The Brooklyn rapper, fresh out of prison on parole, partied with childhood friends and rap superstars, and talked to GQ about what he learned inside and where his career goes next.

It’s 5:30 p.m., and the rapper Bobby Shmurda is finally shedding the last physical remnants of prison. We’re in a high-rise Midtown apartment with gorgeous balcony views of the Hudson River. The skies are gloomy and overcast, but the mood inside is positively sunny as he gets ready for his welcome-home party. There’s a rack full of designer clothes to leaf through. Jewelry to adorn himself with. A long-awaited haircut. And like most things with Bobby, plenty of input from at least half a dozen members of his GS9 family—a group the NYPD might characterize as a dangerous threat to their East Flatbush neighborhood, but who for Bobby are the boys he’s known since pre-K, who still call him by his childhood nickname, Chewy (his given name is Ackquille Jean Pollard).

The rapper Rowdy Rebel, wearing a blue Gucci x The North Face jacket and a matching bucket hat, cuts a vibrant swath across the room, pleading with Bobby to ditch a Telfar crewneck for a flashier silver-black Dior top. Several of the guys argue over his haircut, hilariously barking complaints and suggestions to the harried barber:

“You ain’t cut it low enough.”

“He barely did anything.”

“Bro, it’s fine—don’t listen to him, he has braids!”

Through it all, Bobby calmly takes in the West Side Highway from 53 stories up. “I just wanna watch the city, man,” he says, positioning his chair in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. “I been watching mountains for too long.” (He spent the last three years of his seven-year sentence at Clinton Correctional Facility, a maximum-security prison in upstate New York.) But we’re running late and his family is waiting to greet him in East Rockaway, almost an hour away. “Okay,” Bobby says to no one in particular, “how long I got in the shower?” The room erupts. “Yo, you not inside anymore!” one of his boys says with a laugh. “You gotta fix your language.” “Take your time, man,” another encourages. “Wash ya ass.”

The lock-up mindset is probably going to be hard to shake right away—it’s a little over six years since Bobby, Rowdy, and 13 of their GS9 cohorts were arrested in a now-infamous police raid on December 17, 2014. For Bobby and his crew, the name GS9 is an homage to their East Flatbush ’90s neighborhood blocks, but according to the NYPD, it’s a reference to that same neighborhood’s gang set, the G Stone Crips. The case—charges of conspiracy to commit murder, reckless endangerment, and gun and drug possession—and the astronomical $2 million bail set by the courts quickly became another lightning rod in the long, contentious debate over the NYPD’s aggressive policing of young Black men and harassment of rappers.

Before the police raid, a video Bobby filmed in the neighborhood, for his freestyle over an old Lloyd Banks beat, had made him an overnight sensation in the summer of 2014. Off the strength of Bobby’s infectious energy, New York street authenticity, and intrigue—who is this kid?—and a charming loose-limbed bop that would be dubbed the Shmoney Dance, “Hot Nigga” reached No. 6 on the Billboard Hot 100. Beyoncé incorporated the Shmoney Dance into her live show, and Epic signed him to a $2 million label deal, offering another $1.5 mil to Rowdy Rebel, who had earned his own acclaim with the equally street-approved “Computers.” Bobby admits now that, even as he was blowing up, he didn’t care much about pursuing a music career; he even had to be “bribed” to film the video. “This nigga,” he told me, pointing to one of his boys, “and Mitch, they paid for the video. I'm like, ‘You going to buy me an outfit? All right, copy.’”

Then the cops brought everything to a screeching halt. The next two years saw a series of bail denials, trial delays and court appearances, an alleged weapon-smuggling attempt, and the involvement of three different lawyers before Bobby, Rowdy, and a few others pled guilty to one count of third-degree conspiracy and one count of weapons possession in 2016. (Two of the group got life sentences for shootings.) Bobby and Rowdy maintain their innocence, citing the conspiracy charge in particular as an attempt to link them to crimes they would otherwise have no connection with, and arguing that if they were granted bail and allowed to fight the case from the outside, they would’ve won a trial.

Now Bobby’s finally home and free to shower at his leisure. He’d arrived at a two-story penthouse in Dumbo earlier that morning, fresh from the private jet his friend Quavo, of the platinum-selling rap group Migos, had waiting for him immediately upon his release, one complete with female company and a Louis Vuitton briefcase emblazoned with the words “Shmurda Kit.” (As more friends sauntered into the penthouse, Bobby opened the briefcase and tossed them its contents, including furry handcuffs, to much horror.) He’s free, but he doesn’t know what to do with himself, cracking jokes, taking in the contemporary decor (“What’s Kaws? That art shit?”), and making sure he’s respectful of the beautiful space. How many guys, three hours out of a six-year bid, stop to ask for a coaster before setting a cup of water down on a glass table?

