Kanye:
You’ve always been my brother. We’re both from the Chi. We’re both mama’s boys. We both love this music. We’ve known each other for years, but we really became close at a critical time in my life.
I was coming off of a broken relationship, a disappointing album—a series of setbacks, both public and private. We started working together, and your confidence was contagious. Your belief in yourself—and in me—brought me back in tune with my potential.
I was stepping into manhood. I was beginning to see things clearly and beginning to feel who I was as an artist and as a man. At the same time, you were just beginning to flourish as an artist on your own terms. This was a wonderful time of development and discovery for both of us.
We spent hours in the studio. I was putting rhymes to your beats; the musical synergy was off the charts. But what I recall most were the conversations, bonding and beefing and airing our thoughts. That was golden. I really appreciated that time in my life, and you were there for me as a friend, as a buddy. We created some special music for the world to hear.
Back in the Chi, you used to come by Dion’s basement when we were making tracks—a little dude talking crazy shit. “This nigga’s wild,” I thought. “Does he ever stop talking?” But I could tell that there was something special about you even then, a power you had and still have today.
I know I’m your older brother, but a lot of times, you’ve been my teacher. You never tried to tell me what I should do; you taught by example. What I appreciate most about you is your honesty. That honesty, that truth, is raw—straight, no chaser. You always speak the first thought on your mind, which can get you into trouble sometimes. But it’s always coming from a pure place.
People sometimes ask me, “What’s up with your boy?” They point to a telethon or an interview or an awards show. They look to me to explain or excuse what you do. I always tell them, “Look, I support him unconditionally. He’s my brother.” Those who don’t know you find it hard to believe that you’re as genuine as you are. They see calculation in your actions. I think that says more about them than it does about you. You know, I might not always agree with everything you say or do, but I know that whatever it is comes from a genuine place. That’s one thing you should never change.
I don’t know why I’m telling you this—you gonna do it your way anyway. I guess I just want to remind you that I am here. I want you to have all the happiness you can grasp in this life. You deserve it. You are a good-hearted brother. And as long as you keep your heart in a true place, guided by the right intentions and purpose, no one else’s opinion should disturb your path.
I wish I had the courage and the boldness to say what I feel all the time like you do. I once had it as a child, but life has a way of taking that from you. I always admired the fact that somehow you found a way to keep that childlike honesty. I really think that’s how we’re supposed to be as human beings: able to express ourselves in the purest possible way.
Ye, I learned a lot from you about how to believe more in myself and apply that belief to the benefit of others. From the very moment I met you, you never ceased to amaze me with the depth of your belief in yourself. Then to see that belief made real, to see your faith brought to fruition—it’s a powerful lesson that I could carry with me throughout my life.
You’ve gone through some tough times, and you’ve done it all in the face of fame. I know how hard it was to lose your mother; I can’t imagine what I would do if I lost mine. You turned your pain into beauty; you let it sing through your music. I watched you do it. And I want you to know, man, God has you. He is not through with you yet, and as you experience the peaks and the valleys, God will carry you and see you through.
Your talent and your pure soul will always manifest themselves in Divine Excellence and Genius. Continue to use it to fulfill your higher purpose. Not many will be able to say they are as gifted as you are. I know you appreciate those gifts; you tell us about them all the time! I know you want to continue to spread those gifts to the world in your way, and you owe that to yourself to seek greatness.
Looking back, I had to be crazy to pass on those beats you were pushing back in Dion’s basement. Then again, I wonder if they were as cold as you thought they were or if your skills have finally caught up to your mouth. I’m just playin’. But you have gotten better. And the great gift to the world is that you keep getting better with every album, every song. You truly are one of the great creators of our time. Wear your greatness as a humble king.
Love,
Rashid
I ALWAYS LOVED THAT STORY ABOUT THE PRINCE WHO TRADES places with the pauper. He exchanges his robes for rags. He leaves the palace for a shack. He lives life down on the ground. Then at the end, when he reassumes his rightful place in the kingdom, he’s better and wiser for his experience and his struggle.
In 2000 I was a prince in the rap game. I had just released Like Water for Chocolate, an album made with a lot of love and soul. I felt like it was the best work I had done to that point, and many people seemed to agree. It was a breakthrough for me, critically and commercially. So why did I decide to take up a new art, one in which I would have to start at the very bottom? Why would a prince choose to become a pauper? Maybe so that one day he could become a humble king.
I love what it takes to achieve great things. I’m not afraid to work for it. I thrive on the slow progress born of struggle. Those are vital aspects of what motivates my life and gives me a sense of purpose. I’ve always thought of myself as an artist first and foremost. An artist creates beautiful things, regardless of the art form. Who’s to say that I can’t become a painter or a sculptor or a pianist if I haven’t tried? Who’s to say, then, that I couldn’t make myself into an actor?
