Long relegated to the underground, Spokane’s hip-hop scene is finally rising to new heights.

JAEDA AT THE KNITTING FACTORY, photo by Brady Montgomery

Sometimes I love this city, and sometimes it loves me back—but regardless of all that it doesn’t take much to admit this is a place where the air has a nasty habit of stinking like a thousand unused ideas, haunted by false starts and the half-hearted promises of projects that crashed out on the launch pad. The downtown streets can suck the motivation out of you if you’re not careful. With a large swath of it walled off from attention with boarded up windows and for rent signs, it gives off a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of nostalgia and promise only the Social Security set can properly understand—where "progress" and “growth” are a slow drip of gentrification bleeding over neighborhoods that used to smell like railway smoke and earnest, untainted ambition.

In spite of all that, it’s here that a long simmering hip-hop scene finds itself just now catching fire.

The city at large doesn’t get hip-hop. They get country music, they get punk, they get classic rock, they get the safe stuff they hear over and over again on the conglomerated local radio that doesn’t make anyone uncomfortable. They get the simple stuff that doesn’t ask questions—the easy breezy Top 40. But what they don't get is a bunch of artists, right where they live, expressing their frustration and broader feeling into the puzzled face of a city that can't understand why they're mad; a city that clings tightly to brittle roots pretending it’s just "with it" enough to care about the country’s most popular genre of music.

But that doesn’t matter. Ivory towers rarely have a good view of the streets anyway.

See, these artists—these underdogs, this eclectic cast of rhyme spitters and mic controllers—don’t need the city's permission. They’re carving out something intriguing here: a community not formed over lofty shared ideals or some circle jerk groupthink. This kind of thing is born from mutual alienation, local admiration, big dreams, and the collective understanding that the unseen gatekeepers want their kind to stay in their four-cornered box and keep their voice down–keep it simple, keep it polite and appropriate. But with that understanding comes an equal understanding that they’ve got to keep singing.

Sing loud. As loud as hell.

(L to R) PRODSYNESTHETE, NATE SYNONYMOUS, BENDI, AND BAMBII OF SKEEMN, photo by Zac Wilson

In this scene, it’s not about trying to "make it big" or selling something to the types with more money than taste. It’s about making something out of nothing. It’s about making their voices heard in the void. Like anything else, these shows are often small—no more than a few dozen heads here, maybe another ten in the corner over there—but nonetheless each show is a strong message lined up like a coordinated strike. When put together, each cypher is a cooperative fight for relevance. They pass the mic, not just to spit bars, but to share their stories, their joy, their pain, their desires, and their lingering frustrations that no one else will talk about in this culturally conservative slap chop of a city.

The scene exists in spite of itself, alive for no other reason than it absolutely needs to be. These artists don't have the luxury of taking things slow. They don’t have the comfort of coming from a storied landscape with a tradition of success, propped up by an overflow of anonymous internet followers. Most don't have the validation of a record label or some corporate sponsorship behind them. In most cases, they’ve only got each other–and that’s all they need. They’ve got the sound of their own breath on the mic, the sweat of their brows to damp the heat of pure feeling, the beat kicking through their speakers giving a strong heartbeat to a flatlining city that doesn’t care about them but still makes them feel something.

That’s the thing that really keeps it together, the thing that makes them who they are. It’s not just the bars, or the flows–it’s the fight for space, for identity, for recognition and respect. It’s the courage to exist in a city that would rather ignore them or forget they even showed up all together. Every track, every rhyme, every line is a rebellion. A small, sweet, ugly little revolution smack dab in the middle of cultural nowhere.

So, when the lights dim and the opportunity presents itself for a large crowd, is it just noise, or is it the sound of something much bigger taking shape? That question brings me here tonight—Saturday, 2/22—at the Knitting Factory, celebrating Jaeda’s new album, Light Up the Moment.

MEMBERS OF SKEEMN AT SOUNDCHECK, photo by Zac Wilson

As I roll up to the venue early, the significance of this night dawns on me inch by inch as soundcheck grew closer to showtime. Crowded against the side of the stage waiting for their chance to test their levels, the twelve members of local collective SKEEMN are buzzing with excitement. There’s an air of disbelief among some of them—sharing stories, reminiscing on past shows they’ve seen here in high school or even earlier—as if to say, “how did I make it here?”

