Interview with a Quagmire

Los Angeles, Calif. – “This is not an ashtray.  Please silverware here.”  I’ve been staring at this demand, especially, the last portion, for the last 45 minutes.  Taped on a small stainless steel bin attached to a distinctive emerald green marble column outside on the Black Dog Cafe’s patio, it’s a solemn forecast of the sentiment that would engulf me by day’s end.  It had a typo.  An error.  A mistake.  Today would be a mistake.  This interview would be a gross mistake.

Sitting in LA’s art deco’d neighborhood of Miracle Mile on a Sunday afternoon isn’t all bad.  It’s unseasonably warm, even by SoCal standards.  The incessant traffic of busy Wilshire Boulevard plays as a white noise backdrop to the visual spectacle of the pedestrians and cyclists, who are entrenched in the Monday-morning-like hustle and bustle.  The people are beautiful, some naturally, some surgically.  The breeze is steady and calming.  An urban paradisal oasis of sorts.  Almost, that is.  Until I remember why I’m sitting here.

The individual who I’m impatiently waiting for is the famed musician/rapper/producer/actor/designer/drugstore clerk Extraneous Butterfield (real name, folks).  Better known the world over as Extra Butter, the workaholic has risen from an unknown from the farming community of Lochapoakadoaka, Alabama, to damn near intergalactic notoriety with his multiplatinum-selling debut double album, “IAMJESUSCHRISTSBFF.”  The first part “To’e Up From The Flo’ Up” was released during the summer solstice two years, while the second offering “Stovetop Lovin'” was released exactly 21 hours later.  The marketing plan baffled critics, but it managed to work wonders in SoundScan stats.

His story is one of determination, misfortune, and just being goddamn lucky.  I don’t know how else to describe it.  His mother, 9 months pregnant, was driving a big rig truck for the Land O’Lakes butter company down an old country highway when a cow strolled into her lane.  She swerved, missed the cow, and flipped the truck over into the nearby collard greens field.  The butter flew out of the tractor-trailer and all into the field, only taking a few minutes to melt in the blazing Southern sun.  She went out into the field to salvage what she could and suddenly went into labor.  A passerby stopped to help.  Sometime later, the world welcomed Extra Butter.  Butterfield, unbelievably, was born in a field of butter.

When he finally arrives, he’s donning an urban camouflage flak jacket and a matching camouflage T-shirt and cargo pants.  He delays the interview for another 15 minutes by accepting a call from someone I can only surmise, judging by comments like “Where my shit at?” and “Turble wurble lurble,” is either his drug dealer or an extraterrestrial.  Eventually, he sits down and reclines back in the patio chair.  Honestly, it’s weird to see him without his entourage of childhood friends, hanger-ons, yesmen, groupies, and personal stylists and chefs.  He takes a drag from his Chesterfield cigarette.  (How old is this guy?  89?)  He asks the barista for a café Cubano.  Well, it’s good to know the man has some taste. Or did I speak too soon?

You have said that you are the most loved and feared person in the music industry.  Explain.

Gladly.  People love me because I give them what they want.  They just don’t know it until they hear it.  N’ah mean?  I’m, like, like, like, the Nostradamus of this music, fashion, movie shits.  I don’t have my ear to the ground to hear what’s gonna be the new hot shit.  The ground has its ear to me.  And people fear me because they don’t want to get on my bad side.  Little do they know all my sides are bad.  Because I’M A KILLER!

Look who doesn’t need any more coffee!  Critics have described your music and lyrics as being “the most innovative and creative pile of garbage ever arranged” to being “a cacophonous katzenjammer of jism spewed forth from the loins of Satan himself.”  How do you respond to such harsh critical—

I don’t.  The music speaks for itself.  The people buy my shit.  They know what I represent.  They know what I’m about.  They know.

Fellow rappers, even ones you’ve recorded with, have called your ability as a lyricist and songwriter as “a slight step just above a retarded stillborn baboon.”  Rock Billy from the veteran rap/punk group Peach Detox said on MTV last week that when he hears your lyrics, his ears bleed.  He also said—

Yo, fuck Billy!  He act like rapping is about words or something.

It actually is, Extra.

Actually is what?

About words.  You write lyrics.  Lyrics are words.  It’s essentially poetry set to music.

Hell naw!  What I do ain’t poetry.  It’s what I do.  Can’t no mufucka do what I do.  Don’t nobody want to hear that dictionary rap!  Show me one example of where my lyrics are words.

Um, what?

When are my lyrics words?

This is weird…OK, how about the song “Chandelier,” the one that you said will be over everyone’s heads.  You say, “Why do you crunch crunch crunch / When you munch munch munch / That sound I hate it / Here at brunch brunch brunch / Your face I punch punch punch / Hash browns I ate it.”

