19 minute read
50 Years of Hip-Hop
50 Years of Hip-Hop
NO COAST RAP CULTURE RUNS DEEP
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By Shawn Edwards
This summer marks the 50-year anniversary of hip-hop. The culture was “born” August 11, 1973, in the South Bronx, when Clive “DJ Kool Herc” Campbell, the man known for creating the breakbeat, threw a back-toschool party for his sister. As the world takes time this summer to reflect on the complicated, beautiful, weird, wild story of this uniquely American art form and its impacts, we have to reckon with large gaps in that story where marginalized history was under-documented or erased entirely.
Among those important details overlooked is an entire arc of our metro’s specific strain of the form. While there are endless books and podcasts about this city’s proud
tradition of KC BBQ or KC Jazz, we’ve been a power player in the rap scene since its very inception.
Taken from dozens of interviews with the people who were there, this is a look at how this much-maligned phenomenon impacted Kansas City and the rappers, DJs, dancers, graffiti artists, producers, and promoters who made it happen—much of the time against impossible odds.
MASKED UP
Arthur Davis, a former session drummer for Stax Records, worked as a substitute teacher for the Kansas City Missouri School District starting in 1980. He used his connections to convince the school to allow him to throw the legendary events where young Blacks gathered to dance, listen to music, and socialize on weekends overnight until early morning.
Hiding his identity as a teacher—and a grown man double the age of the kids he was entertaining—Davis organized and performed from behind a latex Richard Nixon mask. “Mr. President” knew how to throw a party, and these evenings served as the launching pad for a burgeoning music scene.
Affectionately called “The Castle on the Hill,” Lincoln High School was the epicenter for early hip-hop culture in Kansas City— long before it became a pinnacle of academic success. Admission generally ranged from one to three dollars. Davis himself was not a DJ. He hired a crew of turntablists (Vincent D. Irving, aka DjV, and Delano “Silky Smooth” Walker) who played the music. For most who attended these all-ages parties, this was an introduction—and the only real access available—to rap music in any form. Even the local radio stations, including Black-owned KPRS (Hot 103 Jamz), mostly avoided the genre at the time.
Davis and his crew of DJs marketed the parties guerrilla-style, distributing crudely produced fliers around the east side of Kansas City. After a couple of years of success, Davis began promoting the parties on KPRS by purchasing the least expensive airtime possible—late at night and on the weekends.
The parties were attended by thousands and were nonviolent affairs where high schoolers mingled with young adults as they danced, networked, and had fun listening to classic rap songs like “The Breaks” by Kurtis Blow, “That’s the Joint” by the Funky 4 Plus 1, and “Body Rock” by The Treacherous Three.
Soon these parties spread to other high schools, and DJ crews like Robert Harris and the Knights of the Sound Tables, Sergeant Oooh-Wee, Shawn Copeland, The Inner City Player Macks, and D. Mustafah began promoting parties at Paseo High School, Southeast High School, and Southwest High School.
Vonzell Bryant, a veteran DJ and entrepreneur, took things to the next level and became the premiere party promoter of the city during the ‘80s. Under the moniker Captain Vonzell, he threw his first party at the Boys Club on 43rd Street and Cleveland in 1973.
“I played mostly slow jams and disco,” says Bryant. “The element that made it hiphop was me on the mic talking trash and giving shout-outs to keep the crowds hyped.”
Bryant’s entire approach to spinning music at parties changed after a trip to New York City in 1978. While in the Big Apple, he was introduced to the culture of rapping, beatboxing, DJing, breakdancing, and graffiti. He witnessed what is called the five elements of hip-hop and brought back what he heard and saw—an importer of the sights and sounds of Blackness future. Like all things new, early adopters experienced a few… hiccups.
“I started scratching and mixing records at my parties,” says Bryant. “But the people wasn’t with all that. They would yell at me, ‘Hey, quit fucking up the music.’ It eventually caught on, but it took a while.”
RAGE & REAGANOMICS
Like most urban sprawls in America, the socio-economic situation for most Blacks in Kansas City was harsh and extreme during the late ‘70s and ‘80s. The area was in severe social and fiscal decline, which added fuel to the fire for a metro that historically has looked to abandoning its marginalized populations at the drop of a hat.
The famous corner at 12th and Vine Street, referenced in the most popular song ever recorded about Kansas City, was bulldozed to build housing projects—18th and Vine was left for dead. The Negro Leagues Baseball Museum was housed in a tiny closet. Gates and Sons Barbecue and Arthur Bryant’s Barbecue struggled for years for relevancy and respect. All of these setbacks were actually ingredients for the perfect recipe for a new sound and style of music— among a community that knew it needed to get loud to avoid being dissolved from its place in society.
