On Monday night, the Jacka, a Bay Area rapper who’s been around forever, was
murdered in East Oakland. This one hurts. The Jacka was never a star, and he was never going to be a star. There’s a good chance you’d never heard of him before he died. Speaking personally, he was always on my “I should pay more attention to this guy” list. When someone makes
a ton of music, stays resolutely underground, and sticks to a lane that rarely demands attention, he can be easy to overlook. But with Jacka, that’s a mistake. He was a fascinating voice, a conflicted street-rap moralist who always seemed to carry a huge weight on his shoulders. The Jacka started out with the Mob Figaz crew in 1999 and released his first solo album in 2001. And since then, he’s been cranking out a staggering amount of music: Solo albums, collaborative albums, mixtapes. He never really made hits. But he did, over the years, piece together a powerful persona: The reluctant Muslim dope boy, the man who longed for transcendence and who sounded traumatized by years in the violent street life, someone who didn’t see a way out. And in light of the way his life ended — shot on the street at 37 — that persona is even more poignant.
The Jacka wasn’t a showy rapper, but he was a charismatic one. His delivery was a growly under-the-breath mutter, a tough-guy monotone, but it had a certain melodic slickness to it. He’d deliver his own singsong choruses, barely switching up his delivery but somehow letting it float just a tiny big more. He was a big fan of East Coast technicians like Cormega, who he hit up for guest verses a few times over the years. And he had a quiet intensity that was similar. He gave off the impression that he was too smart to be selling drugs but that he felt helpless to stop, and his music drew much of its power from that tension. Musically, he tended to stay entirely within the Bay, using Bay producers but staying outside the hyphy and ratchet-music waves. Instead, he made what’s been called Mobb Music: The lurching, bass-heavy, secretly melodic Bay Area genre that guys like Too $hort and E-40 popularized, a scene that’s never died or even seemed in danger of dying. That music fit him well: Never crowding him out, never forcing him out of his sleepy-eyed comfort zone, always punching hard without forcing anything. When he’d work with out-of-town artists like Paul Wall or Devin The Dude, it always seemed like he was bringing them into his world, never vice versa.
Last year, the Jacka and Freeway got together to release the collaborative album
Highway Robbery, and the combination made sense. They’d already worked together, and they seemed to be friends, but that wasn’t all of it. Free and Jacka were both Muslim street-rappers, and both of them rapped about trying to resolve the tension between their highest aspirations and their day-to-day reality. But the two of them didn’t treat the contradiction the same way. At his peak, on songs like “What We Do,” Freeway sounded torn apart by his warring impulses. His voice was strained, raw, dramatic, close to tears at every moment. Jacka was something else. He sounded grim, resolved, haunted. His voice sank deep into beats, like he’d realized his place in the universe made no sense but he’d made peace with it anyway. He had a gravity to him. There was a mournful heaviness in his voice, but he still sounded ready to rip someone to pieces if that’s what he needed to do. Thanks to his old Roc-A-Fella association, Freeway at least brushed crossover pop stardom at one point in his career. Jacka never had that. He had his cult audience, and that’s who he made music for. He sounded content and comfortable in his corner of the rap universe.
Last year, the great rap writer Noz published
a fascinating interview with Black Dog Bone, the founder of the underground street-rap magazine
Murder Dog. Toward the end of the interview, Black Dog Bone was talking about the Jacka, using him as an example of someone who could’ve been a superstar if he’d come along a few years earlier: “I went to Seattle to do an article. I’m in all these rappers’ cars and in every car they were all playing Jacka. I didn’t even know Jacka was that big. He’s like a legend there. And he’s a Muslim. So all these rappers in Seattle are becoming Muslim because of Jacka. That’s the power of music.” I don’t know if the Jacka ever could’ve been a crossover star; his music was too insular and heavy for that. But he did make the sort of music that can change people. The Bay has always had a weird resonance in certain corners of the map; far-flung cities like Seattle and Kansas City are practically, in rap terms, Bay satellites. I have no idea how something like that happens. But the Jacka was the sort of artist who gets passed along from hand to hand, like a secret. He died too soon, but he left an impression.