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"content": "\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.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For many listeners, Bay Area rap from the late ’80s and early ’90s calls to mind the dark synths and trunk-blapping bass of mobb music. The popular Northern California subgenre was born out of poverty-induced turf conflicts and dreams of riches, producing timeless classics like \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13922616/too-short-way-street-sign-unveiled-oakland\">Too Short\u003c/a>’s \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Born to Mack\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13890437/e-40-and-too-horts-verzuz-battle-a-treasure-trove-of-bay-area-hip-hop-culture\">E-40\u003c/a>’s \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Federal. \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Though nuanced and laced with hood wisdom, much of hip-hop from that period focused on pimping, hustling and territorial claims. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It’s groundbreaking, then, that during the same time, an aberrant, free-spirited rapper from the East Coast would arrive in Oakland and forever change the rap scene with his boundless expressions of joy. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This Afrosurrealist galaxy traveler with a microphone and a Sharpie? Gregory Jacobs — better known as Digital Underground frontman \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13896288/remembering-shock-g-the-funky-digital-underground-frontman-who-shaped-oakland-rap\">Shock G\u003c/a>, or his alter ego, Humpty Hump. His platinum-selling rap collective gave \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13929233/tupac-shakur-street-oakland-tupac-shakur-way\">Tupac Shakur\u003c/a> his start and made classic hits like “\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PBsjggc5jHM\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The Humpty Dance\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">,” “Kiss You Back” and “\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7P6N8r1kUTM\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Freaks of the Industry\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.” His place in Bay Area rap’s Hall of Game is unquestionable.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13896258\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13896258\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG-800x500.jpg\" alt=\"Shock G of Digital Underground performs during the BET Hip Hop Awards in 2010 in Atlanta. Shock G died Thursday at age 57.\" width=\"800\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG-800x500.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG-1020x638.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG-160x100.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG-768x480.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG-1536x960.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G of Digital Underground performs during the BET Hip Hop Awards in 2010 in Atlanta. \u003ccite>(Taylor Hill/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Yet, there’s another dimension to Shock G — who passed away in 2021 at 57 years old — that doesn’t often get the same adoration as his music. In addition to his prowess as a lyricist, producer and pianist, Shock G was an accomplished visual artist who created enough work to fill a museum.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The majority of Digital Underground’s projects involve Shock G’s visual contributions in some form — whether through photo collages or hand-drawn illustrations credited to an alias. And many more of his drawings and low-brow doodles still exist in privately stored boxes and notebooks, in the care of his friends and family. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">A descendant of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13839952/its-that-naughty-feeling-george-clinton-on-funks-enduring-appeal\">Parliament-Funkadelic\u003c/a>’s unconventional sensibilities, Shock G was among the earliest key figures \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">who gave Bay Area rap \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13924042/nump-hyphy-i-gott-grapes-interview\">its humor\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13920746/bay-area-rap-cmon-its-different\">its distinctive weirdness\u003c/a>\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. And he paved the way for multi-hyphenated rap experimentalists like Tyler, the Creator, Tierra Whack and Lil B to thrive in generations that followed.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929951\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13929951\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-800x739.jpg\" alt=\"a Black man is eating an album cover in a colorful, Afrosurrealist drawing\" width=\"800\" height=\"739\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-800x739.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-1020x942.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-160x148.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-768x709.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-1536x1419.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-2048x1892.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-1920x1774.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G’s visual artistry was influenced by P-Funk, comic books, graffiti and more. \u003ccite>(Tamara Palmer)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“It makes it easier when someone comes with the full package: producer, writer, artist, storyboards,” says Atron Gregory, Shock G’s friend and Tupac’s former manager. “He could give you everything. That’s pretty rare. Very rare at that time. Now there’s more people who do it.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The origins of an experimental artist\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Born in New York City and later raised in Tampa, Florida, Shock G grew up drawing, reading comic books and attending comic conventions from an early age. Gregory says that Shock G’s mother, Shirley Kraft, always encouraged her son’s gifts for visual art. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“There was never any pushback against it,” he tells me over Zoom.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">As an adolescent, Shock G’s multifaceted creativity was evident. He was awarded “Most Talented” for his drumming abilities in junior high, and eventually began spinning records in the early ’80s. \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">By age 16, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.tampabay.com/news/tampa/2021/05/01/we-lost-another-legend-friends-family-say-goodbye-to-shock-g-in-tampa/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">he DJed regularly on the air under the name Gregory Racker\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> and formed the Tampa group the Master Blasters\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. Through it all, he incessantly sketched his thoughts as visual freestyles.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“When we were in New York as kids, we used to draw our own comic books,” says Kent Racker, Shock’s younger brother, who lives in the Bay Area. “When we were in Tampa, he almost got a syndicated comic strip out called \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Looney Dap\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. It was about this kid getting in trouble and doing weird stuff. That almost got published.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930484\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930484\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"A Black man in his 50s poses in a room with musical equipment - guitars and speakers - and holds up a painting by his late brother, Shock G. The painting is an abstract, atom-like design of colorful orbs floating through a blue background. \" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kent Racker, the brother of the late Gregory Jacobs, known as Shock G, holds a painting by Shock G at his home in Oakland on June 13, 2023. Gregory Jacobs, rapper and producer for Digital Underground, performed as Shock G and Humpty Hump and was a visual artist, creating album covers for the group and original art pieces. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock G and his family eventually moved to the East Bay, where he would make a name for himself after forming Digital Underground in 1987 with Chopmaster J and Kenny K. (The collective’s membership changed with every album, but Shock G remained a constant.) \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Upon meeting Shock for the first time, it was obvious to Money B — DU’s co-lead MC and Shock’s longtime ride-or-die — that Shock was creating his own wave.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930426\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930426\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Shock-G-800x450.jpeg\" alt=\"Shock G and the members of Digital Underground at a house party in the '90s.\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Shock-G-800x450.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Shock-G-1020x574.jpeg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Shock-G-160x90.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Shock-G-768x432.jpeg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Shock-G.jpeg 1461w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G (far right) was known for his flamboyant self-expression. He painted a new fake nose for each Digital Underground show, where he dressed as his alter ego, Humpty Hump. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Money B)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I realized he was an artist from day one,” remembers Money B. The two ran in similar circles: In 1988, Shock G was promoting an early Digital Underground single, “Underwater Rimes,” and Money was performing at the same East Bay clubs with future DU member DJ Fuze. Right away, Money says, Shock stood out: “He was wearing a beret and these sweatpants with something drawn on them. He wore tassels.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Money B was instantly fascinated. “Underwater Rimes” featured Shock G blissfully rhyming as “a deep-sea gangster, underwater prankster” over aquatic sound effects, and his artwork for it featured sea creatures in hip-hop clothes, talking slick. Fittingly, the surrealist track came out with “Your Life’s a Cartoon” as the B-side. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“You could tell he had an originality about himself,” Money B says. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929950\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13929950\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-800x533.jpeg\" alt=\"a cartoonish octopus wearing hip-hop gear like sunglasses and an 80s Kangol hat\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-800x533.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-1020x680.jpeg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-160x107.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-768x512.jpeg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-1536x1024.jpeg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-2048x1365.jpeg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-1920x1280.jpeg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G’s illustration for the Digital Underground singles “Underwater Rimes” and “Your Life’s A Cartoon” showcase his effervescent artistry. \u003ccite>(Tamara Palmer)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Shock G’s expansive visual style\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock G’s raunchy humor was on full display on Digital Underground’s canonical 1990 album \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Sex Packets\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, which sold over a million copies. And it extended to his visual art from that period, too. He even designed condom wrappers that Tommy Boy Records gave away to \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://groups.google.com/g/alt.rap/c/isX90bFrjLA?pli=1\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">promote\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> the record\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“A pamphlet went out to San Francisco strip clubs and peep shows,” Money B recalls. “He drew the invitation to the original [album release] party. Everything had art attached to it.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock’s avant-garde approach was also evident on stage. For each show, he would custom-paint a plastic nose for his Humpty Hump getup and give it away to a fan at the end of the night. His quirky, exuberant fashion and alter egos were also \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">a precursor to the far-fetched costumery \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">that would later define\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> beloved Bay Area rappers like Mac Dre, who during the hyphy movement dressed up as a genie, a fictional president and a tennis pro\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13896267\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13896267\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/R-42681-1333303548.jpeg.jpg\" alt=\"The cover of The HUmpty Dance single\" width=\"600\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/R-42681-1333303548.jpeg.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/R-42681-1333303548.jpeg-160x160.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G’s cartoony illustrations laced Digital Underground’s album covers and inserts. \u003ccite>(Tommy Boy)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This kind of rebellious, form-bending aesthetic evolved throughout Shock G’s career. For 1991’s \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This Is an E.P. Release, \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">he provided a “Customer I.Q. Quiz” in the top corner of the album cover. Answers for a multiple-choice question about what “E.P.” means included “EXTRA POOR,” “EXTENDED PHILOSOPHY,” and “ERECT P_NIS.” Later, in the early aughts, Shock introduced an illustration series called \u003cem>Assholes\u003c/em> that starred fictional characters based on anuses (yes, actual assholes).\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">No matter the subject, though, Shock’s illustrations linked him to an Afrosurrealist, funky artistic lineage that went back decades. At various points in his life, he openly credited Parliament-Funkadelic’s album cover artist \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/2019/08/30/arts/music/pedro-bell-dead.html\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Pedro Bell, whose strangely cosmic, erotic illustrations \u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">were a major inspiration of his.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“Part of my huge affection for P-Funk is the humor. It’s not so militant,” Shock said on the Netflix series \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Hip-Hop Evolution\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. “It’s just like… ‘Dance your way out of your constrictions.’”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock G never actively promoted his artwork, instead lasering in on his rap ambitions. But along with \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13927692/del-funky-homosapien-no-need-for-alarm-30-years-anniversary\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Del the Funky Homosapien\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, who also has a background in visual art, Shock was part of the first wave of Bay Area rappers who helped to define what it meant to be a weird, versatile, poly-skilled artist. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“In the late ’80s, there were maybe three people doing art like him,” Gregory says. “He wanted to be accepted as a rapper. That’s why you’ll see [his art is signed with aliases] Rackadelic and Staying Busy Productions [instead of Shock G]. He separated all that to make sure he was accepted as a rapper and had success there.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930485\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930485\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"The poster for Digital Underground's 'This Is an E.P. Release' features carnival-esque caricatures of all the bandmates, including Tupac Shakur.\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kent Racker, the brother of the late Gregory Jacobs, known as Shock G, holds a Digital Underground poster featuring the ‘This Is an E.P. Release’ album art at his home in Oakland on June 13, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Tupac’s caricature in \u003cem>This Is an E.P. Release\u003c/em>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">As Digital Underground’s heartbeat, Shock G put his playful touch on everything — and often communicated through exaggerated drawings rather than words.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“He wasn’t drawing pictures that were realistic. He would accentuate your main features. Huge freckles, big lips,” Money B says. “[He drew] Tupac’s big ol’ nose and rigid cheekbone. Some people took offense to how they were drawn, but they didn’t get it. [If] he didn’t like you, he might draw some crazy pictures.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">A perennial jokester, Shock’s cartoonish ways weren’t used solely for mockery; they could also serve as a language for love, unity and representation. Perhaps no other Digital Underground project displays this more poetically than the gold-certified \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This Is an E.P. Release\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, which features the single “Same Song” — famous for being Tupac’s first published track. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Tupac began his journey with Digital Underground in 1989 when he\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://eastbayexpress.com/weed-and-white-women-shock-g-from-oaklands-digital-underground-1/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> signed to their underground label, TNT Records\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. It’s likely that without Shock G’s clairvoyance, the version of Tupac we know today may not have arrived as quickly as he did — or, at the very least, the future icon wouldn’t have been given such a momentous debut opportunity in front of a national audience.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930488\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930488\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132-800x508.jpg\" alt=\"A black-and-white photo features a young Shock G rapping in a long fur coat and fur hat. Tupac stands next to him shirtless and holding up artwork, the content of which is not fully visible.\" width=\"800\" height=\"508\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132-800x508.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132-1020x647.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132-160x102.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132-768x487.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132-1536x974.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G and 2Pac of Digital Underground perform at Market Square Arena in Indianapolis, Indiana in July 1990. \u003ccite>(Raymond Boyd/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock and Tupac’s friendship is forever illustrated on \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This Is an E.P. Release\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. The cover features Shock’s hand-drawn portrait of the entire DU squad, himself included, with one arm lovingly wrapped around a young Tupac’s shoulders.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In the new Hulu \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">documentary \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Dear Mama\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, Tupac praises Shock G for giving him his earliest validation as a rap artist: “Shock G made sure people saw me as a member of the group. And because he did that, it gave me the courage and the confidence to really just do what I wanted. That’s the best thing one human being can do for another.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Thanks to Shock G, Tupac finally saw himself — literally and figuratively — as a successful musician.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930495\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930495\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"One of Shock G's drawings features olives climbing out of a martini glass. \" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kent Racker, the brother of the late Gregory Jacobs, known as Shock G, holds a drawing on a greeting card created by Shock G at his home in Oakland on June 13, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Unseen artwork and Shock G’s final act\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">There are countless Shock G visuals that the public has never seen: The zany machinations he would invent on the fly while sitting on a tour bus, hanging backstage or out late at night with his crew. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">A napkin at a burger joint was a canvas to be filled with heartfelt messages for his closest kin. A cardboard box at a party, in his hands, could mutate into a comic strip panel for nonsensical humor. The back of a receipt evolved into a map drawn for a friend before a road trip. Even the inside lining of his jackets became surfaces he could stylize, converting them into wearable artwork that he would later give away to fans.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock G continued making visual art into his last years, often making custom holiday cards for friends and family members, says his brother, Kent Racker. The MC also experimented with abstract, acrylic canvases after moving to Topanga in Southern California as he grew older. Unfortunately, his artistic evolution was cut short. Shock G died of an accidental drug overdose in Tampa, where he spent the end of his life, on April 22, 2021.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930427\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930427\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-152563908-800x534.jpg\" alt=\"Shock G and George Clinton smile at each other, wearing formal attire. \" width=\"800\" height=\"534\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-152563908-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-152563908-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-152563908-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-152563908-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-152563908.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G and George Clinton of Parliament-Funkadelic attend the Congressional Black Caucus Foundation 42nd annual legislative conference at the Washington Convention Center on September 21, 2012 in Washington, DC. \u003ccite>(Monica Morgan/WireImage)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Racker imagines that, had he lived, Shock G could be painting large-scale murals. “But he wasn’t concerned about the promotion of people knowing about [his art while he was alive]. He was just in tune with being able to create a beautiful representation of DU as an artist.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Racker’s estimation can’t be far off. In later interviews, Shock G hinted at wanting to try new things.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930486\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930486\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"Kent Racker poses in a room decorated with Digital Underground gold plaques, guitars and other musical memorabilia. \" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kent Racker, the brother of the late Gregory Jacobs, known as Shock G, stands in his home in Oakland on June 13, 2023, wearing a t-shirt with art made by Shock G. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I wanna get out there and mix it up a little more,” \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://vimeo.com/23192620\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock G told journalist Tamara Palmer\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> in 2011. “I wanna have fun and just make anything. It ain’t gotta be Eddie [Humpty Hump] Humphrey. It ain’t gotta be Shock G.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Palmer initially met Shock G for an MTV interview in 2004 and kept in touch. She says he ran his own website, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"http://shock-g.com/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock-G.com\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, and would often post “highly illustrated” work, including a comic strip at one point. (The site is still active but became a fan site domain after his passing).\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“They were just made-up characters,” says Palmer. “There was no deeper meaning to it, I don’t think. He provided very surprising comic relief.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Eventually, Palmer witnessed his artistry firsthand at a mutual friend’s house party, where they doodled together for fun. “[The art we made together was] cheeky, super cheeky. I glued a flier to the lower corner of a wooden tray and he turned it into a bar scene with a male fish flirting with the female fish. It was like a big wink,” says Palmer.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929947\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13929947\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-800x620.png\" alt=\"a surreal sketch and collage on carboard, including fishes drinking at a bar\" width=\"800\" height=\"620\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-800x620.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-1020x791.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-160x124.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-768x595.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-1536x1191.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-2048x1588.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-1920x1489.png 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G’s sketches were cartoonish, playful and spontaneous. This collaborative piece was made with Tamara Palmer at a house party. \u003ccite>(Tamara Palmer)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Late in his career, along with painting, Shock G veered further into jazz — with Gregory, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://oaklandside.org/2021/11/22/shock-gs-jazz-piano-the-digital-underground-frontmans-musicianship-will-be-featured-in-posthumous-album/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">he recorded a solo jazz piano album, the posthumously released \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The Piano Man\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“As an illustrator and piano player, that was unheard of back then,” Gregory adds. “Nowadays, Roddy Rich and Tyler, the Creator, they have these pianos. Shock went to see [Roddy’s] show in 2018, and the manager came up to tell Shock that [Roddy] is the only rapper to play the piano.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Gregory smirks while sharing this, knowing that Shock mastered the instrument many moons ago. Add to that the immeasurable amounts of unshared, custom artwork in Shock G’s collection, and you have a once-in-a-generation creative mind.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“You gotta think, when we’re touring and on buses, he would draw something every day. Idle time was never idle time [for him]. He was creating something. Even on a napkin or a note, it was artsy,” Money B shares.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Gregory estimates that “95% has probably been unseen.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930497\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930497\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"A '90s color photo features Shock G performing on stage in his white fur getup and his brother, Kent, rapping alongside him.\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kent Racker, the brother of the late Gregory Jacobs, known as Shock G, holds a photo of himself and his brother performing with Digital Underground in Philadelphia at his home in Oakland on June 13, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">All told, Shock G may have been one of the Bay Area’s most prolific, subversive visual artists — a visionary who bent the lines of human geometry with the “Humpty Dance” and on the page with his out-of-this-world drawings. And according to his brother, it couldn’t have happened anywhere except Oakland.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“It would not have happened back East. The style at the time, we always laugh and joke at ourselves about being hippies,” Racker says. “He probably could have come up as a rapper in New York, or anywhere, because of his musicality and being around hip-hop when it was forming. We had that foundation. But coming out to the Bay Area and California, it really amplified and illustrated his aesthetic in the work, and he just kept drawing and creating a visual world.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\n",
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"title": "Digital Underground’s MC Was Secretly a Genius Illustrator | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\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.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For many listeners, Bay Area rap from the late ’80s and early ’90s calls to mind the dark synths and trunk-blapping bass of mobb music. The popular Northern California subgenre was born out of poverty-induced turf conflicts and dreams of riches, producing timeless classics like \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13922616/too-short-way-street-sign-unveiled-oakland\">Too Short\u003c/a>’s \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Born to Mack\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13890437/e-40-and-too-horts-verzuz-battle-a-treasure-trove-of-bay-area-hip-hop-culture\">E-40\u003c/a>’s \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Federal. \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Though nuanced and laced with hood wisdom, much of hip-hop from that period focused on pimping, hustling and territorial claims. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It’s groundbreaking, then, that during the same time, an aberrant, free-spirited rapper from the East Coast would arrive in Oakland and forever change the rap scene with his boundless expressions of joy. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This Afrosurrealist galaxy traveler with a microphone and a Sharpie? Gregory Jacobs — better known as Digital Underground frontman \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13896288/remembering-shock-g-the-funky-digital-underground-frontman-who-shaped-oakland-rap\">Shock G\u003c/a>, or his alter ego, Humpty Hump. His platinum-selling rap collective gave \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13929233/tupac-shakur-street-oakland-tupac-shakur-way\">Tupac Shakur\u003c/a> his start and made classic hits like “\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PBsjggc5jHM\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The Humpty Dance\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">,” “Kiss You Back” and “\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7P6N8r1kUTM\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Freaks of the Industry\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.” His place in Bay Area rap’s Hall of Game is unquestionable.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13896258\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13896258\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG-800x500.jpg\" alt=\"Shock G of Digital Underground performs during the BET Hip Hop Awards in 2010 in Atlanta. Shock G died Thursday at age 57.\" width=\"800\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG-800x500.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG-1020x638.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG-160x100.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG-768x480.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG-1536x960.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G of Digital Underground performs during the BET Hip Hop Awards in 2010 in Atlanta. \u003ccite>(Taylor Hill/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Yet, there’s another dimension to Shock G — who passed away in 2021 at 57 years old — that doesn’t often get the same adoration as his music. In addition to his prowess as a lyricist, producer and pianist, Shock G was an accomplished visual artist who created enough work to fill a museum.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The majority of Digital Underground’s projects involve Shock G’s visual contributions in some form — whether through photo collages or hand-drawn illustrations credited to an alias. And many more of his drawings and low-brow doodles still exist in privately stored boxes and notebooks, in the care of his friends and family. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">A descendant of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13839952/its-that-naughty-feeling-george-clinton-on-funks-enduring-appeal\">Parliament-Funkadelic\u003c/a>’s unconventional sensibilities, Shock G was among the earliest key figures \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">who gave Bay Area rap \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13924042/nump-hyphy-i-gott-grapes-interview\">its humor\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13920746/bay-area-rap-cmon-its-different\">its distinctive weirdness\u003c/a>\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. And he paved the way for multi-hyphenated rap experimentalists like Tyler, the Creator, Tierra Whack and Lil B to thrive in generations that followed.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929951\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13929951\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-800x739.jpg\" alt=\"a Black man is eating an album cover in a colorful, Afrosurrealist drawing\" width=\"800\" height=\"739\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-800x739.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-1020x942.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-160x148.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-768x709.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-1536x1419.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-2048x1892.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-1920x1774.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G’s visual artistry was influenced by P-Funk, comic books, graffiti and more. \u003ccite>(Tamara Palmer)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“It makes it easier when someone comes with the full package: producer, writer, artist, storyboards,” says Atron Gregory, Shock G’s friend and Tupac’s former manager. “He could give you everything. That’s pretty rare. Very rare at that time. Now there’s more people who do it.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The origins of an experimental artist\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Born in New York City and later raised in Tampa, Florida, Shock G grew up drawing, reading comic books and attending comic conventions from an early age. Gregory says that Shock G’s mother, Shirley Kraft, always encouraged her son’s gifts for visual art. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“There was never any pushback against it,” he tells me over Zoom.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">As an adolescent, Shock G’s multifaceted creativity was evident. He was awarded “Most Talented” for his drumming abilities in junior high, and eventually began spinning records in the early ’80s. \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">By age 16, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.tampabay.com/news/tampa/2021/05/01/we-lost-another-legend-friends-family-say-goodbye-to-shock-g-in-tampa/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">he DJed regularly on the air under the name Gregory Racker\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> and formed the Tampa group the Master Blasters\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. Through it all, he incessantly sketched his thoughts as visual freestyles.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“When we were in New York as kids, we used to draw our own comic books,” says Kent Racker, Shock’s younger brother, who lives in the Bay Area. “When we were in Tampa, he almost got a syndicated comic strip out called \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Looney Dap\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. It was about this kid getting in trouble and doing weird stuff. That almost got published.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930484\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930484\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"A Black man in his 50s poses in a room with musical equipment - guitars and speakers - and holds up a painting by his late brother, Shock G. The painting is an abstract, atom-like design of colorful orbs floating through a blue background. \" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kent Racker, the brother of the late Gregory Jacobs, known as Shock G, holds a painting by Shock G at his home in Oakland on June 13, 2023. Gregory Jacobs, rapper and producer for Digital Underground, performed as Shock G and Humpty Hump and was a visual artist, creating album covers for the group and original art pieces. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock G and his family eventually moved to the East Bay, where he would make a name for himself after forming Digital Underground in 1987 with Chopmaster J and Kenny K. (The collective’s membership changed with every album, but Shock G remained a constant.) \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Upon meeting Shock for the first time, it was obvious to Money B — DU’s co-lead MC and Shock’s longtime ride-or-die — that Shock was creating his own wave.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930426\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930426\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Shock-G-800x450.jpeg\" alt=\"Shock G and the members of Digital Underground at a house party in the '90s.\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Shock-G-800x450.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Shock-G-1020x574.jpeg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Shock-G-160x90.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Shock-G-768x432.jpeg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Shock-G.jpeg 1461w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G (far right) was known for his flamboyant self-expression. He painted a new fake nose for each Digital Underground show, where he dressed as his alter ego, Humpty Hump. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Money B)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I realized he was an artist from day one,” remembers Money B. The two ran in similar circles: In 1988, Shock G was promoting an early Digital Underground single, “Underwater Rimes,” and Money was performing at the same East Bay clubs with future DU member DJ Fuze. Right away, Money says, Shock stood out: “He was wearing a beret and these sweatpants with something drawn on them. He wore tassels.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Money B was instantly fascinated. “Underwater Rimes” featured Shock G blissfully rhyming as “a deep-sea gangster, underwater prankster” over aquatic sound effects, and his artwork for it featured sea creatures in hip-hop clothes, talking slick. Fittingly, the surrealist track came out with “Your Life’s a Cartoon” as the B-side. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“You could tell he had an originality about himself,” Money B says. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929950\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13929950\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-800x533.jpeg\" alt=\"a cartoonish octopus wearing hip-hop gear like sunglasses and an 80s Kangol hat\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-800x533.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-1020x680.jpeg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-160x107.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-768x512.jpeg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-1536x1024.jpeg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-2048x1365.jpeg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-1920x1280.jpeg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G’s illustration for the Digital Underground singles “Underwater Rimes” and “Your Life’s A Cartoon” showcase his effervescent artistry. \u003ccite>(Tamara Palmer)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Shock G’s expansive visual style\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock G’s raunchy humor was on full display on Digital Underground’s canonical 1990 album \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Sex Packets\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, which sold over a million copies. And it extended to his visual art from that period, too. He even designed condom wrappers that Tommy Boy Records gave away to \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://groups.google.com/g/alt.rap/c/isX90bFrjLA?pli=1\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">promote\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> the record\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“A pamphlet went out to San Francisco strip clubs and peep shows,” Money B recalls. “He drew the invitation to the original [album release] party. Everything had art attached to it.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock’s avant-garde approach was also evident on stage. For each show, he would custom-paint a plastic nose for his Humpty Hump getup and give it away to a fan at the end of the night. His quirky, exuberant fashion and alter egos were also \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">a precursor to the far-fetched costumery \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">that would later define\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> beloved Bay Area rappers like Mac Dre, who during the hyphy movement dressed up as a genie, a fictional president and a tennis pro\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13896267\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13896267\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/R-42681-1333303548.jpeg.jpg\" alt=\"The cover of The HUmpty Dance single\" width=\"600\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/R-42681-1333303548.jpeg.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/R-42681-1333303548.jpeg-160x160.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G’s cartoony illustrations laced Digital Underground’s album covers and inserts. \u003ccite>(Tommy Boy)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This kind of rebellious, form-bending aesthetic evolved throughout Shock G’s career. For 1991’s \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This Is an E.P. Release, \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">he provided a “Customer I.Q. Quiz” in the top corner of the album cover. Answers for a multiple-choice question about what “E.P.” means included “EXTRA POOR,” “EXTENDED PHILOSOPHY,” and “ERECT P_NIS.” Later, in the early aughts, Shock introduced an illustration series called \u003cem>Assholes\u003c/em> that starred fictional characters based on anuses (yes, actual assholes).\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">No matter the subject, though, Shock’s illustrations linked him to an Afrosurrealist, funky artistic lineage that went back decades. At various points in his life, he openly credited Parliament-Funkadelic’s album cover artist \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/2019/08/30/arts/music/pedro-bell-dead.html\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Pedro Bell, whose strangely cosmic, erotic illustrations \u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">were a major inspiration of his.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“Part of my huge affection for P-Funk is the humor. It’s not so militant,” Shock said on the Netflix series \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Hip-Hop Evolution\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. “It’s just like… ‘Dance your way out of your constrictions.’”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock G never actively promoted his artwork, instead lasering in on his rap ambitions. But along with \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13927692/del-funky-homosapien-no-need-for-alarm-30-years-anniversary\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Del the Funky Homosapien\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, who also has a background in visual art, Shock was part of the first wave of Bay Area rappers who helped to define what it meant to be a weird, versatile, poly-skilled artist. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“In the late ’80s, there were maybe three people doing art like him,” Gregory says. “He wanted to be accepted as a rapper. That’s why you’ll see [his art is signed with aliases] Rackadelic and Staying Busy Productions [instead of Shock G]. He separated all that to make sure he was accepted as a rapper and had success there.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930485\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930485\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"The poster for Digital Underground's 'This Is an E.P. Release' features carnival-esque caricatures of all the bandmates, including Tupac Shakur.\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kent Racker, the brother of the late Gregory Jacobs, known as Shock G, holds a Digital Underground poster featuring the ‘This Is an E.P. Release’ album art at his home in Oakland on June 13, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Tupac’s caricature in \u003cem>This Is an E.P. Release\u003c/em>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">As Digital Underground’s heartbeat, Shock G put his playful touch on everything — and often communicated through exaggerated drawings rather than words.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“He wasn’t drawing pictures that were realistic. He would accentuate your main features. Huge freckles, big lips,” Money B says. “[He drew] Tupac’s big ol’ nose and rigid cheekbone. Some people took offense to how they were drawn, but they didn’t get it. [If] he didn’t like you, he might draw some crazy pictures.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">A perennial jokester, Shock’s cartoonish ways weren’t used solely for mockery; they could also serve as a language for love, unity and representation. Perhaps no other Digital Underground project displays this more poetically than the gold-certified \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This Is an E.P. Release\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, which features the single “Same Song” — famous for being Tupac’s first published track. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Tupac began his journey with Digital Underground in 1989 when he\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://eastbayexpress.com/weed-and-white-women-shock-g-from-oaklands-digital-underground-1/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> signed to their underground label, TNT Records\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. It’s likely that without Shock G’s clairvoyance, the version of Tupac we know today may not have arrived as quickly as he did — or, at the very least, the future icon wouldn’t have been given such a momentous debut opportunity in front of a national audience.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930488\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930488\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132-800x508.jpg\" alt=\"A black-and-white photo features a young Shock G rapping in a long fur coat and fur hat. Tupac stands next to him shirtless and holding up artwork, the content of which is not fully visible.\" width=\"800\" height=\"508\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132-800x508.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132-1020x647.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132-160x102.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132-768x487.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132-1536x974.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G and 2Pac of Digital Underground perform at Market Square Arena in Indianapolis, Indiana in July 1990. \u003ccite>(Raymond Boyd/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock and Tupac’s friendship is forever illustrated on \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This Is an E.P. Release\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. The cover features Shock’s hand-drawn portrait of the entire DU squad, himself included, with one arm lovingly wrapped around a young Tupac’s shoulders.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In the new Hulu \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">documentary \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Dear Mama\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, Tupac praises Shock G for giving him his earliest validation as a rap artist: “Shock G made sure people saw me as a member of the group. And because he did that, it gave me the courage and the confidence to really just do what I wanted. That’s the best thing one human being can do for another.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Thanks to Shock G, Tupac finally saw himself — literally and figuratively — as a successful musician.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930495\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930495\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"One of Shock G's drawings features olives climbing out of a martini glass. \" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kent Racker, the brother of the late Gregory Jacobs, known as Shock G, holds a drawing on a greeting card created by Shock G at his home in Oakland on June 13, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Unseen artwork and Shock G’s final act\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">There are countless Shock G visuals that the public has never seen: The zany machinations he would invent on the fly while sitting on a tour bus, hanging backstage or out late at night with his crew. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">A napkin at a burger joint was a canvas to be filled with heartfelt messages for his closest kin. A cardboard box at a party, in his hands, could mutate into a comic strip panel for nonsensical humor. The back of a receipt evolved into a map drawn for a friend before a road trip. Even the inside lining of his jackets became surfaces he could stylize, converting them into wearable artwork that he would later give away to fans.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock G continued making visual art into his last years, often making custom holiday cards for friends and family members, says his brother, Kent Racker. The MC also experimented with abstract, acrylic canvases after moving to Topanga in Southern California as he grew older. Unfortunately, his artistic evolution was cut short. Shock G died of an accidental drug overdose in Tampa, where he spent the end of his life, on April 22, 2021.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930427\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930427\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-152563908-800x534.jpg\" alt=\"Shock G and George Clinton smile at each other, wearing formal attire. \" width=\"800\" height=\"534\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-152563908-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-152563908-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-152563908-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-152563908-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-152563908.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G and George Clinton of Parliament-Funkadelic attend the Congressional Black Caucus Foundation 42nd annual legislative conference at the Washington Convention Center on September 21, 2012 in Washington, DC. \u003ccite>(Monica Morgan/WireImage)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Racker imagines that, had he lived, Shock G could be painting large-scale murals. “But he wasn’t concerned about the promotion of people knowing about [his art while he was alive]. He was just in tune with being able to create a beautiful representation of DU as an artist.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Racker’s estimation can’t be far off. In later interviews, Shock G hinted at wanting to try new things.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930486\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930486\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"Kent Racker poses in a room decorated with Digital Underground gold plaques, guitars and other musical memorabilia. \" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kent Racker, the brother of the late Gregory Jacobs, known as Shock G, stands in his home in Oakland on June 13, 2023, wearing a t-shirt with art made by Shock G. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I wanna get out there and mix it up a little more,” \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://vimeo.com/23192620\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock G told journalist Tamara Palmer\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> in 2011. “I wanna have fun and just make anything. It ain’t gotta be Eddie [Humpty Hump] Humphrey. It ain’t gotta be Shock G.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Palmer initially met Shock G for an MTV interview in 2004 and kept in touch. She says he ran his own website, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"http://shock-g.com/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock-G.com\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, and would often post “highly illustrated” work, including a comic strip at one point. (The site is still active but became a fan site domain after his passing).\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“They were just made-up characters,” says Palmer. “There was no deeper meaning to it, I don’t think. He provided very surprising comic relief.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Eventually, Palmer witnessed his artistry firsthand at a mutual friend’s house party, where they doodled together for fun. “[The art we made together was] cheeky, super cheeky. I glued a flier to the lower corner of a wooden tray and he turned it into a bar scene with a male fish flirting with the female fish. It was like a big wink,” says Palmer.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929947\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13929947\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-800x620.png\" alt=\"a surreal sketch and collage on carboard, including fishes drinking at a bar\" width=\"800\" height=\"620\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-800x620.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-1020x791.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-160x124.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-768x595.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-1536x1191.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-2048x1588.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-1920x1489.png 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G’s sketches were cartoonish, playful and spontaneous. This collaborative piece was made with Tamara Palmer at a house party. \u003ccite>(Tamara Palmer)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Late in his career, along with painting, Shock G veered further into jazz — with Gregory, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://oaklandside.org/2021/11/22/shock-gs-jazz-piano-the-digital-underground-frontmans-musicianship-will-be-featured-in-posthumous-album/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">he recorded a solo jazz piano album, the posthumously released \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The Piano Man\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“As an illustrator and piano player, that was unheard of back then,” Gregory adds. “Nowadays, Roddy Rich and Tyler, the Creator, they have these pianos. Shock went to see [Roddy’s] show in 2018, and the manager came up to tell Shock that [Roddy] is the only rapper to play the piano.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Gregory smirks while sharing this, knowing that Shock mastered the instrument many moons ago. Add to that the immeasurable amounts of unshared, custom artwork in Shock G’s collection, and you have a once-in-a-generation creative mind.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“You gotta think, when we’re touring and on buses, he would draw something every day. Idle time was never idle time [for him]. He was creating something. Even on a napkin or a note, it was artsy,” Money B shares.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Gregory estimates that “95% has probably been unseen.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930497\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930497\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"A '90s color photo features Shock G performing on stage in his white fur getup and his brother, Kent, rapping alongside him.\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kent Racker, the brother of the late Gregory Jacobs, known as Shock G, holds a photo of himself and his brother performing with Digital Underground in Philadelphia at his home in Oakland on June 13, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">All told, Shock G may have been one of the Bay Area’s most prolific, subversive visual artists — a visionary who bent the lines of human geometry with the “Humpty Dance” and on the page with his out-of-this-world drawings. And according to his brother, it couldn’t have happened anywhere except Oakland.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“It would not have happened back East. The style at the time, we always laugh and joke at ourselves about being hippies,” Racker says. “He probably could have come up as a rapper in New York, or anywhere, because of his musicality and being around hip-hop when it was forming. We had that foundation. But coming out to the Bay Area and California, it really amplified and illustrated his aesthetic in the work, and he just kept drawing and creating a visual world.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "What Woodie’s Brutally Honest Rap Meant for Antioch",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>Editor’s note: This story is part of \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003cem>, an ongoing KQED series about \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A-Wax had just gotten out of jail when he decided to hit up a hotel party in Concord.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The year was 2001, and the aspiring lyricist from Pittsburg, California found himself talking to a local rapper from Antioch who’d just been released from prison. The pair made plans to record together that night, and connected in the studio shortly afterward.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Over two decades later, that interaction with Ryan Mitchell Wood, better known as \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jkrf43Fpn7k\">Woodie\u003c/a> — one of the most influential rappers from East Contra Costa County — remains a core memory for \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/waxfase/?hl=en\">A-Wax\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He was a white guy in a Mexican gang and I was a white guy in a Black gang,” A-Wax recalls of Woodie, who died in 2007. “He just told me to come through to the studio. I was thrown aback. We didn’t know each other. Most people would want money for that, but he just genuinely wanted to link up and make good music.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The resulting track, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hUvOuFYFCIE\">Journey\u003c/a>,” which Woodie produced, is a sempiternal Bay Area mobb banger with slow-dripping bells, sinister synths and cryptic tales of East Bay street life and scandal. The lead single on A-Wax’s debut album \u003ci>Savage Timez\u003c/i>, it represents a different era of Bay Area sound, one nearly alien to the modern general public. It also stands as proof of the non-fungible influence Woodie had on Antioch’s rap world and its surrounding communities as both a storyteller and production maestro.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID=arts_13938026 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/HBKGang.16x9.jpg']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yet when discussing the Bay Area’s extensive rap canon — a colorful spectrum of voices and personalities born on early-’80s handmade cassette tapes that eventually reached a crescendo with hyphy, which spread throughout the Bay Area like a constantly permutating remix of a remix — the city of Antioch rarely comes to mind.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With just over 115,000 residents, Antioch is tucked away on the Bay Area’s northeastern outskirts, a remote outpost nearer to Stockton than San Francisco. Founded as Smith’s Landing in 1849 as a gateway settlement into the San Francisco Bay, the historically agricultural community sits along the slow-moving San Joaquin River, offering the promise of a quieter life outside of the region’s larger, more industrialized epicenters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So it’s all the more impressive and confounding that of all the Bay Area’s zip codes and bustling populations, Antioch in the late ’90s (rather than, say, East Side San Jose or the Mission District) became ground zero for Northern California’s Latino rap zeitgeist — and all thanks to a white dude. Though largely unrecognized by today’s listener, Woodie’s contributions to Antioch cannot be overlooked. Indeed, very few contemporary rappers could do for their city what Woodie did for his in an era of independent street hustlership.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13978686\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1080px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-4.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1080\" height=\"1080\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13978686\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-4.jpg 1080w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-4-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-4-768x768.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1080px) 100vw, 1080px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(L–R) Woodie and A-Wax, from the cover of their joint release ‘2 Sides of the Game.’ ‘He was a white guy in a Mexican gang and I was a white guy in a Black gang,’ says A-Wax today. ‘He just genuinely wanted to link up and make good music.’ \u003ccite>(Bay Rider Entertainment / Design by Darren Tu)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Living the Yoc Life\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Woodie moved from San Leandro to Antioch at age 10. As an only child, he had a strong connection to his single mother, who later would frequently be mentioned in Woodie’s songs. By 14, Woodie had bounced around Antioch High School, Prospects High Alternative School and Live Oak Continuation School without ever graduating. That’s when he became steeped in Latino culture, making friends with those who would initiate him into gang life. After meeting Carlos “Blackbird” Ramirez, Woodie’s involvement with the \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3D6JTfmDC7U\">West Twompster Norteños\u003c/a> deepened. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As a teenager, Woodie dabbled in breakdancing and rapping. He showed an aptitude for the creative aspects that hip-hop offered. But he was also drawn to other temptations and lifestyles. He appears to have spent time at Folsom State Prison for assault with a deadly weapon; multiple \u003ca href=\"https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/222829330/ryan_mitchell-wood\">online sources reference his prison sentence\u003c/a>, though no public documentation of it exists, and the timeline of Woodie’s imprisonment is unclear.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1994, Woodie and Ramirez’s close friend Gabriel “Snoop” Roberson was \u003ca href=\"https://www.mercurynews.com/2021/04/07/parole-denied-for-antioch-man-whose-murder-case-took-on-notoriety-through-rapper-woodies-songs-decries-kangaroo-court-as-hes-led-away/\">convicted of murder\u003c/a> and sentenced to life in a gang-related quintuple shooting. Four years later, Ramirez was caught in \u003ca href=\"https://www.cbsnews.com/news/two-day-standoff-ends-in-tragedy/\">a two-day standoff with the Antioch Police Department\u003c/a> that tragically resulted in an apparent murder-suicide, leaving he and his two daughters dead. Conflicting accounts persist about the incident, with \u003ca href=\"https://www.reddit.com/r/Bad_Cop_No_Donut/comments/150teik/the_story_of_blackbird_from_northern_california/\">internet sleuths\u003c/a> maintaining that Ramirez was a target of police misconduct. Woodie felt the same way, and the influence of both Ramirez and Roberson cast a lasting shadow over Woodie’s life and lyrics, even as the details of both circumstances grew muddied. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID=arts_13931795 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Hus-Jack.jpg']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One thing is clear: Woodie’s life as a white Norteño rapper came with severe complications — and consequences. Woodie \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ZQ0uUMEEyQ\">died in 2007\u003c/a> at the age of 31, reportedly from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head while living in Florence, Oregon. A quick YouTube search will yield various conspiracy theories about Woodie’s death, and for many fans, it’s become a sensitive subject without conclusive answers. To make matters worse, in 2018 — more than a decade after his death — \u003ca href=\"https://www.eastbaytimes.com/2018/06/01/beyond-disrespectful-iconic-late-antioch-rapper-woodies-headstone-disappears/\">Woodie’s memorial marker was stolen from Holy Cross Cemetery in Antioch\u003c/a>. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After the theft, Storm Wolf, who coordinated the memorial’s installation, told the \u003ci>East Bay Times\u003c/i> that as loved as Woodie was, “there were people who hated him that much too.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Posthumously, however, there are countless stories of Woodie’s stature as a beloved community figure, particularly among Latinos. “Being a Mexican from East San Jose, Woodie helped me get through some hard lonely times as a teen. RIP to one of the realest there ever was,” wrote one viewer on a \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jkrf43Fpn7k\">\u003ci>History of the Bay\u003c/i>\u003c/a> video dedicated to Woodie’s life and career. Every comment section regarding Woodie’s music is populated with similar testimonies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And regardless of people’s personal opinions of him, everyone seems to agree that Woodie succeeded in doing what no one else had up to that point: putting Antioch on the map with fiercely studious, generational artistry. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13978688\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1080px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-3_2.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1080\" height=\"1080\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13978688\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-3_2.jpg 1080w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-3_2-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-3_2-768x768.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1080px) 100vw, 1080px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Woodie’s influence on Latino rap fans in the Bay Area is still felt today. \u003ccite>(East Co. Co. Records / Design by Darren Tu)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Megan Calderon met Woodie at the Contra Costa County Fair in Antioch when they were both teenagers in the ’90s, and the two maintained a lifelong friendship. While Calderon pursued classes at Los Medanos College, Woodie enrolled at nearby Heald College to take a course in sound engineering.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I bought a recording arts book for him back then for one dollar,” Calderon says. “I remember he told me how helpful that book was. He became self-taught. There was no older homie or brother or cousin that showed him how to get into the rap game and do music. He just played on the keyboard, messed around and learned how to do the recordings himself. His work ethic was respectable; he literally worked from the ground up. It was super cool to see.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>‘2 Sides of the Game’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>It wasn’t until after Woodie was released from prison that he asserted himself as one of the Bay Area’s most operose rap voices, particularly among Chicano listeners. It’s because of Woodie — the slick-haired, 49ers jersey-adorned emcee and producer who represented Antioch with the same to-the-grave vigor as Compton’s Eazy-E or Brooklyn’s Notorious B.I.G. — that “the Yoc” even existed in the greater Bay Area lexicon. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Prior to Woodie, Latino rap in the Bay Area had just started to gain recognition. In 1988, the Latin Poets (featuring \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LjWWdDd2Nqc\">Don Cisco\u003c/a> from San Francisco’s Excelsior District) released “Viva La Musica,” understood to be the first Spanish-imbued hip-hop song from the Bay. In 1992, N2DEEP from Vallejo released “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WVtRyrOaoZA\">Back to the Hotel\u003c/a>,” which became a massive hit not only on local airwaves, but on MTV. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID=arts_13939381 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.MAIN_.jpg']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another key figure during that period was \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/@GaryBacaTV\">Gary Baca\u003c/a>, also known as G-Spot, a DJ and cable access TV host. His program featured Vallejo’s Funky Aztecs, who peaked with the 2Pac-assisted single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h5AUARw6Hmo\">Slippin’ Into Darkness\u003c/a>” (the song’s video features vatos, lowriders and cholas, and describes lascivious pursuits while encouraging Black and Latino unity over West Coast funk). Other Latin hip-hop figures who would call the Bay Area home include Chuy Gomez, Darkroom Familia, Equipto, Deuce Eclipse, Krudas Cubensi and Los Rakas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still, Woodie stood apart from his contemporaries. Aside from being a white man with heavy Norteño gang affiliations — an uncommon archetype for a Bay Area rapper, then and now — he was a prolific producer, and the owner of his own record label, East Co. Co. Records, founded in 1997. To fund the label, Woodie put up his Buick Skylark as collateral for a loan; the vehicle would later be featured on his first album cover.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1998, Woodie dropped his magnum-opus debut, \u003ci>Yoc Influenced\u003c/i>. The project quickly garnered recognition, and Woodie became one of the Bay’s most promising unsigned talents. He would eventually get picked up by Koch Records in 2001 and enjoy national distribution for his second album, \u003ci>Demonz N My Sleep\u003c/i>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Woodie built his reputation largely on local, independent success — a trademark of many Bay Area greats.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was a lot more hands-on,” says A-Wax. “We had to paint the town with promotional items on stop signs, liquor store windows, high traffic areas. It was all hand-to-hand, word of mouth: CDs on deck in the trunks of our cars. It was one brick at a time to lay the foundation, without any way to mass promote [on social media]. It was a different beast.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Along with self-delivering CDs to Tower Records, as well as Under Records in Pittsburg and Rock Bottom in Antioch, Woodie and his cohort relied on community hubs to host shows, sell merch and record promotional commercials. It eventually paid off.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13978691\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-Graphic-5.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1240\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13978691\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-Graphic-5.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-Graphic-5-160x103.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-Graphic-5-768x496.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-Graphic-5-1536x992.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Woodie in a detail from the cover of ‘Yoc Influenced,’ his breakout release. \u003ccite>(East Co. Co. Records / Design by Darren Tu)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Northern Expozure\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>At his apex, Woodie rapped as if he were trapped in an eternal cypher with his inner demons — his songs often referenced sin, Catholicism, suicide and forgiveness. He grappled with the moral dilemmas and emotional vulnerabilities of being involved in crime in ways that most gang-affiliated, shoot-’em-all rappers from the ’90s rarely, if ever, vocalized.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“My mother prays that I quit the life I lead / Damn, I try to change my ways, but these streets are callin’ me/ And I love her to death, but at the same time I’m a soldier / I gotta put in work, let rivals know they can’t get over” he says on “The Streets Are Callin’ Me.” The song underscores a conflicted duality: Woodie’s internal search for right and wrong, approval and survival.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Woodie wasn’t just bragging about drive-bys in his music; he was self-analyzing and healing, scanning his past for scars and revealing them publicly. Rather than mindless glorification, his depiction of a predominantly Latino gang experience came through the eyes of a tormented outcast, a poet giving insight into a violent subculture that traditionally lacked dimension beyond sensational news headlines and Hollywood gang flicks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J4nC05Jr1Gs\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In “The Clock Is Tickin’,” the Antioch philosopher reflects on religious teachings with a tone that’s skeptical, if not harrowingly pragmatic: “The Bible says I live my life rough, statistics say I’ll die young / I can’t disagree ’cause I’m a fucking walking time bomb.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Just as with the work of 2Pac, Mac Dre, The Jacka and Nipsey Hussle — other great California rappers lost too soon to violence — a gloom of brooding mystery and enigma hangs over Woodie’s subversive storytelling. His words are clouded with a swirling sense of guilt, while confidently projecting clairvoyance about his time coming to an end. \u003ci>Yoc Influenced\u003c/i> is filled with what-ifs (“damn, I tried to change my ways but the streets are calling me”), how-comes (“We used to be homies / You flipped the script and now we rivals”) and fuck-its (“If I fail I’ll rot in jail / and if I succeed I’ll burn in hell / So either way I’m fucked in these streets”).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Woodie’s own trademark production — eerie, otherworldly — underpinned his every word, providing a funky iciness. Though overlooked, his career as a producer was arguably more important than his rapping in creating Antioch’s soundscape. \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/bigtone/?hl=en\">Big Tone\u003c/a>, one of Woodie’s former protégés and a fellow Antiochian, describes Woodie’s beats as sounding “like the intro theme song of \u003ci>X-Files\u003c/i>,” the cult television show about unsolved paranormal and extraterrestrial incidents.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID=arts_13933590 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Chuy_Ak_CMC-1920x1080.jpg']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Like A-Wax, Big Tone (a formerly gang-related Chicano rapper) made his rap debut with Woodie’s assistance; he eventually launched his own label, Sav It Out Records. Tone is one of many in Antioch who praise Woodie not just for his mentorship, but his enduring sonic imprint: creeping synthesizers haunted by dark thumps of bass, accompanied by razor-sharp ruminations on life, prison, loyalty and death.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Before I knew him personally, I was just a fan of his music,” says Big Tone, who recently shared \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j2CIydHYcv8&t=248s\">footage of Bay Area icon Mac Dre partying with Woodie\u003c/a> in a tribute song about Antioch, titled “Rivertown.” “Then he found out about me, put me on one of his albums and gave me exposure. He would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Woodie built a niche, regional empire from vacuous air, shouting “Much pride north side of the Golden Gate / it’s Woodie Wood from the A-N-T-I-O-C-H” and documenting his own community with the sociological lens of a gang historian. On \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V2Xlq5cugFA\">his regionally authoritative hit “Norte Sidin’”\u003c/a> — a blapper which put Woodie on the radar of most listeners — he chronologically lays out Antioch’s rising turf wars like no one had before, all over a sample of Bananarama’s “Cruel Summer”: “Back in ’92 only a few of us was ridin’ / ’93 who are these fools South Sidin’ / ’94 we kept the pistol chamber smoking / ’95 they realized the Yoc ain’t joking.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Woodie followed up the biggest solo success of his career with a group effort: \u003ci>Northern Expozure\u003c/i>, a compilation highlighting other rappers and producers from East Contra Costa County, with an emphasis on Norteño gang members. The compilation would eventually spawn eight volumes. Just as beloved as his own solo albums, the \u003ci>Northern Expozure\u003c/i> series might be Woodie’s biggest contribution to future generations of Antioch rappers, showcasing previously undiscovered talents like Lil Shadow and the aforementioned Big Tone and A-Wax. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13978687\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1080px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-2_2.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1080\" height=\"1080\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13978687\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-2_2.jpg 1080w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-2_2-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-2_2-768x768.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1080px) 100vw, 1080px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">With ‘Northern Expozure,’ Woodie used his newfound notoriety as a platform to promote other artists. \u003ccite>(Bay Rider Entertainment / Design by Darren Tu)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>According to A-Wax, who released “East Co Co” in 2022 as \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=THB9ZydxckM\">a heartfelt tribute to his fallen mentor\u003c/a>, Woodie loosely modeled his vision after independent San Francisco rap legend JT the Bigga Figga and his homegrown enterprise Get Low Recordz. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Own the label, sign the artists, make your own beats,” A-Wax explains. “JT was the one we looked up to who did everything on his own … He was kicking up noise. I wasn’t around JT to learn the ins and outs hands-on, but I seen it from a distance, and I know [Woodie] was running the same game plan.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The progenitor of Antioch’s rap culture, Woodie turned “Yoc Life” and “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=smsLr6yvbeQ\">Mob Livin’\u003c/a>” into phrases that continue to ring out from lowriders, customized pickups and tinted-window coupes to this day. Woodie never reached the same commercial success as revered Bay rappers like E-40, but then again, who has? Woodie’s legacy is certainly layered, one of a transcendent underground artist loved by his fans and tarnished by his foes. Nonetheless, he remains one of the most gifted and altruistic California gang rappers of all time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This music thing, I’m doing it for my family and my homies,” he says on “Take My Soul,” a bonus track on \u003ci>Yoc Influenced\u003c/i>. “I’m trying to leave some cash in their pockets before I go. The clock is ticking. It’s just a matter of time.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The clock eventually ran out for Woodie. But before he left, he gave us all — homies, fans, the Yay — a burning soundtrack that lives on.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>Editor’s note: This story is part of \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003cem>, an ongoing KQED series about \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A-Wax had just gotten out of jail when he decided to hit up a hotel party in Concord.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The year was 2001, and the aspiring lyricist from Pittsburg, California found himself talking to a local rapper from Antioch who’d just been released from prison. The pair made plans to record together that night, and connected in the studio shortly afterward.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Over two decades later, that interaction with Ryan Mitchell Wood, better known as \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jkrf43Fpn7k\">Woodie\u003c/a> — one of the most influential rappers from East Contra Costa County — remains a core memory for \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/waxfase/?hl=en\">A-Wax\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He was a white guy in a Mexican gang and I was a white guy in a Black gang,” A-Wax recalls of Woodie, who died in 2007. “He just told me to come through to the studio. I was thrown aback. We didn’t know each other. Most people would want money for that, but he just genuinely wanted to link up and make good music.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The resulting track, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hUvOuFYFCIE\">Journey\u003c/a>,” which Woodie produced, is a sempiternal Bay Area mobb banger with slow-dripping bells, sinister synths and cryptic tales of East Bay street life and scandal. The lead single on A-Wax’s debut album \u003ci>Savage Timez\u003c/i>, it represents a different era of Bay Area sound, one nearly alien to the modern general public. It also stands as proof of the non-fungible influence Woodie had on Antioch’s rap world and its surrounding communities as both a storyteller and production maestro.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yet when discussing the Bay Area’s extensive rap canon — a colorful spectrum of voices and personalities born on early-’80s handmade cassette tapes that eventually reached a crescendo with hyphy, which spread throughout the Bay Area like a constantly permutating remix of a remix — the city of Antioch rarely comes to mind.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With just over 115,000 residents, Antioch is tucked away on the Bay Area’s northeastern outskirts, a remote outpost nearer to Stockton than San Francisco. Founded as Smith’s Landing in 1849 as a gateway settlement into the San Francisco Bay, the historically agricultural community sits along the slow-moving San Joaquin River, offering the promise of a quieter life outside of the region’s larger, more industrialized epicenters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So it’s all the more impressive and confounding that of all the Bay Area’s zip codes and bustling populations, Antioch in the late ’90s (rather than, say, East Side San Jose or the Mission District) became ground zero for Northern California’s Latino rap zeitgeist — and all thanks to a white dude. Though largely unrecognized by today’s listener, Woodie’s contributions to Antioch cannot be overlooked. Indeed, very few contemporary rappers could do for their city what Woodie did for his in an era of independent street hustlership.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13978686\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1080px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-4.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1080\" height=\"1080\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13978686\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-4.jpg 1080w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-4-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-4-768x768.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1080px) 100vw, 1080px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(L–R) Woodie and A-Wax, from the cover of their joint release ‘2 Sides of the Game.’ ‘He was a white guy in a Mexican gang and I was a white guy in a Black gang,’ says A-Wax today. ‘He just genuinely wanted to link up and make good music.’ \u003ccite>(Bay Rider Entertainment / Design by Darren Tu)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Living the Yoc Life\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Woodie moved from San Leandro to Antioch at age 10. As an only child, he had a strong connection to his single mother, who later would frequently be mentioned in Woodie’s songs. By 14, Woodie had bounced around Antioch High School, Prospects High Alternative School and Live Oak Continuation School without ever graduating. That’s when he became steeped in Latino culture, making friends with those who would initiate him into gang life. After meeting Carlos “Blackbird” Ramirez, Woodie’s involvement with the \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3D6JTfmDC7U\">West Twompster Norteños\u003c/a> deepened. