When DijahSB released 2020 The Album, they did more than drop a project—they delivered a survival anthem for Toronto’s hip-hop scene. With introspective, raw lyricism layered over minimalist beats, the album became a lifeline for those navigating the emotional chaos of that year.
DijahSB’s vulnerability resonated deeply, solidifying their position as a fearless voice willing to confront personal struggles. This album marked a pivotal moment for the artist, who, after years of juggling retail jobs—including a stint at the Apple Store—finally secured a distribution deal with AWAL, allowing them to pursue music full-time.
Since then, DijahSB, born Kahdijah Payne, has continued to evolve, yet the essence of their artistry remains rooted in authenticity, resilience, and a commitment to creating music that strikes a chord with listeners. Tracks like “By Myself” and “New Harrison” from theHead Above the Waters album showcase their talent for blending infectious beats with introspective bars—an approach that earned them a spot on the 2021 Polaris Music Prize shortlist.
With follow-up projects like 2022 The EP and last year’s The Flower That Knew, which was longlisted for the 2024 Polaris Music Prize, DijahSB has cemented their place as an artist capable of transforming personal highs and lows into music that moves both the heart and the mind. Their signature sound—melding introspection with irresistible grooves—has become the cornerstone of their career, whether in solo work or collaborations.
One standout collaboration for DijahSB is 2021’s “Exceptional,” a hit with producer veggi that struck gold with its witty lyricism and undeniable groove. The track resonated far beyond their core audience. “Most of my collaborations happen over email or text, but real magic happens in person,” DijahSB explains via Zoom from their home in Toronto. “veggi and I have worked together on a lot, but ‘Exceptional’ is our most-streamed song. It reached places we never imagined, and the success has been life-changing for both of us.”
For DijahSB, making music is about fostering connection and creating spaces where fans feel seen and understood—especially as a queer, Black artist navigating an industry that often sidelines marginalized voices. While their non-binary identity isn’t always explicit in their music, DijahSB recognizes the importance of visibility. “It doesn’t affect my lyrics or music much. It’s more about ensuring that, because I’m so visible, I’m proud to exist as a non-binary artist,” they share. “I know there are people out there struggling with their identities, and I was once a kid who struggled too.”
This visibility is especially vital in a genre like hip-hop, where hyper-masculinity and corporate influence have long shaped the narrative. Yet DijahSB isn’t here to conform. They challenge the genre’s conventions, creating a more inclusive and honest space for themselves and others. “Hip-hop, like all popular music, has a corporate side,” they reflect. “It’s inevitable that the wrong hands get ahold of it, and it’s been like that for a long time. Right now, with everything going on in the world, it feels especially soulless.”
Rather than succumb to these pressures, DijahSB views their role as one of pushing back, carving out space for authenticity and inclusivity. “It’s about making sure my identity is known, speaking on it as much as possible, and being proud of it,” they say. “Hopefully, that strikes a chord with someone else who’s struggling with their own identity.”
One thing we can all agree on about the music industry today is that it often pushes artists toward embracing a more commercial sound or image. It could be a good thing, but it’s definitely a bad thing when artists start to lose themselves. Tell me, how do you ensure your music remains a true reflection of who you are?
I feel like I’ve set a particular boundary with myself, understanding what success means to me. For me, being able to make enough money to sustain myself financially through music means that I’m successful. All the things I’ve accomplished as an artist make me feel successful, so I don’t feel like I have to conform to anything in order to fit into any sort of mold to be “successful.” I already feel like I have the recipe to maintain some sort of career, and I don’t see myself becoming a pop artist in terms of not being able to walk down the street without being noticed.
I’m inspired by artists who can tour North America or Europe once a year, have hundreds of people show up, and make a living based on that. But if you saw them in a grocery store, you wouldn’t recognize them. That’s the level of fame and kind of music career I want. It allows me to continue to do my own thing and be myself. Conforming to those standards is what often makes you more popular. It’s very rare to be that popular without conforming to something. Since I’m not interested in that level of fame, it’s easier for me to maintain my own sense of style and sound.
You’ve openly discussed mental health challenges in your work. How do you balance vulnerability with maintaining your personal boundaries when sharing your story through music, given the fact that everyone is watching?
