“There’s no way in the world you can say hip-hop is dead, because it’s still going.” — Blaknificent
Thomas Williams — the legendary New Orleans, Louisiana producer and DJ known as Blaknificent — has been contributing to the unbreakable foundation of hip-hop for over two decades.
Since 1993, Blaknificent has quietly built a solid reputation amongst some of the premier Southern hip-hop artists, proving himself to be artistically malleable and sonically ahead of his time.
As a survivor of Hurricane Katrina in August 2005, Blaknificent is releasing his next project on August 29th, 2015 in conjunction with the ten-year anniversary of the storm. Don’t Shoot Tha Messenger is a full-length collaboration with longtime friend and understudy Sean “G’sta” Self, a fellow New Orleans, Louisiana native and hip-hop legend; both currently reside in Houston, Texas.
On the album, Blaknificent provides the entire musical landscape for the rhymes and messages of G’sta to create another classic record in the deep catalogs of both artists.
The Classic Status interview series is in four parts:
- Part I: a conversation about the past, present and future of G’sta
- Part II: a conversation about the past, present and future of Blaknificent
- Part III: a Don’t Shoot Tha Messenger track-by-track breakdown discussion, with both artists providing insight and details of the process
- Part IV: a history of So Stimulus Entertainment and Productions
Part II of the interview series —a conversation about the past, present and future of Blaknificent — begins below.
BLAKNIFICENT
- From New Orleans, Louisiana
- Thirty-nine years old
SELECTED PRODUCTION
- DJ Jubilee — “In Da House”
- Flesh-N-Blood — “On The Map”
- Big Al & Lil Tee — “Another Story To Tell”
- Da’ Sha Ra’ — “Still Bootin’ Up (Remix)”
- Da’ Sha Ra’ — “Rough Neck Cutties”
- Don Libido & E.F. Cuttin — “If Memory Serves”
- G’sta & Blaknificent — Don’t Shoot Tha Messenger
ON CAREER BEGINNINGS
I’ve been producing since I was about thirteen; I’m thirty-nine now so it’s a quite a long time. Professionally since I was sixteen.
My first project that I worked on was for a New Orleans artist named DJ Jubilee for his record label Take Fo’ Records; I worked on Stop, Pause. Kevin McCoy was an engineer at the studio that I started working in at the time — which was G’s uncle’s studio. Kevin sort of took me under his wing when I came in with my group. He was like, “Just come back. I see what you doing.” He took a liking to me; he brought me in on that project and that project was real big out the gates.
So my first time out I struck, pretty much. Stop, Pause moved at least about eighty thousand units — and you’re talking about hand-to-hand and very little promotion. It was just a phenomenon in New Orleans at the time. You couldn’t go nowhere without hearing it: it was just big. It was in the clubs — it was a dance song, basically. One of the original New Orleans ‘Bounce’ songs.
Which is crazy because I have a strange relationship with Bounce; it’s not really my favorite type of music, but I love it for what it does for the culture. I just can’t sit and listen to it all the time. But I had a big part in the beginnings of it, which is kind of funny.
Along with my partner Raj Smoove — one of my right-hand men — and about thirteen other of us, we formed a group called Psycho Ward. Psycho Ward was a huge hip-hop collective out of New Orleans. Some people called us the Wu-Tang of the South.
You’d get those comparisons because we were so big and the production style was very, very boom-bap. We took care of the quality of the music.
Through that I also began my DJ career, which I never really intended on doing; it’s just the fact I knew music. All of my good friends were DJ’s and it came down to a point where they used to all come to me for records. Like, “I’m trying to find the sample for this so I can mix it in — who did this?” They would all come to me for that. And from production, I knew how to basically match records and blend records anyways, so it just came natural. It was like, “Hey, we’re booked — come do these parties for us.”
That took my DJ career off, and here I am now — my main career is a DJ rather than production. I’m trying to change that and get back into production. Get back to where I belong right now.
