April 5, Starline Social Club, 9:00 p.m. 

Natalie—

For the second time that day we ascended the dingy Starline stairwell. The first time, three hours prior, we chugged our beers minutes before the climb; this time we flaunted our draft IPAs in, yes, real pint glasses (courtesy of Oakland’s hip youth enclave and social club) with our pinkies up, easily adapted to the bourgeois lifestyle of pretentious indie music journalism of which we righteously assumed the title for a hot six hours.

As we pushed open the door into the dimly-lit, rose-toned 400-person venue above the bar, I immediately locked eyes with a pair of sparkling blue ones underneath a pile of animated dreads, smiled at the face, and remembered that even though I was dressed in black velvet head to toe, Josie was sporting a Nikon DSLR camera around her neck and the two of us had VIP artist wristbands on our forearms, neither of us was the coolest 21-year-old in the room.

“Kweku,” Josie said to the young, tie-dyed hip-hop artist as she glanced down at his hand softly clutching a brand new vape, “How stoned are you?”

“Yooo…..I am SO faded right now.”

Josie and I aggressively jabbed each other and shrieked inside — Kweku Collins, the Evanston-based rapper, cultural messiah and political comrade, vessel of a voice of gold and stranger to legal California weed (yes, we did take him to the dispensary a block away from the venue, thanks for asking) — was our new best friend, and we felt partially responsible for getting him this high just minutes before his set.

The three of us, plus his manager Cooper Fox and fellow producer Boathouse, hung out in the tender pre-show hours, jacking off the Promised Land that is Oakland, California and talking music, identity politics, skateboarding, “the youth,” and beef curtains.

And now, as we waited out that intermission between the opener and the Collins’ set, we had the man of the night in our corner, shielding him from lusting fans and asking the same dude who had JUST told us about his gut-wrenching pre-show nerves why the FUCK he was chilling in the crowd at this vulnerable and exposing time.

“I gotta be here to get my cue,” he said, motioning toward Boathouse, who was entertaining the audience with the maniacal beats of KAMAU while the clock ticked.

“And what’s your cue?”

“I think it might be this one,” he said, laughing quietly.

A couple moments passed and the next thing we knew, Boathouse was gesturing vigorously at the young star from the stage.

In one swift motion, the vape travelled from hand to pocket, and with a wink and an “Oh SHIT!” the rapper leapt onstage and electrified the night, delivering on the promise he had alluded to in our uplifting and enlightening conversation just hours prior.

*  *  *

Starline Social Club green room, 6:30 p.m. 

Josie—

Staring into the eyes of Kweku Collins is a dangerous feat for men, womxn, and children alike. Not only does one become immediately and irreversibly intoxicated by their slightly-blue tinge, but the intensity of his expression — teaming with intellect and curiosity— also reveals a fascinating and stupefying depth to his music and his reflections on the world.

On the inside, I felt like the gangly, euphoric, and tightly clothed cheetah-print fan-girl whom we would meet later that night. But in the small dimly-lit lounge on the top floor of Oakland’s Starline Social Club, I donned a pseudo-composure in the presence of his understated, but undeniably addictive swag. We nervously stared at the bright red couch in front of us. Natalie and I were here to unveil the new, youthful, and uncategorizable face of rap.

Kweku’s manager Cooper offered us drinks as he loudly cracked open a La Croix. As carbon dioxide bubbles plummeted out of the top of the pink can and into the air, everyone in the room inhaled molecules of collective millennial wokeness. Nat and I knew that this interview would look nothing like Stanford’s meager attempt at conversation with Kweku a couple weeks earlier. This interview — like us — would be grungier, blacker, and more political.

So there we sat with the boy-born-on-Wednesday as he huddled — arms folded across his crisp overalls — and gazed at us expectantly. Clarifying our futile positions as media-crats, Natalie courageously began. “So as music journalists, we obviously have no fucking clue what we’re talking about.”

He laughed, because it was true.

“We’re going to think everything you say is gold,” she added.

And she was absolutely right.

