In 2003, I moved from my miserable basement apartment on 26th and Cherry in the Central District to a slightly less miserable basement apartment on 13th and Republican on Capitol Hill. That week, I read in The Stranger's then–hiphop column The Truth (written by one Sam Chesneau) that there was a new hiphop night at the old Breakroom on 13th and Madison, now called Chop Suey. Troublingly done up in a faux-Chinese pastiche, red-lit, and allegedly selling $40 microwavable meals to gullible drunks, Chop became a second home during an exciting time in my life and in the life of Seattle's rap scene.

I wasn't at the first night of Yo, Son! but I was at the second. The trademark "Low Class Hiphop, Turntablism & Bad Taste" was like nothing that had come before it—except maybe a backwater micro version of the old New York Mudd Club scene where Grandmaster Flash and Russell Rush partied and politicked with Madonna and the Clash. As far as I saw, it was the first time that the hiphop contingent and the city's rock 'n' roll power structure meaningfully intersected to drink and debauch. Shouts must go out to Marcus Lalario and Kerri Harrop—and DJs Scene, DV-One, and Soul One, and host Nightclubber Lang. I made a lot of friends there—I'll always remember the Designated Dunn section, and I'll always remember meeting the Oldominion cats for the first time. Ol-D (buyers, or acceptors, of many Old Crow shots) were definitely the first rap cats outside my small circle to treat me like a human, which is the sort of thing you always remember. Over the years, even as of this writing: Chop Suey's bartenders, bookers, sound folks, and security also always treated me (and my various groups) like a human, which I'll never forget.

There were too many classic rap shows there. Among my favorites was KRS-One, who'd legendarily snubbed Seattle a million times by then; it was sweltering at Kris's insistence, too—he allegedly always asks that they turn the heat up when he plays a club. (How many times did sweat-steam drip on you from the ceiling there?) The place incubated a new local rap generation. I'll always remember Marc Matsui outside, inducing cats to fill out the Seattle Weekly "Best Of" ballots for the Blue Scholars. A billion Cancer Rising shows (later, Don't Talk to the Cops! shows), opening for Guru, getting roasted in the Brainstorm 3 prelims. The local-bill roulette: Who are we playing with this week, Common Market, Dyme Def, Grayskul, or Macklemore? The sound issues, and the shooting, especially, that dissipated hiphop's presence there.

In the last few years, Chop was the place I went to when I wanted to escape the rap grind—seeing a garage/punk show there, such as the recent Shannon and the Clams show, had been a glorious steam-valve I could count on. I could cry about what's happening in our city and our world, and I often do, but right now I'd rather remember the good times. Shout-out to Hisato and Jodi. Peace out, Chop.