While rap music was heavily restricted in both radio airtime and live performance venue options, one platform that couldn’t be stopped was the distribution of movies. Hollywood’s influence was heavy as thousands of young Black youth absorbed everything they saw like super sponges. A string of movies, Wild Style in 1983, Beat Street and Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo in 1984, and Krush Groove in 1985, would showcase the sights and sounds in a manner that the region’s typical censors couldn’t filter away.
One of the first to turn cinematic inspiration into reality was Marcyl Goode.
“I was blessed that I saw the hip-hop documentary Wild Style at an early age,” says Goode. “Movies definitely intrigued and inspired us and were our visual connection to the culture. The influence was real.”
As a young child, Goode hung out at a convenience store owned by Captain Vonzell on 35th and Prospect. There was an arcade in the back where kids gathered to play Pac-Man, Donkey Kong, and Centipede. The real attraction was that it was a ‘safe haven’ where kids went to socialize, dance, and listen to the rap music that Vonzell played.
Under the tutelage of Vonzell, who functioned as a father figure, Goode became somewhat of a DJ prodigy at age 10. He soon joined Vonzell’s P-Funk All-Star crew under the name “The Young Marcyl Goode” and began DJing at school social events and parties.
“It was something I just did for fun,” says Goode. “I was just the kid with the big boom box hanging by the big fountain at the Country Club Plaza playing rap music.”
Goode lifted his stage name, Kut-Fast, from a lyric off of a Mantronix song called “Fresh is the Word.” He released his first single in 1989, a song called “Butt of the Kut” on Intrepid Records. It is often credited as the first rap song professionally produced in Kansas City.
However, that distinction technically belongs to Omer Coleman II, aka Starship Commander Wooooo Wooooo. On his 1981 album Mastership, he released the rap classic “Laugh and Dance.”
“‘Laugh and Dance’ is an important song because Woooo Woooo exposed a new sound to an R&B heavy market,” says DJ Will Burnell. “It was a good song for the times, and it matters because it would play a part in influencing the Black Futuristic movement.”
Goode’s “Kut of the Butt” sounded more like a traditional rap song than “Laugh and Dance,” which came off more funkish than hip-hop. Another example from the dawn of the scene can be found in Bloodstone’s 1982 song “Funkin’ Around,” which features a rap interlude. The doo-wop crew from Kansas City was primarily known for silky smooth ballads but leaned into something harder on this recording.
“Kut of the Butt” was produced by high school friend Tony ‘Prof T.’ Tolbert and Lance Alexander, both of whom were members of the R&B group Lo-Key? which hit number one on the Billboard Hot R&B Singles charts in 1993 with “I Got a Thang 4 Ya!” The duo had a production deal with Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis at Flyte Tyme Records in Minneapolis but stayed connected with artists out of the metro.
The song was only modestly successful, lacking the proper distribution and adequate radio airplay to become a hit—a common theme for most rap artists in KC at the time.
“I’m rap broke because I was too early in the game,” says Goode. “But I’m satisfied because I know I helped pave the way for everyone else to succeed.”
Goode would continue his pursuit of glory by teaming with a neighborhood ally named Antonio “T. Roma” Cody, who started Bizniz Records. Roma capitalized by pushing products through liquor stores, gas stations, and mom & pop grocery stores. It was a blueprint that would soon be used by several local rappers that would result in tremendous success, in particular for a young street hustler turned rapper—Richard “Rich the Factor” Johnson.
Rich the Factor is considered Kansas City’s most successful “self-contained rapper.” Over the course of three decades, beginning in the early ‘90s, the artist sold hundreds of thousands of albums, mostly hustled out of the trunk of his car and through consignment at small independently owned record stores like 7th Heaven. Factor became a street legend with a cache that rivaled the biggest names the scene would ever produce.
ANONYMITY SUCKS
During the ‘90s, rappers sprung up like dandelions on an untreated lawn. Rhyming over breakbeats became an obsession for many young people, and our city was no different. But chart success and national recognition mostly skimmed over the metro’s scene, and KC’s inability to produce a signature, definable style hadn’t helped the cause.
During the ‘90s and early ‘00s, most rappers from the area leaned toward the West Coast sound, primarily out of the Bay Area (San Francisco, Oakland, and San Jose). The proliferation of crack cocaine arriving at the prairie land brought with it Oakland’s sound and, hand-in-hand, an extension of its violent street gangs. Crips and Bloods became local traffickers, and suddenly everything from their lifestyle, vernacular, dress, and beliefs became a reality in our space. This had an immediate impact on many young Kansas Citians, in particular those striving to become rappers and the individuals who produced the beats.
The West Coast sound was slower and more melodic than the types of rap produced on the East Coast. The delivery was closer to that of blues singers and had field holler-like cadences. It was a mix of early gangsta rap and what would eventually become the sound synonymous with the Dirty South.
