We Just Talking About Practice

Ideally, for an artist the concept of practice is never really over. Mastering one particular piece of your art form opens the door to three new pieces. This had already weighed heavy on my hemispheres when my old lady began chiding me for not honing my passions. Of course, this got under my skin as only the ones that love us most can do. After she detonated the truth bomb, she kissed me and went to bed. This left me alone with my worst nightmare – my inner monologue.

It started with the basics: “Who the fuck does she think she is – trying to lecture me about practice like I’m some new kid with his first instrument? How dare she come at me sideways with all the shit I’ve accomplished? I could teach a goddamn class on my art form.” So after I finished downing that last sip of negativity, a much softer voice came in, “Well, how much time have you spent really polishing your craft? How actively do you pursue other methods to expand your knowledge? How are you gonna chase the greats when you won’t put in the work to be great yourself?”

Now, let me clarify – this is not a pity party. I am one seriously talented brother. I have spent a lot of time, effort, and other peoples’ money to get on the level that I’m at. I think what my angel and my mind were trying to tell me is that the danger is in resting and getting complacent. It never ceases to amaze me how quickly talent can turn to mediocrity and skills can atrophy. We all know the saying, “Use it or lose it.”

I have the great fortune of having an amazing peer network and – considering the well-known statistics of success in my field – most are doing well. We all Facebook stalk and sometimes it’s easy to do the envy dance. “He’s getting all that recognition? My crew totally stole that last show we did together.” The small voice was back, “Well, John, it might be because while you were on Facebook for an hour, your friends were in the studio.” Stupid self-awareness.

My dad used to always say the instrument never lies. He would say it before school, when I sat down to practice, after concerts, and just before I left for college. I knew that those were his words to me to motivate me to put in work, but the words never resonated with me. That is, until some jerk with my best interests at heart reminded me in her own way of my father’s mantra. So now I hear, “You’ve reached a new level. It’s time to buckle down and rock even harder, ‘cause you’re playing in a new league.”

“Your instrument never lies.”

I am truly going to enjoy sharing my truth with you.

Analog Cats

(Presenting: A post that languished for a months before seeing the light of day)

So does someone want to tell me how the hell Justin effin’ Bieber won an “Artist of the Year” award? Have that kid’s balls dropped yet? Now before y’all start hating on me with the “Why you always gotta pick on the kid,” and “You just mad ‘cause he’s famous and has a deal.” Well to that last one, I would say you’re absolutely right. But I might retort with this: Can you listen to all the great music that came out this year and really tell me that Justin Bieber is the best we have to offer? Go ahead, I’ll wait…

Okay, that had nothing to do with what I had on my mind this week. But I found the AMAs to be very disturbing this year. (The Psy/Hammer mash-up did make me crack a smile though.) I was out in Carlsbad this past month taking in a homie’s show. Before the gig, my friends and I were waxing poetic about the death of albums. Apparently another friend of mine just became a teacher. And appalling as it is that any friend of mine would be allowed near children, he seems to be doing quite well. During one such mind-molding session, my friend’s students asked him for his favorite Pink Floyd song. I know, right?!? Everyone knows if you’re going to listen to Pink Floyd you listen to the WHOLE album!

However, that’s not really the case today, is it? Today you can find your favorite artist’s newest body of work, sample each of the songs, pick out the ones you like, and leave everything you don’t. Now wielding supreme musical power is pretty legit. And let’s face it, with all the crap that the gods on Mount Mainstream shove on a weekly basis, shelling out mozzarella for an album built around two singles seems absurd.

I wonder though if people would be so quick to dissect albums if they truly saw the effort that went into it. Not the nice dressed up 3-minute YouTube version, but the 4-hour listen-to-one-part-of-a-song-so-you-can-get-the-snare-to-line-up-with-the-verse version. The agony of tearing and cutting into your creative baby just to make sure that the latest piece of your heart is user friendly. Or better still – that moment of completion when an album is finished, arranged, and mastered. Creating is the easy part. Sending it out to the world to be judged and picked at can feel like being waterboarded.

This truly is not meant to point a finger at casual listeners. A lot of you are artists’ bread and butter. Any support is better than no support.

I just couldn’t imagine breaking down masterpieces like Thriller to just singles. Sure, Billie Jean is one of the best songs ever. However, without Baby Be Mine, Thriller is just another album. Each album I’ve put together is a mini collection of my growth, triumphs, happiness, pain, despair, and moments of clarity. Besides, albums are $7 now – not $20. Stop being so cheap! 

30 Looks Good On Me

I heard that one of those four limeys from Liverpool once said that “life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.” An old friend told me the same thing back in the day during one of my many bitch sessions after work. I don’t know if the Beatles made that up or if they jacked it from someone much smarter, but the statement holds up.

