After 44 months in various federal facilities, Rio, who is now 30, was released at the beginning of January to a halfway house in Atlanta, where he’s required to stay at all times unless he gets special permission to travel. Within days of his return, he dropped “Rio Free,” a two-part mad dash that blended together moods of anxiety and relief with unbelievably absurd, comedic stories: “I drank a hundred pints in jail, you can ask Sosa/They ain’t never found my phone, I hid it in the lotion,” is one outlandishly vivid line. Carrying the anything-goes spirit of the shit-talk Rio and his Flint knuckleheads used to slip through Detroit’s backdoor—loosening the buttons of a city that, like Atlanta, had always been a self-sustaining metropolis of Black music—it racked up millions of views in its first 24 hours, a sign that Detroit’s Cousin Eddies from a county an hour away, let down by both the local and federal government for generations, had carved out their own lane within the lineage. It’s why, when Rio promoted the bill for the show on Instagram, featuring a mix of Flint and Detroit stars, it felt like more than a welcome-home show but a celebration of Michigan hip-hop unity.At the Masonic Temple, the player’s ball was on. The old heads were out, posted up against the walls of the hallways, eyeing down anybody who passed by. Some dressed like they raided the racks of Neiman Marcus, others in Detroit Lions edition Pelle Pelle jackets; almost everyone wore Cartier buffs. The twenty- and thirtysomething couples made it a date night, sporting snazzy cocktail dresses and letterman jackets with flashy accessories. There were plenty of teenagers, too, of all cultures, some young enough that they were chaperoned by their parents. With them came the Monclers and Denim Tears, Jahmyr Gibbs jerseys, and “Rio Free” tees, a phrase proudly printed on banners hung from the balcony.Excitement was in the air, but Rio wasn’t there yet; he was making his way to Michigan on a private jet from Atlanta. There was buzz about whether he would show up at all, but the DJs and overly energetic hosts promised the star was on his way. With time to spare, I ventured backstage to see if there was anyone to talk to. I met unfriendly security guards in bulletproof vests, built like Georgia Bulldogs. They guarded the doors of green rooms that read the names of Detroit hip-hop royalty like Babyface Ray and Peezy, the former head honcho of local clique Team Eastside whom Rio credits with putting him on. The most interesting person behind the scenes was a local man with grayish locs who seemed like he had a lot of pull and told me that he had been a consiglieri of sorts to the scene since the days when Jeezy was in Doughboyz Cashout’s corner. Gnawing on a falafel wrap, he had stories to get off his chest. His newborn son was able to do pull ups at two weeks old because he’s unvaxxed. He showed me the video, and the baby knocked them out. (Not sure what that has to do with vaccinations.) El Chapo once stayed with him. (I’ll take his word for it.) He did a decade in prison because Rosa Parks framed him. (Unverified.) I see where Rio gets his big ideas from.Abruptly, the energy of the night shifted when the DJ fired up Michigan rap classics. A dude I was chatting to about Pistons star Cade Cunningham stopped mid-conversation to rap along to Damedot. Eventually, after a lot of waiting, out came Flint’s Louie Ray, who mumbled his way through a questionable selection of B-sides. Then Detroit’s Baby Money; the Quality Control signee showed off his chains while his songs blasted. The early star of the event was Skilla Baby, who leapt into the crowd to spit a mashup of Fun.’s “We Are Young” and his local anthem “Tay B Style.” Even the tough guys stood up, puffing their blunts with approval.
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