DJ L
DJ L

Interview: Chicago's DJ L Reflects On The Problematic Evolution Of Drill Rap

 Chicago's DJ L sits down with VIBE for a rare interview.

For a man of his massive physical stature, Chicago’s own DJ L is one of the city’s more elusive, yet highly influential producers. From the shadowy profile picture on his Twitter account and the fact that he's a bit of a studio rat, the Windy City beatsmith purposely keeps his profile low-key. But his work speaks for itself, and he was one of the major catalysts behind two young Chicago emcees you may know as G-Herbo and Lil Bibby. L is a calculating figure who spends his days plotting the next moves in the music business, often alongside his longtime friend, radio promoter, and manager, Blakemore.

After the release of G-Herbo’s critically acclaimed debut album Humble Beast earlier this year, it was back to work as usual. Recently, he made a rare appearance at Andrew Barber’s Fake Shore Dive 10th-anniversary party where VIBE caught up with him.

WATCH: G Herbo Discusses Debut Album ‘Humble Beast,’ Tupac And Conversations With Fans (Watch)

To date, L has worked with a large number of Chicago's legends and new stars, including Dreezy, Common, King Louie, Lil Durk, Lil Reese, Chief Keef, and Tink, among many others. Nationally, he has worked with the likes of Juicy J, Fetty Wap, Project Pat, PNB Rock, Lil Uzi Vert, Plies, Dej Loaf, Kevin Gates, A Boogie With Da Hoodie NBA Youngboy and more.

DJ L is known for his hard-hitting, rapid-fire snare drum loops and ominous soundscapes that not only helped further define the sound of Drill music but modern day rap as well. The producer's sound was influenced by his marching band days, trap music and Chicago footwork.

“Like Bibby used to always say when he heard my beats: 'I need the footwork sound.' That influenced me as well as playing the drums because I was in the Bud Billiken parade four times doing the band sh*t,” he explains. “It was a mix between those two sounds and the trap sound. It was the trap Atlanta sound, and two Chicago sounds, the house music, juke sh*t and the marching band, drumline sh*t. That’s why [some of] my sh*t sounds like its clashing because I’m trying to get all three of my elements in. I want the kick and the feeling of the trap with the drums from the drumline --- and then you go into the feeling and the pace of the juke music.

LISTEN: Lil Bibby Keeps It G “For Real” (Video)

L, real name Londen Buckner, grew up with what he describes as a “proper upbringing." He was born in Hyde Park, a mixed-income neighborhood on the South Side, between Lake Shore Drive and downtown Chicago. Eventually, he and his working family moved farther east to the notorious 79th street in the Chatham neighborhood. By his account, he lived “down the street” from Chance The Rapper and about a mile away from a very, very young Lil Bibby and G-Herbo in the neighboring South Shore community. Like most young people in Chicago’s inner cities, it was not long until the streets came knocking at the baby-faced producer’s door at an early age.

“Chatham at that time was gangsta, but residential. You could play, you could go to the park and it was long big blocks where you could ride your bike and the police were over there and it wasn’t no problem,” L recalls. “Then you started getting to fourth and fifth grade and there’s this new sh*t called ‘G.D.’ You don’t know what the f*ck it is, I was a wrestling fan watching The Rock and now everybody’s calling themselves ‘G.D.'"

Despite this sudden change that Buckner saw among his peers, his environment would drastically take a turn for the worse after his Godmother died. He went from green grass and elderly neighbors to boarded-up apartment buildings, trap houses, and the overall horrific underbelly of the streets where a person, even a child, could be murdered at any moment. It was at that point where his innocence was lost and was forced to grow up… fast.

“I was comfortable walking to the corner store in my old neighborhood. In fifth grade, you scared, you don’t know what to do," L told VIBE. I go to the park and hoop, a ni**a might come and knock your ass out. It got real street, real fast. You realize this the f*cking ghetto and you have to get wiser quicker because you're dealing with people and seeing that everybody’s not nice. Don’t leave your basketball, don’t leave your bike because your sh*t will be gone. Chicago was really that type of city."

As he grew older and transferred into an Afrocentric charter school, Butler developed his cultural awareness as a black man and a much deeper understanding of why his community was the way it was (while maintaining good grades throughout). By the time he attended his freshman year at Hales Franciscan Catholic High School he saw the city for what it really was as he rod the local CTA buses.

“That bus ride showed me how real Chicago was on my own. They were throwing ni**as through the bus stops, it was gladiator school,” said Butler. "You was either a goofy or a man. Anybody who was a savage and tough all the time, their asses are in jail, they’re not here to talk about it."

Throughout his life, he has always been one with music. L started off as a drummer at his local church and elevated his craft by participating in various local marching bands in elementary and high school. While figuring out what would the “pro” level for being a drummer, he came to the conclusion that being a producer would take him to the next where he wanted to go.

In a rare interview with VIBE, DJ L discusses what inspired his sound, how he discovered Herbo and Bibby, the issues he feels drill rap has created, the uncertain future of rap as he knows it and much more.

How did you first meet G-Herbo and Lil Bibby?
I had came back home from [The University of Illinois] and I was doing something important that day. My blood brother [Ace Boogie] seen me when he was riding by and he was like, “Yo, hop in the car”. I hopped in the car and he played me Herb rapping. I was trying to sell beats on the internet at the time, and I was trying to get my brother to put some money into it. He was like, 'man well if you work with my shorties, these are some little homies that I know that’s like my little brothers, I’ll get down.' He played me Herb’s “Ya’ll Don’t Really Hear Me Though” freestyle. He had about 50, 100 n*gga’s in the background. They had guns and them dudes were just like woah. It was hard. At the time, however, I wasn’t initially impressed even though he was rapping.

