Before it was culture, before it was capital, before anybody tried to own the south. There was the park, no headlines, no flyer, just a beat echoing off the playground fence, and a crowd moving like the beef owes them money. The speakers held the block hostile, the wires sizzled like summer beef, and the turntables sweating harder than the hustlers in the crowd. The girls came dipped in gold hoops and don't touch me confidence. The fellows leaned on trees like they grew, their fresh fades, silent stares and outfits with no wrinkles or mercy. It smelled like barbeque smoke, cocoa, butter and competition. Nobody came to step. They came. How to get clocked to poke a stunt to be etched into somebody's memory. And when that one record dropped that one record, everybody swore they wouldn't dance to The whole part moved like they rehearsed it in a dream. Backspin chronicles the park jail, where the music didn't fade out, followed you home or your nameplate, and dared you to forget it. Share, Believe, inspire blacks, be.