Last night, news broke of the tragic killing of Bay Area legend The Jacka. Although beloved in a circle of hip-hop aficionados for the past decade—particularly in the multi-regional network of cities under the Bay Area's aegis—The Jacka's presence in the genre as a whole has been more marginal than his talent certainly deserved. He redefined conscious gangster rap without sacrificing an iota of its visceral realism or populist appeal. Building upon the realist narrative style of Cormega, the casual melodicism of Slick Rick, and the confrontational edge of Ice Cube, Jack crafted a world of distinct imagery and kinetic action, where the coke wakes you up "like a clip to the face." But it's also a universe where actions reverberate beyond their real-world consequences, where gangster rap's morally compromised figures wrestled with the life's psychological aftereffects.
Raised in California's Contra Costa County, Jacka lived until his passing in Oakland, but always represented his hometown of Pittsburg, CA. "That's the place that really got behind us, pushed us, and gave us our start," he told me. From his self-titled 2001 debut to 2005's cult-classic The Jack Artist, from 2009's epic Tear Gas to last year's comeback What Happened to the World?, the Jacka's catalog is immense, with plenty of unofficial tapes, collaborative albums, and mixtapes filling in the gaps. But he's also exactly the kind of artist who rewards close, obsessive listening. After spending time deep in his catalog, I reached out to interview Jacka in March 2011. He spoke to me over the phone from Oakland on a Saturday, promising to give me as much time as I needed. We spoke for nearly an hour and a half in this interview, which has yet to be published anywhere.
Pitchfork: And when you were a kid, the first time you put down money for music, what was it you bought?
The Jacka: The first album I bought was probably MC Eiht, the first tape that I actually purchased. The "Late Night Hype" single. I was a big fan of the music way before that, but that's when I was old enough to listen to that kind of music, go in the store and purchase my own CDs, my own tapes.
Pitchfork: I know you've said you were a big fan of Slick Rick—what were the first songs that resonated with you?
TJ: Oh you know everyone loved "La Di Da Di", but I didn't really become a fan until I heard the Great Adventures album. When I heard Great Adventures of Slick Rick, that's what made me a die-hard fan of him, that album right there. He showed a lot of versatility and showed that he was a real lyricist. To this day I slap that album.
Pitchfork: Obviously you're an artist who really cares about the lyrics that you write. Who were the rappers in that early period who really hit you hard—not just identifying with them, but the craft of what they were doing struck you?
TJ: There was this group back in the days called 3x Dope. They were kinda dope, they had the song "Funky Dividends" that was ill. But you know, I listened to 3rd Bass, it was pretty much everything, Das EFX, whoever was hot back then. But guys like Ice Cube, they already really had bars, they were already killing it. There was a lotta groups that I grew up on, you know, East Coast groups. I didn't really limit myself, I used to go to the tape store and buy whatever album cover looked good. I had so many tapes. When I first realized I could go buy music, I used to go in there every Tuesday when they got new music and buy everything they had. But the first dude I really started giving real props for their bars, it was probably Big Daddy Kane. Cuz he had a dope-ass album, first solo album he put out was ridiculous, and you know he had his own style. It was ill.
Pitchfork: Was there a verse you memorized or a time you started thinking about how these guys were putting this together? Did you do that before you started thinking about being a rapper yourself?
TJ: Yeah you know once I started getting the visual, seeing the videos and everything, then I started imitating these guys. Realizing that this was something I wanted to do. These dudes look ill! I wanna look like that, I want my hair like that, I wanna do everything they're doing. Big Daddy Kane was ill. Before he actually came out, he had like hella posters everywhere, and this was in the Bay. He had these fat dookie ropes on, he was sitting around like he was the king. He was just an ill dude. And then he came, hit em with that "Smooth Operator" and killed the game! And that was it, I was a rapper after that. I made my mind up off Big Daddy Kane that that's what I was gonna do.
Pitchfork: I remember reading in Murder Dog [magazine], you talked about how one of the first things you realized when you started rapping that the sound of how you rapped was important. And Big Daddy Kane and Slick Rick, it seems like they knew that. They had a really smooth style and approach. Who are some other rappers that really hit you that way?
