Examining Young Black Teenager’s self-titled debut album, 30 years after its release.
Young Black Teenagers are the most unfortunately named group in hip-hop history. If you can think of a worse idea than naming a group of five white guys “Young Black Teenagers,” I’d like to hear it. It was an idea so ill-conceived that it completely overshadowed the group’s reasonably good self-titled debut album, released 30 years ago.
Young Black Teenagers was made up of rappers Ron “Kamron” Winge, Thomas “Tommy Never” Barbaccia, and Firstborn, along with DJs Scott “Skribble” Ialacci and ATA. They weren’t suburban posers, but a group of young men who grew up in New York City, and everything that went with it. They used hip-hop as an outlet for their creativity, rapping, DJIng, breaking, hitting the clubs, and going to live shows. They were ostensibly led by Kamron, known for his distinctive dreadlocks and boisterous personality.
The idea of bestowing the name “Young Black Teenagers” upon this crew was the misbegotten brainchild of a lot of smart, respected, and talented people with unimpeachable credentials who should have known better. And in 1990, few were more unimpeachable than Public Enemy and their production crew, the Bomb Squad.
The Bomb Squad (Hank and Keith Shocklee, Eric Sadler, and Bill Stephney) were on a serious hot streak after the first half of 1990, coming off producing Public Enemy’s Fear of A Black Planet and Ice Cube’s AmeriKKKa’s Most Wanted. You could easily make an argument that the clique were the best producers working during that era. They had inked a label deal with MCA to distribute their own imprint, SOUL Records. It would be understandable if they felt invincible.
The production collective were certainly ambitious with their label’s initial offerings. They’d signed two groups. One was Son of Bazerk, a unique and quirky group in its right. The other was Young Black Teenagers. What’s notable is the group of white kids could have been Leaders of the New School. Or, conversely, Young Black Teenagers could have been a quartet comprised of Busta Rhymes, Charlie Brown, Dinco D, and Cut Monitor Milo. Both crews were mentored by Public Enemy and the Bomb Squad, who nurtured their talent and helped develop their skills as serious hip-hop artists.
According to those who were there, three decades ago, “Leaders of the New School” and “Young Black Teenagers” were concepts on a bulletin board in the Bomb Squad’s compound. The plan was for each group to take one of the names. The problem was, both groups wanted “Leaders of the New School.”
The legend goes that, on some late 1980s/early 1990s hip-hop shit, the Bomb Squad decided to have both crews complete for LONS. Each group would write a song called “Fuck the Old School,” dissing all the rappers who came before them. Whoever wrote the better version would earn the name. So, after Busta, Charlie Brown, and Dinco came out on top, The Bomb Squad decided to get exponentially too cute and make the collection of white kids the “Young Black Teenagers.”
Naming a group of white kids the “Leaders of the New School” would have been provocative in its own right, even if not nearly as problematic. The Bomb Squad saw the group as a bellwether of hip-hop’s changing demographic. Hip-Hop was gaining more popularity, and there soon would be more white kids that grew on hip-hop and other forms of Black music, drawing inspiration from KRS-One and Public Enemy instead of the Beatles and The Rolling Stones.
And in a sense, the Bomb Squad were prescient, as YBT certainly weren’t the last young white rappers to record hip-hop music after growing up on it. However, going the extra step was a huge mistake. It’s a serious understatement to say that white kids calling themselves Black was a bridge waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too far.
As a white guy who began loving hip-hop at a relatively young age, I can indeed relate to finding inspiration in a predominantly Black artform and culture, and knowing that music spoke to me more than anything else I’d heard before. And I certainly can relate to feeling like an outsider due to my love of rap or hip-hop. But I also knew as a pre-teen and teenager that it didn’t make me Black. And I knew that being Black was not a “state of mind.”
It also needs to be said that the group came around at the exact wrong time in hip-hop history. Just months before that debut album was released, Vanilla Ice had become a ubiquitous pop culture fixture. In late 1990/early 1991, hip-hop was very uncomfortable with pop exposure, and listeners and artists alike were wary of a white guy becoming the symbol of rap music moving forward. There was understandable fear that rap music was in danger of getting white-washed. Vanilla Ice really didn’t sit well with a lot of white rappers, who felt they were working hard to make their names the “right” way, only to have a guy with blonde pompadour and limited rhyme skills suck all the oxygen out of the room. Given that climate, a group of white rappers proclaiming that they identified as Black were starting out with the proverbial two strikes against it.
