King of Rock ’n’ B

Often, it seems, extraordinary things come from ordinary circumstances.

As Kip Blackshire recalls the May 1999 encounter, he'd been singing to himself in a restroom at Paisley Park. Later in the day, he was in one of the rehearsal spaces, and, he says, “Prince walked up [to me] and said, ‘I heard you [singing]. Why don’t you come on the stage and let’s see if you can sing for real.’ Prince opened up his lyric book to ‘Little Red Corvette’ and reached into a guitar solo. I looked at [Prince’s keyboardist] Morris Hayes, and, he said, ‘Just go to church.’ I let ’em have it. Then Prince said, ‘OK, stop. I gotta bring you into the studio. I have a song I need you to get on.’ That’s how I got the gig.”

Paisley Park last summer, on the pop star’s Grammy-winning album, and at his post-Grammies party this spring.

Today, Blackshire is his own frontman as a solo R & B singer. In August, he releases his second album, The Eleventh Hour, and leaves for his second solo European tour, which will include England.

How Blackshire got to Paisley Park in the first place is a simple story of talent and a little bit of luck. In 1980, when he was four, he started singing with his older brothers, DuJuan and Johnnie, who were five and six years old, respectively. “I come from four generations of gospel singers,” says Blackshire. “We were pretty much made to sing gospel, because our grandmother wasn’t going to take no for an answer.” For years, the brothers sang regularly in the New Testament Holiness Church in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, where their grandmother was the pastor.

By 1999, the brothers had named their group “Blackshire” and signed with a small R & B label in Houston. When the label tanked, they called on Morris Hayes, an old family friend from church—and Prince’s keyboardist. He listened to their demo and asked who produced it. “I [told him] I did,” says Kip, “and he said, ‘Well, then, you’re the one I need to deal with.’” He invited Kip to the Twin Cities. “It was like removing my limb,” Kip says of leaving his brothers.

After arriving in the Twin Cities, Blackshire, under Prince’s guidance, was turned on to a whole new world of music—work by musicians such as Stevie Wonder and Donny Hathaway. “Growing up, I was restricted to listening to gospel music,” says Blackshire, now twenty-nine. “The moment I heard this rock and funk stuff, my mind just went to work. I had a chance to grow.”

As Blackshire developed his own R & B sound, mixing it with rock and funk, he sang and toured with NPG and put in time as lead vocalist for the Fonky Baldheads, the Minneapolis-based funk group led by NPG drummer Kirk Johnson. “They were very instrumental in helping me grow into what I am now,” says Blackshire. “I learned a lot from Kirk. He taught me about using the stage and [giving] a high level of performance. And he introduced me to the edge. He put some fatback on my sound. That’s what we call him ‘Fatback Black’ Johnson.”

In 2002, Blackshire decided to go solo. “It was the hardest decision musically that I’ve ever had to make, because I was always a follower,” he says. “I always followed my brothers’ lead, simply because I didn’t have any confidence to step out on my own. What would be my sound? What would make me different from Jodeci or Boyz II Men? I didn’t see myself as [a typical] R & B vocalist, so I had to come up with a new sound. Working with all these people helped me find [my sound]. Finally, I just gave it a try. And here I am.”

His debut CD, Kip Blackshire, which was released in 2004, is a strong foray into fresh musical territory—rock-infused R & B that a German fan dubbed “rock ’n’ b”—and reveals his gift for imaginative chord changes and engaging melodies. The rock influence makes for an eclectic quality, which opens him up to include driving funk, good old-fashioned fatback soul, a judicious taste of hip-hop, and searing ballads. It’s all anchored by an urgent sensuality borne of his deep gospel roots.

According to Todd Fitzgerald, owner of Winterland Studios (formerly Echo Bay), where Blackshire mixed and mastered the CD, “Kip is very meticulous. He wanted things a certain way. He had a vision for how he wanted the songs to sound.” Like his famous mentor (who was not available for comment), Blackshire is a multi-instrumentalist—bad to the bone on keyboards, guitar, and bass guitar—and he put those talents to use on his debut album.

“Not many artists are able to do all of those things,” says Fitzgerald. “Kip [can]. And does them all well.”

