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The Underdog's Manifesto

A Guerilla Artist's Path to Independence

By Creature

with Dax-Devlon Ross

Dedication:

To any and everybody who's ever felt like an underdog

Contents

Forward

Introduction

1.Frustrated as Hell

2.Wake up and Smell the Hustle!

Interlude #1: Re-Cap

Interlude #2: The Rhyme Inspector Percee P.

3.Discovering the Artistpreneur Within

Interlude #3: "Lucky" Logan P. McCoy

4.Street Interview 7-12-06

5.Making the Brand

6. Money. Money. Money.

7. Strength of Team

8. A Star in Your Mind

Interlude #4: Duo Live

9. The Hustler's Hall of a Fame

Afterward by Jeremy Glick

Acknowledgements

Creature's Discography

Forward

The Underdog's Manifesto was written over the course of roughly four months. Each Thursday at the same time Creature and I met for two hours to write one chapter and to edit the previous week's chapter. We had a plan and a deadline and we stuck to it because we all know what happens when we don't grab hold of our ideas: someone else comes along and takes them. It's no secret anymore that hip-hop has been co-opted by corporate interests. What we wanted to ensure by writing this book was that someone didn't do the same to the independent grind (water it down; glamour it up) before the people who are actually living it had their say. That, at the end of the day, was our driving force. On the days I didn't want to work, Creature pushed me and vice versa. Both of us knew all too well how easy it would be to put this project on hold. We were not being paid by a publishing house to write this book nor did we know if there would be an audience that wanted to read it once we were done. All we knew was that it felt right and that it had to be done.

Over the months of writing Underdog, what began for me as a fascination with the independent art scene evolved into an appreciation for the hard work and dedication it takes to come out on the street everyday and put yourself and your work out there to be scrutinized by strangers. I became a believer not just in the hustle itself but in the deeper implications of supporting independent art in an age when it's too easy not to. We live in an increasingly isolated and fractured society that is mediated by technology filtered down by corporate behemoths whose interests are invariably hostile to anything independent. Whether we're aware of it or not we're taught to believe that word "independent" means "knock-off". Even though we've been hoodwinked time and time again we continue to buy into the culture of corporate hype whereby high-profile marketing scheme automatically equals a high-quality product. Conversely, if a guy is standing on the corner selling his own product then he must be "whack", otherwise he'd be on television, in magazines, inside Tower and Virgin rather than standing out front. The truth of the matter is that the market is only designed to catapult a handful of people into stardom, and that generally those people have to fit a certain mold or have a certain popular appeal. Again, I don't think I'm saying anything new. Ultimately, talent is only part of the equation that constitutes commercial success.

So what am I trying to say here? Exactly what's my point? My point is that some of the most authentic, audacious and original art being produced today is without question independent and that we have to choose to support it rather than dismiss it just because the creators are standing on street corners. The inimitable Too $hort got his start selling tapes out of paper bags in Oakland. As Duo Live's Fre pointed out in my interview with the group, before Bob Marley became a legend he once hustled his music on the streets of Trench town. There's a long and storied history of independent artists being marginalized because the mainstream marketplace didn't believe they were viable. Today's independent artists are merely the latest manifestation of a continuing cycle. My other point is that there's a heckuva lot we can all learn from artists like Creature. In an age where technology allows us to easily avoid contact with one another, the independent artist fights against the tide of complacency and self-doubt every day. To do what they do takes a tremendous amount of courage and humility. It requires them to put their egos aside and to relate to people from all walks of life, something most of us aren't comfortable doing even though we tend to believe otherwise. Having spent many afternoons and evenings working the streets with Creature and his loose knit network of fellow artists these past few months has inspired me as an author. Seeing them interact with strangers has made me want to step out from behind my computer and seek out my audience as well.

You're probably thinking all the lofty talk of ideas and principles is great but is there any real money to be made on the streets. There is. There are thousands of open-minded people who are willing to give you a chance the key is understanding that this is a business like any other. There are rules one has to follow not only to be individually successful but to preserve and hopefully enhance the integrity of independent art in general. The Underdog's Manifesto is both a guidebook and a motivational tool for doing just that. All the voices that speak in this book are sharing their wisdom because they believe the game should be passed along, kept alive. Just as the Chitlin' Circuit was once the breeding ground for generations of popular black artists, the streets are the perfect place for today's indie artists to get their start.

I want to say a few words about my co-author before I cede the floor. From the time I first approached him about writing this book, Creature stressed that he was only a representative of the street hustle, a spokesman, not by any means the alpha and omega. He insisted on involving street legends like Percee P. and groups like Duo Live and The Third Message because their knowledge and experience has shaped him. At the end of the day this book is about the hustle, the grind, not any single individual. It's about paying respect to the street itself and to those who've dedicated years of their lives to their art. It is my hope that by reading this book you will gain a greater appreciation for what these artists go through, put up with and believe in. I certainly have.

