DISGRACELAND - A$AP Rocky: Love Sex Dreams/LSD and Locked Up Overseas

Episode Date: November 26, 2019

A$AP Rocky’s upbringing; Harlem, Riker’s, and his own instincts and sense of history informed his world view: A view that included not only a healthy respect for the healing powers of LSD, but also a healthy distaste for the political maelstrom surrounding cartoon president Donald J. Trump. The irony is that A$AP Rocky’s own behavior led him straight into the political fray—jailed in an international incident and, in the end, in need of the unlikeliest of political allies to help him escape. For the full list of contributors, visit disgracelandpod.com This episode is sponsored by Microdose Gummies. To learn more about microdosing THC, go to Microdose.com and use code DISGRACELAND to get free shipping and thirty percent off your first order.   See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. Disgrace Land is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about hip-hop star Asap Rocky are insane. He utilized LSD as a means of therapy. He was jailed at an early age for dealing drugs, arrested for assaulting photographers, and loudly proclaimed the psychedelic virtues of the purple drink.

Born in Harlem and raised in its drug and crimes during streets on the reverberations of Rapp's golden era, Asap Rocky seems the picture-perfect hip-hop star. One part, take-no-shit tough guy. The other part, trippy pretty-boy poet. But Asap Rocky never fit the mold. He broke it. His music has as much in common with his namesake,

the groundbreaking MC, Rakim, as it does the psychedelic songsmiths of the 60s, Lenin, Barrett, and Zimmerman among them. And his renegade contrarian nature is more like Mr. Zimmerman's, aka Bob Dylan, than it is the Dusted SoundCloud rappers ASAP Rocky shares a generation with. ASAP has even collaborated with Bob Dylan's grandson, Pablo, and is forever in awe of and in debt to another Pablo,

Yeezus himself, Kanye West. And like Kanye West, ASAP Rocky makes great music. And that music I played you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called Desolate Harpsichord MK2. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Old Town Road by Little Nas X. And why would I play you that specific slice of Gucci Hick cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on July 3rd, 2019.

And that was the day ASAP Rocky was jailed in Sweden, an event that would kick off an international incident and bring none other than the President of the United States to the defense of the desolate tripped-out hip-hop star. On this episode, Gucci Hick cheese, desolation, purple swag, and ASAP Rocky. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgrace land. All the time. This is 10-10 wins.

You give us 22 minutes. We'll give you the world. Good morning, 43 degrees on Tuesday morning, 7 a.m. I'm James Faradie, and here's what's happening. New York real estate tycoon Donald Trump announced today. He will host and star in a new reality television series called The Apprentice. It will air on NBC on Thursday nights as being billed as must-see TV. Racball legend Pete Rose has admitted to...

Rakim Myers had that stupid Morse code melody in his head from the news station pumping out of the guards radio. He heard it every morning. The radio was loud as fuck and twice as annoying. Who wanted to listen to people talk on the radio? He would never understand that. Why not just listen to music? But on his long list of problems, the radio was way down on the list. The blood wasn't much of a problem either.

It would flow down the prison shower drain, no problem. And the showers weren't really a problem either. In here, the guards would never see. Rakim squared off with the bigger burlier dude. It was his first prison fight. He knew it was coming. It was unavoidable. He and the bigger inmates stepped onto the row of tiles beneath the prison showerheads,

where their blood would eventually rain down and drain out, where the guards wouldn't see. The one-on-one brawl had been negotiated by Rakim's only friend in Rikers, Cassanova, a robber and check scammer from Flapbush, who Rakim had met in the bullpen on his first night. Right now, Casanova was surrounded by eight of this Burly Lug's closest prison buddies. Casanova nodded to Rakim. You got this, Rocky.

Rocky was Rakim's nickname. Fitting for what was about to go to the Rikers Island, 2004, the Juvie Unit. The one that screws called Animal Control. Raqim Rocky Myers was a scrawny 16-year-old, a pretty boy product of Harlem who had dabbled in the drug game for years, and in the past year graduated a slinging crack in the Bronx. His dad was in jail for dealing. His brother was gunned down in the streets when Rocky was just 13, and now, as would seem, his grim destiny, Rocky was on the island himself. At least for a couple of weeks, while his grandmother waited for his bail bond to be processed. and the charges were bullshit, drug charges, but nothing that could stick. He'd be out quick, so all he really needed to do was keep his head down.

But that first night in the bullpen was tough. He was starving, and if he was being honest, scared, you'd have to be a complete psychopath not to be. Whether you were in Animal Control, Genpop, or any of the other God-Forsaken unit in Rikers, Rikers was Rikers, a unique jail experience, like visiting an old ballpark, The quirk in the island's case was that everyone in the joint was either awaiting trial or serving a year or less on their sentence.

