Devin the Dude

Much like Jeff Bridges’ character in The Big Lebowski, except a little more animated and intelligent, Devin the Dude is the-not-give-a-fuck type who doesn’t let the stress in life cramp his vibe or ruin his high. You might catch him suited up, but most likely he’ll be in a T-shirt and jeans, eyes lowered with a smile on his face. With the game of a pimp and heart of a gentleman the Houston, TX, via St. Petersburg, FL, rapper has built a career chronicling his life and the pursuit of happiness, be it music, females or weed. His work with legends like Dr. Dre, De La Soul and Too $hort often overshadows a decade-plus string of three classic solo albums and group projects with the Odd Squad and Facemob, but Devin feels blessed to be alive and doing it. Humbled and sincere, spiritual and internationally respected only begin to describe one of hip-hop’s unsung heroes.

    In the hours leading up to a rare Bay Area performance, we caught up with Devin at the upscale Clift Hotel in San Francisco. As we waited in the lobby, plush with ostrich skin couches framed with elephant tusks and oversized chairs draped in furs, it became obvious we didn’t make up the regular clientele. Elder patrons glared with snobbery, and young men unwilling to lend their ladies for a picture with Devin swiftly led them away as curiosity turned to giggles.

    While we waited for Devin’s suite to open, with a little persuasion, we were granted a temporary room. Within minutes of arrival, Devin gutted and filled the first Swisher quicker than it takes to recite the alphabet, while taking drags off a Benson and Hedges cigarette. It was a trend that would continue for the next couple hours over tall cans, discussing everything from the culture of Texas marching bands, to the chopping and screwing of R. Kelly music, down to the plight of ditch jumpers (Texas slang for eager girls who have to jump over ditches—because of the absence of sidewalks in parts of Texas—to hop in your car).

    As each blunt burned to ash, my social skills receded closer to that of a mime. Mind you we hadn’t started the “interview” yet, so by the time Devin’s suite was ready, I almost forgot what I was supposed to be doing.

    Of course the new room had to be christened, and with the flick of the lighter, the stories unfolded. “I was quiet as a kid,” Devin said. “A lot of brothers, one sister, and we were a musical family. My grandma had me in church a couple nights a week, and I kept falling asleep, and she would say ‘boy get up!’ So to make sure I didn’t fall asleep she made me join the choir. I had one solo that I sang every now and then called ‘So Many Times.’”

    Reflecting on his early days with his group the Odd Squad, Devin recalled, “We didn’t have a name for the group for the first 15 songs that we recorded. One day I was with my older brother, and we were driving. We saw a couple fine girls walking, and along with them was a big tall girl and a short fat one, and my brother said, ‘Oh look, it’s the odd squad.’ But I remembered that, so I said what about the Odd Squad, ‘cause all our styles were different, and to be odd was to be yourself back then, because at that time everyone was like ‘I’m 24 Caliber’ and all these kinds of names. With the Odd Squad, we were just being ourselves, getting high, freestyling, just for the love of hip-hop.”



    The group that would become the Odd Squad started to come together around ‘91 when Devin met Rob Quest, aka Blind Rob, at a talent show. “I was amazed by his programming, and he was amazed by how I rhymed. We started collaborating and I was helping him, and he was helping me—just up all night, every night. I was reading the book telling him how to hit the buttons and all that.”

    Around the same time, before the rap thing really took off, Devin found an influential figure in an unsuspecting way. “I used to work at a grocery store, and there was this guy with big dreads that used to come through my line all the time and buy Backwoods,” he said. “I never said nothing to him, I would just take ‘em and scan ‘em. One time I just decided just to fuck with him, so I was like, ‘Hey Rasta, mon. What’s happening, mon?’ He says, ‘Aww, ain’t shit

man. I’m just in here just chillin’, just getting some Backwoods, trying to get my shit together.’ But he was real cool, he had ethics and the way he did things, he was all Rasta. You had to take your shoes off when you came into his house, then you’d just inhale all kinds of weed, and then before you leave you have a prayer. Jacob man, he was real influential in that point of my career because we were starting to rap, and he wanted us to do good.”

    Conversation switched up as talk turned to the effects Hurricane Katrina had on Houston. Things took another turn when Devin brought up Hurricane Alicia, a less devastating hurricane that hit Houston in 1983. “Our whole pool was covered with dead birds,” he said. “That’s some shit when birds can’t get away from a hurricane. A lot of animals have a good sense of weather, but not all of them. I had a lot of strong feelings about birds after that. For real my feathered friends man, I’m gonna donate something for y’all.”

    From there things got even more off the wall.

    “I got one of those hummingbird feeders, and it’s cool to see them come eat that shit, but then they start fighting. But you can’t fuck with the blue jays. Cardinals don’t even fuck with blue jays. Cardinals come by and fuck with the hummingbirds, but blue jays will come through and clear the whole scene. I got squirrel feeders too. Squirrels, them motherfuckers are ill, though. They get into anything. They fuck with each other for like 15 to 20 minutes strong, just chase each other around a tree. I’m thinking is it that serious? It must be over plenty nuts or something for them to be fucking with each other for that long. And you don’t see no girl squirrel around. I know there gotta be one slick squirrel around there, who gonna creep up while they’re fighting.”



    With five roaches in the lip of a tall can, it was only a few hours before show time, and time to part ways. Later that night as the line of fans covered the face of the building, Devin rolled through the front door, no bodyguards, with the same clothes on, looking happy to be alive. His life isn’t exaggerated or glamorized on records, and people recognize that and love him for it. 

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