So here’s the thing: I’ve always been a writer at heart, and have been working on bringing back editorials to the site. Fortunately, having a duo at the dopehouse that also love to write makes things much easier. So, as part of 2DBz’ 2012 campaign to run the ‘Nets we are now introducing weekly editorials on the site. Expect a new drop every Friday afternoon from either Miss Peas, Justice or me… – M
It’s been a long time since I’ve written one of these. To be honest, I have a bit of a “love-hate” relationship with writing, and there will be times where I won’t pick up the proverbial pen for months on end just because. So we’ll see how long I’m able to keep this up.
For those that aren’t aware I also have a fledgling side hustle as a deejay, and while it is still in its neophyte stages I’ve been blessed to travel to parts of the world I’d never visited before solely off the strength of playing cuts for and entertaining an audience. Whether spinning for 50 or 2,000 people, I’m appreciative and humbled by each opportunity I am able to have.
Who knew that restarting a hobby after eight years in the bedroom/living room of my studio apartment in downtown Los Angeles two years ago would lead to this?
A while ago I had the pleasure of providing the sounds for Wale’s Ambition Tour stop in Ft. Lauderdale, and although the shots, fried chicken and weed smoke wafting through the rafters did nothing beneficial for the chest cold and sore throat I’d been suffering through it was one of the more memorable gigs I’ve done. Aside from that one guy who got mollywhopped by five other guys in the audience in the middle of Wale’s performance, things went rather smoothly.
I’m sure that the dude who caught the fade would beg to differ, however. Imagine telling your friends you got your ass kicked to “Lotus Flower Bomb.”
The one constant in everything I have spun at thus far (aside from the illegal drugs, bum wines, cold food platters and the general discomfort of having a sweaty fellow concertgoer invading your personal space) are the omnipresent abundance of thirst-driven groupies, both male and female. It’s not even difficult to spot one of these aspiring slores anymore: while backstage preparing for my set a pair of broads were milling about, overdressed in the finest of swap meet wears mind you, refusing to talk to anybody who wasn’t in possession of either a blunt or a bottle and only piping up when the feeble prospects of getting piped down by Wale would arise.
Since I don’t smoke anymore and never drink while on the job, they ignored me. Which I didn’t mind, of course: I wasn’t trying to see if I was going to be the next contestant on that free clinic line.
While the numbers used to “favor” women groupies and in many cases still do, I have also seen the advent of the male groupie – we’ll refer to them as “moupies” from here on out – during many shows. Whether trying in vain to slide their mixtape into the right hands, grab some of the free shit that’s backstage (some musicians are spoiled in ways you can’t possibly imagine) or simply wanting to say they had an opportunity to be around anybody with a modicum of success, moupies are as equally if not more thirst-driven as their female counterparts. At least groupies tend to have their tits, legs and ass cheeks all out to provide me with hours of lecherous entertainment; what purpose does a guy who’s a bizarre mix of a hypebeast and that MTV Riff Raff clown serve?
It’s not as if the area behind the stage is a mythical, Wizard Of Oz-like place anyways. Do you really want to know what’s backstage most of the time? It’s a frenetic blend of people scrambling like a Black quarterback not named Byron Leftwich to make sure the show runs as smoothly as possible all the while avoiding weed carriers who are loaded out of their minds, with said cold food platters, very few amenities and usually one piss-painted toilet all around. There’s nothing really glamorous about it at all.
I’m sure that it’s a lot better for other, top-tier acts, but I can’t imagine it being that much. Groupie activity is like its own sport, a sideshow-style train wreck attraction that one cannot stop staring at while knowing it’s not beneficial to do so. I get no nutritional value from the shit at all; it just makes my job at looking at tits, legs and ass cheeks that much easier.