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"slug": "alien-mac-kitty-cougnut-daughter-san-francisco-frisco-rap-legacy",
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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 year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">I\u003c/span>n San Francisco rap circles, Cougnut is a name spoken with reverence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13923766/rbl-posse-a-lesson-to-be-learned-album-cover\">Black C of RBL Posse\u003c/a> called the late rapper “the top dog” in a \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U_aqLbhoU0E\">Thizzler interview\u003c/a>. On his \u003ca href=\"https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/nativesonzpodcast/episodes/Episode-29---RIP-Cougnut-e5cm1c\">\u003cem>Native Sonz\u003c/em> podcast\u003c/a>, artist manager D.E.O. said that “he regulated shit” and brought peace to the streets. “There might not be the hip-hop scene in San Francisco if not for Cougnut,” added rapper Dregs One.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But to Mariah Fields, a.k.a. \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/alienmackitty/\">Alien Mac Kitty\u003c/a> (A.M.K), Cougnut was just Dad. As a young child in the ’90s, she had some indication that her charismatic, funny father, Ronald, was \u003ci>somebody\u003c/i>. But she had no idea that he was a voice for the City’s underworld, and that his gravelly raps empowered those who survived incarceration and violence. She didn’t know that Cougnut and his group I.M.P. were among the first Frisco rappers on wax in the late ’80s, and that fans across the Bay Area considered them icons.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He’s my dad, so I’m not knowing the hype around it — it would just annoy me,” Alien Mac Kitty says of her childhood. “But over time I could just tell by the way people gravitated towards him that he was an important person. … It was just hard when we had our time and then people would come up like, ‘Oh my God, Cougnut.’ Like, back off, get away from my dad, get away from me.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Now grown up and a rising rapper herself, Alien Mac Kitty has a different appreciation of Cougnut’s artistry, and is on a mission to carry on his legacy while making her own mark.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928058\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13928058\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/IMG_7931-800x776.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"776\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/IMG_7931-800x776.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/IMG_7931-1020x989.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/IMG_7931-160x155.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/IMG_7931-768x745.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/IMG_7931.jpg 1125w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A young Alien Mac Kitty (Mariah Fields) with her dad, Ronald, a.k.a. Cougnut, and mom, Gloria, in the Fillmore district of San Francisco in the ’90s. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Alien Mac Kitty)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Star power runs in the Fields family, and it’s hard to miss Alien Mac Kitty when we meet on a weekday afternoon for veggie burgers in the Haight. True to her name, her vibe is Hello Kitty meets Mac Dre: she wears psychedelic prints, silver cowboy boots and a fur coat, and waist-length, pink braids frame her neon-pink pout. Alien Mac Kitty’s music has a similarly adventurous, let-your-freak-flag-fly flavor — on a first listen, it’s a far cry from her dad’s stone-cold gangster lyrics and villainous delivery. But there are shared qualities between father and daughter, including a willingness to absolutely go for it — to commit to a captivating, edgy persona, and to explore taboos.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I could only imagine if he were here, what type of mentor he would be and how he would guide me,” A.M.K says. “Gosh, he was way ahead of his time, and his style is just unmatched, and never could be duplicated.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/ripfyFBFBGY\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Healing grief through music\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Surprisingly, even though I.M.P.’s iconic 1995 album \u003ci>Ill Mannered Playas\u003c/i> came out during her childhood, Alien Mac Kitty didn’t listen to Cougnut’s music until she was an adult. As a kid growing up in the Fillmore, she wasn’t \u003cem>allowed\u003c/em> to listen to it — her dad’s preferred subject matter of ruthless street life was not exactly PG. After Cougnut died in a car crash in 2001, when A.M.K was just 11 years old, grief made revisiting his discography unbearable. That feeling was compounded by the loss of Alien Mac Kitty’s mother, Gloria, a visual artist, in 2009.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It actually took me about 17 years to visit his gravestone,” says A.M.K. “I ran from that for so long because I was afraid. But when I finally went and visited him, it brought me closure and I saw how peaceful things were.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When A.M.K finally listened to Cougnut’s music in her 20s, she was able to see her dad in a new light. She admires his vivid storytelling on I.M.P’s 1989 “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/_vi2hSsHzUI\">I’m Rollin’\u003c/a>,” and gets amped to the aggression of 1995’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/IdTDc8JO4xI\">Boots Laced Tight\u003c/a>.” “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/Qz6RbMUYWPs\">Tell Me Something Good\u003c/a>” — a 1994 Cougnut single from Master P’s \u003ci>West Coast Bad Boyz\u003c/i> compilation — shows an unusually vulnerable side of the rapper, where he laments cycles of violence and mourns friends gone too soon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I have my mom’s diary writings and I have my dad’s music, so I want to try to figure him out,” she says. “I want to try to get to know him. So what’s in his mind? I listen to his music and I feel like we have a lot of similarities, and that’s all I have.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928060\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13928060\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64525_014_KQED_AlienMacKitty_04102023-qut-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64525_014_KQED_AlienMacKitty_04102023-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64525_014_KQED_AlienMacKitty_04102023-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64525_014_KQED_AlienMacKitty_04102023-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64525_014_KQED_AlienMacKitty_04102023-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64525_014_KQED_AlienMacKitty_04102023-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64525_014_KQED_AlienMacKitty_04102023-qut.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Alien Mac Kitty and her son, Cassidy, visit Miyako’s Ice Cream in the Fillmore neighborhood of San Francisco, where she grew up, on April 10, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>For years, Alien Mac Kitty didn’t think of herself as a rapper. Her paintings were her first love — when we meet, she’s wearing a self-made button with a drawing of a cool alien girl with three eyes and pink hair. Rap is “something I’ve always wanted to do at the right time, but I just didn’t want to recreate my dad,” she says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Grief rippled throughout Alien Mac Kitty’s life, and after years of focusing on healing, she now finds herself in a “grounded, elevated space,” and is ready to express herself with intention. “I did a lot of inner work and spiritual work, and just facing myself in a lot of stuff. And then Alien Mac Kitty came. Now — \u003ci>eeow\u003c/i> — I’m here from outer space.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/IZPLFCumml4\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A little help from her O.G.s\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Cougnut’s peers and other San Francisco hip-hop veterans have helped A.M.K find her footing. Rapper and activist \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/equipto_415/\">Equipto\u003c/a>, a Cougnut fan since his early teens, encouraged her to throw a tribute art show for her dad in 2019, her first major effort to promote and preserve his legacy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Growing up in the Mission District as a young kid, and hearing [Cougnut’s] music coming out of people’s cars everywhere, out of people’s radios everywhere, it was like an anthem,” Equipto recalls. “It was like, ‘Oh, we can make music, too. San Francisco could get recognized, too, along with the New Yorks and the LAs.’ It just brought this this whole empowerment to San Francisco kids.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Supporting Alien Mac Kitty was a “no-brainer,” he says. “I seen her art and I seen her energy and I heard the music, and I knew that she was a star.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Equipto also watched A.M.K grapple with differentiating herself from her father while finding ways to honor him, and encouraged her to keep going. “I think her finding that balance and be her own individual yet still carry on that legacy in such a strong [way] is incredible.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/bTa1xSBzn6k\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/tc1.2.3/\">T.C.\u003c/a>, a veteran producer and engineer who worked with Cougnut on iconic I.M.P. tracks like “Merciless” and “I Smell Jealousy,” welcomed A.M.K into his studio.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Anytime I have a question, he’ll help me,” Alien Mac Kitty says. “[T.C.] took me under his wing, and I have so much love for him.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For T.C., offering guidance came naturally: “With the relationship me and her dad had, it was only right, you know?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>T.C. first met Cougnut in the late ’80s, when Cougnut responded to a flyer advertising a new music studio in Lakeview, his neighborhood. T.C. was a producer and engineer there, and the two instantly clicked. Their friendship was one of friendly competition, of challenging each other to improve their craft.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“His voice alone was intimidating. He had a very strong voice,” T.C. says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928078\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13928078\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/017_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"Alien Mac Kitty swings her pink braids while rapping into a microphone.\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/017_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/017_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/017_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/017_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/017_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/017_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Alien Mac Kitty performs at a 415 Day event with Family Not A Group at El Rio in San Francisco on April 15, 2023.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“He was a rapper’s rapper,” he adds. “Like, if he see other rappers coming around, he’d go up to they face — ‘Hey, check this out’ — and start rapping to ’em.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>T.C. sees the same boldness in Cougnut’s daughter. “She’s really passionate about her art, her freedom of speech. And I call her an artist because she does all genres.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While T.C. also produced legendary San Francisco artists like RBL Posse and Andre Nickatina, he estimates that Cougnut was the first rapper out of the City to make an impact throughout the whole Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We ain’t playin’, man. I feel like the Bay Area right now is the place to be as far as this rap scene,” Cougnut said in a 1996 interview with the \u003ca href=\"https://mrdoxey.wordpress.com/2005/07/29/classic-interview-cougnut-of-imp-rip/\">\u003ci>No Joke\u003c/i> rap newsletter\u003c/a>. “We’re not LA. We’re not New York, but I feel like the Bay Area is blowin’ up so much right now to where I think everything comin’ up out this Bay Area is hittin’.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928082\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13928082\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64538_008_KQED_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-qut-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"Alien Mac Kitty raps into a mic on El Rio's patio while wearing a T-shirt with a portrait of her father, Cougnut.\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64538_008_KQED_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64538_008_KQED_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64538_008_KQED_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64538_008_KQED_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64538_008_KQED_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64538_008_KQED_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-qut.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Alien Mac Kitty performs at a 415 Day event with Family Not A Group at El Rio in San Francisco on April 15, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The future looks bright for A.M.K\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>A.M.K has been releasing singles since 2019, and her 2022 EP \u003ca href=\"https://open.spotify.com/album/15BsRTY6WuZYJrp0FSyyvz\">\u003ci>Out Her Space\u003c/i>\u003c/a> is her most complete body of work yet — full of uptempo, rambunctious tracks for going dumb on the dance floor, with catchy call-and-response hooks. Most recently, she was featured on the \u003ci>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13927576/frisco-daze-san-francisco-rap-album\">Frisco Daze\u003c/a>\u003c/i> rap compilation alongside 30 up-and-coming artists born and raised in San Francisco. Her fanbase is growing, and people are starting to repeat her slogan, “Fuck Charles,” which isn’t a diss to a specific person — she uses it to cast away the negative forces of the universe. [aside postid='arts_13927576']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When Alien Mac Kitty performs live, her energy is infectious. On a recent Saturday afternoon, at Family Not a Group’s 415 Day party at San Francisco’s El Rio, she presided over an enraptured crowd: “Get those fucking dicks up, fuckos,” she yelled over the screech of an electric guitar, clarifying that by “dicks,” she means “energy.” Definitely a brash entrance, but the audience cheered approvingly in response.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She wore a Starter jacket emblazoned with Cougnut’s name, and custom-painted shirt with his portrait. She invokes him often during performances “to give me that strength to execute it and rock out,” she says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m doing this for you,” she tells her dad, wherever he may be in the next realm, “and us, and the legacy.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928067\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13928067\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/IMG_7950-800x787.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"787\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/IMG_7950-800x787.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/IMG_7950-1020x1004.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/IMG_7950-160x157.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/IMG_7950-768x756.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/IMG_7950.jpg 1125w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Cougnut and a young Alien Mac Kitty. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Alien Mac Kitty)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-800x78.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Alien Mac Kitty performs in the Starlet Room at Harlow’s in Sacramento on June 30 for the \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/allthingsindieshowcase/\">All Things Indie showcase\u003c/a>.\u003c/i>\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 year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">I\u003c/span>n San Francisco rap circles, Cougnut is a name spoken with reverence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13923766/rbl-posse-a-lesson-to-be-learned-album-cover\">Black C of RBL Posse\u003c/a> called the late rapper “the top dog” in a \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U_aqLbhoU0E\">Thizzler interview\u003c/a>. On his \u003ca href=\"https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/nativesonzpodcast/episodes/Episode-29---RIP-Cougnut-e5cm1c\">\u003cem>Native Sonz\u003c/em> podcast\u003c/a>, artist manager D.E.O. said that “he regulated shit” and brought peace to the streets. “There might not be the hip-hop scene in San Francisco if not for Cougnut,” added rapper Dregs One.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But to Mariah Fields, a.k.a. \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/alienmackitty/\">Alien Mac Kitty\u003c/a> (A.M.K), Cougnut was just Dad. As a young child in the ’90s, she had some indication that her charismatic, funny father, Ronald, was \u003ci>somebody\u003c/i>. But she had no idea that he was a voice for the City’s underworld, and that his gravelly raps empowered those who survived incarceration and violence. She didn’t know that Cougnut and his group I.M.P. were among the first Frisco rappers on wax in the late ’80s, and that fans across the Bay Area considered them icons.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He’s my dad, so I’m not knowing the hype around it — it would just annoy me,” Alien Mac Kitty says of her childhood. “But over time I could just tell by the way people gravitated towards him that he was an important person. … It was just hard when we had our time and then people would come up like, ‘Oh my God, Cougnut.’ Like, back off, get away from my dad, get away from me.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Now grown up and a rising rapper herself, Alien Mac Kitty has a different appreciation of Cougnut’s artistry, and is on a mission to carry on his legacy while making her own mark.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928058\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13928058\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/IMG_7931-800x776.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"776\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/IMG_7931-800x776.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/IMG_7931-1020x989.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/IMG_7931-160x155.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/IMG_7931-768x745.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/IMG_7931.jpg 1125w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A young Alien Mac Kitty (Mariah Fields) with her dad, Ronald, a.k.a. Cougnut, and mom, Gloria, in the Fillmore district of San Francisco in the ’90s. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Alien Mac Kitty)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Star power runs in the Fields family, and it’s hard to miss Alien Mac Kitty when we meet on a weekday afternoon for veggie burgers in the Haight. True to her name, her vibe is Hello Kitty meets Mac Dre: she wears psychedelic prints, silver cowboy boots and a fur coat, and waist-length, pink braids frame her neon-pink pout. Alien Mac Kitty’s music has a similarly adventurous, let-your-freak-flag-fly flavor — on a first listen, it’s a far cry from her dad’s stone-cold gangster lyrics and villainous delivery. But there are shared qualities between father and daughter, including a willingness to absolutely go for it — to commit to a captivating, edgy persona, and to explore taboos.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I could only imagine if he were here, what type of mentor he would be and how he would guide me,” A.M.K says. “Gosh, he was way ahead of his time, and his style is just unmatched, and never could be duplicated.”\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/ripfyFBFBGY'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/ripfyFBFBGY'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003ch2>Healing grief through music\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Surprisingly, even though I.M.P.’s iconic 1995 album \u003ci>Ill Mannered Playas\u003c/i> came out during her childhood, Alien Mac Kitty didn’t listen to Cougnut’s music until she was an adult. As a kid growing up in the Fillmore, she wasn’t \u003cem>allowed\u003c/em> to listen to it — her dad’s preferred subject matter of ruthless street life was not exactly PG. After Cougnut died in a car crash in 2001, when A.M.K was just 11 years old, grief made revisiting his discography unbearable. That feeling was compounded by the loss of Alien Mac Kitty’s mother, Gloria, a visual artist, in 2009.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It actually took me about 17 years to visit his gravestone,” says A.M.K. “I ran from that for so long because I was afraid. But when I finally went and visited him, it brought me closure and I saw how peaceful things were.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When A.M.K finally listened to Cougnut’s music in her 20s, she was able to see her dad in a new light. She admires his vivid storytelling on I.M.P’s 1989 “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/_vi2hSsHzUI\">I’m Rollin’\u003c/a>,” and gets amped to the aggression of 1995’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/IdTDc8JO4xI\">Boots Laced Tight\u003c/a>.” “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/Qz6RbMUYWPs\">Tell Me Something Good\u003c/a>” — a 1994 Cougnut single from Master P’s \u003ci>West Coast Bad Boyz\u003c/i> compilation — shows an unusually vulnerable side of the rapper, where he laments cycles of violence and mourns friends gone too soon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I have my mom’s diary writings and I have my dad’s music, so I want to try to figure him out,” she says. “I want to try to get to know him. So what’s in his mind? I listen to his music and I feel like we have a lot of similarities, and that’s all I have.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928060\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13928060\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64525_014_KQED_AlienMacKitty_04102023-qut-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64525_014_KQED_AlienMacKitty_04102023-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64525_014_KQED_AlienMacKitty_04102023-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64525_014_KQED_AlienMacKitty_04102023-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64525_014_KQED_AlienMacKitty_04102023-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64525_014_KQED_AlienMacKitty_04102023-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64525_014_KQED_AlienMacKitty_04102023-qut.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Alien Mac Kitty and her son, Cassidy, visit Miyako’s Ice Cream in the Fillmore neighborhood of San Francisco, where she grew up, on April 10, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>For years, Alien Mac Kitty didn’t think of herself as a rapper. Her paintings were her first love — when we meet, she’s wearing a self-made button with a drawing of a cool alien girl with three eyes and pink hair. Rap is “something I’ve always wanted to do at the right time, but I just didn’t want to recreate my dad,” she says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Grief rippled throughout Alien Mac Kitty’s life, and after years of focusing on healing, she now finds herself in a “grounded, elevated space,” and is ready to express herself with intention. “I did a lot of inner work and spiritual work, and just facing myself in a lot of stuff. And then Alien Mac Kitty came. Now — \u003ci>eeow\u003c/i> — I’m here from outer space.”\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/IZPLFCumml4'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/IZPLFCumml4'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003ch2>A little help from her O.G.s\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Cougnut’s peers and other San Francisco hip-hop veterans have helped A.M.K find her footing. Rapper and activist \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/equipto_415/\">Equipto\u003c/a>, a Cougnut fan since his early teens, encouraged her to throw a tribute art show for her dad in 2019, her first major effort to promote and preserve his legacy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Growing up in the Mission District as a young kid, and hearing [Cougnut’s] music coming out of people’s cars everywhere, out of people’s radios everywhere, it was like an anthem,” Equipto recalls. “It was like, ‘Oh, we can make music, too. San Francisco could get recognized, too, along with the New Yorks and the LAs.’ It just brought this this whole empowerment to San Francisco kids.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Supporting Alien Mac Kitty was a “no-brainer,” he says. “I seen her art and I seen her energy and I heard the music, and I knew that she was a star.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Equipto also watched A.M.K grapple with differentiating herself from her father while finding ways to honor him, and encouraged her to keep going. “I think her finding that balance and be her own individual yet still carry on that legacy in such a strong [way] is incredible.”\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/bTa1xSBzn6k'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/bTa1xSBzn6k'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/tc1.2.3/\">T.C.\u003c/a>, a veteran producer and engineer who worked with Cougnut on iconic I.M.P. tracks like “Merciless” and “I Smell Jealousy,” welcomed A.M.K into his studio.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Anytime I have a question, he’ll help me,” Alien Mac Kitty says. “[T.C.] took me under his wing, and I have so much love for him.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For T.C., offering guidance came naturally: “With the relationship me and her dad had, it was only right, you know?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>T.C. first met Cougnut in the late ’80s, when Cougnut responded to a flyer advertising a new music studio in Lakeview, his neighborhood. T.C. was a producer and engineer there, and the two instantly clicked. Their friendship was one of friendly competition, of challenging each other to improve their craft.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“His voice alone was intimidating. He had a very strong voice,” T.C. says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928078\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13928078\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/017_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"Alien Mac Kitty swings her pink braids while rapping into a microphone.\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/017_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/017_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/017_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/017_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/017_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/017_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Alien Mac Kitty performs at a 415 Day event with Family Not A Group at El Rio in San Francisco on April 15, 2023.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“He was a rapper’s rapper,” he adds. “Like, if he see other rappers coming around, he’d go up to they face — ‘Hey, check this out’ — and start rapping to ’em.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>T.C. sees the same boldness in Cougnut’s daughter. “She’s really passionate about her art, her freedom of speech. And I call her an artist because she does all genres.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While T.C. also produced legendary San Francisco artists like RBL Posse and Andre Nickatina, he estimates that Cougnut was the first rapper out of the City to make an impact throughout the whole Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We ain’t playin’, man. I feel like the Bay Area right now is the place to be as far as this rap scene,” Cougnut said in a 1996 interview with the \u003ca href=\"https://mrdoxey.wordpress.com/2005/07/29/classic-interview-cougnut-of-imp-rip/\">\u003ci>No Joke\u003c/i> rap newsletter\u003c/a>. “We’re not LA. We’re not New York, but I feel like the Bay Area is blowin’ up so much right now to where I think everything comin’ up out this Bay Area is hittin’.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928082\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13928082\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64538_008_KQED_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-qut-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"Alien Mac Kitty raps into a mic on El Rio's patio while wearing a T-shirt with a portrait of her father, Cougnut.\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64538_008_KQED_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64538_008_KQED_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64538_008_KQED_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64538_008_KQED_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64538_008_KQED_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/RS64538_008_KQED_AlienMacKittyElRio_04152023-qut.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Alien Mac Kitty performs at a 415 Day event with Family Not A Group at El Rio in San Francisco on April 15, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The future looks bright for A.M.K\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>A.M.K has been releasing singles since 2019, and her 2022 EP \u003ca href=\"https://open.spotify.com/album/15BsRTY6WuZYJrp0FSyyvz\">\u003ci>Out Her Space\u003c/i>\u003c/a> is her most complete body of work yet — full of uptempo, rambunctious tracks for going dumb on the dance floor, with catchy call-and-response hooks. Most recently, she was featured on the \u003ci>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13927576/frisco-daze-san-francisco-rap-album\">Frisco Daze\u003c/a>\u003c/i> rap compilation alongside 30 up-and-coming artists born and raised in San Francisco. Her fanbase is growing, and people are starting to repeat her slogan, “Fuck Charles,” which isn’t a diss to a specific person — she uses it to cast away the negative forces of the universe. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When Alien Mac Kitty performs live, her energy is infectious. On a recent Saturday afternoon, at Family Not a Group’s 415 Day party at San Francisco’s El Rio, she presided over an enraptured crowd: “Get those fucking dicks up, fuckos,” she yelled over the screech of an electric guitar, clarifying that by “dicks,” she means “energy.” Definitely a brash entrance, but the audience cheered approvingly in response.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She wore a Starter jacket emblazoned with Cougnut’s name, and custom-painted shirt with his portrait. She invokes him often during performances “to give me that strength to execute it and rock out,” she says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m doing this for you,” she tells her dad, wherever he may be in the next realm, “and us, and the legacy.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928067\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13928067\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/IMG_7950-800x787.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"787\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/IMG_7950-800x787.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/IMG_7950-1020x1004.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/IMG_7950-160x157.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/IMG_7950-768x756.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/IMG_7950.jpg 1125w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Cougnut and a young Alien Mac Kitty. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Alien Mac Kitty)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-800x78.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(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>\u003ci>Alien Mac Kitty performs in the Starlet Room at Harlow’s in Sacramento on June 30 for the \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/allthingsindieshowcase/\">All Things Indie showcase\u003c/a>.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "brendas-got-a-baby-tupac-shakur-ethel-love",
"title": "'Brenda's Got a Baby' — Then and Now",
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"headTitle": "‘Brenda’s Got a Baby’ — Then and Now | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927959\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927959\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Brenda.MAIN_-1-800x601.jpg\" alt=\"A young woman in a top ponytail holds a white blanket containing a baby\" width=\"800\" height=\"601\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Brenda.MAIN_-1-800x601.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Brenda.MAIN_-1-1020x767.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Brenda.MAIN_-1-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Brenda.MAIN_-1-768x577.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Brenda.MAIN_-1.jpg 1410w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ethel Love, at age 17, as Brenda in Tupac Shakur’s music video for ‘Brenda’s Got a Baby.’ Love says the role came naturally, ‘because it was similar to my life already.’ \u003ccite>(YouTube/Interscope Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cstrong>Editor’s note\u003c/strong>: This story is part of \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003cem>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">T\u003c/span>here’s an alley in downtown Oakland that connects Webster Street and Harrison Street, between 12th Street and 13th Street. Situated on the border of downtown and Chinatown, gated on both ends and naturally lit from above, the block-long walkway has been the site of day parties, shady doings, and a runway for rats in the middle of the night.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’d often walk past this alley when I lived on 13th and Webster, thinking nothing of it. That is, until one day when I was watching the 1992 music video for Tupac’s classic song, “Brenda’s Got A Baby.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It suddenly hit me: \u003cem>That’s the spot where Brenda’s body was found\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927967\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927967\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.44.49_am_720.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"520\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.44.49_am_720.png 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.44.49_am_720-160x116.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A scene from Tupac Shakur’s video for ‘Brenda’s Got a Baby.’ \u003ccite>(YouTube/Interscope Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In the video, an OPD cruiser idles in the alley as Brenda’s body is covered by a bloody white sheet — not far from where, earlier in the video, she’d dropped her newborn in a dumpster. As Tupac narrates the story, Brenda’s death is shown reported on the front page of the Oakland Tribune.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Brenda’s death may have been fictitious, but as the video notes, it was based on a true story. Tupac had been inspired by one particularly heinous account of a 12 year-old girl in New York who was molested and impregnated by a family member — a story that symbolizes the unfortunate reality too many young people face, then and now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the video begins, the character of Brenda walks down the street holding a baby wrapped in a white cloth. Her image then cross-dissolves, revealing Tupac surrounded by a crew of teenagers and young adults.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Money B, rapper of Digital Underground fame and friend of Tupac, is among the people in the posse. Money B says everyone in that shot, aside from him and Pac’s childhood friend Mouse Man, were artists Pac was working to develop at the time. “Pac was very strategic in all of that,” Money B says, on a group call. “He understood product placement and branding from the very beginning.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927969\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927969\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.46.18_am_720.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"530\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.46.18_am_720.png 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.46.18_am_720-160x118.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A scene from Tupac Shakur’s video for ‘Brenda’s Got a Baby.’ \u003ccite>(YouTube/Interscope Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>There’s some other Easter eggs in the video too, says Money B, including Digital Underground’s DJ Fuze portraying a cop, a street pole adorned with an Oakland logo, and a cardboard sign reading “Bush Sucks,” a shot at George H.W. Bush, the United States’ sitting president at the time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to appearing in the video, Money B is featured on the song through a brief back and forth with Pac:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I hear Brenda’s got a baby / But Brenda’s barely got a brain / A damn shame, the girl can hardly spell her name,” says Tupac.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That’s not our problem, that’s up to Brenda’s family,” says Money B.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To which Pac responds, “Well, let me show ya how it affects the whole community.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Discussing the music video now, Money B laughs and says, “When I say that line, I’m leaning down, and I try to get up and I stumble, and I fall, and I do a smirk, like, ‘Oh shit, I scrubbed.’ But they kept it in there.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_11696060']Tupac wrote the whole song, including that line for Money B, before Deon “Big D the Impossible” Evans produced the track. The day they recorded it, Money B happened to be hanging out with Chicago singer Dave Hollister (formerly of Blackstreet) and Roniece Levias (who has also worked with Too Short, E-40 and Digital Underground). When they heard the beat in Starlight studio, the two vocalists, both steeped in the church, began to sing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They were going back and forth,” Money B says of Levias and Hollister. “They caught a groove and Pac was like, ‘Go in there and do that.’ That was on the spot, spur of the moment, lightning in a bottle.” Atron Gregory, Tupac’s former manager, chimes in on the call: “That was the first time on a hip-hop record that singing was done all the way through the record. There was singing on hip-hop records, but not all the way through.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Money B points out another distinguishing feature of the song: “Brenda’s Got a Baby is just one verse,” he says. “It’s not like: song, hook, song, hook. All (Tupac) wanted to do is tell a story, and everything else just happened on the spot.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927973\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927973\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_8.20.26_am_720.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"503\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_8.20.26_am_720.png 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_8.20.26_am_720-160x112.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ethel Love, who played Brenda in Tupac Shakur’s ‘Brenda’s Got a Baby Video,’ pictured in a recent photo. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Ethel Love)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">E\u003c/span>thel Love, the woman who portrayed Brenda in the music video, is watching her grandchildren when she joins the call. Bright-spirited and full of energy, she talks to us from a car in Georgia, preparing to celebrate her 49th birthday, remembering the video shoot vividly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I didn’t hear the story for the first time until after I did the video,” says Love.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Just 17 years old at the time, Love was tapped by her brother Deandre (a.k.a. Papa Doc), a friend of Tupac’s, to be the lead actress. Love says the video’s directors, Allen and Albert Hughes, let the song’s lyrics inform their direction, and simply told Love what they wanted her to do in each scene.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Love, who was raised between North and Central Richmond and grew up in the church, was involved in the arts through the East Bay Center for the Performing Arts. But she’d never done anything of this magnitude.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NRWUs0KtB-I\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Money B interjects, “Do you remember my momma being your momma?” His question about his real mother portraying Love’s mother in the video is met with a round of laughs. “Yes,” says Love, before explaining that arguing with her fictional mother on the set wasn’t a far stretch from her real life. “I’d just not too long ago went off on my momma … because I wanted to hang out, and my momma attacked me, and I was talking to her just like that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Love was a mother of one at the time, and says she drew from her own experience in portraying the role of Brenda. “It was easy because it was similar to my life already,” she says. Aside from Brenda becoming a prostitute, the girls’ stories had eerie parallels. “All that was so real,” she says, “because I was living that life.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The weight of the moment is broken by the laughter of one of Love’s four grandchildren in the background of the call. “Brenda’s still got a lot of babies,” Love jokes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-13927968\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.44.28_am_720.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"430\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.44.28_am_720.png 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.44.28_am_720-160x96.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the early ’90s, after the video dropped, life changed for Love. “It was hard walking down the hallway at school, because everyone thought I was different now, because I was on a popular video with this popular young man,” says Love. People questioned why she didn’t tell them what she was doing; all the while Love just wanted to remain low-key.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I was always secretive anyway,” says Love, anecdotally sharing that she had quietly been driving to school since the age of 13, parking around the corner and not telling anyone. But now she was on TV, and friends she grew up with were changing on her. People she didn’t know treated her equally as weird. “I couldn’t go outside like I used to for a while, especially with my daughter. It used to scare her,” says Love. “People used to come up to her and say, ‘Oh my god, you that girl from the video?!’ Screaming and trying to touch me and grab her. It was really weird.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Love soon had two more daughters, and as her children matured, she shared with them the story of the music video, the song and the golden plaque she received from her role in it all. She also warned her children not to tell anyone about her role in Tupac’s video, because she didn’t want them to be treated differently in school. But as the girls grew older, they kept seeing images of their mother on social media.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927976\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927976\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_8.22.01_am_720-1.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"678\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_8.22.01_am_720-1.png 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_8.22.01_am_720-1-160x151.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ethel Love as a teenager. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Ethel Love)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Only reason I’m \u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/ethelloveeddy/\">on Facebook\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/therealbrenda2/?hl=en\">Instagram\u003c/a> is because my kids,” says Love. She imitates her children as she says, “Mom look, you in the feed again. They’re saying you’re LisaRaye.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Atron and Money B laugh, they’ve heard that rumor too. (LisaRaye appeared in a different Tupac video, “Toss It Up.”) Love sees no shade in being mixed up with another successful beautiful Black woman. But Love is not LisaRaye, nor is she “Brenda.” Instead, Love is quite clear on who she is and how, as a child, she portrayed an image that spoke to some of the largest issues facing society.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I like the bathroom scene,” Love tells me, referring to the moment in the video when Brenda is physically delivering the baby. “Because that is so real to people that have kids, but don’t know how to tell their parents they’re having a child. (They) end up having a child in the bathtub or in a bathroom,” says Love. One of her own family members, she adds, experienced this firsthand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of Ethel’s grand-babies enters the screen as I ask about last year’s overturning of Roe v. Wade, reproductive rights and how hip-hop has addressed this issue—or added to the issue.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Love says she didn’t understand at the time, but being a grandmother now, she sees the significance of her role. Not just as a character in a popular music video from four decades ago, but as a volunteer babysitter, reproductive health advocate and firm believer in the concept of a village raising a child.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927970\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927970\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.41.12_am_720.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"526\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.41.12_am_720.png 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.41.12_am_720-160x117.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A scene from Tupac Shakur’s video for ‘Brenda’s Got a Baby.’ \u003ccite>(YouTube/Interscope Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">W\u003c/span>hen she looks back at the music video, and considers how far she’s come, she realizes that, in many ways, she’s still that person — the one Tupac saw when he suggested her for the role. “It’s like he marked me,” says Love. “He knew that I was going to be that person. I’ve always been that person. I had other people’s kids before I had kids. I’m a nurturer.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On the note of reproductive health and healthy methods of community support, I ask Money B again about that line of his: “That’s not our problem, that’s up to Brenda’s family.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='pop_23762']Money B refers to he and Tupac’s shared Black Panther lineage. Pac’s mother, the late Afeni Shakur, was a New York Black Panther Party member and a part of the Panther 21. As a child in the Bay Area, Money B attended the Black Panther Party’s Freedom School in Oakland. With that community-oriented foundation, Money B and Tupac share the same mindset as Ethel Love: it takes a village.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s the mentality that a lot of us have, or have had, when it comes to raising the youth,” says Money B. When done right, he says, it’s amazing the difference that we can collectively make.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before the call ends, Mon, as friends call him, tells Love how happy he is to see her, and how proud he is of the woman she’s become; he brags that he’s going to tell his mother about her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Love responds, “Give her a hug and a kiss for me.”\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927959\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927959\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Brenda.MAIN_-1-800x601.jpg\" alt=\"A young woman in a top ponytail holds a white blanket containing a baby\" width=\"800\" height=\"601\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Brenda.MAIN_-1-800x601.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Brenda.MAIN_-1-1020x767.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Brenda.MAIN_-1-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Brenda.MAIN_-1-768x577.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Brenda.MAIN_-1.jpg 1410w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ethel Love, at age 17, as Brenda in Tupac Shakur’s music video for ‘Brenda’s Got a Baby.’ Love says the role came naturally, ‘because it was similar to my life already.’ \u003ccite>(YouTube/Interscope Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cstrong>Editor’s note\u003c/strong>: This story is part of \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003cem>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">T\u003c/span>here’s an alley in downtown Oakland that connects Webster Street and Harrison Street, between 12th Street and 13th Street. Situated on the border of downtown and Chinatown, gated on both ends and naturally lit from above, the block-long walkway has been the site of day parties, shady doings, and a runway for rats in the middle of the night.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’d often walk past this alley when I lived on 13th and Webster, thinking nothing of it. That is, until one day when I was watching the 1992 music video for Tupac’s classic song, “Brenda’s Got A Baby.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It suddenly hit me: \u003cem>That’s the spot where Brenda’s body was found\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927967\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927967\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.44.49_am_720.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"520\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.44.49_am_720.png 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.44.49_am_720-160x116.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A scene from Tupac Shakur’s video for ‘Brenda’s Got a Baby.’ \u003ccite>(YouTube/Interscope Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In the video, an OPD cruiser idles in the alley as Brenda’s body is covered by a bloody white sheet — not far from where, earlier in the video, she’d dropped her newborn in a dumpster. As Tupac narrates the story, Brenda’s death is shown reported on the front page of the Oakland Tribune.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Brenda’s death may have been fictitious, but as the video notes, it was based on a true story. Tupac had been inspired by one particularly heinous account of a 12 year-old girl in New York who was molested and impregnated by a family member — a story that symbolizes the unfortunate reality too many young people face, then and now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the video begins, the character of Brenda walks down the street holding a baby wrapped in a white cloth. Her image then cross-dissolves, revealing Tupac surrounded by a crew of teenagers and young adults.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Money B, rapper of Digital Underground fame and friend of Tupac, is among the people in the posse. Money B says everyone in that shot, aside from him and Pac’s childhood friend Mouse Man, were artists Pac was working to develop at the time. “Pac was very strategic in all of that,” Money B says, on a group call. “He understood product placement and branding from the very beginning.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927969\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927969\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.46.18_am_720.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"530\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.46.18_am_720.png 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.46.18_am_720-160x118.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A scene from Tupac Shakur’s video for ‘Brenda’s Got a Baby.’ \u003ccite>(YouTube/Interscope Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>There’s some other Easter eggs in the video too, says Money B, including Digital Underground’s DJ Fuze portraying a cop, a street pole adorned with an Oakland logo, and a cardboard sign reading “Bush Sucks,” a shot at George H.W. Bush, the United States’ sitting president at the time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to appearing in the video, Money B is featured on the song through a brief back and forth with Pac:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I hear Brenda’s got a baby / But Brenda’s barely got a brain / A damn shame, the girl can hardly spell her name,” says Tupac.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That’s not our problem, that’s up to Brenda’s family,” says Money B.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To which Pac responds, “Well, let me show ya how it affects the whole community.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Discussing the music video now, Money B laughs and says, “When I say that line, I’m leaning down, and I try to get up and I stumble, and I fall, and I do a smirk, like, ‘Oh shit, I scrubbed.’ But they kept it in there.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Tupac wrote the whole song, including that line for Money B, before Deon “Big D the Impossible” Evans produced the track. The day they recorded it, Money B happened to be hanging out with Chicago singer Dave Hollister (formerly of Blackstreet) and Roniece Levias (who has also worked with Too Short, E-40 and Digital Underground). When they heard the beat in Starlight studio, the two vocalists, both steeped in the church, began to sing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They were going back and forth,” Money B says of Levias and Hollister. “They caught a groove and Pac was like, ‘Go in there and do that.’ That was on the spot, spur of the moment, lightning in a bottle.” Atron Gregory, Tupac’s former manager, chimes in on the call: “That was the first time on a hip-hop record that singing was done all the way through the record. There was singing on hip-hop records, but not all the way through.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Money B points out another distinguishing feature of the song: “Brenda’s Got a Baby is just one verse,” he says. “It’s not like: song, hook, song, hook. All (Tupac) wanted to do is tell a story, and everything else just happened on the spot.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927973\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927973\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_8.20.26_am_720.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"503\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_8.20.26_am_720.png 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_8.20.26_am_720-160x112.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ethel Love, who played Brenda in Tupac Shakur’s ‘Brenda’s Got a Baby Video,’ pictured in a recent photo. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Ethel Love)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">E\u003c/span>thel Love, the woman who portrayed Brenda in the music video, is watching her grandchildren when she joins the call. Bright-spirited and full of energy, she talks to us from a car in Georgia, preparing to celebrate her 49th birthday, remembering the video shoot vividly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I didn’t hear the story for the first time until after I did the video,” says Love.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Just 17 years old at the time, Love was tapped by her brother Deandre (a.k.a. Papa Doc), a friend of Tupac’s, to be the lead actress. Love says the video’s directors, Allen and Albert Hughes, let the song’s lyrics inform their direction, and simply told Love what they wanted her to do in each scene.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Love, who was raised between North and Central Richmond and grew up in the church, was involved in the arts through the East Bay Center for the Performing Arts. But she’d never done anything of this magnitude.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/NRWUs0KtB-I'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/NRWUs0KtB-I'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>Money B interjects, “Do you remember my momma being your momma?” His question about his real mother portraying Love’s mother in the video is met with a round of laughs. “Yes,” says Love, before explaining that arguing with her fictional mother on the set wasn’t a far stretch from her real life. “I’d just not too long ago went off on my momma … because I wanted to hang out, and my momma attacked me, and I was talking to her just like that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Love was a mother of one at the time, and says she drew from her own experience in portraying the role of Brenda. “It was easy because it was similar to my life already,” she says. Aside from Brenda becoming a prostitute, the girls’ stories had eerie parallels. “All that was so real,” she says, “because I was living that life.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The weight of the moment is broken by the laughter of one of Love’s four grandchildren in the background of the call. “Brenda’s still got a lot of babies,” Love jokes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-13927968\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.44.28_am_720.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"430\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.44.28_am_720.png 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.44.28_am_720-160x96.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the early ’90s, after the video dropped, life changed for Love. “It was hard walking down the hallway at school, because everyone thought I was different now, because I was on a popular video with this popular young man,” says Love. People questioned why she didn’t tell them what she was doing; all the while Love just wanted to remain low-key.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I was always secretive anyway,” says Love, anecdotally sharing that she had quietly been driving to school since the age of 13, parking around the corner and not telling anyone. But now she was on TV, and friends she grew up with were changing on her. People she didn’t know treated her equally as weird. “I couldn’t go outside like I used to for a while, especially with my daughter. It used to scare her,” says Love. “People used to come up to her and say, ‘Oh my god, you that girl from the video?!’ Screaming and trying to touch me and grab her. It was really weird.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Love soon had two more daughters, and as her children matured, she shared with them the story of the music video, the song and the golden plaque she received from her role in it all. She also warned her children not to tell anyone about her role in Tupac’s video, because she didn’t want them to be treated differently in school. But as the girls grew older, they kept seeing images of their mother on social media.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927976\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927976\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_8.22.01_am_720-1.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"678\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_8.22.01_am_720-1.png 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_8.22.01_am_720-1-160x151.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ethel Love as a teenager. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Ethel Love)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Only reason I’m \u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/ethelloveeddy/\">on Facebook\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/therealbrenda2/?hl=en\">Instagram\u003c/a> is because my kids,” says Love. She imitates her children as she says, “Mom look, you in the feed again. They’re saying you’re LisaRaye.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Atron and Money B laugh, they’ve heard that rumor too. (LisaRaye appeared in a different Tupac video, “Toss It Up.”) Love sees no shade in being mixed up with another successful beautiful Black woman. But Love is not LisaRaye, nor is she “Brenda.” Instead, Love is quite clear on who she is and how, as a child, she portrayed an image that spoke to some of the largest issues facing society.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I like the bathroom scene,” Love tells me, referring to the moment in the video when Brenda is physically delivering the baby. “Because that is so real to people that have kids, but don’t know how to tell their parents they’re having a child. (They) end up having a child in the bathtub or in a bathroom,” says Love. One of her own family members, she adds, experienced this firsthand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of Ethel’s grand-babies enters the screen as I ask about last year’s overturning of Roe v. Wade, reproductive rights and how hip-hop has addressed this issue—or added to the issue.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Love says she didn’t understand at the time, but being a grandmother now, she sees the significance of her role. Not just as a character in a popular music video from four decades ago, but as a volunteer babysitter, reproductive health advocate and firm believer in the concept of a village raising a child.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927970\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927970\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.41.12_am_720.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"526\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.41.12_am_720.png 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/screenshot_2023-04-17_at_10.41.12_am_720-160x117.png 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A scene from Tupac Shakur’s video for ‘Brenda’s Got a Baby.’ \u003ccite>(YouTube/Interscope Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">W\u003c/span>hen she looks back at the music video, and considers how far she’s come, she realizes that, in many ways, she’s still that person — the one Tupac saw when he suggested her for the role. “It’s like he marked me,” says Love. “He knew that I was going to be that person. I’ve always been that person. I had other people’s kids before I had kids. I’m a nurturer.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On the note of reproductive health and healthy methods of community support, I ask Money B again about that line of his: “That’s not our problem, that’s up to Brenda’s family.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Money B refers to he and Tupac’s shared Black Panther lineage. Pac’s mother, the late Afeni Shakur, was a New York Black Panther Party member and a part of the Panther 21. As a child in the Bay Area, Money B attended the Black Panther Party’s Freedom School in Oakland. With that community-oriented foundation, Money B and Tupac share the same mindset as Ethel Love: it takes a village.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s the mentality that a lot of us have, or have had, when it comes to raising the youth,” says Money B. When done right, he says, it’s amazing the difference that we can collectively make.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before the call ends, Mon, as friends call him, tells Love how happy he is to see her, and how proud he is of the woman she’s become; he brags that he’s going to tell his mother about her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Love responds, “Give her a hug and a kiss for me.”\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "del-funky-homosapien-no-need-for-alarm-30-years-anniversary",
