Keep It Beautiful: The Funkyverse of Shock G and the Digital Underground

 Keep It Beautiful: Inside The Funkyverse of Shock G and The Digital Underground by Alexis Wolfe Mbassa and Gregory E. Jacobs

Keep  It Beautiful book cover

Shock G with author and photographer Alexis Wolfe Mbassa

Many thanks to Clarkson Potter/Ten Speed Press and NetGalley for sending me an advanced copy of the long-gestating but incredibly satisfying collaborative, funky, and genre-blurring book Keep It Beautiful: Inside the Funkyverse of Shock G and the Digital Underground by Alexis Wolfe Mbassa and Gregory E. Jacobs (aka Shock G, Humpty Hump, MC Blowfish, Peanut Hakeem). I was so excited to find this book as The Digital Underground were one of those formative bands from my early adolescence. Sex Packets was one of the first tapes I owned, and although I loved the singles like “The Humpty Dance” and “Doowutchyalike”, there were so many deep cuts on that album that I would just listen to the tape back and forth so many times. The Underground followed that album up with several other great albums, and thanks to Wolfe Mbassa’s effort to midwife this book through Jacobs’ somewhat whimsical and spontaneous methods as well as his untimely death in 2021, I also learned a lot about Jacobs’ life and musical career beyond Digital Underground. This book is a must for fans of Digital Underground and especially for those hip-hop heads who came of age in the golden era of the late 80s through the 90s. For those that don’t know, Shock G was not only responsible for creating the persona of Humpty Hump, whose hit “The Humpty Dance” was one of the most popular singles of 1990, but was also the visionary who shaped the sound of images that were associated with Digital Undergrounds album. Wolfe Mbassa, who initially met Shock G in the 2000s and collaborated with him on the book over the course of a decade, allowed him to introduce himself through a biography, but also focused on the influences on his art. Shock G didn’t only write rhymes and rap, but he also orchestrated and produced his music, designed the album artwork, and more importantly conceptualized the ideas behind the characters and album themes that pushed against many of the emerging trends and stereotypes in hip-hop that took the sound of the underground back to the house and block parties where the sound originated. Digital Underground were fun, and although their sound and vision were largely shaped by funk-forefathers like Parliament and Funkadelic, their albums were always forward looking. In fact, there’s a great chapter about Sex Packets where Shock G details the origin of the album, designing an album around the packet man, a dealer of ecstatic pleasures, whose products were originally intended for astronauts while floating in space. Members of DU even created informational pamphlets to leave around Oakland about the new street drug, convincing some that the drug was real and producing news stories and an eventually denial issued by NASA. I loved that Jacobs was that into his music and that for every album, he conceptualized these sci-fi street ideas for the albums. It was something that my 13 year-old self didn’t really understand at the time, but I loved the music and the rhymes because they were just so fun and funky.

  Although I am still a big fan of The Digital Underground, Wolfe Mbassa’s book reveals a lot about Shock G that I never really knew about- from his early life growing up between New York and Florida, to his mentorship and production for other artists in the 1990s, especially his role in helping to launch the career of 2Pac and producing his breakout album 2Pacalypse Now. I loved learning about Jacobs’s early interest in music, his attempts to get a job as a DJ in middle school, becoming Florida’s youngest on-air DJ, and the various schemes and adventures that helped to contribute to some of the amazing characters and situations that populate the Underground’s classic albums like Sex Packets.

Beyond the words, the book is filled with images, artwork, and memorabilia from Shock G’s life and career. While Shock G tells most of the stories, Wolfe Mbassa met up with other members of Digital Underground and talked to other rappers who were contemporaries of Digital Underground. One of the highlights was Chuck D’s early morning interview in which he shared his memories of Public Enemy touring with Digital Underground, and how their sound and approach to hip-hop was so fun and innovative for the time. There’s also a great story about Rakim who met with a fan who gave him a portrait of him crushing other MCs with his lyrical styles. A year later, Rakim realized that fan was Shock G. Wolfe Mbassa honors the memory and artistry of Jacobs’s many alter egos by letting his voice and vision flow throughout the book, stepping in occasionally to provide context for when or where the interviews took place. This collaborative approach creates a kind of intimate reading experience where readers are allowed to tag along with Wolfe Mbassa as she travels to Jacobs’s Topanga Canyon home, where she documents the painted piano, various instruments, and canvases that inhabit the home and allow Jacobs to express his artistry through music and visual art. Although Jacobs passed away at the too young age of 57 in 2021, Wolfe Mbassa’s book allows us to spend some more time with this legendary voice of hip-hop who shifted the sound and style down a funky road, and reminded listeners to doowutchyalike. Highly recommended! 

Bust A Move: The Story of Delicious Vinyl Records and Its Impact on Hip-Hop and Popular Music

 Bust a Move: Matt Dike, Delicious Vinyl, and the Hip-Hop Hits That First Conquered Pop by Peter Relic

Bust a Move book cover

Author Peter Relic

Big props to Kensington Publishing and NetGalley for sharing Peter Relic’s amazingly entertaining and detailed history of the Delicious Vinyl Record Label, Bust A Move: Matt Dike, Delicious Vinyl, and the Hip-Hop Hits That First Conquered Pop. I was so excited to read this book, and Relic’s research and crate digging through the scattered bins of hip-hop history has pieced together one of the most entertaining and astute books about how Matt Dike and Mike Ross helped to craft funky, fly beats to propel hip-hop for the pop charts. For those who don’t know, Delicious Vinyl was one of the more popular record labels from the late 80s through the mid-90s that produced some of the most popular and iconic hip-hop songs that are still played today (Tone Loc, Young MC), at a time when hip-hop was not perceived as pop worthy. This book traces the history of the label’s founders, Matt Dike, and Michael Ross, how they met and moved from DJing in NYC to LA at some of the most popular clubs in the early 80s. Furthermore, it examines the early challenges Delicious Vinyl faced as an independent hip-hop label, as well as how they used the low overhead to produce hip-hop beats in the pre-sample clearing 80s to craft a unique, funky sound with obscure loops and samples. Relic’s relentless pursuit and documentation of the label’s founding and apex (and its eventual demise) is not only because he’s a music fan interested in how two white guys helped to usher in a more popular form of West Coast hip-hop, but also because the history of Delicious Vinyl Records also involves the mystery and enigma of Matt Dike, who despite the success of his early records seemed to gradually disengage from the label as it gained more prominence in the record industry. While notable producers like Rick Rubin moved from hip-hop to metal and rock, Dike gradually faded from his label, allowing Michael Ross and others to direct the trajectory of the label, signing bands like The Brand New Heavies and The Pharcyde, but also missing out on some other projects. Matt Dike, who also contributed to the beats and sound of The Beastie Boys’ classic Paul’s Boutique, became something of a phantom, never involved with music again before his death from cancer in 2018. Relic’s book also tries to unravel the mystery of Matt Dike, looking for answers as to why someone who helped to sonically define hip-hop’s 80s and early 90s radio sound never worked on other albums.

Relic’s book is not just a history, but rather a wild ride in through the annals of hip-hop. Like all hip-hop histories, this ride goes through NYC before eventually landing in LA. However, Relic pieces together the winding journey of an unlikely Jehovah’s Witness from upstate New York who became one of the most popular underground club DJs in New York and LA, who not only hung around with Basquiat but also contributed to John Hughes’ soundtracks (Uncle Buck). Relic’s narrative doesn’t follow a straight express track, but rather takes the local route sometimes diverting down other pathways that allow readers to better understand how much of a network Matt Dike established in art, music, and the underground club scene through his DJing. It was fascinating to learn about the connections Dike developed and how beloved his DJ sets were at places like Power Tools and The Rhythm Lounge. I loved reading about his vast record collection that eventually buckled his floor with its weight. The book is filled with plenty of these observations and recollections by those who knew Dike. Although Dike became something of a recluse, a kind of stoned Norma Desmond who seemed to be perpetually planning his next LP, Relic’s writing resurrects this fascinating character whose passion and knowledge of music not only moved the crowds but also brought hip-hop to a larger audience.

