DISPOSABILITY
“As the social
state is displaced by the market, a new kind of politics is emerging in which
some lives, if not whole groups, are seen as disposable and redundant.”
—Henry A.
Giroux, Youth
in a Suspect Society: Democracy or Disposability?
(New York: PalgraveMacmillan, 2009), pp. 155-156.
They lack the
minerals and vitamins which time releases
So they try to
blind you with the diamonds in they time pieces
Okay, you got
money, and we all can see it (great!)
Now, rhyme about
something time don’t depreciate
—Hi-Tek ft.
Talib Kweli & Dion, “Time,” Hi-Teknology3(2007).
Round about midway through the last
decade, no more was it acceptable to cling to that absurd conviction claiming
Hip-Hop was merely undergoing “shifts” and “trends,” and that much of the remonstrations,
showering down from all tunnels, were ill-begotten and untimely and but the misguided
ramblings of a few East-Coast-elitists displeased with another region (the
South) assuming control of the Rap music machine. With the silly and senseless
parodies that came to count as true
artistic creations, most who once held skepticism to any criticisms began
losing faith. It was at once clear, that more than a shifty trend, the ship was
sinking—thrusting all those within deep into the bottomless sea—and that a
future, if at all there was one, might be greatly imperiled.
How, for instance, could rappers
recklessly resurrect Minstrel themes of old, without a piece of protest from a
public that likes to think of itself intelligent enough to e#### ever-higher
standards for the many annual Rap aspirants eager to be accepted as authentic
and legitimate—“real”—representatives of Hip-Hop music and culture? How could
major radio stations whittle down their playlists considerably—and fall
dependent on no more than 5 or 7 songs (each blasting out exact, decadent suggestions)—and
face no concerted, consequential demonstration demanding better? How could a
rapper, in a music video, swipe down his credit card, spilt-through the
backside of a female dancer, and have a popular TV station plug it endlessly (around
midnight, of course), and have many rise up to his defense because, so the
chants went, Rap is about free expression, and this man deserves no less right
to express himself as Hugh Hefner or Howard Stern?
Beefs,
Blings, Bricks, Bullets, and Backsides
And if the misogyny wasn’t firm enough,
the ravenous glorification of violence and vapid materialism certainly broke
the water. Having come through a decade that opened coffins for two of the most
explosive and expressive Rap artists, it was agreed a new dawn must arise, and
a new way of thinking surrender, if a future for this international cultural force
was wanted. But the last decade began no better than many hoped. Two great New
York rivals clashed hard to serenade the new millennium, and drew at each other
for many years, until, in October 2005, maturity and intelligence steered their
hearts toward reconciliation.
But as both growled and gnashed, putting
their lives in persistent danger for incidents a good one-on-one session could
have corrected, the only winners, as always, proved to be the major record
labels, for whom both were serfs—mere lackeys on the field, walkers on the
streets.
They take the
strongest of slaves to compete in a track meet
For the king of
the city, sing songs of back streets
Choruses of
cocaine tales and black heat
Only to trade ni**as
like professional athletes!
Years after Tupac and Biggie, LL and
Canibus, Nas and Jay-Z, it took long for 50 Cent and Ja Rule to embrace this
sobering reality, as both walked into the same trap their many predecessors had
once too been entangled in; but, as always, by then the game was nearing final
whistle, and anticipated revenue had already been met, and the real winners
were out the door, brimming with great pride—another set of young Black males
heisted, millions of fans swindled (but, by god, entertained!), and millions
more in cash collected.
At every major intersection in Hip-Hop
history, never has this plan failed or fall short—of pitting natural allies
against each other, setting up fictional accounts that send both boiling and
scribbling feverishly into their notepads, and sitting calmly-faced as they
sling fireballs back and forth: and in case a fatality should occur (as past
events document), retreating into total obscurity, all the while well-pleased
with the ignorance of men who can move hearts and souls with complex poetical
constructions, but whose humanity has been defined, and they’ve come to
interpret, by narrow conceptions of Machismo.