Two things are readily apparent, as I sit across from Bobby Shmurda in Dumbo. First, as is the case with many young men who spend an extended amount of time inside, he has gotten noticeably swole. The springy frame that sparked the viral Shmoney Dance has filled out into a mass that doesn’t look nearly as limber. But Bobby’s lighthearted spirit remains—seemingly, at least—unchanged. Prison may have hardened him physically, but seeing him in person confirms what the handful of phone interviews he gave during his imprisonment hinted at: He’s as cheerful, quick-witted, and ebullient as ever. How?

Bobby puts it into perspective: “My spirit’s always gon’ be up. I used to sleep next to people who had 40 to life. People who’ve been in there for 30 years and haven’t laughed—I’d have them crying all day. When you got good energy, no matter where you at, you can bring a smile to someone’s face.” Plus, this wasn’t his first experience inside: Two years before “Hot Nigga,” he had been in a juvenile detention facility. “I'm not saying jail is not going to break anybody. But usually, jail shit I don't really care about. Even though I'm locked up all the time, I still live good in jail. Since [I was] 12.” He knows how to survive: “You get the best treatment in jail when you get a job,” he explained to me. “Wanna shower five times a week instead of three? Get a job. Eat better? Get a job. More phone time? Get a job. But they kept firing my ass when they realized I was just doing it to stay on the phone.”

Still, familiarity and a daily routine of eating, sleeping, lifting, and talking to girls on the phone doesn’t make six straight years a walk in the park—even down to the last days, it would seem. Bobby arrived with his right hand in a brace, wincing any time a friend greeted him with a bear hug or play fight and brushed against his right shoulder. What happened there? I ask. “You know what happened,” he responds matter-of-factly. “Jail is jail.” I ask whether the plea deal and the time frame for release that came with it made the remaining years easier to handle. He counters that that’s when racially charged harassment from the guards really began, with extra “bullshit” being thrown his way because of his rap-star status. “That’s just how cowards with power work. What I’mma do? Blame it on the tax bracket,” he says, shrugging wryly.

It was around that time that Bobby experienced what he describes as both his lowest moment and his reckoning. The moment that broke Bobby Shmurda, he tells me, wasn’t a fight or his umpteenth night in solitary: It was a fan letter. “It was 2016, I was in the box. A six-year-old girl wrote to me; she said I was her favorite rapper… That just let me know the kids are watching me, and I have to be a role model.” Suddenly, being familiar enough with jail to rise above it didn’t mean so much.

Bobby decided then to take rapping and his music career seriously: “I didn't really care too much for it until I went to jail and I seen how the fans were loyal,” he tells me. “I can’t name a week that I didn’t see at least 10 [pieces] of fan mail, throughout the whole bid.” Which begs the question: If that epiphany happened in 2016, then what was on his mind the summer that he had a Top 10 Billboard single and a seven-figure label deal? “Money and bitches, I ain’t gonna lie to you,” he says. “I was 19 turning 20, coming out of the [East Flatbush] ’90s, one of the worst neighborhoods in Brooklyn.”

While we’re talking, Bobby pauses to take a FaceTime call from Meek Mill, and the two commiserate over the unfamiliar emotion that Bobby experienced after reading this letter: shame. “Hell, yeah,” Meek empathizes over the phone, “I was embarrassed every time.” “I’m done with that [jail] shit,” Bobby vows to Meek, cracking, “I’ll be light-skinned in Jamaica before I go back.” Meek, who has experienced reintegrating into celebrity life after jail a couple of times now, warns Bobby that the next three days are going to feel fast and disorienting.

“I left my godkids. They were four or five when I used to take them all to the store,” Bobby tells me after hanging up with Meek. “Now it’s been seven years. I used to lie to them, say I was on tour, but kids are smart. I missed out. Even that little half decade of their lives, that’s important to me.”

Going to prison immediately after blowing up made Bobby appreciate just how fortunate he was to have achieved rap stardom—and understand that it was almost taken from him before he had the chance to fully realize it. Though he refers to 2014 as a “love/hate year,” he acknowledges how the work he put in then set him up to come home to endless opportunities. “Otherwise, by now I’d probably already have a gun and some crack,” he tells me. “The streets are talented. I saw that shit in jail, all day. There’s basketball players, smart-ass motherfuckers, niggas who know this or that but just don't know how to apply their shit, or have behavior problems. But niggas not taught to apply their shit where we come from.”

The precise date of Bobby’s parole wasn’t finalized until January. But according to Quavo, plans for his first day out began six months to a year ago, on one of their many phone calls. “He had this dream: a jet, flooded out with his gang, his family, a couple vibes [read: women] for him.” The rapper, who helped pay for the day’s festivities, is drowsy from pulling an all-nighter to make sure his friend’s morning went exactly how he imagined. But he’s ready to rally at a moment’s notice: “It’s like his birthday today. Whatever he wants to do, we’re doing it.”

