So I Lied...

I have a lot to say, and I realize that I can't rant at work about hip hop when I job focuses on social policy and community programming.

Canadian Music Week
I didn't visit any venues, except the Urban Flowcase. It was a bust, as indicated by the lack of press, besides Eye Weekly anointing them with the "Strangest venue" award. It was at the Fairmont Royal York Hotel. To give you a better understanding of the place, it's where the Queen (not Latifah) comes to sleep when she's in town. Initially I was elated by the idea that urban radio was culture jamming the notion of high culture, but then I realized that their analysis isn't that sophisticated. It seems that the choice of venue was an amateur's mistake, after all, who wants to watch Raekwon and Killah Priest throw down in the friggin hotel ballroom?!?

Of course the scarce audience wasn't there early enough to enjoy Melanie Durrant whose voice is incredible live. The only criticism I have is that she didn't seem to enjoy being there. She enjoyed her music, but I sensed a bit of distance from the crowd. Then again, she was facing a crowd of Wu-Tang fans.

Posers were out in full swing, equipped with business cards, Treo's- the urban music honing device, blinding bling, and arm candy. Little X was laying low in the corner behind me, while his cousin J Digs tried to greet anyone who he thought was famous enough to give his talent credibility, including me. I'm nobody famous, but if you look at me and think I'm celebrity enough to get a full on greeting (kisses and all), then either your career is in the toilet, or I need to change my line of work.

All in all the event was poorly executed, the line-up was poorly chosen (Canadian Music Week featured Raekwon... Is it me or is that effed up?), but decently executed. I would have opted for a decently executed show in a venue more conducive to hip hop audiences, sans the "long dresses may become caught in escalator".

When will Canadian hip hop learn?

Back to Life, Back to Reality

As I'm settling in this new job, I am realizing that I don't have as much type to blog about myself, hip hop, and myself as an observer, participant and lover of hip hop culture.

Where does this leave me? Well, I am now among the pseudo statistics that talk about the short-lived ambitions of wannabe bloggers. It's been less than a year, and what began as a desire to blog at least once a week, has been reduced to once a month. I am sadly, a bandwagon blogger.

I partly attribute this to my inability to post photos. As well, I never got around to subscribing to an RSS newsfeed or signing up for any newsletters. I also didn't reply to posts on other blogs as much as I coul have. A combination of these things and the unforgiving limitations of time impacted my blogging experience. However, even without photos, RSS newsfeeds and replying to other bloggers posts, I anticipated that my e-lit experience would be a little more different.

I blame Sex and the City. I thought, after much encouragement from friends who enjoyed my writing, that I could "pull a Carrie". Granted, I'm a full-figured Canadian of Caribbean extraction in my early twenties with a modest income in the non-profit industry with a big afro, not a size 2, 30-something blonde from Manhattan, with an income that allows for addictions to Manolo Blahnik's and Prada shoes. I thought that I, like Carrie, could reflect on the interesting conversations, moments, thoughts with my girlfriends and share them with the world. Unfortunately, my ill-fated fantasy, was grounded in the pervasive images that I fight in my everday life, personally and professionally. I was preyed upon, and ambushed into unconsciousness and could no longer fight the fantasy, but damn, it was a good fantasy.

In the fantasy of fabulousness, my encounters of divadom are birthed on crisp evenings in late September- the kind of day that epitomizes perfect transitional balance, where one twenty-something, professional (me) could enjoy a roasted red pepper, arugula, and spinach pannini while meticulously identifying fashion faux pas, old flames, and potential mates on a bustling Saturday afternoon. Evenings would find me indoors as the outside winds howelled, as if to warn me to stay indoors wrapped in a tasteful burgandy cashmere turtleneck and peppermint tea, playing Yesterday's New Quintet in the background. It would be a time of eternal inspiration- a place that I traveled to regularly every time I sat crossed legged in front of my chic I-book structuring my weekly masterpiece.

Money is meaningless in this context. In my fantasy, I write passionately without care or concern about how my bills will be paid. It just does. I have no other form of employment, and no significant other to supplement my absent income. Still, to the outside world, I can penetrate the thick air of insecurity, exuding the confidence of a woman who has got her shit together, shopping habits and all.

Nobody questions my credentials. They simply believe. I am invited to every sneaker, CD release, spoken word, wine and cheese, cocktail and fashion party in the city and beyond. I have mastered the art of the chic, I mean, cheek kiss. There is no corner of the city I haven't been invited to explore, as everyone seeks to include me in their social circles. You see, I amd the diva who everyone calls "diva" and can successfully straddle the line between street and geek chic. From the corridors that house the decision-makers in the upper echelons of power to the disenfranchised, but "eccentric" and "funky" people of colour- the stylemakers of the 21st century, I can work any room.

