Labor & Delivery

Review of LABOR

(Language Arts Based on Reality by One Be Lo)

By Yahsmin M. B. BoBo

The word ‘labor’ can be defined several ways. Conceptually, One Be Lo followed his own convention by using it as an acronym for Language Arts Based On Reality. The highly anticipated album released on Labor Day, by no coincidence of course, has been received with the highest acclaim worldwide. Every album leading up to this has been encoded with meaning and purpose, mirroring the thousands of rhymes he’s written during a decade and some change in hip-hop. Veteran status you say? Possibly but he’s still rockin’ it like a novelty.

LABOR is thematically different from the others, in that every track takes the name of an animal like Rabbit Food whose video was the first to be released with this album. Although this track is a crafty wordplay using references to produce, I see it as a tribute to nutritional consciousness. Health and wellness is more than a trend, it’s a way to live. As fresh as the produce looks in this video, Lo’s rhymes are equally fresh and as organic as they’ve ever been.

Aside from its dictionary entries, when I think of labor, I think of delivery. The way a verse is spit; the way bars are built. It’s an intensely stylized approach to storytelling. If my theory rings true, the General SUBliminal approaches his labor of love with mastery (and experience) in every single lyric. This is no overstatement. I’m not usually this generous with props. That is exactly how this album can be characterized- with the exceptional flow Lo has consistently delivered since his years with Binary Star that skyrocketed into solo endeavors.

LABOR continues to be received by a fan base far exceeding the Mid-West, stretching across waters to Greece, United Kingdom, Denmark and even Pakistan where he was recently invited to tour. And these are only a few places Lo’s performed in. He seems to take stage (and residence) wherever the locals summon him.

Maybe it’s his destiny, which happens to be just one among many of the poignantly written tracks on this composition. Produced by DJ Twelvz, Destiny features Grammy nominated Maimouna Youssef who harmonizes and raps, although not on this particular track. Mutual fans everywhere are hoping for future collaborations. Def Poetry’s jessica care moore appears with ritual intensity on Tiger Stripes, an energetic track laid by D Will with Emily Rogers on the bass guitar. As Emily kicks in, Lo follows rhythm:

“Young, Black, and don’t give a Flying fuck, Tiger strut on his path, act like, you know the Math- Minus-Plus…”

Pigs is a timeless anthem to be appreciated on the streets, among youth and even in light of current events without having the clichéd activist-inspired sound to it. While it isn’t a song directly mentioning the likes of Sean Bell or Oscar Grant, it deals with the soiled realism of law enforcement and its relationships with residents in urban communities. As with most One Be Lo songs, Pigs samples audio from the eighties film Children of the Corn with rock-esque vocals and production by Mike Posner.

The two tracks I keep on repeat are MEGAchile Pluto (because of its unique production and vocals) and one of the last tracks on LABOR, Wildebeest where wordplay is pushed to the furthest extent:

“Lo killin’ the verse, like William the first…Let’s buy a vowel-Wheel of Fortune, flippin these words…I stand tall for all, I wheel and deal fair/Nobody got yo back, you need a wheel chair/With big wheels…I handle bars like a wheel barrel on construction sites, carrying big steel/I got a strong foundation so I build towers/They say I couldn’t, I re-invented the Will-Power…”

I had the pleasure of joining Lo in the studio when he was working in Oakland recently. “Sometimes I’ll build a whole rhyme around one word,” he casually commented during a moment where I witnessed firsthand his creative process. I wonder if limits really exist for artists like One Be Lo, who juggles singularity and multiplicity on songs like Wildebeest. It seems to be endless, almost effortless for him even though ironically, he titled this album LABOR.

And while I can easily pay credit to him for the latest product, One Be Lo makes it very clear to whom he owes everything on The GOAT. Traditionally, an MC refers to himself or herself as the greatest of all time. Not this time. Lo reframes the conversation about assumed greatness around One source alone:

“We see you don’t get the Credit Deserved/It’s Impossible to Measure your Work/We can’t repay you/cuz we could never measure your worth/I decide not to Describe, You could never be measured in words…Some say, “Big Bang”/Theoretical, Church… Say you Created and Rested on the Seventh, Absurd…Every day, New life cycles- Death and the Birth- Said in Reverse/Seeds, settled in Dirt/Egg and the Sperm/Make waay for the Organs/With or without/Sexual Urge/Skeleton bones, the flesh is the turf…”

He lets you do the math. He urges you to do the thinking. Without the need to compete, he still challenges the elementary songwriting hyped and financed in popular culture today just by writing content in this caliber. This is a track for contemplation, it epitomizes the entire album. It adds further depth, dimension and clarity to the lyricism One Be Lo offers, to those who really listen.

