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  On “Dope Man” he calls himself, “the soul of Mumia” in this modern-day time. I don’t think so.

  And:

  Jay-Z is convincing. When he raps, “I’m representing for the seat where Rosa Parks sat/where Malcolm X was shot/where Martin Luther was popped” on “The Ruler’s Back,” you almost believe him.

  And, referring to my MTV Unplugged show:

  When he rocks his Guevara shirt and a do-rag, squint and you see a revolutionary. But open your eyes to the platinum chain around his neck: Jay-Z is a hustler.

  Wow. I could’ve just dismissed her as a hater; I remember her going on about “bling-bling,” which was just too easy, and, honestly, even after reading her essays I was mostly thinking, “It’s a T-shirt. You’re buggin.” But I was fascinated by the piece and thought some more about what she was saying. It stuck with me and that night I turned it around in my head.

  WE REBELLIOUS, WE BACK HOME

  One of Big’s genius lines wasn’t even a rhyme, it was in the ad lib to “Juicy,” his first big hit:

  Yeah, this album is dedicated to all the teachers that told me I’d never amount to nothin, to all the people that lived above the buildings that I was hustlin in front of that called the police on me when I was just tryin to make some money to feed my daughters, and all the niggas in the struggle.

  I loved that he described what a lot of hustlers were going through in the streets—dissed and feared by teachers and parents and neighbors and cops, broke, working a corner to try to get some bread for basic shit—as more than some glamorous alternative to having a real job.

  He elevated it to “the struggle.” That’s a loaded term. It’s usually used to talk about civil rights or black power—the seat where Rosa Parks sat / where Malcolm X was shot / where Martin Luther was popped—not the kind of nickel-and-dime, just-toget-by struggle that Biggie was talking about. Our struggle wasn’t organized or even coherent. There were no leaders of this “movement.” There wasn’t even a list of demands. Our struggle was truly a something-out-of-nothing, do-or-die situation. The fucked-up thing was that it led some of us to sell drugs on our own blocks and get caught up in the material spoils of that life. It was definitely different, less easily defined, less pure, and harder to celebrate than a simple call for revolution. But in their way, Biggie’s words made an even more desperate case for some kind of change. Che was coming from the perspective, “We deserve these rights; we are ready to lead.” We were coming from the perspective, “We need some kind of opportunity; we are ready to die.” The connections between the two kinds of struggles weren’t necessarily clear to me yet, but they were on my mind.

  THE RENEGADE, YOU BEEN AFRAID

  The day after the listening session, Just finally played a track for me. It opened with some dark minor organ notes and then flooded them with brassy chords that felt like the end of the world. It was beautiful. When a track is right, I feel like it’s mine from the second I hear it. I own it. This was the record I’d been waiting for. I spit two quick verses on it—no hook, no chorus, just two verses, because we were running out of time to get the album done and mastered and released on schedule. I called it “Public Service Announcement.”

  The subject of the first verse wasn’t blazingly unique. It’s a variation on a story I’ve been telling since I was ten years old rapping into a tape recorder: I’m dope. Doper than you. But even when a rapper is just rapping about how dope he is, there’s something a little bit deeper going on. It’s like a sonnet, believe it or not. Sonnets have a set structure, but also a limited subject matter: They are mostly about love. Taking on such a familiar subject and writing about it in a set structure forced sonnet writers to find every nook and cranny in the subject and challenged them to invent new language for saying old things. It’s the same with braggadacio in rap. When we take the most familiar subject in the history of rap—why I’m dope—and frame it within the sixteen-bar structure of a rap verse, synced to the specific rhythm and feel of the track, more than anything it’s a test of creativity and wit. It’s like a metaphor for itself; if you can say how dope you are in a completely original, clever, powerful way, the rhyme itself becomes proof of the boast’s truth. And there are always deeper layers of meaning buried in the simplest verses. I call rhymes like the first verse on “Public Service Announcement” Easter-egg hunts, because if you just listen to it once without paying attention, you’ll brush past some lines that can offer more meaning and resonance every time you listen to them.