*  *  *

I wanted to kick this off by asking you about “Lucky Ones” — which is the first track off your latest album grey (2017). In that song you reference “The Motherland” a lot. What is The Motherland both in the context of that song and also more universally, in your life in general?

You know, my father is African and shit, he’s Ghanaian, so growing up I always heard about it. He always told me all these stories and my name is Ghanaian.

 

What does it mean?

It means “boy born on Wednesday.” So yeah, it was like, I always grew up thinking like that’s kinda home… ish. But yeah, I think on like a bigger scale it’s just wherever you feel like you come from. It’s complicated because I’m mixed and shit so I’ve gotta account for this like, Ireland is the motherland technically… and here apparently is the motherland because I got first nation blood, it’s all confusing.

 

So do you get tired of being asked about being biracial?

Yeah…yeah.

But I don’t mind it, It’s fine. There are like so many other more offensive questions that people can ask so I don’t really care.

 

What influence do you feel like that background has on your music?

When I, when I think about the idea that mixed people have this inherited kind of racial fluidity — race is such a petty construct — Yeah. Like, it almost feels shitty to say that like I’m mixed so I can be fluid throughout different groups of people. But I think it does like, like it or not, it does…

You know, when I was a kid I could fit in with like all the white kids that were on all their different shit, and all the black kids that were on all their different shit. I just kind of picked up a lot of different stuff. And growing up in my house there was a lot of different cultural intersections, so that kind of just transferred over into the music I make and the music I like … and the music I like directly affects the music I make.

 

How do you reconcile occupying different spaces—specifically regarding your impressions of Oakland and then how you’ve experienced aspects of that in other areas of your life?  

When I think about gentrification and where I sit in all of that, it gets really confusing. It’s like I always have the question of if I was to move to a neighborhood that is in the process of being gentrified, will I contribute to the community or will I be a bloodsucker to the community?  And to me, even the fact that I have to have that conversation with myself means that I probably shouldn’t move there. Like, ehhhh… it’s not my neighborhood, I should just stay where the fuck I’m at. But I don’t know. I think it’s up to the community, really. Like if I was to come here and the community was like, “Yeah dude, fuck it, you’re good.” Then I’m good. But if the community is like, “Nah, we don’t fucking want you here…”

Yeah, but I mean, goddamn! It’s like you said: Anglos take up a lot of space, and I don’t want to be another space takin’ up ass Anglo. So I just try to play my part.

 

On that note, it’s very clear that you’re totally a product of Evanston. But at the same time, it feels like you’re a little bit rootless — especially with songs like “International Business Trip,” I feel like you’re alluding to that. So I’m wondering… do you see yourself identifying with a particular place? Would it always be Illinois? Where do you think you might end up?

It’s funny, like I do feel rootless a lot… or like the roots go super, super deep and none of them are in places where I’m ever at.  And like I’m not even from Evanston like that. I was born in Upstate New York and I lived there for five years and then we went to Evan-…I just lost my whoooole train of thought.

 

It’s all good, I literally lose my train of thought all the time. Let’s change topics. I’m looking at your Thrasher tattoo. A lot of your branded image represents skate culture. You grew up skating, right?

Yeah.

 

That’s interesting to me, because that culture is normally associated with punk or surf rock, hardcore, grunge, etc., which is obviously different from hip hop. So do you target the same audience? Do you find crossover in that, or is it a completely different thing?

Yeah! Because that’s the beautiful thing about skateboarding. Yeah, like when skateboarding first came out it was all the punk kids and all the surf kids, but then as that shit evolved into the nineties and the late eighties, then it became that hip hop culture — hip hop became a part of skateboarding. So when I came into skating it’s like… Holy shit, everything I like is in this. This is hip-hop, cats wear baggy-ass jeans and goddamn there’s dudes like Kareem Campbell and Stevie Williams and Neen Williams  So, coming into it, I have black and mixed idols that I could look to as well.