Narrative by: Yahsmin M. B. BoBo

They say it’s all in a name. Your title is a shelter of your essence, an embodiment of your character. It represents your individuality, your culture, your faith, your heritage, your swag. I’d like to think it’s a placeholder for your destiny. When choosing one, we should do so delicately, taking our time to study its meaning and origin. When carrying one, we should do so proudly, representing it well and living out its attributes.

They named me Yahsmin at birth. It means jasmine in English; it was recommended by my uncle while he was living in Istanbul. He picked up a little Arabic, sent a letter home to my parents while my mother, his little sister, was carrying me snugly in her womb. Yahsmin topped the list of suggestions he made. My parents had been shopping for an ethnic name to follow family tradition. They named my sister something equally powerful in meaning, borrowing from the languages of Russian and Swahili. My father studied Swahili in college and it was trend in the sixties and seventies to bless your newborn with a title from distant cultures. My parents were also hippies- free thinking youth in a post Civil Rights America. They were revolutionary in the ideological sense but also in the personal realm, being one of the first interracial couples in their town.

Their love affair was impossible and special, controversial and cosmic all at once. My parents met in high school and have been nearly inseparable ever since. Pops was a popular, articulate but different dude on campus. As trend would have it, he rocked an Afro and bell bottoms. Moms was an adorable, soft spoken girl who wore skirts as miniature as she was. From what I’m told, they were quite the item. A bond was forged that would keep them together through decades of adversity from within their relationship to outside of it. Their experience has been fossilized in my own. I admire how determined they were and still are, in a world grown cold to love and marriage.

It seems destined that my first name should be Arabic, because I later took on a religion commonly practiced by Arabs. I never had to change my name, unlike other converts with my background. Yahsmin is a fitting representation of me as a woman- to flower or blossom signifies continual growth. Jasmine is a vine; it is a plant that stretches, reaches. I am all about constant expansion. This is the real meaning of spirituality, a discipline by which self development happens and continues to happen. Likewise, Jasmine is pleasant, fragrant and feminine. An Indian man told me that he walked from his village every evening to smell the night blooming jasmine. He said that most young couples did this; it was a bit of a romantic ritual in his country. As he shared this with me, in some random encounter, he closed his eyes, inhaled deeply through his nose as if he remembered the aroma right then and there.

At some point in the tenderness of my childhood, a family friend told my parents Yahsmin was too ethnic, too difficult and that folks wouldn’t take to it. Especially when I started school, he claimed. So instead of registering me as Yahsmin, they gullibly enlisted me as Mayaan (as though this were any less ethnic). This is one of two middle names given at birth. Once again, my father chose it in his budding intellectualism and studies of indigenous cultures. He picked this in honor of the Mayan people- an ancient sovereignty most known for its advances in mathematics, architecture and astronomy. They were native to the land on which we stand. That is both symbolic and precious to me. A pre-Columbian people, they built things, solved problems, looked into the skies, dreaming about the unknown which is why they were fascinated with the stars above us. They made history, in good ways and in not so good ways. I suppose that’s the story of human civilization. We weren’t put here to be perfect. But the One who put us here certainly is.

I came up through the educational system as Mayaan, and nearly everyone called me by this name. The name itself still sounded foreign to the Anglo kids at school. So aside from looking ethnic- pale skinned but nappy headed- I had a non white sounding name to compound it. It wasn’t until high school, on the brink of my own independence, that I officially went by my first name again, Yahsmin. For friends and loved ones, it took some time to re-adjust. They all assumed it was because of my newfound faith and some even forgot the name was actually inscribed on my birth certificate. I still honored my middle names, without doubt, but as I grew into my own identity and womanhood, I wanted to make choices on my own.

Me and my eldest sister were given the name Binti, placed just before our father’s surname BoBo. This is a Swahili word derived from Arabic meaning daughter or girl. A close friend recently told me it translates to mean “my girl”. My father was selective with this one even though he unconsciously followed Islamic tradition to name your children in reference to yourself. With as much thought that was put into it, pride and love were too. I can only imagine how my parents brainstormed and created and collaborated to come up with these awesome names. And that’s not to mention the baby-making itself. It’s beautiful. It’s something to cherish. They honored me even before I came into this world and now I honor them to upholding the names given and aspiring to the characteristics implied.

