This wasn't supposed to be a eulogy. This was supposed to be the story where Rashad and Spinn were going to tell how they came up from roller-skating parties. I was going to explain how this was going to be their year and how, after 20 years, they were getting their due and getting over. How they were going to be more than Southside gods and big in Japan. This was supposed to be the story where I explained how they both choked up with emotion, when talking about Rashad surviving his car crash last year, a car crash that he says should have killed him.
I would have explained that Rashad had grace - and who has fucking grace anymore? His gratitude and earnestness were such that you'd never guess he'd been grinding away for two decades. His humility was striking.
Rashad, like Frankie and Curtis before him, made music that revivified the spirits of the people here in our perpetually broken city of Chicago. Like them, what he created became the sound of being young and alive in this city. His music had the power to salve, to unite, to take you out of your world and your problems and your heartbreak for a while. Like Frankie and Curtis, he had a gift. His music was the sound of Chicago summer, the sound of nighttime; synonymous with having a good time, it was the manic pulse of the City That Never Loves You Back.