Dax-Devlon Ross

New York City

October 2006

Introduction

If you've picked up this book hoping to become the next American Idol you might as well put it down now. If you think you're too good––too talented––to be selling your music on the street then I have only one question for you: Does anybody know who you are? Don't get me wrong, it's essential to have confidence in your abilities, but a lot of us are superstars in our own mind when the more immediate concern should be whether we earning a living or not. Frankly, I didn't write The Underdog Manifesto in order to teach you how to become the next pop-star. That's not my area of expertise. I wrote this book to show you how to survive as a working-artist. In it I pass along the selling strategies that have worked for me and share some of the experiences that have helped shape me as an artist and entrepreneur. If you let me I might even help you get out of the job that's sucking the creative life out of you every day. Believe me, I know how hard it is to work 50 hours a week at a job you can't stand and still try to make music and be there for your family and have some kind of a personal life. That shit is hard. It's damn near impossible, in fact. But what if you could make the same amount money (or better) through your music? Wouldn't your whole viewpoint on life change? Wouldn't your spirit be more at ease? I work and live off my music. I pay my bills off my music. And I wrote The Underdog Manifesto so you can do the same.

Of course, I'm assuming you have some talent to begin with. If you don't then I can't tell you what to do. I'm not trying to be mean; that's just real talk. If you're "whack" then anything I say is going to be null and void. So, my second message is that you have to understand if your product is good. Contrary to what you might've heard, selling CDs on the street is not like selling drugs on the block. There's a world of difference. I put my heart and soul into my music because I know when people buy my album they trust that I'm giving them something quality.

You might be wondering, "Who is Creature anyway? What does he know?" To put it bluntly I'm a black man in America who's dedicated most of his life to making music. God gave me that gift. I'm a Master of Communications, a Master of Ceremonies, a Musical Conveyor conveying my thoughts to Masses—whatever you want to call it. But I'm also a human being before I'm an MC. By that I mean I gotta eat, keep a roof over my head and have some money put away for a rainy day just like anyone else. For a long time music wasn't giving me what I needed to survive; for a long time I was just like you probably are right now: frustrated. There's nothing worse than having a quality product and continually getting the run around. After a while, the rejection, the false-promises, the bull-shit politics, the industry bureaucracy—it all eats away at you. I don't have to tell you what happens once the demons start to infiltrate your mind.

I was damn near homeless when I started meeting guys like Percee P., Logan P. McCoy from The Third Message, and Duo Live—independent artists making their living on the streets of New York. They were the cats who inspired me. If there was a show, they were their selling CDs, even if they had to pay to get in. If they could get on the mike, then would make the most of the opportunity. They were constantly investing in themselves, constantly taking inventory, constantly figuring out ways to improve the quality of their craft and reach a wider audience. Watching them earn their living on the streets showed me where I had gone wrong in my thinking. See, I was so focused on getting signed by a record label that I had completely overlooked the other option available to me: doing it myself. Those cats inspired me to get my product together and hustle like I've never hustled before. Three years later I've sold thousands of CDs, started my own record label, signed my own artists, put money away, done shows around the country, built a strong, faithful following, been written about in the likes of The Village Voice and The New York Times, and featured on Starz and MTV. What's funny is that the last thing I was thinking about when I started selling my music on the streets was the publicity I'd receive. I was thinking about putting some money in my pocket and getting my music out there. That's all. I even had a reporter once ask me what I planned to do if I didn't blow up. I looked at her like she was crazy.

"Blow up?" I said. "What do you mean 'Blow Up'? I make a living off my music now! I'm blowing up already. Anything else is just upgrading."

The mentality of that reporter is the mentality of most people, though. Most people think there's only one way to make it, especially in hip-hop where everyone says the main goal is to be signed by a major label. I grew up with kids who were straight dope on the mike but they haven't been heard by the public yet because they're living by what the mainstream market says is "hot". They're still trying to conform to what they think people will like. They're still hoping they'll "Blow Up". What they haven't realized is that a lot of people are famous and still broke. I'm not stuck on being famous anymore. My views––the views I'm going to share with you throughout this book––are a lot more realistic. For one, you can't be worried about what other people are doing. You've got to make your own lane and worry about what you're doing. You can't change every year to be somebody else. You can take inventory of what people like and don't like. But everybody isn't going to like what you do and you gotta be cool with that. At the same time I guarantee there are fans out there for you being you. It's just your job to find them, and the only way that's going to happen is if you get out there and let them know you exist. The days of sending your shit to some A&R are coming to a close. If anything that's a gamble, a long shot. Me, I don't gamble and I don't bet on long-shots. I'd rather put my life on it.

I honestly believe you can take control of your career too. I wouldn't bother writing this book otherwise. But you have to be willing to put in the work. That's lesson number one. You have to treat this like any other career. You're only going to get out of it what you put in. It's easy to come out when the weather's nice. It's easy to come out two days a week. That shit ain't nuthin'. That's the safest way to go. It's when you can come out when it's freezing, when it's nasty outside and your bones hurt––and still make money––that you know you've stepped onto a higher plateau. I'm not going to lie to you. People will act up. They will say a lot of fucked up, fly shit. When people are having a bad day you will feel it. The question is how will you deal? Will you take it personally? Or will you hold your head and keep your cool so the next potential customer doesn't slip by? In this game that's what separates the amateurs and the pros. In this book I'll share with you my survival secrets because I want you to see my come-up. Keep in mind, I didn't write Underdog so you could rush through it and go right back to what you were doing before. I wrote it to challenge and transform you.

