My beloved hiphop generation came of age at that meta-moment in history when it seemed that the artists among us could only aspire to remixing what came before. Writers wanted to become the James Baldwins and Zora Neale Hurstons of our time. The neo-soul movement was chockful of wannabe Marvin Gayes. And everyone in the so-called spoken-word game -- from MCs to poets -- poured out libations for the Last Poets and, perhaps most of all, the late, great Gil Scott-Heron. "Gil was our unfiltered blues, a black-magic, truth-telling poet," says jessica Care moore, author of poetry tomes like The Words Don't Fit in My Mouth and frontwoman for her own soulful rock band, Detroit Read. "It is not easy to find models for what we do: poets that make rock'n'roll or tell our stories with flutes or loud guitars, wrapped around melodies and love," moore says. "Gil was our witness, our foundation.