Sage Francis began rapping when he was 8 years old. Hidden in a closet in his parents‘ Rhode Island home, he’d rhyme into a cheap tape recorder for hours on end. By age 12 he was sneaking out to battle other Providence emcees, entering talent contests and learning the finer points of showmanship, if not the sizeable advantage that, well, size offers where confrontation is concerned. The kid had a calling, and he wasn’t going to let anything—shitty equipment, stature, homework—slow his roll. Today, at 27, the man has a reputation. Several, actually. You might know him simply as a battle emcee or a spoken word poet. Heart-draining confessionalist or Old School revivalist. Political dissident, DIY business expert, friend, asshole, or one-time ice cream server. Hell, you might even know him as hip-hop’s doom. Or the art form’s redemption, for that matter. Sage Francis is many things to many people—and probably even more to himself—but if there’s anything he isn’t, it’s quiet.