Ready to Rock
San Quinn attempts to bring the spotlight back to the streets of the Fillmore
By Krishtine de Leon
› a&[email protected]
At the relatively youthful age of 28, local rapper San Quinn is a bona fide veteran of the Bay Area rap game. There's something about the fervent way he speaks that is hauntingly reminiscent of a young Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., careful to avoid the Negro Please–isms, such as Cam'ron's remark that equated a botched Lamborghini carjacking with a Malcolm X assassination attempt. Meeting me across the street from the Page Street projects where he used to hang as a youngster, Quinn is accompanied by his eight-year-old son, Lil' Quinn, who wonders why he can't come to the clubs to help promote his father's new album. "But why can't you have parties at the house, Dad?" he asks.
Pops gives me a knowing look and assures his son, "You ain't missin' nothing."
Things in the Western Addition have changed since the family of Quincy Adam Brooks IV relocated from Vicksburg, Miss., 63 years ago in search of greener pastures. Oppressive heat and degrading work conditions were traded for a bustling district saturated with cultural ambition. One of the few areas left standing after the 1906 earthquake, the Fillmore district became an epicenter for jazz in the '40s and one of San Francisco's largest African American neighborhoods up until the '60s. Beginning Feb. 7 the mighty San Quinn hopes to take the Fillmore back to the days when the hood made major contributions to urban culture, with the release of his seventh album, The Rock: Pressure Makes Diamonds (Done Deal Entertainment).
Crack and dope raps — rather than heroin and horns — inundated the streets between Octavia and Baker when the young Quinn first touched the microphone. Illegal dice games replaced old-fashioned gambling houses, and the music evolved emotionally from melancholy to militancy. "When I was young, I knew I was gonna be somebody famous," remembers Quinn, who was barely a teenager when he fulfilled his own prophecy.
"NO PUNKS"
In 1992, Quinn recorded "Frisco Niggaz Ain't No Punks" with JT the Bigga Figga and, as word on the street had, went on to enter The Guinness Book of World Records as the youngest rapper with the most album appearance — around 150, Quinn says — before the age of 21. A monumental feat for a young black man, considering how challenging it was to have studio access in the early '90s — Quinn made it look effortless.
Eric Akiyama, 32, a fourth-generation Japanese American in the Fillmore, remembers first hearing Quinn on a tape with JT. "Quinn was a young cat, but his voice was so mature," Akiyama recalls. "There are artists that talk, and there are artists that you understand clearly the first time, and he was one of those artists."
Even at that budding stage, San Quinn's voice wavered unapologetically with emotion, carrying on a familial love for the word that's almost devout. "My mother loved to read, and my great-grandfather memorized the whole dictionary," Quinn explains. "I always tripped off rap and how it was just words that rhyme to a beat, but it was a way that you can be a star and make money." For most Fillmore residents, it was one of the only ways to make it out of the hood besides slangin' rock or having a wicked jump shot.
Fashioning his approach after Big Daddy Kane's smooth but punishing style, Quinn became the epitome of pimpish offspring in the Moe, as locals affectionately call the district. The youngest rapper to rhyme with the Get Low Playaz and RBL Posse, Quinn wasted no time releasing one LP after another: Don't Cross Me (Get Low, 1993), Live N Direct (Priority, 1995), The Hustle Continues (Priority, 1996), Messy Marv and Quinn's Explosive Mode (Priority/Explosive Mode, 1998), The Mighty Quinn (Champeli Entertainment, 2001), I Give You My Word (Done Deal, 2004), and lucky number seven, The Rock.
After almost a decade and a half of consistent creativity, Quinn kicks enough wisdom to teach young whippersnappers a thing or two. "Back in the days, there wasn't as many people in the rap game," he says. "It was hard to get money and still worry about bootleggers. Now for youngsters, they put in two or three years of work and think that they got the key. You don't even have a core fan base. You got to get plugged in through someone in the Bay." An example of success in a neighborhood in the throes of both poverty and gentrification, Quinn takes personal responsibility to fill the Bay's ranks with young rappers: Ya Boy, Big Rich, and Bailey. Quinn's cousins and a little brother, respectively, they represent a new generation of rappers hungry for the return of the spotlight to the Bay.
"Every little brother wants to be like his big bro, especially if they didn't have a father," Bailey says. "He made it easier for me, but also made sure I dotted my i's and crossed my t's." Adamant in keeping his younger relatives out of trouble, Quinn says his involvement allows them to bypass the studio guns and plates of cocaine that some of his former executives flashed as symbols of success in the streets. "I ain't ever passed them no weed, no pills, no nothing," Quinn reveals.