TJ: Man I used to think the boy Special Ed was ridiculous too. We heard he was 16 back then, and I was like, shit! He had a dope sound. Young nigga with a dope sound. Even Grand Puba had a great sound! People don't understand it these days, cuz there's so much shit out there right now, but back then, when it was first hitting the scene, it was ill. Gang Starr had a DOPE sound, he had a monotone, you know, he wasn't yelling, he sounded exactly how he talks. I thought that was ill. Chuck D had a distinctive sound. A lotta those dudes. You know who else I thought was ill? I thought Rodney O and Joe Cooley had one of the BEST sounds. When they hit 'em with that "Everlasting Bass", and I heard that beat? And I heard how they were killing it? It sounded like real cats that I knew from the streets. So all of that affected me and made me the rapper I am today.
Pitchfork: One of the things that resonates with me about your music is that you're very obviously a music fan. I wanted to ask about the song on the first album, "Love How You Feel", was a track that I liked a lot. How did that come about?
TJ: My boy RobLo made that beat, with me and Hus, and its an old school beat [A sample of Rufus and Chaka Khan's "Do You Love What You Feel"]. But you know what's crazy, my boy RobLo was in some kind of old school funk band. I can't actually remember the name of the band, and he had thousands of records. So we would just go through these records and pick these beats and try to remake them. With that song, the beat was already made, so I just jumped on it. But then I heard that in New York, the original one day, and I thought they were playing my song. It had me shocked, I was like "man this is ridiculous." That song was like the last song on the album so it didn't get as much play as the other ones, but people who like that song really like that song. I love that song.
Pitchfork: I noticed on your new album with Ampichino, you have a song ["No Tears"] where you're rapping—"bathe in a steel sink..."
TJ: [laughs] Oh yeah. "Sleep on a steel cot, bathe in a steel sink."
Pitchfork: It seems like you focus a lot of times on prison, and there are tons of people being thrown behind bars, ridiculous number of black people in particular. And it seems like that's something you focus on a lot. Is that something you think about consciously? This is something that I need to be talking about. Or is it just because it was around you?
TJ: Well it is around me, and I know I gotta talk about it. Not only does it keep people from going to prison, it actually helps the people in prison come to the realization, this is reality. Unless you don't have a family and anything to live for, prison ain't the place for nobody. That's not the place for a young dude with ambition and goals. It's just a waste of time. I make those songs because a lot of my boys, they in there. And to talk about it the way that we talk about it is really just to give people some insight on it and keep em outta there. Especially the young folks. I'm not making it sound cool, I'm not like "Yeah boy I'm fresh out the pen!" Nahh man, I'm not giving them that, it's pain in there. We feeling the pain in this joint. We wanna come home. We sleeping on steel cots, bathing in steel sinks, and it's an eight by nine. That don't sound fun right there, that's not glamorizing it.
Pitchfork: I notice a lot of times your stuff is very balanced that way, that there's moral content to the rapping you do. You've mentioned Pac in that context before—was he the first one that made you realize you could talk about stuff that way?
TJ: He really did though, he was one of the first dudes to do it. But even KRS-One, when he hit us with that "Love's Gonna Get You", or Ice Cube when he hit us with that "Today Was a Good Day", or he had that one about a funeral, or Brotha Lynch Hung "Walkin to my Funeral", or even back to Grandmaster Flash when they had that "Don't. Push. Me. Cause. I'm close to the edge." When you listen to the lyrics in that song, that's a deep song, that's some real-life, deep shit. When the beat come on, people wanna bob their head and dance, but when you listen to the lyrics to that, that's just like some lyrics Pac would say. So I probably picked up on it from a lotta different places. But with Pac, he did a lotta shit that made the sound a little bit better. He had his own style, used freshest words. And then he would double his lyrics, he would keep every track! Be like, don't erase any of the adlib tracks, and let it work. So you can hear it in there. You can hear the pain, and other rappers they would do their one vocal track and maybe an adlib. Pac put those adlibs on top of the shit he was talking about and made you feel it harder. When Pac hit the scene with it, it was advanced, he put more into it.
Pitchfork: In your lyrical style, it seems like you're saying something really simple, but then you realize there's a lot more going on in it. When was it you first hit you, how did that hit you?
