The WATL studio smelled like stale coffee and ambition—that particular blend of desperation and hope that only a working radio station could conjure at 3 PM on a Friday afternoon.

I sat across from Ms. Dee in her booth, hyper aware of everything: the red digital clock blinking 15:36 on the wall above the mixer console, the way the afternoon light cut through the soundproof glass, the hum of equipment that never quite stopped humming. The walls were a shrine to the station's history—posters of rappers and singers whose faces had faded into the grayscale of success or failure, I could never tell which. Yellow flyers advertising past events competed for wall space with hand-scrawled song requests and the occasional piece of fan mail, all pinned haphazardly like they were trophies. They weren't. They were just reminders that people were listening.

The microphone in front of me was professional-grade, black and heavy, mounted on an articulating arm that had probably been adjusted a thousand times by a thousand artists. My fingers felt the weight of it even though I wasn't holding it. The booth itself was intimate—cramped, really—with monitors showing the call screener's computer, the traffic map of Atlanta, and the playlist rotating on the automation system. Everything hummed at a frequency that got under your skin after a while.

Ms. Dee leaned back in her chair with that practiced ease of someone who'd been doing this for years. She was the *queen diva* of WATL, as she never let anyone forget, and her afternoon drive show was the number one urban radio platform in Georgia. That meant something. That meant I was on the platform that mattered.

"Hey Atlanta," Ms. Dee's voice had already shifted into broadcast mode—smoother, warmer, more alive than her speaking voice. "We're back from break. Once again, I am Ms. Dee, the queen diva, here with you on your afternoon drive to enrich your lives on the number one urban radio station in Georgia, WATL. We are continuing our conversation with Mr. Independent Hustle himself, Quanstar."

I laughed it off, but Ms. Dee's edification made me pretty uncomfortable. "What were we talking about?"

"Whether signing to a label is a good or bad thing."

"Well, I don't think it's either. It's about what you prefer."

"What about you?"

"It depends."

"On what?"

"If a person could do more for me than I could do for myself." That's not my real reason. It's been so long since someone has asked me that, I honestly forgot why I don't have a manager.

"That's all?"

"Well, yeah. And trust."

Better answer, and more truthful. I've been in the game for over 20 years, and I've seen some crazy shit.

"Trust? In the music business?"

"That's why I'm an independent."

I've seen a cat sign his friends to shitty near-lifetime deals with no ownership or publishing, then give them a huge advance to only take it back through 'studio fees.'

"So Quan, you tryin' to tell me that, with all of the years you been doin' this, the only thing that's keeping you from blowing up with a big name manager and label is trust?"

"Yep."

I've known of labels and managers getting cats coked out, then sticking a contract in their face.

"Damn. Well alright, let's go to the phone lines. Thank you for calling WATL. You're live with Dia."

"Hey, I love your show. I listen to it every day at work."

"Well, thank you."

"Um. I have a question for Quanstar."

"Ask away, fam."

I was once told a story about one rapper that was presented with photos of himself in compromising positions with another man, then blackmailed by the label to sign with it. Otherwise, the photos would get released on social media and ruin his career before it even started.

"I'm an MC myself, and, from what little exposure that I've had with the music business, it seems like everybody is trying to eat you up and spit you out after they got what they needed from you."

"Yep."

I've known of producers and A&R's that use their position of power to get sex, blow jobs, and other favors from artists that they "may" work with—hetero and homosexual—if they showed how much they wanted it.

"How can I avoid being a victim?"

"Run."

Dia and I laugh when I say that, but we really mean it. At best, the most ethical business models of the music business would be unethical or even criminal in any other industry. At worst, it's the playground of the devil—if you believe in that sort of thing.

"Run where?"

"Anywhere. Everywhere. Cause if they catch you, you'll be what they want you to be, and do what they want you do."

"Seriously?"

I feel bad for dude. I feel bad for any artist that comes into this profession, because it's not about 'if' you get fucked over. It's when, for how much, and how long will it take you to recover. Hell, it's happened to me, in one way or another, so many times that I started calling them learning lessons so that I could move on from them faster. I remember one lesson happening later that week with this promoter in Northern Virginia near D.C.

