Read The Dead Emcee Scrolls Online
Authors: Saul Williams
The Dead Emcee Scrolls (2 page)
Toot your horn
and feel me.
This book is dedicated to
the sho nuff sho nuff.
The nappy dugout:
corn-rowed, twisted and
braided and the NGH
who parlayed it into cold
cash. NGH, you crazy!
I'm 'a sick my dogs on
you.
This book is dedicated to
those who prayed for it,
who saw it before it was
here, who sensed it from
the beginning.
This book is dedicated to
the beginning. Before
before and right now.
This book is dedicated to
the lunch table. The
boom bap. I still got my
12 inch of Spoonin Rap!
To all the original
blueprints. I know ya
heard of that!
This book is dedicated
to yellow caps in
Lemon Heads boxes
(Krak Attack!), three
quarter bombers, and
Africans selling time
machines in Times
Square by moonlight
(clear nail polish on fake
gold will make it last
longer. Ain't nobody
talkin bout diamonds.
Not yet.
But this book is dedicated
to that too!). Name belts,
name rings, name-plates,
gold ropes, door knocker
earrings, and gold fronts.
This book is dedicated to
that more than once.
This book is dedicated to
Phillie blunts, Oakland
Raider jackets, “X” caps,
Spike's Joint, and a
bunch of shit that
became corny overnight.
This book is dedicated to
those that write! Fab 5,
Futura, Doze, shake your
cans and feel me!
This book is dedicated to
floor wizards spinning on
backs, head, and hands,
and cute girls that ain't
afraid to dance.
But, nah, it ain't only
about the old school.
This book is dedicated to
platinum grills and apple
bottoms. Backpackers in
Benzes with white Jesus
medallions and his crown
of diamond thorns
hanging from their
necks. Hardy har har,
NGHs. Change clothes
and feel me.
This book is dedicated to
moguls, def to death.
Please don't take a shit
on the chest of our
generation (Vicelord,
your majesty). Ugly
NGHs with money to
burn. The ass thou
pimpest shall be thine
own. Funk God I know
you feel me. Now let me
hold a li'l something so I
can get the IRS off my
back (I can't always bring
myself to pay taxes to a
government that uses our
money to steal more land
and ignore the ongoing
plight of the poor in our
names! What's realer
than that?). All this
money is dirty. You can't
buy freedom, but let's
buy some airtime and
shelf-space and elevate
this freedom of speech.
Free your mind,
brother. Peaceful Pimpin'
since '72. Ask my baby
mamas, they'll tell ya.
What? You never heard
of that?
This book is dedicated to
Crunchy Black,
Willie D, Face, Kane,
and all you dark-skinned
cats that had to smile to
be seen.
This book is dedicated to
freedom, although it
comes at a cost.
Don't steal it, y'all
(“steal” should read
“find” if the subject is
white, in which case
the subject is free
to help himself).
This book is dedicated to
white people, 'cause y'all
feel it too. All these
so-called races. What we
runnin' for? Don't believe
the hype! We are one.
This book is dedicated to
greater understanding,
power, and NGHs with
enough game to flaunt it.
This book is dedicated to
Yahshua Clay (You know
who you is NGH, Stand
up!), Niggy Tardust,
Tennessee Slim
(Detonate!), Soggy Lama
III (and the sirens of
Atlantis that sing his
praises), Zupert Henry
(your mamas car ain't
faster than mine, boy),
Rebekka Holylove (hip
hip shalom!), and the
luminous heroes of
today, now, and
forevermore (I hold
my nuts as I exit)!
P.S. Did you know the
mothership was built in
Newburgh, NY? That's
what I be meanin when I
say “Word to the Mother.”
Selah.
Part 2: Seven Mountains: Journal Excerpts 1994â2001
In the final analysis, every generation must be responsible for itself.
PAUL ROBESON
There is no music more powerful than hip-hop. No other music so purely demands an instant affirmative on such a global scale. When the beat drops, people nod their heads, “yes,” in the same way that they would in conversation with a loved one, a parent, professor, or minister. Instantaneously, the same mechanical gesture that occurs in moments of dialogue as a sign of agreement which subsequently, releases increased oxygen to the brain and, thus, broadens one's ability to understand, becomes the symbolic and actual gesture that connects you to the beat. No other musical form has created such a raw and visceral connection to the heart while still incorporating various measures from other musical forms that then appeal to other aspects of the emotional core of an individual. Music speaks directly to the subconscious. The consciously simplified beat of the hip-hop drum speaks directly to the heart. The indigenous drumming of continental Africa is known to be primarily dense and quite often up-tempo. The drumming of the indigenous Americas, on the other hand, in its most common representation is
primarily sparse and down-tempo. What happens when you put a mixer and cross-fader between those two cultural realities? What kind of rhythms and polyrhythms might you come up with? Perhaps one complex yet basic enough to synchronize the hearts of an entire generation.