As a whole, Young Black Teenagers is actually a well-made and enjoyable album. On the lyrical end, Kamron performs well enough as the album’s center. Of the three emcees, Tom Never is probably the most skilled. The album’s definite strength is its production. The Bomb Squad produce the albums in its entirety, with the Shocklee brothers doing most of the work behind the boards. Though Chuck D puts in work as well (credited as Carl Ryder), the album also features some of the first production credits from Gary G-Wiz, who joined with the Bomb Squad around this time, and continued to work with Public Enemy throughout their career.
Given how much of Young Black Teenagers involves the concept behind the name, the message needs a lot more refinement. But though has its share of flaws and misfires, a good amount of it works. And as a whole it’s never boring.
Even before the full album was released, the name was already causing issues for the group. The crew released the catchy “Nobody Knows Kelli” as the first single. Its premise was the three emcees lusting over Married… With Children’s Kelly Bundy come to life. Each of the trio tries to navigate their way around her belligerent and often drunken pimp, Bart Simpson, in order to get some action. It’s a goofy song with a funky track, filled with musical breakdowns and a chorus that’s easy to sing along to.
However, MTV banned the video soon after it aired, siting the “lewd” content. As someone who’s seen the video, I can attest that it’s not lewd. Implied sex with a mannequin in the back of a pick-up truck is about as bad it gets, and that really doesn’t coming close as pushing the limits of taste for videos during that era. Which suggests that MTV took issue with the group’s name.
YBT addresses the controversy on the album-opening “Punks, Lies, and Videotape,” blasting the video station and radio for not playing their material over the controversy surrounding their moniker. “While they’re playing their games and try to restrain,” Firstborn raps. “They’re just scared of the cons and plus they’re scared of the name.”
In general, Young Black Teenagers does work the best when the group stays away from the controversy and focuses on making dope music. “Korner Groove” is the album’s best track, functioning as a dedication to hip-hop’s early days. The three deliver old-school influenced routines, reminiscing about freestyling on the streets of New York, and paying respect to those artists that came before them. The Bomb Squad creates the best pure funk track on the album, hooking up a solid guitar groove while adding in other elements of ’70s-era soul and other classic breaks.
Of course, in the late ’80s/early ’90s, they was nothing quite as distinctive as on the Bomb Squad massive “wall-of-sound” beats, and Young Black Teenagers features its fair share of them. Bomb Squad blesses YBT was some of its strongest work. “Loud and Hard To Hit,” the album’s second single, sounds like it could have been lifted from Fear of Black Planet. The track is hard-hitting assault, with all three emcees kicking rugged verses over an ever-changing beat. Tom Never channels Chuck D’s delivery during his verse, rapping, “They find this kind ain’t blind to the ways/ To way back in the crazy time / Psychosomatic and erratic on a brain scan / Whoever said never, but it is and I am.”
“My TV Went Black…” is pure audio chaos, as the Bomb Squad layers sirens, keys, horns, and other noise in a continuous and unrelenting barrage. Many different vocal tracks play simultaneously, including two constant repeating refrains, while the three emcees record overlapping verses. It’s a disorienting aural assault that still sounds dope.
“First Stage of a Rampage Called the Rap Rage” isn’t quite as cacophonous, but it does churn with aggression, with a mix of drums, percussion, horns, scratches, and distorted vocals. It’s a pretty good song, even though Kamron starts it off in a questionable manner, posing to “conscious” rappers, “Are you kicking Black from the heart or cause you wanna be a part of a fad or a trend?” Safe to say that even 30 years ago, these weren’t sentiments for a white rapper to share on a record.
In that vein, “Proud To Be Black” was just a bad idea altogether, as YBT discusses their own “Blackness.” I do believe that the three emcees in the group could record a song about what drew them to hip-hop culture and their quest in earn respect in what is still very much Black music from the streets. But draping the whole thing on how they identify as Black just derails the entire endeavor.
