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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927363\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-800x450.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927363\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-800x450.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-1020x574.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-160x90.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-768x432.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-1536x864.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_.png 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">In the mid-1980s, after years of street dance, DJing and graffiti sharing equal space, rapping took center stage. The Bay Area’s bass-heavy sound would arrive at the end of the decade. (Clockwise from top left: Too Short, MC Hammer, Dominique DiPrima, Club Nouveau, and Motorcycle Mike.) \u003ccite>(Steve Ringman/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images; Al Pereira/Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images; SFSU Television Archives; Raymond Boyd/Getty Images; Hodisk Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cstrong>Editor’s note\u003c/strong>: This story is part of \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003cem>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">I\u003c/span>t’s a wintry January evening when Bas-1 brings me to Del the Funky Homosapien’s house in the East Bay. For much of the afternoon, Bas — the \u003ca href=\"https://eastbayexpress.com/old-school-fool-1/\">Oakland native\u003c/a> who’s worked with Digital Underground and released \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=bas-1+full+album+mentally+astute\">his own solo records\u003c/a> — has schooled me on the origins of the Bay Area hip-hop sound.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bas lists numerous rappers from the ’80s, and not just Todd “Too Short” Shaw, the East Oakland rapper who famously hustled homemade cassette tapes. I’ve never heard most of the names Bas mentions: MC Chocolate Milk, Windell Baby Doll, Davy Def, Buddy Bean, Reggie Reg Rock Ski.ter, M.C. Tracy, Rock Master Fresh, Nic Nack, Kimmie Fresh, and the Acorn Crew with Grandmaster Fresh (a rapper later known as “DJ Daryl” Anderson, famed for producing tracks like 415’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yuZ6CAwZmys\">Side Show\u003c/a>” and 2Pac’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fAJfDP3b5_U\">Keep Ya Head Up\u003c/a>”).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13924126']Many of these early Bay Area rappers never put out a commercially available record. Instead, their work is mostly confined to locally distributed cassette tapes — collectors call them “gray tapes” — that are now nearly impossible to find. They publicly broadcasted these tapes throughout neighborhoods, utilizing boomboxes and car stereos as well as stereos at house parties. “None of them sound like Too Short,” says Bas. “Some of these people didn’t put out recordings, but they were known.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Throughout the 1980s, Bay Area hip-hop was an artistic movement struggling for a distinct identity. The first half of the decade was defined by street dance and aerosol art as much as rap and DJing. But as local youth began to absorb the sounds emanating from national hotspots like New York, they created a distinctive style all their own — one that would make a global impact in the years to come.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At Del’s house, Bas queues up an extraordinary live video clip of \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5u3eiG9BtdE\">Mac Mill, Emperor E, and DJ Anthony “K-os” Bryant\u003c/a> performing at \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11690787/when-oakland-was-a-chocolate-city-a-brief-history-of-festival-at-the-lake\">Festival at the Lake\u003c/a>, a now-defunct annual event held at Lake Merritt, in 1988. (Alex “Naru” Reece, who organized the showcase where Mac Mill performed, clarified in a follow-up conversation that it didn’t happen during Festival at the Lake. He also says the showcase was filmed in 1986 for a 1988 video compilation.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mac Mill and Emperor E go back and forth, trading sound effects and dense Oakland slang as K-os cuts and scratches copies of Long Island band Original Concept’s deathless bass classic, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ai4VC0NUxl4\">Knowledge Me\u003c/a>.” Bas praises Mac Mill’s unusual “Arabian” style, which the latter deployed nearly a decade later with the 1995 single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5_f0TB3Igro\">Arabian Hump\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5u3eiG9BtdE\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Then, Bas-1 calls Chris “CJ Flash” Jourdan, an OG who worked with Timex Social Club, the Berkeley teen band whose 1986 electro-funk classic, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jVce2IeYcTg\">Rumors\u003c/a>,” represented the first national breakthrough for Bay Area hip-hop culture. As Bas broadcasts CJ Flash’s voice from his phone through Del’s stereo equipment, CJ Flash spends the next hour or so describing a fledging scene where poppers and boogaloo dancers, not rappers or DJs, were the prime attractions. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These ensembles drew from a street-dance tradition that \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13891300/reclaiming-the-legacy-of-oaklands-boogaloo-dance-culture\">dates back decades\u003c/a>. Their kinetic performances ignited crowds at high schools, house parties, and public spaces like Justin Herman Plaza and Union Square in San Francisco and UC Berkeley’s Sproul Plaza. Battles even took place on the street, with crews traveling to different neighborhoods around the region to seek out rivals. “You could meet with people on their turf and get down, and hopefully not get thumped in the process,” says CJ Flash. Many Bay Area hip-hop pioneers got their start in dance crews, including Club Nouveau’s Jay King (who pop-locked with The Unknowns), DJ King Tech (who was known as Wizard, and danced with Master City Breakers), and Flash himself (who \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ub1TtnI4dh8\">performed with UFO\u003c/a>).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ub1TtnI4dh8\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By contrast, rapping was a relatively new and undeveloped skill, the lowest element on the hip-hop totem pole. “Anybody could rap. Anybody could say a bunch of basic rhyme words with no style and flavor,” says Bas, noting as an aside that “most folks couldn’t understand the lyrics anyway.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>How is a discussion about street dancers connected to an exploration of the Bay Area hip-hop sound? It’s important to understand the conditions under which the genre emerged locally.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Turntables, Casios and Homemade Tapes\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>As KQED’s Eric Arnold explains in “\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13924126/the-bay-area-was-hip-hop-before-there-was-hip-hop\">The Bay Area Was Hip-Hop Before There Was Hip-Hop\u003c/a>,” foundational elements such as spoken word, funk, and rhythm & blues existed locally well before New Jersey trio Sugarhill Gang arrived with “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKTUAESacQM\">Rapper’s Delight\u003c/a>” in the fall of 1979.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13923978']At the same time, the Bay Area was not the Bronx, where breakbeat culture catalyzed and fermented. Bronx DJs, MCs and B-boys like Kool Herc, Grandmaster Flash, Afrika Bambaataa, Grandmaster Caz, the Rock Steady Crew and many others gained renown among mid-’70s New York youth long before “Rapper’s Delight.” By contrast, as CJ Flash explains, it took much of the 1980s for Bay Area youth to develop the cadences and rhythms we now associate with modern rap.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back then, enterprising musicians couldn’t purchase studio software and distribute their own music on an internet platform like Soundcloud. Recording equipment was expensive. An unsigned artist needed the financial and business expertise to manufacture vinyl and cassettes with artwork, much less convince record stores like Leopold’s Records in Berkeley to carry them. (Recordable CD-Rs weren’t widely used until the 1990s.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This helps explain why so many rappers utilized turntables and Casio keyboards, and then recorded their songs using the microphone input on relatively cheap stereo equipment. Captured on recordable cassettes like Maxell and TDK, some of these “gray tapes” simply had stickers with handwritten titles. More often, they weren’t labeled at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927410\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-800x600.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"600\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927410\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A box of handmade Bay Area rap tapes, part of Naru’s home archives. \u003ccite>(Mosi Reeves)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In those days, Too Short was an outlier, a Fremont High School student who canvassed East Oakland spots like Arroyo Park, \u003ca href=\"https://medium.com/@bayareahiphoparchive/in-conversation-with-56fae687e9c\">selling copies of “Game Raps”\u003c/a> at a few dollars a pop. Since Short was originally from Los Angeles, he relied on rap partner Tony “Freddy B” Adams to show him around the Town. The duo \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#too-short-and-freddy-b-start-making-handmade-tapes\">made customized tapes for local drug dealers and players\u003c/a> in the city’s nightlife — now known as “special request” tapes — shouting out the customers’ names in their raps.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Short was a hustler,” says CJ Flash. “He had a style of telling stories that was so outlandish and so funny that word got around.” Short and Freddy B developed the trademark “Biiiiitch!” catchphrase, and Short has often said that he and Freddy B intended to get famous together. Unfortunately, Freddy B was in prison when Short released his landmark “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YwVJTvOO4yY\">Freaky Tales\u003c/a>” tape in 1987. (Adams is \u003ca href=\"https://www.dailyrepublic.com/all-dr-news/solano-news/local-features/from-too-hort-colleague-to-christian-missionary/\">now a minister\u003c/a> at Mount Calvary Baptist Church in Fairfield.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927341\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 676px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TooShort.SFExaminer.1984.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"676\" height=\"455\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927341\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TooShort.SFExaminer.1984.jpg 676w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TooShort.SFExaminer.1984-160x108.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 676px) 100vw, 676px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Too Short in 1984, at the age of 18. \u003ccite>(Katy Raddatz/San Francisco Examiner/Bancroft Library)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Others like Sir Quick Draw, Mac Mill, and Chief Naked Head (later known as Premo; he passed away in January of 2023) simply gave away their tapes or let friends copy or “dub” the originals. As Richmond rapper \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13925761/magic-mike-richmond-calvin-t-rap-hip-hop\">Magic Mike explained in a recent interview with Dregs One\u003c/a>, dubs of his tracks circulated as widely as Germany. “It was more or less trying to make a name for yourself…you had to make a tape,” adds CJ Flash.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Most importantly, Bay Area hip-hop in the ’80s was a primordial soup of youngsters figuring out what the local sound would be. The answers wouldn’t arrive until near the end of the decade. “The Bay Area was behind,” says CJ Flash, comparing it to more advanced regions like Los Angeles, South Florida, and New York. “We never thought about radio.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>‘A Pivotal Moment’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Alex “Naru Kwina” Hence remembers the first time he heard the Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight” as a 14-year-old preparing to attend Oakland High School. “When the song went off, everybody ran outside, like, ‘Did you hear that song?!” he laughs, calling it one of the best moments of his life. “It was a pivotal moment, bro. We literally started rapping the song and trying to remember it.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Naru called himself Sir Quick Draw, an alias inspired by Hanna-Barbera cartoon \u003cem>Quick Draw McGraw\u003c/em> as well as the fact that, as a runner, “I was hella fast.” He took inspiration from Kurtis Blow, the Harlem rapper who scored major hits like 1980’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qzl-2g5HhaI\">The Breaks\u003c/a>.” And Naru almost immediately began recording his voice on tape. His first original song was “The Caveman Rap,” which was inspired by Brooklyn rapper Jimmy Spicer’s 1980 single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nkGLco0tGqc\">Adventures of Super Rhyme\u003c/a>.” Naru can still recite those verses from memory: \u003cem>Now people come and take a trip in time with me / Back to that sweet year one million B.C.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I still got that old-school flavor, man,” he admits. “Hip-hop was more fun for me back then.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927368\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.Boxes_.1.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"840\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927368\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.Boxes_.1.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.Boxes_.1-160x224.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Naru Kwina, who recorded under the names Sir Quick Draw and Em Cee Quick, poses with his home archives. \u003ccite>(Mosi Reeves)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But rap in the Bay Area didn’t take off right away. “Most people would rap other people’s songs. They’d just repeat what they heard on the radio,” says Naru. Aspiring MCs honed their craft by congregating at Eastmont Mall, “trying to impress the girls, and getting our names on our derby jackets.” And when Tom Tom Club’s 1981 hit “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECiMhe4E0pI\">Genius of Love\u003c/a>” dropped? “Everybody rapped over that joint, man. Too many people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s worth remembering that hip-hop was a phenomenon developed essentially by Black and Brown children. Rapping, pop-locking, spray-painting aerosol art on neighborhood walls, even DJing: These were youthful forms of play and creative expression.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bas, who grew up in North Oakland, remembers \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#at-fishermans-wharf-a-street-dance-destination-emerges\">popping and “roboting” at Pier 39 on Fisherman’s Wharf\u003c/a> in the late ’70s as a child. “You have people like Ben [James] from Live Incorporated doing pantomime and roboting,” he says, noting one of the better-known dance crews. Dancers competed for attention and tips that they could spend on Snickers bars and arcade games. “Battle-wise, you had to have skill and talent to a certain caliber in order to truly be out on the Wharf or on Market [and Powell] in front of the cable cars,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927321\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-800x547.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"547\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927321\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-800x547.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-1020x697.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-768x525.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A street dance crew called The Vita Family perform at Pier 39 in 1986. \u003ccite>(Liz Hafalia/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Local newspaper stories focused on the emergence of hip-hop as a youth obsession. Enterprising teachers incorporated it into their lesson plans. On high-school campuses, fledgling DJs like Joseph Thomas “G.I. Joe” Simms Jr. at El Cerrito High School and groups like the Devastating Four proliferated. At house parties, mobile DJ crews spun the latest electro, boogie-funk, and rap hits.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gatherings at schools, churches, and community centers typically reserved a few minutes for fledgling local rap and dance crews to perform. This was also the era of \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#nancy-reagan-visits-oakland-and-coins-the-phrase-just-say-no\">the Reagan Administration’s “Just Say No” campaign\u003c/a>, and kids were often asked to help spread an anti-drug message through raps. “Inspired by rapping groups such as Sugar Hill, Run DMC, Jeckyl and Hyde and Mell (sic) and the Furious Five, teen-agers create their own raps mostly for fun and to bring attention to themselves,” read a June 29, 1985, story in the \u003cem>San Francisco Examiner\u003c/em>. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13925415']In the first half of the decade, street dance remained a focal point. \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/2022/12/04/1140504217/double-dutch-fantastic-four-holiday-classic\">Double Dutch jump-rope competitions\u003c/a> sponsored by McDonald’s drew thousands to Lincoln Square Center in Oakland. The San Francisco Street Breakers held a fundraising benefit, “Super Break Sunday,” at San Francisco’s Palace of Fine Arts in 1985. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ironically, street dance “got played out” after the success of Hollywood movies like \u003cem>Beat Street\u003c/em> and \u003cem>Breakin’\u003c/em>, and rap music moved to the center of hip-hop culture. Quickening the process were concerts by Black music stars like the \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#the-fresh-fest-comes-to-oakland\">Fresh Festival\u003c/a>, the first national hip-hop tour, with headliners Run-DMC at the Oakland Coliseum. Local radio tentatively began to experiment with rap, notably KMEL-FM and its mix DJs such as Michael Erickson and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13828163/watch-cameron-paul-give-a-masterclass-in-early-djing\">the late Cameron Paul\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927323\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-1020x1517.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"640\" height=\"952\" class=\"size-large wp-image-13927323\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-1020x1517.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-800x1190.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-160x238.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-768x1142.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-1033x1536.jpg 1033w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_.jpg 1345w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A flyer for the Fresh Festival, which arrived in Oakland in 1984.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“By 1985, there was this incredible scene in the South Bay,” says Adisa “The Bishop” Banjoko. As a teen DJ in San Bruno “who looked like Urkel,” he remembers traveling far and wide to buy records, from Creative Music Emporium in San Francisco to T’s Wauzi in Oakland. Meanwhile, nightclubs like Mothers and Studio 47 brought a fusion of hip-hop, freestyle and techno. “San Jose had underage hip-hop teenage clubs, and no other city had those,” he says. (Banjoko later became a rapper, a journalist, and now promotes jiu-jitsu, meditation and chess with his company \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/real64blocks/?hl=en\">64 Blocks\u003c/a>.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back in Oakland, Naru continued making tapes. “I come from a musical family. My cousin’s the Maestro” — a.k.a. producer Keenan Foster, who has worked with Too Short, Dru Down, and Askari X — “and a lot of my family sings. I got a drum machine, a little Yamaha keyboard. I would play my bass lines. We had double-cassette decks.” He collaborated with Taj “Turntable T” Tilghman, “who was dope on the turntables.” Turntable T eventually bought a Roland TR-808 drum machine, the instrument du jour for def beat MCs. “When that 808 came, that was it. Everyone loved that deck. \u003cem>Boom!\u003c/em>”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Gray tapes” that circulated weren’t the EP and album-length releases we’re familiar with today. Some tapes only had one song per side; or maybe just one song on one side, period. Artists were judged not only by their ability to rap engagingly for several minutes, but also to chop up a familiar beat like Whodini’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o5r0i2ZAbCc\">Friends\u003c/a>,” transforming it into something fresh and original; or even make rudimentary 808 beats. For example, Too Short drew attention for “rapping the longest,” as Bas explains, leading to songs that lasted eight or nine minutes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927334\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-800x682.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"682\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-800x682.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-1020x870.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-160x136.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-768x655.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait.jpg 1200w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Adisa Banjoko in the 1980s. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Adisa Banjoko)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Those tapes were everywhere. Everyone was trying to see what was possible,” says Banjoko. In 1987, he began making raps under the name MC Most Ill. His first song was “Rhyme Junkie.” “The truth was, some of it was really cool but a lot of it actually also sucked, because [the art form] was brand new. … The quality control was not there.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On August 18, 1984, the \u003cem>San Francisco Examiner\u003c/em> published an article called “Rapping with Too-Short,” the first story on the 18-year-old prodigy. Pacific News Service journalist Anthony Adams called Short’s songs “preacher-like yarns over pre-recorded music,” and noted that one of them was about automaker John DeLorean, whose conviction for cocaine trafficking made national news. Short claimed he and his partner Freddy B sold over 2,000 tapes. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The \u003cem>Chronicle-Examiner\u003c/em> also frequently interviewed \u003ca href=\"https://www.dominiquediprima.com/\">Dominique “Lady D” DiPrima\u003c/a>, a New York transplant and San Francisco State University student who rapped, sung, and organized events. DiPrima possessed a rich family pedigree — her father was the jazz writer Amiri Baraka, her mother the beat poet Diane DiPrima. In late 1984, \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#home-turf-premieres-on-kron-tv\">KRON-TV recruited her to host \u003cem>Home Turf\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, a Saturday-afternoon program that became appointment viewing for local teens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Everyone had a crush on Dominique,” says Naru, giggling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927320\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-800x541.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"541\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927320\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-800x541.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-1020x690.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-160x108.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-768x520.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-1536x1039.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_.png 1540w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Dominique DiPrima, pictured here hosting a 1987 episode of ‘Home Turf’ on KRON-4. \u003ccite>(SFSU Television Archive)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The First Bay Area Rap Record Opens the Floodgates\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>One of the under-acknowledged aspects of early hip-hop is the way elder Black musicians shepherded young artists into the recording industry.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The late Sylvia Robinson, who was inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2022, initially emerged in the mid-’50s as one-half of Mickey & Sylvia, who scored a national hit with “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5SwMB9v1pQ4\">Love Is Strange\u003c/a>.” As a ’70s solo artist and producer, Robinson made slinky, Eartha Kitt-like erotic disco capers such as “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NA2X1040_gY\">Pillow Talk\u003c/a>” and “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPScEJ66_m4\">Sweet Stuff\u003c/a>.” After discovering hip-hop when she heard DJ Lovebug Starski at a party, Robinson formed Sugar Hill Records, and turned three rapping teens she found in New Jersey into its first act, the Sugarhill Gang.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This process of soul veterans working with young people resulted in independent 12” singles that mirrored — if not yet accurately capturing — the nascent rap sound at a time when big companies virtually ignored it. With his Mercury Records contract, Kurtis Blow was the only act with a major album deal. A handful of other pioneers like DJ Hollywood scored one-off 12” deals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A similar process played out in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2R_h9BCuvBE\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The first Bay Area rap record is widely considered to be Phil “Motorcycle Mike” Lewis and the Rat Trap Band’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p4Odk2Vu70s\">Super Rat\u003c/a>,” a 1981 boogie-funk single notoriously released by East Oakland heroin kingpin Milton “Mickey Mo” Moore’s Hodisk Records. The name “Hodisk” was a cheeky reference to his onetime side business as a pimp. (Moore has since reformed and is now a pastor in West Oakland.) In fact, Mickey Mo boasts in his 1996 autobiography \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9qy6RNV6f5w\">The Man: The Life Story of a Drug Kingpin\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, “Hodisk Records became the first record company on the West Coast to release a rap record.” (The first L.A. rap record, Disco Daddy and Captain Rapp’s “The Gigolo Rapp,” was also released in 1981.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mickey Mo has another claim to rap lore: In 1980, he \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#the-first-rap-performance-on-a-major-stage\">helped finance an Oakland Coliseum concert\u003c/a> headlined by L.A. funk band War, with the Sugarhill Gang as a supporting act. Journalist Lee Hildebrand’s pre-concert interview with the Gang in the \u003cem>Oakland Tribune\u003c/em> was the first mention of rap music in the local press. A second funk-rap novelty, Steve Walker’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vB9jCLUWwBY\">Tally Ho!\u003c/a>,” also appeared in 1981. In 1983, San Francisco’s Debo & Brian released the electro-funk EP \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vgv_AfTbEng\">This Is It\u003c/a>\u003c/em>. The momentum had started.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I had made this vow that I would never ever do anything having to do with rap,” laughs Claytoven Richardson. During his long career, the Berkeley-born, Oakland-raised Richardson worked with Aretha Franklin, Kenny G, Whitney Houston, Elton John, and Celine Dion. But in the early ’80s, he was best known as a singer, producer, and arranger with hot dancefloor jazz-funk bands like Bill Summers & Summers’ Heat. His anti-rap stance reflected the music industry at large in the 1980s. “Nobody had the foresight to see that it would morph and change and do the things that it’s done,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927369\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 625px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/ClaytovenRichardson.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"625\" height=\"352\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927369\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/ClaytovenRichardson.jpg 625w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/ClaytovenRichardson-160x90.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 625px) 100vw, 625px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Claytoven Richardson pictured in March 2023 in Los Angeles, California. \u003ccite>(Steven Simione/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Still, Richardson couldn’t avoid the increasingly popular genre when he scored a production deal at Fantasy Records, the onetime Berkeley jazz label also known for innovative acts like Sylvester and Cybotron, as well as one-off singles generated by a “throw it against the wall and see if it sticks” philosophy. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of the records Richardson produced in that anything-goes environment was Mighty Mouth’s satirical complaint, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VU1hAFnrtU8\">I’m All Rapped Out\u003c/a>.” (He wasn’t the only one annoyed over rap; perhaps out of wishful thinking, a 1985 \u003cem>San Francisco Chronicle\u003c/em> article referred to the “fast-fading hip-hop scene.”) A vocalist named Lawrence Pittman didn’t show up for the session, so Richardson performed the lyrics himself. However, Pittman showed up to rap on Mighty Mouth’s second single, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IqfQcLbemE4\">The Roaches\u003c/a>,” which parodied Whodini’s electro hit, “Freaks Come Out at Night.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Other scattered local raps appeared between 1985 and 1986. Former boogaloo dancer Jay King, just home from a stint in the Air Force and splitting time between Sacramento and Vallejo, formed a group called Frost and released “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hObIekxeoSg\">Battle Beat\u003c/a>.” His friends Denzil Foster & Thomas McElroy produced it, as well as another electro-rap track, Sorcerey’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ap6uw-kX8o\">Woo Baby\u003c/a>.” Pittsburg rapper James “Red Beat” Briggs issued “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a7dUlMEZUSc\">Freak City\u003c/a>,” which was later remixed by N.W.A. co-founder Arabian Prince. And there was Rodney “Disco Alamo” Brown, from Richmond, whose 12” “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6K-pXg1DY98\">The Task Force\u003c/a>” is \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#richmonds-task-force-memorialized-on-wax\">an early example\u003c/a> of Bay Area rap chronicling street life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927313\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-800x484.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"484\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927313\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-800x484.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-1020x618.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-160x97.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-768x465.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Too Short, pictured at his manager’s house in Oakland on September 21, 1987. \u003ccite>(Steve Ringman/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Most importantly, Too Short’s rising buzz led to a deal with deep East Oakland entrepreneur Dean Hodges’ 75 Girls label. Released in 1985, the resulting \u003cem>Don’t Stop Rappin’\u003c/em> was the first official album by a local rapper. While fans of a certain age still treasure protean electro-funk tracks like “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L2ywke376NQ\">Girl\u003c/a>” — which E-40 referenced on his 1998 hit, “Earl, That’s Yo Life” — the album couldn’t compare to his raunchy and wickedly hilarious “special request” tapes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was during this period that Naru finally got his chance in the studio. Since 1984, UC Berkeley station \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#college-radio-makes-its-mark\">KALX-FM\u003c/a> served as home to “Music for the People,” a Sunday-morning community affairs and music show hosted by the late Charles “Natty Prep” Douglass, as well as DJs like Billy “Jam” Kiernan (who also broadcast on San Francisco State University station KUSF-FM), David “Davey D” Cook, and funkster Rickey “The Uhuru Maggot” Vincent. When Naru won \u003ca href=\"https://wfmu.org/playlists/shows/107287\">a 1986 rap contest hosted by Billy Jam on KALX\u003c/a>, he earned a deal with Bay Wave Records, a local imprint distributed by Hollywood-based Macola Records. Richardson was hired to produce the session.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dLlNn1Zh1ww\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[Quick Draw] was a great rapper. He had a lot of great lyrics and ideas,” says Richardson. On “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dLlNn1Zh1ww\">Rapaholic\u003c/a>,” Richardson and session engineer Michael Denten (who later worked with Spice 1 and E-40) accompanied Quick Draw’s dexterous and energetic raps with sharp-angled percussive edits and sound effects reminiscent of The Art of Noise and Mantronix.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Respect to Claytoven,” says Naru, who not only continues to make music but also owns a company, \u003ca href=\"http://hiplearning.org/\">Hip Learning\u003c/a>, that promotes childhood education with rap. He wasn’t entirely satisfied with the “Rapaholic” experience: “They made the record sound hella more polished. It was [supposed to be] a little more underground than that.” However, he adds, “[Claytoven] taught us a lot in the studio about the mics they use and how to mix. It was a good experience.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927411\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/SirQuickdrawFlyer.72dpi.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"889\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927411\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/SirQuickdrawFlyer.72dpi.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/SirQuickdrawFlyer.72dpi-160x237.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A photocopied flyer advertising Sir Quick Draw’s single ‘Rapaholic.’ \u003ccite>(Mosi Reeves)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>A Radio Breakthrough — And a Kid Named Hammer\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>As the trajectory of Bay Area hip-hop waxed and waned, three catalyzing moments brought the scene into focus.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The first was an R&B track. Timex Social Club’s “Rumors” captured the pulse of Bay Area youth culture, from Marcus Thompson and Alex Hill’s skittering electro-funk bass and drums to singer Michael Marshall’s distinctly regional accent and coy recitation of schoolyard gossip (“Did you hear the one about Michael? Some say he must be gay…”) Produced by Jay King and Denzil Foster and released on King’s Jay Records in February 1986, it mushroomed into a top ten \u003cem>Billboard\u003c/em> pop hit and dominated radio all year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jVce2IeYcTg\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But by the summer, Timex Social Club was falling apart and trading accusations with King over money and credit. The group’s only album \u003cem>Vicious Rumors\u003c/em> — by that point it was just Michael Marshall — featured drum programming from CJ Flash and a shout-out to KALX’s Natty Prep, who helped break “Rumors” on his “Music and Life” show. Marshall retreated from the spotlight before \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#i-got-5-on-it-remix-a-meeting-of-greats-recorded-in-alameda\">re-emerging as the hook man\u003c/a> on the Luniz’ 1995 smash “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ERtkpnXLrL4\">I Got 5 on It\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After breaking with Timex Social Club, King formed a group called Jet Set and signed a deal with Warner Bros. Records. The group changed their name to Club Nouveau before debuting with the single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lKWhkjXV5uM\">Jealousy\u003c/a>.” A follow-up, the Bill Withers cover “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kbyjaUJWWmk\">Lean on Me\u003c/a>,” went to number-one on the \u003cem>Billboard\u003c/em> Hot 100, while Club Nouveau’s debut album \u003cem>Life, Love & Pain\u003c/em> went platinum.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927310\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-800x489.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"489\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927310\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-800x489.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-1020x624.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-160x98.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-768x470.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Singers Samuelle Prater, Jay King and Valerie Watson of Club Nouveau performs at the U.I.C. Pavilion in Chicago, Illinois in August 1987. \u003ccite>(Raymond Boyd/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>King’s growing stardom rippled across the Bay and reached Felton Pilate, the Vallejo keyboardist, singer, and producer best known as a driving force in Bay Area funk stars Con Funk Shun. The two had already worked together on King’s onetime rap group Frost; Pilate engineered that record. Pilate soon added one of King’s projects, Sacramento R&B/rap group New Choice, to a growing slate of projects he produced and engineered at his Felstar Studios.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Felstar Studios was the culmination of work he had begun while not touring and rehearsing with Con Funk Shun. At his home studio on Sandpiper Drive in Vallejo, Pilate helped assemble records for fledgling local artists. “I never thought of myself as just a studio,” he says, where he simply records his clients. “I have a little experience here. I’ve got several gold albums. Here, let me pass on some of this knowledge.” When asked if he considered himself a mentor, he demurs, even though that’s arguably what he was. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When Pilate opened Felstar Studios on Sonoma Boulevard, his trusted associate was James Earley, a young engineer whom he credits for adding a more contemporary sensibility to the Studios’ output. Among the locals who came to them were M.V.P., a family trio consisting of Earl Stevens, Danell Stevens, and Brandt Jones. Their 1988 12”, \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sfLuAL6DueI\">The Kings Men\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, also included Tanina Stevens and Angela Pressley, who called themselves Sugar ‘N’ Spice. The members of M.V.P. updated their stage names to E-40, D-Shot and B-Legit, added Tanina as Suga T, and \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#the-clicks-down-dirty-ushers-in-mobb-music-era\">evolved into The Click\u003c/a>, arguably becoming the most famous rap group to emerge from Vallejo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927370\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 700px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/MVP.e-40.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"700\" height=\"700\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927370\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/MVP.e-40.jpg 700w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/MVP.e-40-160x160.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 700px) 100vw, 700px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">M.V.P., a 1988 Vallejo rap group featuring Busy D, E-40 and Legit (L–R). The three would later add E-40’s sister Suga T and become known as The Click. \u003ccite>(Gerry Ericksen / Rushforce Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In 1986, Pilate and Earley both had solo deals at Berkeley’s Fantasy Records. It was there that Pilate met a former Oakland A’s batboy named Stanley “Holyghost Boy” Burrell through Fantasy Records producer Fred L. Pittman. “Fred would often hire me to do keyboard arrangements for him,” says Pilate. When Pittman asked him to play keys for Holyghost Boy, Pilate responded, “Hey Fred, why don’t you let me take the reins on this?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As a classically trained jazz and classical musician, Pilate didn’t think much of rap, even though Con Funk Shun not only included a rap verse on a 1982 single, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GQ9GHVTI-EE\">Ain’t Nobody Baby\u003c/a>”; but also made “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kmmzvN7raB0\">Electric Lady\u003c/a>,” a 1985 hit produced by Larry Smith of Whodini fame that landed in the top five of \u003cem>Billboard\u003c/em>’s Black Singles chart. “Musically, I wasn’t a fan, but as a producer, I said, ‘I can do this,’” he says. “Like everyone else, Con Funk Shun wanted to be relevant, and rap was all over the radio.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The tracks Burrell brought to Pilate consisted of him rapping over sparse Yamaha RX5 drum-machine parts. Pilate responded by going into “study mode.” He listened to the rap stuff that was getting airplay like Doug E. Fresh & the Get Fresh Crew. As a result, the skittering percussion on Burrell’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=akVWFiptGNY\">Let’s Get It Started\u003c/a>” is reminiscent of the go-go-inspired arrangements on Doug E. Fresh hits like “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6sGw9GSCiYU\">The Show\u003c/a>” and “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-UtqnKIF7kE\">All the Way to Heaven\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927325\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-800x565.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"565\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927325\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-800x565.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-1020x720.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-160x113.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-768x542.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">MC Hammer films the music video for ‘Let’s Get It Started’ at Sweet Jimmie’s nightclub in downtown Oakland, March 19, 1988. \u003ccite>(Deanne Fitzmaurice/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“My thing was to make it more music-driven than beat-driven,” says Pilate. In many cases, he simply “listened to what [Burrell] was talking about and wrote a straight R&B song underneath it.” He also gives credit to Earley, who helped refine the drum programming and brought “that younger ear” to the project. They incorporated stock horn stabs from a battery of Juno, Roland, and Yamaha drum machines. Meanwhile, Kent “The Lone Mixer” Wilson and Bryant “D.J. Redeemed” Marable added rhythmic scratches by cutting up Curtis Mayfield and Beastie Boys records.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After the demos were finished, Fantasy Records dropped Pilate, Earley and Burrell from their deals. “They weren’t really sure how to market any of us,” says Pilate. Then, he chuckles, “The next time I ran into the Holyghost Boy, he had changed his name to MC Hammer.” After forming Bustin’ Records in Fremont with financial help from Oakland A’s ballplayers like Mike Davis and Dwayne Murphy, Hammer turned the Pilate demos into three 12”s — “Ring ’Em,” “The Thrill Is Gone” and “Let’s Get It Started” — and the 1987 album \u003cem>Feel My Power\u003c/em>. “I was like, man, those were rough mixes! You were supposed to come back and let me fix that!” Pilate laughs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Everyone involved in Bay Area hip-hop has vivid memories of MC Hammer blowing up. Near-mythical stories of his local takeover abound, like attending local concerts surrounded by a massive crew; or tearing up the dance floor at The Silks, a popular nightclub in Emeryville.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927324\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-800x727.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"727\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927324\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-800x727.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-1020x926.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-160x145.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-768x698.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate.jpg 1058w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">MC Hammer and Fenton Pilate in modern times. Pilate engineered and co-produced MC Hammer’s first recordings. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Felton Pilate)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Today, it’s worth revisiting \u003cem>Feel My Power\u003c/em> and 1988’s \u003cem>Let’s Get It Started\u003c/em>. Released after Hammer signed with Capitol Records, \u003cem>Let’s Get It Started\u003c/em> found Hammer and Pilate remixing those original demos while adding vital new tracks like “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9sZVcXzSE3M\">Pump It Up\u003c/a>.” The results are bombastic and vibrant dance-floor jams as ecstatic as anything by Kid ‘n’ Play and Salt-n-Pepa. Hammer’s subsequent leap into pop superstardom with 1990’s \u003cem>Please Hammer Don’t Hurt ‘Em\u003c/em> and the ubiquity of “U Can’t Touch This” obscure just how great those early tracks are.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Eight Woofers in the Trunk\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>MC Hammer’s major-label arrival in 1988 capped a year of Bay Area hip-hop on the cusp of national exposure. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After Too Short issued \u003cem>Born to Mack\u003c/em> in the fall of 1987 on his Dangerous Music label, Jive Records picked it up. (Dangerous Music also issued \u003cem>Dangerous Crew\u003c/em>, a compilation of vital Bay Area acts like Spice-1, Rappin’ 4-Tay, and the female duo Danger Zone.) Digital Underground’s playful and psychedelic “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5zQ1frcgSbI\">Underwater Rimes\u003c/a> / \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VpBNB20wVo0\">Your Life’s a Cartoon\u003c/a>” led to a deal with Tommy Boy. Local talent waited in the wings, including rapper/producer Paris (A.T.C.’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yHpiPWfOBk4\">Cisco Jam\u003c/a>”), Sway & King Tech (\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FBJujmVXiwE\">Flynamic Force\u003c/a>\u003c/em> EP), Dangerous Dame (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t9Frj4j09GE\">The Power That’s Packed\u003c/a>”), and MC Twist and the Def Squad (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4lZz7qhjfjw\">Just Rock\u003c/a>”). And the late Cameron Paul, known for his “Beats & Pieces” breakbeats, remixed Queens trio Salt-n-Pepa’s 1987 track “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SPkdk1oMmtE\">Push It\u003c/a>” into a global phenomenon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13828164\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-800x496.jpg\" alt=\"Cameron Paul reveals his mixing secrets.\" width=\"800\" height=\"496\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13828164\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-160x99.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-768x476.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-240x149.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-375x233.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-520x322.jpg 520w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Cameron Paul, who provided the spine of New Orleans bounce music with ‘Brown Beats’ and recorded a smash-hit remix of Salt ‘n’ Pepa’s ‘Push It,’ was also a prominent club and radio megamix DJ in San Francisco. \u003ccite>(YouTube)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Incidentally, the first local group to score a major label deal wasn’t Hammer, but Surf MCs, a Berkeley group that Profile Records promoted as a Beastie Boys-like rap/rock crossover. Their 1987 album \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ojCAqdBA7uA\">Surf or Die\u003c/a>\u003c/em> proved a flop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yet the third moment that catalyzed Bay Area hip-hop wasn’t a singular record like Timex Social Club’s “Rumors,” or an artist like Hammer and Short. It was the sound of walloping, all-enveloping bass.