"title": "Looking Back on My Album ‘No Need for Alarm,’ 30 Years Later",
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"headTitle": "Looking Back on My Album ‘No Need for Alarm,’ 30 Years Later | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927684\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 792px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927684\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DEL.GIF.Horiz_.USE_.gif\" alt=\"a record cover cycles in and out of the background where its original cover photo was shot, showing a pagoda and victorian houses\" width=\"792\" height=\"565\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Released Nov. 23, 1993, Del the Funky Homosapien’s ‘No Need for Alarm’ is shown at the original location of its cover photo, in Chinese Garden Park at Alice and 7th Streets in Oakland. \u003ccite>(Photos by Beth LaBerge/KQED; animation by Bryan Bindloss/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cstrong>Editor’s note\u003c/strong>: This story is part of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Del the Funky Homosapien’s sophomore album \u003c/em>No Need For Alarm\u003cem> is a Bay Area classic that proved his uncompromising skill and helped establish the Hieroglyphics collective nationally as a creative force. Here, from an interview condensed for length and clarity, Del, a.k.a. Teren Delvon Jones, recalls the circumstances of the album’s recording, artwork and reception.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cstrong>As told to\u003c/strong>: Gabe Meline\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">W\u003c/span>hen I was making \u003cem>No Need for Alarm\u003c/em>, I was in a dark space. I had a lot of issues growing up. I don’t think I was aware of it then, but looking back, I was in an angsty space. I was dealing with issues of abuse, being different from everybody, pretty much being a loner except for people that was into the culture I was, which was not that many. I appreciated the camaraderie that I had, too, don’t get me wrong. But yeah, I had an attitude.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I had come out with my first album, \u003cem>I Wish My Brother George Was Here\u003c/em>, which I made with Ice Cube — he’s my cousin. And the response from a lot of heads was not at all what I expected. It wasn’t celebratory. It was more like, “OK, you’re selling out. Why’re you rappin’ over P-Funk shit?” So, that caused me to be, like, “All right, I’m just going all in this time, just to show motherfuckers what I really be on.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And I think that hurt Cube — I think he was like, “OK, well, damn, you didn’t like the first album?” I’m like, “Nah, nah, I like it, but, you know…” It was just that, from my little social network, I wasn’t getting the love that I thought I was going to get. It was the opposite. Because motherfuckers already done heard all my demos and shit. They knew how wild I could get.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927683\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927683\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.ApolloTheater.1992-800x532.jpg\" alt=\"A man in a baseball cap, sunglasses, nose ring and sweatshirt holds a microphone out to the crowd\" width=\"800\" height=\"532\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.ApolloTheater.1992-800x532.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.ApolloTheater.1992-1020x678.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.ApolloTheater.1992-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.ApolloTheater.1992-768x511.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.ApolloTheater.1992.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Del the Funky Homosapien onstage at the Apollo Theater in Harlem on Feb. 22, 1992, the year before ‘No Need for Alarm.’ \u003ccite>(Al Pereira/Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>So that’s what I did for \u003cem>No Need for Alarm\u003c/em>. I’m a battle rapper by nature. That’s what I really do. It was limited on the first album. And that was probably a wise decision, because a lot of people can’t understand that shit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was in transition. I was couch-surfing for a minute, living with different people, roommating. In ’93, I ended up living in New York mixing the album, doing whatever I needed to do for the album, so I had a little flat in New York that I was staying out of.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13923766']Before mixing in New York, though, we recorded at Hyde Street Studios in San Francisco, with Matt Kelly. Matt Kelly is one of my mentors. He really showed me how to mix, he showed me how to be able to listen to the mix, how to work the equipment in the studio. When I had questions, he would answer my questions and really fuck with me. He took me under his wing and showed me a lot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some people write in the studio. We were more self-reliant — we had songs done before we even hit the studio. Nine times out of 10 when we hit the studio, we’re there to record the shit and get it done.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our time outside the studio, though, that would be when we were smoking and drinking, making beats, selecting shit. Motherfuckers might bring records over, I’d be like, “Ooh, what’s this?” Be like, “Ooh, okay. We’ll use that real quick.” I might be at Opio’s house with A-Plus, Tajai might be there, we might be listening to records. His stepfather had a great collection of records, so we’d just be in his office, listening to records, getting ideas, maybe watching anime or something, playing video games.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927690\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927690\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.BackCover.600.72dpi.jpg\" alt=\"a young man in a superman t-shirt smokes in a park\" width=\"600\" height=\"840\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.BackCover.600.72dpi.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.BackCover.600.72dpi-160x224.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Del: ‘One of my favorite songs from around that time, ‘Pistol Whippers,’ it didn’t even make the album. I was proud of the production on that one. I just thought that beat was hella crazy.’ \u003ccite>(Carl Posey / Elektra Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The album came out and Elektra Records loved it. I don’t know if Cube loved it, but Elektra was fully supportive. And Dante Ross was my dog over there — he’s part of the culture, so he felt it. I was with Sophia Chang too, she was A&R over at Jive Records, and got Souls of Mischief and Casual on the label there. She ended up leaving, but I still was good friends with her. So when I was in New York, I would never be at my little flat. A lot of the time I’d either be at Dante’s crib, or Sophia’s crib, or over at Kurious Jorge’s crib.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I appreciated their friendship and the encouragement, because like I said, I was in a dark place. I don’t even think I really believed in my shit like that, but Sophia and Dante really backed it, especially Sophia. I appreciated her taste because she fucked with Wu-Tang, she knew what was up. So it was big for her to be like, “Nah, this really is tight. Go forward.” Even when Cube was like, “Whatever, man, if you wanna do what you wanna to do, go ahead.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=spcKBTfjW1M\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I will say this, there’s some things I said about women on that album that I’m not too proud of. I was a kid, but no excuses. I said some shit about white people on there that I’m not too proud of. I don’t really feel like that. Like I said, I have my issues — and, I’m Black, growing up in that era, so it was different. I think people that heard it understood where I was coming from, too, because I wasn’t trying to be malicious, necessarily. I was just letting it spill out, whatever the fuck it was.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Oakland had crack going on and the high murder rate, which affected me, but I didn’t wanna rap about that shit. For me, hip-hop was like how it was for motherfuckers in the Bronx, like Ultramagnetic MCs. I done talked to Kool Keith, and he was like, “You might come home and see a hand in the mailbox, or your next-door neighbor might have a gorilla in this house.” Just wild shit. Because if you’ve got dope money, you might be trying to floss, maybe you might get a tiger.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Ultramag, they’re trying to escape that shit. They’re like, “Man, why I wanna rap about gangster shit? I don’t wanna rap about that shit.” So, that’s how I was. It did affect me, but hip-hop gave me a vehicle to escape it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927688\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927688\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi-800x800.jpg\" alt=\"a red pagoda in a park, with victorian houses in the background\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi-1536x1536.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The pagoda at Chinese Garden Park in Oakland, where the ‘No Need for Alarm’ cover photo was shot. Photographer Carl Posey recalls of the location: “The idea was to take people out of their typical element, and try something different.” \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The album cover was shot by Carl Posey. The pagoda, you know, I love all kind of different cultures, and that just spoke to me, the structure and how it looked. Maybe since I was into anime and shit, martial arts, that might’ve had a slight thing to do with it too. But I just like Chinatown too, you feel me?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13924167']We shot at the pagoda, then I picked this other spot that’s an underpass over by Lake Merritt, by the college. These are places that I liked to go to at night, because I was like, a street kid. I might not have had a place to go sometimes, so I’d just be out at night, tripping or whatever, in some of the places that I like to be at.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We did a comic book design for the cover. That was my idea. I was into Marvel and DC, but I was also heavy into underground comics. Vaughn Bodē, Mark Bodē, \u003cem>Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles\u003c/em>, all that shit was starting to come out and really bust the bubble. I did the lettering too. I’m a visual artist first and foremost, so I already had an artistic vision. Elektra was just gracious enough to let me go with it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927691\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927691\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.PressPhoto.93.800.72dpi.jpg\" alt=\"a man in a bucket hat sitting in a concrete culvert holds his hands out toward the camera\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.PressPhoto.93.800.72dpi.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.PressPhoto.93.800.72dpi-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.PressPhoto.93.800.72dpi-768x768.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Del the Funky Homosapien in Oakland, in 1993, in a publicity photo for ‘No Need for Alarm.’ ‘I think, looking back, Cube feels like, ‘Okay, you really did your thing. You didn’t try to ride my coattails. You did your thing and you became successful for that.’ I think he respects that now.’ \u003ccite>(Carl Posey / Elektra Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Man, I wish I still had that boombox I’m holding on the cover. I’d be playing all the classics on it. I was a huge Gang Starr fan. Ultramag, Erick Sermon, Jungle Brothers, De La, KMD, Brand Nubian. I also might be fucking with some dub, too, some King Tubby or Scratch Perry. I’d listen to dancehall too, and a bit of punk rock, like Black Flag.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was 20 when I recorded \u003cem>No Need for Alarm\u003c/em>. I’m 50 now. I don’t feel 50, because I don’t drive. I skate everywhere. In certain ways I feel my age because of some of the injuries I’ve had, like when I was with the Gorillaz, I had a real bad injury, fell off the stage, damn near killed myself. But I don’t feel like I look hella old, either.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hip-hop is 50 now, too, and it’s gotten to the point where it’s so far removed from where it was. The essence of it is so far removed from where kids is at now. I’m not saying that don’t nobody care about it, because a lot of kids do care about it, and they try to research the shit and figure it out. It speaks to them. But it’s been commercialized to the point where it’s been milked down by corporate society, motherfuckers feasting on shit, just wearing it into the ground. That’s the sad situation of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m not trying to sound hella dark or nothing, because I do got a lot of hope in the shit. There’s been new movements within hip-hop that took it somewhere else, that maybe a lot of old heads might not really fuck with. But I feel, overall, just the corporate rule, always, that’s what it is — “We trying to make money off this.” Ain’t really no concern about the culture or people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As for \u003cem>No Need for Alarm\u003c/em>, I’m just glad people still fuck with it, 30 years later. One love to all the supporters and all the fans. I love you all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-11687704\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-800x60.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"60\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-400x30.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-768x58.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927684\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 792px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927684\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DEL.GIF.Horiz_.USE_.gif\" alt=\"a record cover cycles in and out of the background where its original cover photo was shot, showing a pagoda and victorian houses\" width=\"792\" height=\"565\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Released Nov. 23, 1993, Del the Funky Homosapien’s ‘No Need for Alarm’ is shown at the original location of its cover photo, in Chinese Garden Park at Alice and 7th Streets in Oakland. \u003ccite>(Photos by Beth LaBerge/KQED; animation by Bryan Bindloss/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cstrong>Editor’s note\u003c/strong>: This story is part of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Del the Funky Homosapien’s sophomore album \u003c/em>No Need For Alarm\u003cem> is a Bay Area classic that proved his uncompromising skill and helped establish the Hieroglyphics collective nationally as a creative force. Here, from an interview condensed for length and clarity, Del, a.k.a. Teren Delvon Jones, recalls the circumstances of the album’s recording, artwork and reception.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cstrong>As told to\u003c/strong>: Gabe Meline\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">W\u003c/span>hen I was making \u003cem>No Need for Alarm\u003c/em>, I was in a dark space. I had a lot of issues growing up. I don’t think I was aware of it then, but looking back, I was in an angsty space. I was dealing with issues of abuse, being different from everybody, pretty much being a loner except for people that was into the culture I was, which was not that many. I appreciated the camaraderie that I had, too, don’t get me wrong. But yeah, I had an attitude.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I had come out with my first album, \u003cem>I Wish My Brother George Was Here\u003c/em>, which I made with Ice Cube — he’s my cousin. And the response from a lot of heads was not at all what I expected. It wasn’t celebratory. It was more like, “OK, you’re selling out. Why’re you rappin’ over P-Funk shit?” So, that caused me to be, like, “All right, I’m just going all in this time, just to show motherfuckers what I really be on.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And I think that hurt Cube — I think he was like, “OK, well, damn, you didn’t like the first album?” I’m like, “Nah, nah, I like it, but, you know…” It was just that, from my little social network, I wasn’t getting the love that I thought I was going to get. It was the opposite. Because motherfuckers already done heard all my demos and shit. They knew how wild I could get.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927683\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927683\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.ApolloTheater.1992-800x532.jpg\" alt=\"A man in a baseball cap, sunglasses, nose ring and sweatshirt holds a microphone out to the crowd\" width=\"800\" height=\"532\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.ApolloTheater.1992-800x532.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.ApolloTheater.1992-1020x678.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.ApolloTheater.1992-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.ApolloTheater.1992-768x511.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.ApolloTheater.1992.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Del the Funky Homosapien onstage at the Apollo Theater in Harlem on Feb. 22, 1992, the year before ‘No Need for Alarm.’ \u003ccite>(Al Pereira/Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>So that’s what I did for \u003cem>No Need for Alarm\u003c/em>. I’m a battle rapper by nature. That’s what I really do. It was limited on the first album. And that was probably a wise decision, because a lot of people can’t understand that shit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was in transition. I was couch-surfing for a minute, living with different people, roommating. In ’93, I ended up living in New York mixing the album, doing whatever I needed to do for the album, so I had a little flat in New York that I was staying out of.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Before mixing in New York, though, we recorded at Hyde Street Studios in San Francisco, with Matt Kelly. Matt Kelly is one of my mentors. He really showed me how to mix, he showed me how to be able to listen to the mix, how to work the equipment in the studio. When I had questions, he would answer my questions and really fuck with me. He took me under his wing and showed me a lot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some people write in the studio. We were more self-reliant — we had songs done before we even hit the studio. Nine times out of 10 when we hit the studio, we’re there to record the shit and get it done.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our time outside the studio, though, that would be when we were smoking and drinking, making beats, selecting shit. Motherfuckers might bring records over, I’d be like, “Ooh, what’s this?” Be like, “Ooh, okay. We’ll use that real quick.” I might be at Opio’s house with A-Plus, Tajai might be there, we might be listening to records. His stepfather had a great collection of records, so we’d just be in his office, listening to records, getting ideas, maybe watching anime or something, playing video games.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927690\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927690\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.BackCover.600.72dpi.jpg\" alt=\"a young man in a superman t-shirt smokes in a park\" width=\"600\" height=\"840\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.BackCover.600.72dpi.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.BackCover.600.72dpi-160x224.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Del: ‘One of my favorite songs from around that time, ‘Pistol Whippers,’ it didn’t even make the album. I was proud of the production on that one. I just thought that beat was hella crazy.’ \u003ccite>(Carl Posey / Elektra Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The album came out and Elektra Records loved it. I don’t know if Cube loved it, but Elektra was fully supportive. And Dante Ross was my dog over there — he’s part of the culture, so he felt it. I was with Sophia Chang too, she was A&R over at Jive Records, and got Souls of Mischief and Casual on the label there. She ended up leaving, but I still was good friends with her. So when I was in New York, I would never be at my little flat. A lot of the time I’d either be at Dante’s crib, or Sophia’s crib, or over at Kurious Jorge’s crib.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I appreciated their friendship and the encouragement, because like I said, I was in a dark place. I don’t even think I really believed in my shit like that, but Sophia and Dante really backed it, especially Sophia. I appreciated her taste because she fucked with Wu-Tang, she knew what was up. So it was big for her to be like, “Nah, this really is tight. Go forward.” Even when Cube was like, “Whatever, man, if you wanna do what you wanna to do, go ahead.”\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/spcKBTfjW1M'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/spcKBTfjW1M'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>I will say this, there’s some things I said about women on that album that I’m not too proud of. I was a kid, but no excuses. I said some shit about white people on there that I’m not too proud of. I don’t really feel like that. Like I said, I have my issues — and, I’m Black, growing up in that era, so it was different. I think people that heard it understood where I was coming from, too, because I wasn’t trying to be malicious, necessarily. I was just letting it spill out, whatever the fuck it was.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Oakland had crack going on and the high murder rate, which affected me, but I didn’t wanna rap about that shit. For me, hip-hop was like how it was for motherfuckers in the Bronx, like Ultramagnetic MCs. I done talked to Kool Keith, and he was like, “You might come home and see a hand in the mailbox, or your next-door neighbor might have a gorilla in this house.” Just wild shit. Because if you’ve got dope money, you might be trying to floss, maybe you might get a tiger.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Ultramag, they’re trying to escape that shit. They’re like, “Man, why I wanna rap about gangster shit? I don’t wanna rap about that shit.” So, that’s how I was. It did affect me, but hip-hop gave me a vehicle to escape it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927688\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927688\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi-800x800.jpg\" alt=\"a red pagoda in a park, with victorian houses in the background\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi-1536x1536.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.Square.NoLP_.72dpi.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The pagoda at Chinese Garden Park in Oakland, where the ‘No Need for Alarm’ cover photo was shot. Photographer Carl Posey recalls of the location: “The idea was to take people out of their typical element, and try something different.” \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The album cover was shot by Carl Posey. The pagoda, you know, I love all kind of different cultures, and that just spoke to me, the structure and how it looked. Maybe since I was into anime and shit, martial arts, that might’ve had a slight thing to do with it too. But I just like Chinatown too, you feel me?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>We shot at the pagoda, then I picked this other spot that’s an underpass over by Lake Merritt, by the college. These are places that I liked to go to at night, because I was like, a street kid. I might not have had a place to go sometimes, so I’d just be out at night, tripping or whatever, in some of the places that I like to be at.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We did a comic book design for the cover. That was my idea. I was into Marvel and DC, but I was also heavy into underground comics. Vaughn Bodē, Mark Bodē, \u003cem>Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles\u003c/em>, all that shit was starting to come out and really bust the bubble. I did the lettering too. I’m a visual artist first and foremost, so I already had an artistic vision. Elektra was just gracious enough to let me go with it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927691\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927691\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.PressPhoto.93.800.72dpi.jpg\" alt=\"a man in a bucket hat sitting in a concrete culvert holds his hands out toward the camera\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.PressPhoto.93.800.72dpi.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.PressPhoto.93.800.72dpi-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Del.PressPhoto.93.800.72dpi-768x768.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Del the Funky Homosapien in Oakland, in 1993, in a publicity photo for ‘No Need for Alarm.’ ‘I think, looking back, Cube feels like, ‘Okay, you really did your thing. You didn’t try to ride my coattails. You did your thing and you became successful for that.’ I think he respects that now.’ \u003ccite>(Carl Posey / Elektra Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Man, I wish I still had that boombox I’m holding on the cover. I’d be playing all the classics on it. I was a huge Gang Starr fan. Ultramag, Erick Sermon, Jungle Brothers, De La, KMD, Brand Nubian. I also might be fucking with some dub, too, some King Tubby or Scratch Perry. I’d listen to dancehall too, and a bit of punk rock, like Black Flag.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was 20 when I recorded \u003cem>No Need for Alarm\u003c/em>. I’m 50 now. I don’t feel 50, because I don’t drive. I skate everywhere. In certain ways I feel my age because of some of the injuries I’ve had, like when I was with the Gorillaz, I had a real bad injury, fell off the stage, damn near killed myself. But I don’t feel like I look hella old, either.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hip-hop is 50 now, too, and it’s gotten to the point where it’s so far removed from where it was. The essence of it is so far removed from where kids is at now. I’m not saying that don’t nobody care about it, because a lot of kids do care about it, and they try to research the shit and figure it out. It speaks to them. But it’s been commercialized to the point where it’s been milked down by corporate society, motherfuckers feasting on shit, just wearing it into the ground. That’s the sad situation of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m not trying to sound hella dark or nothing, because I do got a lot of hope in the shit. There’s been new movements within hip-hop that took it somewhere else, that maybe a lot of old heads might not really fuck with. But I feel, overall, just the corporate rule, always, that’s what it is — “We trying to make money off this.” Ain’t really no concern about the culture or people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As for \u003cem>No Need for Alarm\u003c/em>, I’m just glad people still fuck with it, 30 years later. One love to all the supporters and all the fans. I love you all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-11687704\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-800x60.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"60\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-400x30.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-768x58.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "bay-area-hip-hop-1980s",
"title": "How Bay Area Hip-Hop Found Its Sound in the 1980s",
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"headTitle": "How Bay Area Hip-Hop Found Its Sound in the 1980s | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927363\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-800x450.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927363\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-800x450.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-1020x574.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-160x90.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-768x432.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-1536x864.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_.png 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">In the mid-1980s, after years of street dance, DJing and graffiti sharing equal space, rapping took center stage. The Bay Area’s bass-heavy sound would arrive at the end of the decade. (Clockwise from top left: Too Short, MC Hammer, Dominique DiPrima, Club Nouveau, and Motorcycle Mike.) \u003ccite>(Steve Ringman/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images; Al Pereira/Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images; SFSU Television Archives; Raymond Boyd/Getty Images; Hodisk Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cstrong>Editor’s note\u003c/strong>: This story is part of \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003cem>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">I\u003c/span>t’s a wintry January evening when Bas-1 brings me to Del the Funky Homosapien’s house in the East Bay. For much of the afternoon, Bas — the \u003ca href=\"https://eastbayexpress.com/old-school-fool-1/\">Oakland native\u003c/a> who’s worked with Digital Underground and released \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=bas-1+full+album+mentally+astute\">his own solo records\u003c/a> — has schooled me on the origins of the Bay Area hip-hop sound.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bas lists numerous rappers from the ’80s, and not just Todd “Too Short” Shaw, the East Oakland rapper who famously hustled homemade cassette tapes. I’ve never heard most of the names Bas mentions: MC Chocolate Milk, Windell Baby Doll, Davy Def, Buddy Bean, Reggie Reg Rock Ski.ter, M.C. Tracy, Rock Master Fresh, Nic Nack, Kimmie Fresh, and the Acorn Crew with Grandmaster Fresh (a rapper later known as “DJ Daryl” Anderson, famed for producing tracks like 415’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yuZ6CAwZmys\">Side Show\u003c/a>” and 2Pac’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fAJfDP3b5_U\">Keep Ya Head Up\u003c/a>”).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13924126']Many of these early Bay Area rappers never put out a commercially available record. Instead, their work is mostly confined to locally distributed cassette tapes — collectors call them “gray tapes” — that are now nearly impossible to find. They publicly broadcasted these tapes throughout neighborhoods, utilizing boomboxes and car stereos as well as stereos at house parties. “None of them sound like Too Short,” says Bas. “Some of these people didn’t put out recordings, but they were known.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Throughout the 1980s, Bay Area hip-hop was an artistic movement struggling for a distinct identity. The first half of the decade was defined by street dance and aerosol art as much as rap and DJing. But as local youth began to absorb the sounds emanating from national hotspots like New York, they created a distinctive style all their own — one that would make a global impact in the years to come.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At Del’s house, Bas queues up an extraordinary live video clip of \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5u3eiG9BtdE\">Mac Mill, Emperor E, and DJ Anthony “K-os” Bryant\u003c/a> performing at \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11690787/when-oakland-was-a-chocolate-city-a-brief-history-of-festival-at-the-lake\">Festival at the Lake\u003c/a>, a now-defunct annual event held at Lake Merritt, in 1988. (Alex “Naru” Reece, who organized the showcase where Mac Mill performed, clarified in a follow-up conversation that it didn’t happen during Festival at the Lake. He also says the showcase was filmed in 1986 for a 1988 video compilation.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mac Mill and Emperor E go back and forth, trading sound effects and dense Oakland slang as K-os cuts and scratches copies of Long Island band Original Concept’s deathless bass classic, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ai4VC0NUxl4\">Knowledge Me\u003c/a>.” Bas praises Mac Mill’s unusual “Arabian” style, which the latter deployed nearly a decade later with the 1995 single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5_f0TB3Igro\">Arabian Hump\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5u3eiG9BtdE\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Then, Bas-1 calls Chris “CJ Flash” Jourdan, an OG who worked with Timex Social Club, the Berkeley teen band whose 1986 electro-funk classic, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jVce2IeYcTg\">Rumors\u003c/a>,” represented the first national breakthrough for Bay Area hip-hop culture. As Bas broadcasts CJ Flash’s voice from his phone through Del’s stereo equipment, CJ Flash spends the next hour or so describing a fledging scene where poppers and boogaloo dancers, not rappers or DJs, were the prime attractions. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These ensembles drew from a street-dance tradition that \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13891300/reclaiming-the-legacy-of-oaklands-boogaloo-dance-culture\">dates back decades\u003c/a>. Their kinetic performances ignited crowds at high schools, house parties, and public spaces like Justin Herman Plaza and Union Square in San Francisco and UC Berkeley’s Sproul Plaza. Battles even took place on the street, with crews traveling to different neighborhoods around the region to seek out rivals. “You could meet with people on their turf and get down, and hopefully not get thumped in the process,” says CJ Flash. Many Bay Area hip-hop pioneers got their start in dance crews, including Club Nouveau’s Jay King (who pop-locked with The Unknowns), DJ King Tech (who was known as Wizard, and danced with Master City Breakers), and Flash himself (who \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ub1TtnI4dh8\">performed with UFO\u003c/a>).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ub1TtnI4dh8\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By contrast, rapping was a relatively new and undeveloped skill, the lowest element on the hip-hop totem pole. “Anybody could rap. Anybody could say a bunch of basic rhyme words with no style and flavor,” says Bas, noting as an aside that “most folks couldn’t understand the lyrics anyway.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>How is a discussion about street dancers connected to an exploration of the Bay Area hip-hop sound? It’s important to understand the conditions under which the genre emerged locally.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Turntables, Casios and Homemade Tapes\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>As KQED’s Eric Arnold explains in “\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13924126/the-bay-area-was-hip-hop-before-there-was-hip-hop\">The Bay Area Was Hip-Hop Before There Was Hip-Hop\u003c/a>,” foundational elements such as spoken word, funk, and rhythm & blues existed locally well before New Jersey trio Sugarhill Gang arrived with “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKTUAESacQM\">Rapper’s Delight\u003c/a>” in the fall of 1979.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13923978']At the same time, the Bay Area was not the Bronx, where breakbeat culture catalyzed and fermented. Bronx DJs, MCs and B-boys like Kool Herc, Grandmaster Flash, Afrika Bambaataa, Grandmaster Caz, the Rock Steady Crew and many others gained renown among mid-’70s New York youth long before “Rapper’s Delight.” By contrast, as CJ Flash explains, it took much of the 1980s for Bay Area youth to develop the cadences and rhythms we now associate with modern rap.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back then, enterprising musicians couldn’t purchase studio software and distribute their own music on an internet platform like Soundcloud. Recording equipment was expensive. An unsigned artist needed the financial and business expertise to manufacture vinyl and cassettes with artwork, much less convince record stores like Leopold’s Records in Berkeley to carry them. (Recordable CD-Rs weren’t widely used until the 1990s.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This helps explain why so many rappers utilized turntables and Casio keyboards, and then recorded their songs using the microphone input on relatively cheap stereo equipment. Captured on recordable cassettes like Maxell and TDK, some of these “gray tapes” simply had stickers with handwritten titles. More often, they weren’t labeled at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927410\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-800x600.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"600\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927410\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A box of handmade Bay Area rap tapes, part of Naru’s home archives. \u003ccite>(Mosi Reeves)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In those days, Too Short was an outlier, a Fremont High School student who canvassed East Oakland spots like Arroyo Park, \u003ca href=\"https://medium.com/@bayareahiphoparchive/in-conversation-with-56fae687e9c\">selling copies of “Game Raps”\u003c/a> at a few dollars a pop. Since Short was originally from Los Angeles, he relied on rap partner Tony “Freddy B” Adams to show him around the Town. The duo \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#too-short-and-freddy-b-start-making-handmade-tapes\">made customized tapes for local drug dealers and players\u003c/a> in the city’s nightlife — now known as “special request” tapes — shouting out the customers’ names in their raps.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Short was a hustler,” says CJ Flash. “He had a style of telling stories that was so outlandish and so funny that word got around.” Short and Freddy B developed the trademark “Biiiiitch!” catchphrase, and Short has often said that he and Freddy B intended to get famous together. Unfortunately, Freddy B was in prison when Short released his landmark “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YwVJTvOO4yY\">Freaky Tales\u003c/a>” tape in 1987. (Adams is \u003ca href=\"https://www.dailyrepublic.com/all-dr-news/solano-news/local-features/from-too-hort-colleague-to-christian-missionary/\">now a minister\u003c/a> at Mount Calvary Baptist Church in Fairfield.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927341\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 676px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TooShort.SFExaminer.1984.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"676\" height=\"455\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927341\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TooShort.SFExaminer.1984.jpg 676w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TooShort.SFExaminer.1984-160x108.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 676px) 100vw, 676px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Too Short in 1984, at the age of 18. \u003ccite>(Katy Raddatz/San Francisco Examiner/Bancroft Library)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Others like Sir Quick Draw, Mac Mill, and Chief Naked Head (later known as Premo; he passed away in January of 2023) simply gave away their tapes or let friends copy or “dub” the originals. As Richmond rapper \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13925761/magic-mike-richmond-calvin-t-rap-hip-hop\">Magic Mike explained in a recent interview with Dregs One\u003c/a>, dubs of his tracks circulated as widely as Germany. “It was more or less trying to make a name for yourself…you had to make a tape,” adds CJ Flash.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Most importantly, Bay Area hip-hop in the ’80s was a primordial soup of youngsters figuring out what the local sound would be. The answers wouldn’t arrive until near the end of the decade. “The Bay Area was behind,” says CJ Flash, comparing it to more advanced regions like Los Angeles, South Florida, and New York. “We never thought about radio.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>‘A Pivotal Moment’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Alex “Naru Kwina” Hence remembers the first time he heard the Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight” as a 14-year-old preparing to attend Oakland High School. “When the song went off, everybody ran outside, like, ‘Did you hear that song?!” he laughs, calling it one of the best moments of his life. “It was a pivotal moment, bro. We literally started rapping the song and trying to remember it.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Naru called himself Sir Quick Draw, an alias inspired by Hanna-Barbera cartoon \u003cem>Quick Draw McGraw\u003c/em> as well as the fact that, as a runner, “I was hella fast.” He took inspiration from Kurtis Blow, the Harlem rapper who scored major hits like 1980’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qzl-2g5HhaI\">The Breaks\u003c/a>.” And Naru almost immediately began recording his voice on tape. His first original song was “The Caveman Rap,” which was inspired by Brooklyn rapper Jimmy Spicer’s 1980 single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nkGLco0tGqc\">Adventures of Super Rhyme\u003c/a>.” Naru can still recite those verses from memory: \u003cem>Now people come and take a trip in time with me / Back to that sweet year one million B.C.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I still got that old-school flavor, man,” he admits. “Hip-hop was more fun for me back then.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927368\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.Boxes_.1.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"840\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927368\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.Boxes_.1.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.Boxes_.1-160x224.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Naru Kwina, who recorded under the names Sir Quick Draw and Em Cee Quick, poses with his home archives. \u003ccite>(Mosi Reeves)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But rap in the Bay Area didn’t take off right away. “Most people would rap other people’s songs. They’d just repeat what they heard on the radio,” says Naru. Aspiring MCs honed their craft by congregating at Eastmont Mall, “trying to impress the girls, and getting our names on our derby jackets.” And when Tom Tom Club’s 1981 hit “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECiMhe4E0pI\">Genius of Love\u003c/a>” dropped? “Everybody rapped over that joint, man. Too many people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s worth remembering that hip-hop was a phenomenon developed essentially by Black and Brown children. Rapping, pop-locking, spray-painting aerosol art on neighborhood walls, even DJing: These were youthful forms of play and creative expression.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bas, who grew up in North Oakland, remembers \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#at-fishermans-wharf-a-street-dance-destination-emerges\">popping and “roboting” at Pier 39 on Fisherman’s Wharf\u003c/a> in the late ’70s as a child. “You have people like Ben [James] from Live Incorporated doing pantomime and roboting,” he says, noting one of the better-known dance crews. Dancers competed for attention and tips that they could spend on Snickers bars and arcade games. “Battle-wise, you had to have skill and talent to a certain caliber in order to truly be out on the Wharf or on Market [and Powell] in front of the cable cars,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927321\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-800x547.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"547\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927321\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-800x547.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-1020x697.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-768x525.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A street dance crew called The Vita Family perform at Pier 39 in 1986. \u003ccite>(Liz Hafalia/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Local newspaper stories focused on the emergence of hip-hop as a youth obsession. Enterprising teachers incorporated it into their lesson plans. On high-school campuses, fledgling DJs like Joseph Thomas “G.I. Joe” Simms Jr. at El Cerrito High School and groups like the Devastating Four proliferated. At house parties, mobile DJ crews spun the latest electro, boogie-funk, and rap hits.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gatherings at schools, churches, and community centers typically reserved a few minutes for fledgling local rap and dance crews to perform. This was also the era of \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#nancy-reagan-visits-oakland-and-coins-the-phrase-just-say-no\">the Reagan Administration’s “Just Say No” campaign\u003c/a>, and kids were often asked to help spread an anti-drug message through raps. “Inspired by rapping groups such as Sugar Hill, Run DMC, Jeckyl and Hyde and Mell (sic) and the Furious Five, teen-agers create their own raps mostly for fun and to bring attention to themselves,” read a June 29, 1985, story in the \u003cem>San Francisco Examiner\u003c/em>. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13925415']In the first half of the decade, street dance remained a focal point. \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/2022/12/04/1140504217/double-dutch-fantastic-four-holiday-classic\">Double Dutch jump-rope competitions\u003c/a> sponsored by McDonald’s drew thousands to Lincoln Square Center in Oakland. The San Francisco Street Breakers held a fundraising benefit, “Super Break Sunday,” at San Francisco’s Palace of Fine Arts in 1985. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ironically, street dance “got played out” after the success of Hollywood movies like \u003cem>Beat Street\u003c/em> and \u003cem>Breakin’\u003c/em>, and rap music moved to the center of hip-hop culture. Quickening the process were concerts by Black music stars like the \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#the-fresh-fest-comes-to-oakland\">Fresh Festival\u003c/a>, the first national hip-hop tour, with headliners Run-DMC at the Oakland Coliseum. Local radio tentatively began to experiment with rap, notably KMEL-FM and its mix DJs such as Michael Erickson and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13828163/watch-cameron-paul-give-a-masterclass-in-early-djing\">the late Cameron Paul\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927323\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-1020x1517.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"640\" height=\"952\" class=\"size-large wp-image-13927323\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-1020x1517.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-800x1190.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-160x238.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-768x1142.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-1033x1536.jpg 1033w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_.jpg 1345w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A flyer for the Fresh Festival, which arrived in Oakland in 1984.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“By 1985, there was this incredible scene in the South Bay,” says Adisa “The Bishop” Banjoko. As a teen DJ in San Bruno “who looked like Urkel,” he remembers traveling far and wide to buy records, from Creative Music Emporium in San Francisco to T’s Wauzi in Oakland. Meanwhile, nightclubs like Mothers and Studio 47 brought a fusion of hip-hop, freestyle and techno. “San Jose had underage hip-hop teenage clubs, and no other city had those,” he says. (Banjoko later became a rapper, a journalist, and now promotes jiu-jitsu, meditation and chess with his company \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/real64blocks/?hl=en\">64 Blocks\u003c/a>.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back in Oakland, Naru continued making tapes. “I come from a musical family. My cousin’s the Maestro” — a.k.a. producer Keenan Foster, who has worked with Too Short, Dru Down, and Askari X — “and a lot of my family sings. I got a drum machine, a little Yamaha keyboard. I would play my bass lines. We had double-cassette decks.” He collaborated with Taj “Turntable T” Tilghman, “who was dope on the turntables.” Turntable T eventually bought a Roland TR-808 drum machine, the instrument du jour for def beat MCs. “When that 808 came, that was it. Everyone loved that deck. \u003cem>Boom!\u003c/em>”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Gray tapes” that circulated weren’t the EP and album-length releases we’re familiar with today. Some tapes only had one song per side; or maybe just one song on one side, period. Artists were judged not only by their ability to rap engagingly for several minutes, but also to chop up a familiar beat like Whodini’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o5r0i2ZAbCc\">Friends\u003c/a>,” transforming it into something fresh and original; or even make rudimentary 808 beats. For example, Too Short drew attention for “rapping the longest,” as Bas explains, leading to songs that lasted eight or nine minutes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927334\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-800x682.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"682\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-800x682.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-1020x870.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-160x136.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-768x655.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait.jpg 1200w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Adisa Banjoko in the 1980s. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Adisa Banjoko)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Those tapes were everywhere. Everyone was trying to see what was possible,” says Banjoko. In 1987, he began making raps under the name MC Most Ill. His first song was “Rhyme Junkie.” “The truth was, some of it was really cool but a lot of it actually also sucked, because [the art form] was brand new. … The quality control was not there.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On August 18, 1984, the \u003cem>San Francisco Examiner\u003c/em> published an article called “Rapping with Too-Short,” the first story on the 18-year-old prodigy. Pacific News Service journalist Anthony Adams called Short’s songs “preacher-like yarns over pre-recorded music,” and noted that one of them was about automaker John DeLorean, whose conviction for cocaine trafficking made national news. Short claimed he and his partner Freddy B sold over 2,000 tapes. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The \u003cem>Chronicle-Examiner\u003c/em> also frequently interviewed \u003ca href=\"https://www.dominiquediprima.com/\">Dominique “Lady D” DiPrima\u003c/a>, a New York transplant and San Francisco State University student who rapped, sung, and organized events. DiPrima possessed a rich family pedigree — her father was the jazz writer Amiri Baraka, her mother the beat poet Diane DiPrima. In late 1984, \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#home-turf-premieres-on-kron-tv\">KRON-TV recruited her to host \u003cem>Home Turf\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, a Saturday-afternoon program that became appointment viewing for local teens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Everyone had a crush on Dominique,” says Naru, giggling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927320\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-800x541.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"541\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927320\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-800x541.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-1020x690.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-160x108.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-768x520.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-1536x1039.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_.png 1540w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Dominique DiPrima, pictured here hosting a 1987 episode of ‘Home Turf’ on KRON-4. \u003ccite>(SFSU Television Archive)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The First Bay Area Rap Record Opens the Floodgates\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>One of the under-acknowledged aspects of early hip-hop is the way elder Black musicians shepherded young artists into the recording industry.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The late Sylvia Robinson, who was inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2022, initially emerged in the mid-’50s as one-half of Mickey & Sylvia, who scored a national hit with “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5SwMB9v1pQ4\">Love Is Strange\u003c/a>.” As a ’70s solo artist and producer, Robinson made slinky, Eartha Kitt-like erotic disco capers such as “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NA2X1040_gY\">Pillow Talk\u003c/a>” and “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPScEJ66_m4\">Sweet Stuff\u003c/a>.” After discovering hip-hop when she heard DJ Lovebug Starski at a party, Robinson formed Sugar Hill Records, and turned three rapping teens she found in New Jersey into its first act, the Sugarhill Gang.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This process of soul veterans working with young people resulted in independent 12” singles that mirrored — if not yet accurately capturing — the nascent rap sound at a time when big companies virtually ignored it. With his Mercury Records contract, Kurtis Blow was the only act with a major album deal. A handful of other pioneers like DJ Hollywood scored one-off 12” deals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A similar process played out in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2R_h9BCuvBE\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The first Bay Area rap record is widely considered to be Phil “Motorcycle Mike” Lewis and the Rat Trap Band’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p4Odk2Vu70s\">Super Rat\u003c/a>,” a 1981 boogie-funk single notoriously released by East Oakland heroin kingpin Milton “Mickey Mo” Moore’s Hodisk Records. The name “Hodisk” was a cheeky reference to his onetime side business as a pimp. (Moore has since reformed and is now a pastor in West Oakland.) In fact, Mickey Mo boasts in his 1996 autobiography \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9qy6RNV6f5w\">The Man: The Life Story of a Drug Kingpin\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, “Hodisk Records became the first record company on the West Coast to release a rap record.” (The first L.A. rap record, Disco Daddy and Captain Rapp’s “The Gigolo Rapp,” was also released in 1981.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mickey Mo has another claim to rap lore: In 1980, he \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#the-first-rap-performance-on-a-major-stage\">helped finance an Oakland Coliseum concert\u003c/a> headlined by L.A. funk band War, with the Sugarhill Gang as a supporting act. Journalist Lee Hildebrand’s pre-concert interview with the Gang in the \u003cem>Oakland Tribune\u003c/em> was the first mention of rap music in the local press. A second funk-rap novelty, Steve Walker’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vB9jCLUWwBY\">Tally Ho!\u003c/a>,” also appeared in 1981. In 1983, San Francisco’s Debo & Brian released the electro-funk EP \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vgv_AfTbEng\">This Is It\u003c/a>\u003c/em>. The momentum had started.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I had made this vow that I would never ever do anything having to do with rap,” laughs Claytoven Richardson. During his long career, the Berkeley-born, Oakland-raised Richardson worked with Aretha Franklin, Kenny G, Whitney Houston, Elton John, and Celine Dion. But in the early ’80s, he was best known as a singer, producer, and arranger with hot dancefloor jazz-funk bands like Bill Summers & Summers’ Heat. His anti-rap stance reflected the music industry at large in the 1980s. “Nobody had the foresight to see that it would morph and change and do the things that it’s done,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927369\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 625px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/ClaytovenRichardson.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"625\" height=\"352\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927369\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/ClaytovenRichardson.jpg 625w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/ClaytovenRichardson-160x90.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 625px) 100vw, 625px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Claytoven Richardson pictured in March 2023 in Los Angeles, California. \u003ccite>(Steven Simione/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Still, Richardson couldn’t avoid the increasingly popular genre when he scored a production deal at Fantasy Records, the onetime Berkeley jazz label also known for innovative acts like Sylvester and Cybotron, as well as one-off singles generated by a “throw it against the wall and see if it sticks” philosophy. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of the records Richardson produced in that anything-goes environment was Mighty Mouth’s satirical complaint, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VU1hAFnrtU8\">I’m All Rapped Out\u003c/a>.” (He wasn’t the only one annoyed over rap; perhaps out of wishful thinking, a 1985 \u003cem>San Francisco Chronicle\u003c/em> article referred to the “fast-fading hip-hop scene.”) A vocalist named Lawrence Pittman didn’t show up for the session, so Richardson performed the lyrics himself. However, Pittman showed up to rap on Mighty Mouth’s second single, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IqfQcLbemE4\">The Roaches\u003c/a>,” which parodied Whodini’s electro hit, “Freaks Come Out at Night.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Other scattered local raps appeared between 1985 and 1986. Former boogaloo dancer Jay King, just home from a stint in the Air Force and splitting time between Sacramento and Vallejo, formed a group called Frost and released “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hObIekxeoSg\">Battle Beat\u003c/a>.” His friends Denzil Foster & Thomas McElroy produced it, as well as another electro-rap track, Sorcerey’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ap6uw-kX8o\">Woo Baby\u003c/a>.” Pittsburg rapper James “Red Beat” Briggs issued “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a7dUlMEZUSc\">Freak City\u003c/a>,” which was later remixed by N.W.A. co-founder Arabian Prince. And there was Rodney “Disco Alamo” Brown, from Richmond, whose 12” “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6K-pXg1DY98\">The Task Force\u003c/a>” is \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#richmonds-task-force-memorialized-on-wax\">an early example\u003c/a> of Bay Area rap chronicling street life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927313\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-800x484.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"484\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927313\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-800x484.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-1020x618.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-160x97.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-768x465.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Too Short, pictured at his manager’s house in Oakland on September 21, 1987. \u003ccite>(Steve Ringman/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Most importantly, Too Short’s rising buzz led to a deal with deep East Oakland entrepreneur Dean Hodges’ 75 Girls label. Released in 1985, the resulting \u003cem>Don’t Stop Rappin’\u003c/em> was the first official album by a local rapper. While fans of a certain age still treasure protean electro-funk tracks like “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L2ywke376NQ\">Girl\u003c/a>” — which E-40 referenced on his 1998 hit, “Earl, That’s Yo Life” — the album couldn’t compare to his raunchy and wickedly hilarious “special request” tapes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was during this period that Naru finally got his chance in the studio. Since 1984, UC Berkeley station \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#college-radio-makes-its-mark\">KALX-FM\u003c/a> served as home to “Music for the People,” a Sunday-morning community affairs and music show hosted by the late Charles “Natty Prep” Douglass, as well as DJs like Billy “Jam” Kiernan (who also broadcast on San Francisco State University station KUSF-FM), David “Davey D” Cook, and funkster Rickey “The Uhuru Maggot” Vincent. When Naru won \u003ca href=\"https://wfmu.org/playlists/shows/107287\">a 1986 rap contest hosted by Billy Jam on KALX\u003c/a>, he earned a deal with Bay Wave Records, a local imprint distributed by Hollywood-based Macola Records. Richardson was hired to produce the session.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dLlNn1Zh1ww\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[Quick Draw] was a great rapper. He had a lot of great lyrics and ideas,” says Richardson. On “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dLlNn1Zh1ww\">Rapaholic\u003c/a>,” Richardson and session engineer Michael Denten (who later worked with Spice 1 and E-40) accompanied Quick Draw’s dexterous and energetic raps with sharp-angled percussive edits and sound effects reminiscent of The Art of Noise and Mantronix.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Respect to Claytoven,” says Naru, who not only continues to make music but also owns a company, \u003ca href=\"http://hiplearning.org/\">Hip Learning\u003c/a>, that promotes childhood education with rap. He wasn’t entirely satisfied with the “Rapaholic” experience: “They made the record sound hella more polished. It was [supposed to be] a little more underground than that.” However, he adds, “[Claytoven] taught us a lot in the studio about the mics they use and how to mix. It was a good experience.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927411\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/SirQuickdrawFlyer.72dpi.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"889\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927411\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/SirQuickdrawFlyer.72dpi.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/SirQuickdrawFlyer.72dpi-160x237.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A photocopied flyer advertising Sir Quick Draw’s single ‘Rapaholic.’ \u003ccite>(Mosi Reeves)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>A Radio Breakthrough — And a Kid Named Hammer\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>As the trajectory of Bay Area hip-hop waxed and waned, three catalyzing moments brought the scene into focus.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The first was an R&B track. Timex Social Club’s “Rumors” captured the pulse of Bay Area youth culture, from Marcus Thompson and Alex Hill’s skittering electro-funk bass and drums to singer Michael Marshall’s distinctly regional accent and coy recitation of schoolyard gossip (“Did you hear the one about Michael? Some say he must be gay…”) Produced by Jay King and Denzil Foster and released on King’s Jay Records in February 1986, it mushroomed into a top ten \u003cem>Billboard\u003c/em> pop hit and dominated radio all year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jVce2IeYcTg\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But by the summer, Timex Social Club was falling apart and trading accusations with King over money and credit. The group’s only album \u003cem>Vicious Rumors\u003c/em> — by that point it was just Michael Marshall — featured drum programming from CJ Flash and a shout-out to KALX’s Natty Prep, who helped break “Rumors” on his “Music and Life” show. Marshall retreated from the spotlight before \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#i-got-5-on-it-remix-a-meeting-of-greats-recorded-in-alameda\">re-emerging as the hook man\u003c/a> on the Luniz’ 1995 smash “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ERtkpnXLrL4\">I Got 5 on It\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After breaking with Timex Social Club, King formed a group called Jet Set and signed a deal with Warner Bros. Records. The group changed their name to Club Nouveau before debuting with the single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lKWhkjXV5uM\">Jealousy\u003c/a>.” A follow-up, the Bill Withers cover “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kbyjaUJWWmk\">Lean on Me\u003c/a>,” went to number-one on the \u003cem>Billboard\u003c/em> Hot 100, while Club Nouveau’s debut album \u003cem>Life, Love & Pain\u003c/em> went platinum.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927310\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-800x489.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"489\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927310\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-800x489.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-1020x624.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-160x98.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-768x470.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Singers Samuelle Prater, Jay King and Valerie Watson of Club Nouveau performs at the U.I.C. Pavilion in Chicago, Illinois in August 1987. \u003ccite>(Raymond Boyd/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>King’s growing stardom rippled across the Bay and reached Felton Pilate, the Vallejo keyboardist, singer, and producer best known as a driving force in Bay Area funk stars Con Funk Shun. The two had already worked together on King’s onetime rap group Frost; Pilate engineered that record. Pilate soon added one of King’s projects, Sacramento R&B/rap group New Choice, to a growing slate of projects he produced and engineered at his Felstar Studios.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Felstar Studios was the culmination of work he had begun while not touring and rehearsing with Con Funk Shun. At his home studio on Sandpiper Drive in Vallejo, Pilate helped assemble records for fledgling local artists. “I never thought of myself as just a studio,” he says, where he simply records his clients. “I have a little experience here. I’ve got several gold albums. Here, let me pass on some of this knowledge.” When asked if he considered himself a mentor, he demurs, even though that’s arguably what he was. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When Pilate opened Felstar Studios on Sonoma Boulevard, his trusted associate was James Earley, a young engineer whom he credits for adding a more contemporary sensibility to the Studios’ output. Among the locals who came to them were M.V.P., a family trio consisting of Earl Stevens, Danell Stevens, and Brandt Jones. Their 1988 12”, \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sfLuAL6DueI\">The Kings Men\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, also included Tanina Stevens and Angela Pressley, who called themselves Sugar ‘N’ Spice. The members of M.V.P. updated their stage names to E-40, D-Shot and B-Legit, added Tanina as Suga T, and \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#the-clicks-down-dirty-ushers-in-mobb-music-era\">evolved into The Click\u003c/a>, arguably becoming the most famous rap group to emerge from Vallejo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927370\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 700px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/MVP.e-40.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"700\" height=\"700\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927370\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/MVP.e-40.jpg 700w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/MVP.e-40-160x160.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 700px) 100vw, 700px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">M.V.P., a 1988 Vallejo rap group featuring Busy D, E-40 and Legit (L–R). The three would later add E-40’s sister Suga T and become known as The Click. \u003ccite>(Gerry Ericksen / Rushforce Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In 1986, Pilate and Earley both had solo deals at Berkeley’s Fantasy Records. It was there that Pilate met a former Oakland A’s batboy named Stanley “Holyghost Boy” Burrell through Fantasy Records producer Fred L. Pittman. “Fred would often hire me to do keyboard arrangements for him,” says Pilate. When Pittman asked him to play keys for Holyghost Boy, Pilate responded, “Hey Fred, why don’t you let me take the reins on this?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As a classically trained jazz and classical musician, Pilate didn’t think much of rap, even though Con Funk Shun not only included a rap verse on a 1982 single, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GQ9GHVTI-EE\">Ain’t Nobody Baby\u003c/a>”; but also made “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kmmzvN7raB0\">Electric Lady\u003c/a>,” a 1985 hit produced by Larry Smith of Whodini fame that landed in the top five of \u003cem>Billboard\u003c/em>’s Black Singles chart. “Musically, I wasn’t a fan, but as a producer, I said, ‘I can do this,’” he says. “Like everyone else, Con Funk Shun wanted to be relevant, and rap was all over the radio.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The tracks Burrell brought to Pilate consisted of him rapping over sparse Yamaha RX5 drum-machine parts. Pilate responded by going into “study mode.” He listened to the rap stuff that was getting airplay like Doug E. Fresh & the Get Fresh Crew. As a result, the skittering percussion on Burrell’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=akVWFiptGNY\">Let’s Get It Started\u003c/a>” is reminiscent of the go-go-inspired arrangements on Doug E. Fresh hits like “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6sGw9GSCiYU\">The Show\u003c/a>” and “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-UtqnKIF7kE\">All the Way to Heaven\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927325\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-800x565.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"565\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927325\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-800x565.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-1020x720.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-160x113.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-768x542.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">MC Hammer films the music video for ‘Let’s Get It Started’ at Sweet Jimmie’s nightclub in downtown Oakland, March 19, 1988. \u003ccite>(Deanne Fitzmaurice/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“My thing was to make it more music-driven than beat-driven,” says Pilate. In many cases, he simply “listened to what [Burrell] was talking about and wrote a straight R&B song underneath it.” He also gives credit to Earley, who helped refine the drum programming and brought “that younger ear” to the project. They incorporated stock horn stabs from a battery of Juno, Roland, and Yamaha drum machines. Meanwhile, Kent “The Lone Mixer” Wilson and Bryant “D.J. Redeemed” Marable added rhythmic scratches by cutting up Curtis Mayfield and Beastie Boys records.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After the demos were finished, Fantasy Records dropped Pilate, Earley and Burrell from their deals. “They weren’t really sure how to market any of us,” says Pilate. Then, he chuckles, “The next time I ran into the Holyghost Boy, he had changed his name to MC Hammer.” After forming Bustin’ Records in Fremont with financial help from Oakland A’s ballplayers like Mike Davis and Dwayne Murphy, Hammer turned the Pilate demos into three 12”s — “Ring ’Em,” “The Thrill Is Gone” and “Let’s Get It Started” — and the 1987 album \u003cem>Feel My Power\u003c/em>. “I was like, man, those were rough mixes! You were supposed to come back and let me fix that!” Pilate laughs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Everyone involved in Bay Area hip-hop has vivid memories of MC Hammer blowing up. Near-mythical stories of his local takeover abound, like attending local concerts surrounded by a massive crew; or tearing up the dance floor at The Silks, a popular nightclub in Emeryville.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927324\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-800x727.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"727\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927324\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-800x727.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-1020x926.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-160x145.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-768x698.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate.jpg 1058w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">MC Hammer and Fenton Pilate in modern times. Pilate engineered and co-produced MC Hammer’s first recordings. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Felton Pilate)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Today, it’s worth revisiting \u003cem>Feel My Power\u003c/em> and 1988’s \u003cem>Let’s Get It Started\u003c/em>. Released after Hammer signed with Capitol Records, \u003cem>Let’s Get It Started\u003c/em> found Hammer and Pilate remixing those original demos while adding vital new tracks like “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9sZVcXzSE3M\">Pump It Up\u003c/a>.” The results are bombastic and vibrant dance-floor jams as ecstatic as anything by Kid ‘n’ Play and Salt-n-Pepa. Hammer’s subsequent leap into pop superstardom with 1990’s \u003cem>Please Hammer Don’t Hurt ‘Em\u003c/em> and the ubiquity of “U Can’t Touch This” obscure just how great those early tracks are.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Eight Woofers in the Trunk\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>MC Hammer’s major-label arrival in 1988 capped a year of Bay Area hip-hop on the cusp of national exposure. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After Too Short issued \u003cem>Born to Mack\u003c/em> in the fall of 1987 on his Dangerous Music label, Jive Records picked it up. (Dangerous Music also issued \u003cem>Dangerous Crew\u003c/em>, a compilation of vital Bay Area acts like Spice-1, Rappin’ 4-Tay, and the female duo Danger Zone.) Digital Underground’s playful and psychedelic “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5zQ1frcgSbI\">Underwater Rimes\u003c/a> / \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VpBNB20wVo0\">Your Life’s a Cartoon\u003c/a>” led to a deal with Tommy Boy. Local talent waited in the wings, including rapper/producer Paris (A.T.C.’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yHpiPWfOBk4\">Cisco Jam\u003c/a>”), Sway & King Tech (\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FBJujmVXiwE\">Flynamic Force\u003c/a>\u003c/em> EP), Dangerous Dame (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t9Frj4j09GE\">The Power That’s Packed\u003c/a>”), and MC Twist and the Def Squad (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4lZz7qhjfjw\">Just Rock\u003c/a>”). And the late Cameron Paul, known for his “Beats & Pieces” breakbeats, remixed Queens trio Salt-n-Pepa’s 1987 track “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SPkdk1oMmtE\">Push It\u003c/a>” into a global phenomenon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13828164\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-800x496.jpg\" alt=\"Cameron Paul reveals his mixing secrets.\" width=\"800\" height=\"496\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13828164\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-160x99.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-768x476.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-240x149.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-375x233.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-520x322.jpg 520w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Cameron Paul, who provided the spine of New Orleans bounce music with ‘Brown Beats’ and recorded a smash-hit remix of Salt ‘n’ Pepa’s ‘Push It,’ was also a prominent club and radio megamix DJ in San Francisco. \u003ccite>(YouTube)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Incidentally, the first local group to score a major label deal wasn’t Hammer, but Surf MCs, a Berkeley group that Profile Records promoted as a Beastie Boys-like rap/rock crossover. Their 1987 album \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ojCAqdBA7uA\">Surf or Die\u003c/a>\u003c/em> proved a flop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yet the third moment that catalyzed Bay Area hip-hop wasn’t a singular record like Timex Social Club’s “Rumors,” or an artist like Hammer and Short. It was the sound of walloping, all-enveloping bass.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Made for surgically enhanced car and jeep stereos, the bass colossus is as much a feature of hip-hop in the mid-’80s as the pounding Roland TR-808 machine, from Rick Rubin’s production on LL Cool J’s “Rock the Bells” and T La Rock’s “It’s Yours” to Rodney O and DJ Joe Cooley’s “Everlasting Bass” and Dr. Dre’s work on Eazy-E’s “The Boyz-N-The Hood.” It also mirrors the crack-cocaine epidemic that began to blight and distort communities across the country. As street life turned treacherous, the specter of the hustler, and whether to become one, cast a growing shadow.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13925761']“Then the new style came, the bass got deeper / You gave up the mike and bought you a beeper / Do you want to rap or sell coke? / Brothers like you ain’t never broke,” Too Short memorably rapped on his 1989 hit, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CvfUUOO0xoM\">Life Is…Too Short\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Banjoko recalls how the presence of gangs transformed local shows. “You would see a bunch of people dressed up together [in the same gear], and you might assume they were a rap or dance crew. They were young drug lords,” he says. “You could get trampled, beat up or robbed by any of them. I remember 69 Ville being massively deep at the Fresh Fest and the [Run-DMC] Raising Hell tour. They were terrifying, straight up. You were going to tuck your chain, you were going to take your Kangol off, or they were going to take it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927326\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/HughEMC.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"409\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927326\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/HughEMC.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/HughEMC-160x109.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Hugh EMC, the San Francisco rapper whose 1988 single ‘It’s the Game’ unflinchingly chronicled street life. \u003ccite>(Soul Sonic Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Rap imagery became more honest and explicit. Some like Richmond rapper Magic Mike, San Francisco’s Hugh EMC (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b_p7L0eJfKI\">It’s the Game\u003c/a>”), and Oakland’s Hollywood (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/release/641778-Hollywood-Stay-Heart-And-Soul-Raps-Just-A-Battlefield\">Gangster Rap\u003c/a>”) seemed to embrace the hustler ethos, while cautiously adding verses about the consequences of that lifestyle. Then there was Oakland rapper Morocco Moe, whose “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ogNoOCIVPrI\">Task\u003c/a>” criticized how law enforcement brutalized communities in the War on Drugs: “Their intentions are good/But their actions are wrong.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Every Black neighborhood was infested” with crack, says Vallejo producer Khayree Shaheed. “There was an influx of money coming into young Black men, but there was also a lot of death occurring.” The epidemic also marked his entry into the world of rap.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As a descendant of the Bay Area’s vaunted funk tradition, Khayree spent the ’70s and early ’80s playing bass guitar for bands like Grand Larceny, Body Mind & Spirit and Touch of Class (with keyboardist Rosie Gaines, who later joined Prince & the New Power Generation). His travels took him across the U.S. and even to Japan, where Touch of Class lived and performed for several months. (Though his bands made demos, there are no official recordings to date.) When asked about the first time he heard rap, Khayree cites “jazzoetry” ensembles like The Last Poets, not the Sugarhill Gang. And as a youth growing up on Lofas Place in Vallejo, he spent plenty of time following Con Funk Shun, hoping to apprentice with the biggest band in the city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927412\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-800x510.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"510\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927412\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-800x510.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-1020x651.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-160x102.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-768x490.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-1536x980.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vallejo musician Khayree Shaheed, playing bass onstage in 1979. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Khayree Shaheed)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Khayree was in his mid-20s when Rod “I.C.E.” Andrews and Dan “Luvva D” Morrison a.k.a. the Luvva Twins brought Khayree a demo they had made on a Casio keyboard, “Hubba Head.” The song title was slang for a crack addict, and the duo described the “hubba head’s” descent into addiction with charismatic punch. They arranged the music and rapped most of the lyrics, while Khayree dropped a short verse and added guitar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Khayree had already spent time at Pilate’s home studio, honing his writing and production skills. (“I always enjoyed working with him,” says Pilate.) Now, he brought “Hubba Head” to Pilate, and the two prepared it for release. Setting up his own label, Big Bank Records, Khayree distributed two hundred copies of the 12” to DJs and influencers. “The record was super popular in the streets,” says Khayree.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pArkWvlAebg\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After “Hubba Head,” Khayree began working with Jay King, a fellow graduate of Vallejo High School. The opportunity to write and produce New Choice’s 1987 single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q-VLZQ4X1yA\">Cold Stupid\u003c/a>” and most of the quintet’s 1988 debut, \u003cem>At Last\u003c/em>, gave him important experience on a major project and financial stability. By fusing bass, funky R&B and hip-hop breakbeats, New Choice reflected a parallel R&B movement that both influenced and was inspired by the hip-hop scene. Similar Bay Area acts included Oakland’s Tony! Toni! Toné!, who parlayed backing sessions for Sheila E. and Tramaine Hawkins into a major-label deal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Flush from his experience with New Choice, Khayree was ready to start his own company. “I’m listening to EPMD’s \u003cem>Strictly Business\u003c/em>,” he says, inspiring the name of his second label, Strictly Business Records. He knew that Mike “The Mac” Robinson, who also grew up on Lofas Place, was a rapper. Robinson hailed from a musical family: his uncle Steve “Silver” Scales was a well-traveled Vallejo funk percussionist who played with Talking Heads, Tom Tom Club, and the B-52s. (Though it would be a delicious coincidence, Scales didn’t perform on “Genius of Love.”) Khayree encouraged Robinson to take music more seriously. Meanwhile, Robinson’s mother drew the memorable Strictly Business logo: an open briefcase, ready for business.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1988, Khayree released The Mac’s three-song EP, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/release/805531-The-Mac-Im-Ah-Big-Mac\">I’m Ah Big Mac\u003c/a>.” Heard now, what immediately stands out is the unique \u003cem>tone\u003c/em> of the bass. “We used synthesizers that had dumb-fat bass lines,” explains Khayree in reference to himself and Too Short as well as future Bay Area colleagues like Ant Banks. By comparison, he says, other regional scenes relied on a “natural” bass guitar or samples from records. “You feel it through your whole body. … You can get it with a bass guitar, depending on how you EQ the bass and what you run your guitar through. But you’re \u003cem>never\u003c/em> going to touch the subs and the depth of a Minimoog, of the Oberheim Ovx, or the Roland Juno 106.” The EP’s highlight is its B-side “The Game Is Thick,” which centers on a sample of Prince’s “D.M.S.R.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927371\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-800x498.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"498\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927371\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-800x498.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-1020x635.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-160x100.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-768x478.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick.jpg 1537w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Khayree and The Mac (L–R), pictured on the cover of The Mac’s ‘The Game is Thick.’ \u003ccite>(Phil Bray / Strictly Business Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In 1989, Khayree remixed and re-released “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tCxGl7Ok1YI\">The Game Is Thick\u003c/a>” as a standalone 12” with a memorable cover photo: Khayree looking super-clean in a grey suit, clasping a briefcase, with The Mac in a red-and-black bomber jacket. Khayree calls the style “pimping.” “We didn’t mean pimping so much as getting prostitutes to work,” he explains. “It’s an attitude, and it’s a musical style.” The “game” is a metaphor for life in the Black community. Street slang illustrated complex situations, whether it was dealing with the repercussions of a raging crack epidemic, or simply navigating the tensions of everyday living. Meanwhile, The Mac’s “cool, silky, pimpish” flow and Khayree’s synthesized bass production proved a clear predecessor to the ’90s mob-music sound that took over Bay Area rap.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13924167']Upon release, “The Game Is Thick” didn’t make a major impact, and most copies went to local DJ pools. “We promoted records out of the trunk,” says Khayree. “We went from Bobby G’s Soul Disco in San Francisco to [Rico Casanova’s record pool] The Pros in Oakland.” Still, “The Game Is Thick” remix received a mention in Davey “D” Cook’s April 7, 1989 “Beats & Breaks” column for \u003cem>BAM\u003c/em> Magazine. “Let me tell you, it’s hyped to the max,” Davey D wrote.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With Khayree’s encouragement, the Mac taught himself how to produce music with synth keyboards. He also introduced Khayree to another Vallejo artist, Andre “Mac Dre” Hicks, who became Strictly Business’ second act. By the time The Mac was shot and killed on July 23, 1991 in what Khayree calls “a case of mistaken identity,” the two had recorded dozens of tracks and released a third and final 12” protesting police violence, 1990’s “Enuff of Tis Sh-t!” One of The Mac’s beats posthumously appeared on Mac Dre’s 1993 track, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=slA_s7tSjMU\">The M.A.C. & Mac D.R.E.\u003c/a>”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927413\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-800x523.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"523\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927413\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-800x523.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-1020x666.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-160x105.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-768x502.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-1536x1003.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Khayree with Kool Moe Dee at the 1988 BRE Conference in Los Angeles. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Khayree Shaheed)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Mike had a big, big loving heart,” remembers Khayree, sounding wistful. He emphasizes how The Mac left behind a daughter, “Mac” Reina Robinson, and a pregnant girlfriend who gave birth to his son, Mike. At one point, Khayree plays a voicemail of The Mac passionately singing a funky, swinging hook, as if to counteract the stereotype that rappers aren’t musicians. He talks about how The Mac’s way of playing simple, evocative keyboard notes for maximum effect echoes in the work of his famed protégé, Mac Dre. “I miss him,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Area rap broke wide at the end of the decade, leading to a 1989 story in the \u003cem>New York Times\u003c/em>, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/1989/09/10/arts/rap-by-the-bay-oakland-emerges-as-a-force-in-pop.html\">Rap by the Bay: Oakland Emerges as a Force in Pop\u003c/a>.” Not every local pioneer who laid the groundwork would enjoy the fruits of that success. But their stories are essential to understanding how local hip-hop came of age, and everything that came after.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927363\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-800x450.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927363\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-800x450.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-1020x574.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-160x90.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-768x432.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-1536x864.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_.png 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">In the mid-1980s, after years of street dance, DJing and graffiti sharing equal space, rapping took center stage. The Bay Area’s bass-heavy sound would arrive at the end of the decade. (Clockwise from top left: Too Short, MC Hammer, Dominique DiPrima, Club Nouveau, and Motorcycle Mike.) \u003ccite>(Steve Ringman/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images; Al Pereira/Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images; SFSU Television Archives; Raymond Boyd/Getty Images; Hodisk Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cstrong>Editor’s note\u003c/strong>: This story is part of \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003cem>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">I\u003c/span>t’s a wintry January evening when Bas-1 brings me to Del the Funky Homosapien’s house in the East Bay. For much of the afternoon, Bas — the \u003ca href=\"https://eastbayexpress.com/old-school-fool-1/\">Oakland native\u003c/a> who’s worked with Digital Underground and released \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=bas-1+full+album+mentally+astute\">his own solo records\u003c/a> — has schooled me on the origins of the Bay Area hip-hop sound.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bas lists numerous rappers from the ’80s, and not just Todd “Too Short” Shaw, the East Oakland rapper who famously hustled homemade cassette tapes. I’ve never heard most of the names Bas mentions: MC Chocolate Milk, Windell Baby Doll, Davy Def, Buddy Bean, Reggie Reg Rock Ski.ter, M.C. Tracy, Rock Master Fresh, Nic Nack, Kimmie Fresh, and the Acorn Crew with Grandmaster Fresh (a rapper later known as “DJ Daryl” Anderson, famed for producing tracks like 415’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yuZ6CAwZmys\">Side Show\u003c/a>” and 2Pac’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fAJfDP3b5_U\">Keep Ya Head Up\u003c/a>”).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Many of these early Bay Area rappers never put out a commercially available record. Instead, their work is mostly confined to locally distributed cassette tapes — collectors call them “gray tapes” — that are now nearly impossible to find. They publicly broadcasted these tapes throughout neighborhoods, utilizing boomboxes and car stereos as well as stereos at house parties. “None of them sound like Too Short,” says Bas. “Some of these people didn’t put out recordings, but they were known.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Throughout the 1980s, Bay Area hip-hop was an artistic movement struggling for a distinct identity. The first half of the decade was defined by street dance and aerosol art as much as rap and DJing. But as local youth began to absorb the sounds emanating from national hotspots like New York, they created a distinctive style all their own — one that would make a global impact in the years to come.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At Del’s house, Bas queues up an extraordinary live video clip of \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5u3eiG9BtdE\">Mac Mill, Emperor E, and DJ Anthony “K-os” Bryant\u003c/a> performing at \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11690787/when-oakland-was-a-chocolate-city-a-brief-history-of-festival-at-the-lake\">Festival at the Lake\u003c/a>, a now-defunct annual event held at Lake Merritt, in 1988. (Alex “Naru” Reece, who organized the showcase where Mac Mill performed, clarified in a follow-up conversation that it didn’t happen during Festival at the Lake. He also says the showcase was filmed in 1986 for a 1988 video compilation.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mac Mill and Emperor E go back and forth, trading sound effects and dense Oakland slang as K-os cuts and scratches copies of Long Island band Original Concept’s deathless bass classic, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ai4VC0NUxl4\">Knowledge Me\u003c/a>.” Bas praises Mac Mill’s unusual “Arabian” style, which the latter deployed nearly a decade later with the 1995 single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5_f0TB3Igro\">Arabian Hump\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/5u3eiG9BtdE'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/5u3eiG9BtdE'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>Then, Bas-1 calls Chris “CJ Flash” Jourdan, an OG who worked with Timex Social Club, the Berkeley teen band whose 1986 electro-funk classic, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jVce2IeYcTg\">Rumors\u003c/a>,” represented the first national breakthrough for Bay Area hip-hop culture. As Bas broadcasts CJ Flash’s voice from his phone through Del’s stereo equipment, CJ Flash spends the next hour or so describing a fledging scene where poppers and boogaloo dancers, not rappers or DJs, were the prime attractions. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These ensembles drew from a street-dance tradition that \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13891300/reclaiming-the-legacy-of-oaklands-boogaloo-dance-culture\">dates back decades\u003c/a>. Their kinetic performances ignited crowds at high schools, house parties, and public spaces like Justin Herman Plaza and Union Square in San Francisco and UC Berkeley’s Sproul Plaza. Battles even took place on the street, with crews traveling to different neighborhoods around the region to seek out rivals. “You could meet with people on their turf and get down, and hopefully not get thumped in the process,” says CJ Flash. Many Bay Area hip-hop pioneers got their start in dance crews, including Club Nouveau’s Jay King (who pop-locked with The Unknowns), DJ King Tech (who was known as Wizard, and danced with Master City Breakers), and Flash himself (who \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ub1TtnI4dh8\">performed with UFO\u003c/a>).\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/ub1TtnI4dh8'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/ub1TtnI4dh8'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>By contrast, rapping was a relatively new and undeveloped skill, the lowest element on the hip-hop totem pole. “Anybody could rap. Anybody could say a bunch of basic rhyme words with no style and flavor,” says Bas, noting as an aside that “most folks couldn’t understand the lyrics anyway.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>How is a discussion about street dancers connected to an exploration of the Bay Area hip-hop sound? It’s important to understand the conditions under which the genre emerged locally.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Turntables, Casios and Homemade Tapes\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>As KQED’s Eric Arnold explains in “\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13924126/the-bay-area-was-hip-hop-before-there-was-hip-hop\">The Bay Area Was Hip-Hop Before There Was Hip-Hop\u003c/a>,” foundational elements such as spoken word, funk, and rhythm & blues existed locally well before New Jersey trio Sugarhill Gang arrived with “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKTUAESacQM\">Rapper’s Delight\u003c/a>” in the fall of 1979.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>At the same time, the Bay Area was not the Bronx, where breakbeat culture catalyzed and fermented. Bronx DJs, MCs and B-boys like Kool Herc, Grandmaster Flash, Afrika Bambaataa, Grandmaster Caz, the Rock Steady Crew and many others gained renown among mid-’70s New York youth long before “Rapper’s Delight.” By contrast, as CJ Flash explains, it took much of the 1980s for Bay Area youth to develop the cadences and rhythms we now associate with modern rap.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back then, enterprising musicians couldn’t purchase studio software and distribute their own music on an internet platform like Soundcloud. Recording equipment was expensive. An unsigned artist needed the financial and business expertise to manufacture vinyl and cassettes with artwork, much less convince record stores like Leopold’s Records in Berkeley to carry them. (Recordable CD-Rs weren’t widely used until the 1990s.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This helps explain why so many rappers utilized turntables and Casio keyboards, and then recorded their songs using the microphone input on relatively cheap stereo equipment. Captured on recordable cassettes like Maxell and TDK, some of these “gray tapes” simply had stickers with handwritten titles. More often, they weren’t labeled at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927410\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-800x600.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"600\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927410\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A box of handmade Bay Area rap tapes, part of Naru’s home archives. \u003ccite>(Mosi Reeves)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In those days, Too Short was an outlier, a Fremont High School student who canvassed East Oakland spots like Arroyo Park, \u003ca href=\"https://medium.com/@bayareahiphoparchive/in-conversation-with-56fae687e9c\">selling copies of “Game Raps”\u003c/a> at a few dollars a pop. Since Short was originally from Los Angeles, he relied on rap partner Tony “Freddy B” Adams to show him around the Town. The duo \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#too-short-and-freddy-b-start-making-handmade-tapes\">made customized tapes for local drug dealers and players\u003c/a> in the city’s nightlife — now known as “special request” tapes — shouting out the customers’ names in their raps.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Short was a hustler,” says CJ Flash. “He had a style of telling stories that was so outlandish and so funny that word got around.” Short and Freddy B developed the trademark “Biiiiitch!” catchphrase, and Short has often said that he and Freddy B intended to get famous together. Unfortunately, Freddy B was in prison when Short released his landmark “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YwVJTvOO4yY\">Freaky Tales\u003c/a>” tape in 1987. (Adams is \u003ca href=\"https://www.dailyrepublic.com/all-dr-news/solano-news/local-features/from-too-hort-colleague-to-christian-missionary/\">now a minister\u003c/a> at Mount Calvary Baptist Church in Fairfield.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927341\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 676px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TooShort.SFExaminer.1984.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"676\" height=\"455\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927341\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TooShort.SFExaminer.1984.jpg 676w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TooShort.SFExaminer.1984-160x108.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 676px) 100vw, 676px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Too Short in 1984, at the age of 18. \u003ccite>(Katy Raddatz/San Francisco Examiner/Bancroft Library)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Others like Sir Quick Draw, Mac Mill, and Chief Naked Head (later known as Premo; he passed away in January of 2023) simply gave away their tapes or let friends copy or “dub” the originals. As Richmond rapper \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13925761/magic-mike-richmond-calvin-t-rap-hip-hop\">Magic Mike explained in a recent interview with Dregs One\u003c/a>, dubs of his tracks circulated as widely as Germany. “It was more or less trying to make a name for yourself…you had to make a tape,” adds CJ Flash.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Most importantly, Bay Area hip-hop in the ’80s was a primordial soup of youngsters figuring out what the local sound would be. The answers wouldn’t arrive until near the end of the decade. “The Bay Area was behind,” says CJ Flash, comparing it to more advanced regions like Los Angeles, South Florida, and New York. “We never thought about radio.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>‘A Pivotal Moment’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Alex “Naru Kwina” Hence remembers the first time he heard the Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight” as a 14-year-old preparing to attend Oakland High School. “When the song went off, everybody ran outside, like, ‘Did you hear that song?!” he laughs, calling it one of the best moments of his life. “It was a pivotal moment, bro. We literally started rapping the song and trying to remember it.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Naru called himself Sir Quick Draw, an alias inspired by Hanna-Barbera cartoon \u003cem>Quick Draw McGraw\u003c/em> as well as the fact that, as a runner, “I was hella fast.” He took inspiration from Kurtis Blow, the Harlem rapper who scored major hits like 1980’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qzl-2g5HhaI\">The Breaks\u003c/a>.” And Naru almost immediately began recording his voice on tape. His first original song was “The Caveman Rap,” which was inspired by Brooklyn rapper Jimmy Spicer’s 1980 single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nkGLco0tGqc\">Adventures of Super Rhyme\u003c/a>.” Naru can still recite those verses from memory: \u003cem>Now people come and take a trip in time with me / Back to that sweet year one million B.C.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I still got that old-school flavor, man,” he admits. “Hip-hop was more fun for me back then.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927368\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.Boxes_.1.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"840\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927368\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.Boxes_.1.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.Boxes_.1-160x224.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Naru Kwina, who recorded under the names Sir Quick Draw and Em Cee Quick, poses with his home archives. \u003ccite>(Mosi Reeves)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But rap in the Bay Area didn’t take off right away. “Most people would rap other people’s songs. They’d just repeat what they heard on the radio,” says Naru. Aspiring MCs honed their craft by congregating at Eastmont Mall, “trying to impress the girls, and getting our names on our derby jackets.” And when Tom Tom Club’s 1981 hit “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECiMhe4E0pI\">Genius of Love\u003c/a>” dropped? “Everybody rapped over that joint, man. Too many people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s worth remembering that hip-hop was a phenomenon developed essentially by Black and Brown children. Rapping, pop-locking, spray-painting aerosol art on neighborhood walls, even DJing: These were youthful forms of play and creative expression.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bas, who grew up in North Oakland, remembers \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#at-fishermans-wharf-a-street-dance-destination-emerges\">popping and “roboting” at Pier 39 on Fisherman’s Wharf\u003c/a> in the late ’70s as a child. “You have people like Ben [James] from Live Incorporated doing pantomime and roboting,” he says, noting one of the better-known dance crews. Dancers competed for attention and tips that they could spend on Snickers bars and arcade games. “Battle-wise, you had to have skill and talent to a certain caliber in order to truly be out on the Wharf or on Market [and Powell] in front of the cable cars,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927321\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-800x547.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"547\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927321\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-800x547.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-1020x697.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-768x525.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A street dance crew called The Vita Family perform at Pier 39 in 1986. \u003ccite>(Liz Hafalia/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Local newspaper stories focused on the emergence of hip-hop as a youth obsession. Enterprising teachers incorporated it into their lesson plans. On high-school campuses, fledgling DJs like Joseph Thomas “G.I. Joe” Simms Jr. at El Cerrito High School and groups like the Devastating Four proliferated. At house parties, mobile DJ crews spun the latest electro, boogie-funk, and rap hits.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gatherings at schools, churches, and community centers typically reserved a few minutes for fledgling local rap and dance crews to perform. This was also the era of \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#nancy-reagan-visits-oakland-and-coins-the-phrase-just-say-no\">the Reagan Administration’s “Just Say No” campaign\u003c/a>, and kids were often asked to help spread an anti-drug message through raps. “Inspired by rapping groups such as Sugar Hill, Run DMC, Jeckyl and Hyde and Mell (sic) and the Furious Five, teen-agers create their own raps mostly for fun and to bring attention to themselves,” read a June 29, 1985, story in the \u003cem>San Francisco Examiner\u003c/em>. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>In the first half of the decade, street dance remained a focal point. \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/2022/12/04/1140504217/double-dutch-fantastic-four-holiday-classic\">Double Dutch jump-rope competitions\u003c/a> sponsored by McDonald’s drew thousands to Lincoln Square Center in Oakland. The San Francisco Street Breakers held a fundraising benefit, “Super Break Sunday,” at San Francisco’s Palace of Fine Arts in 1985. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ironically, street dance “got played out” after the success of Hollywood movies like \u003cem>Beat Street\u003c/em> and \u003cem>Breakin’\u003c/em>, and rap music moved to the center of hip-hop culture. Quickening the process were concerts by Black music stars like the \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#the-fresh-fest-comes-to-oakland\">Fresh Festival\u003c/a>, the first national hip-hop tour, with headliners Run-DMC at the Oakland Coliseum. Local radio tentatively began to experiment with rap, notably KMEL-FM and its mix DJs such as Michael Erickson and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13828163/watch-cameron-paul-give-a-masterclass-in-early-djing\">the late Cameron Paul\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927323\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-1020x1517.