When I tweet, it’s like talking to a wall. I say more in my music than I tell people on my day-to-day because I need an unbiased opinion. The lack of structure provides anxiety.Īre you as open in your daily life as you are in your music? I be bored if I don't set up a real schedule for myself. I think I learned how to trust my gut and not waste time on my day-to-day. As long as it’s cool, people will listen to it.ĭid you learn anything about yourself over that time? If people like it, they’ll play it until they don’t want to hear it no more. It seems to be the same pace in terms of consumption of music. Nah, once you put something on the Internet it’s there forever. Were you afraid you’d lose your relevance over that time? I think I’m planning something, but since this album was kind of a surprise for everyone, nobody really knew how it was going to go. Just a few days post-album release, Isaiah has already filmed a video for “Park,” and now, sleep-deprived, he’s back to work in this studio. His raspy vocals lean back on rich production from Mike WiLL Made-It and Cam O’Bi, nudging us through the metaphorically long, hot day to which the album's title refers.
Through its 17 tracks, you can hear the experiences, good and bad, in Isaiah’s voice-two children before the age of 25, a tumultuous relationship with drugs, and the recognition that came from signing with TDE. The Sun’s Tirade explores the human experience with unflinching honesty. And while we would never water down the seriousness of a drug addiction, it would be a shame to sensationalize an artist’s struggles rather than celebrate the art that comes out of it. His last project, Cilvia Demo, dropped two years ago, and in our fast-paced culture, that’s enough to be considered a disappearance. When Isaiah began releasing music again, his struggle with alcohol and Xanax tended to become the focus of media coverage surrounding The Sun’s Tirade, his album that dropped last Friday. Isaiah Rashad is sitting on a worn-in couch, laid back in untied high-top Vans and a baseball cap, ashing a joint on a side table.įor some reason, there’s a common conception in the hip-hop community that Rashad has been missing. We pass through a large studio space packed with recording equipment and soundboards, and finally arrive in a small, smoky backroom. The walls are strewn with album plaques and instruments.
It’s getting dark outside, and I’m nervously unsure of my whereabouts until TDE’s Matt Miller cracks the front door open and leads me into a dark entryway then through a number of hallways. Railroad tracks and a couple of dumpsters flank an unremarkable stucco building.
“Your destination is on the right,” Siri tells me as I come to a dead-end in Santa Monica.
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