“I Am The White Homie” part 1
I was in the trenches. Not fighting in them, just driving through them. The streets of Watts, California were new and interesting to my suburban eyes. I knew my GPS, suction-cupped to my windshield, directing me with a fake Australian accent, had no idea who’s hood it would take me through, and what streets to avoid. This meant that as I gingerly turned down the narrow streets, I had to remember the one name I could drop if anyone had a question: Bad Lucc. My experience with this side of L.A. told me that that might not even be enough, depending on what area I blundered into.
I had gotten a call from this talented hip-hop artist two hours earlier, which I actually missed because I was asleep. A half hour later (when I woke up) I called him back, still groggy. “What’s up?” I asked. He replied, “I was calling you to see if you wanted to roll to Krondon’s birthday in Beverly Hills…but you’d have to leave to L.A., like, right now.” I’m not sure if he expected me to make it by then. Watts was two hours away from San Diego and on hip-hop’s time frame, this was cutting it dangerously close. “Text me the address of where to pick you up and give me an hour and a half,” I said.
Krondon’s birthday, I thought. Krondon is a member of the underrated West Coast Hip-Hop super group, “Strong Arm Steady”. If there’s one thing about parties for anyone of any level of notoriety in Los Angeles, it’s that anyone, literally anyone can show up. You’ll be at a birthday party for DJ ?uestlove’s cousin, shallowly bantering with Billy Grahm’s communist nephew when who walks up but Alice Cooper’s old manager wanting to introduce you to Montell Jordan who has an idea for a internet-only TV show. A strange world, L.A. is. It feels like being caught in that little bubble in the middle of the board in a heated game of “Trouble”. With each manic click, the dice land in some new, fantastic way, putting you face to face with someone you’d never expect, in a place you’d never imagined. It’s a regular Toon Town with nose jobs, film studios, expensive everything, the mecca of gangbang culture just a few miles away from large clusters of fedora-wearing hipsters—all of which “know a guy who knows a guy”. Armies of people rushing to prove that whatever they’re doing, (along with 2,000 other people) is the next thing to blow. Not only that, they were the first to think of it. It takes a certain sick mind to be able to process it all. If your mind isn’t sick enough, a long enough stay will change that. Luckily my mind is pretty sick. I love L.A. and all that it has to offer. I was enjoying swimming in this sea of hopefuls.
I was dressed and ready in ten minutes with an hour and twenty minutes left to make it up the 805, jump to the 5, burn up the 73, and begin the horrible hopscotch game that is the freeways of LA. Assuming there were no pockets of gridlock traffic, I’d probably make it. I jumped into my car and next thing I knew, I was getting off the freeway and into Watts to pick up Lucc. I knew that this party would be an amazing opportunity to meet, mingle and network. Not to mention, I would get to see some of my favorite artists in person, simply as a fan.
I had been going up to Los Angeles a lot. I was working on an album, the sound of which could be described by an ever-changing Frankenstein’s Monster of twisted genre combinations through the lens of an equally dynamic stream of 4 a.m. philosophies. The umbrella of “hip-hop” floated over this demented Mary Poppins of an album. I was working with artists and producers who came from the hip-hop mold, but who sought to return to the mold factory with flamethrowers. As someone who has a penchant for taking WWII weapons to convention as well, these people became my close friends.
Although this probably makes the work sound more than it is, my over-analytical mind forces me to define things, even if they are unable to be defined. If this means I have to bastardize the English language in order to come up with a name for what I’m doing, it’s what makes me feel better, no matter how subtle that thing may be. And besides, it’s kind of fun to sit there in the couple of hours before the sun rises, eating Carl’s Jr. and pontificating about the gravity of making a song that sounds like Vangelis at a house party hosted by George Clinton in Haiti. Why not add a white kid rapping about how dumb drunk girls are? Based on the reactions we were getting to the music, it was working. No one cared about how weird it was that the pale suburban kid from San Diego was making a funk/rap album once they heard it and neither did we. That was just the easiest way to describe it anyway.
This hip-hop umbrella kept me in the South Central Los Angeles area, careening between Hawthorne, Gardena, and Inglewood like a bright white pinball. On any given weekend, my friends and I could be found bouncing from brightly-lit gas station snack havens to fast food spots and back to the studio, located on one of the few Crip-inhabited blocks in the famously Blood-infested neighborhood of Inglewood. It was actually a quiet street except for the inside of that studio. It was amidst these adventures that this whole momentum started.
This momentum taught me a lot leading up to this point. Don’t pull up next to anyone who is parked. Ever. That’s how you get shot. Don’t turn anywhere lined with palm trees on any street from 60th to 69th. Don’t wander around as a tourist in South Central without someone who can be your “hood map”. “Hood map”-less and in a hurry, I carefully but briskly drove through Watts to the address that was texted to me, stopped out front (another thing you shouldn’t do for too long) and called Bad Lucc. As I was scanning the windows of the parked cars to make sure they were empty, he came out, got in the car, and we were off.
Stay tuned for part 2