But then there’s the punk influence. There’s Cory Duffel, there are dudes with tight-ass jeans and like Jon Dickson. So skateboarding is like everything now. I feel like to target skaters is to target people throughout. There’s a lot of intersectionality in skating… And so for me to just be like, “I’m a fucking skater,” it means that I can kind of reach a whole… yeah.

[su_pullquote align=”right”]”Before music was my job — I fuckin’ skated, and made music, and smoked weed. And now… I make music and skateboard, and smoke weed.” -Kweku Collins[/su_pullquote]

 

 

Holy shit, I love that. Okay this is kind of a random question, but do you have a stylist?

No… it’s me!

I’m thinking about Nat Love (2016) and the time in between the release of that and grey (2017). To me, grey sounds a little more trap — a little more like R&B and less like pure hip hop. Is there a reason for that?

Yeah! I went on tour a lot after I made Nat Love, so I got to workshop that music and I could kind of pick up on the rhythms and on the way that people move, what they respond to. And I was like, alright, let me synthesize all that information and let me make a bunch of beats and songs that people are going to be like, “Yo! *claps* Damn!” You know what I mean? Like I can jump to this! I can fuckin’… I can make a whole show based around this type.

 

Yeah you can jump to it for sure—but there’s also more to it than that. Do you consider yourself a socially conscious rapper?

Yeah, only because I consider myself like relatively socially conscious. So when I write songs I think about it, you know? I’m not going to write just like any old shit just because… I mean, I don’t want to alienate people. I don’t know, it’s just so much like, “Fuck…shit” and divisive division and blehhhh. Yeah, I just try to be as socially conscious as possible, but I also think can’t everybody bat 100 all the time.

 

I was looking through some of your past interviews and people ask you a lot about being young. I feel like youth and socially conscious rap is not a really common thing that you see intersect, so why do you think it’s important that you have that youth factor but also those reflections on the world in your music?

When you’re an artist  — or at least for me in my experience being on one side of  the glass and there’s all these people or the other — you’re an artist. So it’s like painting. Every picture I post on Instagram, every Tweet I send, every song I make is all like a painting, and that can be very two dimensional… if I want it to be or if I make it that way. But in reality, I’m a person. We’re all people. None of us are two-dimensional, really. We all think socially, we all think politically, we all think economically. So it’s just a multi-dimension… or whatever-the-fuck made-up word I was going to say. So for me, it’s just about trying to display that I am multi-dimensional.

So, we’ve established you’re young right?

Uh huh.

 

And you’ve mentioned that you’re biracial, and you’re also a solo artist. So you produce, and mix, and write, and everything’s on your own right?

Yeah.

 

And especially at the beginning I’m sure it was literally only you.

Yuh. 

 

[su_pullquote align=”right”]”There’s a lot of intersectionality in skating… And so for me to just be like, “I’m a fucking skater,” it means that I can kind of reach a whole…” -Kweku Collins[/su_pullquote]

There must’ve been a lot of struggle in that. Like maybe a positive struggle, but it’s got to be challenging.

Yeah.

 

This might be a weird question … but how hard or different do you think that would be if you were a woman?

*Exhales*

Damn.

I know it would be harder. But, I can’t, like, I don’t even know. You know what I mean like I know harder for sure. But I have no feasible concept based in reality of like what it’s like to be a woman. So I don’t know.

 

Have you ever faced any explicit racism in the workplace?

In the workplace?

 

Like in the music industry?

I don’t think so.

Creatives are weird because like in this genre, in hip-hop, like. If you’re white you can’t be flat out racist, you know what I mean? You gotta be like, one of these goddamn neoliberal evolved whites that doesn’t see fucking color and shit. And like, move to the hood because they’re a urban pioneer type.

 

OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA!

That’s what I’m sayin! Ya naameen.

So their— their brand of racism is more like, you know…

 

Microaggression?

Yeah. Real, real, you know underhanded and understated and sneaky to where the motherfucker will say some shit, dap you up, walk away, and as they’re walking away you’re like, ‘UH WHAT… all right, I’m going to unpack that when I get home.’

