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As CMA Fest gears up to welcome visitors from around the world to downtown Nashville June 8-11, the enduring festival will celebrate 50 years of bringing together country music fans with their favorite artists.
“From a fan’s perspective, there’s nothing else like it in the world,” says Luke Combs, who will perform at Nissan Stadium on the festival’s opening night. “You can go see every act in the genre, from the smallest act to the biggest act, and all you have to do is walk a few blocks. It’s so unique.”
When the inaugural festival was held on April 12, 1972, at Nashville’s Municipal Auditorium, it was billed as Fan Fair, drawing nearly 5,000 attendees and featuring performers including Roy Acuff, Bill Anderson, Loretta Lynn, Ernest Tubb and Jeannie Seely.
“[Fellow country artist] Dottie West and I were very close,” Seely recalls. “Sometimes, just to mess with some of the DJs that were visiting, we would cut station promos as each other. I got pretty good at saying, ‘Hi, I’m Dottie West with RCA. Welcome to Fan Fair.’ ”
Since then, the festival — which was renamed CMA Music Festival in 2004 then CMA Fest in 2018 — has evolved into a four-day event that in 2022 featured more than 150 artists and drew an estimated 80,000 fans daily from every U.S. state and nearly 40 countries. Each night features some of the genre’s biggest artists performing at the 70,000-capacity Nissan Stadium. Artists play CMA Fest for free, with a portion of the proceeds going to the CMA Foundation to aid music education initiatives.
“I appreciate so much what the artists give up to be here,” says Sarah Trahern, Country Music Association CEO since 2014. Every year, Trahern writes thank-you notes to each act who plays the stadium and includes notes from children who have benefited from music education. “The artists that play the weekend shows could be playing different places for a lot of money, but they recognize the history, the fan connection and community aspect of the festival,” says Trahern.
Luke Combs at the 58th Academy of Country Music Awards from Ford Center at The Star on May 11, 2023 in Frisco, Texas. Combs will be among this year’s headliners at Nissan Stadium.
Rich Polk for PMC
Across five decades of uniting artists and fans, CMA Fest has spurred numerous unforgettable moments — several of them involving autograph lines. In 1988, a power outage forced artists including George Strait and Reba McEntire to sign autographs in the dark. In 1996, Garth Brooks appeared at Fan Fair unannounced and signed autographs for 23 hours straight, never taking a bathroom or food break. In 2010, a young Taylor Swift signed autographs for 13 hours. The festival’s recently created Fan Fair X area inside the Music City Center convention center draws on a long-standing tradition of artists and record labels creating often elaborate autograph-signing booths.
Trisha Yearwood, who made her Fan Fair debut in 1991, recalls how in 1996 her then-manager, Ken Kragen, had the idea of creating a recording booth for fans to sing Yearwood’s No. 1 hit, “XXXs and OOOs.” (She broke through five years earlier with “She’s in Love With the Boy.”) “They’d take home a cassette of them singing with Trisha. It worked so well, except for one thing: I couldn’t get anybody to actually sing unless I sang at the top of my lungs with them,” Yearwood remembers. “That was fun, but after about eight hours straight of that every day, I had no voice. I think it was one of the most creative booths at Fan Fair ever.”
Several artists, including Kelsea Ballerini, Dierks Bentley, Miranda Lambert and Blake Shelton, first attended CMA Fest as fans or even interns.
“I had my headset, my walkie talkie and was driving people around in golf carts to and from their buses to the corrals where artists would sign autographs,” recalls Bentley, who worked as an intern at Fan Fair in 1995. “The first artist I drove was Jo Dee Messina. I remember her being nervous, like, ‘No one’s going to know who I am.’ We pulled up outside the corrals and there’s all these fans shouting her name. I remember going, ‘I think you’re going to be OK.’ I drove Sammy Kershaw around. He was chain-smoking cigarettes the whole time. I still am the biggest Sammy fan of all time. I played my first CMA Fest 10 years later.”
Garth Brooks takes on a 23 hour autograph session during the 25th Annual Fan Fair in 1996 in Nashville.
Chris Hollo
CMA Fest has been held in multiple locations throughout Nashville over the decades. The event moved from Municipal Auditorium in downtown Nashville to the Tennessee State Fairgrounds in 1982. In 2001, the festival returned to downtown Nashville with a larger presence, including programming at Music City Center and Adelphia Coliseum (now called Nissan Stadium), while also shifting from weekdays to a four-day weekend.
In 2004, the audience at the newly rechristened festival expanded exponentially when CBS aired the two-hour TV special CMA Music Festival: Country’s Night To Rock; since 2005, the event has aired on ABC.
“I think televising the festival was groundbreaking,” says executive producer Robert Deaton, who helms the TV specials for CMA Fest and the CMA Awards, as well as CMA Country Christmas. “Unless you went to see a concert, you never got to see these artists perform in their element — you would see them do a song or two on the CMA Awards or on late-night shows. Soon, fans started going, ‘This is the party we want to be at,’ and attendance kept increasing.”
Still, the jump from fairgrounds to stadium “felt like a risk,” Deaton says, and notes that it took time for CMA Fest to grow into its new home. At first, says Trahern, “we sold the floor and a lot of seats on the first balcony, but the second and third balcony were empty. [So] we wanted to grow this into something bigger. We needed better sound, better sight lines, and the only way to do that was to move from the fairgrounds to the stadium.”
Keith Urban performs at the Nightly Concert at The Coliseum on June 13, 2004 in Downtown Nashville at the 2004 CMA Music Festival.
John Russell/CMA
The festival has a strong history of guest performers, including Paul McCartney in 1974, Bryan Adams in 1993, The Beach Boys in 1996 and a surprise performance by Lil Nas X, Billy Ray Cyrus and Keith Urban of “Old Town Road” in 2019. Deaton says that viewers of this year’s special can expect more collaborations than ever, pairing country artists from different eras, along with some surprise, non-country guests.
Even as this year’s CMA Fest, its corresponding telecast and a forthcoming documentary centered around the festival pay homage to the event’s past and present, Deaton is already looking to future TV specials, where one artist remains on his bucket list: Strait.
“I’d love to get the king, George Strait,” Deaton says. “He can play anything he wants, bring whomever he wants onstage with him. It would be so amazing to have him on the show.”
Expansion isn’t the only way CMA Fest has evolved. Over the past several years, the event has increasingly showcased the breadth of country music, spotlighting artists of color and in the LGBTQ+ community. Last year, the Black Opry was part of CMA Fest, while this year’s festival features Rissi Palmer’s Color Me Country, with Willie Jones, Charly Lowry, Dzaki Sukarno and Julie Williams. Last year, 84 women performed across the festival’s four days; this year’s will feature 106 women artists. CMA Fest attendees can expect performances from both newcomers and fan favorites at the event’s 10 stages, including several outdoor stages that are free and open to the public.
“Supporting underrepresented communities is a key part of our mission,” Trahern says. “We supported the Country Proud show last year and we’ve moved that onto our own footprint at the Hard Rock stage this year. We are excited to continue to have diversity on all of our stages.”
In 2007, when crowds lined up for events like the Chevy Sports Zone in downtown Nashville, CMA Fest had an aggregate attendance of 191,154 fans at all of its shows.
John Russell/CMA
Music journalist and country music historian Robert K. Oermann feels that CMA Fest fulfills a vital role in terms of exposing artists fans may not see — or hear — elsewhere. “Let’s face it, terrestrial radio is never going to change,” he says bluntly. “They are not interested in Black people or women or anything different. So the best thing is for everyone to go around them, and CMA Fest provides that opportunity. I often see artists there that I love who are not on the radio.”
“It really is about music discovery,” Trahern says. “It’s as important to us to have artists in the baby-act stage as it is when they are in the stadium. Megan Moroney is a great example. Last year she played the spotlight stage as an emerging artist, and now she’s playing the Chevy Riverfront stage and our Nissan Stadium platform stage.”
Even as CMA Fest has grown, the uniqueness of the festival’s unparalleled fan focus remains paramount.
“The fans — and it’s everyone from 6 years old to 96 years old — they want to see a show, get an autograph, have personal contact with their favorite artists,” Oermann says. “That connection is beautiful, and there is no ‘We’re cooler than you are’ attitude from the artists. I don’t think you could have a festival like this in other genres of music.”
This story originally appeared in the June 3, 2023, issue of Billboard.
At the start of 2022, Yahritza y Su Esencia emerged as the buzzy regional Mexican music act every label wanted to sign. In a matter of months, the Washington state-based Martinez sibling trio went from a local band that sang at family parties to the future of regional Mexican with its sad, catchy sierreño songs, powered by Yahritza’s emotional vocals, Mando’s requinto and Jairo’s bajoloche.
By March 2022, after signing a deal with independent label Lumbre Music, Yahritza y Su Esencia released their official debut single, “Soy el Único.” It entered the Billboard Hot 100 at No. 20 and made Yahritza the youngest Latin performer to debut on the chart at just 15 years old. The act subsequently notched its first No. 1 on Regional Mexican Albums with its Obsessed EP, scored a Latin Grammy Award nod for best new artist and, by November, signed with Columbia Records in a partnership with Lumbre Music and Sony Music Latin. A worldwide deal with SESAC Latina soon followed.
All the while, Yahritza’s 25-year-old big brother, Mando — who had been living stateside as an undocumented person — and his team were working behind the scenes to sort out his immigration status in the United States. In need of an O-1 visa, Mando had to go to Mexico City and follow protocols to prove his eligibility. After spending most of his life living with his parents (who are originally from Michoacán, Mexico) and four siblings in Washington’s agricultural region of Yakima Valley, he was suddenly alone in an unfamiliar city, waiting for approval.
“It was a sacrifice, especially when I’m one of the main components of the band,” says Mando, who returned to the United States in April shortly after getting approved for a special visa reserved for individuals with extraordinary ability and achievement in their field. “We had to learn to record separately, something we had never done. It has always been all of us together in a studio.”
“I would write my music and wouldn’t know who to share it with,” says Yahritza, now 16. “He was a call away, but it wasn’t the same.” Adds 18-year-old Jairo: “We couldn’t do the things we used to do, which was practicing every day. That changed everything for us.”
The band members — managed by their oldest sister, Adriana Martinez — were influenced by their father and uncles’ own musical act, which Mando joined as a kid. Yahritza and Jairo later learned how to play instruments and would upload covers on TikTok, including their viral take on Ivan Cornejo’s “Está Dañada.” Yahritza then began writing her own songs — the first being the emotionally charged heartbreak track “Soy el Único,” which ultimately led to the formation of Yahritza y Su Esencia.
Ramón Ruiz, CEO of Lumbre Music, signed the trio soon after discovering the group last year on TikTok. He says his team’s top priority was to not let Mando’s visa application affect the band. “We were always working on what’s coming next,” he says. “It was hard because Mando is a big part of the production and Yahritza and Jairo depend a lot on Mando. I would try to help however I could, but they needed their big brother. He’s their role model; they look up to him so much.”
From left: Mando, Yahritza and Jario Martinez of Yahritza y Su Esencia
David Cabrera
Mando’s status remained uncertain for nearly seven months. “I would remind [my siblings] that we needed to take things one day at a time,” Adriana says. “We’ve always believed God’s timing is perfect, so it was important to never lose faith and remember nothing can break the bond we have as a family, not even being separated.”
Now, with the O-1 secured, Mando is able to record and promote music in the United States, which Yahritza y Su Esencia have remained consistent with — as Yahritza and Jairo often traveled to Mexico to record. In the past few months alone, the act released “Inseparables” (with Cornejo), “Cambiaste,” “Nuestra Canción,” “No Se Puede Decir Adiós” and “Frágil” — a norteña, cumbia-tinged collaboration with Grupo Frontera produced by hit-maker Edgar Barrera.
“Regardless of the situation, we had to be releasing music for our fans,” says Mando. “We’d jump on FaceTime a lot, and that’s how we would make the song’s arrangements.” Yahritza would write in her room and then send music to Mando for his feedback. But when it came to recording the harmonies, she had to call him directly. “I needed him to show me because I still don’t know how to do that,” she says. “He would help me when he was home.”
“Them being together is what makes this so special,” says Julian Swirsky, senior vp of A&R at Columbia Records. “It was always about getting Mando home first and foremost, but the group was fired up. We had a Zoom call on New Year’s Eve to talk about new music because they wanted to get set up for the new year.”
From left: Yahritza, Mando and Jario Martinez of Yahritza y Su Esencia
David Cabrera
The first thing Mando did once his visa was approved at the end of April was travel home to Washington, where he surprised his parents at a family gathering by popping up behind them as they were taking a photo. “My mom yelled when she saw me and started to touch my face to see if I was real,” Mando says. “That’s when it hit me.”
With a new album in the works and a long-awaited U.S. tour slated for the second half of the year, Yahritza y Su Esencia are finally poised to reach their full potential — just when Mexican music continues to grow exponentially, with the act helping usher in a new era for the legacy genre. In May, “Frágil” cracked the Hot 100. And on the Billboard Global 200, it is among a handful of regional Mexican songs that are surging, as the genre now makes up nearly 10% of the entire chart.
“What happened to us had to happen,” says Jairo, “and it changed us.” Adds Yahritza: “Before, we would fight and disagree on small things. We shouldn’t even be caring about that; all we should care about is that we’re back together.”
This story originally appeared in the June 3, 2023, issue of Billboard.
