“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like the fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars …” – Jack Kerouac, On The Road (1957)
I went looking for Ol’ Dirty Bastard on Sunday afternoon. This is my story.
I head east, with two friends, on Wilshire Boulevard and begin, what is to be, an unforgettable day.
I suppose I have been looking for ODB since his untimely passing in 2004. Hip-hop has become achingly predictable since Dirt’s departure. In URB #157, I profiled Dances With White Girls, a lesser-known DJ whose tropical style mirrors Dirty’s—cerebral, a bit humorous, and refreshingly off-kilter. “Sure, Wu-Tang alum Method Man was referencing his capricious collaborator Ol’ Dirty Bastard when he professed, ‘… there ain’t no father to his style’ on 1993’s Enter the Wu-Tang: 36 Chambers. It was a bold, decidedly apropos coinage of the mercurial rapper. In retrospect, we now understand what Meth was talking about, no one—no one!—could contain the odd, erratic soul of Russell Jones,” I wrote. There are, of course, infinite questions, infinite aliases: Big Baby Jesus, Sweet Baby Jesus, Dirt McGirt, Dirt Dog, Osirus, Ason Unique, Joe Bananas, The BZA, The Drunken Master Styles. The manic court jester. Rap’s tortured Vaudevillian. Pop culture’s loveable loon who we couldn’t get enough of, and who couldn’t get enough of himself. ODB was hip-hop’s Dean Moriarty—perspicuously mad, wonderfully maniacal. His masterfully chopped rhyme patterns, buffeted occasionally by inaudible drunken slurs, are legendary.
Fifteen minutes and ten Los Angeles miles later we arrive at The Do Over, a casual summer lounge that operates exclusively on Sundays from 2 to 10 PM. A jambalaya of bright-colored hipsters, copper beauties, and an older gentleman with a Frankenstein flat-top decorate the outside of the establishment that looks more like a trendy Brooklyn refuge than a Hollywood hideout (it’s tucked away on the quiet strip of El Centro Avenue between Hollywood and Sunset). There is a considerable line, but we are not deterred. We talk about the usual things guys in their early twenties talk about while attempting to defeat time: women, music, pseudo-relationships, and the like. An hour passes.
“Let’s go,” I say. “This is getting ridiculous.”
“We can go to my house. I’ve got beer and burritos,” Brian offers.
My ears, along with Nick’s, raise with subdued excitement. The sun grins in jest.
“Sounds good,” I say, motioning toward the street.
“Beats what we’re doing now,” Nick says, nodding in agreement.
We stand for another ten minutes mulling over the option of free beer and burritos. We stand quiet, each weighing our personal pros and cons of leaving or staying. We opt to leave. I would find ODB another day.
We depart—the line is now wrapped around the block and the bouncer warns he is only letting in females—and head South on La Brea Avenue toward Brian’s house in View Park. The music is blaring obnoxiously loud, as is the norm when riding with him. I never complain. The song selection usually becomes an educational endeavor; I hear something I never have. Today is no different.
“What’s the name of this song,” I ask, a bit cramped in the back seat of the black, two-door Honda Accord.
“I don’t know, it just says the track number,” Brian replies. “It’s off Bobby Digital.”
RZA as Bobby Digital in Stereo was the Wu-Tang vet’s first solo album. It was a laudable first effort, showcasing RZA’s genius behind the boards more than his quasi-dexterous flow on the mic. I ask because the track, which I later find out is titled “Kiss of a Black Widow,” features a hungry Russell Jones on the second verse and is, surprisingly, produced by Inspectah Deck. It contains a sample of “Over” by Portishead. This is no coincidence. I had found Dirty. I ask Brian to play it back. What follows is toxic, terse, and uniquely Ol’ Dirty Bastard.
You couldn’t get a flick of the hype outfit
Cause the way that I’ma dress this style is mad wild
Enough to make a crowd of women scream Oww!
Whether at a party or just in bed
Or thoughts of Ason bitch keep that in your head
My beats are funky, my rhymes are spunky
Sometimes I say well motherfucka what’s the recipe?
I don’t know, I ask my Ma, she don’t know
Go ask ya Poppa
It’s all about me in the place to be
Nigga you all that uhhh
Motherfucka that shit is due it’s mad
Motherfucking game and it’s a God-damn shame
How many motherfuckas wanna know this name, Ason
Yo I lock on pass the break!
Shake and motivate, stimulate.
A mix of wit and wonder, Dirty’s verse on “Kiss of a Black Widow” is, perhaps, his most autobiographical. In an odd and absurd way (but when wasn’t Dirty odd and absurd?) it’s also, to some degree, existential when Dirty asks “Sometimes I say well motherfucka what’s the recipe?” Because in truth, Dirty never had a recipe for his style, his approach, his spontaneity. We never knew what to expect with Osirus or Dirt Dog, depending on whom he chose to show up as (I preferred Big Baby Jesus). With different tags came different personas, all equally tortured, though each marked with careful, crazed nuances. In another weird way, Dirt’s mark on hip-hop is like a kiss from a black widow—deadly; the allure inescapable. Dirt’s final caveat: “Shake and motivate, stimulate.” Of course, Dirt, of course.
LINER NOTES // Erykah Badu Gets on Mos Def’s Tour :: Flying Lotus New LP + News + MP3 :: David Guetta ft. Kid Cudi “Memories” :: Jay-Z “Run This Town” (Full Video) :: Jay-Z Blueprint 3 Tracklist :: Termanology – I See Dead People (Video) :: Dr. Dre to Save Music, Without Detox :: Slaughterhouse MySpace Interview :: Wale Interview in London (Video) :: Ghostface Wizard of Poetry Album Sampler (Download) :: Black Milk – In The A.M (MP3) :: Santigold “I’m A Lady” (Benny Blanco Remix) :: URB No. 158 Cover: Kid Cudi
For more Tipping Point, read last month’s column—Comeback Season
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