Hey there. I’m a 23-year-old white male who grew up in Amherst, NY–the safest damn town in America. My parents never hit me; I’ve never broken a bone; I’ve never been arrested.
Myself and my fellow recruits of the Stunted Suburban Army should be steeped in blandness, fainting and shrieking over every word that Dave Matthews utters. Instead, many of us know every word to the new Ol’ Dirty Bastard record. When asked to write this piece, I thought I would try to educate the masses with my superior knowledge of the genre of hip-hop, spreading my passion to others who hadn’t given it a chance. A prophet of cultural superiority, I would open up the eyes of every closed-minded bigot in society, curing the hatred in their souls, thereby ending racism in all forms. If I could just make one of these people pick up a De La Soul record, my crusade would be a success.
I then realized that I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. The depths of my pomposity ran so deep, I spit in my father’s face after he gave me a negative review of the new Outkast album. Truthfully, I cannot relate to 99% of the myriad of topics that rappers cover in their songs, but so many of those songs are held close to my heart, and can be the source of a whole spectrum of emotions. That’s because it’s hard to find artists that are more passionate about their craft than hip-hop artists. It’s truly poetry in motion, words of unbridled honesty fueled by music that pulsates, jitters or just plain thumps. And it’s a culture that is entirely foreign to the safest towns of America, music that talks about places where real things happen to people with real problems, outside the bubble of in-ground pools and street names like Morningcastle Terrace or Whispering Rabbit Lane. It’s no mystery why the majority of hip-hop record buyers are sheltered kids from the ‘burbs like myself.
Every neighborhood has its own little William Bennett who would ground his kids into damnation if they were caught listening to such “hateful noise.” Sure, if the focus is solely on the idiocy of Eminem’s gay-bashing and Dr. Dre’s misogyny, rap’s message isn’t so warm and fuzzy. But it’s even more idiotic to denoune an entire genre of music because of it. The organic positivity of groups like A Tribe Called Quest, De La Soul, Mos Def and The Roots is hip-hop at its finest, a diverse stewpot of influences, boiling over with funk, R&B, jazz and fusion, spiced with poems of love, politics, pride, sexuality and musical bliss.
These rappers are masters of rhythm with a sixth sense for the feel of the human voice, and their performances take the words from the lyric books and elevate them to a spiritual state. Once you embrace artists such as these and allow them to enter your psyche, you’ll realize that some of Eminem’s work really is brilliant; he can be brutally honest, painting a gritty, depressing portrait of life, and has incredible rhythmic command over his words. It’s unfortunate that his last record had to be covered in a cloak of mindless and transparent hate speech; in the end, he bought into what his critics thought he was.
Regardless, hip hop has rightfully become one of the more all-encompassing and lucrative genres of music around, practically dictating the world of fashion, people scrambling to mimic the culture in every possible way. And I am just as fascinated. While I don’t own a shred of Puff Daddy’s clothing line, I am enthralled with every aspect of the music. America’s cities are quickly becoming like foreign countries to anyone remotely affluent, and rap music is the purest representation we have of them, perhaps the only direct line that is left in popular culture. The albums play like documentaries, running the gamut from songs of celebration and joy to songs of anger, oppression and violence.
I just want to ask the William Bennetts of my life what they would deem as acceptable art in today’s society. Lawrence Welk? Jewel? Is Will Smith okay because he doesn’t curse and smiles a lot? If it’s bereft of passion, it seems to get the stamp of approval. Rap will outlive all forms of plastic pop because it’s music that’s organic, it flows naturally, and paints pictures of a world alien to bubbles and Jewel’s friggin’ hands. The more you try and hide a culture, the more we want to be a part of it.
Now that I’ve gone ahead and written this, I presume that my point was to focus on the beauty of hip-hop, and to attempt to analyze its amazing tendency to cross all societal barriers, inspiring people of all races, classes and creeds. The roots of my love for the music are impossible to define; it must spark something in my sub-conscious, most likely the area that has yet to be tainted by shopping plazas and suppressed emotions.
Feel like immersing yourself in the fertile waters of hip-hop? You may want to check out these records. Come on in, the temperature’s nice...
A Tribe Called Quest - The Low End Theory
Arguably the best rap album in history. Centered on the masterful diction of MCs Q-Tip and Phife Dog, it’s a beautiful record: addictive, positive rhymes flowing over funk and jazz soundscapes.
Mos Def - Black On Both Sides
A sprawling effort that touches on all genres of black music, Mos Def’s solo debut is politically and spiritually enlightening, at the same time sure to induce many long episodes of rump shaking.
Wu-Tang Clan - Enter The Wu-Tang (36 Chambers)
The first album from the legendary group of 9 Staten Island MCs is dark, brooding and uncompromising in its depiction of ghetto life. The music is haunting in its simplicity; the rapping is passionate, angry and overflowing with energy.
Public Enemy - Apocalypse ‘91: The Enemy Strikes Black
Lyrically revolutionary and musically explosive, Public Enemy combines the brilliant political mind of rapper Chuck D with the scorching sounds of producers The Bomb Squad, spiced with the general wackiness of rapper Flava Flav.
Appeared in Issue One, 2003, of Traffic East.