning, leaving a permanent black shadow on the pavement where the body had bled out. I had to walk over that dark shadow of death every day on my way to work. Suddenly, the Dave Matthews Band CD I had imported in from the suburbs, sounded not just out of place in my headphones, but completely inadequate. Of course I’d listened to rap before, but it was for pleasure. I was a recreational user of rap. Once I moved to New York, I became an addict. I needed something to cover up the sounds of degrading cat calls from construction workers. I needed to drown out the jackhammers and the fear. I was full of fear. I needed something to fill my soul with a strength from people that had walked down those same streets and stepped over those same shadows of blood. I needed hip hop.
The iPod wouldn’t be invented for another few years, so I relied on the local cashier at the corner bodgea to “curate” my playlist. Each morning I would grab a cup of stale, lukewarm coffee and the newest (illegally bootlegged) CD release. NYC radio DJ’s were like Gods. There was a never-ending selection of “mixedtapes” that featured new artists and remixed old cuts to make them new again. The DJ Clue tapes were my personal favorite. This era of New York City rappers included the likes of DMX, The Lox, N.O.R.E. and Big Pun and gave me the sound I was craving. Dark, gritty vocals rapping over carefully mixed beats, echoes of the DJ shouting out “CLUE CLUE CLUE!!!” as the next rapper began their 16 bars. Lyrics rich with grave imagery. Guns, drug deals, robberies, money. Their confidence was contagious. That was how I discovered Mobb Deep. Each day I selected a song to put on like a coat of armor. Mobb Deep’s “Murda Muzik” quickly became my album of choice. My headphones filled with the grimiest lyrics I’d ever heard, rhythmically layered over obscure selections of jazz and funk beats.
In “Shook Ones”, Prodigy raps:
“You heard of us, official Queensbridge murderers
The Mobb comes equipped for warfare, beware
Of my crime family who got nuff shots to share
For all of those, who wanna profile and pose
Rock you in your face, stab your brain with your nose bone” 1
Haunting, threatening lyrics, layered over soulful samples from Quincy Jones and Herbie Hancock. From “Quiet Storm”, Mobb Deep uses a beautifully melodic Smokey Robinson song, to rap about murder and reputation.
“Nigga, I pop more guns than you holdin' them
Make my route while the sun's out and scold your men
Unload ten in broad daylight, get right
Fuck your life! Hop on my '98 dirt bike
You try to stop mines from growin'
I'll make your blood stop flowin'” 2
The contrast was ingenious. With this new army of street soldiers in my headphones, I became untouchable. Navigating through the streets, my walk was a little quicker. My head no longer looking down, but up at the world around me. I navigated the subway system, carefully avoiding the drug addicts defying physics by nodding asleep while standing straight up on the 6 train.
I moved out of the Bronx a few months later, and found a nicer, but equally rat-infested apartment in Queens. The 7 train was a little less ominous and I started listening to Common and OutKast. Rap music continued to grow up and explore new sounds and places, right along with me.
Look at me,attending your old college. I almost cried walking through the hallways, wondering if you had classes in the same room that I was now sitting in. We used to talk endlessly about the importance of education. You hated that I was wasting my brain. You had the knowledge of life that only someone facing death has. That it is too short to waste, even one hour. You were so annoyed by my lack of urgency. Floating through life, half drunk. Spending enormous amounts of money on clothes and falling in love with every man who told me I was beautiful. You hated and envied my recklessness.
And now you are gone and I have inherited your sense of urgency.
I'm going to Rutgers full time, while still working full time at a horribly degrading restaurant. Your horror stories from the Cheesecake Factory resonate more soundly now. But, I can tolerate the servitude, because of classes like these. My Literature in Hip Hop class has me thinking more deeply about how music has been a steady part of my life. The soundtrack to all of those bad decisions, and reckless stories you were so eager to hear about. How I wrapped myself up in the protective anger of rappers like a warm blanket. It was like having a whole group of older brothers looking after me. Little ole me, who is tragically nice and friendly, and could never say out loud what Prodigy said on vinyl, but who wanted to scream that shit to anyone listening. In my heart, I was full of desperation and anger. I felt it. I needed it. So in my first assignment, which was my testimony to hip hop, I wrote about how Prodigy was right next to me, holding my hand and filling my head, while I navigated through the craziest boro in New York. I thought you'd might like to read it.