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"640\" height=\"952\" class=\"size-large wp-image-13927323\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-1020x1517.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-800x1190.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-160x238.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-768x1142.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-1033x1536.jpg 1033w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_.jpg 1345w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A flyer for the Fresh Festival, which arrived in Oakland in 1984.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“By 1985, there was this incredible scene in the South Bay,” says Adisa “The Bishop” Banjoko. As a teen DJ in San Bruno “who looked like Urkel,” he remembers traveling far and wide to buy records, from Creative Music Emporium in San Francisco to T’s Wauzi in Oakland. Meanwhile, nightclubs like Mothers and Studio 47 brought a fusion of hip-hop, freestyle and techno. “San Jose had underage hip-hop teenage clubs, and no other city had those,” he says. (Banjoko later became a rapper, a journalist, and now promotes jiu-jitsu, meditation and chess with his company \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/real64blocks/?hl=en\">64 Blocks\u003c/a>.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back in Oakland, Naru continued making tapes. “I come from a musical family. My cousin’s the Maestro” — a.k.a. producer Keenan Foster, who has worked with Too Short, Dru Down, and Askari X — “and a lot of my family sings. I got a drum machine, a little Yamaha keyboard. I would play my bass lines. We had double-cassette decks.” He collaborated with Taj “Turntable T” Tilghman, “who was dope on the turntables.” Turntable T eventually bought a Roland TR-808 drum machine, the instrument du jour for def beat MCs. “When that 808 came, that was it. Everyone loved that deck. \u003cem>Boom!\u003c/em>”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Gray tapes” that circulated weren’t the EP and album-length releases we’re familiar with today. Some tapes only had one song per side; or maybe just one song on one side, period. Artists were judged not only by their ability to rap engagingly for several minutes, but also to chop up a familiar beat like Whodini’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o5r0i2ZAbCc\">Friends\u003c/a>,” transforming it into something fresh and original; or even make rudimentary 808 beats. For example, Too Short drew attention for “rapping the longest,” as Bas explains, leading to songs that lasted eight or nine minutes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927334\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-800x682.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"682\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-800x682.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-1020x870.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-160x136.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-768x655.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait.jpg 1200w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Adisa Banjoko in the 1980s. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Adisa Banjoko)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Those tapes were everywhere. Everyone was trying to see what was possible,” says Banjoko. In 1987, he began making raps under the name MC Most Ill. His first song was “Rhyme Junkie.” “The truth was, some of it was really cool but a lot of it actually also sucked, because [the art form] was brand new. … The quality control was not there.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On August 18, 1984, the \u003cem>San Francisco Examiner\u003c/em> published an article called “Rapping with Too-Short,” the first story on the 18-year-old prodigy. Pacific News Service journalist Anthony Adams called Short’s songs “preacher-like yarns over pre-recorded music,” and noted that one of them was about automaker John DeLorean, whose conviction for cocaine trafficking made national news. Short claimed he and his partner Freddy B sold over 2,000 tapes. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The \u003cem>Chronicle-Examiner\u003c/em> also frequently interviewed \u003ca href=\"https://www.dominiquediprima.com/\">Dominique “Lady D” DiPrima\u003c/a>, a New York transplant and San Francisco State University student who rapped, sung, and organized events. DiPrima possessed a rich family pedigree — her father was the jazz writer Amiri Baraka, her mother the beat poet Diane DiPrima. In late 1984, \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#home-turf-premieres-on-kron-tv\">KRON-TV recruited her to host \u003cem>Home Turf\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, a Saturday-afternoon program that became appointment viewing for local teens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Everyone had a crush on Dominique,” says Naru, giggling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927320\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-800x541.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"541\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927320\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-800x541.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-1020x690.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-160x108.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-768x520.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-1536x1039.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_.png 1540w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Dominique DiPrima, pictured here hosting a 1987 episode of ‘Home Turf’ on KRON-4. \u003ccite>(SFSU Television Archive)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The First Bay Area Rap Record Opens the Floodgates\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>One of the under-acknowledged aspects of early hip-hop is the way elder Black musicians shepherded young artists into the recording industry.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The late Sylvia Robinson, who was inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2022, initially emerged in the mid-’50s as one-half of Mickey & Sylvia, who scored a national hit with “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5SwMB9v1pQ4\">Love Is Strange\u003c/a>.” As a ’70s solo artist and producer, Robinson made slinky, Eartha Kitt-like erotic disco capers such as “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NA2X1040_gY\">Pillow Talk\u003c/a>” and “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPScEJ66_m4\">Sweet Stuff\u003c/a>.” After discovering hip-hop when she heard DJ Lovebug Starski at a party, Robinson formed Sugar Hill Records, and turned three rapping teens she found in New Jersey into its first act, the Sugarhill Gang.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This process of soul veterans working with young people resulted in independent 12” singles that mirrored — if not yet accurately capturing — the nascent rap sound at a time when big companies virtually ignored it. With his Mercury Records contract, Kurtis Blow was the only act with a major album deal. A handful of other pioneers like DJ Hollywood scored one-off 12” deals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A similar process played out in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/2R_h9BCuvBE'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/2R_h9BCuvBE'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>The first Bay Area rap record is widely considered to be Phil “Motorcycle Mike” Lewis and the Rat Trap Band’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p4Odk2Vu70s\">Super Rat\u003c/a>,” a 1981 boogie-funk single notoriously released by East Oakland heroin kingpin Milton “Mickey Mo” Moore’s Hodisk Records. The name “Hodisk” was a cheeky reference to his onetime side business as a pimp. (Moore has since reformed and is now a pastor in West Oakland.) In fact, Mickey Mo boasts in his 1996 autobiography \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9qy6RNV6f5w\">The Man: The Life Story of a Drug Kingpin\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, “Hodisk Records became the first record company on the West Coast to release a rap record.” (The first L.A. rap record, Disco Daddy and Captain Rapp’s “The Gigolo Rapp,” was also released in 1981.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mickey Mo has another claim to rap lore: In 1980, he \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#the-first-rap-performance-on-a-major-stage\">helped finance an Oakland Coliseum concert\u003c/a> headlined by L.A. funk band War, with the Sugarhill Gang as a supporting act. Journalist Lee Hildebrand’s pre-concert interview with the Gang in the \u003cem>Oakland Tribune\u003c/em> was the first mention of rap music in the local press. A second funk-rap novelty, Steve Walker’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vB9jCLUWwBY\">Tally Ho!\u003c/a>,” also appeared in 1981. In 1983, San Francisco’s Debo & Brian released the electro-funk EP \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vgv_AfTbEng\">This Is It\u003c/a>\u003c/em>. The momentum had started.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I had made this vow that I would never ever do anything having to do with rap,” laughs Claytoven Richardson. During his long career, the Berkeley-born, Oakland-raised Richardson worked with Aretha Franklin, Kenny G, Whitney Houston, Elton John, and Celine Dion. But in the early ’80s, he was best known as a singer, producer, and arranger with hot dancefloor jazz-funk bands like Bill Summers & Summers’ Heat. His anti-rap stance reflected the music industry at large in the 1980s. “Nobody had the foresight to see that it would morph and change and do the things that it’s done,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927369\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 625px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/ClaytovenRichardson.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"625\" height=\"352\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927369\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/ClaytovenRichardson.jpg 625w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/ClaytovenRichardson-160x90.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 625px) 100vw, 625px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Claytoven Richardson pictured in March 2023 in Los Angeles, California. \u003ccite>(Steven Simione/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Still, Richardson couldn’t avoid the increasingly popular genre when he scored a production deal at Fantasy Records, the onetime Berkeley jazz label also known for innovative acts like Sylvester and Cybotron, as well as one-off singles generated by a “throw it against the wall and see if it sticks” philosophy. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of the records Richardson produced in that anything-goes environment was Mighty Mouth’s satirical complaint, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VU1hAFnrtU8\">I’m All Rapped Out\u003c/a>.” (He wasn’t the only one annoyed over rap; perhaps out of wishful thinking, a 1985 \u003cem>San Francisco Chronicle\u003c/em> article referred to the “fast-fading hip-hop scene.”) A vocalist named Lawrence Pittman didn’t show up for the session, so Richardson performed the lyrics himself. However, Pittman showed up to rap on Mighty Mouth’s second single, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IqfQcLbemE4\">The Roaches\u003c/a>,” which parodied Whodini’s electro hit, “Freaks Come Out at Night.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Other scattered local raps appeared between 1985 and 1986. Former boogaloo dancer Jay King, just home from a stint in the Air Force and splitting time between Sacramento and Vallejo, formed a group called Frost and released “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hObIekxeoSg\">Battle Beat\u003c/a>.” His friends Denzil Foster & Thomas McElroy produced it, as well as another electro-rap track, Sorcerey’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ap6uw-kX8o\">Woo Baby\u003c/a>.” Pittsburg rapper James “Red Beat” Briggs issued “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a7dUlMEZUSc\">Freak City\u003c/a>,” which was later remixed by N.W.A. co-founder Arabian Prince. And there was Rodney “Disco Alamo” Brown, from Richmond, whose 12” “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6K-pXg1DY98\">The Task Force\u003c/a>” is \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#richmonds-task-force-memorialized-on-wax\">an early example\u003c/a> of Bay Area rap chronicling street life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927313\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-800x484.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"484\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927313\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-800x484.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-1020x618.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-160x97.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-768x465.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Too Short, pictured at his manager’s house in Oakland on September 21, 1987. \u003ccite>(Steve Ringman/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Most importantly, Too Short’s rising buzz led to a deal with deep East Oakland entrepreneur Dean Hodges’ 75 Girls label. Released in 1985, the resulting \u003cem>Don’t Stop Rappin’\u003c/em> was the first official album by a local rapper. While fans of a certain age still treasure protean electro-funk tracks like “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L2ywke376NQ\">Girl\u003c/a>” — which E-40 referenced on his 1998 hit, “Earl, That’s Yo Life” — the album couldn’t compare to his raunchy and wickedly hilarious “special request” tapes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was during this period that Naru finally got his chance in the studio. Since 1984, UC Berkeley station \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#college-radio-makes-its-mark\">KALX-FM\u003c/a> served as home to “Music for the People,” a Sunday-morning community affairs and music show hosted by the late Charles “Natty Prep” Douglass, as well as DJs like Billy “Jam” Kiernan (who also broadcast on San Francisco State University station KUSF-FM), David “Davey D” Cook, and funkster Rickey “The Uhuru Maggot” Vincent. When Naru won \u003ca href=\"https://wfmu.org/playlists/shows/107287\">a 1986 rap contest hosted by Billy Jam on KALX\u003c/a>, he earned a deal with Bay Wave Records, a local imprint distributed by Hollywood-based Macola Records. Richardson was hired to produce the session.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/dLlNn1Zh1ww'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/dLlNn1Zh1ww'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>“[Quick Draw] was a great rapper. He had a lot of great lyrics and ideas,” says Richardson. On “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dLlNn1Zh1ww\">Rapaholic\u003c/a>,” Richardson and session engineer Michael Denten (who later worked with Spice 1 and E-40) accompanied Quick Draw’s dexterous and energetic raps with sharp-angled percussive edits and sound effects reminiscent of The Art of Noise and Mantronix.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Respect to Claytoven,” says Naru, who not only continues to make music but also owns a company, \u003ca href=\"http://hiplearning.org/\">Hip Learning\u003c/a>, that promotes childhood education with rap. He wasn’t entirely satisfied with the “Rapaholic” experience: “They made the record sound hella more polished. It was [supposed to be] a little more underground than that.” However, he adds, “[Claytoven] taught us a lot in the studio about the mics they use and how to mix. It was a good experience.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927411\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/SirQuickdrawFlyer.72dpi.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"889\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927411\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/SirQuickdrawFlyer.72dpi.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/SirQuickdrawFlyer.72dpi-160x237.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A photocopied flyer advertising Sir Quick Draw’s single ‘Rapaholic.’ \u003ccite>(Mosi Reeves)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>A Radio Breakthrough — And a Kid Named Hammer\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>As the trajectory of Bay Area hip-hop waxed and waned, three catalyzing moments brought the scene into focus.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The first was an R&B track. Timex Social Club’s “Rumors” captured the pulse of Bay Area youth culture, from Marcus Thompson and Alex Hill’s skittering electro-funk bass and drums to singer Michael Marshall’s distinctly regional accent and coy recitation of schoolyard gossip (“Did you hear the one about Michael? Some say he must be gay…”) Produced by Jay King and Denzil Foster and released on King’s Jay Records in February 1986, it mushroomed into a top ten \u003cem>Billboard\u003c/em> pop hit and dominated radio all year.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/jVce2IeYcTg'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/jVce2IeYcTg'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>But by the summer, Timex Social Club was falling apart and trading accusations with King over money and credit. The group’s only album \u003cem>Vicious Rumors\u003c/em> — by that point it was just Michael Marshall — featured drum programming from CJ Flash and a shout-out to KALX’s Natty Prep, who helped break “Rumors” on his “Music and Life” show. Marshall retreated from the spotlight before \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#i-got-5-on-it-remix-a-meeting-of-greats-recorded-in-alameda\">re-emerging as the hook man\u003c/a> on the Luniz’ 1995 smash “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ERtkpnXLrL4\">I Got 5 on It\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After breaking with Timex Social Club, King formed a group called Jet Set and signed a deal with Warner Bros. Records. The group changed their name to Club Nouveau before debuting with the single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lKWhkjXV5uM\">Jealousy\u003c/a>.” A follow-up, the Bill Withers cover “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kbyjaUJWWmk\">Lean on Me\u003c/a>,” went to number-one on the \u003cem>Billboard\u003c/em> Hot 100, while Club Nouveau’s debut album \u003cem>Life, Love & Pain\u003c/em> went platinum.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927310\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-800x489.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"489\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927310\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-800x489.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-1020x624.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-160x98.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-768x470.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Singers Samuelle Prater, Jay King and Valerie Watson of Club Nouveau performs at the U.I.C. Pavilion in Chicago, Illinois in August 1987. \u003ccite>(Raymond Boyd/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>King’s growing stardom rippled across the Bay and reached Felton Pilate, the Vallejo keyboardist, singer, and producer best known as a driving force in Bay Area funk stars Con Funk Shun. The two had already worked together on King’s onetime rap group Frost; Pilate engineered that record. Pilate soon added one of King’s projects, Sacramento R&B/rap group New Choice, to a growing slate of projects he produced and engineered at his Felstar Studios.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Felstar Studios was the culmination of work he had begun while not touring and rehearsing with Con Funk Shun. At his home studio on Sandpiper Drive in Vallejo, Pilate helped assemble records for fledgling local artists. “I never thought of myself as just a studio,” he says, where he simply records his clients. “I have a little experience here. I’ve got several gold albums. Here, let me pass on some of this knowledge.” When asked if he considered himself a mentor, he demurs, even though that’s arguably what he was. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When Pilate opened Felstar Studios on Sonoma Boulevard, his trusted associate was James Earley, a young engineer whom he credits for adding a more contemporary sensibility to the Studios’ output. Among the locals who came to them were M.V.P., a family trio consisting of Earl Stevens, Danell Stevens, and Brandt Jones. Their 1988 12”, \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sfLuAL6DueI\">The Kings Men\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, also included Tanina Stevens and Angela Pressley, who called themselves Sugar ‘N’ Spice. The members of M.V.P. updated their stage names to E-40, D-Shot and B-Legit, added Tanina as Suga T, and \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#the-clicks-down-dirty-ushers-in-mobb-music-era\">evolved into The Click\u003c/a>, arguably becoming the most famous rap group to emerge from Vallejo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927370\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 700px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/MVP.e-40.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"700\" height=\"700\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927370\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/MVP.e-40.jpg 700w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/MVP.e-40-160x160.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 700px) 100vw, 700px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">M.V.P., a 1988 Vallejo rap group featuring Busy D, E-40 and Legit (L–R). The three would later add E-40’s sister Suga T and become known as The Click. \u003ccite>(Gerry Ericksen / Rushforce Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In 1986, Pilate and Earley both had solo deals at Berkeley’s Fantasy Records. It was there that Pilate met a former Oakland A’s batboy named Stanley “Holyghost Boy” Burrell through Fantasy Records producer Fred L. Pittman. “Fred would often hire me to do keyboard arrangements for him,” says Pilate. When Pittman asked him to play keys for Holyghost Boy, Pilate responded, “Hey Fred, why don’t you let me take the reins on this?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As a classically trained jazz and classical musician, Pilate didn’t think much of rap, even though Con Funk Shun not only included a rap verse on a 1982 single, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GQ9GHVTI-EE\">Ain’t Nobody Baby\u003c/a>”; but also made “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kmmzvN7raB0\">Electric Lady\u003c/a>,” a 1985 hit produced by Larry Smith of Whodini fame that landed in the top five of \u003cem>Billboard\u003c/em>’s Black Singles chart. “Musically, I wasn’t a fan, but as a producer, I said, ‘I can do this,’” he says. “Like everyone else, Con Funk Shun wanted to be relevant, and rap was all over the radio.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The tracks Burrell brought to Pilate consisted of him rapping over sparse Yamaha RX5 drum-machine parts. Pilate responded by going into “study mode.” He listened to the rap stuff that was getting airplay like Doug E. Fresh & the Get Fresh Crew. As a result, the skittering percussion on Burrell’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=akVWFiptGNY\">Let’s Get It Started\u003c/a>” is reminiscent of the go-go-inspired arrangements on Doug E. Fresh hits like “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6sGw9GSCiYU\">The Show\u003c/a>” and “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-UtqnKIF7kE\">All the Way to Heaven\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927325\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-800x565.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"565\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927325\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-800x565.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-1020x720.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-160x113.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-768x542.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">MC Hammer films the music video for ‘Let’s Get It Started’ at Sweet Jimmie’s nightclub in downtown Oakland, March 19, 1988. \u003ccite>(Deanne Fitzmaurice/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“My thing was to make it more music-driven than beat-driven,” says Pilate. In many cases, he simply “listened to what [Burrell] was talking about and wrote a straight R&B song underneath it.” He also gives credit to Earley, who helped refine the drum programming and brought “that younger ear” to the project. They incorporated stock horn stabs from a battery of Juno, Roland, and Yamaha drum machines. Meanwhile, Kent “The Lone Mixer” Wilson and Bryant “D.J. Redeemed” Marable added rhythmic scratches by cutting up Curtis Mayfield and Beastie Boys records.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After the demos were finished, Fantasy Records dropped Pilate, Earley and Burrell from their deals. “They weren’t really sure how to market any of us,” says Pilate. Then, he chuckles, “The next time I ran into the Holyghost Boy, he had changed his name to MC Hammer.” After forming Bustin’ Records in Fremont with financial help from Oakland A’s ballplayers like Mike Davis and Dwayne Murphy, Hammer turned the Pilate demos into three 12”s — “Ring ’Em,” “The Thrill Is Gone” and “Let’s Get It Started” — and the 1987 album \u003cem>Feel My Power\u003c/em>. “I was like, man, those were rough mixes! You were supposed to come back and let me fix that!” Pilate laughs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Everyone involved in Bay Area hip-hop has vivid memories of MC Hammer blowing up. Near-mythical stories of his local takeover abound, like attending local concerts surrounded by a massive crew; or tearing up the dance floor at The Silks, a popular nightclub in Emeryville.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927324\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-800x727.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"727\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927324\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-800x727.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-1020x926.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-160x145.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-768x698.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate.jpg 1058w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">MC Hammer and Fenton Pilate in modern times. Pilate engineered and co-produced MC Hammer’s first recordings. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Felton Pilate)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Today, it’s worth revisiting \u003cem>Feel My Power\u003c/em> and 1988’s \u003cem>Let’s Get It Started\u003c/em>. Released after Hammer signed with Capitol Records, \u003cem>Let’s Get It Started\u003c/em> found Hammer and Pilate remixing those original demos while adding vital new tracks like “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9sZVcXzSE3M\">Pump It Up\u003c/a>.” The results are bombastic and vibrant dance-floor jams as ecstatic as anything by Kid ‘n’ Play and Salt-n-Pepa. Hammer’s subsequent leap into pop superstardom with 1990’s \u003cem>Please Hammer Don’t Hurt ‘Em\u003c/em> and the ubiquity of “U Can’t Touch This” obscure just how great those early tracks are.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Eight Woofers in the Trunk\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>MC Hammer’s major-label arrival in 1988 capped a year of Bay Area hip-hop on the cusp of national exposure. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After Too Short issued \u003cem>Born to Mack\u003c/em> in the fall of 1987 on his Dangerous Music label, Jive Records picked it up. (Dangerous Music also issued \u003cem>Dangerous Crew\u003c/em>, a compilation of vital Bay Area acts like Spice-1, Rappin’ 4-Tay, and the female duo Danger Zone.) Digital Underground’s playful and psychedelic “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5zQ1frcgSbI\">Underwater Rimes\u003c/a> / \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VpBNB20wVo0\">Your Life’s a Cartoon\u003c/a>” led to a deal with Tommy Boy. Local talent waited in the wings, including rapper/producer Paris (A.T.C.’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yHpiPWfOBk4\">Cisco Jam\u003c/a>”), Sway & King Tech (\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FBJujmVXiwE\">Flynamic Force\u003c/a>\u003c/em> EP), Dangerous Dame (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t9Frj4j09GE\">The Power That’s Packed\u003c/a>”), and MC Twist and the Def Squad (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4lZz7qhjfjw\">Just Rock\u003c/a>”). And the late Cameron Paul, known for his “Beats & Pieces” breakbeats, remixed Queens trio Salt-n-Pepa’s 1987 track “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SPkdk1oMmtE\">Push It\u003c/a>” into a global phenomenon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13828164\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-800x496.jpg\" alt=\"Cameron Paul reveals his mixing secrets.\" width=\"800\" height=\"496\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13828164\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-160x99.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-768x476.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-240x149.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-375x233.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-520x322.jpg 520w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Cameron Paul, who provided the spine of New Orleans bounce music with ‘Brown Beats’ and recorded a smash-hit remix of Salt ‘n’ Pepa’s ‘Push It,’ was also a prominent club and radio megamix DJ in San Francisco. \u003ccite>(YouTube)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Incidentally, the first local group to score a major label deal wasn’t Hammer, but Surf MCs, a Berkeley group that Profile Records promoted as a Beastie Boys-like rap/rock crossover. Their 1987 album \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ojCAqdBA7uA\">Surf or Die\u003c/a>\u003c/em> proved a flop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yet the third moment that catalyzed Bay Area hip-hop wasn’t a singular record like Timex Social Club’s “Rumors,” or an artist like Hammer and Short. It was the sound of walloping, all-enveloping bass.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Made for surgically enhanced car and jeep stereos, the bass colossus is as much a feature of hip-hop in the mid-’80s as the pounding Roland TR-808 machine, from Rick Rubin’s production on LL Cool J’s “Rock the Bells” and T La Rock’s “It’s Yours” to Rodney O and DJ Joe Cooley’s “Everlasting Bass” and Dr. Dre’s work on Eazy-E’s “The Boyz-N-The Hood.” It also mirrors the crack-cocaine epidemic that began to blight and distort communities across the country. As street life turned treacherous, the specter of the hustler, and whether to become one, cast a growing shadow.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“Then the new style came, the bass got deeper / You gave up the mike and bought you a beeper / Do you want to rap or sell coke? / Brothers like you ain’t never broke,” Too Short memorably rapped on his 1989 hit, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CvfUUOO0xoM\">Life Is…Too Short\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Banjoko recalls how the presence of gangs transformed local shows. “You would see a bunch of people dressed up together [in the same gear], and you might assume they were a rap or dance crew. They were young drug lords,” he says. “You could get trampled, beat up or robbed by any of them. I remember 69 Ville being massively deep at the Fresh Fest and the [Run-DMC] Raising Hell tour. They were terrifying, straight up. You were going to tuck your chain, you were going to take your Kangol off, or they were going to take it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927326\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/HughEMC.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"409\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927326\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/HughEMC.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/HughEMC-160x109.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Hugh EMC, the San Francisco rapper whose 1988 single ‘It’s the Game’ unflinchingly chronicled street life. \u003ccite>(Soul Sonic Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Rap imagery became more honest and explicit. Some like Richmond rapper Magic Mike, San Francisco’s Hugh EMC (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b_p7L0eJfKI\">It’s the Game\u003c/a>”), and Oakland’s Hollywood (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/release/641778-Hollywood-Stay-Heart-And-Soul-Raps-Just-A-Battlefield\">Gangster Rap\u003c/a>”) seemed to embrace the hustler ethos, while cautiously adding verses about the consequences of that lifestyle. Then there was Oakland rapper Morocco Moe, whose “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ogNoOCIVPrI\">Task\u003c/a>” criticized how law enforcement brutalized communities in the War on Drugs: “Their intentions are good/But their actions are wrong.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Every Black neighborhood was infested” with crack, says Vallejo producer Khayree Shaheed. “There was an influx of money coming into young Black men, but there was also a lot of death occurring.” The epidemic also marked his entry into the world of rap.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As a descendant of the Bay Area’s vaunted funk tradition, Khayree spent the ’70s and early ’80s playing bass guitar for bands like Grand Larceny, Body Mind & Spirit and Touch of Class (with keyboardist Rosie Gaines, who later joined Prince & the New Power Generation). His travels took him across the U.S. and even to Japan, where Touch of Class lived and performed for several months. (Though his bands made demos, there are no official recordings to date.) When asked about the first time he heard rap, Khayree cites “jazzoetry” ensembles like The Last Poets, not the Sugarhill Gang. And as a youth growing up on Lofas Place in Vallejo, he spent plenty of time following Con Funk Shun, hoping to apprentice with the biggest band in the city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927412\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-800x510.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"510\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927412\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-800x510.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-1020x651.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-160x102.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-768x490.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-1536x980.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vallejo musician Khayree Shaheed, playing bass onstage in 1979. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Khayree Shaheed)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Khayree was in his mid-20s when Rod “I.C.E.” Andrews and Dan “Luvva D” Morrison a.k.a. the Luvva Twins brought Khayree a demo they had made on a Casio keyboard, “Hubba Head.” The song title was slang for a crack addict, and the duo described the “hubba head’s” descent into addiction with charismatic punch. They arranged the music and rapped most of the lyrics, while Khayree dropped a short verse and added guitar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Khayree had already spent time at Pilate’s home studio, honing his writing and production skills. (“I always enjoyed working with him,” says Pilate.) Now, he brought “Hubba Head” to Pilate, and the two prepared it for release. Setting up his own label, Big Bank Records, Khayree distributed two hundred copies of the 12” to DJs and influencers. “The record was super popular in the streets,” says Khayree.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/pArkWvlAebg'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/pArkWvlAebg'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>After “Hubba Head,” Khayree began working with Jay King, a fellow graduate of Vallejo High School. The opportunity to write and produce New Choice’s 1987 single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q-VLZQ4X1yA\">Cold Stupid\u003c/a>” and most of the quintet’s 1988 debut, \u003cem>At Last\u003c/em>, gave him important experience on a major project and financial stability. By fusing bass, funky R&B and hip-hop breakbeats, New Choice reflected a parallel R&B movement that both influenced and was inspired by the hip-hop scene. Similar Bay Area acts included Oakland’s Tony! Toni! Toné!, who parlayed backing sessions for Sheila E. and Tramaine Hawkins into a major-label deal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Flush from his experience with New Choice, Khayree was ready to start his own company. “I’m listening to EPMD’s \u003cem>Strictly Business\u003c/em>,” he says, inspiring the name of his second label, Strictly Business Records. He knew that Mike “The Mac” Robinson, who also grew up on Lofas Place, was a rapper. Robinson hailed from a musical family: his uncle Steve “Silver” Scales was a well-traveled Vallejo funk percussionist who played with Talking Heads, Tom Tom Club, and the B-52s. (Though it would be a delicious coincidence, Scales didn’t perform on “Genius of Love.”) Khayree encouraged Robinson to take music more seriously. Meanwhile, Robinson’s mother drew the memorable Strictly Business logo: an open briefcase, ready for business.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1988, Khayree released The Mac’s three-song EP, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/release/805531-The-Mac-Im-Ah-Big-Mac\">I’m Ah Big Mac\u003c/a>.” Heard now, what immediately stands out is the unique \u003cem>tone\u003c/em> of the bass. “We used synthesizers that had dumb-fat bass lines,” explains Khayree in reference to himself and Too Short as well as future Bay Area colleagues like Ant Banks. By comparison, he says, other regional scenes relied on a “natural” bass guitar or samples from records. “You feel it through your whole body. … You can get it with a bass guitar, depending on how you EQ the bass and what you run your guitar through. But you’re \u003cem>never\u003c/em> going to touch the subs and the depth of a Minimoog, of the Oberheim Ovx, or the Roland Juno 106.” The EP’s highlight is its B-side “The Game Is Thick,” which centers on a sample of Prince’s “D.M.S.R.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927371\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-800x498.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"498\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927371\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-800x498.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-1020x635.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-160x100.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-768x478.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick.jpg 1537w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Khayree and The Mac (L–R), pictured on the cover of The Mac’s ‘The Game is Thick.’ \u003ccite>(Phil Bray / Strictly Business Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In 1989, Khayree remixed and re-released “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tCxGl7Ok1YI\">The Game Is Thick\u003c/a>” as a standalone 12” with a memorable cover photo: Khayree looking super-clean in a grey suit, clasping a briefcase, with The Mac in a red-and-black bomber jacket. Khayree calls the style “pimping.” “We didn’t mean pimping so much as getting prostitutes to work,” he explains. “It’s an attitude, and it’s a musical style.” The “game” is a metaphor for life in the Black community. Street slang illustrated complex situations, whether it was dealing with the repercussions of a raging crack epidemic, or simply navigating the tensions of everyday living. Meanwhile, The Mac’s “cool, silky, pimpish” flow and Khayree’s synthesized bass production proved a clear predecessor to the ’90s mob-music sound that took over Bay Area rap.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Upon release, “The Game Is Thick” didn’t make a major impact, and most copies went to local DJ pools. “We promoted records out of the trunk,” says Khayree. “We went from Bobby G’s Soul Disco in San Francisco to [Rico Casanova’s record pool] The Pros in Oakland.” Still, “The Game Is Thick” remix received a mention in Davey “D” Cook’s April 7, 1989 “Beats & Breaks” column for \u003cem>BAM\u003c/em> Magazine. “Let me tell you, it’s hyped to the max,” Davey D wrote.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With Khayree’s encouragement, the Mac taught himself how to produce music with synth keyboards. He also introduced Khayree to another Vallejo artist, Andre “Mac Dre” Hicks, who became Strictly Business’ second act. By the time The Mac was shot and killed on July 23, 1991 in what Khayree calls “a case of mistaken identity,” the two had recorded dozens of tracks and released a third and final 12” protesting police violence, 1990’s “Enuff of Tis Sh-t!” One of The Mac’s beats posthumously appeared on Mac Dre’s 1993 track, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=slA_s7tSjMU\">The M.A.C. & Mac D.R.E.\u003c/a>”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927413\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-800x523.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"523\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927413\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-800x523.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-1020x666.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-160x105.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-768x502.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-1536x1003.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Khayree with Kool Moe Dee at the 1988 BRE Conference in Los Angeles. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Khayree Shaheed)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Mike had a big, big loving heart,” remembers Khayree, sounding wistful. He emphasizes how The Mac left behind a daughter, “Mac” Reina Robinson, and a pregnant girlfriend who gave birth to his son, Mike. At one point, Khayree plays a voicemail of The Mac passionately singing a funky, swinging hook, as if to counteract the stereotype that rappers aren’t musicians. He talks about how The Mac’s way of playing simple, evocative keyboard notes for maximum effect echoes in the work of his famed protégé, Mac Dre. “I miss him,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Area rap broke wide at the end of the decade, leading to a 1989 story in the \u003cem>New York Times\u003c/em>, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/1989/09/10/arts/rap-by-the-bay-oakland-emerges-as-a-force-in-pop.html\">Rap by the Bay: Oakland Emerges as a Force in Pop\u003c/a>.” Not every local pioneer who laid the groundwork would enjoy the fruits of that success. But their stories are essential to understanding how local hip-hop came of age, and everything that came after.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cb>\u003ci>Editor’s note:\u003c/i>\u003c/b>\u003ci> This story is part of\u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/bayareahiphop\"> That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003ci>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop history\u003c/a>, with new content dropping all throughout 2023. \u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Women’s contributions to the Bay Area hip-hop scene are rarely at the forefront, but they’re all that we’re banging in this exclusive music mix of tracks from 1987 to 2023. [aside label='More on Women in Bay Area Hip-Hop' postid='arts_13925177,arts_13924828,arts_13906176']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I grew up watching the wonderful \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/diprimaradio/?hl=en\">Dominique DiPrima\u003c/a> on \u003cem>Home Turf\u003c/em> (which aired from 1984 to 1992), and wanted to become a DJ after seeing teenagers named QBert and Mix Master Mike spinning live on the local weekly show. Seeing DiPrima as the host communicated to my young mind that there were no boundaries for women in hip-hop. Decades later, though, female Northern California rap legends are still largely unsung, and artists featured in this mix — like The Deffa Heffa, Suga-T, New Choice and Marvaless — are not as known as their male counterparts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Press play and feel a spectrum of vibes conjured by mixing 36 years of Bay Area hip-hop history from a woman’s perspective. This set was recorded live with love on turntables, with no edits or premeditated order, and is dedicated to the memories of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13810229/remembering-dj-stef-a-bay-area-underground-hip-hop-icon\">DJ Stef\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13818092/pam-the-funkstress-pioneering-bay-area-dj-passes-away\">Pam The Funkstress\u003c/a>, who each make a sentimental appearance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Please note that there are a few selections in the mix that are lacking in audio quality — that’s because they’re not currently available in digital form commercially, but they merit inclusion so that the work isn’t completely lost to time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" width=\"100%\" height=\"120\" src=\"https://www.mixcloud.com/widget/iframe/?hide_cover=1&feed=%2Fteemoney415%2Fbay-area-women-in-rap%2F\" frameborder=\"0\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Tracklist\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The Conscious Daughters, “Somethin’ to Ride to (Fonky Expedition)” (1993)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Female Fonk, “Sucka Free” (1993)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Suga-T, “Suga Daddy” (1996)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Kamaiyah, “How Does It Feel” (2016)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Deffa Heffa featuring Suga-T, “Shay Deffa” (2009)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>CMG and Pam The Funkstress, “Jane and The Funkstress Interlude” (2011)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ruby Ibarra, “Brown Out” (2017)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rocky Rivera, “Brown Babies” (2015)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>TotogangzMau, “Grow Up” (2023)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Marvaless, “Ghetto Blues” (1994)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>DJ Stef, aircheck from Vinyl Exchange Radio (2007)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mystic, “We Are The People (All Around The World)” (2020)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>New Choice, “Cold Stupid” (1987)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Saweetie featuring H.E.R., “Closer” (2022)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Paris Nights, “Ashanti” (2020)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Oaktown’s 3.5.7, ”Juicy Gotcha Krazy” (1989)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gina Madrid, “Dame La Mano” (2020)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-11687704\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-800x60.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"60\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-400x30.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-768x58.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cb>\u003ci>Editor’s note:\u003c/i>\u003c/b>\u003ci> This story is part of\u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/bayareahiphop\"> That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003ci>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop history\u003c/a>, with new content dropping all throughout 2023. \u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Women’s contributions to the Bay Area hip-hop scene are rarely at the forefront, but they’re all that we’re banging in this exclusive music mix of tracks from 1987 to 2023. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I grew up watching the wonderful \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/diprimaradio/?hl=en\">Dominique DiPrima\u003c/a> on \u003cem>Home Turf\u003c/em> (which aired from 1984 to 1992), and wanted to become a DJ after seeing teenagers named QBert and Mix Master Mike spinning live on the local weekly show. Seeing DiPrima as the host communicated to my young mind that there were no boundaries for women in hip-hop. Decades later, though, female Northern California rap legends are still largely unsung, and artists featured in this mix — like The Deffa Heffa, Suga-T, New Choice and Marvaless — are not as known as their male counterparts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Press play and feel a spectrum of vibes conjured by mixing 36 years of Bay Area hip-hop history from a woman’s perspective. This set was recorded live with love on turntables, with no edits or premeditated order, and is dedicated to the memories of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13810229/remembering-dj-stef-a-bay-area-underground-hip-hop-icon\">DJ Stef\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13818092/pam-the-funkstress-pioneering-bay-area-dj-passes-away\">Pam The Funkstress\u003c/a>, who each make a sentimental appearance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Please note that there are a few selections in the mix that are lacking in audio quality — that’s because they’re not currently available in digital form commercially, but they merit inclusion so that the work isn’t completely lost to time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" width=\"100%\" height=\"120\" src=\"https://www.mixcloud.com/widget/iframe/?hide_cover=1&feed=%2Fteemoney415%2Fbay-area-women-in-rap%2F\" frameborder=\"0\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Tracklist\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The Conscious Daughters, “Somethin’ to Ride to (Fonky Expedition)” (1993)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Female Fonk, “Sucka Free” (1993)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Suga-T, “Suga Daddy” (1996)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Kamaiyah, “How Does It Feel” (2016)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Deffa Heffa featuring Suga-T, “Shay Deffa” (2009)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>CMG and Pam The Funkstress, “Jane and The Funkstress Interlude” (2011)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ruby Ibarra, “Brown Out” (2017)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rocky Rivera, “Brown Babies” (2015)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>TotogangzMau, “Grow Up” (2023)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Marvaless, “Ghetto Blues” (1994)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>DJ Stef, aircheck from Vinyl Exchange Radio (2007)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mystic, “We Are The People (All Around The World)” (2020)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>New Choice, “Cold Stupid” (1987)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Saweetie featuring H.E.R., “Closer” (2022)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Paris Nights, “Ashanti” (2020)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Oaktown’s 3.5.7, ”Juicy Gotcha Krazy” (1989)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gina Madrid, “Dame La Mano” (2020)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-11687704\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-800x60.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"60\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-400x30.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-768x58.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "spie-one-tdk-bay-area-graffiti-history-hip-hop",
"title": "‘Tax Dollars Kill’: Spie One’s Decades of Bay Area Graffiti Activism",
