Hot Music: A Love Story

This is the first piece of music that really stole my heart.




Omarr and I had no business on Fifth Street trying to get into Roc's Lounge. I can't even imagine what possessed the doorman to even entertain us. I guess it was a slow night and they really needed the money.

Roc's Lounge was a shady, smoky, dank, shadowy, hole-in-the-wall club on the roughest street in the roughest neighborhood in my hometown of Greenville, North Carolina. Every week, Roc's Lounge would have an "18 to get in, 21 to drink" night in a noble, if slightly misguided attempt to give young people somewhere to be instead of on the streets. A couple of high school friends of mine, Jamel and Little Jessie, were frequent visitors to the Lounge. They both were good dudes and always generous in extending an invitation to Omarr and I to hit the club with them sometime. Understandably, I had a few reservations. But knowing my concerns would most likely conclude in one of the many epic insult contests between Omarr and I (which I would almost certainly lose), I opted to keep them to myself.

We arrived around midnight. I remember the place smelling like 1000 packs of cigarettes and bathing us in a dim, golden shade of light. There weren't many people there, and the ones we did see obviously knew we were from the south side of town. And the music was INCREDIBLY loud. By this time I was a rising senior in high school, and I had already been to two proms (holla at me!) and more than a few house parties. But I had never heard speakers so powerful. We were a little worried when we couldn't get a fix on Jamel and Little Jessie. We noticed a set of stairs leading up to what we could only assume to be a second level, so Omarr and I decided to head up and see if they were awaiting us.

Sure enough there they were. We all dapped each other up (which means shakes hands for all of my uninitiated friends) and eased into the pocket of the evening. There was very little talking due to the music, but there was really no need for words. A phrase here and there of course to check in, but the club spoke for itself. It didn't take me long to begin feeling comfortable in what I wrongly assumed would be a much more tense, or perhaps hostile environment.

Eventually, I began to notice a strange sense of anticipation, that we actually seemed to be waiting for something. I suppose it was either the energy level of the people in the club or Jamel and Little Jessie's response to each new song, but there was a progression to things that I couldn't quite pinpoint. As the dj continued his work, blending records one after another, the underlying tempo of this hour long soundtrack was gradually gaining speed. Where were we going? What was about to happen?

Just then, as if sensing my curiosity, Little Jessie says to me, "They're about to play Hot."

Hot? What the hell is Hot?

Not even 30 seconds later, the dj completely kills the roaring hip hop music and spins up the first real dance record of the night, "Coffee Pot (It's Time for the Percolator)" by Chicago house musician Cajmere. Almost as if everyone swallowed a sudden dose of pure adrenaline, the club erupted. The track was remarkable, with its relentless pounding and a coffeemaker-like "melody" serving as its musical party piece. Omarr and I stood marveling in the immediacy and urgency of the sudden inspired outburst of movement. Everyone lost their minds!

Everyone, that is, except for Jamel and Little Jessie. They were dancing, yes, but there was still a sense of hesitation, of something yet to come.

It may have been a minute or two before the dj decided to slide into the next track, a surprisingly uplifting and inspirational house song titled "Follow Me" by Aly-us. For me, this track was even better than "Percolator", partly because it actually had words and something refreshingly meaningful to say, and partly because of its use of a majestic, sweeping orchestral sample in conjunction with classic house music pulse and vibration. The energy in the club was more intoxicating than Omarr or I could have ever dreamed.

Yet, Jamel and Little Jessie remained focused.

Until...

I think the first bits we heard were the sampled voices in the track shouting their repeated mantras, "Get up! Come on!" Then came the subtle bleeding of piano chords mixed with a manic snare drum, ricocheting all over the place. After that followed the drunk but determined bass hits. The dj was taunting us, intravenously feeding us the new track while gradually allowing the previous to retreat. By the time "Hot Music" was fully unleashed into the room I realized that in one single crossfade, I'd fallen in love with this song. It was primal, sensual, organic, aggressive, bewitching. I needed it in my life.

Jamel and Little Jessie knew this sensation all too well. Before the track even had time to fully shift they had exploded in a frantic, trance-like dance that looked like the lovechild of b-boy uprockin' and kung-fu. A circle of onlookers took shape around them as they swooped and gyrated to the music. Little Jessie was clearly the technician of the pair; his specificity and direction were laser-like, as if he was making a statement. Jamel's style was more soulful, more impulsive. At times it seemed he didn't even know who or where he was; his pure exploration of the rhythm had us mesmerized. There were a couple other cats who took their turn in the circle, each one inheriting the stage from the other. Omarr and I must have watched this go on for at least four or five minutes, totally stunned by the level of passion and daring. Even though we'd lived in Greenville our whole lives, we'd never seen anything like this. It wasn't until the night was over when we finally caught our local term for this style of dance. Everyone called it "flexin'."