Without any nickel and dime terms or life sentence old timers around to invest in the place, consolidate power and insist on long-term stability, the constant churn of new inmates meant constant fighting, constant brawling, a perpetual law of the jungle. But Rocky had plans beyond Rikers. He'd been rapping since he was nine, had been named after the legendary MC, Rakim, who had pioneered the style of the layback laconic flow full of internal rhymes and runs along with his partner, DJ Eric B, breaking the Billboard Top 10 chart with their debut and becoming one of the most influential acts of the golden age of rap. Raqim gave him his name. Ricky gave him his style. Ricky was his brother and after he died, Rocky adopted his French braid hairstyle and

took his rapping even more seriously. So even alone, here in animal control, he knew he had one one thing that most of the other dudes and Rikers didn't have, vision. And in his peripheral vision, back on that first night in the pen, Rocky noticed Casanova. He was sprawled out in a prison jumpsuit sporting a pair of Nike Air Maxes, in the middle of Rikers like he didn't have a care in the world. When the fashion-conscious Rocky was impressed, Yo, how they let you keep your shoes?

Casanova laughed. He wasn't much older than this stick figure kid, but this was his third time through. He knew how things worked, how to get things. He was on some real Shawshank redemption shit, and he pulled a red and took Rocky under his wing. And Casanova laid it on, Rocky. Rule number one, don't tell anyone you're getting bailed out soon.

That'll make them want to fuck with you even more than they already do. Rule number two, when at lunch in the mess hall, don't sit on the iron bench. The iron bench is for fattes. That's why it's called riding the iron dick. It means you're a pussy, someone who can be fucked with. Just stand up and eat your food while you're practicing your ability to not make it. eye contact. Avoiding eye contact and thus any contact hopefully was part of the deal in prison.

Prison sex was a real threat. As fresh meat, new prisoners were constantly being sized up by the hard timers looking for vulnerable prisoners to rape or to quote unquote turn out or worse to punk out, meaning they'd pimped them out to other prisoners for a price. Sexual slavery was a real threat, which brought Casanova to rule number three. Don't borrow shit. Stay away from the prison loan sharks. Whatever contraband you think you need, it ain't worth it. Before you know it, that coffee you borrowed, you can't pay it back, and then you can't pay back the interest, and then you can't sit right for a week because you get turned out to pay back your debt, and then you end up fucking out your ass for the rest of the time you're in here. Casanova went on.

Rule number four, don't sit in the chairs by the TV either. Not unless you want to get whooped by some serious motherfuckers. The TV is the closest thing in here to pussy. Shit is on lock, make a play for it, and you better be able to back it up. with the television controlling it means you the top dog and you might look bad and all, but you ain't no alpha. Not yet anyway. But you ain't going to be in here long enough to grow into no big bad wolf, so just forget about the fucking TV altogether. And last, but certainly far from fucking least is rule number five. When it comes to getting clean, get in and out of the showers as fast as you can without incident, not unless you want to become somebody's bitch, see rules

number two A and three. But when it came to the showers, Rocky didn't listen. It was a matter of pride. The soap, when it thumped the back of his skull, sent him into an instinctive fury. He turned around and mouthed off to the big dude chucking the soap around the shower like Mike Vic. Before Rocky knew it, Big Dude and nine of his big dude buddies were encircling him in the shower. One way or another, Rocky knew he was about to be fucked. Luckily, Casanova was nearby and stepped in, thrusting his arm in between Rocky and the approaching mob. Yo, step back, make it a fair fight, fair fight, let him prove himself. And after a long, tense, paucing him. pause, Big Dude accepted the challenge and called off his crew.

Mono I Mano, it was no matter to Big Dude. Rocky was going down regardless. The fight began. Rocky and the Big Dude lunged at each other. Flesh met Flesh with a hollow slap, and their bare feet sliding on the wet tile went from squeal to screech as they wrestled each other from a firm grip. Big Dude shifted his weight, dragged them together over against the wall, jabbing Rocky's left flank with one of the industrial shower knobs.

