![]() ![]() But for Metro, it was a lovely little oasis of productivity and positivity. The place was a bit wild: years after Metro was spending time there regularly, a bullet accidentally wizzed into the downstairs apartment, and an eviction notice soon followed. “I was trying to Google like, ‘How do you get a bass sound?’” Until a fortuitous high school piano class, he didn’t even know what a chord was. With a hunger and a willingness to sacrifice, he promised himself that there would be no “normal high school kid life-fucking around and going to parties and just chilling and shit.”Ĭountless, obsessive hours of trial and error followed days and nights were spent hacking away. He told her he wanted to be a producer.īy 13, he had a keyboard and the production software Fruity Loops. So he picked a different job title, one that sounded to him more respectable. He also wanted his mother to take him seriously. But he fell in love with Nelly, and that’s when he decided he wanted to make rap music. From his mother’s collection, he’d heard everything from MC Lyte and Ice Cube to Yo Yo Ma and Faith Hill. Louis, Missouri, when Country Grammar, the blockbuster debut from hometown hero Nelly, dropped. ![]() In the shoe store, in his socks, he rolls with the attention gamely. And now that his plans have come to fruition-it’s not just Kanye West that can’t stop blowing up his phone-he seems well at ease. It might seem spontaneous, but in fact, it’s taken Metro years to get here. It’s an odd phenomenon that happens every once in awhile: suddenly, one person’s sound pervades and dominates music. These days, Metro is as famous as a rap producer gets. “Metro Booooomin in the cut!” he announces. But it’s always done good naturedly, like the interlopers are actually old pals: “Ayo Metroooo!” In the Vans store, a kid in braces and a blazingly yellow Michigan pullover FaceTimes his friend, and puts the phone in Metro’s face. At regular clips, Metro is stopped and asked for photos. Nearly giggling, they bow to superstition and retrace their steps to pass the pole on the right side. Passing a pole, they unthinkingly split up and cross it on either side-a practice traditionally considered bad luck. The crew pings around the mall in a manner befitting their age. Someone asks, politely: So’s Kanye trying to sign you? Metro scoffs at the thought. “Yeah, I’m just trying to put shotguns to niggas’ chests.”īy this, clearly, Metro is honored. There’s chatter about samples received, beats sent out, the tossing around of alluring names (Abel! Young Chop!). This whole time, Metro has kept up the phone call. We pile into an Uber, then head out to Lenox Square Mall, the decided-upon pants-purchasing location. The continued non-exposure of his forehead, clearly, is something to which he gives diligent consideration. He folds it carefully and swaps it out for the camouflage one he’s currently wearing. His ear to the phone, Metro picks out a bandana from among the sprawl of chargers and clothes on the tightly-pulled hotel sheets. Gummy bears in mouth, they nod approvingly. ![]() He shows the pals the phone, and sings: “ Can we get much higher?!” It’s Kanye. Metro gets a phone call, and his eyes widen. They consider popping open the minibar Bombay Gin, but opt for the fancy gummy bears instead. A few of his buddies, all gregarious young guys with music-industry affiliations that he’s known for years, are hanging out. But right now, in a corner suite at the downtown Atlanta W hotel, he’s just trying to decide where to buy pants. ![]()
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