From The Archives:
What follows is a musical and political meditation across decades of life in Los Angeles—from the 1992 uprisings to today’s climate of performative allyship and systemic amnesia.
I Wish I Knew What It Felt Like to Be Free – Nina Simone (1967)
A few days following the aftermath of the '92 Los Angeles riots, I attended a peaceful rally. Local organizers, police officials, and politicians stood up one by one to echo words of acceptance and change. Many promised that the city would rebuild these communities—better, stronger, more united.
Twenty-eight years later, vacant lots still exist in South Central.
Actually, South Central doesn’t exist anymore, at least not on paper. City leaders renamed it “South L.A.,” along with many other neighborhoods, hoping to rebrand the city into something cleaner, safer—whiter.
Even at 15, I saw through the hollow rhetoric. I left that rally more hopeless than when I arrived. Driving down Manchester that day, I popped in a mixtape I don’t even remember acquiring. This song came on.
Nina Simone’s voice broke through. Low, steady, unshakable. It was as if she was singing directly to me, daring me to imagine a world that the men on that stage could never deliver.
For a few minutes, everything outside the car—the boarded-up storefronts, the ashes still lingering in the air went away. What remained was her voice. For a moment, Nina Simone gave me a glimpse of something else—what freedom might sound like, what it might feel like.
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The Dicks Hate the Police – The Dicks (1983)
I hope these latest protests bring something more than reforms—something deeper, a reckoning with the hate we inherit. The kind that hides in plain sight, passed down like a family heirloom: bigotry, misogyny, racism.
Punk, and later hardcore, offered us a way out. It taught us how to say fuck you to the people who raised us, to refuse the values we were told were natural, inevitable. That rejection could feel holy—like a first act of freedom.
What I hope now is that younger generations hold on to that same rebellion. That they learn to spit back not just at power, but at the poison handed down at the dinner table, in the church pew, at the family barbecue.
Because that’s the power punk carried. It taught kids to challenge their parents’ world. And there’s nothing more political than that.
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Senorita – Vince Staples (2015)
Growing up in L.A. between ’88 and ’93, even walking to the corner store could be dangerous. Gang members would confront you—
“Where you from, puto?”
“What set you claim?”
You couldn’t look scared, but you couldn’t challenge them either. It was a delicate balance. I used to look over their shoulders and say,
“I’m from nowhere.”
With the police, there was no balance at all. They demanded obedience. They had the guns. I learned survival not from my father or any adult, but through instinct—when to fight, when to shut up, when to disappear.
That’s why Vince Staples’ work resonates so deeply. In the video for “Señorita,” he moves through what can only be described as a human minefield—every step shadowed by danger, every glance a threat. He shrugs it off, keeps walking. You have to. For a young man of color, a lone target, that reality is all too familiar. I understood it immediately.
Vince gets it. No one captures the contradictions of California’s suburban ghettos and barrios—especially in Southeast Los Angeles—the way he does.
And then there’s the final image of “Señorita”: a white family seated safely behind glass, watching the violence unfold as if it were entertainment. It’s a perfect metaphor for today’s culture of spectatorship, where influencers turn real rage into curated content, hashtags, and branded solidarity. Another kind of theft. Another kind of racism.
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Burnin’ and Lootin’ – Bob Marley & The Wailers (1973)
Bob Marley’s legacy in America has been watered down—flattened into dorm room posters, surf shop soundtracks, and the vague slogan of “One Love.” But the truth is, no other artist has so clearly articulated the plight of the globally oppressed or captured the postcolonial mindset. His music was never just about vibes; it was about survival, defiance, and clarity.
The night after the 1992 curfew was lifted, a friend’s family threw a backyard party. As I walked up the long cracked concrete driveway, lost in thought, I heard the unmistakable opening of “Burnin’ and Lootin’” spilling from the speakers. The DJ’s choice felt both literal and metaphorical. In a city still smoldering, Marley’s voice cut through the smoke:
This morning I woke up in a curfew / Oh God, I was a prisoner too.
The song wasn’t nostalgia. It was prophecy. In that moment, it reminded me that the only thing we often have control over is ourselves—our choices, our actions, our refusal to be broken.
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Many Are Called – I Threes (1978)
In the face of hate, keep going.
Keep fighting.
Keep organizing.
Keep resisting.
Keep dancing.
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