1980's: Hip Hop and House Music In Chicago

Sam Collins, Gilles Brown and Gerard were my hip hop high school freshman homies. Gilles, Gerard and I were in the same home room, and Sam was in Blythe’s Room. We lived in different parts of the city also: Gilles lived near Sox Park, in a small row house development. I wasn’t exactly sure where Gerard lived, Sam was on the North side, and I lived on the West side of Chicago.  I was a girl-crazy freshman if there ever was one, but I was far from a Cassanova: I attempted, and failed miserably at getting to know Kelly Bellford. Kelly was a short, studious girl who wore glasses that weren’t exactly bifocals, but thick enough to make her eyes look small. She wasn’t the most stylish girl on campus, she wore mostly skirts and off brand tennis shoes, but she had a great future behind her! She hung out with a tall, skinny Asian girl named Pria-she was cute but built like a twelve year old boy. They both lived north near Edgewater, I believe. Kelly wasn’t rude to me, but I don’t remember her being especially warm either. I took a chance and approached her in the school library one afternoon anyhow.

 I must’ve had a bad cold at the time because I remember being on the verge of telling her how I felt about her before sneezing, and discharging a large amount of snot from my nose! Completely embarrassed, I darted out of the library and I didn’t look back-LOL!

My buddy Gilles Brown wasn’t having the best of luck with girls either. He was crazy about Quilla, who was in the same algebra class as Gilles and I. My sister, Quilla and Dana Piler were good friends who always showed up together for class so, one afternoon as Gilles was grabbing some things out of his locker, and Quilla walked by he tried the worst line on Quilla that I have ever heard. As Quilla walked by, Gilles very casually said to her: “Jungle love baby…” My impression of Quilla was that she was very sure of herself, a sharp, cunning girl with a good sense of humor, but she wasn’t flattered by Gille’s advances. Looking him square in the eyes, she snarled at him: “What about it?” I don’t think Gilles said anything else to her for the rest of his high school career.

 If only for a brief moment, I did manage to get the attention of a pretty junior named Velma Robertson. Velma transferred into Metro from a private school, along with her brother Vernon, who played basketball on the school team. As a requirement for all incoming students, we had to enroll into a course titled, “Intro to Metro.” Velma was a tall, light complexioned, quiet girl, very preppie. She was always dressed in plush, wool argyle crewneck Ralph Lauren sweaters, with a mallard print turtleneck underneath, pearl earrings and necklace, jeans or long skirts,  jodhpurs with suede inner knee patches, riding boots, a Gucci purse. Her hair was short, but always immaculately styled. She was a Southside girl. She lived somewhere south of 79^th Street on Eberhart. I had a thing for chicks that seemed like they attended exclusive boarding schools, had undergone Jack-n-Jill training, but some were incredibly shallow, and dismissive of people who were not of the same upbringing. They all seemed to know one another, as if there were a factory someplace (on the Southside of course) that doled out to each the same list of “attributes” churning out pretty, seemingly studious, light-skinned, cold, vapid girls. Velma had a soft shrill voice, but she was very well spoken, highly intelligent, a scholarly individual. Maybe I mistook her kindness for flirtation, but she gave me her number one afternoon. I seemed to find myself in situations with girls like her, where their interest in me would come and go in the blink of an eye. I would instantly feel like I had the stench of my former situation as a homeless child in L.A. on me which would send these chicks running. I called Velma one evening as I was putting the finishing touches on my poster for freshman class president. Our conversation was going quite well, her voice arousing me, throwing me into a state where I had to constantly remind myself to be cool, and not act like who I was: a giddy high school freshman-A NERD! I couldn’t believe this fine junior-chick who dressed impeccably was interested in talking with me! Then all of a sudden, the line clicked. I looked up, and it was my Grandmother-she hung up on the conversation. I was furious! How was it that my sister could receive calls, and visits from boys but I couldn’t have one telephone conversation with a girl?

 I didn’t get an opportunity to call her back until a few weeks later, on a Sunday when Grandma was at church but by that time, ol’ Velma had gone cold on me. No more enthusiastic smiles in class, no flirtatious energy, no more telephone calls. She may have gotten tired of waiting for me to say or do something to prove my interest. I’ve always been slow to respond out of caution if not being downright oblivious to the advances of the opposite sex. I knew what time it was a few months down the line, when I spotted her one afternoon walking through the hall with Antwon Roman, a junior and fellow DJ. They were carrying large Carson Perie Scott shopping bags, my guess is that they were going to prom together. There was no way that I could compete with that.