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As a teenager, Woodie dabbled in breakdancing and rapping. He showed an aptitude for the creative aspects that hip-hop offered. But he was also drawn to other temptations and lifestyles. He appears to have spent time at Folsom State Prison for assault with a deadly weapon; multiple \u003ca href=\"https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/222829330/ryan_mitchell-wood\">online sources reference his prison sentence\u003c/a>, though no public documentation of it exists, and the timeline of Woodie’s imprisonment is unclear.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1994, Woodie and Ramirez’s close friend Gabriel “Snoop” Roberson was \u003ca href=\"https://www.mercurynews.com/2021/04/07/parole-denied-for-antioch-man-whose-murder-case-took-on-notoriety-through-rapper-woodies-songs-decries-kangaroo-court-as-hes-led-away/\">convicted of murder\u003c/a> and sentenced to life in a gang-related quintuple shooting. Four years later, Ramirez was caught in \u003ca href=\"https://www.cbsnews.com/news/two-day-standoff-ends-in-tragedy/\">a two-day standoff with the Antioch Police Department\u003c/a> that tragically resulted in an apparent murder-suicide, leaving he and his two daughters dead. Conflicting accounts persist about the incident, with \u003ca href=\"https://www.reddit.com/r/Bad_Cop_No_Donut/comments/150teik/the_story_of_blackbird_from_northern_california/\">internet sleuths\u003c/a> maintaining that Ramirez was a target of police misconduct. Woodie felt the same way, and the influence of both Ramirez and Roberson cast a lasting shadow over Woodie’s life and lyrics, even as the details of both circumstances grew muddied. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One thing is clear: Woodie’s life as a white Norteño rapper came with severe complications — and consequences. Woodie \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ZQ0uUMEEyQ\">died in 2007\u003c/a> at the age of 31, reportedly from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head while living in Florence, Oregon. A quick YouTube search will yield various conspiracy theories about Woodie’s death, and for many fans, it’s become a sensitive subject without conclusive answers. To make matters worse, in 2018 — more than a decade after his death — \u003ca href=\"https://www.eastbaytimes.com/2018/06/01/beyond-disrespectful-iconic-late-antioch-rapper-woodies-headstone-disappears/\">Woodie’s memorial marker was stolen from Holy Cross Cemetery in Antioch\u003c/a>. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After the theft, Storm Wolf, who coordinated the memorial’s installation, told the \u003ci>East Bay Times\u003c/i> that as loved as Woodie was, “there were people who hated him that much too.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Posthumously, however, there are countless stories of Woodie’s stature as a beloved community figure, particularly among Latinos. “Being a Mexican from East San Jose, Woodie helped me get through some hard lonely times as a teen. RIP to one of the realest there ever was,” wrote one viewer on a \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jkrf43Fpn7k\">\u003ci>History of the Bay\u003c/i>\u003c/a> video dedicated to Woodie’s life and career. Every comment section regarding Woodie’s music is populated with similar testimonies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And regardless of people’s personal opinions of him, everyone seems to agree that Woodie succeeded in doing what no one else had up to that point: putting Antioch on the map with fiercely studious, generational artistry. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13978688\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1080px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-3_2.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1080\" height=\"1080\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13978688\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-3_2.jpg 1080w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-3_2-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-3_2-768x768.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1080px) 100vw, 1080px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Woodie’s influence on Latino rap fans in the Bay Area is still felt today. \u003ccite>(East Co. Co. Records / Design by Darren Tu)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Megan Calderon met Woodie at the Contra Costa County Fair in Antioch when they were both teenagers in the ’90s, and the two maintained a lifelong friendship. While Calderon pursued classes at Los Medanos College, Woodie enrolled at nearby Heald College to take a course in sound engineering.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I bought a recording arts book for him back then for one dollar,” Calderon says. “I remember he told me how helpful that book was. He became self-taught. There was no older homie or brother or cousin that showed him how to get into the rap game and do music. He just played on the keyboard, messed around and learned how to do the recordings himself. His work ethic was respectable; he literally worked from the ground up. It was super cool to see.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>‘2 Sides of the Game’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>It wasn’t until after Woodie was released from prison that he asserted himself as one of the Bay Area’s most operose rap voices, particularly among Chicano listeners. It’s because of Woodie — the slick-haired, 49ers jersey-adorned emcee and producer who represented Antioch with the same to-the-grave vigor as Compton’s Eazy-E or Brooklyn’s Notorious B.I.G. — that “the Yoc” even existed in the greater Bay Area lexicon. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Prior to Woodie, Latino rap in the Bay Area had just started to gain recognition. In 1988, the Latin Poets (featuring \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LjWWdDd2Nqc\">Don Cisco\u003c/a> from San Francisco’s Excelsior District) released “Viva La Musica,” understood to be the first Spanish-imbued hip-hop song from the Bay. In 1992, N2DEEP from Vallejo released “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WVtRyrOaoZA\">Back to the Hotel\u003c/a>,” which became a massive hit not only on local airwaves, but on MTV. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another key figure during that period was \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/@GaryBacaTV\">Gary Baca\u003c/a>, also known as G-Spot, a DJ and cable access TV host. His program featured Vallejo’s Funky Aztecs, who peaked with the 2Pac-assisted single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h5AUARw6Hmo\">Slippin’ Into Darkness\u003c/a>” (the song’s video features vatos, lowriders and cholas, and describes lascivious pursuits while encouraging Black and Latino unity over West Coast funk). Other Latin hip-hop figures who would call the Bay Area home include Chuy Gomez, Darkroom Familia, Equipto, Deuce Eclipse, Krudas Cubensi and Los Rakas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still, Woodie stood apart from his contemporaries. Aside from being a white man with heavy Norteño gang affiliations — an uncommon archetype for a Bay Area rapper, then and now — he was a prolific producer, and the owner of his own record label, East Co. Co. Records, founded in 1997. To fund the label, Woodie put up his Buick Skylark as collateral for a loan; the vehicle would later be featured on his first album cover.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1998, Woodie dropped his magnum-opus debut, \u003ci>Yoc Influenced\u003c/i>. The project quickly garnered recognition, and Woodie became one of the Bay’s most promising unsigned talents. He would eventually get picked up by Koch Records in 2001 and enjoy national distribution for his second album, \u003ci>Demonz N My Sleep\u003c/i>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Woodie built his reputation largely on local, independent success — a trademark of many Bay Area greats.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was a lot more hands-on,” says A-Wax. “We had to paint the town with promotional items on stop signs, liquor store windows, high traffic areas. It was all hand-to-hand, word of mouth: CDs on deck in the trunks of our cars. It was one brick at a time to lay the foundation, without any way to mass promote [on social media]. It was a different beast.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Along with self-delivering CDs to Tower Records, as well as Under Records in Pittsburg and Rock Bottom in Antioch, Woodie and his cohort relied on community hubs to host shows, sell merch and record promotional commercials. It eventually paid off.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13978691\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-Graphic-5.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1240\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13978691\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-Graphic-5.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-Graphic-5-160x103.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-Graphic-5-768x496.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-Graphic-5-1536x992.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Woodie in a detail from the cover of ‘Yoc Influenced,’ his breakout release. \u003ccite>(East Co. Co. Records / Design by Darren Tu)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Northern Expozure\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>At his apex, Woodie rapped as if he were trapped in an eternal cypher with his inner demons — his songs often referenced sin, Catholicism, suicide and forgiveness. He grappled with the moral dilemmas and emotional vulnerabilities of being involved in crime in ways that most gang-affiliated, shoot-’em-all rappers from the ’90s rarely, if ever, vocalized.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“My mother prays that I quit the life I lead / Damn, I try to change my ways, but these streets are callin’ me/ And I love her to death, but at the same time I’m a soldier / I gotta put in work, let rivals know they can’t get over” he says on “The Streets Are Callin’ Me.” The song underscores a conflicted duality: Woodie’s internal search for right and wrong, approval and survival.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Woodie wasn’t just bragging about drive-bys in his music; he was self-analyzing and healing, scanning his past for scars and revealing them publicly. Rather than mindless glorification, his depiction of a predominantly Latino gang experience came through the eyes of a tormented outcast, a poet giving insight into a violent subculture that traditionally lacked dimension beyond sensational news headlines and Hollywood gang flicks.\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/J4nC05Jr1Gs'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/J4nC05Jr1Gs'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>In “The Clock Is Tickin’,” the Antioch philosopher reflects on religious teachings with a tone that’s skeptical, if not harrowingly pragmatic: “The Bible says I live my life rough, statistics say I’ll die young / I can’t disagree ’cause I’m a fucking walking time bomb.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Just as with the work of 2Pac, Mac Dre, The Jacka and Nipsey Hussle — other great California rappers lost too soon to violence — a gloom of brooding mystery and enigma hangs over Woodie’s subversive storytelling. His words are clouded with a swirling sense of guilt, while confidently projecting clairvoyance about his time coming to an end. \u003ci>Yoc Influenced\u003c/i> is filled with what-ifs (“damn, I tried to change my ways but the streets are calling me”), how-comes (“We used to be homies / You flipped the script and now we rivals”) and fuck-its (“If I fail I’ll rot in jail / and if I succeed I’ll burn in hell / So either way I’m fucked in these streets”).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Woodie’s own trademark production — eerie, otherworldly — underpinned his every word, providing a funky iciness. Though overlooked, his career as a producer was arguably more important than his rapping in creating Antioch’s soundscape. \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/bigtone/?hl=en\">Big Tone\u003c/a>, one of Woodie’s former protégés and a fellow Antiochian, describes Woodie’s beats as sounding “like the intro theme song of \u003ci>X-Files\u003c/i>,” the cult television show about unsolved paranormal and extraterrestrial incidents.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Like A-Wax, Big Tone (a formerly gang-related Chicano rapper) made his rap debut with Woodie’s assistance; he eventually launched his own label, Sav It Out Records. Tone is one of many in Antioch who praise Woodie not just for his mentorship, but his enduring sonic imprint: creeping synthesizers haunted by dark thumps of bass, accompanied by razor-sharp ruminations on life, prison, loyalty and death.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Before I knew him personally, I was just a fan of his music,” says Big Tone, who recently shared \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j2CIydHYcv8&t=248s\">footage of Bay Area icon Mac Dre partying with Woodie\u003c/a> in a tribute song about Antioch, titled “Rivertown.” “Then he found out about me, put me on one of his albums and gave me exposure. He would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Woodie built a niche, regional empire from vacuous air, shouting “Much pride north side of the Golden Gate / it’s Woodie Wood from the A-N-T-I-O-C-H” and documenting his own community with the sociological lens of a gang historian. On \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V2Xlq5cugFA\">his regionally authoritative hit “Norte Sidin’”\u003c/a> — a blapper which put Woodie on the radar of most listeners — he chronologically lays out Antioch’s rising turf wars like no one had before, all over a sample of Bananarama’s “Cruel Summer”: “Back in ’92 only a few of us was ridin’ / ’93 who are these fools South Sidin’ / ’94 we kept the pistol chamber smoking / ’95 they realized the Yoc ain’t joking.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Woodie followed up the biggest solo success of his career with a group effort: \u003ci>Northern Expozure\u003c/i>, a compilation highlighting other rappers and producers from East Contra Costa County, with an emphasis on Norteño gang members. The compilation would eventually spawn eight volumes. Just as beloved as his own solo albums, the \u003ci>Northern Expozure\u003c/i> series might be Woodie’s biggest contribution to future generations of Antioch rappers, showcasing previously undiscovered talents like Lil Shadow and the aforementioned Big Tone and A-Wax. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13978687\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1080px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-2_2.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1080\" height=\"1080\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13978687\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-2_2.jpg 1080w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-2_2-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/07/Woodie-2_2-768x768.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1080px) 100vw, 1080px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">With ‘Northern Expozure,’ Woodie used his newfound notoriety as a platform to promote other artists. \u003ccite>(Bay Rider Entertainment / Design by Darren Tu)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>According to A-Wax, who released “East Co Co” in 2022 as \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=THB9ZydxckM\">a heartfelt tribute to his fallen mentor\u003c/a>, Woodie loosely modeled his vision after independent San Francisco rap legend JT the Bigga Figga and his homegrown enterprise Get Low Recordz. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Own the label, sign the artists, make your own beats,” A-Wax explains. “JT was the one we looked up to who did everything on his own … He was kicking up noise. I wasn’t around JT to learn the ins and outs hands-on, but I seen it from a distance, and I know [Woodie] was running the same game plan.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The progenitor of Antioch’s rap culture, Woodie turned “Yoc Life” and “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=smsLr6yvbeQ\">Mob Livin’\u003c/a>” into phrases that continue to ring out from lowriders, customized pickups and tinted-window coupes to this day. Woodie never reached the same commercial success as revered Bay rappers like E-40, but then again, who has? Woodie’s legacy is certainly layered, one of a transcendent underground artist loved by his fans and tarnished by his foes. Nonetheless, he remains one of the most gifted and altruistic California gang rappers of all time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This music thing, I’m doing it for my family and my homies,” he says on “Take My Soul,” a bonus track on \u003ci>Yoc Influenced\u003c/i>. “I’m trying to leave some cash in their pockets before I go. The clock is ticking. It’s just a matter of time.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The clock eventually ran out for Woodie. But before he left, he gave us all — homies, fans, the Yay — a burning soundtrack that lives on.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "bay-area-rappers-food-lyrics-illustrations-e-40-larry-june",
"title": "Here’s What Bay Area Rappers Are Eating (According to Their Lyrics)",
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"content": "\u003cp>[dropcap]W[/dropcap]hen conveying what it means to really be from the Bay Area, I often return to this simple yet revelatory \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/mac-dre\">Mac Dre\u003c/a> lyric: “In the Bay Area, we dance a little different.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Whether it’s in our music, political activism or technological contributions, there’s a certain out-of-box forwardness that tends to manifest from Bay Area minds — a distinguishable pride in how we approach everything with a savvy sprinkling of game, hustlership and top-tier ideation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The same can be said for the Bay Area’s food scene, which ranks among the nation’s best and most imaginative. From sourdough bread to the eternal Mission-style burrito, the Bay’s foodmakers have often been ahead of the curve, helping to revolutionize menus nationwide with their fresh farm-to-table approach. To borrow from the great Mac, one could say that in the Bay Area, we \u003ci>eat\u003c/i> a little different.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13907726,arts_13934248']\u003c/span>It’s no surprise, then, that in the history of local rap, food has always been a strong reference point — a metaphorical kitchen for creative exchange. An endless platter of well-seasoned slang. For decades, our rappers have delivered punchlines involving sauce, lasagna and \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XMah0rX6pGU\">lumpia\u003c/a>; dropped verses that generously reference \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lkBJR5L2nas\">desserts and bakeries\u003c/a>; and supplied entire songs about stacking bread, cheese and lettuce as lucrative sandwiches.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.sfchronicle.com/food/restaurants/article/bay-area-rap-shrimp-crab-17915372.php\">Food-loving Bay Area rappers\u003c/a> have always been bold when it comes to transmorphing culinary items and kitchen utensils into slang that others then appropriate and even misuse (see: “\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13908052/food-doesnt-slap\">food doesn’t slap\u003c/a>”). Shock G once talked about getting busy in a Burger King bathroom and declared, “I like my oatmeal lumpy.” On “Dreganomics,” Mac Dre himself asked, “What’s spaghetti without the sauce?” We’ve got Suga T (sweet) and Spice 1 (hot). Berner founded \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/cookiessf/?hl=en\">Cookies\u003c/a>. And just a few weeks ago, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13900085/stunnaman02-and-the-big-steppin-energy-in-the-room\">Stunnaman02\u003c/a> dropped a whole series of viral videos centered on his latest single. His focus? \u003ca href=\"https://www.tiktok.com/@jayworrld/video/7340701934355254574\">Eating a salad\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There’s a unifying ethos in Bay Area food and rap: \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E6GU3PmttyI\">Everybody eats\u003c/a>. So here’s a brief ode to some of our region’s most skilled vocabulary chefs and the tasteful ways they’ve reimagined the ingredients of language that are possible in a kitchen — and the recording studio.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13956090\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13956090\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/E40-Color-1.jpg\" alt=\"Illustration of the rapper E-40 in sunglasses and a beige apron, holding a glass of red wine. In front of him are a burrito and a grilled cheese sandwich.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/E40-Color-1.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/E40-Color-1-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/E40-Color-1-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/E40-Color-1-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/E40-Color-1-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/E40-Color-1-1536x1536.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/E40-Color-1-1920x1920.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">E-40 might be the most prolific inventor of food-related slang words in the English language. He’s a head chef in the Bay Area’s rap kingdom. \u003ccite>(Torre / @torre.pentel)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>E-40: Green eggs, hams, candy yams, Spam, cheese, peanut butter and jam on “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=etIBcRriUJY\">The Slap\u003c/a>”\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>“Digital scale, green eggs and hams / Yams, candy yams, Spam, damn! / Loaded, my cheese, peanut butter and jam / Sammich, mannish, me and my Hispanics / Vanish, talkin’ in codes like we from different planets.”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though it may sound like gibberish to the uninitiated, rest assured that \u003ca href=\"https://firstwefeast.com/eat/2013/12/food-rap-decoded-with-e-40-video\">99.99% of anything 40 Water vocalizes has a cleverly associative meaning\u003c/a>. For anyone who has listened to one of the more than 25 studio albums from Vallejo’s kingpin, you’ve surely heard him mention food — perhaps in a variety of languages (some real, some ingeniously invented). In addition to the smorgasbord he notes above in “The Slap,” he has pioneered rhymes across generations that give new meanings to Gouda, feta, mozzarella, lettuce, bread, sausage, salami, paninis, spaghetti, tacos and enchiladas — ad infinitum. Unsurprisingly, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13907726/e-40-goon-with-the-spoon-bay-area-rappers-food-entrepreneurs-hustle\">Mr. Fonzarelli is an actual purveyor of foods and beverages\u003c/a>, with a line of products that includes malt liquor, ice cream and burritos; he even co-owns \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/thelumpiacompany/\">The Lumpia Company\u003c/a>. There’s no one with a bigger million-dollar mouthpiece who can distribute as much word candy (“S-L-A-N-G”) quite as flavorfully as the Goon With The Spoon himself.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Andre Nickatina: TOGO’s #41 sandwich with the hot peppers on “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_FU1XdPE6lM\">Fa Show\u003c/a>”\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>“Baby don’t act dumb, I’m number 41, high stepper / TOGO’s sandwich with the hot peppers / At 90 degrees I might freeze, so when it’s hot I sport leather.”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fillmore’s finest, and among \u003ca href=\"https://www.passionweiss.com/2016/11/17/andre-nickatina/\">the most criminally underrated San Francisco rappers in history\u003c/a>, Andre Nickatina has always had a penchant for the spicy, the flavorful, the extemporaneously saucy. From rapping about eating Cap’n Crunch around drug dealers to sarcastically handing out Baskin Robbins dollars to his enemies, Nicky Nicotine (formerly known as Dre Dog) raps about food as casually as any rapper would ever dare. Unlike many of today’s international rap personalities, who seem to only eat at \u003ca href=\"https://www.reddit.com/r/OutOfTheLoop/comments/6frbt9/why_are_rappers_obsessed_with_nobu_sushi/\">high-priced sushi conglomerates\u003c/a>, Nickatina is a Bay Area real one, electing to stay fed at a regional sandwich chain from San Jose. The enigmatic “number 41” on the \u003ca href=\"https://www.togos.com/menu/?gad_source=1&gclid=CjwKCAjwoPOwBhAeEiwAJuXRh69gJ2fS8J9qmnAKJEnCmI5720psTxEmhEmkgFAemWoe3auyNuuxExoCTm0QAvD_BwE\">Togo’s menu\u003c/a> has since been discontinued, but a spokesperson for the restaurant IDed it as a sirloin steak and mushroom sandwich that was introduced as a seasonal special back in 2002 — the same year “Fa Show” was released. There is no doubt it must’ve been fire, given its endorsement by a legend who knows how to professionally “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o8TXpoi-goE\">Break Bread\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13956088\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13956088\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/KAMAIYAH-Color-1.jpg\" alt=\"Illustration of the rapper Kamaiyah eating from a plate of chicken alfredo tucked under her arm. Next to her is a bottle of champagne.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/KAMAIYAH-Color-1.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/KAMAIYAH-Color-1-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/KAMAIYAH-Color-1-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/KAMAIYAH-Color-1-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/KAMAIYAH-Color-1-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/KAMAIYAH-Color-1-1536x1536.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/KAMAIYAH-Color-1-1920x1920.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kamaiyah’s album covers often feature food, Hennessey and champagne — a reflection of the rapper’s saucy, bossy lifestyle. \u003ccite>(Torre / @torre.pentel)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Kamaiyah: Champagne and chicken on “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yls2dMJ63tM\">Whatever Whenever\u003c/a>”\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>“Just drink champagne with all my chicken meals.”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s fitting that East Oakland’s Kamaiyah — who cooked up the searingly hot single “How Does It Feel” on her transcendent debut, \u003ci>A Good Night in the Ghetto\u003c/i> — continued to double down on aspirational living and good eating with her sophomore release, \u003ci>Got It Made\u003c/i>. As always, the bodacious trapper rhymes over a synth-laced, floaty-spaceship soundscape while bragging about her California riches — and cuisine. The music video for “Whatever Whenever” features Kamaiyah roaming the untainted grounds of a Napa Valley-esque chateau. Her album covers over the years have also featured bags of potato chips, Hennessy and double-fisted bottles of champagne. It’s always bottoms up when Kamaiyah is on the track.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Too $hort: Macaroni, steak and collard greens on “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ru5B8cFskaw\">All My B*tches Are Gone\u003c/a>”\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>“Eat some shit up / macaroni, steak, collard greens, or whatever the fuck.”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With over 35 years of classic albums like \u003ci>Cocktails\u003c/i> and \u003ci>Gettin’ It\u003c/i>, there’s no doubt that Short Dogg knows how to feed his multi-generational fanbase. He doesn’t shy away from straightforward lyrics — or having a large appetite for nefarious activities — and he has continued to make seasoned slaps for precisely 225,000 hours and counting (“get a calculator, do the math”). This OG’s plate of choice includes classic soul food staples served with a slab of steak. As the veteran unmistakably outlines on “This How We Eat”: “We make money, we eat, we feed.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13956087\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13956087\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/LARRY-JUNE-Color-1.jpg\" alt=\"Illustration of the rapper Larry June in an SF Giants cap, holding a crab cracker in one hand and a fork in the other. In front of him is a whole lobster on a plate.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/LARRY-JUNE-Color-1.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/LARRY-JUNE-Color-1-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/LARRY-JUNE-Color-1-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/LARRY-JUNE-Color-1-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/LARRY-JUNE-Color-1-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/LARRY-JUNE-Color-1-1536x1536.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/LARRY-JUNE-Color-1-1920x1920.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Besides establishing himself as the healthiest rapper in Bay Area lore, Larry June is also known for sporting vintage muscle cars and cracking lobsters in Sausalito as part of his luxurious lifestyle. \u003ccite>(Torre / @torre.pentel)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Larry June: Crab legs on “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=luIhlZBrJos\">Lifetime Income\u003c/a>”\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>“This not my girlfriend, we just eatin’ crab legs.”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you know Larry June, then you know he’s all about smoothies, green teas, organic juices and oranges (yee hee!). But just as buttery are his numerously silky references to luxury meals and late-night outings with a seemingly endless rotation of women friends. Without question, the Hunters Point rapper has one of the healthiest appetites of anyone around a microphone, regularly dropping rhymes about his organic sustenance. Since Uncle Larry makes a living off his out-of-pocket food references, he merits an honorable mention for dropping other absolute bangers like “I might write a motherfuckin’ smoothie book or somethin’ … Sell this shit for thirty dollars” and “Watermelon juice riding bikes with my latest chick / I don’t do the clubs that often, I got a check to get.” It’s fitting that \u003ca href=\"https://uproxx.com/music/larry-june-interview-san-francisco/\">he also co-owns Honeybear Boba in the Dogpatch\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Iamsu!: Chicken strips and Moscato on “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lQcxMU3uvLg\">Don’t Stop\u003c/a>”\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>“Keep it real I don’t brag though… / Chicken strips, no escargot / [sippin’] on the Moscato.”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To be fair, this lyric is from a young, mixtape-era Iamsu! and might not reflect the current palate of the multi-platinum rapper and producer from Richmond. (In fact, that’s probably true of every rapper on this list, so take these lyrics with a grain of salt.) But when I first heard this song in my 20s, it’s a line that did — and still does — resonate for its unglamorized celebration of living on a low-budget microwaveable diet while maintaining a glimmer of high-life ambition. Personally, I’d take chicken strips over escargot nine out of ten times. And, from the sound of it, so would Suzy 6 Speed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13956086\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13956086\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/PLO-Color-1.jpg\" alt=\"The rapper P-Lo wiggles his fingers in delight over a plate of chicken wings sitting on a bed of dollar bills.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/PLO-Color-1.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/PLO-Color-1-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/PLO-Color-1-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/PLO-Color-1-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/PLO-Color-1-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/PLO-Color-1-1536x1536.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/PLO-Color-1-1920x1920.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">P-Lo often raps about his love of chicken (chicken adobo, fried chicken, chicken wings), and his favorite food-related slang word is also “chicken” (as a stand in for “money”). \u003ccite>(Torre / @torre.pentel)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>P-Lo: Chicken wings in the strip club on “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h-ajtPhAQ1U\">Going To Work\u003c/a>”\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>“In the strip club eating chicken wings.”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13938479']\u003c/span>There may not be another rapper on this list with as much love for chicken wings as Pinole’s P-Lo. For starters, the lyricist and producer launched a transnational food tour, teaming up with Filipino restaurants around the U.S. and Canada to deliver collaborative one-off dishes, including \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13935891/p-lo-senor-sisig-filipino-food-tour-oakland\">his own spicy sinigang wings at Señor Sisig in Oakland\u003c/a>. If that’s not enough, he has popped up on popular social media channels like \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/bayareafoodz/?hl=en\">Bay Area Foodz\u003c/a> as \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lJYkVcpM6E0\">he searches for the best wings around the Yay\u003c/a>. His songs are even featured on \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/reel/CwyzdhfrNCE/\">national commercials for Wingstop\u003c/a>. For P-Lo, it’s always time to bring back the bass — and taste.\u003cb>\u003ci>\u003c/i>\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Guap (formerly Guapdad 4000): Chicken adobo on “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1DaovaJgytE\">Chicken Adobo\u003c/a>”\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>“How I fell in love with you it was beautiful / Like chicken adobo how you fill me up.”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For the Black Filipino American rapper from West Oakland, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13905208/a-new-generation-of-filipino-hip-hop-builds-on-a-deep-bay-area-legacy\">food has always played a central role in his upbringing\u003c/a>. The anime-loving, Marvel comics fan grew up in a Filipino household eating champorado, and his songs have never shied away from references to his dual cultures. In what might be his most well-known song, Guap equates romantic satiation to filling up on a bowl of chicken adobo. His love of food goes beyond the booth — he recently spoke out on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13950363/keith-lee-tiktok-oakland-sf-bay-area-struggles\">the recent Keith Lee fiasco\u003c/a>, and he also put together\u003ca href=\"https://trippin.world/guide/oaklands-top-food-joints-with-rapper-guapdad-4000\"> a map of his favorite places to eat around The Town\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Cellski: Canadian bacon, hash browns and cheddar cheese on “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o6wFRZOd7n8\">Chedda\u003c/a>”\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>“Gotta get the cheddar, fuck the [federals].”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As most food mentions in Bay Area rap goes, Cellski’s mention of this quintessentially North American breakfast combo isn’t exactly a homage to the real ingredients, as much as it is a reference to his hustling. His 1998 \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/release/841568-Cellski-Canadian-Bacon-Hash-Browns/image/SW1hZ2U6NDg3ODMxNzk=\">album cover\u003c/a> for \u003ci>Canadian Bacon & Hash Browns \u003c/i>features a cartoon depiction of the rapper getting pulled over and arrested by a Canadian mountie, with an open trunk revealing pounds of medicinal herbs. Nonetheless, there’s a good chance that the veteran San Francisco spitter actually does like to carry Canadian bacon, hash browns and cheddar around — \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13922141/cellskis-big-mafi-burgers-come-with-a-side-of-sf-rap-history\">he’s a part-time foodie who runs his own burger pop-up, after all\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13956089\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13956089\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/DRU-DOWN-Color-1.jpg\" alt=\"Illustration of the rapper Dru Down in gold sunglasses and a black trench coat, holding an ice cream cone in one hand and an ice cream sundae on the table in front of him.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/DRU-DOWN-Color-1.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/DRU-DOWN-Color-1-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/DRU-DOWN-Color-1-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/DRU-DOWN-Color-1-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/DRU-DOWN-Color-1-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/DRU-DOWN-Color-1-1536x1536.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/DRU-DOWN-Color-1-1920x1920.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">In a famous 1996 beef, Dru Down and the Luniz accused New Orleans rapper Master P (who started his musical career in the Bay Area) for stealing their concept of the “Ice Cream Man” — slang for a narcotics dealer. \u003ccite>(Torre / @torre.pentel)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Dru Down: Ice cream on “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3uNv2qAje-Q\">Ice Cream Man\u003c/a>” (with the Luniz)\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>“Get your ice cream, ice cream / Not Ice-T, not Ice Cube, ice cream.”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Not intended for children, the classic 1993 anthem off Dru Down’s \u003ci>Fools From The Street \u003c/i>paints a startling picture of addiction and illicit drug distribution around Oakland in the wake of Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan’s War on Drugs. Despite its unapologetic content, “Ice Cream Man” went on to establish an indisputably popular food motif in national rap music: ice cream as a stand-in for drug dealing. Since the production includes an audio sampling of an ice cream truck’s inimitable tune, listening to it evokes a sense of nostalgia for the frozen treat — and for \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">golden-era Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "A brief look at some of the Bay Area’s most notoriously hungry rappers — and the foods they’ve lyricized about.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">W\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>hen conveying what it means to really be from the Bay Area, I often return to this simple yet revelatory \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/mac-dre\">Mac Dre\u003c/a> lyric: “In the Bay Area, we dance a little different.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Whether it’s in our music, political activism or technological contributions, there’s a certain out-of-box forwardness that tends to manifest from Bay Area minds — a distinguishable pride in how we approach everything with a savvy sprinkling of game, hustlership and top-tier ideation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The same can be said for the Bay Area’s food scene, which ranks among the nation’s best and most imaginative. From sourdough bread to the eternal Mission-style burrito, the Bay’s foodmakers have often been ahead of the curve, helping to revolutionize menus nationwide with their fresh farm-to-table approach. To borrow from the great Mac, one could say that in the Bay Area, we \u003ci>eat\u003c/i> a little different.\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>It’s no surprise, then, that in the history of local rap, food has always been a strong reference point — a metaphorical kitchen for creative exchange. An endless platter of well-seasoned slang. For decades, our rappers have delivered punchlines involving sauce, lasagna and \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XMah0rX6pGU\">lumpia\u003c/a>; dropped verses that generously reference \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lkBJR5L2nas\">desserts and bakeries\u003c/a>; and supplied entire songs about stacking bread, cheese and lettuce as lucrative sandwiches.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.sfchronicle.com/food/restaurants/article/bay-area-rap-shrimp-crab-17915372.php\">Food-loving Bay Area rappers\u003c/a> have always been bold when it comes to transmorphing culinary items and kitchen utensils into slang that others then appropriate and even misuse (see: “\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13908052/food-doesnt-slap\">food doesn’t slap\u003c/a>”). Shock G once talked about getting busy in a Burger King bathroom and declared, “I like my oatmeal lumpy.” On “Dreganomics,” Mac Dre himself asked, “What’s spaghetti without the sauce?” We’ve got Suga T (sweet) and Spice 1 (hot). Berner founded \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/cookiessf/?hl=en\">Cookies\u003c/a>. And just a few weeks ago, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13900085/stunnaman02-and-the-big-steppin-energy-in-the-room\">Stunnaman02\u003c/a> dropped a whole series of viral videos centered on his latest single. His focus? \u003ca href=\"https://www.tiktok.com/@jayworrld/video/7340701934355254574\">Eating a salad\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There’s a unifying ethos in Bay Area food and rap: \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E6GU3PmttyI\">Everybody eats\u003c/a>. So here’s a brief ode to some of our region’s most skilled vocabulary chefs and the tasteful ways they’ve reimagined the ingredients of language that are possible in a kitchen — and the recording studio.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13956090\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13956090\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/E40-Color-1.jpg\" alt=\"Illustration of the rapper E-40 in sunglasses and a beige apron, holding a glass of red wine. In front of him are a burrito and a grilled cheese sandwich.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/E40-Color-1.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/E40-Color-1-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/E40-Color-1-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/E40-Color-1-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/E40-Color-1-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/E40-Color-1-1536x1536.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/E40-Color-1-1920x1920.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">E-40 might be the most prolific inventor of food-related slang words in the English language. He’s a head chef in the Bay Area’s rap kingdom. \u003ccite>(Torre / @torre.pentel)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>E-40: Green eggs, hams, candy yams, Spam, cheese, peanut butter and jam on “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=etIBcRriUJY\">The Slap\u003c/a>”\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>“Digital scale, green eggs and hams / Yams, candy yams, Spam, damn! / Loaded, my cheese, peanut butter and jam / Sammich, mannish, me and my Hispanics / Vanish, talkin’ in codes like we from different planets.”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though it may sound like gibberish to the uninitiated, rest assured that \u003ca href=\"https://firstwefeast.com/eat/2013/12/food-rap-decoded-with-e-40-video\">99.99% of anything 40 Water vocalizes has a cleverly associative meaning\u003c/a>. For anyone who has listened to one of the more than 25 studio albums from Vallejo’s kingpin, you’ve surely heard him mention food — perhaps in a variety of languages (some real, some ingeniously invented). In addition to the smorgasbord he notes above in “The Slap,” he has pioneered rhymes across generations that give new meanings to Gouda, feta, mozzarella, lettuce, bread, sausage, salami, paninis, spaghetti, tacos and enchiladas — ad infinitum. Unsurprisingly, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13907726/e-40-goon-with-the-spoon-bay-area-rappers-food-entrepreneurs-hustle\">Mr. Fonzarelli is an actual purveyor of foods and beverages\u003c/a>, with a line of products that includes malt liquor, ice cream and burritos; he even co-owns \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/thelumpiacompany/\">The Lumpia Company\u003c/a>. There’s no one with a bigger million-dollar mouthpiece who can distribute as much word candy (“S-L-A-N-G”) quite as flavorfully as the Goon With The Spoon himself.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Andre Nickatina: TOGO’s #41 sandwich with the hot peppers on “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_FU1XdPE6lM\">Fa Show\u003c/a>”\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>“Baby don’t act dumb, I’m number 41, high stepper / TOGO’s sandwich with the hot peppers / At 90 degrees I might freeze, so when it’s hot I sport leather.”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fillmore’s finest, and among \u003ca href=\"https://www.passionweiss.com/2016/11/17/andre-nickatina/\">the most criminally underrated San Francisco rappers in history\u003c/a>, Andre Nickatina has always had a penchant for the spicy, the flavorful, the extemporaneously saucy. From rapping about eating Cap’n Crunch around drug dealers to sarcastically handing out Baskin Robbins dollars to his enemies, Nicky Nicotine (formerly known as Dre Dog) raps about food as casually as any rapper would ever dare. Unlike many of today’s international rap personalities, who seem to only eat at \u003ca href=\"https://www.reddit.com/r/OutOfTheLoop/comments/6frbt9/why_are_rappers_obsessed_with_nobu_sushi/\">high-priced sushi conglomerates\u003c/a>, Nickatina is a Bay Area real one, electing to stay fed at a regional sandwich chain from San Jose. The enigmatic “number 41” on the \u003ca href=\"https://www.togos.com/menu/?gad_source=1&gclid=CjwKCAjwoPOwBhAeEiwAJuXRh69gJ2fS8J9qmnAKJEnCmI5720psTxEmhEmkgFAemWoe3auyNuuxExoCTm0QAvD_BwE\">Togo’s menu\u003c/a> has since been discontinued, but a spokesperson for the restaurant IDed it as a sirloin steak and mushroom sandwich that was introduced as a seasonal special back in 2002 — the same year “Fa Show” was released. There is no doubt it must’ve been fire, given its endorsement by a legend who knows how to professionally “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o8TXpoi-goE\">Break Bread\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13956088\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13956088\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/KAMAIYAH-Color-1.jpg\" alt=\"Illustration of the rapper Kamaiyah eating from a plate of chicken alfredo tucked under her arm. Next to her is a bottle of champagne.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/KAMAIYAH-Color-1.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/KAMAIYAH-Color-1-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/KAMAIYAH-Color-1-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/KAMAIYAH-Color-1-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/KAMAIYAH-Color-1-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/KAMAIYAH-Color-1-1536x1536.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/KAMAIYAH-Color-1-1920x1920.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kamaiyah’s album covers often feature food, Hennessey and champagne — a reflection of the rapper’s saucy, bossy lifestyle. \u003ccite>(Torre / @torre.pentel)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Kamaiyah: Champagne and chicken on “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yls2dMJ63tM\">Whatever Whenever\u003c/a>”\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>“Just drink champagne with all my chicken meals.”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s fitting that East Oakland’s Kamaiyah — who cooked up the searingly hot single “How Does It Feel” on her transcendent debut, \u003ci>A Good Night in the Ghetto\u003c/i> — continued to double down on aspirational living and good eating with her sophomore release, \u003ci>Got It Made\u003c/i>. As always, the bodacious trapper rhymes over a synth-laced, floaty-spaceship soundscape while bragging about her California riches — and cuisine. The music video for “Whatever Whenever” features Kamaiyah roaming the untainted grounds of a Napa Valley-esque chateau. Her album covers over the years have also featured bags of potato chips, Hennessy and double-fisted bottles of champagne. It’s always bottoms up when Kamaiyah is on the track.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Too $hort: Macaroni, steak and collard greens on “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ru5B8cFskaw\">All My B*tches Are Gone\u003c/a>”\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>“Eat some shit up / macaroni, steak, collard greens, or whatever the fuck.”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With over 35 years of classic albums like \u003ci>Cocktails\u003c/i> and \u003ci>Gettin’ It\u003c/i>, there’s no doubt that Short Dogg knows how to feed his multi-generational fanbase. He doesn’t shy away from straightforward lyrics — or having a large appetite for nefarious activities — and he has continued to make seasoned slaps for precisely 225,000 hours and counting (“get a calculator, do the math”). This OG’s plate of choice includes classic soul food staples served with a slab of steak. As the veteran unmistakably outlines on “This How We Eat”: “We make money, we eat, we feed.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13956087\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13956087\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/LARRY-JUNE-Color-1.jpg\" alt=\"Illustration of the rapper Larry June in an SF Giants cap, holding a crab cracker in one hand and a fork in the other. In front of him is a whole lobster on a plate.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/LARRY-JUNE-Color-1.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/LARRY-JUNE-Color-1-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/LARRY-JUNE-Color-1-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/LARRY-JUNE-Color-1-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/LARRY-JUNE-Color-1-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/LARRY-JUNE-Color-1-1536x1536.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/LARRY-JUNE-Color-1-1920x1920.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Besides establishing himself as the healthiest rapper in Bay Area lore, Larry June is also known for sporting vintage muscle cars and cracking lobsters in Sausalito as part of his luxurious lifestyle. \u003ccite>(Torre / @torre.pentel)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Larry June: Crab legs on “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=luIhlZBrJos\">Lifetime Income\u003c/a>”\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>“This not my girlfriend, we just eatin’ crab legs.”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you know Larry June, then you know he’s all about smoothies, green teas, organic juices and oranges (yee hee!). But just as buttery are his numerously silky references to luxury meals and late-night outings with a seemingly endless rotation of women friends. Without question, the Hunters Point rapper has one of the healthiest appetites of anyone around a microphone, regularly dropping rhymes about his organic sustenance. Since Uncle Larry makes a living off his out-of-pocket food references, he merits an honorable mention for dropping other absolute bangers like “I might write a motherfuckin’ smoothie book or somethin’ … Sell this shit for thirty dollars” and “Watermelon juice riding bikes with my latest chick / I don’t do the clubs that often, I got a check to get.” It’s fitting that \u003ca href=\"https://uproxx.com/music/larry-june-interview-san-francisco/\">he also co-owns Honeybear Boba in the Dogpatch\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Iamsu!: Chicken strips and Moscato on “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lQcxMU3uvLg\">Don’t Stop\u003c/a>”\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>“Keep it real I don’t brag though… / Chicken strips, no escargot / [sippin’] on the Moscato.”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To be fair, this lyric is from a young, mixtape-era Iamsu! and might not reflect the current palate of the multi-platinum rapper and producer from Richmond. (In fact, that’s probably true of every rapper on this list, so take these lyrics with a grain of salt.) But when I first heard this song in my 20s, it’s a line that did — and still does — resonate for its unglamorized celebration of living on a low-budget microwaveable diet while maintaining a glimmer of high-life ambition. Personally, I’d take chicken strips over escargot nine out of ten times. And, from the sound of it, so would Suzy 6 Speed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13956086\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13956086\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/PLO-Color-1.jpg\" alt=\"The rapper P-Lo wiggles his fingers in delight over a plate of chicken wings sitting on a bed of dollar bills.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/PLO-Color-1.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/PLO-Color-1-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/PLO-Color-1-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/PLO-Color-1-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/PLO-Color-1-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/PLO-Color-1-1536x1536.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/PLO-Color-1-1920x1920.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">P-Lo often raps about his love of chicken (chicken adobo, fried chicken, chicken wings), and his favorite food-related slang word is also “chicken” (as a stand in for “money”). \u003ccite>(Torre / @torre.pentel)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>P-Lo: Chicken wings in the strip club on “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h-ajtPhAQ1U\">Going To Work\u003c/a>”\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>“In the strip club eating chicken wings.”\u003c/em>\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>There may not be another rapper on this list with as much love for chicken wings as Pinole’s P-Lo. For starters, the lyricist and producer launched a transnational food tour, teaming up with Filipino restaurants around the U.S. and Canada to deliver collaborative one-off dishes, including \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13935891/p-lo-senor-sisig-filipino-food-tour-oakland\">his own spicy sinigang wings at Señor Sisig in Oakland\u003c/a>. If that’s not enough, he has popped up on popular social media channels like \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/bayareafoodz/?hl=en\">Bay Area Foodz\u003c/a> as \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lJYkVcpM6E0\">he searches for the best wings around the Yay\u003c/a>. His songs are even featured on \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/reel/CwyzdhfrNCE/\">national commercials for Wingstop\u003c/a>. For P-Lo, it’s always time to bring back the bass — and taste.\u003cb>\u003ci>\u003c/i>\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Guap (formerly Guapdad 4000): Chicken adobo on “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1DaovaJgytE\">Chicken Adobo\u003c/a>”\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>“How I fell in love with you it was beautiful / Like chicken adobo how you fill me up.”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For the Black Filipino American rapper from West Oakland, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13905208/a-new-generation-of-filipino-hip-hop-builds-on-a-deep-bay-area-legacy\">food has always played a central role in his upbringing\u003c/a>. The anime-loving, Marvel comics fan grew up in a Filipino household eating champorado, and his songs have never shied away from references to his dual cultures. In what might be his most well-known song, Guap equates romantic satiation to filling up on a bowl of chicken adobo. His love of food goes beyond the booth — he recently spoke out on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13950363/keith-lee-tiktok-oakland-sf-bay-area-struggles\">the recent Keith Lee fiasco\u003c/a>, and he also put together\u003ca href=\"https://trippin.world/guide/oaklands-top-food-joints-with-rapper-guapdad-4000\"> a map of his favorite places to eat around The Town\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Cellski: Canadian bacon, hash browns and cheddar cheese on “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o6wFRZOd7n8\">Chedda\u003c/a>”\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>“Gotta get the cheddar, fuck the [federals].”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As most food mentions in Bay Area rap goes, Cellski’s mention of this quintessentially North American breakfast combo isn’t exactly a homage to the real ingredients, as much as it is a reference to his hustling. His 1998 \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/release/841568-Cellski-Canadian-Bacon-Hash-Browns/image/SW1hZ2U6NDg3ODMxNzk=\">album cover\u003c/a> for \u003ci>Canadian Bacon & Hash Browns \u003c/i>features a cartoon depiction of the rapper getting pulled over and arrested by a Canadian mountie, with an open trunk revealing pounds of medicinal herbs. Nonetheless, there’s a good chance that the veteran San Francisco spitter actually does like to carry Canadian bacon, hash browns and cheddar around — \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13922141/cellskis-big-mafi-burgers-come-with-a-side-of-sf-rap-history\">he’s a part-time foodie who runs his own burger pop-up, after all\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13956089\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13956089\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/DRU-DOWN-Color-1.jpg\" alt=\"Illustration of the rapper Dru Down in gold sunglasses and a black trench coat, holding an ice cream cone in one hand and an ice cream sundae on the table in front of him.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/DRU-DOWN-Color-1.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/DRU-DOWN-Color-1-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/DRU-DOWN-Color-1-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/DRU-DOWN-Color-1-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/DRU-DOWN-Color-1-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/DRU-DOWN-Color-1-1536x1536.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/04/DRU-DOWN-Color-1-1920x1920.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">In a famous 1996 beef, Dru Down and the Luniz accused New Orleans rapper Master P (who started his musical career in the Bay Area) for stealing their concept of the “Ice Cream Man” — slang for a narcotics dealer. \u003ccite>(Torre / @torre.pentel)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Dru Down: Ice cream on “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3uNv2qAje-Q\">Ice Cream Man\u003c/a>” (with the Luniz)\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>“Get your ice cream, ice cream / Not Ice-T, not Ice Cube, ice cream.”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Not intended for children, the classic 1993 anthem off Dru Down’s \u003ci>Fools From The Street \u003c/i>paints a startling picture of addiction and illicit drug distribution around Oakland in the wake of Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan’s War on Drugs. Despite its unapologetic content, “Ice Cream Man” went on to establish an indisputably popular food motif in national rap music: ice cream as a stand-in for drug dealing. Since the production includes an audio sampling of an ice cream truck’s inimitable tune, listening to it evokes a sense of nostalgia for the frozen treat — and for \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">golden-era Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "turntablism-invisibl-skratch-piklz-legacy-impact",
"title": "Turntablism’s Mightiest Heroes: The Legacy, Impact and Aesthetics of the Invisibl Skratch Piklz",
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"headTitle": "Turntablism’s Mightiest Heroes: The Legacy, Impact and Aesthetics of the Invisibl Skratch Piklz | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952272\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1080px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952272\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-backstage-in-SF-2017.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1080\" height=\"1080\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-backstage-in-SF-2017.jpg 1080w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-backstage-in-SF-2017-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-backstage-in-SF-2017-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-backstage-in-SF-2017-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-backstage-in-SF-2017-768x768.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1080px) 100vw, 1080px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Invisibl Skratch Piklz’ cultural impact over the past 40 years has been felt around the globe. The crew is pictured here backstage in San Francisco in 2017. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\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 story series on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On an overcast November day in Oakland, DJ Shortkut – a member of the Invisibl Skratch Piklz DJ crew – was the featured performer on a boat cruise, as part of the DMC World DJ Finals festivities. The weather didn’t get too rough during the two-hour tour, which meandered out to the Bay Bridge and back to port at Jack London Square. The worst was some mildly choppy squalls into fierce headwinds. Because this wasn’t your average boat cruise – its attendees mainly consisted of DJs from all over the world in town for the DMC battle – the ship’s crew circled around Treasure Island for a bit, instead of heading further out into the open sea.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The calmer waters allowed Shortkut, who had been playing a vibrant set of mostly classic midtempo hip-hop, to show off his mixing and scratching skills a bit. As the boat headed back toward its East Bay dock, Shortkut unleashed an impressive display of scratching skills that lasted for a good five minutes. As the boat neared its mooring, the DJ called his peers to the turntables. What followed was an unforgettable, and super-fun, display of global turntablism at its best, as each DJ in succession laid down a wicked scratch segment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13937761\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13937761\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-22-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A person with a shaved head stands at a table as a screen behind them shows the images of several people.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-22-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-22-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-22-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-22-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-22-BL-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-22-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-22-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shortkut performs with Invisibl Skratch Piklz during the DMC World DJ Finals at The Midway in San Francisco, Calif., on Nov. 3, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>It seemed appropriate for Shortkut to be leading the activities. Once a battle entrant in the DMCs himself and understudy to fellow Piklz Qbert, Apollo, and Mix Master Mike, Shortkut has become an accomplished master in his own right – most recently playing an opening set on LL Cool J’s star-studded Hip Hop 50 tour. The message to the younger DJs on the boat was clear: keep developing your skills and be a balanced DJ who can rise to any occasion – scratching and beat-juggling skills are nice, but rocking a party with impeccable selection while displaying your skills is even better.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Perfecting – and Teaching – the Art\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The Piklz first rose to prominence during the ’90s, winning multiple world DJ battle titles as a crew and individually while displaying innovative new techniques that elevated turntablism to unprecedented heights. After revolutionizing the artform and birthing scratch music as a genre, by the decade’s end, they had left an indelible mark on DJ culture and furthered its global reach.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952265\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1759px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952265\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.decks_.93.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1759\" height=\"1196\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.decks_.93.jpg 1759w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.decks_.93-800x544.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.decks_.93-1020x694.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.decks_.93-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.decks_.93-768x522.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.decks_.93-1536x1044.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1759px) 100vw, 1759px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Invisibl Skratch Piklz in Japan in 1993. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Alex Aquino)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Christie Zee, the organizer for 2023’s DMC World Battle, held in San Francisco, has worked off and on for the London-based organization since 1998. She first became aware of the Piklz from an old boyfriend’s copy of DJ Qbert’s \u003cem>Demolition Pumpkin Squeeze Musik\u003c/em> mixtape – “It just had so much scratching and it was so fun,” she says. She recalls meeting the crew for the first time in 1999, at the DMC World Finals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m really delicate, really careful about (saying) \u003cem>pioneer\u003c/em> versus \u003cem>legend\u003c/em>, but I do think they were pioneering, because of things they’ve innovated and presented and invented,” she says. “They didn’t invent the scratch, but they just progressed the hell out of it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Obviously they have titles under their belts,” says Rob Swift, a founding member of the X-Men/X-Ecutioners, the New York turntablists who famously battled the Piklz in 1996. “But for me, I would say their most pivotal contribution to DJing is teaching the art. Before the Invisibl Skratch Piklz, nobody was teaching. DJing was a secret art.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952266\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1759px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952266\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan2_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1759\" height=\"1192\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan2_.jpg 1759w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan2_-800x542.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan2_-1020x691.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan2_-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan2_-768x520.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan2_-1536x1041.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1759px) 100vw, 1759px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Invisibl Skratch Piklz with Japanese fans, 1993. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Alex Aquino)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Swift – who’s been teaching a DJ course at the New School for Liberal Arts in New York since 2014 – speaks from experience. Within months of Qbert developing the crab scratch, Swift was using the technique in battles. He cites the instructional \u003cem>Turntable TV\u003c/em> series of video tutorials as not only an inspiration for the X-Men, but also for other DJs and even corporate entities. As a result, more people started DJing and the culture grew.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Before the Piklz, all of us had our own personal terminology for DJing. But the Piklz started (creating) terms that globally started to become accepted and become the consensus terms… Q started giving individual techniques specific names. In doing so, it made the art teachable, because you can’t teach someone by saying, yo, make it go \u003cem>wigga wigga wigga wigga\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Now these guys are selling videos to kids in Japan, kids in Canada, kids across the country, kids in Europe that had no clue how to do this shit… Myself, (Roc) Raida, Mista Sinista, (Total) Eclipse, we were inspired by Q, and we started teaching how to juggle, and we made videotapes just like them.” Without the Picklz, he says, there wouldn’t be “the ripple effects of what we see now, of all these DJ schools, all of these people teaching on YouTube, all these online tutorials, all these companies designing gear with all these effects.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952270\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1759px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952270\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Japan_.vestax.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1759\" height=\"1156\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Japan_.vestax.jpg 1759w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Japan_.vestax-800x526.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Japan_.vestax-1020x670.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Japan_.vestax-160x105.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Japan_.vestax-768x505.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Japan_.vestax-1536x1009.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1759px) 100vw, 1759px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Invisibl Skratch Piklz at Vestax headquarters in Tokyo, Japan, to preview their signature mixer. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Alex Aquino)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Signature Models and Scratch Technique\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The Piklz also served as consultants to audio companies like Vestax and Ortofon to develop ISP-branded mixers and needles; more recently, Shortkut served as a brand ambassador for Serato’s vinyl emulation software. In a 2022 video tutorial for \u003cem>Wired\u003c/em>, the master turntablist demonstrates 15 levels of scratching, from the basic “baby scratch” to complex combos, rhythm and drum scratches, and the beat-juggle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>According to Shortkut, beat-juggling is “live manual remixing, basically, with two turntables and a mixer” utilizing two copies of the same record, or two different records. When done properly, the technique creates an entirely new beat using existing sounds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mix Master Mike estimates that he and Qbert have named hundreds of specific scratches. Among his original contributions is the “Tweaker,” which was developed accidentally, due to a power outage. “When you cut a turntable off, the sound still comes out of it” when the needle is left on the record. “You got to manually move the belt with your hand, which (makes) a totally way-out, dragging sound from the record.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952268\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1759px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.3fromsideshortkut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1759\" height=\"1186\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952268\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.3fromsideshortkut.jpg 1759w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.3fromsideshortkut-800x539.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.3fromsideshortkut-1020x688.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.3fromsideshortkut-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.3fromsideshortkut-768x518.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.3fromsideshortkut-1536x1036.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1759px) 100vw, 1759px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Invisibl Skratch Piklz, mid-routine in Seattle, 1994. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Alex Aquino)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In live shows, Mike deploys an arsenal of sound banks with trees of various audio samples for different instruments. He often improvises his sets – rarely playing the same scratch solo twice. With all the scratches he’s invented, “If I’m performing live, it’s all about if I can remember it on the spot.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Qbert’s most ubiquitous scratch may be the crab, which uses the crossfader to chop the audio signal, similar to the transformer scratch. Unlike the transformer – performed with just thumb and forefinger – the crab utilizes a rapid tapping motion with the other three fingers, resulting in finer chops, like a triplet of 1/16th notes instead of quarter-notes. The crab can then be combined with other techniques like the stab, the tear, or the orbit to create an infinite number of scratch patterns.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Q says the crab has nothing to do with crustaceans, actually. It was originally called the crepe, based off a food order he’d made in Lebanon. Except no one could pronounce the rolled r’s of a Lebanese accent correctly. Among the other scratches he’s named personally, “there’s like the hydro, the laser, the phaser, the swipe, oh man, let’s see, there’s the clover tear, the prism scratch. … there’s so many.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952274\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 749px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952274\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/1996-Vestax-ISP-ad.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"749\" height=\"960\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/1996-Vestax-ISP-ad.jpg 749w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/1996-Vestax-ISP-ad-160x205.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 749px) 100vw, 749px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A Vestax advertisement for the Invisibl Skratch Piklz’ signature mixer. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>100mph Backsliding Turkey Kuts\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The Piklz began developing tools for DJs with the original \u003cem>Battle Breaks\u003c/em> vinyl record, which resampled various sound effects and verbal phrases, making them more scratch-friendly and accessible. Their imprint Dirt Style has released dozens of such records over the decades with names like \u003cem>Bionic Booger Breaks\u003c/em>, \u003cem>Buttcrack Breaks\u003c/em>, or \u003cem>Scratch Fetishes of the Third Kind\u003c/em>. These records are sometimes credited to DJ Qbert, DJ Flare or Mix Master Mike, and sometimes credited to aliases like the Psychedelic Scratch Bastards, The Wax Fondler and Darth Fader.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Battle Breaks\u003c/em> led to another innovation: the \u003cem>Scratchy Seal\u003c/em> series of skipless records. As Qbert explains, there’s a science behind this. “If you look at the turntable, it spins at 33 ⅓ — 33.33333 (revolutions) per minute. If you just make the BPM of the sound effect 33-point-dee dee dee dee dee dee dee dee dee dee, the magic number, it’s all going to be repetitive. No matter where the needle jumps, it’s going to land on the same sound again.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952264\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952264\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_MMM_best_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2000.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_MMM_best_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2000.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_MMM_best_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2000-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_MMM_best_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2000-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_MMM_best_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2000-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_MMM_best_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2000-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_MMM_best_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2000-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Qbert and Mix Master Mike backstage at the 2023 DMC championships in San Francisco. \u003ccite>(Jeff Straw)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>How\u003c/em> the Piklz scratched also made a difference. According to crew member D-Styles, prior to the Piklz, “a lot of the scratch styles were straight ahead. It was very on the beat. ” He likens the Piklz’ approach to Bird and Dizzy’s excursions in the bebop era – “being ahead of the beat, or behind the beat, being more free with it, not so (much) in the line.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While there were other DJ crews before the Piklz, Swift says, the idea of a turntable orchestra was uncharted territory. “One guy would take a horn hit, another guy would take drums, the other guy would take vocals. Nobody was doing that before the Piklz.” This became a common practice, and led to the introduction of team routines in major battles. Qbert remarks that he and the other Piklz have been doing synchronized routines for so long, the communication between them has become telepathic. “It’s just kind of like walking in step.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952269\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1759px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.buckethead.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1759\" height=\"1173\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952269\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.buckethead.jpg 1759w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.buckethead-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.buckethead-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.buckethead-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.buckethead-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.buckethead-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1759px) 100vw, 1759px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Qbert onstage with guitarist Buckethead at the Jazznojazz Festival in Zurich, 1995. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Alex Aquino)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Another advancement was the first all-scratching record, i.e. a musical composition consisting entirely of scratched sounds. The scratch music trend resulted in a slew of solo releases — many of them on the now-defunct Bomb Hip Hop label – as well as group albums from the X-Ecutioners, The Allies, and Birdy Nam Nam, and one-offs like El Stew, an alternative supergroup featuring guitarist Buckethead, ISP alumni DJ Disk and producer Eddie Def. After turntablism’s initial wave died down in the early 2000s, the Piklz continued to develop the genre, which Shortkut says has become its own culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s a niche market,” Qbert says. “But I’m totally immersed in it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952275\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952275\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/IMG_2459.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1440\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/IMG_2459.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/IMG_2459-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/IMG_2459-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/IMG_2459-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/IMG_2459-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/IMG_2459-1536x1152.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Invisibl Skratch Piklz at a Red Bull event. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>‘It’s Just Some Human Shit, and It’s a Beautiful Thing’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>On his solo albums, Qbert has frequently explored sci-fi themes, beginning with 1998’s \u003cem>Wave Twisters\u003c/em>, and continuing with 2014’s \u003cem>Extraterrestria\u003c/em> and \u003cem>Galaxxxian\u003c/em>, 2020’s \u003cem>Origins (Wave Twisters 0)\u003c/em>, and 2022’s \u003cem>Next Cosmos\u003c/em>. He’s imagined what scratch music from across the galaxy might sound like, evoking starships navigating irradiated asteroid belts, alien creatures scurrying across cratered landscapes, and underwater temples emanating immemorial chants over percussive beats, while turning Rakim and Too Short phrases into Zen mantras. He’s done all this by embracing the musical possibilities of the turntable.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“On what other equipment could you make the sounds go backwards and forwards and just do all these weird things with it? You know, with your hands,” he says. Unlike pressing buttons on a computer, “this is like fucking connected to your soul. It’s not like AI can do it. It’s just some human shit, and it’s a beautiful thing.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mix Master Mike served as the official DJ for the Beastie Boys from 1998 up until 2012, later joined Cypress Hill, and has toured with arena rock giants Metallica, Guns ‘N’ Roses, and Godsmack, playing to crowds of up to 50,000. His solo catalog has expanded the turntablism field into new arenas – literally. “I’ve always targeted the rock audience,” Mike says. “I’m not just hip-hop. I’m everything around it. The greatness is having to conquer uncharted territories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I like to remain mysterious in that sense as far as being a mysterious artist and being unpredictable. I’m the risk taker, right? It’s therapeutic for me at this point, but it’s like I’m just taking it as a mission because nobody’s doing this.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952267\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1759px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952267\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMMonthedecks.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1759\" height=\"1196\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMMonthedecks.jpg 1759w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMMonthedecks-800x544.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMMonthedecks-1020x694.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMMonthedecks-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMMonthedecks-768x522.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMMonthedecks-1536x1044.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1759px) 100vw, 1759px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mix Master Mike. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Alex Aquino)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>This philosophy extends from live shows to recordings. “Growing up, I was always listening to soundtrack music. Lalo Schifrin, Quincy Jones, Ennio Morricone.” His goal in making records is to capture a cinematic sense, to make “a soundtrack that can live forever.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>His newest release, 2023’s \u003cem>Opus X Magnum\u003c/em>, is a headphone album with arena sensibilities. Or vice-versa. There’s lots of subtle instrumental and sound effect-y passages, along with chest-pumping drums and serpentine basslines. The quieter moments are few, but precious. MMM’s Pikl heritage is evident in the way horns, keyboards and vocal phrases are scratched vicariously, resulting in twisty turns that keep your ears guessing what’s next. To the artist’s credit, \u003cem>Opus\u003c/em> does sound epically cinematic throughout, its constantly changing moods and textures suggesting perpetual motion and a full dose of adrenaline.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>D-Styles’ two solo albums, released 17 years apart, illustrate his artistic growth. 2002’s \u003cem>Phantazmagorea\u003c/em> delves into dark themes, with vocal phrases seemingly selected for shock value, along with recognizable scratched snippets from KRS-One and Stetsasonic. 2019’s \u003cem>Noises In the Right Order\u003c/em> – inspired by a residency at Low End Theory, a club night frequented by lo-fi producers – recalls DJ Shadow’s \u003cem>Endtroducing\u003c/em> and the trip-hop era, while still using found vocals as documentary. D-Styles says \u003cem>Noises\u003c/em> was about being “more musical and less technical.” There’s plenty of scratching, but the emphasis is on overall composition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952271\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 597px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952271\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-at-HEIRO-DAY-2016.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"597\" height=\"506\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-at-HEIRO-DAY-2016.jpg 597w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-at-HEIRO-DAY-2016-160x136.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 597px) 100vw, 597px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Invisibl Skratch Piklz at Hiero Day 2016 in Oakland. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Being a turntable composer, D-Styles maintains, means using scratching’s vocabulary as a musical language. “You look at it like an alphabet. You got chirps, you got flares, you got crabs, you got autobahns, you got Stewie’s, and all of that stuff. You can add swing to it, you could be ahead of the beat. Behind the beat. You can accent. There’s so much that goes into putting these combinations together.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Many Styles\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Apollo and Shortkut, meanwhile, joined forces with former ITF World Champion Vin Roc in 1999 to form Triple Threat, a DJ crew whose mission was to integrate turntablism into party-rocking live sets. “Just coming up as turntablists, we kind of like, created little monsters everywhere,” Apollo says. “All they would do is scratch in their bedrooms.” There’s more to DJing, he says, than just doing tricks and scratching and juggling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Triple Threat released a well-received 2003 album, \u003cem>Many Styles\u003c/em>, which blended turntablist-oriented tracks with emcee features from Planet Asia, Black Thought, Souls of Mischief and Zion-I. The trio toured the United States and Asia regularly, and remained active up until the late 2010s. Apollo – who judged the DMC World Finals last year – still identifies as a Pikl, and says his focus nowadays is on upgrading his studio and reestablishing himself as a producer; he hopes to contribute some tracks to future ISP albums.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952276\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1440px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/LLCoolJ.Ztrip_.shortkut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1440\" height=\"1920\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952276\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/LLCoolJ.Ztrip_.shortkut.jpg 1440w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/LLCoolJ.Ztrip_.shortkut-800x1067.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/LLCoolJ.Ztrip_.shortkut-1020x1360.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/LLCoolJ.Ztrip_.shortkut-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/LLCoolJ.Ztrip_.shortkut-768x1024.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/LLCoolJ.Ztrip_.shortkut-1152x1536.jpg 1152w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1440px) 100vw, 1440px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shortkut, at right, on the F.O.R.C.E. Tour with (L–R) DJ Z-Trip, LL Cool J and DJ Jazzy Jeff. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Shortkut’s recorded output mainly consists of DJ mixtapes covering a wide variety of genres, but he did produce 2012’s “Twelve,” a funky, fun track with “Sesame Street”-esque vocal samples, for the Beat Junkies 45 Series, as well as 2017’s “Mini-Wheels,” a 7-inch single for Thud Rumble, and “Short Rugs,” a limited-edition slipmat designed for 45 rpm records and a 7-inch record with three skipless vinyl scratch tracks. He’s been an occasional headliner at DJ Platurn’s 45 Sessions party; playing all-vinyl sets, he says, helps him maintain his sanity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After a lengthy break following 2000’s “final” performance, Qbert, Shortkut and D-Styles officially reformed as ISP for 2015’s \u003cem>The 13th Floor\u003c/em>, their first full-length release. “This was the first time as a scratch artist that I’ve felt able to do shows with the Piklz where people know the songs,” Shortkut says. The album’s moods range from dark to soulful to jazzy, and were intended to be templates for live performances that typically involve improvised scratch soloing over a structured song with defined instrumental parts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952273\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952273\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-making-of-The-13th-Floor-album-Japan-2015.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1500\" height=\"1000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-making-of-The-13th-Floor-album-Japan-2015.jpg 1500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-making-of-The-13th-Floor-album-Japan-2015-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-making-of-The-13th-Floor-album-Japan-2015-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-making-of-The-13th-Floor-album-Japan-2015-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-making-of-The-13th-Floor-album-Japan-2015-768x512.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1500px) 100vw, 1500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Invisibl Skratch Piklz in Japan, making their ’13th Floor’ album in 2015. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Many of \u003cem>The 13th Floor\u003c/em>’s compositional elements were developed by D-Styles, who went on to become an online instructor at the Beat Junkies Institute of Sound in 2019. He notes the Piklz are more than halfway through their next, as-yet-untitled album — several tracks from which they previewed live during their recent DMC showcase in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“My strength is, I’m always in the studio,” says D-Styles. “I always have these ideas, these sketches that I’ll try at home by myself. But I always have parts in mind, so if i have drums, I’ll be like, this is perfect for Shortkut. And then I have these keyboards, you know, these notes. So I’ll carry that side. And then I’ll give Q this (vocal) phrase. And I know he’ll know what to do with it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Aesthetics That ‘Vibrate a Certain Way’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Qbert maintains he’s still a student, trying to learn new things after all these years. He keeps pushing himself to new levels because he doesn’t want to repeat what he’s already done. “You got to come unique and original, or else it’s like, fucking wack. Or it’s, \u003cem>ah… he did the same shit last time\u003c/em>, you know? I don’t want to hear that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952294\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1811px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.LPs_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1811\" height=\"600\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952294\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.LPs_.jpg 1811w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.LPs_-800x265.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.LPs_-1020x338.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.LPs_-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.LPs_-768x254.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.LPs_-1536x509.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1811px) 100vw, 1811px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A sample of Qbert’s visual aesthetic from three full-length albums: ‘Extraterrestria,’ ‘Origins Wave Twisters 0,’ and ‘Next Cosmos in 5D.’\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The most sublime aspect of the Piklz legacy may be their aesthetic, best described as part kung-fu, part sci-fi, part zany humor, yet firmly grounded in DJ culture and hip-hop expression. This is reflected in Mike and Q’s outsize personalities. “Those two in particular are very much outside of this Earth,” says Christie Z, noting that Mike’s custom Serato vinyl is covered in Zectarian language. (In 2017, Qbert joined Mike for a duo performance of MMM’s alienesque single “Channel Zecktar” live at the NAMM showcase.) Artists are sometimes kooky, she says, but she’s used to it by now. “That’s what they do.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Unsurprisingly, perhaps, Mike sees himself as a glowing, ultramagnetic, cosmic antenna. “I would say, you know, my brain is like a super cerebral satellite dish that I’m just logging into the channels in my mind, and I call it the access to the interstellar network, my own interstellar network that’s going on in my head.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As for Qbert, “nowadays I work off of karma,” he says. Though he’s consulted for audio companies before, when he’s asked for input, he doesn’t insist on contractual agreements. “I’ll give you the honest truth.” If a mixer could be sleeker and more ergonomic, he’ll say so. He feels equipment makers could be more visionary and futuristic with their products. “They could put chromatherapy in these things, you know, they vibrate a certain way to make it heal you as a human.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For all of Qbert’s zany sense of humor and embracing of otherworldliness, he’s remarkably down to earth at times. That is to say, his ideology isn’t illogical at all – just advanced.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“With any art, if you’re deep into it, you’re already touching infinity,” he says. “So you could do so many things in it that you haven’t done. And there’s freakin’ a bag of infinity left — that is never-ending.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-11687704\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"60\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-400x30.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-768x58.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "The Skratch Piklz' innovations in scratch technique, education and battle tools have impacted the globe. ",
