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I often liken Donald Trump being elected into office to the scene in Saving Private Ryan where Captain John Millers (Tom Hanks) unit is bombed during the Omaha Beach battle sequence. Scored solely by the sounds of tinnitus, a disoriented Tom Hanks is shuttering, stumbling as he evaluates the blow his battalion just endured – some engulfed in flames, others scrounging to be reunited with dismembered body parts. Hanks’ is met face to face with one soldier yelling “what now sir?!” the deafening pitch comes to a crescendo and the soundtrack switches back to the persisting racket of gunfire. Hanks returns to the moment at hand, shouts an order, it’s relayed to the unit, and they march on. 

I found myself in the same situation, except black and in America, not behind enemy lines, but with a government siding with the opposition that has determined my life does not matter. Now faced with my own heroes’ journey to triumph over an uncertain future – the system that I thought was meant to serve me blatantly, revealed that it never had my interests at heart.

The first words I heard from the now 22-year-old Iddris Sandu were around infrastructure; he famously likened the constitution to an operating system, where the technology is not biased, but it’s the people who write the algorithms, the people who dictate how the system functions, are the ones not creating with diversity in mind. As for the constitution, if our founding fathers owned slaves while writing “liberty and justice for all,” diversity has never been a priority. Iddris doesn’t often align his ideas directly with politics, but to be a young black male with visions to change the world you can’t help but politicize him. 


So why is it called No Boys Allowed if a guy started it? Mourin anticipates this confusion, well aware of the reality that people will have feedback and opinions about his work. He wants nothing more than to be receptive and make a difference. Miami is chock-full of macho ideals, making a party like NBA contextually significant to the culture of this city. I find it important that within a historical time like this, when we can participate in dialogues about male toxicity and respecting women’s humanity and boundaries, that a young person’s response (let alone a guy’s response) was to create literal space centered around women. This should be happening everywhere. To my amazement, Mourin shared that in nearly two years of throwing NBA, there has not been a single instance of harassment or rule violation in the event’s space. I say amazement because this truly shows how the culture that Mourin and his team have created is self-aware and self-healing—a nightlife anomaly. 

“We try to make No Boys Allowed feel like a homegirl to you. We want that energy to be part of the experience. You want to party with other women, you want someone to look up and say, ‘That’s a person I feel comfortable with.’ There is a whole entire identity to it.”

With an avid love for pop culture kitsch, Mourin creates thematic party visuals and interactive experiences, like Barbie and Bratz themed night with a giant Barbie box photo opp and Halloween’s “Get a Clue” theme—just a couple of ‘90s favorites. As the event grows, his wish is to expand opportunities through community activation, partnering with brands who can invest in various creative workshops and event production, that all live under the No Boys Allowed umbrella. 

Under the warmth of this Miami night, we head out to the venue, a spot named Aftermarket, to meet Kassy, Alex, Gio and Richard while Kamari is playing his opening set, around 11pm. Up a flight of stairs is this elaborate lounge with a den-like area where you could see a row of seats and a faux library giving the place a speakeasy vibe. Unlike typical crowd settings, where the first to arrive are shy, women in the room are already dancing amongst each other. Kamari plays 2000s hip-hop/R&B throwbacks, sending the crowd into excitement when their favorite song comes on. I couldn’t help but say the words to “Flashing Lights” when my favorite line came on, midst conversation.

People trickle into the lounge, in groups of homegirls, some with their boyfriends, others with best friends, all ready to show out. Miami girls really know how to style club wear—many adorned in sexy, fun ‘fits, suitable for sticky weather. What really made an impression, was the lack of flashiness, as the energy was fueled by people dancing and not reliant on atmospheric club devices. There was no smoke and mirrors to this, simply bodies in movement. Mourin heated things up by playing an anticipated selection of his own Jersey Club edits—a Destiny’s Child Bachata flip (screaming internally). I can’t forget the bounce that had people twerking all over the stage, and Miami classics that the crowd scream-sang in unison to, closing off the night. The lights go on and everyone applauds another successful NBA, thanking the DJs and hosts, before dispersing.

Women need more opportunity to create, engage, and express themselves comfortably without fear of repercussion. We should call the shots, play the sets, move our bodies, and build trust in spaces such as this. With hope for the future, this slice of Miami nightlife makes the possibility of change within male-dominated arenas, a palpable reality. 

On any given weekend in the Bay, there’s always something to attend, whether it be a group show, a concert, a DJ night or a Mission District bar crawl. CLUB CHAI has become an Oakland staple, hosting consistent parties, events and workshops for a community that otherwise remains unnoticed by local funding and mainstream support. That’s the beauty of organizing within (a community). Canoğulları and Sarkissian, work with local artists and friends alike when producing events, from sourcing local design for promotional materials to hosting radio shows via Oakland’s very own Lower Grand Station in the heart of downtown. No two CLUB CHAI parties are alike, ranging from raves under freeway underpasses to large warehouse parties in West Oakland.

You’re almost guaranteed to run into familiar faces at any CLUB CHAI event or DJ set no matter where it might take place. As time progresses, the network grows, friends inviting friends, inviting other friends—we’re mere degrees of separation apart. I remember seeing CLUB CHAI for my first time ever, after connecting with 8ULENTINA on Twitter and being invited to their upcoming Boiler Room. Not only was this my first CLUB CHAI experience, it would go down as the very first Boiler Room to ever take place in Oakland. Hosted by East Oakland native, DJ Fela Kutchii, in the upstairs dancehall of a local bar, devoted fans danced next to DJ booths peaking crowd interaction. Various plants and palms lined the stage as a soft pink and purple light cast its luminescence on every partygoers’ movement. From that moment on, I was part of a space that acknowledged my queer identity—a safe haven for expression, and a place to dance unlike I could ever do at a bar or club.

Three years strong, CLUB CHAI recently celebrated their anniversary at Public Works, a venue aimed towards electronic music and what remains of San Francisco’s fading underground music scene. Fading due to the rampant nature of a new tech culture. A highly anticipated lineup included both local and out-of-town acts and members of the CLUB CHAI family, featuring: SHYBOI, Quest?onmarc, Thoom, 8ULETINA and Davia Spain, FOOZOOL, Qing Qi, Oakland’s B-Side Brujas, Fela Kutchii, and Trav13za. Legendary DJ Venus X and creator of NYC’s very own GHE20G0TH1K, headlined the night, and has been a long time friend and supporter of CLUB CHAI.

