Deadlee’s Ol’ Crusty “Spiritual Dick-Rider” Speaks!

Gone are the days of the Peace-Out festivals of yesteryear! The unity shown in Pick Up The Mic is a thing of the past. Beef is the catch de jour. Everybody seems to have the roadmap to mainstream success. Everybody’s got an effin’ opinion about the next man! Folks who’ve never wrote an essay, term paper, thesis, or dissertation all-of-a-sudden think they have the literary chops to blog. So many people are trying to become a part of this Movement—straight cats with gay sympathies (me!)—down-low cats who put out videos and Q&As that have never been seen—“critics” who caricature themselves to avoid confrontation—phantom bloggers whose brainpower originates from their gluteus maximus (ass). The Gay Hip-hop scene has become inundated with a host of unsavory characters. Where did we come from?

All this talking/critiquing/criticism/hating by these inept music bloggers/critics is some entertainment bullshit! Calling themselves “Skillz!” Fuck outta here! You can’t even articulate your thoughts (in blog form) without making a litany of fundamental grammatical errors! Your writing, as of late, has gone from bad to worse! You’ve got commenters correcting your spelling. As for calling me “ole’-ass,” as I’ve written over at Gaymusicrevolution.com, “It's spelled Ol' or Old or Ole...Ole' (The diacritical mark over the “e” is pronounced O-Lay), which is a Spanish word used to cheer and applaud bullfighters, you ol' grammatically ignorant blogger!”  Also, it’s not “lair.” It’s Liar! LI-AR! The next time Qpid gives you head in the club ask him to spell-check that bullshit you call a blog before you submit it to Outhiphop.com! Check your literary “skillz” playa!

I saw this ol’-ass nigga with the white Easter suit on Twitter trying to get the new Trans-rapper (Lola Mazarati) to beef with the other trans-rappers—you stinkin’ agent provocateur! Acting like he knows music.

Most of these cats have no knowledge of music theory, no formal training on any musical instrument, don’t know shit about melody, harmony, chords, scoring, can’t speak the Italian language of music—“Allegro,” “Andante,” “Pianissimo,” “Forte,” “Arpeggio,” “Da Capo,” “Glissando,” “Slur,” “Octave,” “Time Signature,”—can’t read a lick of sheet-music and wouldn’t know a sixteenth-note if it slapped them upside the head! Fuck those elementary 16 Bars! (*For the record, I was a violinist and saxophonist from 7^th grade to my first year of college and was All-City and All-State in orchestra, 1^st Chair, Student Conductor, 4-year letter-man in music and saxophone Section Leader. The concept of “band-geek” in the South is foreign! Band members are stars in their own right at black high schools in Miami and receive just as much props as the star quarterback! See the movie Drumline and get a clue!)

Truly, some of the periphery players (bloggers/critics) of the movement want to be the headliners.

And then there are the gay rappers themselves—many of them—full of hip-hop braggadocio—full of self-righteous indignation—full of shit!

Some of the best MCs will never get out the ‘hood—with their polysyllabic, rapid-fire, metaphor-dropping rhymes—while some of the most silly rapping coons (like Soulja Boy) have found a way to pimp the game and feed their families, all the while, touching millions of people!

Some of you gay rappers think that success (in the mainstream or otherwise) will come about purely on rap skills. Oh contraire! You discount things like personality, charisma, personal appearance/hygiene and likeability—and building coalitions with straight hip-hop heads. Because you may or may not be a better rapper than Deadlee, you count yourself amongst the standard-bearers of this genre, when, in fact, you ain’t done shit to even be mentioned in the same breath as Deadlee! You’ve got the nerve to say that Deadlee’s “claim-to-fame” is being on the Tyra Banks Show, as if your mug has been all over the place—as if appearing on Tyra, Howard Stern, CNN, LA Times, starring in a movie, putting on the first-ever gay rapper hip-hopera, doing a 10-city tour, performing at Prides, putting out two CDs of original material and being featured at Allhiphop.com is some small feat! And your “claim-to-fame?” A couple of appearances on Hot Mess Radio to pontificate about nothing? Playing hype-man at Mondo Homo?

Show us your résumé! Let me listen to your CD! “Season” after “season” that shit is pushed back. “Slay” yourself! You’re mad ‘cause somebody claims to be the “King of Gay Music,” yet you claim to be the “King of the Middle-East”—ain’t put out nary CD of original music! You’re hyped over a mixtape! You’re simply a legend-in-your-own-mind—the Twitter king!   

Deadlee has done hella good for the Gay Hip-hop Movement! Say want you want about his rhyme schemes, but you’ve got to give credit where credit is due and to deny him is to be a hater—and not just his hater, but a hater of gay hip-hop history!

