As we approach the end of Black History Month, it is essential to highlight a culture that bears an overwhelming significance amid its celebration. That culture is no other than hip-hop culture. While hip-hop has its month in November, National Hip Hop History Month, which was declared by Congress last year, is strictly dedicated to the happenings amid the all-inclusive genre of all races and ethnicities. Black History Month is generally devoted to pivotal moments in African-American culture. As the musical accomplishments of Blacks in America are often highlighted, the identity of hip-hop culture is also significant to African-American history.
Hip-hop’s existence is a product of the generational authenticity of northeastern America’s Black youth. It was a response to the conditions surrounding New York City’s Black youth’s political, economic, social, and cultural reality. With the early 1970s serving as the post-civil rights era, the social climate was filled with progressive revolutionary acts. The 1970s saw the height of the Black Arts Movement with contributions like The Last Poets, Gil-Scott Heron, for example, that showcased a flair of poetic chants that are precursors of hip-hop’s MC element.
According to author Bakari Kitwana, hip-hop’s earliest eras reflect the popular culture, globalization, pervasiveness of segregation, racial implications, and quality of life of African-American youth born between the years of 1965 and 1984. Such is evident with hip-hop’s most revered artists, including Tupac Shakur, Nas, and Kanye West, whose parents were active as activists and musicians during the civil rights era. Hip-hop was a response to the state of insecurity faced by Black and Latino youth of the South Bronx. The disco way of life was mainstream, and as the youth made attempts to participate in top-notch activities, they were utterly denied. In response, they developed a fascination with curating essential sounds, dance moves, and crews with available resources.
DJ Kool Herc conceptualized this act by creating the breakbeat. He selected two unique records and played them simultaneously, secluded the dance portion of infectious funk, soul, or R&B record-extending it into a sequence that allowed burgeoning b-boys and b-girls to shine. Herc’s companion, Coke La Rock’s deed of using the microphone during jams for shoutouts, crowd participation, and announcements was the trigger for the hip-hop MC. Thus, an activity rooted in the desire of the South Bronx’s youth bred a trend that traveled throughout the tri-state area.
Hip-hop culture spread throughout the globe, creating pivotal moments in African-American culture. The 1970s established hip-hop elements, the DJ, MC, graffiti artist, and b-boy. Disc jockeys were the hip-hop scene’s main attraction, with each pioneering DJ contributing an instrumental tactic to the craft. DJ Kool Herc, Grandmaster Flash, Afrika Bambaataa, Grand Wizard Theodore are heralded as critical pioneers of hip-hop’s DJ element introducing tactics such as breakbeats, the quick-mix theory, the scratch, and mixtapes. All of whom are Black men, respectively.
The MC quickly became a talent heard on wax and wasted no time attracting voices in nearby cities. The infant culture was met with class acts including, The Funky Four Plus One More, where hip-hop saw one of their earliest female rappers, MC Sha Rock, The Sugarhill Gang, Cold Crush Brothers, Treacherous Three, and The Sequence. The Black youth of Philadelphia was also privileged to the emerging culture in New York City. Lady B’s “To The Beat Y’all” made the airwaves in 1979, confirming that the once underestimated hip-hop genre honed a purpose beyond just a leisure activity.
As hip-hop entered the 1980s, it became a solidified way of life among the Black youth in America and the demographic’s first music genre. The golden era emerged with a new generation of advanced talent and transformed the genre into an industry that changed the lives of young Black men and women. Hip-hop represented the evolution of young Blacks in America who lived amid the posterior happenings of staunch Black liberation, bringing ultimate relevance to the discussion of Black excellence. Hip-hop will forever remain relevant in the theorem of Black history.
As of Monday, Nike dropped some new Black History Month merch collection that is part of their “17-year tradition of driving conversations about justice, education, and innovation.” The collection includes three new Air Force 1 Low FM sneaker colorways created by Black designers who seek to provide visibility for Black History, heritage, and momentum to […]
February is celebrated as Black History Month and we want to take the time out to run down what will and what won’t be on your TV screen this week. The Proud Family Reboots Gets A Release Date The Proud Family is getting an official reboot and 90s babies couldn’t be happier. The Proud Family: […]
Meta — formerly known as Facebook — is giving Oculus Quest 2 users the opportunity to have a jam session with The Roots and attend a virtual Young Thug concert for Black History Month. Accessible through the Horizon Venues app, the two concerts are just part of the programming planned for the month. In addition to The Roots jam session and Thugger concert, DJ Snoopadelic will spin a set of his favorite hip-hop and funk, while Bounce icon Big Freedia will deliver a New Orleans dance party for the ages.
