How Mos Def’s “Black on Both Sides” Became the Soundtrack to My Manhood
Before I walked my son across the street to school this morning, I reminded him that today, October 8th, is my mother’s 60th birthday. He was silent, mentally processing his own struggles with last night’s math homework. I knew from experience that my mom had all the right things to say to boost my confidence. So I encouraged him to stay strong, to believe in himself, because I believe in him. And even though my mother passed away 11 years before my son was conceived, I told him that she is guiding you as she guides me every day.
The overcast of the day is indicative of the solemn feeling that annually hovers over me and my family on mom’s birthday, which falls on the same week she passed away. Yesterday was similar. I watched the first episode of the Bill Gates mini docu-series where he talked about his mother’s passing away from cancer was the saddest day of his life. It’s mine too. My mom died giving birth to my sister. On a Wednesday, October 13th, 1999, it also marked my aunt’s birthday — my mom’s eldest sister. A convergence of tragedies brought my world to a screeching halt. Sandra Michelle Johnson, the woman who played both mother and father (while he lived his life in California) was no longer there. I never felt more alone. I used to get excited about having the coolest mom who came to my basketball games; who took me and my cousins to Fun Time USA, an in-door theme park in Sheepshead Bay; who took me shopping at Fat Beats Record Store and Forbidden Planet; plus we watched the golden era of New York Knicks basketball in the ’90s. All of those experiences felt empty right when I had just turned 18, about a month into my senior year of high school.
I drowned myself in music. Whatever money I had, I spent it on buying records, tapes, and CDs. When my mom and I lived together in Canarsie, I used to take a 45-minute train ride to Manhattan’s East Village where I attended Friends Seminary. Going to and from school, I listened to hip-hop and R&B on my walkman. When my relocation to Staten Island to live with my aunt became permanent, I kept the headphones on all the time: commuting to school, and in the house. The albums that spoke the loudest to me at that time were Mos Def and Talib Kweli are Black Star, Black on Both Sides — released the day before my mom passed away — and Gang Starr’s Moment of Truth, which came out in the spring of 1998 — the year I had to switch schools because I lost my scholarship to Friends. I finished up high school in Staten Island, driven by mild desperation to get out of Shaolin, and a quote I read on the back cover of Mos Def’s 12" single “Universal Magnetic.” It said, “Use your body to save your soul.”
There was this electric feeling in the buildup to Mos Def’s debut solo album, Black on Both Sides. In 1998, Rawkus Records, the label that signed Mos Def and his partner in rhyme, Talib Kweli as Black Star had notched their debut album that was one of the landmark releases for the independent record label. New York City lamp posts and street corners were plastered with flyers and stickers for the Black Star album. The video for their lead single, “Definition,” was filmed at my neighborhood bodega on Flatbush Ave., two blocks from my apartment building on Ocean Ave. and Beverly Rd. The church that housed my pre-school was a stones throw from the Farmer in the Deli bodega. Every time I listened to Mos Def’s voice, it took me back to the first time I saw the video for “Definition” on The Box, realizing that the most famous rapper to me, filmed a video at our local bodega and inside a dollar van at the same spot I would catch the B41 bus to go to Kings Plaza mall.
My mom passed away before she could hear Black on Both Sides in its entirety. One evening, after her wake, I found the CD in the bottom of my bag, and it just triggered my tears because I knew she would have been a fan. She heard me play “Ms. Fat Booty,” and “Mathematics” because they were released on 12" vinyl when I just started learning how to DJ. I was really dedicated to DJing, more than anything else. She saw it change my mood, and it changed our relationship because it bridged our communication at a time when I was putting up walls. She knew music from her days going to parties with my father’s sister in Brooklyn. Mom also allowed me to pursue DJing because it was in my genes. I could be a different version of my father who had local notoriety playing disco, R&B, and reggae. Mom helped me purchase my first Technics 1210 turntable and Gemini mixer. I locked myself in the basement for hours practicing scratch routines with just one turntable to “Universal Magnetic” and “Body Rock.” She had a great ear for music, between picking up on the samples rappers were using as a backdrop for their contemporary hits, and the deeper meaning to Mos & Kweli’s reference to Marcus Garvey’s revolutionary Black Star Line. Listening to Black Star and Black on Both Sides was a musical accompaniment to my coming of age. My mom instilled Black pride in me, but the absence of a male’s voice in my household needed to drive home the message. The wisdom came from the super-militant tutor who preached Black pride to me on Saturdays, or in music from Mos & Kweli.
In my professional life as a writer and DJ, I’ve actually never met or worked with Yasiin Bey (f.k.a. Mos Def) or Talib Kweli. The funny thing is that I’ve formed relationships with some of the architects of their albums. Before I met my old friend and colleague D. Prosper in 2006, he was a credited producer/A&R on Black on Both Sides. Since then, I’ve DJ’d his acclaimed party series Soul in the Horn, a.k.a. the best party in New York City. He also introduced me to another Black on Both Sides producer 88-Keys in 2018. I also got to meet Dr. Know of Bad Brains when I DJ’d the wedding reception for his bandmate Darryl Jenifer. [Ed. Note: Mos Def fronted a band called Black Jack Johnson which featured guitarist Dr. Know, Parliament-Funkadelic keyboardist Bernie Worrell, bassist Doug Wimbish & drummer Will Calhoun, both from Living Colour. Peace to Sacha Jenkins.] I’ve DJ’d book parties for famed graffiti artist David “CHINO BYI” Villorente, who got a major shoutout on “Do It Now.” Then there is Brent Rollins, the visionary visual artist who designed the Black Star album cover. He is someone I’ve been privileged to work with and interview when I was freelance writing for Complex magazine.
My time as a New York lifer granted me access into Yasiin Bey’s universe. Black on Both Sides is at the epicenter, standing the test of time, 20 years. It is an album rooted in consciousness. Its themes of racial profiling and Black face (“Mr. N*gga”), white artists appropriating the sound of Black musicians (“Rock n Roll”), and the world’s water crisis (“New World Water”) were prophetic, resonating now more than ever. Just the other day, my wife, son, and I watched the “Underground Hip-Hop” episode of Hip-Hop Evolution on Netflix. The segments on Mos Def and Talib Kweli gave me goosebumps. My son soaked up some of the Lyricist Lounge performance footage, while I was in awe of him as a younger version of myself getting a taste of New York hip-hop at its finest.
