Life After Death

The Notorious B.I.G.'s 'Life After Death' Is Still A Blueprint For Commercial Rap Success 20 Years Later

It’s easy to hypothesize about what kind of rapper Biggie would be today. Would he actually dead 90% of the rappers out now? Would he still have the crown? Would the crown matter more?

On the 20th anniversary of the Notorious B.I.G.’s (government name, Christopher Wallace) death a couple weeks ago, there was fittingly an outpour of love, reverence and nostalgia. Puff Daddy, in true Puff Daddy fashion, did the most. He eternalized B.I.G.’s legacy with a number 72 banner during “Biggie Night” at the Barclays Center in B.I.G.’s hometown of Brooklyn alongside his mother, Voletta Wallace; children, T’yanna and CJ; his ex-wife and fellow Bad Boy recording artist Faith Evans; other Bad Boy artists Lil’ Kim and Ma$e; and other family and friends. A night full of Biggie’s music (already in regular rotation at Nets games) played in-game was capped off by 10 seconds of raucous Brooklyn love at Puff’s behest during halftime and the rarity of the Nets having more points than the other team when the final buzzer blew.

Throughout the Bedford-Stuyvesant streets where Biggie grew up, candle-lit vigils flickered, freshly painted murals glistened on walls, Coogi sweaters were popping again, and his music wafted through the air as if a part of earth’s atmospheric makeup on his Fulton St. block. Pieces about the significance of his life, death, music and legacy popped up all over the interwebs from the same publications that covered him two decades ago and many more. Through gestures big and small, fans celebrated his legacy in any way they saw fit, even with something as simple as a T-shirt, and everything felt right, mostly.

A particular T-shirt a fellow train passenger wore sparked more contemplation in me than any of the gestures I witnessed or described above. It read: “If Notorious B.I.G. was alive 90% of rappers today would be working at McDonalds.” After getting over the alarmingly reductive options that presents for young black wordsmiths, I wondered if it was true.

It’s easy to hypothesize about what kind of rapper Biggie would be today. Would he actually dead 90% of the rappers out now? Would he bless a certain few with features because he wanted them to receive the torch he passed? Would Junior M.A.F.I.A. had grown into a full-fledged imprint with B.I.G. making room for his label head hat next to the tilted crown on his head? Would he still have the crown? Would the crown matter more? Could he have surprised us and gone the mogul route, following in Puff’s footsteps? Would TIDAL be his? Would Kendrick have dared call himself the king of New York on his “Control” verse? B.I.G. was versatile enough to bend his flow toward the rapid-fire cadences of Bone-Thugs-N-Harmony on “Notorious Thugs,” would he try Migos’ triplet flow on for size? Did he have another platinum effort in him? Did he have more than one more in him? Would he and Pac have patched things up and did their own version of Watch the Throne? Lil' Cease thinks so. Would he own part of the Brooklyn Nets instead of having his jersey in the rafters? Would he have started his own clothing line? Would he be on VH1 with the fam? Would he and Faith be on Love and Hip Hop? Would his Twitter be popping? Would he laugh at trigger-turned-Twitter fingers or be embroiled in Twitter feuds himself? Would he have something to say about Donald Trump? Would his music have become more political? The possibilities are seemingly endless, and not just because of the uncertainty death brings to all human existence, but because he was that nice with his.

So let’s look at what he did give us while he was alive: One of the best albums, and certainly illest debuts ever, in Ready to Die, and a rare double-disc classic in the unexpectedly posthumous Life After Death—two excellent albums by the age of 24. Ready To Die was already an early blueprint for commercial rap success in 1994, deftly mixing street lore with accessible, danceable beats while managing to not compromise his artistry. Life After Death built upon that successful formula and simultaneously contains lessons in rap radio single craft, what beef really is, rules for street-level drug moves, big man swag (and swag in general), genre blending with R&B, smart features, beat selection, black social mobility, capitalizing on the American penchant for tabloid culture, and of course rhyme and flow. The release of the album was overshadowed by his death and the infamous beef that it was attributed to, and as with any abrupt death of an artist with seemingly boundless potential like B.I.G.’s, the lauds it received were tinged with a little doubt from critics and the public alike. But two decades later, it stands tall as a behemoth rap classic.

