Tank and the Bangas is an American musical group based in New Orleans, Louisiana, United States. They’re rise in popularity came following their victory in the 2017 NPR Tiny Desk Contest. The group was founded and fronted by Tarriona “Tank” Ball on lead vocals; Ball first gained attention as a slam poet. Other members include Joshua Johnson on drums and as musical director, Norman Spence on bass and synth keys, Jonathan Johnson on bass, Merell Burkett on keyboard, Joe Johnson on keyboard, Anjelika “Jelly” Joseph and Kayla Buggage on background vocals, Albert Allenback on alto saxophone and flute and Etienne Stoufflet on tenor saxophone. Writing in The Washingtonian, Heather Rudow described the group’s work as “lively fusion of funk, soul, hip hop, rock, and spoken word.”
Continuing on with last week’s theme, this Food For Thought was written by Amy Nicole, and will further address unfulfilled working, as seen through J. Cole’s perspective lenses.
Working 9 to 5 Just To Stay Alive
By Amy Nicole
“I can’t count how many times I’ve seen comments and memes from people flooding my social media pages, expressing how much they hate their jobs and how they can’t wait for the weekend. I’ve posted a few memes myself regarding my frustration about working a job that I hate because bills have to get paid. I had a conversation with my sister about how the thought of going to school for so many years just to prepare to work for someone for the rest of your life is depressing. I do realize that in order for the average person to sustain a lifestyle, that person has to work to earn an income. We have bills to pay, food and clothes to buy, families to support, and with whatever is leftover we want to try to somewhat enjoy life within the madness.
I came across an interview that J. Cole did with Angie Martinez on Power 105.1 recently and he spoke on the same topic. He said the following about working a job that you hate:
“We all sellouts….. You selling out. You going to something you don’t like. Why? So you can live and survive. To me life don’t feel like it’s supposed to be like that no more. It feel like somebody time gotta be worth more than $8 an hour. You spend your whole day going to work, 8 hours out of your day. A day is only 24 hours, you gonna sleep 8 of those so right away that’s 16 hours. Half of your day is making $8 an hour. Even if you get $15 an hour and they trying to raise minimum wage. A hour of my life is worth $15? Ok but I gotta do it, I gotta work, I gotta eat.”
He also touched on some other heavy issues that most people are afraid to discuss. He referred to capitalism as paid slavery, and he discussed how most people are out for themselves looking to make a profit despite what is being jeopardized in the process. He even went as far as to say the type of food we eat, music we listen to and type of shows we watch are detrimental; however, at the end of the day someone is making money off all of it. He stated:
“That’s what capitalism teaches us. It’s a every man for himself mentality. It’s a I gotta be on top….For me to be on top, I gotta have a bottom. For me to own McDonalds, I gotta have somebody at the bottom working at McDonalds. For me to own any company, any business… Capitalism is like… to me it’s like… I don’t know the alternative; I don’t even know if it exists. I don’t think we’ve evolved to something that exists yet, but capitalism is just paid slavery. It’s the same set up as slavery, only difference was slaves wasn’t getting paid.”
Martinez addressed his taking part in the Ferguson protests, and he opened up on how he feels that we live within a system that wants us to become so preoccupied and distracted with our own lives that we don’t have time to take a stand on anything or have compassion for someone else.
“The people at the top love the fact that everybody is so busy with themselves and their own lives that they don’t have the time to stand for something or to fight for something.”
“It’s graduate college and it’s like now I gotta pay my bills now, I gotta get this deal before my time runs out. Like life happens and you worry about all this stuff and you don’t have the time to fight for nothing no more. You don’t have the time to even care because I got my own kids… yea this man died, but it’s like yo bruh I got bills and twitter is popping right now, and Instagram is hot, and ‘Love and Hip Hop Reunion’ is on. It’s like they love to distract you and like keep you occupied while they just molest the world and milk the world. You know what I mean?”
Cole said a mouthful. He has been one of my top favorite rappers for a while now; not just because of his music but because of his mindset and intelligence. This interview made me have a new level of respect for him. He was very vocal about certain taboo topics on his latest album 2014 Forest Hills Drive, and he recently gave an emotional and powerful performance on the Dave Letterman Showthat even left the host almost speechless.”
