No. 125 - Kris Kross’s “Jump” changed my life

In 1992, Chris Mitchell found the confidence boost he needed in a music video

Jan 23, 2026

This Song Changed My Life is an independent music publication featuring weekly essays from people all around the world about the songs that mean the most to them. Created (and illustrated) by Grace Lilly.

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• 4 min read •

Music was in my bones from the beginning. I was raised in rhythm. From Tramaine Hawkins to Jim Reeves, my family’s house always had melodies floating through it. Music, especially gospel, was everywhere.

At church, I sang in the Sunday school choir, and my family was popular in the local Christian community. On weekdays, though, I struggled to navigate the playground hierarchy at Furness Primary School. I wasn’t athletic, overly charismatic, or light-skinned. I had a way with words that impressed teachers but sometimes annoyed peers.

Even at 11, I was becoming aware of things about my body, status, the world. In the thick of confusing emotions, I noticed the invisible rules of masculinity that dictated who walked tall in the canteen and who faded into obscurity when the bell rang. I felt caught in a strange middle space: too young to understand, old enough to feel the weight. I was desperate to find something to boost my confidence, help me stand out or not shrink away.

Then one Saturday morning in March 1992, it happened. I was sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, half-awake, watching The Chart Show on ITV, when THAT video came on. Two kids in oversized backwards clothes with so much energy jumped onto the screen. “Jump” by Kris Kross changed everything. Produced by Jermaine Dupri with a sample of “I Want You Back” by The Jackson 5, the track had a playful yet hard-hitting beat. The video shows the duo “bouncing” in several locations, rocking to the rhythm. The call-and-response hook and confident lyrics captured teen rebellion. Years later, I learned that the opening line — “Don’t try to compare us to another bad little fad” — was a shot at fellow kiddie-rap group Another Bad Creation.

I was frozen, trying to process what I was seeing, hearing, and feeling. I could relate because they looked like people I knew. I saw glimpses of myself in them. They were my age and both named Christopher — Christopher Kelly and Christopher Smith. More than that, they were having fun and commanding the screen. They looked like they belonged. And I thought, maybe I could, too.

It was the first time I realised I could be part of Hip Hop. Until then, it felt like something I could only watch from afar — something grown men did in New York or L.A., not something a boy from Kensal Rise could step into. But Kris Kross shattered that illusion. They weren’t just doing Hip Hop. They were Hip Hop. And they were kids.

That moment didn’t just inspire me. It gave me permission to dream; to try, and to participate rather than just admire. I didn’t have to wait. I didn’t need a cosign. I just needed to start. So I did.

I began writing but quickly found out rapping is HARD. I bought the Jump single on cassette and rinsed it on my Walkman. I practised Kris Kross’s flows when no one was around, mimicking their cadence and style, not to copy them, but to find my version of it. I wanted to impress my school friends and get my social currency up. But mostly, I wanted to prove to myself I could create something.

My first bars were clumsy, awkward lines scribbled in the back of school notebooks. I still remember my very first rap. I’ve never shared it publicly until now:

My name is MC Chris, and I’m on the mic
School is hype, and that’s what I like
There’s Maths, there’s English and History
How can I forget Geography?

Honestly, I wasn’t very good. My voice was weak. My punchlines didn’t land. I didn’t tell anyone I was rapping, but I kept writing because there was something healing in the process. Even when the words didn’t quite fit — like me in the playground — writing helped me make sense of everything I was feeling. Eventually, my lines became verses, then songs. With each one, I got better. Fragments of my soul revealed themselves between syllables.

I didn’t tell my family. Not for years. Hip Hop felt too far from the world of hymnals and devotionals they knew. I didn’t want to disappoint them or be misunderstood. So I kept it quiet. One person I did tell was my friend, Shaun Etienne. When he heard me rap, he did the “gunfinger” in approval and told me to keep going. Moments like that let me know people believed in me.

Over time, the boy who didn’t think he had much to offer became a man with something to say. That one song, “Jump,” lit a fuse that’s never gone out. The final Kris Kross album, Young, Rich & Dangerous (my favourite), was released in 1996. Christopher Kelly died of a drug overdose in 2013. I’m still a Kris Kross fan to this day.

Now, I’m a musician with hundreds of writing credits, dozens of releases, and music featured in TV shows. I’ve also forged a new career as an Audio Producer and Co-Host of Breaking Atoms, a podcast that explores the stories and people behind Hip Hop culture. It took 30 years to get here, but I’ll never forget how it started — with two kids on TV who looked like me, showing me I didn’t have to wait for permission. I could jump in, figure it out, and find my voice and place.

I’ve been jumping into new opportunities ever since. ◆

About Chris

Chris Mitchell is an award-winning Executive Producer, Writer and Musician from North West London who loves sound and storytelling. His work as an Audio Producer includes credits for BBC Sounds, 5 Live, Radio 2 and Spotify’s Sound Up UK programme. As an independent artist, Chris’ music has been featured by global brands such as ESPN, Hennessy, McDonald’s, WWE, and VICELAND. In June 2025, Chris won the The Whickers Podcast Pitch at the Sheffield Doc Fest for his narrative audio series, Redemption Man.

Instagram @iamkinetik

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