“Being able to book this lineup is so monumental for us because we have never been able to bring out this many artists. On a sound level, it’s so many people we respect so much. It tells the CLUB CHAI story, in the sense that this is the wide range of sounds that we support, it’s not limited to just one type of sound and it changes,” says Canoğulları.

As the pursuit for technological advancement encroaches upon cities like Oakland, San Francisco, Brooklyn, New York City, and Los Angeles to name a few, it is important now more than ever for our underground scenes to acknowledge and ground each other. CLUB CHAI’s three year anniversary was a celebration of the time, care, and hard work that goes into existing and pursuing our visions for the future. They’ve planted the seeds of sustainability and individualism, so we can grow and take things into our own hands.

“I’m so proud and in awe of how something like this has grown and has spoken to so many people. It’s something that years ago I would have felt very alone in, or didn’t feel like so many people could relate. Each time we’ve had a party, it’s brought so many new faces, and I think that means we’re doing something right, you know,” concludes Sarkissian.

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Following what seemed like a campaign trail: a string of interviews chronicling the interactions with a Google employee at age 13 that lead to an internship at the tech giant, a Crenshaw TED Talk, the youngest to deliver an NYU commencement speech, building experiences with the likes of Nipsey Hussle, Kanye West and Jaden Smith, code-switching between numerous subcultures, and thusly on an ongoing mission to bridge the gap between the ‘culture’ and tech. Above all, Iddris refers to himself as an architect, one who understands the problems that the tech world often can’t relate to, creating solutions to ensure a future that includes all of us. He has my attention, and he has my vote.

Upon meeting Iddris, he had a familiar essence of someone I might’ve gone to grade school with. A similar vibe of someone raised by immigrant parents who’ve instilled a resilience and a work ethic that we would have to work twice as hard to get anywhere in life along with amplifying messages of self-love and determination. Realizing I might be projecting my own experiences on Iddris, I inquire about his upbringing and how he’s ascended to this prodigy level.

*To master discipline or to be able to get to the point of discipline, it doesn’t stem from being able to be instructed on something over and over again. It comes from passion. From a young age, I was passionate about learning technology. I was passionate about even breaking down remote controllers or whatever I was breaking open. That taught me the discipline because opening these things wasn’t easy. Even more difficult was assembling them back. But, I got used to being able to learn things the long way. And I guess that’s where it comes from.*

*My granddad was a strong influence for me as he was also an architect that built one of the largest man-made hydroelectric dams in the world in Ghana. He named me; he said I’m giving you a particular name because it means not only a messenger but, the actual name, Iddris, comes from Arabic, which is also translated in the bible as Enoch. And Enoch was the only person apart from Jesus that was risen to heaven. And he was given the gift of writing, which is translated to penmanship. And my granddad was always like, “He’s going to be a messenger who writes.” So, it took me up to the age of 19 to realize that his prophecy was right. But I’m not a conventional writer. I’m an algorithm writer. I’m a computer programmer writer rather than a traditional pen writer. *

*The focus, I can greatly say was influenced by the culture, my grandfather, and also just knowing that things wouldn’t be easily handed to me, especially given where I come from and the fact that I would need to work 10 times as hard.*

Iddris tours us around his Inglewood development. In tow is Awol Erizku our photographer for the day, myself and Makensy, Iddris’s strategist, who is keeping the day on schedule. Awol initially requested a one-on-one photo session with Iddris, getting to know him and his vibe, but I promised to be a fly on the wall, personally logging this casual meeting of the minds, Ethiopian American contemporary artist (Awol) and Ghanian architectural technologist (Iddris).

We land at a rose bush that Awol thinks will be a great backdrop and invites Iddris to step in the frame, “Oh we shooting-shooting? I just wanna change into my Yeezy boots first.” Probably not a phrase I’ve ever heard from anyone in tech, but it’s definitely why Iddris has the impact he’s having right now. 

*I feel like this is the first time, from a tech perspective a very young, “cool,” person is able to cross-index between being in technology and being culturally relevant. That’s the whole premise, being able to code-switch, going into a setting or a room where your skill level is appreciated or admired is one level, but taking it to the next level where the unconventional energy you’re bringing in the way you dress or the way you talk inspires people and attracts a new audience to the space. *

We grab a bite at Simply Wholesome, a nearby black-owned restaurant and health food store. Iddris is embraced by a fan on the way in. It’s the type of energy you’d see exerted when spotting your favorite rapper or basketball player. But there are multiple reasons to be a fan, other than “rooting for everybody black”- Issa Rae Emmy’s Red Carpet 2017, there’s a layer of Iddris’s campaign that seeks to build equity in blackness in a society where Black people are moving culture forward, but they aren’t always the ones to benefit from it.

*We simply make, and we don’t protect our ideas. We don’t patent; we don’t copyright or trademark with all classes. You know what I mean? I feel like that’s a goal. To make it the ordinary for these things, not the supernatural. It shouldn’t be abnormal for a company to protect itself or create a design packet for its brand guidelines. That should be the standard, and that’s what we need to push for, this should be the standard. This should not be something that’s once in a blue moon.*

The conversation segways into the topic of Basquiat, Awol, and Iddris discuss the artists impact on the art world while seeing nowhere close to the amount of money that he was worth. Rather, the people around him, feeding off of his genius, were the ones who reaped the lion’s share.

The sentiment immediately calls to mind Megan Thee Stallion filing to trademark her buzzy phrase “Hot Girl Summer” or Cardi’s chirp like “Okurrr” (later denied by the U.S. Patent and trademark office) but I’m still a fly on the wall, and I keep my input to just head nods and the occasional “true”.

JM: It’s not by chance that black creators drive culture forward, there’s a certain type of innovation that comes from adversity, black reality inspiring black fantasy. What role would you say the black imagination can play in tech?

