A Segue to Something Greater
Those of you who have been following the blog for a while will remember a post I wrote back in May regarding a change in the blog and biography titles to This Is Not For Sale. This was inspired by a quote from Mikey in a 2004 interview where he said:
“I want to make a record at some point and call it This Is Not For Sale. And obviously I’m going to have to sell it at some point, so it’ll be kind of a funny paradox, and that’ll be the joke part of it, but it’s like: This isn’t for sale. This isn’t a commodity. This isn’t a fucking can of soda. This is real shit. This is us putting it all out there.” - Eyedea
The quote was from a feature journalist Luke Fox did for Pound Magazine titled “Eyedea: A Segue to Something Greater.” The interview between Fox and Mike occurred at a time when Eyedea wasn’t permitting many interviews, and the conversation serves as an incredible window into who he was as both a person and musician at one of the more pivotal crossroads in his life.
Unfortunately, Pound Magazine’s website is now defunct, and consequently Luke’s interview cannot currently be read. After talking with Luke, we decided that this blog would be a good place to share the interview again in full.
The below article was originally featured in Pound Magazine the day following Mike’s passing:
A Segue to Something Greater
“In Freedom, There’s No Mistakes”
Michael “Eyedea” Larsen died yesterday. He was 28 and a true artist. Forever fascinated by the art of freestyling, I pestered the Blaze Battle and Scribble Jam champ for an interview on Nov. 16, 2004. He told me he wasn’t interested in interviews; he eschewed publicists and didn’t even accept the copy of Pound I handed to him. He was concerned with making art, not so much reading about it or promoting it.
Regardless, I convinced him to talk. After sound check, we sat together and spoke about art and rhyme and improvisation and freedom in a Little Italy café before Eyedea and his DJ (Abilities) proceeded to tear Toronto’s Mod Club stage a new one. Eyedea ordered a grilled veggie sandwich and a bowl of soup, eating slightly more than half of each. He sipped a beer and spoke honest.
I wrote a profile on the duo E&A, but saved a lot of the good stuff. Not sure why. Perhaps this is too little too late. Hopefully this conversation will add to your appreciation of a unique talent. You can read the announcement from Larsen’s mother here.
So you got rid of your moustache. How come?
I got a girlfriend. She was like, “Shave that fuckin’ thing off.” I was like, “All right.”
No, it was attached to me, by nature of glue.
What do you love most about hip-hop?
Oh, man. Oh, God…. It’s not a hip-hop-specific thing, but what I love most about making art are those glimpses that you catch of complete psychological freedom. They’re really random, not very consistent, but you do hit that peak where you kind of forget about yourself. And that’s the meaning of art to me. And then it’s great to see that turn and radiate and affect other people.
Can you think of an example when you hit that peak?
I’d like it to be in the studio more than it actually is. But I think the more I develop, the better I’ll get at actually capturing that essence in any situation, on any medium.
What’s your earliest memory of hip-hop?
You know, I don’t even know. I don’t even know how important that is. I know people want to know that kind of stuff, but I don’t really think that’s important. I think what’s more important is to think about where individuals can take their art, take humanity. Because, realistically, it’s always the same. How do you meet people? It’s the same way. Where did you hear stuff? It’s the same way. You hear stuff where you hear it. What’s important is, What are you going to do with it?
So what are you going to do with it?
Hopefully, I’m going to make it significant. Make it a significant art form, to myself first, and then to others. Hopefully that radiation means something to people and inspires them to find that psychological freedom, find that place. You can do it with whatever. I was talking with my girlfriend once about Mahalia Jackson, who’s this old jazz singer who is just amazing. And my girlfriend was like, “That’s how I want to sound.” And I was like, “Well, you’re not gonna sound like that, because there’s no way to sound like that. But what you can do is find within you the thing that made her sound like that.” [To me:] That’s gonna be hard for you to write, to make sense. How can I say that better for the quote? You can find within yourself what artists that you admire have found within themselves—and that’s what really matters. You’re never emulating the specific sound of an artist, but what you are emulating is their freedom, their mastery of themselves. When you emulate mastery and gain mastery of yourself, it naturally is its own thing. And that’s what I want.