When Bailey Zimmerman takes the stage to perform his brooding, multiweek Country Airplay chart-topper “Rock and a Hard Place,” the memories of a particularly bad breakup come flooding back to him.
“There was a girl I really loved. I wanted to give her the world and bought her a ring, and then she did some really messed-up stuff,” Zimmerman says. “Every time I see people cry during ‘Rock and a Hard Place’ when I’m singing it live, it takes me back to that moment. I remember being in my truck, screaming the lyrics to [Morgan Wallen’s] ‘Sand in My Boots’ because I was so sad and hurt. The line in ‘Rock’ about ‘We’ve been swinging and missing’ just resonated with me.”
When it comes to his career, Zimmerman (who is signed to Warner Music Nashville/Elektra Music Group) has been doing plenty of swinging — and making lots of contact. Now he’s not just screaming the lyrics to Wallen’s song: He’s opening the superstar’s stadium tour this summer. Less than four months after notching his first No. 1 on Billboard’s Country Airplay chart with “Fall in Love” in December, “Rock” reached the top spot, too. “Fall in Love” was still on its way to No. 1 when Zimmerman’s management team began seeding radio executives with the follow-up single.
“ ‘Rock’ checked all the boxes — great lyric, great melody, and it perfectly fits the direction Bailey is going,” says The CORE Entertainment co-founder/CEO Kevin “Chief” Zaruk, who co-manages Zimmerman with 10th Street Entertainment. “The feedback we received was that it would be an even bigger hit.”
The early stations that jumped on “Rock and a Hard Place” were prescient: The song (written by Heath Warren, Jacob Hackworth and Jet Harvey) achieved even more chart success than its predecessor, leading Country Airplay for six weeks. And in April, it became Zimmerman’s first top 10 on the all-genre Hot 100.
In less than three years, the 23-year-old native of Louisville, Ill., has gone from burgeoning TikTok star to bona fide hit-maker and, now, Billboard’s inaugural country Rookie of the Year. After high school, he began working on a natural-gas pipeline in West Virginia and gained a modest TikTok following for his videos of custom-lifted trucks. Singing was simply a hobby for Zimmerman until December 2020, when he uploaded a video of himself performing “Never Comin’ Home,” a song he had written with high school friend Gavin Lucas. The track went viral, and Zimmerman gave his union notice the following day.
“It was funny, because they were like, ‘You mean we should just take you off the schedule for a bit?’ And I was like, ‘No, I quit. I’m done,’ ” Zimmerman recalls. He continued writing songs and moved to Nashville to record, adding producer Austin Shawn to the core group of collaborators helping him craft his raw, unflinching brand of rock-tinged country. Zimmerman recorded in a spare bedroom in Shawn’s house, cutting his vocals in a small closet. “It’s the same room [where] I met Bailey for the first time, where we talked about lifted trucks and dirt bikes for about three hours straight,” Shawn says.
Bailey Zimmerman photographed on May 18, 2023 at The Underdog in Nashville.
Caitlin McNaney
Zimmerman signed his co-management deal in 2021 and announced his label deal the following year. Now he’s one of several artists who have recently ascended swiftly from social media virality to packing venues. (The Neal Agency books his shows.) He’s acutely aware that he sidestepped years of the grueling club shows that typically pave the way to country stardom — and that his learning curve is happening publicly. A few months ago, a clip of him singing off-key live went viral, leading him to post an endearing video in which he apologized for sounding “absolutely awful” before launching into a sturdy a cappella version of “Rock and a Hard Place” to prove he had simply experienced an off night.
“You can say, ‘You didn’t have to go through the 10 years in the bars to get where you are at.’ At the same time, [those artists] had plenty of time to deal with things like your mic not being on or your [in-ear monitors] going out — they could learn all that in clubs,” Zimmerman says. “I had to learn it in front of thousands of people.
“The first two years were rough,” he continues. “I got [vocal cord] nodules and had to not talk for almost three months. My voice was so weak, and I had to build it back slowly — I never went hoarse for a show, thank God, and I never needed surgery. But my voice is stronger now, and I’ve learned how to take care of it.”
Bailey Zimmerman photographed on May 18, 2023 at The Underdog in Nashville.
Caitlin McNaney
Not that Zimmerman has had much time to ponder his whirlwind success. Following its May 12 release, his major-label full-length debut, Religiously. The Album, entered the Top Country Albums chart at No. 3 and the Billboard 200 at No. 7.
“We’ve been working so hard, and to see the songs touching people like they have is amazing,” Zimmerman says. “And to be Rookie of the Year for Billboard is such a big deal. I can’t wait to call my mom — she’s going to freak.”
This story will appear in the June 3, 2023, issue of Billboard.
Ashley McBryde is sitting in a hotel room in Oxford, Miss., cracking up, thinking about the people who tried to tell her what to do. People like the staff at her first publisher, who laid out their version of Music Row Songwriting 101 to her early on.
“It was like, ‘Here’s who’s cutting records — so there can’t be any cursing, and it can’t be about drinking or staying the night with anyone,’ ” McBryde recalls. “What am I going to write about, corn dogs? That was really challenging, and the songs were terrible.”
The singer-songwriter can laugh about it now. Three critically acclaimed albums, six Grammy nominations and one win later, the 39-year-old Arkansas native has carved out a sweet spot between niche Americana and stadium-scale country-pop, where songwriting matters more than anything else.
But crafting that niche took McBryde years of pounding the Nashville pavement — so by the time she got the aforementioned unsatisfying publishing deal, she had honed her ability to work a crowd through endless bar gigs. “The music wasn’t as unusual as the way that she spoke,” Warner Music Nashville co-president Cris Lacy recalls of a 3rd & Lindsley showcase where McBryde performed in 2016. “There was a really clever wit and a different type of storytelling just in her banter.”
WMN held back, “just wanting to watch for a while,” in Lacy’s words, but manager John Peets signed on immediately after that show. “I’ll do this right now. This is amazing and doesn’t sound like anything else,” Peets remembers thinking. He told McBryde: “You never have to write a song that you hate ever again.”
McBryde’s differences from most prospective Nashville hit-makers drew Peets to her. “She was kind of on the front end of that regrounding in traditional country sounds that we’ve been seeing,” says Peets. “She wasn’t a 19-year-old blonde girl, either.”
Ashley McBryde photographed on May 3, 2023 at Skyway Studios in Nashville.
Diana King
With Peets’ help — putting her in rooms with veteran songwriters and encouraging her to write personal, honest songs — McBryde refined her writing to better match the sharp, between-songs banter that audiences had found so appealing. With her 2016 EP, Jalopies & Expensive Guitars, McBryde felt much closer to finding her voice. “Finally, I was like, ‘Oh, yeah. This tastes like the meal I would prepare,’ ” she says. It included “Bible and a .44,” a vivid, heartfelt homage to her father that helped her break through after fellow Peets client Eric Church invited her to sing it onstage at one of his shows; Lacy signed her to WMN soon after.
Since then, this year’s Country Power Players Groundbreaker has found success without much help from country radio. After more than a decade in the business and seven years on the country charts, McBryde has notched only one No. 1 song on Billboard’s Country Airplay list: her 2021 duet with Carly Pearce, “Never Wanted To Be That Girl.”
“It does piss me off when someone walks out of their mother’s womb into headlining arenas and releasing songs that go No. 1 instantly, 1,000%,” McBryde says. “Because if I put that person who skipped all the steps in a single bar I played in North Little Rock that’s full of bikers and truckers, they couldn’t catch anyone’s attention.”
Radio’s failure to reflect McBryde’s rise speaks to its entrenched problem of gender inequity. “It’s not because female artists haven’t been consistently making great music,” she says. “It’s just that it’s easier to play songs on the radio that sell trucks. I guess it’s sort of pendulum-like, and I think things are starting to swing back in a more equal direction.”
In her songs, McBryde is never explicitly political — yet she also doesn’t shy from topics like religion and inclusivity. “I was raised in a really, really rigid, strict Church of Christ home,” she says. “I was really successfully trained to fear, and we know that hate comes along with fear.” She’ll skip “Shut Up Sheila,” a potent rebuke of an imagined Bible-thumping relative off 2020’s Never Will, at some tour stops (it uses the word “goddamn”), but the refrain of “Gospel Night at the Strip Club” — “Hallelujah, Jesus loves the drunkards and the whores and the queers” — will never be censored. “It felt really good to say,” McBryde says of the track from 2022’s Lindeville, which, like Never Will, was nominated for best country album at the Grammys.
McBryde long wondered if she would ever get to the heart of Music Row, and now that she has, she still sometimes questions if she belongs. “You can’t change the direction the machine is going unless you’re inside it,” McBryde says. “You can’t change any of the rules unless you understand how it is played.”
Now she’s just trying not to push herself as hard as she felt she had to in those early days. She’s still working through the effects of a serious 2021 horseback riding accident and fought so hard to resume touring that at one point she was pushed up to the side stage in a wheelchair, then wheeled back to bed after her set. “On one hand, I’m a woman of country music, damn it, and this is what the f–k we’re made of,” she says. “On the other hand, something groundbreaking was learning to just stop and take care of myself.
“That’s something that’s different for me than it has ever been: I’m not in a hurry anymore,” McBryde concludes. “We’re good. It’s going to happen.”
This story will appear in the June 3, 2023, issue of Billboard.
Jelly Roll will perform at Billboard‘s inaugural Billboard Country Live in Concert event in Nashville on June 6.
In January 1999, one month after he turned 14, Jason DeFord was baptized by full immersion at Whitsitt Chapel Baptist Church in Antioch, Tenn. By the end of that year, he was incarcerated for the first, but not the last, time. For the next decade, DeFord cycled in and out of juvenile and then adult correctional facilities for crimes ranging from aggravated robbery to drug dealing.
“I got baptized in here some 20 years ago and have since done nothing but go to prison, treat a bunch of people wrong, make a lot of mistakes in life, turn it around, [then] go on to be a f–king multimillionaire and help as many people as I possibly can,” says DeFord today, a hint of awe in his voice as he sits in a red upholstered pew at Whitsitt Chapel. The 38-year-old — now better known as the inspirational, tattoo-covered artist Jelly Roll — recently returned to the church for the first time in decades. “It’s the f–king wildest story ever to me — maybe because I’m the one f–king in the middle of it — but that sh-t’s crazy.”
Jelly (whose mother christened him with the nickname when he was little) has risen from the streets of Antioch to the upper reaches of Billboard’s rap, rock and now country charts, and even played the revered Grand Ole Opry. But he still struggles to reconcile that hopeless past with his prosperous present and seemingly limitless future. On the gut-wrenchingly raw Whitsitt Chapel, out June 2 on Bailee & Buddy/Stoney Creek Records/BMG, Jelly relives his search for refuge and redemption in a world where sinners outnumber saints and hell often feels closer than heaven. As he sings on “Save Me”: “I’m a lost cause/Baby don’t waste your time on me/I’m so damaged beyond repair/Life has shattered my hopes and dreams.”
“That’s what country is, anyway, right? Three chords and the solid truth,” says Jelly, paraphrasing legendary songwriter Howard Harlan’s oft-quoted description of a good country song.
Much of Jelly’s own truth is written in ink on his face. There’s a heart with a lock, a rose, three crosses and a tear drop. There’s his 7-year-old son Noah’s name. His hair has grown over his 15-year-old daughter Bailee’s name, but it’s there, too. On his left cheek, there’s an apple core, an homage to some of his die-hard fans who called themselves the Bad Apples. Emblazoned across his forehead, Jelly’s latest tattoo describes who he is now: “Music Man.”
Music was his way out — it just took him decades to get here. He wrote his first rap when he was 9 or 10, and by the time he was in eighth grade, he was passing out mixtapes of his music in the high school parking lot. “There was a place in Antioch that would let us cut demos for like 30 bucks an hour,” he says. “We had a dude who had a rolling keyboard and he’d make beats.”
Nahmias jacket, RCSLA t-shirt, Rolex watch.
Eric Ryan Anderson
But his love of music couldn’t keep him out of trouble. Everyone around him had a hustle — even his father, who ran a wholesale meat business, was a bookie on the side — and he wanted one of his own. “As f–ked up as this may sound, there were drug dealers and drug users,” he says. “I wanted to be the guy getting money, not the guy losing it.”
Jelly has three older half-siblings, but he’s the only child from his parents’ union, which he says was his father’s fifth or sixth. His parents divorced when he was 13, and Jelly felt responsible for his mother, who suffered from mental health and substance abuse issues. “I told my dad before he died [in 2019], ‘I wonder, if I’d have moved in with you when you divorced, if I’d have went to Vanderbilt [University] or something.’ But I felt this need to take care of my mother back then. I think that’s what really did it, too,” he adds, in terms of why he turned to crime. “When he left, I was like, ‘Somebody’s got to do what he was doing, at least trying to figure out some money.’ ”
Still, he never abandoned music entirely. Customers who bought quarter ounces of cocaine also got a free mixtape of his raps. “I always knew that the music was my only chance because I knew [from] the way that people in the community responded to it that it could be big,” he says.
Jelly says when he was 16, he was arrested for aggravated robbery and charged as an adult. “I never want to overlook the fact that it was a heinous crime,” he says, his voice still filled with remorse. “This is a grown man looking back at a 16-year-old kid that made the worst decision that he could have made in life and people could have got hurt and, by the grace of God, thankfully, nobody did.”
