Clyde Guevara Is Using Rap to Grieve His Brother's Death on 'FreeJAH'

A raspy voice rambles over a grainy phone call on FreeJAH’s opener, and even through mumbled words you can make out Jah’s charisma. “The god is still here, I’m still in the game,” he says. This is Jah, Clyde Guevara’s brother, phoning home during his time in prison. Jah sounds optimistic about the time he has left to serve. “This isn’t life I’m fighting here, it’s a couple years I’m fighting.” After surviving a string of incarcerations, including a five-year sentence, Jah and Clyde were ready to move on with their lives upon Jah’s arrival. That all changed when Jah was gunned down in Brooklyn’s Red Hook Houses one month later. Last week, Clyde released FreeJAH on the second anniversary of Jah’s death.

“One of the things my brother told me before he passed is that not everyone is blessed with foresight,” 31-year-old Clyde Guevara says, recalling his brother’s ability to remain hopeful in difficult situations. “He used to tell me he thought if I didn’t make it, he wouldn’t be shit. That was the whole motivation behind the tape.”

FreeJAH is Guevara’s love letter to his brother and a manifesto of the new chapter ahead of him. Across 14 tracks, the Brooklyn-bred rapper doesn’t wallow in grief, he explores it. Guevara staggers between the staccato of New York’s earlier boom bap era on tracks like “Top Illin” and “Distorted Skylines,” while manipulating melodies on “Quick” and “Switch Sides.” He laughs when I ask him if singing came natural to him. He doesn’t consider himself a singer, he’s just doing what feels right. Which can often mean trying to channel Curtis Mayfield and Al Green, singers he listens to in his spare time. The best parts of FreeJAH are autobiographical, like his closer “Clear as Day” that details his relationship with his father and choosing between gang life or hustling. In between his narrative are glimpses of Jah’s voice, with candid interludes that magnify their brotherhood. “I had all the music first, but I went back and got the pieces from my brother because I felt like I had to sprinkle him in.”

Clyde always had an ear for production (he even produces some cuts on FreeJAH), where he crafted beats and hooks for other artists. After looking for retribution for Jah’s killer, which got him banned from the apartment buildings he grew up in, Guevara moved to Los Angeles. “I accomplished more in LA in a year, then I did my whole life in New York.” he says. “It was a clean slate—a relief.” His relocation west is manifested on “Higher Vibrations,” a song about the battle between the person he currently is versus the potential he knows he possesses. “Life’s amazing, far from basic / We stayed patient, now I’m on a higher vibration,” he raps on the hook.

Although LA’s three hour time difference is enough to keep him at arm’s length from his experiences in Brooklyn, the unspoken trauma that comes with living in an inner city still remains with him. He not only lost Jah to gun violence, but an older brother as well, both killed by people they considered friends. “Of course I had my mourning time, but then I just realized how selfish I was being.” Guevara used that time to approach music more aggressively than he had before.

“Distorted Skylines,” is a tribute to his younger brother, as he succumbs to his own harsh opinions—even if it’s borderline selfish. “I know this shit sound foul, but I / Rather him be back in jail then not here / Not to see his child,” he raps. Reminiscing on the being there for Jah’s first steps and ultimately his last breath, his last verse is the most poignant. “Another black woman, had to put her seed in the ground / but only this time around it was you,” he raps. “Nothing happened from that shit besides me loving my brother more and really understanding the power of love,” he says.

The culmination of Jah’s spirit is left on a hidden track on the closer using the audio from an old Facebook Live video from Jah. Rapping along to Clyde’s “Quiet Storm” freestyle, Jah is Guevara’s biggest fan, with admiration on his breath for his older brother. “My brother loved everything I did, I could’ve been a plumber and he would’ve loved it.”

Kristin Corry is a staff writer at Noisey. Follow her on Twitter.