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"title": "Turntablism’s Mightiest Heroes: The Legacy, Impact and Aesthetics of the Invisibl Skratch Piklz | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952272\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1080px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952272\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-backstage-in-SF-2017.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1080\" height=\"1080\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-backstage-in-SF-2017.jpg 1080w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-backstage-in-SF-2017-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-backstage-in-SF-2017-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-backstage-in-SF-2017-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-backstage-in-SF-2017-768x768.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1080px) 100vw, 1080px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Invisibl Skratch Piklz’ cultural impact over the past 40 years has been felt around the globe. The crew is pictured here backstage in San Francisco in 2017. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\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 story series on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On an overcast November day in Oakland, DJ Shortkut – a member of the Invisibl Skratch Piklz DJ crew – was the featured performer on a boat cruise, as part of the DMC World DJ Finals festivities. The weather didn’t get too rough during the two-hour tour, which meandered out to the Bay Bridge and back to port at Jack London Square. The worst was some mildly choppy squalls into fierce headwinds. Because this wasn’t your average boat cruise – its attendees mainly consisted of DJs from all over the world in town for the DMC battle – the ship’s crew circled around Treasure Island for a bit, instead of heading further out into the open sea.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The calmer waters allowed Shortkut, who had been playing a vibrant set of mostly classic midtempo hip-hop, to show off his mixing and scratching skills a bit. As the boat headed back toward its East Bay dock, Shortkut unleashed an impressive display of scratching skills that lasted for a good five minutes. As the boat neared its mooring, the DJ called his peers to the turntables. What followed was an unforgettable, and super-fun, display of global turntablism at its best, as each DJ in succession laid down a wicked scratch segment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13937761\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13937761\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-22-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A person with a shaved head stands at a table as a screen behind them shows the images of several people.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-22-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-22-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-22-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-22-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-22-BL-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-22-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-22-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shortkut performs with Invisibl Skratch Piklz during the DMC World DJ Finals at The Midway in San Francisco, Calif., on Nov. 3, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>It seemed appropriate for Shortkut to be leading the activities. Once a battle entrant in the DMCs himself and understudy to fellow Piklz Qbert, Apollo, and Mix Master Mike, Shortkut has become an accomplished master in his own right – most recently playing an opening set on LL Cool J’s star-studded Hip Hop 50 tour. The message to the younger DJs on the boat was clear: keep developing your skills and be a balanced DJ who can rise to any occasion – scratching and beat-juggling skills are nice, but rocking a party with impeccable selection while displaying your skills is even better.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Perfecting – and Teaching – the Art\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The Piklz first rose to prominence during the ’90s, winning multiple world DJ battle titles as a crew and individually while displaying innovative new techniques that elevated turntablism to unprecedented heights. After revolutionizing the artform and birthing scratch music as a genre, by the decade’s end, they had left an indelible mark on DJ culture and furthered its global reach.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952265\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1759px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952265\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.decks_.93.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1759\" height=\"1196\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.decks_.93.jpg 1759w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.decks_.93-800x544.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.decks_.93-1020x694.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.decks_.93-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.decks_.93-768x522.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.decks_.93-1536x1044.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1759px) 100vw, 1759px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Invisibl Skratch Piklz in Japan in 1993. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Alex Aquino)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Christie Zee, the organizer for 2023’s DMC World Battle, held in San Francisco, has worked off and on for the London-based organization since 1998. She first became aware of the Piklz from an old boyfriend’s copy of DJ Qbert’s \u003cem>Demolition Pumpkin Squeeze Musik\u003c/em> mixtape – “It just had so much scratching and it was so fun,” she says. She recalls meeting the crew for the first time in 1999, at the DMC World Finals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m really delicate, really careful about (saying) \u003cem>pioneer\u003c/em> versus \u003cem>legend\u003c/em>, but I do think they were pioneering, because of things they’ve innovated and presented and invented,” she says. “They didn’t invent the scratch, but they just progressed the hell out of it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Obviously they have titles under their belts,” says Rob Swift, a founding member of the X-Men/X-Ecutioners, the New York turntablists who famously battled the Piklz in 1996. “But for me, I would say their most pivotal contribution to DJing is teaching the art. Before the Invisibl Skratch Piklz, nobody was teaching. DJing was a secret art.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952266\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1759px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952266\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan2_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1759\" height=\"1192\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan2_.jpg 1759w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan2_-800x542.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan2_-1020x691.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan2_-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan2_-768x520.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan2_-1536x1041.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1759px) 100vw, 1759px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Invisibl Skratch Piklz with Japanese fans, 1993. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Alex Aquino)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Swift – who’s been teaching a DJ course at the New School for Liberal Arts in New York since 2014 – speaks from experience. Within months of Qbert developing the crab scratch, Swift was using the technique in battles. He cites the instructional \u003cem>Turntable TV\u003c/em> series of video tutorials as not only an inspiration for the X-Men, but also for other DJs and even corporate entities. As a result, more people started DJing and the culture grew.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Before the Piklz, all of us had our own personal terminology for DJing. But the Piklz started (creating) terms that globally started to become accepted and become the consensus terms… Q started giving individual techniques specific names. In doing so, it made the art teachable, because you can’t teach someone by saying, yo, make it go \u003cem>wigga wigga wigga wigga\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Now these guys are selling videos to kids in Japan, kids in Canada, kids across the country, kids in Europe that had no clue how to do this shit… Myself, (Roc) Raida, Mista Sinista, (Total) Eclipse, we were inspired by Q, and we started teaching how to juggle, and we made videotapes just like them.” Without the Picklz, he says, there wouldn’t be “the ripple effects of what we see now, of all these DJ schools, all of these people teaching on YouTube, all these online tutorials, all these companies designing gear with all these effects.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952270\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1759px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952270\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Japan_.vestax.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1759\" height=\"1156\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Japan_.vestax.jpg 1759w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Japan_.vestax-800x526.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Japan_.vestax-1020x670.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Japan_.vestax-160x105.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Japan_.vestax-768x505.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Japan_.vestax-1536x1009.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1759px) 100vw, 1759px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Invisibl Skratch Piklz at Vestax headquarters in Tokyo, Japan, to preview their signature mixer. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Alex Aquino)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Signature Models and Scratch Technique\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The Piklz also served as consultants to audio companies like Vestax and Ortofon to develop ISP-branded mixers and needles; more recently, Shortkut served as a brand ambassador for Serato’s vinyl emulation software. In a 2022 video tutorial for \u003cem>Wired\u003c/em>, the master turntablist demonstrates 15 levels of scratching, from the basic “baby scratch” to complex combos, rhythm and drum scratches, and the beat-juggle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>According to Shortkut, beat-juggling is “live manual remixing, basically, with two turntables and a mixer” utilizing two copies of the same record, or two different records. When done properly, the technique creates an entirely new beat using existing sounds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mix Master Mike estimates that he and Qbert have named hundreds of specific scratches. Among his original contributions is the “Tweaker,” which was developed accidentally, due to a power outage. “When you cut a turntable off, the sound still comes out of it” when the needle is left on the record. “You got to manually move the belt with your hand, which (makes) a totally way-out, dragging sound from the record.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952268\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1759px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.3fromsideshortkut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1759\" height=\"1186\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952268\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.3fromsideshortkut.jpg 1759w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.3fromsideshortkut-800x539.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.3fromsideshortkut-1020x688.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.3fromsideshortkut-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.3fromsideshortkut-768x518.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.3fromsideshortkut-1536x1036.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1759px) 100vw, 1759px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Invisibl Skratch Piklz, mid-routine in Seattle, 1994. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Alex Aquino)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In live shows, Mike deploys an arsenal of sound banks with trees of various audio samples for different instruments. He often improvises his sets – rarely playing the same scratch solo twice. With all the scratches he’s invented, “If I’m performing live, it’s all about if I can remember it on the spot.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Qbert’s most ubiquitous scratch may be the crab, which uses the crossfader to chop the audio signal, similar to the transformer scratch. Unlike the transformer – performed with just thumb and forefinger – the crab utilizes a rapid tapping motion with the other three fingers, resulting in finer chops, like a triplet of 1/16th notes instead of quarter-notes. The crab can then be combined with other techniques like the stab, the tear, or the orbit to create an infinite number of scratch patterns.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Q says the crab has nothing to do with crustaceans, actually. It was originally called the crepe, based off a food order he’d made in Lebanon. Except no one could pronounce the rolled r’s of a Lebanese accent correctly. Among the other scratches he’s named personally, “there’s like the hydro, the laser, the phaser, the swipe, oh man, let’s see, there’s the clover tear, the prism scratch. … there’s so many.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952274\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 749px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952274\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/1996-Vestax-ISP-ad.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"749\" height=\"960\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/1996-Vestax-ISP-ad.jpg 749w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/1996-Vestax-ISP-ad-160x205.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 749px) 100vw, 749px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A Vestax advertisement for the Invisibl Skratch Piklz’ signature mixer. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>100mph Backsliding Turkey Kuts\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The Piklz began developing tools for DJs with the original \u003cem>Battle Breaks\u003c/em> vinyl record, which resampled various sound effects and verbal phrases, making them more scratch-friendly and accessible. Their imprint Dirt Style has released dozens of such records over the decades with names like \u003cem>Bionic Booger Breaks\u003c/em>, \u003cem>Buttcrack Breaks\u003c/em>, or \u003cem>Scratch Fetishes of the Third Kind\u003c/em>. These records are sometimes credited to DJ Qbert, DJ Flare or Mix Master Mike, and sometimes credited to aliases like the Psychedelic Scratch Bastards, The Wax Fondler and Darth Fader.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Battle Breaks\u003c/em> led to another innovation: the \u003cem>Scratchy Seal\u003c/em> series of skipless records. As Qbert explains, there’s a science behind this. “If you look at the turntable, it spins at 33 ⅓ — 33.33333 (revolutions) per minute. If you just make the BPM of the sound effect 33-point-dee dee dee dee dee dee dee dee dee dee, the magic number, it’s all going to be repetitive. No matter where the needle jumps, it’s going to land on the same sound again.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952264\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952264\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_MMM_best_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2000.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_MMM_best_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2000.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_MMM_best_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2000-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_MMM_best_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2000-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_MMM_best_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2000-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_MMM_best_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2000-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_MMM_best_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2000-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Qbert and Mix Master Mike backstage at the 2023 DMC championships in San Francisco. \u003ccite>(Jeff Straw)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>How\u003c/em> the Piklz scratched also made a difference. According to crew member D-Styles, prior to the Piklz, “a lot of the scratch styles were straight ahead. It was very on the beat. ” He likens the Piklz’ approach to Bird and Dizzy’s excursions in the bebop era – “being ahead of the beat, or behind the beat, being more free with it, not so (much) in the line.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While there were other DJ crews before the Piklz, Swift says, the idea of a turntable orchestra was uncharted territory. “One guy would take a horn hit, another guy would take drums, the other guy would take vocals. Nobody was doing that before the Piklz.” This became a common practice, and led to the introduction of team routines in major battles. Qbert remarks that he and the other Piklz have been doing synchronized routines for so long, the communication between them has become telepathic. “It’s just kind of like walking in step.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952269\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1759px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.buckethead.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1759\" height=\"1173\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952269\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.buckethead.jpg 1759w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.buckethead-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.buckethead-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.buckethead-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.buckethead-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.buckethead-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1759px) 100vw, 1759px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Qbert onstage with guitarist Buckethead at the Jazznojazz Festival in Zurich, 1995. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Alex Aquino)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Another advancement was the first all-scratching record, i.e. a musical composition consisting entirely of scratched sounds. The scratch music trend resulted in a slew of solo releases — many of them on the now-defunct Bomb Hip Hop label – as well as group albums from the X-Ecutioners, The Allies, and Birdy Nam Nam, and one-offs like El Stew, an alternative supergroup featuring guitarist Buckethead, ISP alumni DJ Disk and producer Eddie Def. After turntablism’s initial wave died down in the early 2000s, the Piklz continued to develop the genre, which Shortkut says has become its own culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s a niche market,” Qbert says. “But I’m totally immersed in it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952275\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952275\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/IMG_2459.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1440\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/IMG_2459.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/IMG_2459-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/IMG_2459-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/IMG_2459-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/IMG_2459-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/IMG_2459-1536x1152.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Invisibl Skratch Piklz at a Red Bull event. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>‘It’s Just Some Human Shit, and It’s a Beautiful Thing’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>On his solo albums, Qbert has frequently explored sci-fi themes, beginning with 1998’s \u003cem>Wave Twisters\u003c/em>, and continuing with 2014’s \u003cem>Extraterrestria\u003c/em> and \u003cem>Galaxxxian\u003c/em>, 2020’s \u003cem>Origins (Wave Twisters 0)\u003c/em>, and 2022’s \u003cem>Next Cosmos\u003c/em>. He’s imagined what scratch music from across the galaxy might sound like, evoking starships navigating irradiated asteroid belts, alien creatures scurrying across cratered landscapes, and underwater temples emanating immemorial chants over percussive beats, while turning Rakim and Too Short phrases into Zen mantras. He’s done all this by embracing the musical possibilities of the turntable.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“On what other equipment could you make the sounds go backwards and forwards and just do all these weird things with it? You know, with your hands,” he says. Unlike pressing buttons on a computer, “this is like fucking connected to your soul. It’s not like AI can do it. It’s just some human shit, and it’s a beautiful thing.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mix Master Mike served as the official DJ for the Beastie Boys from 1998 up until 2012, later joined Cypress Hill, and has toured with arena rock giants Metallica, Guns ‘N’ Roses, and Godsmack, playing to crowds of up to 50,000. His solo catalog has expanded the turntablism field into new arenas – literally. “I’ve always targeted the rock audience,” Mike says. “I’m not just hip-hop. I’m everything around it. The greatness is having to conquer uncharted territories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I like to remain mysterious in that sense as far as being a mysterious artist and being unpredictable. I’m the risk taker, right? It’s therapeutic for me at this point, but it’s like I’m just taking it as a mission because nobody’s doing this.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952267\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1759px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952267\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMMonthedecks.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1759\" height=\"1196\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMMonthedecks.jpg 1759w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMMonthedecks-800x544.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMMonthedecks-1020x694.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMMonthedecks-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMMonthedecks-768x522.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMMonthedecks-1536x1044.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1759px) 100vw, 1759px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mix Master Mike. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Alex Aquino)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>This philosophy extends from live shows to recordings. “Growing up, I was always listening to soundtrack music. Lalo Schifrin, Quincy Jones, Ennio Morricone.” His goal in making records is to capture a cinematic sense, to make “a soundtrack that can live forever.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>His newest release, 2023’s \u003cem>Opus X Magnum\u003c/em>, is a headphone album with arena sensibilities. Or vice-versa. There’s lots of subtle instrumental and sound effect-y passages, along with chest-pumping drums and serpentine basslines. The quieter moments are few, but precious. MMM’s Pikl heritage is evident in the way horns, keyboards and vocal phrases are scratched vicariously, resulting in twisty turns that keep your ears guessing what’s next. To the artist’s credit, \u003cem>Opus\u003c/em> does sound epically cinematic throughout, its constantly changing moods and textures suggesting perpetual motion and a full dose of adrenaline.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>D-Styles’ two solo albums, released 17 years apart, illustrate his artistic growth. 2002’s \u003cem>Phantazmagorea\u003c/em> delves into dark themes, with vocal phrases seemingly selected for shock value, along with recognizable scratched snippets from KRS-One and Stetsasonic. 2019’s \u003cem>Noises In the Right Order\u003c/em> – inspired by a residency at Low End Theory, a club night frequented by lo-fi producers – recalls DJ Shadow’s \u003cem>Endtroducing\u003c/em> and the trip-hop era, while still using found vocals as documentary. D-Styles says \u003cem>Noises\u003c/em> was about being “more musical and less technical.” There’s plenty of scratching, but the emphasis is on overall composition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952271\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 597px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952271\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-at-HEIRO-DAY-2016.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"597\" height=\"506\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-at-HEIRO-DAY-2016.jpg 597w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-at-HEIRO-DAY-2016-160x136.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 597px) 100vw, 597px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Invisibl Skratch Piklz at Hiero Day 2016 in Oakland. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Being a turntable composer, D-Styles maintains, means using scratching’s vocabulary as a musical language. “You look at it like an alphabet. You got chirps, you got flares, you got crabs, you got autobahns, you got Stewie’s, and all of that stuff. You can add swing to it, you could be ahead of the beat. Behind the beat. You can accent. There’s so much that goes into putting these combinations together.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Many Styles\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Apollo and Shortkut, meanwhile, joined forces with former ITF World Champion Vin Roc in 1999 to form Triple Threat, a DJ crew whose mission was to integrate turntablism into party-rocking live sets. “Just coming up as turntablists, we kind of like, created little monsters everywhere,” Apollo says. “All they would do is scratch in their bedrooms.” There’s more to DJing, he says, than just doing tricks and scratching and juggling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Triple Threat released a well-received 2003 album, \u003cem>Many Styles\u003c/em>, which blended turntablist-oriented tracks with emcee features from Planet Asia, Black Thought, Souls of Mischief and Zion-I. The trio toured the United States and Asia regularly, and remained active up until the late 2010s. Apollo – who judged the DMC World Finals last year – still identifies as a Pikl, and says his focus nowadays is on upgrading his studio and reestablishing himself as a producer; he hopes to contribute some tracks to future ISP albums.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952276\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1440px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/LLCoolJ.Ztrip_.shortkut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1440\" height=\"1920\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952276\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/LLCoolJ.Ztrip_.shortkut.jpg 1440w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/LLCoolJ.Ztrip_.shortkut-800x1067.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/LLCoolJ.Ztrip_.shortkut-1020x1360.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/LLCoolJ.Ztrip_.shortkut-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/LLCoolJ.Ztrip_.shortkut-768x1024.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/LLCoolJ.Ztrip_.shortkut-1152x1536.jpg 1152w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1440px) 100vw, 1440px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shortkut, at right, on the F.O.R.C.E. Tour with (L–R) DJ Z-Trip, LL Cool J and DJ Jazzy Jeff. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Shortkut’s recorded output mainly consists of DJ mixtapes covering a wide variety of genres, but he did produce 2012’s “Twelve,” a funky, fun track with “Sesame Street”-esque vocal samples, for the Beat Junkies 45 Series, as well as 2017’s “Mini-Wheels,” a 7-inch single for Thud Rumble, and “Short Rugs,” a limited-edition slipmat designed for 45 rpm records and a 7-inch record with three skipless vinyl scratch tracks. He’s been an occasional headliner at DJ Platurn’s 45 Sessions party; playing all-vinyl sets, he says, helps him maintain his sanity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After a lengthy break following 2000’s “final” performance, Qbert, Shortkut and D-Styles officially reformed as ISP for 2015’s \u003cem>The 13th Floor\u003c/em>, their first full-length release. “This was the first time as a scratch artist that I’ve felt able to do shows with the Piklz where people know the songs,” Shortkut says. The album’s moods range from dark to soulful to jazzy, and were intended to be templates for live performances that typically involve improvised scratch soloing over a structured song with defined instrumental parts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952273\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952273\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-making-of-The-13th-Floor-album-Japan-2015.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1500\" height=\"1000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-making-of-The-13th-Floor-album-Japan-2015.jpg 1500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-making-of-The-13th-Floor-album-Japan-2015-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-making-of-The-13th-Floor-album-Japan-2015-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-making-of-The-13th-Floor-album-Japan-2015-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-making-of-The-13th-Floor-album-Japan-2015-768x512.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1500px) 100vw, 1500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Invisibl Skratch Piklz in Japan, making their ’13th Floor’ album in 2015. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Many of \u003cem>The 13th Floor\u003c/em>’s compositional elements were developed by D-Styles, who went on to become an online instructor at the Beat Junkies Institute of Sound in 2019. He notes the Piklz are more than halfway through their next, as-yet-untitled album — several tracks from which they previewed live during their recent DMC showcase in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“My strength is, I’m always in the studio,” says D-Styles. “I always have these ideas, these sketches that I’ll try at home by myself. But I always have parts in mind, so if i have drums, I’ll be like, this is perfect for Shortkut. And then I have these keyboards, you know, these notes. So I’ll carry that side. And then I’ll give Q this (vocal) phrase. And I know he’ll know what to do with it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Aesthetics That ‘Vibrate a Certain Way’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Qbert maintains he’s still a student, trying to learn new things after all these years. He keeps pushing himself to new levels because he doesn’t want to repeat what he’s already done. “You got to come unique and original, or else it’s like, fucking wack. Or it’s, \u003cem>ah… he did the same shit last time\u003c/em>, you know? I don’t want to hear that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952294\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1811px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.LPs_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1811\" height=\"600\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952294\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.LPs_.jpg 1811w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.LPs_-800x265.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.LPs_-1020x338.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.LPs_-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.LPs_-768x254.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Qbert_.LPs_-1536x509.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1811px) 100vw, 1811px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A sample of Qbert’s visual aesthetic from three full-length albums: ‘Extraterrestria,’ ‘Origins Wave Twisters 0,’ and ‘Next Cosmos in 5D.’\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The most sublime aspect of the Piklz legacy may be their aesthetic, best described as part kung-fu, part sci-fi, part zany humor, yet firmly grounded in DJ culture and hip-hop expression. This is reflected in Mike and Q’s outsize personalities. “Those two in particular are very much outside of this Earth,” says Christie Z, noting that Mike’s custom Serato vinyl is covered in Zectarian language. (In 2017, Qbert joined Mike for a duo performance of MMM’s alienesque single “Channel Zecktar” live at the NAMM showcase.) Artists are sometimes kooky, she says, but she’s used to it by now. “That’s what they do.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Unsurprisingly, perhaps, Mike sees himself as a glowing, ultramagnetic, cosmic antenna. “I would say, you know, my brain is like a super cerebral satellite dish that I’m just logging into the channels in my mind, and I call it the access to the interstellar network, my own interstellar network that’s going on in my head.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As for Qbert, “nowadays I work off of karma,” he says. Though he’s consulted for audio companies before, when he’s asked for input, he doesn’t insist on contractual agreements. “I’ll give you the honest truth.” If a mixer could be sleeker and more ergonomic, he’ll say so. He feels equipment makers could be more visionary and futuristic with their products. “They could put chromatherapy in these things, you know, they vibrate a certain way to make it heal you as a human.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For all of Qbert’s zany sense of humor and embracing of otherworldliness, he’s remarkably down to earth at times. That is to say, his ideology isn’t illogical at all – just advanced.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“With any art, if you’re deep into it, you’re already touching infinity,” he says. “So you could do so many things in it that you haven’t done. And there’s freakin’ a bag of infinity left — that is never-ending.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "How The Invisibl Skratch Piklz Put San Francisco Turntablism on the DJ Map",
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"content": "\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 story series on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On a recent Friday night in San Francisco, a couple thousand fans of DJ culture crammed into the cavernous main room of a nightclub in Hunters Point.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Inside The Midway, it was elbow room-only from the stage to the back patio; many of those in the crowd were DJs themselves. The scene recalled the late ’90s-early 2000s glory days of the Bay Area, when turntablism seemed destined to become the Next Big Thing, and DJ nights dominated SF’s club scene. No one was there to dance; it wasn’t that kind of party.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13937762\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13937762\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-28-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A person wearing a baseball cap stands at a table under fluorescent lighting.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-28-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-28-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-28-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-28-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-28-BL-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-28-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-28-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">DJ Qbert performs with Invisibl Skratch Piklz during the DMC World DJ Finals at The Midway in San Francisco, Calif., on Nov. 3, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The occasion was the DMC World Championship DJ Battle Finals, with some of the best DJs in the world competing against each other. But there was another attraction too: live showcases by the Invisibl Skratch Piklz and Mix Master Mike, the legendary DJs who transformed the Bay Area into a turntablist Mecca during a seminal era for local hip-hop. DMC event organizer Christie Zee put the proceedings into their proper context: “You can’t have a battle in the Bay without the Skratch Piklz.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As midnight approached, the lights dimmed, and the Piklz – Qbert, Shortkut and D-Styles – were announced to cheers that echoed throughout the high-ceilinged room. The Piklz opened with the 2015 ISP track “Fresh Out of FVCKs,” with its ominous electric organ melody that transitions into repeating melodic chords. A snare drum beat came in, followed by a rhythmically scratched snippet of a stuttering vocal phrase. The electric organ chords shifted into a chopped melody as the snare dropped out, then returned. And that’s all before the mind-bending scratch solos that followed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Piklz proceeded to display their musicality, keeping their technical acumen within the groove pocket with synchronized timing. As is customary with the Piklz, each played the part of a specific instrumentalist: D-Styles as the keyboardist, Shortkut as the drummer, and Qbert as the scratch soloist.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952244\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952244\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/MMM_DJ_mixer_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2275.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/MMM_DJ_mixer_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2275.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/MMM_DJ_mixer_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2275-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/MMM_DJ_mixer_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2275-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/MMM_DJ_mixer_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2275-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/MMM_DJ_mixer_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2275-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/MMM_DJ_mixer_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2275-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mix Master Mike at the DMC World DJ Finals at The Midway in San Francisco, Calif., on Nov. 3, 2023. \u003ccite>(Jeff Straw)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>A live version of “Death By A Thousand Paper Cuts” – a song from D-Styles’ 2019 album \u003cem>Noises In the Right Order\u003c/em> – and several unreleased ISP songs showed that \u003ca href=\"https://ccnmtl.columbia.edu/projects/jazzglossary/g/ghost_note.html\">ghost notes\u003c/a> aren’t just associated with jazz music. The turntable trio used the spaces between to impart a sense of presence and feel, a minimalist approach that allowed their scratches, cuts and juggles to resonate with maximum impact.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This would have been a hard act to follow for anyone but Mix Master Mike. The ISP co-founder, who’s been a solo artist since 1995 or so, has a gigantic stage presence and skills to match. A one-man musical blender, MMM unleashed a maelstrom of sonic fury, with bone-crunching drums, an entire range of musical and vocal phrases, and precise turntable cuts that deconstructed the individual pieces of a live performance — only to reconstruct all the fragments into an emotionally-thrilling pastiche. After his set, when Mike was celebrated with a Lifetime Achievement Award, the honor was clearly well-deserved.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Invisible Skratch Piklz were celebrating, too – 2023 marks their 30th anniversary – and it’s safe to say no Bay Area crew has done more to advance the DJ artform. Along with New York’s X-Ecutioners and LA’s Beat Junkies, ISP have defined the term turntablist, carving out a cultural niche that rests on a hip-hop foundation but exists in its own space.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13937759\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13937759\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-13-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"People stand in a crowd leaning on a barrier indoors.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-13-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-13-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-13-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-13-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-13-BL-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-13-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-13-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A crowd watches finalists compete during the DMC World DJ Finals at The Midway in San Francisco, Calif., on Nov. 3, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The Piklz have counted many firsts. As hip-hop’s relationship with the DJ has flipped from essential to inconsequential, they’ve maintained the DJ tradition for future generations, and extended its global reach. Over the past four decades, they’ve gone from students of the scratch to wizened masters of turntable music.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And like most cultural icons, their backstory is involved, multilayered and fascinating.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952236\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1528px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952236\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/q.sta_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1528\" height=\"1032\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/q.sta_.jpg 1528w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/q.sta_-800x540.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/q.sta_-1020x689.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/q.sta_-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/q.sta_-768x519.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1528px) 100vw, 1528px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A young Qbert at a community hall mobile DJ dance party. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The Garage Party Era\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The Invisibl Skratch Piklz story begins in what former ISP manager Alex Aquino calls the “pre-hip-hop era” of the late ’70s-early ’80s, when youth-oriented street dance intersected with pioneering mobile DJ crews and a Filipino-American tradition of garage parties.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This was before breakdancing,” Aquino says. He recalls being 6 or 7 and seeing strutters, poppers and elements of DJ culture – including the Filipino mobile DJ crews who established a scene built around vinyl records, large stereo systems and frequent dance parties.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of those Filipino DJs was Apollo Novicio, a.k.a. DJ Apollo, a founding member of ISP who spent his early childhood roaming around the Mission District. By the time he reached middle school, his family had relocated to Daly City – where he likely attended some of the same parties as Aquino. “Back in the day, they’d have garage parties and there would be a DJ in the corner of the garage, set up on a washing machine and dryer and stuff like that. And at the parties, they would have popping and locking circles. Strutting, popping and locking. Breakdancing wasn’t even here yet, really. This was, I’d say, early ’80s, and that was pretty much my first exposure to the DJing and dancing element of it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952292\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1004px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.mobiledjparty.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"1004\" height=\"674\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952292\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.mobiledjparty.png 1004w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.mobiledjparty-800x537.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.mobiledjparty-160x107.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.mobiledjparty-768x516.png 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1004px) 100vw, 1004px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Setup for a typical mobile DJ party in the early 1990s. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In 1982, Aquino remembers, a New York transplant named Oscar Sop had introduced B-boying and fat laces to the neighborhood, becoming one of the Bay Area’s first breakdancers. Meanwhile, the DJ crews were becoming more professional, and getting hired for weddings, quinceaneras, traditional Filipino celebrations and the occasional school dance party.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Apollo recalls “doing the strutting, popping, locking thing before B-boying got here.” Back then, “I didn’t even know it was hip-hop. I was such a young age. I’m like, just doing it and like, later on find out, oh, this is a hip-hop culture.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to dancing being popular among Filipino youth, he remembers DJ groups proliferating at local high schools. “It was just kind of like the thing to do,” he says. “All the kids would form DJ groups.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I don’t know how to explain (why), but there was a lot of Filipino mobile disc jockey groups,” says DJ Apollo. ”Back in the seventies, my older brothers and sisters, they used to collect music and listen to music. Everybody had to go to the record store and buy vinyl.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952212\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1030px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952212\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.mobileDJparty.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1030\" height=\"778\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.mobileDJparty.jpg 1030w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.mobileDJparty-800x604.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.mobileDJparty-1020x770.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.mobileDJparty-160x121.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.mobileDJparty-768x580.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1030px) 100vw, 1030px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A mobile DJ party in 1991. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Dr. Oliver Wang, author of \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.dukeupress.edu/legions-of-boom\">Legions of Boom: Filipino American Mobile DJ Crews in the San Francisco Bay Area\u003c/a>\u003c/em> and a professor of sociology at CSU Long Beach, explains that “the mobile DJ scene that the Piklz’ members got their start in wasn’t an exclusively Filipino phenomenon at all; there were Black, White, Latino and Chinese crews around then too. But the Fil-Am scene flourished above and beyond those other groups because they had distinct advantages coming from an immigrant community with strong social ties and large social networks.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition, Wang says, “Filipino American families have parties for practically any occasion — birthdays, debuts, christenings, graduations, or just plain house/garage parties for the heck of it. Importantly, those parties all wanted music, and that meant that DJs had all these opportunities to find gigs.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By the time breakdancing became popularized through movies like \u003cem>Beat Street\u003c/em> and \u003cem>Breakin’,\u003c/em> Apollo says, “DJing was already here… there were dances every weekend, and DJ battles and showcases almost every other weekend. That’s how it was when I was growing up around the San Francisco and Daly City area in the early ’80s.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952219\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1163px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/rscdjs.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1163\" height=\"831\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952219\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/rscdjs.jpg 1163w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/rscdjs-800x572.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/rscdjs-1020x729.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/rscdjs-160x114.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/rscdjs-768x549.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1163px) 100vw, 1163px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Appearing as FM2O (Furious Minds 2 Observe), Qbert, Mix Master Mike and Apollo perform at an ‘eco-rap’ show in San Francisco, circa 1989–1990. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Apollo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>One of the top mobile DJ crews at that time was Unlimited Sounds. “They were like the biggest group from Daly City, and they were already established,” Apollo says. Many of the crew members were older and attended Jefferson High School. Apollo remembers hanging out at Serra Bowl, becoming friends with Unlimited Sounds and gradually being drawn into the world of DJing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Every day after school, I would just hang out at their garage and practice,” he says. “All the equipment was there, the records were all there, the lights, everything.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Apollo saved his allowance and lunch money to buy his first set of turntables, and formed makeshift DJ crews with his friends. “We would gather our parents’ equipment, like home stereo equipment and gather it all up. I would get my parents’ home stereo system combined with my homies’ parents’ stereo system, combined with my other homie’s house system. And then we would put all the equipment together and we saw we had a DJ group.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Apollo started making mixtapes — he still remembers the first time he had enough records to make an all-hip-hop tape — and eventually became good enough to join Unlimited Sounds in 1985, who at the time had gigs all over the Bay Area. That experience gave him a solid foundation in DJing parties and playing a wide variety of records, but he was more interested in “scratching, juggling, trick-mixing — turntablism before it was even called that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952233\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/RSC-DJs-Psycho-City-Cover.jpeg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"401\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952233\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/RSC-DJs-Psycho-City-Cover.jpeg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/RSC-DJs-Psycho-City-Cover-160x107.jpeg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Rock City DJs at the famed San Francisco graffiti spot Psycho City, January 1993. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Prior to joining Unlimited Sounds, Apollo had hooked up with another up-and-coming DJ who was becoming known for his pause-tape mixes and obsessive focus on scratching: Michael Anthony Schwartz, a.k.a. Mix Master Mike, a Filipino-German kid who attended Jeffferson, the same high school as Aquino and Apollo. Rather than practice the blends and beat-matching typically used at parties, though, Apollo and Mix Master Mike would “do more scratching or tricks, routines and that type of stuff.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With those bedroom routines, a reimagining of the turntable’s possibilities had begun.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>‘Oh, Snap — What Did We Just Do?’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Mix Master Mike didn’t come up in the mobile DJ scene. His early inspiration was seeing Run-DMC’s Jam Master Jay live.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Watching Jay DJ for DMC and Run, he says, he remembers thinking, “Oh, they’re using records, but they sound more like they’re a full-fledged band, you know? That was just profound to me, that he was using records and rocking the house, \u003cem>with just records\u003c/em>. And that’s when I immediately knew that’s what I wanted to be.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952222\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1732px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952222\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMM_.japan_.subway.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1732\" height=\"1177\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMM_.japan_.subway.jpg 1732w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMM_.japan_.subway-800x544.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMM_.japan_.subway-1020x693.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMM_.japan_.subway-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMM_.japan_.subway-768x522.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMM_.japan_.subway-1536x1044.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1732px) 100vw, 1732px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mix Master Mike on the subway in Japan, 1993. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Alex Aquino)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Not long after Run-DMC brought their Raising Hell tour to a sold-out Oakland Coliseum arena, Apollo and Mike formed an informal DJ crew called Together With Style (not to be confused with the SF graffiti crew of the same name) and held long practice sessions in Apollo’s garage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But with Mike, “we did go hard on scratching and tricks and juggling – which later on turned into turntablism.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Individually, they would take turns on Apollo’s set of turntables. But one day, they decided to work in tandem — a moment that altered the course of DJ history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As Apollo remembers it: “Me and Mike were messing around with the turntables and… we’re like, well, let’s just do something together, since we don’t have to wait our turn (to practice). So I grabbed one turntable, and he grabbed the other turntable and we kind of just started making a beat with two records and one mixer. I got the bass kick and he grabbed the snare and we just started making a beat like, \u003cem>boom, cha, boom boom boom cha, boom boom\u003c/em>, you know? And then we’re just like, ‘Oh, snap, what did we just do? That was crazy.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952218\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 604px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952218\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/10423_136960922731_697132731_2526758_2429020_n.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"604\" height=\"408\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/10423_136960922731_697132731_2526758_2429020_n.jpg 604w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/10423_136960922731_697132731_2526758_2429020_n-160x108.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 604px) 100vw, 604px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Rock Steady Crew DJs in 1991. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Apollo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Apollo and Mike would perfect the two-man routine over a period of several years, “and we just started performing it all over the place at showcases and dances, you know, wherever. People were seeing it and being amazed. We were amazed by it ourselves.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[pullquote size='large' align='center' citation='DJ Apollo']I got the bass kick and he grabbed the snare and we just started making a beat like, boom, cha, boom boom boom cha, boom boom, you know? And then we’re just like, ‘Oh, snap, what did we just do?” [/pullquote] \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One witness to the early routine was Richard Quitevis, an acquaintance of Mike and Apollo who went by the name DJ Qbert.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Qbert saw it one time and he was amazed by it. He’s like, \u003cem>Oh, what is that?!?\u003c/em>,” Apollo says.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Qbert Enters the Picture\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>DJ Qbert grew up in San Francisco’s Excelsior district. Like Apollo, his first exposure to hip-hop precedes the term itself. He recalls fishing at Pier 39 at the age of 12 and seeing the Fillmore dance crew \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=weKkAF9NdCI\">Demons of the Mind\u003c/a>. “There would be all these poppers; at the time they were called strutters. They would be playing this really fast electro music. And it was like, ‘Look at these robot-like guys in shiny little outfits with these silver hats.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Qbert was fascinated not only with the vibrant dancers, but the sounds. “I was like, ‘Man, this is crazy. I love it, but where are they getting this music from?’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952215\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1371px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952215\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-in-bologna.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1371\" height=\"984\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-in-bologna.jpg 1371w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-in-bologna-800x574.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-in-bologna-1020x732.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-in-bologna-160x115.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-in-bologna-768x551.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1371px) 100vw, 1371px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shortkut, Mix Master Mike and Qbert gettin’ up in Bologna, Italy. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Qbert remembers early attempts at breakdancing with his friends, who fashioned their own makeshift outfits. But it was the DJ scratch – particularly the skills displayed by Mix Master Ice on UTFO’s 1985 single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0KE3-IyLsg8\">Leader of the Pack\u003c/a>” – that really drew his interest. “I just started collecting the music, always collecting the music. And that’s what made me become a DJ.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One day, Qbert was asked to DJ a garage party. “Everybody was about 12, 13, 14, 15, and everybody was breaking in the garage. And we were playing all my records on a big-ass giant box. Like, you open the top and you put the record in, and you just let that play. And the kids were spinning and they couldn’t control themselves. They would spin and they would spin, right into the DJ box, the turntable box. That was my first time being a mobile DJ.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He explains his early attraction to turntables and scratching: “You could manipulate sound by grabbing (the record), moving forward and backward,” he says, imitating a scratch sound. “It was like a toy. A toy that was like a musical instrument. I didn’t even know it was a musical instrument. I was just thinking of it as like, it just sounds crazy. You just pull sound out of the air and move it, like, ‘Oh, what a weird contraption.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Eventually, Q joined a mobile DJ crew called Live Style Productions, and came to the attention of Apollo and Mix Master Mike, who remember going to Balboa High School to see him spin.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Q, we just knew from around the way,” Apollo says. “We would go to different showcases on the weekends and see him perform. And so we knew about Q.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952240\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952240\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/600_us_champ_trophy.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"407\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/600_us_champ_trophy.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/600_us_champ_trophy-160x109.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Invisibl Skratch Piklz with the U.S. Championship trophy. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In 1991, Qbert entered the DMCs, winning the U.S. Championships and advancing all the way to the World Finals in London, where he took 2nd place. Aquino claims Qbert’s technical skills were so advanced, they went over most of the audience’s heads, but Qbert admits he got cocky and didn’t practice before his set: “I was sloppy,” he says. That loss instilled in him the importance of practicing, which he took to with rigorous discipline.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The Turntables Might Wobble\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Hip-hop journalist and author Adisa Banjoko, a friend, recalls once being at Qbert’s house and hearing him scratch the rhythms of Rakim’s verses from Eric B. & Rakim’s “I Ain’t No Joke” – using entirely scratched tones to replicate Rakim’s stanzas. “You gotta record that,” Banjoko told Q, who just shrugged and said, “Nah, I do that all the time.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Around this time, Apollo and Mike were honing their two-man routine and making beats with the intention of forming a rap crew, with them as producers and DJs. After returning from London with his U.S. title, Qbert introduced Mike and Apollo to a rapper who used to hang out at his house named Nim-FHD.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This is where it all comes together,” Apollo says. “Me and Mike were making beats, and we always wanted to find a voice for our beats. And so when Qbert introduced us to this rapper, and when me and Mike heard that guy’s voice, Nim’s voice, we were like, ‘Oh man, that’s the voice for our music.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952232\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 604px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952232\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/n1071373619_171639_1875.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"604\" height=\"416\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/n1071373619_171639_1875.jpg 604w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/n1071373619_171639_1875-160x110.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 604px) 100vw, 604px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The extended crew. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Apollo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Apollo explained his vision to Nim, and they enlisted H2O, another emcee they met through Qbert, who also joined the group. “We told Q, do you want to be a part of the ‘\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sd5gFx001qg\">Peter Piper\u003c/a>’ routine? And he was like, overjoyed. Like, ‘Let’s do it. Absolutely, let’s do it.’ So then we’re like… why don’t we become the DJs for this group that will be the first rap group with three DJs and two rappers? And we’ll do all the beats and scratching.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They christened themselves FM2O – an acronym for “Furious Minds To Observe” — the first iteration of what would become the Invisibl Skratch Piklz. As Mike says, “it was definitely a meant-to-be moment, when I hooked up with Q.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The group was managed by Aquino, who had left Unlimited Sounds and started throwing parties while trying to establish an independent hip-hop label, Ace Beat. While working on a demo tape, FM2O played local venues and music industry showcases like the Gavin Convention and New Music Seminar. In 1992, they appeared at the Omni in Oakland on a bill with Banjoko’s crew, Freedom T.R.O.O.P. 187, plus Organized Konfusion, Gangstarr and headliner Body Count. Epic as that lineup is, Apollo, Mike and Qbert’s orchestrated turntable segment during FM2O’s set was the absolute showstopper.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>FM2O’s music was slightly ahead of its time; in the early ’90s, “alternative hip-hop” hadn’t yet established itself in the mainstream. No hip-hop group had ever featured three DJs, all of them scratch fanatics.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While Aquino tried unsuccessfully to secure FM2O a label deal, the DJs made moves in the battle scene.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952242\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952242\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_MMM_jacket_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2387.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_MMM_jacket_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2387.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_MMM_jacket_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2387-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_MMM_jacket_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2387-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_MMM_jacket_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2387-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_MMM_jacket_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2387-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_MMM_jacket_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2387-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mix Master Mike with his DMC Legend jacket at The Midway in San Francisco, 2023. \u003ccite>(Jeff Straw)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The First Major World Titles\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Qbert’s second-place 1991 DMC finish earned him props from Clark Kent, a well-respected New York DJ and producer of the New Music Seminar DJ Battle for World Supremacy. Kent asked Qbert to judge the 1992 battle alongside NYC heavyweights like EPMD’s DJ Scratch and Gangstarr’s DJ Premier. Mix Master Mike, meanwhile, entered as a contestant – and ended up winning the battle. (Ironically, Aquino says, instead of practicing before his routine, Mike had stayed up all night.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZLRprNA_GSk\">Video of the battle\u003c/a> – during which Mike performs eight different routines, besting Japan’s DJ Honda in the final showdown before taking on defending champ Supreme in a challenge match – confirms he was on a mission to crush all competition. He doubles up Word of Mouth’s “King Kut” with blinding speed and finesse, blends Schooly D and Flavor Flav phrases to dis “sucker DJs,” slows down the records to juggle entirely new beats, deconstructs the wax into a series of melodic tones, and maintains a sense of rhythmic mastery that’s chaotic and jarring but never veers out of control. Boisterous shouts from the crowd testify to Mike’s determined brilliance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Billed as the Rocksteady DJs (with the blessing of Bronx B-boy legend Crazy Legs, from the Rock Steady Crew), Qbert, Mike and Apollo won the DMCs that same year with the “Peter Piper” routine. The following year, with DJ Apollo unavailable while touring as the Souls of Mischief’s DJ, Mike and Qbert, billed as the Dream Team, again won the DMC World Championship. Mike still remembers the anticipation and energy that went into the preparations for the battle, along with the ginseng they imbibed before their set “like Chinese martial arts masters.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952237\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/l_f99accf3c766cef703abeb72c042e21e.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"397\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952237\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/l_f99accf3c766cef703abeb72c042e21e.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/l_f99accf3c766cef703abeb72c042e21e-160x106.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mix Master Mike, pictured at center: ‘It was a discovery. Right? ‘Oh, shit. We could take this and flip it anyway we want to,’ you know?’ \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>These victories were culturally significant. Not only had no West Coast DJ ever been crowned a World Champion before, but no Filipino DJ had ever placed that high in a major competition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To explain just how significant, it’s necessary to understand the evolution of the DJ artform.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The first development, playing “break” sections of records (known as breakbeats), was initially a clumsy needle-drop technique originated by hip-hop pioneer Kool Herc. Grandmaster Flash refined the DJ vocabulary with backspinning, cueing, cutting, punch phrasing, quick-mixing and reading the record like a clock. Grand Wizzard Theodore developed the basic scratch. Steve Dee invented the beat-juggle. But no DJ was doing synchronized team routines that reimagined the turntables as individual instruments prior to the Rocksteady DJs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That was an awesome thing,” Mike says. “It just started from a thought. The collective team, it was like it was a unit. We all had the same aspirations and goals of doing things people had never, ever seen or heard before. And it just spawned this whole movement. And it’s just something that we love to do. It was a discovery. Right? ‘Oh, shit. We could take this and flip it anyway we want to,’ you know? And that was the beauty of it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952220\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952220\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.jackets-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1715\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.jackets-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.jackets-800x536.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.jackets-1020x683.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.jackets-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.jackets-768x515.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.jackets-1536x1029.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.jackets-2048x1372.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.jackets-1920x1286.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sporting championship jackets in Tokyo, 1993. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Alex Aquino)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Their succession of three major titles in two years elevated the DJ artform and raised the bar for battles. Teams of three or more DJs would soon proliferate throughout the DJ universe, and battle routines became more well-rounded, with emphasis on scratching, beat-juggling, and musicality or rhythmic coherence, as well as sheer technical ability.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It also led to a backlash of sorts: Mike confirms that after dominating for three years in a row, his crew was politely asked to retire from the DMC competition. He characterizes the request as a “giving other people a chance to win type deal.” But to him and his other Bay Area battlers, “We felt like it wasn’t fair to us because we got a lot in the tank. Let’s go. Keep going. See how far we can go… we were ready to defend the next year. But unfortunately they wanted to make us judges.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As it turned out, stepping away from the competitive battle scene proved to be a blessing in disguise. “After we stopped battling,” Mike says, “I was like, okay, what’s next? We’re going to make records now. I’m gonna become a full fledged artist, you know? I don’t want to be this DJ dude. I don’t want to be a DJ guy that’s playing other people’s records standing up there. We’ve done that already. I’m going to get in the studio and be a producer, and I’m going to make music out of this whole thing, like, springboard into making original compositions. And so that’s what I’m doing, to this day.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952238\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1430px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952238\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-in-Hawaii-1996.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1430\" height=\"1039\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-in-Hawaii-1996.jpg 1430w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-in-Hawaii-1996-800x581.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-in-Hawaii-1996-1020x741.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-in-Hawaii-1996-160x116.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-in-Hawaii-1996-768x558.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1430px) 100vw, 1430px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Invisibl Skratch Piklz in Hawaii, 1996. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But first, the crew needed a new name. During their time DJing for FM2O, the three DJs were collectively known as Shadow of the Prophet, or simply, The Shadow. A chance encounter with an early-career DJ Shadow – who apologetically offered to change his name – led to Qbert graciously telling him that he could keep the name “Shadow,” and that he’d change his group’s name instead. “Rocksteady DJs” and “The Dream Team” were one-offs, for the most part. They needed something catchy that also reflected who they were.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One day it came to them. As Qbert recounts, “We was on one, and we were laughing and laughing. And I think Mix Master Mike said, “Why don’t we be called the Invisible Pickles? We were just cracking up and we were thinking about, you know, an invisible pickle.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The next day, Qbert got a call from his pal Lou Quintanilla, a.k.a. DJ Disk. “And he said, ‘How about Invisible Scratch Pickles?’ I was like, that kind of sounds dope.” (Though it may sound abstract, the name is rooted in a concrete concept: the turntable as an “invisible instrument” that could be almost any instrument – drums, guitar, vocals, anything.) The crew’s offbeat sense of humor reflected in their new name had long been evident; in 1992, they released \u003cem>Battle Breaks\u003c/em>, one of the first DJ tool records specifically designed for scratching, officially credited to the Psychedelic Scratch Bastards on the Dirt Style label. In later years they would put out various releases under an affiliate record label that they named Galactic Butt Hair.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before settling on the new name, though, they ran it by a younger DJ who was asked to join the crew — Jonathan Cruz, a.k.a. DJ Shortkut.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952228\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1759px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952228\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.shortkut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1759\" height=\"1193\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.shortkut.jpg 1759w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.shortkut-800x543.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.shortkut-1020x692.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.shortkut-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.shortkut-768x521.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.shortkut-1536x1042.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1759px) 100vw, 1759px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shortkut. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Alex Aquino)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Electro and the Art of the Quick Mix\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Growing up in Daly City, Shortkut caught the DJ bug thanks to a Filipino mobile crew who played his 6th grade dance. He started DJing at age 13, after the local Filipino sound system culture had cycled through disco, metal, and New Wave, before arriving at hip-hop, freestyle and Miami bass.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of Shortkut’s first exposures to a DJ battle took place in a large hall.“There would be about four to six sound systems separately set up in the one room with their own individual sound systems. Each group would get about like 20 minutes to do their thing, and then at the end of the night, whoever won. The word got out that group won, and then that’s who everyone wanted to book for school dances or birthday parties.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Shortkut joined a crew called Just 2 Hype, which played freestyle, Miami bass and 808-laced Mantronix singles. “That’s why I think the Bay Area is specifically more scratch-DJ based,” he says, “because everyone scratched to fast beats, all the classic electro stuff.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He also worked on perfecting the art of the quick-mix, changing up the record every four or eight bars. But records like DJ Jazzy Jeff’s “Live At Union Square” drew him into the world of scratch-mixing. “When I first started scratching, I just listened to records, basically. All the early records I used to buy, I would just try to copy what I heard on record.”