But he’s also bitter that at such a young age the judicial system offered him little chance at rehabilitation. “They were talking about giving me more time than I’d been alive,” he says of a potential 20-year sentence. (He ultimately served over a year for the charge, followed by more than seven years’ probation.) “I hadn’t hit my last growth spurt. I was charged as an adult years before I could buy a beer, lease an apartment, get a pack of cigarettes … I feel like the justice system at that point kind of parked me on my only set path.”
Tennessee has a zero-tolerance policy for violent offenders, so that one charge is still on his record — and has very real repercussions. Jelly, an avid golfer, tried to buy a house in a community with its own course not long ago and was rejected. “Imagine changing your life in such a way that you can afford the kind of house in this community I was looking at,” he says. “My money was welcome, but I wasn’t, all because of something I did [almost] 24 years ago.”
Jelly can’t vote, or volunteer at most nonprofits, or own a firearm. Until recently, he couldn’t get a passport, which limited his ability to tour abroad. “The trick is when America finally says, ‘We’ll let you leave,’ the amount of countries that won’t let you come in … We had to cancel my London debut show.”
That cancellation is one of the few roadblocks that Jelly has faced recently. But after years of struggling, he’s finally knocking down the doors that once seemed closed. He’s writing with Miranda Lambert and Ashley McBryde, the latter of whom will open for him in select cities on his 44-date North American arena tour later this summer. Drake responds to his Instagram posts, and Garth Brooks, the artist he has seen most in concert, greeted him with a massive bear hug when they met in May at the Academy of Country Music Awards. In May 2022, he topped Billboard’s Mainstream Rock Airplay chart with “Dead Man Walking,” only to reach the summit of the Country Airplay chart seven months later with “Son of a Sinner.” Starting in 2022, he spent a record-setting 28 weeks at No. 1 on the Emerging Artists chart, which ranks the most popular developing acts in all genres.
But a difficult truth follows him: As he sings on “Unlive,” a Whitsitt Chapel track featuring rapper Yelawolf and co-written with McBryde, “you can’t unlive where you’re from.”
It’s April 20 — the widely recognized day of celebration for cannabis enthusiasts — and by the smell of it, Jelly Roll has already partaken by the time he arrives at the Grand Ole Opry, where Billboard first meets him. “As I walked in here, my publicist was a little worried about it, and I said, ‘Let me tell you something: I’m as high as I can be every time you’ve ever seen me,’ ” Jelly admits with a shrug. “The day doesn’t change that.”
As it is for so many country artists, the Grand Ole Opry was “holy ground” to Jelly even before he made his debut there in November 2021. After being released from jail in 2009 — while still wearing an ankle bracelet — he scraped together the money to see Craig Morgan there; while in jail, Jelly would play his 2002 hit “Almost Home” endlessly. He cried as Morgan played the song at the Opry, thinking, “’That’s what I want to do. I want to make people feel the way this makes me feel.’”
Several times during the day, Jelly steps outside to smoke a joint. He says it’s “better than Xanax” for his mental health and anxiety (he’s launched his own cannabis line, Bad Apple). He has cut down somewhat on his drinking and stopped taking the other harmful drugs “that really had a hold of my life,” including cocaine, pain pills and codeine. But those substances still have a hold on people from his past. “Unfortunately, my friends in Antioch haven’t quit dying from fentanyl or are getting locked up or still doing time. I’m still accepting collect calls to this day.” He estimates he has been to funerals for 30 friends who have died, mainly from drugs.
At April’s CMT Awards, Jelly won all three categories for which he was nominated. But the week was bittersweet. “I’d just had a friend overdose on fentanyl. I missed his funeral because I was camera blocking [for the awards telecast],” he says.
That’s Jelly’s life now. Though he lives on the other side of Nashville from where he grew up, part of him remains firmly planted in Antioch, while another part has Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson on speed dial, sits courtside at a Los Angeles Lakers playoff game in the same row as Adele and proudly shows off his latest chain, with a pendant that reads “Son of a Sinner” in diamonds. After Jelly’s song of the same title became his first No. 1 on Country Airplay, he went to the Icebox in Atlanta — “Where all the rappers like Lil Baby go,” he says — and had identical chains made for him and his co-writers ERNEST and David Ray Stevens.
“New playground, new playmates,” he says of his life today. “I live in a totally different space. But I’m always conscious of keeping in touch with where I’m from. My heart is to help,” he says of his old Antioch connections, even as he admits he has had to cut off old buddies still living what he calls “a certain life. They know I love them, but I can’t afford to risk being on the phone with you and [it] sounds like I’m involved in something I’m not involved with. I might not talk to you, but I’m still bonding you out.” To make a clean break, Jelly recently got rid of his cellphone for several months. Only a handful of people have his new number.
At 23, while incarcerated for drug dealing, Jelly “all but gave up,” he says. “I was like, ‘I’m going to die in prison or young.’ ” Then he experienced what he calls his “road to Damascus” moment. “May 22, 2008. A guard knocks on my cell door midafternoon during lockdown,” Jelly recalls. “He goes, ‘You had a kid today.’ I’ve never had nothing in life that urged me in the moment to know that I had to do something different. I have to figure this out right now.”
Jelly knew when he went to jail that a woman he had been seeing was pregnant, but he says impending fatherhood had just felt like another mistake in a litany of bad decisions. “I was just irritated by it,” he says. “Like, ‘I’ve really f–ked up now.’ ” But Bailee’s birth inspired him to change. He was granted a transfer from the violent offenders unit to the education unit and started studying for his GED — which, much to his surprise, he passed on his first try. “I spent less than 60 to 70 days in high school. I thought I was a real dumbass. I thought I was learning disabled,” he says. “I walked in there and smacked that b-tch out of the park.”
Once released, he met his daughter on her second birthday. “I grilled hamburgers and hot dogs,” he says. Bailee now lives with him and his wife, Bunnie, whom he married in 2016, and he frequently sees Noah (nicknamed Buddy), who is from another relationship. He calls Bunnie, a former sex worker who now hosts the popular Dumb Blonde podcast, “a beacon of change in my life. You’re talking about a woman that came in and took a child that was soon to be born and a child that [we were] soon to have full custody of,” he says. “I would have never got custody of my daughter without her. I wouldn’t have had the stability or the money.”
After his release, Jelly turned to making rap music his career, independently releasing albums, posting music on YouTube and taking any gig he could. From 2010 to 2015, he lived in an old van, driving wherever there was work. “I’d go to Columbus [Ohio] and do $50 features; I’d sell rap verses for 50 bucks,” he says. “I was so petrified of sitting idle because I was afraid I would resort back to what I felt like I knew.”
Jelly Roll photographed on April 21, 2023 at Warren Studios in Nashville.
Eric Ryan Anderson
Though Jelly’s breakthrough on the country charts is recent, he first appeared on Billboard’s R&B/Hip-Hop Albums chart in 2011 with the independently released Strictly Business, a collaborative album with Nashville rapper Haystak. It peaked at No. 67 — which is news to him today: “That makes me want to call my distributor and get an audit on the money,” he says with a laugh.
Over the next five years, Jelly — who taught himself the ins and outs of the music business through various partnerships with artists and both local and national distributors — charted several more albums, including 2013’s No Filter with Lil Wyte, which reached No. 17 on Top Rap Albums. He collaborated with friend Struggle Jennings on the Waylon & Willie series of four rap albums, released between 2017 and 2020, and named after Jennings’ step-grandfather Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson. The volumes addressed bleak topics including substance abuse and the inescapable weight of a troubled past (even in the pursuit of love, as on the RIAA gold-certified single “Fall in the Fall”).
On such efforts, Jelly would occasionally sing, though he says he was “petrified” to do so for an entire track. But some liquid courage, karaoke and Bob Seger helped him find his voice. He bursts into “Old Time Rock & Roll”: “Risky Business, baby,” he says, name-checking the 1983 movie that gave Seger’s tune a new life. “Any time that song comes on, I’m single for three minutes. I’m Elvis Presley. I’m singing to women. It just brings it out of me.”
“There are not many artists out there that can rap like he does and then switch over to a soulful, melodic voice that’s instantly recognizable,” says fellow country artist and longtime friend Brantley Gilbert, who co-wrote and sings with Jelly on Whitsitt Chapel’s “Behind Bars.” “He is one of the most genuine people you’ll ever meet. He’s consistently himself and never changes who he is to fit a certain mold. He has had some experiences that not many artists in this genre can say they’ve had, so he’s able to open up a whole new world to folks while making those experiences relatable to everyone.”
“Save Me” — which initially appeared on Jelly’s 2020 independent album, Self-Medicated, and which he remade with Lainey Wilson for Whitsitt Chapel — was one of the first songs Jelly released as a singer with no rapping. “We were all in the darkest place we’d been in a long time when I wrote that song in May 2020. They were still spraying boxes with Lysol,” he says. “We were all living with our own thoughts a little more than we’re used to.”
His ability to capture the truth of the moment earned Wilson’s respect. “Jelly goes against the grain and is 100% himself 100% of the time,” she says. “I love that about him as a human and an artist.” After “Save Me” came out, labels started calling. “My heart was to do country music and be respected on these streets that I grew up on,” says Jelly, who is now managed by John Meneilly. (Jonathan Craig serves as his day-to-day manager.) “And [BMG Nashville president Jon] Loba got it. But he also knew that I wasn’t willing to give up control of my masters or my creativity, so he was open to us working out a deal that could reflect that. It’s a fair partnership.”
After Stoney Creek vp of promotion Adrian Michaels heard Jelly, he brought him to the attention of Loba, who Googled the video for “Save Me” and was sold. “I saw that pain, vulnerability, that tenderness,” Loba says. “I loved his vocal. I just said, ‘That’s a country song.’ I was convinced his storytelling, his heart and his brand would be accepted by our genre.”
Though Whitsitt Chapel, produced primarily by Grammy nominee Zach Crowell, bears the name and likeness of its namesake rural, red brick church, Jelly made the project for people like himself who may not find salvation on Sunday morning. As he professes on current single “Need a Prayer,” “I only pray when I ain’t got a prayer.”
“You’ll never see a man pray harder than as soon as sh-t gets tight,” he says. “I was like, ‘What if worship music is honest? What would my worship song sound like to God?’ ”
History has a funny way of repeating itself. Just as Jelly’s friends took him to church when he was 14, last year, Bailee started attending a small church with her friends and asked Jelly to accompany her — an experience that started him on his path back to Whitsitt Chapel.
“That little back-road church reminded me so much of this little church, and it was just so nostalgic because Bailee’s getting in trouble [and] smoking weed,” he says. “She’s going through what 15-year-olds go through. I went through all that. I know that’s whenever my life turned all the way worse. It started bringing up all these emotions of me being right there on that fence.”
Nahmias jacket, RCSLA t-shirt, Jason of Beverly Hills necklace, Icebox necklace.
Eric Ryan Anderson
After going to church with Bailee, Jelly ditched all but two of the 70 songs he had written for a new project and started on what would become Whitsitt Chapel, which also addresses the hypocrisy he has witnessed from so-called Christians questioning his faith (particularly on songs like “Nail Me”).
“I never thought that I would do something in life that would make people care to hear my story. So equally, I never thought that my story would ever be judged,” he says. “It just hurt my spirit. It was all happening while I’m cooking this album. I had Christian people that were judging my faith based on my use of language or marijuana or drinking references. I just felt really cornered, and it felt really judgy.”
Loba has a message for any Christians who question Jelly’s faith: “I say to them, ‘He will bring more people to God than 95% of the pastors.’ He is touching an audience that has felt invisible [and] dismissed. On the album, there’s hope that you can be redeemed.”
So for Jelly, Whitsitt Chapel is a starting point, not a destination. “Whitsitt Chapel planted the seed of a higher power. We were a very Southern family, so [we did] a lot of praying before dinner and stuff, but it was the first time I feel like I separated from the house and found God by myself,” he says. “So if I was going to make an album that felt so faith-based, I wanted it to reflect where I felt like it started. I think we’re all trying to wash away something.”
Jelly Roll loves Winnie the Pooh. He also loves Jim Croce and James Taylor. And he especially loves the 1993 Disney movie Cool Runnings, loosely based on the story of the 1988 Jamaican Olympic bobsled team. “Because 98% of every problem in my life I caused, but one or two times in my life the most heartbreaking things I dealt with was the stuff I didn’t cause,” he explains. “Cool Runnings made me understand that sometimes you can do everything right and the sled still breaks. I needed that for the sh-t I went through in life.”
To sort through the wreckage of his past, he’s in intensive therapy, including “timelining” his life. He’s up to age 12. Therapy “is one of the first things I splurged real resources on,” he says. “I found [trauma] to be like one of the roots of probably my obesity, right? This isn’t a lack of discipline. I run a multimillion-dollar business. I work 12, 15, 18 hours a day. I’m a disciplined man. It’s got to be something else.”
As he fights to “overcome some of these demons that I’ve had to deal with,” he’s also taking Bailee to therapy. “Her father was in jail when she was born. Her mother ended up hooked on heroin and disappeared,” he says. “I’m watching the cycle still continue. That’s another reason it’s so easy to draw inspiration from my songs: I’m still watching it in real time.”
He looks at his life in two acts now: Act 1 is the Jelly who used to do bad things; Act 2 is the Jelly of today. “I was a less-than-desirable human in that era,” he says of the time before Bailee was born. “I like to separate myself from that guy like two different people now because it’s the way I’ve made peace with that. And that dude wasn’t a good dude, man.”
Asked if he believes God has forgiven him, Jelly goes silent and tears up. After a long pause, he says, “I think God forgave me way faster than I forgave myself.” As for what it will take for him to forgive himself? “Being a man of service. Trying to care about people.”