The book is divided into 3 parts that pretty much examine before Delicious Vinyl (Part One), the creation and hey-day and gradual demise of Delicious Vinyl (Part Two), and the slow disappearance of Matt Dike (Part Three). Relic includes some modern episodes throughout to allow readers to better understand how much of an enigma Matt Dike’s disappearance is as compared to other record producers, label founders, and other creative types who helped to shape hip-hop’s popular sound. Nevertheless, his research and reporting provide a fascinating look into various scenes and how hip-hop moved from NYC to LA, and how Matt Dike and the Dust Brothers EZ Mike (Michael Simpson) and King Gizmo (John King), two college DJs, shifted the West Coast sound from electro to incorporate more vintage sampled beats and sounds. I previously read Dan LeRoy’s 33 1/3 book on Paul’s Boutique, where he presents the unique recording conditions, recorded in Matt Dike’s apartment turned studio. Although Relic’s book relies on some of the same episodes from LeRoy’s research, Relic covers other artists involved in Delicious Vinyl. Most interestingly, Dike converted a closet into the vocal booth, so I was familiar with this tidbit, but it was interesting to learn more about how much of a creative supporter and collaborator he was in shaping some of the lyrics and rhymes on the album, largely from his love of the first Beastie’s album, Licensed to Ill. 

Some of my favorite revelations from the book were that Mellow Man Ace was set to be one of the first Delicious Vinyl artists, but was eventually signed over to Capitol Records. I loved this album when I was younger and remember how cool the beats and samples were, as well as how Mellow Man Ace rapped in Spanish and English, something that wasn’t happening frequently in hip-hop at the time. The Delicious Vinyl crew helped produce and record the album, encouraging Mellow Man Ace to develop his own flow. I remember seeing the album insert, including a sign that pointed to Havana and Cypress Hill, who were related to Mellow Man Ace and were part of his early crew. B-Real writes the foreword for the book, sharing his own recollections of the recording of that album and how hanging around the Delicious Vinyl studios encouraged him to develop his own unique sound. These are the kinds of hip-hop networks that Delicious Vinyl helped to encourage that served as an funky alternative to the electro- and gangsta rap that was coming out of LA. It was also interesting to learn more about Young MC, who served as the kind of in-house writer for many of the hits on Delicious Vinyl. Young MC, who had his own hits with “Bust a Move” and “Principal’s Office”, also wrote “Wild Thing” and “Funky Cold Medina”. Others who were involved with Delicious Vinyl described Young MC as a kind of machine who could pump out narrative raps in a short amount of time. Although he was a student at USC when he ended up working with the Delicious Vinyl crew, some of Young’s raps were written when he was in middle school (like “Principal’s Office”). It enjoyed learning more about his path to hip-hop, as well as how his style kind of contrasted with Tone Loc’s laid-back partying style. There are many other great stories that Relic has gathered and organized into a neat narrative about how hip-hop evolved with the help of radio play and videos, and how Tamara Davis, who went on to make films like CB4 and Billy Madison, was instrumental in shaping the visuals that became an integral part of the Delicious Vinyl brand. I forgot that the video for “Wild Thing” was a play on Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love” video, so it was fun to revisit these memories from back in the day.

Although Young MC’s rhymes and Matt Dike and the Dust Brothers’ beats drove much of the early and unanticipated success of Delicious Vinyl, it also brought about their demise. Paul’s Boutique, although released on Capitol, largely flopped and took years for a critical reexamination. Other artists, like Mellow Man Ace, signed to other labels. Delicious Vinyl signed a deal with Island Records that provided them with some cash but did not help them out with royalties. Young MC also felt that he was undercompensated and sued Delicious Vinyl, ultimately leaving the label and releasing his second album on Capitol Records. There’s a lot of speculation about the beats that were ready for Young MC’s second album, but the release on Capitol did not sell well. When combined with the shift in clearing samples, which Delicious Vinyl relied on for their sound, the label struggled to promote new acts in hip-hop, turning eventually to acid jazz like the Brand New Heavies and even metal with Masters of Reality, a band originally signed to Def American, Rick Rubin’s rock label. As the label shifted priorities to try to keep up with the evolving world of hip-hop and popular music, Matt Dike stopped showing up for work, but made his presence known with after-hour visits and notes left on artwork and records. Relic’s reporting suggests that Dike developed a drug habit and an attempted intervention with Rick Rubin and Michael Ross seemed to drive Dike further into isolation. Relic’s relentless pursuit of Matt Dike leads to a late-night visit and interview at Dike’s home, and it is one of the most fascinating chapters in this book.

This was such a great book, especially for fans of music and hip-hop. It ranks among the best music books I’ve read and provides a unique insight into the evolution of hip-hop, as it moved from the underground to the mainstream. Peter Relic spins an engaging narrative about how music lovers converged in New York and LA to remix the sound of popular music. Highly recommended! 

 Flyboy in the Buttermilk: Essays on Contemporary America by Greg Tate

Flyboy in the Buttermilk cover

Author and Critic Greg Tate

Big props to Farrar, Straus, and Giroux and NetGalley for allowing me to preview an advanced copy of Greg Tate’s powerful collection of essays from the 80s and 90s Flyboy in the Buttermilk: Essays on Contemporary America. I’ve heard of Greg Tate, but I can’t believe I’ve never read anything by him up until now. Reading the three introductions by Questlove, Henry Louis Gates Jr, and Hanif Abdurraqib provided some great context for understanding not only Greg Tate’s interests and subjects for his writing, but also his vast influence on music, popular culture, and writing in general. While the introductions are awesome, they don’t entirely capture the breadth of Tate’s interests captured by the essays in this book. Whether it’s funk, pop music, hip hop, reggae, art, literature, sci-fi, or movies, Tate’s writing clearly and enthusiastically shows his passion for these arts and more importantly, his emphasis on promoting artists uplifts many Black voices that were often silenced or relegated to the underground at the expense of more mainstream pop acts and artists. Tate’s collection is the kind of book that requires some notetaking to follow up on the many different references, albums, songs, and titles he champions, and I’m so appreciative for it.

One of my favorite elements of this book is Tate’s unique voice in his writing. I absolutely loved his writing, especially about music. The only music writers/critics I could liken him to are Lester Bangs and Greil Marcus, who are both passionate and emphatic champions and critics of music they like and dislike; however, Tate also has his own unique register, adding elements of funk and hip-hop to his writing that emphasize his own distinct voice in criticism. I noticed that this approach changes somewhat when he writes about literature and politics in the latter sections of the book. However, the first section that focuses primarily on his writings about music is so much fun to read; I can only imagine Tate reading these essays out loud. Furthermore, I was amazed to read phrases and lingo Tate uses in his early 80s essays that are still in use today. I think this speaks to not only Tate’s influence, but also his close ear and understanding of culture.

Although this book was originally published in 1992, it’s still completely relevant today. In fact, I was surprised to see how much Tate’s writing about African American literature and history was relevant to my undergraduate studies, which again made me wonder why Tate wasn’t included in any of the anthologies or required reading lists from my professors. Whether it’s discussing the battles between Black leadership in the early 1900s in the quest for either assimilation or equality or the burdens of Black writers and artists to represent culture or to capitalize on the larger market for white audiences, Tate’s writing remains relevant and trenchant, focusing on important considerations for Black culture, artists, writers, and America in general. I double checked my Norton Anthology of African American Literature edited by Gates Jr. just to see if Tate was included in my 1997 edition, but he was not. I hope that Gates Jr. has eventually included Tate in either subsequent editions or other anthologies since I feel like Tate’s approach to many of the canonical texts and arguments from African American literature and history is such a unique, relevant, and engaging voice that challenges readers to question and rethink their understandings of these texts, figures, and events.

The book is divided into three sections. Part One focuses on music criticism, Part Two focuses mostly on literary and art criticism, and Part Three focuses on current events and politics, mostly from the late 1980s and early 1990s in New York. My favorite section was the music criticism section, which was also the longest section in the book. This section is where we see not just the breadth of Tate’s interests (Funk, Jazz, Blues, Rock, Hip-Hop, House), but also the depths of these interests that Tate is willing to pursue to further untangle and share with his audience. I loved how much he writes about Miles Davis, especially reevaluating the electric and later stages of Miles’ career, looking at Miles’ role as not just a Black artist, but an American force of culture who reshaped art and popular music by pursuing his own passions and interests. Tate also explores areas in Jazz that fragmented in the 1960s and 70s, examining the kind of schisms that created paths for standard bearers like the Marsalis family and the paths that diverged to other space ways and areas carved out by avant-garde and free jazz artists. It’s an issue about Black art that re-appears throughout Tate’s book in different forms including fine art vs. graffiti, R & B vs. Pop Music (Prince and Michael Jackson), and literature (Amiri Baraka). Tate seems to update DuBois’s notion of the veil but situates it in the context of American popular culture and the cultural marketplace of the latter 20^th century, where an artist’s existence is sometimes dependent on an audience. One of Tate’s targets is Michael Jackson, whose most popular albums Thriller and Bad, Tate criticizes for their emptiness and pursuit of mass audiences at the expense of the kind of soulfulness or artistic integrity that are apparent in other Black contemporary artists of Michael’s time. My favorite pieces, though, were focused on Public Enemy, whose music from the late 80s and 90s is such an integral part of my life. Tate’s writing about Public Enemy is so accurate and fun, and he captures the energy and power of the band’s sound and vision and how it helped to shape and redirect the hip-hop scene into something more conceptual rather than commercial.