*IS: Before we even get to that stage of building, we need to acknowledge, all right? And to heal, we need that acknowledgment. A lot of my friends that are into fashion or into agriculture or into design, a lot of principles that they carry on and spread are rooted in European, Danish, and German-based design. And there’s nothing wrong with any of those. But for a culture that has contributed so much but has received so much less, we can’t afford to continue assimilating, using other people’s cultures to push our culture forward. There’s a cap on what we’re seeing. This is only the cap. This is only the first level. You know, we’re seeing the highest number of black excellence, black curation, black design and black film directing right now. If we were on a timeline compared to what has happened to black people, Africans, people of color in the last 400, 500 years, this would be like the equivalent of just the first two years of having creative freedom to create your own content. Imagine what the next five years will look like or what the next 10 years will look like. The most important thing for black creatives, as it relates to the imagination and black imagination now, is to be able to create that owned palette. We use other people’s palettes too much. And so there’s consistency. It’s like you look at a certain palette that was created and not metaphorically, you know, but the palette as specified to a specific amount of ingredients that make a composition, right? And we’re using these palettes and finding very very similar compositions that are alike in and created by people that are outside of the culture.*

*So now we need to create our own palette, one that defines an embodiment of what we represent rather than what is expected of us. I’m not a makeup artist, but I do know about foundation. What foundation you use on your skin greatly influences how the makeup will come out. I strongly feel that it’s time for us to be able to create that foundation that works for us rather than assimilating. We’ve assimilated. For the last 500 years, it’s all about assimilation. It’s been about taking you out of your comfort zone and forcing you to confine or be within another environment. But now we’re at a place of creative freedom to where we can question, and we can dare to push the limits, and we have a support and base and system.*

*The internet has enabled us to now receive the validation that otherwise we wouldn’t have 10 years ago, 15 years ago, because you had to go through the process. By the time your idea even got to the first level of the process, it was already knocked down like these little boards in this room. We create the mood boards, and we present them, and they just knock everything down. Being in a position where now our mood boards are not only accepted past the screening phase but are now turned into an actual product.*

Iddris’ house is essentially a one-person startup that has prioritized mental space over furniture or fixtures, each room dedicated to different trains of thought. Right before the staircase, there are physical prototypes for a high tech parking meter he’s set to release, an upstairs bedroom houses mood boards for the school he’s building in Ghana while the adjacent room houses plans for self-cooling performance materials. Iddris is working to solve the largest problems in the world. While trying to find a red thread between the work-in-progress sketches wallpapered around the home, I inquire what he thinks the biggest problems in the world are.

*Design. We’ve been taught to look at design on a surface level. So we don’t know anything about stakes. Well, how the fuck is making something look better going to change the world?*

*Looking better is one way, and working better is another. That’s what we’re tasked with now. EpiPens are super expensive. How do we make them work better in a way that reduces costs rather than simply charging more for aesthetic updates?*

*I feel like the world is constantly in a healing state. We know of doctors to be healers related to diseases of our bodies. I view architects and designers in the same vein as the doctors — except we heal diseases of the design world.*

*Iddris tackles the world’s largest problems through his company– ETHOS, “an extension of a design hospital that specialized in making products that are better and more useful.”*

Iddris hesitates to talk at length about the projects underway for ETHOS, as it marks the next chapter in his work, one that is not ready to be communicated. “This is the last interview we’re doing for a while” Makensy informs me, Iddris has done enough talking about his ideas and plans for now, and is about to enter heads down mode, bringing to life this next level of ideas. “We’re at a stage now where I strongly feel like the vision… or the fragment of what is needed for this time period has already been delivered to the masses. Now it’s about the actions catching up to everything that was said within this time period and then we do another wave of things we want to execute and accomplish those things” Iddris explains.

It occurs to me that this interview is only a fragment of the world that Iddris is creating, a fragment of what needs to be shared or what we have enough time to discuss. I commend Iddris on the space that he’s been able to carve out for himself, an exciting territory for a multifaceted young black man to spread out in. I ask him how important it is to also make space for the next generation.

*It’s very important. More importantly, is the curator of the space. If you’re curating a space, you have a vision for what that space should look like, and you’re taking in so many different inputs. It’s a curation within another curation.*

*I come from two worlds, right? I come from a world where my influences growing up were the likes of Grandmaster Flash, leading up to Nas, leading up to Rakim. I also come from another world of Johnny Ive, Frank Lloyd Wright, Guggenheim, Dieter Rams, Mark Newsome, and Zaha Hadid. Growing up, those were the two worlds I was constantly pulling from.*

*And there’s a third world (no pun intended), of Fela Kuti’s and Lucky Dube’s and the Kwame Nkrumah’s, and Sankara’s. Those three worlds fused together.
What about the kid that has that fourth world or fifth world? I need to give them some sort of infrastructure for them to start with, and that’s what I’m focused on doing. That’s why it’s very important that we curate spaces for that next generation of tech kids that are designers. There’s a next generation of designers that are into tech, the next generation of kids in the hood that are into tech or the next generation of tech people that grew up in the hood. It’s about connecting those two or three multitudes of universes.*

When asked, I am surprised to hear Iddris isn’t legacy oriented; to me, I read into his initiatives as a set of tools created to empower future generations. However, when re-analyzing my verbiage, the word legacy can be interpreted as “of or pertaining to old or outdated hardware, software, or data that, while still functional, does not work well with up-to-date systems.” Iddris isn’t creating one tool for all; rather, he’s creating space, and making tech “cool” for the next generation and all of their worlds, using a palette that invites them to inhabit, update and customize an operating system that reflects themselves.


It started with a birthday—a birthday in Trinidad. Adam Cooper gathered some friends and family and threw himself a party. He played a bunch of his favorite tracks, on a borrowed controller, for his first unofficial set. 

Adam, a.k.a. foreigner, is a Swiss knife of innovation, single-handedly teaching himself how to DJ and go on to produce some of LA’s most memorable Afrodiasporic events. As I sat with him on the eve of Roadblock™, his latest underground Afro/Caribbean operation, Adam shared some memories with me of growth between cities and the impact this had on his identity. Born in Trinidad and Tobago, raised in Caracas, Venezuela then NYC, the moniker, foreigner, speaks to the multiplicity of his experiences traversing the map. 

It is important to note that I write this as a non-black person, invited into Adam’s remembrance of his own black experience dispelling the notion that blackness is monolithic. Sharing reflections of his childhood in Caracas, followed by Brooklyn and NYC, Cooper uninhibitedly recalled the anti-blackness surrounding him and his family in Venezuela specifically. He grappled with questions of identity early on in boyhood, struggling to make sense of this racist mistreatment by his peers and those around him. New York City provided a safe haven of cultural connection where he could finally relate to the many diasporic identities within the city itself. In the early 2000s, Cooper studied International Business and Marketing at Howard University, where he noticed how fragmented black identity was, amongst the student body, different from his formative years in NYC. This would later influence what would become foreigner—an all-encompassing creative avenue for the multidisciplinary Adam Cooper.  

