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NEXT WEEK: Smith, Smith Again.

Def Jeff on the other hand sprinted to the ground floor to catch the first glimpse.

Jeff Harrison has always been an exuberant young man. He walked into the doctor’s office 5 years ago at the tender age of 15 looking for job. Lucky for him not only did Rech have an opening but more importantly Jeff was a hip hop head from the same mad thorough borough. Hired more for his collection of over 500 albums than the possession of office skills, it was clear that Jeff would be a perfect fit to work with the good doctor.

The big man brought them to the corner where they witnessed a young brolic brother doing pull-ups on an electronic street sign. Rocking some faded ass fatigues and a tightly fitted dingy and dark green t-shirt with the word Army shining across his chest in white, he was like a machine elevated above the crowd. Between every flash of the red-orange Don’t Walk hand this dude was working his upper body to the max.

His cousin approached him.
“Yo Marc, get your ass down from there. The doctor is here.”
Lucas looked all types of puzzled as the soldier continued to get it in effortlessly.
“Yo Marc, we don’t have all fucking day! Come on fam, reel it in.” his cousin responded.

Marc-Charles finally jumped down from his workout and spit back,
“Through the lights cameras and action, glamour glitters and gold
I unfold the scroll, plant seeds to stampede the globe
When I’m deceased, by then the beast arise like yeast
to conquer peace leaving savages to roam in the streets
Live on the run, police paying me to give in my gun
Trick my Wisdom, with the system that imprisoned my son
Smoke a gold leaf I hold heat, nonchalantly
I’m grungy, but things I do is real it never haunts me
while, funny style niggaz roll in the pile
Rooster heads profile on a bus to Riker’s Isle
Holdin weed inside they pussy with they minds on the
pretty things in life, props is a true thug’s wife
It’s like a cycle, niggaz come home, some’ll go in
Do a bullet, come back, do the same shit again
From the womb to the tomb, presume the unpredictable
Guns salute life, rapidly, that’s the ritual”

And that was it. He stopped and stared at his new audience with stare blanker than a subway car protected and washed by Ed Koch himself.

Jeff and the good doctor watched in utter amazement. Rech, somewhat confused by this spectacle raises his eyebrows and responds, “what the hell was all that about?”

Jeff hit him with, “Doc that was Verbal Intercourse.”
“You mean as in sex! Young man what did I tell you about that gutter mind of yours.”

Jeff with a light chuckle answers back to his boss and mentor, “Na man Verbal Intercourse is track 12 off Only Built 4 Cuban Linx. That shit was a classic album. Homie jus spit Nas’s entire verse without a blink.”

Rech now a bit confused yet blown away asked, “Did he just flow that perfectly? Is that how he speaks; through spitting?”

Big Man answered back, “yup.”
“For how long has this been going on,” asked Rech.

He’s been on three tours to Iraq. My dude just got back from out there and he’s never been the same. That shit really had an affect on him. All he does is exactly that. Give it a shot, said the Big Cuz with much conviction.

Dr. Rech excitedly took advantage. “Young man what’s really good with you?

Marc-Charles looked up without a moments noticed and once again spit back.
My mind is infested, with sick thoughts that circle
like a Lexus, if driven wrong it’s sure to hurt you
Dual level like duplexes, in unity, my crew and me
commit atrocities like we got immunity
You guessed it, manifest it in tangible goods
Platinum Rolexed it, we don’t lease
we buy the whole care, as you should
My confederation, dead a nation, EXPLODE
on detonation, overload the mind of a said patient
When it balls to steam, it comes to it
we all fiends gotta do it, even righteous minds go through this
True this, history school us to spend our money foolish
Bond with jewellers and, watch for intruders
I stepped it up another level, meditated like a buddhist
Recruited lieutenants with ludicrous, dreams of
gettin cream let’s do this, against T-D-S
So I keep one eye open like, C-B-S, ya see me
stressed right? Can I live?

Rech listened closely and looked to Def Jeff for validation.
“That was Jay-Z’s Can I Live off that Reasonable Doubt.”

