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"content": "\u003cp>When publicist and writer Amelia Possanza moved to Brooklyn, N.Y., she found herself, for the first time, surrounded by queer stories — on historical placards, on her LGBTQ swim team and on her television screen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But these stories were rarely about lesbians — and even more rarely — lesbians \u003cem>in love\u003c/em>. So began Possanza’s journey into the archives to uncover the romances and role models written out of history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13930047']“I like to think of this project as me taking on being the publicist for lesbians,” Possanza tells me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Possanza’s book\u003cem> Lesbian Love Story: A Memoir in Archives\u003c/em> focuses on seven couples, each representing a different era in the 20th century. And, for the most part, they are not well-known figures.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s not, ‘Oh, here’s the story of how Eleanor Roosevelt was secretly a lesbian,’ or ‘Here is the story of Emily Dickinson, who was maybe in love with her brother’s wife,'” Possanza says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For her research, Possanza dove into the archives, searching for people who, she says, “lived daringly and left some record of living a queer life.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930108\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930108\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/amelia-possanza-author-photo-c-becca-farsace-for-arcs-and-final-copies-1-ce5cbd23237f9f48a668ae7f329cf30f189455f0-800x600.jpg\" alt=\"A young woman with messy brown shoulder-length hair faces the camera. She is wearing round spectacles.\" width=\"800\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/amelia-possanza-author-photo-c-becca-farsace-for-arcs-and-final-copies-1-ce5cbd23237f9f48a668ae7f329cf30f189455f0-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/amelia-possanza-author-photo-c-becca-farsace-for-arcs-and-final-copies-1-ce5cbd23237f9f48a668ae7f329cf30f189455f0-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/amelia-possanza-author-photo-c-becca-farsace-for-arcs-and-final-copies-1-ce5cbd23237f9f48a668ae7f329cf30f189455f0-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/amelia-possanza-author-photo-c-becca-farsace-for-arcs-and-final-copies-1-ce5cbd23237f9f48a668ae7f329cf30f189455f0-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/amelia-possanza-author-photo-c-becca-farsace-for-arcs-and-final-copies-1-ce5cbd23237f9f48a668ae7f329cf30f189455f0-1536x1151.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/amelia-possanza-author-photo-c-becca-farsace-for-arcs-and-final-copies-1-ce5cbd23237f9f48a668ae7f329cf30f189455f0.jpg 1645w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Author Amelia Possanza. \u003ccite>(Catapult)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>There’s also a surprising amount about swimming in the book. Part of that, Possanza says, could be her own bias. She swims for a gay and lesbian aquatic team in New York \u003ca href=\"https://www.tnya.org/\">(it’s actually the largest LGBTQ swim team in the world)\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another part is just feeling free in your own body.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13930013']“One sort of unexpected thing that came up for me in writing is there’s so much policing of what women, lesbians, queer people wore — and that policing actually became a way of just policing queerness in general,” Possanza says. “Today we have \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/2023/05/25/1177727539/hamburger-marys-orlando-lawsuit-florida-desantis-drag-show\">drag bans in certain states\u003c/a>. And before those existed — before explicit terminology to ban these things — a lot of it was based on what you wore. And I think the beach was somewhere to be free of that, especially if you found a nude beach, if you could be in the water.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Possanza did not grow up with many stories about lesbians. But, she says they’re right there, even when the word is not used, even when that part of their story is erased.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I come from a really nerdy family of readers. My father is a classicist and my mother is a librarian. And I think they very much raised me to believe that if you’re going to have an experience and you’re nervous about it or you don’t know about it, you can go read a book about it,” she says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s easy to find books about transitions that everyone goes through — getting ready for school or moving away from home. Now Possanza’s memoir fills a space long absent from bookshelves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I realized that there actually weren’t a lot of stories that I had about lesbians to guide me. And so I think doing this project made me start thinking about what gets you remembered, what generates records,” Possanza says. “You know, prisons generate records, governments generate records. Sometimes being in love doesn’t generate records.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13929396']But \u003ca href=\"https://outhistory.org/exhibits/show/casal\">Mary Casal\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.nyclgbtsites.org/site/mabel-hampton-residence/\">Mabel Hampton\u003c/a> did leave records. Casal met the love of her life in a hotel lobby in 1892 — and then wrote her own memoir. Hampton stayed with her partner for 40 years — and lent her voice to the \u003ca href=\"https://lesbianherstoryarchives.org/\">Lesbian Herstory Archives\u003c/a>, a New York City-based museum dedicated to preserving lesbian history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Too often, queer stories end in tragedy. What binds these stories together is how these lesbians create pockets of safety, security and community, even in the most hostile circumstances.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>The audio and web versions of this story were edited by Reena Advani.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cdiv class=\"fullattribution\">\u003cem>Copyright 2023 NPR. To see more, \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org\">visit NPR\u003c/a>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://www.google-analytics.com/__utm.gif?utmac=UA-5828686-4&utmdt=%27Lesbian+Love+Story%27+unearths+a+century+of+queer+romance&utme=8(APIKey)9(MDAxOTAwOTE4MDEyMTkxMDAzNjczZDljZA004)\">.\u003c/em>\u003c/div>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>But \u003ca href=\"https://outhistory.org/exhibits/show/casal\">Mary Casal\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.nyclgbtsites.org/site/mabel-hampton-residence/\">Mabel Hampton\u003c/a> did leave records. Casal met the love of her life in a hotel lobby in 1892 — and then wrote her own memoir. Hampton stayed with her partner for 40 years — and lent her voice to the \u003ca href=\"https://lesbianherstoryarchives.org/\">Lesbian Herstory Archives\u003c/a>, a New York City-based museum dedicated to preserving lesbian history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Too often, queer stories end in tragedy. What binds these stories together is how these lesbians create pockets of safety, security and community, even in the most hostile circumstances.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>The audio and web versions of this story were edited by Reena Advani.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cdiv class=\"fullattribution\">\u003cem>Copyright 2023 NPR. To see more, \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org\">visit NPR\u003c/a>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://www.google-analytics.com/__utm.gif?utmac=UA-5828686-4&utmdt=%27Lesbian+Love+Story%27+unearths+a+century+of+queer+romance&utme=8(APIKey)9(MDAxOTAwOTE4MDEyMTkxMDAzNjczZDljZA004)\">.\u003c/em>\u003c/div>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>On April 28, 1945, footage was taken of 2,000 female concentration camp survivors gathered at the harbor in Malmö, Sweden. Many appear remarkably relaxed, smiling and waving for the camera as it pans past them on the crowded dock. Outside of the excited mass, the camera captures more pensive faces — women whose trauma is etched on their brows, their faces worn from the horrors they’ve experienced. Among them stands a stoic Asian woman, still dressed in her striped concentration camp coat, her face an enigmatic blank.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When documentary filmmaker Magnus Gertten saw the footage of that day, he knew he wanted to find out more about as many of the women as he could. Particularly, he was desperate to find out about the mysterious woman in the striped coat. What or who was she thinking about when the camera caught her immovable gaze? Where did she end up? And did she ever find a happy ending?\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929953\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13929953\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Nadine-800x524.png\" alt=\"An Asian woman wearing a thick striped coat and whit neck scarf knotted at her neck, stares blankly forward, her hair disheveled. \" width=\"800\" height=\"524\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Nadine-800x524.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Nadine-1020x668.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Nadine-160x105.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Nadine-768x503.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Nadine-1536x1006.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Nadine-1920x1257.png 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Nadine.png 1964w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Nadine Hwang, shortly after she was liberated from Ravensbrück, the largest concentration camp for women in Germany. \u003ccite>(‘Nelly & Nadine’)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>New documentary \u003cem>Nelly & Nadine\u003c/em> answers all of those questions over the course of its engrossing 90 minutes. The woman in the archival footage was named Nadine Hwang. The daughter of the Chinese ambassador to Spain, Hwang had lived proudly as a lesbian long before the war, moving in prestigious bohemian and literary circles. While incarcerated at the Ravensbrück concentration camp, she met and fell in love with a singer named Claire “Nelly” Mousset-Vos. Their relationship ultimately helped them both endure the atrocities of World War II; their deep love a powerful catalyst for survival. But standing on the dock that day, Hwang had no idea if the love of her life was even still alive, or if she would ever see her again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The couple’s story, both during and after the war, is told in \u003cem>Nelly & Nadine\u003c/em> via what they so painstakingly left behind: Super 8 home movies, personal correspondence, Hwang’s extensive photo and letter collection and, most importantly, Mousset-Vos’ vivid and heart-wrenching diaries. For decades, Hwang and Mousset-Vos’ personal effects sat in a steel box in the home of the latter’s granddaughter, Sylvie Bianchi — a woman who found herself so heartbroken by its contents, she long refused to read them in any depth. Bianchi’s decision to finally do so is at the center of \u003cem>Nelly & Nadine\u003c/em>. It is her grandmother’s relationship, however, that becomes the film’s heart.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6cVi0gwobeg\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The most impactful parts of \u003cem>Nelly & Nadine\u003c/em> can be attributed to excerpts from Mousset-Vos’ extraordinary wartime diaries. Alive with vivid detail, her writings transport the viewer to every sight, smell and anxiety of living in hell on Earth. She is blunt and unflinching when it comes to conveying the true torments of concentration camp incarceration. The directness of her writing is often devastating in its simplicity. “17 women are dead,” she writes at the end of a hellish five-day train journey. “And a baby was born.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At one point, after being transferred from Ravensbrück, Mousset-Vos describes her new location thusly:\u003c/p>\n\u003cblockquote>\u003cp>At the top, crowning the mountain, lies the camp. Mauthausen, the antechamber of hell. We climb down a giant 186-step staircase carved into the rock. It’s the quarry. Our tomb. The air smells of typhus and corpses. You have to fight for a morsel of moldy bread, a sip of water, a place to sleep. A woman lets out a long cry of agony that sounds like a cry of pleasure. How to find the courage to survive?\u003c/p>\u003c/blockquote>\n\u003cp>Mousset-Vos’ writings make plain how the love of Hwang helped her to endure the unimaginable. She wrote of briefly snatched moments of joy when the pair could share measly bread rations and deep conversations. “I find myself looking out for her black hair beneath white scarf,” Mousset-Vos wrote shortly after meeting Hwang, “and her eyes that light up when they see me.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the end of the war, having both somehow made it out alive, the two corresponded by postcard and letter for a few years before they could be reunited. Once they were, they built a life together in Venezuela — a location chosen to help them erase their memories of the war. Old friends are interviewed in \u003cem>Nelly & Nadine\u003c/em> about the life Hwang and Mousset-Vos shared there, a life well lived and thoroughly enjoyed. It is clear that the couple gave each other — and their friends — permission to live any way they pleased. After what they endured in the war, there was simply no other way to move forward.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Nelly & Nadine\u003c/em> is a layered story, richly told. Yes, it offers a new telling of the war from the perspective of a supremely talented writer. And, yes, it speaks to family lineage and the legacies we leave behind. It is about the importance of finding cracks of light in relentless darkness. But above all else, it is a story of magnificent, beautiful LGBTQ love; love that was life-saving first and life-affirming later; love that was embraced and nurtured and valued above all else. And while some of the details in it have the power to devastate, the hope in \u003cem>Nelly & Nadine\u003c/em> shines brighter than everything else. Something that very much reflects the relationship it’s about.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/arts/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-800x78.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>‘Nellie & Nadine’ begins streaming on June 6, 2023, and is available via Apple TV, Amazon Prime Video, Vudu and Wolfe On Demand.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>On April 28, 1945, footage was taken of 2,000 female concentration camp survivors gathered at the harbor in Malmö, Sweden. Many appear remarkably relaxed, smiling and waving for the camera as it pans past them on the crowded dock. Outside of the excited mass, the camera captures more pensive faces — women whose trauma is etched on their brows, their faces worn from the horrors they’ve experienced. Among them stands a stoic Asian woman, still dressed in her striped concentration camp coat, her face an enigmatic blank.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When documentary filmmaker Magnus Gertten saw the footage of that day, he knew he wanted to find out more about as many of the women as he could. Particularly, he was desperate to find out about the mysterious woman in the striped coat. What or who was she thinking about when the camera caught her immovable gaze? Where did she end up? And did she ever find a happy ending?\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929953\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13929953\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Nadine-800x524.png\" alt=\"An Asian woman wearing a thick striped coat and whit neck scarf knotted at her neck, stares blankly forward, her hair disheveled. \" width=\"800\" height=\"524\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Nadine-800x524.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Nadine-1020x668.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Nadine-160x105.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Nadine-768x503.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Nadine-1536x1006.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Nadine-1920x1257.png 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Nadine.png 1964w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Nadine Hwang, shortly after she was liberated from Ravensbrück, the largest concentration camp for women in Germany. \u003ccite>(‘Nelly & Nadine’)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>New documentary \u003cem>Nelly & Nadine\u003c/em> answers all of those questions over the course of its engrossing 90 minutes. The woman in the archival footage was named Nadine Hwang. The daughter of the Chinese ambassador to Spain, Hwang had lived proudly as a lesbian long before the war, moving in prestigious bohemian and literary circles. While incarcerated at the Ravensbrück concentration camp, she met and fell in love with a singer named Claire “Nelly” Mousset-Vos. Their relationship ultimately helped them both endure the atrocities of World War II; their deep love a powerful catalyst for survival. But standing on the dock that day, Hwang had no idea if the love of her life was even still alive, or if she would ever see her again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The couple’s story, both during and after the war, is told in \u003cem>Nelly & Nadine\u003c/em> via what they so painstakingly left behind: Super 8 home movies, personal correspondence, Hwang’s extensive photo and letter collection and, most importantly, Mousset-Vos’ vivid and heart-wrenching diaries. For decades, Hwang and Mousset-Vos’ personal effects sat in a steel box in the home of the latter’s granddaughter, Sylvie Bianchi — a woman who found herself so heartbroken by its contents, she long refused to read them in any depth. Bianchi’s decision to finally do so is at the center of \u003cem>Nelly & Nadine\u003c/em>. It is her grandmother’s relationship, however, that becomes the film’s heart.\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/6cVi0gwobeg'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/6cVi0gwobeg'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The most impactful parts of \u003cem>Nelly & Nadine\u003c/em> can be attributed to excerpts from Mousset-Vos’ extraordinary wartime diaries. Alive with vivid detail, her writings transport the viewer to every sight, smell and anxiety of living in hell on Earth. She is blunt and unflinching when it comes to conveying the true torments of concentration camp incarceration. The directness of her writing is often devastating in its simplicity. “17 women are dead,” she writes at the end of a hellish five-day train journey. “And a baby was born.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At one point, after being transferred from Ravensbrück, Mousset-Vos describes her new location thusly:\u003c/p>\n\u003cblockquote>\u003cp>At the top, crowning the mountain, lies the camp. Mauthausen, the antechamber of hell. We climb down a giant 186-step staircase carved into the rock. It’s the quarry. Our tomb. The air smells of typhus and corpses. You have to fight for a morsel of moldy bread, a sip of water, a place to sleep. A woman lets out a long cry of agony that sounds like a cry of pleasure. How to find the courage to survive?\u003c/p>\u003c/blockquote>\n\u003cp>Mousset-Vos’ writings make plain how the love of Hwang helped her to endure the unimaginable. She wrote of briefly snatched moments of joy when the pair could share measly bread rations and deep conversations. “I find myself looking out for her black hair beneath white scarf,” Mousset-Vos wrote shortly after meeting Hwang, “and her eyes that light up when they see me.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the end of the war, having both somehow made it out alive, the two corresponded by postcard and letter for a few years before they could be reunited. Once they were, they built a life together in Venezuela — a location chosen to help them erase their memories of the war. Old friends are interviewed in \u003cem>Nelly & Nadine\u003c/em> about the life Hwang and Mousset-Vos shared there, a life well lived and thoroughly enjoyed. It is clear that the couple gave each other — and their friends — permission to live any way they pleased. After what they endured in the war, there was simply no other way to move forward.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Nelly & Nadine\u003c/em> is a layered story, richly told. Yes, it offers a new telling of the war from the perspective of a supremely talented writer. And, yes, it speaks to family lineage and the legacies we leave behind. It is about the importance of finding cracks of light in relentless darkness. But above all else, it is a story of magnificent, beautiful LGBTQ love; love that was life-saving first and life-affirming later; love that was embraced and nurtured and valued above all else. And while some of the details in it have the power to devastate, the hope in \u003cem>Nelly & Nadine\u003c/em> shines brighter than everything else. Something that very much reflects the relationship it’s about.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/arts/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-800x78.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>‘Nellie & Nadine’ begins streaming on June 6, 2023, and is available via Apple TV, Amazon Prime Video, Vudu and Wolfe On Demand.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "John Coltrane and Eric Dolphy’s Fearless Experiment Sets a New Album Ablaze",
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"content": "\u003cp>A little over 60 years ago, the editor-in-chief of \u003cem>DownBeat\u003c/em> magazine asked John Coltrane and Eric Dolphy a deceptively simple question: \u003cem>What are you trying to do? \u003c/em>He rephrased slightly: \u003cem>What are you doing? \u003c/em>The two saxophonists sat for a long 30 seconds before Dolphy broke the silence. “That’s a good question,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The \u003cem>DownBeat \u003c/em>editor, Don DeMicheal, printed this exchange in the April 1962 issue, as part of \u003ca href=\"https://downbeat.com/microsites/prestige/dolphy-interview.html\">a fascinating article\u003c/a> headlined “John Coltrane and Eric Dolphy Answer the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/jazz\">Jazz\u003c/a> Critics.” Regular readers of the magazine would have known precisely what provoked this gesture: a scathing review of Coltrane’s quintet with Dolphy, decrying “an anarchistic course in their music that can but be termed anti-jazz.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13929691']1961 had been a prolific and pivotal year for Coltrane. That spring, his sleek, intriguing quartet version of “My Favorite Things,” from \u003cem>The Sound of Music, \u003c/em>became a breakout hit. But later that year, as he signed to a new label, Impulse! Records, he wasn’t putting a premium on commercial success. Instead, he was exploring new sounds and configurations, often testing ideas on the bandstand. One such idea was the addition of Dolphy, a wildly original voice on both reeds and flute, and a close personal friend.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The intrepid depth of their musical rapport takes center stage on a stunning new archival release, \u003cem>Evenings at the Village Gate: John Coltrane with Eric Dolphy\u003c/em>, which \u003ca href=\"https://JohnColtrane.lnk.to/Shop\">Impulse! will release on July 14\u003c/a>. Tomorrow the label will share a preview track, “Impressions,” featuring Coltrane on soprano saxophone and Dolphy on alto saxophone and bass clarinet — along with drummer Elvin Jones, pianist McCoy Tyner and bassist Reggie Workman, who together make the song feel something like a runaway train. (Until then, you can hear it — exclusively — here.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DYja5pH7ciM\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Any time that we worked with John,” Workman, who is a few weeks shy of 86, tells NPR, “you could always hear transition in his music.” This was maybe never truer than it is here, in a recording made during a month-long residency in late-summer of 1961. \u003cem>Evenings at the Village Gate \u003c/em>actually opens with a version of “My Favorite Things,” and closes with the droning, polyrhythmic churn of “Africa.” Coltrane was in the process of reinventing his language, and by extension the language of jazz.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He was growing into a place where he did not want to be inhibited by the steps and the changes that were prescribed by certain structures,” Workman says, adding: “He wanted us to be about a chant.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929976\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13929976\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Screen-Shot-2023-06-01-at-10.33.31-AM-800x625.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"625\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Screen-Shot-2023-06-01-at-10.33.31-AM-800x625.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Screen-Shot-2023-06-01-at-10.33.31-AM-1020x796.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Screen-Shot-2023-06-01-at-10.33.31-AM-160x125.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Screen-Shot-2023-06-01-at-10.33.31-AM-768x600.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Screen-Shot-2023-06-01-at-10.33.31-AM.png 1158w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A photo of the marquee at the Village Gate in New York, advertising John Coltrane’s performances in the summer of 1961. \u003ccite>(Herb Snitzer/Courtesy of Impulse! Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The Village Gate was a large basement room with a growing reputation in 1961, home to folksingers and comedy acts as well as artists like Nina Simone. Coltrane worked there in August as part of a triple bill, alongside groups led by drummer Art Blakey and pianist Horace Silver. (A photograph of the club marquee by Herb Snitzer shows Coltrane billed with a quartet, underscoring how recently Dolphy had joined the fray.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13927947']The Gate had a state-of-the-art sound system, installed by an ambitious young engineer named Richard Alderson. One night during Coltrane’s run, Alderson decided to test the system by capturing the band, using a single RCA ribbon microphone suspended above the stage, with a line running to a reel-to-reel tape recorder. The tapes were never intended for public consumption, and unauthorized in any case, so Alderson set them aside. They found their way to a collection at the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts, where they were recently rediscovered by a Bob Dylan archivist.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929973\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 200px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13929973\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/jc-ed_3000x3000_packshot_revised_custom-330d48681258a72348dda94428b70420669ce944.jpg\" alt=\"An album cover depicts two men performing on stage, in shadow.\" width=\"200\" height=\"200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/jc-ed_3000x3000_packshot_revised_custom-330d48681258a72348dda94428b70420669ce944.jpg 200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/jc-ed_3000x3000_packshot_revised_custom-330d48681258a72348dda94428b70420669ce944-160x160.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 200px) 100vw, 200px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">‘Evenings at the Village Gate’ by John Coltrane with Eric Dolphy. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Impulse! Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>For Coltrane admirers, jazz historians and anyone intrigued by the experimental end of improvisational music, \u003cem>Evenings at the Village Gate \u003c/em>will represent not only a welcome new find but also a link in a chain. The Coltrane-and-Dolphy frontline was short-lived, in part because it faced such strong headwinds from the jazz establishment, but it did leave behind a major testament: \u003cem>Coltrane “Live” at the Village Vanguard, \u003c/em>recorded at a different Greenwich Village club in November 1961, the same month that their unruly output jarred loose the indelible phrase “anti-jazz.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Those Village Vanguard tapes, which later yielded a monumental four-disc set, amount to one of the most mysterious and thrilling documents in jazz history. A couple of years ago, Ben Ratliff, author of \u003cem>Coltrane: The Story of a Sound\u003c/em>, placed this music within a cultural context of “ambivalent possibility,” in a vivid essay for the \u003cem>Washington Post \u003c/em>titled “\u003ca href=\"https://www.washingtonpost.com/arts-entertainment/2021/11/03/john-coltrane-village-vanguard-1961/\">John Coltrane and the Essence of 1961\u003c/a>.” He observes: “The music sounds post-heroic and pre-cynical; interestingly free from grandiosity; full of room for the listener to find a place within it and make up their own mind.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Last week, after hearing the version of “Impressions” from \u003cem>Evenings at the Gate, \u003c/em>Ratliff elaborated on this idea. “It’s very hard to label or encapsulate, but it’s just so ferociously full of life force,” he said of the performance. “The musicians know how good this is, and they know how exciting it is — but beyond that, they don’t really know much, and it hasn’t been called anything yet. There’s a lot of the unknown here.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929974\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 200px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13929974\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/1961_johncoltrane_herbsnitzer_photographicprint_2-copy_custom-f56222536ca8d06c927a5cde2b64884d8f143a42.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"200\" height=\"247\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/1961_johncoltrane_herbsnitzer_photographicprint_2-copy_custom-f56222536ca8d06c927a5cde2b64884d8f143a42.jpg 200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/1961_johncoltrane_herbsnitzer_photographicprint_2-copy_custom-f56222536ca8d06c927a5cde2b64884d8f143a42-160x198.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 200px) 100vw, 200px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A photograph of Eric Dolphy (left) and John Coltrane taken by Herb Snitzer during a performance at the Village Gate in New York in 1961. \u003ccite>(Herb Snitzer/Courtesy of Impulse! Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>What came next for Coltrane was the most stable period of his career, as he solidified the personnel of his quartet — Tyner, Jones and bassist Jimmy Garrison, who can be heard on parts of the Village Vanguard corpus — and made venerated albums like \u003cem>Crescent, Ballads \u003c/em>and \u003cem>A Love Supreme.\u003c/em> Parting ways, Dolphy refocused on his own visionary music, making strong statements until his tragically untimely death, of a diabetic coma, in 1964. (Coltrane died only three years later, of liver cancer.) The last several years have brought revelatory archival releases from both saxophonists, but \u003cem>Evenings at the Gate\u003c/em> is a window onto the early bloom of their collaboration, when it must have felt like pure possibility to all involved.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The 80-minute album — which will be released in physical formats with illuminating liner essays by Workman, Alderson, Grammy-winning jazz writer Ashley Kahn, and saxophonists Branford Marsalis and Lakecia Benjamin — seems guaranteed to reignite conversation about an incipient phase in Coltrane’s restless evolution. And it’s worth recalling part of the answer he finally gave DeMicheal, for the piece in \u003cem>DownBeat.