de'Naro Duggins
10/29/2014
The producer, James, sits in front of his 15ft soundboard wearing his commonly seen leather jacket with white stripes coursing down the sleeves. The face of his hat is worn backwards hiding his freshly cut hair, cut weekly, and his lower body is sheltered underneath the soundboard. James slides his finger up the volume panel which signals the start of eminence. The vibrations of the thunderous bass pounds away at the speakers as the music begins and clouds of thick white smoke ascend into the air consuming the lights above into its stomach. I stand in the recording booth with my notepad in my left hand, while my right hand swings back and forth like a pendulum to the rhythm of my words. The fresh scented pop filter creates motivation while I spew hidden emotions into the microphone. "You make me sick to my stomach/ Rather be out with other guys instead of taking care of your kids/ Leave it up to the oldest at seven years old to cook and clean for your three kids/ Wait I don't even count myself anymore/ I've been stopped before you kicked me out the door/ I have more hate than I thought I would ever have/ This is the aftermath of what you produced. While the track continues, emotions run rampant within the recording booth. I relapse into previous emotions as I elaborate on the difficulties with my mother, and tell bloodcurdling stories of the wrongful things shes committed. I recall memories of her throwing shoes at my face in front of company, punching me with no remorse in public, and showing me no attention when I most needed it. Once the song is finished and titled "Mommy Dearest" I sit at the soundboard with James and review the song. I listen to the words and the emotion behind them and feel a sense of relief. My mind is eased now that I've released the anger that remained bottled inside for years. After hours of recording and