The next day, my brother comes down and says he could finance my website. He pulls a fast one on me and plugs the phone into the speaker and plays Herb's video. They had a loft downtown near Milwaukee St. They’re playing the song and at the time his name was "Lil Heroin." They’re playing the sh*t through the speaker and I’m like damn, what the fu*k is this? He played that sh*t through the aux cord, “I don’t f*ck with no snitch, No Limit gang,” I was like oh my God, take me to meet this ni**a tomorrow! He took me to meet him the next day, and I pulled up on 75th and Euclid. Herb came out and hopped in the back of the car. I was acting like I was somebody at the time [laughs].

Now Herb, he obviously ain’t the G-Herbo rapper we know now, he was trying to get something cracking. At the time, I don’t know how good the kid is so I asked him to spit something for me. I’m in the front seat, and he’s in the back, and we’re both tall as hell, we’re crunched up in my brother’s small Ford Focus rental. Herb rapped for like 45 minutes straight, just straight bars and I was like "oh my God". I felt like I found Jay-Z!

Keep in mind that I didn’t know who Bibby was at the time either. The first person that I called was DJ Hustlenomics because he had just done Chief Keef’s first mixtape Bang. This is June of 2012 so we had rode to 78th and Vernon. Herb rapped for another 45 minutes back to back. I’m just introducing Herb to everybody I know so the next man I called was Spaceman Music. I called him and Herb rapped for another 45 minutes [laughs]. Anybody who saw that could attest that he was crazy. For him to be that young, 15, 16 years old, it was crazy.

Herb was telling me he had other n*ggas that rapped and said, 'One of my homies is locked up, he gets out tomorrow. One of the guys I be rapping with his name is Bibby. He’s just as cold as me.' That’s how Bibby came into the fold. So now, anything they’re playing I’m really listening to. They played me the video for “Do This Sh*t For Ya’ll” and I was highly impressed by it. All this sh*t that everybody felt about Bibby’s voice, I didn’t get that at first. I was just stuck on his look, like “This n*gga’s look is fu*king crazy, he looks white!” I was like, this ni**a looks white as sh*t! We finna get rich! I felt like I hit the jackpot. So now I got him and felt like I had two for the price of one in the first three days from being home from school I made a decision at the time that I was gonna make it happen this summer or I was going back to school --- and I won.

By chance, I had an affordable studio for them, my brother had some money at the time. He had a car, I had my car and we had the two hottest rappers. They wasn’t quite hot yet but the two I felt like was better than everybody skill wise. But then I started to figure out the inner workings of the scene and how we could manipulate things to our favor.

I think Herb and Bibby’s coming out party was a party two DJs I knew was having on 79th and Vernon at a multi-purpose center and, man, they literally came in there 100 kids deep! They came in and did “Kill Sh*t” and “Gangway”, which is funny because they’re my biggest songs to date and the first two songs we did together. They had ended up beating the security guard’s ass and five other guards that night because Bibby’s verse was on “Kill Sh*t” and Herb was at the center. They didn’t know Bibby had a verse, too, and he didn’t have a mic. Security was telling him to get off the stage, Bibby told him he was going to rap. They threw him off the stage and it was like a swarm of bees. They tore that club up! I won’t say names but some folks outside [shot guns in the air] and was like “'No Limit b*tch!' And that let the street know that we are here --- and we are just as important as the 300 guys.

You and many other people in Chicago often call “Kill Sh*t” one of the most influential songs to come out of Chicago in recent years. How did “Kill Sh*t” change the landscape in rap?
Because it was the first song in the modern era that you could rap completely over the hook and there wasn’t a hook at all. It was the predecessor for [Bobby Shmurda’s] “Hot Ni**a” and that’s how a lot of rap is now. Look at Tay-K’s “The Race,” where’s the hook? YBN Nahmir’s “In The Mirror,” where’s the hook at? Cardi B’s ["Bodak Yellow"] didn’t have a hook at first. We started that and nobody did that for us before the modern era.

What was the rap scene in Chicago like for you around that time?
At the time, Keef and them was the reigning faction and everybody wanted to get down with them, and I was one of them. My mom worked on the school bus with Chief Keef’s grandmother, and I was trying to get some beats to him. I was in Champaign at the time so I couldn’t attack it aggressively. I was sending beats and we’re on the phone, calling each other “cousin” because our parents worked on the school bus together for so many years. But, Young Chop was with him every day. [If his grandmother had a say], I would have had all the beats on Keef because his grandmother would have said “Uh uh, you gon’ work with London!' He was f*cking with me but I didn’t have a name. I had a few King Louie placements but it wasn’t like Chop who was his man. That’s his close homie and he was recording him. Nobody was doing as much as Young Chop. Nobody was doing as much as him, and I always give respect because he caught that wave right on time.

When I saw how Young Chop was moving in that moment, I was like okay, I gotta get some land. What don’t we have? We don’t have lyrical rappers that are in this movement yet so I’m going to go get that. It’s a funny story how that even happened because, at the time, I thought King Louie was the best rapper, who I believe still is. But the problem was Louie was older, he was like 26 and sh*t at the time, and he lost touch with the youth a little bit. But when John Monopoly and all of them came back looking for the next guy, they grabbed King Louie. They did the deal with him and to his detriment, the ni**a Keef literally, a month, two months later after that. Chief Keef came down like a monsoon! There was no way to prepare for that kind of impact. King Louie to this day, his whole career hasn’t recovered from that. He came back a little when I got with him [on the T.O.N.Y. tape].

How does that relate to the eventual rise of Herb and Bibby?
When we came out with Herb, Bibby, and them young ni**as rapping, it threatened Louie and them because they were some young, rapping dudes. Everybody painted the clear distinct difference. Louie and them were really rappers though. Keef and them cool but dude could really really rap. But then you had the shorties who could rap too so now it’s like you’re getting replaced. I think that lit a fire under him because he was going crazy with the raps around that time because everybody wrote him off.