B.I.G. and the bevy of legendary producers feeding him beats to devour created radio ready hits, tales of grimy street mythos, anthems of ascendant black affluence (ashy to classy if you will), and suave earworms for the ladies to groove to—all equally enthralling in their variance. With a tongue as skilled as his, Biggie could have stayed above the listener’s head for the entire album, wrapping similes, metaphors and multi-syllable rhymes around each other. Instead he sprinkled them throughout, slapping with reminders of the rhyme skills if you thought the hooks and glossy samples were too soft. The balance and symmetry of each disc is nothing short of marvelous.

For every hit single, say “Hypnotize,” there’s a “What’s Beef?” For “Miss U,” there’s “N***as Bleed.” For every bit of grandiose luxury, playboy romps and braggadocios bars, there’s violence worthy of mob movies, introspection about the way of life he’s leaving, thoughts and worry about the same newly acquired fame and success he brags about. The mythical Notorious B.I.G., affable Biggie Smalls and Christopher Wallace the hopeful father all make appearances on the album, and the shifts between person and persona are seamless. All of the dimension of his prodigious personality held within that fittingly huge six-foot-two-inch, 395-pound frame came out on wax. That’s what made his death that much harder after hearing the album, so much life and potential abruptly, tragically snuffed out too soon.

An overlooked quality of the black Frank White is his beat selection, and that allowed for the many facets of his personality to shine the brightest during their moment in the spotlight. B.I.G.’s smooth flows seemingly fit anything, whether they were gliding over R&B leanings on “F**k You Tonight” and “Miss U”; rich classical flourishes on “What’s Beef” and “Somebody’s Gotta Die”; cinematic big-band sweeps on “I Love The Dough,” “Sky’s the Limit” and “Long Kiss Goodnight”; the throwback funk and soul samples from Zapp and The Delfonics on “Going Back to Cali” and “Playa Hater,” respectively; or the innovative boom bap of “Ten Crack Commandments” and “Kick In The Door.” As much as his command of flow over elements from multiple genres should be commended, his wherewithal and confidence in his beat choices should as well. Not every young artist comes in the game picking the best beats to rock over (ask Nas or Common), and though Biggie had the best producers in the game at his disposal like DJ Premier, RZA and solid in-house dudes like Stevie J, D-Dot and Easy Mo Bee, his ear for beats shouldn’t be glossed over.

With all of that clever album construction going on, B.I.G. also laced plenty of rhymes that possibly play into several feuds, taking advantage of the American tabloid obsession and taste for beef. He didn’t fan the flames of those beefs necessarily, but he still let people know that he was aware. He gave his stance on the beef with Pac on “Going Back to Cali,” choosing to show Cali love and promote the album there. Though it wasn’t the firmest position or the vicious “Hit ‘Em Up” response a lot of people wanted, he knew everyone would be listening, and wisely used it as a single. He could have possibly given Raekwon and Nas some bars on “Kick In the Door." The coveted King of New York title held its most significance then with the East Coast/West Coast binary in full swing. B.I.G. was listening for challengers to his perceived throne, and may have taken offense to the Nas couplet “Yo, let me let y’all n***as know one thing/ There’s on life, one love, so there can only be one King” on “The Message” from 1996’s It Was Written. Biggie came back on “Kick in The Door” with the lines “Ain’t no other kings in this rap thing/They siblings, nothing but my chil’ren/ One shot, they disappearin’/ It’s ill when MC’s used to be on cruddy sh*t/ Took home Ready To Die, listened, studied sh*t/ Now they on some money sh*t, successful out the blue.” Though it adds to Nas’ mythos to do so, he acknowledged that some bars on “Kick In The Door” were meant for him on God’s Son’s “Last Real N***a Alive” in 2002: “Ya’ll don’t know about my Biggie wars/ Who you thought ‘Kick In The Door’ was for?” Rae also caught some diluted venom on “Kick In The Door” for his jab “That’s life, to top it all off, beef with White/ Pullin bleach out tryin to throw it in my eyesight” on 1995’s Only Built 4 Cuban Linx.” B.I.G. responded with “F**k that, why try, throw bleach in your eye” suggesting that The Chef wasn’t worth his time. There are also lines that could indirectly address Pac on “Long Kiss Goodnight”, particularly the “I Ain’t Mad at Cha” reference. Those closest to him while he was alive give different accounts of what his lyrics actually meant and listener’s interpretations can vary, but that is the art of the subliminal diss. An art that Jay Z, Drake and many spitters still dabble in today, and probably took notes from the deadliest, most high-profile rap beef ever to do so.

