TMZ tour buses and gawkers hoping for a Tyler, the Creator spotting have threatened to taint its reputation as an unofficial cool kids’ club, but for teenagers in Los Angeles, Fairfax Avenue is still the place to chill. Whether shopping the skate and streetwear stores that dot the block or people watching the almost-famous rappers and artists roam about, if you’re in L.A. and want to know what’s going to pop tomorrow, go to Fairfax today.
It makes sense, then, that on a recent afternoon, kids keep recognizing Kodie Shane even though she’s not a household name (yet). The 18-year-old Atlanta singer/rapper seems charmed by the attention, but she’s not unaccustomed to it. “People know her on Fairfax, but back home, everybody knows her,” says her producer, Matty P. Warm and gregarious, he has a teddy bear vibe, the kind of guy who makes everybody feel comfortable. He’s clearly excited about Shane’s future.
So is Epic Records, who signed Shane last year and just released her Zero Gravity EP, a collection of her finest work to date. At this point, she’s likely best known as the first lady of Lil Yachty’s Sailing Team, though her solo tracks suggest an outsized talent worthy of her own clique. She seamlessly slips from hazy ballads to blissed-out, pop-flavored confections, and the video for her candy-coated banger “Drip on My Walk” has racked up more than two million plays on YouTube. Watching it, her appeal is a no-brainer: She’s a natural, prancing and flashing her sunbeam-bright grin in front of rainbow-colored backgrounds. She glows with charisma and childlike giddiness. There’s just no pretense. While she’s certainly been groomed, she has what many artists with many more years of experience don’t: “I’m comfortable in general—not just comfortable as an artist, but in my skin,” she says.
Sitting in a booth at a fancy burger restaurant and picking something called ketchup leather off her “well-done, no pink” patty, Shane talks about coming of age in the south suburbs of Chicago, surrounded by a musical family. Her father, who’s now a hair stylist, sang background vocals for her aunt, ’80s R&B singer Cherrelle (“Saturday Love”), and a sister on her father’s side was in poppy R&B girl group Blaque. Shane says grew up loving “all the old music,” which to her includes Ashanti, J. Lo, and Ja Rule.
Still, as a kid, Shane preferred playing basketball to performing. Wearing Adidas track pants and a strawberry-colored camo shark BAPE hoodie, she says, “I’ve always been a tomboy. I used to like Bratz [dolls]—the boy brat.” Though her hair has that sheeny, just-stepped-out-of-drybar look, it probably has more to do with her dad owning a salon than any fussiness about her appearance. Save for a gold grill, her face is free of adornment.
While she does have an unruffled air about her, Shane bursts with teen exuberance a couple of times throughout dinner—when I finally guess the Chaka Khan song she loves (“Sweet Thing”), when she whoops over the first CD she bought with her own cash (a Young Money compilation)—but her composure belies her age. “I just always felt a little more mentally advanced,” she says.
At 14, she’d tag along to a studio owned by Matty and her mother, hoping to be a rapper. A few years later, when she wrote a song called “They Don’t Know” for burgeoning Atlanta R&B group Charm, it became apparent that she had major potential as a songwriter. Buoyed by the track’s success, she declared she wanted to be an artist, but her mom and Matty shook their heads. Shane cried and wrote “Sad,” which eschews typical teenage petulance for a more insular melancholy. “I just wanna be sad for a minute,” she wallows.
The song did the trick. Matty changed his mind, buckled down, and began to develop her twinned gifts of melody and cadence. They would work full days in the studio, as Matty began embedding Shane in Atlanta’s music scene. He took her to neighborhoods like Edgewood and venues like the Department Store—“the Apollo of the South,” her publicist chimes in—where other creatives hung out. “These people know and love her,” Matty says. “She’s one of their own.”
His taking-it-to-the-streets strategy paid off. When Shane released her first project, 2060, earlier this year, it quickly racked up more than a million plays on SoundCloud. Shane credits her early success to something equally as old-fashioned: good music. Jokingly, I ask how she’d describe her music to an alien, but her response is earnest: “I would say it’s awesome.”
Part of what makes Shane compelling is her ability to ride the wave of playful sing-song hip-hop with Yachty and crew while also plumbing more emotional depths. “If you hear my real music—‘Drip on My Walk’ is the trendy side of me—if you hear ‘Can You Handle It’ or ‘Losing Service,’ you won’t necessarily say, ‘She’s from Atlanta,’” she explains.
Her instinct to distinguish herself is wise, and her multitudes will likely extend her life as an artist. In someone else’s music, it also could teeter dangerously close to pretension. But Shane is down to earth enough to avoid that. When I ask her about her fears, she only has two: “dying”—she laughs—“or my mom.”
Kodie Shane: It was a kindergarten talent show, and I was ready. I did an original song, had my cowgirl hat and outfit. I went in there and I killed it and I threw the hat. And I lost. Guess what they told me? “You’re too young.” I said, “I’m never doing music again.” I wanted to act because I used to have different characters, skits and stuff. They were funny. I had this one girl who was a nerd and had narcolepsy. So she’d be talking to you and [mimes nodding off].
Yeah. My mom got a divorce and I moved with my dad. I didn’t have a choice. I was homeschooled for the rest of 7th grade and then 8th grade. Then I failed and had to go to 8th grade again; homeschool is hard if you don’t have somebody on your back. I lived with my dad, and he was working six days out of the week doing hair—and was I actually gonna get up and make myself do this math? No, I don’t think so. Not every day.
I’m a sap. I like love movies. I watch too many of those. Movies inspire my songs more than people in general. That’s what I’m aiming for. When I sing R&B I got some R. Kelly in me.
From the internet, [yes]. I don’t care. I see it only if I go look for it. I don’t just get on Twitter and see something mean. Honestly I see what I want. Sometimes I’ll give it some attention ’cause I know that’s all they want. Give ‘em their 15 seconds and then I’ll block ‘em.
No. My mom’s hilarious. She’s like, “They’re probably 5,000 miles away.” Twitter fingers is what we call those. Trigger fingers turn to Twitter fingers—right, Drake?
Yeah, I would agree with that. We know D4L, Dem Franchize Boyz, Soulja Boy, we get it, but it’s not like we still got to be “lean wit it, rock wit it,” wearing big ol’ clothes.
It’s just different. It’s friends having a great time. It’s like when you watch a movie and see these three friends and you think, Man I want friends like that. It’s something to look up to. Touring with them was the best moment of my life. Yachty is really quiet when you first meet him, and that was different to me. That’s just how he is. He’s chill but he’ll talk to you. My first thought when I met him? Oh, I could get along with this guy. There are rapper relationships and then there’s actual relationships. I love those guys.
It’s like having 12 brothers. And being annoyed. And being the youngest. Hilarious and annoying at the same time.
He’s the Soulja Boy of our generation: He came out and it was a different sound, he was talking about something else, his look was different, his videos are different. When Soulja Boy came out, people didn’t know how to accept it.
Something that the youth needs—fun, positivity. My main thing is to tell kids not to be scared of anything. Feel free anywhere. How you wanna dress, who you wanna like. Whatever. Do it. No pressure. That’s what I feel like. That’s all I got.