And while the music might be the highlight, there will be educational experiences too, including VR experiences about “Traveling While Black,” America’s history of protest, reform, activism, and social justice, and a virtual visit to the White House with President Barack Obama. New VR content will be made available each week, while Facebook’s Lift Black Voices hub will offer more traditional content, and Instagram will have its own collection of Reels and video series highlighting Black history — which is really just American history without the filter of default whiteness. You can find out more here.
As for The Roots, Big Freedia, and Young Thug, they’ve all been keeping busy with various projects. The Roots’ Questlove and Black Thought recently launched their Disney Plus series “Rise Up, Sing Out,” and Questlove has been nominated for an Oscar for his documentary, Summer Of Soul. Meanwhile, Young Thug is helping his artist Gunna “push P” and Big Freedia is fresh off a 2021 spent remixing huge pop hits by Lady Gaga and Rebecca Black.
Meta — formerly known as Facebook — is giving Oculus Quest 2 users the opportunity to have a jam session with The Roots and attend a virtual Young Thug concert for Black History Month. Accessible through the Horizon Venues app, the two concerts are just part of the programming planned for the month. In addition to The Roots jam session and Thugger concert, DJ Snoopadelic will spin a set of his favorite hip-hop and funk, while Bounce icon Big Freedia will deliver a New Orleans dance party for the ages.
And while the music might be the highlight, there will be educational experiences too, including VR experiences about “Traveling While Black,” America’s history of protest, reform, activism, and social justice, and a virtual visit to the White House with President Barack Obama. New VR content will be made available each week, while Facebook’s Lift Black Voices hub will offer more traditional content, and Instagram will have its own collection of Reels and video series highlighting Black history — which is really just American history without the filter of default whiteness. You can find out more here.
As for The Roots, Big Freedia, and Young Thug, they’ve all been keeping busy with various projects. The Roots’ Questlove and Black Thought recently launched their Disney Plus series “Rise Up, Sing Out,” and Questlove has been nominated for an Oscar for his documentary, Summer Of Soul. Meanwhile, Young Thug is helping his artist Gunna “push P” and Big Freedia is fresh off a 2021 spent remixing huge pop hits by Lady Gaga and Rebecca Black.
Samples have always been the backbone of hip-hop. The very first raps were performed over beat breaks, which were looped and extended to provide B-boys a platform for their gymnastic dance routines and rappers their bombastic bars. However, despite hip-hop’s preference for calling back to the past, making history as modern as a freshly-released single, the genre has oddly few examples of another tool for paying homage to the forebears and icons of days past.
Last week, M1 and Stic.man of revered revolutionary rap duo Dead Prez revealed that the late, great Los Angeles legend Nipsey Hussle reached out to them prior to his death for permission to remake their seminal 2000 debut albumLet’s Get Free — but the idea was never executed, as Nipsey passed away before he was able to begin work on the project in earnest. Besides this one high-profile example, there aren’t very many other albums by current rappers that seek to recreate the classic works that have inspired and influenced them. So, why doesn’t hip-hop have many cover albums?
Part of the answer may stem from rap music’s status as a young genre. Just 30 years ago, the culture as a whole was still fighting for its legitimacy, dismissed as a passing fad. However, that didn’t seem to stop musicians in other disciplines from nearly constantly covering each others’ songs to the point that there is widespread debate about the “best” versions of hits like “Respect,” originated by Otis Redding and made classic by Aretha Franklin; “Proud Mary,” a Creedance Clearwater Revival turned rocking revue by Ike and Tina Turner; and “Strange Fruit,” the defiant ode to Black resistance in the face of monstrous treatment sung by Billie Holiday and further popularized by Nina Simone.
Rock artists have also had a long history of reinterpreting classics for new generations. Consider Dirty Projectors’ Rise Above. In 2007, bandleader David Longstreth set out to replay Black Flag’s 1981 album Damaged from memory despite not hearing in for 15 years prior. If that sounds ambitious, Beck’s 2009 project Record Club would seem downright obsessive, as the genre-hopping multi-instrumentalist sought to cover whole albums in just one day each with a fluid collective of musicians. These included Leonard Cohen’s Songs Of Leonard Cohen, The Velvet Underground’s The Velvet Underground & Nico, and INXS’s Kick.
The form is a staple of other genres, such as rock and soul, but seems foreign to hip-hop, despite the fact that hip-hop now has enough history behind it to have several generations of “old-school” music, as many a millennial has been dumbstruck to learn in recent years. Where a 35-year-old today may have cited NWA, Public Enemy, or Run-DMC as “old-school” based on their high school experiences, a 15-year-old today looks at that 35-year-old’s high school faves like Jay-Z, Ludacris, or Nelly, and sees only a pack of old fogeys — Public Enemy may as well have been recorded on Fred Flintstone’s Dictabird.
