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Tuesday, June 16, 2009 
THE CULT OF J DILLA
By Simon Reynolds for http://www.guardian.co.uk/, June 16, 2009

Since his sudden death in 2006, the impact of hip-hop producer J Dilla has grown ever bigger, with an entire wave of music influenced by his legacy. But what made him special?

Record stores are dying in my neighbourhood, the East Village of New York. The only ones that are hanging in there, even prospering, belong to a particular type: boutiques that offer a tidied-up version of the crate-digging experience, without the dust and the graft, the knees-bent flicking through musty cardboard boxes in roach-infested basements. Smart-looking and well-organised, these stores have racks made of unvarnished wood, while their wares – funk and soul, bebop and fusion, soundtracks and library music – tend to be selective and pricey. As well as selling source vinyl for the breaks and samples prized by DJs and producers, these stores also stock vintage rap 12-inches and current underground hip-hop (always on vinyl, of course). By the counter, they'll have copies of Wax Poetics on sale.

Several years ago I was in one of these shops, just about to put on some headphones and sift through an armful of vinyl, when some wondrous music streamed out of the store's sound system. All rippling ribbons of synth and quiet-storm diva murmuring and gasps, it was the most swooningly cosmic thing I'd heard in a small eternity. As I headed down the aisle to the back of the store where the DJ lurked, the thought popped into my head: "P'raps this is Dilla?"

I don't know why, really, since I only had a vague idea of who he was, having read about his recent death and gleaned that he was this big-deal cult producer. J Dilla, aka Jaydee, aka James Dewitt Yancey, is someone I had "slept on". To be honest, I avoid that whole backpacker rap/Premier-is-God/Wax Poetics area. (In fact, I only go to these crate-digger boutiques because they sometimes have 60s and 70s rock and weird avant-garde stuff.) I'm one of those people who believe the sector that kept rap vital these last dozen years wasn't the underground but that cusp zone between "the streets" and commercial mainstream: Cash Money, Ruff Ryders, Ludacris, Lil Jon. Mostly dirty south, in other words: hip-hop that isn't encumbered by crippling reverence towards its old-skool past. Still, sometimes as a critic you just absorb a sense of the musical landscape through osmosis and sure enough when I asked the DJ what record he was playing, he reluctantly (the attitude, typical for this kind of store, seemed to be "if you need to ask, you're not someone who needs to know") showed me the instrumentals version of Dilla's posthumous album, The Shining.

Over the next week I got hold of as much Dilla as I could: stuff he'd done with his group Slum Village and in collaboration with Madlib, solo records like Donuts, Ruff Draft, Welcome to Detroit and, naturally, The Shining (where I discovered that the track that blew my mind in the store was called Won't Do).

So what made Dilla special? If you could break his style down into three main components, they'd be his way with a vocal sample, his way with a beat, and his way with synths. As an example of the first, let's look at a really old track that's on the first volume of Dillanthology: The Light by Common. I loved this when it came out in 2000, but I'd never realised that Dilla produced it until I got Dillanthology. The Light is pretty much the only Common tune I've ever cared for and such was my antipathy for the rapper that for a long while I considered the track a kind of sample-delivery machine: you wait patiently through the verses for the gorgeous, glistening chorus, which is derived from Open Your Eyes by Bobby Caldwell, a white-but-sounds-black singer who hit big in early 80s America with a similar "rock'n'soul" sound to Hall & Oates.

If you compare the original song (and do check out Caldwell's hat while you're about it) with The Light you can clearly see Dilla's artistry: he's taken an already lovely, if slightly schmaltzy, song and created another song out of it. Open Your Eyes is a guy telling a woman to stop pining for her lost lover, because what she needs is right here in front of her. Combining different bits of the chorus into a new chorus, Dilla extracts from the original song a more mystical statement about L.O.V.E. that fits Common's lyric (which I grew to find, um, touching) like a glove. The most extraordinary, steal-your-breath part of the Light comes at the end where Dilla takes vocal fragments from various points in the song – a line here, a curl of grace notes there – and weaves them into what sounds like a stretch of spontaneous soul-singer extemporising. It's as though Caldwell is right there in the studio with Dilla and Common, scatting over the beat.

Talking of beats: Dilla's signature, widely forged at the moment, is what tech-heads refer to as "unquantised drums". Quantisation is a procedure that makes rhythms perfectly regular and grooves superhumanly tight. The gist of what Dilla did (and I invite comments-box experts to fill in the gaps in excruciating technical detail) is to avoid quantising and go for a looser, human feel, fitful and fallible, sometimes pushing "off-beat" to the edge of plain wrong. Hip-hop headz talk of Dilla as the catalyst for "the return of the boom-bap", a phrase originally from KRS-One's 1993 album Return of the Boom Bap.

Sometimes rendered boom-boom-bap, it's a phonetic evocation of hip-hop's classic drum pattern. The booms are the kicks, the bap is the snare, and the combination is that loping midtempo groove that tugs at your neck and your head, not so much at your hips or your feet. As it has developed in underground rap circles these last 15 years, boom-bap has come to refer to hip-hop for nodders and smokers. To backpackers it's the pulse of life itself, but to these ears, boom-bap strikes me as being as capable of being blandly formulaic as any other kind of beat. Dilla did his fair share of perfunctorily functional grooves, but at his most creative he deconstructed the rhythm, placing the booms and baps, hi hats and claps, in an off-relationship to each other, clustered too close or coming in too late, but always retaining a ghostly relationship to hip-hop feel.

