DJ Clark Kent was a real-life rap superhero

A quote always comes to mind when I think of DJ Clark Kent.

“I had seen what happened with the industry and Jaz[-O] early on,” Jay-Z once said. “Without Clark pushing me to make that initial album, I don’t know where I’d be.”

Kent, born Rodolfo Franklin in Panama, died Oct. 24 of colon cancer, according to a statement posted on his Instagram. He was 58. In a year that has already seen profound losses in hip-hop — DJ Mister Cee, Rob Stone, Rich Homie Quan, Rico Wade and Fatman Scoop to name a few — Kent’s loss hits a particular nerve given his story and the manner of his death.

It sounds clichéd to say that without so-and-so hip-hop’s story wouldn’t be the same. Yet, with Kent, the saying applies. First, his résumé speaks for itself. He began his career as a DJ for Brooklyn rapper Dana Dane in New York in the late 1980s. He became a tour DJ for The Notorious B.I.G, another Brooklynite. His first major hit as a producer came with Junior M.A.F.I.A.’s “Player’s Anthem.” The track, which was Lil Kim’s first appearance on record and one Kent would coach her through, was coincidentally the song he and his crew were recording the night rapper Tupac Shakur was shot five times in the lobby of Quad Studios in November 1994.

Kent’s reach would stretch beyond The Notorious B.I.G.’s crew. As Jay-Z confirmed, his debut LP, 1996’s Reasonable Doubt, wouldn’t have happened without his influence. He produced three songs on the album, including “Coming of Age” and “Cashmere Thoughts.” But it was “Brooklyn’s Finest,” the first of several collaborations between Jay-Z and The Notorious B.I.G., that came with a hilarious backstory he repeated over the years.

The Notorious B.I.G. had been hearing about Kent’s “mans” Jay-Z for years but never met him, even though the pair briefly attended the same high school. Kent told the story of “Who Shot Ya?” which was widely assumed to be a taunt to Shakur following the Quad studios shooting. As Kent recalled, The Notorious B.I.G. recorded it as a display of lyrical dominance to Kent, who kept talking about “how nice” Jay-Z was. By the time The Notorious B.I.G. heard the beat for “Brooklyn’s Finest,” he wanted to keep it for himself, but Kent said it was for Jay-Z. The decision irked The Notorious B.I.G., but he begged Kent to be included on the record. When The Notorious B.I.G. walked into the studio the night of the session, Jay-Z and Dame Dash (whom Kent had also introduced Jay-Z to years earlier) saw the play. After that, he and Jay-Z would speak every day for the remainder of The Notorious B.I.G.’s life.

Over the years, Kent’s production game would only expand. He produced “Sky’s The Limit” on The Notorious B.I.G.’s posthumous Life After Death album — the song is seen as arguably his most introspective cut. Kent also produced Mariah Carey’s 2001 smash hit “Loverboy,” which peaked as the No. 2 song in the country. But even those hits only provide a glimpse of Kent’s deep and profound legacy.

Kent’s cultural fingerprint was deeply diverse. If his death is a massive blow for hip-hop, his death is just as devastating to the sneaker world. Kent boasted one of the biggest and broadest collections known. He touted several collaborations with Nike and Adidas throughout his life because those brands understood the influence and credibility he brought. He ingrained himself as a prized figure in the culture because he loved sneakers far more than the hoopla around them. This was evident in Kent and Complex editor Russ Bengston’s Quickstrike series, which aired from 2013 to 2016 on Complex TV. On the show, they turned discussing shoes and the stories around them into a science. According to Kent, he inspired Jay-Z and Dame Dash’s Nike Air Force 1s obsession in the early Roc-A-Fella Records days. Kent was known to purchase ridiculous amounts of AF1s, wear them once and discard them. Besides owning tens of thousands of kicks, perhaps his greatest legacy in sneakers is how much he shared with fans. He routinely gave away shoes to kids and homeless shelters. The scavenger hunts he held all around New York City became a Kent staple.

Kent was exclusive in his talent and passions but inclusive in bringing people along. That, among many reasons, made him the force he was — and truthfully always will be. Still, there’s the sobering reality of how Kent died. According to the American Cancer Society, colon cancer impacts the Black community at significantly higher rates than any other group. Black men and women are roughly 20% more likely to get colon cancer and 40% more likely to die from it than other ethnic groups. Kent, along with Chadwick Boseman, Clarence Williams III, and even my uncle, is now one of those unfortunate statistics. Kent handled his illness in private and celebrated in public for the last three years. Even as the disease ravaged his body, it never derailed what he brought to the culture simply by showing up. There’s a reason that negativity and Kent never truly lived in the same airspace. The energy he brought to hip-hop, to sneakers — to every room he stepped in — was warmth and camaraderie.

Days after we learned about his death, tributes continue to pour in, as they should. What Kent brought to the world now feels different — a little bit less bright and a little bit less innovative. Living in a world without Kent hurts, but knowing he’s no longer in pain is a tiny dose of spiritual medicine.

Saying Kent died “too soon” is too easy, almost necessary, in part because it’s a coping mechanism. We all use it to make a sense of tragedy. But Kent’s death is another reminder that death is morality’s tailor. It always puts life into perspective, reminding us we’re all on borrowed time. Kent was lovingly known as “God’s Favorite DJ,” and now he’s beside him. Even beyond the grief that comes with an irreplaceable cultural loss is the beauty that we had Kent in our lives — and, more importantly, appreciated him while he was with us — in the first place.