The ancient metal rattled at his fixture. Rocky winced but used the pressure of the wall to twist out of the hold and regroup. Big Dude was big, but Rocky was fast. Before his opponent could zero in on him again, Rocky bounced back at him with lunch. And like a large, doofy cartoon character, the big dude's feet left the wet floor in a clean arc. His head toppled to the tile with a flat crack. Oos ran out from the crowd. And now with every blow of the blood sport, Rocky straddled the prone form of his enemy and started wailing on his sides.

avoid the face he thought bruise the body, the jumpsuit when he puts it on, will hide them. Just like the drains will take care of the blood. Nobody's business but theirs on the shower floor, not the screws, not the wardens. Rocky was going to make his rep right here, right now, and not just for winning, but for how he fought,

with style, with discretion. And then, with a heave, the big dude unexpectedly rolled them both over. Rocky now was underneath him. He raised a fist and Rocky prepared to see the light. Just then as the big dude pulled back his fist, he wobbled and lost his balance. Rocky pounced began wailing on his opponent again.

The crowd roared and Rocky's opponent collapsed to his feet, flopped onto the floor with a few fat, wet slaps, and Rocky stood firm on his feet. The Big Dude's friends moved into the fighting lane, crowding the showers. Rocky got on edge again. He suddenly wondered if Big Dude's boys weren't going to uphold the rules to the fair fight

and jump him to make a point that despite what they decreed upon that here in the pen there were no rules. But then, several of them patted him on the back, while the others helped up their friend and the sense of relief washed over Rocky. The sudden acceptance was disorienting.

Rocky felt a huge slap on the back from Casanova and stumbled forward a bit. Rikers Island, New York, New York. If he could make it in here, he could make it anywhere. Smoke from the blunt filled the air and thick curls at the hole. The chic Manhattan art gallery where ASAP Rocky was celebrating the release of his first full-length record, 2013's long-live ASAP.

He had come a long way from Rikers Island in nine short years. The room, pure white, was full of buzz and chatter. Clinking drinks, Soho-Bobo street fashion on display everywhere. Hedge fund bros and $5,000 suits and post-economic.com dudes and $10,000 denim and torn t-shirt ensembles. High-fashioned sneakers all around. Big blunts, big bank accounts, big beats. In the back of the room was the A-STERs.

The Harlem-based arts collective, whose members included ASAP Ferg, ASAP Nast, ASAP Ant, and others, with ASAP Rocky and ASAP Yams as the group's unofficial leaders. And the whole mob was moshing to a DJ remixing Rocky's signature tracks, while from across the gallery a reporter from the village voice absorbed the scene and jotted down notes. This wouldn't be the first glowing profile of Rocky. Rocky had been trailed in awe by a New York Times reporter two years earlier to come commemorate the release of his debut EP, Live, Love, Asap, which had blown up the New York rap scene

on the back of a surgical strike media campaign. It was ASAPBAMs who had built the high-traffic hip-hop tumbler page and then seated Rocky's first two singles, Purple Swag and Peso on the page, mixed in with the tribute videos to classic rappers. Both tracks were hits, videos soon followed. The rollout was executed perfectly, and so the offers from the major labels rolled in. Rocky had gone from slinging drugs to rapping full-time to record deal in six months flat.

Even the times, the old gray lady of the establishment that it was, praised him as an iconoclast and innovator, a visionary blending regional styles from across America to craft a new sound. And Rocky's taste as a listener was omnivorous. Johnny Cash, the Beatles, Bob Dylan and Pink Floyd, all mixed in with the greats of hip-hop past and present. And though ASAP's glow-up happened on Tumblr, his post-genre ideals and social media origins were really the starting gun heralding the SoundCloud rap era to come. The Times described his music as heavily narcotic in 2011.

And by the time of the full-length album and the smoke-filled party at the hole in 2013, it was truer than ever. The album, ASAP Rocky's debut album, debuted at number one on the Billboard 200 charts. It was a dizzying ride for Rocky. But Dizzy was something he was used to. The woozy psychedelic effect of ASAP's beat sank into the bodies of his listeners, the same way the thick blanket of blunt smoke sank around everybody in the room that night. And although Rocky wasn't a drug dealer himself anymore, drugs, especially psychedelics, remained central to his artistic process.

He considered them fuel for his vision, mushrooms, LSD, ecstasy, and lots and lots of weed. The Brash News Star happily told the time, that his crew had been ahead of the curve in the late odds when they started sipping lean, aka purple drink, aka codeine cough syrup mixed with vodka and sprite. Drugs were only part of the equation. Pussy was just as important.

The third track on the album was entitled, PMW, All I Really Need. PMW, of course, stood for Pussy Money Weed. For ASAP Rocky, it was an ethos, a lifestyle, one that didn't let up between the critically and commercially successful albums. In fact, when he wasn't making me, music, life was even more off the leash. Pussy, money, and weed were all in plentiful supply.

