It seems that all this talk of dreams has inspired my colleagues to have rock (or in this case, hip hop) dreams of their own. Today I happily turn Sleep to Dream over to guest blogger and Paste Associate Editor, Steve LaBate, who shares his very detailed visions of Outkast, ?uestlove, an 18-wheeler, and the YMCA. Commence dream sequence:
by Steve LaBate
I’ve just arrived at some swank studio in some unknown town to interview Outkast’s André 3000 and Big Boi, and I can’t help but notice the tasteful, deep-brown wood trim. “Hmmm… nice trim,” I think as I walk down the long hallway toward my interview subjects. For some reason, I haven’t prepared for this assignment, and also left my tape recorder a few blocks away in my car. When I meet up with the dynamic duo, we sit at a wooden table, and I sift through my backpack for the tape recorder (even though I know it’s in my car). Finally I settle on a pen and notepad, a method I haven’t used since my college-newspaper days, since it’s often hard to keep up, makes the conversation awkward and lends itself to inaccuracies. But, shit, I’m a pro. I can handle it. Off the cuff, I ask Andre 3000 this really smart, insightful question - something about how he feels about his creativity and refusal to conform often being dismissed as eccentricity. He launches into this witty, telling monologue (about what I can’t remember - but he manages to completely dodge my question while being poignant and funny and plenty insightful himself). I scribble his pearls as furiously as I can, but I’m still missing stuff. “Damn it!” I think. “How could I have forgotten my tape recorder!” After a minute, I give up on taking notes. When André finally finishes - I address him by his full first name, but he says, “Hey, Call me Dré or Andre 3000 - there’s too many Andres around here, and it’s easy to get mixed up.”
I’ve yet to improv my question for Big Boi (who I’ve actually interviewed in waking life before), so I tell him, “Look, I thought I’d be cool without it, but I really need to go grab my tape recorder.”
“Alright,” he says. “But hurry, we’ve got some things to take care of today.”
Shamed at my lack of professionalism, I turn to hurry back out into the hallway toward my car, when I run into ?uestlove and the rest of The Roots. (I’ve only met ?uestlove for a five-second handshake at one of our issue-launch parties in New York, where he was Dj-ing that night, but in my dream we are, apparently, good buddies.) We exchange a spirited, chummy greeting, like good buddies often do, and he tells me he’s going to be performing later, and asks if I could keep an eye on the band’s truck full of gear for him. I gladly oblige, forgetting about my interview (or perhaps chalking it up to complete failure and deciding to bail), and head over to the show, which happens to be at, of course, my gym. Well, it’s my gym, but it’s not my gym - in that peculiar dreamlike way. I mean, I know it’s my gym, but it actually looks like some dilapidated YMCA I’ve never been to. The Roots are set up on the concrete deck by the swimming pool, and as I watch them rock the party in front of bleachers full of unlikely fans, I think, “Wow, this is pretty cool. I’m usually lifting weights right over there...” (yeah, sure you are, Dream Steve - let’s not forget we haven’t actually been to the gym in two months… just ‘cause you pay the fee doesn’t mean you get to claim you actually excercise) ... and, lo and behold, where I’m usually pumping serious iron, ?uestlove is pounding the skins. “Far out!”
Midway through the show, ?uestlove gives me the signal that it’s time for me to pull the band’s truck around, so they can load out later. When I find the thing outside the venue, I see they’ve parked it on this utterly ridiculous incline. At first, I can’t quite fathom how in the hell it’s staying in place, but then then I notice it’s chained to the pavement. “I can’t back this thing out,” I think. “I’ve never driven anything close to this big, and it’s sitting at about a 70-degree angle!” Luckily, Paste publisher and - in this dream, at least - expert truck driver Tim “Bandit” Porter materializes out of nowhere to pull me out of a jam (though his partner “Snowman” and basset hound, Fred, were conspicuously absent). Throwing all caution to the wind, Tim hops behind the wheel of The Roots’ 18-wheeler, unlatches the e-brake and guns it. The tires spin on the sandy blacktop, then they catch and screech, smoldering rubber smoke filling the air. I look over and… “Oh, shit! Wait! Stop! I forgot to unchain the truck!” I scream. But it’s too late, Tim’s foot is heavy on the gas pedal, the engine is howling and the chain is as taught as Big Boi’s flow. Suddenly, the chain snaps, and at the same moment, so do the laws of physics. I watch as Tim and the truck shoot like a rocket up the hill, into the air and over the YMCA (which has since morphed into a picturesque little house on a hilltop). I hear the truck come crashing down on the other side of the house, but somehow when it hits, it bounces back over the house and lands in a twisted, shrieking scrap heap not far from where it was parked. Luckily, miraculously, a nonplussed Tim crawls from the wreckage unscathed, and dusts himself off.
By now, ?uestlove and company have finished their set, and come strolling out to discover this flaming scene of havoc and destruction. My boy is pissed, and he lets me know about it - “You couldn’t keep an eye on it without shit exploding all over the place, could you?!?!” ?uestlove yells. “Not even for an hour?!?!”
Well, in just a few blundering seconds of R.E.M. sleep, I’ve miserably let down the hip-hop world not once but twice. Now, I will go face my failure… and, in monk-like atonement, beat my forehead repeatedly with a used copy of ATLiens while monotone chanting, “Throw your hands in the ayer, and wave ‘em like you just don’t cayer / and if ya like fish & grits & all dat pimp shit, then everybody say o’yayer.”
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O’yayer.