My acting career almost ended before it began. Back in fifth grade at Faulkner the teacher announced that there would be tryouts for a holiday play, A Christmas Carol. It became this competitive thing for Derek and me. We both wanted the lead role of Scrooge. I told Murray about it, and he said, “Man, that’s some punk shit!” But I didn’t care. Well, the audition came along, and Derek beat me out for Scrooge. I ended up as Tiny Tim—a good role, I guess, though it wouldn’t much help disprove Murray. We did the play and they just couldn’t stop talking about Derek. “Derek, you were so amazing! Derek, you stole the show.” What about Tiny Tim? I decided that if I wasn’t going to be the best, I might as well keep it moving and try something else.
I really didn’t think about acting again until late 1999, right after we finished recording Like Water for Chocolate. That album awoke my spirit as an artist. I was starving for new challenges. I tried playing the keyboard, but I had a hard time getting past the scales. I’d wake up from dreams sometimes and still hear the elaborate solo I had just finished playing in my head, but when I sat down at the keyboard, it was strictly “Chopsticks.” I like to say that I was a piano player in a past lifetime, but it looks like it passed me by this go-round. I was looking for something else, something that could help me take my artistry to a higher level.
Starting in 2001, I enrolled in an acting class taught by the incomparable Greta Seacat. I remember that first session, because she had us do an assignment over New Year’s in preparation for it. She asked us to work with our dreams and draw the energy for our character out of our subconscious mind and emotions. It was a powerful exercise, a beautiful experience.
I remember one session in particular. I was between tour dates at the time and had decided to attend a class. I had just gotten back to New York from Australia, where it was summertime. New York was in the dead of winter. A group of us came out of class, and another three feet of snow had fallen on Manhattan while we were inside. On my way out, Greta pulled me aside. “Rashid, you have a gift. You have something special. You need a whole lot more experience, a whole lot more work, but the gift is there. Embrace it.” That felt like magic.
At first I doubted her. The Chicago in me came out: “Is she hustling me? Is she just saying that so I keep coming to the classes?” But I decided to embrace it. I would accept her words as a blessing and a challenge. So I got to work. I couldn’t believe how I felt after each class. It was like discovering that you had lived your life trapped in a cardboard box, and someone has finally shown you how to punch your way out. Every class felt like I was knocking holes in that box, letting the fresh air in. The more I went to her classes, the more I knew I wanted to be—I was destined to be—an actor.
Being an actor has helped me to articulate my feelings with greater clarity and precision. I think that comes from the discipline of preparing a character. You’re always asking questions of your character: Where does this emotion come from? Why would he do that or say this? How can he go from this place to the other? Pretty soon you start asking those same questions of yourself.
In 2005 I moved out to Los Angeles so that I could pursue acting full time. If this was going to be my job, I’d have to treat it like one. I’d have to grind the same way that I did when I was breaking into music, the same way that I did after the disappointing sales of my first album. I spent most of my days auditioning and my nights reading scripts. I wasn’t seeing a lot that appealed to me. I guess it’s no surprise, but there’s not exactly a plethora of roles for a thirtysomething black male actor in Hollywood. You’re either bouncing a ball or busting a cap.
I once auditioned for the role of a basketball coach. I embraced the challenge and got into my character. I came in with a whistle around my neck and a decade’s worth of coachspeak in my head. I felt like the audition went just okay. The casting director told my agent that I was “green.” After all the work that I had put in, it was hard to hear that. I took it as a challenge, though. I had one thought: “I’m gonna show these motherfuckers now!”
The very next script that came in was for a movie by a young director named Joe Carnahan called Smokin’ Aces. I read it, and it was like the sky opened up for me. It was the first time that I had made it all the way through a script. It was that compelling. It had the flavor of Pulp Fiction but with a style all its own. They wanted to offer me an audition, but first I had to sit down with the director. We talked for a while, but one question he asked sticks out in my memory:
“I know you can rap. I know you can do the solo thing. But do you think you can work with a team?”
“Man, I played basketball. I was a point guard. I distribute. I like keeping the team happy.”
They agreed to give me an audition. I would play the role of Sir Ivy, a hitman for hire. I wanted this role so bad. I didn’t want a repeat of the coach debacle. So I tried something different. While I was out on tour, I started reading the sides—the audition scenes—and I started performing them for people. All along, I was building my confidence. I had Karriem Riggins film me reading my lines, too, so I got to see myself back. Then my boy Brian, who’s a videographer, started working on it with me. I would look back at the tapes and see what was working and what wasn’t. I could see with my own eyes what was really translating as pure. It was amazing to learn like that.
And I ended up going in and nailing the audition. That was my first callback. It’s a wonder that I got the role, in part because I was a rapper. You see, Alicia Keys already had the gig. It was her first movie. They didn’t want to stack the movie with rappers and singers. Luckily, we both could stand on our talents.
The way I approach acting, it’s very difficult for me to go in and out of the role. When I’m on set, I’m locked in. Between takes on the set of Smokin’ Aces, one of the assistant directors came up to tell me that he was doing music videos now. I told him, “Hold up. We’re going to have to talk about that later. I got to go kill this motherfucker right now.” That’s the type of zone I’ve got to be in when I work. I don’t take it from the perspective of “Man, I’m Common. I’m a star. I should get special treatment.” That’s not the way I thought at all. I’m a point guard.
