Over the years, writing has felt like a lonely journey. I experienced the thrill of discovery alone. I generated my own momentum. I stared at the blinking cursor in solitude. I set my own standards, suturing my self-esteem when I failed to meet them. When it seemed that maybe I’d exceeded them, I celebrated by myself with bad TV and a good beer.
The work of writing is, in many ways, a solitary thing. But, as I’ve been lucky to discover, composing a book is something else entirely. It really does take a village to nurture scholarship in its most fragile state into something mature enough for publication. I am so very fortunate, then, to have had the generous and patient support of friends, loved ones, colleagues, students, pros in the publishing world, and experts tied to the story I sought to tell. Collectively, these people are responsible for everything wonderful about this book. I, alone, am to blame for everything else.
The research for this book depended upon the expertise of librarians and staff at dozens of institutions. I must specifically thank those I bugged relentlessly at the Margaret Herrick Library of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, the Charles E. Young Research Library and the Center for Oral History Research at UCLA, the Ethnic Studies Library and the Bancroft at UC Berkeley, the Los Angeles Public Library, the Inglewood Public Library, the California State Library, and, most gracious of all, the Southern California Library for Social Studies and Research, a Vermont-Slauson gem. Generous fellowships provided by the Arthur Ferreira Pinto Foundation and UC Berkeley’s Graduate Division allowed me to travel for research and pay rent as a doctoral student. Financial support from San Francisco State University, my home institution, provided me with the resources and the precious leave time to continue research, rewrite the dissertation, and workshop the manuscript at conferences.
In the late stages of research, I sourced images to include in the book, making every effort to identify rights holders and secure permission for the use of copyrighted material. Thus, I’m grateful for the good people at the Studio for Southern California History, UCLA’s Los Angeles Times Photographs Collection, The Crisis, the Los Angeles Sentinel, Rafu Shimpo, and Black Radio Exclusive. They all kindly answered my requests for permission to use images or pointed me to those who could grant that permission. My gratitude also goes to the Historical Society of Southern California and its Ahmanson Foundation Grant for Book Publication, which funded the sometimes expensive process of gathering rights and clearances. I give special thanks to Greg “Egyptian Lover” Broussard for sharing a piece of his Uncle Jamm’s Army past, and to Susan Yano, who lent me a rare snapshot of her late husband’s reign at the Roadium swap meet.
This book began as a dissertation that I almost didn’t write. As a graduate student at UC Berkeley, I had a bad case of Imposter Syndrome, which made the idea of writing about 1980s popular culture—and rap, specifically—feel absurd. I was drawn to the research, but I worried that the people I revered, who had taken a chance on me, would be deeply disappointed (and concerned about my job prospects) if I chose to veer so far off the beaten path of traditional historical scholarship. But my advisors, Leon F. Litwack and Waldo E. Martin, Jr., along with Scott Saul and Kerwin Klein, only encouraged me, not once doubting that the work mattered. I am forever grateful to Leon Litwack for what he has impressed upon me about good writing. No one, except perhaps my bibliophile husband, is more hardcore about the merits of clear prose, and no one has better prepared me for how frustrating it can be to produce writing that isn’t, well, frustrating. I relished being Leon’s last doctoral student, and I still relish his friendship. Waldo Martin is the reason I finished the dissertation at all. I became a mother halfway through my graduate program—something that wasn’t then and still isn’t common for women pursuing PhDs. No one owed me any sympathy for all the new and unexpected pressures I felt as a new mom on a filing deadline, yet Waldo offered it again and again. I’m as grateful for his kindness as I am for our many, many impassioned discussions about Mary J. Blige.
