Karizma is a producer and DJ from Baltimore, Maryland. He's a house music legend thrice over, from his legendary debut 12" The Power, to his extensive work with the Basement Boys collective, to an ever-broadening stream of solo output (cataloged largely via r2 Records). In between, he's had enormous, if sometimes overlooked, impact upon and within the Baltimore Club and broken beat scenes. He's my favorite artist in all of dance music.

We can start with Baltimore – you were born there? What part of town?

Uh, what they would consider Eastside, Waverly section. Actually still lived in that same area my entire life.

Do you feel like you've grown up with all your neighbors, or is it changing a lot?

All of the people I've grown up with, they're pretty much gone. I'm probably the last person in that central area that I grew up with, so that's weird. But also, you know, change. I have a whole lot of new neighbors, and in the last couple years they just found out that I DJ, so that's fun.

You have a musical family?

No, actually the only musical family that I know about – and this is through marriage – is Billie Holiday. I’ve had people, like my great-aunt, play in jazz clubs and stuff like that, but no immediate connection to music. It came for me through church, because I’m a church boy. That was the draw for me, for church.

What was the name of your church?

It was Huber Memorial United Church of Christ. Non-denominational church.

Were you a player or a vocalist?

Well, I was a Deacon Junior, and I was on my way to be a minister. I was also president of the choir, that was the musical draw. But I knew, once I got around 16-17, that I didn’t want to be a minister anymore. I wanted to really do music, and I couldn’t do both.

You felt like there was an inherent conflict between the two?

Oh definitely, because my mother was Christian, and the church is either… you’re doing things for God, or you’re out there in the world. And you know, as anything in life, there’s a gray area. It’s not like that. So my thinking was, although I might not always be doing gospel music, I know that my message… I can still be a minister that way.

Music is universal, my mother danced to Earth, Wind & Fire. So I knew, that’s not gospel music but you can still like it; there’s still something positive in it. I knew there wasn’t a dry line between the two, so I knew there was some room for me to be in music and still affect people in a positive way. I know how music affects people because I’ve always sat back and looked at… when I would play in clubs and I would play hip-hop, I love hip-hop. But there was a point where, I think in ‘95, all the misogynistic stuff started comin’ through, and I stepped away from it. I see the frequencies, and that’s not what I want to put out. My general consensus is, as a DJ and a producer, I want you to leave better than how you come in.

What was the music you’d been making at the time, that you ended up choosing over the church path?

Most suitably, I’d say my Baltimore Club music era. That’s when I had met up with the guys Shawn Caesar and Scottie B, and we formed Unruly Records. We had a lot of friends that did the same type of music – Booman and Griff, Theo, Class – and we were all kinda central to making this music that we got from breaks of other records that we used to collect. It was always these records that had 10 seconds of a break that was dope, but it was never long enough. So we would make that our thing, put whatever we need to put on top of it, and that was how the Baltimore Club sound started.

Were you a record store guy like those dudes?

I can’t really say I was a record store guy – I worked there for exactly three months. The record stores there, the majority in Baltimore were trying to use music to sell beepers and pagers. So that was the draw, you heard the music and you bought a phone. We were there playing, obviously, all the music that people wanted to hear. We had the hot stuff, we’d sell our club tapes or whatever the case may be outside, but the main draw was bringing people in to buy cell phones and pagers. And we had a couple record stores, Metro’s and Music Liberated, and those were the two main ones that we bought music out of.

Same deal as that metroPCS store in DC that got shut down over go-go music.

Yup, that’s it. Like I said, we were in one section sellin’ music, but there was a totally bigger section selling phones and whatever else.

Just from talking so far, I can imagine you kind of enjoying being a little sequestered while playing. How has that changed over time, being a performer, being on stage?

Well, honestly I grapple with performing in front of people because I’m more of an introvert. If I could have a sheet around me when I’m playing, I would rather that because I’m really shy. But, I believe in what I’m playing. I’ve kinda always had to be the one playing my own sound, because nobody got it. When you doin’ something that’s different from everybody else, you have to be the champion of your own thing. In the beginning, when I first started, I had gave my music to a lot of people and they just didn’t get it. So it became a thing to me, like "ok, if you guys don’t get it, I have to be the guy that puts my sound in front of you." I learned to not depend on a lot of other DJs, or anybody else, for what I was putting out there. That was always the goal – how can I freak these tracks so that it doesn’t sound like the next one? How can I make "Think" not sound like "Think"?