Over the next four months or so, I searched every record store and asked every clerk I could find if they knew this song. I was eventually given a tape with "Hot Music" blended on its front side by "It Takes Two" by Rob Base and DJ E. Z. Rock and on the back by "Treat 'em Right" by Chubb Rock. I practiced my flexin' relentlessly in the secrecy of my room. However, Omarr was never fooled. He could see I wanted to be in the circle from day one, because I really wasn't great at containing my excitement. Almost a year after my first encounter with "Hot Music", I finally jumped in at one of the legendary parties at Mendenhall Student Center on the campus of East Carolina University. After the party, Omarr said to me, "You've been practicing, huh? 'Cause you were wack when you first started!"

Every party I've attended after leaving Greenville, no matter how spectacular, has always seemed to be missing something. I'm always waiting for "Hot Music" to come charging through the clutter to save the night, save the crowd, save me.

"Hot Music", I love you.



peace.

Patriots or Tyrants?

"The tree of liberty must from time to time be refreshed with the blood of patriots and tyrants." Thomas Jefferson

Hmmm...

Shay's Rebellion was an armed social uprising in western and central Massachusetts during the last half of 1786 and spilling over into the first few months of 1787. The rebellion was born from egregious injustices enacted upon Revolutionary war veterans and meager farmhands from whom the state wrongfully confiscated personal and business-related items to pay back debts owed to European war investors. During this period, the framework of the United States' taxation and revenue code was dictated by the Articles of Confederation (the Constitution wasn't adopted until September of 1787) which was hopelessly inadequate to enforce federal law or collect the appropriate revenue to operate the country. Therefore, each state struggled to pay down its own debt accumulated during the war. Much of this debt repayment was placed on the backs of the poor.

It was in a response to Shay's Rebellion that Jefferson penned these words in a letter addressed to James Adam's son-in-law William Stephens Smith concerning the current state of affairs in Massachusetts. It's also been a favorite rallying cry for the recent activities of the Tea Party Movement during the past two years. One of the most visible events involving this phrase occurred in August 2009 when Chris Matthews on MSNBC's Hardball (I really don't like that name.) berated a gentleman named William Kostric about his decision to bring a firearm to a presidential rally.

Here it is:

However, there are critical sections in the letter that are seldom, if ever, mentioned by the people who tout this phrase as a Libertarian calling card. In these passages, Jefferson emphasizes a much more sophisticated, and more moderate (especially given the period) view of social rebellion.

[Their motives] were founded in ignorance, not wickedness. God forbid we should ever be 20 years without such a rebellion. The people cannot be...always well informed. The part which is wrong will be discontented in proportion to the importance of the facts they misconceive.

and

What country before ever existed...without rebellion? And what country can preserve its liberties if their rulers are not warned from time to time that their people preserve the spirit of resistance? Let them take arms. The remedy is to set them right as to facts, pardon, and pacify them.

Should people in this country preserve the "spirit of resistance?" A large part of me believes so. But there is quite a bit more to it. Firstly, it was never Jefferson's belief that ACTUAL blood should be spilled in rebellion. Remember he was politician, not a soldier and not a mercenary. And he was damned sure smart enough not to be so negligent as to incite what would only be considered as anarchy, especially in a country he worked so diligently to help create. Rather, it seems he suffered some of the same inarticulate tendencies of his modern day counterparts in his inartful usage of gun and war imagery to highlight a political concept.

Furthermore, and I feel this is most important, he stresses the importance of an informed public. Now, the Tea Party followers may feel they have nothing to worry about here.

I'm sorry, Tea Partiers. This is where you're all washed up. But it's not your fault.

The people who remain in the background, the ones who logistically and financially organize the Tea Partiers have herded these people not with facts about the challenges of government, but rather with threats, misconceptions, falsities, dubious math, and inflated conjecture. These are the strings by which the groundlings of this movement have been puppeted. And these puppet-masters will continue pulling these strings until their foot soldiers fetch the bounty for them, no matter what kinds of violent atrocities and/or acts of terrorism lay in their wake. Hence, they roll out Thomas Jefferson (Because founding fathers can't be wrong, right?) and perform contextomy with his words to aggravate the open wound of partisanship for the benefit of no one but themselves.