  The second verse for “Public Service Announcement” was almost entirely unrelated to the first verse. I wrote the second verse, which opens with the lyric, I’m like Che Guevara with bling on, I’m complex, as a response to the journalist. When someone asked me at the time of the Unplugged show why it was that I wore the Che T-shirt, I think I said something glib like, “I consider myself a revolutionary because I’m a self-made millionaire in a racist society.” But it was really that it just felt right to me. I knew that people would have questions. Some people in the hip-hop world were surprised by it. There are rappers like Public Enemy and Dead Prez who’ve always been explicitly revolutionary, but I wasn’t one of them. I also wasn’t a Marxist like Che—the platinum Jesus piece made that pretty clear.

  Later I would read more about Guevara and discover similarities in our lives. I related to him as a kid who had asthma and played sports. I related to the power of his image, too. The image on the T-shirt had a name: Guerrillero Heroico, heroic guerrilla. The photo was taken after the Cuban Revolution and by the time I wore the T-shirt, it was probably one of the most famous photographs in the world. Like a lot of people who stumble across the image with no context, I was still struck by its power and charisma.

  The journalist was right, though. Images aren’t everything, and a T-shirt doesn’t change who you are. Like I said in the song “Blueprint 2,” cause the nigger wear a kufi, it don’t mean that he bright. For any image or symbol or creative act to mean something, it has to touch something deeper, connect to something true. I know that the spirit of struggle and insurgency was woven into the lives of the people I grew up with in Bed-Stuy, even if in sometimes fucked up and corrupted ways. Che’s failures were bloody and his contradictions frustrating. But to have contradictions—especially when you’re fighting for your life—is human, and to wear the Che shirt and the platinum and diamonds together is honest. In the end I wore it because I meant it.

  PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

  This is a public service announcement / Sponsored by Just Blaze and the good folks at Roc-A-Fella Records / [Just Blaze] Fellow Americans, it is with the utmost pride and sincerity that I present this recording, as a living testament and recollection of history in the making during our generation.1 / [Jay-Z] Allow me to re-introduce myself / My name is Hov, OH, H-to-the-O-V / I used to move snowflakes by the O-Z / I guess even back then you can call me / CEO of the R-O-C,2 Hov! / Fresh out the fryin pan into the fire / I be the music biz number one supplier / Flyer3 than a piece of paper bearin my name / Got the hottest chick in the game wearin my chain, that’s right / Hov, OH—not D.O.C.4 / But similar to them letters, “No One Can Do It Better”/ I check cheddar like a food inspector5 / My homey Strict told me, “Dude finish your breakfast”6 / So that’s what I’ma do, take you back to the dude / with the Lexus, fast-forward the jewels and the necklace / Let me tell you dudes what I do to protect this7 / I shoot at you actors like movie directors [laughing] / This ain’t a movie dog (oh shit) / [Just Blaze] Now before I finish, let me just say I did not come here to show out, did not come here to impress you. Because to tell you the truth when I leave here I’m GONE! And I don’t care WHAT you think about me—but just remember, when it hits the fan, brother, whether it’s next year, ten years, twenty years from now, you’ll never be able to say that these brothers lied to you JACK! / [Jay-Z] thing ain’t lie / I done came through the block in everything that’s fly / I’m like Che Guevara8 with bling on I’m complex / I never claimed to have wings
on nigga I get my / by any means on9 whenever there’s a drought / Get your umbrellas out because / that’s when I brainstorm10 / You can blame Shawn, but I ain’t invent the game / I just rolled the dice, tryin to get some change / And I do it twice, ain’t no sense in me / lyin as if I am a different man / And I could blame my environment / but there ain’t no reason / why I be buyin expensive chains11 / Hope you don’t think users / are the only abusers niggaz / Gettin high within the game12 / If you do, then how would you explain? / I’m ten years removed, still the vibe is in my veins / I got a hustler spirit, nigga period13 / Check out my hat yo, peep the way I wear it / Check out my swag’ yo, / I walk like a ballplayer / No matter where you go / you are what you are player / And you can try to change but that’s just the top layer / Man, you was who you was ’fore you got here14 / Only God can judge me, so I’m gone / Either love me, or leave me alone15

