Rather than feeling hemmed in, he sounds liberated and awake

In 1998, Talib Kweli said, “Every day someone ask me, ‘Where all the real MCs at?’/ They underground.” He was proudly pinpointing a shift in hip-hop’s values, how mainstream rappers wanted to be Hugh Hefner while those primarily concerned with artistry were netting only cult appeal. In subsequent releases however, Kweli endured criticism as he tried catchier hooks and wove pop culture references into his lyrics. He epitomized “conscious rap,” but he also struggled to stay within its confines.

So on his fifth LP, Prisoner of Conscious, Kweli raps to music rooted in the time before all that. While 2011′s Gutter Rainbows updated the neo-soul sound of Kweli’s onetime label Rawkus, Prisoner reaches back to even older genres. Samba revivalist Seu Jorge adds wistfulness to “Favela Love,” a song about wandering abroad. On “Come Here,” R&B singer Miguel does his best Marvin Gaye while Kweli composes a valentine made of hip-hop references: “We can do it like Common and Mary and ‘Come Closer’/ We can do it like Barack and Michelle, give me a fist bump.”

Throughout the album, Kweli raps of his connections to people and music. On album opener “Human Mic,” Kweli scrambles through a few opening lines before landing on a memory of 9/11: “I seen them crossing bridges by the masses, covered in the ashes of both towers.” Over celebratory horns in “High Life,” he and Rubix exchange dizzying verses that simulate the bustle of a block party. “Prisoner of Conscious? Nonsense,” Kweli raps at one point. Rather than feeling hemmed in, Kweli sounds liberated — not “conscious,” just awake.

On Marnia, Stern wrote songs about how stress resurfaces and tests her belief in herself — and, as she realizes in “Proof,” how rewarding it feels to ride that stress out (“I am something, I am someone”).

eMusic’s Christina Lee spoke with Stern about Marnia, her latest influences and how her new job as a guitar teacher has shaped her views on modern-day music consumption.

You’ve mentioned not feeling inspired when it came time to write this record. What did you do to overcome that?

Well, it’s an interesting battle, to continue to dig deep inside of yourself, to try to find new places, because you only have so many resources in your arsenal. So I spent a lot of time trying to reference different standpoints, finding new things to write and also looking up other classic artists and [trying to] just move like them. That’s a lot of what I’m still doing. I feel like artists in general find their voice, and then they either keep repeating it or they grow. But it’s different for me, just trying to find different resources and be inspired, and just still loving music so much and finding a connection to it and feeling grateful for it.

What were some of your new sources of inspiration?

Well, it’s more like — the way I used to write songs would be, “OK, I’m going to put this kind of riff here, and then layer some voices here.” This time I really got into sort of the Chuck Berry-vibe riffs — like, ’50s guitar styles. I was more interested in things sounding pretty as opposed to banging you over the head.

Chuck Berry?

I don’t mean Chuck Berry in particular. In the car my mother plays this ’50s SiriusXM radio station, so it was just a lot of hearing that style on the radio and thinking about it, and thinking about how a lot of the Rolling Stones and the rock generation of the ’60s was inspired by those guys, and also just about how young rock ‘n’ roll really is — and just things like that.

I was just trying to invest myself in different ways of playing — different styles, things I had never done before in my life. Like, “OK, let me hear this Jimi Hendrix song,” just to learn different stuff. I ended up stripping down most of the songs, taking away a lot of parts. That’s basically how I approached the record.

Who are some of your other favorite writers?

I’ve listened to a lot of David Bowie. When I was writing these songs, I listened to a lot of things that normally I would not, like Tom Petty. There’s something very poignant and beautiful — and I don’t mean that in a patronizing way — about Tom Petty’s songs. I’ve also been reading a bunch of rock biographies like Slash. It was crazy thinking about [Guns 'N Roses'] time, and how there will never be a time of that — full of money and gluttony. They would have a backstage show after their concert, and it cost $10,000 at least, and they rarely ever went to it. It was just so dumb — so fun to read, but certainly not enviable in any way.

I have a similar relationship to reality shows — just seeing the level of preposterousness there and being amazed that it exists.

The difference is, because of the lack of internet [back then], once [a band became popular] they held on for a lot longer in the consciousness. Now with everything being a quick sound byte, things are just so different. What I mean is, it seems like with young people now, the cool thing is just to like and to know about everything, as opposed to having a few favorites that you really like. That’s very uncool now. But you know — I don’t know. I give guitar lessons and [my students] don’t feel that way.

Maybe it depends on the role that music plays in someone’s life. Maybe the difference with your students is that they’re interested in clicking through YouTube as research.

Which is good. And obviously it’s a good resource. The internet was just coming up when I started to make music, and I remember [before that], you had to dig to find what you were looking for. When you found it, it was so rewarding. That’s kind of gone now. I remember at one of my lessons, this girl was looking for some ’90s seminal band, and she couldn’t find anything. It was driving me crazy, because that never happens.

Even with, like, the [early] Mountain Goats [cassettes] — only [a few] people really had access to them.

And that used to be a normal concept. Now it’s a very strange concept. That’s what so weird – it used to be you would only be exposed to certain stuff, and that was it. It was rare, and that was it, so you had it and you appreciated it. And I guess I haven’t embraced any of the positive parts of all the changes, and I feel like that’s the thing to do, because there’s nothing you can do about it. So I sort of got over my frustrations with that stuff. There’s always been commercial music and less-popular music, and that will just continue to evolve.

[Giving guitar] lessons has been good, because I’ve been meeting real people in their late teens, early 20s, and some a little older. Some of them have a more removed relationship to music. They want to learn to play the guitar, they have a job, but they like music. It’s obvious their relationship is different than someone who’s like, “I want to get a record deal, and I’m working so hard.” [Meeting them has made them] real, as opposed to me thinking, “I wonder what the kids are doing these days. They seem so dumb.”

You’re seeing it for yourself.

And that’s real life – where every teenager is different. And there are some similarities, but it’s not the generalization thing that I was doing before. Each person is different, and each person brings their different experiences to it and that affects how they play, and what they listen to and what they like. And that’s what’s cool about music. There was this thing that was going around the internet and it said that the thing about [when you're] starting out [in the arts], you’re usually not really good at all —

He was talking about the process of being a writer, how he had to increasingly learn to vouch for his good taste.

Right, you have your taste, and it’s good to trust your taste — you like what you like. I think that’s really neat. If you’re not, then no personality comes across in your stuff. I think it’s really all about your taste, and it’s cool to hear people’s taste and [realizing] there’s no right and wrong. I’m always disagreeing with friends. They’ll like something and I can’t stand it, and no one person is right or wrong.

And at times it can be very frustrating, being like, “Ah, I like all of this awesome stuff, I want to make stuff that’s just like this awesome shit,” and then it comes out like garbage. And we were just talking about being uninspired — that [lack of inspiration] is largely my fault, because I don’t search for music actively, just because I feel turned off by everything I click on to listen to. I’m not into it, and I’m just giving up really quickly, and that stinks.

It’s tough. And I think it’s much easier to “move on,” now. Years ago, even if your primary mode of discovery was radio, and even if it was that same Top 40 hit, you had a chance to reconsider it, without ever asking for it — even if it was, like, Britney Spears, because you hate it the first five times they play it but, for whatever reason, the sixth time wins you over.

Absolutely. Where do you live?

I’m in Atlanta.

I’m in New York – I just got here. I was visiting Florida, and I basically flew from 75-degree weather to nine degrees. It’s terrible.

The photo on the album cover — was that taken in Florida?

No, I was on tour at a rest stop. I don’t know where we were, but we were somewhere, and we just got out for some reason and took that picture.

I had a horrible experience in Florida. My mother’s dog bit my dog, and she almost died. Three bites and they pierced her jugular. There was blood everywhere. We rushed to the hospital and it was so horrifying; I’ve never seen anything so violent. I love my dog, and she almost died. I thought it was so crazy that I brought that dog on every tour — she’s been everywhere — then I take her the sanctuary that is my mother’s house, and she almost died.

Her name’s Fig, right? How would you describe her personality?

She’s not spoiled, even though I give her so much attention. That’s why she’s so loveable. She’s the sweetest girl. I’m way too attached to her, but there’s no way to get unattached because you have to love them while they’re here. I’ve got to say that 10 years ago when I got her, I did not expect I was going to be [living] in the same apartment with just her.

