I have a schedule right now that includes a full time job, a freelance job, and two side-hustles. I'm working on two books, one of which has a November deadline. But I was so moved by the story of @Cole Cash I carved out time to profile him, because his tale is the quintessential underdog story. It's equal parts tragic, redemptive, depressing, uplifting, and ultimately inspiring. On top of all that, he's truly talented, and showcasing that talent in bigger forums at each turn. All while creating his music in a halfway house with 18 other recovering addicts who don't even know what he's up to.
I'm posting the profile in sections for you ADHD, TL;DR types. Once I've posted each section, I'll post links in the original post to each section. Link to full profile - https://medium.com/@Trillharmonic/there-are-no-excuses-5815622c01dd
Please spread the word as far and wide as you can. Once you read his story, you'll agree Cole James Cash deserves our efforts on his behalf.
There Are No Excuses
No Pot To Piss In, A Rhythm In His Heart, A Devil In His Head, and An Angel On His shoulder: Cole James Cash finds salvation through beats and big-bodied women
Cole James Cash’s story reads like a bar room joke: did you hear the one about the homeless recovering drug addict who produced a hip hop album in tribute to full-figured porn stars? In this case there’s no punchline; only a story as improbable as it is inspiring and an album that is less gag than visionary. Cash’s story is one of talent undercut by inner turmoil, tragedy paved over by an ultimate redemption. As with all stories of redemption, his is filled with nearly unfathomable lows, soul-crushing losses, and healthy doses of love and luck. As deft a producer as Cash is, his greatest and truest hip hop song might just be his life.
People saw great things in me… but I fell apart.
Although he couldn’t have foreseen the value of it at the time, Cole James Cash learned to turn hunger to sustenance, loss to gain, and life’s proverbial lemons to lemonade when he was 13 years old. His father abandoned him and his mother, completely and forever. The pain and loss Cash felt was mitigated somewhat by an enormous, diverse record collection that would feed his early musical inclination, and eventually inspire his most important work as a producer. While he now counts Madlib, Alchemist, and DJ Krush as significant influences, he honed his ear for arrangements and melody by playing and replaying the records of artists like Lee Morgan, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, and Roy Ayers. From Q-Tip to Havoc to Dr. Dre there’s a long and well-worn hip hop tradition of young, prodigious producers being born from inherited crates. Cash was cut from that familiar cloth.
“I was a house music DJ at 13. shyt, I was already playing the sax too.” Cash recalls this period of time with the same infectious energy that marks his production. There’s also a naked honesty that colors everything Cash says, and the combination of that sincerity and his defiant enthusiasm in the face of personal turmoil make him easy to take at his word, and even easier to root for.
The only time Cash seems reticent and put off is when he discusses – briefly – entering the armed services in 2001. He’s reluctant to expound on a time that one can only assume would be incredibly significant to an individual’s formative years. The only detail he’s willing to let slip is he incurred an injury while in the service, which is how he began a relationship with prescription drugs that would gradually shift from ameliorative to destructive.
He quickly steers the conversation back to music, explaining why he moved from house music to hip hop despite his passion and relative success on that scene. “I saw it back in '03," he says in mournful tone as we discuss the shift in house music from soul to electronic. “Dance music went away from the soul, the gospel. It got stripped down.” He talks astutely about the changing demographics of the audience, but thoughtfully qualifies his musings. “It's not a race thing - there were dope ass white dudes putting it down. But when you lose the soul of any form of music…”
He went back to listening to a wide variety of music, especially jazz fusion. That’s when he made his way to hip hop. His friend Dobad was a rapper, and Dobad’s friend was Killer Tay, who ran a label in the Bay. They recognized in Cash a natural instinct for creating music and gave him the idea to produce. He had saved up a enough money for a trip to England, but instead invested in a new computer and an MPC. It seemed the prodigal son was finally on his way.
But as his injury got worse he was taking prescription pills in greater amounts, and more frequently. “Within a few years I was a full blown addict.” His voice is somber as he pronounces this self-assessment, and he almost sounds surprised by the memory of that time, as if it were a long lost dream of which he finally recounted a crucial detail. What began as a way to cope with physical pain evolved into a self-perpetuating cycle of creating inner-torment to cope with inner-torment. Cash eventually lost his apartment in San Jose, then his car. “Having my own apartment allowed me to isolate myself, which was bad. But I still didn’t want to lose it!” His laugh is thick with an ironic sadness. When he lost his computer drive, it plunged him deeper into drugs while bringing his music-making capabilities to a halt.
For three years he made no music at all. He was going job to job, apartment to apartment. He lost his ambition. “My entire focus was feeding my habit, man.” Around this time of bottoming out, his girlfriend gave birth; determined no to revisit the sins of his own father on his child, Cash maintained a consistent presence in his son’s life.
Then in 2012 he got a break: a financial settlement for his injury. “I blew most of it on drugs, but I also made sure to get a new computer.” That's when he made The Price of Glory. It had been 4 years since he last even tried to make music. As an artist he decided to stop showing his face. Not as a nod to MF Doom, but to reflect his reclusive nature, and his feeling of having an identity at odds with his environment: his sound was deemed "east coast," and he found it difficult to garner Bay Area support.