I recently read an article by Cassidy Kakin that I couldn’t resist sharing with you all. His words were all too familiar, as a working adult, whose escape from the reality also stems from the impact of music. I’m pretty sure we’ve all woken up in the morning, dreading going to work as each hour creeps closer to the time we have to be there. “Do I really need this job?” we think. “Oh thank God, I’ve got two more hours until my alarms clock goes off” In America, it has become common to live only for the weekends, but why? Cassidy explains how the “American Nightmare” weighed heavily on his energy, his psyche, and his happiness, and what he did to reclaim all of these things. Give it a read, I promise it’ll be worth it.
I Quit My Tech Job Because of Kendrick Lamar
Since then, I’ve been a whole lot broker but also a whole lot happier.
Apr 10, 2017
“When I was 23, my mother-in-law to be was proud of me.
I’m two years older now, carrying a few pounds less stress and a few dozen more complexes when I wake up in the morning, and that notion disgusts me.
A lot has changed; new jobs, new relationships, new addresses have come and gone. Old friends with new homes and new wives. New perspectives. New hip-hop. Looking back, I can trace the first domino in all those toppling transformations back to the morning I quit my Silicon Valley tech job. And the night before, when Kendrick Lamar dropped To Pimp a Butterfly.
Rewind to February 2015, the first time I felt like a big kid. I’d been out of school and living on my own for two years, but by the end of that cruel winter, everything was different. I’d found my pocket. Professionally, romantically, it all looked on the surface like things were lining up.
The soundtrack was golden too. Joey Bada$$ stumbling into his grown man swagger right alongside me, Run The Jewels giving all of us young old heads faith in the culture. More powerful underground music than I’d ever swam in before, doing more for my heart and soul than I’d ever thought to ask for.
Something was wrong, though. Something was missing. A grating feeling, like I wasn’t who I was supposed to be, started to work its way deep between the cracks in the paint covering the white picket fence in our tidy San Jose suburb. And it took To Pimp a Butterfly for me to understand why.
To imagine that my struggle as an upper-middle-class white college graduate living in the Bay and smoking too much weed shared any DNA with Kendrick and the demons he was battling is naive and bordering on cultural sacrilege. But I heard his words like I was staring at myself in the mirror, tasting the same anxiety and self-doubt that lingered in the back of my throat that Kendrick was trying to drown out in that hotel room.
March 2015, I was the COO of a small Silicon Valley angel-funded tech company that builds designer bike lights worth more than my dental visits. I was good at my job, but I wasn’t sure why, and nothing made any sense. To this day, I have no idea why my boss’ patent was worth millions of dollars, or why I was trusted with a company credit card when most months I lived on the wrong side of my checking account’s overdraft line and treated my FICO score like a game of Russian Roulette.
I had everything that the TV had ever told me I wanted, and none of it tasted right. The soundtrack was turning rotten. All the artists I loved looked scared. I remember feeling nauseous every morning, hearing about another death in the black community, another cop getting a paid vacation, another stain on my comfortable millennial ideals.
And I remember feeling anxious, like none of the community leaders I looked up to had the guts or vision to make the music I needed to hear addressing all of that fear and hurt.
Then, on March 15, Kendrick dropped.
To Pimp a Butterfly, starting with the opening track, felt as abrasive and refreshing as a Sprite wrapped in sandpaper.
“When I get signed, homie, I’ma buy a strap / Straight from the CIA, set it on my lap / Take a few M-16s to the hood / Pass ’em all out on the block, what’s good? / I’mma put the Compton swap meet by the White House / Republican run up, get socked out.” — “Wesley’s Theory“
Around midnight on the 15th, I was laying in bed, staring at Twitter and hating the idea of work in the morning like the rest of us. A few minutes later, TPAB landed in my iTunes folders, courtesy of its famously bungled release job, and I remember thinking as much about Huey P. as 2Pacalypse Now.
