Hip-hop was born in New York but grew up in Philly

Mic in hand, Eric “Chill” Moody strides across the Mann Center’s stage laying down sweet verses about Black history, Black lives, and Black Philadelphia. The DJ scratches. Heads bob. I feel like I’m at a classic hip-hop concert, but this show, Darin Atwater’s Black Metropolis, is a new twist for Moody and the city: It’s the first time the full Philadelphia Orchestra is performing with a rap artist, part of the Mann Center’s yearlong 50th anniversary salute to hip-hop.

Hip-hop’s official birthday is Aug. 11, and award shows, art museums, and media outlets are feting its longevity and impact on American pop culture. Hip-hop emerged from parks, block parties, and discos in the 1970s and has evolved into the most enduring — and influential — form of American music. The beats, bars, and rhymes ripple through the melodies of R&B, rock, pop, and country and western music. It inspires fashion trends, television shows, films, and food. Like the confident and magnificent Black people who created it, hip-hop is a cornerstone of American culture.

As the orchestra plays arrangements of familiar beats from Drake and Rakim, I want to wop it up. I’m proud that hip-hop is now being performed on classical music stages here in Philadelphia, as it is in other cities like Chicago, Miami, and New York. Yet when Moody started rapping about how Black life is a matter of politics rather than humanity, I was reminded that hip-hop is my generation’s commitment to speaking truth to power. This landmark birthday marks the beginning of a musical movement that would look vastly different without the contributions of Philadelphia artists.

Philadelphia is home to Lady B, the first woman to record a solo rap single and Schoolly D, the godfather of gangsta rap. DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince won rap’s first Grammy. The Fresh Prince is Oscar winner Will Smith, arguably the world’s biggest box-office star. The Roots, a staple in the late night show world who have rocked with Jimmy Fallon for 14 years, are from Philly. The podcast by Gillie da King and Wallo267 — founders of former North Philly rap group Major Figgaz — Million Dollaz Worth of Game is No. 1 on Apple Music and YouTube. Germantown-born DJ Drama, a record executive and mixtape king, is behind the rise of Lil Uzi Vert, the industry’s most downloaded emo rap star, who is also from Philly.

“Without Philly, hip-hop wouldn’t be what it is today,” said Moody, the Mann Center’s inaugural community artist-in-residence and entrepreneur who grew up just blocks away from the orchestra’s summer home in West Philly. He rarely attended concerts there as a child, and never thought he’d play there as an adult. And with the orchestra? Forget about it. “Philly artists have been overlooked in comparison to New York but have done big things. Our fingerprints are all over this rap game.”

The elements of hip-hop

By the time DJ Kool Herc introduced the breakbeat in the South Bronx on Aug. 11, 1973, three of the four elements of hip-hop — graffiti, break dancing, and turntablism — were germinating in Philadelphia. Darryl “Cornbread” McCray became known for writing his name on city buildings (and elephants) in the 1960s. His reign as the father of modern graffiti was well underway. Local dance groups like the Franchise Dancers incorporated gymnastics in synchronized routines, setting the stage for break dancing. And crews like B Force and Treacherous Funk Disco laid the groundwork that would turn Philadelphia into the home of the DJ.

“We all just wanted to be different,” said Jerome “DJ Cash Money” Hewlett. “We tried to be innovative, different in the way we turned turntables — and our hands — into instruments.”

Hip-hop’s fourth element — emceeing — was new. Early rappers were hype men who rhymed over breakbeats to get the crowd eager to dance at clubs and basement parties. It wasn’t until 1979, when the Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight” cracked Billboard’s Top 100, that rapping started to become a thing. It’s the same year Lady B recorded her history-making single, “To The Beat, Y’all.” Still, DJs like Grandmaster Nell — Meek Mill’s uncle — Spin Master D, and Cosmic Kev were considered the stars of the party scene. That was only until Harlem’s Treacherous Three performed in Philly, and it was clear that rappers were the emerging stars.

