My introduction to indie rapper Fleetwood DeVille was random; however, his delivered truth in this interview steers far from any accidental occasion. His music captivated me through tracks like Cold Chillin’ and 9-to-5 but it is his story that has confirmed my stance as a true fan. With his hard-hitting verses, vast cerebration, and charisma, I can honestly say that for anyone who invests their ear into Mr. DeVille, they will gain a deeply connected return on their investment. Now, if you can't fathom that statement, then I highly suggest you take a listen to his music or better yet, take the opportunity to learn who Fleetwood DeVille is below.
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Bria: Where are you from and where do you currently reside?
Fleetwood DeVille: I was born in Muskogee, OK at the Regional Medical Center three days before 1989 began. I lived there ten years, pinballed between a few other places for the next ten and landed here in Washington, DC in 2009.
B: When the two words Fleetwood and Deville are mentioned, the first thought that comes to mind are both of the classic Cadillac vehicle models, so what inspired you to take on the name Fleetwood Deville?
FD: When I started out rhyming in ‘04, my name was Franchi$e. Don’t judge my dollar sign; I was 15. Actually, it happened arbitrarily. Freestyling in Algebra II class and at the lunch table, coming up with cool punch lines and winning a couple battles had cats calling me “The Franchise” at school. And I wasn’t even really disciplined or particular about writing raps at that time. The name went from school to my neighborhood and from there it stuck. I never really was a fan of the name, though. Steve Francis hadn’t disappeared from the NBA yet and there was a dude I’d known since 7th grade who rhymed and also went by Franchise. Then, to pour more salt on the situation, Dem Franchize Boyz dropped “White Tee” in I believe 2005. I knew I had to get as far away from the name as possible. The name change came near the end of 2006. I’m a big alliteration guy and all my favorite rappers got first and last name aliases. So, first, it was Fleetwood Fran; then I thought about connecting the Cadillac theme and put DeVille on the end. When I came up with that, I knew it was fly enough to drop Franchise altogher…ha. I put ElDorado in the middle and made DeVille an acronym: Defeating Evil, Verbally Inciting Love, Liberation and Enlightenment. And there it is, as Elgin Lumpkin say.
B: Explain your first connection to hip-hop and your coming of age story through the culture.
FD: 1998 and 99 were my true introduction to holding a stake in the culture. I was nine years old until the end of the year. Aquemini and Hard Knock Life, Vol. 2 dropped on the same September Tuesday [September 29, 1998]. DMX had put out his first LP and I was riding through Austin, TX with my mama to all three of them. Jay-Z was instantly my favorite. His intelligence and confidence were things I could feel immediately, and a song with such ominous subject matter as “A Week Ago” was easy for me to understand even at nine years old. Aquemini was an album I loved from the first moment I heard it and my love for it has only grown as life has placed me in spaces to appreciate it on a visceral level. Black on Both Sides [by Mos Def] dropped in ’99…and I have yet to hear a better album.
When I was 12, I knew that I wanted to be involved with hip hop as either a producer or a DJ. Watching Rap City and seeing how the DJ got love while just sitting back in the cut killing shit intrigued me so much. I was all in The Source peeping Numark turntables with the Robin Harris eyes. I’d had a keyboard and a drum set already, so I was into making noise and I asked my mama for a beat machine for my 15th birthday. She came through, but I didn’t have any of the accompanying equipment needed to actually make beats or any idea that there was accompanying equipment needed. So that deflated pretty quickly.
