Every time San Jose rapper Righteous Reg goes to 7-Eleven, he says he fears for his life. In his tracks, the outspoken artist wrangles with his reality of being young and black in a time when the news features men who look like him getting abused and killed on a frequent basis.

“The scariest thing in the whole world is being in the line of fire of a policeman who is fearing for his life when I’m just living,” he says. “That fear is what fuels Righteous Reg.”

Reg, who will be performing at Streetlight Records on Saturday, first became interested in making hip-hop while admiring the local battle rap circuit. Although he doesn’t engage in freestyle battles himself, the scene’s hard-cutting style seems to inform his uncompromising verses. Succinctly, on his most recent track, “That’s the Way,” the hook features the line “being black is dangerous,” over a looping, snarling guitar.

Although there are many voices in “the resistance,” Reg sees himself as an on-the-street complement to the more visible activists—millionaire celebrities who speak out against injustice while often enjoying a remove from its most immediate effects. Plus, with the advent of social media, he can’t avoid viscerally witnessing brutality that might have been more abstract a decade ago.

“I don’t want to see people being slammed,” he said. “I don’t want to see people being shot. I don’t want to see any of it, but as soon as I hit the Twitter button, it’s there.”  

Obviously, Reg delves into other topics. Citing Nas as a major influence, he wants to be a rapper who is also a “poet and a storyteller.” Reg fits these labels. His songs relate anecdotes, stack rhymes and feature plenty of fun, boisterous braggadocio.

And despite his frank raps, he’s not hopeless. On “K.I.M.,” he returns to a positive mantra: “keep it moving, we gon’ make it.” The one-time minister of a friend’s wedding, Reg sees his role as a rapper as akin to a clergyman—he speaks on the concerns of those like him, so they feel they have a voice and a companion in their struggle.

“I’m regular guy,” he says. “I live like you do. I see the same things that you see. There’s so much going on every single day that I have to talk about it. Like, what else am I going to talk about?”

Righteous Reg
Oct 21, 4pm, Free
Streetlight Records, San Jose
streetlightrecords.com

When he was 19 years old, pianist Kenny Barron got a call from Dizzy Gillespie. Based on myriad recommendations, the legendary band leader wanted Barron to join his ensemble, even though he’d never heard him play a note. On the taxicab ride over, Gillespie’s bass player gave a snap rehearsal, demonstrating the chords and rhythms that Barron half-knew anyway. He possessed a precocious calm as he had been performing by that time for five years.

“When we finally got to the gig, it all fell into place,” Barron recalls. “It’s one of the great things about jazz: you take people who have never played together before and you can make great music because there’s a shared language that we all know. So just like in English, we can have interesting conversations.”

This sort of no-matter-what dependability has characterized the career of the now 74-year-old, widely regarded within jazz circles as among the greatest, most influential living pianists. Barron has appeared on hundreds of recordings—both as a bandleader and an accompanist to such names as Ella Fitzgerald and Stan Getz. He has also contributed to the scores of Spike Lee films, including Malcolm X and Do the Right Thing.

Renowned for his finesse on the keys, Barron credits his chief influences: Tommy Flanagan and Hank Jones—the former tinkled away as Marilyn Monroe sang her famously steamy birthday song to John F. Kennedy. While playing, Barron never seems rushed, moving his fingers at the whimsy of his emotions and instincts while executing with technical perfection.

“It’s not my desire to be bombastic and play as fast as I can and be like, ‘Watch me,’” he says. “No, that’s not what I’m into. Hopefully, I want to play a ballad to make you cry.”

This week, Barron will play with his eponymous trio—featuring bassist Kiyoshi Kitagawa and drummer Justin Faulkner—both of whom are a handful of decades shy of their 70s. But Barron, like Gillespie before him, values what youth can bring to a group.

“They definitely keep me on my toes,” he says. “I tend to want to play with younger people. You play with older people, it’s different. The sound may be smoother, but when you play with younger guys, they kind of kick you in the butt, which is a good thing. It’s an adventure every time we sit down to play.”