My fantasy occurs in chapters, as my life ventures down the winding and unyielding paths of self-discovery. Still, through it all I remain fly, funky, fearless and free- afro and all.

But alas, here I am. Sitting in comfortable, not sexy, Hanes underwear with my afro flattened on the right side, and my pedicured toes, riddled with the stress of a busy life, suffering from chipped polish. Here, I am surrounded by glossy installations of the upper class, and my imposed aspirations for Prada, Fendi, and couture taste (it's definitely acquired) sit seductively on my bed spread wide open, served by size 0 models who don't look like me.

I am not a blogger. My fantastical illusions of life, are based on a fantastically fictional life, packaged and sold for ratings, product endorsements, and DVD box sets. I have learned that there is no such thing as a Carrie Bradshaw, so there sure as hell is no such thing as the Black Carrie Bradshaw.

This brings me to my end. I will be missed by the one or two random by-chance visitors to my blog and nobody else. Still, I'm grateful for having been introduced to this new world, where "nobodies" and "somebodies" (i.e. unpublished and published writers) speak as opinionated bodies; equals who engage in rhetoric that inspires great print, radio and television stories worldwide. The internet is a beautiful thing for this.

I have bought books, CDs, and read articles because of the great blogs I have encountered. Many of these blogs are listed on the left side of this page. However there are others that I have missed. I know you're out there and I will keep reading your blogs, waiting for the life conditions that will allow for my new writing fantasy to emerge. Until then, I guess it's...

Back to Life... Back to Reality...

Summer's Over, and Life Goes On...

It's been a minute since I posted, and I only have a minute to spare. So here's the quick rundown.

While there was no beef for Kardi, I was even more fascinated by the predominantly Afro-Caribbean crowd that went out to see the show.

I found out about Jeff Chang coming to Toronto, at 9:30 p.m. in passing. Poor promo, and not checking Del's blog made me miss this. I will never forgive TUMF for this.

I missed TUMF this year because I was in NYC. I should've tried to connect with people, but my whole life has been a big networking hustle. So I just shopped.

In preparation for a guest lecture at U of T, I am asking students to read Chapter 2 ("Sipple Out Deh")in "Can't Stop, Won't Stop". This should be interesting...

School has started and I have 2 great professors. I checked them out on Rate My Professor

The fact that I am a manager of a $1.2M project has finally sunk in. I am now getting stress-induced headaches and 4 hours of sleep a night.

Medina still has $0.00 and I'm treating it like a $1.2M project. Editorial meeting on Saturday, graphic and layout meeting too. My headaches are getting even worse.

TCHC wants me to stay on board for issue 2 of "Project: Life". I'm losing even more sleep.

How did my life become so busy?

Chew On This...

As Del has observed, Toronto is having quite the interesting summer. A mishandled Flow interview with Kanye, and Mos Def marrying Socrates' baby mother, O.C. getting doused with ice cubes (See Mr. Kamoji for details and pics) from a bartender and abandoning his show due to poor sound quality and after hitting a security guard ("accidentally") with a mic stand, and Mayhem Morearty dissing Kardi has got me feeling like I'm living in Toronto Tattler, tabloids of the not-so-rich, and only marginally famous.

The new rumour is that as Eternia's CD skipped at the All B-Girl's School, Bahamadia whispered to nobody in particular quite loudly, "see this is why white girl's shouldn't rap". That's fine form for the Christian of the new millennium. Break out the Olive Oil and run to the altar.

I am still trying to find out what was said, but apparently when Mayhem performed at the10th annual 416 Graffiti Expo by REMG he got bold-faced and dissed Kardi. I guess, his music wasn't good enough to hold him down with the crowd. More importantly though, is that Kardi has a show this weekend at the Harbourfront Centre with Melanie Durrant. And of course, the big question is will the Firestarter use that as a forum to reply?

Hmmmm..... (I doubt it)

Quite frankly, Toronto doesn't have a big enough talent pool to have beef. Everyone is on the come up, and nobody can geographically or ideologically claim any loyal region of fans, as long as they have BET. So dissing another Toronto cat is as effective as a soup kitchen in Forest Hill or Rosedale.

Bahamadia Took Me To Church

My grandmother always believed that God worked in mysterious ways. Water to wine, parting the Red Sea, Sodom and Gomorrah and the list continues. But it wasn't until Saturday's All B-Girl's School that I knew that God's repertoire of glory included hip hop.

I walked in the El-Mo(cambo) hailing up the usual suspects (Mellenius (1/3 of Tone Mason), El-Machetero, Isis, Eternia, Leviathan, etc. etc.) and was greeted by the must have staple of any female hip hop show, EGR art. I've long been fascinated by EGR's work back when I used to organize battles at the Comfort Zone, but have since been looking for other women to shine in the spotlight. Evidently, she hadn't surfaced yet.

