Giving Birth To The Papa Lo-Down

Today's guest Thick Witness is Paloma Belara, the public relations mastermind behind much of the ill-Literacy success. She's the smiling face over your shoulder at the party, and easily the drop dead gorgeous-est at all times. Paloma's on loan from her own daily blog, and writes about her time asserting herself as a young PR genius girl with hips phenom. Thickwit's proud to have her before she becomes your household name in music industry baller-dom.

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I've really only started working in the music/entertainment industry for about three years now. Ever since I moved back to the Bay from my 2+ year adventure in New York, it has been a period of trial and error and many successes as well. I'm proud of myself. From securing a trademark, building a website, producing an open mic, freelance writing for a magazine, managing, booking, counseling a group during their breakup, securing a clothing sponsorship, co-producing an online remix contest, producing shows, managing distribution and promotions, securing features on prominent publications and media outlets, shiiiiet... I've done a lot!!

So after all that, I burned myself out... go figure! I was warned by those close to me of the workload...but I've always been rebellious or hard headed (depends on the situation), so I had to go through several breakdowns before I dropped everything and decided to take a leave of absence. Re-evaluate, find balance, research, breathe, spend time with all the children in my life (eight nephews and one niece to be exact), and mostly to organize myself so that I could come back into the biz feeling confident about the goals being set.

Six months into my hiatus, and I'm gearing up for my return! There are hella things about to pop off and way too many opportunities sitting there calling my name that I couldn't stand back and let it pass me by. I'm excited, nervous, anxious, confident, insecure. All that, and then some... rolled into one.

I have my days... where I'll hit up one of my confidants seeking moral support. I start the conversation with, "I'm having a moment..." because the fear and insecurity takes over me, it happens... and then I have my good days as well, I'm on top of my game and the drive to make moves is like an adrenaline rush after the end of a roller coaster ride.

So here I am ready to give "birth" to what I hope will become a Bay Area (and beyond), household name within the independent music and entertainment industry, enter - "The Papa Lo-Down"

Right now what you see is a blog of my experiences in the music industry - with the objective to provide tips, advice, and insight for independent artists that are self-managing their careers. I definitely don't think I know everything, but I hope by offering what has or hasn't worked and what I think could work, from my point of view, will in turn benefit someone else's career.

I'll be launching a PR (public relations) service in the fall and expanding the scope of the blog to include more news and information surrounding the Bay Area Hip Hop Industry. And please believe the "contractions" I'm having are going to come much more frequently as my "due date" approaches, so to all my homies - I suggest you block me from your gchat list if you don't want to hear me stress out! :)

The support I get from my family, friends, and community (aka network), is truly a driving force in keeping me on track and focused, giving me confidence that all the heartache, sleepless nights, and half empty gas tanks are not in vain.

Damn, being a "single mother" is not easy, but as the saying goes "it takes a village to raise a child...", and I happen to live in the freshest village on the west coast.

www.papalodown.com

Larger Than...

Guest Thickwitness, Sherlynn Hicks, lives in Southern California. She is an actor, writer, and regular contributor to BrooWaha Los Angeles. Sherlynn is a self proclaimed Buffy enthusiast. Hicks is one of two original girls with hips and has the power to oust or ordain all potential thickwits. She's got more backside than you've got wit, and more wit than you've got backside. Sucks to be you. Plus, Sherlynn's way too fine. See?

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Sasha Obama with Secret Service Agent at Iowa Minor League Game

There's a photograph in the newly released Esquire Magazine, the one with Barack Obama on the cover. In the center of the frame is his daughter Sasha, eyes wide, mouth open. Michelle's face is crinkled in a tickled laugh. The camera catches the back quarter of Senator Obama. His hand is reaching past his daughter to someone's hand in the crowd to shake. His face is tilted upwards, surveying the crowd obscured in the black background of the photograph. Sasha's yellow hair ribbon is tied in an askew bow and cute as hell. The caption reads "The day after announcing for president in February 2007, Obama greeted a crowd in Chicago. His daughter Sasha, trying to get her father's attention, shouted, 'I love you, Daddy!'"