Hell no. No, no, no, no. That’s what I look at and that’s what I look forward to. The only thing that makes me different is, that’s where I’m looking.
Do you feel like you’re close?
No, no, no. I feel like I may never feel like I’m close. But I know what path I’m on. That’s the most important thing: not where you are on the path, but what path you’re on. I feel like I’m just starting to be able to look in the right direction, and it’s been a good seven years of recording, performing, producing, traveling. It’s just starting now.
Do you remember your first rap?
I’m not going to get into it.
Was it really old school?
Yeah. That’s not important.
What are your earliest recollections of freestyle?
The first experiences I’ve ever had with rhyming were freestyling. And it was intriguing because it was so challenging. There’s sitting around, watching TV, and then there’s trying to make something out of nothing. Which one are you going to do? TV is boring. I was just young, and that was really intriguing. I was doing all kinds of art as well: drawing, building forts, designing clothes. My plague, which may also be my gift, is I’m generally bored with everything. Like, all the time. Bored. So my first memories as a child are of being bored, of going, This is what life is? This is what it is? Just feeling shitty, y’know? So what do you do? You step out and try to make something happen. It’s kind of neurotic and insane on a few levels, but I think if you use it in the right way, you start to use neurosis not for the escape of boredom but for the understanding of those in-tune moments. It’s a really deep thing.
Did you get bored of freestyle?
I still do. I get bored of every form of music, of everything. I get bored of what I sound like, of what I look like, of fucking politics. I get bored.
So how do you overcome that? Try something else and then come back to it?
Yeah. That’s why right now I’m trying to learn how to play all the different instruments, really produce and write music. But the other thing is, I’m old enough to realize at this point that boredom is (a) part of my personality, and I haven’t really figured out where that comes from yet, to get over it. But (b), you examine life so intensely that you can break it down to nothing sometimes. And when there’s nothing, you feel like moving on to something else. And there’s also the frustration, growing up feeling isolated because of the fact that you’re always growing and wanting to create and knowing that everyone around you is not on that same page. But what you hopefully develop is what I call the ‘all things come to pass’ mentality, where it’s like, this feeling of boredom goes away and you just live your life. You breathe. You grab things and write them down. Or you talk and have a conversation. Or go out to eat. Have a drink. You go dancing. Whatever it is, it goes away. This fear goes away. This happiness goes away. At least for me; I can’t make any general statements on how human beings work.
Because your mind shifts onto other things so quickly, is that why you’re so talented at freestyling?
Yeah. You’d think that artists are generally bored, and that’s how they improve. It’s hard to get into the semantics of what words mean, but when I say bored, I guess I mean dissatisfied, discontent.
What makes a great freestyle?
What makes a great freestyle is somebody that can get in tune with himself and forget everything else. That’s actually all there is.
So do you actually phase everything else out?
At the climax, yes. That’s what it is. But, generally what you’re trying to do is you’re searching for that [climax] through methods of repetition. Even in jazz, every combination of notes has probably been done before. But in using these new combinations you get your brain working to the point where, all of a sudden, you break into it. I can’t explain it, but improvisation is the same across the board, no matter what you’re doing. I guess, technically, you feel the element of surprise as it’s happening. You’re surprised that things are coming out of you, and it’s like you’ve got the Holy Ghost. You’re there. It just so happens that jazz musicians, the whole art of jazz post-bebop is based off that. If you’re not tapping into that, you’re not a musician. You’re not real.
Can an emcee be considered complete if he can’t freestyle?
I don’t get into the definitions of that kind of stuff. Hopefully everybody does their own thing and feels good about themselves.
Where do you find that you can slip into that zone where words are just coming out?
It’s hardly ever onstage. It’s funny. People will say, “Oh, you’re so good at freestyling and stuff.” And I say, “I know. But you don’t know that. You’ve never seen it.” There’s only a couple people in the world who’ve seen it, because there’s only been a couple moments. And that’s what you’re always trying to attain—the ability to snap into the moment [snaps fingers] like it’s nothing. They say Coltrane could be in a fucking coma, and then four bars before his solo, pop up, straighten up his suit, and he’s there. That shit is amazing.