ON HURRICANE KATRINA
I’m in Houston now, but I try to get back home like every three or four months. My mom’s home, my sister’s are home. And it’s hard — in my heart of hearts, I would rather be back there. But it’s a whole different city now, and the school system is not equipped. My sons are doing so much better; I can’t pull them out of that right now.
When Katrina hit, my oldest son was only five months old. My wife was working for one of the organizations that was out front and helping. We had to tote my five-month old son to help, and you’re watching people really not knowing what’s going to happen.
Then the aftermath of it all like, “Ok, we all don’t have a pot to piss in right now.” It’s real hard to try to help someone get their life in order when your life is in shambles as well. Then I have to sit here and I have to look at my newborn baby basically; I have him laying around in this hot center in a diaper and no shirt on to keep him cool. I’m like — this just is not living.
Then you go back to the city, and the stench of the city at that time — when you look around, it looks like World War Twelve hit, and it’s just like… Even to this day, I have vivid memories of all of this; it’s something that will never, ever leave. I hear people say, “Well, y’all people need to just get over it.”
Man, you not going to ever get over that. I’m sorry. It’s not gonna happen.
ON G’STA
That’s my little brother, man. I love him to death. As an artist, as a producer himself — man, he’s phenomenal. He’s definitely come into his own. He should be out there as one of the greats, and my job is to make sure that he’s out there like that. I want to be a soundboard to make him great.
We been pep-talking each other, because I get my days where I’m like, “I don’t know, bro; I’m mentally tired.” And he gets the same way. And basically we just keep each other going. Like I tell him all the time, “When you get tired, just take that and let that be the fuel for your lyrics.”
And he does that, and oh my God — he does it well.
ON DON’T SHOOT THA MESSENGER
The beauty of a lot of these songs on this project: a lot of these tracks were tracks I recorded years ago. And this is why — he was in the midst of his series called The Walking Classic Mixtape — which what he does is he goes and rips up all of these old classic instrumentals, right?
Originally I had an idea for him: I’m like, “How about I give you some stuff that was really recorded from some of these eras and let you go ahead and do your thing.” From that idea, it evolved into something else. The music, he said it started taking him to certain things and made him want to deliver some messages.
So he comes to me one day and he’s like, “Hey man, I really have this ‘message’ idea — like, right message, wrong messenger type-of-thing.” And it struck me because over the years, I’d been working on a project and the project was called Kill The Messenger. Basically it was an idea I had floating around. I was gonna do some rapping on it, then I’d scrap it.
Then I was gonna make it as a producer album — I’d get to a certain point, and then I’d give the beats to someone, things of that nature. So it never got done, basically. It’s part of my laziness, I guess.
But when he finally told me this ‘right message, wrong messenger’ thing I’m like, “You’re lying!” and I told him what I had been sitting on from time-to-time, because I had never shared that with him. And it just made sense. So what we came up with was like, “Hey, we’re onto something here, and it’s just meant to be.” He took the time lyrically for it, and I just kept feeding his monster.
He’s a fool on this project, though. Lyrically he’s top-notch; I would put him up against anybody right now, because he’s in rare form. It’s just watching everything that’s going on around us. He took that and he fueled off of it.
ON “BLAKNIFICENT” TRACK
I will kid you not — when he played me that, I cried like a baby. G’s a little bit younger than me, and like I said his uncle’s studio is pretty much where I started putting my work in. So he was always under me trying to find out, “Hey, how you do this? How you get this sound? What you doing?” He brought back all those emotions, and we’re talking about twenty years later.
All I could do is just ball up like, “Man, he hit everything on the nail.” And I’m really thankful for that song; it’s a real personal thing.
It’s so personal to me, I tell him all the time: when it comes to touching it or dealing with it I’m like, “Man, I can’t touch this song. You have to deal with it. I’m too close to it; I’m too attached to it.”
When I sent him that track, I had no idea he was going to turn it into that. I couldn’t have ever imagined that. That’s a baby for me.
