The Great Rap Hope

Marketing the Man

Convincing others of your self-perceived greatness takes work. Humping. Hitting various ports of call, in 10 days' time zipping through New York, Bowie, Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York, D.C., New York, London. He can't remember the last time he's been at home for more than 24 hours. Last month, he almost made it, but then, within 20 hours, he had to hit the road again. Which is why, notwithstanding the rubbing of shoulders with Miz Hilton, he's moved back in with his parents, Emilola and Ayo. Why waste rent on a place that he never sees?

Wale is nothing if not pragmatic.

Catch him in motion: Wale's roaming the streets of Manhattan's SoHo, wielding a BlackBerry and a Sidekick, frowning in concentration, thumbs flying, dashing into a deli to grab some Red Bull before a recording session at Allido Records. Or peep at him in Largo, bouncing around the mall, zipping into the Technicolor Salon & Spa to get his goatee tightened up by his favorite barber, Renaldo Williams; then running to the Flowers pep rally, then back to the mall, where he sees an old friend in a clothing store and leaps in the air, pounding fists, then body-slamming him. Twice.

In person, he's prettier than his scowling pics let on: baby-faced, ebony of skin, compact of build. He's friendly, but focused; a reporter's interview is just one of many things on his over-packed docket. He talks work, lives work, inhales it: "I'm just trying to handle so much," he says. "I need a PA [personal assistant], but I don't want to pay for one."

On his payroll, however, are his boys from when he was a tool laboring in a local sneaker shop, making up their own special slang: Jeremy "Jay Promo" Carry, black and Italian, handles tour logistics; and Daniel "Sneakerman Dan" Issayes, the son of Ethiopian immigrants, handles potential endorsement deals. (His business manager, Dan Weisman, is based in Los Angeles.)

Wale's constantly writing, loading lyrics into his Sidekick, whatever strikes his fancy: a rant about industry suits, an ode to Nike boots, a riff about his battles with his college football coach. (He dropped out of Virginia State, Robert Morris College and Bowie State, two of which he attended on football scholarships.) His lyrics are often complex and obscure, brimming with random bits of pop culture trivia, sports metaphors, Marcus Garvey references, not just bling-life cliches.

Rolling Stone, in an issue last month, dubbed him "hip-hop's go-go boy," noting with approval, "he's got more crossover appeal than weed." A year ago his song "Dig Dug" bubbled up with national airplay; he was named D.C. metro breakthrough artist of the year at WKYS's Go-Go Awards; and he turned three of his songs into ringtones through Jamster.

Still, Wale has encountered his share of criticism in the clubs and in the blogosphere, for the tightness of his pants, the cockiness of his swagger, his perceived dissing of go-go, and whether he's really from D.C. or Nigeria.

Such snipes are an occupational hazard in an art form where braggadocio and bluster are all part of the game, and where regional allegiances to your 'hood are specific and spelled out in the lyrics. After all, rap is a storytelling medium, and fans look to MCs to represent the reality -- albeit a heightened one -- about their corner of the universe. New Yorker Jay-Z doesn't speak to the Bronx, he speaks to his native Brooklyn, and in particular, the Marcy Projects, where he grew up.

Wale says that when he raps about D.C., he means "D.C./Virginia/Maryland" -- it's all the same, he says. But others argue that if you grew up part of the time going to high school in Montgomery County, as he did, then you should be sending shout-outs to Gaithersburg. .

Observes Chucky Thompson, a D.C. native and rap producer who was part of P. Diddy's "Hitman Team" at Bad Boy Entertainment: "You can't say you're from Alexandria and you're representing D.C. It doesn't line up. . . . One of my first questions to an artist is, 'Where are you from?' It helps with the story. When you say 'D.C.,' they're going to check. They're so pressed and ready to represent someone who's from here. It's that critical."

That sense of urgency may stem from the fact that rappers from go-go-dominated D.C. have never been able to transcend the borders of the region, even though many a talented MC has tried, dating back as far as Fat Rodney, a gifted rapper who was shot to death in the late '80s. Even though many old-school rappers such as Kurtis Blow and Salt-n-Pepa included go-go's rollicking beats in their music.