I’m sure that being a rapper sometimes hurts me when it comes to getting roles. But I think I’ll always be a rapper and an actor—though I never want to be a rapper/actor. When I do one or the other, I’m all in. I can’t imagine giving either one up, because both of them feed me in different ways and both of them help me reach different audiences. Rapping is more of a personal experience. It has its sacred element. You’re composing by yourself; you’re living in your head and in your voice.
Acting is a collective effort. There’s a special joy that comes from working with other actors. You’re creating with other people, so it’s not all on you, one individual. As much as we love attention as actors—you want to be a movie star—we also love it for the artistic expression, for the communal feeling. You want to bring what you can bring, let that character be alive and breathing, but that’s only one piece of the puzzle. You want to give what you have to the director, the lighting guys, the film editors. You relinquish sole control. You have to give and receive. There’s something sacred as well in that selflessness of working together.
When I first started acting, I had to audition and sign my name on the audition list like everybody else. It’s a humbling experience. Players in that world don’t care if you’re a rap star. They ask the same things of you that they do of everyone else: Say your name when we start the tape. How tall are you? Okay, you ready? Then . . . you’re doing the thing. Acting—the constant cycle of auditioning, getting callbacks or not getting callbacks—has been a humbling experience for me, having to pitch myself for acceptance in a new game.
Sometimes, though, the ideal role just comes to you. Right before the Hollywood writers’ strike in 2007, I was cast to play the Green Lantern in George Miller’s Justice League. Like so many movies around that time, the strike crippled the film even before it could get out of preproduction. That movie would have made me, for all intents and purposes, the first black superhero on film. Another actor D. J. Cotrona, who’s Hispanic, was playing Superman. He and I used to talk all the time about what it would mean to young kids for them to look up on the screen and see us there. Kids need to see that. They need to see themselves doing amazing things. It helps them dream. It helps them see that they can be extraordinary.
That was a powerful thing that we set out to do. George Miller had us down in Australia doing rehearsals. He had this metaphor for what the Justice League could be about. We had this picture. We’d do our table reads. I really loved the preparation we were doing for that movie. I tried on my costume and everything. I walked into the room where all the Warner Bros. executives were, and they said it just clicked. There had been a lot of controversy on the web about casting. People were saying, “How are you picking this person? How are you picking that person?” I was one of the few casting decisions that the blogosphere seemed to like. “Okay, that’s the right choice for John Stewart.” Even before I knew about the Green Lantern, I used to wear the shirt. It was meant to be, and then, well, it wasn’t. I take a lot from the experience, though, another step in my evolution as an actor.
Luckily I’ve had the opportunity to work with some amazing actors who have helped me along the way—not just with the craft of acting, but with life in general. Denzel Washington taught me what being a king means. He carries himself with humility and kindness, but also with full knowledge of his gifts and his position. He’s also just good people. One time when we were on the set of American Gangster, I brought my boy Monard with me to watch the filming. Of course, he wanted to be introduced to Denzel, so I took him over and left them to chat. Denzel talked to Moe for damn near a half hour. After they were done, Moe walked over to me with this dazed look on his face, eyes all wide, mouth agape.
“Man, what happened?”
“Denzel Washington just gave me a pound and said ‘My nigga’ to me!”
I had to laugh. Denzel really taught me to trust myself and to act like I know what I know. I had only a few lines in the movie, but they were big for me. He came up to me between takes and said, “Man, you know how to read these lines better than whoever wrote them. You know how we would say this, so say it like that. Look, we black. We doing something that’s expressing something we express as black people. So you’ll know how to say it better than any screenwriter can tell you.”
That meant so much to me that he took the time to break it down for me and that he had faith in me to succeed.
Now, Morgan Freeman taught me something else entirely—more subtle, but just as important. We were working on a scene together from Wanted, and I really wanted to nail it. I mean, this is Morgan Freeman we’re talking about. He’s played God! So we’re doing this scene, and I know I’m pressing. You know how sometimes you can want something so bad that you forget exactly what you need to do to get it? Well, that’s what happened to me. We ran through the scene a couple times, and all the while I can see Morgan peeking at me through the eyes of his character. After one more pressed take, he pulls me to the side and says, “Rashid, I know you want to do this scene flawlessly, but you’re trying too hard. Don’t try. Don’t try. You know the lines, you’ve studied your role. Now you just need to forget about it all and be.”
He was right. I had learned this same lesson as an MC. When you’re performing, you can’t worry about your technique. You just have to be in the moment with the performance. It’s the same with acting. The only way to act natural is to be natural. There’s no trick. There’s no shortcut. I learned a lot that day.