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Made for surgically enhanced car and jeep stereos, the bass colossus is as much a feature of hip-hop in the mid-’80s as the pounding Roland TR-808 machine, from Rick Rubin’s production on LL Cool J’s “Rock the Bells” and T La Rock’s “It’s Yours” to Rodney O and DJ Joe Cooley’s “Everlasting Bass” and Dr. Dre’s work on Eazy-E’s “The Boyz-N-The Hood.” It also mirrors the crack-cocaine epidemic that began to blight and distort communities across the country. As street life turned treacherous, the specter of the hustler, and whether to become one, cast a growing shadow.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13925761']“Then the new style came, the bass got deeper / You gave up the mike and bought you a beeper / Do you want to rap or sell coke? / Brothers like you ain’t never broke,” Too Short memorably rapped on his 1989 hit, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CvfUUOO0xoM\">Life Is…Too Short\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Banjoko recalls how the presence of gangs transformed local shows. “You would see a bunch of people dressed up together [in the same gear], and you might assume they were a rap or dance crew. They were young drug lords,” he says. “You could get trampled, beat up or robbed by any of them. I remember 69 Ville being massively deep at the Fresh Fest and the [Run-DMC] Raising Hell tour. They were terrifying, straight up. You were going to tuck your chain, you were going to take your Kangol off, or they were going to take it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927326\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/HughEMC.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"409\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927326\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/HughEMC.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/HughEMC-160x109.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Hugh EMC, the San Francisco rapper whose 1988 single ‘It’s the Game’ unflinchingly chronicled street life. \u003ccite>(Soul Sonic Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Rap imagery became more honest and explicit. Some like Richmond rapper Magic Mike, San Francisco’s Hugh EMC (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b_p7L0eJfKI\">It’s the Game\u003c/a>”), and Oakland’s Hollywood (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/release/641778-Hollywood-Stay-Heart-And-Soul-Raps-Just-A-Battlefield\">Gangster Rap\u003c/a>”) seemed to embrace the hustler ethos, while cautiously adding verses about the consequences of that lifestyle. Then there was Oakland rapper Morocco Moe, whose “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ogNoOCIVPrI\">Task\u003c/a>” criticized how law enforcement brutalized communities in the War on Drugs: “Their intentions are good/But their actions are wrong.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Every Black neighborhood was infested” with crack, says Vallejo producer Khayree Shaheed. “There was an influx of money coming into young Black men, but there was also a lot of death occurring.” The epidemic also marked his entry into the world of rap.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As a descendant of the Bay Area’s vaunted funk tradition, Khayree spent the ’70s and early ’80s playing bass guitar for bands like Grand Larceny, Body Mind & Spirit and Touch of Class (with keyboardist Rosie Gaines, who later joined Prince & the New Power Generation). His travels took him across the U.S. and even to Japan, where Touch of Class lived and performed for several months. (Though his bands made demos, there are no official recordings to date.) When asked about the first time he heard rap, Khayree cites “jazzoetry” ensembles like The Last Poets, not the Sugarhill Gang. And as a youth growing up on Lofas Place in Vallejo, he spent plenty of time following Con Funk Shun, hoping to apprentice with the biggest band in the city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927412\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-800x510.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"510\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927412\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-800x510.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-1020x651.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-160x102.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-768x490.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-1536x980.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vallejo musician Khayree Shaheed, playing bass onstage in 1979. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Khayree Shaheed)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Khayree was in his mid-20s when Rod “I.C.E.” Andrews and Dan “Luvva D” Morrison a.k.a. the Luvva Twins brought Khayree a demo they had made on a Casio keyboard, “Hubba Head.” The song title was slang for a crack addict, and the duo described the “hubba head’s” descent into addiction with charismatic punch. They arranged the music and rapped most of the lyrics, while Khayree dropped a short verse and added guitar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Khayree had already spent time at Pilate’s home studio, honing his writing and production skills. (“I always enjoyed working with him,” says Pilate.) Now, he brought “Hubba Head” to Pilate, and the two prepared it for release. Setting up his own label, Big Bank Records, Khayree distributed two hundred copies of the 12” to DJs and influencers. “The record was super popular in the streets,” says Khayree.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pArkWvlAebg\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After “Hubba Head,” Khayree began working with Jay King, a fellow graduate of Vallejo High School. The opportunity to write and produce New Choice’s 1987 single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q-VLZQ4X1yA\">Cold Stupid\u003c/a>” and most of the quintet’s 1988 debut, \u003cem>At Last\u003c/em>, gave him important experience on a major project and financial stability. By fusing bass, funky R&B and hip-hop breakbeats, New Choice reflected a parallel R&B movement that both influenced and was inspired by the hip-hop scene. Similar Bay Area acts included Oakland’s Tony! Toni! Toné!, who parlayed backing sessions for Sheila E. and Tramaine Hawkins into a major-label deal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Flush from his experience with New Choice, Khayree was ready to start his own company. “I’m listening to EPMD’s \u003cem>Strictly Business\u003c/em>,” he says, inspiring the name of his second label, Strictly Business Records. He knew that Mike “The Mac” Robinson, who also grew up on Lofas Place, was a rapper. Robinson hailed from a musical family: his uncle Steve “Silver” Scales was a well-traveled Vallejo funk percussionist who played with Talking Heads, Tom Tom Club, and the B-52s. (Though it would be a delicious coincidence, Scales didn’t perform on “Genius of Love.”) Khayree encouraged Robinson to take music more seriously. Meanwhile, Robinson’s mother drew the memorable Strictly Business logo: an open briefcase, ready for business.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1988, Khayree released The Mac’s three-song EP, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/release/805531-The-Mac-Im-Ah-Big-Mac\">I’m Ah Big Mac\u003c/a>.” Heard now, what immediately stands out is the unique \u003cem>tone\u003c/em> of the bass. “We used synthesizers that had dumb-fat bass lines,” explains Khayree in reference to himself and Too Short as well as future Bay Area colleagues like Ant Banks. By comparison, he says, other regional scenes relied on a “natural” bass guitar or samples from records. “You feel it through your whole body. … You can get it with a bass guitar, depending on how you EQ the bass and what you run your guitar through. But you’re \u003cem>never\u003c/em> going to touch the subs and the depth of a Minimoog, of the Oberheim Ovx, or the Roland Juno 106.” The EP’s highlight is its B-side “The Game Is Thick,” which centers on a sample of Prince’s “D.M.S.R.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927371\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-800x498.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"498\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927371\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-800x498.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-1020x635.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-160x100.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-768x478.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick.jpg 1537w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Khayree and The Mac (L–R), pictured on the cover of The Mac’s ‘The Game is Thick.’ \u003ccite>(Phil Bray / Strictly Business Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In 1989, Khayree remixed and re-released “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tCxGl7Ok1YI\">The Game Is Thick\u003c/a>” as a standalone 12” with a memorable cover photo: Khayree looking super-clean in a grey suit, clasping a briefcase, with The Mac in a red-and-black bomber jacket. Khayree calls the style “pimping.” “We didn’t mean pimping so much as getting prostitutes to work,” he explains. “It’s an attitude, and it’s a musical style.” The “game” is a metaphor for life in the Black community. Street slang illustrated complex situations, whether it was dealing with the repercussions of a raging crack epidemic, or simply navigating the tensions of everyday living. Meanwhile, The Mac’s “cool, silky, pimpish” flow and Khayree’s synthesized bass production proved a clear predecessor to the ’90s mob-music sound that took over Bay Area rap.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13924167']Upon release, “The Game Is Thick” didn’t make a major impact, and most copies went to local DJ pools. “We promoted records out of the trunk,” says Khayree. “We went from Bobby G’s Soul Disco in San Francisco to [Rico Casanova’s record pool] The Pros in Oakland.” Still, “The Game Is Thick” remix received a mention in Davey “D” Cook’s April 7, 1989 “Beats & Breaks” column for \u003cem>BAM\u003c/em> Magazine. “Let me tell you, it’s hyped to the max,” Davey D wrote.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With Khayree’s encouragement, the Mac taught himself how to produce music with synth keyboards. He also introduced Khayree to another Vallejo artist, Andre “Mac Dre” Hicks, who became Strictly Business’ second act. By the time The Mac was shot and killed on July 23, 1991 in what Khayree calls “a case of mistaken identity,” the two had recorded dozens of tracks and released a third and final 12” protesting police violence, 1990’s “Enuff of Tis Sh-t!” One of The Mac’s beats posthumously appeared on Mac Dre’s 1993 track, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=slA_s7tSjMU\">The M.A.C. & Mac D.R.E.\u003c/a>”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927413\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-800x523.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"523\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927413\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-800x523.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-1020x666.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-160x105.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-768x502.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-1536x1003.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Khayree with Kool Moe Dee at the 1988 BRE Conference in Los Angeles. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Khayree Shaheed)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Mike had a big, big loving heart,” remembers Khayree, sounding wistful. He emphasizes how The Mac left behind a daughter, “Mac” Reina Robinson, and a pregnant girlfriend who gave birth to his son, Mike. At one point, Khayree plays a voicemail of The Mac passionately singing a funky, swinging hook, as if to counteract the stereotype that rappers aren’t musicians. He talks about how The Mac’s way of playing simple, evocative keyboard notes for maximum effect echoes in the work of his famed protégé, Mac Dre. “I miss him,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Area rap broke wide at the end of the decade, leading to a 1989 story in the \u003cem>New York Times\u003c/em>, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/1989/09/10/arts/rap-by-the-bay-oakland-emerges-as-a-force-in-pop.html\">Rap by the Bay: Oakland Emerges as a Force in Pop\u003c/a>.” Not every local pioneer who laid the groundwork would enjoy the fruits of that success. But their stories are essential to understanding how local hip-hop came of age, and everything that came after.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927363\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-800x450.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927363\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-800x450.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-1020x574.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-160x90.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-768x432.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-1536x864.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_.png 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">In the mid-1980s, after years of street dance, DJing and graffiti sharing equal space, rapping took center stage. The Bay Area’s bass-heavy sound would arrive at the end of the decade. (Clockwise from top left: Too Short, MC Hammer, Dominique DiPrima, Club Nouveau, and Motorcycle Mike.) \u003ccite>(Steve Ringman/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images; Al Pereira/Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images; SFSU Television Archives; Raymond Boyd/Getty Images; Hodisk Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cstrong>Editor’s note\u003c/strong>: This story is part of \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003cem>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">I\u003c/span>t’s a wintry January evening when Bas-1 brings me to Del the Funky Homosapien’s house in the East Bay. For much of the afternoon, Bas — the \u003ca href=\"https://eastbayexpress.com/old-school-fool-1/\">Oakland native\u003c/a> who’s worked with Digital Underground and released \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=bas-1+full+album+mentally+astute\">his own solo records\u003c/a> — has schooled me on the origins of the Bay Area hip-hop sound.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bas lists numerous rappers from the ’80s, and not just Todd “Too Short” Shaw, the East Oakland rapper who famously hustled homemade cassette tapes. I’ve never heard most of the names Bas mentions: MC Chocolate Milk, Windell Baby Doll, Davy Def, Buddy Bean, Reggie Reg Rock Ski.ter, M.C. Tracy, Rock Master Fresh, Nic Nack, Kimmie Fresh, and the Acorn Crew with Grandmaster Fresh (a rapper later known as “DJ Daryl” Anderson, famed for producing tracks like 415’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yuZ6CAwZmys\">Side Show\u003c/a>” and 2Pac’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fAJfDP3b5_U\">Keep Ya Head Up\u003c/a>”).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Many of these early Bay Area rappers never put out a commercially available record. Instead, their work is mostly confined to locally distributed cassette tapes — collectors call them “gray tapes” — that are now nearly impossible to find. They publicly broadcasted these tapes throughout neighborhoods, utilizing boomboxes and car stereos as well as stereos at house parties. “None of them sound like Too Short,” says Bas. “Some of these people didn’t put out recordings, but they were known.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Throughout the 1980s, Bay Area hip-hop was an artistic movement struggling for a distinct identity. The first half of the decade was defined by street dance and aerosol art as much as rap and DJing. But as local youth began to absorb the sounds emanating from national hotspots like New York, they created a distinctive style all their own — one that would make a global impact in the years to come.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At Del’s house, Bas queues up an extraordinary live video clip of \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5u3eiG9BtdE\">Mac Mill, Emperor E, and DJ Anthony “K-os” Bryant\u003c/a> performing at \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11690787/when-oakland-was-a-chocolate-city-a-brief-history-of-festival-at-the-lake\">Festival at the Lake\u003c/a>, a now-defunct annual event held at Lake Merritt, in 1988. (Alex “Naru” Reece, who organized the showcase where Mac Mill performed, clarified in a follow-up conversation that it didn’t happen during Festival at the Lake. He also says the showcase was filmed in 1986 for a 1988 video compilation.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mac Mill and Emperor E go back and forth, trading sound effects and dense Oakland slang as K-os cuts and scratches copies of Long Island band Original Concept’s deathless bass classic, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ai4VC0NUxl4\">Knowledge Me\u003c/a>.” Bas praises Mac Mill’s unusual “Arabian” style, which the latter deployed nearly a decade later with the 1995 single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5_f0TB3Igro\">Arabian Hump\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/5u3eiG9BtdE'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/5u3eiG9BtdE'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>Then, Bas-1 calls Chris “CJ Flash” Jourdan, an OG who worked with Timex Social Club, the Berkeley teen band whose 1986 electro-funk classic, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jVce2IeYcTg\">Rumors\u003c/a>,” represented the first national breakthrough for Bay Area hip-hop culture. As Bas broadcasts CJ Flash’s voice from his phone through Del’s stereo equipment, CJ Flash spends the next hour or so describing a fledging scene where poppers and boogaloo dancers, not rappers or DJs, were the prime attractions. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These ensembles drew from a street-dance tradition that \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13891300/reclaiming-the-legacy-of-oaklands-boogaloo-dance-culture\">dates back decades\u003c/a>. Their kinetic performances ignited crowds at high schools, house parties, and public spaces like Justin Herman Plaza and Union Square in San Francisco and UC Berkeley’s Sproul Plaza. Battles even took place on the street, with crews traveling to different neighborhoods around the region to seek out rivals. “You could meet with people on their turf and get down, and hopefully not get thumped in the process,” says CJ Flash. Many Bay Area hip-hop pioneers got their start in dance crews, including Club Nouveau’s Jay King (who pop-locked with The Unknowns), DJ King Tech (who was known as Wizard, and danced with Master City Breakers), and Flash himself (who \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ub1TtnI4dh8\">performed with UFO\u003c/a>).\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/ub1TtnI4dh8'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/ub1TtnI4dh8'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>By contrast, rapping was a relatively new and undeveloped skill, the lowest element on the hip-hop totem pole. “Anybody could rap. Anybody could say a bunch of basic rhyme words with no style and flavor,” says Bas, noting as an aside that “most folks couldn’t understand the lyrics anyway.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>How is a discussion about street dancers connected to an exploration of the Bay Area hip-hop sound? It’s important to understand the conditions under which the genre emerged locally.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Turntables, Casios and Homemade Tapes\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>As KQED’s Eric Arnold explains in “\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13924126/the-bay-area-was-hip-hop-before-there-was-hip-hop\">The Bay Area Was Hip-Hop Before There Was Hip-Hop\u003c/a>,” foundational elements such as spoken word, funk, and rhythm & blues existed locally well before New Jersey trio Sugarhill Gang arrived with “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKTUAESacQM\">Rapper’s Delight\u003c/a>” in the fall of 1979.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>At the same time, the Bay Area was not the Bronx, where breakbeat culture catalyzed and fermented. Bronx DJs, MCs and B-boys like Kool Herc, Grandmaster Flash, Afrika Bambaataa, Grandmaster Caz, the Rock Steady Crew and many others gained renown among mid-’70s New York youth long before “Rapper’s Delight.” By contrast, as CJ Flash explains, it took much of the 1980s for Bay Area youth to develop the cadences and rhythms we now associate with modern rap.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back then, enterprising musicians couldn’t purchase studio software and distribute their own music on an internet platform like Soundcloud. Recording equipment was expensive. An unsigned artist needed the financial and business expertise to manufacture vinyl and cassettes with artwork, much less convince record stores like Leopold’s Records in Berkeley to carry them. (Recordable CD-Rs weren’t widely used until the 1990s.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This helps explain why so many rappers utilized turntables and Casio keyboards, and then recorded their songs using the microphone input on relatively cheap stereo equipment. Captured on recordable cassettes like Maxell and TDK, some of these “gray tapes” simply had stickers with handwritten titles. More often, they weren’t labeled at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927410\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-800x600.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"600\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927410\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A box of handmade Bay Area rap tapes, part of Naru’s home archives. \u003ccite>(Mosi Reeves)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In those days, Too Short was an outlier, a Fremont High School student who canvassed East Oakland spots like Arroyo Park, \u003ca href=\"https://medium.com/@bayareahiphoparchive/in-conversation-with-56fae687e9c\">selling copies of “Game Raps”\u003c/a> at a few dollars a pop. Since Short was originally from Los Angeles, he relied on rap partner Tony “Freddy B” Adams to show him around the Town. The duo \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#too-short-and-freddy-b-start-making-handmade-tapes\">made customized tapes for local drug dealers and players\u003c/a> in the city’s nightlife — now known as “special request” tapes — shouting out the customers’ names in their raps.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Short was a hustler,” says CJ Flash. “He had a style of telling stories that was so outlandish and so funny that word got around.” Short and Freddy B developed the trademark “Biiiiitch!” catchphrase, and Short has often said that he and Freddy B intended to get famous together. Unfortunately, Freddy B was in prison when Short released his landmark “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YwVJTvOO4yY\">Freaky Tales\u003c/a>” tape in 1987. (Adams is \u003ca href=\"https://www.dailyrepublic.com/all-dr-news/solano-news/local-features/from-too-hort-colleague-to-christian-missionary/\">now a minister\u003c/a> at Mount Calvary Baptist Church in Fairfield.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927341\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 676px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TooShort.SFExaminer.1984.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"676\" height=\"455\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927341\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TooShort.SFExaminer.1984.jpg 676w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TooShort.SFExaminer.1984-160x108.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 676px) 100vw, 676px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Too Short in 1984, at the age of 18. \u003ccite>(Katy Raddatz/San Francisco Examiner/Bancroft Library)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Others like Sir Quick Draw, Mac Mill, and Chief Naked Head (later known as Premo; he passed away in January of 2023) simply gave away their tapes or let friends copy or “dub” the originals. As Richmond rapper \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13925761/magic-mike-richmond-calvin-t-rap-hip-hop\">Magic Mike explained in a recent interview with Dregs One\u003c/a>, dubs of his tracks circulated as widely as Germany. “It was more or less trying to make a name for yourself…you had to make a tape,” adds CJ Flash.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Most importantly, Bay Area hip-hop in the ’80s was a primordial soup of youngsters figuring out what the local sound would be. The answers wouldn’t arrive until near the end of the decade. “The Bay Area was behind,” says CJ Flash, comparing it to more advanced regions like Los Angeles, South Florida, and New York. “We never thought about radio.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>‘A Pivotal Moment’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Alex “Naru Kwina” Hence remembers the first time he heard the Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight” as a 14-year-old preparing to attend Oakland High School. “When the song went off, everybody ran outside, like, ‘Did you hear that song?!” he laughs, calling it one of the best moments of his life. “It was a pivotal moment, bro. We literally started rapping the song and trying to remember it.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Naru called himself Sir Quick Draw, an alias inspired by Hanna-Barbera cartoon \u003cem>Quick Draw McGraw\u003c/em> as well as the fact that, as a runner, “I was hella fast.” He took inspiration from Kurtis Blow, the Harlem rapper who scored major hits like 1980’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qzl-2g5HhaI\">The Breaks\u003c/a>.” And Naru almost immediately began recording his voice on tape. His first original song was “The Caveman Rap,” which was inspired by Brooklyn rapper Jimmy Spicer’s 1980 single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nkGLco0tGqc\">Adventures of Super Rhyme\u003c/a>.” Naru can still recite those verses from memory: \u003cem>Now people come and take a trip in time with me / Back to that sweet year one million B.C.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I still got that old-school flavor, man,” he admits. “Hip-hop was more fun for me back then.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927368\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.Boxes_.1.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"840\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927368\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.Boxes_.1.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.Boxes_.1-160x224.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Naru Kwina, who recorded under the names Sir Quick Draw and Em Cee Quick, poses with his home archives. \u003ccite>(Mosi Reeves)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But rap in the Bay Area didn’t take off right away. “Most people would rap other people’s songs. They’d just repeat what they heard on the radio,” says Naru. Aspiring MCs honed their craft by congregating at Eastmont Mall, “trying to impress the girls, and getting our names on our derby jackets.” And when Tom Tom Club’s 1981 hit “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECiMhe4E0pI\">Genius of Love\u003c/a>” dropped? “Everybody rapped over that joint, man. Too many people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s worth remembering that hip-hop was a phenomenon developed essentially by Black and Brown children. Rapping, pop-locking, spray-painting aerosol art on neighborhood walls, even DJing: These were youthful forms of play and creative expression.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bas, who grew up in North Oakland, remembers \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#at-fishermans-wharf-a-street-dance-destination-emerges\">popping and “roboting” at Pier 39 on Fisherman’s Wharf\u003c/a> in the late ’70s as a child. “You have people like Ben [James] from Live Incorporated doing pantomime and roboting,” he says, noting one of the better-known dance crews. Dancers competed for attention and tips that they could spend on Snickers bars and arcade games. “Battle-wise, you had to have skill and talent to a certain caliber in order to truly be out on the Wharf or on Market [and Powell] in front of the cable cars,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927321\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-800x547.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"547\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927321\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-800x547.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-1020x697.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-768x525.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A street dance crew called The Vita Family perform at Pier 39 in 1986. \u003ccite>(Liz Hafalia/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Local newspaper stories focused on the emergence of hip-hop as a youth obsession. Enterprising teachers incorporated it into their lesson plans. On high-school campuses, fledgling DJs like Joseph Thomas “G.I. Joe” Simms Jr. at El Cerrito High School and groups like the Devastating Four proliferated. At house parties, mobile DJ crews spun the latest electro, boogie-funk, and rap hits.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gatherings at schools, churches, and community centers typically reserved a few minutes for fledgling local rap and dance crews to perform. This was also the era of \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#nancy-reagan-visits-oakland-and-coins-the-phrase-just-say-no\">the Reagan Administration’s “Just Say No” campaign\u003c/a>, and kids were often asked to help spread an anti-drug message through raps. “Inspired by rapping groups such as Sugar Hill, Run DMC, Jeckyl and Hyde and Mell (sic) and the Furious Five, teen-agers create their own raps mostly for fun and to bring attention to themselves,” read a June 29, 1985, story in the \u003cem>San Francisco Examiner\u003c/em>. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>In the first half of the decade, street dance remained a focal point. \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/2022/12/04/1140504217/double-dutch-fantastic-four-holiday-classic\">Double Dutch jump-rope competitions\u003c/a> sponsored by McDonald’s drew thousands to Lincoln Square Center in Oakland. The San Francisco Street Breakers held a fundraising benefit, “Super Break Sunday,” at San Francisco’s Palace of Fine Arts in 1985. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ironically, street dance “got played out” after the success of Hollywood movies like \u003cem>Beat Street\u003c/em> and \u003cem>Breakin’\u003c/em>, and rap music moved to the center of hip-hop culture. Quickening the process were concerts by Black music stars like the \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#the-fresh-fest-comes-to-oakland\">Fresh Festival\u003c/a>, the first national hip-hop tour, with headliners Run-DMC at the Oakland Coliseum. Local radio tentatively began to experiment with rap, notably KMEL-FM and its mix DJs such as Michael Erickson and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13828163/watch-cameron-paul-give-a-masterclass-in-early-djing\">the late Cameron Paul\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927323\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-1020x1517.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"640\" height=\"952\" class=\"size-large wp-image-13927323\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-1020x1517.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-800x1190.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-160x238.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-768x1142.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-1033x1536.jpg 1033w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_.jpg 1345w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A flyer for the Fresh Festival, which arrived in Oakland in 1984.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“By 1985, there was this incredible scene in the South Bay,” says Adisa “The Bishop” Banjoko. As a teen DJ in San Bruno “who looked like Urkel,” he remembers traveling far and wide to buy records, from Creative Music Emporium in San Francisco to T’s Wauzi in Oakland. Meanwhile, nightclubs like Mothers and Studio 47 brought a fusion of hip-hop, freestyle and techno. “San Jose had underage hip-hop teenage clubs, and no other city had those,” he says. (Banjoko later became a rapper, a journalist, and now promotes jiu-jitsu, meditation and chess with his company \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/real64blocks/?hl=en\">64 Blocks\u003c/a>.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back in Oakland, Naru continued making tapes. “I come from a musical family. My cousin’s the Maestro” — a.k.a. producer Keenan Foster, who has worked with Too Short, Dru Down, and Askari X — “and a lot of my family sings. I got a drum machine, a little Yamaha keyboard. I would play my bass lines. We had double-cassette decks.” He collaborated with Taj “Turntable T” Tilghman, “who was dope on the turntables.” Turntable T eventually bought a Roland TR-808 drum machine, the instrument du jour for def beat MCs. “When that 808 came, that was it. Everyone loved that deck. \u003cem>Boom!\u003c/em>”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Gray tapes” that circulated weren’t the EP and album-length releases we’re familiar with today. Some tapes only had one song per side; or maybe just one song on one side, period. Artists were judged not only by their ability to rap engagingly for several minutes, but also to chop up a familiar beat like Whodini’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o5r0i2ZAbCc\">Friends\u003c/a>,” transforming it into something fresh and original; or even make rudimentary 808 beats. For example, Too Short drew attention for “rapping the longest,” as Bas explains, leading to songs that lasted eight or nine minutes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927334\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-800x682.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"682\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-800x682.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-1020x870.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-160x136.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-768x655.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait.jpg 1200w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Adisa Banjoko in the 1980s. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Adisa Banjoko)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Those tapes were everywhere. Everyone was trying to see what was possible,” says Banjoko. In 1987, he began making raps under the name MC Most Ill. His first song was “Rhyme Junkie.” “The truth was, some of it was really cool but a lot of it actually also sucked, because [the art form] was brand new. … The quality control was not there.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On August 18, 1984, the \u003cem>San Francisco Examiner\u003c/em> published an article called “Rapping with Too-Short,” the first story on the 18-year-old prodigy. Pacific News Service journalist Anthony Adams called Short’s songs “preacher-like yarns over pre-recorded music,” and noted that one of them was about automaker John DeLorean, whose conviction for cocaine trafficking made national news. Short claimed he and his partner Freddy B sold over 2,000 tapes. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The \u003cem>Chronicle-Examiner\u003c/em> also frequently interviewed \u003ca href=\"https://www.dominiquediprima.com/\">Dominique “Lady D” DiPrima\u003c/a>, a New York transplant and San Francisco State University student who rapped, sung, and organized events. DiPrima possessed a rich family pedigree — her father was the jazz writer Amiri Baraka, her mother the beat poet Diane DiPrima. In late 1984, \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#home-turf-premieres-on-kron-tv\">KRON-TV recruited her to host \u003cem>Home Turf\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, a Saturday-afternoon program that became appointment viewing for local teens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Everyone had a crush on Dominique,” says Naru, giggling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927320\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-800x541.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"541\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927320\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-800x541.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-1020x690.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-160x108.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-768x520.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-1536x1039.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_.png 1540w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Dominique DiPrima, pictured here hosting a 1987 episode of ‘Home Turf’ on KRON-4. \u003ccite>(SFSU Television Archive)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The First Bay Area Rap Record Opens the Floodgates\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>One of the under-acknowledged aspects of early hip-hop is the way elder Black musicians shepherded young artists into the recording industry.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The late Sylvia Robinson, who was inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2022, initially emerged in the mid-’50s as one-half of Mickey & Sylvia, who scored a national hit with “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5SwMB9v1pQ4\">Love Is Strange\u003c/a>.” As a ’70s solo artist and producer, Robinson made slinky, Eartha Kitt-like erotic disco capers such as “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NA2X1040_gY\">Pillow Talk\u003c/a>” and “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPScEJ66_m4\">Sweet Stuff\u003c/a>.” After discovering hip-hop when she heard DJ Lovebug Starski at a party, Robinson formed Sugar Hill Records, and turned three rapping teens she found in New Jersey into its first act, the Sugarhill Gang.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This process of soul veterans working with young people resulted in independent 12” singles that mirrored — if not yet accurately capturing — the nascent rap sound at a time when big companies virtually ignored it. With his Mercury Records contract, Kurtis Blow was the only act with a major album deal. A handful of other pioneers like DJ Hollywood scored one-off 12” deals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A similar process played out in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/2R_h9BCuvBE'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/2R_h9BCuvBE'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>The first Bay Area rap record is widely considered to be Phil “Motorcycle Mike” Lewis and the Rat Trap Band’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p4Odk2Vu70s\">Super Rat\u003c/a>,” a 1981 boogie-funk single notoriously released by East Oakland heroin kingpin Milton “Mickey Mo” Moore’s Hodisk Records. The name “Hodisk” was a cheeky reference to his onetime side business as a pimp. (Moore has since reformed and is now a pastor in West Oakland.) In fact, Mickey Mo boasts in his 1996 autobiography \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9qy6RNV6f5w\">The Man: The Life Story of a Drug Kingpin\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, “Hodisk Records became the first record company on the West Coast to release a rap record.” (The first L.A. rap record, Disco Daddy and Captain Rapp’s “The Gigolo Rapp,” was also released in 1981.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mickey Mo has another claim to rap lore: In 1980, he \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#the-first-rap-performance-on-a-major-stage\">helped finance an Oakland Coliseum concert\u003c/a> headlined by L.A. funk band War, with the Sugarhill Gang as a supporting act. Journalist Lee Hildebrand’s pre-concert interview with the Gang in the \u003cem>Oakland Tribune\u003c/em> was the first mention of rap music in the local press. A second funk-rap novelty, Steve Walker’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vB9jCLUWwBY\">Tally Ho!\u003c/a>,” also appeared in 1981. In 1983, San Francisco’s Debo & Brian released the electro-funk EP \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vgv_AfTbEng\">This Is It\u003c/a>\u003c/em>. The momentum had started.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I had made this vow that I would never ever do anything having to do with rap,” laughs Claytoven Richardson. During his long career, the Berkeley-born, Oakland-raised Richardson worked with Aretha Franklin, Kenny G, Whitney Houston, Elton John, and Celine Dion. But in the early ’80s, he was best known as a singer, producer, and arranger with hot dancefloor jazz-funk bands like Bill Summers & Summers’ Heat. His anti-rap stance reflected the music industry at large in the 1980s. “Nobody had the foresight to see that it would morph and change and do the things that it’s done,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927369\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 625px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/ClaytovenRichardson.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"625\" height=\"352\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927369\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/ClaytovenRichardson.jpg 625w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/ClaytovenRichardson-160x90.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 625px) 100vw, 625px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Claytoven Richardson pictured in March 2023 in Los Angeles, California. \u003ccite>(Steven Simione/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Still, Richardson couldn’t avoid the increasingly popular genre when he scored a production deal at Fantasy Records, the onetime Berkeley jazz label also known for innovative acts like Sylvester and Cybotron, as well as one-off singles generated by a “throw it against the wall and see if it sticks” philosophy. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of the records Richardson produced in that anything-goes environment was Mighty Mouth’s satirical complaint, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VU1hAFnrtU8\">I’m All Rapped Out\u003c/a>.” (He wasn’t the only one annoyed over rap; perhaps out of wishful thinking, a 1985 \u003cem>San Francisco Chronicle\u003c/em> article referred to the “fast-fading hip-hop scene.”) A vocalist named Lawrence Pittman didn’t show up for the session, so Richardson performed the lyrics himself. However, Pittman showed up to rap on Mighty Mouth’s second single, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IqfQcLbemE4\">The Roaches\u003c/a>,” which parodied Whodini’s electro hit, “Freaks Come Out at Night.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Other scattered local raps appeared between 1985 and 1986. Former boogaloo dancer Jay King, just home from a stint in the Air Force and splitting time between Sacramento and Vallejo, formed a group called Frost and released “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hObIekxeoSg\">Battle Beat\u003c/a>.” His friends Denzil Foster & Thomas McElroy produced it, as well as another electro-rap track, Sorcerey’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ap6uw-kX8o\">Woo Baby\u003c/a>.” Pittsburg rapper James “Red Beat” Briggs issued “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a7dUlMEZUSc\">Freak City\u003c/a>,” which was later remixed by N.W.A. co-founder Arabian Prince. And there was Rodney “Disco Alamo” Brown, from Richmond, whose 12” “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6K-pXg1DY98\">The Task Force\u003c/a>” is \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#richmonds-task-force-memorialized-on-wax\">an early example\u003c/a> of Bay Area rap chronicling street life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927313\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-800x484.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"484\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927313\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-800x484.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-1020x618.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-160x97.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-768x465.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Too Short, pictured at his manager’s house in Oakland on September 21, 1987. \u003ccite>(Steve Ringman/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Most importantly, Too Short’s rising buzz led to a deal with deep East Oakland entrepreneur Dean Hodges’ 75 Girls label. Released in 1985, the resulting \u003cem>Don’t Stop Rappin’\u003c/em> was the first official album by a local rapper. While fans of a certain age still treasure protean electro-funk tracks like “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L2ywke376NQ\">Girl\u003c/a>” — which E-40 referenced on his 1998 hit, “Earl, That’s Yo Life” — the album couldn’t compare to his raunchy and wickedly hilarious “special request” tapes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was during this period that Naru finally got his chance in the studio. Since 1984, UC Berkeley station \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#college-radio-makes-its-mark\">KALX-FM\u003c/a> served as home to “Music for the People,” a Sunday-morning community affairs and music show hosted by the late Charles “Natty Prep” Douglass, as well as DJs like Billy “Jam” Kiernan (who also broadcast on San Francisco State University station KUSF-FM), David “Davey D” Cook, and funkster Rickey “The Uhuru Maggot” Vincent. When Naru won \u003ca href=\"https://wfmu.org/playlists/shows/107287\">a 1986 rap contest hosted by Billy Jam on KALX\u003c/a>, he earned a deal with Bay Wave Records, a local imprint distributed by Hollywood-based Macola Records. Richardson was hired to produce the session.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/dLlNn1Zh1ww'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/dLlNn1Zh1ww'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>“[Quick Draw] was a great rapper. He had a lot of great lyrics and ideas,” says Richardson. On “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dLlNn1Zh1ww\">Rapaholic\u003c/a>,” Richardson and session engineer Michael Denten (who later worked with Spice 1 and E-40) accompanied Quick Draw’s dexterous and energetic raps with sharp-angled percussive edits and sound effects reminiscent of The Art of Noise and Mantronix.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Respect to Claytoven,” says Naru, who not only continues to make music but also owns a company, \u003ca href=\"http://hiplearning.org/\">Hip Learning\u003c/a>, that promotes childhood education with rap. He wasn’t entirely satisfied with the “Rapaholic” experience: “They made the record sound hella more polished. It was [supposed to be] a little more underground than that.” However, he adds, “[Claytoven] taught us a lot in the studio about the mics they use and how to mix. It was a good experience.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927411\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/SirQuickdrawFlyer.72dpi.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"889\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927411\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/SirQuickdrawFlyer.72dpi.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/SirQuickdrawFlyer.72dpi-160x237.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A photocopied flyer advertising Sir Quick Draw’s single ‘Rapaholic.’ \u003ccite>(Mosi Reeves)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>A Radio Breakthrough — And a Kid Named Hammer\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>As the trajectory of Bay Area hip-hop waxed and waned, three catalyzing moments brought the scene into focus.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The first was an R&B track. Timex Social Club’s “Rumors” captured the pulse of Bay Area youth culture, from Marcus Thompson and Alex Hill’s skittering electro-funk bass and drums to singer Michael Marshall’s distinctly regional accent and coy recitation of schoolyard gossip (“Did you hear the one about Michael? Some say he must be gay…”) Produced by Jay King and Denzil Foster and released on King’s Jay Records in February 1986, it mushroomed into a top ten \u003cem>Billboard\u003c/em> pop hit and dominated radio all year.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/jVce2IeYcTg'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/jVce2IeYcTg'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>But by the summer, Timex Social Club was falling apart and trading accusations with King over money and credit. The group’s only album \u003cem>Vicious Rumors\u003c/em> — by that point it was just Michael Marshall — featured drum programming from CJ Flash and a shout-out to KALX’s Natty Prep, who helped break “Rumors” on his “Music and Life” show. Marshall retreated from the spotlight before \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#i-got-5-on-it-remix-a-meeting-of-greats-recorded-in-alameda\">re-emerging as the hook man\u003c/a> on the Luniz’ 1995 smash “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ERtkpnXLrL4\">I Got 5 on It\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After breaking with Timex Social Club, King formed a group called Jet Set and signed a deal with Warner Bros. Records. The group changed their name to Club Nouveau before debuting with the single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lKWhkjXV5uM\">Jealousy\u003c/a>.” A follow-up, the Bill Withers cover “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kbyjaUJWWmk\">Lean on Me\u003c/a>,” went to number-one on the \u003cem>Billboard\u003c/em> Hot 100, while Club Nouveau’s debut album \u003cem>Life, Love & Pain\u003c/em> went platinum.