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!!!

Conscious vs. Asleep Rap

So I figured I would use today's blog to sound off on some hip-hop culture issues I read about this week. After all, what's the point in having a blog if we can't talk some barbershop shit every now and then?

We start with a favorite of mine. A Mr. Talib Kweli. Now Talib (lyrics stick to your ribs) has seen fit to do a collab with Gucci Mane. The same Gucci that is a bane to all that is intellectual and thought-provoking. I'll give you the fact that I too enjoy listening to music that is (shall we say) devoid of any type of substance. However, it's hard to look at Kweli's decision as anything but a stunt for dollars. Does that make someone who has been a champion for the positive no better than a Jersey Shore extra? Who's to say?

I do know that the current situation in rap music business has forced even the most established artists to think outside the box. While some attempts translate to amazingly creative music, other moves leave us scratching our heads.

This brings us to exhibit B.

Dr. Dre will be producing beats for Justin Bieber.

Let me put it in caps so you understand: DR. DRE IS PRODUCING BEATS FOR JUSTIN BIEBER.

I should have known the world went mad when we elected Obama. But conservatives figured out what happened and have been attacking him non-stop ever since. You can't fix this.

But let me put this another way: Dr. Dre - whose legend is cemented in the stone; who was a part of one of the most influential rap groups of all time; who has discovered or signed the greatest rappers of the past two decades; whose new album has sparked debate that could set cities on fire, has taken time out of his busy schedule to write beats for a kid whose balls haven't dropped yet.

Now in both cases, is that business savvy or blatant disregard for the fans that supported them in the first place? And exactly how many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? The world may never know...

Friends: How many of us have them?

Well Identity Crisis has been blessed with amazing friends that have ridden the crazy train with us for the past six years. For me personally, however, collecting friends is not as easy as clicking the "accept" button on my Facebook or MySpace pages. My partner in rhyme was correct in his blog that each of us are kind of tormented in our own way. For me, music is my sense of belonging. It's the only community I've found where I could completely be myself. Lately, I'm not sure that's true anymore.

This isn't meant to be a sob story blog. Usually I'm very much about the brighter side of life. Certain events in our professional life have forced me to reevaluate my own loyalty code. I was raised to believe that no one was beyond redemption and once you give your hand in friendship, you don't take it back. Now this code has led to some of the worst kind of heartbreaks and also some of the deepest bonds.

So where's the lesson? Simply put, it's this: my code and business don't mix. My heart is closed and my eyes are open. For those in our camp, you have our undying gratitude. For those on the fence - shit or get off the pot. There is no middle ground in my game.

The Ghost of Fuck-ups Past

Well, by CPT standards, this should be reaching you right on time. For all my thrill seekers, the amusement park that is my life has some new attractions. Let's check it out...

I got a job. Not just any job, mind you. Sumatyme hit pay dirt with one of the best hotels Beverly Hills has to offer. Everything was going my way!!! ... I should have known better.

Arizona reached out, grabbed my balls, and told me to cough. Exactly how long does one pay for past sins? Me, I'm going on six years with no signs of letting up.

Now, even though I am a dirty, evildoer, sinner man, I believe in my core that we should be (Sheriff Joe included) punished for our sins. Then offered a shot at redemption. I paid dearly for mine and I felt like I was getting another shot. And people wonder why rappers curse all the time. It's because life can truly get fucked up.

I'm getting a drink.

Can't quit your day job if you don't have one

Well your favorite MC is BROKE.

Okay, I can admit that is not exactly news. Most artists are these days (although there are thousands of songs that say otherwise). The novelty of a new city has officially worn off and I need to make some cabbage... yesterday.

So in order to not stray too far from the stereotype, I opted to look for work in the service industry. Save your muffled snickers, please. It just so happens that not only have I worked in one of the finest hotels in the country, I also enjoy taking care of some of the biggest assholes mother nature can provide. (Celebrities, I'm talking to you.)

I found a place that embodies all I would want for employment. I've made it to the second interview and the more I see this place, the more I WANT IT! It's been a week since that interview and I am going nuts. How could this be the system that we select our employees by? Waterboarding is more humane. FUCK!!!!!!!!

Okay, I'm back... Seriously people, I don't know how we do it. I don't mind rejection (much), but completely ignoring a person is just cruel. You know what, blog over. I'm going to call this guy and give him a piece of my mind. Or beg, whichever comes first.