On that same set, I also got to know Angelina Jolie. She didn’t know who I was before we started filming, so she called up Wyclef Jean and asked what he thought of me. “Yo, Common’s one of the illest in the game. And he’s conscious, too.” I guess that intrigued her. She was already a tabloid staple by then for her relationship with Brad Pitt, her adopted children, and her work as a humanitarian. But I got to know her just as Angie. I’ll tell you this, she’s probably the realest person I’ve ever met in any industry. Even if she had a nine-to-five, she’d still be doing what she’s doing now: giving, loving, nurturing, exploring. We shot the movie in Prague, and I’d be amazed at her schedule: she’d start the day by taking her kids to day care, then head to the set for a day of shooting, pick her kids up, put them to bed, and then sometimes go out with us. Brad was big into go-karting, so we would be getting it in on the track. Brad was getting us, too. And I’m a competitor, so I hated getting beat.
A few months later, they were in Chicago, and we met for dinner. I’d been telling them so many stories about my life in the Chi that they asked if they could meet some of my friends. So I gave my guys a call and asked them to come down and meet me at the restaurant. That’s all I said. So Murray comes down, and the maitre’ d brings him over to the table, where I’m sitting with Angelina and Brad.
My friends were like, “What the hell?!?” I had to tell Rasaan, “Don’t be doing too much.” That didn’t stop him. “Let me get a picture,” he said. Monard tried to sell Brad some real estate on the South Side, gave him like three or four business cards. Brad and Angelina hung out and kicked it. We went out on the patio and were listening to Finding Forever—my first album to debut at number one. I had made Angelina a CD of Fela and different stuff. She said, “That’s some real dark warrior music.” It really felt wonderful. This was just a great time. There was a lot of love and respect there.
As for Date Night, I played the straight man. It was a comedy, but my job wasn’t to crack jokes. I think the role fit me. I could play tough, so I was bouncing off of Steve Carell and Tina Fey more than anything. Some people say I have a knack for comedy that I’ve yet to express. I’m not sure. I think that my strengths in acting are on the dramatic and action sides. But I can do comedy. I think I would be great in a comedy that comes off as authentic and real. I learned a lot, though, from watching Tina and Steve improvise. But off the set, we spent less time talking about acting and more time talking about Chicago deep-dish pizza.
Queen Latifah is one of the most sincere, bright spirits I’ve come across on this earth. She just has a smile about her, a certain warmth. It’s okay to talk to her. I developed a friendship with her around 2005. We hung out. She gave me this book about the science of breath. When she did that, I thought, “This woman is on a higher level.” At the same time, we would still sit and drink and get bubbed out. We became friends in LA, but we met for the first time more than a decade before. I have a videotape from the 1991 New Music Seminar with Monie Love, Latifah, and a bunch of others. She showed me love even then.
Throughout her career, Latifah has stayed true to hip-hop but has also been about personal elevation. She handpicked me for Just Wright. I remember she came over and picked me up one day to listen to her music, and I told her I wanted to do this movie. “They’re saying the schedules won’t work,” she said, “but I want to do it with you.” She just really supported me, and we made it work.
Just Wright was one of the best and one of the toughest times I’ve ever had filming a movie. It was my first leading role, and there was just so much pressure. My mother was saying, “This movie can make you.” I felt the same way. My team was thinking this could be a game changer for my career. There was pressure from the director and the producers on the set. I felt like the scapegoat at times. They said I was taking too long for takes, taking too long to get into it. Don’t get me wrong: it was beautiful and fun, but it was pressure. It was a stressful energy around the set. Because I had worked with these people before, I could feel what was going on more. People looked worried, too.
Throughout it all, Latifah gave me support in a way that pushed me, but was still warm and loving. I remember her saying, “Man, we just did a take with Elton Brand. He knocked it out quick. You supposed to be doing like that! That’s how you supposed to be coming.” She understood my competitive spirit, my athlete’s mentality. At the same time, she’d pull me aside and say, “You need any help here? You straight? That come out good?” We had a great connection when we were filming because she took the time to understand me. I hope I did the same for her.
Latifah is one of those people I think I’ve known in another lifetime. I feel at ease and at peace with her. And I think she feels the same way about me. I just really do love her. That’s one person in the industry I can say I love. I can have a conversation with her about anything. Even if I haven’t talked to her in months, there’s an understanding, and we reconnect right off the bat. We’ve had some fun, some drunken nights just kicking it. She and some of her buddies, me and my people.
Acting is one of the deepest forms of artistic expression I’ve ever experienced. To take pieces of yourself—some of the most vulnerable, painful pieces of yourself—and explore them is a deep form of healing. You go to some of the most painful places of your life. You open the locked rooms of your soul. You open a door to find a room that someone may have died in, and you can still feel his or her presence hanging in the air. You open another door, and you’re flooded with a feeling of abandonment. You’re a child again on the basketball court, wishing that your dad were there to coach the team. You’re a lover stranded in a place where love doesn’t live anymore. You don’t visit those rooms without a reason. Acting forces you to visit those rooms, forces you to feel the pain, and then gives you a safe way of releasing it. It’s a tool for life if you use it right.
