Around 1996-97 I was in my late-teens, carrying on like I was the tenth member of the Wu-Tang Clan. Hip hop had some real distinct sounds and dispositions those days. The Club Era was starting to jump-off, the day’s most talented emcees were channeling their prowess through alter-ego vehicles – and of course, there was that boiling tension between two coasts that, to this day, baffles me. A lot of it was extra, but looking back, there was a sheen to that excess. Up in Detroit, though, some shy dude named James Yancey was teaming up with two of his boys to form Slum Village and craft a sound whose profundity lied not in brash-excess, but subtlety. We’re not talking hip hop diluted with R&B musings or Native Tongue retreads, here. Fantastic Vol. 1 – Slum’s debut album – was like Native Tongue and Pete Rock and James Brown and Donald Byrd and Sam Cooke all fused through the brain and fingertips of a kat we now know as J. Dilla.

He died about a year ago. He was 32-years-old and reaching his peak. That’s right reaching his peak. Based on the material we hear on Dilla’s Ruff Draft EP (to be released this year), his posthumous The Shining and the “so much more than an instrumental” Donuts; it was clear that Dilla’s sound wasn’t necessarily changing, but growing. Listening to the new textures and exploration, you get a feeling that Lupus took Dilla’s life at a point in his career that was akin to, say, Prince around Purple Rain. Dilla, like Prince (with Dirty Mind, 1999) had already double, triple…quadruple dipped in the well of greatness; but, you gotta believe Dilla still had more to come. A Parade or Sign “O” the Times was coming soon. It’s next to impossible to eclipse or even repeat the new-creativity of that soul-hop Dilla unleashed on tracks like “Fall In Love” or “The Look Of Love” or “Nag Champa”. Songs like that comprise a collection of work so important that it should be a node on the timeline of American music. But then we hear some of Dilla’s last work before his death – gems like, “Nothing Like This” and “Lightworks” and “Won’t Do” – which represent ideas and ambition that was bound to push music further than he had already. Before, Dilla would have you tranqued. Now, he was putting you in a trance. Same beautiful difference.

Death is probably the greatest catalyst for reflection. Importance and meaning come out of eulogies, ya know? When Dilla died and we started really studying his catalogue and coming to conclusions regarding his import; there was overwhelming evidence that he was responsible for a creative shift that not only affected hip hop, but this generation’s version of soul, as well.

When we stepped into the 21st Century, Dilla was preparing to rearrange our favorite music. That year he was the principal producer of Fantastic Vol. 2 (Slum’s update of Vol. 1), Common’s Like Water For Chocolate and a major contributor for D’Angelo’s Voodoo, Erykah Badu’s Mama’s Gun…not to mention a few highlight’s on Bilal’s 1st Born Second. Put that in perspective. That group of albums represents a divergent sound that was an advance in both genres. As great as One Day It’ll All Make Sense was – with NoID turning in one of the great (and shamefully slept on) production performances – Like Water might have been greater in hindsight. Common, together with the Soulquarians (Dilla, ?uestlove and James Poyser) made an album that was starkly different than its 2000-peers. Ja Rule and Nelly were producing hip hop that sounded similar to the R&B that was playing on the radio; Common and crew were offering hip hop influenced by old-soul and jazz. Dilla was largely responsible for this. This didn’t mean he couldn’t lace Common with a head-nodder that snapped your neck in half (“Heat”). It just meant that the wonder of Like Water resided in tracks like, “Time Travelin’”, “Nag Champa”, “Thelonius” and “The Light”. Dilla displayed a knack on Like Water and Fantastic Vol. 2 for crafting beats that sounded like canned improvisation on live instruments. Hearing the intro to Vol. 2 for the first time is cold bucket of water to the face. The way that rim shot cracks and melodious piano chords fit right over the bassline (that doesn’t sound like it’s been jacked from a James Brown record) is almost alarming. Sampling is a hallmark of hip hop, part of its genius. But what we never heard from Dilla was beat-jacking. And, when you couple the records Dilla chose to sample with the way he chopped the samples into new nuggets, you arrive at a new piece of art. He was so fresh. So, when he supplied this freshness to D’Angelo and Badu for their 2000 releases, he helped them usher in a sound for neo-soul that was distanced from the cliché it was becoming. Voodoo was a meaner Brown Sugar. Mama’s Gun was Baduizm with more edge and sass. These were new plateaus.

Days after Dilla died, his fans started popping up with white-on-black T-shirts that read “J Dilla Changed My Life.” That’s a powerful testament to the man’s impact. He changed my life, too. Not in the way my father or knowledge of God or the Civil Rights Movement have changed my life. My slogan would be “J Dilla Changed My Ear For Life.” Since the first time I heard “Runnin’” or “Stakes Is High” and had no idea who this dude was; to his grand introduction in 2000 where his music was pumping in my ears wherever I went; to now, where his late-work is so good that it trivializes much of what his contemporaries produce – this has all changed the way I process music. The very nature of the way I listen to music and what I deem to be dope was altered significantly by James Dewitt Yancey aka Jay Dee aka J Dilla aka Dill Withers aka Dilla Dog.

Dilla was a gift. He is and will always be sorely missed.