TJ: I really look at it as a gift, you know what I mean? It didn't hit me until somebody else told me. And then I started realizing why people liked me. I knew that I liked to pick certain beats, maybe that was the reason. But I didn't realize what I was doing, but once I realized, I was like "this is a gift, let me do this the right way." I don't gotta rush nothing, I don't have to be impatient. Because when you have a gift with something, it's a blessing. You just use it. You don't have to do anything drastic, because it's in you. People told me what it was, and I just stuck with it. Like you said, it do sound simple. Until you try to repeat it or something. I actually thought it was simple at first also! And then I realized, I'm actually putting in work on these songs. It's not like it's that easy to really make them like that. All I'm giving people is everything I know, basically. If I learned something or read something, and it's real? I'm gonna go ahead and turn it into a song.
Pitchfork: How did you end up hooking up with Cormega?
TJ: I met Cormega back in 2000. I had met him through a friend of mine named DJ Unique. He was from Queens too. And he knew Cormega. They were in North Carolina at the time. I happened to be in North Carolina. This is when that song "Bia Bia" was big by Lil Jon. I had a show with Lil Jon. The next day we went to the mall and shit. And I seen the dude Unique. And he told me he knew Mega. My boy Rydah J Klyde that's in my group the Mob Figaz, he knew who all the east coast dudes was. He knew Cormega. He knew about their music. CNN, the War Report. He put us up on all that shit.
At that time, New York really had it on smash. They were the dudes who really had the dope ill sample beats, and the young niggas had real bars. To me, we didn't have that in the Bay at the time. We had niggas who was doing little keyboard beats and fucking the movement up. Making bullshit. But to me, those dudes showed real lyricism. And I was a big fan of Cormega. So I told dude, I'm working on my solo album, get him. So I flew him out. At that time we was doing real good as far as money. Got him out here, introduced him to Messy Marv, Too $hort, all the cats out here in the Bay. Ever since then we been rockin', man, twelve years straight, eleven years now. He's a good friend of mine now. It's crazy, because I looked up to him, you a street nigga, you from the projects, you come from nothing, just like we all do. I feel your music. The song that really made me like Cormega was that one he had with Tragedy, "They Forced My Hand". When I first heard that song, I was like, this is some shit here, this is shit I like. In fact, shouts out to Mega, he was just out here in the city the other day.
Pitchfork: Your second album, The Jack Artist, was obviously your big breakthrough. I get the impression that you went through some kind of transformation going into that. When your first album came out, were you not taking things quite as seriously, or...?
TJ: Well, on the first album, man, we had too much money bro. We had hundreds of thousands of dollars to fuck off. I already felt like I was a platinum artist. Everywhere I go, I'm doing the same shit the rappers are doing, I'm living the same places, doing the same things, because we had a lot of money. But on the second album, everybody went to prison, went to jail. And the money wasn't nothing. So now I gotta use my skill, I gotta really take this shit to that point, cuz the money's dried up now. If I put this album out, I'll be back on pace.
I took it way more serious than I took the first album. We had minimum money. Believe it or not, on the first album, the self-titled Jacka, we spent like $300,000 man. I took it and mixed it down at the best places. Mastered it at the Hit Factory in New York, when it was in New York. I went to anything that was popping. BET Awards, Cancun, Memorial Day Miami. Myrtle Beach bike rally. Everything like that, we was there. On the second project, I didn't have those resources. All I could do was make the skill pave the way. I had a dope producer RobLo who made every single beat on the project. This album is showing a lot more growth than the first album. Like you said, we took it a lot more serious. We didn't have no money really, we had to be dope. [laughs]
Pitchfork: There's a song on your third album [The Jack of All Trades], "Mob Shit", and you have the last verse on it, there's three verses ahead of yours. Talking about death, killing, how it affects you mentally. And you don't say it outright, just hint at it. It seems like a big part of your work, is talking about the psychological effects of that world, coming up in a violent world like that.
TJ: Right. And it goes back to when we were talking about not glamorizing actually doing crime, but just scare people straight basically. And those songs right there are what get me a lot of respect from people. And I have to be really careful how I'm saying it. I'm not trying to really actually glamorize it, unless it's someone doing something to me first. Of course, you do something to somebody like that, it's not nice. The results are not gonna end up cool, especially these days. You do something to somebody and you get away with it, bam. You gotta live with that.
