The world doesn’t give you a soundtrack when you enter it. No opening credits, no dramatic orchestral swells. Just light, sound, confusion. And crying—lots of crying. I was born in Three Rivers, Michigan, in March of 1982, a small, quiet town where the biggest news was who won the high school football game or who bought a new truck. My parents were young, figuring life out as they went, and doing the best they could with what they had. We lived in a travel trailer at first, not one of those full-sized mobile homes, but a compact space that was meant for temporary stays yet had become our home. At that age, I wasn’t aware of what we lacked—only that we had each other, food on the table, and a small world that felt enormous to me.

Even then, though, there was something that drew me in deeper than anything else. Before I could even form full sentences, before I had any concept of the world outside our home, I was already mesmerized by my father’s record collection. It sat there, near the foot of the floor-model television, lined up neatly, the thick sleeves standing like monoliths. To me, they were more than just objects—they were portals. I would crawl across the floor, my tiny hands reaching for them, flipping through the covers with fascination. Two, in particular, stood out, though I couldn’t have understood why at the time.

The first song I ever remember, though—the first one that grabbed me and refused to let go—wasn’t some legendary track that hinted at my future in music. It wasn’t Hendrix or Pink Floyd. It was “We Built This City” by Starship. I don’t know why that particular song hit me the way it did, but every time it came on, something lit up in me. I would jump around the living room, flailing my arms, my tiny voice trying to sing along to lyrics I barely understood. I didn’t just hear the song—I felt it, in that unfiltered way only a child can. And, unfortunately, my parents had a camera. Somewhere, buried in an old collection of VHS tapes, there exists footage of me absolutely losing my mind to that song, completely oblivious to how ridiculous it must have looked. That moment stuck with me, though, not because of the song itself, but because it was the first time music made me feel something so intensely that I had to react. I didn’t understand music yet, not really, but I understood that it had a power. And that was the first seed.

Music was already in my DNA, though, whether I knew it or not. There was a rumor in the family, a quiet story passed down like a well-worn photograph, that we were somehow connected to Tammy Wynette, the country music legend. My Aunt Nelly spoke of it as if it were just common knowledge, though no one ever really dug into it. Whether it was true or not, the idea planted itself in my mind. Maybe music wasn’t just something I loved—maybe it was something I was supposed to do.

That thought didn’t fully take root until my cousin Darrin handed me a cassette tape and a Walkman when I was seven years old. Darrin was always ahead of the curve, the kind of guy who was into computers before anyone else, playing rudimentary online football games before most people even knew what the internet was. He had an instinct for what was coming next. And on that day, what was coming next was King Tee’s “Act a Fool”.

I had no idea what I was about to hear. But the second I pressed play, everything changed.

The bass hit first—deep, rolling, alive. Then the drums, crisp and raw. And then, King Tee’s voice, cutting through the beat with an effortless confidence that felt larger than life. It wasn’t just music. It was a world—a story unfolding in sound. And the thing that grabbed me the most wasn’t just the lyrics or the flow, but the skits—the little interludes woven between tracks that made it feel like I wasn’t just listening to an album, but watching a movie with my ears.

That tape never left my side. I played it until the sound started to warp, until the cassette itself felt like it had become a part of me. Without realizing it, I had just found the foundation of what I would chase for the rest of my life.

Looking back, I don’t know if there was a single moment where I decided, “I’m going to make music for the rest of my life.” It wasn’t a decision—it was a series of moments, stacking on top of each other, layering like the first few tracks of a beat. The records I stared at as a baby, the whispered family ties to music history, the tape that lit the fire. One after another, like puzzle pieces clicking into place.

I didn’t know where it would lead. I just knew I needed more. More music. More discovery. More sound.

And soon, I wouldn’t just be listening.

I’d be creating.

THE BLUEPRINT

I don’t remember ever making the decision to pursue music. It wasn’t some dramatic moment of realization. It was just always there, working its way into me.

But knowing you love music and knowing how to make it are two different things. I didn’t have instruments. I didn’t have teachers. What I did have was an obsessive need to figure things out on my own.

Whenever I saw a piano or keyboard, I’d sit down and start pressing keys, not trying to play any specific song—just trying to understand it. Why did certain notes sound good together? Why did others feel off? Nobody was explaining it to me, so I built my own system.

One summer, I was staying with my Aunt Carol, and she had a real piano—a big, heavy thing that looked like it had been sitting in the same spot for decades. I asked if I could put tape on the keys and number them. She let me. That’s when I started writing melodies as sequences of numbers instead of notes.

3, 5, 7, 10—whatever sounded right, I’d write it down like that.

I had no idea that what I was doing was essentially reverse-engineering music theory. I didn’t know about chords, scales, or harmonics. I was just breaking it down in a way that made sense to me.

Then came the moment that changed everything.

THE FIRST LIVE RAP I EVER HEARD

I don’t know if most people remember the exact moment they heard rap live for the first time, but I do.

It wasn’t at a concert. It wasn’t on TV. It was in a kitchen, in a random house, surrounded by people just hanging out, talking about nothing.

And then, Ricky started rapping.

No beat. No music. Just his voice, spitting words like he was punching the air with every syllable.

The whole mood in the room changed.

I had heard rap before, obviously. I had tapes, I had heard it on the radio. But hearing it live, unfiltered, raw—that was something else.

He wasn’t just talking. He was building something out of thin air. His words had weight, rhythm, meaning. They weren’t just floating there; they landed. I had never seen someone control a room with nothing but their voice before.

And in that moment, something clicked.

I didn’t jump in. I didn’t try to rap back. I just stood there, letting it hit me.

But in the back of my mind, I knew—I had to figure out how to do that.

My First Verse, My First Beat, My First Addiction

In 1996, I was at Ricky’s house in Detroit, near 8 Mile and Cherry Hill, where were upstairs in his bedroom with a bag of burger king and a few 2-liters of faygo soda…when he looked at me and said, “Yo, let’s make a song.”

I had never rapped before. Never written a single bar. But something in me said, Screw it. Let’s go.

I went downstairs to use the bathroom and, in that moment of solitude very nervous, wrote my first-ever lyric. The song?

“Chillin’ Butt Naked in the Graveyard.”

Yeah. Not exactly Shakespeare. But it was mine.

We recorded it on a karaoke tape deck, layering a beat from a Casio keyboard with a cheap Radio Shack mic. It sounded like garbage. But it existed. And when I played it back, hearing my own voice over a beat, something changed.

