THANK YOU BASED DAD

John Taylor
Jul 27, 2017 · 27 min read

by JOHN TAYLOR

DISCLAIMER:

In 2014 I was commissioned by a national publication to profile John McCartney, father of cult rapper Brandon “LIL B THE BASEDGOD” McCartney.

This story, which never ran due to editorial issues regarding length and conflicting reports, is the result of several months’ research and interviews. Although Mr. McCartney’s parentage has been confirmed, the accuracy of his account has not.

Therefore the details in this profile, spanning two generations of McCartneys — from BASED DAD to BASEDGOD — should to be taken with a grain of salt until Mr. McCartney’s testimony is verified.

The following is *most likely* a true story. Anyone with additional details, please don’t hesitate to contact me.

IT WAS THE FIRST TIME John McCartney had seen his son in a decade. Surrounded by an ocean of sweating human bodies, some of whom were tossing their clothing aside and screaming in celebration, John stood alone in silence and watched his son, Brandon “Lil B The Based God” McCartney, march up and down the stage during a sold-out performance at The Mezzanine in downtown San Francisco. He was crying.

“Hey old man,” asked a concerned audience member, “You ok?”

John wiped his tears, a smile escaping. “That’s my son up there.”

Years removed from that fateful night at The Mezzanine, John exhales, a deep calm coming over him. He’s doing his best not to get emotional again. “Brandon is worth everybody’s ticket, every snapshot, every autograph,” the 60-year-old #based father tells me. Pausing, John raises his finger and points at me, then my photographer. “My son didn’t have to go this route. He cares about you.”

It’s early evening, the last Thursday of the month in February. I’m resting on the living room floor of Brandon McCartney’s childhood home in Glen Park, California, a neighborhood where residents pride themselves on living in one of San Francisco’s quieter spots. In the five hours my photographer and I spent conversing with John, the air was peaceful outside, and the view of the Bay from the McCartney residence, breathtaking. When we arrived, the wind was gentle and birds were chirping.

“Come on in!” John shouted from a nearby porch. He was smiling, all six feet and two inches of him, wearing a patch wool sweater and the same toothy grin as his son. “Before we go inside,” he added, “don’t forget to make sure that the wheels on your car are turned.”

As far as stomping grounds go, the Victorian Flat that raised Brandon is modest and unassuming. You’d be forgiven for walking past its pale shade of navy blue, graying windowsills, and toothpaste-white railing unaware this was, indeed, the cottage that raised a Based God.

Indoors, things are equally relaxed — a bit cluttered, but by no means unruly. Cheerful photos of family and friends, some framed, some taped to the wall, are everywhere. Pop culture artifacts, ranging from Betty Boop to John Legend to Dallas Buyer’s Club, are scattered throughout. There’s an entire shelf reserved for Ms. Boop. (“It’s the wife’s.”) The television, set to a low volume, whispers reruns of True Crime documentaries, and Henry, the family cat, enters the living room, staring.

“I think Henry is an old Jewish guy who came back,” John says as his feline companion casually exits. “He doesn’t socialize.”

* * *

JOHN TIMOTHY MCCARTNEY WAS BORN IN 1954, just outside of Springfield, Massachusetts. Following a brief stay in Chicago, where “people threw garbage into the streets and there was a stench in the air,” the McCartneys settled on the greener acres of Mount Pleasant, Tennessee, where John enjoyed a peaceful childhood near farm tractors, hay bales, cows. A far cry from the blood-soaked streets of Chicago.

“We pull in to my dad’s brother’s house,” John recalls of his first day in the Windy City, “there’s a crowd on the corner, and a dead body.”

John’s father, also named John, served in the navy during Pearl Harbor, and “looked like a black Clark Gable.” Upon returning home from the war, John’s father worked as a chef, and later on, security for concerts in Nashville. Each weekend, John followed his father to his place of employment. He stood by his side. The two looked on as Bobby Rush, Johnny ‘Guitar’ Watson, and countless others electrified the stage. John’s young eyes sparkled. These evenings, he tells me, ignited a fire inside of him: it was then that John realized a career in the entertainment industry was no mere passing interest. It was destiny.

John’s mother, Doris, worked as a homemaker and teacher’s aide. But when the family relocated to the West Coast, the abysmal conditions of the Riverside school district awoke a burning passion for activism. Invigorated, Doris helped organize her fellow educators. Together they clashed with the John Birch Society, a radical right-wing group responsible for, among other things, segregating young blacks in schools. “My mom started an initiative to stop putting kids of color into bungalows,” John declares proudly, “and demanded that they get tested for actual problems.”

