In this release of Deep Cuts I talk about an artist very close to me, because she takes me straight back to my high school years.
I went to a public classical high school. The kind with windows that never closed properly, walls full of graffiti, freezing hallways in winter, and assemblies that seemed to last forever. Every year something happened that I now look back on with a smile and a touch of melancholy. In November, no matter what, it was time for the occupation. As if written in stone.
For those who didn’t grow up in Italy: to “occupy” the school meant that students took it over for a few days. If they were “good,” they’d hold out for at least a week. No classes, no teachers in charge. You’d walk in in the morning and turn the building into a kind of free lab: political debates, open assemblies, improvised film screenings, jam sessions with a PA system borrowed from who-knows-where. The hallways became a town square, the classrooms self-managed hubs, the gym a place for endless soccer matches.
It was a way to be heard, to “protest” and assert our rights while grabbing a bit of attention. For a few days, the school was in the students’ hands.
And it was there, in that suspended atmosphere between chaos and freedom, that I first heard Tracy Chapman. Some of my friends had a band, and they were always strumming the same song: Talkin’ ’bout a Revolution.
A bare guitar, three chords, and words that seemed written just for us: “Poor people gonna rise up, and get their share.” In that context, it felt almost perfect. It wasn’t just a song, it was a manifesto.
For me, Tracy Chapman was born there. But her story has a lot to do with Fankee.
From High School to Boston: The First “Fan”
What’s incredible is that Chapman’s real story isn’t so far from that world of occupations and school rebellions. Her career also started with a small, almost clandestine act of rebellion. Not in a label’s office, not thanks to a powerful industry manager, but because of a student who trusted his instinct.
Boston, early ’80s. Tracy Chapman is studying anthropology and African studies at Tufts University. She plays in the streets of Harvard Square, in coffee houses, on the university radio station WMFO. No strategic plan, no ambition to become a pop star. Just a voice that hit you straight in the gut.
Her real “discoverer” wasn’t an Elektra A&R, nor a visionary record exec. It was a classmate: Brian Koppelman. Today we know him as a Hollywood writer and producer (Billions, Rounders), but back then he was just another student. One night, while organizing an anti-apartheid student rally, someone told him: “You should invite this singer-songwriter, she’s perfect for the cause.” Tracy Chapman stepped on stage, just guitar and voice. And for Koppelman, it was a shock to the system:
“I was helping organize a boycott protest against apartheid at school, and someone told me there was this great protest singer I should get to play at the rally… Tracy walked onstage, and it was like an epiphany. Her presence, her voice, her songs, her sincerity—it all came across.”
An epiphany.
Koppelman couldn’t ignore it. He started following her, convincing her, until he got his hands on a demo tape recorded at WMFO. A copy containing Talkin’ ’bout a Revolution. He took it, some say stole it, and gave it to his father, Charles Koppelman, head of SBK Publishing.
And he’s never hidden how much that moment changed everything:
“In college, I had discovered singer-songwriter Tracy Chapman and made her first album. I was executive producer of that album, so I was an A&R person in the music business right up through when we wrote Rounders.”
Later, on Marc Maron’s WTF podcast, he doubled down on how decisive that moment was for both of them:
“After seeing her perform on stage, Brian and Tracy’s lives were never the same again… Without Brian, Tracy might never have made it in the musical industry.”
And then there’s Tracy’s own voice, admitting her initial skepticism, her sense of not fitting into that world of offices and contracts:
“I have to say that I never thought I would get a contract with a major record label... I didn’t see a place for me there.”
A Debut Out of Time
In 1987 she signed with Elektra. In 1988, in just eight weeks, she recorded her debut album: Tracy Chapman. A record completely out of sync with the ’80s. The world was drowning in synthesizers, big hair, MTV videos. She showed up with twelve stripped-down folk songs, voice and guitar, no frills. Inside were Fast Car and Talkin’ ’bout a Revolution.
It was almost an anachronism, and precisely for that reason, a political act. She wasn’t chasing the sound of the moment, she wasn’t trying to please everyone. She was just real and unique, full stop.
The real spark came on June 10, 1988. Wembley Stadium, London. The Nelson Mandela 70th Birthday Tribute, a global event broadcast worldwide. Tracy Chapman was on the bill, but in a minor slot. Then came the unexpected: Stevie Wonder, one of the headliners, couldn’t perform due to technical issues. The organizers needed to fill the gap.
Tracy Chapman stepped on stage, alone with her guitar. She began Fast Car. In front of 70,000 people and millions watching on TV. Dead silence. Then a standing ovation. The next day, everyone was talking about her. Album sales exploded. Fast Car climbed to #6 on the Billboard Hot 100. Chapman won three Grammys in 1989. A Boston student had become the new voice of revolution.
So what?
Whenever I dive into these music stories, I try to find a meaning that connects back to what we’re building today with Fankee. And what strikes me isn’t just the success, but the way it started. That’s why I get so passionate about them.
It wasn’t the industry manufacturing her career. It was a kid who saw something and decided to share it. A fan, a friend.
Back then it was a tape passed hand to hand. Today it’s a video on TikTok. Back then all it took was a classmate noticing you. Today it’s a repost, a trend, a few seconds of content. Sure, it was “more romantic” in those days for someone like me who lived through it, but the substance hasn’t changed: the first step never comes from the industry, it always comes from the listener.
But there’s a huge difference. Brian Koppelman’s name isn’t tied to Tracy Chapman. He became famous for his movies, not for discovering her. His gesture remained invisible. Today millions of people do that same job every day—pushing artists on TikTok, Instagram, YouTube—yet they remain invisible. Their contribution doesn’t show up in the credits, leaves no trace, generates no value for them.
Listening to Talkin’ ’bout a Revolution back in high school, in the naïve way only a 17-year-old can, I thought it was a song written for me and my classmates locked inside that occupied school. Now I wonder what it could have meant for those kids to actually be part of that success, that story, to make it their own.
After nearly 30 years, we would have something truly unique to tell.
If there’s one lesson here, it’s this: the real talent scouts have never been the labels. They’ve always been the fans. Tracy Chapman would never have made it to Wembley without Brian Koppelman and that cassette. Just as today, no artist blows up without their first 100 fans pushing them on social media.
And that’s the essence of Fankee.
To transform that invisible work—the act of a fan sharing, pushing, promoting—into real value. To give those who discover an artist the chance not to stay in the shadows, but to become part of their story.
Because if it’s true that every revolution starts with a voice and the people who hear it, then it’s time that voice finally echoes back.
🎧 TRACK(S) OF THE WEEK
What’s been spinning while building, dreaming, or burning it all down. Join my playlist — and send me your favorite track. I’ll feature one next week with a proper shoutout.