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Multimedia archival work is essential to the existence of contemporary diasporic connection through art and creation. If we do not support and give shine to the members in our communities creating work in this exact moment, what are generations after us going to have to look back on? So much non-Western, non-white history is left unknown and untold because of social inequity and silencing.

CLUB CHAI exists as a curatorial platform centering queer and trans artists, DJs, and producers as well as a multitude of diasporic narratives. Founded by multidisciplinary producers, DJs and visual artists, Esra Canoğulları and Lara Sarkissian, this party was always intended for expansion into various art mediums that would embrace their ideas. Both founders, Canoğullari of Turkish descent and Sarkissian of Armenian descent, expressed the importance for them to make room for cultural conversations extending beyond their own roots.

“For some people it’s hard to understand what, exactly we are. ‘Are you a label? Are you a party?’ We can be all of that. We kept it this way so we could expand into different spaces within the world, including film and music, just to show people that this kind of thing is still connected to all these different mediums. Like a story that extends beyond a party, CLUB CHAI reflects not only our practices as interdisciplinary artists, but the practices of everyone we already work with,” explains founder, Lara Sarkissian.

In conversation with Canoğulları and Sarkissian, we discussed the constant feeling of needing to commodify our own cultures, creating some sense of digestibility for the masses. This is a present issue with the way people consume the bodies of work non-white artists create, without understanding a culture beyond a popularized reference point. Their platform has created the opportunity for travel and connection with global music output, situated in contexts far different than what the US has to offer. Curations by Canoğulları and Sarkissian, are layered with homage to queer and trans DJs, whose performances took place before egoism and Internet recognition were normalized. Contemporary “DJ culture” centers the DJs fandom and visibility, and not necessarily the sonic story being told. It is apparent how important navigating this reality is for the founders of CLUB CHAI. They are creating an environment in which people feel included in the soundscape and not separated from a person behind the gear.

“I think DJing is inherently about an archive and always has been. That’s why a lot of interdisciplinary artists gravitate toward that medium. It’s something that you can tell stories with and talk about with time, using the past, the present, and thinking about the future; to create these really transcendent moments that aren’t just about you. It’s about having this dialogue with the crowd, to create what you want the future to sound and feel like—what you’re excited about,” Canoğulları continues.

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*"I’m the hearty harper, the Pied Piper of the party starter / Shorty, I could turn the water to a flame / I’m a martyr marker, the art of ark / I’m a water walker / I could lead the unholy on a wave."*

Nothing has changed in his demeanor or delivery but he is now showing off. There is a pocket, and he is within it. Everyone standing in the crowd has silently agreed to lay down and take turns volunteering as the doormat upon which Deem Spencer will wipe his feet before stepping into our living room.

*"We are not friends / I do not love you / We are locked in / I will not dive in when the shop struggle / I will not play save a hoe / The greatest soap does nothing for a popped bubble."*

The song ends and we, the entire audience, have joined Deem Spencer’s PR team. It has taken approximately two minutes to become a disciple. I will spend the next day emailing and texting friends in places of various altitudes—the firmest of co-signs, the strongest of suggestions. Crowdsourcing support for a cult leader who can’t legally buy a drink, has never been approached with more certainty. Kool-Aid served. Kool-Aid consumed. We have been fruit punched in the solar plexus.

Deem Spencer walks off stage. Disappears into a cloud of daps and sincere nods. I lose him in the crowd. He is unrecognizable without a microphone.

Four years later, everything and nothing has changed. Deem still presents himself as the least likely hero. Deadpan, blank stare, slow to smile, even slower to speak. For a man who articulates for a living he has a shocking capacity for silence. At this moment he stands at the precipice of some version of greatness. Spencer has been profiled, co-signed, Pitchforked, and Faded in ways that other rising artists would auction off appendages to duplicate. His initial offering *sunflower* (2016) is fifteen brilliant minutes of back row, high school observations from your friend who could have gone Ivy League if he had done his homework. His 2017 follow up EP, *we think we alone*, is a twenty-two minute low frequency sound bath that handles deep loss with glowing hopefulness. Both projects are jaw-dropping appetizers. We await the main course.

Deem has spent the better part of the past six months in his childhood bedroom going through a breakup. 

"Small. Two big windows. With a view, you feel me?" 

A view of what? "The neighbors house." 

Waking up between 5 and 6am, he proceeds to write, record, and mix by himself nearly every morning. He finishes his upcoming project, *Pretty Face*, at the same time as the relationship.

"I feel like my story is for me to tell. It fascinates me to be able to talk about it. I realized listening back to the tape I just finished, it’s really just me talking about my relationship. It’s as simple as that. Just me talking about it and making fun of it."

Emotions are no laughing matter. That makes things difficult because Deem Spencer has jokes. "I used to make music with no intent, so I was just like rapping my ass off but not talking about anything and when I started actually talking about myself, it came out in these very personal but reckless raps."

Watching Deem tap dance on the razor’s edge between heartlessness and sincerity on *Pretty Face* is not a lighthearted endeavor. The album is a free fall into heartbreak. The production twinkles and shines but only underscores the fact that no one else is in the amusement park. 

It’s nearly impossible to make out what Deem is singing on the opening track "Really, I" but the pain is palpable. His voice gives out on him, dropping on and off the track, broken laughs haunt the background before an ominous beat drops and Deem’s now crystal clear voice rips across ear drums: *"I asked the girl’s guy why we all can’t love her."*  Before you have time to think of an answer, the production has short circuited, strummed chords from some kind of digital harp float behind a short, smirking lullaby about cocaine. Conversations are happening with parents and you are standing in the corner of Deem’s bedroom, watching him process his emotions in real time. Rain is on the windows. Nine minutes into the album and the familiar chime of a FaceTime call rips you out of this alternative reality, forces you to check your phone to determine your place in this universe and suddenly it’s all very clear that you, or Deem, or both of you need to pick up the call.

"It sort of became a go-to for me to just talk about myself and not care how I talk about (the breakup) or not care how I reference the people around me. Just telling the stories." 

