The New Kid

by Sabrina Holder

I was never able to enjoy the beauty of Hip-Hop as a kid. I was an Air Force brat who lived overseas for the first 15 years of my life. Couple that with being raised in a Brazilian household where there was no Hip-Hop to be found. The only American artists I was exposed to were Michael Jackson, Prince, Destiny’s Child, Whitney Houston and Will Smith-dear God, please don't judge me for having the Willennium album in my collection. And while I would occasionally hear Eminem and 50 Cent while living in Thailand, it was an iconic group that really woke up my love for Hip-Hop. 

I was getting ready to start my first day of high school in Bangkok as MTV blasted in the background playing Hip-Hop 90’s hits. I remember the second I heard the introduction and had to run to see who it was: A Tribe Called Quest’s “Electric Relaxation.” Their unique style made me fall in love automatically, with their gritty monochrome music video, unique sense of fashion (all I saw were school uniforms -- give me a break), Q-Tip’s unmistakable voice, and the song’s sampling of Ronnie Foster’s “Mystic Brew.” Hip-Hop blended with Jazz was an eargasm for me. I had to find more like it.

And I did.

Suddenly a genre that was previously nonexistent to me became a part of every stage of my life, my humanity and my growth.

When I experienced my first encounter with depression, lyrics from Kanye West, Nas, Fabolous, Missy Elliott, Common, Notorious B.I.G., Ice Cube affirmed what I was feeling. When I moved to Virginia I dug into Kendrick Lamar's Section.80 and Good Kid, M.A.A.D City, which featured the jazz-hop instrumentals I fell in love with. When I met my husband we connected through Hip-Hop. When we got our dog we named him after rapper Tabi Bonney. And my career has allowed me to work with Hip-hop greats, including The LOX, Bad Boy Entertainment, Kid Capri, Camp Lo, and more.

My husband always says “Hip-hop saved my life and gave me my wife,” but I can't figure out a catchy phrase to explain what it did for me. It will always have a place in my heart and be important in my growing family. Years later I am no longer the new kid.  

Hip-Hop: A Love Story As Told by Lauryn Hill

By: Njera Perkins

The film Brown Sugar showed me how great Hip-Hop was. Not only did the movie perfectly chronicle the beauty of Hip-Hop from its roots in the Bronx to its evolution in the present-day, but it also positioned the quotable line “When did you first fall in love with Hip-Hop?” at the root of a love story. The answer to this question is different for everyone. For some it was a single track that changed their entire perspective on Hip-Hop. For me it was The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill that showed me a whole new world I never knew existed. Her album gifted me an unconditional love for Hip-Hop that only her talents could produce.

Her timeless offering evolves around independence, self-worth, and most of all love. On each track Hill explores every form of love there is to know - heartbreak, toxic love, self-love, loss, and motherhood. Songs like “To Zion” exemplified the pureness of a mother’s love for her child, while “Nothing Even Matters” and “When It Hurts So Bad” reminded us that love could bring us our highest highs and lowest lows.

Hill positioned Black women as complex, multilayered individuals and also affirmed our right to feel, think and challenge without hesitation. She encouraged us to have pride in ourselves and reject notions that Black women are creatures incapable of experiencing true, healthy love. She challenged us to embrace every part of our identity-even the parts society wasn’t ready to accept. And, in the face of misogynoir that aims to silence our womanhood and Blackness, Lauryn Hill’s album provided the soundtrack to combat it. 

Yet her impact didn’t end there. Her willingness to speak on taboo narratives paved the way for others to expand their palettes. Black women were given a blueprint to defy the status quo and write our own, authentic truths. It was made for women like me, who need sincere messages in a genre that isn’t always so affectionate. Who need symbols of love that came from compassion and tenderness instead of exploitation and abuse. Who need affirmations that they too should demand the attention of everyone in a world where the genius of Black women is often overlooked. 

Everyday I fall more and more in love with Hip-Hop, but it was Lauryn Hill’s debut that taught me how to love Hip-Hop and how Hip-Hop could love me back.

