"It’s the second time that day someone has used 'worst ever' to describe my rapping." |
Music critics can’t win. As far as civilians are concerned, if we’re not wanna-be musicians exacting revenge on those who rejected us, then we’re complete failures who lack the sack and the talent to step in the arena. It’s flawed thinking — by that logic, readers should demand that Dan Shaughnessy have a killer crossover — but it’s a prejudice we accept in exchange for promo discs and front-row seats. I always fell into the latter category; despite imagining that a rap career would be sweet, I never wrote rhymes, recorded tracks, or rocked open mics. But that all changed last Friday night at Harpers Ferry, where I entered myself in the Leedz HeadQuarters MC battle (sponsored by the Boston hip-hop production juggernaut), crossing the divide from critic to artist.Before describing the hip-hop boot camp I went through to train for this event, I’ll answer some questions I was asked by the post-collegiate Caucasians I told about it. What exactly is a rap battle, or an MC battle? It’s a traditional rite of passage in which two rappers face off — whether in the street or in a club — with the sole aim of demoralizing each other using improvisational — or freestyle, as the kids say — lyrics. How does one win a battle? Much as in electoral politics, you bury an opponent by exposing him as gay, weak, fraudulent, or, preferably, all three. And finally: By “battle,” do you mean like that scene in 8 Mile? Sort of, but Eminem’s rhymes in 8 Mile were scripted and therefore not freestyle. The Harpers event would be judged by a knowledgeable crew: former star battle rapper Jake the Snake, producers J-Hunt, Stu Bangas, and Matty Trump, and Leedz Edutainment in-house photographer Sam “Sly” Young.
Before this endeavor, my own freestyle experience was limited to rhyming among friends during late-night blunt sessions. In high school and college, I was always the kid who could rap, but only in the way that a kid at Newton North whose parents net an annual $1.2 million is the poor kid. Lately, my freestyling has been limited to occasional Friday-night blackouts. I had some serious practicing to do, so one week before the big dance I ripped my favorite instrumentals — from “Still D.R.E.” to “Nas Is Like” — to my iPod for the gym, car, and crib. I rapped in traffic, in the shower, at my desk, and, to the amusement of many at my health club, on the Stairmaster. I ordered Burger King drive-through in near-Shakespearean end-rhyme couplets. After two days, I was able to recap my day’s activities and communicate Law & Order story lines in raps.
By battle day, I’m requiring a steady intake of tea and honey just to keep my voicebox oiled. To start the morning with a warm-up, I arrange to go on Jam’n 94.5’s Ramiro and Pebbles show to challenge the crew’s intern Problem Child. When I get there, I discover him duct-taped to another intern in celebration of Gay Pride Week — which makes for good practice in the sort of reflexive heterosexism that I shook cold turkey years ago. In a two-round bout that Ramiro deems “the worst thing I’ve ever heard,” I serve Problem Child with a spiel ending in “Eat my meat.”
Now I’m one for one, but I need more-relevant practice scenarios with actual rappers to help curb the anxiety that I’ll surely experience sparring at intimidating distances, so I invite rappers from across the local scene to an open cipher at the UnderGroundHipHop.com retail store. North Cambridge MC One Mike and his Calvery crew go hardcore, Awkward Landing brings abstraction, Rheto and T-Ruckus straight-up frighten, and notorious street champ Game Boy delivers the sort of clever zingers I’m expecting to face off against. They all take it easy on me, but it boosts my confidence to hang with such assorted styles.
By check-in time, I feel prepared. At the recommendation of an experienced battle rapper whose name I won’t mention, I scribble on my notepad some key words for my dozen-or-so pre-cooked one-liners (i.e., “Menino” triggers “You’re trying to come at me on some Al Pacino/But with those marbles in your mouth you sound more like Tom Menino”). The brackets get posted, and I’m to battle someone named Kalab in the first round.
