Rap music is not cool! It is not for the street thug or the frat boy, nor is it an underground railroad of delivery from our numerous social ills. Above all, it is definitely not your impression of it.
The truth is that, as a nebulous musical genre, rap can be any of these things. Hip-hop culture, of which rap music has been and will continue to be an essential cornerstone, is fundamentally an urban subculture (often qualifying as a counterculture) of the black lumpenproletariat’mdash;not to neglect the significant influence of Latinos, Asians and other oppressed nationalities. As such, it tends to reflect this demographic, its strengths and weaknesses, assets and liabilities.
A central component of the black lumpenproletariat, incumbent upon it ever since Huey Newton presaged it as the future of the black struggle, is a voice for social change. In over 30 years of existence, rap music has consistently taken up the fight.
New York City’s Immortal Technique could easily be speaking for the culture itself when he elegantly rhymes: ‘I was chosen to speak the words of every African slave dumped in the ocean stolen by America, tortured, buried and frozen, written out of the history books your children are holding.’
From Melle Mel’s powerful protest against the Cold War in the early 1980s (‘World War III’) to KRS-One’s decade-spanning career of rumination and inquisition (‘truth and understanding is what I crave, in the land of the thief, home of the slave’), rappers have incessantly utilized art to demand justice and galvanize action. KRS, who would unquestionably be elected the pope of rap music, if it so desired a papacy, has even developed an acronym to define hip-hop’s essential role: Her Infinite Power Helps Oppressed People.
The social protest has been diverse but relentless. The Coup, Dead Prez and Paris have advocated a revolutionary solution; Brand Nubian, X-Clan and Jeru the Damaja emphasized Black nationalism and Afro centrism; while Binary Star, Blackalicious and Masta Ace have pushed eclectic visions of social improvement. Untold others deserve credit for innovative and poignant expositions of social indignities, but suffice it to say that rappers have always taken seriously their responsibility to society.
This has been the case in large part because the outlook of the black lumpenproletariat is fundamentally ‘deconstructionist,’ as academics have labeled the phenomenon in recent years. Ras Kass, in his epic ‘Nature of the Threat,’ lashed out against the way in which Europeans ‘develop the ethnocentric view, that God justifies every fucking thing they do / condition people to perceive whites’ culture as civilized and every other culture considered primitive’mdash;not true!’ This is deconstruction at its heart, a structural challenge to the deep-seated assumptions immanent in European thought ever since the European conquest of the world.
Yet, rap music does not exist in a vacuum. It is not a perfect organon for social change; the same impediments that afflict the urban underclass afflict its musical representation. Ras Kass’ very CD that contains the above rhyme, ‘Soul On Ice,’ features a hodgepodge of Black nationalism and militancy, as well as a misogyny and heterosexism that remarkably mirrors Eldridge Cleaver’s monumental book of the 1960s from which it derives its name. Other rappers, such as Boots Riley, have been thoroughly feminist from the beginning but occasionally fall prey to the adventurous violence and parochialism that is characteristic of gang life.
But, though these hindering elements may always have been present, it was the commercialization of rap music that qualitatively shifted the landscape. As Common Sense lamented in ‘I Used to Love H.E.R.,’ 1994’s classic personification of hip-hop, ‘once the man got to her, he altered her native, told her if she got an image and a gimmick, that she could make money, and she did it, like a dummy.’
Since the corporate media machine co-opted it, rap’s commercialization has also meant its neutralization. Progressive music has been forced ‘underground.’ Simply put, any rapper saying something meaningful has little chance of making it on the radio. As The Boston Globe reported in 2003, ‘Today 70 percent of hip-hop is bought by white kids.’ Black struggle, or any social issue generally, is bad business; white kids by and large don’t want to hear about it.
Some unscrupulous rappers know this and cash in on it’mdash;listeners who may know Pharoahe Monch from his 1999 hit ‘Simon Says’ that featured the pornographic refrain, ‘Girls, rub on your titties,’ may not recognize him from his past career as one half of Organized Konfusion, the musically innovative and socially aware duo that pioneered styles of rap and subjects to address.
To rehash Common Sense’s beautiful personification: though you may hear hip-hop on the radio ‘stressin’ how hardcore and real she is, she was really the realest, before she got into showbiz.’ Ultimately, there is nothing to guarantee that rap music will serve as a voice of protest and social advancement, except that it comes from the urban underclass. But the corporate media machine will guarantee that it serves as a force for subjugation and self-destruction, as long as we let it.
If you don’t know the difference between Master P. and Huey P., it’s your fault. Heed Dead Prez’s mantra and ‘turn off the radio!’ There are still excellent rappers with incisive things to say: Mr. Lif, Diverse or, locally, the Sol.illaquists of Sound.
Rap music does not have to be the caricature that we see on TV. It has and can serve as the legitimate voice of the disempowered urban population. Andre, half of the popular group OutKast, relates a dialogue between himself and a rap critic which more than anything else captures the essence of the culture: ‘She said she thought hip-hop was only guns and alcohol / I said ‘Oh hell naw!’ but yet it’s that too / you can’t discriminate ’cause you done read a book or two.’