Hip-Hop Journeyman Kurious on His Decades-Long Bond With MF Doom and Never Calling It Quits

As aspiring New York rappers in the late 1980s, Jorge Antonio Alvarez and Daniel Dumile forged an instant bond. “As soon as we were introduced, we were hanging out later that same day, and it just never stopped,” says Alvarez, aka Kurious, of his decades-long friendship with the man the world would come to know as MF Doom.

They both released major label debuts in the early ’90s, when they were together all the time, fine-tuning their styles. Then, around the turn of the century, MF Doom’s career took off, and Kurious’ didn’t. But Doom never forgot about his brother. “There would be times when I was moving to a new apartment and needed to pay my security deposit and my rent, and me and my lady were like, What are we gonna do?” Kurious recalls. “And all of a sudden—boom—some bread would come from Doom.”

Their friendship’s final act comes with the new Kurious album, Majician, which was executive-produced by Doom. It’s one of the last records the masked villain worked on before his death in 2020 at age 49, following an adverse reaction to blood-pressure medication. For Kurious, making the project with Doom marked a full-circle moment: “It was just like working with him in the ’90s.”

Kurious’ devotion to hip-hop has been lifelong, but not without stops and starts. A native of Manhattan’s Upper West Side, the rapper formerly known as Kurious Jorge came up during the halcyon days of first-wave rap music. While interning at Def Jam, he met Doom—who was a rapper-producer in the group KMD at the time—through a chance encounter with the NYC trio 3rd Bass. 

They immediately recognized each other as kindred spirits, but while Doom was overwhelmingly prolific at his peak in the 2000s, Kurious has only made five full-length projects since his critically acclaimed 1994 debut, A Constipated Monkey. After that record, his pace slowed to a crawl without ever fully ceasing. He wouldn’t release another solo album for 15 years, a lapse he attributes to a powerful mushroom trip where he found God and hit a creative wall. “I never quit, but it was just like a baby having to learn to walk again.” But his pen still moved enough to put out some singles and the occasional guest feature—most notably on “?,” from Doom’s 1999 solo debut, Operation: Doomsday.

By the early 2010s, Kurious had begun working with producer Mono En Stereo, while Doom, who was born in the UK but immigrated to the U.S. with his family when he was a child, was denied re-entry to the States after a brief European tour. Kurious began visiting Doom in his new home in Grenada and, in 2016, brought him some new songs he was working on. They both soon sensed that the tracks were building blocks for a new album. For the next four years, Kurious traveled between his home in the Bronx, the Caribbean, and the UK to work on the project with Doom, who helped curate and sequence the record.

Doom told Kurious he wanted to help release Majician in 2017, and the album was ready to be mixed by 2020. But at that time, Kurious was more concerned with his good friend’s health than the music. After Doom’s passing, his widow Jasmine Dumile fulfilled his wish by making Majician the flagship project for Metalface Records, a joint effort between the Doom estate and Rhymesayers Entertainment. Who better to lead the charge than a man so creatively and platonically intertwined with the villain? 

In both form and content, Majician feels unstuck in time. Kurious spends as much energy sifting through the ups and downs of his past as he does charting a path through rap as a hip-hop OG, the sarcastic verve of his unmistakable uptown accent newly tinged with experience and wisdom. But his voice still bobs through Mono En Stereo’s stately loops like a dinghy in the Harlem River, heavier with purpose but no less cutting or funny than when he and Doom would fill notebooks with rhymes in the Clinton era. But Majician isn’t just a tribute to the pair’s friendship. It’s a chance for an undersung legend of underground New York hip-hop to loudly, proudly claim his legacy.

“Unknown Species” was the first song you made that you brought to Doom when you visited him in Grenada. Were you expecting it to be the kickoff for a new project, or were you just playing him some tracks?

Kurious: I was just playing him some tracks. That’s just how we function—every time it’s going to be a bunch of catching up, and then it’s going to be art, it’s going to be music. The way Doom will do it, he’ll be home, but he’ll have a mansion rented for you. And then when it’s time to link, he’ll send someone to pick you up and bring you to his spot. So when I went out there we did our regular all-nighter, man. As soon as I played “Unknown Species,” he was like, “That flow’s crazy.” That was the one.

What was it like working with Doom on a full project like this, especially in light of his passing?

He was just regular. When his son passed away [in 2017], he had me come see him in Toronto and, of course, he’s not gonna be in his creative state at that time. But he was still strong. He handled that better than I probably would’ve. Up until the last time I saw him, I knew he had some problem but I didn’t know to what degree he was ill. He was a little bigger than before, but still as sharp and intense.

When was the last time you saw him before he passed?

It was around the beginning of Covid, around February or March [of 2020], maybe seven months prior to his passing.

What did y’all do that day? How did he seem?

He was just Doom that whole time—energy up and enthusiastic about music. We were chillin’ that day, because by then, the album was done. We were just hangin’, having margaritas and vibing, talking, listening to music, just doin’ what we do. It wasn’t much, but at least we got that time to kick it.

That sense of fun and playfulness really comes through on this album. At the end of “Unknown Species,” a child asks you, “Why you mumblin’? You like mumble rap?” and you say, “Yeah, that’s my shit!” Mumble rap feels like an antiquated term in 2024, so what does it mean to you now?

