{ 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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Copyright © 2006 by Saul Williams
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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
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.
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
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.