How I Gained New Life Perspectives Listening to Old Music

Editor’s note: I wrote this before 50 Cent decided to be a complete fucking fool on the internet regarding America’s current president. Do not take my citing of his music as support for his endeavors. I spent a week writing this post and I wasn’t about to let Curtis Jackson fuck up the first thing I’ve finished in months.

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Drastic changes leading to new experiences must be the theme for 2020. Somehow, in the midst of a pandemic, while frequently calling for an Ultron-esque meteor to destroy the world, I secured a new job.

Whereas my previous employer required my presence in a workplace featuring emails regarding COVID-19 exposures or infections on a seemingly regular basis, this new job allows me to work from home.

Workplace chatter is primarily handled via Slack messenger, saving me the hassle of consistent verbal communication. In its stead, I’ve reacquainted myself with the joys of listening to music at work. And, when I’m not playing Taylor Swift’s folklore on repeat, which mandates listening to “Mirrorball” roughly 6,000 times per day, I’m revisiting classic rap albums.

Refamiliarizing myself with the classics has given way to new perspectives. Songs I enjoyed for years sound fresh. It’s hard to discern whether age and experiences put these records in a new light or if I’m now a more attuned listener.

In either case, the musical revelations in 2020 from music released in the early 2000s have been both jarring and enlightening. For example, I sang along to “Ma, I Don’t Love Her” from Clipse’s Lord Willin’ for over a decade, but, inexplicably, didn’t comprehend its full premise until a recent jam session.

“Ma, I Don’t Love Her,” is a song about cheating. More specifically, the idea “I didn’t cheat on you. But, if I did cheat on you, I promise it wasn’t intimate. I didn’t cheat though. But yo, even if I cheated on you, so what? Do you see me buying her whips and shit? You see me sending her on trips and shit? Why are you asking how she knows me? I just told you, I don’t know.”

Mind. Blown.

An obvious sticking point is the gaslighting of a romantic partner. And that’s nothing to say of using material possessions to divert from said infidelity. It’s an action some may consider a form of abuse. Also, the video features two women having a real-life fist fight, ending when one woman slams the other’s head into the grill of a car.

I could say it changed my relationship with the song and one should now consider the message sent, however, none of that makes the song less enjoyable, cognitive dissonance be damned.

A similar revelation occurred while listening to 50 Cent’s “U Not Like Me” from Get Rich or Die Trying. On first listen, 50 sounds like a man in full control and about to change the music industry.

These niggas wanna shine like me (Me)

Rhyme like me (Me)

They don’t walk around with a 9 like me (Me)

They don’t want to do it 3 to 9 like me

And ain’t strong enough to take 9 like me

In 2003, and all the years prior to this month, my interpretation was simple: 50 was talking his shit. The braggadocious bars serve as a reminder no one is capable of blocking his success. Furthermore, all who oppose him secretly wish his life was their own.

It took me back to 2014 when I “officially” transitioned to journalism. During the switch, I felt success had to be immediate. With the law, misery and financial comfort seemed destined. On the other hand, a writing career looked closer to the freedom and flexibility I craved.

So, my vision tunneled and I began the marathon toward a new, presumably happier, reality. Unfortunately, the pressure of great expectations caused an intense focus on others biting from the fruit of a tree I wanted to plant in my backyard.

Jealousy and envy worked in a devilish tandem on my psyche. My writing did attract attention and even brought a following, but it never felt like enough. Not having well-defined goals, and using external milestones for validation, creating a distorted sense of progress…or lack thereof.

Five people admitting how my work changed their perspectives or made them fans should’ve’ signified I was on the right path. Ideally, it’s the exact sort of encouragement I needed to build the right foundation. Instead, watching others created anxiety.

I couldn’t understand why “everyone else” was “succeeding” and I was not.

What I didn’t know was how hard people worked prior to living their dream nor how difficult it was to maintain that momentum.

Today, I’ve been afforded relationships with a slew of different writers. Most of them are well-known. A few might even be famous. They’ve won awards, were granted professorships, turned their work into TV/book deals, flipped writing into podcasting, and are employed at some of the most well-regarded magazines in the world.

Each of them, at one point or another, lamented about the planning, preparation, and, occasionally, blind luck, which shaped their careers. Watching them taught me the glitz I was seeking hid unglamorous burdens.

Folks are juggling their dreams, their families, their finances, and their sanity, in pursuit of something that is more likely to force them into binge drinking for self-medication than it is to make them rich. A peek behind the curtain introduced me to just how many of my literary friends, with all the benefits of their talent, were fighting private wars but smiling in public spaces.

It doesn’t take away from their accomplishments. It did, however, properly contextualize my hubris. I wanted to rhyme like them. And shine like them. But carry a nine and do three-to-nine like them?

At the time, I hadn’t even considered it.

“U Not Like Me” became an evergreen reminder to stop coveting the life of others if you’re unwilling to pay similar costs.