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Ant shall bring disaster to evil factors.
Dozens of scenarios can lead to an artist being forgotten or considered âunderrated.â Botched major label marketing campaigns can be a factor. So can inconsistent releases, premature death, and extra-musical controversies that overshadow the art. Or maybe their style simply evolves into something that seems like an anachronistic vestige of a different time. Sometimes, itâs simply bad luck.
In the case of Keith Edward Elam, the jazz philosopher better known as Guru (or Baldhead Slick), he dodged all of these pitfalls to leave behind one of the greatest catalogues in hip-hop history. And yet in 2025, the Brooklyn-by-way-of-Boston rapperâs contributions feel overlooked.
Of course, every serious hip-hop fan knows Gang Starr, his group with the Houston-raised super producer DJ Premier. They remain one of the foundational architects of â90s East Coast Golden Age boom-bap. In their prime, the duo toured alongside Rage Against The Machine, Ziggy Marley, and The Fugees. EMI, a global behemoth, distributed their records. Appearances on Jay Leno and Arsenio Hall beamed the âDWYCKâ duo into millions of living rooms across America. Every contemporary journalist from Elliot Willson to Kembrew McLeod praised their albums as âunmitigated brillianceâ or hailed their career as âthe gold standard for high quality hip-hop and career longevity.â
But in the aftermath of his 2010 death, Guru has not seen the posthumous lionization that befits his contributions to rap history. He didnât get his deserved accolades in Hip-Hop 50 celebrations and Billboard and Forbes failed to mention his name on Top Rapper Lists. Podcasters and radio personalities have built cases for MCâs with half the accolades and a quarter his mastery. And voters continue to ice out Gang Starr from the Rock & Roll Hall Of Fame. Most sources direct their praise towards DJ Premier, who is justifiably lauded as one of the greatest producers to ever pound an MPC. Meanwhile, Guru has been widely dismissed as just the MC who painted safely within the lines of Preemoâs grimy canvas..
In the case of Guru v. The Hip-Hop Historians, many points in his favor continue to be fully erased. He spent years packing verses with deadpan wizardry (the slow flow scientific imagery of âBeyond Comprehensionâ) and narrative twists (detailing, the heartbreak in âShe Knowz What She Wantzâ); each record was fueled by a deep urge to improve the world around him.
Guruâs life before rap infused a greater purpose into his artistry. This was a sort of âcivil service through rapâ approach informed by his family; his pops Harry Elam was Bostonâs first black judge, his mother Barbara was head of the cityâs public school libraries, and his older brother graduated Harvard with honors and went on to be a Stanford professor and college president â while Guru himself was a Morehouse Man and social worker.
Witnessing so many struggles through education and social work reinforced his righteous rap sermons on masculinity, knowledge of self, community, and respect. At a time when Black empowerment and social awareness were often weaponized as marketing tactics, Guru instead kept a subtle everyman image. He was stone face serious with knuckles the size of boxing gloves. He wore the quality sweaters and sports gear youâd see on HBCU campuses, and usually nothing more than a slim chain or hoop earrings for flash. When the time came to venture solo the Jazzmatazz series was born, putting generations of black art in direct conversation through jazz-rap experiments with Lonnie Liston Smith, Donald Byrd and Roy Ayers.
He was an intimidating presence and sly craftsman, burying disjointed rhyme patterns and street life anecdotes under a grinding monotone. But if all that doesnât move you, line up his accomplishments to his highly hailed peers; more essential albums than Rakim or Big Daddy Kane, a more eclectic palette than Kool G Rap or KRS-One, a steeper mountain of applicable teachings than LL Cool J or Slick Rick, and more gifted as a wordsmith than Ice-T or Chuck D.
Itâs unfair asking for consistent greatness from any one artist, but when it happens it needs to be cherished. Artists who survived the â80s did so through doubling down on their own style and mythos until it collapsed. The weight of outdoing oneself cracked artists to pivot to R&B, trendy sounds of the day, or forced them into a paralyzed state where they recreated past work with diminishing results, all before hitting LP4. Not the case for Guru.
No More Mr. Nice Guy, Step In The Arena, Daily Operation, Jazzmatazz, Hard To Earn, Jazzmatazz Vol. 2, and Moment Of Truth were all released within a 10-year period, each displaying Guruâs creative vigor from various angles. Nice Guy was Golden Era house party perfection, Daily Operation detailed his new home of Brooklyn as a thriving haze-hued society, Hard To Earn is a brass knuckle barrage against all things wack, while Moment Of Truth acted as the blockbuster opus that explored the give and take of living the trife life.
