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By Pete Cashmore (Nuts Editor)

On April 1st, at the age of 38, I did my first rap battle, for Don’t Flop, which is like making your football debut in the Champions League. I can’t tell you what happened in the battle itself, but I can tell you how it feels, before and after…

BEFORE

I’m not going to lie to you – in the run-up to the battle I was more terrified than I have been about anything in my life, and that includes a time when I flew into an active war-zone. I was completely beside myself with fear, and yet was completely unable to do the one thing that would have helped me out – in other words, go and have a couple of stiff, large drinks. No amount of people telling me that I was going to be fine helped me in the least, despite the fact that most people had, I would assume, pretty low expectations of what was to follow. When the first round of battles – both of which, to compound matters, were utterly sick – were out of the way, and Rowan announced that me and Alex were going to be on next, my guts started turning somersaults. These weren’t butterflies, these were the kind of giant-ass moths you’d expect to find in the King Kong remake.

I went and necked a Diet Coke to keep my mouth moist. Then I immediately found that I wanted to go to the toilet for a wazz. Incredibly, as soon as I had finished, I found that I wanted to go again, and had to turn back from the toilet door and re-wazz. So you might say that I was literally pissing myself. After I washed my hands, I took a moment to just go through a few of my rhymes into the mirror, for the simple reason that I wanted to have my cheesy Eight Mile moment.

Outside the toilet, I ran into Pamflit, who asked me if I wanted to go through my bars with him outside. I more or less wanted to do anything that would have gotten me out of there, so I ran through my first verse, with him doing one of his little “wooooo!” noises every time I did a decent punchline, and once I had negotiated the whole verse without a stumble, I settled a little. A very little. And then it was time to go.

I got to the centre of the room first and the circle began to form – a very tight one indeed. And then Alex was there, and then all of a sudden I was calling the flip, which I immediately lost. I hoped that Alex would ask me to go first, mainly because my first verse wouldn’t have really worked if I needed to do flips. Weirdly, as we were about to go, Rowan’s preamble got us both a rapturous round of applause, which I was not expecting. And then the first round was on me, and in an instant, my mouth went as dry as the Sahara to the point that I was struggling to get my words out. And then I got my first word out. “Alex.”

AFTER

I finished my bars first, having had the honour of going first, and to be honest, I don’t remember too much of what Alex said in his final round, although I did crack up laughing at least twice. The relief was overwhelming – I’d had one minor choke, had said the wrong word twice and forgotten six bars (on of which I considered to be my best on) but overall I had gotten through it roughly on time, had even played up to the camera a little bit, and the response had been pretty positive from what little I could remember – when you’re delivering your own rhymes, you tend to retreat into what I believe is known as “The Zone.” When the verdict had been given, I just wanted out of there as soon as I could get out through the crowd – Concrete is a basement bar, indeed a very cool one, but I wanted sunlight, space and oxygen, three things of which I had been denied for the previous 15 minutes. I have to admit that I all but missed the entirety of the Suus-Bowski-Evileyz triple-header, even though I’d been looking forward to that one. I was still uncomfortably amped, heart racing, eyes darting, waiting for a comedown that would not happen for a good hour and a half.

But at least I had some wine with me. And at least there were people outside who I knew, who could give me their cigarettes. Slowly but surely, the twitchiness began to turn to elation, as it became apparent that, far from disgracing ourselves, Alex and I had been equal parts of a battle that people thought was pretty bloody special. The general consensus was that we both “went in hard” – I don’t think most people could believe it. A foggy-eyed O’Shea told me that it was better than most of the debuts he’d ever seen, although I suspect that this may have more to do with his short-term memory function than anything.

All I remember of the next half hour was hugs from friends and strangers alike as it became apparent that I had successfully negotiated something which I had only ever before considered doing in the event of my contracting a terminal disease. It was an incredible feeling. Which is why, if Eurgh will let me and doesn’t think I’ll embarrass him too much, I hope to be doing it again.

By Alex Bartiromo

Ever since the modern form of a cappella, written battle rap has become popular, there has been one vital question that battlers and fans alike have posed time and time again: What is more important, making the crowd laugh or making them “ooh” and “aah” in respect? More simply put: jokes over bars? Back when battle rap was all freestyle, this debate seemed to matter less; any insult that got a reaction from the crowd was a positive. But as the scene has evolved and become more thought-out and complex, this question has become a serious matter in the battle rap community. Many judges have bemoaned the fact that battles seem to have become stand-up comedy events, but some key figures in the community have proclaimed that the main purpose of these events is to have fun, with Skirmish of Rhyme Asylum bluntly asserting, “jokes over bars” at a 2011 Don’t Flop event. In my opinion, this debate is irrelevant and detracts from the more important question of the quality of the content.