We played against
each other like puppets: swearing you got pull
When the only
pull you got is the wool over your eyes
In midst of crafting threatening rhymes
toward anyone insecure enough to take the bait, many rappers assuredly took
time out to account the number of chains hanging from their necks, bracelets
and watches fastened to their wrists, shine and size of rims spinning on their
tires, the amount of cars overflowing from personal garages (and, dear god, the
paint jobs glistening thereupon), the piles of raw cash stacked on either sides
of their pants pockets, the make of sneaker shoes—preferably custom—dragged
around with their feet, the design of clothes stashed in their closets, the
brand and size and kind of wine
preferred at choice-strip clubs. Opulence, for sure. But, even then, little
harm was meant—and felt. Soon, however, the bar lowered—from carats to cars,
human life factored shortly: the waist-size, body-shape, skin-color,
hair-length, attitude-type, etc. Women now ranked as low as the 24 inch rims
many bragged excessively about.
Sickening, certainly. But millions of
fans lapped this up for years, unquestioning and undisturbed. It became
necessary chant for anyone with dreams of acceptance: for if you happened to
take pleasure more in the social
crises threatening the very world surrounding you, chances of commercial
success or affordable living slimmed greatly; but if you chose to join the
crowd which, just like you, couldn’t wait to share with fans every immaterial
facets of their splashy (though spiritually empty) lives, lifted up as
substitutable for self-worth, a door at every major record label, major radio
and TV station, and major concert venue held your name emblazoned, bidding:
“come in and do business
with—for—us.”
The
bling-bling era was cute but it’s about to be done
, ImmortalTechnique swore 7 years ago. Look back carefully, and rosters of artists never
wavered through those years, never dropped the tempo of their march to the
graves of immoral infantilism. Not many understood what they considered poetry
could only count, to adults with the courage to think for themselves, as
self-parody and an embarrassment at what had become of music—repeated loops of
content-absolved incoherence shot, unchanged, through the lips of diverse dolts
introduced, to an unwitting public, as artists and, the whopper of all,
“creative” artists at that! Lupe Fiasco’s brilliant satirical commentary mapped
this farce gracefully—
Now come on, everybody,
let’s make cocaine cool
We need a few
more half-naked women up in the pool
And hold this
MAC-10 that’s all covered in jewels
And can you
please put your ti**ies closer to the 22s?
And where’s the
champagne? We need champagne!
Now look as hard
as you can with this blunt in your hand
And now hold up
your chain, slow-motion through the flames
Now cue the
smoke machines and the simulated rain
Pop
Artists
Just as many couldn’t see their
creations as the farthest from Art, many, I’m certain, would have been equally
befuddled if explained to that in a few years their names would be
unrecognizable to the millions of kids for which their music was once Holy
Grail. It would be unfathomable that a rapper once christened the next “big
thing,” and sure enough primed to sell out millions of CD copies, would in less
than 5 years be restored to anonymity, with no name in the street. I wouldn’t
embarrass any such rappers in this editorial—they’ve suffered too much—but the
list runs endless. Today, king of the jungle. Tomorrow, unknown quarry.
The shock is hardest of all. Then sense
of betrayal sets in. The artists’ rage immediately flames at managers and
publicists and friends and fans and executives, unable to grapple with what is
truer than all the lies (s)he once heard as matter of course: that (s)he was
but a mere commodity, sold for a good price, but, like all disposable
commodities, set with an expiration date, upon which usefulness (and
relevance) passes off. The artist, after
much soul-searching, confronts this bitter truth: that (s)he was disposable,
that the music was only an immaterial part of the package—worm for fish, carrot
for donkey—and now another commodity has been placed on the shelf, whose date also
has been set.
One from a thousand
speaks in his own voice
The other 999
imitate without choice
My sympathy forever stays with the artist, for no human being deserves to
be used or abused—and, particularly, dehumanized. But how much sympathy can be
invoiced for hordes of hacks who delighted in swanking about crafting whole
songs in 5 or 15 minutes, and foolishly presenting this
wonder-of-the-modern-world as evidence of their divine artistic abilities. For
years, Hip-Hop fans took beating from scores of artists who strolled out to outdo
whatever the record stood at: to pen the fastest bar, hook, verse, or entire
song. Of course the thought and time put in always betrayed the ordinariness of
the composition. And as the ghosts of Usain Bolt attacked the hands of
so-called Rap artists, the channels of creativity began closing, reducing
commercial Rap songs to futile repetitions of long-established themes.
Pop
Music
The mind that produced “Poet Laureate
II” (Canibus) certainly could not take pride in coughing up entire songs in 5
minutes. A certain patience that only great artists—painters, writers,
poets—possess, patience to sit still until the right words or shadows and
colors can be brought forth, has never known most involved in making Rap music.
