Editor’s note: The
views expressed inside this editorial aren’t necessarily the views of
AllHipHop.com or its employees.Last week, I penned a “firey” editorial
flamed toward the recent rise of “rich kids” in Hip-Hop—those who out of suddenness
developed an interest to Rap music-making,
and in a few months only had multiple labels vying for their soul. The premise
was plain enough: something is out of kilter when artists from disenfranchised
backgrounds have to work like hell in gathering scraps of sorrow surrounding, and
eventually—painfully—craft artistic genius from those scraps, only to find out
greater attention (and $) is being paid to peers who see Hip-Hop more (and
mere) as a hobby: those for whom Hip-Hop only marks potential financial venture
to further swell their coffers.
By the rambunctious response poured in,
both directly and through the comment section, it seemed as though I had
suggested South Bronx isn’t the birthplace of Hip-Hop, or Kool Herc shouldn’t
take the credit, or MCs who happen to
be female have contributed nothing of substance, or Jay-Z knocked off Nas, or J
Dilla was a weed-filled neophyte who couldn’t punch his way out of an E-mu
SP-1200. Amongst others, I implicated Diggy Simmons, the 15-year-old son of Rap
royalty Rev. Run—and Armageddon arrived at my doorstep.
Many, half-inebriated, with their mental
pants lowered to their ankles, stormed through, banging down the door of my
mailbox, just to holler how ashamed I should feel for prescribing a narrow and
unacceptably limited vision of Hip-Hop. “Your article says because Diggy
Simmons is lyrical and daddy has money he should not rap.? that is like saying
Grant Hill can’t play a game of 21
because he did not grow up in the projects. Smdh,” someone with a brain
spat out.
Others preferred to drivel off about
topics I don’t even recall raising. And some even qualified their (op)position.
We love your other pieces, they
wrote, but this time, with this one, you crossed the line—you cross-haired the
wrong target.
Most troubling wasn’t the insults. (This
is, after all, the internet age—where, to echo DOOM, “squirts posing as
thuggers and hustlers” run the field, flailing threats recklessly against
anyone or anything they find objectionable.) The whipping backlash wasn’t
material enough, either. (Some views
are unpopular, and the least a writer can demand from readers is frank
disposition disconnected from sentimentality—prepared to agree or condemn.) My
head-shaking inducement was aroused most by the lack of complexity of thought
betrayed in many of the responses—the aggressive disregard for nuance and
novelty.
Hip-Hop listeners are some of the
smartest thinkers this world holds stock of. The dexterity of language (ever
heard E-40 speak?); the virtuosity of narratives; the, yes, diversity of
backgrounds—all make up for disciplined intellectual experiences if engaged
critically. So I cannot accept the easily
assumable—that a certain class of Hip-Hop listeners must only be spoon-fed
raw, unseasoned, one-course meals. Any course higher, logic leads, and the bib
would need replacement.
Three central thoughts were attributed
to the editorial—which deserve addressing:
1)
That
in suggesting most—not all—kids from wealthy clans couldn’t speak greatly of Struggle,
thus inspire those still stuck (with
personal narratives), I truly think no one without a history of slinging crack
to pregnant single-mothers, and without a past of accompanying “Scotty” on boat
rides through white clouds, should ever pick up a mic. Many clamored this theme
without prejudice. For fairness’ sake, however, I went over my work carefully,
but failed to find what might have inspired that conclusion. It was a mental
magic trick—of pulling puppies from thin air, and running off to the grocery
store for a bag of Pedigree Lamb & Rice, only to return with no dog to
feed.
2)
That
in addition to proposing a crack(-head) pass, I audaciously violated another
Hip-Hop constitution—decided who was worthy of using their voice as instrument
for social change and who wasn’t: that I pulled a Canibus, and tried to snatch
the mic from someone who did well with it. Again, delirium is deadly. I don’t
recall ever telling anyone to drop their
mic, or even sounding marching orders to fans to snatch from any artists. But
for those with staunch convictions—who, from peep of title alone, had their
hearts set against anything contained in the editorial—my intention was to engineer a coup d’etat, and
banish from the “almighty kingdom” of Hip-Hop any artists with whom I lacked
connection.
3)
That
I was knockin’ the hustle of young Black men trying to bill-up legally, and
therefore encouraging criminality in inner-city neighborhoods—that by telling
fans rich artists don’t really need the money, and that ethicality demands
priority be paid to those who really need it
(those on the fringe of Welfare qualification), I was telling that young Black or Brown kid from a
middle-class background that if she never poisoned her community, and if she
never went weeks with empty stomachs, she had no claim to the mic, and fans
should turn their backs on her, and she had no place in Hip-Hop, and… The list
runs endless. None of these, of course, can be verified.
