What's the 411?: Hip-Hop Soul, Mary J. Blige and Black Women's Narratives

by Nadirah Simmons

In 1988, Mary J. Blige recorded an offhand cover of Anita Baker's "Caught Up in the Rapture" at a recording booth in a lmall. The cassette made its way to Jeff Redd, a recording artist and A&R runner for Uptown Records. Redd sent it to Andre Harrell, and after meeting with the singer signed her to the label in 1989. Fast forward to 1992, when Blige released her debut album What’s the 411? According to Entertainment Weekly's Dave DiMartino, the record's commercial success was attributed to Blige's "powerful, soulful voice and Hip-Hop attitude.” It was unlike anything done before. It was Hip-Hop Soul.

Blige was hailed as the queen of this new genre, creating a space for her alongside legends like Aretha Franklin, the “Queen of Soul.” Without a doubt the honor bestowed upon the young songstress was more than a moniker. While New Jack Swing fused Hip-Hop elements with R&B music, Hip-Hop Soul elevated the synthesis. Now, soul singers were singing directly over the types of sample-heavy cuts heard on Hip-Hop songs. Mary J. Blige carved out her own space as both an innovator of the genre and a designer of a new way to present narratives about Black womanhood.

The title of What's the 411? came from Blige's past occupation as a 411 operator, used to indicate that she was the "real deal.” The music was as well. R&B singers at the time covered themes of pain, suffering, relationship troubles and happiness, while the Hip-Hop artists wrote about violence, crime, poverty, oppression, happiness, etc. That’s not to say that all songs did this-anyone who is a fan of Hip-Hop and R&B and moreover music as a whole knows that no one genre is a monolith. There were various types of subject matter in both genres-particularly in Hip-Hop because of the experimental time was the Golden Age. But it was Blige’s influence by both genres that amplified revelatory themes that were trademarks of blueswomen like ‘Ma Rainey’ and Bessie Smith-abandonment, betrayal, physical and emotional abuse, romance, etc. The singer dubbed the ”tough girl persona and streetwise lyrics" by music critic Tom Moon drew upon her experiences as a Hip-Hop generation woman to deliver a dynamic form of storytelling. Rolling Stone noted that Blige’s songs provided “a gritty undertone and a realism missing from much of the devotional love songs ruling the charts at that time.” Mary didn’t just sing about her pain or happiness, she gave listeners an in-depth narrative on how and why she arrived at those emotions in the first place.

As Treva B. Lindsey notes, “Hip-Hop Soul artists challenge the invisibility of multidimensional African American womanhood within popular culture, and become conduits through which Black women of the Hip-Hop generation express personal aspirations, intimacy, and love.” The woman who started off sporting baseball caps and baggy clothes while singing over hard hitting drums and a piano is more than just an artist. She is a channel through which we explore. She is a channel through which we understand. She is a channel through which we heal. She is the Queen of Hip-Hop Soul.

Sources:

Lindsey, Treva B. “If You Look in My Life: Love, Hip-Hop Soul, and Contemporary African American Womanhood.” African American Review, vol. 46, no. 1, 2013, pp. 87–99. JSTOR, JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/23783603.

Moon, Tom (2004). "Mary J. Blige". In Brackett, Nathan; Hoard, Christian. The Rolling Stone Album Guide. Simon and Schuster. pp. 83–4. ISBN 0743201698.

Herstory: Thank Young M.A.

by Takia Gordon

Imagine coming out as a lesbian between the year of 2008-2010 and trying to be accepted. Despite Lil Wayne and Gucci consistently dropping mixtapes and being introduced to a woman rapper-Nicki Minaj-who spoke about kissing women in some of her songs, I realized there were not enough openly lesbian rappers who rapped about being with a woman - if there were any at all.

Men referencing girls kissing girls in their music was popular, but it did not shed a light on masculine lesbians. And as a masculine lesbian myself, the references were not for me. Instead they were for the femmes kissing femmes and the girl who will kiss another girl for a little attention.

In 2016 as I scrolled through YouTube at work, I came across an artist I’d never heard before. One of her lyrics stood out: “You call her Stephanie, I call her Head...phanie.” I replayed that verse. Then I replayed the song. It was too hot. I immediately began searching for other tracks by the artist known as Young M.A. From the single “Ooouu” to “Karma Krys” back to her debut album ‘Herstory,’ Young M.A. was an artist who was finally speaking from the perspective that I always wanted. 

