Too $hort: Still Here, Still Raw, Still Oakland

Too $hort is a man of his word. Believe it. The Oakland legend was on his way to view his father’s body when he took this call. That’s not morbid — that’s life. And unfortunately, death is a part of it. But we’re here to celebrate $hort’s iconic life.

There are a few things most hip-hop fans associate with the West Coast legend: independence, pimpin’ and the Bay. But as he turns 60 today, Short Dog is a changed man. His musical legacy speaks for itself but the man behind it, Todd Shaw, is now a girl dad to a seven-year-old daughter. And fatherhood changes any man. Too $hort is no different.

On his milestone birthday, he reflects on his early beginnings as an MC, becoming a parent, navigating grief after losing close family, and what it means to be an elder statesman in hip-hop.

Feeling Comfortable in Oakland 

Somewhere around ’81, less than a year after moving there, I felt safe. I knew how to move around, I had the right friends, and I was starting to get my popularity as the rapper, the little guy that raps.

Beginnings as an MC 

In 1982, I had a rap partner named Freddy B. We started talking and he’s like, “You should come by my house, let’s record together.” When he heard my setup, he said, “You should come to my house.” So we did. We recorded it, played it back, and he goes, “Man, we can sell this shit.” I’m like, “Sell it? Where?”

First Customers 

Freddy said, “Let’s go to the park down the street.” So we go to this park where drug dealers are at, play the tape, get one of them to put it in his car. 10 drug dealers leaning on this little dope boy car, listening to our one tape. When we asked if they wanted to buy it: “The fuck we want to buy your shit for?” Real aggressive on the sales pitch. But Freddy had been in and out of juvenile facilities, he knew a lot of bad guys. One of those guys he knew pops out the tape: “I’ll buy it. How much?” Five dollars. Done. Another guy goes, “I want one too.” From there, we just started like a paper route, only going to drug dealers, only hitting corners. And everybody was waiting on us.

Hip to the Game

In 1985, a friend whose older brother ran a recording label introduced us. The label was called 75 Girls. His name was Dean Hodges. First time we went up there, he slammed the door in our face. “Man, I’m busy.” We came back, sat down, chopped it up and he was like, “Yeah, we’re getting in the studio.” If you want a visual, he looked like a mix between Rick James and Jimi Hendrix. Titties in the living room, Good Times reruns on TV — he was just that guy. We started recording at Different Fur in San Francisco, 11 p.m. to 6 a.m.

Professional musicians from the Bay: Pointer Sisters, Tower of Power, Sly and the Family Stone. Every session was a party. It was either the greatest experience or the most fucked up thing in the world. But it was good for me. Dean was learning how to run a label, manufacturing, distribution, collecting money. And making sure I was learning it, too. In 1986, he went to jail for a year and told me and his little brother to hold it down. That’s really where I learned. Keep the supply going, stay on top of the manufacturer, tally the boxes, collect from the distributor, drop the money with his mother. Repeat. When he got out in ’87, he called us into the kitchen and said somebody told him I said I didn’t like him, his brother, or his father. I told him, “That sounds crazy. If I didn’t like you, I’d tell you.” He said, “I don’t want to hear that shit. Get the fuck out.” And just like that, the dream was over.