Act like you know
Bay Area rap from the native perspective
By Krishtine de Leon

THE CLUB IS packed with sweaty bodies jostling for space. After an onslaught of Lil' Jon hits, the DJ throws a curveball – "Game Recognize Game," by JT the Bigga Figga – that perfectly intertwines with the momentum of crunkness. This is the true test of crude locality. Those not yet hip to "slump," which is characterized by heavy, rolling bass lines and rhythmic MCing, pause and look for others' reactions. The homegrown fanatics, however, know exactly what they're doing. They're doing the Get Low, acting a fool and popping collars whether they have one or not – a rowdy bunch almost possessed by the Holy Ghost of rap.

Face it, Bay Area, the rest of the world just ... doesn't ... get us. Now we can learn how to "lean back" in New York, get crunk in Hotlanta, and "c-walk" in Los Angeles, but the minute we get hyphy outside of the Bay, we are met with sidelong glances and upturned noses. Even Southern Californians don't know what to do with themselves when "slump" hits the 12-foot speakers at the club, because, despite the simplistic definitions used by outsiders, the sound of the Bay has a complicated history.

The only way to find the real scoop, undiluted, is to ask a local. Jason Gee, a 23-year-old self-professed Bay Area rap junkie, tosses his thick ponytail over his right shoulder and adjusts his khaki Kangol to the perfect angle. Strewn across the floor of his San Francisco bedroom is a mélange of vinyl by classic Bay artists: IMP (Ill-Mannered Playas), Total Devastation, San Quinn, E-40, Ray Luv, and Herm Lewis. Off to the side are well-worn copies of Messy Marv, Yukmouth, RBL Posse, and C-Bo LPs, to name a few. While many of these artists have a following that's strictly ghetto underground, the history, according to Gee, has roots in revolutionary thought.

"To truly understand the history of Bay Area rap, you have to understand the history of black people in this area," Gee explains. "What's here is a community of conscious resistance: the Black Panthers in Oakland, movements by people of color in the '70s. Then you see the high amount of violence from the government, reacting to those movements – people getting killed left and right. What you get, then, is 'murda music.' "

Peppering the conversation with random affirmations, Anthony Valonza, also 23, sits at the edge of Gee's bed, examining the album covers and separating his personal favorite Bay classics to throw on the Technics. The detailed taper of his hairline is sharp enough to hurt. Gee's close friend since their days at Thurgood Marshall High School, Valonza has a perspective on Bay Area truth-telling that's just as meticulous as Gee's. "The lyrics here are always about oppression, poverty, and trying to get out of the ghetto," he says matter-of-factly. "We telling the truth and not sugarcoating the secrets." That lyrical perspective is no coincidence in an area that is the birthplace of the Black Panther Party, saw the '60s-era Third World Liberation Front strike for ethnic studies at San Francisco State University and UC Berkeley, and boasts one of the most consistently liberal voting demographics in the nation.

Someone might say, "Yeah, well, what else is new? Hip-hop itself is communicating that message. What else does the Bay have that every other ghetto in America doesn't?"

"Well, in the '70s," Valonza explains, "it was all about the funk. Later on disco came in and basically took over. The East Coast really got into disco, while the West kept funk alive, which is why we have a lot of that in our sound." Many of the songs heavily sample artists such as Bootsy Collins, Funkadelic, Parliament, and Vallejo's own ConFunksShun, providing rappers such as Mac Dre, Digital Underground, and 11-5 with a template to start all their soon-to-be hits. To separate funk from any Bay rap song is like taking the hump from a camel's back: you just can't do it. And even if you succeeded, it wouldn't be the same (check out "Havin' Thangs," by Big Mike).

Another important factor in understanding the style behind the music: the inconspicuous indigenous elements to which fans can relate. The climate of creation – found in island cultures' reggae and Middle America's country music – is one of the subtle but distinctive marks of organic belonging that close listeners pick up on.

For example, Gee humorously interjects, "in New York, they make music you can pound the concrete with, stuff you listen to in the subway. Los Angeles, they make cruisin' music, heavy on the synthesizer, 'cause they ass always stuck in traffic. Out here we always on the go, hustlin', movin' from place to place. That's where you get that mob-style music that the Bay is known for." As San Quinn spits on the hook for "Mobstyle Muzik," "It ain't nothin' like / Mobstyle muzik / Skee-skertin through the turf / Never cruisin' / In the bay / That's the way that we do it."

The Bay is known for setting trends, although propers are rarely given to the creators. The possible cost for being so ahead of one's time is that many retain conservative views on musical content. Countering that is Billy Jam, a DJ at UC Berkeley's KALX, 90.3 FM, and a legendary Bay Area rap guru who remembers, in '93, having an armful of RBL Posse's "Don't Gimme No Bammer Weed" 12-inches and not being able to give them away. That's because back then, he says, DJs would tell him, "Billy, if you give me anything that has 'gangsta' or 'playa' in it, I won't even open it." Now he can sell all his Bay albums on eBay and get cleaned out in mere minutes.

Still, on other fronts, the lack of airplay for local hip-hop artists on Clear Channel-owned KMEL, 106.1 FM, had almost nipped the past decade's Bay movement in the proverbial bud. According to Jeff Chang in a Jan. 23, 2003, Bay Guardian cover story, once KMEL was bought in 1999 under the Telecommunications Act, the station's former progressive politics and support of local artists were replaced by "bland on-air personalities, reactionary politics, and the repetitive seven-song rotation that's found on every urban station," tarnishing its former glory as the "people's station."

It's no longer enough to have a close local following. Bay artists now have to compete with national artists whose record companies pay millions to rotate their songs every 15 minutes. The only way to keep it moving is to learn how to be multinational-media savvy, as "New Bay" artists such as the Frontline, the Federation, and the Team have learned. Thankfully, they've taken it upon themselves to make sure the rest of the world knows that the Bay has paid its dues in hip-hop, and eager to pass the torch, veterans thrive on the newfound hype surrounding the Bay's je ne sais quoi. So the next time you're at the club, pay homage to the pioneers and act up when a Bay record hits. You'll be doing much more than you think.