My brother-in-law has an intense passion for music. A niche collector, he has invaluable memorabilia. Hendrix, Pink Floyd, the early Genesis, Led Zeppelin. About twenty years ago, for his birthday, I gave him the single www.mipiacitu by Gazosa. He laughed and sent me to look for mushrooms.
The opening to introduce the topic: children stepping into the world of music. Joseph Jackson, as Michael recalls, trained his children with slaps. Caterina Caselli picked up Gazosa in some nursery school or social center, I don't know. We also remember the French Jordi, who in 1992 at 4 years old made waves with âDur dur d'etre babeâ spurred on by his music producer father, more recently Justin Bieber, an unprecedented money-making machine, who essentially made it on his own, blessed by his mother.
The mastermind behind the Kris Kross phenomenon, the one who held the strings, who managed the studio work, who refined rhymes and grooves, was Jermaine Dupri.
At the time, 1992, the kids were in pre-adolescence, around 10/11 years old, and he was about 19. But he knew his stuff.
The rest is history: driven by âJumpâ (come on, I'm sure there are plenty of flashy folks here. You remember it, right?), the album âTotally Krossed Outâ made a breakthrough everywhere.
The two kids became celebrities, they introduced a look with clothes worn backwards, captured Michael Jackson's attention who wanted them in the video for âJamâ and to open a few of his âDangerousâ tour dates.
Dupri stashed the bulging wallet in his pocket but, it must be said, he also formed a paternal relationship with the two members, Chris Kelly and Chris Smith.
As much as the voices, which are youthful voices, might disturb the listener, the album is acceptable: an unpretentious rap but crafted in a West Coast style, embellishments never beyond the mundane, clean bases, a nod to glossy pop, decent mixing.
Followed by other pleasant singles, âWarm It Upâ, âI Missed The Busâ, âIt's A Shameâ.
The subsequent albums, âDa Bombâ (1993) and âRich, Young & Dangerousâ (1996) were less successful. We could phrase it as a downward trend.
But by then the die was cast.
As often happens, history teaches us, becoming filthy rich at an early age isn't always a good omen.
Smith died of an overdose in 2013, close to his thirties. Shortly before, the duo had reunited for a memorabilia tour.
The former manager mourned him like a son, the former partner like a brother.
Who writes to you, at the time a fifteen-year-old, bought the album and, riding the wave, also the subsequent ones.
The listening was never regular, it was a kind of surface devotion. At the news of the aforementioned death, I felt that inevitable feeling that, if premature and expected, leaves a difficult aftertaste to accept, because truly life is strewn with explosions, collapses, burials, just like that: with nonchalance.