Aside from the obvious red flags, “Daddy Called Me N***a Cause I Likeded To Rhyme” is a better examination of the psyche of a white rapper. Here Kamron speaks about his upbringing, struggling with the lack of acceptance for his own family. Granted, a white guy really shouldn’t be using the n-word in any context, but Kamron successfully vents his frustration at the lack of understanding that he dealt with from those who raised him.
The solo offerings by members of YBT on the album both hit and miss. Kamron engages in some dancehall chatting on “Chillin’ Wit Me Posse,” to mixed success. By 1991, there’d be a decently long history of white reggae/dancehall artists, and more would many more follow in the subsequent three decades. For what it’s worth, Kamron doesn’t sound as goofy as Chet Hanks, but he’s not exactly Snow either (even though “Informer” catches flak, Snow was well-respected by his Dancehall peers).
“Mack Daddy Don of the Underworld,” a solo track by Tommy Never, fares better. Never assumes the role of a Hip-Hop Mafia Don, kicking some early 1990s “organized posse of rhymes” raps. The production is the Bomb Squad’s most low key on the album, but still complex, as hard-hitting drums co-exist with a light guitar groove, sprinkles of piano, and a muffled keyboard.
The album also features “To My Donna,” which isn’t particularly good, but is interesting and notable, as it’s somewhat of a dis track to Madonna. Just months earlier, she had released “Justify My Love” to help promote The Immaculate Collection (1990), her greatest hits compilation. The song was produced by Lenny Kravitz, and featured the drums from the instrumental track “Security of the First World,” which had appeared on Public Enemy’s It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back (1988), and was produced by the Bomb Squad. When asked about the sample, Kravitz reportedly said it was something he found “laying around” the studio.
The Bomb Squad bristled at the track being characterized in that way, and “To My Donna” was their response. YBT give a minimal vocal performance over essentially the instrumental to “Justify My Love”; it’s not clear whether they sampled the song or completely re-created the beat. Kamron delivers a brief verse laden with sexual innuendo and a few Madonna references.
Young Black Teenagers was not a commercial success, possibly in some part due to their name, image, and general lack of exposure on MTV. It wasn’t the end of the crew, however. A couple of years later, they regrouped and released their follow-up, Dead Enz Kidz Doin’ Lifetime Bids (1993). This time they were just credited as YBT, and they certainly didn’t mention being “Black” at any point. Tommy Never had left the group, and ATA (who’s half Puerto Rican) rapped in his stead, making a decent replacement. The album sounded like a decent enough mid-1990s rap release. It wasn’t as ambitious as Young Black Teenagers, but there were fewer cringe-inducing moments.
The sophomore offering featured the groups sole legitimate hit, “Tap the Bottle,” about the joys of drinking. The controversy over their name faded to the background, and Dead End… did decently well. Between albums, Kamron played a significant role in House Party 2 film as Kid’s bean-pie loving college roommate. The group later dissolved reportedly while recording a third album.
For the most part, YBT has faded into obscurity, thought of as a punchline. Some of the group members have continued on in the realm of hip-hop. DJ Skirbble worked with Wyclef Jean and was an on-air personality with MTV. Kamron has a successful career DJing and in artist management, working with Pharoahe Monch and Chip-Fu (formerly of the Fu-Schnickens).
The Bomb Squad continued to produce, but SOUL Records never really flourished like they’d intended. They took big risks with Young Black Teenagers and the Son of Bazerk debut released a few months later, but neither connected with a wider audience. They weren’t credited with producing any material on Public Enemy’s Apocalypse ’91 — The Enemy Strikes Back (1991). Instead, they created the score for the film Juice, producing many tracks on album’s soundtrack as well. SOUL Records folded in late 1993, Dead Enz Kidz being the last album the label released.
I honestly don’t know if YBT would have had a longer career without their controversial name. It certainly earned them a lot of grief, and it has defined their legacy. But it’s not the type of album that ever could be made in any era afterwards. This project would have never seen the light of day during a time when “cultural appropriation” and Rachel Dolezal are in the public lexicon and social media rules the day. I shudder to think how everyone involved would have fared if Young Black Teenagers had dropped during the age of Twitter. Regardless, it was still an experiment worth examining, and one that did generate some good music.
