Lazy Arrow

Blackalicious takes its sweet time moving from underground to overground

Blackalicious sits on plush couches in an office at its new home, MCA, where platinum plaques line the walls. The trappings of a mega-label are fairly new to Gift of Gab and Chief Xcel, who have spent the last ten years distributing their music by hand. Today, with Blazing Arrow backed by the might of the world's largest music distributor (Universal), they're still modest. X sports a T-shirt and ball cap; Gab's in a short-sleeved button-down, wire-rimmed glasses and his trademark newsboy cap -- worn the traditional way, not backward or tipped cockily to the side. Both have goatees and wear baggy pants, their necks and wrists free of "bling," their attitudes free of pretense.

They almost seem…shy. Gab's head is sunk down into his large frame like a tortoise retreating into his shell, craning up only to speak.

"[Being at a label like this] is all a blessing. It's humbling," he says, surveying his posh surroundings. "At the same time, it's something we've been working at for years." His head sinks back into its hole. Between the posture and the specs, it's hard to imagine a relentless stream of unlikely metaphors gushing out of his mouth like ink from an exploding fountain pen. Anyone who's heard Gab's gift live or on record knows that the man shreds microphones like Arthur Andersen shreds documents.

Blackalicious has traded in backpacks full of homemade cassettes for Universal's fleet of trucks.
Blackalicious has traded in backpacks full of homemade cassettes for Universal's fleet of trucks.


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But today it's X who does most of the talking. He grins as he recounts the long, patient journey that brought them to this point: "Almost ten years ago to this month, we'd be all piled into our van, going record store to record store asking people to take our records on consignment. And our careers have just built from there, stepping stone after stepping stone."

The first stones were laid in high school. Gab (Tim Parker) met Xcel (Xavier Mosley) in Sacramento in their 10th-grade home economics class. The two bonded over their mutual appreciation for Audio 2's "Top Billin'," which, with its raw, basement style, "just blew my wig back," says X. They began collaborating, X fiddling with borrowed drum machines, keyboards and a four-track, and Gab honing his skills by battling MCs at all the local high schools.

After high school, X enrolled at Cal-Davis, and Gab moved to L.A and worked at Kentucky Fried Chicken. The two continued to exchange tracks and rhymes over the phone. Realizing that running the deep fryer wasn't where his passion lay, Gab ultimately moved to Davis to work "hard-core" on music with X. There, they began releasing vinyl 12-inches, including Blackalicious's 1994 underground anthem, "Swan Lake." "It was really informal," X explains. "It was, 'I got a student loan check, you got a student loan check, let's do it.'"

Once the records were pressed up, the guys serviced them to college radio jocks across the nation via the KDVS database and peddled them to retailers out of the trunks of their cars. Between its lyrics about patience and peace of mind, and its unconventional rhyme schemes, "Swan Lake" set the tenor for Blackalicious and branded the group as NoCal's answer to L.A.'s Freestyle Fellowship.

After X and crew graduated from Davis, they moved to the Bay Area, opened an office in Berkeley and put out a host of 12 inches. Somewhere along the way, the artist-run collective changed its name to Quannum Projects and nabbed solid national distribution through Caroline and tRC. With a stable of songs already in the can, Blackalicious was poised to drop its debut LP on hungry hip-hop heads nationwide.

But three years later, heads were still waiting. The full-length's delay was the result of what Blackalicious's official label bio describes as Gab's period of "personal turmoil," and what Gab himself calls "growing pains." He avoids discussion of his bout with alcoholism, saying only this: "The biggest struggles give birth to the greatest creativity."

In 2000, six years after "Swan Lake," Blackalicious finally released Nia, meaning "purpose" in Swahili. Specifically, it seemed, the duo's purpose was, as Gab stated in rhyme, to "clean out the digestive tract of hip-hop like cranberries." Socially conscious, but free of fierce sociopolitical rants, Nia challenged gangsta rap not so much with contempt or bravado but with wistfulness and resolution. The disc also included plenty of tracks whose aim was simply to showcase Gab's gift: an uncanny, often Seuss-like verbal dexterity, served up in a range of rap styles, from gruff dance-hall cadence to precise rat-tat-tat. Nia sold 100,000 copies and critics heralded it as an indie hip-hop classic; ears at the major labels perked up and offers were made.

"In the end it came down to, creatively, which situation is going to allow us to be us, and not interfere with our process," explains X.

They chose MCA, home to several hip-hop acts falling within Blackalicious's left-of-center milieu, including Shadow, the Roots and Common. A listen to Blazing Arrow suggests that the guys made the right choice.

Other than the disc's array of cameos, it makes no commercial concessions. Once again, Gab is "prone to leave your dome blown with the poem, homes" on sweaty verbal workouts such as in "Chemical Calisthenics" and "Paragraph President." His lyrics are free of the "thugged-out/pimpin'/flossin' my ice/ packing a gat" mentality that litters the bulk of commercial hip-hop.

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