Snap out of it, Tea Partiers.

Yes, please question the government. But arm yourself with THE REAL AND ACTUAL FACTS, not someone else's talking points, and certainly not firearms.

"Let us hope we never become numb to what...the real blood of patriots looks like when it's spilled." Jon Stewart

peace.

A Journey to the Broken Angel

As it progresses, any developing cultural or social movement invariably discovers its own identity through a variety of unique and distinguishing characteristics. Most of these developments include inventions and evolutions in apparel and fashion, language and lexicon, dietary patterns, musical styles, and so on. For me however, the most enduring, most compelling, and most tangible cultural symbols involve the landmarks and locations of pivotal and momentous events in a culture’s history.

There's nothing like being there; and it's just that. Being. There.

If you're a rock n' roll junkie, then it's The Dakota or the Riot House. If it's jazz that turns you on, there's nothing like the Cotton Club. For the gearheads of the world, the Bonneville Salt Flats or the Nürburgring is your Mecca. And political aficionados should never turn down a trip to The Watergate Hotel or Dealey Plaza. It's about seeing, touching, feeling it for ourselves or else it will only exist in theory.

Hip hop culture has a few of these places as well, like D&D Studios (although you ain't NEVER gettin' in there) or Rucker Park. And a few months ago I took the chance to visit what I feel is arguably the newest on the list of hip hop cultural landmarks, The Broken Angel.

It is one erie place.

The Broken Angel was the home of Cynthia and Arthur Wood from 1972 through 2006. It's located at the intersection of Downing Street and Quincy Street in the Clinton Hill neighborhood of Brooklyn, NY. Its legacy in hip hop history was cemented in 2004 when it became the backdrop of a concert/block party that was organized and hosted by Dave Chappelle, and documented by Michel Gondry in the 2006 film Dave Chappelle's Block Party. In the film, Cynthia and Arthur invite Dave and his camera crew into their home to show them the inner workings of the building. It's one of the most entertaining parts of the film as we witness the couple's compassionate, albeit slightly eccentric, quality and demeanor. Towards the end of the film, there's even a shot of Cynthia in the window of the Broken Angel waving a peace sign to the crowd, which I've always felt was one of the indelible images of solidarity in the movie.

So I'll leave it to you to look up more on Cynthia, Arthur, and the Broken Angel. This is the story of how I got there.

Mariana had to leave. The needle on her record player had broken and we needed to head over to J&R Audio by the WTC because that was the only place she thought we could pick up a new one. So by the time I reached her brownstone in Bedford-Stuyvesant she was perched on the stoop, demanding me to hurry my a$$ up because the bank was about to close. So I shuffled into her place to set down my bag, she locked the door, and we hustled our way to Fulton Street.

After handling her business at the bank and "politely" assisting a young lady find her destination on Fulton St., we got on the C train to Manhattan. We got off at Chambers Street a few blocks north of Ground Zero and made our way down to J&R, which is situated at what's essentially Park Row and Broadway.

Everything is huge in New York, including this audio store. It took us two or three tries to enter the correct section of the building, and even then we really didn't find it without help. And one would think an audio store in New York would and SHOULD have everything under the sun, but alas Mariana's needle was not in stock. So dejectedly, we exited the store and decided it was time to eat.

Now, Mari had a pregnant-woman's craving for cheese fries right about now, even though she hasn't had a boyfriend in a while. However, I would assume this is purely by choice because a woman as beautiful as Mariana can be in a relationship almost anytime she wants. I can only deduce all the men she's encountered recently have been woefully sub-par. C'mon NY...

She suggested we head to Madison Square Park to get burgers and cheese fries at a well-known spot called The Shake Shack. While standing in the quarter-mile long line (it moved fairly quickly, so don't be discouraged) we continued our usual discussions on all things hip hop. We're both huge fans of artists like The Roots, Black Star, Common, J Dilla, and Kanye West. And as we sat to enjoy our slightly overpriced but incredibly delicious burgers, our conversation shifted to Block Party. As is the nature of these exchanges, one thing led to another and we mutually agreed to seek out the location of this magnificent day in hip hop history. We finished our food, scared off the giant attack squirrels, and hopped back onto the subway.