Quavo doesn’t remember the first time he, Offset, and Takeoff met Bobby and Rowdy, just that it was instant magic; the friendship was soon cemented with the portmanteau “ShMigo.” Whenever the Migos came to New York City in 2014, they made sure to link up with Bobby, like the night at the Powerhouse concert when Quavo recalls meeting Jay-Z for the first time, backstage with Rowdy. As the Migos went from hot to supernova in the years after that, Quavo was never too booked or busy for his GS9 boys inside. “Every time he called my phone, I picked up,” Quavo says. “Him and Rowdy would call, and whatever they needed, I was there for them.”

Most of the time, what they needed was a little inspiration: “He was always getting in trouble and stayed in the hole. He would just tell me how crazy it was in there.” What can you say to boost someone going through a situation like that? I ask. “I’d say, ‘Keep your head up, stay down, because we’re all Black, we’ve all been in tough situations.’ But I ain't never had to do years like that,” Quavo admits. “But you just say, ‘Keep God first, stay loyal to what [you] stand on.’ At the end of the day, [if you do that] it's an easy road to success when you come home. Be ready to get out, have some goals, have some plans, some money plans.”

That last piece of advice stuck with Bobby, who spent his numerous nights in solitary reading every law book he could get his hands on, then pivoting to real estate and taxes. “I only want to talk about real estate now. Ask anybody. [This morning] I said, ‘Quavo—real estate!’ and he’s like, ‘Chill, you just got out.’ They made me a monster now,” Bobby says, eyes wide, his face stony, devoid of his usual smirk. “You’re like an animal in a fucking cage. And you're mentally a monster. Physically a monster. Spiritually a monster. They aren't going to know what to do with you.”

His eyes are so wide he’s staring into my soul at this point, almost as if he sees a particular judge or correctional officer in my place. “I know what y'all like. I know what y'all don't like. Y'all don't like to see young, Black rich niggas. So I'm going to get real rich on y'all. I'm going to make it legit, though. They want to see you niggas back selling crack. You know what I mean? Going to jail and shit. And I'm going to make it legit now.” Real estate and the power of financial freedom were among the last things Bobby discussed with another of his rap peers: the late Nipsey Hussle. “I only had four or five conversations with cousin,” Bobby says, the last of which took place just one month before Hussle’s tragic murder. “His mind was different. He was saying all the things we were going to do when I got out.”

Later that night in East Rockaway, biological Pollards, neighborhood friends, and GS9 members all mingle as one big family to welcome Bobby home. Rowdy Rebel, Fetty Luciano, and the rest of the crew dance to their own songs and newer Brooklyn drill hits alongside toddlers, as if they are listening to Frankie Beverly or the Gap Band at a summertime family reunion cookout. Quavo keeps a low profile, dutifully posing for pictures when asked. A spread of West Indian favorites such as oxtail has been catered. Bobby is never far from the center of the dance floor: posing for a cavalcade of cameras, kissing his mother, hugging an aunt, and running away in mock disbelief at the sight of a cousin who was a toddler when he went inside, and who is now all grown up.

Homecoming aside, Bobby is, understandably, rethinking his place in New York, as he told me that morning in Dumbo. “I want to be in and out,” he says, addressing his plans to spend his downtime elsewhere. “I love the city, but there's the system, right? There's cops on every fucking corner. These motherfuckers dirty like no tomorrow, and they’ll shoot us and kill us in the streets. I'm a city boy”—he performs his trademark ad-lib, the sound synonymous with New York men acknowledging each other: “ ‘Ah-ah-ah.’ It’s in me, but it's sad that our past sometimes follows us.”

Still, he’s ready to get back to work. Inside, he listened to Migos—Quavo says a Shmurda feature on the group’s forthcoming Culture III is a must; he spent all night in the studio with Rowdy before picking Bobby up—Meek Mill, and fellow “Brooklyn boys” like SAINt JHN and Pop Smoke. If that makes you rue the Shmurda–Pop Smoke collab we never got, Bobby teases that he “has something cooking.” So yes, there’s new music on the horizon. He won’t promise an album outright, but “projects” are in the works.

Considering his good demeanor and ability to look back on the past six years with some perspective, I ask Bobby if Avon Barksdale’s aphorism holds up in real life: You really only do two days inside, the day you walk in and the day you walk out. “Helllll, no!” he says incredulously. “I remember all them box nights. By myself, nigga! I can’t forget them nights.”

It’s a sobering reminder, amid the homecoming filled with private jets and penthouses, that Bobby Shmurda beat the odds twice. Kids rarely make it out of the East Flatbush ’90s the way he has; nor do those who don’t make it always survive a justice system that is, as Meek puts it, “designed to break you.” Still, all the mental fortitude and good spirits in the world can’t erase whatever he endured these past six years. It’s an experience that will change him forever, in ways both immediately noticeable—seriously, he walks around like Popeye now—and imperceptible. Jail is jail.

Source: Frazier Tharpe/Gq.com

Date Posted: Monday, March 1st, 2021 , Total Page Views: 1237