Prolific artists like the GZA—renowned for such painstaking creations as
“Queen’s Gambit,” “0% Finance,” “Labels,” and “Publicity”—must have fallen into
light comas upon each sighting of peers
and colleagues whose bank accounts
boasted millions of dollars for essentially restating what the last man
dictated from some previously published script.
“It takes me a while to write sometimes because
I’m always reconsidering words,” revealed the GZA in a 2006 interview. “I go
line-for-line. Every time I write I try to go line-for-line. It’s a puzzle to
me. That’s how I write: this has to fit here
and that has to fit there.”
Two years later, he again outlined his
work ethic, and the high bar of quality set for his craft: “I like the patience
that I have. I once said on the “Crash Your Crew” song, I seen a million try to set a flow/ Thousands at shows/ Observed with
the patience of watching a flower grow/. So, I have a lot of patience when
it comes to writing. I mean every rhyme that I write, I usually draft five or
six or seven times.” (Exclaim!,
Nov. 2008.)
This talk must sound foreign to
countless artists comforted for years that a first draft is best because it
speaks to the most specific details of the heart’s cries, and that needless
tinkering for grammatical or dramatic accuracy borders on artificiality or
Nerdism, and can only drive away “real” Hip-Hop fans. To this end has rubbish
been approved for 21st century Hip-Hop standard. And with many major
record label executives sub-literate to any conception of Art—since artists are
put on excruciatingly tight schedules that smite the mere possibility of
contemplation-before-creation—artistic integrity is an early casualty.
In today’s climate, Prince Paul could
never launch A Prince Among Thieves
on a major record label. The time required to assemble a line-up of epic
quality, to program a storyline of classic complexity, to produce the record
with success true to the integrity of his vision, would all be denied. The
thought alone—to create operatic Hip-Hop, and craftily insert dialogue,
character, plot, flashback, narrative at every
turn—would more than likely elicit slammed-shut doors at the offices of
the Big 4 record factories.
The force of compromise is often stronger
than the public acknowledges (and gives artists the credit for battling). A man
with a message, and a strong belief in how that message should be offered
publicly, who is then informed his message is unfit or too intelligent for the key-demographic the label plans to market
to, can spiral out of control—as many Rap artists unfortunately have, through
their careers. The microphone then serves as instrument to punish the rage and
fury—the I-have-had-it-up-to-hereness—built up within meetings where White
executives claim to know more what Black and Brown audiences deserve—and what
flies above their heads. Nothing here is pretty, and what comes off often
irritates, as Talib Kweli fired—
And you see that
there microphone
Ain’t no place
to work out your self-esteem issues
Do that sh**
when you alone!
I beg of Kweli, and those in his camp,
to be more compassionate of artists suffering deflated egos, robbed of their
sense of worth. When denied any sense of agency, sense of ableness to speak
against the wicked doings of the rulers in high places, it’s easy to rather
jingle about how many Rolexes wrap their wrists, than how timely the moment is
for true social change and true revolution of values. It’s easy to rather
scribble rhymes about countless lives they’ve physically and personally—without
the jail-time one would expect and hope for—sent over hell’s gates, than
address increasing inner-city violence, a racist and classist economic system,
or a Prison Industrial Complex built on the backs of children and adults priced
with little opportunity since birth.
Unplug it on
chumps with the gangsta babble
Leave your 9s
(mm) at home and bring your skills to the battle
Pop
Culture
None of this, however gory or ghastly,
deviates from script: for most Rap artists are little other than slaves to a
system they lack full understanding of. When a rapper entertains young
masses—millions around the world tuned to this endless stream—with tales of
gang exploits, drug sales, court cases, illegal
businesses, and steel-like toughness, only one side emerges victorious—and
neither the rapper or the fans had a shot to start with. The rapper is blessed
with chump compensation, and fans (many of them from suburban families) are
transported to a high upon which only Scarface
and The Godfather has thus far been
capable of lifting them.
While the song plays and the beat goes
on, however, both artist and fan are denied slices of their humanity: artists
find their dignity missing when told their capital function in life is to crank
out destructive and pathological representations of reality, and overrule any
possibility of inner-city Black and Brown kids struggling and overcoming.
Struggling, here, represents the end to many means—an ongoing, mindless
activity disconnected from any sense of hope and change. Nihilism and fatalism
are fetishized over—as worthy answer to constant disappointment over failed
struggle. Fans, whether poor or privileged, are robbed of the importance poets
once served in society—as prophets and oracles, drawing up inspiration for a
better tomorrow and a better today, exposing the inhumanity of life to force
radical change. When artists find more value in embodying and embellishing,
rather than erasing, decadence, a line has surely been tipped over.