Further complicating hip-hop’s relationship to cover projects is its reliance on samples and insistence on originality. Biting lyrics is a no-no of the highest order in hip-hop, and while sampling is the foundation of the art form, rarely are songs recreated or reinterpreted — and sometimes, choosing a sacrosanct record to recreate is seen as blasphemous. Just look at the reaction to DJ Khaled’s Outkast sample on his 2019 song “Just Us.” Borrowing the melody of “Ms. Jackson” didn’t work out any better for him than J. Cole’s similar homage — borrowing the loop from “Da Art Of Storytelling, Part 1” on “Land Of The Snakes — did for the North Carolina MC.
However, there is one example of a hip-hop cover album that was both well-received and tastefully done. In 2011, former Slum Village member Elzhi set out to pay tribute to one of his favorite MCs, Nas, by recreating Nas’s revered debut album Illmatic with a live band. The resulting mixtape, cleverly titled Elmatic, saw Elzhi putting his own unique twists on both Nas’s rhymes and the ’90s masterclass beats; Elzhi deftly re-worded some of the more iconic lyrical sequences, keeping the familiar diction and cadences, channeling them to flip Nas’s autobiographical tales into narratives of his own Detroit upbringing. The band embellished on the Ahmad Jamal, Gap Band, and Michael Jackson samples, bringing their musicality to the fore, where previously the drum tracks were the centerpieces of the album.
Elmatic‘s success only highlights how intriguing the idea of hip-hop cover albums truly is. Rap music, despite its reputation as a youth genre with little use for its elder statesmen, has always held a deep reverence for the history, breadth, and depth of Black music. Puffy can sample Diana Ross for a celebratory posthumous Notorious BIG single and Three 6 Mafia can turn a 30-year-old Willie Hutch soundtrack cut into an international players’ anthem, thoroughly disproving the trope that hip-hop doesn’t respect its elders. Rappers and producers simply choose to reinterpret what has already been done. If that’s not the essence of a cover, nothing is.
Nipsey Hussle and Elzhi both understood this, and both were willing to take the plunge, risking the disapproval of hardcore hip-hop heads to salute their musical forebears. That’s to be applauded — and imitated. Hip-hop now has a rich history of its own, just waiting to be mined, paid homage to, and translated into new terms for younger ears that may not be familiar with it, but are certainly much more receptive than they are given credit for. Whether it’s a New York boom-bap standard, a West Coast G-funk essential, or a Dirty South crunk classic, it’s time for hip-hop to begin giving its older albums some fresh looks.
Nipsey Hussle is a Warner Music artist. Uproxx is an independent subsidiary of Warner Music Group.
When Vic Mensa hops on Zoom with me, he’s riding in the back of an Uber as he heads to his next destination in Chicago’s South Side. It is a slight change of plans, as the rapper was meant to be just arriving from Oklahoma City after visiting death row inmate Julius Jones. But the extreme weather conditions halted plans.
Nevertheless, Mensa is adamant about rescheduling the meeting. “The prison system is the burning hell-fire of America’s death machine,” he explains of advocating Jones and others who are wrongfully convicted. “It’s the nucleus of all oppressions that we talk about, from economic exploitation to and the denial of women’s rights, everything is magnified in the prison walls, you know what I’m saying? So it’s just become a real focus of mine to advocate and dedicate myself to using my energy in any way that I can to bring freedom, especially to those who are incarcerated.”
This determination to shed light on this country’s injustices isn’t new for Mensa. While it may be rare for musicians to truly express themselves in such an explicit manner (and on a mainstream level), last year’s protests (a trigger response to America’s ongoing racism-driven murders) gave many the fuel to speak out. For Mensa, he dropped August’s V TAPE that explored redemption while displaying his masterful emcee skills.
He is following it up with I TAPE (due March 26), a project about the rapper’s quest to help others. Below, Mensa reflects on self-healing, activism, and what’s missing from Black History Month.
When you first started out, you didn’t necessarily show this side of your activism on a major level. When was the moment where you stopped caring about what the mainstream may think?
You know, the things that I rap about now, those are the same things that I was rapping about when I started at 16 years old. I think that it’s just the trajectory of growing up, being in the public eye, and reaching an international level all while being a kid. I started making music feeling the responsibility to really bring truth to the people
Where would you say that came from?
I think it came from my upbringing in Chicago and from the artists that I idolize. The way that I grew up in Chicago, I existed between two realities: I had a lot of privilege, but I was surrounded by the underprivileged. So it was blatantly obvious to me that sh*t was f*cked up. (laughs) I got two parents in the house and I’m blessed like that. My best friend who lives right down the street from me ain’t got a father and his mother’s on drugs, you know. Chicago is just a place that shows you the truth about America. It’s very segregated and there’s no sugar coating.
