Highlights 9
Years ago at a party in Manhattan.
The room was peppered with famous faces. Acne and cold sores buried beneath layers of makeup; sweaty upper lips and chins; cavernous eyes forever staring into the abyss; there's an ominous feeling that comes along with watching the myth of celebrity fracture to reveal the flawed human being behind it. You're watching a demigod die by an arrow from reality. The imperfections are like magnets drawing your attention to them. You spot the deodorant residue on their black t-shirt; you smell the body odor from the pop singer as she pushes by you into the crowd; all of them are like a painting hanging at a slight tilt.
You expected better. Your mind has been trained to recognize the airbrushed images of these infallible figures. You're unnerved by the transformation of idols into damaged creatures.
I was an up and coming MC.
There's a distinct difference between being a rapper and an MC. Anybody can rap. Being an MC is a title you earn through originality and finely sharpened skill. You can call yourself an MC, but you aren't really worthy of the designation until others unanimously agree you are one. It's a type of knighthood you enter without a formal ceremony; a silent induction into a school of mastery.
A few of the songs from my second album traveled within music industry circles and caught the ears of insiders. This was the story of my life in music: excitement from industry people that soon fizzled when they realized I wasn't an easy product to sell. They wanted me to be Rick Ross, I wanted to be the intersection between Mos Def and Roger Waters. I was a winning horse handicapped by integrity.
I watched the ocean of disappointment while I stood by the bar. I always stuck out at these events because I was an anonymous onlooker clutching a bottle of beer. Everyone else sipped from glasses of champagne or Grey Goose and soda. There was always such bland uniformity amongst these purportedly extraordinary people.
I was greeted by the sight of a young executive. We met previously at another party in LA. He was one of the rare few who actually carried substance beneath his polished outer shell. It was a friendship that began at first contact with an intangible common thread that bound us together. I'm positive he would've petitioned his bosses to sign me to a record deal were he not certain I would've single handedly destroyed his career.
We embraced like two castaways who just found each other on a deserted island. There was a feeling of elation between us. I no longer had to stand around awkwardly by myself, he no longer had to work the room on behalf of the monolithic corporation he worked for.
We got drunk- unprofessionally drunk. He shared privileged information regarding some of the party's attendees that he really shouldn't. I disclosed my loathing for being required to attend these events at the request of people who wouldn't look at me twice if we passed each other on the street.
The young executive put his hand on my shoulder and slurred through a smile:
“You might be the most talented dude I've ever known, but you'll never make it in this business because you won't play the game.”
It was true- and I accepted his acknowledging the truth as a compliment. I wasn't going to do the dance. My art was my life source and I would never compromise my vision for any amount of money. I wasn't destined for stardom- nor did I want it. My goal was always to eke out a decent living doing what I loved, and I didn't know it at the time, but it was something I would never accomplish.
A few months later I was contacted by somebody claiming to be from Death Row Records. They were looking to rebuild and move in a new direction. They saw me as a type of artist that could bring a fresh aesthetic to the historic yet now defunct label.
I called my brother from another beach for his input. His advice was to steer clear of Death Row (this was roughly a decade before Snoop Dogg purchased the company). He said even if Suge Knight was no longer associated with the business, the ghost of Suge was still there, and that alone was enough reason to stay away.
Then, in the same breath and in a much more guttural tone, he told me to avoid Diddy and Bad Boy Records at all costs.
Hip Hop is a place where rumors swirl about everyone. Accusations of homosexuality circulate the inner and outer circles of that industry on a constant basis. It’s generally known who is and who isn’t what they claim to be on record (98% of rappers are not who they say they are), but everyone is alleged to have engaged in some form of gay sex at some point in their career. It’s virtually impossible to determine which of these rumors are true and which are fabrications.
However, the rumors about Diddy were different. I was told by some highly credible people that he was an FBI informant who was involved with some extremely dangerous people in activities that extended beyond music and entertainment. Questions around his sexuality were always in the air, of course, but those questions alluded to something much darker; behaviors that were more in line with rape and sex trafficking than strange encounters in the back room of a nightclub somewhere.
This was all shared with me around the time when Kanye West was leaning heavily into occult imagery with his music while Jay Z was hanging around with alleged occultists like Marina Abramovic and wearing hoodies with the Satanic credo emblazoned across the chest. There was a disturbing current pulsating through popular culture. I personally believe it was this low frequency vibration that sent Kanye West back to Christianity. It was impossible to miss the macabre elements that were gripping mainstream Hip Hop. I don’t know for sure, but I think whatever Kanye brushed up against scared him enough to send him back to God, and his bipolar diagnosis was an attempt to discredit anything he may say about what he experienced.
I never crossed paths with Diddy or had any interactions with him, but from what I know, the allegations of sexual depravity and blackmail aren’t isolated to just him. There’s an entire underworld that exists within Hollywood and the surrounding industries, and Diddy is just the top ring of a very deep pit.
When that young industry executive told me I wasn’t willing to play the game, I now believe he was referring more to that underbelly than he was my artistic integrity- and once again he was absolutely correct. That was a game I would never play.