The Hip-Hop Collectives That Prove Family Comes First

Image via Complex Original

The Juice Crew may have the distinction of being the most influential crew in hip-hop history, a reflection of their stylistic and geographic diversity. As a family, the crew wasn’t all having dinner at the same table every night; Brooklynite Big Daddy Kane and Long Island native Biz Markie hung together; MC Shan and Intelligent Hoodlum represented for Queens. 

“There were certain members who hung around with other members more for sure,” Kool G Rap once told Wax Poetics. “There was large group of us, so we all sectioned off. But when it came time to work together, [there weren’t] really like egos or nothing. Marley was really good at keeping us together and on the same page.” Marley Marl was the glue of the group, and while their family may have spread throughout the boroughs, the notion of a single producer at the helm of a diverse network of talented stars pushed together as one crew proved heavily influential. Few rappers can claim to have not been influenced by at least a corner of the Juice Crew sound.

The Geto Boys initially formed in the mid-1980s, but they were a different group at that time. It wasn’t until 1989’s Grip It! On That Other Level was released that the Geto Boys as they’re known today—Scarface, Willie D, and Bushwick Bill—formed into a cohesive whole. Perhaps most startling about the group's success is that while they pursued solo careers—Scarface most successfully (for a while, Willie D left to pursue other ventures and was replaced for one album by Big Mike)—the core group’s records touched three decades in a time when most crews couldn’t make it through one. While one hesitates to conflate musical and personal relationships, the way that the three rappers meshed on-record definitely makes it tempting to argue that part of the reason why they lasted so long was because each one brought something unique to the table in some kind of cosmic balance.

If the Juice Crew laid down the blueprint, then the Wu-Tang Clan capitalized on it. Sure, in recent years, the family has squabbled both in private and public, as its various members attempt to continue the crew’s legacy. But the group belongs here regardless, if only for managing to thread the needle between organic in-group chemistry and true individual talent.

Of course, not everyone in the Clan was ready for a solo career. But as strong as they were as a collective, they appeared even more potent after the first wave of solo records, a legacy that suggested that loyalty and a collective effort could help break down the door for their individual stars. Few (if any) crews since have managed this kind of balance: either one star breaks down the door and the rest garner pseudo-fame on the mixtape circuit, or the crew comes through only to spawn unfortunate solo careers. But for Wu-Tang, the family’s unity provided for each individual member, in turn, to the best of their abilities. It may not have lasted forever, but it was the most powerful example nonetheless.

Although facing a challenging climate for artists with a popularity peak that is now more than two decades past, De La Soul has remained a family unit throughout their long career. There are no Plug One, Plug Two, or Plug Three solo albums; while Prince Paul went on to other things (let it be said, none were as exciting as his work with Pos, Dave, and Maseo), the original trio have stuck it out for the long haul. There have been moments of creative slippage, sure. And the run of three albums that launched the trio is a hard legacy to match. Yet the group remains one of the genre’s most underrated, breaking down doors for artfully relatable MCing years before today’s regular-guy rap mainstays. Today, their innovations are less musical than they are technological, taking advantage of torrents and Kickstarter to not only beat the drum for artist-controlled distribution, but to creatively drum up some publicity. De La Soul now touch the ’80s, ’90s, ’00s, and ’10s—a feat few other rappers, never mind crews, can claim.

Wu-Tang may have had a bigger impact initially, but if longevity matters when it comes to putting family first, Dogg Pound is in the upper reaches. Daz Dillinger and Kurupt Young Gotti have been putting out records both together and as solo artists for so long that the unlikely nature of their partnership of more than two decades is rarely discussed. OK, so their recent material isn’t touching classics like 1995’s Dogg Food, but on the other hand, their albums still provide occasional jewels; as a producer, Daz is a talented secret weapon who has never quite gotten the acclaim that he deserves for his involvement on projects like the original Chronic and 2Pac’s All Eyez on Me. Occasionally, a new artist will recognize; T.I.’s third album featured career highlight “My Life” with Daz—but he’s still quietly slept on. Kurupt, meanwhile, continues to earn respect from both the old guard—he collaborated with DJ Quik on 2009’s Blaqkout—and new—Kendrick Lamar’s “Control” verse paid the rapper direct homage. Over the years, though, the duo has stuck together, and every once in a while the two manage to put out a record that proves their chemistry is intact.