As opposed to…?

Getting married, having kids or just even relocating. I remember when I got her I didn’t think that I would get this attached to her. She’s ended up being my whole world. She’s worth it.

Whose idea was the dating contest?

Not mine!

How did that come about?

A friend is friends with my publicist and we were chatting, and my boyfriend had just moved out, so she’s like, “You’re single,” and I was like, “Yeah,” and she came up with this whole thing. And I was so in the throes of all the stress with the dog and all things happening that I said, “Yeah, sure.” I really don’t need anyone, ever, because I’m always such a homebody. But maybe I will. I don’t know. It’s just for fun.

I hope it pans out.

I’m sure it won’t, but I’m sure it will be funny, and that’s worth it. It’s for a fun story, like the kissing booth. There were only five people over the whole tour that I wanted to kiss…

What was on your mind when you wrote “Proof of Life”?

I started that before the third [self-titled] record…I was talking to somebody, and we were talking about apprehension and feeling like I live in a bubble of just me and the dog: “Am I missing out in life, just doing this all the time?” That’s kind of what that song was about, wanting to feel like there’s no right or wrong decision — when you put all of your eggs in one basket and then things aren’t working as well as you’d like. All of my joy comes from when I feel like I’ve written something that I like, and when that’s not happening, there’s not much else going on in my life.

We live in a very immediate, “now” world, so when you’re immersed in one thing, you can’t ever remember a time when life wasn’t like that. When I’m on tour and hanging out with people, I’m like, “This is so fun!” Then two weeks into being back home it’s like, “Oh my god, I’ve always been alone.”

Reverting to a familiar narrative, but with a distinctly somber tone

No Mercy, T.I.’s last studio album, was a pop-star-studded affair, a far cry from the rapper’s earlier Rubber Band Man Days. On his recent mixtape Fuck Da City Up, however, he stomped and sneered like vintage T.I.P. amid 808s of Rick Rossian proportions. His eighth album Trouble Man: Heavy is the Head, splits the difference: T.I. reverts to a familiar narrative of inner turmoil about his trap rap reign, but with a distinctly somber tone: “In my city that’s the way we ride,” he broods, as if recalling harder times before “What U Kno.”

True to post-King, Chelsea Handler-guest form, Tip can’t help but boast of his VH1 reality show. He brushes off critics in “Sorry” (featuring a Capitol One-quoting “What’s in your wallet?” crack) as much as he does in the cruising “Hello” (“Showing haters the taillights of my two-seaters”). But as Heavy ends, T.I. stops skirting past his high-profile shortcomings. In grandiose closer “Hallelujah,” he recalls how much he missed his wife during his most recent prison sentence: “I reach out for Tameka’s hand/ I’m trippin’ because she missing.”

Heavy‘s best parts, though, are more about recalibration than atonement. DJ Toomp, who helped launch T.I> into the stratosphere on “What U Kno,” dials back his signature triumphal fanfare for “Who Wants Some,” and in “Trap Back Jumpin’,” T.I.’s staccato verses prove that he can navigate I’m Serious territory like it’s his childhood home. One of Tip’s verses on “G Season” may as well be a thesis statement: “It might sound wild, but it’s all I know.”

As he entered his solo career, Big Boi faced daunting expectations as created by OutKast. It didn’t help that 2010′s Sir Lucious Left Foot: The Son of Chico Dusty faced delays and major-label constraints that prevented Andre 3000, of all people, from making an official album appearance. In comparison, and despite its slew of unexpected collaborations – from newcomers Phantogram to a posthumous Pimp C verse – his follow-up Vicious Lies arrived without a hitch, mostly. (Longtime fans: The Kate Bush collaboration is still in the works.)

If anything, Vicious Lies reiterates that Big Boi can stand on his own as a rap auteur. Before he previewed the album, eMusic’s Christina Lee used a playlist as a springboard to talk with Big Boi about his solo career thus far, his opinions on rap regionalism and moments that inspired Vicious Lies and Dangerous Rumors.

Michael Jackson, “Don’t Stop Until You Get Enough”

Michael Jackson debuted as a solo artist with this song. What would you say is the biggest pro and con to operating solo?

The biggest pro to being solo is just having total creative control. I guess the biggest con is the heavy writing load, just writing all those songs. It’s like, to be a songwriter and producer, to produce and write all of the records – that’s a ton of work. But, as it goes, if you want the pro, you gotta have the con. If you want total creative control, you have to do more work like that.

Who are your primary sources of feedback?

Definitely my children, because they listen to everything. My producers around the studio. I’ve got a crew of producers and artists who all work together, so – boom, boom, boom. All the guys that work around the studio have really good ears, and I trust their ears.

Little Dragon, “Ritual Union”

You first heard Little Dragon several years ago. How did their music make you feel?

The first time I heard their music, actually, ‘Dre played it for me at his house a couple of years ago. It was just refreshing. It just sounded like something that you had never heard before. Just – her voice, man. It was dope to hear different grooves and not hear the same cadences and melodies, a whole other different dimension of what our music is today. That’s what drew me to their music, definitely.

You performed “Mama Told Me” with Little Dragon at Austin City Limits. How did that feel?

I felt right at home. I’ve been performing with a band since the OutKast days. I still perform with the same band that me and ‘Dre used from day one, with a couple of pieces – guitars, the drums. So I just felt right at home, know what I’m saying? I was right in my living room. It was nothing different from what I’ve been doing, but it was just different bodies, you know?

Killer Mike, “Southern Fried”

Killer Mike worked with a New York producer, to create his version of Dungeon Family music. You worked with a ton of collaborators, from all over. Do you think regionalism in rap still matters?

Not really. It just depends. I make global music, so for me it’s all about expanding and breaking boundaries and just going further than your immediate surroundings. When you make music, you make music for the world, and not just for the people on your street or the people who’s on your zip code, because you want as many people to dig it as possible. You don’t just cater to one region. My whole take on music is just, whatever strikes me, I use it. It can come from outer space, and it don’t even matter, know what I’m saying? Really, you gotta get past the county lines and state lines and just really expand your whole horizon, if you want people to really know who you are.

I meant to ask this earlier, but what I’ve heard of Vicious Lies so far reminded me of these ’80s takes on funk. What brought on that electrofunk sound?

Speaking of which, the nickname for this album is The Nigga Thrilla. The electrofunk actually came about from touring the world with these different bands, to Glastonbury, Camp Bisco, Bonnaroo and Counterpoint, just experiencing different crowds. I’ve been touring for almost 20 years now, so to be out there with crowds with 50-, 80-, 100,000 people at a time, is just a different element. You have people from all walks of life just coming together for one groove, and so that’s what it’s all about.

Frank Ocean, “Pyramids”

That’s “Pyramids,” right? Aw, I love that. I go to the four-and-a-half minute mark. I like the beginning part, it’s dope, but when it gets to that 4:30 mark, that’s my jam. The video was super dope too; it was just really in a different world, in a whole other dimension, and it matched the sounds – the 808s, and just how he’s singing. That’s my favorite song on the whole album [Channel ORANGE]. People said that this song is long as a motherfucker, but at the same time, it morphs into something else. The song is supposed to be an adventure.

Frank Ocean’s a great example of someone who’s clearly thought about how to release music online, on his own terms. Has the internet changed the way you’ve consumed music?

Definitely. Being in the digital age is like, people are all, “Gimme more. Gimme more. Gimme more,” so you gotta keep feeding that machine. Music travels the world at the push of a button right now, know what I’m saying? I can record a brand new song right now, right here and release it to the world just like that, so that’s a cool thing to be able to do as an artist. After this record right here I’m looking at free agency, so I can make a song every day and sell it if I want to do so. That’s what dope. It took me a minute to get into the transition, to get in touch with what was happening. But now that I’m into it, I can see how fast-paced it is.

I just watch different music blogs, sites or whatever. There’s a new song from a different artist every day. Some songs catch, and some songs get sucked right in that vacuum. Shoop! Gone into space. So, you gotta put your best foot forward every time you come out with new music. My whole thing is quality over quantity, so when it’s time to hear you, it’s gonna be an event. It’s gonna be a treat, and it’s not like you’re doing songs just to throw it out there, just to be over-saturating the market. I don’t agree with that.