Her recent offering “Petty Wap” reinforces that she is not going to let up on who she is because she has made it this far. She's going to continue to speak and tell a story for those of us who are still misunderstood. She will continue to open doors for those of us who once did not feel accepted enough to talk about who we choose to love.

In the year 2018, after 10 long years I have seen an evolution in a community I can proudly say that I am a part of. I’ve learned so much about who I am and what I stand for and will always believe in myself because of it. I’ve seen more and more of the LGBTQ community in Hip-Hop breaking barriers and allowing their stories to be heard. Young M.A.’s music has and will continue to inspire me to chase my dreams no matter what circumstances I may face.

On Being 'Braless' and Creating Space with Her Music: An Interview with Ness Nite

by Najma Sharif

Ness Nite meets me in the East Village, in front of a cafe on a street with packed cafes, so we opted for sitting in Union Square. Her hair is up and she wears red earrings, a ribbed beige turtleneck and leather pants. As I caught my breath, and talked really fast to make up for the time lost from my lateness, Ness is as cool as her outfit. I met Ness Nite for the first time to do this interview, even though I’ve known about her and her music peripherally through my friends for two years. The night ‘Nite Time’ was released––Ness’s debut project, all of my friends shared it. Ness’s sound can’t be confined to genre, but that is because genre in in of itself is limiting and can barely account for the range of sounds we experience today. 

She has been described as untethered, but Ness Nite is tethered to her purpose. She takes deliberate pauses after what she says, not to weigh how it might be misinterpreted but because of her keen sense of self-awareness - she wants to let you know everything she is thinking and wants to leave you with a careful, complete thought. Ness Nite is a Sagittarius sun, has her moon in Scorpio and is an Aries rising: self-determined, creative and direct. 

Ness Nite’s debut album ‘Dream Girl’ is emotive but jaunty. Her voice floats over “Tightrope”a song about depression and maintaining balance, singing “I spend my whole life walkin' on a tightrope / Won't drop the ball, oh oh oh oh /'Cause I wonder where it might go.”I was curious to know where she finds her home, what it means to be braless ––a term Ness has used to describe the genre of music she creates. 

As society contends with existing in new ways and forming new realities, embracing and listening to Ness Nite’s music is embracing the future. Being placed and named means being bound to arbitrary things that make up our identity ––things that are evidently out of our control. Fluidity is futuristic and Ness Nite is the future.

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You were born in Chicago, grew up in Milwaukee, and when I first started following you, you lived in Minnesota - do you consider any one place home?
When people ask me where I’m from here, I always say Minneapolis. Just cause, I feel like I don’t feel as connected to Chicago or Milwaukee, even though I spent more time there ––I just feel like I spent more time there not being myself. So when I moved to Minneapolis that was the first time I was exposed to people being openly queer. There was a community of that, and queer Black people, and people I could relate to. The fucking reason I was so depressed this entire time, I didn’t feel like I saw anyone that reflected what I looked like.

As someone that moved around a lot I have to ask: where do you feel most stable? Most comfortable?
I feel comfortable there [Saint Paul] and I feel comfortable here too, just cause I’m an adult now and I feel secure in who I am.

Beyond that, where can you be yourself?
Anywhere at this point, I like being around young queer people.

You said that "Dream Girl” is not “I’m the girl of your dreams.” It’s the concept of having the ability, space, and opportunity to achieve our dreams.” What does it mean for you to have the space to dream?
I never felt limited, and I know that’s a privilege. I’m not ignorant to what I look like or anything either and that’s important. And I know that I come from people who didn’t have that opportunity. I think it’s important for people who do feel naturally comfortable exploring and expressing who they are to do that in order to encourage people to do the same thing.

Everything about you seems rootless ––your music doesn’t fit a box, your gender and sexuality is also fluid, you’re nomadic. Do you find yourself explaining yourself a lot because of that?
I’m at the point where I don’t bother explaining myself, unless I get a direct question. Especially with being someone that is mixed, I feel like a lot of mixed people overtly talk about that a lot. If you want to ask me something go ahead.

