Classic regionalism tale: I spent the entire summer of '85 with relatives in Los Angeles, California. This was the halfway mark of the first decade of equal opportunity for the superpowers in music – specifically, for black artists to get their fair share of the pie. Michael, Prince and Lionel sustained the decade's first half, and it seemed like the sound of hip-hop was going to claim the second half. My cousins always had this AM station on constant play called KDAY. Before that, I could never imagine a time when I could hear hip-hop for 24 hours on a station. Normally you got it on the weekends for three to four hours, recording every second so you could sustain yourself for the week. But out in L.A., it was a whole new ballgame. And the anthem for that summer? Toddy T's "The Batteram" –a song about when a knock on your door from the po-po just ain't enough. It made sense: Gang violence was at an all-time high, so of course the music was going to reflect how they were living. I mean, you heard "The Batteram" from every ghetto blaster and car no matter where you went. So imagine my surprise to return back to my beloved Philadelphia and brag to my friends about how incredible my summer was, only for them to be like, "Batter what?" I didn't have a cassette of the song to prove to them that they'd better get with it or get left in the cold. Oh boy, little did I know. No one in Philly could help: local DJs, college hip-hop radio formats, roller skating rink cats – nobody had heard of this song!
My neighborhood pal Greg told me, "Nobody knows 'Batterram' because everybody is all caught up in 'La Di Da Di.'" He told me "La Di Da Di" was so popular I could actually hear it on a weeknight on mainstream radio. So instantly I thought this was a lie. He assured me it wasn't and told me to make sure I had a tape ready to record at around 9:50, when the Power Nine at 9 came on. Sure enough, I sat there, jaw dropped, as the most distinctive voice I ever heard rap held the Number One and Two slots from what I was told was the entire summer. I felt foolish going on about Toddy T when clearly the future was now, and I was not at the forefront of its discovery.
I mean, point blank: Slick Rick's voice was the most beautiful thing to happen to hip-hop culture. He is our Bill Cosby, a master storyteller and deliverer. Don't get me wrong, Doug is no slouch neither. (And show of hands: How many of y'all knew that New Jack Swing pioneer Teddy Riley co-produced "The Show"?) But this was one of those "a star is born" moments in hip-hop. Every last line of "Da Di" has been the anchor of many a hip-hop classic, and it's no wonder. Rick is full of punchlines, wit, melody, cool cadence, confidence and style. He is the blueprint. No one bragged like him, no one name-dropped like him, no one sang like him, no one was funny like him. Nobody. And as this song inches to its thirtieth anniversary, it's clear that no one will ever, ever sound like him.