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13921584']“I think the main thing a musician would like to do is to give a picture to the listener of the many wonderful things he knows of and senses in the universe,” Coltrane said, sounding not the least bit defensive. “That’s what music is to me — it’s just another way of saying this is a big, beautiful universe we live in, that’s been given to us, and here’s an example of just how magnificent and encompassing it is. That’s what I would like to do. I think that’s one of the greatest things you can do in life, and we all try to do it in some way. The musician’s is through his music.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cdiv class=\"fullattribution\">\u003cem>Copyright 2023 NPR. To see more, \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org\">visit NPR\u003c/a>.\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://www.google-analytics.com/__utm.gif?utmac=UA-5828686-4&utmdt=John+Coltrane+and+Eric+Dolphy%27s+fearless+experiment+sets+a+new+album+ablaze+&utme=8(APIKey)9(MDAxOTAwOTE4MDEyMTkxMDAzNjczZDljZA004)\">\u003c/em>\u003c/div>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>A little over 60 years ago, the editor-in-chief of \u003cem>DownBeat\u003c/em> magazine asked John Coltrane and Eric Dolphy a deceptively simple question: \u003cem>What are you trying to do? \u003c/em>He rephrased slightly: \u003cem>What are you doing? \u003c/em>The two saxophonists sat for a long 30 seconds before Dolphy broke the silence. “That’s a good question,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The \u003cem>DownBeat \u003c/em>editor, Don DeMicheal, printed this exchange in the April 1962 issue, as part of \u003ca href=\"https://downbeat.com/microsites/prestige/dolphy-interview.html\">a fascinating article\u003c/a> headlined “John Coltrane and Eric Dolphy Answer the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/jazz\">Jazz\u003c/a> Critics.” Regular readers of the magazine would have known precisely what provoked this gesture: a scathing review of Coltrane’s quintet with Dolphy, decrying “an anarchistic course in their music that can but be termed anti-jazz.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>1961 had been a prolific and pivotal year for Coltrane. That spring, his sleek, intriguing quartet version of “My Favorite Things,” from \u003cem>The Sound of Music, \u003c/em>became a breakout hit. But later that year, as he signed to a new label, Impulse! Records, he wasn’t putting a premium on commercial success. Instead, he was exploring new sounds and configurations, often testing ideas on the bandstand. One such idea was the addition of Dolphy, a wildly original voice on both reeds and flute, and a close personal friend.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The intrepid depth of their musical rapport takes center stage on a stunning new archival release, \u003cem>Evenings at the Village Gate: John Coltrane with Eric Dolphy\u003c/em>, which \u003ca href=\"https://JohnColtrane.lnk.to/Shop\">Impulse! will release on July 14\u003c/a>. Tomorrow the label will share a preview track, “Impressions,” featuring Coltrane on soprano saxophone and Dolphy on alto saxophone and bass clarinet — along with drummer Elvin Jones, pianist McCoy Tyner and bassist Reggie Workman, who together make the song feel something like a runaway train. (Until then, you can hear it — exclusively — here.)\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/DYja5pH7ciM'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/DYja5pH7ciM'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Any time that we worked with John,” Workman, who is a few weeks shy of 86, tells NPR, “you could always hear transition in his music.” This was maybe never truer than it is here, in a recording made during a month-long residency in late-summer of 1961. \u003cem>Evenings at the Village Gate \u003c/em>actually opens with a version of “My Favorite Things,” and closes with the droning, polyrhythmic churn of “Africa.” Coltrane was in the process of reinventing his language, and by extension the language of jazz.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He was growing into a place where he did not want to be inhibited by the steps and the changes that were prescribed by certain structures,” Workman says, adding: “He wanted us to be about a chant.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929976\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13929976\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Screen-Shot-2023-06-01-at-10.33.31-AM-800x625.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"625\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Screen-Shot-2023-06-01-at-10.33.31-AM-800x625.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Screen-Shot-2023-06-01-at-10.33.31-AM-1020x796.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Screen-Shot-2023-06-01-at-10.33.31-AM-160x125.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Screen-Shot-2023-06-01-at-10.33.31-AM-768x600.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Screen-Shot-2023-06-01-at-10.33.31-AM.png 1158w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A photo of the marquee at the Village Gate in New York, advertising John Coltrane’s performances in the summer of 1961. \u003ccite>(Herb Snitzer/Courtesy of Impulse! Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The Village Gate was a large basement room with a growing reputation in 1961, home to folksingers and comedy acts as well as artists like Nina Simone. Coltrane worked there in August as part of a triple bill, alongside groups led by drummer Art Blakey and pianist Horace Silver. (A photograph of the club marquee by Herb Snitzer shows Coltrane billed with a quartet, underscoring how recently Dolphy had joined the fray.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>The Gate had a state-of-the-art sound system, installed by an ambitious young engineer named Richard Alderson. One night during Coltrane’s run, Alderson decided to test the system by capturing the band, using a single RCA ribbon microphone suspended above the stage, with a line running to a reel-to-reel tape recorder. The tapes were never intended for public consumption, and unauthorized in any case, so Alderson set them aside. They found their way to a collection at the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts, where they were recently rediscovered by a Bob Dylan archivist.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929973\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 200px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13929973\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/jc-ed_3000x3000_packshot_revised_custom-330d48681258a72348dda94428b70420669ce944.jpg\" alt=\"An album cover depicts two men performing on stage, in shadow.\" width=\"200\" height=\"200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/jc-ed_3000x3000_packshot_revised_custom-330d48681258a72348dda94428b70420669ce944.jpg 200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/jc-ed_3000x3000_packshot_revised_custom-330d48681258a72348dda94428b70420669ce944-160x160.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 200px) 100vw, 200px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">‘Evenings at the Village Gate’ by John Coltrane with Eric Dolphy. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Impulse! Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>For Coltrane admirers, jazz historians and anyone intrigued by the experimental end of improvisational music, \u003cem>Evenings at the Village Gate \u003c/em>will represent not only a welcome new find but also a link in a chain. The Coltrane-and-Dolphy frontline was short-lived, in part because it faced such strong headwinds from the jazz establishment, but it did leave behind a major testament: \u003cem>Coltrane “Live” at the Village Vanguard, \u003c/em>recorded at a different Greenwich Village club in November 1961, the same month that their unruly output jarred loose the indelible phrase “anti-jazz.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Those Village Vanguard tapes, which later yielded a monumental four-disc set, amount to one of the most mysterious and thrilling documents in jazz history. A couple of years ago, Ben Ratliff, author of \u003cem>Coltrane: The Story of a Sound\u003c/em>, placed this music within a cultural context of “ambivalent possibility,” in a vivid essay for the \u003cem>Washington Post \u003c/em>titled “\u003ca href=\"https://www.washingtonpost.com/arts-entertainment/2021/11/03/john-coltrane-village-vanguard-1961/\">John Coltrane and the Essence of 1961\u003c/a>.” He observes: “The music sounds post-heroic and pre-cynical; interestingly free from grandiosity; full of room for the listener to find a place within it and make up their own mind.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Last week, after hearing the version of “Impressions” from \u003cem>Evenings at the Gate, \u003c/em>Ratliff elaborated on this idea. “It’s very hard to label or encapsulate, but it’s just so ferociously full of life force,” he said of the performance. “The musicians know how good this is, and they know how exciting it is — but beyond that, they don’t really know much, and it hasn’t been called anything yet. There’s a lot of the unknown here.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929974\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 200px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13929974\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/1961_johncoltrane_herbsnitzer_photographicprint_2-copy_custom-f56222536ca8d06c927a5cde2b64884d8f143a42.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"200\" height=\"247\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/1961_johncoltrane_herbsnitzer_photographicprint_2-copy_custom-f56222536ca8d06c927a5cde2b64884d8f143a42.jpg 200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/1961_johncoltrane_herbsnitzer_photographicprint_2-copy_custom-f56222536ca8d06c927a5cde2b64884d8f143a42-160x198.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 200px) 100vw, 200px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A photograph of Eric Dolphy (left) and John Coltrane taken by Herb Snitzer during a performance at the Village Gate in New York in 1961. \u003ccite>(Herb Snitzer/Courtesy of Impulse! Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>What came next for Coltrane was the most stable period of his career, as he solidified the personnel of his quartet — Tyner, Jones and bassist Jimmy Garrison, who can be heard on parts of the Village Vanguard corpus — and made venerated albums like \u003cem>Crescent, Ballads \u003c/em>and \u003cem>A Love Supreme.\u003c/em> Parting ways, Dolphy refocused on his own visionary music, making strong statements until his tragically untimely death, of a diabetic coma, in 1964. (Coltrane died only three years later, of liver cancer.) The last several years have brought revelatory archival releases from both saxophonists, but \u003cem>Evenings at the Gate\u003c/em> is a window onto the early bloom of their collaboration, when it must have felt like pure possibility to all involved.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The 80-minute album — which will be released in physical formats with illuminating liner essays by Workman, Alderson, Grammy-winning jazz writer Ashley Kahn, and saxophonists Branford Marsalis and Lakecia Benjamin — seems guaranteed to reignite conversation about an incipient phase in Coltrane’s restless evolution. And it’s worth recalling part of the answer he finally gave DeMicheal, for the piece in \u003cem>DownBeat.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“I think the main thing a musician would like to do is to give a picture to the listener of the many wonderful things he knows of and senses in the universe,” Coltrane said, sounding not the least bit defensive. “That’s what music is to me — it’s just another way of saying this is a big, beautiful universe we live in, that’s been given to us, and here’s an example of just how magnificent and encompassing it is. That’s what I would like to do. I think that’s one of the greatest things you can do in life, and we all try to do it in some way. The musician’s is through his music.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cdiv class=\"fullattribution\">\u003cem>Copyright 2023 NPR. To see more, \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org\">visit NPR\u003c/a>.\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://www.google-analytics.com/__utm.gif?utmac=UA-5828686-4&utmdt=John+Coltrane+and+Eric+Dolphy%27s+fearless+experiment+sets+a+new+album+ablaze+&utme=8(APIKey)9(MDAxOTAwOTE4MDEyMTkxMDAzNjczZDljZA004)\">\u003c/em>\u003c/div>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>[dropcap]I[/dropcap]n 1973, March Fong Eu stood before an audience at Foothill College in Los Altos and made a searing speech, titled \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11639158/march-fong-eu-the-self-sufficient-woman\">\u003cem>The Self-Sufficient Woman\u003c/em>\u003c/a>. In it, she directed her gaze squarely at the patriarchy and despaired at the state of gender equality in America.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Maybe if some men had to bear and rear unwanted babies themselves, they would understand better our resentment of laws relating to our reproductive systems,” she said. “Maybe if some men let their wives involuntarily control their income, they would understand better our resentment of present discriminatory statutes directed toward women as a class. And maybe if some men were raped, and, in pursuit of justice, they found that they had to reveal humiliating information about their past lives, maybe then they would understand the anger of women who feel they are doubly wronged by rapists and the laws concerning rape.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='news_11639158']Evidently, Fong Eu was not one to mince words. She was not one to be trifled with. The first generation daughter of Chinese immigrants spent her entire life working to smash down the barriers that women faced at every turn. And Fong Eu was successful in that pursuit at every stage of her career.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>First, she graduated from UC Berkeley. Then came a Master’s from Mills. Finally, she earned her Ph.D at Stanford. In her first profession as a dental hygienist, Fong Eu became the first woman and first Asian American to chair UCSF’s Department of Dental Hygiene. Then, starting in 1956, Fong Eu served three terms on the Alameda County Board of Education, serving as its president between 1961 and ’62. After that came the big one: In 1966, she won a place on the California State Assembly — with a margin of more than a million votes. Representing Oakland and Castro Valley, Fong Eu was one of only two women serving on the 118-person assembly at the time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There is no argument to the opinion that this nation could benefit greatly by increased participation by women in decision-making positions,” she later said. “We do bring to bear unique experiences and insights, unlike our male counterparts.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]I[/dropcap]n 1969, Fong Eu demonstrated that point when she went to war against pay toilets in public buildings. At the time, men’s urinals were free to use, but stalls cost a dime to access. It was an early example of what we now refer to as the “\u003ca href=\"https://www.investopedia.com/pink-tax-5095458\">pink tax\u003c/a>” — the extra money women are forced to pay for products and services. Fong Eu campaigned fervently for a statewide ban on the bathroom fee, using a combination of tenacity and humor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The campaign culminated in a stunt on the steps of Sacramento’s Capitol building, during which Fong Eu smashed a padlocked toilet with a sledgehammer. She flung the sledgehammer with such gusto, assembled journalists were forced to duck out of the way. The speech she made that day was unabashedly filled with toilet humor too, much to the amusement of the press. (“The movement is on!” she declared with a cheeky smile. “The pressure is mounting!”)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ek5ExFpHYMs\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Toilets weren’t the only thing that got smashed when Fong Eu was an assemblywoman. On one occasion, one of her colleagues had promised to nominate her good friend Willie Brown for speaker, then failed to do so on the day. Fong Eu was so aghast, she physically reacted.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“March Fong Eu stood up and took her handbag and started whacking the guy on his head without saying a word!” Brown relayed to KPIX in 2018. “She didn’t tell me she was going to do it! Nobody understood that she had that potential.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13911567']In the end, it took five years after Fong Eu’s toilet stunt for then-Governor Ronald Reagan to sign legislation banning pay toilets. It is unlikely to have happened at all without Fong Eu loudly bringing the issue to the state’s attention. She used that fact in her 1974 campaign to become Secretary of State. Fong Eu would go on to win, with a record 3.4 million votes. (Four years later, she was so popular, that number had swelled to 4 million.) Fong Eu was the first woman to hold the position and the first Chinese-American elected to a constitutional office in California.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fong Eu’s fortitude was tested in 1986 when an axe-wielding burglar broke into her home and brutally beat her. She survived by handing over several hundred dollars, but was left with enough cuts and bruises to warrant a hospital stay. Her deputy, Anthony L. Miller. told the press at the time, “She’s a real scrapper and survivor. She feels very lucky to be alive.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Miller, incidentally, was an openly gay man that Fong Eu hired as Chief Deputy Secretary of State in 1980, saying she didn’t want the support of anyone who might have a problem with Miller’s sexuality. “Things are much different today,” Miller said in 2018, “because of people like March Fong Eu who led the way to tolerance, and acceptance and non-discrimination.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]F[/dropcap]ong Eu held onto the position of Secretary of State for almost two decades and, in that time, transformed voting access for Californians. She introduced voter registration by mail, absentee ballots for anyone who requested them (no reason needed), candidate statements on ballot pamphlets and internet reporting of election results.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13897608']While in office, Fong Eu pushed for the various divisions of the secretary of state’s office to be consolidated under one roof. The resulting \u003ca href=\"https://www.dgs.ca.gov/RESD/Resources/List-of-DGS-Managed-Office-Buildings/Page-Content/List-of-DGS-Office-Buildings/Sacramento-Region/Secretary-of-State-Archives\">downtown Sacramento building\u003c/a> has been named after her since 2019. Fong Eu was also an ardent supporter of the California State Archives — appropriate, given that the archive currently houses \u003ca href=\"https://oac.cdlib.org/findaid/ark:/13030/c80g3sft/entire_text/\">72 boxes\u003c/a> of materials related to her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1994, President Bill Clinton named Fong Eu as U.S. Ambassador to Micronesia. She served for two years before resigning to assist in the Clinton-Gore election campaign. Though she never held a prominent office again, Fong Eu never stopped working or pushing for what she felt was right. In the ’90s, she spoke out against prejudice towards Asian-Americans. After the debacle of the 2000 Bush v. Gore election angered her, \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfgate.com/politics/article/Florida-Made-Her-Mad-At-79-March-Fong-Eu-wants-2942518.php\">Fong Eu took an axe to a punchcard voting machine\u003c/a> at a Sacramento news conference.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>March Fong Eu died in 2017 at the age of 95. Her casket was draped in an American flag and her funeral at Oakland’s Chapel of the Chimes was attended by colleagues and admirers from up and down California. The impact she made is almost impossible to measure — both on the careers of the female politicians coming up behind her and on the everyday lives of regular women statewide.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Perhaps Fong Eu said it best herself, during a 1979 interview with the \u003cem>New York Times\u003c/em>: “Not too bad for a lady born behind a Chinese laundry.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/arts/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-800x78.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>To learn about other Rebel Girls from Bay Area History, visit the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/rebelgirls\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Rebel Girls homepage\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>A book celebrating women from the Rebel Girls series, \u003ca href=\"https://citylights.com/politics-current-events-history/unsung-heroines35-women-who-changed/\">‘Unsung Heroines: 35 Women Who Changed the Bay Area,’\u003c/a> is available now from City Lights.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Evidently, Fong Eu was not one to mince words. She was not one to be trifled with. The first generation daughter of Chinese immigrants spent her entire life working to smash down the barriers that women faced at every turn. And Fong Eu was successful in that pursuit at every stage of her career.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>First, she graduated from UC Berkeley. Then came a Master’s from Mills. Finally, she earned her Ph.D at Stanford. In her first profession as a dental hygienist, Fong Eu became the first woman and first Asian American to chair UCSF’s Department of Dental Hygiene. Then, starting in 1956, Fong Eu served three terms on the Alameda County Board of Education, serving as its president between 1961 and ’62. After that came the big one: In 1966, she won a place on the California State Assembly — with a margin of more than a million votes. Representing Oakland and Castro Valley, Fong Eu was one of only two women serving on the 118-person assembly at the time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There is no argument to the opinion that this nation could benefit greatly by increased participation by women in decision-making positions,” she later said. “We do bring to bear unique experiences and insights, unlike our male counterparts.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>In the end, it took five years after Fong Eu’s toilet stunt for then-Governor Ronald Reagan to sign legislation banning pay toilets. It is unlikely to have happened at all without Fong Eu loudly bringing the issue to the state’s attention. She used that fact in her 1974 campaign to become Secretary of State. Fong Eu would go on to win, with a record 3.4 million votes. (Four years later, she was so popular, that number had swelled to 4 million.) Fong Eu was the first woman to hold the position and the first Chinese-American elected to a constitutional office in California.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fong Eu’s fortitude was tested in 1986 when an axe-wielding burglar broke into her home and brutally beat her. She survived by handing over several hundred dollars, but was left with enough cuts and bruises to warrant a hospital stay. Her deputy, Anthony L. Miller. told the press at the time, “She’s a real scrapper and survivor. She feels very lucky to be alive.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Miller, incidentally, was an openly gay man that Fong Eu hired as Chief Deputy Secretary of State in 1980, saying she didn’t want the support of anyone who might have a problem with Miller’s sexuality. “Things are much different today,” Miller said in 2018, “because of people like March Fong Eu who led the way to tolerance, and acceptance and non-discrimination.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">F\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>ong Eu held onto the position of Secretary of State for almost two decades and, in that time, transformed voting access for Californians. She introduced voter registration by mail, absentee ballots for anyone who requested them (no reason needed), candidate statements on ballot pamphlets and internet reporting of election results.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>While in office, Fong Eu pushed for the various divisions of the secretary of state’s office to be consolidated under one roof. The resulting \u003ca href=\"https://www.dgs.ca.gov/RESD/Resources/List-of-DGS-Managed-Office-Buildings/Page-Content/List-of-DGS-Office-Buildings/Sacramento-Region/Secretary-of-State-Archives\">downtown Sacramento building\u003c/a> has been named after her since 2019. Fong Eu was also an ardent supporter of the California State Archives — appropriate, given that the archive currently houses \u003ca href=\"https://oac.cdlib.org/findaid/ark:/13030/c80g3sft/entire_text/\">72 boxes\u003c/a> of materials related to her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1994, President Bill Clinton named Fong Eu as U.S. Ambassador to Micronesia. She served for two years before resigning to assist in the Clinton-Gore election campaign. Though she never held a prominent office again, Fong Eu never stopped working or pushing for what she felt was right. In the ’90s, she spoke out against prejudice towards Asian-Americans. After the debacle of the 2000 Bush v. Gore election angered her, \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfgate.com/politics/article/Florida-Made-Her-Mad-At-79-March-Fong-Eu-wants-2942518.php\">Fong Eu took an axe to a punchcard voting machine\u003c/a> at a Sacramento news conference.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>March Fong Eu died in 2017 at the age of 95. Her casket was draped in an American flag and her funeral at Oakland’s Chapel of the Chimes was attended by colleagues and admirers from up and down California. The impact she made is almost impossible to measure — both on the careers of the female politicians coming up behind her and on the everyday lives of regular women statewide.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Perhaps Fong Eu said it best herself, during a 1979 interview with the \u003cem>New York Times\u003c/em>: “Not too bad for a lady born behind a Chinese laundry.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/arts/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-800x78.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>To learn about other Rebel Girls from Bay Area History, visit the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/rebelgirls\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Rebel Girls homepage\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>A book celebrating women from the Rebel Girls series, \u003ca href=\"https://citylights.com/politics-current-events-history/unsung-heroines35-women-who-changed/\">‘Unsung Heroines: 35 Women Who Changed the Bay Area,’\u003c/a> is available now from City Lights.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "The Time a Bay Area Coffee Boycott Helped Stop a Civil War",
"headTitle": "The Time a Bay Area Coffee Boycott Helped Stop a Civil War | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>When you spot the red Folgers tin in the coffee aisle at your local supermarket, you might think of the iconic tagline that says, “The best part of wakin’ up is Folgers in your cup.” But what many coffee lovers might not remember is the time in the early ‘90s when Folgers Coffee was the target of a nation-wide boycott that started right here in San Francisco. The goal? To help stop a civil war in El Salvador.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With all of the newer, trendier coffee brands that now dominate the Bay Area, it’s easy to forget that Folgers has a long history in San Francisco. It was one of the “Big Three” coffee companies, along with Hills Brothers and MJB, that was founded in San Francisco in the late 19th century. These days, the company is probably best known for the convenience of its instant coffee and ground coffee blends. But in the beginning, Folgers built up its reputation as one of America’s leading coffee brands on the basis of quality.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Good quality beans, roasted properly, produce good quality coffee — and that was the name of the game,” says Monika Trobits, a coffee historian and the author of \u003ca href=\"https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/52771645-bay-area-coffee\">\u003ci>Bay Area Coffee\u003c/i>\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In those early years, the highest-quality green, unroasted coffee beans arriving at the Port of San Francisco came from Central America — including a large quantity that was imported from El Salvador. \u003cb>\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Around the same time, in the late 19th century, coffee had become one of the main sources of income for El Salvador’s wealthy landowner class. These coffee plantation owners were oligarchs who, over the course of the next 100 years, took more and more land from the country’s indigenous people, got rich off the crop and used that wealth to exert influence over the country’s politics and military. By the 1970s, socioeconomic inequality in El Salvador had become even more stark, and the country began to experience widespread civil unrest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Salvadorans needed agrarian reform, immediate education and healthcare,” explains Felix Kury, a retired San Francisco State lecturer who taught mental health courses in the Latin American Studies Department.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928589\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13928589\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury.jpg\" alt=\"Man in glasses shows an article that he's loaded onto his iPad.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury-800x1067.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury-1020x1360.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury-768x1024.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury-1152x1536.jpg 1152w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury-1536x2048.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Retired SF State lecturer Felix Kury was active in the grassroots movement advocating for political change in El Salvador. \u003ccite>(Sebastian Miño-Bucheli)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Young Salvadorans like Kury began to leave their country to organize abroad, sending aid home or participating in direct protest actions such as occupying their local Salvadoran consulate. Back in El Salvador, left-leaning guerillas took to arms.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The 1980 \u003ca href=\"https://www.reuters.com/article/us-el-salvador-romero-idUSKCN1MY03P\">assassination of Archbishop Oscar Romero\u003c/a>, who was popular for denouncing violence and criticizing the Salvadoran military, proved to be the last straw that plunged the country into civil war.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[A soldier] shot him right as he was lifting the hostia (communion bread)…en el momento más sagrada” — the most sacred moment, Kury recalls. “The murder of the bishop gave a signal to anyone that no one will be safe.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o15gEAdlMUQ\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Meanwhile, in the U.S., Kury says, “All of us began to say, ‘What do we do? We have to go beyond working with Salvadorans to develop a movement.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Here in the Bay Area, Salvadorans like Kury joined other like-minded supporters to form the East Bay Interfaith Task Force on El Salvador. One day in November 1980, he recalls, Salvadoran port workers informed the task force that the U.S. government was bringing tanks and heavy artillery to the ports in Oakland — and that they planned to send those arms to support the military regime in El Salvador.