“Most of us hadn’t been to New York yet so when we saw the rapper out front as the performer, we were excited and surprised,” said Jesse “Schoolly D” Weaver, who remembers a sea of bobbing red Kangols at the show that night.

A new genre was forming, even if the young men who were at the center of it didn’t know it yet.

Just throw your hands in the air

The Fresh Fest, the first national tour of traveling rap acts featuring Run-D.M.C., LL Cool J, and Whodini, arrived in Philadelphia at the Spectrum in 1984. The rap showcase, curated by Joseph “Run” Simmons’ older brother, Russell Simmons, marked the first time rappers in Philadelphia saw other rappers billed as superstars. The Fresh Fest sold out stadiums in 27 U.S. cities and earned more than $3 million.

This should have been the year we started paying attention to hip-hop, documenting its exciting rise, its grit, and entrepreneurialism. But the genre was shunned. Radio stations refused to play hip-hop. And clubs that played exclusively hip-hop were labeled neighborhood menaces and protested against. Former Mayor Wilson Goode’s Philadelphia Anti-Graffiti Network was launched in 1984 to discourage graffiti artists from tagging city buildings. But even in the artists’ on-canvas works, they were discouraged from using spray paint and writing bubble letters. These kids were proud of their artwork, but city residents and officials wanted to wash it away. The media either ignored or criminalized rappers.

“Who would buy tickets to see rapsters — young black men who shout bombastic, sarcastic rhymin’ poems about their careers, their life in the ghetto, their eating habits and sexual prowess, the evils of drugs and the joys of basketball?” asked Philadelphia Daily News music writer Jonathan Takiff in an article advancing the 1985 Fresh Fest, disparaging its fans as “boondockers.”

It’s true hip-hop was filled with lyrics that could be narcissistic, sexist, violent, and misogynistic, like every other genre. It also used humor and attitude to expose racism, poverty, and police brutality. But naysayers dismissed its nuance, and blamed the artists for society’s ills.

“I fought for this music,” said Lady B, who has been a DJ for more than 40 years, and introduced Philadelphia to artists like Philly’s own E-vette Money and the politically driven Public Enemy. It was at Lady B’s urging that DJ Jazzy Jeff, DJ Cash Money, and DJ Miz entered the prestigious New Music Seminar DJ Battle, which they won in 1986, 1987, and 1988, respectively. Their wins further cemented Philly’s reputation as the home of the DJ. “I put it [this music] on my back and fought for it.”

Instead of battling in the streets, early hip-hop artists battled on the turntables. And they became the best.

In 1989 DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince became the first rap artists to win a Grammy. That win and the duo’s subsequent The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air sitcom inspired edgier artists like DJ Cash Money and Marvelous, Steady B, and Cool C to put their boy-next-door personas forward. They told funny stories about girls they liked, girls who didn’t like them, and girls they chased away. Philly was building a reputation as a clean, hip-hop town.

It’s what we do

Just 90 minutes outside New York, Philadelphia was among the first stop on hip-hop tours; to be successful in Philly was a harbinger of artists’ future success. Philadelphia was also the first city outside New York to develop its own hip-hop community, paving the way for West Coast and Southern rappers to have their own style, different from New York.

“Hip-hop was the air we breathed,” said longtime party promoter Charlie Mack.

By the late 1980s, radio embraced hip-hop, playing more music during the day and introducing new radio magazine shows like Colby Colb Tyner’s Radioactive and Mimi Brown’s Street Beat. By the mid-’90s, the city’s music infrastructure that supported R&B artists also started promoting hip-hop. Chris Schwartz and Joe Nicolo’s Ruffhouse Records gained national attention from acts like Cypress Hill, Kris Kross, and the Fugees.

Philly cultivated a look that inspired fashion throughout the country. Many of Philly’s early rappers were from working- and middle-class Black families who could afford the designer clothing rappers talked about. Hence, the creased Palmieri jeans they picked up at the Germantown custom clothier, fresh Adidas Top Tens and Nike Air Force 1s. “Philly had its own twist and it was more upscale,” explained James Peterson, a hip-hop historian and Philadelphia Citizen columnist.

