This Is Your Freestyle Blast #45

Culture, controversy, and a couple of curveballs

Sep 15, 2025

Welcome to Issue #45 of The Freestyle Blast!

This one’s packed with stories, surprises, and a little bit of drama. We dive into the meaning and history of the Puerto Rican Day Parade and Festival, a celebration that stretches far beyond New York and touches communities around the world. And while culture brings us together, sometimes the Freestyle scene brings its own sparks, yes, we’re also talking about the so-called “drama” that never fails to make waves.

But that’s not all. This issue introduces a brand-new Freestyle Match Game, and trust me, it’s tougher than it looks. Think you can ace it? Give it a try and prove to us… you can’t!

Plus, the latest Blast Flash 3 is here, and we’ve lined up three killa contestants that not only can you watch go head-to-head, but you can get in there and help out the one you’re feeling the most.

We’ve also got you covered with the latest from The Freestyle Club and Concert Calendar, so you’ll know exactly which shows are headed your way. But before you head out for that night of Freestyle fun, make sure to drop by The Stylin’ Free store and see what new Freestyle inspired Tee’s we got up.

Oh, and at the end of this newsletter, don’t forget to leave a comment and let us know your thoughts.

So sit back, relax, and enjoy this month’s issue of The Blast!

Parades, Pride & Freestyle: The Beat of Being Boricua

Born and raised in The Bronx, I grew up surrounded by Puerto Ricans, my people. But here’s the thing: when you aren’t really exposed to other cultures or ethnicities, you don’t always recognize the beauty of what you’re part of…

My mother was born in Caguas, Puerto Rico, the youngest of five sisters and one brother. They all moved to New York City pretty young, my mother, a baby. Eventually, they ended up in The Bronx. My father’s family came from Ponce, but he himself was born in Manhattan. So, the blood was there, the culture was there, but looking back, it wasn’t always obvious in the way it showed up in our daily lives.

I sometimes wish I could sit down today with my elders and just listen. At the time, we’d roll our eyes whenever they’d repeat those same old stories about their beautiful Island, or their early days in New York City. Now, I’d give anything to hear them again, this time with a notepad in hand.

Though our house wasn’t filled with Puerto Rican flags or cultural decorations, we did however have the music and the food, the kind of things that really confirmed who I was and where I was from.

My mother, who looked like she could’ve passed for Italian, was extremely intelligent and spoke, read, and wrote both English and Spanish… perfectly! She was like a walking encyclopedia, seemed to know about everything, quick to correct you, and always teaching you something new.

My father, from what I remember, always walked around with two things. A little dictionary that fit in his shirt pocket, and a bottle of vodka in his back. I once told my mom he sounded like a butler when he spoke, and she just laughed and said, “Your father was a very smart man. An asshole… but smart!

The one thing my mother never taught me was Spanish. Strange huh? I understood it, thanks to the constant flow of Spanglish spoken in my house, but I could never speak it, well at least not without butchering it.

My grandmother would always have something to say about that. and got on Mom whenever the topic came up. But to mess with her, Mom would tell me to talk to Grandma in Spanish, and of course I’d fire off all the curse words I knew.

Over the years, my Spanish improved, mostly my ability to understand, thanks to the countless conversations I pretended not to be listening to. As a kid, I’d sit quietly with my toys or drawing pad, looking lost in my own world, when in truth I was deep into Mom’s conversations. And when things would start to get juicy, she’d suddenly switch to all Spanish, signaling to whoever she was talking to that she didn’t want me listening in. It was too late, as my antennas were already up, locked and loaded.

When I was 16, my mother decided we needed a change and moved us to Puerto Rico. My aunt, who was wealthy and lived in a luxury high-rise in Hato Rey, welcomed us to stay with her. One night from her 23rd-floor balcony, I watched Menudo live in concert while also watching it on TV. It was surreal.

My aunt was well connected, she was friends with the mayor of San Juan, and I used to hang out with his kids. She first tried to get me into one of the island’s top private schools. From the second I walked through the halls, I knew this wasn’t for me. Those bratty-ass kids were unwelcoming, a couple even yelling out for me to go back to The States, though I was clueless at the time as to what that even meant.

