To the vacant viewer, this mechanical device I wear around my neck may appear to be some sort of gimmick. Some personal trademark as if I were a product to be branded – but are we not the branded generation? Gap. American Apparel. McDonalds brandished across our guts? Truly mine is a life defined by the commodification of the self.
I am a rapper who does not rap. Instead I choose to pastiche the restrictiveness of the rhyming formula, shouting short platitudes of “Bring it!” and “Yeah boy!” to satirise the efforts of my less avant garde associates. Sometimes I choose instead to bellow my own name. “Flavor Flav!” I declare: the ultimate solipsism.
Even my very title is a tribute to the repetitiveness of the human experience: the first word ‘Flavor’ is repeated, but this time truncated, diminished, symbolising the loss that occurs in the retelling, in the reliving, of each experience from memory.