It felt like a weight was being lifted; like I was drinking my medicine for the first time in years. Kendrick rapped “I need forty acres and a mule / Not a forty ounce and a pitbull” and I felt like the trajectory of mainstream hip-hop was changed forever. Like I was witnessing history.
By 3 a.m., I’d squeezed in two back-to-back listens of TPAB‘s neo-fusion odyssey. Staring at that ticking clock and thinking about all of the emails I had to send in the morning, I walked myself through shutting my laptop and taking off my headphones and pretending like I cared about anything other than the voice of my favorite poet speaking truth to power.
But, of course, I pressed play again, diving a layer deeper into the radical mind of the artist just as revolutionary.
“And I’m insensitive, and I lack empathy / He looked at me and said, ‘Your potential is bittersweet’ / I looked at him and said, ‘Every nickel is mines to keep’” — “How Much a Dollar Cost“
From “How Much a Dollar Cost” to “Alright” to “Mortal Man” to “Complexion,” Kendrick refused to take the easy way out. These were protest songs for the people, not for TV endorsements. They were real images, not packaged politics.
I thought about Kendrick’s world, before and after fame, and I thought about what it meant to swing so hard for the fences as a major label artist with everything to lose. I thought about his unwavering convictions. Kendrick stared White America in the eye and showed us his scars.
Halfway through my third spin, as the hands on my clock were nearing 4 a.m., the prospect of my 10 a.m. budget meeting became the furthest thing from my mind.
When “u” came on, I heard it the way Kendrick meant for me to hear it:
“I fuckin’ tell you, you fuckin’ failure—you ain’t no leader! / I never liked you, forever despise you—I don’t need you! / The world don’t need you, don’t let them deceive you / Numbers lie too, fuck your pride too, that’s for dedication / Thought money would change you / Made you more complacent / I fuckin’ hate you, I hope you embrace it” — “u”
I’d been complacent, volunteering on the weekends and writing some rap think-pieces here and there, but otherwise totally detached from everything that inspired me. I knew the stakes were high, and that I wasn’t doing enough. I convinced myself that that was ok, that I had done my time and worked hard and deserved to live with whatever luxury was left after the rent and average self-destructive habits took their financial toll.
Yet, here was Kendrick. One of the most important figures of his generation. Taking the blame. Accepting that he hasn’t always been the leader he knows he should be. Looking in the mirror and seeing a 360-degree view of himself and resolving to cast out the lie that says we deserve to love every bit of ourselves, even the parts that don’t trust in who we can be.
By the fifth spin, with the clock reading 6 a.m., I didn’t have any illusions about showing up to a meeting at a job I didn’t care about. By the fifth time “Mortal Man” rang out, Pac’s voice cutting through whatever sheets of self-deception were still hanging on like a chainsaw through a Jell-O mold, I knew I didn’t ever want to go back to work.
So I didn’t.
That morning, I called my boss, turned in my two weeks notice, and was told politely that I should shut the hell up and chase my dreams sooner than that. That same morning, I also published a review of To Pimp a Butterfly that made me feel hungrier than I ever had for a life of thinking about rap and art and politics full-time and figuring it out along the way.
Since then, I’ve been a whole lot broker but also a whole lot happier. I’m nowhere near where I want to be, as a leader or a man or a member of my community, but I’m a lot closer than I was two years ago, staring in that mirror with Kendrick and finding reasons to hate myself.
To Pimp a Butterfly is an objective classic. More importantly, as it pertains to my own life story, it caught me at the right time. Kendrick showed me how to be a version of yourself that doesn’t hide from the nuances; his commitment to creating the album he wanted at a time when that album was needed inspires me to this day. I don’t think that I’ll ever fully move past that morning when I made that phone call.
Sitting there in my bed, iTunes on repeat, wrapped in blankets, but warm most of all with passion and the certainty that the right artist could change the world. Even if that only happens one late-night bender, one phone call to your boss, and one abandoned career at a time.
Kendrick helped me to appreciate who I am and who I hope I can become. Quit your job for an album listening session and join me in figuring it out, and I’ll see you in the “thank you” card aisle whistling K-Dot.