But like anything else, too much of a good thing gets boring. And on that day in July, 2012, with no work to be done at the studio and no more bawling to do in the bedroom and having had his fill of smoke before lunch, ASAP decided he needed some new threads. So he hit the Manhattan streets to go shopping. Out on the street, he was hustling to the sounds of the city, rich as Fuck by Lil Wayne blaring from a car with a sound system so bass heavy that Rocky felt it in his feet. A guy in a Yankees cap buying a post from a newsstand vendor and a Mets cap. Both men agreeing their teams for shit this year and oh yeah, fuck the Red Sox. And their exchange ended, the car drove off and just as Rocky passed the newsstand,

the stained old radio over the shoulder of the vendor hissed him from across the sidewalk. And then those familiar and annoying twitching beeps. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. We'll give you the word. Good afternoon, 74 degrees, partly sunny skies, 11 a.m., here's what's happening. New York's Donald Trump today again offered President Barack Obama $5 million to a charity of his choice for releasing his birth certificate. Major League baseball held its 84th All-Star Game at City Field in Queens. July in Manhattan.

Sticky, hot, and the rotting smell of garbage in the air, everywhere. Even in the nice parts of Manhattan, the smell was just part of the deal. Rocky was high on the purple, tripping slow, walking fast. At least he thought so anyway. He had swag one way or the other. But the garbage smell was throwing off his vibe. And as he bopped from shop to boutique to custom tailor, he kept finding the random people on the street more and more menacing.

Their eyes like black portals into the unknown. some real Jacob's Ladder shit. And he was seriously creeped out. He coached himself a little. Chill, chill. It's just some... But he was ASAP Rocky now. And some of these people really were staring at him.

As he stepped into the next door, his paranoia flattened him. Who the fuck were these people? And why wouldn't they stop staring? He knew he was good looking, but damn. Level out, he told himself. He went for his supply in his pocket, just a little something for the edge.

And as he pulled it out, though, he couldn't even tell what he was holding. A bottle of purple, a packed bowl, a tab of acid, he literally couldn't see what was in his hand. His vision was scrambled. He took a deep breath, swallowed, looked up and saw the big dude in the store staring at him. He was holding a bar of artisanal scented soap

made by a coven of witches in Brooklyn. He was big, vacant looking, but he immediately reminded Rocky of the big dude from the showers back at Rikers. Fucking creep. The fuck you looking at now, Rocky barked at him. Big dude grinned. Rocky swore he saw it. Then he saw him step to him. No joke. Yes, it happened. Something happened. Shit, what the fuck was happening? Rocky didn't think. He relied on muscle memory. What worked in the showers would work on the streets or in the boutiques. He grabbed the security guard. The big dude impitched him into a rack of $1,000 blazers. Sending the metal hangers rattling with the sound of a million tiny psychedelic sons, whatever the fuck that sounded like. But it was all Rocky could hear. The big dude said nothing.

Stop peeping my shit, Rocky shouted. And again, the big dude said nothing. Just collected himself and began to rise up. Rocky was through with him in his wordless staring bullshit. He shifted his warped vision out the window onto the street. Now there was a crew of big dudes. Must have been around seven or eight. And they had cameras out recording the damage Rocky had just done.

Every bad, paranoid, drugged out views and Rocky's nervous system ignited all at once. He raged out of the store, straight up to the two closest amateur paparazzi. They saw mania in his eyes, backed off to run, but it was too late. Rocky was too fast. He wrestled the cameras from them,

tried smashing one against his knee, tossed the other to the ground, stomped on it. No visible evidence. Leave nothing the screws could see, let the purple blood flow down the drain. And finally his adrenaline dipped and he took a beat.

What the fuck? Demandered one of the photographers. And then, the come down hit him all at once. Like a wave. The hell did he just do. Attempted grand larceny, assault, robbery, so said the arresting officers anyway. Rocky copped a plea for the larceny charge in exchange for the assault and robbery charges being dropped. The big dude sued Rocky on his own for assault, a cash grab that played out in court for over a year.

Rocky claimed self-defense and countersued, and the tangle of claims dragged on, but by the time they dropped the matter or came to a go-away settlement, they did so quietly. it made no more ways for Rocky's career. Eventually, just like a bad trip, it all melted away. Aesap Rocky wasn't in the hole anymore. He was at the hole, celebrating his album. His number one album, Life was good. Rocky was hungry. He needed some real fuel before his show that night.

