Art by Evan Solano
It’s a new day for Te P
It’s hard to capture just how enigmatic Rosco P. Coldchain was when he first emerged from the Philly streets. This is the place that produced the first gangsta rap song (Schooly D’s “PSK, What Does It Mean). It birthed one of the most nostalgic summertime anthems ever (“Summertime)”, and supplied the stylistic inspiration for one of rap’s last great dynasties (State Property x Roc-A-Fella.) But if you came of age in the city in the early 00s, you distinctly remember the first time you heard the voice of Amin Porter, the North Philadelphia-raised rapper who took his alias from a Dukes of Hazzard villain and flipped it into one of the most iconic names in rap history (just ask Vince Staples).
During a time when everyone in the game was stunting on us — MTV Cribs, spinners, Jacob watches — Rosco reminded us that “that ain’t real life.” As his voice spread through the city on historic 2 Raw For the Streets DVDs and popular songs like “I’m Not You”, so did his myth. The storied meeting with Pharrell. His legendary block down Norf. The way he brought the world to the trenches in the “Hot Damn” video. Even the menacing origins of his name. No matter how popular Sco became, he never seemed out of reach. His flow was as unpredictable and aggressive as the city he championed. And after 14 years in a Pennsylvania prison, a moment at a local coffee shop brought us together to talk about his unbelievable journey.
Born Amin Porter, Coldchain spent his early childhood in Philadelphia’s under-resourced and dangerously unpredictable North Philly neighborhood. Born to a young, rebellious mother, who embraced Islam as a religion of activism, an adolescent Rosco noticed early on that he was different from the other neighborhood kids. Fights for his own survival were common.
His earliest memories were filled with family on 18th & Oxford. His grandmother and aunt lived on 17th & Jefferson. “J Street” was one of the earliest blocks known for pharmaceutical drug sales: pills, syrup, and more. Naturally, Porter was torn between the strict and structured environment of his mother’s home and the streets.
Once the face of fast-learner programs and honors, Porter was eventually sent to Learning Disability (LD) classes–stuck in a system designed to fail him. He became another misunderstood Black boy left on the fringes. Going from a quick study to discarded, Porter found refuge in his cross streets and in the OGs, who, in his words, prepared him for the inevitability of being outside.
Out of fear and a desire to change their environment, his mother moved the family to Southwest Philly. She was hoping for a safe haven from the violence and drugs of her son’s new daily routine. It was just the opposite. Amin quickly found a new, craftier way to hustle. Reflecting on that period, Rosco said if you checked his rap sheet he’s never been arrested for drugs—only violence. That delineation matters to him because it draws a line in the sand between Southwest Philly’s get money culture and North Philly’s get busy culture.
Now, at this same time in Philly, the streets overshadowed rap. So, without transcendent connections to examples of it working, most cats stuck to their original hustle. But, somewhere in between leaving the city to hit small towns, group homes, and a stay at a mental facility, Rosco found time to write. The first raps weren’t very good, but offered the space to vent complicated emotions. And with the influence of his uncle, two cousins who rapped, and the shared blood of his grandmother and music legend David Porter running through his veins, Rosco developed a purposely erratic, combative rap style.
Porter swiped the name Rosco from his affinity for a specific gun. The surname Coldchain was a riff on a character from his favorite TV show, The Dukes of Hazzard. He soon made a name for himself in cyphers throughout the city, especially the legendary 2 Raw For The Streets series. His words were brazen and communicated hard truths: danger is omnipresent and violence was the fastest solution. All that he needed was The Moment.
Then he met Pharrell when the super-producer was on the the block for a Philly’s Most Wanted video shoot. Walking up to P, Rosco name-dropped a local rapper, rolled a blunt, then started spitting. From this chance encounter, Rosco was no longer just another Philly gangster trying to go legit rapping. He was now in the orbit of a pop-cultural phenomenon who’d already worked with Britney Spears, Jay-Z, and Usher.
By 2002, things started to explode for Rosco with two show-stopping appearances on Clipse’s Lord Willin’. Having built a sincere brotherhood with Pusha, Rosco credits the Cocaine Cowboy for helping him learn how to write in bar structure and for being his champion inside the Star Trak camp. Songs like “I’m Not You” and “Hot Damn” introduced a new kind of voice: tough, agile, unpredictable. Each line another thought in the calculated but crowded mind of a modern day outlaw. Next, “Delinquent” was a bouncy warning shot to anyone standing between Rosco, his Desert Eagle and his paper. It didn’t hurt to have Pharrell giving him all the gas he needed to burn through these records.