Who’s seen you at your best?
Carnage, Master I, Max, maybe one or two other people.
Do you remember freestyle lines and incorporate them into songs later?
Yeah, yeah, when you’re really doing sessions. Never from a show. At a show, I never feel like it’s there. Sometimes there’s other elements that can make it good. It gets there, but it’s very brief. You go there and then other elements of performing for people knock you out of your element. I’m trying to learn how to perform so it’s great for me and other people—and it’s hard to find that balance. I’m trying to find a balance!
Ever done a show when someone isn’t yelling out, “Freestyle! Freestyle”?
Every show we do, somebody says that.
Do you get annoyed by that, being typecast as the freestyle guy?
Well, that doesn’t bother me, but I used to get annoyed by people yelling stuff. But I literally don’t listen to anything that comes from the audience. When I’m not performing a song, I pretty much have my back to the audience. I’m not like the rapper, hip-hop hooray, throw your hands in the air. I just don’t care about any of that anymore. I’m trying to achieve something that’s special to me, and if you can dig, I’m very appreciative. I think that’s awesome. But if you can’t, I’m not going to spend time trying to get you to dig it.
Isn’t that selfish, though?
It is selfish, of course. Yeah, I think it is pretty selfish, on a lot of levels. But I’m not trying to be Gandhi through art. If I was trying to be Gandhi, I wouldn’t be doing art. Gandhi wasn’t into painting; he was into stopping wars by starving himself. [Other dinner partner: “Gandhi was a wack emcee.”] Gandhi was. Like, Jesus? He didn’t have beats. I don’t disregard human emotion, and I don’t disregard that I can make stuff that touches people emotionally. So when I say I play with my back to the crowd, I don’t disregard the people who understand. But the people who don’t understand, I’m not spending time [trying to convince them]. To me that’s when art becomes a business—and that’s what marketing is. Even performing can be marketing: Throw your hands in the air! Have a good time! And maybe if you’re having a good time, you’ll actually listen to what the fuck I’m saying. But, please, throw your fuckin’ hands in the air. That’s bullshit. If they’re not throwing their hands in the air, that’s not the way they feel. And if that’s the way you want them to feel, you’re not communicating your art right…. [laughs] I’m dropping some knowledge.
What’s your take on company-sponsored freestyle competitions?
They’re always stupid. Freestyle competitions are always stupid. They kind of diminish the point of freestyle, but they’re traditional in a hip-hop sense, so I give them that respect, but it’s never the essence. That shit is never raw. And I’ve done ’em. I’ve won ’em all. So when I say that, I’m saying that because, oh, I’m scared. I’ve won every single one I’ve ever entered. Easy. Period. I was in Scribble Jam, Midwestern freestyle, Rocsteady Anniversary, Midwest Blaze Battle, and the final Blaze Battle in New York.
Do you get nervous at these things?
Of course. And that’s why it’s not really it. See, Max [Abilities] has a different argument. He’s under the impression that the fact that it’s set up and nervous and weird is part of the rawness of it. And I don’t really give a shit about that. Is it great art? That’s all I really care about. And in those battles, it’s never been great. At least I’ve never done anything I thought was great.
What goes through your mind when you’re watching the other rounds?
It’s fun. It’s entertaining. It’s like watching TV. I like to watch them.
Do you pick other people’s verses apart? Like, I would’ve said this instead.
Of course. You’re involved in it. And I think the audience does too. They think, If I was up there, I’d dis his…. The other thing about battles is, it’s so based on physical appearance. Like, c’mon, this is a joke. And sometimes you can win without rhyming a word, just by making fun of someone. Then what have you proven? You’re not proving you can rhyme better than anybody.
Are fans good at picking the winner?
No. Everybody has their own twisted view of what quality lyricism is. And judging by what is popular, most people don’t have a fucking clue. You know what I mean? Whatever happened to good shit? I never hear it anymore. But I hear lots of shit that I think is horrible, especially lyrically. That’s huge.
So why did you stop entering battles?