Biggie’s influence is still all over rap today, and both Ready To Die and Life After Death are rap constitutional documents to learn and steal from. Ask Jay Z. Want to know how to murder a debut? Take home Ready to Die, listen, study sh*t. Want to know how to avoid the sophomore slump and adapt to transitioning from the street life without going completely industry? Study Life After Death. Ultimately, “90% of rappers wouldn’t be where they are today if Biggie was alive” is a more accurate T-shirt slogan. Matter of fact, get Puff on the phone (Kendrick voice)! We have business to discuss.

R.I.P., B.I.G. homie.

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Tyler Perry, Popeye’s Chicken, And Who We Call ‘Coon’

Black shame has been something of an online talking point in recent weeks. From a chicken sandwich’s bemusing popularity, to a movie mogul opening a major studio on the back of a controversial cinematic legacy, big headlines have led to heated conversations about who or what embarasses us as Black folks. This is an ongoing discussion – about “coonery” and how it affects Black America and Black Americans’ perception of themselves. Filmmaker Tyler Perry’s successes, a stabbing at a Popeye’s chicken, and the resurrection of a blaxploitation cult classic have all offered interesting peeks into how we see the more polarizing aspects of Black popular culture.

But there’s still no clear answer to the question: who, or what, exactly, is a “coon?”

The opening of Tyler Perry’s studio in Atlanta has been hailed as a major event for Black Hollywood; a moment where Black ambition and individuality broke new ground for Black storytelling and ownership of that storytelling. But no Tyler Perry success is an easy thumbs-up; from the moment the writer/director/actor broke through with Diary Of A Mad Black Woman back in 2005, Perry has been a polarizing figure for Black critics and audiences. While beloved by his fanbase, Perry, with his broad folksy comedy characters and church fan messaging, has been blasted as a purveyor of “coonery” for years. Notables like Oprah Winfrey have remained staunchly pro-Perry, while fellow filmmaker Spike Lee was once one of his harshest detractors.

"Each artist should be allowed to pursue their artistic endeavors,” Lee said in an interview with Black Enterprise in 2009. “But I still think there is a lot of stuff out today that is 'coonery buffoonery'."

Perry responded to Lee in a 2009 60 Minutes interview. "I would love to read that [criticism] to my fanbase. ... That pisses me off. It is so insulting. It's attitudes like that that make Hollywood think that these people do not exist, and that is why there is no material speaking to them, speaking to us."

The idea that what Perry does is “coonery” is complicated and has always raised questions. Perry’s brand of screwball humor (particular in his Madea films and former sitcoms) isn’t all that different from slapstick and over-the-top characters that we’ve seen from the likes of Martin Lawrence and Marlon Wayans. Lawrence’s beloved 90s sitcom Martin had its detractors during its heyday (and now), but there doesn’t appear to be the same level of contempt as compared to Perry; judging from how popular his old show has remained, its fair to suggest that Lawrence is beloved by many of the same people who have seen Perry’s Madea movies as embarrassing. As Perry himself mentioned in his rebuttal to Spike Lee, he speaks to his fanbase—a base that largely goes ignored by many of the more critically-acclaimed Black storytellers in cinema. While auteurs like Lee or Barry Jenkins may speak to a specific type of urban experience, Perry has always been most connected to a sensibility that’s more southern, rural and Black Christian-leaning. The fact that his brand of more countrified broad humor is so unsettling for some Black folks indicates an ever-present sense of shame for country Black-isms--particularly when they’re presented in slapstick comedy. Perry has built his empire on Black audiences, yet certain Black critics have always acted as though that audience doesn’t matter. Who gets the final say on Blackness in entertainment?

