“Latin Souls” - produced, written, and performed by Sa’id from the album The Best of Times (Superchamp Books)
Lyrics
Hey, yo, what’s going on’ on, Son? Word! I just wanna hear myself…
Yo, complex destiny, fuck with me/my slang is like a coke line recipe/Shoot outs with gunpowder that echo/Talkin’ with my Son about life and death, and how his friend was let go/Money management, stab a cigar/Sabotage bars, produce lyrics like commissary scars/Boombox radio plays/‘84 music, can’t refuse it/puffin’ the orange smoke, at 12, I stopped abusing it/Peace to my brother, Steve, “H. Stax,” and East New York, my Uncle Cannell, Jerry’s Den/My story taught/Switch brother was shot in the head for bullshit/barely got home before he got hit/Now, Isaiah 15/Amir 19/Jasmine 23/the same neighborhood bleeds, they yell, “Freeze!” after they squeeze/When you Black, they just clap, no relief/I traded crack for food stamps/food stamps for a Snack Box/Gambled with dice, made money off the block/I was hungry, Ha, I used to wear a beard with fresh Reeboks/black Timbs with denim, I don’t stop/
I can see my mother cryin’ on the speaker/I thought that she was dying/this just after my father beat her/Orange smoke and Centipede, a slice of cold pizza/Latin Souls Baseball/My Strong Arm leader/My friend used to sell gats/.380s brand new/We used to drink Boilermakers; rhyme in the booth/Start a fight, ‘cuz we was hype, lookin’ for somethin’ to prove/That’s what’s it’s like when yo night don’t hold no promise for you
Annotation
“Hey, yo, what’s goin’ on, Son? Word!”
Every rhyme I write is written first and foremost with my son, Amir Ali Said, in mind. With this line, I’m recreating the greeting that I often say to my son at the beginning of a phone call. My son is my best friend, and the past four years have been a challenge for us because we haven’t been in the same city together longer than three months. Either he’s in New York and I’m in Paris, or I’m in New York and he’s in Paris. This had led to some long and often intense and emotional phone calls.
This line is motivated by one of those phone calls that we had in 2016. My son was in Paris studying at film school, and I was in New York. He called me, and I was ecstatic: “Hey, yo, what’s goin’ on, Son?” He responded by saying, “Maintaining, Pop. You good?”
“I just wanna hear myself.”
When my son asked me if I was good, I told him that, with so much going on in New York, I have to make music and write rhymes because “I just wanna hear myself” to let me know I’m still here.
“Yo, complex destiny, fuck with me/my slang is like a coke line recipe”
My life has always been complex, and my destiny has always been something I saw like a movie. I’ve survived much more than the average person, and in the first part of this bar, I’m speaking to that. I’m saying that, with such a complex destiny that I and others like me have, you have to “fuck with me” — respect me — because I’m real; my slang isn’t just some hip cool shit, the metaphor being is that it’s the product of coke lines made and sold. My father sold cocaine, and from the age of 5 I saw family members openly using cocaine. As a younger adult, there was never a time that the drug-selling and drug-using scene, notably crack/cocaine, was far away.
“Shootouts with gunpowder that echo/talkin’ with my son about life and death, and how is friend was let go/Money management, stab a cigar/Sabotage bars, produce lyrics like commissary scars/
The night before I had spoken with my son, there had been a shoot not too far away from my home in Bed Stuy, Brooklyn. After I recounted the story to my son, he told me that he just received word that one of his friends in New York was killed (“…how his friend was just let go”) just days prior. After taken à moment to appreciate the delicate nature of “life and death,“ and being grateful to Allah that we’re still here, our conversation shifted to ”money management.”
Before you roll a blunt, you have to cut the cigar open and remove all of the tobacco. Then you place the weed (marijuana) inside and roll it back up. The slang “blunt” comes from the most popular brand of cigar — Blunt Cigars — used for rolling joints in New York and throughout the rest of America. “Stab à cigar” is a reference to rolling a blunt; and how in earlier times, my friends and I smoked blunts to cope with the traumas of life in New York. Next, I turn to these sort of rhymes — “the bars” — themselves, acknowledging the irony that, though these bars are art, they are often the reflection of the system’s “sabotaging” of Black people and the physical and mental scars that they leave, especially in regards to people in jail (“commissary scars”) and their families and loved ones who suffer in their absence.
Boombox radio plays/‘84 music, can’t refuse it/Puffin’ the orange smoke/At 12, I stopped abusin’ it
1984 was the year I first heard Run-DMC’s “Sucker MCs,” and I knew I wanted to rap. ‘84 was also the year I got my first Boombox. I grew up fast; one example is that at age 10, I was already “puffin’” (smoking) weed — “the orange smoke” is the fire and smoke from a joint when it’s lit. At 12, I stopped smoking weed, but not for good…that day would come years later.