Although Section Three deals with events from NYC in the late 80s and early 90s, I was surprised to see how relevant Tate’s analyses and criticisms are for today. Furthermore, since I was younger and not living in the NYC area at the time, I wasn’t as familiar with the murders of Michael Griffith in Howard Beach or Yusef Hawkins in Bensonhurst, except from the references from PE. Tate critically examines these incidents and contextualizes them along with the Central Park Five injustice to criticize the press, the police, and leadership at all levels for allowing racial violence and intolerance to continue to fester in the city. Even though Tate’s book was originally published nearly 35 years ago, his critiques and observations are still relevant and on point. While I have many annotations throughout the book, the last essay “Love and the Enemy” has a particular quote at its end that surprised me with its relevance and prescience. The essay is powerful in its message of love for and in the African American community, in which Tate calls out white supremacy for fomenting hate among African Americans. He cites both Malcolm X and Bob Marley as calling for love for self rather than the love and desire for the oppressor. For Tate, these power structures enable people to ignore systemic inequalities because they are more concerned individual status. “When reactive rage is the dominant form of our politics, when it takes police or mob violence to galvanize us into reaction, it means that there is an acceptable level of suffering and misery.” I’m not saying this is still true, but I think it’s a powerful quote that should move all people to recognize that the fight and struggle continues today as politics and culture remain reactive rather than accepting or accommodating. This is an incredible and important collection of essays, and I’m so glad that it is being republished. I can only hope that Greg Tate’s voice reaches more eyes and ears as a result of this new edition, and people can learn to appreciate the critical eye and humor in his work. Even though the essays are between 35-45 years old, they are still relevant, prescient, observant, critical, and engaging. Highly recommended! 

Son of the City: A Memoir by Dante Ross

Son of the City book cover

Author, A&R, but no scrub Dante Ross

I’ve been reading a bunch of music memoirs, especially about the downtown NY music scene. In the past few months, I read Thurston Moore’s Sonic Life and Chris Stein’s Under a Rock. Both books were good and explored how their respective bands benefitted from the diverse musical scenes that helped birth punk, noise, and alternative rock in the 1970s and 80s. Interestingly, both books had connections to the emerging Hip-Hop scene; Thurston Moore shared one episode where he either attended or almost attended Kurtis Blow’s Christmas Rappin’ recording; similarly, Blondie were a part of the downtown scence that included Basquiat, Keith Herring, Ramalzee, and Fab 5 Freddy, featuring Fab 5 in the song and video for Rapture. Dante Ross may have slightly overlapped with these memoirists too, but his experience growing up in NYC in the late 70s and early 80s was a little more outside of this downtown scene. I absolutely loved this book, and this was by far the most entertaining of the 3 music memoirs dealing with NYC’s downtown scene (as a side note, one other memoir, Kathleen Hanna’s Rebel Girl, was also fabulous and has a connection with the Beastie Boys, much like Dante Ross does). There were so many great elements to Dante Ross’s memoir. I found his voice to be so real and also entertaining. I loved that he used hip-hop vernacular that I haven’t heard for a minute. It added to a fun and relaxed style of narrative, even when some of his early life was not always a crystal staircase. Growing up with an absent drug addict father and an alcoholic mother who struggled with keeping a job and maintaining her mental well-being, Ross candidly and fearlessly shares how challenging this was with a wise and introspective perspective that seems to indicate how much he gained from these experiences trying to find shelter, friends, and food, or surviving, in NYC. While his mother had her own challenges, Dante also paints her as a committed activist who kept to her ideals. One story he shares about the NYC blackouts was really interesting and made me think about my own parenting and whether I maintain my principles in the face of challenging situations. Ross also shares how he helped his friend learn to read, diagnosing him as dyslexic when the schools had more or less given up on him. These experiences also help Ross explore his own privilege, despite not having much money and living a precarious situation at home. Although I knew about Dante Ross from De La Soul, I didn’t realize how deep and wide his musical roots are in NYC and beyond. Ross hung out with in the NYC hardcore scene that birthed the Cro-Mags, and shared his amazement at seeing Bad Brains in the early 80s. He also details the birth and evolution of the Beastie Boys, and these were some of the funniest and most joyous scenes in the book. I read Dan LeRoy’s great book about Paul’s Boutique, and this is another insider perspective about that time and the challenges that the Beasties faced in transitioning from Def Jam to Columbia. Furthermore, I think that Ross’s friendship with the Beasties and his participation in a wide array of musical styles early on helped shape his perspectives on hip-hop. Ross eventually falls in with Tommy Boy, helping to bring De La Soul to a larger audience. Looking at De La Soul, Queen Latifah, and A Tribe Called Quest, all acts that Dante Ross had a hand in getting record deals, you can see how his omnivorous musical tastes helped him work with these artists who were different from the more mainstream B-Boy brand of hip-hop. These acts, and Dante Ross’s role in promoting these acts, really helped to challenge the boundaries of hip-hop, extending them for the better and re-shaping the rules for what was acceptable in hip-hop circles. I think that the diversity in the downtown NYC musical scene had a lot to do with this. These acts, not quite alternative or backpack rap yet, brought in different , jazzier samples, conscious lyrics, and an Afrocentric sensibility towards fashion. It was really interesting to see this theme running through the artists that Dante Ross worked with throughout his career. I loved reading the later chapters as well. It’s not just Dante Ross’s voice that is so enthralling, but also the fact that he was working with so many of the rappers and groups that I loved in my early adolescence. Reading through this book was like reminiscing—but also learning since Ross shares some incredible stories of working with artists like Leaders of the New School, Pete Rock and CL Smooth, Grand Puba and Brand Nubian, MF DOOM (Cev Luv X of KMD), 3^rd Bass, Guru, I could just go on, but this was like the wall of cassettes and crates of records in my high school bedroom. Reading about working with ODB, KMD and later DOOM provided me with an insider’s perspective of these artists, and I really liked that his detailing of his close work with ODB and DOOM helped to provide another viewpoint, showing how thoughtful and creative these artists were. I think that many people recognize DOOM’s creative genius, but Ross explains that he has been upset about how people view ODB, and his stories helped to show how intentional and creative ODB was in creating his persona and the arti and design for his album. Although I’m not a big fan of Everlast’s solo work, Dante Ross produced and really had a hand in helping Everlast get this album going. This was also a great section of the book. His descriptions about the challenges and health risks they faced in creating this album were captivating. I loved learning more about the creative process of making music, and especially the technical aspects of it. I’m amazed to see how Dante Ross didn’t really have a music background beyond being a huge fan, and worked his way up from working in the mail room at a nascent Def Jam to become a creative force in not only artist and repertoire, but also in production and beat making. It was really cool to see his own growth in the field—working with artists and record labels—and eventually moving into musical production. I really appreciated Ross’s candidness about his life, whether sharing about his family, his loves and losses, or his substance abuse and eventual sobriety. I felt like beyond the entertainment of the stories he shares, he also drops knowledge about career management, relationships, both romantic and platonic, and mental health. Maybe it’s all that conscious hip-hop he’s been a part of, but he’s skilled at subtly kicking science to the masses. Finally, I loved that I finished this book on father’s day. I didn’t know anything about Dante Ross’s dad, but he starts the book out talking about how his dad was the kind of motivating force in starting the book; his later chapters go over being with his dad during his final year or so. It was really beautiful, and I can tell that the sobriety has given him some perspective on his relationship with his father and his eventual passing. As someone who also had a complicated relationship with his father, it helped me remember the better times and how I was able to be there for my dad during his final month. I really resonated with Ross’s experience of being there and wanting to be there despite the specter and impending fear of death. I realized that this experience had something to teach me. It was kind of like a nice connection I felt to Dante Ross’s experiences. One other final note, I loved that Dante Ross described another A&R who he disagreed with as “a mountain climber who plays an electric guitar”. Loved that Protect Ya Neck reference. Always thought that was hilarious 90s stereotyping. If you are a music fan or a fan of memoirs, this is a great one to read, even if you are not familiar with Dante Ross or the artists he’s repped over time. Chances are, you’ve encountered some of the music he’s had a hand in bringing to a larger audience, whether your from the 80s, 90s, or later. Really great memoir, and I hope that Dante Ross has more books coming out. 