UGK feat. OutKast, “Int’l Players Anthem”

“So, I typed a text —”

Exactly.

There’s a posthumous Pimp C verse in Vicious Lies. Where did that come from?

I was working on this lil’ album, and it was a verse that I actually had left over from the last record. It was a song with me, Pimp C and Future, and it just didn’t mesh well. So Organized Noize, who actually produced the song, added to the verse to “Gossip.” The song matched up perfectly with it, and just to bring in Big K.R.I.T. – who was an up-and-comer and in the same vein as that UGK, OutKast sound, all those new-school elements – as well as what me and Bun B are doing, it was just a cool record. It was a treat for the fans, definitely.

What was working with UGK like?

Everything that we ever did with them was some real cool shit. Pimp C and Bun B – me and ‘Dre grew up listening to them, and so to be able to work with them, when we got into the game, was definitely an honor. Pimp C was just one of the greatest, and he was just a great guy, a real guy. He spoke from the heart and spoke the truth, know what I’m saying? A lot of people can’t handle that truth, but I’m all about the truth.

Kate Bush, “Babooshka”

That’s “Babooshka.”

Has your perception of her music changed at all, from your teenaged years to adulthood?

Not at all. Actually, ever since I’ve been in contact with her on the telephone, I love her even more now. She’s so down to earth, and the music is incredible, you know what I’m saying? It’s just like a hidden gem to those who really love music and stories, the production and the writing. She and Bob Marley tie for first place for my all-time favorite, ever.

When Kate Bush arrived, critics often noted how they felt they needed an encyclopedia to dissect her stories. This was pre-Rap Genius, when people had to —

They had to decipher what she was saying. She used a lot of symbolism in her lyrics too, so you just gotta listen to it. It’s super dope. I just listen and try to figure it out, but my uncle’s been into her for a long time. He told me what most of the stories meant, when he first gave me her music, so I kind of got a head start on it. I would just listen to it and be like, “Damn, that shit is deep.” “The Man with the Child in His Eyes,” “Breathing,” stuff like that, you know? She’s deep, man.

“Basically my songs are diaries,” says Sharon Van Etten. “I analyze them and rework them in hopes people can relate to them.” For Tramp, her third album and first for Jagjaguwar, Van Etten revisited songs she’d written before the release of her 2010 album, epic, songs that detailed her flight from Tennesse and a domineering boyfriend to her struggle to overcome that past as she began a new life in New York. While epic was mostly a solo affair, on Tramp, Van Etten is surrounded by a cast of indie all-stars – among them, Walkmen drummer Matt Barrick, Wye Oak frontwoman Jenn Wasner, and the National’s Aaron Dessner, who also produced the record. The help give Van Etten’s songs both shadow and scope, as she wriggles free of her past and soldiers on toward new strength.

Tramp is made up of songs you’ve had for some time. What made you decide to go back and revisit them?

You know what? I never really know what is going into each album. I just end up with this stockpile of songs, and so I end up revisiting songs and seeing if I can use them now, or if I need to edit them to fit where I am. When you go back and find songs that you haven’t touched in a year or something, it’s kind of interesting to see where you were, and then to rework it so it’s more relevant now. I wanted to work with a collection of songs that wasn’t just sad all the time, and these were all [topically] very vague.

Which song off Tramp have you had the longest?

Probably “Give Out,” the second song. I think that’s the only one I didn’t touch that much. That one’s still pretty relevant; it’s about moving toNew York and letting myself fall in love, open myself up and being vulnerable again. It’s scary to fall in love all over again, but so is trying to make it inNew York as a musician!

That seems to be an ongoing debate in Tramp, whether to start anew or let the past serve as a precedent.

That’s definitely part of it. You don’t want to make the same mistakes you made in the past. Leaning from them is important, and moving on from them is even more important.

What part did Aaron Dessner play in shaping the album’s production?

When we first started talking about the record, I didn’t really know what I wanted. I had these songs with guitar and vocals, but I wanted to collaborate in a way where, even though the songs would have arrangements, there would also be a lot more space. I didn’t know how to articulate that, so I had to learn how to describe what it was that I wanted. I’m not really good at technical speak – I don’t know time signatures, I don’t know key signatures – so that was the ongoing struggle with me and Aaron. We had to learn to communicate, and while we didn’t have a set goal of what exactly I was going to do, he knew generally that I wanted to figure out how to do arrangements.

Was there anything he’d suggested that initially didn’t feel right?

Well, when he first mentioned bringing horns in, I was definitely sketched out. I thought that would be weird – like, “I don’t know. I don’t think this song necessarily calls for a horn section.” But he did it in such a low-key way for “I’m Wrong,” that we tried horns in one or two other songs, even though I ended up not keeping them. [I think] I wasn’t sure whether or not it was going to sound like me. I didn’t want to be sappy, I didn’t want it to be classical or silly. So he’d help me describe, if I were to have strings, what I’d want. In the last song, “Joke or a Lie,” he really nailed what I wanted.

Was “We Are Fine,” with Beirut‘s Zach Condon, always meant to be a duet?

Definitely not. When we laid down the basic tracking of the song, I sat with it for a while and realized that the song was meant to be more of a conversation than a story – a friend talking to another friend going through a panic attack. I never thought I’d want to do a duet, but I it ended up making the song stronger.

Let’s talk about albums that ended up serving as inspiration – you’ve mentioned Patti Smith’s Horses.

She has such a distinct voice; she’s always singing in a way that’s almost spoken, real low and raspy but not overly fragile. Her performance is always really strong and emotional without it ever seeming overdone, and the band is also being aggressive without being messy.

You’ve also mentioned Radio Ethiopia, which is still a somewhat polarizing record.

“Pissing in the River” is one of the most incredible songs I’ve ever heard, and it’s about moving to New Yorktoo, which, by the time I heard it, was very meaningful to me. She wasn’t even really doing music at the time. Everyone encouraged her to do it while she was struggling to get by, but she wasn’t sure what she was there for. I read [Smith's memoir] Just Kids when I was working on the record, and I was actually subletting a place that was a block away from where she stayed with Robert Mapplethorpe. I couldn’t imagine what that neighborhood was like in the late ’60s, early ’70s – when she saw that chalk outline [of a dead body] on her front stoop.

Another one you talk about is John Cale’s Paris 1919.

I think it was really sentimental record. He’s at his most delicate and fragile and open – not trying to be a tough guy all the time. I think that’s really nice.

He seemed to be grappling with a lot – the aftermath of World War I and how he related to that.

And he ties it up into love songs, so in a way where more people could relate to it, I think. I don’t know that much about his back story, quite honestly. I need to get a book on John Cale.

What about [Cale's album] Fear?

I think that was much more a diverse record than Paris 1919. I don’t think I sound like him, and I don’t think I write like him, but I’ve had him in mind.

Because of the changes he made to his sound?

Yeah. His records always sound so different from the previous ones, but they’re also very Cale, if that makes any sense.

In what ways did PJ Harvey’s Rid of Me inspire Tramp?

I loved how direct she was and how badass she was. She’s really focusing on the vocals and being really loud on the guitar and keeping it super stripped down. That must have been some badass recording she’d done for that record. She gets aggressive, but it doesn’t feel staged. I just think it’s powerful.

What about Let England Shake?

I like that record, but she got some shit for it: about letting her travels influence her production and being a lot more experimental with her instrumentation, which she’s never done before – and singing differently, trying different scales, things like that.

I’m surprised The New Yorker didn’t like that record. It basically cited her history as a “punk rocker” and said she wasn’t using her guts, but I thought she did – just in a quieter way. Just because she’s not singing with her balls out and a Righteous Babe kind of aggression, about sex all the time, doesn’t mean she isn’t taking chances. I didn’t think that was fair.

In search of soulful, studio-polished redemption

Every aspect of Cody ChesnuTT’s 2002, 36-song debut – its four-track production, White Album-inspired spontaneity and cheeky lyrics about his dick – introduced the songwriter as a brash, arrogant virtuoso. But just as The Headphone Masterpiece gained notice, ChesnuTT disappeared. Why?

