FOR HIS TWENTY-MINUTE DRIVE back home to the La Mesa area of northeast San Diego, Ivan decided to drive through the scenic Balboa Park before connecting east on Interstate 8.

This time, he wasn’t in the mood for silence. To drown out his own doubts and insecurities about where he stood in life, he pulled out a rap CD and slid it into his audio system below the dashboard. He needed to solidify his thoughts of rebellion against the status quo, and rap music was sure to do the trick.

“Truck Volume,” a musical progression track from legendary producer Dr. Dre, was just what Ivan wanted to hear, while the famously obnoxious rapper Busta Rhymes screamed, yelled, and hollered at the top of his lungs, “Truck shit now! Turn my music up! Truck volume! Truck volume!”

Regardless of the rapper’s overstated screaming and yelling, the Dr. Dre production pushed the mind forward through an organized sequence of keyboards, bass, and drums, as if an army of ideas was advancing forward on an enemy. As the overpowering music pumped out of the speaker system, Ivan’s tense body began to bow forward behind the wheel, like an obedient soldier ready to carry out his mission.

The musical adrenaline was so strong that Ivan replayed the song five straight times, until he had pulled into the driveway of the modest three-level apartment complex where he lived.

Finally, he turned off his stereo system after parking inside the lot. “That shit is blazing,” he told himself of the track. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning. Nevertheless, Ivan felt as if he had just worked up an afternoon sweat. Relevant music was that energizing.

As soon as he climbed out of his car, one of his neighbors addressed him from where he stood on the second-level walkway.

“That’s that Busta Rhymes album, isn’t it? Genesis. My cousin played on that song you were just pumping. It’s called ‘Truck Volume,’ right? That’s song’s pretty hot.”

Julio was a Mexican-American in his early thirties with his hair cut low. He was wearing no shirt with his beige khaki pants. Colorful tattoos adorned his slender chest, and his left hand held on to a blunt of marijuana. He was still smoking it.

Ivan looked up at him and nodded while heading for the staircase.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he responded. “But who is your cousin?”

Julio smiled and took another hit of the blunt before he answered. “Mike Elizondo. He plays bass on a lot of Dr. Dre’s songs.” He held the blunt between his lips to play an imaginary bass guitar with his hands.

Ivan made it to the staircase and laughed on his way up. He lived only three doors down from Julio and his family. The two men shook hands when Ivan reached him.

“So, the bass player is your cousin?” Ivan asked him again.