A Song of Giovane
And so Giovane had come into prominence and much import amidst the youths of his tribe, as many of the elders had taken to illness during the freezing months. They had become mulch for the worms, creeping closer to the barrier by the day. He was the reclamation of an identity, a forlorn soul rationed to its searchers. He was an archeologist of the world’s mystery. Within days, the culture consumed them, the soul o’erbearing and bursting through the bellies and ears of its collective host, letting hope slip onto the streets of the society known as Bushwick.
They deemed him a king, a spiritual guide traversing the post-inferno landscape with on fire bars. He let the bravura push his entity through the derelict homes. He raided the Bodegas, the clan castles, the parlors, the Narrows, the recurrent temples of the venerable MacDonal’s, where the food, by miracle of the patron saint Ronald, still remained edible through however many years of nothing. Giovane eluded his own mortality by rumors of his immortality. Lo, could ever they be called rumors, but obersvances onto the nature of divined men.
They sang his songs through the streets. They sang it to the glowing eyes so far above them, the ambitions of Giovane and his society. They sang it so that the shadowy beasts lost to the shadows of an abused history could hear it from their graves. They sang it, worshipped it. He mastered the tracks of his sermons, sickened the beat, and dropped the freshest rhymes that could emulate the prophetic voices. But so many questions remained: Who were these police and these ghettoes that so vibrantly colored the landscape of the olden worlds? Are the worlds they inhabited now these sacred ghettoes? Through what means can one attain either the perfect beat or passage to the Planet Rock?
On one particular day, the choirs assembled in the park titled He’nandez, and they circled round their glorious hero and sung:
Glory to the fresh king, to the slickest G
Magnanimous, fly snow to skyscraper
Sky scraping, skiddin’ between the suns
Reppin’ that he be the truest son,
Our native son, hand on the illest gun
The Holy Glory, no better story
Ever told than the founding,
The best motherfuckin’, never hunky-dory
Automatic Illmatic S-O-B
The magnanimous G-I-O,
Can’t believe til you see
One sight make your chest go “oh!”
Handsome is he! Sexy is he!
And so it goes. Truly, the verses, this incomprehensible and meticulous half day effort, this Concert, as it was known, endured until the sun set and even Giovane himself tired of the praise. But it was good. Admittedly the scribes were fledgling, but surely, with the guidance of their king, they would compose the sickest EP of the new world in honor of him. The Song of Giovane would be the cultural masterpiece of this society.