The move to California, John explains, was prompted by his uncle. Riverside, he told them, was the Promised Land the McCartney clan had always dreamed of: affordable real estate, rolling hills, the fresh air of the Bay. Upon arriving, John’s father continued to work security (“He was six foot seven and 275 pounds, come on!”) and sneak his son into shows. One evening, John watched James Brown perform: “The hair grease flew all the way to the back,” he recalls. “A little tiny speck landed on the top of my head, and I felt this wetness.”

High School came and went with a shrug. John dabbled in football, band practice, and ran track, but nothing rang louder than the joyful abandon of music: “There was nothing to do in Riverside.” He often dreamed of the big city thrills San Francisco had to offer, but first he needed a means of getting there. Months passed. Then Charles Schwab offered John a job. For the first time in his life, there was money to spend.

Immediately, John bought a car. The ride, a glistening 1970 Ford Mustang Mach 1, with raised rear wheels and custom interior, was perfect. It even had an 8-track player. “Having new music in the seventies was the hip thing to do,” he says. Leaving work, John would hop in his brand new auto and race up the 101, the windows rolled down and wind in his face. His friends trailed behind him as he cranked up the stereo to maximum volume, singing along to Papa John Creach, Lydia Pense, The Chamber Brothers.

One afternoon, John and his friends were on their way to a basketball court to attend a free concert. Girls would be there, his friends told him, and Miles Davis would be playing.

“I don’t know if it was the joint,” John says, “but I got mind-screwed.” The jazz that John experienced that day was different from the mellow saxophones and stiff trumpets of his parent’s vinyl records. “I didn’t hear this kind of jazz in my house,” he recalls. “This jazz had funk in it.” John raises his hands excitedly toward the ceiling and channels Davis. He’s grooving, eyebrows raised and eyelids shut. “The way he played that…”

John opens his eyes. “After that, I’m hanging out at all of the jazz clubs.”

Inspired, John began to write poetry — “200 poems” — and with the help of a friend, landed an internship at San Francisco radio station KPOO. John was elated. The dream of a career in entertainment was slowly becoming reality. Hungrily, John learned the ropes. First he worked for his superiors, then on a show of his very own. Dubbed The Pad, the experimental program served as a showcase for John’s two loves: jazz and poetry. Before long, John began to grow tired of playing other people’s music. He wanted to make his own. “I wasn’t trying to be Gil Scott-Heron!” he tells me.

And off John went, cutting his teeth on music. For months he studied under the direction of legendary African drummer Babatunde Olatunji. The classes were expensive, setting him back eighty dollars a session. But John was determined. He mastered the timbales, cumbias, bongos, shakers, and with time, found confidence. John was ready for the stage. “My lungs opened up,” he says, “and that’s when I met Mr. Emmit Powell.”

The timing could not have been better. The year was 1977, and Powell, a fellow radio jockey at KPOO, had been itching to launch a Gospel group. Several singers were lined up, but Powell was short a percussionist. John filled the vacancy in a heartbeat. And so began the next chapter of his life. John was now a member of Emmit Powell and The Gospel Elites. It was a dream come true.

“A lot of people were feeling us,” John recalls. “The only thing funkier than us back then was Edwin Hawkins.”

The arrangement lasted the better part of a decade. John recorded three albums with The Gospel Elites. He toured the Bay, sharing stages with Al Green and Rick James. (“He’s an asshole.”) John worked tirelessly — Charles Schwab by day, KPOO by night, touring on the weekends. On the side, he dabbled in promoting (“I represented a boxer for a year”), DJing, and television production.

There were many moving parts in the John McCartney machine, and yet, everything remained afloat. He wrote a screenplay. He started a magazine. He was in love: a beautiful woman named Desiree had swept him off his feet. The two moved in together.

Shortly thereafter, a Based God was born.

* * *

BRANDON CHRISTOPHER MCCARTNEY WAS BORN IN 1989 at the Benioff Children’s Hospital in Oakland. He was rarely seen without a smile. As a child, “Brandon was the type that would run everywhere,” John recalls. “You had to watch him.” After months of observing his son race, leap, roll, and slide across the living room, John coined a nickname: “Scooter Butt.” The name, he says, refers to the way Brandon would scamper around the house in a frenzy. “It’d be like, ‘Look at that little Scooter Butt!” John says this gazing at the floor, transported back to simpler times.

