GREATEST: Smino
St. Louis' rising voice of rap on authenticity, AF1s, and being unapologetically his own artist.
The first time I heard Smino’s 2017 Blkswn album, it engulfed me in a deeply familiar embrace. The song “Anita” was what set it off. On it, Smino instructs us to “turn up the vala-yume because what’s about to come next is going to feel like hallelujah.” I crank it whenever I listen to it, and I swear, that shit gives me the Holy Ghost every time.
I loved “Anita” because it loved on black women without performance. And I recognized myself in Smino’s work. He steps back and lets us take center stage. In his visuals, we’re featured as real players, not just props. On the album cover, he appears seated at the feet of a woman while she braids his hair. He is, respectfully, at our will.
That image also evokes a sensation black folk know well. How many nights have we all stayed up while the older girls on our block braided our hair and we complained they were doing it too tight? Smino’s sound reflects grit, wit and an old-soul sensibility that feels like dinner at my granny’s house or the rare Sundays I go to church with my aunties. Quite simply, his music is black as hell.
The 27-year-old St. Louis native, born Christopher Smith Jr., grew up listening to jazz and gospel and idolizing his grandfather. Smino understands the distinctly black millennial feeling of being wholly connected to our lineage and tradition, while possessing a desire to make our own in a nontraditional way.
Depictions of black life so often overlook the Midwest. There’s a priority placed on the East Coast, West Coast and South. You’re very proud of your St. Louis roots. What was it like to grow up there?
Shit, growing up in St. Louis was like growing up in the hood. People could be real friendly, but everyone had those lines you couldn’t cross or shit could get evil, you know?
The Midwest is so cold, though. So much began there—from slang to style to rap flows. There are so many independent and innovative minds in the Midwest, because there’s no “standard” there. No one has ever set one tone for what the Midwest looks like—and I think that’s kind of fly.
What was sneaker culture like in St. Louis growing up?
We love [Air] Forces, Jordans and Timberlands. And they have to be fresh. You know that whole, new dirty shoe trend? That shit ain’t cool in St. Louis. Especially if you really [are] trying to get the shorties. Your sneakers need to be damn near fresh out [of] the box. A lot of motherfuckers like high-end shoes in St. Louis, too. There are a lot of sneakerheads out there. I’m kind of a sneakerhead. But really, I’m just obsessed with Air Force 1s.
I’ve noticed! Where does that obsession come from? Nelly?
That’s just some St. Louis shit, man. That’s just what we do in the city. I guarantee you my first pair of Air Forces were on my feet before I could even walk. Nelly’s song was just a response to the culture of the city. That’s why it hit so hard. “Let me get two pairs.”
Dead-ass, nothing like some fresh, white Air Force 1s. But what’s up with all the shade people throw at black Forces?
It’s fucked up how across the culture darker colors are discriminated against. They [have] to come up off that with black Forces, man. Some [people] just like them. But I ain’t gonna lie, if somebody step to me in some black Forces, [I’m going to] have some PTSD moments. I could definitely get a fit off in some black Forces. You just can’t have the Burger King shift manager black Forces—them 1 a.m. greasy looking ones. [Laughs]
I guarantee you my first pair of Air Forces were on my feet before I could even walk. Nelly’s song was just a response to the culture of the city. That’s why it hit so hard. ‘Let me get two pairs.’
How important is personal style to you as an artist?
Fuck as an artist, man—just as a person. My outfits set the tone and my mood for the day. Even if I’m chilling, something about me is fly. I have to have on some glasses, or some type of accessory. That’s how I feel the most comfortable. People have tried to put me in suits—you know them vampire-looking outfits? But that didn’t feel like me.
Those Zero Fatigue ‘Satin Pillow’ hoodies are a genius blend of fashion and function. But I think they are also a testament to how much you look out for black people in all that you do. We can’t just be out here rubbing our hair on cotton and getting breakage.
I swear nobody cares about that, man. It’s crazy. Like, taking that extra step for us. I’m really going to sink my teeth into these hoodies. And I’m about to do one of my first pop-ups real soon. It’s about to be so tight.
You definitely make me feel seen. Why is it important to you to center black people in your work?
I care about my people. It’s hard to find examples and representation of certain types of black people sometimes. I feel like most people who make music that is black and male always get this standard response, like, ‘Okay, he’s going to be a rapper,’ or, ‘I know what he’s about,’ you feel me? I feel like I’m a different type of character as an artist. And I hope that people can look to me as an example that it’s okay to be themselves—you don’t have to try to fit in with anyone or lean into some other identity.
Was there anything instilled in you as a kid about the beauty of being black?
Hell yeah! What? I woke up every day knowing I was black and knowing what that means in the world. My whole family is black as fuck, and we love that shit, unapologetically. My family taught me how to navigate the police and move around white people, but they really taught me to have pride. Especially my granddaddy. He would take us to black-owned restaurants and businesses. You have to think about it: Our grandparents have a way different experience and perspective on race. I think it was really important for him to make sure his family received those messages.