 Hip-Hop Is History by Questlove

Hip-Hop Is History book cover

Drummer, author, and hip-hop historian Questlove

Questlove’s phenomenal new book Hip-Hop Is History is a must read for any hip-hop fans and music fans in general. Questlove starts by discussing the 50^th anniversary of Hip-Hop’s start, and how he was tasked with organizing the celebration for the Grammy Awards. It is an interesting story that begins to give readers who may be unfamiliar about the scope and depth of Hip-Hop, trying to organize all the different styles and contributors, as well as their egos and personalities, into a short, allotted time frame. I really enjoyed reading about the stress involved in this process, and this story provided an effective set up for the history of Hip-Hop, according to Questlove. While I don’t dispute that Questlove is one of the strongest advocates and most knowledgeable people about Hip-Hop, I did find some places where there were some omissions in his chapters. Thankfully, his list at the end of the book incorporated more artists and groups that I felt were deserving of more time. It’s also just a great snapshot of different eras in Hip-Hop. Interestingly, Questlove organizes the book chronologically, but also pairs each era in Hip-Hop with its drug of choice. I thought this was an interesting choice, but he makes a compelling point showing not necessarily how the drugs themselves, but the social impacts and influences from the drugs (including legality, police enforcement, prison, etc) have impacted the music. It’s why he spends some time discussing PE’s “Night of the Living Bassheads” in the “Back in the Incredible” chapter detailing the golden age of Hip-Hop from 1987-1992, and then exploring the influence of The Chronic, both album and drug, on the “While I Get My Proper Swerve On” (1992-1997). While I loved how Questlove discusses these albums and singles and how he conveys his own personal connection with much of the music in these chapters, he goes beyond just being a fan (or musical contributor) and delves into critical analysis of the music, the styles, and the rhymes. He brings in not just a historical perspective, but also a sociological perspective, examining issues happening in society and relating these events to styles and innovations in Hip-Hop. I was especially surprised to hear how critical and honest Questlove was in this book. He not only discusses calling out certain MCs (Da Baby), but also discusses not initially liking some music and questioning the work of other artists he looked up to (1991 albums from PE and Prince). I really appreciated his candor and honesty in discussing this music, but also appreciated how he sometimes revisited certain songs or music and gained a new appreciation. I think that this book not only provides a history and sociology of Hip-Hop, but also provides new ways to listen to music across different eras. I think that my favorite chapters were those dealing with the early to golden age of Hip-Hop from about 1979-1997. I related to a lot of Questlove’s experiences, remembering the first time I hear Wu-Tang or PE and feeling a kind of transformation—although he mentioned not liking the production values of Enter the 36 Chambers, I felt like it was the varied styles of the MCs that really drew my interest. I also remember having to sneak Hip-Hop into my house since my parents held certain assumptions about it. Now, my mom knows Snoop Dog from his work with Martha Stewart and my kids know Snoop Dog from his cartoon work. I was wondering where DITC fits into some of these chapters- especially Showbiz & AG, but for the most part, Questlove is a completist, and I know that he was trying to keep his list focused and representative of the best Hip-Hop. Although as the book progresses into more recent times and the chapters become shorter, Questlove provided me with some great points of entry for accessing today’s Hip-Hop. I loved how Questlove references artists like Kendrick Lamar who are going back to other eras from Hip-Hop to represent. It’s reassuring to know. This book is not just for music fans, but I could see teachers making excellent use of this book for their students. I would love to use this book to have students develop their analytical skills, researching different eras and identifying and explaining the differences between the eras of Hip-Hop—or taking the historical events and seeing how songs and artists from those eras dealt with or addressed some of the events. There’s so much to consider in this book. Highly recommended.

 

Synthesis of Sounds: When Rock Met Hip-Hop by Steven Blush

 When Rock Met Hip-Hop: How Run-DMC, Aerosmith, Anthrax, The Beastie Boys, and More Crossed Cultural and Musical Boundaries by Steven Blush

When Rock Met Hip-Hop book cover

Author Steven Blush

Big props to Bloomsbury Academic and NetGalley for allowing me to preview Steven Blush’s fun and necessary book documenting the intersection of Rock and Hip-Hop over the past 50 years titled When Rock Met Hip-Hop: How Run-DMC, Aerosmith, Anthrax, The Beastie Boys, and More Crossed Cultural and Musical Boundaries. I was so excited to find this book, not only because I loved books about rock and hip-hop, but also because it’s by Steven Blush, whose American Hardcore basically reinvented music journalism for underground and misrepresented genres. Blush’s applies the same approach he used in American Hardcore here in When Rock Met Hip-Hop, where he  includes interviews with the primary artists involved in rock and hip-hop’s intersection as well as his own commentary and analysis of the music and movements associated with these gradual experiments in genre crossover. The book charts a predominantly chronological approach to examining these artists and the musical movements they helped to synthesize over time. I loved how Blush identifies the shared space that rock, especially genres like punk and metal, and hip-hop occupy. The beginning of the book focuses on the early innovators of hip-hop and how they frequently used rock beats as breakbeats, looking especially at Billy Squier, who would seem like an 80s artist not really aligned with hip-hop, but whose songs “Big Beat” and “The Stroke” have provided some foundations for early hip-hop classics. Blush also spends time exploring other early hip-hop artists and how they frequently made use of rock beats and instrumentation in their work. It’s a fascinating look at the early days of hip-hop and how, in many ways, Black artists were reinventing popular music in a wholly unique way.

Blush spends most of this section of the book in NYC, where hip-hop was born, and this leads us to Run-DMC and Def Jam, which is where some of the earliest attempts at brining together rock and hip-hop musicians to collaborate on songs happens. Although most would cite the Run-DMC and Aerosmith “Walk This Way” as the first major rock and rap collaboration, Blush cites some earlier examples, with Anthrax providing the beat for The Lone Rager’s “Metal Rap” in 1983. Blush also explores how Blondie’s experience in downtown NYC led to collaborations with Fab 5 Freddy and Basquiat to appear in their “Rapture” video, which included a rap by Debbie Harry. Interestingly, they did not say this was a rap song, but rather a song with rapping in it. Just like when I read American Hardcore over 20 years ago, I loved reading this book and finding new groups and songs to chase down and listen to in order to find these new examples of hip-hop and rock.

The Def Jam section was one of my favorite from this book since it focuses on not only Run-DMC, but also how the collaborative work of Russell Simmons and Rick Rubin helped to initiate a lot of this musical synthesis. Rubin, a fan of punk and metal, teamed up with Simmons, a party promoter, to create the iconic hip-hop label, which had the top hip-hop groups in the 80s and early 90s. Def Jam’s roster included The Beastie Boys, who started out as a punk band, and Public Enemy, whose songs “Sophisticated B….” and “She Watched Channel Zero” included amazing guitar work from Vernon Reid and a sample from Slayer’s “Angel of Death” respectively. PE also collaborated with Anthrax after they covered “Bring the Noise,” creating one of the more iconic and brash rock and rap collaborations form the early 90s. Interestingly too, I learned that Kerry King from Slayer played on License to Ill’s “No Sleep Till Brooklyn” and “Fight for Your Right to Party,” also appearing in the video with a wig. These are the kinds of tidbits I loved finding out in the book as well. Blush follows the careers and discography of PE and the Beasties to note how both bands gradually cultivated sounds that led to more synthesizing of rock and rap, and both bands moving more towards the hard and fast approaches to rock and rap.