  AMERICAN DREAMIN’

  This is the shit you dream about / with the homies steamin out / Back-back-backing them Beemers out1 / Seems as our plans to get a grant / Then go off to college didn’t pan or even out / We need it now, we need a town / We need a place to pitch, we need a mound2 / For now, I’m just a lazy boy / Big dreaming in my La-Z-Boy / In the clouds of smoke, been playin this Marvin3 / Mama forgive me, should be thinkin bout Harvard / But that’s too far away, niggas are starving / Ain’t nothin wrong with aim, just gotta change the target4 / I got dreams of baggin snidd-ow5 the size of pillows / I see pies everytime my eyes clidd-ose / I see rides, sixes, I gotta get those6 / Life’s a bitch, I hope to not make her a widow / Now see, the life’s right there / And it seems right there / It’s not quite near, / And it’s not like we’re / professionals movin the decimals / Know where to cop? Nah! Got a connect? No!7 / Who in the F knows how to be successful / Need a Personal Jesus, I’m in Depeche Mode8 / They say it’s celestial, it’s all in the stars / It’s like Tony La Russa / How you play your cards9 / Y’all ain’t fucking with me! / The ironies are / And at all costs better avoid these bars10 / Now let’s start, on your mark / Get set, let’s go—get out the car! / Going in circles, it’s a vicious cycle / This is a crash course, this ain’t high school / Wake up, Muttley, you’re dreamin again / Your own reality show, the season begins / Step one in this process, scramble up in your projects11 / And head to the heights where big coke is processed / You gotta convince ‘em that you not from the Precinct / Please speak slow, ’cause he no speakey no English / If he takes a liking after a couple of trips / If your money is straight, he’s gonna give you consignment / You’re now in a game where only time can tell / Survive the droughts, I wish you well … / Survive the droughts? I wish you well?12 / How sick am I? I wish you HEALTH / I wish you wheels, I wish you wealth / I wish you insight so you could see for yourself13 / You could see the signs, when the jackers is schemin / And the cops is comin, you could read they mind / You could see from behind,14 you could redefine / The game as we know it, one dream at a time / I’m American dreamin

  EARLY THIS MORNING

  “There is video content at this location that is not currently supported for your eReading device. The caption for this content is displayed below.”

  A Love Affair with Something Tragic. (2:15)

  It was the best of times it was the worst of times / I wake up hit my shoe box1 I snatch out a few rocks / Put the rest inside now I’m ready to ride / Put the bomb in my socks so cops can’t locate the vials / I ain’t freshly dressed but got a Colgate smile / That’s right / (I woke up early this morning) / Throw on the same clothes I had on last night2 / I got loads of capers to come up with this paper / I got money schemes that come to me in my dreams3 / Hit the block like a veteran / Fiends need they medicine / I’m the relief pitcher4 / Their clean-up hitters / It works I hit the Ave stash the bag in the dirt / Put the rest in my small pocket I start clockin / (I woke up early this morning) / Same routine I’m runnin game to fiends / Exchangin cash for crack rocks / Back and forth to my stash box / Hundred dollars a week5 / Shorties got the Ave watched / Fiends swarm I’m gettin rid of this bomb6 / As I / (I woke up early this morning with a new sight over life) / Good morning / (Never read the Qu’ran or Islamic scriptures) / (Only Psalms I read was on the arms of my niggaz) / (I woke up early this morning with a new sight over life) / (The sunshine was shinin’ you were on my mind) / (I woke up early this morning)

  When Big Daddy Kane’s first album, Long Live the Kane, came out, in 1988, I was still in the streets. I basically accepted that I’d be a hustler who happened to rap in his spare time. I thought the rap game was crooked and a little fake back then, but I admired people like Kane for making it work. Kane was playing a role, hip-hop’s first playboy: He had the silk robes and pretty girls in all his videos, all that. But his flow was sick: cuz I get ill / and kill / at will / teaching the skill / that’s real / you’re no thrill / so just stand still and chill as I build … He was condensing, stacking rhymes one on top of another. Trying to keep up with him was an exercise in breath control, in wordplay, in speed and imagination. He was relentless on the mic.