Realistically, there’s a lot of money there. If I knew I’d win, I’d just do them and laugh. The strain and stress puts like a fucking straightjacket on the art of freestyling. ’Cause basically, if I want to, I could rhyme about… [looks out window] a light post and how that’s significant because it’s shining light on a table that has a poem written by a six-year-old girl on it. But I can’t do that in a battle; I gotta be like, “Your shit is ugly. Peace! Your mom sucks… cock… huge cock.” That’s what it is: Look at my car! Look at my cock! That’s what a battle is. Look at how much better I am than you at making fun of people. It’s fucking ridiculous. But I’m not dissing it to the point where I hope these battles don’t exist. I’ll go to them forever; they’re entertaining. But I want to make art, and I want to be great. I want to make my voice my saxophone. ’Cause in a battle…
…you’re not experimenting with flow.
Yeah, you’re not doing anything. You’re just joking.
Is the freestyle battle a younger person’s game?
It would sound real arrogant for me to say yes, but I do kind of agree. It’s like a talent show. When you’re Coltrane and you’re making A Love Supreme, you’re not doing talent shows anymore. Your talent is just eminent; it’s just there. You’re not doing competitions with it. Like I said, nobody I know is there, but the people I surround myself with are on that path. We want to be John Coltranes. We want to be Jimi Hendrixes. We want to be great. Peace.
When you say “people I surround myself with,” do you mean Rhymesayers?
No, it extends beyond that. People who are nothing, they’re nobodies. It extends to my girlfriend. It extends to the human beings I spend time with—whether they make music or not.
Do you ever find yourself in impromptu battles now?
I never enter battles. But every night is a battle; every show is a battle. It’s the battle of, Can I bring myself into that zone? And that’s always a battle. And that’s more competitive and more intense and more emotionally draining and gratifying than ever winning a Scribble Jam. And the only reason I can say that, once again, is because I done won Scribble Jam. [Food arrives, eating.]
When you were entering battles, how much did you have to practice?
You gotta practice anything. That’s what we call “going there” in a specific amount of time. So you gotta practice being sharp, witty. Wit doesn’t have shit to do with freestyling. It could take me 20 fucking minutes to describe what I want to describe in a real freestyle, and it doesn’t matter. But when you have 30 seconds, it’s all about your wit: How fast can you say as much demeaning shit to a person? I’ve seen battles won by other methods. This is stuff I think is more tight; this is stuff that comes out of L.A., where freestyling really started, and it’s still more advanced there than anywhere in the world. It’s like, OK, we’re not just going to talk about each other. [deaf person approaches with paper, asking Eyedea to buy a little pamphlet with sign language key on it; he says, “Yeah, I’ll buy one.”] I’ve seen them won by methods of something else. I’ve seen people go, “Da da da da-da-da-da-da. Now you do that. ’Cause if you can’t, you’re not good.”
How do the styles of freestyle differ from region to region?
Every place is, in general, the same except for New York and L.A. You know what? Nah. Every place is the same except for L.A. L.A. is where it’s really about skills, still. It’s not about talking about somebody. I’ve seen people in L.A. win battles by telling stories, but it’ll still be about the [competitor]. But instead of about you and your shirt, it’ll be about you’re so wack, when you were born, your parents gave you up for adoption, and the person who picked you up was a wack emcee too, so you just kept wallowing in your wackness. Shit like that. Specifically, a guy named Otherwyze battled this person with this whole schoolyard metaphor. Like where they were both in sixth grade, and he’s banging on the lunch table, and then he started banging his head on the table. Shit like that. Amazing. And then, yeah, styling, using your voice, using your instrument.
Can you tell when someone’s not coming off the top of the head?
Is there any way to disguise it?
Yeah, but anybody that could disguise it is so smart that they could just freestyle anyway. Like, if you were actually able to disguise it, that means you know so much about the subtleties and nuances of improvisation that you could just be improving just as good.
Are there traps you fall into, like repeating one phrase over and over again?
Yeah, you always do, man. You revert to the stuff you know because you’re searching for that pivot point, that point to go somewhere. That’s what it’s about.
What’s your most memorable battle?
Me versus P.E.A.C.E. from Freestyle Fellowship.