So in conjunction with the artists I love — Common, Lupe [Fiasco], Kanye [West], Tupac, and Black Star — they instilled in me the value of exposing the cracks and America’s broken meaning with their art, you know what I’m saying? Common taught me about Assata Shakur with “A Song For Assata.” When I was 12 years old, Talib Kwali was rapping lyrics from The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison, and Kanye West taught us about diamonds from Sierra Leone. Studying those artists in the way that I did, it made me feel not only like a responsibility, but it was fresh. I aspire to inform and open people’s minds with my music.
I’m curious if the rebellion in your music comes from your love for punk rock.
You know what? One of my biggest inspirations is Rage Against The Machine. Just one of the greatest groups. Rap is punk in a lot of ways. I mean, it’s a counter-culture depiction of working-class realities. They share the fact that generations before them denied the musical value of either one. Rappers are undoubtedly the new rock stars. What categorizes the rock stars? Newspaper headlines, the drugs, and the dying young. I don’t see a distinction between the two. I mention Rage Against The Machine, because Zack de la Rocha is literally just one of the best rappers to me.
He comes from a hardcore background and is rapping over Led Zeppelin riffs. When he’s like [raps 1996’s “People Of The Sun] “Since fifteen hundred and sixteen, Mayans attacked and overseen.” Or [raps “Down Rodeo”] “A thousand years they had the tools, we should be takin’ ’em. F*ck the G-ride, I want the machines that are makin’ ’em.” He’s rapping about socialism, communist ideas, and Marxism. He’s making references that I haven’t heard anybody else make. I take inspiration from all that sh*t.
I think the beauty of Black music is that it’s “ours.” But then when you look at it from an industry perspective, executives may frame our struggles and our culture as something marketable.
There’s a Ghanian writer, one of the best, a woman named Ama Ata Aidoo. She has a quote that I’ll paraphrase: Since we met you people 500 years ago, you’ve accumulated our wealth, our culture, and what do we have to show for it? Your diamonds, your gold, your music, your dance — everything you are is us.” And it’s the truth. The proliferation of Black culture has created the modern-day pop culture. Pretty much all forms of music and just every turn of culture. I think that’s being accepted as being true more, but it is what it is. You know, I think that hip hop is like specifically, I was talking to Lupe [Fiasco] and Royce Da 5’9’’ about this the other day. Hip-hop is Black pain marketed for white America and the world at large. Obviously we consume hip-hop, but we’re a fraction of the population. Hip-hop is our trauma, but with a publicist behind it.
They’re trying to sell records at the end of the day.
I also feel like hip-hop, oftentimes represents this deep American fantasy, although it at the same time it’s reality. America has a fascination with the fear of Blackness and the Black men as this —
He’s basically seen as boogeyman.
Yeah. The Black man has been this violent criminal and the Black woman is this hypersexual deviant, you know? It’s funny sometimes to just look at hip-hop. I was listening to Mystikal the other day and oftentimes what the lyrics are portraying is what white America has been afraid of the whole time. And you can look at female rappers right now. I ain’t gonna say no names, but think about those archetypes that white America has created in their mind and then listen to the lyrics.
But would you say it’s different because it’s coming from a Black voice who’s owning their agency? Or do you think they’re still perpetuating those stereotypes?
I think both are possible. You know what I’m saying? Hip-hop undoubtedly perpetuates stereotypes. How much of rap music is like [starts rapping], “I’m a cold-blooded killer and no one could top me!” (laughs) Or, “I could pop my p*ssy on a n**** face!” I’m not saying that in judgment of anybody. I’m just saying it as an observation. You could look at Bigger Thomas in [American author] Richard Wright’s Native Son and this idea of an uncontrollable rage of the Black man. You can literally turn on the radio at any moment and hear that exact archetype in rap music. It’s just an observation.
I’m thinking of last summer with all of the protests for George Floyd and Breonna Taylor. June was such a moment for reflection, but also a moment of rage for Black people. So much music that stemmed from that, including your “No More Teardrops.” Outside of your scope, do you think activist-based music will continue or remain a marketable trend?
I think everything moves in cycles and hip-hop is cyclical. There have been moments in time when it was in style to comment on the real-life conditions of other people. And then there have been other moments in time when it was way more in style to just shuck and jive. I mean, I do feel that things are not going back to any sense of normal. Not that there ever was really a normal because the entire existence of Black people in America is just abnormal.
But now they’re just waking up to it all of a sudden like racism wasn’t around before.
Like this sh*t wasn’t going down. But I feel like certain curtains have been pulled back that I don’t know if they can be reinstated and people can pretend that it’s all good again. I think that in hip-hop there’s always going to be people that are talking about real sh*t. It was definitely dope in the past year to see artists that you usually wouldn’t expect to make those types of songs doing that. I thought that that was fresh. I don’t know, I can’t predict the future. But I know that hip-hop will always be like a form of journalism for our real experience, amongst many other things.