Identity is not only important because of the times we live in or the so called melting pot America has been personified as, but it’s critical to your own existence and purpose in life. It gives meaning to an otherwise mundane, robotic way that others might impose upon you. Identity is about personality, expression, creativity, ambition, beliefs and heritage. It’s about the people you come from, the experiences you’ve had and who you ultimately want to be.

wordplay by: Yahsmin M. B. BoBo

He makes me warm.

tepid to the core,

like sunlight beaming down on my spirit.

And he doesn’t even know it.

Isn’t aware how the Light of God,

Comes through him and spills onto me.

I then absorb it. Soak it up.

It’s in his words, his essence.

I’m gifted with his presence.

All smiles, much laughter.

Deep knowledge, subtle insight.

Quiet conversation every single night.

I’d like to thank him for it,

he won’t let me.

Refuses to take credit from a Source

That he himself connects to.

It’s a good feeling.

starts in my stomach,

wild-eyed butterflies,

moving into my heart,

Like coming in from

the proverbial cold

into the warmest element.

Palms to the heat of a fireplace,

Future home. Our place.

Maybe it’s his protection I sense.

And seek.

As though he’s already looking out for me.

Already. Seriously? Could it be?

We’re only minutes into it.

But there’s a timelessness to it.

Something reminiscent.

Something a lot like companionship.

wordplay by: Yahsmin M. B. BoBo

 I remember when

You walked up on me.

Humid overcast day,

Six foot three.

Rockin’ a bright white

Celtics jersey.

Crucifix blingin’ round

Your neck.

Religiously? Nah, not really.

Garments hung loose.

Contrast, espresso skin.

Lovely.

Lower my gaze, lovingly

But humbly.

Gots to.

Shouldn’t look too long.

Feeling magnetized, I must be.

Original man, you carry yourself

With authenticity.

Where you from?

Liberia, Kenya or maybe even Haiti.

Deep toned, I guessed wrong.

You say, Louisiana is where my roots lay.

Eyebrow raised, nod my head,

I look away.

My ethnicity? Splendidly blended.

I see, you got questions too.

Compliments on tap,

Like you already my boo.

Makin’ me blush

Five minutes flat

Instant crush.

Brand new, I’m feelin’ you.

Something pulls me back,

La illahah illa lah

Is what I’m sayin’ dude,

Through and through.

Another time. Another place.

You could be mine.

Make no haste.

And…I’d be your girl.

Give you a glimpse into

A whole new world.

Take you out the mainframe.

In touch, Allah closer to you

Than your main vein.

You ask me about my name.

Where it comes from,

What it be.

All this is happening in

Like nine minutes of

Knowing me.

Curiosity.

It didn’t kill the cat.

Not this time.

Oh and speaking of…

I gotta dip, deuces up,

I speak peace,

Nice to meet you.

The honor was all mine, you say.

And with that…

We went our separate ways.

wordplay by: Yahsmin M. B. BoBo

I must have imagined you.

it all came hastily,

and left quietly.

I should have pinched myself,

fingers to flesh.

better yet- you should have

pinched me to convince me

it was actually real.

and not just conjured,

or drawn

or constructed.

it’s not that I needed you

to be real.

it was safer when housed in fantasy.

it felt sheltered & shielded when

you were a man of my own making.

a companion of my solitude,

and a mate within a place

built deep inside of me.

or maybe I wrote you in being-

scripted you as a character

in a setting all our own.

now I’m just open

in a

closed reality,

unhinged from the abstract.

cold and gray

rather than

warm and vivid.

but yours is a

cryptic existence

so unknown to me.

I came close,

almost close enough

to unlock it.

then I was swept away in the wind,

toward the West

and found myself

in a sunset,

whose reflection settled atop

calm waters-

brilliantly blue-

that kissed the shores

where my tears dripped.

the only tears that would fall.

the ones I nearly purged,

not from a place of pain

but of loneliness.

it was once so sweet to me,

all that you gave,

the language you shared.

it matched the intensity,

I thought…

only I had.

and yet…there you were.

a beautiful mind,

a spirited speech…

whispering Surah Yusuf to me

in my sleep.

in my waking hours,

you spoke virtues of Maryam,

extolled origins of my names,

listed benefits of ginger root.

a swelling knowledge

of general topics.

an ordinary man

from

extraordinary

circumstance.

a God send.

an answered prayer.

not in the unmeasured of forever…

our days together were numbered.

precious but finite.

I must have imagined you.

I told myself this as you were

carried away by the crowd,

pulled into your dunya.

distanced not from

a faint memory

or

a blurry dream-

but simply removed

from a place…

only imagined.