The point is, the sh*t with Herb and Bibby, we came up on a side of town that was not represented and then they had underlying ties with the streets. That’s a faction that’s outside of two warring factions, the Gangster Disciples and the Black Disciples, so we were already kind of had a lot of advantages. The Moes was not represented so we weren't in a situation were the B.D.s could hate because they were the ruling faction. We were on the sidelines.

How I won with them was that I was going to the University of Illinois, and I knew all of the frats and sororities, the Alphas, Kappas, the AKAs, I’m just knowing what kind of music they liked. From 2011-2012, it went from a lot of lovey, dovey Travis Porter, Drake, raunchy club shit, Trey Songz, college love to ni**a I’m 300. Gangbangin sh*t with the college kids.

From your perspective, how did that impact Hip-Hop?
When Keef and them came out, it completely changed the landscape of hip-hop. That made Waka and all them look crazy and he didn’t even look street no more. It was the hyper-masculinity of black males. Think about the power vacuum that came out of that. From Keef and them coming out, and this ties to Herb and Bibby as well, I was going to the college parties in the Spring of 2012 and started to feel like how a lot of people felt about N.W.A. when they had people in Middle America screaming f*ck the police.

It was like that. People from Flossmoore, Illinois and all these people from affluent communities screaming ni**a I’m 300, I’m B.D., G.D.K. --- all this sh*t. It brought the most ignorant part of the hood to your living room. When I saw that, it made me feel like this was going to open the doors for some crazy sh*t. Now, if you could bring in some kids who could tell the story of why it’s like that, then you’ll have a niche market. I knew right then and there [Drill] was going to change America because it was just too magnetic. Everybody was honoring that sh*t.

I knew it was going to be a problem because it felt like a rat race. I felt like this was going to open the floodgates for later. I felt like people wouldn’t get it then. I went immediately and attacked it early so that’s why we won.

Let’s go back to your early days for a second. How did your experiences as a child and teenager influence you getting into the music scene?
At the time, I felt like I couldn’t run from it. I needed to go to the heart or the source of who was running the streets among the shorties at the time. I felt like running away from it would just make the situation worse. Not for me necessarily, but in general. In order for me to survive, because my mom couldn’t take me everywhere [because] she’s working, I had to fend for myself, but she did a lot for me though.

I started going to the skating rink, The Rink on 87th street. That was pretty much the central location for all the kids that was on the South Side or the city period to come to --- it’s like the cultural center. If you learn the cultural center, you win. The first time I went during my freshman year, I didn't know anybody. By the time I went to my senior year, I knew everybody and everybody knew me. I was popular and I was known. Me and my friends, we’d go in there deep and we learned Chicago. I did the Bud Billiken parade three or four times, too. That’s why we as able to conquer. I had the knowledge of self and I understood the teachings of Hon. Louis Farrakhan and Hon. Elijah Muhammad as far as black people not being together. I had this in the back of my head while watching 200 black dudes jump one another one at the rink. I’m not going to take the typical approach, I can’t just say 'brother you’re not doing this right' because I was a kid. You got to have that in mind and infiltrate to be affiliated with that. I didn’t join a gang because I already knew that it was goofy, but I had to survive that. My whole goal was getting into school, getting into college. That’s why it f*cked me up when Keef and them had infiltrated the schools because it was like 'damn, this sh*t is still going on!'

How do you view what you’ve helped create in the long run?
In retrospect I feel like, would I do it all again? No, I wouldn’t because I feel like we hurt the community so bad. They might beg to differ but I think so. We’re providing, but the kids nowadays, they could say whatever they want to say. They’re not listening to the lyrical content and be like I understand. Even if they understand they’re still out here on some killing their own people sh*t. It’s fu*ked up because I don’t think we’re helping the community. We're not giving any real solutions so I’m conflicted because professionally, I could say it changed my life and opened some doors for me, even in my personal and business relationships. But, I don’t think we’re helping the f*cking community, bro.

Hip-Hop is destroying the black community... when I say that me, Herb, and Bibby make records about “doing hits," some young mothaf*cka thinks it’s cool, and their choices in life are based off what we just said.

Do you believe that the Chicago rappers you’ve worked with over the years have a responsibility to the youth?
Absolutely, because we’re making money off of it. Every time someone plays a song on YouTube, it’s money if you monetize your sh*t right --- you’re getting paid. The thing is, I feel like it’s too late now because if you really think about it, look at how Waka looked after Chief Keef came out. It was like, 'damn we’re at this point?' Look at Young Thug after Keef. Thug came out after Keef and people were like oh my God he’s wearing a dress. Now you got a ni**a in a dress sucking the muzzle of a gun. At this point, how far down the rabbit hole are we going to go? So, of course, Chicago rappers have a responsibility to the youth. You’re making money off these people and in 20 years, we’re going down a fu*king rabbit hole. We’re sending off the culture, and I don’t think it’s intelligent to do that.

In a lot of ways, the culture has literally reverted to the minstrel show days and to be honest, I don’t be into hip-hop anymore. I got all types of other sh*t I plan on getting into that’s going to help, which I can’t speak about just yet. Steve Stoute said it’s getting too random and he left in 1999. The rappers they’re signing is too random, the executives are too random, and this is his word for word quote: “In a business where it’s no determination of whose really good and who’s not, at some point that business will falter.” Because, what would the NBA be if I could play in it? If I could join the Cleveland Cavaliers, the NBA would be like, man, please. Because there are people in it who take this basketball sh*t seriously as far as practicing and exercising. I get a chance to play at the highest level in the culture and I’m not sh*t, then anybody can do it. And when anybody feels like they could do it, it opens the floodgates for the diminishing of the special nature of what it is.

