Hey you...

Congrats
written by Just K

You made it, kid. Congratulations. It’s crazy, ‘cause I can remember when your favorite joints used to come on TV. You’d memorize the rhymes in no time and spit them like you wrote them yourself. And when the videos you loved didn’t come on often enough, you’d call The Box (music television you control – damn that was a long time ago) and request them yourself. Man, your mama whooped your ass for running up that phone bill, but it was worth it to you.

Then you saved up your little money from your gig at Wendy’s and bought yourself a decent microphone. You hopped on Kazaa and downloaded one of those recording programs and you had yourself a lil’ mixtape by senior year. People were bumping it a little bit, too. That joint was horrible in retrospect. Ha ha ha. You had bars all day, but that monotone talking damn near put me to sleep. The potential was there, though, and you had the high school on lock. This hip-hop thing has always been your dream, huh?

You kept working at it, man. You kept recording. You kept putting out material. You picked up a young one along the way. You definitely did the good father thing, but it didn’t slow you down. The mixtapes started getting hotter. You started slaying beats better than the pros. I mean, I guess you considered yourself a pro even though you weren’t signed. In your opinion, you were just doing what you’re supposed to do. Got a little buzz on local radio, even got booked to open gigs when the big dogs came to town. It was a matter of time before the labels got word, dude.

And of course you got picked up. A seven-album deal, but what’s seven albums when you’ve loved this your whole life? You got your advance money, hooked moms up a little something. Got little man some fresh digs and blessed the baby moms with a little bit. Yeah, you upped your wardrobe and threw on a little jewelry, but nothing too frivolous or extravagant. You’ve got some sense after all. More importantly, you’re living in the studio, cranking out the music of a lifetime. You linked up with some local producers who make monster music and you’re making gems. Then you turn in the album to your label heads.

They ask you who produced on the beats. You kick them some names and they look around at each other, whisper a bit, and keep it moving. They don’t really react much to the tracks and you’re a bit confused. Then they get to track six, this joint you did with 8-bar verses and 12-bar hooks. One of your boys made the beat, a club joint that’s heavy on the bass, and a girl is singing about waiting for you to take her shopping or some bull$h!t. You just did the joint to put on for your peoples. Besides, every album needs one club track, right? Of course you weren’t really feeling it like that - but they are. That’s their joint. That’s the one. As far as they’re concerned, that’s the best song so far and you’re wondering if they’re listening to the same album you made.

So they listen to the rest of it and outline a plan. They like three tracks on it. You’ve got about four introspective joints. They let you keep one. The joint with you rapping in double-time flow, that’s crazy. They want that one. The keeper to them is the track with shorty singing on the hook. They consider that the demo version. They want to get a big name on the hook to add hype to it and they want the beat redone by a big name producer. Furthermore, they want you to try to duplicate that song a few times. Not necessarily the young’n on the hook, but that “happy, I want to dance” sort of vibe. WTF.

So what’s it going to be kid? They want you to make the music that you used to turn from when it came on the radio or TV. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with dancing, but a bunch of tracks of the same thing? And why they gotta scrap your people from the track? How are you supposed to tell your peoples that you knew since high school that they’re off a guaranteed hit song? Or maybe you won’t tell them. And maybe you’ll stand your ground and fight for your songs. You’re a damn artist, yo. You don’t make music. You make art. You put your heart and soul into this. You made the best damn music you possibly could. Who are these suits to tell you what will sell and what won’t? Then again, if you fight, there’s a good chance whatever album you make will never see the light of day. Not to mention that advance money’s running low. Damn. Plus you’re already known locally and your songs have been on youtube, allhiphop, and you’ve been mentioned as an up and coming artist on pastthemargin. You’re an MC now, bruh. A nine to five just isn’t in the cards. Not with people being able to recognize you wherever you work. I mean, yeah, it’s art, but this is your livelihood. This is how you feed junior. This is how you live and they already told you what you have to do to live. Decisions, decisions. Hey, at least you made it though. Congratulations.