Three weeks ago, my friends staked out Wheeler after our Bio lecture; they were stalking Missy Franklin in NutriSci. Although I still haven’t seen the famous swimmer, I scooted off to GBC to study the science of my growling stomach. Maybe I would have joined the quasi-disturbing festivities last August, but this is May, and Berkeley needs new celebrities. Had gorgeous tortured-artist and sophomore track-and-field star Jared Antonio Jones attended that NutriSci lecture, though, I would have stayed.
Jones is a self-made hip-hop artist who goes by the stage name ProteJay. His music displays relevance, wit and, most characteristically, rhyme that far surpasses the talents of most 19-year-olds. A song takes anywhere from three hours to three weeks to produce, a herculean feat considering his Political Economy and American Studies double major. Says Jones, “If I get inspired enough, I won’t sleep until I’ve put everything in my head someplace where I can work on it later.” Add to that the fact that he started composing a mere seven years ago, and his name takes on some powerful irony. ProteJay doesn’t need anyone to look out for him.
His music amplifies provocative, relevant thoughts that connect with his audience on profound levels. Take the song “Life Changes.” The lyrics punch through you, demanding, “why do I try? I look in the eyes of my own reflection and see my demise. Did it make me a man or did it just make me ashamed to cry?” In another verse, ProteJay proclaims, “Ya I’m black, could you tell? Ya I’m white, who the hell got beef with me? Do tell.”
ProteJay strings together beats to embellish his bold lyrics, occasionally relying on the help of some of his fellow, musically inclined athletes such as Jonte Turner, Chris Harper, and Darius Allensworth. The energetic number “California Grind” captures Jones’ versatility; emotional, reflective lyrics interleave with intoxicating dance beats to create an irresistible cocktail of suffering and triumph.
Jones’s personal history, especially his coming-of-age in a broken home, originally fueled his poetry. He began writing lyrics in 8th grade to cope with the aftermath of his parents’ divorce. Artists, such as Nas, helped inspire what ProteJay calls an “enlightened New York sound.”
As his unique style developed, Jones approached his friends with his early songs. The naturally unassuming artist was stunned by their fierce enthusiasm. “They started shouting my name,” he says of this turning point. “It was the first time in all my life that I felt accepted, visible, and important. It was a way for me to really escape what I felt, and so I chased it with all my being.”
Initially, Jones operated under the moniker MC Karma, only calling himself ProteJay after friend Brett Salazar recommended a more serious name. Opting out of the slick pseudonyms that dominate the music industry, Jones took his new name off a billboard advertisement for the Mazda Protégé. The budding artist altered the spelling to ProteJay, a rendering that reflects himself more directly: “I want people to see me as humble, intelligent, and unique. I feel that the name does a great job of communicating that… at a glance.”
Over the years, Jones has decided to incorporate this hobby and cathartic creative outlet into his career. He also writes lyrics and produces beats for friends and family in the music industry.
At first, I expected this prodigiously talented, ridiculously good-looking gentleman to inspire nothing but envy and self-contempt in his listeners. Perusing Jones’ collection, however, reminded me that although Nobel Laureates teach our classes and although our syllabi draw on a canon of antediluvian DWGs, this is our time. Most bands are formed by twenty-somethings, Hemingway published The Sun Also Rises at twenty-six. Heroes like ProteJay come from us. Maybe the dipstick who pulls a Visa card at noon in the GBC is a secret chess God; maybe your Chem 1A lab partner paints murals. Either way, stand tall Golden Bears! In a few years, we might watch one of our classmates walk home with a Grammy.
