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“You don’t have to. You really don’t have to explain anything to me. I was just answering your question,” I said.
“I’m not explaining what I do. I’m good at it. I know that. And I’m paid very well for it. So there’s no need to explain,” he said between taking sips of his beer. His voice was tough. Secure. “But I will tell you what I do. Because I respect you.”
“Okay.”
“I love sex. It’s great. It’s good. It makes you feel great and I think people should write about it. Sing about it. Rap about it. Paint about it. Take pictures. Videos. Whatever. I bring that up because it seems every other art form in the world has deconstructed, sold, defined, and redefined sex and sexuality. And I ain’t learn that in no book. I’ve been to Florence and seen Botticelli’s nude paintings for myself. Now, that was in the 1400s and he was painting naked pictures of the broad he was trying to steal from the dude who was lacing his pockets. That’s some pimp shit,” he said, laughing. “Man, artists have been doing it ever since—even before then. But as soon as a bunch of young black men talk about how much they like sex ... and get paid for it ... people have a problem. Then sex is dirty and nasty, and meanwhile, they’re willing to pay millions of dollars to buy a Botticelli. Now, Little Richard and even Ray Charles sang about sex, but ain’t nobody talk about them like they talk about us. And I’ll tell you why. It was because they were making a whole bunch of white boys rich. And now that I’m stepping up, making sure most of those bills come back to me, suddenly the most human thing a person can do is vulgar. And I’m not even talking about having sex with little girls or making people do stuff they don’t want to do. I’m talking about real stuff.”
Dame went on, and I learned more about his music. More about him just as a person. He seemed so angry at times. So political and militant. He saw sides of the music industry that I thought were myths. Beyond the dancers, videos, and flashy cars, people were stealing money and labels were rejecting what would be considered positive songs by top artists. He said the worst thing he ever did was make a platinum record. Now everyone had platinum dreams. He had to remind himself every day of who he was and that’s what the latest album, The Same Dame, was about. Being himself and returning to his roots. So far, the fans got it and all of the people at the label who wished he’d been more raunchy, more aggressive on the release, looked silly when the entire industry agreed it was his best release.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I ain’t no flower child MC. I ain’t rapping for peace or ending homelessness.”
“But why not? Don’t you think those kids in the school today need to hear that? To know what’s going on in the world? You have such a powerful influence on them. You could use it.”
“This business is about money first.” He ate the last bit of a sandwich he’d made with some rib meat and bread. “You can’t forget that. It’ll use you and spit you out like you ain’t shit. If it’s not a hit, it ain’t a hit. You’re out. I’m in this to make money. That’s first. The art is second. And the fans are third. They feel me. You may not feel me. People trying to hate on me may not feel me. But the fans feel me. And that’s it.”
Dame and I went back and forth about this for an hour before I realized I was talking to a grown man who had his mind made up about what he did and was making millions of dollars doing it. I kept telling him that the kids he was reaching and the art should come first, but he had a point about the hits the industry was expecting. If no one was making money, he wouldn’t have any fans and his art would be recorded on a cassette tape in the projects he once lived in. While that seemed like the proper place for someone trying to remain connected to his roots, it was a lot to ask of someone who already starved for most of his life.
It was an interesting debate that was hands-down the best dinner conversation I’d had in years. It wasn’t about me or church or family; it was about art, the world, and dreams. And all of this from a former student I’d fully expected to arrive back home as a boy. Now I knew the world had made him a man.
When I got home, Evan was still out, so I climbed into bed alone and called Billie. The news of the evening would no doubt keep us on the phone all night.
Chapter Eleven
“So, what was he like?” Evan asked as we sat on a bench inside the tennis courts at my parents’ estate, watching Jr and May finish their match. It was 7:30 a.m. and I was looking up at the brightening sky, praying the sun wouldn’t suddenly make its grand appearance once Evan and I got up to play.
“What?” I asked. I’d spent most of the night on the phone going over the dinner with Billie. “Why didn’t you call me? I wanted to party like a rock star!” she’d squealed.
“Dinner with Dame—what was he like?” Evan repeated.
“It was fine. I mean, we just ate and ... that was it.”
“Come on, you had dinner with a rapper. I’m sure there were some highlights. Strippers? Moët?” he joked.
Jr was serving balls at May like the Wimbledon trophy was waiting inside on the mantel. He’d hit them hard and fast, even though he knew the woman could hardly play. And then he’d take time-out between obnoxious sighs to point that out.
“If you’d anticipate my hit, you’d see where it was landing,” he growled, and she just wiped her brow, hustling to get to the other side of the court.
“He was a little flashy at first,” I said to Evan, “but then he warmed up and we just talked.”
“What did you talk about?”
“I don’t remember, Evan. Music. God. Everything. I wasn’t exactly keeping track.” This wasn’t half the retelling I’d given Billie. But I knew Evan didn’t really want to know how it felt to be sitting at a table in a restaurant with someone who drew eyes from everyone walking by. How fun it was to ride in the backseat of that Bentley. And how I’d found Dame’s smile endearing. His ideas potent. And his company just plain refreshing.
“Good hit! Great! Good!” Jr hollered, coaching May. Looking ragged but not defeated, she swatted at each ball defiantly and I wondered if she imagined it was Jr’s big head.
“Did he say anything about the school?” Evan asked me. “About donating more money?”
“ No.”
“Well, did you bring it up?”
“I didn’t know I was supposed to,” I said. “Maybe if you’d come, you could’ve.”
The sun was up now. It was already warm, but by the time Evan and I were midway through our match, it would be near dreadful.
“See, if you’d just anticipate my moves more and really run the court, you’d do better,” Jr said as he and May dropped their rackets and walked over to Evan and me. “Your turn,” he said to us.
