
I wrote this article a few years ago for Boston’s Weekly Dig after going on a wild listening party / bus ride for Jesus Price Superstar with Sean P and the Duck Down crew. It’s one of my favorite articles ever, but unfortunately it’s no longer available on line. Until now – this one’s for the archives…
In the eighth grade, I got a back seat blowjob on my class trip to Philadelphia. Years later, on a Greyhound ride to New York, I convinced a cool orthodox Jew sitting next to me to sniff Special K.
Until the listening party for Sean Price’s new album, those were the two best times I’ve ever had on a bus.
Before most rappers drop new releases, their publicists host preview parties. The events are usually held at clubs, lofts or studios, where critics are given multiple drinks, and sometimes smoke and grub, while they listen to the album. If we’re lucky, the artist will surface, and maybe even reluctantly offer some generic quotes (i.e. – “Hip-hop needs this album right now, knawmsayin’”) before disappearing behind velvet ropes to spit champagne with his entourage.
Duck Down Records President Dru Ha wanted something different for Price, whose standout 2004 disc, Monkey Barz, catapulted Brooklyn’s Boot Camp Clik back to the forefront of indie hip-hop. Unveiling Jesus Price Supastar on a party bus, he figured, would be appropriate. I agreed, so as soon as I got departure details, I arranged my trip to New York.
Not to be all “I was way into Ricky Martin before Menudo,” but I’ve for years believed Price to be one of hip-hop’s great antagonists. As one-half of Heltah Skeltah, his weeded scumbaggery expertly juxtaposed his partner Rock’s schoolyard rasp; as a reemerging solo artist, he’s reestablished himself as one of rap’s few remaining jokesters. And like a 40oz. Olde English, he’s gotten nastier with age.
The day begins like most hip-hop assignments: I’m on time, and Price is late; even though I came from Boston, and he’s coming from Brooklyn. This is how it should be; if Price shows early, or if he comes wearing anything besides a pitted out white t-shirt and yesterday’s jeans, then lines like, “I put my dick in her ass and my hand in her purse” wouldn’t be as effective.
After a short wait, Price enters the bus, and about 20 geeky rap reporters (including me) reach out and throw pounds. He seems genuinely excited to share his new tracks, which is a good thing since this is as Gilligan as listening parties get. A Duck Down associate slides Supastar in the stereo, and the driver rolls down Broadway.
Seconds after takeoff, Dru shuts the dome lights, hits the strobes and fires up the smoke machine. Price stands up and strikes a Saturday Night Fever pose, and before I get the chance, another writer beats me to the obvious joke: “It’s Sean Travolta!” Actually, I say it first, but since he’s in the back of the bus near Price, and I’m up front like a big fucking loser, I get Costanza’d.
It takes seven minutes and 24 second for the first blunt to get lit. I’m not the only one hoping for a clambake; the dude across from me asks if there’s a one blunt limit, and Price replies, “I’m sayin’ – roll that shit up.” By track three, communal spliffs are being passed, and we’re pulling over to get beer.
“I don’t need weed and alcohol to write, I just like to have weed and alcohol when I write,” Price tells one reporter. Naturally, the same goes for listening to his music.
Supastar is undeniable from the jump, though it takes track three, “P-Body,” to prove that Monkey Barz was no fluke. Over 9th Wonder orchestration, Price spits, “You’re supposed to tell the truth in the booth and lie to the cops, but instead you tell the truth to the cops and lie in the booth.” I’m hoping that we don’t get pulled over and forced to side with one of those categories.
This really is a listening party. After two hours of cruising with the speakers on red, I’m rhyming along to the strung out “King Kong.” Price is mouthing lyrics too, and between the trees and his notorious halitosis, a third sensory dimension has been added to the experience. Actually, speaking metaphysically, the coach dynamic strikes even deeper than sights, sounds and smells.
“This is to show you all how we eat,” Price tells me. “We eat off that road game man. I’m still the brokest rapper you know. If someone else wants to be the brokest rapper you know – if they want that title – then I’m not even gonna get mad though. Trust me – I done did that. But I had a successful year.”
Another writer leans in, passes Price a spliff, and asks how Boot Camp plans to further ride the buzz from its recent re-up. Specifically, he says, “Are you guys going to do anything different this time around now that you have a lot of new fans out there?”
Without missing a toke, Price looks at him, then looks at me, then exhales: “Just take a look around. We got a bus.”