Fresh Air - Roots Co-Founder, Black Thought (Tariq Trotter)

Episode Date: December 28, 2023

We continue our series of some of our favorite interviews of the year with co-founder and lead MC of the Roots, Tariq Trotter, a.k.a. Black Thought. When Trotter was a teen, he experienced one of the biggest tragedies of his life, the murder of his mother, and it was his friend and creative partner Ahmir "Questlove" Thompson who took him in. Together they co-founded The Roots. We talk about growing up in Philly and landing the house band gig at The Tonight Show. His memoir is called The Upcycled Self.Later, critic Nick Quah takes a look back at the year in podcasts.Learn more about sponsor message choices: podcastchoices.com/adchoicesNPR Privacy Policy

This is Fresh Air. I'm Tanya Mosley. This week, we're featuring some of our favorite interviews of the year. And today, we listen back to my conversation with musician Tariq Trotter, co-founder of the Grammy Award-winning hip-hop group The Roots. He was our guest when his memoir was published. It's called The Upcycled Self, a memoir on the art of becoming who we are. In it, he talks about his life and how, as he remembers it, it started with a fire. He was six years old, deep in play with his army men, those popular plastic figurines from the 70s, when he decided to flick a lighter to add drama to the war scene. When the tip of the lighter got too hot for Tariq's little fingers, he reactively tossed it, the curtains and carpet

erupting in flames before engulfing the entire house. Trotter examines the shame of that moment, as well as other harrowing events growing up in Philadelphia, intertwined with joyful moments, like discovering music and meeting his fellow bandmate Amir Questlove Thompson. Known by his stage name, Black Thought, Trotter is the lead emcee of The Roots, which he and Thompson founded as teens in high school. The group now serves as the house band on NBC's The Tonight Show, starring Jimmy Fallon. Here is one of The Roots' first hits from their early album, Things Fall Apart. It's You Got Me, featuring Erykah Badu.

If you were worried about where I've been or who I saw Erika Badu. What love I went to with my own fears, baby, don't worry, you know that you got me. Somebody told me that this planet was small. We used to live in the same building on the same floor. And never met before until I'm overseas on tour. And peep this Ethiopian queen from Philly taking classes abroad. She's studying film and photo flash focus record. Says she's working on a flick and cut my click through the score. She says she loved my show in Paris at Alice in Montmartre And that I stepped off the stage and took a piece of her heart

We knew from the start that things fall apart Intent to shatter, she like That it don't matter when I get home Get out of through letter phone Whatever, let's link, let's get together Did you think not? Think the thought went home and forgot? Time passed, we back in Philly, now she up in my spot

Telling me the things I'm telling her is making her hot Started building with her constantly round the clock Tariq Trotter, welcome to Fresh Air. Thank you. Thank you so much, Tanya. Thanks for having me. This memoir is about you going back through your life to understand who you are. And that fire that you accidentally started at six years old, you write that it became the basis of all that you are. But to say that it changed you isn't quite right. It actually shaped the person that you are. What did it shape you into? I think, you know, the fire and that whole experience at such a young age, it changed me in that it jump-started. It was the beginning of me having to grow up, you know, fast. Yeah, and, you know, when I, you know, go back in my life and I trace through, you know,

like those watershed moments. And I think, you know, as a kid, I mean, you know, I was six years old, so there was no way at six for me to really understand the gravity, you know what I mean, of it all and how that's the sort of thing that could carry through life, you know? At the time, you were living with your mother and your half-brother in a house that your mom had done this amazing job making a home in North Philadelphia, she did not blame you or scold you, but it was clear that it had changed your family's life. There was very much a before the fire and an after the fire for your family. How, in those immediate days and weeks and really

years, did things change for you all? It really destabilized you. Yeah, it definitely, it was the beginning of just a more unstable period in our lives. One of the things that, a revelation that occurred post-fire, like right after the fire was just the fact that I, you know, I didn't get in trouble. There was no doubt in my mind that I was, you know, going to get it, you know what I mean? I knew that I had really done it this time, and I was expecting, you know, some, if not multiple, manners of punishment, right? And, you know, there wasn't really a reprimand. Like, you know, my mom, I mean, obviously now as an adult and as a parent,

you completely understand that the only concern would be for your kid's safety. But in that moment, I felt like, wow, you know, she's letting me slide with this one. But, you know, I think I came to, like, the revelation was the amount of grace, you know what I'm saying, that my mother was able to show in those moments, right, you know, that felt as if such a display would be impossible. You talk about how much you had to grow up after that fire. You got your first job at seven years old? Yeah, yeah, I did. Seven years old, I was working at an eyeglass for an optician because I started wearing glasses at around the age of six or so.

