Something from Nothing: The Art of Rap Page #7

to melle mel.

Motherfuckers be

getting on the mic...

Melle mel,

"1, 2, 1, 2."

You like

"damn, man." You like,

they using

different mics and sh*t?

Nah.

No. It was, like, okay.

So even in '87,

we're getting down

at latin quarter.

They got

their system going out,

and, you know,

we amped up or whatever.

We playing our song,

and you hear one voice

out of everybody

in whole motherfucking packed latin quarter.

"Get them suckers

off the stage.

"Get them niggas

off the stage. They whack.

They whack."

I'm like...

They keep

turning the sound up,

and you still hear

one motherfucking voice.

Oh, my god, and it's mel.

So... and it's mel.

It's like his voice

is like this big,

which meant that

f*** a system.

Move them shits

out of the way.

I'll rap you a cappella,

no system.

That was the epitome

of a mighty rapper,

"and if you were...

If you had a 3'4" voice,

you wasn't

f***ing with that.

The motherf***er got

wilt chamberlain voice.

So how did you all

reconcile it at the end?

We reconciled it

by getting good.

I hate changing up

the texture of my f***ing sh*t.

Yo, that's nasty, yo.

My writing process

has always been geared

towards going

steps beyond

what the next person

is going to say, think or write about.

I had the motherf***er

right here.

It's gone.

"That's part

of the art of rap.

"20 minutes flat,

write a rap in real time,

"and I was

f***ing with that,

so y'all

can fall back..."

Done!

I'm gonna

torch this, man,

because, you know,

I'm definitely against,

you know, marijuana,

so whenever

I get the opportunity, I burn it.

Oh, sh*t.

That's tight.

I said I've been

down with this since the start of rap

I guess you

could say I played a big part of rap

Not only

been the brain, but the heart of rap

And it beats just

like a drum, and that's the art of rap

I've been known

to flip flows like bricks and pancakes

And, yeah, I seen

my share of tricks and handshakes

By tricks

and bandmates with a different agenda

Female and

male snakes and some great pretenders

But trust me

on this, for as long as I'm breathing

I'm gonna check

a wet rapper

And call out

a heathen

I'm gonna lead

by example

With this hot sh*t

I'm spitting

And y'all just

saw me write it

So you damn right

it's written

That's part

of the art of rap

In 20 minutes flat

Write a rhyme

in real time

And I was

f***ing with that

So you can fall back

from that old cat

Don't get it twisted

The mc train just

left the station

And I was driving,

you missed it

It's in some rappers' dna.

Like myself, we gotta tell

the stories of our lives

and daily struggles

in this world.

This is a world

outside the law,

full of dangerous characters

surviving off the game

and unfortunately

sometimes the exploitation

of others.

Everybody always

talk about when the money's coming in,

when we ballin',

when we looking good.

We chose to speak

on what happened

when the drug dealer

goes home,

what happened

when the hustler's in the living room

counting the money

at the end of the night,

even though,

you know, he might have had to do this

or do that in order

to make that money.

There's conflicts

about that type of thing, you know.

None of us really just

choose this lifestyle.

Some of us just

kind of fall into it.

I call that the b side

of the game.

Absolutely.

The b side.

It's like everybody want

to hear the good stuff,

but there's

an entirely other b side

that only real hustlers

know about, you know?

And I always would

look at people's music,

and if I didn't

hear that side, I knew it was fake.

Absolutely.

I got to talk

about the pitfalls

of the game.

The song starts with

a hustler at the nickel and dime level

that works himself up

to the big baller,

ends up getting busted,

and all the money

he stacked up in the game

was the money that

it took to try to get him out the trouble.

He ended up

not getting out of trouble anyway,

so all the money

that he made was for nothing.

He goes to jail,

he comes home,

and because he

never game hisself an opportunity

to experience

anything else outside of drug dealing,

he never gave

hisself an opportunity to try something else.

When he comes home,

he's got no education,

he's got no skills,

so he's forced to go

right back on

that corner selling the drugs again.

It's this ugly cycle

that we see all the time,

that no writer really

speaks about, because they're in the cycle.

And so now you stuck,

and now you looking around

at the second-rate players

around you.

Your team's missing.

It's a f***ed-up situation.

Sometimes I hear death

knocking at my front door.

I'm living every day

like a hustle,

another drug to juggle,

another day,

another struggle, yo.

I know it's f***ed up

what a lack of cake'll do.

A few people want to move in

and stay with you.

You wish you could help more.

You unable to.

'Cause the rent's a little late,

plus the cable's due.

You and girlfriend are

beefing in a serious way.

You used to be faithful.

You in the curious stage.

Finally got your

mind made and going your separate ways.

Wait, Nah, homeboy,

her period's late.

Now think. Time's running out.

Do it quickly,

'cause she start crying,

mood's getting sticky.

If I don't want it,

she'll want nothing to do with me.

Just get the abortion,

and I'll give you the 250.

But if you say that to her,

then you wrong,

you ain't think about that.

You was getting your groove on.

I can't take care of myself,

never mind a newborn.

I guess that p*ssy

got too good for too long.

It seem like my money

goes by too easy,

why I hate that my job

only pays biweekly.

My hoopty done sh*t it.

You spending more money

trying to fix it

then what you did

when trying to get it.

The fridge is empty,

but I survive the hunger.

Who the f*** keeps calling

from this private number?

There's crime on my mind,

and my nails are dirty,

but the floors are real cold

in the jails at jersey.

Depression starts talking,

and his voice is raspy,

'cause he ain't shut

the f*** up in 31/2 weeks.

Look, the beard is full,

hair is nappy,

these jeans ain't mine,

so they way too baggy.

Priorities is f***ed,

and it's starting to gas me.

It's like my whole

just flipped right past me.

You starting to trap me.

His name's dwayne,

so why the f***

my son keep calling him daddy?

Same sh*t that I feared

after all these years.

I gotta breathe.

I can't believe my ears.

Wiping out my eyes,

I'm damn near in tears,

but you can't be mad,

'cause you know you ain't been there, Nah.

You grab his moms up,

throw her against the door,

but in the back

of your mind,

you know it ain't her fault.

Nah. I ain't mad at all.

I'm just bothered.

I get honest for real.

I ain't been the best father.

Like toys r us,

chuck e. Cheese,

you know a little nigga

grow up with these needs.

New year's or christmas,

even a birthday.

At least bring the nigga

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