Photo by Devon Little
Back in June, I saw the Long Beach, Calif. rapper Vince Staples open for Pusha T. Staples is a charismatic live rapper; he was almost giddy as he performed a medley of then-unreleased tracks from his forthcoming debut, Summertime '06. Yet what was most remarkable was how he ended the show. Closing with "Nate", a song about his father’s drug abuse, he raps "black bandana on his arm/ needle in his hand/ momma trying to wake him up/ young so I ain't understand why she wouldn't let my daddy sleep." That contrast between the severity of his father’s addiction and Staples’ still-innocent view gives the song its tragic levity. My excitement for "Nate" quickly drained as I couldn’t remember why I’d felt so eager to hear it; it felt strange hearing such sordid details performed to a crowd of hundreds. As Staples’ origin story, "Nate" is incredibly effective. Staples left the audience swimming in pathos, reflecting.
Staples’ casting of black experience through his music is powerful. His lyrics ring in my head like his story is my own, even though my middle-class upbringing is not present within Summertime '06. That evening watching him perform "Hands Up", a song of pent up frustration at racialized police violence and the lack of responsibility cops are held to for it, Staples invoked the phrase in earnest. He wanted the crowd with him and as the second verse began: "Deangelo Lopez and Tyler Woods/ Just a couple they gunned down around the ‘hood." The outreach attempt felt muddled in its appeal. I felt a connection to that song, but here it was broken.
The song was transformed by context: here it was ringing out to a sea of jubilant Staples fans, people in search of a good time. That’s what shows are about—and if I am being honest, I was one of those people. Yet, I stood there watching Staples on stage, but with the images of Michael Brown, Tamir Rice, Rekia Boyd, and many others who’ve been murdered by police running through my head. I stood there watching him and thinking of the words my mother imparted on me all last year whenever I left the house: "be safe". The impossible weight of those words grew with each passing week, each successive news cycle offering a horrible reminder that skin color was enough to mark her son for death.
Summertime '06 doesn’t offer a moment for the listener to catch a breath. Staples clearly states how the world sees him at the album’s open: "Hey, I’m just a nigga until I fill my pockets/ Then I’m Mr. Nigga." There are no skits, no big name guest verses, no attempts at a single, nothing to distract one from the state of being young, black, and American. There isn’t much that can be purloined from a mere surface listen of Summertime '06; many of the lyrics weave through familiar gangster rap tropes that if divorced from the context of the album, would seem unremarkable on the page. "I ain’t really in clubs into nightlife/ Only kick with the thugs/ I ain’t ever did a drug/ Weed blowin’ what I does, need your mind right," says Staples on "Loca". The contradictory lines are a fun gamble Staples plays, because he is very forthcoming about his abstaining from drinking and drugs, so when he admits to such, only to mention smoking weed in the next line, is a risk. The understanding is that Staples on record might lay low and stay with his crew and the Staples in real life might do the same, but to keep in mind that here he’s finally starting to play with those autobiographical arcs that so define rap.
Staples trusts the listener to understand that the Long Beach gang lifestyle he speaks to on record isn’t one of endorsement by mentioning it exists, it’s simply giving the story of where and how he grew up. So on "Summertime" he reflects, "My teachers told us we was slaves/ My mother said we was kings/ I don’t know who to listen to/ I guess we somewhere in between." Staples admits to uncertainty about what this world expects from him. He skirts hope, solutions, and any potential answers you might want to glean. He offers his view of the world and leaves it for the listener to pick through.
Even when signed to a major label as storied as Def Jam in lieu of going the independent Chance-route, Staples shows no interest in selling a manufactured version of himself. Where Kendrick found crossover success with "Swimming Pools (Drank)", which confronted alcoholism through a party song, Staples doesn’t bother with such metacritique. He wants his music to directly connect with people; the entry point for Staples’ music is feeling his words in the gut, so deeply they hurt.
Our black stories, especially the ones that are put down in popular verses and choruses, are taken and spun into "universal experiences" for all races and people to absorb as their own. Black stories cannot simply be black stories, they become commoditized for all. A consequence of that migration is that it often betrays the specific sacrifice inherent in individual experience. But in that moment of watching him, surrounded by hundreds of other fans at this show who also clearly felt Staples, I found myself grappling with the ways my expectations of Staples weren’t met. The specific stories he told on record and performed were being handed out to the masses in a way Ifelt undercut the value of his words.
These aren’t expectations Staples ever needs to consider. When blackness is often tied to those who experience violence and economic struggle there can be a rush by those—myself included—who don’t face those struggles to claim that as part of our story as well. It's a misguided sense of "I know the poor black struggle", when in reality that kind of struggle isn’t truly felt. It is felt and understood on a different level, but comfortable middle-class blackness can assume a knowledge of a lower-class struggle that isn’t real. The gangbanging on Summertime '06 isn’t where I latched onto the album—it is the moments of being lost in black skin, unsure of what the world wants or desires from us. Shared blackness can bring us together, connect us in empathy, but it doesn’t make Staples experiences my experiences.
That evening I did not expect to see an artist, who can be so insular, attempt to broaden out their appeal. Staples’ music isn’t always immediate. That isn’t what makes me like him more, but I respect and expected that to remain true that evening. But that didn’t happen. His music speaks to the roughness of his life, and he wanted to connect with people though that and was willing to meet them halfway. I was just too foolish to understand the gesture being one of kindness.