Kenny Barron Trio
Sep 14, 8pm, $53+
Oshman Family JCC, Palo Alto
paloaltojcc.org

A decade ago, rapper, Blu, and producer, Exile, caught lightning and bottled it on Below the Heavens. Over Exile’s soul-sampling, boom-bap beats, Blu packed tracks with intricate storytelling and unpretentiously profound insights. The album has rightfully endured as a stellar example of the era’s style, and this summer, the pair are capitalizing on that staying power with a nationwide nostalgia tour celebrating the project’s tenth anniversary.

That tour comes to Cafe Stritch this Wednesday. Though the local jazz club may seem an odd venue choice for the hip-hop duo, it isn’t. Most evenings, Stritch hosts a style of jazz that stopped being ground-breaking decades ago. Still, the players who take the Stritch stage are experts in their field. Similarly, Blu and Exile represent the platonic ideal of a certain kind of hip-hop.

Over the last ten years, rap has strayed further and further from its roots. Like jazz and rock before it, the pioneering sounds of the genre have been ripped apart and rearranged by modern practitioners, who push their music into places far removed from where Blu and Exile took it during George W. Bush’s second term.

That doesn’t mean the duo didn’t produce a titanic piece of work. Each beat on “Below the Heavens” goes down as easy and satisfyingly as mashed potatoes. And Blu’s pontificating on the edge of adulthood makes the album truly shine. A recent father at the time the album was made, Blu had sprawling, unrealized dreams.

On Below the Heavens, Blu details the kind of difficult upbringing hip-hop artists have long offered to establish their credibility. He digs into the familiar backpacker trope of finding his nine-to-five unsatisfying. He follows up by emphasizing that he has found a true calling in hip-hop, and bemoans the genre’s obsession with riches, women and violence. Blu urges his listeners to resist these vices, while also admitting he isn’t immune to their temptation.

He deals with common subjects in rap, but he executes flawlessly, punctuating his flow with deeply personal details and novel lyricism—like when he imagines looking at his son and being in awe that this human “really came from [his] nuts.” His passion bleeds through each bar. And you can catch almost every word on the first listen.

Increasingly, rap artists have deemphasized the intelligibility of lyrics in favor of evoking a more provocative, gut-based feeling. In many ways, rap is going through its punk stage—at least sonically. When rock bloated, The Ramones, Sex Pistols and The Clash tore down the genre’s conventions. Young Thug, Migos, Lil Uzi Vert and others do the same now to hip-hop, America’s most popular genre.

Like punk rockers, these hip-hop artists sacrifice crisp annunciation for a more visceral or melodic delivery. Derisively nicknamed “mumble rap,” the moniker couldn’t be less applicable to the innovation because the range of sound that rappers produce nowadays has never been bolder, broader or better.

Old heads have tsk-tsked these changes, just as aging NBA stars have speculated their teams would defeat the unparallelled juggernaut that is the Golden State Warriors. They wouldn’t. But that doesn’t mean the basketball they once played is bad. Instead, the Warriors had to invent their revelatory style to beat the greats that came before.

And so it goes with Blu and Exile. Their masterpiece sounds nothing like modern rap. In response, some fans lionize the album as “real hip-hop,” in order to disparage the stuff being made today. But artists like Blu and Exile captured the electricity of an era in a way that needs little expansion. Like the Warriors, subsequent rappers had to try something new to top it. In a way, this deviation is a tribute.

After the album’s release, Blu’s career floundered as he clashed with other artists, fan expectations and record label demands. He continued to rap in his stellar straightforward fashion over old-school beats, even as the genre as a whole trended away from that. But across all art forms, most artists must watch as the field they contributed to in their youth veers from their original vision.

Still, there will always be an audience for the way things once were. On Wax Wednesdays, Cafe Stritch plays the vinyl records of icons that may have lost their present relevance, but maintain a timeless appeal. When Blu and Exile perform at this week’s iteration of the event, their music will be in tremendous company.