There are other reasons people criticize aTyler Perry: a penchant for heavy-handed moralizing in his movies, a tendency towards colorism, questionable labor policies – that’s all valid. It’s just as valid as calling out Spike for the choices he’s made regarding female characters in his films, or addressing the colorism of Martin’s Pam jokes. But those specific criticisms aren’t inherently connected to “coonery” and what that uniquely damning insult signifies.

Eddie Murphy’s Dolemite Is My Name premiered on Netflix in October to widespread acclaim, with the Rudy Ray Moore biopic earning Murphy his best reviews in a decade. The film focuses on Moore’s determination to make his Dolemite comedy character a movie star, independently using family, friends and associates to get his movie off the ground. Hustling his way up from standup through hit comedy records to actually seeing his movie on the big screen, Moore is portrayed as a symbol of Black individuality and self-actualization. As I was watching his story unfold, I was reminded of the parallels to Perry. Like Perry, Moore and his team wouldn’t really be considered great filmmakers, but also like Perry, Dolemite’s appeal doesn’t really lie in craft or execution—Moore simply told stories that resonated with his particular audience. In one scene in ...My Name, when Moore watches an Indianapolis crowd guffawing at his low-budget blaxploitation spectacle, the sense of pride he feels isn’t just in what he’s accomplished, its in who he’s doing it for: an audience that wanted Dolemite humor and camp—an audience that existed even within the broader blaxploitation fanbase.

With so many raving about Dolemite Is My Name and Murphy, there’s a question of hindsight being 20/20 and how Black art is often policed through a sense of shame. How many of those applauding this 2019 biopic would have cringed seeing Dolemite in 1975, a jive-talking, pudgy quasi-pimp at the center of a shoddily made flick? Now, that story is being told with reverence and heart, and it speaks to how, once you can put some distance between time and place, it’s easy to see a bigger picture and celebrate the spirit--even when the end result may not be to your taste.

When Popeye’s now-mythic Spicy Chicken sandwich made its return last week, the online jokes and customer enthusiasm was met with criticism and handwringing from those who obviously felt Black folks were falling into a stereotype over fried chicken. When a news report revealed that someone had died violently at a Popeye’s over an argument while in line, many bemoaned how embarrassing Black folks had supposedly gotten over this sandwich. Of course, there wasn’t a widespread epidemic of chicken sandwich-related violence, it was just an incident that happened at a restaurant. But because the shame was already boiling over in some Black folks, this became a chance to finger-wag the culture for everything from poor eating habits to not supporting Black business to voter apathy. In a society that teaches us racism from the moment we are aware of race, it’s imperative that Black folks un-learn Black shame. And it’s time to stop running to “coon” any time you believe someone fits a stereotype racism taught you to be embarrassed by.

Black folks could stand to be a lot less embarrassed by Black folks.

Who “fits the stereotype” isn’t really what’s most damaging to Black people in America – it’s the fact that these stereotypes exist in the first place. Tyler Perry’s characters weren’t created by some outsider and foisted upon Black audiences from a place of derision; they’re affectionate parodies of his own family, written by and for someone who knows that churchy, southern voice and isn’t so ashamed by it that they can’t have a little fun with it. In the same spirit that we now applaud figures like Moore and southern rap impresarios like Master P (who built an empire with a No Limit Records label that catered to its audience while often being criticized for mediocrity by rap “purists” of the mid-90s). The shame in Popeye’s popularity, the shame in a Madea character, the shame in so much of what we see in Black people—is only there because racism put it there. Before deciding to speak against a Black creator as a “coon,” shouldn’t we be sure to not marginalize an audience? Black art is still Black art even when it doesn’t necessarily speak to your specific Black experience.

And beyond even art, maybe it’s past time that we just stop being so ashamed of Black people.