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"headTitle": "‘Tax Dollars Kill’: Spie One’s Decades of Bay Area Graffiti Activism | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cb>\u003ci>Editor’s note:\u003c/i>\u003c/b>\u003ci> This story is part of\u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/bayareahiphop\"> That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003ci>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop history\u003c/a>, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]T[/dropcap]he name Spie One has resonated in the Bay Area for nearly 40 years. The prolific graffiti artist, muralist and artivist may be less famous than his former painting partner, the late Mike “Dream” Francisco, but Spie is no less legendary. A mainstay of the TDK Collective, Irie Posse and FC — all with gravitas and legacy in the underground art world — Spie has been both observer and participant throughout the most dynamic eras in \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop history\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But who is Spie? His \u003cem>nom de guerre\u003c/em> evokes subterfuge, counter-intelligence, covertness. Indeed, maintaining anonymity was imperative at the beginning of Spie’s career, during the formative stages of Bay Area graffiti itself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Over the years, though, Spie evolved into a well-known force bridging activism and visual art in the streets. In recent years, he’s become an accomplished muralist working in different mediums, as well as a teacher, mentor and leader by example.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Those who know Spie well enough to call him a friend talk a lot about his character — his ethics, his dedication to his craft and his belief in collective liberation. They also mention his idiosyncrasies — the bugged-out sketches he randomly emails folks, his insistence on using 20-year-old paint from his garage instead of modern spray cans, his continued willingness to get up on impromptu street art missions even though he’s married with children and has a day job as a high school art teacher.[aside postid='arts_13924167,arts_13925931,arts_13924109' label='More on Bay Area Hip-Hop Culture']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The words “community” and “family” invariably come up in conversations with and about Spie. While he can claim status in a field where toys are destroyed and respect is earned one piece at a time, one of his defining characteristics is humility. His ethos, he says, is a simple “each one teach one” philosophy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You got knowledge, you got to pass it on,” Spie continues. “I got something to share. That’s why I chose to take my work to the next generation, the youth, and to help cultivate their imagination, their radical thoughts… Hip-hop combined with that is what has shaped my pathway.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>I, Spie\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Spie grew up in a multiracial household in San Francisco in the 1970s, when the city was still identified with the remnants of 1960s counterculture. His artist mother and bus driver father were both activists whose shared worldview was shaped by revolutionary ideals. While his mom encouraged his artistic sensibilities, his dad let him pal along on bus rides and introduced him to eclectic, cutting-edge music, like Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PobrSpMwKk4\">The Message\u003c/a>” — with bristling, Reagan-era sociopolitical commentary that made a lasting impression.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A tall, lanky youth, Spie was somewhat introverted, letting his artistic expressions manifest on notebooks and a dresser in his room. No one particular flashpoint led him to pursue graffiti. As a half-Asian kid, or \u003cem>hapa\u003c/em>, living in a diverse city, he was eager to carve out his own identity and find a community. The emergence of hip-hop and graffiti in the early ’80s gave him the sense of belonging and creative outlet he needed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Spie’s first public attempt at a graffiti piece came in 1985, at the tennis courts of McAteer High School in San Francisco. It was a simple piece: a red and black rendering of his early moniker “Spy,” written boldly. Next to it were the words “one man bomber” — a testament to the fact that Spie painted it alone.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926652\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926652\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890-800x800.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890-1536x1536.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Spie’s first piece at San Francisco’s McAteer High School, circa late 1983 or early 1984. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In a 2017 episode of Adam Fujita’s popular \u003ca href=\"https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/episode-6-season-2-spie-tdk-fc-tmc-irie-possee/id1170942266?i=1000408431397\">graffiti podcast \u003cem>My Life In Letters\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, Spie explained how the piece brought him local notoriety; he soon became an active tagger on Muni buses, as well as in the Excelsior and the Mission. A Muni Fast Pass afforded him the opportunity to visit other neighborhoods and write his graffiti name across the city, and as he grew more prolific, so did his stylistic ability and reputation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Young Spie wasn’t alone in this endeavor. Alongside him in the 1980s were hundreds, maybe thousands of restless youth finding their way within graffiti. The status quo called them vandals. But graffiti was \u003cem>their\u003c/em> counterculture, and a way to find meaning and identity in a society that didn’t always see or hear them. [pullquote size='large' citation='Spie']‘I got something to share. That’s why I chose to take my work to the next generation, the youth, and to help cultivate their imagination, their radical thoughts.’[/pullquote]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By 1982, graffiti had become known as one of hip-hop’s four elements. But it was also a standalone culture that preceded b-boying, MCing and DJ scratching. The \u003ca href=\"http://southsideprojections.org/2018/the-mural-movement-and-the-black-arts-movement/\">community mural movement\u003c/a> dated back to 1967 Chicago and aligned with the Black Arts Movement. Murals were already part of the cultural expression of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kcet.org/arts-culture/el-movimiento\">El Movimiento\u003c/a>, a.k.a. the Chicano Movement, a push for ethnic identity and empowerment. The \u003ca href=\"https://blogs.cuit.columbia.edu/ijt2106/moment-of-departure/the-emergence-of-modern-graffiti/\">modern graffiti movement\u003c/a> originated in Philadelphia in the late ’60s before spreading to New York. And gang-affiliated tags had long permeated SF’s Mission and Excelsior districts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These cultural precedents were integral to graffiti’s evolution. In the late 1970s and early ’80s, New York’s aerosol kings conquered the subways of the five boroughs. Even though the Metropolitan Transit Authority combatted their wild styles with “the buff,” word spread around the country with films like 1983’s \u003cem>Wild Style\u003c/em>, along with the documentary \u003cem>Style Wars\u003c/em>, which aired nationally on PBS the same year. Its broadcast on KQED \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/artschool/52/bay-area-graffiti-the-early-days\">catalyzed the Bay Area graffiti scene\u003c/a>. “There was this gravitational pull toward what was happening coming out of these films,” Spie recalls.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>One wall to rule them all\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>By the mid-’80s, a series of walls in an unsecured downtown parking lot near Van Ness Avenue and Market Street became an unlikely ground zero for aspiring aerosol aficionados. A wall painted by Doug “Dug-1” Cunningham in 1986 entitled “Psycho City” became so iconic, the quasi-legal graffiti spot was soon named in its honor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When Dug hit it, it was a full-on burner,” Spie recalls, referring to a particularly impressive stylistic production that metaphorically burned competition. “It was like it was framed. It was very solidly panoramic, rectangular. It had characters.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Afterwards, “[graffiti] just started to expand to all the neighboring walls, to the point where [Psycho City] became the place to go to paint,” Spie adds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926653\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926653\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Psycho-City-DUG-TMF-1986-800x550.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"550\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Psycho-City-DUG-TMF-1986-800x550.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Psycho-City-DUG-TMF-1986-160x110.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Psycho-City-DUG-TMF-1986-768x528.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Psycho-City-DUG-TMF-1986.jpg 1011w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Dug-1’s ‘Psycho City’ piece gave the legendary San Francisco graffiti spot its name in 1986. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Graffiti artists from all over the Bay Area, and even other states and countries, found their way to Psycho City. Over time, the scene became more competitive as wall space became more limited. A piece painted one night might be painted over the next. Needless to say, the competition fueled innovation, as productions became bolder, bigger and more ambitious.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Spie recalls Psycho City remaining active up until November 1992, when a street festival featuring barbeque, DJs, and breakdancing by NYC’s Rock Steady Crew attracted police attention. In the ensuing confrontation, police vehicles were vandalized. The cops returned in greater numbers and began ticketing people. Soon after, “No Loitering” signs were put up, which allowed police to cite anyone in the area, effectively ending Psycho City’s reign. The irony, Spie says, is that instead of graffiti being contained within one centralized location, the police action “ended up pushing it to other parts of town.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13864059\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13864059\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-800x514.png\" alt='Mike \"Dream\" Francisco' width=\"800\" height=\"514\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-800x514.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-160x103.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-768x494.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-1020x656.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-1200x771.png 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-1920x1234.png 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM.png 2048w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Spie’s late painting partner, Mike ‘Dream’ Francisco. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Pieces of a Dream\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>By 1987, Spie had earned a reputation as an up-and-coming artist with a versatile array of lettering styles. That reputation would only grow over time — and with the help of a legendary collaborator.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Over in Oakland, a Filipino American artist named Mike “Dream” Francisco had established himself as the king of the 23rd Yard, a popular graffiti destination. At the time, “I didn’t know Dream, but he was my hero,” Spie says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In July 1987, Dream painted a massive mural at the 23rd Yard entitled “Best of Both Worlds.” The painting — which has since become the center spread of 2011’s \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.pbs.org/newshour/arts/the-history-of-american-graffiti-from-subway-car-to-gallery\">The History of American Graffiti\u003c/a>\u003c/em> — consisted of two elaborately detailed letterforms, one in the computer-esque “New Wave” style and the other in the abstract “Funk” style. In mastering both styles, Dream was sending a not-so-subtle message to fellow artists of unity instead of division.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Spie and some artist pals journeyed to Oakland to see the wall. “Everyone was talking about it,” he says. He and Dream became friends that day, although it would be another two years before they would begin collaborating in earnest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Soon after, Phase 2’s widely respected magazine \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://rmc.library.cornell.edu/EAD/htmldocs/RMM08067.html\">International Graffiti Times\u003c/a>\u003c/em> put out a call for artist submissions. “Dream won that one and it got really popularized. And then everybody knew that the Bay Area had a scene going on… Dream put the Bay Area on the map as far as graff,” Spie says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926667\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13926667 size-medium\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-800x145.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"145\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-800x145.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-1020x185.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-160x29.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-768x140.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-1536x279.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-2048x372.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-1920x349.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Dream’s 1987 ‘Best of Both Worlds’ wall in Oakland. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Bay Area graffiti was growing exponentially, “but it was frowned upon,” says Susan Cervantes of Mission-based arts non-profit \u003ca href=\"https://www.precitaeyes.org/\">Precita Eyes\u003c/a>. “If you had a marker you were considered a criminal. Youth were taking a lot of risk trying to do it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still, the subculture continued to thrive. In August 1987, Henry Chalfant and James Prigoff’s book \u003cem>Spraycan Art\u003c/em> showcased local artists Crayone TWS, Del Phresh, Whisky and Daube alongside national and international talent.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We were in love with [\u003cem>Spraycan Art\u003c/em>],” Spie says. He notes Prigoff, then a local resident, would sometimes invite Bay Area artists over to his house to view photographs of graffiti from other regions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cervantes, a community muralist since the ’70s, recognized that a new artistic movement was underway. Precita Eyes hosted a book release party for \u003cem>Spraycan Art\u003c/em>, and Cervantes curated a graffiti art competition at Mission Cultural Center, which brought her into contact with 16-year-old Spie, who knew some of the artists in the competition. After the event, Spie stayed in touch with Cervantes and the organization as they started to integrate graffiti’s aesthetic into their youth programming. They’ve been connected ever since.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1996, Spie and Dream participated in a panel during Precita Eyes’ first Urban Youth Arts Festival. “They discussed their experiences in the graffiti movement with all the young people who came to participate,” Cervantes says. “They were really good about the history of the graff movement and how important it was to show respect for each others’ work.” Their engagement with young people set a tone that Precita Eyes has followed for 27 years, with the annual festival as a linchpin of its programmatic activities.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[Spie] is a really special person,” Cervantes says. “I think he’s very articulate not only in his visual expression, but also in activism around the issues that are important to him.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926650\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926650\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878-800x528.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"528\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878-800x528.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878-1020x673.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878-768x506.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878-1536x1013.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mike “Dream” Francisco stands before his collaborative mural with Spie One, ‘Tax Dollars Kill,’ in 1995. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Fighting the power\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Spie has always viewed activism as a generational legacy. He tells a story of how, during the height of the anti-apartheid movement, Berkeley hosted a “Spirit of Soweto” street festival on Telegraph Avenue. Revolution Books provided canvases for artists to paint politically-themed works. Coincidentally, Spie and Dream both brought sketches of \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=luVpsM3YAgw\">Steve Biko\u003c/a>, a martyred South African activist.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Clearly, the two artists were aligned in their politics and artistic sensibilities, and Spie and Dream began working together shortly after. By that point, Spie had become a master of letterforms, characters and backgrounds. In archival photographs of their many collaborations, the pair appear evenly matched; a 1992 co-production at Psycho City literally rises above lesser tags with blazingly vibrant colors and impeccable aerosol calligraphy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926654\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926654\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi-800x517.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"517\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi-800x517.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi-1020x659.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi-160x103.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi-768x496.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi-1536x993.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi.jpg 1685w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A collaborative piece by Spie and Dream at Psycho City in 1992. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Spie joined Dream’s crew TDK, influencing the collective’s aesthetic artistically and ideologically. The acronym originally stood for “Those Damn Kids,” but soon morphed into alternate meanings, among them “Teach Dem Knowledge.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Francisco “Amend” Sanchez was still in high school when he met Dream, who was working at the Built to Last tattoo parlor, where aspiring young artists would often “hover” to watch the master at work. At the time, Sanchez had a different tag, but he switched to writing Amend after Dream told him, “Your name should represent. You should have some value to who you are.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>TDK, Amend says, isn’t just about the style of graffiti. “It’s also about just the culture within, an urban community that you want to represent and speak up for.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>According to Amend, Spie plays a unique role within the crew. “He doesn’t get enough credit on how influential he’s been in the Bay Area for multiple generations. As far as TDK goes, I think he’s the main guy who would push Mike Dream, to push the crew to go into that whole social justice point of view, speaking up for … people in the community.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This was the ‘Fight the Power’ era,” Spie recalls — a time when hip-hop often felt like a political movement, and rappers like Public Enemy and KRS-One pushed the envelope of sociopolitical commentary in pop culture. For Spie, it was a no-brainer to contribute visually, and inspire others to do the same. There were many causes to join: reproductive rights, opposing anti-immigration laws, protesting LAPD’s beating of Rodney King, pushing back against the Gulf War and resisting the 500-year anniversary of Columbus’ “discovery” of America in 1992.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was a great time of awareness,” Spie says. “I was very much in a learning mode of being aware of the Native struggle and needing to [let people] know that we are occupying Native peoples’ territories.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926719\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926719\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy-800x580.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"580\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy-800x580.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy-1020x740.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy-160x116.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy-768x557.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy-1536x1114.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy.jpg 1783w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Spie’s ‘Solidarity’ was commissioned by the Oakland Museum of California for the exhibition ‘Respect: Style and Wisdom of Hip-Hop’ in 2018. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>No justice, just us\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>As political graffiti proliferated in the Bay Area, a January 1993 exhibition at Oakland’s Pro Arts gallery titled \u003cem>No Justice No Peace\u003c/em> became the first local gallery show to feature the artform. Eastside Arts Alliance co-founder Greg Morozumi organized it during the Rodney King protests, which raised profound questions about police accountability. The exhibition, Spie says, was a “proverbial middle finger” against the system.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To enter the gallery, attendees had to walk over an American flag. “That was the welcome mat,” Spie says. Inside, viewers were greeted by paintings by Spie, Dream, Krash, Dug-1 and Refa One — most of which questioned the authority of law enforcement while reinforcing community resilience. Spie and Dream’s “No Justice” paid tribute to Jesse “Plan-B” Hall, an \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/7-NYa6SDNP8\">emerging rapper who was murdered in a still-unsolved drive-by shooting\u003c/a> in Oakland’s Sobrante Park. Juxtaposed with a Krash painting of a porcine-faced police officer pointing a gun, the piece addressed the emotional toll of inner-city violence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926659\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926659\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93-800x554.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"554\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93-800x554.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93-1020x706.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93-160x111.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93-768x532.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93-1536x1063.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93.jpg 1712w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A look inside the ‘No Justice, No Peace’ exhibition at ProArts in 1993. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In 1994, Dream and Spie painted an on-stage backdrop for KMEL’s annual Summer Jam concert. The show, headlined by Patti LaBelle, also featured locals E-40, Rappin’ 4-Tay, Tony! Toni! Toné! and A Lighter Shade of Brown, along with Public Enemy, OutKast and Queen Latifah. The backdrop proved that the duo weren’t always incendiary, with colorful letters spelling out “Respect” along with the message “peace follows.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1995, Spie and Dream collaborated on one of their most unflinching murals: “Tax Dollars Kill.” The names of the artists appeared in typical graffiti wildstyle fashion; above them was a depiction of lightning striking the U.S. Capitol building. The symbolism was inescapable, especially because the mural’s title was rendered boldly above the signatures in white lettering, like a masthead.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Throughout their association, Spie and Dream would “always try to bring some kind of message … something poetic to be a part of what people were reading, as far as the painting goes. And that just kind of kept manifesting.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926708\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926708\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/IMG_6410-800x800.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/IMG_6410-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/IMG_6410-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/IMG_6410-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/IMG_6410-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/IMG_6410.jpg 1224w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A copy of a 1994 edition of the \u003ci>San Francisco Chronicle\u003c/i> saved by Spie One, showing Patti Labelle performing in front of his collaborative mural with Mike “Dream” Francisco. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In addition to political influence, artist Cece Carpio, who calls Spie a mentor, maintains that he helped establish a Bay Area-identified lettering style. In the pre-internet days, she explains, graffiti was less ubiquitous and regions were often associated with specific styles. “Back then, the Bay Area letters got kind of curvy, just stylized lettering. I actually believe that’s something that the Bay Area started, and Spie was one of the pioneers who did that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A controversial mural with a message\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>While enrolled as an undergrad at San Francisco State University in 1996, Spie painted his first work with acrylic paint and brushes: a portrait of Malcolm X to commemorate the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#third-world-liberation-front-paves-the-way-for-black-and-brown-unity\">1968 Third World Liberation Front student strike\u003c/a>, which resulted in the creation of one of the country’s first ethnic studies departments. Working in the mode of a traditional painter caused some apprehension and soul-searching for Spie.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was always just this back-and-forth around, ‘Are you staying true to this art form? Are you trying to do that other established thing that other people already consider art?’” he recalls. “That was something that I struggled with a lot of those years. But I think the Malcolm X piece really helped me to open up my own personal arts avenues much wider.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Although the mural’s unveiling was a success (Spie got to meet Malcolm’s widow, Betty Shabazz, who came out for the event), the project had a long and controversial backstory.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>An earlier version of the mural, painted by Oakland artist \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13851520/rightnowish-refa-one-spraypaint-in-hand-honors-west-oaklands-history\">Refa One\u003c/a>, included a border with dollar bills, a burning American flag, and a Star of David. Needless to say, this did not go over well with the university, whose spokesperson \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/1994/05/27/us/san-francisco-state-destroys-malcolm-x-mural-after-furor.html\">called the piece “hateful” in \u003cem>The\u003c/em> \u003cem>New York Times\u003c/em>\u003c/a>. [ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The school administration ordered the mural to be covered up, but a group of students reclaimed it with a bucket of water and soap, and camped out in front of the mural to protect it from further harm. In response, the school brought in a tactical unit in riot gear, aided by the SFPD, Spie recalls. Eventually, the mural was sandblasted over. “It was like they were assassinating Malcolm twice,” Spie says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Two years later, the university put out another call for artists, and Spie was selected. Facing pressure from student activists, the school administration asked him to work with a Black artist, Kamau Ayubbi, a friend he knew from the 23rd Yard. The completed mural, still visible today, features two portraits of Malcolm X, with the African continent surrounding the United States, painted in black, in the background. It also includes a Malcolm X quote: “Our objective is complete freedom, justice, and equality By Any Means Necessary.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926660\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926660\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-800x570.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"570\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-800x570.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-1020x727.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-160x114.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-768x548.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-1536x1095.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-2048x1460.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-1920x1369.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Spie and Kama Ayubbo’s 1996 Malcolm X mural at San Francisco State University. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Rebel without a pause\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In 2000, the unthinkable happened: Mike Dream was murdered in West Oakland. The still-unsolved killing deprived the Bay Area of its most legendary graffiti artist. “It was a devastating blow when he left this world. … So much of my own kind of self-actualization came through his guidance,” Spie \u003ca href=\"https://eastbayexpress.com/a-dream-continued-1/\">later told the \u003cem>East Bay Express\u003c/em>\u003c/a>. Spie and the TDK crew have kept Dream alive and in their hearts for the past 23 years, organizing a series of annual “Dream Day” events in Oakland \u003ca href=\"https://hiphopandpolitics.com/tag/mike-dream/\">beginning in 2010\u003c/a>, benefitting Dream’s son Akil.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cDp38sltic8\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rather than slow down, though, TDK remained active. Amend, Vogue and Stash all became widely known artists in their own right. Dream protege Marty Aranaydo, a.k.a. Meut TDK, a.k.a. DJ Willie Maze, furthered hip-hop activism through painting and as a member of socially conscious DJ collective Local 1200. Meanwhile, Spie soldiered on, earning a teaching credential and landing a job teaching art at a regional high school.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the 2000s, a new generation of artist collectives emerged, building directly on Dream and Spie’s sociopolitical blueprint and the family values of TDK. \u003ca href=\"https://www.trustyourstruggle.org/\">Trust Your Struggle\u003c/a> member Carpio says Spie has gone out of his way to push her artistic efforts to the next level. And while \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13868732/cece-carpio\">Carpio’s work stands on its own\u003c/a>, Spie’s influence reflects in themes of Indigenous advocacy, resilience and racial solidarity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The two recently painted a commemorative project at UC Berkeley honoring the Third World Liberation Front. The project, which has yet to be installed, features vibrant portraits of revolutionary icons Richard Aoki, June Jordan, Lehman Brightman, Ron Takaki and LaNada War Jack. According to Carpio, “what makes [Spie’s art] different in comparison to a lot of other graffiti and street art is his accountability to the movement and his accountability to the community.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926661\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926661\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-800x816.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"816\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-800x816.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-1020x1040.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-160x163.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-768x783.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-1506x1536.jpg 1506w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-1920x1958.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall.jpg 2006w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">2014’s ‘Key Tree,’ Spie’s contribution to Oakland’s Palestine Solidarity Wall, visualizes liberation of oppressed peoples. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Spie has painted in New York, Los Angeles, Jamaica, Puerto Rico, Hawaii, Cuba, Costa Rica, Mexico and Portugal. Still, some of his most memorable work has been local. In 2007, he, Mike Ramos and H.O.M.E.Y. \u003ca href=\"https://digitalstories.famsf.org/teo/#teotihuacan-in-san-francisco\">painted\u003c/a> the mythical Aztec Feathered Serpent in the Mission. In 2014, he was one of 12 muralists who contributed to the “\u003ca href=\"https://artforces.org/projects/murals/usa/oakland-palestine-solidarity-mural/\">Oakland Palestine Solidarity Mural\u003c/a>” in Uptown.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 2018, he manifested a solidarity-themed mural as part of the Oakland Museum’s first-ever hip-hop exhibit, and a ruby-throated hummingbird for environmental justice organization PODER. During the pandemic, he and several family members volunteered to paint the exterior of the Precita Eyes building. In 2021, during the George Floyd protests, he was one of the first artists to turn downtown Oakland into an outdoor art gallery. And in 2022, he painted a work entitled “\u003ca href=\"https://www.artspanart.org/eric-norberg-eai-summer-2022\">Serve the People\u003c/a>” on the window of Casa De Apoyo, a transitional housing resource center in the Excelsior.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As he’s become a more accomplished muralist, Spie has stayed true to his roots by including elements of graffiti even when working with other mediums. “I can remember that he started using acrylic paint with a brush to block in everything, and then he would do all the fine effects and details with the aerosol,” Cervantes says. “And that’s kind of what our youth arts program still does today.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Throughout his storied career, Spie says he “always chose the side of the earth, the subjected and the oppressed. And, you know, what they like to say: the voice of the voiceless.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926662\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926662\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726-800x800.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726-1536x1536.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Spie and Cece Carpio collaborated on a tribute to the Third World Liberation Front and other revolutionary activists. Their work will be installed at UC Berkeley at a later date. \u003ccite>(Cece Carpio)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>TDK: The Dream Kontinues\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Spie can recount descriptive accounts of protests from decades past, but when asked about future projects, he simply sends over a link to YBCA’s recent “YBCA 100” celebration, with a visual art display by TDK Collective.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the event, Spie held court on the venue’s second floor, dressed unassumingly in a Madow Futur jacket and \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/i5OX8pDTyow\">Bored Stiff\u003c/a> baseball hat. As he greeted attendees, including visual artist Agana and documentary filmmaker Eli Jacobs-Fantauzzi, a monitor played \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/artschool/52/bay-area-graffiti-the-early-days\">Bay Area Graffiti: The Early Years\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, followed by \u003cem>Style Wars\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Art supplies were laid out on a table, along with various hardcover books on graffiti. Adjacent walls were decorated with TDK’s historical works: several Spie-Dream collaborations, including “Tax Dollars Kill,” and a tribute to the Rodney King uprisings that depicted an overturned police car, a colorful piece by Pak (R.I.P.), a tribute to Plan-B, and a late career piece by Dream. Several of Spie’s solo works were integrated, among them two vibrant “Spie” letterforms, linked by the word “vs.” (referencing the classic \u003cem>Mad\u003c/em> magazine cartoon “Spy vs. Spy”). The artist was clearly in his element.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Spie pulled out a binder he’d assembled, consisting of Dream’s pieces, sketches, quotes and airbrush work. The collection held serious gravitas; all that it needed to be included in a library alongside \u003cem>Spraycan Art\u003c/em>, \u003cem>Dondi White: Style Master General\u003c/em> and similar graffiti books was a hardcover binding and written essays.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Whatever the future holds – a comprehensive TDK retrospective, the publication of his Dream book or some other legacy project – Spie doesn’t reveal exact plans. It’s understandable, and completely in character, that after five decades as an artist, he seems to take satisfaction in maintaining his mystique, revealing only what he deems necessary.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-800x78.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"excerpt": "Meet graffiti artist Spie One, the Bay Area legend whose work spans nearly every era of graffiti.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cb>\u003ci>Editor’s note:\u003c/i>\u003c/b>\u003ci> This story is part of\u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/bayareahiphop\"> That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003ci>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop history\u003c/a>, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">T\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>he name Spie One has resonated in the Bay Area for nearly 40 years. The prolific graffiti artist, muralist and artivist may be less famous than his former painting partner, the late Mike “Dream” Francisco, but Spie is no less legendary. A mainstay of the TDK Collective, Irie Posse and FC — all with gravitas and legacy in the underground art world — Spie has been both observer and participant throughout the most dynamic eras in \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop history\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But who is Spie? His \u003cem>nom de guerre\u003c/em> evokes subterfuge, counter-intelligence, covertness. Indeed, maintaining anonymity was imperative at the beginning of Spie’s career, during the formative stages of Bay Area graffiti itself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Over the years, though, Spie evolved into a well-known force bridging activism and visual art in the streets. In recent years, he’s become an accomplished muralist working in different mediums, as well as a teacher, mentor and leader by example.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Those who know Spie well enough to call him a friend talk a lot about his character — his ethics, his dedication to his craft and his belief in collective liberation. They also mention his idiosyncrasies — the bugged-out sketches he randomly emails folks, his insistence on using 20-year-old paint from his garage instead of modern spray cans, his continued willingness to get up on impromptu street art missions even though he’s married with children and has a day job as a high school art teacher.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The words “community” and “family” invariably come up in conversations with and about Spie. While he can claim status in a field where toys are destroyed and respect is earned one piece at a time, one of his defining characteristics is humility. His ethos, he says, is a simple “each one teach one” philosophy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You got knowledge, you got to pass it on,” Spie continues. “I got something to share. That’s why I chose to take my work to the next generation, the youth, and to help cultivate their imagination, their radical thoughts… Hip-hop combined with that is what has shaped my pathway.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>I, Spie\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Spie grew up in a multiracial household in San Francisco in the 1970s, when the city was still identified with the remnants of 1960s counterculture. His artist mother and bus driver father were both activists whose shared worldview was shaped by revolutionary ideals. While his mom encouraged his artistic sensibilities, his dad let him pal along on bus rides and introduced him to eclectic, cutting-edge music, like Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PobrSpMwKk4\">The Message\u003c/a>” — with bristling, Reagan-era sociopolitical commentary that made a lasting impression.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A tall, lanky youth, Spie was somewhat introverted, letting his artistic expressions manifest on notebooks and a dresser in his room. No one particular flashpoint led him to pursue graffiti. As a half-Asian kid, or \u003cem>hapa\u003c/em>, living in a diverse city, he was eager to carve out his own identity and find a community. The emergence of hip-hop and graffiti in the early ’80s gave him the sense of belonging and creative outlet he needed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Spie’s first public attempt at a graffiti piece came in 1985, at the tennis courts of McAteer High School in San Francisco. It was a simple piece: a red and black rendering of his early moniker “Spy,” written boldly. Next to it were the words “one man bomber” — a testament to the fact that Spie painted it alone.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926652\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926652\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890-800x800.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890-1536x1536.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Spie’s first piece at San Francisco’s McAteer High School, circa late 1983 or early 1984. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In a 2017 episode of Adam Fujita’s popular \u003ca href=\"https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/episode-6-season-2-spie-tdk-fc-tmc-irie-possee/id1170942266?i=1000408431397\">graffiti podcast \u003cem>My Life In Letters\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, Spie explained how the piece brought him local notoriety; he soon became an active tagger on Muni buses, as well as in the Excelsior and the Mission. A Muni Fast Pass afforded him the opportunity to visit other neighborhoods and write his graffiti name across the city, and as he grew more prolific, so did his stylistic ability and reputation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Young Spie wasn’t alone in this endeavor. Alongside him in the 1980s were hundreds, maybe thousands of restless youth finding their way within graffiti. The status quo called them vandals. But graffiti was \u003cem>their\u003c/em> counterculture, and a way to find meaning and identity in a society that didn’t always see or hear them. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By 1982, graffiti had become known as one of hip-hop’s four elements. But it was also a standalone culture that preceded b-boying, MCing and DJ scratching. The \u003ca href=\"http://southsideprojections.org/2018/the-mural-movement-and-the-black-arts-movement/\">community mural movement\u003c/a> dated back to 1967 Chicago and aligned with the Black Arts Movement. Murals were already part of the cultural expression of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kcet.org/arts-culture/el-movimiento\">El Movimiento\u003c/a>, a.k.a. the Chicano Movement, a push for ethnic identity and empowerment. The \u003ca href=\"https://blogs.cuit.columbia.edu/ijt2106/moment-of-departure/the-emergence-of-modern-graffiti/\">modern graffiti movement\u003c/a> originated in Philadelphia in the late ’60s before spreading to New York. And gang-affiliated tags had long permeated SF’s Mission and Excelsior districts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These cultural precedents were integral to graffiti’s evolution. In the late 1970s and early ’80s, New York’s aerosol kings conquered the subways of the five boroughs. Even though the Metropolitan Transit Authority combatted their wild styles with “the buff,” word spread around the country with films like 1983’s \u003cem>Wild Style\u003c/em>, along with the documentary \u003cem>Style Wars\u003c/em>, which aired nationally on PBS the same year. Its broadcast on KQED \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/artschool/52/bay-area-graffiti-the-early-days\">catalyzed the Bay Area graffiti scene\u003c/a>. “There was this gravitational pull toward what was happening coming out of these films,” Spie recalls.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>One wall to rule them all\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>By the mid-’80s, a series of walls in an unsecured downtown parking lot near Van Ness Avenue and Market Street became an unlikely ground zero for aspiring aerosol aficionados. A wall painted by Doug “Dug-1” Cunningham in 1986 entitled “Psycho City” became so iconic, the quasi-legal graffiti spot was soon named in its honor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When Dug hit it, it was a full-on burner,” Spie recalls, referring to a particularly impressive stylistic production that metaphorically burned competition. “It was like it was framed. It was very solidly panoramic, rectangular. It had characters.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Afterwards, “[graffiti] just started to expand to all the neighboring walls, to the point where [Psycho City] became the place to go to paint,” Spie adds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926653\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926653\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Psycho-City-DUG-TMF-1986-800x550.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"550\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Psycho-City-DUG-TMF-1986-800x550.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Psycho-City-DUG-TMF-1986-160x110.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Psycho-City-DUG-TMF-1986-768x528.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Psycho-City-DUG-TMF-1986.jpg 1011w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Dug-1’s ‘Psycho City’ piece gave the legendary San Francisco graffiti spot its name in 1986. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Graffiti artists from all over the Bay Area, and even other states and countries, found their way to Psycho City. Over time, the scene became more competitive as wall space became more limited. A piece painted one night might be painted over the next. Needless to say, the competition fueled innovation, as productions became bolder, bigger and more ambitious.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Spie recalls Psycho City remaining active up until November 1992, when a street festival featuring barbeque, DJs, and breakdancing by NYC’s Rock Steady Crew attracted police attention. In the ensuing confrontation, police vehicles were vandalized. The cops returned in greater numbers and began ticketing people. Soon after, “No Loitering” signs were put up, which allowed police to cite anyone in the area, effectively ending Psycho City’s reign. The irony, Spie says, is that instead of graffiti being contained within one centralized location, the police action “ended up pushing it to other parts of town.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13864059\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13864059\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-800x514.png\" alt='Mike \"Dream\" Francisco' width=\"800\" height=\"514\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-800x514.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-160x103.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-768x494.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-1020x656.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-1200x771.png 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-1920x1234.png 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM.png 2048w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Spie’s late painting partner, Mike ‘Dream’ Francisco. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Pieces of a Dream\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>By 1987, Spie had earned a reputation as an up-and-coming artist with a versatile array of lettering styles. That reputation would only grow over time — and with the help of a legendary collaborator.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Over in Oakland, a Filipino American artist named Mike “Dream” Francisco had established himself as the king of the 23rd Yard, a popular graffiti destination. At the time, “I didn’t know Dream, but he was my hero,” Spie says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In July 1987, Dream painted a massive mural at the 23rd Yard entitled “Best of Both Worlds.” The painting — which has since become the center spread of 2011’s \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.pbs.org/newshour/arts/the-history-of-american-graffiti-from-subway-car-to-gallery\">The History of American Graffiti\u003c/a>\u003c/em> — consisted of two elaborately detailed letterforms, one in the computer-esque “New Wave” style and the other in the abstract “Funk” style. In mastering both styles, Dream was sending a not-so-subtle message to fellow artists of unity instead of division.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Spie and some artist pals journeyed to Oakland to see the wall. “Everyone was talking about it,” he says. He and Dream became friends that day, although it would be another two years before they would begin collaborating in earnest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Soon after, Phase 2’s widely respected magazine \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://rmc.library.cornell.edu/EAD/htmldocs/RMM08067.html\">International Graffiti Times\u003c/a>\u003c/em> put out a call for artist submissions. “Dream won that one and it got really popularized. And then everybody knew that the Bay Area had a scene going on… Dream put the Bay Area on the map as far as graff,” Spie says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926667\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13926667 size-medium\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-800x145.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"145\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-800x145.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-1020x185.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-160x29.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-768x140.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-1536x279.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-2048x372.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-1920x349.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Dream’s 1987 ‘Best of Both Worlds’ wall in Oakland. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Bay Area graffiti was growing exponentially, “but it was frowned upon,” says Susan Cervantes of Mission-based arts non-profit \u003ca href=\"https://www.precitaeyes.org/\">Precita Eyes\u003c/a>. “If you had a marker you were considered a criminal. Youth were taking a lot of risk trying to do it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still, the subculture continued to thrive. In August 1987, Henry Chalfant and James Prigoff’s book \u003cem>Spraycan Art\u003c/em> showcased local artists Crayone TWS, Del Phresh, Whisky and Daube alongside national and international talent.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We were in love with [\u003cem>Spraycan Art\u003c/em>],” Spie says. He notes Prigoff, then a local resident, would sometimes invite Bay Area artists over to his house to view photographs of graffiti from other regions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cervantes, a community muralist since the ’70s, recognized that a new artistic movement was underway. Precita Eyes hosted a book release party for \u003cem>Spraycan Art\u003c/em>, and Cervantes curated a graffiti art competition at Mission Cultural Center, which brought her into contact with 16-year-old Spie, who knew some of the artists in the competition. After the event, Spie stayed in touch with Cervantes and the organization as they started to integrate graffiti’s aesthetic into their youth programming. They’ve been connected ever since.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1996, Spie and Dream participated in a panel during Precita Eyes’ first Urban Youth Arts Festival. “They discussed their experiences in the graffiti movement with all the young people who came to participate,” Cervantes says. “They were really good about the history of the graff movement and how important it was to show respect for each others’ work.” Their engagement with young people set a tone that Precita Eyes has followed for 27 years, with the annual festival as a linchpin of its programmatic activities.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[Spie] is a really special person,” Cervantes says. “I think he’s very articulate not only in his visual expression, but also in activism around the issues that are important to him.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926650\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926650\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878-800x528.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"528\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878-800x528.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878-1020x673.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878-768x506.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878-1536x1013.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mike “Dream” Francisco stands before his collaborative mural with Spie One, ‘Tax Dollars Kill,’ in 1995. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Fighting the power\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Spie has always viewed activism as a generational legacy. He tells a story of how, during the height of the anti-apartheid movement, Berkeley hosted a “Spirit of Soweto” street festival on Telegraph Avenue. Revolution Books provided canvases for artists to paint politically-themed works. Coincidentally, Spie and Dream both brought sketches of \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=luVpsM3YAgw\">Steve Biko\u003c/a>, a martyred South African activist.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Clearly, the two artists were aligned in their politics and artistic sensibilities, and Spie and Dream began working together shortly after. By that point, Spie had become a master of letterforms, characters and backgrounds. In archival photographs of their many collaborations, the pair appear evenly matched; a 1992 co-production at Psycho City literally rises above lesser tags with blazingly vibrant colors and impeccable aerosol calligraphy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926654\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926654\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi-800x517.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"517\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi-800x517.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi-1020x659.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi-160x103.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi-768x496.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi-1536x993.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi.jpg 1685w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A collaborative piece by Spie and Dream at Psycho City in 1992. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Spie joined Dream’s crew TDK, influencing the collective’s aesthetic artistically and ideologically. The acronym originally stood for “Those Damn Kids,” but soon morphed into alternate meanings, among them “Teach Dem Knowledge.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Francisco “Amend” Sanchez was still in high school when he met Dream, who was working at the Built to Last tattoo parlor, where aspiring young artists would often “hover” to watch the master at work. At the time, Sanchez had a different tag, but he switched to writing Amend after Dream told him, “Your name should represent. You should have some value to who you are.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>TDK, Amend says, isn’t just about the style of graffiti. “It’s also about just the culture within, an urban community that you want to represent and speak up for.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>According to Amend, Spie plays a unique role within the crew. “He doesn’t get enough credit on how influential he’s been in the Bay Area for multiple generations. As far as TDK goes, I think he’s the main guy who would push Mike Dream, to push the crew to go into that whole social justice point of view, speaking up for … people in the community.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This was the ‘Fight the Power’ era,” Spie recalls — a time when hip-hop often felt like a political movement, and rappers like Public Enemy and KRS-One pushed the envelope of sociopolitical commentary in pop culture. For Spie, it was a no-brainer to contribute visually, and inspire others to do the same. There were many causes to join: reproductive rights, opposing anti-immigration laws, protesting LAPD’s beating of Rodney King, pushing back against the Gulf War and resisting the 500-year anniversary of Columbus’ “discovery” of America in 1992.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was a great time of awareness,” Spie says. “I was very much in a learning mode of being aware of the Native struggle and needing to [let people] know that we are occupying Native peoples’ territories.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926719\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926719\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy-800x580.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"580\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy-800x580.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy-1020x740.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy-160x116.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy-768x557.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy-1536x1114.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy.jpg 1783w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Spie’s ‘Solidarity’ was commissioned by the Oakland Museum of California for the exhibition ‘Respect: Style and Wisdom of Hip-Hop’ in 2018. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>No justice, just us\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>As political graffiti proliferated in the Bay Area, a January 1993 exhibition at Oakland’s Pro Arts gallery titled \u003cem>No Justice No Peace\u003c/em> became the first local gallery show to feature the artform. Eastside Arts Alliance co-founder Greg Morozumi organized it during the Rodney King protests, which raised profound questions about police accountability. The exhibition, Spie says, was a “proverbial middle finger” against the system.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To enter the gallery, attendees had to walk over an American flag. “That was the welcome mat,” Spie says. Inside, viewers were greeted by paintings by Spie, Dream, Krash, Dug-1 and Refa One — most of which questioned the authority of law enforcement while reinforcing community resilience. Spie and Dream’s “No Justice” paid tribute to Jesse “Plan-B” Hall, an \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/7-NYa6SDNP8\">emerging rapper who was murdered in a still-unsolved drive-by shooting\u003c/a> in Oakland’s Sobrante Park. Juxtaposed with a Krash painting of a porcine-faced police officer pointing a gun, the piece addressed the emotional toll of inner-city violence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926659\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926659\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93-800x554.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"554\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93-800x554.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93-1020x706.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93-160x111.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93-768x532.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93-1536x1063.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93.jpg 1712w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A look inside the ‘No Justice, No Peace’ exhibition at ProArts in 1993. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In 1994, Dream and Spie painted an on-stage backdrop for KMEL’s annual Summer Jam concert. The show, headlined by Patti LaBelle, also featured locals E-40, Rappin’ 4-Tay, Tony! Toni! Toné! and A Lighter Shade of Brown, along with Public Enemy, OutKast and Queen Latifah. The backdrop proved that the duo weren’t always incendiary, with colorful letters spelling out “Respect” along with the message “peace follows.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1995, Spie and Dream collaborated on one of their most unflinching murals: “Tax Dollars Kill.” The names of the artists appeared in typical graffiti wildstyle fashion; above them was a depiction of lightning striking the U.S. Capitol building. The symbolism was inescapable, especially because the mural’s title was rendered boldly above the signatures in white lettering, like a masthead.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Throughout their association, Spie and Dream would “always try to bring some kind of message … something poetic to be a part of what people were reading, as far as the painting goes. And that just kind of kept manifesting.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926708\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926708\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/IMG_6410-800x800.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/IMG_6410-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/IMG_6410-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/IMG_6410-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/IMG_6410-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/IMG_6410.jpg 1224w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A copy of a 1994 edition of the \u003ci>San Francisco Chronicle\u003c/i> saved by Spie One, showing Patti Labelle performing in front of his collaborative mural with Mike “Dream” Francisco. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In addition to political influence, artist Cece Carpio, who calls Spie a mentor, maintains that he helped establish a Bay Area-identified lettering style. In the pre-internet days, she explains, graffiti was less ubiquitous and regions were often associated with specific styles. “Back then, the Bay Area letters got kind of curvy, just stylized lettering. I actually believe that’s something that the Bay Area started, and Spie was one of the pioneers who did that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A controversial mural with a message\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>While enrolled as an undergrad at San Francisco State University in 1996, Spie painted his first work with acrylic paint and brushes: a portrait of Malcolm X to commemorate the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#third-world-liberation-front-paves-the-way-for-black-and-brown-unity\">1968 Third World Liberation Front student strike\u003c/a>, which resulted in the creation of one of the country’s first ethnic studies departments. Working in the mode of a traditional painter caused some apprehension and soul-searching for Spie.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was always just this back-and-forth around, ‘Are you staying true to this art form? Are you trying to do that other established thing that other people already consider art?’” he recalls. “That was something that I struggled with a lot of those years. But I think the Malcolm X piece really helped me to open up my own personal arts avenues much wider.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Although the mural’s unveiling was a success (Spie got to meet Malcolm’s widow, Betty Shabazz, who came out for the event), the project had a long and controversial backstory.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>An earlier version of the mural, painted by Oakland artist \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13851520/rightnowish-refa-one-spraypaint-in-hand-honors-west-oaklands-history\">Refa One\u003c/a>, included a border with dollar bills, a burning American flag, and a Star of David. Needless to say, this did not go over well with the university, whose spokesperson \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/1994/05/27/us/san-francisco-state-destroys-malcolm-x-mural-after-furor.html\">called the piece “hateful” in \u003cem>The\u003c/em> \u003cem>New York Times\u003c/em>\u003c/a>. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The school administration ordered the mural to be covered up, but a group of students reclaimed it with a bucket of water and soap, and camped out in front of the mural to protect it from further harm. In response, the school brought in a tactical unit in riot gear, aided by the SFPD, Spie recalls. Eventually, the mural was sandblasted over. “It was like they were assassinating Malcolm twice,” Spie says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Two years later, the university put out another call for artists, and Spie was selected. Facing pressure from student activists, the school administration asked him to work with a Black artist, Kamau Ayubbi, a friend he knew from the 23rd Yard. The completed mural, still visible today, features two portraits of Malcolm X, with the African continent surrounding the United States, painted in black, in the background. It also includes a Malcolm X quote: “Our objective is complete freedom, justice, and equality By Any Means Necessary.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926660\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926660\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-800x570.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"570\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-800x570.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-1020x727.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-160x114.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-768x548.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-1536x1095.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-2048x1460.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-1920x1369.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Spie and Kama Ayubbo’s 1996 Malcolm X mural at San Francisco State University. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Rebel without a pause\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In 2000, the unthinkable happened: Mike Dream was murdered in West Oakland. The still-unsolved killing deprived the Bay Area of its most legendary graffiti artist. “It was a devastating blow when he left this world. … So much of my own kind of self-actualization came through his guidance,” Spie \u003ca href=\"https://eastbayexpress.com/a-dream-continued-1/\">later told the \u003cem>East Bay Express\u003c/em>\u003c/a>. Spie and the TDK crew have kept Dream alive and in their hearts for the past 23 years, organizing a series of annual “Dream Day” events in Oakland \u003ca href=\"https://hiphopandpolitics.com/tag/mike-dream/\">beginning in 2010\u003c/a>, benefitting Dream’s son Akil.\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/cDp38sltic8'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/cDp38sltic8'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>Rather than slow down, though, TDK remained active. Amend, Vogue and Stash all became widely known artists in their own right. Dream protege Marty Aranaydo, a.k.a. Meut TDK, a.k.a. DJ Willie Maze, furthered hip-hop activism through painting and as a member of socially conscious DJ collective Local 1200. Meanwhile, Spie soldiered on, earning a teaching credential and landing a job teaching art at a regional high school.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the 2000s, a new generation of artist collectives emerged, building directly on Dream and Spie’s sociopolitical blueprint and the family values of TDK. \u003ca href=\"https://www.trustyourstruggle.org/\">Trust Your Struggle\u003c/a> member Carpio says Spie has gone out of his way to push her artistic efforts to the next level. And while \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13868732/cece-carpio\">Carpio’s work stands on its own\u003c/a>, Spie’s influence reflects in themes of Indigenous advocacy, resilience and racial solidarity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The two recently painted a commemorative project at UC Berkeley honoring the Third World Liberation Front. The project, which has yet to be installed, features vibrant portraits of revolutionary icons Richard Aoki, June Jordan, Lehman Brightman, Ron Takaki and LaNada War Jack. According to Carpio, “what makes [Spie’s art] different in comparison to a lot of other graffiti and street art is his accountability to the movement and his accountability to the community.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926661\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926661\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-800x816.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"816\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-800x816.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-1020x1040.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-160x163.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-768x783.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-1506x1536.jpg 1506w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-1920x1958.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall.jpg 2006w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">2014’s ‘Key Tree,’ Spie’s contribution to Oakland’s Palestine Solidarity Wall, visualizes liberation of oppressed peoples. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Spie has painted in New York, Los Angeles, Jamaica, Puerto Rico, Hawaii, Cuba, Costa Rica, Mexico and Portugal. Still, some of his most memorable work has been local. In 2007, he, Mike Ramos and H.O.M.E.Y. \u003ca href=\"https://digitalstories.famsf.org/teo/#teotihuacan-in-san-francisco\">painted\u003c/a> the mythical Aztec Feathered Serpent in the Mission. In 2014, he was one of 12 muralists who contributed to the “\u003ca href=\"https://artforces.org/projects/murals/usa/oakland-palestine-solidarity-mural/\">Oakland Palestine Solidarity Mural\u003c/a>” in Uptown.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 2018, he manifested a solidarity-themed mural as part of the Oakland Museum’s first-ever hip-hop exhibit, and a ruby-throated hummingbird for environmental justice organization PODER. During the pandemic, he and several family members volunteered to paint the exterior of the Precita Eyes building. In 2021, during the George Floyd protests, he was one of the first artists to turn downtown Oakland into an outdoor art gallery. And in 2022, he painted a work entitled “\u003ca href=\"https://www.artspanart.org/eric-norberg-eai-summer-2022\">Serve the People\u003c/a>” on the window of Casa De Apoyo, a transitional housing resource center in the Excelsior.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As he’s become a more accomplished muralist, Spie has stayed true to his roots by including elements of graffiti even when working with other mediums. “I can remember that he started using acrylic paint with a brush to block in everything, and then he would do all the fine effects and details with the aerosol,” Cervantes says. “And that’s kind of what our youth arts program still does today.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Throughout his storied career, Spie says he “always chose the side of the earth, the subjected and the oppressed. And, you know, what they like to say: the voice of the voiceless.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926662\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926662\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726-800x800.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726-1536x1536.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Spie and Cece Carpio collaborated on a tribute to the Third World Liberation Front and other revolutionary activists. Their work will be installed at UC Berkeley at a later date. \u003ccite>(Cece Carpio)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>TDK: The Dream Kontinues\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Spie can recount descriptive accounts of protests from decades past, but when asked about future projects, he simply sends over a link to YBCA’s recent “YBCA 100” celebration, with a visual art display by TDK Collective.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the event, Spie held court on the venue’s second floor, dressed unassumingly in a Madow Futur jacket and \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/i5OX8pDTyow\">Bored Stiff\u003c/a> baseball hat. As he greeted attendees, including visual artist Agana and documentary filmmaker Eli Jacobs-Fantauzzi, a monitor played \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/artschool/52/bay-area-graffiti-the-early-days\">Bay Area Graffiti: The Early Years\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, followed by \u003cem>Style Wars\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Art supplies were laid out on a table, along with various hardcover books on graffiti. Adjacent walls were decorated with TDK’s historical works: several Spie-Dream collaborations, including “Tax Dollars Kill,” and a tribute to the Rodney King uprisings that depicted an overturned police car, a colorful piece by Pak (R.I.P.), a tribute to Plan-B, and a late career piece by Dream. Several of Spie’s solo works were integrated, among them two vibrant “Spie” letterforms, linked by the word “vs.” (referencing the classic \u003cem>Mad\u003c/em> magazine cartoon “Spy vs. Spy”). The artist was clearly in his element.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Spie pulled out a binder he’d assembled, consisting of Dream’s pieces, sketches, quotes and airbrush work. The collection held serious gravitas; all that it needed to be included in a library alongside \u003cem>Spraycan Art\u003c/em>, \u003cem>Dondi White: Style Master General\u003c/em> and similar graffiti books was a hardcover binding and written essays.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Whatever the future holds – a comprehensive TDK retrospective, the publication of his Dream book or some other legacy project – Spie doesn’t reveal exact plans. It’s understandable, and completely in character, that after five decades as an artist, he seems to take satisfaction in maintaining his mystique, revealing only what he deems necessary.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-800x78.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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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, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">O\u003c/span>n the title track of Too Short’s 1990 album \u003ci>Short Dog’s In the House\u003c/i>, wedged between bars about globetrotting and cold mackin’, the pioneering Oakland MC says, “I used to be local ’til I signed with Jive / Too Short done went nationwide.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After a decade that started with Short \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#too-short-and-freddy-b-start-making-handmade-tapes\">slanging tapes out of his trunk\u003c/a> as an independent artist, this was Short breaking into the hip-hop’s golden age of the ’90s. \u003ci>Short Dog’s In the House\u003c/i> features notable songs like “Pimpology,” one of the first of many tracks to sample lines from \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#the-mack-filmed-in-oakland\">the movie \u003ci>The Mack\u003c/i>, filmed in Oakland\u003c/a>. “Nothing But a Word to Me,” with Ice Cube, marks an early collaboration between major artists from Northern and Southern California. And the song “Short But Funky” is both a thinly veiled diss to MC Hammer and Too Short’s mission statement as an artist.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The album’s biggest single, “The Ghetto,” found Short deviating from his player persona, dropping socially conscious rhymes over a classic Donny Hathaway interpolation. The album sold over a million units and influenced generations of hip-hop heads. It’s a classic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fw0uz88E2gI\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And then there’s its illustrated cover art: a group of animated human-bodied dog-faced characters cold chilling in a parking lot. Cars that look like Mercedes-Benzes, Lamborghinis and Cadillacs are parked all around, as poodle and bulldog-like characters cut eyes, point fingers and posture like folks would at any social happening. This one is clearly a sideshow.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While this scene unfolds in the foreground, a larger canine figure in an Oakland jacket looms near the city’s skyline, like an overseeing oracle, here to tell the world about The Town. And at the bottom left corner of the album cover, in tiny lettering, there’s a signature from the artist: Curtis “Bozie” Wayne Riley Jr.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926255\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926255\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Boze.illos_.portrait-800x539.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"539\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Boze.illos_.portrait-800x539.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Boze.illos_.portrait-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Boze.illos_.portrait-768x518.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Boze.illos_.portrait.jpg 896w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">At left, a sketch from Boze, typifying the sort of characters he’d often draw in high school in the Bay Area. At right, a recent portrait of Boze. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Boze Riley)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The process of me doing the album cover, it started way before I ever met Short,” says Bozie, who now goes simply by Boze, on a recent video call. “For me, it started at The Art School.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the mid-to-late ’80s, Boze was a student at \u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/groups/2234613913\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">The Arts Magnet School\u003c/a>, a.k.a. “The Art School,” a high school on the California College of The Arts campus. Boze, a multitalented kid from Deep East Oakland, attributes his skills to the tutelage of his artistic parents, the influence of his neighborhood, the lessons from his high school and his affinity for hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At The Art School, he had an African-American instructor named Robert L. Caillier who taught college-level arts courses, didn’t take any mess and was a firm believer in students using the classroom to refine their individual voices. “We were given the green light to draw all the things that we love,” says Boze. “So we were drawing hip-hop characters.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>From 8th grade until 12th grade, Boze constantly practiced drawing donkey ropes, Kangol hats, Gazelle glasses, and Adidas with the fat strings. After graduation, Boze used his talents to freelance, illustrating projects for MC Ant, Tomahawk Records’ Indian Tone and a logo for East Bay rapper Spice 1.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926016\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926016\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/R-1268690-1219563443.jpg\" alt=\"Spice 1\" width=\"600\" height=\"589\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/R-1268690-1219563443.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/R-1268690-1219563443-160x157.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An early single by Spice 1, with a logo drawn by Boze. \u003ccite>(Jive Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Money was slow, though, and Boze briefly considered turning to the streets. Then he got into airbrushing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During that era, about three major hip-hop tours would come to town each year, and Boze would be ready. “I’d be in my grandmother’s garage airbrushing like 10-12 outfits, charging people $350 a piece,” says Boze, noting that white Guess or Levi’s jeans were a favorite. “My grandmother was getting mad because she’d see all these guys with 5.0’s, glasshouses, and K5s pulling up and coming to the house,” says Boze, imitating his grandmother’s concerned voice. “I’m in there airbrushing! I had an honest hustle.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Along with visual art, Boze was a part of\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/4904066-T-CAP-Productions\"> T-CAP Productions\u003c/a>’ group \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/203244-Capital-Tax\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Capital Tax\u003c/a>. He earned a name as a dancer, designed the logo for the crew and even did some musical production.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" title=\"CAPITAL TAX- 2 TIMIN\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" src=\"https://www.youtube.com/embed/skuAI7yFFJ0?start=1&feature=oembed\" frameborder=\"0\" allow=\"accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share\" referrerpolicy=\"strict-origin-when-cross-origin\" allowfullscreen>\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As his reputation and clientele in Deep East Oakland grew, Boze eventually made artwork for someone in Too Short’s crew. Coincidentally, Short had recorded a new album for Jive, and he needed artwork too. “They came to me,” says Boze. “Short was like, ‘I want you to do a sideshow scene, but I need it with dogs.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Short also suggested to Boze a few types of cars to draw, but told him to use his imagination with the rest. Boze is quick to mention that modern sideshows are different than the one depicted on the album cover, the way they used to be. “It was more like a car show. People brought out Falcons, Novas, Cougars, Mustangs. Trues and Vogues, Zapco boards. It was a chill situation,” says Boze. In the late 1980s, he adds, only a few people did donuts, police rarely came, and afterward, folks would hit Mexicali Rose or Denny’s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13923766']With years of preparation from art school under his belt, chronicling that era of the sideshow came easy; Boze says he knocked it out in two or three days. But the image that’s widely known — that’s the second drawing. The first one was rejected by Jive; the label needed certain specs for reproduction. “Short never gave me back the original one,” says Boze. “So either Short still has it, or someone at Jive does.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The version that adorns the platinum-selling album, meanwhile, has been widely shared and impactful. Short has \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/sJXzYAeTk0U?t=118\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">gone on record\u003c/a> to mention the importance of the album cover, as have other major artists. Even Snoop Dogg seemed to have a fanboy moment when recently discussing the album art, and how it directly influenced the \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doggystyle\">cartoon-dog cover art\u003c/a> for his smash-hit album \u003cem>Doggystyle\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" title=\"Snoop Dogg & Too Short Talk Music (April 07, 2020)\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" src=\"https://www.youtube.com/embed/qnd3wBdXXDE?start=1020&feature=oembed\" frameborder=\"0\" allow=\"accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share\" referrerpolicy=\"strict-origin-when-cross-origin\" allowfullscreen>\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Boze tells me he’s talked to people about the \u003ci>Short Dog’s in the House\u003c/i> art all across the country: Virginia, Tennessee, Wisconsin, and even in Alabama, where he now resides. Years removed from the experience, now working as a curator of arts education for the \u003ca href=\"https://artistcommunities.org/directory/organizations/coleman-center-arts\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Coleman Center of the Arts\u003c/a> in York, Alabama, Boze says he doesn’t often discuss the album — but when it does come up, people tell him how it made them feel. Not the music on the album, but the artwork itself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A teenager at the time of the drawing, Boze says it’s wild to think the image could be likened to a hip-hop version of \u003ca href=\"https://www.mfah.org/exhibitions/sugar-shack#&gid=cc5054066ed84c259198418242e77992&pid=25074691\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">The Sugar Shack\u003c/a>, the dance-hall scene painted by Ernie Barnes, which was featured on the cover of Marvin Gaye’s \u003cem>I Want You\u003c/em> and shown the final credits of the show \u003cem>Good Times\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While it’s debatable if the image is on that same cultural level, the numbers don’t lie. “Over a million people have seen this work, I’ve got the plaque to prove it,” says Boze with a laugh. “I’m a platinum artist.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-11687704\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-800x60.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"60\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-400x30.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-768x58.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cstrong>Editor’s note\u003c/strong>: This story is part of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">O\u003c/span>n the title track of Too Short’s 1990 album \u003ci>Short Dog’s In the House\u003c/i>, wedged between bars about globetrotting and cold mackin’, the pioneering Oakland MC says, “I used to be local ’til I signed with Jive / Too Short done went nationwide.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After a decade that started with Short \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#too-short-and-freddy-b-start-making-handmade-tapes\">slanging tapes out of his trunk\u003c/a> as an independent artist, this was Short breaking into the hip-hop’s golden age of the ’90s. \u003ci>Short Dog’s In the House\u003c/i> features notable songs like “Pimpology,” one of the first of many tracks to sample lines from \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#the-mack-filmed-in-oakland\">the movie \u003ci>The Mack\u003c/i>, filmed in Oakland\u003c/a>. “Nothing But a Word to Me,” with Ice Cube, marks an early collaboration between major artists from Northern and Southern California. And the song “Short But Funky” is both a thinly veiled diss to MC Hammer and Too Short’s mission statement as an artist.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The album’s biggest single, “The Ghetto,” found Short deviating from his player persona, dropping socially conscious rhymes over a classic Donny Hathaway interpolation. The album sold over a million units and influenced generations of hip-hop heads. It’s a classic.\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/fw0uz88E2gI'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/fw0uz88E2gI'\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>And then there’s its illustrated cover art: a group of animated human-bodied dog-faced characters cold chilling in a parking lot. Cars that look like Mercedes-Benzes, Lamborghinis and Cadillacs are parked all around, as poodle and bulldog-like characters cut eyes, point fingers and posture like folks would at any social happening. This one is clearly a sideshow.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While this scene unfolds in the foreground, a larger canine figure in an Oakland jacket looms near the city’s skyline, like an overseeing oracle, here to tell the world about The Town. And at the bottom left corner of the album cover, in tiny lettering, there’s a signature from the artist: Curtis “Bozie” Wayne Riley Jr.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926255\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926255\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Boze.illos_.portrait-800x539.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"539\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Boze.illos_.portrait-800x539.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Boze.illos_.portrait-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Boze.illos_.portrait-768x518.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Boze.illos_.portrait.jpg 896w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">At left, a sketch from Boze, typifying the sort of characters he’d often draw in high school in the Bay Area. At right, a recent portrait of Boze. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Boze Riley)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The process of me doing the album cover, it started way before I ever met Short,” says Bozie, who now goes simply by Boze, on a recent video call. “For me, it started at The Art School.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the mid-to-late ’80s, Boze was a student at \u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/groups/2234613913\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">The Arts Magnet School\u003c/a>, a.k.a. “The Art School,” a high school on the California College of The Arts campus. Boze, a multitalented kid from Deep East Oakland, attributes his skills to the tutelage of his artistic parents, the influence of his neighborhood, the lessons from his high school and his affinity for hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At The Art School, he had an African-American instructor named Robert L. Caillier who taught college-level arts courses, didn’t take any mess and was a firm believer in students using the classroom to refine their individual voices. “We were given the green light to draw all the things that we love,” says Boze. “So we were drawing hip-hop characters.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>From 8th grade until 12th grade, Boze constantly practiced drawing donkey ropes, Kangol hats, Gazelle glasses, and Adidas with the fat strings. After graduation, Boze used his talents to freelance, illustrating projects for MC Ant, Tomahawk Records’ Indian Tone and a logo for East Bay rapper Spice 1.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926016\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926016\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/R-1268690-1219563443.jpg\" alt=\"Spice 1\" width=\"600\" height=\"589\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/R-1268690-1219563443.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/R-1268690-1219563443-160x157.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An early single by Spice 1, with a logo drawn by Boze. \u003ccite>(Jive Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Money was slow, though, and Boze briefly considered turning to the streets. Then he got into airbrushing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During that era, about three major hip-hop tours would come to town each year, and Boze would be ready. “I’d be in my grandmother’s garage airbrushing like 10-12 outfits, charging people $350 a piece,” says Boze, noting that white Guess or Levi’s jeans were a favorite. “My grandmother was getting mad because she’d see all these guys with 5.0’s, glasshouses, and K5s pulling up and coming to the house,” says Boze, imitating his grandmother’s concerned voice. “I’m in there airbrushing! I had an honest hustle.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Along with visual art, Boze was a part of\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/4904066-T-CAP-Productions\"> T-CAP Productions\u003c/a>’ group \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/203244-Capital-Tax\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Capital Tax\u003c/a>. He earned a name as a dancer, designed the logo for the crew and even did some musical production.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" title=\"CAPITAL TAX- 2 TIMIN\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" src=\"https://www.youtube.com/embed/skuAI7yFFJ0?start=1&feature=oembed\" frameborder=\"0\" allow=\"accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share\" referrerpolicy=\"strict-origin-when-cross-origin\" allowfullscreen>\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As his reputation and clientele in Deep East Oakland grew, Boze eventually made artwork for someone in Too Short’s crew. Coincidentally, Short had recorded a new album for Jive, and he needed artwork too. “They came to me,” says Boze. “Short was like, ‘I want you to do a sideshow scene, but I need it with dogs.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Short also suggested to Boze a few types of cars to draw, but told him to use his imagination with the rest. Boze is quick to mention that modern sideshows are different than the one depicted on the album cover, the way they used to be. “It was more like a car show. People brought out Falcons, Novas, Cougars, Mustangs. Trues and Vogues, Zapco boards. It was a chill situation,” says Boze. In the late 1980s, he adds, only a few people did donuts, police rarely came, and afterward, folks would hit Mexicali Rose or Denny’s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>With years of preparation from art school under his belt, chronicling that era of the sideshow came easy; Boze says he knocked it out in two or three days. But the image that’s widely known — that’s the second drawing. The first one was rejected by Jive; the label needed certain specs for reproduction. “Short never gave me back the original one,” says Boze. “So either Short still has it, or someone at Jive does.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The version that adorns the platinum-selling album, meanwhile, has been widely shared and impactful. Short has \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/sJXzYAeTk0U?t=118\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">gone on record\u003c/a> to mention the importance of the album cover, as have other major artists. Even Snoop Dogg seemed to have a fanboy moment when recently discussing the album art, and how it directly influenced the \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doggystyle\">cartoon-dog cover art\u003c/a> for his smash-hit album \u003cem>Doggystyle\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" title=\"Snoop Dogg & Too Short Talk Music (April 07, 2020)\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" src=\"https://www.youtube.com/embed/qnd3wBdXXDE?start=1020&feature=oembed\" frameborder=\"0\" allow=\"accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share\" referrerpolicy=\"strict-origin-when-cross-origin\" allowfullscreen>\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Boze tells me he’s talked to people about the \u003ci>Short Dog’s in the House\u003c/i> art all across the country: Virginia, Tennessee, Wisconsin, and even in Alabama, where he now resides. Years removed from the experience, now working as a curator of arts education for the \u003ca href=\"https://artistcommunities.org/directory/organizations/coleman-center-arts\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Coleman Center of the Arts\u003c/a> in York, Alabama, Boze says he doesn’t often discuss the album — but when it does come up, people tell him how it made them feel. Not the music on the album, but the artwork itself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A teenager at the time of the drawing, Boze says it’s wild to think the image could be likened to a hip-hop version of \u003ca href=\"https://www.mfah.org/exhibitions/sugar-shack#&gid=cc5054066ed84c259198418242e77992&pid=25074691\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">The Sugar Shack\u003c/a>, the dance-hall scene painted by Ernie Barnes, which was featured on the cover of Marvin Gaye’s \u003cem>I Want You\u003c/em> and shown the final credits of the show \u003cem>Good Times\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While it’s debatable if the image is on that same cultural level, the numbers don’t lie. “Over a million people have seen this work, I’ve got the plaque to prove it,” says Boze with a laugh. “I’m a platinum artist.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "How the Bay Area and the South Became Hip-Hop Family",
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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 year-long exploration of Bay Area hip-hop history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">“P\u003c/span>icture me on a tour bus in 1995 with a bunch of West Coast artists,” Percy “Master P” Miller wrote in his 2007 book \u003cem>Guaranteed Success\u003c/em>. “My brother and I were the only artists from the South. We were the opening act, and they wouldn’t even play our music on the bus.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the time, in 1995, Master P was near the end of his four-year tenure as the owner of a small record store, No Limit Records & Tapes, in Richmond. The New Orleans-raised artist had relocated to the Bay Area to attend Merritt College, and he opened his San Pablo Avenue shop with $10,000 he’d inherited from a malpractice settlement after his grandfather’s death.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I took that money and made my first financial investment: I bought a record store that was going out of business in an urban community,” wrote Master P. He negotiated six months of free rent in exchange for improving the retail space. “As a result, my record store was a booming success and, for the first time, I began to experience a comfortable lifestyle.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Not everyone was checking for Master P and No Limit, though. In addition to being shunned by his tour mates, San Francisco radio station KMEL wouldn’t play his music — “even though I done sold more records than any other artist in the Bay Area,” he \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfgate.com/entertainment/article/Rap-s-Master-P-Has-a-Master-Plan-Media-rejects-2824304.php\">told Billy Jam for a 1997 \u003cem>San Francisco Chronicle\u003c/em> article\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By the time of that interview, Master P was back in New Orleans, living an ostentatious multimillionaire lifestyle. No Limit had become a successful label with national distribution through Priority Records, and its massive sales funded Master P’s ever-expanding business empire. (By 1998, \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/1998/05/13/arts/gangsta-rapper-turns-entrepreneur-28-master-p-has-created-one-biggest.html\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">No Limit had cumulative record sales totaling $120 million\u003c/a>, according to \u003cem>The New York Times\u003c/em>.) He’d had an entrepreneurial spirit that dated back to his childhood, but it was in the Bay Area — home of the “out the trunk” independent rap hustle since the early ’80s — where he absorbed the game that facilitated his nationwide success.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925975\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13925975\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-461087774-800x1097.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"1097\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-461087774-800x1097.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-461087774-1020x1399.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-461087774-160x219.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-461087774-768x1053.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-461087774-1120x1536.jpg 1120w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-461087774-1493x2048.jpg 1493w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-461087774-1920x2634.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-461087774-scaled.jpg 1866w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Master P attends the 26th Annual American Music Awards in Los Angeles. By the time of this photo, in 1999, his label No Limit had grossed over $120 million in album sales. \u003ccite>(Ron Galella, Ltd./Ron Galella Collection via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Master P’s empire is just one example of the ongoing cultural exchange between the Bay Area and the South, which goes back decades: During the Second Great Migration between 1940 and 1970, Black Southerners \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11910890/how-oaklands-16th-street-train-station-helped-build-west-oakland-and-the-modern-civil-rights-movement\">flocked to cities like Oakland, Richmond and San Francisco\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the years that followed, their descendants helped establish the Bay Area’s distinctive hip-hop culture, whose sound and independent business model then traveled back to Atlanta, New Orleans, Houston and Memphis. Close observers of the rap scenes in these Southern cities will find strong ties to the Bay Area, and in turn, Southern rappers, producers and promoters have had a sizable stamp on the Bay Area’s own scene. This close kinship between the two regions undeniably shaped hip-hop history — and it continues to this day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Listen to our ‘From the Bay to the South’ playlist, curated by Tamara Palmer, on \u003ca href=\"https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5K9S3wYkGHf9hk7k8sOdv6?si=f46124d722c84c0b\">Spotify\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLeGdTT0--8KiiMa4o9t3tOxhGg4lfIPEA\">YouTube\u003c/a>.]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe style=\"border-radius:12px\" src=\"https://open.spotify.com/embed/playlist/5K9S3wYkGHf9hk7k8sOdv6?utm_source=generator\" width=\"100%\" height=\"352\" frameborder=\"0\" allowfullscreen allow=\"autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; fullscreen; picture-in-picture\" loading=\"lazy\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The Bay-to-South business pipeline\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Master P and No Limit weren’t alone. Over the years, artists and record labels all across the South adopted the Bay Area’s independent business model and used it to achieve great success.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Selling tapes out the trunk of the car, that was pretty much patented by E-40, Too $hort, Tony Draper at Suave House, Rap-A-Lot, people like that,” Vallejo-born rapper Earl “E-40” Stevens said in an interview for my 2004 book about Southern rap, shouting out two Houston labels. “Then came along the Master Ps of the world and the Cash Moneys. They watched the game and did what they supposed to do, and now they reaching for the stars.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In a \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/4mrKNCTlv0s\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">2019 interview with Sway Calloway\u003c/a>, Master P seemed to agree with this assessment. He referred to E-40’s uncle, the \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ssiJQSm-Ln4\">soul singer\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/2006/03/26/arts/music/the-first-family-of-hyphy-pops-a-collar-whatd-they-say.html\">entrepreneur\u003c/a> Saint Charles Thurman, as the “OG” music distributor who taught him how to release records independently. Watching Thurman’s success running the small distribution company Solar Music Group, Master P realized: “I don’t need to wait for the big companies to push me, I’m going to get out there and push myself,” he recalled.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/ErwejjBZRMo\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In turn, Master P along with other Southern artists, DJs and promoters played a crucial role in the national success of Bay Area artists like E-40 in the ’90s. Taking a cue from Herm Lewis, the Hunters Point street activist who \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LvTaoNzFGHU&list=PLU1OibAu4SezP41p6YZUfkokGSFMhlz3Y\">popularized artist compilations\u003c/a>, Master P released \u003cem>West Coast Bad Boyz, Vol. 1: Anotha Level of the Game\u003c/em> in 1994. It included contributions from the Bay Area’s JT the Bigga Figga, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13923766/rbl-posse-a-lesson-to-be-learned-album-cover\">RBL Posse\u003c/a>, Rappin’ 4-Tay, Ray Luv and Dre Dog (now Andre Nickatina).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Master P would continue to release compilations after he moved No Limit back home to Louisiana. In 1997, the label’s breakout year, \u003cem>West Coast Bad Boyz II\u003c/em> starred Mac Dre, E-A-Ski and Sacramento rappers C-Bo, Lunasicc and Marvaless, and was dedicated to Tupac Shakur. Even more successful was the soundtrack to the 1997 movie \u003cem>I’m Bout It\u003c/em>, with E-40, B-Legit, E-A-Ski and JT The Bigga Figga, and which reached No. 1 on the Billboard Top R&B/Hip-Hop Albums chart and No. 4 on the Billboard 200.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>E-40 also credits DJs and promoters like Meen Green in Dallas, Greg Street in Atlanta and Marvin “Jabber Jaws” Williams in Shreveport for helping build his career on the radio and in clubs in those early years. Forming a constellation across the south, they booked him for gigs and put his records in rotation. [pullquote size='large']Close observers of the rap scenes in Atlanta, New Orleans, Houston and Memphis will find strong ties to the Bay Area, and in turn, Southern rappers, producers and promoters have had a sizable stamp on the Bay Area’s own scene.[/pullquote]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though streaming has long replaced the “out the trunk” era, the Bay Area’s influence on independent music distribution remains. These days, the savviest artists from the South know that they need to hit San Francisco to strike a lucrative business deal with \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/ourturbulentdecade/2012-empire-brought-the-music-industry-back-to-san-francisco\">EMPIRE\u003c/a>, now the world’s leading hip-hop distributor. When I visited the company’s well-appointed Financial District penthouse office in 2019, I met the remarkable Memphis rapper Adolph “Young Dolph” Thornton.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I can’t shake,” he said warmly when introduced, offering a big hug in place of a stiff hand. Dolph, who was later murdered in his hometown in 2021, was responsible for two gold-certified records on EMPIRE’s wall. His EMPIRE deal also enabled him to sign and develop his own artists, such as fellow Memphis rapper Key Glock, setting them up to win via collaborations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It wasn’t the first time the Bay Area played an important role in a Memphis artist’s success. Young Dolph’s one-time rival, Yo Gotti, made his mid-2010s comeback with hits like “Act Right,” produced by Pinole’s P-Lo, and “Law,” featuring E-40. (E-40 also \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EIeGHPGSyRM\">recorded\u003c/a> with the late “Queen of Memphis,” Three Six Mafia’s Gangsta Boo, who \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/GangstaBooQOM/status/185053550299193344\">once proclaimed\u003c/a>: “SHOUT OUT TO THE BAY AREA!!! I ROCKS WITH YALL THE LONG WAAAAY.”)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/8HYXw1vADFQ\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Going back further, musical and cultural influence has also flowed from Memphis to the Bay. MC Hammer \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/mchammer/status/27278318672?lang=en\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">admitted on Twitter\u003c/a> that he learned the pre-crunk, pre-hyphy “get buck” style of dancing (later known as gangsta walking) in Memphis in the late ’80s. And iconic Memphis duo 8Ball & MJG worked with marquee Bay Area names like E-40, Mac Mall, Rappin’ 4-Tay and Spice 1 on both group and solo projects in the late ’90s and early aughts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even though Atlanta had become the rap industry’s power center by the time EMPIRE launched in San Francisco in 2010, keeping EMPIRE’s headquarters in the Bay Area is a core part of the company’s mission. “San Francisco has always been a place where incredible creatives were bred, but few of them are here at this point,” EMPIRE Vice President Nima Etminan told me in 2019. “Even in the music scene, when you look at it, a Sway [Calloway from SiriusXM], or an Ebro [Darden of Hot 97 in New York], or a [early Apple Music exec] Larry Jackson … all came from here, but people don’t really realize it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I think [being in the] Financial District on the 24th floor in downtown San Francisco is definitely not necessarily the cheapest route to take,” Etminan continued, “but it’s a statement. It’s like, you’ve got to come \u003cem>here\u003c/em> to see us.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The Bay’s influence on bounce and trap, and the South’s mark on hyphy\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The Bay Area, Atlanta, Houston and New Orleans share a love for big, trunk-rattling beats, and collaborations between the cities’ artists have resulted in influential hits. Atlanta hitmaker Lil Jon bumped Too Short in his ride in high school, and later produced Short’s “Blow The Whistle” and E-40’s “Tell Me When to Go,” the twin beacons that introduced hyphy to the rest of the nation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/2GZbaXdK8Js\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In turn, producers from the Bay Area have facilitated crucial Southern records. The late KMEL DJ Cameron Paul’s track “Brown Beats” helped form the \u003ca href=\"https://1079ishot.com/new-orleans-bounce-cameron-paul-brown-beats/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">spine of New Orleans bounce music\u003c/a>. Houston’s DJ Screw, who passed away in 2000, recorded a session in his home studio with Texas-born Oaklander Spice 1, and was known to feature plenty of Bay Area rap songs on his influential “Grey Tape” cassette mixes. Mike Dean, who produced for Houston’s Rap-A-Lot Records, crafted beats for \u003cem>Stackin Chips\u003c/em>, the 1997 debut album of Keak Da Sneak’s group 3X Krazy, and Bay Area artists like Yukmouth (whose Smoke-A-Lot Records is distributed by Rap-A-Lot), Seagram and producer Tone Capone recorded for the label in the ’90s and early aughts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Just outside of Houston in Port Arthur, Chad “Pimp C” Butler of UGK shared a close friendship and musical camaraderie with Too Short. In 2007, the night before he died, Pimp C appeared onstage at Too Short’s show at the now-defunct House of Blues on the Sunset Strip, according to Julia Beverly’s biography \u003cem>Sweet Jones: Pimp C’s Trill Life Story\u003c/em>. In what’s said to be \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JK3HLJk8iMY\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">his final interview\u003c/a>, Pimp C credited the Oakland legend for his career longevity: “I just follow what Too Short told me. He told me ‘Don’t Stop Rappin’.’ I just kept on making the kind of records that the people down where I live at like.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Outkast, whose Andre 3000 has acknowledged the Bay Area as a notable early influence, broadcast an alternative rap sound out of Atlanta in the ’90s. “I have to — I \u003cem>have\u003c/em> to — give a shout to the Hieroglyphics crew and Souls Of Mischief, because as kids we were hugely influenced by them,” Andre 3000 told \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/sections/microphonecheck/2014/09/26/351559126/andre-3000-you-can-do-anything-from-atlanta\">NPR’s \u003cem>Microphone Check\u003c/em>\u003c/a> in 2014. And Outkast’s Big Boi was just as direct about another Bay Area influence: “One of my favorite rappers happens to be Too Short,” he rapped on the 2010 track “Fo Yo Sorrows.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/qsUSlR7tTEs\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Later, as trap music began to fill the Southern streets, a Bay Area-bred producer helped develop its sound and take it to the national airwaves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Xavier “Zaytoven” Dotson was born to a military family in Germany and spent his formative years in San Francisco before joining his parents in Atlanta, where a giant, free basement studio at their new Georgia home beckoned. Within a year, when he wasn’t away from the studio playing organ for his parents’ church, Zaytoven produced Gucci Mane’s breakout 2005 hit “Icy.” Word quickly got around the proverbial trap that Zaytoven’s basement was \u003cem>the\u003c/em> place to record, and his client list grew to include Future, Usher, Travis Scott, the late Young Dolph and many others.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/Io6D5tAK8Ks\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Even though it’s with artists from the South, you can hear, you can see where the sound came from: that’s Bay Area music all day long,” Zaytoven said of “Icy” in a \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/jrbRSK0Dkfw\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">2018 interview with \u003cem>The Sana G Morning Show\u003c/em>\u003c/a> on KMEL. “[The Bay] still has a funky instrumentation sound to it, so even when I’m in the South making just gutter beats, I still got them melodic sounds going on. That’s what attached me to the Bay Area so much. … I definitely try to represent the Bay every time I get. This is where I got my game from!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 2021, the producer returned to his local roots and worked with EMPIRE to release the compilation \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13895586/a-salute-to-san-francisco-rap\">\u003cem>Zaytoven Presents: Fo15\u003c/em>\u003c/a> on April 15 (or 415 Day, in homage to San Francisco’s area code). Up-and-coming San Francisco artists on the collection included Lil Bean, Lil Pete, Lil Yee, KxNG Llama, Prezi and ZayBang — proving that the Bay Area-South pipeline is far from running dry.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I was molded in San Francisco, California,” Zaytoven added in his KMEL interview. “That’s why I represent the Bay Area.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925986\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13925986\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-1186811732-800x534.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"534\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-1186811732-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-1186811732-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-1186811732-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-1186811732-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-1186811732.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Zaytoven performs at AfroTech 2019 at Oakland Marriott City Center on Nov. 9, 2019. \u003ccite>(Robin L Marshall/Getty Images for AfroTech)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>A cultural and philanthropic exchange\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Beyond business and beats, Northern California has made an imprint on the South’s cultural institutions thanks to philanthropy and outreach from artists like Tupac and E-40. Though Tupac is considered a West Coast icon, surprisingly, Too Short called him “the heartbeat of the South” when I interviewed him in 2004.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I used to be at the club and the DJ would put on records off \u003cem>Makaveli\u003c/em> because \u003cem>Makaveli\u003c/em> came out right after Pac died,” said Too Short, who lived in Atlanta in the mid-’90s. “You would swear that nigga was on stage! The whole damn crowd be singing every word. It would be like a concert, and he ain’t even there.” [aside postid='arts_13924126,arts_13924224,arts_13925177']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Towards the end of his life, Tupac \u003ca href=\"https://people.com/archive/all-eyes-on-her-vol-48-no-22/\">moved his mother Afeni Shakur\u003c/a> (who was originally from North Carolina) to Stone Mountain, Georgia, a suburb near Atlanta where he purchased his first home. Afeni operated the Tupac Amaru Shakur Center for the Arts in the former Confederate town from 2005 to 2015. It was an extension of the annual PACamp that Afeni started in 1997 as a free summer arts program for youth ages 12–18.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I visited the arts center a few months after its opening, I was struck by a statue of Tupac in the Peace Garden, which represented how he might have looked had he been allowed to grow older. It was remarkable that Tupac’s legacy was housed in Georgia instead of the Bay Area or Los Angeles. And his influence resonated beyond the Peach State throughout the South.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I just saw how much of an influence Tupac had on Master P and No Limit, how much of an influence Tupac had on the whole city of Atlanta, Georgia and on Houston, Texas, and just how much influence on that whole ‘\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J90bUNuJ20k\">Bankhead [Bounce]\u003c/a>’ and getting crunk certain songs off \u003cem>Makaveli\u003c/em> had on that shit,” Too Short said. “Tupac was so much crunk — his shit was so crunk as far as what crunk meant, you know what I’m saying? He was a part of it even though he had just passed away. But he was a part of it. The \u003cem>Makaveli\u003c/em> album was in it. It was in the scene.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925976\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 766px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925976\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Tupac-Statue-By-Tamara-Palmer.jpeg\" alt=\"\" width=\"766\" height=\"1024\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Tupac-Statue-By-Tamara-Palmer.jpeg 766w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Tupac-Statue-By-Tamara-Palmer-160x214.jpeg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 766px) 100vw, 766px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Tupac statue at the Tupac Amaru Shakur Center for the Arts in Stone Mountain, Georgia in 2006. \u003ccite>(Tamara Palmer)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Two decades after the Tupac Amaru Shakur Center opened, E-40 would make his own impact on a southern state by investing in its young artists. The veteran rapper still has family in Texas and Louisiana, and studied at Grambling State University in Louisiana for a year. Although he didn’t complete his degree there, he made a lasting contribution with \u003ca href=\"https://www.complex.com/music/e40-100k-donation-hbcu-alma-mater-grambling\">his $100,000 donation\u003c/a> to the university’s marching band and music program, which now boasts the brand-new Earl “E-40” Stevens Sound Recording Studio on campus.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Music is my passion,” E-40 said while presenting the check in February 2023. “Music is therapeutic and healing.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The South wasn’t just where E-40 spent formative years as a young musician. It also influenced a key part of his artistry: his slang, much of which he has invented himself over the years. “Of course, I don’t make up all the fuckin’ words in the world, but I make up at least 75% of the shit I say,” said E-40 in a 2004 \u003cem>Murder Dog\u003c/em> interview. “The other 25%, I get words from down South, choppin’ it up with my folks down South.