Blu & Exile
Sep 6, 7pm
Cafe Stritch, San Jose
cafestritch.com

During their breakout year in 2008, when they debuted mega-hits “Sex on Fire” and “Use Somebody,” the Kings of Leon took home a Grammy for their sound that blended huge, affected guitar riffs, a brooding aesthetic and the hoarse, twangy vocals of lead singer Caleb Followill. They took a brief hiatus after Caleb left the stage during a show to “vomit,” then released an album in 2016 that retained and expanded upon their most popular power-pop-rock sensibilities, most notably with the lead single, “Waste a Moment.” The Kings of Leon may no longer rule the airwaves, but if you like what they did, you’ll like what they’re doing.

Kings of Leon
Thu, 7pm, $35+
Shoreline Amphitheatre, Mountain View

This year, Kendrick Lamar ran away with the title of best rapper alive. Drake may be richer, Young Thug may be bolder and the Migos may better reflect the modern sound of the genre. But since Kanye West cut his show short in Sacramento, no hip-hop artist feels more important than Lamar, a reputation that he earned with Good Kid, M.A.A.D. City, reinforced with To Pimp a Butterfly and cemented with his most recent album, DAMN.

Performing at the SAP Center on Aug 12, Lamar stands apart primarily for his ability to package profound insights in face-melting verses. He rarely uses the electric modulation of his peers, instead relying on his gale-force flow and mastery of poetic meters.

He cranks this skill to 11 during the second half of the album’s second track, “DNA.” Reportedly, Lamar had been so possessed in the booth that he rapped the dizzying, relentless verse a capella. Producer Mike WiLL Made-It finished the track with a gobsmacking beat flip that, combined with Lamar, steamrolls the listener. It’s awesome, in the actual sense of the word.

But crucially, Lamar backs up his verbal gymnastics with substance. And on DAMN., he tackles his personal triumphs, failures and hypocrisies in a way that seems vital to our nation’s understanding of itself in a time that has “the feelin’ of an apocalypse happenin’, but nothin’ is awkward,” as he puts it on “FEEL.”

Still, he knows his listeners don’t want an hour-long lecture. So he gives a few crowd pleasers, primarily “HUMBLE.,” the NBA playoffs’ theme song, and “LOYALTY.,” a complementary collaboration of equals with Rihanna that’s much more interesting than the flirt-sesh most rappers ask her for. Both have music videos with gripping visuals, which combined with Lamar’s Phelps-ian breath control, should make for a well-worth-it live show.

Otherwise, Lamar spends much of DAMN. addressing personal and national depravity. On “XXX.,” he pairs with a nearly unrecognizable U2 and starts by advising a friend to shoot those who killed his son and ends by pointing out that America, from the “back streets” to “Wall Street,” rewards the viciously selfish. By the time he asks, “Is America honest or do we bask in sin?,” the answer is pretty obvious.

He examines this theme more thoroughly on “LUST.,” a song that contains probably his greasiest hook ever, which ends with these two lines: “Let me put the head in, if it’s okay/She said, ‘it’s okay,’” He growl-coos the first part, then follows with a falsetto, making the consent feel deeply ill-advised.

In the verses, he begins by painting portraits of superficial pleasure seekers, including himself. Then he pivots to describing the post-election street-storming that’s faded as we’ve adjusted to our increasingly chaotic and fascist government. Suddenly, the hook’s meaning jumps from highlighting personal weakness to national complacency that’s allowed a truly vile movement to put the head in.

Throughout DAMN., Lamar readily admits fault and reckons with his guilt of falling victim to the same evils he decries. Over indie guitar strums on “PRIDE.,” he cops to his emotional unavailability and admits, “in a perfect world, I’d choose faith over riches…work over bitches…” And these moral failures have consequences for Lamar, who samples a phone call from his “cousin Carl” that describes the continuing influence of a curse prophesied in Deuteronomy.

Unlike the happy-go-lucky New Testament gospel of Chance the Rapper, Lamar possesses a more Old Testament view of a God—a deity that punishes wickedness and rewards good deeds. And in this a-religious era, the sermons land because of Lamar’s ability to extrapolate from his personal experience at every strata of life to wrangle with our unprecedented state of affairs.

On the album-closer “DUCKWORTH.,” Lamar unfurls a twist-laden story of how his father, Ducky, worked at a KFC and hooked up Anthony Tiffith—the drug dealer turned head of Lamar’s record label—with extra biscuits and chicken, prompting Tiffith to decide against robbing the store and potentially killing Ducky. The rapper muses that this choice may have ultimately allowed Lamar to avoid a life of crime.