I often wonder how do we balance the line of not being too performative, but also being genuine in our messages.
That idea really started to occur to me in the last year. I’ve been dedicating my energy towards revolutionary causes and social initiatives for years. And more recently — obviously there has been a huge community of people doing these things for 60 years, 70 years — it’s become more popular. Five years ago when I was popping up in Flint, Michigan handing out water and doing music about that. I wasn’t dealing with people’s accusations of being performative. But now it’s definitely become more trendy. I’ve had to think about those things a lot more. Because in the activism spaces in Chicago I’ve gotten a lot of hate more recently and had to like think twice and three times: “Is this gonna look like performative? Like I’m doing something for clout?”
It’s like you said, you’ve been doing it for years. So it’s coming from a genuine place. But people may look at Vic Mensa as just a celebrity.
I ain’t going to lie though, no good deed goes unpunished too. I’ve definitely learned that whatever you do, especially as a person with some type of social capital or impact, you’re going to be met with criticism. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing at all. But being a cis-gender male artist in these spaces you definitely just gotta be cautious of the optics. It’s something I’ve just tried to learn through my experiences. How do I shed light on the people that may be doing work and not getting the same exposure or celebration that I might get? How do I shed light on those people that don’t get posted on The Shade Room when they do something positive? People that are really doing this sh*t in the streets, living this sh*t day in and day out.
Your SaveMoneySaveLife initiative helps give people who don’t have a social platform a space to share. Like the Street Medix program, for example, where people can learn how to recover from tear gases at protests.
I was in Palestine and I met a kid who was part of an organization that was doing the exact same program. They raised X amount of dollars and were able to train and provide equipment for, I don’t know, 50 medics in Gaza because the Gaza Strip is obviously a f*cking war zone. It made me think instantly of another warzone: Chicago. I want to bring this program back to Chicago. So I went back to the crib and I started making moves to put the program together.
There’s organizations all over the world doing it. But I learned that there was an organization that was only one degree of separation away from me [in Chicago]. Shout out to them, their name is Ujimaa Medics. There’s a woman named Amika Big Tree Tendaji who has been doing amazing work in that space. So I tried to see, “How can I collaborate with y’all? How can we expand this?” The collaboration didn’t work out and next thing I know I’m being dragged and accused of co-opting someone else’s movement. I’m like, “Yo, I got this idea from halfway across the globe, man. I had no intention of co-opting anybody.”
Again, it goes back to having that celebrity platform.
That’s what I’m saying. I was just trying to address a need, you know what I mean? But I found myself getting sh*tted on for literally for trying to do something good, ‘cause that’s how this goes. But shout out Ujimaa, they have amazing sh*t and continue to do so.
Shifting a bit here, watching your “Shelter” video made me very emotional. When you put all your pain, frustration, and sadness in your music, it can feel confronting. How do you maintain that balance of processing trauma in a healthy way?
I believe that the intention that you put into art has immense significance and impacts the way that people are affected by it. When we made the “Shelter” music video it specifically has that healing property. So something like that doesn’t weigh on me emotionally, it helps me. I think any music that I make that’s emotionally impactful, it helps me to process pain.
Speaking of healing, I know you recently went to Ghana for a trip. Your dad is from Ghana, so did it help you find answers?
I’m blessed that I have a great connection with my ancestors, which has been stolen from a lot of Black Americans. As I grow, I just become more aware of the necessity of keeping in touch and the power of that. America so f*cking stressful, you know, and it don’t matter if you on the Southside, Brooklyn, South Central. So I do believe I was going there searching for a sense of peace. I felt far more peaceful when I was there. Communication with ancestors is like a big part of my culture and my Ashanti people [an ethnic group in Ghana]. It just ingrained in me how important it is that I be there regularly. There’s a lot more soul searching to do. I should have somewhere that I can go to be outside of this chaos and that is great.
Our chat is running at the end of Black History Month, but I know a lot of Black people have different thoughts about the month. Do you think it matters anymore or should we be celebrating it differently?
100 percent, we should be celebrating Black History Month. It reminds me of public school. I went through 12 years of public school and there was one class that I had to opt into. It was the one elective where I learned about African-American history or anything. And I went to school with at least half — if not more than half — Black people. But we spent the whole time learning about Eurocentric things. We had British literature class, obviously that’s all white people. AP literature, all white people. We’re learning about Rome, England, France and even go down to South America and Asia.
But they skip an entire continent.
They skip Africa entirely. I resented school for that for as long as I could really remember being cognizant of these things. I was acutely aware of their omission of my history. Even the Black history that we’ve learned begins with slavery and ends with the civil rights movement. Being Ghanian, I’m like “You motherf*ckers are finessing us!”
It’s all revisionist history.
Yeah. ‘Cause I’m learning about this history in my house. You know, Mansa Mussa of the Mali Empire.