Even the way you describe your music as braless is interesting, are you relinquishing control by refusing to be boxed in or would you consider that inherent to who you are?
I go back and forth with this, but the bra is like expectations in general, and ‘braless’ is like ‘that’s not there’ and it is tied into my femininity. I consider myself gender fluid but I don’t reject my femininity at all. My music and my sound has feminine tones to it, obviously my album is called ‘Dream Girl’. Even so, I identify less and less with the title of the album, I came up with it a year and a half ago. I’ve definitely developed and evolved since within my identity. I do think ‘braless’ has to do with my rootlessness, just not being tethered to anything.

What drew you to music? 
I’ve always loved music. I was in an orchestra for ten years. I’m not even that good. [laughs]

What instrument did you play?
The violin, I couldn’t read music so I played by ear. I really liked music but I didn’t relate to it in the traditional sense. I didn’t have the desire or attention span to learn traditional things like music theory. I kind of feel it, and I also wrote poetry. It kind of came together in high school. My high school randomly had this music production class, we did beat battles every week and eventually I started getting good at it and adding words to the things I was making. Now I’m where I’m at because of a few random events.

What kind of mark, if any, do you hope to make with your art?
I haven’t thought about it specifically with just my music, but just my existence in the music world. I definitely want to create space for Black women, Black queer people, people of color. Just in whatever ways that I can. My manager is Black –– she’s amazing and it’s really cool to see her work in a space that is not typically a space that Black women exist in. Everyone I know has a white dude manager, or a dude manager. It’s awesome to see her kick ass. All of the people we’ve worked with so far ––we’re working with a graphic designer, she’s a Black woman and we’re putting all these shows together with Black women DJs and artist. It’s just about creating space ––not to say I did this but it’s just about making it a point to do that. That’s who I want to surround myself with, that is who I care about, and through that I think it will translate into other things too.

 Catch Ness Nite live in NYC on 10/29

Najma is a writer living in NYC with writing in Nylon, Paper Magazine, Teen Vogue, Vice, Highsnobiety, Lenny Letter and others.

Creating Synergy: From production to lyrics, this album is all women

Jovan Landry, self portrait

by Nadirah Simmons

Billboard called music production “the ultimate boys club of the industry,” and it’s true. Since the introduction of the Grammy category for producer of the year, non-classical in 1975, only a handful of women — including Janet Jackson, Paula Cole, Sheryl Crow, Lauryn Hill, Mariah Carey, and Lisa Coleman and Wendy Melvoin from Prince‘s band The Revolution — have been nominated. No woman has ever won it. Beyond shiny trophies, Lady Gaga and Taylor Swift are the only two women to land on Billboard‘s year-end Top Producers chart in the last decade. Yes, you read that right.

The disparity is just as evident when you look at Hip-Hop. Despite the presence of chart-topping women on the mic like Cardi B and Nicki Minaj, the majority of the producers are men. In fact, most Hip-Hop fans probably can’t name enough woman Hip-Hop producers to count on one hand.

Enter SYNERGY, a Chicago-based collaborative Hip-Hop album curated by Jovan Landry. The idea came to Landry, a filmmaker, photographer and emcee based in Chicago a few years back when she noticed the lack of opportunities for women to produce Hip-Hop music.

The album will not only feature some of the hottest women emcees in Chicago, but every producer, engineer, videographer, photographer and graphic designer involved with the project is a woman.

The Gumbo talked to Landry about her introduction to Hip-Hop, the importance of creating a collaborative album by women only and how the culture of Chicago influences the music of its people.

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The Gumbo: We haven’t really seen a major collaborative album like this yet. What made you decide to do this?
Jovan: It hasn’t been done which is crazy. Hip-Hop has been around for 40+ years, and we have not seen an album created entirely by women yet…And I was like this needs to happen, we’re long overdue. No one in the mainstream world has done it yet. So let’s make it happen.

You’re spearheading this entire project, when did you first get into Hip-Hop?
My mom definitely introduced it me. The Fugees, Mary J. Blige, all the Hip-Hop and R&B of the 90s. I was five or six years old. And I remember in middle school when I would print out lyrics and read along to them, and I never thought how that would impact me as an artist.

You are a well-rounded artist - a filmmaker, photographer and an emcee, when did you decide that you wanted to make music on your own?
Ten years ago. I’ve always been interested in music and I had a fascination with music production. And my cousin introduced me to Fruity Loops where I could make beats and stuff. I didn’t know I could download this software and create [music] at home, I thought you had to be established with a studio. Once I found that out I asked my grandma to buy me a keyboard and a microphone, and when I got those things it I started making beats at 16 or 17.