We got off at the N/Q/R stop at DeKalb Avenue and opted to take the bus down Fulton towards Downing Street. It seemed we were on the bus for an unreasonably long time and we worried that we had missed our stop. So we got off somewhere between St. James Place and Grand Avenue to hoof it from there. We approached a huge laundromat with some cool-a$$ middle-aged cats hangin' outside and asked them if they knew the way to Downing Street. Personally, I was hoping we didn't get the same "politeness" that Mari had offered the young lady from earlier in the day. But they were truly friendly and pointed us in the right direction. We got to the block about 10 minutes later.

There are very few places in New York as quiet as the corner of Quincy and Downing in Brooklyn. It's one of those spots that seems to exist solely on its own; as if arriving there means departing the rest of the city. We walked up to the impressive red door of the Broken Angel, with the name of the building and the address adorning it in a grayish-white hue. There was very little traffic. I don't think we saw one car round the corner the whole time we were there. We read the sign on the bulletin board just to the right of the Angel's door and discovered Cynthia Wood had unfortunately passed away due to complications with cancer. We stood by the daycare center where Dave and the others had visited, using the roof as an observation area. We took turns imagining the stage and quoting unforgettable lines and verses from the documentary. We made sure to take some time making fun of Common's role in the show, because we've always been puzzled as to why he seemed only to serve as everybody's hype man. Weird...

I've often wondered if the people that live on that block are getting tired of folks showing up and doing that type of stuff. But in the moment, we didn't care about any of that. We were just a little late to the party, that's all. We wanted to have our fun, too.

We left just before the streetlights starting coming on and walked the almost-two miles back to Mari's apartment in Bed-Sty. We were glowing. We touched the history of our own culture, and it was a really good feeling. Somehow, we felt more firmly connected to the inspirations that have been fueling our lives for quite some time now. When we got back, we threw in Block Party and watched a bit of the concert footage. I suppose it was our way of "double-checking."

But really, there wasn't any need. We knew what it looked like.

Due to the fading light, these were the only pictures that were decent. We took these with Mari's iPhone.

peace.

Emcee of the Month: Asher Roth

So I took a day off yesterday, primarily because I took a 4 1/2 hour nap from 6:30pm-11pm. After I woke up, the evening had turned into midnight and my interest and attention was waning. So let's just chalk it up to a "slow news day."

This is week two of highlighting Asher Roth this month, and I thought I'd offer an interview he did with Hot 93.7 in Hartford, CT. I'm especially impressed with not only the topics of conversation in this interview, but the informal comradery. This conversation looks and feels very much like many I've had with friends of mine; in parking lots and backyards curious about each other's opinions. I even like the occasional plane flying overhead.

Also, there are some really wonderful topics here. Asher talks about the future of hip hop as he sees it, acknowledges some very talented and underrated emcees, and how he's building his artistic base. I hope you enjoy.





Tomorrow: A Journey to the Broken Angel
peace.

Legend of N*gger Twain

What? They're taking "nigger" out of Huckleberry Finn? What's next, a remake of Dolemite without the word "honkey"?

From The Guardian UK:

A new US edition of Mark Twain's classic novel The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn is to be published with a notable language alteration: all instances of the offensive racial term "nigger" are to be expunged.

The word occurs more than 200 times in Huckleberry Finn, first published in 1884, and its 1876 precursor, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, which tell the story of the boys' adventures along the Mississippi river in the mid-19th century. In the new edition, the word will be replaced in each instance by "slave". The word "injun" will also be replaced in the text.

The new edition's Alabama-based publisher, NewSouth books, says the development is a "bold move compassionately advocated" by the book's editor, Twain scholar Dr Alan Gribben of Auburn University, Montgomery. It will have the effect, the publisher claims, of replacing "two hurtful epithets" in order to "counter the 'pre-emptive censorship' that Dr Gribben observes has caused these important works of literature to fall off curriculum lists worldwide."

More here.

Few things unnerve me nowadays. I'm actually finding it quite spooky. I frequently encounter rude, aggressive, and depressing individuals who have overwhelming and unmanageable personal challenges weighing them down. I feel empathy and compassion for them, I really do. But it's seldom that I'm really shaken by them.

This has shaken me a bit. Feels great.