Dr. Rech laughed with pure exhilaration as if he just heard Martin crack on Pam’s weave. The doc was overwhelmingly excited so much so he yelled out in a way that he hadn’t ever yelled before.

“Off to my office!”

Any annoyance or aggravation that Thurston had, quickly pulled a disappearing act the moment he took his seat on the plane. He always flew first class. For him it served as a reminder that he was somebody’s boss. It was one of his favorite pastimes.

Initially blinded by bling Thurston slumped down without recognizing who he was sitting next to. As the buckle up process began, the 6 multi colored diamond sawed off shotgun pendants became slightly recognizable. Flight attendants were plowing through the safety procedures when the full moment clarity occurred. The one and only Kid Ratchet was flying on this jetliner.

All the ingredients were there. Homie had wads of cash in his pants pocket like all the videos. Like all the videos he had iced out fingers and frozen wrists. Just like in every video he had the matching shades with his named spelled out on them and of course the grill from the videos. This was too good to be true and Thurston saw this as destiny. Of all the flights and seats and cities, what were the odds that the biggest rapper in the game would be on this one plane sitting right next to him? Even more incredible was that Kid Ratchet was talking to him.

“Nice grills shawty” said the Super Duper star.

Thurston almost shit his pants in shock and awe. His words trembled away from those aforementioned grills as he responded. “Who me? Umm my grills? Thank you sir. Oh shit I meant, I mean good looks my nigga.”

The Prince of Making Paper sat calmly and said, “Ay boy what’s up with you? I ain’t no ghost relax.”

As sweat dripped from his brow down to his testicles to the tip of his big toe Thurston apologized. “My bad, my bad.”

Now in utter awe, he could barely get his next words out. “My nigga you’re Kid Ratchet right?

“You already know, it’s yo boy” said the Sultan of Slang

“My nigga you the best in the game! Yo man your new shit is hot.”

“Thanks shawty. My next single bout to be off the chain. It’s called Tweet Me and yo that shit is gonna out sell every last one of these country music and pop niggas” said the Monstrosity of the Microphone.

“Yo that’s so fucking smart” said Thurston.

In an intensely unmelodic yet catchy tone the King of Making that Cash sung out.

“The hook goes, I got that dough but you can’t eat me. I got more cash so you can’t beat me. But if you really really really wanna reach me just tweet me. Just tweet me bitch just tweet me. Just tweet me nigga just tweet me.”

“Yo that shit’s gonna pop man. You should put a bitch’s voice in that part where you be like nigga just tweet. You don’t want gay niggas tweeting you na mean. Pause that. You feel me, retorted Thurston with innocent ignorance.

Kid Ratchet couldn’t front, he loved the suggestion. “Yo that’s ingenuous! Mad inglorious! You be making tracks son?”

“Fuck yeah nigga I rap!” Said Thurston

The pace of the conversation quickened. “Word what’s your name?”

“Thurston.”

“Thurston? What? Na nigga your rap name?”

“Umm you know what I didn’t really think of that.”

“You gotta Myspace?”

“No”

“Youtube?”

“No”

“Facebook, a demo, a website a blog, a twitter”

“Na nigga I don’t got none of that shit.”

“What do you have?” Asked the assassin of autotune

“I got guap and a dream.”

Instead of actually laughing out loud, the current Crowned Prince of Rap responded with some spelling.

“L-O-L my nigga guap and a dream, I fucks with that. Listen here, take this my nigga. I’m having an album release party at Eugene Electric’s on 24^th street. Come through and party with a nigga. It’s this Friday. Take this flyer, only special invited niggas got this. So you’ll be aight at the door.

With his hands being all types of sweaty, Thurston grabbed the flyer with great precision. He was hoping to say something cool but all that came out was, “thanks sir.”

The King Kong of this Rap Shit lightly chuckled, threw on his headphones and as suddenly as the conversation had started, it was over. There were no more words shared for the remainder of the flight.