Rap should take a lot of notes from the NBA because if you really think about it, every part of that experience is monetized. When you got that special sh*t, that’s what makes people pay! Hip-hop is not special anymore. That’s why the money is starting to dry up. It’s still money in it, but it’s too easy for anybody to get it. There’s no clear barometer as far as who’s better and who’s not. It’s like, you could be the worst point guard in the NBA and make more money than LeBron. That’s how hip-hop is right now.

What does that mean for producers such as yourself?
Even with the producers, they're are getting raped right now. You’re at the bottom of the bottom when it used to be the other way around. You used to be the head, and now you’re the tail. And it’s not because the beats have gotten weaker, they’ve gotten better. Technology has helped us make music better. It’s because technology simplified it which means more people can do it, which means it’s a dime a dozen. What do they say in business? Too much circulation makes the price go down. Period. Why the f*ck would I pay you when I have 50 other people who could do it. But, if you have that one LeBron, that one D. Rose, you’re not going to get that again. When you make something that’s so classic, you could sell that sh*t forever because people want that. People want that original recipe, that A1 steak sauce because there’s nothing like it.

The kid SahBabii, I saw a story with his producer, they reached out to him and said we got $7,000 for you” to buy the [“Pull Up With The Stick” beat]. That’s all you get. I wouldn’t even sell beats or complete rights to rappers, unless the monetary value was that great. I’d monetize off the backend. But honestly, don’t even do that. If you’re a producer, sign you a rapper. Do whatever you can. I think it’s over for producers until... if we don’t come together and do some type of union right now then it’s no way for you to eat. Don’t let all these other successful producers tell you “well we got placements." I’m not going to have my life depending on whether or not another person likes my product. Or rather, if they like it or not, trying to figure out where they want to put it out or not. That’s too much control for one man to have over your art. When Derrick Rose and them go out and play basketball, they have a collective bargaining agreement, the veteran’s minimum that you can get. So, he knows that no matter what, he’s going to get a particular minimum. Ain’t sh*t like that in Hip-Hop. The veteran minimum is "nothing ni**a, send this beat, we got 1,000 other mothafu*kas that got beats".

So, I tried to be the “Malcolm X” on the producer’s side and it ain’t get me nowhere so I don’t give a f*ck. I tried to galvanize everybody but you’re not going to get producers in hip-hop on the same page. There are too many varying levels and there’s no value in quality. How can we determine value in it? What’s a good beat anymore when DJ Mustard singlehandedly drove down the value of beats. It's not that he wasn't a good producer because he was the biggest in the game, he was coming with the simplest beats and was making more money than anybody, signed a publishing deal, then that ran out --- now what? Now Metro's the king of the hill and they're not looking for his sound anymore. It's the biggest sound right now, so what happens to him?

The same thing happened to me. I signed a publishing deal, and when my advance runs out, then what? Then you’re looking outside of hip-hop. I’m not looking at rap, I don’t see where the money is at. I am not looking at hip-hop for long-term stability anymore. When you get to 2019, when the hammer really hits, then what?

It’s not about dope lyrics anymore. That’s the battle I tried to fight with Herb and Bibby, but [fans] don’t care about real rap so it’s like a losing battle. Maybe the core hip-hoppers do and some young people, but the majority of pop music is as simplistic as possible. Like, people always want to say that “all this stuff is going to exist in hip-hop and people are going to do them and it’s going to be different,” but it’s too much of the other sh*t. It’s too easy to make a drill record, a trap record. 21 Savage is a direct combination of the musical influence and energy of Lil Reese and Fredo Santana and to an extent --- the drill movement as a whole with an added Atlanta bounce. He’s more commercially successful than any artist Chicago artist from the drill movement, with a possible exception of Keef. How could he take that style and get on with it? But nobody wants to say the sh*t because everyone wants to be “politically correct."

WATCH: Chance The Rapper To Joe Budden: “I Am The Culture”

I can see some similarities too as far as their Fredo’s menacing swagger and Reese’s distinct cadence and flow, but just so I understand, are you saying that he bit those two artists?
I’m not coming at 21, I love 21’s music and I play "Nothing New" every day. I’m just saying that if you don’t think that’s a direct copy and plagiarism of, but maybe I’ll rephrase that. Maybe that’s what inspired that [the same way] Waka Flocka birthed Keef, which birthed [21’s style]. [Atlanta] went back gangsta after Chicago assumed the throne of making the most vulgar hip-hop in the country.

For me personally, I continue to make rap music in the lanes that are open. Like the female lane, I think that’s wide open right now. I feel like you can still come in there and make something special. That’s why the OGs are coming in and trying to do the female rap think like how 9th Wonder got Rapsody. But the male rap game? Man, listen if you’re trying to be a male rapper, you’re better off trying to play basketball and go to the NBA. And that’s like a 1 in 10 Million chance your ass is going to make it. You’re better off doing that because you still have to have physical abilities. It’s still some type of barrier to get in that. This sh*t, it’s too many people and way too demographics. It’s too many niches in this sh*t.

I think female rap is still volatile and it’s still forming because look at Cardi B. She’s the Jackie Robinson of this sh*t bro. The only hip-hop that I really care about right now is female rap.

What can fans expect from Bibby’s Free Crack IV?
Gangsta Sh*t. This is us getting back to—well, me and Bibby never did anything exclusive. It’s funny because we did a sh*t load of tracks but never a whole project. He still has other producers on there but I did the majority of the tracks. So, it’s like how me and Herb did Ballin Like I’m Kobe. I think we gave a lot of cautionary tales and I think it’s the best Bibby project since his inception because I’m involved (laughs). Went for more turn up and if that’s what the fans then we’re giving the people what they want. They don’t really want to be rapped to but he still brings it home with the spittin’ and we know he can rap. But I think if you listen to Herb’s project with Southside, it’s turned up like this is.