Y'all Tucked In?

by Kayla Pearson

I’ve always had an appreciation for detail. The more details, the better. That explains why in Kindergarten I would always be called on last during story time, because as my teacher told my mother: my “stories are always the longest.” And they were.  If I couldn’t visualize and feel every word being spoken, you’d be hard pressed to keep my attention. Thus, it was only right for me to fall in love with Hip-Hop through a story.

The year was 2009. Christmas came and went, and I planned on spending the remainder of my break glued to one of the most life altering gifts I had ever received: a Philips MP3 Player. Thanks to my brother, Limewire and Bearshare, it was preloaded with more music than I could have asked for. With the press of a button the palm-sized device took my ears through the sounds of artists like Angela Bofill, Minnie Riperton, and Jeffrey Osborne, every single banger involving or produced by Pharrell, and songs by Floetry or my girl Jilly from Philly (Jill Scott). But it was one classic that would change my perspective on music forever. 

I would start the song. Stop it. Rewind it. Then play it again, over and over. It was this sequence of actions that allowed my love for “Children’s Story” by Slick Rick to grow with every rhyme.

For winter break's remaining days, I spent hours in my room analyzing every detail of Slick Rick’s twist on a not-so-child-friendly narrative about two kids robbing people. I envisioned the entire story. The boys running around the city. The cops. The train station. The smelly crackhead. The pregnant hostage. It wasn’t until I got older that I really understood what was happening.

“Children’s Story” is a reflection of the hardships Black inner city youth have and continue to battle with, simply to exist. I see these boys in my family. I see these boys in my friends. I see these boys in every Black person trying to function within a system that was never set up for them to win. I see these Boys in every Black person lacking the fundamental necessities and guidance to live a life like their white peers. The lyrics positioned the harsh realities of being young, poor and black in the city over an upbeat tempo that shifts the feeling of the song into a frenzy and pleasure. The two contrasting emotions ultimately produced one legendary song.

With the absence of a hook, a bridge and an unwavering tone, “Children’s Story” remains my childhood nostalgia and the reason I became the Hip-Hop head I am today. In 2018 that song evokes the same exact feeling it did when I first heard it years ago. That alone proves that Hip-Hop is the one element of music that I will never outgrow, forget or disconnect from.

‘1999’ to Infinity: How Joey Bada$$ Put Me On

by Anijah Boyd

As a child I would fashion dresses and wigs out of pillowcases at the approval of my grandmother. The makeshift clothing served as my wardrobe for countertop performances, where I would dance to the sounds of Earth, Wind & Fire, The Isley Brothers, Bobby Womack and more as my grandmother cleaned our home. Growing up much of my time was spent with her while my mother worked to provide a better life for me than She had envisioned for herself. As a result, my musical knowledge was confined to classic soul and R&B artists like Curtis Mayfield, The Gap Band, G.Q., Bobby Womack, Marvin Gaye, DeBarge and many more. And though these artists influenced it through melodies, harmonies and samples, Hip-Hop wouldn’t appear on my radar until many years later-2012 to be exact.

It was that year when “Righteous Mind$” by Joey Bada$$ slid across my Twitter timeline. The cover intrigued me so I listened, and after diving into “Snake$” and then 1999 in its entirety I knew one thing: boom bap made my heart skip a beat.

Joey was unlike any artist I had heard before, and even more unlike any rapper at the time. His beats were reminiscent of the drums and hard-hitting snares that defined the East Coast in the 1990s. His lyrics were original and versatile. Few at his age rivaled his respect and passion for the genre. And, let’s be honest, hardly anyone else was freestyling over Dilla beats.

Joey Bada$$ was authentic, unique, and my introduction to Hip-Hop. His work-coupled with that of his fellow Pro Era members-provided me with the one thing humans desire most in a state of sadness or sorrow: comfort. 

I remember sitting on the side of my bed bawling as Capital STEEZ’s “Infinity and Beyond” and “HYPE Beast” played in the background. But it was “Wave$” that made my connection to Joey Bada$$ stronger.

My mom was working a 9-5. Our landlord was fed up. And I too, prayed to Allah. Through the music I felt supported, because everyone needs a place where his or her struggles are affirmed. Where they’re guided to familiarity when they feel lost in the world around them. Where they’re consoled when they feel alone. For me, every time, Hip-Hop was there.

