Should you ever doubt the corrosive racism and cruelty at the center of the system that Nipsey Hussle was rebelling against, consider the case of Kerry Lathan. He was the 56-year old friend of the deceased, who was also shot on Crenshaw and Slauson, and who is now behind bars for violating his parole. His “parole violation” reportedly meant going with Nipsey to the Marathon store so that the latter could buy him new clothes, a necessity after being freshly released from serving 25 years in the penitentiary. The generosity cost Nipsey his life and Lathan his freedom. He’s back in L.A. County jail, confined to a wheelchair.

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This is who Nipsey represented in every bar and interview, every investment and strategic gambit. It’s why his death shook the city — but especially the neighborhoods south of the 10 Freeway — to their foundation. He wasn’t the only voice, but he was arguably the most clarion, crystalline in his vision, shrewd and compassionate in his execution. An inspiration to skeptics, a correction to doubters, evidence against all odds that the dream need not die. Then, gone. In front of the store that was the heart of his creative inception and ascent.

Hussle’s tragic demise refocused attention on the city’s southern land, its sects and secular traditions, the subtle depth of its underground culture and its capacity for violence — the latter of which often tragically overshadows the former. So if you’re trying to read about the blistering crossroads power of YG’s legendary Coachella set, you might get sidetracked by the headlines that fixate on the shots fired at his after-party in the early hours of Monday morning. No one was reportedly hurt, but TMZ doesn’t care about that, nor do the peroxide crypt-keepers at Fox News who laugh at songs like “FDT (Fuck Donald Trump),” scoffing at its blood simple efficacy in their neo-Klan code language.

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After all, this nation has never handled nuance well. In the case of gangsta rap, the media historically stresses the cynical marketing points: the primary colors violence and vulgarity, the petty squabbles, and internecine feuds. It rarely highlights the deep cuts that examine the consequences, explain the circumstances that led to these life choices, and the tumorous regrets inherent. If a big enough rapper beefs on IG, your grandma will wind up asking you about it. But few outlets rush to cover the Thanksgiving Turkey drives or Christmas bike giveaways, or the artist’s umbilical connection to the historically disenfranchised and dispossessed communities that raised them. Jay said it best over two decades ago: “I'm from where the hammer's rung, news cameras never come.”

When YG took the stage at Coachella, a matter of hours after his close collaborator and friend was laid to final rest, it wasn’t a question of whether he’d pay tribute, but a matter of what form it would take. In various permutations, a viral tweet disseminated last week cautioned: there’s a Nipsey in every major city that you’re ignoring. There’s a seed of truth to that – chiefly that the media, usually based in New York, gutted by corporate greed, and usually low on resources or oblivious to covering hyper-local concerns, overlooks regional rap legends in favor of quick-hit blog posts on which snow-cone flavor Kanye dyed his hair this week. Or the blow-dried and botoxed sentient teleprompters of local news who scarcely cover inner-city concerns unless they can exploit a scene with yellow tape and a chalk outline.

Of course, there could only be one Nipsey because there could never be two of anyone worth revering. If Nipsey was sonically molded in the tradition of classic West Coast gangsta rap, he was an original personality, a spiritually and ancestrally attuned, biblically bearded Rollin 60s computer nerd who could rap with ballistic force, and balance capitalist savvy with philanthropic compassion. His closest peer was YG, not because they sounded alike, but because they were cut from different colors of the same cloth. For the last decade, YG and Nipsey grew up in the public eye, transforming themselves from super raw children of the struggle to symbols of aspiration, entrepreneurs, and avatars for the city itself. If neither got the national respect they fully deserve, they’ve been L.A. living legends since the last Lakers championship.

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Still, no matter what the radius clause dictates, Coachella isn’t LA. Depending on where you stand, it can be a cross-section of some of the city’s worst stereotypes. Transplant influencers turning the Ferris Wheel into a backdrop for duck-faced flexing. Industry glad-handers in the all-access section loudly squawking about how this year’s excuse-to-do molly EDM DJ du jour is a genius for mixing “Old Town Road” into Kid Rock’s “Cowboy.” But for an hour on Sunday night, YG turned the Sahara Tent — a terrordome where souls go to die — into one of the most poignant, life-affirming musical tributes I’ve ever seen. A validation of the blunt power of place and identity, resistance and cultural legacy, a radical declaration of unity amidst stark differences in a place a galaxy away from Crenshaw or Rosecrans.

There was Nipsey, invincible in old video clips booming on the jumbo screen. Nipsey and YG in a photo snapped on the set of the “Bitches Ain’t Shit” video — 2011 — looking eerily like a young Snoop and 2Pac, and now, just like that original iconic L.A. duo, only one remains to carry the weight. Nipsey doing radio interviews and testifying to the value of owning assets, pledging to take care of his people. Footage of spontaneous memorial tributes in Detroit and St. Louis, Columbus and Harlem, Washington D.C. and Houston and Ethiopia. It gave way to his body levitating into a bed of clouds and a winged, beatific, and white bandanna’d 2Pac angel bestowing Nipsey with wings. It dissipated into final words from Nipsey himself, offering encouragement to keep working hard, believe in yourself, keep your heart pure, stay inspired, and love your people.

What may seem maudlin when read on an iPhone screen is actually real life; that’s what gives Nipsey and YG’s music such sizzling voltage. As it stands, there’s an alternate reality where YG isn’t still breathing. He could’ve been murdered in a 2015 shooting outside his studio in upscale Studio City of all places — the enemy had obviously been tracking his movements. YG survived to drive himself to the hospital. The cops described him as being “very uncooperative.” So don’t mistake any of this for cartoonish hedonism and violence created for suburban consumption; these are sectional anthems for the block first, then the city, the coast, and then everywhere else. And if you don’t understand, then go listen to YG’s “Don’t Come to LA.”