Laid over a soul sample that sounds like a game of duck, duck, goose, the intricate track points out how, in difficult circumstances, seemingly meaningless acts of kindness can produce unimaginable rewards—divine advice in these damned times.

Kendrick Lamar
Aug 12, 7:30pm, $47+
SAP Center, San Jose

Last weekend, the Napa Valley Expo hosted BottleRock, the most gastronomically gourmet music festival in California. With five stages of live acts, multiple “gardens” devoted to wine, beer and upscale food as well as three days of the most idyllic weather on the planet, BottleRock tacitly promises a level of indulgence that will soothe and stimulate away the unsatisfactoriness of daily life.

But different from behemoths like Outside Lands and Coachella, BottleRock isn’t flooded with an excess of peacocking exhibitionists, overly ambitious drug-doers or elbow-throwing superfans. Rather, the defining feature of BottleRock might be the age range of its relatively tame attendees.

There’s the typical festival flockers, but also parents dancing with newborns adorned with soundproof earmuffs, older retirees sipping wine and lounging in insta-inflatable “Dumbo Lounge Sacks” and a surprising amount of parents with their children, who, most of the time, did not seem mortally embarrassed.

CHILLIN': BottleRock 2017 was a laid-back good time. Photo by Jamie Soja.

BOTTLE BABES: These two were enjoying themselves at BottleRock 2017. Photo by Jamie Soja.

Perhaps the funnest aspect was the Culinary Stage, which paired popular chefs with other celebrities. Ayesha Curry rapped alongside E-40. Warren G, after doing a cover of “Regulate” called “Marinate,” announced his favorite barbecue is short ribs. Martha Stewart cooked with the culinarily illiterate Macklemore and Ryan Lewis—making it akin to Keith Richards playing alongside third-chair, middle-school percussionists. And Iron Chef Morimoto broke down a 130-lb tuna, which future Hall of Famer Charles Woodson said would pair nicely with his winery’s 2008 Cabernet.

DOPE EATS: Martha Stewart kicked it with Macklemore and Ryan Lewis at BottleRock 2017. Photo by Jamie Soja.

On the music end: Fitz and the Tantrums played tenderly sleazy electro-pop. Modest Mouse blasted awe-inspiring, ever-shifting walls of sound. Andra Day delivered woke and smoky soul. Michael Franti beamed with his trademark effortlessly aggressive optimism. House of Pain orchestrated some unathletic audience participation for “Jump Around.” Charles Bradley summoned the spirit of James Brown. The Roots dazzled with verbal and instrumental prowess. And the Foo Fighters rocked very, very hard.

But if all those outlandish general admission amenities weren’t enough, for $1200, attendees got access to the “Skydeck,” a raised, shaded lounge with an open bar and excellent views. After chatting with me on a break, a Skydeck employee asked me not to print her anecdotes about the behavior of VIP guests.

Which brings me to the quintessential moment of the weekend. On a gorgeous 70-degree evening in Napa Valley after a day of consuming gourmet food and drink while a gauntlet of world-class musicians played within earshot, I stood in line for coffee and the man in front of me turned around and complained about the admittedly long wait. BottleRock, like all festivals, will not quiet your inner infant grasping for more. But it’s a lovely way to spend a weekend.

GOOD BREW TOO: Don’t forget about beer! There was plenty of that to go around at BottleRock 2017. Photo by Jamie Soja.

Check out the full photo gallery here.

As the crowd  waited for Rihanna to take the stage at the SAP Center last year, the opening DJ put on Too Short’s banger, “Blow the Whistle.” Being a local anthem of sorts, Short’s song got people out of their seats to dance and sing along—never louder than when the East Bay rapper called out, “What’s my favorite word?” The crowd lustily responded, “Biiiiitch.”

This could just be privileged hand-wringing from another think piece-prone white guy, but the direct, triumphant nature of the line still makes me cringe a bit. A decade after the song’s 2006 release, the track mostly holds up. But in these wokest of times, that moment sticks in my craw. Though I’m not particularly sure why. After all, Short’s favorite word certainly hasn’t dropped from rap’s vocabulary.