I started rhyming my junior year of high school and my initial drive was a competitive one. I went to school and saw so many cats not only freestyling, but also being on the bus, in class and in the cafeteria playing the stuff they’d recorded at home, and a lot of it wasn’t good. I thought to myself, “I KNOW I’m capable of being at least sharper than these cats if I focus on writing”; at that point, I pledged to write at least a 16 each day. I banged out on that mission for about six or seven months before I missed a day. I had a ton of stuff written and nowhere to record; I went to Walgreens one night after Bible study with my mama, copped a tape recorder and a 10 pack of Maxell cassettes. From there it was on. I completed my first mixtape, in the most literal sense, the next year, 2005. I started passing it out at school once one of my homies figured out a way to get the audio onto CD. I got a response I never really expected but I believed that I had something worth pursuing. I told myself, “I’ll come back to making beats, but the focus is rap for now.” I’ve still yet to make my return to beats…ha.
B: How do you define great lyricism and how do you feel your music is a correlation of that definition?
FD: Over time, my understanding has shifted, narrowed, and broadened innumerably. Right now, I’d say it’s embodied in technical aspects such as the elasticity of your word choice, word placement, cadence, subject matter and disposal of different literary devices, which catch fellow artisans and those who enjoy following and breaking down verses line for line; while more aural and visceral aspects like melody, vocal inflection and breath control are just as integral to the construction of music that truly takes root once a person hears it, which to me is the greatest charge of emceeing: Giving your audience something to internalize.
Since beginning my own journey in rhyme, I’ve always wanted to add to the pot in such a fashion, to continue in the tradition of emcees whose music I gravitated to. As I’ve lived, practiced and gained perspective, I’ve come to understand that there are multiple ways to accomplish that.
B: What is your perception of the current indie hip-hop scene and what are the pros and cons of being a part of it?
FD: For all of the challenges and shifts in protocol that rap music’s undergone in recent years, I think independent artists are in the best position we have maybe ever been in. The expansion of the web has opened avenues for artists and crews to create and promote their own hubs, to garner their own followings, then share and communicate with those listeners with an intimacy never before seen. The playing field is a leveler one than it was, say 15 years ago when major labels had more of a grip on what reached ears. There’s an incredible amount of freedom in knowing that you can control what you make, how it’s heard and how far it travels. In knowing that you need little more than dedication, know-how and a solid team to actualize what it is you want. I salute Nipsey Hussle doing what he just did with the Crenshaw project he released. The reaction and impact that his strategy had illustrates the power of unrelenting independence.
Conversely, the biggest drawback effect of this new era I see is how overpopulated Earth has become with rappers as a result of the internet. Social networking sites posting music pretty much made you susceptible to every misguided, rancid armpit male age 16-34, kamikaze style crashing into your eardrums. That ain’t fun. And neither is how common hearing the phrase, “Oh, you rap? Me, too.” has become. Got me feeling like the middle toe in a musty sweat sock. The other big dislike that I have is the new crop of “tastemakers” who’ve sprung up from the soil with the belief that their having a blog with decent traffic entitles them to charge artists crazy amounts to get posted on their sites among whatever music is there. As if most of those type of blogs aren’t an overfilled fucking fish tank to begin with. It’s whack that cats are now able to copy, paste and power trip because rappers who are thirsty for a “good look” appease them.
B: In the past, the essence of the indie artist evolved around their growing pains and struggles, but now, it seems indie artists want to live out the “fake it like I’ve made it” ideology; but your music steers away from that mold as you focus on your truth. What made you go that route?
FD: I have like a three-part answer to this, so bear with me…ha. The commercialism and subsequent surges of superficial obsession that have forged such a permanence in the mainstream’s depiction of our culture have stripped and skewed it into something that’s now largely automated, archaic and deluded; all things that our culture in its truest essence is not. And with the impact of the internet as we now know it not only on how music is consumed, but also upon how personal and professional identities are framed and built – two aspects that heavily affect one another - that parasitic cycle of delusion has a seemingly inexhaustible host.
In my teenage years, I was more naïve and thought making those “look at me, look at my _____” filled records would garner me respect and a following. Respect for my skill usually came with folks hearing me, but nothing that I made was truly memorable, and my progress in pursuing music reflected that.