Larry Graham—who was the original Sly and the Family Stone bassist, topped the charts as a solo artist with the soul ballads “One in a Million You” and “Just Be My Lady,” and leads the seminal funk band Graham Central Station—was onstage that May day with Prince and Hayes and has since worked extensively with Blackshire. Of the young artist, Graham says, “He’s an excellent singer and performer, and he’s been exposed to the right elements. Since he’s been in the Minneapolis scene, he’s had good experience [including a nine-month stint as a regular at Bunkers]. He’s going in the right direction. I think he’ll find a lot of people will respond to his positive music. It’s music you can listen to with the whole family, even the kids.”

On Kip Blackshire, despite a risqué line or two from guest hip-hopper Chris Stylz about protruding posteriors, the sensibility indeed is family-friendly. The album has none of the numbing vulgarity, glorified gunplay, or misogyny of rap (“I try to make music so I don’t have to be ashamed of my mama coming to the concert,” says Blackshire). In addition, Blackshire’s lyricists Zoe Laplaca and Wade Linkert eschew the let-me-talk-some-holes-in-your-clothes crassness that prevails in the R & B market. For instance, the album’s opening cut, “As It Falls,” laces lines such as “an ocean full of sickness,” “swimming through the sadness,” and “watching waves of anger splash their salt inside my open wounds” over a melancholy melody.

“He’s still developing himself, and he’s starting with a positive vibe,” says Johnson. “He sets himself apart from your everyday R & B artists on the radio. The first thing that stands out is his vocal style, which I was looking for when I was putting the Fonky Baldheads together. He also has a unique writing style.”

In March, Blackshire did a nine-day tour of France and Germany and took the club scene by storm, with sellout crowds and lines stretching for blocks in Paris. To be sure, catching Blackshire live is an exciting experience. Reminiscent of the late soul great Marvin Gaye, he’s a handsome, pantherlike powerhouse, exuding earthen grace. “It’s one thing to be a singer,” says Graham. “It’s another to be a performer and be able to entertain an audience from the stage. Being around [and observing] other entertainers, I think, has helped Kip quite a bit.”

“It was a blast,” Blackshire says of his spring tour. “Lots of promotions. Every piece of merchandise I took over there sold out. T-shirts, CDs, DVDs . . . they ate them up.”

For the time being, however, Europe’s gain is the United States’ loss.

Though Blackshire is a superior talent with marketability to burn, two CDs to prove it, and a large and growing fan base in Europe, he’s a virtual unknown in the United States. He doesn’t fit like an interchangeable cog into the U.S. music industry’s machinery. He’s black—but doesn’t do rap, hip-hop, or R & B pop (“I’m singing R & B, but it has a rock edge on it,” he says. “People have to put a classification on something in order to market it or even understand it”). The stranglehold of the airwaves by conglomerates such as Clear Channel Entertainment, which owns more than 1,200 radio stations and has produced tours for such superstars as Janet Jackson, Aerosmith, Pearl Jam, Madonna, and ’N Sync, makes it nearly impossible for independent musicians to get playing time. “There’s a system here,” says Blackshire, “and [it] has basically been devised so we independent musicians fail. It’s tight knit. There’s lots of talent in Minnesota alone that should be huge.”

Another challenge Blackshire faces is corporate execs’ refusal to sign artists unless they fit a mold that’s guaranteed to make money. “A lot of the labels say things like, ‘Your style is not something we can take on and sell right now,’” says Blackshire. What they mean is that the music won’t make a quick return for the company. “I could’ve signed a record deal already,” he says, “but I wouldn’t [compromise]. That’s not what I want. I always thought making a record is [about recording] somebody who’s worthy of being recorded.” 

Blackshire is hardly the first American musician who’s had to breakthrough on foreign shores. Europe has a history of embracing that which our recording industry ignores. And, to this day, jazz and blues artists make a much better living in Europe than they do here.

Had the gig with Prince in 1999 amounted to no more than working as a sideman for a living, Blackshire would not be in bad shape. Plenty of nonstars make good money and, of course, playing with Prince is a credit that would lead to plenty of session work. It’s a rarity for an artist just getting out of the gate, as Blackshire is, to have produced two CDs. But considering the company he keeps, it’s not surprising—and just a taste of what’s to come from this fledgling phenomenon.