"Good show, fellas," says Flip. One thing I remember most about dude was how his West Indian accent contrasted with the surroundings of Reston, Virginia; however, his attire stated DMV all the way, even though he was a little too old to be walking around in a Washington Wizards jersey and not be going to a game. I wasn't judging though—at least until I got the bag.

"Preciate it, bruh." Then I stared down at dude's blue Jordan 10's that I'm sure he just copped for this show.

Flip, noticing me looking, bends down to brush some imaginary dirt off with the smirk on his face that told me that he thought I was admiring them. Or maybe jealous? "I just copped these today to go with the fit." I knew it. "Muthafuckas cost me a couple hun."

"Dope." I meant dumb, but the bag was the most important thing. Then my thoughts took me back to a time where I would've paid $200 for some sneakers. I actually remembered droppin' more than that for a pair of Tims. I even bought a $20 hanger once because I was told that it would make my suit fall naturally—whatever that meant. Those were the days of no children and the "free money" called credit cards. Shortly after Visa and AMEX came to my door looking for that free money back with interest, I rethought my fashion sense.

"Ya'll got a hotel room?"

"Naah. We're driving back tonight."

"Damn son, tonight?"

Evaready chimed in, "It's not that bad of a driving, especially when it's three of us."

"As soon as we settle up with you, we're out," I said, attempting to subtly remind Flip that this conversation is secondary to getting the bread we earned.

"Okay, let me get this shit straight with the club manager, and I'll get ya'll your dough so you can hit the road."

We watched him walk back to the manager's office. We were on the stage, facing an empty dance floor that was packed to capacity just an hour earlier when we realized two things:

- It may not have been a good idea to drive all the way to Atlanta tonight.
- We'd just put on a damn good show.

The evidence was in the merch sales. We sold out of damn near everything.

K, our DJ that hated the cold and loved big-boned women, lifted his head from his hooded slumber he was taking when he formed a lounging situation using three folding chairs. "That was fun, tonight."

"And lucrative," especially after we get this bread.

"Good 'cause I need the money," said Evaready.

"Who you tellin? This is rent, fam," I replied.

At that moment, God told me why I wouldn't be paying rent from tonight's show. The club owner emerges from his office—alone. "Alright fellas. Great show, but we have to clean and lock up now."

If Flip's accent gave away that idea that he wasn't from Reston, this guy was definitely from here. His entire look was suburban Virginia—from the Urban Outfitters retro gear to his $60 salon cut. He was cool though. We shared a glass of Don Julio earlier, and bonded over agreeing that good tequila should never be shot and bad tequila should never be consumed.

"We're waiting on Flip."

"Flip left."

"Bullshit. We've been here the whole time!"

My reply took him by surprise. Naah, it was more than likely the tone of my voice. What the fuck was dude trying to pull? He must think we're 'Stupid McDoopids' (I took that from the homie, Marcel P. Black).

"He went out the side door that lets out into the parking lot."

I think K sensed that I was at my "kill a muthafuka point," so he took over the conversation. "He didn't pay us yet."

"No way. That fucking snake ass guy."

Evaready adds, "He said that he was going to settle up with you, then pay us out."

"There goes rent."

"If I would've known he still owed you guys, I would've had ya'll come into the office too," the club owner says.

"I bet." He was probably in on the bullshit too.

"I'm sorry. For what it's worth, you guys were awesome."

"Thanks, unfortunately awesome doesn't pay the bills."

To his credit, the club owner ended up giving us $600 out of what the bar made because he felt bad. It was still $1000 short of what we were supposed to get. I regretted thinking he may have been involved, but I got pissed at him again because he wouldn't tell me where Flip lived.

Thinking back, I'm glad he didn't. If it would've played out like I think, then Flip would've claimed that the packed show didn't make any money. I would've had no choice but to whoop his ass. Evaready would've had his pistol out of the holster, ready to pop anybody that interfered. K would've had the car reved up and ready to roll. Then we would've all been in jail for assault and battery. I didn't need those problems. I was having enough trouble figuring out how I was going to pay rent.