Gutter - Part 1: The Rise Page 2

  “Your first single, the indie-hit, ‘Pringle.’”

  “Yeah, ‘Pringle.’ Beatz, another friend of mine, an aspiring DJ at the time, made the track for me. I rapped and sang over it, and then talent scouts started hittin’ me up. Some were even callin’ my father when they couldn’t get a hold of me. My dad started taking it seriously then and supported me 100%. I didn’t want to do anything else but music. I didn’t have a plan B. Just plan A, then other plans to achieve A. Everything revolved around the music, man. I took care of business, but I always poured into myself because I knew early on what I wanted to do, and I also knew I could be successful at it if I just kept my eye on the prize.”

  “You mentioned rapping on Pringle. That was a groundbreaking song, Gutter. To this day, it is highly revered. When I first heard it, I was absolutely blown away. I couldn’t believe a seventeen-year-old kid, your age at the time, had written that, and the way you rapped… just wow. You had such amazing command of the lyrics.”

  “Yeah, thank you.”

  “Pringle was about a guy addicted to the fast life. Was that song about you?”

  Gutter leaned back in his seat, stared up at the popcorn ceiling, and mulled over the question. He hadn’t discussed ‘Pringle’ in a while.

  “To some degree. A bit of me, the artist, is in every song I do. Pringle though is really about a mash-up of people I grew up with. We were a collective ball. It’s a mentality. Not an entity.”

  The reporter nodded in understanding.

  “Gutter, you are intriguing to so many. Some say you don’t look the way you sound. According to my information,” the guy looked down at his phone as if scrolling through some notes, then back up at him, “your real name is Zake.”

  “Yeah, you said it right, too.” He smiled. “A lot of people pronounce it wrong, so I always say Jake, but with a Z.”

  “Yes… interesting name. How’d you get it? What’s the story behind that?”

  He shrugged. “Just somethin’ my mother liked I guess.”

  The journalist’s eyes tapered as they locked gazes. After clearing his throat, filling the uncomfortable silence, the man continued.

  “So, uh, I also read that you were an amazing high school football player, standing six foot three by age eighteen. You’re like, what? Six-four now?”

  “Six-five. The high school basketball coach tried to get me to play. I liked B-ball but enjoyed football more, so that’s the direction I went in.”

  “I’ve heard that from a few tall guys. I’m also tall but you make me feel like a dwarf.” He laughed in a high-pitched tone, taking Zake for a loop. “I found some of your old high school information here. Now I look at you and see a big, muscular guy with a commanding voice… You don’t look like what you do for a living and many think you don’t fit the bill. Does that upset you when people say that?”

  “Not at all. You say people say I don’t look how I sound, but what do you think?” Gutter rarely asked questions back, but he was feeling rather playful with the man.

  “I agree with the consensus. For instance, you sing soulfully. You rap like you were made for it. You even know how to play the piano and bass guitar. If I were to stereotype you, which is a mistake when it comes to artists of all kinds, I would think you’re blue collar, were it not for the tattoos and piercings. Perhaps a truck driver or forklift operator. I also imagine that may work to your advantage in some ways.”

  “I’m sure there are pros and cons to it.”

  “Don’t be modest. Humor me. Rumor has it, you know how to play many instruments apart from the ones I mentioned. What are they?”

  “Keyboard, drums, piano, cello, acoustic, electric and bass guitar, and harmonica. I never mastered wind instruments. That could change though if I ever have the desire to do it.”

  “That’s amazing. And I’ve heard you play the guitar and drums, too, while I was in San Diego. Really brilliant. Now, some say it’s difficult to categorize your music because it’s almost in a niche by itself.” He pushed up one of his sleeves and leaned forward. “You blend urban, rock, hip-hop, a wee bit of jazz, blues, and funk and have created this explosion of sound that is so unique. In its own lane. Many times that sort of venture falls flat in this industry that seems to want everyone to be the same – putting out what sells, versus the promotion of new, raw talent.” Gutter nodded in understanding. “What do you believe makes you different and so appealing to the point where you broke such a large barrier?”

