Rhythm & Blues

Episode One

Discomposed. That's the word that accurately describes how I've been feeling lately. To disturb the composure of; to unsettle. Ever since I was little, I've been obsessed with words and their meanings. How to put them together, how to pull them apart, and how to use them to make sense of the chaos around me. Out of my love for words came my love of rhythm and rhyme. Music became my sanctuary, my way of painting pictures with syllables and sounds. Even now, with all the industry bullshit threatening to suffocate my passion, there's nothing quite like the rush of crafting the perfect line, of feeling a beat pulse through my veins as I spit bars into a mic. My grandmother emphasized the importance of articulating myself well as a Black man growing up in America, and that lesson stuck with me, shaping not just my speech but my art.

I should be high on life with my third world tour almost done, but instead, I feel unsettled. Two things have thrown me off balance recently, shaking the foundations of the life I've carefully built.

First, it was the call I received from my mother midway through the tour that rocked my world. My grandmother had been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer's. She'd started showing signs sometime last year, but it hadn't been that bad. Now, she'd been getting progressively worse, and the diagnosis only brought reality crashing down.

I love that old woman so much that I'd been ready to end the tour halfway through, but she talked me out of it, just like she'd done plenty of times before. Instead, we compromised: I'd finish the tour and then move back to Atlanta to be closer to her.

The second unsettling thing I'm dealing with is this dumbass interview. In all my years in the game, I can count the number of interviews I've given on one hand. It's not in my nature to sit on some host's couch and have them pry into my private life. I've always believed that my music speaks for itself. I put my soul, creativity, and a piece of myself into my work, and that's all I care to share with the world.

I'd made that clear to my management team and label, but they still tried to push me into the spotlight. It wasn't just the interviews; it was the constant pressure to create a "marketable image." They wanted me to play up fake relationships for publicity, to share parts of my life I'd rather keep private. Each demand chipped away at my patience, at my trust in the industry I'd given so much to.

Last month, they crossed a line. They leaked a story about a non-existent beef between me and another artist, all for the sake of drumming up publicity for my tour. I was already in motion, so it made no sense, but it was the last straw. I'd agreed to this interview as the last thing I'd do for the label before leaving them to focus on my family. They just didn't know that part yet.

As I sit in the makeup chair, my phone buzzes. It's a text from Raheem, my best friend since childhood.

"Yo, Zac! Remember, you gotta use your words today. No grunting! 😂"

I chuckle, shaking my head. Raheem knows me too well. To the world, I might come across as quiet and brooding, but to those who know me best, I'm a yapper.

"Fuck you, I know what I'm doing."

"That's my boy! 🙌🏾 Call me after, aight?"

"For sure. 👊🏾"

I put my phone away, feeling a little lighter. Raheem always had some slick shit to say, but this time it actually helped me relax a little.

Memories of my grandmother flood my mind as I sit back in the chair. I see her sitting on the porch of her little house in the sweltering Atlanta summer, fan in one hand, a battered Bible in the other. "Zachary," she says, her voice warm like honey but firm as steel, "come here and listen to this word."