Did you have a favorite lesser-known break? Obviously "Think" and "Sing Sing" are in the history.

I’ll tell you one that became prominent in my productions: the one break that I didn’t think got enough recognition was "See-Line Woman." I’ve used that at least 6 or several times, just to make a point. That was a really big record for me, because I thought that was a break that nobody paid attention to. Atjazz did a version of that and I did a remix, so I was happy to get that opportunity. He’s a good friend of mine, and I knew the production would be tight.

How spread out through the city were you and the Griff & Boo, DJ Class guys? Did you meet through music?

Music and high school. Griff, Booman, and I, and Class all went to Northern High. All of our public schools are pretty close together, so you kinda know who’s doin’ what. And at that point because we were all doing that sound, we all connected. The thing was, there was a DJ named Rod Braxton who played at Paradox – we would all try to get our tracks to him before that Friday to play. Sort of like a battle, you had to do something before Friday to get him to play it that weekend, and that was the battle between us. Which was a good thing, because it cultivated that sound.

Were y’all following up and going to the club itself, or did you have to hear about it?

Hell yeah! I was going to the club, and I was dancing at that point. I was there for the duration – I took it in, but I also enjoyed it as a dancer as well. Full-on crew, me and a friend of mine named Dana. And actually, KW Griff and he had a friend named Ryan, we would battle each other at the club.

What were the steps? I assume this was before crazy legs and everything.

I don’t think we had steps then, it was just if you could pop or moonwalk, anything you could think of that could go with the music. We didn’t have any names for that, it was just you did a thing and you battled. I can’t even remember the name, it’s been so long ago. I don’t even think we named ourselves, we just showed up.

With this competitive track-making situation, were you sharing equipment or did everyone have their own secret lab?

Well, what we did all do was use the Ensoniq ASR-10. We all used that. There was a point where we all shared the same drum kick; we have a specific Baltimore Club bass kick that we all used and passed around on floppy disk. But we all used the ASR-10, so we were able to share stuff. Any other thing that was out at that point, if there was any r’n’b or hip-hop record that we liked, it got sampled.

What year did you buy the ASR-10?

[exhales] Makin’ me old. Um, early ‘90s?

How much did that cost?

Mines, I think, was $2000. Fully kitted out.

And that was kind of a sign that you were committing to the cause?

I’m always about forward movement, so my thing was that I want to travel. I really want to get out of Baltimore because I know there’s something bigger than me, here. Basement Boys, they get out of Baltimore, so let me go over there and see what they’re talkin’ ‘bout. So I kept beggin’ Spen – like I said, Baltimore is small, so you always know who’s doing whatever – always bumped into Spen and Teddy. I knew Spen’s wife because she would always come out to hear me play, and eventually I think she got on his nerves because she was like "I really think you need to work with Karizma!" So he pulled me in on a couple tracks for a Jasper Street album, and then a couple years later we end up workin’ at a radio station together, V-103, and I was a mixshow DJ. We kept running into each other and I was like "alright man, you really need to let me get on some things." Time passed, and then he called me about this Mary J. Blige thing he was working on, asking if I wanted to come through, and I was like "bet."

He was workin’ on "Beautiful" at the time, and at this time I was working as a chef for Johns Hopkins University. I quit my job the next day, and I said "I’m not leaving the studio – you got me. This is what I’m doin’." I stayed at Basement Boys from that point on, Spen & Karizma was created, and we worked on remixes and that happened for a while. Eventually, I kinda had to do my own thing and left Basement Boys. I really needed to figure out what Karizma was, because I was so used to being with Spen, having a partner or two to bounce stuff off of, and my confidence was shot. Luckily for me, I had a friend who worked at a club called Sky Lounge that had just started. I asked what night wasn’t anything going on, because I didn’t want to piss off any other DJ, and I got Thursday nights. What I did was, I would make music for that night – whatever was hot, I’d make an edit or do a remix. The draw was that I was playing all new music that you wouldn’t hear anywhere else. I did that residency for five years, my international thing started happenin’, and I didn’t want to have that night suffer so I closed it down and started traveling. That’s when I think it started happening for me, around 2007.

These are the K2 edits that you’re talking about?