For reference, the Knitting Factory—with two floors and a significant standing room giving a maximum occupancy of around 1500 people—generally books artists with the name recognition to support the space; the kind that tour every major city but aren’t aiming for arenas. Devoid of a crowd, surveying from the ground it’s all really something. There’s an expansiveness to this space that has a habit of widening eyes.

It brings up a strange (but common) contradiction in the world of touring: a sizable local venue that doesn’t often showcase local acts. Maybe an opener or two, sure. But a full line-up of local hip-hop acts? I don’t have the evidence to call it unprecedented, but it’s nowhere close to common. Jaeda—a longtime mainstay of the scene and inarguably the queen mother of local hip-hop—is emphatic about her love for her community, and with the support of her team at Spokane Music Group, tonight she aims to put the passion, drive, and noble intent into something real. It’s already tangible, even before the first head gets their wristband tied it’s clear tonight already means something. This is a moment—however big or small depending on who you ask—that stands as an important event in the canon of local hip-hop.

In a sense, it feels like a homecoming show for those who never want to leave.

PAST LIFE KENNY IN THE PRE-SHOW SPACE, photo by Zac Wilson

As the night kicks off with host Tahjer Dodger’s set, the crowd starts to trickle in, finding their spots nestled in the cavernous bar area and the slate gray floor obscured under bright stage lights. Backed by Mando the DJ-who was putting in stellar work all night, supporting each artist on top of his own set—there are a few tracks with food-related titles, another where she walks us through spelling out G-R-E-A-T, and I’m locked in. In a place like this, you need someone with the juice to keep the crowd coming in, and Dodger’s got it. She could’ve easily been slotted later in the night, but having her kick things off with that kind of out-of-the-box talent? It sets the perfect tone for everything that will follow.

THE CROWD AT THE KNITTING FACTORY, photo by Zac Wilson

And what follows are two guys I’ve known for years, who I affectionately call “the Big Bird and Cookie Monster of Spokane’s hip-hop Sesame Street,” ExZac Change and Matisse. Like Jaeda, they’ve been around the scene long enough that their skill and comfort are second nature.

Honestly, I’m about 90% sure they showed up five minutes before their set—no warm-up, no sweat. These are two seasoned capital-D dads who rap about the things that matter most to them: weed, their city, and their families (not sure on the order of importance). These guys are absolute pros. At one point, they started freestyling about random objects they pulled out of a gym bag—just a total masterclass in improvisation that garners as much awe as it does curious laughs.

The crowd is bigger now, really filling up the space, and the energy in the room is changing; the reactions and applause are coming harder, faster, like the whole place is starting to get the point.

(L to R) MATISSE AND EXZAC CHANGE, photo by Zac Wilson

Looking around, it’s striking how diverse this crowd is—not in the ways you might expect—even for a show like this. Outside of the usual suspects we’ve got oldheads, punk rockers, hooting packs of moms out for a rare night on the town. There’s even a trio of shit-kicker types next to me, casually chatting about the latest politics with a little too favorable of a tone for my taste.

Whole gang’s here, I guess. The power of music at work.

EARLY SET CROWD AT THE KNITTING FACTORY, photo by Zac Wilson

Next up, Kung Fu Vinyl takes the stage, and things take another turn. A comparatively full band, they’ve got saxophones, guitars, a keyboard. And without much haranguing, it all seems to work—like some jazz-infused, genre-bending hybrid that forces you to rethink what hip-hop is and can be, at least here. There’s talk about punching Nazis, which garners a response of thunderous applause, and that same conviction carries into the rest of the set where it becomes obvious that it’s not just about the beat; but also the texture, the layers, the idea that we can look on stage five different times and still find something new. It’s the perfect reminder that this culture is bigger than what first comes to mind and not trapped in one strict genre lane—it’s a platform for invention, reinvention, and unexpected expression.

Then, the spotlight grows and shifts to the night’s main act: Jaeda. This is where the night goes from being a good-to-great show so far to something that feels inevitable.

