I Used to Pray for Times Like This, to Rhyme Like This: Meek Mill Comes Home to Philadelphia

Meek Mill tha gawd. Photos by Rocco Avallone.

There was a point last night, in the midst of Meek Mill’s homecoming concert at Wells Fargo Center in Philadelphia—a venue that, by the way, holds just shy of 20,000 people—when Allen Iverson walked out on stage. He didn’t do anything. And either did Meek. They both just stood there, stoically, looking out over the crowd. Or maybe a better word to use there is kingdom. Two gods. One city. And that city is Philadelphia.

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There isn’t much in this town. I’m not a resident, and I’ve only visited a handful of times, but that’s the first thing anyone who calls Philadelphia home will tell you. “We don’t have a lot,” they’ll say. “But what we have is pride.” There’s a feeling you get riding through the streets, whether it’s taking a walk past some old shit Benjamin Franklin touched in Center City, or if you’re running up the steps of the art museum simply for a funny Rocky photo you can share on social networks, or if you end up at a strange party in West Philadelphia where all you can do is make jokes about Will Smith and being born and raised. But who cares? That’s what Philly is. Scrappy pride. And that’s what Meek Mill’s music is all about.

Continued below.

Meek Mill doesn’t tour arenas. His debut record Dreams and Nightmares in 2012—one of the most honest, hard, and driven rap records in recent memory—released just shortly after Kendrick Lamar’s good kid, M.A.A.D. City and, unfairly, ended up being one of the more overshadowed albums of that year. In the eyes of the general public without knowledge of who Meek is and what he means to the rap world, it’s something you could probably consider a flop—or if you’re a general consumer of music, it’s something you might just assume was a standard run of the mill rap album. But Dreams and Nightmares sold just shy of 400,000 copies. Take pause with that number for moment. That’s essentially the equivalent of going platinum in an era of when people actually paid for music. And I’m willing to bet a handsome amount of money that you’ll find a majority of those copies sitting on shelves across the city of Philadelphia. Moreover, Meek dropped his mixtaped Dreamchasers 2—which literally crashed DatPiff’s website and remains the most downloaded mixtape on DatPiff’s website by a longhot (4.4 million to Lil Wayne’s Sorry 4 the Wait in second with 2.8 million). And his previous mixtape, Dreamchasers, is considered by many to be his best project. It should be noted, too, that the breakout hit for Meek was the intro the Dreams and Nightmares, which is pretty much the opposite of what anyone would consider a rap single because it’s just him rapping over a piano, yet it’s able to—still to this day—absolutely tear up the club. Meek has basically become a superstar rapper by doing everything that superstar rappers supposedly don’t do (selling albums, having a crossover single, and avoiding jail).

What I’m getting at is that Meek Mill is so Philly it both helps and hurts him, which could arguably be a metaphor for the city’s culture itself. It’s a town that, because of its economic and social situation, provides so much opportunity for young aspiring artists of all kinds, yet once those artists reach a certain threshold, they’re so caught up on paying it back to where they’ve come from that they don’t know where or how to move forward.

Allen Iverson and Meek Mill

But Meek is moving forward. He’s taking this mentality of Philadelphia, an approach to life driven by working class struggle to make ends meet, and putting it at the forefront of rap music, demanding your attention. And this is what makes him so special. Last night’s homecoming show—a celebration for his return to real life after a stint in prison that lasted almost a year—was all about showing how you can represent your culture and at the same time make other people care about it. On top of Iverson coming out and standing like a reincarnation of Jesus Christ, here are a bunch of other people who walked out on stage in support: Rick Ross, Yo Gotti, French Montana, Fabolous, Young Jeezy, DJ Drama, DJ Khaled, Lil Durk (!!!), and probably other important folks I forgot to take note of. In one night over a two-hour period, Meek Mill pounded on his chest in front of twenty thousand people—and whoever decided to watch the live stream on Revolt TV—and essentially told us why his culture matters, why we should pay attention, and brought out co-signers from across the country to reinforce his message. “We used to sell crack,” he told the crowd at one point. “But now we sell sneakers.”

The pinnacle moment of the night came near the end of the show, when he performed “Dreams and Nightmares.” Shortly before, he told the crowd to hold up lights if they’d lost someone. People put their phones to the sky, lighting up the entire arena, feeling united with Meek. It was touching, because there we were, thousands of us brought together under the flag of Meek Mill, paying tribute to everyone we cared about who was no longer in our lives. But Meek Mill was in our lives. For every resident of this city, of Philadelphia—the “sixth borough,” the home of the most hated team in football, the “armpit of the east coast” (even though that’s obviously New Jersey), America’s favorite punch line—the residents and their god could take two fingers and throw them up at the world, letting them know that they don’t give a shit about you, your jokes, or what you think you know about their city. Yesterday, the Philadelphia police department seized dozens of ATVs and dirt bikes from the streets. In the process, they arrested four people. It’s because the city, on its own, in celebration of the return of Meek, decided to have a “ride out.” As far as I know, Meek didn’t call for this to happen. It just happened. That’s what happens when you’re a god of your city. Last night, all that mattered was Meek. All that mattered was the moment. All that mattered was Philadelphia. “How you date Nicki Minaj?” he asked the crowd at one point. “Well, you a Philly nigga.”

Eric Sundermann did it without an album. He’s on Twitter.

All photos by Rocco Avallone.