I was having fun doing what I loved to do, it kind of chose me.

Hip-Hop, as we both know, is not a space where women are often positioned at the forefront. Despite so many of us having this true love for the culture and origin stories like the one you shared.
I blame social media for that. You can get so famous so fast by putting out music. So when someone finds out that something works they do what works to get on and get famous without understanding the craft. 

And now you’ve created something to combat just that. When did you get the idea for SYNERGY?
In 2016, my mentor is a former emcee said she wanted to see a female rap album. And she wasn’t telling me to do it but it stayed in my head. So being in the Chicago scene or the music scene in general, you come across women that are doing it. So I started bartering with people saying hey if you become a part of my project I’ll take your photos or shoot your video.

Then in May of 2017 I checked one of my groups on GroupMe and there was an application for the WeWork Creator awards. They asked for a 90 second video on who you are, why you’re passionate about what you’re doing and what the idea is. So I made a video and told them about the idea and how I wanted to compensate women in these industries. A week or two later I became a finalist.

…[I went to Detroit] for the ceremony and I was waiting behind the curtains with all of the people in my category. And they were like “introducing all of the winners of the grant” and I was like “woah.”

That’s amazing! How did you find all the women for the project?
Well most of them I was already connected with. Finding filmmakers and artists was the easy part. But finding women who produce Hip-Hop music was hard, and I had to branch out of Chicago a little bit. 

What is the makeup of the team like?
Are you dope, can you flow and what’s your message? What can you bring artistically? And then I have queer women on here, it’s predominantly Black, women of different sizes, masculine and feminine - anybody that’s dope who can spit, has the delivery and can bounce ideas off of everyone. It’s all different types of women […]I just want women who agree with having a project like this, who are dedicated, who can commit and who are also willing to share a gift like this.

It’s not Jovan Landry featuring an artist, it’s almost like a DJ-Khaled style [album]. I’m not rapping on every track. I’m giving these women platforms to speak.

There are so many good artists from Chicago, for someone who is not from Chicago or who is an outsider how does the culture of the city influence the creative people that live there?
Our music is definitely based on the justice system and we definitely use it to write out our pain and what’s going on in the world. Our neighborhoods are super segregated-as diverse as they are…That influences it. Also the people that came from the city. Twista, Shawnna, Kanye West, Common, it’s so many influences. And Chicago is home of Blues. Just everything that is around us.

What makes Chicago different from all of the other regions when it comes to Hip-Hop?
That Blues and that Soul is really different…We’re also home of footworking so our beats are very different.

Aside from sound the culture of it-it’s hard. It’s hard to get people to rock with you in Chicago. I’ve gone to New York and people have shown way more respect and love. Being able to strip their ego and say “oh, I really like your music!”

How do you feel about the current state of Hip-Hop as a whole?
Even though there is some negativity mainstream wise, because we have social media and we can be self-sufficient and not have to join a label it’s very diverse. I really like where it’s going…I’m more about the message. Like what are we saying? Because art is so impactful. [The music] has to have some longevity.

I ask everybody this, who is in your Top 5?
Method Man, Left Eye, Kendrick Lamar, Common, Missy Elliott. They represent my style of rap.

That’s a really good list. I love Left Eye and I feel like people leave her out of their rap conversations.
I was a part of this show at Columbia College and I had auditioned as Eve and they said “oh, you’re going to do Left Eye.” I didn’t know that much about her but when I had to research her I learned so much and that’s how she became one of my Top 5. Not only her mind but her lyrics are really good too.

Where do you see SYNERGY five years now?
I would like to do workshops and go to New York and teach a workshop on how to make create something like SYNERGY. Having round table discussions and creating an event centered around women in Hip-Hop globally. I just want to keep the conversation going and keep the music coming out.

Inherent Exclusion: On Loving Hip-Hop As A Black Queer Woman

by Brittany Frederick

The summer of 2013, shortly after my nineteenth birthday, I drove to buy a copy of J.Cole’s Born Sinner. I popped the CD into my car radio and pulled out of the parking lot. Moments later I was cringing at his slurs in the opening verse of “Villuminati.” As a Black queer girl who grew up on Hip-Hop and R&B homophobia in music came as no surprise. Yet the presence of homophobic language on songs shocked me each time. Year after year, album after album, Hip-Hop artists continued to disappoint and exclude Black people like me. And while there are countless articles online that ceaselessly debate whether or not Hip-Hop is homophobic, I’m uninterested in entering that fray - although it is. But what I do know is that for queer people who love Hip-Hop, fitting in with a culture that inherently excludes you is a challenge. 