Hip Hop Testimonial: Songs of the Pavement
It was the summer of 1999. I’d just graduated high school and made what would be, the most defining decision of my life. My grandparents, bless their hearts, put aside $1,500 to send me to college. Faced with the intimidating costs of tuition, and this raw, almost primal urge to run away, I scrapped the whole idea of school. Instead, I used that money to purchase a used Ford Mustang and drove to New York City, which I made my home for the next ten years.
My first apartment was in the Bronx on Leland Avenue. The apartment was so stereotypical in its poverty, it was almost quaint. I had daily fights with rats over typical family issues. Who gets to sleep in the bed? Who gets to eat the last of the rice? Who gets to live and who dies mercilessly stuck to a trap made of glue? (I always won that particular fight.) There was a strip club directly across the street from me where I witnessed a man get shot and killed after a late-night argument over money escalated. From my window, I watched the body lay there all night before the police finally arrived to carry it away in the early hours of the morning, leaving a permanent black shadow on the pavement where the body had bled out. I had to walk over that dark shadow of death every day on my way to work. Suddenly, the Dave Matthews Band CD I had imported in from the suburbs, sounded not just out of place in my headphones, but completely inadequate. Of course I’d listened to rap before, but it was for pleasure. I was a recreational user of rap. Once I moved to New York, I became an addict. I needed something to cover up the sounds of degrading cat calls from construction workers. I needed to drown out the jackhammers and the fear. I was full of fear. I needed something to fill my soul with a strength from people that had walked down those same streets and stepped over those same shadows of blood. I needed hip hop.
The iPod wouldn’t be invented for another few years, so I relied on the local cashier at the corner bodgea to “curate” my playlist. Each morning I would grab a cup of stale, lukewarm coffee and the newest (illegally bootlegged) CD release. NYC radio DJ’s were like Gods. There was a never-ending selection of “mixedtapes” that featured new artists and remixed old cuts to make them new again. The DJ Clue tapes were my personal favorite. This era of New York City rappers included the likes of DMX, The Lox, N.O.R.E. and Big Pun and gave me the sound I was craving. Dark, gritty vocals rapping over carefully mixed beats, echoes of the DJ shouting out “CLUE CLUE CLUE!!!” as the next rapper began their 16 bars. Lyrics rich with grave imagery. Guns, drug deals, robberies, money. Their confidence was contagious. That was how I discovered Mobb Deep. Each day I selected a song to put on like a coat of armor. Mobb Deep’s “Murda Muzik” quickly became my album of choice. My headphones filled with the grimiest lyrics I’d ever heard, rhythmically layered over obscure selections of jazz and funk beats.
In “Shook Ones”, Prodigy raps:
“You heard of us, official Queensbridge murderers
The Mobb comes equipped for warfare, beware
Of my crime family who got nuff shots to share
For all of those, who wanna profile and pose
Rock you in your face, stab your brain with your nose bone” 1
Haunting, threatening lyrics, layered over soulful samples from Quincy Jones and Herbie Hancock. From “Quiet Storm”, Mobb Deep uses a beautifully melodic Smokey Robinson song, to rap about murder and reputation.
“Nigga, I pop more guns than you holdin' them
Make my route while the sun's out and scold your men
Unload ten in broad daylight, get right
Fuck your life! Hop on my '98 dirt bike
You try to stop mines from growin'
I'll make your blood stop flowin'” 2
The contrast was ingenious. With this new army of street soldiers in my headphones, I became untouchable. Navigating through the streets, my walk was a little quicker. My head no longer looking down, but up at the world around me. I navigated the subway system, carefully avoiding the drug addicts defying physics by nodding asleep while standing straight up on the 6 train.
I moved out of the Bronx a few months later, and found a nicer, but equally rat-infested apartment in Queens. The 7 train was a little less ominous and I started listening to Common and OutKast. Rap music continued to grow up and explore new sounds and places, right along with me.
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