Influence
When Missy Elliott made Supa Dupa Fly, she didn’t listen to anyone but herself. That’s not hyperbole. While recording the album, she didn’t listen to any music but her own. The outcome was exceptionally abstract compared to its contemporaries.
Assisting with his production, Timberland crafts a Penrose stair soundscape that is repetitive enough to maintain rhythm but with absurdly unpredictable elements to keep you intrigued. For instance, the thunderous horn section from The Delfonics’ Ready or Not Here I Come has an intense resonance akin to loud flatulence in a quiet room, meaning whatever noise comes next is often overshadowed. Yet, in Sock It 2 Me, Missy playfully harmonises with the hook, while Timberland’s drum pattern takes a three-legged dog on a walk. There’s a beat, but it’s rocking off-kilter.
Ready or Not Here I Come has been sampled extensively. To be blunt, most sound identical. Yet, Timberland and Missy manage to create something the copy ‘n’ paste versions could only dream of emulating: originality. The longer you listen, the more you’ll hear. The same can’t be said for most of the other songs using the sample. Meanwhile, I couldn’t stop rewinding Sock It 2 Me because of the lack of repetition.
Inspiration is paradoxical; it breeds likeminded creations and encourages repetition with subtle stylistic variants of the same motif. To be truthful, if someone’s artwork inspires you and your output resembles their influence, have you been creative or just adaptive? Aside from avoiding copying, there are no rules to creativity, but outright originality can be to come by.
However, what happens when your only inspiration is yourself? Instead of looking elsewhere for ideas, you turn inward and ask what you want. I’ve experienced it and can assure you it’s liberating. You see, I never used to dress myself. Obviously, I put my head through the hole and my hands in the sleeves, but I didn’t use to decide what I’d wear. I left that up to one of my friends with an eye for fashion, and I was little more than their mannequin.
However, when I moved across the country for university, I lost their influence. Suddenly, I was responsible for how the items in my wardrobe interacted and what new additions could complement the stable. I began with a misstep, and my extensively ripped ice-white jeans are still a source of amusement among friends. Despite all the antagonising, it only made me more certain I needed to find what fit me, the clothing I felt comfortable being myself in.
If you haven’t noticed, when it comes to outfits, I’m not afraid to be bold. When I put something together that I’m proud of, you’ll catch me strutting out the front door like there’s a queue of cameras waiting to see what I’m wearing. The world is my catwalk, and there’s no feeling like looking your best while knowing nobody else is emulating your outfit. Lately, I’ve been dressing like a tiramisu, which means if it isn’t brown or beige, I’m probably not wearing it. It’s a touch rich, but looking in the mirror, sometimes I could eat myself.
Even though I’m infatuated, it doesn’t mean my look is for everyone. I’ve seen my mate grimace at what I’m wearing, embarrassed to have to spend the evening alongside someone in a purple and green tie die fleece the Joker might have adorned in his adolescence.
It never concerned me, though. After all, I felt exceptional, and everyone was talking about my outfit. Nobody seemed that interested in anyone else’s. That’s the thing about being creative: you need to block out any influence because few people embrace something that falls outside their frame of reference. Listening to Supa Dupa Fly reminds me to stop chasing what you see and follow what you feel.