Any real nigga who's from the streets and has gotten into some problem with some dude, even if he was in the right, and he do something to somebody and get away with it? He's gotta live with that. It's gonna eat away at him the whole time. Deep down inside, even though you felt what you were doing was justifiable or it was cool, at the same time, it's never right to kill a motherfucker. It's never right to murder nobody, no matter what they do to you. Unless you're trying to protect yourself, they're in your house, trying to kidnap one of your kids or some shit like that, everybody's gonna be mad if you don't kill the motherfucker, know what I mean. But if you just using senseless violence, it's gonna eat away at you, you might even go crazy man. You gotta be real strong to hold onto that type of sanity.
Pitchfork: I know you hooked up with Freeway recently, tracks on Tear Gas, did some new stuff with him. How'd you end up meeting Freeway?
TJ: I think I met Freeway in '04, he had came to the Bay and they were doing their thing, I think Jay-Z, they were still in the Roc, it was still big for him. I just wanted to get a verse off him. You know how it is, a rapper's in town, everybody trying to put their pennies together to get a verse from him, so I was just on that hype. So I thought maybe I'd just do the verse, and then he'd leave. But you know, he did the verse, and it was a dope learning experience for me cause I see how hard the East Coast niggas really worked. I mean I don't know if you can call it work because it's rap, people do call it work, but if it was work I know I'd probably be doing something else. But that nigga was in there writing without writing, you know. He was writing his rap in his head, and then laid his vocals, we cashed him out or whatever.
But he was cool. He was Muslim, I'm Muslim, when we figured that out, the bond was even closer. Because it ain't like we was born into Islam, we really had to grasp it. We had time by ourselves to really study the religion. I'm not stupid, I'm no stupid motherfucker, I wasn't just gonna say "I'm Muslim." I was Christian first. I had to study both of them to figure out what was practical, what was logical. And the same thing with every African-American who's a Muslim had to go through, the same thing I went through to find Islam. Unless they were born into it, which is kind of rare these days.
But Islam is what brought our bond together more than anything, more than the music, more than the money. I did an album with him right now, brand new album, fresh, the best shit I ever did. Some of the best things that I ever did is on this album. And you know, he didn't charge me a red cent for it. And that goes to show you the Islamic bond we had is through the roof. That was really the reason we got tight is because we share the same faith. On top of that, he a real cool, genuine dude. If people can be beefing with Beanie Sigel, beefing with the Young Gunnas, or whoever, they always at the end of the day respect Freeway, because that's just how he is. He don't involve himself in too much bullshit. He one way with everybody, and that's how I try to be, just like that.
And that's one of the things I learned from Freeway, is just to be one way with Freeway, no matter how popular you are, no matter who the hell you think you are, just be one way, and shock people. Because when you one way, and show everybody respect, you actually shock motherfuckers. Because they not used to that coming from no big-headed ass rapper. Some people don't even like going up to rappers, getting autographs or saying "hi" or "what's up" or "I fuck with you," because they used to seeing these wannabes who are so fucking full of themselves that you don't even wanna talk to the niggas. And they kinda get that about all rappers, they think we all like that. But fucking with Free, he showed me how you should be with everybody, just one way. You treat your fans like you treat one of your friends, the same exact way. You basically owe your fans big for even liking your shit. You shouldn't be shunning motherfuckers away, just because you think you're popular or shit like that.
Pitchfork: I wanted to ask about Islam—it's obviously a huge part of your life, informs your music. What was it that first pushed you in that direction, how did you first come to that realization that this was gonna be an important thing?
TJ: Well it happened back in the days, when I was a little kid. I was like 8 or 9 years old, I was in Oakland, I was going to this school called Golden Gate in North Oakland. And right across the street, down the street was this place called the Muslim Bakery. The Black Muslim Bakery, we used to say. And that was really what gave me my first spark to Islam. I was going to the bakery one day, and I was with some knuckleheads. And I seen a bunch of little kids, and they all had on the same clothes, they had on white button-ups and baggy slacks, cuz that's how they used to dress back then with the baggy slacks on the side. So I'm goin' to the bakery to grab some cookies or whatever, and one of my boys decides he wants to try to bully one of the little dudes.
