Rion Scott - Insurrections

The Barber changed the channel again and the suspect, or rather a rough sketch of what he might look like, peered from the television. He appeared barely human; instead he was vaguely ectoplasmic, or gelatinous, what with the use of light charcoal grays to provide texture and the simple ovals for eyes, curved lines to represent a nose, another wider oval for a mouth, knurled protuberances for ears, and a mess of lines for hair. Apparently this cop was killed by a collection of shapes. And then there was the photograph of the officer, a yellow-skinned man with smooth slicked-back hair and a long jaw. The Barber stopped his cutting and stepped back from the chair, his lips parted. He appeared shaken, and his hand trembled as he returned to cutting the balding man’s head.

You all right? the patron to my right, the next customer in line, asked.

Yeah, I’m okay, The Barber said, but after a moment he wiped tears from his cheeks. Man, he said, I knew that dude. The cop, Carlton, he was just up in here right before he got killed. The day before. I used to cut his hair, and then he decided to get that perm. I was always telling that man to let me cut the perm from his head.

Damn, I said, attempting to join the conversation, hoping some camaraderie would garner me a better haircut. That’s some fucked-up shit.

News of this case had played on day after day, though I hadn’t paid much attention. The newscasters presented little new — in fact there was nothing new despite its prominence on the broadcasts. Somehow, and I’m not certain how, according to the newscast, an obscure local rapper who had released an album menacing the police was at fault. The rapper had named himself L’Ouverture and he called his album Problem With Authority . He appeared on the television screen attempting to defend himself, standing in front of a bank of microphones with four angry-looking men behind him.

This is art, he said, not self-help. I never told nobody to kill nobody.

See, that’s why my kids don’t listen to that trash, said the balding man sitting in The Barber’s chair. He ran his hand over the patchy flourishes hanging about his ears and his temple and said, I’ll knock the shit out of one of them if I hear that shit coming from they rooms.

The Barber nodded and grunted in approval. So did the man next to me. The balding man stood from his seat, spun, and looked into the mirror. He inspected the raggedy lines that had been cut into the sprigs of hair on the curve of his head. Then he stared angrily at The Barber, but seeing his sad face, the man reached into his pocket and handed him a twenty. Refusing change, the balding man walked out.

The Barber smacked away excess hair from the seat with the black cape he covered his customers with and looked at his remaining two patrons as if to say, Who’s next? The other man and I eyed each other without moving. I looked down at the magazine and slowly he rose and walked to the chair.

Damn, man, I’m sorry to hear about your friend, the man said. They got like ten cops for each block on the Southside now. More cops than ever. They multiplying like rabbits out here.

What you expect? The Barber said. They trying to find the dude that killed Carlton.

I ain’t complaining, jack, the man in the chair said in a shaky voice. Just trying to keep my head down. They need to ban that music, though. I ain’t never in my life gonna listen to L’Ouverture again. Not like I listened to the nigga before, but I definitely ain’t listening to him now. Don’t take off too much from the top.

As if he hadn’t heard him, The Barber cut deep into the man’s hair. The talking heads on television screamed at one another, their voices shrill and grating.

It’s no doubt that Officer Jones would still be alive if we didn’t have miscreants making this sort of music , one commentator said. Another agreed, and then the opposition, a man who called himself Chairman R, said something predictable: I doubt it was a rapper who armed the killer.

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 .