Ya Boy says Quinn is "so humble, sometimes it made you mad because he let other dudes go on. He'd go to the show, and the whole block wanna come, and he'll let everyone in after capacity."
LOVE FOR THE HOOD
That love for the streets, even on a local level, became a beacon of light in the Moe. "He was the hero of the hood," Big Rich says. "Quinn is one of the only artists in the Bay that gets respect from all types of genres, from gangsta, hyphy, and backpackers. He brings a different element to the table, and it might be gangsta music, but he got a message," says Fillmore Mike, another extended family member invested in Quinn's success.
"Look what I done for them / Nothin' but love for them / Busted my guns for them / Stayed in the slums for them / Been on the run with them / Been in the light with them / Struggle and fight for them / Risking my life for them" goes the hook to "Look What I've Done for Them," on Quinn's new album, a poignant reminder of his dedication to uplift his neighborhood. The rapper has sold his share of records independently — more than 14,000 copies of his last album — and enough to maintain a comfortable lifestyle. But it's not enough to showcase the true potential of his leadership in the hip-hop industry — and community. "Eventually I want to talk to Mayor Gavin Newsom, so me and him can get this straight, because hip-hop economically can change San Francisco," Quinn says.
The key, he continues, is for the city to match his personal investment in the community. "I'm losing black life around me in San Francisco," the rapper explains. "Everybody that is lost in this concrete jungle is a soldier that would be rollin' with Quinn, 'cause I can figure out a way to feed that man."
As for his own success, a lack of visual-media representation is hurting his career the most — a common problem local artists share. "I'm challenging myself to be a better businessman and attack it with dignity and prestige, because this is a product that you're missing out on that's making money," Quinn says.
Walking back across the street alongside Lil' Quincy, San Quinn says hello to passing residents, some aware of his star power and some oblivious to the time of day. With no entourage or stretch limo, he now sees the neighborhood through the eyes of his son: optimistically, yet instinctively aware of the sacrifices it took to come full circle.
This is the year of the mighty San Quinn's return, the same year redevelopment checks expire for those driven out of this historical neighborhood. Instead of sweeping problems under the rug, Quinn wishes to reintroduce Fillmore music to the world and be taken with absolute seriousness. With his army behind him, the commander in chief is ready to create a hood renaissance impressive enough to share with his growing family. "I want the Bay to sing with me," he says, "and I want the world to sing with us." *
San Quinn attempts to bring the spotlight back to the streets of the Fillmore
By Krishtine de Leon
› a&[email protected]
At the relatively youthful age of 28, local rapper San Quinn is a bona fide veteran of the Bay Area rap game. There's something about the fervent way he speaks that is hauntingly reminiscent of a young Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., careful to avoid the Negro Please–isms, such as Cam'ron's remark that equated a botched Lamborghini carjacking with a Malcolm X assassination attempt. Meeting me across the street from the Page Street projects where he used to hang as a youngster, Quinn is accompanied by his eight-year-old son, Lil' Quinn, who wonders why he can't come to the clubs to help promote his father's new album. "But why can't you have parties at the house, Dad?" he asks.
Pops gives me a knowing look and assures his son, "You ain't missin' nothing."
Things in the Western Addition have changed since the family of Quincy Adam Brooks IV relocated from Vicksburg, Miss., 63 years ago in search of greener pastures. Oppressive heat and degrading work conditions were traded for a bustling district saturated with cultural ambition. One of the few areas left standing after the 1906 earthquake, the Fillmore district became an epicenter for jazz in the '40s and one of San Francisco's largest African American neighborhoods up until the '60s. Beginning Feb. 7 the mighty San Quinn hopes to take the Fillmore back to the days when the hood made major contributions to urban culture, with the release of his seventh album, The Rock: Pressure Makes Diamonds (Done Deal Entertainment).
Crack and dope raps — rather than heroin and horns — inundated the streets between Octavia and Baker when the young Quinn first touched the microphone. Illegal dice games replaced old-fashioned gambling houses, and the music evolved emotionally from melancholy to militancy. "When I was young, I knew I was gonna be somebody famous," remembers Quinn, who was barely a teenager when he fulfilled his own prophecy.
"NO PUNKS"
In 1992, Quinn recorded "Frisco Niggaz Ain't No Punks" with JT the Bigga Figga and, as word on the street had, went on to enter The Guinness Book of World Records as the youngest rapper with the most album appearance — around 150, Quinn says — before the age of 21. A monumental feat for a young black man, considering how challenging it was to have studio access in the early '90s — Quinn made it look effortless.
Eric Akiyama, 32, a fourth-generation Japanese American in the Fillmore, remembers first hearing Quinn on a tape with JT. "Quinn was a young cat, but his voice was so mature," Akiyama recalls. "There are artists that talk, and there are artists that you understand clearly the first time, and he was one of those artists."