Hip-hop’s reigning social conscience, Kendrick Lamar, made it central in “Bitch, Don’t Kill My Vibe,” the fourth single off his heralded debut, Good Kid M.A.A.D. City. It’s the first word in Vince Staples’ “Norf Norf,” an unflinchingly poignant tale of senseless violence in his native Long Beach. Father and philanthropist Chance the Rapper sprinkles it liberally through his radio single, “No Problem.” And Migos scored their biggest hit to date, “Bad and Boujee,” by using the word to describe their loyal ladies. So in terms of using a bad word, Short’s in good company.

A prolific artist, Short will release his 20th full-length album—The Pimp Tape—later this year. He possesses a bouncy, fun flow and gives a better live show than many contemporaries. But if you rap along, then you have little choice but to engage in a little transitive property misogyny, especially in his new album’s first single, “Ain’t My Girlfriend.”

Featuring three, big-right-now names, Ty Dolla $ign, Jeremih and French Montana, the track rehashes the tired trope of treating women like powerless playthings. Still, I doubt the dance floor clears when it comes on in the club.

Critics who dismiss rap whole cloth for its disrespect toward women miss the rich forest for a diseased tree. Still despite the often Drake-eclipsing success of Nicki Minaj, these attitudes have stuck around longer than homophobia, which has been fading since Eminem and Elton John’s incredibly awkward “See, we’re cool!” moment. And of late, it has been almost entirely blown up by Young Thug’s androgyny and Frank Ocean’s sexual openness.

As media has shifted online, traditionally underheard voices have gained platforms and pushed many to reconsider the impact of words, particularly those used to demonize the marginalized. So it’s a little strange to see hip-hop, today’s biggest, most flexible genre, struggle to keep up with the widely accepted idea that Short’s favorite word shouldn’t be thrown around so casually.

And perhaps a lot of it is in the inflection. As rap has grown, so has its uses for “bitch.” Sometimes, a rapper uses the word to flesh out a character. Or it’s slipped into a string of boasts too ludicrous to be literal. Or it’s deployed phonetically because it’s a punchy syllable that handily rhymes with “rich.” Or it’s preceded by “bad” as a term of admiration—or empowerment, if it’s a female rapper. But too often, it’s used to question the masculinity of a competitor, or to describe an unequal relationship with a woman, as Short & Co. do in “Ain’t My Girlfriend.”

America has a history of glorifying independent men who casually dispatch foes and attract myriad women willing to do just about anything to occupy the same space as they do. Rappers fit the mold. They’re modern-day cowboys who have (mostly) swapped bullets for bars.

From Jesse James to Henry Hill to 50 Cent, we’ve been spoon-fed these men as protagonists from before we started forming memories. So really, hip-hop’s misogyny is just a symptom of a country where 63 million voted to be represented by a man who said more objectionable things into a hot mic than any rapper ever has.

Look. When we put in Grand Theft Auto, we don’t play as the pedestrian. Rappers, including Too Short, invite projection into a long-admired American archetype. It’s fun to hear these chest-thumping words, memorize them and say them as though they’re your own. It’s tragic if you act on them. But there will always be millions of young men, alone in their room, asking the mirror, “you talkin’ to me?” The answer is obvious.

Too Short
Apr 15, 9pm, $30
BackBar SoFa, San Jose

Like an ever-increasing number of Americans, Matt Toth and Julio Mejia met online. Toth produced tech house and Mejia focused on hip-hop-centric dance music before a mutual friend introduced them on Facebook—linking them to each other’s SoundCloud pages. The day they met in 2010, the two took their first step towards becoming Good Times Ahead, or GTA, when Toth started playing a System of a Down CD.

“We knew every word,” Mejia says. “We became really good friends, and he’s even better to work with. We have the same thought process when it comes to producing.”

GTA achieved almost instantaneous success. Shortly after uniting, they sent off a collaboration to several studios for feedback. The song, which they had mostly laid down in their first session together, got the attention of Afrojack, a top Dutch DJ who wanted to release the song on his label.