Monday, May 04, 2009 
Pubished by eMusic.com. Link:
Hey Ma - Maureen Yancey Remembers Her Son, J Dilla
Hua Hsu, Emusic.com

There's a disarming effervescence to Maureen Yancey as she shares memories of her late son, the Detroit producer and rapper J. Dilla. It has been over three years since Dilla passed away from complications related to lupus, yet she speaks of him as though he were still a constant source of amusement and inspiration. When asked if Dilla ever tried her seemingly infinite patience, she laughs: "Of course he made me very mad. For a whole week. He was two years old."

Despite controversies surrounding Dilla's estate, indiscriminate bootlegging of his unreleased works and her own ongoing battle with lupus, Ms. Yancey — "Ma Dukes," to those who know her — has been one of the proudest and most optimistic champions of her late son's legacy. We spoke to Ms. Yancey over the phone in Boston, where she was attending a performance of Dilla classics at the Berklee College of Music. "They teach a Dilla class at Berklee," she explained proudly. "These students are having a program this evening and it's like a culmination of their classes. It's just spectacular!" In his absence, perhaps this is the next best thing to a proper Mother's Day gift.

--

"He was very unusual as a kid. The reason I say 'unusual' is because I had two boys in the house. One played with cars and trucks and Legos. And then there was Dilla, who had nothing but records and records and more records. He never asked for any toys. They didn't interest him. He would play with his brother maybe for a half-hour or so — he would give him a half-hour of his time. After that half-hour he just didn't have tolerance for the toys and the games: it would be back to the turntable.

We always let him choose his own records, even at two years old. You could go into a record shop and they would play different records in the shop, so you got to hear a lot of new stuff. (He went) shopping every Friday as a ritual, when his dad got paid. We lived downtown, and the record shop was two blocks away, so (his dad) would walk him to the record shop. If he heard something playing that caught his ear, he would ask for it. I was amazed at some of the choices he made. I know he couldn't have known all the artists. Maybe he was looking at the labels?

He started making his own music as a pre-teen, using cassettes. We had cassette tapes and everything, and he had a drum machine. And he'd be downstairs making music…he would do it continually, until it was time for him to go to bed. He would just be rewinding that tape over and over…he had a process where he could get the full sound. He had his own little technique. I know when my husband did his reel-to-reel, he did the same thing. He always did the recording himself, because he was never satisfied with how other people would do it. I think Dilla acquired some of that from him.

While he was still (in high school), he began to spend more time at Amp Fiddler's home. Amp showed him how to run the boards, and how to operate everything in that studio. He spent time with Amp at night to do different sessions. A lot of times he should have been home resting to get ready to go to school, but would be running late because he was in the studio all night.

From 6 a.m. to 6 p.m., I had daycare going upstairs. And from 6 p.m. to 6 a.m., Dilla had people coming daily to learn to do beats or for him to help with their music. These same young men who are big in the industry now — they would be outside my door at 6 p.m. every day, waiting. Eminem was one of them. Eminem and Paul Rosenberg — who turned out to be his attorney — Paul was rapping at the time, he wanted to be a rapper, too — they would be there at 6 sharp. They were very punctual! They would wait. And then there was Karriem Riggins. He was the quiet one. He was very polite and he never spoke. He was always silent. Proof would be there everyday. He was going to the ritzy, private high school — It was one of the best high schools they had in Michigan, very upper crust. It was hilarious that he went there. He was a good student — but he didn't want anyone to know it!

I felt good about (his career) when Amp took him to meet Q-Tip. Of all the young men and women Amp worked with — he worked with the entire community in Detroit — of all the people he could have taken, he took Dilla. And, sure enough, that turned out to be a wonderful thing. We got a phone call the next day — I remember we got it and Q-Tip's attorney called and said she had talked with Tip and he was very interested and he wanted him to fly out to New York and sign him up to do some work for him and choose an attorney. The whole house was in an uproar! I remember there were daycare teachers upstairs and they were screaming and I was about to burst wide-open.

--

He was diagnosed in 2002. They didn't diagnose him with lupus itself until 2005. They had not a clue it was lupus the entire time. Before then it was as a complication of lupus, but they hadn't a clue to look for it. Before they thought it was TTP (Thrombotic Thrombocytopenic Purpura)…and the other was something that attacked different cells. The names were so long, I could never memorize what they were. It was just a bunch of rare blood disorders that one in ten million people would get. There was no real way to treat it. And then we would have specialists consulting with other specialists, trying to figure out how to treat it. When we were at Cedars-Sinai I think he had 15 doctors treating him daily. They were online at all times. They would spend an hour there, trying to figure out what was going on.

He was just dumbfounded. I think it really made him sad — I've been sick for so long now. Why me? What have I done to deserve this? I didn't know what to say. I remember just sitting there. After a while he was all right.

He was sad, but he wouldn't drop any tears. It was the golden rule. He angered me so many times. I know he should have been upset. That's why I knew I couldn't let him see me upset or see me cry. I know coming out of dialysis it was so painful he felt like he was dead, with the condition that he had, it would make him feel like his life had drained out of him. It was really rough.

