LL Cool J’s “I Shot Ya” Remix on Rap City. A growling Aphrodite emerges from a sea of Timberlands and baggy denim. She is dressed in shiny leather; her bravado penetrating the grainy black and white scene. One minute she’s all rap hands; the next she’s grabbing her tits, pushing hair behind her ear, pointing to her ass. Over a thudding baseline and menacing piano keys, she petitions the female listener: “Bitches, grab ya ta-tas / Get them niggas for they chedda / Fuck it, Gucci sweaters and Armani leathers.” Wait. Did she say “I’m sexin’ raw dog without protection, disease infested”? Before my twelve-year-old mind can process the lyric she fades out, daring LL to reclaim his track. I am speechless.
She was the teenaged Inga Marchand b.k.a. Foxy Brown. A fandom was born.
Twenty years before #BlackGirlMagic Foxy embodied it, conjuring the spirit of Pam Grier with a 90s hip-hop twist. On the mic she was ferocious, clever, arrogant, sexy; equally comfortable adding high-heeled grit to an R&B record or playing alpha female in a rap wolf pack. In 1996, she introduced me to my favorite rapper with her scene-stealing verse on Jay-Z’s “Ain’t No Nigga.” She did that often — steal songs from her male counterparts. Just ask Nas, Cormega, and AZ about “Affirmative Action.” And yes, some of her wit can be attributed to co-writers, but her delivery? That seamless marriage of BK grit and fly girl sparkle? All Inga.
Like her friend-turned-rival Lil’ Kim, Foxy ushered in an era of female sexual gravitas. Their agency wasn’t new (we saw Salt-N-Pepa claim their sexuality years prior) but Foxy and Kim weaponized sex, wielding it sword-like in rap’s gender battles. Suitors had to perform (“No more sexin’ me all night, thinkin’ it’s all right / While I’m lookin’ over ya shoulder, watchin’ the hall light”) and provide proper incentive to even start the conversation (“Wanna see me where ya bed is / Playboy, ya’ll got to gimme five letters / Like Prada, Jacob, Fendi boots / C. Dior, Chloe suits / Range Rover, Gucci shoes…”). While she and Kim subscribed to similar sexual ethos, Foxy’s brand (“Nasty, but classy, still”) valued slickness over shock. For instance, Foxy wouldn’t kick off an album with “I used to be scared of the dick, now I throw lips to the shit” (one of the best opening lines of all time, by the way). …
The first ten years of Jermaine Cole’s rap career are a tale of two Coles. The first, an easy on the eyes, clean-cut, cocky kid with a ferocious delivery. He’d rap lines like “Either you follow me or swallow me, bitch. And I done hit too many hoes to ever pause that shit,” and if you gave him a feature on your song? Well, it was no longer your song. (Ask Talib Kweli, Wale, and Kanye.) With the release of 2014 Forest Hill Drive, we met a second Cole; a fuzzy-locked, wrinkled sweats-wearing recluse, seeking transcendence from his ego’s desires for fame, acceptance, and the trappings of material wealth.
He was always broody and occasionally prone to a style that prioritized talking to himself over enticing the listener. Vintage Cole visited that domain from time to time. Enlightened Cole lived there, trading his “I rap better than you” bars for gravelly, cathartic croons. Social media snarkers determined to peg him a self-righteous bore retreated to lazy “zzzzz” jokes. Apostles lauded his heartfelt, but straightforward observations as hieroglyphic gospels too complex for the simple-minded listener. Neither side left room for reasonable conversation. Meanwhile, Jermaine’s cult following propelled him beyond the Twitter jokes to platinum sales and sold out shows at Madison Square Garden — no features or radio hits required. 
Cole’s latest offering, KOD (Kids On Drugz, King Overdosed, Killing Our Demons) navigates the dark terrain of addiction with a flair that was greatly missed on 2016’s somber 4 Your Eyez Only. It’s an album of marriages. …
This is a blog about real life.
No brand to buy into. No easy-to-swallow inspirational memes. No efforts to convince you I’m living my best life.
I am a working class, 30-ish, midwestern black woman. A voluntary spinster. An MFA dropout. A veteran personal blogger (2008 Blogspot Era Representer — you can read my earlier posts in my book) who requires a room of her own away from Twitter’s frantic fanaticism and Instagram’s polished posturing. …