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With the help of the International Longshore and Warehouse Union, the task force sprang into action, organizing a blockade that prevented ports all over the West Coast from sending arms to El Salvador. Similar to the United Farm Workers’ organizing efforts in the ‘60s, Salvadoran activists had begun to seek broad support for their movement. It was no longer just Salvadorans protesting the civil war — Chicanos and Americans showed up at the port too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The blockade also set the stage for an even more ambitious protest action to hit El Salvador where it would hurt the most — the coffee industry that enabled the military regime’s most powerful members to build up their wealth.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A Grassroots Movement\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Around this time, a media organization called the Central American Television Project was working to spread awareness about U.S. policy in Central America. In 1985, it hired Fred Ross Jr., a San Francisco-based labor organizer — who \u003ca href=\"https://www.berkeleyside.org/2022/12/01/fred-ross-jr-obituary\">passed away last year \u003c/a>— as its new executive director. The organization’s name changed to Neighbor to Neighbor, and under Ross’ direction, it took a grassroots approach to stopping U.S. aid to Nicaragua and El Salvador.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This organization had people all over the country,” Ross’ widow, the labor attorney Margo Feinberg, recalls. “They impacted many congressional races to try to change the numbers in the legislature to cut back on the funding to El Salvador.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928599\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13928599\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott.jpg\" alt='A flyer reads, \"The Death Squad\" and \"Boycott Salvadoran Coffee.\"' width=\"1920\" height=\"2485\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott-800x1035.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott-1020x1320.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott-160x207.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott-768x994.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott-1187x1536.jpg 1187w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott-1582x2048.jpg 1582w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">One of Neighbor to Neighbor’s flyers in support of the Salvadoran coffee boycott. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Neighbor to Neighbor)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>According to Feinberg, her late husband first witnessed the connection between what was happening to Salvadoran refugees and the U.S. role in the war when he worked as a public defender in San Francisco. Ross and his fellow organizers had already begun contemplating the idea of a coffee boycott when the murders of six Jesuit priests, a housekeeper and her daughter in 1989 \u003ca href=\"https://www.fredrossproject.org/fred-ross-jr-timeline\">propelled Neighbor to Neighbor to take immediate action\u003c/a>. The boycott’s main target was Folgers Coffee, for selling Salvadoran coffee beans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the time, around 60% of Salvadoran coffee harvests were shipped to the United States, the biggest buyer on the market. Neighbor to Neighbor argued that those coffee earnings were part of a vicious cycle of violence through which the wealthy plantation owners continued to finance the Salvadoran government and its death squads.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Folgers claimed it only purchased 2% of its beans from El Salvador,” says Trobits, the coffee historian. “But Neighbor to Neighbor wanted them to not purchase any.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928588\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13928588\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249.jpg\" alt=\"Woman wearing glasses sits in front of a wall covered in old newspaper clippings and coffee advertisements.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Bay Area coffee historian Monika Trobits’ wall is decorated with old coffee advertisements. \u003ccite>(Sebastian Miño-Bucheli)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Trobits says once the news came out that a freighter carrying 34 tons of Salvadoran coffee beans was due to dock in San Francisco in February 1990, about a hundred Neighbor to Neighbor protesters gathered at Pier 96 in the Bayview to establish a picket line, with the support of the longshoremen’s union. \u003ca href=\"https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1990-02-17-me-515-story.html\">Agents of the shipping company convinced the terminal operators\u003c/a> to offload all of the Colombian and Costa Rican coffee – but nothing from El Salvador.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“So the captain decided to move on, sailed up to Vancouver and met the same kind of resistance,” Trobits says, detailing the ship’s journey up and down the Pacific coast. “This freighter — and every one of those beans — ended up going back to El Salvador.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928594\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13928594\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001.jpg\" alt='Black-and-white image of protestors taking a knee, holding signs that read, \"Boycott Folgers\" and \"U.S. Out of El Salvador.\"' width=\"1920\" height=\"1443\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001-800x601.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001-1020x767.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001-768x577.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001-1536x1154.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Supporters of the Salvadoran coffee boycott form a picket line at Pier 80 in San Francisco in February 1990. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Dennis Hearne / The Fred Ross Project)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Neighbor to Neighbor kept its picket lines going for the next two years. Around the same time, the San Francisco Board of Supervisors also voted to boycott Salvadoran coffee beans, and the California state legislature formally protested the human rights violations against civilians by the Salvadoran military.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As a direct result of the boycotts, one of the grandsons from the Gamble family, which founded Procter & Gamble — Folgers’ parent company — pushed for the company to stop buying Salvadoran coffee. P&G, Nestlé and Kraft even took out ads in Salvadoran newspapers urging the government to negotiate a peace settlement.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D8TZq_GLmR8&t=407s\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All of this pressure eventually paid off: Hours before the New Year rang in for 1992, the Salvadoran president and the rebels signed a \u003ca href=\"https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1992-01-01-mn-1052-story.html\">United Nations–sponsored peace accord\u003c/a>. The 12-year war in which 75,000 civilians died finally came to an end. Months later, Neighbor to Neighbor ended its two-year boycott.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A Legacy of Coffee Activism\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>It’s been 30 years since the last shots were fired, but the Salvadoran coffee protest’s legacy hasn’t lost its relevance. Feinberg says the boycott’s success made it a model for all types of organizing that have taken place since then.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13918088,arts_13899379,arts_13887962']\u003c/span>Today, coffee accounts for a much smaller portion of the Salvadoran economy, and the industry is no longer exclusively dominated by huge plantations — there are \u003ca href=\"https://web.archive.org/web/20090907031039/http://www.usaid.gov/stories/elsalvador/cs_elsalvador_coffee.pdf\">also smaller, more sustainability-focused farms \u003c/a>that now supply beans to some of the Bay Area’s trendier third-wave coffee shops. At least one of those shops specifically identifies as Salvadoran — \u003ca href=\"https://sf.eater.com/2021/5/20/22445160/abanico-new-coffee-shop-opens-mission-san-francisco\">Abanico Coffee Roasters\u003c/a> in San Francisco’s Mission District.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Meanwhile, the coffee world continues to be fertile ground for progressive activism. There were, for instance, \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/2020/06/12/business/starbucks-blm-ban-reversed.html\">calls to boycott Starbucks\u003c/a> when it initially banned its employees from wearing Black Lives Matter attire. More recently, \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/2022/06/30/1106884406/coffee-shop-starbucks-baristas-union-election-cafe\">baristas across the nation have been pushing to unionize their local shops\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And, just like during the Salvadoran coffee boycott, the ethics of where a coffee company sources its beans continues to be an important issue. In fact, Trobits says there’s a sort of “fourth wave” of coffee happening right now that’s defined by ethical sourcing, how coffee growers respond to climate change, and baristas and other workers organizing to better their working conditions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We’re not at the end,” Trobits says of the movement to make the coffee world more just. “It will probably not ever be over because I don’t see the coffee is going away.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Trobits says we’re all in this game, those of us who buy, sell or even just appreciate coffee. Like it or not, we all are.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Correction: The article originally stated that Archbishop Romero was assassinated in 1979 instead of 1980; it has been updated to clarify the timeline of El Salvador’s left-wing guerrilla movement.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>When you spot the red Folgers tin in the coffee aisle at your local supermarket, you might think of the iconic tagline that says, “The best part of wakin’ up is Folgers in your cup.” But what many coffee lovers might not remember is the time in the early ‘90s when Folgers Coffee was the target of a nation-wide boycott that started right here in San Francisco. The goal? To help stop a civil war in El Salvador.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With all of the newer, trendier coffee brands that now dominate the Bay Area, it’s easy to forget that Folgers has a long history in San Francisco. It was one of the “Big Three” coffee companies, along with Hills Brothers and MJB, that was founded in San Francisco in the late 19th century. These days, the company is probably best known for the convenience of its instant coffee and ground coffee blends. But in the beginning, Folgers built up its reputation as one of America’s leading coffee brands on the basis of quality.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Good quality beans, roasted properly, produce good quality coffee — and that was the name of the game,” says Monika Trobits, a coffee historian and the author of \u003ca href=\"https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/52771645-bay-area-coffee\">\u003ci>Bay Area Coffee\u003c/i>\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In those early years, the highest-quality green, unroasted coffee beans arriving at the Port of San Francisco came from Central America — including a large quantity that was imported from El Salvador. \u003cb>\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Around the same time, in the late 19th century, coffee had become one of the main sources of income for El Salvador’s wealthy landowner class. These coffee plantation owners were oligarchs who, over the course of the next 100 years, took more and more land from the country’s indigenous people, got rich off the crop and used that wealth to exert influence over the country’s politics and military. By the 1970s, socioeconomic inequality in El Salvador had become even more stark, and the country began to experience widespread civil unrest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Salvadorans needed agrarian reform, immediate education and healthcare,” explains Felix Kury, a retired San Francisco State lecturer who taught mental health courses in the Latin American Studies Department.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928589\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13928589\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury.jpg\" alt=\"Man in glasses shows an article that he's loaded onto his iPad.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury-800x1067.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury-1020x1360.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury-768x1024.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury-1152x1536.jpg 1152w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury-1536x2048.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Retired SF State lecturer Felix Kury was active in the grassroots movement advocating for political change in El Salvador. \u003ccite>(Sebastian Miño-Bucheli)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Young Salvadorans like Kury began to leave their country to organize abroad, sending aid home or participating in direct protest actions such as occupying their local Salvadoran consulate. Back in El Salvador, left-leaning guerillas took to arms.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The 1980 \u003ca href=\"https://www.reuters.com/article/us-el-salvador-romero-idUSKCN1MY03P\">assassination of Archbishop Oscar Romero\u003c/a>, who was popular for denouncing violence and criticizing the Salvadoran military, proved to be the last straw that plunged the country into civil war.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[A soldier] shot him right as he was lifting the hostia (communion bread)…en el momento más sagrada” — the most sacred moment, Kury recalls. “The murder of the bishop gave a signal to anyone that no one will be safe.”\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/o15gEAdlMUQ'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/o15gEAdlMUQ'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Meanwhile, in the U.S., Kury says, “All of us began to say, ‘What do we do? We have to go beyond working with Salvadorans to develop a movement.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Here in the Bay Area, Salvadorans like Kury joined other like-minded supporters to form the East Bay Interfaith Task Force on El Salvador. One day in November 1980, he recalls, Salvadoran port workers informed the task force that the U.S. government was bringing tanks and heavy artillery to the ports in Oakland — and that they planned to send those arms to support the military regime in El Salvador.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With the help of the International Longshore and Warehouse Union, the task force sprang into action, organizing a blockade that prevented ports all over the West Coast from sending arms to El Salvador. Similar to the United Farm Workers’ organizing efforts in the ‘60s, Salvadoran activists had begun to seek broad support for their movement. It was no longer just Salvadorans protesting the civil war — Chicanos and Americans showed up at the port too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The blockade also set the stage for an even more ambitious protest action to hit El Salvador where it would hurt the most — the coffee industry that enabled the military regime’s most powerful members to build up their wealth.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A Grassroots Movement\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Around this time, a media organization called the Central American Television Project was working to spread awareness about U.S. policy in Central America. In 1985, it hired Fred Ross Jr., a San Francisco-based labor organizer — who \u003ca href=\"https://www.berkeleyside.org/2022/12/01/fred-ross-jr-obituary\">passed away last year \u003c/a>— as its new executive director. The organization’s name changed to Neighbor to Neighbor, and under Ross’ direction, it took a grassroots approach to stopping U.S. aid to Nicaragua and El Salvador.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This organization had people all over the country,” Ross’ widow, the labor attorney Margo Feinberg, recalls. “They impacted many congressional races to try to change the numbers in the legislature to cut back on the funding to El Salvador.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928599\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13928599\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott.jpg\" alt='A flyer reads, \"The Death Squad\" and \"Boycott Salvadoran Coffee.\"' width=\"1920\" height=\"2485\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott-800x1035.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott-1020x1320.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott-160x207.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott-768x994.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott-1187x1536.jpg 1187w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott-1582x2048.jpg 1582w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">One of Neighbor to Neighbor’s flyers in support of the Salvadoran coffee boycott. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Neighbor to Neighbor)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>According to Feinberg, her late husband first witnessed the connection between what was happening to Salvadoran refugees and the U.S. role in the war when he worked as a public defender in San Francisco. Ross and his fellow organizers had already begun contemplating the idea of a coffee boycott when the murders of six Jesuit priests, a housekeeper and her daughter in 1989 \u003ca href=\"https://www.fredrossproject.org/fred-ross-jr-timeline\">propelled Neighbor to Neighbor to take immediate action\u003c/a>. The boycott’s main target was Folgers Coffee, for selling Salvadoran coffee beans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the time, around 60% of Salvadoran coffee harvests were shipped to the United States, the biggest buyer on the market. Neighbor to Neighbor argued that those coffee earnings were part of a vicious cycle of violence through which the wealthy plantation owners continued to finance the Salvadoran government and its death squads.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Folgers claimed it only purchased 2% of its beans from El Salvador,” says Trobits, the coffee historian. “But Neighbor to Neighbor wanted them to not purchase any.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928588\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13928588\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249.jpg\" alt=\"Woman wearing glasses sits in front of a wall covered in old newspaper clippings and coffee advertisements.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Bay Area coffee historian Monika Trobits’ wall is decorated with old coffee advertisements. \u003ccite>(Sebastian Miño-Bucheli)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Trobits says once the news came out that a freighter carrying 34 tons of Salvadoran coffee beans was due to dock in San Francisco in February 1990, about a hundred Neighbor to Neighbor protesters gathered at Pier 96 in the Bayview to establish a picket line, with the support of the longshoremen’s union. \u003ca href=\"https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1990-02-17-me-515-story.html\">Agents of the shipping company convinced the terminal operators\u003c/a> to offload all of the Colombian and Costa Rican coffee – but nothing from El Salvador.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“So the captain decided to move on, sailed up to Vancouver and met the same kind of resistance,” Trobits says, detailing the ship’s journey up and down the Pacific coast. “This freighter — and every one of those beans — ended up going back to El Salvador.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928594\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13928594\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001.jpg\" alt='Black-and-white image of protestors taking a knee, holding signs that read, \"Boycott Folgers\" and \"U.S. Out of El Salvador.\"' width=\"1920\" height=\"1443\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001-800x601.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001-1020x767.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001-768x577.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001-1536x1154.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Supporters of the Salvadoran coffee boycott form a picket line at Pier 80 in San Francisco in February 1990. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Dennis Hearne / The Fred Ross Project)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Neighbor to Neighbor kept its picket lines going for the next two years. Around the same time, the San Francisco Board of Supervisors also voted to boycott Salvadoran coffee beans, and the California state legislature formally protested the human rights violations against civilians by the Salvadoran military.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As a direct result of the boycotts, one of the grandsons from the Gamble family, which founded Procter & Gamble — Folgers’ parent company — pushed for the company to stop buying Salvadoran coffee. P&G, Nestlé and Kraft even took out ads in Salvadoran newspapers urging the government to negotiate a peace settlement.\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/D8TZq_GLmR8'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/D8TZq_GLmR8'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All of this pressure eventually paid off: Hours before the New Year rang in for 1992, the Salvadoran president and the rebels signed a \u003ca href=\"https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1992-01-01-mn-1052-story.html\">United Nations–sponsored peace accord\u003c/a>. The 12-year war in which 75,000 civilians died finally came to an end. Months later, Neighbor to Neighbor ended its two-year boycott.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A Legacy of Coffee Activism\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>It’s been 30 years since the last shots were fired, but the Salvadoran coffee protest’s legacy hasn’t lost its relevance. Feinberg says the boycott’s success made it a model for all types of organizing that have taken place since then.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/span>Today, coffee accounts for a much smaller portion of the Salvadoran economy, and the industry is no longer exclusively dominated by huge plantations — there are \u003ca href=\"https://web.archive.org/web/20090907031039/http://www.usaid.gov/stories/elsalvador/cs_elsalvador_coffee.pdf\">also smaller, more sustainability-focused farms \u003c/a>that now supply beans to some of the Bay Area’s trendier third-wave coffee shops. At least one of those shops specifically identifies as Salvadoran — \u003ca href=\"https://sf.eater.com/2021/5/20/22445160/abanico-new-coffee-shop-opens-mission-san-francisco\">Abanico Coffee Roasters\u003c/a> in San Francisco’s Mission District.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Meanwhile, the coffee world continues to be fertile ground for progressive activism. There were, for instance, \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/2020/06/12/business/starbucks-blm-ban-reversed.html\">calls to boycott Starbucks\u003c/a> when it initially banned its employees from wearing Black Lives Matter attire. More recently, \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/2022/06/30/1106884406/coffee-shop-starbucks-baristas-union-election-cafe\">baristas across the nation have been pushing to unionize their local shops\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And, just like during the Salvadoran coffee boycott, the ethics of where a coffee company sources its beans continues to be an important issue. In fact, Trobits says there’s a sort of “fourth wave” of coffee happening right now that’s defined by ethical sourcing, how coffee growers respond to climate change, and baristas and other workers organizing to better their working conditions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We’re not at the end,” Trobits says of the movement to make the coffee world more just. “It will probably not ever be over because I don’t see the coffee is going away.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Trobits says we’re all in this game, those of us who buy, sell or even just appreciate coffee. Like it or not, we all are.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Correction: The article originally stated that Archbishop Romero was assassinated in 1979 instead of 1980; it has been updated to clarify the timeline of El Salvador’s left-wing guerrilla movement.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "qued-and-phred-weird-kqed-auction-mascots-devil",
"title": "Remembering Qued and Phred, the Weirdest Mascots in KQED History",
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"content": "\u003cp>If you’re an old-school KQED viewer, you might remember Qued and Phred — the very strange mascots of the now-defunct annual KQED auction. Qued is a mischievous-looking giant red devil creature who walks on all fours and often carries a “sold” sign in his mouth. Phred, who can usually be seen leading Qued on a leash, is what would happen if the Monopoly man had a baby with \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Babadook\">the Babadook\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For reasons that are fairly unfathomable now, these two “Monster Mash”-looking weirdos were an integral part of mainstream KQED culture between 1960 and 1990. Qued and Phred’s images adorned T-shirts, belt buckles, advertisements and studio backdrops. Now and again, we as a TV channel even made volunteers climb into mascot costumes in Qued and Phred’s likenesses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I remember the first time I saw [the Qued costume],” says former auction worker Marianne Fu-Petroni. “It was a real big, human-sized costume. I was like ‘Somebody gets into there?!’ You know, you can’t really keep it clean after so many years…”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928126\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13928126\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-20-at-6.08.51-PM-800x1011.png\" alt=\"A man and woman stand between a table and a lined board with a list of items on it. They are surrounded by random objects including a clock, painting of flowers, carving of an Indigenous person, and full-sized figures of a devil and a man in a top hat.\" width=\"800\" height=\"1011\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-20-at-6.08.51-PM-800x1011.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-20-at-6.08.51-PM-160x202.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-20-at-6.08.51-PM-768x971.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-20-at-6.08.51-PM.png 932w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Qued and Phred looming terrifyingly over a KQED auction scene. \u003ccite>(KQED Archives)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The design for Qued and Phred arrived in 1960, five years after the first live auction was launched to keep KQED’s lights on. The characters came into being when a volunteer named Frannie Fleishhacker (wife of prominent Bay Area businessman \u003ca href=\"https://www.fleishhackerfoundation.org/about/history\">Mortimer Fleishhacker\u003c/a>) decided to seek out an eye-catching logo for the auction. Frannie reached out to Oakland advertising company \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Foster_%26_Kleiser\">Foster & Kleiser\u003c/a> to see if anyone would be willing to create a design, gratis.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13909983']A young illustrator named John DeBonis answered the call and took it upon himself to draw “a weird guy — you might even call him villainous — who goes to the auction and brings home something equally weird,” DeBonis later explained. “It seemed like it would be kind of fun. Not too deadly serious.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of the reasons DeBonis’ design was so seemingly out of step with the idea of public media is because he had almost no idea what KQED was. “It was a little peanut of a station in those days,” he told the \u003cem>San Francisco Chronicle\u003c/em> in 1971. “We didn’t even have a television set at the time and I had never seen their programs. The initial reaction [to Qued and Phred] at KQED was a pleasant one but I don’t recall that anyone jumped up and down…”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still, the Qued character garnered a solid following fairly quickly. By the time the \u003cem>Chronicle\u003c/em> sat down with DeBonis for that interview, the paper was reporting that, despite Qued having “a slightly lewd expression … it’s impossible not to return his grin.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928124\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13928124\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_172205-scaled-e1682039140934-800x627.jpg\" alt=\"Two stuffed toys. One is a white-faced figure with red eyes and grin of fangs, wearing a black suit and top hat. The other is a grinning red devil with pointed tail.\" width=\"800\" height=\"627\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_172205-scaled-e1682039140934-800x627.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_172205-scaled-e1682039140934-1020x800.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_172205-scaled-e1682039140934-160x125.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_172205-scaled-e1682039140934-768x602.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_172205-scaled-e1682039140934-1536x1204.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_172205-scaled-e1682039140934.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Phred and Qued in stuffy form. These toys were once available to buy at auction — and they didn’t come cheap. \u003ccite>(Rae Alexandra)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>While Qued had a title from the time of his inception, it would take Phred a full 16 years to get his own name. That happened in May 1976, when KQED decided to hold — and please do marvel at how creative this title is — “A Contest to Name the Little Guy Who Leads Around the Qued Monster.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>The Berkeley Gazette\u003c/em> happily reported later that month that:\u003c/p>\n\u003cblockquote>\u003cp>The winner was Peggy Fuson of Pinole who has christened the little man ‘King Phrederick IX, Pretender to the Throne of Bryant Street.’ Ms. Fuson, who wrote a ballad to go along with the new name is willing to let the monster man be called Phred for short.\u003c/p>\u003c/blockquote>\n\u003cp>(So yes, people were definitely doing a lot of drugs in the 1970s.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928123\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13928123\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Swag-final-scaled-e1682038954623-800x600.jpg\" alt=\"Three separate images: One of four gold belt buckles, all depicting different versions of the same devil monster. One of a white watch with the devil monster on the clock face. One yellow t-shirt featuring the monster as seen on an auction broadcast.\" width=\"800\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Swag-final-scaled-e1682038954623-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Swag-final-scaled-e1682038954623-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Swag-final-scaled-e1682038954623-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Swag-final-scaled-e1682038954623-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Swag-final-scaled-e1682038954623-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Swag-final-scaled-e1682038954623.