He and his crew, a few members of ASAP mob and several enormous bodyguards, decided to check out Max Hamburgers, a sort of bougie, Swedish version of McDonald's. The crew made their way through the foreign streets, staying close together but still throwing off their desired vibe of intimidation meets in fucking invincible. And they were strangers in a strange land here in Stockholm on an international tour. It was July 2019. Asap Rocky had come a long way from the album release party at the whole. whole in the past six years. After his debut album debuted at number one, his second full-length record

at long last ASAP did the same thing in 2015, and then his third album, Testing, debuted at number four, making it three top five album drops in a row. Pretty impressive, but it was bittersweet. A few months before the release of at long last ASAP, Rocky's producing partner and fellow leader of the ASAP mob, ASAP YAMS, had been found unconscious in his broken. Oakland apartment, felled by a combination of opiates, benzos, and sleep apnea. Dead. For Rocky and the rest of the ASAP mob, it was the end of an era. And there have been other rough times, too, head trouble, meaning a few runs at sobriety, PR trouble due to various alleged dustups, a brawl in Times Square that led to the canceling of his first appearance on the Tonight Show and another brawl at a festival

where he allegedly slapped a woman, though ASAP denied it and the woman never showed in court. And of course, there was girl trouble, a bummer end to his relationship with Iggy Azalea, flings with Rihanna and Kylie Jenner, and turns with love and hip-hop star Tahiri Jones and Victoria's secret model Chanel Lamon. All sorts of trouble. And as is the case with most pop stars, there was the inevitable and ridiculous media trouble, too. In 2015, Rocky visited Oxford University in London and was asked if rap artists had a responsibility to speak out about racial justice issues after the Ferguson riots and rise of Black Lives Matter.

Rocky replied, no, elaborating that he didn't want to rap disingenuously about protests he hadn't participated in, and that in his experience, black-on-black violence was more common than police violence. Asap specifically said, at a time in 2014 when 60 people were shot over 1 July weekend, quote, why are we exploiting the beef between the urban community and the police force when 60 people got shot on Friday and Saturday in Chicago and black-on-black crime. So one cop shoots a black person? That kind of shit is inevitable. Not to glorify it, but that's nothing new.

Let's talk about the black-on-black crime. If you're not going to talk about the main topic, then don't talk about it at all. When asked for a follow-up by a reporter from the timeout in New York, Rocky replied, Who am I, Al Sharpton? I live in fucking Soho in Beverly Hills. I can't relate. I go back to Harlem. It's not the same.

it's a sad story. In a begrudging apology interview with Charlemagne the God, ASAP finishes thoughts on the subject. The overall message for me, the most I could really do is just like encourage everybody, man. We really got to get together, show love, spread love, especially with someone like that guy Trump in office. That's a catastrophe and that's really getting serious.

This was the summer of 2016. Donald J. Trump, New York real estate mogul, reality talk show host, part-time Barack Obama troll, the birther-in-chief, was now somehow the Republican candidate for commander-in-chief. Rocky spoke as if you were already in office, and maybe all the LSD had made him clairvoyant, but half of America was already freaking the fuck out, particularly the half that controlled most of the mainstream media.

And public pressure on artists to speak out about politics was at an all-time high, especially in the black community. There was an implied obligation being signaled to any cultural influence. influencer regardless of skin color. You're either with us or with him. And ASAP Rocky was not immune. But it was not a bag you wanted to carry. Not because of any political ideology, not because he believed with Trump or believed in his agenda, but just because for some people, politics, it ain't their thing. It's a cesspool of snakes who are in it for the money, the influence, the power, and the ego. Four things Rocky already had plenty of. Once you realize the politicians and the media are only in it for

themselves, then what's the point? You're either playing the game or being played by the game. He just assumed avoid it all. After Rocky rapped the press tour, he got back to what most every young male hip-hop star wants to get into, pussy, money, and weed, or put more esoterically in his trippy track LSD, love, sex, dreams. The lows were one thing, but the highs were surreal, magical. In that same year, 2016, an upstart rapper came up on the New York radio scene with a single title, Don't Run. And that rapper was Casanova, Asap's old guardian angel from Rikers. It was beyond belief, but they were reunited as friends and successful rappers randomly a decade later, after Casanova had finished a seven-year stint inside, and discovered upon his release that

the first timer he had once taken under his wing was now the world-famous Asap Rocky. Damn. Of course, his now worldwide fame came with its own set of hassles. Fans, bad fans, weirdos. Since the assault that led to the larceny charges in 2012, sure, Rocky and his entourage had their various minor scuffles at festivals and on tour, but nothing out of the ordinary. These things happen in Supernova hip-hip-hop star circles.