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927310\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-800x489.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"489\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927310\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-800x489.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-1020x624.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-160x98.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-768x470.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Singers Samuelle Prater, Jay King and Valerie Watson of Club Nouveau performs at the U.I.C. Pavilion in Chicago, Illinois in August 1987. \u003ccite>(Raymond Boyd/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>King’s growing stardom rippled across the Bay and reached Felton Pilate, the Vallejo keyboardist, singer, and producer best known as a driving force in Bay Area funk stars Con Funk Shun. The two had already worked together on King’s onetime rap group Frost; Pilate engineered that record. Pilate soon added one of King’s projects, Sacramento R&B/rap group New Choice, to a growing slate of projects he produced and engineered at his Felstar Studios.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Felstar Studios was the culmination of work he had begun while not touring and rehearsing with Con Funk Shun. At his home studio on Sandpiper Drive in Vallejo, Pilate helped assemble records for fledgling local artists. “I never thought of myself as just a studio,” he says, where he simply records his clients. “I have a little experience here. I’ve got several gold albums. Here, let me pass on some of this knowledge.” When asked if he considered himself a mentor, he demurs, even though that’s arguably what he was. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When Pilate opened Felstar Studios on Sonoma Boulevard, his trusted associate was James Earley, a young engineer whom he credits for adding a more contemporary sensibility to the Studios’ output. Among the locals who came to them were M.V.P., a family trio consisting of Earl Stevens, Danell Stevens, and Brandt Jones. Their 1988 12”, \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sfLuAL6DueI\">The Kings Men\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, also included Tanina Stevens and Angela Pressley, who called themselves Sugar ‘N’ Spice. The members of M.V.P. updated their stage names to E-40, D-Shot and B-Legit, added Tanina as Suga T, and \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#the-clicks-down-dirty-ushers-in-mobb-music-era\">evolved into The Click\u003c/a>, arguably becoming the most famous rap group to emerge from Vallejo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927370\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 700px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/MVP.e-40.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"700\" height=\"700\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927370\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/MVP.e-40.jpg 700w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/MVP.e-40-160x160.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 700px) 100vw, 700px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">M.V.P., a 1988 Vallejo rap group featuring Busy D, E-40 and Legit (L–R). The three would later add E-40’s sister Suga T and become known as The Click. \u003ccite>(Gerry Ericksen / Rushforce Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In 1986, Pilate and Earley both had solo deals at Berkeley’s Fantasy Records. It was there that Pilate met a former Oakland A’s batboy named Stanley “Holyghost Boy” Burrell through Fantasy Records producer Fred L. Pittman. “Fred would often hire me to do keyboard arrangements for him,” says Pilate. When Pittman asked him to play keys for Holyghost Boy, Pilate responded, “Hey Fred, why don’t you let me take the reins on this?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As a classically trained jazz and classical musician, Pilate didn’t think much of rap, even though Con Funk Shun not only included a rap verse on a 1982 single, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GQ9GHVTI-EE\">Ain’t Nobody Baby\u003c/a>”; but also made “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kmmzvN7raB0\">Electric Lady\u003c/a>,” a 1985 hit produced by Larry Smith of Whodini fame that landed in the top five of \u003cem>Billboard\u003c/em>’s Black Singles chart. “Musically, I wasn’t a fan, but as a producer, I said, ‘I can do this,’” he says. “Like everyone else, Con Funk Shun wanted to be relevant, and rap was all over the radio.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The tracks Burrell brought to Pilate consisted of him rapping over sparse Yamaha RX5 drum-machine parts. Pilate responded by going into “study mode.” He listened to the rap stuff that was getting airplay like Doug E. Fresh & the Get Fresh Crew. As a result, the skittering percussion on Burrell’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=akVWFiptGNY\">Let’s Get It Started\u003c/a>” is reminiscent of the go-go-inspired arrangements on Doug E. Fresh hits like “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6sGw9GSCiYU\">The Show\u003c/a>” and “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-UtqnKIF7kE\">All the Way to Heaven\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927325\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-800x565.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"565\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927325\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-800x565.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-1020x720.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-160x113.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-768x542.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">MC Hammer films the music video for ‘Let’s Get It Started’ at Sweet Jimmie’s nightclub in downtown Oakland, March 19, 1988. \u003ccite>(Deanne Fitzmaurice/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“My thing was to make it more music-driven than beat-driven,” says Pilate. In many cases, he simply “listened to what [Burrell] was talking about and wrote a straight R&B song underneath it.” He also gives credit to Earley, who helped refine the drum programming and brought “that younger ear” to the project. They incorporated stock horn stabs from a battery of Juno, Roland, and Yamaha drum machines. Meanwhile, Kent “The Lone Mixer” Wilson and Bryant “D.J. Redeemed” Marable added rhythmic scratches by cutting up Curtis Mayfield and Beastie Boys records.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After the demos were finished, Fantasy Records dropped Pilate, Earley and Burrell from their deals. “They weren’t really sure how to market any of us,” says Pilate. Then, he chuckles, “The next time I ran into the Holyghost Boy, he had changed his name to MC Hammer.” After forming Bustin’ Records in Fremont with financial help from Oakland A’s ballplayers like Mike Davis and Dwayne Murphy, Hammer turned the Pilate demos into three 12”s — “Ring ’Em,” “The Thrill Is Gone” and “Let’s Get It Started” — and the 1987 album \u003cem>Feel My Power\u003c/em>. “I was like, man, those were rough mixes! You were supposed to come back and let me fix that!” Pilate laughs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Everyone involved in Bay Area hip-hop has vivid memories of MC Hammer blowing up. Near-mythical stories of his local takeover abound, like attending local concerts surrounded by a massive crew; or tearing up the dance floor at The Silks, a popular nightclub in Emeryville.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927324\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-800x727.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"727\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927324\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-800x727.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-1020x926.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-160x145.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-768x698.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate.jpg 1058w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">MC Hammer and Fenton Pilate in modern times. Pilate engineered and co-produced MC Hammer’s first recordings. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Felton Pilate)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Today, it’s worth revisiting \u003cem>Feel My Power\u003c/em> and 1988’s \u003cem>Let’s Get It Started\u003c/em>. Released after Hammer signed with Capitol Records, \u003cem>Let’s Get It Started\u003c/em> found Hammer and Pilate remixing those original demos while adding vital new tracks like “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9sZVcXzSE3M\">Pump It Up\u003c/a>.” The results are bombastic and vibrant dance-floor jams as ecstatic as anything by Kid ‘n’ Play and Salt-n-Pepa. Hammer’s subsequent leap into pop superstardom with 1990’s \u003cem>Please Hammer Don’t Hurt ‘Em\u003c/em> and the ubiquity of “U Can’t Touch This” obscure just how great those early tracks are.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Eight Woofers in the Trunk\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>MC Hammer’s major-label arrival in 1988 capped a year of Bay Area hip-hop on the cusp of national exposure. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After Too Short issued \u003cem>Born to Mack\u003c/em> in the fall of 1987 on his Dangerous Music label, Jive Records picked it up. (Dangerous Music also issued \u003cem>Dangerous Crew\u003c/em>, a compilation of vital Bay Area acts like Spice-1, Rappin’ 4-Tay, and the female duo Danger Zone.) Digital Underground’s playful and psychedelic “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5zQ1frcgSbI\">Underwater Rimes\u003c/a> / \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VpBNB20wVo0\">Your Life’s a Cartoon\u003c/a>” led to a deal with Tommy Boy. Local talent waited in the wings, including rapper/producer Paris (A.T.C.’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yHpiPWfOBk4\">Cisco Jam\u003c/a>”), Sway & King Tech (\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FBJujmVXiwE\">Flynamic Force\u003c/a>\u003c/em> EP), Dangerous Dame (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t9Frj4j09GE\">The Power That’s Packed\u003c/a>”), and MC Twist and the Def Squad (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4lZz7qhjfjw\">Just Rock\u003c/a>”). And the late Cameron Paul, known for his “Beats & Pieces” breakbeats, remixed Queens trio Salt-n-Pepa’s 1987 track “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SPkdk1oMmtE\">Push It\u003c/a>” into a global phenomenon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13828164\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-800x496.jpg\" alt=\"Cameron Paul reveals his mixing secrets.\" width=\"800\" height=\"496\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13828164\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-160x99.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-768x476.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-240x149.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-375x233.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-520x322.jpg 520w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Cameron Paul, who provided the spine of New Orleans bounce music with ‘Brown Beats’ and recorded a smash-hit remix of Salt ‘n’ Pepa’s ‘Push It,’ was also a prominent club and radio megamix DJ in San Francisco. \u003ccite>(YouTube)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Incidentally, the first local group to score a major label deal wasn’t Hammer, but Surf MCs, a Berkeley group that Profile Records promoted as a Beastie Boys-like rap/rock crossover. Their 1987 album \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ojCAqdBA7uA\">Surf or Die\u003c/a>\u003c/em> proved a flop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yet the third moment that catalyzed Bay Area hip-hop wasn’t a singular record like Timex Social Club’s “Rumors,” or an artist like Hammer and Short. It was the sound of walloping, all-enveloping bass.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Made for surgically enhanced car and jeep stereos, the bass colossus is as much a feature of hip-hop in the mid-’80s as the pounding Roland TR-808 machine, from Rick Rubin’s production on LL Cool J’s “Rock the Bells” and T La Rock’s “It’s Yours” to Rodney O and DJ Joe Cooley’s “Everlasting Bass” and Dr. Dre’s work on Eazy-E’s “The Boyz-N-The Hood.” It also mirrors the crack-cocaine epidemic that began to blight and distort communities across the country. As street life turned treacherous, the specter of the hustler, and whether to become one, cast a growing shadow.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“Then the new style came, the bass got deeper / You gave up the mike and bought you a beeper / Do you want to rap or sell coke? / Brothers like you ain’t never broke,” Too Short memorably rapped on his 1989 hit, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CvfUUOO0xoM\">Life Is…Too Short\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Banjoko recalls how the presence of gangs transformed local shows. “You would see a bunch of people dressed up together [in the same gear], and you might assume they were a rap or dance crew. They were young drug lords,” he says. “You could get trampled, beat up or robbed by any of them. I remember 69 Ville being massively deep at the Fresh Fest and the [Run-DMC] Raising Hell tour. They were terrifying, straight up. You were going to tuck your chain, you were going to take your Kangol off, or they were going to take it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927326\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/HughEMC.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"409\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927326\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/HughEMC.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/HughEMC-160x109.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Hugh EMC, the San Francisco rapper whose 1988 single ‘It’s the Game’ unflinchingly chronicled street life. \u003ccite>(Soul Sonic Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Rap imagery became more honest and explicit. Some like Richmond rapper Magic Mike, San Francisco’s Hugh EMC (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b_p7L0eJfKI\">It’s the Game\u003c/a>”), and Oakland’s Hollywood (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/release/641778-Hollywood-Stay-Heart-And-Soul-Raps-Just-A-Battlefield\">Gangster Rap\u003c/a>”) seemed to embrace the hustler ethos, while cautiously adding verses about the consequences of that lifestyle. Then there was Oakland rapper Morocco Moe, whose “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ogNoOCIVPrI\">Task\u003c/a>” criticized how law enforcement brutalized communities in the War on Drugs: “Their intentions are good/But their actions are wrong.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Every Black neighborhood was infested” with crack, says Vallejo producer Khayree Shaheed. “There was an influx of money coming into young Black men, but there was also a lot of death occurring.” The epidemic also marked his entry into the world of rap.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As a descendant of the Bay Area’s vaunted funk tradition, Khayree spent the ’70s and early ’80s playing bass guitar for bands like Grand Larceny, Body Mind & Spirit and Touch of Class (with keyboardist Rosie Gaines, who later joined Prince & the New Power Generation). His travels took him across the U.S. and even to Japan, where Touch of Class lived and performed for several months. (Though his bands made demos, there are no official recordings to date.) When asked about the first time he heard rap, Khayree cites “jazzoetry” ensembles like The Last Poets, not the Sugarhill Gang. And as a youth growing up on Lofas Place in Vallejo, he spent plenty of time following Con Funk Shun, hoping to apprentice with the biggest band in the city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927412\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-800x510.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"510\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927412\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-800x510.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-1020x651.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-160x102.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-768x490.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-1536x980.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vallejo musician Khayree Shaheed, playing bass onstage in 1979. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Khayree Shaheed)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Khayree was in his mid-20s when Rod “I.C.E.” Andrews and Dan “Luvva D” Morrison a.k.a. the Luvva Twins brought Khayree a demo they had made on a Casio keyboard, “Hubba Head.” The song title was slang for a crack addict, and the duo described the “hubba head’s” descent into addiction with charismatic punch. They arranged the music and rapped most of the lyrics, while Khayree dropped a short verse and added guitar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Khayree had already spent time at Pilate’s home studio, honing his writing and production skills. (“I always enjoyed working with him,” says Pilate.) Now, he brought “Hubba Head” to Pilate, and the two prepared it for release. Setting up his own label, Big Bank Records, Khayree distributed two hundred copies of the 12” to DJs and influencers. “The record was super popular in the streets,” says Khayree.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/pArkWvlAebg'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/pArkWvlAebg'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>After “Hubba Head,” Khayree began working with Jay King, a fellow graduate of Vallejo High School. The opportunity to write and produce New Choice’s 1987 single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q-VLZQ4X1yA\">Cold Stupid\u003c/a>” and most of the quintet’s 1988 debut, \u003cem>At Last\u003c/em>, gave him important experience on a major project and financial stability. By fusing bass, funky R&B and hip-hop breakbeats, New Choice reflected a parallel R&B movement that both influenced and was inspired by the hip-hop scene. Similar Bay Area acts included Oakland’s Tony! Toni! Toné!, who parlayed backing sessions for Sheila E. and Tramaine Hawkins into a major-label deal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Flush from his experience with New Choice, Khayree was ready to start his own company. “I’m listening to EPMD’s \u003cem>Strictly Business\u003c/em>,” he says, inspiring the name of his second label, Strictly Business Records. He knew that Mike “The Mac” Robinson, who also grew up on Lofas Place, was a rapper. Robinson hailed from a musical family: his uncle Steve “Silver” Scales was a well-traveled Vallejo funk percussionist who played with Talking Heads, Tom Tom Club, and the B-52s. (Though it would be a delicious coincidence, Scales didn’t perform on “Genius of Love.”) Khayree encouraged Robinson to take music more seriously. Meanwhile, Robinson’s mother drew the memorable Strictly Business logo: an open briefcase, ready for business.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1988, Khayree released The Mac’s three-song EP, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/release/805531-The-Mac-Im-Ah-Big-Mac\">I’m Ah Big Mac\u003c/a>.” Heard now, what immediately stands out is the unique \u003cem>tone\u003c/em> of the bass. “We used synthesizers that had dumb-fat bass lines,” explains Khayree in reference to himself and Too Short as well as future Bay Area colleagues like Ant Banks. By comparison, he says, other regional scenes relied on a “natural” bass guitar or samples from records. “You feel it through your whole body. … You can get it with a bass guitar, depending on how you EQ the bass and what you run your guitar through. But you’re \u003cem>never\u003c/em> going to touch the subs and the depth of a Minimoog, of the Oberheim Ovx, or the Roland Juno 106.” The EP’s highlight is its B-side “The Game Is Thick,” which centers on a sample of Prince’s “D.M.S.R.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927371\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-800x498.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"498\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927371\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-800x498.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-1020x635.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-160x100.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-768x478.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick.jpg 1537w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Khayree and The Mac (L–R), pictured on the cover of The Mac’s ‘The Game is Thick.’ \u003ccite>(Phil Bray / Strictly Business Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In 1989, Khayree remixed and re-released “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tCxGl7Ok1YI\">The Game Is Thick\u003c/a>” as a standalone 12” with a memorable cover photo: Khayree looking super-clean in a grey suit, clasping a briefcase, with The Mac in a red-and-black bomber jacket. Khayree calls the style “pimping.” “We didn’t mean pimping so much as getting prostitutes to work,” he explains. “It’s an attitude, and it’s a musical style.” The “game” is a metaphor for life in the Black community. Street slang illustrated complex situations, whether it was dealing with the repercussions of a raging crack epidemic, or simply navigating the tensions of everyday living. Meanwhile, The Mac’s “cool, silky, pimpish” flow and Khayree’s synthesized bass production proved a clear predecessor to the ’90s mob-music sound that took over Bay Area rap.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Upon release, “The Game Is Thick” didn’t make a major impact, and most copies went to local DJ pools. “We promoted records out of the trunk,” says Khayree. “We went from Bobby G’s Soul Disco in San Francisco to [Rico Casanova’s record pool] The Pros in Oakland.” Still, “The Game Is Thick” remix received a mention in Davey “D” Cook’s April 7, 1989 “Beats & Breaks” column for \u003cem>BAM\u003c/em> Magazine. “Let me tell you, it’s hyped to the max,” Davey D wrote.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With Khayree’s encouragement, the Mac taught himself how to produce music with synth keyboards. He also introduced Khayree to another Vallejo artist, Andre “Mac Dre” Hicks, who became Strictly Business’ second act. By the time The Mac was shot and killed on July 23, 1991 in what Khayree calls “a case of mistaken identity,” the two had recorded dozens of tracks and released a third and final 12” protesting police violence, 1990’s “Enuff of Tis Sh-t!” One of The Mac’s beats posthumously appeared on Mac Dre’s 1993 track, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=slA_s7tSjMU\">The M.A.C. & Mac D.R.E.\u003c/a>”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927413\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-800x523.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"523\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927413\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-800x523.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-1020x666.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-160x105.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-768x502.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-1536x1003.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Khayree with Kool Moe Dee at the 1988 BRE Conference in Los Angeles. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Khayree Shaheed)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Mike had a big, big loving heart,” remembers Khayree, sounding wistful. He emphasizes how The Mac left behind a daughter, “Mac” Reina Robinson, and a pregnant girlfriend who gave birth to his son, Mike. At one point, Khayree plays a voicemail of The Mac passionately singing a funky, swinging hook, as if to counteract the stereotype that rappers aren’t musicians. He talks about how The Mac’s way of playing simple, evocative keyboard notes for maximum effect echoes in the work of his famed protégé, Mac Dre. “I miss him,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Area rap broke wide at the end of the decade, leading to a 1989 story in the \u003cem>New York Times\u003c/em>, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/1989/09/10/arts/rap-by-the-bay-oakland-emerges-as-a-force-in-pop.html\">Rap by the Bay: Oakland Emerges as a Force in Pop\u003c/a>.” Not every local pioneer who laid the groundwork would enjoy the fruits of that success. But their stories are essential to understanding how local hip-hop came of age, and everything that came after.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>On Feb. 2, a historic convergence of street dance practitioners took over KQED’s event space, The Commons, for a night of boogaloo, robotting, strutting, turfing and more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The night featured original pioneers of Bay Area street dance, who defined urban youth culture before hip-hop had a name, as well as the next generation adding their own stylistic innovations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hosted by \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/podcasts/rightnowish\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">\u003cem>Rightnowish\u003c/em>\u003c/a>’s Pendarvis Harshaw with additional MCing by Eric K. Arnold, the night included performances by \u003ca href=\"http://www.iamtracibartlow.com/\">Traci Bartlow\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"http://www.thestruttersroom.com/\">Lonnie “PopTart” Green\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/dat_nigga_dav/?hl=en\">Davin Ray “Davvybo” Packnett\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g2J_xGPGHjI\">Ronski and Show Banga\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.ironlotus.dance/\">Iron Lotus\u003c/a>, and \u003ca href=\"https://www.daveyd.com/\">Davey D\u003c/a> on the ones and twos — as well as audience participation galore, including a “\u003ca href=\"https://californiarevealed.org/islandora/object/cavpp%3A22055\">Jay Payton Line\u003c/a>” at the end.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Watch it all unfold above (the action starts at \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/live/B7aexHse3pc?feature=share&t=1125\">18:45\u003c/a>) as part of our year-long exploration of Bay Area hip-hop, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">\u003cem>That’s My Word\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, and keep your eye out for future \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/events\">KQED Live events\u003c/a>. \u003cem>— Gabe Meline\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>On Feb. 2, a historic convergence of street dance practitioners took over KQED’s event space, The Commons, for a night of boogaloo, robotting, strutting, turfing and more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The night featured original pioneers of Bay Area street dance, who defined urban youth culture before hip-hop had a name, as well as the next generation adding their own stylistic innovations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hosted by \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/podcasts/rightnowish\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">\u003cem>Rightnowish\u003c/em>\u003c/a>’s Pendarvis Harshaw with additional MCing by Eric K. Arnold, the night included performances by \u003ca href=\"http://www.iamtracibartlow.com/\">Traci Bartlow\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"http://www.thestruttersroom.com/\">Lonnie “PopTart” Green\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/dat_nigga_dav/?hl=en\">Davin Ray “Davvybo” Packnett\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g2J_xGPGHjI\">Ronski and Show Banga\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.ironlotus.dance/\">Iron Lotus\u003c/a>, and \u003ca href=\"https://www.daveyd.com/\">Davey D\u003c/a> on the ones and twos — as well as audience participation galore, including a “\u003ca href=\"https://californiarevealed.org/islandora/object/cavpp%3A22055\">Jay Payton Line\u003c/a>” at the end.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Watch it all unfold above (the action starts at \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/live/B7aexHse3pc?feature=share&t=1125\">18:45\u003c/a>) as part of our year-long exploration of Bay Area hip-hop, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">\u003cem>That’s My Word\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, and keep your eye out for future \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/events\">KQED Live events\u003c/a>. \u003cem>— Gabe Meline\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "The Bay Area Was Hip-Hop Before There Was Hip-Hop",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924127\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924127\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9-800x450.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9-1536x864.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Clockwise from upper left: Women of the Black Panther Party (BAMPFA/Pirkle Jones Foundation); the Black Resurgents (artist photo); Ntozake Shange (John Kisch Archive/Getty Images); Sun Ra in ‘Space is the Place’ (Harte Recordings); Sly Stone (CBS Records).\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>\u003ci>Editor’s note:\u003c/i>\u003c/b>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> This story is part of\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/bayareahiphop\"> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">That’s My Word\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>“People in the house, this is just for you/ A little rap to make you boogaloo”\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n—The Sugarhill Gang, 1979\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Grandmaster Caz, the Bronx pioneer who ghostwrote the Sugarhill Gang’s groundbreaking 1979 single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKTUAESacQM\">Rapper’s Delight\u003c/a>,” once said, “Hip-hop didn’t invent anything. Hop-hop reinvented everything.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That statement rings truer than ever as we approach the 50th anniversary of Kool Herc’s first party in the Bronx, where the globally influential music and culture were born. And it especially rings true here in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hip-hop wasn’t fully formed in 1973. In fact, it didn’t have an official name until 1982, the year the \u003ci>Village Voice\u003c/i> published a \u003ca href=\"https://digital.library.cornell.edu/catalog/ss:16057641\">profile of Zulu Nation founder Afrika Bambaataa\u003c/a>. Before Bambaataa joined the Black Spades street gang as a teenager, he hung out at the local Black Panther Information Center, and “his political leanings were encouraged by the appearance of songs like ‘Say It Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud’ by James Brown and ‘Stand!’ by Sly and the Family Stone,” Steven Hager wrote.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In other words, two of the three cultural influences cited in one of the earliest known print references to hip-hop are from the Bay Area. Oh word? Say that then.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>No one would dispute that hip-hop emerged from the Bronx, or that James Brown was one of its godfathers. But the impact the Bay Area had on hip-hop’s early sound, aesthetic and ideology is less widely recognized. A thorough exploration of the Bay’s cultural and political movements of the 1960s and ’70s strongly suggests the Bay was hip-hop before there was hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924550\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924550\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith-800x426.jpg\" alt=\"illustrations of huey newton and sly stone\" width=\"800\" height=\"426\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith-800x426.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith-1020x543.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith-160x85.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith-768x409.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith-1536x818.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">In the Bay Area, both Huey Newton and Sly Stone (L–R) helped sow the seeds of what would later be referred to as hip-hop. \u003ccite>(Illustrations by Shomari Smith)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Consider this: Before he became a funk superstar, Sly Stone was a fast-talking radio personality whose \u003ca href=\"https://soundcloud.com/djstef415/sly-stone-on-ksol-1967\">on-air patter\u003c/a>, laden with hep phrases, took the form of rapping before rap music. When it came to dance, the Bay Area had boogaloo, robotting and strutting, whose innovative moves preceded b-boying by almost 10 years. (There’s even evidence of breakdancing crews at local talent shows prior to nationwide releases of \u003cem>Breakin’\u003c/em> and \u003cem>Beat Street\u003c/em>.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wall_of_Respect\">community mural movement\u003c/a>, which parallels the \u003ca href=\"https://blogs.cuit.columbia.edu/ijt2106/moment-of-departure/the-emergence-of-modern-graffiti/\">modern graffiti movement\u003c/a>, took root in the Bay before wildstyle frescoes appeared on New York subway trains. The Bay Area’s \u003ca href=\"https://legionsofboom.com/\">Filipino American mobile DJ scene\u003c/a> dates back to garage parties in the 1970s in South San Francisco and Daly City.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Consider also that the iconography of hip-hop was shaped by Bay Area activists, as well as street-level archetypes of badmen and tricksters whose legend became \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CsXK4_D6ByA\">urban folklore\u003c/a>. A key reason the Bay Area became an early adopter of hip-hop was because its culture not only anticipated its arrival, but contributed to its essence during its developmental stages.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924289\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 615px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13924289\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/BPP2.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"615\" height=\"829\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/BPP2.png 615w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/BPP2-160x216.png 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 615px) 100vw, 615px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A 1971 flyer for a Black Panther Party rally calling for Bobby Seale, Ericka Huggins, Angela Davis and Ruchell Magee to be freed from prison. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Black Panther Party Alumni Legacy Network)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The Black Panthers lay hip-hop’s ideological foundation\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Hip-hop began as an underground artform created by inner city youth with few resources, who were dynamic in how they expressed their style and identity. Much of its ideology and political viewpoints were shaped by the Black Panthers, who were founded in Oakland in 1966 and grew to 38 national chapters within two years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Black Panthers had a distinct influence on people like dancer Will “Mr. Penguin” Randolph, an early practitioner of boogaloo and co-founder of the dance crew the \u003ca href=\"https://www.blackresurgents.com/\">Black Resurgents.\u003c/a> Randolph, who grew up in East Oakland, remembers how the Panthers used culture to engage young people and push their revolutionary message.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They had all these rallies with Elaine Brown and different people, and the Black Resurgents were the unofficial official dance group,” Randolph says. “And they would use us to draw the adults in to talk about the city’s plight politically. It was just phenomenal.” [aside postid='arts_13923938']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13851531/a-brief-history-of-the-lumpen-the-black-panthers-revolutionary-funk-band\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">The Lumpen\u003c/a>, a Black Panther-affiliated touring funk band, spread the party’s message around the country. It’s no coincidence that groups like the Chi-Lites, the O’Jays and the Isley Brothers began to reference Panther talking points on songs like “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/qEwMaeN2x-c\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Give More Power to the People\u003c/a>,” “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/uebYua_vdPc\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Give the People What They Want\u003c/a>” and “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/8QZvoOqUkqw\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Fight the Power\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You have to consider that the Black Panther ideology was steeped in, as are most cultural ideas, in the music of the day,” Randolph says. “The grittiness of the blue collar town of Oakland, and the rise of the ideology of the Black Panther Party, and the rise of the funk music of the town all came together.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the hip-hop era, children of Black Panthers like Tupac Shakur and Digital Underground’s Money B — known as “Panther cubs” — would be the ones to carry the Panthers’ vision for Black liberation forward. There’s no “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/zfuF2jOeUx8\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Rebel of the Underground\u003c/a>,” an early agitprop Tupac song, without the Black Panthers. No “Break the Grip of Shame,” the classic 1990 single by San Francisco rapper Paris, either.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/HJ96GPtnH70\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hip-hop activism’s cornerstone issues, police reform and the prison-industrial complex, contain obvious through-lines back to the Black Panthers. In 1966, the Panthers’ manifesto, the Ten-Point Program, stated, “We Want An Immediate End to Police Brutality and the Murder of Black People,” followed by a call for “all Black People (to) be released from the many jails and prisons.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>N.W.A’s “Fuck Tha Police” seemed outrageous in 1989, but became prescient three years later, when LAPD officers were caught on video beating Rodney King. Political rappers like Public Enemy and KRS-One often harbored strong anti-police views, which were shared by such less-likely sources as New York’s L.L. Cool J and Houston’s UGK, on down to Vallejo’s The Mac.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before the NYPD killing of Amadou Diallo inspired the Hip Hop for Respect project in 2000, the 1995 death of Aaron Williams in SFPD custody led to hip-hop activist organization Third Eye Movement protesting the SF Police Commission, and later resisting California’s Juvenile Crime initiative, Prop. 21. In 2009, Mistah F.A.B., Boots Riley and other local hip-hop artists took part in \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13847704/after-oscar-grant-oakland-artists-inspired-a-new-generation-of-activists\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">protests against Oscar Grant’s killing\u003c/a> by BART police.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>More recently, the 2016 \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/11537324/equiptos-hunger-strike-the-importance-of-art-in-social-change\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Frisco Five\u003c/a> hunger strike, spearheaded by rapper Equipto, resulted in SFPD reform. In 2020, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13881529/photos-black-lives-matter-murals-call-for-justice-on-oaklands-walls\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">graffiti artists and muralists took to the Oakland streets\u003c/a> in response to George Floyd’s murder.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Over the past decade, activists have rallied around the Black Lives Matter movement, and it’s no coincidence that the phrase was first coined by Black Lives Matter cofounder Alicia Garza, in Oakland, the home of the Panthers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12159957\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 398px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12159957\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-398x600.jpg\" alt=\"Lonnie Wilson, untitled (Black Panthers at Alameda County Courthouse), July 14, 1968. Gelatin silver photograph, 14 x 9.5 in. The Oakland Tribune Collection, the Oakland Museum of California, Gift of ANG Newspapers\" width=\"398\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-398x600.jpg 398w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-400x602.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-768x1156.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-784x1180.jpg 784w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-1180x1777.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-960x1446.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802.jpg 1793w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 398px) 100vw, 398px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Lonnie Wilson, untitled (Black Panthers at Alameda County Courthouse), July 14, 1968. Gelatin silver photograph, 14 x 9.5 in. The Oakland Tribune Collection, the Oakland Museum of California, Gift of ANG Newspapers. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of the Oakland Museum of California)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Before conscious rap, funk brought the message\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In the Bay Area, funk music was inextricably linked to the revolutionary movements of the 1960s. Beyond the Black Panthers were the Brown Berets, the Third World Liberation Front and the anti-Vietnam War movement, all animating young people to fight against an oppressive social order. One artist that emerged from this climate and eventually became one of hip-hop’s major influences was Sly Stone. A Vallejo-raised champion of multiculturalism and progressive social values, Sly transformed Black music during the ’60s and ’70s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe style=\"border-radius:12px\" src=\"https://open.spotify.com/embed/playlist/6QO0SJgNdiPaDRpwHMPySi?utm_source=generator\" width=\"100%\" height=\"352\" frameborder=\"0\" allowfullscreen allow=\"autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; fullscreen; picture-in-picture\" loading=\"lazy\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sly’s records often contained social commentary that mixed the personal with the political. “Stand!” is an anthem of self-determination positing that freedom is attainable “at least in your mind if you want to be”; Sly released similarly-themed songs like “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/l8sz_7TPWE0\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">You Can Make It If You Try\u003c/a>,” “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/HMQQcniF2Bg\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Underdog\u003c/a>” and “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/Ruq2HJGs31g\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Skin I’m In\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to his contributions to hip-hop’s lexicon — Sly and the Family Stone’s album \u003ci>Fresh\u003c/i> predates hip-hop’s popularizing of the term by at least a decade — there’s the music itself, which has become part of hip-hop’s genetic code. According to online sample databases, Sly and The Family Stone’s music has been sampled an astounding 967 times — up there with James Brown and the Meters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Greg Errico’s drums on “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/42YGprrAOj0\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Sing A Simple Song\u003c/a>” alone have resurfaced in gangsta, alternative and even international rap songs, including Digital Underground’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/PBsjggc5jHM\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">The Humpty Dance\u003c/a>,” Tupac’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/skg0w8DpEe4\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Temptations\u003c/a>,” Public Enemy’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/mmo3HFa2vjg\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Fight the Power\u003c/a>,” KRS-One’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/9ZrAYxWPN6c\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Sound of Da Police\u003c/a>,” A Tribe Called Quest’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/cxN4nKk2cfk\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Jazz\u003c/a>” and countless others.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Family Stone bassist and Oakland native Larry Graham’s slap-bass technique, prominently displayed on 1968’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/N5BP2KlPD4U\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Again)\u003c/a>,” became a defining characteristic of funk, later used by musicians like Bootsy Collins as well as Chic’s Bernard Edwards, whose “Good Times” bassline would later drive “Rapper’s Delight.” [pullquote size='large']No one would dispute that hip-hop emerged from the Bronx, or that James Brown was one of its godfathers. But the impact the Bay Area had on hip-hop’s early sound, aesthetic and ideology is less widely recognized.[/pullquote]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sly also created a template for the artist-producer and independent label entrepreneur. He produced other artists for his short-lived Stone Flower label, often playing every musical instrument. His production of Little Sister’s “Somebody’s Watching You” became the first Top 40 hit to use electronic drums — a staple of nearly all hip-hop production.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I feel like particularly with Sly, [he’s] part of the whole kind of mashup of the streets and the church,” says Lateef Daumont, a Panther cub best known as hip-hop artist Lateef the Truthspeaker of the Quannum collective. “They just had all of the things that would be blueprints for hip-hop later on — even business-wise, in a lot of ways.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Sly was the integrationist,” says author and educator Cecil Brown, a Berkeley resident during the ’70s who taught at Merritt College’s former campus on Grove Street (now Martin Luther King Jr. Way) in Oakland. “Also, Sly had an element of militancy in him, too, that was \u003cem>not\u003c/em> flower power, you know? It was like, ‘We got something that is going to make us feel better, and that belongs to us.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13898274\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13898274\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-800x450.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-1536x864.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-2048x1152.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-1920x1080.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sly Stone in a still from Questlove’s new film ‘Summer of Soul.’ \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Mass Distraction Media)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Remarkably, Stone was able to cross over to the pop charts while maintaining an unapologetically Black identity. In a \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDOyaGvOyPk\">1974 clip from \u003ci>The Mike Douglas Show\u003c/i>\u003c/a>, Sly is asked if his young, white middle-class fans know what he’s singing about. “Yeah, they know,” he says. Hip-hop exemplifies the same paradigm: It appeals to white youth precisely because it offers entry into a different cultural space, with its own reference points and vernacular.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Just as The Coup’s Boots Riley performed his song “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/_2bkG0wwdXc\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Underdogs\u003c/a>” during the Occupy Oakland demonstrations of 2011, Sly occasionally performed at Black Panther rallies while living in Oakland. His ear-to-the-street perspective, containing equal parts optimism and cynicism, is evidenced by the No. 1 album \u003ci>There’s A Riot Goin’ On\u003c/i>, released in 1971. As cultural critic Okla Jones wrote on the occasion of the album’s 50th anniversary, “America was a nation in transition, feeling the effects of the previous decade. The shadow of Dr. King’s assassination loomed over the Black community, and the Vietnam War divided an entire country. What Sly and the Family Stone’s fifth album did was give a voice to a new generation yearning to be heard.