I want to show all parts of me in my music as well as in my acting. Have fun, be clever, but have substance in the language that I speak when I’m with my guys and in the language of the people. I’m not afraid to express certain words that I say. I have a tendency to show only my best side, but sometimes people need to see the man in full. We need images of black men that have a positive energy and positive light, but that are real. I’m not saying I’m going to do something positive and then go out and fuck seven broads. But I will show my true self. I find a place to show that I’m a man making the best decisions for my health, my family, my community. But I’m still gonna party.
I feel like I’m a better actor when there’s some drama. I’m better with some weight. Then, too, I don’t like playing the good guy because I play the good guy every day in real life. There are things in me that are painful, that are shameful, that are a struggle that I get to express through these characters. I get to let these characters express what’s inside of me. I don’t want to play no perfect guy. I don’t want to play the prince, unless he’s doing some dirt too, unless he’s got a dark side or got some freak in him or something. I don’t want to play the prince unless he’s Prince.
He needs to grow in all areas as an actor. I want him to be able to do comedy, drama, action. Gangster roles. I think he’s going to become good at dramatic roles. The biggest thing with Rashid is that God has really given him some gifts. He says it, but he doesn’t really believe it. Not yet. If you were in the presence of Al Pacino or Denzel, you should be humble. But if he’s among his peers, he doesn’t even feel comfortable to walk up and say hi.
I think he’s more than what he thinks he is. And I don’t think he thinks it yet. I guess that’s better than the opposite. I want him to stay the way he is, but I want him to recognize that he is special. Stay humble. It’s okay to be both humble and great!
People—not people who know me well, but others—sometimes ask me if Rashid buys me things. “What does he get you? Has he bought you a car? A house? You must be so proud.” And I am proud, but not for any material things. The greatest gifts that Rashid has ever given me have been from the heart. He knows I don’t go for fancy things. He knows I don’t want other people to do for me when I can do for myself. He knows all this, and so when he gives me a gift, he gives it with these things in mind.
Ever since Rashid was little, he would write me cards. When he was six or seven years old, I bought him his own little stationery. Whenever someone would give him a gift or do something nice for him, I would sit him down and have him write them out a card. It’s a simple gesture, but it meant so much—not just for the person who received the thanks but also for Rashid in learning to give thanks to others for what they bring to him.
So whenever he wanted to give me a gift—whether for my birthday, a holiday, or any old day—he usually sends me a card. Flowers and a note. The notes are what I treasure most. I still have just about every card or letter he ever wrote for me. Looking back over them is like looking at snapshots of my son in words. I see him as a second grader proud to be on the peewee baseball team. I see him as the valedictorian of his sixth-grade class. I see him as a college freshman writing back home from Tallahassee. I see him as a young father, struggling to figure out what it means to be a parent. I see him as a young man, a young artist breaking out on his own, leaving Chicago to find himself in New York City. I see him today, a man in full, living his life by God’s plan. I see all of these things in the letters that he’s written me. They tell a story. They paint a picture.
I remember a letter he sent me several years ago on Christmas morning. We almost always spend the holidays together—Rashid, Omoye, Ralph, and me, along with our extended family. It’s our holiday tradition. That morning I came into the family room to find a beautiful arrangement of flowers with this note attached:
December 2004
God is Everywhere—Believe and Know—Love, your Son
Rashid
To Ma,
I woke up this Christmas morning thinking about the greatest gift I had, and it had to be you. I thought about all the things you had guided and loved me through. I thought about all the strength it takes to be a mother and how you have been the truest and best. And so much do I love you. I thought about how much you have inspired me and encouraged me to do right, and how much you want me to be successful “by having another Light.” I know you’d give the world for me, and for you I’d do the same. So when I picture love at its purest, our relationship is the frame. Thank you for being my Ma, my teacher, my friend, my inspiration. Thank you for being you. Just know that you exist in all that I do.
EVERYBODY HAS LIGHT and dark in them. The best thing you can do is not to express your darkness to hurt other people. You gotta take your darkness out in song, in athletics, in safe places. Let it out. To me, that’s the cycle of pain we seem to generate. Our people, black people, go through a lot of pain, and we’ve inflicted it upon one another at some point.
The thing that acting shows me is that expression can release a lot of things. It’s one of the keys to being able to move on and to grow from something. I always knew I could grow as an actor because as long as you’re living life, you’re growing: going through joy and happiness, love, doubt, questions about yourself, aging—all those things. You’re experiencing life. Life is surreal, though, sometimes—particularly in Hollywood.
The William Morris Endeavor Entertainment offices in Beverly Hills are white-white with an occasional touch of blue. They are all reflective surfaces, enameled and polished to a shine. I remember the first time I took the elevator to the third floor and walked into the lobby to meet with my agent. It was like stepping onto a set with you as the star. The entire east wall is window. You can see all the way to the “Hollywood” sign. I know that’s by design. Here you are, looking over the entire city of Los Angeles, a literal sign of stardom hovering in the distance.
