Sound Presence

After nearly two decades as hip hop’s lyrical provocateur, Common finds salvation on the silver screen

written by Naimah Jabali-Nash
Photographed by Peter Field Peck, Production Manager: Tricia Rubino

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It started in Brooklyn. He strolls out of the art nouveau condominium complex. The building seems out of place amid the traditional row house landscape. But his Chi-Town swag never falters. The sun is bright, the air crisp and Common epitomizes casual panache. A gust of wind peels back the hem of his distressed leather jacket exposing his trim physique. Fitted jeans, a v-neck tee and a cashmere beanie complete the ensemble. We make a quick stop to pick up his barber (he never leaves home without him). As we begin the ride to Manhattan Woods Golf Club with his modest entourage in tow, it’s hard to fathom how this prodigious wordsmith will fare in the tight-lipped, by-the-book world of golf. 

In person Common is easygoing, on stage he is luminous. Born Lonnie Rashid Lynn in Chicago’s South Side, Common, formerly known as Common Sense, stepped onto the music scene with his debut album, Can I Borrow A Dollar? (1992). Though the album had little commercial success, the artist from ‘The Chi’ definitely started a buzz. And his vivid depiction of the evolution of hip hop on the 1994 track I Used to Love H.E.R. from his sophomore album, Resurrection, forced listeners to take note. “One of the best feelings is knowing that the younger generations are hearing it and becoming aware of it,” says Common referring to the timeless track. “And the fact that people do consider it a classic song, I’m grateful.” A scion of hip hop’s Golden-era, Common has remained a mainstay in the music industry for more than 15 years.

Shortly after the release of his first Gold Record, Like Water For Chocolate (2000), Common ventured into a different medium—acting. “I felt like musically, I hit a ceiling. I was trying to figure out what I could do to keep me excited,” he says. It took a friend of a friend to pique his artistic curiosity. Soon after, Common was introduced to an acting teacher through an A&R executive from MCA Records. “From there I just started going to classes. I got really revitalized by the art of it. Then I started getting auditions and not getting any roles.” But his diligence paid off. Common landed his first role on the silver screen as an assassin in 2006’s Smokin’ Aces. “Just going through that process of knowing how to keep your confidence during that humbling time, I thought it was all healthy and good for me as a person and as an artist.” 

We pass Brooklyn’s cheesecake mecca, Junior’s, on the corner of Flatbush and Dekalb Avenues. Sunbeams stream through the semi-tinted windows revealing his lightly freckled visage. Between sips of water Common talks about his latest on-screen role in Terminator Salvation. Opposite Christian Bale, Common plays Barnes in director McG’s most recent dosage of the John Connor epic. “He’s John Connor’s right hand guy. He’s military, but more of a spiritual solider,” says Common. “A spiritual revolutionary.” 

Common is not confined to any quadrilateral limitations. His thought-provoking lyrics have often pegged him as a “conscious rapper”, but the hip hop veteran’s eight album discography supersedes that notion. No topic is off limits. “I can talk about sex, drinking, partying and having fun, about smackin’ dudes, whatever. Because I’m an adult—I’m a man,” he says. “I’m not afraid to talk about any of my experiences.” 

“When I think of the word ‘conscious’, it’s a proud moniker to have because conscious means aware. I think of artists that are conscious. I think of Bob Marley, KRS-One, Stevie Wonder, John Lennon—all those artists are timeless. When you do have a message in what you’re saying it resonates more. When you’re awaking people it’s bigger than hip hop, it’s bigger than music. So I’m like, ‘Yeah, I want to be called conscious.’ I don’t let the word limit who I am.”

Hip hop’s holy grail is the backdrop along the Brooklyn/Queens Expressway. We go from Brooklyn to Queens and on through the South Bronx where the disenfranchised found a voice through two turntables and a microphone. The DJ looped the beat break while the hype man rocked the party. Common’s smooth talking voice ignites as he reminisces about how KRS-One, Big Daddy Kane and Ice Cube all influenced his style. He reigns from a class of emcees whose crafty use of similes and metaphors made you say, “Rewind that!” Nowadays such influential voices are hard to come by. 

In the age of The MySpace Artist, web site hits have replaced The Source’s once coveted five mic scale of yesteryear. The internet has championed the single and curtailed album sales. It’s become a springboard for emerging talent (or lack thereof). And with every flick of the remote it seems as if the beloved genre we know as hip hop is a lost art. The definition of an artist becomes skewed between lonely stoners and college lovers. 

This litany of point-and-click “artists” infiltrates the airwaves. Yet, the power of Common’s word is like a gravitational pull to those around him. He’s worked with influential producers such as Questlove, No I.D., Kanye West and the late, great Jay Dilla. On his latest release, Universal Mind Control, Common linked up with producer Mr. DJ and the intergalactic hit makers—the Neptunes. 

“They all increased my musical experience and knowledge,” he says. “I became aware of a lot of records, starting with No I.D., him and Twilight Tone who produced some of my first albums, to Questlove. These dudes know so much about music so I gathered a lot from them. I also learned about song making. I think I learned that mostly from Kanye and Pharell and Jay Dee in his own ‘lead by example’ way.”