Before we begin this journey together I have just one more thing to say. A lot of us give up before we ever give ourselves a shot. Because our careers aren't taking flight like we expected them to we throw in the towel. I sincerely believe that you can survive as an artist if you're determined. I'm a living example of a blue-collar MC. I represent a renaissance of working artists who just want to be heard and make an honest living, cats who if the commercial world decided today that hip-hop is no longer a valuable entity will still be doing it. I'm definitely not the only one who could write this book. There are a lot of us grinding in these streets. I just happen to be the one who decided to put our story in print.

I. Frustrated As Hell

Certain days you never forget. Certain days stay with you, haunt you—they become life-markers. You involuntarily use them to check your progress, or lack thereof. For me December 10, 2004 was one of those days. My plane landed back on American soil and just like that, the party was over, finished, kaput. After a month on the road—after a month touring in Europe for Christ Sake—I was home, again, New York fuckin' City. The absolute last place on earth I wanted to be.

A couple of months earlier Mike Ladd had called me and asked me if I wanted to go to Europe for a few weeks. It was going to be me, him, Rob Sonic, Beans and Bus Driver. We were going to hit up Ireland, Amsterdam, Spain, Scotland, Belgium, Germany, France and England. At first I told him I needed to think about it. I was still working off and on, on my album. I had already been shopping the EP. At that point I was just trying to do my own shit. It was Creature or Bust. If it didn't work out this time I was going to give it up. It was only after thinking about it for a couple of days and talking to people whose opinion I trusted that I came to my senses. The tour was scheduled to begin on my birthday. If there was ever a definitive sign that I was doing what I was supposed to be doing this was it! I'd be starting a new year doing what I loved to do and getting paid for it. It was a beautiful thing. I even remember the first time someone asked me what I was doing for my birthday. I said, "I'm going to fuckin' Europe."

The tour was amazing, everything you can imagine a tour being. For that period of time, the guys you're on tour with become your family. Mike and I had been old drinking buddies from way back. We'd both been sober for a little while so we were like each other's support. Rob I knew for fuckin' ever. I had toured with Beans before. He and I got close during the tour. I met Bus on the tour. He and I became cool too. He wound up doing cut on my LP the next year.

The road is not real life though. I don't care if you're making a lot of money or a little. It's not real life; it's condensed life. You're going through real things but it's not the same thing as waking up and going to a job, paying your bills, dealing with your family issues. For that month, and even though I was like the low person on the totem pole, I was catered to. Wherever we went there were handlers and their whole job was to make sure we were comfortable. Then there were groupies—guys and girls—who just want to be around you because of your talent. So when I got off the plane—it was me, Rob and Beans—the shit exploded. Right away I was thinking, "Damn. I'm going back to shit, going back to sleeping on my sister's couch." Yeah, I had a couple bucks in my pocket—a couple grand—and I had sold a bunch of CDs and had some great experiences, but the fact of the matter was I didn't know where to go from there.

I think what really fucked my head up when we landed at JFK was that I was the only one going back to a job. Those other guys were living off their music. They were returning home for a while to hustle for a minute; then get back out on the road. They weren't going back to a job. For me it was back to the grind. As a matter of fact, the shock of being back inside real life was so sudden and difficult that I didn't even go back to work right away. I couldn't. I took another month off. Everyday I just went to movies and hung out. I didn't want to be a part of this world. I would go to the library, check my e-mail, go to the movies then find someplace to chill for a whole month. I wouldn't even go home. I was trying to keep that high rolling along by doing light shit. I wanted to be in another world as much as possible.

I really got into music when I was a sophomore in high school. I was supposed to have gone to John Adams to play football. I was a helluva football player. But before I was supposed to start Michael Griffith was killed in Howard Beach. That was a big deal back in the late eighties. After my guidance counselor talked me out of going to Adams I enrolled at Frances Lewis in Fresh Meadows. The school was in a predominately white neighborhood but the student body was multi-ethnic. We lived on 107th so I took the 7 train to 111th then hopped on either the 17 or 27 bus. In total it was about a forty-five minute commute. There were kids from all over the place in school with me. The only problem was that the school didn't have a football team. I was stunned when I found out. My guidance counselor had assured me there was a team. Turned out she had tricked me. With my football career over I turned my interest to music. I had always been into all kinds of music. My pops did whatever it took to bring money into the household. He had day jobs in advertising and real estate but at night he used to sell music. He'd take my brother and me out with him. We'd be all over New York selling Soul and Blues tapes. We'd be in barbershops, bars, post-offices—wherever. Those were my first experiences selling and that was as early as '85.

So, I grew up surrounded by all kinds of music. My favorite shit back in the day was RUN DMC's Raising Hell album. I also liked Public Enemy too. But then on the flip-side I was into groups like the Twisted Sister and Quiet Riot. Back in the day—before cable television—channel 68 used to show all kinds of videos. One minute they'd be playing King of Rock and the next they were playing Metal Health. In fact, the first high school band I put together was a hardcore rock band. We called ourselves Short Notice. Even then the plan was always to figure out a way to fuse hip-hop and rock. We wanted to be like Bad Brains with Rakim on the mike. This was back in '89.

