Simpson Recorded Her Debut Song Consuming Travis Scott’s Old Cannabis

Mike D from the Beastie Boys lauded Simson’s first song, “Switch Lanes” on his podcast. Matt Wilkinson with Apple Music praised and amplified it, and Beats 1 radio put it in rotation. It was everything an artist’s inception could ask for and a little more.

Simpson wants you to know these next bits, and as every piece of a person contributes to their whole, it’s easy to understand why. She reads. She doesn’t watch TV. She plays Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater 3, Animal Crossing, and Mario on her Nintendo Switch. And she’s a Virgo. Like all Virgos, she’s methodical.

Every song put out under the pseudonym ‘Simpson’ was written, recorded, and produced in a single day. And, “Switch Lanes” was, as Andre 3000 would say, the prototype. Her process isn’t the only reason the song was magical. There was a substance at play, a psychedelic recreational medication from the hands of one of the fallen titans of contemporary American culture, our own “Ozymandias.”

When she made “Switch Lanes,” Simpson, her bandmate Evil, and their friend Jesse, a sound engineer, were hunkered away for the night in Jesse’s hybrid apartment and recording studio in Brooklyn.

Jesse was looking through the cabinet where he and long-gone passersby kept cannabis. A bevy of Soundcloud rappers, musicians with a dream, and a few superstars too passed through the studio in Jesse’s time, each leaving behind semi-legal parts of themselves, grinders, glass pipes, and other magic.

“Travis Scott dumped some of his weed here,” Jesse said grinning, turning to throw it away.

“Wait,” said Simpson, stirring in her seat. “We should,” she paused, “we should obviously smoke it.”

“I concur,” said Evil in an accent from the UK’s Love Island. It was something of an obsession for him.

“It’s old. It’s old, old.” Jessie said with raised key and brow as if Simpson and Evil were having funny lapses.

“Oh,” Simpson gave Evil the evil eye as she said, “you can bring old back to life.”

“We,” Evil said pointing between the three of them as if his finger were controlled by a Ouija board, “should smoke it.”

Scott’s weed didn’t seem to disappear or go away. A few nuggets became a happy meal. A happy meal became a family feast. A feast turned into a cloudy kingdom of song.

Very much in the ocean and the waves of their feverishly fun haze, they made “Switch Lanes,” Simpson’s debut and breakout record. She freestyled the piece from front to back.

Nothing you hear in the final product is punched, and nothing is cut from the recording. There’s audible fry in the background from a bong gurgling Scott’s sativa of choice.

“We need to get to the point where we have Travis Scott weed of our own,” said Evil. “Then every record will be peng.”

“Break down the reef baby. Catch the breeze baby-,” Evil started to sing.

“I’m going to do it just like Tyler,” said Simpson. “I’m going to have a music festival and a fashion line.”

“And being rich, my virtue then shall be to say there is no vice but beggary!” Jesse laughed.

“And what is this geezer on about?” moaned Evil.

“No, he’s, unfortunately, on to something. In a lot of ways we aren’t even thinking about, monetizing music cripples creativity. On one hand, I’m grateful for anybody who hears my music. In the age of streaming, the chances of being heard are zip, nada,” said Simpson. “Once I release something it doesn’t belong to me anymore. People use songs in their weddings or at funerals. And most of the time those songs are taken completely out of context.”

Jesse furrowed his brow to ask for more.

“It’s not about trying to control how people perceive things,” Evil said, aiding in Simpson’s expression. Evil and Simpson are close as bandit brother. And they often feel at the same phenomena with differnt hands to give it complimentary language.

“If it gets any bigger, it means a magnifying glass where I have no control over this anymore. And it makes putting things out, releasing things a very anxious process. And we’re not even there yet,” said Simpson. She paused, and she ended with “monetizing your interest makes you lose all interest.”

“And fans know stats these days,” moaned Evil. He adopted a nasal tone to say, “we’re projecting this new Jack Harlow album is going to like sell this, and this new Kid Cudi is going to do numbers like that.” Evil cocked his head and spit in the mini-trashcan next to him. “They’re confusing quality and quantity.”

“Throw a rock and you’ll hit a capitalist in the music industry. The producers, the managers, the PR people, the artists, engineers – there’s a load of them,” said Jesse. “Trust me, they come through here. They always leave a certain stink on the place.”

“And all they want to do is make product – not art,” said Simpson.

“And if you don’t want to make product, they’ll find someone with their hands out who does,” said Evil.

Simpson said, “I don’t think there’s a way to make music, but I know it’s not getting wrapped up in that. I just think there’s a feeling that comes and you have to chase it when it comes. And I think that’s how music is made. It’s kind of like lightning striking the same place twice.”

Later, Simpson would wonder why “Switch Lanes” – of all the music she’s made in her life – hit a cultural electric current. She found herself in an existential struggle with the Tao, the notoriety which flowed like a new stream across an old fertile field she didn’t seem to know anymore, and the many and often-unending other arrows of life.

It brought her down for a year.

Winning isn’t perfect, or even easy to handle when real experience is at hand.

Either success or Travis Scott’s weed is cursed. Simpson didn’t want to make or enjoy creating songs for a year, a songwriter’s worst nightmare, a proverbial and disgustingly impractical constipated canary in the coal mine.

Like Travis’s exile from superstardom, the curse did not last. Simpson is writing music on the train. She’s writing music walking her dog. She toured with Joy Crookes – a bubbling and refreshing genius – through some of the most swinging hip cities in America.

Simpson was picking up a pizza yesterday and found herself – like muscle memory – opening her voice notes, juggling in her head singing a song to get it down for posterity with also singing in a pizza line without arousing distaste from her neighbors with her volume or activity. She still struggles with capitalism, popular culture, and the Tao as every one of us is destined to do for as long as we may breathe.

She also loves making music again. For her, that is the elusive, secret something. And that is enough.