Quelle Chris Isn't Left-Field. We Just Need to Acclimate.

Long considered underground by mainstream standards, the noted rapper and producer keeps proving he's not.

Late last year, during interviews about my second book High and Rising (A Book About De La Soul), journalists often asked me to name rappers who epitomized De La Soul’s creative spirit. Other, more straight-ahead writers, wanted to know who my favorite rap artists were. Though the list changed from chat to chat, there was one artist at the top of my mind every time: Quelle Chris, the New York-born, Baltimore-based rapper and producer whose mix of muffled drums, disparate vocal samples and conversational rhymes have enticed my ear since the Detroit lyricist Guilty Simpson told me about him over a decade ago. I think I listened to the mixtape Ni**as Is Men first. Across 13 tracks, Quelle and fellow rapper Cavalier, a frequent collaborator, sauntered atop a bevy of kaleidoscopic beats, some darker and blues-focused, like “Addition Cycles” and “G.I. Soul,” others somewhat brighter with odd time signatures, like “Long Tokes” and “Greene Eyes.”

The freedom captivated me most: “Long Tokes” detailed the rappers’ smoking habits (a well-worn topic for lyricists throughout the years), but between the instrumental — which, with its stomping percussion, conjured images of cowboys trekking dusty frontiers in the Old West — and the playful yet concise way they rapped about weed, the song recalled the better parts of artists like Redman and Madlib, both of whom centered marijuana as the foundation for their music. Redman crafted whole albums dedicated to drug use; Madlib’s beats incorporate distorted sounds from all mediums to emulate psychedelic trips. Though Quelle was indebted to those artists, his style remained singular, reminiscent of De La, Redman and Madlib without taking heavily from them.

I remember playing an early copy of Quelle’s follow-up project, 2013’s Ghost At The Finish Line, and knowing then that he’d be around for a while. He was already making noise in underground circles, but the album’s sonic and narrative intent showcased a trek towards greater recognition. Featuring vocals from Jimetta Rose, Denmark Vessey, Black Milk and the Alchemist, among others, and with beats by Knxwledge, Oh No and Quelle himself, Ghost wrestled with the notion of making it big as a musician, and the frustrations that can arise when things aren’t going as planned. So on “Loop Dreams,” when Quelle rapped “feelin’ like I work from the bottom to the bottom here,” he spoke to anxieties I felt as a still-budding music journalist writing blog posts and album reviews for whatever outlet would take me. I believed I could write my way to prominence, but my vision was tougher to trust on days when I couldn’t put gas in my car or buy rice from the grocery store. I, and Quelle, it seemed, had to keep releasing good work and hope that it resonated. Because creating art that the establishment deems left-of-center can be lonely. Until one day you look up, notice like-minded people looking back at you, and realize you’re with a community.

To me, Quelle became Quelle around 2016, with the release of what I think is the perfect instrumental album, Lullabies for the Broken Brain. Over its 30-plus minutes, the producer used lo-fi beats and spacious arrangements to examine the dark and somewhat odd recesses of the human psyche, where confidence fights self-doubt, and the best one can do is let the feeling pass. On this album, Quelle crafted more than just a beat tape; in using the right vocal samples and ending the tracks just when they needed to (or even a little before in some instances), Lullabies played like the rightful trek from darkness to light, with all the irreverence one would expect from a Quelle release, but with a serious tone that suggested newfound maturity. A year later, on the breakthrough album Being You Is Great, I Wish I Could Be You More Often, I could hear that maturity crystallize, yet with a shrug that conveyed a certain resignation to where life had taken him. On “Popeye,” one of many standouts and my favorite song on the album, Quelle rapped about the disappointment of failed expectations. When he quipped “seems I never reach the goal but always meet the finish,” I could almost hear him sigh through the surrender, as if to ask, “What else do I need to do to get the recognition I deserve?”

But he wasn’t giving up: On “Calm Before,” Quelle still aspired to a life of decadence, understanding that things will ebb and flow while keeping a positive outlook. “Every battle ain’t the good fight, every trial ain’t by the fire,” he rapped at one point. “I ain’t preachin’, I’m just reaching for something, still don’t know what it is.” Compared with Ghost At The Finish Line, on which Quelle seemed to rap with tight fists and a furrowed brow, Being You Is Great… was about love: love of self, love of others, and the love, or at least, understanding, of struggle. While he acknowledged discomfort in previous work, to my ear, Being With You Is Great… was the first time he lived comfortably alongside it.