So they got in their ranks, formed a line up, biggest in the front, smallest in the back, and they was not playing, they was about to fuck my boy up. And I seen that unity, and I said, you know what, I wanna be a part of that, I like that. So ever since that day, I would tell people I was Muslim, and I thought that was what Islam was. I thought it was about the Unity. I didn't really know much more about the religion until I got older and started studying the Koran and talking to people. Then I took my Shahada. Today we Sunni Muslims. And that's how I got my start.
And watching the movie Malcolm X and reading his books was a big influence for me as I got older. Thirteen, fourteen years old I'm like, I'ma stop eating pork, I'm always gonna respect my grandmother, my mother. Respect women. And I'm gonna be a respectable dude. When people talking to me, I'm gonna show everybody respect. I just wanted to do that, I needed some kind of balance and I think that Islam was perfect for me. It ain't nothing different than Christianity, we all believe in Jesus, we all believe in God, it's just that Islam really helped me balance out who I am. Cuz if I can go all day without making Salaat or asking for forgiveness or giving thanks, you know, I would probably be a lunatic. So that's what gave me balance.
I really needed that, really needed something to make me calm myself, go make your prayers. And the people that I'm around, they're real good examples. They don't blame me for anything I do. I might be a pothead to some niggas. But I'm still a Muslim. I might be this hardcore nigga to some niggas. But I'm a Muslim though. No matter what you think about me, bottom line, I'm Muslim. So it was good for me. It really was real good for me. My kids are Muslim, and they're real proud, they're super proud of it. My little sister, my little brother, all my friends converted to Islam. Every single one of them. I'm glad that it happened. It let everybody think like that, gave everybody balance.
Pitchfork: It seems like your music isn't straight-up pop music, but has a really universal appeal. It seems like you're an artist who could potentially have a much larger audience. I had to work to find it. In 2000, I was finding all this New York rap really easily. I was wondering how you're thinking about that, pushing outside of the Bay. Are you still thinking about that, moving forward, trying to grow your audience that way? Cuz you've been in the game a long time now.
TJ: You know, it's funny. 60% of my album sales come from outside of the Bay. Say my first week in sales. I probably sold like 8,000 CDs. Only 2,300 came from the Bay. So it is bigger. I do shows other places and it's sold out, in these other markets, so it is getting out to people. But it's just like you said, it's not really nothing that's on TV. Somebody gotta put you up on it or you just gotta work to find it. I like having the kind of music that people, when you were younger you get in somebody's car and you hear some shit and you're like, "man, who the fuck—" and you don't even wanna say nothing at first cuz it sounds so good, and you finally break down and say, "man who the fuck is this dude. I don't wanna feel like I'm outta the loop but who the fuck is this guy."
I like that shit. And that's how it was when I was growing up, I hop in the car, hear one of my boys playing some shit, and I don't wanna ask him who it is, cuz I don't wanna feel like I'm outta the loop, but man, who in the fuck is this? And I like that, that's when music was real good to me, when a motherfucker could put you up on somebody. Cuz pretty much right now, if somebody listening to something, you pretty much know what it is already. And I'm pretty sure my audience could be bigger, if I could get it out a lot more different places, but that's what we're working towards right now today. It ain't like we're at the end of our career or nothing like that, we just now getting started. I been in the game for a long time but I'm just now getting heard by people everywhere else. And they still seem to like it, so it didn't give me nothing but fuel, and motivation to keep it pushing.
I feel like right now, it's just the beginning stages of my career. Shit, man, I've been in there making the best shit I ever made. I got this album with Paul Wall, album with Freeway, and when those two albums come out, that should give me a little bit more of a fanbase also. It's going to reach out to a broader audience, because those dudes are platinum artists. I know it's gonna do something. I'm gonna keep doing it though. I've got my own label, I've got artists coming out on my label. It'll all catch up one day. Everybody else tell me, we're just following the same footsteps that Run-D.M.C. or Cash Money or Russell and all them dudes did. We're starting from the ground up, and just giving it that push. Giving the people what they want. Building up our fanbase.
Labels nowadays? They don't wanna give a rapper no money. Cool, yeah that's cool. I'm with that. But I'm not no rapper though. I am a rapper, but I'm a CEO, I'm an owner. I own all my music. And I own a record company, and I have artists. So they'll give you money for that. They'll give you a label deal. So I'm just following the same steps as Def Jam or Cash Money or No Limit or Swisherhouse, I'm doing the same thing they did. Because I realize they're not givin' an artist no money. So I'm just gonna take the tough road, do it the tough way.