The odds for success were stacked. There was no music infrastructure in Kansas City. Record labels didn’t set up affiliate offices and were also reluctant to sign artists for this unproven part of the country. Very few recording studios were receptive to young Blacks using their facilities. When they were allowed, they were often overcharged for recording time, and only late hours into the early morning were available for use.
Legitimate venues and nightclubs that allowed the culture to thrive were in increasingly short supply during the ‘90s. The East Side high schools that used to allow parties began to shutter the idea due to the increase of violence. Promoters then began throwing parties at hotels, motels, and union halls. These new outlets generally went well until they began overcharging, and a flag-burning incident by a performer at Crown Center caused the hotel to push pause on everything.
The last venue connected to the Kansas City, Missouri School District that still allowed events was the Southeast Field House. It was a 3,000-seat arena primarily used for high school basketball and volleyball games but is more famously known for the talent shows and drill team competitions that were held there in the ‘80s and ‘90s.
During the ‘90s, Chancellor “Chance” Cochran began producing events. He was a self-taught promoter who put on a series of Anti-Violence Concerts from 1996-1999. Then he created the largest hip-hop event in KC history with the May Day Beach Bash in 2000. The localized Woodstock-esque show drew 30,000 attendees to the International Speedway in its second year. That success proved to be its demise, as it turned out venues were increasingly wary of letting tens of thousands of teens and young adults gather in one place to get “amped up” on rap.
Tech N9ne as a teenager in Kansas City, Missouri.
Courtesy Strange Music
On 40 Highway, Ryonell “Romeo Ryonell” Frederick, a rapper and DJ who found more success as an entrepreneur, began leasing the old Heart Banquet Hall and converted the facility to Frederick’s. Every weekend for five years, the building would be packed with young adults soaking up the new sounds via a de facto nightclub. A barber by trade, Frederick created Barber Shop records and used the venue to showcase his roster of talent, including rappers and DJs.
One of the biggest platforms in the city’s history for rap artists was Black Expo USA. The consumer trade show was produced by local businessman Elbert Anderson—who also owned KCXL 1140 AM radio, a station slightly more congenial towards rap than Hot 103 Jamz at the time. The station had a daily ‘call-in’ show on weekday afternoons. “The Dedication Line” was hosted by Darryl Johnson from 1984 to 1988, where the onair personality played hip-hop instrumentals as callers dropped shout-outs.
Beginning in 1992, vendors from all over the country would converge at Bartle Hall, providing thousands of attendees the opportunity to purchase Black art, hair care products, and Afro-centric clothing—all items that were difficult to obtain in the pre-Internet era. A big component of the three-day event was entertainment performed on a massive stage inside the convention center. However, the stage was reserved for R&B, Gospel, and Jazz acts. Rap artists were barred from performing— deemed not ‘family-friendly.’ Instead, they were allowed to perform at the event’s annual step show held in the Municipal Auditorium.
Local rap acts would perform between the college fraternities and sororities who came in from around the region to perform their step routines. For most of the acts, it was the largest audience they had ever performed in front of. The arena was packed to capacity with 10,000 screaming kids and young adults that had come from steppers and were subtly indoctrinated into the future.
THE DYAMUND DISTRICT
In the ‘90s, the general mentality of most rap artists was to get signed to a major music label, make lots of money, and buy their parents a house. It wasn’t because of a lack of trying, but obtaining national exposure was not an easy proposition—increasingly leaving even the scene’s biggest stars with a dream deferred.
No one struggled with navigating the tricky waters of the music industry more than Tech N9ne. The rapper went through a period of failed deals, bad deals, and no deals. His first signing was with Perspective/A&M Records in 1993. Creative clashes led to the contract termination in 1995. In 1997, a chance encounter with Quincy Jones’ son Quincy Delight Jones III— known as QDIII—led to his second deal in 1997. Once again, “creative misunderstandings” yielded a sudden endpoint.
“Every label I signed to pushed me to deliver more commercial-sounding music,” says Tech. “I never felt comfortable producing corny popcorn shit.”
To the rescue came Dyamund Shields and DaJuan “Don Juan” Cason—the two grew up together in the same neighborhood. Years later, Don Juan convinced Shields to help him start a music label. Shields was looking for a way to diversify the large sums of money he made slinging dope on the streets. Together they formed Midwest Side Records—a micro-Kansas City version of Death Row Records in 1995.
Midwest Side Records had the magic formula. Initially, Shields and Don Juan had a well-orchestrated plan. Shields, a highly successful drug dealer with the business prowess of a Fortune 500 CEO and the temper of Suge Knight, financed the label. Production wiz Don Juan created the beats, and Tech N9ne, a generational talent, brought a unique lyrical flow, hyper personality and energetic stage presence. Success was at their fingertips, but drama fueled by egos and bad business decisions derailed it all.
Shields, who called himself Boss Hoss, was a two-headed monster. He could be playful and fun-loving and deadly-serious and violent. His temper was a thing of legend, but he was also highly respected for his business acumen.
During Tech N9ne’s brief but impactful tenure at Midwest Side, he released his debut album, The Calm Before the Storm in 1999 and the follow-up The Worst in 2000. Don Juan produced nearly every track on both albums. For many, these two early releases represent Tech N9ne at his hungriest and best. The single “Planet Rock,” one of the first local rap songs to dominate local urban radio, was a byproduct of this mini-dynasty run.
The relationship between Tech N9ne and Shields soured over the future vision of the company. The pair parted ways in 1999. Although it was an amicable split, both sides remained unhappy, leading to beef that resulted in Shields releasing a collection of Tech N9ne songs as an album called Celsius without the rapper’s permission. The bootleg record became a street hit.
Tech N9ne admits that the two had quiet and mutual respect for one another all the way until Shields died from pancreatic cancer in 2017. Don Juan continued producing music for himself and others, including E-40, Crooked I, and a laundry list of local artists.
The Flavorpak Crew in 1995. (Pictured L to R) DJ Ran, David Rogers, Gear, Scribe, Jeremy McConnell, Mike Martin and Armando Diaz.
Courtesy Flavorpak
ZINE DREAM
Amid the violence that began to plague Kansas City during the early ‘90s, a movement was born. Jeremy McConnell, a transplant who grew up in St. Louis, enrolled at the Kansas City Art Institute in 1989. The 19-year-old majored in sculpting before switching to printmaking.
McConnell got into hip-hop during middle school in St. Louis by listening to Majic 108 and Dr. Jockenstein, who let listeners rap on air over beats during his roll-call show. A blend of early rap fandom mixed with punk and alternative rock melded into an ethos the kid could use. McConnell’s fascination with scene ‘zines’ led to the creation of Flavorpak.
“When I came to Kansas City, I was into independent publishing,” says McConnell. “You had these kids creating magazines by Xeroxing copies of pages and stringing them together. It’s how we expressed ourselves way before social media.”
The first issue of Flavorpak was published in 1993. It was 40 pages and featured comics, poetry, creative writing, illustration, photography, and music reviews. It was low-budget and self-published and consisted of just one color.
McConnell had planned on the zine being a one-time thing, but its popularity skyrocketed.
“People kept asking for the next one,” says McConnell. “It started out with a mix of stuff but the elements of hip-hop were always included. Flavorpak was never meant to be a version of The Source magazine. It just happened to catch on with a lot of hiphop heads.”
In order to increase circulation McConnell began throwing parties, then used the party proceeds to publish higher quantities of the magazine. The first event was in 1993 at an empty warehouse in the Cross- roads years before the area’s rebirth—students from the Art Institute, skateboarders, backpackers, people from the rave and club scene, and hardcore hip-hop heads all gathered. Five dollars. No alcohol.
“The parties included DJs, rap performances, rock, and art bands,” says McConnell. “Later, I decided to put more energy into hip-hop because they had fewer places around town to perform.”
Local venues were reluctant to book rap acts due to their ignorance of the culture. “They always assume the worst when it comes to hip-hop,” says McConnell. “We personally never had fights or any gun violence. The only time we had guns drawn on us is when the police shut down one of our parties in the West Bottoms.”
The Flavorpak brand really made an impact on the city when McConnell began doing street promotions and attaching the brand name to national hip-hop shows— that included performances by Nas, The Roots, The Fugees, and Common primarily at the Granada Theater in Lawrence. McConnell was allowed to book opening acts using local talent which led to the rise of Papa Calv and the Loli Pop Kidz, Vell Bakardy, Ill Brew and DVS Mindz out of Topeka, Kansas.
“Flavorpak was a collective of like-minded creative people,” says McConnell. “There were incredible graffiti artists like Donald “Scribe” Ross, who was from Boston, and Gear Smith, who is from Kansas City. DJs Thomas “Joc Max” McIntosh, Dani “Dani Girl” Cardinale, Candace Cooper, Theo Parrish, and Hakim “DJ Hike” Atwood made names for themselves spinning vinyl at our parties.”
Flavorpak is now 30 years old, still out there sporadically throwing parties and promoting live music. McConnell is more than aware that even with all the progress made, breaking through as a youngewr artist in this scene is still harder than almost anywhere else in the music industry—both in genre and location. Even with KC’s star consistently on the rise, the upward battle has never been afforded even the most basic of shortcuts. Some things never change.
For the full extended history of the rise, fall, and rise of this scene, check out the expanded story on ThePitchKC.com—featuring playlists, videos, Flavorpak designs, Tech N9ne, and much, much more.
