Coming off the brightness and fun of the Style Issue featuring Keyshia Cole, we dove right into Mavado, a gifted artist on the verge of greatness. He’s deep in one of those kinds of feuds, though, in which you have to hope against hope that no one gets physically hurt. We also publish in this issue a story we’ve been working on for a while about the musicians of Mexico coming under fire (and worse) by drug gangs marring the cultural lushness of our neighbors South of a border over which crosses billions of dollars worth of illegal drugs. And then, in addition to stories about the troubles of Max B, the genius of Busta, and the renaissance of Ron Browz, there’s T.I.
Mr. Harris, our King of the South, is, as we all know, going to prison. He’s come around to believe it’s a blessing in disguise, and it soothes to believe that. But as much as he approaches his time with grace and forcefulness, even as he encourages other young men in his MTV series, T.I.’s Road to Redemption, to get their acts together, it’s difficult to feel any way but burnt and sad about T.I. going “away.” Especially when more than 11 percent of African-American males ages 25 to 29 are incarcerated.
Prison is confinement. Locked up is really and truly locked up. Hip hop appears to make us forget this sometimes because it offers marvelous freedom of will—to a fault.
Creativity stomps through all obstacles, it dips and soars and goes where it pleases—an old Jedi mind trick that somehow makes prison seem less confining. That so many rap stars know well the hell of incarceration is wretched. The degree to which familiarity with poverty and the justice system make hip hop what it is and what it has been should have us all asking, “Why?” But pondering that question requires the sort of painful self-examination most are too nervous to attempt with depth or consistency. It could make you crazy. Of course, it could also change how we think about our music. It could completely change how it’s created. That kind of audacious introspection could truly change everything.
T.I. is assessing things, though, including his spirit, which is probably one of the reasons why he was so enthusiastic about his fourth VIBE cover shoot, an homage to the people and images we see in him. Dan Winters’ 1993 portrait of Snoop Doggy Dogg was taken for this magazine’s launch issue, right before he got caught up in the murder case that would dog him for nearly three years (until he was acquitted). Jonathan Mannion’s 1996 portrait of Jay-Z (for the cover of Reasonable Doubt) embodies the strength, depth, and pimpy cool that comes before the true confidence, self-awareness, and candor that make a legend.
Thomas Hoeker’s 1966 portrait of Muhammad Ali is a study in strength and perseverance—the self is small, the fight is all that matters. And finally, Eve Arnold’s 1961 portrait of Malcolm X is the very personification of thoughtful, hard-won, and righteous change. All of these images exist in the man who is T.I.—and in the character of Clifford Harris Jr. The truth is that all these images and what they mean also live in the characters of the black male population already behind bars. That tenacity, that strength, that thoughtfulness, that ability to change is in each of us: man and woman. It’s funny what it takes for us to realize it, though. Actually, it’s not funny at all.
This issue was a tough one to do.
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