Pitchfork: Are there any artists in the Bay that you're particularly into? I heard the Joe Blow album and that was pretty good. Are there any artists you feel right now in the Bay that have what it takes to keep going and be bigger than the Bay?
TJ: Well like you said I like Joe Blow. I got some artists on my label, this dude Dubb 20, everybody loves this dude out here, but he's just now getting recognition also. Look out for Dubb 20, he's dope. They all in my camp so we got all these producers and everybody working with them to make sure that they make a dope album. There's some hard dudes outside my camp that I think is ill. There's this dude named HD from Oakland, he hecka dope. This other dude named Lil Rue, he's from Oakland too. He getting a lot of respect and play out there. A lotta dudes from Oakland, Shady Nate, Lil Rue and HD are like the three dopest dudes right now that I know from Oakland. So people look out for them, cause they really pick dope beats and they got bars, they really taking this shit serious. It ain't like they're just doing it to be famous, cause they doin' it for real. They really know what they're doing. My artists is dope, Joe Blow, Dubb20, but also look out for HD, Lil Rue and Shady Nate.
Pitchfork: You mentioned earlier, when you met Cormega, about how great the music there was then. It seems like I hear a lot of that stuff in your music and a lot of the other music from the Bay right now, in the past couple years. This really open, pop sound.
TJ: Yeah man, I used to listen to Noreaga a lot man. I thought he was one of the dopest rappers ever. And not because he was just killing them with the bars. He did that CNN War Report, was so dope man.... I STILL can't believe how dope that album is man. Me personally, see, a lot of my niggas was true East Coast hip-hop fans, so they knew who Nas was, Mic Geronimo and all that shit, but when I heard Nas' album [Illmatic] it was old, and I didn't really like it man. You know, I hate to say that. I didn't really like Illmatic how other niggas like it. But when I listen to it now, I see how people really did like it then, because it was ahead of its time. But at the time, I was just like, man this ain't slappin' hard enough for me, these niggas snares is louder than they drum kicks. But then when Snoop Dogg and everybody came out, it made these East Coast niggas step they beat game up. So now Noreaga and Capone came out, Mic Geronimo, Nature… all these other cats, they got dope beats now on top of their lyricism, so it made them niggas hella dope to me.
Pitchfork: Have you ever gotten to meet Tragedy Khadafi?
TJ: Nah. I would love to meet that dude. Do some music with him. Cuz I was a big fan of the whole Queens thing. 41st Side, Mobb Deep, all that. Them motherfuckers was ill. I respect them dudes man. I remember Tragedy back in the days when he had that one song "Fuck the President" or some shit. "Kill the President" or some shit ["Arrest the President"], back in the days, that was a hit single on the radio! [laughs] I didn't like his beat game, I thought his beats sucked, but he was gassin', he had bars, you know what I mean? And now when I hear his shit I realize this motherfucker is dope as fuck. I liked a lotta people like Intelligent Hoodlum, like Wise Intelligent and all of that. You know, I looked up to them dudes bro. They talked about real-life issues, and serious shit, they wasn't just shooting the breeze, like most rappers. They was giving us knowledge and something we can grow with. I can throw that shit on right now, and motherfuckers still can learn something off it.
Pitchfork: There must have been West Coast rappers doing that kind of thing for you too. It seems like a lot of the rappers who had that kind of style might have been from New York.
TJ: Ice Cube, a rapper named Kam, a rapper named Paris. Kam was ill, he was from L.A., he was deep with his shit. Ice Cube was, man…. I hear people diss Ice Cube. He was one of the most dangerous rappers, just because of the knowledge he had. He had those street knowledge records. Ice Cube was one of those dudes who didn't hold his tongue back. He was like 2Pac. But he was super-dangerous, cuz he came from N.W.A. People say what they did to Ice Cube was give him money to water him down. They gave him money and they gave him TV shows and a bunch of shit so he won't be as dangerous any more. I can see how money, when you're doing that shit, you're really doing it to take care of your family and really have money and shit. So I can see how that could water a person down. He frustrated so he making a certain kind of music. After awhile, somebody give you money real fast, you start doing what they want you to do. That's what's going around, I don't really know why it went like that. But those were the West Coast dudes I knew that were making that kind of music.