I learn this was not the first time John became a father. Two past relationships had led to childbirth: his firstborn, Damien, in 1982, and a second son, John Paul, in 1985. He and his first two sons don’t speak, a reality that continues to provide of wellspring of pain. “When me and the first mother broke up, she took Damien away.” John’s shoulders sink, his voice, straining. “Second mother broke away and moved to Little Rock with John Paul.”

When John and Desiree separated in 1991, John tried his damndest to remain a part of Brandon’s life. He wouldn’t let history keep repeating itself. Not this time. “I’m thinking, I just want this to work. Just one child of my own. I wanted to be with him. School him. Walk with him.”

Desiree was initially hesitant. There was the question of John’s demanding dual careers — was John capable of balancing a desk job, flourishing entertainment career, and fatherhood? Then there was the new lady in John’s life, Doreen, to consider. Would she be a positive influence in Brandon’s life? But Desiree saw how much her ex loved their son. She compromised. Brandon would spend the weekends with John in San Francisco; the rest of the week with her in Berkeley.

Humbled, John plunged headfirst into fatherhood. “I had him in my life again,” he says with heft. “I was going to do anything and everything to make sure that it worked out.”

Brandon anticipated each weekend in San Francisco with the energy of a coiled spring. The two did everything together. (“Brandon was my road dog.”) Arriving home from work, John lifted up the young Based God and threw him over his shoulders. They went to venues downtown where John spun as a DJ. Brandon’s eyes sparkled much in the same way John’s did all those years before, watching James Brown on stage. At home, Brandon celebrated as his father played various vinyl records. He danced in the living room. When his mother dropped him off on Fridays, John would often have signed LPs waiting: Boyz II Men. LL Cool J.

John and I are standing in the kitchen, thumbing through old photos. There’s a pile of faded Polaroids: Brandon posing at a waterpark with his siblings; Brandon leaning on a wooden staircase, scooped up in his father’s arms; Brandon exiting the passenger seat of the family car; Brandon grinning towards the camera at a birthday party, the words “Brandon Christopher McCartney” lovingly etched in cursive across the white border framing the image. In every single shot, Brandon beams the same, room-brightening smile. It’s impossible not to smile back.

“How old are you?” John asks me.

24, I reply.

John looks me up and down. “Brandon’s your age,” he observes. “You’re no different. What he liked, you liked.”

For the most part, John’s estimation is on the nose — Brandon’s upbringing bears the hallmarks of a quintessential nineties childhood. There were weekends spent in the park scaling jungle gyms; “swordfights” with the neighborhood kids using slabs of found wood. During the week, he passed notes to girls in class. (Yes, even in kindergarten the Based God was capable of stealing your girl.) Brandon owned remote control cars, Yo-Yos, ate from printed lunchboxes, and sipped on Capri Sun. He loved to read. He challenged his father on Super Nintendo.

“My son has the biggest collection of video games, John tells me. “He’s a master.”

There were pizza outings, ice cream outings, Blockbuster outings, and on special occasions, visits to the video arcade. (“When the screen was too tall, I’d hoist him up so he could shoot at the screen.”) When the weather permitted, John took Brandon to the zoo.

I ask John if by “zoo,” he’s referring to the East Bay Vivarium in Berkeley, the location where Brandon later filmed “I Love You.” In the video, Brandon converses with childhood friends while holding a python. Midway through the take, he suddenly starts crying. Were the tears real?

Yes, John immediately confirms. He nearly leaps out of his chair as he says this. “The music was Lil B, but that’s Brandon walking around that neighborhood, reflecting.”

One of Brandon’s favorite pastimes was going to the movies. Every Saturday afternoon, they caught matinee screenings of the latest action flick: James Bond, Die Hard, Jurassic Park, everything starring Jackie Chan. Explosions filled the screen as Brandon cheered from a booster seat. Leaving the theater, father and son compared notes, ranking each cinematic outing on a scale of 1 to 10.

“It’s a 6,” said Brandon, the Ebert to John’s Siskel. “I didn’t like the people, but the action was good.”

“It was alright,” John shrugged in agreement.

Only two films earned the elusive “10” score. First was the 1995 live action adaptation of the video game Mortal Kombat. (“It was the classic.”) Then came the 1997 sequel, Mortal Kombat: Annihilation, also landing a “10.” When the campy Kung Fu epic arrived on video later that fall, it never left the family VHS player.

“You could put another movie in,” John recalls, “But for some reason Mortal Kombat gets sneaked back on. And if he got tired of it, Mortal Kombat: Annihilation.”

