The Rapper

Words 1378

Alf Green opened his front door and winced at the sound coming from the basement. “Bloody kids,” he muttered, throwing his keys onto the hall table. “Greg!” he yelled. The music from downstairs didn’t stop. “Gregory! For god’s sake, shut that racket up.” There was no reaction from the basement.

Alf went down and opened the door. “Turn it down!”

His son, Greg, stopped mid rap. “Dad. How many times have I asked you not to disturb us when we’re working?”

“You call this work?” His Dad gestured to the rest of the Greg’s group of mates. “I asked you to mow the lawn today, or have you forgotten because you’re too busy?”

Greg turned shamefaced to his friends, “I’m sorry, lads. Looks like we’ll have to leave it for today.” He glared at his dad.

“That’s okay.” Greg’s friend, Baz, grabbed his black leather jacket and prepared to leave. “See you Mr. Green.”

The other two youths mumbled goodnight as they too left the brightness of the fluorescent lit basement, went out into the darkness and climbed into Baz’s car.

Greg had followed them outside and stood talking to his friends through the open car window. “Sorry about the old man, guys. Christ, he makes me heated. He wouldn’t know a good rap if it hit him in the face. He slapped the roof of the car, “See you tomorrow night?”

Baz nodded. He started up his old Ford, reversed out of the driveway and fishtailed up the quiet suburban street, gunning the motor and leaving black rubber from his tyres on the road.

Greg watched until they were out of sight, ignoring the dirty look he got from the next-door neighbour putting out the bins.

His father was waiting for him in the kitchen. “When are you going to look for a job? You know you’re wasting your time with those losers, playing video games and rapping won't get you anywhere.”

Greg turned away from his father and mimed the words: When I was your age…

“When I was your age,” Alf began.

Greg tuned out.



Several days after the bollocking from his dad, Greg and the others, Baz, Chuck, and Lee had just finished recording a video of a new song.

“Oh, man, that was ace.” Lee said. “We’re sounding sick. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah.” Greg agreed. “We need ourselves a name if we’re going to do this properly.”

He fancied himself as the leader of this crew as he was the singer and wrote the music. The others provided the moves, backing beats and Chuck played the guitar as well as being the back up singer.

They bandied names for the group. They ridiculed most, considered others until at last, they decided on Bad Kred.

“Now we’ve got a name, we need to get ourselves known,” Lee said. “Get some gigs, a bit of exposure.”

“That’d be great. I could throw in my rotten job if we got famous.” Chuck grinned.

“How can we fast track it, guys?” Baz said, “Any ideas?”

“My old lady watches shows like Australia’s Got Talent. Imagine if we could get a gig on that!” Lee replied. “She told me a dance crew won it last year.”

“It’s a bit of a long shot,” Greg said, “but it’s worth looking into, I suppose.”

“What’s the prize money,” Lee wondered.

“A couple of hundred big ones, I reckon. That’d be cool, hey?” Greg replied.

“Yeah! That’d get us started and noticed alright.” Baz laughed. “Let’s check it out. You could write some special tunes.” He nodded at Greg.

“Yeah, okay. We’ll do it. This’ll be brass. Famous and rich.”



The next time the group were able to get together down in Greg’s basement was a week later.

“Did anyone check out the dates, for the talent thing? How we apply and all that?” Greg asked.

“Yeah, I did.” They all looked at Lee. “The show’s running in Sydney this year. Perth auditions are on in about six weeks.”

“What? We just turn up, like?”

“No. First, we need to fill in an application online. It’s easy.” Lee dragged his phone out of his back pocket. “We can do it now on my phone.”

The guys sat together on the concrete floor and answered the application questions. The last one asked about the type of act. Lee typed, ‘A dance and rap crew, Bad Kred.’ He pressed send.

The lads looked at each other for a few seconds before starting to laugh.

“There’s no stopping us now. We’re going to win this thing.” Greg and the others high-fived and fist bumped each other.



Over the next few weeks, they practiced every night. Greg wrote more tunes. He was inspired, felt on fire, as words poured out of him and into his songs. The thought of playing to a nationwide audience spurred him on, plus imagining the look on his father’s face when his son became a famous, high rollin’ rapper. Priceless.



The day of the auditions arrived. The instructions in the letter of acceptance advised them to arrive at the Entertainment Center by six am.

Baz pulled up outside Greg’s house. The other lads were already in the car when Greg walked out into the darkness, closing the front door quietly behind him. He’d mentioned nothing to his parents about the audition or his dreams of being famous. He simply couldn’t stand the way his dad looked at him these days. It’ll make the surprise even sweeter. I’ll show him.



When the group arrived at the venue, the bright lights of the auditorium shocked them as they came in from the still dark early morning half light.

The lights shone down on the hundreds of hopefuls. There were people of all ages, many dressed in costumes or glamorous dresses. There were guys and girls carrying musical instruments of all kinds; someone had even brought in a grand piano.

Jugglers, dancers and acrobats practiced wherever they could find a space.

Baz gasped and muttered, “Christ! I didn’t think there’d be this many people here.”

The four boys simply stood and stared at the scene, their confidence taking a dive when they realised what they were up against.

Lee tilted the trilby hat he always wore and rubbed his forehead, a sure sign of his anxiety; He imagined the hat gave him a gangster vibe.

Greg’s black tee shirt showed off his tattooed arms. He was wearing heavy silver crosses in his ears and around his neck and dyed his Mohican hair cut a bright pink.

They made their way through the crowd to the registration table. A woman who barely looked up from the list of acts, handed them a numbered card.



By eight am acts were already auditioning. All eyes were on the exit from the stage each time someone finished their auditions. A few appeared, wearing big smiles and waving their number excitedly. But most left shaking their heads, some crying.



“Number 347 please. You’re next!”

“That’s us” Greg turned to the others, his face paled. This is it, fellas. We’re on.”

The group walked through the curtains where they’d watched so many other hopefuls enter and exit.

As they trooped onto the vast stage and peered out into the audience, the only people they could see were four judges sitting three rows back. The harsh footlights made it impossible to see their faces.

They heard the words, “When you’re ready.”



The boys gave it their all. Greg rapped his best songs, the others break-danced energetically. Heavy beats boomed through the speakers. Everything went as they’d rehearsed. They were an absolute triumph. Well, according to them.

“Thank you. Sorry, not this time. Next please.”



Greg stood on top of a supermarket ladder. He was stacking rolls of toilet paper, nodding his head to a beat only he could hear.

He sang softly to himself as he practiced the words to his latest rap.



Some words from a guy with depression,

A guy who’s only felt neglection.

A guy that truly wants affection,

Not the image known as his reflection



Betta, get out of bed, stop wasting time.

My old man says I was way out of line

Gotta get off my ass, go cut the grass

He says rapping ain’t sublime.



I wish I had a mill-yun

Better though a billion.

Great pots of money, that would be funny

I could buy my own pad, then I’d not feel so sad.