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"I read about the life of Buddha in sixth grade," says Jamal from a table inside Pioneer Place, tugging a black hoodie over his thicket of thin dreads. "That shit affected me so heavy, because he lived so many different lives within that one life, trying to figure out his path. I've sort of lived my life that way."

As an outlet for all the information pinging around in his head, rap is the path that has so far served Jamal the best. In the Resistance, if his partners Glenn Waco and Mic Capes embody Chuck D's adage about hip-hop being the CNN of the streets, then Jamal is the History Channel, peppering his verses with references to Greek mythology, the Bible, geometry and the Illuminati. Where his compatriots have adopted the role of documentarians, dedicated to capturing life in the Other Portland, Jamal prefers to play teacher-philosopher, addressing the same issues—racism, gentrification, social injustice—through a broader historical context. And with Sankofa, his ferocious new album, the lessons are derived primarily from a history he knows well: his own.

"The concept refers to looking to the past in order to come up with solutions to the present," he says, explaining that the title comes from a Ghanaian tribal word meaning "to fetch and bring forward." In essence, he says, it's about "never forgetting where you come from."

For Jamal, that's Hot Springs, Ark., where he was born and, until coming to Portland seven years ago, raised. Music was a tangential part of his childhood, mostly through the church, where his mother and grandparents sang in the choir. At a young age, he'd memorize Tupac and Bone Thugs-n-Harmony songs, and in fourth grade began writing his own lyrics, but for a long time, he was too shy to rap in public—until his cousin called him out during a freestyle session. "I was like, 'Man, you ain't gonna do me like that,'" Jamal says. "So I started rhyming, and I caught the bug. I got back home, and that's all I wanted to do." In high school, using a cheap RadioShack mic and computer recording program, Jamal and his friends started cranking out CDs, which they'd sell out of their backpacks. "It probably sounded like boo-boo," he says, "but it sounded like the truth to us."

For Sankofa, Jamal says he put himself back in that teenage mindset, when he used to write almost unconsciously. What came out is part autobiography, part thesis. "This is not music you can club to," he announces early on, "be cool, sell drugs and make love to." Instead, it's music that commands simply to be listened to. On record as in conversation, Jamal has a lot to say, whether it's about the way materialism destroys cultures ("Urban Decay"), the women in his life ("Mona-Lisa Brown") or, most personally, his complicated relationship with his late father ("Condolences"). Words spill out of him as if he's rifling through that deep internal reference file, tearing out pages as he goes. Back in his high-school days, Jamal was often forced to record verses in single takes, and that's still how he prefers to operate. At times, you can practically hear his mind racing against his lungs, and it's as breathless as any cinematic car chase.

Sankofa is a powerful introduction, even if it's hardly his debut. But, as one might expect of someone whose brain is set to hyperdrive, Jamal is already moving on.

"I embody that struggling, frustrated artist," he says, "the crazy motherfucker who's doing great shit but doesn't think it's good enough." It's not that he loses sleep over what he could've done better, he clarifies. It’s always, he says, a matter of “What’s next?” 

SEE IT: Rasheed Jamal plays Kelly's Olympian, 426 SW Washington St., with Big Mo, Lang, Naturally Grown Misfits and Drae Slapz, on Friday, March 20. 9 pm. $10. 21+. 

WWeek 2015