Only few applied intelligence in
interpreting what stared them down. I applaud Ms. Danica Dow, who, with her response
editorial, “Rich
Kids in Hip-Hop: Who Said the Gates Were Closed?
” (while not entirelyflattering to me), could disagree respectfully in true Hip-Hop tradition. Dow,
who surveys the world through different prisms than I can lay claim to,
contested “upper middle class” fans like herself have received the shaft for
too long, and they deserve no less recognition for their service to the good of
Hip-Hop. Ms. Dow lost me however in suggesting people “who come from success
automatically have a bigger fear of failure because they have more to lose.” I
disagree. (I would contest this point in detail, but I’ve studied too much
General Semantics to think of convincing anyone from the other side to structure their values based on my cultural capital.)
And Ms. Dow made great points in warning
how narrow definitions of authenticity in Hip-Hop produce the likes of Rick
Ross and Plies, who seclude their respectable past in shells of lies; but I
think this contention is simplistic because 1) it fails to take into account
the history of police brutality in Hip-Hop 2) it assumes any MC who denies past
noble employment is reacting directly to parochial Hip-Hop demands 3) it
suggests Hip-Hop fans lack the insight to decipher real from fake.
I would also disturb another point
made—that the premise of my editorial cracks away when fans consider how after
a first album most of the artists I extol as bright candles of inspiration join
the upper ranks—from advance, concert fees, and album sales. Too much here screams
as false if not deceitful: 1) most artists don’t climb to the top that soon—major labels have ensured that for long 2) that an artist someday rises
from the ashes of poverty to the zenith of financial stability is exactly what
picks inspiration in the hearts of millions of indigent Black and Brown kids to
keep forging strong because, if Jay-Z or Nas or Tupac or Scarface or MC Lyte or
Big Pun or Roxanne Shanté can do it, so can I.
Hypocrisy, however, winked at me several
times in other responses. Many wrote how much they agreed with the lines
picking on Aubrey “Drake” Graham, and thought the analysis was well-served, but
when directed at Diggy Simmons, somehow some sinister intention was at work. I
certainly would hate nothing more than being held accountable for a 15-year-old’s
self-doubts, but here some painful truths deserve mention.
Why did 5 or 6 or 7 labels swoop down so
hard on Mr. Simmons? “Because he’s talented
and he’s fresh,” the peanut gallery
is screeching. I would hope so, too. But strong doubts prevail. Ever heard of
the 16-year-old Pop phenom, Justin Bieber?—who sells out shows in minutes,
whose YouTube videos rake in tens of millions of views, who needs paramedics
with him whenever out in public: to resuscitate teenage girls whose lungs give
out upon sight of him.
Island Def Jam Music Group caught whiff
of Bieber a couple of years back and put a pen in his hand immediately. Bieber
is a self-taught multi-instrumentalist, I’ve read. Do the Island erudites
market him as a talented autodidact who can do more than lip-sync and dance
uncomfortably (I caught him on Letterman)?
Certainly not. For them, he’s just another addition to the extended list of
teen boy-bands/pop icons sold to unwitting teen and tween females. In a few
years, if confidants don’t guard well, he’ll be dragged out of some seedy
Hollywood hotel with vials of strong solid substance around him, and remnants
of a short-lived, transient past scattered.
Where does Mr. Simmons fit in here? As the Black Justin Bieber. You
would hope the giant labels had learned the lesson of the last 10 years, and
their imaginations could boast greater command of reality, but all hopes would
be dashed in the coming months, as the same formula, the same schemes, the same
currency of thought is cashed to make of Diggy the next “big thing”—for teens
and tweens. All who once crowned him Rakim’s reincarnation would be left
wandering in the desert of dizziness—with wool pulled over their eyes.
In truth, rich kids have less to worry
from fans or cranky columnists like myself, than from major label lackeys; most
of which, get this, agree with every word contained in my last editorial. They
don’t see any point in pulling off some “Hov did that so hopefully you wouldn’t
have to go through that” theme. It’s
comical and costly. Honesty works better: You
work as a short-time gimmick, and the back door is opened for a graceful exit.
Those who think I’m too tough on the kid
should stay calm till the experiment checks out—and then, at that crux, at that
tangent where former skeptics can’t but let off a self-flagellating sigh, I’ll
welcome all apologies.
Tolu
Olorunda is a cultural critic whose work regularly appears on AllHipHop.com, TheDailyVoice.com, and other online journals. He can be reached at:
