A New Memoir Captures Shock G’s Brilliance — In All Its Funkiest Forms
Digital Underground’s MC Was Secretly a Genius Illustrator
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Digital Underground's Shock G, an Oakland Hip-Hop Icon, Dies at 57
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"title": "A New Memoir Captures Shock G’s Brilliance — In All Its Funkiest Forms",
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"content": "\u003cfigure class=\"wp-block-image size-full\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"2067\" height=\"2560\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/COVER_Keep-It-Beautiful-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-13992877\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/COVER_Keep-It-Beautiful-scaled.jpg 2067w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/COVER_Keep-It-Beautiful-2000x2477.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/COVER_Keep-It-Beautiful-160x198.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/COVER_Keep-It-Beautiful-768x951.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/COVER_Keep-It-Beautiful-1240x1536.jpg 1240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/COVER_Keep-It-Beautiful-1654x2048.jpg 1654w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2067px) 100vw, 2067px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-element-caption\">‘Keep It Beautiful: Inside the Funkyverse of Shock G and Digital Underground,’ chronicles the incredible life of the late East Bay rapper, artist and musician. (Penguin Random House)\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>In 1990, \u003cem>USA Today\u003c/em> formally contacted NASA to clarify rumors about their latest technology, apparently dubbed “sex packets.” \u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>Weeks prior, Oakland’s afrosurrealist rap collective Digital Underground (DU) had released their debut album, \u003cem>Sex Packets\u003c/em>, themed around a new drug for astronauts that could instantly gratify their sexual desires. As DU’s transgressive lyrics glorified the illicit substance, news of the invention leaked onto the Bay Area’s streets: pamphlets were distributed, and condoms were passed out.\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>NASA was forced to respond to the coital discourse: “NASA has not in the past, nor will they in the future, be working on such a pill … It would be impossible to satisfy the carnal urges of astronauts … To my knowledge, unbridled lust has never interfered with a space mission.”\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>It’s the first and likely last instance of NASA being outmaneuvered by Oakland rappers. (It turned out DU had created the pamphlets and condoms as subversive promotional materials.)\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>The elaborate prank was a piece of artistic genius orchestrated by \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13929900/shock-g-revolutionized-hip-hop-and-created-a-secret-trove-of-funky-art\">Gregory Jacobs — the late MC, songwriter, illustrator, pianist and costume-wearing virtuoso\u003c/a> known as Shock G. The NASA incident is just one of the many shenanigans detailed in his posthumous memoir, \u003cem>Keep It Beautiful: Inside the Funkyverse of Shock G and Digital Underground\u003c/em>, out Aug. 25 — Shock G’s birthday — from \u003ca href=\"https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/738825/keep-it-beautiful-by-alexis-wolfe-mbassa-and-gregory-e-jacobs/\">Penguin Random House\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cfigure class=\"wp-block-image size-full\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1706\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/Alexis-and-Greg-in-Tampa-p228-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-13992875\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/Alexis-and-Greg-in-Tampa-p228-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/Alexis-and-Greg-in-Tampa-p228-2000x1333.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/Alexis-and-Greg-in-Tampa-p228-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/Alexis-and-Greg-in-Tampa-p228-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/Alexis-and-Greg-in-Tampa-p228-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/Alexis-and-Greg-in-Tampa-p228-2048x1365.jpg 2048w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-element-caption\">Shock G and Alexis Wolfe Mbassa in Tampa, Fla., working on the memoir ‘Keep It Beautiful: Inside the Funkyverse of Shock G and Digital Underground.’ (Alexis Wolfe Mbassa)\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>The book combines handwritten notes, interview transcripts, personal photos and rare sketches compiled by Jacobs’ longtime friend and photographer, Alexis Wolfe Mbassa, who tagged along with Jacobs in order to document his eccentric life for over a decade. \u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The association was intentional; in 2011, Jacobs personally recruited Wolfe Mbassa as a co-author for his autobiography. In 2021, just eight months after submitting the book to literary agents, Jacobs died from a drug overdose in Florida. He was 57.\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>“It was never about money or becoming successful for him; it was about having the freedom to create,” Wolfe Mbassa told KQED. “He put himself in wild situations just to hold on to that freedom.”\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003ch2 class=\"wp-block-heading\">A natural rebel\u003c/h2>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>Wild situations form much of \u003cem>Keep It Beautiful\u003c/em>. It details Jacobs’ stints in pimping, homelessness and jail, while containing all of the exuberant, out-of-pocket abundance of a Shock G production. A conversation between Shock G and George Clinton of Parliament Funkadelic? Yup. An African gray parrot named Afro who lives in Shock G’s childhood home and imitates his stepmom, Sonya? That too. \u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>One entire chapter is dedicated to his early friendship with a teenage Tupac Shakur, who joined DU as a member before going solo. (Apparently Pac had a “fucked” jump shot in basketball, and no one wanted him on their team).\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cfigure class=\"wp-block-image size-full\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-scaled.jpeg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-13992876\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-scaled.jpeg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-2000x1500.jpeg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-160x120.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-768x576.jpeg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-1536x1152.jpeg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-2048x1536.jpeg 2048w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-element-caption\">Notes on a draft of the book, written by Shock G, show his involvement in the book’s phrasing and layout. Pictured together are Shock G and Tupac Shakur. (Alexis Wolfe Mbassa)\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>Largely stream-of-consciousness in homage to Jacobs’ creative process, the book is divided into sections based on the regions where he lived. Wolfe Mbassa traveled to each of them to conduct interviews: Topanga Canyon, Hollywood, Los Angeles, Oakland, New York City and Tampa.\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>Jacobs recounts his first job as a 15-year-old, DJing at a local radio station in Tampa. He was fired for disobeying the radio’s directives and opting to spin the full 15-minute version of “(Not Just) Knee Deep” by Funkadelic instead of airing commercials.\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>It isn’t the only example in the book of his natural inclination to rebel. Jacobs extensively details how he evaded authorities, and circumvented court appearances, from age 17 to 22. \u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003ch2 class=\"wp-block-heading\">Music as a savior \u003c/h2>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>Even for the most studious hip-hop heads, \u003cem>Keep It Beautiful\u003c/em> reveals overlooked wrinkles in Shock’s personality and biography. (Did you know that DU’s original band name was “Spice Regime”?) The book also includes a trove of never-before-seen drawings by Jacobs, showcasing a crude and whimsical style that would come to define his artistry, which sometimes reached ridiculous levels of raunch. (One sketch portrays an anthropomorphic anus forcing an “ASS-PIRIN” pill down its own hole.) \u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cfigure class=\"wp-block-image size-full\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"1296\" height=\"996\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p212-Grandma-Gloria.jpg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-13992879\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p212-Grandma-Gloria.jpg 1296w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p212-Grandma-Gloria-160x123.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p212-Grandma-Gloria-768x590.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1296px) 100vw, 1296px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-element-caption\">A young Shock G (left) with his grandmother Gloria. (Courtesy Alexis Wolfe Mbassa)\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>But the main thrust of \u003cem>Keep It Beautiful \u003c/em>are the granular narratives that Jacobs discloses, like his memories of being jailed in San Diego for six months for grand theft auto, where he used art as a bartering tool. \u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>In scattered, disconnected bursts, he and Wolfe Mbassa recount his side quests and failures (such as his brief time as a male “gigolo” in Pennsylvania) revealing the down-bad experiences that molded his worldview before his rap and art careers took off. Glimpses of that fast life can be heard in his lyrics, but the book shows in detail how Shock G actually did \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YqJAnQTwmJs&list=RDYqJAnQTwmJs&start_radio=1\">get around\u003c/a> from coast to coast.\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>At its core, the collage of archival material shows how music and art became Jacobs’ salvation, therapy and refuge. Putting it all together was a joyous challenge for Wolfe Mbassa, personally tasked by Jacobs to retain the book’s silliness and humor.\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cfigure class=\"wp-block-image size-full\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"2560\" height=\"2045\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p171-Underground-oakland--scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-13992878\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p171-Underground-oakland--scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p171-Underground-oakland--2000x1597.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p171-Underground-oakland--160x128.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p171-Underground-oakland--768x613.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p171-Underground-oakland--1536x1227.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p171-Underground-oakland--2048x1636.jpg 2048w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-element-caption\">Members of a later-era lineup of Digital Underground, pictured in Oakland, with Shock G second from left. (Alexis Wolfe Mbassa)\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>“One of the most difficult parts was trying to figure out how to pull all the pieces together. He always wanted it to be like a scrapbook,” she says. “He wanted it to feel like his personal journals did: stories, mixed with memorabilia and art.”\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>In sitting with \u003cem>Keep It Beautiful\u003c/em>, its spiritual thesis is clear: Jacobs’ everlasting search for beauty, creativity and funky originality shone brightest during his darkest hours. It’s about keeping it beautiful, especially when beauty isn’t easily kept.\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>“It was so much fun,” Wolfe Mbassa confirms, “to live in his world.”\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003chr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\">\n\n\n\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>‘Keep It Beautiful: Inside the Funkyverse of Shock G and Digital Underground’ will be released on Aug. 25\u003c/em>. \u003cem>A free release party with Alexis Wolfe Mbassa and members of Digital Underground takes place Saturday, Aug. 22 at Drake’s Dealership (2325 Broadway, Oakland). \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/DbtkbvQSXrw/\">\u003cem>Event information here\u003c/em>\u003c/a>\u003cem>. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
"blocks": [
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cfigure class=\"wp-block-image size-full\">\u003cimg src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/COVER_Keep-It-Beautiful-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-13992877\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/COVER_Keep-It-Beautiful-scaled.jpg 2067w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/COVER_Keep-It-Beautiful-2000x2477.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/COVER_Keep-It-Beautiful-160x198.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/COVER_Keep-It-Beautiful-768x951.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/COVER_Keep-It-Beautiful-1240x1536.jpg 1240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/COVER_Keep-It-Beautiful-1654x2048.jpg 1654w\" sizes=\"(min-width: 992px) min(100vw, 1536px), (min-width: 768px) min(100vw, 1280px), min(100vw, 1020px)\"/>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-element-caption\">‘Keep It Beautiful: Inside the Funkyverse of Shock G and Digital Underground,’ chronicles the incredible life of the late East Bay rapper, artist and musician.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n",
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"\n\u003cfigure class=\"wp-block-image size-full\">\u003cimg src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/COVER_Keep-It-Beautiful-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-13992877\"/>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-element-caption\">‘Keep It Beautiful: Inside the Funkyverse of Shock G and Digital Underground,’ chronicles the incredible life of the late East Bay rapper, artist and musician.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n"
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cp>In 1990, \u003cem>USA Today\u003c/em> formally contacted NASA to clarify rumors about their latest technology, apparently dubbed “sex packets.” \u003c/p>\n",
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cp>Weeks prior, Oakland’s afrosurrealist rap collective Digital Underground (DU) had released their debut album, \u003cem>Sex Packets\u003c/em>, themed around a new drug for astronauts that could instantly gratify their sexual desires. As DU’s transgressive lyrics glorified the illicit substance, news of the invention leaked onto the Bay Area’s streets: pamphlets were distributed, and condoms were passed out.\u003c/p>\n",
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"\n\u003cp>Weeks prior, Oakland’s afrosurrealist rap collective Digital Underground (DU) had released their debut album, \u003cem>Sex Packets\u003c/em>, themed around a new drug for astronauts that could instantly gratify their sexual desires. As DU’s transgressive lyrics glorified the illicit substance, news of the invention leaked onto the Bay Area’s streets: pamphlets were distributed, and condoms were passed out.\u003c/p>\n"
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cp>NASA was forced to respond to the coital discourse: “NASA has not in the past, nor will they in the future, be working on such a pill … It would be impossible to satisfy the carnal urges of astronauts … To my knowledge, unbridled lust has never interfered with a space mission.”\u003c/p>\n",
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"\n\u003cp>NASA was forced to respond to the coital discourse: “NASA has not in the past, nor will they in the future, be working on such a pill … It would be impossible to satisfy the carnal urges of astronauts … To my knowledge, unbridled lust has never interfered with a space mission.”\u003c/p>\n"
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cp>It’s the first and likely last instance of NASA being outmaneuvered by Oakland rappers. (It turned out DU had created the pamphlets and condoms as subversive promotional materials.)\u003c/p>\n",
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"\n\u003cp>It’s the first and likely last instance of NASA being outmaneuvered by Oakland rappers. (It turned out DU had created the pamphlets and condoms as subversive promotional materials.)\u003c/p>\n"
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cp>The elaborate prank was a piece of artistic genius orchestrated by \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13929900/shock-g-revolutionized-hip-hop-and-created-a-secret-trove-of-funky-art\">Gregory Jacobs — the late MC, songwriter, illustrator, pianist and costume-wearing virtuoso\u003c/a> known as Shock G. The NASA incident is just one of the many shenanigans detailed in his posthumous memoir, \u003cem>Keep It Beautiful: Inside the Funkyverse of Shock G and Digital Underground\u003c/em>, out Aug. 25 — Shock G’s birthday — from \u003ca href=\"https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/738825/keep-it-beautiful-by-alexis-wolfe-mbassa-and-gregory-e-jacobs/\">Penguin Random House\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n",
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"\n\u003cp>The elaborate prank was a piece of artistic genius orchestrated by \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13929900/shock-g-revolutionized-hip-hop-and-created-a-secret-trove-of-funky-art\">Gregory Jacobs — the late MC, songwriter, illustrator, pianist and costume-wearing virtuoso\u003c/a> known as Shock G. The NASA incident is just one of the many shenanigans detailed in his posthumous memoir, \u003cem>Keep It Beautiful: Inside the Funkyverse of Shock G and Digital Underground\u003c/em>, out Aug. 25 — Shock G’s birthday — from \u003ca href=\"https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/738825/keep-it-beautiful-by-alexis-wolfe-mbassa-and-gregory-e-jacobs/\">Penguin Random House\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n"
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cfigure class=\"wp-block-image size-full\">\u003cimg src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/Alexis-and-Greg-in-Tampa-p228-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-13992875\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/Alexis-and-Greg-in-Tampa-p228-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/Alexis-and-Greg-in-Tampa-p228-2000x1333.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/Alexis-and-Greg-in-Tampa-p228-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/Alexis-and-Greg-in-Tampa-p228-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/Alexis-and-Greg-in-Tampa-p228-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/Alexis-and-Greg-in-Tampa-p228-2048x1365.jpg 2048w\" sizes=\"(min-width: 992px) min(100vw, 1536px), (min-width: 768px) min(100vw, 1280px), min(100vw, 1020px)\"/>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-element-caption\">Shock G and Alexis Wolfe Mbassa in Tampa, Fla., working on the memoir ‘Keep It Beautiful: Inside the Funkyverse of Shock G and Digital Underground.’\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n",
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"\n\u003cfigure class=\"wp-block-image size-full\">\u003cimg src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/Alexis-and-Greg-in-Tampa-p228-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-13992875\"/>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-element-caption\">Shock G and Alexis Wolfe Mbassa in Tampa, Fla., working on the memoir ‘Keep It Beautiful: Inside the Funkyverse of Shock G and Digital Underground.’\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n"
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cp>The book combines handwritten notes, interview transcripts, personal photos and rare sketches compiled by Jacobs’ longtime friend and photographer, Alexis Wolfe Mbassa, who tagged along with Jacobs in order to document his eccentric life for over a decade. \u003c/p>\n",
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"\n\u003cp>The book combines handwritten notes, interview transcripts, personal photos and rare sketches compiled by Jacobs’ longtime friend and photographer, Alexis Wolfe Mbassa, who tagged along with Jacobs in order to document his eccentric life for over a decade. \u003c/p>\n"
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cp>The association was intentional; in 2011, Jacobs personally recruited Wolfe Mbassa as a co-author for his autobiography. In 2021, just eight months after submitting the book to literary agents, Jacobs died from a drug overdose in Florida. He was 57.\u003c/p>\n",
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"\n\u003cp>The association was intentional; in 2011, Jacobs personally recruited Wolfe Mbassa as a co-author for his autobiography. In 2021, just eight months after submitting the book to literary agents, Jacobs died from a drug overdose in Florida. He was 57.\u003c/p>\n"
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cp>“It was never about money or becoming successful for him; it was about having the freedom to create,” Wolfe Mbassa told KQED. “He put himself in wild situations just to hold on to that freedom.”\u003c/p>\n",
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"\n\u003cp>“It was never about money or becoming successful for him; it was about having the freedom to create,” Wolfe Mbassa told KQED. “He put himself in wild situations just to hold on to that freedom.”\u003c/p>\n"
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"text": "A natural rebel",
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003ch2 class=\"wp-block-heading\">A natural rebel\u003c/h2>\n",
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"\n\u003ch2 class=\"wp-block-heading\">A natural rebel\u003c/h2>\n"
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cp>Wild situations form much of \u003cem>Keep It Beautiful\u003c/em>. It details Jacobs’ stints in pimping, homelessness and jail, while containing all of the exuberant, out-of-pocket abundance of a Shock G production. A conversation between Shock G and George Clinton of Parliament Funkadelic? Yup. An African gray parrot named Afro who lives in Shock G’s childhood home and imitates his stepmom, Sonya? That too. \u003c/p>\n",
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"\n\u003cp>Wild situations form much of \u003cem>Keep It Beautiful\u003c/em>. It details Jacobs’ stints in pimping, homelessness and jail, while containing all of the exuberant, out-of-pocket abundance of a Shock G production. A conversation between Shock G and George Clinton of Parliament Funkadelic? Yup. An African gray parrot named Afro who lives in Shock G’s childhood home and imitates his stepmom, Sonya? That too. \u003c/p>\n"
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cp>One entire chapter is dedicated to his early friendship with a teenage Tupac Shakur, who joined DU as a member before going solo. (Apparently Pac had a “fucked” jump shot in basketball, and no one wanted him on their team).\u003c/p>\n",
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"\n\u003cp>One entire chapter is dedicated to his early friendship with a teenage Tupac Shakur, who joined DU as a member before going solo. (Apparently Pac had a “fucked” jump shot in basketball, and no one wanted him on their team).\u003c/p>\n"
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"srcset": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-scaled.jpeg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-2000x1500.jpeg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-160x120.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-768x576.jpeg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-1536x1152.jpeg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-2048x1536.jpeg 2048w",
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cfigure class=\"wp-block-image size-full\">\u003cimg src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-scaled.jpeg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-13992876\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-scaled.jpeg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-2000x1500.jpeg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-160x120.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-768x576.jpeg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-1536x1152.jpeg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-2048x1536.jpeg 2048w\" sizes=\"(min-width: 992px) min(100vw, 1536px), (min-width: 768px) min(100vw, 1280px), min(100vw, 1020px)\"/>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-element-caption\">Notes on a draft of the book, written by Shock G, show his involvement in the book’s phrasing and layout. Pictured together are Shock G and Tupac Shakur.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n",
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"\n\u003cfigure class=\"wp-block-image size-full\">\u003cimg src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-scaled.jpeg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-13992876\"/>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-element-caption\">Notes on a draft of the book, written by Shock G, show his involvement in the book’s phrasing and layout. Pictured together are Shock G and Tupac Shakur.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n"
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cp>Largely stream-of-consciousness in homage to Jacobs’ creative process, the book is divided into sections based on the regions where he lived. Wolfe Mbassa traveled to each of them to conduct interviews: Topanga Canyon, Hollywood, Los Angeles, Oakland, New York City and Tampa.\u003c/p>\n",
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"\n\u003cp>Largely stream-of-consciousness in homage to Jacobs’ creative process, the book is divided into sections based on the regions where he lived. Wolfe Mbassa traveled to each of them to conduct interviews: Topanga Canyon, Hollywood, Los Angeles, Oakland, New York City and Tampa.\u003c/p>\n"
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cp>Jacobs recounts his first job as a 15-year-old, DJing at a local radio station in Tampa. He was fired for disobeying the radio’s directives and opting to spin the full 15-minute version of “(Not Just) Knee Deep” by Funkadelic instead of airing commercials.\u003c/p>\n",
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"\n\u003cp>Jacobs recounts his first job as a 15-year-old, DJing at a local radio station in Tampa. He was fired for disobeying the radio’s directives and opting to spin the full 15-minute version of “(Not Just) Knee Deep” by Funkadelic instead of airing commercials.\u003c/p>\n"
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cp>It isn’t the only example in the book of his natural inclination to rebel. Jacobs extensively details how he evaded authorities, and circumvented court appearances, from age 17 to 22. \u003c/p>\n",
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"\n\u003cp>It isn’t the only example in the book of his natural inclination to rebel. Jacobs extensively details how he evaded authorities, and circumvented court appearances, from age 17 to 22. \u003c/p>\n"
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003ch2 class=\"wp-block-heading\">Music as a savior \u003c/h2>\n",
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"\n\u003ch2 class=\"wp-block-heading\">Music as a savior \u003c/h2>\n"
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cp>Even for the most studious hip-hop heads, \u003cem>Keep It Beautiful\u003c/em> reveals overlooked wrinkles in Shock’s personality and biography. (Did you know that DU’s original band name was “Spice Regime”?) The book also includes a trove of never-before-seen drawings by Jacobs, showcasing a crude and whimsical style that would come to define his artistry, which sometimes reached ridiculous levels of raunch. (One sketch portrays an anthropomorphic anus forcing an “ASS-PIRIN” pill down its own hole.) \u003c/p>\n",
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"\n\u003cp>Even for the most studious hip-hop heads, \u003cem>Keep It Beautiful\u003c/em> reveals overlooked wrinkles in Shock’s personality and biography. (Did you know that DU’s original band name was “Spice Regime”?) The book also includes a trove of never-before-seen drawings by Jacobs, showcasing a crude and whimsical style that would come to define his artistry, which sometimes reached ridiculous levels of raunch. (One sketch portrays an anthropomorphic anus forcing an “ASS-PIRIN” pill down its own hole.) \u003c/p>\n"
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cfigure class=\"wp-block-image size-full\">\u003cimg src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p212-Grandma-Gloria.jpg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-13992879\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p212-Grandma-Gloria.jpg 1296w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p212-Grandma-Gloria-160x123.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p212-Grandma-Gloria-768x590.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(min-width: 992px) min(100vw, 1536px), (min-width: 768px) min(100vw, 1280px), min(100vw, 1020px)\"/>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-element-caption\">A young Shock G (left) with his grandmother Gloria. \u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n",
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cp>But the main thrust of \u003cem>Keep It Beautiful \u003c/em>are the granular narratives that Jacobs discloses, like his memories of being jailed in San Diego for six months for grand theft auto, where he used art as a bartering tool. \u003c/p>\n",
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cp>In scattered, disconnected bursts, he and Wolfe Mbassa recount his side quests and failures (such as his brief time as a male “gigolo” in Pennsylvania) revealing the down-bad experiences that molded his worldview before his rap and art careers took off. Glimpses of that fast life can be heard in his lyrics, but the book shows in detail how Shock G actually did \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YqJAnQTwmJs&list=RDYqJAnQTwmJs&start_radio=1\">get around\u003c/a> from coast to coast.\u003c/p>\n",
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"\n\u003cp>In scattered, disconnected bursts, he and Wolfe Mbassa recount his side quests and failures (such as his brief time as a male “gigolo” in Pennsylvania) revealing the down-bad experiences that molded his worldview before his rap and art careers took off. Glimpses of that fast life can be heard in his lyrics, but the book shows in detail how Shock G actually did \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YqJAnQTwmJs&list=RDYqJAnQTwmJs&start_radio=1\">get around\u003c/a> from coast to coast.\u003c/p>\n"
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cp>At its core, the collage of archival material shows how music and art became Jacobs’ salvation, therapy and refuge. Putting it all together was a joyous challenge for Wolfe Mbassa, personally tasked by Jacobs to retain the book’s silliness and humor.\u003c/p>\n",
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"\n\u003cp>At its core, the collage of archival material shows how music and art became Jacobs’ salvation, therapy and refuge. Putting it all together was a joyous challenge for Wolfe Mbassa, personally tasked by Jacobs to retain the book’s silliness and humor.\u003c/p>\n"
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cfigure class=\"wp-block-image size-full\">\u003cimg src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p171-Underground-oakland--scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-13992878\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p171-Underground-oakland--scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p171-Underground-oakland--2000x1597.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p171-Underground-oakland--160x128.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p171-Underground-oakland--768x613.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p171-Underground-oakland--1536x1227.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p171-Underground-oakland--2048x1636.jpg 2048w\" sizes=\"(min-width: 992px) min(100vw, 1536px), (min-width: 768px) min(100vw, 1280px), min(100vw, 1020px)\"/>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-element-caption\">Members of a later-era lineup of Digital Underground, pictured in Oakland, with Shock G second from left. \u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n",
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"\n\u003cfigure class=\"wp-block-image size-full\">\u003cimg src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p171-Underground-oakland--scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-13992878\"/>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-element-caption\">Members of a later-era lineup of Digital Underground, pictured in Oakland, with Shock G second from left. \u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n"
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cp>“One of the most difficult parts was trying to figure out how to pull all the pieces together. He always wanted it to be like a scrapbook,” she says. “He wanted it to feel like his personal journals did: stories, mixed with memorabilia and art.”\u003c/p>\n",
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"\n\u003cp>“One of the most difficult parts was trying to figure out how to pull all the pieces together. He always wanted it to be like a scrapbook,” she says. “He wanted it to feel like his personal journals did: stories, mixed with memorabilia and art.”\u003c/p>\n"
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cp>In sitting with \u003cem>Keep It Beautiful\u003c/em>, its spiritual thesis is clear: Jacobs’ everlasting search for beauty, creativity and funky originality shone brightest during his darkest hours. It’s about keeping it beautiful, especially when beauty isn’t easily kept.\u003c/p>\n",
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"\n\u003cp>In sitting with \u003cem>Keep It Beautiful\u003c/em>, its spiritual thesis is clear: Jacobs’ everlasting search for beauty, creativity and funky originality shone brightest during his darkest hours. It’s about keeping it beautiful, especially when beauty isn’t easily kept.\u003c/p>\n"
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cp>“It was so much fun,” Wolfe Mbassa confirms, “to live in his world.”\u003c/p>\n",
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"innerHTML": "\n\u003cp>\u003cem>‘Keep It Beautiful: Inside the Funkyverse of Shock G and Digital Underground’ will be released on Aug. 25\u003c/em>. \u003cem>A free release party with Alexis Wolfe Mbassa and members of Digital Underground takes place Saturday, Aug. 22 at Drake’s Dealership (2325 Broadway, Oakland). \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/DbtkbvQSXrw/\">\u003cem>Event information here\u003c/em>\u003c/a>\u003cem>. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n",
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"\n\u003cp>\u003cem>‘Keep It Beautiful: Inside the Funkyverse of Shock G and Digital Underground’ will be released on Aug. 25\u003c/em>. \u003cem>A free release party with Alexis Wolfe Mbassa and members of Digital Underground takes place Saturday, Aug. 22 at Drake’s Dealership (2325 Broadway, Oakland). \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/DbtkbvQSXrw/\">\u003cem>Event information here\u003c/em>\u003c/a>\u003cem>. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n"
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"excerpt": "‘Keep It Beautiful’ is an inside look at the Digital Underground frontman’s artistry and complexities.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure class=\"wp-block-image size-full\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"2067\" height=\"2560\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/COVER_Keep-It-Beautiful-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-13992877\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/COVER_Keep-It-Beautiful-scaled.jpg 2067w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/COVER_Keep-It-Beautiful-2000x2477.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/COVER_Keep-It-Beautiful-160x198.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/COVER_Keep-It-Beautiful-768x951.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/COVER_Keep-It-Beautiful-1240x1536.jpg 1240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/COVER_Keep-It-Beautiful-1654x2048.jpg 1654w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2067px) 100vw, 2067px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-element-caption\">‘Keep It Beautiful: Inside the Funkyverse of Shock G and Digital Underground,’ chronicles the incredible life of the late East Bay rapper, artist and musician. (Penguin Random House)\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>In 1990, \u003cem>USA Today\u003c/em> formally contacted NASA to clarify rumors about their latest technology, apparently dubbed “sex packets.” \u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>Weeks prior, Oakland’s afrosurrealist rap collective Digital Underground (DU) had released their debut album, \u003cem>Sex Packets\u003c/em>, themed around a new drug for astronauts that could instantly gratify their sexual desires. As DU’s transgressive lyrics glorified the illicit substance, news of the invention leaked onto the Bay Area’s streets: pamphlets were distributed, and condoms were passed out.\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>NASA was forced to respond to the coital discourse: “NASA has not in the past, nor will they in the future, be working on such a pill … It would be impossible to satisfy the carnal urges of astronauts … To my knowledge, unbridled lust has never interfered with a space mission.”\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>It’s the first and likely last instance of NASA being outmaneuvered by Oakland rappers. (It turned out DU had created the pamphlets and condoms as subversive promotional materials.)\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>The elaborate prank was a piece of artistic genius orchestrated by \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13929900/shock-g-revolutionized-hip-hop-and-created-a-secret-trove-of-funky-art\">Gregory Jacobs — the late MC, songwriter, illustrator, pianist and costume-wearing virtuoso\u003c/a> known as Shock G. The NASA incident is just one of the many shenanigans detailed in his posthumous memoir, \u003cem>Keep It Beautiful: Inside the Funkyverse of Shock G and Digital Underground\u003c/em>, out Aug. 25 — Shock G’s birthday — from \u003ca href=\"https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/738825/keep-it-beautiful-by-alexis-wolfe-mbassa-and-gregory-e-jacobs/\">Penguin Random House\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cfigure class=\"wp-block-image size-full\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1706\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/Alexis-and-Greg-in-Tampa-p228-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-13992875\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/Alexis-and-Greg-in-Tampa-p228-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/Alexis-and-Greg-in-Tampa-p228-2000x1333.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/Alexis-and-Greg-in-Tampa-p228-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/Alexis-and-Greg-in-Tampa-p228-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/Alexis-and-Greg-in-Tampa-p228-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/Alexis-and-Greg-in-Tampa-p228-2048x1365.jpg 2048w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-element-caption\">Shock G and Alexis Wolfe Mbassa in Tampa, Fla., working on the memoir ‘Keep It Beautiful: Inside the Funkyverse of Shock G and Digital Underground.’ (Alexis Wolfe Mbassa)\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>The book combines handwritten notes, interview transcripts, personal photos and rare sketches compiled by Jacobs’ longtime friend and photographer, Alexis Wolfe Mbassa, who tagged along with Jacobs in order to document his eccentric life for over a decade. \u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The association was intentional; in 2011, Jacobs personally recruited Wolfe Mbassa as a co-author for his autobiography. In 2021, just eight months after submitting the book to literary agents, Jacobs died from a drug overdose in Florida. He was 57.\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>“It was never about money or becoming successful for him; it was about having the freedom to create,” Wolfe Mbassa told KQED. “He put himself in wild situations just to hold on to that freedom.”\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003ch2 class=\"wp-block-heading\">A natural rebel\u003c/h2>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>Wild situations form much of \u003cem>Keep It Beautiful\u003c/em>. It details Jacobs’ stints in pimping, homelessness and jail, while containing all of the exuberant, out-of-pocket abundance of a Shock G production. A conversation between Shock G and George Clinton of Parliament Funkadelic? Yup. An African gray parrot named Afro who lives in Shock G’s childhood home and imitates his stepmom, Sonya? That too. \u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>One entire chapter is dedicated to his early friendship with a teenage Tupac Shakur, who joined DU as a member before going solo. (Apparently Pac had a “fucked” jump shot in basketball, and no one wanted him on their team).\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cfigure class=\"wp-block-image size-full\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-scaled.jpeg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-13992876\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-scaled.jpeg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-2000x1500.jpeg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-160x120.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-768x576.jpeg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-1536x1152.jpeg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/ShocksNotes_inSharpie-2048x1536.jpeg 2048w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-element-caption\">Notes on a draft of the book, written by Shock G, show his involvement in the book’s phrasing and layout. Pictured together are Shock G and Tupac Shakur. (Alexis Wolfe Mbassa)\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>Largely stream-of-consciousness in homage to Jacobs’ creative process, the book is divided into sections based on the regions where he lived. Wolfe Mbassa traveled to each of them to conduct interviews: Topanga Canyon, Hollywood, Los Angeles, Oakland, New York City and Tampa.\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>Jacobs recounts his first job as a 15-year-old, DJing at a local radio station in Tampa. He was fired for disobeying the radio’s directives and opting to spin the full 15-minute version of “(Not Just) Knee Deep” by Funkadelic instead of airing commercials.\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>It isn’t the only example in the book of his natural inclination to rebel. Jacobs extensively details how he evaded authorities, and circumvented court appearances, from age 17 to 22. \u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003ch2 class=\"wp-block-heading\">Music as a savior \u003c/h2>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>Even for the most studious hip-hop heads, \u003cem>Keep It Beautiful\u003c/em> reveals overlooked wrinkles in Shock’s personality and biography. (Did you know that DU’s original band name was “Spice Regime”?) The book also includes a trove of never-before-seen drawings by Jacobs, showcasing a crude and whimsical style that would come to define his artistry, which sometimes reached ridiculous levels of raunch. (One sketch portrays an anthropomorphic anus forcing an “ASS-PIRIN” pill down its own hole.) \u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cfigure class=\"wp-block-image size-full\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"1296\" height=\"996\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p212-Grandma-Gloria.jpg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-13992879\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p212-Grandma-Gloria.jpg 1296w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p212-Grandma-Gloria-160x123.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p212-Grandma-Gloria-768x590.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1296px) 100vw, 1296px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-element-caption\">A young Shock G (left) with his grandmother Gloria. (Courtesy Alexis Wolfe Mbassa)\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>But the main thrust of \u003cem>Keep It Beautiful \u003c/em>are the granular narratives that Jacobs discloses, like his memories of being jailed in San Diego for six months for grand theft auto, where he used art as a bartering tool. \u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>In scattered, disconnected bursts, he and Wolfe Mbassa recount his side quests and failures (such as his brief time as a male “gigolo” in Pennsylvania) revealing the down-bad experiences that molded his worldview before his rap and art careers took off. Glimpses of that fast life can be heard in his lyrics, but the book shows in detail how Shock G actually did \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YqJAnQTwmJs&list=RDYqJAnQTwmJs&start_radio=1\">get around\u003c/a> from coast to coast.\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>At its core, the collage of archival material shows how music and art became Jacobs’ salvation, therapy and refuge. Putting it all together was a joyous challenge for Wolfe Mbassa, personally tasked by Jacobs to retain the book’s silliness and humor.\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cfigure class=\"wp-block-image size-full\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"2560\" height=\"2045\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p171-Underground-oakland--scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-13992878\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p171-Underground-oakland--scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p171-Underground-oakland--2000x1597.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p171-Underground-oakland--160x128.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p171-Underground-oakland--768x613.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p171-Underground-oakland--1536x1227.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2026/08/p171-Underground-oakland--2048x1636.jpg 2048w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-element-caption\">Members of a later-era lineup of Digital Underground, pictured in Oakland, with Shock G second from left. (Alexis Wolfe Mbassa)\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>“One of the most difficult parts was trying to figure out how to pull all the pieces together. He always wanted it to be like a scrapbook,” she says. “He wanted it to feel like his personal journals did: stories, mixed with memorabilia and art.”\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>In sitting with \u003cem>Keep It Beautiful\u003c/em>, its spiritual thesis is clear: Jacobs’ everlasting search for beauty, creativity and funky originality shone brightest during his darkest hours. It’s about keeping it beautiful, especially when beauty isn’t easily kept.\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003cp>“It was so much fun,” Wolfe Mbassa confirms, “to live in his world.”\u003c/p>\n\n\n\n\u003chr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\">\n\n\n\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>‘Keep It Beautiful: Inside the Funkyverse of Shock G and Digital Underground’ will be released on Aug. 25\u003c/em>. \u003cem>A free release party with Alexis Wolfe Mbassa and members of Digital Underground takes place Saturday, Aug. 22 at Drake’s Dealership (2325 Broadway, Oakland). \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/DbtkbvQSXrw/\">\u003cem>Event information here\u003c/em>\u003c/a>\u003cem>. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "shock-g-revolutionized-hip-hop-and-created-a-secret-trove-of-funky-art",
"title": "Digital Underground’s MC Was Secretly a Genius Illustrator",
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"headTitle": "Digital Underground’s MC Was Secretly a Genius Illustrator | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cstrong>Editor’s note\u003c/strong>: This story is part of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For many listeners, Bay Area rap from the late ’80s and early ’90s calls to mind the dark synths and trunk-blapping bass of mobb music. The popular Northern California subgenre was born out of poverty-induced turf conflicts and dreams of riches, producing timeless classics like \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13922616/too-short-way-street-sign-unveiled-oakland\">Too Short\u003c/a>’s \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Born to Mack\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13890437/e-40-and-too-horts-verzuz-battle-a-treasure-trove-of-bay-area-hip-hop-culture\">E-40\u003c/a>’s \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Federal. \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Though nuanced and laced with hood wisdom, much of hip-hop from that period focused on pimping, hustling and territorial claims. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It’s groundbreaking, then, that during the same time, an aberrant, free-spirited rapper from the East Coast would arrive in Oakland and forever change the rap scene with his boundless expressions of joy. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This Afrosurrealist galaxy traveler with a microphone and a Sharpie? Gregory Jacobs — better known as Digital Underground frontman \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13896288/remembering-shock-g-the-funky-digital-underground-frontman-who-shaped-oakland-rap\">Shock G\u003c/a>, or his alter ego, Humpty Hump. His platinum-selling rap collective gave \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13929233/tupac-shakur-street-oakland-tupac-shakur-way\">Tupac Shakur\u003c/a> his start and made classic hits like “\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PBsjggc5jHM\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The Humpty Dance\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">,” “Kiss You Back” and “\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7P6N8r1kUTM\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Freaks of the Industry\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.” His place in Bay Area rap’s Hall of Game is unquestionable.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13896258\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13896258\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG-800x500.jpg\" alt=\"Shock G of Digital Underground performs during the BET Hip Hop Awards in 2010 in Atlanta. Shock G died Thursday at age 57.\" width=\"800\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG-800x500.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG-1020x638.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG-160x100.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG-768x480.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG-1536x960.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G of Digital Underground performs during the BET Hip Hop Awards in 2010 in Atlanta. \u003ccite>(Taylor Hill/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Yet, there’s another dimension to Shock G — who passed away in 2021 at 57 years old — that doesn’t often get the same adoration as his music. In addition to his prowess as a lyricist, producer and pianist, Shock G was an accomplished visual artist who created enough work to fill a museum.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The majority of Digital Underground’s projects involve Shock G’s visual contributions in some form — whether through photo collages or hand-drawn illustrations credited to an alias. And many more of his drawings and low-brow doodles still exist in privately stored boxes and notebooks, in the care of his friends and family. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">A descendant of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13839952/its-that-naughty-feeling-george-clinton-on-funks-enduring-appeal\">Parliament-Funkadelic\u003c/a>’s unconventional sensibilities, Shock G was among the earliest key figures \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">who gave Bay Area rap \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13924042/nump-hyphy-i-gott-grapes-interview\">its humor\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13920746/bay-area-rap-cmon-its-different\">its distinctive weirdness\u003c/a>\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. And he paved the way for multi-hyphenated rap experimentalists like Tyler, the Creator, Tierra Whack and Lil B to thrive in generations that followed.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929951\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13929951\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-800x739.jpg\" alt=\"a Black man is eating an album cover in a colorful, Afrosurrealist drawing\" width=\"800\" height=\"739\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-800x739.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-1020x942.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-160x148.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-768x709.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-1536x1419.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-2048x1892.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-1920x1774.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G’s visual artistry was influenced by P-Funk, comic books, graffiti and more. \u003ccite>(Tamara Palmer)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“It makes it easier when someone comes with the full package: producer, writer, artist, storyboards,” says Atron Gregory, Shock G’s friend and Tupac’s former manager. “He could give you everything. That’s pretty rare. Very rare at that time. Now there’s more people who do it.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The origins of an experimental artist\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Born in New York City and later raised in Tampa, Florida, Shock G grew up drawing, reading comic books and attending comic conventions from an early age. Gregory says that Shock G’s mother, Shirley Kraft, always encouraged her son’s gifts for visual art. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“There was never any pushback against it,” he tells me over Zoom.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">As an adolescent, Shock G’s multifaceted creativity was evident. He was awarded “Most Talented” for his drumming abilities in junior high, and eventually began spinning records in the early ’80s. \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">By age 16, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.tampabay.com/news/tampa/2021/05/01/we-lost-another-legend-friends-family-say-goodbye-to-shock-g-in-tampa/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">he DJed regularly on the air under the name Gregory Racker\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> and formed the Tampa group the Master Blasters\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. Through it all, he incessantly sketched his thoughts as visual freestyles.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“When we were in New York as kids, we used to draw our own comic books,” says Kent Racker, Shock’s younger brother, who lives in the Bay Area. “When we were in Tampa, he almost got a syndicated comic strip out called \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Looney Dap\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. It was about this kid getting in trouble and doing weird stuff. That almost got published.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930484\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930484\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"A Black man in his 50s poses in a room with musical equipment - guitars and speakers - and holds up a painting by his late brother, Shock G. The painting is an abstract, atom-like design of colorful orbs floating through a blue background. \" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kent Racker, the brother of the late Gregory Jacobs, known as Shock G, holds a painting by Shock G at his home in Oakland on June 13, 2023. Gregory Jacobs, rapper and producer for Digital Underground, performed as Shock G and Humpty Hump and was a visual artist, creating album covers for the group and original art pieces. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock G and his family eventually moved to the East Bay, where he would make a name for himself after forming Digital Underground in 1987 with Chopmaster J and Kenny K. (The collective’s membership changed with every album, but Shock G remained a constant.) \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Upon meeting Shock for the first time, it was obvious to Money B — DU’s co-lead MC and Shock’s longtime ride-or-die — that Shock was creating his own wave.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930426\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930426\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Shock-G-800x450.jpeg\" alt=\"Shock G and the members of Digital Underground at a house party in the '90s.\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Shock-G-800x450.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Shock-G-1020x574.jpeg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Shock-G-160x90.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Shock-G-768x432.jpeg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Shock-G.jpeg 1461w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G (far right) was known for his flamboyant self-expression. He painted a new fake nose for each Digital Underground show, where he dressed as his alter ego, Humpty Hump. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Money B)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I realized he was an artist from day one,” remembers Money B. The two ran in similar circles: In 1988, Shock G was promoting an early Digital Underground single, “Underwater Rimes,” and Money was performing at the same East Bay clubs with future DU member DJ Fuze. Right away, Money says, Shock stood out: “He was wearing a beret and these sweatpants with something drawn on them. He wore tassels.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Money B was instantly fascinated. “Underwater Rimes” featured Shock G blissfully rhyming as “a deep-sea gangster, underwater prankster” over aquatic sound effects, and his artwork for it featured sea creatures in hip-hop clothes, talking slick. Fittingly, the surrealist track came out with “Your Life’s a Cartoon” as the B-side. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“You could tell he had an originality about himself,” Money B says. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929950\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13929950\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-800x533.jpeg\" alt=\"a cartoonish octopus wearing hip-hop gear like sunglasses and an 80s Kangol hat\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-800x533.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-1020x680.jpeg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-160x107.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-768x512.jpeg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-1536x1024.jpeg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-2048x1365.jpeg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-1920x1280.jpeg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G’s illustration for the Digital Underground singles “Underwater Rimes” and “Your Life’s A Cartoon” showcase his effervescent artistry. \u003ccite>(Tamara Palmer)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Shock G’s expansive visual style\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock G’s raunchy humor was on full display on Digital Underground’s canonical 1990 album \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Sex Packets\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, which sold over a million copies. And it extended to his visual art from that period, too. He even designed condom wrappers that Tommy Boy Records gave away to \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://groups.google.com/g/alt.rap/c/isX90bFrjLA?pli=1\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">promote\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> the record\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“A pamphlet went out to San Francisco strip clubs and peep shows,” Money B recalls. “He drew the invitation to the original [album release] party. Everything had art attached to it.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock’s avant-garde approach was also evident on stage. For each show, he would custom-paint a plastic nose for his Humpty Hump getup and give it away to a fan at the end of the night. His quirky, exuberant fashion and alter egos were also \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">a precursor to the far-fetched costumery \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">that would later define\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> beloved Bay Area rappers like Mac Dre, who during the hyphy movement dressed up as a genie, a fictional president and a tennis pro\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13896267\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13896267\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/R-42681-1333303548.jpeg.jpg\" alt=\"The cover of The HUmpty Dance single\" width=\"600\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/R-42681-1333303548.jpeg.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/R-42681-1333303548.jpeg-160x160.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G’s cartoony illustrations laced Digital Underground’s album covers and inserts. \u003ccite>(Tommy Boy)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This kind of rebellious, form-bending aesthetic evolved throughout Shock G’s career. For 1991’s \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This Is an E.P. Release, \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">he provided a “Customer I.Q. Quiz” in the top corner of the album cover. Answers for a multiple-choice question about what “E.P.” means included “EXTRA POOR,” “EXTENDED PHILOSOPHY,” and “ERECT P_NIS.” Later, in the early aughts, Shock introduced an illustration series called \u003cem>Assholes\u003c/em> that starred fictional characters based on anuses (yes, actual assholes).\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">No matter the subject, though, Shock’s illustrations linked him to an Afrosurrealist, funky artistic lineage that went back decades. At various points in his life, he openly credited Parliament-Funkadelic’s album cover artist \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/2019/08/30/arts/music/pedro-bell-dead.html\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Pedro Bell, whose strangely cosmic, erotic illustrations \u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">were a major inspiration of his.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“Part of my huge affection for P-Funk is the humor. It’s not so militant,” Shock said on the Netflix series \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Hip-Hop Evolution\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. “It’s just like… ‘Dance your way out of your constrictions.’”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock G never actively promoted his artwork, instead lasering in on his rap ambitions. But along with \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13927692/del-funky-homosapien-no-need-for-alarm-30-years-anniversary\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Del the Funky Homosapien\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, who also has a background in visual art, Shock was part of the first wave of Bay Area rappers who helped to define what it meant to be a weird, versatile, poly-skilled artist. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“In the late ’80s, there were maybe three people doing art like him,” Gregory says. “He wanted to be accepted as a rapper. That’s why you’ll see [his art is signed with aliases] Rackadelic and Staying Busy Productions [instead of Shock G]. He separated all that to make sure he was accepted as a rapper and had success there.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930485\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930485\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"The poster for Digital Underground's 'This Is an E.P. Release' features carnival-esque caricatures of all the bandmates, including Tupac Shakur.\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kent Racker, the brother of the late Gregory Jacobs, known as Shock G, holds a Digital Underground poster featuring the ‘This Is an E.P. Release’ album art at his home in Oakland on June 13, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Tupac’s caricature in \u003cem>This Is an E.P. Release\u003c/em>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">As Digital Underground’s heartbeat, Shock G put his playful touch on everything — and often communicated through exaggerated drawings rather than words.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“He wasn’t drawing pictures that were realistic. He would accentuate your main features. Huge freckles, big lips,” Money B says. “[He drew] Tupac’s big ol’ nose and rigid cheekbone. Some people took offense to how they were drawn, but they didn’t get it. [If] he didn’t like you, he might draw some crazy pictures.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">A perennial jokester, Shock’s cartoonish ways weren’t used solely for mockery; they could also serve as a language for love, unity and representation. Perhaps no other Digital Underground project displays this more poetically than the gold-certified \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This Is an E.P. Release\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, which features the single “Same Song” — famous for being Tupac’s first published track. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Tupac began his journey with Digital Underground in 1989 when he\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://eastbayexpress.com/weed-and-white-women-shock-g-from-oaklands-digital-underground-1/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> signed to their underground label, TNT Records\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. It’s likely that without Shock G’s clairvoyance, the version of Tupac we know today may not have arrived as quickly as he did — or, at the very least, the future icon wouldn’t have been given such a momentous debut opportunity in front of a national audience.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930488\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930488\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132-800x508.jpg\" alt=\"A black-and-white photo features a young Shock G rapping in a long fur coat and fur hat. Tupac stands next to him shirtless and holding up artwork, the content of which is not fully visible.\" width=\"800\" height=\"508\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132-800x508.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132-1020x647.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132-160x102.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132-768x487.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132-1536x974.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G and 2Pac of Digital Underground perform at Market Square Arena in Indianapolis, Indiana in July 1990. \u003ccite>(Raymond Boyd/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock and Tupac’s friendship is forever illustrated on \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This Is an E.P. Release\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. The cover features Shock’s hand-drawn portrait of the entire DU squad, himself included, with one arm lovingly wrapped around a young Tupac’s shoulders.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In the new Hulu \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">documentary \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Dear Mama\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, Tupac praises Shock G for giving him his earliest validation as a rap artist: “Shock G made sure people saw me as a member of the group. And because he did that, it gave me the courage and the confidence to really just do what I wanted. That’s the best thing one human being can do for another.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Thanks to Shock G, Tupac finally saw himself — literally and figuratively — as a successful musician.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930495\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930495\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"One of Shock G's drawings features olives climbing out of a martini glass. \" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kent Racker, the brother of the late Gregory Jacobs, known as Shock G, holds a drawing on a greeting card created by Shock G at his home in Oakland on June 13, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Unseen artwork and Shock G’s final act\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">There are countless Shock G visuals that the public has never seen: The zany machinations he would invent on the fly while sitting on a tour bus, hanging backstage or out late at night with his crew. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">A napkin at a burger joint was a canvas to be filled with heartfelt messages for his closest kin. A cardboard box at a party, in his hands, could mutate into a comic strip panel for nonsensical humor. The back of a receipt evolved into a map drawn for a friend before a road trip. Even the inside lining of his jackets became surfaces he could stylize, converting them into wearable artwork that he would later give away to fans.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock G continued making visual art into his last years, often making custom holiday cards for friends and family members, says his brother, Kent Racker. The MC also experimented with abstract, acrylic canvases after moving to Topanga in Southern California as he grew older. Unfortunately, his artistic evolution was cut short. Shock G died of an accidental drug overdose in Tampa, where he spent the end of his life, on April 22, 2021.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930427\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930427\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-152563908-800x534.jpg\" alt=\"Shock G and George Clinton smile at each other, wearing formal attire. \" width=\"800\" height=\"534\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-152563908-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-152563908-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-152563908-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-152563908-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-152563908.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G and George Clinton of Parliament-Funkadelic attend the Congressional Black Caucus Foundation 42nd annual legislative conference at the Washington Convention Center on September 21, 2012 in Washington, DC. \u003ccite>(Monica Morgan/WireImage)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Racker imagines that, had he lived, Shock G could be painting large-scale murals. “But he wasn’t concerned about the promotion of people knowing about [his art while he was alive]. He was just in tune with being able to create a beautiful representation of DU as an artist.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Racker’s estimation can’t be far off. In later interviews, Shock G hinted at wanting to try new things.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930486\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930486\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"Kent Racker poses in a room decorated with Digital Underground gold plaques, guitars and other musical memorabilia. \" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kent Racker, the brother of the late Gregory Jacobs, known as Shock G, stands in his home in Oakland on June 13, 2023, wearing a t-shirt with art made by Shock G. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I wanna get out there and mix it up a little more,” \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://vimeo.com/23192620\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock G told journalist Tamara Palmer\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> in 2011. “I wanna have fun and just make anything. It ain’t gotta be Eddie [Humpty Hump] Humphrey. It ain’t gotta be Shock G.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Palmer initially met Shock G for an MTV interview in 2004 and kept in touch. She says he ran his own website, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"http://shock-g.com/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock-G.com\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, and would often post “highly illustrated” work, including a comic strip at one point. (The site is still active but became a fan site domain after his passing).\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“They were just made-up characters,” says Palmer. “There was no deeper meaning to it, I don’t think. He provided very surprising comic relief.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Eventually, Palmer witnessed his artistry firsthand at a mutual friend’s house party, where they doodled together for fun. “[The art we made together was] cheeky, super cheeky. I glued a flier to the lower corner of a wooden tray and he turned it into a bar scene with a male fish flirting with the female fish. It was like a big wink,” says Palmer.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929947\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13929947\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-800x620.png\" alt=\"a surreal sketch and collage on carboard, including fishes drinking at a bar\" width=\"800\" height=\"620\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-800x620.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-1020x791.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-160x124.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-768x595.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-1536x1191.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-2048x1588.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-1920x1489.png 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G’s sketches were cartoonish, playful and spontaneous. This collaborative piece was made with Tamara Palmer at a house party. \u003ccite>(Tamara Palmer)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Late in his career, along with painting, Shock G veered further into jazz — with Gregory, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://oaklandside.org/2021/11/22/shock-gs-jazz-piano-the-digital-underground-frontmans-musicianship-will-be-featured-in-posthumous-album/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">he recorded a solo jazz piano album, the posthumously released \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The Piano Man\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“As an illustrator and piano player, that was unheard of back then,” Gregory adds. “Nowadays, Roddy Rich and Tyler, the Creator, they have these pianos. Shock went to see [Roddy’s] show in 2018, and the manager came up to tell Shock that [Roddy] is the only rapper to play the piano.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Gregory smirks while sharing this, knowing that Shock mastered the instrument many moons ago. Add to that the immeasurable amounts of unshared, custom artwork in Shock G’s collection, and you have a once-in-a-generation creative mind.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“You gotta think, when we’re touring and on buses, he would draw something every day. Idle time was never idle time [for him]. He was creating something. Even on a napkin or a note, it was artsy,” Money B shares.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Gregory estimates that “95% has probably been unseen.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930497\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930497\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"A '90s color photo features Shock G performing on stage in his white fur getup and his brother, Kent, rapping alongside him.\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kent Racker, the brother of the late Gregory Jacobs, known as Shock G, holds a photo of himself and his brother performing with Digital Underground in Philadelphia at his home in Oakland on June 13, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">All told, Shock G may have been one of the Bay Area’s most prolific, subversive visual artists — a visionary who bent the lines of human geometry with the “Humpty Dance” and on the page with his out-of-this-world drawings. And according to his brother, it couldn’t have happened anywhere except Oakland.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“It would not have happened back East. The style at the time, we always laugh and joke at ourselves about being hippies,” Racker says. “He probably could have come up as a rapper in New York, or anywhere, because of his musicality and being around hip-hop when it was forming. We had that foundation. But coming out to the Bay Area and California, it really amplified and illustrated his aesthetic in the work, and he just kept drawing and creating a visual world.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\n",
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"title": "Digital Underground’s MC Was Secretly a Genius Illustrator | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cstrong>Editor’s note\u003c/strong>: This story is part of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For many listeners, Bay Area rap from the late ’80s and early ’90s calls to mind the dark synths and trunk-blapping bass of mobb music. The popular Northern California subgenre was born out of poverty-induced turf conflicts and dreams of riches, producing timeless classics like \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13922616/too-short-way-street-sign-unveiled-oakland\">Too Short\u003c/a>’s \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Born to Mack\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13890437/e-40-and-too-horts-verzuz-battle-a-treasure-trove-of-bay-area-hip-hop-culture\">E-40\u003c/a>’s \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Federal. \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Though nuanced and laced with hood wisdom, much of hip-hop from that period focused on pimping, hustling and territorial claims. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">It’s groundbreaking, then, that during the same time, an aberrant, free-spirited rapper from the East Coast would arrive in Oakland and forever change the rap scene with his boundless expressions of joy. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This Afrosurrealist galaxy traveler with a microphone and a Sharpie? Gregory Jacobs — better known as Digital Underground frontman \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13896288/remembering-shock-g-the-funky-digital-underground-frontman-who-shaped-oakland-rap\">Shock G\u003c/a>, or his alter ego, Humpty Hump. His platinum-selling rap collective gave \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13929233/tupac-shakur-street-oakland-tupac-shakur-way\">Tupac Shakur\u003c/a> his start and made classic hits like “\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PBsjggc5jHM\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The Humpty Dance\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">,” “Kiss You Back” and “\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7P6N8r1kUTM\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Freaks of the Industry\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.” His place in Bay Area rap’s Hall of Game is unquestionable.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13896258\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13896258\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG-800x500.jpg\" alt=\"Shock G of Digital Underground performs during the BET Hip Hop Awards in 2010 in Atlanta. Shock G died Thursday at age 57.\" width=\"800\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG-800x500.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG-1020x638.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG-160x100.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG-768x480.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG-1536x960.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/ShockG.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G of Digital Underground performs during the BET Hip Hop Awards in 2010 in Atlanta. \u003ccite>(Taylor Hill/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Yet, there’s another dimension to Shock G — who passed away in 2021 at 57 years old — that doesn’t often get the same adoration as his music. In addition to his prowess as a lyricist, producer and pianist, Shock G was an accomplished visual artist who created enough work to fill a museum.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The majority of Digital Underground’s projects involve Shock G’s visual contributions in some form — whether through photo collages or hand-drawn illustrations credited to an alias. And many more of his drawings and low-brow doodles still exist in privately stored boxes and notebooks, in the care of his friends and family. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">A descendant of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13839952/its-that-naughty-feeling-george-clinton-on-funks-enduring-appeal\">Parliament-Funkadelic\u003c/a>’s unconventional sensibilities, Shock G was among the earliest key figures \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">who gave Bay Area rap \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13924042/nump-hyphy-i-gott-grapes-interview\">its humor\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13920746/bay-area-rap-cmon-its-different\">its distinctive weirdness\u003c/a>\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. And he paved the way for multi-hyphenated rap experimentalists like Tyler, the Creator, Tierra Whack and Lil B to thrive in generations that followed.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929951\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13929951\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-800x739.jpg\" alt=\"a Black man is eating an album cover in a colorful, Afrosurrealist drawing\" width=\"800\" height=\"739\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-800x739.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-1020x942.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-160x148.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-768x709.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-1536x1419.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-2048x1892.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-Art-1920x1774.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G’s visual artistry was influenced by P-Funk, comic books, graffiti and more. \u003ccite>(Tamara Palmer)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“It makes it easier when someone comes with the full package: producer, writer, artist, storyboards,” says Atron Gregory, Shock G’s friend and Tupac’s former manager. “He could give you everything. That’s pretty rare. Very rare at that time. Now there’s more people who do it.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The origins of an experimental artist\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Born in New York City and later raised in Tampa, Florida, Shock G grew up drawing, reading comic books and attending comic conventions from an early age. Gregory says that Shock G’s mother, Shirley Kraft, always encouraged her son’s gifts for visual art. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“There was never any pushback against it,” he tells me over Zoom.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">As an adolescent, Shock G’s multifaceted creativity was evident. He was awarded “Most Talented” for his drumming abilities in junior high, and eventually began spinning records in the early ’80s. \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">By age 16, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.tampabay.com/news/tampa/2021/05/01/we-lost-another-legend-friends-family-say-goodbye-to-shock-g-in-tampa/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">he DJed regularly on the air under the name Gregory Racker\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> and formed the Tampa group the Master Blasters\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. Through it all, he incessantly sketched his thoughts as visual freestyles.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“When we were in New York as kids, we used to draw our own comic books,” says Kent Racker, Shock’s younger brother, who lives in the Bay Area. “When we were in Tampa, he almost got a syndicated comic strip out called \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Looney Dap\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. It was about this kid getting in trouble and doing weird stuff. That almost got published.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930484\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930484\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"A Black man in his 50s poses in a room with musical equipment - guitars and speakers - and holds up a painting by his late brother, Shock G. The painting is an abstract, atom-like design of colorful orbs floating through a blue background. \" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66279_230613-KentRackerShockG-09-BL-qut.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kent Racker, the brother of the late Gregory Jacobs, known as Shock G, holds a painting by Shock G at his home in Oakland on June 13, 2023. Gregory Jacobs, rapper and producer for Digital Underground, performed as Shock G and Humpty Hump and was a visual artist, creating album covers for the group and original art pieces. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock G and his family eventually moved to the East Bay, where he would make a name for himself after forming Digital Underground in 1987 with Chopmaster J and Kenny K. (The collective’s membership changed with every album, but Shock G remained a constant.) \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Upon meeting Shock for the first time, it was obvious to Money B — DU’s co-lead MC and Shock’s longtime ride-or-die — that Shock was creating his own wave.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930426\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930426\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Shock-G-800x450.jpeg\" alt=\"Shock G and the members of Digital Underground at a house party in the '90s.\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Shock-G-800x450.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Shock-G-1020x574.jpeg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Shock-G-160x90.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Shock-G-768x432.jpeg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/Shock-G.jpeg 1461w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G (far right) was known for his flamboyant self-expression. He painted a new fake nose for each Digital Underground show, where he dressed as his alter ego, Humpty Hump. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Money B)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I realized he was an artist from day one,” remembers Money B. The two ran in similar circles: In 1988, Shock G was promoting an early Digital Underground single, “Underwater Rimes,” and Money was performing at the same East Bay clubs with future DU member DJ Fuze. Right away, Money says, Shock stood out: “He was wearing a beret and these sweatpants with something drawn on them. He wore tassels.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Money B was instantly fascinated. “Underwater Rimes” featured Shock G blissfully rhyming as “a deep-sea gangster, underwater prankster” over aquatic sound effects, and his artwork for it featured sea creatures in hip-hop clothes, talking slick. Fittingly, the surrealist track came out with “Your Life’s a Cartoon” as the B-side. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“You could tell he had an originality about himself,” Money B says. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929950\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13929950\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-800x533.jpeg\" alt=\"a cartoonish octopus wearing hip-hop gear like sunglasses and an 80s Kangol hat\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-800x533.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-1020x680.jpeg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-160x107.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-768x512.jpeg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-1536x1024.jpeg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-2048x1365.jpeg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Shock-4-1920x1280.jpeg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G’s illustration for the Digital Underground singles “Underwater Rimes” and “Your Life’s A Cartoon” showcase his effervescent artistry. \u003ccite>(Tamara Palmer)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Shock G’s expansive visual style\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock G’s raunchy humor was on full display on Digital Underground’s canonical 1990 album \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Sex Packets\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, which sold over a million copies. And it extended to his visual art from that period, too. He even designed condom wrappers that Tommy Boy Records gave away to \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://groups.google.com/g/alt.rap/c/isX90bFrjLA?pli=1\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">promote\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> the record\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“A pamphlet went out to San Francisco strip clubs and peep shows,” Money B recalls. “He drew the invitation to the original [album release] party. Everything had art attached to it.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock’s avant-garde approach was also evident on stage. For each show, he would custom-paint a plastic nose for his Humpty Hump getup and give it away to a fan at the end of the night. His quirky, exuberant fashion and alter egos were also \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">a precursor to the far-fetched costumery \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">that would later define\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> beloved Bay Area rappers like Mac Dre, who during the hyphy movement dressed up as a genie, a fictional president and a tennis pro\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13896267\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13896267\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/R-42681-1333303548.jpeg.jpg\" alt=\"The cover of The HUmpty Dance single\" width=\"600\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/R-42681-1333303548.jpeg.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/R-42681-1333303548.jpeg-160x160.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G’s cartoony illustrations laced Digital Underground’s album covers and inserts. \u003ccite>(Tommy Boy)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This kind of rebellious, form-bending aesthetic evolved throughout Shock G’s career. For 1991’s \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This Is an E.P. Release, \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">he provided a “Customer I.Q. Quiz” in the top corner of the album cover. Answers for a multiple-choice question about what “E.P.” means included “EXTRA POOR,” “EXTENDED PHILOSOPHY,” and “ERECT P_NIS.” Later, in the early aughts, Shock introduced an illustration series called \u003cem>Assholes\u003c/em> that starred fictional characters based on anuses (yes, actual assholes).\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">No matter the subject, though, Shock’s illustrations linked him to an Afrosurrealist, funky artistic lineage that went back decades. At various points in his life, he openly credited Parliament-Funkadelic’s album cover artist \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/2019/08/30/arts/music/pedro-bell-dead.html\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Pedro Bell, whose strangely cosmic, erotic illustrations \u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">were a major inspiration of his.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“Part of my huge affection for P-Funk is the humor. It’s not so militant,” Shock said on the Netflix series \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Hip-Hop Evolution\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. “It’s just like… ‘Dance your way out of your constrictions.’”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock G never actively promoted his artwork, instead lasering in on his rap ambitions. But along with \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13927692/del-funky-homosapien-no-need-for-alarm-30-years-anniversary\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Del the Funky Homosapien\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, who also has a background in visual art, Shock was part of the first wave of Bay Area rappers who helped to define what it meant to be a weird, versatile, poly-skilled artist. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“In the late ’80s, there were maybe three people doing art like him,” Gregory says. “He wanted to be accepted as a rapper. That’s why you’ll see [his art is signed with aliases] Rackadelic and Staying Busy Productions [instead of Shock G]. He separated all that to make sure he was accepted as a rapper and had success there.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930485\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930485\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"The poster for Digital Underground's 'This Is an E.P. Release' features carnival-esque caricatures of all the bandmates, including Tupac Shakur.\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66270_230613-KentRackerShockG-04-BL-qut.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kent Racker, the brother of the late Gregory Jacobs, known as Shock G, holds a Digital Underground poster featuring the ‘This Is an E.P. Release’ album art at his home in Oakland on June 13, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Tupac’s caricature in \u003cem>This Is an E.P. Release\u003c/em>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">As Digital Underground’s heartbeat, Shock G put his playful touch on everything — and often communicated through exaggerated drawings rather than words.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“He wasn’t drawing pictures that were realistic. He would accentuate your main features. Huge freckles, big lips,” Money B says. “[He drew] Tupac’s big ol’ nose and rigid cheekbone. Some people took offense to how they were drawn, but they didn’t get it. [If] he didn’t like you, he might draw some crazy pictures.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">A perennial jokester, Shock’s cartoonish ways weren’t used solely for mockery; they could also serve as a language for love, unity and representation. Perhaps no other Digital Underground project displays this more poetically than the gold-certified \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This Is an E.P. Release\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, which features the single “Same Song” — famous for being Tupac’s first published track. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Tupac began his journey with Digital Underground in 1989 when he\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://eastbayexpress.com/weed-and-white-women-shock-g-from-oaklands-digital-underground-1/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> signed to their underground label, TNT Records\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. It’s likely that without Shock G’s clairvoyance, the version of Tupac we know today may not have arrived as quickly as he did — or, at the very least, the future icon wouldn’t have been given such a momentous debut opportunity in front of a national audience.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930488\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930488\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132-800x508.jpg\" alt=\"A black-and-white photo features a young Shock G rapping in a long fur coat and fur hat. Tupac stands next to him shirtless and holding up artwork, the content of which is not fully visible.\" width=\"800\" height=\"508\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132-800x508.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132-1020x647.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132-160x102.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132-768x487.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132-1536x974.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-1298436200-scaled-e1686772243132.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G and 2Pac of Digital Underground perform at Market Square Arena in Indianapolis, Indiana in July 1990. \u003ccite>(Raymond Boyd/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock and Tupac’s friendship is forever illustrated on \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This Is an E.P. Release\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. The cover features Shock’s hand-drawn portrait of the entire DU squad, himself included, with one arm lovingly wrapped around a young Tupac’s shoulders.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In the new Hulu \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">documentary \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Dear Mama\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, Tupac praises Shock G for giving him his earliest validation as a rap artist: “Shock G made sure people saw me as a member of the group. And because he did that, it gave me the courage and the confidence to really just do what I wanted. That’s the best thing one human being can do for another.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Thanks to Shock G, Tupac finally saw himself — literally and figuratively — as a successful musician.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930495\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930495\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"One of Shock G's drawings features olives climbing out of a martini glass. \" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66281_230613-KentRackerShockG-15-BL-qut.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kent Racker, the brother of the late Gregory Jacobs, known as Shock G, holds a drawing on a greeting card created by Shock G at his home in Oakland on June 13, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Unseen artwork and Shock G’s final act\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">There are countless Shock G visuals that the public has never seen: The zany machinations he would invent on the fly while sitting on a tour bus, hanging backstage or out late at night with his crew. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">A napkin at a burger joint was a canvas to be filled with heartfelt messages for his closest kin. A cardboard box at a party, in his hands, could mutate into a comic strip panel for nonsensical humor. The back of a receipt evolved into a map drawn for a friend before a road trip. Even the inside lining of his jackets became surfaces he could stylize, converting them into wearable artwork that he would later give away to fans.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock G continued making visual art into his last years, often making custom holiday cards for friends and family members, says his brother, Kent Racker. The MC also experimented with abstract, acrylic canvases after moving to Topanga in Southern California as he grew older. Unfortunately, his artistic evolution was cut short. Shock G died of an accidental drug overdose in Tampa, where he spent the end of his life, on April 22, 2021.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930427\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930427\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-152563908-800x534.jpg\" alt=\"Shock G and George Clinton smile at each other, wearing formal attire. \" width=\"800\" height=\"534\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-152563908-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-152563908-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-152563908-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-152563908-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/GettyImages-152563908.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G and George Clinton of Parliament-Funkadelic attend the Congressional Black Caucus Foundation 42nd annual legislative conference at the Washington Convention Center on September 21, 2012 in Washington, DC. \u003ccite>(Monica Morgan/WireImage)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Racker imagines that, had he lived, Shock G could be painting large-scale murals. “But he wasn’t concerned about the promotion of people knowing about [his art while he was alive]. He was just in tune with being able to create a beautiful representation of DU as an artist.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Racker’s estimation can’t be far off. In later interviews, Shock G hinted at wanting to try new things.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930486\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930486\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"Kent Racker poses in a room decorated with Digital Underground gold plaques, guitars and other musical memorabilia. \" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66288_230613-KentRackerShockG-19-BL-qut.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kent Racker, the brother of the late Gregory Jacobs, known as Shock G, stands in his home in Oakland on June 13, 2023, wearing a t-shirt with art made by Shock G. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I wanna get out there and mix it up a little more,” \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://vimeo.com/23192620\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock G told journalist Tamara Palmer\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> in 2011. “I wanna have fun and just make anything. It ain’t gotta be Eddie [Humpty Hump] Humphrey. It ain’t gotta be Shock G.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Palmer initially met Shock G for an MTV interview in 2004 and kept in touch. She says he ran his own website, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"http://shock-g.com/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Shock-G.com\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, and would often post “highly illustrated” work, including a comic strip at one point. (The site is still active but became a fan site domain after his passing).\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“They were just made-up characters,” says Palmer. “There was no deeper meaning to it, I don’t think. He provided very surprising comic relief.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Eventually, Palmer witnessed his artistry firsthand at a mutual friend’s house party, where they doodled together for fun. “[The art we made together was] cheeky, super cheeky. I glued a flier to the lower corner of a wooden tray and he turned it into a bar scene with a male fish flirting with the female fish. It was like a big wink,” says Palmer.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929947\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13929947\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-800x620.png\" alt=\"a surreal sketch and collage on carboard, including fishes drinking at a bar\" width=\"800\" height=\"620\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-800x620.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-1020x791.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-160x124.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-768x595.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-1536x1191.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-2048x1588.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Original-Shock-1920x1489.png 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G’s sketches were cartoonish, playful and spontaneous. This collaborative piece was made with Tamara Palmer at a house party. \u003ccite>(Tamara Palmer)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Late in his career, along with painting, Shock G veered further into jazz — with Gregory, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://oaklandside.org/2021/11/22/shock-gs-jazz-piano-the-digital-underground-frontmans-musicianship-will-be-featured-in-posthumous-album/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">he recorded a solo jazz piano album, the posthumously released \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The Piano Man\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“As an illustrator and piano player, that was unheard of back then,” Gregory adds. “Nowadays, Roddy Rich and Tyler, the Creator, they have these pianos. Shock went to see [Roddy’s] show in 2018, and the manager came up to tell Shock that [Roddy] is the only rapper to play the piano.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Gregory smirks while sharing this, knowing that Shock mastered the instrument many moons ago. Add to that the immeasurable amounts of unshared, custom artwork in Shock G’s collection, and you have a once-in-a-generation creative mind.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“You gotta think, when we’re touring and on buses, he would draw something every day. Idle time was never idle time [for him]. He was creating something. Even on a napkin or a note, it was artsy,” Money B shares.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Gregory estimates that “95% has probably been unseen.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930497\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13930497\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"A '90s color photo features Shock G performing on stage in his white fur getup and his brother, Kent, rapping alongside him.\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66271_230613-KentRackerShockG-07-BL-qut.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kent Racker, the brother of the late Gregory Jacobs, known as Shock G, holds a photo of himself and his brother performing with Digital Underground in Philadelphia at his home in Oakland on June 13, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">All told, Shock G may have been one of the Bay Area’s most prolific, subversive visual artists — a visionary who bent the lines of human geometry with the “Humpty Dance” and on the page with his out-of-this-world drawings. And according to his brother, it couldn’t have happened anywhere except Oakland.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“It would not have happened back East. The style at the time, we always laugh and joke at ourselves about being hippies,” Racker says. “He probably could have come up as a rapper in New York, or anywhere, because of his musicality and being around hip-hop when it was forming. We had that foundation. But coming out to the Bay Area and California, it really amplified and illustrated his aesthetic in the work, and he just kept drawing and creating a visual world.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "leila-steinberg-tupac-shakur-manager",
"title": "Leila Steinberg, Tupac Shakur’s First Manager: I 'Still Feel Him' Here",
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"headTitle": "Leila Steinberg, Tupac Shakur’s First Manager: I ‘Still Feel Him’ Here | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934055\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 828px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934055\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Tupac.Steinberg.jpg\" alt=\"A shirtless black male with a cross necklace stands with a shorter white woman in jeans and striped top.\" width=\"828\" height=\"1030\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Tupac.Steinberg.jpg 828w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Tupac.Steinberg-800x995.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Tupac.Steinberg-160x199.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Tupac.Steinberg-768x955.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 828px) 100vw, 828px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tupac Shakur and Leila Steinberg. Steinberg met Shakur when he was 17, and was his manager from 1989 to 1993. \u003ccite>(Kathy Crawford)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Editor’s note: This story is part of \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003cem>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]I[/dropcap]n the late 1980s, Leila Steinberg was a concert promoter and arts educator living in Rohnert Park. Each week, she hosted writing circles for young poets, rappers and actors in her living room. She would give the participants a prompt, and then invite the best ones to perform their pieces during assemblies at schools across the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One evening in 1988, a senior at Tamalpais High School in Mill Valley showed up and challenged Steinberg’s approach, telling her the participants should have more input on the content of the assemblies. That \u003ca href=\"https://marinmagazine.com/people/tupac/\">brash 17-year-old\u003c/a> would have a profound impact on Steinberg’s life, and on the lives of so many others around the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was my group until Tupac came,” Steinberg recalled in a recent phone interview. “I was in my 20s, and it was just a passion project that I wanted to do. His joining really allowed me to rethink and reshape what it was to be in a leadership role.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13927810']Steinberg was part of a multicultural community of mentors and friends who helped mold Tupac Shakur, both as an artist and a man, during the years he lived in Northern California. After making his commercial recording debut with Oakland-based rap group \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13929900/shock-g-revolutionized-hip-hop-and-created-a-secret-trove-of-funky-art\">Digital Underground\u003c/a>, Shakur achieved enormous success as a solo rapper and actor before being murdered in 1996 at age 25.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to promoting his first shows, Steinberg was Shakur’s first manager, as well as a substitute mother of sorts to him at a time when his own mother, Afeni, was struggling with drug addiction. He would eventually leave his Marin City home and crash on Steinberg’s couch, living with her and her family in Rohnert Park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934059\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934059\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/StrictlyDope.jpg\" alt=\"A group of young black males pose in a late 1980s black and white photo\" width=\"640\" height=\"640\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/StrictlyDope.jpg 640w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/StrictlyDope-160x160.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tupac Shakur, top center, with the Santa Rosa-based group Strictly Dope, circa 1989. Ray Luv is seen at lower right. \u003ccite>(Strictly Dope)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>For years, Steinberg wrestled with feelings of guilt over the “toxic” quality of some of the later music Shakur released, and the poor decisions he made that may have contributed to his untimely death.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Tupac was a kid, and he needed a lot more guidance,” she said. “I was too young to understand what I know now. I wish that I could have had more influence, because I always stayed connected to him.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Finding her role in hip-hop\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Steinberg, 61, lived and worked in the Bay Area for about 15 years in the 1980s and ’90s. Today she lives in Los Angeles, where she grew up, though she returns periodically to visit her mother in Santa Rosa. “The Bay is one of the most revolutionary areas you can live in, in this entire country, whether it’s education, politics, religion,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to managing Shakur from 1989 until 1993 (with guidance from Digital Underground’s manager, Atron Gregory), Steinberg managed \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#tupac-moves-to-santa-rosa-attends-the-poetry-circle-and-forms-strictly-dope\">Ray Luv\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13924167/mac-mall-illegal-business-my-opinion-excerpt\">Mac Mall\u003c/a>, and she remains close to both of them. She \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/sections/microphonecheck/2015/03/09/391893500/leila-steinberg-with-earl-its-a-journey\">still manages artists\u003c/a>, including the rapper Earl Sweatshirt, through her company Steinberg Management International. It’s a career she fell into by accident. “I was horrible at math and business, so it’s weird that I ended up negotiating million-dollar contracts,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934054\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934054\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Steinberg.whiteboard-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A woman in front of a whiteboard, with the backs of attendees in the foreground.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1829\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Steinberg.whiteboard-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Steinberg.whiteboard-800x571.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Steinberg.whiteboard-1020x729.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Steinberg.whiteboard-160x114.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Steinberg.whiteboard-768x549.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Steinberg.whiteboard-1536x1097.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Steinberg.whiteboard-2048x1463.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Steinberg.whiteboard-1920x1372.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Through her nonprofit, Aim4theHeart, Steinberg gives workshops for young people on emotional literacy. \u003ccite>(Louis King)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The daughter of a white, Jewish father who worked as a criminal defense lawyer and a Mexican-born mother with \u003ca href=\"https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/who-are-sephardic-jews/\">Sephardic Jewish heritage\u003c/a> who was involved in different social movements, Steinberg first became aware of the power of music while sitting in the pews of a synagogue. “When Cantor Behar sang, I felt like that was the deepest connection to God,” she said, referring to Cantor Isaac Behar of L.A.’s \u003ca href=\"https://sephardictemple.org/history/\">Sephardic Temple Tifereth Israel\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She attended a predominantly Black and Latino elementary school in L.A. until sixth grade, when her family moved to a “pretty WASP-y” community in Santa Monica, she said. She gravitated to the arts, singing in youth choirs and taking African dance classes at a cultural center. “I began to learn about African culture and the gift that came from Africa that I didn’t have in my family, in my community,” she said during a \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/live/EldWC_6B6Fk?feature=share\">2021 forum at UC Berkeley\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[pullquote size='large' align='right' citation='Tupac Shakur, on Leila Steinberg']She understood a lot of things that I was doing that other people couldn’t understand. [/pullquote]Although she studied sports therapy at Sonoma State University and worked at a physical therapy office in Sebastopol, she always thought of herself as an artist. She toured with the band O.J. Ekemode and the Nigerian Allstars for a few years, the only non-Black singer-dancer in the Afrobeat group. On the group’s first U.S. tour, she realized she could have a greater impact in music by helping artists of color get more exposure, so she started organizing shows around the Bay Area and, with her DJ husband, promoting local hip-hop acts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I never planned on being in hip-hop or rap music,” she said at UC Berkeley. “I really understood the eruption of pain, and that this art form was a very important conversation.” However, she added, “I also struggled with what my role would be.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In \u003cem>Dear Mama\u003c/em>, a 2023 FX docuseries (now streaming on Hulu) that interweaves Shakur’s story with his activist mother’s, Shakur talks about Steinberg’s influence on him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“She was older, she was white, and she’s the one that I used to let look at my poetry,” he says in a clip from a 1995 deposition. “She understood a lot of things that I was doing that other people couldn’t understand. And she’s the one that stayed on me about working hard to do my music.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924484\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1240px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13924484\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Tupac.MacMall..RayLuv.jpg\" alt=\"Three young men, two of them sitting on car hoods, on a city street\" width=\"1240\" height=\"1488\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Tupac.MacMall..RayLuv.jpg 1240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Tupac.MacMall..RayLuv-800x960.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Tupac.MacMall..RayLuv-1020x1224.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Tupac.MacMall..RayLuv-160x192.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Tupac.MacMall..RayLuv-768x922.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1240px) 100vw, 1240px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(L–R) Tupac Shakur, Mac Mall and Ray Luv on the set of Mac Mall’s music video for ‘Ghetto Theme,’ directed by Tupac. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Mac Mall / 'My Opinion')\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>‘She required us to be honest’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Ray Luv met Steinberg when he was 15, and in an interview, he described her as an educator at heart. “She wants people to be aware of what’s going on, and to not just be blowing in the wind, but to have a voice and to use it,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Luv grew up in Santa Rosa, participated in Steinberg’s poetry circles in the late 1980s, and performed with Shakur as a member of the rap group Strictly Dope from 1988 to 1990. He recalled how Steinberg drove them back and forth between the North Bay and recording studios in the East Bay, even when she was several months pregnant.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It had to put an incredible strain on her family,” he said of her commitment to him and his peers. “She was also feeding some of us and putting us up at different times when we didn’t have a place to stay. I’ve seen her acts of kindness.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In return, he added, “She required us to be honest. She required us to give back to the community.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934062\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934062\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/StarlightSound.Richmond.GabeMeline.web_-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A vacant commercial corner building with a 1970s-style stone facade\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/StarlightSound.Richmond.GabeMeline.web_-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/StarlightSound.Richmond.GabeMeline.web_-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/StarlightSound.Richmond.GabeMeline.web_-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/StarlightSound.Richmond.GabeMeline.web_-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/StarlightSound.Richmond.GabeMeline.web_-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/StarlightSound.Richmond.GabeMeline.web_-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/StarlightSound.Richmond.GabeMeline.web_-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/StarlightSound.Richmond.GabeMeline.web_-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Starlight Sound in Richmond, the recording studio where Leila Steinberg first brought Tupac Shakur to meet Digital Underground, as seen today. \u003ccite>(Gabe Meline/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Steinberg approached the job of managing Shakur as if she were running a political campaign, drawing upon lessons she learned from an uncle who worked in politics in L.A. “I instinctively began to look at throwing parties and events and shows like a political campaign, and I understood music moves masses,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yet Shakur did not see himself as a politician. Instead, as Steinberg says in \u003cem>Dear Mama\u003c/em>, “Tupac wanted to seduce the children of white America.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>What did she mean by that? “He really wanted to be like the Pied Piper, and he wanted to lure a generation of white children who grew up not understanding struggle or justice, or what’s happened to Black people in this country,” she said in the interview. “He felt through his lyrics and songs he could be a roadmap to empathy and change and transformation.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Ain’t a woman alive that could take my mama’s place\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The documentary \u003cem>Dear Mama\u003c/em> takes its title from one of Shakur’s best-known songs, a loving tribute to his mother included on his 1995 album \u003cem>Me Against the World\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/pop/23762/you-cant-kill-the-revolution-davey-d-on-tupacs-mother-afeni-shakur\">Afeni Shakur\u003c/a> was one of the Panther 21, a group of Black Panthers arrested in New York City in 1969 and charged with conspiring to bomb department stores and police stations. She was pregnant with Shakur while in jail, and defended herself at trial, despite having no legal training. She and the other defendants were \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/1971/05/14/archives/black-panther-party-members-freed-after-being-cleared-of-charges-13.html\">acquitted\u003c/a> in 1971, and she raised Shakur and his half-sister in poverty in Harlem, Baltimore and Marin City.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='pop_23762']Although they came from very different worlds, Steinberg and Shakur bonded over their shared commitment to racial justice.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the Jewish daughter of a dark-skinned Mexican immigrant, Steinberg said she was aware of antisemitism and racism from a young age. “I understood that Jews were not liked, but they could disappear in their Jewishness,” she said. When she got married, she considered changing her last name, “but I felt that I needed to be OK and not hide, because Black people couldn’t hide their skin.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another thing she had in common with Shakur, she said, was “mother issues.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We shared a pain of having mothers who came out of ’60s activism and were taken away from their children because of their choices at times,” she said. “The ’60s activism included drugs, sexual behavior and a lifestyle that is really not healthy for a family.” Steinberg’s mother, Corina Abouaf, was involved in the farmworkers’ and women’s movements. Today, mother and daughter are close, Steinberg said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As for her relationship with Afeni, Shakur’s mother, who lived in Sausalito in her later years and died in 2016, Steinberg says it was complicated.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I don’t think that I would have been as involved in pushing Pac’s career forward, and just being there for him, if she wasn’t in the place she was in,” she said. “But I know she loved me and my kids, and I have immense respect and love for her.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929237\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1716px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13929237\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Tupac.Square.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1716\" height=\"1716\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Tupac.Square.jpg 1716w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Tupac.Square-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Tupac.Square-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Tupac.Square-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Tupac.Square-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Tupac.Square-1536x1536.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1716px) 100vw, 1716px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tupac Shakur pictured in Oakland in 1992. \u003ccite>(Gary Reyes / Oakland Tribune Staff Archives (MediaNews Group/Bay Area News via Getty Images))\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>‘I still feel his partnership’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Tupac Shakur’s time in the Bay Area was often turbulent. In October 1991, he was \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/11696060/its-tupac-day-in-oakland-where-he-once-sued-the-police-for-10-million\">beaten by Oakland police officers\u003c/a> after they stopped him for jaywalking; he subsequently sued the police department and received a settlement. The following year, he was involved in \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfgate.com/news/article/PAGE-ONE-Marin-City-Haunted-By-Boy-s-Shooting-3021515.php\">a fight at the Marin City Festival\u003c/a>, during which a 6-year-old boy was killed by a bullet fired from a gun that was registered to Shakur. (He was never charged with a crime.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I don’t want people to think I condone all his behavior,” Steinberg said. “I fought with him all the time.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_11696060']Steinberg doesn’t believe he sexually assaulted a female fan in a New York City hotel room, a crime he was \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/1995/02/08/nyregion/rapper-faces-prison-term-for-sex-abuse.html\">convicted\u003c/a> of in 1995, and for which he served nine months in jail. His road manager was also convicted of assaulting the woman, and Steinberg said Shakur should have had better control over the members of his entourage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She has said she \u003ca href=\"https://www.xxlmag.com/changes-2pacs-manager-leila-steinberg-excerpt-from-sept-2011-issue/\">fell in love with Shakur in a spiritual sense\u003c/a>, and the two of them talked about everything. After Shakur was shot in a drive-by shooting in Las Vegas in 1996, Steinberg said she was convinced he would pull through.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After he died several days later in a hospital, “I was in shock for a very long time,” she recalled. “I’ve been operating for so long from so much trauma, and I’m finally in a really healthy place.” (His murder has never been solved, but in 2002 the \u003cem>Los Angeles Times\u003c/em> identified a since-deceased gang member from Compton as the probable shooter.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[pullquote size='large' align='right' citation='Leila Steinberg']I don’t want people to think I condone all his behavior. I fought with him all the time.[/pullquote]Steinberg saved many of the poems Shakur wrote between the ages of 17 and 19 and published them, with his prior permission, in the 1999 book \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.amazon.com/Rose-That-Grew-Concrete/dp/0671028456\">The Rose That Grew From Concrete\u003c/a>\u003c/em>. Her portion of the sales has helped to fund her “Mic Sessions” workshops, which she offers at school, universities and other venues through her nonprofit \u003ca href=\"https://www.aim4theheart.org/\">Aim4theHeart\u003c/a>, and which are designed to promote emotional literacy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For three decades, she \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/esm5A-_cIAA\">worked with prisoners at San Quentin State Prison\u003c/a>, until the pandemic forced her to press pause. She is a self-described nomad who often travels with Earl Sweatshirt, explaining that the 29-year-old rapper has allowed her to redeem herself “after all the mistakes with Tupac.” She is the mother of four adult children, including a musician son known as \u003ca href=\"https://soundcloud.com/nykkuu\">Nyku\u003c/a>, and a grandmother. She is writing a memoir.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even today, she said, Shakur is still very much a part of her life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I thought he would be alive doing the work with me,” she said. “I still feel his partnership in the work. I still feel him tapping me on the shoulder and saying, ‘You have a responsibility. Keep going.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-11687704\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"60\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-400x30.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-768x58.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://jweekly.com/2023/05/09/dear-mama-leila-steinberg-tupacs-first-manager-sees-new-docuseries-series-as-a-chance-to-heal/\">A version of this story first appeared in J. The Jewish News of Northern California\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "Steinberg was a guiding force for Tupac during his teen years in Marin and Sonoma County, when his career was just getting started.",
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"title": "Leila Steinberg, Tupac Shakur’s First Manager: I 'Still Feel Him' Here | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934055\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 828px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934055\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Tupac.Steinberg.jpg\" alt=\"A shirtless black male with a cross necklace stands with a shorter white woman in jeans and striped top.\" width=\"828\" height=\"1030\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Tupac.Steinberg.jpg 828w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Tupac.Steinberg-800x995.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Tupac.Steinberg-160x199.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Tupac.Steinberg-768x955.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 828px) 100vw, 828px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tupac Shakur and Leila Steinberg. Steinberg met Shakur when he was 17, and was his manager from 1989 to 1993. \u003ccite>(Kathy Crawford)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Editor’s note: This story is part of \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003cem>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">I\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>n the late 1980s, Leila Steinberg was a concert promoter and arts educator living in Rohnert Park. Each week, she hosted writing circles for young poets, rappers and actors in her living room. She would give the participants a prompt, and then invite the best ones to perform their pieces during assemblies at schools across the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One evening in 1988, a senior at Tamalpais High School in Mill Valley showed up and challenged Steinberg’s approach, telling her the participants should have more input on the content of the assemblies. That \u003ca href=\"https://marinmagazine.com/people/tupac/\">brash 17-year-old\u003c/a> would have a profound impact on Steinberg’s life, and on the lives of so many others around the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was my group until Tupac came,” Steinberg recalled in a recent phone interview. “I was in my 20s, and it was just a passion project that I wanted to do. His joining really allowed me to rethink and reshape what it was to be in a leadership role.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Steinberg was part of a multicultural community of mentors and friends who helped mold Tupac Shakur, both as an artist and a man, during the years he lived in Northern California. After making his commercial recording debut with Oakland-based rap group \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13929900/shock-g-revolutionized-hip-hop-and-created-a-secret-trove-of-funky-art\">Digital Underground\u003c/a>, Shakur achieved enormous success as a solo rapper and actor before being murdered in 1996 at age 25.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to promoting his first shows, Steinberg was Shakur’s first manager, as well as a substitute mother of sorts to him at a time when his own mother, Afeni, was struggling with drug addiction. He would eventually leave his Marin City home and crash on Steinberg’s couch, living with her and her family in Rohnert Park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934059\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934059\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/StrictlyDope.jpg\" alt=\"A group of young black males pose in a late 1980s black and white photo\" width=\"640\" height=\"640\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/StrictlyDope.jpg 640w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/StrictlyDope-160x160.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tupac Shakur, top center, with the Santa Rosa-based group Strictly Dope, circa 1989. Ray Luv is seen at lower right. \u003ccite>(Strictly Dope)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>For years, Steinberg wrestled with feelings of guilt over the “toxic” quality of some of the later music Shakur released, and the poor decisions he made that may have contributed to his untimely death.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Tupac was a kid, and he needed a lot more guidance,” she said. “I was too young to understand what I know now. I wish that I could have had more influence, because I always stayed connected to him.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Finding her role in hip-hop\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Steinberg, 61, lived and worked in the Bay Area for about 15 years in the 1980s and ’90s. Today she lives in Los Angeles, where she grew up, though she returns periodically to visit her mother in Santa Rosa. “The Bay is one of the most revolutionary areas you can live in, in this entire country, whether it’s education, politics, religion,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to managing Shakur from 1989 until 1993 (with guidance from Digital Underground’s manager, Atron Gregory), Steinberg managed \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#tupac-moves-to-santa-rosa-attends-the-poetry-circle-and-forms-strictly-dope\">Ray Luv\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13924167/mac-mall-illegal-business-my-opinion-excerpt\">Mac Mall\u003c/a>, and she remains close to both of them. She \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/sections/microphonecheck/2015/03/09/391893500/leila-steinberg-with-earl-its-a-journey\">still manages artists\u003c/a>, including the rapper Earl Sweatshirt, through her company Steinberg Management International. It’s a career she fell into by accident. “I was horrible at math and business, so it’s weird that I ended up negotiating million-dollar contracts,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934054\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934054\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Steinberg.whiteboard-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A woman in front of a whiteboard, with the backs of attendees in the foreground.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1829\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Steinberg.whiteboard-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Steinberg.whiteboard-800x571.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Steinberg.whiteboard-1020x729.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Steinberg.whiteboard-160x114.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Steinberg.whiteboard-768x549.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Steinberg.whiteboard-1536x1097.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Steinberg.whiteboard-2048x1463.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/Steinberg.whiteboard-1920x1372.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Through her nonprofit, Aim4theHeart, Steinberg gives workshops for young people on emotional literacy. \u003ccite>(Louis King)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The daughter of a white, Jewish father who worked as a criminal defense lawyer and a Mexican-born mother with \u003ca href=\"https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/who-are-sephardic-jews/\">Sephardic Jewish heritage\u003c/a> who was involved in different social movements, Steinberg first became aware of the power of music while sitting in the pews of a synagogue. “When Cantor Behar sang, I felt like that was the deepest connection to God,” she said, referring to Cantor Isaac Behar of L.A.’s \u003ca href=\"https://sephardictemple.org/history/\">Sephardic Temple Tifereth Israel\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She attended a predominantly Black and Latino elementary school in L.A. until sixth grade, when her family moved to a “pretty WASP-y” community in Santa Monica, she said. She gravitated to the arts, singing in youth choirs and taking African dance classes at a cultural center. “I began to learn about African culture and the gift that came from Africa that I didn’t have in my family, in my community,” she said during a \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/live/EldWC_6B6Fk?feature=share\">2021 forum at UC Berkeley\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Although she studied sports therapy at Sonoma State University and worked at a physical therapy office in Sebastopol, she always thought of herself as an artist. She toured with the band O.J. Ekemode and the Nigerian Allstars for a few years, the only non-Black singer-dancer in the Afrobeat group. On the group’s first U.S. tour, she realized she could have a greater impact in music by helping artists of color get more exposure, so she started organizing shows around the Bay Area and, with her DJ husband, promoting local hip-hop acts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I never planned on being in hip-hop or rap music,” she said at UC Berkeley. “I really understood the eruption of pain, and that this art form was a very important conversation.” However, she added, “I also struggled with what my role would be.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In \u003cem>Dear Mama\u003c/em>, a 2023 FX docuseries (now streaming on Hulu) that interweaves Shakur’s story with his activist mother’s, Shakur talks about Steinberg’s influence on him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“She was older, she was white, and she’s the one that I used to let look at my poetry,” he says in a clip from a 1995 deposition. “She understood a lot of things that I was doing that other people couldn’t understand. And she’s the one that stayed on me about working hard to do my music.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924484\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1240px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13924484\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Tupac.MacMall..RayLuv.jpg\" alt=\"Three young men, two of them sitting on car hoods, on a city street\" width=\"1240\" height=\"1488\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Tupac.MacMall..RayLuv.jpg 1240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Tupac.MacMall..RayLuv-800x960.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Tupac.MacMall..RayLuv-1020x1224.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Tupac.MacMall..RayLuv-160x192.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/Tupac.MacMall..RayLuv-768x922.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1240px) 100vw, 1240px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(L–R) Tupac Shakur, Mac Mall and Ray Luv on the set of Mac Mall’s music video for ‘Ghetto Theme,’ directed by Tupac. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Mac Mall / 'My Opinion')\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>‘She required us to be honest’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Ray Luv met Steinberg when he was 15, and in an interview, he described her as an educator at heart. “She wants people to be aware of what’s going on, and to not just be blowing in the wind, but to have a voice and to use it,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Luv grew up in Santa Rosa, participated in Steinberg’s poetry circles in the late 1980s, and performed with Shakur as a member of the rap group Strictly Dope from 1988 to 1990. He recalled how Steinberg drove them back and forth between the North Bay and recording studios in the East Bay, even when she was several months pregnant.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It had to put an incredible strain on her family,” he said of her commitment to him and his peers. “She was also feeding some of us and putting us up at different times when we didn’t have a place to stay. I’ve seen her acts of kindness.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In return, he added, “She required us to be honest. She required us to give back to the community.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934062\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934062\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/StarlightSound.Richmond.GabeMeline.web_-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A vacant commercial corner building with a 1970s-style stone facade\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/StarlightSound.Richmond.GabeMeline.web_-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/StarlightSound.Richmond.GabeMeline.web_-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/StarlightSound.Richmond.GabeMeline.web_-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/StarlightSound.Richmond.GabeMeline.web_-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/StarlightSound.Richmond.GabeMeline.web_-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/StarlightSound.Richmond.GabeMeline.web_-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/StarlightSound.Richmond.GabeMeline.web_-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/StarlightSound.Richmond.GabeMeline.web_-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Starlight Sound in Richmond, the recording studio where Leila Steinberg first brought Tupac Shakur to meet Digital Underground, as seen today. \u003ccite>(Gabe Meline/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Steinberg approached the job of managing Shakur as if she were running a political campaign, drawing upon lessons she learned from an uncle who worked in politics in L.A. “I instinctively began to look at throwing parties and events and shows like a political campaign, and I understood music moves masses,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yet Shakur did not see himself as a politician. Instead, as Steinberg says in \u003cem>Dear Mama\u003c/em>, “Tupac wanted to seduce the children of white America.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>What did she mean by that? “He really wanted to be like the Pied Piper, and he wanted to lure a generation of white children who grew up not understanding struggle or justice, or what’s happened to Black people in this country,” she said in the interview. “He felt through his lyrics and songs he could be a roadmap to empathy and change and transformation.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Ain’t a woman alive that could take my mama’s place\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The documentary \u003cem>Dear Mama\u003c/em> takes its title from one of Shakur’s best-known songs, a loving tribute to his mother included on his 1995 album \u003cem>Me Against the World\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/pop/23762/you-cant-kill-the-revolution-davey-d-on-tupacs-mother-afeni-shakur\">Afeni Shakur\u003c/a> was one of the Panther 21, a group of Black Panthers arrested in New York City in 1969 and charged with conspiring to bomb department stores and police stations. She was pregnant with Shakur while in jail, and defended herself at trial, despite having no legal training. She and the other defendants were \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/1971/05/14/archives/black-panther-party-members-freed-after-being-cleared-of-charges-13.html\">acquitted\u003c/a> in 1971, and she raised Shakur and his half-sister in poverty in Harlem, Baltimore and Marin City.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Although they came from very different worlds, Steinberg and Shakur bonded over their shared commitment to racial justice.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the Jewish daughter of a dark-skinned Mexican immigrant, Steinberg said she was aware of antisemitism and racism from a young age. “I understood that Jews were not liked, but they could disappear in their Jewishness,” she said. When she got married, she considered changing her last name, “but I felt that I needed to be OK and not hide, because Black people couldn’t hide their skin.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another thing she had in common with Shakur, she said, was “mother issues.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We shared a pain of having mothers who came out of ’60s activism and were taken away from their children because of their choices at times,” she said. “The ’60s activism included drugs, sexual behavior and a lifestyle that is really not healthy for a family.” Steinberg’s mother, Corina Abouaf, was involved in the farmworkers’ and women’s movements. Today, mother and daughter are close, Steinberg said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As for her relationship with Afeni, Shakur’s mother, who lived in Sausalito in her later years and died in 2016, Steinberg says it was complicated.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I don’t think that I would have been as involved in pushing Pac’s career forward, and just being there for him, if she wasn’t in the place she was in,” she said. “But I know she loved me and my kids, and I have immense respect and love for her.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13929237\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1716px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13929237\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Tupac.Square.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1716\" height=\"1716\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Tupac.Square.jpg 1716w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Tupac.Square-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Tupac.Square-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Tupac.Square-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Tupac.Square-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Tupac.Square-1536x1536.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1716px) 100vw, 1716px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tupac Shakur pictured in Oakland in 1992. \u003ccite>(Gary Reyes / Oakland Tribune Staff Archives (MediaNews Group/Bay Area News via Getty Images))\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>‘I still feel his partnership’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Tupac Shakur’s time in the Bay Area was often turbulent. In October 1991, he was \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/11696060/its-tupac-day-in-oakland-where-he-once-sued-the-police-for-10-million\">beaten by Oakland police officers\u003c/a> after they stopped him for jaywalking; he subsequently sued the police department and received a settlement. The following year, he was involved in \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfgate.com/news/article/PAGE-ONE-Marin-City-Haunted-By-Boy-s-Shooting-3021515.php\">a fight at the Marin City Festival\u003c/a>, during which a 6-year-old boy was killed by a bullet fired from a gun that was registered to Shakur. (He was never charged with a crime.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I don’t want people to think I condone all his behavior,” Steinberg said. “I fought with him all the time.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Steinberg doesn’t believe he sexually assaulted a female fan in a New York City hotel room, a crime he was \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/1995/02/08/nyregion/rapper-faces-prison-term-for-sex-abuse.html\">convicted\u003c/a> of in 1995, and for which he served nine months in jail. His road manager was also convicted of assaulting the woman, and Steinberg said Shakur should have had better control over the members of his entourage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She has said she \u003ca href=\"https://www.xxlmag.com/changes-2pacs-manager-leila-steinberg-excerpt-from-sept-2011-issue/\">fell in love with Shakur in a spiritual sense\u003c/a>, and the two of them talked about everything. After Shakur was shot in a drive-by shooting in Las Vegas in 1996, Steinberg said she was convinced he would pull through.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After he died several days later in a hospital, “I was in shock for a very long time,” she recalled. “I’ve been operating for so long from so much trauma, and I’m finally in a really healthy place.” (His murder has never been solved, but in 2002 the \u003cem>Los Angeles Times\u003c/em> identified a since-deceased gang member from Compton as the probable shooter.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "I don’t want people to think I condone all his behavior. I fought with him all the time.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Steinberg saved many of the poems Shakur wrote between the ages of 17 and 19 and published them, with his prior permission, in the 1999 book \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.amazon.com/Rose-That-Grew-Concrete/dp/0671028456\">The Rose That Grew From Concrete\u003c/a>\u003c/em>. Her portion of the sales has helped to fund her “Mic Sessions” workshops, which she offers at school, universities and other venues through her nonprofit \u003ca href=\"https://www.aim4theheart.org/\">Aim4theHeart\u003c/a>, and which are designed to promote emotional literacy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For three decades, she \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/esm5A-_cIAA\">worked with prisoners at San Quentin State Prison\u003c/a>, until the pandemic forced her to press pause. She is a self-described nomad who often travels with Earl Sweatshirt, explaining that the 29-year-old rapper has allowed her to redeem herself “after all the mistakes with Tupac.” She is the mother of four adult children, including a musician son known as \u003ca href=\"https://soundcloud.com/nykkuu\">Nyku\u003c/a>, and a grandmother. She is writing a memoir.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even today, she said, Shakur is still very much a part of her life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I thought he would be alive doing the work with me,” she said. “I still feel his partnership in the work. I still feel him tapping me on the shoulder and saying, ‘You have a responsibility. Keep going.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-11687704\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"60\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-400x30.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-768x58.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://jweekly.com/2023/05/09/dear-mama-leila-steinberg-tupacs-first-manager-sees-new-docuseries-series-as-a-chance-to-heal/\">A version of this story first appeared in J. The Jewish News of Northern California\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "the-bay-area-was-hip-hop-before-there-was-hip-hop",
"title": "The Bay Area Was Hip-Hop Before There Was Hip-Hop",
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"headTitle": "The Bay Area Was Hip-Hop Before There Was Hip-Hop | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924127\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924127\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9-800x450.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9-1536x864.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Clockwise from upper left: Women of the Black Panther Party (BAMPFA/Pirkle Jones Foundation); the Black Resurgents (artist photo); Ntozake Shange (John Kisch Archive/Getty Images); Sun Ra in ‘Space is the Place’ (Harte Recordings); Sly Stone (CBS Records).\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>\u003ci>Editor’s note:\u003c/i>\u003c/b>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> This story is part of\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/bayareahiphop\"> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">That’s My Word\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>“People in the house, this is just for you/ A little rap to make you boogaloo”\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n—The Sugarhill Gang, 1979\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Grandmaster Caz, the Bronx pioneer who ghostwrote the Sugarhill Gang’s groundbreaking 1979 single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKTUAESacQM\">Rapper’s Delight\u003c/a>,” once said, “Hip-hop didn’t invent anything. Hop-hop reinvented everything.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That statement rings truer than ever as we approach the 50th anniversary of Kool Herc’s first party in the Bronx, where the globally influential music and culture were born. And it especially rings true here in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hip-hop wasn’t fully formed in 1973. In fact, it didn’t have an official name until 1982, the year the \u003ci>Village Voice\u003c/i> published a \u003ca href=\"https://digital.library.cornell.edu/catalog/ss:16057641\">profile of Zulu Nation founder Afrika Bambaataa\u003c/a>. Before Bambaataa joined the Black Spades street gang as a teenager, he hung out at the local Black Panther Information Center, and “his political leanings were encouraged by the appearance of songs like ‘Say It Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud’ by James Brown and ‘Stand!’ by Sly and the Family Stone,” Steven Hager wrote.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In other words, two of the three cultural influences cited in one of the earliest known print references to hip-hop are from the Bay Area. Oh word? Say that then.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>No one would dispute that hip-hop emerged from the Bronx, or that James Brown was one of its godfathers. But the impact the Bay Area had on hip-hop’s early sound, aesthetic and ideology is less widely recognized. A thorough exploration of the Bay’s cultural and political movements of the 1960s and ’70s strongly suggests the Bay was hip-hop before there was hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924550\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924550\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith-800x426.jpg\" alt=\"illustrations of huey newton and sly stone\" width=\"800\" height=\"426\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith-800x426.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith-1020x543.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith-160x85.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith-768x409.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith-1536x818.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">In the Bay Area, both Huey Newton and Sly Stone (L–R) helped sow the seeds of what would later be referred to as hip-hop. \u003ccite>(Illustrations by Shomari Smith)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Consider this: Before he became a funk superstar, Sly Stone was a fast-talking radio personality whose \u003ca href=\"https://soundcloud.com/djstef415/sly-stone-on-ksol-1967\">on-air patter\u003c/a>, laden with hep phrases, took the form of rapping before rap music. When it came to dance, the Bay Area had boogaloo, robotting and strutting, whose innovative moves preceded b-boying by almost 10 years. (There’s even evidence of breakdancing crews at local talent shows prior to nationwide releases of \u003cem>Breakin’\u003c/em> and \u003cem>Beat Street\u003c/em>.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wall_of_Respect\">community mural movement\u003c/a>, which parallels the \u003ca href=\"https://blogs.cuit.columbia.edu/ijt2106/moment-of-departure/the-emergence-of-modern-graffiti/\">modern graffiti movement\u003c/a>, took root in the Bay before wildstyle frescoes appeared on New York subway trains. The Bay Area’s \u003ca href=\"https://legionsofboom.com/\">Filipino American mobile DJ scene\u003c/a> dates back to garage parties in the 1970s in South San Francisco and Daly City.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Consider also that the iconography of hip-hop was shaped by Bay Area activists, as well as street-level archetypes of badmen and tricksters whose legend became \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CsXK4_D6ByA\">urban folklore\u003c/a>. A key reason the Bay Area became an early adopter of hip-hop was because its culture not only anticipated its arrival, but contributed to its essence during its developmental stages.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924289\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 615px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13924289\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/BPP2.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"615\" height=\"829\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/BPP2.png 615w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/BPP2-160x216.png 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 615px) 100vw, 615px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A 1971 flyer for a Black Panther Party rally calling for Bobby Seale, Ericka Huggins, Angela Davis and Ruchell Magee to be freed from prison. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Black Panther Party Alumni Legacy Network)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The Black Panthers lay hip-hop’s ideological foundation\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Hip-hop began as an underground artform created by inner city youth with few resources, who were dynamic in how they expressed their style and identity. Much of its ideology and political viewpoints were shaped by the Black Panthers, who were founded in Oakland in 1966 and grew to 38 national chapters within two years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Black Panthers had a distinct influence on people like dancer Will “Mr. Penguin” Randolph, an early practitioner of boogaloo and co-founder of the dance crew the \u003ca href=\"https://www.blackresurgents.com/\">Black Resurgents.\u003c/a> Randolph, who grew up in East Oakland, remembers how the Panthers used culture to engage young people and push their revolutionary message.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They had all these rallies with Elaine Brown and different people, and the Black Resurgents were the unofficial official dance group,” Randolph says. “And they would use us to draw the adults in to talk about the city’s plight politically. It was just phenomenal.” [aside postid='arts_13923938']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13851531/a-brief-history-of-the-lumpen-the-black-panthers-revolutionary-funk-band\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">The Lumpen\u003c/a>, a Black Panther-affiliated touring funk band, spread the party’s message around the country. It’s no coincidence that groups like the Chi-Lites, the O’Jays and the Isley Brothers began to reference Panther talking points on songs like “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/qEwMaeN2x-c\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Give More Power to the People\u003c/a>,” “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/uebYua_vdPc\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Give the People What They Want\u003c/a>” and “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/8QZvoOqUkqw\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Fight the Power\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You have to consider that the Black Panther ideology was steeped in, as are most cultural ideas, in the music of the day,” Randolph says. “The grittiness of the blue collar town of Oakland, and the rise of the ideology of the Black Panther Party, and the rise of the funk music of the town all came together.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the hip-hop era, children of Black Panthers like Tupac Shakur and Digital Underground’s Money B — known as “Panther cubs” — would be the ones to carry the Panthers’ vision for Black liberation forward. There’s no “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/zfuF2jOeUx8\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Rebel of the Underground\u003c/a>,” an early agitprop Tupac song, without the Black Panthers. No “Break the Grip of Shame,” the classic 1990 single by San Francisco rapper Paris, either.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/HJ96GPtnH70\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hip-hop activism’s cornerstone issues, police reform and the prison-industrial complex, contain obvious through-lines back to the Black Panthers. In 1966, the Panthers’ manifesto, the Ten-Point Program, stated, “We Want An Immediate End to Police Brutality and the Murder of Black People,” followed by a call for “all Black People (to) be released from the many jails and prisons.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>N.W.A’s “Fuck Tha Police” seemed outrageous in 1989, but became prescient three years later, when LAPD officers were caught on video beating Rodney King. Political rappers like Public Enemy and KRS-One often harbored strong anti-police views, which were shared by such less-likely sources as New York’s L.L. Cool J and Houston’s UGK, on down to Vallejo’s The Mac.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before the NYPD killing of Amadou Diallo inspired the Hip Hop for Respect project in 2000, the 1995 death of Aaron Williams in SFPD custody led to hip-hop activist organization Third Eye Movement protesting the SF Police Commission, and later resisting California’s Juvenile Crime initiative, Prop. 21. In 2009, Mistah F.A.B., Boots Riley and other local hip-hop artists took part in \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13847704/after-oscar-grant-oakland-artists-inspired-a-new-generation-of-activists\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">protests against Oscar Grant’s killing\u003c/a> by BART police.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>More recently, the 2016 \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/11537324/equiptos-hunger-strike-the-importance-of-art-in-social-change\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Frisco Five\u003c/a> hunger strike, spearheaded by rapper Equipto, resulted in SFPD reform. In 2020, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13881529/photos-black-lives-matter-murals-call-for-justice-on-oaklands-walls\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">graffiti artists and muralists took to the Oakland streets\u003c/a> in response to George Floyd’s murder.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Over the past decade, activists have rallied around the Black Lives Matter movement, and it’s no coincidence that the phrase was first coined by Black Lives Matter cofounder Alicia Garza, in Oakland, the home of the Panthers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12159957\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 398px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12159957\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-398x600.jpg\" alt=\"Lonnie Wilson, untitled (Black Panthers at Alameda County Courthouse), July 14, 1968. Gelatin silver photograph, 14 x 9.5 in. The Oakland Tribune Collection, the Oakland Museum of California, Gift of ANG Newspapers\" width=\"398\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-398x600.jpg 398w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-400x602.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-768x1156.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-784x1180.jpg 784w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-1180x1777.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-960x1446.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802.jpg 1793w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 398px) 100vw, 398px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Lonnie Wilson, untitled (Black Panthers at Alameda County Courthouse), July 14, 1968. Gelatin silver photograph, 14 x 9.5 in. The Oakland Tribune Collection, the Oakland Museum of California, Gift of ANG Newspapers. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of the Oakland Museum of California)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Before conscious rap, funk brought the message\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In the Bay Area, funk music was inextricably linked to the revolutionary movements of the 1960s. Beyond the Black Panthers were the Brown Berets, the Third World Liberation Front and the anti-Vietnam War movement, all animating young people to fight against an oppressive social order. One artist that emerged from this climate and eventually became one of hip-hop’s major influences was Sly Stone. A Vallejo-raised champion of multiculturalism and progressive social values, Sly transformed Black music during the ’60s and ’70s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe style=\"border-radius:12px\" src=\"https://open.spotify.com/embed/playlist/6QO0SJgNdiPaDRpwHMPySi?utm_source=generator\" width=\"100%\" height=\"352\" frameborder=\"0\" allowfullscreen allow=\"autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; fullscreen; picture-in-picture\" loading=\"lazy\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sly’s records often contained social commentary that mixed the personal with the political. “Stand!” is an anthem of self-determination positing that freedom is attainable “at least in your mind if you want to be”; Sly released similarly-themed songs like “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/l8sz_7TPWE0\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">You Can Make It If You Try\u003c/a>,” “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/HMQQcniF2Bg\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Underdog\u003c/a>” and “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/Ruq2HJGs31g\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Skin I’m In\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to his contributions to hip-hop’s lexicon — Sly and the Family Stone’s album \u003ci>Fresh\u003c/i> predates hip-hop’s popularizing of the term by at least a decade — there’s the music itself, which has become part of hip-hop’s genetic code. According to online sample databases, Sly and The Family Stone’s music has been sampled an astounding 967 times — up there with James Brown and the Meters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Greg Errico’s drums on “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/42YGprrAOj0\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Sing A Simple Song\u003c/a>” alone have resurfaced in gangsta, alternative and even international rap songs, including Digital Underground’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/PBsjggc5jHM\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">The Humpty Dance\u003c/a>,” Tupac’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/skg0w8DpEe4\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Temptations\u003c/a>,” Public Enemy’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/mmo3HFa2vjg\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Fight the Power\u003c/a>,” KRS-One’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/9ZrAYxWPN6c\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Sound of Da Police\u003c/a>,” A Tribe Called Quest’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/cxN4nKk2cfk\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Jazz\u003c/a>” and countless others.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Family Stone bassist and Oakland native Larry Graham’s slap-bass technique, prominently displayed on 1968’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/N5BP2KlPD4U\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Again)\u003c/a>,” became a defining characteristic of funk, later used by musicians like Bootsy Collins as well as Chic’s Bernard Edwards, whose “Good Times” bassline would later drive “Rapper’s Delight.” [pullquote size='large']No one would dispute that hip-hop emerged from the Bronx, or that James Brown was one of its godfathers. But the impact the Bay Area had on hip-hop’s early sound, aesthetic and ideology is less widely recognized.[/pullquote]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sly also created a template for the artist-producer and independent label entrepreneur. He produced other artists for his short-lived Stone Flower label, often playing every musical instrument. His production of Little Sister’s “Somebody’s Watching You” became the first Top 40 hit to use electronic drums — a staple of nearly all hip-hop production.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I feel like particularly with Sly, [he’s] part of the whole kind of mashup of the streets and the church,” says Lateef Daumont, a Panther cub best known as hip-hop artist Lateef the Truthspeaker of the Quannum collective. “They just had all of the things that would be blueprints for hip-hop later on — even business-wise, in a lot of ways.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Sly was the integrationist,” says author and educator Cecil Brown, a Berkeley resident during the ’70s who taught at Merritt College’s former campus on Grove Street (now Martin Luther King Jr. Way) in Oakland. “Also, Sly had an element of militancy in him, too, that was \u003cem>not\u003c/em> flower power, you know? It was like, ‘We got something that is going to make us feel better, and that belongs to us.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13898274\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13898274\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-800x450.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-1536x864.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-2048x1152.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-1920x1080.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sly Stone in a still from Questlove’s new film ‘Summer of Soul.’ \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Mass Distraction Media)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Remarkably, Stone was able to cross over to the pop charts while maintaining an unapologetically Black identity. In a \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDOyaGvOyPk\">1974 clip from \u003ci>The Mike Douglas Show\u003c/i>\u003c/a>, Sly is asked if his young, white middle-class fans know what he’s singing about. “Yeah, they know,” he says. Hip-hop exemplifies the same paradigm: It appeals to white youth precisely because it offers entry into a different cultural space, with its own reference points and vernacular.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Just as The Coup’s Boots Riley performed his song “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/_2bkG0wwdXc\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Underdogs\u003c/a>” during the Occupy Oakland demonstrations of 2011, Sly occasionally performed at Black Panther rallies while living in Oakland. His ear-to-the-street perspective, containing equal parts optimism and cynicism, is evidenced by the No. 1 album \u003ci>There’s A Riot Goin’ On\u003c/i>, released in 1971. As cultural critic Okla Jones wrote on the occasion of the album’s 50th anniversary, “America was a nation in transition, feeling the effects of the previous decade. The shadow of Dr. King’s assassination loomed over the Black community, and the Vietnam War divided an entire country. What Sly and the Family Stone’s fifth album did was give a voice to a new generation yearning to be heard.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This dynamic — young people speaking their minds and determining their own identities through cultural expression — not only defined the early ’70s but connected the funk era to the rap era. Once you depart from the New York-centric breakbeat aesthetic, funk becomes \u003cem>the\u003c/em> defining element of hip-hop’s sound, particularly in the Southern United States and parts of the Midwest, and especially in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13851562\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13851562\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2019/02/lumpen_stage-800x523.jpg\" alt=\"The Lumpen performed between 1970 and 1972; afterwards, Black Panther Party leadership assigned its members to other roles within the organization.\" width=\"800\" height=\"523\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/02/lumpen_stage.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/02/lumpen_stage-160x105.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/02/lumpen_stage-768x502.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Black Panther funk band The Lumpen performed between 1970 and 1972; afterwards, party leadership assigned its members to other roles within the organization. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of itsabouttime.com)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Before breaking, the Bay had boogaloo\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The dance style known as Oakland boogaloo began in the 1960s with R&B and soul as its soundtrack, but the emergence of funk raised the bar for creative expression. “The thumping of the bass and the snapping of the snare drum and the thumping of the bass drum, you started to see people doing this free-form movement, with a hit and with body contortions,” says Will Randolph, whose group the Black Resurgents once performed during a 1977 Parliament concert at the Oakland Coliseum Arena, where they emerged from the iconic mothership in front of more than 10,000 fans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When you talk about hip-hop dance, primarily people think of breaking and popping,” Randolph says. “When you talk about street dance on a nationwide level prior to hip-hop dance coming out of primarily New York, you have this whole West Coast sea of dance and street dance. The Bay Area in particular is really the debut for hip-hop.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/IUdS6kxw2aI\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>From the mid-1960s to the early ’70s, years before hip-hop had a name, Oakland groups like the Black Resurgents, One Plus One, the Black Messengers and Pirate and the Easy Walkers perfected moves that would become part of the hip-hop dance vernacular.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“What I’m saying is that boogaloo, robotting, and strutting dance styles predate hip-hop as a culture, as a name, and even hip-hop dance as an artform,” says Randolph. (In 1990’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QDApdzFa3OI\">U Make Me Want Some\u003c/a>,” Mac Dre’s mentor and namesake The Mac even raps: “You can do the boogaloo / Like they used to do in 1972.”)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As boogaloo branched off into Richmond robotting and San Francisco strutting in the mid-1970s to become the predominant form of urban youth culture in the Bay Area, dancers adopted the sartorial flamboyance associated with pimps, incorporating top hats, canes and pointy-toed shoes into their aesthetic. White gloves created a mesmerizing effect under blacklight during performances in dark halls.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fueled by talent show competitions, which brought local fame and popularity, the artform continued to develop into the early ’80s. Synchronized group routines, costumes, and stage props all became part of the mix. Most routines developed for competitions were performed just once. Some groups practiced in secret so no one could steal their moves. (The Black Resurgents were an exception; they were known to practice in front of an open window, often drawing crowds from their neighborhood.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Coded signals between dancers would indicate they were participants in the same culture and ready to battle at a moment’s notice, such as popping one’s collar — which later became a signature hallmark of Bay Area hip-hop expression. Being known as a boogaloo, strutter or robotter also conferred social status, and could give practitioners a ghetto pass through hostile territory or nullify threats of violence altogether.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As boogaloo spread in the latter half of the ’70s to San Jose, Sacramento, Fresno and Los Angeles, a move originally known as “The Oakland Hit” became the “pop,” and blended with the locking style indigenous to Southern California. Pop-locking was born.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924302\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924302\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/n5cCK1s8-800x609.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"609\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/n5cCK1s8-800x609.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/n5cCK1s8-160x122.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/n5cCK1s8-768x584.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/n5cCK1s8.jpg 924w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Black Resurgents on ‘The Jay Payton Show,’ July 18, 1976. \u003ccite>(Courtesy AAMLO)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But the Bay Area’s contributions didn’t make the history books. In 1979, the Electric Boogaloos \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rkejPbx9zSI\">appeared on \u003ci>Soul Train\u003c/i>\u003c/a> and were erroneously announced as the originators of boogaloo by host Don Cornelius. Boogaloo also spread to New York through Bay Area dancers like Jerry Rentie, who served active military duty there, but wasn’t recognized as a distinct style by New York rappers like Run-DMC, who said “let the poppers pop and the breakers break” on 1984’s “Rock Box.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Northern California origins of popping became further obscured when breakdancing arrived on the West Coast in the early ’80s, and boogaloo, strutting, robotting, popping and breaking were all subsumed into the amalgamation of hip-hop dance. In “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/HshF2AOx4VM\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">West Coast Pop Lock\u003c/a>,” a 1982 hit for Ronnie Hudson that most know as the hook of Tupac’s “California Love,” Hudson shouts out Los Angeles, Watts and Compton — with no mention of Oakland at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Pimp culture becomes pop culture\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Another key influence on hip-hop was Richard Pryor, who moved to Berkeley in 1969 and soaked up the city’s counterculture vibe. Pryor performed locally at venues like Laney College, and, similar to Tupac, key parts of his development came from the Bay Area before he moved to L.A. and became a superstar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pryor has been sampled in rap more than 400 times, which speaks to his street-level Black cultural perspective that placed more emphasis on barbershops, juke joints and strip clubs than churches and schools. And it was Pryor’s involvement in a 1973 movie, filmed in Oakland, that would cement his relationship to Bay Area hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924297\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924297\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-800x1217.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"1217\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-800x1217.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-1020x1551.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-160x243.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-768x1168.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-1010x1536.jpg 1010w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-1347x2048.jpg 1347w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-1920x2920.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-scaled.jpg 1683w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Mack, US poster, top from left: Max Julien, Richard Pryor, from a 1977 re-release of the film. \u003ccite>(Photo by LMPC via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>The Mack\u003c/i> is ostensibly a cautionary tale about the rise and fall of a pimp named Goldie (Max Julien), yet it glorified the illegal sex trade and the flamboyant pimp lifestyle. The movie’s lead was based directly on the notorious Oakland pimp and drug dealer Frank Ward, and infamously featured several real-life pimps and sex workers, in exchange for cameo roles for Ward and his brothers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In \u003cem>The Mack\u003c/em>, Pryor played Slim, Goldie’s partner. Another character, Fat Man, coincidentally had the same initials as infamous Oakland drug kingpin Felix Mitchell. With Goldie’s brother Olinga as a Panther-esque Black nationalist, the film’s subtext hints at the real-life tension between the Black Panthers and Oakland’s gangster underworld. It’s a dynamic that foreshadowed the divisions between conscious and gangsta rap, and predated the way Tupac and many Bay Area rappers mixed elements of both.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When Melvin Van Peebles’ directorial debut \u003ci>Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song\u003c/i> was released in 1971, Panther leaders used their widely circulated newspaper to encourage Party members to see the film, which also featured the all-Black East Bay Dragons motorcycle club. “No distributors were supporting it,” says the Lumpen’s Dr. Saturu Ned, who worked in the Party’s newspaper office before he became a musician. “Because of the Black Panther Party, millions of people went to see the movie.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Sweet Sweetback\u003c/i> birthed the so-called blaxploitation films of this era, championing a gritty view of street life with an undercurrent of anti-authoritarianism. The genre became a key reference point for hip-hop, along with the Panthers’ messages of Black power and resistance. [aside postid='arts_13923766']\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Hip-hop’s inspiration from the criminal underworld\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Without a doubt, one of hip-hop’s overarching themes has been the criminal underworld and the archetype of the pimp/player/hustler as hero and ghetto superstar. This, too, has significant ties to the Bay Area, and especially Oakland, which counts among its rap classics MC Pooh’s \u003ci>Life of a Criminal\u003c/i> and Too Short’s \u003ci>Born to Mack\u003c/i>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the Bay Area, a systemic devastation of Black neighborhoods created a formula for poverty. Blue-collar industrial jobs left after World War II, and the “urban renewal” of the ’60s and ’70s demolished homes and businesses in San Francisco as well as Oakland. For some, the underground economy became an appealing means of upward mobility.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Felix Mitchell operated out of the San Antonio Villa, a.k.a. 6-9 Ville, in East Oakland, which became the headquarters for the “69 Mob,” a criminal organization that established a nationwide heroin distribution network and employed young children as lookouts. The housing project’s notoriety extended well beyond Mitchell’s death in 1986: in 1992, the rapper Seagram released the single “The Ville,” which references “the M.O.B.” — an acronym for My Other Brother, the “official” name of Mitchell’s gang.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the ’70s, the Black Panthers operated a school and community center just a few blocks from 6-9 Ville. This led to conflict over control of the neighborhood. Ned recalls that intakes at the community center for heroin overdoses were common, while the Black Resurgents’ Randolph, who lived nearby on Sunnyside and 82nd Avenue, remembers gun battles sometimes erupting between the two factions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the post-Felix Mitchell crack cocaine era, rapping about pimping, drug dealing, drive-by shootings and sideshows all became part of Oakland’s hip-hop lexicon — see Dru Down and the Luniz’ “Ice Cream Man,” Richie Rich’s “Sideshow” and “Half Thang,” or Dru Down’s “Pimp of the Year,” which stayed on the Billboard charts for 24 weeks and would often evoke boisterous sing-alongs when played in local clubs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/qnVtwzaw6lM\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mitchell himself had reportedly popularized drive-by shootings, becoming one of the inspirations for the Nino Brown character in the 1991 movie \u003ci>New Jack City\u003c/i>, which featured a hip-hop soundtrack.. And Mitchell’s rival, Milton “Mickey Mo” Moore, financed the first rap record to come out of the Bay Area: Motorcycle Mike’s “Super Rat.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So while Philadelphia’s Schooly-D and L.A.’s Ice-T are often credited as the first gangsta rap artists, the genre has been heavily influenced by Bay Area criminal icons like Moore, Ward, Mitchell and San Francisco’s Fillmore Slim. Just like the Panthers predated conscious rap and progressive politics, the Bay basically been gangsta for years.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Afrofuturism is at the heart of hip-hop’s imagination\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Not all hip-hop artists follow a street playbook. Nearly as influential as \u003ci>The Mack\u003c/i> was Sun Ra’s 1974 cult classic \u003ci>Space is the Place\u003c/i>, filmed at locations in Oakland, including the current Merritt College campus. Its origins date back to a 1971 \u003ca href=\"https://www.openculture.com/2014/07/full-lecture-and-reading-list-from-sun-ras-1971-uc-berkeley-course.html\">lecture course\u003c/a> given by Sun Ra at UC Berkeley, titled “The Black Man in the Cosmos.” The film’s convoluted plot depicts Ra as a time-traveling jazz musician who engages in a game of tarot with an “overseer” to decide the fate of the Black race. Ra eventually wins the contest thanks to his use of sound vibrations during a free jazz concert, boards a spaceship joined by young African Americans he’s recruited from Oakland, and travels to a better world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Afrofuturistic themes in \u003ci>Space is the Place\u003c/i> not only preceded Parliament’s \u003ci>Clones of Dr. Funkenstein\u003c/i> and \u003ci>Mothership Connection\u003c/i> albums, but established a cultural precedent for those themes to be revisited by hip-hop, first in the electro-funk era, and subsequently through abstract, esoteric, spiritually and conceptually minded rappers and producers. In the Bay Area, Hieroglyphics’ Del the Funky Homosapien would imagine dystopian futures worthy of anime treatments; Blackalicious’ work would contain themes of technology as a means of liberation; and Zion I’s lyrics would reach towards spiritual enlightenment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924298\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924298\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-486166770-800x516.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"516\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-486166770-800x516.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-486166770-1020x657.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-486166770-160x103.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-486166770-768x495.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-486166770.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sun Ra and his Sun Ra Archestra perform with a steel sculpture on September 23, 1978, at Hill Auditorium in Ann Arbor, Michigan. \u003ccite>(Leni Sinclair/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Sun Ra was part of the Black Arts Movement (BAM) of the 1960s, which began in Harlem but was grounded in the Bay Area. Influential author, writer and BAM co-founder Amiri Bakara moved from New York in 1962 to teach at San Francisco State University; in 1964, he worked with a young graphic designer named Emory Douglas on set design for a play in San Francisco. Three years later, Douglas met Bobby Seale and Huey Newton at the Black Door, a Black-operated theater known for presenting avant-garde productions, and became the Black Panther’s minister of culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Douglas’ revolutionary illustrations were featured in the Panther newspaper, and went on to influence politically-minded graffiti artists and muralists worldwide, including in San Francisco’s famed Clarion Alley. The Coup’s logo, depicting a mother carrying a child in a sling while holding a rifle, is a \u003ca href=\"http://american-studies-uea.blogspot.com/2021/05/the-art-of-emory-douglas-and-asali.html\">direct descendant of Douglas’ work\u003c/a>. And during the late ’80s, a flourishing of political graffiti around the anti-apartheid movement crested into bold statements against police brutality and Christopher Columbus by Bay Area aerosol legends Mike Dream, Spie and the TDK collective in the early ’90s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Baraka later became a founding board member of Oakland’s Eastside Arts Alliance, whose annual Malcolm X Jazz Arts Festival in San Antonio Park has featured hip-hop freestyle rhyme and dance cyphers, live painting in honor of Mike Dream, tributes to boogaloo, and performances by The Coup and the Last Poets’ Umar Bin Hassan. Meanwhile, Baraka’s daughter Dominique DiPrima would become the KRON-TV host of the popular Bay Area hip-hop show \u003cem>Home Turf\u003c/em>. [aside postid='arts_13906176']\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Spoken word, feminism\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>From the Black Arts Movement lineage comes a local emphasis on spoken word poetry and alternative theater. This legacy of artistic expression ultimately connects pioneering poet/playwright Ntozake Shange to the hip-hop inspired Oakland poet Chinaka Hodge, and to the field of hip-hop theater explored by Marc Bamuthi Joseph in the Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In her 1976 choreopoem \u003cem>for colored girls who’ve considered suicide/when the rainbow is enuf\u003c/em>, first performed at a lesbian bar on Solano Avenue in Albany, Shange foreshadowed women in hip-hop’s existential struggle with sexuality, self-affirmation and self-love while dealing with misogyny, toxic relationships and Black female identity. In “No More Love Poems pt 1,” Shange’s Lady in Orange describes “being left screaming in a street full of lunatics whispering slut, \u003cem>beeitch\u003c/em>…” — pronouncing the word with the same drawn-out intonation as Too Short would a decade later.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924299\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 801px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13924299\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/801px-Ntozake_Shange_Reid_Lecture_Women_Issues_Luncheon_Womens_Center_November_1978_Crisco_edit.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"801\" height=\"1023\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/801px-Ntozake_Shange_Reid_Lecture_Women_Issues_Luncheon_Womens_Center_November_1978_Crisco_edit.jpg 801w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/801px-Ntozake_Shange_Reid_Lecture_Women_Issues_Luncheon_Womens_Center_November_1978_Crisco_edit-160x204.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/801px-Ntozake_Shange_Reid_Lecture_Women_Issues_Luncheon_Womens_Center_November_1978_Crisco_edit-768x981.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 801px) 100vw, 801px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ntozake Shange in 1978. \u003ccite>(Barnard College/Wikimedia Commons)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>These same themes are present to some degree in the music of Bay Area women in funk — a list that includes Little Sister, Sugar Pie DeSanto, the Brides of Funkenstein, and Betty Davis (who recorded her first two albums in San Francisco with Bay Area musicians). The Pointer Sisters, the Oakland group whose career began with the self-affirming hit “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/F2U1OUxXSMM\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Yes We Can Can\u003c/a>,” would later be referenced by Ice Cube, the Treacherous Three and Salt-n-Pepa.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As SF State professor and cultural anthropologist Dawn-Elissa Fischer points out, the tradition extends even further back. “Some of the ideas that Angela Davis and Patricia Collins write about in terms of the impact of blues women — when we talk about the Panthers, we want to remember, while there are obvious ties, there’s this longer tradition of posting, boasting and rapping in the work of blues women in the Bay Area and elsewhere.” The same ideas and themes of the blues era, she says, were magnified and amplified during the funk era, and again in the hip-hop era.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fischer, a contributor to \u003cem>The Smithsonian Anthology of Hip-Hop and Rap\u003c/em> and an advisor on KQED’s \u003ci>That’s My Word\u003c/i>, regularly studies funk music as well as contemporary rap in her work, connecting dots between generational movements. She maintains the funky divas of the 1970s provided not only an artistic blueprint for rappers like the Conscious Daughters to talk about gender, sexuality and reproductive rights, but an aesthetic influence as well. Local emcee Coco Peila, she says, is an example of both, along with Mystic, Suga-T and Ryan Nicole.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In looking critically at the intersection of funk, boogaloo, and the Black Panthers, Fischer says, “There was a lot of labor, gender and sexuality components of all of these movements, and specifically various forms of Black power. And \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11858928/west-oakland-mural-honors-women-of-black-panther-party\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Black women are a critical part of this paradigm\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The legacy of these movements is not only part of hip-hop history and American history, but Bay Area history specifically. What made these movements so significant and generational in their influence was their intersectional longevity. Funk, boogaloo, and social movements all spoke to each other throughout their existence. That dialogue has become a longer discussion with the advent of hip-hop, which, as it’s evolved, has carried along with it the aesthetics of past movements \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">—\u003c/span> be they Afros and boots, Black Power salutes, or tick-tocking robot moves over bass grooves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-11687704\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-800x60.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"60\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-400x30.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-768x58.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "In the ’60s and ’70s, the Black Panthers, boogaloo dancers and Sly Stone anticipated the arrival of hip-hop.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924127\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924127\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9-800x450.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9-1536x864.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HipHopPreschool.16.9.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Clockwise from upper left: Women of the Black Panther Party (BAMPFA/Pirkle Jones Foundation); the Black Resurgents (artist photo); Ntozake Shange (John Kisch Archive/Getty Images); Sun Ra in ‘Space is the Place’ (Harte Recordings); Sly Stone (CBS Records).\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>\u003ci>Editor’s note:\u003c/i>\u003c/b>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> This story is part of\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/bayareahiphop\"> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">That’s My Word\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>“People in the house, this is just for you/ A little rap to make you boogaloo”\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\n—The Sugarhill Gang, 1979\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Grandmaster Caz, the Bronx pioneer who ghostwrote the Sugarhill Gang’s groundbreaking 1979 single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKTUAESacQM\">Rapper’s Delight\u003c/a>,” once said, “Hip-hop didn’t invent anything. Hop-hop reinvented everything.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That statement rings truer than ever as we approach the 50th anniversary of Kool Herc’s first party in the Bronx, where the globally influential music and culture were born. And it especially rings true here in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hip-hop wasn’t fully formed in 1973. In fact, it didn’t have an official name until 1982, the year the \u003ci>Village Voice\u003c/i> published a \u003ca href=\"https://digital.library.cornell.edu/catalog/ss:16057641\">profile of Zulu Nation founder Afrika Bambaataa\u003c/a>. Before Bambaataa joined the Black Spades street gang as a teenager, he hung out at the local Black Panther Information Center, and “his political leanings were encouraged by the appearance of songs like ‘Say It Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud’ by James Brown and ‘Stand!’ by Sly and the Family Stone,” Steven Hager wrote.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In other words, two of the three cultural influences cited in one of the earliest known print references to hip-hop are from the Bay Area. Oh word? Say that then.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>No one would dispute that hip-hop emerged from the Bronx, or that James Brown was one of its godfathers. But the impact the Bay Area had on hip-hop’s early sound, aesthetic and ideology is less widely recognized. A thorough exploration of the Bay’s cultural and political movements of the 1960s and ’70s strongly suggests the Bay was hip-hop before there was hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924550\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924550\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith-800x426.jpg\" alt=\"illustrations of huey newton and sly stone\" width=\"800\" height=\"426\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith-800x426.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith-1020x543.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith-160x85.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith-768x409.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith-1536x818.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/HueyNewton.SlyStone.ShomariSmith.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">In the Bay Area, both Huey Newton and Sly Stone (L–R) helped sow the seeds of what would later be referred to as hip-hop. \u003ccite>(Illustrations by Shomari Smith)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Consider this: Before he became a funk superstar, Sly Stone was a fast-talking radio personality whose \u003ca href=\"https://soundcloud.com/djstef415/sly-stone-on-ksol-1967\">on-air patter\u003c/a>, laden with hep phrases, took the form of rapping before rap music. When it came to dance, the Bay Area had boogaloo, robotting and strutting, whose innovative moves preceded b-boying by almost 10 years. (There’s even evidence of breakdancing crews at local talent shows prior to nationwide releases of \u003cem>Breakin’\u003c/em> and \u003cem>Beat Street\u003c/em>.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wall_of_Respect\">community mural movement\u003c/a>, which parallels the \u003ca href=\"https://blogs.cuit.columbia.edu/ijt2106/moment-of-departure/the-emergence-of-modern-graffiti/\">modern graffiti movement\u003c/a>, took root in the Bay before wildstyle frescoes appeared on New York subway trains. The Bay Area’s \u003ca href=\"https://legionsofboom.com/\">Filipino American mobile DJ scene\u003c/a> dates back to garage parties in the 1970s in South San Francisco and Daly City.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Consider also that the iconography of hip-hop was shaped by Bay Area activists, as well as street-level archetypes of badmen and tricksters whose legend became \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CsXK4_D6ByA\">urban folklore\u003c/a>. A key reason the Bay Area became an early adopter of hip-hop was because its culture not only anticipated its arrival, but contributed to its essence during its developmental stages.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924289\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 615px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13924289\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/BPP2.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"615\" height=\"829\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/BPP2.png 615w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/BPP2-160x216.png 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 615px) 100vw, 615px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A 1971 flyer for a Black Panther Party rally calling for Bobby Seale, Ericka Huggins, Angela Davis and Ruchell Magee to be freed from prison. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Black Panther Party Alumni Legacy Network)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The Black Panthers lay hip-hop’s ideological foundation\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Hip-hop began as an underground artform created by inner city youth with few resources, who were dynamic in how they expressed their style and identity. Much of its ideology and political viewpoints were shaped by the Black Panthers, who were founded in Oakland in 1966 and grew to 38 national chapters within two years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Black Panthers had a distinct influence on people like dancer Will “Mr. Penguin” Randolph, an early practitioner of boogaloo and co-founder of the dance crew the \u003ca href=\"https://www.blackresurgents.com/\">Black Resurgents.\u003c/a> Randolph, who grew up in East Oakland, remembers how the Panthers used culture to engage young people and push their revolutionary message.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They had all these rallies with Elaine Brown and different people, and the Black Resurgents were the unofficial official dance group,” Randolph says. “And they would use us to draw the adults in to talk about the city’s plight politically. It was just phenomenal.” \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13851531/a-brief-history-of-the-lumpen-the-black-panthers-revolutionary-funk-band\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">The Lumpen\u003c/a>, a Black Panther-affiliated touring funk band, spread the party’s message around the country. It’s no coincidence that groups like the Chi-Lites, the O’Jays and the Isley Brothers began to reference Panther talking points on songs like “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/qEwMaeN2x-c\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Give More Power to the People\u003c/a>,” “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/uebYua_vdPc\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Give the People What They Want\u003c/a>” and “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/8QZvoOqUkqw\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Fight the Power\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You have to consider that the Black Panther ideology was steeped in, as are most cultural ideas, in the music of the day,” Randolph says. “The grittiness of the blue collar town of Oakland, and the rise of the ideology of the Black Panther Party, and the rise of the funk music of the town all came together.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the hip-hop era, children of Black Panthers like Tupac Shakur and Digital Underground’s Money B — known as “Panther cubs” — would be the ones to carry the Panthers’ vision for Black liberation forward. There’s no “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/zfuF2jOeUx8\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Rebel of the Underground\u003c/a>,” an early agitprop Tupac song, without the Black Panthers. No “Break the Grip of Shame,” the classic 1990 single by San Francisco rapper Paris, either.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/HJ96GPtnH70'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/HJ96GPtnH70'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>Hip-hop activism’s cornerstone issues, police reform and the prison-industrial complex, contain obvious through-lines back to the Black Panthers. In 1966, the Panthers’ manifesto, the Ten-Point Program, stated, “We Want An Immediate End to Police Brutality and the Murder of Black People,” followed by a call for “all Black People (to) be released from the many jails and prisons.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>N.W.A’s “Fuck Tha Police” seemed outrageous in 1989, but became prescient three years later, when LAPD officers were caught on video beating Rodney King. Political rappers like Public Enemy and KRS-One often harbored strong anti-police views, which were shared by such less-likely sources as New York’s L.L. Cool J and Houston’s UGK, on down to Vallejo’s The Mac.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before the NYPD killing of Amadou Diallo inspired the Hip Hop for Respect project in 2000, the 1995 death of Aaron Williams in SFPD custody led to hip-hop activist organization Third Eye Movement protesting the SF Police Commission, and later resisting California’s Juvenile Crime initiative, Prop. 21. In 2009, Mistah F.A.B., Boots Riley and other local hip-hop artists took part in \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13847704/after-oscar-grant-oakland-artists-inspired-a-new-generation-of-activists\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">protests against Oscar Grant’s killing\u003c/a> by BART police.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>More recently, the 2016 \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/11537324/equiptos-hunger-strike-the-importance-of-art-in-social-change\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Frisco Five\u003c/a> hunger strike, spearheaded by rapper Equipto, resulted in SFPD reform. In 2020, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13881529/photos-black-lives-matter-murals-call-for-justice-on-oaklands-walls\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">graffiti artists and muralists took to the Oakland streets\u003c/a> in response to George Floyd’s murder.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Over the past decade, activists have rallied around the Black Lives Matter movement, and it’s no coincidence that the phrase was first coined by Black Lives Matter cofounder Alicia Garza, in Oakland, the home of the Panthers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12159957\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 398px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12159957\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-398x600.jpg\" alt=\"Lonnie Wilson, untitled (Black Panthers at Alameda County Courthouse), July 14, 1968. Gelatin silver photograph, 14 x 9.5 in. The Oakland Tribune Collection, the Oakland Museum of California, Gift of ANG Newspapers\" width=\"398\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-398x600.jpg 398w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-400x602.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-768x1156.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-784x1180.jpg 784w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-1180x1777.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802-960x1446.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/10/H95.18.802.jpg 1793w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 398px) 100vw, 398px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Lonnie Wilson, untitled (Black Panthers at Alameda County Courthouse), July 14, 1968. Gelatin silver photograph, 14 x 9.5 in. The Oakland Tribune Collection, the Oakland Museum of California, Gift of ANG Newspapers. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of the Oakland Museum of California)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Before conscious rap, funk brought the message\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In the Bay Area, funk music was inextricably linked to the revolutionary movements of the 1960s. Beyond the Black Panthers were the Brown Berets, the Third World Liberation Front and the anti-Vietnam War movement, all animating young people to fight against an oppressive social order. One artist that emerged from this climate and eventually became one of hip-hop’s major influences was Sly Stone. A Vallejo-raised champion of multiculturalism and progressive social values, Sly transformed Black music during the ’60s and ’70s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe style=\"border-radius:12px\" src=\"https://open.spotify.com/embed/playlist/6QO0SJgNdiPaDRpwHMPySi?utm_source=generator\" width=\"100%\" height=\"352\" frameborder=\"0\" allowfullscreen allow=\"autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; fullscreen; picture-in-picture\" loading=\"lazy\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sly’s records often contained social commentary that mixed the personal with the political. “Stand!” is an anthem of self-determination positing that freedom is attainable “at least in your mind if you want to be”; Sly released similarly-themed songs like “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/l8sz_7TPWE0\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">You Can Make It If You Try\u003c/a>,” “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/HMQQcniF2Bg\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Underdog\u003c/a>” and “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/Ruq2HJGs31g\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Skin I’m In\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to his contributions to hip-hop’s lexicon — Sly and the Family Stone’s album \u003ci>Fresh\u003c/i> predates hip-hop’s popularizing of the term by at least a decade — there’s the music itself, which has become part of hip-hop’s genetic code. According to online sample databases, Sly and The Family Stone’s music has been sampled an astounding 967 times — up there with James Brown and the Meters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Greg Errico’s drums on “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/42YGprrAOj0\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Sing A Simple Song\u003c/a>” alone have resurfaced in gangsta, alternative and even international rap songs, including Digital Underground’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/PBsjggc5jHM\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">The Humpty Dance\u003c/a>,” Tupac’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/skg0w8DpEe4\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Temptations\u003c/a>,” Public Enemy’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/mmo3HFa2vjg\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Fight the Power\u003c/a>,” KRS-One’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/9ZrAYxWPN6c\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Sound of Da Police\u003c/a>,” A Tribe Called Quest’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/cxN4nKk2cfk\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Jazz\u003c/a>” and countless others.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Family Stone bassist and Oakland native Larry Graham’s slap-bass technique, prominently displayed on 1968’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/N5BP2KlPD4U\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Again)\u003c/a>,” became a defining characteristic of funk, later used by musicians like Bootsy Collins as well as Chic’s Bernard Edwards, whose “Good Times” bassline would later drive “Rapper’s Delight.” \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "No one would dispute that hip-hop emerged from the Bronx, or that James Brown was one of its godfathers. But the impact the Bay Area had on hip-hop’s early sound, aesthetic and ideology is less widely recognized.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sly also created a template for the artist-producer and independent label entrepreneur. He produced other artists for his short-lived Stone Flower label, often playing every musical instrument. His production of Little Sister’s “Somebody’s Watching You” became the first Top 40 hit to use electronic drums — a staple of nearly all hip-hop production.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I feel like particularly with Sly, [he’s] part of the whole kind of mashup of the streets and the church,” says Lateef Daumont, a Panther cub best known as hip-hop artist Lateef the Truthspeaker of the Quannum collective. “They just had all of the things that would be blueprints for hip-hop later on — even business-wise, in a lot of ways.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Sly was the integrationist,” says author and educator Cecil Brown, a Berkeley resident during the ’70s who taught at Merritt College’s former campus on Grove Street (now Martin Luther King Jr. Way) in Oakland. “Also, Sly had an element of militancy in him, too, that was \u003cem>not\u003c/em> flower power, you know? It was like, ‘We got something that is going to make us feel better, and that belongs to us.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13898274\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13898274\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-800x450.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-1536x864.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-2048x1152.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/06/0SUMMER_OF_SOUL_-_Sly_Stone._Courtesy_of_Mass_Distraction_Media_1-1920x1080.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sly Stone in a still from Questlove’s new film ‘Summer of Soul.’ \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Mass Distraction Media)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Remarkably, Stone was able to cross over to the pop charts while maintaining an unapologetically Black identity. In a \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDOyaGvOyPk\">1974 clip from \u003ci>The Mike Douglas Show\u003c/i>\u003c/a>, Sly is asked if his young, white middle-class fans know what he’s singing about. “Yeah, they know,” he says. Hip-hop exemplifies the same paradigm: It appeals to white youth precisely because it offers entry into a different cultural space, with its own reference points and vernacular.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Just as The Coup’s Boots Riley performed his song “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/_2bkG0wwdXc\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Underdogs\u003c/a>” during the Occupy Oakland demonstrations of 2011, Sly occasionally performed at Black Panther rallies while living in Oakland. His ear-to-the-street perspective, containing equal parts optimism and cynicism, is evidenced by the No. 1 album \u003ci>There’s A Riot Goin’ On\u003c/i>, released in 1971. As cultural critic Okla Jones wrote on the occasion of the album’s 50th anniversary, “America was a nation in transition, feeling the effects of the previous decade. The shadow of Dr. King’s assassination loomed over the Black community, and the Vietnam War divided an entire country. What Sly and the Family Stone’s fifth album did was give a voice to a new generation yearning to be heard.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This dynamic — young people speaking their minds and determining their own identities through cultural expression — not only defined the early ’70s but connected the funk era to the rap era. Once you depart from the New York-centric breakbeat aesthetic, funk becomes \u003cem>the\u003c/em> defining element of hip-hop’s sound, particularly in the Southern United States and parts of the Midwest, and especially in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13851562\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13851562\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2019/02/lumpen_stage-800x523.jpg\" alt=\"The Lumpen performed between 1970 and 1972; afterwards, Black Panther Party leadership assigned its members to other roles within the organization.\" width=\"800\" height=\"523\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/02/lumpen_stage.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/02/lumpen_stage-160x105.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/02/lumpen_stage-768x502.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Black Panther funk band The Lumpen performed between 1970 and 1972; afterwards, party leadership assigned its members to other roles within the organization. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of itsabouttime.com)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Before breaking, the Bay had boogaloo\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The dance style known as Oakland boogaloo began in the 1960s with R&B and soul as its soundtrack, but the emergence of funk raised the bar for creative expression. “The thumping of the bass and the snapping of the snare drum and the thumping of the bass drum, you started to see people doing this free-form movement, with a hit and with body contortions,” says Will Randolph, whose group the Black Resurgents once performed during a 1977 Parliament concert at the Oakland Coliseum Arena, where they emerged from the iconic mothership in front of more than 10,000 fans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When you talk about hip-hop dance, primarily people think of breaking and popping,” Randolph says. “When you talk about street dance on a nationwide level prior to hip-hop dance coming out of primarily New York, you have this whole West Coast sea of dance and street dance. The Bay Area in particular is really the debut for hip-hop.”\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/IUdS6kxw2aI'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/IUdS6kxw2aI'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>From the mid-1960s to the early ’70s, years before hip-hop had a name, Oakland groups like the Black Resurgents, One Plus One, the Black Messengers and Pirate and the Easy Walkers perfected moves that would become part of the hip-hop dance vernacular.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“What I’m saying is that boogaloo, robotting, and strutting dance styles predate hip-hop as a culture, as a name, and even hip-hop dance as an artform,” says Randolph. (In 1990’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QDApdzFa3OI\">U Make Me Want Some\u003c/a>,” Mac Dre’s mentor and namesake The Mac even raps: “You can do the boogaloo / Like they used to do in 1972.”)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As boogaloo branched off into Richmond robotting and San Francisco strutting in the mid-1970s to become the predominant form of urban youth culture in the Bay Area, dancers adopted the sartorial flamboyance associated with pimps, incorporating top hats, canes and pointy-toed shoes into their aesthetic. White gloves created a mesmerizing effect under blacklight during performances in dark halls.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fueled by talent show competitions, which brought local fame and popularity, the artform continued to develop into the early ’80s. Synchronized group routines, costumes, and stage props all became part of the mix. Most routines developed for competitions were performed just once. Some groups practiced in secret so no one could steal their moves. (The Black Resurgents were an exception; they were known to practice in front of an open window, often drawing crowds from their neighborhood.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Coded signals between dancers would indicate they were participants in the same culture and ready to battle at a moment’s notice, such as popping one’s collar — which later became a signature hallmark of Bay Area hip-hop expression. Being known as a boogaloo, strutter or robotter also conferred social status, and could give practitioners a ghetto pass through hostile territory or nullify threats of violence altogether.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As boogaloo spread in the latter half of the ’70s to San Jose, Sacramento, Fresno and Los Angeles, a move originally known as “The Oakland Hit” became the “pop,” and blended with the locking style indigenous to Southern California. Pop-locking was born.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924302\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924302\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/n5cCK1s8-800x609.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"609\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/n5cCK1s8-800x609.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/n5cCK1s8-160x122.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/n5cCK1s8-768x584.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/n5cCK1s8.jpg 924w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Black Resurgents on ‘The Jay Payton Show,’ July 18, 1976. \u003ccite>(Courtesy AAMLO)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But the Bay Area’s contributions didn’t make the history books. In 1979, the Electric Boogaloos \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rkejPbx9zSI\">appeared on \u003ci>Soul Train\u003c/i>\u003c/a> and were erroneously announced as the originators of boogaloo by host Don Cornelius. Boogaloo also spread to New York through Bay Area dancers like Jerry Rentie, who served active military duty there, but wasn’t recognized as a distinct style by New York rappers like Run-DMC, who said “let the poppers pop and the breakers break” on 1984’s “Rock Box.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Northern California origins of popping became further obscured when breakdancing arrived on the West Coast in the early ’80s, and boogaloo, strutting, robotting, popping and breaking were all subsumed into the amalgamation of hip-hop dance. In “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/HshF2AOx4VM\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">West Coast Pop Lock\u003c/a>,” a 1982 hit for Ronnie Hudson that most know as the hook of Tupac’s “California Love,” Hudson shouts out Los Angeles, Watts and Compton — with no mention of Oakland at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Pimp culture becomes pop culture\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Another key influence on hip-hop was Richard Pryor, who moved to Berkeley in 1969 and soaked up the city’s counterculture vibe. Pryor performed locally at venues like Laney College, and, similar to Tupac, key parts of his development came from the Bay Area before he moved to L.A. and became a superstar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pryor has been sampled in rap more than 400 times, which speaks to his street-level Black cultural perspective that placed more emphasis on barbershops, juke joints and strip clubs than churches and schools. And it was Pryor’s involvement in a 1973 movie, filmed in Oakland, that would cement his relationship to Bay Area hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924297\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924297\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-800x1217.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"1217\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-800x1217.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-1020x1551.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-160x243.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-768x1168.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-1010x1536.jpg 1010w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-1347x2048.jpg 1347w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-1920x2920.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-1137109661-scaled.jpg 1683w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Mack, US poster, top from left: Max Julien, Richard Pryor, from a 1977 re-release of the film. \u003ccite>(Photo by LMPC via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>The Mack\u003c/i> is ostensibly a cautionary tale about the rise and fall of a pimp named Goldie (Max Julien), yet it glorified the illegal sex trade and the flamboyant pimp lifestyle. The movie’s lead was based directly on the notorious Oakland pimp and drug dealer Frank Ward, and infamously featured several real-life pimps and sex workers, in exchange for cameo roles for Ward and his brothers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In \u003cem>The Mack\u003c/em>, Pryor played Slim, Goldie’s partner. Another character, Fat Man, coincidentally had the same initials as infamous Oakland drug kingpin Felix Mitchell. With Goldie’s brother Olinga as a Panther-esque Black nationalist, the film’s subtext hints at the real-life tension between the Black Panthers and Oakland’s gangster underworld. It’s a dynamic that foreshadowed the divisions between conscious and gangsta rap, and predated the way Tupac and many Bay Area rappers mixed elements of both.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When Melvin Van Peebles’ directorial debut \u003ci>Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song\u003c/i> was released in 1971, Panther leaders used their widely circulated newspaper to encourage Party members to see the film, which also featured the all-Black East Bay Dragons motorcycle club. “No distributors were supporting it,” says the Lumpen’s Dr. Saturu Ned, who worked in the Party’s newspaper office before he became a musician. “Because of the Black Panther Party, millions of people went to see the movie.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Sweet Sweetback\u003c/i> birthed the so-called blaxploitation films of this era, championing a gritty view of street life with an undercurrent of anti-authoritarianism. The genre became a key reference point for hip-hop, along with the Panthers’ messages of Black power and resistance. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Hip-hop’s inspiration from the criminal underworld\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Without a doubt, one of hip-hop’s overarching themes has been the criminal underworld and the archetype of the pimp/player/hustler as hero and ghetto superstar. This, too, has significant ties to the Bay Area, and especially Oakland, which counts among its rap classics MC Pooh’s \u003ci>Life of a Criminal\u003c/i> and Too Short’s \u003ci>Born to Mack\u003c/i>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the Bay Area, a systemic devastation of Black neighborhoods created a formula for poverty. Blue-collar industrial jobs left after World War II, and the “urban renewal” of the ’60s and ’70s demolished homes and businesses in San Francisco as well as Oakland. For some, the underground economy became an appealing means of upward mobility.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Felix Mitchell operated out of the San Antonio Villa, a.k.a. 6-9 Ville, in East Oakland, which became the headquarters for the “69 Mob,” a criminal organization that established a nationwide heroin distribution network and employed young children as lookouts. The housing project’s notoriety extended well beyond Mitchell’s death in 1986: in 1992, the rapper Seagram released the single “The Ville,” which references “the M.O.B.” — an acronym for My Other Brother, the “official” name of Mitchell’s gang.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the ’70s, the Black Panthers operated a school and community center just a few blocks from 6-9 Ville. This led to conflict over control of the neighborhood. Ned recalls that intakes at the community center for heroin overdoses were common, while the Black Resurgents’ Randolph, who lived nearby on Sunnyside and 82nd Avenue, remembers gun battles sometimes erupting between the two factions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the post-Felix Mitchell crack cocaine era, rapping about pimping, drug dealing, drive-by shootings and sideshows all became part of Oakland’s hip-hop lexicon — see Dru Down and the Luniz’ “Ice Cream Man,” Richie Rich’s “Sideshow” and “Half Thang,” or Dru Down’s “Pimp of the Year,” which stayed on the Billboard charts for 24 weeks and would often evoke boisterous sing-alongs when played in local clubs.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/qnVtwzaw6lM'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/qnVtwzaw6lM'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>Mitchell himself had reportedly popularized drive-by shootings, becoming one of the inspirations for the Nino Brown character in the 1991 movie \u003ci>New Jack City\u003c/i>, which featured a hip-hop soundtrack.. And Mitchell’s rival, Milton “Mickey Mo” Moore, financed the first rap record to come out of the Bay Area: Motorcycle Mike’s “Super Rat.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So while Philadelphia’s Schooly-D and L.A.’s Ice-T are often credited as the first gangsta rap artists, the genre has been heavily influenced by Bay Area criminal icons like Moore, Ward, Mitchell and San Francisco’s Fillmore Slim. Just like the Panthers predated conscious rap and progressive politics, the Bay basically been gangsta for years.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Afrofuturism is at the heart of hip-hop’s imagination\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Not all hip-hop artists follow a street playbook. Nearly as influential as \u003ci>The Mack\u003c/i> was Sun Ra’s 1974 cult classic \u003ci>Space is the Place\u003c/i>, filmed at locations in Oakland, including the current Merritt College campus. Its origins date back to a 1971 \u003ca href=\"https://www.openculture.com/2014/07/full-lecture-and-reading-list-from-sun-ras-1971-uc-berkeley-course.html\">lecture course\u003c/a> given by Sun Ra at UC Berkeley, titled “The Black Man in the Cosmos.” The film’s convoluted plot depicts Ra as a time-traveling jazz musician who engages in a game of tarot with an “overseer” to decide the fate of the Black race. Ra eventually wins the contest thanks to his use of sound vibrations during a free jazz concert, boards a spaceship joined by young African Americans he’s recruited from Oakland, and travels to a better world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Afrofuturistic themes in \u003ci>Space is the Place\u003c/i> not only preceded Parliament’s \u003ci>Clones of Dr. Funkenstein\u003c/i> and \u003ci>Mothership Connection\u003c/i> albums, but established a cultural precedent for those themes to be revisited by hip-hop, first in the electro-funk era, and subsequently through abstract, esoteric, spiritually and conceptually minded rappers and producers. In the Bay Area, Hieroglyphics’ Del the Funky Homosapien would imagine dystopian futures worthy of anime treatments; Blackalicious’ work would contain themes of technology as a means of liberation; and Zion I’s lyrics would reach towards spiritual enlightenment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924298\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924298\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-486166770-800x516.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"516\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-486166770-800x516.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-486166770-1020x657.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-486166770-160x103.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-486166770-768x495.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/GettyImages-486166770.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sun Ra and his Sun Ra Archestra perform with a steel sculpture on September 23, 1978, at Hill Auditorium in Ann Arbor, Michigan. \u003ccite>(Leni Sinclair/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Sun Ra was part of the Black Arts Movement (BAM) of the 1960s, which began in Harlem but was grounded in the Bay Area. Influential author, writer and BAM co-founder Amiri Bakara moved from New York in 1962 to teach at San Francisco State University; in 1964, he worked with a young graphic designer named Emory Douglas on set design for a play in San Francisco. Three years later, Douglas met Bobby Seale and Huey Newton at the Black Door, a Black-operated theater known for presenting avant-garde productions, and became the Black Panther’s minister of culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Douglas’ revolutionary illustrations were featured in the Panther newspaper, and went on to influence politically-minded graffiti artists and muralists worldwide, including in San Francisco’s famed Clarion Alley. The Coup’s logo, depicting a mother carrying a child in a sling while holding a rifle, is a \u003ca href=\"http://american-studies-uea.blogspot.com/2021/05/the-art-of-emory-douglas-and-asali.html\">direct descendant of Douglas’ work\u003c/a>. And during the late ’80s, a flourishing of political graffiti around the anti-apartheid movement crested into bold statements against police brutality and Christopher Columbus by Bay Area aerosol legends Mike Dream, Spie and the TDK collective in the early ’90s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Baraka later became a founding board member of Oakland’s Eastside Arts Alliance, whose annual Malcolm X Jazz Arts Festival in San Antonio Park has featured hip-hop freestyle rhyme and dance cyphers, live painting in honor of Mike Dream, tributes to boogaloo, and performances by The Coup and the Last Poets’ Umar Bin Hassan. Meanwhile, Baraka’s daughter Dominique DiPrima would become the KRON-TV host of the popular Bay Area hip-hop show \u003cem>Home Turf\u003c/em>. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Spoken word, feminism\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>From the Black Arts Movement lineage comes a local emphasis on spoken word poetry and alternative theater. This legacy of artistic expression ultimately connects pioneering poet/playwright Ntozake Shange to the hip-hop inspired Oakland poet Chinaka Hodge, and to the field of hip-hop theater explored by Marc Bamuthi Joseph in the Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In her 1976 choreopoem \u003cem>for colored girls who’ve considered suicide/when the rainbow is enuf\u003c/em>, first performed at a lesbian bar on Solano Avenue in Albany, Shange foreshadowed women in hip-hop’s existential struggle with sexuality, self-affirmation and self-love while dealing with misogyny, toxic relationships and Black female identity. In “No More Love Poems pt 1,” Shange’s Lady in Orange describes “being left screaming in a street full of lunatics whispering slut, \u003cem>beeitch\u003c/em>…” — pronouncing the word with the same drawn-out intonation as Too Short would a decade later.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924299\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 801px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13924299\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/801px-Ntozake_Shange_Reid_Lecture_Women_Issues_Luncheon_Womens_Center_November_1978_Crisco_edit.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"801\" height=\"1023\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/801px-Ntozake_Shange_Reid_Lecture_Women_Issues_Luncheon_Womens_Center_November_1978_Crisco_edit.jpg 801w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/801px-Ntozake_Shange_Reid_Lecture_Women_Issues_Luncheon_Womens_Center_November_1978_Crisco_edit-160x204.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/801px-Ntozake_Shange_Reid_Lecture_Women_Issues_Luncheon_Womens_Center_November_1978_Crisco_edit-768x981.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 801px) 100vw, 801px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ntozake Shange in 1978. \u003ccite>(Barnard College/Wikimedia Commons)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>These same themes are present to some degree in the music of Bay Area women in funk — a list that includes Little Sister, Sugar Pie DeSanto, the Brides of Funkenstein, and Betty Davis (who recorded her first two albums in San Francisco with Bay Area musicians). The Pointer Sisters, the Oakland group whose career began with the self-affirming hit “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/F2U1OUxXSMM\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Yes We Can Can\u003c/a>,” would later be referenced by Ice Cube, the Treacherous Three and Salt-n-Pepa.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As SF State professor and cultural anthropologist Dawn-Elissa Fischer points out, the tradition extends even further back. “Some of the ideas that Angela Davis and Patricia Collins write about in terms of the impact of blues women — when we talk about the Panthers, we want to remember, while there are obvious ties, there’s this longer tradition of posting, boasting and rapping in the work of blues women in the Bay Area and elsewhere.” The same ideas and themes of the blues era, she says, were magnified and amplified during the funk era, and again in the hip-hop era.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fischer, a contributor to \u003cem>The Smithsonian Anthology of Hip-Hop and Rap\u003c/em> and an advisor on KQED’s \u003ci>That’s My Word\u003c/i>, regularly studies funk music as well as contemporary rap in her work, connecting dots between generational movements. She maintains the funky divas of the 1970s provided not only an artistic blueprint for rappers like the Conscious Daughters to talk about gender, sexuality and reproductive rights, but an aesthetic influence as well. Local emcee Coco Peila, she says, is an example of both, along with Mystic, Suga-T and Ryan Nicole.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In looking critically at the intersection of funk, boogaloo, and the Black Panthers, Fischer says, “There was a lot of labor, gender and sexuality components of all of these movements, and specifically various forms of Black power. And \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11858928/west-oakland-mural-honors-women-of-black-panther-party\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Black women are a critical part of this paradigm\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The legacy of these movements is not only part of hip-hop history and American history, but Bay Area history specifically. What made these movements so significant and generational in their influence was their intersectional longevity. Funk, boogaloo, and social movements all spoke to each other throughout their existence. That dialogue has become a longer discussion with the advent of hip-hop, which, as it’s evolved, has carried along with it the aesthetics of past movements \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">—\u003c/span> be they Afros and boots, Black Power salutes, or tick-tocking robot moves over bass grooves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "Love and Magic Abound on Mystic’s ‘Dreaming in Cursive: The Girl Who Loved Sparklers’",
"headTitle": "Love and Magic Abound on Mystic’s ‘Dreaming in Cursive: The Girl Who Loved Sparklers’ | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>Welcome to Pass the Aux, where KQED Arts & Culture brings you our favorite new tracks by Bay Area artists. \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/pass-the-aux\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Check out past entries and submit a song for future coverage\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There’s a feeling of magic in \u003ca href=\"https://mysticworldwide.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Mystic\u003c/a>’s \u003ci>Dreaming in Cursive: The Girl Who Loved Sparklers\u003c/i>. The Oakland hip-hop artist, originally a member of Digital Underground in the ’90s, recently released her first solo album in eight years. After \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13906176/in-hip-hop-and-academia-mystic-defines-her-own-success-story\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">leaving a record deal and pursuing a second career as an educator\u003c/a>, Mystic is on her own timeline, making what she calls “healed Black woman music” outside the constraints of the industry. And \u003ci>Dreaming in Cursive\u003c/i> was well worth the wait. [aside postid='arts_13906176']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In a world full of suffering, Mystic finds an antidote by inviting her inner child out to play. While she acknowledges hard truths about violence and abuses of power, her activist message is also about nurturing feelings of love, hope and wonder. Those two themes are often intertwined in her work and life: Last month, to honor her late friend and collaborator Shock G, she and her Digital Underground family partnered with the community group \u003ca href=\"https://www.eastoaklandcollective.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">East Oakland Collective\u003c/a> to distribute over 2,000 meals to Oakland residents in need. On \u003ci>Dreaming in Cursive\u003c/i>, the personal and collective are also linked, and the 14 tracks and poetic interludes present Mystic’s healing and the world’s healing as two parts of the same process.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“As somebody who has experienced trauma, it’s only through part of the healing process that I could return to that playfulness, that I could return to that imagination,” says Mystic, who intentionally incorporated children’s voices on the record to underscore the uplifting mood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" style=\"border: 0; width: 100%; height: 120px;\" src=\"https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=1909652176/size=large/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=0687f5/tracklist=false/artwork=small/transparent=true/\" width=\"100%\" height=\"500\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\" frameborder=\"0\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Dreaming in Cursive\u003c/i> celebrates the love of self, family, friends and community, and there’s a heavy emphasis on sensuality and romance as well. “Every song is actually a love song, but in a different context,” she says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A standout track is “Butter (Green Light),” where Mystic raps over an uptempo, classic hip-hop beat with a warm guitar, as flirtatious giggles ring out in the background. “It’s a good thing, I’m in your sweet thing / The green light goes both ways / When I’m in your arms as the sun sets / It’s been a marvelous day,” she repeats before the chorus. The feel-good track captures a magical spark of mutual admiration, the kind of connection that makes you feel completely present in your loved one’s company.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When I was younger, I could just think that you’re the one, right? I wasn’t too concerned whether it went both ways—I wanted it to go both ways. And I think part of the wisdom that I’ve gotten is when it doesn’t go both ways, that’s not where you’re supposed to be,” she says. “We each deserve to be loved passionately, to be celebrated, to be listened to and held and inspired.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The interludes between tracks give insight into this evolution as Mystic has learned over the years to love and trust herself. On “Alive and Free (Interlude),” which precedes another charmingly sincere love song called “Magic (Let Yourself Go),” Mystic and her friend Angela chat about breaking free from expectations imposed onto women and leaving a scarcity mindset behind.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13918702\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13918702\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/Mystic-performs-at-Hiero-Day-on-Monday-Sept.-6-2022.-001-Estefany-Gonzalez-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/Mystic-performs-at-Hiero-Day-on-Monday-Sept.-6-2022.-001-Estefany-Gonzalez-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/Mystic-performs-at-Hiero-Day-on-Monday-Sept.-6-2022.-001-Estefany-Gonzalez-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/Mystic-performs-at-Hiero-Day-on-Monday-Sept.-6-2022.-001-Estefany-Gonzalez-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/Mystic-performs-at-Hiero-Day-on-Monday-Sept.-6-2022.-001-Estefany-Gonzalez-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/Mystic-performs-at-Hiero-Day-on-Monday-Sept.-6-2022.-001-Estefany-Gonzalez-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/Mystic-performs-at-Hiero-Day-on-Monday-Sept.-6-2022.-001-Estefany-Gonzalez.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mystic performs at Hiero Day on Monday, Sept. 5, 2022. \u003ccite>(Estefany Gonzalez for KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“We can be so caught in our struggle that it can feel like it’s enough to be here and alive,” she says. “But like, don’t you want to thrive?” When the two friends laugh together, it’s the sound of two people who’ve been through some things and risen above.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Angela is one of my forever-and-a-day sisters,” Mystic says. They met over 20 years ago when Angela booked Digital Underground for a show in San Jose; they went on to be roommates and even toured together. On Mystic’s acclaimed 2001 debut album \u003ci>Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom\u003c/i>, Angela appears in an interlude just before the lead single “The Life,” an ode to people surviving oppression in America’s inner cities.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We’ve been riding together ever since,” Mystic says. “And she has been through with me in my life as a support and as a sister from when I was still broken right to where I am now.” [aside postid='arts_13919270']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Now that the album is out, Mystic is working on her next endeavor: a short film she co-wrote, co-directed and stars in called \u003ci>A Black Love Trilogy\u003c/i>, which incorporates the forthcoming music videos for “Butter (Green Light),” “Still (Love)” and “Love (Always),” but is a standalone narrative. The project is in post-production, and she has plans to enter it into film festivals when it comes out in 2023.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“A lot of what we’re seeing [in pop culture] is love being transactional and toxic,” says Mystic. The film focuses on a couple finding their way back to each other after a rough time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[It’s about] the redemption in Black love and the power of Black love to survive those challenges and to place it in the collective context, because our love doesn’t exist outside of our communities,” Mystic says. “I really just want to uplift healthy, loving, joyful love.”\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>Welcome to Pass the Aux, where KQED Arts & Culture brings you our favorite new tracks by Bay Area artists. \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/pass-the-aux\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Check out past entries and submit a song for future coverage\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There’s a feeling of magic in \u003ca href=\"https://mysticworldwide.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Mystic\u003c/a>’s \u003ci>Dreaming in Cursive: The Girl Who Loved Sparklers\u003c/i>. The Oakland hip-hop artist, originally a member of Digital Underground in the ’90s, recently released her first solo album in eight years. After \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13906176/in-hip-hop-and-academia-mystic-defines-her-own-success-story\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">leaving a record deal and pursuing a second career as an educator\u003c/a>, Mystic is on her own timeline, making what she calls “healed Black woman music” outside the constraints of the industry. And \u003ci>Dreaming in Cursive\u003c/i> was well worth the wait. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In a world full of suffering, Mystic finds an antidote by inviting her inner child out to play. While she acknowledges hard truths about violence and abuses of power, her activist message is also about nurturing feelings of love, hope and wonder. Those two themes are often intertwined in her work and life: Last month, to honor her late friend and collaborator Shock G, she and her Digital Underground family partnered with the community group \u003ca href=\"https://www.eastoaklandcollective.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">East Oakland Collective\u003c/a> to distribute over 2,000 meals to Oakland residents in need. On \u003ci>Dreaming in Cursive\u003c/i>, the personal and collective are also linked, and the 14 tracks and poetic interludes present Mystic’s healing and the world’s healing as two parts of the same process.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“As somebody who has experienced trauma, it’s only through part of the healing process that I could return to that playfulness, that I could return to that imagination,” says Mystic, who intentionally incorporated children’s voices on the record to underscore the uplifting mood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" style=\"border: 0; width: 100%; height: 120px;\" src=\"https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=1909652176/size=large/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=0687f5/tracklist=false/artwork=small/transparent=true/\" width=\"100%\" height=\"500\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\" frameborder=\"0\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Dreaming in Cursive\u003c/i> celebrates the love of self, family, friends and community, and there’s a heavy emphasis on sensuality and romance as well. “Every song is actually a love song, but in a different context,” she says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A standout track is “Butter (Green Light),” where Mystic raps over an uptempo, classic hip-hop beat with a warm guitar, as flirtatious giggles ring out in the background. “It’s a good thing, I’m in your sweet thing / The green light goes both ways / When I’m in your arms as the sun sets / It’s been a marvelous day,” she repeats before the chorus. The feel-good track captures a magical spark of mutual admiration, the kind of connection that makes you feel completely present in your loved one’s company.