\u003cbr>\nIn the late ’80s and early ’90s, he says, “I really got into embracing hip-hop” – catching up with records that hadn’t been hugely popular in the Filipino scene, and becoming further enthralled with scratching and beat-juggling. “That’s when I was first hearing about Qbert and Apollo and Mix Master Mike,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952223\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1742px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan1_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1742\" height=\"1190\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952223\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan1_.jpg 1742w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan1_-800x546.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan1_-1020x697.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan1_-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan1_-768x525.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan1_-1536x1049.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1742px) 100vw, 1742px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">First trip to Japan, 1993. At far left is B-boy and dancer Richard Colón, a.k.a. Crazy Legs from the Rock Steady Crew. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Alex Aquino)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Back then, Apollo was the big name, being from Unlimited Sounds. “He was the party rocker. But he was kind of the B-boy out of all the Filipino guys I knew.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As he attempted to build his DJ skills, Shortkut remembers listening to cassette tapes of Qbert scratching and mixing. Initially, he had only basic equipment, and used belt-driven turntables. “I got better once I got to direct-drives because I already knew how to handle it and have a certain feel to it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Qbert winning the U.S. DMC Championship in 1991 was huge, he says. “We didn’t really have any role models, as a Filipino kid.” He took the win as validation – and inspiration.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I lived about five minutes from Q’s house,” he says. “I used to go to Q’s house with the guy who taught me how to DJ. We both cold-called Q because we knew he was the one who had all the battle videos. So we would go to his house and dub the videos and while they were dubbing, me and Q would scratch.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During this time, Shortkut says, Mike had moved to Sacramento, and Apollo was DJing for Branford Marsalis, “so I would hook up with Q and Disk a lot.” Q used to bring Shortkut and Disk along when he opened up shows in the Bay – affording the younger DJs valuable stage experience. Shortkut, Mike, and Q eventually formed a crew briefly called the Turntable Dragons, pre-ISP. Then, in 1993, Shortkut, Mike, and Q played a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13935467/the-bomb-magazine-label-san-francisco-turntablism-djs\">Bomb Hip-Hop\u003c/a> Party – possibly the first time they had been billed as the Invisibl Skratch Piklz.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952239\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 250px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952239\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/invisblskratchp_002-h.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"250\" height=\"250\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The five-man crew. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>‘Everyone That Worked There Was Filipino’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Dave Paul, publisher of \u003cem>Bomb Hip Hop Magazine\u003c/em>, coincidentally also began as a mobile DJ in 1984 with a crew called Midnight Connections. He tells a funny story about working an after-school job for Chevron. “I wasn’t that great. So they moved me from, like, the main Chevron on Geary Street over to one on California Street. And everyone that worked there was Filipino. Turned out everyone that worked there was also a DJ.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Paul knew of Apollo from Unlimited Sounds, and had seen Qbert perform a famous “Mary Had A Little Lamb” routine during a San Jose battle around 1989 or 1990. “That really got his name out,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During the annual Gavin Convention in San Francisco, Bomb Hip Hop magazine would present live performance showcases. Paul booked the Piklz on multiple occasions, beginning in 1992, when they were still called the Rocksteady DJs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>According to Paul, the vibe of those early performances “was always sort of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kDLzGtQmMyw\">don’t-give-a-fuck style\u003c/a>. Like, things didn’t have to be clean. They were just really raw. And it was just ill. They were doing stuff that no one else was doing at the time.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_10345320\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-10345320\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2015/01/QBertMain.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2015/01/QBertMain.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2015/01/QBertMain-400x225.jpg 400w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">DJ QBert. \u003ccite>(Thud Rumble)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>After releasing a now-legendary compilation tape that featured Qbert along with a Canadian MC named Madchild, as well as local underground artists like Homeless Derelix, Blackalicious, Bored Stiff, and Mystik Journeymen, Bomb Hip Hop became a record label in 1995 with the release of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13937489/best-bay-area-turntablism-scratch-dj-albums\">\u003cem>Return of the DJ Vol. 1\u003c/em>\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That record essentially started the movement of turntablism as a musical genre. The Skratch Piklz (at that time, Qbert, Shortkut and Disk) were featured on “Invasion of the Octopus People,” while Mix Master Mike contributed his first official solo production, “Terrorwrist.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Return of the DJ \u003c/em>evolved into a compilation series spanning multiple volumes, and inspired numerous others, like Om Records’ \u003cem>Deep Concentration\u003c/em> and Ubiquity’s \u003cem>Audio Alchemy\u003c/em> compilations. Asphodel, an alternative label known for ultra-underground somnolent, ambient, droney electronic music, signed the Skratch Piklz to a deal, which resulted in 1996’s single “Invisibl Skratch Piklz vs. Da Klamz Uv Deth,” which featured Qbert, Shortkut, and Mix Master Mike.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952246\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1938px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952246\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ezgif-3-ae00e595ca.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1938\" height=\"1882\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ezgif-3-ae00e595ca.jpg 1938w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ezgif-3-ae00e595ca-800x777.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ezgif-3-ae00e595ca-1020x991.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ezgif-3-ae00e595ca-160x155.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ezgif-3-ae00e595ca-768x746.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ezgif-3-ae00e595ca-1536x1492.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ezgif-3-ae00e595ca-1920x1865.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1938px) 100vw, 1938px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">‘Invisibl Skratch Piklz vs. Da Clamz Uv Deth,’ 1997. \u003ccite>(Asphodel Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“A very strange thing about that (single) is, I had just invented scratch music,” Qbert says. “Which is this thing where every sound is scratched. Drums are scratched, the hi-hats are scratched, the snare and vocals are scratched, the chords, every single thing is scratched! No matter what is in there. So that was tracked out — like, every track was off the turntables, making a complete scratch song.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Turntablism spread quickly through San Francisco’s progressive club scene in the mid-’90s. Mark Herlihy’s art/performance collective Future Primitive established itself as an avant garde music label with a live recording of Shortkut and Cut Chemist at Cat’s Alley, on Folsom Street. An outer Tenderloin hole in the wall, Deco, became a headquarters for unfiltered, ultra-creative DJ expression in its basement, via “Many Styles” nights curated by Apollo. Qbert was part of the groundbreaking alternative hip-hop group Dr. Octagon along with producer Dan the Automator and MC Kool Keith, who recorded an indie classic that got re-released nationally by Dreamworks. To this day, Qbert’s scratch solo on Dr. Octagon’s “Earth People” stands out as a particular flashpoint, the turntable equivalent, perhaps, of the guitar solos on “Hotel California” or “Comfortably Numb.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Needless to say, it’s not an empty boast when Mix Master Mike says he and the Skratch Piklz “pretty much created this genre of music.” No one was doing it before them, and many followed in their footsteps. Locally, the Bullet Proof Scratch Hamsters (aka the Space Travelers), Supernatural Turntable Artists, and the Oakland Faders all scratched and juggled. Live bands incorporating turntablists included Live Human (DJ Quest) and Soulstice (Mei-Lwun). New York’s X-Ecutioners were probably ISP’s closest counterparts nationally, having formed in 1989. But despite their turntable innovations, even they weren’t performing or recording as a \u003cem>band\u003c/em> until after the Skratch Piklz.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952245\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952245\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_ISP_11_JeffStraw-2144.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_ISP_11_JeffStraw-2144.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_ISP_11_JeffStraw-2144-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_ISP_11_JeffStraw-2144-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_ISP_11_JeffStraw-2144-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_ISP_11_JeffStraw-2144-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_ISP_11_JeffStraw-2144-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Invisibl Skratch Piklz at the DMC World DJ Finals at The Midway in San Francisco, Calif., on Nov. 3, 2023. \u003ccite>(Jeff Straw)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Back when they were known as the X-Men, the X-Ecutioners faced off against the Piklz in a landmark 1996 battle in New York’s Manhattan Center – a contest so epic, it’s listed among \u003cem>Mixmag\u003c/em>’s \u003ca href=\"https://mixmag.net/feature/the-10-best-dj-scratch-battles-of-all-time\">Top 10 DJ Scratch Battles of All Time\u003c/a>. X-Ecutioners member and DJ historian Rob Swift says Qbert first came on his radar in 1991, when he beat X-Ecutioners founder Steve Dee to win the US DMC Finals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We thought he was Hawaiian,” Swift says, because Qbert appeared to be wearing a lei in the battle video. “We didn’t know that he was this Filipino DJ that came out of this Filipino community of DJs in the Bay Area. We didn’t know that there \u003cem>were\u003c/em> DJs out there.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Swift later entered the 1991 New Music Seminar battle, where Qbert was a judge; the two exchanged numbers and began calling each other and exchanging videos regularly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When rappers began increasingly excluding the DJ throughout the ’90s, he says he and Qbert would discuss what to do about it., “We would both be like, ‘You’ve got these rappers (not respecting the DJ). Fuck them, and we’re going to create our own DJ scene. If the music industry is going to turn their backs on DJing, we need to figure out a way to just create our own scene.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“And,” he adds, “that’s exactly what we did.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952225\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1759px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952225\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Lebanon.trophy.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1759\" height=\"1166\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Lebanon.trophy.jpg 1759w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Lebanon.trophy-800x530.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Lebanon.trophy-1020x676.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Lebanon.trophy-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Lebanon.trophy-768x509.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Lebanon.trophy-1536x1018.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1759px) 100vw, 1759px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Invisibl Skratch Piklz in Lebanon. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Alex Aquino)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Enter the ITF — and D-Styles\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>When the Pilkz battled the X-Ecutioners, it was as much about gaining respect for turntable culture as it was about individual bragging rights. Though the court of public opinion is still split on who won, the battle put a spotlight on both crews. As Swift says, “We started strategizing ways to book our own tours and create all-DJ competitions (like) the ITF, the International Turntablist Federation,” who organized the historic battle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Founded by Alex Aquino with help from Shortkut, the ITF was established in 1995 and stayed active until 2005. It was intended as a cultural organization, and as somewhat of a critique of the DMC, which had become the only major DJ competition, following the demise of the New Music Seminar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Without the DMC,” Aquino says, “we wouldn’t have this world stage for the guys to be on. But after Q lost that first battle, we were like, something has to change.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Specifically, the criteria. “And so, we were like, let’s do our own battle. Let’s have real turntablists and DJs judge it, like a New Music Seminar, but instead of just the one-on-one battle, the advancement class for the belt, let’s do a scratching category. Let’s do a beat-juggling category. And let’s do a team category. And that’s how we started out.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952211\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1366px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952211\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.magazine.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1366\" height=\"1834\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.magazine.jpg 1366w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.magazine-800x1074.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.magazine-1020x1369.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.magazine-160x215.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.magazine-768x1031.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.magazine-1144x1536.jpg 1144w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1366px) 100vw, 1366px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">In a Japanese magazine, date unknown. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>DJs like Vin Roc, Babu, Craze, and A-Trak all won ITF titles, as did teams like the Allies and Beat Junkies. The ITF succeeded in giving turntablists a visible platform to showcase their skills and in further popularizing the artform in the U.S. and internationally. (In 1999, the DMC would add a team category, and the organization currently rotates additional categories, including Scratch, Portablist, and Beat Juggling.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After \u003cem>Return of the DJ\u003c/em>’s “Octopus People,” with Apollo unavailable and Mix Master Mike pursuing a solo career, the Skratch Piklz needed new blood. For the next few years, ISP membership became somewhat fluid, swelling and contracting as new members joined for a while, before going off to do other projects. DJ Disk, DJ Flare, Canadian teenage prodigy A-Trak, and former Thud Rumble label manager Ritche Desuasido, a.k.a. Yogafrog, were all ISP members at one time or another, along with Shortkut.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1996, Beat Junkies member Dave Cuasito, a.k.a. D-Styles, joined the Piklz and became a linchpin for the group; Aquino calls him “the hidden master.” Though not as flashy or famous as Qbert, he’s well-respected in turntablist circles and has helped focus the Pilkz on compositional elements in their music while also being able to scratch, cut and juggle at a high level.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Born in the Philippines, D-Styles grew up in San Jose. Like the other Piklz, he was exposed to hip-hop through breaking and its accompanying soundtrack. “I would hear the songs that they were playing, but then they would scratch certain words and certain parts of that song. And so I was always curious how they were doing it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952229\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1759px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952229\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.qbert_.dst_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1759\" height=\"1168\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.qbert_.dst_.jpg 1759w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.qbert_.dst_-800x531.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.qbert_.dst_-1020x677.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.qbert_.dst_-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.qbert_.dst_-768x510.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.qbert_.dst_-1536x1020.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1759px) 100vw, 1759px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Grandmaster DXT and Qbert. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Alex Aquino)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>His answer came when he saw Grandmixer DST (now known as DXT)’s scratch segment on Herbie Hancock’s “Rockit.” After getting a basic Realistic mixer for his birthday, he, too, joined a mobile DJ crew (Sound City), who pooled their equipment like so many others – and spent their meager proceeds on post-gig Denny’s meals. After taking part in typical mobile battles with crews exchanging 20-minute sets, he discovered there was a battle specifically for scratch DJs, and competed in the 1993 DMC.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1996, he moved to San Francisco to attend college, but what he really wanted was to pursue music. He was already familiar with Mike, Qbert and Shortkut from the battle scene, and from hanging out on Tuesday night at Deco, a small speakeasy-style jazz bar with open turntables in the basement.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“One strange night, I got a phone call on my answering machine and it was Yogafrog and Q, and they were like, ‘Hey, man’ – I don’t know if they were drunk or what – but they were like, ‘we need to talk, man. We think we should all come together and form a crew.” They met up and talked, and soon after, he was asked to officially join the group.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>D-Styles stoic demeanor compliments the other Piklz, yet beneath his focused concentration lies a punk rock attitude that aligns with Qbert’s philosophy that the only rule is there are no rules. Likewise, his turntable-composition approach balances the others’ battle-DJ backgrounds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952235\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 636px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952235\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/SK-A-TRAK-1997-at-Qs.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"636\" height=\"474\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/SK-A-TRAK-1997-at-Qs.png 636w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/SK-A-TRAK-1997-at-Qs-160x119.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 636px) 100vw, 636px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shortkut and A-Trak at Qbert’s place, 1997. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“As far as a turntable composer, I feel like we definitely embrace the more musical side of it, and less technical,” he says. “For the battle DJs, they really try to spray like a Uzi, you know what I mean? And just get off a bunch of power stuff and try to wow the the crowd and the judges. For music, it’s more about the long-term thing. We want to make music that’s timeless. And it’s not based off of a five-minute routine.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With the core Piklz now set with Qbert, Shortkut and D-Styles, Mix Master Mike – who remained affiliated with the crew – says, “I felt like we had the perfect stew. Everyone had their own style, their own identity.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Around this time, Mike began putting together his first solo album, \u003cem>Anti-Theft Device\u003c/em>, which he envisioned as “not an underground album (but) a worldwide release.” He imagined himself as a sonic transducer, attracting and reshaping matter into different forms. He drew on inspirations like Led Zeppelin’s John Bonham, early Public Enemy, Thelonious Monk, Rage Against the Machine and Ennio Morricone. He contemplated the subtlety of silence, of ghost notes and pregnant pauses. And then he went out and made an album with booming, deafening drums and thumping bass on nearly every track.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I focused on the drums first,” Mike says. “I wanted to make sure those drums were hitting really hard.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952249\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952249\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/MMM.antitheft.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1000\" height=\"984\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/MMM.antitheft.jpg 1000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/MMM.antitheft-800x787.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/MMM.antitheft-160x157.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/MMM.antitheft-768x756.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1000px) 100vw, 1000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mix Master Mike’s ‘Anti-Theft Device,’ 1998. \u003ccite>(Asphodel Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>On \u003cem>Anti-Theft Device\u003c/em>, the found sounds and quirky vocal samples (“NASA maintains this is \u003cem>not\u003c/em> Colonel Blaha’s voice”) often present on DJ mix tapes resurface often, along with boom-bap beats and scratched phrases, instruments and sound effects. There are elements of intoxicated or altered reality, and bug-out moments that suggest turboized vocoders spouting underwater propellers, or seemingly random musical sample generators harnessing infinite libraries of sound, from raga to reggae to rock.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“At the end of the day,” Mike says, “it’s about spearheading the evolution of the battle DJ – as artist, composer, tastemaker.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While Mike was the first Pikl to make a solo album, Qbert crafted an especially ambitious concept for his first official solo debut. As Mike tells it, he had some extra tracks left over, which he gave to Qbert. “And he fuckin’, just like, went crazy on those beats. And then, yeah. It became \u003cem>Wave Twisters\u003c/em>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952250\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952250\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/R-16932444-1610670653-3566.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/R-16932444-1610670653-3566.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/R-16932444-1610670653-3566-160x160.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">DJ Qbert’s ‘Wave Twisters,’ 1998. The album spawned a cult-classic 2001 animated film of the same name. \u003ccite>(Galactic Butt Hair Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Wave Twisters, the Beasties and Beyond\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Wave Twisters\u003c/em> holds the rare distinction of being a soundtrack around which a movie was later designed. The album received extremely positive reviews, making many music critics’ year-end lists. To this day, it’s regarded as one of the best turntablism albums of all time. Tracks like “Destination: Quasar 16.33.45.78” took ISP battle routines to new levels, imagining a battle in inner space between a heroic dental hygienist and the minions of a villain named Lord Ook. The track revels in sci-fi tropes, with vocal cues like “Attention, starship!” coloring the scratched, transformed and cut-up audio landscape.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>According to Qbert, \u003cem>Wave Twisters\u003c/em> was willed into existence. “I intentionally foresaw it because in the back of my head, I was like, I’m gonna make every song like a storyline. It’s going to be a thing. And somebody’s going to animate this. And then out of nowhere, the universe made it all work.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13937489']Meanwhile, Mix Master Mike was setting his own intentions – around becoming a member of the Beastie Boys. A longtime fan of their music, he says, “even before I met them, I always thought I was the fourth Beastie, and I was the missing element.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After meeting the Beasties’ MCA during a Rock Steady Crew anniversary in 1996, Mike took an unusual route to make his dreams come true. “I went up to MCA and introduced myself,” he recalls. “He knew who I was through all the competitions and the battles, and we exchanged phone numbers and went back home. And late at night, I would just leave these scratch messages on his answering machine. Two, three in the morning, just leaving these scratches on his machine, hoping that these transmissions would penetrate. Fortunately they did. \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#mix-master-mike-becomes-the-beastie-boys-dj\">And the rest is history\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952251\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952251\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/Beasties.MixMasterMike.2004-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1611\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/Beasties.MixMasterMike.2004-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/Beasties.MixMasterMike.2004-800x503.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/Beasties.MixMasterMike.2004-1020x642.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/Beasties.MixMasterMike.2004-160x101.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/Beasties.MixMasterMike.2004-768x483.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/Beasties.MixMasterMike.2004-1536x967.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/Beasties.MixMasterMike.2004-2048x1289.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/Beasties.MixMasterMike.2004-1920x1208.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(L-R) Mixmaster Mike, Mike Diamond, Adam ‘MCA’ Yauch, and Adam ‘Ad-Rock’ Horovitz of The Beastie Boys attend the MTV Europe Music Awards 2004 at Tor di Valle Nov. 18, 2004 in Rome, Italy. \u003ccite>(Bruno Vincent/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Mike joined the Beasties in time for 1998’s \u003cem>Hello Nasty\u003c/em> album, remaining part of the group until MCA died of cancer in 2012 and the Beastie Boys disbanded. “So at the end of the day,” Mike says, “it’s all about power of intention, right? And my intention was to get in the band or work with the band.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the ’90s drew to a close, the Piklz weren’t quite done. They produced Skratchcon 2000, a scratching convention, bringing together pioneering masters and acolytes of DJ scratch music. “That was our old manager, Yogafrog,” Qbert says. “His idea to put on a convention called Scratchcon, that was a genius idea of his, and we should do a Part II. We got all the best, most popular scratchers on the planet to come through. It was huge. Steve Dee was there, even Aladdin, all the X-Ecutioners, everybody. It was amazing.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952252\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952252\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Garage.Group_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1500\" height=\"983\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Garage.Group_.jpg 1500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Garage.Group_-800x524.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Garage.Group_-1020x668.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Garage.Group_-160x105.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Garage.Group_-768x503.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1500px) 100vw, 1500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(L–R) Shortkut, D-Styles, Mix Master Mike, Yogafrog and QBert in QBert’s garage in the Excelsior District of San Francisco, 1998. \u003ccite>(Liz Hafalia /The San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images))\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Skratchcon drew fans from all over the country, in addition to current and historic scratch DJs,for live showcases and demonstrations like DJ Radar’s introduction of scratch notation. The convention culminated with a live concert at the Fillmore Auditorium, billed at the time as the ISP’s last official performance. To this day, it stands as one of the highpoints of a decade overflowing with revolutionary developments in hip-hop DJ culture, which saw the Invisibl Skratch Piklz make history and become iconic representatives of turntablism.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As Mix Master Mike says, “There is no ceiling to this. No, it’s whatever you think about is whatever you create and whatever you can apply.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-11687704\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"60\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-400x30.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-768x58.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\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 story series on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On a recent Friday night in San Francisco, a couple thousand fans of DJ culture crammed into the cavernous main room of a nightclub in Hunters Point.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Inside The Midway, it was elbow room-only from the stage to the back patio; many of those in the crowd were DJs themselves. The scene recalled the late ’90s-early 2000s glory days of the Bay Area, when turntablism seemed destined to become the Next Big Thing, and DJ nights dominated SF’s club scene. No one was there to dance; it wasn’t that kind of party.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13937762\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13937762\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-28-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A person wearing a baseball cap stands at a table under fluorescent lighting.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-28-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-28-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-28-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-28-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-28-BL-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-28-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-28-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">DJ Qbert performs with Invisibl Skratch Piklz during the DMC World DJ Finals at The Midway in San Francisco, Calif., on Nov. 3, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The occasion was the DMC World Championship DJ Battle Finals, with some of the best DJs in the world competing against each other. But there was another attraction too: live showcases by the Invisibl Skratch Piklz and Mix Master Mike, the legendary DJs who transformed the Bay Area into a turntablist Mecca during a seminal era for local hip-hop. DMC event organizer Christie Zee put the proceedings into their proper context: “You can’t have a battle in the Bay without the Skratch Piklz.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As midnight approached, the lights dimmed, and the Piklz – Qbert, Shortkut and D-Styles – were announced to cheers that echoed throughout the high-ceilinged room. The Piklz opened with the 2015 ISP track “Fresh Out of FVCKs,” with its ominous electric organ melody that transitions into repeating melodic chords. A snare drum beat came in, followed by a rhythmically scratched snippet of a stuttering vocal phrase. The electric organ chords shifted into a chopped melody as the snare dropped out, then returned. And that’s all before the mind-bending scratch solos that followed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Piklz proceeded to display their musicality, keeping their technical acumen within the groove pocket with synchronized timing. As is customary with the Piklz, each played the part of a specific instrumentalist: D-Styles as the keyboardist, Shortkut as the drummer, and Qbert as the scratch soloist.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952244\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952244\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/MMM_DJ_mixer_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2275.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/MMM_DJ_mixer_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2275.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/MMM_DJ_mixer_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2275-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/MMM_DJ_mixer_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2275-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/MMM_DJ_mixer_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2275-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/MMM_DJ_mixer_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2275-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/MMM_DJ_mixer_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2275-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mix Master Mike at the DMC World DJ Finals at The Midway in San Francisco, Calif., on Nov. 3, 2023. \u003ccite>(Jeff Straw)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>A live version of “Death By A Thousand Paper Cuts” – a song from D-Styles’ 2019 album \u003cem>Noises In the Right Order\u003c/em> – and several unreleased ISP songs showed that \u003ca href=\"https://ccnmtl.columbia.edu/projects/jazzglossary/g/ghost_note.html\">ghost notes\u003c/a> aren’t just associated with jazz music. The turntable trio used the spaces between to impart a sense of presence and feel, a minimalist approach that allowed their scratches, cuts and juggles to resonate with maximum impact.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This would have been a hard act to follow for anyone but Mix Master Mike. The ISP co-founder, who’s been a solo artist since 1995 or so, has a gigantic stage presence and skills to match. A one-man musical blender, MMM unleashed a maelstrom of sonic fury, with bone-crunching drums, an entire range of musical and vocal phrases, and precise turntable cuts that deconstructed the individual pieces of a live performance — only to reconstruct all the fragments into an emotionally-thrilling pastiche. After his set, when Mike was celebrated with a Lifetime Achievement Award, the honor was clearly well-deserved.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Invisible Skratch Piklz were celebrating, too – 2023 marks their 30th anniversary – and it’s safe to say no Bay Area crew has done more to advance the DJ artform. Along with New York’s X-Ecutioners and LA’s Beat Junkies, ISP have defined the term turntablist, carving out a cultural niche that rests on a hip-hop foundation but exists in its own space.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13937759\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13937759\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-13-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"People stand in a crowd leaning on a barrier indoors.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-13-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-13-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-13-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-13-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-13-BL-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-13-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/11/231103-DMCBattle-13-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A crowd watches finalists compete during the DMC World DJ Finals at The Midway in San Francisco, Calif., on Nov. 3, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The Piklz have counted many firsts. As hip-hop’s relationship with the DJ has flipped from essential to inconsequential, they’ve maintained the DJ tradition for future generations, and extended its global reach. Over the past four decades, they’ve gone from students of the scratch to wizened masters of turntable music.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And like most cultural icons, their backstory is involved, multilayered and fascinating.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952236\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1528px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952236\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/q.sta_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1528\" height=\"1032\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/q.sta_.jpg 1528w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/q.sta_-800x540.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/q.sta_-1020x689.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/q.sta_-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/q.sta_-768x519.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1528px) 100vw, 1528px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A young Qbert at a community hall mobile DJ dance party. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The Garage Party Era\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The Invisibl Skratch Piklz story begins in what former ISP manager Alex Aquino calls the “pre-hip-hop era” of the late ’70s-early ’80s, when youth-oriented street dance intersected with pioneering mobile DJ crews and a Filipino-American tradition of garage parties.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This was before breakdancing,” Aquino says. He recalls being 6 or 7 and seeing strutters, poppers and elements of DJ culture – including the Filipino mobile DJ crews who established a scene built around vinyl records, large stereo systems and frequent dance parties.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of those Filipino DJs was Apollo Novicio, a.k.a. DJ Apollo, a founding member of ISP who spent his early childhood roaming around the Mission District. By the time he reached middle school, his family had relocated to Daly City – where he likely attended some of the same parties as Aquino. “Back in the day, they’d have garage parties and there would be a DJ in the corner of the garage, set up on a washing machine and dryer and stuff like that. And at the parties, they would have popping and locking circles. Strutting, popping and locking. Breakdancing wasn’t even here yet, really. This was, I’d say, early ’80s, and that was pretty much my first exposure to the DJing and dancing element of it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952292\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1004px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.mobiledjparty.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"1004\" height=\"674\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952292\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.mobiledjparty.png 1004w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.mobiledjparty-800x537.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.mobiledjparty-160x107.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.mobiledjparty-768x516.png 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1004px) 100vw, 1004px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Setup for a typical mobile DJ party in the early 1990s. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In 1982, Aquino remembers, a New York transplant named Oscar Sop had introduced B-boying and fat laces to the neighborhood, becoming one of the Bay Area’s first breakdancers. Meanwhile, the DJ crews were becoming more professional, and getting hired for weddings, quinceaneras, traditional Filipino celebrations and the occasional school dance party.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Apollo recalls “doing the strutting, popping, locking thing before B-boying got here.” Back then, “I didn’t even know it was hip-hop. I was such a young age. I’m like, just doing it and like, later on find out, oh, this is a hip-hop culture.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to dancing being popular among Filipino youth, he remembers DJ groups proliferating at local high schools. “It was just kind of like the thing to do,” he says. “All the kids would form DJ groups.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I don’t know how to explain (why), but there was a lot of Filipino mobile disc jockey groups,” says DJ Apollo. ”Back in the seventies, my older brothers and sisters, they used to collect music and listen to music. Everybody had to go to the record store and buy vinyl.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952212\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1030px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952212\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.mobileDJparty.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1030\" height=\"778\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.mobileDJparty.jpg 1030w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.mobileDJparty-800x604.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.mobileDJparty-1020x770.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.mobileDJparty-160x121.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.mobileDJparty-768x580.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1030px) 100vw, 1030px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A mobile DJ party in 1991. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Dr. Oliver Wang, author of \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.dukeupress.edu/legions-of-boom\">Legions of Boom: Filipino American Mobile DJ Crews in the San Francisco Bay Area\u003c/a>\u003c/em> and a professor of sociology at CSU Long Beach, explains that “the mobile DJ scene that the Piklz’ members got their start in wasn’t an exclusively Filipino phenomenon at all; there were Black, White, Latino and Chinese crews around then too. But the Fil-Am scene flourished above and beyond those other groups because they had distinct advantages coming from an immigrant community with strong social ties and large social networks.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition, Wang says, “Filipino American families have parties for practically any occasion — birthdays, debuts, christenings, graduations, or just plain house/garage parties for the heck of it. Importantly, those parties all wanted music, and that meant that DJs had all these opportunities to find gigs.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By the time breakdancing became popularized through movies like \u003cem>Beat Street\u003c/em> and \u003cem>Breakin’,\u003c/em> Apollo says, “DJing was already here… there were dances every weekend, and DJ battles and showcases almost every other weekend. That’s how it was when I was growing up around the San Francisco and Daly City area in the early ’80s.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952219\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1163px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/rscdjs.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1163\" height=\"831\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952219\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/rscdjs.jpg 1163w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/rscdjs-800x572.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/rscdjs-1020x729.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/rscdjs-160x114.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/rscdjs-768x549.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1163px) 100vw, 1163px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Appearing as FM2O (Furious Minds 2 Observe), Qbert, Mix Master Mike and Apollo perform at an ‘eco-rap’ show in San Francisco, circa 1989–1990. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Apollo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>One of the top mobile DJ crews at that time was Unlimited Sounds. “They were like the biggest group from Daly City, and they were already established,” Apollo says. Many of the crew members were older and attended Jefferson High School. Apollo remembers hanging out at Serra Bowl, becoming friends with Unlimited Sounds and gradually being drawn into the world of DJing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Every day after school, I would just hang out at their garage and practice,” he says. “All the equipment was there, the records were all there, the lights, everything.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Apollo saved his allowance and lunch money to buy his first set of turntables, and formed makeshift DJ crews with his friends. “We would gather our parents’ equipment, like home stereo equipment and gather it all up. I would get my parents’ home stereo system combined with my homies’ parents’ stereo system, combined with my other homie’s house system. And then we would put all the equipment together and we saw we had a DJ group.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Apollo started making mixtapes — he still remembers the first time he had enough records to make an all-hip-hop tape — and eventually became good enough to join Unlimited Sounds in 1985, who at the time had gigs all over the Bay Area. That experience gave him a solid foundation in DJing parties and playing a wide variety of records, but he was more interested in “scratching, juggling, trick-mixing — turntablism before it was even called that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952233\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/RSC-DJs-Psycho-City-Cover.jpeg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"401\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952233\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/RSC-DJs-Psycho-City-Cover.jpeg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/RSC-DJs-Psycho-City-Cover-160x107.jpeg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Rock City DJs at the famed San Francisco graffiti spot Psycho City, January 1993. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Prior to joining Unlimited Sounds, Apollo had hooked up with another up-and-coming DJ who was becoming known for his pause-tape mixes and obsessive focus on scratching: Michael Anthony Schwartz, a.k.a. Mix Master Mike, a Filipino-German kid who attended Jeffferson, the same high school as Aquino and Apollo. Rather than practice the blends and beat-matching typically used at parties, though, Apollo and Mix Master Mike would “do more scratching or tricks, routines and that type of stuff.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With those bedroom routines, a reimagining of the turntable’s possibilities had begun.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>‘Oh, Snap — What Did We Just Do?’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Mix Master Mike didn’t come up in the mobile DJ scene. His early inspiration was seeing Run-DMC’s Jam Master Jay live.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Watching Jay DJ for DMC and Run, he says, he remembers thinking, “Oh, they’re using records, but they sound more like they’re a full-fledged band, you know? That was just profound to me, that he was using records and rocking the house, \u003cem>with just records\u003c/em>. And that’s when I immediately knew that’s what I wanted to be.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952222\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1732px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952222\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMM_.japan_.subway.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1732\" height=\"1177\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMM_.japan_.subway.jpg 1732w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMM_.japan_.subway-800x544.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMM_.japan_.subway-1020x693.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMM_.japan_.subway-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMM_.japan_.subway-768x522.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.MMM_.japan_.subway-1536x1044.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1732px) 100vw, 1732px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mix Master Mike on the subway in Japan, 1993. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Alex Aquino)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Not long after Run-DMC brought their Raising Hell tour to a sold-out Oakland Coliseum arena, Apollo and Mike formed an informal DJ crew called Together With Style (not to be confused with the SF graffiti crew of the same name) and held long practice sessions in Apollo’s garage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But with Mike, “we did go hard on scratching and tricks and juggling – which later on turned into turntablism.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Individually, they would take turns on Apollo’s set of turntables. But one day, they decided to work in tandem — a moment that altered the course of DJ history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As Apollo remembers it: “Me and Mike were messing around with the turntables and… we’re like, well, let’s just do something together, since we don’t have to wait our turn (to practice). So I grabbed one turntable, and he grabbed the other turntable and we kind of just started making a beat with two records and one mixer. I got the bass kick and he grabbed the snare and we just started making a beat like, \u003cem>boom, cha, boom boom boom cha, boom boom\u003c/em>, you know? And then we’re just like, ‘Oh, snap, what did we just do? That was crazy.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952218\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 604px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952218\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/10423_136960922731_697132731_2526758_2429020_n.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"604\" height=\"408\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/10423_136960922731_697132731_2526758_2429020_n.jpg 604w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/10423_136960922731_697132731_2526758_2429020_n-160x108.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 604px) 100vw, 604px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Rock Steady Crew DJs in 1991. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Apollo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Apollo and Mike would perfect the two-man routine over a period of several years, “and we just started performing it all over the place at showcases and dances, you know, wherever. People were seeing it and being amazed. We were amazed by it ourselves.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One witness to the early routine was Richard Quitevis, an acquaintance of Mike and Apollo who went by the name DJ Qbert.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Qbert saw it one time and he was amazed by it. He’s like, \u003cem>Oh, what is that?!?\u003c/em>,” Apollo says.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Qbert Enters the Picture\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>DJ Qbert grew up in San Francisco’s Excelsior district. Like Apollo, his first exposure to hip-hop precedes the term itself. He recalls fishing at Pier 39 at the age of 12 and seeing the Fillmore dance crew \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=weKkAF9NdCI\">Demons of the Mind\u003c/a>. “There would be all these poppers; at the time they were called strutters. They would be playing this really fast electro music. And it was like, ‘Look at these robot-like guys in shiny little outfits with these silver hats.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Qbert was fascinated not only with the vibrant dancers, but the sounds. “I was like, ‘Man, this is crazy. I love it, but where are they getting this music from?’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952215\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1371px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952215\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-in-bologna.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1371\" height=\"984\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-in-bologna.jpg 1371w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-in-bologna-800x574.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-in-bologna-1020x732.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-in-bologna-160x115.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-in-bologna-768x551.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1371px) 100vw, 1371px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shortkut, Mix Master Mike and Qbert gettin’ up in Bologna, Italy. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Qbert remembers early attempts at breakdancing with his friends, who fashioned their own makeshift outfits. But it was the DJ scratch – particularly the skills displayed by Mix Master Ice on UTFO’s 1985 single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0KE3-IyLsg8\">Leader of the Pack\u003c/a>” – that really drew his interest. “I just started collecting the music, always collecting the music. And that’s what made me become a DJ.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One day, Qbert was asked to DJ a garage party. “Everybody was about 12, 13, 14, 15, and everybody was breaking in the garage. And we were playing all my records on a big-ass giant box. Like, you open the top and you put the record in, and you just let that play. And the kids were spinning and they couldn’t control themselves. They would spin and they would spin, right into the DJ box, the turntable box. That was my first time being a mobile DJ.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He explains his early attraction to turntables and scratching: “You could manipulate sound by grabbing (the record), moving forward and backward,” he says, imitating a scratch sound. “It was like a toy. A toy that was like a musical instrument. I didn’t even know it was a musical instrument. I was just thinking of it as like, it just sounds crazy. You just pull sound out of the air and move it, like, ‘Oh, what a weird contraption.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Eventually, Q joined a mobile DJ crew called Live Style Productions, and came to the attention of Apollo and Mix Master Mike, who remember going to Balboa High School to see him spin.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Q, we just knew from around the way,” Apollo says. “We would go to different showcases on the weekends and see him perform. And so we knew about Q.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952240\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952240\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/600_us_champ_trophy.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"407\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/600_us_champ_trophy.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/600_us_champ_trophy-160x109.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Invisibl Skratch Piklz with the U.S. Championship trophy. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In 1991, Qbert entered the DMCs, winning the U.S. Championships and advancing all the way to the World Finals in London, where he took 2nd place. Aquino claims Qbert’s technical skills were so advanced, they went over most of the audience’s heads, but Qbert admits he got cocky and didn’t practice before his set: “I was sloppy,” he says. That loss instilled in him the importance of practicing, which he took to with rigorous discipline.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The Turntables Might Wobble\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Hip-hop journalist and author Adisa Banjoko, a friend, recalls once being at Qbert’s house and hearing him scratch the rhythms of Rakim’s verses from Eric B. & Rakim’s “I Ain’t No Joke” – using entirely scratched tones to replicate Rakim’s stanzas. “You gotta record that,” Banjoko told Q, who just shrugged and said, “Nah, I do that all the time.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Around this time, Apollo and Mike were honing their two-man routine and making beats with the intention of forming a rap crew, with them as producers and DJs. After returning from London with his U.S. title, Qbert introduced Mike and Apollo to a rapper who used to hang out at his house named Nim-FHD.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This is where it all comes together,” Apollo says. “Me and Mike were making beats, and we always wanted to find a voice for our beats. And so when Qbert introduced us to this rapper, and when me and Mike heard that guy’s voice, Nim’s voice, we were like, ‘Oh man, that’s the voice for our music.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952232\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 604px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952232\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/n1071373619_171639_1875.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"604\" height=\"416\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/n1071373619_171639_1875.jpg 604w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/n1071373619_171639_1875-160x110.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 604px) 100vw, 604px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The extended crew. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Apollo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Apollo explained his vision to Nim, and they enlisted H2O, another emcee they met through Qbert, who also joined the group. “We told Q, do you want to be a part of the ‘\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sd5gFx001qg\">Peter Piper\u003c/a>’ routine? And he was like, overjoyed. Like, ‘Let’s do it. Absolutely, let’s do it.’ So then we’re like… why don’t we become the DJs for this group that will be the first rap group with three DJs and two rappers? And we’ll do all the beats and scratching.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They christened themselves FM2O – an acronym for “Furious Minds To Observe” — the first iteration of what would become the Invisibl Skratch Piklz. As Mike says, “it was definitely a meant-to-be moment, when I hooked up with Q.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The group was managed by Aquino, who had left Unlimited Sounds and started throwing parties while trying to establish an independent hip-hop label, Ace Beat. While working on a demo tape, FM2O played local venues and music industry showcases like the Gavin Convention and New Music Seminar. In 1992, they appeared at the Omni in Oakland on a bill with Banjoko’s crew, Freedom T.R.O.O.P. 187, plus Organized Konfusion, Gangstarr and headliner Body Count. Epic as that lineup is, Apollo, Mike and Qbert’s orchestrated turntable segment during FM2O’s set was the absolute showstopper.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>FM2O’s music was slightly ahead of its time; in the early ’90s, “alternative hip-hop” hadn’t yet established itself in the mainstream. No hip-hop group had ever featured three DJs, all of them scratch fanatics.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While Aquino tried unsuccessfully to secure FM2O a label deal, the DJs made moves in the battle scene.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952242\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952242\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_MMM_jacket_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2387.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_MMM_jacket_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2387.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_MMM_jacket_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2387-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_MMM_jacket_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2387-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_MMM_jacket_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2387-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_MMM_jacket_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2387-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_MMM_jacket_PhotobyJeffStrawBranding-2387-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mix Master Mike with his DMC Legend jacket at The Midway in San Francisco, 2023. \u003ccite>(Jeff Straw)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The First Major World Titles\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Qbert’s second-place 1991 DMC finish earned him props from Clark Kent, a well-respected New York DJ and producer of the New Music Seminar DJ Battle for World Supremacy. Kent asked Qbert to judge the 1992 battle alongside NYC heavyweights like EPMD’s DJ Scratch and Gangstarr’s DJ Premier. Mix Master Mike, meanwhile, entered as a contestant – and ended up winning the battle. (Ironically, Aquino says, instead of practicing before his routine, Mike had stayed up all night.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZLRprNA_GSk\">Video of the battle\u003c/a> – during which Mike performs eight different routines, besting Japan’s DJ Honda in the final showdown before taking on defending champ Supreme in a challenge match – confirms he was on a mission to crush all competition. He doubles up Word of Mouth’s “King Kut” with blinding speed and finesse, blends Schooly D and Flavor Flav phrases to dis “sucker DJs,” slows down the records to juggle entirely new beats, deconstructs the wax into a series of melodic tones, and maintains a sense of rhythmic mastery that’s chaotic and jarring but never veers out of control. Boisterous shouts from the crowd testify to Mike’s determined brilliance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Billed as the Rocksteady DJs (with the blessing of Bronx B-boy legend Crazy Legs, from the Rock Steady Crew), Qbert, Mike and Apollo won the DMCs that same year with the “Peter Piper” routine. The following year, with DJ Apollo unavailable while touring as the Souls of Mischief’s DJ, Mike and Qbert, billed as the Dream Team, again won the DMC World Championship. Mike still remembers the anticipation and energy that went into the preparations for the battle, along with the ginseng they imbibed before their set “like Chinese martial arts masters.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952237\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/l_f99accf3c766cef703abeb72c042e21e.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"397\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952237\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/l_f99accf3c766cef703abeb72c042e21e.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/l_f99accf3c766cef703abeb72c042e21e-160x106.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mix Master Mike, pictured at center: ‘It was a discovery. Right? ‘Oh, shit. We could take this and flip it anyway we want to,’ you know?’ \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>These victories were culturally significant. Not only had no West Coast DJ ever been crowned a World Champion before, but no Filipino DJ had ever placed that high in a major competition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To explain just how significant, it’s necessary to understand the evolution of the DJ artform.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The first development, playing “break” sections of records (known as breakbeats), was initially a clumsy needle-drop technique originated by hip-hop pioneer Kool Herc. Grandmaster Flash refined the DJ vocabulary with backspinning, cueing, cutting, punch phrasing, quick-mixing and reading the record like a clock. Grand Wizzard Theodore developed the basic scratch. Steve Dee invented the beat-juggle. But no DJ was doing synchronized team routines that reimagined the turntables as individual instruments prior to the Rocksteady DJs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That was an awesome thing,” Mike says. “It just started from a thought. The collective team, it was like it was a unit. We all had the same aspirations and goals of doing things people had never, ever seen or heard before. And it just spawned this whole movement. And it’s just something that we love to do. It was a discovery. Right? ‘Oh, shit. We could take this and flip it anyway we want to,’ you know? And that was the beauty of it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952220\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952220\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.jackets-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1715\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.jackets-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.jackets-800x536.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.jackets-1020x683.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.jackets-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.jackets-768x515.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.jackets-1536x1029.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.jackets-2048x1372.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.jackets-1920x1286.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sporting championship jackets in Tokyo, 1993. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Alex Aquino)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Their succession of three major titles in two years elevated the DJ artform and raised the bar for battles. Teams of three or more DJs would soon proliferate throughout the DJ universe, and battle routines became more well-rounded, with emphasis on scratching, beat-juggling, and musicality or rhythmic coherence, as well as sheer technical ability.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It also led to a backlash of sorts: Mike confirms that after dominating for three years in a row, his crew was politely asked to retire from the DMC competition. He characterizes the request as a “giving other people a chance to win type deal.” But to him and his other Bay Area battlers, “We felt like it wasn’t fair to us because we got a lot in the tank. Let’s go. Keep going. See how far we can go… we were ready to defend the next year. But unfortunately they wanted to make us judges.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As it turned out, stepping away from the competitive battle scene proved to be a blessing in disguise. “After we stopped battling,” Mike says, “I was like, okay, what’s next? We’re going to make records now. I’m gonna become a full fledged artist, you know? I don’t want to be this DJ dude. I don’t want to be a DJ guy that’s playing other people’s records standing up there. We’ve done that already. I’m going to get in the studio and be a producer, and I’m going to make music out of this whole thing, like, springboard into making original compositions. And so that’s what I’m doing, to this day.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952238\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1430px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952238\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-in-Hawaii-1996.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1430\" height=\"1039\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-in-Hawaii-1996.jpg 1430w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-in-Hawaii-1996-800x581.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-in-Hawaii-1996-1020x741.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-in-Hawaii-1996-160x116.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP-in-Hawaii-1996-768x558.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1430px) 100vw, 1430px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Invisibl Skratch Piklz in Hawaii, 1996. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But first, the crew needed a new name. During their time DJing for FM2O, the three DJs were collectively known as Shadow of the Prophet, or simply, The Shadow. A chance encounter with an early-career DJ Shadow – who apologetically offered to change his name – led to Qbert graciously telling him that he could keep the name “Shadow,” and that he’d change his group’s name instead. “Rocksteady DJs” and “The Dream Team” were one-offs, for the most part. They needed something catchy that also reflected who they were.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One day it came to them. As Qbert recounts, “We was on one, and we were laughing and laughing. And I think Mix Master Mike said, “Why don’t we be called the Invisible Pickles? We were just cracking up and we were thinking about, you know, an invisible pickle.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The next day, Qbert got a call from his pal Lou Quintanilla, a.k.a. DJ Disk. “And he said, ‘How about Invisible Scratch Pickles?’ I was like, that kind of sounds dope.” (Though it may sound abstract, the name is rooted in a concrete concept: the turntable as an “invisible instrument” that could be almost any instrument – drums, guitar, vocals, anything.) The crew’s offbeat sense of humor reflected in their new name had long been evident; in 1992, they released \u003cem>Battle Breaks\u003c/em>, one of the first DJ tool records specifically designed for scratching, officially credited to the Psychedelic Scratch Bastards on the Dirt Style label. In later years they would put out various releases under an affiliate record label that they named Galactic Butt Hair.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before settling on the new name, though, they ran it by a younger DJ who was asked to join the crew — Jonathan Cruz, a.k.a. DJ Shortkut.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952228\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1759px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952228\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.shortkut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1759\" height=\"1193\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.shortkut.jpg 1759w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.shortkut-800x543.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.shortkut-1020x692.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.shortkut-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.shortkut-768x521.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.shortkut-1536x1042.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1759px) 100vw, 1759px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shortkut. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Alex Aquino)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Electro and the Art of the Quick Mix\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Growing up in Daly City, Shortkut caught the DJ bug thanks to a Filipino mobile crew who played his 6th grade dance. He started DJing at age 13, after the local Filipino sound system culture had cycled through disco, metal, and New Wave, before arriving at hip-hop, freestyle and Miami bass.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of Shortkut’s first exposures to a DJ battle took place in a large hall.“There would be about four to six sound systems separately set up in the one room with their own individual sound systems. Each group would get about like 20 minutes to do their thing, and then at the end of the night, whoever won. The word got out that group won, and then that’s who everyone wanted to book for school dances or birthday parties.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Shortkut joined a crew called Just 2 Hype, which played freestyle, Miami bass and 808-laced Mantronix singles. “That’s why I think the Bay Area is specifically more scratch-DJ based,” he says, “because everyone scratched to fast beats, all the classic electro stuff.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He also worked on perfecting the art of the quick-mix, changing up the record every four or eight bars. But records like DJ Jazzy Jeff’s “Live At Union Square” drew him into the world of scratch-mixing. “When I first started scratching, I just listened to records, basically. All the early records I used to buy, I would just try to copy what I heard on record.”\u003cbr>\nIn the late ’80s and early ’90s, he says, “I really got into embracing hip-hop” – catching up with records that hadn’t been hugely popular in the Filipino scene, and becoming further enthralled with scratching and beat-juggling. “That’s when I was first hearing about Qbert and Apollo and Mix Master Mike,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952223\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1742px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan1_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1742\" height=\"1190\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952223\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan1_.jpg 1742w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan1_-800x546.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan1_-1020x697.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan1_-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan1_-768x525.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan1_-1536x1049.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1742px) 100vw, 1742px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">First trip to Japan, 1993. At far left is B-boy and dancer Richard Colón, a.k.a. Crazy Legs from the Rock Steady Crew. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Alex Aquino)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Back then, Apollo was the big name, being from Unlimited Sounds. “He was the party rocker. But he was kind of the B-boy out of all the Filipino guys I knew.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As he attempted to build his DJ skills, Shortkut remembers listening to cassette tapes of Qbert scratching and mixing. Initially, he had only basic equipment, and used belt-driven turntables. “I got better once I got to direct-drives because I already knew how to handle it and have a certain feel to it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Qbert winning the U.S. DMC Championship in 1991 was huge, he says. “We didn’t really have any role models, as a Filipino kid.” He took the win as validation – and inspiration.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I lived about five minutes from Q’s house,” he says. “I used to go to Q’s house with the guy who taught me how to DJ. We both cold-called Q because we knew he was the one who had all the battle videos. So we would go to his house and dub the videos and while they were dubbing, me and Q would scratch.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During this time, Shortkut says, Mike had moved to Sacramento, and Apollo was DJing for Branford Marsalis, “so I would hook up with Q and Disk a lot.” Q used to bring Shortkut and Disk along when he opened up shows in the Bay – affording the younger DJs valuable stage experience. Shortkut, Mike, and Q eventually formed a crew briefly called the Turntable Dragons, pre-ISP. Then, in 1993, Shortkut, Mike, and Q played a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13935467/the-bomb-magazine-label-san-francisco-turntablism-djs\">Bomb Hip-Hop\u003c/a> Party – possibly the first time they had been billed as the Invisibl Skratch Piklz.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952239\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 250px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952239\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/invisblskratchp_002-h.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"250\" height=\"250\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The five-man crew. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>‘Everyone That Worked There Was Filipino’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Dave Paul, publisher of \u003cem>Bomb Hip Hop Magazine\u003c/em>, coincidentally also began as a mobile DJ in 1984 with a crew called Midnight Connections. He tells a funny story about working an after-school job for Chevron. “I wasn’t that great. So they moved me from, like, the main Chevron on Geary Street over to one on California Street. And everyone that worked there was Filipino. Turned out everyone that worked there was also a DJ.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Paul knew of Apollo from Unlimited Sounds, and had seen Qbert perform a famous “Mary Had A Little Lamb” routine during a San Jose battle around 1989 or 1990. “That really got his name out,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During the annual Gavin Convention in San Francisco, Bomb Hip Hop magazine would present live performance showcases. Paul booked the Piklz on multiple occasions, beginning in 1992, when they were still called the Rocksteady DJs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>According to Paul, the vibe of those early performances “was always sort of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kDLzGtQmMyw\">don’t-give-a-fuck style\u003c/a>. Like, things didn’t have to be clean. They were just really raw. And it was just ill. They were doing stuff that no one else was doing at the time.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_10345320\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-10345320\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2015/01/QBertMain.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2015/01/QBertMain.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2015/01/QBertMain-400x225.jpg 400w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">DJ QBert. \u003ccite>(Thud Rumble)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>After releasing a now-legendary compilation tape that featured Qbert along with a Canadian MC named Madchild, as well as local underground artists like Homeless Derelix, Blackalicious, Bored Stiff, and Mystik Journeymen, Bomb Hip Hop became a record label in 1995 with the release of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13937489/best-bay-area-turntablism-scratch-dj-albums\">\u003cem>Return of the DJ Vol. 1\u003c/em>\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That record essentially started the movement of turntablism as a musical genre. The Skratch Piklz (at that time, Qbert, Shortkut and Disk) were featured on “Invasion of the Octopus People,” while Mix Master Mike contributed his first official solo production, “Terrorwrist.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Return of the DJ \u003c/em>evolved into a compilation series spanning multiple volumes, and inspired numerous others, like Om Records’ \u003cem>Deep Concentration\u003c/em> and Ubiquity’s \u003cem>Audio Alchemy\u003c/em> compilations. Asphodel, an alternative label known for ultra-underground somnolent, ambient, droney electronic music, signed the Skratch Piklz to a deal, which resulted in 1996’s single “Invisibl Skratch Piklz vs. Da Klamz Uv Deth,” which featured Qbert, Shortkut, and Mix Master Mike.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952246\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1938px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952246\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ezgif-3-ae00e595ca.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1938\" height=\"1882\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ezgif-3-ae00e595ca.jpg 1938w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ezgif-3-ae00e595ca-800x777.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ezgif-3-ae00e595ca-1020x991.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ezgif-3-ae00e595ca-160x155.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ezgif-3-ae00e595ca-768x746.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ezgif-3-ae00e595ca-1536x1492.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ezgif-3-ae00e595ca-1920x1865.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1938px) 100vw, 1938px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">‘Invisibl Skratch Piklz vs. Da Clamz Uv Deth,’ 1997. \u003ccite>(Asphodel Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“A very strange thing about that (single) is, I had just invented scratch music,” Qbert says. “Which is this thing where every sound is scratched. Drums are scratched, the hi-hats are scratched, the snare and vocals are scratched, the chords, every single thing is scratched! No matter what is in there. So that was tracked out — like, every track was off the turntables, making a complete scratch song.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Turntablism spread quickly through San Francisco’s progressive club scene in the mid-’90s. Mark Herlihy’s art/performance collective Future Primitive established itself as an avant garde music label with a live recording of Shortkut and Cut Chemist at Cat’s Alley, on Folsom Street. An outer Tenderloin hole in the wall, Deco, became a headquarters for unfiltered, ultra-creative DJ expression in its basement, via “Many Styles” nights curated by Apollo. Qbert was part of the groundbreaking alternative hip-hop group Dr. Octagon along with producer Dan the Automator and MC Kool Keith, who recorded an indie classic that got re-released nationally by Dreamworks. To this day, Qbert’s scratch solo on Dr. Octagon’s “Earth People” stands out as a particular flashpoint, the turntable equivalent, perhaps, of the guitar solos on “Hotel California” or “Comfortably Numb.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Needless to say, it’s not an empty boast when Mix Master Mike says he and the Skratch Piklz “pretty much created this genre of music.” No one was doing it before them, and many followed in their footsteps. Locally, the Bullet Proof Scratch Hamsters (aka the Space Travelers), Supernatural Turntable Artists, and the Oakland Faders all scratched and juggled. Live bands incorporating turntablists included Live Human (DJ Quest) and Soulstice (Mei-Lwun). New York’s X-Ecutioners were probably ISP’s closest counterparts nationally, having formed in 1989. But despite their turntable innovations, even they weren’t performing or recording as a \u003cem>band\u003c/em> until after the Skratch Piklz.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952245\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952245\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_ISP_11_JeffStraw-2144.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_ISP_11_JeffStraw-2144.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_ISP_11_JeffStraw-2144-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_ISP_11_JeffStraw-2144-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_ISP_11_JeffStraw-2144-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_ISP_11_JeffStraw-2144-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/AAA_Q_ISP_11_JeffStraw-2144-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Invisibl Skratch Piklz at the DMC World DJ Finals at The Midway in San Francisco, Calif., on Nov. 3, 2023. \u003ccite>(Jeff Straw)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Back when they were known as the X-Men, the X-Ecutioners faced off against the Piklz in a landmark 1996 battle in New York’s Manhattan Center – a contest so epic, it’s listed among \u003cem>Mixmag\u003c/em>’s \u003ca href=\"https://mixmag.net/feature/the-10-best-dj-scratch-battles-of-all-time\">Top 10 DJ Scratch Battles of All Time\u003c/a>. X-Ecutioners member and DJ historian Rob Swift says Qbert first came on his radar in 1991, when he beat X-Ecutioners founder Steve Dee to win the US DMC Finals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We thought he was Hawaiian,” Swift says, because Qbert appeared to be wearing a lei in the battle video. “We didn’t know that he was this Filipino DJ that came out of this Filipino community of DJs in the Bay Area. We didn’t know that there \u003cem>were\u003c/em> DJs out there.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Swift later entered the 1991 New Music Seminar battle, where Qbert was a judge; the two exchanged numbers and began calling each other and exchanging videos regularly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When rappers began increasingly excluding the DJ throughout the ’90s, he says he and Qbert would discuss what to do about it., “We would both be like, ‘You’ve got these rappers (not respecting the DJ). Fuck them, and we’re going to create our own DJ scene. If the music industry is going to turn their backs on DJing, we need to figure out a way to just create our own scene.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“And,” he adds, “that’s exactly what we did.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952225\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1759px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952225\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Lebanon.trophy.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1759\" height=\"1166\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Lebanon.trophy.jpg 1759w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Lebanon.trophy-800x530.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Lebanon.trophy-1020x676.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Lebanon.trophy-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Lebanon.trophy-768x509.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Lebanon.trophy-1536x1018.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1759px) 100vw, 1759px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Invisibl Skratch Piklz in Lebanon. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Alex Aquino)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Enter the ITF — and D-Styles\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>When the Pilkz battled the X-Ecutioners, it was as much about gaining respect for turntable culture as it was about individual bragging rights. Though the court of public opinion is still split on who won, the battle put a spotlight on both crews. As Swift says, “We started strategizing ways to book our own tours and create all-DJ competitions (like) the ITF, the International Turntablist Federation,” who organized the historic battle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Founded by Alex Aquino with help from Shortkut, the ITF was established in 1995 and stayed active until 2005. It was intended as a cultural organization, and as somewhat of a critique of the DMC, which had become the only major DJ competition, following the demise of the New Music Seminar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Without the DMC,” Aquino says, “we wouldn’t have this world stage for the guys to be on. But after Q lost that first battle, we were like, something has to change.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Specifically, the criteria. “And so, we were like, let’s do our own battle. Let’s have real turntablists and DJs judge it, like a New Music Seminar, but instead of just the one-on-one battle, the advancement class for the belt, let’s do a scratching category. Let’s do a beat-juggling category. And let’s do a team category. And that’s how we started out.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952211\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1366px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952211\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.magazine.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1366\" height=\"1834\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.magazine.jpg 1366w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.magazine-800x1074.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.magazine-1020x1369.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.magazine-160x215.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.magazine-768x1031.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.japan_.magazine-1144x1536.jpg 1144w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1366px) 100vw, 1366px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">In a Japanese magazine, date unknown. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>DJs like Vin Roc, Babu, Craze, and A-Trak all won ITF titles, as did teams like the Allies and Beat Junkies. The ITF succeeded in giving turntablists a visible platform to showcase their skills and in further popularizing the artform in the U.S. and internationally. (In 1999, the DMC would add a team category, and the organization currently rotates additional categories, including Scratch, Portablist, and Beat Juggling.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After \u003cem>Return of the DJ\u003c/em>’s “Octopus People,” with Apollo unavailable and Mix Master Mike pursuing a solo career, the Skratch Piklz needed new blood. For the next few years, ISP membership became somewhat fluid, swelling and contracting as new members joined for a while, before going off to do other projects. DJ Disk, DJ Flare, Canadian teenage prodigy A-Trak, and former Thud Rumble label manager Ritche Desuasido, a.k.a. Yogafrog, were all ISP members at one time or another, along with Shortkut.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1996, Beat Junkies member Dave Cuasito, a.k.a. D-Styles, joined the Piklz and became a linchpin for the group; Aquino calls him “the hidden master.” Though not as flashy or famous as Qbert, he’s well-respected in turntablist circles and has helped focus the Pilkz on compositional elements in their music while also being able to scratch, cut and juggle at a high level.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Born in the Philippines, D-Styles grew up in San Jose. Like the other Piklz, he was exposed to hip-hop through breaking and its accompanying soundtrack. “I would hear the songs that they were playing, but then they would scratch certain words and certain parts of that song. And so I was always curious how they were doing it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952229\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1759px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952229\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.qbert_.dst_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1759\" height=\"1168\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.qbert_.dst_.jpg 1759w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.qbert_.dst_-800x531.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.qbert_.dst_-1020x677.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.qbert_.dst_-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.qbert_.dst_-768x510.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.qbert_.dst_-1536x1020.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1759px) 100vw, 1759px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Grandmaster DXT and Qbert. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Alex Aquino)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>His answer came when he saw Grandmixer DST (now known as DXT)’s scratch segment on Herbie Hancock’s “Rockit.” After getting a basic Realistic mixer for his birthday, he, too, joined a mobile DJ crew (Sound City), who pooled their equipment like so many others – and spent their meager proceeds on post-gig Denny’s meals. After taking part in typical mobile battles with crews exchanging 20-minute sets, he discovered there was a battle specifically for scratch DJs, and competed in the 1993 DMC.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1996, he moved to San Francisco to attend college, but what he really wanted was to pursue music. He was already familiar with Mike, Qbert and Shortkut from the battle scene, and from hanging out on Tuesday night at Deco, a small speakeasy-style jazz bar with open turntables in the basement.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“One strange night, I got a phone call on my answering machine and it was Yogafrog and Q, and they were like, ‘Hey, man’ – I don’t know if they were drunk or what – but they were like, ‘we need to talk, man. We think we should all come together and form a crew.” They met up and talked, and soon after, he was asked to officially join the group.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>D-Styles stoic demeanor compliments the other Piklz, yet beneath his focused concentration lies a punk rock attitude that aligns with Qbert’s philosophy that the only rule is there are no rules. Likewise, his turntable-composition approach balances the others’ battle-DJ backgrounds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952235\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 636px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952235\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/SK-A-TRAK-1997-at-Qs.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"636\" height=\"474\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/SK-A-TRAK-1997-at-Qs.png 636w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/SK-A-TRAK-1997-at-Qs-160x119.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 636px) 100vw, 636px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shortkut and A-Trak at Qbert’s place, 1997. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Shortkut)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“As far as a turntable composer, I feel like we definitely embrace the more musical side of it, and less technical,” he says. “For the battle DJs, they really try to spray like a Uzi, you know what I mean? And just get off a bunch of power stuff and try to wow the the crowd and the judges. For music, it’s more about the long-term thing. We want to make music that’s timeless. And it’s not based off of a five-minute routine.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With the core Piklz now set with Qbert, Shortkut and D-Styles, Mix Master Mike – who remained affiliated with the crew – says, “I felt like we had the perfect stew. Everyone had their own style, their own identity.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Around this time, Mike began putting together his first solo album, \u003cem>Anti-Theft Device\u003c/em>, which he envisioned as “not an underground album (but) a worldwide release.” He imagined himself as a sonic transducer, attracting and reshaping matter into different forms. He drew on inspirations like Led Zeppelin’s John Bonham, early Public Enemy, Thelonious Monk, Rage Against the Machine and Ennio Morricone. He contemplated the subtlety of silence, of ghost notes and pregnant pauses. And then he went out and made an album with booming, deafening drums and thumping bass on nearly every track.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I focused on the drums first,” Mike says. “I wanted to make sure those drums were hitting really hard.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952249\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952249\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/MMM.antitheft.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1000\" height=\"984\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/MMM.antitheft.jpg 1000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/MMM.antitheft-800x787.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/MMM.antitheft-160x157.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/MMM.antitheft-768x756.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1000px) 100vw, 1000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mix Master Mike’s ‘Anti-Theft Device,’ 1998. \u003ccite>(Asphodel Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>On \u003cem>Anti-Theft Device\u003c/em>, the found sounds and quirky vocal samples (“NASA maintains this is \u003cem>not\u003c/em> Colonel Blaha’s voice”) often present on DJ mix tapes resurface often, along with boom-bap beats and scratched phrases, instruments and sound effects. There are elements of intoxicated or altered reality, and bug-out moments that suggest turboized vocoders spouting underwater propellers, or seemingly random musical sample generators harnessing infinite libraries of sound, from raga to reggae to rock.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“At the end of the day,” Mike says, “it’s about spearheading the evolution of the battle DJ – as artist, composer, tastemaker.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While Mike was the first Pikl to make a solo album, Qbert crafted an especially ambitious concept for his first official solo debut. As Mike tells it, he had some extra tracks left over, which he gave to Qbert. “And he fuckin’, just like, went crazy on those beats. And then, yeah. It became \u003cem>Wave Twisters\u003c/em>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952250\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952250\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/R-16932444-1610670653-3566.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/R-16932444-1610670653-3566.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/R-16932444-1610670653-3566-160x160.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">DJ Qbert’s ‘Wave Twisters,’ 1998. The album spawned a cult-classic 2001 animated film of the same name. \u003ccite>(Galactic Butt Hair Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Wave Twisters, the Beasties and Beyond\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Wave Twisters\u003c/em> holds the rare distinction of being a soundtrack around which a movie was later designed. The album received extremely positive reviews, making many music critics’ year-end lists. To this day, it’s regarded as one of the best turntablism albums of all time. Tracks like “Destination: Quasar 16.33.45.78” took ISP battle routines to new levels, imagining a battle in inner space between a heroic dental hygienist and the minions of a villain named Lord Ook. The track revels in sci-fi tropes, with vocal cues like “Attention, starship!” coloring the scratched, transformed and cut-up audio landscape.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>According to Qbert, \u003cem>Wave Twisters\u003c/em> was willed into existence. “I intentionally foresaw it because in the back of my head, I was like, I’m gonna make every song like a storyline. It’s going to be a thing. And somebody’s going to animate this. And then out of nowhere, the universe made it all work.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Meanwhile, Mix Master Mike was setting his own intentions – around becoming a member of the Beastie Boys. A longtime fan of their music, he says, “even before I met them, I always thought I was the fourth Beastie, and I was the missing element.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After meeting the Beasties’ MCA during a Rock Steady Crew anniversary in 1996, Mike took an unusual route to make his dreams come true. “I went up to MCA and introduced myself,” he recalls. “He knew who I was through all the competitions and the battles, and we exchanged phone numbers and went back home. And late at night, I would just leave these scratch messages on his answering machine. Two, three in the morning, just leaving these scratches on his machine, hoping that these transmissions would penetrate. Fortunately they did. \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#mix-master-mike-becomes-the-beastie-boys-dj\">And the rest is history\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952251\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952251\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/Beasties.MixMasterMike.2004-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1611\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/Beasties.MixMasterMike.2004-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/Beasties.MixMasterMike.2004-800x503.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/Beasties.MixMasterMike.2004-1020x642.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/Beasties.MixMasterMike.2004-160x101.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/Beasties.MixMasterMike.2004-768x483.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/Beasties.MixMasterMike.2004-1536x967.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/Beasties.MixMasterMike.2004-2048x1289.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/Beasties.MixMasterMike.2004-1920x1208.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(L-R) Mixmaster Mike, Mike Diamond, Adam ‘MCA’ Yauch, and Adam ‘Ad-Rock’ Horovitz of The Beastie Boys attend the MTV Europe Music Awards 2004 at Tor di Valle Nov. 18, 2004 in Rome, Italy. \u003ccite>(Bruno Vincent/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Mike joined the Beasties in time for 1998’s \u003cem>Hello Nasty\u003c/em> album, remaining part of the group until MCA died of cancer in 2012 and the Beastie Boys disbanded. “So at the end of the day,” Mike says, “it’s all about power of intention, right? And my intention was to get in the band or work with the band.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the ’90s drew to a close, the Piklz weren’t quite done. They produced Skratchcon 2000, a scratching convention, bringing together pioneering masters and acolytes of DJ scratch music. “That was our old manager, Yogafrog,” Qbert says. “His idea to put on a convention called Scratchcon, that was a genius idea of his, and we should do a Part II. We got all the best, most popular scratchers on the planet to come through. It was huge. Steve Dee was there, even Aladdin, all the X-Ecutioners, everybody. It was amazing.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13952252\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13952252\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Garage.Group_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1500\" height=\"983\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Garage.Group_.jpg 1500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Garage.Group_-800x524.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Garage.Group_-1020x668.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Garage.Group_-160x105.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/02/ISP.Garage.Group_-768x503.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1500px) 100vw, 1500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(L–R) Shortkut, D-Styles, Mix Master Mike, Yogafrog and QBert in QBert’s garage in the Excelsior District of San Francisco, 1998. \u003ccite>(Liz Hafalia /The San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images))\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Skratchcon drew fans from all over the country, in addition to current and historic scratch DJs,for live showcases and demonstrations like DJ Radar’s introduction of scratch notation. The convention culminated with a live concert at the Fillmore Auditorium, billed at the time as the ISP’s last official performance. To this day, it stands as one of the highpoints of a decade overflowing with revolutionary developments in hip-hop DJ culture, which saw the Invisibl Skratch Piklz make history and become iconic representatives of turntablism.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As Mix Master Mike says, “There is no ceiling to this. No, it’s whatever you think about is whatever you create and whatever you can apply.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cp>There aren’t many Frisco rappers with as much flavor as \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/cellski415/?hl=en\">Cellski\u003c/a>. In 1994, the streetwise lyricist and producer helped give rise to mobb music in the 415 with his debut studio album, \u003ci>Mr. Predicter\u003c/i>. Now, for its 30th anniversary, he’ll perform the breakout LP with a live band on \u003ca href=\"https://www.brickandmortarmusic.com/event-details/13418813/cellski/\">Feb. 22 in San Francisco\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At age 20, Cellski produced and engineered \u003cem>Mr. Predicter\u003c/em> himself, with the assistance of his friends Tomie Witherspoon (a.k.a. the famed rap engineer T.C., who will DJ the event) and Don Marsh, a.k.a. The Enhancer. After recording its 17 tracks, he released it on his own label, Inner City Records.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13922141']As Cellski’s first ever show with a live band, the set will add songs from his 1998 release, \u003cem>Canadian Bacon and Hash Browns\u003c/em>, and will bring out San Francisco legends from \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13923766/rbl-posse-a-lesson-to-be-learned-album-cover\">RBL Posse\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For his backing band, the emcee has teamed up with \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/topchefsband?igsh=MzRlODBiNWFlZA%3D%3D\">The Top Chefs\u003c/a>, a San Francisco band made up of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13910221/family-not-a-group-san-francisco-rap\">Family Not A Group\u003c/a> members who’ve previously worked with rappers like SF’s Afterthought and Vallejo’s LaRussell.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=reRDnI-JIsY&list=OLAK5uy_kYuBvBEuw5PMn8cxzmTV4sOnHNwbu1GXI&index=5\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While Cellski’s work has been vastly underappreciated — part of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11957970/the-bays-overlooked-contributions-to-hip-hop\">a larger wave of historically overlooked San Francisco rappers \u003c/a>— he says he’s more concerned with assisting his community and being a pioneer in his own lane than chasing after fame.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m independent,” he says proudly. “At 18 [years old], I went to \u003ca href=\"http://www.cityhallrecords.com/\">City Hall\u003c/a> and started my own label. Back then, you could sell $20,000 on your own and make the type of money these record labels wanted to sign you for. It didn’t make sense to sign if you could make money yourself.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13951122']Cellski’s cultivated a loyal fanbase beyond music as well. In recent years, he launched a streetwear brand and boutique, \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/chemicalbabycbc/?hl=en\">Chemical Baby Clothing\u003c/a>, as well as a “mash burger” pop-up, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13922141/cellskis-big-mafi-burgers-come-with-a-side-of-sf-rap-history\">Big Mafi Burgers\u003c/a>, which often shows up at the parking lot of Levi’s Stadium before 49ers games or on a weekend afternoon in Golden Gate Park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Whether you’re a Bay Area hip-hop OG or a newcomer, a live set from Mr. Predicter himself is a rare way to witness \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13895586/a-salute-to-san-francisco-rap\">San Francisco’s laudable rap legacy\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/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\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Cellski performs his album ‘Mr. Predicter’ with a live band on Thursday, Feb. 22, at the Brick & Mortar Music Hall in San Francisco. \u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"https://www.brickandmortarmusic.com/event-details/13418813/cellski/\">\u003ci>Ticket info and details here.\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>There aren’t many Frisco rappers with as much flavor as \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/cellski415/?hl=en\">Cellski\u003c/a>. In 1994, the streetwise lyricist and producer helped give rise to mobb music in the 415 with his debut studio album, \u003ci>Mr. Predicter\u003c/i>. Now, for its 30th anniversary, he’ll perform the breakout LP with a live band on \u003ca href=\"https://www.brickandmortarmusic.com/event-details/13418813/cellski/\">Feb. 22 in San Francisco\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At age 20, Cellski produced and engineered \u003cem>Mr. Predicter\u003c/em> himself, with the assistance of his friends Tomie Witherspoon (a.k.a. the famed rap engineer T.C., who will DJ the event) and Don Marsh, a.k.a. The Enhancer. After recording its 17 tracks, he released it on his own label, Inner City Records.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>As Cellski’s first ever show with a live band, the set will add songs from his 1998 release, \u003cem>Canadian Bacon and Hash Browns\u003c/em>, and will bring out San Francisco legends from \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13923766/rbl-posse-a-lesson-to-be-learned-album-cover\">RBL Posse\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For his backing band, the emcee has teamed up with \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/topchefsband?igsh=MzRlODBiNWFlZA%3D%3D\">The Top Chefs\u003c/a>, a San Francisco band made up of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13910221/family-not-a-group-san-francisco-rap\">Family Not A Group\u003c/a> members who’ve previously worked with rappers like SF’s Afterthought and Vallejo’s LaRussell.\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/reRDnI-JIsY'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/reRDnI-JIsY'\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> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While Cellski’s work has been vastly underappreciated — part of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11957970/the-bays-overlooked-contributions-to-hip-hop\">a larger wave of historically overlooked San Francisco rappers \u003c/a>— he says he’s more concerned with assisting his community and being a pioneer in his own lane than chasing after fame.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m independent,” he says proudly. “At 18 [years old], I went to \u003ca href=\"http://www.cityhallrecords.com/\">City Hall\u003c/a> and started my own label. Back then, you could sell $20,000 on your own and make the type of money these record labels wanted to sign you for. It didn’t make sense to sign if you could make money yourself.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Cellski’s cultivated a loyal fanbase beyond music as well. In recent years, he launched a streetwear brand and boutique, \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/chemicalbabycbc/?hl=en\">Chemical Baby Clothing\u003c/a>, as well as a “mash burger” pop-up, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13922141/cellskis-big-mafi-burgers-come-with-a-side-of-sf-rap-history\">Big Mafi Burgers\u003c/a>, which often shows up at the parking lot of Levi’s Stadium before 49ers games or on a weekend afternoon in Golden Gate Park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Whether you’re a Bay Area hip-hop OG or a newcomer, a live set from Mr. Predicter himself is a rare way to witness \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13895586/a-salute-to-san-francisco-rap\">San Francisco’s laudable rap legacy\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/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\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Cellski performs his album ‘Mr. Predicter’ with a live band on Thursday, Feb. 22, at the Brick & Mortar Music Hall in San Francisco. \u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"https://www.brickandmortarmusic.com/event-details/13418813/cellski/\">\u003ci>Ticket info and details here.\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "d-ray-bay-area-hip-hop-photographer",
"title": "D-Ray’s Photo Archive is West Coast Hip-Hop Gold",
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"content": "\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 story series on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>D-Ray’s photographs are full of bright, lively images of MCs you know by just one name. Kendrick. Jeezy. Even nicknames: Weezy. Anytime she and Drake cross paths, they take selfies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The late Nipsey Hussle not only knew \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/isawdray/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">D-Ray\u003c/a>, he would request that she be present at his Bay Area events. She served as official photographer for the late great Mac Dre’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13930686/thizz-entertainment-dj-mix-mac-dre-vallejo-rap-hyphy\">Thizz Nation\u003c/a> label. And her work documenting Bay Area hip-hop culture has been featured in many documentaries and print media, including \u003ca href=\"https://issuu.com/ozonemag\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">\u003cem>Ozone\u003c/em>\u003c/a> magazine, where she worked as West Coast editor, and \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://issuu.com/mrshowcase2022\">Showcase\u003c/a>\u003c/em> magazine.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13931800\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13931800\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Hus-Jack.jpg\" alt=\"A man in a durag and football jersey holds his arms spread, with friends in the background\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Hus-Jack.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Hus-Jack-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Hus-Jack-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Hus-Jack-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Hus-Jack-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Hus-Jack-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Jacka, who D-Ray photographed abundantly. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>This week, a special corner of D-Ray’s extensive archive — her images of the iconic late Pittsburg rapper The Jacka — go on public display. They’ll be surrounded by drawings, recordings, and other forms of art at \u003ca href=\"https://www.tickettailor.com/events/dreammoviellc/1101191\">The Jacka Art Experience\u003c/a>, running Jan. 31–Feb. 3 at The Loom in Oakland. [aside postid='arts_13951091']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>D-Ray’s photography documented the life of not only the artist known as The Jacka, but the human being, Shaheed Akbar, who was murdered on Feb. 2, 2015. D-Ray was there for his vibrant life as well as his memorial. She was also present for E-40 and Keak da Sneak’s “Tell Me When To Go” video shoot, Mistah F.A.B.’s rise to fame, turf dance battles at Youth Uprising and many other flashpoints of Bay Area culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And to think, this West Coast cultural historian could’ve been a cake decorator.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I used to take pictures of my cakes,” D-Ray tells me during a phone call, emphasizing the amount of energy she put into perfecting each pastry. “I spent all the time doing this and these people are going to eat my fucking cake?!” D-Ray says, recalling her frustration. “That’s how I started taking pictures.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13935137\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13935137\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"(L–R) Keak da Sneak and E-40 on the set of the music video for 'Tell Me When To Go' in 2006.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(L–R) Keak da Sneak and E-40 on the set of the music video for ‘Tell Me When To Go’ in 2006. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Growing up in Hayward, D-Ray was first introduced to the camera by her grandfather. She worked a few gigs, from cake decorator to doing fashion and retail, and a stint as manager at the Picture People photo studio in Alameda’s South Shore Shopping Center. She eventually came back to decorating cakes, until her husband, hip-hop manager \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8pCb3Inh-TA\">Gary Archer\u003c/a>, asked her a profound question: “How many angles of that cake are you going to take pictures of?’” [aside postID='arts_13932030']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gary, who bought D-Ray a camera at the turn of the millennium so the couple could document their family, began working in partnership with D-Ray — she took photos of the artists he managed, like Mistah F.A.B. He also introduced her to the late \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/isawdray/p/CFCy3Xlst1c/?img_index=1\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Frank Herrera\u003c/a>, head of \u003cem>Showcase\u003c/em> magazine, the first publication to feature D-Ray’s work on the front cover.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13935138\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13935138\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A scraper bike on the set of E-40's music video 'Tell Me When to Go' in 2006.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1700\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-800x531.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-1020x677.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-768x510.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-1536x1020.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-2048x1360.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-1920x1275.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">On the set of E-40’s music video ‘Tell Me When to Go’ in 2006. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Before her photography career took off, D-Ray tells me, she used to go through a process of decorating cakes: making one, not liking its appearance, scraping it off and then redecorating it. “In photography you can’t do that,” she tells me. “You come home, you’re looking at a set of pictures and you’re like, ‘I could’ve did that better.'”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13934874']So she learned how to do it well the first time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Now, after more than two decades documenting the culture, she reflects on her work with pride. “I really have a thing about telling the story through my photos about our culture,” she says, “and I feel like I’ve captured \u003cem>everything\u003c/em> through the years, and did it the best way possible, you know?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Below is just a small sample of D-Ray’s photos, some never before seen, and her comments about each, edited for length and clarity.\u003c/p>\n\u003chr>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13951134\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13951134\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/9-800x530.png\" alt=\"Legendary late Pittsburg rapper, The Jacka, cracking jokes with Oakland community pillar and lyrical monster, Mistah F.A.B. at Moses Music in East Oakland.\" width=\"800\" height=\"530\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/9-800x530.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/9-1020x676.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/9-160x106.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/9-768x509.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/9-1536x1018.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/9-2048x1357.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/9-1920x1272.png 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Legendary late Pittsburg rapper, The Jacka, cracking jokes with Oakland community pillar and lyrical monster Mistah F.A.B. at Moses Music in East Oakland in 2004. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>D-Ray:\u003c/b> So this was me just looking around the room and seeing these two knuckleheads laugh. You know what I mean? Just seeing them crack jokes there. They’re probably just roasting each other like no tomorrow. If you see Jacka, you can almost hear him laughing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This picture right here shows Stan and Jack’s relationship. A lot of people might not realize that F.A.B. and Jack are actually close, you know, like friendship-wise, more than just music. But this right here, this is Ramadan. So Jack was definitely fasting that day, and they were probably cracking a joke on how he wanted to eat or something, you know?\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13951129\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13951129\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/4-800x529.png\" alt=\"Host Sway Calloway and East Oakland MC Keak Da Sneak chop it up while filming an episode of the show 'My Block' for MTV.\" width=\"800\" height=\"529\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/4-800x529.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/4-1020x675.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/4-160x106.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/4-768x508.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/4-1536x1016.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/4-2048x1354.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/4-1920x1270.png 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Host Sway Calloway and East Oakland’s Keak Da Sneak chop it up while filming an episode of the show ‘My Block’ for MTV in 2006. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>D-Ray:\u003c/strong> This is at Keak’s house in the 70s in East Oakland, during \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jGoUezD5CxE\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">MTV’s \u003cem>My Block\u003c/em>\u003c/a>. History was being made and I decided to document it. To see them both sitting on a porch in East Oakland, it meant a lot to me. When Sway came to the Town it brought a lot of people out; it showed the love.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13951128\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13951128\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/3-800x1064.png\" alt=\"Fillmore raised MC, San Francisco rap star Messy Marv poses for a photo.\" width=\"800\" height=\"1064\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/3-800x1064.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/3-1020x1357.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/3-160x213.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/3-768x1022.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/3.png 1108w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">San Francisco rap star Messy Marv poses for a photo. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>D-Ray:\u003c/strong> So \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KPhMR8X5NHk\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Messy (Marv)\u003c/a> got the cover of \u003cem>Showcase\u003c/em> magazine; that was actually shot behind Showcase’s office in San Leandro, off East 14th. It’s my very first cover shot. Frank Herrera was like, “D-Ray, you think you can do it?” I was like, “Hell yeah.” Mind you, this was film. You couldn’t see what you were taking pictures of.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This shot ended up in \u003cem>The Source\u003c/em> magazine, \u003cem>XXL\u003c/em>, this is what got me exposure in the world. Messy Marv welcomed me into the world. Also, Kilo Curt, Mac Dre and Miami The Most showed up to go talk to Gary and Frank because they were working Mac Dre’s record at the time. They saw me doing Messy Marv’s photoshoot, and that’s what got me adopted into Thizz — because Dre was like, “Oh, we need a female photographer.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13951131\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13951131\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/6-800x536.png\" alt=\"A candid shot of one of the many dance battles held at Youth Uprising in deep East Oakland, circa 2006.\" width=\"800\" height=\"536\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/6-800x536.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/6-1020x683.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/6-160x107.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/6-768x514.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/6-1536x1029.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/6-2048x1371.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/6-1920x1286.png 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A candid shot of one of the many dance battles held at Youth Uprising in deep East Oakland, circa 2006. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>D-Ray:\u003c/strong> We used to have dance battles at Youth Uprising, it was a safe haven. Kids from East Oakland, their parents, folks who weren’t a part of the youth center would come, it was something to do on a Friday night. Those kids, look at them, those kids in the middle row are the only kids that probably go to Youth Uprising. Those other kids are family and friends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13951132\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13951132\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/7-800x529.png\" alt='The ambassador of the Bay, E-40, sitting on his scraper watching Oakland going wild while on the set of the video for the hit song \"Tell Me When To Go\".' width=\"800\" height=\"529\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/7-800x529.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/7-1020x674.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/7-160x106.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/7-768x508.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/7-1536x1015.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/7-2048x1354.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/7-1920x1269.png 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The ambassador of the Bay, E-40, sitting on his scraper watching Oakland going wild on the set of the video for the hit song ‘Tell Me When To Go.’ \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>D-Ray:\u003c/strong> It’s showing East Oakland and both sides of Vallejo. Do you know what I’m talking about? Because I am the official Thizz photographer, and I still have a relationship with people like 40.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I saw it, I took it. I saw the T go up, and it automatically happens. I’ve just got to keep it real. As soon as the T goes up, it just happens. It’s just the way my mental is trained.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13951133\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13951133\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/8-800x534.png\" alt=\"Well-known rapper and proud representative of Pittsburg's El Pueblo Projects, The Husalah, posing for a photo while sitting in a cherry red drop top car.\" width=\"800\" height=\"534\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/8-800x534.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/8-1020x681.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/8-160x107.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/8-768x512.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/8-1536x1025.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/8-2048x1367.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/8-1920x1281.png 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Well-known rapper and proud representative of Pittsburg’s El Pueblo Projects, Husalah. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>D-Ray:\u003c/b> I spent like two weeks with \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/golasoaso/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Husalah\u003c/a> before he turned himself in, and we wanted to get all of his stages, like all of his looks. I mean, he changed his clothes multiple times. We went to the projects, we did all types of stuff, just to make sure he had content while he was in prison.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YCLlU-8HsNE\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">When he was in prison\u003c/a>, I made sure that he was still kept alive. Like, I had good pictures of him. I had press packets. I had whatever we needed. It was a sad situation. I’ll never forget it was like those two weeks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13951130\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13951130\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/5-800x528.png\" alt=\"The late MC, The Jacka, and well-known turf dancer, Ice Cold 3000, pose for a photo at Youth Uprising.\" width=\"800\" height=\"528\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/5-800x528.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/5-1020x674.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/5-160x106.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/5-768x507.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/5-1536x1014.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/5-2048x1352.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/5-1920x1268.png 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Jacka and turf dancer Ice Cold 3000 pose for a photo at Youth Uprising. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>D-Ray:\u003c/strong> This is at Youth Uprising (YU). The Jacka would show up anytime I asked Jack to show up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I have a thing with YU, those are all my kids. I don’t know him as “\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/icecold3000/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Ice Cold,\u003c/a>” I know him as Gary. You get what I’m saying? Today, knowing his name is Ice Cold, I’ve had to get used to it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I have a bunch of kids at YU, and I just felt like I had to make sure (Gary) had a picture with my brother and he had that kind of love that my brother could pass off to him… And I just remember, because they were all excited to see Jack there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Jack would get me in trouble tho, because he would come through smelling like OH MY GOD. Olis Simmons (the former head of YU) would say, “D-Ray, take him outside and spray him down before he comes in here.” I’d be like, “Why Jack, why?” But then, you couldn’t hold that against him. The kids would love him because he’d come in and he’d be himself. Jack would inspire those kids, and bring shirts and talk to them. I think that’s what gave Gary — Ice Cold — so much hope. He makes me very proud. Ice Cold makes me very, very, very proud. To see him glowing in this picture like he is, that’s why I pulled this picture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-11687704\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.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\u003cp>\u003cem>The Jacka Art Experience runs Wednesday–Saturday, Jan. 31–Feb. 3, at the Loom in Oakland. \u003ca href=\"https://www.tickettailor.com/events/dreammoviellc/1101191\">Details here\u003c/a>. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "Jacka. Nipsey. FAB. 40. Drake. Keak. Wayne. You name 'em, they've probably been photographed by D-Ray.",
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"title": "D-Ray’s Photo Archive is West Coast Hip-Hop Gold | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\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 story series on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>D-Ray’s photographs are full of bright, lively images of MCs you know by just one name. Kendrick. Jeezy. Even nicknames: Weezy. Anytime she and Drake cross paths, they take selfies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The late Nipsey Hussle not only knew \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/isawdray/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">D-Ray\u003c/a>, he would request that she be present at his Bay Area events. She served as official photographer for the late great Mac Dre’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13930686/thizz-entertainment-dj-mix-mac-dre-vallejo-rap-hyphy\">Thizz Nation\u003c/a> label. And her work documenting Bay Area hip-hop culture has been featured in many documentaries and print media, including \u003ca href=\"https://issuu.com/ozonemag\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">\u003cem>Ozone\u003c/em>\u003c/a> magazine, where she worked as West Coast editor, and \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://issuu.com/mrshowcase2022\">Showcase\u003c/a>\u003c/em> magazine.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13931800\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13931800\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Hus-Jack.jpg\" alt=\"A man in a durag and football jersey holds his arms spread, with friends in the background\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Hus-Jack.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Hus-Jack-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Hus-Jack-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Hus-Jack-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Hus-Jack-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Hus-Jack-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Jacka, who D-Ray photographed abundantly. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>This week, a special corner of D-Ray’s extensive archive — her images of the iconic late Pittsburg rapper The Jacka — go on public display. They’ll be surrounded by drawings, recordings, and other forms of art at \u003ca href=\"https://www.tickettailor.com/events/dreammoviellc/1101191\">The Jacka Art Experience\u003c/a>, running Jan. 31–Feb. 3 at The Loom in Oakland. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>D-Ray’s photography documented the life of not only the artist known as The Jacka, but the human being, Shaheed Akbar, who was murdered on Feb. 2, 2015. D-Ray was there for his vibrant life as well as his memorial. She was also present for E-40 and Keak da Sneak’s “Tell Me When To Go” video shoot, Mistah F.A.B.’s rise to fame, turf dance battles at Youth Uprising and many other flashpoints of Bay Area culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And to think, this West Coast cultural historian could’ve been a cake decorator.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I used to take pictures of my cakes,” D-Ray tells me during a phone call, emphasizing the amount of energy she put into perfecting each pastry. “I spent all the time doing this and these people are going to eat my fucking cake?!” D-Ray says, recalling her frustration. “That’s how I started taking pictures.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13935137\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13935137\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"(L–R) Keak da Sneak and E-40 on the set of the music video for 'Tell Me When To Go' in 2006.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(L–R) Keak da Sneak and E-40 on the set of the music video for ‘Tell Me When To Go’ in 2006. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Growing up in Hayward, D-Ray was first introduced to the camera by her grandfather. She worked a few gigs, from cake decorator to doing fashion and retail, and a stint as manager at the Picture People photo studio in Alameda’s South Shore Shopping Center. She eventually came back to decorating cakes, until her husband, hip-hop manager \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8pCb3Inh-TA\">Gary Archer\u003c/a>, asked her a profound question: “How many angles of that cake are you going to take pictures of?’” \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gary, who bought D-Ray a camera at the turn of the millennium so the couple could document their family, began working in partnership with D-Ray — she took photos of the artists he managed, like Mistah F.A.B. He also introduced her to the late \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/isawdray/p/CFCy3Xlst1c/?img_index=1\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Frank Herrera\u003c/a>, head of \u003cem>Showcase\u003c/em> magazine, the first publication to feature D-Ray’s work on the front cover.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13935138\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13935138\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A scraper bike on the set of E-40's music video 'Tell Me When to Go' in 2006.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1700\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-800x531.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-1020x677.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-768x510.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-1536x1020.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-2048x1360.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-1920x1275.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">On the set of E-40’s music video ‘Tell Me When to Go’ in 2006. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Before her photography career took off, D-Ray tells me, she used to go through a process of decorating cakes: making one, not liking its appearance, scraping it off and then redecorating it. “In photography you can’t do that,” she tells me. “You come home, you’re looking at a set of pictures and you’re like, ‘I could’ve did that better.'”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>So she learned how to do it well the first time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Now, after more than two decades documenting the culture, she reflects on her work with pride. “I really have a thing about telling the story through my photos about our culture,” she says, “and I feel like I’ve captured \u003cem>everything\u003c/em> through the years, and did it the best way possible, you know?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Below is just a small sample of D-Ray’s photos, some never before seen, and her comments about each, edited for length and clarity.\u003c/p>\n\u003chr>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13951134\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13951134\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/9-800x530.png\" alt=\"Legendary late Pittsburg rapper, The Jacka, cracking jokes with Oakland community pillar and lyrical monster, Mistah F.A.B. at Moses Music in East Oakland.\" width=\"800\" height=\"530\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/9-800x530.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/9-1020x676.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/9-160x106.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/9-768x509.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/9-1536x1018.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/9-2048x1357.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/9-1920x1272.png 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Legendary late Pittsburg rapper, The Jacka, cracking jokes with Oakland community pillar and lyrical monster Mistah F.A.B. at Moses Music in East Oakland in 2004. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>D-Ray:\u003c/b> So this was me just looking around the room and seeing these two knuckleheads laugh. You know what I mean? Just seeing them crack jokes there. They’re probably just roasting each other like no tomorrow. If you see Jacka, you can almost hear him laughing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This picture right here shows Stan and Jack’s relationship. A lot of people might not realize that F.A.B. and Jack are actually close, you know, like friendship-wise, more than just music. But this right here, this is Ramadan. So Jack was definitely fasting that day, and they were probably cracking a joke on how he wanted to eat or something, you know?\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13951129\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13951129\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/4-800x529.png\" alt=\"Host Sway Calloway and East Oakland MC Keak Da Sneak chop it up while filming an episode of the show 'My Block' for MTV.\" width=\"800\" height=\"529\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/4-800x529.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/4-1020x675.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/4-160x106.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/4-768x508.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/4-1536x1016.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/4-2048x1354.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/4-1920x1270.png 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Host Sway Calloway and East Oakland’s Keak Da Sneak chop it up while filming an episode of the show ‘My Block’ for MTV in 2006. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>D-Ray:\u003c/strong> This is at Keak’s house in the 70s in East Oakland, during \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jGoUezD5CxE\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">MTV’s \u003cem>My Block\u003c/em>\u003c/a>. History was being made and I decided to document it. To see them both sitting on a porch in East Oakland, it meant a lot to me. When Sway came to the Town it brought a lot of people out; it showed the love.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13951128\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13951128\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/3-800x1064.png\" alt=\"Fillmore raised MC, San Francisco rap star Messy Marv poses for a photo.\" width=\"800\" height=\"1064\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/3-800x1064.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/3-1020x1357.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/3-160x213.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/3-768x1022.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/3.png 1108w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">San Francisco rap star Messy Marv poses for a photo. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>D-Ray:\u003c/strong> So \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KPhMR8X5NHk\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Messy (Marv)\u003c/a> got the cover of \u003cem>Showcase\u003c/em> magazine; that was actually shot behind Showcase’s office in San Leandro, off East 14th. It’s my very first cover shot. Frank Herrera was like, “D-Ray, you think you can do it?” I was like, “Hell yeah.” Mind you, this was film. You couldn’t see what you were taking pictures of.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This shot ended up in \u003cem>The Source\u003c/em> magazine, \u003cem>XXL\u003c/em>, this is what got me exposure in the world. Messy Marv welcomed me into the world. Also, Kilo Curt, Mac Dre and Miami The Most showed up to go talk to Gary and Frank because they were working Mac Dre’s record at the time. They saw me doing Messy Marv’s photoshoot, and that’s what got me adopted into Thizz — because Dre was like, “Oh, we need a female photographer.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13951131\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13951131\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/6-800x536.png\" alt=\"A candid shot of one of the many dance battles held at Youth Uprising in deep East Oakland, circa 2006.\" width=\"800\" height=\"536\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/6-800x536.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/6-1020x683.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/6-160x107.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/6-768x514.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/6-1536x1029.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/6-2048x1371.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/6-1920x1286.png 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A candid shot of one of the many dance battles held at Youth Uprising in deep East Oakland, circa 2006. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>D-Ray:\u003c/strong> We used to have dance battles at Youth Uprising, it was a safe haven. Kids from East Oakland, their parents, folks who weren’t a part of the youth center would come, it was something to do on a Friday night. Those kids, look at them, those kids in the middle row are the only kids that probably go to Youth Uprising. Those other kids are family and friends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13951132\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13951132\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/7-800x529.png\" alt='The ambassador of the Bay, E-40, sitting on his scraper watching Oakland going wild while on the set of the video for the hit song \"Tell Me When To Go\".' width=\"800\" height=\"529\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/7-800x529.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/7-1020x674.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/7-160x106.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/7-768x508.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/7-1536x1015.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/7-2048x1354.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/7-1920x1269.png 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The ambassador of the Bay, E-40, sitting on his scraper watching Oakland going wild on the set of the video for the hit song ‘Tell Me When To Go.’ \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>D-Ray:\u003c/strong> It’s showing East Oakland and both sides of Vallejo. Do you know what I’m talking about? Because I am the official Thizz photographer, and I still have a relationship with people like 40.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I saw it, I took it. I saw the T go up, and it automatically happens. I’ve just got to keep it real. As soon as the T goes up, it just happens. It’s just the way my mental is trained.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13951133\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13951133\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/8-800x534.png\" alt=\"Well-known rapper and proud representative of Pittsburg's El Pueblo Projects, The Husalah, posing for a photo while sitting in a cherry red drop top car.\" width=\"800\" height=\"534\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/8-800x534.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/8-1020x681.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/8-160x107.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/8-768x512.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/8-1536x1025.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/8-2048x1367.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/8-1920x1281.png 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Well-known rapper and proud representative of Pittsburg’s El Pueblo Projects, Husalah. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>D-Ray:\u003c/b> I spent like two weeks with \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/golasoaso/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Husalah\u003c/a> before he turned himself in, and we wanted to get all of his stages, like all of his looks. I mean, he changed his clothes multiple times. We went to the projects, we did all types of stuff, just to make sure he had content while he was in prison.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YCLlU-8HsNE\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">When he was in prison\u003c/a>, I made sure that he was still kept alive. Like, I had good pictures of him. I had press packets. I had whatever we needed. It was a sad situation. I’ll never forget it was like those two weeks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13951130\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13951130\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/5-800x528.png\" alt=\"The late MC, The Jacka, and well-known turf dancer, Ice Cold 3000, pose for a photo at Youth Uprising.\" width=\"800\" height=\"528\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/5-800x528.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/5-1020x674.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/5-160x106.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/5-768x507.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/5-1536x1014.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/5-2048x1352.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/5-1920x1268.png 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Jacka and turf dancer Ice Cold 3000 pose for a photo at Youth Uprising. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>D-Ray:\u003c/strong> This is at Youth Uprising (YU). The Jacka would show up anytime I asked Jack to show up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I have a thing with YU, those are all my kids. I don’t know him as “\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/icecold3000/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Ice Cold,\u003c/a>” I know him as Gary. You get what I’m saying? Today, knowing his name is Ice Cold, I’ve had to get used to it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I have a bunch of kids at YU, and I just felt like I had to make sure (Gary) had a picture with my brother and he had that kind of love that my brother could pass off to him… And I just remember, because they were all excited to see Jack there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Jack would get me in trouble tho, because he would come through smelling like OH MY GOD. Olis Simmons (the former head of YU) would say, “D-Ray, take him outside and spray him down before he comes in here.” I’d be like, “Why Jack, why?” But then, you couldn’t hold that against him. The kids would love him because he’d come in and he’d be himself. Jack would inspire those kids, and bring shirts and talk to them. I think that’s what gave Gary — Ice Cold — so much hope. He makes me very proud. Ice Cold makes me very, very, very proud. To see him glowing in this picture like he is, that’s why I pulled this picture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-11687704\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.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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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>The Jacka Art Experience runs Wednesday–Saturday, Jan. 31–Feb. 3, at the Loom in Oakland. \u003ca href=\"https://www.tickettailor.com/events/dreammoviellc/1101191\">Details here\u003c/a>. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "12-san-jose-rap-tapes-that-youve-probably-never-heard-before",
"title": "12 San Jose Rap Tapes That You've (Probably) Never Heard Before",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cstrong>Editor’s note\u003c/strong>: This story is part of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">\u003c/a>\u003c/em>That’s My Word\u003cem>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]S[/dropcap]an Jose is the overlooked stepchild of Bay Area hip-hop. Like famed San Jose-raised producer \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13939767/peanut-butter-wolf-san-jose-hip-hop-1980s-1990s\">Peanut Butter Wolf\u003c/a> recently told KQED, it was decidedly \u003cem>not\u003c/em> a hip-hop city in the ’80s and early ’90s. As large as it is, and with a vibrant 1980s East Side car culture and electro club scene, you’d think it’d be in the conversation alongside Oakland, Vallejo, East Palo Alto and Richmond.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Turns out you just have to dig deeper. Here, cassette collector J. Darrah, a.k.a. \u003ca href=\"https://12manrambotapes.blogspot.com/\">12manrambo\u003c/a>, dives into \u003ca href=\"https://12manrambotapes.blogspot.com/\">his collection of over 500 Northern California rap tapes from 1985–2000\u003c/a> to unearth and add context to some of San Jose’s best early rap. You won’t be able to find most of these on Spotify — but without a doubt, taken together, these tracks reorient San Jose in the historical landscape. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iU0KPp41M5A\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>1. MC Twist & The Def Squad, ‘I Like It Loud ’89’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The one and only Bay Area artist signed to \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/label/6552-Luke-Skyywalker-Records\">Skyywalker Records\u003c/a> (run by Luke Skyywalker of 2 Live Crew), MC Twist came out hard with tracks like “I Like It Loud” off his \u003cem>Comin Thru Like Warriors\u003c/em> LP. His DJ Boy Flash and producer Kay Jay borrow a bit from L.A.’s Rodney O And Joe Cooley, and also throw in a classic Dionne Warwick sample of “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FZLa-1q-lkw\">Do You Know The Way To San Jose\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Twist went on to self-release 1998’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/release/1109042-MC-Twist-MVP\">MVP\u003c/a>, a solid, more Mobb/G-funk oriented album, but disappeared soon afterward.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z2_hStmncxw\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>2. Lyrical Prophecy, ‘You Can’t Swing This’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Pressed in a low run of 500 copies, the Lyrical Prophecy 12″ is a difficult piece of wax to attain today, and it established \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/222089-Chris-Cut\">Chris Cut\u003c/a>, a.k.a. \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13939767/peanut-butter-wolf-san-jose-hip-hop-1980s-1990s\">Peanut Butter Wolf\u003c/a>, as a young producer/DJ/entrepreneur on the San Jose scene. Wolf would go on to achieve success and indie-rap status with his label, Stones Throw, founded about five years later.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13939767']Here, Chris set down his San Jose rap roots with \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/1570868-Quiz-One?superFilter=Credits\">Quiz One\u003c/a> (RIP) and DJ Raleem (who went on to be better known as \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/219142-Assassin-3\">Assassin\u003c/a>),\u003cbr>\nall a couple years before his unfortunately short-lived \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/89874-Charizma-Peanut-Butter-Wolf\">collaborations with Charizma (RIP)\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bob James “Nautilus”/Public Enemy sample on the hook? Check. ‘Conscious’/’Lyrical Miracle Spiritual’-type lyrics? Check. Though this could easily be mistaken for something coming out of the Bronx or Brooklyn, Wolf would eventually blur the lines of regionality via his gloriously genre-bending label, and the duo of Quiz One and Assassin would soon establish a more West Coast identity via the “gangster rap” sound of their group Ghetto Politics.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hzgQ56hQqos\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>3. The Siggnett Posse, ‘The BBQ’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The Siggnett Posse were led by rappers J-Wanz and D-Flat, and, since half the members were from Oakland, they titled their sole release \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://12manrambotapes.blogspot.com/2012/08/siggnett-posse-bsb-san-jose-92.html\">Both Sides Of The Bay\u003c/a>\u003c/em>. (It’s yet another Peanut Butter Wolf-related project; “Chris Cut” is credited as engineer, but in reality he ghost-produced the majority of the tape). \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The BBQ” is a classic feel-good summertime jam, full of youthful exuberance and naïveté with bit more of an edge than, say, A Lighter Shade Of Brown’s “Sunday Afternoon” or DJ Jazzy Jeff & the Fresh Prince’s “Summertime.” Just check out D-Flat exclaiming “I ain’t got no time for trippin’ / cuz every plate I’ve has been finger lickin’ / \u003cem>mother fuckin’ good\u003c/em>” before hittin’ the thai stick and having all the girls look at him funny for jumping into his danked-out dance routine, immediately followed by his second bottle of Crazy Horse.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1frILH8XRfk\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>4. Ghetto Politics, ‘Away From Home’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In 1993, Quiz One and Assassin released their cassette- and vinyl-only EP release ‘Ghetto Life’ on the \u003ca href=\"https://12manrambotapes.blogspot.com/search/label/Dukie%20Duke%20Records\">Dukie Duke\u003c/a> label. The following year, Assassin would be replaced by Cisco The Frisco Mack, a.k.a. \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/294161-Don-Cisco\">Don Cisco\u003c/a>, and the group changed the spelling of its name to \u003ca href=\"https://12manrambotapes.blogspot.com/search/label/Ghetto%20Politix\">Ghetto Politix\u003c/a> for a killer, now very hard-to-find full-length cassette release, \u003cem>Just Mob\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But here, on their debut EP, Quiz and Assassin rock self-reflective rhymes over a hard breakbeat and a bluesy guitar-driven loop, all adding up to a hell of a mood that fit the group’s name.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4yUMEwVUotg\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>5. Homeliss Derilex (feat. Encore), ‘Originator’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>With their jazzy East Coast vibe, Homeliss Derilex sounded far more Gang Starr than gangsta, while rapper 50 Grand had an unmistakable drawl that perfectly fit the unique, gritty production sound of G-Luv a.k.a. The Architect. The crew busted out on the scene with a \u003ca href=\"https://12manrambotapes.blogspot.com/2012/12/homeliss-derilex-demo-oakland-93.html\">rock-solid, seven-track demo tape\u003c/a> in 1993.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After being featured on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13935467/the-bomb-magazine-label-san-francisco-turntablism-djs\">Dave Paul\u003c/a>’s \u003cem>Bomb Hip-Hop Compilation\u003c/em>, which was \u003cem>the\u003c/em> definitive underground Bay Area rap comp at the time — showcasing such crucial local artists as Bored Stiff, Mystik Journeymen and Blackalicious, to name a few — they delivered another low-key but 100% dope debut on wax in the form of the “\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/master/775462-Homeliss-Derilex-Surviven-The-Game\">Survive’n The Game\u003c/a>” 12″, released on the Malvado label out of Oakland. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13928550']One year later, anticipation built for a full-length release from the Homeliss Derilex when they dropped their \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/master/379130-Homeliss-Derilex-Cash-Money\">second 12″ single\u003c/a> on Stones Throw, but alas, the crew never did complete an LP during the ’90s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Here, with their demo tape track “Originator” featuring a very young, fully formed and highly overlooked emcee \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/31714-Encore\">Encore\u003c/a>, 50 Grand rides a thick, heavy vibraphone-laden Architect beat, proving how he “got more juice than citrus fruit.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aIS6solQoGI\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>6. G-Pack, ‘Damned’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>G-Pack were a lesser known crew that debuted on DJ Swift’s even lesser known \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://12manrambotapes.blogspot.com/2015/01/g-pack-etc-bay-area-rap-compilation-vol.html\">Bay Area Rap Compilation Vol. 1\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, which also featured a couple artists out of Richmond and Hayward. D-Mac and E-Money were the two main rappers, though a year later on their \u003cem>Comin’ Way Tight\u003c/em> album they enlisted the very promising talents of rapper \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/302415-Young-Life\">Young Life\u003c/a> (who in the late 90s was rumored to have been working on a deal with Suge Knight at Death Row Records).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Damned,” the compilation’s lead-off track, perfectly exemplifies the underground breakbeat-driven Bay Area sound of 1994, with live synths and the slick gangster/hustler flow of D-Mac & T-Spoon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ag2KsrUZzaY\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>7. The Dereliks, ‘The Phrase That Pays’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Another great San Jose group featured on the \u003cem>Bomb Hip-Hop Compilation\u003c/em>, The Dereliks were DJ Hen Boogie and MC Iz aka Izadoe. After a trio of \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/89877-Dereliks?superFilter=Releases&subFilter=Singles+%26+EPs\">promising demos\u003c/a> from ’92-’94, the two released a classic EP, \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/master/116452-Dereliks-A-Turn-On-The-Wheel-Is-Worth-More-Than-A-Record-Deal\">A Turn on the Wheel Is Worth More Than a Record Deal\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, on Hen’s own Low Self Discipline label.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still under the heavy influence, like many others, of the almighty De La Soul and Native Tongue era, “The Phrase That Pays” shows just how bohemian, self-conscious and “witty-with-wordplay” rap could get – “I’ll leave it to Bobbito to give me a break / I Sway from the top of the Bay down to Swan Lake.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q73ROxRNwDw\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>8. F.B.G., ‘Dippin”\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>For those who thought San Jose couldn’t mobb like Vallejo or Oakland…think again. Rapper/producer P-Nut started out under his Nut-Houze Productions imprint with partner Jaz, forming the group \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/1447114-Straight-Funk\">Straight Funk\u003c/a> before creating his new label Rush Force Productions and group F.B.G. with fellow rappers Tyesta and Mr. Frosty in ’96, dropping the South Bay mobb bomb \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/master/1528919-FBG-Insane-Ta-Da-Brain\">Insane Ta Da Brain\u003c/a>\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On “Dippin’,” the 408 Blocc Gangstas go all in with some of the most menacing mobb music ever made. When you hear P-Nut chanting “bottle full o’ liquor and a indo stick / mobbin’ down the avenue dippin’ sick” over that beat and those screeching tire sounds, you’d best run for cover and head west to Sunnyvale!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-SqctWANgUY\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>9. 007 Goon Squad, ‘What Dat’ 7 Like?’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The mobbin’ continues in Southside San Jose with another under-appreciated producer by the name of \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/437731-G-Rock-2\">G-Rock\u003c/a>. A bit older than his rap peers, G-Rock already had solid experience with state-of-the-art synths and drum machines from a previous era of funk (he played all the instruments on his \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/release/311660-Alien-Starr-World-Of-Ecstasy\">World Of Ecstasy\u003c/a>\u003c/em> EP from 1985, under the moniker Alien Starr). As a hip-hop producer, he had a distinct and often oddly out-of-place sound compared to other Bay rap production of the time, but in retrospect seems nothing less than innovative.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13936387']Through the latter half of the ’90s, G-Rock ended up serving as a sort of in-house producer for some of San Jose’s “realest” gangster rappers (as in “actual gangbangers who happen to rap”) such as Full Clip and Loc’d Out Clique. 007 Goon Squad was made up of members of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vsnz-r9gEOw\">Seven Trees Crips\u003c/a>, and sadly never released a full-length. Luckily, they blessed us with the intense, soulful, slow-rolling track “What Dat’ 7 Like,” in which the crew “shoots a kite” to their homie serving 13 years in the clink.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gZUPc7sBhtc\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>10. Sub Contents, ‘Parinoid’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Consisting of Dave Dub, Persevere and beatmaker Fanatik, Sub Contents were an underground crew who also unfortunately never released a full album until \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/master/1131951-Subcontents-Notes-From-The-Cliff\">well after\u003c/a> the gritty indie-rap heyday of the mid-’90s (though their “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0PTEfsjykXk\">Underbomber Theories\u003c/a>” did make its way onto Peanut Butter Wolf’s classic \u003cem>Step On Our Egos\u003c/em> EP.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Parinoid” finds Dave Dub firing off a fierce a capella with one of the rawest and thickest Bay rap accents ever heard south of West Oakland crew Hobo Junction’s Eyecue (a brief Southpaw label-mate of Dave’s, for the record). There’s a cold, menacing vocal sample of Black Moon’s Buckshot (“Hallucinate…ill visions in my head), which makes way for Dave Dub’s anxiety-riddled verbal onslaught, claiming “the world just ain’t the same as it was in my youth.” He retreats to the wilderness after “plugging a pig” and walking his Rottweiler with a choke-chain, wondering if he’s just paranoid or if “maybe it was just experimentation, from acid to blow.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NG848lanS24\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>11. Third Sight, ‘Rhymes Like A Scientist’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>A three-man crew consisting of Du-Funk, Jihad and (current Invisibl Skratch Piklz) DJ D-Styles, Third Sight debuted with their now rarer-than-hen’s-teeth cassette \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/release/662146-Third-Sight-From-Outta-Nowhere\">From Outta Nowhere\u003c/a>\u003c/em> in 1993. Three years later came the underground classic “Ballsacks” 12″ on their Darc Brothas label, with the B-side “Rhymes Like A Scientist” having heads nodding from the Bay back to New York, where their core sound originated. Perhaps taking a cue from Blackalicious’ “40 Oz. for Breakfast,” in which the rapper delays his verse to allow the beat and the vibe to marinate, D-Styles cuts up Eric B. & Rakim’s “My Melody” for two whole minutes with such precision that it would make DJ Premier lose sleep.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13904835']Finally, Jihad effortlessly wrecks the mic. This track was surely under the radar when it was released, but as a semi-avid clubgoer growing up in the L.A. area, I would hear this being spun (shout out to DJ Rob One RIP!) and folks in the crowd were BUGGING. OUT.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=31WTmqyDaRY\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>12. Charizma & Peanut Butter Wolf, ‘Methods’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Peanut Butter Wolf, as stated above, was a central figure in early San Jose rap. After countless local musical collaborations and contributions, he moved to L.A. so his Stones Throw label could flourish, and the rest is hip-hop history. In the early days as a producer, he found his counterpart \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/34219-Charizma\">Charizma\u003c/a>, but the duo was tragically short-lived due to Charizma’s death in late 1993.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the early 1990s, long before “emo rap” existed, there were hip-hop songs that could nonetheless make the listener feel a certain way: De La Soul’s “Pass The Plugs,” Nas’ “One Love,” Pharcyde’s “Passin’ Me By.” That feeling hits even harder with “Methods,” a posthumously released song from Charizma and Peanut Butter Wolf that leaves the listener imagining the two navigating the burgeoning industry not just as another hip-hop act but as two close friends, and pondering what heights they might have reached together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"60\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-11687704\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-400x30.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-768x58.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "Listen to rare San Jose rap songs from a massive archive of over 500 underground rap tapes.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cstrong>Editor’s note\u003c/strong>: This story is part of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">\u003c/a>\u003c/em>That’s My Word\u003cem>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">S\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>an Jose is the overlooked stepchild of Bay Area hip-hop. Like famed San Jose-raised producer \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13939767/peanut-butter-wolf-san-jose-hip-hop-1980s-1990s\">Peanut Butter Wolf\u003c/a> recently told KQED, it was decidedly \u003cem>not\u003c/em> a hip-hop city in the ’80s and early ’90s. As large as it is, and with a vibrant 1980s East Side car culture and electro club scene, you’d think it’d be in the conversation alongside Oakland, Vallejo, East Palo Alto and Richmond.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Turns out you just have to dig deeper. Here, cassette collector J. Darrah, a.k.a. \u003ca href=\"https://12manrambotapes.blogspot.com/\">12manrambo\u003c/a>, dives into \u003ca href=\"https://12manrambotapes.blogspot.com/\">his collection of over 500 Northern California rap tapes from 1985–2000\u003c/a> to unearth and add context to some of San Jose’s best early rap. You won’t be able to find most of these on Spotify — but without a doubt, taken together, these tracks reorient San Jose in the historical landscape. \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/iU0KPp41M5A'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/iU0KPp41M5A'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003ch2>1. MC Twist & The Def Squad, ‘I Like It Loud ’89’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The one and only Bay Area artist signed to \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/label/6552-Luke-Skyywalker-Records\">Skyywalker Records\u003c/a> (run by Luke Skyywalker of 2 Live Crew), MC Twist came out hard with tracks like “I Like It Loud” off his \u003cem>Comin Thru Like Warriors\u003c/em> LP. His DJ Boy Flash and producer Kay Jay borrow a bit from L.A.’s Rodney O And Joe Cooley, and also throw in a classic Dionne Warwick sample of “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FZLa-1q-lkw\">Do You Know The Way To San Jose\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Twist went on to self-release 1998’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/release/1109042-MC-Twist-MVP\">MVP\u003c/a>, a solid, more Mobb/G-funk oriented album, but disappeared soon afterward.\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/z2_hStmncxw'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/z2_hStmncxw'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003ch2>2. Lyrical Prophecy, ‘You Can’t Swing This’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Pressed in a low run of 500 copies, the Lyrical Prophecy 12″ is a difficult piece of wax to attain today, and it established \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/222089-Chris-Cut\">Chris Cut\u003c/a>, a.k.a. \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13939767/peanut-butter-wolf-san-jose-hip-hop-1980s-1990s\">Peanut Butter Wolf\u003c/a>, as a young producer/DJ/entrepreneur on the San Jose scene. Wolf would go on to achieve success and indie-rap status with his label, Stones Throw, founded about five years later.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Here, Chris set down his San Jose rap roots with \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/1570868-Quiz-One?superFilter=Credits\">Quiz One\u003c/a> (RIP) and DJ Raleem (who went on to be better known as \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/219142-Assassin-3\">Assassin\u003c/a>),\u003cbr>\nall a couple years before his unfortunately short-lived \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/89874-Charizma-Peanut-Butter-Wolf\">collaborations with Charizma (RIP)\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bob James “Nautilus”/Public Enemy sample on the hook? Check. ‘Conscious’/’Lyrical Miracle Spiritual’-type lyrics? Check. Though this could easily be mistaken for something coming out of the Bronx or Brooklyn, Wolf would eventually blur the lines of regionality via his gloriously genre-bending label, and the duo of Quiz One and Assassin would soon establish a more West Coast identity via the “gangster rap” sound of their group Ghetto Politics.\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/hzgQ56hQqos'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/hzgQ56hQqos'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003ch2>3. The Siggnett Posse, ‘The BBQ’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The Siggnett Posse were led by rappers J-Wanz and D-Flat, and, since half the members were from Oakland, they titled their sole release \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://12manrambotapes.blogspot.com/2012/08/siggnett-posse-bsb-san-jose-92.html\">Both Sides Of The Bay\u003c/a>\u003c/em>. (It’s yet another Peanut Butter Wolf-related project; “Chris Cut” is credited as engineer, but in reality he ghost-produced the majority of the tape). \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The BBQ” is a classic feel-good summertime jam, full of youthful exuberance and naïveté with bit more of an edge than, say, A Lighter Shade Of Brown’s “Sunday Afternoon” or DJ Jazzy Jeff & the Fresh Prince’s “Summertime.” Just check out D-Flat exclaiming “I ain’t got no time for trippin’ / cuz every plate I’ve has been finger lickin’ / \u003cem>mother fuckin’ good\u003c/em>” before hittin’ the thai stick and having all the girls look at him funny for jumping into his danked-out dance routine, immediately followed by his second bottle of Crazy Horse.\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/1frILH8XRfk'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/1frILH8XRfk'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003ch2>4. Ghetto Politics, ‘Away From Home’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In 1993, Quiz One and Assassin released their cassette- and vinyl-only EP release ‘Ghetto Life’ on the \u003ca href=\"https://12manrambotapes.blogspot.com/search/label/Dukie%20Duke%20Records\">Dukie Duke\u003c/a> label. The following year, Assassin would be replaced by Cisco The Frisco Mack, a.k.a. \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/294161-Don-Cisco\">Don Cisco\u003c/a>, and the group changed the spelling of its name to \u003ca href=\"https://12manrambotapes.blogspot.com/search/label/Ghetto%20Politix\">Ghetto Politix\u003c/a> for a killer, now very hard-to-find full-length cassette release, \u003cem>Just Mob\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But here, on their debut EP, Quiz and Assassin rock self-reflective rhymes over a hard breakbeat and a bluesy guitar-driven loop, all adding up to a hell of a mood that fit the group’s name.\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/4yUMEwVUotg'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/4yUMEwVUotg'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003ch2>5. Homeliss Derilex (feat. Encore), ‘Originator’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>With their jazzy East Coast vibe, Homeliss Derilex sounded far more Gang Starr than gangsta, while rapper 50 Grand had an unmistakable drawl that perfectly fit the unique, gritty production sound of G-Luv a.k.a. The Architect. The crew busted out on the scene with a \u003ca href=\"https://12manrambotapes.blogspot.com/2012/12/homeliss-derilex-demo-oakland-93.html\">rock-solid, seven-track demo tape\u003c/a> in 1993.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After being featured on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13935467/the-bomb-magazine-label-san-francisco-turntablism-djs\">Dave Paul\u003c/a>’s \u003cem>Bomb Hip-Hop Compilation\u003c/em>, which was \u003cem>the\u003c/em> definitive underground Bay Area rap comp at the time — showcasing such crucial local artists as Bored Stiff, Mystik Journeymen and Blackalicious, to name a few — they delivered another low-key but 100% dope debut on wax in the form of the “\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/master/775462-Homeliss-Derilex-Surviven-The-Game\">Survive’n The Game\u003c/a>” 12″, released on the Malvado label out of Oakland. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>One year later, anticipation built for a full-length release from the Homeliss Derilex when they dropped their \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/master/379130-Homeliss-Derilex-Cash-Money\">second 12″ single\u003c/a> on Stones Throw, but alas, the crew never did complete an LP during the ’90s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Here, with their demo tape track “Originator” featuring a very young, fully formed and highly overlooked emcee \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/31714-Encore\">Encore\u003c/a>, 50 Grand rides a thick, heavy vibraphone-laden Architect beat, proving how he “got more juice than citrus fruit.”\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/aIS6solQoGI'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/aIS6solQoGI'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003ch2>6. G-Pack, ‘Damned’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>G-Pack were a lesser known crew that debuted on DJ Swift’s even lesser known \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://12manrambotapes.blogspot.com/2015/01/g-pack-etc-bay-area-rap-compilation-vol.html\">Bay Area Rap Compilation Vol. 1\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, which also featured a couple artists out of Richmond and Hayward. D-Mac and E-Money were the two main rappers, though a year later on their \u003cem>Comin’ Way Tight\u003c/em> album they enlisted the very promising talents of rapper \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/302415-Young-Life\">Young Life\u003c/a> (who in the late 90s was rumored to have been working on a deal with Suge Knight at Death Row Records).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Damned,” the compilation’s lead-off track, perfectly exemplifies the underground breakbeat-driven Bay Area sound of 1994, with live synths and the slick gangster/hustler flow of D-Mac & T-Spoon.\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/ag2KsrUZzaY'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/ag2KsrUZzaY'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003ch2>7. The Dereliks, ‘The Phrase That Pays’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Another great San Jose group featured on the \u003cem>Bomb Hip-Hop Compilation\u003c/em>, The Dereliks were DJ Hen Boogie and MC Iz aka Izadoe. After a trio of \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/89877-Dereliks?superFilter=Releases&subFilter=Singles+%26+EPs\">promising demos\u003c/a> from ’92-’94, the two released a classic EP, \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/master/116452-Dereliks-A-Turn-On-The-Wheel-Is-Worth-More-Than-A-Record-Deal\">A Turn on the Wheel Is Worth More Than a Record Deal\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, on Hen’s own Low Self Discipline label.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still under the heavy influence, like many others, of the almighty De La Soul and Native Tongue era, “The Phrase That Pays” shows just how bohemian, self-conscious and “witty-with-wordplay” rap could get – “I’ll leave it to Bobbito to give me a break / I Sway from the top of the Bay down to Swan Lake.”\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/q73ROxRNwDw'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/q73ROxRNwDw'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003ch2>8. F.B.G., ‘Dippin”\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>For those who thought San Jose couldn’t mobb like Vallejo or Oakland…think again. Rapper/producer P-Nut started out under his Nut-Houze Productions imprint with partner Jaz, forming the group \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/1447114-Straight-Funk\">Straight Funk\u003c/a> before creating his new label Rush Force Productions and group F.B.G. with fellow rappers Tyesta and Mr. Frosty in ’96, dropping the South Bay mobb bomb \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/master/1528919-FBG-Insane-Ta-Da-Brain\">Insane Ta Da Brain\u003c/a>\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On “Dippin’,” the 408 Blocc Gangstas go all in with some of the most menacing mobb music ever made. When you hear P-Nut chanting “bottle full o’ liquor and a indo stick / mobbin’ down the avenue dippin’ sick” over that beat and those screeching tire sounds, you’d best run for cover and head west to Sunnyvale!\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/-SqctWANgUY'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/-SqctWANgUY'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003ch2>9. 007 Goon Squad, ‘What Dat’ 7 Like?’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The mobbin’ continues in Southside San Jose with another under-appreciated producer by the name of \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/437731-G-Rock-2\">G-Rock\u003c/a>. A bit older than his rap peers, G-Rock already had solid experience with state-of-the-art synths and drum machines from a previous era of funk (he played all the instruments on his \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/release/311660-Alien-Starr-World-Of-Ecstasy\">World Of Ecstasy\u003c/a>\u003c/em> EP from 1985, under the moniker Alien Starr). As a hip-hop producer, he had a distinct and often oddly out-of-place sound compared to other Bay rap production of the time, but in retrospect seems nothing less than innovative.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Through the latter half of the ’90s, G-Rock ended up serving as a sort of in-house producer for some of San Jose’s “realest” gangster rappers (as in “actual gangbangers who happen to rap”) such as Full Clip and Loc’d Out Clique. 007 Goon Squad was made up of members of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vsnz-r9gEOw\">Seven Trees Crips\u003c/a>, and sadly never released a full-length. Luckily, they blessed us with the intense, soulful, slow-rolling track “What Dat’ 7 Like,” in which the crew “shoots a kite” to their homie serving 13 years in the clink.\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/gZUPc7sBhtc'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/gZUPc7sBhtc'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003ch2>10. Sub Contents, ‘Parinoid’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Consisting of Dave Dub, Persevere and beatmaker Fanatik, Sub Contents were an underground crew who also unfortunately never released a full album until \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/master/1131951-Subcontents-Notes-From-The-Cliff\">well after\u003c/a> the gritty indie-rap heyday of the mid-’90s (though their “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0PTEfsjykXk\">Underbomber Theories\u003c/a>” did make its way onto Peanut Butter Wolf’s classic \u003cem>Step On Our Egos\u003c/em> EP.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Parinoid” finds Dave Dub firing off a fierce a capella with one of the rawest and thickest Bay rap accents ever heard south of West Oakland crew Hobo Junction’s Eyecue (a brief Southpaw label-mate of Dave’s, for the record). There’s a cold, menacing vocal sample of Black Moon’s Buckshot (“Hallucinate…ill visions in my head), which makes way for Dave Dub’s anxiety-riddled verbal onslaught, claiming “the world just ain’t the same as it was in my youth.” He retreats to the wilderness after “plugging a pig” and walking his Rottweiler with a choke-chain, wondering if he’s just paranoid or if “maybe it was just experimentation, from acid to blow.”\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/NG848lanS24'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/NG848lanS24'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003ch2>11. Third Sight, ‘Rhymes Like A Scientist’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>A three-man crew consisting of Du-Funk, Jihad and (current Invisibl Skratch Piklz) DJ D-Styles, Third Sight debuted with their now rarer-than-hen’s-teeth cassette \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/release/662146-Third-Sight-From-Outta-Nowhere\">From Outta Nowhere\u003c/a>\u003c/em> in 1993. Three years later came the underground classic “Ballsacks” 12″ on their Darc Brothas label, with the B-side “Rhymes Like A Scientist” having heads nodding from the Bay back to New York, where their core sound originated. Perhaps taking a cue from Blackalicious’ “40 Oz. for Breakfast,” in which the rapper delays his verse to allow the beat and the vibe to marinate, D-Styles cuts up Eric B. & Rakim’s “My Melody” for two whole minutes with such precision that it would make DJ Premier lose sleep.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Finally, Jihad effortlessly wrecks the mic. This track was surely under the radar when it was released, but as a semi-avid clubgoer growing up in the L.A. area, I would hear this being spun (shout out to DJ Rob One RIP!) and folks in the crowd were BUGGING. OUT.\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/31WTmqyDaRY'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/31WTmqyDaRY'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003ch2>12. Charizma & Peanut Butter Wolf, ‘Methods’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Peanut Butter Wolf, as stated above, was a central figure in early San Jose rap. After countless local musical collaborations and contributions, he moved to L.A. so his Stones Throw label could flourish, and the rest is hip-hop history. In the early days as a producer, he found his counterpart \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/34219-Charizma\">Charizma\u003c/a>, but the duo was tragically short-lived due to Charizma’s death in late 1993.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the early 1990s, long before “emo rap” existed, there were hip-hop songs that could nonetheless make the listener feel a certain way: De La Soul’s “Pass The Plugs,” Nas’ “One Love,” Pharcyde’s “Passin’ Me By.” That feeling hits even harder with “Methods,” a posthumously released song from Charizma and Peanut Butter Wolf that leaves the listener imagining the two navigating the burgeoning industry not just as another hip-hop act but as two close friends, and pondering what heights they might have reached together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "underground-rap-playa-sht-political-joints-equipto-has-bars",