Now, to many I must seem to be over-analyzing this. I understand that for most rappers, battle rap events are to promote themselves a bit and have a good time. But, as someone who has watched many a battle in my time, this is what I like to do. I do also believe that looking at battles critically can improve the overall quality of them.

The reason I think that the “bars or jokes” argument is worthless is because I think that it i is being looked at from the wrong plane of thought. Rather than judging the seriousness of the content, I would rather examine the effectiveness and specificity. This effectively pivots the debate from “bars vs. jokes” to “generic vs. personal”. Now, when I say “personal”, I don’t necessarily mean it in the “true story” sense (although this definitely counts as a kind of personal bar), where one battler attempts to expose hidden or damning facts about the other battler’s life to make them look bad. When I talk about a personal bar, I mean a bar that only applies to the person it is being said to. For example, calling O’Shea fat is not personal, because there are other fat people in the battle rap scene. However, mentioning his job at Morrisons or his Everton fandom is personal because it could not be used against anyone else in the battle community (and few people in the world). YouTube user UgoStrange breaks this down wonderfully in his video on the same topic.

“Personal” bars are not always better; the best battlers are the ones who know what the situation calls for. For example, the aforementioned O’Shea is a master at using irrelevant and generic jokes to his advantage. When he wins a battle, much of the time, it is because he has essentially convinced the crowd that he is a more likeable person. In his recent Don’t Flop title match versus Sensa, he came with solid personals (an underrated aspect of his battling), but arguably the most effective parts of his verses were the jokes. This is because Sensa is an expert when it comes to personals (although I thought he was slightly off base in the angles he took here), but has always struggled to present himself as someone who could laugh at himself or be particularly funny at all (although his recent 2v2 battle proves me wrong, but at this point in time, the statement was true). Therefore, O’Shea was doing something that he could not, making him look superior in the battle. Sensa tried to rebut this concept in his third round when he said, “It’s not hard to make ‘em laugh bruv”. No, perhaps not (especially not that crowd). But done correctly, it can still be highly effective.

However, most battlers are not able to use those kinds of generic bars so effectively (which is a testament to O’Shea’s personality and charisma), and the ones that rely on them too much end up sounding trite and boring. This has become a problem with Charron over the past year, who has lifted jokes more than a few times from easy-to-find internet sites and stand-up comedy sketches, as Cruger eloquently pointed out in their battle at World Domination 2. He is just one example (and to be fair, he manages to pull it off decently), though, of a trend in battle rap that makes certain events seem like little more than Yo Momma with Wilmer Valderrama.

Which is not to say that battle rap events should be completely serious and devoid of fun either. I find it difficult to watch URL battles simply because everyone in the venue takes themselves so seriously and just try to prove that their opponents are “pussies” or “fags” without being able to laugh at themselves. This is a shame, because the battlers there are so clearly talented (the quality control is probably better than any other battle rap league in the world), and the events are so well put together. I do like a heated battle, but a verbal fight just to see who can rattle off more supposedly genuine gun bars is not appealing to me (and the whole idea of “fake personals” is another article altogether).

That is why the best battlers know when to use both serious bars and jokes while still keeping it personal. Look at TheSaurus, who has been a top-tier battler for nearly ten years now. In his most recent battle against Pat Stay, he walked this tightrope beautifully, using keeping all of his material focused on his opponent while still displaying his deft wordplay and impressive structure. In round one he rapped, “stop telling us you’re ‘sucka free’ and tell us what the fuck it means,” and then going on to display a series of stories to show that Pat Stay’s signature catchphrase may, in fact, be inaccurate. Later on in the battle, he was able to be just as effective using jokes. In round two, he said, “But wait y’all, Pat’s a boss/ Just look how fast he puts out those faggot blogs crying after every match he lost,” and then went for the jugular with, “So talk about my kid or my dad/ Or any chick from my past/ If I cared what your angles were, I’d call Bishop and ask,” citing the now infamous beef between Pat Stay and Bishop Brigante over bars that the latter purportedly gave to Marvwon before his battle with Stay. As you can see, TheSaurus was able to use both jokes and serious bars just as effectively, since they were both unique to his opponent. This recognition is a great part of how he has managed to be such an excellent battler for so long (funnily enough, it is a lack of this recognition that has kept Pat Stay from ever being truly top-tier).

Without giving my thoughts about everything in the battle scene, I think that by talking about “jokes vs. bars”, people are missing the point. They are both just as effective if the battler knows how to use them properly, and the battler uses them properly when he/she is able to single out his/her opponent with a rap that applies to nobody, or almost nobody, else. Of course, depending on how good the battler is at they, he/she can also mix in some generic bars to display their lyricism or to endear themselves to the audience, but the battlers that rely on them, with a few exceptions, end up being average at best and indistinguishable from any of the horde of jokers who happen to rhyme.

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