Screw Washington Avenue clubs and their selective admittance. We'd rather hit up downtown and get felt up for guns or knives and listen to some hard-core hip-hop.
11:15 p.m., Saturday:
We met up with V-Zilla at Toc-Bar because his studio, or as he puts it, "the dungeon," is nestled underneath the club. He's in some kind of managerial position there and gets us a couple of shots before having some real talk.
We chase it down with some beer and the next thing you know, we're buzzing ... hard... and everyone is being nice to us. Our name, followed by "of the Houston Press
," is being shouted over the mike and we hear some sporadic cheering and we realize that contributing to the Houston Press
has some serious perks... for the ego at least.
Focus, Rolando, you're here to do some serious reporting. So we stumble down to the club's cold basement with Zilla and he plays us tracks from his catalog from the last five years or so and he lets us hear some other artists who aren't even on the underground radar and we start to suspect that the best rappers in Houston may be artists no one's ever heard of.
He tells us how the industry has slept on him (and we agree). Then we start getting mad like Chris Farley in Black Sheep
when he is smoking with the Jamaican guys: "So anyway, what you're saying, I'm the man, whitey, and you guys are the victims of a tyrannical, racist, oppressive society. Man, that sucks! I'm gonna talk to some people, straighten this out, man. It's a bunch of bullcrap!"