Once I learned that Hip-Hop was my missing peace, I dug into the whole Beast Coast movement and other New York artists like Bishop Nehru and Ken Rebel, the sounds of J Dilla, MF DOOM, Lord Finesse, and the music of A Tribe Called Quest, De La Soul, and Souls of Mischief. I owe a lot of my own knowledge to Joey Bada$$ and my discovery of his artistry, so much that I often feel like I got an introduction just as special as the people who were with DJ Kool Herc back in ‘73. 

Thanks to Joey I discovered a genre that gives a voice to the otherwise voiceless. To Hip-Hop, I am forever in debt for giving me the courage to use my voice and reminding me that I’m not alone. And, if I ever lose focus or become unsure about where to go next, I’m comforted when I hear Joey Bada$$ say: 

“Since ’95, mama been workin’ 9-5…”

Missy Elliott & Mumbo Sauce: A Love Letter To Hip-Hop

by Fullamusu Bangura

If I had to categorize Hip-Hop as a season, it would be summertime in DC. Breezy 8-counts stick to skin like humid air, enough to hug someone without feelings of suffocation. Ease and comfort soak my memories when I recall listening to Junior Mafia on my godsister’s radio or sneakily watching Hype Williams’ music videos at home as a child. If my love for Hip-Hop was a city, it would be Washington, D.C., a geography of imperfect neighborhoods meeting in the center to build something resembling a home.

Recounting my Hip-Hop love story feels incomplete without mentioning the architect: summer camp at Martha’s Table. For most DC residents Martha’s Table is a soup kitchen, but unbeknownst to many the organization hosted a yearly summer camp for young people across the city with limited access to more expensive programming. Many memories were created in that tiny, yellow brick building, but most of the sunshine came from our white van adventures. Whether it was our millionth trip to Banneker’s pool or a scavenger hunt throughout the city, each second in the van was its own moment of magic, set to a 92.3 soundtrack.

There were trips where my friends and I, crowded in the back of the van would carefully choreograph moves to Juvenile’s “Slow Motion,” a never ending battle of body against speed bumps. There were instances when we channeled our deepest guttural voices to become Ja Rule and hyped up the boys who dared to attempt rapping with the skill and speed of Twista. Most certain were the moments when Missy Elliott inevitably crept her way onto the stereo. I can’t explain it, but the combination of summertime weather, the security of close friends, and Missy Elliott transformed me into into an entirely different person.

Young Fullamusu was a relatively quiet child but found a home in the mystical energy of a Missy & Timbaland production. One loud image in my memory is witnessing a counselor hear the intro to “Work It,” impulsively pulling into the nearest parking lot, and blasting the song through the van’s speakers while we all put it down, flipped it and reversed it in celebration. These are the moments that shaped me and remind me what freedom through Hip-Hop looks like.

For a younger me, Hip-Hop was the freedom I recognized within myself but could never quite access. As a child of West African immigrants, limitations were a form of protection for my family. A father plagued by images of drug use and violence in the media placed the blame on Hip-Hop, which resulted in household bans on BET and the genre in general. Familial expectations of a firstborn daughter to attain the unthinkable for African immigrants, along with obligations to care for a young brother as the family crumbled placed me in a box that at times felt unescapable. Summertime in DC shifted these realities for me.

In that white van, I was slick-tongued and animated, slipping into my rap personas with ease, mouthing lyrics I dared not say in front of strict parents. My engagement with Hip-Hop was far from embodying an alter ego; I felt like I was finally embracing a stifled self, one who held no hesitation when released.

My city has since changed. Martha’s Table, once sharing a street corner with an alcoholic rehabilitation center is now choked between several upscale boutiques. The memories built here, however, are indestructible flickers of light illuminating my former home and my current reality.

Crates

by Wanna Thompson

My connection to Hip-Hop has always been a tragic one. The genre that I profess my love and loyalty to was unintentionally introduced to me by my late father. With no will left in place, I inherited an invaluable heirloom from the man who was killed days after my second birthday — the gift of music. Stacks of dusty records and cassette tapes vacated the closet in our crowded apartment building. I combed through the plastic crates brandished with his name to gain a better sense of a man I barely remembered. I found letters addressed to my mother enclosed with old photographs that revealed his fascination for gold chains and Kangol hats. Through music, I discovered pieces of my father that I would grow to protect and nurture. I imagined him scratching and mixing the records in a harmonious fashion as he schooled me on the significance of every record he purchased. 

