Orlondo Otis Hundley: The Art of Accessibility

Orlondo Otis Hundley: The Art of Accessibility – by BradQuan Copeland.

“Law 6: Court attention at all costs,” Robert Greene writes in The 48 Laws of Power—a diagnosis of how influence functions rather than a prescription for how one ought to act. That ideology is personified in the roots that granted emergence to the stewardship of Orlondo Otis Hundley, also known as 97Otis, a local recording artist whose sound veins through the neurons, fostering an alternative consciousness that marinates the prefrontal cortex with a moral curiosity, lofting beyond the capitalist framework that obscures our core. Through a reflective romanticism shaped by doctrine, he steadily declares his imperfect presence, favoring resonant abundance over theatrics.

Perhaps that restraint explains why his music has found a quiet but widening audience, now reaching thousands of monthly listeners, with individual tracks resonating far beyond their modest beginnings, stretching from tens of thousands into the hundreds of thousands. Now, I’ll be honest: I came across Orlondo Otis Hundley purely by accident. While searching Instagram for the recording artist Ohzhe, I stumbled upon a video he had liked—one that captured the idiosyncratic perceptiveness of an ambitious Schenectadian embarking on a grassroots exploratory campaign for the 2027 mayoral election. The exchange of ideas was spirited, but more importantly, heard, and what emerged was not performance but presence, indicative of a man quietly poised for prominence.

Genuine smiles, handshakes, and laughter revealed someone who lives not for, but through, the people who truly catalyze the Electric City. I was almost surprised there was no footage of him kissing babies, though I suppose all things arrive in their own time.

Further exploration of his profile revealed another layer entirely: he was also a rapper. On impulse, I clicked the link in his bio and crash-landed on his Spotify, where I was immediately cradled by the load-bearing cushion of his diary-like, minimalist lo-fi aura. It’s music that burns tenderly rather than flares, regulating a lucid, enlightened calm into a steady fervor of spoken-word visibility.

His song, Cakewalk, quickly found its way onto my on-repeat playlist, carried by an intimate piano melody that captures a muted duality, evoking both the gradual ascent of dawn and the lulling descent of slumber at sunset. Coupled with the mindful repetition of “world peace,” the track operates almost as a meditative mantra, nurturing the spirit of a being grounded in a worldview that values humanity’s success through the measured progression of the collective over the isolated triumph of the individual.

Enticed by his character, I DMed him, but given the consistency of his production, I wouldn’t have been surprised had I not heard back or been met with an extremely delayed response. However, to my surprise, he responded almost instantly, agreeing to an interview where the two of us could sit down within the community to consciously build a connecting bridge that showcased the authenticity of his pulsing soul in plain sight.

A week or so passed, and I rose on a blustery, sky-split day, pelting with rain. Gathering myself before pulling up to the Newest Lunch Diner located at 715 Albany Street, I parked and couldn’t help but take notice of the rain’s pale waves of breath rippling from the asphalt, sending veils of vapor fleeing like smoke from fire.

Exiting my car, I swiftly erected my umbrella like my survival depended on it, only to be hostilely pressed by an assaultive force as it dug in and reversed the obedience of shelter, severing the sole function of this eleventh-century ingenuity.

“What in the actual fuck, dude?” I angrily said to myself as I forced the umbrella back into shape—to which it never recovered—and hurried into the restaurant with blurred and beaded lenses, where I was met by the man himself, bearing the resemblance of a young Obama.

Draped in a white collared shirt tucked beneath a black sweater, pressed khakis, and black polished soles, I went in for a firm handshake that was swiftly negated and replaced with open arms as he said, “Bring it in, brother. Bring it in.”

We took our seats at the booth, where I noticed Orlondo Otis Hundley had hung his peacoat on a coat rack behind him. Scanning the space, I eased into the communal yet familial layout of the establishment, its walls lined with countless photos that spoke to generational familiarity. The clacking of coffee pots and the scraping of spatulas blended with the murmur of blue-collar regulars and the razor focus of servers taking orders, a soundscape that perfectly captured the daily grind embedded in this working-class city.

As we ordered a water, an orange juice, and coffee, conversation began to unfold. Before long, Orlondo was warmly greeted by an older local, clearly taken by his youthful ambition. “Shit, this guy is the real deal,” I thought, as we took our first sips and settled into a deeper discourse. Having never interviewed someone with such duality, it went without saying that I was in for a treat.

What took shape was a shift further into the moment, tightening the architecture of our shared language where mere gesture left off.

Interview: RRX × Orlondo Otis Hundley

RRX: When I came up with these questions, I wanted to intertwine your artistry with civic life in a way that didn’t announce itself outright, but where the undertones were still present. When you look back at your earliest creative work, what part of yourself has remained unchanged despite everything that’s happened since?

OOH: My overall approach has always been rooted in abundance. I think a lot about Martin Luther, the monk, not the modern figure. He wrote nearly thirty percent of what was printed in Germany at the time. He worked through ideas publicly, imperfectly. That has always been my method.
I killed any sense of perfectionism early. I’m comfortable mispronouncing words. I’m comfortable stuttering. The mistake is as much a part of the work as the finished product. It’s human.

That approach carried me through music. I released over 140 songs because I believe if you put enough honest work into the world, someone will hear it. And they did. An artist from Lesotho, South Africa, AJFawdySeven, reached out after hearing one of my early tracks. That connection turned into collaboration, international reach, and real creative partnership.

The throughline has always been communication. Creating in volume and remaining reachable to the people receiving the work. That’s what hasn’t changed.