Nahmias jacket and pants, RCSLA t-shirt, Icebox chain and bracelet, Rolex watch, Kaws x Air Jordan sneakers.
Eric Ryan Anderson
In December, Jelly sold out Nashville’s Bridgestone Arena — an astonishing feat not just because he’s still a developing artist, but because the venue is just a little over a mile from where he turned 15, 16 and 17 as inmate No. 00364950 in Davidson County Juvenile Detention Center. (The run-up to the concert and Jelly’s compelling backstory are captured in the Hulu documentary Jelly Roll: Save Me, which premiered May 30.)
Jelly, who is booked by CAA’s Hunter Williams, donated all his money from the Bridgestone concert (over $400,000) to Impact Youth Outreach and other organizations to, among other things, build studios in that same juvenile detention center, and he has already pledged to help fund a studio in a new building opening at the center in five years.
“More than anything, I just want to try to help these kids” who are now incarcerated, says Jelly. He wants them to understand that he believes in them in the way he wishes someone, anyone, had believed in him when he was younger. He funds programs at the facility to teach kids Pro Tools and offer them classes with visiting producers and engineers. “Who knows where I’d be if they had a real education unit in juvenile at the time,” he says. “If they’d had a studio, if they’d had trade work and I was being inspired every day instead of being reprimanded.”
And his plans go far beyond the detention center. The day before this interview, he bid on a $4 million building in North Nashville that he wants to turn into a community center. Beyond music, helping at-risk kids may be Jelly’s true calling. “Whenever I’m done doing the circus of the music business and I want to leave the carnival and be a normal human, that’s what I’ll do,” he says.
For now, his own honesty and search for redemption are resonating with fans, who comment on his social media that his songs have saved their lives. “Who in life can say they really helped somebody in the darkest moment of their life that was fixing to kill themselves?” he says. “I look at that as something that inspires me to do more.”
He hears the same praise face-to-face. As he leaves Billboard’s photo shoot at an old paint factory, a worker rushes out to tell him that because of Jelly’s music, he’s approaching 18 months of sobriety. Jelly asks the exact date, not once but twice, and tells him he will be thinking of him on that day.
Fans also recognize him and want to party with him — an offer he happily accepts. During a video shoot the day before at Tin Roof, a bar he and his father used to frequent on Lower Broadway, some bros from Pennsylvania recognize him, and filming halts while Jelly joyously glad-hands and buys a round of tequila shots.
Bunnie calls the public smile that hides the pain so evident in Jelly’s songwriting “the Robin Williams effect,” referring to how the late comedian’s outward exuberance masked inner turmoil. “My wife is like, ‘[People] would never think that this lifetime of pain and carrying caskets and death and drug addiction and all this dark sh-t would come out of you if [they] just met you at a bar,’ ” he says.
But those who have listened to his music already feel a certain kinship with Jelly — and he has a message for them: “I want to be a guidepost of hope for people to know that losers can win. That who you were isn’t who you are.”
It’s a message he still tells himself. And as he moves forward, he wouldn’t mind if his good works brought him a pardon from Tennessee’s governor. “A pardon would change my whole life,” he says, then quickly adds that he would only accept it if it came with a change of policy for currently incarcerated youth. “Maybe we’re disciplining an age group that should be rehabilitated. I just want to have that conversation, and if it can end in a pardon, f–king let’s go.”
A pardon would mean having many of his rights restored — and should it happen, he may have to take a little joyride around a certain ritzy neighborhood that didn’t believe in second chances. “I’d love to move back to that neighborhood and ride around in my golf cart blaring gangster rap music, flipping people off,” he says with a wry chuckle. “I’m joking, but I’m not.”
This story will appear in the June 3, 2023, issue of Billboard.
It’s fair to say the rock world didn’t quite know what to make of Kansas when the band rolled out of Topeka 50 years ago.
The original sextet — guitarist Richard Williams, drummer Phil Ehart (who are both still with the band), guitarist-keyboardist Kerry Livgren, singer-keyboardist Steve Walsh, singer-violinist Robbie Steinhardt and bassist Dave Hope — looked like quintessential Midwesterners but traded in compositional and lyrical complexities that sounded like something from across the pond. Blending blues-based hard rock and intricate progressive constructions, Kansas staked out its own musical territory, at once original and accessible.
Signed to pop hit-maker Don Kirshner’s label, Kirshner Records, in 1973, Kansas built its following with its first three albums, released between March 1974 and September 1975, and nonstop touring before 1976’s quadruple-platinum Leftoverture and its massive hit, “Carry On Wayward Son,” exploded, leading to the 1977 album Point of Know Return and its even more popular “Dust in the Wind,” which reached No. 6 on the Billboard Hot 100 — the highest-charting hit of the band’s career — in 1978. Those back-to-back successes cemented Kansas’ status as a stalwart of album-oriented radio and helped the group become a sturdy heritage act, sustaining it through lineup changes (nine additional members over the years) and 11 more studio albums.
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The good news is that, at 50, Kansas is still playing the game tonight — and beyond. Fans consider the group’s current lineup to be one of its strongest, an opinion supported by its most recent albums — including 2020’s The Absence of Presence.
Ehart and Williams say there’s new music on tap for 2024, but at the moment they’re reveling in a golden anniversary with last year’s three-disc anthology, Another Fork in the Road — 50 Years of Kansas, and a celebration tour starting June 2 and running, so far, into January.
From left: Dave Hope, Richard Williams, Phil Ehart, Robby Steinhardt, Kerry Livgren, Steve Walsh of Kansas circa 1974.
Don Hunstein/Sony Music Entertainment
Does it feel like 50 years? Fifty minutes? Five hundred years?
Phil Ehart: Any of the above. (Laughs.) We never expected to go this long. I remember Rich saying that, initially, we were kind of hoping we’d have a song on Topeka radio and we probably wouldn’t make it any longer than that. So we never really had any expectations of going for a long time. But we’ve been very lucky and very successful.
What has been the key to Kansas’ durability, then?
Richard Williams: It’s not like it was really a goal as much as it was an acceptance of “This is what I do,” and then get up every morning and just take the next positive step to the horizon, really. Phil and I got into this because this is what we wanted to do with our lives.
Ehart: I think we’re pretty doggone good at what we do, so that’s a big plus. We’ve had Kerry and Steve writing great songs, and the band has been good playing the songs and recording the songs and touring the songs and everything else, and we’re hard workers. It’s just hanging in there, basically.
From left: Robby Steinhardt, Richard Williams, John Elefante, Phil Ehart, Dave Hope and Kerry Livgren of KANSAS film a music video June 1, 1982 in Los Angeles, California.
Bob Riha Jr./Getty Images
So much of the story of Kansas is that it’s not the typical “heartland” rock band that everyone expects to come from that part of the country. How did you wind up sounding like you did — and still do?
Ehart: I think it has to do with the time period. When we were forming, it was right at the time the band Emerson, Lake & Palmer was coming out, Yes was coming out, Genesis. That stuff was just starting to hit the United States and those bands were influencing Kerry, who was our main songwriter at the time — not necessarily that we would be copying them, but it showed us you could play different time signatures and things like that. We could do a song like “Carry On Wayward Son”; all the different changes in that song might not have been performed before, especially on a single.
Williams: Everybody had different influences, very eclectic… but we were tired of playing the required music you’d play in a bar. We were very inspired by what became called progressive music. That taught us you can sing about anything you want to, you can use any time signature, any approach you can think of, any instrumentation that appealed to us. We didn’t want to emulate anything or copy the trends on radio. We wanted to do things our way — and we were very stubborn in that.
Ehart: The big difference is that Kansas was always a two-guitar rock band. Yeah, we had keyboards, we had a violin and stuff like that and could play proggy-sounding stuff. But Kansas is a kick-butt rock band with two guitars and lent itself to stuff like that — although one of our biggest songs we ever had was [the ballad] “Dust in the Wind.” But we would always do different things to keep it interesting. I think the fans appreciated that, too.
Given Don Kirshner’s background with The Monkees and The Archies, he still seems an unlikely champion for a band like yours.
Ehart: That’s true. We never had another offer; nobody showed any interest except him. We could never figure out what he saw in us, a bunch of long-haired guys in jeans, cowboy boots and overalls from Topeka, Kan. To this day, we still scratch our heads and go, “Wow. Whatever he saw in us, he definitely delivered.” He made it happen. He put his money where his mouth was and let us make very good albums, and they weren’t cheap. He gave us tour support. And of course he recouped, but the point is he believed in us and was willing to invest in these young guys. Man, we owe that guy a lot.
That was an era when bands had time to develop and build an audience. Was the pressure on by the time you got to Leftoverture?
Williams: Kirshner was patient, but… by the third album [Masque], there was a little more pressure; the feeling was it was time to deliver. But that would never happen today, being given all that money to record three, four albums in hopes of something coming out of us. Donnie was patient with us, and Leftoverture exploded.
Cover of “Another Fork in the Road — 50 Years of Kansas.”
Courtesy of Century Media Records
Did “Carry On Wayward Son” feel like a hit when you wrote and recorded it?
Ehart: Often I go back to [producer] Jeff Glixman’s comment while we were sitting in the control room listening… He looked over and said, “You know, if this wasn’t us, I would think this is probably going to be a hit single,” which was a brilliant thing to say — if it wasn’t Kansas, it would probably be a hit. But it was Kansas and it was a hit, which made it even stranger. And not just a hit in Topeka, but across the world.
Williams: We felt really good about it — I mean, really good about it. Don Kirshner kept calling, and we were holding up the phone to the speakers and he was listening and everybody in New York was very excited. But it wasn’t until we really started digging into the mixes that it hit us: “Wow. This is something different. This is going to be a game-changer.”
“Dust in the Wind” was an even bigger chart hit and, as Phil notes, very unusual. How out of left field did that feel for the band?
Williams: Yeah, it was outside of the box of what we had done before. It’s an acoustic song — no drums, just acoustic guitar, violin and voice. But we knew it was a great song. What’s funny in retrospect is that song and “Wayward Son,” we got a lot of heat from the press as far as, “Oh, Kansas has sold out.” By definition, selling out would be jumping on the mainstream trend and mimicking it. What about “Dust in the Wind” was mimicking anything to do with the mainstream? It was an absolute fluke that it was a big hit, extremely lucky. Yeah, there was a much more progressive side to the band, but this was just a different type of song for us, and we liked that. Even “Wayward Son” wasn’t emulating [any other] music of that time. We just stumbled into some hits.
What was the chemistry of the original six of you that was so special?
Ehart: Well, four of us went to high school together. We had played in local bands together, so we knew each other. Steve Walsh and Robbie actually didn’t live in Topeka, but we were all within 60 miles of each other. So the dynamic was six Kansas guys that had grown up in the music scene there; we had a lot in common and we hit it off not only personally but musically.
Williams: We’d all been playing in the same or different bands, cover bands, etc. We’d kind of become the last men standing of our peer group that wanted to continue with a musical life rather than getting a straight job. The motivation was very pure in that we were living in the moment, not worrying about the future, not considering the financial aspects as much as making just enough to get by and keep doing what we wanted to do — our way.
Cover of Kansas’ 1974 self-titled album.
Courtesy of Sony Music Entertainment
Kansas has been through a lot of lineup changes over the years. Was that the Greek philosopher Heraclitus pictured on the cover of Leftoverture, whose view was that change is the only constant in life?
Williams: Phil and I have made peace that change is going to happen: “OK… So what’s the plan?” And you make the switch and you move forward. That’s it. We’ve kept moving forward. Every step of the way was, “OK, what are we going to do next?” It’s just tenacity, I guess.
Ehart: There’s a small paragraph on the cover of our first album that says, “Kansas is a band.” It’s not Kansas featuring somebody or certain people. When Kansas plays, it sounds like Kansas. If there’s a bit of rotating of members under the moniker of Kansas, then so be it. So this time Kansas is going to be Steve Morse playing guitar — boy, what a great addition he was. Or David Ragsdale on violin. Or Ronnie Platt coming in, or Billy Greer on bass. There has been a lot of different people coming and going, but it’s all under the auspices of the band. We go out and do what we do best, which is write and play Kansas music.
Have you ever come close to stopping?
Ehart: Well… no. We can’t find a reason to, you know? First of all, we love it. And when we play, people come to see us. We’ve sold millions and millions and millions of records and had millions of people buy tickets and come to our concerts. We’ve done really well, so we can’t find a reason to not do it. If we were sick and tired of it we would quit, but we’re not.
This story originally appeared in the May 13, 2023, issue of Billboard.
When executives from across the United States and international markets convene in Nashville May 15-18 for the Music Biz 2023 conference, they will connect with a trade organization widening its reach, with a leader boasting credentials that are uncommon in the music industry.
Portia Sabin, who became Music Business Association president in September 2019, brings to her role a Columbia University doctorate in anthropology and education and savvy that she gained from a subsequent 13 years as president of the respected independent label Kill Rock Stars and eight years as host of music business podcast The Future of What.
It’s no wonder that Sabin has cultivated an esteemed fan club of music industry professionals, including the heads of other trade groups.
“Because of her background and her personality, she’s got analytical and creative skills to put fresh ideas out there, and she’s not afraid to push the envelope,” says Mitch Glazier, chairman/CEO of the RIAA.