And this place, this optician was along the route, my route to and from school, which, you know, often I would be traveling alone or with, you know, another young five or six year old kid. It really speaks to the time because... It really does. It does, you know, because we would just be out there. Back in the day, your parents would go to work and just, you know, go to school. I hope you make it. You know what I'm saying? My trek to school, it was a couple-mile walk. And, you know, this was, you know, winters in the 70s and early 80s when it was the real deal, you know, super cold out. But, yeah, anyway, this guy, this optician, where I would often stop to ask him if he could repair my glasses before I got home from school.

I think he just, you know, sort of felt the vibe. He like he read the room of sorts and was, you know, he realized that I was a latchkey kid who was often, you know, headed home from school to an empty house. And he provided, you know, an alternative in saying, hey, would you accept these responsibilities? And would it be okay if I talk to your mom and, you know, figure something out? And he spoke with my mom and she was with it. I had a job. You write about these times so vividly. And you also write about some heavy things that allow us to understand and see you more clearly, in addition to the fire that forever changed you. You also lost both of your parents at a very young age. Your father was murdered when you were a baby, and your mother was murdered when you were a teenager in a very brutal way. I'm guessing for a very long time, you did not lead with this part of your life.

Did people in the entertainment circles and around you know these things about you? I mean, you know, my closest friends definitely, you know, know about my history and, you know, what my life has sort of been like. But no, I think I'm guarded in that way. I'm such a private person that it's almost as if you weren't there at the time. There's no way that you, you know, you'd have any idea. I've never worn my lived experience as that sort of badge, you know, or on my sleeve in that way. What do you think that's about, holding it so close to you? You know, I think it's one of those last bastions of, you know, of self, right? I think as artists,

there's a dance, there's a negotiation that takes place. And, you know, we're this we give so much of ourselves and that's what becoming an artist and embracing the arts is about. It's about, you know, giving more of yourself. Not that I've never intended to become more personal and more vulnerable and accessible as an artist. But it's the sort of thing that I was holding on to for the right moment, you know what I mean, for when it made the most sense. And that's right now. You didn't find out right away that your mother had been murdered.

You had been living in Detroit with relatives. You were a teenager, and you'd come back to Philly and you couldn't find her. And so you went out to search for her. And one of the places you went to after calling and driving around was the morgue. And that's where you found her. Yeah. Yeah. You know, not me personally, but that's where our family founded. And it was, you know, one of the sad, you know, just realities of life, you know, in Philadelphia. And at the time that, you know, I was growing up in Philadelphia, I mean, you know, just in the middle of the 80s crack epidemic and then, you know, immediately after, you know, just the crack epidemic and everything that took place. Yeah, you know, we had normalized lots of trauma and lots of, you know, things that, you know, we had gotten used to seeing and experiencing every day.

You know, it just wasn't necessarily okay and wasn't necessarily normal. And, you know, one of the normal things for us was that, you know, that's what you do. If, you know, someone doesn't show back up home at the end of the night or the next morning or you're trying to track somebody down, first you check the hospitals, you know, see if, you know, maybe they've gotten hurt and wound up in the hospital. Then you check, you know, the jails, see if they have been arrested, and then you check the morgues. And we, in that order, that's what we always did. And that was a process.