I wasn’t just a fan of hip-hop anymore.

I was creating it.

And once I started? I never stopped.

He didn’t just introduce me to the next phase of my journey.

He gave me the keys to the next level.

FORMING A CREW

By the time I moved to Alpena, Michigan, the seed had already been planted. I had seen rap performed in person. I had felt its energy. Now, I wanted to try it myself.

Alpena was a small town, quiet and isolated, but it didn’t take long to find like-minded people. I met Jeff, Leon, Cliff, Brandon, and a few others, and we formed a loose crew. We weren’t professionals. Hell, we weren’t even amateurs yet. But we had built a rudimentary basement studio.

Jeff had a recording setup, and while he wasn’t exactly a producer—he didn’t fully know how to operate everything—that didn’t matter. Because we had:

• A Fostex multitrack recorder
• A stack of cassette singles with instrumentals on the B-sides
• A microphone, a hunger to prove something, and zero fear of sounding terrible

That was all we needed.

We spent hours down there, rapping over instrumentals, passing the mic like it was some sacred ritual. There were no second takes. No re-dos. No editing. You had one shot to get your verse right, or you got clowned. That pressure made us better. It forced us to think fast, to sharpen our delivery, to make every bar count.

And something inside me was waking up.

I had always been creative. I had always been drawn to music. But this—this was different. This wasn’t just about playing something back. It was about creating something from nothing. It was about finding my voice.

And I was starting to realize that I had something to say.

BACK TO TOLEDO – GOING SOLO

The basement in Alpena gave me my first taste of recording, but it wasn’t where I was going to build something lasting. That became clear fast.

Due to some trouble i had gotten into as adolescent i was forced to move back to Toledo.

Moving wasn’t new to me—I had been bouncing from place to place since I was a kid. But this time, I wasn’t just changing locations—I was bringing something with me. I had rap, I had a taste of recording, and now, I had to figure out how to make it my own.

When I landed in Raintree Village, I didn’t waste any time.

This wasn’t like before, where I had a whole crew around me. This time, it was just me.

I set up a basic recording rig in my bedroom. Nothing major—just enough to start laying things down, figuring out my sound. At first, it was just me messing around, experimenting, trying to get better. But word spread fast. Before I knew it, people were coming through, trying to record.

At some point, I made a song called “My Neighborhood.” It was raw, a street-level humorous story about where I was living at the time—Raintree Village, a community filled with characters, struggles, and stories that felt like they needed to be told. It wasn’t just another rap song; it was a reflection of what I was seeing and experiencing every day.

I pressed up some CDs, started passing them around. And then, one day, something crazy happened—I was walking through the neighborhood, and I heard someone playing my song in their car.

I stopped.

I listened.

And that was the first time I felt it—that moment when something you made escapes your hands and starts moving on its own.

A few days later, someone actually asked me for an autograph on their copy of the CD.

It was surreal.

For the first time, I realized this wasn’t just a hobby anymore.

This was real.

But if I was going to do this for real, I needed more than just a mic and a recorder. I needed gear.

That’s when I got my first real job—RadioShack.

It wasn’t exactly exciting. Nobody came into the store. I spent most of my shifts just flipping through catalogs, trying to figure out what equipment I needed.

I didn’t last long there.

Next, I got a job at Subway, working the overnight shift. 12 AM to 8 AM.

It was easy work, but the real value wasn’t the paycheck. It was the time.

I’d sit in the back, writing verses between customers. If nobody was around, I’d rap to myself, testing out new flows, playing with cadences. Thinking of project concepts.

But all of this had one goal:

I needed to buy a real setup.

I found an issue of American Musical Supply, and that’s where I saw it—the EMU PK6 Proteus Keys with the Mo’ Phatt expansion. It wasn’t just a keyboard. It was a game-changer.

I worked like crazy, saved up, and bought it on a payment plan.

For the first time, I had a real workstation.

I hooked it up to my family’s Compaq Presario—a slow, clunky computer that barely ran Cakewalk Pro Audio 9.0.3—and that was it. That was my entire setup.

And that’s when things really started.

I didn’t care about anything else.

I quit my job. Let my credit get wrecked. Spent every waking second locked in my room, making beats, writing songs, learning everything I could.

My dad thought I was crazy. He kept saying I was wasting my time, that I was just messing with “clicks and whistles,” that I needed to get a “real job” before I ended up “living in a van down by the river.”

But I didn’t care.

Because deep down, I knew—this was it.

This was what I was supposed to do.

That’s when I first linked with Silverside, a crew that had already made waves in the local scene. Back in high school, they were the ones everyone knew about, the ones that carried weight. And now, somehow, I had a foot in the door.

It started with Deric.

Deric wasn’t just another artist looking for studio time—he was someone who thought differently about music. He wasn’t just a rapper; he understood the way pieces fit together. When he started coming through, we didn’t just make songs—we built them from the ground up and he would even make drum patterns in fruity loops to inspire my melodies.

Through him, I met Deuce.

Deuce wasn’t like anyone I had met before. The first time I heard him spit, I was sitting in a trailer with a few people, just passing time. The conversation wasn’t even about music, but then, out of nowhere, he started rapping.

And instantly, I knew—this guy was different.

It wasn’t just the confidence of his delivery, though that alone was impressive. It was the control, the way every word snapped into place like a puzzle. It was effortless, but at the same time, it was sharp as hell.

I had spent years trying to perfect my flow, trying to understand why certain cadences worked and others didn’t. And here was someone who made it look instinctual.

The more I recorded, the more people I met. That’s how Bossman entered the picture.

Bossman wasn’t a rapper. He didn’t need to be. His talent was making things happen. He had an energy about him—the kind of person who could walk into a room and immediately know who needed to meet who. If there was a move to be made, he was making it happen.

Through Bossman, I met even more artists, sat in more rooms where plans were being made. I was still figuring things out, still trying to shape my own lane, but now? I wasn’t doing it alone.

And then, I met Stephen King.

King was on his own mission. He had a crew, a vision, and when we started talking, he saw something in me—something even I hadn’t fully realized yet.

One day, he made an offer:

“Come stay at my place. Record me and my crew. You’ll have a place to work, a place to live.”

It wasn’t the most comfortable situation. The area was rough, the kind of place where you learned to watch your back and move smart.

But I wasn’t looking for comfort.

I was looking for a place where I could work, create, and grow.

And so, I said yes. And we went on to record many songs during smoke and hennessy filled nights.