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Qued merch from decades past. \u003ccite>(Rae Alexandra)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>As a representative of an unusual auction item, Qued wasn’t far off from reality. The KQED auction was indeed, a \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1CdG334I_Ew\">hodgepodge of anything and everything\u003c/a> you could possibly think of.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13910308']Auction items were gathered by volunteers and “auction solicitors” literally going door-to-door and calling around asking for donations. Paintings, clothing, food and wine, office, garden and pool equipment and even some houses (\u003cem>houses!\u003c/em>) were sold off alongside gift certificates for restaurants and other Bay Area businesses. In the late ’60s, Qued toys were so sought after, they sold for an impressive $100 (about $800 today).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The auction also featured so-called “priceless items” — experiences you couldn’t buy anywhere else. In 1970, a dinner with beloved \u003cem>Chronicle\u003c/em> columnist Herb Caen was auctioned for $300 (about $2,300 in 2023 money). That same year, dinners with Giants legends Willie Mays and Willie McCovey went for $350. On another occasion, Martin Yan of PBS’s \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://yancancook.com/home/\">Yan Can Cook\u003c/a>\u003c/em> offered up a homemade dinner for 12 people. He was stunned when someone bid $10,000.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of the most shocking things, looking back, is that living animals were also auctioned off on the air. These included an English bulldog donated by the Charter Bank of London and livestock. One year, a steer that had been raised on then-presidential candidate Lyndon B. Johnson’s Texas ranch found itself on the auction block.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928125\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13928125\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_174117-800x1043.jpg\" alt=\"A model wearing a 1950s-style gown stands, smiling broadly, in front of a TV camera. At her side is a calf.\" width=\"800\" height=\"1043\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_174117-800x1043.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_174117-1020x1330.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_174117-160x209.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_174117-768x1001.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_174117-1178x1536.jpg 1178w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_174117-1571x2048.jpg 1571w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_174117-1920x2503.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_174117-scaled.jpg 1964w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A cow. Up for auction. In the KQED studio. Next to a woman in a gown. Yeah. \u003ccite>(KQED Archives)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>What started in 1955 as a 12-hour auction morphed, over the years, into a grueling 10-day marathon at the Cow Palace.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13927137']“The auction generally went from 8 a.m. to midnight,” recalls KQED’s Fu-Petroni, now executive director of membership operations. “In 1988 though, on the last night of the auction, they didn’t stop at midnight. They were just grabbing random stuff to auction! \u003ca href=\"https://emmysf.tv/circles/gold-circle-members/scalem-jim/\">Jimmy Scalem\u003c/a> was one of the auctioneers and he could just talk and talk and talk. Right around four in the morning, the phone rang on one of the desks and it was my mother asking when I was coming home.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The KQED auction peaked in 1985, earning a final (astonishing) tally of $1.5 million. By 1990, however, it was calculated that for every dollar earned, 50 cents was being spent on organizing the auction. That, along with plummeting viewing figures (and an audience that wasn’t sticking around for regular KQED programming) led the station to axe auctions in favor of pledge drives. When the wacky fundraiser went away, so too did Qued and Phred — a sadly unceremonious end to the oddest pairing in KQED history.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>If you’re an old-school KQED viewer, you might remember Qued and Phred — the very strange mascots of the now-defunct annual KQED auction. Qued is a mischievous-looking giant red devil creature who walks on all fours and often carries a “sold” sign in his mouth. Phred, who can usually be seen leading Qued on a leash, is what would happen if the Monopoly man had a baby with \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Babadook\">the Babadook\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For reasons that are fairly unfathomable now, these two “Monster Mash”-looking weirdos were an integral part of mainstream KQED culture between 1960 and 1990. Qued and Phred’s images adorned T-shirts, belt buckles, advertisements and studio backdrops. Now and again, we as a TV channel even made volunteers climb into mascot costumes in Qued and Phred’s likenesses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I remember the first time I saw [the Qued costume],” says former auction worker Marianne Fu-Petroni. “It was a real big, human-sized costume. I was like ‘Somebody gets into there?!’ You know, you can’t really keep it clean after so many years…”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928126\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13928126\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-20-at-6.08.51-PM-800x1011.png\" alt=\"A man and woman stand between a table and a lined board with a list of items on it. They are surrounded by random objects including a clock, painting of flowers, carving of an Indigenous person, and full-sized figures of a devil and a man in a top hat.\" width=\"800\" height=\"1011\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-20-at-6.08.51-PM-800x1011.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-20-at-6.08.51-PM-160x202.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-20-at-6.08.51-PM-768x971.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-20-at-6.08.51-PM.png 932w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Qued and Phred looming terrifyingly over a KQED auction scene. \u003ccite>(KQED Archives)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The design for Qued and Phred arrived in 1960, five years after the first live auction was launched to keep KQED’s lights on. The characters came into being when a volunteer named Frannie Fleishhacker (wife of prominent Bay Area businessman \u003ca href=\"https://www.fleishhackerfoundation.org/about/history\">Mortimer Fleishhacker\u003c/a>) decided to seek out an eye-catching logo for the auction. Frannie reached out to Oakland advertising company \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Foster_%26_Kleiser\">Foster & Kleiser\u003c/a> to see if anyone would be willing to create a design, gratis.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>A young illustrator named John DeBonis answered the call and took it upon himself to draw “a weird guy — you might even call him villainous — who goes to the auction and brings home something equally weird,” DeBonis later explained. “It seemed like it would be kind of fun. Not too deadly serious.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of the reasons DeBonis’ design was so seemingly out of step with the idea of public media is because he had almost no idea what KQED was. “It was a little peanut of a station in those days,” he told the \u003cem>San Francisco Chronicle\u003c/em> in 1971. “We didn’t even have a television set at the time and I had never seen their programs. The initial reaction [to Qued and Phred] at KQED was a pleasant one but I don’t recall that anyone jumped up and down…”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still, the Qued character garnered a solid following fairly quickly. By the time the \u003cem>Chronicle\u003c/em> sat down with DeBonis for that interview, the paper was reporting that, despite Qued having “a slightly lewd expression … it’s impossible not to return his grin.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928124\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13928124\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_172205-scaled-e1682039140934-800x627.jpg\" alt=\"Two stuffed toys. One is a white-faced figure with red eyes and grin of fangs, wearing a black suit and top hat. The other is a grinning red devil with pointed tail.\" width=\"800\" height=\"627\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_172205-scaled-e1682039140934-800x627.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_172205-scaled-e1682039140934-1020x800.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_172205-scaled-e1682039140934-160x125.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_172205-scaled-e1682039140934-768x602.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_172205-scaled-e1682039140934-1536x1204.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_172205-scaled-e1682039140934.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Phred and Qued in stuffy form. These toys were once available to buy at auction — and they didn’t come cheap. \u003ccite>(Rae Alexandra)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>While Qued had a title from the time of his inception, it would take Phred a full 16 years to get his own name. That happened in May 1976, when KQED decided to hold — and please do marvel at how creative this title is — “A Contest to Name the Little Guy Who Leads Around the Qued Monster.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>The Berkeley Gazette\u003c/em> happily reported later that month that:\u003c/p>\n\u003cblockquote>\u003cp>The winner was Peggy Fuson of Pinole who has christened the little man ‘King Phrederick IX, Pretender to the Throne of Bryant Street.’ Ms. Fuson, who wrote a ballad to go along with the new name is willing to let the monster man be called Phred for short.\u003c/p>\u003c/blockquote>\n\u003cp>(So yes, people were definitely doing a lot of drugs in the 1970s.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928123\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13928123\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Swag-final-scaled-e1682038954623-800x600.jpg\" alt=\"Three separate images: One of four gold belt buckles, all depicting different versions of the same devil monster. One of a white watch with the devil monster on the clock face. One yellow t-shirt featuring the monster as seen on an auction broadcast.\" width=\"800\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Swag-final-scaled-e1682038954623-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Swag-final-scaled-e1682038954623-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Swag-final-scaled-e1682038954623-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Swag-final-scaled-e1682038954623-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Swag-final-scaled-e1682038954623-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Swag-final-scaled-e1682038954623.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Qued merch from decades past. \u003ccite>(Rae Alexandra)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>As a representative of an unusual auction item, Qued wasn’t far off from reality. The KQED auction was indeed, a \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1CdG334I_Ew\">hodgepodge of anything and everything\u003c/a> you could possibly think of.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Auction items were gathered by volunteers and “auction solicitors” literally going door-to-door and calling around asking for donations. Paintings, clothing, food and wine, office, garden and pool equipment and even some houses (\u003cem>houses!\u003c/em>) were sold off alongside gift certificates for restaurants and other Bay Area businesses. In the late ’60s, Qued toys were so sought after, they sold for an impressive $100 (about $800 today).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The auction also featured so-called “priceless items” — experiences you couldn’t buy anywhere else. In 1970, a dinner with beloved \u003cem>Chronicle\u003c/em> columnist Herb Caen was auctioned for $300 (about $2,300 in 2023 money). That same year, dinners with Giants legends Willie Mays and Willie McCovey went for $350. On another occasion, Martin Yan of PBS’s \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://yancancook.com/home/\">Yan Can Cook\u003c/a>\u003c/em> offered up a homemade dinner for 12 people. He was stunned when someone bid $10,000.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of the most shocking things, looking back, is that living animals were also auctioned off on the air. These included an English bulldog donated by the Charter Bank of London and livestock. One year, a steer that had been raised on then-presidential candidate Lyndon B. Johnson’s Texas ranch found itself on the auction block.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928125\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13928125\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_174117-800x1043.jpg\" alt=\"A model wearing a 1950s-style gown stands, smiling broadly, in front of a TV camera. At her side is a calf.\" width=\"800\" height=\"1043\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_174117-800x1043.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_174117-1020x1330.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_174117-160x209.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_174117-768x1001.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_174117-1178x1536.jpg 1178w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_174117-1571x2048.jpg 1571w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_174117-1920x2503.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/20230420_174117-scaled.jpg 1964w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A cow. Up for auction. In the KQED studio. Next to a woman in a gown. Yeah. \u003ccite>(KQED Archives)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>What started in 1955 as a 12-hour auction morphed, over the years, into a grueling 10-day marathon at the Cow Palace.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“The auction generally went from 8 a.m. to midnight,” recalls KQED’s Fu-Petroni, now executive director of membership operations. “In 1988 though, on the last night of the auction, they didn’t stop at midnight. They were just grabbing random stuff to auction! \u003ca href=\"https://emmysf.tv/circles/gold-circle-members/scalem-jim/\">Jimmy Scalem\u003c/a> was one of the auctioneers and he could just talk and talk and talk. Right around four in the morning, the phone rang on one of the desks and it was my mother asking when I was coming home.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The KQED auction peaked in 1985, earning a final (astonishing) tally of $1.5 million. By 1990, however, it was calculated that for every dollar earned, 50 cents was being spent on organizing the auction. That, along with plummeting viewing figures (and an audience that wasn’t sticking around for regular KQED programming) led the station to axe auctions in favor of pledge drives. When the wacky fundraiser went away, so too did Qued and Phred — a sadly unceremonious end to the oddest pairing in KQED history.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927959\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927959\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Brenda.MAIN_-1-800x601.jpg\" alt=\"A young woman in a top ponytail holds a white blanket containing a baby\" width=\"800\" height=\"601\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Brenda.MAIN_-1-800x601.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Brenda.MAIN_-1-1020x767.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Brenda.MAIN_-1-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Brenda.MAIN_-1-768x577.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Brenda.MAIN_-1.jpg 1410w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ethel Love, at age 17, as Brenda in Tupac Shakur’s music video for ‘Brenda’s Got a Baby.’ Love says the role came naturally, ‘because it was similar to my life already.’ \u003ccite>(YouTube/Interscope 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\">T\u003c/span>here’s an alley in downtown Oakland that connects Webster Street and Harrison Street, between 12th Street and 13th Street. Situated on the border of downtown and Chinatown, gated on both ends and naturally lit from above, the block-long walkway has been the site of day parties, shady doings, and a runway for rats in the middle of the night.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’d often walk past this alley when I lived on 13th and Webster, thinking nothing of it. That is, until one day when I was watching the 1992 music video for Tupac’s classic song, “Brenda’s Got A Baby.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It suddenly hit me: \u003cem>That’s the spot where Brenda’s body was found\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927967\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927967\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.44.49_am_720.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"520\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.44.49_am_720.png 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.44.49_am_720-160x116.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A scene from Tupac Shakur’s video for ‘Brenda’s Got a Baby.’ \u003ccite>(YouTube/Interscope Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In the video, an OPD cruiser idles in the alley as Brenda’s body is covered by a bloody white sheet — not far from where, earlier in the video, she’d dropped her newborn in a dumpster. As Tupac narrates the story, Brenda’s death is shown reported on the front page of the Oakland Tribune.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Brenda’s death may have been fictitious, but as the video notes, it was based on a true story. Tupac had been inspired by one particularly heinous account of a 12 year-old girl in New York who was molested and impregnated by a family member — a story that symbolizes the unfortunate reality too many young people face, then and now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the video begins, the character of Brenda walks down the street holding a baby wrapped in a white cloth. Her image then cross-dissolves, revealing Tupac surrounded by a crew of teenagers and young adults.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Money B, rapper of Digital Underground fame and friend of Tupac, is among the people in the posse. Money B says everyone in that shot, aside from him and Pac’s childhood friend Mouse Man, were artists Pac was working to develop at the time. “Pac was very strategic in all of that,” Money B says, on a group call. “He understood product placement and branding from the very beginning.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927969\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927969\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.46.18_am_720.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"530\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.46.18_am_720.png 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.46.18_am_720-160x118.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A scene from Tupac Shakur’s video for ‘Brenda’s Got a Baby.’ \u003ccite>(YouTube/Interscope Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>There’s some other Easter eggs in the video too, says Money B, including Digital Underground’s DJ Fuze portraying a cop, a street pole adorned with an Oakland logo, and a cardboard sign reading “Bush Sucks,” a shot at George H.W. Bush, the United States’ sitting president at the time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to appearing in the video, Money B is featured on the song through a brief back and forth with Pac:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I hear Brenda’s got a baby / But Brenda’s barely got a brain / A damn shame, the girl can hardly spell her name,” says Tupac.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That’s not our problem, that’s up to Brenda’s family,” says Money B.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To which Pac responds, “Well, let me show ya how it affects the whole community.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Discussing the music video now, Money B laughs and says, “When I say that line, I’m leaning down, and I try to get up and I stumble, and I fall, and I do a smirk, like, ‘Oh shit, I scrubbed.’ But they kept it in there.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_11696060']Tupac wrote the whole song, including that line for Money B, before Deon “Big D the Impossible” Evans produced the track. The day they recorded it, Money B happened to be hanging out with Chicago singer Dave Hollister (formerly of Blackstreet) and Roniece Levias (who has also worked with Too Short, E-40 and Digital Underground). When they heard the beat in Starlight studio, the two vocalists, both steeped in the church, began to sing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They were going back and forth,” Money B says of Levias and Hollister. “They caught a groove and Pac was like, ‘Go in there and do that.’ That was on the spot, spur of the moment, lightning in a bottle.” Atron Gregory, Tupac’s former manager, chimes in on the call: “That was the first time on a hip-hop record that singing was done all the way through the record. There was singing on hip-hop records, but not all the way through.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Money B points out another distinguishing feature of the song: “Brenda’s Got a Baby is just one verse,” he says. “It’s not like: song, hook, song, hook. All (Tupac) wanted to do is tell a story, and everything else just happened on the spot.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927973\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927973\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_8.20.26_am_720.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"503\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_8.20.26_am_720.png 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_8.20.26_am_720-160x112.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ethel Love, who played Brenda in Tupac Shakur’s ‘Brenda’s Got a Baby Video,’ pictured in a recent photo. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Ethel Love)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\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\">E\u003c/span>thel Love, the woman who portrayed Brenda in the music video, is watching her grandchildren when she joins the call. Bright-spirited and full of energy, she talks to us from a car in Georgia, preparing to celebrate her 49th birthday, remembering the video shoot vividly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I didn’t hear the story for the first time until after I did the video,” says Love.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Just 17 years old at the time, Love was tapped by her brother Deandre (a.k.a. Papa Doc), a friend of Tupac’s, to be the lead actress. Love says the video’s directors, Allen and Albert Hughes, let the song’s lyrics inform their direction, and simply told Love what they wanted her to do in each scene.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Love, who was raised between North and Central Richmond and grew up in the church, was involved in the arts through the East Bay Center for the Performing Arts. But she’d never done anything of this magnitude.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NRWUs0KtB-I\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Money B interjects, “Do you remember my momma being your momma?” His question about his real mother portraying Love’s mother in the video is met with a round of laughs. “Yes,” says Love, before explaining that arguing with her fictional mother on the set wasn’t a far stretch from her real life. “I’d just not too long ago went off on my momma … because I wanted to hang out, and my momma attacked me, and I was talking to her just like that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Love was a mother of one at the time, and says she drew from her own experience in portraying the role of Brenda. “It was easy because it was similar to my life already,” she says. Aside from Brenda becoming a prostitute, the girls’ stories had eerie parallels. “All that was so real,” she says, “because I was living that life.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The weight of the moment is broken by the laughter of one of Love’s four grandchildren in the background of the call. “Brenda’s still got a lot of babies,” Love jokes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-13927968\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.44.28_am_720.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"430\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.44.28_am_720.png 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.44.28_am_720-160x96.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the early ’90s, after the video dropped, life changed for Love. “It was hard walking down the hallway at school, because everyone thought I was different now, because I was on a popular video with this popular young man,” says Love. People questioned why she didn’t tell them what she was doing; all the while Love just wanted to remain low-key.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I was always secretive anyway,” says Love, anecdotally sharing that she had quietly been driving to school since the age of 13, parking around the corner and not telling anyone. But now she was on TV, and friends she grew up with were changing on her. People she didn’t know treated her equally as weird. “I couldn’t go outside like I used to for a while, especially with my daughter. It used to scare her,” says Love. “People used to come up to her and say, ‘Oh my god, you that girl from the video?!’ Screaming and trying to touch me and grab her. It was really weird.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Love soon had two more daughters, and as her children matured, she shared with them the story of the music video, the song and the golden plaque she received from her role in it all. She also warned her children not to tell anyone about her role in Tupac’s video, because she didn’t want them to be treated differently in school. But as the girls grew older, they kept seeing images of their mother on social media.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927976\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927976\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_8.22.01_am_720-1.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"678\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_8.22.01_am_720-1.png 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_8.22.01_am_720-1-160x151.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ethel Love as a teenager. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Ethel Love)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Only reason I’m \u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/ethelloveeddy/\">on Facebook\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/therealbrenda2/?hl=en\">Instagram\u003c/a> is because my kids,” says Love. She imitates her children as she says, “Mom look, you in the feed again. They’re saying you’re LisaRaye.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Atron and Money B laugh, they’ve heard that rumor too. (LisaRaye appeared in a different Tupac video, “Toss It Up.”) Love sees no shade in being mixed up with another successful beautiful Black woman. But Love is not LisaRaye, nor is she “Brenda.” Instead, Love is quite clear on who she is and how, as a child, she portrayed an image that spoke to some of the largest issues facing society.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I like the bathroom scene,” Love tells me, referring to the moment in the video when Brenda is physically delivering the baby. “Because that is so real to people that have kids, but don’t know how to tell their parents they’re having a child. (They) end up having a child in the bathtub or in a bathroom,” says Love. One of her own family members, she adds, experienced this firsthand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of Ethel’s grand-babies enters the screen as I ask about last year’s overturning of Roe v. Wade, reproductive rights and how hip-hop has addressed this issue—or added to the issue.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Love says she didn’t understand at the time, but being a grandmother now, she sees the significance of her role. Not just as a character in a popular music video from four decades ago, but as a volunteer babysitter, reproductive health advocate and firm believer in the concept of a village raising a child.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927970\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927970\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.41.12_am_720.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"526\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.41.12_am_720.png 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.41.12_am_720-160x117.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A scene from Tupac Shakur’s video for ‘Brenda’s Got a Baby.’ \u003ccite>(YouTube/Interscope Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\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\">W\u003c/span>hen she looks back at the music video, and considers how far she’s come, she realizes that, in many ways, she’s still that person — the one Tupac saw when he suggested her for the role. “It’s like he marked me,” says Love. “He knew that I was going to be that person. I’ve always been that person. I had other people’s kids before I had kids. I’m a nurturer.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On the note of reproductive health and healthy methods of community support, I ask Money B again about that line of his: “That’s not our problem, that’s up to Brenda’s family.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='pop_23762']Money B refers to he and Tupac’s shared Black Panther lineage. Pac’s mother, the late Afeni Shakur, was a New York Black Panther Party member and a part of the Panther 21. As a child in the Bay Area, Money B attended the Black Panther Party’s Freedom School in Oakland. With that community-oriented foundation, Money B and Tupac share the same mindset as Ethel Love: it takes a village.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s the mentality that a lot of us have, or have had, when it comes to raising the youth,” says Money B. When done right, he says, it’s amazing the difference that we can collectively make.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before the call ends, Mon, as friends call him, tells Love how happy he is to see her, and how proud he is of the woman she’s become; he brags that he’s going to tell his mother about her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Love responds, “Give her a hug and a kiss for me.”\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927959\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927959\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Brenda.MAIN_-1-800x601.jpg\" alt=\"A young woman in a top ponytail holds a white blanket containing a baby\" width=\"800\" height=\"601\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Brenda.MAIN_-1-800x601.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Brenda.MAIN_-1-1020x767.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Brenda.MAIN_-1-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Brenda.MAIN_-1-768x577.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Brenda.MAIN_-1.jpg 1410w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ethel Love, at age 17, as Brenda in Tupac Shakur’s music video for ‘Brenda’s Got a Baby.’ Love says the role came naturally, ‘because it was similar to my life already.’ \u003ccite>(YouTube/Interscope 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\">T\u003c/span>here’s an alley in downtown Oakland that connects Webster Street and Harrison Street, between 12th Street and 13th Street. Situated on the border of downtown and Chinatown, gated on both ends and naturally lit from above, the block-long walkway has been the site of day parties, shady doings, and a runway for rats in the middle of the night.