Bibby's actually putting out an EP before that called 4Real. It's going resurgence of true street rap and we're providing nothing but street anthems that will prompt our resurgence of Chicago as the capital of street rap in hip-hop.

Lastly, what do you want your legacy to be in hip-hop when it’s all said and done?
Just somebody who was able to change lives, man. And changed my own. I want people to put me in their top 4 among the best producers to come out of Chicago. That’s about it. But, I was mainly inspired by my mother, my brother Ace Boog, my big homie Peanut G, and my life partner Asha. These are the people who shape me thus far and I wanna inspire people the same way they inspired me.

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JHN’s history is a mix of the power of attraction and community. His early years comprised of creating the building blocks of his label GØDD COMPLEXx and his fashion line Christian Sex Club. While making his dreams a reality, the grind led him to genuine friendships with future superstars like Jidenna, Skrillex and Ski Mask The Slump God. Last year, JHN released his debut album Collection One paired with head-bashing shows across the country.

Ghetto Lenny’s Love Songs takes his sound to the next level with melodic punches on tracks like “I Can Fvcking Tell” and the Lenny Kravitz-assisted “Borders.” With punk and rap flowing effortlessly from JHN, the artist can only attest his glowing confidence to the game of life.

“My journey is where I'm at right? It's the monopoly board of my life, and I'm making my rounds,” he says. Being confident grows every year. So me saying "too lit to be humble" [On “5,000 Singles”] that just means I'm not gonna call it nothing else, I'm just gonna tell what it is. This is who I am, fuck with it. If you don't like it, you can turn left. You can turn around if you want, but this is happening.”

On his collaboration with Lenny Kravitz, JHN looks back with a big smile and several words. “Iconic, outrageous, Ignorant. Three o'clock in the morning of Paris,” he says. “Checkered floors. Space. Leather fixtures, Dark rooms. Lenny Kravitz. SAINt JHN. My nigga, I can tell you anything. I can tell you it smelled like cigars, whiskey, rum, and the Bahamas because in my mind, all that shit happened.”

But in all seriousness, the moment was an indication for JHN that his journey in music is paved with golden intentions.

“It was reinforcement,” he says. “The first time I worked with Usher, I learned that I belonged in the room. You know the first time you get invited into a room you have never been in and you almost feel like you lied your way in? The second time, you don't feel like you lied your way in.”

JHN's IGNORANt FOREVER Tour kicks off Nov. 11 in Miami with stops in Toronto, Los Angeles and New York. See the dates here.

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Stacy-Ann Ellis

20 Minutes With Davido: The Afrobeats Giant Talks Confidence, Timing And Strong Foundations

Davido can’t sit still. Maybe it’s early afternoon energy or impatience or knowing that his press rounds for the day aren’t winding down for some hours. Or maybe it’s just the fact that he’s sitting on what he considers to be an audio goldmine. David Adeleke, the gifter of astronomical hits like “If” and “Fall”—two-year-old songs with gravity still strong enough to pull Snapchatting wallflowers and clumsy dancers to the center of the floor—knows there’s much more where that came from.

“It's an album for everybody, I'll say,” he says of his forthcoming album, A Good Time, with a smirk. “I feel like everybody will have at least three songs they love in different genres.”

Technically speaking, the Atlanta-born and Lagos, Nigeria-raised artist has made a moderate splash on the Billboard charts, the metrics most artists use to quantify their success and measure progression in the industry. (In 2019, “Fall” became the longest-charting Nigerian pop song in Billboard history thanks to admittedly delayed radio push.)

However, Davido’s worldwide footprint speaks louder than a few hard figures. This year alone, he’s sold out shows as intimate as nightclubs and massive as London’s O2 Arena, rocked sets at Essence Music Festival and Hot 97's Summer Jam, and was an international headliner abroad at Oh My! Fest in the Netherlands, Afro Nation Portugal, and eventually Afro Nation Ghana alongside afrobeats greats he can safely consider peers.

July summoned his album’s breezy lead single “Blow My Mind” featuring Chris Brown, and a burst of new guest spots this month are carrying that same fresh energy into October. Davido was featured alongside Jeremih in “Choosy,” a new release from Fabolous, as well as on Brown’s “Lower Body,” a newbie on the extended version of his Indigo album. To say he’s ready to fan the mainstream flame with fellow afrobeats and afro-fusion hitmakers is an understatement. “Let us in, open American doors,” he jokes, knowingly. “We will finish everybody.”

In between banter about the turnup we’re missing in West Africa—trust, December in Africa is a thing—Davido opens up about his A Good Time (a genre hodgepodge guaranteed to please), the source of his success (part luck, part work ethic), and afrobeats’ undeniable global appeal.

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VIBE: Tell me about how your 2019 has been so far? Davido: 2019 has been a journey. It’s been the longest time that I’ve spent away from Lagos probably since I came to school in America. Reason being, just wanted to focus and get new energy, new environment to record the album. There’s just so much going on back home, so we’ve been out here the whole year, basically. “Fall” blew up and then we just came out here and worked with it. That album is about to come out and it’s gonna be crazy.

Given the momentum and expectations that come with it, are you more excited or nervous about this next album? I’m not nervous because I’m confident about the music. I’m just anxious to see what the next stage is, the next step. I like to challenge myself. When you reach a stage, you want to challenge yourself to reach higher stages.

You said it’s been the longest time you’ve spent away from Lagos. Is that a good or bad thing? No, that’s good. To me, it's a new energy. The people miss me, of course, but sometimes it's good to be away. To just step back and see where you’re at in your surroundings and stuff like that. I think every artist needs that.

Sometimes when you're too present, people think they know what you're going to deliver. Exactly, and me being out here recording, all my producers I flew in from Nigeria. It's not like I left my team. The whole team is here, so people ain't really heard the music. Back home, in my studio, it's like everybody comes through, so I can imagine recording my album back home, four or five of the songs would have probably leaked already.

