“Why they want to pin a felly on me? I ain’t did nothing.”
Bobby Shmurda, Wash The Case Away
If you didn’t know Bobby Shmurda by name, you knew him by voice. In his 2014 breakout single, “Hot N**** (Hot Boy),” Shmurda proudly declared he had “been selling crack like since the 5th grade.” Shmurda’s song hit #6 on the Billboard Hot 100, despite being called “anti-melodic” by a New York Times critic. Its music video, filmed in Shmurda’s home in Brooklyn, took the internet and charts by storm. Like Faulkner’s writing, Shmurda’s songs felt like a singular stream of consciousness, thoroughly breaking with hook-heavy songs that were mainstays on the charts.
But why do I write about Shmurda in the past tense? After all, a LinkedIn profile under his name shows that he’s graduating from Harvard in 2026. But as quickly as he rocketed to fame, problems emerged. Shmurda spent the past seven years in prison, and was released on February 23rd, 2021, on the condition of serving the rest of his sentence under parole supervision.
To know Shmurda now, you must know his story. In 2012, after signing a multi-million dollar record deal with Epic Records, Shmurda formed the label GS9. Both his audition tape for the record label and the formation of his own label tell the story of racism and greed: Shmurda’s fame drew the attention of powerful people who wanted their slice of the pie.
The leaked tape of Shmurda’s audition is mesmerizing and horrific, like a car crash you can’t peel your eyes off of, or a scene in the film “Get Out.” A black man dances in front of an almost all-white audience. He delivers an all-time great performance, but is rewarded by nods of recording executives who, with blank faces, have no idea the greatness they are witnessing. It’s tragic because the setting forces Shmurda to become the minstrel despite his true rule of the bard. The 808 bumping, chain-flying, hat-spinning, and table-jumping secure Shmurda his record deal, but the cost is confinement in a box of profitability. Like Io, Shmurda was transformed into a heifer to be milked by the global recording industry.
The deal with Epic Records allowed Shmurda to start his label, GS9. Problems rose to the surface immediately, for GS9 is an acronym already used by the street fraternity “G Stone Crips.” It seems here that the paradox of Shmurda’s music rears its head: he is a rapper, but his specific sub-genre is clearly drill—a music style originating in Chicago that spread to poor urban centers across the world and grew distinctive roots in New York. Drill rappers reject the veneer of glamour imposed by mainstream hip-hop, and instead address the reality of their experiences. That’s why listening to drill from different cities reveals the truth of subjugated existence better than any book or documentary. Shmurda’s music appeals to his audience because it shouldn’t be anything but the truth.
As a listener of his songs, I believe in the truths they convey. I believe Shmurda’s father was a victim of rigged New York City courts; I believe Shmurda sold crack in the Flatbush; I believe Shmurda has killed; and so, I believe his music contains some unique sublime truth inaccessible to me. The NYPD believes Shmurda. They proceed to indict him on 69 counts including “charges of Conspiracy and substantive charges of Murder, Attempted Murder, Assault, Attempted Assault, Weapons Possession, Criminal Use of a Firearm, Reckless Endangerment, Narcotics Sales and Criminally Using Drug Paraphernalia.”
Shmurda’s label acquired the best defense team, led by Alex Spiro, Harvard Law ’08. Mr. Spiro explained to me that Shmurda’s case represented a broader flaw in the judicial system: “young people are not treated fairly by the criminal justice system. That is particularly the case for people in Bobby’s circumstances.” Despite the money and the fame, the courts used tactics against Shmurda that are used against thousands of potentially innocent (and typically Black and Brown) Americans every year: denying bail. The unfair hand of justice affects the pre-trial rights of the accused, making it hard to properly prepare for trial and giving prosecutors leverage when constructing plea deals. Prosecutors used this leverage to force Shmurda to concede and prevent the case from going to trial.
Spiro returned to Shmurda’s music. “I didn’t think it was fair that some of his words were being used against him,” he said. When I asked about this unfairness, Spiro intimated that Shmurda’s words were “hyperbolic for entertainment and not based in reality.” But as our conversation continued, his tone flipped. Instead of implying Shmurda’s music was fictional, Spiro began to justify it: “I think people should be able to use their creative energy and let it out any way they want,” he said. “Kids in the intercity are often without parents, often without dads, and need outlets. If music provides that outlet, I think it should be encouraged, not criminalized.” These questions of aesthetics and creativity transcend legal questions of guilt. If Shmurda was exaggerating, his music is worthless, but if he was telling the truth, he is a criminal.
Regardless, Shmurda took a deal and served a seven-year sentence. He was freed last week. Now the legend of the inventor of the “Shmoney” dance can continue. While the world awaits a full-length project, Shmurda’s path to now is important for the next generation of artists, for he blazed a trail that many others will walk. The most coveted throne in the rap game—“The King of New York”—was once Shmurda’s, and now it’s up for grabs. Will the next King learn the tragic history of the throne and avoid its traps?
The King is dead, the King is returned, long live the King. His loyal subjects await.
Noah Tavares ’24 (noahtavares@college.harvard.edu) is not a construction worker, but he likes drill.