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’d often walk past this alley when I lived on 13th and Webster, thinking nothing of it. That is, until one day when I was watching the 1992 music video for Tupac’s classic song, “Brenda’s Got A Baby.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It suddenly hit me: \u003cem>That’s the spot where Brenda’s body was found\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927967\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927967\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.44.49_am_720.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"520\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.44.49_am_720.png 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.44.49_am_720-160x116.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A scene from Tupac Shakur’s video for ‘Brenda’s Got a Baby.’ \u003ccite>(YouTube/Interscope Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In the video, an OPD cruiser idles in the alley as Brenda’s body is covered by a bloody white sheet — not far from where, earlier in the video, she’d dropped her newborn in a dumpster. As Tupac narrates the story, Brenda’s death is shown reported on the front page of the Oakland Tribune.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Brenda’s death may have been fictitious, but as the video notes, it was based on a true story. Tupac had been inspired by one particularly heinous account of a 12 year-old girl in New York who was molested and impregnated by a family member — a story that symbolizes the unfortunate reality too many young people face, then and now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the video begins, the character of Brenda walks down the street holding a baby wrapped in a white cloth. Her image then cross-dissolves, revealing Tupac surrounded by a crew of teenagers and young adults.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Money B, rapper of Digital Underground fame and friend of Tupac, is among the people in the posse. Money B says everyone in that shot, aside from him and Pac’s childhood friend Mouse Man, were artists Pac was working to develop at the time. “Pac was very strategic in all of that,” Money B says, on a group call. “He understood product placement and branding from the very beginning.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927969\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927969\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.46.18_am_720.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"530\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.46.18_am_720.png 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.46.18_am_720-160x118.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A scene from Tupac Shakur’s video for ‘Brenda’s Got a Baby.’ \u003ccite>(YouTube/Interscope Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>There’s some other Easter eggs in the video too, says Money B, including Digital Underground’s DJ Fuze portraying a cop, a street pole adorned with an Oakland logo, and a cardboard sign reading “Bush Sucks,” a shot at George H.W. Bush, the United States’ sitting president at the time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to appearing in the video, Money B is featured on the song through a brief back and forth with Pac:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I hear Brenda’s got a baby / But Brenda’s barely got a brain / A damn shame, the girl can hardly spell her name,” says Tupac.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That’s not our problem, that’s up to Brenda’s family,” says Money B.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To which Pac responds, “Well, let me show ya how it affects the whole community.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Discussing the music video now, Money B laughs and says, “When I say that line, I’m leaning down, and I try to get up and I stumble, and I fall, and I do a smirk, like, ‘Oh shit, I scrubbed.’ But they kept it in there.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Tupac wrote the whole song, including that line for Money B, before Deon “Big D the Impossible” Evans produced the track. The day they recorded it, Money B happened to be hanging out with Chicago singer Dave Hollister (formerly of Blackstreet) and Roniece Levias (who has also worked with Too Short, E-40 and Digital Underground). When they heard the beat in Starlight studio, the two vocalists, both steeped in the church, began to sing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They were going back and forth,” Money B says of Levias and Hollister. “They caught a groove and Pac was like, ‘Go in there and do that.’ That was on the spot, spur of the moment, lightning in a bottle.” Atron Gregory, Tupac’s former manager, chimes in on the call: “That was the first time on a hip-hop record that singing was done all the way through the record. There was singing on hip-hop records, but not all the way through.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Money B points out another distinguishing feature of the song: “Brenda’s Got a Baby is just one verse,” he says. “It’s not like: song, hook, song, hook. All (Tupac) wanted to do is tell a story, and everything else just happened on the spot.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927973\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927973\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_8.20.26_am_720.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"503\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_8.20.26_am_720.png 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_8.20.26_am_720-160x112.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ethel Love, who played Brenda in Tupac Shakur’s ‘Brenda’s Got a Baby Video,’ pictured in a recent photo. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Ethel Love)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\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\">E\u003c/span>thel Love, the woman who portrayed Brenda in the music video, is watching her grandchildren when she joins the call. Bright-spirited and full of energy, she talks to us from a car in Georgia, preparing to celebrate her 49th birthday, remembering the video shoot vividly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I didn’t hear the story for the first time until after I did the video,” says Love.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Just 17 years old at the time, Love was tapped by her brother Deandre (a.k.a. Papa Doc), a friend of Tupac’s, to be the lead actress. Love says the video’s directors, Allen and Albert Hughes, let the song’s lyrics inform their direction, and simply told Love what they wanted her to do in each scene.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Love, who was raised between North and Central Richmond and grew up in the church, was involved in the arts through the East Bay Center for the Performing Arts. But she’d never done anything of this magnitude.\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/NRWUs0KtB-I'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/NRWUs0KtB-I'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>Money B interjects, “Do you remember my momma being your momma?” His question about his real mother portraying Love’s mother in the video is met with a round of laughs. “Yes,” says Love, before explaining that arguing with her fictional mother on the set wasn’t a far stretch from her real life. “I’d just not too long ago went off on my momma … because I wanted to hang out, and my momma attacked me, and I was talking to her just like that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Love was a mother of one at the time, and says she drew from her own experience in portraying the role of Brenda. “It was easy because it was similar to my life already,” she says. Aside from Brenda becoming a prostitute, the girls’ stories had eerie parallels. “All that was so real,” she says, “because I was living that life.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The weight of the moment is broken by the laughter of one of Love’s four grandchildren in the background of the call. “Brenda’s still got a lot of babies,” Love jokes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-13927968\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.44.28_am_720.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"430\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.44.28_am_720.png 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.44.28_am_720-160x96.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the early ’90s, after the video dropped, life changed for Love. “It was hard walking down the hallway at school, because everyone thought I was different now, because I was on a popular video with this popular young man,” says Love. People questioned why she didn’t tell them what she was doing; all the while Love just wanted to remain low-key.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I was always secretive anyway,” says Love, anecdotally sharing that she had quietly been driving to school since the age of 13, parking around the corner and not telling anyone. But now she was on TV, and friends she grew up with were changing on her. People she didn’t know treated her equally as weird. “I couldn’t go outside like I used to for a while, especially with my daughter. It used to scare her,” says Love. “People used to come up to her and say, ‘Oh my god, you that girl from the video?!’ Screaming and trying to touch me and grab her. It was really weird.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Love soon had two more daughters, and as her children matured, she shared with them the story of the music video, the song and the golden plaque she received from her role in it all. She also warned her children not to tell anyone about her role in Tupac’s video, because she didn’t want them to be treated differently in school. But as the girls grew older, they kept seeing images of their mother on social media.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927976\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927976\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_8.22.01_am_720-1.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"678\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_8.22.01_am_720-1.png 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_8.22.01_am_720-1-160x151.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ethel Love as a teenager. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Ethel Love)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Only reason I’m \u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/ethelloveeddy/\">on Facebook\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/therealbrenda2/?hl=en\">Instagram\u003c/a> is because my kids,” says Love. She imitates her children as she says, “Mom look, you in the feed again. They’re saying you’re LisaRaye.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Atron and Money B laugh, they’ve heard that rumor too. (LisaRaye appeared in a different Tupac video, “Toss It Up.”) Love sees no shade in being mixed up with another successful beautiful Black woman. But Love is not LisaRaye, nor is she “Brenda.” Instead, Love is quite clear on who she is and how, as a child, she portrayed an image that spoke to some of the largest issues facing society.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I like the bathroom scene,” Love tells me, referring to the moment in the video when Brenda is physically delivering the baby. “Because that is so real to people that have kids, but don’t know how to tell their parents they’re having a child. (They) end up having a child in the bathtub or in a bathroom,” says Love. One of her own family members, she adds, experienced this firsthand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of Ethel’s grand-babies enters the screen as I ask about last year’s overturning of Roe v. Wade, reproductive rights and how hip-hop has addressed this issue—or added to the issue.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Love says she didn’t understand at the time, but being a grandmother now, she sees the significance of her role. Not just as a character in a popular music video from four decades ago, but as a volunteer babysitter, reproductive health advocate and firm believer in the concept of a village raising a child.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927970\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927970\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.41.12_am_720.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"526\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.41.12_am_720.png 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.41.12_am_720-160x117.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A scene from Tupac Shakur’s video for ‘Brenda’s Got a Baby.’ \u003ccite>(YouTube/Interscope Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\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\">W\u003c/span>hen she looks back at the music video, and considers how far she’s come, she realizes that, in many ways, she’s still that person — the one Tupac saw when he suggested her for the role. “It’s like he marked me,” says Love. “He knew that I was going to be that person. I’ve always been that person. I had other people’s kids before I had kids. I’m a nurturer.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On the note of reproductive health and healthy methods of community support, I ask Money B again about that line of his: “That’s not our problem, that’s up to Brenda’s family.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Money B refers to he and Tupac’s shared Black Panther lineage. Pac’s mother, the late Afeni Shakur, was a New York Black Panther Party member and a part of the Panther 21. As a child in the Bay Area, Money B attended the Black Panther Party’s Freedom School in Oakland. With that community-oriented foundation, Money B and Tupac share the same mindset as Ethel Love: it takes a village.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s the mentality that a lot of us have, or have had, when it comes to raising the youth,” says Money B. When done right, he says, it’s amazing the difference that we can collectively make.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before the call ends, Mon, as friends call him, tells Love how happy he is to see her, and how proud he is of the woman she’s become; he brags that he’s going to tell his mother about her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Love responds, “Give her a hug and a kiss for me.”\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "Scholastic Wanted to License Her Children’s Book — if She Cut a Part About ‘Racism’",
"headTitle": "Scholastic Wanted to License Her Children’s Book — if She Cut a Part About ‘Racism’ | KQED",
"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927862\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927862\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/litl_custom-90e0e303bdd9319c3cc4a2288c813f52af1159c8-e1681753318427-800x715.jpg\" alt=\"An illustration shows a young man carrying a pile of books and a young woman sitting on the floor reading one. They are between two rows of bookcases. Through the window behind them, barbed wire and a guard tower is visible.\" width=\"800\" height=\"715\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/litl_custom-90e0e303bdd9319c3cc4a2288c813f52af1159c8-e1681753318427-800x715.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/litl_custom-90e0e303bdd9319c3cc4a2288c813f52af1159c8-e1681753318427-1020x911.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/litl_custom-90e0e303bdd9319c3cc4a2288c813f52af1159c8-e1681753318427-160x143.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/litl_custom-90e0e303bdd9319c3cc4a2288c813f52af1159c8-e1681753318427-768x686.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/litl_custom-90e0e303bdd9319c3cc4a2288c813f52af1159c8-e1681753318427-1536x1372.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/litl_custom-90e0e303bdd9319c3cc4a2288c813f52af1159c8-e1681753318427.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">‘Love in the Library’, a children’s book written by Maggie Tokuda-Hall and illustrated by Yas Imamura, is a love story about finding hope in a dire setting: an internment camp where the U.S. detained Japanese Americans during World War II. \u003ccite>(Candlewick Press)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Maggie Tokuda-Hall was thrilled when she first saw the offer from the publishing giant.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scholastic wanted to license her 2022 children’s book \u003cem>Love in the Library\u003c/em>. The deal would draw a wider audience to\u003ca href=\"https://www.prettyokmaggie.com/press-kit-love-in-the-library\"> her book\u003c/a> — a love story set in a World War II incarceration camp for Japanese Americans and inspired by her grandparents, about the improbable joy found “in a place built to make people feel like they weren’t human.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Then she read Scholastic’s suggested revisions to her book, included in the same email as the offer news. Her excitement at the opportunity was almost immediately tempered.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13927219']The publisher\u003cstrong>‘\u003c/strong>s only suggested edit was to the author’s note: Scholastic had crossed out a key section that references “the deeply American tradition of racism” to describe the tale’s real-life historical backdrop — a time when the U.S. government forcibly relocated more than 120,000 Japanese Americans to dozens of internment sites from 1942-1945.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scholastic gave its reasons for the suggested change in an email to the author and her original publisher, Candlewick Press, citing a “politically sensitive” moment for its market and a worry that the section “goes beyond what some teachers are willing to cover with the kids in their elementary classrooms.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This could lead to teachers declining to use the book, which would be a shame,” Scholastic’s email said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The deal with Scholastic was contingent on not only nixing that section, according to the author, but removing the word “racism” from the author’s note entirely.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927867\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927867\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-17-at-10.47.01-AM-800x355.png\" alt=\"A double page spread titled Author's Note, with sections of text highlighted in red.\" width=\"800\" height=\"355\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-17-at-10.47.01-AM-800x355.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-17-at-10.47.01-AM-1020x453.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-17-at-10.47.01-AM-160x71.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-17-at-10.47.01-AM-768x341.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-17-at-10.47.01-AM-1536x682.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-17-at-10.47.01-AM.png 1694w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Scholastic made the suggested revisions above to Tokuda-Hall’s book in an attachment it sent to her original publisher. “They wanted to take this book and repackage it so that it was just a simple love story,” the author wrote on her blog. \u003ccite>(Prettyokmaggie.com)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Infuriated by what she called a “horrific demand for censorship,” Tokuda-Hall gave Scholastic a hard no.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The author called the offer deeply offensive in an email to Candlewick Press, which passed along Scholastic’s proposal, a response she \u003ca href=\"https://www.prettyokmaggie.com/blog/2023/4/11/scholastic-and-a-faustian-bargain\">posted publicly to her website\u003c/a> on Tuesday.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m typically a very compromising person,” the Oakland, Calif.-based author, who is Asian American, told NPR. “But when you omit the word racism from a story about the mass incarceration of a single group of people based on their race, there’s no compromise to be had with that if you can’t agree on basic facts.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Without its proper context, she said, the story “runs the risk of just being like a lovely little love story. And that’s not what it is. To pretend otherwise would do a disservice not just to [my grandparents], but also to the 120,000 other people who were incarcerated at the time.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>Scholastic issues an apology\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>Two days after the author first spoke out about the offer, Scholastic said it had apologized to Tokuda-Hall for its editing approach, in a statement sent to NPR on Thursday night.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13926336']“In our initial outreach we suggested edits to Ms. Tokuda-Hall’s author’s note,” the company’s CEO Peter Warwick wrote in a statement. “This approach was wrong and not in keeping with Scholastic’s values. We don’t want to diminish or in any way minimize the racism that tragically persists against Asian-Americans.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scholastic said that during the process it had failed to consult its “mentors” for the Rising Voices collection — authors and educators from Asian American, Native Hawaiian and Pacific Islander communities — and has since reached out to them to hear their concerns. “We must never do this again,” Warwick wrote.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scholastic, which had planned to feature \u003cem>Love in the Library\u003c/em> as part of its “Rising Voices Library” collection highlighting voices, said it hopes to restart the conversation with Tokuda-Hall with the aim of sharing the book with the author’s note unchanged.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s not yet clear whether Tokuda-Hall will consider their revised offer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That conversation is not concluded and so I do not have any comment yet,” she told NPR in an email.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927868\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927868\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-17-at-10.50.04-AM-800x1003.png\" alt=\"A young Asian-American woman wearing a spotted dress and denim jacket smiles warmly. She had long black hair.\" width=\"800\" height=\"1003\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-17-at-10.50.04-AM-800x1003.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-17-at-10.50.04-AM-160x201.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-17-at-10.50.04-AM-768x963.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-17-at-10.50.04-AM.png 1000w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Maggie Tokuda-Hall is based in Oakland. \u003ccite>(Red Scott)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch3>The author says publishers are silencing marginalized voices\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>To Tokuda-Hall, her experience with Scholastic is another instance in which publishers are yielding to conservative advocacy groups in the face of recent\u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/2023/03/23/1164284891/book-bans-school-libraries-florida\"> battles over book bans and author censorship\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In one case, a Florida textbook publisher removed all explicit references to race from its lesson materials about civil rights icon Rosa Parks in order to win approval from Florida’s Department of Education, \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/2023/03/16/us/florida-textbooks-african-american-history.html\">\u003cem>The New York Times\u003c/em> reported last month.\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Publishers, she wrote on her website before the Scholastic apology, “want to sell our suffering, smoothed down and made palatable to the white readers they prioritize. … Our voices are the first sacrifice at the altar of marketability.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13926136']It’s impossible to put a price on what Tokuda-Hall may sacrifice from rejecting the deal with Scholastic, a trusted, powerhouse publisher in the children’s market that affords authors exposure. She feared that speaking publicly about the offer could harm her reputation and career.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Children’s book authors — we’re fighting over nickels. It’s not exactly gangbusters, this industry,” she said. “So, when you’re presented with any opportunity to get your story, and particularly a story that you deeply believe in, in front of more eyes, it’s a huge opportunity.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But she thinks kids and their families have the most to lose from situations like this.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I think they’re losing the opportunity to talk about the truth, to learn the truth, to discuss it,” she said. “No substantive change for the better can be made without reconciliation with the truth.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Since going public with her experience, the author says, she’s heard from other marginalized writers and people in the publishing industry — largely people of color and queer people, she says — who have also had to make difficult choices about their work and how its presented.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“My DMs have been absolutely full,” she said. “People sharing pretty horrific stories that they’re just too afraid to share in public.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some authors and others in the publishing world responded publicly in support of Tokuda-Hall.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“By refusing to let this story be situated in context of government oppression and enslavement of other marginalized groups, past and present, It makes it safe for them to say ‘historically, mistakes were made, but look at how successful Japanese American communities are now,’ ” \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/dongwon/status/1646274879770046465?s=20\">literary agent DongWon Song\u003c/a> tweeted. “This is white supremacy. This is how it operates.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Author Martha Brockenbrough has collected close to 400 signatures \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/mbrockenbrough/status/1646630393024770048?s=20\">on a letter to Scholastic\u003c/a> calling on the publisher to feature \u003cem>Love in the Library\u003c/em> without edits.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before she received Scholastic’s apology, Tokuda-Hall said that, whether or not the publisher apologizes, her “greatest fear is that this is a momentary flurry of outrage, but nothing changes. And other creators are asked to make horrible choices like this going forward in the dark.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cdiv class=\"fullattribution\">\u003cem>Copyright 2023 NPR. To see more, \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org\">visit NPR\u003c/a>.\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://www.google-analytics.com/__utm.gif?utmac=UA-5828686-4&utmdt=Scholastic+wanted+to+license+her+children%27s+book+%E2%80%94+if+she+cut+a+part+about+%27racism%27&utme=8(APIKey)9(MDAxOTAwOTE4MDEyMTkxMDAzNjczZDljZA004)\">\u003c/em>\u003c/div>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927862\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927862\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/litl_custom-90e0e303bdd9319c3cc4a2288c813f52af1159c8-e1681753318427-800x715.jpg\" alt=\"An illustration shows a young man carrying a pile of books and a young woman sitting on the floor reading one. They are between two rows of bookcases. Through the window behind them, barbed wire and a guard tower is visible.\" width=\"800\" height=\"715\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/litl_custom-90e0e303bdd9319c3cc4a2288c813f52af1159c8-e1681753318427-800x715.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/litl_custom-90e0e303bdd9319c3cc4a2288c813f52af1159c8-e1681753318427-1020x911.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/litl_custom-90e0e303bdd9319c3cc4a2288c813f52af1159c8-e1681753318427-160x143.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/litl_custom-90e0e303bdd9319c3cc4a2288c813f52af1159c8-e1681753318427-768x686.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/litl_custom-90e0e303bdd9319c3cc4a2288c813f52af1159c8-e1681753318427-1536x1372.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/litl_custom-90e0e303bdd9319c3cc4a2288c813f52af1159c8-e1681753318427.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">‘Love in the Library’, a children’s book written by Maggie Tokuda-Hall and illustrated by Yas Imamura, is a love story about finding hope in a dire setting: an internment camp where the U.S. detained Japanese Americans during World War II. \u003ccite>(Candlewick Press)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Maggie Tokuda-Hall was thrilled when she first saw the offer from the publishing giant.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scholastic wanted to license her 2022 children’s book \u003cem>Love in the Library\u003c/em>. The deal would draw a wider audience to\u003ca href=\"https://www.prettyokmaggie.com/press-kit-love-in-the-library\"> her book\u003c/a> — a love story set in a World War II incarceration camp for Japanese Americans and inspired by her grandparents, about the improbable joy found “in a place built to make people feel like they weren’t human.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Then she read Scholastic’s suggested revisions to her book, included in the same email as the offer news. Her excitement at the opportunity was almost immediately tempered.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>The publisher\u003cstrong>‘\u003c/strong>s only suggested edit was to the author’s note: Scholastic had crossed out a key section that references “the deeply American tradition of racism” to describe the tale’s real-life historical backdrop — a time when the U.S. government forcibly relocated more than 120,000 Japanese Americans to dozens of internment sites from 1942-1945.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scholastic gave its reasons for the suggested change in an email to the author and her original publisher, Candlewick Press, citing a “politically sensitive” moment for its market and a worry that the section “goes beyond what some teachers are willing to cover with the kids in their elementary classrooms.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This could lead to teachers declining to use the book, which would be a shame,” Scholastic’s email said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The deal with Scholastic was contingent on not only nixing that section, according to the author, but removing the word “racism” from the author’s note entirely.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927867\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927867\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-17-at-10.47.01-AM-800x355.png\" alt=\"A double page spread titled Author's Note, with sections of text highlighted in red.\" width=\"800\" height=\"355\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-17-at-10.47.01-AM-800x355.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-17-at-10.47.01-AM-1020x453.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-17-at-10.47.01-AM-160x71.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-17-at-10.47.01-AM-768x341.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-17-at-10.47.01-AM-1536x682.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-17-at-10.47.01-AM.png 1694w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Scholastic made the suggested revisions above to Tokuda-Hall’s book in an attachment it sent to her original publisher. “They wanted to take this book and repackage it so that it was just a simple love story,” the author wrote on her blog. \u003ccite>(Prettyokmaggie.com)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Infuriated by what she called a “horrific demand for censorship,” Tokuda-Hall gave Scholastic a hard no.