His situation — he would do good one day, and maybe his platelet count would drop to near-nothing over night. And it was just like…something you couldn't even imagine. This one day they said he wouldn't live through the night. They said he wouldn't make it through the next three hours. They had all types of masks on him. And he told them, No tubes. Everybody was in an uproar — Does he understand that his breathing is only eight percent and he can't make it? And he said, No. I'll be all right in the morning. And, of course, I'm about to lose my mind, and everyone was upset at me. But for some reason I didn't sign the papers. For some reason, I listened to him. And, sure enough, within eight hours time, his breathing was at one hundred percent. And they thought he was going to leave there at any minute. For some reason, I trusted him.

I'm so glad we had doctors that understood he was a musician. They allowed me to bring materials and equipment up. Stones Throw made sure he got a small, red sampler — it was something new that had just come out. Peanut Butter Wolf went and got it for him. And he had this piano-guitar — it was a small keyboard but it had guitar also — it was unusual — and then we got a turntable — he had to have two, one old one from the house and one portable for the 45s he was listening to. So I would bring crates of records up. By that time he had taught me how to record shop. It was good. I did the record shopping, I would bring things up, whether it was different equipment or a new mic. That way I knew he would have a good day.

As soon as he was able to support himself upright, it was time to go record shopping. Of course, at Amoeba (Records)…he would get out of the hospital, and that was something you know we had coming up. And I'd be so worried. Because he would be on a walker — the three-pronged walker — and the walker is at the end of one aisle, and I'm looking for something for him in another aisle, and when I come back, I see the walker and I don't see him. And I'm freaking out, cause he's already scooted his way down to another aisle. He was so engrossed in what he was doing, he had left the walker.

He knew. We had so many times…we would be out of the hospital, and then we would find ourselves back in a week. Some of his doctors were very frank with him — they would let him know they couldn't cure it, they could only treat it. So he knew what he was up against. He had accepted that he would not be here. He asked me a million times: Am I going to die today? Am I going to die? And that was just profound for me. I would open my mouth right away, but it took me forever to say, No, of course not.

Dilla never changed. It was always music, totally music, and more music. The only thing that changed was that the bass got deeper, and our heads would thump more.

Tuesday, March 03, 2009 
Monday, March 02, 2009 
Friday, January 30, 2009 


Maureen “Ma Dukes” Yancey, the mother of the late James “J Dilla” Yancey, is currently battling the same disease that took her son’s life.

RAISE IT UP FOR MA DUKES! T-shirt.

Parra designed this tee because he didn't like what he read in this Vibe article. Dough from this tee goes to Ma Dukes.

www.stonesthrow.com/store/men-s-tshirt/stones-throw-x-parra/raise-it-up-for-ma-dukes

Update: womens, 3x, 4x sizes coming.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009 
Vibe Magazine, February 2009
www.vibe.com

THREE YEARS AFTER HIS UNTIMELY DEATH, J DILLA'S BEATS AND REPUTATION LOOM EVER LARGER OVER HIP HOP. BUT FOR HIS MOTHER - WHO NURSED THE VISIONARY PRODUCER THROUGH A CHRONIC ILLNESS AND HAS WATCHED HIS ESTATE LANGUISH IN LIMBO - THE STRUGGLE CONTINUES. BY KELLEY LOUISE CARTER

There's nothing Maureen Yancey wouldn't do for her children. But as she sits in the basement studio of her only surviving son's Los Angeles home, she struggles with the one thing she hasn't done since her firstborn, James Dewitt Yancey known in hip hop circles as Jay Dee or J Dilla - three years ago of complications from lupus. She just can't. She didn't do it when the ambulance arrived at the nearby house Dilla shared with. Common, and she didn't when they failed to revive him from cardiac arrest. She couldn't even bring herself to do it when she picked out which baseball cap she'd place by his coffin.

"When he left, I had an awful void," she says calmly. "I didn't grieve like you always think you'd grieve. I always had a joy and the strength to help others to get through it. But..." her voice trails off, hands smoothing down her jeans. "I haven't cried yet."

Still, the memories came flooding back when she flew from Detroit to visit the city where her son was buried at age 32. "I rejoiced in the fact that he wasn't sick anymore," she says, "and that he'd done what he came here to do. I do believe that. His purpose on earth was to come here and give us the music that he had in his heart and soul."

The equipment that surrounds her is Dilla's, the same gear he used to create the deceptively simple, unspeakably beautiful music that solidified his reputation as one of hip hop's greatest. As Busta Rhymes put it in 2007, "He wasn't just a producer, he was the best producer."

Many of her son's friends - Common, Busta, Erykah Badu - still call regularly, and keep her son's music in rotation. Q-Tip's latest single, "Move" (Universal Motown, 2008), was built around a Dilla beat, and her other son John Yancey, a rapper known as Illa J has released the powerful new album, Yancey Boys (Delicious Vinyl, 2008), which was produced by his big brother.