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When I was younger, I could just think that you’re the one, right? I wasn’t too concerned whether it went both ways—I wanted it to go both ways. And I think part of the wisdom that I’ve gotten is when it doesn’t go both ways, that’s not where you’re supposed to be,” she says. “We each deserve to be loved passionately, to be celebrated, to be listened to and held and inspired.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The interludes between tracks give insight into this evolution as Mystic has learned over the years to love and trust herself. On “Alive and Free (Interlude),” which precedes another charmingly sincere love song called “Magic (Let Yourself Go),” Mystic and her friend Angela chat about breaking free from expectations imposed onto women and leaving a scarcity mindset behind.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13918702\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13918702\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/Mystic-performs-at-Hiero-Day-on-Monday-Sept.-6-2022.-001-Estefany-Gonzalez-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/Mystic-performs-at-Hiero-Day-on-Monday-Sept.-6-2022.-001-Estefany-Gonzalez-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/Mystic-performs-at-Hiero-Day-on-Monday-Sept.-6-2022.-001-Estefany-Gonzalez-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/Mystic-performs-at-Hiero-Day-on-Monday-Sept.-6-2022.-001-Estefany-Gonzalez-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/Mystic-performs-at-Hiero-Day-on-Monday-Sept.-6-2022.-001-Estefany-Gonzalez-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/Mystic-performs-at-Hiero-Day-on-Monday-Sept.-6-2022.-001-Estefany-Gonzalez-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/09/Mystic-performs-at-Hiero-Day-on-Monday-Sept.-6-2022.-001-Estefany-Gonzalez.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mystic performs at Hiero Day on Monday, Sept. 5, 2022. \u003ccite>(Estefany Gonzalez for KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“We can be so caught in our struggle that it can feel like it’s enough to be here and alive,” she says. “But like, don’t you want to thrive?” When the two friends laugh together, it’s the sound of two people who’ve been through some things and risen above.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Angela is one of my forever-and-a-day sisters,” Mystic says. They met over 20 years ago when Angela booked Digital Underground for a show in San Jose; they went on to be roommates and even toured together. On Mystic’s acclaimed 2001 debut album \u003ci>Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom\u003c/i>, Angela appears in an interlude just before the lead single “The Life,” an ode to people surviving oppression in America’s inner cities.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We’ve been riding together ever since,” Mystic says. “And she has been through with me in my life as a support and as a sister from when I was still broken right to where I am now.” \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Now that the album is out, Mystic is working on her next endeavor: a short film she co-wrote, co-directed and stars in called \u003ci>A Black Love Trilogy\u003c/i>, which incorporates the forthcoming music videos for “Butter (Green Light),” “Still (Love)” and “Love (Always),” but is a standalone narrative. The project is in post-production, and she has plans to enter it into film festivals when it comes out in 2023.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“A lot of what we’re seeing [in pop culture] is love being transactional and toxic,” says Mystic. The film focuses on a couple finding their way back to each other after a rough time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[It’s about] the redemption in Black love and the power of Black love to survive those challenges and to place it in the collective context, because our love doesn’t exist outside of our communities,” Mystic says. “I really just want to uplift healthy, loving, joyful love.”\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>[dropcap]M[/dropcap]ystic sits in her backyard on the kind of warm, autumn afternoon that makes people remark at how good it is to live in Oakland, California. Dappled light shines through a lush canopy of persimmon, fig and guava trees. Her pet lovebird chirps in the distance, and she’s snacking on almonds between Zoom calls with young musicians she mentors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This is the veteran hip-hop artist’s little oasis, away from the unruliness of the city, where she ponders the changing seasons of life, love and art.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s a good time for reflection. The recent loss of her longtime close friend and Digital Underground collaborator, Shock G, shook her deeply. That, and the grief of living during a global pandemic, prompted her to listen inward and ask herself what would fulfill her soul right now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I mean, shouldn’t we be doing what we love? Isn’t it the time now?” she asks in her naturally poetic cadence, lowering her voice into a near-whisper. Then, she starts to get louder and more passionate, as if proclaiming a manifesto: “If we’re artists, and art is part of our healing journey, then we should all be making art right now, right? There should be art flooding our speakers and our museums and our buildings, right? Public art.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And for \u003ca href=\"http://mysticworldwide.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Mystic\u003c/a>, one of the roles of hip-hop as a public art form is to bring traumas out of darkness and into the light, where they can be examined and processed—maybe even let go—in communion with others. That’s the power of her classic album \u003cem>Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom\u003c/em>, whose 20th anniversary Mystic is celebrating this year. She recently took ownership of the master recordings and put out a \u003ca href=\"https://anchor.fm/thatgirlmystic/episodes/ep-e1529j3\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">podcast series\u003c/a> looking back at its creation. Now, she’s gearing up for a vinyl rerelease in December.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[pullquote size='large' citation='Mystic on owning her masters']“I think the benefit of owning that means nobody else gets to sell my trauma. Nobody else gets to sell my healing.”[/pullquote]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>From the outside, it might look like Mystic is recommitting to her art after years of focusing on her other loves: academia and teaching. After \u003cem>Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom\u003c/em> was released to great acclaim, she walked away from a record deal and took a different path that brought her to UC Berkeley and, eventually, the University of Oxford for her master’s degree in education. For years, she spent more time in kindergarten classrooms than on stage in front of fans. But to Mystic, these multiple pursuits are all part of one continuous quest to create, express and be of service.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It takes life to make art,” she texts me after one of our conversations. “There are times of input and times of output. I take my time for input, and that includes healing, living, loving, working with children, school and community. When my art is ready to be born, that is output. That is all 😉.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]I[/dropcap]t’s easy to see why \u003cem>Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom\u003c/em> put Mystic, born Mandolyn Ludlum, on the precipice of major music industry success when it came out in 2001. The vulnerability and candor in her lyrics are magnetic as she zooms from sharp observations to intimate, personal confessions. She navigates a confusing labyrinth of pressures—both from an oppressive social order and within her own community—and carves out space for compassion and love for her people. Twenty years before the #MeToo movement and conversations about mental health became mainstream, Mystic rapped about losing her father to a drug overdose and surviving sexual abuse. She gave voice to struggles shrouded in stigma and shame.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Part of what I hear back then is this fierce commitment to attempt to live and attempt to heal,” she says of her own recordings. “And so when I listen back to that and I read those lyrics, I just I want to tell her, ‘I love you.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" style=\"border: 0; width: 100%; height: 120px;\" src=\"https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=1184030260/size=large/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=0687f5/tracklist=false/artwork=small/transparent=true/\" width=\"100%\" height=\"500\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\" frameborder=\"0\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With its jazzy undertones and West Coast swing, \u003cem>Cuts for Luck\u003c/em> offers life-affirming moments of free-spirited fun and sexuality, too. Mystic’s delivery is smooth yet earnest, and she comes across as a warm, approachable, wise friend. It’s no wonder the album earned comparisons to \u003cem>The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill\u003c/em>—although to equate the work of two politically outspoken Gen X women in hip-hop would be an oversimplification.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With production from Zion I’s Amp Live, Hieroglyphics’ A-Plus, Shock G and several others, \u003cem>Cuts for Luck\u003c/em> is the result of a collaborative underground hip-hop scene that strived to push the boundaries of the craft. After living all over the West Coast, Mystic immersed herself in that community when she and her mom settled down in Oakland in 1989, the summer before her sophomore year of high school. (A-Plus was their neighbor across the street.) In her teens and 20s, she honed her skills at cyphers at friends’ houses, where they would rhyme, cook and drink beer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We were young and we were free, and it was the end of the decimation of communities from crack cocaine in the ’80s and Reaganomics,” she recalls. “There were still a lot of things going on and a lot of loss. But we were happy, you know. We were creating culture, creating hip-hop.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13906496\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13906496\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/du-crew-800x476.jpg\" alt=\"An archival film photo from the 1990s featuring a crew of hip-hop artists partying and laughing.\" width=\"800\" height=\"476\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/du-crew-800x476.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/du-crew-1020x606.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/du-crew-160x95.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/du-crew-768x457.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/du-crew.jpg 1080w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mystic and her Digital Underground family in the 1990s. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Mystic)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In the ’90s, Mystic developed her stage presence at warehouse parties and open mics, where she’d rhyme alongside revered underground acts like Souls of Mischief. As she ascended to bigger stages, she opened for OutKast and Leaders of the New School, Busta Rhymes’ first group. Her lyrical prowess earned her respect, and eventually she became a member of Digital Underground (she first appears on their 1998 album \u003cem>Who Got the Gravy?\u003c/em>). \u003cem>Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom\u003c/em>, her solo debut, is as multifaceted as life in Oakland at the turn of the millennium.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]T[/dropcap]he power, vulnerability and self-awareness Mystic projected on \u003cem>Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom\u003c/em> propelled her to great heights. She was nominated for a Grammy and a BET Award, and the music video for the lead single, “The Life,” was on TV.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/pqw8tVLYhVI\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the 1990s, major labels signed a number of Bay Area artists, and West Coast hip-hop emerged as a commercial force. But the early-2000s era of illegal downloads caused chaos in the industry. Labels were merging and changing ownership, laying off staff and shelving artists’ work. The rerelease of \u003cem>Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom \u003c/em>was one such casualty.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mystic originally released the album on the independent label Good Vibe, which had a joint venture deal with Jcor. When Jcor went out of business, Mystic and her Good Vibe team signed to DreamWorks. A rerelease was in the pipeline. It was supposed to introduce her to an even bigger audience—the first single, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XMINrw4aFSI\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Breathe (Better Days)\u003c/a>” produced by Kanye West and featuring Donell Jones, had been on the radio, and physical copies were sold in Japan. But the U.S. rollout kept getting stalled.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By 2004, Universal Music Group bought DreamWorks and absorbed it into Interscope, and her album was still in limbo. Mystic broke the emergency glass and hired a lawyer to get her out of her contract. And though she continued to create (she recorded the first track from her 2014 album \u003cem>Beautiful Resistance\u003c/em> after George Bush was declared winner of the 2004 election), Mystic set out on a new path towards higher education.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Everybody was trying to figure out what was wrong with me,” she says. “My accountant, my lawyer, the label—everybody is like, ‘What is she doing,’ right? Because everything in front of her right now.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mystic knew she had to heed an internal calling. “I just felt like in order to not hate what I love, which is my art, that it was important for me to step back,” she says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It wasn’t until 2019, after she finished her master’s degree, that Mystic discovered she owned the masters for \u003cem>Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom\u003c/em>. And while artists like \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/2021/02/11/arts/music/taylor-swift-rerecord-fearless.html\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Taylor Swift\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://people.com/music/ashanti-to-re-record-debut-album-after-gaining-ownership-of-her-masters/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Ashanti\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.essence.com/entertainment/anita-baker-says-you-can-stream-her-music-again/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Anita Baker\u003c/a> have had to fight to take ownership over their work, when Mystic went to Universal Music Group, it turned out all she had to do was ask.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“DreamWorks took what they owned,” she says. “Good Vibe wanted to keep the songs I had done with other artists on the label. Nobody kept the \u003cem>Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom\u003c/em> album. But I didn’t know.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13906481\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13906481\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/Mystic-2-800x450.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/Mystic-2-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/Mystic-2-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/Mystic-2-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/Mystic-2-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/Mystic-2-1536x864.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/Mystic-2.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mystic in her backyard oasis. \u003ccite>(Nastia Voynovskaya/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Would Mystic’s story have unfolded differently if she had known? She doesn’t like to dwell on it. But she still makes sure to tell her mentees, “Contact the label who owns [your masters] or the people you know to own them. They may not own them anymore. I may have just gotten really lucky, right, and the universe did that. I don’t know. But go and ask.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mystic poured herself into the songs on \u003cem>Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom\u003c/em>, and for years listeners have told her that the album has helped them heal from their own life struggles. There’s power in reclaiming something so personally meaningful—to have full control over where the music is licensed and how much she gets paid, and to guarantee the album makes its way onto whatever new streaming platform emerges in the years to come.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The songs that I wrote about my father, about the trauma that I’ve been through, about trying to navigate who I was as a young Black woman who was on a healing journey—like, that’s mine,” she says. “And I think the benefit of owning that means nobody else gets to sell my trauma. Nobody else gets to sell my healing.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]M[/dropcap]ystic’s second album, \u003cem>Beautiful Resistance\u003c/em>, didn’t come until she was entering her second year at UC Berkeley, in 2014. An “untraditional” student now in her 30s, she was fully focused on getting a degree so she could be of service to children. After studying child development and cultural anthropology at Los Angeles Valley College—and a transformational trip to Haiti, where she learned about child exploitation in the aftermath of the 2010 earthquake—she mapped out a new goal of creating an international arts program that would empower children of color across borders.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Music wasn’t top of mind until she attended Ananya Roy’s global poverty class. Roy was one of Cal’s star faculty—a professor with a contagious passion for social justice, whose lectures students would talk about in dining halls and in dorm rooms late at night. (She’s since moved on to become the inaugural director of UCLA’s Institute on Inequality and Democracy.) Mystic was moved when she heard Roy’s lecture about “insurgent architects,” people who work from within institutions to create progressive social change. Insurgent architects could even be artists, she remembers Roy telling the class. Even though there were hundreds of other students in the lecture hall, Mystic felt like Roy was speaking directly to her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Then it hit her: “I can be a scholar and an artist and an educator and an activist.” Taking academia seriously didn’t mean she had to put down music.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" style=\"border: 0; width: 100%; height: 120px;\" src=\"https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=3617047025/size=large/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=0687f5/tracklist=false/artwork=small/transparent=true/\" width=\"100%\" height=\"500\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\" frameborder=\"0\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After the lecture, Mystic emailed Roy a note and attached a few tracks. The professor liked what she heard and encouraged Mystic to keep making music. As she prepared to enter her second year at Berkeley, \u003cem>Beautiful Resistance\u003c/em> was finally out in the world, 10 years after she recorded the first song.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I released it on a Tuesday and I started a new semester on a Thursday,” Mystic remembers. A deepening of the themes on \u003cem>Cuts for Luck\u003c/em>, it features beautifully sung affirmations of Black love and resistance, with vibe-y inflections of jazz and soul.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But as soon as Mystic got \u003cem>Beautiful Resistance\u003c/em> out of her system, her mind was back on school. She was on a mission. “I graduated from college with a 4.0, right? I say that not to be like, ‘Oh, pop my collar.’ I say that as a representation of how I worked to internalize the knowledge, to be of service to children and the community.\u003ci>”\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13906497\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13906497\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/Mystic_HieroDay_2013-0001-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"Mystic raps on stage at an outdoor festival.\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mystic performed at Hiero Day in 2013 just days before starting her first semester at UC Berkeley. \u003ccite>(Eric Nelson)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]T[/dropcap]hat devotion to helping young people heal and grow through art comes from a profound place within Mystic. When she was a teenager, she dropped out of high school. Her teachers labeled her as gifted and talented, but she felt unchallenged and uninspired at Oakland High School. She longed for a creative outlet: she’d skip school and go to the public library to read books about the music business. Not only that, but she was suffering in silence after surviving a rape. She began to check out mentally—she had a natural love of learning but wasn’t in an environment that encouraged her to thrive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In her life as an educator, Mystic wants her students to have a different experience than she did, whether she’s teaching in a classroom, an after-school arts program or at San Quentin State Prison. “I don’t really care about your math or your English. I mean, I do,” she says. “But like, [I also care about] whether you ate. And whether your heart is broken today and whether you’re losing people in your community, whether there’s abuse in your home, everything that you are having to live through, particularly as a young child.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[pullquote size='large' citation='Mystic']“Children are the most natural advocates for human rights and justice in the world.”[/pullquote]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mystic’s studies and travels endowed her with an international perspective on the related struggles of colonized people across the world. (While at Berkeley, she did a semester abroad in South Africa, where she studied post-apartheid education reforms.) After graduating from Berkeley in 2015 with a degree in independent studies, a self-directed major where she wrote a thesis on public policy, education and global poverty, she set off to Oxford to get a master’s degree in comparative and international education.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“My interest in education in an international sense is because the inequalities that exist right here in East Oakland also exist really everywhere else,” she says. “I ended up focusing on how elementary school educators of color are using culturally relevant arts education with students of color. And knowing personally, the arts are transformative. They save lives.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]M[/dropcap]ystic has spent much of the past decade in the “input” phase of her creative process. But in October 2020, after a summer of racial justice uprisings and just before the 2020 election, she decided to put out new track: “We Are the People (All Around the Word).” She wanted a protest song parents could sing with their children, a song for intergenerational activist spaces. It’s as much an indictment of racist power structures as it is a prayer for a world where the next generation can thrive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Children are the most natural advocates for human rights and justice in the world,” she says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" style=\"border: 0; width: 100%; height: 120px;\" src=\"https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/track=1586769193/size=large/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=0687f5/tracklist=false/artwork=small/transparent=true/\" width=\"100%\" height=\"500\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\" frameborder=\"0\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mystic won’t yet reveal what’s to come, but she’s been fully self-employed since September to focus on creating, cooking (another great love of hers), working with children and mentoring young people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We live in a social media age and everything happens in front of the camera,” she says. “I still will always be the artist who’s like, it’s really awesome when nobody knows what you’re doing, and nobody has any expectations and you can just be in your sacred journey.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So what does this part of the path look like, making hip-hop at 47? Especially in an industry inundated with young, male perspectives? Mystic approaches it with a growth mindset.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I still play with styles and I’m a master at what I do, but I’m always committed to, ‘How does that continue to develop?’” Mystic says. “And you talk about different things. I have seven godchildren. I have people with health issues that we don’t necessarily talk about, that happen when you get older: sister with fibroids, people with more cancer, people trying to determine, ‘Well, do I get to own a house?’ Our parents are getting older, right. And these are things we all think we know until we get there. And then when you get there, you go, ‘Oh, this is not really what I thought it was going to be.’” [aside postid='arts_13896288']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Confronting mortality has always been an element of hip-hop. Since the beginning, its most tremendous artists have come from neighborhoods where people become familiar with death and violence at too young an age. But with the deaths of Gen X hip-hop greats like Shock G, DMX and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13899378/blackalicious-gift-of-gab-a-celebrated-mc-dies-at-age-50\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Gift of Gab\u003c/a> over the past year, health issues, aging and life’s precariousness are at the forefront of conversations among artists and fans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I was born within a year of the birth of hip-hop,” Mystic says. “What we’re doing right now has never been done before. It will always be youth-driven. But what [does it] look like to be an artist in our 40s or in our 50s?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She pauses her train of thought to enumerate hip-hop’s many elder statespeople enjoying thriving careers: MC Lyte, Queen Latifah, E-40, Too $hort.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You get there and you realize it’s a beautiful, full life,” she concludes, “if we’re blessed to have those opportunities. And particularly in our communities—with Black and Brown and Indigenous, economically vulnerable communities—it’s a lot of people who don’t live that long. And so in some ways, we’ve never seen what we’ve seen in hip-hop.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1990, Shock G and Digital Underground famously rapped “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=31A6RjOxE74&ab_channel=TommyBoy\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Doowutchyalike\u003c/a>.” The time has come for Mystic, and all of us, to do what we love.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">M\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>ystic sits in her backyard on the kind of warm, autumn afternoon that makes people remark at how good it is to live in Oakland, California. Dappled light shines through a lush canopy of persimmon, fig and guava trees. Her pet lovebird chirps in the distance, and she’s snacking on almonds between Zoom calls with young musicians she mentors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This is the veteran hip-hop artist’s little oasis, away from the unruliness of the city, where she ponders the changing seasons of life, love and art.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s a good time for reflection. The recent loss of her longtime close friend and Digital Underground collaborator, Shock G, shook her deeply. That, and the grief of living during a global pandemic, prompted her to listen inward and ask herself what would fulfill her soul right now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I mean, shouldn’t we be doing what we love? Isn’t it the time now?” she asks in her naturally poetic cadence, lowering her voice into a near-whisper. Then, she starts to get louder and more passionate, as if proclaiming a manifesto: “If we’re artists, and art is part of our healing journey, then we should all be making art right now, right? There should be art flooding our speakers and our museums and our buildings, right? Public art.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And for \u003ca href=\"http://mysticworldwide.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Mystic\u003c/a>, one of the roles of hip-hop as a public art form is to bring traumas out of darkness and into the light, where they can be examined and processed—maybe even let go—in communion with others. That’s the power of her classic album \u003cem>Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom\u003c/em>, whose 20th anniversary Mystic is celebrating this year. She recently took ownership of the master recordings and put out a \u003ca href=\"https://anchor.fm/thatgirlmystic/episodes/ep-e1529j3\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">podcast series\u003c/a> looking back at its creation. Now, she’s gearing up for a vinyl rerelease in December.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>From the outside, it might look like Mystic is recommitting to her art after years of focusing on her other loves: academia and teaching. After \u003cem>Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom\u003c/em> was released to great acclaim, she walked away from a record deal and took a different path that brought her to UC Berkeley and, eventually, the University of Oxford for her master’s degree in education. For years, she spent more time in kindergarten classrooms than on stage in front of fans. But to Mystic, these multiple pursuits are all part of one continuous quest to create, express and be of service.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It takes life to make art,” she texts me after one of our conversations. “There are times of input and times of output. I take my time for input, and that includes healing, living, loving, working with children, school and community. When my art is ready to be born, that is output. That is all 😉.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">I\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>t’s easy to see why \u003cem>Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom\u003c/em> put Mystic, born Mandolyn Ludlum, on the precipice of major music industry success when it came out in 2001. The vulnerability and candor in her lyrics are magnetic as she zooms from sharp observations to intimate, personal confessions. She navigates a confusing labyrinth of pressures—both from an oppressive social order and within her own community—and carves out space for compassion and love for her people. Twenty years before the #MeToo movement and conversations about mental health became mainstream, Mystic rapped about losing her father to a drug overdose and surviving sexual abuse. She gave voice to struggles shrouded in stigma and shame.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Part of what I hear back then is this fierce commitment to attempt to live and attempt to heal,” she says of her own recordings. “And so when I listen back to that and I read those lyrics, I just I want to tell her, ‘I love you.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" style=\"border: 0; width: 100%; height: 120px;\" src=\"https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=1184030260/size=large/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=0687f5/tracklist=false/artwork=small/transparent=true/\" width=\"100%\" height=\"500\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\" frameborder=\"0\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With its jazzy undertones and West Coast swing, \u003cem>Cuts for Luck\u003c/em> offers life-affirming moments of free-spirited fun and sexuality, too. Mystic’s delivery is smooth yet earnest, and she comes across as a warm, approachable, wise friend. It’s no wonder the album earned comparisons to \u003cem>The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill\u003c/em>—although to equate the work of two politically outspoken Gen X women in hip-hop would be an oversimplification.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With production from Zion I’s Amp Live, Hieroglyphics’ A-Plus, Shock G and several others, \u003cem>Cuts for Luck\u003c/em> is the result of a collaborative underground hip-hop scene that strived to push the boundaries of the craft. After living all over the West Coast, Mystic immersed herself in that community when she and her mom settled down in Oakland in 1989, the summer before her sophomore year of high school. (A-Plus was their neighbor across the street.) In her teens and 20s, she honed her skills at cyphers at friends’ houses, where they would rhyme, cook and drink beer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We were young and we were free, and it was the end of the decimation of communities from crack cocaine in the ’80s and Reaganomics,” she recalls. “There were still a lot of things going on and a lot of loss. But we were happy, you know. We were creating culture, creating hip-hop.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13906496\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13906496\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/du-crew-800x476.jpg\" alt=\"An archival film photo from the 1990s featuring a crew of hip-hop artists partying and laughing.\" width=\"800\" height=\"476\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/du-crew-800x476.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/du-crew-1020x606.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/du-crew-160x95.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/du-crew-768x457.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/du-crew.jpg 1080w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mystic and her Digital Underground family in the 1990s. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Mystic)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In the ’90s, Mystic developed her stage presence at warehouse parties and open mics, where she’d rhyme alongside revered underground acts like Souls of Mischief. As she ascended to bigger stages, she opened for OutKast and Leaders of the New School, Busta Rhymes’ first group. Her lyrical prowess earned her respect, and eventually she became a member of Digital Underground (she first appears on their 1998 album \u003cem>Who Got the Gravy?\u003c/em>). \u003cem>Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom\u003c/em>, her solo debut, is as multifaceted as life in Oakland at the turn of the millennium.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">T\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>he power, vulnerability and self-awareness Mystic projected on \u003cem>Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom\u003c/em> propelled her to great heights. She was nominated for a Grammy and a BET Award, and the music video for the lead single, “The Life,” was on TV.\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/pqw8tVLYhVI'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/pqw8tVLYhVI'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>In the 1990s, major labels signed a number of Bay Area artists, and West Coast hip-hop emerged as a commercial force. But the early-2000s era of illegal downloads caused chaos in the industry. Labels were merging and changing ownership, laying off staff and shelving artists’ work. The rerelease of \u003cem>Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom \u003c/em>was one such casualty.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mystic originally released the album on the independent label Good Vibe, which had a joint venture deal with Jcor. When Jcor went out of business, Mystic and her Good Vibe team signed to DreamWorks. A rerelease was in the pipeline. It was supposed to introduce her to an even bigger audience—the first single, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XMINrw4aFSI\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Breathe (Better Days)\u003c/a>” produced by Kanye West and featuring Donell Jones, had been on the radio, and physical copies were sold in Japan. But the U.S. rollout kept getting stalled.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By 2004, Universal Music Group bought DreamWorks and absorbed it into Interscope, and her album was still in limbo. Mystic broke the emergency glass and hired a lawyer to get her out of her contract. And though she continued to create (she recorded the first track from her 2014 album \u003cem>Beautiful Resistance\u003c/em> after George Bush was declared winner of the 2004 election), Mystic set out on a new path towards higher education.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Everybody was trying to figure out what was wrong with me,” she says. “My accountant, my lawyer, the label—everybody is like, ‘What is she doing,’ right? Because everything in front of her right now.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mystic knew she had to heed an internal calling. “I just felt like in order to not hate what I love, which is my art, that it was important for me to step back,” she says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It wasn’t until 2019, after she finished her master’s degree, that Mystic discovered she owned the masters for \u003cem>Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom\u003c/em>. And while artists like \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/2021/02/11/arts/music/taylor-swift-rerecord-fearless.html\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Taylor Swift\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://people.com/music/ashanti-to-re-record-debut-album-after-gaining-ownership-of-her-masters/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Ashanti\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.essence.com/entertainment/anita-baker-says-you-can-stream-her-music-again/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Anita Baker\u003c/a> have had to fight to take ownership over their work, when Mystic went to Universal Music Group, it turned out all she had to do was ask.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“DreamWorks took what they owned,” she says. “Good Vibe wanted to keep the songs I had done with other artists on the label. Nobody kept the \u003cem>Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom\u003c/em> album. But I didn’t know.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13906481\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13906481\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/Mystic-2-800x450.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/Mystic-2-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/Mystic-2-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/Mystic-2-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/Mystic-2-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/Mystic-2-1536x864.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/Mystic-2.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mystic in her backyard oasis. \u003ccite>(Nastia Voynovskaya/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Would Mystic’s story have unfolded differently if she had known? She doesn’t like to dwell on it. But she still makes sure to tell her mentees, “Contact the label who owns [your masters] or the people you know to own them. They may not own them anymore. I may have just gotten really lucky, right, and the universe did that. I don’t know. But go and ask.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mystic poured herself into the songs on \u003cem>Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom\u003c/em>, and for years listeners have told her that the album has helped them heal from their own life struggles. There’s power in reclaiming something so personally meaningful—to have full control over where the music is licensed and how much she gets paid, and to guarantee the album makes its way onto whatever new streaming platform emerges in the years to come.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The songs that I wrote about my father, about the trauma that I’ve been through, about trying to navigate who I was as a young Black woman who was on a healing journey—like, that’s mine,” she says. “And I think the benefit of owning that means nobody else gets to sell my trauma. Nobody else gets to sell my healing.