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The familial, cultural and business ties between the Bay Area and the South are strong and diverse, and have been for generations. It’s time to appreciate and nurture these bonds. And the beat goes on: as this back-and-forth flow of influence continues to percolate behind the scenes, the future is looking rather funky.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-11687704\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-800x60.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"60\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-400x30.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-768x58.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"http://www.thetamarapalmer.com/\">Tamara Palmer\u003c/a> is a DJ and the author of \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://www.amazon.com/Country-Fried-Soul-Adventures-Hip-Hop/dp/0879308575\">Country Fried Soul: Adventures in Dirty South Hip-Hop\u003c/a>\u003cem> (Backbeat Books, 2005). She’s currently working on a personal rap anthology called \u003c/em>California Love\u003cem>\u003cem>.\u003c/em>\u003c/em>\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 year-long exploration of Bay Area hip-hop history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">“P\u003c/span>icture me on a tour bus in 1995 with a bunch of West Coast artists,” Percy “Master P” Miller wrote in his 2007 book \u003cem>Guaranteed Success\u003c/em>. “My brother and I were the only artists from the South. We were the opening act, and they wouldn’t even play our music on the bus.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the time, in 1995, Master P was near the end of his four-year tenure as the owner of a small record store, No Limit Records & Tapes, in Richmond. The New Orleans-raised artist had relocated to the Bay Area to attend Merritt College, and he opened his San Pablo Avenue shop with $10,000 he’d inherited from a malpractice settlement after his grandfather’s death.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I took that money and made my first financial investment: I bought a record store that was going out of business in an urban community,” wrote Master P. He negotiated six months of free rent in exchange for improving the retail space. “As a result, my record store was a booming success and, for the first time, I began to experience a comfortable lifestyle.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Not everyone was checking for Master P and No Limit, though. In addition to being shunned by his tour mates, San Francisco radio station KMEL wouldn’t play his music — “even though I done sold more records than any other artist in the Bay Area,” he \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfgate.com/entertainment/article/Rap-s-Master-P-Has-a-Master-Plan-Media-rejects-2824304.php\">told Billy Jam for a 1997 \u003cem>San Francisco Chronicle\u003c/em> article\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By the time of that interview, Master P was back in New Orleans, living an ostentatious multimillionaire lifestyle. No Limit had become a successful label with national distribution through Priority Records, and its massive sales funded Master P’s ever-expanding business empire. (By 1998, \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/1998/05/13/arts/gangsta-rapper-turns-entrepreneur-28-master-p-has-created-one-biggest.html\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">No Limit had cumulative record sales totaling $120 million\u003c/a>, according to \u003cem>The New York Times\u003c/em>.) He’d had an entrepreneurial spirit that dated back to his childhood, but it was in the Bay Area — home of the “out the trunk” independent rap hustle since the early ’80s — where he absorbed the game that facilitated his nationwide success.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925975\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13925975\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-461087774-800x1097.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"1097\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-461087774-800x1097.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-461087774-1020x1399.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-461087774-160x219.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-461087774-768x1053.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-461087774-1120x1536.jpg 1120w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-461087774-1493x2048.jpg 1493w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-461087774-1920x2634.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-461087774-scaled.jpg 1866w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Master P attends the 26th Annual American Music Awards in Los Angeles. By the time of this photo, in 1999, his label No Limit had grossed over $120 million in album sales. \u003ccite>(Ron Galella, Ltd./Ron Galella Collection via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Master P’s empire is just one example of the ongoing cultural exchange between the Bay Area and the South, which goes back decades: During the Second Great Migration between 1940 and 1970, Black Southerners \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11910890/how-oaklands-16th-street-train-station-helped-build-west-oakland-and-the-modern-civil-rights-movement\">flocked to cities like Oakland, Richmond and San Francisco\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the years that followed, their descendants helped establish the Bay Area’s distinctive hip-hop culture, whose sound and independent business model then traveled back to Atlanta, New Orleans, Houston and Memphis. Close observers of the rap scenes in these Southern cities will find strong ties to the Bay Area, and in turn, Southern rappers, producers and promoters have had a sizable stamp on the Bay Area’s own scene. This close kinship between the two regions undeniably shaped hip-hop history — and it continues to this day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Listen to our ‘From the Bay to the South’ playlist, curated by Tamara Palmer, on \u003ca href=\"https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5K9S3wYkGHf9hk7k8sOdv6?si=f46124d722c84c0b\">Spotify\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLeGdTT0--8KiiMa4o9t3tOxhGg4lfIPEA\">YouTube\u003c/a>.]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe style=\"border-radius:12px\" src=\"https://open.spotify.com/embed/playlist/5K9S3wYkGHf9hk7k8sOdv6?utm_source=generator\" width=\"100%\" height=\"352\" frameborder=\"0\" allowfullscreen allow=\"autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; fullscreen; picture-in-picture\" loading=\"lazy\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The Bay-to-South business pipeline\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Master P and No Limit weren’t alone. Over the years, artists and record labels all across the South adopted the Bay Area’s independent business model and used it to achieve great success.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Selling tapes out the trunk of the car, that was pretty much patented by E-40, Too $hort, Tony Draper at Suave House, Rap-A-Lot, people like that,” Vallejo-born rapper Earl “E-40” Stevens said in an interview for my 2004 book about Southern rap, shouting out two Houston labels. “Then came along the Master Ps of the world and the Cash Moneys. They watched the game and did what they supposed to do, and now they reaching for the stars.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In a \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/4mrKNCTlv0s\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">2019 interview with Sway Calloway\u003c/a>, Master P seemed to agree with this assessment. He referred to E-40’s uncle, the \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ssiJQSm-Ln4\">soul singer\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/2006/03/26/arts/music/the-first-family-of-hyphy-pops-a-collar-whatd-they-say.html\">entrepreneur\u003c/a> Saint Charles Thurman, as the “OG” music distributor who taught him how to release records independently. Watching Thurman’s success running the small distribution company Solar Music Group, Master P realized: “I don’t need to wait for the big companies to push me, I’m going to get out there and push myself,” he recalled.\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/ErwejjBZRMo'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/ErwejjBZRMo'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>In turn, Master P along with other Southern artists, DJs and promoters played a crucial role in the national success of Bay Area artists like E-40 in the ’90s. Taking a cue from Herm Lewis, the Hunters Point street activist who \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LvTaoNzFGHU&list=PLU1OibAu4SezP41p6YZUfkokGSFMhlz3Y\">popularized artist compilations\u003c/a>, Master P released \u003cem>West Coast Bad Boyz, Vol. 1: Anotha Level of the Game\u003c/em> in 1994. It included contributions from the Bay Area’s JT the Bigga Figga, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13923766/rbl-posse-a-lesson-to-be-learned-album-cover\">RBL Posse\u003c/a>, Rappin’ 4-Tay, Ray Luv and Dre Dog (now Andre Nickatina).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Master P would continue to release compilations after he moved No Limit back home to Louisiana. In 1997, the label’s breakout year, \u003cem>West Coast Bad Boyz II\u003c/em> starred Mac Dre, E-A-Ski and Sacramento rappers C-Bo, Lunasicc and Marvaless, and was dedicated to Tupac Shakur. Even more successful was the soundtrack to the 1997 movie \u003cem>I’m Bout It\u003c/em>, with E-40, B-Legit, E-A-Ski and JT The Bigga Figga, and which reached No. 1 on the Billboard Top R&B/Hip-Hop Albums chart and No. 4 on the Billboard 200.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>E-40 also credits DJs and promoters like Meen Green in Dallas, Greg Street in Atlanta and Marvin “Jabber Jaws” Williams in Shreveport for helping build his career on the radio and in clubs in those early years. Forming a constellation across the south, they booked him for gigs and put his records in rotation. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though streaming has long replaced the “out the trunk” era, the Bay Area’s influence on independent music distribution remains. These days, the savviest artists from the South know that they need to hit San Francisco to strike a lucrative business deal with \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/ourturbulentdecade/2012-empire-brought-the-music-industry-back-to-san-francisco\">EMPIRE\u003c/a>, now the world’s leading hip-hop distributor. When I visited the company’s well-appointed Financial District penthouse office in 2019, I met the remarkable Memphis rapper Adolph “Young Dolph” Thornton.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I can’t shake,” he said warmly when introduced, offering a big hug in place of a stiff hand. Dolph, who was later murdered in his hometown in 2021, was responsible for two gold-certified records on EMPIRE’s wall. His EMPIRE deal also enabled him to sign and develop his own artists, such as fellow Memphis rapper Key Glock, setting them up to win via collaborations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It wasn’t the first time the Bay Area played an important role in a Memphis artist’s success. Young Dolph’s one-time rival, Yo Gotti, made his mid-2010s comeback with hits like “Act Right,” produced by Pinole’s P-Lo, and “Law,” featuring E-40. (E-40 also \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EIeGHPGSyRM\">recorded\u003c/a> with the late “Queen of Memphis,” Three Six Mafia’s Gangsta Boo, who \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/GangstaBooQOM/status/185053550299193344\">once proclaimed\u003c/a>: “SHOUT OUT TO THE BAY AREA!!! I ROCKS WITH YALL THE LONG WAAAAY.”)\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/8HYXw1vADFQ'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/8HYXw1vADFQ'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>Going back further, musical and cultural influence has also flowed from Memphis to the Bay. MC Hammer \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/mchammer/status/27278318672?lang=en\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">admitted on Twitter\u003c/a> that he learned the pre-crunk, pre-hyphy “get buck” style of dancing (later known as gangsta walking) in Memphis in the late ’80s. And iconic Memphis duo 8Ball & MJG worked with marquee Bay Area names like E-40, Mac Mall, Rappin’ 4-Tay and Spice 1 on both group and solo projects in the late ’90s and early aughts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even though Atlanta had become the rap industry’s power center by the time EMPIRE launched in San Francisco in 2010, keeping EMPIRE’s headquarters in the Bay Area is a core part of the company’s mission. “San Francisco has always been a place where incredible creatives were bred, but few of them are here at this point,” EMPIRE Vice President Nima Etminan told me in 2019. “Even in the music scene, when you look at it, a Sway [Calloway from SiriusXM], or an Ebro [Darden of Hot 97 in New York], or a [early Apple Music exec] Larry Jackson … all came from here, but people don’t really realize it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I think [being in the] Financial District on the 24th floor in downtown San Francisco is definitely not necessarily the cheapest route to take,” Etminan continued, “but it’s a statement. It’s like, you’ve got to come \u003cem>here\u003c/em> to see us.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The Bay’s influence on bounce and trap, and the South’s mark on hyphy\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The Bay Area, Atlanta, Houston and New Orleans share a love for big, trunk-rattling beats, and collaborations between the cities’ artists have resulted in influential hits. Atlanta hitmaker Lil Jon bumped Too Short in his ride in high school, and later produced Short’s “Blow The Whistle” and E-40’s “Tell Me When to Go,” the twin beacons that introduced hyphy to the rest of the nation.\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/2GZbaXdK8Js'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/2GZbaXdK8Js'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>In turn, producers from the Bay Area have facilitated crucial Southern records. The late KMEL DJ Cameron Paul’s track “Brown Beats” helped form the \u003ca href=\"https://1079ishot.com/new-orleans-bounce-cameron-paul-brown-beats/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">spine of New Orleans bounce music\u003c/a>. Houston’s DJ Screw, who passed away in 2000, recorded a session in his home studio with Texas-born Oaklander Spice 1, and was known to feature plenty of Bay Area rap songs on his influential “Grey Tape” cassette mixes. Mike Dean, who produced for Houston’s Rap-A-Lot Records, crafted beats for \u003cem>Stackin Chips\u003c/em>, the 1997 debut album of Keak Da Sneak’s group 3X Krazy, and Bay Area artists like Yukmouth (whose Smoke-A-Lot Records is distributed by Rap-A-Lot), Seagram and producer Tone Capone recorded for the label in the ’90s and early aughts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Just outside of Houston in Port Arthur, Chad “Pimp C” Butler of UGK shared a close friendship and musical camaraderie with Too Short. In 2007, the night before he died, Pimp C appeared onstage at Too Short’s show at the now-defunct House of Blues on the Sunset Strip, according to Julia Beverly’s biography \u003cem>Sweet Jones: Pimp C’s Trill Life Story\u003c/em>. In what’s said to be \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JK3HLJk8iMY\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">his final interview\u003c/a>, Pimp C credited the Oakland legend for his career longevity: “I just follow what Too Short told me. He told me ‘Don’t Stop Rappin’.’ I just kept on making the kind of records that the people down where I live at like.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Outkast, whose Andre 3000 has acknowledged the Bay Area as a notable early influence, broadcast an alternative rap sound out of Atlanta in the ’90s. “I have to — I \u003cem>have\u003c/em> to — give a shout to the Hieroglyphics crew and Souls Of Mischief, because as kids we were hugely influenced by them,” Andre 3000 told \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/sections/microphonecheck/2014/09/26/351559126/andre-3000-you-can-do-anything-from-atlanta\">NPR’s \u003cem>Microphone Check\u003c/em>\u003c/a> in 2014. And Outkast’s Big Boi was just as direct about another Bay Area influence: “One of my favorite rappers happens to be Too Short,” he rapped on the 2010 track “Fo Yo Sorrows.”\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/qsUSlR7tTEs'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/qsUSlR7tTEs'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>Later, as trap music began to fill the Southern streets, a Bay Area-bred producer helped develop its sound and take it to the national airwaves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Xavier “Zaytoven” Dotson was born to a military family in Germany and spent his formative years in San Francisco before joining his parents in Atlanta, where a giant, free basement studio at their new Georgia home beckoned. Within a year, when he wasn’t away from the studio playing organ for his parents’ church, Zaytoven produced Gucci Mane’s breakout 2005 hit “Icy.” Word quickly got around the proverbial trap that Zaytoven’s basement was \u003cem>the\u003c/em> place to record, and his client list grew to include Future, Usher, Travis Scott, the late Young Dolph and many others.\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/Io6D5tAK8Ks'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/Io6D5tAK8Ks'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>“Even though it’s with artists from the South, you can hear, you can see where the sound came from: that’s Bay Area music all day long,” Zaytoven said of “Icy” in a \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/jrbRSK0Dkfw\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">2018 interview with \u003cem>The Sana G Morning Show\u003c/em>\u003c/a> on KMEL. “[The Bay] still has a funky instrumentation sound to it, so even when I’m in the South making just gutter beats, I still got them melodic sounds going on. That’s what attached me to the Bay Area so much. … I definitely try to represent the Bay every time I get. This is where I got my game from!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 2021, the producer returned to his local roots and worked with EMPIRE to release the compilation \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13895586/a-salute-to-san-francisco-rap\">\u003cem>Zaytoven Presents: Fo15\u003c/em>\u003c/a> on April 15 (or 415 Day, in homage to San Francisco’s area code). Up-and-coming San Francisco artists on the collection included Lil Bean, Lil Pete, Lil Yee, KxNG Llama, Prezi and ZayBang — proving that the Bay Area-South pipeline is far from running dry.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I was molded in San Francisco, California,” Zaytoven added in his KMEL interview. “That’s why I represent the Bay Area.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925986\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13925986\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-1186811732-800x534.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"534\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-1186811732-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-1186811732-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-1186811732-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-1186811732-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/GettyImages-1186811732.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Zaytoven performs at AfroTech 2019 at Oakland Marriott City Center on Nov. 9, 2019. \u003ccite>(Robin L Marshall/Getty Images for AfroTech)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>A cultural and philanthropic exchange\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Beyond business and beats, Northern California has made an imprint on the South’s cultural institutions thanks to philanthropy and outreach from artists like Tupac and E-40. Though Tupac is considered a West Coast icon, surprisingly, Too Short called him “the heartbeat of the South” when I interviewed him in 2004.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I used to be at the club and the DJ would put on records off \u003cem>Makaveli\u003c/em> because \u003cem>Makaveli\u003c/em> came out right after Pac died,” said Too Short, who lived in Atlanta in the mid-’90s. “You would swear that nigga was on stage! The whole damn crowd be singing every word. It would be like a concert, and he ain’t even there.” \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Towards the end of his life, Tupac \u003ca href=\"https://people.com/archive/all-eyes-on-her-vol-48-no-22/\">moved his mother Afeni Shakur\u003c/a> (who was originally from North Carolina) to Stone Mountain, Georgia, a suburb near Atlanta where he purchased his first home. Afeni operated the Tupac Amaru Shakur Center for the Arts in the former Confederate town from 2005 to 2015. It was an extension of the annual PACamp that Afeni started in 1997 as a free summer arts program for youth ages 12–18.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I visited the arts center a few months after its opening, I was struck by a statue of Tupac in the Peace Garden, which represented how he might have looked had he been allowed to grow older. It was remarkable that Tupac’s legacy was housed in Georgia instead of the Bay Area or Los Angeles. And his influence resonated beyond the Peach State throughout the South.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I just saw how much of an influence Tupac had on Master P and No Limit, how much of an influence Tupac had on the whole city of Atlanta, Georgia and on Houston, Texas, and just how much influence on that whole ‘\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J90bUNuJ20k\">Bankhead [Bounce]\u003c/a>’ and getting crunk certain songs off \u003cem>Makaveli\u003c/em> had on that shit,” Too Short said. “Tupac was so much crunk — his shit was so crunk as far as what crunk meant, you know what I’m saying? He was a part of it even though he had just passed away. But he was a part of it. The \u003cem>Makaveli\u003c/em> album was in it. It was in the scene.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925976\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 766px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925976\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Tupac-Statue-By-Tamara-Palmer.jpeg\" alt=\"\" width=\"766\" height=\"1024\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Tupac-Statue-By-Tamara-Palmer.jpeg 766w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Tupac-Statue-By-Tamara-Palmer-160x214.jpeg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 766px) 100vw, 766px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Tupac statue at the Tupac Amaru Shakur Center for the Arts in Stone Mountain, Georgia in 2006. \u003ccite>(Tamara Palmer)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Two decades after the Tupac Amaru Shakur Center opened, E-40 would make his own impact on a southern state by investing in its young artists. The veteran rapper still has family in Texas and Louisiana, and studied at Grambling State University in Louisiana for a year. Although he didn’t complete his degree there, he made a lasting contribution with \u003ca href=\"https://www.complex.com/music/e40-100k-donation-hbcu-alma-mater-grambling\">his $100,000 donation\u003c/a> to the university’s marching band and music program, which now boasts the brand-new Earl “E-40” Stevens Sound Recording Studio on campus.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Music is my passion,” E-40 said while presenting the check in February 2023. “Music is therapeutic and healing.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The South wasn’t just where E-40 spent formative years as a young musician. It also influenced a key part of his artistry: his slang, much of which he has invented himself over the years. “Of course, I don’t make up all the fuckin’ words in the world, but I make up at least 75% of the shit I say,” said E-40 in a 2004 \u003cem>Murder Dog\u003c/em> interview. “The other 25%, I get words from down South, choppin’ it up with my folks down South.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The familial, cultural and business ties between the Bay Area and the South are strong and diverse, and have been for generations. It’s time to appreciate and nurture these bonds. And the beat goes on: as this back-and-forth flow of influence continues to percolate behind the scenes, the future is looking rather funky.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-11687704\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-800x60.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"60\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-400x30.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-768x58.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"http://www.thetamarapalmer.com/\">Tamara Palmer\u003c/a> is a DJ and the author of \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://www.amazon.com/Country-Fried-Soul-Adventures-Hip-Hop/dp/0879308575\">Country Fried Soul: Adventures in Dirty South Hip-Hop\u003c/a>\u003cem> (Backbeat Books, 2005). She’s currently working on a personal rap anthology called \u003c/em>California Love\u003cem>\u003cem>.\u003c/em>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "magic-mike-richmond-calvin-t-rap-hip-hop",
"title": "Real Talk With Richmond Rap Pioneer Magic Mike",
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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 year-long exploration of Bay Area hip-hop history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Magic Mike is a Bay Area legend. In the early 1980s, before record label contracts were feasible for rap artists, Magic Mike and his partner Calvin T made their own homemade tapes and sold them on the street. What \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#too-short-and-freddy-b-start-making-handmade-tapes\">Too Short and Freddy B were to Oakland\u003c/a>, Magic Mike and Calvin T were to Richmond. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When we decided to \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13923938/thats-my-word-intro\">spend a year chronicling Bay Area hip-hop history for our series \u003cem>That’s My Word\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, we knew Magic Mike had to be in the mix. Thankfully, our compatriot in Bay Area history \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/dregs_one/\">Dregs One\u003c/a> recently sat down with Magic Mike for an in-depth interview for his \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLrcnRVZo1Y9S-8xIlv8knxRcYwCqsu1OC\">\u003cem>History of the Bay\u003c/em> podcast\u003c/a>, which you can watch above. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>What follows is a frank, honest discussion about rapping, hustling, pimping, prison, and the sometimes violent world of the streets in the 1980s. Years before N.W.A. and the rise of “reality rap,” Magic Mike and Calvin T put it all on tape, right here in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As Magic Mike explains, he has regrets, especially around his treatment of women. While Too Short rapped about what he was seeing; Magic Mike rapped about what he was living. And, at a pivotal time when other rappers from the Bay Area were getting signed to major label deals, Magic Mike and Calvin T’s chances were repeatedly derailed by incarceration. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Watch the interview above, and find select excerpts below, edited for length and clarity.\u003cem>—Gabe Meline\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925763\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.MAIN_-800x450.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13925763\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.MAIN_-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.MAIN_-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.MAIN_-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.MAIN_-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.MAIN_-1536x864.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.MAIN_.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Magic Mike, interviewed by Dregs One, in a February 2023 podcast episode of ‘History of the Bay.’ \u003ccite>(Courtesy Dregs One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>DREGS ONE: What made you run away from home when you were 14?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>MAGIC MIKE\u003c/b>: I ran away from my mother’s house, two weeks before my 14th birthday, and started pimping. My mama came home one night and find a female in the house, and she said, “Get this tramp out my house.” I’m like, “Mama, she ain’t a tramp, she a young lady.” And she was just, “Get this tramp about my house.” I was gonna walk her home. “She live across the tracks, it’s dark, mama!” My mama said, “You leave out this house, boy, don’t come back.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m a Capricorn. I’m stubborn. I never came back, bro. And before she died, she told me I broke her heart because I never came back. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>So you left home that night with your female friend.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And never came back. I started stayin’ with her and her mama until that played out, and then I told her, like, “We need some money.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was the youngest pimp from Richmond ever. Let’s put it like that. We ain’t talking about hanging around pimps — we’re talking about a 14-year old \u003cem>child\u003c/em> sending out grown whores. That’s how I got turned out. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>And you became a little heartless after that.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Completely. Completely heartless. Like, \u003cem>completely\u003c/em> heartless. I’m not gonna sugar-coat it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And then older dudes took a liking to me. They like, “You raw, we like you, Magic! And you’s rappin’ this shit too? Come on an’ ride with us, boy — get you somethin’ else to rap about!” ‘Cause me and Calvin T, all we’re doin’ is rapping what we livin’ and what we seein’ — we’re around pimps and hustlers and dope boys. So that’s all we rappin’ about, from 1982 on up, when we were in Juvenile Hall together. And by 1983, Calvin T and Magic Mike tapes was circulating.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925767\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.inline-800x450.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13925767\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.inline-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.inline-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.inline-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.inline-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.inline-1536x864.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.inline.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Magic Mike, interviewed by Dregs One, 2023. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Dregs One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>When you and Calvin T were in Juvenile Hall together, did you make a plan for when you got out?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Calvin T went home before me. We had all this planned. “I’m going to continue to write in here, I’m going to mail it to you, spit this shit and get ’em used to it.” That lasted for like two months. And when I came home, Calvin had it crackin’. He had a little equipment with the little Casio keyboard, the beat machine, and the cassette tape for dubbing. He was ready! In Juvenile Hall, we was just spittin’ acapella. But when I came home, he already had the old-school Casio beats.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>So y’all figure, “Alright, we’re gonna record tapes and start slangin’ ’em.” How does that idea come?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At first we dubbed just four or five tapes. Calvin’s house was on the hill, and we walked down the hill, three or four blocks to the little gas station in South Richmond — we didn’t even get past the gas station. The tapes was gone. So we had to bust a U and walk right back up the hill and dub some more tapes. So now we’re like, “We’ll do 10-15 tapes.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>So those tapes was movin’ from Richmond to Vallejo, to Oakland…\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To everywhere! Pimp C, Rest in Peace — Bun B once said Magic Mike and Calvin T was one of UGK’s first influences [in Texas]. Cats was going to the military, to Germany, takin’ tapes with ’em. Or one dope boy would go to Vallejo to serve another dope boy, like “What you listenin’ to?” “That’s that Magic Mike and Calvin T!” They stealin’ that, and they gonna dub it. So young Mac Malls, and young Mac Dres, and young E-40s and B-Legits is hearin’ it. Those tapes went everywhere, man.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>So in 1989, on your first official tape, you have the tracks “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/P4H1pYVuFjM\">Nine Hoes Deep\u003c/a>,” “Pimp Pimp,” and “Get With My Pimpin’, Bitch.”\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you listen to that shit, bro, that’s how I was livin’. Man, I go back and listen to that, I’m like, “I don’t want my son to hear this shit.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was the devil. Don’t get it twisted. We proclaimed it to be game, but that ain’t game, man. Any time you gotta abuse anything, that ain’t game. I was wildin’ out, I was rebelling. Anything a grown man was doin’ in the ’80s, my young ass was doin’. Fifths of Hennessy, motel rooms, hot tubs, cocaine, weed, everything… at 14-15 years old. I’m like, “the fuck?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>But that’s what makes it raw. Even though you can make it sound fun and entertaining on a record, it’s still comin’ from a real place. \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But see, now, fast-forward 40 years later, I’m in a dilemma. Because part of my fanbase wants me to be OG Magic Mike and spit that pimp shit. But \u003cem>this\u003c/em> Magic Mike in 2023 been married for 19 years, and got daughters and granddaughters. You feel me? I’m not livin’ that. It wouldn’t be authentic. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>What do you think the most important lesson you learned from the pimp game would be?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If I knew then what I know now, I would have \u003cem>never\u003c/em> been in that phase. I would have never abused a woman, put my hands on a woman, manipulated a woman — never. Because I realize that a woman, that’s our bone, that’s my life, that’s my breath… I wish I never would have abused a woman, ’cause now I look back and a woman is all I got. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-800x60.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"60\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium 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>\u003cstrong>Editor’s note\u003c/strong>: This story is part of \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003cem>, KQED’s year-long exploration of Bay Area hip-hop history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Magic Mike is a Bay Area legend. In the early 1980s, before record label contracts were feasible for rap artists, Magic Mike and his partner Calvin T made their own homemade tapes and sold them on the street. What \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#too-short-and-freddy-b-start-making-handmade-tapes\">Too Short and Freddy B were to Oakland\u003c/a>, Magic Mike and Calvin T were to Richmond. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When we decided to \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13923938/thats-my-word-intro\">spend a year chronicling Bay Area hip-hop history for our series \u003cem>That’s My Word\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, we knew Magic Mike had to be in the mix. Thankfully, our compatriot in Bay Area history \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/dregs_one/\">Dregs One\u003c/a> recently sat down with Magic Mike for an in-depth interview for his \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLrcnRVZo1Y9S-8xIlv8knxRcYwCqsu1OC\">\u003cem>History of the Bay\u003c/em> podcast\u003c/a>, which you can watch above. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>What follows is a frank, honest discussion about rapping, hustling, pimping, prison, and the sometimes violent world of the streets in the 1980s. Years before N.W.A. and the rise of “reality rap,” Magic Mike and Calvin T put it all on tape, right here in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As Magic Mike explains, he has regrets, especially around his treatment of women. While Too Short rapped about what he was seeing; Magic Mike rapped about what he was living. And, at a pivotal time when other rappers from the Bay Area were getting signed to major label deals, Magic Mike and Calvin T’s chances were repeatedly derailed by incarceration. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Watch the interview above, and find select excerpts below, edited for length and clarity.\u003cem>—Gabe Meline\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925763\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.MAIN_-800x450.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13925763\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.MAIN_-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.MAIN_-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.MAIN_-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.MAIN_-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.MAIN_-1536x864.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.MAIN_.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Magic Mike, interviewed by Dregs One, in a February 2023 podcast episode of ‘History of the Bay.’ \u003ccite>(Courtesy Dregs One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>DREGS ONE: What made you run away from home when you were 14?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>MAGIC MIKE\u003c/b>: I ran away from my mother’s house, two weeks before my 14th birthday, and started pimping. My mama came home one night and find a female in the house, and she said, “Get this tramp out my house.” I’m like, “Mama, she ain’t a tramp, she a young lady.” And she was just, “Get this tramp about my house.” I was gonna walk her home. “She live across the tracks, it’s dark, mama!” My mama said, “You leave out this house, boy, don’t come back.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m a Capricorn. I’m stubborn. I never came back, bro. And before she died, she told me I broke her heart because I never came back. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>So you left home that night with your female friend.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And never came back. I started stayin’ with her and her mama until that played out, and then I told her, like, “We need some money.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was the youngest pimp from Richmond ever. Let’s put it like that. We ain’t talking about hanging around pimps — we’re talking about a 14-year old \u003cem>child\u003c/em> sending out grown whores. That’s how I got turned out. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>And you became a little heartless after that.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Completely. Completely heartless. Like, \u003cem>completely\u003c/em> heartless. I’m not gonna sugar-coat it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And then older dudes took a liking to me. They like, “You raw, we like you, Magic! And you’s rappin’ this shit too? Come on an’ ride with us, boy — get you somethin’ else to rap about!” ‘Cause me and Calvin T, all we’re doin’ is rapping what we livin’ and what we seein’ — we’re around pimps and hustlers and dope boys. So that’s all we rappin’ about, from 1982 on up, when we were in Juvenile Hall together. And by 1983, Calvin T and Magic Mike tapes was circulating.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925767\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.inline-800x450.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13925767\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.inline-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.inline-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.inline-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.inline-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.inline-1536x864.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MagicMike.inline.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Magic Mike, interviewed by Dregs One, 2023. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Dregs One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>When you and Calvin T were in Juvenile Hall together, did you make a plan for when you got out?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Calvin T went home before me. We had all this planned. “I’m going to continue to write in here, I’m going to mail it to you, spit this shit and get ’em used to it.” That lasted for like two months. And when I came home, Calvin had it crackin’. He had a little equipment with the little Casio keyboard, the beat machine, and the cassette tape for dubbing. He was ready! In Juvenile Hall, we was just spittin’ acapella. But when I came home, he already had the old-school Casio beats.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>So y’all figure, “Alright, we’re gonna record tapes and start slangin’ ’em.” How does that idea come?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At first we dubbed just four or five tapes. Calvin’s house was on the hill, and we walked down the hill, three or four blocks to the little gas station in South Richmond — we didn’t even get past the gas station. The tapes was gone. So we had to bust a U and walk right back up the hill and dub some more tapes. So now we’re like, “We’ll do 10-15 tapes.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>So those tapes was movin’ from Richmond to Vallejo, to Oakland…\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To everywhere! Pimp C, Rest in Peace — Bun B once said Magic Mike and Calvin T was one of UGK’s first influences [in Texas]. Cats was going to the military, to Germany, takin’ tapes with ’em. Or one dope boy would go to Vallejo to serve another dope boy, like “What you listenin’ to?” “That’s that Magic Mike and Calvin T!” They stealin’ that, and they gonna dub it. So young Mac Malls, and young Mac Dres, and young E-40s and B-Legits is hearin’ it. Those tapes went everywhere, man.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>So in 1989, on your first official tape, you have the tracks “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/P4H1pYVuFjM\">Nine Hoes Deep\u003c/a>,” “Pimp Pimp,” and “Get With My Pimpin’, Bitch.”\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you listen to that shit, bro, that’s how I was livin’. Man, I go back and listen to that, I’m like, “I don’t want my son to hear this shit.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was the devil. Don’t get it twisted. We proclaimed it to be game, but that ain’t game, man. Any time you gotta abuse anything, that ain’t game. I was wildin’ out, I was rebelling. Anything a grown man was doin’ in the ’80s, my young ass was doin’. Fifths of Hennessy, motel rooms, hot tubs, cocaine, weed, everything… at 14-15 years old. I’m like, “the fuck?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>But that’s what makes it raw. Even though you can make it sound fun and entertaining on a record, it’s still comin’ from a real place. \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But see, now, fast-forward 40 years later, I’m in a dilemma. Because part of my fanbase wants me to be OG Magic Mike and spit that pimp shit. But \u003cem>this\u003c/em> Magic Mike in 2023 been married for 19 years, and got daughters and granddaughters. You feel me? I’m not livin’ that. It wouldn’t be authentic. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>What do you think the most important lesson you learned from the pimp game would be?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If I knew then what I know now, I would have \u003cem>never\u003c/em> been in that phase. I would have never abused a woman, put my hands on a woman, manipulated a woman — never. Because I realize that a woman, that’s our bone, that’s my life, that’s my breath… I wish I never would have abused a woman, ’cause now I look back and a woman is all I got. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cp>On Feb. 2, a historic convergence of street dance practitioners took over KQED’s event space, The Commons, for a night of boogaloo, robotting, strutting, turfing and more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The night featured original pioneers of Bay Area street dance, who defined urban youth culture before hip-hop had a name, as well as the next generation adding their own stylistic innovations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hosted by \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/podcasts/rightnowish\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">\u003cem>Rightnowish\u003c/em>\u003c/a>’s Pendarvis Harshaw with additional MCing by Eric K. Arnold, the night included performances by \u003ca href=\"http://www.iamtracibartlow.com/\">Traci Bartlow\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"http://www.thestruttersroom.com/\">Lonnie “PopTart” Green\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/dat_nigga_dav/?hl=en\">Davin Ray “Davvybo” Packnett\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g2J_xGPGHjI\">Ronski and Show Banga\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.ironlotus.dance/\">Iron Lotus\u003c/a>, and \u003ca href=\"https://www.daveyd.com/\">Davey D\u003c/a> on the ones and twos — as well as audience participation galore, including a “\u003ca href=\"https://californiarevealed.org/islandora/object/cavpp%3A22055\">Jay Payton Line\u003c/a>” at the end.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Watch it all unfold above (the action starts at \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/live/B7aexHse3pc?feature=share&t=1125\">18:45\u003c/a>) as part of our year-long exploration of Bay Area hip-hop, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">\u003cem>That’s My Word\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, and keep your eye out for future \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/events\">KQED Live events\u003c/a>. \u003cem>— Gabe Meline\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n",
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"title": "Watch 'Bay Area Street Dance' With Traci Bartlow, Lonnie 'PopTart' Green, Iron Lotus and More | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>On Feb. 2, a historic convergence of street dance practitioners took over KQED’s event space, The Commons, for a night of boogaloo, robotting, strutting, turfing and more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The night featured original pioneers of Bay Area street dance, who defined urban youth culture before hip-hop had a name, as well as the next generation adding their own stylistic innovations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hosted by \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/podcasts/rightnowish\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">\u003cem>Rightnowish\u003c/em>\u003c/a>’s Pendarvis Harshaw with additional MCing by Eric K. Arnold, the night included performances by \u003ca href=\"http://www.iamtracibartlow.com/\">Traci Bartlow\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"http://www.thestruttersroom.com/\">Lonnie “PopTart” Green\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/dat_nigga_dav/?hl=en\">Davin Ray “Davvybo” Packnett\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g2J_xGPGHjI\">Ronski and Show Banga\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.ironlotus.dance/\">Iron Lotus\u003c/a>, and \u003ca href=\"https://www.daveyd.com/\">Davey D\u003c/a> on the ones and twos — as well as audience participation galore, including a “\u003ca href=\"https://californiarevealed.org/islandora/object/cavpp%3A22055\">Jay Payton Line\u003c/a>” at the end.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Watch it all unfold above (the action starts at \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/live/B7aexHse3pc?feature=share&t=1125\">18:45\u003c/a>) as part of our year-long exploration of Bay Area hip-hop, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">\u003cem>That’s My Word\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, and keep your eye out for future \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/events\">KQED Live events\u003c/a>. \u003cem>— Gabe Meline\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "The Conscious Daughters, Rap’s ‘Sucka-Free Thelma and Louise,’ Rewrote the Rules",
