In 2003, I moved from my miserable basement apartment on 26th and Cherry in the Central District to a slightly less miserable basement apartment on 13th and Republican on Capitol Hill. That week, I read in The Stranger's then–hiphop column The Truth (written by one Sam Chesneau) that there was a new hiphop night at the old Breakroom on 13th and Madison, now called Chop Suey. Troublingly done up in a faux-Chinese pastiche, red-lit, and allegedly selling $40 microwavable meals to gullible drunks, Chop became a second home during an exciting time in my life and in the life of Seattle's rap scene.

I wasn't at the first night of Yo, Son! but I was at the second. The trademark "Low Class Hiphop, Turntablism & Bad Taste" was like nothing that had come before it—except maybe a backwater micro version of the old New York Mudd Club scene where Grandmaster Flash and Russell Rush partied and politicked with Madonna and the Clash. As far as I saw, it was the first time that the hiphop contingent and the city's rock 'n' roll power structure meaningfully intersected to drink and debauch…

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