ON SOUTHERN HIP-HOP
I’m in the Facebook groups and the blogs and stuff, and there’s a lot of Southern bias going on. Southern hip-hop is very multi-dimensional; unfortunately we might get the Trap stigma or the Gangsta stigma, but there’s so much more to Southern hip-hop. There’s all kinds of sub-genres of it, and we are so linked to the true essence of hip-hop.
Even I’ll go back to Bounce, man: Bounce is nothing but call-and-response, pretty much. Keep the crowd warmed up, keep the crowd hyped up, DJ’s back-and-forth over instrumentals.
Man, that’s hip-hop. I’m sorry, it is what it is. And people might dispute it, but in the essence of hip-hop, that’s what it is: to keep the crowd going, as far as the rap aspect of hip-hop.
The South is hip-hop — just as much as New York is, just as much as Philly is, just as much as the West is, just as much as the Midwest is. People have to pay attention and eventually they will.
I could point out just from even 2 Live Crew: the beats, them samples and everything. It was hard. A lot of the rhymes were one-two-three / A-B-C, but what went into that was just phenomenal.
I think it’s getting better, because a lot of the older heads are starting to realize, “Hey man, we need to document some of this.” So they’re starting to collect things; there was an art exhibit on New Orleans hip-hop a few years ago down in New Orleans in one of the museums. It’s getting better, I can say that. It is getting better.
ON MOTIVATION
I go back and listen to things that inspired me before. I’ll go back and get my CTI catalog, get my Blue Note catalog. I’m a big Earth, Wind & Fire head. Go back and listen to things like that. Go back and listen to some classic hip-hop stuff.
I talk to my sons, and sometimes that might give me that motivation to push a little bit harder. Talking to my wife. Having those people around me that just say, “Hey — just keep going, man. You’re alright.”
So I try to dig into that. Or I talk to some of my older friends. Like I said, Raj. Basically my older brother E.F. Cuttin. My close friends. I talk to them and they just keep me going, as well.
I’m blessed to have people in my life that will put me on the right track. Be it G, be it any of my older friends or what have it. If I get too far down, they gonna pick me back up.
Even if it’s one of my partners. Corey, he’s a cook. He’ll call me out, crack some jokes and that keeps me going. I know that these people want to see me succeed so I’m like, “OK, I’m back to normal. I ain’t tripping no more.”
ON CHANGES OVER TIME
The way I look at music has changed. As far as production, the way I approach things: before, I was trying to take every sound in the world and mix it together. I’ve sort of settled in like, “OK, let’s just develop one good idea and then we’ll throw in what’s needed.”
I guess from a business standpoint, I’ve learned how to do business-music as well as concept-music, if that makes sense. The Bomb Squad days is not gonna happen anymore, so I had to adapt to that.
I’ve also become a little bit more mellow as I get older. Therefore it reflects in the music. My music had become a little bit more mellow, more subdued.
As far as the teaching aspect: I’ve always been like, “If anyone wants to learn something, and I know it — I will share it with you.” That’s just how I am. I don’t believe in hoarding over anything. There’s still certain techniques I don’t completely let go. If you’ve been around me long enough, you’ll figure it out.
ON PREFERENCE
I always prefer production. At first I was a rapper; then I went to production / rapping and I’m more comfortable as a producer than a DJ.
I prefer production, though; production is my thing.
ON COMMITMENT TO CRAFT
I’ve been in music in some form or fashion since I was three years old, so it’s always been a part of me. When I was about ten years old, a friend of mine a little bit older than me lived directly upstairs from me in an apartment complex. He sort of took a liking to me like a little brother.
He comes running home and he knocks on my window like, “Come upstairs! Come upstairs! I got something I want you to hear!” So we go running upstairs and I’m like, “What you got?” and he’s like, “It’s that new Run-DMC 45!” It was “Peter Piper” and “My A.D.I.D.A.S.”
And we sat there and listened to “My A.D.I.D.A.S.” and I’m like, “This is dope! That’s real dope.” He flips it on the other side and gives me “Peter Piper” and I’m like… I’m amazed, right? I think I started picking up a pen by then and trying to mimic a little — just some cats around the hood.