Once upon a time, there was a skinny brotha living in a no-name, white-bred suburb in Who-the-fuck-cares, Arizona. He had a very specific dream that one day he would rise to the top of the hip-hop industry, ride the success wave for a bit, and (when his star power faced) retire in a large home full of caviar and model bitches. (He’d never actually tasted caviar, but he’d seen rich people eat it.) Being sensible, he set a time frame for himself. All these small feats should be wrapped up by the ripe old age of 30.

Of course, we’ve all seen enough dramas to know that there might have been a few flaws in this young man’s master plan. During his 20s, his world changed dramatically, often without any warning. He found a crew of like-minded individuals to join him on his musical crusade. As the nation’s musical tastes began to grow and evolve (using the word very loosely), however, he felt the industry would never understand his vision. This concern added to his Everest of insecurities. His actual work began to draw more of his focus; he realized he needed to make more money in order to build a solid foundation and fund the dream. After all, as his friends loved to remind him, he made a horrible criminal.

At 29, despair started to set up shop. With an alienated family, a shelved album, a job that sucked up most of his time, and a level of cynicism and bitterness that would put Lewis Black to shame, he doubted the dream would ever come true.

At 30, a funny thing happened. Older age, it would appear, came with a sense of clarity and wisdom. Sitting on the balcony of his Los Angeles condo, he had a small epiphany: out of his top ten favorite artists, he’d met eight and opened for four of them at shows. He was on the verge of releasing his fourth album with his original crew. Even in his “dead end job,” he made contacts of use in his musical pursuits. He had a home in the heart of downtown LA – far removed from the culturally bankrupt town where he grew up. Perhaps best of all, he woke up every day next to one of the most beautiful, loving, and intelligent of God’s creations. The dreams of the 18-year-old kid were realized by the 30-year-old man. The shape and nature were a bit different, but when you peel back the layers, the heart of each dream is still there.

I like to think that 30-year-old me would challenge the assertion that life is what happens when you’re planning something else. Instead, life happens because we plan. And to that naive 18-year-old kid that thought he was invincible and could conquer it all, I would say “Good looking out, little homie.”

You heard it first... kids SUCK!!!

Disclaimer: The views of Sumatyme in no way, shape, or form reflect the views of Identity Crisis as a whole. (Even if the shit is the truth and you sensitive motherfuckers can't handle it. Choke on it you fascist asses!)

For those new to these humble entries, this is the part of the show where John goes on a random rant. So for those who bruise easy (and suck), please feel free to surf elsewhere. You will be missed. ('Cause I have no friends.)

Seriously though kids (ages 16-22), may I have your attention? Of course I can't. That would take away from whatever social network you're updating. We don't give a crap about the size of the new deuce you just dropped. Don't get it twisted. Freedom of the internet has led to some amazing ideas meeting the light of day. But fuck good people! I have to draw the line at Rebecca Black's bowel movement of her new hit song "Friday."

36 million of you had nothing better to do but watch some over-indulged rich kid crash and burn on her pop dreams?!? (My better half included.) The irony of it is that by sucking royally, she is now more famous than artists who have been at it longer and are infinitely more talented (and I'm not even including IDC in that lament).

And for the sake of the generation after - because let's face it guys, you already blew it - PLEASE bring back proper English. If I catch one more Cali kid cutting words in half (e.g. "Man, this shit is redic!"), I swear I will start sterilizing every child I meet. It's not cool or cute. It makes you sound like you should have been on the short bus.

Now I can hear you already. "John, you're just old. You're out of touch." Well maybe, but I still know basic grammar, assholes.

And the skinny jeans. Oh fellas, the skinny jeans. Dammit that shit makes y'all look like extras from the Legend of Zelda with the big shoes and tights. Camel toe is for old ladies. This shit is like corsets for dudes. And ladies? You're not helping. If your guy wants to borrow your jeans, have the courage to stand up and say No!!! You bought those jeans to shape your ass, not his.

Well that ought to just about do it. Children, if I may leave you with one more thought: Just because your parents suck at life, that doesn't mean you have to one-up them. Oh yeah, and eat your vegetables... bitch.

Summers out.

We submit for your approval...

"They" say do what you love and you never work a day in your life. Well, "they" can fuck off!!!

Okay, that feels better. Hello again, true believers. (Paul, Justin, Jess, Desiree, what's up!?!) It's been a long time, I shouldn't have left you, but fate usually has other ideas.

So it's the 2nd week of March. Now's as good a time as any to start the 2011 edition of Chronicles of a Broke Rapper. (Yes, I am fully on CPT time.) To bring you up to speed, it only took three months to break just about all of my New Year's resolutions. The album is behind schedule, which means shows are a no-go. You don't really wanna set up a gig with no merchandise.

However, emo bullshit aside, musically the group is knocking shit out of the Milky Way. I'm back among the gainfully employed and I'm beginning to feel like Sumatyme from the days of old.