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This dynamic — young people speaking their minds and determining their own identities through cultural expression — not only defined the early ’70s but connected the funk era to the rap era. Once you depart from the New York-centric breakbeat aesthetic, funk becomes \u003cem>the\u003c/em> defining element of hip-hop’s sound, particularly in the Southern United States and parts of the Midwest, and especially in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13851562\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13851562\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2019/02/lumpen_stage-800x523.jpg\" alt=\"The Lumpen performed between 1970 and 1972; afterwards, Black Panther Party leadership assigned its members to other roles within the organization.\" width=\"800\" height=\"523\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/02/lumpen_stage.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/02/lumpen_stage-160x105.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/02/lumpen_stage-768x502.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Black Panther funk band The Lumpen performed between 1970 and 1972; afterwards, party leadership assigned its members to other roles within the organization. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of itsabouttime.com)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Before breaking, the Bay had boogaloo\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The dance style known as Oakland boogaloo began in the 1960s with R&B and soul as its soundtrack, but the emergence of funk raised the bar for creative expression. “The thumping of the bass and the snapping of the snare drum and the thumping of the bass drum, you started to see people doing this free-form movement, with a hit and with body contortions,” says Will Randolph, whose group the Black Resurgents once performed during a 1977 Parliament concert at the Oakland Coliseum Arena, where they emerged from the iconic mothership in front of more than 10,000 fans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When you talk about hip-hop dance, primarily people think of breaking and popping,” Randolph says. “When you talk about street dance on a nationwide level prior to hip-hop dance coming out of primarily New York, you have this whole West Coast sea of dance and street dance. The Bay Area in particular is really the debut for hip-hop.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/IUdS6kxw2aI\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>From the mid-1960s to the early ’70s, years before hip-hop had a name, Oakland groups like the Black Resurgents, One Plus One, the Black Messengers and Pirate and the Easy Walkers perfected moves that would become part of the hip-hop dance vernacular.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“What I’m saying is that boogaloo, robotting, and strutting dance styles predate hip-hop as a culture, as a name, and even hip-hop dance as an artform,” says Randolph. (In 1990’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QDApdzFa3OI\">U Make Me Want Some\u003c/a>,” Mac Dre’s mentor and namesake The Mac even raps: “You can do the boogaloo / Like they used to do in 1972.”)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As boogaloo branched off into Richmond robotting and San Francisco strutting in the mid-1970s to become the predominant form of urban youth culture in the Bay Area, dancers adopted the sartorial flamboyance associated with pimps, incorporating top hats, canes and pointy-toed shoes into their aesthetic. White gloves created a mesmerizing effect under blacklight during performances in dark halls.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fueled by talent show competitions, which brought local fame and popularity, the artform continued to develop into the early ’80s. Synchronized group routines, costumes, and stage props all became part of the mix. Most routines developed for competitions were performed just once. Some groups practiced in secret so no one could steal their moves. (The Black Resurgents were an exception; they were known to practice in front of an open window, often drawing crowds from their neighborhood.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Coded signals between dancers would indicate they were participants in the same culture and ready to battle at a moment’s notice, such as popping one’s collar — which later became a signature hallmark of Bay Area hip-hop expression. Being known as a boogaloo, strutter or robotter also conferred social status, and could give practitioners a ghetto pass through hostile territory or nullify threats of violence altogether.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As boogaloo spread in the latter half of the ’70s to San Jose, Sacramento, Fresno and Los Angeles, a move originally known as “The Oakland Hit” became the “pop,” and blended with the locking style indigenous to Southern California. Pop-locking was born.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924302\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924302\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/n5cCK1s8-800x609.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"609\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/n5cCK1s8-800x609.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/n5cCK1s8-160x122.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/n5cCK1s8-768x584.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/n5cCK1s8.jpg 924w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Black Resurgents on ‘The Jay Payton Show,’ July 18, 1976. \u003ccite>(Courtesy AAMLO)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But the Bay Area’s contributions didn’t make the history books. In 1979, the Electric Boogaloos \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rkejPbx9zSI\">appeared on \u003ci>Soul Train\u003c/i>\u003c/a> and were erroneously announced as the originators of boogaloo by host Don Cornelius. Boogaloo also spread to New York through Bay Area dancers like Jerry Rentie, who served active military duty there, but wasn’t recognized as a distinct style by New York rappers like Run-DMC, who said “let the poppers pop and the breakers break” on 1984’s “Rock Box.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Northern California origins of popping became further obscured when breakdancing arrived on the West Coast in the early ’80s, and boogaloo, strutting, robotting, popping and breaking were all subsumed into the amalgamation of hip-hop dance. In “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/HshF2AOx4VM\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">West Coast Pop Lock\u003c/a>,” a 1982 hit for Ronnie Hudson that most know as the hook of Tupac’s “California Love,” Hudson shouts out Los Angeles, Watts and Compton — with no mention of Oakland at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Pimp culture becomes pop culture\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Another key influence on hip-hop was Richard Pryor, who moved to Berkeley in 1969 and soaked up the city’s counterculture vibe. Pryor performed locally at venues like Laney College, and, similar to Tupac, key parts of his development came from the Bay Area before he moved to L.A. and became a superstar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pryor has been sampled in rap more than 400 times, which speaks to his street-level Black cultural perspective that placed more emphasis on barbershops, juke joints and strip clubs than churches and schools. And it was Pryor’s involvement in a 1973 movie, filmed in Oakland, that would cement his relationship to Bay Area hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924297\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924297\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-800x1217.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"1217\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-800x1217.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-1020x1551.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-160x243.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-768x1168.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-1010x1536.jpg 1010w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-1347x2048.jpg 1347w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-1920x2920.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-scaled.jpg 1683w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Mack, US poster, top from left: Max Julien, Richard Pryor, from a 1977 re-release of the film. \u003ccite>(Photo by LMPC via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>The Mack\u003c/i> is ostensibly a cautionary tale about the rise and fall of a pimp named Goldie (Max Julien), yet it glorified the illegal sex trade and the flamboyant pimp lifestyle. The movie’s lead was based directly on the notorious Oakland pimp and drug dealer Frank Ward, and infamously featured several real-life pimps and sex workers, in exchange for cameo roles for Ward and his brothers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In \u003cem>The Mack\u003c/em>, Pryor played Slim, Goldie’s partner. Another character, Fat Man, coincidentally had the same initials as infamous Oakland drug kingpin Felix Mitchell. With Goldie’s brother Olinga as a Panther-esque Black nationalist, the film’s subtext hints at the real-life tension between the Black Panthers and Oakland’s gangster underworld. It’s a dynamic that foreshadowed the divisions between conscious and gangsta rap, and predated the way Tupac and many Bay Area rappers mixed elements of both.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When Melvin Van Peebles’ directorial debut \u003ci>Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song\u003c/i> was released in 1971, Panther leaders used their widely circulated newspaper to encourage Party members to see the film, which also featured the all-Black East Bay Dragons motorcycle club. “No distributors were supporting it,” says the Lumpen’s Dr. Saturu Ned, who worked in the Party’s newspaper office before he became a musician. “Because of the Black Panther Party, millions of people went to see the movie.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Sweet Sweetback\u003c/i> birthed the so-called blaxploitation films of this era, championing a gritty view of street life with an undercurrent of anti-authoritarianism. The genre became a key reference point for hip-hop, along with the Panthers’ messages of Black power and resistance. [aside postid='arts_13923766']\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Hip-hop’s inspiration from the criminal underworld\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Without a doubt, one of hip-hop’s overarching themes has been the criminal underworld and the archetype of the pimp/player/hustler as hero and ghetto superstar. This, too, has significant ties to the Bay Area, and especially Oakland, which counts among its rap classics MC Pooh’s \u003ci>Life of a Criminal\u003c/i> and Too Short’s \u003ci>Born to Mack\u003c/i>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the Bay Area, a systemic devastation of Black neighborhoods created a formula for poverty. Blue-collar industrial jobs left after World War II, and the “urban renewal” of the ’60s and ’70s demolished homes and businesses in San Francisco as well as Oakland. For some, the underground economy became an appealing means of upward mobility.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Felix Mitchell operated out of the San Antonio Villa, a.k.a. 6-9 Ville, in East Oakland, which became the headquarters for the “69 Mob,” a criminal organization that established a nationwide heroin distribution network and employed young children as lookouts. The housing project’s notoriety extended well beyond Mitchell’s death in 1986: in 1992, the rapper Seagram released the single “The Ville,” which references “the M.O.B.” — an acronym for My Other Brother, the “official” name of Mitchell’s gang.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the ’70s, the Black Panthers operated a school and community center just a few blocks from 6-9 Ville. This led to conflict over control of the neighborhood. Ned recalls that intakes at the community center for heroin overdoses were common, while the Black Resurgents’ Randolph, who lived nearby on Sunnyside and 82nd Avenue, remembers gun battles sometimes erupting between the two factions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the post-Felix Mitchell crack cocaine era, rapping about pimping, drug dealing, drive-by shootings and sideshows all became part of Oakland’s hip-hop lexicon — see Dru Down and the Luniz’ “Ice Cream Man,” Richie Rich’s “Sideshow” and “Half Thang,” or Dru Down’s “Pimp of the Year,” which stayed on the Billboard charts for 24 weeks and would often evoke boisterous sing-alongs when played in local clubs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/qnVtwzaw6lM\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mitchell himself had reportedly popularized drive-by shootings, becoming one of the inspirations for the Nino Brown character in the 1991 movie \u003ci>New Jack City\u003c/i>, which featured a hip-hop soundtrack.. And Mitchell’s rival, Milton “Mickey Mo” Moore, financed the first rap record to come out of the Bay Area: Motorcycle Mike’s “Super Rat.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So while Philadelphia’s Schooly-D and L.A.’s Ice-T are often credited as the first gangsta rap artists, the genre has been heavily influenced by Bay Area criminal icons like Moore, Ward, Mitchell and San Francisco’s Fillmore Slim. Just like the Panthers predated conscious rap and progressive politics, the Bay basically been gangsta for years.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Afrofuturism is at the heart of hip-hop’s imagination\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Not all hip-hop artists follow a street playbook. Nearly as influential as \u003ci>The Mack\u003c/i> was Sun Ra’s 1974 cult classic \u003ci>Space is the Place\u003c/i>, filmed at locations in Oakland, including the current Merritt College campus. Its origins date back to a 1971 \u003ca href=\"https://www.openculture.com/2014/07/full-lecture-and-reading-list-from-sun-ras-1971-uc-berkeley-course.html\">lecture course\u003c/a> given by Sun Ra at UC Berkeley, titled “The Black Man in the Cosmos.” The film’s convoluted plot depicts Ra as a time-traveling jazz musician who engages in a game of tarot with an “overseer” to decide the fate of the Black race. Ra eventually wins the contest thanks to his use of sound vibrations during a free jazz concert, boards a spaceship joined by young African Americans he’s recruited from Oakland, and travels to a better world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Afrofuturistic themes in \u003ci>Space is the Place\u003c/i> not only preceded Parliament’s \u003ci>Clones of Dr. Funkenstein\u003c/i> and \u003ci>Mothership Connection\u003c/i> albums, but established a cultural precedent for those themes to be revisited by hip-hop, first in the electro-funk era, and subsequently through abstract, esoteric, spiritually and conceptually minded rappers and producers. In the Bay Area, Hieroglyphics’ Del the Funky Homosapien would imagine dystopian futures worthy of anime treatments; Blackalicious’ work would contain themes of technology as a means of liberation; and Zion I’s lyrics would reach towards spiritual enlightenment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924298\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924298\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-486166770-800x516.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"516\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-486166770-800x516.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-486166770-1020x657.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-486166770-160x103.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-486166770-768x495.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-486166770.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sun Ra and his Sun Ra Archestra perform with a steel sculpture on September 23, 1978, at Hill Auditorium in Ann Arbor, Michigan. \u003ccite>(Leni Sinclair/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Sun Ra was part of the Black Arts Movement (BAM) of the 1960s, which began in Harlem but was grounded in the Bay Area. Influential author, writer and BAM co-founder Amiri Bakara moved from New York in 1962 to teach at San Francisco State University; in 1964, he worked with a young graphic designer named Emory Douglas on set design for a play in San Francisco. Three years later, Douglas met Bobby Seale and Huey Newton at the Black Door, a Black-operated theater known for presenting avant-garde productions, and became the Black Panther’s minister of culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Douglas’ revolutionary illustrations were featured in the Panther newspaper, and went on to influence politically-minded graffiti artists and muralists worldwide, including in San Francisco’s famed Clarion Alley. The Coup’s logo, depicting a mother carrying a child in a sling while holding a rifle, is a \u003ca href=\"http://american-studies-uea.blogspot.com/2021/05/the-art-of-emory-douglas-and-asali.html\">direct descendant of Douglas’ work\u003c/a>. And during the late ’80s, a flourishing of political graffiti around the anti-apartheid movement crested into bold statements against police brutality and Christopher Columbus by Bay Area aerosol legends Mike Dream, Spie and the TDK collective in the early ’90s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Baraka later became a founding board member of Oakland’s Eastside Arts Alliance, whose annual Malcolm X Jazz Arts Festival in San Antonio Park has featured hip-hop freestyle rhyme and dance cyphers, live painting in honor of Mike Dream, tributes to boogaloo, and performances by The Coup and the Last Poets’ Umar Bin Hassan. Meanwhile, Baraka’s daughter Dominique DiPrima would become the KRON-TV host of the popular Bay Area hip-hop show \u003cem>Home Turf\u003c/em>. [aside postid='arts_13906176']\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Spoken word, feminism\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>From the Black Arts Movement lineage comes a local emphasis on spoken word poetry and alternative theater. This legacy of artistic expression ultimately connects pioneering poet/playwright Ntozake Shange to the hip-hop inspired Oakland poet Chinaka Hodge, and to the field of hip-hop theater explored by Marc Bamuthi Joseph in the Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In her 1976 choreopoem \u003cem>for colored girls who’ve considered suicide/when the rainbow is enuf\u003c/em>, first performed at a lesbian bar on Solano Avenue in Albany, Shange foreshadowed women in hip-hop’s existential struggle with sexuality, self-affirmation and self-love while dealing with misogyny, toxic relationships and Black female identity. In “No More Love Poems pt 1,” Shange’s Lady in Orange describes “being left screaming in a street full of lunatics whispering slut, \u003cem>beeitch\u003c/em>…” — pronouncing the word with the same drawn-out intonation as Too Short would a decade later.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924299\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 801px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13924299\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/801px-Ntozake_Shange_Reid_Lecture_Women_Issues_Luncheon_Womens_Center_November_1978_Crisco_edit.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"801\" height=\"1023\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/801px-Ntozake_Shange_Reid_Lecture_Women_Issues_Luncheon_Womens_Center_November_1978_Crisco_edit.jpg 801w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/801px-Ntozake_Shange_Reid_Lecture_Women_Issues_Luncheon_Womens_Center_November_1978_Crisco_edit-160x204.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/801px-Ntozake_Shange_Reid_Lecture_Women_Issues_Luncheon_Womens_Center_November_1978_Crisco_edit-768x981.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 801px) 100vw, 801px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ntozake Shange in 1978. \u003ccite>(Barnard College/Wikimedia Commons)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>These same themes are present to some degree in the music of Bay Area women in funk — a list that includes Little Sister, Sugar Pie DeSanto, the Brides of Funkenstein, and Betty Davis (who recorded her first two albums in San Francisco with Bay Area musicians). The Pointer Sisters, the Oakland group whose career began with the self-affirming hit “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/F2U1OUxXSMM\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Yes We Can Can\u003c/a>,” would later be referenced by Ice Cube, the Treacherous Three and Salt-n-Pepa.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As SF State professor and cultural anthropologist Dawn-Elissa Fischer points out, the tradition extends even further back. “Some of the ideas that Angela Davis and Patricia Collins write about in terms of the impact of blues women — when we talk about the Panthers, we want to remember, while there are obvious ties, there’s this longer tradition of posting, boasting and rapping in the work of blues women in the Bay Area and elsewhere.” The same ideas and themes of the blues era, she says, were magnified and amplified during the funk era, and again in the hip-hop era.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fischer, a contributor to \u003cem>The Smithsonian Anthology of Hip-Hop and Rap\u003c/em> and an advisor on KQED’s \u003ci>That’s My Word\u003c/i>, regularly studies funk music as well as contemporary rap in her work, connecting dots between generational movements. She maintains the funky divas of the 1970s provided not only an artistic blueprint for rappers like the Conscious Daughters to talk about gender, sexuality and reproductive rights, but an aesthetic influence as well. Local emcee Coco Peila, she says, is an example of both, along with Mystic, Suga-T and Ryan Nicole.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In looking critically at the intersection of funk, boogaloo, and the Black Panthers, Fischer says, “There was a lot of labor, gender and sexuality components of all of these movements, and specifically various forms of Black power. And \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11858928/west-oakland-mural-honors-women-of-black-panther-party\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Black women are a critical part of this paradigm\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The legacy of these movements is not only part of hip-hop history and American history, but Bay Area history specifically. What made these movements so significant and generational in their influence was their intersectional longevity. Funk, boogaloo, and social movements all spoke to each other throughout their existence. That dialogue has become a longer discussion with the advent of hip-hop, which, as it’s evolved, has carried along with it the aesthetics of past movements \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">—\u003c/span> be they Afros and boots, Black Power salutes, or tick-tocking robot moves over bass grooves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-11687704\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-800x60.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"60\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-400x30.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-768x58.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "In the ’60s and ’70s, the Black Panthers, boogaloo dancers and Sly Stone anticipated the arrival of hip-hop.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924127\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924127\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9-800x450.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9-1536x864.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Clockwise from upper left: Women of the Black Panther Party (BAMPFA/Pirkle Jones Foundation); the Black Resurgents (artist photo); Ntozake Shange (John Kisch Archive/Getty Images); Sun Ra in ‘Space is the Place’ (Harte Recordings); Sly Stone (CBS Records).\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>\u003ci>Editor’s note:\u003c/i>\u003c/b>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> This story is part of\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/bayareahiphop\"> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">That’s My Word\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>“People in the house, this is just for you/ A little rap to make you boogaloo”\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n—The Sugarhill Gang, 1979\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Grandmaster Caz, the Bronx pioneer who ghostwrote the Sugarhill Gang’s groundbreaking 1979 single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKTUAESacQM\">Rapper’s Delight\u003c/a>,” once said, “Hip-hop didn’t invent anything. Hop-hop reinvented everything.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That statement rings truer than ever as we approach the 50th anniversary of Kool Herc’s first party in the Bronx, where the globally influential music and culture were born. And it especially rings true here in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hip-hop wasn’t fully formed in 1973. In fact, it didn’t have an official name until 1982, the year the \u003ci>Village Voice\u003c/i> published a \u003ca href=\"https://digital.library.cornell.edu/catalog/ss:16057641\">profile of Zulu Nation founder Afrika Bambaataa\u003c/a>. Before Bambaataa joined the Black Spades street gang as a teenager, he hung out at the local Black Panther Information Center, and “his political leanings were encouraged by the appearance of songs like ‘Say It Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud’ by James Brown and ‘Stand!’ by Sly and the Family Stone,” Steven Hager wrote.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In other words, two of the three cultural influences cited in one of the earliest known print references to hip-hop are from the Bay Area. Oh word? Say that then.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>No one would dispute that hip-hop emerged from the Bronx, or that James Brown was one of its godfathers. But the impact the Bay Area had on hip-hop’s early sound, aesthetic and ideology is less widely recognized. A thorough exploration of the Bay’s cultural and political movements of the 1960s and ’70s strongly suggests the Bay was hip-hop before there was hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924550\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924550\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith-800x426.jpg\" alt=\"illustrations of huey newton and sly stone\" width=\"800\" height=\"426\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith-800x426.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith-1020x543.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith-160x85.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith-768x409.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith-1536x818.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">In the Bay Area, both Huey Newton and Sly Stone (L–R) helped sow the seeds of what would later be referred to as hip-hop. \u003ccite>(Illustrations by Shomari Smith)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Consider this: Before he became a funk superstar, Sly Stone was a fast-talking radio personality whose \u003ca href=\"https://soundcloud.com/djstef415/sly-stone-on-ksol-1967\">on-air patter\u003c/a>, laden with hep phrases, took the form of rapping before rap music. When it came to dance, the Bay Area had boogaloo, robotting and strutting, whose innovative moves preceded b-boying by almost 10 years. (There’s even evidence of breakdancing crews at local talent shows prior to nationwide releases of \u003cem>Breakin’\u003c/em> and \u003cem>Beat Street\u003c/em>.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wall_of_Respect\">community mural movement\u003c/a>, which parallels the \u003ca href=\"https://blogs.cuit.columbia.edu/ijt2106/moment-of-departure/the-emergence-of-modern-graffiti/\">modern graffiti movement\u003c/a>, took root in the Bay before wildstyle frescoes appeared on New York subway trains. The Bay Area’s \u003ca href=\"https://legionsofboom.com/\">Filipino American mobile DJ scene\u003c/a> dates back to garage parties in the 1970s in South San Francisco and Daly City.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Consider also that the iconography of hip-hop was shaped by Bay Area activists, as well as street-level archetypes of badmen and tricksters whose legend became \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CsXK4_D6ByA\">urban folklore\u003c/a>. A key reason the Bay Area became an early adopter of hip-hop was because its culture not only anticipated its arrival, but contributed to its essence during its developmental stages.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924289\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 615px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13924289\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/BPP2.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"615\" height=\"829\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/BPP2.png 615w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/BPP2-160x216.png 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 615px) 100vw, 615px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A 1971 flyer for a Black Panther Party rally calling for Bobby Seale, Ericka Huggins, Angela Davis and Ruchell Magee to be freed from prison. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Black Panther Party Alumni Legacy Network)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The Black Panthers lay hip-hop’s ideological foundation\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Hip-hop began as an underground artform created by inner city youth with few resources, who were dynamic in how they expressed their style and identity. Much of its ideology and political viewpoints were shaped by the Black Panthers, who were founded in Oakland in 1966 and grew to 38 national chapters within two years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Black Panthers had a distinct influence on people like dancer Will “Mr. Penguin” Randolph, an early practitioner of boogaloo and co-founder of the dance crew the \u003ca href=\"https://www.blackresurgents.com/\">Black Resurgents.\u003c/a> Randolph, who grew up in East Oakland, remembers how the Panthers used culture to engage young people and push their revolutionary message.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They had all these rallies with Elaine Brown and different people, and the Black Resurgents were the unofficial official dance group,” Randolph says. “And they would use us to draw the adults in to talk about the city’s plight politically. It was just phenomenal.” \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13851531/a-brief-history-of-the-lumpen-the-black-panthers-revolutionary-funk-band\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">The Lumpen\u003c/a>, a Black Panther-affiliated touring funk band, spread the party’s message around the country. It’s no coincidence that groups like the Chi-Lites, the O’Jays and the Isley Brothers began to reference Panther talking points on songs like “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/qEwMaeN2x-c\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Give More Power to the People\u003c/a>,” “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/uebYua_vdPc\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Give the People What They Want\u003c/a>” and “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/8QZvoOqUkqw\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Fight the Power\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You have to consider that the Black Panther ideology was steeped in, as are most cultural ideas, in the music of the day,” Randolph says. “The grittiness of the blue collar town of Oakland, and the rise of the ideology of the Black Panther Party, and the rise of the funk music of the town all came together.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the hip-hop era, children of Black Panthers like Tupac Shakur and Digital Underground’s Money B — known as “Panther cubs” — would be the ones to carry the Panthers’ vision for Black liberation forward. There’s no “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/zfuF2jOeUx8\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Rebel of the Underground\u003c/a>,” an early agitprop Tupac song, without the Black Panthers. No “Break the Grip of Shame,” the classic 1990 single by San Francisco rapper Paris, either.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/HJ96GPtnH70'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/HJ96GPtnH70'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>Hip-hop activism’s cornerstone issues, police reform and the prison-industrial complex, contain obvious through-lines back to the Black Panthers. In 1966, the Panthers’ manifesto, the Ten-Point Program, stated, “We Want An Immediate End to Police Brutality and the Murder of Black People,” followed by a call for “all Black People (to) be released from the many jails and prisons.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>N.W.A’s “Fuck Tha Police” seemed outrageous in 1989, but became prescient three years later, when LAPD officers were caught on video beating Rodney King. Political rappers like Public Enemy and KRS-One often harbored strong anti-police views, which were shared by such less-likely sources as New York’s L.L. Cool J and Houston’s UGK, on down to Vallejo’s The Mac.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before the NYPD killing of Amadou Diallo inspired the Hip Hop for Respect project in 2000, the 1995 death of Aaron Williams in SFPD custody led to hip-hop activist organization Third Eye Movement protesting the SF Police Commission, and later resisting California’s Juvenile Crime initiative, Prop. 21. In 2009, Mistah F.A.B., Boots Riley and other local hip-hop artists took part in \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13847704/after-oscar-grant-oakland-artists-inspired-a-new-generation-of-activists\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">protests against Oscar Grant’s killing\u003c/a> by BART police.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>More recently, the 2016 \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/11537324/equiptos-hunger-strike-the-importance-of-art-in-social-change\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Frisco Five\u003c/a> hunger strike, spearheaded by rapper Equipto, resulted in SFPD reform. In 2020, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13881529/photos-black-lives-matter-murals-call-for-justice-on-oaklands-walls\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">graffiti artists and muralists took to the Oakland streets\u003c/a> in response to George Floyd’s murder.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Over the past decade, activists have rallied around the Black Lives Matter movement, and it’s no coincidence that the phrase was first coined by Black Lives Matter cofounder Alicia Garza, in Oakland, the home of the Panthers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12159957\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 398px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12159957\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-398x600.jpg\" alt=\"Lonnie Wilson, untitled (Black Panthers at Alameda County Courthouse), July 14, 1968. Gelatin silver photograph, 14 x 9.5 in. The Oakland Tribune Collection, the Oakland Museum of California, Gift of ANG Newspapers\" width=\"398\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-398x600.jpg 398w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-400x602.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-768x1156.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-784x1180.jpg 784w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-1180x1777.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-960x1446.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802.jpg 1793w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 398px) 100vw, 398px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Lonnie Wilson, untitled (Black Panthers at Alameda County Courthouse), July 14, 1968. Gelatin silver photograph, 14 x 9.5 in. The Oakland Tribune Collection, the Oakland Museum of California, Gift of ANG Newspapers. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of the Oakland Museum of California)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Before conscious rap, funk brought the message\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In the Bay Area, funk music was inextricably linked to the revolutionary movements of the 1960s. Beyond the Black Panthers were the Brown Berets, the Third World Liberation Front and the anti-Vietnam War movement, all animating young people to fight against an oppressive social order. One artist that emerged from this climate and eventually became one of hip-hop’s major influences was Sly Stone. A Vallejo-raised champion of multiculturalism and progressive social values, Sly transformed Black music during the ’60s and ’70s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe style=\"border-radius:12px\" src=\"https://open.spotify.com/embed/playlist/6QO0SJgNdiPaDRpwHMPySi?utm_source=generator\" width=\"100%\" height=\"352\" frameborder=\"0\" allowfullscreen allow=\"autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; fullscreen; picture-in-picture\" loading=\"lazy\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sly’s records often contained social commentary that mixed the personal with the political. “Stand!” is an anthem of self-determination positing that freedom is attainable “at least in your mind if you want to be”; Sly released similarly-themed songs like “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/l8sz_7TPWE0\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">You Can Make It If You Try\u003c/a>,” “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/HMQQcniF2Bg\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Underdog\u003c/a>” and “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/Ruq2HJGs31g\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Skin I’m In\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to his contributions to hip-hop’s lexicon — Sly and the Family Stone’s album \u003ci>Fresh\u003c/i> predates hip-hop’s popularizing of the term by at least a decade — there’s the music itself, which has become part of hip-hop’s genetic code. According to online sample databases, Sly and The Family Stone’s music has been sampled an astounding 967 times — up there with James Brown and the Meters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Greg Errico’s drums on “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/42YGprrAOj0\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Sing A Simple Song\u003c/a>” alone have resurfaced in gangsta, alternative and even international rap songs, including Digital Underground’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/PBsjggc5jHM\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">The Humpty Dance\u003c/a>,” Tupac’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/skg0w8DpEe4\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Temptations\u003c/a>,” Public Enemy’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/mmo3HFa2vjg\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Fight the Power\u003c/a>,” KRS-One’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/9ZrAYxWPN6c\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Sound of Da Police\u003c/a>,” A Tribe Called Quest’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/cxN4nKk2cfk\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Jazz\u003c/a>” and countless others.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Family Stone bassist and Oakland native Larry Graham’s slap-bass technique, prominently displayed on 1968’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/N5BP2KlPD4U\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Again)\u003c/a>,” became a defining characteristic of funk, later used by musicians like Bootsy Collins as well as Chic’s Bernard Edwards, whose “Good Times” bassline would later drive “Rapper’s Delight.” \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "No one would dispute that hip-hop emerged from the Bronx, or that James Brown was one of its godfathers. But the impact the Bay Area had on hip-hop’s early sound, aesthetic and ideology is less widely recognized.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sly also created a template for the artist-producer and independent label entrepreneur. He produced other artists for his short-lived Stone Flower label, often playing every musical instrument. His production of Little Sister’s “Somebody’s Watching You” became the first Top 40 hit to use electronic drums — a staple of nearly all hip-hop production.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I feel like particularly with Sly, [he’s] part of the whole kind of mashup of the streets and the church,” says Lateef Daumont, a Panther cub best known as hip-hop artist Lateef the Truthspeaker of the Quannum collective. “They just had all of the things that would be blueprints for hip-hop later on — even business-wise, in a lot of ways.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Sly was the integrationist,” says author and educator Cecil Brown, a Berkeley resident during the ’70s who taught at Merritt College’s former campus on Grove Street (now Martin Luther King Jr. Way) in Oakland. “Also, Sly had an element of militancy in him, too, that was \u003cem>not\u003c/em> flower power, you know? It was like, ‘We got something that is going to make us feel better, and that belongs to us.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13898274\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13898274\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-800x450.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-1536x864.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-2048x1152.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-1920x1080.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sly Stone in a still from Questlove’s new film ‘Summer of Soul.’ \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Mass Distraction Media)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Remarkably, Stone was able to cross over to the pop charts while maintaining an unapologetically Black identity. In a \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDOyaGvOyPk\">1974 clip from \u003ci>The Mike Douglas Show\u003c/i>\u003c/a>, Sly is asked if his young, white middle-class fans know what he’s singing about. “Yeah, they know,” he says. Hip-hop exemplifies the same paradigm: It appeals to white youth precisely because it offers entry into a different cultural space, with its own reference points and vernacular.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Just as The Coup’s Boots Riley performed his song “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/_2bkG0wwdXc\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Underdogs\u003c/a>” during the Occupy Oakland demonstrations of 2011, Sly occasionally performed at Black Panther rallies while living in Oakland. His ear-to-the-street perspective, containing equal parts optimism and cynicism, is evidenced by the No. 1 album \u003ci>There’s A Riot Goin’ On\u003c/i>, released in 1971. As cultural critic Okla Jones wrote on the occasion of the album’s 50th anniversary, “America was a nation in transition, feeling the effects of the previous decade. The shadow of Dr. King’s assassination loomed over the Black community, and the Vietnam War divided an entire country. What Sly and the Family Stone’s fifth album did was give a voice to a new generation yearning to be heard.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This dynamic — young people speaking their minds and determining their own identities through cultural expression — not only defined the early ’70s but connected the funk era to the rap era. Once you depart from the New York-centric breakbeat aesthetic, funk becomes \u003cem>the\u003c/em> defining element of hip-hop’s sound, particularly in the Southern United States and parts of the Midwest, and especially in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13851562\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13851562\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2019/02/lumpen_stage-800x523.jpg\" alt=\"The Lumpen performed between 1970 and 1972; afterwards, Black Panther Party leadership assigned its members to other roles within the organization.\" width=\"800\" height=\"523\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/02/lumpen_stage.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/02/lumpen_stage-160x105.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/02/lumpen_stage-768x502.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Black Panther funk band The Lumpen performed between 1970 and 1972; afterwards, party leadership assigned its members to other roles within the organization. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of itsabouttime.com)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Before breaking, the Bay had boogaloo\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The dance style known as Oakland boogaloo began in the 1960s with R&B and soul as its soundtrack, but the emergence of funk raised the bar for creative expression. “The thumping of the bass and the snapping of the snare drum and the thumping of the bass drum, you started to see people doing this free-form movement, with a hit and with body contortions,” says Will Randolph, whose group the Black Resurgents once performed during a 1977 Parliament concert at the Oakland Coliseum Arena, where they emerged from the iconic mothership in front of more than 10,000 fans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When you talk about hip-hop dance, primarily people think of breaking and popping,” Randolph says. “When you talk about street dance on a nationwide level prior to hip-hop dance coming out of primarily New York, you have this whole West Coast sea of dance and street dance. The Bay Area in particular is really the debut for hip-hop.”\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/IUdS6kxw2aI'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/IUdS6kxw2aI'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>From the mid-1960s to the early ’70s, years before hip-hop had a name, Oakland groups like the Black Resurgents, One Plus One, the Black Messengers and Pirate and the Easy Walkers perfected moves that would become part of the hip-hop dance vernacular.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“What I’m saying is that boogaloo, robotting, and strutting dance styles predate hip-hop as a culture, as a name, and even hip-hop dance as an artform,” says Randolph. (In 1990’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QDApdzFa3OI\">U Make Me Want Some\u003c/a>,” Mac Dre’s mentor and namesake The Mac even raps: “You can do the boogaloo / Like they used to do in 1972.”)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As boogaloo branched off into Richmond robotting and San Francisco strutting in the mid-1970s to become the predominant form of urban youth culture in the Bay Area, dancers adopted the sartorial flamboyance associated with pimps, incorporating top hats, canes and pointy-toed shoes into their aesthetic. White gloves created a mesmerizing effect under blacklight during performances in dark halls.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fueled by talent show competitions, which brought local fame and popularity, the artform continued to develop into the early ’80s. Synchronized group routines, costumes, and stage props all became part of the mix. Most routines developed for competitions were performed just once. Some groups practiced in secret so no one could steal their moves. (The Black Resurgents were an exception; they were known to practice in front of an open window, often drawing crowds from their neighborhood.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Coded signals between dancers would indicate they were participants in the same culture and ready to battle at a moment’s notice, such as popping one’s collar — which later became a signature hallmark of Bay Area hip-hop expression. Being known as a boogaloo, strutter or robotter also conferred social status, and could give practitioners a ghetto pass through hostile territory or nullify threats of violence altogether.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As boogaloo spread in the latter half of the ’70s to San Jose, Sacramento, Fresno and Los Angeles, a move originally known as “The Oakland Hit” became the “pop,” and blended with the locking style indigenous to Southern California. Pop-locking was born.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924302\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924302\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/n5cCK1s8-800x609.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"609\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/n5cCK1s8-800x609.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/n5cCK1s8-160x122.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/n5cCK1s8-768x584.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/n5cCK1s8.jpg 924w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Black Resurgents on ‘The Jay Payton Show,’ July 18, 1976. \u003ccite>(Courtesy AAMLO)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But the Bay Area’s contributions didn’t make the history books. In 1979, the Electric Boogaloos \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rkejPbx9zSI\">appeared on \u003ci>Soul Train\u003c/i>\u003c/a> and were erroneously announced as the originators of boogaloo by host Don Cornelius. Boogaloo also spread to New York through Bay Area dancers like Jerry Rentie, who served active military duty there, but wasn’t recognized as a distinct style by New York rappers like Run-DMC, who said “let the poppers pop and the breakers break” on 1984’s “Rock Box.