I've been really enjoying Country Fried Soul. There's lots to love about your book. One thing I really dig is how you designed it to be explicitly hip-hop. I really love your mixtape concept. It's like the funk is in the format, too!

That's what is also interesting to me about hip-hop writing. First off, there's a huge variety of styles—as many as there are MCs or graf writers or DJ or b-girl/b-boy styles--and mad quality to be had. Don't believe me? Check Raquel Cepeda's incredible anthology And It Don't Stop or Oliver Wang's Classic Material. (And anyone who doesn't believe "real" journalism, the kind that takes risks and changes lives, is happening in hip-hop should check Cheo Hodari Coker's biography of Biggie or anything by Elizabeth Mendez-Berry.)

I'm not even getting to Bakari Kitwana or Mark Anthony Neal or Tricia Rose's cultural criticism or Danyel or Adam Mansbach or Jee Kim's lit or Joe Schloss, Cheryl Keyes, or Raquel Z. Rivera's scholarship. I could go on mentioning peers like this who inspire me for days...

But the point is most folks get better with time, indeed some folks get really good, and as a result, it feels like there's a lot of style, knowledge, and just straight-up kick-ass writing out there right now. I'm proud of us for that.

I think it's just going to keep on getting better. The other day, I counted more than a dozen books out from my peers and friends in the past 12 months. The publishing industry is waking up to the quality of our stuff. And even if you don't like my writing or the next person's, there's another voice you need to hear right around the corner. That's hip-hop...

One thing you got me thinking about was what makes our writing hip-hop. Because even if I was writing about the revaluation of the yuan, I'd still say my shit was hip-hop. And I'm interested in trying to figure out why, and asking others how they see it as well…it's what I'm trying to do with this current project on the aesthetics of hip-hop. What makes hip-hop journalism or hip-hop theater or hip-hop pedicures hip-hop?

For me, I've been messing around with storytelling, sentence structure, internal rhyme, flow, voices, layering. It's not just rap music that influences me—it's everything: what it would read like to successfully capture, say, the warmth and humanity of a Brett Cook-Dizney piece, the ignition and surprise of a Rokafella floor routine, the shrewdness and ambition of a Jay-Z power move?

Not that anyone can read this in my writing—usually I suck, and I'm really not that confident at this yet. But it is something I am conscious of when I write and rewrite and edit. Do you obsess about any of this stuff too?

Questions, questions, always got questions.

Peace,

Jeff

I'm sorry it took a while to reply to you, though it looks like people have used my absence to get a discussion going. In some ways that has actually helped me to come up with what I want to say here, for it's that same opinionated spirit that these people are expressing that makes writing about hip-hop interesting. More so than other musical genres, writing about hip-hop opens you up into such a vulnerable space simply because there are always people who will tell you if they think you are full of shit for what you are saying.

I've told you this before, but it was somewhat of a terrifying challenge to write the Dirty South book for so many reasons. Not only is it my first book but it's the first to tackle this subject (and I pray not the last). I had an overriding fear that my work would not appear credible to those who have chronicled the culture for many years. That shit kept me up at night at times!

Hip-hop's tough love is helping me become a better writer and reporter, and I love it for that. I'm starting to see that I can have a valid role in the development of the literary end of hip-hop by helping artists and others in the community tell their stories and to help them tell their own stories as well. More than a few people I talked to during the course of writing my book mentioned interest in putting their own books together. I was particularly impressed when 8Ball of 8Ball and MJG fame mentioned an arsenal of poetry! I'd love to help catalyze these kinds of book projects for people.

Answering your question of how hip-hop has changed my life is difficult at best. I was born the year that Kool Herc perfected the loss of his accent and started to seriously throw down in New York, as I learned from your book. My life seems like a hip-hop pastiche of sorts, even though I grew up in the suburbs and only started to become versed in city life as a young adult. That's testament to the reach of hip-hop.

Pivotal moments in my early hip-hop history: At age 10 I soaked up Breakin' and Beat Street and challenged a fifth grade classmate to a break-off (I don't think I won). I jammed off of those same synth grooves that Afrika Bambaataa did, and I saw Grandmaster Flash mixing records on TV and longed to integrate the technique into the pause-button mixtapes I was making. And then when I was about 12, I saw these kids from right here in the Bay Area on a local TV show called Home Turf. They were probably 15-16, something like that, and they were DJing their little hearts out. Their names were QBert and Mixmaster Mike. I can't flex records like they do, but what amazing role models to have behind the decks at an early age, right?

Still, as a kid I never really felt like a part of hip-hop, rather an observer of it. It's not like I was in New York dodging third rails or anything like that, so that's why I felt that way. As an adult so many years later I'm just beginning to find my voice within the culture.

The element of DJing as introduced to me by hip-hop has been the most influential on me in my work, whether I'm actually writing about hip-hop or not. Country Fried Soul is what I like to call a mixtape in book form: You can read it in any order, and it's got an A-Side (interviews and reflections on the culture) and a B-Side (reference material and recommendations). It has that same sort of cut-and-paste aesthetic. Writing this book made me realize how much that defines all of the writing I do.