Admiring his collection, I anxiously blew the dust off the pile labeled Friday Night Hip-Hop. Placing the needle on the vinyl, I jumped at the sound of the frequency and vibrations. The sweet yet gritty sounds of A Tribe Called Quest, Big Daddy Kane, CPO and the artists that followed the rap alphabet lit a fire in me that refuses to go out. Enamoured by Biz's boom and the effortless cool Slick Rick exudes, I was always equipped with pen and paper in hand. Lyrics were furiously written down in an effort to memorize every bar, every hook and every word.

My curriculum extended past school hours in an effort to mimic the distinctive, ostentatious flows and match the pain and fury heard on wax. I eventually graduated to the Boombox and was comforted by the sounds of my father's voice on old mixes that highlighted his evenings as a DJ. Endless feelings of loss and heartache were alleviated whenever I listened to his playlists. The companionship that I so desperately desired from my father was perfectly encapsulated in each antique he left behind. 

From vinyl records to compact discs, my love for the art form grew without fail. Days and nights spent getting acquainted with Tony’s Friday collection blossomed into my own compilation. Years later I added Lil' Kim, Missy Elliot and countless others to the repertoire in a quest to maximize my knowledge and understanding of self. As a result I uncovered the various ways in which these women crafted their own narratives in a male dominated genre. 

I clamoured to their lyrics, which celebrate womanhood unapologetically and boasted about the wonders of my femininity. Disrupting the status quo and notions of patriarchy and misogyny, these women reimagined the numerous ways individuals look at sexuality and respectability, which only heightened my intrigue. Although my introduction operated strictly through a masculine lens, I appreciated my newfound understanding on all the facets that comprise of the culture I love. The outspoken voice I carry today wouldn't be here if the Queen's, MC's and Shanté's hadn't laid the foundation down for me. 

Despite my exploration into the genre beginning with the unsettling feelings surrounding my father's death, Hip-Hop continues to pay homage to his memory in more ways than an obituary ever could. With every play I unintentionally celebrate his legacy. Thanks to Hip-Hop, I forged an undying, everlasting connection with my father that speaks to me from the depths of his grave.

Y'all Don't Hear Me: Reconciling Religion With Rap

by Brooklyn White

Rapper bbymutha reminded me of a sound I had forgotten about - “cool gospel.” Her tweet mentioned Winans Phase II and Trinitee 5:7, two groups from the early 2000s who many believed were meant to channel secular collectives like Jagged Edge and Destiny’s Child. As a child I wasn’t allowed to listen to Rap/R&B, and groups like Winans Phase II and Trinitee 5:7 were the alternative. Yet although I was discouraged from listening to secular music, the music I was able to listen to was so obviously influenced by it. 

In 2003, when I was 8 or 9, my mother was ordained as a minister. And she was not the only family member to be heavily involved in church. My Great Aunt was our pastor, two of my aunts were licensed as ministers as well and our immediate family went to church whenever the doors opened. Jesus was life. 

Consequently my exposure to certain sounds was limited and I’d get chastised for listening to rap at home. I vividly remember the ‘Romeo Must Die Soundtrack’ and a Chingy CD being thrown in the trash. Tragic.

The availability of MP3 players during my middle school years provided me with more freedom to listen to what I wanted. I enjoyed the sounds of Hip-Hop musicians, particularly Lil Wayne, Gucci Mane, and a slew of old school artists. This didn’t sit well with my mom - she freaked out when she saw “Gangsta Bitch” by Apache on the family computer. For years I had to balance faith with my passion for music. 

For over 200 years, religion has aimed to comfort Black people in America. It was and is the outlet through which many of us express ourselves, interact with people like us and our source of hope. When Hip-Hop came onto the scene in the 1970s it functioned in a similar way. The music became an outlet for expression, with artists discussing social issues and bonding - a move reminiscent of the activism and fortitude present in the Civil Rights and Black Power movements and the church. 

