DEATH
All deaths have
causes … Corpses are cut open, explored, scanned, tested, until the cause is found: a blood clot, kidney
failure, hemorrhage, heart arrest, lung collapse. We do not hear of people
dying of mortality. They die only of individual causes … No post-mortem examination is considered complete until
the individual cause has been revealed. … One does not just die; one dies of a disease or of murder.
—Zygmunt Bauman,
Mortality, Immortality, and Other Life
Strategies (Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1992), p. 138.
Everybody sound the same, commercialize the game/
Reminiscing when it wasn’t all business/ It forgot where it started/ So we all
gather here for the dearly departed/
—Nas, “Hip Hop
Is Dead,” Hip-Hop Is Dead (2006).
It didn’t take long after Queensbridge
MC Nas declared Hip-Hop dead in early 2006 for the blowback to begin. In those subsequent
days, fans, artists, and even music executives at once sauntered from beyond the
halls of obscurity to register their firm dispute with any such notion that
this music which had dominated public consciousness for over two decades was
approaching death rattles, and on verge of chugging down the final pill. On blog
sites, forums, editorials, columns, radio shows and street-side conversations,
the brash and often crass debates ratcheted.
One side saw Nas as a prophet hammering
down jolting truths that the public deserved to hear nonetheless; another side
saw in him a washed-up pariah pulling a publicity stunt to sell copies of his
upcoming album, Hip-Hop Is Dead. I
still remember the wide-nosed rants of a few friends who, thereafter, swore
never to set hand on another Nas album. But as the debates raged unfettered, it
became clear that, whether the messenger held sincere intentions or not, the
message arrived in perfect rhythm. Eventfully, it also crosshaired the early
hours of the Southern takeover and, consequently, set off far more tantrums
than budgeted.
Southern rappers were first to fire off,
f######## East-Coast-elitism as prime factor behind any sudden concerns about the health of Hip-Hop. They declared Hip-Hop
alive and thriving, and submitted strong protest against what they considered
the jealousy-inspired suspicions of “Southern Rap.” For them, the emerging
cries from East and Mid-West corners had more to do with refusal to acknowledge
another region’s fair-and-square dominance, than accurate assessment of a
culture on the decline, a culture losing relevance and purpose each passing
second.
(The recent, ill-conceived rants of New
Orleans artist Jay Electronica confirm this much, and so do the condescending
assessments of fellow artists, RZA and B-Real. “How has the South dominated
hip-hop for the last four, five years without lyrics, without hip-hop culture
really in their blood?” asked RZA three years ago, which provoked Electronica’s
tirade last week. RZA worried many Southern artists—and there’s standard
document backing him up—were taking great pride “representing … a stereotype of
how black people are.” B-Real, speaking with AllHipHop a month ago, ran sharper daggers through the heart of the
South, boldly assuring “there’s not that much creativity coming from there.”
And even when a few good men rise up, “[i]t starts to all sound the same. And I
think that’s the problem that’s going on down there.”)
Nas, emerging within this context, was
set up before his lips moved. However well-worded his commentaries would turn
up, many were bound to cast him by the wayside where the long list of East
Coast critics have been dumped by Southern fans and artists.
But the blowback had more going for it
than a few hurt feelings. Artists hailing from diverse regions also had
righteous reasons to dissent firmly: for if Hip-Hop, as a vibrant musical
contribution, was dead or dying, any labor in the fields would turn up futile
in the long run; and if Hip-Hop was dead or dying, any further contact with it,
in a death-detesting society (a society which treats the dead and the dying
with nearly equal disdain), would mark either as creepy or costly. Artists like
Jean Grae, East as the Empire State Building, beat back strongly—
Hip-Hop’s not
dead: it was on vacation
We back: we bask
in the confrontation
However accurate the assurances, and however
desperate the disputes, it’s clear prophets announcing the drying of bones had descended
long before Nas shook the grounds in 2006. Three years earlier, Canibus,
displeased with the current state, lamented:
From an
extroverted point of view, I think it’s too late
Hip Hop has
never been the same since ‘88
Since it became
a lucrative profession, there’s a misconception
That the
movement in any direction is progression
Three years before Canibus, Talib Kweli
saw little complexity surrounding, and recognized serious threat in the onrush
of commercialism inundating fans and alluring artists—
Nowadays, Rap
artists coming half-hearted:
Commercial like
pop or underground like Black Markets
Where were you
the day Hip-Hop died?
