When the Music Stops…
Ahh… the life a rapper lives when they have a hit record.
When my single “Act like ya knew” dropped in the early 1990’s there was nothing like it.
In the music industry, rappers were starting to get nice advances. The budgets for our videos were catching up to those rock and pop groups that dominated MTV. The major clubs in Manhattan were starting to spin rap albums.
Albums were still albums but more importantly back then, folks actually bought them.
Still, no matter what the current state of the music industry, as an artist, you never think it’s going to end.
To the rapper with the hit single, it’s just the beginning.
But in reality, the minute you score that hit, the clock starts clicking down to when no one will care about you or your music.
Yeah, you spend those early years battle rapping all around the Bronx and Uptown Manhattan, finally catch your first record deal, drop a couple party cuts but you can’t seem to break out of the pack. You got cats like LL, Heavy D, Big Daddy Kane, Eric B and Rakim dropping hot joints and getting the regular rotation on the radio and meanwhile, you’re still trying to pay off the radio DJ to add your track to his late night mix.
So you decide to listen to a friend and switch it up. You drop a “conscious song”. In it, you rap about the “struggle”. You describe how times is hard on the boulevard and how everyone is close to the edge.
And then, the song HITS.
You get into regular rotation on radio, other artists invite you to join their hot posse joint and R&B singers pay you a mint to rap a guest verse on their new releases. The money just keeps coming in from all different directions and you think to yourself, “I got time to play with all this”.
Then the industry starts to change.
Musically, New York goes “Underground” with it and the West Coast goes “Gangsta”. Suddenly, your A&R, who was your right hand man when you were hot, is busy working with other artists and doesn’t quite get your sound anymore. The execs can’t “figure out a release date for your next album.” When you call or drop by the offices, all of the major players are “unavailable”. Your phone calls don’t get returned.
Then, weeks later, you finally get the call saying that the label is dropping you.
No more guest spots on other rappers cuts. No more appearances. The exclusive parties get harder and harder to get into and forget about bringing an entourage to any hot club.
Then the money goes and so does your struggling actress wife.
You drift away from being a father to your only son.
It was dark for a minute and the years went by.
Then, that same friend suggested I write about my struggle. She suggested that this time, I put my thoughts in a blog instead of a verse.
I started to write.
It felt good to just let it all out, not worry about my “image” and to just be that extremely overused term, “Real”.
My fans found me online and I gained a bunch of new ones.
Suddenly, my little blog had the potential to grow into something much bigger so I reached out to a journalist named Cassidy Chase to help me. Cassidy wrote a few pieces on me back when I was hot and we kept in touch over the years. Together, we created a website named EXPO and Cassidy brought on other writers who would cover different topics inside of the music industry and beyond. EXPO grew in popularity and now, in addition to my blog, we were breaking news.
Then EXPO got a story wrong and the situation became very messy with the lawyers.
It was a wake up call.
EXPO needed to bring on some more seasoned journalists with credentials to help get certain things right. I reached out to another writer and former friend Keisha Parks to join EXPO. After some negotiating, Keisha came aboard and brought some colleagues with her.
EXPO grew bigger and more influential.
Today, I still write my blog but I leave the day to day business of running EXPO to Keisha and Cassidy.
My main focus is trying to rebuild my relationship with my son Jared.
Thinking back, it was a blessing to have a hit record.
However, when the music stops, it’s good to have a Plan B.
.