By '91 I had formed a group called Triflicts. There were three of us: me, my man Buck, and Gab Gacha. Buck doesn't even do music anymore. He just writes. Gab just got home from a ten-year bid. Meeting him introduced me to a whole other world. He showed me a side of Corona I hadn't seen growing up: the street. Growing up I had always been into playing sports. With Gab I was in the streets rhyming, in the streets hanging out, in the streets drinking. I had never really done that shit prior to that. That was an important stage in my life. In many ways it's made me who I am today. I introduced Gab to Buck, who I had known since '88 and had been in my original hardcore band with, we all just vibed. Even when we got together we had a vision. We knew it was going to take three years to get to a level where we were ready to be signed and sure enough in '94 we got a deal. At first, Fever/Def Jam was interested in us. But then our manager took us to Island Records and they signed us on the spot.

To be honest, I didn't feel any different after we signed our first deal. If anything it felt like prophecy. We always said it was going to take three years to get a deal and three years the deal was on the table. It was a single deal with an option for an album. After everybody got their cut the three of us walked away with $333. The thing was I didn't even care about the money. I was just on some rap shit. I played ball all night, got drunk, tripped on Acid and wrote raps and chased girls. That was my life. I wasn't working. I was living with my parents. I'd be at Rob's house tripping all fuckin' day with my man Skila. Back then Rob's place was like a rest haven for stray artists. We all hung out there. People would be in and out all the time. Then at night we'd get fresh and go look for girls. I was a bum for hip-hop but I was going to blow up.

We recorded a song called I'm Terror but the record company balked when it came time to clear the sample. We were using a line from Ol Dirty Bastard's Brooklyn Zoo, which was still hot at the time. The record company said ODB wanted like $2,000 for the sample. Not a lot of money. But the record company wanted us to pay for it. It didn't make sense. We went through a couple of months going back and forth with the label. Then we started having problems with the kid who did the beat. He wanted more money, a guarantee that he would produce a certain number of songs on the album—all types of shit. We wound up doing the beat over again only to have the record company come back to us and say they were ready to pay for the sample. By then we were fed up. We told the label to go screw themselves. The single never came out and the label, ultimately let us go. I didn't even really sweat it. My attitude was like, "Fuck it we'll get another deal." I went back to writing rhymes and looking for girls.

After the Island deal fell through our manager, JB introduced us to the Beatnuts. He grew up with JuJu, plus they were from Corona and at the time we were reppin' Corona hard. In '96 we put out the single Genuine with Don't Make Try on the B Side for Hydra Records. The Beatnuts did our production. Pretty soon were doing shows with them. We were supposed to be the group they were going to bring out. Everything was going to happen. But then that shit got fucked up too. Hydra Entertainment––our label––said we were going to do a video. That didn't happen. Then they made other promises that weren't kept. The label of course had excuses. They said that the single started off well but then it slowed down. Then they said it was doing well in Japan. "Why are we here then?" I said. "Take us to the Japan. Let's go get the yen." I was twenty-two at the time and I'm telling the label what they needed to do in order to promote their investment. That's when I realized a lot of executives in this business are idiots.

JB wanted us to put our album out ourselves but the independent scene wasn't happening in New York. In the Bay Area you had cats selling their own product, but in New York it was still about getting that deal. So we weren't keen on the idea. We wanted everyone to hear our music. We didn't just want our people and a few others hearing it. It got weird after that. First Buck got tired of the business and stopped rhyming. Then the Beatnuts started to be more interested in Gab. They wanted him to go solo. They were going to put out a single with him on one cut and me on the other. I wasn't feeling that idea. Not to take anything away from my partners, but I had started the group. I was writing the hooks. I was the one writing the concepts for the songs we recorded. I had even come up with the group name. I decided to make it easy for them. I broke the group up.

In one respect I felt that Triflicts had run its course. We had too many of the wrong people around us to get where we needed to get creatively. Too often we were competing to outshine one another rather than focusing our energy on creating good songs. Plus, I was starting to run with a whole new crew of cats. My man Frank "Ceams" Arrieta had introduced me to Rob in '94. In turn, Rob introduced me to DJ Jun (who now goes by Preservation) and to Fred Ones, the producers behind Sonic Sum's first two albums. Meeting Fred was huge for me. At that time I was rhyming all over other people's albums but because I didn't have any money for studio time, I wasn't producing my own material. Fred gave me his space to make music for free. He respected my flow enough and believed in me enough to invest that time and energy in me. He's a huge reason Never Say Die was recorded. Fred is also just a special guy. He gets along with everyone. If he doesn't like you then you must be a real muthafucka. I met Mike Ladd around this time too. He was also an important piece to the puzzle for me. He had already released Easy Listening for Armageddon and had made a name for himself on the underground/indie scene happening downtown. Every week he was performing somewhere. After he did seven or eight of his songs he'd call me up on the stage and we'd just have a freestyle session.

The downtown scene was popping in the late '90s and early '00s. Cats would be on the mike every night. There was always a show somewhere: The Wetlands, Brownie's, The Cooler; Baby Jupiter. I remember Fred and Jun had a residency at Spoon's. We'd all go there and listen to music and drink. I was already a maniac on drinking, a few of us were. In many ways drinking became my life. I still rapped. Still did shows. Drinking just became a part of it. The thing is, not drinking I have a personality. I'm kind of abrasive, some might say aggressive. Something that I would let fly sober, I wouldn't let fly drinking. Shit that I know I would keep to myself sober, I would address when I was drinking. It was a hard period for me. You have to keep in mind, by then I'd already had a deal. I had worked with the Beatnuts; I was on album with the X-Ecutioners. So when I was drunk I'd go up to dudes and tell them straight up, "You're whack. Why do people like you?" Obnoxious shit, really. But, see, I knew in the back of my mind that I had to make this shit work and it wasn't working the way I had planned. I was still living with family, still waiting to blow up. I still didn't have a job. When it came to money, I always seemed to get by. I'd do a gig here, a gig there. Basically I was scratching and surviving—we all were. You have to understand something, though. It was a lot more communal back then. We would pool our resources however we could to get by because music was what lived for.

