For a time—beginning in the mid-2000s and ending in the early 2010s—I was a rapper.
I’m a white guy from Portland, with about as much rhythm and flow as one could reasonably expect from that pedigree. My ridiculous and bombastic pen name, Wombstretcha The Magnificent, was originally my "rap name," as I—and my associate—set out to more-or-less lampoon rap music. And, for a few years, our act was met with modest notoriety at home and abroad. Our diligent Exotic editor, Ray (then "Statutory" Ray), was my cohort in this endeavor and has asked me to reflect on it in order to fill space this month. What follows, is some of what I remember most about the ins-and-outs of being an active "musician," during the time in which Wombstretcha The Magnificent put out seven albums, wrote 120-some-odd tracks, played hundreds of shows and did a handful of regional tours.
Ray and I would just spend time sitting around at diners and greasy bars, writing down titles, with no additional context. Later, independently, we’d write the rest of the song around those titles. If you don’t care that you have a song called "Gravy, Without The Lumps," that ends up having less to do with gravy and more to do with Sergeant Slaughter, well...there ya go.
It could be said that this applies to most people, but it seems like it’s over-represented in musicians. My best guess as to why, is that it has something to do with the old notion that you can be catapulted to stardom overnight with very little effort. Here’s a mini-quiz:
Can you show up on time, after promising to do so on many occasions, with the time and date set well in advance? No? One point.
Can you competently execute simple tasks, like moving an object from a vehicle to the inside of a building and not leaving that object on the street? No? One point.
Can you remember to bring everything you need for you, personally, to play your role in the act you’re performing? No? One point.
Will you fuss over petty details every time something doesn’t line up to perfectly meet your needs? Yes? One point.
Will you help clean up and load out? No? One point.
Will you drink (or steal) all the beer in the green room, while everyone else is doing sound check? Yes? Five points.
Are you completely incapable of doing anything useful, yet have a diva attitude? Ten points!
If you scored more than two points, then I think, perhaps, the music scene is for you.
I don’t generally fold venue hosts or sound staff into the "music people" label, but it’s also my observation that they’re more apt to have unpleasant attitudes for no discernible reason—even when you’re pleasant and accommodating. This is possibly just a consequence of interacting with so many musicians, but, sorry I asked you to do your job, Scotty. Damn.
This seems like a damn shame, if you ask me.
People equate drug use with creativity, given that so many great acts have either done, endorsed or straight-up written entire songs about them. Truth be told, you’re probably fine without all that, but then you don’t get to say you have a "cocaine album" (or, better yet, a "cocaine era").
There are people who like your output so much, that not only do they pay to have it, but they also will remember things about it that you, yourself, have forgotten. I was always amazed that anyone actually listened to our stuff at all, let alone obsessively memorized it. "Hey, I love your rhymes. Are you gonna play the track ’Ass-Kicking Genie,’ from your limited-release album, B-Sides & Miscarriages, tonight?" My response was usually, "I had a limited-release B-side album? Oh, shit, I did."
Everyone who actually wants to "make it," hustles like Larry Flynt on bath salts—getting their product out there for people to see, while fighting every last other person doing the same thing. This leads to wild ways to try and get your stuff in people’s faces.
One time, Ray and I went to a mall in Portland, during the Xmas season, with gift-wrapped and gift-bagged copies of our CD. We’d just leave them places where it seemed like they could have been accidentally forgotten by a shopper. We’d watch, as people would pick them up and pocket them, assuming they’d been recently purchased. These were certainly people who would have likely turned down a free CD, had it been offered. I suppose there’s a lesson here: if people think they’re getting something that costs money, but for free, they’re more likely to want it more than something offered as free. Assign your own value to your product.
Being outliers in the rap world—with our gimmick being that we were intentionally ridiculous, over-the-top sleazeballs who rap about barbequing children and abusing Dimetapp cough syrup—we were often lumped in with people like the Juggalos—you know, Insane Clown Posse followers. This never bothered me much, since I don’t really care one way or the other about ICP, but the ground-level people who do "horrorcore rap" are, with few (but, notable) exceptions, all just the tepid orange drink to ICP & Company’s fresh-squeezed O.J. Why would anyone want a diluted, derivative version of the same thing, that is less good?
Even if your ideas are stupid (like mine), at least they’re yours. Do we need another band that’s pretentious like Tool, but has worse music? Or, another rap track from someone shoutin’ out Tupac, even though he died before they were born? DO WE, REALLY??? You don’t have to be yourself, but at least be interesting on your own merit.
That’s really all I can fit here, though there’s much more. Maybe next time.
Good luck out there.
I remain, retired.