Everything’s Fine, Quelle’s collaborative album with the polymathic rapper, author and producer Jean Grae, was my favorite album of any genre in 2018, and one of the best albums released that decade. Full stop. Combining jazz-centric arrangements (“Gold Purple Orange”), West Coast G-funk (“House Call”), and lo-fi space funk (“My Contribution to this Scam”), among other genres, the music on Everything’s Fine — co-produced by Quelle and Jean — properly captured the existential crisis of modern times. Looking beyond the term “existential crisis” as a cliché, the two chose instead to unpack the latent malaise beneath it. Throughout the LP, they funneled their angst into a controlled stream of rage, exasperation, mockery, and hope, and scrutinized current events with just the right mix of gravitas and humor. And while it would’ve been easy to merely point the finger at racial and political divisions, the duo took it a step further, holding up a mirror to themselves and their audience. In one way or another, we’ve helped create the absurdity we’re living through now, where a certain felon is somehow back in office and ridiculous is the new normal. As they saw it, we’ve all succumbed to guilty pleasures, scrolling for LOLs on the phone or watching some lame-ass reality TV show after a long day of work. We ignored the homeless man asking for money on the subway and pressed mute on our mothers’ incoming calls because we weren’t feeling it that day.

To drive that point home, “My Contribution to this Scam” mocked just about everyone: Instagram models, stuck-in-the-’90s backpack rappers, incense burning Afrocentrics, gentrifying hipsters, and YouTube-based music critics. Then, on “Gold Purple Orange,” Chris challenged conspiracy theories and groupthink. “Every mixtape drop gotta be free…,” he rapped sarcastically. “Everything in the news gotta be real, right?” Those questions and others — along with Jean’s self-affirming glimpse into a childhood listening to the electronic band Depeche Mode, wearing thrift store garb and watching Little Rascals reruns — led to the song’s overall premise: “I ain’t got to be nothing for you but me … spaceships, they ain’t never out of reach.” Translation: Don’t be basic. There’s room for unique artistry that doesn’t fit the mold.

Guns, from 2019, didn’t feel so introspective. Two years into Tr**p’s first presidency and dismayed by mass shootings across the United States, Quelle turned his focus outward, to the atrocities happening throughout the country and the hypocrisy of politicians who purveyed them. His older albums felt leisurely, if not comedic, as they walked through the absurd. Guns felt urgent, an LP we needed right then and there, to assess what was happening. In a land built by immigrants, where everyone’s ancestors are from somewhere else, how can white people think other races are the only ones who should leave? And how can they claim to worship God while spewing such hate? “Oh the irony,” Quelle quipped on “It’s The Law,” the first in a stellar run of songs on the album. “Hate in the name of love / Sin ain’t a sin if the pen pushes them verse us.” Elsewhere on the LP, I heard a confidence I hadn’t heard from him before. Not that he was ever meek, but on “Obamacare,” with its hard drums, low chimes and deep bass, Quelle proclaimed his stature as one of the best and most intriguing artists in rap, regardless of whatever category folks like me wanted to put him in. “I was never weirdo,” he declared, “they just had to acclimate.”

Around this time is when Quelle started seething openly about his underrated status, a theme that would continue on his 2022 album, Deathfame, which took stock of artists receiving flowers for their work only after they’ve passed. Sonically, it was Quelle’s most experimental release, and the one I find toughest to revisit in full due to its slight unevenness. Conceptually, though, it’s the Quelle album I identify with the most. It’s natural for creative people to want financial rewards for their passions, as critical acclaim doesn’t always lead to big houses and flashy vehicles. More often than not, the type of notoriety that comes from “alternative art” leads to middle-class comfort, where you’re not hurting, but not on easy street, either. And when you compare your talent with what’s marketed in the mainstream, it’s difficult to reconcile why you haven’t reaped the same opportunities.

So I can’t blame Quelle for being annoyed. Here’s a Grammy- and Oscar-nominated producer — for his inclusion on the Lizzo track “Coldplay,” and his scoring work on the Shaka King film Judas and the Black Messiah — who’s known and respected in various circles, yet some still see him as an underground talent. Still, there’s something to be said about creating music that lasts long after the release date, after the press cycles have stopped, and all that’s left are the messages, the way you made people feel, and the rhymes they can’t shake. And that’s Quelle Chris to me: a man whose artistry ascends from the past, with perseverance we can learn from.