SEPTEMBER 11TH—A MOMENT FROZEN IN TIME

I remember the morning like it just happened. The TV was on, like it always was, background noise against the usual hum of activity in the house. Someone had flipped to the news, but none of us were really watching. Then, the first plane hit.

At first, it didn’t feel real. It was too cinematic, too impossible. We stood there, staring at the screen, silent, waiting for someone to say it was a mistake, an accident, some freak event.

Then the second plane hit.

And just like that, everything changed.

That day, the music stopped. There was no recording, no writing, no beats playing through blown-out speakers. The house went quiet.

For the first time since I had moved in, nobody was creating. We just sat there, watching the news, trying to process something that was too massive to fully understand. The weight of it settled into the walls, into the air.

It was a strange thing, being in a house full of artists, in a place where noise was constant, and suddenly feeling the weight of complete silence.

It didn’t last forever.

Eventually, someone turned the music back on. Not loud. Not like before. Just enough to break the heaviness in the air. And when it started, it felt different.

Like it meant more.

After 9/11, something shifted in me.

I wasn’t just rapping for fun anymore. I wasn’t just messing around with beats.

I was treating it like a job.

LEVELING UP—THE SCIENCE OF SOUND

The world outside might have been shifting, but inside those walls, the mission stayed the same. If anything, that moment of silence made me more focused. Time was fragile. Tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed. If I wanted this, I had to go all in.

That’s when I started diving deeper into production—not just beat-making, but the full spectrum of sound design. Up until then, I had been working off instinct, building tracks with whatever tools I had, but now I wanted more than just raw energy—I wanted control.

I started obsessively studying mixing techniques, figuring out how to shape frequencies, how to make drums hit harder, how to balance bass and melody. I spent hours tweaking EQs, layering sounds, figuring out why some tracks felt wide and cinematic while others sounded flat.

I experimented with layering samples, blending different drum textures, using silence as a weapon—all the little details that separated an amateur from a professional. Every beat was a puzzle, and I was determined to solve it.

And as my sound got sharper, the opportunities started growing.

THE NEXT BREAKTHROUGH—GETTING NOTICED

It wasn’t long before people outside of our immediate circle started taking notice. Word had started spreading—about me, about my production, about the music coming out of that house.

The local scene was buzzing, and I was right in the middle of it.

I then reconnected with  Bossman—one of the biggest movers in the area. He wasn’t a rapper; he was a facilitator, a connector, the type of person who could open doors. And he saw something in what I was doing.

“You need a real studio,” he told me one night.

At first, I resisted. I had built my entire style around making things work with what I had. I didn’t need some fancy setup—I needed creativity, hunger, drive. But the more we talked, the more I realized he wasn’t talking about the equipment.

He was talking about presence. About legitimacy. About making the leap from ‘talented local producer’ to someone who could actually make an impact on a larger scale.

I knew he was right.

If I wanted to build something real, I couldn’t just keep working out of makeshift studios. I needed to take a leap. I needed to invest in myself the way I had invested all this time into the craft.

And that’s when the idea of running my own studio started forming in my mind.

I wasn’t sure how I was going to pull it off yet.

I didn’t have the money. I didn’t have the space.

But I had the drive.

And that had gotten me this far.

THE FUTURE TAKES SHAPE

By now, I knew this was my path. There was no “backup plan,” no safety net. I had poured too much into this to ever go back. The only direction was forward.

But forward wasn’t just about making music anymore.

It was about creating a space for music. A place where artists could come, where ideas could be born, where sound could be shaped and pushed to its limits.

The seed had been planted.

I didn’t just want to be an artist.

I wanted to build something that would outlive me.

And as I started planning, sketching out ideas, picturing what this could become, one thought kept repeating in my mind—one thought that would drive me for years to come.

Echo through eternity.

FROM THE GROUND UP

The idea of having my own studio wasn’t just ambition—it was a necessity. I had spent years moving from makeshift setups to borrowed spaces, squeezing every ounce of creativity from whatever gear and environment I could get my hands on. But now, with my name buzzing in the local scene, with artists showing up eager to record, I knew I needed something more.

A foundation. A headquarters. A place where everything could grow.

But dreams and reality rarely move at the same pace.

I had no location. No real budget. No business model. All I had was the absolute certainty that this was what I was supposed to do. And when you know something that deeply, failure isn’t an option—it’s just an obstacle waiting to be figured out.

I started looking at my options.

Studios weren’t cheap. Renting a professional space was out of the question, and I wasn’t about to take out some ridiculous loan that would have me drowning before I even got started. I needed to be smart about this.

That’s when I got a call from Bossman.

“I got a spot for you,” he said.

And just like that, everything started moving.

THE GET CONNECTED ERA

The building Bossman had lined up was deep in the city—a spot that doubled as a shop for custom gold fronts and streetwear. It was the kind of place where deals were made in the back while business was handled up front. It had a certain energy to it.

He was offering me space in the back, a room just big enough to house some equipment and turn into a functional studio. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

The deal was simple: I could set up and work there as long as I kept producing and recording for the people that came through. It wasn’t a formal contract—just an understanding, the kind of street-level agreement that either works out beautifully or goes south fast.

I moved in immediately.

I brought in my gear, set up what I could, and started working nonstop. People were coming in at all hours, looking for beats, looking to record, looking to be part of whatever was happening. It felt like something was building—a movement, an energy, a pulse.

This was where I met Big D for the first time.

At first glance, Big D didn’t fit the typical mold of an artist in the Toledo rap scene. He had a punk rock background, a deep knowledge of music beyond hip-hop, and a talent for multiple instruments—guitar, drums, bass, vocals. His raw musicality gave him an edge, and when we started talking about making music together, it was clear he wasn’t just another rapper looking for beats. He had a vision.

We decided to record together, and our first song, “Easy,” came together fast. It was gritty, unpolished, and full of energy. It was also the beginning of a musical partnership that would stretch far beyond Get Connected.

Everything at Get Connected was moving fast—sometimes too fast.

There was no real structure. No schedule. Just constant motion, constant music, constant people moving in and out. The place had a certain lawlessness to it, and while that energy fueled creativity, it also led to problems.

One night, I walked in and saw a spindle of my CDs missing.

At first, I thought maybe someone had borrowed them, maybe they had just been misplaced in the chaos of the studio. But then, I started hearing about bootlegs popping up all over the city.

Gas stations. Corner stores. Random parties.

Someone had taken my unreleased music—whole projects that weren’t even finished yet—and put them out on the streets. Not just my solo work, but tracks I had made with Big D, Jacoby, and others. And they weren’t just leaking it for free—they were selling it under our group name, packaging it like an official release.