Yup, definitely. All of that came because of that night, because it boosted my confidence. That way, I could get the initial reaction. If it didn’t work, I’d go back to the board. I could try out new things, even gear. At that point, nobody was really messin’ with the CDJs like that, but I was determined to really make the best out of them. I spent four grand on these things! I’m gonna make this an instrument. Outside of the edits, for two years I practiced, tryin’ different things on the CDJs to see how I could make them my own thing. How can I set myself apart? Nobody’s using these "loop" buttons – I’ll do it. This is made to be messed with, but nobody’s messin’ with it. How can I make the music experience different? The only thing with that that I found was, people started starin’ at me instead of listening to what I was doing.

You needed the sheet.

Yeah, yeah, because my thing is: I want you on the floor dancing and goin’ "oh, what the – ?" That’s the reaction. I don’t want you to stare at me, I’m scared of that. I just want you to hear what I’m doing. I stopped doing that because I found that people thought that was all I could do. In the last 10, 15 years I’ve gone back to concentrating on the music aspect of what I’m doing.

With later collaborations, like Atjazz, do you find that you approach the relationship differently?

For me, it’s just easy. It comes organically. I never force, it’s like "aye man, I got this thing, I’ll send it." With us doing this transatlantic thing, it’s always been "I got this thing – if you like it, do something." That’s how I collaborate with Osunlade as well.

Going back to cheffing at Hopkins – do you like cooking?

Oh hell yes! Yeah, yeah. I think all artists… I don’t know a good artist that can’t cook. All of my friends can cook. Osunlade can cook. Atjazz can cook. Kai… all of my friends.

That’s the new battle – knees aren’t made to dance anymore, you get in the kitchen. What’s your go-to?

Hmm… I do a good honey chicken. My grandmother was basically the matriarch of my family, so bein’ up under her you had to learn how to cook. She was really on, a man should know how to take care of himself. My grandmother cooked for the mayor, we met a whole bunch of councilmen, she was kind of a hub of the city. Bein’ up underneath of her, I kind of learned food is a way to figure out people and how they are. That stuck with me. And, you know, I like seeing people happy. So if I can feed you, cool. If I can give you good music, same thing.

What was your grandmother’s name?

Jewel Lucas.

Was there a particular moment that kind of triggered your desire to pursue something bigger?

It was always club music, but I figured that club music could only take me so far. At this point, I had did a club record called "Kong" that was a nine-minute song. We were doin’ records that were 3-4 minutes long, so my experiment was: this record does a lot of stuff, I’m gonna make a record that does a lot of things so y’all don’t have to change it. That was the point where I was like alright, maybe I need to start doing something else. These guys aren’t gonna go there, and I’m a forward-moving guy. That’s when I figured out that Basement Boys, they can teach me about songwriting. That’s the thing is, you go to people that can do it better. This was the path, and now this is getting stagnant for me – I need to go somewhere else where I can learn something else.

I’m trying to remember from the inner labels of the records – I want to say there was a little gap between the Hardhead, Mutha Funka, and then the Basement Boys work. Like The Power, that was in-between right?

No, that was Basement Boys. What happened was, that was my first record that would have been for Basement Boys, but mmm, Teddy didn’t like it, so I gave it to Black Vinyl. He was cool with it, and it ended up doing well.

[laughs] You’re kidding… that’s the greatest deep house record of all time. So your next record, you call up Teddy, and –

Uh-huh, that was it! I’m extremely grateful for that period, it taught me everything that I needed to know to get to where I’m at now.

What was Black Vinyl?

It was a guy named Alan Russell over in the UK. At that point, he’d put out records by Kerri Chandler and a couple other people I knew. And actually Spen, because he’d put out a couple things on that label.

What was that process at the time, you’d get a couple test presses and ship ‘em?

Back then? DATs. We sent everything on a DAT. Wait a couple weeks and hope he gets it.

I’m thinking about Pope and Oji, Poji Records – Baltimore Washington Project, sure. Baltimore Chicago Phoenix, it’s expanding a little. But I’m surprised that even by ‘94, ‘95 you’d have had this transatlantic connection going too.

This is why the Basement Boys connection had to happen, because before that it was all local. I just knew that if I wanted to further what I wanted to do, Basement Boys was the place. Teddy knew everybody, and at the point that I had got there, one of the things I’m really proud about… they’re one of the first to have five major label deals at the same time. They had Mass Order Columbia, they had Ultra Naté at Warner, they had Crystal Waters at Mercury, and they had themselves at MCA. At that time, who else had that thing goin’ on all at the same time?

That was mostly remix work, right? When you’d pick that up from a major label, was it any different from how you’d treat your own compositions?