I can't stop crying.



This little girl might to lose her daddy to things larger than her existence. The look on her face. That adoring, loving look on her face clamoring for her daddy's attention in a crowd of adoration less personal than her own, is...heartbreaking.



But it is also indicative of my fears for my preferred candidate. I worry that if elected, will he be up to the task? And if up to the task, will he be allowed to excel? And if allowed to excel, will his excellent choices be free of corruption? And if free of corruption, will the path of this country be righteous? And if the path of this country is righteous, will the world's as well?



It's as if I don't want to lose my preferred candidate to the things that are larger than his daughter's existence.

Everything is Broken. And Gorgeous.

I haven't much time to write this.

My computer is dying. My phone is dying. My car is dead.

But spring is doing it's thing outside.

It's an unexpected 95 degrees in Oakland.

Allergies at an all time high.

Stop reading this. I have nothing special to say.

The site was broken last week, but my spirit wasn't.

Go outside.

Find the spring you've forgotten.

Listen to Mahalia Jackson. Reacquaint yourself with the Staple Singers.

Love abounds, and is for you, right now.

Watsky vs. Cera Back Story.

michael, please have some understanding

Two days ago, on a brisk walk through the east village, I bumped into who I thought was my good friend George Watsky. I will say that I was brazilian sushi bound, judgment thus impaired, plus both of my eyes were swollen from seasonal allergies. I give a huge wave to "George", and was shocked to see my good friend cover his face and attempt to brush past me.

Watsky. What up, kid? It's me, Chinaka. From Poetry and stuff. Love what you're doing with the vocorder and trumpet. We gotta link on this Watsky for President jumpoff...

No response.

What the hell? I mean, I understand you're hot stuff now George-- rocking fur collars at the SF Opera House, bout be junior standing at Emerson and all. But homie, you have to say what up. It's for the love. Bay Area, and all that, fam. Why you trying to son me, yo?

So I stare George down real hard and all, and to my intense embarassment, it's not my literary bosom buddy, but the lesser known, albeit very talented Michael Cera-- who doesn't know me from Adam.

Spaz, Michael, my bad, it's just that you look O.D. like a friend of mine, and I thought you were trying to act like you don't know... And I mean you're a great actor and all, really love what you did in that baby movie, but you know I just got really excited that I was running into THE George Watksy Experience, you know?

And Mikey was real understanding and all, extra Hollywood, peace zen aura scone, mentioned something about getting green tea powder on his pinkberry, and got ghost real soon. So I was a little embarrassed, but figured it was all good. Was going to shout him out at Thickwit, add him to the list of celebrities seen by anti-bossip, but he beat me to the punch.

George calls me out of the blue, because he respects my gangster and knows I've been dealing with threats a bit recently, and wanted my advice. He got this crazy note from someone claiming to be Mike Cera, asking him to leave the nerd niche alone.

So this post is for Michael. I don't know whether or not you wrote a note to George-- and this could be all circumstantial, but if I in any way offended you, I'm sorry. I know you've spent a good deal of money, time and heart trying to claw your way out of the shadow of George V. Watsky. I don't want to downplay your efforts, and I heard Superbad really was a brilliant film. Heard good things about Juno too. I understand that you and G. Watts have similar fan bases, and are often at the same auditions. He's really sorry that he beat you out for lead vocalist in Invisible Inc., and I promise to take a serious look at your manuscript for the next round of First Word books.

Let's get you on, Michael. There's space enough in the dork kingdom for both of you. I hear they're remaking Weird Science. How awesome would a collabo be? That's money. Let's keep this peace. Let's keep agents out of this, and lawsuits. I'd hate to have to find our handwriting specialist and link you to the note on legal pad. Restraining orders make it really hard at call backs.

That's not a threat.

All Love,

Nak.

Do George Watsky and Michael Cera have beef?

My friend George Watsky got this in the mail today...
Tell me reader, what should George do?

conspiracy #1.

I'm pretty sure that the allergens are in the claritin.

