![]() ![]() After signing off, Missy talked about the lyrics she’d written for her song “The Rain,” which was already on its way to becoming a hit: “One minute I’m talking about weed, the next minute I’m talking about a man-like that. Even four months ago-before she appeared on David Letterman, before the MTV Video Music Awards, before her record went gold-Missy’s unorthodox blend of personal confidence, professional generosity, and entrepreneurial spirit were in ample evidence. She then took calls from her fans-whom she addressed as Baby, Boo, or Go-Go Head-while autographing her way through a stack of eight-by-ten black-and-white glossies. Malik returned with Tigger, and in short order Missy, sitting opposite Keisha in the control booth, was introducing her to WPGC’s listening audience. Then she announced that Keisha would be interviewed on Tigger’s show, too: less airtime for “Supa Dupa Fly,” maybe, but more exposure for another Missy project: she had co-produced and co-written a number of tracks on Total’s yet-to-be-released album. (“Yo, it was dope,” Keisha said, chewing gum as she smiled her most seductive girl-group smile.) In an effort to generate a little of that excitement at WPGC, Missy dispatched Rene to find Tigger, the host of the program she was supposed to appear on. WPGC was Missy’s final guest appearance that day earlier, she had publicized her album at three record stores and another radio station in the Washington area, and she had been greeted in all those places with considerable fanfare. Published in the print edition of the October 20 & 27, 1997, issue. As is often the case in Missy’s professional circle, exactly who was promoting whom wasn’t initially clear. Missy had arrived with three people in tow: her cousin Malik, who is as tall and lanky as Missy is short and round Rene McLean, a rap promoter from the Elektra Entertainment Group and Keisha, a pretty young black woman who is a third of the girl group Total. She looked around and reduced the dim room and the station’s lack of amenities to a weary expletive: “Damn.” On the wall above the reception desk were a number of shabby, poster-size black-and-white photographs of the station’s disk jockeys, their hair and teeth celebrity-bright, which did nothing to dispel the forlorn atmosphere. But there was no publicist or receptionist to greet her. Her hair was styled in crisp finger waves close to her head, like tiny black ribbons, and her fingernails, two inches long, were varnished white. She was there to promote the release of her début solo album, “Supa Dupa Fly,” and, in characteristic Missy Elliott fashion, she had dressed for the occasion-in a red-and-yellow baseball jersey, bright-yellow vinyl overalls, a bright-yellow vinyl jacket, and brown Timberland boots. I first met Missy Elliott last June, in the waiting room at WPGC-FM, a D.C. She is the latest incarnation of the New Negro. She is the biggest and blackest female rap star that Middle America has ever seen. ![]() Six months ago, few people outside the music industry had heard of her six months from now, it will be necessary to pretend that you’ve known about Missy Elliott for years. Missy (Misdemeanor) Elliott, the twenty-five-year-old hip-hop performer who is energetically redefining the boundaries of rap music, is a singer, a songwriter, an arranger, a producer, and a talent scout. She is outrageous because no one cares what she does-until, that is, she begins to make money. Generally, the New Negro-who is “new” every decade or so-is female, a woman who considers her marginal status a form of freedom and a challenge: she takes the little she has been given and transforms it into something complex, outrageous, and, ultimately, fashionable. The New Negro is an inventive amalgamation of past and future trends that are indigenous to black American style. This content can also be viewed on the site it originates from.
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