The thing I learned with majors is long-winded. When you do it yourself, it’s fairly simple: you do the thing, and you just wait to put it out. With a major, you have to wait – you have to hope that they approve it. There’s been many times that we did remix work and weren’t approved. We still got paid, but it never came out.

I did want to ask very specifically too about the Kristikal Deepdubs.

We modeled ourselves very specifically after Masters at Work, so whenever we’d do the main version it was me and Spen collaborating, but the Deepah Dubs were always kind of me goin’ off to be creative. Spen would always be like "you crazy!" – that was always it, but he’d let me do it. Deepah Dubs were always my thing and the main versions were his thing.

That makes a lot of sense actually, but I meant the Kristikal Deepdubs off the old club records. Like "Wanna See Me?!," you’re keeping the vocal and doing a house track, but "Who’s In The House" doesn’t sound remotely like anything else on the record.

Just tryin’ to, I don’t know, solidify my sound. At that point I was heavily influenced by Masters at Work, so it was tryin’ to go after that and be the Baltimore version, I guess. But also, puttin’ my own spin on it so that I wouldn’t be biting them.

At that time, how would you have described "being a Baltimore version" of something?

A Baltimore version, I think we have more of a rough cut. I prefer a more rough production than a more polished one. The other thing is, and I’m quite sure you know this, in Baltimore we love bass. That bottom, that’s a thing. If it don’t move us, you’re not gettin’ a reaction. That’s why we had to make different versions of records, because you could play the regular version and we would have to mix it with something. So instead of doin’ that, we would just make our own version.

We was into all of those break records, so anything that sounded halfway dope, we was stealin’. We were playing these records anyway, so of course when you get a sampler you can extend that, put somethin’ else on top of it, that’s the ethos of it. Us loving these records and making our own thing out of ‘em. If anything, I’ll say this: Frank Ski, "Doo Doo Brown" was definitely the igniter. He was the first one to sample all the stuff, and then his background from Florida, he had that Miami Bass. He brought 2 Live Crew to Baltimore, like that sound, and we immediately latched onto it. You add that, whatever’s comin’ up in our brain on the Baltimore side, and you have our sound.

Was this music popular in your school necessarily, or was this whole club and production life kind of an outsider thing?

Not until we made it. Certain house records were big, but it was stuff like Kraze and "It Takes Two." That was a catalyst as well, these things were records that we danced off of. Soul II Soul, "Keep On Movin’," these breaky-type records that were more raw. "Back to Life" because there’s a vocal and then there’s a beat, stuff like that we gravitate to. Some of the hip-hop stuff at that time started to shift up as well, like the Twin Hype, Rob Base. That was the shit for me. Chubb Rock, those things.

How would you describe this social group y’all had at the school? Which lunch table were you at?

I was a nerd, but I could beatbox. So it was beatboxin’ and breaking, dancing. That was kinda it. Musically, it was anything that was hot at the time. I’m a Prince fan, so I was a Prince guy at school. Me and my friend, we used to do the dances in the hallway as a way to greet each other, so it was that type of thing. Any school dances, we all knew each other, so one of us was playin’ at the dance and we would all show up.

You’d had some kind of early hip-hop project right? Justin Human?

Yeah, that was… but no, nothing ever came out hip-hop-wise. I was doin’ tapes and beats for people in my school, but nothing ever surfaced. I had given up at that point, and when I finally got into gear and production I had moved onto house and Baltimore Club.

It was Boo who had gotten into the projects with, what was it, Amp Boogie?

Well see, his projects actually came out, whereas none of mine came out – they were all tapes. Somewhere, somebody’s got a copy.

How deep is the archive? Were you real meticulous about preserving stuff?

Yeah, I was meticulous because I couldn’t afford a lot. It mattered. That was the other thing, it’s not like today where you could record on your phone. Gettin’ $300 up for an hour, I had to make it count. My first productions weren’t even records for people – I used to do music for my brother’s modeling class, so to set myself apart, I would make my own tracks. They did shows every year, funding for the schools, and I did three years of it ‘til he graduated. Every year I would up the ante of what I would do for the show. They’d tell me I like this record, I like this, and I would make a track out of it. I’d make 4 or 5 unique tracks and then play around with them. The studio had everything – MPCs, Akai at that point. I forget the name of the guy I went to… Techmaster, that was it that we were goin’ to. He had two ASR-10s, and I forgot the machine before the ASR-10 but he had that as well. It was great, because unlike the SP-12 with the 30 seconds, having to speed records up, you had a minute and a half on the ASR-10.