In the security cameras at Stockholm's Max Hamburgers, were about to show us exactly how. On the street outside, ASAP mob had been followed by an agitated teenage dude, thin with an arm tattoo, Middle Eastern complexion. He kept hovering, complaining to them, demanding some kind of payback,

something about breaking his headphones. Who the fuck was this guy? Had they bumped him leaving the burger joint or something? Why wouldn't he shut the hell up? Rocky flashed back to the boutique in Manhattan. And Rocky flashed back to the showers at Rikers. New York, paranoia, zombies, creeping. cross-continental.

Headphones, broke my headphones, yelled the guy, insisting in taking another run at the mob from his position hovering at the corner of the block. Jesus, man, fucking chill. The bad vibes kept viving. A couple members of the entourage, including a couple of the girls with them, took out their phones to document what was going on. Keep the story straight and theory. The closed circuit TV camera in the corner of the burger joint caught the first move.

Fucked as her. Rocky's bodyguard grabbed him and hurled him down the street. The dude tumbled violently on the pavement. Rocky and his crew bounced out of view of the burger shop cameras. And the kid followed, he wouldn't let up. Block after block, persistent, annoying little fucker that he was. My headphones this, my headphones that, blah, blah, blah, blah. The Rocky and his boys ignored him but kept their phones out, recording.

This did not sit well with the kid. Now it was his turn to be annoyed, agitated. He snapped, broke out in a phone. A long-on sprint at one of Rocky's bodyguards who grabbed him and flicked him away like he was swatting a fly. And the kid got up, pissed, and flung his headphones at Rocky. Rocky flashed back at the big dude, Mike Vic Wannaby, flinging the soap and the showers at Rikers. Rocky played it cool. Rocky's bodyguard did not.

He pounced, grabbed the kid and flung him down the street away from his protected pop star charge. The iPhone cameras kept rolling. This was the American star, ASAP Rocky, and his big-ass American crew kicking the shit out of some annoyed European fan halfway down the block. One of the cameras caught one of ASAP's crew saying, Yo, we're going to have to fuck this. But he trailed off. The cameras couldn't catch everything.

But that didn't stop Rocky's crew, and whoever else might have been lucky enough to be on the street that night to start uploading their videos of what was going down right away. For those close to Rocky, the live streams and uploads were a preemptive declaration of self-defense. For others, it was a chance to blow up their social platforms. Rocky jumped on Instagram live and began streaming. He knew just what to say.

Look, just for the cameras, we don't want no problems with these boys. They keep following us. The kid kept after them. Asap's mob tried talking him down, asking a couple of young local women to help translate their desire to be left alone, to get it through this kid's thick skull that they wanted no trouble. But the bad vibes kept coming. And after four blocks of being stalked, they were done trying with this kid.

annoying fuck that he was, and they were now on a quiet street and had given enough warnings, no more fucking around. The kid approached again. Asap's bodyguard lifted him up by the seams of his t-shirt like cheap luggage and launched him off of the sidewalk and into the road. And the kid landed by the curb with a crunch. Rocky and his crew sworn, they pummeled him with kicks, fists, stomp, grinding the annoying fan into the broken glass and dirt on the street. Hit after hit after hit, kick after kick after kick. And then it ended. And for a minute there, Rocky thought that would be it.

Dude stepped, dude got beat down, end his story. But of course, TMZ did not see it that way, and they had assault footage, probably offered up by an entourage hanger on for a nice payday and released to the public the very same day. Then the kid pressed charges. And by showtime the next night, there was a warrant out for ASAP Rocky's arrest. And when he voluntarily headed to the police station to clear up what he thought was a misunderstanding of who assaulted who first, he was arrested, immediately, and thrown in jail

without bail. The bad vibe, the dread in the pit of his stomach was overwhelming now. What the fuck had happened? How he ended up here, in Stockholm, in jail? The ironic answer was that he damned himself by proclaiming his innocence. His Instagram videos edited by Rocky and crew to frame their part of the incident as self-defense and posted later the same day. Authorities rule the edit was equivalent to tampering with evidence, decided Rocky was a flight risk and decided to keep him locked up until the trial was complete. Just like that, Rakim Myers was incarcerated again, reduced to his 16-year-old petty criminal self. Only this time, it wasn't Rikers, which was at least a kind of hell he knew. This time, it was half a world away, and now the world knew him. He was caged,

alone in a strange land, on confusing charges at the center of a media firestorm. and a straight-up international incident. 82 degrees, clear skies, 9 a.m., here's what's happening. New York rapper ASAP Rocky has been arrested in Sweden on charges of assault after We'll be right back after this. Word, word, word. The way the Reverend Al Sharpton told it, he was the quiet one of the bunch. And that was saying something, given that the one-time James Brown Bagboy turned FBI snitch,

turned outsider activists, turned cushy Manhattan elite media pundit. was one of the biggest blowviating windbags in America's long history of big bloviating windbags. But Sharpton was sitting in a helicopter between none other than the two Don's, Don King and Donald Trump. And all three of them had mastered the art of using their big mouths to stir media cyclones that no doubt would have made PT Barnum jealous. But no matter, the Rev knew it. The two Dons were bigger blowhearts than even himself. Don and the Donald were yelling over each other.