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Northern California origins of popping became further obscured when breakdancing arrived on the West Coast in the early ’80s, and boogaloo, strutting, robotting, popping and breaking were all subsumed into the amalgamation of hip-hop dance. In “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/HshF2AOx4VM\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">West Coast Pop Lock\u003c/a>,” a 1982 hit for Ronnie Hudson that most know as the hook of Tupac’s “California Love,” Hudson shouts out Los Angeles, Watts and Compton — with no mention of Oakland at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Pimp culture becomes pop culture\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Another key influence on hip-hop was Richard Pryor, who moved to Berkeley in 1969 and soaked up the city’s counterculture vibe. Pryor performed locally at venues like Laney College, and, similar to Tupac, key parts of his development came from the Bay Area before he moved to L.A. and became a superstar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pryor has been sampled in rap more than 400 times, which speaks to his street-level Black cultural perspective that placed more emphasis on barbershops, juke joints and strip clubs than churches and schools. And it was Pryor’s involvement in a 1973 movie, filmed in Oakland, that would cement his relationship to Bay Area hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924297\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924297\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-800x1217.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"1217\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-800x1217.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-1020x1551.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-160x243.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-768x1168.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-1010x1536.jpg 1010w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-1347x2048.jpg 1347w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-1920x2920.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-scaled.jpg 1683w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Mack, US poster, top from left: Max Julien, Richard Pryor, from a 1977 re-release of the film. \u003ccite>(Photo by LMPC via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>The Mack\u003c/i> is ostensibly a cautionary tale about the rise and fall of a pimp named Goldie (Max Julien), yet it glorified the illegal sex trade and the flamboyant pimp lifestyle. The movie’s lead was based directly on the notorious Oakland pimp and drug dealer Frank Ward, and infamously featured several real-life pimps and sex workers, in exchange for cameo roles for Ward and his brothers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In \u003cem>The Mack\u003c/em>, Pryor played Slim, Goldie’s partner. Another character, Fat Man, coincidentally had the same initials as infamous Oakland drug kingpin Felix Mitchell. With Goldie’s brother Olinga as a Panther-esque Black nationalist, the film’s subtext hints at the real-life tension between the Black Panthers and Oakland’s gangster underworld. It’s a dynamic that foreshadowed the divisions between conscious and gangsta rap, and predated the way Tupac and many Bay Area rappers mixed elements of both.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When Melvin Van Peebles’ directorial debut \u003ci>Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song\u003c/i> was released in 1971, Panther leaders used their widely circulated newspaper to encourage Party members to see the film, which also featured the all-Black East Bay Dragons motorcycle club. “No distributors were supporting it,” says the Lumpen’s Dr. Saturu Ned, who worked in the Party’s newspaper office before he became a musician. “Because of the Black Panther Party, millions of people went to see the movie.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Sweet Sweetback\u003c/i> birthed the so-called blaxploitation films of this era, championing a gritty view of street life with an undercurrent of anti-authoritarianism. The genre became a key reference point for hip-hop, along with the Panthers’ messages of Black power and resistance. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Hip-hop’s inspiration from the criminal underworld\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Without a doubt, one of hip-hop’s overarching themes has been the criminal underworld and the archetype of the pimp/player/hustler as hero and ghetto superstar. This, too, has significant ties to the Bay Area, and especially Oakland, which counts among its rap classics MC Pooh’s \u003ci>Life of a Criminal\u003c/i> and Too Short’s \u003ci>Born to Mack\u003c/i>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the Bay Area, a systemic devastation of Black neighborhoods created a formula for poverty. Blue-collar industrial jobs left after World War II, and the “urban renewal” of the ’60s and ’70s demolished homes and businesses in San Francisco as well as Oakland. For some, the underground economy became an appealing means of upward mobility.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Felix Mitchell operated out of the San Antonio Villa, a.k.a. 6-9 Ville, in East Oakland, which became the headquarters for the “69 Mob,” a criminal organization that established a nationwide heroin distribution network and employed young children as lookouts. The housing project’s notoriety extended well beyond Mitchell’s death in 1986: in 1992, the rapper Seagram released the single “The Ville,” which references “the M.O.B.” — an acronym for My Other Brother, the “official” name of Mitchell’s gang.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the ’70s, the Black Panthers operated a school and community center just a few blocks from 6-9 Ville. This led to conflict over control of the neighborhood. Ned recalls that intakes at the community center for heroin overdoses were common, while the Black Resurgents’ Randolph, who lived nearby on Sunnyside and 82nd Avenue, remembers gun battles sometimes erupting between the two factions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the post-Felix Mitchell crack cocaine era, rapping about pimping, drug dealing, drive-by shootings and sideshows all became part of Oakland’s hip-hop lexicon — see Dru Down and the Luniz’ “Ice Cream Man,” Richie Rich’s “Sideshow” and “Half Thang,” or Dru Down’s “Pimp of the Year,” which stayed on the Billboard charts for 24 weeks and would often evoke boisterous sing-alongs when played in local clubs.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/qnVtwzaw6lM'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/qnVtwzaw6lM'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>Mitchell himself had reportedly popularized drive-by shootings, becoming one of the inspirations for the Nino Brown character in the 1991 movie \u003ci>New Jack City\u003c/i>, which featured a hip-hop soundtrack.. And Mitchell’s rival, Milton “Mickey Mo” Moore, financed the first rap record to come out of the Bay Area: Motorcycle Mike’s “Super Rat.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So while Philadelphia’s Schooly-D and L.A.’s Ice-T are often credited as the first gangsta rap artists, the genre has been heavily influenced by Bay Area criminal icons like Moore, Ward, Mitchell and San Francisco’s Fillmore Slim. Just like the Panthers predated conscious rap and progressive politics, the Bay basically been gangsta for years.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Afrofuturism is at the heart of hip-hop’s imagination\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Not all hip-hop artists follow a street playbook. Nearly as influential as \u003ci>The Mack\u003c/i> was Sun Ra’s 1974 cult classic \u003ci>Space is the Place\u003c/i>, filmed at locations in Oakland, including the current Merritt College campus. Its origins date back to a 1971 \u003ca href=\"https://www.openculture.com/2014/07/full-lecture-and-reading-list-from-sun-ras-1971-uc-berkeley-course.html\">lecture course\u003c/a> given by Sun Ra at UC Berkeley, titled “The Black Man in the Cosmos.” The film’s convoluted plot depicts Ra as a time-traveling jazz musician who engages in a game of tarot with an “overseer” to decide the fate of the Black race. Ra eventually wins the contest thanks to his use of sound vibrations during a free jazz concert, boards a spaceship joined by young African Americans he’s recruited from Oakland, and travels to a better world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Afrofuturistic themes in \u003ci>Space is the Place\u003c/i> not only preceded Parliament’s \u003ci>Clones of Dr. Funkenstein\u003c/i> and \u003ci>Mothership Connection\u003c/i> albums, but established a cultural precedent for those themes to be revisited by hip-hop, first in the electro-funk era, and subsequently through abstract, esoteric, spiritually and conceptually minded rappers and producers. In the Bay Area, Hieroglyphics’ Del the Funky Homosapien would imagine dystopian futures worthy of anime treatments; Blackalicious’ work would contain themes of technology as a means of liberation; and Zion I’s lyrics would reach towards spiritual enlightenment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924298\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924298\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-486166770-800x516.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"516\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-486166770-800x516.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-486166770-1020x657.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-486166770-160x103.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-486166770-768x495.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-486166770.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sun Ra and his Sun Ra Archestra perform with a steel sculpture on September 23, 1978, at Hill Auditorium in Ann Arbor, Michigan. \u003ccite>(Leni Sinclair/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Sun Ra was part of the Black Arts Movement (BAM) of the 1960s, which began in Harlem but was grounded in the Bay Area. Influential author, writer and BAM co-founder Amiri Bakara moved from New York in 1962 to teach at San Francisco State University; in 1964, he worked with a young graphic designer named Emory Douglas on set design for a play in San Francisco. Three years later, Douglas met Bobby Seale and Huey Newton at the Black Door, a Black-operated theater known for presenting avant-garde productions, and became the Black Panther’s minister of culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Douglas’ revolutionary illustrations were featured in the Panther newspaper, and went on to influence politically-minded graffiti artists and muralists worldwide, including in San Francisco’s famed Clarion Alley. The Coup’s logo, depicting a mother carrying a child in a sling while holding a rifle, is a \u003ca href=\"http://american-studies-uea.blogspot.com/2021/05/the-art-of-emory-douglas-and-asali.html\">direct descendant of Douglas’ work\u003c/a>. And during the late ’80s, a flourishing of political graffiti around the anti-apartheid movement crested into bold statements against police brutality and Christopher Columbus by Bay Area aerosol legends Mike Dream, Spie and the TDK collective in the early ’90s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Baraka later became a founding board member of Oakland’s Eastside Arts Alliance, whose annual Malcolm X Jazz Arts Festival in San Antonio Park has featured hip-hop freestyle rhyme and dance cyphers, live painting in honor of Mike Dream, tributes to boogaloo, and performances by The Coup and the Last Poets’ Umar Bin Hassan. Meanwhile, Baraka’s daughter Dominique DiPrima would become the KRON-TV host of the popular Bay Area hip-hop show \u003cem>Home Turf\u003c/em>. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Spoken word, feminism\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>From the Black Arts Movement lineage comes a local emphasis on spoken word poetry and alternative theater. This legacy of artistic expression ultimately connects pioneering poet/playwright Ntozake Shange to the hip-hop inspired Oakland poet Chinaka Hodge, and to the field of hip-hop theater explored by Marc Bamuthi Joseph in the Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In her 1976 choreopoem \u003cem>for colored girls who’ve considered suicide/when the rainbow is enuf\u003c/em>, first performed at a lesbian bar on Solano Avenue in Albany, Shange foreshadowed women in hip-hop’s existential struggle with sexuality, self-affirmation and self-love while dealing with misogyny, toxic relationships and Black female identity. In “No More Love Poems pt 1,” Shange’s Lady in Orange describes “being left screaming in a street full of lunatics whispering slut, \u003cem>beeitch\u003c/em>…” — pronouncing the word with the same drawn-out intonation as Too Short would a decade later.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924299\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 801px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13924299\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/801px-Ntozake_Shange_Reid_Lecture_Women_Issues_Luncheon_Womens_Center_November_1978_Crisco_edit.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"801\" height=\"1023\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/801px-Ntozake_Shange_Reid_Lecture_Women_Issues_Luncheon_Womens_Center_November_1978_Crisco_edit.jpg 801w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/801px-Ntozake_Shange_Reid_Lecture_Women_Issues_Luncheon_Womens_Center_November_1978_Crisco_edit-160x204.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/801px-Ntozake_Shange_Reid_Lecture_Women_Issues_Luncheon_Womens_Center_November_1978_Crisco_edit-768x981.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 801px) 100vw, 801px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ntozake Shange in 1978. \u003ccite>(Barnard College/Wikimedia Commons)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>These same themes are present to some degree in the music of Bay Area women in funk — a list that includes Little Sister, Sugar Pie DeSanto, the Brides of Funkenstein, and Betty Davis (who recorded her first two albums in San Francisco with Bay Area musicians). The Pointer Sisters, the Oakland group whose career began with the self-affirming hit “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/F2U1OUxXSMM\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Yes We Can Can\u003c/a>,” would later be referenced by Ice Cube, the Treacherous Three and Salt-n-Pepa.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As SF State professor and cultural anthropologist Dawn-Elissa Fischer points out, the tradition extends even further back. “Some of the ideas that Angela Davis and Patricia Collins write about in terms of the impact of blues women — when we talk about the Panthers, we want to remember, while there are obvious ties, there’s this longer tradition of posting, boasting and rapping in the work of blues women in the Bay Area and elsewhere.” The same ideas and themes of the blues era, she says, were magnified and amplified during the funk era, and again in the hip-hop era.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fischer, a contributor to \u003cem>The Smithsonian Anthology of Hip-Hop and Rap\u003c/em> and an advisor on KQED’s \u003ci>That’s My Word\u003c/i>, regularly studies funk music as well as contemporary rap in her work, connecting dots between generational movements. She maintains the funky divas of the 1970s provided not only an artistic blueprint for rappers like the Conscious Daughters to talk about gender, sexuality and reproductive rights, but an aesthetic influence as well. Local emcee Coco Peila, she says, is an example of both, along with Mystic, Suga-T and Ryan Nicole.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In looking critically at the intersection of funk, boogaloo, and the Black Panthers, Fischer says, “There was a lot of labor, gender and sexuality components of all of these movements, and specifically various forms of Black power. And \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11858928/west-oakland-mural-honors-women-of-black-panther-party\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Black women are a critical part of this paradigm\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The legacy of these movements is not only part of hip-hop history and American history, but Bay Area history specifically. What made these movements so significant and generational in their influence was their intersectional longevity. Funk, boogaloo, and social movements all spoke to each other throughout their existence. That dialogue has become a longer discussion with the advent of hip-hop, which, as it’s evolved, has carried along with it the aesthetics of past movements \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">—\u003c/span> be they Afros and boots, Black Power salutes, or tick-tocking robot moves over bass grooves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "Why We’re Spending a Year Covering Bay Area Hip-Hop History",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13923952\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13923952\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/e-40.web_-800x604.jpg\" alt=\"An illustration of the rapper e-40, holding his glasses, based on the cover to the album 'my ghetto report card'\" width=\"800\" height=\"604\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/e-40.web_-800x604.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/e-40.web_-1020x770.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/e-40.web_-160x121.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/e-40.web_-768x580.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/e-40.web_-1536x1160.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/e-40.web_.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">‘That’s My Word’ drops new stories each week throughout 2023. \u003ccite>(Illustration by Shomari Smith)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>There is nothing in the world like Bay Area hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our hip-hop is multicultural, flamboyant, political, diverse, high-energy. It’s staunchly independent and doesn’t ask for approval. It’s the product of pimps and hustlers just as much as activists and intellectuals. In the Bay — \u003cem>rewind that Mac Dre song\u003c/em> — we dance a little different. [aside postID='arts_13924126']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s no secret that hip-hop in the Bay has been overlooked. But something else has happened. The rest of the country, befuddled but fascinated, has hijacked our production, slang and dance styles as their own. Our DJs have inspired the world; our graffiti artists too. Spend a little time in hip-hop, and you’ll quickly notice just how much the Bay has influenced without recognition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the year 2023 marks what’s widely accepted as the 50th anniversary of the birth of hip-hop, it’s time to give the Bay its shine. That’s why we’re spending the whole year telling the story of this culture, piece by piece.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924235\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/NoahHaytin.FourPortraits.2-800x295.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"295\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924235\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/NoahHaytin.FourPortraits.2-800x295.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/NoahHaytin.FourPortraits.2-1020x376.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/NoahHaytin.FourPortraits.2-160x59.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/NoahHaytin.FourPortraits.2-768x283.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/NoahHaytin.FourPortraits.2-1536x566.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/NoahHaytin.FourPortraits.2.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sly Stone, E_40, Mistah F.A.B. and Kamaiyah. \u003ccite>(Illustration by Noah Haytin/NOH8TIN )\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>We’ll give you inside stories of hit records and deep cuts. We’ll break down how our innovative social, political and cultural movements contributed to hip-hop’s DNA. We’ll also go well beyond the music, and show how artists like Boots Riley and Tupac Shakur forced direct action for police accountability; how trailblazing women like Pam the Funkstress and the Conscious Daughters pushed hip-hop forward; and how Too Short, E-40, JT the Bigga Figga, Hieroglyphics and other entrepreneurs created the blueprint for independent artists.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Through regular feature stories, interviews, playlists, photo galleries, podcast episodes and live events throughout 2023, we’re here to backcue the record and make sure the Bay gets its due. [aside postid='arts_13923978']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’ve also embarked on an ambitious endeavor, one that’s collaborative by design: a searchable, filterable \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline\">timeline of important moments in Bay Area hip-hop history\u003c/a>. It’s already over 200 entries long, and we’ll be adding to it as the year goes on for future generations to explore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>No single person can tell the entire story of Bay Area hip-hop. It’s too huge, too variegated. That’s why we’re working with contributors — journalists, visual artists, rappers, academics, turntablists — to capture as much of this history before it dissipates. We’re also working with an advisory panel consisting of \u003ca href=\"https://jeffchang.net/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Jeff Chang\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.daveyd.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Davey D Cook\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://anthropology.sfsu.edu/people/dawn-elissa-fischer\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Dawn-Elissa Fischer\u003c/a>, all three of whom live and breathe hip-hop history. [aside postid='arts_13924042']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But importantly, we want to hear from you. Tap in and talk to us \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/about\">here\u003c/a>. Fact-check us when needed. Tell us what you’ve seen and where you’ve been. The permanent record needs you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you’re alive in 2023, you’ve been affected by hip-hop. For decades, it’s transformed not just music but art, politics, education and culture. So this series isn’t just for the old heads — it’s for young fans wanting to connect to the lineage; for those eager to learn about the Bay Area’s social, political and cultural history; for any of the millions across the globe whose life soundtrack spans the music of Mac Dre, The Jacka, Blackalicious, Keak Da Sneak, Kamaiyah, Digital Underground, DJ Shadow, MC Hammer, The Coup, Mystic, I.M.P., Saafir, Mistah F.A.B., the Invisibl Skratch Piklz and… you know what? If we listed everyone, we’d be here ’til infinity. [aside postid='arts_13924170']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hip-hop history is so much more than New York, L.A. and Atlanta. For the foreseeable future here in the Bay, it’s all eyez on us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>— Gabe Meline, Eric Arnold, Nastia Voynovskaya and Pendarvis Harshaw \u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s no secret that hip-hop in the Bay has been overlooked. But something else has happened. The rest of the country, befuddled but fascinated, has hijacked our production, slang and dance styles as their own. Our DJs have inspired the world; our graffiti artists too. Spend a little time in hip-hop, and you’ll quickly notice just how much the Bay has influenced without recognition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the year 2023 marks what’s widely accepted as the 50th anniversary of the birth of hip-hop, it’s time to give the Bay its shine. That’s why we’re spending the whole year telling the story of this culture, piece by piece.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924235\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/NoahHaytin.FourPortraits.2-800x295.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"295\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924235\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/NoahHaytin.FourPortraits.2-800x295.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/NoahHaytin.FourPortraits.2-1020x376.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/NoahHaytin.FourPortraits.2-160x59.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/NoahHaytin.FourPortraits.2-768x283.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/NoahHaytin.FourPortraits.2-1536x566.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/NoahHaytin.FourPortraits.2.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sly Stone, E_40, Mistah F.A.B. and Kamaiyah. \u003ccite>(Illustration by Noah Haytin/NOH8TIN )\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>We’ll give you inside stories of hit records and deep cuts. We’ll break down how our innovative social, political and cultural movements contributed to hip-hop’s DNA. We’ll also go well beyond the music, and show how artists like Boots Riley and Tupac Shakur forced direct action for police accountability; how trailblazing women like Pam the Funkstress and the Conscious Daughters pushed hip-hop forward; and how Too Short, E-40, JT the Bigga Figga, Hieroglyphics and other entrepreneurs created the blueprint for independent artists.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Through regular feature stories, interviews, playlists, photo galleries, podcast episodes and live events throughout 2023, we’re here to backcue the record and make sure the Bay gets its due. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’ve also embarked on an ambitious endeavor, one that’s collaborative by design: a searchable, filterable \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline\">timeline of important moments in Bay Area hip-hop history\u003c/a>. It’s already over 200 entries long, and we’ll be adding to it as the year goes on for future generations to explore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>No single person can tell the entire story of Bay Area hip-hop. It’s too huge, too variegated. That’s why we’re working with contributors — journalists, visual artists, rappers, academics, turntablists — to capture as much of this history before it dissipates. We’re also working with an advisory panel consisting of \u003ca href=\"https://jeffchang.net/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Jeff Chang\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.daveyd.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Davey D Cook\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://anthropology.sfsu.edu/people/dawn-elissa-fischer\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Dawn-Elissa Fischer\u003c/a>, all three of whom live and breathe hip-hop history. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But importantly, we want to hear from you. Tap in and talk to us \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/about\">here\u003c/a>. Fact-check us when needed. Tell us what you’ve seen and where you’ve been. The permanent record needs you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you’re alive in 2023, you’ve been affected by hip-hop. For decades, it’s transformed not just music but art, politics, education and culture. So this series isn’t just for the old heads — it’s for young fans wanting to connect to the lineage; for those eager to learn about the Bay Area’s social, political and cultural history; for any of the millions across the globe whose life soundtrack spans the music of Mac Dre, The Jacka, Blackalicious, Keak Da Sneak, Kamaiyah, Digital Underground, DJ Shadow, MC Hammer, The Coup, Mystic, I.M.P., Saafir, Mistah F.A.B., the Invisibl Skratch Piklz and… you know what? If we listed everyone, we’d be here ’til infinity. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hip-hop history is so much more than New York, L.A. and Atlanta. For the foreseeable future here in the Bay, it’s all eyez on us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>— Gabe Meline, Eric Arnold, Nastia Voynovskaya and Pendarvis Harshaw \u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "A Trip With Davey D Back to 1984, When Hip-Hop Was Still Undefined",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cb>\u003ci>Editor’s note:\u003c/i>\u003c/b>\u003ci> This story is part of\u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/bayareahiphop\"> That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003ci>, KQED’s year-long exploration of Bay Area hip-hop history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.daveyd.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Dave “Davey D” Cook\u003c/a> is a cornerstone of hip-hop culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He currently co-hosts KPFA’s \u003ci>Hard Knock Radio\u003c/i> and serves as a professor of Africana studies at San Francisco State University, where he teaches popular courses on hip-hop and African American music. Working with historian Jeff Chang, Davey recently co-published the book \u003ci>Can’t Stop Won’t Stop: A History of the Hip-Hop Generation\u003c/i> (2021). (Both Davey and Jeff are advisors for KQED’s \u003ci>That’s My Word\u003c/i>.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Davey D is a practitioner of the culture as well as a critic. Over the span of five decades, he’s been an MC, DJ, journalist, activist — the list goes on. He was at the heart of the \u003ca href=\"http://www.daveyd.com/articleradiosucks.html\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">fight against a corporate media takeover\u003c/a> of a San Francisco hip-hop radio station. He \u003ca href=\"https://hiphopandpolitics.wordpress.com/tag/oscar-grant/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">amplified the call for justice\u003c/a> in Oakland after Oscar Grant was killed by BART police officer Johannes Mehserle. And during a financial literacy conference in New York, Davey D conducted one of the first major interviews with the \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/GwG4A_OrTmk\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">late, legendary Los Angeles lyricist Nipsey Hussle\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13923991\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13923991\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.21.56-AM-800x627.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"627\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.21.56-AM-800x627.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.21.56-AM-1020x800.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.21.56-AM-160x125.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.21.56-AM-768x602.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.21.56-AM-1536x1205.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.21.56-AM-2048x1606.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.21.56-AM-1920x1506.png 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Dave ‘Davey D’ Cook on stage with Dominique DiPrima at the Macy’s passport event in Oakland circa 1993. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Davey D)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Originally from The Bronx, New York, Davey D was there when this thing we call hip-hop was in its nascent form, before it even had a name. When he arrived in the Bay Area in the early ’80s, one of his missions as a UC Berkeley student was to lend some insight to this burgeoning culture. So he put on a few events, one of which was The Day in Hip-Hop on Oct. 24, 1984.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Footage of The Day in Hip-hop shows dancers, rappers and DJs performing in front of a captive audience, as they get a crash course on what would eventually become the most popular music in the world. The films are housed in UC Berkeley’s archives. Fortunately, a few clips have been uploaded to YouTube by Jim Richards. With the 50th anniversary of hip-hop at the front of mind, I spoke to Davey D about what the culture was like back then and how far it has come.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm/?e=KQINC6878706120&light=true\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Below are lightly edited excerpts from my conversation with Davey D.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/L_71XuDWzeE\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>PENDARVIS HARSHAW:\u003c/b> The objective of this interview is to talk about a video specifically from \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fOH_YgzQS7M\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">1984 at UC Berkeley on Sproul Plaza\u003c/a> with you DJing. I saw the fresh cut, and you had your name on your shirt. It’s an early iteration of what hip-hop looks like in the Bay Area. It’s just a moving piece of footage. Can we talk through it while we watch it real quick?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>DAVEY D:\u003c/b> So you got [the MCs] Commander C and Diamond D from Berkeley and Richmond. They were The Dazzling Two. And that graffiti that you see, that’s me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>You did the graffiti too?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yeah, I did the writing. I was never a graff artist, but I did do that. We were trying to do a showcase, and bring to the campus and celebrate this thing that was burgeoning. So what you see in the video is me, with a cut-off sweatshirt that has my name on it. You also see a guy named Patrick Norwood who is out of L.A. and was a good DJ. We had a crew called the New York/L.A. Connection because they were from L.A., and I was from New York. And we bought out some dancers. We brought out these artists. And it had to be several hundred people there watching as we did this thing. And it was just a day to remember, it was exciting. [pullquote align='right' size='medium' citation='Davey D']‘Hip-hop will [always] be a continuation of Black expression, it ain’t going nowhere.’[/pullquote]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When you look at it now, it’s kind of basic what we were doing. My scratches weren’t all that and the raps weren’t all that. But you know what? They were entertaining and could hold their own. I passed out a leaflet that explained what hip-hop was. They were on pink pieces of paper. And I think UC Berkeley filmed this as well, and they have it in their archives. We did another one several months later, and that one you actually have me rapping with a number of people. And we did an anti-apartheid song called “South Africa It’s Just a Matter of Time.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back in the day, I started out as an MC. I became a DJ when I moved out here. People just weren’t MCing like that when I first came out here. So I had more of an opportunity to do what I liked by DJing, versus getting on the mic and doing what the Dazzling Two were doing. I wonder whatever happened to them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/fOH_YgzQS7M\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>I’m watching the video, and the audience is kind of stunned. Sitting there, jaw dropped.\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They were watching because they hadn’t seen it. This was before the Fresh Fest [in December 1984, the first national hip-hop tour with Run D.M.C., Whodini and more]. So you didn’t really have performances like this. This was a treat for a lot of people. They might have seen something on a TV show, [or] \u003ci>Beat Street\u003c/i> the movie or something, but they hadn’t seen this up close and live. That’s why we wound up doing a second one. People were like, “Man, you all got to do that again.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>If we’re saying that the start of hip-hop was ’73, then 10 years later you have people rapping in French. And you have this spread to the West Coast.\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Well, that’s one way to look at it. Or the other way is to understand that Indigenous folks, and in this case when I say “Indigenous” I’m saying people that come from Black communities — you know, “the hood,” so to speak — we always had these expressions. And so hip-hop had two types of responses. If you talk to Commander C and Diamond from the Dazzling Two, and you tell them about rap, them being from [the East Bay], their response wouldn’t have been, “Oh wow, this is great. How do you do it?” Their response would have been more like, “Oh man, that sounds like something my uncle used to do.” Because there would be a reference point. “Oh man, it sounds like some hambone. That sounds like some pimp talk,” right? They’ve already seen people rhyming. They saw a \u003ci>Dolemite\u003c/i> movie. They had an uncle that would talk slick like that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>How [hip-hop] was packaged may have been new. Like, “Oh, I never thought to do it over beats like that.” But the concept wasn’t new. Then you have other people who’ve never seen anything like this. And their reference point then becomes, “What did I see on TV?” And if you’re telling me this is a New York thing, then I want to soak up everything that came out of New York. Whereas, I think a Richmond and Oakland cat was like, “This is good. I’m going to integrate this New York style with things that I’ve already done.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe style=\"border-radius:12px\" src=\"https://open.spotify.com/embed/playlist/5Qh4JQ3yYUFhaC8t49NZnx?utm_source=generator\" width=\"100%\" height=\"352\" frameborder=\"0\" allowfullscreen allow=\"autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; fullscreen; picture-in-picture\" loading=\"lazy\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So if you listen to those guys, to their credit, they didn’t try to sound like they were from New York. They still sound like some cat from Richmond in ’83, ’84. And I think that’s a testament to the Bay. [It] has its own identity… They didn’t feel like [they] needed to follow a prescribed path.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You have to understand that there’s no YouTube at the time. Most people never saw a video like this until years later. This wasn’t on Channel Two or ABC or anything like that. This was something that [you] had to be there [for]. So for a lot of folks, they hadn’t seen this whole package until that day… And that’s what made it special. And I think if you were there, what I recall was the energy. There was a vibe. And it was almost euphoric, especially once the dancers got on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/JrbBU_Mfi1s\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>The dancers turned it out. There’s a scene where the dancers line up. You think it’s about to start, and then they drop their pants and they have pants under their pants. And you see their uniforms, and it’s like, ‘Oh, it’s about to go down.’\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But you also got to remember, in the Bay dance expression has been around for a long time too. They’re doing breaking, right? But there was a Bay style of dance that is — big shout out to The Black Resurgents and The Messengers, and all those groups. The Black Resurgents just celebrated their 50th anniversary. They were doing the boogaloo, and they were strutting, and they were roboting. [aside postid='arts_13891300']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So these guys [on campus] were breaking, they weren’t doing Bay traditional dances, and we can get into why that was the case: Because [some of] those guys who came out of that dance era that actually predates hip-hop in New York had aged out. They were older, doing other things. And the fascination of hip-hop out of New York was really through the visuals of dance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>I should acknowledge the fact that the elements that are hip-hop were present even before 1973 in the Bay Area, right?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’ve always danced. Percussion has always been our thing, right? Black people are the people of the drum. Native folks are people of the drum, so the drum is not foreign. And rhyming has been around for a very long time. Having all those elements put together in a package like that had not happened. So again, It’s not “either or,” it’s “both and.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/ALLGyes9MhA\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>One of the big things that jumped out at me about the video is that it’s at Sproul Plaza, and this is the home of the Free Speech Movement and anti-Vietnam War protests. Having this event at that same hallowed ground, does that bring some type of legitimacy? Legitimacy is a loaded word, but does it bring some weight to it?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I don’t think people were thinking of it at that time. I certainly wasn’t. The reason we did it at Sproul Plaza was because that’s where all the Black folks hung out, the fraternities: the Alphas, who were probably the biggest one. And the Kappas, when they did their step shows, they did it on Sproul Plaza, right? Sproul Plaza is right there at the entry of the campus, so if you want to get maximum people, you’re going to do it on Sproul Plaza. The second one we did down in Zellerbach, but it wasn’t like, “Aw man, the Free Speech Movement happened here, let’s do it on Sproul Plaza.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13923986\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13923986\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.16.13-AM-800x987.png\" alt='Davey D explains this new thing called \"hip-hop\" in this one-sheeter from 1984.' width=\"800\" height=\"987\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.16.13-AM-800x987.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.16.13-AM-1020x1258.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.16.13-AM-160x197.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.16.13-AM-768x947.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.16.13-AM.png 1218w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Davey D explains this new thing called “hip-hop” in this one-sheeter from 1984. \u003ccite>(Via Dave \"Davey D\" Cook)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>And you said you passed out a flyer there.\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Not a flyer, but a piece of — it was an article that I wrote explaining what hip-hop was.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>A one-sheeter, right?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A one-sheeter, yeah.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Why would you need to pass on a one-sheeter explaining hip-hop?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Because people didn’t know at that time, and you wanted to make sure they had it. What are you watching? Why are you watching this? So, again, for many people that was the first time they saw something live like that. We take it for granted now, but in 1984, you didn’t see that like that. There wasn’t no [hip-hop] block parties here. So this was the first time for a lot of people. And we wanted to make sure that they had an understanding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>My mom was mad because she said, “You didn’t put your name on it.” She’s like, “Put your name on it so people know that you wrote this, I don’t want nobody taking your stuff.” And I was like, “Nah, ma, they seen me pass it out.” But it became important because a lot of people did use that article. It showed up in the \u003ci>San Francisco Chronicle\u003c/i>. There were people that quoted from it and didn’t know where it came from. I seen it on websites years later, right? But, you know, it’s actually \u003ca href=\"https://www.daveyd.com/whatishipdav.html\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">on my site now\u003c/a>. I was asked to write it for a magazine, so I rewrote that and added to it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>In the early days, how did hip-hop culture spread to the Bay Area?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It spread the same way that it does everywhere else where Black folks are. First, we have to ask the question: What parts of hip-hop? So you have to get a graff writer in here to break down how they were passing along secrets and understandings and cultural aesthetics. You know, somebody like \u003ca href=\"http://www.refa1.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Refa One\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I think us as DJs, there’s a whole path that we took, right? … So I’ll give you an example: There was a guy named Quickie Kev who was on the campus, and I was the main DJ, but Quickie Kev came out of L.A. and he knew how to scratch. His scratch was picked up from [the radio station] KDAY. And at that time, they had a bunch of DJs on there. Tony G. Joe Cooley, right? So there was an “L.A. Fast Scratch,” that’s what we called it. And he picked that up, and he was vicious on it. So whenever he did a party, people were sitting around like, “Man, how do we do that?” So that became one way some of that trickery was passed along. Much of it was seeing somebody who had a skillset, and they would pick it up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/7bYXW4x7RXk\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Was there a point in the late ’80s, early ’90s where you could pinpoint and say hip-hop had irreversibly established itself?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When \u003ci>Beat Street\u003c/i> came out, I think there was no turning back. Shout out to Harry Belafonte and all those people who put it together. I know we had \u003ci>Krush Groove\u003c/i>, and \u003ci>Wild Style\u003c/i> had come out prior to that. But I think \u003ci>Beat Street\u003c/i> because it was such a mainstream thing, it was the one that was for people who grew up with that in New York — this was a validation. I think there was no turning back at that point.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I remember, I was at a place called the Promenade, which is next to Marble Hill Projects in the Bronx. And my crew was doing a party. And I remember sitting there like, “Wow, look at all these people here.” And I said, “I wonder if people around the world know what we’re doing.” This is incredible. It just hit me. And within two years time, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/2000/12/29/1116242/rappers-delight\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Rapper’s Delight\u003c/a>” came out and that was irreversible there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>So, one more question on my end: 50 years from now, hip-hop is…?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hip-hop will be a continuation of Black expression, it ain’t going nowhere. We’re gonna stop singing and vocalizing ourselves? No. We gonna stop dancing? No. Are we going to have different rhythms? Absolutely. You can have a crunk beat, boom-bap beat, hyphy beat, underground lo-fi beat, jazzy beat, right? You can have those 808 beats, Miami bass beat. There’s like 50 different beats that you can find within hip-hop. There will be new beats 50 years from now. It might not be called hip-hop, but it’s still going to be here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It will never leave because hip-hop at its core is the expression of people who want to build community with one another. Who want to lose themselves in other ways, to express themselves and not be limited to what society says is valid expression.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The key for us is, can we connect the past with the present? And can we connect the past and present to the future? That’s our job. So we’re here to open your mind, and as Black Moon would say, “get you open.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-11687704\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-800x60.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"60\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-400x30.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-768x58.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cb>\u003ci>Editor’s note:\u003c/i>\u003c/b>\u003ci> This story is part of\u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/bayareahiphop\"> That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003ci>, KQED’s year-long exploration of Bay Area hip-hop history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.daveyd.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Dave “Davey D” Cook\u003c/a> is a cornerstone of hip-hop culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He currently co-hosts KPFA’s \u003ci>Hard Knock Radio\u003c/i> and serves as a professor of Africana studies at San Francisco State University, where he teaches popular courses on hip-hop and African American music. Working with historian Jeff Chang, Davey recently co-published the book \u003ci>Can’t Stop Won’t Stop: A History of the Hip-Hop Generation\u003c/i> (2021). (Both Davey and Jeff are advisors for KQED’s \u003ci>That’s My Word\u003c/i>.