Still, the drugs persisted, the eviction notices piled up, and the mother of his child lost patience with him. Sure, he was around for his son, but he couldn’t financially support the child. He lost his ambition, moved back home, continued to flounder. As he reflects on this time, Cash’s honesty and self-awareness border on heartbreaking. "I became a disappointment.” He pauses for a beat and his voice turns wistful. “People saw great things in me... but I fell apart."
I'm posting the profile in sections for you ADHD, TL;DR types. Once I've posted each section, I'll post links in the original post to each section. Link to full profile - https://medium.com/@Trillharmonic/there-are-no-excuses-5815622c01dd
Please spread the word as far and wide as you can. Once you read his story, you'll agree Cole James Cash deserves our efforts on his behalf.
There Are No Excuses
No Pot To Piss In, A Rhythm In His Heart, A Devil In His Head, and An Angel On His shoulder: Cole James Cash finds salvation through beats and big-bodied women
Cole James Cash’s story reads like a bar room joke: did you hear the one about the homeless recovering drug addict who produced a hip hop album in tribute to full-figured porn stars? In this case there’s no punchline; only a story as improbable as it is inspiring and an album that is less gag than visionary. Cash’s story is one of talent undercut by inner turmoil, tragedy paved over by an ultimate redemption. As with all stories of redemption, his is filled with nearly unfathomable lows, soul-crushing losses, and healthy doses of love and luck. As deft a producer as Cash is, his greatest and truest hip hop song might just be his life.
People saw great things in me… but I fell apart.
Although he couldn’t have foreseen the value of it at the time, Cole James Cash learned to turn hunger to sustenance, loss to gain, and life’s proverbial lemons to lemonade when he was 13 years old. His father abandoned him and his mother, completely and forever. The pain and loss Cash felt was mitigated somewhat by an enormous, diverse record collection that would feed his early musical inclination, and eventually inspire his most important work as a producer. While he now counts Madlib, Alchemist, and DJ Krush as significant influences, he honed his ear for arrangements and melody by playing and replaying the records of artists like Lee Morgan, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, and Roy Ayers. From Q-Tip to Havoc to Dr. Dre there’s a long and well-worn hip hop tradition of young, prodigious producers being born from inherited crates. Cash was cut from that familiar cloth.
“I was a house music DJ at 13. shyt, I was already playing the sax too.” Cash recalls this period of time with the same infectious energy that marks his production. There’s also a naked honesty that colors everything Cash says, and the combination of that sincerity and his defiant enthusiasm in the face of personal turmoil make him easy to take at his word, and even easier to root for.
The only time Cash seems reticent and put off is when he discusses – briefly – entering the armed services in 2001. He’s reluctant to expound on a time that one can only assume would be incredibly significant to an individual’s formative years. The only detail he’s willing to let slip is he incurred an injury while in the service, which is how he began a relationship with prescription drugs that would gradually shift from ameliorative to destructive.
He quickly steers the conversation back to music, explaining why he moved from house music to hip hop despite his passion and relative success on that scene. “I saw it back in '03," he says in mournful tone as we discuss the shift in house music from soul to electronic. “Dance music went away from the soul, the gospel. It got stripped down.” He talks astutely about the changing demographics of the audience, but thoughtfully qualifies his musings. “It's not a race thing - there were dope ass white dudes putting it down. But when you lose the soul of any form of music…”
He went back to listening to a wide variety of music, especially jazz fusion. That’s when he made his way to hip hop. His friend Dobad was a rapper, and Dobad’s friend was Killer Tay, who ran a label in the Bay. They recognized in Cash a natural instinct for creating music and gave him the idea to produce. He had saved up a enough money for a trip to England, but instead invested in a new computer and an MPC. It seemed the prodigal son was finally on his way.
But as his injury got worse he was taking prescription pills in greater amounts, and more frequently. “Within a few years I was a full blown addict.” His voice is somber as he pronounces this self-assessment, and he almost sounds surprised by the memory of that time, as if it were a long lost dream of which he finally recounted a crucial detail. What began as a way to cope with physical pain evolved into a self-perpetuating cycle of creating inner-torment to cope with inner-torment. Cash eventually lost his apartment in San Jose, then his car. “Having my own apartment allowed me to isolate myself, which was bad. But I still didn’t want to lose it!” His laugh is thick with an ironic sadness. When he lost his computer drive, it plunged him deeper into drugs while bringing his music-making capabilities to a halt.
For three years he made no music at all. He was going job to job, apartment to apartment. He lost his ambition. “My entire focus was feeding my habit, man.” Around this time of bottoming out, his girlfriend gave birth; determined no to revisit the sins of his own father on his child, Cash maintained a consistent presence in his son’s life.
Then in 2012 he got a break: a financial settlement for his injury. “I blew most of it on drugs, but I also made sure to get a new computer.” That's when he made The Price of Glory. It had been 4 years since he last even tried to make music. As an artist he decided to stop showing his face. Not as a nod to MF Doom, but to reflect his reclusive nature, and his feeling of having an identity at odds with his environment: his sound was deemed "east coast," and he found it difficult to garner Bay Area support.
Still, the drugs persisted, the eviction notices piled up, and the mother of his child lost patience with him. Sure, he was around for his son, but he couldn’t financially support the child. He lost his ambition, moved back home, continued to flounder. As he reflects on this time, Cash’s honesty and self-awareness border on heartbreaking. "I became a disappointment.” He pauses for a beat and his voice turns wistful. “People saw great things in me... but I fell apart."
cliff notes but regardless 