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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\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003cem>, KQED’s year-long exploration of Bay Area hip-hop history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://open.spotify.com/artist/120cCFsKuYyGeIQaOMs0DV\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">The Conscious Daughters\u003c/a> (TCD) didn’t set out to break every limitation on women in rap — they did it simply by being themselves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On their 1993 debut \u003ci>Ear to the Street\u003c/i>, the tough-talking East Bay duo lyrically stomped on sexist dudes. Instead of riding shotgun, they drove their own Mustangs and had a trunk-rattling hit single, “Somethin’ to Ride to (Fonky Expedition).” And decades before the music industry grew to champion a multiplicity of female rap stars — instead of crowning a single queen — the Conscious Daughters were building a West Coast hip-hop sisterhood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Simply put, TCD were ahead of their time. And even though younger Bay Area artists like Kamaiyah have \u003ca href=\"https://pitchfork.com/features/rising/9792-supa-dupa-fly-kamaiyah-bosses-up/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">cited them as an influence\u003c/a>, their legacy remains criminally under-recognized in hip-hop history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/PyA9hn-YOZg\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On a sunny afternoon in Berkeley, the surviving Conscious Daughter, \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/cmgflowz/?hl=en\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Carla “CMG” Green\u003c/a>, smiles as she thinks back to the duo’s early days. She and her late music partner, Karryl “Special One” Smith, “never said ‘We’re going to be the only women who did this, the only women who did that,’” CMG says. “We just did what we loved. And we knew we were different.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[pullquote size='large' citation='Paris, rapper and producer']‘The Conscious Daughters are the greatest female hip-hop group in the genre’s history.’[/pullquote]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>CMG and Special One shared a natural creative chemistry. The two first met as 11-year-old middle school students in El Cerrito, connecting over their love of music. By 13, they were writing rhymes, and in high school, they ran the campus radio station together — Special One behind the boards and CMG on the mic. Both came from supportive families: CMG grew up going to P-Funk and Earth, Wind & Fire concerts with her musician father, while Special One’s mother worked at a radio station, and taught her daughter how to work the equipment by the time she was a teen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Born in Seattle and raised in East Oakland, Special One had a fearlessness that made her popular in school. It helped that she was a basketball star, and at one point even played baseball on a boys team.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Karryl was a character. Any room she went into, she just lit it up and she would just talk to anybody,” CMG remembers fondly. “She would be sitting there talking to an old white man. I’d be like, ‘What were you and that man talking about?’ … ‘He’s from Seattle. We talked about boat races.’ Her personality was just beyond belief. An amazing person, you know? She was truly a gift.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925185\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 599px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925185\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/ConsciousDaughters.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"599\" height=\"750\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/ConsciousDaughters.jpg 599w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/ConsciousDaughters-160x200.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 599px) 100vw, 599px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Conscious Daughters in the 1990s. \u003ccite>(Priority Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The Conscious Daughters get their break\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The Conscious Daughters’ magnetism carried over to their bold presence on the mic. Their complex rhyme schemes contained a musicality gleaned from their early love of funk and soul. Their dynamic stage presence was honed while studying New York rappers like the Fu-Schnickens. And they projected an unmistakably Bay Area, ice-cold player image, absorbed from Oakland’s Too Short and Richmond’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sbPLQG6AWdo\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Calvin T and Magic Mike\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Special One and CMG freestyled at every open mic they could find, and always traveled with pockets full of cassettes. Paris, the San Francisco artist nicknamed “\u003ca href=\"https://www.sfgate.com/style/article/Paris-The-Black-Panther-of-Hip-Hop-speaks-out-3091885.php\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">the Black Panther of hip-hop\u003c/a>,” was impressed when they handed him a demo tape at a party.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Paris himself was at the center of controversy when he became the Conscious Daughters’ mentor. In the early ’90s, Vice President Dan Quayle and powerful record label shareholders stoked a \u003ca href=\"https://abcnews.go.com/Politics/OTUS/hip-hop-politics-difference-generation-makes/story?id=18495205\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">moral panic about gangster rap\u003c/a>. Paris had been dropped from Time Warner \u003ca href=\"https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1992-11-29-ca-2551-story.html\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">due to controversial lyrics about President George H.W. Bush\u003c/a> and the police. By 1993, he was independent with his own label, Scarface Records, which had national distribution through Priority and took the Daughters’ music to a bigger stage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Conscious Daughters’ demo tape had amateurish basement beats. Paris laced them with head-nodding, bass-heavy mobb music production, and helped them amp up the social commentary in their rhymes. “Even in demo form, they were head and shoulders above their contemporaries,” Paris tells KQED in an email.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“TCD was thoroughly uninterested in the default ‘reliance on sex appeal’ lane that many other female rappers have taken, and instead were laser-focused on creating the best material possible,” he says. “Plus, they were extremely relatable and represented an ‘everywoman’ voice in West Coast hip-hop that had never been represented as bluntly as they put it down.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/kozpWkT8sI0\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Many of the lyrics on \u003ci>Ear to the Street\u003c/i>, including “Somethin’ to Ride to (Fonky Expedition),” the Daughters wrote themselves. But surprisingly, Paris penned one of their more feminist tracks, “Shitty Situation,” which CMG expertly delivers as if she personally experienced its story of an unwanted pregnancy by a disrespectful guy. (“Then I seen his ass, just a little past Lakeshore / Hollered out his name, but he act like he didn’t hear me though / Ran up quick, ready to send him to his grave,” she spits with venom over the uptempo beat.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[Paris] was such an amazing writer, and our delivery was just so on point,” CMG says. “It was such a great combination of us being street and somewhat knowledgeable and conscious, and uplifting women, Black women — all underprivileged people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With danceable party tracks (“TCD in da Front”), impressive bars (“Princess of Poetry”) and missives against misogyny with a hardcore twist (“What’s a Girl To Do”), \u003ci>Ear to the Street\u003c/i> showed the Conscious Daughters’ range, and the album became a hit. It placed at No. 25 on Billboard’s R&B/Hip-Hop Albums Chart, and earned the duo appearances on \u003ci>Soul Train\u003c/i>, MTV and BET. They toured with Ice Cube, A Tribe Called Quest and OutKast, and a young Jay-Z once opened at one of their concerts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/8Z7mX-EtgCs\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Alex Mejia served as the mixshow director at 106.1 KMEL when he first heard “Somethin’ to Ride to (Fonky Expedition),” and right away he knew the Daughters had something special. The song made its way onto the station’s regular rotation and, eventually, national airplay. “You just had to put your fist in the air because they were just that good,” he says, noting that TCD had a following not just in the Bay Area, but on the East Coast and in the South.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even Nas appeared to shout the Conscious Daughters out on 1996’s “If I Ruled the World (Imagine That)” when he rapped, “More conscious of the ways we raise our daughters.” (CMG later appears on the West Coast remix of his 2007 track “Where Are They Now.”)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They were just as good as Nas,” Mejia continues. “They could flow, and [“Somethin’ to Ride to (Fonky Expedition)”] showed it. And then their presence — coming from the West Coast, they were wearing Pendletons and had 40 [ounces]. The girls were like a lot of folks in the Town, and a lot of people can relate to that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925186\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13925186\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tcd2-800x450.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tcd2-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tcd2-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tcd2-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tcd2-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tcd2-1536x864.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tcd2.jpg 1668w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">From left to right: artist Suga T, ‘Gavin Report’ editor Thembisa Mshaka, artist Goldee the Murderist, Special One and CMG. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of CMG)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>A hip-hop sisterhood\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The Conscious Daughters continued to evolve their sound with 1996’s \u003ci>Gamers\u003c/i>. Their rhymes got faster and sharper. And along with Paris’ beats, it included production by mobb music heavyweights Sam Bostic, Mike Mosley and Studio Ton — a trio who made some of E-40’s biggest hits — as well as “I Got 5 On It” producer Tone Capone. \u003ci>Gamers\u003c/i>, released on Priority/EMI, showcased the Conscious Daughters’ support for other women on the scene: It featured Digital Underground’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13906176/in-hip-hop-and-academia-mystic-defines-her-own-success-story\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Mystic\u003c/a>, years before her influential 2001 solo debut \u003ci>Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom\u003c/i>, and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13914111/suga-t-her-museum-bay-area-rap\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Suga T\u003c/a>, who went solo after debuting with her brothers E-40, D-Shot and B-Legit in The Click.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though their stories are often overlooked today, a diverse array of female rappers came out of the Bay Area in the early ’90s. Oaktown 3.5.7. made party-rocking anthems, and superstar DJ Pam the Funkstress co-founded a mobb music duo called Female Fonk, though she became better known for her work with Boots Riley in the political rap group the Coup.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We all came up together and we’re all friends,” CMG says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mystic was just 19 years old when the Daughters brought her into a clique that also included artists Shuga Babydoll and the late Goldee the Murderist. “Having these established women hip-hop artists who support you, who stand with you, and who — essentially through their presence and their cosign — are saying, look, she’s dope, she matters, and this is our people,” she says. “That was so magical as a teen and young woman.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/hVP1K7BHPb4\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By the 2000s, things changed in the music industry. Among other acquisitions, \u003ca href=\"http://www.daveyd.com/articleradiosucks.html\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Clear Channel took over KMEL in 1999\u003c/a>, and the broadcaster once known as “The People’s Station” switched its focus to more mainstream programming. Following the success of Lil Kim and Foxy Brown, labels began putting money behind a select few female artists with sexy images, and left behind the tomboys who had previously found success without catering to the male gaze.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though the Conscious Daughters got plenty of praise for being different, the industry hadn’t yet caught up to them. By 1995, Special One had come out as gay to the people in her life. CMG, who is straight, was supportive of her best friend. But she admits that she sometimes worried how the duo would be perceived at a time when homophobia was widely considered acceptable. “Turns out all the women now look just like her. … She was really a trendsetter,” CMG says. “But we had no idea that she was going to be the future, you know?”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Ahead of their time\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In a \u003ca href=\"https://eastbayexpress.com/crackin-nutz-1/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">2004 \u003ci>East Bay Express\u003c/i> interview\u003c/a>, Special One lamented the double standards that prevented female rappers from reaching their full potential. “Female rappers are virtually extinct,” she said. “I’ll meet female MCs who can rap tight, but then they quit because their boyfriends get jealous when they go to the studio to work with male producers, or because they have to raise families.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Conscious Daughters also ran into structural issues at their labels. Paris left Priority Records, and, according to his estimation, TCD no longer had an advocate there. “They weren’t equipped to handle the Daughters the way they needed to be presented,” he said in the same \u003ci>Express\u003c/i> article. “When you talk about misogyny in hip-hop, it exists on a label level as well.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mejia thinks TCD could have had a much longer career with the proper support. “They didn’t get all the breaks that they should have,” he says. “In the ’90s a lot of female MCs did not get their credit and just due, or the financial support to compete. So they began to lose, even though their lyrics were just as good as anybody else, their beats were as good as anybody else. People in power were not correctly handling the job of creating balance, and it affected music.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925187\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13925187\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/IMG_5925-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/IMG_5925-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/IMG_5925-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/IMG_5925-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/IMG_5925-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/IMG_5925-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/IMG_5925-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/IMG_5925-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Carla “CMG” Green wears a T-shirt with a portrait of Karryl “Special One” Smith in Berkeley on January 20, 2023. \u003ccite>(Nastia Voynovskaya)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>CMG recalls that Napster’s debut in 1999 threw the music industry into chaos. Amid a panic about leaked albums and illegal downloads, labels shelved many artists’ work — and The Conscious Daughters’ third album hung in limbo at Universal. Titled \u003ci>The Nutcracker Suite\u003c/i>, it eventually came out in 2009 on Paris’ Guerrilla Funk label. But the rare release, best known for its revenge fantasies about domestic abusers, is not currently on streaming services — CMG and Paris say Universal pulled it because of copyright issues.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the years between their second and third albums, life changed for the Conscious Daughters. CMG focused on raising her son, and Special One, who also became a parent, became active in the LGBTQ+ nightlife scene.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“If she was here today, she’d be loving life, I’m sure,” CMG says. “She would be involved in a lot more things in the community as far as LGBTQ goes. I know that she would probably be running some sort of nonprofit or being some kind of radio personality.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Tragically, Special One died suddenly in 2011 due to a health condition that resulted in blood clots. CMG still gets emotional when she remembers her best friend, but beams as she recalls Special One’s barrier-breaking accomplishments.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925188\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 750px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925188\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tcd1.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"750\" height=\"745\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tcd1.jpg 750w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tcd1-160x159.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 750px) 100vw, 750px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Conscious Daughters with mentor and producer Paris in the 1990s. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of CMG)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The Conscious Daughters went mainstream with pro-woman lyrics that defied the status quo. They reached a huge variety of audiences — schoolteachers, drug dealers and former Black Panthers alike — and paved the way for other women in the industry to be bolder and more outspoken.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“People really tapped into what we were talking about,” CMG says. “Back then, it mattered.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Paris puts it even more strongly. “The Conscious Daughters are the greatest female hip-hop group in the genre’s history,” he says. “They should be heralded as such for their authenticity, raw talent, and female-centric messages of empowerment.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-11687704\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-800x60.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"60\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-400x30.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-768x58.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"headline": "The Conscious Daughters, Rap’s ‘Sucka-Free Thelma and Louise,’ Rewrote the Rules",
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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\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003cem>, KQED’s year-long exploration of Bay Area hip-hop history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://open.spotify.com/artist/120cCFsKuYyGeIQaOMs0DV\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">The Conscious Daughters\u003c/a> (TCD) didn’t set out to break every limitation on women in rap — they did it simply by being themselves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On their 1993 debut \u003ci>Ear to the Street\u003c/i>, the tough-talking East Bay duo lyrically stomped on sexist dudes. Instead of riding shotgun, they drove their own Mustangs and had a trunk-rattling hit single, “Somethin’ to Ride to (Fonky Expedition).” And decades before the music industry grew to champion a multiplicity of female rap stars — instead of crowning a single queen — the Conscious Daughters were building a West Coast hip-hop sisterhood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Simply put, TCD were ahead of their time. And even though younger Bay Area artists like Kamaiyah have \u003ca href=\"https://pitchfork.com/features/rising/9792-supa-dupa-fly-kamaiyah-bosses-up/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">cited them as an influence\u003c/a>, their legacy remains criminally under-recognized in hip-hop history.\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/PyA9hn-YOZg'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/PyA9hn-YOZg'\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>On a sunny afternoon in Berkeley, the surviving Conscious Daughter, \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/cmgflowz/?hl=en\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Carla “CMG” Green\u003c/a>, smiles as she thinks back to the duo’s early days. She and her late music partner, Karryl “Special One” Smith, “never said ‘We’re going to be the only women who did this, the only women who did that,’” CMG says. “We just did what we loved. And we knew we were different.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "‘The Conscious Daughters are the greatest female hip-hop group in the genre’s history.’",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>CMG and Special One shared a natural creative chemistry. The two first met as 11-year-old middle school students in El Cerrito, connecting over their love of music. By 13, they were writing rhymes, and in high school, they ran the campus radio station together — Special One behind the boards and CMG on the mic. Both came from supportive families: CMG grew up going to P-Funk and Earth, Wind & Fire concerts with her musician father, while Special One’s mother worked at a radio station, and taught her daughter how to work the equipment by the time she was a teen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Born in Seattle and raised in East Oakland, Special One had a fearlessness that made her popular in school. It helped that she was a basketball star, and at one point even played baseball on a boys team.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Karryl was a character. Any room she went into, she just lit it up and she would just talk to anybody,” CMG remembers fondly. “She would be sitting there talking to an old white man. I’d be like, ‘What were you and that man talking about?’ … ‘He’s from Seattle. We talked about boat races.’ Her personality was just beyond belief. An amazing person, you know? She was truly a gift.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925185\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 599px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925185\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/ConsciousDaughters.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"599\" height=\"750\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/ConsciousDaughters.jpg 599w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/ConsciousDaughters-160x200.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 599px) 100vw, 599px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Conscious Daughters in the 1990s. \u003ccite>(Priority Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The Conscious Daughters get their break\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The Conscious Daughters’ magnetism carried over to their bold presence on the mic. Their complex rhyme schemes contained a musicality gleaned from their early love of funk and soul. Their dynamic stage presence was honed while studying New York rappers like the Fu-Schnickens. And they projected an unmistakably Bay Area, ice-cold player image, absorbed from Oakland’s Too Short and Richmond’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sbPLQG6AWdo\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Calvin T and Magic Mike\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Special One and CMG freestyled at every open mic they could find, and always traveled with pockets full of cassettes. Paris, the San Francisco artist nicknamed “\u003ca href=\"https://www.sfgate.com/style/article/Paris-The-Black-Panther-of-Hip-Hop-speaks-out-3091885.php\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">the Black Panther of hip-hop\u003c/a>,” was impressed when they handed him a demo tape at a party.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Paris himself was at the center of controversy when he became the Conscious Daughters’ mentor. In the early ’90s, Vice President Dan Quayle and powerful record label shareholders stoked a \u003ca href=\"https://abcnews.go.com/Politics/OTUS/hip-hop-politics-difference-generation-makes/story?id=18495205\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">moral panic about gangster rap\u003c/a>. Paris had been dropped from Time Warner \u003ca href=\"https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1992-11-29-ca-2551-story.html\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">due to controversial lyrics about President George H.W. Bush\u003c/a> and the police. By 1993, he was independent with his own label, Scarface Records, which had national distribution through Priority and took the Daughters’ music to a bigger stage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Conscious Daughters’ demo tape had amateurish basement beats. Paris laced them with head-nodding, bass-heavy mobb music production, and helped them amp up the social commentary in their rhymes. “Even in demo form, they were head and shoulders above their contemporaries,” Paris tells KQED in an email.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“TCD was thoroughly uninterested in the default ‘reliance on sex appeal’ lane that many other female rappers have taken, and instead were laser-focused on creating the best material possible,” he says. “Plus, they were extremely relatable and represented an ‘everywoman’ voice in West Coast hip-hop that had never been represented as bluntly as they put it down.”\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/kozpWkT8sI0'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/kozpWkT8sI0'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>Many of the lyrics on \u003ci>Ear to the Street\u003c/i>, including “Somethin’ to Ride to (Fonky Expedition),” the Daughters wrote themselves. But surprisingly, Paris penned one of their more feminist tracks, “Shitty Situation,” which CMG expertly delivers as if she personally experienced its story of an unwanted pregnancy by a disrespectful guy. (“Then I seen his ass, just a little past Lakeshore / Hollered out his name, but he act like he didn’t hear me though / Ran up quick, ready to send him to his grave,” she spits with venom over the uptempo beat.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[Paris] was such an amazing writer, and our delivery was just so on point,” CMG says. “It was such a great combination of us being street and somewhat knowledgeable and conscious, and uplifting women, Black women — all underprivileged people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With danceable party tracks (“TCD in da Front”), impressive bars (“Princess of Poetry”) and missives against misogyny with a hardcore twist (“What’s a Girl To Do”), \u003ci>Ear to the Street\u003c/i> showed the Conscious Daughters’ range, and the album became a hit. It placed at No. 25 on Billboard’s R&B/Hip-Hop Albums Chart, and earned the duo appearances on \u003ci>Soul Train\u003c/i>, MTV and BET. They toured with Ice Cube, A Tribe Called Quest and OutKast, and a young Jay-Z once opened at one of their concerts.\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/8Z7mX-EtgCs'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/8Z7mX-EtgCs'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>Alex Mejia served as the mixshow director at 106.1 KMEL when he first heard “Somethin’ to Ride to (Fonky Expedition),” and right away he knew the Daughters had something special. The song made its way onto the station’s regular rotation and, eventually, national airplay. “You just had to put your fist in the air because they were just that good,” he says, noting that TCD had a following not just in the Bay Area, but on the East Coast and in the South.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even Nas appeared to shout the Conscious Daughters out on 1996’s “If I Ruled the World (Imagine That)” when he rapped, “More conscious of the ways we raise our daughters.” (CMG later appears on the West Coast remix of his 2007 track “Where Are They Now.”)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They were just as good as Nas,” Mejia continues. “They could flow, and [“Somethin’ to Ride to (Fonky Expedition)”] showed it. And then their presence — coming from the West Coast, they were wearing Pendletons and had 40 [ounces]. The girls were like a lot of folks in the Town, and a lot of people can relate to that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925186\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13925186\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tcd2-800x450.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tcd2-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tcd2-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tcd2-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tcd2-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tcd2-1536x864.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tcd2.jpg 1668w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">From left to right: artist Suga T, ‘Gavin Report’ editor Thembisa Mshaka, artist Goldee the Murderist, Special One and CMG. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of CMG)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>A hip-hop sisterhood\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The Conscious Daughters continued to evolve their sound with 1996’s \u003ci>Gamers\u003c/i>. Their rhymes got faster and sharper. And along with Paris’ beats, it included production by mobb music heavyweights Sam Bostic, Mike Mosley and Studio Ton — a trio who made some of E-40’s biggest hits — as well as “I Got 5 On It” producer Tone Capone. \u003ci>Gamers\u003c/i>, released on Priority/EMI, showcased the Conscious Daughters’ support for other women on the scene: It featured Digital Underground’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13906176/in-hip-hop-and-academia-mystic-defines-her-own-success-story\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Mystic\u003c/a>, years before her influential 2001 solo debut \u003ci>Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom\u003c/i>, and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13914111/suga-t-her-museum-bay-area-rap\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Suga T\u003c/a>, who went solo after debuting with her brothers E-40, D-Shot and B-Legit in The Click.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though their stories are often overlooked today, a diverse array of female rappers came out of the Bay Area in the early ’90s. Oaktown 3.5.7. made party-rocking anthems, and superstar DJ Pam the Funkstress co-founded a mobb music duo called Female Fonk, though she became better known for her work with Boots Riley in the political rap group the Coup.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We all came up together and we’re all friends,” CMG says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mystic was just 19 years old when the Daughters brought her into a clique that also included artists Shuga Babydoll and the late Goldee the Murderist. “Having these established women hip-hop artists who support you, who stand with you, and who — essentially through their presence and their cosign — are saying, look, she’s dope, she matters, and this is our people,” she says. “That was so magical as a teen and young woman.”\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/hVP1K7BHPb4'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/hVP1K7BHPb4'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>By the 2000s, things changed in the music industry. Among other acquisitions, \u003ca href=\"http://www.daveyd.com/articleradiosucks.html\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Clear Channel took over KMEL in 1999\u003c/a>, and the broadcaster once known as “The People’s Station” switched its focus to more mainstream programming. Following the success of Lil Kim and Foxy Brown, labels began putting money behind a select few female artists with sexy images, and left behind the tomboys who had previously found success without catering to the male gaze.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though the Conscious Daughters got plenty of praise for being different, the industry hadn’t yet caught up to them. By 1995, Special One had come out as gay to the people in her life. CMG, who is straight, was supportive of her best friend. But she admits that she sometimes worried how the duo would be perceived at a time when homophobia was widely considered acceptable. “Turns out all the women now look just like her. … She was really a trendsetter,” CMG says. “But we had no idea that she was going to be the future, you know?”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Ahead of their time\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In a \u003ca href=\"https://eastbayexpress.com/crackin-nutz-1/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">2004 \u003ci>East Bay Express\u003c/i> interview\u003c/a>, Special One lamented the double standards that prevented female rappers from reaching their full potential. “Female rappers are virtually extinct,” she said. “I’ll meet female MCs who can rap tight, but then they quit because their boyfriends get jealous when they go to the studio to work with male producers, or because they have to raise families.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Conscious Daughters also ran into structural issues at their labels. Paris left Priority Records, and, according to his estimation, TCD no longer had an advocate there. “They weren’t equipped to handle the Daughters the way they needed to be presented,” he said in the same \u003ci>Express\u003c/i> article. “When you talk about misogyny in hip-hop, it exists on a label level as well.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mejia thinks TCD could have had a much longer career with the proper support. “They didn’t get all the breaks that they should have,” he says. “In the ’90s a lot of female MCs did not get their credit and just due, or the financial support to compete. So they began to lose, even though their lyrics were just as good as anybody else, their beats were as good as anybody else. People in power were not correctly handling the job of creating balance, and it affected music.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925187\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13925187\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/IMG_5925-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/IMG_5925-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/IMG_5925-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/IMG_5925-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/IMG_5925-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/IMG_5925-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/IMG_5925-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/IMG_5925-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Carla “CMG” Green wears a T-shirt with a portrait of Karryl “Special One” Smith in Berkeley on January 20, 2023. \u003ccite>(Nastia Voynovskaya)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>CMG recalls that Napster’s debut in 1999 threw the music industry into chaos. Amid a panic about leaked albums and illegal downloads, labels shelved many artists’ work — and The Conscious Daughters’ third album hung in limbo at Universal. Titled \u003ci>The Nutcracker Suite\u003c/i>, it eventually came out in 2009 on Paris’ Guerrilla Funk label. But the rare release, best known for its revenge fantasies about domestic abusers, is not currently on streaming services — CMG and Paris say Universal pulled it because of copyright issues.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the years between their second and third albums, life changed for the Conscious Daughters. CMG focused on raising her son, and Special One, who also became a parent, became active in the LGBTQ+ nightlife scene.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“If she was here today, she’d be loving life, I’m sure,” CMG says. “She would be involved in a lot more things in the community as far as LGBTQ goes. I know that she would probably be running some sort of nonprofit or being some kind of radio personality.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Tragically, Special One died suddenly in 2011 due to a health condition that resulted in blood clots. CMG still gets emotional when she remembers her best friend, but beams as she recalls Special One’s barrier-breaking accomplishments.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925188\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 750px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925188\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tcd1.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"750\" height=\"745\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tcd1.jpg 750w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tcd1-160x159.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 750px) 100vw, 750px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Conscious Daughters with mentor and producer Paris in the 1990s. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of CMG)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The Conscious Daughters went mainstream with pro-woman lyrics that defied the status quo. They reached a huge variety of audiences — schoolteachers, drug dealers and former Black Panthers alike — and paved the way for other women in the industry to be bolder and more outspoken.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“People really tapped into what we were talking about,” CMG says. “Back then, it mattered.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Paris puts it even more strongly. “The Conscious Daughters are the greatest female hip-hop group in the genre’s history,” he says. “They should be heralded as such for their authenticity, raw talent, and female-centric messages of empowerment.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924839\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924839\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/aRUCKUSEDITOR-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/aRUCKUSEDITOR-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/aRUCKUSEDITOR-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/aRUCKUSEDITOR-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/aRUCKUSEDITOR-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/aRUCKUSEDITOR.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Before her rap career took off, Rocky Rivera was the 22-year-old editor-in-chief of ‘Ruckus Magazine.’ Here, she poses with the January/February 2006 issue featuring E-40 on the cover. \u003ccite>(Vivian Chen)\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\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003cem>, KQED’s year-long exploration of Bay Area hip-hop history, with new content all throughout 2023.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 2005, Keak Da Sneak dropped “Super Hyphy,” and encapsulated an entire Bay Area movement.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The region’s homegrown rap style had broken into the mainstream that year, and the Oakland rapper took credit for coining its name. The music video starts with him competing at a spelling bee, defining “hyphy” for the masses. (“Me and my homies popped purple pills and went hyphy at the sideshow,” the pronouncer reads when Keak asks him to use the word in a sentence.) As Keak raps with boundless energy, bursting with pride, he stands in front of a magazine cover with his face on it. [aside postid='arts_13924109']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That magazine was \u003ci>Ruckus\u003c/i>, and I was its 22-year-old editor-in-chief. At the time, I was a journalism student at San Francisco State University, itching to graduate because I was already doing what I loved: interviewing my hometown heroes and breaking new artists. I knew I was on the verge of something bigger than myself, and my timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Among labels, artists and local media, there was a crescendo of efforts to take hyphy nationwide.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/KrH-VKYY3nw\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After a successful September/October 2005 cover story, Keak asked us to produce his music video, and references to our mag were sprinkled throughout it like little Bay Area Easter eggs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Ruckus\u003c/i>’ “Dime of the Month,” Veronica from San Jose, was cast as the “naughty teacher” vixen. And with a cameo from Oakland’s Keyshia Cole, the hottest R&B artist to break that year, and turfing crew The Animaniakz, “Super Hyphy” became a primer on how folks in the Bay got down. It was just one example of how our magazine influenced the hyphy movement and taught the rest of the country on our lingo, our unique local customs. [pullquote size='large']Among labels, artists and local media, there was a crescendo of efforts to take hyphy nationwide.[/pullquote]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The mid-2000s were a time of major shifts for the Bay Area rap scene. Just months prior to the “Super Hyphy” video release, one of the Bay’s biggest rap stars, Mac Dre, was gunned down on tour in Kansas City, Missouri. His death galvanized unity between long-squabbling turfs in his hometown of Vallejo, and the rest of the Bay followed suit. Mac Dre’s famous “thizz face” and throwing up “T’s” became part of the movement’s lexicon. And even as creative energy bubbled, there was a sense of grief. A lot of us were determined to carry Mac Dre’s torch forward into an unsteady future for Bay Area hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Ruckus\u003c/em> was embedded in the culture. Our photographer, Vivian Chen, shot the Hyphy Juice ads for Clyde Carson of The Team, and I was slanging biographies for artists’ press kits on the side. Ruckus was an incubator of talent, a staunch advocate for independent artists and a foreshadowing of how music media would be consumed in the future.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924840\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 429px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13924840\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/aDSC_1066-vivianchen.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"429\" height=\"630\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/aDSC_1066-vivianchen.jpg 429w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/aDSC_1066-vivianchen-160x235.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 429px) 100vw, 429px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Rocky Rivera and San Francisco rapper Cellski during a photoshoot in 2006. \u003ccite>(Vivian Chen)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>At its best, \u003ci>Ruckus Magazine\u003c/i> was a scrappy outlier in the publishing world, an independent magazine not tied to Manhattan-based record labels or media empires. Following in the footsteps of local rap publications like \u003ci>4080\u003c/i> and \u003ci>Murder Dog\u003c/i>, which both launched in the early ’90s, it understood the importance of underground artists, and of balancing the scales in a way that included regional sounds. Our stories covered Zion I, DJ Shadow and QBert, and we didn’t shy away from mobb music artists like \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13874024/five-years-after-his-death-the-jackas-collaborators-remember-his-complex-legacy\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">The Jacka\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13922141/cellskis-big-mafi-burgers-come-with-a-side-of-sf-rap-history\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Cellski\u003c/a> and Pretty Black. We even featured mainstream artists like Damian Marley and Ghostface Killah. With two Asian Americans, William Htun and Collin Lam, as the co-founders, \u003ci>Ruckus\u003c/i> represented a diversity in the hip-hop publishing world that was rarely seen. And its shrunken size fit perfectly in your back pocket. [aside postid='arts_13924042']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But at its worst, \u003ci>Ruckus\u003c/i> perpetuated misogynistic portrayals of women, and barely scratched the surface of the Bay Area’s progressive politics and deep history of racial solidarity. Though I loved hip-hop, it was difficult to reconcile the sexism I witnessed and experienced as a writer with newfound visibility and power. I pushed for women to be featured on the covers of the six issues I edited in 2005 and ’06, but never succeeded. And I constantly deflected rappers who came on to me during interviews and cornered me in dark clubs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I saw how other women in the scene, the ones called “groupies,” were treated as less than human. But I convinced myself that I had a loftier purpose and was different. Even though the top three positions on \u003ci>Ruckus\u003c/i>’ masthead were filled by women, that didn’t protect us from misogyny that permeated hip-hop to the core. When one of my bosses said I reminded them of Kim Osorio of \u003ci>The Source\u003c/i>, they didn’t seem to refer to her skills as an editor-in-chief. I understood the comparison to mean a pretty face, a hired gun, who served the purposes of the men in the room.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The idealistic euphoria of the first three issues of \u003ci>Ruckus\u003c/i> eventually transitioned into the need to keep up with the other hip-hop magazines we considered our competition. The co-founders flexed their industry plugs and put established rappers like Cam’ron and Nas on the cover, while I was still trying to prioritize local artists and women like Keyshia Cole.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924843\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 630px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13924843\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tooshort01-vivianchen.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"630\" height=\"429\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tooshort01-vivianchen.jpg 630w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tooshort01-vivianchen-160x109.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 630px) 100vw, 630px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Back, left to right: Rocky Rivera and Too $hort. Front, right to left: ‘Ruckus’ photographer Vivian Chen and advertising salesperson Arlene Romana. \u003ccite>(Vivian Chen)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The magazine had a “Dime of the Month” section to objectify — I mean, highlight — sexy women. I protested silently by editing everything except that segment. I felt like the sore thumb, the nail that needed to be hammered down to make way for more advertising dollars.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Eventually, I “quietly quit” by applying for the MTV reality competition \u003ci>I’m From Rolling Stone\u003c/i> after seeing a MySpace bulletin for auditions. With my airbrushed face on my hoodie, a clip of me interviewing Too $hort and, of course, my gold bottoms, I secured the audition, and eventually won the \u003ci>Rolling Stone\u003c/i> contributing editor position that was the show’s prize. \u003ci>Ruckus\u003c/i> folded while MTV filmed me interviewing DMX in Harlem and dancing on stage with George Clinton in Denmark.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Many magazines also didn’t make it in the years leading up to the 2008 recession. By the time we went from Friendster to MySpace, every major publication was on the chopping block. And with social media’s explosion in the 2010s, artists gained the power to control their narratives, and the role of independent magazines inevitably diminished. Even \u003ci>Rolling Stone\u003c/i> took a hit when its large format shrunk down to a standard size.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924844\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924844\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC_1830-vivianchen-800x532.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"532\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC_1830-vivianchen-800x532.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC_1830-vivianchen-1020x678.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC_1830-vivianchen-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC_1830-vivianchen-768x511.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC_1830-vivianchen-1536x1021.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC_1830-vivianchen-2048x1362.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC_1830-vivianchen-1920x1277.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Rocky Rivera and Mistah F.A.B. show off their grills in 2006. \u003ccite>(Vivian Chen)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Hyphy never truly popped off like it could have with more industry support, and eventually it fizzled out. But in the back of my closet, I still have my airbrushed Vans and matching T-shirt with Mac Dre’s face, along with my gold bottoms and several archived copies of the little magazine that launched my journalism career. I break them out every once in a while to remember the days of hip-hop before social media, and to remind my high school-aged son where these relics came from. It’s all documented right there, in Keak’s video, and among the treasured keepsakes dear to those of us born in the analog age.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And me? I switched careers and became the \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/@RockyRivera415\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">progressive feminist rap artist known as Rocky Rivera\u003c/a>. I took every lesson I learned, every door slammed in my face and every sexist rumor about how I “got the story,” and put these experiences into verses that eviscerated my critics. In my rap career, I’ve written from a perspective that never was prioritized: my own. Though I’m grateful for the part \u003cem>Ruckus\u003c/em> and I played in Bay Area hip-hop history, writing my own story became my biggest success.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-11687704\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-800x60.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"60\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-400x30.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-768x58.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924839\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924839\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/aRUCKUSEDITOR-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/aRUCKUSEDITOR-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/aRUCKUSEDITOR-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/aRUCKUSEDITOR-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/aRUCKUSEDITOR-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/aRUCKUSEDITOR.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Before her rap career took off, Rocky Rivera was the 22-year-old editor-in-chief of ‘Ruckus Magazine.’ Here, she poses with the January/February 2006 issue featuring E-40 on the cover. \u003ccite>(Vivian Chen)\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\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003cem>, KQED’s year-long exploration of Bay Area hip-hop history, with new content all throughout 2023.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 2005, Keak Da Sneak dropped “Super Hyphy,” and encapsulated an entire Bay Area movement.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The region’s homegrown rap style had broken into the mainstream that year, and the Oakland rapper took credit for coining its name. The music video starts with him competing at a spelling bee, defining “hyphy” for the masses. (“Me and my homies popped purple pills and went hyphy at the sideshow,” the pronouncer reads when Keak asks him to use the word in a sentence.) As Keak raps with boundless energy, bursting with pride, he stands in front of a magazine cover with his face on it. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That magazine was \u003ci>Ruckus\u003c/i>, and I was its 22-year-old editor-in-chief. At the time, I was a journalism student at San Francisco State University, itching to graduate because I was already doing what I loved: interviewing my hometown heroes and breaking new artists. I knew I was on the verge of something bigger than myself, and my timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Among labels, artists and local media, there was a crescendo of efforts to take hyphy nationwide.\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/KrH-VKYY3nw'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/KrH-VKYY3nw'\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>After a successful September/October 2005 cover story, Keak asked us to produce his music video, and references to our mag were sprinkled throughout it like little Bay Area Easter eggs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Ruckus\u003c/i>’ “Dime of the Month,” Veronica from San Jose, was cast as the “naughty teacher” vixen. And with a cameo from Oakland’s Keyshia Cole, the hottest R&B artist to break that year, and turfing crew The Animaniakz, “Super Hyphy” became a primer on how folks in the Bay got down. It was just one example of how our magazine influenced the hyphy movement and taught the rest of the country on our lingo, our unique local customs. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The mid-2000s were a time of major shifts for the Bay Area rap scene. Just months prior to the “Super Hyphy” video release, one of the Bay’s biggest rap stars, Mac Dre, was gunned down on tour in Kansas City, Missouri. His death galvanized unity between long-squabbling turfs in his hometown of Vallejo, and the rest of the Bay followed suit. Mac Dre’s famous “thizz face” and throwing up “T’s” became part of the movement’s lexicon. And even as creative energy bubbled, there was a sense of grief. A lot of us were determined to carry Mac Dre’s torch forward into an unsteady future for Bay Area hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Ruckus\u003c/em> was embedded in the culture. Our photographer, Vivian Chen, shot the Hyphy Juice ads for Clyde Carson of The Team, and I was slanging biographies for artists’ press kits on the side. Ruckus was an incubator of talent, a staunch advocate for independent artists and a foreshadowing of how music media would be consumed in the future.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924840\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 429px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13924840\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/aDSC_1066-vivianchen.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"429\" height=\"630\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/aDSC_1066-vivianchen.jpg 429w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/aDSC_1066-vivianchen-160x235.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 429px) 100vw, 429px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Rocky Rivera and San Francisco rapper Cellski during a photoshoot in 2006. \u003ccite>(Vivian Chen)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>At its best, \u003ci>Ruckus Magazine\u003c/i> was a scrappy outlier in the publishing world, an independent magazine not tied to Manhattan-based record labels or media empires. Following in the footsteps of local rap publications like \u003ci>4080\u003c/i> and \u003ci>Murder Dog\u003c/i>, which both launched in the early ’90s, it understood the importance of underground artists, and of balancing the scales in a way that included regional sounds. Our stories covered Zion I, DJ Shadow and QBert, and we didn’t shy away from mobb music artists like \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13874024/five-years-after-his-death-the-jackas-collaborators-remember-his-complex-legacy\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">The Jacka\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13922141/cellskis-big-mafi-burgers-come-with-a-side-of-sf-rap-history\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Cellski\u003c/a> and Pretty Black. We even featured mainstream artists like Damian Marley and Ghostface Killah. With two Asian Americans, William Htun and Collin Lam, as the co-founders, \u003ci>Ruckus\u003c/i> represented a diversity in the hip-hop publishing world that was rarely seen. And its shrunken size fit perfectly in your back pocket. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But at its worst, \u003ci>Ruckus\u003c/i> perpetuated misogynistic portrayals of women, and barely scratched the surface of the Bay Area’s progressive politics and deep history of racial solidarity. Though I loved hip-hop, it was difficult to reconcile the sexism I witnessed and experienced as a writer with newfound visibility and power. I pushed for women to be featured on the covers of the six issues I edited in 2005 and ’06, but never succeeded. And I constantly deflected rappers who came on to me during interviews and cornered me in dark clubs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I saw how other women in the scene, the ones called “groupies,” were treated as less than human. But I convinced myself that I had a loftier purpose and was different. Even though the top three positions on \u003ci>Ruckus\u003c/i>’ masthead were filled by women, that didn’t protect us from misogyny that permeated hip-hop to the core. When one of my bosses said I reminded them of Kim Osorio of \u003ci>The Source\u003c/i>, they didn’t seem to refer to her skills as an editor-in-chief. I understood the comparison to mean a pretty face, a hired gun, who served the purposes of the men in the room.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The idealistic euphoria of the first three issues of \u003ci>Ruckus\u003c/i> eventually transitioned into the need to keep up with the other hip-hop magazines we considered our competition. The co-founders flexed their industry plugs and put established rappers like Cam’ron and Nas on the cover, while I was still trying to prioritize local artists and women like Keyshia Cole.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924843\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 630px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13924843\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tooshort01-vivianchen.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"630\" height=\"429\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tooshort01-vivianchen.jpg 630w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/tooshort01-vivianchen-160x109.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 630px) 100vw, 630px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Back, left to right: Rocky Rivera and Too $hort. Front, right to left: ‘Ruckus’ photographer Vivian Chen and advertising salesperson Arlene Romana. \u003ccite>(Vivian Chen)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The magazine had a “Dime of the Month” section to objectify — I mean, highlight — sexy women. I protested silently by editing everything except that segment. I felt like the sore thumb, the nail that needed to be hammered down to make way for more advertising dollars.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Eventually, I “quietly quit” by applying for the MTV reality competition \u003ci>I’m From Rolling Stone\u003c/i> after seeing a MySpace bulletin for auditions. With my airbrushed face on my hoodie, a clip of me interviewing Too $hort and, of course, my gold bottoms, I secured the audition, and eventually won the \u003ci>Rolling Stone\u003c/i> contributing editor position that was the show’s prize. \u003ci>Ruckus\u003c/i> folded while MTV filmed me interviewing DMX in Harlem and dancing on stage with George Clinton in Denmark.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Many magazines also didn’t make it in the years leading up to the 2008 recession. By the time we went from Friendster to MySpace, every major publication was on the chopping block. And with social media’s explosion in the 2010s, artists gained the power to control their narratives, and the role of independent magazines inevitably diminished. Even \u003ci>Rolling Stone\u003c/i> took a hit when its large format shrunk down to a standard size.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924844\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924844\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC_1830-vivianchen-800x532.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"532\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC_1830-vivianchen-800x532.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC_1830-vivianchen-1020x678.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC_1830-vivianchen-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC_1830-vivianchen-768x511.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC_1830-vivianchen-1536x1021.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC_1830-vivianchen-2048x1362.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC_1830-vivianchen-1920x1277.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Rocky Rivera and Mistah F.A.B. show off their grills in 2006. \u003ccite>(Vivian Chen)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Hyphy never truly popped off like it could have with more industry support, and eventually it fizzled out. But in the back of my closet, I still have my airbrushed Vans and matching T-shirt with Mac Dre’s face, along with my gold bottoms and several archived copies of the little magazine that launched my journalism career. I break them out every once in a while to remember the days of hip-hop before social media, and to remind my high school-aged son where these relics came from. It’s all documented right there, in Keak’s video, and among the treasured keepsakes dear to those of us born in the analog age.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And me? I switched careers and became the \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/@RockyRivera415\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">progressive feminist rap artist known as Rocky Rivera\u003c/a>. I took every lesson I learned, every door slammed in my face and every sexist rumor about how I “got the story,” and put these experiences into verses that eviscerated my critics. In my rap career, I’ve written from a perspective that never was prioritized: my own. Though I’m grateful for the part \u003cem>Ruckus\u003c/em> and I played in Bay Area hip-hop history, writing my own story became my biggest success.\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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"title": "Marketplace",
"info": "Our flagship program, helmed by Kai Ryssdal, examines what the day in money delivered, through stories, conversations, newsworthy numbers and more. Updated Monday through Friday at about 3:30 p.m. PT.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 4pm-4:30pm, MON-WED 6:30pm-7pm",
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"info": "Masters of Scale is an original podcast in which LinkedIn co-founder and Greylock Partner Reid Hoffman sets out to describe and prove theories that explain how great entrepreneurs take their companies from zero to a gazillion in ingenious fashion.",
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},
"mindshift": {
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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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"order": 12
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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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"title": "On The Media",
"info": "Our weekly podcast explores how the media 'sausage' is made, casts an incisive eye on fluctuations in the marketplace of ideas, and examines threats to the freedom of information and expression in America and abroad. For one hour a week, the show tries to lift the veil from the process of \"making media,\" especially news media, because it's through that lens that we see the world and the world sees us",
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"planet-money": {
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"politicalbreakdown": {
"id": "politicalbreakdown",
"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.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 2pm-3pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/The-World-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
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},
"radiolab": {
"id": "radiolab",
"title": "Radiolab",
"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.",
"airtime": "SAT 4pm-5pm",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/04/reveal300px.png",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.revealnews.org/episodes/",
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"rss": "http://feeds.revealradio.org/revealpodcast"
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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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"source": "kqed",
"order": 16
},
"link": "/podcasts/rightnowish",
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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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"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Science-Friday-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
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},
"snap-judgment": {
"id": "snap-judgment",
"title": "Snap Judgment",
"tagline": "Real stories with killer beats",
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