That storytelling has reached new peaks on *Pretty Face*. Deem’s break up and the inevitable emotional fall out that trails behind it, are territories that rap doesn’t often explore. Growing up listening to Kid Cudi and Kanye supersize their emotions into massive, cinematic Broadway plays surely had an influence but Deem’s approach to songwriting is not only arrestingly honest but shockingly original within the genre. I ask what he listened to while recording, songs that may have helped him process his emotions. "Get money music," he answers. Everyone copes differently. If you were raised in the South Side of Jamaica Queens when Curtis Jackson ran rap you might feel the same way.

"I’ve known the words to ‘Many Men’ since I was seven years old. My mom had the album." The cracks in Deem’s wool knit armor reveal a Teflon vest of confidence underneath. "50 Cent really just influenced how I move around here and that reflects in my music. 50, at least for the kids I grew up with, influenced the way we move. 50 is like the soundtrack for..." Deem’s voice goes quiet with admiration. "It was really like some superhero shit." The confidence with which Spencer practices his craft defies many aspects of his character. The youngest brother carrying the wisdom of the eldest. Engaged but utterly unimpressed, Deem is running a one man race.

"I see myself dropping whatever projects I feel like making, at my own pace, for as long as I live and that’s all I want to do." If the fact that Deem’s vocals are often mixed to a level one could generously describe as "out of reception" wasn’t enough of a hint, Deem is making this music for himself.

"I want to be better than everyone but that’s not the point. I want people to feel good while they’re listening and be able to relate. But I want something to listen to that relates specifically to me. That’s really the point."

But what about the pressure point? There are passionate statements of artistic intent and then there are cold realities. If the artist serves only themselves, where does that leave the listener? Rappers have always been transparent in their service to their fanbase. We fully expect albums to be interrupted by two to three sparkly gifts specially wrapped for radio. But there are no compromises on *Pretty Face*. Deem Spencer made the album *he* needed to hear and nothing else. The decisions he makes alone in his bedroom will dictate the arc of his career. The game is fickle and the spotlight moves quickly. How much does he pay attention?

"It’s whatever. It feels the same as all the other tapes ‘cause like all the other tapes I made it on my own time for myself pretty much. I know the only difference is a lot more people are going to hear it this time because, I don’t know, it all came together in the last few years."

There has to be more. He’s too aware not to realize what’s at stake. Scoring the soundtrack to your own story is a worthy endeavor, but Deem Spencer has a few thousand people waiting to borrow his headphones. Hans Zimmer doesn’t compose for himself. Is there space for Deem Spencer to continue practicing an alchemy entirely his own? At what point will he grow out of the bedroom that afforded him this freedom?

"Is it failing if you did it exactly the way you wanted to do? I don’t know. You can fail by choosing the wrong methods, I guess. But as far as what I really want to do personally, which is put out great work..." Deem pauses.

Silence.

For the first time in the conversation I can hear his brain collecting itself. How many sacrifices are acceptable? How many compromises are unavoidable? How important is it to reach the finish line if someone else drew it?

"I guess I’m not really comfortable at failing, even if I did it exactly how I wanted to do it."

The multitudes contained inside that short burst of indecision is what greatness sounds like. Scores of artists before Deem Spencer and legions of those to come after will tiptoe through the very same minefield. Their genius rests within the decisions they make. The slight of hand they employ to push the wheel in both directions when they arrive at impossible forks.

"I’ve recently become more open. I’m learning how certain things work. I’m learning the best ways to make sure that everybody can hear my work versus just being a loose cannon and throwing everything online. I feel like I’ve grown to appreciate working with others more in the last year, so in a way I’ve grown out of doing everything my own way. So, it lowers the percentage of failure. If I can express my goal with my collaborators and include multiple insights in my decisions..." Deem’s voice trails off again.

Silence.

He is listening to the implications of what he’s saying. The compromises he could be speaking into existence.

"It’s crazy how my answer changed."

There’s nothing crazy about it. The answers and the contradictions that form Deem Spencer are the foundation of his magnetic draw. A truly transparent struggle. If you’ve been there before then it’s impossible to look away. Well over an hour into the conversation, we begin to pack it up, having long since passed the point of gathering what was needed. It’s difficult to end a work in progress. I am in no particular rush but I am still searching for a way to climb out of this Deem Spencer lyric. A writer would find a way to make sense of this sixty minute run on sentence but I have only succeeded in lodging myself further in this wonderland of abbreviated genius. I pause. Attempt to let the beat respirate in my best Deem Spencer impression. And I ask him what’s left to say. It’s your world if you want it, Deem.

"This is my best tape. That’s all I want to say."

Silence.

The music will say the rest.

"Spread love, it's the Brooklyn way" isn't just a popular Biggie reference. It's a maxim that is embedded in every native Brooklynite, a truth we live by and share with anyone who comes into contact with us. Which is why I wasn't at all surprised when I arrived on the set of Junglepussy's shoot and heard things like "she's super happy" and "so conversational" or "the energy has been really great." Her East New York upbringing and West Indian heritage account for that. What does surprise me is how she greets me the first time we meet, with a soft-spoken "nice to see you." 

Prior to this introduction I had listened to JP3 for hours on end (Get Down feat. Rico Love was on heavy repeat), revisited my favorites from her social media profiles (you won't regret following her Twitter), and watched JPtv videos that amplified her bravada (BrownSugar Sunshine Tarot is the astrologist we all deserve). So I was expecting her to be as animated in real life as she is in her videos, this gentle exchange throws me off. It also didn't help that she looked like a modern-day Wonder Woman, outfitted in a sparkling bodysuit and patent red knee-highs that gave her already towering height a few additional inches. If it wasn't for the warmth in her tone and the ease with which she says it, nice to see you, as though she was addressing an old friend, I'd be nervous. 

"I used to be like 'there is no difference between Junglepussy and Shayna' but my friends told me there is," she briefly pauses before collecting her thoughts again. "But they don't know shit!" she exclaims with an energetic handclap, revealing the Junglepussy I was accustomed to seeing. We're in her trailer now, and she's facing a mirror, seemingly directing this dialogue to her reflection. "Only time when I'm really like, 'Okay, this is Junglepussy,' is when I have to show up and when I'm doing a shoot or when I'm doing a show. Other than that, when I'm just in between, living life, I don't feel like there's a difference." She turns to me, eyes locked, and lets out a deep sigh. "Imagine being funny, being a good writer, being all these things, being stylish, then also being a good person or somebody who tries to better themselves all the time. Imagine fitting all of that into a person," she explains. "Sometimes, I get overwhelmed by my own existence."