He’s a monster. I wasn’t a monster; I wasn’t even ready for it. He’s my hero. Freestyle Fellowship are the pioneers of everything that started me off. They’re the pioneers of taking you voice and going [mimics scat-like change of pitches and pace]. That’s the Fellowship. So to battle one of those guys is amazing.
Do you remember what he said about you?
Yeah. It was me dissing him because I knew so much about the Fellowship.
Is it hard to dis your idol?
It’s easier ’cause you know so much about ’em. But his comeback was, “You know so much about me because you study me. I made you. I know nothing about you because there are a million little kids like you who idolize me.” And I said something like, “Whatever, man, go back to L.A.” And he said, “I’ll go back to L.A., and I’ll take you with. You won’t survive in L.A. I’ll sit you down with my homeboy,” da-da-da-da-da-da. And he has so much character when he rhymes. Freestyle of Fellowship: the motherfuckers who invented the rap styles that are the most fundamental base of what I do. And they’re still taking it places that it’s never been. Dude, Mikah 9: If you ever do a style—I don’t care what you do with words, what you do with your voice—I guarantee he’s done it already. I guarantee it. I guarantee I can pull out one of the 25 underground tapes I have of Mikah 9 and Freestyle Fellowship and find it. You go, “Ooh, this one pattern I have is original.” It’s not.
When was the last time you heard something that was truly original, style-wise?
When I hear Mikah, Organized Konfusion. Their last record was in ’94. Some of the Pharoahe [Monch] solo stuff. You don’t hear it that much, but you hear glimpses of it everywhere. People’s whole idea will be original. Like, Aesop [Rock] is original. Sage [Francis] is original, Slug [of Atmosphere] is original. MF Doom is original. Blueprint, Illogic—they’re original. Carnage, Masta Eye… but there’s not a pattern that any of those guys ever done that Fellowship didn’t do already. Just because by nature they’re so free, they’ve done everything. [Granted,] Fellowship is four people, and all four of ’em have been making records since ’90. That’s over 15 years ago. They got everybody covered.
What’s the longest you’ve gone off the top of the head?
Maybe 20 minutes without stopping. Not good, though. Maybe points would be really good.
How does one recover from a mistake?
The key to freestyling is freedom. In freedom, there’s no mistakes. Going offbeat? Everything is melodically and rhythmically something. So when you go off beat, you still have the next million syllables in a beat to make that on-beat: See, if I’m going like this and I dadadadadda da deer… dadadadda daaaaa.. dadadaddd dad ad ad daaa… That’s how you do it. Everything is free; nothing is a mess-up. Everything is a segue to something greater.
How much does beat selection affect your rhymes?
Now, when me and Max freestyle, the best parts are when he’s making a beat from the turntable, like just a kick and snare, or live drums. Because it’s empty, it’s open. If a beat is really busy, it’s telling you more and more what kind of box to be in. If the beat is in C-major, you’re not going to be able to sing notes that go out of that and sound good still. But when you just have drums and you can work with a live drummer—same with Abilities on the tables—you can change tempo, you can change melody, you can change the key, you can change everything as you go. And that’s what we’ll do tonight. We’ll do about a half hour of nothing but people banging on instruments and us just playing.
How much did 8 Mile affect freestyling and the way people view it?
I don’t know. If it did [affect freestyle], it probably did something negative to it, I’ll tell you that. It’s just… that kind of shit is stupid. The pop world is stupid—period. The pop world ain’t about real art. It never has been, never will be. It was closer in, like, the ’70s, ’60s, ’50s, fucking ’40s even. Jesus Christ. But nowadays, man, the pop world is like… I don’t even know what pop music is anymore. I can’t even imagine.
Who’s the best off the top of the head?
More than anybody in the world. Mikah 9 is the only person in the world [of rap] who could be in jazz. Nobody’s better than people who can scat. Mikah 9 can scat. He can really take it somewhere.
Have you ever sat down with Mikah 9 or any of the Fellowship and talked about this stuff?
Yeah, we’ve spent a lot of time. Aceyalone is a pretty good friend of mine. Another guy, Riddler from CVE, Busdriver, Murs. Murs is another guy who’s a really good freestyler.