I thought I didn't have to work, frankly. I was going to be an MC what the fuck did I need a job for. Then I moved in with my man Skila. I've always been fortunate enough to have people in my life that looked out for me. They seemed to see things in me that even I didn't see. Skila was another one of those people. When I didn't have a place to go, he opened his apartment to me. He really showed me what work ethic was all about. Don't get me wrong, my dad had worked hard all his life. But this cat would stay up until five am making a beat and still get up in time to make it to work by ten. We had some serious conversations about where my life was headed. Fuck my career as a rapper. At the end of the day, I wasn't even ready to receive blessings because I had yet to humble myself. Ironically, it took me getting out into the blue-collar workforce to begin developing my artistry. Over a stretch of six years (roughly '98-'04) I took on a series of jobs just to pay the rent. I was a messenger, a rigger, a dishwasher. When I worked construction I'd come after twelve hours of back-breaking labor and just pass the fuck out. I must've had at least three different supermarket jobs. Actually, those were some of the best jobs I had. I could always steal food to eat.

For a minute, life just got really, really real. People I was close to were getting locked up or killed. I was desperately trying to keep my career alive. The one good thing was that I was always only responsible for me. If I was suffering, I was suffering, not my wife and kids.

The other thing about living with Skila was that he introduced me to a new level of my artistry. I had grown up in New York City. All I knew was spitting lyrics about how dope I was. Even if my girl had just dumped me and I was heartbroken, I would still rhyme about fuckin' some bitch in the bathroom. In the mid '90s you could go anywhere and catch a cipher. It wasn't just battling either. It was like, "Yo, let me hear something." Next thing you know you'd be with two people you don't even know free styling. Then two more kids would come. Then it's seven of you. Then it's twenty and everyone is just going. You always knew where you were at lyrically. There was no illusion. And the goal was to get as nice as possible. You wanted people to say, "Damn, that muthafucka's nice." It was sport. You don't get on the basketball court for people to be like, "Oh his shorts look good." You get on the court for people to be like, "That muthafucka's shootin' the shit out of that ball. He's dunking that shit something nasty."

But, see, New York will also get you caught up with the Joneses. You'll mess around and be the ballplayer who can only dunk. The rest of your game will suck because you neglected it. Living with Skila was crucial in that it showed me what I wanted to become as an artist. I had been listening to Outkast since their first album came out in '94, Goodie Mob since '95. I had been listening to Public Enemy before that. I always wanted to write about real shit. I wanted to be honest about myself and about the things I was going through. It just never appeared in my work. In a way Skila showed me how to do that.

So, artistically, the late '90s were integral to my development. I was meeting all types of new cats, being exposed to different audiences, different venues; different sounds. I was working hard for the first time in my life. In the process I went from being a straight lyricist to a writer. The music I started writing began to reflect that. In 2000 I released an EP entitled De Ja Taboo Graphic Art which was really the culmination of that entire period of growth in my life. Most of the songs had been written a year or two earlier, and for the first time I was proud of the quality of the music rather than just the niceness of my flow. With that album I was able to show my vulnerability for the first time.

Despite the creative strides I was making, I still had a drinking problem. Fuck it, I was an alcoholic. We're talking finishing bottles in a club. I hit rock bottom one night at the Apartment, a trendy club in the Meatpacking District. I was in the basement with my man Kukoo getting tore up. I'm laughing at dudes, making fun of them, talking all types of shit. I didn't like the way they were carrying themselves. They were pretending to be tougher than they were. So I called one of them on it. Then I just punched the kid in his face and started laughing. Needless to say I got myself arrested. You would've thought that would be enough but it wasn't. Even at the precinct I'm wilin' out. I'm cursing at the cops. I'm screaming. They could've brought me up on assault, disorderly conduct—all types of charges—but they let me go once I sobered up. Basically an hour after I walked into the precinct, I walked out.

You would think a close call would sober me up. Uh-uh. Not me. It took watching my nephew for a few days to sober up. From the time he was born my nephew and I have been close. His father has never been around so I've always taken a fatherly role in his life. He was still in diapers at that time. Honestly, it wasn't even a major decision for me. I just could never drink around him. Suddenly one day became two days and two became six. Next thing I knew I was twelve days sober. That was it for me. September 12, 2002 was the last time I had drink. And just like that, I saw my life begin to improve dramatically. I sold a couple hooks. I made guest appearances on MF Doom's Vaudeville Villain album. In '03 I went on my first tour. But after doing music for nearly fifteen years I still wasn't living off it. I was starting to wonder if I ever would.