“She remains focused on educating and improving this business, pushing for growth and inclusion while helping others to navigate the challenges that come with never-ending technological and economic change,” says Michael Huppe, president/CEO of SoundExchange. “I have a tremendous amount of respect for Portia as a strong and insightful voice in the music industry.”
Highlights of this year’s Music Biz conference will include four days of panels and workshops, keynote addresses by Kobalt founder and chairman Willard Ahdritz and leaders of the Black Music Action Coalition, as well as the second Bizzy Awards to recognize companies and individuals who are making a difference in improving the global industry. The 2022 Music Biz drew over 2,100 attendees from across some 750 companies, with 8% of participants coming from outside the United States.
“Running a label made me get very interested in the business of the music industry,” Sabin says of the road that led her to her Music Business Association role. “I was also on the board of A2IM [the American Association of Independent Music] for 12 years, on the board of the RIAA for a couple years, on the Recording Academy Board of Governors in the Pacific Northwest for six years and I also started a podcast about the music industry in 2014, so I had a lot of interest in the business itself.
“It’s a fascinating industry,” Sabin continues. “There’s a lot to know, and it’s also one of those weird ones where everybody thinks it’s easy from the outside until you get involved in it. We really saw that in the tech boom, starting about 10, 12 years ago, when all these tech people came into our sector saying, ‘I don’t know what your problem is. We can make lots of money,’ and then one by one they have disappeared. The only ones who stuck were the ones who bothered to learn and respect the music industry.”
Portia Sabin
Nashville Corporate Photography
Originally comprised of music wholesalers, retailers and distributors, the Music Business Association had already begun to broaden its scope during the tenure of James Donio, Sabin’s predecessor — a shift indicated in 2013, when the organization changed its name from the National Association of Recording Merchandisers (NARM) to the broader moniker it has today. Continuing that expansion was one of Sabin’s early priorities.
“We’ve made a concerted effort to be inclusive, to reach out to companies that are coming in, like tech startups, that are doing cool things and solving problems that people have,” Sabin says.
The music business, she notes, is “an ever-changing landscape, and I think it’s one of those things you have to be comfortable with when you set out to have an inclusive trade association.”
Today, the Music Business Association has several initiatives to more broadly serve the music industry. For example, the Music Biz conference has added programming that focuses on the touring and ticketing industry “because that part of our business has always weirdly been a little bit separate,” Sabin says. “I certainly found out when I was running a record label that that whole live side was sort of its own animal. The booking agents are over there, the promoters, the big talent agencies.”
But the pandemic highlighted the fact that the music business “is an ecosystem and we all rely on each other, and when one goes down, the whole goes down,” says Sabin of the live sector. “So we have made a big effort since 2019 to get those folks involved.”
The conference’s programming style has also evolved. “We have discovered the power of creating tracks for discussion,” Sabin says. “It helps people get more in-depth knowledge. If you’re going to do three panels on a topic, one right after the other and everybody is having the conversation together, that makes it stronger, so we’re doing quite a lot of tracks at this year’s Music Biz.”
MIDiA Research’s Tatiana Cirisano (center) at the UMG Mixer at Music Biz 2022.
Graham Dodd
Sabin’s desire for a larger tent extends beyond the types of companies that make up the Music Business Association. Achieving a more inclusive board “was a huge goal for me,” Sabin says. “It has taken us four years, but now we’ve gotten to 52% people of color on the board, 57% women, as well as a nice, wide range of diversity in company type. I think that’s also really important.”
“She formed a diversity, equity and inclusion committee pretty much immediately, so that was a core element of building and reconsidering the organization,” says Downtown Music Holdings chief marketing officer Molly Neuman, who recalls that Sabin’s early priorities included making the organization’s board more diverse and expanding the voices heard at its events. “That was in place when George Floyd was murdered and we had Blackout Tuesday and all the things that happened in the summer of 2020, so we already had this core unit considering these things for the industry, but we were also in a position to offer mutual support as well as long-term plans.”
That commitment to inclusion was illustrated recently when the Nashville-based Music Business Association issued a statement decrying anti-LGBTQ+ bills passed by the Tennessee Legislature.
Broadening the scope of the Music Business Association also includes an effort to increase the involvement of younger music professionals. “We have a programming track called #NextGen_Now, and we tried our first physical event with them [in March] in Nashville,” Sabin says. “We had a cocktail mixer and it was incredibly successful; they all had to be kicked out at the end of the evening because they were enjoying themselves too much, which is great.”
The association is also reaching students through its #NextGen_U initiative. Like its predecessor, NARM, the Music Business Association has continued to offer scholarships to help the next generation of music business executives.
“The programming that we did online for them was very successful over the pandemic and we continued to do those through as recently as February of this year,” says Sabin. “We think it’s easier for students to attend a two-day virtual conference for $39 rather than flying and getting a hotel room. We also have an academic-partner newsletter now that we send out monthly.”
Willard Ahdritz
Paul Brissman
Another recent Music Biz outreach echoes NARM’s almost-forgotten 1970s-era playbook — the Road Show.
“For the vast majority of our members, their clients are actually artists and musicians and Music Biz [previously] didn’t provide any forums for them to get in front of those people,” Sabin says. “So I put together what we call the Music Biz Road Show. We usually partner with a trade association in a city and go for a day and do a mini Music Biz, where we put on some panels, maybe a fireside chat and a cocktail hour. The local trade association brings a couple hundred local artists so our members get to get in front of their actual clients, the people who they actually want to meet. And we get to do educational programming for those folks. It has been very successful so far.
“We’ve had them in Atlanta, Portland, Ore., and Memphis and we have them coming up in Huntsville, Ala., New Orleans and Miami,” Sabin continues. “If my staff doesn’t kill me, I would like to have at least one a month.”
Amid such outreach, what are the priorities for this year’s expanded Music Biz conference?
“I think everyone is always interested in what’s coming next, so I think generative [artificial intelligence] is a conversation that people really want to have,” Sabin says. “Because our conference is crowdsourced, it’s really fun to see what topics come in over and over and which ones fall by the wayside.
“For example, we had the highest number of [programming suggestions] that anyone can ever remember receiving, like 326 proposals this year, and there was only one on [non-fungible tokens]. So you can tell that’s no longer of concern to the membership.”
But a perennial concern remains: “What are the revenue streams that are out there and how do we capture them? That is what the internet has done for the music industry; it has created boundless opportunities, with this scary downside of, ‘How do [creators] collect [revenue for their creations]?’
“I feel like the music business has always been playing catch-up to technology,” Sabin adds. “A new technology comes along and we spend 20 years figuring out how to get it monetized properly, and by that time another technology comes along. But it’s happening so much faster right now and I think that’s the central interest of our membership, and that’s really what we are.”
This story originally appeared in the May 13, 2023, issue of Billboard.
Asake leans back in his chair, phone glowing in the darkened studio, as Olamide hunches over his right shoulder. Suddenly, the engineer signals, and the backbone of a song swirls through the speakers while Asake begins teasing out melodies and lyrics in Yoruba, a language of his native Nigeria. The engineer cuts, rewinds and plays, and the loop once again floods the vacuum-like silence that envelops a recording studio.
Outside the room, the building is bubbling with activity and energy as artists, songwriters and engineers mill about, playing unreleased records and eating from a buffet of Nigerian food — smoked mackerel, okra soup, goat, garlic shrimp and crab — prepared by local chefs. But this is not West Africa; it’s San Francisco, at the new studio headquarters of Bay Area-based music company EMPIRE. In early March, EMPIRE was in the midst of a two-week writing camp for three of its biggest Nigerian talents: budding Afrobeats superstar Asake, his YBNL Nation label boss and Nigerian music legend/mogul Olamide and Fireboy DML, another emerging YBNL/EMPIRE artist, whose 2021 single, “Peru,” was remixed with Ed Sheeran and exploded into a global hit. “Peru” was the first song Fireboy created at EMPIRE’s studios near San Francisco’s Mission District, which the company just expanded and overhauled into a first-class, multipurpose creative hub.
The studio is now the epicenter for all that EMPIRE intends to be: a fully operational label group that can sit at the top table alongside the majors and compete at the highest levels of the global music business and beyond — TV, film, podcasts, gaming, social media, nightlife and more. And it’s currently the platform for one of EMPIRE’s biggest achievements: The company is among the foremost global distributors of Afrobeats, the umbrella term for a variety of musical genres emerging from sub-Saharan Africa, where recorded-music revenue has ballooned 34.7% year over year, according to IFPI, the fastest pace in the world.
“The music that they’re making here is, honestly, the most culturally important thing I’ve done in my entire career, and I’ve been in the music business since I was 14,” says EMPIRE founder/CEO Ghazi while walking through the space. “These guys are the kings of where they come from, and they’re about to be the kings of everywhere if we keep doing what we’re doing. It’s phenomenal to see what’s happening.”
From left: Ghazi, Asake and Fireboy DML on February 27, 2023 during EMPIRE’s Africa writing camp in San Francisco.
Matthew Fong/Courtesy of Empire
EMPIRE’s dominance in Nigeria, in particular, is immense. On the country’s TurnTable Charts, EMPIRE ended 2022 with the top three artists (Asake, Burna Boy and BNXN), the top two songs (Kizz Daniel’s “Buga,” and Asake and Fireboy’s “Bandana”) and the top album (Asake’s Mr. Money With the Vibe), while also earning the distinctions of top label and top distributor for the year. At one point, EMPIRE artists held the top slot on the Nigeria 100 for 26 consecutive weeks, and an EMPIRE song was No. 1 for 35 weeks over the course of the year. (The song Asake recorded in San Francisco was released in April as “2:30” and became his ninth No. 1 on the Nigeria 100.) EMPIRE’s relationship with Olamide and YBNL, which began in 2016 before being formalized as a partnership in early 2020, has given it both credibility and a draw to attract artists, and has become a significant success story in the region.
“They are a major organization in Nigerian music,” says Ayomide Oriowo, co-founder/head of operations of TurnTable Charts. “After 2019, when they did the deal with Olamide, they capitalized on that and became a bigger deal. It was also at the moment when the ‘Afrobeats to the world’ [movement] was really taking off. So the timing worked for them, and it was just perfect. Word travels fast when you’re an artist — this idea of, ‘They have the power to get us here.’ ”
Now the challenge is to replicate that success elsewhere — in the Middle East/North Africa region, in the Asia-Pacific, in South America and beyond — without losing the drive and identity that Ghazi and his company have cultivated over the past 13 years.
The evening runs late — it’s past 10 p.m. — but suddenly, the room is buzzing with energy, and everyone moves into the building’s marble-floored lobby. After a beat, Ghazi brings Fireboy in to surprise him with an RIAA platinum plaque for “Peru” as the staff gather around, taking photos and popping champagne. “This is the first platinum plaque we hang on the wall here for a song that was created here — the first of many,” Ghazi says amid the jubilation.
Later, he takes a more reflective tone. “It’s like a zenith point in my life,” he says. “It brought me all the way back to my beginning: in a studio, making a record, and then taking that record and putting it into a company that was a culmination of many years; to be able to put out that record and market it, promote it, distribute it, manufacture it and create accolades and international nominations. And then that record became the record that made a bunch of other African artists say, ‘I want to go to the studio where this was made. I want to have that same experience and that same magic.’ ”
Two days later, Ghazi is sitting at a Mediterranean restaurant in downtown San Francisco near the EMPIRE offices, explaining how he built a company that credibly grew into its name.
EMPIRE’s realm is not limited to West Africa — over the past decade-plus, it has also become one of the Bay Area’s biggest and most successful homegrown music companies. Half of its nearly 200 employees are based in the city (a distinction Ghazi is particularly proud of), and it’s a significant player in the independent hip-hop scene across the United States, which provided the fertile ground from which the company was born. Having its headquarters in Ghazi’s hometown has given EMPIRE a domain of its own, along with access to the best minds in technology and media that flock to Silicon Valley.
Ghazi launched EMPIRE in 2010 as a tech-first digital distributor amid the fervor of Digital Music Industry 2.0 zeal then sweeping through the Bay. He had started working at Ingrooves in 2006, which had an office down the street; IODA, which eventually merged with The Orchard, was in the same building; farther down the hallway, two guys were building Twitter. Additionally, SoundCloud, Pandora, Rdio and Mog (which, after several iterations, morphed into what became Apple Music) all had offices in San Francisco.
Ghazi had essentially come up within the cultures of two of his home city’s best exports: first as a recording engineer turned studio owner, working with some of the legends of Bay Area hip-hop, and then building servers for computer companies in Silicon Valley.
“I’d be at my Silicon Valley job from 9 to 6, and then I would jump in the car and drive an hour through traffic straight to the studio, order pizza to the studio, then work there until three, four in the morning,” he says. “Then I would go home, take a shower, sleep like four hours and go right back to my Silicon Valley job. I would sleep in my car on lunch breaks and put my pager on vibrate so it would wake me up. Then I’d go right back to work.”
Ghazi photographed on April 12, 2023 at EMPIRE in San Francisco.
Katie Lovecraft
That background — a base in tech, plus deep connections to the Bay’s hip-hop scene — led him to Ingrooves, which was trying to break into the rap market. But after three years navigating the company’s bureaucracy while continuing to run a studio, Universal Music Group (UMG) bought half of Ingrooves (it now owns the company outright), and Ghazi left to form EMPIRE. Early on, he relied on his connections to make not just new releases available, but also offer rappers’ catalogs digitally, sometimes for the first time — and to get them paid monthly, rather than quarterly or not at all. The ability to move quickly, with one-off nonexclusive deals and a client-friendly front end, helped the company expand rapidly through word-of-mouth, first through the Bay, then down to Los Angeles — where EMPIRE put out indie albums by the likes of Kendrick Lamar, ScHoolboy Q and Anderson .Paak — then to Houston and beyond.