 

Are you working on anything new right now?

Workin’ on a mixtape right now.  Yeah, it’s gonna be like, covers of songs and original shit.

 

Are you  listening to any new kind of underground artists right now that deserve a shoutout?

Gooodaaamn. Uh lemme check.

I always, anytime somebody asks me that shit I feel bad cause I know there’s people I’m listening to, but I can never remember. I don’t know if there’s anybody like super, super underground, but I’m really into Saweetie right now. She’s awesome. Goddaaamn SABA’s new album is fire.

*Cooper offers us drinks and we awkwardly reject the La Croix*

Uhhm. Ya I’m not listening to that many like… *Boathouse chimes in* “KennyHoopla bro!”

Oooohhhh.

*Cooper loudly cracks open a La Croix*

That’s real. Kenny Hoopla, Ajani Jones…

How did you get to this level? Like how did you even start.

I was like 15.

 

Wow.

Yeah. So I’ve been, you know, making mixtapes and shit and rapping since I was 14. At 15, I started emailing my mixtape to as many people as I could. Passing it out in school, like just trying to get it to the right people, get it in the right ears. And eventually I sent it to my managers, who weren’t my managers at the time, they just ran the label. I sent them this EP that I was working on, or that I had finished, I was 18. It was my senior year of high school and then I got my managers. It’s just like being in the studio every day, you know gettin… being out, like in people’s face, you don’t just have to be out… but you’ve gotta be out with purpose.

 

What’s your writing process like? Like do you do lyrics first, do you freestyle? You lay beats first?

It’s really sporadic. It changes every, every song. So sometimes it’ll be a synth line, sometimes it’s the drums, sometimes it’s just a melody that I like record, and it’s just…  jibberish… or it’ll be like a line and then I have to go back and do the rest of it. But sometimes it’s just like off a poem, like just fucking three lines.

 

Do you have any crazy stories from touring? Like anything just nuts?

Naaahhh. Nothin’ super out there.

 

You ever have to pee in a bottle on a tour bus? I feel like that’s a rite of passage.

I haven’t done it on the bus, but I’ve done it. Like on tour and shit.

 

Just recreationally.

Rec- haaahhhh! Yeah.

 

Oh my god.

When we were talking about  how young you were when you started, like putting yourself out there, I began thinking back to being 18 and like, I don’t even think I had my pants on in the right direction. *Natalie confirms Josie did not, in fact, dress properly.* But also, how did you know that you needed to sacrifice aspects of your youth?

I — I didn’t know. There’s a lot of, you know like aspects of youth that I don’t really give a fuck about. You know. I have other, I got bigger — we all have bigger fish to fry.

 

Like we boycotted prom. We thought it was cool. No one else thought it was cool.

Oh shit. Our prom was LIT. Ah man.

 

Did you say your prom was lit?

My prom was lit. I wore leather pants to my prom. LEATHER PANTS.

Air Force ones Goddamnit.

 

Woowww, that’s like — if I had a life to live over again.

I also do just want to add that I didn’t really sacrifice like aspects of my youth. Before music was my job — I fuckin’ skated, and made music, and smoked weed. And now… I make music and skateboard, and smoke weed. 

 

Wow, so that’s really the magic formula.

Pretty much.

*Cooper referring to himself and boathouse* Yeah.. Neither of us skaters smoke weed though…

*Boathouse* Shit! Y’all fucking it up.

*Kweku referring to Cooper and Boathouse* Y’all both have like ex skater vibes though so you’re…

*Boathouse* We shop at a thrift store.

 

I’m telling you, you guys look so UC Berkeley right now

*Boathouse* that’s so awesome.

We ‘bout to pull up for class with our book bags and sh—

 

Alright, let’s wrap it up on a light note … Do you consider yourself down with the current revolution?

Yeah, I mean it’s not a current revolution — for me… for people of color… for marginalized communities everywhere. This shit ain’t current. I was born into this shit, you know?

But yeah, I’m down.

Written and photographed by Natalie Silver and Josie Clerfond.