By Jef With One F
By Rocks Off
By Chris Lane
By Angelica Leicht
By Corey Deiterman
By Angelica Leicht
By Corey Deiterman
While De La Soul and A Tribe Called Quest went on to greater commercial success, it was the Jungle Brothers who arrived first. In the early '80s, Mike G, Afrika Baby Bam and Sammy B witnessed hip-hop's birth firsthand on the streets of New York. Mike's uncle, the pioneer DJ Red Alert, provided the future rappers with a behind-the-scenes look at the burgeoning subculture. Afrika, whose given name is Nathaniel Hall, even took his nom de rap in tribute to one of hip-hop's forefathers, Afrika Bambaataa. No other group still making CDs today can claim ties as strong as those of the Jungle Brothers to rap's originators, and it still affects the way the three men make music.
"Because I have a connection to the beginning and I see the way it's changed, my attitude toward hip-hop is to try and keep it sober, down to its basic elements," says Afrika, a rap veteran, though still only 26 years old. "I can see what hip-hop was and what it is now. The talent is still there, but the difference is it's become commercial and more marketable .... New artists come out and it's all set up for them, and they have no working knowledge of the way things were. Their history of the music will be whatever was out the last two years and no further back than that."
When the Jungle Brothers formed in 1986, there was no history in rap beyond a few years back. Rhyming was still more of a schoolyard competition than a big business. But with the encouragement of Red Alert, the Jungle Brothers soon had a record deal and were releasing singles such as "Jimbrowski" and "I'll House You." At the time, the Jungle Brothers were also forming alliances with others who shared their positive, playful and pro-black stance, including the up-and-coming rappers and DJs in A Tribe Called Quest and De La Soul.
"Our paths kept crossing, shopping for beats and records, throwing ideas back and forth," Afrika remembers. "Then Tip [Q-Tip of Tribe] and I came up with this idea called the Native Tongues. It was something spawned from the ideology off of our first album and Tribe's first album, being that we were considering ourselves in the same tribe. The language wasn't 'posse' or 'crew,' it was 'tribe.' We had our own language. This was the [state of mind] we were in that produced the name."
By the time their fellow Tongues released their debuts, the Jungle Brothers had already dropped their second CD, the highly unsung Done by the Forces of Nature. But then, as the other Tongues barreled into the '90s with increasingly sophisticated CDs, the Jungle Brothers were nowhere to be found.
As Afrika explains it, the Jungle Brothers failed to get the industry backing their peers did, keeping them at square one. Locked out of the limelight, the trio hunkered down in a recording studio. Their quest: to stretch hip-hop farther than ever before. Immersed in Eastern philosophy, free verse poetry and the records of Miles Davis and Sun Ra, Afrika and Mike (Sammy sat out due to personal problems) hooked up with jazz/funk/world beat/dub producer and bassist Bill Laswell and some P-Funk luminaries to create the CD Crazy Wisdom Masters. Taking cues as much from free jazz and noise rock as old-school rap, the recording was nothing short of avant-garde hip-hop -- more akin to the current cutting-edge beats of DJ Shadow, Tricky and Dr. Octagon than anything of the time.
Crazy Wisdom Masters was so experimental -- and inaccessible -- that the Jungle Brothers' record company, Warner Bros., refused to release it. As the group tangled with its label, months turned into years without a new Jungle Brothers release. "We were trying to work out the best situation between the Jungle Brothers, with their history and music, and a record company with its own history and music," Afrika recounts with little evidence of bitterness. "They were experimenting as well, trying to figure out, 'What is this hip-hop? We've got Ice-T, we know what that is, but what is hip-hop without the gangster influence?' "
Finally, in 1993, after endless edits, cuts and remixes, a pale version of the record -- renamed J.Beez Wit the Remedy -- came out. Though not as adventurous as Crazy Wisdom, Remedy was still a fascinating record, and still far too jagged and difficult for then-current tastes. It sold dismally. But in the tradition of Brian Wilson's Smile and Pete Townshend's Lifehouse, it took on mythic life, becoming the great lost hip-hop classic.