1992: Mary J. Blige, What’s The 411?
By Deja Beamon
Mary J. Blige’s 1992 debut album What’s the 411? only plays in cars in my mind. Windows down, hair blowing in the wind. The first track “Leave A Message” dates the album; voice messages playing back, expressing excitement for what’s to come. Requests to link up, collab. Influential peers claiming this one right here is a hit. How she will rise, the voice of blues, a new rhythm, hip hop-oriented essence, words from Busta Bust’s mouth on the album’s other interlude “Intro Talk”. I easily forget this opening track in my memories. All the voices different, none of them Mary’s.
The opening chords of “Reminisce” follow suit and everybody listening is transported there. New York in the 90’s, an ever-evolving hip hop scene, the sounds of a backyard or block party glistening in the microphone feedback that dusts each track. I listen and see myself in my bedroom, holding microphone to speaker, recording mixtapes from songs played on the radio 8 years later. I see myself in ’94, barely three years old. My great aunts will tease me for years with the audio recording of a toddler me singing I’m going dowwwn, the track from Mary’s 1994 album My Life. The w inflected with youth, with barely formed voice, but with the desire and desiring to hold that note, unable to dislodge myself from Mary’s memories. Toddler me follows up, Cause you ain’t around baby… my whole world upside down. Again, my w’s tell on me and are the part my aunts lovingly mimic. Perhaps at my budding voice, perhaps at what I could possibly know about descent or the world or/and how early I was preparing for it all.
I can remember when… I first heard the emotional pull of Mary’s voice, when I was brushed up in her nostalgia, in her hope, in her regret. I am 1-2 years old in the back of my mother’s car. On our way to the mall, to Jamaica Ave, to the city from Long Island where I resided for my early life. As Mary’s stories play over infective beats, I map Mary to everyone on the street. Are they on the way to someone they love? How many shades love can love take? How many beats can it flow over? How it could displace someone from time and space. Is this a dream or is this déjà vu? Mary says my name and I feel seen. I am tethered to memory and therefore unforgettable. I am the return to a dreamlike reality. I am romance personified. “What you know about all this, Deja?” My elders always joked. All these places in my child’s mind already carrying heavy emotional baggage, already carrying my desire, already carrying Mary. Then, the next big thing; now, my comfort, reminding me.
What’s the 411? and Mary’s style at the time was in vein with other women emerging in hip hop. She and her contemporaries instilled in 90’s girls a desire for the masculine exteriors that made moving through New York a little easier. Mary, building the archive, of how hard girls transition into strong women. The album cover styled in sepia tone. Mary wearing a business hat and suit jacket, eyes concealed, mouth pursed. The visual hard but the lyrics so soft and knowing, already nostalgic for loves yet to encounter. You make me weak with soft desire.
The video for “Real Love” dances through this in-between space, this hardened black woman who clings to the soft tones, soft touches of men she goes toe to toe with over beats, in daily life. Mary sings her heart out while dancers embody the hip-hop beats, kicking and punching the air as they spin. A young couple in an alley goes back and forth, dancing around which one of them will make desire known. The woman standing tall in the face of her love and lust while the women in the streets show power, gather, scream from their chest and their bodies. Pushing back the narrative of women’s fear of asphalt at night. Instead, they show how New York summer days, bleed to New York summer nights, and their combat boots may carry them either to a gathering of women dancing in the freedom of love or to quick embraces in alley ways that lead to prolonged sensations to reminisce on.
Her masculine styled belonging is reinforced through tracks “What’s the 411?”and the remix album of the same title released the following year. Grand Puba on “What’s the 411?” squaring up with Mary, bring the verse in, and she’s right there. Reminiscent of freestyles on the block, Mary grabs the mic after Grand Puba’s verse, putting her heart on the line, starring some brother down in the crowd. The same ol' shit you pulled last week on Pam; I'm not havin' that, no I'm not havin' that. I accidentally insert Biggie’s verse from the remix album while singing along in my car, and we still there. Cementing woman’s pull on hip hop, what goes better with flow but the honey like stick, the lingering desire to remain, the ability to turn microphone feedback and rough beats into ballads and bridges we can sing with our whole chest, arms raised, taking in the electric desire, running it through us, and returning it to the air.
Mary made it strong to be in love. Even when she was begging for someone, I knew she would recover. All of these songs couldn’t be about one desire, right? Before I knew how to love myself, I knew that love could be strength and weakness; and perhaps singing with all your soul over a beat could heal some of that. I had to let you know, so I had to sing it. I step to the mic now 26 years removed from my first encounter with What’s the 411? and I immediately take on Mary’s posture. Standing in the face of what might destroy me. My love never referring to you but to all the power I have and my love that constantly jogs memory. Love without a limit. Mary’s method, enclose myself with masculine swagger, then blow them away through bridge and verse. What you gonna do without my love?
In 2020, Mary’s voice carries me – first as calming balm in an unsteady world, sonic nostalgia. Then as lessons learned and learning. What’s the 411? allowed me to imagine myself amongst the crowd but still longing. With a knowledge of self, as master and guide, as archive. Mary provided a soundtrack for memories of love and longing, of strength and weakness in the face of, of how hip hop could be a vehicle for real love.
Deja Beamon is a writer and teacher currently living in Columbus, Ohio. She is a PhD candidate in Gender Studies at OSU, studying Black temporality and futures. She specializes in Black Women’s contemporary literature in the classroom. Born and raised on Long Island, she attended high school in Arizona before completing undergrad in North Carolina. Her musical tastes are informed by and oscillate between these unique spaces and communities. She feels extremely honored to spend her late twenties in Columbus, Ohio amongst a community of dope artists and activists.