There was a moment in the early 2010s—right around the peak of Twitter-as-the-barbershop—when Lil B felt inescapable. Not in the traditional sense of hit records or industry co-signs, but in the weirder, deeper way that culture truly embeds. He was everywhere and nowhere at once. A meme and a movement. For a stretch of time, he was to online hip-hop what Tom was to the MySpace era: omnipresent and—for a specific generation—absolutely unforgettable.
People either loved his music unconditionally or couldn’t stand it. There was no middle ground. Tracks like “Wonton Soup” felt like absurdist sketch comedy to some, while others screamed “Thank You BasedGod!” like it was scripture. And that was the thing—he wasn’t chasing traditional acclaim. He was building something bigger. A mythology. A mindset. A lifestyle.
Even Too $hort—Bay Area legend and one of Lil B’s earliest supporters—credited him with liberating hip-hop. He met him young, raw, and already defiant. “Lil B was riding around in stolen cars and selling dope in the hood,” $hort recalled. “He told me he was gonna freestyle an album in one day—I laughed at him.”
“He did that dumbass shit he said he was gonna do—and they loved him for it,” $hort said. “Something he did was right. He created his own path. He did his whole little shit.”
But then came “Base for Your Face.” Produced by 9th Wonder and featuring Jean Grae and Phonte, the track felt like a glitch in the matrix. Here was Lil B—best known for freestyled torrents of chaotic joy—sitting on a soulful, layered boom-bap beat with two of the most respected lyricists in the game.
Jean Grae, a surgical emcee with deep Rawkus Records roots. Phonte, of Little Brother fame, a master of grown-man rap with an unmatched pen. These were elite spitters, revered in underground circles. Their involvement alone was a statement.
Even 9th Wonder himself admitted he was skeptical at first.
“He’s rhyming nice… I’m thinking to myself, if this kid is making this type of music but asking me to do a record—that tells me he’s lying to y’all. What he’s putting out there is a joke. He can rap.”
That quote hit like a revelation. The whole “Based” thing wasn’t an accident—it was strategy. Intention. A multi-year, multi-platform performance art piece that blurred the lines between parody, protest, and pure expression. Lil B could do the “real” rap if he wanted. He just didn’t want to most of the time. That was the flex.
“Base for Your Face” proved it to the doubters. For once, the production was polished, the verses measured. No trolling. No bait. Just bars. And it still felt like Lil B. Somehow, the BasedGod mythos survived the polish.
That was the trick. He made you question where the joke ended and the art began. Made you double back and ask if maybe you were the one missing the point. And in doing so, he carved out a lane no one else could duplicate. Lil B wasn’t just a rapper. He was the internet’s first true cult artist—equal parts philosopher, meme, motivational speaker, outsider, and icon.
And for that wildly specific, hyper-online generation of fans?
He’ll always be legendary.
Thank You BasedGod.