In many ways, we should be exceedingly grateful that we live in a world that allows us such remarkable access to information. These types of revisionist tactics have continued to cloud, puncture, and erase our true sense of human history. Now that we have this incredible and extensive network of information sharing, perhaps the truths of who we are will always live on somewhere in the vastness of cyberspace. That doesn't mean, however, that we should ever allow these revisionists to have their way and let our technology iron out the wrinkles.

I don't know what I believe about the n-word. Even now, it's appeared in this post twice in its normal form, but somehow at the moment of writing this particular section I feel the need to make it safe. "N-word". It drives me nuts! But what I do know is that it resonants the history of Americans who fought both for and against the beliefs and complexities within. Even though the era of its inception was the most oppressive and violent episode of American history, that does not excuse us from the obligation to intimately know and understand that history. Our faults are just as important as our advantages.

This is the greatness of American debate; and let me tell you something. As a black male in America I don't think I've ever felt true patriotism or compassion for "the great experiment of democracy" or "the land of the free", except in the instances where I was either an observer or participant in healthy, difficult, productive, reasonable discussion. Considering the polarizing climate in Washington during the last 20 years or so, and trends in the public's opinion of D.C. politics, I would argue many in this country share this particular sense of "Americaness". It's the debate that makes us special; that makes this whole thing worth it.

Mark Twain, in his brilliance, was writing from a fundamentally American perspective. He threw our vitriol in our faces and amplified sounds to which we forgot or neglected to listen. AND he was doing this in 1885, a time in America where being a "nigger lover" could get a white person hung as quickly as black person.

In the final press conference scene in the 1995 film The American President, President Andrew Shepard (played by Michael Douglas) makes this declaration on the sophisticated nature of American citizenship:

You want free speech? Let's see you acknowledge a man whose words make your blood boil, who's standing center stage and advocating at the top of his lungs that which you would spend a lifetime opposing at the top of yours.You want to claim this land as the land of the free? Then the symbol of your country can't just be a flag; the symbol also has to be one of its citizens exercising his right to burn that flag in protest. Show me that, defend that, celebrate that in your classrooms. Then, you can stand up and sing about the "land of the free."

Unless Doctor Emmett L. Brown figures something out in the next few years, we will never be able to change who we were. But maybe we can anyway. By acknowledging those parts of ourselves, collectively processing the hows and the whys, maybe we'll change who we were by bettering who we are.

I always get this way when I watch National Treasure. Damn you, Nicholas Cage.

And so without further ado, a silly youtube video compliments of my cousin Nina, and staring our old friend "nigger."

Why? Because it's funny!

The Homeless Casey Kasem

Disclaimer: Most of you have probably seen or heard this by now. Sorry!

Get this man a job, right now.

The astonishing thing about this cat is the comfort and effortlessness in his speech. There is nothing in this to suggest he's not allowing his voice to release from his body naturally or unimpeded, and the resonance and texture he finds is both bright and alive while remained foundational and grounded. It's especially noticable in the second part of the video when he's giving the quick story of how he's found himself in his current environment.

What's really exciting is that as of 11:30am, this video has 4 million views on youtube within 48 hours of being posted. Hopefully, one of those views is from someone who will have the capability and will to find this gentleman.

The bigger picture, however, is that there are so many people who are homeless and disadvantaged with gifts and abilites such as these. I can only imagine benefiting to our local and global societies by finding ways to nurture these individuals, and not let allow them to slip through the cracks of indifference or neglect.

peace.

Jessica Care Moore: Michael Vick's Homegirl

During my nightly cruise of facebook status updates, I happened upon a new development on the page of poet, publisher, theatre artist, and renaissance woman Jessica Care Moore.

from Jess' page:

American Villian

When I met Mike Vick we were both checking into a Delta flight in Atlanta. It was about 7am, and I was in a rush. He was on crutches and had people bringing his boxes of shoes out of a car. We both had cornrolls. I didn't recognize him. I'm more of basketball fan, but I liked Mike Vick

When he was the Quarterback for the Falcons. He reminded me of the way Barry Sanders ran with the Lions. He was standing around and I jumped in front of him and asked the Delta rep to check me in, as I had a flight I needed to catch. He looked at me puzzled, but I think he liked the way I didn't know him at that moment. I never imagined the world knowing him for something other than the game of football.