You had a great year and so has music from African artists. What has it been like to watch that happen, to see us latecomers catch on? I felt like it was always going to happen. Even when I was in school in Alabama, when I used to play Nigerian songs from artists that were the top artists then—they were the biggest artists, like D’banj, P-Square—when I used to play their music in my dorm room, my American friends would love it. I always knew it was a thing that once America heard it, they would love it. Afrobeats, you hear it once, twice, I promise you, it's going to ring. So I feel like it was just for the people to hear it. Give us a channel to be heard. Radio, now you have social media. Back then all those things weren't in place. Now you have things in place where even if it's not in your face, one way or the other, you can find it. I think if you had all those things back then, social media and the support, it would've been the same.

 

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Were you frustrated with how long it took? Not really, because we've got our stuff going back home, too. You know what I'm saying? Even me today, I make most of my money from back home. And even before afrobeats got mainstream in America, we’ve been coming to do shows. I did a show in New York in 2013 to 5,000 people, and this was when I didn't have most of my big records I have now. Sold it out. But now it's mainstream. You have Live Nation now partnering with us to do shows. Back then it was just like local promoters selling tickets at the clubs and we still had the numbers. Now, our fans can put on the radio and hear us.

It even gives them more confidence. Confidence to be like, you know what? Let's go out and support this culture. So that's why the Afro Nation festival in Portugal, it was bigger than Coachella to me. It just shows that you just needed that platform, and then the fans needed the confidence to come out and really support. The next step now is getting the fans to buy the music because we have the numbers, but you've got to come out and buy it. That's the only way we can really break. The music is spreading. It's on the radio. Everybody’s doing shows. Everybody's touring, but now the next step is getting these sales up.

In a way, that’s most artists’ problems now. Touring is the moneymaker. That and streaming. There's nothing really wrong with streaming. That is why they want us to appeal to the Western crowd because those people buy music. Those people buy merch, blah blah blah. But we have to do what we know how to do. So the Western [crowd], they're actually buying it, but we need our real fans to come and be like, yo, Davido album dropping. It's a campaign—80,000 copies the first week, let's go out and buy. Look at the Latin industry. They're doing numbers. So apart from the music getting big, I feel like, yes, the music is getting accepted, but where are the numbers? When you walk into a building, it's all about numbers. It's not about if your music is sweet or this, or that—it's all about the profit. That's what we'll be working on getting up.

What are your thoughts about seeing really large artists pay so much homage to the afrobeats sound? I mean some people find it offensive, but I actually don't. I mean, first of all, people in Africa do hip-hop, right? So you can't come and say these people are taking our sound when we have artists back home doing trap, doing all these things. I feel that everybody should feel free to do what they want to do, but maybe it won't hurt to evolve. Like, I feel like it was nice how Swae Lee had Tekno produce that record for him and Drake, stuff like that. And they have more of our producers more involved in the sound because those are the ones who really know how to get the sound. Yeah, I think the producer side needs more shine but apart from that, doing afrobeats is [for] everybody. Any artist is free to do any kind of music they want.

Who are some of the producers that we should know? Give us a starter list. I mean, first of all, Shizzi, that's my producer. He did most of my stuff. And we have Kiddominant, that's my other producer. And we have Speroach, this dude Rexxie, he's the one that's doing all the Zanku songs. So he's going crazy. But I feel like they should bring all these artists out here, get a camp, put 'em all in one room and trust me, they'll make magic.

Do you still consider yourself an afrobeats artist now? Some of your counterparts like Afro B and Burna Boy have classified themselves as afro-wave or afro-fusion. I'm just an artist, man. I'm just a musician. Every kind. Of course I do afrobeats, but I'm just a musician. Worldwide musician. World music.

You mentioned the Latinx music scene. Is there anyone you’re looking to collaborate with from that space? Bad Bunny, Maluma. I really want to work with them. I might get a studio session with them when I get back from Nigeria.

How would you say your sound has progressed over the years from your try at making music to now? Of course [when] you're growing, you learn. Sometimes I don't even listen to some of my earlier records, even though I always used to put a lot in my records so it's not like that shit was whack. It was cool but I can see the growth and the quality of the music. Back then we didn't really focus on our sound and mixing and mastering. We’d really just record, next day release. Right now, it's a whole package and music has to be perfect. Right now, they’re playing Nigerian music on the radio, African music, and after African music, they start playing American music. You don't want the level of the quality to drop. And planning. I'm at the label now. Before I could just wake up and just drop, but now they gotta submit the single two weeks before. You know how it is. So, of course, it's way different now from like four years ago.

What else have you learned about yourself personally and the way you work? I'm really, really, really free with my work. I don't really bother myself with strategic planning and stuff like that. What's most important to me is the music. Once the music is good, I feel that's really all you need. And, of course, a good team around you and they're doing what you want. Connect with your fans. Very important, connect with your fans. Don't lose touch of home because that's your foundation, really. Without that foundation, you can't really be big in America when you don't have that foundation in Nigeria. An example is, I've known a lot of American artists for a while who are bigger in America, but when they came to Nigeria they saw the love I get at home. Then coming back is like, the respect is different. They'd come and they were like, Yo, you're the president. You know what I'm saying?

When was the first moment that you realized where you stood with your hometown? That they would be such a solid support system? That was probably for my first song, really. From the first record, man, it's just been love. Davido this, Davido that, negative, positive, negative and whatever.

Negative? What's the biggest critique you've seen of yourself? I don't know. Probably my voice. That's the worst I can think of. I can't think of nothing else.

What's the most memorable place you've ever performed? I've got a couple places. O2 Arena [in London]. I just did [Madison Square Garden] with 50 Cent [for the Power premiere]. That was cool.