As a teenager I listened to Hip-Hop and searched for alternate meanings. I created my own “bisexual anthems” out of songs that could be rapped by queer and straight people alike. Thus, it makes sense that Rae Sreummurd’s “No Type,” on which Swae Lee raps “I ain’t got no type, bad bitches is the only thing that I like,” became an anthem for a queer girl like me. The same could be said of Lil Mama’s “Lip Gloss.” In the music video Lil Mama sports sparkly glitter pink lip-gloss and construction boots while she offers to help other girls with their lip-gloss by rapping: “I upgrade ya, show you how to use nice things with nice flavaz.” Offering to help other women with flavors and lip products? Must be gay. And while I am almost certain these artists weren’t explicitly creating pro-queer liberation music, as a queer Black kid attempting to fit into spaces that were inherently exclusionary, finding music that spoke to my identity was and remains important.  

That’s not to say the Hip-Hop landscape has not changed over the past few years. The presence of Black queer rappers like Janelle Monae, Azealia Banks and Young M.A highlights an increase in representation, but representation doesn’t bring with it a radical queer politic. More often than I wish were true, queer rappers reproduce the same problematic tropes and assumptions that have long existed in mainstream rap, such as portraying Black women as Jezebels or suggesting that giving oral sex regardless of gender, is inherently an emasculating act.  I’m more interested in the message than in representation by itself. For these reasons, newer, independent artists have been fueling my playlists, regardless of sexuality, whose lyrics challenge the status quo. Since I’m Boston born-and-raised, Oompa’s “I Deserve That” is a track for all the Black girls. In it, Oompa raps, “This is for the Black girls, and the brown ones, this is for the never-let-the-guys girls, and the ratchets.” Then, she proceeds to explain the diversity of ways to be a Black woman, (trans, pan, fat, corporate). Rather than chastising women who enjoy sex or calling women prudish for keeping their sexual activity private, Oompa celebrates women doing and being whatever makes them happy. 

The importance of truly liberatory rap that still slaps cannot be understated. Black Americans have always tied music to their journey to freedom. From work songs during the antebellum era, to blues, to rap in the Bronx, our people’s struggle has inspired beautiful art that served as a constant reminder that our spirits could not be broken down. This LGBTQ+ history month I hope we can amplify rap that uplifts our community and quiet rap that doesn’t. Because that is truly inclusive.

I Was Drowning, Mac Miller Saved Me

by Nadirah Simmons

It’s been a little over a month since Mac Miller passed away - the same amount of time it took me to write this. Grief is complicated.

When my coworker dm’d me that Mac Miller passed away I didn’t believe it. Just three weeks before his death he was at our job performing “Ladders.” Anticipating his appearance we spent a whole hour going through songs from when he was “Easy Mac with the cheesy raps,” breaking down our favorite cuts on Swimming, ruminating on his growth and the evolution of his sound since he dropped his first tape and then finally stressing about how (at the time) there were no VIP or meet and greet packages for the upcoming tour. 

Today is October 10, and I am still grieving.

Maybe because I’ve followed his career from the jump. Back when he was half of the Ill Spoken duo with Beedie and “Like Aay!” was bumped religiously on my Sony NW-E305.

Maybe because his “Under The Influence of Music” tour with Wiz Khalifa was the first concert I attended at the age of 17, where Kendrick Lamar, Shoolboy Q, Chevy Woods and Chiddy Bang opened. Where I finally got to rap curse words in public to the tune of “Lucky Ass Bitch.”

Maybe because “He Who Ate All The Caviar,” released under his pseudonym Larry Fisherman, was the soundtrack to every pregame my first year at Rutgers.

Maybe because he had such a profound reverence for the culture of which he became a permanent fixture, and it was reciprocated from peers like Chance the Rapper and YG-both of whom opened for him on separate tours-to veterans like Hov. 

All of those things are true. And his passing made it clear I wasn’t the only kid who clamored to get tickets to his shows. I wasn’t the only kid who changed their middle name on Facebook to “MostDope.” I wasn’t the only kid who stalked the fuckyeahmacmiller tumblr religiously. I wasn’t the only kid who would spend their nights after school watching TreeJTV (which made the ‘Mac Miller and the Most Dope Family’ television show a real treat). I wasn’t the only kid annoyed with Pitchfork for giving Blue Slide Park a 1.0 rating (“Of the Soul” alone made it worthy of at least a 7.5). And I wasn’t the only kid drowning that Mac helped save.