Meanwhile the 60-year-old woman everybody calls Ma Dukes faces health problems of her own, and financial challenges as well. Although numerous memorials and "benefits" were held in his name, the proceeds didn't change his family's life. Dilla left two daughters - Ja'Mya, 7, and Paige, 9 - to provide for, a sizeable IRS bill, and unresolved legal issues surrounding the use of his beats. Ma Dukes says she has never received money from her son's estate and that her plans to establish a foundation in his name were quashed by the executor of his estate. Somehow, she was not reduced to tears even after Dilla's attorney informed her that she had no legal right to use her own son's name or likeness for commercial purposes. Not even to support his family.

IN HIS NATIVE DETROIT, DILLA WAS THE MAN. The soft-spoken beatmaker was a pioneer of the Motor City hip hop landscape that struggled to gain national recognition before Slim Shady put the D on the map in 1999. Though he remains anonymous to the masses, Dilla is considered a demigod by his hardcore fans. His distinctive drum sounds and grimy, organic sound palette revolutionized hip hop production, and echoes of his innovative use of samples can be heard in the work of Just Blaze and Kanye West. "He can do a Primo beat better than Premier. He can do a Dre beat better than Dre, and he can out-rock Pete Rock," says fellow Detroit producer House Shoes. "But none of them could duplicate a Dilla beat. Much respect to those three. They were pioneers. But that's the fucking truth."

Dilla grew up in the Conant Gardens section of Detroit's Eastside surrounded by music. His dad, Beverly Yancey, played piano and upright bass. "My mom and dad had a jazz a cappella group, and they'd sing in the living room for hours and hours," says Illa J, 22. "It was really laid-back and nonchalant. While that was happening, my brother would be downstairs in the basement doing his thing."

By the mid-1990s, Dilla was getting calls from some of the hottest stars of the day. He produced tracks for The Pharcyde, De La Soul, Busta Rhymes, A Tribe Called Quest, and Q-Tip, with whom he founded the production collective The Ummah. Yet despite these high-profile projects, Dilla shunned the limelight. His love of music eclipsed any concern for dealing with industry politics. "He wasn't antisocial," says Illa J. "He was just quiet. That comes from our dad. A lot of his personality rubbed off on my brother. It was all about the craft for him. He didn't care about all that other stuff."

When Tribe's Beats, Rhymes, and Life (Jive, 1996) was nominated for a Grammy, Tip invited Dilla to the award ceremony. "I was like, 'Yo, this is a good opportunity for you, you should just go.' He was like, 'Hell no, I ain't going. Fuck that!"' recalls Q-Tip, laughing at the memory. "I said, 'You got nominated for a fucking Grammy. You are going to go.' He said, 'I ain't got nothing to wear!' But he went. He was so mad and disgruntled and angry about that. He was much happier doing it his way. That's who he was. He didn't really want to fuck with none of that. And I don't blame him."

DILLA REALIZED SOMETHING WAS WRONG WITH HIS HEALTH IN JANUARY OF 2002. He'd just returned from Europe and thought he had a bad flu. Sick to his stomach and complaining of chills, Ma Dukes took him to the emergency room at Bon Secours hospital in suburban Grosse Pointe, Michigan. His blood platelet count should have been above 150, but it was below 10. Doctors told his mother they were surprised he was still walking around.

He tested positive for lupus, an autoimmune disease that can be fatal. To make matters worse, Detroit doctors diagnosed him with thrombotic thrombocytopenic purpura, aka TTP, a rare disorder that causes blood clots to form in the body's blood vessels.

Despite his degenerating health, Dilla packed up his stuff and moved out to Los Angeles, where he lived with his friend and frequent collaborator Common. He set up a studio and got to work. But very few knew how bad life was for the soft-spoken prodigy. He poured himself into his work, doing his best to forget his health problems. Ma Dukes says there were several close calls. When she left him alone once, Dilla fell down and bumped his head. Because she refused to leave Dilla's side during his last days, she and her husband lost their house. She tried to file for bankruptcy to save the family home but didn't get back to Detroit in time to sign the necessary paperwork. "I wasn't leaving my son," she says."We lost the house. But I wasn't concerned. It didn't bother me at all."

At summer's end, 2005, Dilla found himself in a hospital bed at Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles, the same hospital where The Notorious B.I.G. and Eazy-E died. He'd lost the ability to walk and could barely talk. His own body was killing him, and there was little to be done about it.

Sensing that death was coming, he told his mother he needed his equipment in the hospital with him. Ma Dukes asked his friends from the L.A.-based label Stones Throw Records to lug his turntables, mixer, crates of records, MPC, and computer into his room. When his hands were too swollen, Ma Dukes would massage his stiffened fingers so Dilla could work on the tracks, letting his doctors listen to the beats through his headphones.

Sometimes he'd wake Ma Dukes up in the middle of the night, asking her to help move him from his bed to a reclining chair so he could work a bit more comfortably. His only focus was finishing the album. Donuts was released on Stones Throw on February 7, 2006, his 32nd birthday. Dilla died three days later.

"It was crazy to hear all that soul," Illa J says of one haunting track called "Don't Cry." "I got to be in the right mode to listen to it. It's emotional for me. I can feel my brother talking to me through the music."