Walk me through that. He [50 Cent] brought me out. It was just crazy cause I ain't really met him before. I met him at the pool party or something like that, when I was performing at the pool party, and the reception when I performed was crazy so I think it got his attention. The next day he called me up to perform at MSG.

And then in July, you headlined your first international festival. Oh yeah, yeah. Amsterdam. Yeah. Oh My! Festival, and then Afro Nation, too. This summer was lit, but next summer is about to be dumb lit. This fall's about to be lit. Album's coming October.

One thing I notice about you and the progression of your career is that it’s fueled by a strong sense of faith and confidence. Where do you get that? It just depends, man. Honestly, it's not even confidence. I wouldn't say that Nigeria spoiled me, but like bruh, they just showed me so much love. Like, I didn't really go through like a lot of things. I just dropped and it just took me... I didn't really have to overkill myself. They just kept me there. I don't know why they liked me so much, (Laughs) but they just kept me there, kept me comfortable, kept me confident. Always came out to all the shows, supported all the music. It's just love, everywhere is love. Even the love for Davido spreads to everybody around me. My family members.

Have newer artists in Nigeria or on the continent asked you for advice? If so, what do you tell them? You have to be very hardworking and ready to play the part. That's what they're always asking. But everybody has their different ways of getting to where they need to get to. My way might be different from somebody else's way, but most importantly is just be ready to work hard and the music has to be good. Once the music is good, get your team right, and just work hard. I feel like the other steps, you kind of figure it out yourself.

Who do you think is next up in terms of afrobeats artists?  I mean, there's a lot of other artists. It's like 500 of us. Let us in, open American doors, we will finish everybody. There is a lot of us. I feel like before you stand up and leave Africa, like, yo, I'm going to chase the dream in America, I'm going to chase the dream in Europe, you have to make sure your foundation, your home is super strong.

Is it still a goal to capture or change up the American market? No, not [to] change it, we just want to join it. Add us. We should have our own chart, I think. You know what I'm saying? Like if reggae could have their own chart, I think we can have ours, too. Or let us in the main chart, something. But I feel like it's gonna happen, man. It's been happening, man. Most importantly, I'm happy that American artists themselves open their arms for us as well. I got a lot of records dropping that are not even myself, they're their songs featuring me. Stuff like that helps us as well.

What can we expect from the new album? Just a lot of good songs. It's an album for everybody, I'll say. I feel like everybody will have at least three songs they love in different genres. It’s going to be 13 songs. Well, I’ll probably have "Fall" and "If" on there, so it's really like 11 new songs. But yeah, it's going to be an album for everybody. Trust me. Every type of song is going to be on there. Predominantly afrobeats-infused, of course. Mainly my producers and a lot of your [American] producers, too. With features, me and Chris got a second record.

And lastly, since you speak highly of your foundation, what is the best thing about Nigeria? The people. The attitude, rich or poor. It's just a jolly place. You would laugh, comedians everywhere. There's some bad, bad spirits sometimes, (laughs) but for the most part, it's a very beautiful place.

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Nickelodeon

How 'My Brother And Me' Resonated With A Generation Of Young Black Men

In terms of cultural impact and influence, the '90s ranks as one of the defining decades for black entertainment of the past century. This proves particularly true in the realm of television, with a number of landmark programs debuting that reflected the life and times of blacks in the urban community and beyond. While the '80s produced groundbreaking sitcoms like The Cosby Show, A Different World, Family Matters, 227, Amen, and Frank's Place, all of which featured predominantly black casts, these shows were few and far in between.

However, the arrival of a new decade coincided with an influx of programs starring black leads, with shows like Martin, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, Living Single, Hangin with Mr. Cooper, Roc, Thea and South Central all making their debut. While these shows were hits across various age groups, they all starred and revolved around actors of age, in some form or fashion. One of the first programs to divert from this formula and place the focus squarely on adolescents was My Brother and Me, a sitcom that often gets overlooked when listing the pivotal shows of its era.

Making its debut on October 15, 1994, My Brother and Me was among the first live-action series to air on Nickelodeon and the first to feature a predominantly black cast. Created by Ilunga Adell and Calvin Brown Jr., and directed by Arlando Smith and Adam Weissman, the show centers around brothers Alfred "Alfie" Parker and Derek "Dee-Dee" Parker, the two youngest children of parents Jennifer (Karen E. Fraction) and Roger Parker (Jim R. Coleman) who experience the typical growing pains of pre-pubescent young men that are coming of age.

Additional core cast members include Alfie and Dee-Dee's older sister Melanie Parker (Aisling Sistrunk),, Alfie's best friend Milton "Goo" Berry (Jimmy Lee Newman, Jr.) who has an infatuation with Melanie, Melanie's best friend and Donnell's older sister Dionne Wilburn (Amanda Seales), Dee-Dee's best friend and Dionne’s younger brother Donnell Wilburn (Stefan J. Wernli),, Dee-Dee’s other best friend Harry White (Keith "Bubba" Naylor), and local comic book store owner Mrs. Pinckney (Kym Whitley).

Set in the suburbs of the west side of Charlotte, North Carolina, My Brother and Me was the Nickelodeon's answer to Sister, Sister, a sitcom on ABC starring identical twins Tia and Tamera Mowry that had debuted earlier that year. With a beat writer for the local newspaper for a father and a school teacher for a mother, Alfie and Dee-Dee enjoyed a stable living environment in which they could thrive academically and socially while simply being kids. A middle-class family with access to all of the basic amenities, the Parkers' economic situation was in stark contrast to the usual scratching-and-surviving, rags-to-riches themes often associated with sitcoms geared towards people of color.