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Davey D is a practitioner of the culture as well as a critic. Over the span of five decades, he’s been an MC, DJ, journalist, activist — the list goes on. He was at the heart of the \u003ca href=\"http://www.daveyd.com/articleradiosucks.html\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">fight against a corporate media takeover\u003c/a> of a San Francisco hip-hop radio station. He \u003ca href=\"https://hiphopandpolitics.wordpress.com/tag/oscar-grant/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">amplified the call for justice\u003c/a> in Oakland after Oscar Grant was killed by BART police officer Johannes Mehserle. And during a financial literacy conference in New York, Davey D conducted one of the first major interviews with the \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/GwG4A_OrTmk\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">late, legendary Los Angeles lyricist Nipsey Hussle\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13923991\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13923991\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.21.56-AM-800x627.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"627\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.21.56-AM-800x627.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.21.56-AM-1020x800.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.21.56-AM-160x125.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.21.56-AM-768x602.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.21.56-AM-1536x1205.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.21.56-AM-2048x1606.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.21.56-AM-1920x1506.png 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Dave ‘Davey D’ Cook on stage with Dominique DiPrima at the Macy’s passport event in Oakland circa 1993. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Davey D)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Originally from The Bronx, New York, Davey D was there when this thing we call hip-hop was in its nascent form, before it even had a name. When he arrived in the Bay Area in the early ’80s, one of his missions as a UC Berkeley student was to lend some insight to this burgeoning culture. So he put on a few events, one of which was The Day in Hip-Hop on Oct. 24, 1984.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Footage of The Day in Hip-hop shows dancers, rappers and DJs performing in front of a captive audience, as they get a crash course on what would eventually become the most popular music in the world. The films are housed in UC Berkeley’s archives. Fortunately, a few clips have been uploaded to YouTube by Jim Richards. With the 50th anniversary of hip-hop at the front of mind, I spoke to Davey D about what the culture was like back then and how far it has come.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm/?e=KQINC6878706120&light=true\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Below are lightly edited excerpts from my conversation with Davey D.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/L_71XuDWzeE'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/L_71XuDWzeE'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cb>PENDARVIS HARSHAW:\u003c/b> The objective of this interview is to talk about a video specifically from \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fOH_YgzQS7M\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">1984 at UC Berkeley on Sproul Plaza\u003c/a> with you DJing. I saw the fresh cut, and you had your name on your shirt. It’s an early iteration of what hip-hop looks like in the Bay Area. It’s just a moving piece of footage. Can we talk through it while we watch it real quick?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>DAVEY D:\u003c/b> So you got [the MCs] Commander C and Diamond D from Berkeley and Richmond. They were The Dazzling Two. And that graffiti that you see, that’s me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>You did the graffiti too?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yeah, I did the writing. I was never a graff artist, but I did do that. We were trying to do a showcase, and bring to the campus and celebrate this thing that was burgeoning. So what you see in the video is me, with a cut-off sweatshirt that has my name on it. You also see a guy named Patrick Norwood who is out of L.A. and was a good DJ. We had a crew called the New York/L.A. Connection because they were from L.A., and I was from New York. And we bought out some dancers. We brought out these artists. And it had to be several hundred people there watching as we did this thing. And it was just a day to remember, it was exciting. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When you look at it now, it’s kind of basic what we were doing. My scratches weren’t all that and the raps weren’t all that. But you know what? They were entertaining and could hold their own. I passed out a leaflet that explained what hip-hop was. They were on pink pieces of paper. And I think UC Berkeley filmed this as well, and they have it in their archives. We did another one several months later, and that one you actually have me rapping with a number of people. And we did an anti-apartheid song called “South Africa It’s Just a Matter of Time.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back in the day, I started out as an MC. I became a DJ when I moved out here. People just weren’t MCing like that when I first came out here. So I had more of an opportunity to do what I liked by DJing, versus getting on the mic and doing what the Dazzling Two were doing. I wonder whatever happened to them.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/fOH_YgzQS7M'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/fOH_YgzQS7M'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cb>I’m watching the video, and the audience is kind of stunned. Sitting there, jaw dropped.\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They were watching because they hadn’t seen it. This was before the Fresh Fest [in December 1984, the first national hip-hop tour with Run D.M.C., Whodini and more]. So you didn’t really have performances like this. This was a treat for a lot of people. They might have seen something on a TV show, [or] \u003ci>Beat Street\u003c/i> the movie or something, but they hadn’t seen this up close and live. That’s why we wound up doing a second one. People were like, “Man, you all got to do that again.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>If we’re saying that the start of hip-hop was ’73, then 10 years later you have people rapping in French. And you have this spread to the West Coast.\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Well, that’s one way to look at it. Or the other way is to understand that Indigenous folks, and in this case when I say “Indigenous” I’m saying people that come from Black communities — you know, “the hood,” so to speak — we always had these expressions. And so hip-hop had two types of responses. If you talk to Commander C and Diamond from the Dazzling Two, and you tell them about rap, them being from [the East Bay], their response wouldn’t have been, “Oh wow, this is great. How do you do it?” Their response would have been more like, “Oh man, that sounds like something my uncle used to do.” Because there would be a reference point. “Oh man, it sounds like some hambone. That sounds like some pimp talk,” right? They’ve already seen people rhyming. They saw a \u003ci>Dolemite\u003c/i> movie. They had an uncle that would talk slick like that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>How [hip-hop] was packaged may have been new. Like, “Oh, I never thought to do it over beats like that.” But the concept wasn’t new. Then you have other people who’ve never seen anything like this. And their reference point then becomes, “What did I see on TV?” And if you’re telling me this is a New York thing, then I want to soak up everything that came out of New York. Whereas, I think a Richmond and Oakland cat was like, “This is good. I’m going to integrate this New York style with things that I’ve already done.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe style=\"border-radius:12px\" src=\"https://open.spotify.com/embed/playlist/5Qh4JQ3yYUFhaC8t49NZnx?utm_source=generator\" width=\"100%\" height=\"352\" frameborder=\"0\" allowfullscreen allow=\"autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; fullscreen; picture-in-picture\" loading=\"lazy\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So if you listen to those guys, to their credit, they didn’t try to sound like they were from New York. They still sound like some cat from Richmond in ’83, ’84. And I think that’s a testament to the Bay. [It] has its own identity… They didn’t feel like [they] needed to follow a prescribed path.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You have to understand that there’s no YouTube at the time. Most people never saw a video like this until years later. This wasn’t on Channel Two or ABC or anything like that. This was something that [you] had to be there [for]. So for a lot of folks, they hadn’t seen this whole package until that day… And that’s what made it special. And I think if you were there, what I recall was the energy. There was a vibe. And it was almost euphoric, especially once the dancers got on.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/JrbBU_Mfi1s'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/JrbBU_Mfi1s'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cb>The dancers turned it out. There’s a scene where the dancers line up. You think it’s about to start, and then they drop their pants and they have pants under their pants. And you see their uniforms, and it’s like, ‘Oh, it’s about to go down.’\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But you also got to remember, in the Bay dance expression has been around for a long time too. They’re doing breaking, right? But there was a Bay style of dance that is — big shout out to The Black Resurgents and The Messengers, and all those groups. The Black Resurgents just celebrated their 50th anniversary. They were doing the boogaloo, and they were strutting, and they were roboting. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So these guys [on campus] were breaking, they weren’t doing Bay traditional dances, and we can get into why that was the case: Because [some of] those guys who came out of that dance era that actually predates hip-hop in New York had aged out. They were older, doing other things. And the fascination of hip-hop out of New York was really through the visuals of dance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>I should acknowledge the fact that the elements that are hip-hop were present even before 1973 in the Bay Area, right?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’ve always danced. Percussion has always been our thing, right? Black people are the people of the drum. Native folks are people of the drum, so the drum is not foreign. And rhyming has been around for a very long time. Having all those elements put together in a package like that had not happened. So again, It’s not “either or,” it’s “both and.”\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/ALLGyes9MhA'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/ALLGyes9MhA'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cb>One of the big things that jumped out at me about the video is that it’s at Sproul Plaza, and this is the home of the Free Speech Movement and anti-Vietnam War protests. Having this event at that same hallowed ground, does that bring some type of legitimacy? Legitimacy is a loaded word, but does it bring some weight to it?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I don’t think people were thinking of it at that time. I certainly wasn’t. The reason we did it at Sproul Plaza was because that’s where all the Black folks hung out, the fraternities: the Alphas, who were probably the biggest one. And the Kappas, when they did their step shows, they did it on Sproul Plaza, right? Sproul Plaza is right there at the entry of the campus, so if you want to get maximum people, you’re going to do it on Sproul Plaza. The second one we did down in Zellerbach, but it wasn’t like, “Aw man, the Free Speech Movement happened here, let’s do it on Sproul Plaza.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13923986\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13923986\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.16.13-AM-800x987.png\" alt='Davey D explains this new thing called \"hip-hop\" in this one-sheeter from 1984.' width=\"800\" height=\"987\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.16.13-AM-800x987.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.16.13-AM-1020x1258.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.16.13-AM-160x197.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.16.13-AM-768x947.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Screenshot-2022-12-05-at-11.16.13-AM.png 1218w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Davey D explains this new thing called “hip-hop” in this one-sheeter from 1984. \u003ccite>(Via Dave \"Davey D\" Cook)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>And you said you passed out a flyer there.\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Not a flyer, but a piece of — it was an article that I wrote explaining what hip-hop was.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>A one-sheeter, right?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A one-sheeter, yeah.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Why would you need to pass on a one-sheeter explaining hip-hop?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Because people didn’t know at that time, and you wanted to make sure they had it. What are you watching? Why are you watching this? So, again, for many people that was the first time they saw something live like that. We take it for granted now, but in 1984, you didn’t see that like that. There wasn’t no [hip-hop] block parties here. So this was the first time for a lot of people. And we wanted to make sure that they had an understanding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>My mom was mad because she said, “You didn’t put your name on it.” She’s like, “Put your name on it so people know that you wrote this, I don’t want nobody taking your stuff.” And I was like, “Nah, ma, they seen me pass it out.” But it became important because a lot of people did use that article. It showed up in the \u003ci>San Francisco Chronicle\u003c/i>. There were people that quoted from it and didn’t know where it came from. I seen it on websites years later, right? But, you know, it’s actually \u003ca href=\"https://www.daveyd.com/whatishipdav.html\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">on my site now\u003c/a>. I was asked to write it for a magazine, so I rewrote that and added to it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>In the early days, how did hip-hop culture spread to the Bay Area?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It spread the same way that it does everywhere else where Black folks are. First, we have to ask the question: What parts of hip-hop? So you have to get a graff writer in here to break down how they were passing along secrets and understandings and cultural aesthetics. You know, somebody like \u003ca href=\"http://www.refa1.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Refa One\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I think us as DJs, there’s a whole path that we took, right? … So I’ll give you an example: There was a guy named Quickie Kev who was on the campus, and I was the main DJ, but Quickie Kev came out of L.A. and he knew how to scratch. His scratch was picked up from [the radio station] KDAY. And at that time, they had a bunch of DJs on there. Tony G. Joe Cooley, right? So there was an “L.A. Fast Scratch,” that’s what we called it. And he picked that up, and he was vicious on it. So whenever he did a party, people were sitting around like, “Man, how do we do that?” So that became one way some of that trickery was passed along. Much of it was seeing somebody who had a skillset, and they would pick it up.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/7bYXW4x7RXk'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/7bYXW4x7RXk'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cb>Was there a point in the late ’80s, early ’90s where you could pinpoint and say hip-hop had irreversibly established itself?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When \u003ci>Beat Street\u003c/i> came out, I think there was no turning back. Shout out to Harry Belafonte and all those people who put it together. I know we had \u003ci>Krush Groove\u003c/i>, and \u003ci>Wild Style\u003c/i> had come out prior to that. But I think \u003ci>Beat Street\u003c/i> because it was such a mainstream thing, it was the one that was for people who grew up with that in New York — this was a validation. I think there was no turning back at that point.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I remember, I was at a place called the Promenade, which is next to Marble Hill Projects in the Bronx. And my crew was doing a party. And I remember sitting there like, “Wow, look at all these people here.” And I said, “I wonder if people around the world know what we’re doing.” This is incredible. It just hit me. And within two years time, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/2000/12/29/1116242/rappers-delight\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Rapper’s Delight\u003c/a>” came out and that was irreversible there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>So, one more question on my end: 50 years from now, hip-hop is…?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hip-hop will be a continuation of Black expression, it ain’t going nowhere. We’re gonna stop singing and vocalizing ourselves? No. We gonna stop dancing? No. Are we going to have different rhythms? Absolutely. You can have a crunk beat, boom-bap beat, hyphy beat, underground lo-fi beat, jazzy beat, right? You can have those 808 beats, Miami bass beat. There’s like 50 different beats that you can find within hip-hop. There will be new beats 50 years from now. It might not be called hip-hop, but it’s still going to be here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It will never leave because hip-hop at its core is the expression of people who want to build community with one another. Who want to lose themselves in other ways, to express themselves and not be limited to what society says is valid expression.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The key for us is, can we connect the past with the present? And can we connect the past and present to the future? That’s our job. So we’re here to open your mind, and as Black Moon would say, “get you open.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cp>A cabaret dance troupe of elders from San Francisco’s Chinatown has released a rap track and video celebrating the \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/2023/01/20/1150070528/these-lunar-new-year-dishes-remind-those-who-make-them-of-their-family-and-frien\">Lunar New Year\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13923317']“\u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=1600909627034398&t=0\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">That Lunar Cheer\u003c/a>,” a collaboration between the \u003ca href=\"http://grantavenuefollies.com\">Grant Avenue Follies\u003c/a> and Los Angeles-based rapper \u003ca href=\"http://jasonchumusic.com\">Jason Chu\u003c/a>, hippety-hops into the Year of the Rabbit with calls for food, family and fun.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We’ve been through a couple challenging years and we want to wish everybody a happy new year as well as making sure that it will be a peaceful and healthy new year. That is very important to us,” Follies co-founder Cynthia Yee told NPR. “We have customs that have to be followed, such as cleaning the house before New Year’s Day to sweep away all the bad luck and welcome the new.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"https://www.facebook.com/plugins/video.php?height=314&href=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2FAARPAAPI%2Fvideos%2F1600909627034398%2F&show_text=false&width=560&t=0\" width=\"560\" height=\"314\" style=\"border:none;overflow:hidden\" scrolling=\"no\" frameborder=\"0\" allowfullscreen=\"true\" allow=\"autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; picture-in-picture; web-share\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The video was was funded by the AARP, a nonprofit interest group focusing on issues affecting those over the age of 50.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>No strangers to hip-hop\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>The 12 members of the Follies, aged between 61 and 87, might be steeped in tap dance and the songs of the 1950s and ‘60s. But they are no strangers to hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>That Lunar Cheer\u003c/em> is the group’s third rap track to date. The Follies’ song protesting violence against people of Asian descent, \u003cem>Gai Mou Sou Rap \u003c/em>(named after the chicken feature dusters that Chinese parents traditionally use around the home, and also use to spank naughty children), has garnered nearly 90,000 views on YouTube since debuting in May 2021.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Follies founder Yee said she feels a connection to the hip-hop genre.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>‘What better way to express ourselves through poetry, which is a song with rap,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13923548']Their dedication to the art form impressed rapper Chu, who wrote \u003cem>That Lunar Cheer\u003c/em>, and has a strong background in community activism as well as music.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“These ladies are strong and feisty and creative,” Chu told NPR. “Getting to collaborate with them is exactly the kind of art I love making — something that highlights culture and community in a way that’s fun and empowering.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yee added she hopes the song exemplifies the values of the Year of the Rabbit: “Mostly very quiet, very lovable, very fuzzy-wuzzy, and of course all about having lots of family,” she said. “The Year of the Rabbit is about multiplying everything, whether that’s children, grandchildren or money.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cdiv class=\"fullattribution\">\u003cem>Copyright 2023 NPR. To see more, \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">visit NPR\u003c/a>.\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://www.google-analytics.com/__utm.gif?utmac=UA-5828686-4&utmdt=San+Francisco+Chinatown+seniors+welcome+in+the+Lunar+New+Year+with+rap+&utme=8(APIKey)9(MDAxOTAwOTE4MDEyMTkxMDAzNjczZDljZA004)\">\u003c/em>\u003c/div>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“\u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=1600909627034398&t=0\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">That Lunar Cheer\u003c/a>,” a collaboration between the \u003ca href=\"http://grantavenuefollies.com\">Grant Avenue Follies\u003c/a> and Los Angeles-based rapper \u003ca href=\"http://jasonchumusic.com\">Jason Chu\u003c/a>, hippety-hops into the Year of the Rabbit with calls for food, family and fun.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We’ve been through a couple challenging years and we want to wish everybody a happy new year as well as making sure that it will be a peaceful and healthy new year. That is very important to us,” Follies co-founder Cynthia Yee told NPR. “We have customs that have to be followed, such as cleaning the house before New Year’s Day to sweep away all the bad luck and welcome the new.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"https://www.facebook.com/plugins/video.php?height=314&href=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2FAARPAAPI%2Fvideos%2F1600909627034398%2F&show_text=false&width=560&t=0\" width=\"560\" height=\"314\" style=\"border:none;overflow:hidden\" scrolling=\"no\" frameborder=\"0\" allowfullscreen=\"true\" allow=\"autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; picture-in-picture; web-share\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The video was was funded by the AARP, a nonprofit interest group focusing on issues affecting those over the age of 50.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>No strangers to hip-hop\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>The 12 members of the Follies, aged between 61 and 87, might be steeped in tap dance and the songs of the 1950s and ‘60s. But they are no strangers to hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cp>It’s not often you find whole sections of bookstores or libraries devoted to books on dance. But this doesn’t mean that there’s a shortage of good books on the topic — especially this year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>2022 was particularly prosperous for books about ballet, with many notable memoirs, biographies, and works of fiction making their debuts. So, we’re taking a moment to highlight some of those. Our selection of titles sheds light not only on some of the form’s most iconic figures, but also provides a glimpse into the state of ballet culture today — and the direction it will be heading next year and for years to come.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>\u003cem>The Wind at My Back\u003c/em>\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_11295559']When all eyes were on Misty Copeland in advance of her promotion to principal dancer at American Ballet Theatre — which made her the first Black woman to achieve the highest rank in the iconic company — audiences saw an inspirational woman, a beautiful dancer, and a watershed event for the overwhelmingly white art form. What they didn’t see however, were Copeland’s private struggles with imposter syndrome, internalized trauma, and the still present systemic racism in the ballet world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In her latest book, Copeland (writing with with Susan Fales-Hill) candidly recounts these experiences with the same grace and strength that imbue her dancing, all while paying homage to her mentor, Raven Wilkinson, and the many other Black ballerinas that laid the foundation for Copeland to soar. Part memoir, part tribute to the late Wilkinson, who toured the country with the Ballet Russe de Monte-Carlo during the height of the Civil Rights Movement, \u003cem>The Wind at My Back\u003c/em> chronicles Copeland’s relationship with her mentor, draws parallels between their paths in dance, and ends with a call to action. Through Wilkinson, Copeland taps into her deeper purpose of being a role model for other ballet dancers of color, and her words tell readers exactly what it will take to continue to move the form forward and ensure bright futures for these young artists.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>\u003cem>They’re Going to Love You\u003c/em>\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>In this novel by Meg Howrey, Carlisle Martin — born to a ballerina mother and a balletomane father — dreams of dancing with the New York City Ballet. After her parent’s separation, the NYC home her father shares with his partner, James, becomes a place of wonder — and someplace she wants to belong, but doesn’t quite feel at home. After her above-average height dashes her hopes of ballet stardom, and a betrayal estranges her from her father and James, Carlisle charts her own path, moves to Los Angeles, and starts her career as a choreographer. When she receives the news that her father is dying, she is forced to reckon with her past, all while preparing for the biggest commission of her career.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>They’re Going to Love You\u003c/em> oscillates between present-day reflections and flashbacks to Carlisle’s life as an adolescent and young adult, ultimately emerging as a beautiful and relatable portrait of a woman, her regrets, and her successes. As Howrey unflinchingly and honestly dives into the intricacies of relationships and the inevitable growing pains that come with life, she also mines her history as a ballet dancer to deliver an honest portrayal of the dance world, the realities of working artists, and the obstacles facing female choreographers, revealing real-world truths through a fictional setting.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>\u003cem>La Nijinska \u003c/em>\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13920190']Most balletomanes are familiar with Vaslav Nijinsky, the famous 20th-century dancer and choreographer who was widely hailed for his virtuosity and who made waves with his original works. Fewer though, are intimately familiar with his sister, Bronislava Nijinska, despite the fact that, as author and dance historian Lynn Garafola asserts, her myriad contributions far outweighed Nijinsky’s comparatively brief foray into the limelight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>La Nijinska \u003c/em>is the first biography written about the female choreographer, who created nearly 80 original ballets and was a guiding force for the development of 20th-century modernism. The book mines interviews, archival reviews, reflections of the dancers who worked with Nijinska, and the choreographer’s own letters and diaries to paint a picture of the prolific dancemaker. Nijinska is wholly deserving of the nearly 500-page opus, which, given today’s movement to foster and support women choreographers, comes at just the right time.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>\u003cem>Three Muses\u003c/em>\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>Author Martha Anne Toll’s first novel uses a post-WWII ballet world as the backdrop to weave an intimate portrait of romance and heartbreak. \u003cem>Three Muses \u003c/em>follows prima ballerina Katya Symanova, who is immersed in an abusive yet creatively generative relationship with choreographer Boris Yanakov, as she meets and falls in love with John Curtin, a young psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Toll’s novel is not only notable for its poignant prose, clever foreshadowing, and deeply moving ending, it also comments on many of the harsher truths present in the ballet world, acknowledging the reality without glamorizing it. The author, a freelance book critic who has written reviews for NPR, not only uses a true-to-life version of the 1950s dance world as her stage, she uses choreography as a key element of the plot, with the dances she creates for her characters perfectly echoing their inner lives.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>\u003cem>Serenade\u003c/em>\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13909322']In the ballet world, George Balanchine, the co-founder of the New York City Ballet, has almost been raised to superhuman status. His signature modern, plotless approach to dancemaking is still widely lauded, his choreography is performed by some of the most successful dancers and companies, and words like “legend,” “icon” and “seminal” are often used to describe him. Hearing about Balanchine from someone who actually knew him and danced for him — like author Toni Bentley — is a breath of fresh air, revealing the human behind the history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bentley’s \u003cem>Serenade \u003c/em>is grounded by a minute-by-minute recollection of Balanchine’s 1934 masterpiece of the same name, interspersed with the author’s own memories of the choreographer, stories from his past, as well as forays into topics like the development of the pointe shoe, the life and work of composer Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, and the choreography of Marius Petipa. Bentley’s words not only illuminate Balanchine, they also unveil the lifelong devotion, love and unending fascination that come along with a career in ballet.\u003c/p>\n\u003chr>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sophie Bress is a dance writer and former dancer based in Utah. She holds a master’s degree in arts journalism from the University of Southern California and writes for ‘Dance Magazine,’ ‘Fjord Review,’ ‘Pointe’ and others. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cdiv class=\"fullattribution\">\u003cem>Copyright 2022 NPR. To see more, \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">visit NPR\u003c/a>.\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://www.google-analytics.com/__utm.gif?utmac=UA-5828686-4&utmdt=2022+was+a+big+year+for+dance+books%3A+Here+are+5+to+check+out&utme=8(APIKey)9(MDAxOTAwOTE4MDEyMTkxMDAzNjczZDljZA004)\">\u003c/em>\u003c/div>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>It’s not often you find whole sections of bookstores or libraries devoted to books on dance. But this doesn’t mean that there’s a shortage of good books on the topic — especially this year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>2022 was particularly prosperous for books about ballet, with many notable memoirs, biographies, and works of fiction making their debuts. So, we’re taking a moment to highlight some of those. Our selection of titles sheds light not only on some of the form’s most iconic figures, but also provides a glimpse into the state of ballet culture today — and the direction it will be heading next year and for years to come.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>\u003cem>The Wind at My Back\u003c/em>\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>When all eyes were on Misty Copeland in advance of her promotion to principal dancer at American Ballet Theatre — which made her the first Black woman to achieve the highest rank in the iconic company — audiences saw an inspirational woman, a beautiful dancer, and a watershed event for the overwhelmingly white art form. What they didn’t see however, were Copeland’s private struggles with imposter syndrome, internalized trauma, and the still present systemic racism in the ballet world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In her latest book, Copeland (writing with with Susan Fales-Hill) candidly recounts these experiences with the same grace and strength that imbue her dancing, all while paying homage to her mentor, Raven Wilkinson, and the many other Black ballerinas that laid the foundation for Copeland to soar. Part memoir, part tribute to the late Wilkinson, who toured the country with the Ballet Russe de Monte-Carlo during the height of the Civil Rights Movement, \u003cem>The Wind at My Back\u003c/em> chronicles Copeland’s relationship with her mentor, draws parallels between their paths in dance, and ends with a call to action. Through Wilkinson, Copeland taps into her deeper purpose of being a role model for other ballet dancers of color, and her words tell readers exactly what it will take to continue to move the form forward and ensure bright futures for these young artists.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>\u003cem>They’re Going to Love You\u003c/em>\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>In this novel by Meg Howrey, Carlisle Martin — born to a ballerina mother and a balletomane father — dreams of dancing with the New York City Ballet. After her parent’s separation, the NYC home her father shares with his partner, James, becomes a place of wonder — and someplace she wants to belong, but doesn’t quite feel at home. After her above-average height dashes her hopes of ballet stardom, and a betrayal estranges her from her father and James, Carlisle charts her own path, moves to Los Angeles, and starts her career as a choreographer. When she receives the news that her father is dying, she is forced to reckon with her past, all while preparing for the biggest commission of her career.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>They’re Going to Love You\u003c/em> oscillates between present-day reflections and flashbacks to Carlisle’s life as an adolescent and young adult, ultimately emerging as a beautiful and relatable portrait of a woman, her regrets, and her successes. As Howrey unflinchingly and honestly dives into the intricacies of relationships and the inevitable growing pains that come with life, she also mines her history as a ballet dancer to deliver an honest portrayal of the dance world, the realities of working artists, and the obstacles facing female choreographers, revealing real-world truths through a fictional setting.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>\u003cem>La Nijinska \u003c/em>\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Most balletomanes are familiar with Vaslav Nijinsky, the famous 20th-century dancer and choreographer who was widely hailed for his virtuosity and who made waves with his original works. Fewer though, are intimately familiar with his sister, Bronislava Nijinska, despite the fact that, as author and dance historian Lynn Garafola asserts, her myriad contributions far outweighed Nijinsky’s comparatively brief foray into the limelight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>La Nijinska \u003c/em>is the first biography written about the female choreographer, who created nearly 80 original ballets and was a guiding force for the development of 20th-century modernism. The book mines interviews, archival reviews, reflections of the dancers who worked with Nijinska, and the choreographer’s own letters and diaries to paint a picture of the prolific dancemaker. Nijinska is wholly deserving of the nearly 500-page opus, which, given today’s movement to foster and support women choreographers, comes at just the right time.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>\u003cem>Three Muses\u003c/em>\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>Author Martha Anne Toll’s first novel uses a post-WWII ballet world as the backdrop to weave an intimate portrait of romance and heartbreak. \u003cem>Three Muses \u003c/em>follows prima ballerina Katya Symanova, who is immersed in an abusive yet creatively generative relationship with choreographer Boris Yanakov, as she meets and falls in love with John Curtin, a young psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Toll’s novel is not only notable for its poignant prose, clever foreshadowing, and deeply moving ending, it also comments on many of the harsher truths present in the ballet world, acknowledging the reality without glamorizing it. The author, a freelance book critic who has written reviews for NPR, not only uses a true-to-life version of the 1950s dance world as her stage, she uses choreography as a key element of the plot, with the dances she creates for her characters perfectly echoing their inner lives.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>\u003cem>Serenade\u003c/em>\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>In the ballet world, George Balanchine, the co-founder of the New York City Ballet, has almost been raised to superhuman status. His signature modern, plotless approach to dancemaking is still widely lauded, his choreography is performed by some of the most successful dancers and companies, and words like “legend,” “icon” and “seminal” are often used to describe him. Hearing about Balanchine from someone who actually knew him and danced for him — like author Toni Bentley — is a breath of fresh air, revealing the human behind the history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bentley’s \u003cem>Serenade \u003c/em>is grounded by a minute-by-minute recollection of Balanchine’s 1934 masterpiece of the same name, interspersed with the author’s own memories of the choreographer, stories from his past, as well as forays into topics like the development of the pointe shoe, the life and work of composer Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, and the choreography of Marius Petipa. Bentley’s words not only illuminate Balanchine, they also unveil the lifelong devotion, love and unending fascination that come along with a career in ballet.\u003c/p>\n\u003chr>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sophie Bress is a dance writer and former dancer based in Utah. She holds a master’s degree in arts journalism from the University of Southern California and writes for ‘Dance Magazine,’ ‘Fjord Review,’ ‘Pointe’ and others. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cdiv class=\"fullattribution\">\u003cem>Copyright 2022 NPR. To see more, \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">visit NPR\u003c/a>.\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://www.google-analytics.com/__utm.gif?utmac=UA-5828686-4&utmdt=2022+was+a+big+year+for+dance+books%3A+Here+are+5+to+check+out&utme=8(APIKey)9(MDAxOTAwOTE4MDEyMTkxMDAzNjczZDljZA004)\">\u003c/em>\u003c/div>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "San Francisco Dance Company FACT/SF Pays Artists to Apply",
"headTitle": "San Francisco Dance Company FACT/SF Pays Artists to Apply | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>To any artist that’s ever applied for a grant or a residency, this process will be familiar:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Step 1: Spend hours of unpaid time applying\u003cbr>\nStep 2: Don’t hear back for weeks or longer\u003cbr>\nStep 3: Receive rejection with no feedback or dialogue\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>San Francisco dance company FACT/SF wants to change that. The organization has announced a new series of grants, scholarships and performance opportunities — and, best of all, they’ll pay artists $25 just to apply.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>FACT/SF is selecting performing artists looking either to present and produce work or participate in a nine-day dance workshop immersion with company founder and choreographer Charles Slender-White.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s pretty uncommon for a dance company to be running a program like this,” White told KQED in an email. “I’m pretty sure we’re the only (or one of the only) organizations in the country that actually pays people to apply.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>FACT/SF’s \u003ca href=\"https://factsf.org/fieldworkhistory\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Fieldwork\u003c/a> initiative provides material resources and presenting opportunities in seven different programs, including fiscal sponsorship and artist consultation. Since its inception in 2014, Fieldwork’s programs have supported over 50 choreographers, dancers and teachers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13920193\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13920193 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/10/Caitlin-Hicks-Eric-Garcia-in-work-by-Sharp-Fine-01-Photo-by-Robbie-Sweeny-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Artist in pink tulle is dancing on stage in front of another performer who is watching them\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/10/Caitlin-Hicks-Eric-Garcia-in-work-by-Sharp-Fine-01-Photo-by-Robbie-Sweeny-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/10/Caitlin-Hicks-Eric-Garcia-in-work-by-Sharp-Fine-01-Photo-by-Robbie-Sweeny-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/10/Caitlin-Hicks-Eric-Garcia-in-work-by-Sharp-Fine-01-Photo-by-Robbie-Sweeny-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/10/Caitlin-Hicks-Eric-Garcia-in-work-by-Sharp-Fine-01-Photo-by-Robbie-Sweeny-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/10/Caitlin-Hicks-Eric-Garcia-in-work-by-Sharp-Fine-01-Photo-by-Robbie-Sweeny-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/10/Caitlin-Hicks-Eric-Garcia-in-work-by-Sharp-Fine-01-Photo-by-Robbie-Sweeny-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/10/Caitlin-Hicks-Eric-Garcia-in-work-by-Sharp-Fine-01-Photo-by-Robbie-Sweeny-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/10/Caitlin-Hicks-Eric-Garcia-in-work-by-Sharp-Fine-01-Photo-by-Robbie-Sweeny-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Caitlin Hicks & Eric Garcia in a work by Sharp & Fine, previous Fieldwork recipients \u003ccite>(Robbie Sweeny)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In FACT/SF’s characterization, artists don’t apply to the various opportunities, but “self-nominate” through an open-ended dialogue between nominees and FACT/SF’s curatorial panel, which consists of company members and Bay Area dancers. Part of the curation process is guided by the company’s goal in selecting at least 50% BIPOC and 50% LGBTQ+ artists.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>White announced the new iteration of their Fieldwork programs in an \u003ca href=\"https://docs.google.com/document/d/1CO6DtNvLJCC8vcWp7_rRGsp7I4G5dHJ50ySTgA1HxM0/edit\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">open letter\u003c/a> that details the resource tracks. Those include production support grants ($1,000 each), paid performance opportunities in the August 2023 FACT/SF Summer Dance Festival at ODC in San Francisco ($1,250 stipend), and scholarships to attend the FACT/SF August 2023 Summer Dance Lab at ODC.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Opportunities also include tech and dress rehearsals for the Summer Dance Festival and, for those looking to instruct workshops in the Summer Dance Lab, $100/hour to teach.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“As we recognize that applying for opportunities is real work, we offer a $25 honorarium to all artists who nominate themselves for one or more of our programs,” White wrote in the open letter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We know that this sum is small, but we hope that it signifies our respect for your work and time, and that this resource inversion of the application process might nudge the larger field towards less extractive and more ethical practices,” White added.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12904247\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"400\" height=\"39\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-160x16.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-240x23.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-375x37.jpg 375w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Self-nominations for FACT/SF’s 2023 Fieldwork opportunities are due by Oct. 31, 2022. Artists can \u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"https://factsf.org/fieldwork\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">\u003ci>learn more and apply here\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci>. \u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "FACT/SF announces new grants, scholarships and performance opportunities—and artists are paid to apply.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>To any artist that’s ever applied for a grant or a residency, this process will be familiar:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Step 1: Spend hours of unpaid time applying\u003cbr>\nStep 2: Don’t hear back for weeks or longer\u003cbr>\nStep 3: Receive rejection with no feedback or dialogue\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>San Francisco dance company FACT/SF wants to change that. The organization has announced a new series of grants, scholarships and performance opportunities — and, best of all, they’ll pay artists $25 just to apply.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>FACT/SF is selecting performing artists looking either to present and produce work or participate in a nine-day dance workshop immersion with company founder and choreographer Charles Slender-White.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s pretty uncommon for a dance company to be running a program like this,” White told KQED in an email. “I’m pretty sure we’re the only (or one of the only) organizations in the country that actually pays people to apply.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>FACT/SF’s \u003ca href=\"https://factsf.org/fieldworkhistory\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Fieldwork\u003c/a> initiative provides material resources and presenting opportunities in seven different programs, including fiscal sponsorship and artist consultation. Since its inception in 2014, Fieldwork’s programs have supported over 50 choreographers, dancers and teachers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13920193\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13920193 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/10/Caitlin-Hicks-Eric-Garcia-in-work-by-Sharp-Fine-01-Photo-by-Robbie-Sweeny-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Artist in pink tulle is dancing on stage in front of another performer who is watching them\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/10/Caitlin-Hicks-Eric-Garcia-in-work-by-Sharp-Fine-01-Photo-by-Robbie-Sweeny-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/10/Caitlin-Hicks-Eric-Garcia-in-work-by-Sharp-Fine-01-Photo-by-Robbie-Sweeny-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/10/Caitlin-Hicks-Eric-Garcia-in-work-by-Sharp-Fine-01-Photo-by-Robbie-Sweeny-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/10/Caitlin-Hicks-Eric-Garcia-in-work-by-Sharp-Fine-01-Photo-by-Robbie-Sweeny-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/10/Caitlin-Hicks-Eric-Garcia-in-work-by-Sharp-Fine-01-Photo-by-Robbie-Sweeny-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/10/Caitlin-Hicks-Eric-Garcia-in-work-by-Sharp-Fine-01-Photo-by-Robbie-Sweeny-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/10/Caitlin-Hicks-Eric-Garcia-in-work-by-Sharp-Fine-01-Photo-by-Robbie-Sweeny-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/10/Caitlin-Hicks-Eric-Garcia-in-work-by-Sharp-Fine-01-Photo-by-Robbie-Sweeny-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Caitlin Hicks & Eric Garcia in a work by Sharp & Fine, previous Fieldwork recipients \u003ccite>(Robbie Sweeny)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In FACT/SF’s characterization, artists don’t apply to the various opportunities, but “self-nominate” through an open-ended dialogue between nominees and FACT/SF’s curatorial panel, which consists of company members and Bay Area dancers. Part of the curation process is guided by the company’s goal in selecting at least 50% BIPOC and 50% LGBTQ+ artists.