“Poppy” was essential to my grieving process after my grandfather passed my first year of college. “I’ll Be There” stayed on repeat as I watched my dad battle cancer. Faces helped 20-year-old me me feel less ashamed of being depressed, and walked me through the anxiety, sadness, change in energy level and self-esteem. The Divine Feminine served as the soundtrack to finding love. Swimming reminded me to do just that when I lost it. Somehow, Mac Miller managed to be there to help me through everything. 

It feels like I lost a friend, like we all lost a friend. The friend you had lunch with every year until you graduated high school, only to end up going to the same college. The friend that would drop everything to come see you if you were sad. The friend that would sleep over at your house even when you weren’t there. The friend that would call your parents “mom” and “dad” because that’s how tight you were. 

The friend whose absence keeps you up at night. The friend whose music feels a bit different now when their songs end. The friend whose cancelled tour notification made their passing that much more painful. The friend who helped you stay afloat, only to one day stop swimming themselves.

I tweeted that I was going to be sad about losing him for the rest of my life, and through the couple hundred retweets I was assured I was not alone. At my toughest, lowest moments, Mac Miller was there. And even in loss the one thing that brings me peace is that he existed. And he grew. And he taught. And he loved. And he kept swimming, from 92’ til infinity, and beyond.

Meet BLEMME: The Rap Collective On Their Debut EP, Queer and Transgender Identity and Staying True to the Game

Photo by Sakona Fitts

by Nadirah Simmons

I dialed into the conference call this past Sunday afternoon. One by one, the women of the rap collective BLEMME joined in - Caesher from Boston, Sekai from New York and Kee, originally from Los Angeles, calls in from Illinois.

Despite the distance between each of the members I knew immediately I was in the midst of a sisterhood unlike anything I had ever witnessed before. Within an instant the women of BLEMME began chatting like they were in the same room. When one of them was done speaking, another member was quick to pick up where they had left off with an “I agree” or an “I echo that,” adding a chunk of knowledge that only enhanced someone else’s opinion. They also knew what each other’s answers would be to many of the questions, laughing at how obvious the responses would be to queries like “Who is your favorite artist?”

It’s the kind of camaraderie you would hope to see amongst any group in any business. Be it music or another profession, there’s no doubt that having a certain level of respect for and understanding of the people you work with takes whatever you’re creating to another level. This kind of community is especially important for Black LGBTQIA+ people, who face discrimination from the Black community and the LGBTQIA+ community alike. Bringing this reality into the heteronormative and hypermasculine space that is Hip-Hop makes that fellowship all the more necessary.

That’s part of what makes BLEMME so great. The women-two of whom identify and transgender and one of whom identifies as queer-are reframing the genre. Because if Hip-Hop is a product of Black culture then by default it is a product of all of its people-cisgender, transgender, queer, disabled, etc. And beyond this the women have created music not simply out of necessity, but out of a love and respect for the culture.

The Gumbo talked to the women of BLEMME about surveillance, the importance of writing your own raps, the release of their first project and why Onika Tanya Maraj reigns supreme. 

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The Gumbo: You are calling in from three different states, how did you find each other?
Sekai: We went to school together!

Caesher: And we were just friends before anything. That’s how we found each other. As far as the group thing we just had a love for rap and Hip-Hop in a deeper way than other folks around us.

Kee: That’s real. I was in my final semester of college when I met Caesher and got to know Sakai more. I think those moments we just bonded and connected. Caesher used to make fun of me because I used to rap random bars and lyrics to people’s songs and Caesher would be like “uh uh you should be a rapper, you should be a rapper!” 

So when did you all decided to create BLEMME and what makes you different from other groups?
S: We don’t really remember. I just remember Caes and Kee were like okay we’re in a group now. They were able to push me out of my comfort zone and I was like “okay we’re really good at this!”

C: I wanted to touch on the second half of the question. Literally everyone says y’all are just spitting and y’all are dedicated to the craft. That’s not what just makes y’all different, that makes you stand out. A lot of the time when you hear popular music from queer and trans artists it’s usually a pop bop or something heavily influenced by ballroom culture and that is great, but not every one of us is from that culture. So I think it’s very important to shine a light on all different queer or trans artists, specifically those who identify as femme or women because it’s more to it. We’re multifaceted.