They sat me in a cold little room and placed an entrance exam on the desk in front of me, but I had already made up my mind, I was gonna fail. My aunt had money, and that’s the only reason I even got the chance to sit for that exam, but money couldn’t buy me the brains for it. Truth is, even if I gave it my all, I probably would’ve failed anyway, and though I couldn’t save her any money, I at least saved everyone some time.

My aunt wasn’t ready to give up. On our way back, I saw kids stepping off a bus in military uniforms. The bus said Lincoln Military Academy. and I immediately said, “What about that place?” My aunt looked ahead, then at me. “That’s a Military School,” she said. “Keke went there,” referring to her son who was now a grown man.

Titi got on the phone, and of course made it happen, Well… Almost! I was placed once again in a tiny cold room for another dreaded entrance exam. This time, I actually gave it my best, took my time and answered every question to the best of my ability, but of course I failed. In fact, I failed miserably. So bad that my aunt never told us what I scored.

That left only one option: public school. It was nothing like I’d ever seen. The classrooms all faced a courtyard, with open-air hallways connecting everything. No exams, no prep, they just registered me and sent me to class. My first class was history, and when the teacher started teaching in Spanish, I was lost. Every time she asked a question, the entire class turned and looked at me. Why? Because I didn’t understand shit! This wasn’t Mom’s juicy conversations, and even if it was all in English, I still would’ve been lost.

It wasn’t long before the teacher asked me to go sit outside until the next class, because apparently I was a disruption.

The only class I was sort of able to grasp was the subject that I sucked at the most… math! And once again, I was asked to go sit outside, but this time I walked my ass straight out the gate and went home. Soon after that, I was on a plane headed back to New York.

That short time in Puerto Rico did leave its mark on me. It reminded me that while the Island wasn’t a place I wanted to live, it was still where my roots were planted. My identity, though, was shaped in New York City, a unique mix of culture, music, and pride. That’s what I feel it means to be Nuyorican. That’s who I am. In fact, that’s who many of us are, and I believe that’s where the connection to Freestyle truly comes from.

Puerto Ricans didn’t set out to “create” Freestyle, it’s simply what comes out of us when we create. Whether it’s music, film, literature, or any art form, our roots always show. Freestyle became an extension of that spirit. Just as salsa had been the soundtrack for our parents, Freestyle became ours. It was born in our neighborhoods, that unique blend that many of us have trouble explaining. But all we really need to understand is that it’s our voice, our stage, our way of saying… we’re here!

Saturday September 6th 2025 Waterbury, CT Puerto Rican Day Parade & Festival

That brings me to Waterbury, Connecticut, where Angel was invited not only to perform at their Puerto Rican Parade and Festival but also to serve as the Grand Marshal. We were both extremely excited. This wasn’t just another gig, it was something deeper. It was about having an opportunity to represent who we are. Angel had a custom vinyl coat designed by our friend DJ Carlos Lebron, who painted the Puerto Rican flag on the back, giving it a twist where the star was shaped to look like the letter “A” for Angel. DJ Hotmixx Hernandez, an old friend and La Radio’s PD, produced a brand-new show tape specifically for the occasion.

This time, we brought our grandson King with us. He’s the one in the family who really feels drawn to his Puerto Rican roots. He loves the Frankie Cutlass anthem “Puerto Rico!” Seeing him at this parade was something special. He wore his pride on his sleeve the way I wish I had at his age.

The weather threatened to cancel everything, but Puerto Ricans don’t let a little rain stop the music. The parade started at Elm Street and worked its way down to Library Park. Angel looked beautiful in her sash, standing tall in the Jeep with King beside her, both waving to the crowd. I sat in the passenger seat, just taking it all in, smiling at the sight of my wife and grandson soaking in a moment that meant more than they even realized.

I’ve been in a parade before, years ago in Philly with Lil’ Suzy, but this one hit differently. Watching King wave that flag, meeting new friends, feeling proud of who he is, it reminded me of everything I missed when I was his age. And maybe that’s the beauty of it. Our kids and grand kids get to stand on our shoulders, to inherit the pride, the music, the culture we didn’t always understand back then.

