The Dead Emcee Scrolls Read online

  { The Dead Emcee Scrolls

  The Lost Teachings of Hip-Hop

  And Connected Writings

  }

  “Saul is every kind of great artist combined into one.”

  —Nas

  In the underground labyrinths of New York City’s subway system, beneath the third rail of a long forgotten line, Saul Williams discovered scrolls of aged yellowish-brown paper rolled tightly into a can of spray paint. His quest to decipher this mystical ancient text resulted in a primal understanding of the power hip-hop has to teach us about ourselves and the universe around us.

  Now, for the first time, Saul Williams shares with the world the wonder revealed to him by the Dead Emcee Scrolls.

  I have paraded as a poet for years now. In the process of parading I may have actually become one, but that’s another story, another book. This book is a book that I have been waiting to finish since 1995. This is the book that finished me. The story I am about to tell may sound fantastic. It may anger some of you who have followed my work. You may feel that you have come to know me over the years, and in some cases you have, but in others … well, this is a confession.

  “A profound poet who inspires us. He challenges us to be individuals.”

  —Russell Simmons

  Cover design by John Vairo Jr.

  Author photo by: katina parker

  Register online at www.simonandschuster.com for more information on this and other great books.

  Published by Pocket Books

  PRAISE FOR SAUL WILLIAMS AND THE DEAD EMCEE SCROLLS

  “Saul Williams is the prototype synthesis between poetry and hip-hop, stage and page, rap and prose, funk and mythology, slam and verse … he avoids classifications, and empowers the human voice. All of this is represented in Williams’s newest book, The Dead Emcee Scrolls.” —Mark Eleveld, author of The Spoken Word Revolution: Slam, Hip-Hop and the Poetry of the Next Generation

  “Once again one of the finest minds in the country has put pen to paper, voice to verse, and dug into the deep, rich planet better known as the souls of black folks.” —Nelson George, author of Hip-Hop America

  “One of the most inspiring voices in American hip-hop.” —Trent Reznor, Nine Inch Nails

  “An astonishing … poet. The internal rhyme, metrics, and imagery are so fleet … that they’re humbling.” —The Washington Post

  “Hip-hop’s poet laureate … Saul Williams isn’t out to save hip-hop, but he is out to elevate the art form [and] is effectively breaking boundaries while blurring the line between poetry and rap.” —CNN

  “[Saul Williams] is a mighty talent. He takes readers on epic voyages into frontiers that offer a refreshing awakening of the mind and a roller coaster ride into an abyss of demons, deities, occult symbols, and more.” —Amsterdam News

  SAUL WILLIAMS, one of America’s bestselling poets, is the author of three previous books of poetry: , said the shotgun to the head and S/he (both from MTV/Pocket Books) and The Seventh Octave (Moore Black Press). His music albums, Amethyst Rock Star and Saul Williams, earned him great critical acclaim, as did his starring role in Slam. Williams also cowrote that film, which garnered the Grand Jury Prize at the Sundance Film Festival and the Camera D’or at the Cannes Film Festival.

  THE DEAD EMCEE SCROLLS

  ALSO BY SAUL WILLIAMS

  , said the shotgun to the head.

  The Seventh Octave

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  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright © 2006 by Saul Williams

  MTV Music Television and all related titles, logos, and characters are trademarks of MTV Networks, a division of Viacom International Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 1-4165-2304-9

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Excerpt from Wattstax courtesy of Columbia Pictures.

  “Funky Drummer” words and music by James Brown. © 1970 (Renewed) Golo Publishing Co. All rights administered by Unichappell Music Inc. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

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  ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-2304-8 (eBook)

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE

  This eBook is best viewed at smaller font settings on your device.

  This book is dedicated

  to the dedicated:

  Afronauts of over-

  crammed space, those of

  sewed-in creases and

  ironed shoelaces, Gazelle

  framed screw-faces.

  Way before court cases

  were platinum sales,

  quest for mix-tapes like

  the Holy Grail. Retro

  earthquake fitting.

  Metro landmark bidding.

  NGHs was wiggin out!

  Newburgh know what

  I’m talking bout. B-

  boys! B-girls!

  Caesars and Jheri curls.

  This book is dedicated

  to the under-rated

  hustler, high school

  dropouts, school dance

  shoot-outs, NGHs with

  Uzis! Bitches and

  floozies!

  This book is dedicated to

  y’all too! Pull your

  panties up and feel me!

  Help me, lord. Heal me.