And then my mother, you know, she would always turn up after a couple days. And this particular time, I think it was something that we all felt, you know, just an eerie feeling. It felt different. And once we had found out that there was a Jane Doe, that it turned up like an unidentified or unidentifiable body, I think we all knew that or felt that that was my mother. And then my grandmother and her sister went and they confirmed at the morgue. When you found out your mother was killed, you were in high school,

and you had this good friend, Amir Questlove Thompson. What did that friendship mean to you through that time period? Through that time period, you know, Amir and my friendship was huge. It was an anchor for me. You know, the ways in which he and his family were there for me, they really had taken me in. The dynamic was already one in which I would spend days, weeks at a time at his place and vice versa. You know, we were inseparable in that way as creatives. But the fact that I was able to pour myself completely into my art and that the music was there for me when I needed it to be and just that Amir and his family was there for me. It was huge. It was just the perfect safety net to sort of keep me on the right trajectory because I was very much at a crossroads.

And I could have processed that trauma and the experience and the loss in a different way. And, you know, just been at a very different place today. The Roots was also one of the first rap groups to play live music. There are so many elements of jazz. Was it hard for you guys in the beginning? Did record companies know what to do with you? Yeah, no, record companies had no idea what to do with the roots. So, yeah, we looked different. We sounded different. You know, I spoke and performed differently. Both Malik and I, the other emcee, you know, rest in peace, Malik B., the other emcee in the roots, you know, spoke differently than, you know, folks did from places that were, you know, trending more in the culture.

Like, you know, there was a specific way that rappers in the West Coast or from the South or even from New York, you know, said things. And from Philly, we just we sounded different. There was no there wasn't Philly wasn't the incubator for us that it's been for some other artists at different points in time. When I look at you guys, I mean, you're not just a band. You're like a collective. Absolutely, we are. Yeah. I mean, so in any given iteration, they're almost like a dozen members, but there's also all of these other connective tissues around Philadelphia of other artists that you all introduced us to. So you all basically set that foundation, that culture that we know of, like, this Philly sound of neo-soul hip-hop.

Yes. Yeah. Yeah, we did. It began with just jam sessions that we would have at Amir's house or at, you know, our manager. Again was just so male energy dominant that we wanted to create another platform just to give, you know, female energy and, you know, just to give that, you know, the feminine a place to, you know, to showcase and perform. And that's, from that, the Black Lily was born. And then that's really the beginning of the Black Lily was, you know, it ushered in an era. Can you describe a Black Lily? Yeah, what that is. Yeah, well, you know, a Black Lily was the answer to the initial, like the original Roots jam session, where it's lots of improv. It's almost, you know, think of like an Upright Citizens Brigade

or something for, you know, what that is for the comedian, right, for the sketch comedian having to, you know, just to learn to improvise and create and entertain on the spot. That's what the Black Lily was. It was an incubator for artists like the Jill Scotts and Kindred Family Souls and Music Soulchilds

and Bilals of the world Your rap cadence it's always been instrumental if that makes sense MCs before you, they had like a maybe like a louder bombastic kind of projection and you're much more melodic. How did you come into your style?

Did you ever emulate some of those earlier guys? You talked about Cool Moe D when you were really young. Yeah, I did. I've definitely emulated um you know all all the greats you know if we're talking cadence then it began it began with the you know meli mel right and the way that you know the meli mel's of the world sort of spoke there was a a cadence that was it was almost you know like your uncle at the barbecue right um you know really accessible easy to to follow along um but even in that you know Melly Mel was the first

artist to um you know he rapped his cadence was very different from like say okay we begin with the Sugar Hill Gang right the way that you know the hip the hop the hippo to the hippo the hip hip the hop you almost got a smile to rap in that cadence, right? And Melly Mel came out and he was, you know, talking about the Bronx and rapping about what was, you know, really going on on songs like, you know, The Message. And he was emphatic in his expression. You know what I mean? Broken glass everywhere. And you could, it was visual.