“Hip-hop was aspirational, as well as competitive. It needed kids from a fairly stable household for hip-hop to grow,” Peterson said.

The guys had the tightest fades and women wore just-out-of-the-salon asymmetrical haircuts. A uniform emerged: baggy colorful jeans, paired with printed button-up shirts and collared sports shirts that Will Smith modeled every week to families all over America on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.

Emerging streetwear brands like Karl Kani and FUBU got a boost on his show. And that exposure paved the way for the success of brands like Phat Farm, Sean John, and Rocawear that would turn young rappers into millionaire moguls.

We never knew hip-hop could take it this far

By the mid-1990s, hip-hop shifted its focus to the West Coast and Philly artists had lost a bit of their cachet. Still, the city remained a cultural mecca and a destination for partygoers up and down the East Coast during the megaclub era. Young adults popped bottles and rocked bling at Delaware Avenue spots like Bahama Bay, Gotham, and Vegas with NBA stars, especially Allen Iverson.

Hip-hop’s pioneers were well into their 30s as we entered the millennium, starring in blockbuster movies, running fashion brands, heading up alcoholic beverage companies, and setting up the next generation of artists.

Philly-based entrepreneurs Marc and Sherman Byers and Troy Carter developed and managed Germantown rapper Eve, turning her from a simply rough-around-the-edges rap artist into a global fashion icon and television star. The Roots were ushering in neo soul, a new musical genre that blended hip-hop, soul, and R&B at weekly jam sessions called the Black Lily where today’s music industry giants Jill Scott and Adam Blackstone were discovered. And in 2002, Brooklyn’s finest, Jay-Z, anointed Beanie Sigel and the rest of State Property as his star artists on Roc-A-Fella Records, ushering in a grittier sound, and even tougher lyrics that would define the future of Philly hip-hop and the genre writ large.

The sky’s the limit

Hip-hop is now considered a part of the fabric of Philadelphia, having fought for and earned respect. The Philadelphia Anti-Graffiti Network evolved into the Mural Arts Program, one of the world’s most lauded cultural institutions, that embraces the work of Black artists, especially those connected to hip-hop. Artists are allowed to use spray paint and lettering is no longer frowned upon. The Greater Philadelphia and Tourism Marketing Corp. touts the hip-hop community to lure visitors.

The Roots Picnic draws 25,000 people to Philly each summer. The Made in America concert, Jay-Z’s music festival showcasing hip-hop artists, has an estimated $150 million economic impact, driving the city’s hotel and restaurant revenue on Labor Day weekend, according to Live Nation’s 2019 numbers. Both have their roots in hip-hop.

Now that it’s firmly in middle age, some of us who grew up with hip-hop’s earlier soundtrack long for the days of the Fresh Prince and Steady B, when rhymes were clever and rappers didn’t mumble. We want to determine what real hip-hop is, ignore social media’s impact on the genre, and solve the violence in so many young rappers’ songs. But it’s not about our experience anymore. It’s about the soulful lyrics of young Philly artists like Seth “Khemist” Oliver, D-Sturdy’s playful dances, and Armani White’s lighthearted, quick-paced rhymes.

It’s about their possibilities, their hopes, their dreams, their future.

On a scorching Friday afternoon, rapper and actor Sloan “D4m $loan” Morgan walks through his neighborhood in West Philly. He hugs friends and fans who are proud of his come-up, including a role on Peacock’s Bel-Air, and a new album, I Couldn’t Decide, slated to be released this fall. He dips into a corner store and starts rapping for the cameras ― everything gets posted on Instagram ― about his dope skills. What he’s saying isn’t new, rappers come from a long, braggadocious line. But $loan’s delivery is guttural, representative of today’s harder sound, belying the fact he’s a nice guy who really just wants his fair chance at stardom. And live to see tomorrow.

Thanks to the Philadelphia rappers who came before him, hip-hop — $loan’s version of it, not mine — might just be his golden ticket to stardom. And perhaps by the time hip-hop is celebrating its 60th, $loan will be giving a performance at the Mann Center, or better yet, wherever he wants.