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The author called the offer deeply offensive in an email to Candlewick Press, which passed along Scholastic’s proposal, a response she \u003ca href=\"https://www.prettyokmaggie.com/blog/2023/4/11/scholastic-and-a-faustian-bargain\">posted publicly to her website\u003c/a> on Tuesday.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m typically a very compromising person,” the Oakland, Calif.-based author, who is Asian American, told NPR. “But when you omit the word racism from a story about the mass incarceration of a single group of people based on their race, there’s no compromise to be had with that if you can’t agree on basic facts.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Without its proper context, she said, the story “runs the risk of just being like a lovely little love story. And that’s not what it is. To pretend otherwise would do a disservice not just to [my grandparents], but also to the 120,000 other people who were incarcerated at the time.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>Scholastic issues an apology\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>Two days after the author first spoke out about the offer, Scholastic said it had apologized to Tokuda-Hall for its editing approach, in a statement sent to NPR on Thursday night.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“In our initial outreach we suggested edits to Ms. Tokuda-Hall’s author’s note,” the company’s CEO Peter Warwick wrote in a statement. “This approach was wrong and not in keeping with Scholastic’s values. We don’t want to diminish or in any way minimize the racism that tragically persists against Asian-Americans.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scholastic said that during the process it had failed to consult its “mentors” for the Rising Voices collection — authors and educators from Asian American, Native Hawaiian and Pacific Islander communities — and has since reached out to them to hear their concerns. “We must never do this again,” Warwick wrote.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scholastic, which had planned to feature \u003cem>Love in the Library\u003c/em> as part of its “Rising Voices Library” collection highlighting voices, said it hopes to restart the conversation with Tokuda-Hall with the aim of sharing the book with the author’s note unchanged.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s not yet clear whether Tokuda-Hall will consider their revised offer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That conversation is not concluded and so I do not have any comment yet,” she told NPR in an email.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927868\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927868\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-17-at-10.50.04-AM-800x1003.png\" alt=\"A young Asian-American woman wearing a spotted dress and denim jacket smiles warmly. She had long black hair.\" width=\"800\" height=\"1003\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-17-at-10.50.04-AM-800x1003.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-17-at-10.50.04-AM-160x201.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-17-at-10.50.04-AM-768x963.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-17-at-10.50.04-AM.png 1000w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Maggie Tokuda-Hall is based in Oakland. \u003ccite>(Red Scott)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch3>The author says publishers are silencing marginalized voices\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>To Tokuda-Hall, her experience with Scholastic is another instance in which publishers are yielding to conservative advocacy groups in the face of recent\u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/2023/03/23/1164284891/book-bans-school-libraries-florida\"> battles over book bans and author censorship\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In one case, a Florida textbook publisher removed all explicit references to race from its lesson materials about civil rights icon Rosa Parks in order to win approval from Florida’s Department of Education, \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/2023/03/16/us/florida-textbooks-african-american-history.html\">\u003cem>The New York Times\u003c/em> reported last month.\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Publishers, she wrote on her website before the Scholastic apology, “want to sell our suffering, smoothed down and made palatable to the white readers they prioritize. … Our voices are the first sacrifice at the altar of marketability.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>It’s impossible to put a price on what Tokuda-Hall may sacrifice from rejecting the deal with Scholastic, a trusted, powerhouse publisher in the children’s market that affords authors exposure. She feared that speaking publicly about the offer could harm her reputation and career.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Children’s book authors — we’re fighting over nickels. It’s not exactly gangbusters, this industry,” she said. “So, when you’re presented with any opportunity to get your story, and particularly a story that you deeply believe in, in front of more eyes, it’s a huge opportunity.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But she thinks kids and their families have the most to lose from situations like this.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I think they’re losing the opportunity to talk about the truth, to learn the truth, to discuss it,” she said. “No substantive change for the better can be made without reconciliation with the truth.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Since going public with her experience, the author says, she’s heard from other marginalized writers and people in the publishing industry — largely people of color and queer people, she says — who have also had to make difficult choices about their work and how its presented.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“My DMs have been absolutely full,” she said. “People sharing pretty horrific stories that they’re just too afraid to share in public.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some authors and others in the publishing world responded publicly in support of Tokuda-Hall.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“By refusing to let this story be situated in context of government oppression and enslavement of other marginalized groups, past and present, It makes it safe for them to say ‘historically, mistakes were made, but look at how successful Japanese American communities are now,’ ” \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/dongwon/status/1646274879770046465?s=20\">literary agent DongWon Song\u003c/a> tweeted. “This is white supremacy. This is how it operates.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Author Martha Brockenbrough has collected close to 400 signatures \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/mbrockenbrough/status/1646630393024770048?s=20\">on a letter to Scholastic\u003c/a> calling on the publisher to feature \u003cem>Love in the Library\u003c/em> without edits.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "Looking Back on My Album ‘No Need for Alarm,’ 30 Years Later",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927684\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 792px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927684\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DEL.GIF.Horiz_.USE_.gif\" alt=\"a record cover cycles in and out of the background where its original cover photo was shot, showing a pagoda and victorian houses\" width=\"792\" height=\"565\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Released Nov. 23, 1993, Del the Funky Homosapien’s ‘No Need for Alarm’ is shown at the original location of its cover photo, in Chinese Garden Park at Alice and 7th Streets in Oakland. \u003ccite>(Photos by Beth LaBerge/KQED; animation by Bryan Bindloss/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cstrong>Editor’s note\u003c/strong>: This story is part of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>, 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>\u003cem>Del the Funky Homosapien’s sophomore album \u003c/em>No Need For Alarm\u003cem> is a Bay Area classic that proved his uncompromising skill and helped establish the Hieroglyphics collective nationally as a creative force. Here, from an interview condensed for length and clarity, Del, a.k.a. Teren Delvon Jones, recalls the circumstances of the album’s recording, artwork and reception.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cstrong>As told to\u003c/strong>: Gabe Meline\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\">W\u003c/span>hen I was making \u003cem>No Need for Alarm\u003c/em>, I was in a dark space. I had a lot of issues growing up. I don’t think I was aware of it then, but looking back, I was in an angsty space. I was dealing with issues of abuse, being different from everybody, pretty much being a loner except for people that was into the culture I was, which was not that many. I appreciated the camaraderie that I had, too, don’t get me wrong. But yeah, I had an attitude.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I had come out with my first album, \u003cem>I Wish My Brother George Was Here\u003c/em>, which I made with Ice Cube — he’s my cousin. And the response from a lot of heads was not at all what I expected. It wasn’t celebratory. It was more like, “OK, you’re selling out. Why’re you rappin’ over P-Funk shit?” So, that caused me to be, like, “All right, I’m just going all in this time, just to show motherfuckers what I really be on.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And I think that hurt Cube — I think he was like, “OK, well, damn, you didn’t like the first album?” I’m like, “Nah, nah, I like it, but, you know…” It was just that, from my little social network, I wasn’t getting the love that I thought I was going to get. It was the opposite. Because motherfuckers already done heard all my demos and shit. They knew how wild I could get.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927683\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927683\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.ApolloTheater.1992-800x532.jpg\" alt=\"A man in a baseball cap, sunglasses, nose ring and sweatshirt holds a microphone out to the crowd\" width=\"800\" height=\"532\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.ApolloTheater.1992-800x532.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.ApolloTheater.1992-1020x678.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.ApolloTheater.1992-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.ApolloTheater.1992-768x511.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.ApolloTheater.1992.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Del the Funky Homosapien onstage at the Apollo Theater in Harlem on Feb. 22, 1992, the year before ‘No Need for Alarm.’ \u003ccite>(Al Pereira/Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>So that’s what I did for \u003cem>No Need for Alarm\u003c/em>. I’m a battle rapper by nature. That’s what I really do. It was limited on the first album. And that was probably a wise decision, because a lot of people can’t understand that shit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was in transition. I was couch-surfing for a minute, living with different people, roommating. In ’93, I ended up living in New York mixing the album, doing whatever I needed to do for the album, so I had a little flat in New York that I was staying out of.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13923766']Before mixing in New York, though, we recorded at Hyde Street Studios in San Francisco, with Matt Kelly. Matt Kelly is one of my mentors. He really showed me how to mix, he showed me how to be able to listen to the mix, how to work the equipment in the studio. When I had questions, he would answer my questions and really fuck with me. He took me under his wing and showed me a lot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some people write in the studio. We were more self-reliant — we had songs done before we even hit the studio. Nine times out of 10 when we hit the studio, we’re there to record the shit and get it done.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our time outside the studio, though, that would be when we were smoking and drinking, making beats, selecting shit. Motherfuckers might bring records over, I’d be like, “Ooh, what’s this?” Be like, “Ooh, okay. We’ll use that real quick.” I might be at Opio’s house with A-Plus, Tajai might be there, we might be listening to records. His stepfather had a great collection of records, so we’d just be in his office, listening to records, getting ideas, maybe watching anime or something, playing video games.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927690\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927690\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.BackCover.600.72dpi.jpg\" alt=\"a young man in a superman t-shirt smokes in a park\" width=\"600\" height=\"840\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.BackCover.600.72dpi.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.BackCover.600.72dpi-160x224.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Del: ‘One of my favorite songs from around that time, ‘Pistol Whippers,’ it didn’t even make the album. I was proud of the production on that one. I just thought that beat was hella crazy.’ \u003ccite>(Carl Posey / Elektra Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The album came out and Elektra Records loved it. I don’t know if Cube loved it, but Elektra was fully supportive. And Dante Ross was my dog over there — he’s part of the culture, so he felt it. I was with Sophia Chang too, she was A&R over at Jive Records, and got Souls of Mischief and Casual on the label there. She ended up leaving, but I still was good friends with her. So when I was in New York, I would never be at my little flat. A lot of the time I’d either be at Dante’s crib, or Sophia’s crib, or over at Kurious Jorge’s crib.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I appreciated their friendship and the encouragement, because like I said, I was in a dark place. I don’t even think I really believed in my shit like that, but Sophia and Dante really backed it, especially Sophia. I appreciated her taste because she fucked with Wu-Tang, she knew what was up. So it was big for her to be like, “Nah, this really is tight. Go forward.” Even when Cube was like, “Whatever, man, if you wanna do what you wanna to do, go ahead.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=spcKBTfjW1M\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I will say this, there’s some things I said about women on that album that I’m not too proud of. I was a kid, but no excuses. I said some shit about white people on there that I’m not too proud of. I don’t really feel like that. Like I said, I have my issues — and, I’m Black, growing up in that era, so it was different. I think people that heard it understood where I was coming from, too, because I wasn’t trying to be malicious, necessarily. I was just letting it spill out, whatever the fuck it was.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Oakland had crack going on and the high murder rate, which affected me, but I didn’t wanna rap about that shit. For me, hip-hop was like how it was for motherfuckers in the Bronx, like Ultramagnetic MCs. I done talked to Kool Keith, and he was like, “You might come home and see a hand in the mailbox, or your next-door neighbor might have a gorilla in this house.” Just wild shit. Because if you’ve got dope money, you might be trying to floss, maybe you might get a tiger.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Ultramag, they’re trying to escape that shit. They’re like, “Man, why I wanna rap about gangster shit? I don’t wanna rap about that shit.” So, that’s how I was. It did affect me, but hip-hop gave me a vehicle to escape it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927688\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927688\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi-800x800.jpg\" alt=\"a red pagoda in a park, with victorian houses in the background\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi-1536x1536.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The pagoda at Chinese Garden Park in Oakland, where the ‘No Need for Alarm’ cover photo was shot. Photographer Carl Posey recalls of the location: “The idea was to take people out of their typical element, and try something different.” \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The album cover was shot by Carl Posey. The pagoda, you know, I love all kind of different cultures, and that just spoke to me, the structure and how it looked. Maybe since I was into anime and shit, martial arts, that might’ve had a slight thing to do with it too. But I just like Chinatown too, you feel me?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13924167']We shot at the pagoda, then I picked this other spot that’s an underpass over by Lake Merritt, by the college. These are places that I liked to go to at night, because I was like, a street kid. I might not have had a place to go sometimes, so I’d just be out at night, tripping or whatever, in some of the places that I like to be at.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We did a comic book design for the cover. That was my idea. I was into Marvel and DC, but I was also heavy into underground comics. Vaughn Bodē, Mark Bodē, \u003cem>Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles\u003c/em>, all that shit was starting to come out and really bust the bubble. I did the lettering too. I’m a visual artist first and foremost, so I already had an artistic vision. Elektra was just gracious enough to let me go with it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927691\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927691\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.PressPhoto.93.800.72dpi.jpg\" alt=\"a man in a bucket hat sitting in a concrete culvert holds his hands out toward the camera\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.PressPhoto.93.800.72dpi.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.PressPhoto.93.800.72dpi-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.PressPhoto.93.800.72dpi-768x768.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Del the Funky Homosapien in Oakland, in 1993, in a publicity photo for ‘No Need for Alarm.’ ‘I think, looking back, Cube feels like, ‘Okay, you really did your thing. You didn’t try to ride my coattails. You did your thing and you became successful for that.’ I think he respects that now.’ \u003ccite>(Carl Posey / Elektra Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Man, I wish I still had that boombox I’m holding on the cover. I’d be playing all the classics on it. I was a huge Gang Starr fan. Ultramag, Erick Sermon, Jungle Brothers, De La, KMD, Brand Nubian. I also might be fucking with some dub, too, some King Tubby or Scratch Perry. I’d listen to dancehall too, and a bit of punk rock, like Black Flag.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was 20 when I recorded \u003cem>No Need for Alarm\u003c/em>. I’m 50 now. I don’t feel 50, because I don’t drive. I skate everywhere. In certain ways I feel my age because of some of the injuries I’ve had, like when I was with the Gorillaz, I had a real bad injury, fell off the stage, damn near killed myself. But I don’t feel like I look hella old, either.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hip-hop is 50 now, too, and it’s gotten to the point where it’s so far removed from where it was. The essence of it is so far removed from where kids is at now. I’m not saying that don’t nobody care about it, because a lot of kids do care about it, and they try to research the shit and figure it out. It speaks to them. But it’s been commercialized to the point where it’s been milked down by corporate society, motherfuckers feasting on shit, just wearing it into the ground. That’s the sad situation of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m not trying to sound hella dark or nothing, because I do got a lot of hope in the shit. There’s been new movements within hip-hop that took it somewhere else, that maybe a lot of old heads might not really fuck with. But I feel, overall, just the corporate rule, always, that’s what it is — “We trying to make money off this.” Ain’t really no concern about the culture or people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As for \u003cem>No Need for Alarm\u003c/em>, I’m just glad people still fuck with it, 30 years later. One love to all the supporters and all the fans. I love you all.\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\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927684\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 792px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927684\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DEL.GIF.Horiz_.USE_.gif\" alt=\"a record cover cycles in and out of the background where its original cover photo was shot, showing a pagoda and victorian houses\" width=\"792\" height=\"565\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Released Nov. 23, 1993, Del the Funky Homosapien’s ‘No Need for Alarm’ is shown at the original location of its cover photo, in Chinese Garden Park at Alice and 7th Streets in Oakland. \u003ccite>(Photos by Beth LaBerge/KQED; animation by Bryan Bindloss/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cstrong>Editor’s note\u003c/strong>: This story is part of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>, 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>\u003cem>Del the Funky Homosapien’s sophomore album \u003c/em>No Need For Alarm\u003cem> is a Bay Area classic that proved his uncompromising skill and helped establish the Hieroglyphics collective nationally as a creative force. Here, from an interview condensed for length and clarity, Del, a.k.a. Teren Delvon Jones, recalls the circumstances of the album’s recording, artwork and reception.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cstrong>As told to\u003c/strong>: Gabe Meline\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\">W\u003c/span>hen I was making \u003cem>No Need for Alarm\u003c/em>, I was in a dark space. I had a lot of issues growing up. I don’t think I was aware of it then, but looking back, I was in an angsty space. I was dealing with issues of abuse, being different from everybody, pretty much being a loner except for people that was into the culture I was, which was not that many. I appreciated the camaraderie that I had, too, don’t get me wrong. But yeah, I had an attitude.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I had come out with my first album, \u003cem>I Wish My Brother George Was Here\u003c/em>, which I made with Ice Cube — he’s my cousin. And the response from a lot of heads was not at all what I expected. It wasn’t celebratory. It was more like, “OK, you’re selling out. Why’re you rappin’ over P-Funk shit?” So, that caused me to be, like, “All right, I’m just going all in this time, just to show motherfuckers what I really be on.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And I think that hurt Cube — I think he was like, “OK, well, damn, you didn’t like the first album?” I’m like, “Nah, nah, I like it, but, you know…” It was just that, from my little social network, I wasn’t getting the love that I thought I was going to get. It was the opposite. Because motherfuckers already done heard all my demos and shit. They knew how wild I could get.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927683\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927683\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.ApolloTheater.1992-800x532.jpg\" alt=\"A man in a baseball cap, sunglasses, nose ring and sweatshirt holds a microphone out to the crowd\" width=\"800\" height=\"532\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.ApolloTheater.1992-800x532.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.ApolloTheater.1992-1020x678.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.ApolloTheater.1992-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.ApolloTheater.1992-768x511.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.ApolloTheater.1992.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Del the Funky Homosapien onstage at the Apollo Theater in Harlem on Feb. 22, 1992, the year before ‘No Need for Alarm.’ \u003ccite>(Al Pereira/Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>So that’s what I did for \u003cem>No Need for Alarm\u003c/em>. I’m a battle rapper by nature. That’s what I really do. It was limited on the first album. And that was probably a wise decision, because a lot of people can’t understand that shit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was in transition. I was couch-surfing for a minute, living with different people, roommating. In ’93, I ended up living in New York mixing the album, doing whatever I needed to do for the album, so I had a little flat in New York that I was staying out of.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Before mixing in New York, though, we recorded at Hyde Street Studios in San Francisco, with Matt Kelly. Matt Kelly is one of my mentors. He really showed me how to mix, he showed me how to be able to listen to the mix, how to work the equipment in the studio. When I had questions, he would answer my questions and really fuck with me. He took me under his wing and showed me a lot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some people write in the studio. We were more self-reliant — we had songs done before we even hit the studio. Nine times out of 10 when we hit the studio, we’re there to record the shit and get it done.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our time outside the studio, though, that would be when we were smoking and drinking, making beats, selecting shit. Motherfuckers might bring records over, I’d be like, “Ooh, what’s this?” Be like, “Ooh, okay. We’ll use that real quick.” I might be at Opio’s house with A-Plus, Tajai might be there, we might be listening to records. His stepfather had a great collection of records, so we’d just be in his office, listening to records, getting ideas, maybe watching anime or something, playing video games.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927690\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927690\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.BackCover.600.72dpi.jpg\" alt=\"a young man in a superman t-shirt smokes in a park\" width=\"600\" height=\"840\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.BackCover.600.72dpi.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.BackCover.600.72dpi-160x224.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Del: ‘One of my favorite songs from around that time, ‘Pistol Whippers,’ it didn’t even make the album. I was proud of the production on that one. I just thought that beat was hella crazy.’ \u003ccite>(Carl Posey / Elektra Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The album came out and Elektra Records loved it. I don’t know if Cube loved it, but Elektra was fully supportive. And Dante Ross was my dog over there — he’s part of the culture, so he felt it. I was with Sophia Chang too, she was A&R over at Jive Records, and got Souls of Mischief and Casual on the label there. She ended up leaving, but I still was good friends with her. So when I was in New York, I would never be at my little flat. A lot of the time I’d either be at Dante’s crib, or Sophia’s crib, or over at Kurious Jorge’s crib.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I appreciated their friendship and the encouragement, because like I said, I was in a dark place. I don’t even think I really believed in my shit like that, but Sophia and Dante really backed it, especially Sophia. I appreciated her taste because she fucked with Wu-Tang, she knew what was up. So it was big for her to be like, “Nah, this really is tight. Go forward.” Even when Cube was like, “Whatever, man, if you wanna do what you wanna to do, go ahead.”\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/spcKBTfjW1M'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/spcKBTfjW1M'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>I will say this, there’s some things I said about women on that album that I’m not too proud of. I was a kid, but no excuses. I said some shit about white people on there that I’m not too proud of. I don’t really feel like that. Like I said, I have my issues — and, I’m Black, growing up in that era, so it was different. I think people that heard it understood where I was coming from, too, because I wasn’t trying to be malicious, necessarily. I was just letting it spill out, whatever the fuck it was.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Oakland had crack going on and the high murder rate, which affected me, but I didn’t wanna rap about that shit. For me, hip-hop was like how it was for motherfuckers in the Bronx, like Ultramagnetic MCs. I done talked to Kool Keith, and he was like, “You might come home and see a hand in the mailbox, or your next-door neighbor might have a gorilla in this house.” Just wild shit. Because if you’ve got dope money, you might be trying to floss, maybe you might get a tiger.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Ultramag, they’re trying to escape that shit. They’re like, “Man, why I wanna rap about gangster shit? I don’t wanna rap about that shit.” So, that’s how I was. It did affect me, but hip-hop gave me a vehicle to escape it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927688\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927688\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi-800x800.jpg\" alt=\"a red pagoda in a park, with victorian houses in the background\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi-1536x1536.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The pagoda at Chinese Garden Park in Oakland, where the ‘No Need for Alarm’ cover photo was shot. Photographer Carl Posey recalls of the location: “The idea was to take people out of their typical element, and try something different.” \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The album cover was shot by Carl Posey. The pagoda, you know, I love all kind of different cultures, and that just spoke to me, the structure and how it looked. Maybe since I was into anime and shit, martial arts, that might’ve had a slight thing to do with it too. But I just like Chinatown too, you feel me?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>We shot at the pagoda, then I picked this other spot that’s an underpass over by Lake Merritt, by the college. These are places that I liked to go to at night, because I was like, a street kid. I might not have had a place to go sometimes, so I’d just be out at night, tripping or whatever, in some of the places that I like to be at.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We did a comic book design for the cover. That was my idea. I was into Marvel and DC, but I was also heavy into underground comics. Vaughn Bodē, Mark Bodē, \u003cem>Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles\u003c/em>, all that shit was starting to come out and really bust the bubble. I did the lettering too. I’m a visual artist first and foremost, so I already had an artistic vision. Elektra was just gracious enough to let me go with it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927691\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927691\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.PressPhoto.93.800.72dpi.jpg\" alt=\"a man in a bucket hat sitting in a concrete culvert holds his hands out toward the camera\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.PressPhoto.93.800.72dpi.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.PressPhoto.93.800.72dpi-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.PressPhoto.93.800.72dpi-768x768.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Del the Funky Homosapien in Oakland, in 1993, in a publicity photo for ‘No Need for Alarm.’ ‘I think, looking back, Cube feels like, ‘Okay, you really did your thing. You didn’t try to ride my coattails. You did your thing and you became successful for that.’ I think he respects that now.’ \u003ccite>(Carl Posey / Elektra Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Man, I wish I still had that boombox I’m holding on the cover. I’d be playing all the classics on it. I was a huge Gang Starr fan. Ultramag, Erick Sermon, Jungle Brothers, De La, KMD, Brand Nubian. I also might be fucking with some dub, too, some King Tubby or Scratch Perry. I’d listen to dancehall too, and a bit of punk rock, like Black Flag.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was 20 when I recorded \u003cem>No Need for Alarm\u003c/em>. I’m 50 now. I don’t feel 50, because I don’t drive. I skate everywhere. In certain ways I feel my age because of some of the injuries I’ve had, like when I was with the Gorillaz, I had a real bad injury, fell off the stage, damn near killed myself. But I don’t feel like I look hella old, either.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hip-hop is 50 now, too, and it’s gotten to the point where it’s so far removed from where it was. The essence of it is so far removed from where kids is at now. I’m not saying that don’t nobody care about it, because a lot of kids do care about it, and they try to research the shit and figure it out. It speaks to them. But it’s been commercialized to the point where it’s been milked down by corporate society, motherfuckers feasting on shit, just wearing it into the ground. That’s the sad situation of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m not trying to sound hella dark or nothing, because I do got a lot of hope in the shit. There’s been new movements within hip-hop that took it somewhere else, that maybe a lot of old heads might not really fuck with. But I feel, overall, just the corporate rule, always, that’s what it is — “We trying to make money off this.” Ain’t really no concern about the culture or people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As for \u003cem>No Need for Alarm\u003c/em>, I’m just glad people still fuck with it, 30 years later. One love to all the supporters and all the fans. I love you all.\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\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "bay-area-hip-hop-1980s",