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>White announced the new iteration of their Fieldwork programs in an \u003ca href=\"https://docs.google.com/document/d/1CO6DtNvLJCC8vcWp7_rRGsp7I4G5dHJ50ySTgA1HxM0/edit\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">open letter\u003c/a> that details the resource tracks. Those include production support grants ($1,000 each), paid performance opportunities in the August 2023 FACT/SF Summer Dance Festival at ODC in San Francisco ($1,250 stipend), and scholarships to attend the FACT/SF August 2023 Summer Dance Lab at ODC.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Opportunities also include tech and dress rehearsals for the Summer Dance Festival and, for those looking to instruct workshops in the Summer Dance Lab, $100/hour to teach.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“As we recognize that applying for opportunities is real work, we offer a $25 honorarium to all artists who nominate themselves for one or more of our programs,” White wrote in the open letter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We know that this sum is small, but we hope that it signifies our respect for your work and time, and that this resource inversion of the application process might nudge the larger field towards less extractive and more ethical practices,” White added.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12904247\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"400\" height=\"39\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-160x16.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-240x23.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-375x37.jpg 375w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Self-nominations for FACT/SF’s 2023 Fieldwork opportunities are due by Oct. 31, 2022. Artists can \u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"https://factsf.org/fieldwork\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">\u003ci>learn more and apply here\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci>. \u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLeGdTT0--8KhbKEVbBBpeaZd9fAznBzz9\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">If Cities Could Dance\u003c/a> is KQED Arts and Culture’s award-winning video series featuring dancers across the country who represent their city’s signature moves. \u003ca href=\"https://bit.ly/SubscribeKQEDArts\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Subscribe to our YouTube channel\u003c/a> to never miss an episode of If Cities Could Dance. And \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCS7Oxr5knNkZ8SlryFZnq0g/community?lb=UgkxTT1ph5x5nlxlXNk5VpCX_Wzof4sdIHV8\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">tell us what you like most about our series\u003c/a> in our community poll!\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This Latinx Heritage Month, we’re looking back on bold artists from across the country who expand our ideas of identity, community and dance.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13916333/if-cities-could-dance-austin-salsa\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Angie and Audrey\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Angie Egea and Audrey Guerrero, a non-binary couple who came together through their love of Latin dancing, are making the Austin, Texas, salsa scene more inclusive. Angie and Audrey challenge the traditional binary in salsa—where the man leads and the woman follows. Instead, they take turns leading and following, often switching roles within a dance. And don’t miss their \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_uNxJ4-WPAY\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">dance tutorial\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" title=\"Queer Salsa: How One Nonbinary Couple Leads and Follows | If Cities Could Dance\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" src=\"https://www.youtube.com/embed/_tFMmU9SFGI?feature=oembed\" frameborder=\"0\" allow=\"accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share\" referrerpolicy=\"strict-origin-when-cross-origin\" allowfullscreen>\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13880670/if-cities-could-dance-san-francisco-la-mezcla\">La Mezcla\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>San Francisco’s \u003ca href=\"https://vanessasanchez.net/lamezcla/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">La Mezcla dance company\u003c/a>, founded and led by Vanessa Sanchez, blends tap dance and zapateado (rhythmic footwork from Mexico) to tell stories of Chicana history, culture and resistance. For their work \u003ca href=\"https://vanessasanchez.net/pachuquismo-2/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">\u003cem>Pachuquísmo\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, dancers embody zoot-suited Chicanas of 1940s Los Angeles and take their movement to the streets of the Mission District. Check out Vanessa’s \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/jtiD3lC1X88\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">basic tap dance tutorial\u003c/a> too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" title=\"Chicana Dance Crew Blends Tap and Mexican Footwork | If Cities Could Dance\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" src=\"https://www.youtube.com/embed/U_vm9EU0YBU?feature=oembed\" frameborder=\"0\" allow=\"accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share\" referrerpolicy=\"strict-origin-when-cross-origin\" allowfullscreen>\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13912474/latinx-dancers-honor-migrant-stories-from-the-borderlands\">Safos Dance Theatre\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Pursuing a professional dance career in Tucson, Arizona, Yvonne Montoya didn’t see brown bodies like hers on stage. So she founded \u003ca href=\"https://www.safosdance.org/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Safos Dance Theatre\u003c/a> to nurture a local community of dance artists who are Latinx, immigrants, queer and other dancers of color. In one work inspired by Montaya’s own family’s history, Safos Dance Theatre tells the story of braceros, migrant farm workers from Mexico who provided seasonal labor to the U.S.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" title=\"Latina Choreographer Uplifts Stories from U.S.-Mexico Borderlands | If Cities Could Dance\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" src=\"https://www.youtube.com/embed/Ub_CXFmF4sA?feature=oembed\" frameborder=\"0\" allow=\"accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share\" referrerpolicy=\"strict-origin-when-cross-origin\" allowfullscreen>\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13881446/if-cities-could-dance-bomba\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Mar and María Cruz\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Sisters Mar and María Cruz, born and raised in Puerto Rico, represent a new movement of Afro Latinos who are reclaiming their cultural traditions to celebrate Black pride and acknowledge the island’s complex history of racism. Mar also teaches the foundation of Bomba, and breaks down the steps in \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/4nFyLdsyIgk\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">this dance tutorial\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" title=\"Puerto Rico's Bomba, A Dance of The African Diaspora | If Cities Could Dance\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" src=\"https://www.youtube.com/embed/z0vzkGKEWX4?feature=oembed\" frameborder=\"0\" allow=\"accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share\" referrerpolicy=\"strict-origin-when-cross-origin\" allowfullscreen>\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13855686/if-cities-could-dance-fresno\">Los diablos de Juxtlahuaca Oaxaca\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In Fresno, California, farm workers and community members—many of whom are Mexican immigrants—carry on a tradition from the Oaxacan community of Casa San Miguel. Dancers don traditional masks and costumes, all made in Oaxaca; spin to thumping drums and horn blasts; and move in a whip-wielding, barely controlled frenzy called the Danza de los Diablos.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" title=\"Mexican Folk Dance in Fresno | If Cities Could Dance\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" src=\"https://www.youtube.com/embed/ndhCv9PLfH8?feature=oembed\" frameborder=\"0\" allow=\"accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share\" referrerpolicy=\"strict-origin-when-cross-origin\" allowfullscreen>\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLeGdTT0--8KhbKEVbBBpeaZd9fAznBzz9\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">If Cities Could Dance\u003c/a> is KQED Arts and Culture’s award-winning video series featuring dancers across the country who represent their city’s signature moves. \u003ca href=\"https://bit.ly/SubscribeKQEDArts\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Subscribe to our YouTube channel\u003c/a> to never miss an episode of If Cities Could Dance. And \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCS7Oxr5knNkZ8SlryFZnq0g/community?lb=UgkxTT1ph5x5nlxlXNk5VpCX_Wzof4sdIHV8\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">tell us what you like most about our series\u003c/a> in our community poll!\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This Latinx Heritage Month, we’re looking back on bold artists from across the country who expand our ideas of identity, community and dance.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13916333/if-cities-could-dance-austin-salsa\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Angie and Audrey\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Angie Egea and Audrey Guerrero, a non-binary couple who came together through their love of Latin dancing, are making the Austin, Texas, salsa scene more inclusive. Angie and Audrey challenge the traditional binary in salsa—where the man leads and the woman follows. Instead, they take turns leading and following, often switching roles within a dance. And don’t miss their \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_uNxJ4-WPAY\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">dance tutorial\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" title=\"Queer Salsa: How One Nonbinary Couple Leads and Follows | If Cities Could Dance\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" src=\"https://www.youtube.com/embed/_tFMmU9SFGI?feature=oembed\" frameborder=\"0\" allow=\"accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share\" referrerpolicy=\"strict-origin-when-cross-origin\" allowfullscreen>\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13880670/if-cities-could-dance-san-francisco-la-mezcla\">La Mezcla\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>San Francisco’s \u003ca href=\"https://vanessasanchez.net/lamezcla/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">La Mezcla dance company\u003c/a>, founded and led by Vanessa Sanchez, blends tap dance and zapateado (rhythmic footwork from Mexico) to tell stories of Chicana history, culture and resistance. For their work \u003ca href=\"https://vanessasanchez.net/pachuquismo-2/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">\u003cem>Pachuquísmo\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, dancers embody zoot-suited Chicanas of 1940s Los Angeles and take their movement to the streets of the Mission District. Check out Vanessa’s \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/jtiD3lC1X88\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">basic tap dance tutorial\u003c/a> too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" title=\"Chicana Dance Crew Blends Tap and Mexican Footwork | If Cities Could Dance\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" src=\"https://www.youtube.com/embed/U_vm9EU0YBU?feature=oembed\" frameborder=\"0\" allow=\"accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share\" referrerpolicy=\"strict-origin-when-cross-origin\" allowfullscreen>\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13912474/latinx-dancers-honor-migrant-stories-from-the-borderlands\">Safos Dance Theatre\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Pursuing a professional dance career in Tucson, Arizona, Yvonne Montoya didn’t see brown bodies like hers on stage. So she founded \u003ca href=\"https://www.safosdance.org/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Safos Dance Theatre\u003c/a> to nurture a local community of dance artists who are Latinx, immigrants, queer and other dancers of color. In one work inspired by Montaya’s own family’s history, Safos Dance Theatre tells the story of braceros, migrant farm workers from Mexico who provided seasonal labor to the U.S.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" title=\"Latina Choreographer Uplifts Stories from U.S.-Mexico Borderlands | If Cities Could Dance\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" src=\"https://www.youtube.com/embed/Ub_CXFmF4sA?feature=oembed\" frameborder=\"0\" allow=\"accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share\" referrerpolicy=\"strict-origin-when-cross-origin\" allowfullscreen>\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13881446/if-cities-could-dance-bomba\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Mar and María Cruz\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Sisters Mar and María Cruz, born and raised in Puerto Rico, represent a new movement of Afro Latinos who are reclaiming their cultural traditions to celebrate Black pride and acknowledge the island’s complex history of racism. Mar also teaches the foundation of Bomba, and breaks down the steps in \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/4nFyLdsyIgk\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">this dance tutorial\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" title=\"Puerto Rico's Bomba, A Dance of The African Diaspora | If Cities Could Dance\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" src=\"https://www.youtube.com/embed/z0vzkGKEWX4?feature=oembed\" frameborder=\"0\" allow=\"accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share\" referrerpolicy=\"strict-origin-when-cross-origin\" allowfullscreen>\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13855686/if-cities-could-dance-fresno\">Los diablos de Juxtlahuaca Oaxaca\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In Fresno, California, farm workers and community members—many of whom are Mexican immigrants—carry on a tradition from the Oaxacan community of Casa San Miguel. Dancers don traditional masks and costumes, all made in Oaxaca; spin to thumping drums and horn blasts; and move in a whip-wielding, barely controlled frenzy called the Danza de los Diablos.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" title=\"Mexican Folk Dance in Fresno | If Cities Could Dance\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" src=\"https://www.youtube.com/embed/ndhCv9PLfH8?feature=oembed\" frameborder=\"0\" allow=\"accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share\" referrerpolicy=\"strict-origin-when-cross-origin\" allowfullscreen>\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Activists and ecofeminists have discussed the parallels between the violence of women, working class migrant communities and nature for decades. Humankind’s harmful practices against nature are not unlike those perpetrated by capitalism against the laborers who work the land, advocates say.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The crossroads between land and laborers might be reaching a watershed moment in San Francisco: In 2021 labor rights advocates hailed \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11900049/san-francisco-makes-it-easier-for-domestic-workers-to-get-paid-sick-time\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">a new local measure\u003c/a> that makes it easier for domestic workers to take paid sick leave. And just this past August, the owner of one of the city’s most prominent taquerias \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13918088/bay-area-chefs-united-farm-workers-march-al-pastor-papi\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">launched a campaign to support farm workers’ voting rights\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13917757']On Sept. 24 at Dance Mission Theater, the intersections between labor rights, environmental protection and women’s rights are brought to the stage in a new multidisciplinary theater work, \u003ca href=\"https://dancemissiontheater.org/2022/07/28/sept-24-our-work-our-dignity/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">\u003ci>Our Work, Our Dignity\u003c/i>\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The performance showcase is the culmination of a 2018 collaboration between Dance Mission and Healthy Bodies, Healthy Minds, a program whose mission is to create healing and empowering spaces for female domestic workers through leadership development, yoga and performance opportunities.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Directed by Venezuelan performing artist \u003ca href=\"https://www.andreinamaldonado.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Andreina Maldonado\u003c/a>, \u003ci>Our Work, Our Dignity\u003c/i> brings together San Francisco immigrant worker-led collectives and artists for an evening of performance meant to humanize the fight for environmental and labor justice. San Francisco’s immigrant domestic workers will share their own stories of migration and self-empowerment through music, dance and experimental theater. Audiences can expect live music from San Francisco latin fusion band Inti Batey and storytelling from workers in the California Domestic Worker Coalition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“These artistic tools are critical in changing our perspective towards a vision where we determine the future of our communities, and our bodies,” says Maldonado.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13919331\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13919331 size-large\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/OurWorkOurDignityTeambyJoseLobo_2-1020x765.jpg\" alt=\"A group of 14 individuals are sitting and posing while wearing masks in what appears to be an art studio.\" width=\"640\" height=\"480\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/OurWorkOurDignityTeambyJoseLobo_2-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/OurWorkOurDignityTeambyJoseLobo_2-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/OurWorkOurDignityTeambyJoseLobo_2-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/OurWorkOurDignityTeambyJoseLobo_2-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/OurWorkOurDignityTeambyJoseLobo_2-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/OurWorkOurDignityTeambyJoseLobo_2-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/OurWorkOurDignityTeambyJoseLobo_2-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">‘The use of theater, dance, and music allows immigrant communities and women to express our struggles in a liberating way,’ says Andreina Maldonado, director of ‘Our Work, Our Dignity,’ whose team is pictured above. \u003ccite>(Jose Lobo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Participating organizations include the San Francisco Day Labor Program and La Colectiva de Mujeres, two immigrant worker-led collectives of Dolores Street Community Services, located in San Francisco’s Mission District.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>La Colectiva de Mujeres is a worker-led domestic worker collective that provides labor resources and job opportunities to primarily immigrant women—while using nontoxic chemicals to keep its workers and clients safe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“(\u003ci>Our Work, Our Dignity\u003c/i>) will heal our wounds through a collective process that celebrates diversity and interconnection, shared leadership and aging with dignity,” Maldonado says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Our Work, Our Dignity premieres Sept. 24 at Dance Mission Theater in San Francisco. The program will be in Spanish with English translation. \u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"https://dancemissiontheater.org/2022/07/28/sept-24-our-work-our-dignity/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">\u003ci>Details here\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci>.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Activists and ecofeminists have discussed the parallels between the violence of women, working class migrant communities and nature for decades. Humankind’s harmful practices against nature are not unlike those perpetrated by capitalism against the laborers who work the land, advocates say.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The crossroads between land and laborers might be reaching a watershed moment in San Francisco: In 2021 labor rights advocates hailed \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11900049/san-francisco-makes-it-easier-for-domestic-workers-to-get-paid-sick-time\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">a new local measure\u003c/a> that makes it easier for domestic workers to take paid sick leave. And just this past August, the owner of one of the city’s most prominent taquerias \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13918088/bay-area-chefs-united-farm-workers-march-al-pastor-papi\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">launched a campaign to support farm workers’ voting rights\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>On Sept. 24 at Dance Mission Theater, the intersections between labor rights, environmental protection and women’s rights are brought to the stage in a new multidisciplinary theater work, \u003ca href=\"https://dancemissiontheater.org/2022/07/28/sept-24-our-work-our-dignity/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">\u003ci>Our Work, Our Dignity\u003c/i>\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The performance showcase is the culmination of a 2018 collaboration between Dance Mission and Healthy Bodies, Healthy Minds, a program whose mission is to create healing and empowering spaces for female domestic workers through leadership development, yoga and performance opportunities.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Directed by Venezuelan performing artist \u003ca href=\"https://www.andreinamaldonado.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Andreina Maldonado\u003c/a>, \u003ci>Our Work, Our Dignity\u003c/i> brings together San Francisco immigrant worker-led collectives and artists for an evening of performance meant to humanize the fight for environmental and labor justice. San Francisco’s immigrant domestic workers will share their own stories of migration and self-empowerment through music, dance and experimental theater. Audiences can expect live music from San Francisco latin fusion band Inti Batey and storytelling from workers in the California Domestic Worker Coalition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“These artistic tools are critical in changing our perspective towards a vision where we determine the future of our communities, and our bodies,” says Maldonado.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13919331\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13919331 size-large\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/OurWorkOurDignityTeambyJoseLobo_2-1020x765.jpg\" alt=\"A group of 14 individuals are sitting and posing while wearing masks in what appears to be an art studio.\" width=\"640\" height=\"480\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/OurWorkOurDignityTeambyJoseLobo_2-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/OurWorkOurDignityTeambyJoseLobo_2-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/OurWorkOurDignityTeambyJoseLobo_2-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/OurWorkOurDignityTeambyJoseLobo_2-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/OurWorkOurDignityTeambyJoseLobo_2-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/OurWorkOurDignityTeambyJoseLobo_2-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/OurWorkOurDignityTeambyJoseLobo_2-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">‘The use of theater, dance, and music allows immigrant communities and women to express our struggles in a liberating way,’ says Andreina Maldonado, director of ‘Our Work, Our Dignity,’ whose team is pictured above. \u003ccite>(Jose Lobo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Participating organizations include the San Francisco Day Labor Program and La Colectiva de Mujeres, two immigrant worker-led collectives of Dolores Street Community Services, located in San Francisco’s Mission District.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>La Colectiva de Mujeres is a worker-led domestic worker collective that provides labor resources and job opportunities to primarily immigrant women—while using nontoxic chemicals to keep its workers and clients safe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“(\u003ci>Our Work, Our Dignity\u003c/i>) will heal our wounds through a collective process that celebrates diversity and interconnection, shared leadership and aging with dignity,” Maldonado says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Our Work, Our Dignity premieres Sept. 24 at Dance Mission Theater in San Francisco. The program will be in Spanish with English translation. \u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"https://dancemissiontheater.org/2022/07/28/sept-24-our-work-our-dignity/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">\u003ci>Details here\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci>.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "At CounterPulse, Keith Hennessy's 'Back' Is a Contemplative, 'Gentler' Work",
"headTitle": "At CounterPulse, Keith Hennessy’s ‘Back’ Is a Contemplative, ‘Gentler’ Work | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>In the contemporary dance world, a new solo by Keith Hennessy would normally open with some ballyhoo, and on a weekend evening, around 8pm. That’s not happening this time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For all the forthrightness of its title, \u003cem>Back (all I wanna do is dance and fuck and swim with you)\u003c/em> is presented modestly and almost furtively, over a cluster of six odd days (one purposefully not listed but only advertised by word-of-mouth), at off hours, and for a ticket price that starts at a judgment-free zero.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The audience that shows up, amid \u003cem>Back\u003c/em>’s low-key promotion and off-kilter schedule, will huddle on the floor of the CounterPulse stage for an hour, in the semi-round, before the mostly naked, mostly silent sixty-something dancer-choreographer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The near-silence will be the most conspicuous detail for admirers of Hennessy’s work, which frequently features dazzling torrents of words, whether as monologue, rhyme, lecture or screed. He is a master of the extended curtain speech, a form of audience ambuscade few besides Hennessy can really get away with. (This time, he says, he’s limiting himself to five minutes.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Almost nothing about Hennessy’s new work is typical. Frantic, screaming, dizzying and doomy times like these, he seems to be suggesting, call for something altogether softer, subtler, and bare. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I wanted it to be this thing that’s outside the grid a little bit,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Nature’s Sensuality\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The piece—created for Oslo’s LATERNA Festival, where it premiered in June—comes out of an exceptional set of circumstances, not least the pandemic. Covid upended or stalled everything on Hennessy’s professional calendar for 12 months. Hennessy channeled his energies accordingly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There were a whole bunch of [photo- and video-based] experiments I did of dancing naked outdoors during Covid,” he explains during a recent visit to his Mission District flat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“First by myself, then with Nathaniel Moore, and one little project with Nathaniel and Brontez Purnell. Those pieces were, in a way, thinking through what it means to be outside because we can’t be inside. Being outside puts you into a relationship with nature and the urban environment, colliding realities that overlap. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13917757']“What’s touch? What’s the erotic body? There started to become almost an eco-sexual aspect to it, rolling in sand and being in the ocean, the sensuality of being outside, on the rocks of the Yuba River.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Meanwhile, Hennessy says turning 60 spurred self-reflection and exploration, including an express re-acquaintance with his libido. Then Covid pushed him for the first time onto apps like SCRUFF and Grindr. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It hadn’t been my thing,” he explains. “I meet people through my work, through my politics, through social life, and I’d been partnered for many years. All of a sudden I was single, horny, trying to pick up my sex life, and going online. I now entered this world of visual porn through the naked selfie that you share with other people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Perhaps unsurprisingly, worlds started to merge.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Always Moving\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Back\u003c/em> represents the confluence of many rivers, the Yuba being the most literal. In the front room of his apartment, Hennessy lays out some of the costumes and properties for the show, explaining that most are intentionally recycled from past works. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There are, for instance, pieces from 2016’s \u003cem>Sara (the smuggler)\u003c/em> and 2015’s \u003cem>Bear/Skin\u003c/em>, and a costume of plastic shopping bags used just last year in his choreography for Latvian dancers at the Homo Novus festival in Riga.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There’s also an original piece by costumer and longtime collaborator Jack Davis that repurposes sections of the wedding dresses doused in pink house paint for \u003cem>The Pink Party\u003c/em> (2001-2002), ingeniously weaving the salvaged pieces together to form a toreador jacket. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Back\u003c/em> even includes repurposed music—a piece by Joel St. Julien that Hennessy danced to in Larry Arrington and Alexa Burrell’s \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13912270/odc-larry-arrington-alexa-burrell-wowmom-astrology-preview\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\" target=\"_blank\">w o w m o m\u003c/a>\u003c/em>. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13872290']That work, which capped dancer-choreographer Arrington’s residency at ODC in April, featured the normally kinetic Hennessy seated in a chair against a giant video projection and rivetingly moving sideways through a glacial Butohesque arc.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Arrington—who was an ensemble member in Hennessy’s monumental and continually self-destructing \u003cem>Turbulence (a dance about the economy)\u003c/em>, which shook the rafters at YBCA in 2012—has seen \u003cem>Back\u003c/em> in rehearsal and registers a purity in it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I sometimes think dance can be really cynical,” she says, “especially if you think about nonprofits and funding and grants. It’s always about what ‘impact’ can dance make. Dance is always this method for something else. Keith is someone who believes that dance-ing is enough in a way. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I think that’s part of what this piece is. In the midst of what feels like overwhelming crisis, he’s said, ‘Ok, so then I have to dance.’ A lot of people said, ‘I have to stop for a while,’ at least in the beginning of Covid. That’s not the case with him.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At his core, Arrington sees Hennessy “as a dance person, a body person, a movement person. I think it’s extraordinarily difficult, especially under late-stage Covid-era capitalism,” she adds, “but Keith has never let alienation become a force that stops him from moving towards things.” \u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A Short, Guided Dance Trip\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>“In making a piece contemplative of the erotic body,” says Hennessy, there follows the question, “How do we think through the mental instability of the world? The increasing anxiety and depression that have one hundred percent intensified because of the neoliberal impact on the psyche as well as the psychological professions?” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Instead, Hennessy decided to make something without thinking. “I’ve ended up making this piece that’s gentler on my body, gentler on the mind. It’s not without its subtle provocations, but it’s a gentler work than I’ve made before.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13916333']The music, Hennessy says, is “very ambient and dreamscape-y. There’s a bit more space to feel. Things aren’t just coming at you quickly.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Amid the mayhem of the moment, \u003cem>Back\u003c/em> is a short, guided dance trip, then, a measure of art medicine for a microdosing age. The gesture feels exactly right. The sense will be in the unfolding, for audience and artist alike.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I didn’t make the piece to mean something,“ Hennessy makes clear. “I made the work, and now I’m learning what it means.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"400\" height=\"39\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12904247\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-160x16.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-240x23.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-375x37.jpg 375w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>‘Back (all I wanna do is dance and fuck and swim with you)’ runs Sept. 14–24 at CounterPulse in San Francisco. \u003ca href=\"https://counterpulse.org/event/back/\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\" target=\"_blank\">Details here\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>In the contemporary dance world, a new solo by Keith Hennessy would normally open with some ballyhoo, and on a weekend evening, around 8pm. That’s not happening this time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For all the forthrightness of its title, \u003cem>Back (all I wanna do is dance and fuck and swim with you)\u003c/em> is presented modestly and almost furtively, over a cluster of six odd days (one purposefully not listed but only advertised by word-of-mouth), at off hours, and for a ticket price that starts at a judgment-free zero.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The audience that shows up, amid \u003cem>Back\u003c/em>’s low-key promotion and off-kilter schedule, will huddle on the floor of the CounterPulse stage for an hour, in the semi-round, before the mostly naked, mostly silent sixty-something dancer-choreographer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The near-silence will be the most conspicuous detail for admirers of Hennessy’s work, which frequently features dazzling torrents of words, whether as monologue, rhyme, lecture or screed. He is a master of the extended curtain speech, a form of audience ambuscade few besides Hennessy can really get away with. (This time, he says, he’s limiting himself to five minutes.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Almost nothing about Hennessy’s new work is typical. Frantic, screaming, dizzying and doomy times like these, he seems to be suggesting, call for something altogether softer, subtler, and bare. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I wanted it to be this thing that’s outside the grid a little bit,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Nature’s Sensuality\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The piece—created for Oslo’s LATERNA Festival, where it premiered in June—comes out of an exceptional set of circumstances, not least the pandemic. Covid upended or stalled everything on Hennessy’s professional calendar for 12 months. Hennessy channeled his energies accordingly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There were a whole bunch of [photo- and video-based] experiments I did of dancing naked outdoors during Covid,” he explains during a recent visit to his Mission District flat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“First by myself, then with Nathaniel Moore, and one little project with Nathaniel and Brontez Purnell. Those pieces were, in a way, thinking through what it means to be outside because we can’t be inside. Being outside puts you into a relationship with nature and the urban environment, colliding realities that overlap. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“What’s touch? What’s the erotic body? There started to become almost an eco-sexual aspect to it, rolling in sand and being in the ocean, the sensuality of being outside, on the rocks of the Yuba River.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Meanwhile, Hennessy says turning 60 spurred self-reflection and exploration, including an express re-acquaintance with his libido. Then Covid pushed him for the first time onto apps like SCRUFF and Grindr. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It hadn’t been my thing,” he explains. “I meet people through my work, through my politics, through social life, and I’d been partnered for many years. All of a sudden I was single, horny, trying to pick up my sex life, and going online. I now entered this world of visual porn through the naked selfie that you share with other people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Perhaps unsurprisingly, worlds started to merge.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Always Moving\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Back\u003c/em> represents the confluence of many rivers, the Yuba being the most literal. In the front room of his apartment, Hennessy lays out some of the costumes and properties for the show, explaining that most are intentionally recycled from past works. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There are, for instance, pieces from 2016’s \u003cem>Sara (the smuggler)\u003c/em> and 2015’s \u003cem>Bear/Skin\u003c/em>, and a costume of plastic shopping bags used just last year in his choreography for Latvian dancers at the Homo Novus festival in Riga.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There’s also an original piece by costumer and longtime collaborator Jack Davis that repurposes sections of the wedding dresses doused in pink house paint for \u003cem>The Pink Party\u003c/em> (2001-2002), ingeniously weaving the salvaged pieces together to form a toreador jacket. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Back\u003c/em> even includes repurposed music—a piece by Joel St. Julien that Hennessy danced to in Larry Arrington and Alexa Burrell’s \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13912270/odc-larry-arrington-alexa-burrell-wowmom-astrology-preview\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\" target=\"_blank\">w o w m o m\u003c/a>\u003c/em>. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>That work, which capped dancer-choreographer Arrington’s residency at ODC in April, featured the normally kinetic Hennessy seated in a chair against a giant video projection and rivetingly moving sideways through a glacial Butohesque arc.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Arrington—who was an ensemble member in Hennessy’s monumental and continually self-destructing \u003cem>Turbulence (a dance about the economy)\u003c/em>, which shook the rafters at YBCA in 2012—has seen \u003cem>Back\u003c/em> in rehearsal and registers a purity in it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I sometimes think dance can be really cynical,” she says, “especially if you think about nonprofits and funding and grants. It’s always about what ‘impact’ can dance make. Dance is always this method for something else. Keith is someone who believes that dance-ing is enough in a way. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I think that’s part of what this piece is. In the midst of what feels like overwhelming crisis, he’s said, ‘Ok, so then I have to dance.’ A lot of people said, ‘I have to stop for a while,’ at least in the beginning of Covid. That’s not the case with him.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At his core, Arrington sees Hennessy “as a dance person, a body person, a movement person. I think it’s extraordinarily difficult, especially under late-stage Covid-era capitalism,” she adds, “but Keith has never let alienation become a force that stops him from moving towards things.” \u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A Short, Guided Dance Trip\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>“In making a piece contemplative of the erotic body,” says Hennessy, there follows the question, “How do we think through the mental instability of the world? The increasing anxiety and depression that have one hundred percent intensified because of the neoliberal impact on the psyche as well as the psychological professions?” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Instead, Hennessy decided to make something without thinking. “I’ve ended up making this piece that’s gentler on my body, gentler on the mind. It’s not without its subtle provocations, but it’s a gentler work than I’ve made before.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>The music, Hennessy says, is “very ambient and dreamscape-y. There’s a bit more space to feel. Things aren’t just coming at you quickly.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Amid the mayhem of the moment, \u003cem>Back\u003c/em> is a short, guided dance trip, then, a measure of art medicine for a microdosing age. The gesture feels exactly right. The sense will be in the unfolding, for audience and artist alike.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I didn’t make the piece to mean something,“ Hennessy makes clear. “I made the work, and now I’m learning what it means.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"400\" height=\"39\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12904247\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-160x16.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-240x23.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2017/03/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39-375x37.jpg 375w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>‘Back (all I wanna do is dance and fuck and swim with you)’ runs Sept. 14–24 at CounterPulse in San Francisco. \u003ca href=\"https://counterpulse.org/event/back/\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\" target=\"_blank\">Details here\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "fall-guide-free-events-bay-area-2022",
"title": "Fun on a Budget: 8 Free Fall Events in the Bay Area",