  “The people have spoken.” He shrugged, then leaned forward and lit a joint. “People choose you. If people stop buying, say, classical music, all around the world, you’ll see a shift in promotion. Sometimes the people, the audiences, my fans want the same shit; sometimes they don’t. People, I think, tend to follow trends, and as long as there is some element of surprise, as well as predictability with a style an artist is bringing, the fans will grow and remain loyal. I like to call it consistently inconsistent. I’ve been in this game for a minute, and I try new shit, like partnering on different tracks with artists people don’t even know I’m cool with, but my style is pretty much the same. I’m not stagnant, but I’m not doin’ too much, either, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I understand. So, you believe that people, versus the record companies, are the driving force?”

  “It’s not really that black and white, but for the simple answer: Yes. The facts are, I made it because people listening to underground hip-hop and rap liked what they heard when they listened to ‘Pringle.’ I’m not a hip-hop artist but I am accepted into that community because they could relate to that song, and something about me and how I sound resonated with them. People who listen to, say, Kendrick Lamar, J Cole, Drake and Travis Scott listen to my shit, too. People who listen to Taylor Swift, Bruno Mars, Harry Styles and Adam Levine will cop my music, too. I’m not stuck anywhere. I cross over because I’m not forcing it, and because I feel close to the people who dig my shit. The same shit that trips ’em out.”

  “You have mass appeal.”

  “Right. I’ve got big White guys like me, cornfed lookin’ dudes who’ve never been to the city a day in their lives, out in… shit,” he waved his fingers about, “in the middle of Bumblefuck, USA, or Iowa and Utah listening to my music and writing incredible things on my fan page. These same guys are liking my pics on social media, buying tickets to my concerts if I hit an area close enough for them to drive to, and wearing T-shirts with my face plastered across it. Yeah, they may have a confederate flag in their front yard too, but they’re bumpin’ my music. Me, a guy from New York who people sometimes think is Black because of my voice. I’ve got old church going women doing the same thing. I know how to sing from my gut, so that tends to attract rhythm and blues and gospel music lovers. And I can play my own instruments, too, like we already talked about. I’ve got Asian kids in Japan goin’ crazy when I go to Tokyo to perform. Some of ’em don’t know much English, but somehow, they’ve managed to memorize the lyrics to my songs, and enunciate them well. That’s powerful.”

  “It is… It really is. Many record companies were clamoring to get you. Why do you believe they were willing to take a chance on someone so unique?”

  “I believe that I got pushed forward because I was tried and true, proven, ya know? Before any labels took interest in me. I’d already passed the tests.” He took a drag of the joint. “I could make money, garner attention and sell out venues. No sweat.”

  “Seriously, Gutter, you could be singing the fucking alphabet and most of these guys wouldn’t notice, because you’re just that good.”

  “But I have to be relatable, man, regardless of talent. If people like you, they’ll buy your shit. If they think you’re a piece of shit, but find you attractive or interesting in some way, they’ll still buy your shit. If they hate your personality because you’re an asshole and don’t treat your fans right, you’re history. Toast. This is the age of cancel culture, man. Likability becomes part of the brand. You’re not jus
t selling your talent, you’re selling your style, an image. That’s why you can have mediocre artists out here makin’ millions of dollars if they’ve got a big enough machine behind them. Something about these entertainers, talent or not, is eye-catching and attention grabbing, and they treat their fans right. That’s the bottom line, and it’s all the producers and music moguls care about.”

  “Speaking of which, I’ve heard you bumped heads with some of these music producers, too? You have a reputation with some of the labels.”

  “And what reputation is that?”

  “You’ve been marked as ‘difficult.’”

  “Yeah?” He feigned ignorance. “If standing up for myself is difficult, then I’ll take it. I’m not taking any shit from nobody. Users and losers hate that. They hope I’m some big cuddly dumb ass teddy bear they can shape and mold. They find out fast I’m the bear from the movie ‘Ted,’ instead.” He chortled. “Thing with me, I always wanted to remain in control. I watched other artists who paved the way for me get their shit stolen, or had no say-so over their careers, royalties, and money. They were just used for their abilities and barely saw a dime of the proceeds. That’s a type of slavery. Lock a motherfucker in a contract before he has the wherewithal to have an attorney check that shit, acting like they are out for their best interest, a friend—nothin’ but a snake, really.