“I honestly have no idea how that happened,” Mejia says. “They said it sounded professional. To us, that was crazy. We’d been together producing for four months. And before then, we hadn’t been producing for that much longer. But we just got lucky.”

After that, they became bona fide by working with major names in the industry, like Diplo, A-Trak and Calvin Harris. In EDM, a genre with hundreds of acts jockeying for listeners on overstuffed streaming services, GTA saw these collaborations as an opportunity to expand their sound.

“There’s a lot of competition because there’s a lot of people doing the same kind of thing,” Mejia says. “So people are just trying to do it better, trying to do something different. We’re getting both aspects: the cool underground thing that we love and then the epicness, and the melodic catchiness of Calvin Harris.”

Soon, the duo attracted the attention of Rihanna. She took them along as openers on her 2013 Diamonds World Tour. They went from playing a club show once every month to 70 shows over six months as they traveled from Montreal to Manila to perform in arenas that held up to 90,000 people. Toth calls it a “crazy, eye-opening experience.” They improved as DJs, learned about global music tastes and incorporated universally beloved songs into their hype-the-crowd set while still mixing “in a way that only GTA can.”

On their newest, eponymous release, they develop a singular vision of EDM that displays their versatility. They get assists from Tinashe, Tunji Ige, Iamsu! and Vince Staples, weaving together the disparate up-and-comers who, unlike more established artists, were willing to experiment with their still-solidifying sound. 

“We love the creation process of music,” Toth said. “We love trying to push music forward in our own ways. We just want people who have fresh minds and love to do something different, but not too weird, too crazy. People who get how to do the right amount of different.”

The songs boast atypical rhythms and novel sounds. Some meander mellowly while others bounce with clubby fervor. The release straddles the intersections between pop, hip-hop, R&B and EDM. On the album’s biggest track, “Feel It,” they collaborate with What So Not to craft shimmering, super-sized synths, then they tap Tunji Ige for some cocky, nasally bars before letting the track breathe with an electro-ballad bridge.

On “Little Bit of This,” Staples bucks against his “activist” label, then lists what he likes: “big guns, fast whips, ass and tits, Mansions and white women, Mike Jackson shit.” In this song and others, GTA seeks to go a bit deeper, lyrically speaking, than most EDM. After rising to prominence on the strength of their bangers, they want to tone down the adrenaline, so they can say something.

“The purpose of dance music is trying to go out and forget about all the hard times, trying to forget about life and all the real shit that’s going on,” Toth says. “So it’s hard to try to incorporate something that’s really real and meaningful. But we had more experience with actually writing lyrics and working with other vocalists. So we’re trying to figure out the right way to incorporate that into our more dancey stuff.”

GTA

Dec 30, 10pm, $25

Pure Lounge, Sunnyvale

Years ago, vibraphonist Jason Marsalis flew up to Seattle to play a studio session with Christian Fabian and Ed Littlefield. Months later, while on an Alaskan radio show, he learned from Littlefield’s answer to the host that they had recorded modernized versions of folk songs by the Tlingit Native American tribe.

“And I’m sitting there like, I didn’t know that’s what that was,” he says, laughing. “I just came in and played. Those kind of sessions can be a blur. Jazz is based on folk music and blues. However, jazz is a music that is also open to other cultures. That just was an organic moment. A lot of these things just happen.”

Marsalis hails from one of New Orleans’ royal jazz families. His grandfather, father and three older brothers are all accomplished musicians. In high school, his father encouraged Marsalis to shift from the drums to the vibraphone, a pleasing, but oft-overlooked instrument.

“It’s melodic and it’s rhythmic,” he says. “It’s in between a horn and piano. After a while, I started to get ideas of what I wanted my music to sound like. And so then I started to follow that.”

Marsalis has been performing live with his father since he was 7 years old. He’s collaborated with bluegrass artists, played world music and jammed with popular fusion group Snarky Puppy.