And have any of those guys ever said anything that has surprised you? Does anyone have a completely different take on freestyle?
I don’t think anything’s vastly different. It’s all about going there. No matter what you sound like, who you are, what instrument you play, even if you’re not making music, it’s all about going there. Think of a standup comedian that doesn’t write their script. Think of adlibbing for a movie. It’s all about going there. You get to a point where it’s just real, it’s emotions. You know? That’s some real shit.
Does that sense of improvisation translate to other parts of your life?
I would hope so. And I would like to say, yeah, maybe it does. My girlfriend right now is teaching me a lot about it, without even knowing it, because she is so off-the-cuff. Like when she gets on-point, she is the fucking star of the room. Making fun of you, reading this, saying this, da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da. She does improve acting, and she also makes music and writes and stuff like that. She just says amazing things without…. She actually exemplifies what I want to do with rhyming, she’s actually so free. What did she just say while we were on the phone? I can’t remember. She says amazing shit. But when she gets there, she’s there. And that’s what it is: There’s there, and then there’s no there. Can you go there?
Have you ever been into acting?
Not really improv stuff. I did minimal stuff when I was in high school. I think it would be fun, but now I’m like, I should learn how to play the piano, I should… that’s what I’m thinking of. When I was younger I used to think, Oh, man, there’s so much out there. But now I think, Yeah, there’s so much just in music that I need to do. Like, the new stuff I’m working on right now, I’m writing everything from scratch. I’m writing every instrument. Writing guitar pieces on the piano, then hiring guitar players. I’m really composing my own music, my own vision. And it’s a big task for me, because I’m not classically trained at all. It’s going to be a solo thing, and [Abilities] is actually doing the same type of stuff but on the turntables. He’s learning how to play notes with the record. He’s going to take that form of music into realms it’s never been taken. He’s amazing; he’s the most talented person I know. We kind of always do this. We’re like best friends. We make a record and then really grind it. Then we take some time, chill out, go in other directions. Then we always learn what we learned there, come back. You always need a break.
So will this be an Oliver Hart project?
Nah, I can’t tell you the name. I can’t even talk about it. But it’s gonna be something. Next year…. I’m just working on music, man. I might not even release it. I just want to make great music. It’s not even about making records and selling them anymore. It’s about capturing greatness. And if I don’t capture greatness, I definitely don’t want to sell the shit. It’s all about that now. Even, y’know, this is cool, but I’m pretty much not going to do interviews anymore. I just don’t want to be selling anything. Hey, it’s art. Dig it or not.
But maybe your perspective is good for someone to read in an interview, to hear from someone who isn’t plugging his album every five seconds.
Yeah, it is. E&A! Blah, blah, blah. And I’m not even opposed to do it. Like now, this is really good, to sit down and talk about it. But a lot of times it becomes a hassle for you [the artist], and then you think, What am I doing this for? I’m only doing this to sell records. That’s why you hire a publicist. But it’s like, whoa. What is the meaning of my life, to sell records? I’m not an economy, I’m not a business. And if I do need to sell records, why am I doing it by method magazines and fucking billboards and radio? I should be doing it by method of playing more shows, doing my art to you. And I’m a nice guy. You got some questions, come up to me: “Hey, man, what’s up?” I’m approachable. I’m a real person. That being said, I don’t think I’m going to turn down interviews; I’m just not interested in hiring a publicist to get me interviews. And I’m just kind of sick of the whole game. A lot of the times, people who write pieces on us don’t really give a shit about our music anyways. It’s this whole network of, “I work for this company, and they tell me to do this ’cause I scratch their back here, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.” Who fucking cares? You write for these motherfuckers [picks up magazine]? You can still write about me if I don’t have a publicist. You can call me on the fucking number on the back of my CD, and say, “I really want to talk to you,” and we can still talk. But I don’t need to be paying $10,000… I don’t know. I’m just really discontent with the whole industry in general right now. And I want to bring it back to the roots of it not being an industrial method. Just get back to the music, man.
You’re saying that, but at the same time Rhymesayers is heading more into the go-through-a-publicist route by linking with Epitaph for distribution and marketing.