After my freshmen semester, Velma Roberts transferred out of Metro, never to be seen again. Her brother Vernon continued the following semester, and graduated the following year. I vaguely remember asking him about her, but I don’t recall his answer. Before my pretentious flirtation with Velma came undone, I had an epiphany while hanging with my freshmen homies one afternoon. We were occupying a classroom, playing a boom box while Sam Collins, and a couple other guys were practicing their breakdancing routines, and the rest of us were working on our graffiti styles in notepads. I was always looking for (positive) ways to become more noticeable with the female student body, so when I happened to spot two of the finest senior girls walk by, glance inside the classroom and I heard one of them say: “I don’t know why anyone would want to spin on their head?” I knew that it was time to distance myself from these guys.

It became blatantly obvious to me one day that my friends and I were virgins, and this graffiti/breakdance stuff wasn’t making matters any better. Everyone in school hated graffiti. It was the one of the only issues on campus where the staff, and upper-classmen were willing to present a united front against: tagging. In those days, there weren’t many desirable chicks into Hip Hop culture. Back in those days in Chicago, most young adults could appreciate Run DMC, Kurtis Blow and the Fat Boys, but not many chicks found a guy writing on trains or, dusty Puma-suit wearing dudes, doing windmills on a linoleum mat for change in a cup, to suburban onlookers, appealing. We were into the entire culture, not one element of it. Not only were we freshmen who were into breakdancing, but a couple of the guys participated in a score card game that involved comic book superheroes called the Marvel Comics Secret Wars-some straight-up nerd shit! Hell No! Cutting the crowd off didn’t help my situation any more or less because I was still a virgin with no real prospects but, for all that wasn’t blossoming with girls in school, I was picking up the beat-matching skills of deejaying rather rapidly, and I was eager to embark upon all that was happening with the scene: Rush Street, Oak Street Beach and the Muzic Box.

I still had half a foot in my Hip Hop endeavors: I joined a north side graffiti crew called Out to Rock, or OTR for short. Style-wise, I wasn’t the tail end of the crew, but I wasn’t out in front either; I was somewhere in the middle. That’s because I didn’t accompany the crew to many bombing sessions if any at all: my handwriting was nice when I took my time, but tagging requires you to be fresh, and quick at the same time. I could’ve worked to that end, but my interest waned: I wasn’t trying to get caught up with the police and have my mother burdened with picking me up from an arrest. I took my chances with staying out late, but I wasn’t trying to go any deeper than that. 

I would meet my OTR Crew members in a small neighborhood park on the north side, or at the Loyola train stop of what was known as “The Old EL” or the Red Line today. We would show off our style booklets, records anything related to the culture that we could share, or show off. There were a bunch of graffiti crews in town but in my opinion, some of the livest were my crew of course, OTR, ACW (All City Writers) and TCP: The Crowd Pleasers. I only met one member that I can recall: his graff name was Stane. All ACW and TCP members were nice with their tags, and throw-ups. All had dope writing styles. You could almost tell that these guys had been at it long before the films Beat Street, and Breakin’ were released. On a hunt for music at Record Exchange, I stumbled upon a record by the Rock Steady Crew, which depicted all crew members in a cartoon character-type style: I remembered seeing image before: Sam showed it to me, but with TCP members! TCP had totally bit that concept! I showed the record cover to Sam at a crew meeting once, and he didn't want to acknowledge it. He didn't want to believe that TCP would do such a thing. Sam Collins was without a doubt, the leader of OTR. He was so prolific with it! I fed from Sam stylistically: whenever I or anyone would come close to his lettering style, dude would flip it to another level on you: right when you’re close, he’ll hit turbo and lose you. I was inspired by him.

I was into Hip Hop culture during the years 1982-1985. Back then, lines were firmly drawn between Hip Hop and House Music in Chicago. I’m sure that a lot of the chicks who frowned at Sam, Gerard and I in our Puma sneakers in 1984 were in the passenger seats of the many brand new Mercedes Benz, and Chevy Blazers that were rolling through many of the streets of Chicago’s black ghettos during the Crack era: it took outlaw culture, and making dope money, to popularize rap music in Chicago.