MUSIC
COURTESY OF BROOKFIELD DUECE
HOTSEAT
Northwest
Exposure
RAPPER BROOKFIELD DUECE FOLLOWED HIS COUSIN,
DAMIAN LILLARD, FROM OAKLAND TO PORTLAND.
HE’S MADE THE HIP-HOP SCENE HIS SECOND HOME.
BY MATTHE W S I N GE R
m si n g e r @ wwe e k.com
Brookfield Duece is well aware that
Portland doesn’t always take kindly to out-
siders, especially those from California.
But the Oakland rapper is a special case.
After all, without him, Damian Lillard
may never have settled in here.
“I actually moved his stuff there,” says
Duece, the beloved Blazers point guard’s
oldest cousin. “I loaded his and his mom’s
stuff in a U-Haul truck and drove it there. So
I was actually in Portland before they made
it to Portland. But I hadn’t been to Portland
for any other reason than Dame.”
Duece has been back a lot since, and not
just because he gets primo seats at Moda
Center. Seeing a wide-open hip-hop scene not
yet defined by any particular style, he saw an
opportunity to establish himself outside the
Bay Area’s crowded hyphy scene. He jumped
on bills at Holocene and Kelly’s Olympian,
collaborated with a pre-fame Aminé and
coaxed Dame D.O.L.L.A. onstage for the first
time. Earlier this year, he released an EP on
Lillard’s Front Page Music label, showcasing
a soulful, introspective style.
Now, Duece has been invited to play
the third annual Portland Hip-Hop Day.
It’s a moment of validation for an artist
who’s put in a genuine effort to win over
the city and not just rest on his familial
connections. Willamette Week spoke to
Duece about being accepted as one Rip
City own, what Portland doesn’t under-
stand about itself and competing with his
cousin—both on the mic and on the court.
Willamette Week: Did you have any
perceptions of Portland prior to
Damian getting drafted here?
Brookfield Duece: I came in with a definite
clean slate. Before I even made my way up
there, I got on the internet and Googled “Top
10 rappers in Portland.” I just started con-
necting with people, and whenever I could
do a show, I’d drive up or fly up and give away
Adidas or Adidas passes—whatever
I could do to give back. I didn’t want
to come into the city and not give
back and have people looking at me
like I came to take from them.
Were you surprised to find
there was such a strong hip-
hop scene here?
I was surprised by the talent level.
Based on me watching the conver-
sations on Facebook and stuff, there
are a lot of people arguing about
how Portland doesn’t support each
other, and how in other areas like
LA and the Bay, it’s different. I look
at that situation and laugh. It isn’t
true. That’s the surprising part to me—that
Portland doesn’t see how good Portland is.
How did you start rapping?
I had no dad around, my mom was always
working, and I had no real way to express
my feelings. I had questions, and I would
write the questions down in poem form. As I
got older, telling your homies you do poetry
was kind of boosie. At the time I was writing
poems, I was in high school, and [Tupac]
just died. I perceived him as a poet, and I
heard him doing those poems over music.
It took me six or seven years to actually get
the courage to spend some money to do it
for real. I recorded my own song, called “I’m
a Gangsta,” which is hella funny, because I
don’t perceive myself to be that at all. The
insecurities you have as a youth with doing
poetry, and you don’t want to tell nobody,
then you turn it into rap and the first song
you give them is “I’m a Gangsta.” You can
tell there’s some acting involved.
Dame told a story to Slam that you’d
pick him up from school and play your
own music in the car.
I was the oldest, so I was the first one with
a license. I was like the taxi in the family.
So I’d pick him up and play my music, and
he’d be like, “Man, put Tupac on” or “put
Ludacris on.” I’d be like, “But listen to
this,” and he’d be like, “I don’t wanna hear
that mess!” He got to watch my process
not knowing he got to watch my process.
So would you say you mentored Dame
as a rapper?
I wouldn’t say that. Our family was really
competitive. It was, like, 10 kids in one
house. You had to speak up and be heard
and do what you gotta do to put your foot
on the ground, because we’re all alphas.
Like, I haven’t played basketball since
high school. But if me and Damian were
on the court, I’d give him 20 points. I
truly believe that. The same rules apply
for music. It’s like, “I rap,” and he’s like,
“So what? I rap, too. Listen to these bars!”
I don’t think I mentored him, but I think
of all the cousins in our family, he was
one of the more attentive ones. I think
he paid a lot of attention to things you
didn’t think he was paying attention to.
Whatever he took for me, I wouldn’t
know unless he told me.
Do you still feel like you’re competing
with him on some level?
I mean, I’m happy for him. You can’t tell
him every day, because then it sounds like
you’re fake. I pick and choose my spots. Like
last year, he was struggling right before the
All-Star break. I texted him and I was like,
“You’re not doing the same things you used
to do.” Instead of telling him, “I’m proud
of you being in the NBA,” I’m like, “You’re
messing up right now.” And he’ll do the
same for me. So I don’t think we’re in
competition. Now it’s to the point where
Dame’s in the NBA, he’s got his money, he’s
got his influence—let’s get the next family
member in, let’s get them to the next level.
What does it mean for you, being a
non-native Portlander, to be invited
to something like Hip-Hop Day?
I appreciate being accepted in a city I’m
not from. Me being invited to Hip-Hop Day
is solely attributed to the hard work I’ve
done in Portland, with Portland artists, and
Portland recognizes that. They said, “We
can accept you as a Portland transplant.”
I know that’s a big thing in Portland where
Portland doesn’t like all the people who are
invading the city. I don’t think that applies
to me anymore.
SEE IT: Brookfield Duece plays Portland
Hip-Hop Day at City Hall, 1221 SW
4th Ave. #340, with Rasheed Jamal,
Fountaine and Wynne, on Sunday, Oct.
15. 3 pm. Free. All ages.
SeveN CrUCiAl MOMeNtS iN POrtlAND HiP-HOP HiStOry
• 1981: Electro-funk band Shock
releases “Let’s Get Crackin’,”
Portland’s first
rap song—at
least accord-
ing to frontman
Malcolm Noble.
• June 23, 1990:
U-Krew appears
on Soul Train.
Host Don Cornelius asks, “What’s
it like trying to get funky and
soulful in Portland, Oregon?”
• June 14-15, 1995:
The first annual
Portland Oregon
Hip-Hop Festival, co-
curated by Cool Nutz,
is held at La Luna.
• June 12, 2003:
Lifesavas release
Spirit in Stone,
the first Portland
rap album to
receive signifi-
cant national
attention—even
Rolling Stone
took notice.
• March 1, 2014: Cops crash a
local rap concert at the Blue
Monk on Southeast Belmont,
leading to an internal
review of the Portland
Police Bureau’s treat-
ment of hip-hop shows.
• Oct. 15, 2015: Then-
Mayor Charlie Hales
inaugurates the first-ever
“Portland Hip-Hop Day.”
Mic Capes, Vinnie Dewayne and
others perform on the steps of
Portland City Hall.
• Nov. 15, 2016: Benson High
alum Aminé performs his viral
hit “Caroline” on the Tonight
Show,
adding a
verse oppos-
ing newly
elected
President
Trump just
days after
the election.
Willamette Week OCTOBER 11, 2017 wweek.com
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