Hip-hop has influenced my whole life in a profound way. It's how I sensibly patch together my strange palette of musical and cultural interests and influences. Even if some people think I'm full of shit -- which, in this incredibly incisive blog-i-verse, is not unlikely. But that's okay, for we're hopefully all in it for a good discussion.

Anyway, congratulations on winning an American Book Award! I'm glad people are recognizing your significant work, and I hope it continues to do well for you. I look forward to the next leg of our chat and promise my reply won't be so long and timid in the making!

Thanks,
Tamara

Hope all is well, the book is blowing up, and the weather is good on your side of the Bay!

Getting a chance to link up back with you within the blog fishbowl is a pretty cool thing. And I know it's going to be a really interesting conversation because we've been asked to talk about hip-hop history.

Now this is funny to me in some ways. We're both Left Coasters--and Bay Area partisans, at that. (Representing the blue and gold and the green and gold and the paying side of the Bay Bridge, which I'm always gonna be bitter about...) So it's strange that I'd go and do a history that falls in love with the Bronx, Long Island, Watts, DC, and many other places--but makes little mention of the Yay, the place where I actually chose to put down some roots--and that you're doing the history of the Dirrrty. To take it further, I grew up on an island in the Pacific.

Hip-hop is often so much about representing where you're from and who you are. I guess a great place to start this conversation is: what in the world possessed us to think we could do what we did?

Like Danyel, I came of age during the 80s, for better and for worse. I think it was Greg Tate who once pointed out that there's a group of writers born in the late 60s and early 70s for whom hip-hop was ideology and religion, and so therefore, liberation and salvation, all rolled into one. (Well, maybe he didn't really say it like that, but that's how I took it!) It's interesting how much in our writings many of us have emphasized **the struggle**--it goes with the idea that hip-hop actually transformed and continues to **transform lives**. We imbue hip-hop with a lot of--perhaps too much--weight.

And if I'm saying something that sounds obvious, it's only because I know that there are many hip-hop journalists who don't believe that aspect of the culture is important at all, that the pleasure is enough. Now, hip-hop was always about pleasure. Pain by itself isn't something you can move masses of people to do much with, whether it be to stop a prison from being built, or to part ways with their hard-earned Jacksons. I would be the last to deny that there is something beautiful in being able to debate the merits of one rapper against the other all night long with another head. But I guess I'm saying that when Hashim asked us to talk about hip-hop history, I immediately thought about what **kind** of hip-hop history we were writing.

Anyway, so let me start by asking you this: how did hip-hop change your life and what made you want to write about it the way that you do?

Looking forward to this conversation!

Peace,

Jeff

thanks for the thoughtful response.

Changing the subject to music, I wonder how your relationship to it has evolved.

I got into this business because I loved to write. I would have written about anything, and was writing about everything from mayors'
conventions to olive oil when I was was starting out in the Bay Area.
But then Too Short and Hammer and the three Tonys started blowing up, and I wanted to write about them. HAD to write about them, like life depended on it. One thing led to another, and I end up as music editor of Vibe, then editor in chief ... hm. My story's old and been told. ;)

All's to say, I loved music, the sound of it, the histories of it, the art and science of it, the lyric sheets in LP covers, all that. There's a part in BLISS, wherein Eva is young and taping songs off the radio with a GE Cassette Recorder. That's the kind of girl I was. And in my twenties (hey now! quite some time ago!), when it was all about the excitement of reviewing live shows, I felt like the luckiest chick in the world -- going to the Bud SuperFest, or the Frankie Beverly concert, for free, and getting to write, and have published, my opinion about the shows. It was a dream come true. A dream I didn't even know I had until I was in the middle of it.

So then I got serious. Slaved. Plugged. You know the drill.

So I'm wondering how you feel about music right now. As for me, I'm way back into it. BLISS, especially, had me listening and re-listening to EVERYthing. I listen to old and new all the time now ... especially as I work from home. Has your taste changed? Me? I'm liking Cassidy and Jeezy, but I've got a lot of Barry White and Guy and Mariah in my life, too.

cheers,

Danyel

Sorry it took so long to write back, I just got back in town. Yes, we’ve never hung out in person, but I guess we’ll make up for that here online. We’ve definitely, though, crossed paths, or even maybe, walked down the same one. I remember bumping into you at one of those VH-1 or MTV tapings, and you told me, “You’re doing a great job” and then you shot me this look. And I knew exactly what it was you were trying to say without saying.