I remember walking into a house party one night, and someone was playing one of my older tracks. I asked them where they got it.

“It’s on that new album,” they said, holding up a bootleg copy.

I was speechless.

On one hand, it was infuriating—someone was out there making money off my work without my permission. But on the other hand? It meant people cared enough to actually want the music. If people were buying bootlegs, it meant there was a demand.

That realization changed my mindset.

I could either waste time chasing down who was behind it—which wouldn’t put a dime in my pocket—or I could level up and make sure the next project was so big, so undeniable, that it couldn’t be controlled by anyone but me.

I chose the second option.

THE FIRE IN THE BASEMENT

Not long after the bootlegging situation, I had another close call—this one a little more dangerous.

Late one night, I was dead asleep in the back of the studio. It was quiet—too quiet.

I woke up to the smell of smoke.

When I opened my eyes, I realized something was off. The air felt thick, heavy, like the room itself was pressing down on me. I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and saw that the doors were wide open.

All of them.

The front, the back, the side entrance—all standing open like someone had just walked through.

And then I smelled it again. Smoke.

I ran to the basement and saw the flickering glow. Something was burning.

The fire hadn’t spread far yet, but it was enough to make my stomach drop. I grabbed whatever I could, dumped water, stomped out embers—whatever it took. Eventually, the flames died, leaving behind charred blackened walls and a lingering smell that stuck to everything.

I stood there for a long time, breathing heavy, taking it all in.

To this day, I don’t know how I woke up when I did. The smoke hadn’t filled the room yet. The heat hadn’t reached me. But something pulled me out of that sleep, something made me notice the open doors, something made me move before it was too late.

I never felt comfortable sleeping there again.

Not long after that, I left Get Connected for good.

UNIQUE STUDIOS—LEVELING UP AGAIN

Leaving Get Connected didn’t mean slowing down. It just meant finding the next step.

That’s when I linked up with Unique Studios, another spot in the city directly next to frankies inner city that had a reputation for quality. Unlike Get Connected, this wasn’t a makeshift operation—it was a real studio, built for serious artists.

I started running sessions there, working with new artists, and expanding my sound even further. This was where I met Nino Graye, one of the most lyrically sharp and forward-thinking artists I had ever worked with.

Nino wasn’t just another rapper—he was a student of the craft, someone who understood lyricism at a different level. The first time he came through to record, he asked if I had any raw boom-bap beats. I played a few. He nodded.

“This is it,” he said.

That session turned into multiple sessions, which eventually turned into a full collaboration. The music we made together at Unique Studios would lay the groundwork for what was coming next.

But even though the setup was better, the pay was still inconsistent. Studios like Unique cost money, and I wasn’t in a position to lock in long-term. And like the previous spot i was living on location as i could not afford a place of my own.

I needed something that was mine.

That thought—the same one that had been following me for years—started creeping back into my head.

It was time.

I didn’t just want to work in studios anymore.

I needed to build my own.

THE FREESTYLE GAME – MEETING NINO GRAYE

Leaving Get Connected didn’t mean slowing down. It just meant finding the next step.

That’s when I linked up with Unique Studios, another spot in the city that had a reputation for quality. Unlike Get Connected, this wasn’t a makeshift operation—it was a real studio, built for serious artists.

I started running sessions there, working with new artists, and expanding my sound even further. This was where I met Nino Graye, one of the most lyrically sharp and forward-thinking artists I had ever worked with.

Nino wasn’t just another rapper—he was a student of the craft, someone who understood lyricism at a different level. The first time he came through to record, he asked if I had any raw boom-bap beats. I played a few. He nodded.

“This is it,” he said.

That session turned into multiple sessions, which eventually turned into a full collaboration. The music we made together at Unique Studios would lay the groundwork for what was coming next.

But it wasn’t just about recording—it was about pushing each other creatively. That’s when we started playing The Freestyle Game.

The rules were simple: you had to freestyle a few bars about whatever was in the room, then pass it to the next person. It started small—rapping about random things on the table, the posters on the walls, the bottles on the floor. But the more we played, the higher the stakes got.

One night, we decided to step it up. We went to the kitchen spice rack and challenged ourselves to keep it going for as long as possible. Bar after bar, verse after verse, we flipped rhymes about cinnamon, paprika, cumin, basil—whatever was in front of us. The game went on for hours, each of us pushing the other to come up with something fresher, wittier, sharper.

It wasn’t just a game—it was training.

Freestyling like that forces your brain to move faster, to connect ideas in real time, to think in rhyme without hesitation. It was sharpening a skill that most rappers ignored, and over time, it started to show in the way we wrote, the way we approached beats, the way we performed.

Nino’s presence at Unique Studios wasn’t just about making music—it was about pushing the craft forward.

But even though the setup was better, the pay was still inconsistent. Studios like Unique cost money, and I wasn’t in a position to lock in long-term.

I needed something that was mine.

That thought—the same one that had been following me for years—started creeping back into my head.

It was time.

I didn’t just want to work in studios anymore.

We needed to have our own.

BLU CAVE RECORDINGS & BUILDING THE MOVEMENT

Leaving Unique Studios wasn’t just about finding another place to record—it was about taking full control. I had been hopping from studio to studio, running sessions, producing for artists, making connections. But I wasn’t calling the shots.

I needed my own space, my own creative hub.

That’s when I linked up with Jacoby again.

We had already made some solid music together, but now, we weren’t just collaborating—we were about to be roommates.

We moved into a spot off Collingwood, and almost immediately, the place became Blue Cave Recordings.

It wasn’t a real studio—not yet. It was a run-down apartment that we were turning into something bigger.

The name came from the vibe—dim blue lighting, walls covered in soundproofing, a place where the music lived and breathed. We didn’t have top-of-the-line gear, but we had drive, and we had vision.

This is where I started making some of my best early music.

He had been my hype man at shows, but now he was more than that. He was part of the creative process.

The three of us were like a machine, bouncing ideas off each other, bringing different energy to every track. We weren’t just making music—we were crafting experiences.

Me and Jacoby were locked in, creating nonstop, but the real X-factor was Big D.

And then, one day, I started thinking:

What if I went to school for this?

MUSIC TECH (MCNALLY SMITH) & MOVING TO MINNESOTA

At some point, in between all the late nights and smoke-filled sessions, I had stumbled across a college specifically for music production—Music Tech in Saint Paul, Minnesota.