II. Wake up and Smell the Hustle!

I had a lot of time to look back on those years during my month long hiatus from reality. Only then did it dawn on me how important they had been. That month was actually an essential phase, in retrospect. It allowed me to get my mind in place. It was prepping me to make some kind of move, though I still didn't know what it would be. It allowed me to walk the streets and sit on trains and in movie theaters and just ask myself some hard questions. How long was I going to keep blaming people for my lack of success? How long was I going to keep depending on someone else to do what I needed to get done? How long? When Mike asked me to go on tour I was going to give up music. I was working at a telemarketing firm. I didn't know where my rap career was going. It sure as hell wasn't going in the direction I needed it to be going in. I was started to think about what I was going to do. The tour had resurrected my career for all intents and purposes. It was my job to run with that momentum.

Without even thinking about it all that deeply, I started cutting dead weight; dead weight in my head and the dead people around me. Thoughts that weren't helping me grow and people who just weren't on the same page as me anymore. Once that dead weight was gone I didn't have those excuses anymore. I couldn't say my album wasn't done because such and such forgot to do X.Y, and Z. Finally I was ready to deal with the situation. Yeah, I had shopped my record. But I hadn't given myself a real chance. Not a real one. I hadn't taken it to the streets. This shit started in the streets and I hadn't taken it there. I had watched 50 Cent resurrect his career through the streets. This guy was left for dead and little by little he brought himself back to life. From getting shot to a month later putting out a song called Fuck You, and sounding totally different, having a whole different swagger. The next thing you know for the next two years he was strangling muthafuckas like, "I'm here and I'm not letting go until you die and I live." 50 has a very different thing going on than I do, but that mentality inspired me.

Then I got inspired by Bus Driver. His success was tangible in a way that 50's wasn't. Sure I knew Rob and Mike and Beans better but something about meeting a complete outsider who was making his living off his music affected me profoundly. Bus had been part of Project Blowed out in Los Angeles. He'd been on the scene out there for years. But there were people who knew me that didn't know him. Sure, sometimes he had a hard time making his rent, but he always did. Instead of going the commercial route, he'd spent ten years doing his. His success showed me that if you keep doing what you're doing and just get progressively better, you're going to pick up more people. You might never blow up but you're going to keep growing. But if you stop you're dead. You lose that momentum. The key was to keep productive. Write the song. Do the song. Perform the song. Get back to work.

So I looked at 50 and I looked at Bus and I asked myself what I really wanted. Yeah, I wanted to sell a lot of records like 50 but I couldn't do that. Even when I stripped all the bullshit away I just wanted to live off my music anyway and get my music to the people. I couldn't say that I'd given either of those goals a real shot. Yeah, I had shopped my stuff to people but the indie labels I was approaching didn't want to put my record out. They didn't think I was quirky enough. I had to understand that indie labels tend to make music in their own liking. A major might do something they don't necessarily like but that's going to be the next thing to blow up. An indie label is all about putting out the shit they like. All I saw was this garbage being put out. I just knew my shit was way better. In reality I couldn't be mad at them. I'd never given myself a real chance. The shit started in the streets and I hadn't taken it there. Seeing Bus showed me I could do that. I could sell. I wasn't twenty-one anymore, but I was still young enough to have the energy, the tenacity. Bus, and to a lesser extent 50, created the atmosphere for me to say, "Fuck this. I'm going make this happen."

So there I was down to my last $100. I thought I had no choice but to go back to telemarketing. The hours weren't necessarily bad. I was cool with the manager. I came and went as I pleased for the most part. That was why I had the job in the first place. But when it came to return to work I couldn't even stomach the thought. I was done working for people, through being miserable for no good reason. I respected the grind; I just didn't want to be a part of that particular one anymore. When the day that I was supposed to go back in came I just didn't go. I didn't call. I didn't resign. I just didn't show up. I was done. I had put my life into music. Now it was time to get paid off it. Giving up was just not an option.

I still had about eighty CDs left over from the tour. I gathered a bunch of them up and hopped on the train. I got off at West 4th and headed Fat Beats. Officially, it was my first day at my new job working for myself. From then on I was going to be on the grind everyday. I'll never forget that first sale. I managed to get this guy to stop long enough to give him my independent music spiel. At the end of it he said, "Fine. How much are they?"

"Seven," I said. There were only seven songs on the EP so it worked out to a buck a song.

He only had a ten, though, and I didn't even have change. He handed me the money and just as I was about to run and get change for him he stopped me.

"Never take less than ten," he said and walked off.

That shit shocked me. I liken that to the moment when the rain finally stopped. It was still wet outside, but I could see the sun out that bitch and it felt like I hadn't seen it in forever.

The hardest part about coming out, for me, was getting back into the mentality of talking to strangers. On the road I would talk to people so it wasn't exactly new. The only difference was that I was going up to people and making them aware of me as opposed to coming off stage and having people already know who I was. When you're performing people can see what you're capable of. They can see if they like you. Chances are they're going to buy you're album anyway just because they just saw you on stage. That's how people are. But, see, when you're really ready to make money that overcomes whatever trepidation you might have about approaching someone you don't know. That's that determination, that hunger. That's what has to override everything in your mind that's saying, "This ain't gonna work."

