Yeah, okay, so… look. That beat? That track? It was kinda trash. But I’m not gon’ say that out loud. I’m not tryna step on dreams, you feel me? That’s not what I do.

I’ll say somethin’ like, “Yo, that’s got a thing to it. It’s speakin’. Maybe just… not in English yet. Personally, I’d use like… one guitar instead of three fighting for air. And them drums? They tryna start a bar fight with each other. Lock ’em in. Make ’em hug it out. But the energy—nah, that’s undeniable. That’s incredible.” And I say it with a smile. ’Cause thank God I’m nice, right? Like… genuinely nice. Just human-being nice. Which is rare out here.

So it’s Monday. I should be in bed. Still in silk pajamas with a face mask on or something. But instead, I’m in this university somewhere in London—shout out to y’all—and apparently I agreed to talk to a bunch of bright, beautiful minds for this music course. I don’t remember saying yes, but here I am. So maybe I am a good person or some shit?

Anyway, I walk in and I’m like—damn, these kids are fresh. Got that kinda optimism that hasn’t been crushed by fifteen rounds with the industry yet. Love that. They all got lil’ accents—saying “innit” and “bruv” like it’s punctuation. Every time one of them says “yeh nah yeh,” I’m trying not to laugh. It’s charming. I’m charmed. Y’all sound like the coolest underground radio station I’ve never heard of.

I’m kinda floatin’ around the classroom like a weird, overly-dressed TA. I keep askin’ kids, “Yo, you got a beat? A loop? A hum? Even just a dream?” And if they got somethin’, I’m right there with ‘em. Tuning in. Helping ‘em shape it. That’s the part I love. When someone’s got somethin’ in their head and they don’t even realize it’s gold yet. They think it’s just a napkin sketch, but I’m like, “Nah, this is a Basquiat, you just don’t see it yet.”

Now, real talk… some of these kids? I don’t think they’re even music majors. Like, this one dude’s got GarageBand open at full volume, playing loops like he’s DJing at a frat party, and he tells me he’s studying jazz theory? Sir. Be serious. But whatever. I keep it cute. I’m not judging. I’m here to sprinkle light, not shade.

But outta everybody? One person stands out. You.

You sittin’ dead center. Got your laptop open like it’s a secret portal to another dimension. Headphones on. Zoned all the way in. But you’re still present. Still laughin’ at the jokes. Noddin’ when someone drops a gem. You’re engaged—but you ain’t lookin’ at me. Like, at all. Haven’t even flinched in my direction. And I’m thinkin’, “Damn… is Pharrell motherfuckin’ Williams boring now?” That’s wild. That’s humbling.

And you cute too, which, like… makes it worse. Now my ego’s doin’ somersaults.

So now I’m tryna figure out how to break the ice without coming off like a whole creep. Like, how do I make this not weird? Do I compliment the headphones? Make a joke about plugins? Slide in like, “Hey, what DAW you using?” Nah. That’s corny.

Then it hits me. Dumb lightbulb moment. Like a Pixar short with no dialogue—ding!

So I wrap up my lil’ talk. Do the whole “Thank you so, so much for having me” thing. Smile for the room. Dap up a couple kids. Everybody starts filing out. Vibes are good. They all glowing. Inspired. I love that.

But you? You still planted. Locked in. Click-clacking on your keys like you’re composing the future. I’m watching you like, okay… what are you cooking?

So I stroll over. Casual. Chill. Not like “I’m on a mission,” even though, yeah, I am. I slide behind you. Lean on the back of your chair, all nosy. Uncle Pharrell mode.

You’re working on something—some beat or mix or idea. Can’t tell exactly what, but I know the software. That’s not beginner shit. You know what you’re doin’. Or at least, you’re faking it with confidence. I respect either.

So I lean in, all smooth, and I’m like:

“Whatchu doin’?”

Just like that. No preface. No warning. Just me, behind you, starin’ at your screen like we been collaborators for ten years.

Now I’m waitin’. Just watchin’ to see if you turn around, say something clever.

It’s just us in here.