The Hip Hop Ingredient
New York in the mid-90s was an era of trends and lasting cultural innovation. Fila, Jordan, Nike, British Knights, Reebok Pumps — these were on the feet of every young person from five to forty-five. It was a time of expression and rebellion. The colors were vibrant and bold, flirting with the idea of nonconformity. The same went for the music.
90s hip hop was as rebellious as it was melodic. It drew inspiration from nearly every era before it — jazz, classical, rock, disco — a culmination of musical roots with an added edge that spoke to a new generation.
One of my earliest memories of hip hop’s impact goes back to 1993. As a middle schooler, listening to Bacdafucup by Onyx felt like breaking the rules. That music paralleled my own transformation from childhood to adolescence. It was brash yet beautiful, raw yet soothing. Artists referenced places I knew and spoke with slang I grew up with — dope, fly, sick, raw, ill, nasty, nice, phat, wack — all part of my teenage vocabulary.
Without even realizing it, I learned language and literary tools through hip hop: similes, metaphors, personification — long before any English class ever pointed them out. Sure, these existed in earlier music, but hip hop redefined popular culture. Listening to artists who grew up on the same side of the world as me had a special magic. Nas, Wu-Tang Clan, Gang Starr, Mobb Deep, DMX, Big Pun, Biggie, Brand Nubian, De La Soul, Jay-Z — they all spoke to our generation like they were speaking directly to us.
It was so impactful that it inspired me to want to be part of it. I wanted to express myself in that same way, because I felt woven into that sound and vibe.
Sure, I didn’t partake in a lot of the lifestyle they rapped about, but I understood their messages. I related to ideas of honor, loyalty, pride, confidence, respect, work ethic, and persistence. I wanted to tell my stories and my point of view because the music invited me to do so.
The jazzy horns, the scratched records, the flattened drums created more than a sound — it was a movement.
“Writing in my book of rhymes past the margins…” — Nas
From the subtle poetry of Nas to the raw, rebellious screams of Onyx, to the smooth and jazzy yet still gritty sounds of A Tribe Called Quest — it all played a part in the growth of my love for an art form that inspired me to pursue a passion and a dream from my teenage years into adulthood.
My early raps were nothing short of terrible — juvenile, with no sense of cadence or harmony — but everyone starts somewhere. My ability to think on my feet made me good at what we called “freestyle” rapping: performing on the spot, no pre-written lyrics.
It was fun, and it was a bonding experience for my close friends and me during those years when we were changing mentally and physically.
As I continued to work in kitchens, part of my weekly $5.75-an-hour salary went straight to the local record store. I’d buy whatever was newly released, and I’d dig to find something I’d never heard before. I became a student of the art.
My friends and I would share cassettes and CDs, trying to “put each other on” to new artists and songs in an effort to round out our hip hop knowledge. My collection was so extensive that friends would drop off blank 90-minute cassettes and ask me to record songs I thought were worth hearing. It was a special time, and I’ll always be grateful to the music for that.
By the time I arrived at culinary school, I had two large plastic containers filled with CDs, and there was no way I was leaving them behind in my tiny New Jersey bedroom.
My freshman roommate had a collection of his own, and together we would sit for hours, talking about songs, artists, lyrics, and production. That connection helped me bond with someone outside the kitchen, and eventually our shared creative drive turned friendship into brotherhood. We formed a group, and spent the better part of a decade recording music.
We started in small studios near college, learned how to structure songs, and worked on delivering our words with confidence and conviction. It came naturally to me, but I still had to work hard. The challenge kept me motivated because my love for the music ran deep. I wanted to get better.
Those experiences — pursuing a passion for music — could fill an entire book by themselves. Creating music helped me voice emotions and ideas I might have otherwise kept to myself.
There is always a curve when it comes to learning and developing in any art or occupation. I look back and realize that my passion and respect for hip hop was a mirror of my passion for cooking. Both became deeply ingrained in my personality — part of my “vibe.”
From Rhode Island to Atlanta, I saw the power of a music form that had grabbed its hooks into me early on. I crossed paths with so many talented rappers and producers. I learned about using your voice to make an impact, even if it was just ten people watching you at an open mic — or a thousand screaming college kids at a free campus concert. Those were important times of growth and self-discovery that I wouldn’t trade for anything.
I even saw hip hop help my close friend battle cancer. During those rough years after I moved from Georgia back home to New Jersey, he recorded an album called Cancerous Flow: A Lyrical Journal while undergoing chemotherapy.
When I came back home, I was hit with loss, pain, addiction, and the choice between trying to “make it” as a rapper or building a stable career in food. Ultimately, I chose food, because it gave me a foundation.
But I don’t look back on those days with regret. I look back with pride, knowing I had the courage to do what so many people are afraid to do — to try and make something happen.