Fast forward to 2012 in a downtown LA apartment, where foreigner came to be. It was at these studio parties that Samantha Blake Goodman a.k.a. Muñeka and DJ Kelman Duran asked him to be a part of their project Rail Up—a now well-known Afro-Caribbean/Latinx dance party. Yet, foreigner didn’t stop there and began to orchestrate his own events centering the essential Trini fête. foreigner approaches parties with pure artistry and intentionality, utilizing spaces like blank canvases for experience. Los Angeles’ Caribbean scene is divided across the city, from Leimert Park to South Central, never truly entering the realm of foreigner’s visions for a party. Meanwhile, the contemporary art scene, which he is also a part of, doesn’t stray far from electronic music into the black immigrant experience. Events like Play™, Junkyard Jouvert, and his most recent Roadblock™, are his way of bringing people together in one space with the common goal of cultural ownership and pride.

“The way my philosophy is evolving, I really want to center people from the diaspora, specifically people behind the scenes and behind the decks. Oftentimes in the underground scene, you hear Afrodiasporic music, but you’ll seldom see black people playing it. It just hit me at a certain point that there are so many talented black people in LA that create and play the music that inspire me, that are only limited to mainstream platforms, which are very scarce in LA. In other words, the club scene is very network driven.” 

Rhythm is the root of all music. The African diaspora is the root of rhythm. 
Rhythm is the root of all music. The African diaspora is the root of rhythm. 
Rhythm is the root of all music. The African diaspora is the root of rhythm.

Red haze emitted from the headlights of a white ‘79 BMW 3 Series, bouncing up and down with each whine from a dancer atop. Crowded yellow and white coupes filled the warehouse, juxtaposed with ceiling high scissor cranes, as attendees mounted car hoods, dancing on seats and trunks. Roadblock™ turned out the night with dancehall, soca, and Afrobeat favorites from local DJs Shacia Päyne, Lady X, Tomi Tribe, and foreigner himself. Eleven seemed rather early for the night ahead, with the warehouse filling up as 1am approached. People were pulling motorsport looks and neon fishnet ‘fits at this indoor block party. 

High energy never faltered once amongst the crowd, as sounds flowed into each other, starting with Belizean filmmaker and DJ extraordinaire, Lady X’s dancehall and soca heavy set. This set was followed by producer Tomi Tribe’s Afrobeat edits and numerous hits. In that moment, the party was beyond a late night, accessible warehouse gig. Under a freeway underpass, this could have been Lagos or Kingston, or somewhere in the Islands. foreigner’s sonic curation resulted in an atmosphere of togetherness through shared freedoms and comfortability that a-cultural events do not create. 

 “There’s a different energy or a vibe when you look to the booth and see a black femme up there, and not necessarily opening up the night.” 

Shacia Päyne kept it going, headlining with ‘90s dancehall and the deepest Jamaican cuts, for which she is best known. Mysta Crooks, acting MC, gassed the crowd up as Päyne delivered. Passion, release, and excitement carried us deep into the night, with nobody weary that dawn approached. It was nearly 4am when foreigner played to a loving crowd of his eclectic supporters, as all members of the diaspora and underground communities met in movement. After that night, I can’t say that any party I will go to can surpass what I experienced there, thanks to the talent and extreme joy surrounding me.

Adam Cooper is humble in admitting intentions to evolve his craft and contributions to his community. For foreigner, his visions exist beyond one party, it is his desire to provide space for carefree, black joy, and re-contextualize diasporic unity, that make all his ideas boundless. This is an effort that won’t end and he wants you to see what he’s coming up with this year. Chances are you might not know what to expect.

foreigner is now,    
foreigner is here,    
foreigner is there,    
foreigner forever.   

Miami, home to Art Basel, Lower East Coast, and Stray Rats, is full of cultural highlights and creativity that has yet to garner national attention the way South Beach does. Downtown is practically the party capital of the East and West Coasts, with at least one event happening every single night of the week. Picturesque palms line the streets of a city that doesn’t seem to get much sleep with all it has to offer. A layer of humidity fills the night air and won’t dissipate upon entering the dewy glow of a bar party downtown. Gio Mourin is no stranger to this atmosphere. As a Miami native having grown up in the scene, sneaking into venues at 17, his everyday version of the 305 unearths an aspiring underground experience he is proud to share with any new comer.

Known as Latenite, Mourin has been DJing since the age of 20, starting off in the typical bar setting as part of a regular Sunday party. For someone with such an extensive music taste and knowledge, routinely playing the same Top 40 music that everyone wanted to hear, quickly became unfulfilling.

“My history and roots with Miami are in dance music. We have Miami bass music, we had an era of Miami juke. It’s all high energy. For me, that’s what I predicted myself getting into as DJing going forward. Once I started noticing I was compromising what I wanted to do, to please a crowd, I started having ideas.”

No Boys Allowed (NBA) is true to its name. No man is granted entry, unless a woman invites him into the space and walks with him into the event. It is the one guaranteed night you can say, “No you can’t come with me tonight, I’m going with friends.” A literal “no boys allowed” rule and no tolerance for harassment is enforced to ensure women attending can shine, without having to worry about a guy approaching mid-dance for an ounce of attention on the dancefloor. NBA is Mourin’s direct response to toxic masculinity in the mainstream Miami party scene. During his debut DJ stint, he took note of the aggressive nature of bar cultures where women would never dance and instead stand in all corners of a room while groups of men occupied the dancefloor. Mourin wishes to remain behind the scenes (and the decks), while watching the energy of this monthly party flourish, as part of his goal to provide a space for women to feel safe in nightlife. With the resources available to him, party operations are led by his team of talented friends: Kamari (resident DJ), Richard (photographer/design), Alex (management and party hostess), and Kassy (social media manager).

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We wrap our shoot at Irving Square Park in Bushwick, with just enough time to capture the Summer's radiant evening sky; an effervescent sapphire that contrasts perfectly with Junglepussy's neon green wig. Nearby tweens who were outside playing, and occasionally running across the photographer's frame, take the first opportunity to approach her: "Can we take a picture with you too?" "What do you do?" "Add me on Snapchat!" "Book me, I'm a rapper too!" "What's your rap name?" Junglepussy speaks to them with the same quiet warmth I had witnessed earlier, indulging their curiosity, squatting for leveled selfies, and even initiating a cypher. She does everything but answer, "what's your rap name?"

