crisis to his 5 million followers. “I don’t approve of the US casting people out,” he says. “When I see the
country I’m from treating people like that, it’s hurtful. That picture of a father and his child...” he trails off,
and you can tell he’s thinking of the heartbreaking picture of Oscar Alberto Martinez and his two-year-old
daughter, who both drowned in the Rio Grande while trying to enter the US.
We’re at the Soho Hotel and, despite the lack of sleep, Common is alert, eloquent and engaging; each
question is answered in the same gruff, calm tone with which he raps. It’s difficult to imagine him ever
raising his voice. Born Lonnie Corant Jaman Shuka Rashid Lynn, the Chicago MC is one of the foremost
examples of the “conscious rapper” – an artist who uses his platform to address pressing issues of the time.
It’s a theme that stretches to his work in film – he won a Grammy, an Emmy and an Oscar with John
Legend for their song “Glory” from 2014’s Selma, in which Common also stars as civil rights movement
leader James Bevel. His acclaimed 2016 album Black America Again reacted to the spike in police brutality
against black US citizens, along with a number of other social and political failings by his country.
Sometimes I take the mic and I’m a voice for many – other times it’s what I’m experiencing on a personal
level
“I’m not saying things are perfect now,” the 47-year-old says, “but at that time I wanted to express what I
was seeing and feeling. Sometimes I take the mic and I’m a voice for many – other times it’s what I’m
experiencing on a personal level.”
It’s the latter that forms the base for Common’s new album, Let Love, which moves from “the march and
the fight” that energises Black America Again – recalling artists such as Public Enemy and Gil Scott-Heron –
to Common at his most honest and vulnerable self. The title is derived from his New York Times bestseller
Let Love Have the Last Word, in which he addresses an alleged childhood sexual assault by a family member.
In the book, he explains that he didn’t recall the incident until working on The Tale, a 2018 film about a
woman investigating childhood rape cases. “One day, while talking through the script with Laura [Dern],
old memories surprisingly flashed in my mind,” he writes. “I caught my breath and just kept looping the
memories over and over, like rewinding an old VHS tape ... I said ‘Laura, I think I was abused.’”
“It was slow,” he says now, recalling the moment that trauma was brought to the surface. “Making that film
in 2016... that’s when the memory really came in my mind. My whole life, I never thought about it. And
when I did, I spoke about it really quickly with Laura. But I didn’t really start talking it out for a while after
that.”
It was while he was writing his autobiography that he began “peeling back layers” of himself, and attended
therapy. “It’s been a process”, he admits, “but it’s something that I wanted to talk about because I know
how many people experience it. And more than anything, I wanted to live my truth and not hide from that.”
It must have been traumatic, I say, to suddenly experience a memory you didn’t realise you had.
“That’s how I know it had affected me in such a heavy way,” he nods. The slightest frown crosses his face
for a moment, before giving way to his typically serene expression. “I didn’t even know it existed. But I’m
in a place of forgiveness and moving forward. It affected me and it still does, but I’m going to work through
it and be the best human being I can be. If I’m mad the whole time, I can’t work towards that.”
This forgiving nature extends to other people in his life, such as his Run All Night co-star Liam Neeson, who
caused outrage after admitting he wanted to kill “some black bastard” after one of his close friends was
raped, in an interview with The Independent earlier this year (for which he later apologised).