Man, them ain’t words.  They emotions.  I write feelings and emotions on the pad or computer screen.  Dig?  I’m the only human who can do that.  Never wrote a word in my life.  Too much for you to comprehendo.

It sure is.  But let’s move on.  Let’s talk about your controversies.

Yeah, let’s do that.

You managed to offend just about every civic, religious, political, social, academic, and animal rights group with one song.  An unprecedented feat even in this age of sensationalism, reality TV, and social media.  You know which song I’m referring to, don’t you?

Sure do.  My song “Penis.”

That would be the one.  Tell us about the conceptual evolution behind this song.

Well, I was chillin’ with my manager Tae Black over at his crib one afternoon.  We was talking and he said that I was a lightning rod for controversy and whatever whatever.  So, I was, like, yo!  I says, “What you call me, Tae?”  And he, like, “I said you a lightning rod for controversy, Butt.”  See, Extra Butter don’t take kindly to nizzas calling him all out his name.  My name is Butter, not Butt.  Never call me Butt.  But then I went like, “XB, chill.  That’s a compliment.”  Then I thought about a lightning rod.  Then a rod.  Then I could flip that word and use one of them double ensemble thangs and—

You mean double entendres, not ensembles.

What you just said.  Anyway, basically, I could use it to talk about dicks…literally.  Get it?  Rods.  Dicks.  Penis.  BOOM!

What does that mean? That’s it? 

No doubt.  Simplecy equals genius.  Extra Butter equals genius.  Therefore, simplecy equals Extra Butter.  Word.  “Penis” is about the different types of johnsons out there in the world.  You ever thought about all the different kinds of penisuses there must be?

No, can’t say that I have.

Be honest.  You have, right?

Nope.

Whatever, yo.  A curious genius would wonder about that.  Must be a few main categories.  Long, short, skinny, fat, crooked, hooked, lefties, rights, brown, black, white, yellow, red, healthy, inflamed, slick, dry, et cetera, et cetera, yo.  Just like there must be different categories of cooch.  Feel me?

You worked with legendary producer Drew Brock on your upcoming album “Booty Emporium: Emporium of Bootang.”  What was it like working with a hip hop pioneer?

Me and Drew both geniuses.  I hate when people overuse that word, but I really think we’re both geniuses.  We clashed from time to time, but that’s cool.  That’s what geniuses do.  We make each other better.  I make him more better.  He make me more better.  If that’s possible.  (Chuckles.)  But straight up, though, working with Drew was a humbling experience.  Even for a genius like myself.  For real, I mean dude got so many ideas.  His genius mind is on some other, next-level, ET, Avatar shit.  Now I know why I didn’t get Album of the Year last year.

Um, you weren’t even eligible last year.

Mufucka, shet yo ass up.  Extra Butter is always eligible!

You didn’t release an album last year.

I don’t care.  I should be rewarded that award posthumously.

Posthumously?

Posthumously.

So you’re dead right now?

I am not a human being.  I am from outer space.  I am from the galaxies beyond your solar system.  I can’t die.  I’m just wearing this human costume so that you won’t be intimidated by my real form.  I reminisce about future events.  I defy time and logic—

Definitely logic…

Of course, you would say that, hater.  You trying to hate on me in my own interview?!

Answer this for me, please.  It seems that you and a lot of your peers have an unhealthy habit of thinking that anyone who isn’t you hates you.  No disrespect, but is there some club where wealthy insecure people meet to talk about how much their “haters” hate them?  Where did that come from?  Why do you think so many people hate you?

Because they do.  They want to be me and whatnot.  They see what I got and they want it too.  They see me flossing in Beverly Hills and they want to do that.  They see me hopping out the Lear jet and they want to do that too.  They haters.  They see me rollin’.  They hatin’.  Patrollin’.  They tryin’ to catch me ridin’ dirty!  As for your comment about my insecurity, no disrespect to you, partna, but Extra Butter got plenty of security.  My security people at least 6’5″ and 270 pounds.  I got a Fort Knox of people ’round me, playa, protecting the gold.  Guess who the gold is?

Hmmm, do I really want to answer this?

Me!  I’m the gold.  Me!

Wow.  Moving along, you realize that you’re sort of insulting your fans too, right?

How?

Because you’re telling them that their lives are meaningless because they’re not out throwing buckets of money in the club like you do.  You don’t see that they’re why you have this money and luxurious lifestyle in the first place.  They buy your product.  They make you rich.  Then you turn around and shit on their way of life, as if it’s not up to par with your own.  As if they don’t matter. 

I’m just living the American Dream, baby.  I set trends.  I don’t insult my fans.  Respect my trendsetting abilities.  Once that happens, we all win.  The world wins; fresh kids win; creatives win; the company wins.  Jamaica wins; Iceland wins; Europe wins; Africa wins; Asia wins; the Americas win; my homies in Antarctica win.

