This article originally appeared on MUNCHIES Mexico.
The grill spits tongues of fire up towards the sky, while smaller flames spark in a bonfire made with charcoal briquettes. Suddenly a gust of wind hits them, and they start to move from one side to the other—almost as if they were moving to the beat of the rap that escapes from a little speaker near the grill, music that makes the conversation even more pleasant. It’s time to put the meat on. But this isn’t a simple meal among friends: It’s a celebration with the crew, those who are united in a brotherhood by their love of rhyme, urban clothing, design, and the mix of beats and hip-hop. It’s the anniversary of Never Die Gang, the Mexican rap collective.
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The family party is taking place on a rooftop out near La Viga, in Mexico City. It’s the culmination of three decades dedicated to beer and music. It’s a celebration upon celebrations, and it has to be done. Eight years ago—or more—the members of Never Die weren’t anything special; just hustlers who rapped wherever they could, a bunch of country guys fresh from northern Mexico who sold their designs on the street or outside the Insurgentes metro station, and dreamed of making it big. Today, Eptos Uno, one of the leaders of the group, has already made a name for himself in the music industry big leagues. Universal signed him for Hacer Historia (“Make History”), the same name of his first album with Transnacional; the other leader, Emecenas (or Eme, as his close friends call him), is a hustler and entrepreneur. He directs the brand and the Never Die Gang clothing label, which outfits a solid number of the Mexico City-based group and is located on one of the main drags of the city’s historic center.
Dee, whose project Hood P breathed life into the Mexican rap scene, arrived at the house before the rest of the crew. I can see him in the kitchen prepping some salsas. Today, he’s swapped his usual attire of baggy, black clothes along with the bling around his neck for a t-shirt and turquoise Bermuda shorts. The only thing he’s sporting from his usual hip-hop outfit is his hair—so short and square in the front that it reminds me of those Roman emperors from the movies. If you saw him on the street, you’d never suspect he’s an MC; he doesn’t even have any tattoos (not any that are visible, at least).
Tomatillos and tomatoes for the salsa.
Dee blisters tomatillos, tomatoes, onions, garlic, Serrano chiles, and arbol chiles in a frying pan. Afterwards, he purées all the ingredients in the blender and seasons the mixture with more garlic and table salt. He calls it salsa campechana (“folk salsa,” in English); his girlfriend calls it la campeches. She cracks open a beer, helps him with this and that, and tries what he’s cooking. “How’d the other salsa turn out, Ma?” he asks.
The girl dips a chip into a little cup containing a coffee-colored paste that looks like an adobo. As she tries it, she opens her eyes and nods her head up and down. The mix of onion, garlic, and chile has her convinced. “It turned out really good, Pa.”
Serrano chiles and white onion.
Chiles and grilled onions for the salsa.
All of the ingredients in the blender.
“I asked who was going to bring the salsas and they told me ‘nobody’. And I don’t want us to put salsa from the tortilla shop on the meat,” Dee says, wrinkling his face in disgust. “Better that I do it. I like to cook.” I try his adobo. It has a good flavor: It’s not overly spicy, but the chile is definitely there. Suddenly, it bites back, and that same chile descends with a fury in my mouth a few seconds later before fading away. I like the sensation and want to try it on the meat.
Dee preparing the salsas for the grilled meat.
A little later, Uno arrives with the rapper Dafonk James and three other people. We go up to the roof to start grilling. Uno’s distinct presence isn’t just because he’s 6 feet tall; there’s a certain energy in his eyes, like he’s constantly prompting a challenge. His gait is strange: He balances his body from one side to the other as he walks, like he’s moving to the rhythm of some inaudible beat, almost as if his body raps without him telling it to do so. His face is serious—he doesn’t smile, and if he does, it only lasts a few moments. This characteristic drew the attention of someone in the crowd when he won the 2007 Batalla de Gallos. “Cheer up, asshole, you won already!” But Uno only made a little movement with his lips.
Emecenas and the other members of the collective show up with pounds of flank and sirloin steak. The big guy smiles the whole time, cracks jokes about his weight and talks in staccato. Uno and Emecenas are both from the Mexican state of Sonora—Uno from the city of Obregón, and Emecenas from Hermosillo, the region’s capital—and they have a certain charm and simplicity to their mannerisms. Both are also leaders. If Uno has the talent of improvising rhymes, Emecenas has the gift of business; he knows how to sell a product and how to make money. He’s a smart guy: He looks at what he’s working with and determines how to use it to reach his goals. That’s how he takes advantage of his “ 200 kilos en el micro,” (“200 kilograms on the microphone”) as he describes himself on his Facebook page, to sell his t-shirts. He never goes unnoticed, and it’s never long before someone inquires as to where he got that cool t-shirt he’s wearing.
Eptos Uno pours beer on the meat to give it flavor.
