Grandmaster Flash - The Adventures of Grandmaster Flash: My Life, My Beats

CONTENTS

In memory of my parents, Regina Gina and
Joseph Bra Saddler Sr.

For my sisters
Penny, Lilly, Violet, and Carmetta;

My children
Tawanna, Joe Jr., Lalonnie, Kareem, Keith, Christina, and
Christinas big sister Amber;

And the Furious FiveMel, Cowboy, Kid Creole, Scorpio, and
Rahiem, my love runs deep, even today.

This is a book written by me, Joseph Robert Saddler.

This is a book written by me, Grandmaster Flash.

Whats the difference between the two? One name was given to me at birth. The other was invented.

What do these two identities have to do with each other? Im not sure. Thats why Im writing this book.

Its a small story and a big story.

Small because its just a story about a guy, like millions of guys, running around trying to play the game. But its big because, due to forces in the universeGod or fate or whateverI helped create something that blew up bigger than anybody could ever have imagined.

Part One

Life is a beautiful struggle

Talib Kweli

BORN ON THE ONE

N ew York City.

The Bronx, in particular.

Throgs Neck, to be even more specific.

2730 Dewey Avenue, to be exact.

December 31, 1960.

A few minutes before midnight. At midnight Id be threea New Years baby.

Born on the one.

Born right on the beat.

I heard the beat. Should have been asleep, but the beats from my folks house party had me wide awake.

Felt those beats all over me. Coming through the walls. Riding up the legs of my bed. The rhythms, the grooves, the get-down party in the next room where the lights were low and the folks were dancing.

Let me in there.

Let me in the party.

I peeked round the corner. I recognized a funky old organ jam but man, I wanted James Brown. James Brown had that jam where he screamed, No, no, no, no, no, and I wanted to scream, wanted to jump in the middle of the action.

Like magic, my jam dropped. James started doing his thing and I started to get all crazy inside. Like I didnt ever want the beats to end.

I already knew house parties were for grown-ups. My dadwhose street name was Bramade sure all us kids were down with the rules. The man had lots of rules. But right then, the crazy feeling inside me made up its own rules.

So I crept out the bedroom that I shared with my baby sister, Lilly. The hallway was dark but I could see the lights in the living room. Red and orange and blue. Could smell it tooswirling sweet and heavy in the air.

The beats that make the party.

Could almost see those beats. Could almost paint em, they were so clear. At the end of the hall, to the left, in the living room was the party. Everyone was vibing on James Brown, feet stomping, voices humming.

Pumping up the beats, building em up, keeping em strong.

So deep and so strong I had to get in there.

Had to be a part of it.

Suddenly I was there. Living room in front of me with the lights down low and smoke hanging from the ceiling. Family and friends, grinding and freaking, moving and grooving.

Every one of em in step with the beat.

When I saw what that smooth and solid beat could do, I was sold.

Thats the memory.

The beat.

The beat that would become the heartbeat of my life.

FLASHS UNIVERSAL DJ RULE NUMBER ONE

FLASHS UNIVERSAL DJ RULE NUMBER ONE:
Dont stop the beat.

I was six and couldnt get enough of that beat.

The music would change whenever Dad went to the record store. Coming home with the new Sam and Dave, Stan Kenton, and Ella Fitzgerald. Throwing em on the phonograph and calling up the party people. Late at night, the beat was always there in the living room. Which meant I was too.

Butsy crawlin out the crib.

Hey look, Butsy dancin in his jammies.

Aint he cute?

Butsy. That was my nickname. Or Nonny. Doin that crazy little bug-out dance that kids do. That was me. Had to dance. Had to let it out. So Id crawl up out the crib to get to the party people.

My older sisters Violet and Carmetta were cool, but they werent into the scene. The girls got tired of late nights, loud noises, and cops coming around on complaints.

Police made you turn the music down. Turn it down or turn it off. Either way, it meant the party was over. Just that fast, everything stopped. But man, you cant stop the beat.

The source of the beat fascinated me like nothing else.

The record player!

The spin!

The thing that goes round and round! That thing was the secret to the beats!

Party or not, I would drag a chair over to the record player, climb up, and stare at it for hours.

How did this thing work?

Someone would hit the reject button. The arm would go up and the music would stop. The next record would drop and the beats would start all over again.

Magic!

Dont remember the first time I touched a record player, but I remember the first time I got caught. Wasnt a party night, just a Tuesday evening.

One of the Saddler rules was no children in the living room unless Mom and Dad were present. But the stereo was in that room. So I was too.

Id defy the rules and sit there for hours listening to my fathers records.

Bird.

Coltrane.

Monk, Mingus, and Miles.

Basie and Ellington.

Chuck Berry and Little Richard.

Dont know which sent me higherthe music or the mystery of how it played. I could hear the beats and feel the vibrations, but where did they come from? How did those funky sounds come out of the grooves on the disc? Through the needle? Down into the cabinet? Howd those paper cones behind the cloth speakers go thump? How did all those different sounds come out of there?

So I just sat for hours. Lost in the music, staring at the machine. Staring at the little red ON switch like it was a piece of candy, all lit up. Whatever made it glow was glowing inside me.

Wanted to control it. Manipulate it. Make it do what I said.

If I only knew how it worked!

Which was when my arm got pulled back. Hard. So hard it almost came out of my shoulder.

I forgot. It was already six oclock. Id lost track of time. My father was home. He yanked me right out of the chair with one hand and hit me across my face with the other. Before my feet even touched the ground.

What I tell you about coming in here?

WHAP!

What I tell you about messin with my stuff?

WHAP!

When Dad saw me in the living room, it was enough for him to put a whuppin on my butt and put my hand to the radiator.

Thatll teach you about messin with my stuff!

What really set him off was me messin with his records. It wasnt the first time Id been in trouble, but this was different. This really twisted his cap. This was personal, and the beating was bad. Mommy got in the middle of itshe always didand shielded me from the blows. But there was only so much she could stop.

I avoided the hospital, but not by much.