"I knew from jump, having a name like Junglepussy, it wasn't going to be easy," she admits. "But then seeing that it's actually helpful, it's opening people's minds. It's a tool, it's a whole other movement in itself. I'm just the vessel to move it around. Of course, I could change it, but I would only be changing it because people are uncomfortable and I don't care about anybody else's comfort. So I'm like, 'No, I need to move forward with this name. I need to rise above, and I need to stop thinking it's a problem' because then people will think it's a problem." If you're looking for the answer to "why Junglepussy?" look no further than her video "ME" where she lists well-known men named "Dick," ending with the Mary Poppins star Dick Van Dyke.

Junglepussy is just one part of a bigger movement that resonates far beyond its original context. In 2011, Toronto held its first Slutwalk in protest against social attitudes that blame and stigmatize victims of sexual assault by referring to their appearance. In 2014, Amber Rose hosted her first Slutwalk in Los Angeles, giving it a national platform in the U.S. That same year, Kelly Sue Deconnick released a feminist comic book titled Bitch Planet. Needless to say, people had questions. During an interview with NPR, Deconnick explains: "You know, bitch is a terrible thing for a woman to be called, right? That's the thing that we're all sort of afraid of. We so wanna be liked! And I'm a pleaser as much as anybody else is, and I don't want to be considered unpleasant, but, you know, sometimes, I'm also the boss. And if I am unable to continue for fear of being called a name, I'm not a very effective leader. And so, there's an attempt there to just sort of own it, put it out there." In 2017, Rep. Maxine Waters would repeatedly declare "reclaiming my time" during a House Financial Services Committee meeting signaling a moment for her and, thanks to the online viral camaraderie, all of us to take our power back.

"Growth is not victimizing myself," Junglepussy asserts. "Yes, the odds are against me as a Black woman, as someone who chooses to use a name that reminds you of a Black woman. It's like no hiding my Blackness, and that was a choice that I made, and that was intentional because I feel like it's so easy to just be an artist and stray away from important things. And I'm like, no, I'm going to keep this name because I feel like it's my universe given name." Boldly claiming a provocative moniker – especially one that goes against conventional notions of feminine propriety – not only becomes a radical expression of self-love but also pays homage to old age feminists, where seduction and female empowerment are not decoupled. Cultural historian Betsy Prioleau explores this in her book Seductress: Women Who Ravished the World and Their Lost Art of Love: "Though long misunderstood and ignored, the seductress is the paradigmatic liberated woman, empowered with men and empowered in life. She's a threshold role model who can reinstate feminine sexual sovereignty and holistic happiness and remap the future." Junglepussy comes out completely in charge of her identity, belonging deeply to herself and in the process adding dimension to both womanhood and Blackness. "It wasn't until recent years, because we have the internet, we're able to see there is no way to be Black. It's not like, oh you're just Black that's it. It's literally such a smorgasbord of awesomeness," Junglepussy expresses with infectious enthusiasm. It feels like a verbal embrace, a nod to the shared trait that would make up hers, and my appearance. Even though we differ in many important ways, we can align in the experience of Blackness. "After I did my first song, Cream Team," she continues "I felt like it was a song where I'm coming out as Junglepussy, rapping about my pussy, pouring milk on my titties, people were just going to expect that from me. I was just like this is not all of me. Yes, it's a part of me, but this is not all of me."

So what does it mean exactly? To show spectrum in Blackness? To be a part of a community that isn't monolithic but still shares a deep sense of connection? Think Kanye West, an artist who raps about dropping out of college and later interns at Fendi. Or Pharrell, a Hip Hop producer who skateboards. Think Missy Elliott and her genre-bending sound paired with mind-bending visuals. Or Issa Rae, the self-proclaimed awkward black girl. Donald Glover the nerdy comedian by day and prolific rapper by night. FKA Twigs' ethereal and avant-garde aestheticism. And ultimately Junglepussy, a polymath of creative expression. "There are 40 million black people in this country," Henry Louis Gates, Jr. opens in Black Cool: One Thousand Streams of Blackness, "and there are 40 million ways to be black." I ask Junglepussy if she thinks the entertainment industry has caught on. "Not until they look at me just like Cher or Celine Dion," she chuckles. "It just needs to be regular. It just needs to be normalized. Until they see that then no work is being done."

To be fair, there is nothing regular about Junglepussy. Up until her sophomore album, her artistry felt like a focused catalog of self-care advice, man-checking rhymes, and libertine boasting. "When I first started doing music, I had just gotten out of a relationship, and I haven't been in a relationship since," she explains. "So all that music I was doing — I'm trying to liberate myself, distance myself from men." Take her single "Bling Bling" which Bjork includes in one of her DJ sets: "Don't let me catch you knocked up having that nigga's kids / You are the not the wifey for swallowing nigga's kids / These niggas be doing bids / These niggas be in my fridge / These niggas be smoking mids and thinking that they the shit / Walk up in ya crib asking if they could live / Not about that." 

But after career coups that include an acting debut in the Obama-approved movie Support The Girls, invites to speak at Ivy League schools, features in major national publications, or nods from your favorites like Erykah Badu, no one can deny the mainstream appeal of Junglepussy. Especially not Junglepussy. It's shifted her perspective, not only on why she creates but also on who she creates for. "Being Indie, it's like there's nobody giving you a true temperature of what you're doing because you don't have all these industry people around you with a gauge on everything. I'm just being myself, and that's all I ever try to focus on because the other shit, it just gets too muddy. I have way too many resources today to let somebody erase me in 10, 20 years. So, I'm just like I just need to continue. That's why when Cult Classic hit me up I was like, 'Oh, it's going to be in print? Okay, so it could last through the Apocalypse'. I feel like I'm literally here for those people with those journeys: true authenticity, true growth, actually being you and figuring out the best way to share it with the world." 

Her latest album JP3 is the first time she offers listeners a glimpse into that growth. So intimate is the project that it even features a duet with her then three-year-old nephew, Zachary. It would also be the first time we get to actually see THE Junglepussy, who made her visual debut at the same time as Junglepussy's new character Ginger in the Trader Joe's video. 