It’s apparent in the music you have created. Who are some rappers who influenced you?
S: Go ahead and say it…

C: (Laughs) Everyone who knows me knows it’s Nicki Minaj!

I knew it, I saw her all over your Instagram (laughs)!
C: I cannot talk about me falling in love with Hip-Hop without mentioning Nicki Minaj. I think she gets a lot of flack. I think of being younger during the Pink Friday era and hearing my cousins and older brother say “this is for girls.” And I was like “this is where it’s at!” And I think a lot of other people who are in more visible places than us have been influenced by her too, whether they admit it or not!

K: I couldn’t give you an age [for when I fell in love with Hip-Hop], but the people I used to listen to growing up were Nas, Foxy Brown and Tupac. When Nas rapped: “Hit the Earth like a comet—invasion!/Nas is like the Afrocentric Asian: half-man, half-amazin’” I was like come through! … Then watching Foxy Brown embrace sensuality in ways that were really, really beautiful and to be dark-skinned. And one of the things I am obsessed with about her, her flow is unmatched. I feel like she is so underrated. I love Nicki Minaj too, me and Caes love her. We love her down! And even Nicki says she’s influenced by her so much … And then I love me some Tupac!

S: Also Nicki Minaj. I remember being in high school when Beam Me Up Scottie came out and only like three people knew it but we were rapping it in classrooms. Kendrick is an influence too, his storytelling. And I really like Leikeli47 as well.

Each of you named some of the biggest rappers in the game and rappers that people consider some of the best at their craft. With their presence in the culture how do you all feel about the current state of Hip-Hop?
S: I think there are too many non-Black people profiting off of Black vision and Black aesthetic.

C: I agree. A new trend is introduced by Black folks, it’s dragged on and usually non-Black or people who aren’t of the culture who perpetuate it. In the age of social media everything is so fast you’re just popular based on what sells very quickly and not on something that exudes longevity. 

K: I think there are so many, so many rappers who don’t write their own music. And the ones who do a lot are mediocre. So when BLEMME got together we really dedicated ourselves to writing our own music. So when we sit down we’re recording things, we’re mixing and mastering stuff-Sakai is a brilliant producer. Genius producer. But we can all get a beat from wherever we are in the country and we can do really, really well on it. We value writing and storytelling.

Each of you clearly has a respect for the culture, which I think should the barometer when it comes to acceptance within Hip-Hop communities. But we know how the culture is. Were you ever apprehensive or nervous about how you would be received as transgender and queer women?
C: I think yes, for me personally. Not so much as putting myself out there but more who would receive me and how I would be received. And I think I can say that for each member in the group.

K: One of the biggest things was that I was really afraid for my mom to hear my music! She’s an old-head and she likes music in general, and she’s always supported me. Once my mom told me liked my music and to keep doing you nobody could tell me anything!

What does it mean for each of you to be in a Hip-Hop group within a genre and culture that’s not always that accepting?
C: For me what it means is kind of a gaze and a hyper-surveillance. If you’re spitting music and putting it out regularly you’re not hiding. The gaze just increases because I am Black and I am trans and I identify as a woman. In Hip-Hop, at least nowadays, they’re going to stand out because that’s just the way it is.

K: I definitely echo Caesher’s sentiments. I feel like for me I’m always underestimated at any point in my life. In Hip-Hop and in college and all these different moments in my life where I was trying to do what I needed to do to get to where I needed to go. I think when people look at me they assume particular things and they’re often wrong. And the way in which race intersects with gender and the way that intersects with queerness is really important to Black identity and has been a focal point in the creation of Black culture and Hip-Hop. Hip-Hop was pioneered out of political moment back in the 70s which also arguably trans Black women and queer Black people were a part of too, because we were a part of that community. So I think it’s important that we are all visible in Hip-Hop because it’s not only going to push the culture forward but also shed light on what has already existed.

S: With representation in music comes money. And with money comes with survival.

