The mud brick man did not seem nervous, but restive like a child, swivelling slightly back and forth in his chair. Immediately next to him was hip hop phenomenon Derek Forman a.k.a. D-Formed. Derek relaxed back into his chair, a heavy platinum chain sprawled across his muscled chest. His squawking, hacking laugh was bizaare given his image and reputation as a triple platinum Grammy winner. He teased his manager, Samuel Kords, sitting across from them, about a young female artist seen on his arm at a popular night club the previous night. Kords was gruff but good natured; he struck out as Derek guessed, but wouldn’t admit it. And then the journalist arrived.

Fred Talbot was never supposed to cover pop culture. In journalism school he dreamed of joining the rock stars of his profession to be, covering political maneuverings and intrigues, spotlighting scandal and making the people’s government squirm. But in college he just so happened to share a house with no fewer than four DJ’s who were solid experts in their chosen brand of music. There were frequent parties at the house, and when there were not parties, the DJ’s would mix music anyway, compiling playlists on the blinking banks of electronic gadgetry at all hours. Fred spent four years in a non-stop odyssey through the world of pop, funk, acid jazz, alternative and indie rock.

Fred had been proofreading an article on an upcoming mayoral election when his boss, the morning desk editor, had walked out of his office, and up to Fred’s desk, and said, “Fred, you’re good with music; Sonya’s in the hospital or something.” He plopped a manila folder full of article clippings, photos, hand-written notes on lined paper, complete with pen doodles of stylized band logos and the pseudo religious iconongraphy of the classic American high school goth. “Here’s her notes on ‘Kennedy & Groove.’ I need 750 words in an hour.” After a gut-wrenching diagnosis of hepatitus c, Sonya had returned to Elkhart. Nobody was more surprised than Fred. Luckily his tests came back negative.

But he had to admit, given enough time to gather material, the job could be pleasant; the dress code was hip and relaxed, and the music industry was nothing if not interesting. And he was more than a little intrugued with D-Formed’s latest move.

“Dee!” Fred smiled as he moved over to Derek’s side of the table. He pulled out the handshake his DJ roommate had taught him.

“You must be the dude from the Standard.”

“Yeah, that’s right, Fred Talbot, Culture Page.” Fred said as he sat down at the end of the table nearest Derek. He pulled out his tape recorder and stabbed the record button as it hit the table. Rule number one: don’t waste the subject’s time. “I gotta tell you, D” –this appellation felt awkward to say, but was well researched as Forman’s preference– “the Page is buzzing about your new project. Who’s the new guy?” This was presumptuous, and Fred knew it. No new project had been announced. All he had was a tip that the studio manager where Derek did his recording was excited about something.

“Aw, yeah, Fred, meet my man, MBP.”

The mud brick man swivelled toward Fred and look straight in his eye. He sat stock still.

“Ah, hi.” Fred nodded a greeting. “What does…MBP?…stand for?”

“Mud-Brick Prophet.” Derek said, feeling sidelined for a moment by the way that Fred and MBP stared at each other.

“Ah, that’s cool. Can I ask your real name?”

Derek looked across the table at Samuel Kords, who spoke up. “For the sake of our upcoming project, MBP would prefer to remain incognito for now.”

“Really. Ok.” Fred was nonplussed and looked down at his notebook for a moment. “So, what does he do?”

“Oh well, that’s, yeah, that’s really the question.” Derek sat forward in his chair. “It’s lyrics,” his gold bracelet and rings glittering as he gestured, snapping his flattened hands into parallel planes off his left shoulder, “it’s flavah,” he continued, boxing in a second parallelogram directly in front of him, “and its, ah…” his hands moved to the right, coiled to strike a third box, “…well, basically it’s flavah. But the thing is, Embie’s flavah is like, sparkin’ everybody else in the project. It’s crazy, man. We’ll be, like, layin’ down a groove, just layerin’ some tracks from some old stuff, and he just start spittin’, and everybody in the whole house is quiet, and all the sudden you realize, man, I got chills running down my back. It’s very, very cool.”

“What kind of, you know, themes are we talking about?” Fred asked.

Derek started to answer when the mud brick man suddenly spoke in a voice which cracked and rattled and buzzed in multiple tones:

The stones of the wall will cry out,
and the beams of the woodwork will echo it.

Woe to him who builds a city with bloodshed
and establishes a town by crime!

“Can you dig this?” Derek broke in, “This shit is off the hook!”

Has not the LORD Almighty determined
that the people’s labor is only fuel for the fire,
that the nations exhaust themselves for nothing?

Derek had his eyes closed; he was back on the streets of his angry youth, with one hand cupped around his mouth, laying down a ragged base drum and snare to prepare the way for the mud brick man’s steadily delivered verse.

For the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the LORD,
as the waters cover the sea.

Woe to him who gives drink to his neighbors,
pouring it from the wineskin till they are drunk,
so that he can gaze on their naked bodies.

You will be filled with shame instead of glory.
Now it is your turn! Drink and be exposed!
The cup from the LORD’s right hand is coming around to you,
and disgrace will cover your glory.

The mud brick man fell silent. Derek tattooed on for a couple more bars, and then froze, his hand still muting his mouth. Without moving his head, he glanced at Fred to see his reaction. And then he convulsed with laughter. “Hoooooo! That’s what I’m talkin’ ABOUT!”

Suddenly he spasmed, pointing at Fred’s arm, resting on his notebook. “Check it! Check it! White boy got chicken skin! That’s what my grandma used to call it; chicken skin!” He collapsed sideways into his chair in a cavalcade of guffaws, his arms doubled around his middle.