We Took Mescaline and Went to See Erykah Badu and Dam-Funk

A wise crackhead I met on a bus once told me, "You don't do mescaline…mescaline does you." I never forgot those immortal words of wisdom or the image of him whipping out his penis and urinating on crowded bus headed towards downtown. So, with that in mind, how does a self-exiled, quasi-popular Los Angeles-#based rapper celebrate the completion of his new album and a birthday signaling another year of life on this miserable planet? How about ingesting a dosage of mescaline powerful enough to kill off an entire South American village and having his brain melted into a puddle of rainbow sherbet at a Dam-Funk and Erykah Badu show at a place called the Mayan Theater? What follows is a stream-of-unconsciousness report of my thoughts from the evening.

Oh god it's not even 10:00 yet and already my intestines are bubbling like murky swamp water. I've always heard that mescaline could cause nausea and diarrhea…What a splendid birthday gift to myself! I’m predicting Badu goes into “Bag Lady” I get so excited I shit all the dance floor. Not gonna let that happen. I may be in a state of bewilderment and euphoria but there will be no secretion of bodily fluid unless my passion pudding is exploding on to my date’s face later. Who am I kidding? I'm not fucking tonight, I feel like a plate of flan. My bones are transforming into gruel. The type they feed orphans, prisoners, and nursing home patients. Grandpa might die tonight.

This is my first time at the Mayan Theater. True to its name it looks like something out of Mel Gibson's Apocalypto—subtly racist, yet visually dazzling. The interior is designed to reflect the ruins of an ancient Mesoamerican civilization and honestly it's only adding to my paranoia. It's like Legend of the Hidden temple up in this bitch, and only a matter of time before some fucker in tribal war paint and a loincloth pops out of the shadows to drink my blood. I'm starting to panic. Everyone here is way older than me and I swear to god this girl who’s dressed like she’s into crystal healing and sells dreamcatchers made of recycled materials has no face. She also has no rhythm which is scary in and of itself, but her fucking face is missing.

Whether or not the faceless monster was a figment of my overly toxic imagination or not, she wasn't the only interesting character in the building. Any time funk or disco gets played in Los Angeles you can expect all the "Hey I'm Over 30 But Still Cool!" assholes to show up. Bohemian yoga moms with henna tattoos. White girls with dreadlocks who ride single gear bicycles and smell like a Whole Foods. Dudes in Pumas and fedoras who feel like they have to breakdance in the club because their moms and dads didn't pay them enough attention. Hey guys clear the floor and look at me, I can spin on my fucking head and pop-lock, LOOK MA HIP-HOP AINT DEAD. Wait, why is the disco ball hanging from the ceiling so huge? I'm only seeing light prisms now. My eyes fixated on the neon beams and everything’s becoming the light tube screensaver from Windows 98. The light patterns are calling to me. They’re saying, "Speaky you're high as fuck."

Where am I and why is this girl shaking her ass on me? Holy fuck that's MC Eiht on stage with Dam-Funk. They’re doing a remix of Dam's classic "Hood Pass Intact." In my mind I'm moving in sync to the bass slaps but my feet feel like they’re encased in cement and I'm dragging them across Syrian the desert. Dam is a legend in these parts and has spent his whole life busting ass in the name of the funk. In the world of trap rap and EDM he’s a traditionalist preserving a vital heritage. His set consists of rare 45’s disco cuts and new joints off his collaboration album with Snoop…Lion? Delic? Zilla? Whatever the hell he's calling himself these days. I'm waiting for Funk to transform into a lowrider and hit switches. Never happens.

OK here comes Badu. My pal Thundercat is onstage, bass in hand. I shit you not: me, him and Topanga from Boy Meets World are best friends via iMessage group chat. That shit is golden. While Badu is setting up, a DJ is spinning dubstep versions of "Blue Monday"…he also just ruined Sister Nancy's classic song by incorporating all sorts of sound effects, what in the actual fuck. I think I just saw a serpent slither up the wall. Badu is now on digging through her digital crates. “Window Seat”…Tweet "Oops (Oh My)"…Outkast “So Fresh So Clean.” Any time she hits one of her songs she gets on the mic and sings along. The crowd goes crazy and this walrus of a woman tries to topple me me over in hopes of getting to the stage. Why? Oh of course, to take a shitty video on her Android phone. Badu just turned the sexy up to another level and plays Dr.Dre's “Fuck You.” Damn this song was great. All that headphone money and muscle milk ruined the good doctor. Devin the Dude’s verse comes in and I'm feeling up a stranger. I'm trying to sing along but I’ve lost the capacity for speech. I shriek and moan until I string together one sentence: I…wanna..go..home.

Speak raps, writes, and writes raps in Los Angeles. Check his music here, and find him on Twitter - @speakz

Like drug stuff? Welp, we've got you covered—we talked drugs with Mac Miller and Childish Gambino, and we wrote about dudes selling lean on Instagram,