Before I leave New Brunswick, I stop by Commercial Avenue on the off chance that Flow might be in the studio. As fate has it, he’s putting the final touches on his album, so he’s pulling an all-nighter anyway and I’m welcome to stay. He’s got about an ounce of weed and plenty of snacks with him and invites me to partake. I help myself to a Snapple and some chips, but that’s it.
Flow’s studio is in a vacant-looking building on Commercial Ave. The gangster Napoleon sits at a soundboard and keyboard, everything looking state-of-the-art, thousands of dollars of beat-making equipment bought with a lot of smoothed-out wrinkled cash.
It’s a legit set-up, and Flow is the producer, DJ and emcee. The boys in his crew are a bunch of hype-men, my own opinion, based on the samples he plays for me. Monosyllabic death threats. Cash-machine sound effects and gunshots laced over the beats. But Flow is the lyricist, the talent, the king.
“Took you long enough to come through. I thought you were never going to roll up. You know how to make motherfuckers wait for it, don’t you? I got to say though, the wait was worth it, my G.”
We’re taking a break from mixing. Me the colors, him the beat. The paint is drying on the wall of the studio.
“I had some personal shit to deal with. But yeah, I’m glad you like it,” I reply as we stand side by side, looking at the mural I’ve finished painting on his studio wall.
“I had the vision; you know what I’m saying? Like alright, check it out. I want that Reasonable Doubt shit on my wall,” Flow tells me, taking me back to that moment of inspiration months ago, when he first asked Jolene to commission me for a mural in his studio. “I wanted Jay-Z’s first album cover as a testament to what’s happening here. The music that birthed Jay-Z before the world even knew who he was. Who’s your favorite rapper, my G?”
“Personally, I’d have to say lyrics over everything. So, in that case, I choose Nas.”
“Word,” Flow nods all mellow, smoke curling out of his nose like a black dragon. “I’m all about lyrics, too. It don’t even matter about all that gangster shit. Everybody’s got a story. No offense, but you’re from the suburbs, right? What’s making you feel that connection with Nas?”
I pause and think, wondering if Nasir Jones has ever thought his music would inspire some Korean kid from North Jersey. Then again, it’s not even about race. Reflecting on Nas’s beef with Jay-Z feels like the ultimate question: For love, or money?
“I’m going with Nas,” I confirm. “He speaks the truth. I don’t know what it is, but when we encounter truth, we can’t help but pay homage. That shit is universal.”
Flow nods appreciatively. “Alright, so what you do want to do?”
“About what?”
“How much do you want? I mean, you got to get paid right? You didn’t come through and do this shit for free,” Flow says and cuts off the music from his mixing board. I look around and check the mural on the wall, finished and almost dry.
“Have you ever paid for artwork before?” I ask as Flow admires the monochromatic blue mural of Jay-Z, fedora tilted low over his eye, the white scarf matched with his tuxedo.
“Nah, this is the first time. Didn’t think there was a six month wait list, my G.”
“I’ve never been paid for my work,” I admit. “I don’t even know what to charge you.”
“I feel you,” Flow nods and switches topics. “By the way, I don’t know if you heard, but me and Jolene ain’t together no more. Just FYI, know what I’m saying?”
“Oh, shit. Well, I haven’t talked to her in a minute. Anyway, I’m sorry to hear that. You guys were a good couple.”
“She’s in New York now, doing her thing. I was with her when she met that weirdo,” Flow laughs with amused disdain. “Eccentric motherfucker, but you know how industry folks be acting. Mad talented though. I’ve seen his shit. He’s got the streets on lock.”
“I heard you got an offer from one of the labels,” I mention. “What happened with your deal?”
“They offered,” Flow says and shrugs. “I declined. Still trying to get my Bachelor’s, you feel me?”
I nod my head, taking notes from this Jedi.
“Alright man. It’s getting late, or should I say early? Let me break you off with some bread.”
“Nah man. I can’t take it.”
“For real?”
“Yeah man. Just consider it a sign of friendship. You helped me out that one time. Let’s just figure now we’re even.”
Flow takes off his shades and looks at me with notes of appreciation. He nods and puts his shades back on.
“Alright, let’s do it like this. I’m going to hit you with some knowledge, kid. That’s my payment.”
“Knowledge?”
“Knowledge and wisdom, my G. There’s nothing more precious in this world than that. Get in the booth right quick.”
“What, am I being recorded or something?”
“Nah, I’m just going to let you in on some game. I don’t want you sitting in front of me because I’m going to be talking to you like an O.G. homie, and we’re not that far apart. We’ve got to get farther. Get in there, see how it feels.”
“Okay.”
I leave the producer’s room and go into the booth. It’s a dark claustrophobic sound-proof space. Stepping up to the mic, I feel the darkness and silence surrounding me. I close my eyes and feel the world disappear.
Suddenly, I hear Flow’s voice come in through the speaker.
“Yo D, you hear me?”
I hear you.
“Alright, we’re going to do it like this. I’m going to give you some straight up real deal shit, bro. You ready?”
“I’m ready.”
“You know why I didn’t take that deal? They heard me on the demo and they were like, alright, he’s nice. We can use him. But they wanted me to do a group deal, like a band member, you feel me? First off, that shit is corny. Second, I’m not signing unless me and my people all get signed, you feel me?
“Yo, D. I’m from Camden. You know what that means? Number one homicide rate in the country. It’s just a fact. There’s no way out. We’re a forgotten city. Nobody knows where Camden is, and nobody knows where we’re from. Nobody gives a damn. You know why? Because anybody who ever made it out of Camden got the fuck out of Camden.
“You’re into that graffiti shit, right? You know where that shit started? The Bronx, 1970’s. Some of them people didn’t even have running water. But the soul was in the people; it was in the music; it was in the parties and the dancing and everything was just live, you know what I’m saying? There wasn’t anything negative about it. It was all love. And they sure as hell weren’t doing it for a record deal.
“All the murals those brothers painted weren’t because they were pissed off and just trying to vandalize some public property. Graffiti was their voice. It was the only way they could ever make it out of the hood. If not them in their physical form, then at least on those trains. To show the world their art, so people could know their names. They just wanted the world to know they existed.
“I’m young, but I come from the old school. I don’t give a fuck about a record deal. I’m making music and I’m setting my people free, my brother. You can’t put me in a mansion and make me forget where I come from. Whatever you do in this life, don’t forget where you come from. Don’t forget who you are. And don’t forget the people who loved you, because without them you wouldn’t be here. And without them, you won’t be where you are years from now whether you at the bottom or the top. No matter what, at the end of the day, it’s about who’s going to light the candles for you when you die. Everything else a fade.”