Representation is everything, but sometimes there are artists who will put on queerness because it seems cool or fun. Or straight, cisgender men will write a song about girls kissing girls because it appeals to their hypermasculinity. And then they won’t actually be here for the LGBTQIA+ community in real life.
C: The first person that comes to mind is Young M.A., who is very talented. She stands in her truth and I appreciate that about her as an artist. But when it comes to her audience and who I tend to hear say they love her, it’s folks who are attracted to her. Which then makes her more marketable. It’s like the saying women artists will say that folks tell them, that you have to either want to be f*cked or women have to want to be you. That rings true when it comes to that situation, because when I hear about queerness in Hip-Hop on a popular level it’s usually like a Young M.A. Which is disappointing because yes, it’s pivotal and important and also let’s deconstruct masculinity. Let’s talk about what that means. Let’s also not just be here for somebody because we want to lay down with them. Let’s support everybody on the spectrum. Because I can name people who will support a Young M.A. but they won’t support a Caesher or a Kee or a Sakai.

S: I also think there’s a juxtaposition there. I also see cis men saying they’re going to turn her out, hypersexualizing her.

K: People fetishize these weird, imaginary queer relationships [of celebrities] and in practice they hate us. And we give all of them money. [These artists] benefit from queer communities invested in their music…It’s just really important to put out there that queer people, queer Black people, have influenced and made Hip-Hop what it is!

Now you are all here creating your own music. Take me behind the process of creating your first single “blkNblu.”
C: Sakai made the beat. And we were all in different places at the time when we got it and we each just wrote.

S: We kind of did it in a Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants way.

How does it feel to have your first project out there and for the world to see?
K: It’s intimidating as hell! It’s scary as f*ck. We talk about this often, being hyper-criticized and trying to develop ways to deal with that type of criticism. We all know there’s trolls online, and trolls exist to simply be haters. They’re you’re number one fans but they exist solely to wreak havoc. So what happens when those people start saying sh*t and you begin to take it heart? My goal isn’t to take it to heart. My goal is to let it roll of my back. But I’m human and I’m afraid. But also very, very ready.

S: We’ve been working on this for a year now, and it was very surreal to have it come out. Most people knew we were a group but no one really heard it until we put it out.

C: It’s very rewarding. And I’m very very proud to do this in a collective and to have this sisterhood.

Where do you see the group five years from now?
K: At the Grammys!

C: I see us having more visual projects and our music being involved in more visual projects like tv, film and online series.

S: I agree with both!

Listen to their debut EP Vol. 1 below.

Love of My Life

by Megan Ambers

My mother was a fan of the sounds of Anita Baker and Luther Vandross and growing up she was strict about the music I could listen to. On the other hand my father loved rap, and because of him I grew accustomed to Tupac and Dr. Dre. At the time Hip-Hop felt sinful. Between the curse words and the topics-I knew if my mother found out what I was listening to I would be in trouble. But at the same time, I believed that if it was bad for me to listen to it then I was missing out on something amazing. 

As I grew older my mother loosened her restrictions on the music that I could listen to, thankfully so. By the time I got to middle school I was listening to Juvenile, Lil Wayne and The Big Tymers-artists whose music would not have met my mother’s approval years prior. I was enamored by their music and the bounce sound created by synthesizers, drum machines, heavy bass, Mardi Gras Indian chants and call-and-response routines. Not to mention the gold grills and their accents intrigued me as well. 

In high school, everything I took in was influenced by Hip-Hop. Aside from listening to the music, I spent a lot of time watching films like Juice, Save the Last Dance and Dangerous Minds-all movies influenced by the culture in some way, shape or form. In a matter of years I went from being restricted from Hip-Hop to something like a full on ambassador. By the time I reached my senior year in high school I was an expert on the culture-the music, fashion, etc. Not to mention I mostly surrounded myself with rappers, musicians and spoken word poets. It felt safe. It felt like home. And through Hip-hop I felt alive. 

I became so entangled with the world of Hip-hop that I wanted to share exactly how I felt about it to everyone. As a result I pursued a career in music journalism, where I realized that despite the number of women in media that loved Hip-Hop as much as I did, our opinions were are often passed over in favor of a man’s. The misogyny that my mother didn’t want me listening to in the music didn’t only appear in my favorite songs, but also in journalism. My breadth of knowledge on all aspects of Hip-Hop didn’t stop me being overlooked to do certain jobs and interview certain artists. But through this realization emerges an important truth: I’m not the only woman who feels this way. I’m not the only woman who has had these experiences. And, if I’m not alone, I am certain that this time I am not the one missing out on something amazing. They are.