The Last Temptation of James Yancey
by IL. Subliminal 1/14/2012 10:30am

Dionne Warwick - “You’re gonna need me”
plays in the headphones of a patient dying from lupus.
The television in his room plays Martin reruns, but is silent.

The patient has an Akai MPC 3000 on his lap.
He ignores the weight that sinks into his
malnourished legs like barbells into wet sand.

He presses the buttons in order to remold the song into what
plagues his mind, what he hears in between his ears.

He stops it, chops it, repeats it, stops it, chops it, repeats it,
as if entranced by mantra.
as if meditating,
as if attempting to leave his body,
and put himself into the machine,
into the rhythm of the pressing.

He has a stack of records sitting in the corner of his room,
next to 3 pairs of his favorite kicks,
next to a bag with his very expensive street clothing,
clothing made for hustlers, ballers, kings of industry,
and artists who create their soundtrack.

He sits in his hospital bed when a man appears by his side,
who looks alot like him but a bit more sickly,
a bit more pail.
He can only hear him at first,
in between the crackle of the Dionne Warwick recording,
In between the tttsss snap tap of the hyatt/kick he manipulates.

He looks at his reflection in the window to see if he’s crazy,
and thats when he sees this person.
This person tells him,

“Why don’t you take a break?
Why do you keep doing that?

Nigga, you are dying.
Those people don’t care about you.

To them, you are a chatroom message board myth.
They don’t know all you’ve done. They don’t care to know.

They only want you to Slum with them.
They only want you’re Tribe sounding shit.

They don’t even know you produced Tribe.
They don’t even know the blueprint you laid
for these so called “Rapper/Producers”

Why can’t you just fit into the category they want you in?
Fold your beats up and put them into the drawer, James.

You’re bus is on its way. Get on the red one.

Why don’t you take a break?
Why do you keep rearranging the song?

Who the fuck are you suppose to be, Picasso, Matisse, or Pollack or somebody?
You are not suppose to do that with a song.
This is melody, harmony, base, not fuscha, lavender, and olive.

You’re suppose to only sample 14 seconds at the most, James.
What the fuck is wrong with you?

Why don’t you take a break?
Why don’t you write a rhyme?
Why do you keep making beats?
Take a break.

Are you gonna sell these beat cd’s you keep giving away for free, James?
Who’s gonna take care of Ja’Mya and Paige, James?
Not these beat CD’s, you keep givin’ away for free,
to your so called “friends” who haven’t come to see you.
The ones who keep bootlegging them
and posting them on messages boards for free download.

And what the fuck is a donut?
Are you fixing a flat tire?
Are you some fat ass pig sittin’ in the squad car?

And while I’m on the subject,
NWA’s version of Fuck The Police was way more rebellious, dangerous.

Why you always gotta add that soul shit into it?

Why can’t you just make some party shit for the club?

Clear channel would fuck with you if you did.

Jay-z might stop payin’ cheap clones of you,
if you did.

The magazines might give you better PR,
if you did.

But YOU wanna be an artist.

What are you trying to do, find your voice?
You need to find these greenbacks before you can’t anymore.

Take a break.
Quit mixing the song up like cake batter and calling it a new beat.

Just take a break.
Quit trying to recycle the whole song.

Just take a break,
make beats for rappers again.
People want to hear you rhyme.
They never appreciate what you’re doing.
They only want to rap over your shit.

Just take a break.
Get ready to ride the bus thats coming for you.
If anyone tells you to get on the white bus, ignore that shit,
trust me man.

Have I ever lied to you?
Have I ever abandoned you?
Still to this day, you don’t trust. me

Just take a break, James.
Damn.

James, JAMES…James….
Damn it.

Just take a break James. ”

James decides he needs more than a break.

He stops it, chops it, repeats it, stops it, chops it, repeats it,
as if entranced by mantra.
As if meditating,
as if attempting to leave his body,
and put himself into the machine,
into the rhythm of the pressing.