When you did make it outside of Baltimore, where’d you start going?

First place was London, was actually for a gig for Alan Russell.

What’d you know about London at the time?

Zero [laughs], nothin’. What I did learn, was that everything was double the price, immediately. But yeah, London’s like my second home. After that, I had a girlfriend there for nine years, gotten to know a lot of people there. A couple people there are basically my family – the guy who runs r2 is basically like my brother. Pete from BBE, he’s held me down. I have a lot of roots in London. It was the place to be – realistically, that was the only place where they were paying for you to play soulful house, which is what I was making at that point.

Was that difficult on some level, feeling like the roots of your sound have taken up root somewhere else?

No, no, no! I don’t care. I’ll go to an alley if people there. I don’t care, I just want to play my music, experience and have that conversation. I don’t just want to play music to you; I get something out of it too. People think that it’s just a one-way, and I don’t think that way. I feel like I’m havin’ a conversation with the people I’m playing to. If there’s times that I have an empty floor, I feel like I’ve been in a big fight, because there’s no energy to give to and I’m not getting anything back.

Early in listening to music, being that my grandmother was the key person, I listened to a lot of old-school big band, country, and gospel. That was it. Every now and again, for like Christmas or maybe barbecues and stuff like that, I might get a chance to actually listen to V-103. V-103 was like contemporary Black music. But, because I was always ADD with music, I didn’t like to listen to one type of music all the time. So I would listen to the rock station, I would listen to the yacht rock station, I listened to it all because I found something that I liked in all of it.

Did the WHUR Melvin Lindsey, Quiet Storm signal reach Baltimore?

Yeah, all of that! That’s the thing with a lot of younger DJs can’t understand how us old-school DJs can kinda flip between the genres. We had to play all that – it was only toward the end of the ‘80s that genre parties started. First it was just a party, you head club, you heard reggae, Quiet storm, everything you could probably hear on the radio station. Then it became this thing of you’re only going to hear house, you’re only going to hear hip-hop. I’m still in that era – I can’t listen to two hours of house, I’m sorry. Or the same kind of house. Flip it, play different kinds of house, I love that. But if you playin’ minimal, and it’s all minimal, you’re losing me. I come from an era where you had to keep it going.

Speaking of Howard, I wanted to ask about Morgan State.

Oh yeah, I played a lot at Morgan State. I actually was on the radio station for a couple years playing hip-hop. That’s how I met Oji and Pope, they used to do a Saturday show playing all house. They were really inspirational as well, because when they first came to town they were the guys who had the Chicago – Pope – and Oji had the New York link. So you would listen to their show to find out what all the new Strictly Rhythm, Nervous stuff was, because they had the link. And that was before I knew Teddy, because obviously he had those connections, so they were the link to what was hot on the house tip. I was a faithful listener, and then I ended up playing with three other guys – myself, Class, and then a guy named DJ Groove, we all did a show called Strictly Hip-Hop.

What were the heavy rotation records for that show?

At that time, it was anything Pete Rock, Premier, all that stuff. All the early Biggie. Anything that these guys did, that was it. Any test presses comin’ with that type of production.

So you've got this radio, college party, circuit. What was the club landscape like at this point?

Paradox was it. But it started at a club called Fantasies, and the guy who owned it, Wayne Davis, also owned Paradox. Where we heard all the breaks that would influence us was at Fantasies – Griff, Boo, Technics, all of us went to this club. And eventually they opened up a bigger club, Paradox, and we all eventually played there.

Was it like a Tunnel thing, where Friday nights are one crowd and Saturdays are the other?

Yeah, yeah. Fridays was moreso college, so that was Baltimore Club stuff. Saturdays was more gay, but that’s where the big house night was. Sunday I think they did a party, but it wasn’t as big as the Friday, Saturday was at Paradox. That where you was at, those days.

Do you think there’s been a resurgence of soulful house in the US recently?

I kind of believe in cycles… well, I have to, because that’s the reason I’m still doing it. If not, I would have given up by now. As in life, I just kind of watch the cycles, and if you stay long enough the cycle will come back around. Kids are into what they into, but eventually they gon’ want something real. That’s whether it’s in r’n’b or in house, whatever electronic thing that they’re doing. So for me, I hear kids playing my records, right? But they playin’ ‘em fast, so ok, cool. But at least you’re there, so I get it. I might not get what the next generation’s doin’, but I try to connect on some level. I came up with old-school, they try to keep it as close to the green as possible, as close to pitch as possible. But I kinda am a no rules guy… if there’s some integrity in how you’re playin’, or you can put some records together, go for it. But just to be playin’ fast for no reason, I don’t see it. You take the soul out of it, there’s taking the soul out of something by speeding it up or slowing it down. But I get why kids do it, because it’s energy.

