Rapper’s Delight
It was 1979, and I was 14; my brother, Dorian, was 28. We were in our house on 68th Drive in Queens.
Dorian worked in a record store in Times Square and always brought home the newest records. My cousin Michele and I were dancing to one of them, Rapper’s Delight by the Sugarhill Gang. It was the first rap song we’d ever heard. It blew our minds. Up until then I was listening to the Pina Colada song.
I was sweaty in my Jordache jeans in the living room in front of the speakers that came up to my waist. Dorian joined us, his button-down shirt revealing his chest and gold chain. “Hey,” he said, “let’s write down all the words.”
“Really?” I said. “It’s like 15 minutes long.”
“You and Michele write as fast as you can.”
We agreed. I ran to get sheets from my looseleaf notebook for the three of us. Then Michele and I sat on the shag rug, our legs stretched out under the wooden coffee table, Bic pens in hand. I felt as if I were about to run a race, waiting for the gun to go off.
Dorian put the needle down, scratching the record, the instrumentals thumping the beat, bump bump bump. ‘I said a hip hop the hibbit’
We listened hard and missed the whole first sentence. “Wait,” I screamed.
“Oh God,” Michele said, her black hair spilling over her paper.
I heard: ‘say up jump the boogie to the rhythm of the boogie, the beat’
The music blared. “Just write,” Dorian shouted.
‘Now what you hear is not a test, I’m rapping to the beat’
“Okay,” I said. “Keep going!”
‘Hotel, motel, Holiday Inn’
Pages of paper were accumulating on the table. Debi, my sister, came down. “How much longer are you going to do this?” she yelled above the music.
“Until we finish,” we yelled back.
It was getting dark out. My legs were starting to hurt. I got up onto my knees.
‘I go by the name Lois Lane’
“Wait,” I said again, focusing. Dorian lifted the needle. “Okay, go!” I said. My hand was cramping. My handwriting looked deranged. Dorian put the needle back on the record and sat with us at the table. More pages.
‘the beat don’t stop until the break of dawn’
I felt winded and had to pee. “Can’t we just dance?” I said and flopped onto my back.
“Yeah,” said Michele.
“Okay,” Dorian said. Still on the floor, Michele and I wiggled our feet and sang to each other: “But first I gotta bang bang the boogie to the boogie say up jump the boogie of the rhythm of the boogie that be,” singing the words with conviction.
It was night, past dinner. Michele went home to her house across the street.
My mom came in later, kicking off her Ferragamo boots. “What did you do today?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just listened to records.”