The only thing capable of dethroning Mortal Kombat, John tells me, were Saturday morning cartoons. But Brandon wasn’t just tuning in for reruns of Animaniacs and Pokemon. He waited for the segments in-between programs, where images of his little sister flashed across the television screen.

Sister?

Yes, John explains. The relationship with Doreen had gotten serious, and by this point she was now a permanent member of the McCartney household. Two beautiful daughters soon followed: Khalia, born in 1992; Ahjali in 1993. Brandon and his sisters bonded quickly, sharing the same wide-eyed zeal for all things entertainment. When she was old enough, Khalia auditioned for a coveted spot introducing Saturday morning cartoons on the popular Kids! WB network. She landed the part. Brandon was ecstatic.

“Pop!” Brandon squealed on the living room floor. “Can I be famous, too?”

John emerged from the kitchen, smiling. “You’re a McCartney,” he reminded him. “You can do anything you set your mind to.”

* * *

AS BRANDON NEARED HIS TENTH BIRTHDAY, tensions between John and his ex, Desiree, had been skyrocketing. Their son was now old enough to question the arrangement between his birth parents. Why can’t I spend more time with Pop? Why are you mad at each other? The differences in parenting styles grew increasingly fractured with each visit; even Brandon’s dietary habits had become a point of contention.

One afternoon, John took Brandon to North Beach Pizza, a spot the two had frequented for years. John was about to order when Brandon interjected.

“Pop,” Brandon said quietly.

“What is it, son?” John asked, sensing something was wrong.

“Mom says I can’t eat cheese,” Brandon confessed.

Stunned, John complied with the request. Brandon always ordered cheese, he thought. On the way home, Brandon mentioned other restrictions his mother had placed: no more dairy or seafood. Meals cooked at home whenever possible. John fought back; restaurant visits all but came to a halt, exchanged for homemade dinners of baked chicken, roasted potatoes, steamed vegetables.

But it was too late. Suddenly and without warning, Brandon was gone.

Desiree had severed ties between father and son completely: no visits, no phone calls, no text messages. I ask what could have possibly prompted such a drastic intervention. John’s struggling to form an answer, but the pain runs too deep. “No parent should ever have to…” his voice trails off. “That was the biggest hurt.”

Devastated, John turned to friends for advice. “Wait until Brandon grows up,” they told him. “He’s only getting one interpretation right now. When he’s old enough, you’ll be able to tell him your side.”

Years passed. John often wondered what happened to his son. He asked around at family reunions. He solicited information from friends — “I just wanted to know my son was okay.”

It turned out that Brandon was indeed okay. To be exact, he was soaring; attending school by day while making waves in the San Francisco underground music scene by night. He called himself “Lil B” now, performing with a local rap group known as “The Pack.” With this information, John realized a loophole: he may had been cut off from his son as a father, but not as a business partner. He would reach out to him and offer advice.

John had been making phone calls for weeks when he heard an unexpected voice at the other end of the line.

“Hello,” said the voice.

John recognized the voice immediately. His heart stopped. “Desiree?”

Silence.

John cleared his throat. “Uh…” he said. “How’s Brandon?”

“He’s doing great,” Desiree replied. “You’d be surprised…”

“Yeah?” John asked, gripping the phone.

“Brandon’s very talented,” she added. “He’s doing music now. Been meeting a lot of people.”

“Who?” John was hoping for a name.

“I don’t know,” she told him. “Someone named Too $hort.”

It was then John realized his son was not only following in his footsteps, he had been surpassing them.

Several months later, John was launching a music video program: the half-hour San Francisco Club 20 was his answer to the slew of other programs promoting mainstream acts. With Club 20, John hoped to discover and champion local, lesser known musicians. Brandon would be a perfect fit for the program, he thought. Just as John was preparing to reach out to his son, The Pack’s label had sent a package to his office; the label, unaware of the familial ties between them.

But John knew. Immediately he ripped open the packaging, discovering a copy of the group’s first EP, Skateboards 2 Scrapers. On the cover was a picture of Brandon, all grown up. “I saw the McCartney look,” he recalls. “Then he opens his mouth, and there’s this whole big grill in there.”

John smiled. Digging further through the envelope, his fingers brushed against the outline of a VHS. John snatched it out, heading toward the nearest television. He inserted the tape. A rough edit of the music video for “Vans” began to play — a downtempo beat looped over images of skateboards, curvaceous dancers, crisp new Vans, then Brandon.

“I was just glad he was alive,” John recalls of the emotional afternoon. He was smiling and teary eyed when he stumbled away from the television, tape running, back to his computer. He was leaning over the keyboard.