Hip-hop has even taken a turn away from the manic Bieber-fever that seems to have swept over our top MCs. (Yes, Kanye and Raekwon, I'm looking at you... respectfully, of course.)

The City of Angels has been very eye-opening for your resident lyricist. The amount of talent in my neighborhood on any given day is staggering. Which is balanced out nicely by the fact that most of the people out here act like the blind leading the half-retarded. It's all champagne and caviar until the bill shows. But my goal for the year is to keep my rhymes up, head down, heart open, and coffers full. Between us, I still don't really fit in anywhere. (You would think that after 28 years, I'd be used to it.) But artists here are falling all over themselves to stand out so I suppose we can put that one in the "win" column as well.

I'm chipping away at my personal issues. With the help of my better half, I feel like I'm catching on to the roles of the game of life. While I still have the skills of a top procrastinator, being a stranger in a foreign land has truly helped me be honest with my shortcomings. One thing I've envied about my brother from another is that X has always been able to transfer anything that's going on in his head on to wax. Seven years later and many songs behind me, being truly open has never been a strong suit of mine. On a personal level, I feel this (combined with an unhealthy dose of self-sabotage) is keeping me from being the artist I know I can be.

So, my friends, we are going all the way back to basics. I'm stripping my artistic self down to the bare bones and rebuilding, prize fighter style. The new motto is "from the underground up" and we are going to start with this offering. Thanks for sticking with us.

Peace.

A True Band of Brothers

Growing up in the south side of the Chi, he was never included. His parents moving him to suburban Arizona only cemented his title as “the whitest black person I’ve ever met,” in his peers’ eyes. Fifteen years old and searching for belonging, for meaning, he walked to his neighborhood record store.

He had just left school where he was on display – the only black student in a school of close to two hundred. Walking the quiet, upscale suburban streets, the cops would stop him "to make sure everything was okay." Arriving at the store and wandering through, he watched the tolerant masses clutch their purses and move away. He was searching for anything that would take him away from his status quo.

He passed the section marked Country, made a right at the Rock, and located a small rack marked "Rap/Hip-hop." Hidden between the Dres, Snoops, and Notorious B.I.G.s was an album titled "Like Water for Chocolate." The cover – a beacon reminiscent of Harlem Renaissance – intrigued him. It struck a chord and reminded him of a time that the old folks talked about that he could never connect to. Without any indication of the contents of the album, he dug $16.95 out of his pocket.

Vibing, he walked home. He had new music. Something different. Throwing the new disc in the deck, he had no idea what he would experience. The album floored him. He stayed up until four a.m. listening over and over. With each new track, he was pulled in by the beats, cadence, metaphors, stories, and concepts. He heard the sounds of generations before, but repackaged. Jazz, the old-school shit his dad used to talk about, mixed with raw energy, emotion, and rap.

The artists he had heard on the radio, he liked their music. Dre and Snoop brought a change from the monotony. But Common changed everything. Back in the "Rap/Hip-hop" section, he looked for names he'd never heard before. De la Soul, Dilla, Slum Village, Questlove, DJ Premier... Every Tuesday after school became his salvation. He would trek to the record store and spend his entire paycheck. The artists spoke to him individually. They each told him a different story, a different piece of what his people were going through. Returning home, holing up in his room, he kept his ear to the speaker like he was scanning a transistor radio – searching for signs of life. He found it.

"My high school reunion is months from now, and I only have two dollars in my checking account"

Okay, I admit things are not quite that dire. But believe me, there are days that are close. This months the three scariest words in the English language are "High School Reunion." That's right my brothers and sisters. I have received my ten-year invitation. I would rather start a rap beef with Eminem or pick a fight with Brock Lesnar... really.

Don't think I don't know that we've all sprinted to the mirror to check the pudgy places or the spots where our hair is running from our foreheads. There's something about this forced kind of reflection that trips me out. My high school career wasn't all that bad really. Nor was I ever the last kid picked for dodgeball. Aside from being the only black guy in a conservative town (Sheriff Joe lives there), I made a lot of good friends.

What kills is having to explain this life to the people I had nothing in common with then. What the hell am I supposed to say now? How do I explain the drama behind putting four albums together, touring the country, and marketing myself on my own dollar? All of these guys are getting married, finishing grad school, having kids, and contributing to society in amazing ways. I can only see as far as my next 16 bars.

Now don't get me wrong - this trade off has also given me some of the best moments of my life. I've achieved things that most dream about. But it doesn't keep my bank account warm at night.

Maybe I'm reading way too much in to the situation. However, the ten-year-mark provides many opportunities to delve into the past. So I suppose I should do what I always do. Fuck it, let's party!!! Fountain Hills High, here I come! Lap it up, bitches!!!