EMPIRE truly began making its mark in 2016, when it distributed D.R.A.M.’s hit “Broccoli,” which was picked up by Atlantic Records, and the Fat Joe and Remy Ma record “All the Way Up”; both songs earned Grammy nominations. The following year, it released XXXTentacion’s debut album, 17, which debuted at No. 2 on the Billboard 200 and has racked up 3.5 million equivalent album units in the United States, according to Luminate. Without much fanfare, the company had become a hip-hop heavyweight, filling in the gaps that the traditional industry couldn’t, or wouldn’t, serve: the up-and-coming artists who hadn’t yet caught the majors’ eyes and veteran acts who had phased out of the hit-driven system.
At the same time, the industry was shifting. Apple Music had debuted in 2015, streaming had finally begun to return the music business to growth, and EMPIRE’s flexible offering forced rival music companies, including the major-label groups, to offer deals with similar terms and services as they competed for talent. Suddenly, the label pipeline burst into a fire hose, and everyone wanted in on the nimble, flexible and global distribution model that EMPIRE had made its bread and butter. New companies like UnitedMasters, Stem and Create popped up with seed money to buy into the distribution market; labels launched distribution-first imprints (Capitol’s Priority, Republic’s Imperial); and streaming services and social media companies like SoundCloud and, briefly, Spotify began offering independent artists the ability to distribute their music through them. Before long, it seemed that almost every label had a distribution-first option, while the label groups beefed up their own offerings, flooding the zone that EMPIRE helped establish.
“Now every major has an EMPIRE quote-unquote system, where they try to implement that,” says CSH Management’s Kenny Hamilton, who has had several clients work with EMPIRE over the years. “But it’s not the same relationships; it kind of sounds like they’re just trying to find the next quick thing that they can upstream to a major system, but you’re really not doing artist development. At EMPIRE, that’s what they do. They’re patient with the artists, and if they see promise and they believe in it, then they put their all into it as well. It’s often imitated but never duplicated.”
From left: Edgar Esteves of Blank Square Productions, Tina Davis, Ezegozie Eze of EMPIRE and Dayo Ademola Ayoyemi of Salpha Energy at the Forbes 30 Under 30 Summit Africa on April 24, 2023 in Gaborone, Botswana.
Tuhenye Dan Muatjitjeja
As the industry started to shift toward the EMPIRE model, EMPIRE itself was moving toward the one used by major-label groups, incorporating A&R, marketing, PR, promotions and social media into its offerings on top of pure distribution and starting to provide label deals and joint ventures. In 2018, EMPIRE struck a nonexclusive deal with UMG to distribute select UMG artist projects; in 2019, it added a vertical to handle original content, which now includes several high-traffic Instagram accounts and a music video department, and expanded into Nashville, the United Kingdom and Europe. By 2020, EMPIRE had started a merch operation by acquiring a majority stake in Top Drawer Merch/Electric Family, then officially announced a publishing division, which had already been informally part of the company for several years. The studio technically opened in 2019, but because of the pandemic and continued expansion and renovations, it is only now becoming the one-stop content shop that Ghazi had envisioned.
“I’m a practice-makes-perfect type of person,” he says. “I always knew the intention was to be a label, but I knew I couldn’t be a label without taking a lot of shots. If you want to be a great free-throw shooter, you’ve got to take a lot of shots, find your technique and the right approach.”
The right approach, at this point, is there; the goal — a full suite of music and cultural offerings — within sight. All of which has brought the kind of attention Ghazi has instinctively shied away from over the years. The offers to sell, to divest, to assume the final form of what it means to be a Major Label in the Traditional Sense is not something he’s interested in. He owns the company outright, has it rooted in his home city and has no investors or board of directors to answer to — only his staff of 200 around the world and, most importantly, his artists. Still, the questions and offers persist.
“I would call it a tug of war,” he says. “I’ve always been a firm believer that attracting too much attention sometimes gets you off your A-game. But, I also understand the balance of, every once in a while, you’ve got to shine a spotlight on something for people to see the magic.
“It was always about autonomy; if you go to my office right now, behind my desk there’s a sign on my floor, written in Arabic. It says, ‘Freedom.’ I just always wanted the freedom to just be my own man.”
The summer of 2016 was dominated by Drake’s single “One Dance,” featuring Wizkid and Kyla, which held the No. 1 spot on the Billboard Hot 100 for the entirety of June and July, making Wizkid the first Nigerian artist to chart on, let alone top, the tally. At the same time, EMPIRE made another subtle move, one that would pay off years later: getting into business with one of Nigeria’s biggest talents, Olamide.
Today, the 34-year-old rapper, singer, songwriter, producer and YBNL Nation founder has cemented his legacy on his native continent. For nearly 15 years, he has been a prolific artist and executive, helping shape the sounds of hip-hop and Afrobeats, and growing into one of the pillars of modern West African music while championing and boosting a number of young artists along the way, through features or label deals.
“Olamide is almost like a street hero,” says Phiona Okumu, Spotify’s head of music, sub-Saharan Africa. “It’s him understanding the best of American, Western hip-hop culture, but also understanding the grace and vibrancy of where he is from and bringing it together and making it so palatable that’s been his main influence. He’s able to spark a star, he’s able to hear a sound, and he’s able to make it go.”
Olamide in the San Francisco studio on February 20, 2023 during EMPIRE’s Africa writing camp.
Matthew Fong/Courtesy of Empire
By 2016, streaming services began to slowly open on the continent. IFPI didn’t even begin tracking revenue in Africa until the last few years. In 2019, South Africa ranked No. 31 among countries tracked by IFPI in recorded-music revenue, at $59.9 million; the entirety of the rest of sub-Saharan Africa, lumped together, came in at No. 59, at $4.3 million. (IFPI has not released hard figures since.)
“While we were growing up in Africa, all an artist depended on was shows,” says Mobolaji Kareem, EMPIRE’s regional head of West Africa, as he stands in Studio C with YBNL Nation head of brand and talent management Alex Okeke and DJ Enimoney, Olamide’s DJ and brother. “From 2010, 2011, until 2016, all of it was free music on SoundCloud, Audiomack. We dropped things on Twitter. Streaming money started coming around maybe 2016; if Apple Music was around in 2010, we’d be doing like a billion streams right now.”
Olamide broke onto the scene in 2010, primarily as a rapper, mixing English and Yoruba, and signed to a label called Coded Tunes, through which he distributed music and made songs available as ringtones. In 2012, he left that label and launched YBNL Nation, distributing his own music through telcos, as was standard in Africa at the time, and YBNL artists through Bolaji’s Ingle Mind distribution company, which also handled music by the likes of Wizkid, Burna Boy and Tiwa Savage. Olamide signed rising artists such as Lil Kesh, Adekunle Gold and Viktoh while steadily putting out his own music and being a hands-on label executive. By 2016, Olamide was out of his telco deal and began working with Bolaji, who had started using EMPIRE’s distribution framework to expand his artists’ reach beyond Africa.
At the time, the two sides didn’t know each other. EMPIRE was distributing around 500 projects a month, and Ghazi was more focused on building its label structure than dealing with distribution; Bolaji was working through an intermediary to release his artists’ projects through the EMPIRE system. That was the state of affairs for several years until 2018 or 2019, when the numbers began to change. “The money kept getting so much every year. At some point, Ghazi just said, ‘F–k it, who is this boy from Africa? This artist that is making up to like $40,000, $50,000, $60,000 a month out of Africa with no marketing, no pitch, nothing?’ ” Bolaji says. “They had to fly down.”
Ghazi remembers it a little differently. “One day, Tina [Davis, EMPIRE’s vp of A&R] runs in my office and is like, ‘Yo, there’s this dude from Africa on the phone right now, and I don’t know what he wants because he’s screaming at me. You need to help me deal with this,’ ” he recalls. “So I get on the phone, and if I remember correctly, it was like a payment issue — something went wrong with their account, we didn’t respond fast enough or whatever. We fixed it. And then right around that same time, Nima [Etminan, EMPIRE’s COO] came into my office and was like, ‘Man, I think we should go meet these people.’ ”
Nima Etminan photographed on April 12, 2023 at EMPIRE in San Francisco.
Katie Lovecraft
It was a fortuitous meeting — and a well-timed one. Ghazi and Etminan flew to Lagos, Nigeria, and met with Olamide, Bolaji and Okeke, who introduced them to the Nigerian music scene and some of its leading figures, including then-Universal Music Nigeria GM Ezegozie Eze. “Us being personally there was a big deal,” Ghazi says. “Because most people were just sending out reps or just hiring somebody locally to deal with it. We were running around all week, concert to concert, festival to festival, visiting other people’s houses; we went to Fela [Kuti]’s shrine; we were all over the place. We were learning about the country and the music infrastructure. And it was very gratifying that we were received the way we were received, like we’re family. That made me go 10 times harder.”
“Olamide didn’t come to meet EMPIRE. EMPIRE came to meet Olamide,” Bolaji stresses. “And that was how we started EMPIRE Africa, through YBNL. So one of the things I tell people is, ‘The catalog for EMPIRE Africa sits on YBNL.’ Because if YBNL wasn’t making that much money, [EMPIRE] wasn’t going to see Africa that early.”
Within months, EMPIRE had hired Bolaji and Eze to run EMPIRE Africa, an informal entity that was officially incorporated and announced in 2022, with YBNL as its centerpiece. The timing, once again, was fortuitous: After the first seeds of a breakthrough with “One Dance,” momentum had gradually built for a global Afrobeats movement, with artists like Burna Boy, Davido, Mr Eazi, Savage and Nasty C making gains on the Billboard charts year by year. But it was during the pandemic, just as EMPIRE was putting down roots in Lagos, that Afrobeats truly crossed over into the United States, with Wizkid’s “Essence,” featuring Tems, which ultimately peaked at No. 9 on the Hot 100 and ruled the R&B/Hip-Hop Airplay chart for 27 weeks.
“When things like this happen, it’s almost like a domino effect — that sets off the labels, and they get interested and curious about who can be next in terms of what the sound is like,” says Spotify’s Okumu. “All of the major labels were in the space before EMPIRE, and all of them had the same interests, the same pursuits — they all wanted the next big African star. But EMPIRE focused on A&R, and that is incredibly important when you have an emerging genre. I feel like that was the win in the joint venture between EMPIRE and YBNL.”
California State Assembl ymember Matt Haney presents Fireboy DML, Asake, Olamide and EMPIRE with a Certificate of Recognition from the State of California for their contributions to Afrobeats worldwide and their work in San Francisco
Daniel Aziz
It has also been reflected in the numbers. In 2021, recorded-music revenue in sub-Saharan Africa grew 9.6%, according to IFPI, with ad-supported streaming revenue up 56.4%. That number exploded in 2022, with overall revenue up 34.7% — the only region globally with growth north of 30% — taking over as the fastest-growing region for recorded-music revenue in the world. IFPI opened its first African office in mid-2020, reflecting the continent’s growing importance and potential, and all three major labels now have presences in West Africa and South Africa. In the United States, seven of the top 10 on-demand streaming songs Luminate classified under “world music” — which encompasses several African genres, as well as genres like K-pop — were by West African artists in 2022.
IFPI regional director of sub-Saharan Africa Angela Ndambuki says she expects that massive growth to continue at the same rate this year. “With the digital growth and the advances in technology and new platforms coming in, we’re able to see the labels investing even more, and their presence in the region helps drive the development of those scenes,” she says. “And that then creates a healthy music market.”
In the summer of 2021, Fireboy came to San Francisco for the first time to record in the EMPIRE studio. The young Nigerian singer had signed to YBNL in late 2018 and released his debut album, Laughter, Tears and Goosebumps, in November 2019 through YBNL/EMPIRE, then a second, Apollo, the following year. “He came to just record for a few days or a week, and we brought in three or four different producers and writers, and he wasn’t very used to having writers. He’s used to doing all his own stuff,” Davis recalls, sitting in the expansive Studio A. “So it was new for us because he hadn’t recorded here, and it was new for him because he had never been to San Francisco.”
“Peru” emerged from that session the following summer, with its lyric “I’m in San Francisco jammin’,” and almost immediately took off in Nigeria and the United Kingdom. The remix with Sheeran was released on Christmas Eve 2021, which propelled it even further. “That record was a way for us to show people that we could break a record outside of Africa and make it larger than just a record for the club and for the diaspora,” Davis says. “But what it taught the African team is that you don’t give up on a hit. I think it just opened it up for people to recognize how much we care about it, and it also gave us a bar to reach.”
Tina Davis photographed on April 12, 2023 at EMPIRE in San Francisco.
Katie Lovecraft
EMPIRE has grown beyond its YBNL foundations in West Africa. Acts like Daniel, Wande Coal, BNXN, L.A.X., Navy Kenzo and Black Sherif on its roster are expanding the limits of the Afrobeats, amapiano, highlife, fuji and Afropop genres, among others, while the company also distributes Burna Boy in Africa. (Atlantic is Burna’s label stateside, and Warner distributes his music outside of Africa.) And Asake, who officially signed to YBNL/EMPIRE in mid-2022, lit the Afrobeats world on fire with his debut album, Mr. Money With the Vibe. Released last October, it immediately topped the Spotify and Apple Music charts, and has accrued 197.5 million streams in the United States, according to Luminate. Meanwhile, streams for Asake, Fireboy and Olamide have grown more than 500% outside of Africa on Apple Music, according to the company, which greatly over-indexes in African music streams compared with competitors.