As the plane landed in New York and Thurston’s dreams began to matriculate in his mind, he at least expected some final words from his new favorite rapper.

“Aight B, see you at the party! Enjoy the streets”, said Thurston.

Silence in return.

Chillin in the office had become the norm these days for Dr. Rech. Business was slow and this afternoon was no exception. Lucas Rech sat comfortably on his throne jotting down notes throughout his worn out copy of White Man’s Justice Black Man’s Grief. Rarely did Lucas read Goines at work but the stillness made him do it. The music wasn’t overwhelming and he was chilling today. He bopped lightly to the rhythms and rhymes of Eric B. and Rakim. Normally “Paid in Full” would be blasting to the highest degree, but knowing that complaints would follow he opted for a lower tone. The mix of vocals and instrumentals suddenly put Rech in a trance like no other.

He stared intently into the colors found within his Basquiat replica wondering what could’ve been. The lines, “Think about it – wait, erase your rhyme/ Forget it, and don’t waste your time”, flowed through his head like cold water spewing from an uncorked fire hydrant on a summer day. He was gone; to a place that he always wanted to revisit, but never had a chance to.

Gone were the days of parents bringing their children in for too much freezing due to excessive Beat Street viewings. Rech reminisced about having to cope with married couples trying to deal with their own personal East coast versus West coast beefs. There were the cats that had to deal with their inner DMX demons and the moms whose misogynistic sons had gone a bit too far. And who could forget the drama of that ATLiens and Aquemini debate of 1998. That was all back in the day though. Dr. Rech had seen it all but now he wasn’t seeing much of anything.

BOOM BAP! Just like that the moment of tranquility had vanished.

With a Red, Black and Green afro pick still in ebedded in his fro, Rech’s assistant, Def Jeff came stumbling in. He was shook but tried not to show it as he spoke.

“Doc, I tried to stop him. I swear!”

A massive young brother followed Def Jeff with a look of great agitation and anxiety. He roared out like a lion,

“Yo nigga, you Rech right?

Rech responded quite calmly and deliberately, “Son, first of all relax that language and for your information I am indeed Dr. Lucas Rech, what can I do for you?”

The muscular young man stepped forward cautiously, both hands up as if to show he meant no harm and spit out.

“Well I need your help nigga; my cousin is outside spitting fire.”

“Fire? Son, by no means do I have the common sense or the upper body strength for the FDNY” said Rech.

The doctor paused for laughter only to realize that he was the only one amused by this quip and continued,

“I’m a psychiatrist; you’ve got the wrong man.” Rech spit back in a sarcastic manner.

“Na nigga I know damn well who I’m looking for. Dr. Lucas Rech, the Hip Hop Psychiatrist.”

WHAT ARE YOUR THOUGHTS ON DR. RECH?

WHAT DO YOU THINK “THE COUSIN” IS SPITTING?

WHAT SHOULD BE DEF JEFF’S LAST NAME?

]]> http://www.mrjeffdess.com/2009/09/01/introducing-the-hip-hop-psychiatrist/feed/ 0 http://www.mrjeffdess.com/2009/08/27/introducing-lorraine-babamataa-2-2/ http://www.mrjeffdess.com/2009/08/27/introducing-lorraine-babamataa-2-2/#comments Fri, 28 Aug 2009 04:38:00 +0000 admin http://www.mrjeffdess.com/2009/08/27/introducing-lorraine-babamataa-2-2/ Lorraine was a Babamataa from jump. Her mama died at birth and as devastating as that was for Farique he made certain that it wouldn’t be equally as upsetting for his baby girl. He played the role of mother, father, big mama and more.

Young Lorraine was moonwalking before she took a step and her first words were sung in the key of Luther. She was beyond prodigy status. By age 10 she played the dopest trumpet, guitar and harmonica in the hood. At 12 she was punking all other violinists into submission. She was a wonderful artist as well. Painting, illustration, graffiti, you name it she tagged it.

