Before I had an interest in writing fiction and blogging, I wrote poetry for a number of years. Even those who are close to me don't know this, but prior to that I did some rapping. I was young, maybe thirteen or something, and 8 Mile was in theaters, so suburbia had suddenly turned into the projects, and we were all trying to get famous by talking about how difficult it is growing up in a two story home with a front and back yard.
Fast forward a long time, and through one of my best friends I was introduced to Solo For Dolo. Actually, I was introduced to his first album, The Truth for the Youth, and I liked it, but my car only had a radio so the album ended up ripped onto the hard drive and shelved for another few years. My friend was getting married, and I got to meet the man the legend, Solo himself.
In case you haven't watched his videos, Solo isn't a large man. I'm not big by any means, and I felt larger than him. More importantly he doesn't impose himself. He was chill, and we ended up hanging out in Atlantic City that night while my friend was getting busy with the wife. We bar hopped most of the night and ended up walking back to our casino hotel room wrecked. At the elevators, my friend tried to convince us to get some 5 a.m. gambling in at the roulette tables. I went back to the room to vomit and sleep, Solo won a few hundred, came back, slept, woke up before me, and made the two hour drive north back home. I slept in my car for another few hours before making a few phone calls to get someone to help drive me home.
We kept barely in touch for the next year, and when our friend in common (his cousin actually, how did I skip that detail?) came back from overseas, we went to Atlantic City again. Two hours in, we were all trashed on 24 hour happy hour beers and shots, and were walking and talking, when I made the decision to dust of the rap skills.
I can drink. Ask anyone if I'm a drinker, and there is a consensus I like to imbibe ethanol. I like drinking. I don't like people out drinking me. I hate people out drinking me when I vomit and end up hungover and they end up taking the casino for a few hundred just to show off their sobriety.
For whatever reason, my displeasure manifested itself in a quick eight bar diss directed at a man I knew was a pro. I had kicked it with him and his cousin a few times, but my poetry background didn't translate well into hip hop, and I mostly listened as they fed off of one another. This day, I managed eight bars of playful hate. It was like when you could still spit a little hate without the other rapper getting their panties twisted because there was a mutual respect. After I finished, there was silence; I had won.
For about the quarter of a second it took him to realize what I did and open his mouth.
I was then treated to a protracted lyrical beatdown that lambasted me on everything from my background and clothing to lack of sexual prowess and poor gambling. He had probably spent a grand total of eight hours with me, and most of those had been drinking, but he has the power to observe things well below the skin's surface in an instant, and he sent the very clear message that he was superior and this wasn't my game. What probably was about a minute of time felt like a full album dedicated to dismantling me completely.
When he finished I tried again. It wasn't a bid to win, I just needed some pride points to know I wasn't completely worthless. This time I didn't have time to think up lines during the walk, but I came back a bit stronger, half from realizing the stakes, half from anger at losing again. I managed something like twelve bars. It was lukewarm at best, but I had more conviction, and the delivery helped make it seem better than it was. It wasn't art, but it was something I felt at least had legs enough to stand in the same arena.
Without the element of surprise as a buffer, Solo began talking as the last word fell off my lips. His posture changed and he leaned forward. The first time I had let loose a wild and crazy haymaker that forced him on the defensive. Now that we were toe to toe, he could show me why he does what he does. I felt like the first guy who ever tried to fight Ali, taking punch after punch and hoping to just walk out of the ring after it was over. Anything I had done to save face was decimated by a carpet bombing of hate lyrics. He switched his style a few times, rapping double time for a minute before slowing it up and dragging each word like taffy to emphasize he was making me his bitch. By the time he had finished, I was hoping he would keep going, as he had convinced me that I was a punk bitch. For a couple of moments we stood there, him confident and poised in victory while I tried to just look at the ground and forget the loss.
Eventually we got moving again, and we never really talked about it happening. That's how he operates, inside the unsuspecting relaxed everyman is this tortured twisted thing just begging for someone to give it a reason to start burning anything in its path. That night I saw the passion that drove the rapper, and it was as undeniably a raw and powerful force as any storm to hit that beach. I don't know if it's true, but his cousin says the beatdown left a pair of size nine Nike footprints in the boardwalk that you can still find, waiting as testament to the most lopsided rap battle ever.
*****
I started writing this and thought I would share. I've got another tale or two, heads up for those being posted soon.Solo is for real, he is fucking dope, and you would be a full blown retard to not take the opportunity to see him live (I'm going to the show in Phila on Aug 1), or at least buy an album if the tour's too far a hike.
No comments:
Post a Comment