|(TSL cover art. Will probably have to add a title if I don’t want distributor guff)|
Just like my Road to Songs For… pieces, I’m up for taking whoever wants to go on an adventure through the making of (what’s slated to be, for real this time) my last album as Speed on the Beat, The Sorest Loser. Add this into my upcoming discussion with True God, and (hopefully), you’ll get an idea of why this became a thing. It probably won’t be epic storytelling, as I literally wrote this as the words came to me. But, if you want a train-of-thought look into the album, here you go.
When my mother died, I legitimately said “fuck music.” I legitimately said “fuck that” to a lot of things, but music was a biggie. I didn’t have it in me to write bars, record tracks, work on beats, and so on. Obviously, looking a loved one is painful. But this? It wasn’t even the “good” type of painful where you’re using said pain to craft genius work. It just…hurt and I felt empty as all hell. Compound this hurt, this apathy towards music with the fact that I recorded the last song for Baltimore Commercial Break, “Hello Baltimore (Re-Visitation Rights),” less than a week before she died, and it was clear: I needed to run away from music for a while.
Instead, each barb was a reference to a flesh-and-blood family member who’d gone out of their way to, while being “supportive,” make me either relive seeing Mama Young die in front of me or to put words in my mouth, or whatever. This is something that was slated to be addressed on an unrecorded track called “Familial Bullshit.” Again, underlying sadness and anger and whatnot. It happens, especially after losing one of the few people you give a fuck about.
After “getting through” Unhinged (an album which I consider to be “the black sheep” of my discography and the black sheep of the retroactively-named “Baltimore Trilogy,” including BCB and The Sorest Loser…), I was, again, tired. Considering that most of the album dealt with me rehashing March 28, 2015 several times (ironic, I know) and pretty much ending the album with a question mark and screaming “Mama, I’m done…I’m finally done,” I needed, yet another, break from music. But, like a DIY Jordan coming back with the four-five…I found myself back in a booth some months later, laying down verses.
There was something different about these takes, the first one being “…Don’t Call It a Comeback…”