My boys from back home always ask, “So is it just like Entourage?”
I have to say, yeah, it is kind of like that.
I’ve had friends ask, “How do you live in LA? I hear everyone’s fake out there.” When you already know who you are, being around people who are posturing doesn’t make you start posturing too. You stay you. Yes, in LA there are a lot of people chasing material things. A lot of life is lived on the surface. But there’s a rich culture here, too. It’s a land of dreams and dreamers.
I came out here when I was thirty-two. By then, Chicago had already shaped me. I’m Chicago through and through. I try not to judge others for how they live their lives. I’m not always successful, though. Just the other day, I walked past this guy talking loud on his cell phone. “Yeah, HBO is looking at my new show . . .” Part of me wanted to say, “Shut the fuck up!” But I had to shut that emotion down.
I try to bring realness to whatever situation I’m in. I set the tone by my example. Of course, you’re not going to change an entire city in one swoop, but I’m still going to be me around everyone. I’m going to say some raw, real things. That’s what I know, and that’s what I’ll be. I also tend to look at the brighter side of things. So I look at LA, and I say, “Man, there’s sunshine. There are beautiful mountains. This is a place where I can get great work done.” And even if there are some people who are focused on things that are not authentic to me, I’m not going to judge them for it. I’m going to keep going about my business. If I’m in their circle, though, I’m going to show them what the real is. If they want to meet me there, they can.
I always think about Jesus when he was hanging with the Pharisees and the prostitutes. “It’s the sick who need the healing.” If I’m going to do my best to use Jesus as an example, to walk in His ways, then I have to be around people who I may not feel are on what I’m on. And for the greater good of both of us, we should sit down and talk to each other. I’m not one who’s going to hold back if I have something good to say. If I can say it, I’ll say it to pass on that energy.
I don’t want to sound self-righteous or anything. Life here doesn’t affect me enough to say, “What’s up with LA? Why are people like that?” This is Hollywood. This is the industry. People talk about their careers, for the most part. At some point in life, a person will understand that life is about more than what you do professionally. Our lives are a complete circle, a complete cycle that’s constantly evolving. To be well rounded is to place importance on your spirituality, family, job, fun, vacation—all of the things and people that mean something to your life. You have to find balance so you can be a complete person. If your values lie only in material things, remember that those things will come and go.
I’ve met many real, caring, and deep people in Hollywood. Often we’ve met by working together. One of the first people in the industry with whom I truly connected was Taraji P. Henson. We met during the filming of one of my favorite videos from Be, this joint called “Testify.” In the song, I’m telling a story about a woman who cons a judge and jury into finding her husband guilty of a crime that she actually committed. The song is already so cinematic that I was excited to see it brought to the screen. I wanted either Taraji or Kerry Washington to play the conniving girl in the video. I didn’t know Taraji at all, just admired her work. I had my agent get her number, and I called her up to ask her to do the video.
“I’m sitting by my pool,” she said.
Damn, she got a pool? “She’s doing her thing,” I thought. I didn’t know much at the time about acting and how much actors got paid.
She said that she was open to doing it but would talk to her manager. For the rest of the conversation, we were just feeling each other out, even flirting a little bit. At the end of the conversation, she said, “I wouldn’t date a rapper. I stay away from you rappers.”
Eventually we had some cool conversations. And we shot the video. She said that I was looking at her some kind of way during the entire shoot, which I probably was. I was just a man looking at an attractive woman. I invited Taraji to this thing for my Common Ground Foundation in 2005, and from there we started seeing each other.
Taraji was the one I truly, truly loved. I never even told Rashid that until after they were already broken up. I knew from the start that he wouldn’t stay with Taraji. Part of it was that their personalities were so different. She’s a little more outgoing. Even though Rashid is gregarious and personable, he’s really sort of a private person. And you can’t be too out there for him. I’m not sure that he ever really, really loved Taraji. At the time, he was looking for love. But he was comparing everyone to Erykah. Taraji was the anti-Erykah in some ways.
On top of all of that, Rashid was in such a delicate place then. He was watching one of his best friends, Jay Dee, die before his eyes. And he was still hurting from his lost relationship with Erykah. He was more running away from something than running to something when it came to Taraji.
I’M NOT SURE OUR RELATIONSHIP ever really had a chance. She met me at one of the most difficult times of my life, as I was watching my close friend Jay Dee pass away. She supported me through it all, and I’ll always love her for that.
I had no greater friend at this time than Jay Dee. When I found out that Dilla was sick with a rare blood disorder, I invited him to move in with me in LA. I thought Southern California would be good for his spirits—the sun, the warmth, the beautiful women. Jay Dee would be well, then he would be sick. He was in a wheelchair. It was tough. He would lie on the couch all day sometimes, watching Maury Povich, Springer. It was hard for me to see him sick and lying around, not feeling good and physically deteriorating. Mrs. Yancey, his mom, would be there. To see him rolling through the hall in his wheelchair at a moment of my professional success, it was hard.