To program a drumbeat is to align an external rhythmic device to an individual's biorhythm. I remember being introduced to the hip hop/electronica sub-genre, drum and bass, by one of its pioneers, Goldie. I accompanied him to his DJ set at the London club, the Blue Note. After about an hour of him staring straight into my eyes, gold teeth glaring, miming or pointing to every invisible, yet highly audible, bass line, kick, snare, and high hat, he took me outside and instructed me to monitor my heartbeat so that I might note that the intensity of the music in the club had actually sped it up so that my heart was, now, poundingâa sort of high speed drum and bass metronome. I had been re-programmed (note: it was a high-speed wireless connection). Did it affect how I thought? I don't know, but surely, the potential was there. The music of that night had been mostly without lyrics. But if there were lyrics, could they have affected me on a subconscious level in the same way that the music itself had affected me on a subatomic level? Who knows? What I do know is that I have been a hip hop head for years. I have nodded my head to the music that initially affirmed my existence as an African American male. And then, of course, as the music grew more openly misogynistic and capitalistic, I found myself being a bit more picky about exactly what I would choose to nod my head to. It was difficult. Sometimes the beats were undeniable. Regardless, even though
I always sensed the power of the music, even though I remember the few hip-hop songs that brought tears to my eyes because they went beyond speaking of the power of the music and hinted at the power of our generation, nothing, absolutely nothing could have prepared me for the story that I am about to share.
I have paraded as a poet for years now. In the process of parading I may have actually become one, but that's another story, another book. This book is a book that I have been waiting to finish since 1995. This is the book that finished me. The story I am about to tell may sound fantastic. It may anger some of you who have followed my work. You may feel that you have come to know me over the years, and in some cases you have, but in others ⦠well, this is a confession.
I came to New York in 1994, having just graduated from Morehouse College in Atlanta, Georgia, where I had majored in philosophy and drama. I was about to begin my first year in the graduate acting program at NYU. I was very excited. I had been planning my career as an actor my entire life and everything was going exactly as planned. Because I could study drama in school, it was never simply a hobby for me; it was a professional choice. On the other hand, I had been rapping for as long as I had been acting, but rapping was never something I could study in school. It was extra curricular. I wrote rhymes between classes (and often during). I battled at lunchtime and recess. It was my favorite past time.
Time passed and by the time I graduated from college I no longer wrote rhymes. I was becoming more focused on acting. Yet, the time that I once spent writing rhymes was now spent
listening and critiquing hip-hop. I was a purist. I saw my list of the top ten emcees as
the
list. I could talk hip-hop all day. And not just the music, the culture. I had been a breakdancer and had even spent part of my time in Atlanta dancing for an up-and-coming rap group. Junior high and high school had been hardly more than a fashion show for me: Lee suits, name belts, name rings, fat laces, you name it. Growing up just an hour outside of New York City had kept me feverishly close to the culture. We always did our back to school shopping on Farmers Boulevard in the Bronx, 8th Street in Manhattan, Dr. Jays in Harlem, Delancey, Orchard and any other place mentioned in classic hip-hop songs to make sure we were never behind the trends. I'm tempted to list the color of my sheep skin, Pumas, shell toes, Lottos, Filas, how many Lees I had, sewed in creases, fat laces, name rings, truck jewelry. What?! Unfuckwitable. Its really the only reason why despite any career success I may experience I hardly bling. I blang.
I never really tried to DJ, but I definitely tried my hand as a graffiti writer. I was never any good, but I always had the utmost respect for any kid that could “write,” as we used to say. I used to watch my cousin Duce and my man Sergio practice their alphabet everyday. As graff writers they knew that every aspect of their writing had to be original. They would transform their letters into highly stylistic, barely legible testaments of ghetto inventiveness. I would try, but I sucked and I knew it. So usually, I just focused on writing rhymes. But my admiration for the art of graffiti writing remained intact. So intact that when I moved to the City for grad school and a friend mentioned that he knew some hidden spots where some legendary
graffiti existed and offered to take me on a tour following subway tracks to caverns between stations, I urged him to take me immediately.
Flashlight in hand, we descended the platform and ventured into the darkness. The mazes we journeyed were womblike and seemed infinite. I had to get used to the rats venturing between the rails. I was having flashbacks of
Beat Street
and
Wild Style
, two films that practically defined my youth. I remembered the word “Spit” popping up over detailed graffiti. The ultimate dis, defacement of defacement. My mind ventured to the present where so many emcees and poets were now using the word “spit” instead of rap or rhyme. “Yo, let me spit over that track.” Graffiti culture still resonates deeply in the heart of hip-hop, whether we realize it or not. I remember learning of ancient Egyptian dynasties and how, in some, the scribes were more popular, while in others the focus was on the illustrators. Depending on the dynasty or pharaoh of an age, the work on the walls of a pyramid may have more words and scriptures versus more illustrations of the words and scriptures. This topic always made me think of the subject of beats vs. rhymes and early nineties hip-hop, ushered in by Dr. Dre and
The Chronic.
It was the first time I ever heard people overtly appreciating beats and flow over content. I remember not knowing whether to fast forward or play “Bitches Ain't Shit” (to me, one of the dopest tracks on the album, especially because of “The Bridge” sample) while in mixed company. Some people, women in particular, would be instantly offended, while others excused the lyrics because of Snoop's intoxicating flow. It became common to hear people say, almost apologetically, “Oh, I just like the beat.” One
of my professors at the time, Pearl Cleage, now a renowned novelist, had come out with a book called
Mad at Miles
, which she shared in class. In the book she spoke of not being able to listen to Miles Davis's softly muted trumpet without hearing the muted screams of the women he had unabashedly abused. She opened my eyes to misogyny and the way it plays out in our daily life. I wrote a horrible play for her class attempting to address the issue of misogyny in hip-hop.
The Chronic
was number one on the charts at the time. And just as I began to think about how Ms. Cleage and her class had deeply affected me, we reached the first stop on our underground graffiti tour. The first stop changed my life.