It was 2010 and I was a confused, young 24-year-old man. Riding high on a renewed burst of creative energy, I decided I was going to try my hand at writing a rap album.
Now, it clearly wasn't going to be a serious endeavor. After all, my background was hardly the sort from which soul-filled, candid hip-hop originates. So I did what any budding white Portland hipster would do: I made it an exercise in satire and irony, with a dash of sarcastic misogyny.
I was fortunate enough to play a few shows around Portland with the material on I Sold Out. One of them originated on Facebook—a promoter reached out to me out of the blue and asked if I was available to do a show that night at a venue called Refuge in the Southeast industrial district.
Another time, I played at one of Chet's annual band bashes at a state park in Estacada, east of Portland.
Both shows were valuable learning experiences. I came to realize I suffered major stage fright and drank beer until it was manageable. I also learned that you really don't have to be that talented if you have a gimmick. The gimmick can carry you. Nowadays, with more years lived and wrinkles endured, I'm doing my best to shy away from the cheap thrills of gimmickry and toward attempting excellence, even though it's the more arduous path. But I'm glad I had a period where I had a lot of fun making whatever came to mind.
Listen, but be forewarned that I don't actually believe any of the words I speak on the record. My favorites are The Clurrrb and Hipster Chick.