Let me get this straight, demanded the host, a man with puffed-out cheeks that slowly turned pink and then red. You’re defending a cop killer? I don’t understand why you people al—
Who is this you people you’re talking about? Chairman R barked back.
The commentators shouted over each other, their words becoming unintelligible. The noise was almost an entity.
The talk was interspersed with clips of L’Ouverture speaking to the cameras; of his recent interviews; of his latest music video.
As I flipped through the pages of the magazine, there he was scowling in an advertisement for his latest CD. I set that issue down on the table and grabbed another, and halfway through, as if he had followed me, there was a picture of him — this time smiling — spread over two pages and accompanied by an interview. And while I waited, I read. All I could think, though, was that he had a nice haircut. A very nice haircut.
Q. . . . . . . .
A. Yeah, well see, it’s a name Black [Terror] gave me. This was way back before the Personality Kliq when I was running with his little brother [Shorty Cool]. I used to call myself Revolutionary Raymond the Versifier. Then I was Ignorance Killah. But I had to switch that up because niggas started calling me Ignorant Killer. I couldn’t really rap back then, but I was passionate. I guess he saw something in me.
Q. . . . . . . .
A. Naw, you couldn’t tell me I wasn’t the greatest rapper of all time. I thought I was Chuck D and a half. Every time I thought I had the most tripiotic rhyme, Black used to knock me down and send me home to write more shit. Ten years of just working on my flow, another five on lyrics. Niggas ain’t got that type of patience these days. Shit, I ain’t have that type of patience, but I trusted big brother. No matter what type of a dick I think he is now (and he is a dick). Black is gonna be big brother for life.
Q. . . . . . . .
A. Who, Black? Naw, he ain’t know nothing about that revolutionary shit before he met me. You heard his early stuff back when he was Little Terror (stupid-ass name). That nigga was dancing around with a hightop fade like Kid ’n Play or some shit. I must have blown his mind, coming through talking about the Black Panthers and Mumia Abu-Jamal and Leonard Peltier, shit like that. I was giving him books to read like Die Nigger Die! and The Spook Who Sat by the Door. When he was starting the Personality Kliq he told me: Your name is L’Ouverture. This was after I gave him The Black Jacobins to read. It was as if I’d found my true name, like it wasn’t Black that was renaming me, but God. Like God was working through him. I know that’s bullshit, but whatever.
Q. . . . . . . .
A. Now, D’Arby, why’d you have to go and ask that? You know that’s a sore point. I’m not sure I want to address that. I’m not here to talk about no cop killers, and for that matter I’m not here to talk about Black and the Personality Kliq. We’re supposed to be talking about my new group Problem With Authority…
Q. . . . . . . .
A. D’Arby, D’Arby… You ain’t even ask me no questions about that shit… Look, I’m in an awkward situation. People looking for me to defend rap music. I’m trying to promote this project… Problem With Authority ain’t even rap music, the media’s got it all wrong. It’s Riverbeat. I thought Cross River would be happy that I was pumping our homegrown shit for the whole world to hear, but all I keep hearing is: you killed a cop, you killed a cop. I never killed a cop or told anyone to kill a cop. I just told a story about a nigga that couldn’t take it no more. I got a band behind me. I’m singing and scatting like I’m Phoenix Starr. I got backup singers and a dude I’m training to be a great lyricist the way Black trained me — shoutout to my little sidekick, H. Rap Black (I gave him that name. It’s a cool name, right?) — but don’t no one talk about the music and my music’s the most tripiotic shit out there. This album is just as good as any Kliq album. Fuck that, it’s better. Much better.
Q. . . . . . . .
A. Look, if the world were nice, I’d sing about flowers and trees, but this is the world we got. The world where an unarmed black kid can get shot 37 times on his way home by some trigger-happy pigs. Don’t no one even speak about that no more since that one cop got killed. Didn’t Nietzsche say that he knew his name would be associated with some great horror? Same way I feel, my nigga. I can’t control what people do with my music. Some people jam to it. Some people fuck to it. People will even lead marches to it. And a very small portion will kill cops to it. It’s the soundtrack to the lives we livin’ right here, right now.
Q. . . . . . . .
A. Don’t even call me L’Ouverture no more. My new name is the Black Nietzsche.
Q. . . . . . . .
A. I ain’t answering that question until you call me by my real name.
Q. . . . . . . .
A. Yeah, I’d call a cop if I had to. Call him a motherfucking pig.
Sitting in The Barber’s chair, my heart thumped like a mad drummer sat in there thrashing about. My breathing turned shallow when I heard the clippers buzz.
How you want it, chief?
He said this as if he didn’t know who I was, as if he hadn’t been cutting my hair for the past twelve years or so. A sure sign of barber slippage. It’s not as if I ever once deviated from the usuaclass="underline" a close trim, even all around, except for the back, which was always faded out.
Uh — uh — umm, I stammered, just a shape-up today.
You sure? You looking like Buckwheat. Nah, I’m just playing. You letting it grow out, huh?
I nodded. There was no way, I thought, he could botch a simple shape-up. Even the most otherwise sublime and exquisite haircut is ruined if it’s not crisp around the edges. The shape-up is the most important part; nail that and you can probably fake the rest.
Your brother was in here earlier, The Barber said.
Oh yeah?
We became silent, and the silence terrified me as I sat there perfectly still, giving up my power to a man who had proved his ineptitude over and over.
I heard a click and the buzzing of the clippers as he crouched before me and stared at my hairline. His face was so close to my cheek I felt he was about to kiss me. What really broke my heart was that he was not apathetic. He took just as much care as he did when he was the most excellent barber around. No, he wasn’t apathetic, just pathetic.
I broke the silence to calm my nerves. Yeah, I said, my brother’s about to have his first kid. I’m gonna be an uncle.
The Barber stepped back and snapped off the clippers. I turned my head slightly, looking up at him. His brow was bunched as if in a rage; his face moved in anguish.
Man, he was up in here today and didn’t share that with me. He didn’t share that with me at all.
Uh… I’m sure he meant to.
Yeah, probably, he said as he started cutting into my hairline once more. I’ll just wait for him to bring it up.
He drifted into another silence, and I could hardly stand it. He looked, at moments, like his father, Sonny, Cross River’s other legendary barber. By the time my own father herded my brother and me into that downtown barbershop, Sonny was already on his downslide. Still, my brother and I went to Sonny’s — that was the name of the shop — well into our teens. It was a warm and inviting place with orange walls and mirrors all around. On the wall, the one across from the barbers’ chairs, there was a row of seats where customers read magazines and waited. Above us hung a painting of dogs playing poker, the one with the sneaky dog holding some extra cards under the table in one of his back paws.