Turns out, he no longer stood by his Masterpiece. (“Even when I was performing [that album], my relationship with God was getting better and I began to feel the conflict…The mindset of the songs didn’t line up with the mind that I’m supposed to have,” he said to Believer.) So in Landing on a Hundred, a far leaner sophomore effort that took a decade to create, ChesnuTT leads a 10-piece band in search of soulful, studio-polished redemption. He often apologizes for his past behavior; in “Don’t Follow Me,” his titular pleas are like echoes bouncing off cave walls.

ChesnuTT’s also surveying a world that he once blissfully ignored. In the leisurely “Love is More Than a Wedding Day,” he dismisses the base materialism many people confuse as symbols of love – package honeymoons, summer cruises. On the scathing “Under the Spell of the Handout,” he sings “I’m hungry for freedom, but I don’t know how to eat that meal/ because I’m under the spell of the handout.” He expects more of others, just as he now expects more of himself.

As he wrote Landing, ChesnuTT studied songs by blues and gospel-trained singers – Billie Holiday and Sam Cooke. Its standout moment, though, is when ChesnuTT introduces his African-ancestry anthem “I’ve Been Life” with a single, transcendent, wordless “Ooooh.” He sounds strikingly like the Marvin Gaye of “Inner City Blues.” But more importantly, he sounds humbled.

File under: Plaintive songs of wandering and searching wrapped in the sound of '70s soul

For fans of: Otis Redding, Bill Withers, Donny Hathaway, Van Morrison

From: London

Before Michael Kiwanuka topped BBC’s Sound of 2012 poll and earned himself a thousand comparisons to Bill Withers, the singer-songwriter wanted to sound like Jimi Hendrix or The Band. He pined for a Fender Stratocaster, instrument of choice for both Hendrix and Robbie Robertson. However, things don’t always work out the way you plan them, and Kiwanuka ended up reaping the lion’s share of attention for an instrument he already had: his rounded, worn voice, which the BBC showcased beautifully via stripped-down, acoustic title track “Home Again.”

Kiwanuka has since outgrown the smaller clubs where he began, performing at major festivals like Bonnaroo and in front of U.S. crowds for the first time. He’s found that songs like “Home Again” do not always translate quite as well in open spaces. (“It can get kinda lost if you’re not careful,” he says.) However, he remains humbled and level-headed about these opportunities to perform as he’s come. “I always felt like slightly left of center from anything else that’s really going on,” he says. “I never thought my music would fit into something that’s mainstream, you know?”

eMusic’s Christina Lee spoke with Kiwanuka after a slew of festival gigs, about Home Again, the frequent comparisons to Bill Withers and the hazards of drinking beer with dinner.

On subtle influences that pops up in Home Again:

Roberta Flack’s first one — I really like that album. First Take really influenced me, at least in making this album. There’s a song on the album called “Always Waiting,” and the sound of that is kind of influenced by her first album. That’s one that’s not easy to get. The rest of the songs sound like some country songs, but the recording of it was largely influenced by Shuggie Otis and stuff like that.

A lot of what I like about [Flack's] albums is the sound. Her voice sounds amazing — this really, really lovely voice. And her songs are kind of this mixture of folk songs — I love how well those kind of songs are written — and soul music, hearing her voice with the band. You hear a little bit of jazz as well. Those are all the kinds of things that really influenced me as a teenager. Her album of kind of tied together all of those things that I really enjoy in music.

On earning the top slot on BBC’s Sound of 2012 list:

It’s encouraging. If you’re making music, you know you like the music. When people hear and like it, it encourages you to do it more. So it keeps you going. Like a pat on the back, it feels quite nice. Because you like the music yourself, but you never quite know if you’re doing the right thing until people hear it. That was definitely a great indicator. It was also encouraging because I always felt like slightly left of center from anything else that was really going on. So I thought to get on a list like that was quite encouraging. I never thought that my music would fit into something that’s mainstream, you know?

You know, as an artist as well, you always get pressured to sound like everyone else. So this kind allowed me to sort of, just, sound like myself. Because it was picked by the BBC, I guess that gave me a bit of breathing space. All’s well.

On his first guitar:

I remember it really well. It was called a Peavey Raptor. It was like a cheap version of the Fender Stratocaster, so we got it with a small amp called a Peavey 158 or something like that. So I could practice with that, too. Altogether, it was about £150, and my mom bought it for me at a small guitar shop called Rock Around the Clock, which is just down the road. I’ve actually had that for about two years. It was cool; I played it quite a bit. I was listening to the Band at the time, so I wanted a Fender guitar, but I couldn’t really afford that; it was too expensive. [My mom and I] went to the shop together, and so I just told her that this kind of guitar would be good.

On covering Bill Withers’s “I Don’t Know” at New York’s Highland Ballroom:

I’ve only ever covered that song when I played there; I’ve never covered any other Bill Withers songs. I remember that I was just listening to one of his albums and really liking that song. It kind of worked, and it was fun to sing. The Bill Withers [comparison] is kind of weird, because I don’t really listen to him that much. I love his music and the songs, but it’s kind of weird. I’m inspired by loads of other stuff, and I guess it’s my fault for covering one of his songs too, but I don’t think there’s that much on the album that sounds like Bill Withers. But, maybe it does, and I’m just not the best judge.

On the first time he heard the Band:

I was around 15. Basically age 14, 15 was a pretty cool year in terms of listening to music. So I had a friend who was just listening to all kinds of music, from new music to ’80s — and every style as well, everything from Prodigy to Bob Dylan. And I remember, I think we were going camping with his parents, and the song “The Weight” came on in the car. I think he was playing his CD, and I loved that song. I just really love the sound of “The Weight” — the way it feels, the way everyone was singing. It was kind of a rough recording as well, so you can tell it was, like, a band. I was trying to be in a band at that point, and that’s when I started listening to them as well.

On his ideal day off:

I’ll be off in August, so I’m trying to go to my friend’s house in Devon, which is in England. We’ll just kind of settle at his mom’s house, sit and listen to music, go for walks and play football, go to a pub — pretty chilled-out stuff. I love performing music and playing it, but I also just love hanging out when I’ve got time off. I just like conversation, and I like pubs.

On what he drinks:

I love beer, but it depends on what time, because it kind of bloats you. So if you have beer with dinner, you’ll feel about 10 pounds fatter than before because it just sits there. Usually I drink ales now, or some single-malt whiskey — drinks that are flat so you don’t feel bloated.

However, while secluded in upstate New York to write sixth studio effort Swing Lo Magellan, Longstreth pondered more elemental matters: his relationship with vocalist Amber Coffman and how this co-existed with an increasingly image-conscious society. With vocalist Angel Deradoorian on hiatus, the result was an effort that further streamlined the now-quintet’s intricate, R&B-leaning approach to foreground Longstreth’s concise and compassionate musings. The music — set to the band’s voices, hand claps and a sparse tangle of guitars — mirrors the lyrical intimacy.

eMusic’s Christina Lee spoke with Longstreth about the making of Swing Lo Magellan, the supposed duties of musicians, Ghostbusters, and why, in Longstreth’s words, “a half-finished room is a great place to write music.”

What’s the story behind the album cover art?

It was a day last winter, where this guy Gary was in the driveway of the house where we were recording the album. Amber and I went out to just kind of see what’s up, how he’s doing and what was going on. My brother, coincidentally, was upstate at the house with us that weekend — taking pictures of us engaged in cool-looking stuff like singing vocals into fancy microphones, playing the guitars and fiddling with amps — and he just happened to snap this incidental shot of Amber and I talking to this man. I missed it at the time, but I happened across the photograph months later.

What made you decide to rent that house in Delaware County in particular?

It was just a feeling when we found it. The house was built by bootleggers about 100 years ago, but then there were some local rumors about the feds coming up and busting all these bootlegger farms. Everybody got word and left in the middle of the night, and this house was pretty much left abandoned for much of the 20th century. It was brought in the mid ’80s by some downtown couple who thought they were gonna make it their country dream home. But they never finished it — they moved to northern New Jersey. So it’s a half-finished, half-abandoned home, a half-old bootlegger place with weird ’80s, ’90s Home Depot furnishing. Aspects of it were never finished. The seams between the floor and the walls in the dining room, for example, is just duct tape. But it turns out, a half-finished room is a great place to write music.