Jaeda’s been a fixture in Spokane for years, and you can hear the weight and wisdom of those years in every bar she produces. This is a real deal performance, top-flight caliber, the kind that—with respect—you just don’t see a lot around these parts. Maybe it’s experience, maybe it’s confidence, the backup singers sure help, but whatever the secret sauce is here I can tell you it works. This is a finely tuned, emotional excavation of a life lived on the grind projected with positivity, authenticity, and above all else–seemingly limitless power. Spokane’s not known for being a hip-hop mecca–obviously–though Jaeda has made it her own, even when sharing the stage with not only a pole dancer, swinging herself from what seems like 20 feet in the air, but formidable lady MCs Dria Tha Gr8 and (Jaeda’s former partner in the one-time duo The Muzes) Kelly Mak.

She’s not just performing for the crowd that saw her on the poster and bought tickets; she’s performing for herself, for her city, for anyone who’s ever had to fight their way to be recognized or even heard. Her words are effective, unwasted, her stage presence immaculate. There’s a force in her delivery that makes every syllable feel like it could change the scene. The crowd feels it too—they’re not just watching; they’re part of the story, part of this moment that’s building up around us.

After Jaeda’s set, the energy moves into deep left field territory.

Enter the impromptu runway show: a collaboration between designer Ghost Hive Studios and Jaeda’s own Esoteric Hussy brand. Strange on-paper, but perfect in practice: a tribute to the culture’s roots in fashion and expression. Models take the stage, wearing a unique kind of fashion that my uncultured lexicon can’t particularly pin down in descriptors; but however you might classify it, it's clear what’s crossing the stage is just as much about identity as it is about style. It’s a subtle but necessary reminder that all of this has been about more than just the music from the jump. It’s about how you look, how you move, how you present yourself to the world. And in this space tonight, everyone is a part of that conversation, whether they’re on the runway or deep in the crowd.

Then, just when you think things couldn’t escalate, SKEEMN hits the stage. The raised platform is big enough to hold all of them, but hardly big enough to contain their energy—which feels like it could fill the entire place three times over. SKEEMN is chaos charged by the power of friendship; a scrappy kind of hidden beauty, unrelenting go-go that only a group this large can create. It’s loud, it’s messy, it’s unapologetically sophomoric and aggressive as all get out. Every member has a voice here, each one distinctly different from the others, all bouncing around and crashing like a wave pool designed to shake you but not drown you—an honest to God force of nature. You don’t just watch SKEEMN; you experience them.

At one point the models return to dance onstage, so too does the incredibly talented pole dancer, then after they leave the stage, a tiny lady wearing a coonskin cap just runs past me and takes her turn swinging on the pole—round and round—with nobody batting an eye. It fits here, with this perfect mix of brashness and finesse, the collective in both name and a certain type of energy that reminds you that this whole thing is never about the individual, no singular talent amongst the sum of its parts—it’s about the family, the crew, the movement that might only make sense to them.

SKEEMN, MODELS, AND DANCERS, photo by Zac Wilson

The show concludes with a cypher: a scheduled by unscripted encore where a few young guns—many of whom have been in the crowd all night—finally get their shot at the mic. It's their moment to shine, to step out of the shadows and make their new voices heard for potentially the first time. These up-and-comers bring that bottled-up energy, making it clear that they’ve been waiting, watching, learning before it’s finally their turn to give it all they’ve got.

By the time the night wraps up, you’re left with this undeniable sense of belonging and understanding of what’s been, what is, and what’s coming. Spokane’s hip-hop scene may not have the recognition, but what it has instead is an undeniable honesty, an unglamorous take-it-or-leave-it realness—if you cut it, it bleeds. It’s homegrown, without a script, built on the backs of people who show up, night after night, weekend after weekend, to support something bigger than themselves.

And as the crowd filters out into whatever the last few minutes of Saturday night have in store, you can’t help but feel like something’s shifting, something’s brewing.

This isn’t the pinnacle. If tonight is any indication, it’s just getting started.

Catch Jaeda’s interview on the Soundtrak Interview Series

Watch Now: Jaeda - Soundtrak Interview Series

And listen to Jaeda’s new album, Light Up the Moment*

Listen Now: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLTOudrrNmp19SWs5tOpbjgMTjb7IubvuU&si=s4n-8fSrIKRFOYbq

*also available on streaming platforms

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