  This book is dedicated to

  the Sunday preacher:

  the original pimped out,

  laid back hustler, with

  God on his side and

  Italian leather in his ride.

  Toot your horn

  and feel me.

  This book is dedicated to

  the sho nuff sho nuff.

  The nappy dugout:

  corn-rowed, twisted and

  braided and the NGH

  who parlayed it into cold

  cash. NGH, you crazy!

  I’m ’a sick my dogs on

  you.

  This book is dedicated to

  those who prayed for it,

  who saw it before it was

  here, who sensed it from

  the beginning.

  This book is dedicated to

  the beginning. Before

  before and right now.

  This book is dedicated to

  the lunch table. The

  boom bap. I still got my

  12 inch of Spoonin Rap!

  To all the original

  blueprints. I know ya

  heard of that!

  This book is dedicated

  to yellow caps in

  Lemon Heads boxes

  (Krak Attack!), three

  quarter bombers, and

  Africans selling time

  machines in Times

  Square by moonlight

  (clear nail polish on fake

  gold will make it last

  longer. Ain’t nobody

  talkin bout diamonds.

  Not yet.

  But this book is dedicated

  to that too!). Name belts,

  name rings, name-plates,

  gold ropes, door knocker

  earrings, and gold fronts.
r />   This book is dedicated to

  that more than once.

  This book is dedicated to

  Phillie blunts, Oakland

  Raider jackets, “X” caps,

  Spike’s Joint, and a

  bunch of shit that

  became corny overnight.

  This book is dedicated to

  those that write! Fab 5,

  Futura, Doze, shake your

  cans and feel me!

  This book is dedicated to

  floor wizards spinning on

  backs, head, and hands,

  and cute girls that ain’t

  afraid to dance.

  But, nah, it ain’t only

  about the old school.

  This book is dedicated to

  platinum grills and apple

  bottoms. Backpackers in

  Benzes with white Jesus

  medallions and his crown

  of diamond thorns

  hanging from their

  necks. Hardy har har,

  NGHs. Change clothes

  and feel me.

  This book is dedicated to

  moguls, def to death.

  Please don’t take a shit

  on the chest of our

  generation (Vicelord,

  your majesty). Ugly

  NGHs with money to

  burn. The ass thou

  pimpest shall be thine

  own. Funk God I know

  you feel me. Now let me

  hold a li’l something so I

  can get the IRS off my

  back (I can’t always bring

  myself to pay taxes to a

  government that uses our

  money to steal more land

  and ignore the ongoing

  plight of the poor in our

  names! What’s realer

  than that?). All this

  money is dirty. You can’t

  buy freedom, but let’s

  buy some airtime and

  shelf-space and elevate

  this freedom of speech.

  Free your mind,

  brother. Peaceful Pimpin’

  since ’72. Ask my baby

  mamas, they’ll tell ya.

  What? You never heard

  of that?

  This book is dedicated to

  Crunchy Black,

  Willie D, Face, Kane,

  and all you dark-skinned

  cats that had to smile to

  be seen.

  This book is dedicated to

  freedom, although it

  comes at a cost.

  Don’t steal it, y’all

  (“steal” should read

  “find” if the subject is

  white, in which case

  the subject is free

  to help himself).

  This book is dedicated to

  white people, ’cause y’all

  feel it too. All these

  so-called races. What we

  runnin’ for? Don’t believe

  the hype! We are one.

  This book is dedicated to

  greater understanding,

  power, and NGHs with

  enough game to flaunt it.

  This book is dedicated to

  Yahshua Clay (You know

  who you is NGH, Stand

  up!), Niggy Tardust,

  Tennessee Slim

  (Detonate!), Soggy Lama

  III (and the sirens of

  Atlantis that sing his

  praises), Zupert Henry

  (your mamas car ain’t

  faster than mine, boy),

  Rebekka Holylove (hip

  hip shalom!), and the

  luminous heroes of

  today, now, and

  forevermore (I hold

  my nuts as I exit)!

  P.S. Did you know the

  mothership was built in

  Newburgh, NY? That’s

  what I be meanin when I

  say “Word to the Mother.”

  Selah.

  CONTENTS

  A Confession

  NGH WHT

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Amethyst Rocks

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Untimely Meditations

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Om

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  1987

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Sha Clack Clack

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Co-Dead Language

  Chapter 1

  Part 2: Seven Mountains: Journal Excerpts 1994–2001

  1994

  1995

  1996

  1997

  1998

  1999

  2000

  2001

  Acknowledgments

  In the final analysis, every generation must be responsible for itself.

