In October 2016, Detroit rapper Tee Grizzley was released from prison. On that same day he recorded “First Day Out,” a punchline-heavy marathon similar to the street rap that has flourished in Detroit since the emergence of the Eastside Chedda Boyz and Street Lord’z in the late ’90s and early ’00s. Produced by longtime Detroit maestro Helluva, Tee Grizzley reflects over a mournful piano instrumental. The music video was uploaded to the local curation hub 4Sho Magazine’s YouTube channel. The song’s growth was gradual, but eventually “First Day Out” reached No. 48 on the Billboard Hot 100, landed a remix from Meek Mill, and went viral with a video of LeBron James mean-mugging to the Detroit street anthem.
Babyface Ray was already years into his rap career when “First Day Out” took over Detroit. Like Tee Grizzley, Ray was making traditional Detroit hip-hop, though Ray’s flow was laid-back and conversational and his punchlines felt like motivational speeches. At the time, Detroit hip-hop was in a bubble, an underappreciated regional scene with a culture all its own. “I knew Detroit was hard, but I didn’t think we was hard enough for the world,” says Babyface Ray, tucked away in a booth in a dimly lit restaurant in Manhattan’s Flatiron District. “Then Tee Grizzley dropped ‘First Day Out.’ It was a Detroit beat, a Detroit flow, and everyone ate that shit up. Then I knew Detroit’s sound reaching the world was possible.”
Detroit hip-hop has been on a tear since that moment. “Detroit is becoming like the Atlanta scene,” says Babyface Ray, expressing so little emotion that you can tell he’s deadly serious. “It’s still in the process, but it’s in motion.” He’s right. Like Atlanta, Detroit has become its own fleshed-out ecosystem of rappers, producers, videographers, and YouTube channels. Every week new rappers emerge, and there’s so much output that it’s often overwhelming. Some of this increased visibility is thanks to streaming, especially given that until a couple of years ago the scene heavily relied on CDs. But much of the credit belongs to the consistency and the steady growth of cornerstones like Babyface Ray.
Born Marcellus Register and raised on the East Side of Detroit with his mother, father, and older brothers, Babyface Ray was plucked out of a high school rap crew by Peezy at the turn of the decade (Ray describes Peezy as “The People’s Champ” and “Detroit’s Boosie”). As a member of Peezy’s crew, Ray began to make a name for himself on the East Side, while another influential crew, Doughboyz Cashout, was holding down the city on the West. “Nobody even knew what we looked liked ’cause there was no videos back then,” says Ray, smirking.
Almost a decade later, Babyface Ray is a 28-year-old veteran. He’s in touch with his city’s roots, which garners him love from the older crowd, but he also keeps up with the times. He can add a soft melody, or tackle some trap drums. But for the most part, his music is unfiltered slices of his life, stories that he narrates with clarity of a movie where both nothing and everything is happening.
MIA Season 2, the sequel to his breakout 2015 mixtape, is his latest, and it’s one of the best Detroit rap albums of the year. The slick-talking groove “Trill Spill” balances vivid and colorful set pieces with IG-caption-worthy street poetry: “He gon’ put his niggas on in the hood, you probably won’t.” The cold street tale “They Think I Rap My Brother’s Life” could have been made in 1999 and tells reflective stories that he actually lived, a necessity in Detroit. He’s as prolific as he is versatile, and he’s using his platform to give the younger generation head starts that didn’t previously exist in Detroit—his latest protege Veeze, in mere months has become one of Detroit’s premier up-and-comers. “They treat me in Detroit how they would treat Uzi everywhere else,” says Ray, slipping off his banana yellow Moncler bubble coat, revealing a mountain of gold jewelry hovering over a plain white tee that matches the Uptowns on his feet. “They chase me, run up on me, swarm me at the club, call me the GOAT, all of that.”
It’s humbling. In Detroit, I’m a mega star. But when we go other places, we’re at the bottom. We go in these rooms with all these big people and they don’t be knowing who we is, but that’s changing. Just means we still got work to do.
I feel like we waiting on that one person to get in there and blow the door open for everybody. People be getting in there, but then only do something for themselves. Which is what you supposed to do, but also don’t forget about the city. Part of having a platform is taking your resources and helping everybody out. Niggas want to do fly shit, feed they family. I understand. But nigga, knowing you helped somebody will make you feel good inside.
Exactly. Detroit is actually a lot like Chicago. The same type of reality rap, floss rap. That’s what Detroit stand on. It can be a gift and a curse, because a lot of motherfuckers be trying to live what they rap, you know what I'm saying? If Chicago could blow up, Detroit got a chance too.
I do. I tell myself that all the time. But if it don’t work out for me 100 percent in rap, then I’m going to just keep using my platform and resources to help other artists, until we figure this shit out and we get somebody in there.
I’m not an entertainer. That’s what’s holding me back. I’m an artist. Some rappers got the switch, they can turn it on. I don’t have that mode. You just get me. Sometimes rappers come to Detroit and want to meet me and I don’t even show up. Like, I ain’t grow up with none of y’all. It’s cool, I fuck with y’all music, but what we supposed to talk about?
It does. But it’s hard. Sometimes I look around Detroit and it’s getting out of hand. Say, like it’s a street cat. He get money, he walk in the club, he get love. Then you got me. I walk in. I’m a rapper. The whole club going to crowd me. They going to fuck with me because they fuck with my music. So a street cat sees that and he knows he got the money to do it. Now he like, “Well I got what Babyface got. I can do what he do. I’m going to rap now.” Cats coming off the streets and just rapping and just doing anything.
But the industry is so weird. I’ve been around some industry people that say shit like, “Well, is he really in the hood? Does he really do that?” They be really wanting to know that type of shit. So I be thinking like, damn. Is that what’s in right now? Is that what they looking for? That’s how we end up with motherfuckers like 6ix9ine, wilding out.
But I am a different person. There’s been growth. MIA Season, is what I reflect on, it’s like the start of me coming into my own, it’s when my homeboy grabbed me and put the bag in my bag. MIA Season 2 is the transition. Full circle moment. Ready to graduate and Detroit is with me.