"I knew I wanted it to be a story about a hard-working farmer girl. I knew that for sure. And I also wanted to play on the concept of Black Sheep, like Babe in Charlotte's Web. Everybody was so mean to the pig on the farm, all the other animals were like, 'What are you? You a pig. They don't do nothing with you. They milk me, and I related because I'm like, well just because niggas don't milk me don't mean I don't got a purpose. And I so related to the pig. And I was like, 'Well, I ain't no pig bitch' so I need to come up with a different character. And I animorphed into Junglepussy." That's right. The black cat-like, sheep-like hybrid with the fat ass? That's Junglepussy. So who is Ginger? It's Shayna in the future. Asked where she sees herself in 20 years, she replies: "I'm living on a farm with no WiFi. I don't even really need to go to the supermarket anymore. Everything I need grows around me, and I no longer feel that hustle and bustle of New York City. You're at peace, and you worked hard, and you deserve it, and I'm glad you stuck to your guns, and you didn't let anybody try to define you. And you didn't change your name. You kept Junglepussy because everybody wanted you to change it, for whatever reasons, they thought you should change it, and I'm glad that you held onto it because now you have this beautiful legacy," she gushes.

"I’m on my way to iHop right now."

"The homies wanted pancakes."

One bar into this phone call and we are already lost inside a Deem Spencer lyric. A good writer, a more seasoned writer, or just any writer at all, would have been able to use Deem’s admission of a 9pm trip to the International House of Pancakes to situate our protagonist within the larger state of rap in 2019. I am not a writer by any definition of the word, so I do nothing besides drop the ball and appreciate a mission of stoned excellence while slipping further down the Deem Spencer slope.

"I saw you open for Nasty Nigel at the Knockdown Center in Queens. How many shows had you done at that point?"

I will take this opportunity to note that I had absolutely no idea who Deem Spencer was when I first witnessed him bob and weave his way around a microphone wire in 2016. I was minding my own business in the back of a performance art space, supporting a friend, when a pencil sketch of a rapper with a wide toothed grin made the most of twenty-five minutes and millennial attention spans.

"I started throwing my own shows in March 2016. I had done one show each month up until that point. So it was probably my fifth show."

The person standing on stage is more J.J. than Jay-Z.  He looks like he stole the mic. It was my feeling at the time that he had better start doing something good with it before an adult took it back. Speakers crack. A decaying arrangement of strings and keys begin to Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon themselves across a pile of kick drums. Before someone who files their taxes on time could cut the sound, the kid who otherwise looks like he should be duct taped to the corner seat of an F train starts rapping:

*“If I cared about some money I’d be in college wasting it."*

Smirks from the audience. "Fuck yeahs!" from first semester dropouts and degree holders alike. The great white flash of a knowing smirk, sneaks out from underneath the edge of a bucket hat. He is not nervous. He is rapping south, directly at his own shoelaces. Looking up every single time a lyric stabs someone squarely in their fragile sense of self.

*"Ya’ll niggas told me I’m a king / Then you told me I’m a slave / Then you told me Imma win / Then you told me I’m afraid."* 

To say that I was utterly unprepared to be verbally assaulted by a high schooler would be an understatement. There are very few breaths being taken between bars or within the audience. Lyrics are spilling and bouncing like jelly beans across the cement floor and no one can turn off the faucet. The once responsible adult is in rapture and has taken a seat.


I met Alex Russell in the summer of 2015, one of the many reasons it's my favorite year so far. Atlanta was comically ratchet, unabashedly toxic, brimming with cutting edge swagger, and perpetually high. Guys like Young Thug and Future weren't missing a single shot, and it felt like the ground was gonna crack open and swallow the city every time another hit appeared out of the blue. There was no shortage of drama. The early days of our friendship were spent sleeping tandem on other people's couches around the east side and riffing bad ideas on long walks to shitty bars. Alex had just moved to town from New York because New York is objectively bad, and I was an unemployed visual artist mostly just drunk all the time. We were both very hungry, literally and figuratively, so every day was bookended by these long nebulous dialogues about financial freedom and how we would attain it as two virtually homeless artists, if ever. It wasn't long at all before we decided to form a creative partnership and try to develop something out of the constant brainstorm we shared. That wasn't verbalized, but one night during a dwindling kickback we hijacked the aux and traded Soulja Boy deep cuts to an unamused audience of Cabbagetown hipsters. After an hour of preaching lyrics to each other I thought to myself, "I'm gonna be friends with this nigga forever, we might as well be productive." Alex was the friend I didn't mind stepping away from the party to talk to because I knew he'd have something better to say than everyone else. We would DJ together, write sketches, video treatments, even absurd social experiments, whatever, all while pin-balling around the city trying to feign stability. Almost five years later, we still operate in the same fashion, the two grown men in the corner giggling like hoes. But now we get to do it in our dream setting. We've both written for TV and film, developed a pilot, and a cartoon together. We aren't literally hungry anymore, but If I've learned anything in the past few years its to maintain that same curiosity and stay close to anyone who inspires you to wander. My back is beyond fucked up from all the couches I slept on, but that's the price of friendship. Who else are you gonna sit and talk to about the future of everything? - Zack Fox

To read the full article, [grab Issue 04 here](https://cultclassicmag.com/issue/issue-04-future-vision "grab Issue 04 here").


Deem 0HEADERIMAGE

Deem Spencer

Five New York-based Luminaries Explore the Unknown

Science Fair

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No Boys Allowed

__NO SESSO__  

Photography by: Samuel Trotter  
Featuring: Pierre Davis, Arin Hayes, Autumn Randolph, Malcolm Marquez, Nimai Marsden, Tyler Lazzari, Austyn Rich, Paris Jennings, Zoe Jennings, Jerrod La Rue  

The future will never be the same because of No Sesso, and we’re all better for it. Making nonconformity as beautiful and inclusive as it can possibly be, others may now materialize their fantasy. No Sesso is the first bloom in an era where talent and taste override privilege and theft — and it’s about damn time. For years, high-end fashion looked to streetwear, but it’s apparent a new dawn is upon us, one where the streets reclaim the runway with their ideas distilled and untainted. The beauty lies in the fact that Pierre and Arin have a clear vision, but they’re not hell-bent on changing the world, that is merely a byproduct of their existence. The cultural titans of LA aren’t demanding such a title; they’re adorning it, bestowed upon them from the community they stand to serve. No Sesso is a reality, a new reality that everyone hopes to exist in. 


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