THREE DAYS AFTER DILLA DIED, HIS ELDEST DAUGHTER, PAIGE, TURNED 6. "That was a low blow," says her mother, Monica Whitlow. "To have to tell my baby that before her birthday was the worst. We didn't get to say goodbye." The 29-year-old, who knew Dilla before his career took off, still lives in Detroit. She emphasizes that their relationship was never about money. "To have him back here, breathing and living, that's worth more than money any day," she says. "But it pisses me off, everything that's going on with this estate. It's ridiculous 'cause it's been three years, and my baby has not seen anything from this estate. Nobody has granted James his final wish."

Although Dilla's will stipulates that all assets be divided among his mother, his two daughters, and his brother, the executor of the estate is his accountant Arty Erk, and as back-up, there's his attorney, Micheline Levine and then his mother. Ma Dukes says she grew so frustrated that communications broke down between her and the executor. Erk explains that payments from the estate were delayed because Dilla has an outstanding tax debt in the "healthy six figures." He says he is negotiating a payment plan with the IRS and that a petition has been filed with the probate court in order to get family allowances paid to Dilla's children.

The other major issue facing the estate is that so many people are using Dilla's beats without permission. Dilla would often create beat CDs and hand them out to friends.

"It's been difficult to police," Erk admits, adding that he's at the tail end of litigation with Busta Rhymes. "An album was released by Busta on the Internet called Dillagence without authorization," Levine explains. "And, of course, we're now unable to use those tracks and exploit those downloads. Everybody downloaded it for free." Attempts to reach out to Busta were not returned.

Ma Dukes counters that Busta paid Dilla for those tracks years ago. "He got a raw deal," she says. "Busta didn't take anything from anybody." Ma Dukes says she feels bad that her son's friend had to go through such rough treatment by his estate.

The same scenario has played out several times since Dilla's death. The estate has settled "four or five" similar cases, negotiating what they believe is fair market value for the beats. "A lot of people are coming out of the woodwork with things that he did for them," says Erk, who took out an ad in Billboard magazine in April 2008, notifying people to stop using Dilla's material. The estate also sent out cease-and-desist letters to various entertainers as well as people throwing events in Dilla's name-including his own mother, she says. "Her dream was to open a camp where kids with lupus could have normal lives," says Joy Yoon, an L.A. journalist who interviewed Ma Dukes shortly after her son's death and later offered to help her raise funds for what was to be called the J Dilla Foundation. "But then she said she was put on hold by the lawyers."

Ma Dukes insists she will go on with her plans for the foundation, establishing it in her own name. "It's been over two years, and they're talking the same crap," she says. "I don't have a Ph.D., but I know how to use a phone and talk to somebody and make arrangements. It's just not an excuse. They have no respect for the fact that I had anything to do with bringing him into this world."

Meanwhile, she has voiced concerns about Dilla's will itself, which he signed on September 8, 2005, nearly six months before his death. "I don't even know if he really knew what he was signing," she says. "I don't think he would have signed anything if he'd known it would be like this now." She has hired an attorney who is also representing her son and Paige's mother, Monica Whitlow, who says that legal action is "in the works."

"His estate is fucked up," Q-Tip says. "I know the lawyers are saying that he had certain tax issues and all that stuff. But you were getting paid to represent him when he was alive, so it shouldn't be any of that. Ma Dukes ain't getting nothing, and the kids ain't getting nothing. It's a horrible thing."

During the last year of her son's life, Maureen Yancey tested positive for lupus. She says she's not worried about dying and has accepted the fact that she and her husband must now live in a rental property in a neighborhood she describes as "a war-torn zone." What keeps her up at night is her grand children. "I just want the girls to be taken care of," she says. "That's all."

In response to a petition filed by her mother, Joyleete Hunter, Dilla's youngest daughter, Ja'Mya, has begun receiving money from the estate, and Erk says Paige should start receiving payouts sometime in early 2009. "Oh really?" says Whitlow. "That's new information for me." She has had few conversations with Erk and says that when she informed him she was working with Ma Dukes' lawyer, he warned her, "This is going to get ugly." But she remains undeterred. "I gotta speak up for my baby 'cause I been quiet too long," she says."He hasn't seen ugly. I can show him ugly."

In the meantime, Ma Dukes says please don't cry for her. "It's really rough for everybody out there. But prayers help," she says with a sigh."Pray for my strength."

Vibe
Sunday, July 27, 2008 
AN INTERVIEW WITH J DILLA'S MOTHER MAUREEN YANCEY
About Dilla's legacy and her current estrangement with the executors of his estate.
BY JEFF WEISS
LA Weekly June 24, 2008

Author: A few weeks ago, I wrote a piece discussing the difficulties J Dilla's estate has had in enforcing copyright law and paying off the six-figure IRS debt left behind. In the aftermath of the story's publication, I had the chance to speak with his mother, Ms. Maureen Yancey about Dilla's legacy and her current estrangement with the executors of his estate.

LA Weekly: In the original article, some comments from Dilla's estate's executors made you take pause. What were they and what sort of problems have you had with the estate?
Maureen Yancey: I understand the side [estate executor] Arty Erk's coming from and what he's trying to do. However, there has been no communication between them and the family in a year. The only time I hear a peep is if there are some propositions between attorney's going to court. That's the only time I'm made aware of things.