That’s a good question. I feel like when you’re that vulnerable, boundaries kind of blur. As you mentioned, everyone is watching, both good and bad. If I’m open about being depressed or having anxiety, sure, someone who doesn’t like me could use that against me. But for me, that’s not something to be ashamed of. If I’ve already said all these things about myself, it doesn’t matter much if someone else repeats them—it doesn’t bother me. You could call me anything in the book, and I’ve probably already called myself that. I’ve heard everything about myself because of how things have transpired in my life.
But yeah, it’s a tricky balance because parasocial relationships can get intense online, and people start to think they know you. I just try to focus on those who relate to me rather than those who use my vulnerability against me. For every one person who does that, there are ten people who say, “Hey, I’m so glad you’re vulnerable in your music because it helps me.” It’s a trade-off, and it’s a big risk being that open as an artist, but in the end, it’s worth it.
As your sound has evolved from your early days with Class of 93 to your current evolution as DijahSB, do you ever find yourself feeling nostalgic for the early days of your career?
I don’t really wish I had the same opportunities back then as I do now because we’re in a strange stage. People call it late-stage capitalism, and it’s affecting the music industry. People are getting laid off en masse, and artists are having to tour once a year because that’s the only way to make money. Streaming makes it difficult to crack 100K units when you drop an album. Corporate greed is sucking the soul out of what really makes music move.
I do feel like I would be much bigger if I had the opportunities I have now back in 2009. It would have been a much different trajectory. Right now, it feels like a really slow burn. I have to do a lot more work to find my crowd and my fans. It feels like no one’s trying to help or invest because they claim there’s no money—but the money’s there, it’s just going to the wrong people. The streaming era hasn’t helped either. I understand how accessible music is a good thing, but it has also cheapened the experience. There’s no longer any real gatekeeping in the sense of filtering what gets sent to the masses. “Gatekeepers” can be a bad word, but in some ways, they served a purpose.
I know that the Nike SB sneaker line played a role in inspiring your stage name. Can you tell me more about your relationship with sneaker culture and how it influences your style, both musically and personally?
Streetwear and my kicks were my way of expressing myself, especially as a teen. Everyone was into Jordans, and I felt like I was breaking the mold by wearing SBs instead. It also allowed me to express myself as a masculine-presenting person, helping me feel comfortable in my body. Streetwear and hip-hop are adjacent; you can’t have one without the other. On a personal level, streetwear helped me develop my style, which was important growing up, especially as I tried to understand gender identity. It made me feel more comfortable with who I was and in my own body.
Sneaker culture is also such a big influence in hip-hop, and all my favorite rappers wore certain brands. I wanted to reflect that. It was fun hunting down cool SBs online, checking forums to see when new ones dropped, and lining up for them. The brands I liked weren’t available in Canada, so I’d always order them from the States, which added to the fun of waiting for them to arrive. It was just a whole experience.
Toronto is known for its rich musical diversity, but your approach to hip-hop feels distinct. How do you see yourself fitting into or redefining Toronto’s hip-hop landscape?
I think it’s difficult because Toronto has so many talented rappers, and we all sound different. I do get support from the Toronto music scene, though. A lot of people say it’s hard to get support here, and I agree, but I’ve seen support from many of the institutions that run here. It is hard to amass a crowd, though. We’re kind of spoiled in Toronto because we have so many big and small artists come through to play, so it’s easy for people to stand still and not engage when an up-and-coming artist performs.
The issue with Toronto is that we need more labels, A&Rs, and people working in the music industry, based here. It feels like the resources are small, which is why it’s easier to go to the States, where you can find people who are hungry to help artists. You find the right person, and you can build a career. In Toronto, we have hungry people too, but it feels like there’s one industry person for every hundred artists. I know that’s an exaggeration, but it’s just to illustrate the ratio.
I do know that if I were to throw a show, people would come out, and that’s one of the biggest indicators of support. People can stream your music and engage on social media, but will they buy a ticket to see you live? That’s what makes a difference. The fact that I can do that in Toronto means I do have support here. But the music industry here is lacking infrastructure—we need more people working in it to help artists thrive.
Looking forward, what message do you hope to convey through your music to the next generation of artists, especially those navigating complex identities?
That it’s OK to be yourself. I struggled with being myself growing up as a teen, and it left me with a lot of questions that I didn’t have the vocabulary to answer for myself. So, hopefully, listening to and watching all that I do will allow you to find that vocabulary for yourself in terms of your identity. Also, I want people to know that things can change at any moment. If you are feeling down right now or going through something really difficult, remember that things can change at any moment, and they have for me over a hundred times. I always say that I’m here, and I’m sticking around to let people know that things can and will get better eventually.
