"I know you swear I'm that ish, I'm flattered by it homie don't trip, I'm happy you're respecting my flow, Now come out to my show and come off of that dough."

"That's it for us tonight, Apache. My name is Quanstar, and on behalf of myself, Evaready RAW and K, we want to thank you for coming out."

"Yes family," adds Evaready, "We have CDs and shirts in the back for sale."

Dres walks up on stage and daps us up.

"Give it up one more time for Quanstar and Evaready RAW."

The crowd is cheering. Somebody yells that they want one more song. Unfortunately, the Mic Club format doesn’t allow that. It’s typically three rounds of MC or producer battles with a featured act. The gesture feels good though. It’s that small confirmation that, at least for tonight, we did what we came to do.

We go back a ways with D.R.E.S. I mean way back, when Mic Club was called The Ave, right after The Yin Yang became Apache Cafe, around 2001 if my memory serves me right. He gave us our first show. When no labels were fuckin’ with us, he put out our first two albums through his company, 4 Kings Entertainment. Additionally, D.R.E.S. was my first mentor in the industry—honestly, I’d say he was my first mentor ever.

From him, I learned how to write a bio and press release. How to book a show without looking like I didn’t know what I was doing. The importance of stage presence and actually practicing instead of just assuming I was nice enough to wing it, and keeping my performances under 30 minutes so I could leave the crowd wanting more instead of checking their phones and drifting to the bar. All of these things have served me well in my 17+ years in the music business. I’ve done my best to pay that information forward to other artists

What I remember most about D.R.E.S. though was his New Balance 574 obsession. Dude had every color in existence—the classic grey joints worn down to a perfect, soft fade, crisp navy blues, deep forest greens, even the rare white‑on‑white pairs that glowed under the stage lights like they had their own spotlight. I never saw him without a fresh pair of 574s.

He’d roll up to the venue in his black knit cap pulled low, baggy jeans hanging just right, and those iconic New Balances quietly announcing that he’d been doing this long before half the room decided they were rappers. In the studio, he’d sink back in the chair, mics in front of him, red backdrop behind him, feet planted firm in whatever color he was on that month. “Feet comfortable, mind clear, rhymes sharp,” he’d say. Those sneakers were his signature—simple, reliable, timeless. Just like the game he was always dropping on me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.

K left right after the show because he lives near Greenville, South Carolina, which is about two hours from Atlanta. Evaready left after about an hour, when we’d almost sold enough CDs and shirts to make up for what Flip had gotten us for. I kept the table set up for another hour or so until traffic to the merch slowed down, then I went outside with a stack of CDs in hand to sell to cats hanging out in front of the club.

The air outside Apache had that familiar blend of cigarette smoke, car exhaust, and late‑night possibilities. The brick exterior held the heat from the day, and the glow from the red and yellow neon bled onto the sidewalk, painting everybody in this warm, grimy halo. Cars rolled slow down the block, windows cracked, trunk rattling with somebody’s mixtape that probably sounded exactly like the last twenty mixtapes I’d been handed that month. Folks were posted up on the curb, leaning against the wall, talking, laughing, arguing about who really won the battles inside.

The most important thing that I learned from D.R.E.S. is that if you’re an artist with no merchandise to sell or, at the very least, no music to give away, then you’re an artist asking to be forgotten. By the way, I don’t recommend giving away music at your shows. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve played with cats that put on great shows, but had no music for people that were digging their set. It’s ridiculous.

A lot of artists don’t see it that way though, and that’s hella unfortunate. They have to think of it like this: as an artist, you are a business that provides a service and a product. Your service is your performance, and your product is your music. One really isn’t good without the other, the same way a Walmart with immaculate customer service but empty shelves isn’t going to keep customers for long.

Picture yourself as a Walmart with the nicest people and the greatest customer service, but empty shelves. Would people hang around that store until the shelves are full, or would they go to Target or Big Lots to find what they needed? Music is the same way—worse even. If you’re not putting music into the hands of the people that want it, they’ll go somewhere else to get it, and it’s way easier to tap a screen than it is to drive from Walmart to Target.

Selling CDs in front of the venue takes me back to my roots and that out of the trunk mentality. Before Spotify streaming numbers and Instagram followers, the best way to get noticed by the industry was to be pushing shit on streets like it was weight (urban name for drugs). Why the hell do you think that ex-drug dealers are so damn good at selling music? Now it's a pretty archaic way of doing things, but still effective. I got homies that feed their families off of selling music on street everyday from dusk to dawn.

The most important thing about selling music on the block or anywhere else is to remember that this is sales. So that means always be closing—something that I learned from my network marketing days with the American Communications Network (ACN) when I was slinging that long distance carrier service and electricity.

