Chapter 7
In the Studio
“Rollin’ slowly up beside you,” I bob my head to the thump of the beat, keeping my eyes closed so my ears can relish the raspy baritone delivery of these lyrics. “Tinted windows won’t hide you. These streets slicked by the rain, can’t wash away stain of pain. You stepped across the borderline, the rules we’re playin’ by are mine.”
The chiming echo of the guitar solo fades out over the bass line as I slowly open my eyes, a smile rising to my lips. Behind the glass, I see Deep Kut mirroring that smile. The boy has really come up since he started recording a couple years back. As always, he’s got on his burgundy hoodie and those aviator sunglasses. While the last notes fade out, he looks to Dizzy for a reaction. Though his back is turned to me, as he hunkers over the soundboard, I’m positive Dizzy can’t suppress a grin, either. He gestures for Deep Kut to come out of the recording booth, to where we are.
I’ve been sitting here for the last few hours watching the recording process. It’s a pleasure to be there, during the moments music is being formed and shaped into the end product, before it hits the streets. Sessions with Dizzy are especially fine because, to my ears, the man is an audial genius. Though, he may not be a well-known hip hop producer right now, I’ve got a feeling it’s only a matter of time before he will be. Depth Charge Productions started out as a one man venture by his hands, right here in this basement. It’s grown over time and keeps getting better thanks to Dizzy’s work and my money. I’ve invested thousands to set the place up with quality equipment.
Walt “Dizzy” Lee came to Seattle from San Francisco, as a teenager, when his father got an engineering job with Boeing up here. As a kid growing up in the Bay Area he absorbed himself in hip hop culture, despite his Asian parents’ strong objections. While he never joined a gang himself, he certainly got exposed to the lifestyle and gained a healthy respect for the real bangers. The first time we met, I ran into him at a club where he was spinning house music that drove the kids crazy. The next time I saw him, he was on stage at some back alley death metal concert in Tacoma, that an ex-girlfriend of mine dragged me to. Since I kept coming across him, I felt I had to meet him and find out what he was all about. Turns out, he’s got not only wide musical tastes, but talent as well. Doesn’t matter whether it’s guitar, drums, bass, turntables, or keyboards, if it makes a sound then the boy can work wonders with it.
“You like that shit, Dizzy?” Deep Kut asks as he steps through the door. “Practiced my ass off to get it just right. Did like you said and recorded it with that little tape recorder you gave me. Kept playing it back until it sounded just how I wanted it to.”
“That,” Dizzy’s fingers dance around the soundboard until a mix of Deep Kut’s vocals and Dizzy’s music are pumping out of the speakers. “That’s some beautiful shit, right there. Beautiful!”
“Damn, man, I’m glad you like it!” Deep Kut can’t contain his pride. A compliment like this from “Reverend Dizzy” is like having Einstein tell you you’re smart.
“Honestly, it looks like we got it in one take, Deep,” Dizzy leans back, arms folded across his Orange Crush t-shirt, “Hell, I’m not even sure we needed to do it twice, but you know how I am.”
“The mastermind has spoken,” Deep Kut beams at me. “And when the mastermind speaks his mind, who are we to disagree?”
“Maybe make that into a song, Deep,” I smirk at him. “Call it ‘How to Rise By Kissing Ass’.”
He knows I’m referencing his local hit ‘How to Rise by Killing’.
“Shit,” he chuckles, in far too good of a mood to take offense. “I never thought one song could take so long to write, but I think this one’s worth it.”
I light a cigarette, despite the glare from Jezzy. She’s Dizzy’s latest feminine companion, a Latina from some barrio south of here, that I could care less about. Maybe Los Angeles, maybe Tacoma, maybe Tijuana. All I know is that her high-maintenance demeanor totally offsets her beauty. Liquid chocolate eyes, perfect mocha skin tone and a shining black cascade of curls draping over the attitude of a spoiled toddler.
“Aw, Perce,” she whines like a caged dog. “The smoke, that’s bad for you! You keep sucking those fumes and you gonna end up on your back in a hospital bed like my grand-mama.”
I gaze at her wondering how much torque I’d need to slap that white eyeliner off her face. “You talking again, Jezzy? I thought we had a moratorium on that shit. Why don’t you go get your man a drink, like a good little girl.”
She’s scowling at me as she runs her hands down over Dizzy’s chest. “Walty, you got mean friends. I’m trying to be helpful cause I care, you know? Then he goes and treats me like some kinda ho!”
Dizzy’s eyes meet mine but I can tell he’s a little torn between his fine heina and my cash dedication to his passion, “Nah, baby girl, you know how it is. I smoke, too, and it’s for the stress. Perce didn’t mean nothin’ mean, right man?”
“I meant,” I’m not too interested in a spat killing my buzz even tho I’m peeved. “That there’s better ways of showing the care. I risk a hospital stay every day I run these streets. Get shot or something slipped in my drink. Cigarettes the least of my worries, Jezzy. Not the kind of thing a man wants to be thinking about while he works.”
“I can’t help caring about you,” her tone sounds apologetic but her kind smile gleams false. “Dizzy loves you like I do and you two got this great thing going. I don’t want to see that end.”
Bet she doesn’t. Gold-digger.
“Oh hell yes,” Deep Kut speaks up, trying to break this awkward conversation. “I’m stealin’ that shit, Perce, ‘I risk a hospital stay every day I run these streets’, man that is pure platinum. I feel a song comin’ on!”
“OG philosophy,” I tell Deep, glad to have a new discussion started. “The way we think because we have to, man. Without a mindset you get your ass checked out there.”
“Oh fuck, Perce!” Deep Kut is loving this. “That’s priceless, right there, ‘OG philosophy, without a mindset you get your ass checked’ is so true, so deep, and so fucking lyrical. You a street poet, man.”
“Yeah, well,” I can’t help but grin at this sheer flattery since I know my words will become verse. “That’s how we roll. Armed up for the war that’s–”
My cellphone goes off. I’m slow at opening it, but before I do I see that it’s Tiff, one of my favorite girls.
“Perce, oh my god!” she’s hysterical and I have to squint against the assault on my ear. “They’re shooting at Sam! He ran, but they’re shooting at him! They’re gonna kill him!”
Author’s Notes: Chapter 8 will go live November 28, 2009! Have a Happy Thanksgiving!