The Hip Hop Barbershop was in full effect, giving line-ups to every b-boy or bald-headed hip hop nut that truly wanted to represent for the culture. Dalia was spinning the Toronto staple play list of Duck Down Records - Greatest hits, mixed with throwbacks like Apache for Lady Noyz and the Drunken Monkz the breakers doing power moves at the front of room. The fabled hypothesis of all four elements of hip hop co-existing within the same space was actualized right in front of me. It was like I was among itinerant nomads whose makeshift setup gave locals a taste of their life. I was in the Temple Of Hip Hop.

Isis, while egotistical to Kanye proportions, rocked a good show. Zaki, was just as friends said, Sade meets Jill Scott at Jaguar Wright's crib for a soul session that makes Joss Stone switch genres (Brit Country anyone?). Technical difficulties didn't hold Eternia back from rocking the crowd after 2 months away from the T-Dot. A dope line-up is a dope line-up is a dope line-up. These ladies seamlessly complimented the fabric of hip hop that existed in that space, forcing me to lower my head and nod in reverence for the culture.

I had never seen Bahamadia perform and had no expectations. She spit, and we flashed up the lighters, she looked at us, and we became caught in her glaze. The audience was vulnerable and left wide open, hanging on the BB Queen's every word.

Uknowhowwedo, 3 The Hard Way, I Confess. I was right there with her. Then the lyrics stopped and we were vibing on instrumentals. Head nodding, foot tapping, pop-locking, eyes squinting in disbelieve that a song could be so dope. I looked up at my girl, and we smiled at each other, knowing that we had received the holy touch of hip hop. I felt like a changed woman. If you asked any fan in the crowd about what could possibly happen next, they'd never be able to predict what was in store.

"I want to thank the Lord Jesus Christ, for saving me. Everything I do, I do to the Glory of God. Without Him, I wouldn't be here today". Out of respect, the crowd applauded. "Every day, I thank God for the gifts that I'm given." We applaud some more, but without the trance-induced energy that we had 5 minutes earlier. "God has brought me a long way..." By now some of the crowd had found a new kind of solace at the bar. She continued, " God delivered me from prison, from being a thief from bisexuality..." We were stunned, but played it off (just smile and nod right?). I was about to break out with the tambourine and sing hallelujah because Bahamadia was taking us to church- and she knew it. As she continued, people began to fold their arms. Toronto is the San Francisco of Canada when it comes to the Queer community, so even if nobody in the room was Queer, we were all sensitive to the issues as forward-thinking progressive Torontonians. When Bahamadia ended, I was certain she lost a lot of the crowd, who had become more fascinated with the photography slideshow at the back of the stage, than Bahamadia at the front. "This is my truth yall. This is what I believe, and it may be different for some of yall, but I'm sharing my truth."

And with that the show continued... successfully.

If I had known, I would have worn my good frock. I can't believe that Bahamadia took me to church.

Allow Me to Re-Introduce Myself...

As the church-bred choir girl with a Jamaican upbringing, I learned early that it was a sin to believe in horoscopes, witches and Black magic. Dressed in a silk blazer and skirt ensemble with the white hat and matching netting enveloping her face, Sister Gardener lowered her dark eyes at me and reminded me in a nurturing scowl that it was against God's will to try and predict the future and believe in the 12 universal zodiac signs that exist among the billion + in our global population. For fear of the church woman's wrath agreed and vowed never to bring it up again. That is, until the horoscope page lay open on the seat beside me as I rode the bus to work today.

"Now is the perfect time for you to leave an imprint on eternity, Scorpio. Within the next 6 weeks you will leave your mark"

Me? An imprint? I'd always said that if I had to decide between the ability to influence and being rich, I'd choose to be influential, but that was a secret I told myself. This desire to influence lingered between my sentences and hid within the stitching of my clothes. This was my little big secret. So what does it mean when some random arbitrary horoscope gives me a message that I had shared only with myself?

It means that the many speaking engagements that I have planned for September will be heard and echo through generations, if I prepare right. It means that I no longer have a crutch. I can't cry about being poor, because I just got a job that propelled me to the middle class. I can't talk about dropping out of high school when I have 4.0 GPA in university. I can't talk about lack of access to opportunities when people are telling me that my name is falling out of the mouths of people I don't know and have never met, at meetings that I didn't even know were happening. I have received emails from people who say that they Googled me (say what!?!).

When I thank my mentors, they no longer accept the thanks. "My pleasure" has been replaced with, "Oh please, you did that yourself". I've been forced to stand on my own two feet and not to cling to the coattails of the people I admire.

When I speak and people listen. When I act and they watch me. I now exist among a new circle of people.