A cat walked by me to tell me that I had a great show. My reply was, "Thanks bro. I really appreciate it. Hey, did you want to cop a CD? It's only $10." Right then, I put 'em on the spot, and challenged him to put his money where his mouth is. Buying my music or passing on it tells me how much he actually liked my show. Either way they go, I always thank them for their support, and leave on a good note. On this particular night, he bought two albums from me.

Right after dude walked away, this chick and her girl that I remember from previous shows came up and bought a CD. I caught another guy walking by me to leave holding hands with this sexy young 20 something rocking blue jeans and heels. His pants were tighter than hers, by the way, which is weird. I really shouldn’t complain much though. I came from an area where we wore pants three or four waist sizes bigger.

I was in the zone. In less than thirty minutes, I’d probably sold an additional 15 CDs. That extra $150 will definitely come in handy. Then this youngster walked up to me, and did what youngsters occasionally do, say some dumb shit. At the time, I was talking to my man, Mighty Mo Betta.

"Yo son, that was a good show, but if you all that like you supposed to be why you outside sellin' CDs and shit? Why you ain't on the radio or touring around the world?"

Early in my career it used to bother me getting asked stupid questions, but I had to realize that most people just don't know how the business works. Everything isn't instant Jay-Z that you add water and become a mogul. It takes hard work, a ton of money, great planning, good fortune, and a bunch of other shit to get there. Not to mention, a competent team.

I probably should've said that, but I was in a selling mode tonight. I'll teach another day. So I auto-replied, "Radio costs money. Plus, I got three kids and a wife bro. I'd rather feed them, then jetset." That should be enough...but it wasn't.

"Sounds like some bullshit to me. All I know is when my album drops my shit is going to be everywhere."

I really didn't feel like talking to dude about this shit. The truth is that my music is everywhere on digital retail landscape—iTunes, Google Play, Spotify, etc.—and that doesn't mean much of anything. First, everyone else has their music in those stores. It's almost an unwritten necessity, because it's the only way the public at large takes you seriously.

Secondly, unless you have an individual deal with these retail spots, you're not making much money from streams. I make more money by selling five hundred physical copies of my album than I would with one hundred thousand streams on these services.

Like I said, I was in a selling mode though, so I simply replied, "That's great homie. I wish you the best. Did you want to buy a CD?"

"Buy a CD? Yeah sure. I'll come back by here to pay for more when my shit blows. Maybe you can open up for me or something." The asshole smirked at me. Well, smirk isn't the right description. It was more like a condescending smile that's sort of like the one that cats give to Boy Scouts that are posted up outside of Lowe's to sell you that overpriced ass popcorn.

The homies, Terry and Moe Betta came out of nowhere to yoke dude up for his comments. Apparently they were in the background the whole time observing our interactions. I broke it up quick though, I didn't want it to get crazy. The last thing we needed was a fight outside of here. I wouldn't want those problems caused for D.R.E.S.

Begin Side Note – From what I've been told by promoters, security personnel, and venue managers, the most violent concerts are country western ones. According to them, it's not even close. Quoting someone that wants to remain anonymous, "Rednecks and PBR is always a bad idea." – End Side Note

Now there's a crowd around us like we're about to rock a cypher, which would've given me a great opportunity to get some of this music out of my hands, but I digress. Instead I played the peacekeeper, effectively transforming from sell mode, and doing what I should've been in the first place when dude started talking that shit. I schooled him.

"I get it, fam. You want to be a rap star."

"Damn right. I'm a have the jewels, bitches, and the VIP."

I smiled. "I remember when I was like that. It's an awesome feeling. Let me ask you this. Should I want the jewels or a house?"

"A house of course. But, that has...."

"Should I want the bitches or my family."

"Your family."

"The VIP, or shoot for something more. I get that you want to do it big, and I hope you get it. My mission is different. I want to make music that I love, provide security and a better environment for my wife, and inspire youngsters like you to go out and achieve. You feel me?"

"Yeah, I feel you." His condescension immediately transforms to humility.

"Now we can sit here and go back and forth with each other, but what would that prove? I've been where you are and accomplished a lot in my career, and surpassed many of my predecessors. Now it's your turn to go out there and pass me up." Did I really want dude to pass me up? Probably not, but I do want to see him succeed.

"Much respect, Quanstar. I didn't mean to come off like that. I'm just hungry as hell."

"Hunger is a great thing, dog. Do your thing."

We dap, and he walks off. The crowd starts to disperse once they realize a fight or battle isn't happening. Maybe I can get a couple CDs off before everyone gets to their cars or goes back inside.

That's when I met him...