Peace, to my brother Steve, H. Stax, and East New York/My Uncle Canell, Jerry’s Den, my story’s taught
Here, I’m shouting out one my closest friends, Steve, AKA the rapper known as H. Stax. Steve (“Stax”) is like a brother to me. We were introduced by his Uncle Canell when I 21. Canell used to cut my hair at a well-known barbershop in Harlem called Jerry’s Den, on 144th Street & Amsterdam Ave. Steve and Canell welcomed me in when I didn’t have family around me. Soon, Canell began to call me nephew, and he became my uncle. Steve and Canell are two of the most important people in my life. So much of my second part of my life’s story begins at the point I meet them. My can be “taught” from there.
Switch brother was shot in the head for bullshit/Barely back home before he got hit/Now Isaiah 15, Amir 19, Jasmine 23/The same neighborhood bleeds, they yell, “Freeze!” after they squeeze/When you Black, they just clap, no relief
My ex-girlfriend was Natacha. I used to call her “Switch,” though because I like the way her assed “switched” when she walked. It was an inside joke between us, but the nickname stuck! Her brother was shot in the head and killed outside a bar & lounge on Smith Street, near Gowanus Projects where he and Switch grew up. It was over “some bullshit” nothing really. While he was arguing with one dude, the dude’s friend came up from behind and shot him in the head at point blank range. Switch’s brother had “barely” been “back home” from prison about a year and half (after serving six years for something he should never had been convicted of) before he was murdered.
Several years after his murder, I was talking to Switch (we were no longer together at that point) and she was telling me about her nephew “Isaiah” and her daughter “Jasmine;” I was catching her up with how my son, “Amir” was doing. At that time, Isaiah was 15 years old, Amir was 19, and Jasmine was 23. We were talking in East New York, Brooklyn (my old hood). The night before the police had shot someone. The man was unarmed. “The same neighborhood bleeds, they yell, ‘Freeze’ after you shot.” The plain clothes cop said he identified himself as a police officer before he shot the man. But it’s the same old story. They “squeeze” off their guns, then they lie to cover it up. “When you Black, they just clap (shoot), no relief.” Same as today. Shit hasn’t changed…
I traded crack for food stamps/food stamps for a Snack Box/I gambled with dice, made money off the block/I was hungry, Ha’/I used to wear a beard with fresh Reeboks/black Timbs and denim, I don’t stop
I literally traded crack with crackheads in Harlem for food stamps. Then I used the food stamps to buy food. At this time in my life, ca. 1992, I was a teenager, “I was hungry” with very little to no money. Doing whatever, “gambling dice,” buying 3-piece chicken “snack boxes” with food stamps and loose change. By 1994, I was wearing a mid-sized beard and rocking brand new white Reebok sneakers (“$54, no tax!”). It was also the beginning of my grimy Brooklyn period where I wore black Timberland boots and denim jeans all the time!
I can see my mother crying on the speaker/I thought that she was dying; this was just after my father beat her/Orange smoke and Centipede, a slice of cold pizza/Latin Souls Baseball, my Strong Arm leader
One of the worst images that sticks with me is the image of my father beating my mother. He nearly killed her once, but she survived (I intervened that day). But that was never as horrifying as the day I saw my mother bent over a loud speaker, crying in sever pain. “I thought that she was dying.” And this was after my father beat her, all the shit she’d been through. That night we rushed to the hospital. When she was discharged the next day, she wouldn’t tell me what it was. But I knew…
Growing up, after my father went to prison, I used to hang out at arcades and pizza joints smoking “orange smoke,” playing the video game “Centipede,” and eating “cold pizza.” I promised myself that it would never be like this for my son. When my son was that age, 10-13, I was one of his little league baseball coaches. The league, known throughout Brooklyn, was called “Latin Souls.” I bonded with all the players, and I gave them each a special nickname. My son’s name was “Strong Arm.” He was a leader on the team, the best player after two years of being the worst player. He remains my leader to this day.
My friend used to sell gats, .380s brand new/We used to drink Boilermakers, rhyme in a booth/Lookin’ for fights, because that’s what it’s like when your night holds no promise for you
Guns are everywhere in New York. Now, things are much different of course. But back then, when I was a teenager and in my 20s, It was always easy to get a gun. I had a friend who sold guns “gats,” “.380” caliber Sig Sauer’s “brand new.” During this period, I drank a lot. One of the drinks my crew and I always had was a “Boilermaker.” A Boilermaker is a beer, usually Heineken, with a shot of Hennessy. Around this time, I started to take rhyming more serious. Still, there was always the bullshit. We were young and we knew the “night holds no promise for you” — nothing was certain back. I mean, much less than now. So sometimes, we went “looking for fights” and other trouble.
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