blowing out the headphones they all wore in order to hear over the noise of the helicopter rotors churning the air all around them. The headphone system made yelling completely useless, but the Rev knew explaining that to these two was unnecessary. Listening in the best of conditions wasn't one of either strong suits. Besides, it was only a short trip from Manhattan to Jersey. Soon enough, they'd be touching down for the fight in Atlantic City. The Donald had been courting Don King for a while, hoping to get more black fighters to book at his Trump casino,

specifically hot ticket Mike Tyson. It was Don who had insisted that Donald make peace with Al Sharpton as part of their collaboration in order to build ties with the black community. Sharpton, for his part, would later go on record to say that Donald Trump was basically the white Don King. So, if dummying up for a quick ride meant donations to his causes and to pull out all the stops night ringside inclusive of this here trip on a whirlibur, Well, that was just good business. Sure, the rev could sit quiet between the white and black versions of the same Carney Barker.

No problem. Sharpton would go right ahead and let Don King, the legendary black boxing promoter, who was a young lone shark, stomped a man to death on Cedar Avenue in Cleveland, trade fight predictions with Donald Trump, the pugnacious white real estate mogul with a history of civil rights violations at his rental properties. Al loved telling the story. The irony was too rich, especially considered. who Donald Trump now was.

The 45th president of the United States, who, while running for office, claimed you could shoot someone in the middle of Fifth Avenue and get away with it. Motherfucker said this in public and then won the election. Donald J. Trump, Don fucking King, gangsters to their core. Aesap's mother, Renee, stepped into Al Sharpton's office

along with the mothers of the two other ASAP entourage members who had been detained in Sweden. They had come to ask for his help in getting their sons free. But after Rocky's rejection of any responsibility to speak out on social justice issues in years past, the irony wafting through the room was not lost on any of them. Al Sharpton knew the score, and so did Renee and the other mothers. But Sharpton ignored the irony. The opportunity for publicity was too good.

Aligning himself publicly with one of the biggest hip-hop stars on the planet was a no-brainer. So, Reverend Al Sharpton released a statement demanding ASAP Rocky's release and proposing that he himself should get to visit Rocky as his minister. Yeah, that's the ticket. Sharpton then took it a step further and called on the U.S. Congress to pressure the State Department to act. But despite his best intentions, Al Sharpton was once again cut down to size by an even bigger voice. A familiar voice. Donald J. Trump's voice.

The President of the United States, one of the most polarizing and contradictory figures in the history of the world, a guy who toggled between state dinners in the mud of modern-day digital media with nonsensical grandpa Simpson Twitter rants. A dude who could charm you, offend you, make a pass at you, insult you, a dude who could steal from you, provide for you, cut you off, cut your taxes, grab your pussy, call you a pussy, bring back coal, blow off Davos. A dude who would bait you into an argument over race and then sign a prison reform,

while you weren't looking. This dude had decided to enter into the fray to help free ASAP Rocky. Of course he did. Because Kim Kardashian. And her husband, Kanye West, who claimed to be Trump's illegitimate son, who also claimed to be Jesus, which would make Trump Yahweh? Because the two of them, Kim and Kanye, reached out to the president using the only leverage besides money that Trump respected, celebrity, to press him to help get ASAP Rocky out of that Swedish jail cell and back home. Trump didn't need to be asked twice. He discarded his black hat, donned his red cape, I mean red tie, and sprang into action using his favorite weapon of choice.

Twitter. And the tweets shot off in 280 character rounds. Just spoke to Kanye West about his friend ASAP Rocky's incarceration. I will be calling the very talented prime minister of Sweden to see what we can do about helping ASAP Rockies. So many people would like to see this quickly resolved. End tweet. And a few days later, after the very talented Prime Minister of Sweden did not react the way the president wanted.

And while ASAP remained locked up, Trump fired again. Very disappointed in Prime Minister Stefan Loven for being unable to act. Sweden has led our African American community down in the United States. I watched the tapes of ASAP Rocky and he was being followed and harassed by troublemakers. Treat Americans fairly. Free Rocky, end tweet. And later that day, another shot with another tactic. Leverage.