It's ridiculous. I still have contacts with all of Dilla's friends and people in the hip-hop community. We still talk, we still keep in touch, we've became friends. They check in on me and I've had the opportunity to direct them to the estate thinking they'd be able to help do projects. But most of the time, none of their inquiries have been addressed. There's no one that has made it accessible to them to contribute and get work done. I've stopped sending people there. They haven't been forthright, I was told they didn't appreciate the help, that we weren't supposed to use Dilla's name or license. By the time, I understood what was happening and learned about the legal ramifications, I took down the website for the Foundation that we'd created as to be in compliance with state laws. I figured in the coming year, they'd reevaluate their decision, but it never happened.

One of the things Dilla wanted me to do with his legacy was to use it to help others, people with illness, kids who were musically gifted but had little hope due to poverty. I wanted to use my contacts to help people and out and it was squashed because we weren't in compliance with the state and there was nothing we could do about it. I'm Dilla's mother and I can't use Dilla's name or likeness, but I know that I still can honor him by doing his work.

What were your intended goals for the Foundation?
I wanted to set it up to help others but also to be a nucleus for the fans who wanted to do tributes and honor Dilla. It would be a place for artists to be able to show their support. When the estate chose not to communicate with us, they sold themselves short. The A-list artists stay in contact with me directly and they're basically cutting off the quality talents that made themselves closest to Dilla. Anyone with a knowledge about his work would know this, but those in charge haven't a clue to Dilla's worth, They haven't a clue as to who he was as a man or what his relationship was with his fans and his peers. It's a community, those artists coming out of the underground. You can see this when you travel around the world and see how large his fan base really was. People are still discovering the extent of Dilla's influence.

He has a young audience just coming into the community who he's had a major influence on. Then there's the issue of the jazz community. Dilla grew up with jazz. That was his lullaby and the connection is far greater than the estate realizes. It's more than just notes. There's so much that can be done and the estate hasn't got a clue. It's such a waste of time. But I'm not closing the door on them yet. Dilla worked alongside with me and I was a big part of my son's past. I moved to LA to take care of him, I worked for him from day one, that's why the communication with his peers and me has been so great.

What do you hope happens with the estate?
At the end of the day, we want our voices to be heard. We want the community to work with me and the estate. We want everyone to work together. It's been the estate's choice to not communicate with us and it jeopardizes the future quality of his projects. They make the decisions for him without the proper musical knowledge. Their depth of musical knowledge just isn't enough.

How did this entire mess come about? Why did Dilla pick these people if they didn't know anything about music?
He definitely wouldn't have chosen any of them if he knew better. The thing is, Dilla got along with mostly everyone, but if he knew about certain people who have collaborated with the estate he'd been spinning in his grave. They might as well have gotten someone off the street to oversee things. They know the words but they don't know what they mean.

Arty Erk was never his business manager as he portrays himself. During Dilla's lifetime, he was strictly an accountant. Now they constantly threaten to sue at the drop of a dime, I don't want to risk my health so I try not to worry about these things too much but it's upsetting.

It all happened because of our lack of knowledge. Dilla was the first person in our family to even have a will, he was the first to even have anything to designate, the only one of us that had an estate. I'm talking about grandparents and great-grandparents back all the way down. Usually, all we've left behind is bills. I didn't know how what to do, so we ended up sitting on the paperwork for months. We put it off. As his mother and best friend, I didn't want to interfere or ask questions. I felt it wasn't my place. I was so sure that he'd pull out of it. I never had a clue that he'd pass. He'd always tell me, 'mom I'm going to go home,' so that's what I thought would happen. If I'd know he was going to pass, I'd have certainly had someone look at the paperwork. It's just we never thought he'd need it. He ended up with Arty Erk because he had handled his finances, but still, he never had knowledge that it would end up this way.

And what about Micheline Levine, his attorney?
Dilla had been with her for most of his career, since he'd been with the Ummah. Whaen Dilla started to make it, he interviewed with several attorney's and he felt the most comfortable with Scott Felcher, who employed Micheline. Dilla was big on going with the people he felt the most comfortable with.

I called her a little while back to let her know that Arty wasn't being fair with me and that he'd made a few comments that I felt were racist. We'd had a relationship in the past and whenever she'd had a disagreement with Dilla, I'd smooth it over. Dilla had a lot of respect for his elders but he brought her to tears a few times and refused to say that he was sorry, but I'd help bridge the gap. Yet she didn't seem to care when I expressed my displeasure with the situation.

What specific comments did you find racist?
When Dilla got sick, I'd been having health problems of my own, but since I had to take care of Dilla, I ended up neglecting my own health. I was feeling really ill and had very little activity in my lungs. I needed needed medication and I had bills. Not bills that would take a lifetime to settle but bills nonetheless.

At one point, Arty told me to call him back and in the meantime, he'd try to see what he could do. I waited and never got the return call. Still in the same poor shape, I called him and he said that he couldn't do anything and asked me, 'well, what did you expect to happen? Were you expecting a big windfall of money?' I said, 'no, but you did tell me to call back and otherwise I wouldn't have done that.'

At one point in the conversation, he told to me consider going to social services or getting state aid. My gut told me if I had not been a black mother, he wouldn't have said those words. But that wasn't the first time. In the past, he'd made comments about Dilla buying rims. He called me up one time to chastise me for Dilla having a lack of funds and told me that he wouldn't be in this predicament had he not spent money on rims for his truck. But Dilla made the money, he worked for it and he wanted to spend it on what he wanted to spend it on. Erk doesn't know much about the community and how important it is what they see you in and how you dress, how you look in public.