You know what I mean? The way that the emphasis he put on his words made it possible for you to see what he was talking about. And then you had the, you know, Run DMC and those guys came along, right? You know, through, I guess the connective tissue would be Curtis Blow, right? Who was, you know, the first sex symbol solo rap star. But, you know, again, he didn't rap in the way that you know the Melly Mells or the Sugar Hill Gang did and uh he introduced us to Run as his DJ DJ Run and then when Run DMC came out they were almost the antithesis to everything that was happening on the scene before them I feel like

that's what Def Jam and you know the people who were associated with Def Jam and and Russell Simmons and Rick Rubin at that time, they all were yelling and screaming. They came out and it was like, we're not going to rap the way these other guys rap. It was Public Enemy, Beastie Boys, even Tila Rock, LL Cool J, Run DMC. They weren't Def Jam artists, but they were part of that movement. And then you had artists like Rakim and Big Rakim and Big Daddy Kane and Coogee Rap, who came out and for them, it was more, it was about more nuance. And in particular, I think that's, you know, it goes for Rakim, who, you know, many of us like Taluk Wali, Yassin Bey,

Nas, myself, there's a long list of us who sort of trace it back to, you know, to him. You know what I mean? Yeah, to the influence of Rakim. He was one of the first emcees who said, I know everyone else is screaming and yelling to get their points across. Everyone else is going to be super emphatic. I'm going to articulate my instrument as such. I'm going to use my voice like an instrument. And, you know, he had a jazz background.

I think Rakim, you know, grew up playing trumpet or sax, and his brother also was a jazz musician, his older brother. And he approached his cadence and his storytelling and his songwriting from that perspective. And I think that was, you know, some of the earliest signs of that. And that's what, you know, it's a tool that I still employ today. Well, to give an example of your instrument, how you use it, I want to play one of your more recent songs,

which is a personal track about your life and family. And it is called Fuel. Let's listen to a little bit. I'm in earnest, him and we portrait painted by Ernie Barnes. Clean sneakers and dirty horns. Last soldier of 30 gone. Who lost hope but still journeyed on. Yet I'm the reason we gonna have to get the gurney form.

Karma police carrying customized cuffs for me. I hope these taped up guns are still bust for me. I had the whole world. It wasn't enough for me. It got me feeling like the Lord lost trust for me. I made a means to an end when there were no wins. I burned bridges. I swore to be eternal friends. The last ones I ever intended to turn against until we grew our separate ways

like fraternal twins. So to the chosen few with whom I need to reconcile My mother's mother, my only brother, my second child I've always loved you, although that was rarely said aloud So take forever, I guess better late than never proud I'm gonna breathe in the fellows That was Fuel by Tariq Trotter, also known as Black Thought, the co-founder of the rap group The Roots.

He's written a new memoir titled The Upcycled Self. We'll continue our fall like a domino. America, the beautiful, go ask Giovanna Moe. What's the worst they could do to you? I bet my mama know. I bet my father know. Your honor throw the book at us. Even if justice wasn't blind, she'd never look at us. I want that clutch of what I could not touch.

I was trying to get what I could get. This is Fresh Air. I'm Tanya Mosley. Let's get back to one of our favorite interviews from 2023, my interview with Tariq Trotter, Grammy Award-winning rapper and performer, also known as Black Thought. We talked about his new memoir, The Upcycled Self, a memoir on the art of becoming who we are.

Trotter is the lead emcee of The Roots, which he and Amir Questlove Thompson founded after meeting as teens in high school. The group has won three Grammy Awards and is known as one of the top rap groups of all time. The Roots serve as the house band on NBC's The Tonight Show starring Jimmy Fallon. In addition to his music, Trotter is also a theater actor and writer, performing in the 2022 off-Broadway play Black No More. What's your writing process? Are you putting your rhymes to paper from the start, or does it just start with an idea and a freestyle? You know, the process is different from song to song.

I'm constantly jotting down ideas, a word here, a couplet there. But for the most part, the writing process is... I sit down and I try and think of different ways to either add on to or to continue to articulate just my origin story you know um sometimes i'll i'll get i'll hear a bit of music and i'll sit with the music for uh for days weeks months at a time um before some lyrics will come write a song or eventually write itself after the 20 30 40th time that I've decided to sit and listen to this idea. And then other times, you know, I'll get 32, 40,

you know, 50 bars will just come without any sort of a musical inspiration. Then I have to find, you know, a fitting composition, you know, the best place for these words to sort of live. So, yeah, I'm just, I'm pulling my ideas out of the ether, you know, and I try and just remain dialed in, tapped in, attentive, alert, aware, conscious enough to, you know, to receive that inspiration and to recognize it when it comes because it's all around you. So everything is a song, right? You know, so it's just about, you know, recognizing the gold. You went quest love. I mean, you guys have been thick as thieves since high school, but you do tell this one story of a fight that you guys had that sort of changed your relationship.