“I had to Google my son,” John says ashamedly. “I had to Google ‘Brandon Christopher McCartney.’ “

John landed on his son’s MySpace page, the song “Vans” blaring through cheap desktop speakers — Got my Vans on, but they look like sneakers. He hovered the mouse icon over the words “Send Message.” John took a deep breath. Click.

“Hey Brandon,” he typed. “It’s me. Your Pop.”

Minutes later, a response appeared. “Hey Pop. How’s it goin?”

* * *

THE REKINDLING TOOK TIME. John reached out to Brandon intentionally and carefully, as a doctor nursing a wound. Months, years flew by as father and son sent each other text messages, emails, voicemails, letters. Plans to meet were made, but the majority of them fell through; The Pack, now officially signed with Too $hort, were touring the world. Brandon was busy.

John, now a long-distance dad, gazed painstakingly from afar. He read what the critics had to say about his son’s group, watched as many interviews as the press conducted, and bought multiple copies of The Pack’s discography. He nearly cried in 2006 when “Vans” was ranked by Rolling Stone as the fifth best song of the year.

For what seemed an eternity, this was the closest John was able to get to his son. The mending process had been agonizing — Brandon, back from exile in Berkeley, was present only as a distant avatar. He and his father spoke, but had not yet met in person. John longed for the day the two would sit down together. He had envisioned the event in his mind’s eye for years. They would reminiscence over old times, and Brandon, finally able to hear his father’s version of the events leading to the separation.

In 2011, Brandon returned to the Bay. He was headlining The Mezzanine, one of San Francisco’s premiere venues, performing as a solo act. Things had changed drastically since John first reached out to his son in the late aughts; The Pack was now a group whose best days were behind them, leaving each member — Damonte “Lil Uno” Johnson, Lloyd “Young L” Omadhebo, Keith “Stunnaman” Jenkins, and Brandon “Lil B” McCartney, respectively — alone in their efforts to rile up audiences and secure fanbases. All found success, but none captivated quite in the way Brandon did.

This was John’s chance to break the ice. It was his Brandon’s biggest show to date as a solo artist, and on his home turf, no less. John would witness his son at the height of his powers.

John’s attendance, he decided, would be unannounced. He was afraid the knowledge of his presence would skew Brandon’s performance. “I wanted to surprise him,” John says. “I wanted to be part of the craft.”

The show was excellent. Once the curtains rose, John made his way toward the backstage. There he encountered a bouncer, holding the same post his father once held. John attempted to walk past the man, who stopped him.

“I’m Lil B’s dad,” John said.

Everybody says they’re Lil B’s dad,” the bouncer muttered.

Taken aback, John pulled out his I.D., waving it at the man. “My name is John Timothy McCartney,” he said. “My son is Brandon Christopher McCartney.”

“I don’t care,” the bouncer snapped. “You could be anybody. I can’t let you backstage.”

John continued to plead. “I wanted to tell him how proud I was,” he recalls, “I wanted to touch him. I just wanted to hug ten years worth of love into him.”

Out of nowhere, a member of The Pack appeared: it was Damonte “Lil Uno” Johnson. John turned. “Hi, Uno,” he said.

Lil Uno stopped. “Wait a minute…” he gasped. “You’re Brandon’s dad! You’re Pop!” Lil Uno ran over to John, wrapping his arms around him. “Oh, my God. Brandon is gonna go nuts when he sees you.”

Lil Uno told John that he and the other members of The Pack knew everything. “Brandon’s been wanting to see you since you guys started talking again,” he said, motioning toward the backstage. “Don’t go anywhere.”

John held his head down. “The security guy won’t let me back.”

“What?” cried Lil Uno.

Furious, Lil Uno stormed over to the bouncer. “Dude!” he shouted angrily, spit landing on the bouncer’s chest. “This is Lil B’s dad.” Lil Uno pointed at John. “He’s gotta go back there.”

The bouncer refused. Lil Uno glanced back at John, and in a split-second decision, grabbed him by the arm and rushed past the burly figure. “Come on!” he beckoned. The two raced backstage, and past a curtain stood Brandon, the eye of the storm. Paparazzi and fans were swarming, each eager for a moment with the Based God. Cameras flashed; microphones floated on all sides of his smiling face.

Calmly, John inched his way through the crowd until he was an arm’s length away from his son. He cleared his throat.

“Hey, Scooter Butt!” John yelled.

Brandon, who was in the middle of answering questions for an interview, immediately fell quiet. He leaned over to the side.

“Dad?” he asked, scanning the room as though he heard a ghost.

