With all the beef that’s transpired throughout the industry over the course of the past nine months, you’d think it was 1985. When emcees wore their bravado with the pride and dignity of a decorated soldier, on the course of inevitable destruction. To slay a worthy, or unworthy competitor, was all they lived for. Didn’t too much matter as long as they were there for practice. The competition of it all consumed him. He stood on the corner in anticipation of the next challenger, in his b-boy stance, posed and ready for war. But even if it was ’85, and he had every rhyme in his chamber locked, loaded and ready to blast, he wouldn’t have wanted to see Killer Mike.
They call him Killer for a reason.
“I didn’t give myself that name. I earned that name… I wear that name because I earned that name,” he says, drawing out his words for emphasis. “[It’s] not because I’m tough or I’m try’na intimidate niggas and shit. You just gotta know that whatever you say about not liking [my name] or whatever, I earned that name. I earned my fuckin’ name. If I fall off and I’m wack, I was dope once baby, believe that.”
The day developed like many others had before. It was sometime after his second grade teacher told him he was crazy for wanting to pursue a career as a rapper, and internally, Mike always carried that with him as a sort of motivational tool. In the midst of a scenario that was all too familiar, Young Mike made his presence felt. They called it “Greenlights,” a freestyling session with a bit of a twist from your normal rotation, and he set to establish himself as a champion. Without batting an eye, Young Mike played the part of an impromptu Hip Hop hurricane, demoralizing all of them. 1, 2, 3, 7, they came and got served. As he finished off who was rapidly shaping into his last and final victim, an arbitrary onlooker jumped in and screeched, “Yo! This kid’s a killer. He a killer! He’s killin’ y’all!!” Game, set, match.
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Needless to say, it stuck. Young Mike had become a Killer.
But even before his teacher admonished him for following the beat of his creative spirit, and prior to the exhibition that ultimately birthed his moniker, Mike knew. In time, he felt it when he officially popped his cherry on Outkast’s “Whole Wide World.” Then, he clenched it when Jay got at him to provide some aid and assistance on the heavily anticipated sequel de Blueprint. Every chance he got; he assumed it, as if there was nothing else to live for.
“Music found me,” he says, his voice rising in inflection and meaning. “I used to ride with my uncles in the old school’s and they fuckin’ played rap music. I knew when they played ‘Rock Box’ by Run DMC, there was nothin’ else for me. At that moment, I couldn’t listen to Michael Jackson. I couldn’t listen to Prince [or] Culture Club.”
It’s not that he didn’t or doesn’t consider them valid artists; it’s just that in elementary school, he’d already found his niche; the one that would provide the answers to life’s demanding itinerary. Even as Mike enrolled at Morehouse College, and had earned a partial scholastic scholarship, he admits to going only because it was convenient. Just one more step to his ultimate goal, Mike was content to just “learn.” And after a year of engrossing in all the education that he could, he decided to top off his dreams with a renewed fervor.
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And it’s upon us. Finally.
Monster, Killer Mike’s debut album, by his own estimation, is “die hard” rap. And, love it or leave it alone, Killer promises you’ll get a little emotional.
“My album really has a sense of urgency,” he says convincingly. “Every song, I’m really spittin’. No matter how chill or how up [I am], you understand that this dude desperately wants you to feel him on every single song, and that’s what I wanted to do with my first album.”
He’s taken his time, as has his label and marketing team. This isn’t another of the overrated, over promoted and/or over abundant double compact discs that have all but inundated the industry since, say uh, 1996. This is utterly raw, uncompromising and street. In other words, this ain’t cha mama’s music. Nor is it your father’s, and not even your big brother’s. It’s yours for the taking. You just gotta be ready to indulge.