Today, he leads the Jason Marsalis Vibes Quartet. The group’s most recent album, 21st Century Trad Band, showcases Marsalis’ dazzling vibes skills, and seeks to bring “the 20th century into the 21st.” He hits whimsy on “The Man with Two Left Feet” and noir-ish intrigue on “Nights in Brooklyn.” On “BP Shakedown,” he flits between darkness and hope in an instrumental protest against the Deepwater Horizon spill that spewed 210 million gallons of oil into the Gulf of Mexico. He outros with Texas Rep. Joe Barton apologizing to British Petroleum.

“I was living in New Orleans when that oil spill took place,” he says. “And, it’s funny, honestly, my thought was, ‘Oh, this again?’ There’s been all kinds of oil spills that happen. And they just keep happening, because these companies want to skirt regulations. They obviously don’t really care.”

Jason Marsalis Vibes Quartet
Dec 15, 7:30pm, $35-$38
Cafe Pink House, Saratoga

A pair of sneakers hangs from the rafters in Dirtbag Dan’s studio. He won them years ago at the Wednesday night Cypher, then held at Johnny V’s. At the time, another emcee had been challenging Dan for his title as the best battle rapper in San Jose.

After “doing the dance” a few times, Dan challenged his rival to a battle for sneakers. The loser would walk out barefoot. Word spread. That night, 100 people stuffed the tiny venue and dozens more clamored outside. And then…

“Dude lost, handed me his sneakers, I walked out with them on my neck,” Dan recalls. “I didn’t realize how much of my reputation I had put on the line until it was actually going down. But that moment, that was what the Cypher is all about. It is a big part of the scene in San Jose. If one emcee wanted to call another emcee out, everybody came to the Cypher.”

The weekly show is now held at the more roomy BackBar SoFa. And next Wednesday, Dan—who over the past year has transitioned from hip-hop to stand-up comedy and podcasting—will be coming out of rap retirement to do a set for the Cypher’s 10th anniversary.

Though his quintessential moment revolves around a battle, he attended the event’s first shows and later became part of the regular Cypher Squad. He says the weekly event is more of an “informal rap jam session” where DJ Audio Dru spins beats and local rappers hop onstage and perform.

“It was really designed for us to sharpen our swords as far as our ability to freestyle, not necessarily our ability to kill each other,” he says. “I always looked at the Cypher as just like exercise. This ain’t a show. So I don’t need to spit my writtens. I’m here to kick it with my friends.”

Performers ranged from professionals to guys that worked 9-to-5s and rapped in their free time. Many a local rapper, from Kung Fu Vampire, who will be hosting the show, to Rey Res got their start unfurling freestyles in front of the welcoming crowd. The open format provided valuable exposure and networking to those more serious about their craft.

“When I was first coming up, I used to go to any open mic I could find just to have a place to rap,” Rey Res says. “When you’re beginning, you don’t know how to book shows, how to get out there and find other people. I used to go when I was younger, (and) you get up and rap when you feel like it, or you can just hang around and watch and meet other emcees and producers from the scene.”

Despite humble beginnings, the Cypher stuck around, providing a convenient venue for rappers who wanted to perform somewhere larger than a bar but smaller than the SAP Center. Many emcees who first dipped their toes into rapping at the event later debuted their first completed project with a live show. After a few years, the session gained a reputation as an institution in the city. And touring underground rap crews, like Hieroglyphics, stopped by, capping off the evening with a performance of their own.

“If you’re on tour and you need to fill a Wednesday in the Bay Area, chances are you’re going to be at the Cypher,” Dan says. “Plus there’s so many people who we didn’t know were going to be famous—Jeff Turner is a prime example of someone who would just come there and rap. He’d get onstage at 9 and there’d be no one there. He’d just be rapping by himself. And now he’s got hundreds of thousands of views (on YouTube).”

For the 10th anniversary, the nationally renowned Zion I will be headlining the evening, after performances by a stacked slate of local rappers, including Turner. The Cypher remains and will continue to be a place where stars and unknowns mingle on a stage open to anyone with bars.

“You come to the Cypher and you can get onstage and rap. Then you can watch a true legend do it, then hop back onstage and rap again,” Dan says. “Where else can you do that? It’s a place where anybody can go be dope.”

The Cypher: 10th Anniversary
Dec 14, 9pm, $10
BackBar SoFa, San Jose