“It is the principal function of popular
culture—though hardly its avowed purpose—to keep men from understanding what is
happening to them, for social unrest would surely follow, and who knows what
outbursts of revenge and rage,” William H. Gass insisted more than three
decades ago in Fiction and the Figures of
Life. (New York: Knopf, 1970; p. 272) You see traces of this sad spectacle
everywhere, even with the year-long health care debate, with many, sick to
their lungs, railing against “socialized insurance,” with senior citizens
decrying government-run programs as “Communist” and “Marxist.” If only their
eyes were introduced to reality, and their ear drums turned the way of
truth—truth that reveals the inhumane and deadly practices of gluttonous health
insurance giants: gladly denying coverage to dying children and “overweight”
infants—there would be, as Chris Rock promised a month ago, “riots in the
streets … They would burn this muthaf**ker down!”
Those who sway the future of our planet don’t
sweat bullets much, however, thanks to a public that does not “wish to know
their own nothingness—or their own potentialities either, and the pleasures of
popular culture … give us something to do, something to suffer, an excuse for
failure, and a justification for everything.” (p. 273)
Rappers can get real cranky when sober,
when pushed to stare down the truth in all its ugliness, “So, the business,”
poet Black Ice revealed years ago, “feeds them all the weed and ecstasy and a
little bit of paper to provide some pacification from all the bullsh**
frustration they serve you.”
Now, the high is
just an illusion: lies and confusion
But, just for
that rush, just once, these young bucks’ll go through it
So, in essence,
they’re still flooding our streets with thugs, drugs, and killing
They just using
these record labels to do it
The public fares no better. When shaken
out of tabloid-induced coma, bricks rush into office glass windows, buildings
explode, planes crash into skyscrapers—pandemonium ensues. For years now, the
rulers have fed the donkey its carrot, and blissfully led it down many rivers.
And Rap music, for many, is that slim, orange, pointy, juicy vegetable. They
swear greater command of what is held before them for consumption—you hear the
proverbial “I know he ain’t talkin’ ‘bout me” from female fans—but reality spells
differently. William Gass explained:
The objects of
popular culture are competitive. They are expected to yield a return. Their
effect must be swift and pronounced, therefore they are strident, ballyhooed,
and baited with sex; they must be able to create or take part in a fad; and
they must die without fuss and leave no corpse. In short, the products of
popular culture, by and large, have no more esthetic quality than a brick in
the street. (pp. 272-273)
And though lacking any “finish,
complexity, stasis, individuality, coherence, depth, and endurance,” they possess
that one quality requisite to claim the hearts of a culturally illiterate
public—“splash.” (p. 274) The commercial, dominant Rap music content of the
last decade falls in this lane—of engaging beats and superfluous styles lacking
bitterly in substance. But as with a mansion of cards—no matter how well adorned
or spruced up—with time the foundationless structure gives in.
Endless times have I heard the defense,
“I don’t like the rhymes, but the beat is tight!” and, refusing to grab a brick
and smash over the heads of these otherwise intelligent people, I walked off
disturbed. How pitiful do we determine a woman whose purse has just been picked
by the neighborhood conman, and, though knowing all this, responds—“I don’t
like the act, but he’s good-looking”? It would sound unreasonable if the
structure of popular culture did not rest on this very foundation—the
unbelievable, unexplainable gullibility of an ostensibly aware public. “[P]opular
culture is the product of an industrial machine,” wrote Gass, “which makes
baubles to amuse savages while missionaries steal their souls and merchants
steal their money.” (p. 274)
However uncool preachers might be today,
sermons need to shoot off from rooftops to millions worldwide trapped in this buffooneristic
enterprise, shorted for all their worth and fed deleterious values, many of
them too young to estimate the total effect of the destruction until later
on—at stages almost irreversible. “This muck cripples consciousness,” Gass warned.
“Therefore no concessions should be made to it.” (p. 275)
[Next week’s editorial would extend this
topic—of whether the “muck” has so crippled consciousness, not only of
listeners but of Hip-Hop itself, that all life has been sapped, dragging away to
the valleys of death.]
Tolu
Olorunda is a cultural critic whose work appears in various online journals. He
can be reached at: Tolu.Olorunda@gmail.com.