Blush’s strengths throughout the book are that he’s thorough and brings a critical eye to the music and various forces and trends that drive the changes in rap and rock, whether it’s technology, shared ideas and philosophies, or even money and marketing. While the first part of the book is a deep dive into NYC and the East Coast scenes that birthed some of the most memorable rap and rock collaborations from the 1990s. I liked how Blush reviews the contributions from various bands running the gamut from Biohazard to Fun Loving Criminals in the mid to late 90s. I had some questions, though, about the inclusion of bands like 3^rd Bass, who were on Def Jam and apparently opened and replied to Slayer’s fan mail (Rick Rubin produced Slayer), but never made any rap-rock music. They had Henry Rollins in their video for “Pop Goes the Weasel,” which sampled Peter Gabriel’s “Sledgehammer,” but I couldn’t really understand their inclusion in the book. I understood the inclusion of other bands like House of Pain and Cypress Hill since they both were on the Judgement Night Soundtrack and also ended up incorporating more rock and live instrumentation in their music. Similarly, Young Black Teenagers were included, but they did not include rock in their music beyond an album cover that looked like The Beatles. I think the section on the Judgment Night soundtrack was also the beginning of the end of the rap-rock collaboration. I loved this soundtrack in high school, and Blush spends some time arguing for its importance in helping to foster this collaboration. I also liked this section since he provides some insight from interviews of the artists about how the artists worked together to make music. It was fascinating since many of them hadn’t worked with different artists beyond Cypress Hill, Biohazard, Onyx, and Run-DMC. They all described the challenges, but also discussed the ways they managed to find different methods of collaborating. Unfortunately, though, Blush notes that the popularity of this soundtrack and possibly the idea that synthesizing these genres could bring in more ears and money to spend on two popular genres eventually led to Nu-Metal, which was the downfall of the genre. I didn’t like this section as much, and I wasn’t sure if it was because I’m just not a fan of this music and really didn’t want to read much about it, or if it was because Blush’s style seemed to get a little less detailed and critical in this section. Maybe it’s because Nu Metal is just under-reported or researched, but I just didn’t really delve into it too much. It seemed like Nu Metal was more of a money grab and that bands like Limp Bizkit were like MTV creations who sold lots of records, and once the tastes shifted more to boy bands and other softer pop music, Nu Metal lost its flavor. It seemed like there was more to analyze and criticize here, but there also might not be enough information and willing participants to make a strong case at this moment. Nevertheless, it was interesting to consider that Trip Hop, another somewhat maligned 90s synthesis of genres, arose from this rock-rap ethos. I hadn’t considered that, especially because bands like Portishead and Massive Attack seemed on the opposite end of the rage spectrum. However, Blush makes some compelling arguments about including this genre into the rap-rock rubric.

This book is a must have for any music fan who grew up in the 80s, 90s, or 2000s. Like Blush’s American Hardcore, this is essential reading for learning more about the evolution of rock music, and how hip-hop helped propel and energize rock in the 80s and 90s. Blush drops science with fun facts and information but also has some really interesting takes about the music. For example, when discussing Dr. Dre’s interest in creating Ghetto Metal with Eazy E, he notes that Jerry Heller, the head of Priority Records, may have died because of the way he was portrayed in Straight Outta Compton, which was both strange and fascinating. The book is full of these fun nuggets (and one Nugent too), so it serves as a good reference book as well. I especially loved the appendix of Lost Gems. My listening list has grown considerably since reading this book. Highly recommended!

Celebrating De La Soul in Austin McCoy's Living in a D.A.I.S.Y. Age

 Living in a D.A.I.S.Y. Age: The Music, Culture, and World De La Soul Made by Austin McCoy

Living in a D.A.I.S.Y. Age book cover

Author and scholar Austin McCoy

Big thanks to Atria Books and NetGalley for sharing an advanced copy of Austin McCoy’s excellent book Living in a D.A.I.S.Y. Age: The Music, Culture, and World De La Soul Made, which to me is one of the best books about hip-hop I’ve read recently. About a year ago, I had the privilege of reading Marcus J. Moore’s great book about De La Soul titled High and Rising: A Book About De La Soul. While both books examine the works and impact of this seminal group, Moore’s book combines both band biography and a kind of memoir approach to their music to chart the significance of De La’s work on both hip-hop and the individual. McCoy’s book combines both memoir and critical analysis of the lyrics, artwork, and the entire D.A.I.S.Y. (Da Inner Sound Y’all)  ethos. Rather than being in competition, these books work as complimentary texts that help provide insight, depth, and a greater understanding of how De La Soul connected with fans, especially young Black men.

Dr. McCoy, who is a professor of African American history and labor at West Virginia University, organizes the book chronologically according to De La’s recorded output. Dr. McCoy’s analysis of each album focuses on lyrical content as well as the socio-historical context of the album’s creation. I loved this approach as he frames each album in the context of both events and trends of its time, as well examining how De La’s work challenged and shaped later movements and genres within hip-hop. I also loved that Dr. McCoy starts the book with an explanation about how he used De La within his History of Hip-Hop course, which I would have loved to take. However, as he notes, many of the students, who consume music via streaming services, were unable to access De La’s catalog due to conflicts with Tommy Boy Records. McCoy acknowledges that this inability to access the band’s classic back catalog often required students to purchase physical copies and also to focus on the entirety of the album, not just singles, which again counters the record industry’s approach to the disposability of hip-hop and pop music in general. These approaches that challenge the record industry also shape Dr. McCoy’s analysis and recognize the importance of De La’s work as artists and activists who fought record company practices to not only maintain their artistic integrity, but also to advocate for fair compensation for their work. As a scholar of labor, Dr. McCoy frequently notes how De La Soul’s lyrics and videos often challenged many of the popular tropes and themes of hip-hop moving from gangster rap in the late 80’s and 90’s to the shiny suit era of the later 90s and early 2000s, demonstrating that De La were one of the groups that actually kept it real. I really appreciated this acknowledgement of De La Soul’s ethos, and I think it speaks to their continuing relevance and endearment to fans. This is a band that celebrated reality and everyday life, and although faced many challenges, had fun doing it. In addition, by examining De La’s output chronologically, Dr. McCoy is able to trace how album’s like De La Soul is Dead  and Buhloone Mindstate are in dialogue with one another and De La’s classic debut 3 Feet High and Rising. He notes that Tommy Boy played up the daisy angle, framing the band as hippies, which is why their second album, De La Soul is Dead, is a much harder album. It’s this kind of close analysis of the artwork and lyrical content that makes Dr. McCoy’s book a fascinating and engaging read.

Dr. McCoy not only analyzes the primary texts of De La’s albums but also incorporates others sources to contextualize and add meaning to De La’s lyrics and artistic output. I was excited to see some books I’ve recently read including Dante Ross’s awesome memoir about working in the music business (Son of the City) and Max Felker-Kantor’s critical history and analysis of the DARE program (DARE to Say No), which help provide further context into not only the conditions of the record industry and De La’s work on their first album, but also provides some indication of socio-cultural topics and concerns arising in communities in the late 80s and early 90s. In particular, I just read a book about the Bernie Goetz trial (the excellent Fear and Fury by Heather Ann Thompson) that also takes a nuanced look at a similar time period that birthed De La. I loved how McCoy emphasizes that De La remained critical of the inequalities in society, aligning with the conscious rappers of the day like Public Enemy and Boogie Down Productions, yet also were able to provide an escape from stereotypes and projections of Black masculinity, offering listeners a positive mirror that challenged many of the negative reflections from the media. In addition, Dr. McCoy also cites an amazing Jelani Cobb essay I recently read and can’t stop thinking about (“Hip-Hop at Fifty: An Elegy” found in his amazing collection Three or More is a Riot). Both writers reflect on the death of Dave Jolicoeur, also known as Trugoy the Dove and Plug Two, and the more recent epidemic of rappers dying of preventable diseases and illnesses in middle age. It’s something that Chuck D raps about on the most recent PE album as well, although he repeatedly reminds listeners about his senior citizen status, which is still incredible to me. Regardless, there have been too many MCs and DJs who survived young adulthood only to be felled by illness and disease that falls short of typical life expectancy. As both McCoy and Cobb note, these kinds of trends are representative are larger inequalities in the health field where Black men typically experience shorter lifespans and lower quality of health than other groups. McCoy, however, further links his own family losses with the loss of Trugoy and other rappers, noting how De La in particular had to continue to tour and live life on the road (or labor) while not having access to their back catalog to make money from the new streaming economy. Furthermore, McCoy importantly notes that even once they regained control over their music, the terms and conditions for streaming largely favor tech companies and provide artists with less than minimal compensation for their labor and work. McCoy’s insight and teaching about this approach to music consumption not only raises readers’ consciousness about our entertainment choices but also comes with a plea to further consider purchasing physical media or using platforms that support artists’ work more. Throughout the book, McCoy includes important research and information that not only educates, but also challenges us to consider not only what we listen to, but how we engage with and consume these choices. I loved how much I learned and considered music, art, and the work that ground-breaking artists like De La Soul have created in the greater context of hip-hop and popular music. Furthermore, I loved that this is a book that is based on McCoy’s class, as he offers some teaching recommendations and pedagogical approaches to incorporating hip-hop in the classroom. As he notes from Marc Lamont Hill’s book about hip-hop pedagogy and other prominent educators like Gloria Ladson Billings, hip-hop is a language relevant to many of our students and using these texts and methods to teach are not only important for engagement, but also necessary and urgent due to the “cultural, political, and economic exigencies of the day.” As any teacher can tell, using popular music, especially culturally relevant music, is not only a great way to engage students, but also to encourage critical analysis of social and cultural issues in a familiar and supportive method. I didn’t expect McCoy’s book to make me think so much about De La’s impact, especially in regards to teaching, but I think that this is an incredible book that I recommend not only for lovers of hip-hop, but also teachers. It can provide some insight and ideas into incorporating hip-hop into the classroom, and more importantly, some excellent examples of critical analysis of lyrics and style. I absolutely loved this book and highly recommend it!