"title": "How Bay Area Hip-Hop Found Its Sound in the 1980s",
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"headTitle": "How Bay Area Hip-Hop Found Its Sound in the 1980s | KQED",
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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>[dropcap]O[/dropcap]ne afternoon in 1972, Nina Simone was getting ready to appear at Rainbow Sign, a Black cultural center that had recently opened in Berkeley. Situated at 2640 Grove St (today’s Martin Luther King Jr. Way), the venue had been set up by local concert promoter Mary Ann Pollar the year prior. After Simone and Pollar had finished eating lunch, they were on the way out of the building when they encountered two young girls in the hall, approximately 10 and 12 years old. They immediately caught Simone’s eye.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='news_11901099']“Aren’t you supposed to be in school now?” Simone asked.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Oh, I don’t have to go to school,” the older child said. “I’m going to be a singer like you.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Simone immediately went into mentor mode. “Out of the next 100 people who walk in here, perhaps 90 can sing as well as I do,” Simone told the girl. “Do you really want to know how to become a singer?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Simone took both girls aside and talked to them for 45 minutes about the importance of education, commitment and working hard towards their goals. Simone made clear that raw talent alone was not enough to make it in the world. It was a stunning — and probably life-changing — interaction for the girls, who had shown up just hoping to catch a glimpse of their hero. A couple of years later, Mary Ann Pollar relayed the story to local journalist Sandra Greenlow.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“In one way,” she said, “we probably scared those children half to death. In another though, [Simone] gave them a priceless lesson.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://twitter.com/NinaSimoneMusic/status/1509542736495529991\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For the six years it was open, Rainbow Sign was a hotspot for the kind of exchanges that Simone and those Berkeley children had that day. It was a venue that entertained audiences with some of the greatest Black artists of the time — Curtis Mayfield, Marvin Gaye, Pharoah Sanders, Oscar Brown Jr. and Simone amongst them. Writers like Maya Angelou, James Baldwin, Alex Haley, Alice Walker and Joyce Carol Thomas gave readings there. Historians like Samella Lewis and Mrs. W. E. B. DuBois gave talks. Legendary dancer Josephine Baker even appeared in the 200-seat hall.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13874853']At the time, Mary Ann tried to explain what made her intimate venue so appealing to such major artists. “It’s an energy,” she said. “It floats in the air. In other places people overhear the performers. In this room, they listen. I don’t know what explains it, but here it’s more than just someone standing on a stage.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rainbow Sign was much more than a music hall too. It hosted weddings, tea parties, art shows and children’s events. It was the venue at which Shirley Chisholm announced her presidential run. It was a restaurant that served up Mary Ann’s spectacular cooking — smothered steak, fried chicken and dessert pies were all raved-about favorites. The banquet hall hosted the League of Women voters, the NAACP and the Urban League. Rainbow Sign was a place where employees recently released from San Quentin could rub shoulders with Berkeley’s first Black mayor, Warren Widener. Rainbow Sign also served as a movie theater, a venue for film and writing workshops and a floor for dance classes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mary Ann’s daughter Odette Pollar tells KQED Arts today: “I remember the feeling of Rainbow Sign. It was like walking into somebody’s home. It was very friendly and warm and welcoming. It was a big place but it was always bustling — always something going on. It was fun. Everybody was very accessible.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927307\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927307\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-03-at-5.14.18-PM_Edit2-800x972.png\" alt=\"A Black woman with very short hair smiles broadly, looking off in the distance. She is wearing a 1970s-era blouse with lots of ruffles.\" width=\"800\" height=\"972\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-03-at-5.14.18-PM_Edit2-800x972.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-03-at-5.14.18-PM_Edit2-1020x1239.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-03-at-5.14.18-PM_Edit2-160x194.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-03-at-5.14.18-PM_Edit2-768x933.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-03-at-5.14.18-PM_Edit2-1265x1536.png 1265w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-03-at-5.14.18-PM_Edit2.png 1320w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mary Ann Pollar. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Odette Pollar)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]W[/dropcap]hen people remember Mary Ann now, it is most frequently through the lens of what she did with Rainbow Sign, which, sadly, closed in 1977 because of financial woes. But Mary Ann was a pillar of the Bay Area community from the time she moved here in 1951.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mary Ann was interested in workers’ rights from a young age. After graduating from Chicago’s Roosevelt University with a degree in labor education, she shared her unionizing knowhow while working with the \u003ca href=\"https://nul.org/\">National Urban League\u003c/a> — a nonprofit that, to this day, works towards economic empowerment, education and civil rights for underserved communities. In the late ’60s, she volunteered with the \u003ca href=\"https://www.un.org/en/observances/un-day\">United Nations Day\u003c/a> Committee, even helping to organize a U.N. birthday party in Oakland in 1968.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13887962']“I am a U.N. fan,” she noted at the time. “The whole idea of everybody putting in his two cents’ worth has a lot of meaning for me.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After Rainbow Sign’s closure, Mary Ann went back to this kind of work while employed by AC Transit. For the two decades she worked there, she took part in multiple campaigns to benefit her fellow workers. She encouraged employees to buy savings bonds — a safe and reliable means to invest — and she organized a local union.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was music, however, that first turned Mary Ann into a public figure. In the 1950s, after booking a show for their friend \u003ca href=\"https://www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/how-odetta-revolutionized-folk-music\">Odetta\u003c/a> — a beloved folk and blues musician — Mary Ann and her husband Henry decided to become concert promoters. Under the moniker “Mary Ann Pollar Presents,” the pair booked the likes of Simon and Garfunkel, Taj Mahal, Joan Baez, Frank Zappa, Nancy Wilson, Buffy St. Marie, Nana Mouskouri, Judy Collins, Pete Seeger, Arlo Guthrie, Peter Paul and Mary and, of course, Nina Simone. They were also responsible for booking Bob Dylan’s very first Bay Area concert in 1964.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926549\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926549\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Mary-Ann-Pollar-Presents-Ad-Oct-1969-800x610.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"610\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Mary-Ann-Pollar-Presents-Ad-Oct-1969-800x610.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Mary-Ann-Pollar-Presents-Ad-Oct-1969-1020x778.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Mary-Ann-Pollar-Presents-Ad-Oct-1969-160x122.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Mary-Ann-Pollar-Presents-Ad-Oct-1969-768x586.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Mary-Ann-Pollar-Presents-Ad-Oct-1969.png 1080w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An October 1969 newspaper ad for upcoming Mary Ann Pollar Presents concerts by Nina Simone, Pete Seeger and Arlo Guthrie. \u003ccite>(San Francisco Examiner)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>As concert promoters, the Pollars were involved in every single aspect of getting live music to the Bay. It was their job to find appropriate stages when there were very few dedicated live music venues. In the evenings, the couple and a pre-teen Odette would sit around their dining table stuffing envelopes with upcoming concert listings and sending them out to their mailing list. (“I loved it!” Odette says, reminiscing.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The couple handled advertising, ticket printing and distribution, running the box office and even picking up and driving around the artists. After concerts were over, both musicians and audience members would usually resume the party in the Pollars’ living room on Shattuck Avenue. On at least one occasion, singer-songwriter \u003ca href=\"https://www.bobneuwirth.com/\">Bob Neuwith\u003c/a> acted as the designated door guy for the Berkeley home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Because of the dedicated way the couple ran their business, and because they exercised good judgment in their booking, artists grew to trust the name Pollar, and Mary Ann became known well beyond Bay Area music scene.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“A lot of people came because they trusted my mom,” Odette says now. “So if there was a new performer and people got a flyer from my mom, people would go, ‘Let’s go. Let’s try it.’ That was very common. In the ’50s and ’60s, this was a small community. Not that many people knew folk music. Everyone was just starting out. Bob Dylan was just starting out!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though she is often remembered for her love of folk music, Odette mentions that her mom had very eclectic musical tastes — something Mary Ann had been careful to note in her own life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’ve never been able to understand why I like folk music so much,” she once said. “I come from a family of Baptist preachers down in Texas on the border of Mexico, so of course I love gospel music. I dig flamenco too. I never had any musical background. I am a listener — really a listener.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]T[/dropcap]oday, looking back, Odette speculates that her mother’s childhood may have been the reason Mary Ann carried herself with such confidence and fortitude. Mary Ann grew up in \u003ca href=\"https://missiontexas.us/\">Mission, Texas\u003c/a> — a town so close to the border she grew up speaking fluent Spanish. Mary Ann’s mother, conscious that her daughter would get a better formal education elsewhere, sent Mary Ann to Chicago at the age of 12 to live with relatives. Getting thrown into big city living without her mom by her side proved to be an education for Mary Ann in more ways than one. Mary Ann and her parents would never live in the same place again. Odette’s maternal grandparents died before she could ever meet them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13916612']Mary Ann’s dedication to the Bay Area was not wasted. Even after her death in 1999, her good example and the effects the spaces she created had on others, continue to endure.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Whenever we showed up at the Rainbow Sign, we were greeted with big smiles and warm hugs,” Kamala Harris wrote in her 2019 autobiography, \u003cem>The Truths We Hold\u003c/em>. “Kids like me who spent time at Rainbow Sign were exposed to dozens of extraordinary men and women who showed us what we could become.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They were risk-takers but not crazy,” Odette says of her parents now. “My dad would say ‘Go to college, get a degree, have fun, do anything you want, but also make sure you have a practical skill to fall back on.’ What I got from my mom,” Odette continues, “is the idea that you could create something from nothing.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mary Ann Pollar did that over and over and over again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/arts/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-800x78.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>To learn about other Rebel Girls from Bay Area History, visit the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/rebelgirls\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Rebel Girls homepage\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>A book celebrating women from the Rebel Girls series, \u003ca href=\"https://citylights.com/politics-current-events-history/unsung-heroines35-women-who-changed/\">‘Unsung Heroines: 35 Women Who Changed the Bay Area,’\u003c/a> is available now from City Lights.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">O\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>ne afternoon in 1972, Nina Simone was getting ready to appear at Rainbow Sign, a Black cultural center that had recently opened in Berkeley. Situated at 2640 Grove St (today’s Martin Luther King Jr. Way), the venue had been set up by local concert promoter Mary Ann Pollar the year prior. After Simone and Pollar had finished eating lunch, they were on the way out of the building when they encountered two young girls in the hall, approximately 10 and 12 years old. They immediately caught Simone’s eye.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“Aren’t you supposed to be in school now?” Simone asked.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Oh, I don’t have to go to school,” the older child said. “I’m going to be a singer like you.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Simone immediately went into mentor mode. “Out of the next 100 people who walk in here, perhaps 90 can sing as well as I do,” Simone told the girl. “Do you really want to know how to become a singer?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Simone took both girls aside and talked to them for 45 minutes about the importance of education, commitment and working hard towards their goals. Simone made clear that raw talent alone was not enough to make it in the world. It was a stunning — and probably life-changing — interaction for the girls, who had shown up just hoping to catch a glimpse of their hero. A couple of years later, Mary Ann Pollar relayed the story to local journalist Sandra Greenlow.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“In one way,” she said, “we probably scared those children half to death. In another though, [Simone] gave them a priceless lesson.”\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\n\u003cp>For the six years it was open, Rainbow Sign was a hotspot for the kind of exchanges that Simone and those Berkeley children had that day. It was a venue that entertained audiences with some of the greatest Black artists of the time — Curtis Mayfield, Marvin Gaye, Pharoah Sanders, Oscar Brown Jr. and Simone amongst them. Writers like Maya Angelou, James Baldwin, Alex Haley, Alice Walker and Joyce Carol Thomas gave readings there. Historians like Samella Lewis and Mrs. W. E. B. DuBois gave talks. Legendary dancer Josephine Baker even appeared in the 200-seat hall.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>At the time, Mary Ann tried to explain what made her intimate venue so appealing to such major artists. “It’s an energy,” she said. “It floats in the air. In other places people overhear the performers. In this room, they listen. I don’t know what explains it, but here it’s more than just someone standing on a stage.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rainbow Sign was much more than a music hall too. It hosted weddings, tea parties, art shows and children’s events. It was the venue at which Shirley Chisholm announced her presidential run. It was a restaurant that served up Mary Ann’s spectacular cooking — smothered steak, fried chicken and dessert pies were all raved-about favorites. The banquet hall hosted the League of Women voters, the NAACP and the Urban League. Rainbow Sign was a place where employees recently released from San Quentin could rub shoulders with Berkeley’s first Black mayor, Warren Widener. Rainbow Sign also served as a movie theater, a venue for film and writing workshops and a floor for dance classes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mary Ann’s daughter Odette Pollar tells KQED Arts today: “I remember the feeling of Rainbow Sign. It was like walking into somebody’s home. It was very friendly and warm and welcoming. It was a big place but it was always bustling — always something going on. It was fun. Everybody was very accessible.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927307\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927307\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-03-at-5.14.18-PM_Edit2-800x972.png\" alt=\"A Black woman with very short hair smiles broadly, looking off in the distance. She is wearing a 1970s-era blouse with lots of ruffles.\" width=\"800\" height=\"972\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-03-at-5.14.18-PM_Edit2-800x972.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-03-at-5.14.18-PM_Edit2-1020x1239.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-03-at-5.14.18-PM_Edit2-160x194.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-03-at-5.14.18-PM_Edit2-768x933.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-03-at-5.14.18-PM_Edit2-1265x1536.png 1265w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Screen-Shot-2023-04-03-at-5.14.18-PM_Edit2.png 1320w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mary Ann Pollar. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Odette Pollar)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">W\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>hen people remember Mary Ann now, it is most frequently through the lens of what she did with Rainbow Sign, which, sadly, closed in 1977 because of financial woes. But Mary Ann was a pillar of the Bay Area community from the time she moved here in 1951.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mary Ann was interested in workers’ rights from a young age. After graduating from Chicago’s Roosevelt University with a degree in labor education, she shared her unionizing knowhow while working with the \u003ca href=\"https://nul.org/\">National Urban League\u003c/a> — a nonprofit that, to this day, works towards economic empowerment, education and civil rights for underserved communities. In the late ’60s, she volunteered with the \u003ca href=\"https://www.un.org/en/observances/un-day\">United Nations Day\u003c/a> Committee, even helping to organize a U.N. birthday party in Oakland in 1968.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“I am a U.N. fan,” she noted at the time. “The whole idea of everybody putting in his two cents’ worth has a lot of meaning for me.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After Rainbow Sign’s closure, Mary Ann went back to this kind of work while employed by AC Transit. For the two decades she worked there, she took part in multiple campaigns to benefit her fellow workers. She encouraged employees to buy savings bonds — a safe and reliable means to invest — and she organized a local union.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was music, however, that first turned Mary Ann into a public figure. In the 1950s, after booking a show for their friend \u003ca href=\"https://www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/how-odetta-revolutionized-folk-music\">Odetta\u003c/a> — a beloved folk and blues musician — Mary Ann and her husband Henry decided to become concert promoters. Under the moniker “Mary Ann Pollar Presents,” the pair booked the likes of Simon and Garfunkel, Taj Mahal, Joan Baez, Frank Zappa, Nancy Wilson, Buffy St. Marie, Nana Mouskouri, Judy Collins, Pete Seeger, Arlo Guthrie, Peter Paul and Mary and, of course, Nina Simone. They were also responsible for booking Bob Dylan’s very first Bay Area concert in 1964.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926549\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926549\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Mary-Ann-Pollar-Presents-Ad-Oct-1969-800x610.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"610\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Mary-Ann-Pollar-Presents-Ad-Oct-1969-800x610.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Mary-Ann-Pollar-Presents-Ad-Oct-1969-1020x778.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Mary-Ann-Pollar-Presents-Ad-Oct-1969-160x122.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Mary-Ann-Pollar-Presents-Ad-Oct-1969-768x586.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Mary-Ann-Pollar-Presents-Ad-Oct-1969.png 1080w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An October 1969 newspaper ad for upcoming Mary Ann Pollar Presents concerts by Nina Simone, Pete Seeger and Arlo Guthrie. \u003ccite>(San Francisco Examiner)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>As concert promoters, the Pollars were involved in every single aspect of getting live music to the Bay. It was their job to find appropriate stages when there were very few dedicated live music venues. In the evenings, the couple and a pre-teen Odette would sit around their dining table stuffing envelopes with upcoming concert listings and sending them out to their mailing list. (“I loved it!” Odette says, reminiscing.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The couple handled advertising, ticket printing and distribution, running the box office and even picking up and driving around the artists. After concerts were over, both musicians and audience members would usually resume the party in the Pollars’ living room on Shattuck Avenue. On at least one occasion, singer-songwriter \u003ca href=\"https://www.bobneuwirth.com/\">Bob Neuwith\u003c/a> acted as the designated door guy for the Berkeley home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Because of the dedicated way the couple ran their business, and because they exercised good judgment in their booking, artists grew to trust the name Pollar, and Mary Ann became known well beyond Bay Area music scene.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“A lot of people came because they trusted my mom,” Odette says now. “So if there was a new performer and people got a flyer from my mom, people would go, ‘Let’s go. Let’s try it.’ That was very common. In the ’50s and ’60s, this was a small community. Not that many people knew folk music. Everyone was just starting out. Bob Dylan was just starting out!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though she is often remembered for her love of folk music, Odette mentions that her mom had very eclectic musical tastes — something Mary Ann had been careful to note in her own life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’ve never been able to understand why I like folk music so much,” she once said. “I come from a family of Baptist preachers down in Texas on the border of Mexico, so of course I love gospel music. I dig flamenco too. I never had any musical background. I am a listener — really a listener.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">T\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>oday, looking back, Odette speculates that her mother’s childhood may have been the reason Mary Ann carried herself with such confidence and fortitude. Mary Ann grew up in \u003ca href=\"https://missiontexas.us/\">Mission, Texas\u003c/a> — a town so close to the border she grew up speaking fluent Spanish. Mary Ann’s mother, conscious that her daughter would get a better formal education elsewhere, sent Mary Ann to Chicago at the age of 12 to live with relatives. Getting thrown into big city living without her mom by her side proved to be an education for Mary Ann in more ways than one. Mary Ann and her parents would never live in the same place again. Odette’s maternal grandparents died before she could ever meet them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Mary Ann’s dedication to the Bay Area was not wasted. Even after her death in 1999, her good example and the effects the spaces she created had on others, continue to endure.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Whenever we showed up at the Rainbow Sign, we were greeted with big smiles and warm hugs,” Kamala Harris wrote in her 2019 autobiography, \u003cem>The Truths We Hold\u003c/em>. “Kids like me who spent time at Rainbow Sign were exposed to dozens of extraordinary men and women who showed us what we could become.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They were risk-takers but not crazy,” Odette says of her parents now. “My dad would say ‘Go to college, get a degree, have fun, do anything you want, but also make sure you have a practical skill to fall back on.’ What I got from my mom,” Odette continues, “is the idea that you could create something from nothing.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mary Ann Pollar did that over and over and over again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/arts/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-800x78.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>To learn about other Rebel Girls from Bay Area History, visit the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/rebelgirls\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Rebel Girls homepage\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>A book celebrating women from the Rebel Girls series, \u003ca href=\"https://citylights.com/politics-current-events-history/unsung-heroines35-women-who-changed/\">‘Unsung Heroines: 35 Women Who Changed the Bay Area,’\u003c/a> is available now from City Lights.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "san-francisco-bars-monas-440-cobweb-palace-chinese-pagoda-elite-varieties",
"title": "5 Supremely Entertaining San Francisco Bars From History We Wish Still Existed",