The “Hot Damn” video catapulted Rosco into the stratosphere. Filming in front of his aunt’s house, he’s flanked by Philly street legends. A teenage Meek Mill pops a wheelie. The mask, jumpsuit, thermal, and timbs… For the city, many felt Rosco’s success was their own. He didn’t come on the scene and tell us how he had all these material possessions, how he could take our girls or even how he was now around famous folks. Instead, he told us how hard things still were. How he was trying desperately to survive. And how far he was willing to go to make sure of it.
All this fame came with a real test. He had to manage expectations from people who expected him to change as fast as he’d arrived. Instead, Rosco chose to remain loyal to the people and the places that shaped who he was; no matter the cost.
During our conversation Rosco made it clear: real life was just too heavy. The streets were still calling, he was trying to be a single father to his kids who he had sole custody of, while carrying the weight of being a consistent, signed artist to a major label like Star Trak. It was impossible to put these things aside and live in the studio.
After a few delayed projects and some lost footing between 2004 and 2006, 2008’s There Will Be Blood appeared as a final flicker of hope. When I asked Rosco how it felt to finally drop that project, he said calmly: “I didn’t feel anything because of all the shit going on.” Just a few months after There Will Be Blood dropped, Rosco was in police custody.
When discussing the trial, Rosco exhibits an almost eerie calm. He points out that he saw the entire thing coming. It started with police responding to a shooting. While still in the area, they end up stopping two men — him being one. Shortly after, the victim died and was identified as a 31-year old male. A few days later, Rosco and the second man were arrested in connection with the incident. But after questioning, he says everything played out like a movie once they’re formally charged with murder. He just didn’t know how it was all going to end.
Before turning himself in, he got his family affairs in order and called to thank the one industry friend he had, DJ Premier, who was the only person he felt kept it solid in a weird industry and showed an unwavering level of loyalty required amongst men. Then came the trial and sentencing. He didn’t get life and in that he found peace.
Trying to summarize 14 years in a Pennsylvania prison would disrespect the depth of that time – not only for Rosco, for the many men and women behind the wall. So I won’t. Those years were marked by an unfathomable purgatory. He was jailed while the world moved on without him.
To pass time, Rosco listened to Lil Durk and 30 Seconds to Mars; he got deeper into his faith; he found discipline through fitness. He even built a relationship with a female guard. But loss was never too far behind. It kept showing up at his cell in the form of family, friends, and loved ones passing. I’m not here to speak for another man’s grief. But it’s clear: Rosco carries a lot of it. His childhood scars are stacked with his street and prison trauma. Forcing him to hold the weight of a life that always seems to charge him a premium. After 13 years in, just a year from his release, his uncle passed, then his best friend, then the love of his life. He even lost his younger brother. In 2023, molded by the loss of so much time and those closest to him, he finally walked out of prison.
The hardest rapper to never truly rap for a living poured everything into his music. It’s been just over two years since his release, and Rosco has dropped more music than he did his entire stay on Star Trak. Sin City, with DJ Phrillz, felt like a return to the DVD days of old. Where a young Rosco, glaring straight at the camera, shirt off, cigarette in hand forced his way into our homes.
Last year’s Last Night Should Have Never Happened makes you sit in its haunted energy. While he frigidly wrestles with who he is, the circumstances behind why he spent so many years inside, and challenges whether the game he gave everything to ever truly loved him back.
There’s always been two sides to Rosco: humble and Herculean. Living on Borrowed Time coming only a few months after LNSHNH is full of street recollections, including “STARS BEYOND THE NIGHT,” a love letter to his brother Bird who was killed while Rosco was locked up.
One of the first things you notice about Rosco when you sit with him are his eyes. They’re piercing in a way a parent’s are when they know you’re lying. They don’t just look at you—they look through you. And with those eyes comes an unfiltered honesty. As we chopped it up in the back of a local market, drinking IPAs, reminiscing on both of our upbringings, different parts of the city, his latest project For The Mature, and his plans for the future, it was clear just how far he’d come.
You’ll notice I reference his song “Disappointment” throughout our conversation. Released in 2006, it’s his version of Pac’s “I Ain’t Mad At Cha.” In verse one: tensions with his mom. In verse two: a prayer for freedom. In verse three: an apology to fans for the missed chances, the fear of success, the time lost. These fears and contradictions created someone deeply aware of his flaws and his gifts.
With Rosco’s second chance, he’s focused not just on staying out, but on doing right by his mother, his brother, and himself. We talk about every version of the man whose fire opened up the world to him, while costing him almost everything.