Back in 2011—maybe even earlier—I was searching for something most people don’t think twice about: a nickname. I never really had one growing up, so I went looking for something that actually meant something to me. Something with depth, something bold. Something real.

During that search, I came across a story that stopped me in my tracks. I had been researching female mobsters—just out of curiosity—and I stumbled on the name Stephanie St. Clair, also known as Queenie, Madame Queen, and Madam St. Clair.

Her story moved me instantly.

Stephanie St. Clair was no ordinary figure. She rose to prominence in the 1920s and 1930s in Harlem as the head of a successful underground numbers operation. She was fearless, intelligent, business-minded, and sharp with everything from finance to public strategy. She challenged corruption and refused to be silenced. She was bold, calculated, and not to be played with.

What stood out to me most—aside from her strength—was her fascination with numbers. That’s something I’ve always connected with too. Whether it’s rhythm, patterns, or the way things line up—I’ve always had a thing for numbers. And when I read her story, I felt like I had found more than a nickname… I had found a connection to someone whose mindset reflected the type of energy I wanted to carry.

So when I became an artist, the name KrazyQueenie just stuck with me.

I respect her intelligence, her resilience, and her ability to lead without backing down. Stephanie St. Clair was way ahead of her time. She inspired me deeply, and I will always respect her for the impact her story had on me.

🔹 Published on March 31, 2025 at 11:18 PM 

Before the music, I was a writer.
Before the mic, I was a quiet voice with something heavy to say.

I used to jump in middle/high school rap battles with my peers—just raw energy, nothing polished—but I held my own. Somewhere along the way though, life pushed me into a “customer service voice” version of myself. Polished, polite, controlled. I lost my flow. I didn’t stop writing, but I stopped spitting.

Truth is, I’ve been writing for a long time. The first full flow I ever remember writing was when I was just 11 years old. I called it "Lost Child." It was inspired by Tupac’s "Brenda’s Got a Baby"—a story that moved me so deeply, I wrote my own version of pain, but from a woman’s eyes. I respected Tupac for his lyricism and storytelling. That stuck with me.

I later moved into floetry—spoken word. But the thing about spoken word is, the delivery is different. Even if you use the same exact words, the way it’s spoken shifts the meaning. Spoken word lets you pause, lets you breathe. But flowing—that’s different. It’s about letting the words bleed into each other, no breaks, no over-enunciation, no hiding. You gotta be in it.

And I was scared.
Yes, me. I was scared that I’d sound like I was just reading. Like I had no energy. And I did sound like that at first. I didn’t know if my voice would translate to music the way it did in my mind. I had been shy, because I’ve been excluded and talked down throughout my whole life. I grew up with people telling me what I couldn’t do just because I'm "me".

But I got tired of hiding.
Tired of playing small when I’ve always known I was meant for something bigger.
Tired of saying “one day.”
So I started practicing. And practicing. And practicing.
Because I had to find that voice—the one that had been buried under everyone else’s opinions.

The first time I heard myself back? I was like... “Wait. That’s me?”
It sounded weird. Foreign.
I’ve always had that sexy low phone voice when I wanted to, but ask me to sing and it’s over with—nails on a chalkboard. 😅 But flow? Flow is mine. And I’m not afraid to use it anymore.

I started off using AI vocals because I wanted to hear my lyrics come to life. I was too nervous to record myself. But now? I’m done hiding. AI helped me test my sound, but it can’t speak my truth. Not like I can.

Now it’s all me.
Because what I’ve got to say?
Can’t be said by anyone else.

🔹 Published on April 1, 2025 at 12:01 AM 

Let me be honest with you—I didn’t study music theory. 

Not in a classroom. Not from a textbook.

But I’ve been studying music my entire life.

I realized how important music theory was when I finally understood that I’d been silently studying it all along—without even knowing. I didn’t know the technical terms or the formal rules, but I knew the feeling. I knew the patterns. I knew the soul of it. I grew up listening to everything. I wasn’t boxed into one sound. I could go from Beethoven to Kris Kross in the same afternoon. I appreciated Johnny Cash, Earth, Wind & Fire, Nina Simone, Nirvana, Tupac, Scarface, Aaliyah, Louis Armstrong, The Eagles—I mean, the list goes on and on. I didn’t care what genre it was—if it had truth in it, I was drawn to it. That’s what real music study looks like.

I started learning how to recognize songs just by the first few seconds—from R&B to rap to rock to soul. Not so much country, but even that has its beautiful place in my world. Over time, I realized something powerful:

To do music, you have to know music.

To become art, you have to respect the art.

That, to me, is music theory.

Maybe I don’t know the traditional definition.

Maybe I can’t break down scales or time signatures like a trained musician.

But I understand the history, the evolution, the culture, and the emotion behind every beat.

That’s what shaped my flow. That’s what taught me structure. That’s what taught me timing.

You can't rap without knowing where music came from.

You can't produce without knowing who paved the road you're walking on.

I studied the roots. I studied the rhythm. I studied the story.

And even if I got the definition wrong...

I know I got the meaning right.

🔷 Published on April 1, 2025 at 12:39 AM