I had barely made it through high school, got my GED because I didn’t care about traditional education.

I wasn’t a school guy.

But this? This was different. This was music school. I applied. Got accepted. Figured out the grants and loans to cover it. And then, just like that, I was moving to Minnesota. My dad drove me up in his RV, dropping me off at my new apartment—the reformed Saint Paul Hotel. I didn’t have much—just a futon, a tiny combo TV/radio my dad had bought me, and a PlayStation.

It was basically a dorm for musicians. Probably 70% of the building was students from Music Tech. You could hear drums, guitars, and synths bleeding through the walls at all hours. Before classes even started, I found myself alone in this unfamiliar city, no distractions, no studio sessions.

I did what I always did—I started making music.

One of the first things I recorded in Minnesota was “Countdown”—a song about the madness of time passing, how life never stops moving, how every second is slipping away.

That song came from a real place—I was alone in a new city, everything was moving too fast, and for the first time in a long time, I had to stop and think about where my life was headed.

But soon, things picked up.

I started meeting people, making friends with other artists and engineers. Nico, Big D, Jacoby, and Justin all ended up moving there with me. We got jobs at Jimmy John’s, working our way up to general managers.

For a while, it felt like things were falling into place.

But I had this feeling, deep down—Minnesota wasn’t the destination.

This was just another stop on the journey.

One day, I told my boss at Jimmy John’s, “I’m done. I’m going to do something not everybody can do.”

And just like that, we voted on it.

Back to Toledo.

I was the only one who voted against it.

I told them, “The economy’s bad. Toledo’s not the move.”

But the vote was made.

So we packed up, and just like that, I was back home.

BACK IN TOLEDO, BACK TO THE MUSIC

Coming back wasn’t easy.

Minnesota had been a different world—new energy, new opportunities. But now I was back in a place I had already outgrown once.

If I was going to be in Toledo, I had to make it worth it.

And that’s when I started taking production more seriously than ever before.

I had already been selling beats for years, going all the way back to mp3.com in 2003. That was when I had started using the “type beat” strategy—labeling beats as something a major artist might rap on so people could immediately know the style.

One of the first? “Lil Wayne Type Beat.”

It was pure marketing.

Artists didn’t want to dig through random instrumentals—they wanted something that sounded like what they already knew.

And it worked.

At the same time, I was selling beats with a non-exclusive licensing model—offering 10 beats for $100, letting multiple artists buy the same track.

It was a game-changer.

I built a name for myself as Controversial Productions, constantly ranking high on SoundClick, getting thousands of plays every day.

But no matter how much success I had, there was one name at the top of the game.

Anno Domini.

JOINING ANNO DOMINI

If you were a producer selling beats online in the 2000s, there was one crew that everyone knew—Anno Domini Beats.

Founded by Adrian Boeckler, Anno Domini was dominating SoundClick, pulling millions of plays, getting placements with major artists.

I was watching, studying, hoping one day I could be at that level.

And then, one day, out of nowhere—Adrian messaged me.

He asked me to join the team.

I didn’t even hesitate.

This was huge.

Anno Domini wasn’t just a brand—it was the biggest name in the online beat-selling game. Being a part of it meant instant credibility, more exposure, more money.

But I knew I had to step up my game.

At the time, I had lost my old beat projects and files—so I had to start from scratch.

I was making 5 to 7 beats every single day, grinding non-stop, pushing myself harder than ever before.

And it paid off.

Money started coming in. Major artists started reaching out.

The first big placement? Black Rob.

After that, it was a snowball effect.

I wasn’t just making beats anymore.

I was in the industry.

BUILDING FAT SOUND FROM THE GROUND UP

Before Fat Sound became the heartbeat of the city’s hip-hop scene, before the accolades, before the roster of talented artists, before it became the place where everything happened, it started as nothing more than an idea—and an empty room in a historic building downtown. But like everything else in my career, it was built from nothing, piece by piece, with nothing but vision and a refusal to stop.

It all started when I linked up with Dave at Orange Door Studios, a solid recording spot that had already been running for a while. I started engineering there, working with artists under Al Sheez’s wing—he had a deal with Kinetic Batteries, and his music had already landed in movies like American Pie. It was a good situation, but I knew I wasn’t meant to work under someone else forever.

Then Dave made me an offer.

He had plans to build an even bigger, better studio in the Secor Building, and he wanted me to design the entire thing from the ground up. This wasn’t just about running sessions—it was about creating something real, something that would last. I spent weeks sketching out layouts, designing the control room, plotting out the signal flow, gear placement, and acoustic treatment. I had already spent years in and out of studios—I knew exactly what worked and what didn’t.

Together, we built it from the ground up.

I personally set up the vocal booths, helped install the custom desk for the Control 24 console, and recommended the Avalon VT-737 preamp, which became a staple in the studio. The moment it was finished, it was one of the best recording spaces in the city. But something still didn’t feel right.

It wasn’t mine.

I had helped bring it to life, but at the end of the day, I was still playing by someone else’s rules.

And that’s when everything changed.

THE DUBAI CONNECTION

One day, out of nowhere, I got a message from an artist in Dubai.

He wasn’t just looking for beats—he wanted to fly in and record an entire album with me, from scratch. He wanted custom production, full engineering, and the full experience of working in my space.

At first, it almost seemed too wild to be real. But within weeks, he had booked his flight, and I was on my way to Detroit Metro Airport to pick him up. My father came with me, and of course, if we were already in Detroit, we had to stop at Captain Nemo’s for a steak and cheese sub—a Romulus classic. The Dubai artist got one too, and he liked it so much, he stretched it out for two days.

For the next several weeks, we locked in, recording the entire album in my basement studio. He even stayed at my townhouse while we worked. The process was intense—every day, every night, we were tracking vocals, tweaking beats, shaping the sound.

But more importantly, it gave me the funds to finally build my own studio.

I wasn’t going to waste this opportunity. I had one shot to do it right.

FAT SOUND IS BORN

As soon as the project wrapped, I secured an open space in the Secor Building, in another unit separate from the studio I had built with Dave. This time, it was all mine.

I planned every purchase carefully.

I started with the backbone of my setup:

• A Mackie d8b with a ProBox mod for full DAW control
• An Audient iD44 interface
• A custom-built PC optimized for music production

But I didn’t stop there.

I needed the room to be perfect, so I designed and built my own custom studio desk to fit the d8b, with built-in rack spaces at ear-level for the perfect mix position. Then, with the help of my father, I hand-built my own acoustic panels and diffusers, measuring everything precisely to fine-tune the sound of the space.