However, this reality doesn’t remove Hip-Hop from criticisms of imcompatibility with the Christian Gospel. That’s not to say Hip-Hop is perfect, far from it. From new school rappers like 6ix9ine pleading guilty to one felony count of Use of a Child in a Sexual Performance in October 2015 to the violence that led to the deaths of 2Pac and Biggie, Hip-Hop is not exempt from abusive and inherently problematic figures. 

But while the genre is frowned upon for its references to sex, drugs and violence, these very things happen in the church and are met with silence. The late Reverend C.L Franklin, pastor of New Bethel Baptist Church and father of Aretha Franklin, allegedly impregnated a 12 year old girl. A musician at my former church smoked weed regularly. A Detroit based pastor shot and killed a man after a heated altercation.

Neither is perfect. And although Christians have come up with their take on rap, supporting artists like Da T.R.U.T.H.– some still can’t exactly tolerate the “purified” version of hip hop. For them, the music is still viewed as the antithesis of the inspiriation and holiness that the religion represents. Yet as a child who was interested in Black culture, I wanted to listen to the music that brought us together and uplifted us as well. Isn’t that what Christianity is all about? 

Ivy Sole Talks Hip-Hop Preservation And Representation: "When You Have A Piece Of Culture You’re Supposed To Protect It"

From Ivy Sole’s “Rollercoaster” Music Video

The title track of her debut LP Overgrown finds Ivy Sole musing on the being just that, larger, older and beyond one’s normalized state of being. It’s a feeling many of us experience in our 20’s, where much like a garden whose plants have grown larger and beyond their smaller size, we reflect on our youth and come to terms with the fact that our adulthood has surpassed the range of our early years. The Charlotte born and raised and Philly made rapper describes it well.

The first time I heard of Ivy Sole was also the first time I saw her perform: at a sold out Daniel Caesar show at The Rotunda in Philadelphia where she was the opener. Her songs captivated the room almost immediately, with those who knew her singing along to every word and those who didn’t picking up the chorus the second time it came around. I’ll never forget how loudly the girls in front of me sang “I can be the one if you let me” as Sole performed “Enough.” I’ll also never forget Sole saying “aye” and holding her mic out for them to hit the notes along with her.

It was an important sight to see, Black women breathing life into other Black women. Couple that with the lyrics on her first project Eden that I binged when I got home, and you’ll find that her music is equally as rejuvenating as she is onstage. 

If Eden was the rebirth that saw Sole embarking on her own in music, and East and West were the blooming of her artistry, then the Ivy League graduate’s Overgrown is the self-analyzing next step.

The Gumbo spoke to Sole about growing up in the church, the representation of women in Hip-Hop, and the importance of controlling your narrative.

You are an Ivy League graduate and you’re from North Carolina. How did your education and upbringing influence your desire to be a part of Hip-Hop?
I went to Wharton because I wanted to make sure that no matter what I would always be able to make some money. My original plan when I was in high school was to be a doctor, but I took physics and I hated it. And I realized I wanted to be a doctor more for what that meant. For the legitimacy. No one’s going to question your work or profession if you’re saving lives in any way, shape or form. This was around the time the Mac Millers and the J. Coles started to pop on the Internet. And I thought, school has always been my hustle. I can go to a place that has a really rich beautiful history and still get a really popping degree out of it. It felt like a win-win.

As far as North Carolina, Charlotte is my home. It’s something that I have grown to love a lot more than I did when I was younger. I had no strong feelings about it being from the south or North Carolina when I was younger…But in my newfound adulthood I really appreciate growing up in a place that doesn’t have any preexisting notions other than people thinking that people in the south are ignorant.

Specifically growing up around gospel and jazz and soul music almost exclusively for the first eight or nine years of my life is so important to me as far as want I want to bring [to my music] melodically and vocally.

All of those musical influences, when did you fall in love with Hip-Hop?
I think there were two distinct moments. When I was younger I used to spend a lot of time at my step grandmother’s house and I had an older cousin who would watch BET damn near nonstop. And my mom didn’t want us to watch that, she wanted to shield us from it. But I remember when I was nine or ten “Oochie Wally” came out and I remember hearing that loop and I was like this is it! This is what I’ve been missing? This is what my mother’s been trying to keep from me? 