How writing a song is like having a relationship

I'm not the first to make the comparison, but for those of you with friends in the "biz," I'm gonna break it down for you here. Maybe then you can forgive us for being psychotic and mildly bipolar.

It all starts with the set up and first date. You see the idea in your head and that girl is fresh! She's got it in all the right places and you can't wait to get at her. Slow down, Turbo. If the ride you pick her up in is whack, and the dinner is lame, you're done. So, Cassanova, your beat has to be tight.

You're on your third date now and you know what that means: smash it or cash it in. Your hook has to be something to remember. We all know that bad sex can be a deal breaker. If she's not screaming your name, it's a damn shame.

Now we are in the head of passion, sketching the frame-work for a great relationship. It doesn't come without a bit of drama. Left up toilet seats, granny panties in the sink, and midnight arguments. Break ups, make ups, and everything in between. However, if you have the grit and patience, you might find yourself in a marriage and a great song.

The only problem is that your girl is a free spirit. Once you have that special bond, you have to let her go - be shared. Even if she ends up unloved by the next man, you have to grin and bear it. Good songs are meant to be shared. Divorce is an ugly business.

But, fret not true believers. The beauty of the process is that a new idea is always around the corner. So what are we waiting for? Let's make a move.

I Got Friends in Low Places

Before I get into my weekend adventure, I will share a couple of thoughts I have about Arizona:

1. If it weren't for family, friends, and music I would never go back there.
2. There has never been a time that I have visited and not gotten myself into some sort of trouble.

Don't get me wrong, I have a lot of fond memories of the roadrunner state. I learned amazing things about music. I forged bonds with unique people. I made horrific mistakes. However, I swear that AZ is competing with Texas for the top slot on the list of ass-backwards states.

So I started the weekend the way everyone should; good company and an alcoholic beverage. In my circle, "drinks with friends" usually means binge drinking while playing stupid games - then mercilessly ridiculing those who can't hold their liquor. I mean, what kind of friend invites you over, pays for the beer, then draws a penis on your face? Ain't love grand!

But the REAL reason for my trip to AZ was to pick up some beats and hear the greatest lyricist of the west coast: Crooked I. This brotha is extremely dope. He also scares the shit out of me. He came to the venue, ten deep with some vicious dudes. Now I have seen my fair share of shit, but these guys looked like they ate it for breakfast. I started thinking about my crew and had to laugh. Sumatyme, master wordsmith and avid comic collector. Damn, I'm fearsome.

Whatever. I suppose I'm just marveling how we treat those closest to us. I have a friend going through a rough divorce. How do I offer solace and show solidarity? By making fun of her for not getting any booty. "A true friend stabs you in the front." To all of mine near, far, lost, found, drunk, or sober... I love you all. Now fuck off.

Chronicles of a Broke Rapper - Allow me to re-introduce myself

In the spirit of change that this country of ours is desperately trying to hold onto, your favorite MC is also looking to revamp the way I do blogging.

With that in mind, may I present: the Chronicles of a Broke Rapper. This will be a weekly account of my life and travels as an MC. I hope that by painting a picture of my world, I be able to share my insights and also use the thoughts I share with you to make me a better artist. So, let's get started...

Allow me to re-introduce myself. I go by Sumatyme. I'm one-third of the super-charged group Identity Crisis. (Yes, the Identity Crisis) I hail from the Southside of Chicago, the suburbs of Arizona, and most recently downtown LA. I spent my whole life studying jazz and classical music and the first chance I got, I walked away from it to be a part of a movement that America doesn't fully embrace, yet has no problem exploiting. I'm no thug, but I still managed to land in jail for being stupid (and black). I don't fit the category of a "normal MC." Lyrically I'm on another planet anyway. I'm scared of success, but can't stop pushing myself. I've been called overly cheerful, difficult, and brooding. I've been considered caring to a fault and self-absorbed. (Aren't all artists?) Oh yeah, and I drink too much. I am Identity Crisis.

You will be hard-pressed to find another crew to match our passion during shows. Identity Crisis obessses with growth and mastery of the art form. Becoming one of the ranks of the dopest MCs is not a dream. For us, it is inevitable. Now, if I could only translate all that to dollar signs, life would be perfect.

So now that the "get-to-know-you" stage is over, I invite you all to come with us as we journey into sound. Hip-hop is easy, listening to the music of life is a whole lot harder.

Peace.