He sought after them for the video of his magnetic tune “ Unforgettable” (No. French happened to be surfing Youtube when he stumbled upon their syncopated choreography, set against a visibly downtrodden environment.
Months prior, Montana traveled 30 hours to Uganda to meet an incredibly talented youth dance group by the name of Triplets Ghetto Kids (Patricia, Ashley, Ada, Kokode, Fred, Isaac, Kokode, Ronnie and Man King) who started out dancing in the streets of Africa for food and money. And I see, for the first time in our encounter, a living embodiment of what he calls finding happiness in the nothingness. We fold over in laughter, to say the least. He then whips out his phone and shows me a favorite YouTube video of his, featuring Mike Tyson and the boxer’s most infamous interview soundbites. I chalk it up to liquid courage – and every feminist fiber in me hates me for saying this – knowing they’re something akin to all of my favorite uncles.īack on the sofa French leans in closer to me, to which I react with curious hesitance. At this point, everyone present is sharing in on the celebration, raising glasses and knocking back shots, making the occasional obnoxious joke and lewd gesture. The sun is set now, with French washing down his turkey hero from the corner deli, with a copious serving of what we ‘hood dwellers like to call “brown water.” More of his folk spill in from the outside hallway. I just think he couldn’t handle certain pressures. “There’s a saying in Morocco, when someone is getting dressed up nice, people be like, ‘Where the f**k you think you going, America?’ I remember my aunt one day was helping me pack my clothes up, and I’m like, ‘I want to put this shirt on,’ and she said, ‘Where the f**k you think you going, America?’” At 13, Karim indeed was getting ready to make that epic voyage from North Africa to the South Bronx. His Moroccan passport serves as art for the back of his new LP, a purposeful gesture he wants aspiring artists from his homeland to interpret as a symbol of greatness and possibility. “Make sure I’m by the beach in between shows or on days off,” he says vehemently over the phone to the person handling his travel accommodations, later adding repetitiously, “the Moroccan show is very important.”Īt 32, French has been around the world and back again, flown on private jets (about 120K on average for every trip), sold platinum records, met and worked with his idols, made a family, purchased homes and emerged as the biggest artist ever out of Morocco-all while being a high school dropout. Luck would have it that French and I meet on a day like this, after he’s fasted for 30 days and just before he goes on tour, which explains the several conference calls and his short attention span. A journey not without divine intervention, if you let the rapper tell it, and one that would not have occurred were he not a living, breathing “chosen one.” He want to make sure you clean before He can talk to you.” And while holding varying views on religion and the idea of god, there’s much to be said (respected) about that kind of reverence, considering his narrative – the quintessential immigrant story – where he and his family cross an ocean to make something out of nothing. “I think that God clean you up so he can come closer to you. “I fast to get closer to Him,” says French of his relationship with his higher being. The rapper has just completed the Holy Month of Ramadan, during which strict fasting is observed from sunrise to sunset. To the right of Montana, who is on the phone and picking at his carrots, is a collection of liquor bottles. At the center, there’s a spread of cold cuts, raw veggies and choice snacks, including a mountain of Rice Krispies treats. Peppered throughout this quasi bar-lounge area are a number of bodacious women-some who came to work, others who came to lay in the lap of luxury, if only vicariously. He’s surrounded by a large crew of his closest comrades, most of whom are employed by the Moroccan native himself. French is reclined on a chestnut leather couch, hands between his legs, which are splayed to his liking, taking up much of the seating space.
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The scene is all too familiar something out of your favorite rap video or cult classic film, á la Belly or Paid in Full maybe.
“Right this way, please.” We head toward the stairs leading to the bottom floor, as I hear the sounds of muffled voices within earshot. A brief exchange transpires and, at a moment’s notice, I’m being asked to trail behind someone who is leading me directly to where Montana is holding court (finally). I pace the room blindly for some time – anxious and nearly vexed – before meeting video director Mayjik, who warmly welcomes me to the set of French’s “Whiskey Eye”, the opening track to Jungle Rules, his long-awaited sophomore studio album.
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