Emecenas takes a few bills out of his pants pocket. He’s craving avocados, even though they’re approximately 60 pesos by the kilo (roughly $3.25 USD). “I couldn’t eat this morning. I ate two tacos but they didn’t cut it,” he says to me as he gives the cash to three of his buddies, who are about to head to the Jamaica market to pick up guacamole fixings and beers for micheladas. “We’ve been drinking for three days.” He smiles. We toast, him with beer, and me with mezcal. “In Sonora, the bacanora [a local liquor made of agave], is stronger than mezcal. It’s one of the drinks that’s still made artisanally,” Emecenas tells me, adding, “You’ve gotta respect it.”
“Same with the mezcal,” I reply, pouring a big drink into my small glass.
Meanwhile, Uno, joint in hand, takes charge of the grill along with Dafonk James. James doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty, and he forms the charcoal into a cylindrical shape before placing Montezuma pine into the center. He lights the fire. James is also from Obregón, Sonora, and he’s been with Never Die since the beginning. He knows it’s not enough to be friends and part of the collective to stand out: You have to work hard, and he has. Three years ago, he had a problem in Sonora that caused him to disappear from the scene and even from social media—but even then, the Never Die family protected him. Today, in addition to being an MC, he’s also a barber.
Uno and Yoga Fire talking.
The grill is finally ready. Uno and James pick up the metal grate and rub it with a halved onion and a bit of grease. Uno puts the first two cuts of meat down and seasons them with garlic salt. James keeps his eyes trained on the meat the entire time.
Flank steak, cactus paddles, and Cambray onions on the grill.
I decide against helping even though I like barbecues. I prefer to watch. There comes a moment when one must recognize their own weaknesses, and no matter how experienced they consider themselves to be, nobody who was born and raised in Mexico City is going to beat northern Mexicans when it comes to grilling and barbecuing. If these guys know anything, it’s all is there is to know about urban music—partially because of their proximity to the US—and meat.
The meat is ready and the corn tortillas are on the grill.
Once the others return from the Jamaica market, Emecenas takes to the bar, which is on the other side of the grill, and takes the michelada ingredients out of the shopping bags. He takes a disposable cup and slathers it with a generous layer of chamoy, squeezes a lime into the cup, then adds salt, Jugo Maggi (a seasoning sauce), and hot sauce. Lastly, he opens a can of beer and pours it into the mix. The foam rises, but doesn’t overflow from the lip of the cup.
The others prepare our own micheladas right away. Some of us make gomichelas, a michelada with gummy bears (we have strawberry-flavored ones for the occasion).
A cup rimmed with chamoy for micheladas.
James takes a break from his work at the grill for a minute and approaches the bar with the intention of making a michelada. He takes a cup, looks at the tray of ingredients and, for a second, wonders what to put in first. He chooses the Jugo Maggi, it’s only once he’s moved to rim the cup with chamoy that he realizes the order of ingredients is of the utmost importance when making a Mexico City-style michelada. Simply put, it directly affects the end result.
A little beer to season the meat.
One by one, the other Never Die members drizzle beer over the steaks so that they pick up more flavor. When one steak is ready, they cut a piece and offer it to Uno, who shares it with his girl. Then they distribute the pieces amongst the others. The flank steak is soft; no matter how it’s cut, it melts in your mouth. The garlic salt balances out against the strong flavor of the meat.
Emecenas preps the guacamole, which is really more like a variation of pico de gallo with avocado. He dices the onion and cuts the tomato, chile, and avocado into pieces, and mixes them all together. What strikes me most is that he serves it on a slice of cucumber. It’s something that had never occurred to me before, and it’s a great idea for hot days.
A version of guacamole with tomato, onion, and cucumber.
Uno rolls a joint. He’s finished eating and his body demands relaxation. He takes a few puffs and passes it to me. I typically do this in reverse—I like the munchies, and I find that the taste and texture of the food are better after smoking—but now, I take a hit. I relax.
Flank steak tacos with guacamole and cucumber slices.
More guests trickle in. Among them is Yoga Fire, the barber-turned-rapper whose shop was originally located in the Never Die Gang’s storefront. He’s not as thin as he was when he acquired his name, which is an allusion to Dhalsim (a character from the video game Street Fighter), but he still has fire in his mouth every time he sings.
Yoga Fire is an extrovert; he can’t stay still. He moves from side to side as he talks and as he eats. He occasionally falls into rap verse. Whenever he smiles, it’s impossible to miss his silver grills. It’s a curious characteristic: Compared to the gringos, the majority of Mexican rappers don’t wear jewelry, or at least not any that is particularly ostentatious.
At one moment during the party, the whole crew is together drinking and talking at one end of the roof. Nothing disturbs the moment. I understand the verse Uno raps in his song ‘Amsterdam’: “I choose my words like I choose my friends”. Those careful choices and well-considered words brought him to where he is today—they’re words that don’t let him forget where he first got his start, and they’re the reason he trusts his crew. When there’s a problem, everyone pulls their weight; if one person is offended, everyone is offended. And in moments of peace, they eat and drink together like a family.
Rap is like a teacher that transmits messages, and it’s up to the individual listener to understand them. Which is why I move to leave the Never Die gathering. My partner and our child are waiting for me at home.
“My crew’s waiting for me, too.” Yes, my little crew. And so I say good-bye.
