The Poetry and Protest of Common’s “I Used to Love H.E.R.”

Dr. Camille Washington

Welcome to THE VERSE EFFECT — where lyrics live, breathe, and tell the stories behind the beats. I’m Camille…

Roderick Randall

And I’m Roderick…

Dr. Camille Washington

Today, we’re unpacking one of the most creative love stories ever told in hip-hop — Common’s “I Used to Love HER.” It’s not just a song, it’s a metaphor, a memoir, and a message all in one.

Roderick Randall

Yeah, Common flips the script here. He’s not just talking about a woman — he’s talking about HIP-HOP herself. From her early soul and innocence to her fame, her changes, and her struggles. It’s brilliant storytelling with a purpose.

Dr. Camille Washington

Through his verses, Common is holding a mirror up to the culture — asking what happens when the music we love starts to lose its roots. And as always, we’ll break down the lyrics, the history, and the meaning behind it all.

Roderick Randall

But before we get started — a DISCLAIMER: this episode includes references to explicit lyrics, mature content, and cultural critiques that may not be suitable for all audiences. Listener discretion is advised.

Dr. Camille Washington

Alright — let’s rewind to 1994, the heart of hip-hop’s golden era, when Common turned a personal love letter into a timeless conversation about authenticity.

Roderick Randall

This one’s deep — so sit back, turn the volume up, and let’s talk about how one man’s heartbreak became hip-hop’s wake-up call.

Dr. Camille Washington

Absolutely, Roderick. I mean “I Used to Love HER.”—this is one of those tracks that feels almost sacred to me. You know, when he opens with “She was old school when I was just a shorty,” he’s not just painting a picture—he’s rooting himself in that golden age of hip-hop. It’s humility and reverence at the same time, don’t you think?

Roderick Randall

Yeah, exactly. That always struck me. You know, growing up in Oakland, I felt that idea—hip-hop was already this established thing, but also really pure, still local. When Common says he was a shorty, he’s basically giving props to everyone who came before, like, “Hey, I didn’t invent this. I’m a student before anything.” It reminds me of sitting in my dad’s record store as a kid, just listening to those older heads reminisce about the breaks, the parties, the conscious lyrics.

Dr. Camille Washington

Right, and it’s such a perfect example of the Native Tongues influence, the way Common honors hip-hop’s roots. He’s building his credibility by aligning himself with that tradition, but he’s also acknowledging that sense of inheriting something precious. Like discovering this secret language before everyone started speaking it at the top of their lungs.

Roderick Randall

Yeah, when I first heard it, I thought Common sounded almost nostalgic—even back then, for a culture that felt authentic and intimate. Before the spotlights, before, well, everything got... complicated. And that’s wild, because this song dropped in ‘94—he was already worried about hip-hop changing for the worse, even then.

Dr. Camille Washington

Now, let’s get to that next visual he gives us—“Out goes the weave, in goes the braids, beads, medallions.” That’s like a time capsule, right? He’s talking about the late ‘80s, early ‘90s shift. Hip-hop suddenly got more Afrocentric—Public Enemy, X Clan, Native Tongues, the whole movement. Roderick, do you remember those medallions? My mom still has one stashed away somewhere, I think.

Roderick Randall

Absolutely! The leather Africa medallions, the beads—oh, and don’t forget the cowrie shells. I mean, in those days, it wasn’t just a look. It was a statement. Hip-hop was consciously trying to reconnect with Black heritage and say, “Look, we’re proud of this history.” The “Stop the Violence” movement, too—this wasn’t just music; it was activism. You could almost feel that charge in the air—like hip-hop might actually help change something real.

Dr. Camille Washington

Exactly, and Common’s nostalgia isn’t just about fashion; it’s a celebration of that era when hip-hop felt like it had a mission bigger than itself. He’s aligning himself with those values, and also kinda mourning a time when art and activism were so strongly linked. I think that’s part of what made this song hit so hard for fans of conscious rap—it’s both an homage and, like, a gentle challenge. What happened to that mission?

Roderick Randall

Yeah, it’s funny how clothes meant more than clothes. Wearing those beads, those medallions, it was a shout, “We’re here, we know our roots.” You could walk into my dad’s store in ‘90 and see the difference—everybody looked different, felt different, the music changed. And that kind of pride—Common holds that up as the example, then... well, things started to shift, right?

Roderick Randall

Which leads us right into the next turn in the story. “She said that the pro-black was goin’ out of style”—and that’s where Common starts mourning that shift. The sound was changing, Afrocentricity was kind of—well, not marketable anymore. Suddenly it’s R&B, it’s hip-house, it’s bass music, you know?

Dr. Camille Washington

Yes, and it’s so layered. He’s not just saying it as a diss, he’s almost explaining—times change, cultures change, artists experiment. But you can feel the disappointment. He doesn’t condemn evolution, but he is grieving that loss of social consciousness. It’s like, he gets why it happened, but he wishes it could’ve stayed a bit longer.