Essential Essay Collection for 2025: Three or More is a Riot: Notes on How We Got Here 2012-2025

Three or More is a Riot: Notes on How We Got Here 2012-2025 by Jelani Cobb

Three or More is a Riot book cover

Author, Dean, and Scholar Jelani Cobb

Big thanks to Random House, One World, and NetGalley for sending me an advanced copy of Jelani Cobb’s essential and relevant collection of his writing Three or More is a Riot: Notes on How We Got Here 2012-2025. Cobb, who is not only a skilled and astute writer whose pieces critically examine politics, culture, entertainment, and history, is also the current dean of Columbia’s Graduate School of Journalism. I was really impressed with how deep and critical he gets with many of the subjects in these pieces, and yet how he is able to make them so accessible and relevant, and so moving and impactful. I found myself challenged with maintaining my composure while recounting the articles that detail some of the most horrific crimes in American history. The essays that recount the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church shooting were emotional and powerful, but not just because of the utter brutality and violence of the act; it’s Cobb’s focus on the victims and their lives that gives the piece it’s emotional punch. It’s been some time since I’ve read about this crime, and yet it’s hard to believe that it happened over 10 years ago. Cobb’s pieces often provide us with this perspective, understanding the impact on those whose narratives are often overshadowed by perpetrators or whose voices have been highjacked by louder, more presumptuous and privileged personalities. Furthermore, his pieces all help to understand that while these events happened in the past, we continue to see these clouds on the horizon, recognizing that “Storms don’t stand still so it’s important to understand what direction they’re headed in.” He presents this storm metaphor in the epilogue, but I think it’s important to reinforce this idea from the beginning, especially since these essays are so informative and educational. I felt like I learned so much from this collection, and even though I lived through and can remember many of the events Cobb analyzes in his writing, I gained new perspectives and understandings from these essays. I feel like so many of these pieces would function well in the classroom since Cobb provides readers with perspectives that are often overlooked, forgotten or beaten down, and it’s this fresh look at recent events (and some older instances of history) that help us better understand our present situation.

The book is organized into 3 sections that ostensibly grapple with the complexities of the first Black president (The Parameters of Hope), the first white president (Winter in America), and some of the unprecedented events that have occurred since (History Lessens- focused on COVID, 1/6/21, Impeachment, George Floyd, Hip Hop at 50, and the recent presidential election). I felt a kinship with Cobb in his use of Gil Scott Heron’s classic album Winter in America. I found myself listening to this album in 2016 and 2017, pulled by Scott Heron’s mournful, yet also hopeful songs, written in the aftermath of Watergate. I found the songs both critical and uplifting at time when things seemed so off kilter. It was interesting to also see Scott Heron’s music also have relevance in 2025 with One Battle After Another, another piece of media that critically examines the times we are in. Nevertheless, Cobb’s use of this title and his reflection on its meaning in 2016 and beyond were completely relevant. Although the book details critical instances in recent history like Michael Brown’s death and the loss of other prominent Black luminaries and leaders like Ruby Dee, Gwen Ifill, Elijah Cummings, and John Lewis, there were many other essays where I learned so much from Cobb’s reporting and analysis. For example, in “Hard Tests,” Cobb examines the complexities of Black leaders in HBCUs in the time of Trump, whose leadership has to walk a fine line between challenging the implicit racism of statements like DeVos’s school choice line to ensuring the future viability of HBCUs’ funding through government support. Cobb mentioned Ellison’s Invisible Man and the DeBois-Washington debate about the Atlanta Compromise, and I could understand the kind of complex ambiguity that writers like Ellison and Wright evoked in their work through characters like Trueblood and Bigger Thomas. The essay about Stacy Abrams was also revealing in how much we need more efforts to resist voter suppression and in general how important it can be to maintain state control of governorships and legislatures. We are witnessing vast efforts to minimize or outright erase gains from the voting initiatives of the past 60 years. I also loved the two essays about hip-hop- “D-Nice’s Club Quarantine is What You Need” and “Hip-Hop at Fifty: An Elegy.” I definitely agree with Cobb’s assessment of “My Name is D-Nice” as a gem, although I wouldn’t call it semi-obscure. I had no idea about this effort during the pandemic; I was probably too wrapped up in discovering some older shows or just trying to navigate having my kids home during the pandemic, but I think that these two essays offer some of the alternating themes of hope and community and forgetting and death in others. The “Hip-Hop at Fifty” brings up important issues about how hip-hop, often viewed as a young person’s game, has struggled with aging. I remember being shocked about the deaths of Guru, who died at 48 from complications related to cancer, and Professor X from X-Clan, who also passed away at 49 from spinal meningitis. I just remember thinking about how these illnesses were not always fatal, and I wondered how these elder statemen of hip-hop took care of their health. Cobb touches on some other more recent deaths, especially Phife Dawg, whose death in 2016 months before the release of their last album (We Got if From Here…Thank You 4 Your Service) and also right before the election was both shocking and preventable. It was also interesting to read this after listening to the latest Public Enemy album Black Sky Over the Projects: Apartment 2025 where Chuck D, still hitting hard as hell, reminds listeners that he’s currently a senior citizen. I couldn’t believe Chuck D is eligible for AARP, but if anything, his hard lyrics are a reminder of the indomitable nature of his spirit as much as Cobb’s essay is a reminder of not only the violence and threats to Black men, but also the social determinants of health that often create these disparities in health care and life spans. These essays challenged my thinking, and although they resonated with many of my beliefs and ideas, they also opened me up to new avenues of thought and perspectives that are too often overlooked, dismissed, or pushed aside. Cobb’s writing is clear and accessible, but also incredibly moving, even when he’s dropping science and teaching. Furthermore, even though these essays span the last 12 years, it is so important to revisit the memories of Trayvon Martin, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, Tamir Rice, Freddie Gray, and George Floyd, as well as the victims of the Emanuel AME Church, the Tree of Life Synagogue, as well as the victims of the Christchurch killings in New Zealand, especially since we continue to witness the continued dehumanization and attempts to denigrate other people of color, minorities, and immigrants, and we see that this current violence is state sanctioned. Voices and perspectives like Cobb help to remind us about the cost of silence in these periods, as well as remind us of the communities and hope that can arise after these storms wreak havoc. I also forgot to mention one of the more powerful and important essays “The Man Behind Critical Race Theory” from September 2021. I loved reading about Derrick Bell, whose concern about the implications of desegregation and his fight for equality was complicated by a long history of violent opposition to equality and inequities in political and systemic power, was fascinating to learn more about. It was also essential reading since Bell’s ideas and concerns have been highjacked by the right whose willful misrepresentations and shameful ignorance about critical race theory have ultimately lumped it into something that it is not. If anything, Cobb’s essay helps to elucidate the complications of inequality, representation, power, and access that Bell was wrestling with, and presents a fuller, more complete picture than is often provided. Toni Morrison once wrote in Beloved that “Definitions belong to the definers, not the defined,” and sadly bad actors like Christopher Rufo have plunged the public into willful ignorance about this important topic by rebranding Bell’s ideas as toxic. However, Cobb’s essay paints a more realistic and complete picture not just of the ideas, but also of Bell’s interesting life and continued fight against the system. It was one of the many stand-out essays that I loved reading in this collection and will probably revisit again. Highly recommended and important reading!

 

Contextual Analysis of a 90s Trendsetting Album

 Massive Attack's Blue Lines (33 1/3) 

by Ian Bourland

Blue Lines book cover

I’m not a huge Massive Attack fan, but I have always appreciated their music, and more often like a lot of other bands coming from Bristol (Tricky, Portishead). It was interesting to read about the kind of nominal “Bristol Sound” that Bourland cited as more of a journalistic device to point to all of the music coming out of this area in the 90s. I agree since many of these bands sounds quite different. I really enjoyed this look at Blue Lines. Bourland doesn’t really delve into the songs specifically but takes a more contextual approach, looking at the environment and time period that led to the creation of this album, examining how crews around Bristol set up sound systems, eventually leading members of Massive Attack to one another. I also learned that Neneh Cherry had a hand in helping with this album. I was reading this book at the same time as Thurston Moore’s Sonic Life memoir, so it was a weird coincidence that Neneh Cherry came up in both books, with both books talking about Don Cherry and The Slits. Regardless, Bourland engaged in considerable research to show how NY hip-hop culture (graffiti, sound systems) from the 70s filtered through England in the 80s, and created something novel and unique. I think this is apparent in Massive Attack’s work, since they are not really the kind of boom-bap that was happening in the 80s and 90s, but more relaxed and heady. I also really appreciated that Bourland not only looks into the scenes and conditions that led to the creation of Massive Attack, but also examines the lives of some of the participants, like Tricky and Cherry. While this book is a little different from the kind of song by song analysis of some 33 1/3 books, I really appreciated Bourland’s extensive research and exploration of this album and the factors that led to its creation. 