  PAUL ROBESON

  A CONFESSION

  There is no music more powerful than hip-hop. No other music so purely demands an instant affirmative on such a global scale. When the beat drops, people nod their heads, “yes,” in the same way that they would in conversation with a loved one, a parent, professor, or minister. Instantaneously, the same mechanical gesture that occurs in moments of dialogue as a sign of agreement which subsequently, releases increased oxygen to the brain and, thus, broadens one’s ability to understand, becomes the symbolic and actual gesture that connects you to the beat. No other musical form has created such a raw and visceral connection to the heart while still incorporating various measures from other musical forms that then appeal to other aspects of the emotional core of an individual. Music speaks directly to the subconscious. The consciously simplified beat of the hip-hop drum speaks directly to the heart. The indigenous drumming of continental Africa is known to be primarily dense and quite often up-tempo. The drumming of the indigenous Americas, on the other hand, in its most common representation is primarily sparse and down-tempo. What happens when you put a mixer and cross-fader between those two cultural realities? What kind of rhythms and polyrhythms might you come up with? Perhaps one complex yet basic enough to synchronize the hearts of an entire generation.

  To program a drumbeat is to align an external rhythmic device to an individual’s biorhythm. I remember being introduced to the hip hop/electronica sub-genre, drum and bass, by one of its pioneers, Goldie. I accompanied him to his DJ set at the London club, the Blue Note. After about an hour of him staring straight into my eyes, gold teeth glaring, miming or pointing to every invisible, yet highly audible, bass line, kick, snare, an
d high hat, he took me outside and instructed me to monitor my heartbeat so that I might note that the intensity of the music in the club had actually sped it up so that my heart was, now, pounding—a sort of high speed drum and bass metronome. I had been re-programmed (note: it was a high-speed wireless connection). Did it affect how I thought? I don’t know, but surely, the potential was there. The music of that night had been mostly without lyrics. But if there were lyrics, could they have affected me on a subconscious level in the same way that the music itself had affected me on a subatomic level? Who knows? What I do know is that I have been a hip hop head for years. I have nodded my head to the music that initially affirmed my existence as an African American male. And then, of course, as the music grew more openly misogynistic and capitalistic, I found myself being a bit more picky about exactly what I would choose to nod my head to. It was difficult. Sometimes the beats were undeniable. Regardless, even though I always sensed the power of the music, even though I remember the few hip-hop songs that brought tears to my eyes because they went beyond speaking of the power of the music and hinted at the power of our generation, nothing, absolutely nothing could have prepared me for the story that I am about to share.

  I have paraded as a poet for years now. In the process of parading I may have actually become one, but that’s another story, another book. This book is a book that I have been waiting to finish since 1995. This is the book that finished me. The story I am about to tell may sound fantastic. It may anger some of you who have followed my work. You may feel that you have come to know me over the years, and in some cases you have, but in others … well, this is a confession.

  I came to New York in 1994, having just graduated from Morehouse College in Atlanta, Georgia, where I had majored in philosophy and drama. I was about to begin my first year in the graduate acting program at NYU. I was very excited. I had been planning my career as an actor my entire life and everything was going exactly as planned. Because I could study drama in school, it was never simply a hobby for me; it was a professional choice. On the other hand, I had been rapping for as long as I had been acting, but rapping was never something I could study in school. It was extra curricular. I wrote rhymes between classes (and often during). I battled at lunchtime and recess. It was my favorite past time.

  Time passed and by the time I graduated from college I no longer wrote rhymes. I was becoming more focused on acting. Yet, the time that I once spent writing rhymes was now spent listening and critiquing hip-hop. I was a purist. I saw my list of the top ten emcees as the list. I could talk hip-hop all day. And not just the music, the culture. I had been a breakdancer and had even spent part of my time in Atlanta dancing for an up-and-coming rap group. Junior high and high school had been hardly more than a fashion show for me: Lee suits, name belts, name rings, fat laces, you name it. Growing up just an hour outside of New York City had kept me feverishly close to the culture. We always did our back to school shopping on Farmers Boulevard in the Bronx, 8th Street in Manhattan, Dr. Jays in Harlem, Delancey, Orchard and any other place mentioned in classic hip-hop songs to make sure we were never behind the trends. I’m tempted to list the color of my sheep skin, Pumas, shell toes, Lottos, Filas, how many Lees I had, sewed in creases, fat laces, name rings, truck jewelry. What?! Unfuckwitable. Its really the only reason why despite any career success I may experience I hardly bling. I blang.