That doesn’t mean EMPIRE has cornered the market. Wizkid, Davido, Tems and rising star Libianca are all signed to RCA in the United States; CKay is distributed by Warner in partnership with local indie label Chocolate City, while Omah Lay goes through Sire; UMG’s Virgin distributes Rema’s “Calm Down,” while Larry Jackson’s new venture, gamma, has its African distribution rights, and Def Jam just signed Gold. As the industry’s attention has shifted to opportunities on the continent, the competition has gotten fierce — but EMPIRE’s reputation has allowed it to keep building organically in the region. “EMPIRE’s a family, and all the other labels are labels,” says Okeke. “That’s the difference.”
Now EMPIRE’s task is to build upon that success and keep expanding its dominion — not an easy task in a globalized climate sagging under the weight of an increasing amount of new music every day. The company has already established an operation covering the Middle East/North Africa, bringing on Spotify’s Suhel Nafar to oversee it. It is also making inroads in South Africa and recently hired people in Tokyo to oversee efforts in the Asia-Pacific region and Brazil to begin developing a foothold in South America. In each new region, EMPIRE is looking to build on the model that worked so well in West Africa, making strategic hires based on partnerships with well-connected industry players in local markets rather than signing artists to fit a sound. And even as that old Digital Music Industry 2.0 has long since drifted away from the Bay, relocating to the likes of L.A. and New York, EMPIRE has remained in San Francisco. “We’ve plotted a lot of dots on the map, and I want to plot more dots and create more connectivity, more brainpower,” says Ghazi.
YBNL Founder and CEO/Artist, Olamide, and EMPIRE Founder and CEO, Ghazi, present Fireboy DML with RIAA Platinum Plaque for his hit single “Peru”.
Daniel Aziz
On a Thursday afternoon in mid-April, Ghazi pulls over to the side of the road to explain, over the phone, the next iteration of the vision. He’s about to fly to Johannesburg, then drive to Botswana, then return to the Bay for a few days with his family before another trip down to Rio de Janeiro — around the world and back again. “When you watch those movies from 15, 20 years ago and they put a globe up on the screen and then they push a button, and all the lines fly around the globe and connect to all the different epicenters? It’s kind of like that,” he says.
Which is to say, the journey may have hit one zenith, but that has only established a new jumping-off point, a new foundation on which to build. “You’re always trying to go to greater heights, right? Man makes it to the moon, now you want to make it to Mars,” he says. “As long as we live limitless and we continue to chase ourselves rather than other people, I think that we’ll be OK. We’re already successful; this already looks like success. It’s just, how do you breed more success?”
The answer? In the studio. After the plaque presentation in March, a half-dozen A&Rs and engineers piled back into Studio C to gush over the record that Fireboy made the night before, which has a first verse; an epic, soaring hook; and a second verse left open — maybe for a stateside collaborator, or a fellow Afrobeats star, or maybe for Fireboy himself to finish off. Pop star names are tossed around, and a particular alt-R&B singer is mentioned. But one A&R stands up indignantly, voice rising above the others: “Hang on, hang on, hang on,” he says to quiet the crew before adding nearly incredulously: “Did Bob Marley get someone else to put a second verse on ‘I Shot the Sheriff’? This is all you!” The feeling is euphoric, the room is filled with laughter, the possibilities endless. The beat comes back in: rewind, cut, play, forget about the time. The vibe is here; the night is far from over.
This story will appear in the May 13, 2023, issue of Billboard.
At the beginning of 2021 — a year before she introduced herself to the world as Ice Spice, with her signature cinnamon curly afro — Isis Gaston wrapped her hair into two braids and tucked them underneath a silk scarf. Wearing a black lounge set, she smiled for the camera while a sample of Nelly’s “Hot in Herre” faded into the background and the hook of “Buss It,” rapper Erica Banks’ breakout 2020 single, started. The clip cut, and Gaston, now clad in a teal cut-out dress, dropped it low and twerked with her long, light brown locks cascading over her frame.
The viral video was just one of millions from the “Buss It” TikTok challenge, which helped Banks earn her first Billboard Hot 100 entry, a Travis Scott remix and a partnership with Warner Records in conjunction with her own label, 1501 Certified Entertainment. But for the then-21-year-old Gaston, who was just mustering the courage to record her own music, the TikTok trend and the way it boosted Banks’ career seemed like something she could achieve, too.
“It was so funny — I was already working on my first song ever that I was recording. I had already wrote little raps and sh-t before that, [but] it took me a lot to get to recording. I was halfway done with it when I did the ‘Buss It’ challenge. When I saw it going so viral, I was like, ‘Damn, imagine that was my song I was twerking to,’ ” she recalls today with a chuckle. “The next month, I put out my first song and took it from there.”
In March 2021, Ice Spice dropped her sharp-tongued debut single, “Bully Freestyle,” which was produced by RIOTUSA, whom she had met through a mutual friend while attending the State University of New York (SUNY) at Purchase. For the next year-and-a-half, Ice refined her craft — and in August 2022, she independently released “Munch (Feelin’ U)” and finally experienced the success she had always envisioned.
“Munch” — or, as Ice defined it, “somebody that’s really obsessed with you that’s just fiending to eat it” — immediately entered the pop culture lexicon. After delivering the deliciously cynical line “You thought I was feeling you,” Ice spends the song shooting down voracious admirers and envious haters alike with cutthroat bars that bounce off RIOTUSA’s menacing production. In the official music video, she smizes before flashing cameras, twerking once again — but this time while wearing a pale green tube top, denim booty shorts and neon orange nails that complement her now-famous ’fro. TikTok users devoured “Munch” (which has since accumulated 2.4 billion views on its hashtag); Drake played it on his SiriusXM channel, Sound 42; and the song quickly became the New York drill anthem of the summer. Audiences crowned Ice “the People’s Princess.”
“I saw all of my supporters being like, ‘She’s the People’s Princess! She’s Princess Diana!’ ” Ice remembers. “At first, I was confused. I was like, ‘Um, Princess Diana? Out of everybody?’ But [then] I was like, ‘F–k it, she’s iconic.’ ” And judging by the way Ice, now 23, commands the luxurious high-rise apartment at 432 Park Ave. — one of the tallest residential buildings in the world, where our conversation is happening — she’s now well aware of her sovereignty. She struts the hallway in cotton candy-toned regalia: a baby blue velvet cropped hoodie, MRDR BRVDO jeans with pink distressed patches and cloud-dyed Air Force 1s. Her omnipresent $100,000 chain featuring a diamond-encrusted cartoon rendering of her face hangs around her neck, and she frequently checks herself out in a metallic pink Balenciaga Le Cagole rhinestone-embossed purse with a heart-shaped mirror.
Alaïa bodysuit, Stuart Weitzman shoes, Le Vian jewelry.
Christian Cody
Last fall, about a month after the release of “Munch,” Ice signed a label deal with 10K Projects and Capitol Records. At the beginning of 2023, she treated her fans (collectively called the Spice Cabinet, individually known as Munchkins) to her debut EP, Like..?, a six-song set named for her signature interjection, which further flashed her lyrical vocabulary and expanded her drill sound. The project debuted in the top 10 of Billboard’s Top Rap Albums chart and the top 40 of the Billboard 200, while its Lil Tjay-assisted “Gangsta Boo” debuted at No. 82 on the Hot 100, marking Ice’s debut entry on the chart. When she joined forces with fellow online sensation PinkPantheress on “Boy’s a liar Pt. 2” in February, the track vaulted both artists to No. 3 on the Hot 100.
Like her memorable one-liners, Ice’s hits keep coming: In April, her idol, Nicki Minaj, hopped on the remix of Like..? track “Princess Diana,” which debuted at No. 4 on the Hot 100 and became the first No. 1 on Hot Rap Songs by two co-billed women in its 34-year history.
“The first time I met her, I knew she was special. I got that tingling feeling [I get] every time when you meet that [kind of] artist,” says Michelle Jubelirer, CEO/chair of Capitol Music Group. “I knew she was a global superstar in the making.”
But despite projecting confidence, Ice is still adjusting to the spotlight. And if she was once a bit shocked by the Princess Diana comparisons, she has lately come to understand the late icon’s plight a little better, as she’s increasingly faced her own share of alarming encounters with onlookers. When she performed at a New York Fashion Week afterparty in February, fans swarmed her by the DJ booth, prompting security to escort her offstage midperformance. Ice even had to push people off herself.
“I’m not going to lie: I was scared in that moment. I was kind of worried because we was a little outnumbered that night,” she confesses. But her tone swiftly shifts to gratitude: “But looking back, I was like, ‘This is really a blessing being able to just see how excited people are to see me perform.’ ”
Balancing exposure and privacy is tough for any rising artist and their team. Her manager, James Rosemond Jr., remembers hip-hop super-agent Cara Lewis (who now counts Ice as a client alongside the likes of Travis Scott and Eminem) and promoters blowing up his phone after the performance about what had happened, even though it never posed a threat to him, given the security measures they had in place.
“It’s been eight months since ‘Munch,’ and as anybody can see, it went from zero to 100 — real quick,” he says in April, nodding to the Drake song. He met Ice in March 2022 through his client Diablo, a DJ-producer who was working with her for the first time at New York recording studio Blast Off Productions. “Me and her manifested each other — I was looking for a female act, and she was looking for a manager,” he says. Rosemond, 30, now manages Ice, RIOTUSA and Diablo under Mastermind Artists, the management and label company that he started in 2019. But the last year has taught him that management isn’t just about discovering and developing great artists — it’s also about protecting them. And at this transitional stage in Ice’s career, where she falls somewhere between rising rap star and culture-shifting sensation, Rosemond is having “real conversations” with her about what’s happening while giving her the space to say no.
Jubelirer and 10K co-presidents Zach Friedman and Tony Talamo are betting on Ice to become the next “global superstar,” a term all three use independently. But as they root for her to take off — “It’s a rocket, and we’re just holding on,” Friedman says — she’s still finding her footing. “It’s been less than a year of me being famous, so it is definitely an adjustment,” she admits. As she aims to live up to the lofty title that industry patrons and fans have anointed her with while still protecting her peace and privacy, Ice is trying to enjoy the lightning-fast ride while steeling herself for all that comes with it.
Isis Gaston was born one of one.
Entering the world on Jan. 1, 2000, she was practically predestined to rule her generation. Growing up in the Bronx, she admits with a sigh, she found her birthday “annoying, [because] everybody else is just celebrating New Year’s, but it’s my birthday.” But long before she assumed any title, she knew how to set an example. Ice’s four younger siblings looked up to her, and in turn, she looked up to her father — an underground rapper.
“While I was growing up, I wasn’t like, ‘My father’s a rapper, so I’m going to be one, too,’ ” she says; still, “seeing somebody go to the studio and always hearing hip-hop music,” like New York heavyweights Jay-Z, 50 Cent and Wu-Tang Clan, planted the seeds for her career. And while she didn’t manifest becoming a rapper, “I did manifest being successful,” she says matter-of-factly. Ice credits her mother, along with Rhonda Byrne’s book The Secret, for teaching her about manifestation and the law of attraction when she was just 10 years old.
Miu Miu top and skirt, Stuart Weitzman shoes, Le Vian and Jennifer Fisher jewelry.
Christian Cody
It wasn’t until 2019, when fellow New Yorker Pop Smoke popped off, that Ice grew interested in drill music, the hip-hop subgenre characterized by nihilistic and realistic lyrics about the inescapable prevalence of violence in major cities, punctuated with gunplay-like production loaded with rattling hi-hats and ad-libs like “Brrrrrrrap!” and “Grrrrr!”
Drill originated on Chicago’s South Side in the early 2010s, defined by dark, slow tempos (borrowed from Atlanta trap music) and popularized by Chief Keef and Lil Durk, among others. Soon, the style traveled across the pond — and intermingled with grime, garage and road rap, molding U.K. drill. In Brooklyn, Bobby Shmurda and Rowdy Rebel started borrowing from Chicago drill’s sinister storytelling and injecting New York’s boisterous energy. They rapidly became hometown heroes: Both rappers scored label deals with Epic Records, and Shmurda’s smash “Hot N—a” landed in the top 10 of the Hot 100. Yet their promising come-ups — and New York drill’s emergence — stalled in December 2014, when Shmurda, Rebel and affiliates in the GS9 hip-hop collective were arrested on conspiracy to murder, weapons possession and reckless endangerment charges.
But within five years, the Brooklyn drill scene had a new figurehead: The 20-year-old Smoke, who lent his gruff yet suave voice to ominous 808 drum loops, courtesy of U.K. drill pioneer 808MeloBeats, for hits like “Welcome to the Party” and “Dior” that became street anthems. “I feel like Pop Smoke brought this new life back to it, and I was just obsessed,” Ice says of the rapper, who was murdered in February 2020. “He brought a lot of light into New York and definitely paved the way for a lot of current drill rappers.”
When Ice enrolled at SUNY Purchase, she pursued friendships with producers who could help her make her own mark in the drill scene. “I had a couple producer friends on campus that never would f–king send me a beat. And I’m like, ‘Hello?’ Nobody wanted to send me beats but RIOT,” she says of the producer — the son of WQHT (Hot 97) New York DJ/radio personality DJ Enuff — who became her go-to collaborator.