I’m only about nine chapters or so into Bliss (by the way, congrats), but already I’m starting to remember what the “music industry”—or as I like to call it “music bubble”— is really about. Eva works in the music bubble, a place where nothing else exists besides her business (be it personal or professional). I’m starting to see this as a problem for Eva because as I’m over 100 pages into Eva’s life, I have yet to hear from a parent, a sibling, a best friend, an aunt, a grandparent, a cousin—you get the picture. It’s only been a couple of days for Eva, but that’s all it takes, because as most of us who have been-there-done-that know, 24 hours without contact to the outside world will turn you into the one thing you’d never admit to being: #4080’s shady ass industry person.

In that respect, even though this takes place back in 1998, it doesn’t seem as though much has changed. Women who work in the industry now, back in the 90s, the 80s, the 70s, whatever, have probably all experienced much of the same pressures associated with working in the industry. And when that pressure builds up, it’s hard to stay focused on your true reason for pursuing a career in music. We’re all in it for the love of the product, but that often gets lost in the bubble too. You can only hope that while you’re drowning in your own drama, someone that knows what you’re going through will stop, or maybe even shoot you a look ;), to remind you why you’re there in the first place.

We've never hung out, but it's a pleasure to meet you online. Hope you enjoyed the book. If you've got bones to pick with me, I'm ready ... : )

Hashim asked me to start with a little about the subject matter of Bliss, so here goes. This very first bit is basically from the flap copy:

At a 1998 gathering on the Bahamas Paradise Island, record exec Eva Glenn is throwing a comeback showcase for her singing sensation, Sunny Addison. At the event's peak, Eva begins to sink beneath the waves of a confusing sexual triangle, a career at a crossroads, fading self-confidence, and decisions to be made about her possible pregnancy. She decides to flee Paradise for the pastoral out island of Cat, and what begins as an idyllic break turns into an intense sojourn that brings Eva to terms with the crises closing in on her.

It was my goal to take a cold look at the machinations of the music industry, but to also write with a passion for the power of pop. I wanted this novel to be about the year after Biggie and Tupac were murdered -- the bizarre mood so many of us were in then -- and have it also be about the rhythm and blues of life, and why we hold tight to the sex and music and love that offer us a fleeting glimpse of bliss, even when the price is steep.

The book is about women on the business side of music -- women of our, and of the previous and the next generation -- dealing with new power, new money, the pressure to be and to stay motivated, tough, pretty, in shape, in a relationship, and to do all this while acting like they are oblivious to the racial and sexual tensions that exist in the world, and in the music biz specifically. Bliss is Eva's story, for sure, but there are other important characters -- Dart, Ron, Giada, Sunny, Hakeem, Myra, Ned, Gayle -- who have whole stories. The way these men and women interact with each other paint a portrait of the way things were ... way back when artists like DMX were brand new.

Back when I was still wowed by the sexual-political intrigues behind the scenes, and how these affairs/alliances/fueds actually affected what music came out, what music hit, and what music failed.

Back when interracial relationships in the music indsustry were still rare enough to be gossiped about.

Back when industry "beatdowns" were far less choreographed.

I wanted to talk about how weird it is for adults from "poor" or even middle class backgrounds to be making more money in a year then their parent(s) have made in any ten years.

I wanted to talk about how no matter how cynical music execs can be, just about each one started with a love for music -- for soul, for pop, for R&B, for hip hop. I wanted to talk about the connection between the different kinds of musics.

I set the book in the Bahamas and in California, because NYC is written about to death (not to say I'll never write about it). Not setting the book in Manhattan also goes to the fact of just how much business gets done Outside the Office: at dinners, on junkets, at conventions.

I also wanted to talk about the highs of women working in the business (truly feeling a part of something; hanging around like-minded people) and the lows (acting like a man and then been scorned for it; losing a sense of self; unexpected pregnancies; cold-blooded love affairs, as well as people "catching feelings").

I'll sign off with a lil' excerpt. Eva's at a bar on Paradise Island, sitting with Hakeem and Myra. Hakeem's a former exec, and now a "consultant." Myra's a gossip columnist. They're pressuring Eva to talk about the business, but she's getting to the point where she's sick of it. This is an internal conversation ... Eva thinking to herself.

In this business, in this life, somebody always trying to make you prove your origins. Your hometown, yeah, but truly, your origins. Want you to tell them, in one way or another, that you identify. Want you to state that you're happy but not too happy about the size of your check and the options it grants. Let's sit up here and remind each other of the contracts signed, fondle the songs created and recreated, songs marketed and promoted and shipped. Let's relive parties planned and attended, deals cut, cornballs cut out, sex had, children inconveniently born, fans surprised or delighted or disappointed but still spending fifteen dollars on a disc you thought up or helped name or approved the budget for, something you knew was genius or truth or crap -- who cared, the shit was hot. And everybody got paid. Everybody in your circle, anyway. Your cool-ass compadres. The fans, if they're broke, or desperate, or manipulated, what then? The music soothes them, hypes them, serves them. This is a business. Those mufickers make their own decisions. God bless 'em, but shit: we're all grown.

Kim, I know you've given some thought to these types of things ... looking forward to chatting it up with you.

DanyelSW