It completely is. But now that we did this record with Epitaph, we have our own distribution deal, so it’s all going to be directly independent with Rhymesayers—all the future releases and the back catalogue as well. But, you’re right. Not everybody at Rhymesayers has the exact same approach. So, how does a company be successful? Our company believes in great art. When I go back and say, “I’m not doing any interviews, and I’m not doing any shows for Clear Channel of House of Blues, and I’m not gonna open up for anybody. I’m just gonna do fucking van tours and clubs that hold 200 people for the rest of my life,” my frinds and labelmates go, “All right, cool. Let’s make it work.” But then somebody else might say, “Hey, I want a publicist.” That has to be there. I really think that I’m kind of alone in the way that I think about everything right row. Me and Max as well. You’re not a business. You’re art. I want to make a record at some point and call it This Is Not For Sale. And obviously I’m going to have to sell it at some point, so it’ll be kind of a funny paradox, and that’ll be the joke part of it, but it’s like, This isn’t for sale. This isn’t a commodity. This isn’t a fucking can of soda. This is real shit. This is us putting it all out there. And we don’t need videos. I don’t even want that. I don’t want to be famous. I want to be great. And if fame happens to be a byproduct of greatness, then fuck it, bring it on. But I’m striving to be great, and I don’t care if I die a person who only sold 50,000 records. That was my life, then. But I tried my hardest to make great art. And every second that you spend trying to sell your art, you’re taking away from that focus of making it great—and you’re becoming less and less of a good person. I don’t even sell my CD at the merch table anymore. I used to stand up there and sell my CD hand-to-hand. I feel disgusting when I do that now. I feel gross. I should go up to those people and say, “How are you? How do you feel right now? How’s your day?” But [instead] I’m like a fucking corporate machine out there: “Buy my CD. Buy Coca-Cola. Buy my McDonald’s!” That’s what I’m doing. If I really want to connect with people, I should go say, “How you doing? How’s your life treating you?” Have a real one-on-one conversation. And I can’t even do that because even if there’s only 50 people at a show, every one of those 50 people wants to talk to you. I do everything different now. I go out [into the crowd] after the show; I usually try to stay out of the public until the performance, so I can relax, don’t have to deal with the vibe, trying to analyze everybody. It’s really overwhelming, the crowd. Even 25 people, and every one of those 25 wants to talk to you. Sometimes it’s 500 people; in Minneapolis it’s 1,200 people at a show. So it’s hard to do. Imagine what it’s like to be famous famous. No wonder why those guys are all crazy and off the floor. Dude, that’s insane. When I get offstage, we go and hang out with people and talk to people. And I don’t make it a rush to talk to everybody. Sometimes there will be a group of people around, and I’ll stand up and say, “Look, I appreciate the fact that everyone digs our stuff, if you do, but it’s impossible for me to show everyone that I really care about them right now because the nature of this is insane.” And I lay it all out there; I’m honest. And if someone comes up to me acting weird, I’ll say, “What’s going on? Why is this weird?” And I’m really just here.
What do you mean by acting weird?
Somebody, for instance, a couple nights ago, wanted to show me his visual art because he wanted a job working for us. So he comes up acting all fucking cool: “Yeah, yeah, word.” I’m like, “No, don’t come at me crooked like that. I’m a person.” And I broke it down: “What is this? What is this interaction that we’re having?” And there’s people all around us. I’m like, “Dude, what’s wrong with you?” And he’s like, “You know, I gotta put on this attitude because the industry’s so hard.” I said, “What? Did you learn that in school? What do you mean, ‘the industry is fucking hard’? You’re not talking to the industry right now; you’re talking to a human being. What, did they teach you that in college? What the fuck is that? That’s a concept. Have you ever went up to someone and been a real, honest person?” And that’s what I tell people: “Even if you’re nervous, come up and say, ‘Hey, I’m really nervous, I don’t know how to say this…’” ’Cause I’m fucking nervous about it too. I have no clue how to deal with this shit. But now the approach is, I’m 100 per cent honest with myself and with you too. So it’s like… I don’t know why I got into that spiel.