You could point to Preemo as the catalyst for such diversity, but that would diminish Guruâs contributions to their alchemy. Not only was Guru always involved in the production, being cited as a co-producer on all Gang Starr records, but at the end of the day he alone had to agree to record and conceptualize universes whether it be through vivid shoe leather reporting (âThe Place We Dwellâ), technical tightropes (âStep In The Arenaâ), or spiritual poetics (âAbove The Cloudsâ). Plus, the Jazzmatazz series was recorded sans-Premier, with the first two installations removing Guru from the 1990âs vibrant Brooklyn blocks to the smoke-fueled underbelly of the Harlem Renaissance.
Think of it like this, in â89 Guru was brooding over funkdafied rap rhythms while Queen Latifah, Ice-T, and Ice Cube were rap royalty. Come 2003, when Gang Starrâs unknowing swan song The Ownerz was released, Guru was still drawn to preaching the gospel of hip-hop while his peers pivoted to Hollywood.
Evidence: Everything from â89-â03 (except Streetsoul. We donât talk about Streetsoul.)
Public Enemy and NWA were breaking down walls to get their pro-Black anti-rascist messages heard, while the Native Tongues were equally progressive though more fluorescent in their presentation. But only Guru was able to split the difference to speak to the youth and elders without switching his style. He came in the game in 1989 at 28 years old, already a competitive senior and he used worldly lessons to his advantage.
Every song that called for greater social change first called for a change of self; a moment of realignment to stop being selfish and give oneâs life up for the greater good. There was no preachiness nor arrogant calls to be followed like a leader, he would be the first to admit his faults and failures to remind you how important they were to gain knowledge.
Guruâs maturity was best reflected in tracks centered around women. Many of rapâs early love songs relied on played out sitcom scenarios or an overbearing influx of R&B textures, but Guru was able to keep his icy cool without coming off emotionally guarded or overzealous around the opposite sex. Just by displaying truths of his relationships, from a voicemail box of lovers to a tale of getting done dirty, he exuded confidence. To have the emotional stability to display these highs and lows without spite or an inflated ego can only come from a person who has lived through lifeâs ebbs and flows.
Evidence: âRobin Hood Theoryâ / âSoliloquy Of Chaosâ / âJust To Get A Repâ / â2 Deepâ / âEx Girl 2 Next Girlâ
Being yourself is the final level all artists must unlock to reach their full potential. The â80s rappers cut their teeth on open mic stages or street corners, struggling to be heard through low budget sound systems. They spat in your face, flipped you upside down and shook you for change, or threw textbooks of knowledge down your ear canals without a way to parse it. Much of this was to perpetuate an image of hyper masculinity, one so overbearing that it turned your head and forced you to listen.
Guru chose instead to zig away from more domineering methods, plainly speaking proverbs. The path to acquiring knowledge of self was prominent in his work, and every track proved it was a path he himself had walked.
It takes immense poise to be tranquil during turmoil, and even more so when youâre taking time to help others before yourself. In an era greatly defined by braggadocio and hyperactive styles (the Das EFX -Iggity Plague in particular) no matter how antagonistic or dire the subject matter or production, Guru remained magnetic. Even on Hard To Earn, he creates an agro aura by slightly leaning into Preemoâs atmosphere of tension. While Rakim may have been coolness personified, Guru unlocked new micro-chambers through monotone mastery that the God MC never could.
Evidence: âTonz âOâ Gunzâ / âBetrayalâ / âAlongwaytogoâ / âTake It Personalâ
Guruâs legacy has long been dimmed by misconceptions of who he was as an artist (âtoo boring,â âcarried by Premier beatsâ) before even counting the shady business partners bungling his catalog in his late years, and dubious legal situations stealing slices of his peak years. Nothing that speaks to what his raps actually were: confident, enlightening, and empowering. In his prime we were gifted with album upon album of rhymes universal in value, meeting impressionable kids and lost souls eye-to-eye.
There was no intense agenda to brand him as a superstar, sex symbol, or cultural influencer. Without conforming to chic sounds he passed through multiple rap eras, unflappable in his dedication to twisting venues inside out with trips down ratty subway platforms and lively jazz clubs that connected generations of Black art.
There was as much pride as there was wisdom in his creations; any attack was matched with stern retribution. For over a decade Guru never ditched his patented bluntness or lost sight of his purpose in this world. He sought to educate as much as he entertained. And in the process, he cemented his name alongside the greats of any decade.
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