A good interviewer must be prepared. It takes research to ask good questions. I wanted to do better than good questions. As a fledgling writer, my interviewing skills were not fine-tuned. I resorted to getting personal with my interviewee.
My companion for the afternoon was a Grammy-Award winning American rapper, CEO of a record label and a man who claimed to have revolutionized the art of producing mix-tapes. Hakeem Seriki, aka Chamillionaire.
The first thing that struck me about the man was the diamond-encrusted teeth as he posed for the camera. We sat down in a quiet corner of a club late in the afternoon, as the VH1 crew worked hard below us, setting up for the concert that was to follow later that evening. I clicked 'Record' on GarageBand on my Mac and we got to work.
"Are you sure that thing's recording?"
I was offended that he didn't trust my technology skills. "It's recording, I assured him."
Like old friends catching up after a long period of absence, we exchanged pleasantries before our conversation took a personal turn. He told me a story of the life of a rapper. A regular guy who got crossed by his friend and his record label. An artist whose fame spread by selling mix tapes out of the trunk of his pickup truck.
Most of what followed was not published in my article. It was almost too sacred to expose this hardened rapper-stereotype as a soft human with an incredible work ethic. Dubbed the Mixtape Messiah, he hadn't uttered a single profanity on his current album at the time. He was devoted to his art. "You don't understand," he said, smiling through his diamond teeth, "I'd come home at night and eat cereal because we had no other food in the house. I was determined to make money and get my ma out of this hole."
As our time together drew to an end, I asked him what he thought of India. "Wait, you're a rapper, sing me a ditty." He turned to his posse, a couple of heavy-set men in dark shades. "What's a ditty?" He asked them.
"I don't know, what's a ditty?" came back the response.
I doubt I knew the meaning of the word myself. They figured out my request to wax lyrical. He played with words for two minutes and then sang to me. Can you call rapping, singing?
We laughed when he finished. Then he regained his composure and put on the facade of a gangster, you know, the kind that raps about thugs, cops, violence and sexy women.