  I went on the road with Kane for a while—he knew me from that mix tape I was on with him and Jaz. I think he was considering starting his own label and might’ve had me in mind for a slot. I’m not sure, and nothing like that ever materialized. But I got an invaluable education watching him perform. Kane was like a hip-hop James Brown when it came to his live show. He had a bag of tricks for creating momentum, where to put in his hits, where to pull back. He would have his DJ, Mister Cee, cut off his big hit “Ain’t No Half Steppin’” after one verse, and before the crowd could relax, he’d throw on something even hotter and dial up the energy even more. Kane would hit the stage with the gold rope and the double-breasted silk suit with no shirt and the girls would go crazy. Scoop and Scrap—his dancers—would do choreographed moves that Kane would step in and out of. But the rhyming was always forceful and nimble, so the guys in the audience would get their minds blown by Kane’s mic skills and ignore the ladies’-man routines. He just had an incredible amount of showmanship—even today I use some of the ideas I picked up back then about pacing and performance in my own live show. He was generous, too: He’d stop the show and bring me out when nobody knew who the hell I was. Cee would put on a break beat—“Spread Love,” by Take 6—and I’d just go in on it in the breakneck double- and triple-time rhyming that me and Jaz thought we’d pioneered. The crowd would go nuts.

  Kane put me on a song on his Daddy’s Home album in the early nineties. The video for the song was pretty low-budget, which worked out okay, because all the director could afford to do was something that looked real: They ran the cameras in the middle of the projects and filmed a bunch of hungry New York MCs spitting in a cipher, surrounded by a crowd. It was me, Scoob Lover, my man Sauce Money from Marcy, Ol’ Dirty Bastard, fresh off Wu-Tang’s debut, Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers), and a kid named Shyheim, a sixteen-year-old babyfaced kid who was down with the Wu.

  Shyheim was almost a decade younger than me but was already making some moves in the business. On “Show & Prove” he was rapping with grown men—including some veterans and future legends. In the video he waded through a grimy crowd, arms dicing up the air, oversized fitted to the side, stalking the concrete circle like he owned it. He looked even younger than he was, but he had a voice that sounded like it had been through something in Shaolin. I knew kids like that in Marcy. Maybe I’d been one.

  WASN’T BORN HUSTLERS, I WAS BIRTHIN’ ’EM

  In the game there’s always a younger guy who has an old soul and an understanding of things beyond his years. I mean in the street game, but it also applies to the music industry. An older guy will see a kid and think, Man, that kid moves differently from the rest. He’s ready for this life. They know that if they find the right kid, they can put him under their tutelage and he’ll get it fast, step right into the rhythm of the life. But it starts by the other guy watching him, trying to pick up clues.

  If that sounds predatory, it’s b
ecause recruiting new workers is one of the most predatory aspects of the game. When you’re doing it, it’s hard to see it that way because everyone comes into the game as a recruit—including the ones who eventually become recruiters. And most of the “older guys” doing the recruiting are barely out of their teens themselves, so they still know what it feels like to want to be put on.

  When I wrote a song for my first album inspired by the tension between older guys and new recruits in the streets, I called Kane and told him, “Man, I wrote this song and I really want Shyheim on it.” We tracked down Shyheim’s people and in the end they said he couldn’t do it for whatever reason—and at this point, I hadn’t even made an album yet, so they weren’t feeling pressed to let him do the song. But even though Shyheim is the one I was thinking about for the record, it didn’t really matter that he said no. It was still a record I felt like I needed to make, I just needed someone who could represent what I thought I saw in Shyheim.

  The next day I saw this kid I knew walking across Marcy. He looked like a little star already—the swagger in his bop, the clean gear. I knew his older brother, Andre, a little better, but Andre was a kid to me, too. I had this verse that needed a younger voice on it, but a young voice that was rough and full of ambition, and I just got a feeling from this kid. His name was Malik, but he’d soon rename himself Memphis Bleek.