You've always been thick as thieves, but it sort of put like a little something on the relationship. It did. It did. Yeah, we had a brief sort of a scuffle, kerfluffle, little 30-second altercation when we were young. And, you know, but we'd already— Young and just starting out. Yeah, we were young. We were just starting out.

We were, you know, displaced, living in London. And, yeah, there was just lots of angst and anxiety associated with all the, you know, all the energy associated with, you know, anyone's first time putting out a record, you know, a new record deal and just the unknown, all of the unknown that was associated with that. So, yeah, you know, just a perfect storm of events, you know, it led to us coming to blows right quick. And it was the sort of thing that, you know, it was over. I've given, you know, I've forgotten about it before we left the thing that, you know, it was over. I've given, you know, I've forgotten about it before we left the place that, you know, that had taken place.

But I think it's the sort of thing that, yeah, it stuck with him in a different way, you know. Does he hold, is it a grudge that he's held? I don't think so, but I definitely don't think it's something that he, you know, has ever forgotten. You know what I mean? Well, he said to you, like, he's over it, but, he, you know, has ever forgotten. You know what I mean? other emcees in the way that you all had that there's a little bit little part of you that feels like was it because of that fight that like we aren't as connected as now he's connected to

other people yeah yeah i do you know there's a bit you know i'm saying when someone is one of your closest friends or someone who you you know you feel uh you know as a brother as a friend as a comrade as a collaborator when there's that many levels to one's connection with someone or to someone, yeah, you know, you can get possessive, you know, selfish, jealous, like all of those are real feelings and are valid, you know. So, yeah, there's been times, there are times when I feel all of that sort of thing.

Well, Questlove has actually said that Jimmy Fallon is kind of responsible for rekindling your friendship because he says that when you all were offered the opportunity to be the house band for the show, you guys had kind of lost the magic of your friendship. This is like the mid-2000s. Is that how you remember it? I don't remember us as having lost the magic. This is like the mid-2000s. Is that how you remember it? I don't remember us as having lost the magic as much as, you know, we were getting tired. I definitely recall that.

I think, you know, at the point at which, you know, we met Jimmy, we had hit a stride of, you know, consistently 200 plus shows per year and all around the world and just lots of traveling. And we just started to make a little bit of money, but there was also lots of uncertainty associated with just that period, right? There was a bit of a hamster wheel feeling, you know what I mean? A groundhog day of it all. You know, what could we do differently? You know, how long would we be able to sort of keep up at this or at that pace? Yeah. Those are all questions that I recall posing to myself and, you know, and to Rich and Amir.

But yeah, you know, the fact that once we started doing, at the time, what was Late Night with Jimmy Fallon, just having to spend time together every day in some way, shape, or form and being on stage together every day, it was different. And it brought us together in a different way than touring had. Because we reached a point in our career where we could afford separate tour buses, separate, you know, dressing rooms and stuff like that. And though I think, you know, that definitely contributed to, is part of what, you know, contributes to our longevity, right? If you ask him today, he'll say, oh, separate tour buses.

That's why, you know, the Roots is still here. But, yeah, so I think there's, you know, a gift in that, in that, you know, ability to sort of spread out a little bit. There is a gift and a curse that lies. Yeah, right. You're an old hat now at the Tonight Show gig, but did it take you a moment to, to like get into, it's almost like it's a regular job that you have to be at every day. And when you're touring, when you're a musician, you kind of have an entirely different life where you're on the road. But you've got to be there every single day, basically, or every day of taping.