Even at that budding stage, San Quinn's voice wavered unapologetically with emotion, carrying on a familial love for the word that's almost devout. "My mother loved to read, and my great-grandfather memorized the whole dictionary," Quinn explains. "I always tripped off rap and how it was just words that rhyme to a beat, but it was a way that you can be a star and make money." For most Fillmore residents, it was one of the only ways to make it out of the hood besides slangin' rock or having a wicked jump shot.
Fashioning his approach after Big Daddy Kane's smooth but punishing style, Quinn became the epitome of pimpish offspring in the Moe, as locals affectionately call the district. The youngest rapper to rhyme with the Get Low Playaz and RBL Posse, Quinn wasted no time releasing one LP after another: Don't Cross Me (Get Low, 1993), Live N Direct (Priority, 1995), The Hustle Continues (Priority, 1996), Messy Marv and Quinn's Explosive Mode (Priority/Explosive Mode, 1998), The Mighty Quinn (Champeli Entertainment, 2001), I Give You My Word (Done Deal, 2004), and lucky number seven, The Rock.
After almost a decade and a half of consistent creativity, Quinn kicks enough wisdom to teach young whippersnappers a thing or two. "Back in the days, there wasn't as many people in the rap game," he says. "It was hard to get money and still worry about bootleggers. Now for youngsters, they put in two or three years of work and think that they got the key. You don't even have a core fan base. You got to get plugged in through someone in the Bay." An example of success in a neighborhood in the throes of both poverty and gentrification, Quinn takes personal responsibility to fill the Bay's ranks with young rappers: Ya Boy, Big Rich, and Bailey. Quinn's cousins and a little brother, respectively, they represent a new generation of rappers hungry for the return of the spotlight to the Bay.
"Every little brother wants to be like his big bro, especially if they didn't have a father," Bailey says. "He made it easier for me, but also made sure I dotted my i's and crossed my t's." Adamant in keeping his younger relatives out of trouble, Quinn says his involvement allows them to bypass the studio guns and plates of cocaine that some of his former executives flashed as symbols of success in the streets. "I ain't ever passed them no weed, no pills, no nothing," Quinn reveals.
Ya Boy says Quinn is "so humble, sometimes it made you mad because he let other dudes go on. He'd go to the show, and the whole block wanna come, and he'll let everyone in after capacity."
LOVE FOR THE HOOD
That love for the streets, even on a local level, became a beacon of light in the Moe. "He was the hero of the hood," Big Rich says. "Quinn is one of the only artists in the Bay that gets respect from all types of genres, from gangsta, hyphy, and backpackers. He brings a different element to the table, and it might be gangsta music, but he got a message," says Fillmore Mike, another extended family member invested in Quinn's success.
"Look what I done for them / Nothin' but love for them / Busted my guns for them / Stayed in the slums for them / Been on the run with them / Been in the light with them / Struggle and fight for them / Risking my life for them" goes the hook to "Look What I've Done for Them," on Quinn's new album, a poignant reminder of his dedication to uplift his neighborhood. The rapper has sold his share of records independently — more than 14,000 copies of his last album — and enough to maintain a comfortable lifestyle. But it's not enough to showcase the true potential of his leadership in the hip-hop industry — and community. "Eventually I want to talk to Mayor Gavin Newsom, so me and him can get this straight, because hip-hop economically can change San Francisco," Quinn says.
The key, he continues, is for the city to match his personal investment in the community. "I'm losing black life around me in San Francisco," the rapper explains. "Everybody that is lost in this concrete jungle is a soldier that would be rollin' with Quinn, 'cause I can figure out a way to feed that man."
As for his own success, a lack of visual-media representation is hurting his career the most — a common problem local artists share. "I'm challenging myself to be a better businessman and attack it with dignity and prestige, because this is a product that you're missing out on that's making money," Quinn says.
Walking back across the street alongside Lil' Quincy, San Quinn says hello to passing residents, some aware of his star power and some oblivious to the time of day. With no entourage or stretch limo, he now sees the neighborhood through the eyes of his son: optimistically, yet instinctively aware of the sacrifices it took to come full circle.
This is the year of the mighty San Quinn's return, the same year redevelopment checks expire for those driven out of this historical neighborhood. Instead of sweeping problems under the rug, Quinn wishes to reintroduce Fillmore music to the world and be taken with absolute seriousness. With his army behind him, the commander in chief is ready to create a hood renaissance impressive enough to share with his growing family. "I want the Bay to sing with me," he says, "and I want the world to sing with us." *