Beat Drop: J Dilla.
People didn’t wear t-shirts that read J Dilla Changed My Life back when James Yancey was alive. It wasn’t because he hadn’t changed people’s lives back when he was alive — it was because it took his death for most of us to realize it.
Some may take the opposite approach and chastise those who spent more time paying homage to Dilla on the day of his passing than they had in the 10+ years that Dilla spent building one of the most thorough hip-hop-producer discographies ever. I was listening to Phat Kat’s last album Carte Blanche the other day (mind the shameless plug, but DJ01 interviewed Kat last year), and on the track “True Story, Pt. 2”, a phone call interlude features someone talking about how it took Dilla to die for radio stations to finally play his music, and how the program directors didn’t even know what tracks he produced. Jadakiss once said “Dead rappers get better promotion”, and the adage seems to apply to rapper/producers as well.
I’m proud to say that I didn’t need to hear about Dilla’s death to know about and appreciate his catalog. I was a fan of his work since back when he was simply “Jay Dee”, before he switched his alias to “J Dilla” to avoid confusion with Jermaine Dupri. (Even though it likely wasn’t Dupri’s fault that this confusion existed, I’ve disliked Dupri ever since — although, I’m sure, like most of y’all, I can’t isolate a single moment that made me dislike Jermaine Dupri, it’s kind of just a culmination of a lot of things.) Despite this, if you asked me at any time prior to February 10, 2006 if Dilla was the best producer of all time, I probably would’ve responded, “Maybe top 5.” And, if you asked me whether Dilla changed my life, I probably would’ve asked you if you were high… and then I probably would’ve asked you who your supplier was. I was a bit of a different person 2 years ago.
I believe that people don’t truly change your life until your life has gone on for some time without them — only then do you realize the difference that they made on you. That’s probably why the usual names that come up in the hip-hop-nerd-universe’s “greatest producer of all-time” debate are guys like Primo and Pete Rock and RZA. We, as listeners, got to know Primo as one-half of Gang Starr — the fact that Gang Starr doesn’t record anymore certainly adds to Primo’s legacy. We got to know Pete Rock for his work with C.L. Smooth, and we all know how their reunion plans went (see: “nowhere”). We got to know RZA through his work with the Wu, who have all branched out to an extent with their respective solo careers (though willing to put aside some time to reunite every few years and make an album that most of ’em will then talk shit about in the press). We praise these producers not only because they make great fucking music, but because the music that we praise them for most likely won’t get made again.
When you look at J Dilla’s discography, though, you don’t see that one artist or group that defined his body of work. You don’t see that big name that just sort of stopped working with Dilla over time — I wouldn’t count A Tribe Called Quest and The Pharcyde under this classification, as they each broke up on their own. And though Dilla bounced from Slum Village after Fantastic, Vol. 2, he still contributed to their most of their future albums, though to a much lesser extent. Dilla worked with Busta Rhymes. Common. De La Soul. There was Champion Sound with Madlib. His other work with Stones Throw. Work with local Detroit artists like Frank-N-Dank, Phat Kat and Guilty Simpson. Welcome 2 Detroit. Ruff Draft. Donuts, The Shining, and all of his posthumous production credits, of which he sadly can’t see the final results.
There was never really a period of time where Dilla wasn’t contributing something meaningful to hip-hop. Maybe that’s why his limitless contributions to hip-hop may have been “overlooked” during his lifetime, or “taken for granted,” if you may. And maybe that’s why the fact that his health was slowly deteriorating as a result of lupus caught everyone by surprise, when those pictures of a sickly-looking, wheelchair-bound Dilla on stage in Europe popped up on the internet months before his eventual death.
Dilla was putting the finishing touches on Donuts from his hospital bed — his dedication to his work was why there was never that period of time where he wasn’t contributing to hip-hop, and why, even 2 years after his passing, that period of time still hasn’t arrived just yet. If we could all have half of the drive and inspiration that J Dilla possessed, we might just be OK after all.
If you were to ask me today whether J Dilla changed my life… well, I think I’m still too stubborn to say something like that (let alone announce it to the world via a t-shirt). But, I know that one day, probably in the very near future, an album is going to come out which includes a J Dilla beat (perhaps the elusive Cuban Linx II?)… and that J Dilla beat will be the last J Dilla beat ever. When that fact hits me square in the face, and I realize it, then I’ll be able tell you that, yes, J Dilla did change my life. Might even cop me that t-shirt, too.
R.I.P. James Dewitt Yancey (2/7/94 – 2/10/06). To echo the sentiments of everyone that contributed to this touching tribute over at Prefix Magazine back in ’06, we miss you, J, and we’ll never forget you.
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