"title": "Underground Rap, Playa Sh*t, Political Joints: Equipto has Bars",
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"headTitle": "Underground Rap, Playa Sh*t, Political Joints: Equipto has Bars | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Equipto (born Ilyich Sato) is a hip-hop cultural cornerstone and well-known activist who reps San Francisco to the fullest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He’s been making music since the 90s, when he came in the game laying down tracks with the underground group, \u003ca href=\"https://boredstiff415.bandcamp.com/\">Bored Stiff. \u003c/a> Equipto has rocked shows with the late Mac Dre and was good friends with the late Baba Zumbi of Zion-I. Legendary rapper San Quinn even credits Equipto for teaching him how to properly count rap bars.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>His activism is also well-documented. In 2015, \u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/equipto415/videos/1033058506733989/\">he confronted former San Francisco Mayor, the late Ed Lee\u003c/a>, about his role in gentrification. The next year, Equipto was part of the Frisco 5, a group that led a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/11630270/how-equiptos-hip-hop-helped-reshape-bay-area-activism\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">hunger strike\u003c/a> in order to bring further attention to the issues within the San Francisco Police Department and hold them accountable for their actions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Nowadays he’s still making music and he’s just as outspoken about politics, locally and around world, but a few things have changed. For starters: he’s a father.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13950876\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13950876\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/Screenshot-2024-01-23-at-5.54.43-PM-800x560.png\" alt=\"A side profile photo of San Francisco hip-hop artist and activist, Equipto. \" width=\"800\" height=\"560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/Screenshot-2024-01-23-at-5.54.43-PM-800x560.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/Screenshot-2024-01-23-at-5.54.43-PM-1020x715.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/Screenshot-2024-01-23-at-5.54.43-PM-160x112.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/Screenshot-2024-01-23-at-5.54.43-PM-768x538.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/Screenshot-2024-01-23-at-5.54.43-PM-1536x1076.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/Screenshot-2024-01-23-at-5.54.43-PM-2048x1435.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/Screenshot-2024-01-23-at-5.54.43-PM-1920x1345.png 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A side profile photo of San Francisco hip-hop artist and activist, Equipto. \u003ccite>(Doggtown Dro)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Since the birth of his daughter, Equipto has relocated to New Mexico. He says he’s doing his best to build a new community, while still keeping a finger on the pulse of what’s happening in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>His work in the city shows he’s tapped in with the next generation of artists. He’s worked with \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/baghead.fng/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Baghead\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/professagabel/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Professa Gabel\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/rich_iyala/?hl=en\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Rich Iyala\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/monk_hts/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Monk HTS\u003c/a>, as well as other artists under the label \u003ca href=\"https://solidarityrecords415.bandcamp.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Solidarity Records\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On the cusp of his 50th birthday (which he’s set to celebrate on March 22nd with a live show at San Francisco’s Neck of The Woods), we discuss his various roles. He’s a mentor, father, artist, and activist who is trying to make sense of all the changes happening to his hometown, while simultaneously developing a new community in a new state.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm/?e=KQINC9961262342&light=true\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw, host: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Welcome to Rightnowish, I’m your host Pendarvis Harshaw. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">On today’s show, we’re talking to someone who is a pillar of San Francisco’s hip-hop community and equally well-known for his political activism in the city, Equipto.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Famously of the rap group Bored Stiff, Equipto has recorded music for over 30 years. He was good friends with the late Mac Dre, and rocked stages with the late Baba Zumbi of Zion-I. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Nowadays, Equipto still makes music and he tours. He also plays a big role in mentoring the next generation of artists from the Bay. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">When Equipto’s not making music, he’s making movements. Over the years his passion for change has been put on full display. Most notably in 2015 when he confronted the late San Francisco Mayor Ed Lee about his role in gentrification. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Equipto was also part of the Frisco Five, who in the spring of 2016 held a 17-day hunger strike against police brutality. The protest played a big part in the eventual firing of former San Francisco Police Chief Greg Suhr.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I recently talked to Equipto via video chat from his current home in New Mexico. He talked about being a proud Frisco representative, of Colombian and Japanese descent, who juggles the roles of musician, activist, mentor, and one he’s growing into– maybe his best role yet– that of being a father.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">That’s right after this.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">What are some of your favorite things about fatherhood? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto, guest:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> It’s a trip, the responsibility, I guess. I love it. You know, like life is so precious. Being a father helped me realize that life is so much more than what I’ve been through in a sense. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And I think like just being able to understand like, wow, cause she’s like my twin. So I look at her and it’s like looking at myself and my baby pictures… and she’s about to be one year old and for me it’s just… it’s a whole new awakening of life. I never thought I would have a child, you know, until I fell in love and thought about having a child.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[Music]\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> I love, you know, taking her to the park. I love getting her diapers. I love doing the dishes while she sleeps. I love you know, I love the whole scheduling and everything with being a father. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Being responsible to others. That does bring out the best in us. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">You’ve relocated as a part of parenthood. You’re now living in New Mexico, you’re co-parenting. You’re in a new community. I have relocated. I’m in Sacramento. Co-parenting. A lot of parallels. I’m wondering for you, what’s the hardest part of learning a new community, especially somebody who’s so ingrained in San Francisco?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I’m such a city boy, man, you know. And I love nature. I love nature. I love the mountains, I love getting away. But living here \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[laughs]\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> it’s… that’s another story. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The mother of my child. She’s a muralist, she does jewelry. She’s an emcee. So she has a community of folks that I’ve been able to somewhat, you know, build with in certain areas and whatnot. But to me, it’s like a hermit life. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The adjustment is kind of like, I’m not really that social, you know, when it comes to meeting too many people out here. Like, I stick to the family. You know, I miss home, obviously, sometimes you have to cross certain paths in order to get to where you’re going, know what I mean? And I think I believe this is just an area I’m in for the time being. Everything will be beautiful as long as my daughter knows her roots and knows her family. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Time away, I know that it can cause you to look at home differently. And I’m wondering how often do you come back home? And when you do come back to the city, do you look at it differently? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Oh, my God. Like they say, ‘You’ve got to. You’ve got to love it to hate it.’ Because I love it, but I hate that mother fucka!\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The traffic, the changes, it’s like, oh my God. Valencia changes every goddamn month or something, you know, bike lane, this lane, you can’t turn down there, you know, new businesses that are just like not community-based. It’s tough man. The disparity you know, I mean, you see houseless folks, and then you see the Lamborghini rolling right next to it. You know what I mean? And with San Francisco particular, you know everything, Oakland and San Jose, they’re all becoming the same thing. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But San Francisco in particular just has this, you know, main vein of capitalism where it’s a metropolitan city so it always attracts and it gives this new life. And in order for that to happen, like they just had the president and everything, in order for that to happen it has to be a clean sweep, right. They got to make the city look pretty. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[Music]\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">There’s a lot of identity politics. You know, as we deal with in the Bay Area, period. And seeing that take effect is hard. But then you see the resistance still there. You see the murals on the wall. You see the protests, you see the people uprising. And that shit touches my heart when I see that online and I’m not home. Seeing my folks, you know, going to jail, seeing folks shut down the bridge, shut down the ships, you know, all that is beautiful. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> That’s similar, man! Where I see the changes. It does mess my head up where I’m like, ‘This block wasn’t a one way back in the day, like when did they change that?’ You know? But then it’s the people, right? It’s the folks that you’ve known. You’ve seen them grow. You’ve seen them invest in their craft and flourish. And you’re like, Yes, this is why I come back home. This is why home is home, right? And you specifically, You’ve been working with younger musicians, folks from Family Not A Group, The Watershed. I’m like, what is your goal in working with this next generation of artists from the Bay? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Just being consistent, like being involved in things and sometimes I don’t want to say people fall off, but you know, some people of your age, you know, people 49 aint still rapping that I was rappin’ with. So you kind of do it with who’s doing it, sometimes. I like cross-generational music. I like being learning from the old folks, diggin’ on what they doin.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Like and for them to have like. Any like, you know, reverence or looking at me a certain way, like ‘ey man, wassup? You’re Equipto!’ I take advantage of that in a good way. Okay, let me show you where I’ve been through. My experience maybe can prevent you from what I went through.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And it’s always kind of been like. I mean, like, I known Quinn since he was 11. I was probably like 15 or 16 or something, \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Quinn, San Quinn. Yeah. On a recent podcast, he mentioned that you taught him how to write bars, like how to structure his raps. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Quinn is a born rapper, there’s not too many of those, you know, like a born rapper, like in that scene. I met him at 11 years old, you know, I mean, like and I knew it even me being like 15, like, he was so dope just naturally. But some take years and years and years to accumulate the skills. It’s just like a natural instinct impulse for some people. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">So it’s been always been an honor to, like, see the younger generation flourish and just be a part of that in a sense. All them folks doing their thing in San Francisco is incredible, you know what I mean, I love it. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> This idea of mentorship and looking out for the next generation or even people who are younger than you just by a couple of years. Who were the mentors who taught you? And what are the important things that they taught you? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[Music]\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> My father is very musical. My father was just a jazz promoter, radio disc jockey for KPFA. You know, early eighties type of thing. And I would be with him backstage, incredible artists. You know, Billy Harper, Sun Ra, Tito Puente. So it was like I grew up under this culture that he introduced me to, Black culture, and always taught me kind of like to understand that and to respect that.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">My mother always would teach me to follow my dreams and to always consider other people and what they’re going through. I’d be a little kid walking by a houseless folks on the street. And she said she was always like, “never look down on folks like that. You never know what they going through. They have dreams, too.” And it always stuck with me about… that they had dreams too. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It brought me to being kind of like a caring person, I guess. You know what I mean? Like, and it’s not like, “Oh, I’m an angel” or anything like that. Never, ever, ever get that twisted, but as far as like, when it comes to the arts and craft, if you’re in position to do something, you do it. Like my mother always taught me, if you have a sandwich and you give the other half of the sandwich to someone if they’re hungry, always. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I’m not too much of a social person, but when I have homies over, you know what I’m saying, and folks, I love the atmosphere, I love the environment, I love being around ‘em, you know, and I get a lot of energy from that, you know. So I think that’s part of it as well. I love being, ya know, around a lot of folks that are similar minded, you know, and when it comes to the craft. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Love is at the heart of a lot of what you’re saying and a lot of the work that you do… The love, the demands for justice, working with your mother on the frontlines. Nearly a decade ago, you two were part of the Frisco Five, a hunger strike to hold police accountable, in the most succinct way to say it… \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> A lot of people see me and they’ll be like, ‘Oh, he’s so angry all the time. He’s protesting, he’s yelling.’ We fight for love at the end of the day. That’s something that we get misconstrued and people don’t understand when, you know, you’re deprived of something it becomes a demand. And that’s language, you hear “demands” like, why are they demanding? Because we’re deprived of something, you know, to me, like and when you’re deprived of something, you’re not going to be the most, you know, peaceful person, quote unquote. And but when you look where the root comes from is because you’re separating people from their love, from their community, from their family, you know what I mean, like, and so at the end of the day, all we’re fighting for, when you see protests and demonstrations and folks organizing for a better society, yeah, it’s all for the love.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">There was a lot of things that came from that. But one of the things that stood out to me was a \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">conversation that I then had with an artist by the name of Baghead and Jules\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> and talking to them about how seeing your work impacted them. And I’m just seeing this like trickle down, you know, it’s passing of the baton. And so I’m like, from your perspective, what’s it like for you to see your mentorship show up in the arts and politics? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[Music]\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Man, that’s everything I ask for when it comes to this, you know, I’m saying the music, the craft. If… if people could mobilize from this, you know, get inspired from not just my music, my actions, you know, and understand like, wow, you actually can make a difference. People-power can make a difference. Organizing is actually cool! You don’t just have to perform at a rally, you could actually help organize a rally!\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Those types of things, like selflessness in a sense. You know, like the individualism is also very attached to, you know, performance and entertainment and, you know, hip-hop and what not.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[Music]\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> You have a broken heart, you listen to music that helps heal you. And so for me to be an artist, you want to create that feeling, to create that healing. You want someone to feel healed from it or motivated, inspired. And I think I never truly felt that until I really got active with the community, like started organizing and doing things in the front lines with folks and having comrades. A\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">nd I think that’s what happened, students saw that like, ‘Oh, that’s Equipto that did “Jungle” with Nickatina and 4AM Bay Bridge Music and he knew Mac Dre’, you know how they think, you feel me? And you use that, you use that just like the Panthers used you know, the leather jackets and the woop-wah you got to use that. I was like, “Yes, come on, fuck with this.” And it’s beautiful, it’s like the most fulfilling feeling that I feel like, you know what I’m saying, it’s like, was like, okay, damn, it does work. People are motivated, people are inspired. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[Music]\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> I saw you recently performing in Santa Rosa with Monk, with Professor Gable, with Rich Ayala and the thing that I took in was that you all were having fun! It was a joyous occasion, you know, like people, there was bars. It was, you know, real rap and you know, like, it was high energy and people were having fun. And from your perspective, going on that tour with that group of young folks, what do you think that tour did for them? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I think it just taught them like responsibility, you know, that type of thing. Because when you’re on tour, you know, you got to check in hotel, got to, you know, you got to be on time to the band, you got to make the next venue, you got to soundcheck, you got to have merch booth set up. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It’s not like we have a machine in the sense of people that are not involved, right? We’re hands on ourselves. I’m there at my merch booth, you know, I’m gonna take my box to the woop-wah. I’ma talk to the sound manager, shake hands, I’m gonna talk to the venue owner, make sure I have a relationship so I could come back if everything goes good. You know what I mean? Like teaching them those type of, you know, steps, I guess. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">They’re all going to, like, go further, like, you know bigger venues in the sense. They’re going to go, you know, to more organized promoters. I’ve become, in a sense, this bridge to get, you know, to the next level.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">You’ve worked with people clear across the board. I’m just wondering, how do you navigate working with people of so many different backgrounds? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Think just being a student of the game and being a student in hip hop, you know. I love it. I love it. Like, I’m just one of those dudes that came up loving Mac Dre, loving Tribe Called Quest, loving E40, loving Black Sheep, you know, loving Too-Short, loving De La Soul. And growing up in the bay, it’s kind of like it’s inevitable to like, not be overwhelmed by this, you know, mob sound or overwhelmed like we came up Backpack Era.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">So we were like, you know, kind of like, oh, who are these kids rapping, you know, and cyphers, like, you know what I mean? Like, we were cyphering before it was cool to cypher. So it was like my rap fit in with a… with a… you know, a Keak verse or something. You know, my rap could fit in with a C-Bo verse here and there, you know what I mean? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Like, I was honored to be a part of that type of ya know diversity in a sense. You know what I mean? Like to where I could do it because I know a lot of people can’t… It’s just part of, I think delivery, cadence, and life experience\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Exactly, life experience and being a full human and knowing that at- sometimes I relate to C-Bo and other times I relate to this artist, you know? I love it that you don’t, there’s no separation, backpack, gangsta, political, playa, whatever. It’s Bay Area culture all in one. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Definitely. It’s Definitely Bay Area \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[laughs]\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[Music]\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">What’s the difference for you between fatherhood and mentorship, aside from the obvious blood relation? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Fatherhood, I’ll never, I don’t care how old she is, whatever. I’ll never leave her side. Other folks like, hey, things might happen, friendships, relationships, whatever it is, you know,like. Yeah you know, to me, it’s like I can never turn my back on my child, my daughter.I don’t turn back on regular folks, you know what I’m saying Some things might cross the line, like, she might grow up. I know how it is. I’m a son. I, you know, crossed the line many times with my parents, you know, many times where I would’ve been like, God damn how did you do that? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> You’re juggling a lot, clearly, but still finding time to work. I’ve heard that you’re working on a film coming out, so can you tell me a little bit about that? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The film is a documentary of Bored Stiff. Bored Stiff is a hip hop group out of San Francisco. Early 90s that we, you know, kind of that I’m a part of; a community of folks, 12 members. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[Music]\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">We did a lot you know what I mean like on the underground scene during the you know the like Living Legends era, Mystik Journeymen, uh, Hieroglyphics, Mixed Practice, Homeliss Derilex, so many dope underground groups of that era. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">We just… we thought we have so much dope footage from the nineties that people were like tripping off of, like. Shout out to Spie and other folks that that came with the footage that we have to come with a documentary and there’s a story to it. It’s a deep story. You know, it’s not just about the group. It’s kinda like about San Francisco as well during a certain era and growing up in that era and kind of products of that. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Looking forward to that. Shout out to Spie. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Alright, my guy. Appreciate it, enjoy the time with the little one. Peace.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Big thank you to Equipto for chopping it up with me. This conversation was long overdue, looking forward to seeing and hearing more of your work. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[Music – Keep it Street, The Jacka and Berner with Equipto]\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cblockquote>\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Yeah, I’m on the grind daily\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Trafficking through I-80\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I’m just a playa, these hoes don’t try to drive crazy\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Pay me no attention unless you gotta choose a fee\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But keep in mind there’s only so much you can do for me\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003c/blockquote>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And listeners, to keep up with Equipto, check him out on Twitter at his name– (E-Q-U-I-P-T-O) and on Instagram @Equipto_415. And you can find his music on all streaming platforms. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This episode was hosted by me, Pendarvis Harshaw.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It was produced by Marisol Medina-Cadena \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It was edited by Chris Hambrick and Xorje Olivares.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Sheree Bishop is our production intern. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Christopher Beale is our engineer.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Additional support provided by Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Cesar Saldaña, Ugur Dursun and Holly Kernan.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">If you enjoyed this episode, pass it to a friend. It goes a long way to help our show land in new ears. Thanks! \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Rightnowish is a KQED Production. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Peace.\u003c/span>\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\u003cp>\u003cstrong>\u003cem>Rightnowish is an arts and culture podcast produced at KQED. Listen to it wherever you get your podcasts or click the play button at the top of this page and subscribe to the show on \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/podcasts/721590300/rightnowish\">NPR One\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://open.spotify.com/show/7kEJuafTzTVan7B78ttz1I\">Spotify\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/rightnowish/id1482187648\">Apple Podcasts\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://tunein.com/podcasts/Arts--Culture-Podcasts/Rightnowish-p1258245/\">TuneIn\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.stitcher.com/podcast/kqed/rightnowish\">Stitcher\u003c/a> or wherever you get your podcasts. \u003c/em>\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]=\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"title": "Underground Rap, Playa Sh*t, Political Joints: Equipto has Bars | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Equipto (born Ilyich Sato) is a hip-hop cultural cornerstone and well-known activist who reps San Francisco to the fullest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He’s been making music since the 90s, when he came in the game laying down tracks with the underground group, \u003ca href=\"https://boredstiff415.bandcamp.com/\">Bored Stiff. \u003c/a> Equipto has rocked shows with the late Mac Dre and was good friends with the late Baba Zumbi of Zion-I. Legendary rapper San Quinn even credits Equipto for teaching him how to properly count rap bars.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>His activism is also well-documented. In 2015, \u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/equipto415/videos/1033058506733989/\">he confronted former San Francisco Mayor, the late Ed Lee\u003c/a>, about his role in gentrification. The next year, Equipto was part of the Frisco 5, a group that led a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/11630270/how-equiptos-hip-hop-helped-reshape-bay-area-activism\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">hunger strike\u003c/a> in order to bring further attention to the issues within the San Francisco Police Department and hold them accountable for their actions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Nowadays he’s still making music and he’s just as outspoken about politics, locally and around world, but a few things have changed. For starters: he’s a father.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13950876\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13950876\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/Screenshot-2024-01-23-at-5.54.43-PM-800x560.png\" alt=\"A side profile photo of San Francisco hip-hop artist and activist, Equipto. \" width=\"800\" height=\"560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/Screenshot-2024-01-23-at-5.54.43-PM-800x560.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/Screenshot-2024-01-23-at-5.54.43-PM-1020x715.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/Screenshot-2024-01-23-at-5.54.43-PM-160x112.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/Screenshot-2024-01-23-at-5.54.43-PM-768x538.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/Screenshot-2024-01-23-at-5.54.43-PM-1536x1076.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/Screenshot-2024-01-23-at-5.54.43-PM-2048x1435.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/Screenshot-2024-01-23-at-5.54.43-PM-1920x1345.png 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A side profile photo of San Francisco hip-hop artist and activist, Equipto. \u003ccite>(Doggtown Dro)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Since the birth of his daughter, Equipto has relocated to New Mexico. He says he’s doing his best to build a new community, while still keeping a finger on the pulse of what’s happening in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>His work in the city shows he’s tapped in with the next generation of artists. He’s worked with \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/baghead.fng/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Baghead\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/professagabel/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Professa Gabel\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/rich_iyala/?hl=en\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Rich Iyala\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/monk_hts/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Monk HTS\u003c/a>, as well as other artists under the label \u003ca href=\"https://solidarityrecords415.bandcamp.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Solidarity Records\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On the cusp of his 50th birthday (which he’s set to celebrate on March 22nd with a live show at San Francisco’s Neck of The Woods), we discuss his various roles. He’s a mentor, father, artist, and activist who is trying to make sense of all the changes happening to his hometown, while simultaneously developing a new community in a new state.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm/?e=KQINC9961262342&light=true\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-content post-body\">\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw, host: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Welcome to Rightnowish, I’m your host Pendarvis Harshaw. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">On today’s show, we’re talking to someone who is a pillar of San Francisco’s hip-hop community and equally well-known for his political activism in the city, Equipto.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Famously of the rap group Bored Stiff, Equipto has recorded music for over 30 years. He was good friends with the late Mac Dre, and rocked stages with the late Baba Zumbi of Zion-I. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Nowadays, Equipto still makes music and he tours. He also plays a big role in mentoring the next generation of artists from the Bay. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">When Equipto’s not making music, he’s making movements. Over the years his passion for change has been put on full display. Most notably in 2015 when he confronted the late San Francisco Mayor Ed Lee about his role in gentrification. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Equipto was also part of the Frisco Five, who in the spring of 2016 held a 17-day hunger strike against police brutality. The protest played a big part in the eventual firing of former San Francisco Police Chief Greg Suhr.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I recently talked to Equipto via video chat from his current home in New Mexico. He talked about being a proud Frisco representative, of Colombian and Japanese descent, who juggles the roles of musician, activist, mentor, and one he’s growing into– maybe his best role yet– that of being a father.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">That’s right after this.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">What are some of your favorite things about fatherhood? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto, guest:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> It’s a trip, the responsibility, I guess. I love it. You know, like life is so precious. Being a father helped me realize that life is so much more than what I’ve been through in a sense. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And I think like just being able to understand like, wow, cause she’s like my twin. So I look at her and it’s like looking at myself and my baby pictures… and she’s about to be one year old and for me it’s just… it’s a whole new awakening of life. I never thought I would have a child, you know, until I fell in love and thought about having a child.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[Music]\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> I love, you know, taking her to the park. I love getting her diapers. I love doing the dishes while she sleeps. I love you know, I love the whole scheduling and everything with being a father. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Being responsible to others. That does bring out the best in us. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">You’ve relocated as a part of parenthood. You’re now living in New Mexico, you’re co-parenting. You’re in a new community. I have relocated. I’m in Sacramento. Co-parenting. A lot of parallels. I’m wondering for you, what’s the hardest part of learning a new community, especially somebody who’s so ingrained in San Francisco?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I’m such a city boy, man, you know. And I love nature. I love nature. I love the mountains, I love getting away. But living here \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[laughs]\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> it’s… that’s another story. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The mother of my child. She’s a muralist, she does jewelry. She’s an emcee. So she has a community of folks that I’ve been able to somewhat, you know, build with in certain areas and whatnot. But to me, it’s like a hermit life. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The adjustment is kind of like, I’m not really that social, you know, when it comes to meeting too many people out here. Like, I stick to the family. You know, I miss home, obviously, sometimes you have to cross certain paths in order to get to where you’re going, know what I mean? And I think I believe this is just an area I’m in for the time being. Everything will be beautiful as long as my daughter knows her roots and knows her family. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Time away, I know that it can cause you to look at home differently. And I’m wondering how often do you come back home? And when you do come back to the city, do you look at it differently? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Oh, my God. Like they say, ‘You’ve got to. You’ve got to love it to hate it.’ Because I love it, but I hate that mother fucka!\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The traffic, the changes, it’s like, oh my God. Valencia changes every goddamn month or something, you know, bike lane, this lane, you can’t turn down there, you know, new businesses that are just like not community-based. It’s tough man. The disparity you know, I mean, you see houseless folks, and then you see the Lamborghini rolling right next to it. You know what I mean? And with San Francisco particular, you know everything, Oakland and San Jose, they’re all becoming the same thing. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But San Francisco in particular just has this, you know, main vein of capitalism where it’s a metropolitan city so it always attracts and it gives this new life. And in order for that to happen, like they just had the president and everything, in order for that to happen it has to be a clean sweep, right. They got to make the city look pretty. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[Music]\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">There’s a lot of identity politics. You know, as we deal with in the Bay Area, period. And seeing that take effect is hard. But then you see the resistance still there. You see the murals on the wall. You see the protests, you see the people uprising. And that shit touches my heart when I see that online and I’m not home. Seeing my folks, you know, going to jail, seeing folks shut down the bridge, shut down the ships, you know, all that is beautiful. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> That’s similar, man! Where I see the changes. It does mess my head up where I’m like, ‘This block wasn’t a one way back in the day, like when did they change that?’ You know? But then it’s the people, right? It’s the folks that you’ve known. You’ve seen them grow. You’ve seen them invest in their craft and flourish. And you’re like, Yes, this is why I come back home. This is why home is home, right? And you specifically, You’ve been working with younger musicians, folks from Family Not A Group, The Watershed. I’m like, what is your goal in working with this next generation of artists from the Bay? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Just being consistent, like being involved in things and sometimes I don’t want to say people fall off, but you know, some people of your age, you know, people 49 aint still rapping that I was rappin’ with. So you kind of do it with who’s doing it, sometimes. I like cross-generational music. I like being learning from the old folks, diggin’ on what they doin.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Like and for them to have like. Any like, you know, reverence or looking at me a certain way, like ‘ey man, wassup? You’re Equipto!’ I take advantage of that in a good way. Okay, let me show you where I’ve been through. My experience maybe can prevent you from what I went through.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And it’s always kind of been like. I mean, like, I known Quinn since he was 11. I was probably like 15 or 16 or something, \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Quinn, San Quinn. Yeah. On a recent podcast, he mentioned that you taught him how to write bars, like how to structure his raps. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Quinn is a born rapper, there’s not too many of those, you know, like a born rapper, like in that scene. I met him at 11 years old, you know, I mean, like and I knew it even me being like 15, like, he was so dope just naturally. But some take years and years and years to accumulate the skills. It’s just like a natural instinct impulse for some people. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">So it’s been always been an honor to, like, see the younger generation flourish and just be a part of that in a sense. All them folks doing their thing in San Francisco is incredible, you know what I mean, I love it. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> This idea of mentorship and looking out for the next generation or even people who are younger than you just by a couple of years. Who were the mentors who taught you? And what are the important things that they taught you? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[Music]\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> My father is very musical. My father was just a jazz promoter, radio disc jockey for KPFA. You know, early eighties type of thing. And I would be with him backstage, incredible artists. You know, Billy Harper, Sun Ra, Tito Puente. So it was like I grew up under this culture that he introduced me to, Black culture, and always taught me kind of like to understand that and to respect that.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">My mother always would teach me to follow my dreams and to always consider other people and what they’re going through. I’d be a little kid walking by a houseless folks on the street. And she said she was always like, “never look down on folks like that. You never know what they going through. They have dreams, too.” And it always stuck with me about… that they had dreams too. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It brought me to being kind of like a caring person, I guess. You know what I mean? Like, and it’s not like, “Oh, I’m an angel” or anything like that. Never, ever, ever get that twisted, but as far as like, when it comes to the arts and craft, if you’re in position to do something, you do it. Like my mother always taught me, if you have a sandwich and you give the other half of the sandwich to someone if they’re hungry, always. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I’m not too much of a social person, but when I have homies over, you know what I’m saying, and folks, I love the atmosphere, I love the environment, I love being around ‘em, you know, and I get a lot of energy from that, you know. So I think that’s part of it as well. I love being, ya know, around a lot of folks that are similar minded, you know, and when it comes to the craft. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Love is at the heart of a lot of what you’re saying and a lot of the work that you do… The love, the demands for justice, working with your mother on the frontlines. Nearly a decade ago, you two were part of the Frisco Five, a hunger strike to hold police accountable, in the most succinct way to say it… \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> A lot of people see me and they’ll be like, ‘Oh, he’s so angry all the time. He’s protesting, he’s yelling.’ We fight for love at the end of the day. That’s something that we get misconstrued and people don’t understand when, you know, you’re deprived of something it becomes a demand. And that’s language, you hear “demands” like, why are they demanding? Because we’re deprived of something, you know, to me, like and when you’re deprived of something, you’re not going to be the most, you know, peaceful person, quote unquote. And but when you look where the root comes from is because you’re separating people from their love, from their community, from their family, you know what I mean, like, and so at the end of the day, all we’re fighting for, when you see protests and demonstrations and folks organizing for a better society, yeah, it’s all for the love.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">There was a lot of things that came from that. But one of the things that stood out to me was a \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">conversation that I then had with an artist by the name of Baghead and Jules\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> and talking to them about how seeing your work impacted them. And I’m just seeing this like trickle down, you know, it’s passing of the baton. And so I’m like, from your perspective, what’s it like for you to see your mentorship show up in the arts and politics? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[Music]\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Man, that’s everything I ask for when it comes to this, you know, I’m saying the music, the craft. If… if people could mobilize from this, you know, get inspired from not just my music, my actions, you know, and understand like, wow, you actually can make a difference. People-power can make a difference. Organizing is actually cool! You don’t just have to perform at a rally, you could actually help organize a rally!\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Those types of things, like selflessness in a sense. You know, like the individualism is also very attached to, you know, performance and entertainment and, you know, hip-hop and what not.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[Music]\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> You have a broken heart, you listen to music that helps heal you. And so for me to be an artist, you want to create that feeling, to create that healing. You want someone to feel healed from it or motivated, inspired. And I think I never truly felt that until I really got active with the community, like started organizing and doing things in the front lines with folks and having comrades. A\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">nd I think that’s what happened, students saw that like, ‘Oh, that’s Equipto that did “Jungle” with Nickatina and 4AM Bay Bridge Music and he knew Mac Dre’, you know how they think, you feel me? And you use that, you use that just like the Panthers used you know, the leather jackets and the woop-wah you got to use that. I was like, “Yes, come on, fuck with this.” And it’s beautiful, it’s like the most fulfilling feeling that I feel like, you know what I’m saying, it’s like, was like, okay, damn, it does work. People are motivated, people are inspired. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[Music]\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> I saw you recently performing in Santa Rosa with Monk, with Professor Gable, with Rich Ayala and the thing that I took in was that you all were having fun! It was a joyous occasion, you know, like people, there was bars. It was, you know, real rap and you know, like, it was high energy and people were having fun. And from your perspective, going on that tour with that group of young folks, what do you think that tour did for them? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I think it just taught them like responsibility, you know, that type of thing. Because when you’re on tour, you know, you got to check in hotel, got to, you know, you got to be on time to the band, you got to make the next venue, you got to soundcheck, you got to have merch booth set up. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It’s not like we have a machine in the sense of people that are not involved, right? We’re hands on ourselves. I’m there at my merch booth, you know, I’m gonna take my box to the woop-wah. I’ma talk to the sound manager, shake hands, I’m gonna talk to the venue owner, make sure I have a relationship so I could come back if everything goes good. You know what I mean? Like teaching them those type of, you know, steps, I guess. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">They’re all going to, like, go further, like, you know bigger venues in the sense. They’re going to go, you know, to more organized promoters. I’ve become, in a sense, this bridge to get, you know, to the next level.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">You’ve worked with people clear across the board. I’m just wondering, how do you navigate working with people of so many different backgrounds? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Think just being a student of the game and being a student in hip hop, you know. I love it. I love it. Like, I’m just one of those dudes that came up loving Mac Dre, loving Tribe Called Quest, loving E40, loving Black Sheep, you know, loving Too-Short, loving De La Soul. And growing up in the bay, it’s kind of like it’s inevitable to like, not be overwhelmed by this, you know, mob sound or overwhelmed like we came up Backpack Era.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">So we were like, you know, kind of like, oh, who are these kids rapping, you know, and cyphers, like, you know what I mean? Like, we were cyphering before it was cool to cypher. So it was like my rap fit in with a… with a… you know, a Keak verse or something. You know, my rap could fit in with a C-Bo verse here and there, you know what I mean? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Like, I was honored to be a part of that type of ya know diversity in a sense. You know what I mean? Like to where I could do it because I know a lot of people can’t… It’s just part of, I think delivery, cadence, and life experience\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Exactly, life experience and being a full human and knowing that at- sometimes I relate to C-Bo and other times I relate to this artist, you know? I love it that you don’t, there’s no separation, backpack, gangsta, political, playa, whatever. It’s Bay Area culture all in one. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Definitely. It’s Definitely Bay Area \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[laughs]\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[Music]\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">What’s the difference for you between fatherhood and mentorship, aside from the obvious blood relation? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Fatherhood, I’ll never, I don’t care how old she is, whatever. I’ll never leave her side. Other folks like, hey, things might happen, friendships, relationships, whatever it is, you know,like. Yeah you know, to me, it’s like I can never turn my back on my child, my daughter.I don’t turn back on regular folks, you know what I’m saying Some things might cross the line, like, she might grow up. I know how it is. I’m a son. I, you know, crossed the line many times with my parents, you know, many times where I would’ve been like, God damn how did you do that? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> You’re juggling a lot, clearly, but still finding time to work. I’ve heard that you’re working on a film coming out, so can you tell me a little bit about that? \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The film is a documentary of Bored Stiff. Bored Stiff is a hip hop group out of San Francisco. Early 90s that we, you know, kind of that I’m a part of; a community of folks, 12 members. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[Music]\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Equipto: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">We did a lot you know what I mean like on the underground scene during the you know the like Living Legends era, Mystik Journeymen, uh, Hieroglyphics, Mixed Practice, Homeliss Derilex, so many dope underground groups of that era. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">We just… we thought we have so much dope footage from the nineties that people were like tripping off of, like. Shout out to Spie and other folks that that came with the footage that we have to come with a documentary and there’s a story to it. It’s a deep story. You know, it’s not just about the group. It’s kinda like about San Francisco as well during a certain era and growing up in that era and kind of products of that. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pendarvis Harshaw: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Looking forward to that. Shout out to Spie. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Alright, my guy. Appreciate it, enjoy the time with the little one. Peace.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Big thank you to Equipto for chopping it up with me. This conversation was long overdue, looking forward to seeing and hearing more of your work. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[Music – Keep it Street, The Jacka and Berner with Equipto]\u003c/span>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cblockquote>\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Yeah, I’m on the grind daily\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Trafficking through I-80\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I’m just a playa, these hoes don’t try to drive crazy\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Pay me no attention unless you gotta choose a fee\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But keep in mind there’s only so much you can do for me\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003c/blockquote>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And listeners, to keep up with Equipto, check him out on Twitter at his name– (E-Q-U-I-P-T-O) and on Instagram @Equipto_415. And you can find his music on all streaming platforms. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This episode was hosted by me, Pendarvis Harshaw.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It was produced by Marisol Medina-Cadena \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It was edited by Chris Hambrick and Xorje Olivares.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Sheree Bishop is our production intern. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Christopher Beale is our engineer.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Additional support provided by Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Cesar Saldaña, Ugur Dursun and Holly Kernan.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">If you enjoyed this episode, pass it to a friend. It goes a long way to help our show land in new ears. Thanks! \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Rightnowish is a KQED Production. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Peace.\u003c/span>\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\u003cp>\u003cstrong>\u003cem>Rightnowish is an arts and culture podcast produced at KQED. Listen to it wherever you get your podcasts or click the play button at the top of this page and subscribe to the show on \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/podcasts/721590300/rightnowish\">NPR One\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://open.spotify.com/show/7kEJuafTzTVan7B78ttz1I\">Spotify\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/rightnowish/id1482187648\">Apple Podcasts\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://tunein.com/podcasts/Arts--Culture-Podcasts/Rightnowish-p1258245/\">TuneIn\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.stitcher.com/podcast/kqed/rightnowish\">Stitcher\u003c/a> or wherever you get your podcasts. \u003c/em>\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>=\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003c/div>"
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"slug": "from-buskin-on-bart-to-teaching-turfin",
"title": "From Buskin’ on BART to Teaching Turfin’",
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"headTitle": "From Buskin’ on BART to Teaching Turfin’ | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“T\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">urfin’ is a way of life for me,” says \u003c/span>Telice Summerfield, a dancer who has the ability turn a BART platform into a stage where she can glide, tut, bend and bone break on beat. She exchanges energy with onlookers; they get entertained and she gets empowered. The dance is an art. It’s also a political act, as she takes up space at will.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13932887/turf-dancing-oakland-street-dance\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Turf, \u003c/a>an acronym that stands for “taking up room on the floor,” is a style of dance that’s native to Oakland. During the hyphy movement of the early 2000s, the moves people were doing at house parties and in music videos left an indelible impression on Telice, as a youngster growing up in South Sacramento. When she was a teenager, her mother would drive her to functions in the Bay Area so she could be a part of the action. And as a young adult attending UC Berkeley, Telice found a home in Oakland’s turf dancing community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13940115\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13940115 size-medium\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/1-3-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"Telice Summerfield's hair swings as she gigs in the center of a crowd during a recent battle.\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/1-3-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/1-3-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/1-3-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/1-3-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/1-3.jpg 1280w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Telice Summerfield’s hair swings as she gigs in the center of a crowd during a recent battle. \u003ccite>(Amy Marie Elmer / Artful Eye Studios)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Through this community, Telice has built a career in dance. Last year alone she hosted the 2023 Red Bull Dance Your Style Competition, taught turf dancing to young folks at an elementary school in West Oakland, and led lessons on dance at the Oakland Museum of California.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today we discuss how the hyphy movement opened her eyes to the arts as a child, how her experience at UC Berkeley exposed her to inequalities on campus as a young adult, and what dancing on BART has taught her about sociology. Now that Telice is a known name in the dancing world, she also gives us some insight on her plans to take the culture even further.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.instagram.com/reel/ClfT3U6Dw3_/\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm/?e=KQINC7950103605&light=true\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Music]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw, host:\u003c/strong> Hey, what’s up family, welcome to Rightnowish. I’m your host, Pendarvis Harshaw, sliding in the studio to bring you a story that’s for sure going to get you moving.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you’re an avid BART rider, chances are you’ve seen folks dancing on the train to make a lil change. The style of dance most people do on BART is T.U.R.F. Dancing, a type of dance that emerged from Oakland in the late 90s and early 2000s. It was popularized during the hyphy movement, and in many ways it carried the culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>More than just going dumb, T.U.R.F. Dancing is about the smooth footwork, pantomiming and making facial expressions. It’s about the bone-breaking, tutting, and pop-locking. It’s storytelling on beat, and being player about it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This week we’re talking to Telice Summerfield, a T.U.R.F. dancer who takes the meaning behind the acronym T.U.R.F.– taking up room on the floor– seriously.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Originally from South Sacramento, Telice was a kid when the hyphy movement kicked off. But she took note of it all: the good, the bad, and the dance moves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And since then she’s gone on to teach dance classes in schools, host events at the Oakland Museum of California, and shine on stage at Red Bull’s Dance Your Style competition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you’re lucky enough to get on the right BART train, you’ll find Telice going from station to station, giggin’, doing bone-breaking contortions, and acrobatic moves as she performs on public transit. It’s because of this work ethic and talent that Telice’s name now rings bells in the Bay and beyond.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today on Rightnowish, Telice shares a bit about her upbringing in Sacramento, her affection for the Town and how she’s T.U.R.F. danced all over Northern California– carrying the hyphy flag with her, and keeping the culture lit for the next generation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All of that and more, right after this.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>What’s your earliest memory of turf dancing, when was the first time you saw it?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Music]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> So when I was 11, my.. I want to call her my cousin, but she really like my little brother’s auntie. She were not, like, blood re-. Anyways, she threw a party. I want to say she was like a junior or senior in high school, and she threw a big ass party right there in Meadowview and it was so lit. It was like my first function. And in there they was fuckin wit’ it they was turfin’. And Iike it just was… it so lit. It was like one of the most hyphiest young moments of my life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By, like, my junior year of high school, I was like ditching school to go to the battles or I would like, leave whatever school event. I was into extracurriculars, very studious, very smart. But I would be leaving the school shit to go dance because that’s really where my heart was.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> During that time period, we have this thing called the hyphy movement. And through that, it furthered the cultural identity of Northern California hip hop. And it spoke to you in Sacramento. You latched on to it. What was it about the hyphy movement that spoke to you?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> Oh, my goodness. I felt a sense of like, ‘ooh, that’s me.’ Like, it was just like a sense of resonance, you know? Um, it allowed me to be free.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With the hyphy movement and with hyphy culture and like just the energy behind it, there’s a sense of like, relief and freedom and like, “Oh, you don’t actually got to sit like this and eat like this and do this.” And there’s no supposed to. You know, you could just like fuck with it, you feel me. And like it was very electric for me. Like I will always turn up. The Federation was my favorite. And whenever I felt constrained by rules or by circumstance or by um, obstacles, I could always turn on some hyphy slaps and it would just be lit like, I just would feel better, you know?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> Something that I really wanted to touch on, is the fact that your mother would drive you and sometimes even your siblings to functions in Oakland so that you could dance. What did her belief in you do for you as a burgeoning dancer?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> She would do all of that sacrificing, and mind you she was like… the battles back in the day was like 25 dollars, maybe 20, 25 dollars. And she couldn’t afford to get us all if she would drive all the way from Sac, maybe with my siblings in a car, if they was around, if not, they was at home or whatever. But they would all wait outside for me and she would pay for me to get into battles and wait hours, hours for me to just be exposed, like maybe, maybe not cypher, maybe, maybe not meet a few people. You know what I mean?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Like, I was a lot more reserved and a lot less confident at the time, and so she would go the extra mile just for me to have the exposure to what I love most. And for me, like, especially in hindsight, I can never pay her back for that. You know, it’s like an investment that, like, she really believes in me and it’s paid off. You know, I’m able to pay my bills now off of dance, just off of me being who I am. And like, that’s a blessing. That is… that’s irreplaceable. You know, you can’t put a price tag on that. So, her investment in me way back when just showed me that she believed in whatever I decide to do, she gon’ stand ten toes behind me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> That’s beautiful. As a parent I know that that’s something that, yeah, you kind of live through your child in a lot of ways. And… and so seeing you pursue your dreams and be successful, I’m sure she’s proud of you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Something I got to get here because this is an important part of your story. You get into UC Berkeley, you move to the Bay Area. You study social welfare as well as Spanish, and at the same time you weren’t all the way feeling what UC Berkeley was in terms of the social life on campus. So you ended up in Oakland. What did Oakland provide for you as an outlet during that time period?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> Oakland provided a sense of like home. Like it didn’t feel like there were as many social expectations or regulations. Racism wasn’t as heavy as it was in Berkeley. My craft held more weight in Oakland, you know, like I feel like my… I could take my craft to Oakland anywhere, you know, especially on the trains. Well, like, anywhere really and be recognized for what I do and, like, really be affirmed in what I do. Whereas like in Berkeley, it just was like, “Oh, that’s cool,” you know?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> Very much so. I went to Berkeley for grad school. Similar situation where on Fridays I would drop my backpack off and just be in the town and I… It was a release, I could breathe again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> And that’s a lot of the reason why I would either if I was in Berkeley, I was either at home, in class, or on my way to the BART.\u003cem> [chuckles]\u003c/em> Like, I was never really kickin’ it in Berkeley. I never really was fucking with the parties like that, like none of that, because I didn’t feel a sense of belonging. I didn’t feel like there was room for, like, real black girls, like.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Berkeley is well known for its political activism, its progressive activism, but there also still exists a lot of hegemony and hierarchy in that arena just to even have access to it, you know. So I felt that a lot and just Oakland gave me an escape. It gave me access to myself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> That makes perfect sense then. And that investment in yourself paid dividends. You furthered your community. You met folks who were into dance just like you were. You met my best friend in the world, Jesus.. Zeus El, who’s a legendary turf dancer. And so I’ve known Zeus since seventh grade, and I’ve seen him develop this turf dance family kind of from the outside. You know, I know a lot of the people, but I’m not a dancer, so I’m not in it. And so I’m wondering, what is it like being inside of that turf dancing family?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> First of all, shout out to Zeus. I love him so much. That’s big bro.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He’s incredible. He takes everybody in with open arms. And that’s not the case for all the turfers. And that’s not… that’s not our general standard of embracing people. You know, a lot of times people have to earn it. But he just like, welcomed me and I just- I’m so grateful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Music]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> Being inside of that family is like it’s very nuanced. Like there’s very, very high highs and the lows really kick you in your ass and there’s a lot of politics too, that are not easily, uh, legible to an onlooker, right or somebody who just whose perspective is from the outside in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s very critical that we stay connected, even if we don’t see eye to eye or even if we don’t agree on a topic. Being in that family is not easy, but Zeus made it a lot easier. Like I met, he was one of the first people I met in my first, like, day of being in Berkeley by myself without my family, you know. Like I went to the gym and I went to go flip with him. And that also gave me a sense of myself because I’ve been an athlete for a long time. And it just reminded me like, there’s not… you don’t have to separate your identity into categories, like they can all blend and serve your purpose for who you are.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> You came out and you stole the show at a KQED event. We were honoring dancers from… basically 100 years worth of dancing told through this show. And toward the end, we invited folks to come up on stage and start hittin it, and you came out there, giggin, you knew a little bit of everybody and folks knew you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> Being integral to what I love most has earned me the opportunity of getting to be who I am authentically, everywhere I go.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When you see me interacting with people and you see me like…. Like you said, I knew a little bit of everybody. Someone that I met from years ago in school could be at a KQED event and remember me or recognize me. Right. Or someone that I met through a village auntie can be at another event and remember me. You know what I mean? And so I think just like, developing authentic relationships and being authentic to who I am has allowed me to earn my name and earn like the…honor behind it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> You mentioned dancing in different places and people knowing you from the different hats that you wear. Do you have a different approach when you’re dancing on big stages or community events or even on BART?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> Dancing on big stages is really fun. It’s really fun because the support is for the most part, it’s overwhelming.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Music]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> It allows me to expose the culture to a larger amount of people and the way that I do it, is unique because I wasn’t here, you know, I wasn’t in the Town in 2006, 2007, 2008, right? So the way that I do it has to be genuine to who I am.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It feels empowering to dance on BART because I know that I can always feed myself off my craft, you know? But there’s… there’s, like, nuances, right? Like, there’s the good with the bad. Like, BART is not the cleanest place to be hustling. It’s not the cleanest place to be dancing, you know? So I don’t sit down when I’m dancing on BART. Like I don’t sit down on BART, period.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Most people who see dancers on BART, they rarely see girls. They rarely see girls who are raw. I don’t know, I don’t even really see girls like that and I be out there! So, like…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Turfing in itself is taken up from on a floor, right? And it’s like radical, it’s political. It’s not- it’s not just dance moves Like you can feel it, it pierces you, you know, And whether I’m dancing on BART, whether I’m dancing in a battle, whether I’m dancing at first Friday, whether I’m dancing at a music festival, like people can feel that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> That’s dope, Okay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Music]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> And, in terms of that validity in developing community and reaching folks during the pandemic, BART ridership took a dive. You pivoted and started doing work online. You developed a dance club called “Pussy Power Dance” and it became popular. Why do you think folks latched onto it?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> Well, I created Pussy Power out of a deficit of platform, right. Each month I would host a IG live session and it would last for about an hour and I would invite girls to come and perform on Pussy Power and, um, they would take 3 to 5 minutes to dance and they would just showcase. And I made it a showcase on purpose so that it was more open to all level styles, backgrounds, like I didn’t want it to feel like a competition or like a battle or like you’re going against all these girls in the live, right?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And I think that people latched on to it because they probably felt the same way and also because they saw how unifying it was from like, the barriers of time, space, language, level of dance, and any other constraints that could keep us away from each other, they- those obstacles didn’t limit us when we were on pussy power. So like, every episode was so inspiring, and all the girls were like, ‘oh my goodness!’ It was just so cool.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To me, giving back is a part of why I do everything that I do. Like I want everyone to walk away with something, even if it’s inspiration or hopefully it’s tangible. And so through Pussy Power, even though there was all these dimensions that kept us apart, I still was able to give back in tangible ways and that made it more popular.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> It’s something, you seem like you’ve etched out a career path. Now you’re working in education as well, teaching young folks dance in West Oakland. Tell me more about your day job.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> My day job is teaching dance at an elementary school in West Oakland. And I teach from preschool up until fourth grade. Basically, there’s two classes of each grade and each class like, circulates through my class,\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In my class we do, like it’s not elite dancing at all, you know, it’s not like it’s not “traditional” what traditional dance classes would look like, where like they’re learning a choreography and then they’re doing the choreography, right?