Advice to Aspiring Battle Rappers

So you've seen some of favourite battle rappers spitting their bars on one of the popular YouTube channels, now you think you've got what it takes to step up!

Hold a second though, bruv!

You sure you're ready?

So [in your own mind] you crushed an impromptu freestyle battle at a random party with your secretly penned pre-writtens, now you think you have what it takes? Go at it then, I'm not going to hold you back, I'll just inform you of what's to come.

Now, for a brief second, I'm going to assume you aren't some deluded twat that thinks he [or she] can simply send in a 30 second snippet of you rapping a cypher verse captured on a shaky smart-phone in order to get yourself a try-out in a 'big league'. And that, in fact, you're some kind of purist that wants to cut his [or her] teeth and sharper his [or her] wits in a 'lower league' before taking the plunge.

If you are one of those deluded twats, please stop reading now, good luck at your try-out that'll never see the light of day. [Damn should have wrote; “good luck at your try-out that'll never see Daylyt”, that'd have been almost amusing for the two people that read this].

But how do you go about getting a battle?

You've gotta get on social media or message boards or YouTube to start finding lower level leagues that take some battle rap obsessed nerd and match him [or her] with another battle rap obsessed nerd so they can duel it out with words and multis and schemes and shit! This should be easy enough because battle rap leagues are sprouting up left, right and centre, they're like Drum & Bass nights five years ago. So you swear to the promoter you'll turn up and you'll be amazing. Then you get an opponent, you learn his rap name, his real name, his girlfriend's favourite ice cream flavour, his shoe size, his GCSE grades and the name of second-cousin-twice-removed's pet and anything else you can.

So you gather information, say he's mad 'cos his work his shit, you twist it and make it tantalising for the public... like a tabloid journalist [punchlines for days!] But wait, you're a purist, you want no filler, all killer, plus fuck the cheap angles; mum jokes, girlfriend bars... pfff … that's amateur shit, you're going to put in a fucking classic performance battle rap historians will document in years to come. But just in case you're battling some fucking cunt that thinks it's cool to openly mention your mother's or your girlfriend's full name in battle, you've got those killer flips tucked away that multi his mother/girlfriend's [or father/boyfriend's – damn, this gender correction is getting ridiculous, so I'm giving up] name to oblivion! But let's hope it doesn't come to that.

But hey, you tow the line with a couple of name flips and maybe a jokes about where he is from. Also you've got a couple of ideas brewing, you've learned some of your rival's personal traits and you're going to manipulate them into a scheme. For example, you discover your rival is ginger, so you pen something like;

“You were born with a negative aura like a pessimist’s daughter,
Yes; it is slaughter, when I break down this Ginger without a pestle and mortar

For crossing the Throne of Caesar; I'm orchestrating this ginger bitch's closing features

It'll be like when Boudica stepped to the wrong Roman leader ”

… or maybe your opponent has another man's name on his neck for some reason, so you write;

“I don't wanna get sordid about the name on your neck you've had painted and etched
Maybe, I guess, it could be a mate that has left after you've laid him to rest,
Or there once was a lady you pressed and that's the name of the baby she kept
But at the tattooist's ... did you not engage your brain for a sec or debate in your head;

And think of a better way of paying respects without maiming your flesh?
I mean; due to me evening mentioning [NAME] you're acting restrained and oppressed
Cos that's a relationship that's become blatantly stressed and must be tainted at best;
- now you symbolically class [NAME] as a massive pain in your neck ”

… or perhaps you saw his last battle in which he got an over-zealous crowd response due to a high percentage of his friends turning up and you want to highlight that, by saying*;

“From your 2 on 2s, I cynically doubt your passion
for bringing around a faction of squinting & pouting badman
that were singing it loud and brapping while you delivered your rounds of rapping

I still can't figure it out, it's baffling

they wouldn't have been less menacing if they were skipping about and prancing
But you're in Derby now; the City I proudly stand in,
so expect limited crowd reaction
from the lyrics your pronouncing at Ben in that primitive sounding accent,”

I'm sure in your heart of hearts you think those angles are innovative, original and pack a punch that would leave any rival beaten [ - they probably would to be fair].

You prep; you go back and forth with your friends. They read you a line, you say the next one. They play their roles as friends and step up to the mark, while secretly hoping on you make a fool of yourself so things can go back to normal. Every night you go to sleep reciting your rounds, you wake up, you recite them, you take a shit, you recite them. You've got them locked down! Your ego starts to boost a bit, you're mentioning it to people at work. You give them the whole “nowadays to 8 Mile” speech. They ask when it is, acting very intrigued, you tell them. They ask you to rap a line. You freeze... then you stutter... then you come up with some bullshit excuse about saying them in public before the battle. Then you worry.

But you're fucked. The day is upon you and despite all those stellar performances you put on in front of the bathroom mirror, you start to doubt if the slightly drunken people in attendance will get each one of your obscure references that seem perfectly normal to you [everyone has a large understanding of Park Chan-wook films and Johnny Cash's early work, right? RIGHT?]

You enter the venue; knees weak, arms are heavy, as if it's some kind of cliché. The host greets you, you talk for a little bit, then he's needed somewhere else. You get a pint then you retreat to corner. You clock watch, getting more anxious as each minute passes. Battles were supposed to start at 6.00pm, it's now 7.49pm, what's going on? Then it hits you; there's more names on the flyer than there is people in the venue. You rapidly scan the crowd looking for the face that matches that Facebook profile pic you've been infatuated with putting all your inner frustrations on for the last seven weeks. You can't spot it.

You don't even notice the host approaching you, as your pupils dart back and forth like some type of medically documented eye spasm [punchlines for weeks!], finally his presence grabs your full attention. You see the look on his face and you know the deal, but you have to hear it anyway;

“Sorry dude, your opponent has no-showed due to; family problem/health issue/transport troubles/being a pussy!”

But now you know the most important aspect of becoming an aspiring battle rapper; battle rappers are flakier than a Cadbury's Flake in the pocket of a snowboarder involved in an avalanche! [Punchlines for weeks!]

You'll never admit it out loud but there's a slight relief you don't have to battle anymore. Plus technically you turned up, so you've won... you try and convince yourself. You try and enjoy the night. You spit your bars to a few of the other battlers and get some supportive reactions, maybe they feel sorry for you, maybe they actually liked it, either way you feel comfortable enough to at least give this another go! Although nobody got the; “Find a job and start that soon, cos you've made more money off J.S.A. than Park Chan-Wook” bar or your 'Johnny Cash Scheme'.

“Maybe you can reuse some of those bars in the future.” Someone kindly points out. You believe them, due to the fact the contents of your rounds means nothing to you anymore, it's just a collections of words placed into a routine that you've embedded into your memory. Then you recall the angles you took; ginger, name tattooed on neck, over-zealous crowd response... yeah I'm sure you'll be able to work those bars into any upcoming battle! So much for being a purist... bet those generic mum jokes and girlfriend bars are looking much, much better now.

End of Part 1. 

* also in this analogy your name's Ben, and you live in Derby.