“What’s up, Brandon?” John replied.

The two locked eyes. Dazed, Brandon stumbled away from the reporter. He began walking, then running, pushing his way through the crowd. Brandon leapt into his father’s arms. John caught his son, lifting him just off the ground.

“Wow!” Brandon said, tears running down his face. “I didn’t know you were here. Why didn’t you let me know you were were coming?” Brandon looked up at his father. “How did I do?”

“You’re the shit, boy!” John exclaimed. “You’re the bomb. I don’t understand why you curse so much,” he added, grinning. “Sometimes you make me laugh. Sometimes you get deep. Sometimes you get outrageous. I don’t know how to take you!”

Brandon looked down with a smile. “It’s all good Pop,” he said. “It’s all good. I’m just having fun. I’m young.”

The two stood there holding one another. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes passed. The crowd looked over, murmuring amongst themselves. “Shhh,” one fan whispered to another. “That’s Based God’s dad.”

Brandon raised his head up from his father’s chest. “Why don’t you hang after?” he asked. “Can you hang?”

John chuckled. “I gotta go,” he said. “Old man’s got work the next day.”

Brandon nodded. “The past is over with, dad,” he said. “I’m a grown man now. I can make decisions on my own.”

John remained still. He wasn’t blinking.

“I don’t care what happened in the past with you and mom,” Brandon declared. “Everything’s cool with me and you.”

John rubbed his eyes. They were watery. The two exhaled, releasing each other slowly. John turned and made his way for the door.

“Let me get at you,” Brandon said as John waved down a cab. “I got a lot of projects coming, and you’ve been in the business for a long time, dad. I need some advice.”

John opened the door to the yellow carriage. “Anytime, son.”

* * *

ONE SPRING MORNING IN 2011, days before a certain Coachella performance that would change his life forever, Brandon was sitting down with his father at home in San Francisco.

“Now,” John asked sternly, “Are you there for the girls? Are you there for the money?”

Brandon stared. He was contemplating his father’s words.

John continued, “Then be that. But if you are trying to be in the hall of fame, because you are not going to be here forever, then what is it you are trying to do? Where are you taking these people? What are you trying to say?”

“Pop,” Brandon announced, “I’m coming out with an album.”

John was speechless when Brandon unveiled the title — I’m Gay. “I’m looking at him,” he recalls, “and I can see this machine working. But I’m not liking it.”

“You’re confusing people,” John scolded, “following in the same footsteps of everyone else in the entertainment game that wants to throw something and let it stick.” He paused, flushed with anxiety. “Do your thing, but don’t bring that back here,” John begged. “Understand what I’m saying? Don’t. Bring. It. Back.”

Brandon nodded slowly. “Alright, Pop.”

John had good reason to be nervous. In terms of the hip hop world accepting the LGBT community at large, things today in 2014 look remarkably different than they were three years ago. For Brandon to make such a statement then, death threats would be all but guaranteed; his sexuality would come into question, and homophobic slurs inevitable. At best, Brandon’s career would become a hotbed of controversy.

To grasp the scope of Brandon’s ambition, one must consider that hip hop’s (in addition to the rest of America’s) watershed moment didn’t occur until one year later, in 2012. That was the year President Obama, in the throes of a heated reelection campaign, came out vocally in support of gay marriage.

The President’s approval signaled a vast shift in cultural paradigms. It was a move that inspired many across the country, including hip hop’s previously homophobic (or homo-dismissive) elite: first came Grammy-winning Frank Ocean, detailing a past relationship with a man; then A$AP Rocky, championing gay fashion designers in interviews. Later that year, Macklemore & Ryan Lewis penned a radio hit in favor of same-sex marriage — “Same Love,” which won a VMA in 2013. (Only two years earlier, Tyler, the Creator’s “Yonkers,” a song featuring two instances of the derogatory term “faggot,” had won the same award.)

In 2014, the notion of an openly gay rapper performing hardly seems surprising. But in 2011, long before queer rappers Angel Haze and Le1f sold out venues, Brandon stood alone.

“I’ma do the most controversial thing in hip hop,” declared Brandon from a Coachella stage. “I’ma make an album called ‘I’m Gay.’ ”

The crowd erupted. Brandon, visibly nervous from the bomb he had just dropped, spent the next minute and a half outlining his motivations.

Brandon was hoping the hip hop community’s historically hostile attitude toward LGBT persons would be challenged. Instead, he found himself the subject of intense scrutiny — everyone from The Game to Sway Calloway wanted blood, or at the very least, a damn good explanation. Even CNN gave Based God a call.