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s more of like embracing movement as a creative expression of empowerment. You know, it’s like confidence building. It’s like them embracing that dance culture is really fun.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>What I do, like, my role is to, like, uplift them and empower them and like, show them like, even if you don’t feel like the best dancer in the world, you can still come touch the stage and show some poses. And, you know, you can walk down a Soul Train line like the queen that you are. And so that allows them to share information of movement with each other, um, back and forth and just like embrace each other, you know, really see each other.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> And then beyond that, you also do workshops with folks of all ages through the Oakland Museum of California. What’s that experience been like?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> The Oakland Museum, shout out to them. I love them so much. The workshop that I taught recently, it did have a diverse age group and I’m grateful for that because the movement and the information that I have to offer. I do want it to be accessible to everyone. And so I hosted a dance workshop on the front steps in the front patio of the Oakland Museum. And at first it was like only a few people. And like, there was some people who were feeling shy so they just wanted to watch. And then there are some people who are like, “Yeah, I’ll do it..I come fuck with y’all.” But by the end of the class it was like a good 15, 20 people and they all like, “Yeah!” You know, they’re all really excited.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And I like to end with uh, activities, games, you know, dance circles, things like that, because it… it’s not so like… accomplished-based. It’s actually about how you feel because it’s not just a dance move. It’s not just a dance style. It’s like a… It’s a feeling, you know what I mean? It’s like a… it’s like a radical act, it’s a radical practice. So people feel that when they’re in my classes, in my space, learning from me, they always leave with smiles. And that just makes me feel like, oh my goodness.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> You’re doing the work. You’re doing the work. And it’s, I mean, the smiles and also like having income based on it, being able to make a living off of dance, that’s a sign that you’re on the right path. With that said, why do you personally think it’s important to pass down these lessons to the next generation?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> Several reasons, I really in my heart, I know that if we don’t pay it forward, the culture will die, like, just period.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Music]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> You know, and so, I really, as someone who’s really passionate about it and who cares about this a lot and like who makes a living and defines my path with this turfin’ shit, like turfing is a way of life for me. And as someone who uses this practice as a way of life, it’s critical to pass it down. It’s critical to pay it forward. So that way I’m not always… the burden isn’t always on me to keep this alive. Like, you know, it’s not just on any of us. Like we have a whole ‘nother generation of people who are emerging and maybe they can do a little bit more with this practice, with this community than we were able to do. You know, maybe they can reach farther than we were able to reach, you know?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Like there’s a lot of people around the world who want to learn turfing, you know, and we have it. It’s not like we’re not capable. There’s just some disconnects that I want to, like, connect so that not only I can get paid boucou money to travel the world, to teach and learn turfing. But my peers and my… my youngins can also do the same and see tangible opportunity from this, you know?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> Everybody eats, B.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> Everybody eats. Everybody walks away with something.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Music]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> I want to give a huge shoutout to Telice Summerfield. You’ve found your path, and you’ve simultaneously carried the culture with you! Thank you. Thank you for taking it even further!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You all can follow her on Instagram at tuuhleacee spelled T-U-U-H-L-E-A-C-E-E. And that’s the best way to stay updated on Telice’s upcoming performances, classes and more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This episode was hosted by me, Pendarvis Harshaw.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was produced by Marisol Medina-Cadena and Sheree Bishop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Chris Hambrick is our editor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Christopher Beale is our engineer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Additional support provided by Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Cesar Saldaña, Ugur Dursun and Holly Kernan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you liked this episode, please share it with a friend, or write a review on your favorite podcast platform. It helps more people find us. Thanks y’all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rightnowish is a KQED Production.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Peace.\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\u003cp>\u003cstrong>\u003cem>Rightnowish is an arts and culture podcast produced at KQED. Listen to it wherever you get your podcasts or click the play button at the top of this page and subscribe to the show on \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/podcasts/721590300/rightnowish\">NPR One\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://open.spotify.com/show/7kEJuafTzTVan7B78ttz1I\">Spotify\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/rightnowish/id1482187648\">Apple Podcasts\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://tunein.com/podcasts/Arts--Culture-Podcasts/Rightnowish-p1258245/\">TuneIn\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.stitcher.com/podcast/kqed/rightnowish\">Stitcher\u003c/a> or wherever you get your podcasts. \u003c/em>\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]=\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“T\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">urfin’ is a way of life for me,” says \u003c/span>Telice Summerfield, a dancer who has the ability turn a BART platform into a stage where she can glide, tut, bend and bone break on beat. She exchanges energy with onlookers; they get entertained and she gets empowered. The dance is an art. It’s also a political act, as she takes up space at will.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13932887/turf-dancing-oakland-street-dance\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Turf, \u003c/a>an acronym that stands for “taking up room on the floor,” is a style of dance that’s native to Oakland. During the hyphy movement of the early 2000s, the moves people were doing at house parties and in music videos left an indelible impression on Telice, as a youngster growing up in South Sacramento. When she was a teenager, her mother would drive her to functions in the Bay Area so she could be a part of the action. And as a young adult attending UC Berkeley, Telice found a home in Oakland’s turf dancing community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13940115\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13940115 size-medium\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/1-3-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"Telice Summerfield's hair swings as she gigs in the center of a crowd during a recent battle.\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/1-3-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/1-3-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/1-3-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/1-3-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/1-3.jpg 1280w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Telice Summerfield’s hair swings as she gigs in the center of a crowd during a recent battle. \u003ccite>(Amy Marie Elmer / Artful Eye Studios)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Through this community, Telice has built a career in dance. Last year alone she hosted the 2023 Red Bull Dance Your Style Competition, taught turf dancing to young folks at an elementary school in West Oakland, and led lessons on dance at the Oakland Museum of California.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today we discuss how the hyphy movement opened her eyes to the arts as a child, how her experience at UC Berkeley exposed her to inequalities on campus as a young adult, and what dancing on BART has taught her about sociology. Now that Telice is a known name in the dancing world, she also gives us some insight on her plans to take the culture even further.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-content post-body\">\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Music]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw, host:\u003c/strong> Hey, what’s up family, welcome to Rightnowish. I’m your host, Pendarvis Harshaw, sliding in the studio to bring you a story that’s for sure going to get you moving.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you’re an avid BART rider, chances are you’ve seen folks dancing on the train to make a lil change. The style of dance most people do on BART is T.U.R.F. Dancing, a type of dance that emerged from Oakland in the late 90s and early 2000s. It was popularized during the hyphy movement, and in many ways it carried the culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>More than just going dumb, T.U.R.F. Dancing is about the smooth footwork, pantomiming and making facial expressions. It’s about the bone-breaking, tutting, and pop-locking. It’s storytelling on beat, and being player about it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This week we’re talking to Telice Summerfield, a T.U.R.F. dancer who takes the meaning behind the acronym T.U.R.F.– taking up room on the floor– seriously.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Originally from South Sacramento, Telice was a kid when the hyphy movement kicked off. But she took note of it all: the good, the bad, and the dance moves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And since then she’s gone on to teach dance classes in schools, host events at the Oakland Museum of California, and shine on stage at Red Bull’s Dance Your Style competition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you’re lucky enough to get on the right BART train, you’ll find Telice going from station to station, giggin’, doing bone-breaking contortions, and acrobatic moves as she performs on public transit. It’s because of this work ethic and talent that Telice’s name now rings bells in the Bay and beyond.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today on Rightnowish, Telice shares a bit about her upbringing in Sacramento, her affection for the Town and how she’s T.U.R.F. danced all over Northern California– carrying the hyphy flag with her, and keeping the culture lit for the next generation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All of that and more, right after this.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>What’s your earliest memory of turf dancing, when was the first time you saw it?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Music]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> So when I was 11, my.. I want to call her my cousin, but she really like my little brother’s auntie. She were not, like, blood re-. Anyways, she threw a party. I want to say she was like a junior or senior in high school, and she threw a big ass party right there in Meadowview and it was so lit. It was like my first function. And in there they was fuckin wit’ it they was turfin’. And Iike it just was… it so lit. It was like one of the most hyphiest young moments of my life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By, like, my junior year of high school, I was like ditching school to go to the battles or I would like, leave whatever school event. I was into extracurriculars, very studious, very smart. But I would be leaving the school shit to go dance because that’s really where my heart was.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> During that time period, we have this thing called the hyphy movement. And through that, it furthered the cultural identity of Northern California hip hop. And it spoke to you in Sacramento. You latched on to it. What was it about the hyphy movement that spoke to you?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> Oh, my goodness. I felt a sense of like, ‘ooh, that’s me.’ Like, it was just like a sense of resonance, you know? Um, it allowed me to be free.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With the hyphy movement and with hyphy culture and like just the energy behind it, there’s a sense of like, relief and freedom and like, “Oh, you don’t actually got to sit like this and eat like this and do this.” And there’s no supposed to. You know, you could just like fuck with it, you feel me. And like it was very electric for me. Like I will always turn up. The Federation was my favorite. And whenever I felt constrained by rules or by circumstance or by um, obstacles, I could always turn on some hyphy slaps and it would just be lit like, I just would feel better, you know?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> Something that I really wanted to touch on, is the fact that your mother would drive you and sometimes even your siblings to functions in Oakland so that you could dance. What did her belief in you do for you as a burgeoning dancer?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> She would do all of that sacrificing, and mind you she was like… the battles back in the day was like 25 dollars, maybe 20, 25 dollars. And she couldn’t afford to get us all if she would drive all the way from Sac, maybe with my siblings in a car, if they was around, if not, they was at home or whatever. But they would all wait outside for me and she would pay for me to get into battles and wait hours, hours for me to just be exposed, like maybe, maybe not cypher, maybe, maybe not meet a few people. You know what I mean?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Like, I was a lot more reserved and a lot less confident at the time, and so she would go the extra mile just for me to have the exposure to what I love most. And for me, like, especially in hindsight, I can never pay her back for that. You know, it’s like an investment that, like, she really believes in me and it’s paid off. You know, I’m able to pay my bills now off of dance, just off of me being who I am. And like, that’s a blessing. That is… that’s irreplaceable. You know, you can’t put a price tag on that. So, her investment in me way back when just showed me that she believed in whatever I decide to do, she gon’ stand ten toes behind me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> That’s beautiful. As a parent I know that that’s something that, yeah, you kind of live through your child in a lot of ways. And… and so seeing you pursue your dreams and be successful, I’m sure she’s proud of you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Something I got to get here because this is an important part of your story. You get into UC Berkeley, you move to the Bay Area. You study social welfare as well as Spanish, and at the same time you weren’t all the way feeling what UC Berkeley was in terms of the social life on campus. So you ended up in Oakland. What did Oakland provide for you as an outlet during that time period?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> Oakland provided a sense of like home. Like it didn’t feel like there were as many social expectations or regulations. Racism wasn’t as heavy as it was in Berkeley. My craft held more weight in Oakland, you know, like I feel like my… I could take my craft to Oakland anywhere, you know, especially on the trains. Well, like, anywhere really and be recognized for what I do and, like, really be affirmed in what I do. Whereas like in Berkeley, it just was like, “Oh, that’s cool,” you know?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> Very much so. I went to Berkeley for grad school. Similar situation where on Fridays I would drop my backpack off and just be in the town and I… It was a release, I could breathe again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> And that’s a lot of the reason why I would either if I was in Berkeley, I was either at home, in class, or on my way to the BART.\u003cem> [chuckles]\u003c/em> Like, I was never really kickin’ it in Berkeley. I never really was fucking with the parties like that, like none of that, because I didn’t feel a sense of belonging. I didn’t feel like there was room for, like, real black girls, like.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Berkeley is well known for its political activism, its progressive activism, but there also still exists a lot of hegemony and hierarchy in that arena just to even have access to it, you know. So I felt that a lot and just Oakland gave me an escape. It gave me access to myself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> That makes perfect sense then. And that investment in yourself paid dividends. You furthered your community. You met folks who were into dance just like you were. You met my best friend in the world, Jesus.. Zeus El, who’s a legendary turf dancer. And so I’ve known Zeus since seventh grade, and I’ve seen him develop this turf dance family kind of from the outside. You know, I know a lot of the people, but I’m not a dancer, so I’m not in it. And so I’m wondering, what is it like being inside of that turf dancing family?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> First of all, shout out to Zeus. I love him so much. That’s big bro.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He’s incredible. He takes everybody in with open arms. And that’s not the case for all the turfers. And that’s not… that’s not our general standard of embracing people. You know, a lot of times people have to earn it. But he just like, welcomed me and I just- I’m so grateful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Music]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> Being inside of that family is like it’s very nuanced. Like there’s very, very high highs and the lows really kick you in your ass and there’s a lot of politics too, that are not easily, uh, legible to an onlooker, right or somebody who just whose perspective is from the outside in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s very critical that we stay connected, even if we don’t see eye to eye or even if we don’t agree on a topic. Being in that family is not easy, but Zeus made it a lot easier. Like I met, he was one of the first people I met in my first, like, day of being in Berkeley by myself without my family, you know. Like I went to the gym and I went to go flip with him. And that also gave me a sense of myself because I’ve been an athlete for a long time. And it just reminded me like, there’s not… you don’t have to separate your identity into categories, like they can all blend and serve your purpose for who you are.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> You came out and you stole the show at a KQED event. We were honoring dancers from… basically 100 years worth of dancing told through this show. And toward the end, we invited folks to come up on stage and start hittin it, and you came out there, giggin, you knew a little bit of everybody and folks knew you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> Being integral to what I love most has earned me the opportunity of getting to be who I am authentically, everywhere I go.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When you see me interacting with people and you see me like…. Like you said, I knew a little bit of everybody. Someone that I met from years ago in school could be at a KQED event and remember me or recognize me. Right. Or someone that I met through a village auntie can be at another event and remember me. You know what I mean? And so I think just like, developing authentic relationships and being authentic to who I am has allowed me to earn my name and earn like the…honor behind it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> You mentioned dancing in different places and people knowing you from the different hats that you wear. Do you have a different approach when you’re dancing on big stages or community events or even on BART?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> Dancing on big stages is really fun. It’s really fun because the support is for the most part, it’s overwhelming.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Music]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> It allows me to expose the culture to a larger amount of people and the way that I do it, is unique because I wasn’t here, you know, I wasn’t in the Town in 2006, 2007, 2008, right? So the way that I do it has to be genuine to who I am.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It feels empowering to dance on BART because I know that I can always feed myself off my craft, you know? But there’s… there’s, like, nuances, right? Like, there’s the good with the bad. Like, BART is not the cleanest place to be hustling. It’s not the cleanest place to be dancing, you know? So I don’t sit down when I’m dancing on BART. Like I don’t sit down on BART, period.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Most people who see dancers on BART, they rarely see girls. They rarely see girls who are raw. I don’t know, I don’t even really see girls like that and I be out there! So, like…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Turfing in itself is taken up from on a floor, right? And it’s like radical, it’s political. It’s not- it’s not just dance moves Like you can feel it, it pierces you, you know, And whether I’m dancing on BART, whether I’m dancing in a battle, whether I’m dancing at first Friday, whether I’m dancing at a music festival, like people can feel that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> That’s dope, Okay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Music]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> And, in terms of that validity in developing community and reaching folks during the pandemic, BART ridership took a dive. You pivoted and started doing work online. You developed a dance club called “Pussy Power Dance” and it became popular. Why do you think folks latched onto it?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> Well, I created Pussy Power out of a deficit of platform, right. Each month I would host a IG live session and it would last for about an hour and I would invite girls to come and perform on Pussy Power and, um, they would take 3 to 5 minutes to dance and they would just showcase. And I made it a showcase on purpose so that it was more open to all level styles, backgrounds, like I didn’t want it to feel like a competition or like a battle or like you’re going against all these girls in the live, right?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And I think that people latched on to it because they probably felt the same way and also because they saw how unifying it was from like, the barriers of time, space, language, level of dance, and any other constraints that could keep us away from each other, they- those obstacles didn’t limit us when we were on pussy power. So like, every episode was so inspiring, and all the girls were like, ‘oh my goodness!’ It was just so cool.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To me, giving back is a part of why I do everything that I do. Like I want everyone to walk away with something, even if it’s inspiration or hopefully it’s tangible. And so through Pussy Power, even though there was all these dimensions that kept us apart, I still was able to give back in tangible ways and that made it more popular.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> It’s something, you seem like you’ve etched out a career path. Now you’re working in education as well, teaching young folks dance in West Oakland. Tell me more about your day job.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> My day job is teaching dance at an elementary school in West Oakland. And I teach from preschool up until fourth grade. Basically, there’s two classes of each grade and each class like, circulates through my class,\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In my class we do, like it’s not elite dancing at all, you know, it’s not like it’s not “traditional” what traditional dance classes would look like, where like they’re learning a choreography and then they’re doing the choreography, right?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s more of like embracing movement as a creative expression of empowerment. You know, it’s like confidence building. It’s like them embracing that dance culture is really fun.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>What I do, like, my role is to, like, uplift them and empower them and like, show them like, even if you don’t feel like the best dancer in the world, you can still come touch the stage and show some poses. And, you know, you can walk down a Soul Train line like the queen that you are. And so that allows them to share information of movement with each other, um, back and forth and just like embrace each other, you know, really see each other.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> And then beyond that, you also do workshops with folks of all ages through the Oakland Museum of California. What’s that experience been like?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> The Oakland Museum, shout out to them. I love them so much. The workshop that I taught recently, it did have a diverse age group and I’m grateful for that because the movement and the information that I have to offer. I do want it to be accessible to everyone. And so I hosted a dance workshop on the front steps in the front patio of the Oakland Museum. And at first it was like only a few people. And like, there was some people who were feeling shy so they just wanted to watch. And then there are some people who are like, “Yeah, I’ll do it..I come fuck with y’all.” But by the end of the class it was like a good 15, 20 people and they all like, “Yeah!” You know, they’re all really excited.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And I like to end with uh, activities, games, you know, dance circles, things like that, because it… it’s not so like… accomplished-based. It’s actually about how you feel because it’s not just a dance move. It’s not just a dance style. It’s like a… It’s a feeling, you know what I mean? It’s like a… it’s like a radical act, it’s a radical practice. So people feel that when they’re in my classes, in my space, learning from me, they always leave with smiles. And that just makes me feel like, oh my goodness.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> You’re doing the work. You’re doing the work. And it’s, I mean, the smiles and also like having income based on it, being able to make a living off of dance, that’s a sign that you’re on the right path. With that said, why do you personally think it’s important to pass down these lessons to the next generation?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> Several reasons, I really in my heart, I know that if we don’t pay it forward, the culture will die, like, just period.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Music]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> You know, and so, I really, as someone who’s really passionate about it and who cares about this a lot and like who makes a living and defines my path with this turfin’ shit, like turfing is a way of life for me. And as someone who uses this practice as a way of life, it’s critical to pass it down. It’s critical to pay it forward. So that way I’m not always… the burden isn’t always on me to keep this alive. Like, you know, it’s not just on any of us. Like we have a whole ‘nother generation of people who are emerging and maybe they can do a little bit more with this practice, with this community than we were able to do. You know, maybe they can reach farther than we were able to reach, you know?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Like there’s a lot of people around the world who want to learn turfing, you know, and we have it. It’s not like we’re not capable. There’s just some disconnects that I want to, like, connect so that not only I can get paid boucou money to travel the world, to teach and learn turfing. But my peers and my… my youngins can also do the same and see tangible opportunity from this, you know?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> Everybody eats, B.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Telice Summerfield:\u003c/strong> Everybody eats. Everybody walks away with something.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Music]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pendarvis Harshaw:\u003c/strong> I want to give a huge shoutout to Telice Summerfield. You’ve found your path, and you’ve simultaneously carried the culture with you! Thank you. Thank you for taking it even further!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You all can follow her on Instagram at tuuhleacee spelled T-U-U-H-L-E-A-C-E-E. And that’s the best way to stay updated on Telice’s upcoming performances, classes and more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This episode was hosted by me, Pendarvis Harshaw.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was produced by Marisol Medina-Cadena and Sheree Bishop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Chris Hambrick is our editor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Christopher Beale is our engineer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Additional support provided by Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Cesar Saldaña, Ugur Dursun and Holly Kernan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you liked this episode, please share it with a friend, or write a review on your favorite podcast platform. It helps more people find us. Thanks y’all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rightnowish is a KQED Production.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Peace.\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\u003cp>\u003cstrong>\u003cem>Rightnowish is an arts and culture podcast produced at KQED. Listen to it wherever you get your podcasts or click the play button at the top of this page and subscribe to the show on \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/podcasts/721590300/rightnowish\">NPR One\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://open.spotify.com/show/7kEJuafTzTVan7B78ttz1I\">Spotify\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/rightnowish/id1482187648\">Apple Podcasts\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://tunein.com/podcasts/Arts--Culture-Podcasts/Rightnowish-p1258245/\">TuneIn\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.stitcher.com/podcast/kqed/rightnowish\">Stitcher\u003c/a> or wherever you get your podcasts. \u003c/em>\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>=\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003c/div>"
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"slug": "peanut-butter-wolf-san-jose-hip-hop-1980s-1990s",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>Editor’s note: 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.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]P[/dropcap]eanut Butter Wolf is a San Jose legend. As a DJ, producer, archivist and record label owner, his contributions to Bay Area hip-hop loom large — even after a move to Los Angeles to run his label, \u003ca href=\"https://www.stonesthrow.com/\">Stones Throw\u003c/a>, which has released undisputed classics from MF Doom, J. Dilla, Madlib and many others. He’s chronicled and reissued more early San Jose rap than anyone, and his own 1998 solo opus \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=OLAK5uy_nF0-WLXv4osbSzzBa2eRbCzGUClaGhu_Q\">My Vinyl Weighs a Ton\u003c/a>\u003c/em> still goes hard. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Here, Peanut Butter Wolf reminisces on growing up in San Jose in the ’80s and ’90s; the dedication required to discover new hip-hop in those early years; and the serendipitous circumstances of his early collaborations with South Bay rappers. This interview with San Jose’s David Ma (\u003ca href=\"https://needletothegroove.net/\">Needle to the Groove Records\u003c/a>, \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://dadbodrappod.com/\">Dad Bod Rap Pod\u003c/a>\u003c/em>) has been edited for length and clarity. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939819\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-PBW-xmas-Planet-Patrol-record.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1534\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939819\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-PBW-xmas-Planet-Patrol-record.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-PBW-xmas-Planet-Patrol-record-800x639.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-PBW-xmas-Planet-Patrol-record-1020x815.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-PBW-xmas-Planet-Patrol-record-160x128.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-PBW-xmas-Planet-Patrol-record-768x614.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-PBW-xmas-Planet-Patrol-record-1536x1227.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">With a Planet Patrol 12” single at friend Steve’s house, Christmas 1982. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Peanut Butter Wolf)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>David Ma:\u003c/strong> What was your musical experience growing up in San Jose?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Peanut Butter Wolf:\u003c/strong> My musical experience started with my parents showing me the music they liked, which was mainly classical, showtunes, swing and country. They belonged to a “record of the month” club where they paid a monthly fee and could choose a different record to be mailed to them each month — Beethoven, \u003cem>The Sound of Music\u003c/em>, Frank Sinatra, John Denver. I liked the music OK, but I also liked getting the box in the mail and opening it up. Then my mom would let me get a 45 every now and then, and when \u003cem>Saturday Night Fever\u003c/em> came out, I was hooked on that sound.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>My second-grade teacher would also show me music. I found out about The Sylvers, The Jacksons, Heatwave and others from him. By age 9, in 1979, my best friend Steve and I were buying 45s every weekend at Star Records. We’d save our lunch money and buy a record or two, play some video games, buy some baseball cards and get a junior whopper at Burger King. The owner would be impressed that these little kids knew the latest songs even before she did, and she told me “When you get old enough to work, I’m gonna hire you.” She eventually did. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939817\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1977-Mr-Bowman-2nd-Grade-teacher.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1790\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939817\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1977-Mr-Bowman-2nd-Grade-teacher.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1977-Mr-Bowman-2nd-Grade-teacher-800x746.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1977-Mr-Bowman-2nd-Grade-teacher-1020x951.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1977-Mr-Bowman-2nd-Grade-teacher-160x149.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1977-Mr-Bowman-2nd-Grade-teacher-768x716.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1977-Mr-Bowman-2nd-Grade-teacher-1536x1432.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Second-grade teacher Mr. Bowman, who introduced Chris to funk, soul, and disco in 1977. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Peanut Butter Wolf)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>When did hip-hop enter your consciousness? And, to the best of your memory, what was the reaction to hip-hop in the South Bay?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It started for me with “Rappers Delight” and “The Breaks.” Those were my favorite songs of the year. That’s when I discovered 12” singles, which cost $4.99 compared to 99¢ for a 45, so we’d only buy those if it was something we \u003cem>really\u003c/em> liked. And stuff like “Double Dutch Bus” was rap to us too. We didn’t really know the difference. After “Rappers Delight” took off, funk and soul artists tried rapping too, and we loved it all: “Fantastic Voyage,” “Square Biz,” “Rapture.” But also thanks to the success of “Rappers Delight,” the label that they were on, Sugar Hill Records, was really the only “hip-hop” label that got distribution in the stores we went to in San Jose. We bought records by Grandmaster Flash, Treacherous Three, Crash Crew, The Sequence, West Street Mob — basically anything on that label we could find. And when breaking got big in 1984, it helped bring rapping, DJing, and graffiti to the forefront as well. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13923938']Movies like \u003cem>Breakin’\u003c/em>, \u003cem>Beat Street\u003c/em>, and \u003cem>Wild Style\u003c/em> were so exciting. We’d go to Chuck E. Cheese to witness breakdance battles. And our VCR would always be ready in case there was breaking on the news. We’d even tape the TV commercials that had breaking in them — Mountain Dew had one, and Sprite. And shows like Soul Train, cable access video shows like \u003cem>Magic Number Video\u003c/em> with Isaac Stevenson and \u003cem>Night Flight\u003c/em>, college radio stations like KZSU with Kevvy Kev, KSCU, and KSJS. We’re talking mid ’80s. When the pilot episode of \u003cem>Graffiti Rock\u003c/em> came out, we were so excited and recorded it on our VCR and kept watching it over and over. I remember at the end, Shannon does a hair flip with her beads, and they hit one of the members of Run-DMC in the face and we’d watch it over and over on slow motion. But we had to find every song in that episode (we knew most already).\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939818\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-DJ-Chris.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1920\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939818\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-DJ-Chris.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-DJ-Chris-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-DJ-Chris-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-DJ-Chris-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-DJ-Chris-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-DJ-Chris-1536x1536.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Listening to records at his friend Steve’s house. Christmas, 1982. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Peanut Butter Wolf)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>What was your main mode for discovering music in a pre-internet era? \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the early ’80s, most of our favorite stuff as pre-teen kids was on radio station KSOL, but only getting played rarely, at night or on the weekends. You could hear stuff like that at Cal Skate, which was a roller rink in Milpitas. We were friends with an older guy David Gillespie who would let us borrow his albums so we could record them too. Besides those few 12”s that we’d sometimes buy, we were still mainly buying 45s. And sometimes the 45 would be sold out, so we’d have to record it from the radio until it was available, because otherwise, we couldn’t hear the song “on demand.” But when you do that, you miss the beginning and ending of the song because the announcer is talking over it, and God forbid, you’d never want that. But we were too young to go to clubs or live shows, so we didn’t really have much of a way to hear hip-hop in San Jose besides the record stores, mix shows on KSOL, and word of mouth from friends with older siblings. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939835\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1440px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Star-Records-shopping-bag.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1440\" height=\"1920\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939835\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Star-Records-shopping-bag.jpg 1440w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Star-Records-shopping-bag-800x1067.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Star-Records-shopping-bag-1020x1360.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Star-Records-shopping-bag-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Star-Records-shopping-bag-768x1024.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Star-Records-shopping-bag-1152x1536.jpg 1152w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1440px) 100vw, 1440px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Star Records shopping bag. Year unknown. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Peanut Butter Wolf)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Seems like you mostly DJ now at gigs, but I want to know about your early beatmaking — for example, the stuff you did with Charizma. Tell us about who your production influences were at the time.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This was around 1984, so I was really influenced by stuff like “F-4000,” “Sucker MCs,” “What People Do For Money,” “Alnaayfish,” “The Show,” “Request Line,” “Fresh Is the Word,” “King Kut,” “Techno Scratch,” “Roxanne, Roxanne,” “Buffalo Gals,” “Beat Box,” “What Is A DJ If He Can’t Scratch,” “Five Minutes Of Funk” and others. The stuff with just a drum machine and scratching appealed to us the most. We didn’t wanna play keyboards or bass at that point. We just wanted hard drums, rapping, and scratching. The whole point with the second wave of hip-hop that started with the drum machines and scratching was that we didn’t like hip-hop with a live band anymore, like the stuff on Sugar Hill Records that we loved a few years before. It was all about Run-DMC and the stripped-down, hardcore sound. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13927349']\u003cstrong>Tell about when you made beats; the equipment you used, what the process was like, what samples you looked for. Were you trying to emulate anyone? Were there other San Jose producers you interacted with?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I guess that depends on which years. The early drum machines I used were the Mattel Synsonics and then the Boss Dr. Rhythm. The early recordings were done live, with the mic, turntables, and drum machine all plugged into my Realistic mixer from Radio Shack. If you messed up with any of the elements, you’d have to rewind the tape and start all over. And then the Casio RZ-1 that I bought in 1987 when I was in Long Beach, which was later Prince Paul’s signature sound. It was strictly drum machine and scratching. I always wanted an 808, but couldn’t afford one. Then, in 1989, I bought my first real sampler: an Ensoniq EPS workstation. I used that throughout the ’90s. It was the same sampler that RZA used for all his early classic albums and sounded really raw. In those years, I really loved Marley Marl, the Bomb Squad, and the 45 King. And I was really impressed with a local hip-hop producer DJ Divine, who later changed his name to Raleem and then eventually became Assassin. And of course, King Shameek was a big influence because I loved his beats, but also because he moved to New York and “made it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939821\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1985-Cut-It-Up-Chris-lo-res.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1471\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939821\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1985-Cut-It-Up-Chris-lo-res.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1985-Cut-It-Up-Chris-lo-res-800x613.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1985-Cut-It-Up-Chris-lo-res-1020x781.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1985-Cut-It-Up-Chris-lo-res-160x123.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1985-Cut-It-Up-Chris-lo-res-768x588.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1985-Cut-It-Up-Chris-lo-res-1536x1177.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A doodle of Chris by his high school classmate Rick Gray. Piedmont Hills High School, 1985. \u003ccite>(Illustration by Rick Gray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Let’s get into more obscure San Jose rap that made an impact on you yet doesn’t get brought up often. Do you remember the Members Only crew?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of course, I do. They were a major influence because they were the first hip-hop group from the South Bay that I knew about, and the songs were dope. They were all college students at Stanford University and their DJ Markski was the older brother of my friend Todd from high school. I was so excited when their record came out. I was already listening to Kevvy Kev’s hip-hop radio show “The Drum” every Sunday from 6-9 p.m., and I’d learn about all the underground stuff. My parents were divorced at the time and every Sunday, I’d go to my dad’s house, so I’d listen to it in the garage. That was the only place that had a radio besides his car. We’d play pool in there. I remember one time Kev played the bonus beats of the song “Request Line,” and it had a little vocal sample that said “Hello, hello, hello… hello…,” and it repeated over and over, and my dad said, “This isn’t real music. Anyone can do that.” I got so mad. But Kev was one of the rappers in Members Only, and Jonathan Brown was one of the other MCs in the group, and Jonathan had his show on KZSU at 9 p.m. We bought the record and taped the video off of “Magic Number Video,” and recently digitized it and gave it to Jonathan, and he was so happy. He uploaded it to YouTube.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RiU_ysKjoyc\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>There was a sizable bass and electro scene in the South Bay. Tell us about Jonathan Brown — who he is, what he did, and why he shouldn’t be left out of the history we’re discussing.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yeah, San Jose in particular felt like a sister city to Miami. Latin Freestyle music and Miami Bass music really connected with an audience in San Jose. MC Twist was also the first rapper from San Jose to sign with a well-known label, Luke Skyywalker Records, which was from Miami. I didn’t know about him working at Star Records, but I remember him coming in and people being in awe. Before even hearing the music, there was a buzz about him being the first rapper from San Jose to get signed to a label we all knew about. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Jonathan Brown was one of the rappers in the Members Only Crew in 1985, but he gravitated more towards bass music. He released records that sounded like lo-fi Egyptian Lover. I wasn’t really into them at the time because I was all about my New York hardcore rap, like Schoolly D and Just-Ice and Ultramagnetic MCs, stuff like that, but my best friend Steve bought his Bass Creator album. Years later, I really liked it. I tried unsuccessfully to release his music on Stones Throw as a reissue, other than the \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0JzDYv4VBYk\">Bass Creator song on a compilation I did\u003c/a>. But Jonathan is super prolific. He has hundreds and hundreds of songs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939822\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1986-DJ-Chris-Cut-w-MC-Cool-Breeze-in-the-back.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1949\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939822\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1986-DJ-Chris-Cut-w-MC-Cool-Breeze-in-the-back.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1986-DJ-Chris-Cut-w-MC-Cool-Breeze-in-the-back-800x812.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1986-DJ-Chris-Cut-w-MC-Cool-Breeze-in-the-back-1020x1035.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1986-DJ-Chris-Cut-w-MC-Cool-Breeze-in-the-back-160x162.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1986-DJ-Chris-Cut-w-MC-Cool-Breeze-in-the-back-768x780.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1986-DJ-Chris-Cut-w-MC-Cool-Breeze-in-the-back-1513x1536.jpg 1513w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Chris Cut and MC Cool Breeze in the back of a Suzuki Samurai on the way to a performance, 1986. \u003ccite>(Dave Gatt)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Can you tell folks who Cool Breeze was? I know you two had even recorded some songs together.\u003c/strong> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So, the first group I was in was called The Slobs. It was MBJ (Miles) and CKB (Kamaal) on the rhymes and me on the beats and cuts. The Fat Boys had just made it, and the MCs I worked with were both big guys, so they thought “If the Fat Boys can do it, so can we.” Miles was truly the first guy to believe in himself and believe in me, and he borrowed a drum machine from a friend and gave it to me so I could make beats. He had the most ambition of all of us, but not so much talent. He later went solo because CKB never took it as serious, and he changed his name from MBJ to Cool Breeze. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We recorded our early demos at King Shameek’s house; he was in a group called Def City Crew with this MC named Landon Green. Shameek always told us we were all gonna make it, and then he moved to New York and became the DJ/producer for Twin Hype, and did beats for King Sun and other rappers. None of us could believe it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before I moved to Long Beach for college, this DJ on KMEL named Alexander Mejia heard our demo and hooked us up with a show opening for a freestyle artist named Trinere. We were so excited. It was around 800 people, definitely the biggest audience we played for up to that time. Then I moved, and Cool Breeze joined the army, and also moved, and we lost touch. Years later, I found out he committed suicide. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13937489']\u003cstrong>The Eastside Prep Boys were around in the mid-’80s and made a name for themselves. Yet they’re also forgotten when it comes to San Jose history. Can you tell us who they were?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So around 1985, I worked with an MC named Marky D, who later changed his name to Marky Fresh since one of the Fat Boys was named Marky D. Then there was an MC in New York named Marky Fresh who worked with the 45 King. But my Marky had a really deep voice, like Spyder D, even though we were only 15. I was really excited to record with him, but I could never get him to write down rhymes. He always freestyled his way through it. When “Roxanne, Roxanne” came out, we did an answer rap to it. And even before me getting a hold of drum machines, I had him rap over the instrumental of the new wave song “Sex” by Berlin. He never really seemed that worried about becoming a rapper as a career or anything, but was the nicest guy you’d ever meet. He also got into mobile DJing high energy and freestyle music, and then eventually became a nightclub security guard and then an Ultimate Fighter. Decades later, I released a 7” of one of the songs under the fake name “Eastside Prep Boys.” I used the Mattel Synsonic Drums which were a drum machine/electronic drums you could buy at Toys R Us. And the scratching was terrible.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13924224']\u003cstrong>San Jose is interesting in that two of the most beloved early rap groups from the area have similar names — Homeliss Derilex and the Dereliks. When did both come on your radar? What are the main distinctions between the two? You even have a song with 50 Grand. Tell us about it?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Well at the time, they had beef, and I was friends with the Homeless Derilex so I couldn’t listen to the Dereliks. But the Homeless Derilex sounded more like a Gang Starr influence, and the Dereliks sounded more like a Hiero influence. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Did you ever hear that \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mxMCbtm4w78&list=OLAK5uy_ljXD8Mjs94cRT2cM-5XfD3FwpkpG5lges\">Raised By Seuss reissue from a few years ago\u003c/a>? They were from Sunnyvale, supposedly. Any reaction to their music? I know plenty of folks for your era who speak of them highly. \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Raised By Seuss was partly brought to my attention by DJ Pioneer, who also knew DJ Raleem. I think out of all the rappers I was working with in San Jose around 1990, besides Charizma, they got the more playful De La Soul, KMD and bohemian influences that I had, more than anybody else. DJ Pioneer was doing their beats. He was another great producer, and I actually liked the songs they did with him better than the ones with me. In those years, I was so concerned with making stuff sound “different” that some of my beats didn’t have that funky, soulful, hip-hop essence. Pioneer always had that. Raised By Seuss really only came to my house a few times to record, but cool cats. For \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j9fk9Hw5iNc\">one of the songs I did with them\u003c/a>, I ended up developing the track more and eventually gave it to Charizma for a song we did called “Ice Cream Truck.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cFEjqGsn7dY\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>How was gangsta rap received in San Jose? How did it strike you? I think you produced a gangsta rap group as well — tell us about them, if you remember.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>People loved gangsta rap in San Jose in the late ’80s and early ’90s. That was definitely selling more than the East Coast stuff. I liked the early East Coast gangsta rap, but we just called it “hardcore.” Stuff like Schoolly D, Just-Ice, Boogie Down Productions’ first album. Gangster rappers around the country were really into the \u003cem>Criminal Minded\u003c/em> album, and even Eric B. & Rakim’s \u003cem>Paid In Full\u003c/em>, EPMD and Public Enemy. Gangsta rap would sample their voices for choruses and make beats that sounded similar, but the whole G-funk sound that grew out of the gangsta rap thing — I wasn’t really listening to it all that much when it was happening. We played a little bit of NWA and Eazy-E on the radio, but we also felt a responsibility to play stuff that hip-hop fans in San Jose didn’t really know or have access to. I also wasn’t interested in really making that music, because I was so excited about digging in the crates and finding rare, weird shit to sample. G-funk was more crisp synths and drum machines, and well-known early ’80s funk like Zapp and One Way. Which was the music I loved when it was happening, but by the early ’90s I was looking for a new sound. And I also didn’t relate to the lifestyle. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13936387']I was in college and getting really curious about and attracted to stuff like the Universal Zulu Nation and the 5 Percenters. But this more street group called the Siggnett Posse found out about me through Charizma’s dad, who played in a reggae band with this guy who knew them. They didn’t know any producers, so they were introduced to me. One of the rappers was from San Francisco, and the other was from Oakland, so they called their crew BSB, which stood for Both Sides Of The Bay. They sounded more like Totally Insane, Rappin’ 4-Tay, MC Breed or Paperboy, but it had a 408 connection because of me. I made the beats at my house in San Jose; we tracked the music and their vocals in a studio in San Jose as well. The main rapper, J-Wanz, was the nephew of Victor Willis, the lead singer and songwriter of the Village People. After we released \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2q-DLOE0MjI\">that tape\u003c/a>, Victor called me and wanted me to produce his solo record with hip-hop sounding beats, but I never followed up. I wasn’t sure how that would sound, but looking back, “YMCA” was my favorite song when I was 7, so maybe I should’ve just tried it. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>One of our favorites, and one of the best turntablists on the planet, is D-Styles, who lived in the South Bay area for a minute. Can you tell us about when you two crossed paths?\u003c/strong> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back in around 1985, when I was in high school and had 2 turntables and a mixer, D-Styles went to middle school with my younger sister. I’m guessing she told him I was a DJ. The way I remember it, my sister brought him over to the house and into my room, and she asked me to show him how to scratch. I was a little protective as the older brother, and didn’t want her talking to guys, even if she said they were just friends. So I didn’t wanna show him all the turntable tricks I learned. Back then, at our age, there really was no way to learn how to scratch other than listening to records and trying to mimic what the DJs did on record.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2aLmQ5tP3hg\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tell us about your DJing experience with one another, as one of a few who experimented with it at the time.\u003c/strong> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Adventures Of Grandmaster Flash” was one of the first songs we’d all try to learn, and then “Buffalo Gals” by Malcolm McLaren, “Rockit” with Grandmixer DST and “Techno Scratch” by Knights Of The Turntable. “Looking For The Perfect Beat” confused us, because it sounded like scratching, but it didn’t sound like a human did it; it was more robotic. But there was “What Is A DJ If He Can’t Scratch” by Egyptian Lover, “Reckless” with Chris “The Glove” Taylor, “Surgery” by the Wreckin’ Crew. Those years in 1982–1983 really made me want to learn how to scratch. I didn’t even care about mixing. I’d go to parties and school dances where Jazzy Jim or D’Jam Hassan or Joey J. Rox was DJing, and literally ask if could get on their turntables and show the crowd that I knew how to scratch. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13935467']Looking back, it was really bold to the point of insulting for me to do that, but I didn’t know any better. I was 15. And there weren’t really felt slipmats that you could buy, so we would use the rubber platter that came with the turntable and try to scratch with that under the record. It would ruin my records. And I couldn’t really afford Technics 1200s until the mid-’90s, so even the scratches I did on the songs with Charizma in the early ’90s were done with a Fisher turntable that didn’t even have pitch control and a Radio Shack Realistic mixer. I taped my library card to the crossfader to be able to scratch faster, but even then, you could hear the static as it was happening. By around 1986 when DJ Cheese and Jazzy Jeff and Cash Money came out, transforming and chirping and doing all these difficult scratches, I tried to use the on/off button on my mixer and I’d have these terrible calluses on my thumb and index finger. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It would literally hurt to scratch, but we were committed. We’d use WD-40 to try to make the mixer less sticky so we could scratch faster. The WD-40 helped get rid of the static, too. But back to D-Styles — when I later heard about him joining the Skratch Piklz in the late ’90s and being one of the only DJs who could hang with Qbert, I was so proud that a guy from San Jose that I personally knew made it so far with scratching. By then, he was obviously way better than me with turntablism, and has been ever since.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939826\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1923px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1994-PB-Breaks.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1923\" height=\"1920\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939826\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1994-PB-Breaks.jpg 1923w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1994-PB-Breaks-800x799.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1994-PB-Breaks-1020x1018.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1994-PB-Breaks-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1994-PB-Breaks-768x767.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1994-PB-Breaks-1536x1534.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1994-PB-Breaks-1920x1917.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1923px) 100vw, 1923px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">‘Peanut Butter Breaks,’ a self-released 1994 instrumental LP, was funded by San Jose Latin freestyle label Upstairs Records and distributed by San Francisco rare groove reissue label Ubiquity Records. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Peanut Butter Wolf)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>D-Styles was also part of the group \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_PRN4IPWDko\">Third Sight\u003c/a> when they were active here in San Jose. What do you remember about them when they dropped?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I loved that record. I was working as the hip-hop buyer at a record distributor in Burlingame called TRC Distributors, and I got that record into stores all around the world. I got the Dereliks and the Homeliss Derilex into stores around the world as well. TRC was a mainly vinyl, mainly house and rave music distributor; I called and asked if I could start a hip-hop division, and they gave me a shot. New York stores generally didn’t care about San Jose rap, or Bay Area rap in general, but I got a lot of these underground West Coast indie hip-hop records to stores up and down California, and eventually the UK, Germany, Australia and Japan. I would buy magazines dedicated to DJ culture, and there would always be ads for record stores in the back. I’d cold-call them all and ask if they liked hip-hop, and many were receptive. Some of my bigger successes were Dr. Octagon, Jurassic 5 and all the Qbert battle records. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some stores would take 50–100 copies of these records at a time. I’d literally play them all the new underground records I had in stock over the phone, and they’d order them that way. Also, at the time, people would order all of their major label and indie label hip-hop from East Coast distributors, but since the Rainbo Records plant was on the West Coast, I had access to a lot of the major label records before the East Coast ones. So all these stores around the world who wouldn’t give me the time of day at first started buying things from me like like Cypress Hill, The Fugees, Biggie, and Pac. I’d convince them to pad their order with the underground shit I would recommend, and they eventually learned that a lot that stuff would sell well too. And in Europe, Asia and Australia, there was a genuine love for the weirder stuff.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h0cckKamCtg\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I did the “Step On Our Egos” EP in 1995, with beats by me and all San Jose MCs, and it was released by South Paw Records, which was started by an A&R of Delicious Vinyl. He heard by record \u003cem>Peanut Butter Breaks \u003c/em>and offered to put out an EP with me. I was excited to showcase my beats with my favorite South Bay rappers. At the same time, two different UK labels signed me to non-exclusive deals to do records for them. This was when DJ Shadow was getting really big over there, and labels were looking for more of that Bay Area “trip hop” sound. We all hated that generalization, but long story short, DJ Shadow was wearing a Charizma & Peanut Butter Wolf T-shirt in his promo pictures and the press and labels over there all started searching for me. I remember getting a call from Madonna’s manager who told me she read about me in a UK magazine and wanted to consider me for a remix, and asked me to send a copy of my music. When she heard it, she passed. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939827\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1495px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logo-first-round011.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1495\" height=\"1920\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939827\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logo-first-round011.jpg 1495w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logo-first-round011-800x1027.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logo-first-round011-1020x1310.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logo-first-round011-160x205.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logo-first-round011-768x986.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logo-first-round011-1196x1536.jpg 1196w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1495px) 100vw, 1495px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">First round of Stones Throw logos submitted by Matthew Clark, 1996. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Peanut Butter Wolf)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Can you touch on Dave Dub? He’s a San Jose stalwart and you put some of his early stuff on Stones Throw. \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I love Dave Dub. He was in a crew called The Underbombers with Persevere. I put out his stuff on my EP \u003cem>Step On Our Egos\u003c/em>, then later on \u003cem>My Vinyl Weighs A Ton\u003c/em> along with Zest The Smoker and others from San Jose. I think I originally met him through this kid Sid, who hung around my younger brother (8 years younger than me). Sid lived with his mom in the same condo complex where I lived with my mom, and Sid used to come over my house and sometimes hang with Charizma and I. He later changed his name to Tape Master Steph and he got the same sampler that I had, the Ensoniq EPS, and started making beats for Dave Dub, Zest, and others. But Dave was and is very talented. I just did a remix for Dave Dub and Myka 9, and we’ve been talking about possibly doing an album together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939824\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1990-LYRICAL.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1948\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939824\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1990-LYRICAL.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1990-LYRICAL-800x812.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1990-LYRICAL-1020x1035.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1990-LYRICAL-160x162.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1990-LYRICAL-768x779.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1990-LYRICAL-1514x1536.jpg 1514w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">First production on vinyl: Lyrical Prophecy, 1990. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Peanut Butter Wolf)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>We need to talk about Lyrical Prophecy. Tell us about your experience with them. It was your first credit, right? As Chris Cut?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was DJing on KSJS on their late night hip-hop show called Project Sound, and the program director Kim Collett and the assistant director George Headly were working on this record with a San Jose hip-hop group that sounded like they were from New York. One MC in Lyrical Prophecy was named Quiz One; he was an intimidating 6’5” and 300 pounds. The other MC was named Double Duce. Twenty years later, his son actually did the beats for an album with Phife right before Phife passed away. And Raleem was the producer. I loved what I heard from them and somehow got to go to the studio with them. Raleem was open minded enough to let me add my own ideas over the songs ± some samples and scratches — and even eventually gave me co-producing credit on them. Before we pressed the record, something happened where Double Duce’s raps were recorded over by another MC named Deshee. Deshee was very abstract and lyrical and people compared him to Rakim because of his voice. Even his speaking voice was similar, so none of us ever felt like he was biting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So me and Kim and George each pitched in $500, and for $1,500, we were able to press 500 units. My dad loaned me the money so I could be part of this business venture, even though he always told me, “You’ll never make it doing music. There’s only one Michael Jackson. There’s only one MC Hammer.” I told him “I don’t wanna be either of those guys. I wanna do underground music.” Ironically, the record we made was called “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z2_hStmncxw\">You Can’t Swing This\u003c/a>,” and later, Hammer came out with “U Can’t Touch This.” We were sure that he got the idea from us, but looking back now… highly doubtful. It was just a popular Bay Area hip hop saying.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939830\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/BWphotos-12.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1278\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939830\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/BWphotos-12.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/BWphotos-12-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/BWphotos-12-1020x679.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/BWphotos-12-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/BWphotos-12-768x511.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/BWphotos-12-1536x1022.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Charizma and Peanut Butter Wolf by the San Jose train tracks, 1991. \u003ccite>(Theresa Castro)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Some of the timeless hip-hop from this area and era is the stuff you did with Charizma. Can you please tell us your origin story as a duo?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We had just put out the Lyrical Prophecy record and we didn’t know how to distribute it or promote it. I made up a promotional “goals” one-sheet, and it was stuff like “Get on \u003cem>In Living Color\u003c/em>, \u003cem>Rap City\u003c/em>, \u003cem>Yo! MTV Raps\u003c/em> and \u003cem>The Arsenio Hall Show\u003c/em>, get written up in \u003cem>The Source\u003c/em>,” all stuff that was only possible if we were on a big indie label or major label. We got one write-up in a magazine called \u003cem>Dance Music Report\u003c/em>, but coming from the Bay and making New York sounding hip-hop wasn’t the move. We didn’t even master the vinyl — we didn’t know what that was — so it sounded really lo-fi and muddy. But what I did notice was once we had a record out, every rapper in San Jose who was into the same stuff we were into (YZ, Poor Righteous Teachers, Ed O.G., Gang Starr, Public Enemy, De La Soul) found a way to get in touch with me because we actually had a record out. I was meeting so many rappers in 1990 that I wanted to do a West Coast version of Marley Marl’s \u003cem>In Control\u003c/em> by doing songs with all the rappers I knew. And Charizma was one of those rappers. It was hard. I was living at home with my mom and brother and sister, and I worked and went to school, so it made scheduling having rappers come over the house challenging. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There were no cell phones or email, so you just had to get a hold of people when you were home and they were home. One day, my friend Kermit from high school brought Charizma to my house. It got confusing because Charizma \u003cem>also\u003c/em> had a friend named Kermit who became our hype man and dancer for our live shows. Charizma had way more drive and focus and excitement than all the other rappers I was working with, but I wanted to at least get a few songs from each rapper, pick the best one from each of them and put out the compilation. When Charizma asked to come over, a lot of times I’d be like “I can’t do today. So-and-so is coming over.” And Charizma said, “I hear ya, but I’m the best of everyone so eventually you’re gonna drop everyone else and focus on me.” And it worked. He planted that seed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939833\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-PBWs-dad-Charizmas-dad-PBW.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1345\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-PBWs-dad-Charizmas-dad-PBW.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-PBWs-dad-Charizmas-dad-PBW-800x560.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-PBWs-dad-Charizmas-dad-PBW-1020x715.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-PBWs-dad-Charizmas-dad-PBW-160x112.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-PBWs-dad-Charizmas-dad-PBW-768x538.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-PBWs-dad-Charizmas-dad-PBW-1536x1076.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(L–R) Charizma, Peanut Butter Wolf’s dad, Charizma’s dad and Peanut Butter Wolf at Charizma’s house, 1992. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Peanut Butter Wolf)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>What do you know about Charizma’s group, II Def II Touch, before you guys linked?\u003c/strong> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I didn’t know about II Def II Touch before I met Charizma. They lived in Milpitas and I lived in Northeast San Jose on the border of Milpitas. So we were really close, but they were in high school and I was in college, so kind of a different scene. But when I first met him, his name was Charlie C and my name was Chris Cut. I eventually met the other MC in the group with Charizma and he was cool too. I think his name was Ty or Tyadi. His dad or his uncle was in The Natural Four, who were an R&B group that worked under Curtis Mayfield. The original business card Charizma gave me was for II Def II Touch, I think. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939831\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-Chris-Cutt-demo.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1389\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939831\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-Chris-Cutt-demo.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-Chris-Cutt-demo-800x579.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-Chris-Cutt-demo-1020x738.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-Chris-Cutt-demo-160x116.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-Chris-Cutt-demo-768x556.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-Chris-Cutt-demo-1536x1111.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Charizma and Chris Cut’s first demo, 1990. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Peanut Butter Wolf)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>What was the recording process like? Did you guys have similar taste in other artists?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some of our mutual rappers we loved besides the ones I mentioned above were Lord Finesse, Brand Nubian, The Juice Crew like Masta Ace and Craig G, so on and so on. Charizma loved Special Ed. That was his favorite. The recording process was that I’d work on beats on my own in my Ensoniq EPS sampler and then show them all to him and he’d pick his favorites. Charizma knew how to make beats too, but he never pushed his beats on the project. He gave me full creative control. He would pick vocal snippets and sound effects and stuff like that, but the tracks were all me and the lyrics and vocals were all him. We were a group for four years before he passed away.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939825\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1992-Germany-w-Money-B-Hi-C-PBW-Casual-T-Charizma.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1431\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939825\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1992-Germany-w-Money-B-Hi-C-PBW-Casual-T-Charizma.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1992-Germany-w-Money-B-Hi-C-PBW-Casual-T-Charizma-800x596.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1992-Germany-w-Money-B-Hi-C-PBW-Casual-T-Charizma-1020x760.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1992-Germany-w-Money-B-Hi-C-PBW-Casual-T-Charizma-160x119.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1992-Germany-w-Money-B-Hi-C-PBW-Casual-T-Charizma-768x572.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1992-Germany-w-Money-B-Hi-C-PBW-Casual-T-Charizma-1536x1145.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Charizma and Peanut Butter Wolf’s first and only German tour as a group in 1992. With Money B, Hi-C, and Hollywood Records A&R Casual T. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Peanut Butter Wolf)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>I know you’ve spoken about this before, but for this piece I think we should include it. Please tell us what occurred with Charizma, and take us back to the day or moment you found out.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In December 1993, we were supposed to go to a recording studio and lay down a song. He left a voice message on my pager that he wasn’t gonna be able to do it because he had something to take care of. He was killed shortly afterward that day, in broad daylight. He was in East Palo Alto and someone tried to rob him, and he resisted and he was killed. I believe a reverend witnessed it and called 911.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13933590']\u003cstrong>You mentioned Star Records; what were your other local music haunts back then? Describe for us what that bygone era was like for you.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the late ’70s, there was a store called Wheatstraw Records that was close to Olivera Egg Ranch, where the 45s were only a dollar. Star Records was around back then too, and was really the main one in San Jose because they specialized in all styles of dance music — funk, soul, disco, electro, rap, freestyle, Hi-NRG, new wave. There was also Leopold’s across the street from Eastridge, where the 12” singles were $3.89 instead of $4.99, like everywhere else. And the San Jose Flea Market used to carry mixtapes and bootleg cut-up records, which were basically megamixes made by DJs on multi-track tapes pressed onto vinyl. Some of them had scratching too. By the late ’80s, Tower Records in San Francisco was the only store we knew that carried \u003cem>Ultimate Breaks & Beats\u003c/em>, and that was a huge deal. But yeah, overall, Star Records was the best.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939820\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1984-Hard-Times-mixtape-.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1810\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939820\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1984-Hard-Times-mixtape-.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1984-Hard-Times-mixtape--800x754.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1984-Hard-Times-mixtape--1020x962.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1984-Hard-Times-mixtape--160x151.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1984-Hard-Times-mixtape--768x724.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1984-Hard-Times-mixtape--1536x1448.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An electro mixtape made by Chris in 1984. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Peanut Butter Wolf)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tell us about your decision to move to Los Angeles. What did you encounter there that perhaps San Jose lacked? \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I actually first left San Jose in 1987, to go to college in Long Beach. I had been going to Newport Beach every summer for week or two with my friend Steve and his family, and I fell in love with it. I always wanted to move to Southern California, but it seemed more like a dream I’d never follow through with. After a year in Long Beach, I got homesick and moved back, but I loved that they had a radio station that played hip-hop 24 hours a day. I moved from San Jose to San Mateo in 1995 to be closer to TRC Distributors as the head of their hip-hop department, and then I started Stones Throw in 1996 in San Mateo. I moved to San Francisco a couple years later and stayed there until moving to L.A. in around 2001.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Stones Throw was pretty much strictly hip-hop when I moved to L.A., but I did sprinkle in some other stuff. With time, I started putting out more and more funk, soul, electronic, jazz and post punk. But one of the main reasons I moved to L.A. was to be closer to Madlib, who lived in Santa Barbara at the time. When I moved to L.A., I basically brought him with me. But yeah, I loved the DJ and club scene and live music scene in L.A. as well. I found myself DJing there a lot when I lived in San Francisco, and they really embraced me at clubs like the Root Down, Firecracker, and some others.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939828\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logos-second-round.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1395\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939828\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logos-second-round.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logos-second-round-800x581.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logos-second-round-1020x741.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logos-second-round-160x116.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logos-second-round-768x558.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logos-second-round-1536x1116.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Second round of logos by Matthew Clark, including the one chosen to be ‘official,’ 1996. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Peanut Butter Wolf)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>In general, what do you think people should know about San Jose’s early rap history? Are there any misconceived notions of San Jose’s early rap scene that people should know about?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>San Jose was \u003cem>not\u003c/em> a hip-hop city in the ’80s. It was hard to hear the music in clubs, record stores and radio stations until the ’90s. But the scarcity of it made the few of us who were freaks for it try harder to find it. I bought a lot of scarce hip-hop 12” records in the 99¢ bin at Star Records. The labels would send Star a promo, and they would pass on ordering it, and they’d sell the promo in the 99¢ bin. I went there every week to grab those before anybody else did, and made mixtapes with the hardcore New York rap for my high school. Kevvy Kev played it once a week from 6-9 p.m. and if you didn’t make it a priority to hear it, you had to wait another week. That was our hip-hop experience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"60\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-11687704\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-400x30.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-768x58.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>Editor’s note: 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.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">P\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>eanut Butter Wolf is a San Jose legend. As a DJ, producer, archivist and record label owner, his contributions to Bay Area hip-hop loom large — even after a move to Los Angeles to run his label, \u003ca href=\"https://www.stonesthrow.com/\">Stones Throw\u003c/a>, which has released undisputed classics from MF Doom, J. Dilla, Madlib and many others. He’s chronicled and reissued more early San Jose rap than anyone, and his own 1998 solo opus \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=OLAK5uy_nF0-WLXv4osbSzzBa2eRbCzGUClaGhu_Q\">My Vinyl Weighs a Ton\u003c/a>\u003c/em> still goes hard. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Here, Peanut Butter Wolf reminisces on growing up in San Jose in the ’80s and ’90s; the dedication required to discover new hip-hop in those early years; and the serendipitous circumstances of his early collaborations with South Bay rappers. This interview with San Jose’s David Ma (\u003ca href=\"https://needletothegroove.net/\">Needle to the Groove Records\u003c/a>, \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://dadbodrappod.com/\">Dad Bod Rap Pod\u003c/a>\u003c/em>) has been edited for length and clarity. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939819\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-PBW-xmas-Planet-Patrol-record.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1534\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939819\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-PBW-xmas-Planet-Patrol-record.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-PBW-xmas-Planet-Patrol-record-800x639.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-PBW-xmas-Planet-Patrol-record-1020x815.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-PBW-xmas-Planet-Patrol-record-160x128.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-PBW-xmas-Planet-Patrol-record-768x614.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-PBW-xmas-Planet-Patrol-record-1536x1227.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">With a Planet Patrol 12” single at friend Steve’s house, Christmas 1982. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Peanut Butter Wolf)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>David Ma:\u003c/strong> What was your musical experience growing up in San Jose?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Peanut Butter Wolf:\u003c/strong> My musical experience started with my parents showing me the music they liked, which was mainly classical, showtunes, swing and country. They belonged to a “record of the month” club where they paid a monthly fee and could choose a different record to be mailed to them each month — Beethoven, \u003cem>The Sound of Music\u003c/em>, Frank Sinatra, John Denver. I liked the music OK, but I also liked getting the box in the mail and opening it up. Then my mom would let me get a 45 every now and then, and when \u003cem>Saturday Night Fever\u003c/em> came out, I was hooked on that sound.