We did a lot of festival touring for Bitte Orca in 2010. When you’re flying in and flying out of places all over the world, it tends to leave you with all little chunks of time to where you don’t have anything planned but you can’t really get into any kind of rhythm at home. So Amber and I went on a couple of drives to upstate New York for trips, and we went through the Phonecias, Ashokens, Shandakens and Woodstock. All of those places are so cheesy, but we like Delaware County.

In your interview with SPIN, you mentioned that it felt inappropriate to make music as exuberant as that of Bitte Orca. Why did you feel that way?

Well, it’s a very different cultural moment than the summer of 2008 was. It felt like a different time than the beginning of a new decade. I don’t know if it’s good or bad but you know, you can look around and probably fill in some of the spaces I’m leaving for you.

Well, I was wondering if there was a particular news headline or event that struck you.

Yeah, you could imagine. Think about the summer of 2008 to the summer of 2012. Think about the world. I think that [Swing Lo Magellan] is a very personal record, but it’s a very timely record as well. It’s one that I think responds to this moment in the culture.

Mount Wittenberg Orca was made in collaboration with Housing Works [a New York-based non-profit benefiting impoverished, HIV-positive patients]. What are some other causes or societal issues you think deserve more attention?

There’s probably billions of worthy causes, but this is an album. The song “Irresponsible Tune” is a question about a society that basically expends its labor just making images of itself. We’re organized around a society of images where on a daily basis, we all have to sit around and make aesthetic decisions — how to represent this or that thing that we did, with a photo of a friend that we took, or what we liked the most. It’s super interesting, and that’s what I do as a musician as a songwriter — just sitting around, making images of myself and what I see. Sometimes that feel like a very strange way to spend one’s life at a time like this.

It looks like the font featured in the “Gun Has No Trigger” music video is the same as used on the Getty Address cover art.

No, that’s not true. The Getty Address font is one that I made up. It’s an imaginary font, just an abstraction of the Roman alphabet. You can read that font, or you can learn how to read it, but those are real characters — just really fucked-up ones. The “Gun Has No Trigger” karaoke video features Sumerian, which is inscribed with a stylus onto a clay tablet by the ancient Akkadians. I think it’s the first non-pictographic script in the world. I’ve always just loved that script — it’s beautiful — but it’s pretty playful to have a karaoke video in the ancient Akkadian [language] It’s really just a joke and a play on the idea as Dirty Projectors, as an idea of exploiting the creative potential of bad translation, misunderstanding. The title of the song can’t even be translated into the world’s oldest language.

What was on your mind when you wrote “The Socialities” and that line, “Who knows what my spirit is worth in cold hard cash?”

I have no idea. I don’t know what was on my mind. I was thinking about that moment in Ghostbusters when Louis is being chased by a Terror Dog and he ends up pinned to the glass of that incredibly fancy restaurant on Central Park West. He’s pressing his face up against the glass and looking at these diners out of insane desperation, and they’re momentarily disturbed. But then, when he gets mauled by the dog and pulled into the bushes out of sight, they immediately go back to their meet-up.

Whoa.

I know.

So wait, was that actually it?

No, no, no.

Can that now be the official explanation?

I just gave it to you!

Okay, okay.

Flaunting the progression of Rick Ross's label from burgeoning name to industry keystone

Self Made Vol. 2, the sequel to Maybach Music Group’s first compilation, flaunts the progression of Rick Ross’s label from a burgeoning name to an industry keystone. Label mates Meek Mill and Wale act as junior commanders throughout, their barked rhymes steering guests through the sinister, glinting melodrama of the summer-blockbuster production. The spit-shined rhymes of Dr. Dre protégé Kendrick Lamar twist hypnotically (“Power Circle”); Bun B’s coldly precise, machine-gun delivery terrifies in a verse about a pitiless manhunt (“Black on Black”).

Affiliate French Montana even fires some of the most potent punchlines (“Sell it on the Internet, call it Instagram”) — typically, Rozay’s job. Such delegation leaves the Maybach Music honcho free to pack unusual twists inside his worn kingpin script, sneaking in hoarse mentions of his child’s college tuition before he asserts, “My bitch bad, lookin’ like a bag of money.” So as everyone else piles victory-lap verses into Vol. 2, Rozay is its Stringer Bell — striving for legitimacy from another angle, looming increasingly larger behind the scenes.

File under: Understated observations of a middle-class present while time-traveling through generations of soul

For fans of: J Dilla, J.Cole, Rakim

From: Largo, Maryland

Personae: Amir Mohamed

Oddisee now lives in Brooklyn, but his solo rap debut references details of his Maryland upbringing, such as his hometownLargoand his Washington, D.C.-based crew Low Budget Collective. While the DMV (D.C.-Maryland-Virginia) tri-state area isn’t exactly known for its mass production of hip-hop greats, the half-Sudanese producer-emcee made himself known right where he was, as he churned out beats, lent raps to founding D.C. trio Diamond District and helped oversee independent hip-hop label Mello Music Group.

Oddisee still embraces the differences between his upbringing and that of his industry peers, his own music and the rest of what rap seems to offer. The story that runs through People Hear What They See, however, should read as familiar to everyone. Without raising his voice, Oddisee rhymes of fighting for his time, debating a career in politics, riding public transportation and even buying milk — an average existence that, given rap’s obsession with luxurious living, feels purposeful.

eMusic’s Christina Lee talked with Oddisee about his rap debut, his annual visits to his Sudanese roots and his favorite record of last year.

Why he references a Rick Ross hook on the record:

You know, I like to look at things from different perspectives, so I say, “I’m not a star, somebody lied/ I ride the subway as a car, I’m getting by.” I think normal people need to be okay with being normal, and I think that so few champion the average person. A lot of black music and urban music caters to the fantasy of Having. They cater to the fans who are Having, and they cater to the despair of Not Having, but no music is given to the people who are living and existing but who aren’t necessarily in despair. And, there isn’t a lot of music out there that caters to the fantasy of, “If I had, what would I do?” There’s no real responsible rap really; I think because it hasn’t been cool. It’s not cool to not have a car, you know? I don’t have a car. I haven’t had a car for a very long time. I cycle everywhere, and I think that’s great, you know? I want to make music that reflects that — says that’s okay, that you should place importance on other things.

How he spends his money:

I want time. Time is the most important thing to me, and money buys time. Money doesn’t buy material things. People would love for you to believe that, but at its essence, money buys time. If you want to spend that time going shopping, you can; if you want to spend that time doing anything, you can — if you have that money. So I want to live a life where the money I earn buys me the opportunity and the privilege to do what I want with my time. I want to continue waking up when I want to, eat what I want when I want to, go where I want when I want to. I want my time. I think every working-class person wants that time, because they’re reduced to only having life on the weekends. Most of us don’t get our time until we’re 65, and by that time you can’t even do the maximum of what you could with your time. My dad’s an immigrant to this country, and I would always tell him that he used to kill himself to make a living. He bought his time, but it took him longer than I want to take, which is why I’m lyrically conscious and money-driven at the same time, you know?

His first impressions of Sudan:

The first time I went I was six or seven years old, and I went every year after that, every summer after every school year. So, I would probably jump until I was around nine or 10, because that’s when I started to have my own individual thoughts and identity.

That’s around the age I started to realize I was okay with the duality of my life, and that in order to live in both places I had to be. Every summer I went to Sudan, I had to be okay with seeing extreme poverty, people without running water, children eating whatever remains you have on your plate. I would go back to the States and be in comfortable circumstances; I had to be okay with that. And I also had to be okay with knowing that my mother’s people from Washington, D.C. — a lot more privileged simply because they were born inAmerica— were also living in a city still up against them.

So I didn’t value a lot of the same things as my peers. I didn’t care about the latest Jordans. I didn’t care to be popular. I was never peer-pressured into doing anything, ever. I never drank, never smoked. I saw child soldiers in Sudan, so I didn’t fear gang culture or guys in school who claimed to be rough; it was almost a joke to me when I came back and started school. It definitely gave me a completely different perspective on the world. It taught me about the imbalance of the world, how unfair the world is.