“Coon” has merit, no doubt. But when it’s tethered to a sense of embarrassment, it can become a weapon of respectability. Being who you are, telling your story, maintaining your voice—those things shouldn’t make you a “coon.” Even if your voice is loud and country, even if your voice is problematic in certain areas, even if your voice doesn’t match my own—you aren’t a “coon” until you begin shucking and jiving for the status quo; not just because you’re being you, regardless of whether they’re watching or not. That’s an important distinction that often gets lost in the haze of embarrassment. Using descriptors like “country” and “ghetto” as pejoratives is an indication that something taught us that these types of Black folks “make us look bad.” Believing that would mean that we’re buying into the lens of other folks. Do we really think Black experiences, Black voices should be shaped by how racism sees us? Because if so, that’s the real shame. 

Todd “Stereo” Williams is a writer/editor/media producer based in New York City. An outspoken veteran entertainment journalist, his work has been featured in The Daily Beast, XXL, Ebony and The Undefeated. He's also an accomplished screenwriter and documentarian who's co-produced films such as Exubia and Beautiful Skin.

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Solange Uses Her Divine Spirit To Calm The Mind And Body For "Bridge-s" Performance Piece

There's a serene feeling over the bodies standing in the iconic architecture at the Getty Center Museum. Jazzy horns, peaceful keys, and crisp guitar riffs gently interrupt the soothing silence as dancers dripped in marigold threads swayed to "Counting," a composition created by Solange. A series of odd numbers like "5", "7" and "9" are recited on a loop by half of her dancers while the others chant "6", "4" and "2." It's just a preview of her latest creation Bridge-s but felt like a dynamic meditation.

Bridge-s brings yet another magnetic piece into her series of interdisciplinary works that spawned after the release of her magnum opus, A Seat At The Table. The world was introduced to Solange's artistic side thanks to performance art pieces at the Guggenheim in New York and the Hammer Museum in Los Angeles.

Composed by Solange and choreographed by Gerard & Kelly, Bridge-s was created with the pillars, beams, and columns around the museum in mind. Dancers and the orchestra used the space to their advantage, with tuba players catching the peripheral of attendees from afar.

Four rollouts will take place November 16-17, curated with a selection of films that include Black to Techno by Jenn Nkiru, AFRONAUTS and Boneshaker by Nuotama Bodomo, The State of Things by singer-songwriter Kish Robinson (Kilo Kish) and more. In its entirety, Bridge-s was designed to explore "transitions through time."

This was felt throughout the performance piece as dancers move with the intent of love, internal struggle, and unity. In a stunning zine designed by Sablā Stays, Gerard & Kelly shared the emphasis behind their modernist and inclusive approach.

"Our work, like hers, is part of an interdisciplinary effort throughout the arts and humanities to redefine modernism by critically engaging its prevailing narratives. By accounting for differences of gender, sexuality, and race. By focusing on intimate and collective histories. By centering our work around the body, dance and movement," they said.

Solange also opened up about the importance the museum and the Elbphilharmonie Hamburg played in the performance piece. "Both Elbphilharmonie Hamburg and the Getty Museum have sure strong distinctive voices spatially, and so the intention is that all of the work, the movement, the language, the songs all align with those principles," she said. "Working with Gerard and Kelly, who share many of the same philosophies on their approach to interpreting time and space through performance has really built the foundation [for] the spirit of this collaboration."

Like the rest of us, the artist watched closely the dancers glide across the floor, while bandmembers release enchanting sonnets with vocalists dropping a few high notes in between. Guests like Thundercat (and his Pikachu backpack), Kilo Kish, Dev Hynes of Blood Orange and Tyler, The Creator were also left speechless after the performance.

“I just want to thank you guys for allowing me the space to evolve, experiment and express new frontiers,” Solange said to the crowd after the assembly provided endless cheers.

Learn more about Bridge-s and get free tickets here.