“Ice and RIOT are like Shaq and Kobe. You just don’t break it up. You let them do their thing, and they’re going to cook every night,” says 10K’s Talamo.
Alaïa playsuit, Stuart Weitzman shoes, Tiffany & Co. jewelry.
Christian Cody
The duo started off by sampling 2010s EDM hits like Zedd and Foxes’ “Clarity” and Martin Garrix and Bebe Rexha’s “In the Name of Love” to soften drill’s rough edges and contrast Ice’s low-pitched, laid-back voice with pitched-up, bubblegum pop melodies and flashes of tenderness in the lyrics.
“Back in 2021, there was a big wave of sample drill where they were sampling a whole bunch of popular tracks. But I like finding things that either I had a connection to or are abstract samples,” RIOT explains. “So with ‘No Clarity,’ I was going through old EDM tracks, and when I came across it, it was real nostalgic for me because I loved that song when I was 12. I’m like, ‘Yo, we have to do this one!’ I made the beat, and Ice loved it.”
They didn’t clear the sample for the song, released in November 2021, but Zedd let it fly — and even invited Ice to perform it with him at Miami’s Ultra Music Festival in March. “Funny thing about that performance is right before I went onstage, his laptop wasn’t working. And he said that that hadn’t happened to him in 10 years, so I was like, ‘It’s because I’m here,’ ” she recalls. “It ended up working out fine. I went out there and did ‘In Ha Mood’ and ‘No Clarity’ real quick, but the crowd was definitely a different crowd that I’ve never performed for.”
Zedd’s stage setup at Ultra, with smoke cannons firing right at the artist, also felt foreign to her. But as she has quickly graduated to large stages, one aspect of performance has been unexpectedly familiar: The athleticism required to run around them brings Ice back to her volleyball days in high school and college. “That’s what be motivating me to go into the gym. I’ve been working out lately, and I’m going to have that breath control down pat, feel me?” she says.
Christian Cody
While Ice adapts to bigger stages, Rosemond is adapting to higher-stakes management operations — and drawing from old inspirations. Those include one of his college textbooks, All You Need To Know About the Music Business by Donald S. Passman, or as Rosemond calls it, “the bible of the music business.” After dropping out of Bay State College in Boston, he flew to Los Angeles to meet with Passman, a family friend, to get advice that helped him start his previous management company, RoyalDream Projects, in 2012. And like Ice, he also learned a lot from his father, James “Jimmy Henchman” Rosemond, the famed hip-hop mogul who formerly managed The Game, Gucci Mane and many more.
“I was privy to a lot of his deal-making, and me being a sponge allowed me to soak up what contracts looked like and how to approach labels,” Rosemond says. Before labels began approaching Ice, he advised her, “ ‘Let’s do it ourselves first.’ Deals came to her — production deals, 360 deals — but they were deals that I knew could be better, and in order to get a better deal, you have to go out and do it yourself.”
While Ice’s team independently released her first two major singles, “Munch” and “Bikini Bottom,” Rosemond tapped Create Music Group for distribution, after the company partnered with WorldStar HipHop in 2021 to launch a full-service music distribution hub called WorldStar Distro. “I knew Create Music had sister companies — WorldStar, Genius, Datpiff. So my thing was, ‘Here’s this record. Here’s the vision,’ ” he explains. From there, Rosemond made sure those branches executed the vision: WorldStar HipHop premiered Ice’s music videos on its YouTube channel, while Genius had her perform “Munch” on its Open Mic series. “We was able to be very strategic with it — and it worked.”
Christian Cody
To help him and Ice navigate the ensuing label bidding war and emerge with the friendliest possible terms, including owning her masters and publishing, Rosemond hired his high school acquaintance Leon Morabia, an attorney from the newly merged powerhouse firm Mark Music and Media Law, P.C., which represents established acts from Billie Eilish to Guns N’ Roses. So when he and Ice arrived at a dinner meeting with 10K and Capitol at Nobu Malibu last summer, “We wasn’t freestyling it. We had that vision walking in,” he says.
“We were not going to leave that dinner until we knew that she would be an artist that we would be building together and working together until the day she stops performing,” says Jubelirer.
After Morabia made sure the most important terms were in her favor, Ice inked her deal with 10K and Capitol, which immediately began assisting in the promotion of singles to radio and clearing samples, like Diddy’s “I Need a Girl (Pt. 2)” on “Gangsta Boo,” released in January. But Ice had secured assurances that her creative autonomy would remain intact. “No one on the label side touches the music. There is no traditional A&R with her. No one’s picking beats, no one’s saying, ‘Do this, do that,’ ” Friedman says. “It’s all her. We’re on her schedule.”
Ice is currently prepping the deluxe version of Like..? for this summer; while that project keeps her in the discourse, she can complete and release her debut album at her own pace. But Ice and RIOTUSA are manifesting even bigger things ahead.
“I just want more accolades. I just want to put out more music,” she says, while RIOTUSA adds, “I want to have multiple No. 1s on the Hot 100 chart. I want to have Grammys. I just want to have timeless music.” He followed Ice’s lead by writing down his goals in a journal every day. “At first, I was a little skeptical, feel me? But I started writing, and literally every single thing we started writing just started coming true. I’m on my fourth book now.”
When asked about their dream collaboration, both Ice and RIOTUSA are at a loss for words because they’ve already checked it off with Minaj. Ice credits Rosemond for ultimately making her dream come true. “I’m listening to her. Who’s her idol? Nicki, Nicki, Nicki, Nicki, Nicki. My thing is, how do I get her Nicki? And it’s being persistent,” he says. “It took months to get Nicki on board, and it happened.” (In tandem with the remix’s release, Minaj announced on her Queen Radio show that she established a partnership with Ice under Minaj’s new label, Heavy On It, but Rosemond declined to comment on the matter; Minaj’s reps did not respond to a request for comment.)
The destined alliance between rap’s newly crowned princess and its long-reigning queen had been fulfilled, exciting the Spice Cabinet and the Barbz. At the end of the music video, Ice and Minaj exchange wide-eyed glances and grins à la Minaj and Beyoncé’s 2015 “Feeling Myself” video, which Rosemond says was unplanned but demonstrates their “chemistry. And that’s big with Ice. She wants to work with people who want to work with her, but she’s very selective. It has to make sense.”
PinkPantheress felt similarly about “Boy’s a liar” when her label, Warner Music UK, pressed her to release a remix. “People kept mentioning it to me for charting reasons, but I was not really interested,” she tells Billboard, adding that she was only open to the idea if it involved another up-and-coming female artist who piqued her interest.
“[Ice] was kind of perfect. I saw she was following me, so I casually asked her if she would be down to do a remix. And she was really up for it. It was just literally through the DMs,” Pink recalls, while Ice adds, “I knew our fans would really appreciate it because I saw them wanting us to collab for a little bit.” In a matter of days, Ice sent over her verse, and Pink’s engineer, Jonny Breakwell, added it to the track. The next week, the British singer-songwriter-producer jetted to New York to shoot the video, and she instantly connected with her Bronx-bred collaborator. “Being Gen Z ‘It’ girls of the internet era, I feel like we had a lot in common, even though we’re from two completely different places,” says Pink.
The professional camera crew captured the duo’s chemistry, but one fan’s surreptitiously filmed video started a “wildfire,” as Ice calls it, on TikTok one month before “Boy’s a liar Pt. 2” dropped. After she was caught off guard by the remix blasting throughout the neighborhood, the guerrilla filmer had spotted Ice and Pink filming in a nearby fire escape. She wasn’t the only local who observed the shoot. “There was a little group of boys down the block just screaming the whole time,” Ice recalls. “And then they was on the roof of the other building, watching us do the roof scenes, screaming. It was so funny.”
By now, Ice has learned that such distractions come with the territory — after all, as she raps in the song, “In the hood, I’m like Princess Diana” — and aren’t likely to let up any time soon. If she can laugh at them or make them work in her favor, she’ll eventually become the global superstar she intends to be. She’s already a face of two huge celebrity brands, Beyoncé’s Ivy Park and Kim Kardashian’s SKIMS. And she’s not shying away from the cameras any time soon: She’s also interested in acting. “But right now, I’m focused on music,” she says. “I’m still learning a lot, to be honest. But I’m so happy I’ve put in that time and that work — because it’s paying off.”
This story will appear in the May 13, 2023, issue of Billboard.
Rising singer-songwriter Paris Paloma remembers exactly when she realized she had something special with “Labour.” It was the last day in a week-long studio session with producer Justin Glasco in Los Angeles, and she was preparing to record vocals for the climactic bridge to the stormy alt-folk anthem, with fellow women backup singers Natalie Duque, Nolyn Ducich and Annabel Lee. “That was a moment where I was like, ‘This is coming together as a song now,’ ” she recalls. “Because us women, just all shouting in a room — I was like, ‘This is what it’s about.’ ”
“Labour” has inspired no shortage of women doing exactly that since its March release. The single initially became a sensation on TikTok for Paloma’s mighty vocals and powerful message about having to do all the emotional heavy lifting in a relationship — and to a lesser extent, for her strikingly British pronunciation of the word “capillaries” (cuh-pill-uh-rees). (“I stand by the British pronunciation of it!” she insists. “I don’t think the American one sounds nice, I’m sorry.”) It has quickly become the 23-year-old U.K. singer-songwriter’s breakout hit, debuting at No. 9 on Billboard’s Hot Alternative Songs chart (dated April 8) and No. 13 on the all-genre Digital Song Sales listing — while in her home country, it entered at No. 29 on the Official Songs Chart.
Hailing from Ashbourne, Derbyshire in England, Paloma began writing music when she was 14, and started recording and releasing her own work in 2020. At the beginning of the pandemic, she attracted the attention of High Plateau Productions owner/CEO David Fernandez when he was invited to virtually attend a songwriter session. “Paris was the first to sing and literally, as soon as she opened her mouth, I pinged her on Instagram,” he recalls. “I was like, ‘Hey, look, I’m the weird dude in the room… let’s take a phone call.’ ”
Bora Aksu dress and coat.
Nicole Nodland
Fernandez officially came on as her manager in March 2021. “It was basically just me and her,” he remembers of their early days together. “With my limited knowledge of mixing and mastering, [we were] both learning Logic at the exact same time.” While Paloma’s voice is what immediately drew Fernandez in, he soon became even more enamored with her songwriting: “Just the content that she writes about, and the meaningfulness of her lyrics — it touches me as a music listener.”
Paloma scored a minor breakthrough in 2022 with her biblically framed relationship analysis “The Fruits,” attracting the attention of Nettwerk Records, who she signed with that fall. Her first time recording in a proper studio was last September for “Labour” — a song she’d originally written as two separate works, before realizing they shared a theme. “They’re [about] the same thing — putting too much labor into a relationship where you’re not having it returned,” she explains. “And how common of an experience that is for women, because of the way that we’ve been programmed to view heterosexual relationship dynamics. And it’s so normalized.”
Bora Aksu dress.
Nicole Nodland
Upon hearing the song’s demo for the first time, Fernandez insisted that it would need reinforcements beyond the two of them and a laptop: “I just knew if I could get her in with Justin [Glasco] and add [his] sprinkle of fairy dust on top of the thing — I had a really, really good feeling.” Even before they put it to tape, though, the song was already starting to garner interest, thanks to an early clip Paloma posted to TikTok in August, teasing lyrics for the song that she’d just penned.
“I often do videos whilst I’m songwriting, and I did that the first evening when I wrote the lyrics for what ended up being the bridge,” she says. “It was just a video of me in my room singing these words that I’d written like, 20 minutes before… but it gave me a little indicator that was like, ‘OK, I think this is something that I want to be heard, and I think people want to hear it.’ ”
Those early signs proved right on the money when the full song was released through Nettwerk in March, drawing not only millions of streams but countless responses on TikTok from fans who found the themes to be resonant — and not just from women. “I’ve got several messages from men who’ve realized [from the song] that they should be doing better in relationships,” Paloma says. “That’s amazing. Because I keep getting asked, ‘What can we do to solve this?’ And it’s not up to women: That’s the whole point. It’s up to men to listen and to take action.”
Bora Aksu dress and veil.
Nicole Nodland
Through the success of “Labour” and Paloma’s other songs, she has amassed hundreds of thousands of followers on TikTok. But Fernandez is insistent that neither he nor Paloma want her to be seen as a “TikTok artist” — which is part of the reason they declined to release sped-up or slowed-down versions of “Labour,” instead opting to record a totally reimagined, more orchestral version of the song with production duo Myriot that’s dropping soon. “It’s just not falling into that trap of, ‘Let’s copy what everyone is doing right now,’ ” Fernandez says. “Let’s try to forge our own way. And if it works, it works, and if it doesn’t, it doesn’t.”
Paloma is now getting ready to play some live shows at 300-500-cap spaces in London and upcoming festival dates at Summerfest and Bonnaroo. She’s also beginning to think about a debut album, which Fernandez says fans can most likely expect in July or August. By then, it will have been about a year since she wrote “Labour.”
“It’s already been a lot of time in between,” she says. “In that time, I’ve written a lot newer music, which — not to say that it’s better, but you always think that your most recent stuff is the best, because it’s the most accurate reflection of where your creativity is. I’ve got so much work I want to get out.”
Paris Paloma (left) and David Fernandez photographed on April 18, 2023 in London.
Nicole Nodland
A version of this story will appear in the May 13, 2023, issue of Billboard.