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">M\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>ystic’s second album, \u003cem>Beautiful Resistance\u003c/em>, didn’t come until she was entering her second year at UC Berkeley, in 2014. An “untraditional” student now in her 30s, she was fully focused on getting a degree so she could be of service to children. After studying child development and cultural anthropology at Los Angeles Valley College—and a transformational trip to Haiti, where she learned about child exploitation in the aftermath of the 2010 earthquake—she mapped out a new goal of creating an international arts program that would empower children of color across borders.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Music wasn’t top of mind until she attended Ananya Roy’s global poverty class. Roy was one of Cal’s star faculty—a professor with a contagious passion for social justice, whose lectures students would talk about in dining halls and in dorm rooms late at night. (She’s since moved on to become the inaugural director of UCLA’s Institute on Inequality and Democracy.) Mystic was moved when she heard Roy’s lecture about “insurgent architects,” people who work from within institutions to create progressive social change. Insurgent architects could even be artists, she remembers Roy telling the class. Even though there were hundreds of other students in the lecture hall, Mystic felt like Roy was speaking directly to her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Then it hit her: “I can be a scholar and an artist and an educator and an activist.” Taking academia seriously didn’t mean she had to put down music.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" style=\"border: 0; width: 100%; height: 120px;\" src=\"https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=3617047025/size=large/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=0687f5/tracklist=false/artwork=small/transparent=true/\" width=\"100%\" height=\"500\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\" frameborder=\"0\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After the lecture, Mystic emailed Roy a note and attached a few tracks. The professor liked what she heard and encouraged Mystic to keep making music. As she prepared to enter her second year at Berkeley, \u003cem>Beautiful Resistance\u003c/em> was finally out in the world, 10 years after she recorded the first song.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I released it on a Tuesday and I started a new semester on a Thursday,” Mystic remembers. A deepening of the themes on \u003cem>Cuts for Luck\u003c/em>, it features beautifully sung affirmations of Black love and resistance, with vibe-y inflections of jazz and soul.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But as soon as Mystic got \u003cem>Beautiful Resistance\u003c/em> out of her system, her mind was back on school. She was on a mission. “I graduated from college with a 4.0, right? I say that not to be like, ‘Oh, pop my collar.’ I say that as a representation of how I worked to internalize the knowledge, to be of service to children and the community.\u003ci>”\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13906497\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13906497\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/11/Mystic_HieroDay_2013-0001-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"Mystic raps on stage at an outdoor festival.\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mystic performed at Hiero Day in 2013 just days before starting her first semester at UC Berkeley. \u003ccite>(Eric Nelson)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">T\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>hat devotion to helping young people heal and grow through art comes from a profound place within Mystic. When she was a teenager, she dropped out of high school. Her teachers labeled her as gifted and talented, but she felt unchallenged and uninspired at Oakland High School. She longed for a creative outlet: she’d skip school and go to the public library to read books about the music business. Not only that, but she was suffering in silence after surviving a rape. She began to check out mentally—she had a natural love of learning but wasn’t in an environment that encouraged her to thrive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In her life as an educator, Mystic wants her students to have a different experience than she did, whether she’s teaching in a classroom, an after-school arts program or at San Quentin State Prison. “I don’t really care about your math or your English. I mean, I do,” she says. “But like, [I also care about] whether you ate. And whether your heart is broken today and whether you’re losing people in your community, whether there’s abuse in your home, everything that you are having to live through, particularly as a young child.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mystic’s studies and travels endowed her with an international perspective on the related struggles of colonized people across the world. (While at Berkeley, she did a semester abroad in South Africa, where she studied post-apartheid education reforms.) After graduating from Berkeley in 2015 with a degree in independent studies, a self-directed major where she wrote a thesis on public policy, education and global poverty, she set off to Oxford to get a master’s degree in comparative and international education.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“My interest in education in an international sense is because the inequalities that exist right here in East Oakland also exist really everywhere else,” she says. “I ended up focusing on how elementary school educators of color are using culturally relevant arts education with students of color. And knowing personally, the arts are transformative. They save lives.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">M\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>ystic has spent much of the past decade in the “input” phase of her creative process. But in October 2020, after a summer of racial justice uprisings and just before the 2020 election, she decided to put out new track: “We Are the People (All Around the Word).” She wanted a protest song parents could sing with their children, a song for intergenerational activist spaces. It’s as much an indictment of racist power structures as it is a prayer for a world where the next generation can thrive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Children are the most natural advocates for human rights and justice in the world,” she says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" style=\"border: 0; width: 100%; height: 120px;\" src=\"https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/track=1586769193/size=large/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=0687f5/tracklist=false/artwork=small/transparent=true/\" width=\"100%\" height=\"500\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\" frameborder=\"0\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mystic won’t yet reveal what’s to come, but she’s been fully self-employed since September to focus on creating, cooking (another great love of hers), working with children and mentoring young people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We live in a social media age and everything happens in front of the camera,” she says. “I still will always be the artist who’s like, it’s really awesome when nobody knows what you’re doing, and nobody has any expectations and you can just be in your sacred journey.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So what does this part of the path look like, making hip-hop at 47? Especially in an industry inundated with young, male perspectives? Mystic approaches it with a growth mindset.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I still play with styles and I’m a master at what I do, but I’m always committed to, ‘How does that continue to develop?’” Mystic says. “And you talk about different things. I have seven godchildren. I have people with health issues that we don’t necessarily talk about, that happen when you get older: sister with fibroids, people with more cancer, people trying to determine, ‘Well, do I get to own a house?’ Our parents are getting older, right. And these are things we all think we know until we get there. And then when you get there, you go, ‘Oh, this is not really what I thought it was going to be.’” \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Confronting mortality has always been an element of hip-hop. Since the beginning, its most tremendous artists have come from neighborhoods where people become familiar with death and violence at too young an age. But with the deaths of Gen X hip-hop greats like Shock G, DMX and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13899378/blackalicious-gift-of-gab-a-celebrated-mc-dies-at-age-50\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Gift of Gab\u003c/a> over the past year, health issues, aging and life’s precariousness are at the forefront of conversations among artists and fans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I was born within a year of the birth of hip-hop,” Mystic says. “What we’re doing right now has never been done before. It will always be youth-driven. But what [does it] look like to be an artist in our 40s or in our 50s?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She pauses her train of thought to enumerate hip-hop’s many elder statespeople enjoying thriving careers: MC Lyte, Queen Latifah, E-40, Too $hort.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You get there and you realize it’s a beautiful, full life,” she concludes, “if we’re blessed to have those opportunities. And particularly in our communities—with Black and Brown and Indigenous, economically vulnerable communities—it’s a lot of people who don’t live that long. And so in some ways, we’ve never seen what we’ve seen in hip-hop.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1990, Shock G and Digital Underground famously rapped “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=31A6RjOxE74&ab_channel=TommyBoy\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Doowutchyalike\u003c/a>.” The time has come for Mystic, and all of us, to do what we love.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Shock G once named himself “the one who put the satin on your panties.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Any deep dive into classic literature, be it \u003cem>Beowulf\u003c/em> or \u003cem>The Iliad\u003c/em>, won’t reveal a more puissant epithet. The passing of the former Digital Underground frontman/avatar comes as a, yes, shock to many, G. It reverberates with the recent passing of iconic rap figures like Black Rob, DMX and MF Doom—a sign that hip-hop has matured to the point where its heroes are becoming ancestors. [aside postid='arts_13895541']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As you read this, local social media pages have been filling up with heartfelt tributes and remembrances of Shock, who passed away of unknown causes on April 22 at age 57. (He died in Tampa, Florida, the city where the New York native spent his adolescence and young adulthood before relocating to Oakland.) People have shared stories about buying early cassettes from the artist, real name Gregory Jacobs, on Telegraph Avenue, and discoursing about film, art, and food on tour buses. One story finds him randomly showing up at Albany’s Ivy Room to rock an impromptu 15-minute freestyle, rapping through headphones to Brick’s “Dazz.” There are many other stories circulating about this hip-hop legend, a man who came along at a time when Bay Area hip-hop was beginning to heft national gravitas and helped push it over the hump. His contributions to local music culture remain truly significant. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Funny and provocative, Shock allegedly “once got busy in a Burger King bathroom.” But he also put Tupac, Saafir and Mystic on and produced Pac’s “So Many Tears,” “Rebel of the Underground,” and “Changes.” Inspired by Parliament-Funkadelic, Shock dubbed his erstwhile bandmates “Sons of the P” and revived the conceptual approach that separated George Clinton’s groups from the rest of the funkateers, creating urban mythos around aphrodisiac pills and full-body condoms. Underrated as a rapper, he nevertheless contributed a deceptively-smooth verse to perhaps the Bay Area-est rap song of all time, the remix of the Luniz’ “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/CiZ3XtGtmQs\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\" target=\"_blank\">I Got Five On It\u003c/a>.” Shock held his ground alongside Yukmouth, Numskull, E-40, Dru Down, Spice-1 and Richie Rich. The half-rapped, half-sung lyrics sum up his ethos: “still bringing satin for them drawers, velvet for the mic, and a pound for the cause.” [aside postid='arts_13839952']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Most notably, he led the greatest hip-hop band not named The Roots or Stetsasonic, skillfully blending live instrumentation with P-Funk samples, turntables and rhymes that often ended up being catch phrases. Digital Underground crafted a unique identity in the burgeoning ’90s hip-hop field as the “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/2v2sw89s9wA\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\" target=\"_blank\">Freaks of the Industry\u003c/a>,” to name-check a classic song from Digital Underground’s 1990 debut album, \u003cem>Sex Packets\u003c/em>, which sold more than one million copies. The song was never officially released as a single. But that didn’t stop the promo-only 12” from becoming a radio and club favorite that still clocked spins and rocked parties decades after its release.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/8Ihi-onGULs\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Despite the salacious overtones of many of their songs, DU were a very nuanced and diverse group who covered a broad range of topics. For all the whimsical humor and self-clowning of their biggest hit, “The Humpty Dance,” they were equally capable of making poignant pleas for unity (“\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/CmFDyZ3ytg8\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\" target=\"_blank\">The Same Song\u003c/a>”), togetherness (“\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/BwU8K9WF-bc\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\" target=\"_blank\">Wassup Wit The Luv?\u003c/a>”) and emotional resonance (“\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/-msFXMBn7rQ\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\" target=\"_blank\">Heartbeat Props\u003c/a>”). They made party anthems like “Doowhutchyalike” and “Kiss You Back,” but also injected social commentary in unexpected places, as on “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/dDy4bp9nKf0\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\" target=\"_blank\">No Nose Job\u003c/a>,” a subtle dig at artists who dilute their image to chase pop stardom and commercial success. Their live shows were known for their energy—a major reason why they remained a touring act well into the late 2000s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/PBsjggc5jHM\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If DU was the hip-hop equivalent of a circus act, Shock G was its ringleader, a man of many talents who rapped, sang, produced, played the piano and designed cover artwork. Years after their success had faded, in 2004, he released a solo album, \u003cem>Fear of a Mixed Planet\u003c/em>—which I flagged as one of the year’s best albums in an \u003ca href=\"https://eastbayexpress.com/new-bay-incarnate-1/\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\" target=\"_blank\">\u003cem>East Bay Express\u003c/em>\u003c/a> holiday round-up: “Digital Underground founder Shock G will always be linked to his colorful, proboscis-flaunting alter ego Humpty Hump, but there’s more to him than just a nose.” Specifically, the Tupac tribute “Keep It Beautiful” stood out for “a poignancy that has all but disappeared from rap music.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the height of their success in the early ’90s, DU toured with Public Enemy. Their show at the Shoreline Amphitheater easily kept pace with Chuck D and Flavor Flav’s frenetic tone. Two decades later, Shock closed Oakland’s Life Is Living festival with a remarkable solo set that showcased all his talents: rapping, singing, and playing the keyboards. The set felt like a gift to Oakland, the adopted home with which he will forever be identified. \u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As you read this, local social media pages have been filling up with heartfelt tributes and remembrances of Shock, who passed away of unknown causes on April 22 at age 57. (He died in Tampa, Florida, the city where the New York native spent his adolescence and young adulthood before relocating to Oakland.) People have shared stories about buying early cassettes from the artist, real name Gregory Jacobs, on Telegraph Avenue, and discoursing about film, art, and food on tour buses. One story finds him randomly showing up at Albany’s Ivy Room to rock an impromptu 15-minute freestyle, rapping through headphones to Brick’s “Dazz.” There are many other stories circulating about this hip-hop legend, a man who came along at a time when Bay Area hip-hop was beginning to heft national gravitas and helped push it over the hump. His contributions to local music culture remain truly significant. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Funny and provocative, Shock allegedly “once got busy in a Burger King bathroom.” But he also put Tupac, Saafir and Mystic on and produced Pac’s “So Many Tears,” “Rebel of the Underground,” and “Changes.” Inspired by Parliament-Funkadelic, Shock dubbed his erstwhile bandmates “Sons of the P” and revived the conceptual approach that separated George Clinton’s groups from the rest of the funkateers, creating urban mythos around aphrodisiac pills and full-body condoms. Underrated as a rapper, he nevertheless contributed a deceptively-smooth verse to perhaps the Bay Area-est rap song of all time, the remix of the Luniz’ “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/CiZ3XtGtmQs\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\" target=\"_blank\">I Got Five On It\u003c/a>.” Shock held his ground alongside Yukmouth, Numskull, E-40, Dru Down, Spice-1 and Richie Rich. The half-rapped, half-sung lyrics sum up his ethos: “still bringing satin for them drawers, velvet for the mic, and a pound for the cause.” \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Most notably, he led the greatest hip-hop band not named The Roots or Stetsasonic, skillfully blending live instrumentation with P-Funk samples, turntables and rhymes that often ended up being catch phrases. Digital Underground crafted a unique identity in the burgeoning ’90s hip-hop field as the “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/2v2sw89s9wA\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\" target=\"_blank\">Freaks of the Industry\u003c/a>,” to name-check a classic song from Digital Underground’s 1990 debut album, \u003cem>Sex Packets\u003c/em>, which sold more than one million copies. The song was never officially released as a single. But that didn’t stop the promo-only 12” from becoming a radio and club favorite that still clocked spins and rocked parties decades after its release.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\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/8Ihi-onGULs'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/8Ihi-onGULs'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>Despite the salacious overtones of many of their songs, DU were a very nuanced and diverse group who covered a broad range of topics. For all the whimsical humor and self-clowning of their biggest hit, “The Humpty Dance,” they were equally capable of making poignant pleas for unity (“\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/CmFDyZ3ytg8\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\" target=\"_blank\">The Same Song\u003c/a>”), togetherness (“\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/BwU8K9WF-bc\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\" target=\"_blank\">Wassup Wit The Luv?\u003c/a>”) and emotional resonance (“\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/-msFXMBn7rQ\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\" target=\"_blank\">Heartbeat Props\u003c/a>”). They made party anthems like “Doowhutchyalike” and “Kiss You Back,” but also injected social commentary in unexpected places, as on “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/dDy4bp9nKf0\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\" target=\"_blank\">No Nose Job\u003c/a>,” a subtle dig at artists who dilute their image to chase pop stardom and commercial success. Their live shows were known for their energy—a major reason why they remained a touring act well into the late 2000s.\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/PBsjggc5jHM'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/PBsjggc5jHM'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>If DU was the hip-hop equivalent of a circus act, Shock G was its ringleader, a man of many talents who rapped, sang, produced, played the piano and designed cover artwork. Years after their success had faded, in 2004, he released a solo album, \u003cem>Fear of a Mixed Planet\u003c/em>—which I flagged as one of the year’s best albums in an \u003ca href=\"https://eastbayexpress.com/new-bay-incarnate-1/\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\" target=\"_blank\">\u003cem>East Bay Express\u003c/em>\u003c/a> holiday round-up: “Digital Underground founder Shock G will always be linked to his colorful, proboscis-flaunting alter ego Humpty Hump, but there’s more to him than just a nose.” Specifically, the Tupac tribute “Keep It Beautiful” stood out for “a poignancy that has all but disappeared from rap music.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the height of their success in the early ’90s, DU toured with Public Enemy. Their show at the Shoreline Amphitheater easily kept pace with Chuck D and Flavor Flav’s frenetic tone. Two decades later, Shock closed Oakland’s Life Is Living festival with a remarkable solo set that showcased all his talents: rapping, singing, and playing the keyboards. The set felt like a gift to Oakland, the adopted home with which he will forever be identified. \u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Shock G, the flamboyant, funny rap artist who brought Oakland hip-hop to a worldwide audience with the group Digital Underground, died Thursday at age 57, according to Digital Underground co-founder \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/CN_QDs7sayF/\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\" target=\"_blank\">Chopmaster J\u003c/a>. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The cause of death is unknown. According to \u003ca href=\"https://www.tmz.com/2021/04/22/shock-g-dead-dies-digital-underground-humpty-dance-tupac/\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\" target=\"_blank\">TMZ\u003c/a>, Shock G was found dead in a hotel room in Tampa, with no signs of trauma.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.instagram.com/p/CN_QDs7sayF/\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Shock G, born Greg Jacobs, was best-known for his work with Digital Underground, most notably the worldwide smash “The Humpty Dance,” released in 1990. Carried by Jacobs’ large-nosed persona, the song brought a swampy West Coast funk and dozens of comic one-liners to the national airwaves. The “Humpty Dance” video, filmed at Club Townsend in San Francisco, played in heavy rotation on MTV and VH1 for months during the cable networks’ heyday. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PBsjggc5jHM\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A talented pianist and visual artist who illustrated much of Digital Underground’s album art, Jacobs also helped introduce the world to Tupac Shakur, who was an early member of Digital Underground, and whose debut album \u003cem>2Pacalypse Now\u003c/em> he co-produced. Shakur remarked in a 1995 interview that he looked back on his time alongside Shock G and Digital Underground “with the greatest fondness. Those were like, some of the best times of my life.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13896267\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/R-42681-1333303548.jpeg.jpg\" alt=\"The cover of The HUmpty Dance single\" width=\"600\" height=\"600\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13896267\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/R-42681-1333303548.jpeg.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2021/04/R-42681-1333303548.jpeg-160x160.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Shock G’s cartoony illustrations laced Digital Underground’s album covers and inserts. \u003ccite>(Tommy Boy)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Jacobs’ production credits, guest appearances and solo work continued long after the success of \u003cem>Sex Packets\u003c/em>, Digital Underground’s best-selling album. He appeared on the all-star remix of the Luniz’ “I Got 5 on It” with \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CiZ3XtGtmQs\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\" target=\"_blank\">a who’s-who of Bay Area rap\u003c/a>, and produced songs for Mac Mall, Saafir and KRS-One. In 1998, Prince included his \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1vw9GqiAOv8\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\" target=\"_blank\">remix\u003c/a> of “Love Sign” on his 1994 release \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crystal_Ball_(box_set)\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\" target=\"_blank\">Crystal Ball\u003c/a>\u003c/em>. Jacobs also toured with Parliament’s George Clinton, and performed in small clubs around the country as a solo artist. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Reaction to the news of Shock G’s death was swift:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://twitter.com/E40/status/1385419121198702593\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://twitter.com/Bootsy_Collins/status/1385409370532548609\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://twitter.com/SheilaEdrummer/status/1385415157178765317\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://twitter.com/JheneAiko/status/1385414176944779264\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.instagram.com/p/CN_V-xMHPPM/\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://twitter.com/Passionweiss/status/1385397407437914114\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://twitter.com/2PAC/status/1385407941495300102\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://twitter.com/harikondabolu/status/1385416577668063239\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://twitter.com/fakeshoredrive/status/1385394592795742208\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://twitter.com/danamo/status/1385406865463414787\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"id": "bbc-world-service",
"title": "BBC World Service",
"info": "The day's top stories from BBC News compiled twice daily in the week, once at weekends.",
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"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/BBC-World-Service-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
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"meta": {
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},
"link": "/radio/program/bbc-world-service",
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"rss": "https://podcasts.files.bbci.co.uk/p02nq0gn.rss"
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},
"californiareport": {
"id": "californiareport",
"title": "The California Report",
"tagline": "California, day by day",
"info": "KQED’s statewide radio news program providing daily coverage of issues, trends and public policy decisions.",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/The-California-Report-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/californiareport",
"meta": {
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 8
},
"link": "/californiareport",
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}
},
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"id": "californiareportmagazine",
"title": "The California Report Magazine",
"tagline": "Your state, your stories",
"info": "Every week, The California Report Magazine takes you on a road trip for the ears: to visit the places and meet the people who make California unique. The in-depth storytelling podcast from the California Report.",
"airtime": "FRI 4:30pm-5pm, 6:30pm-7pm, 11pm-11:30pm",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/californiareportmagazine",
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"order": 10
},
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5tZWdhcGhvbmUuZm0vS1FJTkM3NjkwNjk1OTAz",
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},
"city-arts": {
"id": "city-arts",
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"info": "A one-hour radio program to hear celebrated writers, artists and thinkers address contemporary ideas and values, often discussing the creative process. Please note: tapes or transcripts are not available",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/05/cityartsandlecture-300x300.jpg",
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"airtime": "SUN 1pm-2pm, TUE 10pm, WED 1am",
"meta": {
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"source": "City Arts & Lectures"
},
"link": "https://www.cityarts.net",
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"rss": "https://www.cityarts.net/feed/"
}
},
"closealltabs": {
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"order": 1
},
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"info": "\u003cem>Code Switch\u003c/em>, which listeners will hear in the first part of the hour, has fearless and much-needed conversations about race. Hosted by journalists of color, the show tackles the subject of race head-on, exploring how it impacts every part of society — from politics and pop culture to history, sports and more.\u003cbr />\u003cbr />\u003cem>Life Kit\u003c/em>, which will be in the second part of the hour, guides you through spaces and feelings no one prepares you for — from finances to mental health, from workplace microaggressions to imposter syndrome, from relationships to parenting. The show features experts with real world experience and shares their knowledge. Because everyone needs a little help being human.\u003cbr />\u003cbr />\u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/podcasts/510312/codeswitch\">\u003cem>Code Switch\u003c/em> offical site and podcast\u003c/a>\u003cbr />\u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/lifekit\">\u003cem>Life Kit\u003c/em> offical site and podcast\u003c/a>\u003cbr />",
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"meta": {
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"id": "commonwealth-club",
"title": "Commonwealth Club of California Podcast",
"info": "The Commonwealth Club of California is the nation's oldest and largest public affairs forum. As a non-partisan forum, The Club brings to the public airwaves diverse viewpoints on important topics. The Club's weekly radio broadcast - the oldest in the U.S., dating back to 1924 - is carried across the nation on public radio stations and is now podcasting. Our website archive features audio of our recent programs, as well as selected speeches from our long and distinguished history. This podcast feed is usually updated twice a week and is always un-edited.",
"airtime": "THU 10pm, FRI 1am",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Commonwealth-Club-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
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"meta": {
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"source": "Commonwealth Club of California"
},
"link": "/radio/program/commonwealth-club",
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cDovL3d3dy5jb21tb253ZWFsdGhjbHViLm9yZy9hdWRpby9wb2RjYXN0L3dlZWtseS54bWw",
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"id": "forum",
"title": "Forum",
"tagline": "The conversation starts here",
"info": "KQED’s live call-in program discussing local, state, national and international issues, as well as in-depth interviews.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 9am-11am, 10pm-11pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Forum-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
"imageAlt": "KQED Forum with Mina Kim and Alexis Madrigal",
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 9
},
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5tZWdhcGhvbmUuZm0vS1FJTkM5NTU3MzgxNjMz",
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"freakonomics-radio": {
"id": "freakonomics-radio",
"title": "Freakonomics Radio",
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"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/freakonomicsRadio.png",
"officialWebsiteLink": "http://freakonomics.com/",
"airtime": "SUN 1am-2am, SAT 3pm-4pm",
"meta": {
"site": "radio",
"source": "WNYC"
},
"link": "/radio/program/freakonomics-radio",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/freakonomics-radio/id354668519",
"tuneIn": "https://tunein.com/podcasts/WNYC-Podcasts/Freakonomics-Radio-p272293/",
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},
"fresh-air": {
"id": "fresh-air",
"title": "Fresh Air",
"info": "Hosted by Terry Gross, \u003cem>Fresh Air from WHYY\u003c/em> is the Peabody Award-winning weekday magazine of contemporary arts and issues. One of public radio's most popular programs, Fresh Air features intimate conversations with today's biggest luminaries.",
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"here-and-now": {
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"info": "A live production of NPR and WBUR Boston, in collaboration with stations across the country, Here & Now reflects the fluid world of news as it's happening in the middle of the day, with timely, in-depth news, interviews and conversation. Hosted by Robin Young, Jeremy Hobson and Tonya Mosley.",
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},
"hidden-brain": {
"id": "hidden-brain",
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"info": "Shankar Vedantam uses science and storytelling to reveal the unconscious patterns that drive human behavior, shape our choices and direct our relationships.",
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"airtime": "SUN 7pm-8pm",
"meta": {
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"source": "NPR"
},
"link": "/radio/program/hidden-brain",
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"how-i-built-this": {
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"title": "How I Built This with Guy Raz",
"info": "Guy Raz dives into the stories behind some of the world's best known companies. How I Built This weaves a narrative journey about innovators, entrepreneurs and idealists—and the movements they built.",
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"airtime": "SUN 7:30pm-8pm",
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},
"link": "/radio/program/how-i-built-this",
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"hyphenacion": {
"id": "hyphenacion",
"title": "Hyphenación",
"tagline": "Where conversation and cultura meet",
"info": "What kind of no sabo word is Hyphenación? For us, it’s about living within a hyphenation. Like being a third-gen Mexican-American from the Texas border now living that Bay Area Chicano life. Like Xorje! Each week we bring together a couple of hyphenated Latinos to talk all about personal life choices: family, careers, relationships, belonging … everything is on the table. ",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/03/Hyphenacion_FinalAssets_PodcastTile.png",
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"order": 15
},
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},
"jerrybrown": {
"id": "jerrybrown",
"title": "The Political Mind of Jerry Brown",
"tagline": "Lessons from a lifetime in politics",
"info": "The Political Mind of Jerry Brown brings listeners the wisdom of the former Governor, Mayor, and presidential candidate. Scott Shafer interviewed Brown for more than 40 hours, covering the former governor's life and half-century in the political game – and Brown has some lessons he'd like to share. ",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/The-Political-Mind-of-Jerry-Brown-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/jerrybrown",
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"order": 18
},
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},
"latino-usa": {
"id": "latino-usa",
"title": "Latino USA",
"airtime": "MON 1am-2am, SUN 6pm-7pm",
"info": "Latino USA, the radio journal of news and culture, is the only national, English-language radio program produced from a Latino perspective.",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/04/latinoUsa.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "http://latinousa.org/",
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},
"link": "/radio/program/latino-usa",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?s=143441&mt=2&id=79681317&at=11l79Y&ct=nprdirectory",
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"rss": "https://feeds.npr.org/510016/podcast.xml"
}
},
"marketplace": {
"id": "marketplace",
"title": "Marketplace",
"info": "Our flagship program, helmed by Kai Ryssdal, examines what the day in money delivered, through stories, conversations, newsworthy numbers and more. Updated Monday through Friday at about 3:30 p.m. PT.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 4pm-4:30pm, MON-WED 6:30pm-7pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Marketplace-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.marketplace.org/",
"meta": {
"site": "news",
"source": "American Public Media"
},
"link": "/radio/program/marketplace",
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"rss": "https://feeds.publicradio.org/public_feeds/marketplace-pm/rss/rss"
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},
"masters-of-scale": {
"id": "masters-of-scale",
"title": "Masters of Scale",
"info": "Masters of Scale is an original podcast in which LinkedIn co-founder and Greylock Partner Reid Hoffman sets out to describe and prove theories that explain how great entrepreneurs take their companies from zero to a gazillion in ingenious fashion.",
"airtime": "Every other Wednesday June 12 through October 16 at 8pm (repeats Thursdays at 2am)",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "https://mastersofscale.com/",
"meta": {
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"source": "WaitWhat"
},
"link": "/radio/program/masters-of-scale",
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"rss": "https://rss.art19.com/masters-of-scale"
}
},
"mindshift": {
"id": "mindshift",
"title": "MindShift",
"tagline": "A podcast about the future of learning and how we raise our kids",
"info": "The MindShift podcast explores the innovations in education that are shaping how kids learn. Hosts Ki Sung and Katrina Schwartz introduce listeners to educators, researchers, parents and students who are developing effective ways to improve how kids learn. We cover topics like how fed-up administrators are developing surprising tactics to deal with classroom disruptions; how listening to podcasts are helping kids develop reading skills; the consequences of overparenting; and why interdisciplinary learning can engage students on all ends of the traditional achievement spectrum. This podcast is part of the MindShift education site, a division of KQED News. KQED is an NPR/PBS member station based in San Francisco. You can also visit the MindShift website for episodes and supplemental blog posts or tweet us \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/MindShiftKQED\">@MindShiftKQED\u003c/a> or visit us at \u003ca href=\"/mindshift\">MindShift.KQED.org\u003c/a>",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Mindshift-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
"imageAlt": "KQED MindShift: How We Will Learn",
"officialWebsiteLink": "/mindshift/",
"meta": {
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 12
},
"link": "/podcasts/mindshift",
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5tZWdhcGhvbmUuZm0vS1FJTkM1NzY0NjAwNDI5",
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}
},
"morning-edition": {
"id": "morning-edition",
"title": "Morning Edition",
"info": "\u003cem>Morning Edition\u003c/em> takes listeners around the country and the world with multi-faceted stories and commentaries every weekday. Hosts Steve Inskeep, David Greene and Rachel Martin bring you the latest breaking news and features to prepare you for the day.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 3am-9am",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Morning-Edition-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.npr.org/programs/morning-edition/",
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"link": "/radio/program/morning-edition"
},
"onourwatch": {
"id": "onourwatch",
"title": "On Our Watch",
"tagline": "Deeply-reported investigative journalism",
"info": "For decades, the process for how police police themselves has been inconsistent – if not opaque. In some states, like California, these proceedings were completely hidden. After a new police transparency law unsealed scores of internal affairs files, our reporters set out to examine these cases and the shadow world of police discipline. On Our Watch brings listeners into the rooms where officers are questioned and witnesses are interrogated to find out who this system is really protecting. Is it the officers, or the public they've sworn to serve?",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/On-Our-Watch-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
"imageAlt": "On Our Watch from NPR and KQED",
"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/onourwatch",
"meta": {
"site": "news",
"source": "kqed",
"order": 11
},
"link": "/podcasts/onourwatch",
"subscribe": {
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5ucHIub3JnLzUxMDM2MC9wb2RjYXN0LnhtbD9zYz1nb29nbGVwb2RjYXN0cw",
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