Those are things this society doesn’t want us Black people knowing about.
That’s what I’m saying. They don’t want you to know about the medieval castles that were built in Zimbabwe. They want to depict it as being [made by] white people. They want Cleopatra to be Angelina Jolie. They don’t want you to know that the first pyramid builders were Black men. So Black History Month reminds me of public school because we got 12 motherf*cking months. And during one of them is there any emphasis put on our history. And even then it’s like, I haven’t heard much discussion of African history in Black History Month. By 2050, one out of four people on planet earth are projected to be African.
How do you fit damn near a quarter of the world’s population and their history in one month? I hate seeing schools say, “Tell children’s parents they can opt out of Black History Month. Shaun King said something I liked: “If they could opt out of that, then let us opt out of theirs.” I recognize that denial of people’s history and people’s contributions to civilization is a tactic of oppression and white supremacy. So any opportunity in which we get to share our narrative, I think it’s important.
“Basically, I tweeted a joke that I assumed Pheobe Bridgers would probably write the vaccination anthem of our times on her next album, which would probably come out in a few years. But then, I decided I would write it instead in the meantime,” she laughs. “This tweet that I thought was very niche ended up blowing up.”
The song, aptly titled “Immune,” opens with the lyrics, “Traffic from the East Side’s got me aggravated / Hotter than the day my brother graduated / Wait four hours in the sun / In line at Dodger Stadium / I’m not scared of dogs or getting vaccinated.” The song resonated with fans and Bridgers herself, who retweeted the clip of the song with the simple comment, “oh my god.”
“When I tweeted the Phoebe Bridgers parody, which then became a real Jensen McCray song, I didn’t expect it to do what it did,” says the 23-year-old singer/songwriter who found herself suddenly famous. “I always thought there was some artifice to it, but in my case, and in a lot of other people’s cases, it really is just an accident. It was very much fortuitous timing, and I think I wrote a pretty good verse that people liked as well.”
Growing up in a bi-racial Black and Jewish family, the Los Angeles native always knew she wanted to be a musician. She took music lessons as a child and when she attended the Grammy Camp at USC at 16 years old, it cemented her desire to pursue music professionally. She returned to USC for her undergraduate degree, this time to study performance with an emphasis on songwriting, and while she was there, her manager found her on Instagram and, as she shares matter of factly, booked her for a show.
She released her first single, “White Boy” in December 2019, following it with “Wolves” in February of 2020. The plan was to continue rolling out music, but the pandemic put those plans on pause. However, the same mixture of inherent talent and social media magic that had brought McRae to her manager was conjured up again. She was awarded the honor of joining 2021’s YouTube Black Voices campaign, where she hopes her music will “[illuminte] one tile in the mosaic of the Black American experience.”
“I feel like the point of my music is to provide another example of Black womanhood and Black female existence in the world,” she shares when asked about the socially and politically conscious nature of her music. “I think even in my music where I talk about things that are not directly related to my demographic identity, it informs the work I do anyway. When I talk about mental health and unrequited love and adolescence, and in addition, political issues, I feel like my perspective as this person who is at the intersection of a few different marginalized identities comes through always.”
McRae has seen success in the same communities her idols have created, though, in her experience, there’s still more work to be done for women of color in alternative music. “When I would play shows, people would always ask me before I played if I made R&B or if I made ‘urban’ music,” she digs. “I don’t even know what that means. That’s kind of a big word in music. Then after I played, they’d be like, ‘oh, you remind me of “insert white artists here”, but with more soul,’ which to me was just like code for ‘you’re Black.’ I think as with many other fields, white women kind of got the exposure first, and now people are opening up their definition of womanhood and rock music and folk music a little bit more to include women of color in that space.”
When McRae reminisces about her favorite artists, her eyes light up, her speech quickens, and fits of laughter punctuate her sentences. Here, she pays homage to the Black artists who have not only inspired her music but, in some ways, have made her music possible.
Alicia Keys
Alicia Keys is the reason I am a musician. My mom played me her music, and I was so drawn to it right away. She was a mixed girl with braids and I was a mixed girl with braids and I was like, ‘This is everything to me.’ Really, it was her piano playing more than that I was really drawn to. I don’t even really play piano primarily anymore but the piano was my first instrument. Alicia Keys showed me a model of musical identity that really resonated with me when I was a kid. I just loved everything she did — especially The Diary Of Alicia Keys, Songs In A Minor, and As I Am. Those three albums were really important to me.
Stevie Wonder
Alicia Keys and Stevie Wonder were two of the first artists I listened to in childhood. Stevie Wonder [was] just fun and the virtuosity that he had was really inspiring. I just remember being in the car with my older brother and my mom and just begging to hear “Black Man.” We would just scream, “Black Man, Black Man, Black Man!” so she would play that over and over again. My dad is a lawyer, but he has a beautiful singing voice and he used to sing a lot of Stevie Wonder to my mom. That was part of how he courted her, so that’s a very important part of my story.