I'm a gatekeeper now. I don't know how I will do this job because there is no job description. It's interpretive and relies on one's immediate surroundings. Until today, it never occurred to me that gatekeepers existed in every community and professional industry in the world. We guard a territory that many people are not privy to, for an array of (superficial) reasons. They aren't intelligent enough, they're the wrong class, wear the wrong clothes, are connected to the wrong people, etc. etc. Behind the gates grow health on plush patches of fertile soil surrounded by privilege and opportunity. Behind these gates lies power.

Without being asked, I have been placed in front of these gates with the other leaders, trailblazers, and prodigies.

I am a gatekeeper. This kind of privilege simultaneously enrages and empowers me. Still I must accept it and use this power and share it with others. Allow me to re-introduce myself.

My name is feminist-womanist woman of colour, and I am a gatekeeper.

Disspelling the Groupie Myth...

I could never understand the mind of a groupie. I don't have many memories of encounters with them, except for that time I went a Little Brother show last year at the Harbourfront Centre and a 5'3, 10o lb orange-tanned, dyed blonde with split ends and the brunette roots showing tried to shove me and my friends aside so that her 10 layers of black mascara, 7 injections of botox, and 5 inch stilettos could shout 4 or 3 "hey babys" sliding her finger in and out of her mouth (for the added effect) to get the attention of Big Pooh and Phonte. I don't think they saw her. I was left wondering what would possess her to be so shameless and so obviously desperate.

I've always held the belief that any woman who agrees to meet with the artist and/or their band 'back at the hotel' is either in a drunken stupor or has had something slip into her drink rendering her mentally incapacitated and unable to make wise decisions. This is assuming that she doesn't want the same thing that I assume these men want- one night of boot knockin' body rockin lip lockin' groupie love.

Using these preconceived notions, I've often turned up my nose at stories I hear about women who just went to "chill" after the show at the artists and/or their band's hotel without the panty dropping, thinking that they were just covering up for their battered self-esteem after realizing that they were just another part of the routine that will repeat itself on the following day in another city 10000 kilometers away in another time zone. That is until I was invited back to the hotel after Dwele's show on Friday night with 5 other friends.

Originally, out of a concern from my self-proclaimed "boy crazy", Dwele-loving friend Ashley (yes, she's Black) who decided to hop on to the tour bus with the drummer as the other 4 of us decided to leave, I agreed that we should go to the hotel. We all went home, got changed (in to jeans, and out of our skirts) and prepared for the worst.

In the car on the way down, we practiced rude quips, impolite jabs and moves that showed us how to take a man out in one swift action. We prepared for the unknown. We arrived at the hotel after leaving Ashley for an hour. Worried, we made a sweat-drenching-Olympic-style-I-don't-care-if-I-sweat-out-my-perm dash down the hallway, looking for her. Room 233. We found her under the sheets (she was "just a little cold" *sigh*), while drummer boy sat in the chair next to the bed. The doors where open, which made it much easier to walk (read: barge) right in.

Dwele, with his bloodshot eyes, white doo-rag and boxers on retreated for bed in preparation for his 5:15am departure to the airport for DC. It was 2:00 am. For the next 3 hours, the 7 of us (5 ladies and two dudes) talked about everything: from the comparison of 2:30 am life in Toronto vs. Detroit, to playing music (we were with the drummer and the bass player) to Slum Village, to Platinum Pied Pipers rumors (to which they would not confirm, nor deny) and even thoughts on the upcoming DC show. I, however, was still on guard, waiting for that “groupie moment” that I had always imagined. You know, sort of like the way Tip Drill insinuates what would happen when the cameras turn off. I imagined it as a series of pre-determined coincidences like a pillow fight would commence and someone would jump on top of the other to pin them to prevent the other one from “winning”, or someone would go to the bathroom and not lock the door and the lights would mysteriously go off and someone would whisper something about how much they're feeling you and blah blah blah. Well, if it came, I was ready, and it was only a matter of time.

I had my lines prepared and knew the fastest way out of that hotel. I had a plan of action that I was ready to act on at the drop of a dime. In the meantime, everyone got lifted and decided to watch Half Baked (which I thought was a funny coincidence). Since they'd never been to Toronto before, we decided to take these guys on a tour of Toronto through the movie (it was filmed in Toronto). After 5 or 6 belly laughs, 3 bags of M&M's, 5 bottles of water, and 3 desperate cries for food, the clock read 5am and we decided to head out. Since it was Caribana weekend, the entire city was still awake and there was no shortage of people at the breakfast joint we went to. We ate, laughed, reflected on the night and were dropped home. As I walked through my front door, I let out a huge sigh of relief. I had made it through… we had made it through and all my girls were safe as we dispelled the groupie myth.