Every hazy Saturday morning I would wearily rise out of bed and attempt to erase the leftover party weight sitting inside my skull. I would take a long chug of warm water from a bottle sitting on top of my nightstand and casually pop a couple of Advil. Just as I was feeling completely unmotivated and ready to crawl back under the sea of blankets a sudden wave of happiness would devour my face and morph my morning frown into a cheek straining smile. The early morning clouds would depart from my mind allowing me to remember that today was my favorite day of them all. Today, just like every Saturday, I would get to take the adventurous drive through Washington DC’s elaborate labyrinth of pot hole filled one way streets and graffiti marked avenues into the deep sinister catacombs of the city where my sound haven lies.

I knew when I reached “hell’s armpit” the moment the cherry blossoms and classically constructed monuments faded into abandoned buildings, boarded and barred welfare housing, and grime infested streets. Its avenues blanketed with used needles, red and blue light reflections carried by loud shrieking sirens, and the dried blood puddles of past crimes— familiar ghetto memoirs. The change in scenery never bothered me because my tiny, boxed, slice of heaven was well worth traveling through hell for. This little slice was known as Clark’s Records. An elderly “mom and pop” music shop that sat on the corner of Martin Luther King Boulevard and South Main Street, slanted with aged melancholy much like the bums that sat with vacant eyes around its foundation. The outside was draped in an off white paint that was peeling everywhere, exposing a red coat under it as if it had caught too much summer light and formed a third degree sunburn. Anti-Bush posters inked with malice hugged the walls spitting political venom at passing eyes. From under the mosh pit of concert posters, an array of complex graffiti pieces peeked through, igniting the gloomy gray avenue in bright color. The shop stuck out like a sore thumb because everything that surrounded it was blackened with neglect. Clark’s was that rare rose that somehow grew between the cracks of the concrete. Before reaching my heaven’s gate, I would have to shuffle through the mob of beggars and dope dealers who smelled of cheap vodka and greed but when the black bars hovering over an old Public Enemy poster came into view I knew I was finally there. An extra burst came into my step, and I would rush through the door.

Eeeeeeeeggghhhhh! The earsplitting buzzer makes everyone in the store jump as the door announces my entrance. I am showered with skeptical eyes peering from the tops of Miles Davis records. A group of local DJs huddled around the clearance box mumble, “Who the hell is this white boy”, loud enough so I could hear it. It is rarity to see any white person walking around in this predominately African- American area—most don’t even dare but I was always colorblind when I entered Clark’s. I always forgot about the old “most dangerous part of DC” folklore. Musically obsessed, I came to see the infinite winding rows of the alphabetized and rare musical artifacts. Each row having a slightly unorganized look with the vinyl left above their usual slot. I always preferred the chaos because it simply meant that starving Rock, Jazz, or Hip Hop archaeologists were there before I showed up digging deep for an unknown relic. As a hip hop producer you are automatically a vinyl “pirate” who is routinely on the prowl for musical treasures. Once you get a hold of that musical gold you tend to clutch it like a new father would cradle his first born. If you look around the record store you can see this very moment happen over and over again. The “pirate”, sniffing and rubbing his eyes from the dense and musty smell of the overly dusty covers, will stop instantly with his eyes wide open like a deer caught in headlights. His hands will dart directly towards the record; sometimes looking behind him as if he feels an enemy will attack him from behind and snatch his newly found gold. Caressing the cardboard cover with his palm a thick cloud of aged dust will explode in his face like a mini atomic bomb. Coughing with a smile he will stare at it with a weird admiration and then tuck it under his arm. Today, he is rich.

Accompanied by the hip hop symphony blasting in surround sound from the over sized speakers, I would begin that pirate prowl with bass rattled ears. Like usual, I would get swallowed up in my surroundings. The four walls are plastered in urban art, old hip hop concert posters, and small murals capturing various jazz scenes that were once lost in time. I would let my nose lead the way, following the sour (yet satisfying) fragrance of basement kept records. I’d walk over to my favorite section and let my fingers run across the fronts of a few cd’s, over the slick plastic covers and sliding them right off the sharp corners. Reaching the hip hop vinyl section, I’d quickly browse through the brightest and most interesting covers. One I can distinctly remember had a picture collage of soldiers from Iraq, Iraqi citizens piled up with bullet holes in various places, and a doctored image of President Bush with scarlet devil horns coming out of his head—a perfect example of the various bold statements purposely displayed throughout the store. As I continued my search, I am interrupted by a familiar aroma of menthol cigarettes and strong, sweet perfume. My left eye stretches to the left and I’d see the tattooed hands that belonged to her.

She was a beautiful oddity. Her pale face and emotionless electric blue eyes peered through her black hair that fanned lightly over the top of her face. Bright and intricate tattoos covered her entire body from her feet all the way up to the black butterfly on her right cheek. She always came in minutes after I did every single Saturday morning, browsing the same section I did. I knew her well, yet we never exchanged any words--not even once--but we still had a special relationship. Without saying anything she would always flip through a few records, snatch one up, and slam it right into my chest and walk away. Every single time it was exactly what I was looking for. How did she know? With her odd punk rock, half witch-like look, I thought she was some sort of music mystic who could read my mind. I never said a word or questioned a thing.

For a solid two years I sailed the dangerous urban seas of Washington D.C. to that little slice of heaven in search of my musical treasures. Despite the risk of its location and unpredictable characters that inhabited it—the beggars, overly persistent drug dealers, and taunting “pirates” whose territory I was crossing—it was all worth it. I would risk my life to breathe in that stuffy, aged smell of vinyl that dwelled inside of Clark’s and to receive the amazing, unforgettable weekly ear candy from the girl with the tattooed hands. This journey happened every single Saturday until Clark’s suddenly shut down operations late last year. To this very day I have never experienced any quest like my weekly visit to Clark’s Records. I haven’t and will never venture to or anywhere near that neighborhood again.