Tracey Chapman
Tracy Chapman is important in the sense that I get compared to her a lot. I am honestly not as well-versed in her discography, everything that I know I love, but I have to acknowledge the historical lineage that led to me as a musician. She’s a Titan. I’ve seen so many different live performances of her playing “Fast Car” and her silencing arenas with just her and her guitar. That’s really important to me because even though I love playing with a band and that’s something I definitely want to do when shows come back, just the knowledge that it’s possible to silence an arena with just you and your voice and your guitar is something really remarkable. And also alto representation. Higher “feminine-sounding” voices are often favored, and having a super deep voice sets me apart — which is cool but it can also be sort of isolating. There are not a ton of female-identifying artists who have those super deep voices, at least not in the genres I traffic in. So, whenever I do find other artists who have that deep resonant alto, I feel very seen.
Corinne Bailey Rae
One of the other biggest artists in my childhood would be Corinne Bailey Rae. I listened to her self-titled debut constantly when I was a kid. She was another Black woman with a guitar making this interesting fusion of pop and folk and jazz, and she’s British. I’m kind of an Anglophile. I love how delicate and feminine her depiction of Black womanhood is. There [are] a few songs on the album that are so special to me. Obviously, “Put Your Records On” — the big hit — just makes me happy. But “Like A Star” is a song I played at so many school talent shows. That song, “I’d Like To,” I love that song so much. That song to me is like summer. It paints such a vivid picture of growing up in a Black neighborhood. Obviously, for her, it’d been growing up in the UK, but there are a lot of overlaps. When I was little, the neighborhood I grew up in before I moved to the Valley, growing up [with] that sense of community and just being around a large group of Black people, just being fully joyous.
Moses Sumney
A more recent discovery is Moses Sumney. I started listening to him when I was a freshman in college. I don’t remember who originally played me “Plastic,” but I was frozen where I stood when I heard it. Everything I listened to from him is so inspiring. I wrote an essay about his double album græ that I’m going to put on my blog one day. He completely defies all description and, with regard to being someone who’s trying to break out of stereotypical genre boxes myself, to watch the way that he does that is amazing. Everything he does is about bouncing back-and-forth between binaries with regard to not only musical genres, but also gender. He’s so comfortable in himself and makes incredible art that isn’t bound to any social expectation, it’s just really beautiful. His lyrics are so incredible, his voice is its own crazy instrument. He’s so in control of his artistic vision, which is something I aspire to one day. I’m instrumental in all of the decision-making in my art, but I don’t necessarily feel like I am as confident as I one day could and Moses is definitely the model I want to emulate.
Some artists covered here are Warner Music artists. Uproxx is an independent subsidiary of Warner Music Group.
Last year, Chiiild, the moniker for Montreal-based singer Yonatan Ayal, arrived with his debut project, Synthetic Soul. The seven-track effort was led by the success of “Count Me Out” and “Pirouette,” tracks that helped bring plenty of attention to him. He was eventually named one of the most promising Canadian acts and this year, Chiiild will look to fulfill that with his upcoming debut album, Hope For Sale.
While we’ve yet to receive music or a release for the project, Chiiild’s Yonatan spoke to us about the direction fans can expect him to go in on Hope For Sale. “The intention I think was — to break it down — lyrically, to be more conversational, to reflect the times [more],” he said. “A lot of the artists that I love and I grew up on are just like mirrors of society… it’s beautiful because you see what’s happening, what’s trending in life, not so much just music, and you’re like, ‘Hey this is what I need to reflect, this is my reaction to that trend.’”
Coming off a year like 2020 that was as hectic and overwhelming as any set of 12 months could be, Chiiild insists that as an artist, it’s important for him to reflect the times for listeners of today and tomorrow. “I’m here to translate what has happened in the streets and try to immortalize it on record and say, “Hey you know what? Tomorrow’s going to be better,’” he said.
As he continues to prepare new music for a release at some point this year, we sat down with Chiiild’s Yonatan and asked him for some of the Black artists that influenced him and his sound as he grew up and found his voice, and he gave us these thoughts on the five (but really six) Black artists that inspire his work.