I was a beatboxer at that time, as well. I just tried to write my little nursery rhyme thingies here and there. Fast forward to when I’m about twelve or thirteen; me and Raj got together and I’m like, “Yeah. I can really do this.” So that was my DJ, I was the rapper.
We’d collaborate doing beats. We’d use whatever we had — his mom had a piano, so we’d beat on the piano. Had the little Yamaha drum set, we’d beat beats out. Had a little bullshit turntable — we’d tap the turntable and it’d make a humming sound; now we got out 808. Things like that. Whatever we had at our disposal, we used to make music with. That’s where we started putting ideas together. That’s why I say I started production at thirteen.
It was very, very coarse and very not good but that’s where I started. It led me to putting my ideas together. It started making sense to me about fifteen and actually became a reality once I started going into the studios and putting it down, like, “OK yeah — now I’m a record producer.”
I did some projects; I worked on demos and regular projects for a lot of what became major regional artists. I did Double Vision — which became Kane & Abel — I worked on one of their demos, which was instrumental in them getting signed. I’ve worked indirectly with Mia X on some songs we did for Da’ Sha Ra’ which was a very big girl group in New Orleans at the time. Flesh-N-Blood, which was a marginally successful group.
This is all in between the ages of sixteen through twenty-one. I was really, really popping them out. I didn’t have the ‘superstar’ huge thing, but I’ve had some decent successes that I’m proud of. I made some good records.
ON YOUTH
One of the biggest mistakes they’ve ever done is taking off the extra-curricular things from school. I’m a product of music in schools. I’m a product of journalism in schools; I was the Editor of my school’s newspaper. When you start taking those things away from the kids, they don’t have a way to express themselves anymore.
My oldest son, he’s ten but he’s in everything. He’s in choir at school, he’s a swimmer, he plays soccer. I’m making sure he has access to things that I didn’t have access to.
These things should be in the schools, and they’re not there — and you wonder why these kids are so crazy. They cut out recess, for crying out loud. So they don’t have a way to let that energy go. They got to do better; schools have to do better.
And we as parents and the ‘village’, we have to do better with these kids — because we’re failing these kids, man. You can see it in the way these generations are coming up. I don’t want to knock these cats, but look at what’s going on in Chicago; look at the rappers in Chicago. Like every two months or so, somebody’s coming up dead.
These kids, all they know is ‘bang-bang, pow-pow’ — there’s nobody there to set them straight. Put them on that right path, tell them there’s a better way. So you gotta teach the kids, man.
ON HIP-HOP IS DEAD THEORY
My grandmother had a very important record to me: “Showdown” by The Sugarhill Gang and The Furious Five. Don’t ask me how she had her hands on it. That also played a pivotal part in me loving hip-hop.
When Nas said “Hip-Hop Is Dead”, I really took offense to that. Because I’m like, “Ok, if hip-hop is dead — everything that I’m doing, everything that I’ve done, everything that the people around me are still working at — it’s all in vein.” And I think that’s a bunch of bullshit. I really took offense to that and I didn’t believe it for one minute.
If you look at it now, there’s no way in the world you can say hip-hop is dead — because it’s still going. Be it on the mainstream level, be it on the underground level. It’s still here. Some of it I don’t like; some if it I may not agree with but it’s all a part of hip-hop. We are still standing. There’s no way in the world you can say that it’s dead.
It’s alive. It’s getting to be an old man now, but it’s still alive. Even the best of the old men — shoot, Mick Jagger’s still out here; hip-hop is still out here.
They call hip-hop a young man’s game — there’s no room for old men? That stigma of ‘too old’ is finally getting out of here. In that sense, it’s time for the elders to come back and say, “Hey youngster, let me tell you something. Come here.” and for the youngsters to say, “Say, old man: why don’t you tell me something? Tell me a good story.”
When everybody’s talking together and listening to each other and feeding off each other — that is unstoppable. But it’s going to take everybody to come together: the youngsters gotta listen to the old heads; the old heads have to listen to the youngsters.
The only way to survive is each one, teach one.
Written By: Matteo Urella / August 2015
Photography:
