Tuesday, November 23, 2004

Go On With Your Bad Self, White Boy!

Rappin’ Davey W e-mailed me this morning (all the way from Maui!) and asked me why I haven’t yet written a blog entry about our brief stint as rap stars in the late 1980s. The answer, of course, is that I am a very serious scribe who chooses very important subject matter (like how to tackle raging constipation with low-grade explosives). Besides that, I don’t take requests like some cheesie Bar Mitzvah band where the lead singer plays “Sunrise, Sunset” on the accordion during the candle-lighting ceremony.

But since Dave sent me money (all the way from Maui!) to buy lottery tickets and I spent most of it on McGriddles and stool softeners, I guess I owe it to him to tell the story. So, Dave, this long distance dedication is going out to you (all the way to Maui!):

When Dave, his brother Kevin and I were counselors at a summer camp called Camp Alonim (which I believe is Hebrew for “We’re out of toilet paper so you’ll have to use a leaf”), there was a regular Saturday night talent show attended by the whole camp. Kids and counselors alike would cowboy up to perform various acts each week – acts like playing Havah Negila on the cello or belching the entire Hebrew alphabet.

Dave, Kevin and I decided to write and perform a rap about our summer camp experience, modeling our act after our favorite MCs of the day: the Beastie Boys, the Fat Boys, Slick Rick, Public Enemy and the late rapper who chose to refer to himself as Easy Motherfuckin’ E. Dave and Kevin wrote the words to our rap and I practiced what was a prerequisite element of any listenable rap song in those days: the beat box. For those with a low hip-hop IQ, a beat box is performed by putting one’s mouth right up against the microphone and making a series of noises that sounds conspicuously like a dying transmission.

Psss-pihuh-pssstpsst-prffff-pssst, uhprrrrf-pahpur-psssst.

And so on.

As showtime drew near, we were as giddy as 10-year-old girls at a Debbie Gibson concert. What we lacked in street cred and simple musical inclination was compensated by absolute glee and complete ignorance of our tone-deafness. We huddled backstage. Dave and Kevin whispered through the lyrics once more. I just sat there listening, wondering if this was going to turn out like that scene in The Jazz Singer when a big shot record producer hears Neil Diamond perform and offers him a record deal on the spot.

When the curtain rose, all we could see was the glare of the bright auditorium lights shining down on us. The crowed was completely hushed (the predictable after-effect of the act before us, which featured seven-year-old boys from Bunk 2 doing arm farts to the tune of the Israeli National Anthem).

I took a deep breath, grabbed the mic and started grunting out a funky beat box, like so:

Psss-pihuh-pssstpsst-prffff-pssst, uhprrrrf-pahpur-psssst.

And so on.

Then came Dave and Kevin with the lyrics, like so:

Well, I’m Rappin’ Davey W. from Alonim
I’m the best darn rapper that you’ve ever seen.

And so on. (Solid gold, isn’t it?).

The rest is just one long orgasmic blur. The tune went on with rhyming about the chicken served in the camp dining hall and our perceived domination of all comers on the camp basketball court.

When the song ended, the crowd went completely batshit. There were whistles and cheering and yarmulkes flying everywhere. People came running up to the stage to get our autographs or to touch our shoes or to put their palms on top of our heads and recite the traditional Hebrew blessing over kick-ass rappers (something like, “Baruch attach adonai blah blah blah word up!”).

When Dave, Kevin and I reconvened backstage, we decided the our success couldn’t possibly get any better than what we had just experienced and we therefore decided to disband the group.

Later that summer, I made Kevin laugh while his mouth was full of Cheerios and one of them came shooting out of his nose, whole. If that’s not street cred, I don’t know what is.

7 Comments:

At 1:31 PM, Blogger sevans said...

Yasher koach!

 
At 3:03 PM, Blogger honestyrain said...

i don't know what mrs. evans just said but i expect that you, of all people, should know all about dropping it like it's hot. i had no idea you were of the rap world. i am humbled by sort of almost kind of not really knowing you.

 
At 8:54 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

I can't imagine your Mom, when bragging to the Goldsteins about what a mensch you are, using the words 'street cred'. LOL!
~Moxie

 
At 9:00 PM, Blogger Lala said...

Heh heh, Yur mum found yur blog too, eh. Hope she likes it.

 
At 9:28 AM, Blogger AnonymousCoworker said...

I was just happy to see that your rap didn't start, "My name is Dave and I'm here to SAY, something something something and something WAY," since it is the prerequisite to all white rapping.

 
At 10:26 AM, Blogger Shiz said...

I laughed myself to TEARS on that one. Good job!

I'm reminded of a completely off-topic story: A friend of mine, a Protestant, had part of the Song of Solomon tatooed on her lower back, the "I am my lover's and his desire is for me" part. In Hebrew, of course, because all Christians speak Hebrew. Duh. A Jewish friend came over, and while her midriff was showing he called out, "You have HEBREW on your GENTILE ASS."

 
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