And then when I was 16 my homie put me onto Blu & Exile’s album ‘Below The Heavens.’

Yes! That is one of my favorite albums!
That changed my whole life. That was the first time I got introduced to Miguel…And I felt like [Below the Heavens] was so current. [Blu] was talking about depression, loss, grief, being Black. And I was like “you’re telling the hell out of this story” and that’s when I started wanting to tell stories. 

That just made my whole day man.
Real ones know! I was on YouTube abusing the replay button for “In Remembrance.”

Ha! Now when we talk about Hip-Hop, despite women being so prominent in the genre and the culture, we aren’t really the gatekeepers. How do you feel about the representation of women in Hip-Hop?
First and foremost I think the music business is a microcosm of American society. It’s not surprising that we’re not in these spaces, it’s just disheartening sometimes that the person making the decision doesn’t share the same context [as] you as far as what the music means to them. So you have a lot of instances where a white dude from Cleveland or Milwaukee who found Hip-Hop when he was 14 as a way to rebel is now making the decisions for a genre that is rooted in so many identities that he will never really be able to empathize with.

And more than that I think that when you have a piece of culture you’re supposed to protect it and you’re supposed to uplift it. And I personally don’t trust many people with the preservation of Black culture, so I would love to see the people who have been preserving it up until this point, i.e. Black women, in these positions.

That’s so true and important. Especially when people don’t look like you, you’ll see a white dude making making these decisions and you’ll go “hmm…”
Haha yeah. It’s like I don’t know dog, I don’t know bruh.

Identity is everything. How does your identity as a Black queer woman play a role in the music you’re making?
I just want to be honest. The music that has always been the most impactful in my life has always been honest to a fault. I don’t think I gain anything personally or professionally from hiding the things that are true about me. When I’m talking about love - my most recent relationship was with a woman - so if I’m talking about love 9/10 I’m talking about or woman. Or a man, not recently, but either one of those things are possible.

As far as queer Black artistry I think it’s important because there are so few people getting highlighted. As a broad umbrella it would be Blackness, under that umbrella it would be queerness. So interacting with the world as a Black queer person necessitates a different perspective. It’s important to listen to people who have this perspective, especially if it’s rooted in their truth.

That is a good ass answer.
Thank you! Like Frank Ocean, he’s killing shit. BROCKHAMPTON. Kelela, her last album, we have people that are coming up. But it’s the same thing about women being gatekeepers, it’s going to take time. But I’m glad we’re in a time where people aren’t letting their insecurities about queerness get in the way of really great artistry.

I wanna switch gears, I always ask everyone this. Who’s in your Top 5?
Damn this is hard! Definitely on my Top 5 would be Andre 3000, or just OutKast in general because I think Big Boi gets the short end of the stick as far as comparisons are concerned. I definitely put K. Dot on their. He’s been instrumental in making me commit to never settling for subpar bars.

Gotta put Hov on there, mostly because if you ever sit down and read his lyrics. When I was in high school I fell in love with English, hated it at first. But we used to have annotate, and for a project we had to annotate lyrics and what he was doing with written words put me on my ass. I’m going to put Lauryn on there. There’s a lot of contention around her right now.

I know! I got on Twitter and saw what was happening and I was confused. I had no idea.
Yeah I thought it was production drama, I didn’t know writing drama. That’s a whole different ballgame. 

Very different. Who else you putting on the list?
Number 5? I’d probably put Blu up there. I think Blu is one of the master storytellers of our time. I think I would not be rapping today without Blu.

What do you have coming?
I hope to get this tour popping either late this year or early in 2019. Just more music, more life.

Where do you see yourself ten years from now?
I would love to be in a place where I’m not only making music but cultivating younger artists because that’s a passion of mine. Really bringing back the true meaning of an A&R. I would love to have a normal life and have paid off all of my student loans. I wouldn’t mind a Grammy (laughs). And just to shoot my shot a Pulitzer would be crazy. Kenny put the world on notice.

Listen to Overgrown below.