Looze Cannon Unites Hip Hop With Big Michael Michael
By DeShawn Price, PowerVault Staff Looze Cannon’s “Big Michael Michael” had college students and older fans moving together at a football game, according to writer Chuck Creekmur. That sounds simple until the usual ra...
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By DeShawn Price, PowerVault Staff
Looze Cannon’s “Big Michael Michael” had college students and older fans moving together at a football game, according to writer Chuck Creekmur. That sounds simple until the usual rap generation debate enters the chat. Somebody is always declaring the younger crowd lost or the older crowd washed. Here comes a rapper working a Michael Jackson persona, getting both groups to enjoy the same record. No panel discussion required. Apparently, the dance floor can handle a family disagreement better than the comment section. Let that one sit. The moment deserves attention because it offers something more useful than another argument about who ruined hip hop: evidence that shared pleasure still travels across generations.
Writing for AllHipHop on November 10, Chuck Creekmur described attending a Norfolk State versus Delaware State football game roughly a week earlier. He said the visit came together the night before. He had enjoyed the previous year’s inaugural event and returned solo, describing an immediate sense of feeling at home. Creekmur, who previously attended Delaware State, headed toward the college section and heard the DJ playing “Big Michael Michael.” Students were responding, but they were not alone. He also spotted friends enjoying the record in their own, more age appropriate way. His account gives this discussion a concrete starting point: one observer describing different age groups responding to the same song at the same event.
“And they were ROCKING,” Creekmur wrote about the college crowd. That is an eyewitness impression, not a streaming report, and the distinction matters. The supplied account does not establish national audience numbers, chart placement or how widely the song has spread across campuses. Calling it a proven nationwide takeover would outrun the receipts. Even Creekmur’s description of it as one of the year’s songs reads as his assessment, not a documented ranking. Still, a DJ getting an actual response from actual people tells readers something a promotional caption cannot. People chose to participate. At a football gathering, where conversations and school loyalties compete for attention, that response is worth noticing without inflating it into a statistic nobody has supplied.
Creekmur identifies Looze Cannon as Glen Cannon, an MC whose presentation incorporates a Michael Jackson impersonation. That combination is the interesting part. Jackson impersonators are familiar entertainers, but a rapper using that recognizable identity invites a different kind of attention. Listeners can approach through the familiar reference before deciding whether they connect with the artist himself. The reference also brings expectations: people arrive with memories of Jackson, not a blank slate for Cannon. The supplied excerpt stops before explaining how Cannon developed the persona. There is no basis here to invent a calculated rollout, a management strategy or an origin story. What is available is enough to identify the creative tension: recognition can open the door, but individuality has to keep people inside.
The setting matters without needing to become proof of universal approval. Norfolk State and Delaware State are historically Black universities. A football gathering connected to those schools brings students and older supporters into overlapping social space. That is part of the beauty of an HBCU gathering: belonging does not expire when your student ID does. Creekmur’s account catches that overlap working musically. His friends did not need to move exactly like the college section to share its enjoyment. That distinction deserves some respect. A song can connect generations without making them perform youth the same way. Nobody should have to risk a knee to prove they understand the assignment. Participation can be a full dance, a shoulder bounce or simply staying present.
Michael Jackson offers an unusually broad point of recognition because his work has circulated across decades of Black family life. “Thriller” arrived in 1982. His televised “Billie Jean” performance on Motown 25 in 1983 helped make the moonwalk a signature audiences still recognize. For younger listeners, that recognition need not come from witnessing the original broadcast. Family favorites and old performance clips can introduce an artist long before somebody starts digging through a catalog. Hip hop has its own history of records that invite participation beyond dedicated rap listeners. Soulja Boy’s “Crank That” in 2007 and GS Boyz’s “Stanky Legg” in 2009 made movement part of the attraction. Those are different songs with different histories, not interchangeable formulas. Still, they show why the renewed attention around “Stanky Legg” belongs in a conversation about how audiences carry music forward.
The real test is whether people remember Looze Cannon after recognizing Michael Jackson.
Black joy does not need a luxury sponsor to become a cultural event.
For Cannon, the opportunity is also a creative challenge: make the familiar reference lead somewhere personal. Recognition is useful, but it can become a box when every introduction centers somebody else’s name. Coverage should leave room to discuss his choices as an MC, not only the impersonation that makes an easy headline. That means asking what distinguishes his delivery, songwriting and future material once more work is available to assess. The questions should get more specific as the reporting grows, rather than letting the Jackson comparison do all the critical work. An artist should not have to abandon a successful idea to earn serious consideration. He should, however, get the chance to demonstrate range. The smartest next chapter would expand the audience’s understanding of Cannon rather than merely repeat its first reaction.
For the industry, this moment challenges the habit of treating every memorable concept as a content package first. A recognizable persona can produce an easy pitch. That does not automatically produce a durable music career. Before anyone reduces this response to a branding lesson, the more useful question concerns the song’s life beyond its introduction. Can a DJ return to it? Will listeners seek out another record? Does a performance make people remember the artist’s name? Those are better tests than a polished campaign deck. A publicist can put a compelling angle in an inbox; the crowd still decides whether the record deserves another spin after the novelty settles. Any future promotional push should build on genuine audience interest, not pretend that purchasing visibility and earning affection are the same achievement.
For listeners, the lesson is less about declaring a winner and more about retiring a tired argument. Younger fans do not owe older listeners constant proof that they respect musical history. Older fans do not have to dislike every new record to protect their credentials. Both positions turn enjoyment into homework. A shared song allows people to meet without settling every disagreement about rap first. You can keep your favorite era and still give a new artist his moment. Enjoying the record is not surrendering your entire musical identity. That matters for Black audiences who already spend enough time watching their tastes ranked and judged. PowerVault’s discussion of Common’s orchestra show in Miami offers another opening for that conversation: familiar music can invite fresh listening without requiring one generation to defeat another.
Black joy does not need a luxury sponsor to become a cultural event. The industry often gives expensive rooms more authority than communal spaces, even when ordinary gatherings reveal how people actually use music. That is a question of class as much as taste. A campus crowd should not need a celebrity guest list before its enthusiasm counts as meaningful. These are places where music becomes a shared memory, attached to the friends you spotted and the school you came back to support. Nor should Black audiences become unpaid market research whose preferences matter only after someone spots a sales opportunity. Recognition should flow toward the artist and the people making the moment happen. Coverage can celebrate their response without translating every shoulder bounce into a hypothetical endorsement deal.
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The next useful reporting should follow Cannon beyond this account: his own explanation of the persona, his wider catalog and documented responses at other events. Those details would help distinguish a memorable gathering from a lasting connection. Until then, Creekmur’s observation supports a focused celebration, not a coronation built from missing numbers. There is value in recognizing a rapper who gave students and older fans something to enjoy together. There is also value in letting that achievement breathe before demanding a business empire. Watch whether the next song gets people moving, then whether they ask for Cannon by name. Familiarity gets attention. An artist earns the return invitation.
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