You can listen to Philadelphia rapper/producer Bahamadia’s CDs -- 1996’s Kollage, 2000’s BB Queen -- and get a sense of who she is: a proudly epicurean etymologist and a loquacious, sultry, raspy singsongy slinger of no-nonsense sociocultural texts. She’s also an easily collaborative lover (and ardent consumer) of the laid-back jazz-hop organics of The Roots, the wack acidity of Herbaliser and the icy roar of Roni Size.

The first lady of Philadelphian hip-hop's answering machine gives you another clue to her inner dialogue, asking that if you are not a God-loving person with only the best of intentions toward her, her children and society at large, please, and kindly, do not leave that message. No one is ever home when negativity rings or knocks.

"People tell me how much they love that message. I'm just speaking from my heart," says Bahamadia in one breath, about the rarity of anyone in the business having a heart, let alone speaking it.

Directness, independence and spirituality have made her one of hip-hop's most treasured voices. They have also kept her from becoming -- for better and worse -- a commodity. She's often sought to sign (DreamWorks and Warner Bros. came courting), but rarely hits a dotted line. She is recording new material at Larry Gold's studio, and can be found in the meantime on King Britt's Adventures in Lo-fi, on the Coltrane-holy track "Transcend." That tune gives listeners a picture of where she is now -- chattier, biting, more direct. Devoted.

A native of West Philly's Mantua section, an introverted Antonia Reed went through the dysfunction of divorced parents and sexual abuse. Her solace was music: studying percussion at Settlement before settling on turntables and records. "Coming from a single-parent environment, my mom couldn't keep me in Settlement and my sister in Philadanco. It was a financial strain." With her grandmother's record collection -- Aretha, EW&F, Luther Ingram -- as a starting point, hip-hop became an affordable alternative.

Combine her burgeoning DJ skills with a youth spent writing volumes of poetry (since age 9, she kept little books of real-life experiences and fantasies) and a sense of civic duty ("inspired by, of all things, those Fat Albert cartoons"), and you get Reed's roots. When rap hit her neighborhood in the form of park jams, Cold Crush cassettes, Philly radio goddess Lady B and Sha Rock's Funky 4 Plus One, she was hooked. "These women inspired me. Sha was the first woman who rhymed. But Lady B is who I initially got my vocal tones from."

"The morph" was completed when Reed, whose first MC name was Toni T, took "Bahamadia" in 1985, a catchy name borrowed from a friend. "She used that as a phony name when she would go out and meet guys. I liked it because, in the Islamic attribute book, the name's a combination of phrases meaning 'thankful original creation.' See, God was always behind me."

Upon becoming Bahamadia, she hung and rapped at Cherry Street's After Midnight and Houston Hall, and crashed West Catholic High School house parties. She didn't take it seriously until she hooked up with Bird's Nest Production and Power 99's DJ Ran. His 7th Dimension Productions handled Han Soul, the Epic-label rapper whose "Imagination" 12-inch -- a hit amongst the DJ Tee Alford/Club Impulse set -- was Bahamadia's first foray on wax.

Her first solo 12-inch, 1993's "Funk Vibe," caught the ear of Guru, the voice of Gang Starr, who sponsored the recording of "Total Wreck," her contract with Chrysalis and her first CD. While her freeform jazzy masterpiece, Kollage, elicited raves from critics and true hip-hop heads, it got lost in hip-hop's mid-'90s identity crisis and the corporate shuffle EMI was going through at the time. But Philadelphians from Ursula Rucker to Jill Scott made Kollage a bible of how to be righteous and soulful, literary and loving.

"You know what? I actually think I had too much freedom on that record. I wore too many hats. I should have just concentrated on writing and performing instead of producing and nearly everything else as well," says Bahamadia. She sees the timing of Kollage as incongruent with her life and its struggles -- new parenthood, drugs, partying and sexual identity.

"It wasn't all it was cracked up to be," she says of what should've been a most exciting period. "I didn't focus on the fact that I was releasing a record on a major label or its impact. I didn't focus on having a career. I don't think I wanted it."

Her godliness came late in life. "God has always been in tune with me. I just had to discover him. Experience brought me to him. I wanted to give my life to Christ. Everything else I had tried wasn't working. I had faith in a lot of things that I thought would fill the void I had for unconditional love. Nothing did. Not parents, siblings, not even the music. It wasn't until discovering that God is the source of life, that I felt that love. Now everything I do is for him or with him in mind. You're either a vessel for darkness or for light. I am a slave for God." She never states her religious devotion with any sort of preachiness. Instead, like her best rhymes, it's a casual matter of fact.

After Kollage faded, she didn't pursue producers or hype. She didn't bemoan bad labels and luck. Pragmatically, she took on European tours, found herself working with British trip and jungle's most notable practitioners (Roni Size, Morcheeba), wound up hosting radio shows at Philly's 103 FM and found love in the land of indie labels like Goodvibe, which put out BB Queen and alterna-rappers like Slum Village and Talib Kweli. "Between that record and having accepted Christ, I learned to take my work seriously." Sadly, though, Goodvibe too ran out of steam not long after BB Queen came out.

"God works in mysterious ways," she says with a cheerful giggle about being label-less again. She's patient, recording new material (nearly two new CDs ready to go) only when she is moved by the spirit, when it feels right. "Rather than just go half-baked -- concentrating more on text and less on enunciation as I did, on occasion, during Kollage -- now I'm a stickler for details." God has, in her eyes, given her a second chance to be heard; an opportunity she's taking "slowly and clearly" so that people can hear what she wants to say. She's adapted the fluid phrase-mongering of her past into something blunter, relying less on her extensive vocabulary and more on communication.

"It's like I'm busting out of my shell, exploring all of my moods and incorporating my good, my bad and my ugly." Mainly though, she's subdivided her wordy socioconscious texts into something easily readable and focused more on colloquialisms.

"I want to meet you eye-to-eye. I want to be digestible. Look, I've had this argument with the backpackers who don't care whether or not they go over people's heads. They just put it down to listeners not being educated or progressive. That's stupid and prejudiced. You're alienating the very people you're hoping to connect with. How effective could I have been if people don't get it?" She sees that new focus and honesty as the thing that makes Philly hip-hop unique. "It's not just that Œold soul sound' -- it's that we have a great critical eye and that we are sticklers for details."

Finally, above all else, Bahamadia understands how, just like Lady B and Sha Rock affected her, she's influenced other socially aware lyricists. You can hear her in Ms. Dynamite and Erykah Badu's lyrics and Missy Elliott's tones. You can feel her in The Roots (with whom her last Philly gig occurred three years ago), and the righteously poetic Kweli.

"We are all here to inspire each other to become who God made us. Perhaps, if I've done that, helped sow a seed, I've accomplished what I was placed here to do."

While Bahamadia knows little about Ladyfest, she's delighted to be playing something woman-centric and local. "I'd like to see greater camaraderie amongst females in the industry."

But Bahamadia thinks beyond male and female. She is looking to see the positive, especially those within rap's old school like Big Daddy Kane and such, accentuated and acknowledged. "I would like to see artists acknowledge -- not merely patronize -- the pioneers who have laid down groundwork. And throw us some work," she says, laughing. "Make sure your situation is solidified, first, yes. But go back and help those that God has used to make possible who you are."

Bahamadia performs Fri., March 21, 9 p.m., $12, with Ursula Rucker and Montazh, Transit, Sixth and Spring Garden sts., 215-925-8878.