Farique loved this. Not only was his daughter super duper talented but she was at home 24/7 where he could keep the watchful eye. Lorraine was always in the crib chopping up more tracks than Amtrak. She would compose the music, sing and perform the songs then design the album cover. Farique always knew that she would be the brightest spark in the long line of hotness that was the Babamataa lineage.

Then like a left hook from the 1987 Mike Tyson, it hit. Poof! Pop! Pow! Puberty. The once tomboyish homebody had a new body and suddenly daily habits became bi monthly hobbies. She skipped singing lessons to shop with girls. The trumpet was traded in for two stepping and toe wopping at a midnight affairs. Her art took biggest trip to the backseat. Lorraine would go weeks upon weeks without a single brushstroke or shake of the can. Her bedroom was no longer filled with canvases but rather with Chanel purses.

The Lil Boogie that Farique had known, was no more. To the girls and the new folk there was only Lolo.

WHAT ARE YOUR THOUGHTS ON LORRAINE???

JB Babamataa was the son of Blues man. An infectious smile and spontaneous style affirmed that this cat was truly far out. His exotic energy was perfect for a booty bouncing exhibition or a rebellion against the MAN. On the hottest day during the summer of 1969 things got super bad. That afternoon JB broke down barriers and defied all the laws. Communities from Oakland to Atlanta to D.C. to Newark were shaking their rumps, gyrating sexually, tearing roofs off of houses and grooving hard to his low down dirty earthly essence. It was a funky deal. Accompanied by a fuzz guitar, Moog synthesizer, a number of horns, and an eccentric appearance JB Babamataa kept the nation moving. The sweat dripping from his brow served as battle scars from a musical orgasm. The nasty vibe and syncopated sensuality was too ferocious for the masses. They became soldiers, dancers, radicals and funkateers almost instantly. For the moment everyone had lost control. The world was a ghetto. JB never recorded an official album but was a ruthless black warrior whose onstage magnetism kept it funky on summer days. JB exhuded the same excitement everywhere and made sure his young boy was there for each step towards the sun.

At a very young age one could notice that Farique Babamataa was magically creative. He executed dope dance moves to old Funk tunes and was a natural on a set of drums. Others would describe him as being a Master Craftsman for his uncanny ability to construct concepts with a little help from a kick, snare and high hat. Farique possessed a personality fit for a block party. His booming voice moved crowds and his charismatic attitude almost always assured that the young Mr. Babamataa would be the Master of Ceremonies. Despite such talents he was best known as the hood’s premier Microphone Checka. Up until his tenement was burned down, he would throw speakers in the window and have Uptown jumpin for hours. Farique’s rhymes ranged from block representation to Black solidarity. A little Malcolm and Marcus mixed with Sly and Hendrix backed up by some Babamataa tradition made for an unnatural phenomenon. In a few bars he helped young Negroes forget about a decade filled with violence, drugs and the ways of Ronald Regan.

The 90’s brought upon a new Farique. He retired from rap and on March 9, 1996 opened the Boom Bap School for Talented and Gifted Young Men from the Hood.

The newest member of the Babamataa clan was a bit different…

Dr. Lewis Steven Michael IV Esq. has been the head of The Ronald Regan Academy for 43 years. There’s a rich headmaster history found in his family. Lewis Steven Michael III was head of the CIA for 10 years. Lewis Steven Michael Jr. made his millions while in charge of the Loose Whip which just happened to be the largest underground bootlegging burlesque house this side of Chesapeake Bay. The originator and OG of the family Lewis Steven Michael was a slave master and owned a big ass plantation.

Dr. Michael Esq. was quite surprised to see one of his students alone in the airport.

“Mr. Raymond what business do you have traipsing around this airport looking as dismal as you do.”

Thurston, usually the punk of the crew was feeling a bit different this time around. Being dressed in his traditional Regan Academy hip hop garb gave Thurston a newfound sense of bravado.

With an intense ice grill on his face and in his mouth Thurston sternly responded, “Yo what’s really goodie master? Don’t hate on my trap star lifestyle. I bet you don’t even know what that means. New York has my name written all over it, baby, and quite frankly there is nothing that you or anyone else can do to stop me.”

