A coupla weeks ago, during a break in the action around here, I browsed through my modest lil’ flick roster and popped in Carlito’s Way.
Despite the sappy love story (hard core Boricua cat from El Barrio gets wide open on some white stripper chick? Gimme a breeeeeeak…), most connoisseurs of top-choice cinema will agree that the flick belongs in any self-respecting movie head’s library, and that Pacino, though not a Puerto Rock, did his thing kinda nicely (even with the chopped up Spanish).
Like any flick with exponential repeat value, Carlito’s Way offers something new at every viewing:
First time I caught it was in a TV room while wearing Dickies with numbers on ‘em. The message I and most of my fellow audience members got from it back then was that falling in love with a stripper will fuck ya mind up but good, leaving you susceptible to all types of mishaps.
Caught it again some time later within a cipher of disgruntled street vets down on their economic luck, and the message became “Man, shit ain’t the same no mo’. These youngbucks done fucked the game all up…”
Another peep and I found myself reminiscing about the time my pops owned a social club/pool hall underneath our building on Hoe Avenue (which got me to thinking that maybe the ol’ man had a little bit more hustle goin’ on than his carpentry gig).
And now this latest screening left me thinking about the scene where Carlito and his lawyer Kleinfeld (played by Sean Penn, who shoulda got the Oscar for that shit!) have just returned from their fateful boat ride on the East River…
Kleinfeld, the attorney with the Ivy League plaques on his wall, has decided to go mano-a-mano with some family-type guys with last names that end in vowels. Only problem, with that particular breed of human, it’s more like, cañon-a-coete.
So Carlito, the war-weary O.G., advises: “You ain’t a lawyer no more, Dave; you a ‘gangsta’ now. You on the other side. Whole new ball game. You can’t learn about it in school. And you can’t get a late start.”
Kinda the same with hip-hop, no? Bottom line is, you gotta live this shit to be this shit. Coppin’ and listening to every CD in the history of Rap is a good start, but that alone won’t do it. Runnin’ to Macy’s for the latest in “urban wear” will help you dress the part, but that alone won’t do it. That’s too easy. And—at the risk of sounding like one of those disgruntled vets mentioned above—paying dues still counts.
Not to say that late-comers aren’t welcome; just give respect where it’s been earned. For too many, hip-hop is an Akademiks shirt or a Nelly album or a fresh pair of Tims. A product. A costume they can rock at will.
Thus, it’s maaad easy to disguise themselves as someone they’re not. “Industry” folk do it all the time. From dick-riding A&Rs, who seem more concerned with catching residue pussy from their signees, to cock-blockin’ publicists, who’re just happy to be SpongeBobbin' at all the parties.
Rappers? They do it all the time. Label execs do it even more. Same with magazine people (with exceptions; they know who they are). As for MTVBETVH1, shit, TV and Hollywood made it a science before any of our parents were a tickle in our grandparents’ nether-parts.
But like the weeds that push through cracks in the sidewalk, the truth always finds a way. Certain heads will stand out. And though most people think they do, the ones who really do don’t even realize it. And if they do, you’d never hear it from them.
--Save your questions, and jot this down instead: If you have to ask, well, 1+1 is always 2, young Stan--
So, yeah, Carlito had his Kleinfeld, and we’ve got a couple million cardboard cut-outs running amok, shootin’ their mouths off a lot more than they’ve ever shot anything else. Fortunately, we learned from Carlito’s Way. And next time Kleinfeld wants to write checks he ain’t built to cash, we’re lettin’ Benny Blanco be the collections man.
In a minute…
**originally published (minus a nip here, a tuck there) a long-ass time ago, while on the plantation, far, far away… and trust me when I say to those of you who’ve followed the saga all these years, the crystal-ball ironies of this mini-diatribe are not lost on me.**
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4 comments:
Carlito, i've been trying to get in touch with you for a minute. My name is Kye Stephenson. U prolly don't remember me. When u were music editor at The Source (right before you became EIC) i emailed you and queried you about writing. You asked for me to write two reviews (one that i liked and one i didn't) and i chose GZA and Ja Rule. You critiqued my work and responed with encouragement and wisdom that has stayed with me ever since. Now, six or seven years later, i actually write for The Source (and other pubs). Though you escaped the "plantation" years ago, i just wanted to thank you for the time you took to school this grasshopper and keep it all-the-way real with me. Thank you. And if you ever wanna build or are looking for a writer, just holla at me. --Kye Stephenson (kstep79@gmail.com)
oh yeah, and some people do read back issue editorials..."the rap page biz is murder, dog. and the competition has come and caught beatdowns like they stole shit. some have switched their whole vibe after realizing they couldn't blaze trails like we do. other linger around as further proof that they're a couple sizes too small to fuck with us. and that's no ego-trip, ya'll. we know hip-hop. and you know us. as long as you got connects like that, you gon' keep coppin' the raw. after all, funk-o-mart is long gone."
CLASSIC. --Kye Stephenson
From the moment I met you (1990) it became obvious to me what a wonderful person you are. You are known as Carlito to the rest of the world, but for me Saad has a special place in my heart.
I look forward to reading more of work.
May Allah Keep blessing you and your family now and always!
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