While removed from the harsh realities that often accompany life in the inner-city, the Parker boys were drawn in by the allure of street culture, with Alfie and Dee-Dee both being avid fans of hip hop music, fashion, and style. This love affair would be the driving force behind various episodes, most notably "Dee-Dee's Haircut," during which Dee-Dee allows Goo to butcher his hair after marveling at fellow student Kenny's "Cool Dr. Money"-inspired haircut. Going as far as handpicking designs out of a rap magazine Donell borrows from his sister Dionne, Dee-Dee goes to the extreme in an attempt to mirror Kenny and Cool Dr. Money, a testament to the influence hip hop holds over him. His affinity for the culture is also reflected in the "Donnell's Birthday Party" episode, during which the impressionable youngster mimicking dance moves from a rap video in hopes of tightening up his dance skills.

Alfie and Dee-Dee may have been the intended stars of the show, but to many viewers, the most memorable character from My Brother and Me was Goo, who stole scenes with his humorous wisecracks and mischievous hijinks, often at the expense of Dee-Dee and his friends. From showering Mrs. Parker with disarming compliments to masterminding various plots and schemes in an attempt to get himself and Alfie out of trouble, Goo proved to be the most entertaining member of the show, exuding swagger and confidence that are palpable to the viewer and as hip hop as it gets. On the other hand, Alfie, who is not as overtly demonstrative in his rap fandom as his younger brother or Goo, reps his allegiance to the culture more subtly, with his haircut, backward caps and boisterous mannerisms.

While race was never a prevalent topic on the show, if one was to look closer between the lines, My Brother and Me was unapologetically black and pridefully so. Take, for instance, the various nods to HBCU culture throughout the show, including Roger Parker's various North Carolina Central University sweatshirts and hats, Alfie's Morehouse fit, and insignias from various black fraternities. One other common thread of the show was its incorporation of sports, starting with the Parker household's fandom of Charlotte's local professional franchises on full display, as Charlotte Hornets and Carolina Panthers memorabilia are all visible throughout the household. Cameos also included appearances from NBA stars Kendall Gill and Dennis Scott, the latter of whom teaches Alfie, the superior athlete of the Parker brothers, a lesson in selflessness and teamwork by cutting him from the school basketball team in "The Basketball Tryouts" episode.

Of all of the aspects of My Brother and Me that made the show a game-changer, the fact that it was one of the first times young black males saw themselves in characters on the TV is the most enduring. While plenty of shows and networks fixated on coming-of-age storylines centered around the privileged youth of white America, My Brother and Me provided the alternative, promoting the bond of brotherhood and family values with each episode aired. Preceding shows like Kenan & Kel and Cousin Skeeter, both of which implemented overt comedic or fictional elements, My Brother and Me was a realistic glimpse at the life of the average black boy in America without the overarching narratives of impoverishment, temptation, and despair. For many young black men born in the '80s, the show left an indelible impact on them and holds a place near to their heart a quarter-century later.

In spite of its critical acclaim and popularity, My Brother and Me only aired for one season, as it was canceled after airing its final episode on January 15, 1995. The network would air reruns into the early 2000s before returning briefly during The '90s Are All That block on TeenNick in December 2013, the last time the show would appear on television. In June 2014, Nickelodeon released My Brother & Me: The Complete Series as a two-disc DVD, giving a new generation of viewers and longtime fans of the show an opportunity to relive the magic that the show captured during its short, yet unforgettable run.

In the years following My Brother and Me's cancellation, many of the actors and actresses from the show would fail to find their footing in the entertainment industry, resulting in their acting careers fading into obscurity. Arthur Reggie III scored a few additional credits, appearing in the TV shows Sliders and C-Bear and Jamal, as well as the 1998 film Bulworth, but later transitioned into a rap career, performing under the name Show Bizness. My Brother and Me would mark Ralph Woolfolk's last appearance as an actor, as he decided to leave the industry behind and focus on his education, pursuing a degree in English at Morehouse College in Atlanta, while also attending law school. He is also a member of the Alpha Phi Alpha fraternity and currently serves as a police officer for the city of Atlanta. Jimmy Lee Newman, Jr. scored bit roles in the TV shows Sweet Justice and Sister, Sister in the subsequent years after the show, while Aisling Sistrunk, Stefan J. Wernli and Keith "Bubba" Naylor would never act professionally again.

However, a few members of the cast were able to sustain viable acting careers well beyond My Brother and Me's cancellation, most notably Amanda Seales, Karen E. Fraction and Jim Coleman. Seales would rebrand herself as Amanda Diva and become a successful media personality before transitioning back into acting, last appearing as Tiffany DuBois on HBO's "Insecure." In 2019, Seales debuted an HBO Comedy Special I Be Knowin', and was chosen as the emcee for NBC's comedy competition, Bring the Funny. Jim Coleman has kept himself busy with various roles over the past two decades, last appearing in "The Council," and continues to receive steady work. Karen Fraction would add a few additional credits to her resume after "My Brother and Me," but passed away on October 30, 2007, after a five year battle with breast cancer. She is survived by her two children, Lauren Elizabeth Jean and Lawrence Wm. Morris, and her husband Lawrence Hamilton. And last, but not least, Kym Whitley would enjoy a fruitful career on television and on the big screen, appearing in dozens of shows and films throughout her lengthy career, with her latest role being Mrs. Malinky in the Netflix animated comedy Pinky Malinky.

In the time since the debut of My Brother and Me, a lot has changed in terms of the presence and representation of black youth on television and beyond. A number of black actors and actresses have had the opportunity to shine in a big way, including Tyler James Williams (Everybody Hates Chris) Zendaya (Shake It Up), Kyle Massey (Corey in the House), Keke Palmer (True Jackson, VP), Miles Brown (Black-Ish) and Alex R. Hibbert (The Chi) all among the more prominent child stars making major waves on TV over the past two decades. That said, 25 years later, the fact remains that My Brother and Me was ahead of the curve as one of the first instances of seeing ourselves in a positive and uplifting light on the small screen.

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