Think about how ridiculous it sounds: You’re an orator, and people can’t understand you. No disrespect to the mumble rap icons of the world, but the thought of that is hilarious to me. 

That question was said by my big son, Papo. He’s 17 now, and his voice is deeper than mine. Near the end of “Unknown Species,” I’m singing and scatting something over the beat that makes no sense, but I thought it sounded funky, so I kept it. I do that a lot. So I told my son to come in and ask me the question. He sounds like my younger son Arturo sounds now. 

I only ask about that part because most people who were lumped into that genre never really mumbled to begin with, so it was fun to hear you take the piss in a way that was silly instead of judgmental. 

Yeah, that was no subliminal to mumble rap. It just sounded funny. If I like a song, I like it. I don’t care what it is. I like a few of the Migos songs—rest in peace to Takeoff—but the other day, my son didn’t wanna hear it.  He was like, “Yo, turn that off!”

For the most part, it might be one in one thousand songs I like in that style, but I’m not gonna write all of it off or hate a whole category. If it breaks through and hits me, then I like it. It’s electricity, it’s a vibe. Let’s not get caught up in trying to condemn anybody, because it’s really condemning ourselves. When you do that, you’re just closing your own mind. You’re just limiting yourself. We don’t do that. 

I get a lot of love from the youngsters that love my music. There’s a wave of young guys who do the kind of music we do, and even guys who do the Auto-Tune stuff in the hood still hear my music and be like, “Yo, that’s slamming!” And I’ll hear their stuff and be like, “OK, I can lock in with what you’re doing.” I don’t ever wanna break those bridges.

While Doom executive produced the album, Mono En Stereo made all the beats. What’s your favorite aspect of Mono’s work? 

It’s perfect because his beats are stripped-down the way my style is stripped-down. When I rhyme, I talk just like this, it’s just real basic. I don’t throw a bunch of doubles on it. There’s no effect. So it’s just [Mono’s] raw, stripped-down soul and my raw, stripped-down human voice and emotion. It’s flowing, with a jazz element to it. Mono has a really strong grasp on that. When Doom heard the beat for “Teach and Forgive,” he told me, “[Mono] is one of us.” That’s when I flew him out there, and we all kicked it. 

There’s also a feature from the ever-elusive Mr. Fantastik on “Par For The Course.” He doesn’t come out for just anybody—I can count the amount of songs he’s made or been a part of on one hand.

Funny story, that was the song Doom wanted to get on, but it never happened. So I figured Fantastik would be the best replacement. That’s my brother, he’s just a phone call away. Shout out to Fantastik for that one. He’s different, he’s one of those guys.

There are a few moments on the album where you wax about the industry and artists pushing negative imagery, particularly when it comes to gang culture in New York and people faking it. As someone who’s grown up seeing these changes in the city over several decades, do you think there’s a difference between people trying to act tough and others who are just simply rapping what they know?

Let me correct you. I’m not going at the artists. It’s about the companies choosing to flood the market with only that type of music. 

The artists can do anything they want. I don’t care if you’re talkin’ about robbing old ladies. If it’s hot, I’m gonna like it. But I see what the industry is doing. You can never blame the kids for it, because the kids just wanna succeed. If this is the wave, and they feel they need to do this to win, they’re gonna go that route. If they grew up on a block where you’re indoctrinated into gangs, that’s understandable. But if you’re not from that, don’t feel like you need to be from that to make music, because music is supposed to be an escape from that. I just don’t want kids that aren’t involved with that, and don’t have to be, to feel they gotta go that way just to make music.

The system, or whatever you wanna call it, has no problem with dudes talking that talk. They can talk about killing ninjas all day. But if you insinuate that other kinds of people die, here comes the brigade. Other people try to say, “The record industry is neutral, they just want money.” But when you say the wrong thing or get out of pocket, they make themselves noticed and start policing. That stuff is perpetuating a cycle and bringing the hamster right back to the jail. And that’s the problem I have. 

Another line on the album that sticks out to me is: “A grave and no pension for street poets whose wordplay is the best invention.” Majician deals a lot with maturity and growth, both in your personal life and in the way you observe the music industry.  How does it feel to be at this stage, looking back on your career, and still having something to say? What else do you think hip-hop OGs have to offer rap in 2024?

In terms of making music, this isn’t track-and-field. You can create as long as you’re inspired. If I’m not inspired, I won’t sit there and force music, because then it sounds like shit, and then you feel like shit. I respect music too much. I’m not doin’ that. 

But if you’re older and inspired, you’ve got more stuff to talk about. You’ve been at your craft, you’ve been consistent. There’s no reason you don’t improve. You’re going to learn how to make your lyrics more colorful. You’re going to learn how to be more descriptive and visual with just a portion of a bar. It’s about capturing people and letting them see what you’re saying. 

As time goes on, we can only get better and keep teaching, keep sharing. Continue the lesson. Not saying I’m in a position to teach anybody, but people are gonna follow my journey and see my bumps in the road. You got jazz players that are great into their 60s. You got them rock dudes like Mick Jagger still on tours jumping around. So yeah, let hip-hop do that, too. This is what I love to do. I’m not that great at anything else. So put the beat on, let me write my rhyme, and get in the booth. That’s where I really feel at home.