Dat Inner Sound Y'all: A Deep Dive into the DAISY Age with High and Rising: A Book About De La Soul

 High and Rising: A Book about De La Soul 

by Marcus J. Moore

High and Rising book cover

De La Soul Mika-photography, CC BY-SA 3.0 , via Wikimedia Commons

Author Marcus J. Moore

Much gratitude to Dey Street Books and Netgalley for making Marcus J. Moore’s book about De La Soul, High and Rising: A Book about De La Soul available for preview. I was so excited to learn about this book since 3 Feet High and Rising  was one of the first cassettes I bought with my own earned money (I also got It Takes a Nation of Millions and The Great Adventures of Slick Rick—De La was the only non-Def Jam album I had). So like Marcus Moore, the author, I also have a kind of personal connection to the band that spanned much of my life, so I really enjoyed this book on several different levels. One of the best aspects about Moore’s book is that it accomplishes many of the best elements of music writing and specifically books about a band’s discography and history. Moore’s writing provides a history of De La Soul, how they came together in Amityville, NY in the 80s. Furthermore, as a hip-hop band who pursued their own path of artistry and really developed their own kind of style and lingo that eventually became the Native Tongues, I really appreciated the kind of contextual analysis that Moore provides, situating De La’s music as both a descendent of the NY rhymes, but also just some guys in high school “buggin out” and having fun with music. Moore provides a nice, concise history lesson in NY hip hop to help readers understand the scene and how De La emerged in such a unique and different way. In recently reading S F Fernando Jr’s TheChronicles of DOOM, I felt like De La’s origin story is somewhat similar, and less tragic, to DOOM’s story in developing his skills and honing his musical talents in Long Island, right outside of NYC. Regardless, it was fun to learn about De La’s development, especially since 3 Feet High and Rising has such a special place in my musical development. To me, the album was always so joyful and fun. Their rhymes were funny, their music on this album was upbeat, and the fact that there were so many recognizable samples made them album so unique—that they were able to repurpose so many great songs and imagine music in such a different way, I always appreciated that about their work. Moore spends most of the book on De La’s first 4 albums, and I would say that the first 2—3 Feet and De La Soul is Dead are where the most detailed reporting and analysis are spent. Since these are probably the best known albums from De La, it makes sense. Moore’s detailed reporting, without the input of any of the members, also helped me learn a lot about their process, but more importantly, about the struggles and challenges they faced as hip hop artists who kind of challenged a lot of the more popular stereotypes and trends in hip hop. As Moore makes it clear, the band weren’t really into “blunts…Versace glasses,…slang…half-ass awards shows” (from “Stakes is High”). They really wanted to keep it real and keep their artistic vision true to themselves. Moore details what touring was like for them, and how that was part of the way they made revenue. In the 1990s, hip-hop artists didn’t really get brand deals, except maybe if they wanted to sell Malt Liquor, and with the exception of rappers like Will Smith or LL Cool J, there weren’t many roles for rappers on television or in movies. In some ways, I can understand how touring and making records was one of the only ways to keep revenue coming in, but as Moore also details, the terms of their Tommy Boy contract were not always artist friendly, and with 3 Feet’s extensive sampling, it caused some problems with compensating artists they sampled. 

Moore’s book is comprehensive in that he covers De La’s entire discography, and he does spend some time on two other favorites of mine 1993’s Buhloone Mindstate and Stakes is High, from 1996. Like Moore, I also have personal connections with these albums—thinking about how Buhloone Mindstate came out when I had my first car, and it was another cassette that I often played while driving around with like nothing to do. I loved the sample from “Ego Trippin’” and “Break of Dawn”—both songs were kind of like at opposite ends of the spectrum—one the kind of bitter diss track that De La mastered in dismantling fake MCs, the other a kind of chill track. Stakes is High came out when I started college, and I remember listening to it a lot during my first year. I also got to see and meet De La on their tour. Somehow, my friend booked them at his university, and I ended up on their bus, totally geeking out about meeting them. It was exciting for me, but I can see from Moore’s writing how my references to 3 Feet High might have not been exactly what they wanted to hear at the time. I honestly was so excited to meet them, my mind went blank. But it was definitely a high point.

Moore’s later chapters detailing some of De La’s later work are not as detailed as the earlier ones. However, I loved how each chapter has both historical and technical details in the album’s creations, as well as Moore’s own personal reflections on the albums. I’m a little older than him, but I can appreciate how I kind of grew up with De La as well, and listened to them a lot through my early adolescence, through high school, and continue to listen to them. However, I loved reading about how De La taught Moore about just being himself, and that it was ok to be a young black man who just wanted to listen to music or do his own thing. That he didn’t need to flex hard or pose tough. De La meant much more to him, and served as a kind of role model. In fact, when Stakes came out, I didn’t have cable, so I missed the videos from that album. I was glad that Moore dissected them because I went back and watched those videos, and I loved it. Dave is just doing laundry, and Moore has this great analysis that he revisits later in showing how De La were just normal guys with exquisite rap skills, but still could just rap about everyday events and find such joy and artistry in these kinds of everyday activities. It was something that I never really considered before about their music, and how revolutionary and different it was. Moore’s writing made me appreciate them that much more. I also didn’t know about their names and that Trugoy, or Dave’s name, is really Yogurt backwards and that Posdnous is sound sop backwards as well. That was a fact that was really interesting to me. What I most loved about this book though was how Moore framed the book with De La’s first concert after Dave’s death, and then ended with a letter to Dave (and his recently deceased Mom), sharing how De La has made him who he is. I was really surprised and sad about Dave’s death, but Moore also talks about that kind of mortality that Black men, especially Black rappers, actors, and others in the entertainment field, often face, dying earlier from diseases and other factors that don’t seem to affect white people in the same way. It’s definitely something I’ve thought about after Guru died, and something I’ve noticed as with other rappers who have recently transitioned as well. Nevertheless, Moore’s book about De La was so much more than just a book about a band. It’s also a personal reflection about how music, especially music we grow up with, stays with us and shapes us throughout some of our formative years. This aspect makes his book stand out among other books about music. I hope he continues to write more books about artists, preferably about those he’s been influenced by. I will look forward to reading them.   

DOOM: Excellent Biography Takes Us Behind the Mask

 The Chronicles of DOOM: Unraveling Rap's Masked Iconoclast by S. H. Fernando Jr.

The Chronicles of DOOM book cover 

KMD Promotional Photo from Electra Records featuring Zev Love X and Subroc (The Dumile Bros)

Author S. H. Fernando Jr. 

MF DOOM TheArches, CC BY 2.0  via Wikimedia Commons

MF DOOM in 2011 Possan, CC BY-SA 3.0  via Wikimedia Commons

Big props to Astra House and NetGalley for providing me with an advanced copy of S.H. Fernando Jr.’s new biography and cultural analysis of MF DOOM, the masked rapper and beat maker whose career in hip-hop spanned several eras and was influential in pushing the borders and possibilities of hip-hop. The book is titled The Chronicles of DOOM: Unraveling Rap's Masked Iconoclast. I was so excited to find this book available since I was a fan of DOOM’s first incarnation and appearance on 3rd Bass’s “The Gas Face” as Zev Love X and his band KMD, who made fun and conscious hip hop that fit right into the Native Tongue Collective (although they weren’t really a part of that). I had a 12” of a few 3rd Bass singles and the Cactus Album, and “Gas Face” was always my favorite. Even years after the song came out, I remember giving the gas face to others, and Zev’s bars at the end of the song provided a nice compliment to Serch and Pete Nice’s varied deliveries. I absolutely loved KMD’s first album. I still have the cassette single for “Who Me” and loved that their album sampled a lot of Sesame Street records that I listened to as a kid. “Peach Fuzz” was also a really great single that made great use of vibraphones, but also dealt with topics like being a teenager, but still not feeling old enough to appeal to girls. KMD had this appealing quality that was both conscious and universal, while also being fun and funky. They seemed like such a fun crew. Needless to say, DOOM’s early work left a mark on me for various reasons. 