I never told Dilla about that conversation but I wish I had. He would've fired him right there. At the end of my last conversation with Erk, I told him that he didn't have to ever worry about me calling him again in this lifetime. That was over a year ago and I called Micheline about five minutes later to let her know what he'd said and how I felt about it. I only talked to her once after that, about the guy we chose from Stones Throw to work on Dilla's remaining catalog.

Ultimately, they don't want anyone who knows the business to deal with Dilla's stuff. They'd rather do it themselves and close themselves off from the community.

So what's the status of Dilla's kids at the moment?
They're doing fine. Both of the mother's are drawing social security and his daughters are living with them. Dilla wanted them to be taken care of and they are.

You've mentioned how close of a relationship you have with Dilla's artist friends? Who do you still keep in touch with?
Everyone calls me. Busta calls regularly. Erykah, Common, The Roots. All the top name artists used to come over during Christmas and New Year's and at various points during the year, so we came to be a family. It's a beautiful relationship that's never faltered, even the artists out in LA. Madlib is a perfect example. Before they'd met face to face, Dilla and him already had a great relationship. The thing is, Dilla didn't want to work with just anyone. There were times he'd gotten offers that would involve big money and he would be like 'I'm not feeling them,' and tell me that he knew better. I'd be sick about it, because it would be at times when he really needed the financial resources, but it wasn't about that, it was about quality. I mean he's still receiving awards and dedications worldwide to this day.

So what do the artist's themselves think of the tumultuous relationship you've had with the estate?
I can't name one of them who's happy about it. None of them want to see me having to grovel for money for medication. I've always been a businesswoman but I had to give it up to take care of Dilla.

What was your profession?
I ran a day care, I had always done that in a building at Conant Gardens. I'd always taken care of myself and never depended on Dilla.

What about the relationship with Stones Throw? You see a lot of mean-spirited comments and rumors in chat rooms that they've been less than upright in business matters regarding Dilla.
Stones Throw has always been wonderful. When I came to LA to take care of Dilla, his medical bills were sky-high but the people from the label were there every day. The only time they didn't come was when I would call them and tell them to come a day later, because Dilla was too sick for visitors. They took care of the finances, they gave him advances for music that had barely been discussed. They've been great.

Dilla didn't have health insurance for his last two years, so every time he went in and out of the hospital, he would rack up massive bills, sometimes up to a quarter of a million dollars. But they would always try to give us help, even if they didn't have it. I know people say mean things about them but they just aren't true. They're totally honest and they loved Dilla, they stuck by him to the very end.

Why do you think the estate has been so brusque in dealing with you and the artist community?
I think it's simply a control issue. They don't want to worry about ma dukes saying anything. They don't have the time to be bothered, Time will tell. They've definitely done things that are unnerving, that's for sure.

What would you have liked to have seen happen?
I would've liked to be in harmony with them and for there to have been less bigotry, I would've liked to have seen activity. If you do work, people find out about it. Dilla wasn't about controversy, he would've liked things to have been peaceful. Dilla was about love in many formats and for his estate to have done the exact opposite is not having any respect for him or who he was.

Has it been difficult for you to be one of the main people in charge of protecting your son's legacy?
It's been a joy. Even in bad times when people want to slander me, people know the truth, everyone in the community knows. I was there at the beginning and people know that I loved and gave everything to my son. There was nothing I wouldn't have done for Dilla. If it takes 10 years for them to get over this merry-go-ground, it's going to be okay because Dilla wanted to help people who suffered.

Being in Detroit, it's overwhelming the talent that these kids have here. But there's no art appreciation, there's no type of outlet at all. We have very few recreations here. When you come to my home it looks like Beirut. We need these talented and responsible children to see a spark to see the possibility.

What do you think about the current renaissance of Detroit hip-hop, with Black Milk, Elzhi, Phat Kat and others starting to break nationally and who pay such an obvious tribute to your son's music?
I think it was a wake up call for them. They were all so close. Phat Kat would come here every day and would just be hanging around outside. The inspiration has gotten stronger for them. They know they're not promised anything,

Dilla knew when he was going to leave. He talked about different things for me to do when he was gone, but I didn't want to hear that. But he knew that he only had a certain amount of time left that he was blessed with. My greatest bit of advice is to tell artists to get a living will and to name for your executor someone who loves you through thick and thin. Don't take things for granted. I know Dilla's not the first one to get bad advice. It happens a lot in this industry but I hadn't a clue about it. This stuff just wasn't on my mind. All I want to do now is get the foundation up and running because that's what Dilla really wanted.

Is there any bit of your son's music that you hold most dear to you?
I know all of his music but Donuts means the most, because I was there. We had our schedules in the hospital and we'd rotate it around dialysis. It was hard because we'd have to do stuff in the wee hours of the night, with stacks of crates littering the room. We worked double-time and the doctor's were worried but they ultimately knew that it was necessary to keep his spirits up. It was wonderful to be a part of and it's special to me. I didn't even understand the way he arranged things at first. I hadn't given thought to the arrangement, with the "last song of the night.' He knew his time was winding down and that album was his way of letting you know. It's like being taken along for a ride. Dilla would always say, 'are you ready for a ride,' and that was what he felt with that album.