You know, a few, if any at all, people live in Antarctica.  Maybe a few scientists, but I doubt you seriously have any friends down there.

Why not?  I’m international, baby!

What the hell are you talking about now?  You’re making my head hurt.  (To a passing pedestrian.)  Hey, excuse me, ma’am, do you have some Tylenol?

I think what Extra Butter is going to mean is something similar to what Steve Jobs means.  I am undoubtedly, you know, Steve of Internet, downtown, fashion, culture.  Period.

(Pulling out a flask.)  OK, I’m wrapping this up.  You haven’t said anything that makes any sense or substantial today. 

You can’t do that.  You still have more to do.

Ugh.  You’re right.  We still have to do the performance part of the interview.  (Sighs.)

You want to do that now?  Cool.  Let’s go.  The studio’s down the street.  When you hear this new joint, it’s going to blow your mind.  I’m basically letting everyone know that this is the level that things could be at if they would follow my lead.  I will be the leader.  The leader of a company or a movement that ends up being worth billions of dollars.  Why?  Because I got the answers.  I understand culture.  I am the nucleus.

Are you finished?

**  ** ** ** **

About a half an hour later, we were in Extra Butter’s LA studio, surrounded by sangria and mamacitas.  I felt a little uneasy because everyone was wearing camouflage.  I didn’t know if we were about to go to war or if we were gearing up to hunt down Bambi.  After conversing with his producer and sound engineer for a few minutes, the man of the hour strutted over toward me.  He was holding a baseball bat.  I thought I was going to die.

Are you going to kill me?

Naw.  Just going to kill your mind.

What’s the bat for?

Nothing.

Why are you walking around with it then?

To look hard.

Oh.

So I’m going to do the lead-off song from the new album, aiight?  It’s called “Fed-DHL-UP,” pronounced Fed-The-Hell-Up.  It’s going to be a monster, I’m telling ya.  The streets are asking for this right here, ya hear me?  They asking for the real.  And I’ma give it to ’em.  In order to score hits in this industry, you have to have two things.  You have to have a dope beat, and you have to have subject material that everyone can relate to.  Folks ain’t buying your shit if they can’t feel it.  For real.

So that’s the formula?

Absolutely.

And you’re sure you have a hit on your hands?

Ab-so-fuc-kin-lute-ly.

Well, let’s hear it. 

Aiight.  (Turns to the sound engineer.)  Rodney, you ready?  World premiere, y’all!  Pump that beat!

….…

FED-DHL-UP

(Fed The Hell Up)

(to the tune of Kanye West’s New Slaves)

Hear the original here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-SoKFycTmVU

And here: https://soundcloud.com/detailsofmylife-net2/kanye-west-new-slaves-live-on

My mama was raised in an era when
Mail service was superb and excellent
Nowadays you would’ve thought they needed help
Parcels are damaged like they keep falling off of a shelf
You see they broke a nizza’s china
That was 30% cheaper than in the store
And those bitches lost my curtains
And wouldn’t refund or replace them with more
What I lose?  My mint tea.  Fur coat.  A CZ chain.
All these hacks lose all the same things
‘Bout to make me go postal; FedEx is who I blame
Why am I getting mail for the Astors and the Wangs?
You’ll pay!

You see I needa kind of monitor
Who’s the dick who sent my shit to Ottawa?

You see I needa kind of monitor
Who’s the dick who sent my shit to Ottawa?

I throw these Maybach keys
I mean these My-bock keys
I know I pronounce it wrong
It’s German, like brats and Nazis
I see the blood on the leaves
I see the blood on the leaves
I use a Billie Holliday verse
So that you’ll think that I’m deep
They throwing hate at me
Why is my package overseas?
Fuck you and your delivery service
Y’all mailmen can’t control me
I want my package today!
I want my package today!
I’m ’bout to wild the fuck out
Just bought a king-size duvet
I know that pussy ain’t free
Just bought a tiger last week
Post ladies throwing compacts at me
Flying glass makes me bleed
Got stitched up by EMTs
Fuck it, c’est la vie
I want my package today!
Y’all postmen can’t fuck with me
Y’all couriers can’t play with mé
Y’all tenors cant sang with mé
I’ll move my family out the country
So you can’t see where I stay
Unless you download Google Earth
But if they cross that border
See they’ll confuse my addresses
And mess up my Amazon orders
What DHL UPS!
Ordered a cookbook for soufflés
Supposed to get my package on the 5th,
But that was last Tuesday!
See they gonna make me go to prison
I need my mail today!
They prolly all in the Hamptons
Braggin’ ’bout my delivery delay
Fuck you and your Hampton house
Wait! I like your Hampton house.
So nice is your Hampton spouse.
Can I nap on your Hampton couch?
Y’all ’bout to turn the air up?
I ask to please turn it down
I’m ’bout to take a little snooze
Now what the fuck was I mad at now?