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"content": "\u003cp>San Francisco is blessed with a \u003ca href=\"https://youtube.com/shorts/JpdIhxNOz60\">whole bunch of bars\u003c/a> that have been hanging around for almost as long as the city itself. There’s the \u003ca href=\"https://www.oldshipsaloonsf.com/\">Old Ship Saloon\u003c/a>, named for the fact that it was originally housed inside a ship that ran aground in 1851. There’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.elixirsf.com/\">Elixir\u003c/a> in the Mission, first established in 1858. And let’s not forget North Beach’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.yelp.com/biz/the-saloon-san-francisco\">Saloon\u003c/a>, which has been there since 1861.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But not all of the great ones survived. Here are five rip-roarin’ bars that, had they stuck around, would be regularly making all of our lives better.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The Cobweb Palace\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927138\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927138\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp33.00557-800x615.jpg\" alt=\"An old gold rush era tavern with cluttered walls, a bar at the back of the room and a ceiling thoroughly covered in thick cobwebs.\" width=\"800\" height=\"615\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp33.00557-800x615.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp33.00557-160x123.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp33.00557-768x591.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp33.00557.jpg 1000w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Cobweb Palace was a haven for spiders, parrots, monkeys and, for some reason, weapons from around the world. Proprietor Abe Warner can be seen behind the bar here. Two of his beloved parrots swing on a perch in the center. \u003ccite>(OpenSFHistory / wnp33.00557)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Abe Warner was a bona fide weirdo, but, in classic San Francisco fashion, the whole city loved him for it. Warner opened his ramshackle bar in 1856 on Francisco Street between Powell and Mason Streets, not far from where \u003ca href=\"http://www.sweetiesartbar.com/\">Sweetie’s Art Bar\u003c/a> stands today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13911589']The Cobweb Palace was full of taxidermy and weapons from around the world, including bone spears, harpoons, lances, Maori knives, axes, darts, bows, snares and jackknives. What Warner was best known for, however, was his love of small creatures. Monkeys and parrots roamed free at the bar, and the venue was named for the spider paradise that Warner allowed to form on his ceiling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Cobweb Palace stayed open for almost 40 years, and during that time Warner steadfastly refused to clean his ceiling out of respect for his arachnid friends. In a description published after Warner’s 1896 death at age 88, it was said that:\u003c/p>\n\u003cblockquote>\u003cp>Enormous strings of silky webs, which had become dark and heavy with the dust of years, hung from the ceiling and festooned the strange curios and pictures that adorned the wall. Some of these cobwebs were more than a yard in length and had not been disturbed for a quarter of a century or more. Old Warner seemed to regard the webs with as much pride as a collector bestows on rare and beautiful antiques. Every precaution was taken to keep them intact and a person could always get the proprietor into a good natured chat by remarking their size and evident age. The shelves of the saloon were laden with cobwebbed bottles counting all sorts of spirits and liquors.\u003c/p>\u003c/blockquote>\n\u003cp>Take that, health and sanitation rules!\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Mona’s 440 Club\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927167\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 466px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927167\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-1395607689.jpg\" alt=\"A large Black woman wearing a white tuxedo, top hat and gloves, as she holds a cane.\" width=\"466\" height=\"594\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-1395607689.jpg 466w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-1395607689-160x204.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 466px) 100vw, 466px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Blues singer and pianist Gladys Bentley was the star performer at Mona’s 440 Club — a bar that embraced lesbians and crossdressing in the 1930s. \u003ccite>(Soibelman Syndicate Collection/Visual Studies Workshop/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>When married couple Mona and Jimmie Sargeant first opened Mona’s, they envisioned a free-spirited hangout for local writers and artists. To their (probable) surprise, the people they actually attracted were predominantly — wouldn’t you know it? — genderfluid lesbians.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Sargeants embraced their best customers with gusto, employing drag king waitstaff and a variety of entertainers who were out, out, out. The bar openly advertised itself as a place “where girls can be boys.” Some ads told potential patrons to: “Join the carefree spirit and gayness.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13924268']Major entertainers like \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moms_Mabley\">Moms Mabley\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beverly_Shaw\">Beverly Shaw\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Midge_Williams\">Midge Williams\u003c/a> made appearances at Mona’s, but a typical show was more likely to feature the likes of \u003ca href=\"https://www.digitaltransgenderarchive.net/files/g732d917n\">Miss Jimmy Reynard\u003c/a>, Rose O’Neill (aka the “female Fred Astaire”) and \u003ca href=\"https://www.digitaltransgenderarchive.net/files/r494vk370\">Butch Minton\u003c/a> “singing gay songs.” One frequent headliner was pianist and blues singer \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gladys_Bentley\">Gladys Bentley,\u003c/a> who was known for performing while wearing striking top hat and tails.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sadly, after the Sargeants sold the club at 440 Broadway in the 1950s, the new owner, \u003ca href=\"https://www.queermusicheritage.com/jul2011ad.html\">Ann Dee\u003c/a>, shifted away from Mona’s sapphic central theme into much straighter territory — Johnny Mathis became one of its most popular performers. (Try not to boo.)\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Techau Tavern\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927139\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927139\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp33.03290-800x600.jpg\" alt=\"A busy Victorian-era street lined with hotels and taverns. People in clothing of the era cross the street behind a classic San Francisco trolley.\" width=\"800\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp33.03290-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp33.03290-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp33.03290-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp33.03290.jpg 1000w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Techau Tavern, near Ellis Street. \u003ccite>(OpenSFHistory / wnp33.03290)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Techau Tavern was a big, fancy joint that had three different locations in downtown San Francisco in its lifetime. It was established in 1900 on Mason Street near Powell, then destroyed by the 1906 earthquake. It moved to 1321 Sutter near Van Ness for three years and finally wound up at 247 Powell. And, boy oh boy, was it luxurious. The entrance hall was marble, the dining room seated 600 people, the oval dance floor was solid mahogany and the walls were decorated with intricate murals and friezes. Crystal mirrors and chandeliers completed the ambiance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13925848']The reason Techau was truly awesome, though, was that it just loved giving its customers prizes (bribes?) for going there. The dance floor was decorated with numbers, and if you landed on the right one at the end of a song, you won something. The venue had a display window full of merchandise from men’s clothing store, the \u003ca href=\"https://pcad.lib.washington.edu/building/18362/\">Roos Brothers\u003c/a>. As such, the male clientele of the tavern often won all sorts of swag from there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The best competition Techau ever held took place in 1919. The tavern decided to give away a car — specifically, a \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flanders_Automobile_Company\">Flanders electric automobile\u003c/a> — to one lucky lady. Every day, every woman who showed up at the bar between 3:30 and 5:30 p.m., and from 9:30 p.m. to closing, was given a coupon. The first number drawn won the car and nine other numbers gave chosen coupon holders yet more prizes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You’re lucky to even get free bar snacks these days, for crying out loud.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The Chinese Pagoda\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927147\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927147\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp25.3957-800x539.jpg\" alt=\"A block in San Francisco's Chinatown with many bars.\" width=\"800\" height=\"539\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp25.3957-800x539.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp25.3957-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp25.3957-768x518.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp25.3957.jpg 1000w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Chinese Pagoda, visible on the right, in the center of the block. June 1964. \u003ccite>(OpenSFHistory / wnp25.3957)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Look. We all love Li Po Lounge. Li Po Lounge is fantastic. But Chinatown would be an even more magical place if the Chinese Pagoda had survived too. The old bar at 830 Grant Avenue was one of the first to open up after the end of prohibition and predates Li Po by a couple of years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13914487']Though the Chinese Pagoda promised a “real oriental atmosphere” in its ads, it was actually a place where Eastern aesthetics met Western entertainment. Their waitstaff was made up of Asian Americans singing the songs of the day. One cocktail waitress, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13914487/the-chinatown-nightclub-dancer-who-helped-squash-asian-stereotypes\">Mary Mammon\u003c/a> — a singer and dancer better known for her performances at Forbidden City (America’s first Chinese nightclub) — did a rendition of Ella Fitzgerald classic “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fJcdNr-WIvA\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">A-Tisket, A-Tasket\u003c/a>” that brought the house down every night.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before the Chinese Pagoda, most white Americans had never seen Asian folks performing anything other than traditional Chinese opera. As such, the Pagoda was a game-changer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today, no trace remains that a bar was ever at 830 Grant. If you want to see it, its facade makes a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it appearance in the 1960 film \u003ca href=\"https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0054197/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">\u003cem>Portrait in Black\u003c/em>\u003c/a>. It’ll make you wish it were still around today.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Elite Varieties\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925405\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13925405\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/opensfhistory_wnp24.187a-800x797.jpg\" alt=\"A sepia-toned image of a Chinese market with awning from the 19th century.\" width=\"800\" height=\"797\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/opensfhistory_wnp24.187a-800x797.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/opensfhistory_wnp24.187a-160x159.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/opensfhistory_wnp24.187a-768x765.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/opensfhistory_wnp24.187a.jpg 1000w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Northeast corner of Dupont Street (now Grant Avenue) and Clay in the 1880s. Dupont was awash with notorious dive bars at the time — but none was more infamous than Elite Varieties. \u003ccite>(OpenSFHistory / wnp24.187a)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Sure, you took your life in your hands hanging out at Elite Varieties, but man, there was never a dull moment. Described as a dive by anyone who ever smelled the joint, Elite was one of the roughest bars in the whole city. Situated on the Northwest corner of Dupont (now Grant Avenue) and Geary Boulevard, the activities of everyone hanging around Elite often made headlines.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The venue, which hosted “theatrical presentations” was described thusly by the \u003cem>San Francisco Examiner\u003c/em>:\u003c/p>\n\u003cblockquote>\u003cp>Ten or twelve boxes curtained off and furnished with lockable doors are ranged along the side of the auditorium and in these boxes waitresses entice fast young clerks and verdant countrymen to spent their cash for drinks, which are supplied from two bars — one in front and one in the rear of the boxes.\u003c/p>\u003c/blockquote>\n\u003cp>On Feb. 12, 1884, police arrested a 17-year-old named Nellie Hart who had been living in one of those boxes for three weeks. The \u003cem>Examiner\u003c/em> reported that Hart was found, “Her hair banged and her face made hideous with paints and powders.” Her mother had reportedly ratted her out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The following week, a cop in the bar broke his own club over the head of a sailor he was arresting for fighting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A week after that, a man named Warren Chapman was convicted of shooting a guy named John Moore inside Elite Varieties in an argument over a woman who had been seeing them both.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13926069']A few weeks after that, when one of the bar’s patrons was arrested for murder, one of the actresses that worked at Elite filed a complaint with the police that — I’m not making this up — he’d stolen her opium pipe after the two had smoked from it together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Elite Varieties was completely bananas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the years passed, things at the bar only got crazier. In 1887, a couple of ne’er-do-wells named Henry McLaughlin and Michael Hurley decided it would be an excellent idea to go grab a drink there, knowing full well that Hurley had been 86’d. (You have to wonder how one gets banned from such a place.) When the bartender recognized Hurley and ordered him outside, a brief scuffle erupted and a door guy was forced to intervene. Hurley, naturally, responded to this by shooting at the bouncer. (McLaughlin and Hurley were later convicted of the crime.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1889, Elite’s proprietor George H. Rice was murdered inside his business by his own bouncer — shot four times, in fact. It’s unclear how long the bar stayed open after that, but it was surely wildly entertaining — and not a little dangerous — for as long as it lasted.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "A look back at a 19th-century, cobweb-infested shack, a 1930s lesbian wonderland and other party spots of yore.",
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"title": "San Francisco History: 5 Long-Lost Taverns, Inns and Dives | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>San Francisco is blessed with a \u003ca href=\"https://youtube.com/shorts/JpdIhxNOz60\">whole bunch of bars\u003c/a> that have been hanging around for almost as long as the city itself. There’s the \u003ca href=\"https://www.oldshipsaloonsf.com/\">Old Ship Saloon\u003c/a>, named for the fact that it was originally housed inside a ship that ran aground in 1851. There’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.elixirsf.com/\">Elixir\u003c/a> in the Mission, first established in 1858. And let’s not forget North Beach’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.yelp.com/biz/the-saloon-san-francisco\">Saloon\u003c/a>, which has been there since 1861.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But not all of the great ones survived. Here are five rip-roarin’ bars that, had they stuck around, would be regularly making all of our lives better.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The Cobweb Palace\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927138\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927138\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp33.00557-800x615.jpg\" alt=\"An old gold rush era tavern with cluttered walls, a bar at the back of the room and a ceiling thoroughly covered in thick cobwebs.\" width=\"800\" height=\"615\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp33.00557-800x615.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp33.00557-160x123.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp33.00557-768x591.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp33.00557.jpg 1000w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Cobweb Palace was a haven for spiders, parrots, monkeys and, for some reason, weapons from around the world. Proprietor Abe Warner can be seen behind the bar here. Two of his beloved parrots swing on a perch in the center. \u003ccite>(OpenSFHistory / wnp33.00557)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Abe Warner was a bona fide weirdo, but, in classic San Francisco fashion, the whole city loved him for it. Warner opened his ramshackle bar in 1856 on Francisco Street between Powell and Mason Streets, not far from where \u003ca href=\"http://www.sweetiesartbar.com/\">Sweetie’s Art Bar\u003c/a> stands today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>The Cobweb Palace was full of taxidermy and weapons from around the world, including bone spears, harpoons, lances, Maori knives, axes, darts, bows, snares and jackknives. What Warner was best known for, however, was his love of small creatures. Monkeys and parrots roamed free at the bar, and the venue was named for the spider paradise that Warner allowed to form on his ceiling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Cobweb Palace stayed open for almost 40 years, and during that time Warner steadfastly refused to clean his ceiling out of respect for his arachnid friends. In a description published after Warner’s 1896 death at age 88, it was said that:\u003c/p>\n\u003cblockquote>\u003cp>Enormous strings of silky webs, which had become dark and heavy with the dust of years, hung from the ceiling and festooned the strange curios and pictures that adorned the wall. Some of these cobwebs were more than a yard in length and had not been disturbed for a quarter of a century or more. Old Warner seemed to regard the webs with as much pride as a collector bestows on rare and beautiful antiques. Every precaution was taken to keep them intact and a person could always get the proprietor into a good natured chat by remarking their size and evident age. The shelves of the saloon were laden with cobwebbed bottles counting all sorts of spirits and liquors.\u003c/p>\u003c/blockquote>\n\u003cp>Take that, health and sanitation rules!\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Mona’s 440 Club\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927167\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 466px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927167\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-1395607689.jpg\" alt=\"A large Black woman wearing a white tuxedo, top hat and gloves, as she holds a cane.\" width=\"466\" height=\"594\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-1395607689.jpg 466w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-1395607689-160x204.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 466px) 100vw, 466px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Blues singer and pianist Gladys Bentley was the star performer at Mona’s 440 Club — a bar that embraced lesbians and crossdressing in the 1930s. \u003ccite>(Soibelman Syndicate Collection/Visual Studies Workshop/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>When married couple Mona and Jimmie Sargeant first opened Mona’s, they envisioned a free-spirited hangout for local writers and artists. To their (probable) surprise, the people they actually attracted were predominantly — wouldn’t you know it? — genderfluid lesbians.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Sargeants embraced their best customers with gusto, employing drag king waitstaff and a variety of entertainers who were out, out, out. The bar openly advertised itself as a place “where girls can be boys.” Some ads told potential patrons to: “Join the carefree spirit and gayness.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Major entertainers like \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moms_Mabley\">Moms Mabley\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beverly_Shaw\">Beverly Shaw\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Midge_Williams\">Midge Williams\u003c/a> made appearances at Mona’s, but a typical show was more likely to feature the likes of \u003ca href=\"https://www.digitaltransgenderarchive.net/files/g732d917n\">Miss Jimmy Reynard\u003c/a>, Rose O’Neill (aka the “female Fred Astaire”) and \u003ca href=\"https://www.digitaltransgenderarchive.net/files/r494vk370\">Butch Minton\u003c/a> “singing gay songs.” One frequent headliner was pianist and blues singer \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gladys_Bentley\">Gladys Bentley,\u003c/a> who was known for performing while wearing striking top hat and tails.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sadly, after the Sargeants sold the club at 440 Broadway in the 1950s, the new owner, \u003ca href=\"https://www.queermusicheritage.com/jul2011ad.html\">Ann Dee\u003c/a>, shifted away from Mona’s sapphic central theme into much straighter territory — Johnny Mathis became one of its most popular performers. (Try not to boo.)\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Techau Tavern\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927139\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927139\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp33.03290-800x600.jpg\" alt=\"A busy Victorian-era street lined with hotels and taverns. People in clothing of the era cross the street behind a classic San Francisco trolley.\" width=\"800\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp33.03290-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp33.03290-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp33.03290-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp33.03290.jpg 1000w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Techau Tavern, near Ellis Street. \u003ccite>(OpenSFHistory / wnp33.03290)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Techau Tavern was a big, fancy joint that had three different locations in downtown San Francisco in its lifetime. It was established in 1900 on Mason Street near Powell, then destroyed by the 1906 earthquake. It moved to 1321 Sutter near Van Ness for three years and finally wound up at 247 Powell. And, boy oh boy, was it luxurious. The entrance hall was marble, the dining room seated 600 people, the oval dance floor was solid mahogany and the walls were decorated with intricate murals and friezes. Crystal mirrors and chandeliers completed the ambiance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>The reason Techau was truly awesome, though, was that it just loved giving its customers prizes (bribes?) for going there. The dance floor was decorated with numbers, and if you landed on the right one at the end of a song, you won something. The venue had a display window full of merchandise from men’s clothing store, the \u003ca href=\"https://pcad.lib.washington.edu/building/18362/\">Roos Brothers\u003c/a>. As such, the male clientele of the tavern often won all sorts of swag from there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The best competition Techau ever held took place in 1919. The tavern decided to give away a car — specifically, a \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flanders_Automobile_Company\">Flanders electric automobile\u003c/a> — to one lucky lady. Every day, every woman who showed up at the bar between 3:30 and 5:30 p.m., and from 9:30 p.m. to closing, was given a coupon. The first number drawn won the car and nine other numbers gave chosen coupon holders yet more prizes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You’re lucky to even get free bar snacks these days, for crying out loud.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The Chinese Pagoda\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927147\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927147\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp25.3957-800x539.jpg\" alt=\"A block in San Francisco's Chinatown with many bars.\" width=\"800\" height=\"539\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp25.3957-800x539.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp25.3957-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp25.3957-768x518.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/opensfhistory_wnp25.3957.jpg 1000w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Chinese Pagoda, visible on the right, in the center of the block. June 1964. \u003ccite>(OpenSFHistory / wnp25.3957)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Look. We all love Li Po Lounge. Li Po Lounge is fantastic. But Chinatown would be an even more magical place if the Chinese Pagoda had survived too. The old bar at 830 Grant Avenue was one of the first to open up after the end of prohibition and predates Li Po by a couple of years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Though the Chinese Pagoda promised a “real oriental atmosphere” in its ads, it was actually a place where Eastern aesthetics met Western entertainment. Their waitstaff was made up of Asian Americans singing the songs of the day. One cocktail waitress, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13914487/the-chinatown-nightclub-dancer-who-helped-squash-asian-stereotypes\">Mary Mammon\u003c/a> — a singer and dancer better known for her performances at Forbidden City (America’s first Chinese nightclub) — did a rendition of Ella Fitzgerald classic “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fJcdNr-WIvA\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">A-Tisket, A-Tasket\u003c/a>” that brought the house down every night.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before the Chinese Pagoda, most white Americans had never seen Asian folks performing anything other than traditional Chinese opera. As such, the Pagoda was a game-changer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today, no trace remains that a bar was ever at 830 Grant. If you want to see it, its facade makes a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it appearance in the 1960 film \u003ca href=\"https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0054197/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">\u003cem>Portrait in Black\u003c/em>\u003c/a>. It’ll make you wish it were still around today.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Elite Varieties\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925405\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13925405\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/opensfhistory_wnp24.187a-800x797.jpg\" alt=\"A sepia-toned image of a Chinese market with awning from the 19th century.\" width=\"800\" height=\"797\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/opensfhistory_wnp24.187a-800x797.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/opensfhistory_wnp24.187a-160x159.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/opensfhistory_wnp24.187a-768x765.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/opensfhistory_wnp24.187a.jpg 1000w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Northeast corner of Dupont Street (now Grant Avenue) and Clay in the 1880s. Dupont was awash with notorious dive bars at the time — but none was more infamous than Elite Varieties. \u003ccite>(OpenSFHistory / wnp24.187a)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Sure, you took your life in your hands hanging out at Elite Varieties, but man, there was never a dull moment. Described as a dive by anyone who ever smelled the joint, Elite was one of the roughest bars in the whole city. Situated on the Northwest corner of Dupont (now Grant Avenue) and Geary Boulevard, the activities of everyone hanging around Elite often made headlines.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The venue, which hosted “theatrical presentations” was described thusly by the \u003cem>San Francisco Examiner\u003c/em>:\u003c/p>\n\u003cblockquote>\u003cp>Ten or twelve boxes curtained off and furnished with lockable doors are ranged along the side of the auditorium and in these boxes waitresses entice fast young clerks and verdant countrymen to spent their cash for drinks, which are supplied from two bars — one in front and one in the rear of the boxes.\u003c/p>\u003c/blockquote>\n\u003cp>On Feb. 12, 1884, police arrested a 17-year-old named Nellie Hart who had been living in one of those boxes for three weeks. The \u003cem>Examiner\u003c/em> reported that Hart was found, “Her hair banged and her face made hideous with paints and powders.” Her mother had reportedly ratted her out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The following week, a cop in the bar broke his own club over the head of a sailor he was arresting for fighting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A week after that, a man named Warren Chapman was convicted of shooting a guy named John Moore inside Elite Varieties in an argument over a woman who had been seeing them both.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>A few weeks after that, when one of the bar’s patrons was arrested for murder, one of the actresses that worked at Elite filed a complaint with the police that — I’m not making this up — he’d stolen her opium pipe after the two had smoked from it together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Elite Varieties was completely bananas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the years passed, things at the bar only got crazier. In 1887, a couple of ne’er-do-wells named Henry McLaughlin and Michael Hurley decided it would be an excellent idea to go grab a drink there, knowing full well that Hurley had been 86’d. (You have to wonder how one gets banned from such a place.) When the bartender recognized Hurley and ordered him outside, a brief scuffle erupted and a door guy was forced to intervene. Hurley, naturally, responded to this by shooting at the bouncer. (McLaughlin and Hurley were later convicted of the crime.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1889, Elite’s proprietor George H. Rice was murdered inside his business by his own bouncer — shot four times, in fact. It’s unclear how long the bar stayed open after that, but it was surely wildly entertaining — and not a little dangerous — for as long as it lasted.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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},
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"info": "The day's top stories from BBC News compiled twice daily in the week, once at weekends.",
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},
"link": "/radio/program/bbc-world-service",
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},
"californiareport": {
"id": "californiareport",
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"info": "KQED’s statewide radio news program providing daily coverage of issues, trends and public policy decisions.",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/californiareport",
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 8
},
"link": "/californiareport",
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}
},
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"title": "The California Report Magazine",
"tagline": "Your state, your stories",
"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.",
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"order": 10
},
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5tZWdhcGhvbmUuZm0vS1FJTkM3NjkwNjk1OTAz",
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},
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"airtime": "SUN 1pm-2pm, TUE 10pm, WED 1am",
"meta": {
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"source": "City Arts & Lectures"
},
"link": "https://www.cityarts.net",
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},
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"order": 1
},
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"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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"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.",
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"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Commonwealth-Club-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
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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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"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.",
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"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Forum-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
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"order": 9
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"meta": {
"site": "radio",
"source": "WNYC"
},
"link": "/radio/program/freakonomics-radio",
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},
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"id": "fresh-air",
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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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"hidden-brain": {
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"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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"source": "NPR"
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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.",
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"airtime": "SUN 7:30pm-8pm",
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"link": "/radio/program/how-i-built-this",
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"hyphenacion": {
"id": "hyphenacion",
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"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. ",
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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. ",
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"order": 18
},
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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/",
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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"
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},
"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"
},
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"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",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/onourwatch",
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 11
},
"link": "/podcasts/onourwatch",
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5ucHIub3JnLzUxMDM2MC9wb2RjYXN0LnhtbD9zYz1nb29nbGVwb2RjYXN0cw",
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