“I tell him,” John recalls, “you can’t roll that ball out there. Because now you got the streets and the world buzzin’. You went from “Wonton Soup” to “I’m Gay.”

Brandon laughed. “I’m not gay, Pop.”

John remained firm in tone. “I know you’re not gay! I could feel my child if you’re gay, and I wouldn’t care a frickin’ deal about it. But you got something coming,” he warned. “You kicked the hornet’s nest.”

After much deliberation, Brandon tweaked the title: “I’m Gay” now read “I’m Gay (I’m Happy).” John was relieved. “What I tried to explain to him is that everything is historical,” he says. “Words do things to people. I told him, ‘If you’re gonna do this, own it. You can’t just throw it out there!’ ”

Being aware of one’s history, John tells me, is the key to success as an artist. Even though he and his son don’t always see eye to eye, “especially on the N-word,” John and Brandon share a mutual respect for one another. “He knows how I feel about that,” he says. “That word was prevalent when the gangsta rap came. It’s the same with I’m Gay. Talk history. Don’t just say it because everybody else is saying it.”

“Brandon’s point,” John adds, “is that words are damaging everybody. I understand that. But at the same time…”

History, I interject, completing the thought.

John nods. “Know the history.”

One day, when John was taking the bus from Glen Park to downtown San Francisco where he works, a group of white and Filipino teenagers unexpectedly coerced the Based Dad into giving a “history” lesson.

“I’m standing,” John recalls, and they’re like ‘nigga’ this, ‘nigga’ that… you know, the inflexions.” Nearby, a middle-aged white woman was staring as if to say, I am so embarrassed for you.

“There was a point in time when I could have just let that go,” John explains, “but today was not that day.” One of the teenagers, aware his circle of friends now had John’s attention, approached him.

“Sup, O.G.?” asked the young man.

“How you doing,” John replied. “You going to school?”

The young man nodded.

John cleared his throat. “Now, I’m gonna give you some knowledge,” he said. “That word, ‘n-i-g-g-a’?”

“Yeah, yeah,” acknowledged the young man.

“You can say it anytime,” he offered. “But tell me who Benjamin Banneker is. Tell me who Harriet Tubman is.”

“Who?” the young man shrugged. Avoiding eye contact, he nodded again. “Yeah, yeah…”

John continued. “Tell me that you know about my history, and you can say ‘nigga’ all damn day.”

* * *

JOHN’S CURRENT DAY JOB rests in a pocket of downtown San Francisco known as “The Tenderloin.” Located on fifth and Market Street, the area is one of the city’s rougher patches, notorious for its homelessness, violence, and chronic drug use. It is a ghetto that, by all means, many wouldn’t dare dream of trespassing. But John, who works there with at-risk youth, securing housing for them through a nonprofit, considers the spot a kind of second home.

Recently, John was walking to work with his son when a small family, one of whom recognized Brandon, approached them.

The unit, “a young black kid with his girlfriend and a baby,” were doting on John’s son. They wanted to let him know how much the music had meant. Brandon had just opened his mouth to speak when, out of nowhere, appearing from nearby buildings and street corners were “white guys from Google and Twitter, gangbangers, dope boys, skateboarders, surfers…” John grows animated describing the scene. “Everyone!”

In an odd moment of serenity, the devout looked on as their Based God directed his full attention to the small family.

“I’m a rapper,” declared the head of the household, “I read up on you. What you been going through, I gone through it too.”

Brandon connected with the young fan as though the two were locked in a vacuum, the outside world far away.

“I been in trouble,” the young fan continued, “trying to keep from being on the streets. I admire you. I respect you.”

Brandon looked down. “Thank you man,” he said. “Thank you. I’m humbled.”

“Naw man,” the young fan shot back. “You represent. Talk to everybody.”

Brandon extended his arm toward John. “This is my dad,” he told him.

“Is that yo pop?” exclaimed the young fan, identifying Brandon’s father immediately. “That’s the guy who checked us in.”

John smiled. “Hi, how you doin?”

“You know,” added Brandon, “all of it’s temporary. What you’re doing right now is the greatest thing in the world to be doing. You’re taking care of your kid. You’re taking care of your family. Just do what you’re doing…” He paused. “You got a demo?”

The young fan nodded.

“Get at me, man!” Brandon grabbed a slip of paper, scribbling down his personal email address across the margins. “Now you know how to reach me.”