That’s what the Puerto Rican Day Parade is about. It’s not just floats, music, and food, it’s a chance to wave the flag high, to say, “We’re still here.” And Freestyle fits right into that story. Just like the parades, Freestyle gave Puerto Ricans a stage, a reason to celebrate, a way to unify. They both carry our rhythm, our resilience, and our pride.

So when I think about that day in Waterbury, about Angel representing as Grand Marshal, about King waving that flag with a smile as big as the Island itself, I realize how it all connects. New York City is in our blood, but Puerto Rico is in our soul, and Freestyle is the soundtrack that ties it all together. That’s who we are, and that’s something worth celebrating.

Question: 👉 What’s one way your culture or heritage has shaped the kind of music you connect with most?

Freestyle, and What Some People Might Call… Drama

I get asked about it way too often not to one day sit down and address it. Well, today is that day. What I’m talking about is the so-called drama that always seems to get mentioned whenever someone brings up the word Freestyle…

Let me start by saying this, I love this genre. I love what it stands for, what it’s done for me and my family, and the doors it has opened for so many of us. So when it’s represented wrong, I feel like I owe it to the culture to try and somehow defend it.

Now, I’m not gonna sit here and pretend there isn’t any drama in Freestyle. Of course there is. There always will be. This is music, its art, its passion, and it’s also a business. Whenever people’s money, pride, or reputation are involved, emotions can spill over. But here’s the thing: drama is subjective. What feels like a big issue to one person might seem like playground nonsense to somebody else.

Case in point: not long ago, I bumped into an artist I hadn’t seen in years. Naturally, I asked where they’d been, and the answer came fast, “I couldn’t deal with all the drama!”

I nodded my head at first, like I understood… but then I stopped. Because the truth is, I didn’t understand. What drama?

At first, they couldn’t even think of anything specific. Then came the list: people talking about each other, artists blocking other artists from getting booked, behind-the-scenes gossip, and a few tired hashtags like “Freestyle Against Phonies!” (Okay, that one was mine, but trust me, there was a method to that madness, and it did exactly what it was supposed to do.)

But really, was that enough to walk away from the scene for years? To sit out while others were touring, performing, and getting paid? I couldn’t buy it.

Here’s the truth. Most of the so-called drama people hear about isn’t even happening on stage or backstage. It’s happening online. Mostly on Facebook. And if you know how social media works, then you know your feed only shows what you engage with. If you like, comment, or linger on the negative stuff, guess what, you’re gonna get served more of it.

I don’t see politics in my feed. Why? Because I don’t click on political posts. I don’t see posts about knitting, gardening, cooking, or building chicken coops either, even though those are huge online communities. I don’t engage, so they don’t follow me around. It’s really that simple.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not sugarcoating. There are liars, thieves, and con artists in Freestyle. There are shady deals and backstabbing moments. And yes, there have even been times when managers and other industry heads have crossed lines, taking advantage of the very artists they were supposed to protect. But the sad truth is, that exists everywhere.

Let’s put it in perspective.

In Hip Hop, beefs can literally mean life or death. Families destroyed, careers ended, freedom lost.

In Pop and Rock, drama blows up in the tabloids, divorces, lawsuits, public meltdowns, label wars. Drug abuse, mysterious deaths, Millions of dollars gone, reputations destroyed forever.

In the corporate world, people lose jobs overnight. Entire companies collapse, and executives jump off the balconies of their luxury high-rises.

So when you compare all of that to Freestyle’s drama? Ours is like kids fighting in a sandbox… seriously!

And let’s not forget, this genre has been around for over 35 years. We’re not kids anymore. We’re grown, raising families, paying mortgages, juggling bills, carrying real responsibilities. Many in our community are preparing for retirement, some are facing financial struggles, and too many are battling serious health issues. Maybe it’s time the genre itself started reflecting that same level of maturity.

Because if we let a little gossip, a little ego, or a Facebook spat stop us from creating, performing, and celebrating Freestyle, then we’re the ones robbing ourselves, and more importantly, the fans, of something we’ve all worked so hard to keep alive.

Drama isn’t going anywhere. Not in life, not in business, not in music. But how we handle it, that’s on us.