![]() ![]() Pac Jam was wild by any standards, but especially for kids barely out of middle school. And she and her crew were regulars at Uncle Luke's old spot, the Pac Jam, an alcohol-free teen club the 2 Live Crew frontman (and future New Times columnist) opened in the '80s. She handily won the superlative of best dressed. She was a majorette at Northwestern Senior High. Trina was a celebrity among the 13-to-18-year-old Liberty City set. "Hollywood was a great guy, and he didn't deserve that." tweet this Though Evans would cross paths with Trina professionally a few years later (he'd eventually be her tour manager), back then he knew her only as "that popular chick that all the guys in Miami wanted to, you know, get with." "She was always that chick that everybody knew about," says Corey Evans, a Carol City native. By the time she was a teenager, her reputation had traveled beyond Liberty City. She had no trouble making a name for herself. "It was like I was popular before I was popular," Trina says. Her stepfather, another small-business owner, was also well known in the neighborhood. "Even though can be grimy, the salon kept it glamorous for me," she says. It was a positive and healing environment that offered respite from Liberty City's rougher edges. "Every day, you would see all these beautiful women getting glammed up," she remembers. Trina would get out of school, go straight to the salon, and listen. One of five sisters born in the Bahamas, Nesa owned the local beauty salon, a small peach building that served as a community hub. And if you didn't, you definitely knew her mother, Vernesa, or - as you probably called her - Nesa. If you grew up in Liberty City in the '80s and '90s, you probably knew Trina. Next comes "Look Back at Me," a song that is best summed up by its current highest-rated YouTube comment: "You need a condom to listen to this!" She opens with "Pull Over," a track from her debut album that is possibly the greatest booty-shaking anthem to emerge from Miami, a city that is to booty-shaking anthems what Wisconsin is to cheese. She runs through a quick catalog of her most savage hits. Now she's back, poised to drop The One, her first album in years, which she firmly asserts is her "best to date."Īt 3:30 a.m., back in the Backlot, she finally struts onstage two and a half hours late, but her face shows no hint of disorder. And then Trina came along and went: OK, my turn. With it, they launched commands like missiles at the opposite sex: Sit down, shake that, suck this. See, until Trina took the stage long ago, the boys had the microphone in Miami hip-hop. And though he might be just a tad biased, you won't find many Floridians willing to argue with that statement. " the best female rapper Miami ever had," says Ted Lucas, founder of the historic hip-hop label Slip-N-Slide Records. You probably know her better as Trina, and she's one of the most important female MCs ever, having paved the way for Rihanna, Nicki Minaj, and, yes, even Beyoncé. ![]() Her name is Katrina Taylor, and she showed the hip-hop world that defiance is not only possible but also damn fun. They are here to see an artist who showed them nearly 20 years ago that you don't have to sit back and listen to heterosexual men rhyme about what you should be doing with your body. But this particular fan base, which has gathered at Wynwood's Maps Backlot on a brutally humid May night, has been conditioned not to flinch at human sexuality. It is gluteal coordination on a mind-blowing scale.Īt any other concert, you might see an eyebrow or two rise in, at the very least, curiosity. One does a twerking handstand in the corner, propping himself against a man who appears very content with his view: an overhead shot of the dancer's glistening buttocks, which, upon closer inspection, appear to have a glowstick nestled inside like a hot dog in a bun. Male strippers - about eight absolute beefcakes - sweat as they strut through the crowd, collecting dollar bills in thongs MacGyver'ed from nothing but dental floss and a dish towel. Nearby stands a gentleman wearing no pants, only a chain-mail tunic fashioned from what appear to be the discarded pop tabs of 10,000 Pepsi cans. An impish fellow wanders about, randomly grabbing men's butts while his friends giggle. ![]()
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