I also encountered DOOM later in life, sometime around 2004/2005 when I found the Special Herbs CDs in a Borders. I was instantly drawn to the Dr. Doom Marvel covers that offered little more than the track listings, which also seemed to be the names of different herbs and spices. Once I got these CDs home and started listening to them, they became such an important part of my listening. First, these albums were like nothing I really heard before. The samples were different and obscure, but also somewhat familiar—Was that the Electric Company theme song? Is that some music from Star Blazers? What did they do to “Black Cow” or The Doobie Brothers? I couldn’t get enough of this, and wanted to find out more. It was also around the time when iTunes was popular, so I could quickly access some albums, finding the Victor Vaughn and King Ghidora albums. I’m not sure ecqactly when I found out that Zev Love X and DOOM were the same, but it kind of blew my mind. I think Black B*st*rds was also available, and the story of KMD started to come back. 

Some recent books, like Dante Ross’s excellent memoir Son of the City, provide some details about what happened to KMD and how they lost their deal mainly due to the artwork for the follow up album. Compounding this tragedy was the death of Zev/DOOM’s brother Subroc, shortly before the 2nd album’s release. Although it is sad on many different levels—a young, promising artist is killed in a tragic accident and a major record label fails to nurture and support their artists, confirming the kind of commodification of hop hop’s artistry as a commercial endeavor for many corporations. However, S. H. Fernando’s book explores not only the details of these events, but also delves in to analyze the impact on DOOM’s artistry and adaptation/development of his villainous persona MF DOOM. I absolutely loved this book and could not put it down. For one, I have strong connections with DOOM’s music at various points in my life. Furthermore, I loved how Fernando’s book is not only a detailed and complex biography that incorporates interviews and sources from the elusive and incredibly private DOOM and those who knew him, but also engages in in depth analysis, examining history, pop culture, literature, films, television and cartoons, as well as celebrity culture and technology to help understand the themes and signifiers that made DOOM such an iconic and influential figure in hip hop and popular music. It is such a great blend and helps readers to understand the varied influences and contexts that shaped DOOM’s perspective, style, lyrics, and performance. 

The book starts out with general biographical details, but does not provide much about DOOM’s early life. We learn a little about his home, but most of the early chapters are spent detailing the development of KMD and their work with Serch and Pete Nice. 3rd Bass was a fun group, and I totally remember this time, watching Yo MTV Raps and Rap City. However, I also loved how Fernando’s book takes a broader approach and looks at other events happening around this time, especially in the NYC Hip-Hop world. It not only helps us understand the trends and styles, but also what the Dumile brothers were looking to challenge and create their own unique voice. We also learned about the influence of Malachi York, leader of the Nuwaubian Nation, a kind of cult that I read about in Ocker’s excellent book Cult Following. Through these details, we gain a better understanding of some of the factors that influenced DOOM’s eventual outlook and his pursuit of knowledge, learning constantly to reinvent himself. 

I really appreciated Fernando’s research and analysis of the kind of criticism of hip-hop from the early 1990s. Although I wasn’t sure how events like the LA Riots, NWA, and Ice-T connected with East Coast hip-hop like KMD, Fernando does a great job weaving the kind of white panic and parental control that led to the creation of advisory stickers. In particular, it was interesting to read more about Body Count’s infamous Cop Killer song (as well as the reference to Paris’s “Bush Killa”), and the fallout that resulted from these first amendment cases. I couldn’t help but think about which first amendment warriors would come to the defense of these albums and artists today. Fernando’s research helps to contextualize the scene that eventually led to KMD’s loss of a deal. It was also interesting that much of the criticism came not from parents or white politicians, but rather from Black journalists who, as Fernando and Dante Ross have speculated, probably didn’t pay attention to the meaning and content of the album. Even looking back now, it’s hard to understand how the image of killing a stereotype could be misconstrued, but Fernando’s analysis helps to also frame the challenges that artists like DOOM faced in maintaining their artistry while also battling the commercial demands of working for a major corporation. It also probably helps to explain why DOOM frequently worked with independent labels throughout the remainder of his career. 

This kind of deep level analysis and examination of the various factors at play in DOOM’s career are what make this book such an excellent and interesting read. Other sections look to DOOM’s artistic predecessors, whether it is examining the comic artists, super heroes and villains, or other musicians who most likely influenced his art and style. I also loved learning about the other visual artists and promotional people that DOOM worked with—including learning more about Blake Lethem, who helped to design DOOM’s mask and created his tag logo. Interestingly, Blake is also the brother of author Jonathan Lethem, and reading a little about his experiences with hip-hop, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was partly the basis for Mingus from Lethem’s Fortress of Solitude, a book that focuses on the early days of hip-hop as well as super heroes. 

As someone who loved the Special Herbs albums, as well as Mad Villain, and MMM…FOOD, I really enjoyed reading about the creation of these albums, especially since DOOM’s samples are all so unique and his production style, as Fernando reminds us, is idiosyncratic, maybe a little sloppy, but also endearing, kind of like a punk rock, DIY hip hop production and beat making. For me, I loved the sonic density of his records, and how there’s so much layering. Not quite like the Bomb Squad, but just lots of different references and touch points that were appealing to me and familiar to my own interactions with music from childhood and beyond. Fernando’s analysis and exploration of these samples was helpful and enlightening. I really loved learning where the samples came from as well as their significance to DOOM and how they represented his own interests and style. Since DOOM was a kind of mysterious figure, Fernando does an admirable job unveiling the mask as much as possible to help us learn more about who Daniel Dumile really was. We are reminded that he was a loving father, an artist, and a student—not only of rap, but later on, of esoteric knowledge. The later chapters that detail DOOM’s exile in England (after being denied re-entry to the US due to his British passport and non-citizen status) were really interesting. On the one hand, it seems crazy that he couldn’t return to the US where he lived for most of his life. However, it was also fortuitous that he found people to help him get settled and spend time on Youtube learning about various theories and ideas that largely informed his artistry. These interviews with those who worked with DOOM were amazing—they were interesting in providing more perspective into this mysterious artist, but also insightful in helping us understand his influences and mindset, how he may have been gradually developing and evolving his own artistry and persona. Fernando and some of his interview subjects make some great points about artists and reinvention, and how many times fans, especially zealous fans, can often reject when artists try to evolve and grow, especially in hip hop, which despite being a groundbreaking and revolutionary art form, has also been coopted and commodified, relying on formulaic albums and styles and algorithmic topics and themes to sell. Fernando reminds us, through interviews with others, that while DOOM’s albums became more challenging and experimental, the sales dropped off. People were more interested in hearing the same songs, which also might have been why he reverted to DOOM bots, people dressed like DOOM sent to performance spaces. I loved that Fernando and others called this out, but also acknowledged that DOOM was giving people what they wanted, and using the mask to his advantage. This kind of depersonalization and hidden identity provided Dumile/DOOM with his anonymity, but also with an out, allowing others to fill in when he wasn’t feeling it. Fernando raises these interesting questions about art, identity, and commerce, and what the artists’ responsibilities are to their audience—as well as the ways we consume art and what we, as an audience, expect of artists. 

Finally, the book ends detailing DOOM’s legacy and strangely focuses on the commercialization of DOOM’s legacy, looking at the different collabtive ways DOOM sought to possibly monetize his image. Although Fernando didn’t take a critical stance, it seemed like DOOM pursued products he was interested in or used, not just those that paid him the most. In fact, it looked like these companies (Clarks, Nike, Puma) sought out DOOM due to his popularity. It was a little odd to end the book this way, but it also helps to show DOOM’s enduring legacy and impact on music and especially hip hop. I appreciated the analysis and examination of DOOM’s last days. I, like just about everyone else, was shocked to learn about DOOM’s passing on New Year’s Eve 2020, and even more surprised to learn that it happened 2 months prior. Fernando provides some other key details about DOOM’s death, which was helpful but also frustrating that he experienced some medical racism. Regardless, I really appreciated that Fernando, through research and interviews, helps to flesh out DOOM’s final years in exile, showing us how his health and his own interests may have slowed his art and contributed to his death. 

I can’t recommend this book enough. It is an amazing tribute to one of the most important artists in music and especially hip hop. Furthermore, it situates DOOM’s contributions by connecting his art to many other art forms that are considered more low brow (cartoons, comics, monster movies/Godzilla, quiet storm r-n-b), but also shows how an artist not only can make use of these disparate forms to create something wholly new, but also remind us of how this is the spirit of hip-hop—reinvention and recreation, and it is also representative of DOOM’s life, reinventing himself from Daniel Dumile, to Zev Love X, to MF DOOM, and eventually DOOM (all caps). Highly recommended book, and I can’t wait to read Fernando’s book on Wu-Tang Clan.