Any other favorites?
I liked "Fuck the Police," a lot because Dilla had so much trouble with the police and it tormented him. He was all about being clean and crisp when he left home, his car was always immaculate and the police always assumed that he was dealing drugs or something. I remember the night the inspiration for the occurred. They were in the basement making music and they went to the gas station four doors from my home to get food. On their way there, the cops tried to tear them up, We ran down to the gas station and the cops were already stripping the car apart, trying to disassemble it. Dilla was furious. He hadn't done anything wrong. He hasn't driving a Caddy truck or a Lexus, he was just in a Ford Ranger that my husband had bought it for him because he worked at Ford. It was Dilla's first real car, before he'd made any money on his own and now the cops were belittling him. It hurt him so bad. I told him not to get so upset and that he should put his anger to good use and write a song about it. They didn't get much work done that night but it was business as usual the next day.

When did you first sense how musically gifted Dilla was?
At two months old, he could do perfect harmony, it was incredible. My husband would play jazz to put him to sleep every night and I was going to school for night classes and we thought it would sooth him. Meanwhile, he'd been harmonizing along with the basslines in perfect pitch. It was amazing, we'd tape it and play it for other musicians. We were a very musical family, my husband was always training people to sing.

At two and three years old, he'd start to go to the record shop every Friday and they would play all the new records for him. He'd buy a few and then go to the park and spin records. He was only 2 and a half. Now ironically, it's an area where they have an artist haven.

What would you like people to remember about your son?
I'd like them to remember what his music was about. It was very simple: it's about love. Sometimes it was negative, sometimes it was positive. I didn't appreciate that until he had passed. Dilla loved people, he loved doing what he did, and he loved those he worked with.

So with all this in mind, what are you plans for the future?
I'm planning on founding the J Dilla foundation in his honor. I suppose I'll just do it with my own name, God gave me one too. The artists will be informed that this is what Ma Dukes is doing in honor of him. No one can stop me from doing it and the work will still be the same. I just want his fans to know how much we appreciate him and love and cherish all the support.

Thursday, March 13, 2008 

Generation Loss

THE WIRE (UK), MARCH 2008
http://thewire.co.uk/

Hip-hop has a long history of posthumous mythology. From the industry’s mercenary exhumations of Tupac and Biggie, to the grassroots worship of fallen local heroes such as Texas’s DJ Screw and the Bay Area’s Mac Dre, its relationship with mortality flits from the complex to the conflicting, the sincere to the crassly opportunistic. On 10 February 2006, however, its safe to say that the culture lost one of its most formidable talents. After a long battle with the debilitating immune condition lupus, James Dewitt Yancey, also known as Jay Dee or J Dilla, passed away at his home in Los Angeles at the age of 32. Two years on, its now clearer than ever that this young producer achieved something that few musicians ever manage, leaving not only a timeless and innovative back catalogue, but a whole generation inspired by his idiosyncratic and intricately wrought work.

While artists such as Sa-Ra Creative Partners and Flying Lotus continue to carry Dilla’s torch, he was equally revered in life, counting figures such as The Neptunes’ Pharrell Williams. Kanye West and Just Blaze among his biggest admirers. Even so, he cut a remarkably low-key figure in the frequently brash and excessive world of contemporary urban music Rather than basking in the limelight, Dilla was always happiest letting his beats do most of the talking. And how they spoke.

Growing up a shy child in a musical household in Detroit. his later involvement with the city’s independent hip-hop scene would shape his life. After rapping and making music on a rudimentary studio set-up, it was thanks to being taken under the wing of local producer Amp Fiddler that Dilla would begin to realise his full potential. By 1993, Dilla and his friend MC Phat Kat had dropped their first wax as the duo 1st Down. In addition to this, he also produced an LP entitled The Album That Time Forgot for 5 Elementz, a group including the late Detroit MC Proof. Throughout the mid-to-late 1990s, working under the name of Jay Dee, he continued to concentrate on studio work, steadily rising through the ranks and creating infectious music for instantly recognisable names such as Busta Rhymes, A Tribe Called Quest, The Roots. D’Angelo and Erykah Badu.

Blending forward-looking techniques with a deep knowledge of hip-hop’s past, his aesthetic perfectly suited these distinctive MCs and honeyed neo-soul vocalists. Dilla’s presence was such that even those unfamiliar with his name or the breadth of his oeuvre will know at least some of the work from this period, chiefly a stellar remix of Janet Jackson’s "Got Till It’s Gone," De La Soul’s "Stakes Is High" and a large proportion of The Pharcyde’s 1995 album Labcabincalifornia, including the classic "Runnin."

It was, however, as Slum Village, the group formed with childhood friends Baatin and T3 at Pershing High School, that Dilla’s gifts really began to shine. While membership allowed him to step out from behind the mixing boards and command the mic - a facet of his career that would continue to be explored on 2001’s Welcome 2 Detroit and Jaylib’s 2003 Champion Sound albums - it also gave him the creative control and freedom to become the kind of instrumental artist we know him as today. READ MORE

Wednesday, February 13, 2008 
Tuesday, December 11, 2007