Tommy wright iii & lil gin turn memphis parking lot into history
On a humid Saturday outside of Shangri La Records stood a crowd of no more than 30 Memphians. A sea of faces, all different in style and aesthetic but not in love. Each one stands anxiously on cracked asphalt awaiting the return of two of their very own underground legends: Tommy Wright iii of 10 Wanted Men and Lil Gin- both products of the 90’s Memphis underground movement. The DIY stage leaked its way onto the sidewalk and through rows of cars. A loyal crowd lay in wait.
We learned very quickly why it is underground rap doesn’t need arenas or multi-million dollar stages. Local collaborator 2 Low Key joined the Memphis natives’ on stage, doubling down on the energy that has kept their music alive long after the cassette era. A local dj accompanied the MCs by ushering in pounding lofi beats as anticipation swept through the crowd. As the men stepped out they took their mics and promptly paid respect to the city they love. Lil Gin, quite literally wearing his love for it on his sleeve. Tommy dressed in his signature style of all black and spiked bracelets, his commanding presence stood as the crowd cheered.
It wasn’t a nostalgia act, it was living proof that the underground isn’t past tense. Tracks from decades old tapes, such as ‘Gimme Room’ and ‘Murda in da First Degree,’ blended seamlessly with the energy of different generations and some still discovering this music through YouTube rips, sampling, mix tape blogs, and word of mouth. At moments it felt less like a show and more like a family reunion— One where every verse, every hook was a shared memory.
As Tommy Wright III’s menacing flow tore through onlookers; his voice sliced across the crowd like a switchblade, the atmosphere was thickened with bass and tension. That, partnered with Lil Gin barely pausing for breath, came in with an unfiltered energy so electric it felt combustible, his delivery wild and untamed — like he was rapping straight from the edge of chaos. It was made it impossible to stand still. The room shifted. Bodies loosened. The floor itself seemed to quake under the weight of the low-end rumble. That’s when it happened — a ripple spread through the crowd as spectators broke into G-walking, the hypnotic, sliding footwork born from Memphis streets, known in some circles as Jookin’. It wasn’t choreographed; it was instinctive. The bassline commanded it, and the crowd obeyed. Shoes squeaked, sweat dripped, and for a moment, the parking lot stopped being an audience and became part of the beat itself. A reminder that in Memphis, the music doesn’t just play; it possesses you.
The air smelled like heat, sweat, and something heavier — history, maybe. This wasn’t just a performance, but a gravitational pull from the past into the present. All of it began collapsing into one long, sweaty blur as the show came to an unwanted halt. It reminded you that Memphis rap was never just music; it’s a language, a survival tactic, a gospel passed hand-to-hand on tapes until the edges wore thin. And now, as you’re left with nothing but the memory of that night, you know this much is true: the gospel’s still spreading.