As a hip-hop fan, I sang along to the lyrics. Watching DMX slip and fall and proclaim that he can’t get up was a part of his act. For anyone who has endured life with a loved one controlled by their vices, it’s easy to root for their redemption and sobriety. He unequivocally repped New York and the East Coast, but he belonged to the world.Īs tough as it was to watch him falter on his journey, I never lost hope for his recovery. He melded multiple subcultures-dirt bike and ATV racing, bodybuilding, pit bull breeding-into his unique brand, bringing together fans from all walks of life, ethnicities, and regions. He went on an unprecedented five-album run that completely shifted the rap music landscape. He set Billboard records for multiple platinum album releases in a single calendar year. DMX brought back gutter grime, undiluted hip-hop to the mainstream by the force of his will and, even more remarkably, by the conviction of his religious faith. In 1998, his single “Get At Me Dog” dropped as a counter-offensive to the shiny suit era of hip-hop excess that overwhelmed pop music. He was a seemingly perfect rapper out the shoot, blessed with an unmistakable growl and aggressive vocal delivery, a blockbuster hard knock life back story, endless banks of raw energy and charisma and a chiseled figure that was built for battle, be it physical or lyrical. ![]() As the child of an alcoholic, I relate to her sheer joy in having her functional addict parent present for that once in a lifetime event.ĭMX, the mythical mic legend who did that rarest of rare hip-hop tropes and “changed the game,” passed away Friday after suffering what his family described as “catastrophic cardiac arrest.” He was 50 years old. In that moment though, I feel more in tune with his daughter. The sight of DMX sharing that moment with his daughter is both mesmerizing and relatable in my perch as a girl dad. He sways wildly and she giggles, in the manner of a daughter who identifies and appreciates her papa’s authentic love. ![]() That electric Kool-Aid smile reveals the pride and joy that is exclusive to a dad introducing his sweet princess to the world as a young woman. The father, the late, great DMX, is clearly enjoying the dance with his daughter at her quinceanera. He is grooving 10 times faster than the somber beat to Luther Vandross’s “Dance With My Father” ever intended. ![]() Her father, all gangly limbs and gold chains and shiny shaved head, swings confidently to his own rhythm. The image bops in my head in dull-lit purple and pink pastels: a young girl in a majestic quinceanera dress, smiling half-lovingly, half-embarrassed, two-stepping off beat.
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