before i left campus this past semester a friend of mine was on his "i dont have a summer job so i'm improvising" grind. he invested in some plain white t's and printed, in the simplest bold red font, "free weezy" on the chest and went around selling them for fifteen bills a pop. i bought the shirt out of support for the cause rather than for the message. i was scrambling to find something to wear that first day back home for the summer break (of course i wouldn't start unpacking for another two weeks) and the weezy tee was the only thing in plain sight so i tossed it on and headed out on my way to pay a visit to the local boys & girls club. i walked in the door and as i'm saying hello to the snotty nosed kids i used to work with one chubby faced little boy in particular read my shirt to himself and blurted out "who's weezy?! that's yo boyfren or somefin?!" hilarious, especially because he had chocolate all over his shirt (at least i hope it was chocolate) and cookie crumbs all over his face and spoke in that little kid "i don't have volume control so even though it's not loud in here i'm shouting" voice. but i did the expected and told him in the flattest sarcastic tone that yes, yes it was my boyfriend because i definitely know how to pick 'em and would have an incarcerated lover, and then i walked away. as i made my way into the head office, planning to try and hustle a summer job for myself, one of the directors saw my shirt, stared, and then smiled and said "free weezy huh?" my brother looked at him and asked, "you know weezy, right mike?" to which this pot-bellied, middle-aged white man with a boston accent said, "oh yeah, of course i do... he was my favorite of the seven dwarves." needless to say i regretted wearing the shirt that day. in fact, i regretted buying it. i felt like a phony - i didn't care that lil wayne was in jail, let alone care about getting him out. frankly, i didn't know much about him in general, so i decided to make the shirt mean something, or at least to give myself a defense for wearing it.i've never been an avid wayne fan, barely knew about his music besides what i heard on the radio actually, so i figured i'd educate myself on the hype. of course, in my backwards way, i didn't go to the most obvious source of information, his music. instead, i went to a documentary a friend of mine told me about back at school, "the carter." what i expected to see was a series of extended shots of wayne in the studio sprinkled with some outlandish snippets of his "rockstar lifestyle" and, of course, plenty of close-ups of his styrofoam cups. but, much to my surprise (and pleasure) i got so much more than that. this short film, or rather, this long recording, didn't necessarily reconcile my back-and-forth relationship with mr.carter's music, but it damn sure made me respect him as an artist.
mr. carter lives by a "no evidence" theory - he doesn't write any of his lyrics down anymore in the hopes that only music will precede him. after all, he is not a poet, he is a rapper. he masters and remasters his words verbally, strictly tongue-powered and hands-free. he put out a mixtape some years back called "10,000 bars" in which he took the last of his written rhyme books and just spit everything in them in a continuous, unfractured, extensive track, tearing apart the pages as he spoke the words, destroying the written aspect of his music. my mind was blown. it was an innovative concept, no arguments there, but to me it seemed like he was creating more work for himself. i mean, it's difficult enough to write a nice rhyme, but it must be damn near impossible to think and rethink one without any visual aid. it's like wayne told his overtly enthusiatic manager when they found out that tha carter III sold a shit ton of records upon release, "niggas go platinum everyday. eat you some soup." if you're ambitious enough to tell yourself that expertise is only a checkpoint and not a finish line - and you work hard enough to reflect that mentality - then damn it, i commend you, mr. carter.
his thought process is pretty remarkable. if you listen passed the muffled, cough syrup guzzling murmur in his voice you'll hear some serious gems. "repition is the father of learning, i repeat, repition is the father of learning. intelligence, all that comes from repition. awareness, preparation, all that comes from repition. money, bitches, all that comes from repition. rotation. record spins. repition." i drew my cursor back to the beginning of that thirty seconds again and again, listened to these words over and over, watched that tiny segment of the documentary maybe four or five times in a row just taking in that statement. then i realized something: this man's career thrives on repition, especially since he refuses to physically write down his rhymes. he can't see his words so his ears are his only tools, he can only create by sonically repeating everything. there's plenty of footage in the film where we just watch him spit the same rhyme over and over and over again: that's discipline. that's patience. that's crafting. interestingly enough, i found myself replaying these scenes several times before letting the documentary run it's course again. it was in these scenes that i felt like i was learning what he's about as an artist, what perfecting his talent is all about. his voice recording, the camera capturing the repition, me watching it all in rotation - the cycle of learning is beautiful. the man may have accidently shot himself in the chest when he was only eleven and he may look like a black leprachaun birthed in a back-alley in baton rouge but it's all wisdom, really - it's all fueling the flames.
if i am ever given the opportunity to interview this man i'd ask one simple question: "hey mr. carter, tell me, where have you been?" i'd want to kick back and listen to him talk, just spit 10,000 bars plus about all the shit he's seen and done, hasn't seen and wants to do - and i wouldn't write a damn thing down. i'd record it, and let it repeat like a record until i could read it back, like a book.
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