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>My second-grade teacher would also show me music. I found out about The Sylvers, The Jacksons, Heatwave and others from him. By age 9, in 1979, my best friend Steve and I were buying 45s every weekend at Star Records. We’d save our lunch money and buy a record or two, play some video games, buy some baseball cards and get a junior whopper at Burger King. The owner would be impressed that these little kids knew the latest songs even before she did, and she told me “When you get old enough to work, I’m gonna hire you.” She eventually did. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939817\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1977-Mr-Bowman-2nd-Grade-teacher.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1790\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939817\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1977-Mr-Bowman-2nd-Grade-teacher.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1977-Mr-Bowman-2nd-Grade-teacher-800x746.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1977-Mr-Bowman-2nd-Grade-teacher-1020x951.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1977-Mr-Bowman-2nd-Grade-teacher-160x149.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1977-Mr-Bowman-2nd-Grade-teacher-768x716.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1977-Mr-Bowman-2nd-Grade-teacher-1536x1432.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Second-grade teacher Mr. Bowman, who introduced Chris to funk, soul, and disco in 1977. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Peanut Butter Wolf)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>When did hip-hop enter your consciousness? And, to the best of your memory, what was the reaction to hip-hop in the South Bay?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It started for me with “Rappers Delight” and “The Breaks.” Those were my favorite songs of the year. That’s when I discovered 12” singles, which cost $4.99 compared to 99¢ for a 45, so we’d only buy those if it was something we \u003cem>really\u003c/em> liked. And stuff like “Double Dutch Bus” was rap to us too. We didn’t really know the difference. After “Rappers Delight” took off, funk and soul artists tried rapping too, and we loved it all: “Fantastic Voyage,” “Square Biz,” “Rapture.” But also thanks to the success of “Rappers Delight,” the label that they were on, Sugar Hill Records, was really the only “hip-hop” label that got distribution in the stores we went to in San Jose. We bought records by Grandmaster Flash, Treacherous Three, Crash Crew, The Sequence, West Street Mob — basically anything on that label we could find. And when breaking got big in 1984, it helped bring rapping, DJing, and graffiti to the forefront as well. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Movies like \u003cem>Breakin’\u003c/em>, \u003cem>Beat Street\u003c/em>, and \u003cem>Wild Style\u003c/em> were so exciting. We’d go to Chuck E. Cheese to witness breakdance battles. And our VCR would always be ready in case there was breaking on the news. We’d even tape the TV commercials that had breaking in them — Mountain Dew had one, and Sprite. And shows like Soul Train, cable access video shows like \u003cem>Magic Number Video\u003c/em> with Isaac Stevenson and \u003cem>Night Flight\u003c/em>, college radio stations like KZSU with Kevvy Kev, KSCU, and KSJS. We’re talking mid ’80s. When the pilot episode of \u003cem>Graffiti Rock\u003c/em> came out, we were so excited and recorded it on our VCR and kept watching it over and over. I remember at the end, Shannon does a hair flip with her beads, and they hit one of the members of Run-DMC in the face and we’d watch it over and over on slow motion. But we had to find every song in that episode (we knew most already).\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939818\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-DJ-Chris.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1920\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939818\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-DJ-Chris.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-DJ-Chris-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-DJ-Chris-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-DJ-Chris-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-DJ-Chris-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1982-DJ-Chris-1536x1536.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Listening to records at his friend Steve’s house. Christmas, 1982. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Peanut Butter Wolf)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>What was your main mode for discovering music in a pre-internet era? \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the early ’80s, most of our favorite stuff as pre-teen kids was on radio station KSOL, but only getting played rarely, at night or on the weekends. You could hear stuff like that at Cal Skate, which was a roller rink in Milpitas. We were friends with an older guy David Gillespie who would let us borrow his albums so we could record them too. Besides those few 12”s that we’d sometimes buy, we were still mainly buying 45s. And sometimes the 45 would be sold out, so we’d have to record it from the radio until it was available, because otherwise, we couldn’t hear the song “on demand.” But when you do that, you miss the beginning and ending of the song because the announcer is talking over it, and God forbid, you’d never want that. But we were too young to go to clubs or live shows, so we didn’t really have much of a way to hear hip-hop in San Jose besides the record stores, mix shows on KSOL, and word of mouth from friends with older siblings. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939835\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1440px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Star-Records-shopping-bag.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1440\" height=\"1920\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939835\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Star-Records-shopping-bag.jpg 1440w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Star-Records-shopping-bag-800x1067.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Star-Records-shopping-bag-1020x1360.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Star-Records-shopping-bag-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Star-Records-shopping-bag-768x1024.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Star-Records-shopping-bag-1152x1536.jpg 1152w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1440px) 100vw, 1440px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Star Records shopping bag. Year unknown. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Peanut Butter Wolf)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Seems like you mostly DJ now at gigs, but I want to know about your early beatmaking — for example, the stuff you did with Charizma. Tell us about who your production influences were at the time.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This was around 1984, so I was really influenced by stuff like “F-4000,” “Sucker MCs,” “What People Do For Money,” “Alnaayfish,” “The Show,” “Request Line,” “Fresh Is the Word,” “King Kut,” “Techno Scratch,” “Roxanne, Roxanne,” “Buffalo Gals,” “Beat Box,” “What Is A DJ If He Can’t Scratch,” “Five Minutes Of Funk” and others. The stuff with just a drum machine and scratching appealed to us the most. We didn’t wanna play keyboards or bass at that point. We just wanted hard drums, rapping, and scratching. The whole point with the second wave of hip-hop that started with the drum machines and scratching was that we didn’t like hip-hop with a live band anymore, like the stuff on Sugar Hill Records that we loved a few years before. It was all about Run-DMC and the stripped-down, hardcore sound. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tell about when you made beats; the equipment you used, what the process was like, what samples you looked for. Were you trying to emulate anyone? Were there other San Jose producers you interacted with?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I guess that depends on which years. The early drum machines I used were the Mattel Synsonics and then the Boss Dr. Rhythm. The early recordings were done live, with the mic, turntables, and drum machine all plugged into my Realistic mixer from Radio Shack. If you messed up with any of the elements, you’d have to rewind the tape and start all over. And then the Casio RZ-1 that I bought in 1987 when I was in Long Beach, which was later Prince Paul’s signature sound. It was strictly drum machine and scratching. I always wanted an 808, but couldn’t afford one. Then, in 1989, I bought my first real sampler: an Ensoniq EPS workstation. I used that throughout the ’90s. It was the same sampler that RZA used for all his early classic albums and sounded really raw. In those years, I really loved Marley Marl, the Bomb Squad, and the 45 King. And I was really impressed with a local hip-hop producer DJ Divine, who later changed his name to Raleem and then eventually became Assassin. And of course, King Shameek was a big influence because I loved his beats, but also because he moved to New York and “made it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939821\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1985-Cut-It-Up-Chris-lo-res.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1471\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939821\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1985-Cut-It-Up-Chris-lo-res.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1985-Cut-It-Up-Chris-lo-res-800x613.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1985-Cut-It-Up-Chris-lo-res-1020x781.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1985-Cut-It-Up-Chris-lo-res-160x123.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1985-Cut-It-Up-Chris-lo-res-768x588.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1985-Cut-It-Up-Chris-lo-res-1536x1177.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A doodle of Chris by his high school classmate Rick Gray. Piedmont Hills High School, 1985. \u003ccite>(Illustration by Rick Gray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Let’s get into more obscure San Jose rap that made an impact on you yet doesn’t get brought up often. Do you remember the Members Only crew?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of course, I do. They were a major influence because they were the first hip-hop group from the South Bay that I knew about, and the songs were dope. They were all college students at Stanford University and their DJ Markski was the older brother of my friend Todd from high school. I was so excited when their record came out. I was already listening to Kevvy Kev’s hip-hop radio show “The Drum” every Sunday from 6-9 p.m., and I’d learn about all the underground stuff. My parents were divorced at the time and every Sunday, I’d go to my dad’s house, so I’d listen to it in the garage. That was the only place that had a radio besides his car. We’d play pool in there. I remember one time Kev played the bonus beats of the song “Request Line,” and it had a little vocal sample that said “Hello, hello, hello… hello…,” and it repeated over and over, and my dad said, “This isn’t real music. Anyone can do that.” I got so mad. But Kev was one of the rappers in Members Only, and Jonathan Brown was one of the other MCs in the group, and Jonathan had his show on KZSU at 9 p.m. We bought the record and taped the video off of “Magic Number Video,” and recently digitized it and gave it to Jonathan, and he was so happy. He uploaded it to YouTube.\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/RiU_ysKjoyc'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/RiU_ysKjoyc'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>There was a sizable bass and electro scene in the South Bay. Tell us about Jonathan Brown — who he is, what he did, and why he shouldn’t be left out of the history we’re discussing.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yeah, San Jose in particular felt like a sister city to Miami. Latin Freestyle music and Miami Bass music really connected with an audience in San Jose. MC Twist was also the first rapper from San Jose to sign with a well-known label, Luke Skyywalker Records, which was from Miami. I didn’t know about him working at Star Records, but I remember him coming in and people being in awe. Before even hearing the music, there was a buzz about him being the first rapper from San Jose to get signed to a label we all knew about. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Jonathan Brown was one of the rappers in the Members Only Crew in 1985, but he gravitated more towards bass music. He released records that sounded like lo-fi Egyptian Lover. I wasn’t really into them at the time because I was all about my New York hardcore rap, like Schoolly D and Just-Ice and Ultramagnetic MCs, stuff like that, but my best friend Steve bought his Bass Creator album. Years later, I really liked it. I tried unsuccessfully to release his music on Stones Throw as a reissue, other than the \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0JzDYv4VBYk\">Bass Creator song on a compilation I did\u003c/a>. But Jonathan is super prolific. He has hundreds and hundreds of songs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939822\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1986-DJ-Chris-Cut-w-MC-Cool-Breeze-in-the-back.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1949\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939822\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1986-DJ-Chris-Cut-w-MC-Cool-Breeze-in-the-back.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1986-DJ-Chris-Cut-w-MC-Cool-Breeze-in-the-back-800x812.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1986-DJ-Chris-Cut-w-MC-Cool-Breeze-in-the-back-1020x1035.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1986-DJ-Chris-Cut-w-MC-Cool-Breeze-in-the-back-160x162.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1986-DJ-Chris-Cut-w-MC-Cool-Breeze-in-the-back-768x780.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1986-DJ-Chris-Cut-w-MC-Cool-Breeze-in-the-back-1513x1536.jpg 1513w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Chris Cut and MC Cool Breeze in the back of a Suzuki Samurai on the way to a performance, 1986. \u003ccite>(Dave Gatt)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Can you tell folks who Cool Breeze was? I know you two had even recorded some songs together.\u003c/strong> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So, the first group I was in was called The Slobs. It was MBJ (Miles) and CKB (Kamaal) on the rhymes and me on the beats and cuts. The Fat Boys had just made it, and the MCs I worked with were both big guys, so they thought “If the Fat Boys can do it, so can we.” Miles was truly the first guy to believe in himself and believe in me, and he borrowed a drum machine from a friend and gave it to me so I could make beats. He had the most ambition of all of us, but not so much talent. He later went solo because CKB never took it as serious, and he changed his name from MBJ to Cool Breeze. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We recorded our early demos at King Shameek’s house; he was in a group called Def City Crew with this MC named Landon Green. Shameek always told us we were all gonna make it, and then he moved to New York and became the DJ/producer for Twin Hype, and did beats for King Sun and other rappers. None of us could believe it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before I moved to Long Beach for college, this DJ on KMEL named Alexander Mejia heard our demo and hooked us up with a show opening for a freestyle artist named Trinere. We were so excited. It was around 800 people, definitely the biggest audience we played for up to that time. Then I moved, and Cool Breeze joined the army, and also moved, and we lost touch. Years later, I found out he committed suicide. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cstrong>The Eastside Prep Boys were around in the mid-’80s and made a name for themselves. Yet they’re also forgotten when it comes to San Jose history. Can you tell us who they were?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So around 1985, I worked with an MC named Marky D, who later changed his name to Marky Fresh since one of the Fat Boys was named Marky D. Then there was an MC in New York named Marky Fresh who worked with the 45 King. But my Marky had a really deep voice, like Spyder D, even though we were only 15. I was really excited to record with him, but I could never get him to write down rhymes. He always freestyled his way through it. When “Roxanne, Roxanne” came out, we did an answer rap to it. And even before me getting a hold of drum machines, I had him rap over the instrumental of the new wave song “Sex” by Berlin. He never really seemed that worried about becoming a rapper as a career or anything, but was the nicest guy you’d ever meet. He also got into mobile DJing high energy and freestyle music, and then eventually became a nightclub security guard and then an Ultimate Fighter. Decades later, I released a 7” of one of the songs under the fake name “Eastside Prep Boys.” I used the Mattel Synsonic Drums which were a drum machine/electronic drums you could buy at Toys R Us. And the scratching was terrible.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cstrong>San Jose is interesting in that two of the most beloved early rap groups from the area have similar names — Homeliss Derilex and the Dereliks. When did both come on your radar? What are the main distinctions between the two? You even have a song with 50 Grand. Tell us about it?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Well at the time, they had beef, and I was friends with the Homeless Derilex so I couldn’t listen to the Dereliks. But the Homeless Derilex sounded more like a Gang Starr influence, and the Dereliks sounded more like a Hiero influence. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Did you ever hear that \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mxMCbtm4w78&list=OLAK5uy_ljXD8Mjs94cRT2cM-5XfD3FwpkpG5lges\">Raised By Seuss reissue from a few years ago\u003c/a>? They were from Sunnyvale, supposedly. Any reaction to their music? I know plenty of folks for your era who speak of them highly. \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Raised By Seuss was partly brought to my attention by DJ Pioneer, who also knew DJ Raleem. I think out of all the rappers I was working with in San Jose around 1990, besides Charizma, they got the more playful De La Soul, KMD and bohemian influences that I had, more than anybody else. DJ Pioneer was doing their beats. He was another great producer, and I actually liked the songs they did with him better than the ones with me. In those years, I was so concerned with making stuff sound “different” that some of my beats didn’t have that funky, soulful, hip-hop essence. Pioneer always had that. Raised By Seuss really only came to my house a few times to record, but cool cats. For \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j9fk9Hw5iNc\">one of the songs I did with them\u003c/a>, I ended up developing the track more and eventually gave it to Charizma for a song we did called “Ice Cream Truck.”\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/cFEjqGsn7dY'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/cFEjqGsn7dY'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>How was gangsta rap received in San Jose? How did it strike you? I think you produced a gangsta rap group as well — tell us about them, if you remember.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>People loved gangsta rap in San Jose in the late ’80s and early ’90s. That was definitely selling more than the East Coast stuff. I liked the early East Coast gangsta rap, but we just called it “hardcore.” Stuff like Schoolly D, Just-Ice, Boogie Down Productions’ first album. Gangster rappers around the country were really into the \u003cem>Criminal Minded\u003c/em> album, and even Eric B. & Rakim’s \u003cem>Paid In Full\u003c/em>, EPMD and Public Enemy. Gangsta rap would sample their voices for choruses and make beats that sounded similar, but the whole G-funk sound that grew out of the gangsta rap thing — I wasn’t really listening to it all that much when it was happening. We played a little bit of NWA and Eazy-E on the radio, but we also felt a responsibility to play stuff that hip-hop fans in San Jose didn’t really know or have access to. I also wasn’t interested in really making that music, because I was so excited about digging in the crates and finding rare, weird shit to sample. G-funk was more crisp synths and drum machines, and well-known early ’80s funk like Zapp and One Way. Which was the music I loved when it was happening, but by the early ’90s I was looking for a new sound. And I also didn’t relate to the lifestyle. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>I was in college and getting really curious about and attracted to stuff like the Universal Zulu Nation and the 5 Percenters. But this more street group called the Siggnett Posse found out about me through Charizma’s dad, who played in a reggae band with this guy who knew them. They didn’t know any producers, so they were introduced to me. One of the rappers was from San Francisco, and the other was from Oakland, so they called their crew BSB, which stood for Both Sides Of The Bay. They sounded more like Totally Insane, Rappin’ 4-Tay, MC Breed or Paperboy, but it had a 408 connection because of me. I made the beats at my house in San Jose; we tracked the music and their vocals in a studio in San Jose as well. The main rapper, J-Wanz, was the nephew of Victor Willis, the lead singer and songwriter of the Village People. After we released \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2q-DLOE0MjI\">that tape\u003c/a>, Victor called me and wanted me to produce his solo record with hip-hop sounding beats, but I never followed up. I wasn’t sure how that would sound, but looking back, “YMCA” was my favorite song when I was 7, so maybe I should’ve just tried it. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>One of our favorites, and one of the best turntablists on the planet, is D-Styles, who lived in the South Bay area for a minute. Can you tell us about when you two crossed paths?\u003c/strong> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back in around 1985, when I was in high school and had 2 turntables and a mixer, D-Styles went to middle school with my younger sister. I’m guessing she told him I was a DJ. The way I remember it, my sister brought him over to the house and into my room, and she asked me to show him how to scratch. I was a little protective as the older brother, and didn’t want her talking to guys, even if she said they were just friends. So I didn’t wanna show him all the turntable tricks I learned. Back then, at our age, there really was no way to learn how to scratch other than listening to records and trying to mimic what the DJs did on record.\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/2aLmQ5tP3hg'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/2aLmQ5tP3hg'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tell us about your DJing experience with one another, as one of a few who experimented with it at the time.\u003c/strong> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Adventures Of Grandmaster Flash” was one of the first songs we’d all try to learn, and then “Buffalo Gals” by Malcolm McLaren, “Rockit” with Grandmixer DST and “Techno Scratch” by Knights Of The Turntable. “Looking For The Perfect Beat” confused us, because it sounded like scratching, but it didn’t sound like a human did it; it was more robotic. But there was “What Is A DJ If He Can’t Scratch” by Egyptian Lover, “Reckless” with Chris “The Glove” Taylor, “Surgery” by the Wreckin’ Crew. Those years in 1982–1983 really made me want to learn how to scratch. I didn’t even care about mixing. I’d go to parties and school dances where Jazzy Jim or D’Jam Hassan or Joey J. Rox was DJing, and literally ask if could get on their turntables and show the crowd that I knew how to scratch. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Looking back, it was really bold to the point of insulting for me to do that, but I didn’t know any better. I was 15. And there weren’t really felt slipmats that you could buy, so we would use the rubber platter that came with the turntable and try to scratch with that under the record. It would ruin my records. And I couldn’t really afford Technics 1200s until the mid-’90s, so even the scratches I did on the songs with Charizma in the early ’90s were done with a Fisher turntable that didn’t even have pitch control and a Radio Shack Realistic mixer. I taped my library card to the crossfader to be able to scratch faster, but even then, you could hear the static as it was happening. By around 1986 when DJ Cheese and Jazzy Jeff and Cash Money came out, transforming and chirping and doing all these difficult scratches, I tried to use the on/off button on my mixer and I’d have these terrible calluses on my thumb and index finger. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It would literally hurt to scratch, but we were committed. We’d use WD-40 to try to make the mixer less sticky so we could scratch faster. The WD-40 helped get rid of the static, too. But back to D-Styles — when I later heard about him joining the Skratch Piklz in the late ’90s and being one of the only DJs who could hang with Qbert, I was so proud that a guy from San Jose that I personally knew made it so far with scratching. By then, he was obviously way better than me with turntablism, and has been ever since.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939826\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1923px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1994-PB-Breaks.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1923\" height=\"1920\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939826\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1994-PB-Breaks.jpg 1923w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1994-PB-Breaks-800x799.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1994-PB-Breaks-1020x1018.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1994-PB-Breaks-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1994-PB-Breaks-768x767.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1994-PB-Breaks-1536x1534.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1994-PB-Breaks-1920x1917.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1923px) 100vw, 1923px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">‘Peanut Butter Breaks,’ a self-released 1994 instrumental LP, was funded by San Jose Latin freestyle label Upstairs Records and distributed by San Francisco rare groove reissue label Ubiquity Records. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Peanut Butter Wolf)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>D-Styles was also part of the group \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_PRN4IPWDko\">Third Sight\u003c/a> when they were active here in San Jose. What do you remember about them when they dropped?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I loved that record. I was working as the hip-hop buyer at a record distributor in Burlingame called TRC Distributors, and I got that record into stores all around the world. I got the Dereliks and the Homeliss Derilex into stores around the world as well. TRC was a mainly vinyl, mainly house and rave music distributor; I called and asked if I could start a hip-hop division, and they gave me a shot. New York stores generally didn’t care about San Jose rap, or Bay Area rap in general, but I got a lot of these underground West Coast indie hip-hop records to stores up and down California, and eventually the UK, Germany, Australia and Japan. I would buy magazines dedicated to DJ culture, and there would always be ads for record stores in the back. I’d cold-call them all and ask if they liked hip-hop, and many were receptive. Some of my bigger successes were Dr. Octagon, Jurassic 5 and all the Qbert battle records. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some stores would take 50–100 copies of these records at a time. I’d literally play them all the new underground records I had in stock over the phone, and they’d order them that way. Also, at the time, people would order all of their major label and indie label hip-hop from East Coast distributors, but since the Rainbo Records plant was on the West Coast, I had access to a lot of the major label records before the East Coast ones. So all these stores around the world who wouldn’t give me the time of day at first started buying things from me like like Cypress Hill, The Fugees, Biggie, and Pac. I’d convince them to pad their order with the underground shit I would recommend, and they eventually learned that a lot that stuff would sell well too. And in Europe, Asia and Australia, there was a genuine love for the weirder stuff.\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/h0cckKamCtg'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/h0cckKamCtg'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I did the “Step On Our Egos” EP in 1995, with beats by me and all San Jose MCs, and it was released by South Paw Records, which was started by an A&R of Delicious Vinyl. He heard by record \u003cem>Peanut Butter Breaks \u003c/em>and offered to put out an EP with me. I was excited to showcase my beats with my favorite South Bay rappers. At the same time, two different UK labels signed me to non-exclusive deals to do records for them. This was when DJ Shadow was getting really big over there, and labels were looking for more of that Bay Area “trip hop” sound. We all hated that generalization, but long story short, DJ Shadow was wearing a Charizma & Peanut Butter Wolf T-shirt in his promo pictures and the press and labels over there all started searching for me. I remember getting a call from Madonna’s manager who told me she read about me in a UK magazine and wanted to consider me for a remix, and asked me to send a copy of my music. When she heard it, she passed. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939827\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1495px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logo-first-round011.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1495\" height=\"1920\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939827\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logo-first-round011.jpg 1495w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logo-first-round011-800x1027.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logo-first-round011-1020x1310.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logo-first-round011-160x205.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logo-first-round011-768x986.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logo-first-round011-1196x1536.jpg 1196w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1495px) 100vw, 1495px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">First round of Stones Throw logos submitted by Matthew Clark, 1996. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Peanut Butter Wolf)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Can you touch on Dave Dub? He’s a San Jose stalwart and you put some of his early stuff on Stones Throw. \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I love Dave Dub. He was in a crew called The Underbombers with Persevere. I put out his stuff on my EP \u003cem>Step On Our Egos\u003c/em>, then later on \u003cem>My Vinyl Weighs A Ton\u003c/em> along with Zest The Smoker and others from San Jose. I think I originally met him through this kid Sid, who hung around my younger brother (8 years younger than me). Sid lived with his mom in the same condo complex where I lived with my mom, and Sid used to come over my house and sometimes hang with Charizma and I. He later changed his name to Tape Master Steph and he got the same sampler that I had, the Ensoniq EPS, and started making beats for Dave Dub, Zest, and others. But Dave was and is very talented. I just did a remix for Dave Dub and Myka 9, and we’ve been talking about possibly doing an album together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939824\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1990-LYRICAL.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1948\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939824\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1990-LYRICAL.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1990-LYRICAL-800x812.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1990-LYRICAL-1020x1035.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1990-LYRICAL-160x162.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1990-LYRICAL-768x779.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1990-LYRICAL-1514x1536.jpg 1514w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">First production on vinyl: Lyrical Prophecy, 1990. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Peanut Butter Wolf)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>We need to talk about Lyrical Prophecy. Tell us about your experience with them. It was your first credit, right? As Chris Cut?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was DJing on KSJS on their late night hip-hop show called Project Sound, and the program director Kim Collett and the assistant director George Headly were working on this record with a San Jose hip-hop group that sounded like they were from New York. One MC in Lyrical Prophecy was named Quiz One; he was an intimidating 6’5” and 300 pounds. The other MC was named Double Duce. Twenty years later, his son actually did the beats for an album with Phife right before Phife passed away. And Raleem was the producer. I loved what I heard from them and somehow got to go to the studio with them. Raleem was open minded enough to let me add my own ideas over the songs ± some samples and scratches — and even eventually gave me co-producing credit on them. Before we pressed the record, something happened where Double Duce’s raps were recorded over by another MC named Deshee. Deshee was very abstract and lyrical and people compared him to Rakim because of his voice. Even his speaking voice was similar, so none of us ever felt like he was biting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So me and Kim and George each pitched in $500, and for $1,500, we were able to press 500 units. My dad loaned me the money so I could be part of this business venture, even though he always told me, “You’ll never make it doing music. There’s only one Michael Jackson. There’s only one MC Hammer.” I told him “I don’t wanna be either of those guys. I wanna do underground music.” Ironically, the record we made was called “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z2_hStmncxw\">You Can’t Swing This\u003c/a>,” and later, Hammer came out with “U Can’t Touch This.” We were sure that he got the idea from us, but looking back now… highly doubtful. It was just a popular Bay Area hip hop saying.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939830\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/BWphotos-12.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1278\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939830\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/BWphotos-12.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/BWphotos-12-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/BWphotos-12-1020x679.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/BWphotos-12-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/BWphotos-12-768x511.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/BWphotos-12-1536x1022.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Charizma and Peanut Butter Wolf by the San Jose train tracks, 1991. \u003ccite>(Theresa Castro)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Some of the timeless hip-hop from this area and era is the stuff you did with Charizma. Can you please tell us your origin story as a duo?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We had just put out the Lyrical Prophecy record and we didn’t know how to distribute it or promote it. I made up a promotional “goals” one-sheet, and it was stuff like “Get on \u003cem>In Living Color\u003c/em>, \u003cem>Rap City\u003c/em>, \u003cem>Yo! MTV Raps\u003c/em> and \u003cem>The Arsenio Hall Show\u003c/em>, get written up in \u003cem>The Source\u003c/em>,” all stuff that was only possible if we were on a big indie label or major label. We got one write-up in a magazine called \u003cem>Dance Music Report\u003c/em>, but coming from the Bay and making New York sounding hip-hop wasn’t the move. We didn’t even master the vinyl — we didn’t know what that was — so it sounded really lo-fi and muddy. But what I did notice was once we had a record out, every rapper in San Jose who was into the same stuff we were into (YZ, Poor Righteous Teachers, Ed O.G., Gang Starr, Public Enemy, De La Soul) found a way to get in touch with me because we actually had a record out. I was meeting so many rappers in 1990 that I wanted to do a West Coast version of Marley Marl’s \u003cem>In Control\u003c/em> by doing songs with all the rappers I knew. And Charizma was one of those rappers. It was hard. I was living at home with my mom and brother and sister, and I worked and went to school, so it made scheduling having rappers come over the house challenging. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There were no cell phones or email, so you just had to get a hold of people when you were home and they were home. One day, my friend Kermit from high school brought Charizma to my house. It got confusing because Charizma \u003cem>also\u003c/em> had a friend named Kermit who became our hype man and dancer for our live shows. Charizma had way more drive and focus and excitement than all the other rappers I was working with, but I wanted to at least get a few songs from each rapper, pick the best one from each of them and put out the compilation. When Charizma asked to come over, a lot of times I’d be like “I can’t do today. So-and-so is coming over.” And Charizma said, “I hear ya, but I’m the best of everyone so eventually you’re gonna drop everyone else and focus on me.” And it worked. He planted that seed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939833\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-PBWs-dad-Charizmas-dad-PBW.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1345\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-PBWs-dad-Charizmas-dad-PBW.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-PBWs-dad-Charizmas-dad-PBW-800x560.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-PBWs-dad-Charizmas-dad-PBW-1020x715.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-PBWs-dad-Charizmas-dad-PBW-160x112.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-PBWs-dad-Charizmas-dad-PBW-768x538.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-PBWs-dad-Charizmas-dad-PBW-1536x1076.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(L–R) Charizma, Peanut Butter Wolf’s dad, Charizma’s dad and Peanut Butter Wolf at Charizma’s house, 1992. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Peanut Butter Wolf)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>What do you know about Charizma’s group, II Def II Touch, before you guys linked?\u003c/strong> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I didn’t know about II Def II Touch before I met Charizma. They lived in Milpitas and I lived in Northeast San Jose on the border of Milpitas. So we were really close, but they were in high school and I was in college, so kind of a different scene. But when I first met him, his name was Charlie C and my name was Chris Cut. I eventually met the other MC in the group with Charizma and he was cool too. I think his name was Ty or Tyadi. His dad or his uncle was in The Natural Four, who were an R&B group that worked under Curtis Mayfield. The original business card Charizma gave me was for II Def II Touch, I think. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939831\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-Chris-Cutt-demo.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1389\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939831\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-Chris-Cutt-demo.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-Chris-Cutt-demo-800x579.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-Chris-Cutt-demo-1020x738.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-Chris-Cutt-demo-160x116.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-Chris-Cutt-demo-768x556.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/Charizma-Chris-Cutt-demo-1536x1111.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Charizma and Chris Cut’s first demo, 1990. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Peanut Butter Wolf)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>What was the recording process like? Did you guys have similar taste in other artists?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some of our mutual rappers we loved besides the ones I mentioned above were Lord Finesse, Brand Nubian, The Juice Crew like Masta Ace and Craig G, so on and so on. Charizma loved Special Ed. That was his favorite. The recording process was that I’d work on beats on my own in my Ensoniq EPS sampler and then show them all to him and he’d pick his favorites. Charizma knew how to make beats too, but he never pushed his beats on the project. He gave me full creative control. He would pick vocal snippets and sound effects and stuff like that, but the tracks were all me and the lyrics and vocals were all him. We were a group for four years before he passed away.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939825\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1992-Germany-w-Money-B-Hi-C-PBW-Casual-T-Charizma.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1431\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939825\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1992-Germany-w-Money-B-Hi-C-PBW-Casual-T-Charizma.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1992-Germany-w-Money-B-Hi-C-PBW-Casual-T-Charizma-800x596.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1992-Germany-w-Money-B-Hi-C-PBW-Casual-T-Charizma-1020x760.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1992-Germany-w-Money-B-Hi-C-PBW-Casual-T-Charizma-160x119.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1992-Germany-w-Money-B-Hi-C-PBW-Casual-T-Charizma-768x572.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1992-Germany-w-Money-B-Hi-C-PBW-Casual-T-Charizma-1536x1145.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Charizma and Peanut Butter Wolf’s first and only German tour as a group in 1992. With Money B, Hi-C, and Hollywood Records A&R Casual T. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Peanut Butter Wolf)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>I know you’ve spoken about this before, but for this piece I think we should include it. Please tell us what occurred with Charizma, and take us back to the day or moment you found out.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In December 1993, we were supposed to go to a recording studio and lay down a song. He left a voice message on my pager that he wasn’t gonna be able to do it because he had something to take care of. He was killed shortly afterward that day, in broad daylight. He was in East Palo Alto and someone tried to rob him, and he resisted and he was killed. I believe a reverend witnessed it and called 911.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cstrong>You mentioned Star Records; what were your other local music haunts back then? Describe for us what that bygone era was like for you.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the late ’70s, there was a store called Wheatstraw Records that was close to Olivera Egg Ranch, where the 45s were only a dollar. Star Records was around back then too, and was really the main one in San Jose because they specialized in all styles of dance music — funk, soul, disco, electro, rap, freestyle, Hi-NRG, new wave. There was also Leopold’s across the street from Eastridge, where the 12” singles were $3.89 instead of $4.99, like everywhere else. And the San Jose Flea Market used to carry mixtapes and bootleg cut-up records, which were basically megamixes made by DJs on multi-track tapes pressed onto vinyl. Some of them had scratching too. By the late ’80s, Tower Records in San Francisco was the only store we knew that carried \u003cem>Ultimate Breaks & Beats\u003c/em>, and that was a huge deal. But yeah, overall, Star Records was the best.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939820\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1984-Hard-Times-mixtape-.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1810\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939820\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1984-Hard-Times-mixtape-.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1984-Hard-Times-mixtape--800x754.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1984-Hard-Times-mixtape--1020x962.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1984-Hard-Times-mixtape--160x151.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1984-Hard-Times-mixtape--768x724.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1984-Hard-Times-mixtape--1536x1448.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An electro mixtape made by Chris in 1984. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Peanut Butter Wolf)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tell us about your decision to move to Los Angeles. What did you encounter there that perhaps San Jose lacked? \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I actually first left San Jose in 1987, to go to college in Long Beach. I had been going to Newport Beach every summer for week or two with my friend Steve and his family, and I fell in love with it. I always wanted to move to Southern California, but it seemed more like a dream I’d never follow through with. After a year in Long Beach, I got homesick and moved back, but I loved that they had a radio station that played hip-hop 24 hours a day. I moved from San Jose to San Mateo in 1995 to be closer to TRC Distributors as the head of their hip-hop department, and then I started Stones Throw in 1996 in San Mateo. I moved to San Francisco a couple years later and stayed there until moving to L.A. in around 2001.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Stones Throw was pretty much strictly hip-hop when I moved to L.A., but I did sprinkle in some other stuff. With time, I started putting out more and more funk, soul, electronic, jazz and post punk. But one of the main reasons I moved to L.A. was to be closer to Madlib, who lived in Santa Barbara at the time. When I moved to L.A., I basically brought him with me. But yeah, I loved the DJ and club scene and live music scene in L.A. as well. I found myself DJing there a lot when I lived in San Francisco, and they really embraced me at clubs like the Root Down, Firecracker, and some others.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939828\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logos-second-round.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1395\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939828\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logos-second-round.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logos-second-round-800x581.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logos-second-round-1020x741.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logos-second-round-160x116.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logos-second-round-768x558.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/1996-STH-logos-second-round-1536x1116.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Second round of logos by Matthew Clark, including the one chosen to be ‘official,’ 1996. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Peanut Butter Wolf)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>In general, what do you think people should know about San Jose’s early rap history? Are there any misconceived notions of San Jose’s early rap scene that people should know about?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>San Jose was \u003cem>not\u003c/em> a hip-hop city in the ’80s. It was hard to hear the music in clubs, record stores and radio stations until the ’90s. But the scarcity of it made the few of us who were freaks for it try harder to find it. I bought a lot of scarce hip-hop 12” records in the 99¢ bin at Star Records. The labels would send Star a promo, and they would pass on ordering it, and they’d sell the promo in the 99¢ bin. I went there every week to grab those before anybody else did, and made mixtapes with the hardcore New York rap for my high school. Kevvy Kev played it once a week from 6-9 p.m. and if you didn’t make it a priority to hear it, you had to wait another week. That was our hip-hop experience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "How the Rap Group 51.50 Put Marin City on the Map",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>Editor’s note: 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.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]B[/dropcap]efore Ryan Rollins became Ryan D of the rap group 51.50 Illegally Insane, he was a kid from a musical, churchgoing household in tiny Marin City, just north of San Francisco. His mother taught piano lessons, and he sang in choir. “We always had pianos in the house, I was always around music,” says Ryan, who today lives in Fairfield. “But as soon as the breakdance era hit, I was breaking.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Breakdancing soon led to rapping, and Ryan bought a Roland TR-808, the drum machine whose percussive possibilities catalyzed the development of hip-hop. He soon linked up with one of the only other kids in Marin City with an 808: Darren “Klark Gable” Page, with whom he’d start the greatest rap group ever to come out of Marin City.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>51.50 never hit it big, but they existed at an important time at the crossroads of East Bay and North Bay rap. Some members launched a group with Tupac Shakur, one of the world’s most legendary rap artists, who lived in Marin City for a time. And throughout the 1990s, 51.50’s raw, honest street anthems sold consistently at independent stores in the Bay Area and beyond, putting their small, predominantly Black city on the map. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939491\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.Tupac_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939491\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.Tupac_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.Tupac_-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.Tupac_-768x768.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">One Nation Emcees: Klark Gable, Ryan D and Tupac Shakur. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Darren Page)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>From a Rich Tradition\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Marin City, a community of 3,000 just north of the Golden Gate Bridge, was built in 1942 to accommodate workers at the WWII-era Marinship shipyards in Sausalito. Many current residents are descendants of those workers, some of whom moved from the South as part of the “Great Migration” of African Americans throughout the 20th century. An outlier within white, affluent Marin County, Marin City still has a disproportionately high percentage of Black residents today: 25%, compared to 3% in the county overall.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They came from a rich tradition of culture and music,” says Felecia Gaston, author of the book \u003cem>A Brand New Start… This Is Home\u003c/em>, which explores the artistic and cultural history of Marin City. “They kept their traditions a lot, starting off with gospel groups, so those traditions carried on and passed down generation to generation.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the world of hip-hop, Marin City is mostly known as the one-time home of Tupac Shakur, who lived there briefly in 1988 with his family. In such a small town and with hip-hop only just becoming a global phenomenon, it was perhaps inevitable that Shakur and the two 808-owners would link up. Gable, Ryan and Shakur soon formed a group, calling themselves One Nation Emcees. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The rap game was new back then—we were just exercising our skills,” says Gable of these early years. Ryan is slightly less effusive: “I don’t wanna say I was dope as Tupac,” he says, “but I think I was dope as Tupac. Of course, any rapper should think you was dope as anybody if you’re worth any of your salt.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939489\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1046px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.park_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1046\" height=\"1550\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939489\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.park_.jpg 1046w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.park_-800x1185.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.park_-1020x1511.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.park_-160x237.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.park_-768x1138.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.park_-1037x1536.jpg 1037w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1046px) 100vw, 1046px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(L–R) Klark Gable, B.M.F.D.,Los tha Jackal and Tac in Marin City’s Golden Gate Village public housing project. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Darren Page)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>‘Come Out of Jail and Straight Into the Studio’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>After making a few recordings with Ryan and Gable (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EHJ7M0Ca95s\">Never Be Beat\u003c/a>” and “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sv_jP1SmPQ8&\">Fantasy\u003c/a>” survive from this era), Shakur drifted to Oakland, and Ryan went to prison, where he reconvened with an acquaintance named Kendrick “Riq Roq” Wells. Wells had an idea for a record label, and he wanted both Ryan and Gable to be involved.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We built a studio first, and then we had to start a group,” says Gable. “You can’t start a label without a group, obviously.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13923938']After working with various rappers in Marin City, Ryan and Gable — with Wells as their new manager and label boss — completed the core trio with rapper Tac and became the first act on Wells’ ARRogant Records. (Other signees would include Sacramento’s Mayjor Playahs, Pittsburg’s Super Natural Ghetto Starz, and San Francisco’s Raffi & the Righteous Posse.) With few venues in Marin City besides the local recreation center and the annual Marin City Festival, the group performed mostly in Sonoma County, San Francisco, and Southern California. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ryan always envisioned 51.50 as a “Wu-Tang type of thing, but West Coast,” and various collaborators orbited the core trio throughout their existence. Rappers B.M.F.D., G-Amp, and Los tha Jackal were regular collaborators, as was singer Levy Love, who helped the group develop a smooth, soul-inflected style that stood out even in the wildly creative crucible of ’90s Bay Area rap. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>51.50’s nebulous membership policy was a product of creativity as much as necessity. “The jail was a revolving door to our studio,” Gable jokes. “Come out of jail and straight into the studio, don’t waste no time—that’s how it was.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bsxgq54QXpw\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>51.50, in fact, was one of the earliest artists to record a song from jail — almost. When Ryan was still behind bars and the group was workshopping the songs that would make up their 1992 debut \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sky2AVZ3cwg&t=1509s\">Games People Play\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, he called the studio with a verse he had just written, and Gable instantly cooked up a sumptuous, Sade-sampling beat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was so deep, it’s not the typical gangster rap, you know what I mean?” says Gable. “When he got out of jail and we went to record it, I’m like, something’s missing. It doesn’t sound as deep and dramatic as it did when he called.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Intent on using a real phone rather than simply distorting Ryan’s vocals, the group found a contact in jail and had Ryan deliver his verse \u003cem>to\u003c/em> jail \u003cem>from\u003c/em> the studio. The final recording, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Per2HtfrZdg\">Green & White\u003c/a>,” came out in 1992, the same year as fellow Bay Area rapper Mac Dre’s \u003cem>Back n tha Hood\u003c/em> EP, perhaps the most famous rap recording made from jail and generally cited as the first.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939492\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1459px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.cassette.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1459\" height=\"921\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939492\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.cassette.jpg 1459w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.cassette-800x505.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.cassette-1020x644.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.cassette-160x101.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.cassette-768x485.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1459px) 100vw, 1459px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">51.50’s debut album ‘Games People Play.’ \u003ccite>(ARRogant Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Makin’ Legal Money\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Games People Play\u003c/em> stood out in the Bay Area rap of the time not only for the group’s “crazy” identity but for the music’s lush, textured sound, which contrasted with the low-slung mobb music sound coming out of the East Bay. The 1995 follow-up \u003cem>Crazy Has Struck Again\u003c/em> featured a larger cast of collaborators, and comes closest of 51.50’s releases to the free-wheeling camaraderie of Wu-Tang’s contemporaneous sound.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Following two more albums — 2000’s \u003cem>A.W.O.L. Missing In Action\u003c/em> and 2002’s \u003cem>Back From The Asylum\u003c/em> — the group folded after Tac suffered a stroke in 2004 that caused him to lose much of his memory and many of his motor functions. The group played its final show in 2010 in Fairfax, but it was clear Tac could no longer perform. “I didn’t know how bad it was until that show,” says Gable. “He didn’t know any of the words.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13927349']Of the core three 51.50 members, only Gable still makes music. Ryan has worked for C&H Sugar in Vallejo for nearly 20 years, and claims to have simply lost interest. “I knew what it takes to be a dope rapper,” he says, “and I don’t have that drive anymore.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yet Ryan says “a lot of people have been reaching out lately” — not to hit him up for features or to ask about 51.50, but to ask about Tupac. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though Ryan and Gable’s collaboration with Tupac lasted only a few months, they were present for one of the saddest and most controversial incidents in both the late rapper’s career and the broader history of Marin City: the fatal shooting of 6-year-old Qa’id Walker-Teal at the 1992 Marin City Festival, at which both 51.50 and Shakur performed. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x4i6wAsFwRk\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>‘I Stopped Talking to Tupac’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>By 1992, Shakur was an established music and film star, having just starred in the thriller \u003cem>Juice\u003c/em> and released his debut album \u003cem>2Pacalypse Now\u003c/em> after a stint with the popular Oakland rap group Digital Underground. “He was still coming through the hood, we were still calling him and he was picking right up,” Gable says of Shakur. “But when he was doing that, of course now he was being interviewed on MTV.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After leaving town, Shakur expressed negative sentiments towards Marin City in the press, which angered many locals. According to \u003cem>Tupac Shakur: The Life and Times of an American Icon\u003c/em> by Tayannah Lee McQuillar and Fred L. Johnson, the rapper agreed to perform for free at the 1992 edition of the annual Marin City Festival as an apology to the local community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It quickly became clear not everyone would accept his goodwill gesture. “He’d be down there hanging out with us, chilling,” says Ryan. “But you know, it’s one cat over there looking at him side-eyed.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939490\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 946px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.Tupac_.outside.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"946\" height=\"935\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939490\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.Tupac_.outside.jpg 946w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.Tupac_.outside-800x791.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.Tupac_.outside-160x158.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.Tupac_.outside-768x759.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 946px) 100vw, 946px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">In happier times: Ryan D, Tupac Shakur, Ray Luv and Klark Gable. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Darren Page)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>According to Gable, a group of drunk locals decided to instigate a fight with Shakur while 51.50 was performing onstage. No one seems quite sure who fired the shot that killed Walker-Teal, but the bullet came from a gun registered to Shakur. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Nobody even brings a gun to the festival,” says Gable. “You know what I mean? And so when that happened, I stopped talking to Tupac.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Tupac was fatally shot in 1996 in Las Vegas at the age of 25, and a suspect in the long-running case was recently charged after decades of speculation and controversy. “I still didn’t have no love for him when he passed,” says Gable. “For that to happen, that eats me up. And the little kid that died, everybody knew him. Everybody loved him.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939487\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.recent.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"457\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939487\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.recent.jpg 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.recent-160x102.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(L–R) Tac, Ryan D, and Klark Gable in a recent photo. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Darren Page)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>30 Years Later\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>These days, 51.50’s music lives on through streaming services, grainy YouTube footage and old cassettes and CDs, traded among collectors. Their members, meanwhile, have gone in different directions. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>B.M.F.D. became a pastor in Colorado, to the surprise of Ryan and Gable, who remember him during their Marin City days as a hellraiser—“the kind of cat you had to babysit.” G-Amp passed away in Humboldt County in 2021 after suffering a heart attack and subsequently being struck by a car. Wells passed away last August, and the remaining group members all met for the first time in years at his memorial service last month in Sacramento. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You know, that’s life,” says Gable. “Being a Black man, you know. Fortunately none of us got shot. Still here dying of natural causes. But there’s still a few of us. We just linked up for Kendrick’s memorial. I don’t remember the last time all of us were together like that. It’s been years, but it’s always all love.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"60\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-11687704\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-400x30.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-768x58.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "51.50 released classics like 'Games People Play' and recorded with Tupac, bringing attention to their predominantly Black city located within white, affluent Marin County. ",
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"title": "How the Rap Group 51.50 Put Marin City on the Map | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>Editor’s note: 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.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">B\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>efore Ryan Rollins became Ryan D of the rap group 51.50 Illegally Insane, he was a kid from a musical, churchgoing household in tiny Marin City, just north of San Francisco. His mother taught piano lessons, and he sang in choir. “We always had pianos in the house, I was always around music,” says Ryan, who today lives in Fairfield. “But as soon as the breakdance era hit, I was breaking.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Breakdancing soon led to rapping, and Ryan bought a Roland TR-808, the drum machine whose percussive possibilities catalyzed the development of hip-hop. He soon linked up with one of the only other kids in Marin City with an 808: Darren “Klark Gable” Page, with whom he’d start the greatest rap group ever to come out of Marin City.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>51.50 never hit it big, but they existed at an important time at the crossroads of East Bay and North Bay rap. Some members launched a group with Tupac Shakur, one of the world’s most legendary rap artists, who lived in Marin City for a time. And throughout the 1990s, 51.50’s raw, honest street anthems sold consistently at independent stores in the Bay Area and beyond, putting their small, predominantly Black city on the map. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939491\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.Tupac_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939491\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.Tupac_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.Tupac_-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.Tupac_-768x768.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">One Nation Emcees: Klark Gable, Ryan D and Tupac Shakur. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Darren Page)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>From a Rich Tradition\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Marin City, a community of 3,000 just north of the Golden Gate Bridge, was built in 1942 to accommodate workers at the WWII-era Marinship shipyards in Sausalito. Many current residents are descendants of those workers, some of whom moved from the South as part of the “Great Migration” of African Americans throughout the 20th century. An outlier within white, affluent Marin County, Marin City still has a disproportionately high percentage of Black residents today: 25%, compared to 3% in the county overall.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They came from a rich tradition of culture and music,” says Felecia Gaston, author of the book \u003cem>A Brand New Start… This Is Home\u003c/em>, which explores the artistic and cultural history of Marin City. “They kept their traditions a lot, starting off with gospel groups, so those traditions carried on and passed down generation to generation.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the world of hip-hop, Marin City is mostly known as the one-time home of Tupac Shakur, who lived there briefly in 1988 with his family. In such a small town and with hip-hop only just becoming a global phenomenon, it was perhaps inevitable that Shakur and the two 808-owners would link up. Gable, Ryan and Shakur soon formed a group, calling themselves One Nation Emcees. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The rap game was new back then—we were just exercising our skills,” says Gable of these early years. Ryan is slightly less effusive: “I don’t wanna say I was dope as Tupac,” he says, “but I think I was dope as Tupac. Of course, any rapper should think you was dope as anybody if you’re worth any of your salt.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939489\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1046px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.park_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1046\" height=\"1550\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939489\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.park_.jpg 1046w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.park_-800x1185.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.park_-1020x1511.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.park_-160x237.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.park_-768x1138.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.park_-1037x1536.jpg 1037w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1046px) 100vw, 1046px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(L–R) Klark Gable, B.M.F.D.,Los tha Jackal and Tac in Marin City’s Golden Gate Village public housing project. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Darren Page)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>‘Come Out of Jail and Straight Into the Studio’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>After making a few recordings with Ryan and Gable (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EHJ7M0Ca95s\">Never Be Beat\u003c/a>” and “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sv_jP1SmPQ8&\">Fantasy\u003c/a>” survive from this era), Shakur drifted to Oakland, and Ryan went to prison, where he reconvened with an acquaintance named Kendrick “Riq Roq” Wells. Wells had an idea for a record label, and he wanted both Ryan and Gable to be involved.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We built a studio first, and then we had to start a group,” says Gable. “You can’t start a label without a group, obviously.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>After working with various rappers in Marin City, Ryan and Gable — with Wells as their new manager and label boss — completed the core trio with rapper Tac and became the first act on Wells’ ARRogant Records. (Other signees would include Sacramento’s Mayjor Playahs, Pittsburg’s Super Natural Ghetto Starz, and San Francisco’s Raffi & the Righteous Posse.) With few venues in Marin City besides the local recreation center and the annual Marin City Festival, the group performed mostly in Sonoma County, San Francisco, and Southern California. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ryan always envisioned 51.50 as a “Wu-Tang type of thing, but West Coast,” and various collaborators orbited the core trio throughout their existence. Rappers B.M.F.D., G-Amp, and Los tha Jackal were regular collaborators, as was singer Levy Love, who helped the group develop a smooth, soul-inflected style that stood out even in the wildly creative crucible of ’90s Bay Area rap. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>51.50’s nebulous membership policy was a product of creativity as much as necessity. “The jail was a revolving door to our studio,” Gable jokes. “Come out of jail and straight into the studio, don’t waste no time—that’s how it was.” \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/bsxgq54QXpw'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/bsxgq54QXpw'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>51.50, in fact, was one of the earliest artists to record a song from jail — almost. When Ryan was still behind bars and the group was workshopping the songs that would make up their 1992 debut \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sky2AVZ3cwg&t=1509s\">Games People Play\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, he called the studio with a verse he had just written, and Gable instantly cooked up a sumptuous, Sade-sampling beat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was so deep, it’s not the typical gangster rap, you know what I mean?” says Gable. “When he got out of jail and we went to record it, I’m like, something’s missing. It doesn’t sound as deep and dramatic as it did when he called.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Intent on using a real phone rather than simply distorting Ryan’s vocals, the group found a contact in jail and had Ryan deliver his verse \u003cem>to\u003c/em> jail \u003cem>from\u003c/em> the studio. The final recording, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Per2HtfrZdg\">Green & White\u003c/a>,” came out in 1992, the same year as fellow Bay Area rapper Mac Dre’s \u003cem>Back n tha Hood\u003c/em> EP, perhaps the most famous rap recording made from jail and generally cited as the first.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939492\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1459px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.cassette.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1459\" height=\"921\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939492\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.cassette.jpg 1459w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.cassette-800x505.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.cassette-1020x644.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.cassette-160x101.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.cassette-768x485.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1459px) 100vw, 1459px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">51.50’s debut album ‘Games People Play.’ \u003ccite>(ARRogant Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Makin’ Legal Money\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Games People Play\u003c/em> stood out in the Bay Area rap of the time not only for the group’s “crazy” identity but for the music’s lush, textured sound, which contrasted with the low-slung mobb music sound coming out of the East Bay. The 1995 follow-up \u003cem>Crazy Has Struck Again\u003c/em> featured a larger cast of collaborators, and comes closest of 51.50’s releases to the free-wheeling camaraderie of Wu-Tang’s contemporaneous sound.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Following two more albums — 2000’s \u003cem>A.W.O.L. Missing In Action\u003c/em> and 2002’s \u003cem>Back From The Asylum\u003c/em> — the group folded after Tac suffered a stroke in 2004 that caused him to lose much of his memory and many of his motor functions. The group played its final show in 2010 in Fairfax, but it was clear Tac could no longer perform. “I didn’t know how bad it was until that show,” says Gable. “He didn’t know any of the words.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Of the core three 51.50 members, only Gable still makes music. Ryan has worked for C&H Sugar in Vallejo for nearly 20 years, and claims to have simply lost interest. “I knew what it takes to be a dope rapper,” he says, “and I don’t have that drive anymore.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yet Ryan says “a lot of people have been reaching out lately” — not to hit him up for features or to ask about 51.50, but to ask about Tupac. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though Ryan and Gable’s collaboration with Tupac lasted only a few months, they were present for one of the saddest and most controversial incidents in both the late rapper’s career and the broader history of Marin City: the fatal shooting of 6-year-old Qa’id Walker-Teal at the 1992 Marin City Festival, at which both 51.50 and Shakur performed. \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/x4i6wAsFwRk'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/x4i6wAsFwRk'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003ch2>‘I Stopped Talking to Tupac’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>By 1992, Shakur was an established music and film star, having just starred in the thriller \u003cem>Juice\u003c/em> and released his debut album \u003cem>2Pacalypse Now\u003c/em> after a stint with the popular Oakland rap group Digital Underground. “He was still coming through the hood, we were still calling him and he was picking right up,” Gable says of Shakur. “But when he was doing that, of course now he was being interviewed on MTV.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After leaving town, Shakur expressed negative sentiments towards Marin City in the press, which angered many locals. According to \u003cem>Tupac Shakur: The Life and Times of an American Icon\u003c/em> by Tayannah Lee McQuillar and Fred L. Johnson, the rapper agreed to perform for free at the 1992 edition of the annual Marin City Festival as an apology to the local community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It quickly became clear not everyone would accept his goodwill gesture. “He’d be down there hanging out with us, chilling,” says Ryan. “But you know, it’s one cat over there looking at him side-eyed.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939490\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 946px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.Tupac_.outside.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"946\" height=\"935\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939490\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.Tupac_.outside.jpg 946w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.Tupac_.outside-800x791.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.Tupac_.outside-160x158.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.Tupac_.outside-768x759.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 946px) 100vw, 946px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">In happier times: Ryan D, Tupac Shakur, Ray Luv and Klark Gable. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Darren Page)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>According to Gable, a group of drunk locals decided to instigate a fight with Shakur while 51.50 was performing onstage. No one seems quite sure who fired the shot that killed Walker-Teal, but the bullet came from a gun registered to Shakur. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Nobody even brings a gun to the festival,” says Gable. “You know what I mean? And so when that happened, I stopped talking to Tupac.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Tupac was fatally shot in 1996 in Las Vegas at the age of 25, and a suspect in the long-running case was recently charged after decades of speculation and controversy. “I still didn’t have no love for him when he passed,” says Gable. “For that to happen, that eats me up. And the little kid that died, everybody knew him. Everybody loved him.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13939487\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.recent.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"457\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13939487\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.recent.jpg 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/12/5150.recent-160x102.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(L–R) Tac, Ryan D, and Klark Gable in a recent photo. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Darren Page)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>30 Years Later\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>These days, 51.50’s music lives on through streaming services, grainy YouTube footage and old cassettes and CDs, traded among collectors. Their members, meanwhile, have gone in different directions. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>B.M.F.D. became a pastor in Colorado, to the surprise of Ryan and Gable, who remember him during their Marin City days as a hellraiser—“the kind of cat you had to babysit.” G-Amp passed away in Humboldt County in 2021 after suffering a heart attack and subsequently being struck by a car. Wells passed away last August, and the remaining group members all met for the first time in years at his memorial service last month in Sacramento. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You know, that’s life,” says Gable. “Being a Black man, you know. Fortunately none of us got shot. Still here dying of natural causes. But there’s still a few of us. We just linked up for Kendrick’s memorial. I don’t remember the last time all of us were together like that. It’s been years, but it’s always all love.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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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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"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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"marketplace": {
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"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",
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"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>",
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"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?",
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"info": "Our weekly podcast explores how the media 'sausage' is made, casts an incisive eye on fluctuations in the marketplace of ideas, and examines threats to the freedom of information and expression in America and abroad. For one hour a week, the show tries to lift the veil from the process of \"making media,\" especially news media, because it's through that lens that we see the world and the world sees us",
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"planet-money": {
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"politicalbreakdown": {
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"title": "Political Breakdown",
"tagline": "Politics from a personal perspective",
"info": "Political Breakdown is a new series that explores the political intersection of California and the nation. Each week hosts Scott Shafer and Marisa Lagos are joined with a new special guest to unpack politics -- with personality — and offer an insider’s glimpse at how politics happens.",
"airtime": "THU 6:30pm-7pm",
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"possible": {
"id": "possible",
"title": "Possible",
"info": "Possible is hosted by entrepreneur Reid Hoffman and writer Aria Finger. Together in Possible, Hoffman and Finger lead enlightening discussions about building a brighter collective future. The show features interviews with visionary guests like Trevor Noah, Sam Altman and Janette Sadik-Khan. Possible paints an optimistic portrait of the world we can create through science, policy, business, art and our shared humanity. It asks: What if everything goes right for once? How can we get there? Each episode also includes a short fiction story generated by advanced AI GPT-4, serving as a thought-provoking springboard to speculate how humanity could leverage technology for good.",
"airtime": "SUN 2pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Possible-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
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"pri-the-world": {
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"title": "PRI's The World: Latest Edition",
"info": "Each weekday, host Marco Werman and his team of producers bring you the world's most interesting stories in an hour of radio that reminds us just how small our planet really is.",
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"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/The-World-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
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},
"radiolab": {
"id": "radiolab",
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"info": "A two-time Peabody Award-winner, Radiolab is an investigation told through sounds and stories, and centered around one big idea. In the Radiolab world, information sounds like music and science and culture collide. Hosted by Jad Abumrad and Robert Krulwich, the show is designed for listeners who demand skepticism, but appreciate wonder. WNYC Studios is the producer of other leading podcasts including Freakonomics Radio, Death, Sex & Money, On the Media and many more.",
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"reveal": {
"id": "reveal",
"title": "Reveal",
"info": "Created by The Center for Investigative Reporting and PRX, Reveal is public radios first one-hour weekly radio show and podcast dedicated to investigative reporting. Credible, fact based and without a partisan agenda, Reveal combines the power and artistry of driveway moment storytelling with data-rich reporting on critically important issues. The result is stories that inform and inspire, arming our listeners with information to right injustices, hold the powerful accountable and improve lives.Reveal is hosted by Al Letson and showcases the award-winning work of CIR and newsrooms large and small across the nation. In a radio and podcast market crowded with choices, Reveal focuses on important and often surprising stories that illuminate the world for our listeners.",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.revealnews.org/episodes/",
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},
"rightnowish": {
"id": "rightnowish",
"title": "Rightnowish",
"tagline": "Art is where you find it",
"info": "Rightnowish digs into life in the Bay Area right now… ish. Journalist Pendarvis Harshaw takes us to galleries painted on the sides of liquor stores in West Oakland. We'll dance in warehouses in the Bayview, make smoothies with kids in South Berkeley, and listen to classical music in a 1984 Cutlass Supreme in Richmond. Every week, Pen talks to movers and shakers about how the Bay Area shapes what they create, and how they shape the place we call home.",
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"order": 16
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},
"science-friday": {
"id": "science-friday",
"title": "Science Friday",
"info": "Science Friday is a weekly science talk show, broadcast live over public radio stations nationwide. Each week, the show focuses on science topics that are in the news and tries to bring an educated, balanced discussion to bear on the scientific issues at hand. Panels of expert guests join host Ira Flatow, a veteran science journalist, to discuss science and to take questions from listeners during the call-in portion of the program.",
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},
"snap-judgment": {
"id": "snap-judgment",
"title": "Snap Judgment",
"tagline": "Real stories with killer beats",
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