By Mark Sadler
Listen, I got one
question I wanna ask y'all: Why ain't none of you buyin' my records
no more?
Back at the
beginnin' of January, it seemed like 2020 was goin' to be a billboard
year for COVI 9ineteen, the reignin' king of the north-eastern US
seaboard alternative hip-hop scene.
Y'all couldn't get
enough of my new album 'On Perm'nent Lockdown', out now on GVR
- Get Ventilated Records - filled-up to the brim on both sides of the
vinyl with diamond cuts like Da Plague (featuring PaM Demic),
I Wear No Mask, Fool (Carcosa Mix), Shake Hands Like A Man,
Coughin' And Splutterin' an' Da Plague (slight recurrence).
Seventeen rhymin' tales taken from the hood 2019 cultural exchange
programme, where rappers like myself were privileged to experience
life in European hoods in France an' Italy, gainin' insights into
different communities, learnin' how to rhyme in a foreign language,
attendin' local museums an' art exhibits, an' dinin' out on
croissants an' weird-ass pasta. There ain't no vaccine been developed
that will protect yo' ears from these verses an' beats risin' from
the streets, leafy Parisian boulevards and picturesque Italian
bowlin' courts. Or so I thought.
March rolls aroun'
an' suddenly nobody wants anythin' to do with COVI 9ineteen. I'm
gettin' calls from record shops tellin' me my new material is
offensive and they won't be rackin' it. You were okay with it in
January. Seriously, what gives?
What'd I say to
piss y'all off so bad that none of you out there is attendin' my
concerts? Case in point: My show at the Kinchen Brothers Peach
Cannery Arena, in Augusta, Maine, where I had to unlock the venue
myself, an' switch on all the vendin' machines in the lobby. Even
then nobody turned up. After an hour of waitin' I walked off the
stage in disappointment, convinced I musta got the wrong date.
'Nother
thing: I've been readin' some real nasty sentiments expressed against
me on social media. People been talkin' some slanderous nonsense,
sayin' how my mother was a Chinese bat, an' wantin' to dose me up on
Hydroxychloroquine. Shit,
the President of the United States is sayin' he goin' to kill me with
disinfectant. Word to the man in the oval office: You can't disinfect
the pure truth.
Listen, if any
y'all got a legitimate beef wit' me, then you need to take it to the
floor. You an' me'll go head to head in a war of words, sanctioned by
an acredited rulin' body like The Nevada Federation of Hip-Hop
Skirmishing, or The Worshipful Company of Battle Rappers, established
in 1842, in the UK - Shout out to my crew in London, tearin' it up in
St Paul's Cathedral.
If I learned
anythin' from the hip-hop game, it's that most problems can be solved
by coupla bare-chested men, draped in layers of gold an' platinum
chains, standin' six inches apart, pitchin' rhymes they created on
the fly in one 'nother's face.
By the way all you
social media trolls referrin' to me as COVID-19. The name's COVI.
C.O.V.I.
COVID 9ineteen was
my father, who was also a rapper. Rest in peace pops. I'd pour a
forty out on the kerb, if the queue to the mart didn't run all the
way round the block, with everyone weirdly spaced apart, an' givin'
me the stink eye when I suggested bringin' it in and showin' the
love.
When I think about
it, all this is kinda similar to what went down in the middle of
2019, when my label suddenly got cold feet 'bout releasin' my record
Wildfire Down Unda – a concept album detaillin' life in the
Australian hood.
Or before then, in
the summer of 2014, when I released ISIS, an' the lead single
Heads Gonna Roll was abruptly bumped from radio playlists.
Even right as far
back as 2007, with the unleashing of my debut record, Subprime,
I was causing controversy and upsettin' people. I 'member there was
all these headlines splashed 'cross the papers blamin' Subprime
lendin' for sparkin' a global recession. What was I supposed to
do if people were sharin' the record back and forth. I wish more
people brought it!
Why y'all keep
turnin' yo' backs on old COVI 9ineteen? Seriously, the situation is
vexing me like an all-night lover of the matriarchy.
One of my homies
tol' me the reason I keep fallin' on my face commercially, is I'm
consistently ahead of my time, but only by a few weeks. Weird thing
is, he might have a point: A few days ago I was sat down with a pair
of gov'ment agents askin' me what I thought might be happenin' in the
world a coupla of months from now and makin' notes. At the end of the
interview, one of them asked me to write down what I thought the
lottery numbers were goin' to be next week, and who would be winnin'
the Superbowl next season, “assumin' that there is a next season.”
I tol' him that
it's goin' to take some kind of global virus outbreak to stop the
National Football League in its tracks.
Anyway, I hope
this clears a few things up and we all friends again.
Peace. Out.
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