Yeah, five days a week we're there. And, you know, it took some getting used to um it's just sort of you know it was it was like a giving up our touring schedule and like trading it for this uh you know the shooting schedule there um but you know the body and the mind just still you know having that desire to to you know to go right to. So, yeah, it took a while to just get used to, you know, the routineness of it all. But again, you know, you talk about, you know, gifts, and I think there's more upside to us having this regular, like this nine to five, this day, quote unquote, day job, if you will, then downside to it. You know what I'm saying? I'm able to spend more time with my

family. You know, I come home to my kids every night and, you know, get to see my wife more. Yeah. And the roots, we just, the depth of our connection as as musicians, as performers, as as brothers and again, just as comrades, I think is is unmatched. And there's so much like I've always wanted to have that thing with, you know, with the group, with the crew, with the gang, a band where we're able to communicate without words, right? There's so much that's just unspoken. And it's a luxury to have someone that understands what it is that you're trying to articulate without it having to be said. And Amir and I have that. You know, Kamal and I have that.

It's a bond that I'm able to enjoy or experience, you know, with members of The Roots. And I appreciate it. It's something that I cherish. Let's take a short break. If you're just joining us, my guest is Tariq Trotter, also known as Black Thought,

co-founder of the Grammy Award-winning group The Roots. He's written a new memoir about his life called The Upcycled Self. We'll continue our conversation after a short break. This is Fresh Air. This is Fresh Air. This is Fresh Air, and today we're talking to Grammy Award-winning rapper and performer Black Thought, also known as Tariq Trotter, about his new memoir, The Upcycled Self, a memoir on the art of becoming who we are. Trotter is the lead emcee of The Roots, which he and Amir Questlove Thompson founded

after meeting as teens in high school. The group serves as the house band on NBC's The Tonight Show starring Jimmy Fallon. In addition to his music, Trotter is also a theater actor and writer, having performed in the off-Broadway play Black No More. I read somewhere that older hip hop artists are right in this moment getting more work than younger rap artists these days. I think that's pretty interesting. Maybe it's because we're nostalgic and we're in the 50th year of hip hop and we want to see shows that really speak to that. The people with the money are middle-aged and they're going to these shows. But I'm really curious about your assessment of the music today. One kind of music that it seems like every time it comes up,

people have polarizing thoughts about is drill music, which for those who don't know drill music is kind of this subgenre of hip-hop out of Chicago that's really popular. What is your assessment of the music today, the hip-hop world of Chicago that's really popular. What is your assessment of the music today, the hip-hop world and music today? It continues to grow. I think there's more variety out there, you know, musically than ever, right? So you talk about, you know, sub-genres and, you know, the drill musics and then, you know, sub genres that those sub genres sort of spawn. And I think there's space for it all to exist. I mean, I think, you know, there's lots

of rappers, there's MCs. I think a rapper and an MC are two different things. But again, I think there's space for both to exist. And how so? Can you describe the distinction? to, you know, something more surface. I think of rapper raps, and MC, you know, has been bestowed with, and, you know, has accepted the responsibility and the honor that comes with, you know, becoming a griot or a bard of sorts, right? A truth teller, one of the people who, you know, it's your job to let us know

what's going on, you know what I'm saying? And MC, that's what, MC lets you know what time it is, you know what I'm saying? And a rapper raps, you know, it's your job to let us know what's going on. You know what I'm saying? An emcee lets you know what time it is. You know what I'm saying? And a rapper raps. You know what I'm saying? There's some emcees who rap, and there's, you know, some rappers who rap just as well as emcees. But, yeah, I think there is, you know, a distinct difference.

How do your kids view your music? You've got a couple. Yeah, I've got a couple kids. Most of my kids, you know, they like my music. They're into it. My older kids, you know, who are teenagers, 17, you know, ranging from 17 to 23 at this point. Yeah, you know, they love my music.

I think they like it fine. But they're into, I wouldn't say they're into my music. I think they appreciate it. But what draws young people into music, what drew me into hip-hop, was that it was spoken in a language that people who were 30, 40, 50 years old didn't understand. So that's the whole point. It's about us being able to communicate with one another in an authentic way so uh yeah i don't understand all the drill music or all the hip-hop music that young people are creating today because it's not for me i don't

i don't think it's my place to to understand it but um i appreciate it and i respect it and i remember when i was a young person and you know how you know people didn't understand what i was saying if i played some of my if i, organics, you know, at the time for someone who was, they may have liked the music, they may have appreciated the live instrumentation of it all.

