Back in the days the Babamataa’s were known for their cultural ways. Bo Babamataa in particular was great at making his sadness disappear. He had lost his mama, was always away from his sugar baby and the white folks even called him a crazy coon yeller. But such instances didn’t bother Bo because he was full of tradition. This Negro was one of the great shouters of all time. In his prime he could be heard screaming with spirit and vigor over all types of crashing rhythms. House parties and “colored only” sections grooved to the unsettling uniqueness found in Bo’s voice. Rumors have it that one summer evening all of Kansas City was left in frenzy by Babamataa and crew. All it took was a boogie piano, screaming sax, a bass that kept up with everyone’s heartbeat and of course Bo. The vitality of his thoughts and lyrics shook up the world before they ever learned how to shake. People laughed, cried, released and made it with their sweeties all night long. Even truth showed up to expose itself. The ghetto couldn’t help but to jump to these jarring jam sessions. When the Depression hit it was Bo who kept the masses lighthearted. Urban areas to country hoods were stuck in a chaotic trance. That fellow could turn a toad into a winged liberation. Bo was a Blues man and he had a son.

JB Babamataa was the son of Blues man. An infectious smile and spontaneous style affirmed that this cat was truly far out. His exotic energy was perfect for a booty bouncing exhibition or a rebellion against the MAN. On the hottest day during the summer of 1969 things got super bad. That afternoon JB broke down barriers and defied all the laws. Communities from Oakland to Atlanta to D.C. to Newark were shaking their rumps, gyrating sexually, tearing roofs off of houses and grooving hard to his low down dirty earthly essence. It was a funky deal. Accompanied by a fuzz guitar, Moog synthesizer, a number of horns, and an eccentric appearance JB Babamataa kept the nation moving. The sweat dripping from his brow served as battle scars from a musical orgasm. The nasty vibe and syncopated sensuality was too ferocious for the masses. They became soldiers, dancers, radicals and funkateers almost instantly. For the moment everyone had lost control. The world was a ghetto. JB never recorded an official album but was a ruthless black warrior whose onstage magnetism kept it funky on summer days. JB exhuded the same excitement everywhere and made sure his young boy was there for each step towards the sun.

At a very young age one could notice that Farique Babamataa was magically creative. He executed dope dance moves to old Funk tunes and was a natural on a set of drums. Others would describe him as being a Master Craftsman for his uncanny ability to construct concepts with a little help from a kick, snare and high hat. Farique possessed a personality fit for a block party. His booming voice moved crowds and his charismatic attitude almost always assured that the young Mr. Babamataa would be the Master of Ceremonies. Despite such talents he was best known as the hood’s premier Microphone Checka. Up until his tenement was burned down, he would throw speakers in the window and have Uptown jumpin for hours. Farique’s rhymes ranged from block representation to Black solidarity. A little Malcolm and Marcus mixed with Sly and Hendrix backed up by some Babamataa tradition made for an unnatural phenomenon. In a few bars he helped young Negroes forget about a decade filled with violence, drugs and the ways of Ronald Regan.

The 90’s brought upon a new Farique. He retired from rap and on March 9, 1996 opened the Boom Bap School for Talented and Gifted Young Men from the Hood.

The newest member of the Babamataa clan was a bit different…