If you haven’t fought with your family, then you’ve never had one. While it’s easy to argue that the group’s very public falling out makes them a less-than-perfect example of putting family first, we’d argue that it’s exactly the opposite: Mobb Deep is a crew whose bonds are so tight that when the wheels come off it’s liable to set your teeth on edge, to make you wince in knowing discomfort. Although their various solo efforts—particularly Prodigy’s—have been shining examples of launching solo careers, nothing touches the group’s work together. The chemistry between the two rappers is unlike any other duo in the genre, a level of telepathy that makes their subsequent troubles all the more heartbreaking. In 2012, there were Twitter blasts and SXSW concert trash-talk. Of late, they seem to be on good terms, releasing 2014’s The Infamous Mobb Deep to celebrate the 20th anniversary of their 1995 breakthrough. (Yes, it was a year early.)

Dipset reunion shows pop up every year or so these days, capitalizing on the memories of an era when “I Really Mean It” pumped out of every passing car and Harlem was really on the map. Although the group had a rough patch in the middle of their run, and Juelz Santana never quite managed to capitalize on his star potential—making Jim Jones an unlikely breakout artist (and style icon!) in the latter half of the 2000s—there was a unity of purpose and balance of power that made the artists behind such hits as “Dipset Anthem” and “Crunk Muzik” a stronger cohesive unit than any other New York crew from their era. Sure, G-Unit may have sold a whole lot more copies of their records. But the group’s chemistry was moreso the product of blockbuster major label machinations; 50 Cent once leaked audio of Young Buck crying on the phone over accusations of disloyalty, the kind of thing that breaks families apart. Not to say that members of Dipset were above such tactics, that is, if the beef between Jones and Max B is to be believed; they just never used them on each other. But most importantly, their flashy style and unique approach to street rap at a time when New York was beginning to lose its footing to Atlanta was a last breath of true cohesion in the New York scene.

Although their unity took some hits in a stream of acrimonious allegations during the Gucci Mane Twitter drama of 2013, it's hard to deny that during the crew’s heyday, Brick Squad was anything less than a united front. And in some sense, they were literal family: Waka Flocka is the son of Debra Antney, the head of Mizay Management, who, at that time, managed Gucci, Nicki Minaj, and Brick Squad as a whole. And Wooh da Kid is Waka’s blood brother. The crew introduced the world to an entire shelf of new producers who shaped the sound of rap from that point. Gucci was, as a rapper, a democratizing force; one need only to look at the many artists who've come out in his wake to see the true impact of his innovative approach. Brick Squad was the test case, the proof that rapping was something accessible to those who might not get much critical acclaim or other commercial opportunities.

It’s funny to imagine now that Kendrick is the crew’s undeniable star, but there was a time when rap fans had their own favorite TDE member, back when people argued that ScHoolboy Q might even be the better artist. Even more interesting to contemplate is that a few years earlier, it was Jay Rock who was considered the most commercially viable in the market—although it was his test run that allowed Kendrick to capitalize. 

Though Kendrick has transcended the status of his crew mates, there can be no denying that they helped to build each other; the early recordings like “Black Hippy”—the real core of the TDE family—brought back in-studio musical chemistry and a devotion to a craft that had been sorely missing within hip-hop at the time. And even though Kendrick has become an example of rap as serious art, from the beginning, there was a playfulness to TDE’s approach to hip-hop that allowed the artists to evolve in varying ways: Ab-Soul as its consciousness-raising introvert, Schoolboy Q as the eccentric gangster, Jay Rock as the tough role-player, and Kendrick as the conscience of a generation.