That’s an interesting distinction, soul vs. energy.

It is, because somethin’ is nice but if you speed it up, it ain’t so nice. You done took the feelin’ away from it, now we just got energy.

Sure, no one’s ever described cocaine as a soulful experience.

[laughs] I always tell artists this – when you make albums, make all the music you love. I don’t want to hear, if you make house, an all-house album. I wanna hear what you into, because you don’t listen to that when you at the house. I felt like, because of me being able to make all of the music I wanted to make, and have my gigs be sporadic, I wasn’t just in the house arena. I could play with Goldie; I’ve played gigs because I’ve done broken stuff. I felt happy that I wasn’t constricted to just playing house parties, I could play jazz festivals with the music I make. That’s what I felt like I was most lucky in.

The Kaytronik record’s obviously a great example of that, but you said you had a new Karizma record coming out. For that one, what’s the –

Same thing!

Well I guess, why now?

I always feel like I have a knack for puttin’ out to help people, and right now, what’s going on in my life, all of the music I’ve made over the past 3-4 years has been therapy music. For me, this is a therapy album, so I’m hoping that people can get through the day with this album. That’s why the name of it is Can’t Call !t, because I don’t know what to call this album, but hopefully it’s something that helps you get through the day.

You’ve become a little more sporadic with releases, or maybe just been spreading them out across more aliases than before.

It’s a totally different personality. Like, Knevrm!nd is me bein’ pessimistic, like people won’t pay attention to this so I’ll put it out. K2 was just moreso me doing my edits. Kaytronik was meant to be more of my hip-hop, edgy electronic stuff.

What about Feel Kollyns?

Feel Kollyns was just for that project, something funny to see if I could get away with it.

This might be out of date, but in some previous interview you had mentioned the possibility of going on hiatus.

Yeah, I think it was during when Soundcloud first popped up, and you could actually see what people thought about your music. I would see all these artists, like where did they come from and why are they so popular? It’ll do something to your ego, when you put up a track and nobody’s payin’ attention, but over here this guy is killin’ it. So I was like hmm, maybe that’s it. I don’t mind walking away from it, it’s cool. And I did, for a good six months. And it was cool, I got to be a regular human being and sit on the couch, eat lunch and watch movies. Do regular shit. But there was a point where it was like this ain’t it, man; this is not what makes you happy. I’ve gotten to the point now where I’m not so worried about the music I release, because I just let it go. That’s always been a thing in my life, I tell other people that: no matter what it is, if it’s something bad or traumatic or whatever, it’s better to just let it go if you can’t resolve it. The music I release, I don’t think I’m the best – I hope people like what I put out. But once I release it, I let it go, and other people think what they gon’ think. I did the best I could, this is me speaking to the world, so whether you accept it or reject it, that’s it.

The way you're talking about it, do you feel like music is a kind of totalizing fixation? If you’re "on" music, is it hard to even fit other stuff in?

It does, because that’s all you think about. I’ve had to become more family-oriented, but there was a point where music was number one, and everything else was next. Whatever I had on my brain had to get done, whatever else in my life had to wait. That was it. Not so much now, it’s moreso that family is first and then I get to my music, which is a drastic shift. But it was something that had to happen, because that’s not how that’ll work.

What do you think you would do if you did give it up?

It would probably have to be something in cooking. Or, I like to mentor, so I would probably try and find some type of program where I would mentor. I want to see other people make it, and not go through things I went through, as far as the musical business. And just in life, what that can throw at you being a musician.

I’m thinking about what you said about Soundcloud and all that – were you on the internet ever as a kid? What was your first experience with that?

My first internet experience was, I think, what was it, Messenger? Just talking to people, that was amazing for me. To be able to talk to somebody across the way and develop relationships that way. That was kinda my main thing, and then when file-sharing became a thing, being able to share music like that. I wasn’t really, really on the internet for anything else outside of information. Anonymous, I didn’t really do anything musically until MySpace. I moreso saw it as a social thing, and that’s where I decided I could turn it into something where I could let people know I do music.

But before that, you were a civilian – you know, "what’s the weather like where you are?"

Exactly, yeah – incog.