The San Francisco-Oakland Bay area has been instrumental to many of the art and cultural movements of the last five decades. Like a proud mother, the Bay area regularly birthed talented and gifted innovators and forward thinking artists. During the 60s and 70s, San Francisco legends Sly & The Family Stone, the Doobie Brothers and ConFunkShun left their platformed footprints on the world of funk. Santana introduced the world to rock music deeply infused with Latino flavor. And let’s not forget the undeniable influence of The Bay was during the psychedelic scene of the 1960s. Add the Black Panthers, the San Francisco Renaissance, the Beat Generation and Rice-A-Roni into this mix and the influence of the San Francisco-Oakland Bay area on American culture over the last 50 years is as undeniable.

Given its colorful history, it’s only fitting that The Bay also has a rich Hip Hop history. Not only is it home to legendary MCs like E-40 and Too Short, but it also boasts a hip hop community as eclectic as its musical forefathers. From the Hieroglyphics crew to Mac Dre, MC Hammer to Luniz, the Bay has definitely given Hip Hop its fair share of memories. Hell, Master P and Tupac even claimed it as home. I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the spectacular vernacular of the Bay area, much of which have become staples of hip hop lingo. But for all that The Bay has given the hip hop world, it still doesn’t get the respect it deserves. To hear Bay area Hyphy superstar Mistah F.A.B. tell it, the lack of respect from the hip hop community rests on the shoulders of the Bay area artists that ride and die for the Bay area sound. He’s always felt like artists from his hometown can sometimes become comfortable in their local celebrity.

“They don’t go out of the bay! That’s the problem,” says F.A.B. “They’re big at home, big in their own world and they don’t try to make it outside of the bay.”

According to F.A.B., hip hop has become “he say she say but no longer what you say.” Being that hip hop music was born of rebels and have-nots, he decided to put his own stamp on it, speaking for those who can’t or don’t.

“People love me because I’m the voice of the streets. My brother was incarcerated for 12 years, my daddy died of AIDS, that’s me,” he says matter-of-factly. “I speak for that person whose mic is on. but the volume is very low.” That’s how he sees himself - another in a long line of artists that represent the people, but hasn’t gotten the chance to be heard. Continued on page 2 »