The other day, my brother called me with a simple question: “When can you hop on a song with me?”
I don’t think he realized how powerful that question was.
I’ve been writing hip-hop lyrics most of my life. At one point, I had songs getting played on Power 99 in Philadelphia and even receiving airplay in Austria. There were royalty checks. There was evidence that the music connected with somebody beyond the walls of my bedroom or studio.
But I never fully capitalized on it.
Part of that was confidence. My music was positive, reflective, and probably different from what I thought I needed to sound like at the time. I had plenty to say, but I wasn’t always convinced that people needed to hear it.
Now I’m 44, and my brother’s question has me thinking differently.
I’ve started wanting to open up some of that old equipment again. I want to hear what the 17-, 18-, and 19-year-old version of me was saying. Not because I want to become that person again, but because I wonder what that young voice can teach the man I’ve become.
And that’s where I started thinking about ageism in hip-hop.
Hip-hop has always been a culture built around voice, perspective, storytelling, and authenticity. Yet somehow, there can be an expiration date placed on the people who participate in it.
In other genres, musicians can mature with their audience. Their age can actually become part of their appeal. Experience becomes another instrument.
So why shouldn’t hip-hop work the same way?
At 44, I have something I didn’t have at 18: perspective.
I’ve experienced relationships, fatherhood, marriage, education, work, failure, success, faith, entrepreneurship, community, and responsibility. I’ve watched people I knew grow up. I’ve watched some dreams change and others come back around decades later.
Maybe that’s not something that makes my voice less relevant.
Maybe that’s what makes it different.
I’m not trying to recreate 1999. I’m not trying to compete with a 22-year-old. I’m trying to figure out what happens when the voice I had back then meets the wisdom I’ve accumulated since.
Maybe the goal isn’t to prove that I’m still young enough to make hip-hop.
Maybe the goal is to prove that hip-hop is still young enough to make room for me.
And perhaps my brother wasn’t just asking when I could get on his song.
Maybe he was reminding me that the voice I thought I had left behind is still here.
I’m still trying to figure out what that voice sounds like today.
But I’m listening.