I woke up every day knowing I was black and knowing what that means in the world. My whole family is black as fuck, and we love that shit, unapologetically.
Smino
In your Mass Appeal documentary, you said your grandfather taught you how to embody love. Tell me more about that. What does that love look like?
Shit. It looks like a lot of fucking sacrifices. It looks like putting someone else’s needs before yours. It looks like putting yourself in someone else’s shoes. Watching my granddaddy support his family taught me that love is empathy, and sometimes that’s the hardest thing to do, especially when you have your own stuff going on. I remember when I was a kid, my granddaddy used to sit with me and tell me his dreams. And I’d be like, ‘Well, why you ain’t doing it?’ And then I realized, shit, I’m why he’s not doing it. He still tells me his dreams to this day, and, [the] whole time, I’m like, ‘You don’t even know it, but you’re about to retire next year.’ This shit is going up for me.
Do you channel that love into your music?
I don’t know. I think I’m just honest. And honesty is a way to show love, too.
There’s this unwritten rule or stereotype in our community that black men have to be hypermasculine, maintain a hard exterior and show very little tenderness or vulnerability, often to the point of toxicity. Have you ever felt the need to wear that armor?
That whole stigma? That shit is not real. You come to the hood and chill around some real-ass [people], none of them act tough. They don’t have to. It’s the bitch-ass [people] who walk around with that front, trying to feel superior to other dudes or even to women.
Many of us feel like we ride for black men without question, but they don’t always show up for us. But there’s reciprocity in your music. How have black women inspired and impacted your life and music?
I mean, I grew up in a house full of women—my momma has four daughters, my daddy got five sisters, plus my grandmoms. I respect black women. The women in my life gave me a lot of advice, and it comes through in my music because I share my knowledge and tell my truth.
You’ve said the concept for blkjuptr [your second EP] came from feeling like “an alienated black person” and that “we kind of got our own planet on this planet, and in this country.” It made me think about that film Space Is the Place, where Sun Ra relocates mad black people to a new planet via music. If black people really could have our own planet, what do you think it would it look like?
The one we are on right now, ’cause, shit, everyone wanna look like us anyway. But on the real, that shit would be fly as hell, because if you look at the little spaces and places we do have to ourselves, they’re always the flyest shit out.
I was in Seoul, Korea, not too long ago. Bruh. When I tell you that’s the flyest city I’ve ever been to? Everybody—even babies and dogs—was just fresh as fuck. Even the fucking 7-Eleven uniforms! I can imagine, if there was an all-black planet, it would be like that. I feel like everyone would be walking around wearing ice and jewels, dripped in gold just like our ancestors. And that would be fly as hell, because you know when you put some gold on black skin that shit looks like art.
You kept a journal on tour and said that experience was really about self-growth. What did you learn about yourself in the process?
I learned that I don’t remember shit. But for real, the way my life is set up and the way my brain is set up, sometimes I don’t get a chance to unpack everything. Writing things down helps me find balance and connect my thoughts to my experiences. It’s all about balance.
When you moved to Chicago, you really found your groove and were able to connect and collaborate with artists of like minds.
Moving to Chicago helped me grow as an artist, period. I didn’t get to collaborate with a lot of people in St. Louis. I used to make all the beats, record everything, put it out and promote it. I came to Chicago so used to working that way. But once I got there, my whole environment changed. I learned what it meant to build a team. If I didn’t have that community, I’m not sure where I’d be right now. They really helped me stay focused. I might still be rapping, but not the way I am now.
Revenge of the Dreamers III just dropped a few days ago. I watched the documentary and the energy seemed crazy—people had to just get gully and make their way into the studio to be sure they were heard. What was that process like?
It was crazy. I feel like J. Cole really changed the course of rap history with that project. It was like going away to a basketball camp with some of the best basketball players from around the world – and you’re just a young [person] tryna be seen. There were so many cold-ass people there that would just blow you away. The fucking Milwaukee Bucks were there! I turned around and Chris Bosh was behind me. Ludacris just popped up while I’m writing a song and I was like, ‘Damn, you’re the first rapper I ever loved. You’re the whole reason I rap.’ For me, it wasn’t really about fighting to get in a room. Once I got in a studio, I just did my thing, because that’s what I do. It was more of a chance to build my community. Right now, I’m sitting with people who I met there and they’re helping me on my new project.
I’ve heard you refer to yourself as a businessman— like what you’re here to do is bigger than music.
Everyone who knows me knows I always have a whole bunch of ideas circulating. I’m ‘bout to be on my Ray J, Soulja Boy shit.
Interview by Glynn Pogue
Photography by Diane Abapo