But one of the biggest things that made that easier was how much happier people were, having only a fraction of what I had. They seemed much happier than me or any of my friends from the States, or any of my family, you know? In Sudan, true happiness comes from family and community. There’s no real room for arrogance. So I’m okay with a lot more than a lot of other people are. I sleep on the floor, no problem, when I go on tour. I don’t need a hotel, all kinds of things, because in the grand scheme of things I still have a roof over my head.

His favorite rapper from childhood:

Oh, I was a big Rakim fan, when I finally heard Rakim. He had such a conversational flow that wasn’t so animated. It was more about what he was saying versus how he was saying it, and I became really attracted to that. The use of jazz samples and the rhythms, I really enjoyed that too, coming from D.C., where we have go-go music. He just sounded like a regular person, and his flow is crazy, you know what I mean? It wasn’t necessarily about being the biggest, most animated rapper, you know?

His favorite record of 2011:

Feist’s Metals. I’m a fan of everything that she does, I think she’s an amazing singer-songwriter, but the dynamics of Metals — the mixing of it, the range, the way the vocals were EQed, how wonderfully dynamic the horn sections were, the strings — it was so epic and cinematic you know? It’s a beautiful record to listen to with headphones as well.

Why he tackles instrumental projects like Rock Creek Park:

I found myself at that point in my career, in that scenario where a person would come to me and say, “I love the track you did with such and such, and I’d like something similar.” I hate hearing those words. If you say those words I won’t work with you, you know? You probably never know the reason, but I’ll never work with you. Those [instrumental] records were so that my fanbase wouldn’t pigeonhole me. I want to make sure that people listen to me for everything, and for any playlist they can throw in some of my songs. They were like me saying, “These are some of the songs that I want to make that rappers won’t buy from me and won’t take from me. You don’t know that I can make them, because you don’t ever ask.”

What he does on his days off in D.C.:

I kind of have a routine every day that I’m here. I wake up in the morning, I go eat breakfast, and then I would ride my bike through Rock Creek Park and then around D.C., for no less than six or seven miles a day. I ride through Georgetown and I usually end up around New Hamp[shire Ave], right around the Capitol and the [National] Mall down there. Then I would come back up to Chinatown and then make my way to Adams Morgan, and then I stop at my favorite cafe in D.C., where I have a coffee and get something small to eat. Then I come back to the house, work on some music, and then after that just hang out in the streets, chill with my friends, catch a movie — anything. I keep it real low key.

File under: Shape-shifting soul that toys with throwback flourishes one moment, thrusts itself into anguished '90s balladry the next

For fans of: Mary J. Blige, Alicia Keys, Raphael Saadiq

From: Toronto

Melanie Fiona often plays the standby to someone who’s emotionally abandoned her — a lover who’s thrust herself completely into unrequited love. “I’d make the perfect wife,” she sings in “4 a.m.,” a tortured torch ballad about waiting for her man to come home, featuring little more than synths dripping faintly, like a leaking faucet.

But, as a soul singer who’s flirted with reggae backbeats, then won two Grammys for a duet with Cee-Lo Green (“Fool For You” won Best R&B Song and Best Traditional R&B Performance), Fiona actually enjoys flirting — with genres, anyway. “I wanted to keep the versatility that I come with, to be able to flip my look and flip my style up whenever I want to,” she says, of her recent decision to sign with RocNation.

So throughout The MF Life, Fiona shifts from soaring arena sing-alongs to funky kiss-offs without hesitation, thanks to a wide range of producers (including Salaam Remi, Andrea Martin and No I.D.) and complementary collaborators (Nas, John Legend, fellow signee J. Cole). eMusic’s Christina Lee talked with Fiona about The MF Life, Sade and standing up for herself.

On why she now calls her music “stadium soul”:

Think big. Think world arenas. Think loud acoustics, soulful drums and soulful voices. Just sonically, it’s a big-sounding album, but, in true fashion, it’s about highs and lows. There are very full songs in this album, and then there are quieter songs as well. It can be more intimate but still feel full. And truth be told, I got spoiled on tour. I loved hearing my songs in big arenas, and I just got used to it. So when I got off tour, that was just the state that I was in. I wanted these songs to be full. I wanted it to be bigger than The Bridge.

On the most nervous she’s ever been:

I was in L.A. for a private event with Debra Lee, the chairman of BET. We all sat at her table, and across from me sat Prince — so I’m already shook because Prince is sitting in front of me. But the time comes for me to perform. I go backstage to get myself together. I’m terrified. My manager comes and asks me what’s wrong. I said, “Oh my god, Prince is out there. Oh my god, I’m so nervous. I’m about to perform in front of musical royalty right now. This is insane. What if I’m not good enough? What if I suck?” She just looked at me and goes, “You don’t suck, so you have nothing to worry about.” I said, “But what if I suck today? I can’t suck today. Prince is out there.” And she said, “You don’t suck, and Prince is going to see that. You’re going to be fine. Just go out there and do what you do. It’s not about who’s out there — it’s about you.” Prince came up to me afterward, and he just shook my hand and said, “I had no idea.” That’s what he said!

On how she empowers herself:

I normally go to the place of being a woman, really, and what it takes for a woman to feel empowered. That’s a real big focus for me — owning your confidence, owning your sexiness, having people trying to tell you “no” for being a woman a lot and able to stand up and say “yes,” [as in] I’m going to stand up and fight for what I believe in. I think of Sade, who is sexy, strong, beautiful and intelligent. When I think about the fans out there who have supported me through my music, I think about the things that I want to get through to them.

I’ve experienced people telling me, “Oh, you may want to take off some clothes.” “You might want to be sexier.” “You might want to dress ‘sexier’ aka more scandalous.” I have no problem speaking to any stylist and saying “no.” I have no problems telling an executive “no,” photographers “no.” Truthfully I haven’t done anything that didn’t feel comfortable doing, that I’m going to feel tormented or scrutinized over. I’d rather be criticized for doing something I believe in and feel comfortable doing, than something I know I’m not comfortable doing. So I’ve definitely had to put my foot down and say, “I’m not comfortable doing that. What’s the compromise here?”

On what “MF” stands for, maybe:

I had a ring I used to wear that just said MF on it, and everyone was like “Oh my god, your initials are MF. That’s so dangerous.” I was like, “Are you serious?” Then I realized where people’s minds were going. From the first album to the second album, I experienced a lot of triumphant moments, a lot of slumping moment, a lot of ups and downs. So “MF” became “The Magnificent Fantastic Life” at the top, and at the bottom it’s like, “Oh, don’t you hate that? He is such a motherfucker.” I kept it really ambiguous so that people could develop their own interpretations, decide what MF stood for. It just worked out, and it was my greatest lesson in terms of moving from the first to the second album — that life is full of ups and downs, and you have to find the balance in between.

The one thing I wanted to get across to everybody is, I want to encourage people to live their MF Life every day, whatever MF is.

The days of the well-behaved pop star are over

First came Taylor Swift’s bashful on-air recitation of “Super Bass.” Then, there was the snapshot of her in a front-row Fashion Week seat next to Anna Wintour. Both items told the same story: In the wake of her debut full-length Pink Friday, Nicki Minaj had become a verifiable crossover sensation. That didn’t come without a bit of prudent self-editing: On mixtapes and in guest spots, she was prone to launching into manic conversations with her alter egos, the back-and-forth insanity often escalating into literal screaming matches with herself. She dialed much of that back on Pink Friday, a prim and proper hybrid of pop and rap, but on Roman Reloaded, Minaj turns her id loose again, squealing with childlike glee and chattering through a string of manic snap raps. In “Pound the Alarm,” her steely, commanding verse sets off an avalanche of what sounds like every LMFAO breakdown, ever. And for just a few seconds of “Come on a Cone,” she pauses from rattling on a dizzying list of career highs to warble, “Put my dick in your face.” Minaj leaps from devil-may-care smack talk (the careening “HOV Lane,” the yelping “Stupid Hoe”) to Europop hooks she could have pawned to Rihanna, if she wasn’t using them herself (“Automatic,” “Beautiful Sinner”). The days of Minaj the well-behaved pop star are over. On Roman Reloaded, she’s playing fast and loose.