On Violence, Freedom and Urgent Means

Today's a day shy of a week after the release of Rising Down, The Roots' tenth effort. In the last six days two things have happened:

1. I've listened enough to put a scratch in the mp3. Dad's going to kill me.
   
2. I've become increasingly aware of the history behind my anger. Oh, and it' so justified.

Now, I'm not saying that I'm going to cut YOU specifically or ANYONE in the abstract, but I am saying that Rising Down provides an excellent road map to my aggression towards all of the people and instances between the specific and the abstraction. If William T. Vollman's seven volumes of Rising Up and Rising Down "attempts to establish a moral calculus to consider the causes, effects, and ethics of violence" and tracks the knowing of these internationally-- then The Roots give the math on why black folks might could be angry right about now. I think.

Maybe it's more focused than that, even. It's almost as if The Roots take us into the intimacies of their own potentials for violence and freedom, and compass how the music has served, for the last decade and a half, as their own urgent means of retaliation. The album begins with a antique for '94 audio-recording of a Roots conference call gone super duper hyphy-- screams peak out, provoked by a conversation about the band's conflicts with the label, and the way frustrations are articulated. Whole lot of, albeit justified, black-man yelling, fuck you, fuck this, i'm trying to be heard, threatening to drop the line. Hello, hello?

And then the album begins. From there we hear Mos on the opening track, bearing witness that the earth is spinning away from itself, and someone really should let God know about it. Then they Get Busy on the required banger with appearances from long time collaborator Dice Raw and some cat named Peedi Peedi, who's my new favorite (his cadence is mangoes). We move back to the history of inverse flight with Tariq at age 15, rhyming harder than you, your moms, and your set, ala Kool G-- which really just serves as an introduction to 75 bars-- a track that's exactly what it sounds like. 75 bars of Thought on red niggas, brown niggas, high yellow niggas, and his place in all of that. The album goes on to scribble between dismal and concerned, frenetic and tactical. But in an extra live way. Like a party just before dawn on a derailed SEPTA train. Rhymes from the talented electric tenth rail. "WEB Dubois meets Heavy D and the Boys..."



If Phrenology tapped into The Roots' mental landscape, and The Tipping Point spoke towards the fulcrum of madness, then this album moves across the vertex of intellect and a broken heart. It's written from beyond the barrel, before the verdict. It's post-Obama hype, pre-President Barack. It answers questions about the cultural differences between those who yell and those who take that shit personally-- and how trust has been built between the two.

Plus it answers my ongoing hate on Tariq-- the critique that he rarely tells a story-- with the exceptions of Water, Silent Treatment and You Got Me-- I been thinking Thought was just flexing his superior skill in rhyme... But the poet in me has always craved narrative. Which I didn't think Black would ever do-- until I realized that the story's been told over 10 albums-- maybe 12 or 13. Oops. He's kind of "the Ernest Hemmingway of b-boy poems, can't take the pen away he's Leroi Jones."

And with that said-- It's also worth noting that The Roots been trying to get my bourgignant behind to read since five albums back. Peep: Things Fall Apart. Phrenology. The Tipping Point. Game Theory. And now some shit named after a 7 volume McSweeney's text. If I cared so much about stories, you'd think I'd get my library card current.

As always, Questlove's musical direction is superior. The album has cameos out the ass- the aforementioned Mos, Kweli in tow, Peedi Peedi, Styles P, Malik B., Common, Chrisette Michelle, Patrick Stump, Saigon, Truck North-- and a couple more heads. Still, somehow, none seem out of place, or additions for crossover purposes. Everyone's rhyming to the same end-- like they revised verses, or something. Or wrote in the same place.

Rising Down is musically light years beyond that The Dream single you've been knocking all week, and the Danity Kane jump I've had on repeat. (Do do you have a first aid kit handy?) I'm pretty sure this album is the alcohol to Bad Boy's hydrogen peroxide. Both from brown containers, but one's a little cleaner, a little more burn in the wound.

And don't your life sting from time to time? Make you want to holler? Soundtrack it with this.

Thickwit approves.

I have nothing constructive to post.

thickwit is anti-bossip: we stop at nothing.