Like, oh, wow, this is cool. I can get into that jazz music. But then it would always get to some point where they say, well, I don't know what the dude is talking about on there.

That's you talking, you know what I'm saying? So it's the same thing. You know, this is, you know, we've become our parents and grandparents at this point, you know point. So yeah, I say that it in your book. Do they know about your story and the different parts of you? And how has it felt, if so, to or should. But again, I haven't really impressed it upon them either, right? You know, because it's not the sort of thing that I've worn on my sleeve. They just, I mean, I don't know, you know, I guess the ways in which we protect our kids,

you know, sometimes we withhold information. And I talk about this in the book, about how I'm still, you know, trying to figure out information, receiving information about exactly what, you know, what exactly happened in the case of my father's murder. Right. So I think they're going to continue to, you know, to hear sort of again about the pieces of the puzzle that you know make me and um i think over time they'll get into it i think they'll appreciate the fact that uh yeah i was able to tell this story um you know but probably further down the line you know right

now my kids they they they feel oblivious to uh to a lot of uh what's going on a lot of what's happened in my life and a lot of lot of what's happened in my life and a lot of what's happened in the world. And I think there's a certain level of privilege associated with the bliss of that ignorance. You know what I mean? And sometimes I find myself just wishing they had just a tougher way to go, you know. Do you feel good, though, that you've been able to provide them with that privilege?

I definitely feel good that I've been able to provide them with that privilege, you know, in many ways. You know what I'm saying? Because I never, you know, as a kid, yeah, I didn't know what I was going to wind up doing or how long I was going to even, you know, live. Right? That's the sad truth. Lots of us didn't think we couldn't see ourselves making it past 25 or 30 just because we didn't know that many people who had. You know, and then the people, you know, it was almost as if a generation had been skipped because I knew people who were my grandparents' age and I had friends and classmates who were my age. But, you know, the drug epidemic in the 80s took a whole generation of people out of here.

So it was like, you know, oh, well, you see yourself at 30. And I would say, who's 30? Who made, I don't know, who made it to 30? You know what I mean? Tariq Trotter, thank you so much for this conversation. Oh, no, thank you, Ty.

This has been a great conversation. And yeah, I'm excited. I can't wait to hear this. Tariq Trotter, a.k.a. Black Thought, on his new book, The Upcycled Self, a memoir on the art

of becoming who we are. Coming up, critic Nick Kwa takes a look back at the year in podcasts. This is Fresh Air. This is Fresh Air. Critic Nick Kwa is going to take a look back at the year in podcasts. He talks about the challenging year the industry has had and highlights three shows from this year that he says are among the best. 2023 was tough for the podcast world. Like the rest of the media business, it was adversely impacted by the uncertain economic picture that kicked off the year, and the downturn brought

severe consequences. There were layoffs, retrenchment, and cancellations, including of some beloved shows. Podcasting today confronts a somewhat uncertain future. But some things remain the same. Listeners want more podcasts, and talented people want to make more podcasts. So the only question is how to realize an industry that effectively takes advantage of both things. For now, though, it's time to celebrate a number of fantastic podcasts that came out this year, despite how hard it's been. One great example, which I'm pretty sure will be around for quite some time,

is a relatively new independent podcast called If Books Could Kill. Hosted by Michael Hobbs and Peter Shamshiri, this show is perhaps best described as really long-form media criticism. The project sees the duo, one a journalist, one a former lawyer, critically digging into popular bestsellers that have, for better or worse, influenced mainstream wisdom, despite harboring ideas that deserve more scrutiny. Like, for example, the productivity bestseller known as the four-hour workweek. So, yes, many people do choose unhappiness over instability. I agree with that. But that's because the risks of instability for many people are extremely high.

Yeah. How many fake gurus are there out there advising people to, like, leave the rat race and pursue whatever makes you happy, right? Move to Costa Rica and give surfing lessons, right? Now, Ferris is giving that same advice, but without the trade-off where like you abandon your dream of material wealth. Hobbes and Shamshiri are often cutting, and their targets are expansive. The past year has seen them tackle anything from Malcolm Gladwell's outliers to self-improvement tomes like Atomic Habits and Rich Dad Poor Dad. At the heart of the duo's enterprise is a simple animating spirit.

