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Indigo
Kiri'ke'
Self-Released
In the last five years, Indigo Leah Bartizal, 26, lost both her father and grandmother, became homeless, sent her mother to treatment, gave birth to her first child, and struggled to survive on "welfare checks." She coped by making her own music, and her determination to share her voice with others carried her through studio stresses and molasses-paced production.
The end result is Kiri'ke', an album of polycultural beats and familiar local names. Besides her son's debut six-second freestyle, the album features indigenous flute solos from Shock B, underground beats by NinjaGator, guest spots by P.O.S. and Spikaboxxx—plus nature sounds and bird chirps. And like a feather-ruffling wind, Indigo's message of hope and challenge flows over the top of it all.
"The American dream rips the earth at its seams," she raps. "Knowledge is power/Ignorance is slavery/Freedom is strength/Think, double-think."
Even on a drab and drizzly Thursday evening, Indigo is a glowing beam of inspiration. "I feel better than ever, but I'm just holding my breath until I can actually hold [the CD]," she says. Wearing a Culture Shock Club T-shirt and turquoise jewelry, she sips on a red bean-coconut tea shake, looking through the paper for the night's concert calendar. The Tea Garden has become her latest obsession—last week, after accidentally dropping a bag of shakes, she found herself carefully pouring the spilled contents into a cup when she got home.
Home for right now is the south side of Minneapolis, but she grew up in St. Paul, never staying in one place long enough to feel settled down.
"I was switching schools every year until fifth grade," she says. "It was hard, but it taught me a lot about dealing with shitty people. I learned early how to let go and move on. I got really used to people coming and going in my life."
Her parents were preoccupied with issues of their own, and without much supervision as an adolescent, she nearly partied herself out. She had a bleak take on her own future. "I didn't think I was going to live past age 19," she says.
But that changed when she began turning her childhood love of writing raps and poetry into a career. Of course, some people had discouraging words—she was warned of the difficulties she would face in the male-dominated rap community. Being taken seriously as a female MC wasn't going to be easy.
"I don't know if people just wanted me to be a pretty little thing, or if they just wanted me to shut the fuck up," she says with a pout. "But I couldn't help it. Rap becomes me."
Just like her personality, Indigo's music is full of sass. With lyrical swoons and provocative spits, her album oozes a sexuality that comes across (she hopes) as confident and respectable.
And while she's dead set on holding her own onstage, she'd rather share a friendly fist-pound than have an MC battle.
"I don't want to tear people down," she says, speaking not just about the rap community but of the world at large. "It's about connecting, not dividing."
Her music aims to give women and youth a soundtrack for their own voices, and for their opinions on love, violence, and the environment. Her heart lies in fixin' stuff. "I wish people would follow good trends, like composting. Not whatever Britney Spears is doing," says the former Environmental Studies major.
Kiri'ke' is clean of profanity; Indigo doesn't want to provide kids with an excuse to muddy up their vocabularies. (After all, four-year-old son Eli often sings his mom's songs while sitting in the back seat of the car.)
Indigo currently uses her rhymes on tour with Culture Shock Camp, a crew of hip-hop artists headed by her beau, DJ Shock B. Together they travel to Native American reservations across the country, from Oklahoma and Arizona, to northern Minnesota and the Dakotas, rapping and sharing hip hop that has a higher agenda than bragging about bling, hos, and rims.
"We bring the true stuff, the part of hip hop you can't just consume," she said. "We want to show these kids music that brings meaning to your life."