The small family exited the scene quietly, as the rest of Brandon’s makeshift congregation watched in silence. “When Brandon’s focusing in on someone,” John tells me, “people shut the hell up. They listen, because they want to hear what Lil B’s got to say that’s poignant, and cutting to the cha — ” John adjusts his metaphor. “Cutting through the meat.

I bring up Brandon’s now-infamous NYU lecture. Unscripted and fearless, the event played out like a motivational seminar. Onstage in sagging jeans, a polo, and his trademark scuffed Vans, Lil B transformed the academic hall into a #based sermon on the mount. “Every single person you meet,” he commanded from the stage, “look at them like a golden million dollar baby.”

Andrew Marantz, a reporter from The New Yorker who attended the lecture, noted in his profile an audience member who compared Lil B, aloud, to Andy Warhol, another artist famous for reappropriating pop culture. Is Brandon the Andy Warhol of rap?

John scratches his chin. “He is not of this world,” John says of his son. “He has created his own planet.”

“The kids get it,” John says. “Even people in Germany!” John butchers the words of his son’s foreign fanbase: “Lil B! Take my bitch! Guten haben!”

“They know he’s a jokester,” he adds.

I mention the “THE BASEDGODS CURSE,” a Twitter hashtag and tongue-in-cheek campaign his son recently launched against NBA star Kevin Durant because, well, he simply could. The “diss” track “Fuck Kevin Durant” bears harsh words, but the delivery is pure satire; the video features Brandon offering D-League moves in a dimly lit basketball court, a shit-eating grin on his face as he raps.

“I talked to him recently about the Kevin Durant problem,” John says. “That’s hilarious! And he’s tried out for The Golden State Warriors. He really believes he can play basketball, but who am I to say that he can’t?”

From his earliest days in The Pack, Brandon served as the group’s lone wild card; playing the part of court jester to his peers’ more aggressive personalities. While his teammates cycled through tried and true tropes of chest-thumping, girlfriend-snatching, and flaunting piles of cold, hard cash, Brandon was the brains behind some of the group’s stranger lyrics: “Gotta have nice toes to get on my bike,” “Say you wanna be B but you not the ocean,” “I’m hot like a toddy.” The lines, decidedly more palatable than the bizarre sublimations of Lil B’s later output (read: “Hoes on my dick cause I look like Matlock”) provide a telling glimpse into the psyche of the man who would be Based God.

As Lil B, Brandon “is the perfect entertainment storm.” John elaborates, mentioning the various shoutouts his son has garnered throughout social media and beyond. Homage to the Based God can be seen in oversized tops worn by Katy Perry; SXSW shows heralded by none other than Diddy himself; NFL player Steve Johnson touchdown dances; Drake’s Instagram account.

“The industry has a respect for him because he did it his way,” John notes. “It’s the biggest thing I can tell anybody about my son.”

But what is Lil B doing, exactly? “Lil B is one person,” John motions, “and Based God is here. It’s almost like good versus evil.”

“Lil B,” John says, “is good at times, but he’s more salacious. ‘Based God’ is about love, happiness. Lil B’s about the same thing, too, but if you listen to his music, there’s this constant battle going on. It gets messy.”

“It’s like he’s talking to these different characters,” John continues. “I don’t know if that’s exactly what my son is doing, but it’s almost a religious experience. Brandon brings that goodness about life, and I keep letting him know, there’s a side that doesn’t like the light. People like doing things in the dark, saying things in the dark, being in the dark.”

* * *

LAST NOVEMBER, Brandon was performing a sold out show at The Regency Ballroom in San Francisco. This time, John didn’t have any issues with the bouncers. Instead, he was invited to the stage, where he stood off to the side, obscured from view. For the entirety of the performance, he gazed at his son, a smile on his face.

I ask John about that night. The Regency Ballroom has a capacity of 2,325 people, I tell him. Two thousand faces in the crowd, each mesmerized by his son, each for their own personal reasons. Some, I estimate, see a prophet. Others, I assume, see a prankster. But who did John see on that stage?

“I don’t see Lil B up there,” John tells me. “I see a little kid on stage, just laughing. Sure, he’s a man, but he’s my son. Brandon. My little ‘Scooter Butt.’ I’m like every parent. That’s — ”

I interrupt. Who is Lil B? You know better than anyone, I remind him.

John pauses, stealing a glance of a framed photo on a nearby coffee table. There sits a portrait of Brandon, no older than the age of five, all smiles. John smiles back, his eyes glittering from unshed tears. “That’s my little kid up there.”

* * *

John Taylor is a writer living in Chicago. He is currently at work on his first novel.

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    Former contributor for The New York Times and Interview. Aspiring UX Designer

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