Days before she left to promote her third international release, Nneka visited the protests in Lagos. Though she wrote Soul Is Heavy before the unrest began, the album still resonates; for much of it, Nneka is both singing prayers for and rapping her criticisms of Nigeria. Boasting guest spots from Ms. Dynamite, Talib Kweli and the Roots’ Black Thought, Soul Is Heavy leaps from gracious thanks (“Shining Star”) to anguished cries (“Restless”) to steely name-calling (the Kuti-inspired “V.I.P.”) – proof positive that she wondered her efforts would ever yield results, and if her fellow countrymen would ever see justice. “I feel sometimes as if Jah is playing chess with us,” she said.

eMusic’s Christina Lee talked with Nneka about what she witnessed of Occupy Nigeria and why she and her touring band were nearly arrested two years ago.

What inspired Soul is Heavy ‘s title track?

Obviously, I am not the voice of myself alone – I am the voice of many, and when I try to tackle these things, I’ve tried to understand what our history has led us to, our purpose. So “Soul is Heavy” was inspired by different events that have happened in my life, as well in the history of Nigeria. I mention Jaja of Opobo. I mention Isaac Boro, Ken Saro Wiwa. I have tackled issues of corruption, religious oppression, conflict. We mention these issues to be able to deliver a solution, tackling a revolution as Africans, as human beings. I mention the United States as well; with that connection between the Western world and Africa, what we need is togetherness. The idea of that song is unity.

You also say that you don’t know how much pain it takes before we start to work for an answer.

Maybe we were born without understanding what the limit of pain is. Religion always talks about how pain is the power of creation. You don’t have to go that far to be united or to fight against the system. Occupy Nigeria happened in my lifetime, with people together regardless of tribes and class, together in one place, having one voice – and that is exactly what we need. We need that togetherness. We need to stop the tribalism, religious conflict and the abuse, abusing ourselves, and give each other the blame or the responsibility for our particular condition, you know? I think that is something positive about this movement.

What was it like to navigate the protests?

It was a very peaceful demonstration, probably about 5,000 people, and every day it became bigger. The movement is not the problem; the problem is corruption. We do not trust the government. The money that’s going to be saved from moving the oil subsidies, [Nigerians] feel is supposed to go to other sectors: the health sector, the education sector. This has been said many times before, and we cannot believe this has not been fulfilled.

International news sources have taken notice of how Nigerian musicians have taken a stance while bearing Fela Kuti’s influence, yourself included.

I think the global reaction has also evolved. What’s happened in the past as well as here in the United States has also had an impact on us. The name “Occupy” – that’s something that I just found out today started in the United States. So I want to take an example of what is happening around and having an influence on us. We’re in a place right now where people are tired of living in fear, frustration and oppression. We are tired of people not speaking, and the voice of many, together, is the voice of power, the voice of God.

What are your goals for ROPE, the youth arts organization you co-founded last year?
We’re doing a couple of workshops in East Africa, and we’ve started the American promotion tour. We are going to communities and teaching, and I’m identifying income to help support [students] in the long term. I think education’s one of the biggest problems of Africa, and in the long term we’re providing scholarships and figuring out how students can contribute to his or her society by means of what he or she learns in full. We’re using the arts to assist and make it easier for us to access these communities, but I’m also trying to provide scholarships for other places aside from art – like biology or medicine, something where you can give back in a strong way. I mean, music is strong and art is strong, but you know what I mean.

You’ve said that you never intended to be a singer-songwriter. Does this lifestyle feel more purposeful to you now?

For now, the only thing I can do is do my music and have ROPE and try as much as possible to do what I can do, but it’s not as effective as I want it to be. I need to give more time. I want to give more, and I want to be more practical. I don’t like it when people do stuff for me, because I feel like I’m not doing anything at all; I have to dirty my hands and be involved. I think I need to take myself away for a little while, maybe for a couple of months – just stop touring and get away from being the center of attraction and live my life. I want to reconnect to myself and also re-educate myself. It’s been a while since I had classes and I’ve had to sit down and fail an exam – just fail. I want to listen. I don’t want to always be listened to, because I’ve been talking so much. I feel like I have nothing more to say, because I feel like everything’s been said, you know what I mean? I’m always trying to educate myself, to be able to put more energy into the foundation and to bring more life into my music. But for me to be able to connect with people, I have to go back into myself. I want to be personally involved. I don’t want to be this kind of delegate for other people. Maybe I need support, but I need to do to the work. I need a team to be as passionate as I am about issues, educating, politics and speaking out your mind, where we know how much we sweat.

Can you tell me more about the concert at [Nigeria's] Port Harcourt and how the police tried to interfere?

It was at the Niger Delta Peace Concert. The Niger Delta is an oil-rich area of Nigeria, and so the people have experienced a lot of turmoil caused by the exploitation in those parts of the country, due to oil extraction companies such as Shell. You have oil spillage, gas spillage, and people who are left to live in those disastrous conditions, so [the concert] was about cleaning up the delta and addressing the government and those companies.

We had these international acts as well as Nigerian acts, and I felt that most the acts weren’t really addressing the issues of the Niger Delta. This song I wrote called “V.I.P.” (“Vagabond in Power”) is a song inspired by Fela, Femi and Seun Kuti. Fortunately for me, it was the last song of my set, so I had a small part of the song left before police came on stage. They wanted to shut my entire the rest of my performance down, because of the message I was giving out to the people. This is a song that I bring and involve the audience in, and I make them sing and repeat what I’m saying. Singing in an open-air concert, singing, “Vagabonds in power” – it was very intense, very strong, very spiritual performance. They had already arrested my manager backstage, so we had to flee.

So if you could describe Soul is Heavy in its entirety, what would you say?

I would say it’s very simple, and it’s conscious. Music-wise, obviously I would say it’s a mix of African and contemporary elements with a blend of funk, Afrobeat as well as soul and hip-hop. The soul is heavy, the soul is tired of keeping things inside. I have to cry out, and that’s the only way I can do that – by not making my cry not sound too harsh, through music.

A jarring reflection of today's unrest

Soul Is Heavy, Nneka’s third international album, contains one word that embodies pure apathy. “Where is love?” Nneka asks, “Is it God?” Then she answers her own question: “Whatever.”

For eight years Nneka has rapped, sang and toured on behalf of Nigerian citizens like herself, who often live without health care and education. In Soul Is Heavy, she levies a few wry criticisms. The album’s catchiest chant has Nneka throatily spelling out what she thinks “V.I.P.” really means: “Vagabond in Power.” “God Knows Why,” featuring Black Thought of the Roots, may start with an organ melody fit for a carousel, but then a voice resembling Barack Obama’s announces, “We civilize freedom ’til no one is free/ no one except, by coincidence, me.”

Throughout, Nneka’s voice rises and falls and breaks in moments of anger, defeat and, yes, apathy – reflecting a tired and torn patriotism. “J” is a serene piano prayer basking in Jah’s presence; “Do You Love Me Now?” is a grateful acoustic ballad – at least until her voice shivers while singing the last word: “control.” Soul Is Heavy may be inspired by Nigeria’s suffering, but thanks to Nneka’s vocal leaps and bounds, it’s a jarring reflection of today’s greater unrest – global and personal.

Looking cautiously from the high-rise

How I Got Over‘s title track begins with a determined drum-and-bongo shuffle, ideal for navigating grocery store aisles, city traffic or even a flooding inbox. But then the Roots plunge into what they’re actually thinking: “We’re so young and all alone/ We ain’t even old enough to realize we’re on our own.” The Roots are still looking out cautiously from the high-rise — getting their hopes up, albeit cautiously, as they watched Barack Obama’s popularity rise in the polls. In its Monsters of Folk revamp “Dear God 2.0,” the Roots step back as Yim Yames’s voice breaks and wavers, only for ?uestlove and Black Thought to forcefully repair his resigned prayer. Radio frequencies land scuff up keyboard notes that peek out from beneath Phonte’s distressed proclamation, “I gotta get my shit together/ it’s now or never,” Even “The Fire” breaks the illuminating John Legend’s belting into a series of staggered calls, sounding like protest chants hollered through a megaphone. In a heartbreaking turn, Black Thought confesses how much he’s cried even on his best days. He’s never sounded so openly resigned.

