Save this article to read it later.
Find this story in your accountsSaved for Latersection.
I grew up in the shamelessly capitalist 80s and can appreciate an extravagant commercial push.
But indie rap proved auteurs didnt need big hitmakers and major-label expenses to craft a masterpiece.
Its heroes sank and swam on the merits of a sharp and unorthodox pen.
Their brilliance defied easy categorization and thus befuddled record labels.
Kas death is both numbing and tremendous.
He filled the crevices of a seemingly already-full life with creative pursuits.
The latter left Busta Rhymess Flipmode Squad and became a profound motivational force and kindred spirit in rhyme.
Slipping into the insular crawl space of a Ka song felt like getting swept up into an epic poem.
He rendered Kings County trials in mythic terms, teasing out the universality of the struggle to get by.
Our senseis spent days peddling, he exhales tiredly.
Our heroes sold heroin.
He insisted on adding a chilling postscript to the glorification of street life in mainstream rap.
A complaint always served a reasoned appeal.
Mostly producing and rapping by himself, Ka delivered a meditative anti-calm.