  “That’s pimpin’. One person doing all the work while the other one pockets the cash, but he didn’t fuck anyone. I don’t ho for nobody, man, and when I agree to host or show up for venues, my contracts are on point before I sign a damn thing. I learned my lessons quickly. Made a few mistakes along the way, trusted the wrong person a time or two, and wised up.”

  “So, do you believe most of your lessons were due to unscrupulous people?”

  “Sometimes it’s not a person but just the industry. Things have changed in today’s world. An artist can’t get rich only by selling records anymore. That ended way back in the 1990’s. Now, it’s a big pie and each piece is different. Like, for instance, people don’t go to a record store anymore to get new music. They have downloads, right? Now, if the downloads were protected, that would be one thing, but they’re not. People will download illegal copies of your music like it’s nothing, and you don’t see a dime when that happens. That’s how technology works.” He shook his head, disgusted.

  “Everybody wants somethin’ for free, John, and the hell with how long it took me or any other musical artist to record that song, that album. A lot of people don’t care how much time and energy I put into this shit. They’ll steal it anyway, download it with some software or whatever because they feel entitled, and don’t care about how they’re affecting artists they claim to love. If I had the capability to take ten, twenty, a hundred dollars out of their paycheck for no reason each time they get paid, these people that do shit like this would be mad. But funny, they don’t think of it that way. They don’t see they’re doing the same thing to artists like me.” He paused for a moment, for even talking about it upset him. “And I even pour more of myself into this because I am one of the few musicians who writes the majority of my own songs. As you probably know, I also write for other artists, too.”

  “I do. You wrote two hits for Jazz Monroe, ‘The Love You Left’ and ‘You’re Ghosted,’.”

  “Yeah. So, artists like me, because of all the work we do and the piracy we’re up against, had to change course. I can’t waste time sittin’ around being bitter. I just got to be better. Thieves are going to steal. That’s what they do. Artists have to eat. Period, man. I’m not going to waste time tryna tell a thief to stop stealing; instead, I’m going to figure out where to get fed! We have to host events, tour like crazy, do interviews like this to stay relevant, even when we’re dog ass tired. We gotta burn the candle at both ends and if I’m going to be jumping through all of these hoops, exhausted, working my ass off, then I want control of the shit I create so anyone who says I’m difficult, fuck them. I earned the right to be difficult.”

  “So you see it as a badge of honor?”

  “I don’t see it as anything but business acumen. All I know is that a lot of the record labels that are notorious for fucking over their artists don’t like me one bit and I don’t give a rat’s ass about who likes me and who doesn’t. Especially when it comes to the rich cats at the top that don’t do shit but promise to make you star, then steal all of your money. When I turned down deals, these guys knew going in that I wanted my masters, so they tried to entice me with cars, promises for this and that. I didn’t care if they promised me the moon and the stars, then delivered on it. I wanted the rights to my music. That’s the sun—the biggest star of all. I refused to hand over my soul for a cent.”

  “Wow… Much respect to you. Switching gears, share with me where the name Gutter came about?”

  “DJ Yankee… rest in peace.” Melancholy washed over Gutter as he remembered his old friend. “I was called somethin’ else at the time: RHB. Red Hook Bastard. He was working on the ‘Last Days’ single for me, layin’ down the track.”

  “That was released right after Pringle.”

  “Right.” He smoked the joint for a bit, tapping the ashes into an ashtray on the table near him. “And Yankee said to me, ‘Yo, Zake, you gotta change your fuckin’ name, man. It’s whack.’ We went back and forth about that, ya know? He said it didn’t fit me. The ‘bastard’ part worked for Ol’ Dirty Bastard, rest in peace to him, too, but wasn’t good for me. I didn’t get it from that artist, but you know, it rings a bell. He told me I needed to be something else because I’m deeper than a name like that would suggest.”