A straightforward, lyrically-driven return to hip-hop aimed at the mainstream

Diehard Roots fans cried foul when Black Thought mumbled nonsensically in the hook of The Tipping Point‘s lead single, something ?uestlove didn’t even expect. (“Roots diehards should be used to this zaniness,” he wrote in its liner notes.) But as a front-to-back listen makes clear, their first and last effort for Interscope is a straightforward, lyrically-driven return to hip-hop as the Roots once knew it — aimed directly at the mainstream. Introduction “Star/Pointro” allows its samples of Sly and Family Stone hit “Everybody is a Star” to take shape in between Black Thought’s observations on the current hip-hop climate (“‘Young brothers on the grind/ holding something in they spine/ Bowling for Columbine“). “Boom!” is a pounding, merciless three-minute rumble that laces the lyrics from Kool G. Rap’s “Poison” over ?uestlove’s ammunition belt of garbage-can clanging. And, stripped to little more than a drum beat and lyrical zingers, “Web” is a nonchalant reminder of when the band was just a streetside duo catering to Philadelphia passers-by, studying the same influences ?uestlove lists in The Tipping Point‘s liners: the Pharcyde’s “For Better or for Worse,” Tuff Crew’s “She Rides the Pony” and De La Soul.

A sobering report of The Roots' hometown

Sustained Morse code notes fade in and out before Black Thought buzzes in, rattling off a minute-long eyewitness account of a neighborhood shooting. The Roots may have signed to Geffen, but instead of celebrating its newfound success, illadelph halflife has the Roots filing a sobering, 20-song report of its hometown, drug-fueled warfare, and reveling in its own narrow escape. Parts of illadelph is the Roots reaching a compromise between what ’90s-rap listeners wanted to hear and what the band wanted to deliver; most notably, in hopes of mimicking the increasingly-popular MPC, ?uestlove’s sanded down his snare beats to mind-numbing monotony. In comparison, other parts of illadelph quiver. A piano shivers uncontrollably as Black Thought challenges competition in “Respond/React,” before operatic moans heighten the strings-driven tension in “Concerto of the Desperado.” The emotionally removed beats, the fearful rest — it all collides to devastating effect on Black Thought, who’s capable of counting his cousins among other losses to Philadelphia gunfire without losing a beat. He’s a detached reporter, even when he touts his own lyrical annihilation. “Used to rap for sport/ Now the rhymes sayin’ rent, paying life support,” he says, as matter-of-fact as he could muster.

More commercial attention than they've ever received

In February 2000, the Roots won their first and only Grammy for “You Got Me,” the lead single from fourth studio effort Things Fall Apart. In its chorus, Erykah Badu sings as if she’s already lost hope in her tour-diary romance; remorse breaks her words into two. But Things‘ Grammy-winning single barely indicates just how much the Roots had learned to illustrate the hip-hop stories they’d grown so adept in telling — tales of a pained, conscious existence rather than a drugged-up one, orchestrated by mellowed-out arrangements far more nuanced than even Badu’s masterful aching. In “Table of Contents (Parts 1 & 2),” ?uestlove’s cymbals whirr as if being sucked into a vacuum cleaner as Black Thought ricochets across his retelling of the band’s origins in South Philadelphia. A playful tit-for-tat with Mos Def (“Double Trouble”) simmers and pops around gently pulsing chimes. Scott Storch’s fingers listlessly drag their way through a keyboard melody over which a fraught Black Thought cries: “Building his fifth foundation in the wilderness/ thoughtless, trespassing into the Thought’s fortress.” “You Got Me” helped the Roots sell more than 900,000 copies of Things Fall Apart — more commercial attention than the Philadelphia band’s ever received before. But as soon as the Grammy-winning single thrust the Roots into mainstream airwaves, the band decided to stray as far from Top 40 territory as possible. The result? The genre-bending Phrenology.

A purposeful commercial failure

After the Roots won their first Grammy in February 2000, the Philadelphia band dissected its formula for award-winning pop balladry — and nearly destroyed it — with Phrenology. As bait, the Roots cast plenty of hooks; “Thought @ Work” has the Roots revamping the Incredible Bongo Band’s incredibly recognizable “Apache,” and at the start of “Rolling with Heat,” ?uestlove’s introductory beats nods toward Orange Crush’s “Action.” Black Thought’s flow and guest vocalist Cody ChestnuTT’s crooning meld together perfectly in Phrenology‘s first single (the threadbare jam “The Seed 2.0″) and the resulting combination’s as complementary as chocolate and sea salt. But Phrenology‘s strongest cuts are its left turns, acts of defiance against both hip-hop and R&B conventions. “Rock You” has Black Thought rocking not to a crisp boom-bap beat, but what sounds like an endless locker slam, punctuated by whizzing, bouncing racquetballs. Interlude “!!!!!!!” throws a punked-out fit. And with three flicks of a lighter, the 10-minute “Water” slips into a murky wilderness anchored only by a throbbing heartbeat before taking a nosedive into shrieking chaos. Because of these cross-genre stabs, Phrenology was a commercial failure compared to Billboard 200 contender Things Fall Apart, which, in some ways, is what the Roots wanted. After all, as ChestnuTT sings in “The Seed 2.0″: “If I drop my baby girl tonight/ I’ma name her Rock ‘N’ Roll.”

A headliner-length setlist from a budding opener

In November 1995, Malik B stepped off a bus in Düsseldorf, Germany, abandoning the rest of the Roots in the middle of a European tour. Geffen had just signed them to a seven-figure contract, which prompted the Philadelphia band to crank out Do You Want More?!!!??!, a headliner-length setlist from a budding opener. Among persistent chatter, a nonchalant soundcheck evolves into a full-blown jam in five minutes — a polished skit The Roots had perfected since Organix. The group goes in on infectious choruses like pre-game hurdles. They also introduced another new member: beatboxer Rahzel the Godfather of Noyze, whose agile spitting style crashes like ?uestlove’s cymbals and crackles like Rice Krispies in milk. All of this made More precisely that — spit-shined proof that the Roots were ready to take on the world, even if Malik B wasn’t.

The first glimpse of The Roots

Organix offered the first glimpse of how the Roots’ blend of limber rhythms and deft rhymes could seduce coffee shop and dive bar patrons alike, launching a bidding war among six record labels. Black Thought and emcee Malik B often passed the mic back and forth over nothing more than ?uestlove’s crackling snares and a tiptoeing bass line, urging listeners to sink into their seats as the band refuses to take itself too seriously. Interlude “There’s a Riot Goin’ On” is actually 13 seconds of rude snoring. Black Thought slurs his catchiest call-and-response chorus (“Essawhamah?”), and drummer ?uestlove and keyboardist Scott Storch match his nonsensical spitting note for note. The Roots only crank up the volume on a seemingly aimless spoken word, as a bassline and cymbals jitter in anticipation before Black Thought eases up with the punchline: “Damn! I missed my spot — Writer’s Block.”

Reverting to a familiar narrative, but with a distinctly somber tone

No Mercy, T.I.’s last studio album, was a pop-star-studded affair, a far cry from the rapper’s earlier Rubber Band Man Days. On his recent mixtape Fuck Da City Up, however, he stomped and sneered like vintage T.I.P. amid 808s of Rick Rossian proportions. His eighth album Trouble Man: Heavy is the Head, splits the difference: T.I. reverts to a familiar narrative of inner turmoil about his trap rap reign, but with a distinctly somber tone: “In my city that’s the way we ride,” he broods, as if recalling harder times before “What U Kno.”

True to post-King, Chelsea Handler-guest form, Tip can’t help but boast of his VH1 reality show. He brushes off critics in “Sorry” (featuring a Capitol One-quoting “What’s in your wallet?” crack) as much as he does in the cruising “Hello” (“Showing haters the taillights of my two-seaters”). But as Heavy ends, T.I. stops skirting past his high-profile shortcomings. In grandiose closer “Hallelujah,” he recalls how much he missed his wife during his most recent prison sentence: “I reach out for Tameka’s hand/ I’m trippin’ because she missing.”

Heavy‘s best parts, though, are more about recalibration than atonement. DJ Toomp, who helped launch T.I> into the stratosphere on “What U Kno,” dials back his signature triumphal fanfare for “Who Wants Some,” and in “Trap Back Jumpin’,” T.I.’s staccato verses prove that he can navigate I’m Serious territory like it’s his childhood home. One of Tip’s verses on “G Season” may as well be a thesis statement: “It might sound wild, but it’s all I know.”