The hardest part?

Getting everything up there.

The service elevator was ancient, barely functioning. But we had no choice. We hauled every last piece of equipment and furniture up ourselves, sweating through the process, determined to make this work. Fat Sound wasn’t just a studio—it was a symbol of everything I had built from the ground up.

And then, it all started taking off.

I wasn’t just setting up a studio—I was constructing it from the ground up. I spent weeks measuring, designing, and hand-building custom desks, installing acoustic treatment, and wiring everything together. My father, always skeptical of my music career but willing to help when I really needed it, came through in a big way. Together, we built custom acoustic panels and diffusers at his place, cutting the wood, wrapping the insulation, making sure everything was properly measured.

I had learned from years of trial and error that sound was everything. A studio could have the best gear in the world, but if the acoustics were trash, the music would never sound right. So I took my time, tweaking every detail, fine-tuning the space until I knew that when I hit play on a track, it would sound exactly the way it was supposed to.

The early days were rough. Clients were hesitant. Word-of-mouth hadn’t spread yet. Some of the first artists that came through weren’t exactly impressed—the room wasn’t dialed in yet, the sound wasn’t quite there. But I refused to let that stop me.

I upgraded everything.

I swapped my monitors out for Genelec 8040s, upgraded my interface to an RME Babyface Pro, and replaced my vocal chain with a vintage Avalon VT-737sp preamp and a custom-built Telefunken microphone. It wasn’t just about having top-tier gear—it was about crafting a sound that couldn’t be found anywhere else in the city.

And when I finally got it right, everything changed.

THE STUDIO GETS RECOGNIZED

The sessions started coming in faster and faster. Word spread that Fat Sound was the best hip-hop studio in the city, and soon, it wasn’t just underground artists booking time—established names started showing up too.

Then came the moment that solidified it.

The Toledo City Paper released its list of “Best Recording Studios” in the region.

Fat Sound landed 2nd place.

I hadn’t even been campaigning for it. It was pure word-of-mouth, pure recognition of the work I had put in. That night, I went to the awards event—free drinks, good food, a packed house—and walked away with a t-shirt and a keychain. It wasn’t a Grammy, but it was proof that Fat Sound had arrived.

And then came MBK.

THE BUZZ STARTS SPREADING

At first, sessions trickled in, mostly from artists I had already worked with. But once they heard what Fat Sound could do, word spread fast. Suddenly, artists were calling, booking time, showing up to just be in the room.

I was driving 90 minutes every day from my place in Michigan to the studio in Toledo, putting in ten to twelve-hour sessions, then driving back. It would have been fine—except for the fact that my car was barely holding together.

I was pushing a rusted-out 2003 Honda Civic with no air conditioning, windows that didn’t roll down, and, worst of all, a leaking gas line directly under the driver’s seat. Every trip, I was inhaling gas fumes, getting dizzy on the highway, barely making it back and forth. In the winter, the roads were barely plowed, and I was sliding through snowstorms just to make it to the studio on time.

But none of that mattered.

I was building something real, something bigger than myself.

One of the first big turning points came when I got a call from my boy Nick.

“MBK wants to meet,” he said.

MBK (My Brother’s Keeper) was one of the biggest groups in the city at the time. Alaz, M-Dot, Slit, and Sixx Digit. They had already built a name for themselves, and they were looking for a studio to record their next major project.

But there was one complication.

Sixx Digit.

We had history. A full-blown beef that had lasted for years.

The meeting wasn’t just about the music—it was about clearing the air, figuring out if we could even be in the same room long enough to make this project happen.

When we sat down, it was tense at first. But as we started talking, something became clear—neither of us even remembered what had started the beef in the first place.

It was just old energy, leftover from a time when the scene was smaller and every rivalry felt like life or death.

By the time we left that meeting, it was settled. Water under the bridge.

And just like that, Fat Sound had landed its first major project.

The sessions for “Four” were some of the best I had ever worked on. MBK had chemistry, real chemistry. Every track came together seamlessly, the energy in the studio was electric, and the final product was one of the strongest projects to come out of Toledo’s hip-hop scene.

From that point forward, Fat Sound wasn’t just another studio. It was the place to be.

Artists weren’t just booking time—they were showing up just to be around the energy, to soak in the creative process, to watch what was happening.

And that was just the beginning.

THE FAT SOUND ROSTER

The next logical step was to bring artists under the Fat Sound banner—not just as clients, but as part of something bigger. I had built relationships with some of the best talent in the city, and now, I had the infrastructure to take it further.

I reached out to Sixx Digit, fresh off our work together on the MBK album, and we agreed to start a duo project—something different, something high-energy, something that showcased both of our styles while pushing us both to new limits. That’s how “Best Enemies” was born.

The name itself was a nod to our past—the fact that we had once been on opposite sides of a beef that neither of us could even fully remember. Now, we were teaming up to make something powerful. But we didn’t want to just make another rap album. We wanted a concept, something cinematic, something that would stand out.

The result? A buddy-cop action movie in rap form.

The entire album played out like a screenplay, with skits, dialogue, and a storyline that had us playing two rogue agents trying to take down a villain named Dr. Zanny, a criminal mastermind flooding the streets with lean. It was wild, it was different, and it was exactly the kind of creative, conceptual storytelling that had always inspired me.

At the same time, I was working closely with Slit, one of the most unique voices in the area. Slit had a deep, raspy tone and a style that blended rock, country, and hip-hop in a way that felt authentic, not forced. We started developing what would become “Monster”, an album that took the raw emotion of blues and country and fused it with hard-hitting hip-hop production.

I also started working with Str8 Caine, who had already built a solid name in the local rap scene. Caine’s presence was undeniable—he had a voice that cut through any beat, a delivery that felt effortless but commanding. One of our first tracks together, “Prove It”, came together almost by accident.

Bossman had hit me up one night, saying he was rolling through the studio and asked if there was anyone I wanted him to bring. Without hesitation, I said, “Hit up Caine.”

By the time they arrived, I had already made the beat, written my verse, and was adjusting the mix. As soon as Caine walked in, he sat down, wrote his verse on the spot, and within the hour, we had a classic. It was raw, it was effortless, and it felt like the beginning of something bigger.

Along with these core artists, the Fat Sound roster also included C-Fifth, Deuce, Shayla, and a few others, each bringing their own unique style and energy.

And then came the moment I’ll never forget.