RRX: What does your music allow you to admit about yourself that you might otherwise keep guarded in everyday life?

OOH: I’m a romantic. A lot of my music is me trying to say the most tender, poetic things I can. In one song I say, “I’ve given jewelry a home.” That line alone says more about me than most conversations ever could.

Music lets me be openly poetic without apology. That rhythmic sense never leaves you. It shows up in speech, in thought. I’ve rapped about everything from the Enlightenment to constitutional theory. That practice trained my ability to communicate without dumbing myself down.
It showed me that people feel sincerity even when you’re not aiming for it. That foundation mattered more to me than any classroom ever could.

RRX: Do you feel more accountable to your own conscience or to the people who encounter your work, and how do you carry that tension?

OOH: I’ve always said in my music, “Can you hold me to these words?” I mean that. Lately people accuse me of reading from a script, but I’m not. I’m speaking from the heart.

The tension is knowing when to speak, when to wait, and when reacting won’t actually fix anything. I’m accountable to my conscience first. But conscience doesn’t mean certainty. You’re always asking yourself, I know I’m right, but am I right?

That internal struggle never leaves. Comments don’t affect how I live my day. Everything is internal. I was made this way.

RRX: Has your relationship with power changed as your voice has become more public, or has it clarified something you already sensed?

OOH: If anything, I’ve doubled down on who I’ve always been. People want seriousness, but humor is part of my humanity. I used to walk through Walmart and recognize ten people. Now it’s thirty. That doesn’t change me.

What’s been vindicating is that people across every background respond to clarity. I speak directly, from the heart, and I let people be mad if they need to be. That honesty has made me unafraid.

I talk to the camera like it’s just you and me, even when a million people might see it. People wonder if I’ll change in ten years. The answer is no. I was like this ten years ago.

RRX: When you imagine being misunderstood, which interpretation of you feels the most painful?

OOH: When people think I’m stupid. That one hurts. There are people who need me to be stupid, because if I’m right, or even close, it forces them to rethink themselves.

Intelligence doesn’t always sound polished. Sometimes it sounds raw, unfinished, searching. A lot of people can’t verbalize their pain or their rights, and society treats that silence as proof the pain doesn’t exist. That’s dangerous.

Seeing me as one-dimensional, either dumb or chasing popularity, is a way to avoid engaging with what I’m actually saying.

RRX: What inner conflict fuels your creative output, and how do you keep it from turning corrosive?

OOH: I don’t bottle anything. I let it out. I’m a channel more than anything else. When I wrote poetry, I released five books and hundreds of poems in two years.

I love Hamilton, especially the line, “Why do you write like you’re running out of time?” That resonates deeply with me. Writing, creating, speaking is how I stay healthy.

I’d rather compete, show up, fail publicly, than sit on the sidelines wondering what might have happened. Competing with myself is better than silence.

RRX: If someone studied your songs years from now to understand who you were, what truth would you hope they’d arrive at that words alone can’t explain?

OOH: That I believed in will and love. My grandmother’s name was Selma. It means will. Her middle name was Love.

With those two forces, you can create anything. I never had an army. I never wanted to hurt anyone. I wanted to touch the world through language.

I broke language barriers with my music. I reached people across countries without force, just words. I hope they see that I believed deeply that language could shape reality.

RRX: You’ve spoken about competition as something that motivates rather than defines worth. How do you reconcile that with your broader vision of shared dignity?

OOH: My main competition has always been myself. Competing to articulate better than I did yesterday.

Competition becomes dangerous when it determines survival. Healthcare, housing, dignity, those shouldn’t be things you have to win. I compete so people can see that the systems pretending to reward merit often don’t.

If I can do this imperfectly, publicly, making a thousand mistakes, then anyone can. That’s the point.

RRX: After spending this time with you, one thing that stands out is accessibility. How important is that to who you are?

OOH: It’s everything. If people can’t reach you, you can’t serve them. I don’t want distance. I don’t want mystique.

I want people to see me, talk to me, argue with me, laugh with me. That’s how trust forms. That’s how change happens. Not from above. From within.

RRX: Last question. What keeps you grounded as everything accelerates?

OOH: The community. Always the community. I’m not becoming someone new. I’m becoming more visible.

If I ever stop sounding like myself, then I’ve lost. But I don’t think that’ll happen. This is who I’ve always been.

As the conversational voyage settled to shore, the meaning of the exchange began to crystallize. Upon conclusion, what lingered with me was the realization that Orlondo Otis Hundley, the man and the mayoral candidate, is unmistakably interwoven with 97Otis, the artist. This aesthetico-political weaving reveals a man who lives vicariously through the daring, ever-pervasive lens of his inner child, one not reared in completeness, but in a wholeness that allowed the freedom to form an identity settled in perpetual motion, unburdened by shame or manipulation, and enriched by a sense of intrinsic worth kindled through ironclad resilience.

Who I met was a man of confidence without superiority, someone who owns his fractures without allowing them to seep into his core. That balance is the mark of a healthy ego, one capable of courting attention effortlessly by meeting the community where they are, without slipping into delusions of grandeur. What struck me further was that weeks later, while interviewing local poet Celeste Sloane, someone who bore no apparent connection to him, his name surfaced naturally in conversation. She spoke with incorruptible conviction, firmly believing he is the answer Schenectady needs.

It takes a malleable breed to become a politician, but an earthbound spirit to flourish within humanity. The latter makes change; the former only names it. Actions speak the truth, and whether in the booth or on the podium, Orlondo has captured the attention of a city of stone that, like the inner child, still yearns to be heard.

 

 

More from BradQuan Copeland…