This is for him.

one of janet jackson's tits
stopped america
from the luxury of their
pork and beer and family hour
of football on primetime television.

a quick glimpse of this natural dark phenomenon
shook the fat white beer bellies and right wing
like a juicy piece of bbq
dripping like blood
covering the carpets of america's
brutal living/dead room that powers it's
brains with their tv god

teaching us that a woman's body is not sacred.
one brown breast exposed for two seconds
is a sin in this home of
puritans and pilgrims

while we are forced to watch and smell them
bloated, pierced, hairy, funky
beer bellies of men who have five tits
to our two
sweating profusely as they scream at their favorite
football team
shoving cheetos down their throats

acting as if their children really give a damn who wins.

football is an outside sport.

when's the last time any of you went outside and threw the pig skin?

played under the sun and the stars?
it is a violent game that paralyzes.
excites the gladiator in us.

all this superbowl attention to a single
black quarter back and the fighting of pit bulls

but what about the abused wives of players?

what is the fine for beating your wife
after a bad loss?

are we ready to ruuuumble?

young man. rumble.

they rape women they rape dogs.

we live in a country that used to muzzle african women
and rape them like wild animals
fight enslaved shackled african men
gladiator style

and mike vick is the villain?

let's be clear. i'm an animal lover. i cried when
i had to leave my dog crystal behind when my mom
left my daddy. he was a mut and crazy as hell. nobody
would ever wanna fight crystal. he was part poodle and dug up
the damn yard like a hound dog. but around the block we knew
some fools who fought the pits and we weren't allowed to go. it
was a part of the culture of the neighborhood.

dog fighting
chicken fighting
slaves fighting

violent contact sports

boxing
football
hockey

american as apple pie.

you can lose
your legs. your game. your teeth. your life.
your legs. your game. your teeth. your life.

your career.

especially if you are a talented
fast quarter back

and

black

in the NFL.

Check out the video here. The section on Vick starts at 3:00.

I first met Jessica in 2001 while she was collecting cover charges at Atlanta's now defunct MoorEpics Cafe. At the time, I was still brand new to the idea of being black and poetic and I was devouring any media or material on modern performance poetry I could find, including one very important and awe-inspiring documentary called SlamNation.

The movie follows the journey of a number of performance poetry teams from across the nation as they converge on the National Poetry Slam in Portland, Oregon. I remember becoming particularly impressed with the energy and movement in the team from New York, which included Saul Williams, muMs the Schemer, Beau Sia, and Jessica Care Moore. They were a powerhouse!

So as Jess and I continue our conversation, it slowly dawns on me who's sitting across the table. I began to feel that feeling one gets when s/he meets a hero, and I was floored that a small town cat like me had stumbled and bumbled myself into a conversation with Jessica Care Moore. I hardly knew what to say! But she was very kind to me and made me feel comfortable, inviting me into her space. I instantly fell in love with MoorEpics, spending more time than I probably should have hanging out in what was Atlanta's best poetry spot.

Eventually, I found myself interning for Jessica's independently owned publishing house, Moore Black Press. I felt honored. All the time I spent mailing press kits and book orders, depositing checks, making phone calls, cleaning and Cleaning and CLEANING the office(!) made me feel like a foot soldier of a movement. It wasn't glamorous and most of the time I had no idea what I was doing, but Jess appreciated me and welcomed me into her life as a friend and fellow artist. Some of the best memories of my time in Atlanta were a direct result of my friendship with her and I feel incredibly grateful to have her energy in my life.

So allow me this moment to give you a PARTIAL list of Ms. Moore's extraordinary accomplishments:

- founder and CEO of Moore Black Press: publisher of notable poets such as Saul Williams, Asha Bandele, Ras Baraka, Shariff Simmons and artists Danny Simmons and Marcia Jones

- Five time winner of Amateur Night at the Apollo, an unsurpassed accomplishment

- publication of three collections of poetry; The Words Don't Fit in My Mouth, The Alphabet verses the Ghetto, and God is Not an American

- recognized by thegrio.com as one of the "100 History Makers in the Making"

- development and performance of three solo performances; There Are No Asylums for Real Crazy Women, Alphaphobia, and God is Not an American

- multiple appearances of Russel Simmons' Def Poetry

- performance and collaboration with countless poets, musicians, and all-around dope people including Mos Def, Sonia Sanchez, The Last Poets, Nas, Talib Kweli, and Gregory Hines

If you ever have the opportunity to see and hear Jess perform, please do not pass it by. She writes, speaks, and performs with an intoxicating combination of frustration and jubliation. Her voice moves like a pissed-off soul singer, with an aggressive hint of rasp and a sexiness slightly off-pitch.

She bad, homie. She bad.

peace.