What surprised me early on was that I got such a positive response from people. A big part of that was having Slug from Atmosphere (Better Man) and Jin from the Ruff Ryders(Whut u Know Bout Me) on the EP. People knew those names so immediately I gained credibility in their eyes. What's funny is that I never intended on having any collaborations on the album. All the collaborations just kind of happened by accident. I was trying to get Slug to put my album out on Rhymesayers. It was his idea for us to do a song together instead. After I met him a couple of times, I sent him four or five beats and he chose which one he wanted to rhyme over. He was supposed to come to New York to record it but he wound up recording his lyrics in Minneapolis, which was still cool. Jin and I go back. In the early '00s I was spending a lot of time out in Yonkers at the Ruff Ryders studio just trying to be heard. Me and Jin got cool and I ended up doing a hook on his first album. In return he spit a verse on my album. Between those two cats alone I was attracting a more diverse crowd, and I didn't even know it or think about it like that at the time.

Getting out on the streets wasn't just about money. It was about rebuilding my confidence, reigniting my fire. From 2000 to 2004 I had been on at least one album every year that was in stores. Two of those albums were considered significant underground records: Rob's Telicatessen which came out on Def Jux in 2004 and MF Doom's Victor Vaugn-Vaudeville Villain came out on Sound Ink in 2003. To be totally honest, that was some shit I didn't exactly want to do. But they paid me and I did it. The next thing I knew people were coming up to me on the street asking if I was the same Creature from the Doom album. I didn't realize it but I was on the scene.

So, for me, hitting the streets saved my career. I went from wanting to give it all up to realizing I had a body of work that people were aware of and respected. That gave me a springboard. I wasn't just anybody. But even a little bit of a reputation can only get you but so far. I still had to figure out what worked, and work it. As the days became weeks and the weeks became months that's exactly what I did.

The first thing you have to understand is that this is a profession that involves a lot of psychology. You gotta have a clear mind so that you can read other people. It's like chess in a way, you have to think your moves through beforehand and on the spot. Otherwise you will not succeed as an independent artist. Let me give you an example of what I mean. Say I see a guy walking down the street wearing a Dallas Cowboys jersey. Right away I know something about him. Maybe he borrowed the jersey but chances are he's a fan if not of the Cowboys then of football in general. I know football, so I'll say something like, "Do it for Ed 'Too Tall' Jones! Do it for Drew Pearson!" An obscure reference to the Cowboys of old will trigger in his head. I can only know that if I actually grew up watching the Cowboys myself. More often than not it'll make him slow down or smile or respond––either way I've got my in. I haven't sold him yet, but I read him and in some way catered to him, which most people like. I've boiled down the most essential lessons I learned when I first began selling my music independently. Notice that they're all broad enough for you to apply them however you see fit. But if you put them to use I promise that you will experience more success than you have in the past.

Be Observant: This is extremely important. As I just pointed above with the example I provided by being observant you can modify your approach to each customer. Sometimes you need to be more aggressive. For instance, if I see a kid wearing a Black Star t-shirt, then I know he listens to underground hip-hop. I know I can approach him as an underground artist. He wouldn't expect anything less, in fact. At the same time, if I see someone, say a woman in her fifties or sixties, I won't approach her the same way. For one, I know that's what she's probably expecting. I can throw her completely off by finessing her rather than putting the pressure on her. Think of it this way. You might be an ill-ass dunker, but you can't always slam it home every time. Sometimes, you have to shoot the lay-up or the fifteen-footer. Remember, the objective is to score, not necessarily look good doing so. This might sound simple, but it never ceases to surprise me how many cats I know who don't know how to observe their customer and modify their approach accordingly.

Find a Connection: I can't stress enough how important it is to find a point of connection with people. You only have a small window of time so you have to read people quickly and find entry point before they get away. It might be something as simple as complimenting a woman who's dressed nicely or telling a guy that he reminds you of someone you know. I actually made a sale that way once. I told a guy he looked like someone I grew up with. He in turn asked me what school I went to. As it turned out we'd both graduated from Franis Lewis. That kind of stuff makes people feel good. It makes their day. You get to talking about this and that and the next thing you know you've got a sale.

Bring All Experience to the Table: I'm never being phony when I tell people I listened to Motorhead or the Ramones growing up. I loved these bands as much as I loved A Tribe Called Quest and RUN DMC. They were a part of my childhood. Everything that I show people is me. I'm just a complex person with a lot of experiences that in other settings doesn't get a chance to come out. In this business, all the things that I was ostracized for growing up, being well-read, listening to various forms of music, having different types of friends, I rely upon these things on the streets. It's what sets me apart from a lot of other artists. Honestly, my having knowledge that they wouldn't expect me to have helps them get past the exterior sometimes. It helps them see beyond the stereotypes and all the judgments they normally make without even realizing it.

Be a Master Communicator: A lot of people can't speak. They're not good communicators. They beat people in the head, they come off angry, they stumble and stutter; they talk too much. I see it all the time. It's important to practice your pitch. Whatever you say, say it clearly. Even though you're going to modify your approach and find a unique connection, once you get the potential customer to stop it's time to sell. I'm going to touch on this again below, but it's important for the pitch to be succinct. With me it's a very simple spiel. "You look like an open-minded person. Check out my album. I did it myself, fourteen songs all independently produced. It's socially conscious." Notice I don't put a price tag on the album nor do I mention exactly what type of music I'm making. There's good reason for that. I'll explain both of those rationales below.

