Brother Ali: The Cisco Kid
November 19, 2009
Brother Ali in San Francisco: life on tour with the Minneapolis rap star.
By Amber Schadewald
Photo by Leslie Plesser
Brother Ali performs at Slim’s in San Francisco.
It’s 5 p.m. and nearing the end of another beautiful San Francisco day. Tourists swarm the Union Square district like insects, surging past the bustling shops and blocking sidewalk traffic as they wait for a cable car ride. I stand on the corner in front of Rasputin Music, a five-story record store that is supposed to be hosting a meet-and-greet with Brother Ali.
Signs advertising the Minnesota rapper’s appearance cover the walls of the store, which, sadly, has more employees than shoppers. Ali’s fourth and newest album, “Us,” blasts over the speakers, but Ali himself is running 15 minutes late. “Our store has really bad luck with these in-stores,” says the guy working the door. “Either the artist doesn’t come through or fans don’t show up.” I start to get nervous and walk outside, just in time to see an unsuspecting tourist get hit in the face by a pigeon’s wing.
“Brother Ali just Twittered that he’s at a coffee shop,” says an off-the-clock Rasputin employee who came in to meet Ali. Another 10 minutes pass. Finally, I’m relieved to see the unmistakable rapper — a very large albino man, equally pink and pale — walk in the door at 5:28.
“Not a good day,” he says as we sit down at a designated coffee table on the second floor. We scan the nearly empty room and flip through used DVDs while the few shoppers ignore us. They have us seated in the “Gangster” section, to the left of the stand-up comedy shelf. “I used to want to be a stand-up comedian,” Ali says, looking around. “But then I found out I was better at rappin’.”
Ali signs only four posters in an hour, yet his spirits aren’t damaged, nor is his ego; he’s just confused. His last San Francisco store appearance, he says, had a line out the door, and a few hours after our interview, his evening gig at Slim’s would be sold out. We laugh at the awkwardness of the situation, and at the TV overhead playing the 1988 fantasy film “Willow” on mute. The halfling title character appears to be singing the lyrics to Ali’s song “The Preacher.”
“Aw, Willow is always doin’ that,” Ali says, batting his white eyelashes.
“Us” is an incredible lineup of songs that strive to push listeners out of a passive stance and expose them to injustices. It’s stacked with solid, sliding beats, soulful melodies and serious commentary on divorce, homophobia, drug abuse and survival. His October stop in the Bay Area is the halfway point of the two-month Fresh Air Tour with Evidence, Toki Wright and DJ BK-One, which ends this Friday and Saturday at First Avenue in Minneapolis.
“Fifty shows in 60 days and I do every show like it’s the only one,” Ali says. “I live 23 hours a day for that one hour onstage.”
Ali may be a decade into the rap game, but his humility is in the details. His tour van is far from luxurious, acting as temporary home to four rappers, one DJ, a driver/manager/sound guy and a merch man. Sacrificing privacy means more money for everyone involved. Lots of driving and not a lot of space means Ali had to pack lightly and coordinate carefully: blacks and grays, no brown, four jackets, jeans, comfortable van shoes and a flashier pair for the stage.
“Actually, those shoes are why I was late today and why my day has been so frustrating,” he laments.
Photo by Leslie Plesser
Commonly cast as a serious type, Ali is surprisingly comfortable taking a break from his street-preacher persona, and his intimidating front melts as he discusses more mundane topics. The week before, Ali says, he had to throw a pair of $170 Nike Air Force Ones in the trash. His red eyes widen as he describes the pile of dog feces he had stepped in, so massive that he saw no choice but to throw away his dream shoes. Today he chased across San Francisco looking for a suitable alternative, but came up empty. So he persuaded his wife, Tiffany, to have a new pair of Air Force Ones sent from Japan, and redirected his search to the wardrobe.
“Unfortunately for me, stylish clothing today is cut for people who like to wear tight shirts and jeans like Kanye,” he says. Ali’s style is consistently oversized and baggy, with an affinity for Adidas track suits. “All those clothes fit me like I’m a 17-year-old.”
