Spinnin’ tops and weirdo magnets: a song for Buck 65
We didn’t want to be rapper thugs. We simply wanted to listen to records and cruise in an old ‘65 Buick (you know the science). Buck-y dun gun. We had no stellar moves, only some hand waves and steps jivin’ wit da musik in da livin’ room. Yo. Bring it back in style, said the poet who was not a poet. This isn’t rap and this isn’t musik. We went to no spoken word performances (what the hell is dat anywayz?) or concerts. We knew all the words by heart, even the math equations: Sum over shuffle sigma sign of sigma times open bracket A sigma one A sigma two A sigma n close bracket plus B one B two minus n equals zero. Can you imagine if people actually talked like dis? Jesus. We were no b-boys, sk8trs, jocks, emo punks, indie kids, cool dudes. We bought those records with our own money and wore holes into them. When we got older, the CDs remained. We remembered pieces of those text fabrics: “if they don’t begin to pedal, ‘cause when rain hits the metal, the parts that are wet’ll corrode if the drops settle.” We still knew da beats.