Be was a great time in my life as an artist. I felt like I had risen to another level of artistry and fame. People knew me from “The Corner,” from “Go!” hearing my records on the radio and the streets. I would go to movie meetings, and some people would be up on it. My songs were getting heard in places that I never would have imagined. Especially coming off Electric Circus, which had me wondering, “Will I ever be able to make another album? Is my career over?” When Be came out, it was getting glowing reviews, attaining commercial success, and my songs were being used in movies. This is what success is supposed to feel like.
But for all the highs, I was dealing with the lowest of lows. Knowing that Jay Dee would pass, watching him pass before my eyes—it was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever experienced. Jay Dee died on February 10, 2006. The house became a lonely place, a scary place, a sad place. One day in the months before his death, I came home to find that he had ordered me a TV stand for my room. It was just one of those small gestures, an act of friendship. I moved the stand in there, but after he died, I gave it away because it was too big for the space. As soon as I let it go, I regretted it. That’s the sort of thing that you leave in your room no matter what. Dilla bought that. No matter how it looks, it was a gift from someone you love. You leave it in there. It sounds like a silly thing to focus on, but I think about it to this day. I wish I had never given up that thing.
His funeral affected me deeply. It affected all of us: ?uestlove, Q-Tip, Pete Rock. Jay Dee’s mother and his four-year-old daughter had been staying with us. Before we headed off to the funeral, we gathered in a circle and clasped hands, ready for prayer. Jay’s daughter said she wanted to say the prayer. Her prayer was for everybody. You felt like God was speaking through her. “Bless my daddy’s soul. Thank you for my daddy. I know he’s with you. May we all be happy in this circle.” The power in her voice was for real.
Watched gangstas turn God in the midst of war
No matter how much I elevate, I kiss the floor
It was in the wind when she said Dilla was gone
That’s when I knew we lived forever through song
—“FOREVER BEGINS”
Mrs. Yancey had Jay Dee’s MPC there and this hat he used to wear. Black Thought was sitting next to me. I had broken down, and he was comforting me. Then Erykah got Taraji to comfort me. People came to our place after the service. We had food, fish, and stuff. Good food.
Jay Dee’s legacy was that he created a sound in music that was so funky, so organic and timeless. His work gives you a feeling of joy, of why we love music. He’s the god of producing. Where the god at? He could do so much. He could play instruments by ear. He innovated a sound that had what you’d call a hump to it like nobody else ever did. Every now and then, I hear a beat and think, “It feels like Jay Dee.”
Jay Dee commanded respect. I’ve witnessed Pharrell Williams get down on his knees and bow down to Jay. Kanye came by the house on a Mother’s Day when Jay Dee was in here making beats. Jay Dee gave Kanye a 45 with some drum breaks, and Kanye cherished that joint like he’d received a gift from one of the prophets.
I loved him as my brother, a creator. Waking up in the morning and walking past knowing that he was making a beat gave me such joy: “Aphrodisiac,”
“Thelonious.” I was trying to get him on this song called “Funky for You.” The label didn’t seem too motivated, so Jay Dee dropped me off at the hotel. The next morning, he picked me up and had what became “Thelonious” humping in the truck. He and I went and wrote that joint in his basement. His private legacy? A warm, quiet, and good-hearted friend.
Like Dilla, Kanye is someone I would consider more a brother than a friend. Kanye and I can talk about anything: life and love, whatever’s on our minds. Even our mothers became friends. It’s hard to make friends—true friends—in the entertainment industry. You want to find someone who’s open enough to get to know you in a genuine way. Kanye is that person.
It wasn’t always like that, though. I met Kanye back in Chicago through No ID. Kanye was that young dude who used to be in Dion’s basement talking about, “My beats is the coldest. Check these out!” We would just laugh at him. Don’t get me wrong: his beats were strong even then. But I used to think, “If I got No ID in here doing higher-level beats, why am I gonna mess with you when your beats aren’t on that level yet?”
Kanye was cocky as hell, but you had to love him. He could be like a mosquito in your ear, though—straight get on your nerves. My guys used to come with me to the studio, and Kanye would be talking nonstop as usual. “We gonna beat his ass,” they’d say. “Nah, cool out,” I’d have to tell them. “He’s good.” Kanye’s always had that raw speak-your-mind thing. My boys didn’t like that.
I’m not going to sit here and tell you that I knew Kanye would become a superstar. But I knew he was talented. I knew he had a gift for sound. He could rhyme, too. We’d sit around the studio freestyling, and he’d say some clever stuff.
I finally ended up working with Kanye on Be. He produced most of the album. Kanye and I would have the best conversations in the studio. I would go digging for records and bring them in, and Ye would listen to them for samples. We cooked hard together. It was an amazing creative process. We became brothers. New York to LA, we were brothers. He was proud to see where he had taken me. And I’ll always acknowledge that he played a significant part in elevating my career. Being on his Good Music label was a rebirth for me.