Apart from shopping woes, Ali is pleased with the tour’s success, especially for the supporting talent. From the transitions between sets to the arrangement of the sets themselves, the Fresh Air Tour has been carefully crafted down to the last detail, including a surprise tour theme song. Keeping momentum is Ali’s prime concern.
“Momentum — it’s easier to maintain than to start,” he says, and he could be referring to the tour, making music or life in general. “It’s like once-a-week sex. It just doesn’t compare to that third-time-in-one-day sex, right?”
The record store gig ends with an uneventful handshake from Rasputin’s manager. Ali purchases a DVD of the blaxploitation flick “Sweet Sweetback’s Badasssss Song” for $7.97. We hop into a two-door Honda Civic with Will Abramson and a partner from Yours Truly, a popular San Francisco music blog that is scheduled to shoot a video with Ali. I cram into the back seat with the large rapper, but just before we pull away, a man taps on the window.
“Hey man, I love your stuff,” the fan tells Ali. “I raced all the way here to see you and then missed you inside.” He thrusts a new copy of “Us” into the car for a signature. Ali autographs it for the guy, whose name is Cal, and both men are left sporting ear-to-ear grins.
“Wow, Cal was stoked,” Abramson says, pulling out onto the main drag.
“I’m a lucky person,” Ali says, reflecting on what just occurred. “Every time something sucks … ” He pauses. “It’s all worth it, just for that dude.” Ø
The Civic makes its way through traffic as the Yours Truly guys recall the first time they saw Brother Ali in concert as high school seniors. Ali pulls out his phone and plays a clip of a short song he wrote in the tour van. It’s a Brother Ali love song, which he says he’d like to make an entire album of someday.
We arrive in the hip, colorful Mission District, pull up at Different Fur Studios and walk into a dimly lit studio. Our guides fill us in on Different Fur’s history, which includes some of Herbie Hancock’s first synth recordings. Ali stands still, observing in awe.
While recording equipment is set up, Ali talks to the camera about “Us” and how it compares with his past work. The difference, he says, is that his stories now come from outside of his own point of view, from experiences lived in the eyes, words and shoes of others.
“Now I can eat. I live in a nicer place — nothing fancy, but a two-bedroom. I’ve got shit in the fridge,” he says with his usual calm demeanor, exuding wisdom. “My life is filled with love, but those who I love, who got me where I am, are still barely surviving.”
“Us” isn’t Ali bragging about his newfound good fortune, but rather reminding us that people in our communities and families face problems that society has barely begun to address. With his own life in line, Ali says it was time for him to think about others.
“It’s like an oxygen [mask] on an airplane. They tell you to fix your own first, and then fix those around you.”
The lights turn blue, putting a dark shimmer on Ali’s new Adidas jacket as he takes his place at the mike. A performance of “Tight Rope” is recorded in two takes, with Ali’s voice the only sound in the room as he raps about lives filled with contradictions, lives that “tear you in half.” While a listener may not directly relate to a young Somali woman’s struggle between assimilation and tradition, Ali hopes you will try.
“I’d like common folks to see themselves as the same. Gays, Muslims or blacks; those people are all in the exact same boat as you; you just don’t know it,” he says. “That’s my political philosophy: revolution based on the common people seeing our struggles as one.”
Photo by Julian Murray
Yet Ali says he was always taken aback by people who told him, “I feel like you’re singing about me.” “I would ask myself, how is that possible?” he says. “Then I realized, the details might be different, but the feelings are all the same.”
The session wraps up with a new version of “Forest Whitiker,” a fan favorite from 2003’s “Shadows on the Sun.” Then the group heads over to Slim’s for the main event, finding the sidewalk outside the venue full of disappointed fans too late for tickets.
Inside it’s sweltering, the packed room pulsing with excitement. Ali’s voice roars, plowing through new songs and old favorites. He paces back and forth onstage, riling up the crowd with impromptu freestyles and hand gestures, demanding their participation to the final encore. It’s an incredible show, with sweet visuals, cameos and a surprise San Francisco guest, rapper Murs.
It’s so good, no one even notices Ali is wearing his gray and red van shoes.
Amber Schadewald is a Minneapolis-based freelance writer working in San Francisco.