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Meet D Smoke, Inglewood And Hip-Hop's Next Hometown Hero

D Smoke is humble. The Inglewood native exudes an aura of maturation, needed for his quick ascension into popular culture as the first winner of Rhythm + Flow, Netflix’s hip-hop reality competition centered on the discovery of hip-hop’s next star. His signature authenticity shone throughout the 10-episode series and international audiences were drawn to his charisma as he proudly rapped about his lived experiences as a young black man in Inglewood.

“There’s such a rich history,” he says about his hometown, the inspiration for his forthcoming EP, over the phone. “I feel like it’s a beautiful but brief journey through my mind, my lived experiences, and the place that I’m extremely fond of.”

His musical confidence was displayed on the three-week series as he incorporated Spanish and live instrumentation to uplift the community-centered messaging embedded within his raps. Inspired by his childhood friends in Inglewood’s Latinx community, Smoke found music as unifier and way to remove barriers between Latinx and Black communities in his hometown. Demographics reflected in his students as a bilingual and music teacher at Inglewood High where he invests in the next generation of leaders.

He’s won an American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers (ASCAP) award with his older brother, Sir Darryl Farris aka SiR, for “Never,” a Billboard-charting song from Jaheim in 2007, and received songwriting credits for Ginuwine and The Pussy Cat Dolls projects.

As the show’s first winner, there’s an added level of pressure for the rapper who has completed three music videos and started work on a 15-track mixtape since the show’s release. In the midst of press runs, D Smoke opened up about his experience on Rhythm + Flow, his Inglewood High EP, and his next steps as an independent artist.

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VIBE: Tell me about Inglewood High, your latest EP.

D Smoke: Inglewood High is an EP about my experience coming up on Inglewood, going to Inglewood High, and teaching at the high school after I graduated from UCLA. It’s an important project for me because Inglewood High School holds stories for me as a student and teacher. There are so many youngsters that I had the privilege of teaching that still walk those hallways and are walking the same path I did. I thought it was only right to start with this project first; some of the songs are about my experience, while others are about trends or stories that I often heard growing up in Inglewood. I took a third person approach to tell these stories; some bright, some dark, but they really capture what’s going on in the city.

In a Time interview, you stated Rhythm + Flow’s authenticity around cyphers and battles undid your skepticism. Could you speak about your transition process from being a bilingual teacher into a contestant on the show?

As a teacher, you’re performing every single day, right? Your students are your harshest critics, so performing wasn’t nerve-wracking for me. It was more that I didn’t want to subject myself to the critique of another artist. In the later rounds, I was unsure that their biases would either serve in my favor or to my detriment. So it wasn’t the nerves of performing, but how would they receive and understand my art? Because I believe the audience...before I went on the show, I knew that there’s a large audience for what I do. Submitting to three judges is very different, but by the time we had gotten into the later rounds, I felt like they appreciated what I was doing artistically and creatively. By the end of it, they thought of me as a peer.

Towards the later episodes, you incorporated live instrumentation into your performances which won over Cardi, T.I., and Chance. Is the next direction for your artistry going to implement live band performances?

Going into the show, my goal was to do that before I left. [With] the last round’s challenge of making a live performance, I was like, “Okay, this is the time where we’re going to pull that rabbit out of the hat, so to speak, and show them my musicianship side.” To be honest, I’m a musician first. My first love was playing piano. My mom is a music instructor and minister of music. Since the age of six, I’ve been playing the piano. That’s going to be a huge part of my artistry; to the same extent that playing the drums, singing, and rapping. It speaks to me authenticity as an artist, creative, and musician.

Being on the show has developed your relationship with the audience, in addition to your original support system of Inglewood. How do you feel about having fans around the world who have fallen in love with your music during your time on Rhythm + Flow?

To keep it completely honest, the reception has been amazing. I’m getting messages from all over the world. People love what I did and represented on the show while being entertained by it at the same time. I think when you combine somebody believing in your message, but being thoroughly entertained by your presence, I feel like that’s a true impact on the audience. I’m really overwhelmed by how much love people are pouring out and the messages. I’m trying to read as many as possible, but I’m only one guy. My following grew from 7,000 followers prior to the show to 700,000 and counting, and that’s in less than a month.

