"Vinyl Lullabies and the Apostles of Rhyme"
-By Alex May

Take a turn down Sixth Street and the scene is troubling. Drifters and crackheads in raucous exposition litter the sidewalk. You twist and turn out of their way and keep a steady pace until you hit the Showdown. You fuss with your wallet, produce an ID, and cross the threshold.

Inside it's narrow and smells like any other dive bar in the world. The dank cloud of stale beer weighs the air and whisky stains the floor as you make your way through the swarm of bodies.

It's dark, like it should be.

She hands you a beer and you hand her the cash, because that's all they accept, and turn towards the music. The floor is the stage in this cramped rectangle. Other emcees spit rhymes into the microphone in front of the women's bathroom as the only elevated person in the room listens into headphones while the tables turn, the music mixes.

The motley three then take to the stage, level with the crowd.

Together, they're an imposing force. Together, they're BPos.

D-Wiz, Khafre, and GoodWord dictate the energy as patrons sip on cold drinks and nod their heads to the beat. The man who spins is Johnny Venetti, who owns the place. He is tall and lanky with a mop of unkempt hair and brown sunglasses. He looms from his perch, making the music for the masses. His body moves to the beat and his fingertips broadcast aggression and subtlety as he fades and scratches and manipulates the vinyl. Adding his flavor to the night.

The sound is reminiscent of the Old School. A time when the rhymes meant more than getting YouTube clicks. The vocals then were raw, unadulterated, untouched by autotune. You hear the past in their words and see it in the execution. Respect for the Elders is apparent, but confidence in their abilities is high.

Fingers point and hands gesticulate. The arm unattached to the mic is free to keep time with the beat as they go to war in front of the women's bathroom. What they give off in vitality and strength is infectious. Look around and you're the only turned head. All eyes are forward. All heads are moving.

They're a unit. But as individuals the unique qualities come to the forefront.

Khafre is the shortest. His voice though holds the top register. His long dreadlocks sway as he moves, hitting the mic with rhymes like machine gun fire. He sings too, giving soul to not all but some choruses. Beads of sweat roll from under the hat he always wears as he darts between the other two.

The mic gets lost in the beard of D-Wiz. He wears a hat too, or at the very least something to control the thick swath of dreads. He raps conscientiously, as if every line is a lesson he is telling to his children. His intonation is professorial and measured, pausing at the right moments to let the words sink into the soul.

GoodWord remembers first writing raps in the sixth grade. Now he stands tall above the other two, the veins in his neck swollen in the moment. Giving the good words to his listeners, preaching the Gospel of Rhyme. His tone is the deepest, mesquite smoked. He turns his hat backward and delivers the staccato melodies, thumping the ears and brains with meaning and purpose.

Speak to them afterward and their true personas radiate. They are humble and appreciative, eager and willing to talk about their music and message. But the knowing glint in the eye is sharp and adrenaline still surges through the body, ready to react to a microphone placed in hand and velvety beats on the stereo.

The motley crew knows what light lies at the end of the tunnel, and that it may take time to get there. But they vow they will one day get there.

Until then they do, battle in the cramped, dank rectangles. Fighting to keep the attention of the boozy crowd, warring their words through the sound system.

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