Roderick Randall

Which I totally relate to. Even working in A&R, you see how sound is always evolving. Some artists get tired of the political stuff, wanna try something new. But it’s, like, that shift away from activism? Man, it’s a real loss. For some of us, hip-hop was the first place we saw politics made personal. When that went away, it felt—less honest, maybe. I don’t know, Camille—am I being too nostalgic?

Dr. Camille Washington

No, that’s exactly what I hear in Common’s voice. He’s honest about his mixed feelings. And it’s the complexity that makes the song powerful—not just “old good, new bad,” but a real meditation on change. Honestly, if more critique sounded like this, maybe the culture wars would be less exhausting!

Dr. Camille Washington

And now the critique sharpens. “Once The Man got to her, he altered her native”—that’s not just about artists changing styles. That’s about the system itself. “The Man” is industry, is corporate labels, is all the money and the marketing. He’s saying, look—hip-hop didn’t evolve naturally. It got pushed, pressed, reshaped for profit.

Roderick Randall

Yeah, this is where Common really draws that line between organic culture and manufactured product. I mean, I’ve seen it from behind the scenes—the stories you hear from artists, the pressure to “do what sells,” the executives saying, “That conscious stuff doesn’t chart.” Capitalism makes everything a product, right? Common’s almost sympathetic to artists—he says, “she did it like a dummy” but he gets the temptation. Who can blame somebody for trying to eat?

Dr. Camille Washington

Right, he’s indicting the system way more than any individual. It’s a critique of what happens when the marketplace gets involved with authenticity. And he does it through storytelling—not just slogans, but this gently bitter love song. There’s a sadness in it, but also recognition. Like, hip-hop isn’t just a victim—it’s complicated. People make choices within constraints. I always respect that kind of nuance.

Roderick Randall

And it’s wild how relevant that still feels. Every year, there’s another story about an artist who loses themselves to the machine. Change the names, it’s the same game.

Roderick Randall

Then we get to what—maybe the most pointed critique in the song. “Now she’s a gangsta rollin’ with gangsta bitches, always smokin’ blunts and gettin’ drunk.” Common’s watching hip-hop get remixed into this commercialized, gangsta persona. That image took over the mid-90s—guns, money, excess. That’s what labels wanted, so that’s what dominated.

Dr. Camille Washington

He’s careful, though. He’s not bashing authentic street storytelling—there’s a difference between real-life narratives and, well, marketing. What he’s grieving is the copy-and-paste of “hardcore” as a sales gimmick—stripped of context, of sensitivity to what those stories mean. And he sees it as a loss, not just for the art, but for the community. When “real” started to mean violent or nihilistic, that was a kind of narrowness, not authenticity.

Roderick Randall

Yeah, I mean, I’ve heard all those arguments like “keep it real,” but real isn’t always one thing. And Common’s smart enough to know that—he’s asking us to look at who benefits when certain images get promoted. In some ways, it’s a warning: if the culture becomes whatever’s most profitable, what do we lose in the process?

Dr. Camille Washington

He’s pushing back on the idea that “hardcore” equals “real”—that’s not the hip-hop he fell in love with, and for a lot of folks, it never was. That’s a tough conversation, but it’s still relevant today. And, I mean, we keep having it, generation after generation.

Dr. Camille Washington

So then—what’s the lasting legacy here? Common, still called Common Sense back then, he wasn’t from New York or L.A., he was Chicago’s poet-philosopher. “I Used to Love HER” basically becomes hip-hop’s conscience. That blend of extended metaphor—personifying hip-hop as a woman—that’s lyrical ambition and technical genius all at once.

Roderick Randall

Yeah, and it wasn’t preachy, either. That’s key. He critiques the culture, but there’s love in it. He respects that hip-hop history, gives flowers to the pioneers, and he’s careful not to throw out the whole movement just ‘cause it changed. It’s a balancing act, and, honestly, it set the bar for everyone who came after—if you’re gonna critique the culture, do it with care and complexity.

Dr. Camille Washington

Right, he opened the door for meta-commentary—you know, songs about hip-hop itself. People like Mos Def, Reflection Eternal, even Kendrick—none of their introspective tracks happen without Common showing the way. He legitimized thinking critically and lovingly about the craft. Especially during the heyday of gangsta rap, that was…radical. And it still matters. Every time we debate authenticity versus commercial appeal, we’re basically living inside the questions Common raised here.

Roderick Randall

And it’s kinda beautiful how each new wave of artists wrestles with that same tension. Which means this track keeps echoing, right? Every time someone samples a soul record or drops a thoughtful verse about the state of the game…that’s Common’s legacy. Alright, Camille, any last thoughts?

Dr. Camille Washington

Just that, honestly, I hope folks go back and sit with this song—really listen. It’s history, it’s philosophy, it’s poetry. Common challenged us to love hip-hop deeply enough to want better for it. That’s always a lesson worth revisiting.

Roderick Randall

Couldn’t have said it better myself. Thanks, Camille, always a pleasure breaking these classics down with you. And thanks to all our listeners for joining us on The Verse Effect. We’ll be back next time with another track that changed the game. Camille, take care.

Dr. Camille Washington

Thank you, Roderick. Always a joy. Take care, everyone—keep those lyrics close, and let’s keep the conversation going.