I Used to Love H.E.R. – Entry 1

The sentiment of that Common record? That’s exactly where I am. Hip Hop, I used to love her.

I remember being in my living room on the northwest side of Rochester, writing my first rap verse. The Best Man soundtrack had just dropped, and The Roots had this record called What You Want. Black Thought is still my favorite rapper to this day, and The Roots Crew was a massive influence on me. My boy Todd Bangz challenged me to write a verse. Back then, I was knee-deep in poetry, swore I was gonna end up on Def Poetry Jam one day. But I did want to rap. When I finally got my hands on the What You Want instrumental, I wrote my first verse. That was the spark.

My goal back then was to make music that provided an alternative, substance over sensationalism, with the same quality as what was dominating the mainstream. Hiphop in the late ‘80s was message-driven. Then came the transition: street rap, gang life, and by the late ‘90s, it was all about the hustle, money, drugs, sex. Love songs? Out. Vulnerability? Nah. I wanted to be different. And I was.

Not only was I making music, I was making money. H.E.R. started paying the bills. She could afford a trip to an exotic island or a spot in the Hollywood Hills for a few months. Music was the mission, but money became the motive. Write it, produce it, connect it, make a hit. The message? Eh. The moment mattered. And moments meant hits.

The formula got easier: build a studio, bring in a lyricist, a melodist, a couple producers, churn out ideas daily. Then sell. If you’re making money and music, you’ve “made it,” right?

…I don’t know.

Does a Grammy or an Oscar mean the same if the message doesn’t resonate? How many stories have we heard of artists who made the song, but not the credits? If you're cashing checks, are you cool with just being on the ride?

What happens when the song you hated blows up, and the one you poured your soul into barely registers? Do you question everything? Do you make a gospel song out of spite and confusion? (Asking for a friend.)

Eventually, you wake up one day and realize you're far from where you started. Making the same music you used to roll your eyes at. But hey, if it pays...

That passion for creativity started feeling like a chore. The love became conditional. If the check cleared, I loved her. If not, maybe we’d try again, with less heart, more expectation. The gift, the message, prostituted for financial gain. I loved her... if she loved me back. The mission morphed. I wasn’t promoting a message from within. I was just trying to win.

Last year, I asked my wife, “How do we make money doing something amazing and give the music away for free?” Is that what I want, or just a tired solution in a stained industry? Maybe if I’ll never get what I deserve, I should at least make what I want and gift it to the world?

Still asking myself that. Every day.

It’s bigger than me. How does every creative get what they deserve without sacrificing quality? I'm bumping Respiration by Black Star while also thinking, “What the helly, what the helly Bron James?” (Don’t ask, it’s a mood.)

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t know more Zack Fox than new conscious MCs, but let’s be real: the music industry’s factory settings stripped it of soul. There’s product, but no fingerprint. No owner's touch. Just mass production and algorithms.

We all know talented artists who’ve been buried under the big machine. You've watched award shows and thought of that one artist grinding with 47 likes on YouTube but a catalog that could humble your faves. Why aren't they on that stage? Lack of talent, or lack of a $150K promo budget?

Even in this era of DIY, bedroom studios, streaming platforms, viral moments, Spotify still eats first. Labels, publishers, PROs… everybody gets a slice before the artist does. To earn $100, you need 25,000 to 50,000 streams. And to get that? You’re probably spending $75 to $400. Make it make sense.

Jon Bellion said in an interview that labels were making $4 million a night off his work, while it took him four years to recoup a million-dollar advance. That’s not a music industry, that’s a casino.

Vinyls are back, ironically, because music became too accessible. In the ‘90s, artists sold CDs from their trunks. In the 2000s, we were uploading to DatPiff, leaking our own music on LimeWire. Bootlegs were culture. Now leaks are called “exclusives” and sometimes they’re part of the marketing plan.

We’ve gone from underground tapes to music floating around on someone’s hard drive in Detroit that the internet’s never even touched. Convenience became chaos. Lost phones. Stolen iClouds. Corrupted drives. Music gone forever.

And still… we love her.

I used to love H.E.R. And I still kinda do. But now it’s complicated.

More thoughts soon. Stay tuned.