  “And so, you changed it right there on the spot?”

  “I was in that booth, the music had stopped, and some of my guys in the studio were heckling me, so I said, ‘You all can say whatever you want, but I started from the bottom, motherfuckers … sacrificing for this music. For this dream. My name can change, but I’ll be the same.’ Then, when I said that, Yankee said to me, ‘Yeah, you started from the bottom, but you crawled to the top. You always keep it 100. You’re dedicated. You’re the real deal. Your lyrics and style are raw. You’re gutter.’ I hung out a lot in the streets, too, and it helped me get to know a lot of different people. Red Hook is diverse. We got Muslims, Hindus, Whites, Hispanics, Blacks, Jews, everybody. All of that combined, and the way my father was, my experiences in life, helped mold me. And so, that’s how I got the name.”

  “Great story! Hypothetically speaking, if your music career hadn’t panned out, what do you think you’d be doing?”

  Gutter grinned at the guy and clicked his tongue against his inner jaw. He’d been asked this a few times and his answer was always the same.

  “I’m not an idiot, so that means I can do quite a few things to make a living. I’m allergic to long stints of being penniless, so I would be motivated to do what I need to do to make money, man. Broke-itis is contagious. I wouldn’t be out here wasting my life, that’s for sure.” A memory surfaced involving his father at their kitchen table many years ago, while the winter cold permeated every room like icy fingers digging into the depths of their soul. The man sat with his shoulders slumped, a mountain of unpaid bills before him. The heat had been cut off for two days… “I never even imagined not making it though. I refused to entertain failure.” He held his chin high.

  “I woke up every morning and convinced myself that this was mine. I got this.” He pointed defiantly at the floor. “I could’ve been hanging in the streets with my friends forever, but instead, I was trying to secure gigs around the city. I didn’t have a manager. No agent. No mentor. It was only me. I met Wu Tang, Beck, Pearl Jam, The Beastie Boys, and some other amazing performers when I was just getting started, and the ones I had an honor to speak with blew my mind. Most of them were encouraging. Had nothing but positivity to offer. Then, as I kept grinding, more doors opened. The harder I worked, the more faith I had in myself, the more I stayed focused, the faster I reached my goal. I woke up
at four AM religiously and went to bed late. It wasn’t good for me physically, but it was necessary. I had to break myself, to make myself…”

  “Break myself to make myself… Gutter, you speak profoundly. Goes to show, it travels beyond your lyrics and transcends your interactions with the public. Speaking of mentors, would you say that you’re a role model?”

  “Do you think I’m a role model, John?” He leaned back and shoved his hand in his pants pocket, fighting a smirk.

  “Many believe you are. One thing is consistent: both word on the streets and people in 20th floor boardrooms have concluded that you’re a workhorse, and your dedication is unmatched.”

  “But I’m a man first. I’m human. At the end of the day, I’m not a role model, but at the same time, I know what’s expected of me because I’m in the limelight. I don’t want any kid coming up in the world, who might look up to me, to think I want them to turn their back on their education or get involved in some shit that’s going to land them in prison. I’m not tellin’ kids to not go to school, or to be like me. I want everyone to be like themselves. I’m considered successful, but like any other man I’ve fucked up sometimes, too.” He waved his free hand to emphasize his point. “I’ve been arrested and spent a little time in jail. That’s been brought up in some past interviews. I’ve done crazy things, period, that I’m not going to talk about right now, but the point is, I don’t want the youth just out here messing around, not making anything of themselves and sayin’ they’re doing it because of something I wrote in a song. Or for them to have this distorted idea of who I am. People only know what I show them of me, and I protect me at all costs.”

  “You keep walls up to protect yourself?”

  “Not walls in the literal sense. I’m not trying to keep anyone out. I just want to keep my sanity in. I have boundaries I don’t let any motherfuckers cross. Ever. I don’t see anything cool about destroying ourselves, ya know? All the people we try to show out for when we’re young and stupid won’t be there when those handcuffs hit our wrists.”