Make NO Assumptions About People: A lot of people market themselves to a particular type of music, I understand that. When you go into a record store or a bookstore or any other store that sells commercial art, you find certain products under certain categories. The amazing thing about selling music independently is that you're not a slave to the corporate structure. You simply have to understand what that means and how deeply we've all been brainwashed to think inside the box. My personal philosophy is simple: everyone is a potential customer, everyone. If you live in an environment that's artist friendly you'll be surprised by who buys your record; one minute it can be a sixty year old woman, the next a twelve year old kid. They both might get something out of it. But if you assume the sixty-year old doesn't want to hear it then you've lost that chance.

On another note, some people are what I call "donation freaks". By that I mean if I ask for a reasonable donation they might give me even more than I would've asked. Strange as it may seem, some people just like giving money away. I might approach and the first thing they'll say to me is I don't want to buy anything. But if I say something like, "I'm not even selling it. I'm only looking for a reasonable donation to support independent art," they might change their whole tune. It's all in the wording and how you make the customer. If they feel like they're giving to a good cause then so be it.

Keep it Light: People respond to charisma. Let me say that again: people respond to charisma. But what is charisma? It's being outgoing. It's being engaging. It's keeping a positive attitude. It sounds cliché but on the street being positive is crucial. There's a way to keep a smile on your face without grinning and shucking, which you'll never catch me doing. By keeping that smile people feel that lightness. They want to support it. I joke a lot. I tell a lot of jokes. For real, hearing NO a thousand times a day is not human. It's not. But we're not doing shit that the average person is doing. I've don't take it personally. I keep in mind that people have hard days, hard lives. A lot of people don't like themselves or what they do for a living. Any number of things could've happened the moment before they ran into you so you have to keep that in my mind at all times. There's an opportunity there as well, an opportunity to help brighten someone's day. That's got to be part of the job. I'm not just making money. I genuinely like people and that's crucial. If I didn't like people then I would've failed at this a long time ago.

Put Yourself in the Buyer's Shoes: If there's one thing I can't stand it's when someone calls me and I know they want a favor or to borrow some money, but they keep beating around the bush. That annoys me. If you live in a major city chances are people's time is precious. They don't have time to hear you give them a five minute song and dance. Think about it from their perspective. What can you say that would captivate them in the briefest period of time? Efficiency is the goal. It's the same way with the music and with the stage performance. On another note, make sure your breath is fresh. The last thing you want is to be up in somebody's face with bad breath. You might think this is a joke but I've seen it happen and it isn't pretty.

Rebuttals. Rebuttals. Rebuttals: Most of my sales come from people who say "no" before they say "yes". The fact is most people don't buy right away. A lot of people say, "I'm okay." My response is, "Hold on Mr. Okay let's talk about this for a moment." Again, think you on your toes keep it light and be persistent without being a pest. Some rebuttals will become standard, but you're always going to have people who are just a bit cleverer than you expected so it's important to be, again, light and prepared for whatever comes your way. Some people just want you to work for the sale. There's nothing wrong with a little work.

Avoid the "Hip-Hop" Label: No, that isn't a typo. I hear guys saying stuff like, "Support real hip-hop," all the time, and I generally avoid them. There are a couple of reasons why. First of all there are too many negative connotations attached to hip-hop. For a lot of people the word hip-hop is an immediate turn-off. Granted most of these people don't know what they're talking about, but that's not the point. The point is nothing you can say will change their mind once they've got it in their mind you're selling hip-hop, which brings me to the second reason I avoid the term hip-hop. It backs you into a corner too quickly. You disarm yourself before the battle even begins. Instead of referring to my music as hip-hop, I refer to it as independent music or grassroots music or something of that nature. There's a huge difference in the connotation, not to mention in the response people usually have. One thing you have to understand is that there are a lot of people in the world who want to support independent music. They want it to stay alive because they believe it's important. And it is. It's a way for people to be heard. It's a way to indirectly stick to major media companies. It's a way to maintain some integrity in a consumer society. I love hip-hop, but I've learned that the way to make money is by avoiding the term until you've made the connection. Once you've made the all important connection and the buyer sees that, "hey, this guy is okay;" chances are he or she will give the music a chance because they like you.

These were the basic laws that I learned to live by my first few months out on the streets. They were vital. After one month I had earned enough to put down a security deposit and first month's rent on my own apartment. I decided to wait until June in order to move, but when I did I had more money than I had ever had in my life. I saw myself change radically and dramatically. I was at peace with myself. I didn't feel the need to make excuses anymore. I felt like I honestly didn't need a record label. I became more responsible than I had ever been. My rent was paid on time. My bills were always up to date. I became disciplined in my spending habits. I stayed sober. I started eating better. It was amazing: I wanted to live, to thrive; to succeed. I damn sure didn't want to be broke again. I liked having money in my pocket, money in the bank. I liked being in charge of myself. If ever felt the lazy bug on my shoulder all I had to do was remember being down to my last $100. That was motivation in and of its self. That just wasn't going to happen again. That isn't going to happen again. I'm passed that stage of my life. I fucked up enough already. However, just by being successful at what I love I've learned that as much as you fuck up, you can always get back up and walk again.

In 1998 Ceams leapt to his death from a building. It was a blow to us all. Nevertheless, his passing would be instrumental in Rob taking his career to the next level and putting out Sanity Annex in 1999 and Plaster Man in 2002.