At Berkeley, I was also lucky to have the support of Scott Saul in the English Department. Scott wrote the book on Richard Pryor that I wish I’d written, so I consider myself lucky to have had his support and his feedback. I’m not sure Kerwin Klein knows how much influence he had on my decision to write about rap. When I was an undergrad at Berkeley in the 1990s, I took his California History class and he assigned an article about Ice Cube and the LA riots. It was a piece by Jeff Chang, then a graduate student but also someone I knew for his ties to the Bay Area indie record label Solesides (later Quannum), where I worked in promotions. I was stunned that at UC Berkeley a history professor would be so bold as to discuss recent pop culture in his classroom, and I was floored by the fact that we were required to read something about rap, written by someone in the hip-hop scene I was a part of. If there’s a seed from which this book grew, it’s Kerwin’s teaching. As a graduate student, Kerwin remained a beacon for me; I am particularly privileged, given how elusive he was known to be, that he spent as much time as he did with me discussing Los Angeles, music, writing, and teaching.
The manuscript I presented to Harvard University Press was the product of truly invaluable feedback from advisors, fellow graduate students, colleagues, friends, students, and family. As proud as I was of the dissertation when I filed it, I quickly resolved to take it down to the studs and rebuild the whole thing. It would have been a hopeless undertaking were it not for the generous suggestions, edits, and critiques offered by those I’ve already mentioned, and also by A. B. Wilkinson, Alejandro Garcia, Joe Duong, Kerima Lewis, Joe Orbock, Rachel Bernard, Sarah Stoller, Sarah Gold-McBride, Jeannette Eileen Jones, Kalenda Eaton, Michael Johnson, Emily Lutenski, Meina Yates-Richard, Jeanelle Hope, and Miguel Juárez. I’m also thankful to two anonymous readers who, though tough critics, ultimately convinced me that I had a “page-turner” on my hands.
Dear friends and others who know more than I do about the topics in these pages graciously contributed ideas, and even connections. Pam “The Funkstress” Warren, Josh Bea, Erik Kjensrud, Daniel Green, Justin Bradshaw, Patrick Diaz, Jason Castillo, Marc Burrell, Andrew Nosnitsky, Brian Warwick, Mike Davis, Billy Jam, Greg “Eqyptian Lover” Broussard, and “Greg Mack” MacMillan are among those who added dimensions to the book. Two fellow historians and brilliant friends, Amy DeFalco Lippert and Daniel Immerwahr, are owed thanks for providing moral support through revisions and then shepherding me through the sometimes daunting publishing process.
I pitched this book to Andrew Kinney at Harvard University Press on a whim. My expectation was that the meeting would go about as well as the one in which Jerry Heller tried to convince Capitol Records chairman Joe Smith to sign NWA. That is to say, I didn’t anticipate it would result in any partnership and I worried he might think I had a screw loose. When Andrew revealed himself to be a dyed-in-the-wool hip-hop fan who knew DJ Quik as well as he knew Kool Moe Dee, I thought I might be able to convince him that Harvard should publish this book. I didn’t have to. Andrew made it his own mission. As my editor, his advocacy has been beyond vital, and his confidence in the project has kept me sane.
I’ve benefited from so much outstanding talent, professionalism, generosity, and patience at Harvard University Press. The fine people there truly are the village that it took to make this book special. In addition to Andrew’s support, I’m grateful for the work of Olivia Woods, Stephanie Vyce, Anne Mcguire, Tim Jones, and Melody Negron. I’m especially indebted to Julia Kirby, who edited the final manuscript. Indeed, I nearly dedicated the book to Julia rather than to my children. My life is as charmed as it is because of my kids, and this book is as good as it is because of Julia’s edits.
Marlene and Steve Angeja, my mother and father, have cheered me on, sacrificed their time, read drafts, babysat, pushed me, and loved me. They, along with my brother and my stepmother, made it possible for me to balance my professional goals with motherhood. But more than that, my mom and dad, in their own ways, modeled courage and determination. I’ve needed lots of both all along the way, so I’m thankful for who they are.
No one has been closer to this journey—with all its stress and joy—than Ross Viator. I’m lucky to have his friendship, to share his passion for music, and to be able to obsess with him over words. I am also privileged to have someone so smart and sweet in my life to help me accept my mistakes and celebrate my victories. I’m not sure a book about rap can be considered a love letter. But if it can, this one is to him.