 

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We climbing the Charts!!! Let’s push it to #1 #share #tellafriend #GodisGreat

A post shared by Supa Good (@dsmoke7) on Nov 9, 2019 at 12:31am PST

Some viewers waited until all episodes of Rhythm + Flow were on Netflix to binge-watch. Why do you think people should've watched and witnessed your evolution as an artist to step into confidence?

I think people should watch the entire journey; go back and do their detailed research because we aren’t necessarily doing different things than we were already doing. I speak in “we” because I have a strong team of people that were working with me to prepare for being on the show. When the audience watches my performance, it’s not like this is something that I haven’t already been doing. I look forward to seeing the growth in numbers of my previous works, whether it be Subtitles - the series that I did demonstrating my rapping ability in both languages and having fun over beats that I loved and influenced me. It’s super vital to go back and see the whole story because although I’m new to a lot of people, I’m not new to music by any means.

On Rhythm + Flow, Cardi referenced Kendrick Lamar in relation to your music. You have close affiliations with Top Dawg Entertainment, your brother SiR is Kendrick’s labelmate, and you’ve opened for the Pulitzer Prize winner in 2011 at the Whiskey A Go Go. Do you see yourself continuing your relationship with TDE?

 

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Today is my younger brother’s birthday. Same mom, same dad, same blood, same schools, same hair, same goals, but @InglewoodSiR is and will always be his OWN MAN. My younger bro opened doors for me that he may not even be aware of. He’s fearless and original. His music is DOPE as Fuck and he’s as real as they come. Go wish my lil bro @inglewoodsir of TDE a happy Birthday! LOVE YOU BRO! 7

A post shared by Supa Good (@dsmoke7) on Nov 5, 2019 at 7:42am PST

I like the way you put it..continuing that relationship. We’re neighbors; they’re less than 10 miles from me. I was my brother’s keyboard player and musical director while he went on tour with Miguel. For a couple of years, Top Dawg Entertainment has been somewhat of a home base in the sense that I’m supporting their works indirectly. What TDE is to my brother or was to my brothers in terms of the platform to allow his following to grow exponentially. It’ll be more of a partnership where there’s an open dialogue about best practices to collaborate with artists, how we can plan community events, and coordinating impactful things. It’s opening the door for me to collaborate with my brother, similar to how we started off, and have the full support of TDE. That’s something I’m excited about and look forward to sharing.

Are you hoping to bring the spotlight to Inglewood similar to TDE’s upliftment of Compton? On Rhythm + Flow, you rapped about the familiarity of victims of fatal police shootings, because everyone in Inglewood knows each other.

I’m certainly looking to put Inglewood on the map. A lot of things are happening on the business development side with the stadium being built and the rise in property values. I’m looking to make investments in property and building connections within the city to continue education and community development work. My background is in mentorship, so being a visible face in the public, championing youth-driven programs is something I look forward to doing.

Do you plan on using your cash prize to start educational programs at Inglewood High and give back to your students who inspired your performances in the competition?

I’m looking forward to doing the scholarship. I’ve initiated the conversations with the city of Inglewood and Inglewood High School. We’re going to have an event to celebrate. I want to see the marching band come out and play the same cadences they played when I was there. I want to drive the energy back towards competitive academics because that’s what Inglewood was for me. It may not have that reputation but I can go back and name all of the teachers who had that impact and pushed me into being an academically competitive student.

Since winning Rhythm + Flow, you’ve gained a greater following and secured a series of upcoming collaborations. Are you aiming to remain independent, reflective of your underground spirit?

I haven’t altered how I move through the world since winning Rhythm + Flow. I’m always seeing my family, eating healthy, getting my workouts in, and connecting with people that I love, admire or respect. Engaging in different texts and conversations that really keep me sharp. Those things aren’t going to change. We also got business endeavors that keep me sharp and very grounded in conversation. I’m not concerned with the about of new publicity, altering how I operate. It’s cool and flattering, but prior to this, I knew exactly what I’m here to do and those things are still in motion.

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