Give ASAP Rocky his freedom. We do so much for Sweden, but it doesn't seem to work the other way around. Sweden should focus on its real crime problem. Hashtag free Rocky. End tweet. Twitter, of course, blew up. As did the rest of the media. Don King shrugged and tuned in the Fox.

Al Sharpton called it, but not from behind his desk as a commentator on MSNBC, but back in that helicopter, before ASAP Rocky was even born. Sure, the Rev could wrangle a media circus better than most, but when it came to ringleading the media, Donald Trump was on some other trip completely. And across the globe, ASAP Rocky was tripping the fear fantastic. Alone in his cell, the emptiness, the headspace, the unknown, loneliness fucking with him absolute,

LSD flashbacks, tracers painting the blackness of the cell, Purple thirst, deserted, desolate, words shooting off at him from the firing squad in his head, a mixed squadron of dream police and acid memory militia. Rocky tried blocking it out, focusing on his own words. Shots fired again, fuck that hippie rap. The battle was on. Aesap shot back.

The memory militia loaded, cocked, fired. Alone in his cell, cut off from the world, but knowing that the world was was watching, knowing that the fucking president of the United States was trying to engineer his release, the bigness of it all felt as though he was about to break him. The yogis say that in extended meditation retreats, you should prepare for a breakdown around day three or four, when the mind finally quiets to the point of having a true confrontation with the self. Ugly memories, hallucinations, repressed traumas, you face everything that you're running from in your own mind every day in one day.

violent but healing purge. Only Rocky wasn't in a pagoda in the Eastland Institute, finding his truth. He was in a Swedish jail being funneled through a confusing legal system over ridiculous charges. His mind, a scrambled, desolated mess. His eastern European and Russian tour dates were canceled. The cluster fuck got more fucked by the day, and the chaos came at him from all sides. Was the world going crazy or was he? In the week since Rocky's arrest in Sweden, petitions and hashtags have been launched. Many of Rocky's music and entertainment industry friends threatened to boycott Sweden for upcoming shows

if Rocky wasn't released. And the tweets from the president had shaken loose the State Department full court press that the good Reverend Al could only dream of. Attachies from the embassy visiting Rocky in jail. Official statements of a swift and independent process from the Swedish foreign minister and more eyeballs trained on Rocky than ever before.

Somehow, even in his caged solitude, could feel them. He could sense the Category 5 media shitstorm. It churned the air all around him like a psychic tornado, threatening to lift him off of his feet and press him against the jailhouse wall like the big dude slamming him into the showers back at Rikers, now 15 years ago in what seemed like another life. The sheer madness of the situation tripped him out beyond any psychedelic he had ever used. Millions upon millions of eyes and ears more than ever before focused on him, learning of him for the first time, not as an innovative musician, but as a fuck-up in a cell who needed Donald fucking Trump to bail his ass out. And the walls of the cell pulsed a deep beat, emanating tripped out rays from a shameful purple sun.

His confusion naked under the fluorescent lights, a rainbow of shadows, veiling his sight, glittering against the base bouncing from the walls. Rocky was trapped in the trippy suspense thriller of his own life. Would he be released or would he rot in jail? And then, a month after he'd been thrown into a Swedish prison, he was freed. Just like that. Just like that feeling you have when the ride is over. When the high of the LSD leaves your body. When the lights turn off.

When the blowhard in your brain stops barking at you. When the big dude takes his foot off your neck. And when the tracers clear out of your vision. And when the air starts to taste like freedom again. In the end, Rakim Meyer is a.k.a. A.S. Rocky was found guilty of the assault on the kid with the headphones, but sentenced only to the time already served in a small fine. The Swedes insisted the chaos and the press had no sway on the court, but I mean, come on.

Trump, Kim, Kanye, the Rev, the State Department, the entirety of the shitstorm had to have had some effect on Sweden's decision to free ASAP Rocky. And Rocky was grateful. He said so publicly. It was time to get the fuck back home, back home to what mattered, pussy, money. or put differently, love, sex, dreams, all were possible in America. Aesap Rocky was humbled. But King Don, the White Dawn King of the White House West Wing, the emperor wearing no clothes,

or at least only wearing his pants around his ankles while seated on his throne, was pretty fucking far from humble. With pride, he loaded his favorite weapon once again and fired off the following tweet. Asap Rocky, released from prison and on his way home to the United States, States from Sweden. It was a rocky week. Get home ASAP. Asap. What a world. What a disgrace. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a Disgraceland All-Axacist member, thank you for supporting

the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a a member right now by going to disgracelampod.com slash membership. Members can listen to every episode of disgrace land ad free. Plus, you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month. Weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections, and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelampod.com slash membership for details.

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