I gathered the entire Fat Sound team for a meeting. Twelve artists and collaborators, all sitting together in one room, and handed them all custom Fat Sound shirts that I had designed and printed myself.

As I stood in front of them, looking at the people who had put their trust in me, I realized that this wasn’t just a studio anymore. This was something real. This was a movement.

EXPANDING THE MOVEMENT

With business booming, I acquired another unit below Fat Sound. It wasn’t a studio—I had gotten it purely as a place to live and create. I moved in with nothing but a mattress on the floor, my laptop, and my vision.

For a full year, I lived in that space, making nearly 100 songs—a mix of hip-hop, experimental projects, and unreleased material that still sits in the vault. It was some of the most productive, creative, and wild times of my life.

But then, the break-ins started.

Artists had their units burglarized, and suddenly, it didn’t feel safe anymore. I made the hardest decision of my life: I tore down Fat Sound, packed everything up, and put it in storage.

I wasn’t giving up. I was leveling up.

THE SEARCH FOR A NEW HOME

Packing up Fat Sound was like packing up a piece of my soul. Every cable, every panel, every carefully placed piece of acoustic treatment—I had built this place with my own hands, and now, I was tearing it all down. But I knew I had no choice. The break-ins were becoming too frequent, the building no longer felt secure, and the thought of losing everything I had worked for was a risk I wasn’t willing to take. So, piece by piece, I loaded it all into storage, sealing away the empire I had built, waiting for the right moment to rebuild it even bigger.

But now, I had a problem.

For the first time in years, I had no studio.

No sessions to run. No long nights tweaking mixes. No artists coming through at all hours, fueled by hunger and ambition. It was like being ripped away from my own identity. I had spent so much time locked in, so many years pouring everything into building Fat Sound, that without it, I felt like a ghost.

But ghosts don’t rest. They haunt.

And I wasn’t done haunting this game.

A DOOMED DETOUR

Before I could even fully process my next move, I got an offer.

A local business connection reached out, saying they had a potential studio opportunity. It wasn’t the ideal location—it was an office inside an apartment complex, not exactly the kind of place you picture when you think of a world-class recording studio—but I was willing to hear them out. I needed a space, and fast.

The plan was simple: I’d set up the studio there, run sessions, build it up, and eventually, it could lead to bigger things. But right from the start, I knew something was off.

For one, the building had no central air. Anyone who has ever tried to run a recording studio knows that heat and electronics don’t mix. Sitting in a small room with computers, monitors, and preamps running at full power would turn that space into a sauna. But that wasn’t even the worst part.

Our grand opening—the moment we had been building toward—landed on the exact same day that the government issued the nationwide COVID-19 lockdowns.

It was like watching a dream die before it even had the chance to live.

There was no recovering from that. The world shut down overnight. Studios, venues, businesses—everything was at a standstill. No sessions, no clients, no chance to get this thing off the ground. I barely even had time to process what was happening before it was clear: this wasn’t going to work.

I walked away.

But I wasn’t walking away from my dream. I was walking toward something bigger.

DISCOVERING THE STANDALONE BUILDING

I spent the next few weeks doing nothing but searching for a new space. I wasn’t going to settle again. I needed something real. Not an office, not a shared unit—I wanted a standalone building, something that was truly mine, where I could create without limits.

That’s when I found it.

A brick building, standing alone on a stretch of Douglas Road, just a few miles from where I had gone to high school. From the outside, it looked unassuming—just another small business, the kind of place you’d pass without a second thought. But as I stood there, staring at it, picturing the possibilities, I knew this was it.

I called the number on the sign.

Negotiated the lease.

And just like that, Fat Sound was about to be reborn.

BUILDING A MOVEMENT FROM THE GROUND UP (AGAIN)

This time, I wasn’t just building a studio. I was building a brand.

I reached out to my boy Ryan, who had been making big moves in the vintage clothing and sneaker world. We had been talking about doing something together for a while, and now, with this new building, I had the perfect opportunity. I offered him the front half of the space to launch what would become Mainstream Subculture, a high-end sneaker and vintage shop.

The idea was simple: music and culture, under one roof.

A studio in the back.

A storefront in the front.

A creative hub, where artists, entrepreneurs, and culture creators could all come together under one building.

But first, we had to build it.

The interior needed work—a lot of it. My father, once again, was right there with me, helping me put in new flooring, painting the walls, installing new ceiling tiles. I spent weeks constructing the studio in the back, bringing in the best equipment I had ever worked with.

This time, I didn’t cut corners.

By the time everything was set up, Fat Sound wasn’t just back—it was stronger than ever.

And people noticed.

Before I had even finished putting everything together, artists were already booking sessions. Word had spread that Fat Sound was back, and the demand was higher than it had ever been.

For the first time in my career, I had to start turning people away just to keep up.

THE ART OF IMMORTALITY

The air inside Fat Sound was different now.

Not just because of the upgraded gear, the refined acoustics, or the constant flood of artists coming in and out—but because of something intangible. Something you could feel. It was the energy of a place that had been built from the ground up, torn down, and reborn.

And now, it was thriving.

The local newspapers were doing stories on us.

Every morning, I’d wake up in the apartment above the studio, shake off the exhaustion from the night before, and make my way downstairs. Some days, I was running sessions for artists who had never stepped inside a professional studio before. Other days, I was crafting entire albums with some of the most talented people I had ever worked with. Every day was different, but one thing remained the same—music never stopped.

This wasn’t just a studio. It was a movement.

And at the center of it all was the music.

A CREATIVE HAVEN

This wasn’t just a studio—it was a community.

Artists weren’t just coming in to record. They were hanging out, connecting, building with each other. Sixx Digit ended up moving into the spare room upstairs, and Fat Sound became more than just a business.

It was a home.

It was here that Slit’s “Monster” album was finalized. We put everything into that project, blending his unique country-rock-infused style with my production to create something completely new.

It was here that we held the “Monster” album release party, where I spent every last dollar I had making sure it was a success. I hand-printed merch, got CDs pressed, bought food and drinks—because if we were going to do it, we were going to do it right.

It was here that I released my own album, “Sheep’s Clothing”, an introspective project that felt like the culmination of everything I had gone through in my career.

And it was here that I got the phone call that would change everything.

THE MONSTER SESSIONS

One of the defining moments of Fat Sound’s resurgence was the creation of Slit’s “Monster” album.

Slit wasn’t like other artists. His voice carried weight—gritty, raw, real. He had a sound that broke through genres, blending elements of country, rock, and hip-hop into something that felt like it shouldn’t work, but somehow did.