Enough with who’s the best gay rapper! Let’s talk about Pat.

As Deadlee’s old crusty “spiritual dick-rider,”—Ol’ Hai-Karate wearing, mothball smelling Khalil—the humble sycophant (brown-noser), it is my duty to point out the obvious: Most gay rappers aren’t as “accomplished” as Deadlee and certainly not that guy out of Atlanta—you know the one—the Coke-snorting “Gorilla of the South”—Saturday Night Live’s “Pat”—the androgynous girly-man who I wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley for fear of him trying to “slay” my ol’ crusty virginal booty-hole. I can take an ass-whipping, but don’t be standing over me screaming, “Gurllll, I told you it was Slayin’ Season! My titties is perched! I’m on the moooon!” Just knock me the fuck out and put me out of my misery—spare me the girly-man talk! (Talk about an embarrassment to the Movement?—not to mention manhood!) How the fuck do you think mainstream is gonna take you serious talking like a girl and looking like a roughneck? As Ed Lover would say, “C’mon son!” “C’mon Pat!” Talking like a broke-ass Bruno!

I would call his name, but I promised I’d never speak or write his name, because he thinks I need to say his name to keep myself relevant, as though the industry is checkin’ for him! Lol! (They call that having “delusions of grandeur.” I call it “Mental Gymnastics!”) From henceforth, his rap moniker is “Pat.” For those of you who are too young to remember, Google “Saturday Night Live Pat” and have a great laugh.

Yeah, this is the same guy who claims he has the power to revoke my “ghetto pass” in Atlanta (even though he’s really from North Cacka-lacka!), but can’t seem to keep niggas from breaking into his house and stealing his Betamax, his Reel-To-Reel, his cassettes, 8-Track, his black & white floor model TV with the coat-hanger antenna and his Two-Head VCR and those big-ass wooden spoons on the wall—Snitching to the cops about a bunch of outdated stereo equipment! Niggas don’t respect you in your own ‘hood, so come off the tough talk! My family is deep in Atlanta and I’ll walk through your ‘hood on “Any Given Sunday!” Remember a few years ago when that man walked in your mall and shot his girlfriend, her new boyfriend and then drove to the courthouse and blew his own goddamned brains out? That was mi familia—the Rutledges—and there’s a gang of those crazy-ass folks of mine in your city that got my back, so what are you saying Home-biscuit? From Bankhead to Decatur to Lawrenceville—from Strokers to Lucky Lounge—we thick-as-thieves!

I don’t give a fuck whose teeth you knocked out! This old man doesn’t fight. The strongest muscle in my body is my index phalange (trigger finger) and I always carry the ratchet when I’m traveling, so if you’re having some kind of feelings—see-me-when-you-see-me Miss Man—and that goes for anybody who’s got a problem with Khalil Amani—anybody!

And stop invoking your mama’s name when somebody calls you a coke-head! R.I.P. to her—but many of us have dead mamas, including me! If you really want to get personal and angry about your mother’s untimely demise, start with the United States government/CIA who allows cocaine to cross our borders and find its way into the hands of our mothers, daughters, nieces and nephews—not some gay rapper from the Inland Empire who put you on blast for snorting nose-candy! You got sonned! Take it like a girly-man! Get in the studio and come back with your own diss record and stop using your mama to win sympathy. Cat-eyez’s diss was to you, not your mama! Don’t drag the dead into your hot-mess of a life! And stop telling us about your nieces! Get them young kids off your Twitter while you’re doing grown-folk shit!

Damn! Can you believe my old ass is 25 years older than that bigheaded dude on the right?

As much as anybody, I’d like this Movement to be free of dissing and hateration, but I’ve come to the conclusion that poor gay heads are just like poor straight heads—crabs-in-a-barrel niggas looking for a come-up off their fellow gay rapper. Allegiances are made and broken with the blink of an eye. So I choose to ride or die with the cat that brought me in—Deadlee. I see the big picture and know the mathematics. Deadlee is the reason why I have a professional relationship with one of hip-hop’s biggest Dee Jays, Kayslay! Deadlee is the reason why I write for Straight Stuntin Magazine! Deadlee is the reason why five gay rappers had a chance to showcase their talents on Streetsweeper Sirius Radio and by extension—Deadlee is (one of) the reasons why one of those rappers is being courted by indie and mainstream record labels. And if you really do the math, I am the product of the Great Ones—Tim’m, Juba, JB Rap and the whole Deep Dickollective Movement, most of them whom I’ve never met personally. For you simpletons, figure that ish out! Know-the-ledge!

                                                           “No Man is an Island!”