Do you feel better since you changed your approach?
Yeah, because I go home at the end of the night and think, I did good. I did what I could to impact people on a real human level. Like, I’m looking at your eyes and saying, “Thank you. I hope you fucking succeed in life.” I’m not treating you like you’re a fan, like you’re part of this assembly line and I gotta move onto the next. I’m saying, “Look, I gotta shake a lot of people’s hands, but I wouldn’t be able to exist if it were not for you. What do you do? Do you do art? Cool, do that shit. Peace.” And people, I feel, walk away like, “Damn, he really connected with me.” That’s why they come up to you in the beginning—because they need to connect with you personally as well as musically, for whatever reason. So it’s a disservice to humanity to not be real with everybody, and yourself as well.
Do you think people come at you weird because other rappers before you have put on a front?
It’s not even that. It’s this rock-star shit, pop-star shit. Everybody takes themselves way too seriously. I am this. No, you’re not. You’re a human being. And that person in the audience may be even better than you at what you do—and you don’t have any fucking clue. Even if they’re not better, they’re still as great of a person. Art isn’t reserved for the elite. So when I say I play with my back to the crowd, I’m not reserving it for the elite; I’m just not being a clown anymore. ’Cause when I do my songs, I turn around and say, “This is my shit.” Just in between the songs, I’m not doing headspins to make you laugh. I do my shit, and I’m out.
One could argue that that’s more effective: Less is more.
Since we started playing like that, it’s way more potent, because I don’t spend so much time speaking to the crowd. At the end of the night, when I say, “Thank you,” people are like, “Yeah. Dude really cares.” ’Cause I didn’t spend all night talking bullshit. The only thing I say that isn’t my song is, “Thanks a lot. It means a lot to me.” And then I bounce. And also, too, we’re not making rock songs that are really subversive and hard to understand. Through our performance you get a lot of personality as well. When you hear the song and see the looks on our faces, you can see we’re having fun playing the songs. And there are direct feeling that are said; it’s not cryptic all the time. So you don’t need to be talking. And if you do, like I said before, your music isn’t good enough. I just watched the Pixies. They didn’t say anything but “thank you.” That was the only word Frank Black said that wasn’t a song. And when the songs come in, they’re not talking over the intro; they’re playing the intro.
I hate when emcees do a ton of talking before they even do one song.
Yo, this is me. This is what I’m about. Why are you telling people what you’re about? That first song should tell them what you’re about. The music should be it.
What would you like to do that you haven’t done yet?
I’d like to be a father. Not in the too near future, but at some point.
Wow. I thought you were older. You seem wiser than 23.
I’ve done a lot of shows.
Great place. Yeah. All of Canada is pretty much great. I’ve played Toronto, Victoria, Vancouver, Ottawa, Montreal—all great. It’s a mixture between Europe and the States as far as attitude. Nothing will beat Europe. [Waitress collects plates; Eyedea asks if she’s coming to the show. Yes. Say hi, he says, you’ll be in the magazine. Reluctant hello.] Europe is the best.
What’s one of the craziest things that’s happened on the road?
I was on the road during 9/11. It’s an insane amount of intensity all the time. Our van just got broken into. Seen groups break up.
Ah, man, I’ve seen a lot of things happen.
They break up because of the road?
Nah. I don’t believe in that. I don’t believe a relationship can be bad because of money. It’s either bad or it’s good. And if the road brings out those contaminated elements, it was there. The road can get people cranky, and then you can say things that hurt people’s feelings, but then usually the day you say, “Hey, man, I didn’t say that to hurt your feelings.” Cranky and shit. I got a headache. I could be an asshole—not to you but to him. If he said, “We gotta do soundcheck,” and he had said it four times to me today, I could be like, “You said that fuckin’ four times! Ahh! Your shirt’s ugly.” And he’d be crying like a little fucking kid. Ain’t that right, Mikey?
Where is freestyle going?
I think it’s going to be jazz one day. It’s not yet. I think one day the standard will be, it’s about being free. Right now it’s about rocking the party or something. I don’t really understand that.
Thanks a lot. I appreciate it.