From the start, I knew this project was different. It wasn’t just about making songs—it was about capturing a feeling, building a world that matched the weight of his voice and his stories. Every track had to hit harder, deeper, more cinematic.

We didn’t just record. We experimented. We stripped things down and rebuilt them. We chased a sound that didn’t exist yet.

And then came the video shoot.

For the album’s standout single, “Runaway,” we needed the perfect setting. Something that visually matched the loneliness and desperation in the song. Something that felt wide open, yet inescapable.

I knew exactly where to go.

Raintree Village.

A place I knew better than I ever wanted to. Where I had spent part of my childhood. Where I had written my first lyrics, taken my first steps into hip-hop, and started dreaming about making music that mattered.

Just past the last row of mobile homes, there was an open field. Wide. Isolated. Almost forgotten. It felt like it had been waiting for this moment.

So we went there.

Standing in that field, watching the drone camera hover overhead, capturing the vast emptiness surrounding us—it hit me. This was full circle.

The same ground where I used to dream about making music, being an artist, building something real—now, I was here, filming one of the most important moments of my career.

But Runaway wasn’t the only thing we shot there.

NUMB—A REFLECTION OF EVERYTHING I HAD BEEN THROUGH

While we were already in Raintree, I knew I had to film something for myself too.

By this point, I had been sitting on Sheep’s Clothing, one of the most personal albums I had ever made. It wasn’t just another record—it was a reflection of everything I had gone through, the highs and lows, the battles within my own mind.

And “Numb” was at the heart of it.

I didn’t want flashy effects, a big set, or distractions.

I wanted it to be me, the camera, and the open landscape.

A representation of how I felt—isolated, detached, but still standing.

We shot it there, using drone shots to capture the emptiness, the vastness of it all. In a way, the video wasn’t just about the song—it was about where I had come from and where I was going.

I had walked that same field as a kid, dreaming about music.

Now, I was standing there as an artist, as a producer, as someone who had actually made it happen.

That’s the thing about music—it doesn’t just document where you’ve been. It proves you were there.

A HIGH-RISK GAMBLE: NEW YORK

An opportunity came up—one that could take Fat Sound to the next level. A chance to move to New York, to expand, to build something even bigger than what I had already created. It was a huge risk, but at this point in my life, playing it safe had never been my style.

I took the gamble.

I left everything behind, betting that this was the move that would change everything.

But sometimes, even the best bets don’t pay off.

It didn’t work out.

Not for lack of effort. Not because we didn’t give it everything we had. Sometimes, things just don’t line up the way you plan.

And that’s okay.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this game, it’s that nothing is over until I say it’s over.

THE END? NEVER.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this game, it’s that you can lose everything and still rebuild.

Because at the end of the day, Fat Sound was never just a studio.

It was an idea. A movement. A testament to the fact that you can start from nothing, build something from the ground up, fall apart, and still rise again.

So where does the story go from here?

That’s the thing.

It never ends.

I’ll keep pushing, keep creating, keep chasing that elusive sound, that next project, that next moment of pure magic.

And even if one day, I’m gone—

The music will remain. The stories, the beats, the words, the impact—

They will echo through eternity.

I would like to thank all of the people that have inspired and supported and been part of this journey. As you will read there has been alot of ups and downs but i have been blessed to walk the path i have and i would not change a thing because it led me to this moment.

I could never describe how much my father has meant to me in my life, he has been my guiding light and in so many ways the man i strive to be. He instilled a work ethic and drive deep inside of me and confirmed that you needed to work hard to get to where you want. Nothing easy is worth doing as he would say. And aside from his guidance and advice throughout my life he assisted me in every way possible at every step. All i ever wanted in life was to make you proud and i hope i have in some small way.

My mother is what made me believe i could do what i have achieved, she constantly insisted i could do anything i put my mind to. But she always showed me the value in truly trying to do right and be a good person. She has helped and supported me at so many points in my life i could never repay her, only express truly how much she has meant to me.

My sister was a pivotal part of my career and in my life in general, she has been my best friend since i truly knew the meaning. She has supported me and championed me at every point. She always believed in me even when there was no reason to, and her strength and will to make a good life for her family has always been an inspiration.

To Chelsea, i normally would not include you in this. But thats how sure i am that when this is read for years to come it would still apply and we will be that much further along in our life together. You have without knowing it changed my whole perception of life and what it can and should be. You have changed what i strive for and how i view the world. And simply put without you i wouldnt have made it thru this most recent stretch of my life. So all i can do is spend the rest of my life showing you just how much you mean to me.

To all of my friends that have supported me over the years and believed i was capable of things i never thought possible i thank you, this was always part of the fuel that drove me. At every point i wanted to prove right and most of all never let you down.

To all the amazing artist i have worked with over the years, you always kept me on my toes. Whenever i became complacent something or someone would come along and make me realize i needed to step my game up. And also on a personal level, entrusting me with the responsibility of seeing artistic visions thru was never something i took lightly and im very thankful that i have been part of your journey as well.

And lastly to my supporters and business partners over the years, you have almost single handedly funded my existence in life. Any beat you purchased or plugin merely funded me the time to be able to pursue this path, and truly without you none of this would have been possible so thank you all!

Artist I’ve worked with:

Notable worldwide:

shady records, wu-tang, Jedi mind tricks, heavy metal kings, v zilla, burke the jurke, jus Allah, ra the rugged man, black rob, raekwon, masta killa, ghost face killa, Sean price, canibus, diabolic, chino xl, talib kweli, Vinnie paz, Ill bill, slaine, Louis logic, termanology, dangerous, chief kamachi, tha soloist, the jokerr, Sean strange, king magnetic, roc from health skeltah, Redman, afu ra, crooked I, lil Whyte, caskey, Conway the machine, jelly roll

Toledo & Midwest:

Nino graye, slit, sixx digit, alaz, MDOT, proficey, Raine wilder, dub deuce, Stephen King, Mike flamez, j Davies, fif element, giftd, c fifth, str8 caine, Shayla, puncho, j360, stinkbomb, Al sheez, blacqlanta, infamous, bossman, renny, big d, lame o, sleep sound, dj cob, dj lightning rod, Birdy loc, silverside 5725, MBK, m-eighty, ss fame, Casper, mc habitat

Companies and placements:

NBA

ESPN 

EA Sports

HBO

MTV

Akai

Retronyms

Ball is life

Epic rap battles