Gigi
She’s an Ethiopian singer. She put out this self-titled album when I was a kid, or at some point a long time ago. It was just played on rides from Montreal to Toronto every few months when I went to visit family. It was so peaceful, so moody, [and] it still had so much of our culture in it. As an artist, you’re a sponge so it just seeped into me early. I would say she’s definitely my first inspiration. If you listen to the record, she has this version of her album, it’s called “The Illuminated Audio Version,” and it is so meditative, so peaceful, it just transports you to another place. When you think about the music that we’re making, that’s a big part. There is a sense of escapism, I do want you to put your headphones on, or turn it up real loud, and just get lost in it, build a ritual around the record and I feel like that’s what that album taught me to do. The best way for me to describe it, I’m not sure what it’s called by word, but it’s that moment where something that’s not sad makes you wanna cry. That’s the feeling where you’re on the brink [of tears] and you’re like I don’t know why I just feel this way and it’s overwhelming. That’s the goal, that’s the destination [with escapism]. I know it sounds dramatic, but I’m pretty dramatic.
Massive Attack
[They’re] kind of a Black and a White artist in one. To be fair, I don’t really see color in the same way partially because of that same experience we talked about earlier. I would say that music is probably the closest attempt at blending R&B, punk, reggae, dub, [and] industrial. It’s what they created as a world their own… I feel like the attempt is to create a world of our own as well, I want to be best in class, in my space with my tribe and my people, and build that one-on-one relationship. When I listen to Massive Attack, I’m just like, this is something that doesn’t get classified as Black music, but is Black music to me. That’s something that I love. Other things in life made me tap into who I am instead of trying to fit, being an Ethiopian Canadian, it’s like how much representation do we have in the world or in media until The Weeknd, that’s like yesterday. It’s not that long ago, I would say I was encouraged to just be myself because that’s the only way that I was able to radiate the way I’m supposed to. There’s a quote that I’m going to misquote that I heard that I think kind of sums it up the best: “Great strength is shown in restraint.” Being able to restrain from doing all those things and just focusing on my values and what I want to put in the world is my greatest strength and where I find my strength. It took a really long time to get to a place where I’m just like, “This is me, this is who I am, whatever take it or leave it.’ It takes everyone a lifetime to really get fully acclimated with themselves. At the same time, that’s what this is about, that’s really why I’m doing this. I’m doing it to represent myself and people like me and people will find it.
Sam Cooke
Because of how “Count Me Out” was conceived. “Count Me Out” really came from me watching an episode of Being Mary Jane and Sam Cooke’s “(Somebody) Ease My Troublin’ Mind” was playing. I was just immediately taken back by it, went and bought every CD I could find, or vinyl, but I essentially collected them all within that year and studied it, studied it, studied it and I was like, “I want this.” I want to do something like this that feels like this but that is a reflection of all my inspirations. When you think of “Count Me Out” and how starts in that string intro and how it’s in 6/8 and just the way it’s composed. You can tell that as an artist you’re a sponge, I’ve been listening to Sam Cooke for the whole year, “Count Me Out” happens, it’s just the natural process. I’m not sure anything that I’m doing other than trying to be my own being is on purpose. I think as artists we recognize things that are beautiful, interesting forms and that stuff happens in your everyday life. You go out the house and you see a strange car and you’re like, “Oh, this is really interesting, there’s something really attractive about it.” With music, you go into the studio and press a bunch of buttons and do all kinds of things and when something really special happens, as a great artist you recognize it, that’s all you’re doing. Like yeah, you did press the buttons, and yeah, you make it sound, but the point is you recognized it, that’s the difference.
Bob Marley
I’m kind of going back in time, so it’s like that’s also part of my DNA growing up. If you’re in an Ethiopian household, you understand the impact of Bob Marley but what’s impressive and with Bob Marley is his ability to represent everybody. Every shade of Black was represented with Bob Marley and that’s one man, it’s unbelievable. He did his thing and I really truly respect that and aspire to radiate one-fifth of his energy. I think some things are popular because they’re popular and some things are popular because they’re good and I think Exodus is popular because it’s both good and popular. It’s just incredible, that’s probably the album I listen to the most. I love “Buffalo Soldier,” I love the storytelling element, “No Woman No Cry” [as well]. It’s a journey, you turn on that album and from top to bottom it just feels incredibly homogenous. He’s telling his story, but at no point do you feel attacked or threatened by what he’s saying, and I think that’s a big superpower of him and his collaborators. He can be revolutionary without making you defensive. That’s magic, I don’t know how you do that. You just sing along to it whether you’re the perpetrator or the victim. You’re just like, “I’m with you.” That needs to be studied if it hasn’t already been studied it’s just the way that his messaging is just second to none.
Jimi Hendrix/The Weeknd
I would say Jimi Hendrix for his incredible gift, his talent, and ability to just communicate through his instrument, that’s something that we all as musicians want to be able to do. The other one would be The Weeknd more recently. Representation alone, the fact that he just keeps pushing the bar for artists like us, like I said, growing up there was no one that looked like me on TV and for him to go and continue to push the bar it’s incredibly inspiring and challenging at the same time. I’m in constant awe. That’s kind of the bar that keeps moving, if that makes sense. I’m grateful that we have somebody like that.