It took me a while to understand that great music is rooted in truth and passion. In words and sounds that penetrate and permeate. I thought about the injustice I would do to the masters who came before me, whose work I so deeply admire, by making dispensable, hollow music. I thought about the things they made that made me a believer in the power of art, and realized that the greatest tribute I could pay is making stuff that would further our art form and empower expression. I began to look at my life and examine the ways in which I could accomplish this. And to be honest, that happened rather recently.
B: You have a record titled “9 to 5” where you speak on a common situation when artists have to work regular day jobs because they can’t solely depend on their craft for income as of yet. For most artists, it is a frustrating reality but it is a necessity until their art can sell itself. How do you stay inspired and motivated within that element?
FD: I think that reality is likely to be most frustrating for those who are not sober about the demands that come when you choose art for life. It agitated me ceaselessly when I still had what I like to call “rapper dreams” in regard to my pursuit. At 19, I believed myself to be much better than I was and carried some exorbitant self-entitlements because of that. Seeing those entitlements go unsatisfied stung me severely until life forced me to mature.
Being a father, as I allude to on that record, has helped me to grasp the value in dedicating my energy to seeking the necessary. The line, “my dreams don’t give ‘em (my daughters) mattresses to sleep on” encapsulates that understanding in terms of artistry, just as well as it pertains to the responsibility of parenting. Grandeur has no place in the route to me fulfilling my goals on either front. If I want to provide for my family, I have to be realistic about what that requires from me and move in such a fashion. And if I truly want to advance my art, I can’t expect provisions to be made on anyone’s time or dime but mine. That’s the thing about independence. And now that I think on it, keeping a job is among the best things I have done to keep my art authentic. I make a solid living doing what I do currently; therefore, I’m not approaching my music with the added ‘pressures’ of a commercial agenda. I’m not trying to fit a formula because “this is what sells.” I can make what I want and trust the autonomy that drives me to create.
B: Can you provide insight on what your journey in this phase of your career has been like so far? What has been the most enduring aspect?
FD: The bittersweet will probably always exist, but this phase is beautiful. I am watching confirmation, and fruition nearly everywhere that I turn. I’m grateful for the discipline, drive and courage that I have found within myself. The greatest charge I before me right now is one to consistently govern myself according to the knowledge that the work does not slow down once doors open. I am fully coming into the understanding of what independence and success entail and I am less afraid each day, with each objective I fulfill and with each new hurdle.
B: Are there any artists who have helped influence your sound and/or approach in how you create your music?
FD: Unquestionably; I approach making records as a lover of music first, so I view a great portion of what I do as paying tribute. D’Angelo was the first person I heard that made me want to make music. Brown Sugar dropped when I was six; I rode around to that with my mother everywhere. Voodoo changed my life on different levels about three different times. The way D managed to marry hip hop, soul and funk remains incredible, even if he never drops another single song. (PS: I and probably a couple million more folks are ANXIOUS for you to drop the new shit, D.) He, Prince, James Brown and Black Thought are cats whose live show I’ve studied feverishly as well. OutKast’s “Aquemini” has saved my life or someone else’s at too many moments. Mos on the Black Star LP & “Black on Both Sides” reminds me how much I still don’t know about making records every time I hear it. Royce 5’9”, Joe Budden, UGK, Z-Ro, T.I., Jay-Z, Black Thought, Devin, Pharoahe Monch, Pastor Troy, all aforementioned artists and a few other people I’m not loquacious enough to list helped me define my style and encouraged me to be bold in whatever I do.
B: What do you aspire for people to grasp once they listen to any of your music? What do you hope that they will know about Fleetwood Deville?
FD: I hope people are encouraged to embrace the fullness of who they are through my music. I hope that I can widen perspectives in some way. I hope to help people fall in love with music in their own version of the way that I have. Challenge ears. Overall, I hope it’s clear that sincerity and craftsmanship govern me as a man and as an artist. Most importantly, they should know that I work for titties, turkey necks, good beer and good bud.
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