I remember one night I had the rental car from Dave New York, and I was driving to catch Ye at the studio. He was working on a session for someone on Interscope Records—I think it was Eve—and he was working on a beat. I called him, and he said, “Come on through the studio.” I got there and walked in, and he was playing this beat that turned out to be “The Food.” He played it and then started this little chant. “This yours. Man, you want that?” Once I said I was coming, he just divinely made it for me even though he was in another artist’s session. I took that beat, and I was riding out to it. I started getting in on that beat. “Man, I’m coming home on this beat.” Life is cycles. Can I Borrow a Dollar? was the root. This was the second revolution. I had to go out, come around, and go through the cycle to get back to Be. Be was the future, but it was back. The future of the retro.
To see how far Kanye has come is amazing and great for the Chi. It’s great for all of us. Yes, he’s found himself in the middle of controversy—the “George Bush doesn’t care about black people” thing, the Taylor Swift jack move—but it’s really no different from what he used to do in Dion’s basement. It’s just that now the spotlights are on. I may not agree with everything he does, but I support him and unconditionally love him. He’s a genuine person, a gifted spirit, and a creative force just beginning to find his expression. The last few years have been difficult for him. I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose your mother. I can’t imagine what I’d do. That tells me Kanye needs his family now more than ever. We’re brothers, so that’s family.
I met Donda West when we sat on a mother-and-son panel. This was before Kanye had really blown up. I was at Chicago State University, where she was teaching. The three mothers on the panel were Donda, Talib’s mom, Brenda Greene, and me. All three of us were English majors, English professors, had our doctorates, and had sons in the industry, rappers who didn’t finish school. From that day on, she and I connected. She wanted me to share with her what my experiences had been. I would say, “Girl, they ain’t nothing like yours gonna be.” Because I hadn’t been into the celebrity world. She dove headfirst. Kanye blew up so fast. She would invite me to everything she and Kanye did. That’s how we became close. And Rashid and Kanye were close, too, so it became natural.
It was so sad when she passed. We talked a lot before she had the surgery. I did not want her to do it. She didn’t need to do it. She was beautiful. She was smart. I told her one time, “Why don’t you come back from LA?” I don’t think Donda would have been talking about plastic surgery if she hadn’t been out there. I can remember when this women’s organization honored us, mothers in the industry. We were downtown for the first event that they did, and they sent in a makeup artist. We both said, “We don’t really wear makeup. We don’t want that.” We let them do a little something. She went from that to wanting to get plastic surgery. So I know it was the environment. I know it was the environment. She wasn’t Hollywood. She wasn’t anything like that. She was wearing African braids. You can get caught up in that world. I don’t know. I just think it made a difference. She would come stay at my house, here in Chicago and down in Florida. We had so much fun. She was smart, spirited, and down to earth. She was my friend.
I try to stay in touch with Kanye too. But he’s sort of hard to reach sometimes. He’s just hurting. He’s a much better person than he’s been portrayed to be. You can’t even begin to know. That boy’s heart is so good. But he’s just hurting. He never faced her death. He ran from it. He was in Europe when she died and as soon as the funeral was over, he went back. Kanye has always been the type of person to say what he thinks. I don’t judge him. As a matter of fact, I defend him.
I think he’s in a much better place now. The past six or seven months, though, he’s really been dealing with it. Every now and then I’ll text him or email him or talk to him. She was my best friend. Truly. She was his good friend. And she was in the music with him from the day he started—dragging him around, going places. She was all up in it from the very beginning. She knew every word to his songs while I was still trying to remember some of the titles to Rashid’s!
And the other thing is that Kanye, in my opinion, is a musical genius. I told Rashid, stay close to him. Help him keep good, regular people around him. People who are willing to tell him wrong from right. I worry about him sometimes. I always love him.
KANYE HAS HELPED ME become bolder as an artist. I see the risks he takes. I see the confidence he has in his own abilities. Being around him, it’s hard not to feel the same. The other great influence on my music has been acting. Acting has allowed me to be more open as a human being, to dig into the depths of my own person. It’s also allowed me to dig into the psychology of different people, to get into the mentality of others. I think it’s made me more open to taking on characters when I rap. I’ll tell this story, and I’ll put in more of the character’s history of why they did what they did. As an actor, you don’t judge. So writing from that perspective is a lot of fun. It really allows me to be a screenwriter, actor, director. It allows me to dream and to make that dream come true.
I’m open to trying more things. Once you get into acting, you’re not as afraid of embarrassing yourself. You’re showing a lot of emotions in character, which helps you show your emotions when you’re out of character, too. I always thought of myself as an open rapper, an expressive artist, but I’ve never been as expressive on the mic as I’ve been since acting. I’m more in tune with who I am. I’m not afraid. “Man, look, I feel free. Y’all can be restricted if you want. I’m an actor; I can do this.” It’s really me saying I’m not afraid to try things. Bring on the new.