Black Ice

(October 2006)

Interview by Adam McKibbin

Most bands have had the experience of playing in front of tough crowds, but Black Ice took it a step further as he was coming up.  Well before he became a regular star on Russell Simmons Presents Def Poetry on HBO, Black Ice (born Lamar Manson) was pounding the Philly and NYC pavements with his spoken-word performances.  But instead of playing the slam poet and coffeehouse circuit, Black Ice took to comedy clubs and hip-hop clubs.  A poet keeping the crowd warm between rappers or stand-ups?  You’d better have something to say.  After the HBO exposure and some high-profile appearances at the Black Congressional Caucus and the Hip-Hop Summit—not to mention touring this summer with Mary J. Blige—Black Ice probably doesn’t have to work as hard to win crowds over anymore; they’re coming to him, not vice versa.

On The Death of Willie Lynch, his debut hip-hop album, Black Ice has plenty to say about plenty of things.  On some tracks, he rages, as on “The Ugly Show,” which revisits the government’s response to Hurricane Katrina:  “Battalions from the bayou that don’t know what they over there fighting for / What the fuck can you possibly say to them / When they learn their parents died, casualties of the war on poverty / Waiting for help outside a fucking stadium.”  On other tracks, he channels 2Pac in encouraging his audience to respect themselves and pull themselves up.

I’m still a little unclear on the specifics of the William Lynch story.  I went online and read the speech.  What’s your take?  Does it matter if it’s a hoax?

To me, it’s speculation.  I used to think that it was actual, but then a couple professors that I know started learning me on the inconsistencies of the speech with the English of the time period, and also the lack of history on William Lynch.  To me, it’s really speculation, but some of the things inside it can very easily be aligned with a lot of the plight of black America.  I think there’s a lesson to be taken in the statement, whether it be fiction or fact.

A lot of reviews have been noting how you worked with producer Booty Greene throughout the record, rather than bringing in a different guy behind the boards for each track.  Had you ever considered trying that other approach?

It was always pretty much the two of us, and Jazzy Jeff kind of oversaw it.  Once he saw there was a synergy between us, he directed it that way.  I’m pretty much from the era of LL Cool J and Bobcat, Big Daddy Kane and Mister Cee, Eric B and Rakim.  Your producer was your DJ back then.  The industry hadn’t gotten this big, where we have actual hip-hop producers and the DJ/producer thing has become divided.  When I was 16, 17, and in my years of really being inspired as an artist, those things were synonymous.  There was a partnership, and I wanted to form a partnership like that.

When you were younger and getting inspired, did you have to seek out that music?  Or was it everywhere?

Well, where we come from, it was kind of everywhere.  My mom and my father loved music, so I grew up with a love of music in general.  When hip-hop came along, it was the same thing as funk or soul with my mom and dad—when that came along, it was their music.  Hip-hop was our expression of that music.  A cat like Big Daddy Kane or Rakim was our Marvin Gaye.

Being from Philly, we were close to New York, so it drifted down pretty easily.  Plus, we had our own little scene as well.  When the culture was being originated, we caught a lot of it and added to it as well.  Our DJs were renowned.  But on the radio, we only got it once a week, you know, hip-hop came on Friday night from 9 to 11.  You kind of had to have your cassette tapes ready to record the little set.  In those two hours, you might hear a more diverse range of music than you’ve heard on one of our superstations in the last two years.  Back then, hip-hop seemed a lot more inclusive to me.  It didn’t seem like something that was far-fetched for me to do.  And it wasn’t about pay, it wasn’t about checks—the dream was to possibly get your stuff played on the radio and heard by people, and get a show or two, you know, and get some sweatsuits that looked alike (laughs).

I read your columns online about the anniversary of Tupac’s death.  I know he’s also a big figure in terms of influence.  Is it fair to say that no one has risen up to represent what he took on, or is it more that the people who are doing those things aren’t getting the kind of attention that Pac had?

I do hear positive things in music.  Of course, I know plenty of artists who step up to the plate—they don’t get the light.  It’s disappointing that a lot of the cats who get the light and claim to ride so similar to the way Pac did—you know, you hear all these quotes coming from Pac or referring to Pac or a Pac-like mentality, and it’s really not, if you study Pac.  He was onto something different.  He dealt with his demons, but his upbringing suggests that he was onto something different.  I think there are people out there who definitely ride the way he rode, like myself and cats like De La Soul and Mos [Def] and Talib [Kweli].  There are poets, as well—Redstorm, Will Da Real One from Miami, Eshon Burgundy.  We speak the same language.

So I think his legacy still lives, but I think it’s sad that the machine won’t give that part any light.  It’s the same way that they didn’t do it with him until after he was dead, when they were running out of material.  When you look at Resurrection, it’s like, “Wow, this dude was really positive.”  But you never saw that when he was alive; you only saw the clippings of him spitting in the camera and getting into fights.  You never saw him giving these speeches in all these neighborhoods about us taking responsibility for ourselves and policing our own neighborhoods and supporting black businesses and taking zero tolerance with the drug epidemic in the neighborhoods.  Those things weren’t promoted about Pac.  That’s always the thing we face as truth-tellers.  My pop used to tell me, “If the poet is not in trouble with the king, he is in trouble with his work.”

A recurring theme with political bands and political musicians is that they worry at some point about preaching to the converted.  I know you’ve had lots of success with the Def Poetry crowds, among others.  Have you found yourself in those opposite situations, where an audience is uncomfortable with what you’re saying?  Have you ever been booed?

I’ve never been booed, but I’ve always been put against adverse crowds.  I didn’t come up as a slam poet.  I came up as a cat who loved to do poetry, but I would do it at comedy clubs in between comedians on open mic night.  I might go to a poetry set, but I would really like to go to a hip-hop set and have the DJ throw a break beat behind me, and do my poetry that way.  So I’ve always been put in circumstances where crowds haven’t been prepared to hear what I’m saying—but I’m blessed to be kind of entertaining, so I always get my point across.  I’ve never been told to get off the mic, even at the Apollo.  (laughs)  I speak what’s in my heart, so it isn’t met with any adversity from people.

I know that poets and slam poets sometimes feel that they’re treated as kind of second-class artists.  Have you experienced that—and do you think that Def Poetry Jam helped change that perception?

I guess on a broad scale it did.  It definitely opened people’s ears a little more, versus eight years ago, when you’d say “spoken word” and it was, “Oh, you’re one of them dudes.”  But in Philly, we were always all together—The Roots, all the musicians, a lot of these top producers like Scott Storch and Andre Harris.  I never felt like I wasn’t accepted.

The song on Willie Lynch that most reminded me of 2Pac was “Takeyatime.”  That isn’t a message that you hear in hip-hop very often.  Can you explain how that song came about?

Me and Musiq got together and we didn’t know what we were going to talk about.  We ran through a couple issues and talked about using both of our talents to the best of our abilities.  Musiq is a crooner, he’s got ladies on lock, but it’s in a genuine way—it’s not in a Joe way or an R. Kelly way.  It’s very adult.  And I’ve got two daughters.  I was like, “You hear everybody being pimps to the women, being players to the women, picking women up at the club, buying them this, buying them that, but you never hear anybody playing the older brother or the father figure.”  That’s pretty much where that song came from.  It’s not so much a song about abstinence; it’s more about learning the right approach—way before sex.  It’s knowing how to spot the dude you should even give the time of day to.  It was meant for people to think about the right approach versus the wrong approach.