In an era when doing your own research can often mean selective ignorance, they model for what actually happens when one does the research in an intellectually vigorous and honest way. Another outstanding podcast is You Didn't See Nothing, led by the artist and writer Johannes Lecour. The series is part investigative journalism, part memoir, and not unlike If Books Could Kill, it's also, in part, an effort to interrogate established narratives.

The event that kicks off the story is a hate crime that took place in Chicago's South Side in 1997, when a black boy, Leonard Clark, was beaten into a coma by a group of older white teens simply for being in the wrong place. At the time, LaCour, who lived in the neighborhood, started working with a local paper to investigate the incident. But he would grow disillusioned

when the attack was ultimately transformed with the cooperation of black leaders and the attacker's family into a kind of racial reconciliation fairy tale. That didn't sit well with Lacour, who returns to the story decades later to process what happened. You Didn't See Nothin' can be a bracing listen,

but it's also thoroughly a joy to take in due due to the strength of LaCour's writing and hosting. From as early as I can remember, I've always had a foot in a couple different worlds. I grew up in Chicago, a neighborhood called Hyde Park. It's in the middle of the South Side, but it's different. Almost like a suburb in the inner city. Like gangbanging meets Ivy League-ish academia. It's something else. Often surprising and always compelling, You Didn't See Nothing is unmissable.

Unmissable also describes my pick for the best podcast of the year, The Retrievals. Though the subject matter can be prohibitively challenging. Led by Susan Burton, a veteran producer at This American Life, the series explores a medical horror that took place at the Yale Fertility Center a few years ago, when a nurse was found to have routinely swapped out painkilling solution with saline. This meant that many women who underwent egg retrievals at the clinic were left to face excruciating pain. But when they tried to draw attention to what they were going through, they were often ignored. Under the spotlight in

retrievals is a prominent and persistent inequity, the systematic dismissal of women's pain. Burton traces this story through his discovery to the conclusion of the nurse's trial. But along the way, she maintains a strong emphasis on the patient's collective experience. Outcomes of fertility treatment are typically measured by the numbers. The CDC collects data. You can go online and look up a clinic and find out what percentage of egg retrievals result in live births. But the outcomes here can't be expressed by existing options on a drop-down menu. Some of these outcomes are not concrete. And just like the initial experience of pain,

some of the outcomes are questioned. Really, what are their damages? One fertility doctor, someone not from Yale, said to me about the patients in the lawsuit. What are the harms done? What are the redressable harms? In the hands of another team, the retrievals may well have just lingered on the procedural side of the case. But Burton is particularly interested in the thornier layers of the story. She pays close attention to how that dismissal of women's pain recognizes no class or institutional distinction, and how the women themselves sometimes even dismissed their own experiences. The thorniest layer, though, is a tension that can exist between women's bodily autonomy and motherhood itself, how one

gets prioritized over the other. The Retrievals is riveting, and in many ways, it represents some of the heights achievable within podcasting. It might have been a rough year for the podcast world, but as long as it's capable of producing works like these, it will always stand a fighting chance. Nick Kwa is podcast critic for New York Magazine and Vulture. His end-of-the-year piece can be found at our website, freshair.npr.org.

To keep up with what's on the show and get highlights of our interviews, follow us on Instagram at NPR Fresh Air. And for a look behind the scenes of Fresh Air, subscribe to our newsletter. This week, the Fresh Air staff is sharing even more of our favorite interviews from the year. Check it out and subscribe at whyy.org slash fresh air. engineer is Audrey Bentham. Our interviews and reviews are produced and edited by Amy Salet, Phyllis Myers, Roberta Shorrock, Anne-Marie Baldonado, Sam Brigger, Lauren Krenzel, Heidi Saman, Teresa Madden, Seth Kelly, and Susan Nakundi.

Our digital media producer is Molly C.V. Nesper. They are Challener, directed today's show. For Terry Gross, I'm Tanya Mosley. Thank you.