Stop you? I shall do no such a thing. Raymond allow me to reintroduce you to yourself. Traveling to the Big Apple will solve nothing. Individuals of your ilk are part of a predetermined disposition. Boy you are no enigma. This tale has been told, quite a number of times for that matter. You were born into this status a fool; Fooled to believe that success was truly in your future and fooled to believe that you could be victorious in a game that was not and will never be meant for you to play.

Thurston’s strong demeanor slowly began to crumble as The Head Master continued.

Thurston Scott Raymond III is a fabricated figure. You aren’t real boy, you were created. It will be but so far along your travels before the proverbial shit hits the fan. And when that happens you shall be chewed up and regurgitated with ease and reappear as a frail and feeble substance if you are so lucky. Our dear lord knows how this began and the cosmos have by now correctly predicted your future. A loss is inevitable. It is in your genes so do not believe the so called hype. You are no different then rest of the colored boys that have walked through my doors. None of them survived Reagan and clearly you haven’t either. The definition is set. The picture is already being seen in history books. There is nothing that you can do.

So onward march. What more can I say? You seem happy therefore I shall not impede your forward progress; I shall only provide caution to the wind. Go forth and dream. But remember that dreams are distorted versions of the truth. And for you young man, the truth shall not set you free, rather it shall enslave. Enjoy your trip and do not ever return.

Now quite frustrated and bit confused, Thurston responds tightly, “Nigga you whack.”

The Head Master whipped out a sly smile and retorted. “Am I really the nigger? Now go along and fry some fish or rap or whatever it is you desire. I have a flight to catch boy.”

WHAT ARE YOU THOUGHTS ON THE HEADMASTER?

THURSTON WILL MEET A RAPPER ON THE PLANE. WHO SHOULD THAT RAPPER BE?

WHAT SHOULD THEY TALK ABOUT?

4 years of straight chillin in the cut had led to this. An entire High School career of observation and falling back would soon come to an end. Thurston Scott Raymond III had played this moment over and over in his head and even practiced at home in front of a mirror for what seemed like forever and a day. He had finally mustered up enough gumption to jump into the monthly cyphr. Nobody would expect this of the young mister Raymond but he knew it was time to blast off.

The young men of The Ronald Regan Academy gathered in and around Gazebo #8. Although the final school bell rang only moments ago, the drastic change of attire had already occurred. Navy blue blazers and ties were replaced by oversized white tees and non-fitting fitted caps. Gone were the mandatory grey slacks and black loafers, making room for jeans a tad too large and Air Force Ones a tad too white. Thurston tightened up his yellow du rag and went in for the kill.

“What’s good really, all my niggers?”

After a short pause of awkwardness and some Jesus piece adjustments, Thurston knew that he had played himself. He made a second attempt to be down.

“My bizzle my nizzle’s lemme see that fucking microphone fo shizzle.”

He could see acceptance in the faces within the crowd. The “Shook Ones” instrumental shook the gazebo and the microphone was passed.

“Yo, yo, yo, yo!”

A deep breath followed and the rhymes dropped next.

“I bag ho’s and shoot guns too/I cook coke call me a gangsta boo. What nigga!”

The crowd immediately went bananas. His classmates rushed to the center of Gazebo #8 and propelled Thurston into the air like the champion he had become.

On the walk home all Thurston could think about was the validation he had just received from the white boys. It was obvious what the next move had to be. He felt ready for the gritty streets of New York City. The mansion soirees and weekend polo matches would have to take a backseat to the big lights. He was ready to meet a big time mogul, get signed and become that nigga. All those people who envisioned him as a future Secretary of State were in for a rude awakening.

Thurston had no intentions of notifying the maid or anyone else at his crib. He headed straight for Logan International. Upon his arrival the young man ran into Reagan’s headmaster.

TO BE CONTINUED…WHAT DO YOU THINK SHOULD HAPPEN NEXT???

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