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"headTitle": "Fun on a Budget: 8 Free Fall Events in the Bay Area | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/fallarts2022\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">\u003cem>\u003cstrong>Find more of KQED’s picks for the best Fall 2022 events here\u003c/strong>\u003c/em>\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gas prices. Sky-high inflation. The Millennial inability to stop buying lattes and avocado toast. (\u003cem>I kid!\u003c/em>)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The year 2022 has been rough on wallets across the country, and our wallets also happen to be sitting (half-empty) in one of its most expensive regions. (San Francisco, Oakland and San Jose all made the list of top-10 most expensive American cities.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>What does that mean? It means we all need as much free stuff as possible. And luckily for us, there are a lot of great events coming up that won’t cost you a dime to attend. Movies, art, dance, live music, parties, theater—we’ve got you covered. Bay Area rents may break the bank, but there’s a wealth of fun things to do that won’t.\u003c/p>\n\u003cdiv class=\"mceTemp\">\u003c/div>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13917591\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13917591\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-12-at-12.31.28-PM-800x530.png\" alt=\"A Black dancer in open black shirt and tight black shorts, lays on a wooden platform, arms outstretched dramatically, with one leg kicked upwards and pointed out. Crowds watch on from the sidelines.\" width=\"800\" height=\"530\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-12-at-12.31.28-PM-800x530.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-12-at-12.31.28-PM-1020x675.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-12-at-12.31.28-PM-160x106.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-12-at-12.31.28-PM-768x508.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-12-at-12.31.28-PM-1536x1017.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-12-at-12.31.28-PM.png 1592w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A performer strikes a pose at 2021’s Open To All Ball at Lake Merritt Amphitheater. \u003ccite>(Estefany Gonzalez)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/events/1198327271019474/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Hella Hyphy Ball\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Lake Merritt Amphitheater, Oakland\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Sept. 10, 1pm–7pm\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The follow-up to 2021’s dazzling \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13902915/photos-lgbtq-oakland-shows-out-at-the-open-to-all-vogue-ball\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Open to All Ball\u003c/a> is set to transform the shores of Lake Merritt once more into ballroom bliss. This year’s ball carries the same ethos as the last one: everyone—and they do mean absolutely everyone—is welcome. The 2022 theme, however, is brand new, and hella Oakland: hyphy. That will influence every category in this year’s contests, from performance soundtracks to the all-important runway fashions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As usual, there are big prizes to be won, including $1,000 cash awards for categories including Realness, Face and Runway, and a $4,000 prize for the Tag Team performance. This year’s grand finale promises to be next-level thanks to the caveat that teams must include at least one hyphy move in their presentation. So … serve and turf?\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13917640\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13917640\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-15-at-2.29.48-PM-1-800x517.png\" alt=\"A Black woman in black and white striped dress, sits on a stool with her feet up, laughing as she holds an acoustic guitar on her lap.\" width=\"800\" height=\"517\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Meklit, an Ethiopia-born, Bay Area-dwelling singer, blends African and American blues, jazz and folk sounds with a constantly surprising level of grace and magnetism. And she’s on the Hardly Strictly lineup this year. \u003ccite>(NPR)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"https://www.hardlystrictlybluegrass.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Hardly Strictly Bluegrass\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Golden Gate Park, San Francisco\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Sept. 30-Oct. 2\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After a two-year absence from Golden Gate Park, Hardly Strictly is set for a triumphant return this October with a lineup that offers something for nearly every mood and taste.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Festival veterans like Emmylou Harris (in her 22nd HSB appearance!) and Buddy Miller (in his 17th!) will be present, accounted for and offering warm fuzzy feelings to fend off the fog. Marcus Mumford and Talking Heads’ Jerry Harrison and Adrian Belew check the mainstream-appeal boxes. And local flavor comes in the form of Tré Burt (Sacramento), Meklit (San Francisco), Brothers Comatose (North Bay) and A.J. Lee and Blue Summit (South Bay).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But as usual, HSB will also be serving up fantastic artists from around the country. So far, this year’s must-not-miss list includes: the heart-wrenching but always uplifting Allison Russell, the retro-soul stylings of Lucius and the bluegrass-rooted Afrofuturism of Jake Blount. In a lineup that has long been proud to stray beyond the confines of traditional bluegrass, Blount is a one-man example of why it’s so exciting to do just that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13917608\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13917608\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-12-at-3.08.11-PM-800x542.png\" alt=\"A father and son walk hand-in-hand towards a group of parents and children playing with bubbles. Behind them, various stalls can be seen lining the street.\" width=\"800\" height=\"542\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Noise Pop’s 20th Street Block Party will take place on Valencia St. this year. \u003ccite>(Instagram/ @noisepop)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"http://www.20thstreetblockparty.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Noise Pop’s 20th Street Block Party\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Valencia Street between 18th and 21st Streets, San Francisco\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Oct. 15, 12pm-6pm\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This family-friendly free-for-all will take over three whole blocks of Valencia Street to bring live music, food, local arts and crafts, and a whole lot of fun, to the Mission. The location may be slightly different in 2022, but the vibe will remain the same as the prior eight years: a love letter to the diversity and creativity of the Mission District.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Proceeds collected at this year’s community gathering will assist two great nonprofits in continuing their work in the neighborhood. \u003ca href=\"https://826valencia.org/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">826 Valencia\u003c/a> (a.k.a. the Pirate Supply Store) will use all donations to further their mission of making sure under-resourced kids get a tutoring boost so they can become great writers. And \u003ca href=\"https://lacocinasf.org/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">La Cocina\u003c/a> will keep working toward equity in business ownership, providing mentorship and affordable kitchen space to female and BIPOC entrepreneurs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13917609\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13917609\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-12-at-3.37.26-PM-800x486.png\" alt=\"Three South Asian women sitting in a row laughing.\" width=\"800\" height=\"486\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Attendees taking in a show at Cupertino’s Diwali: Festival of Lights. \u003ccite>(Cupertino Chamber of Commerce)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/bayareadiwalifestival\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Diwali Festival of Lights\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Memorial Park, Cupertino\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Oct. 8, 11am-6pm\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sure, this festival is happening a full 15 days before Diwali’s five-day celebration even starts, but it’s never too soon to get excited about light triumphing over darkness.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Beyond honoring the holiday itself, Cupertino’s Festival of Lights is a celebration of all things Desi. The plethora of colorful dance displays—a journey through classical \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bharatanatyam\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Bharatanatyam\u003c/a> to modern \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bhangra_(dance)#Bhangra_today\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Bhangra\u003c/a>—are worth the journey alone. But the spicy and aromatic street food on hand also satisfies rumbling stomachs, the stalls have plenty to keep dedicated shoppers busy and the \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rangoli\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Rangoli\u003c/a> art displays are just mesmerizing. Plus, there’s even a Kids Zone that usually includes some pretty ridiculous physical challenges. (If you’ve ever wanted to stick your child in a giant hamster ball, this is the place to do it.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To cap it all, there’s even free parking. Just head to De Anza College’s A and B lots.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13917731\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13917731\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-2.07.55-PM-800x601.png\" alt=\"A grid of 12 squares showing different styles of paintings and crafts.\" width=\"800\" height=\"601\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A tiny portion of the artists showing at San Francisco Open Studios. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of SFOS)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"https://www.artspan.org/sfos-schedule\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">San Francisco\u003c/a> / \u003ca href=\"https://eastbayopenstudios.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">East Bay Open Studios\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Locations TBD. (Check \u003ca href=\"https://www.artspan.org/visit-sf-open-studios/navigating-sfos\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">SFOS\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://eastbayopenstudios.com/2022-event-schedule/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">EBOS\u003c/a> websites for directories.)\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>San Francisco: Oct. 23-Nov. 13\u003cbr>\nEast Bay: Nov. 5-13\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Whether you approach them as casual neighborhood strolls or regimented exercises complete with maps and schedules, the Open Studios events on both sides of the Bay are worthy of your attention. Taking place across four weekends in San Francisco and two in the East Bay, Open Studios is a chance to get to know the artists in your area, support them and see some truly great work. (There’s usually a surprising amount of free cookies involved too…)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Wandering between home studios, artist collective spaces, back yards and garages doesn’t just feel like a treasure hunt—it also offers a glimpse into how Bay Area artists live and survive. It’s inspiring to witness not just the eclectic array of talent on display, but the resourcefulness of many of our local creators. And if you can’t make it out to meet them in person, the SFOS website offers \u003ca href=\"https://www.artspan.org/vast\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">virtual tours of selected artists’ studios\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While the Open Studios events themselves are free, don’t expect to come home empty-handed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13917656\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13917656\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-15-at-7.58.18-PM-800x557.png\" alt=\"A woman in her twenties with black hair, wearing midriff-baring punky clothes, throws her arms above her head and sticks her tongue out in a rebellious gesture.\" width=\"800\" height=\"557\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-15-at-7.58.18-PM-800x557.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-15-at-7.58.18-PM-1020x710.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-15-at-7.58.18-PM-160x111.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-15-at-7.58.18-PM-768x535.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-15-at-7.58.18-PM-1536x1070.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-15-at-7.58.18-PM.png 1700w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Livia Gomes Demarchi as Beatrice in San Francisco Shakespeare Festival’s 40th Anniversary production of ‘Much Ado About Nothing.’ \u003ccite>(Jay Yamada)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"https://www.sfshakes.org/?fbclid=IwAR3OD5c8Cx3CbwJ02gSUOBcfQYf8GDYCLFp5fKvmK-wulGkee84ucXcZF_c\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Shakespeare in the Park\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Jerry Garcia Amphitheater, MacLaren Park, San Francisco\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Sept. 3-11, 2pm\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Much Ado About Nothing\u003c/em> can be quite the challenging prospect for modern audiences—particularly the women watching. After all, it’s difficult to glean much enjoyment from watching female characters getting treated terribly by the men in their midst for 160 minutes, only to have everything wrapped up in a neat little bow in the end.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This year’s production by the San Francisco Shakespeare Festival however, promises to be a more palatable take on a dated classic. With a distinctly ’90s aesthetic, a run time of just 90 minutes (no intermission) and modernized versions of familiar characters, this \u003cem>Much Ado\u003c/em> promises something a little different from more traditional productions. Think: Beatrice in lip-liner and a dog collar, a grunge rendition of “Sigh No More” and Benedick out participating in protest marches. No, really.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you missed this \u003cem>Much Ado About Nothing\u003c/em> in Cupertino and Redwood City and can’t make it to McLaren Park either, don’t worry. A version of the production will be made \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cB1obsLLZe8\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">available online\u003c/a> at a later date, complete with closed captions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13917732\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13917732\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-2.12.16-PM-800x520.png\" alt=\"Dancers - three female, one male - wearing traditional Mexican clothes smile as they perform on a small stage.\" width=\"800\" height=\"520\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-2.12.16-PM-800x520.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-2.12.16-PM-1020x663.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-2.12.16-PM-160x104.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-2.12.16-PM-768x499.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-2.12.16-PM.png 1458w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Dancers performing the Jarabe Tapatío at the Solano Avenue Stroll. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Solano Avenue Stroll)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"https://www.solanoavenueassn.org/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Solano Avenue Stroll\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Solano Avenue, Albany and Berkeley\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Sept. 11, 10am-5pm\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Finally! The Stroll is back after a two-year absence, and it promises to be just as huge as it always was. It will still occupy an entire, fully pedestrianized mile of Solano Avenue in a colorful celebration of both Albany and Berkeley that starts with an opening ceremony and mini-parade. The day-long celebration fills the street with music, dancing and scores of local businesses, artists and makers selling their wares—including, of course, enough food booths to feed the thousands of people who usually attend.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Because of its scale, the Solano Avenue Stroll can be a little overwhelming at peak times, but it’s worth getting there early so you can take your time with it all. A free shuttle from North Berkeley BART will get you there without parking hassles.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13917733\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13917733\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-4.53.09-PM-800x512.png\" alt=\"Many people gather on the slanted lawn in front of a large screen surrounded on all sides with trees.\" width=\"800\" height=\"512\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-4.53.09-PM-800x512.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-4.53.09-PM-1020x653.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-4.53.09-PM-160x102.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-4.53.09-PM-768x492.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-4.53.09-PM-1536x984.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-4.53.09-PM.png 1568w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sundown Cinema at Jerry Garcia Amphitheater at McLaren Park. \u003ccite>(Instagram/ @dothebay)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"https://secure.sfparksalliance.org/event/sundown-cinema-member-seating-sister-act-2/e405348\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Sundown Cinema\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Alamo Square, Crane Cove, Jerry Garcia Amphitheater, San Francisco\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Sept. 9-Oct.21, 5pm\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Bay Area is awash with unique little movie theaters; we are truly blessed in this regard. But for a few weeks every fall, big screens pop up around San Francisco that give even our cutest theaters a run for their money. (If you’ve ever watched a movie in Alamo Square Park with the sun setting behind the Painted Ladies, you already know what’s up.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This rest of this season’s Sundown Cinema will feature \u003cem>Raiders of the Lost Ark\u003c/em> at Alamo Square (Sept. 9), \u003cem>Shang Chi & The Legend of the Ten Rings\u003c/em> at Crane Cove (Sept. 30) and \u003cem>Addams Family Values\u003c/em> at the Jerry Garcia Amphitheater (Oct. 21). Perfect for family picnics, date night and people who love wearing their Patagonias to chilly park excursions.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "Who needs free movies, art, dance, live music, parties and theater? All of us, that's who.",
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"title": "Fun on a Budget: 8 Free Fall Events in the Bay Area | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/fallarts2022\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">\u003cem>\u003cstrong>Find more of KQED’s picks for the best Fall 2022 events here\u003c/strong>\u003c/em>\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gas prices. Sky-high inflation. The Millennial inability to stop buying lattes and avocado toast. (\u003cem>I kid!\u003c/em>)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The year 2022 has been rough on wallets across the country, and our wallets also happen to be sitting (half-empty) in one of its most expensive regions. (San Francisco, Oakland and San Jose all made the list of top-10 most expensive American cities.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>What does that mean? It means we all need as much free stuff as possible. And luckily for us, there are a lot of great events coming up that won’t cost you a dime to attend. Movies, art, dance, live music, parties, theater—we’ve got you covered. Bay Area rents may break the bank, but there’s a wealth of fun things to do that won’t.\u003c/p>\n\u003cdiv class=\"mceTemp\">\u003c/div>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13917591\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13917591\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-12-at-12.31.28-PM-800x530.png\" alt=\"A Black dancer in open black shirt and tight black shorts, lays on a wooden platform, arms outstretched dramatically, with one leg kicked upwards and pointed out. Crowds watch on from the sidelines.\" width=\"800\" height=\"530\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-12-at-12.31.28-PM-800x530.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-12-at-12.31.28-PM-1020x675.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-12-at-12.31.28-PM-160x106.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-12-at-12.31.28-PM-768x508.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-12-at-12.31.28-PM-1536x1017.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-12-at-12.31.28-PM.png 1592w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A performer strikes a pose at 2021’s Open To All Ball at Lake Merritt Amphitheater. \u003ccite>(Estefany Gonzalez)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/events/1198327271019474/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Hella Hyphy Ball\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Lake Merritt Amphitheater, Oakland\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Sept. 10, 1pm–7pm\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The follow-up to 2021’s dazzling \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13902915/photos-lgbtq-oakland-shows-out-at-the-open-to-all-vogue-ball\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Open to All Ball\u003c/a> is set to transform the shores of Lake Merritt once more into ballroom bliss. This year’s ball carries the same ethos as the last one: everyone—and they do mean absolutely everyone—is welcome. The 2022 theme, however, is brand new, and hella Oakland: hyphy. That will influence every category in this year’s contests, from performance soundtracks to the all-important runway fashions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As usual, there are big prizes to be won, including $1,000 cash awards for categories including Realness, Face and Runway, and a $4,000 prize for the Tag Team performance. This year’s grand finale promises to be next-level thanks to the caveat that teams must include at least one hyphy move in their presentation. So … serve and turf?\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13917640\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13917640\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-15-at-2.29.48-PM-1-800x517.png\" alt=\"A Black woman in black and white striped dress, sits on a stool with her feet up, laughing as she holds an acoustic guitar on her lap.\" width=\"800\" height=\"517\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Meklit, an Ethiopia-born, Bay Area-dwelling singer, blends African and American blues, jazz and folk sounds with a constantly surprising level of grace and magnetism. And she’s on the Hardly Strictly lineup this year. \u003ccite>(NPR)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"https://www.hardlystrictlybluegrass.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Hardly Strictly Bluegrass\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Golden Gate Park, San Francisco\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Sept. 30-Oct. 2\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After a two-year absence from Golden Gate Park, Hardly Strictly is set for a triumphant return this October with a lineup that offers something for nearly every mood and taste.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Festival veterans like Emmylou Harris (in her 22nd HSB appearance!) and Buddy Miller (in his 17th!) will be present, accounted for and offering warm fuzzy feelings to fend off the fog. Marcus Mumford and Talking Heads’ Jerry Harrison and Adrian Belew check the mainstream-appeal boxes. And local flavor comes in the form of Tré Burt (Sacramento), Meklit (San Francisco), Brothers Comatose (North Bay) and A.J. Lee and Blue Summit (South Bay).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But as usual, HSB will also be serving up fantastic artists from around the country. So far, this year’s must-not-miss list includes: the heart-wrenching but always uplifting Allison Russell, the retro-soul stylings of Lucius and the bluegrass-rooted Afrofuturism of Jake Blount. In a lineup that has long been proud to stray beyond the confines of traditional bluegrass, Blount is a one-man example of why it’s so exciting to do just that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13917608\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13917608\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-12-at-3.08.11-PM-800x542.png\" alt=\"A father and son walk hand-in-hand towards a group of parents and children playing with bubbles. Behind them, various stalls can be seen lining the street.\" width=\"800\" height=\"542\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Noise Pop’s 20th Street Block Party will take place on Valencia St. this year. \u003ccite>(Instagram/ @noisepop)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"http://www.20thstreetblockparty.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Noise Pop’s 20th Street Block Party\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Valencia Street between 18th and 21st Streets, San Francisco\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Oct. 15, 12pm-6pm\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This family-friendly free-for-all will take over three whole blocks of Valencia Street to bring live music, food, local arts and crafts, and a whole lot of fun, to the Mission. The location may be slightly different in 2022, but the vibe will remain the same as the prior eight years: a love letter to the diversity and creativity of the Mission District.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Proceeds collected at this year’s community gathering will assist two great nonprofits in continuing their work in the neighborhood. \u003ca href=\"https://826valencia.org/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">826 Valencia\u003c/a> (a.k.a. the Pirate Supply Store) will use all donations to further their mission of making sure under-resourced kids get a tutoring boost so they can become great writers. And \u003ca href=\"https://lacocinasf.org/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">La Cocina\u003c/a> will keep working toward equity in business ownership, providing mentorship and affordable kitchen space to female and BIPOC entrepreneurs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13917609\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13917609\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-12-at-3.37.26-PM-800x486.png\" alt=\"Three South Asian women sitting in a row laughing.\" width=\"800\" height=\"486\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Attendees taking in a show at Cupertino’s Diwali: Festival of Lights. \u003ccite>(Cupertino Chamber of Commerce)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/bayareadiwalifestival\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Diwali Festival of Lights\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Memorial Park, Cupertino\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Oct. 8, 11am-6pm\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sure, this festival is happening a full 15 days before Diwali’s five-day celebration even starts, but it’s never too soon to get excited about light triumphing over darkness.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Beyond honoring the holiday itself, Cupertino’s Festival of Lights is a celebration of all things Desi. The plethora of colorful dance displays—a journey through classical \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bharatanatyam\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Bharatanatyam\u003c/a> to modern \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bhangra_(dance)#Bhangra_today\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Bhangra\u003c/a>—are worth the journey alone. But the spicy and aromatic street food on hand also satisfies rumbling stomachs, the stalls have plenty to keep dedicated shoppers busy and the \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rangoli\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Rangoli\u003c/a> art displays are just mesmerizing. Plus, there’s even a Kids Zone that usually includes some pretty ridiculous physical challenges. (If you’ve ever wanted to stick your child in a giant hamster ball, this is the place to do it.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To cap it all, there’s even free parking. Just head to De Anza College’s A and B lots.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13917731\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13917731\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-2.07.55-PM-800x601.png\" alt=\"A grid of 12 squares showing different styles of paintings and crafts.\" width=\"800\" height=\"601\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A tiny portion of the artists showing at San Francisco Open Studios. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of SFOS)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"https://www.artspan.org/sfos-schedule\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">San Francisco\u003c/a> / \u003ca href=\"https://eastbayopenstudios.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">East Bay Open Studios\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Locations TBD. (Check \u003ca href=\"https://www.artspan.org/visit-sf-open-studios/navigating-sfos\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">SFOS\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://eastbayopenstudios.com/2022-event-schedule/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">EBOS\u003c/a> websites for directories.)\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>San Francisco: Oct. 23-Nov. 13\u003cbr>\nEast Bay: Nov. 5-13\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Whether you approach them as casual neighborhood strolls or regimented exercises complete with maps and schedules, the Open Studios events on both sides of the Bay are worthy of your attention. Taking place across four weekends in San Francisco and two in the East Bay, Open Studios is a chance to get to know the artists in your area, support them and see some truly great work. (There’s usually a surprising amount of free cookies involved too…)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Wandering between home studios, artist collective spaces, back yards and garages doesn’t just feel like a treasure hunt—it also offers a glimpse into how Bay Area artists live and survive. It’s inspiring to witness not just the eclectic array of talent on display, but the resourcefulness of many of our local creators. And if you can’t make it out to meet them in person, the SFOS website offers \u003ca href=\"https://www.artspan.org/vast\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">virtual tours of selected artists’ studios\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While the Open Studios events themselves are free, don’t expect to come home empty-handed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13917656\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13917656\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-15-at-7.58.18-PM-800x557.png\" alt=\"A woman in her twenties with black hair, wearing midriff-baring punky clothes, throws her arms above her head and sticks her tongue out in a rebellious gesture.\" width=\"800\" height=\"557\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-15-at-7.58.18-PM-800x557.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-15-at-7.58.18-PM-1020x710.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-15-at-7.58.18-PM-160x111.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-15-at-7.58.18-PM-768x535.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-15-at-7.58.18-PM-1536x1070.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-15-at-7.58.18-PM.png 1700w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Livia Gomes Demarchi as Beatrice in San Francisco Shakespeare Festival’s 40th Anniversary production of ‘Much Ado About Nothing.’ \u003ccite>(Jay Yamada)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"https://www.sfshakes.org/?fbclid=IwAR3OD5c8Cx3CbwJ02gSUOBcfQYf8GDYCLFp5fKvmK-wulGkee84ucXcZF_c\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Shakespeare in the Park\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Jerry Garcia Amphitheater, MacLaren Park, San Francisco\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Sept. 3-11, 2pm\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Much Ado About Nothing\u003c/em> can be quite the challenging prospect for modern audiences—particularly the women watching. After all, it’s difficult to glean much enjoyment from watching female characters getting treated terribly by the men in their midst for 160 minutes, only to have everything wrapped up in a neat little bow in the end.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This year’s production by the San Francisco Shakespeare Festival however, promises to be a more palatable take on a dated classic. With a distinctly ’90s aesthetic, a run time of just 90 minutes (no intermission) and modernized versions of familiar characters, this \u003cem>Much Ado\u003c/em> promises something a little different from more traditional productions. Think: Beatrice in lip-liner and a dog collar, a grunge rendition of “Sigh No More” and Benedick out participating in protest marches. No, really.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you missed this \u003cem>Much Ado About Nothing\u003c/em> in Cupertino and Redwood City and can’t make it to McLaren Park either, don’t worry. A version of the production will be made \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cB1obsLLZe8\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">available online\u003c/a> at a later date, complete with closed captions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13917732\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13917732\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-2.12.16-PM-800x520.png\" alt=\"Dancers - three female, one male - wearing traditional Mexican clothes smile as they perform on a small stage.\" width=\"800\" height=\"520\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-2.12.16-PM-800x520.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-2.12.16-PM-1020x663.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-2.12.16-PM-160x104.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-2.12.16-PM-768x499.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-2.12.16-PM.png 1458w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Dancers performing the Jarabe Tapatío at the Solano Avenue Stroll. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Solano Avenue Stroll)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"https://www.solanoavenueassn.org/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Solano Avenue Stroll\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Solano Avenue, Albany and Berkeley\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Sept. 11, 10am-5pm\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Finally! The Stroll is back after a two-year absence, and it promises to be just as huge as it always was. It will still occupy an entire, fully pedestrianized mile of Solano Avenue in a colorful celebration of both Albany and Berkeley that starts with an opening ceremony and mini-parade. The day-long celebration fills the street with music, dancing and scores of local businesses, artists and makers selling their wares—including, of course, enough food booths to feed the thousands of people who usually attend.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Because of its scale, the Solano Avenue Stroll can be a little overwhelming at peak times, but it’s worth getting there early so you can take your time with it all. A free shuttle from North Berkeley BART will get you there without parking hassles.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13917733\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13917733\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-4.53.09-PM-800x512.png\" alt=\"Many people gather on the slanted lawn in front of a large screen surrounded on all sides with trees.\" width=\"800\" height=\"512\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-4.53.09-PM-800x512.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-4.53.09-PM-1020x653.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-4.53.09-PM-160x102.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-4.53.09-PM-768x492.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-4.53.09-PM-1536x984.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/08/Screen-Shot-2022-08-16-at-4.53.09-PM.png 1568w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sundown Cinema at Jerry Garcia Amphitheater at McLaren Park. \u003ccite>(Instagram/ @dothebay)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca href=\"https://secure.sfparksalliance.org/event/sundown-cinema-member-seating-sister-act-2/e405348\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Sundown Cinema\u003c/a>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Alamo Square, Crane Cove, Jerry Garcia Amphitheater, San Francisco\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Sept. 9-Oct.21, 5pm\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Bay Area is awash with unique little movie theaters; we are truly blessed in this regard. But for a few weeks every fall, big screens pop up around San Francisco that give even our cutest theaters a run for their money. (If you’ve ever watched a movie in Alamo Square Park with the sun setting behind the Painted Ladies, you already know what’s up.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This rest of this season’s Sundown Cinema will feature \u003cem>Raiders of the Lost Ark\u003c/em> at Alamo Square (Sept. 9), \u003cem>Shang Chi & The Legend of the Ten Rings\u003c/em> at Crane Cove (Sept. 30) and \u003cem>Addams Family Values\u003c/em> at the Jerry Garcia Amphitheater (Oct. 21). Perfect for family picnics, date night and people who love wearing their Patagonias to chilly park excursions.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"info": "Every week, The California Report Magazine takes you on a road trip for the ears: to visit the places and meet the people who make California unique. The in-depth storytelling podcast from the California Report.",
"airtime": "FRI 4:30pm-5pm, 6:30pm-7pm, 11pm-11:30pm",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/californiareportmagazine",
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"order": 10
},
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},
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"id": "city-arts",
"title": "City Arts & Lectures",
"info": "A one-hour radio program to hear celebrated writers, artists and thinkers address contemporary ideas and values, often discussing the creative process. Please note: tapes or transcripts are not available",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/05/cityartsandlecture-300x300.jpg",
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"airtime": "SUN 1pm-2pm, TUE 10pm, WED 1am",
"meta": {
"site": "news",
"source": "City Arts & Lectures"
},
"link": "https://www.cityarts.net",
"subscribe": {
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"rss": "https://www.cityarts.net/feed/"
}
},
"closealltabs": {
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"info": "Close All Tabs breaks down how digital culture shapes our world through thoughtful insights and irreverent humor.",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/closealltabs",
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"order": 1
},
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"title": "Code Switch / Life Kit",
"info": "\u003cem>Code Switch\u003c/em>, which listeners will hear in the first part of the hour, has fearless and much-needed conversations about race. Hosted by journalists of color, the show tackles the subject of race head-on, exploring how it impacts every part of society — from politics and pop culture to history, sports and more.\u003cbr />\u003cbr />\u003cem>Life Kit\u003c/em>, which will be in the second part of the hour, guides you through spaces and feelings no one prepares you for — from finances to mental health, from workplace microaggressions to imposter syndrome, from relationships to parenting. The show features experts with real world experience and shares their knowledge. Because everyone needs a little help being human.\u003cbr />\u003cbr />\u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/podcasts/510312/codeswitch\">\u003cem>Code Switch\u003c/em> offical site and podcast\u003c/a>\u003cbr />\u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/lifekit\">\u003cem>Life Kit\u003c/em> offical site and podcast\u003c/a>\u003cbr />",
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"meta": {
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly93d3cubnByLm9yZy9yc3MvcG9kY2FzdC5waHA_aWQ9NTEwMzEy",
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"id": "commonwealth-club",
"title": "Commonwealth Club of California Podcast",
"info": "The Commonwealth Club of California is the nation's oldest and largest public affairs forum. As a non-partisan forum, The Club brings to the public airwaves diverse viewpoints on important topics. The Club's weekly radio broadcast - the oldest in the U.S., dating back to 1924 - is carried across the nation on public radio stations and is now podcasting. Our website archive features audio of our recent programs, as well as selected speeches from our long and distinguished history. This podcast feed is usually updated twice a week and is always un-edited.",
"airtime": "THU 10pm, FRI 1am",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Commonwealth-Club-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
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"meta": {
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"source": "Commonwealth Club of California"
},
"link": "/radio/program/commonwealth-club",
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cDovL3d3dy5jb21tb253ZWFsdGhjbHViLm9yZy9hdWRpby9wb2RjYXN0L3dlZWtseS54bWw",
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},
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"id": "forum",
"title": "Forum",
"tagline": "The conversation starts here",
"info": "KQED’s live call-in program discussing local, state, national and international issues, as well as in-depth interviews.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 9am-11am, 10pm-11pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Forum-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
"imageAlt": "KQED Forum with Mina Kim and Alexis Madrigal",
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 9
},
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5tZWdhcGhvbmUuZm0vS1FJTkM5NTU3MzgxNjMz",
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"id": "freakonomics-radio",
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"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/freakonomicsRadio.png",
"officialWebsiteLink": "http://freakonomics.com/",
"airtime": "SUN 1am-2am, SAT 3pm-4pm",
"meta": {
"site": "radio",
"source": "WNYC"
},
"link": "/radio/program/freakonomics-radio",
"subscribe": {
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/freakonomics-radio/id354668519",
"tuneIn": "https://tunein.com/podcasts/WNYC-Podcasts/Freakonomics-Radio-p272293/",
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},
"fresh-air": {
"id": "fresh-air",
"title": "Fresh Air",
"info": "Hosted by Terry Gross, \u003cem>Fresh Air from WHYY\u003c/em> is the Peabody Award-winning weekday magazine of contemporary arts and issues. One of public radio's most popular programs, Fresh Air features intimate conversations with today's biggest luminaries.",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?s=143441&mt=2&id=214089682&at=11l79Y&ct=nprdirectory",
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"rss": "https://feeds.npr.org/381444908/podcast.xml"
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"info": "A live production of NPR and WBUR Boston, in collaboration with stations across the country, Here & Now reflects the fluid world of news as it's happening in the middle of the day, with timely, in-depth news, interviews and conversation. Hosted by Robin Young, Jeremy Hobson and Tonya Mosley.",
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"rss": "https://feeds.npr.org/510051/podcast.xml"
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},
"hidden-brain": {
"id": "hidden-brain",
"title": "Hidden Brain",
"info": "Shankar Vedantam uses science and storytelling to reveal the unconscious patterns that drive human behavior, shape our choices and direct our relationships.",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.npr.org/series/423302056/hidden-brain",
"airtime": "SUN 7pm-8pm",
"meta": {
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"source": "NPR"
},
"link": "/radio/program/hidden-brain",
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},
"how-i-built-this": {
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"title": "How I Built This with Guy Raz",
"info": "Guy Raz dives into the stories behind some of the world's best known companies. How I Built This weaves a narrative journey about innovators, entrepreneurs and idealists—and the movements they built.",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/howIBuiltThis.png",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.npr.org/podcasts/510313/how-i-built-this",
"airtime": "SUN 7:30pm-8pm",
"meta": {
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"source": "npr"
},
"link": "/radio/program/how-i-built-this",
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"npr": "https://rpb3r.app.goo.gl/3zxy",
"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/how-i-built-this-with-guy-raz/id1150510297?mt=2",
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"hyphenacion": {
"id": "hyphenacion",
"title": "Hyphenación",
"tagline": "Where conversation and cultura meet",
"info": "What kind of no sabo word is Hyphenación? For us, it’s about living within a hyphenation. Like being a third-gen Mexican-American from the Texas border now living that Bay Area Chicano life. Like Xorje! Each week we bring together a couple of hyphenated Latinos to talk all about personal life choices: family, careers, relationships, belonging … everything is on the table. ",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/03/Hyphenacion_FinalAssets_PodcastTile.png",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/hyphenacion",
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"order": 15
},
"link": "/podcasts/hyphenacion",
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"spotify": "https://open.spotify.com/show/2p3Fifq96nw9BPcmFdIq0o?si=39209f7b25774f38",
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},
"jerrybrown": {
"id": "jerrybrown",
"title": "The Political Mind of Jerry Brown",
"tagline": "Lessons from a lifetime in politics",
"info": "The Political Mind of Jerry Brown brings listeners the wisdom of the former Governor, Mayor, and presidential candidate. Scott Shafer interviewed Brown for more than 40 hours, covering the former governor's life and half-century in the political game – and Brown has some lessons he'd like to share. ",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/The-Political-Mind-of-Jerry-Brown-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/jerrybrown",
"meta": {
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 18
},
"link": "/podcasts/jerrybrown",
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}
},
"latino-usa": {
"id": "latino-usa",
"title": "Latino USA",
"airtime": "MON 1am-2am, SUN 6pm-7pm",
"info": "Latino USA, the radio journal of news and culture, is the only national, English-language radio program produced from a Latino perspective.",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/04/latinoUsa.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "http://latinousa.org/",
"meta": {
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},
"link": "/radio/program/latino-usa",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?s=143441&mt=2&id=79681317&at=11l79Y&ct=nprdirectory",
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"rss": "https://feeds.npr.org/510016/podcast.xml"
}
},
"marketplace": {
"id": "marketplace",
"title": "Marketplace",
"info": "Our flagship program, helmed by Kai Ryssdal, examines what the day in money delivered, through stories, conversations, newsworthy numbers and more. Updated Monday through Friday at about 3:30 p.m. PT.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 4pm-4:30pm, MON-WED 6:30pm-7pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Marketplace-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.marketplace.org/",
"meta": {
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"source": "American Public Media"
},
"link": "/radio/program/marketplace",
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"rss": "https://feeds.publicradio.org/public_feeds/marketplace-pm/rss/rss"
}
},
"masters-of-scale": {
"id": "masters-of-scale",
"title": "Masters of Scale",
"info": "Masters of Scale is an original podcast in which LinkedIn co-founder and Greylock Partner Reid Hoffman sets out to describe and prove theories that explain how great entrepreneurs take their companies from zero to a gazillion in ingenious fashion.",
"airtime": "Every other Wednesday June 12 through October 16 at 8pm (repeats Thursdays at 2am)",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "https://mastersofscale.com/",
"meta": {
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"source": "WaitWhat"
},
"link": "/radio/program/masters-of-scale",
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"apple": "http://mastersofscale.app.link/",
"rss": "https://rss.art19.com/masters-of-scale"
}
},
"mindshift": {
"id": "mindshift",
"title": "MindShift",
"tagline": "A podcast about the future of learning and how we raise our kids",
"info": "The MindShift podcast explores the innovations in education that are shaping how kids learn. Hosts Ki Sung and Katrina Schwartz introduce listeners to educators, researchers, parents and students who are developing effective ways to improve how kids learn. We cover topics like how fed-up administrators are developing surprising tactics to deal with classroom disruptions; how listening to podcasts are helping kids develop reading skills; the consequences of overparenting; and why interdisciplinary learning can engage students on all ends of the traditional achievement spectrum. This podcast is part of the MindShift education site, a division of KQED News. KQED is an NPR/PBS member station based in San Francisco. You can also visit the MindShift website for episodes and supplemental blog posts or tweet us \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/MindShiftKQED\">@MindShiftKQED\u003c/a> or visit us at \u003ca href=\"/mindshift\">MindShift.KQED.org\u003c/a>",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Mindshift-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
"imageAlt": "KQED MindShift: How We Will Learn",
"officialWebsiteLink": "/mindshift/",
"meta": {
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 12
},
"link": "/podcasts/mindshift",
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5tZWdhcGhvbmUuZm0vS1FJTkM1NzY0NjAwNDI5",
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}
},
"morning-edition": {
"id": "morning-edition",
"title": "Morning Edition",
"info": "\u003cem>Morning Edition\u003c/em> takes listeners around the country and the world with multi-faceted stories and commentaries every weekday. Hosts Steve Inskeep, David Greene and Rachel Martin bring you the latest breaking news and features to prepare you for the day.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 3am-9am",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Morning-Edition-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.npr.org/programs/morning-edition/",
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"link": "/radio/program/morning-edition"
},
"onourwatch": {
"id": "onourwatch",
"title": "On Our Watch",
"tagline": "Deeply-reported investigative journalism",
"info": "For decades, the process for how police police themselves has been inconsistent – if not opaque. In some states, like California, these proceedings were completely hidden. After a new police transparency law unsealed scores of internal affairs files, our reporters set out to examine these cases and the shadow world of police discipline. On Our Watch brings listeners into the rooms where officers are questioned and witnesses are interrogated to find out who this system is really protecting. Is it the officers, or the public they've sworn to serve?",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/On-Our-Watch-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
"imageAlt": "On Our Watch from NPR and KQED",
"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/onourwatch",
"meta": {
"site": "news",
"source": "kqed",
"order": 11
},
"link": "/podcasts/onourwatch",
"subscribe": {
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5ucHIub3JnLzUxMDM2MC9wb2RjYXN0LnhtbD9zYz1nb29nbGVwb2RjYXN0cw",
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}
},
"on-the-media": {
"id": "on-the-media",
"title": "On The Media",
"info": "Our weekly podcast explores how the media 'sausage' is made, casts an incisive eye on fluctuations in the marketplace of ideas, and examines threats to the freedom of information and expression in America and abroad. For one hour a week, the show tries to lift the veil from the process of \"making media,\" especially news media, because it's through that lens that we see the world and the world sees us",
"airtime": "SUN 2pm-3pm, MON 12am-1am",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/04/onTheMedia.png",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.wnycstudios.org/shows/otm",
"meta": {
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"source": "wnyc"
},
"link": "/radio/program/on-the-media",
"subscribe": {
"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/on-the-media/id73330715?mt=2",
"tuneIn": "https://tunein.com/radio/On-the-Media-p69/",
"rss": "http://feeds.wnyc.org/onthemedia"
}
},
"pbs-newshour": {
"id": "pbs-newshour",
"title": "PBS NewsHour",
"info": "Analysis, background reports and updates from the PBS NewsHour putting today's news in context.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 3pm-4pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/PBS-News-Hour-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.pbs.org/newshour/",
"meta": {
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"source": "pbs"
},
"link": "/radio/program/pbs-newshour",
"subscribe": {
"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/pbs-newshour-full-show/id394432287?mt=2",
"tuneIn": "https://tunein.com/radio/PBS-NewsHour---Full-Show-p425698/",
"rss": "https://www.pbs.org/newshour/feeds/rss/podcasts/show"
}
},
"perspectives": {
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