Is it too early
to mourn? Is it too late to ride?
This was 2000, with New York very much
astride the throne, and a very New
York artist could deliver Hip-Hop’s elegy without cranky cries splitting out
from a thousand quarters, accusing him of applying double standards or calling
a boxing match before the loser was dropped toothless. Back then, such
criticism was received with maturity, with thoughtfulness (even if fans and
artists felt of the conclusions meritless). The age of the internet wasn’t yet
upon us, and the instant-message sensibility with which many reason today still
had a few years to set foot. Stinging critiques of the direction in which
Hip-Hop was veering also failed to receive spiteful resistance because many
knew the history of the music they claimed to support, and understood without
the foot-in-mouth remonstrations of artists, Hip-Hop music, at each major turn,
had little chance of surviving with its soul intact.
It was evident artists had driven this
cultural force off the brink of corporate infiltration countless times, and
this tradition of self-criticism, however premature the gloom-and-doom sermons
often sounded, had done well in keeping
Hip-Hop the public and provocative vessel of social and creative change it began
as.
6 years before Talib Kweli, the
Notorious B.I.G. struck with equally lethal force—
I see the
gimmicks, the wack lyrics
The sh** is
depressing, pathetic: please forget it
And two decades earlier, when The
Sugarhill Gang was packaged and sold as the first major commercial Rap act,
many howled about this irreparable damage
to the unsullied, non-commodified foundation Hip-Hop culture was built upon.
The South had legitimate complaint,
particularly in wake of the embarrassing disdain Atlanta duo Outkast suffered
in the mid-‘90s, but equal protest was placed in ’94 when Common, ruminating on
Rap, patronizingly accepted (then rejected) the rising acclaim of West Coast
influence—
But then she
broke to the West Coast, and that was cool
… I wasn’t
salty she was with the Boyz in the ‘hood
… Talking about
poppin’ glocks, servin’ rocks, and hittin’ switches
Now she’s a
gangsta rollin’ with gangsta bi**hes
Whether of a regional or commercial
inspiration, Hip-Hop has been pronounced dead enough times to rival the cat
with nine lives. And Hip-Hop has each time staggered out of those coffins, and
broke free from the 6-feet mud, to keep relevance till this day. The question,
of course, never concerned the positive and affirming presence of a few acts,
but whether Rap, as the social conscience it initially burst forth to be, still
saw primary purpose as bringing fire to the feet of a society that for many
years consigned inner-city Black and Brown youth as invincible—of no priority.
At the start of a new millennium where
commercialism reigned supreme, a new millennium which picked up cues from the
stock-market frenzy of the previous decade, many Rap fans and artists could
smell danger ahead. With record label executives quick to shelve the formulas
that only a few years earlier had assured quality music from quality,
time-tested artists, the ringing doubts of a future for Rap had good grounding.
And this fear extended to the broader musical landscape.
In Before
the Music Dies
, a 2006 documentary, musicians from all callings railedagainst the creeping commercialization and the corporate state-of-mind
dominating business decisions in record label boardrooms: a short-term
investment plan, built against artistic integrity, which no iconic artist—à la
Ray Charles or Nina Simone—would today have found in their interest. There
could never be a Stevie Wonder or Blind Boys of Alabama, many bewailed, because
male acts must be able to swivel their hips, keep perfect looks, and flirt with
female fans endlessly. And no Mahalia Jackson or Odetta could rise in these
dark days of pop-star musicians, whose daily routines require only a good
hairdresser, a good make-up artist, a good personal shopper, and a good
lip-synch coach. Doyle Bramhall II, a Blues-guitarist/singer, who in past years
has been dropped by both Geffen Records and RCA Records after failing to meet
set sales goals (even though being crowned by Eric Clapton heir to the throne),
recounted his many meetings with executives who know “more about Wall Street
than [they know] about music.”
By the mid-‘90s, it was clear vocals
were out and videos in. The spectacle of video could override any vocal
deficits. And any half-witted video director, with millions of dollars dropped
at his doorstep, could afford enough special effects on set that saved artists
the trouble of inserting complex plots and narratives into their work. For
Hip-Hop the blow hit harder, as many suburban teens, raptured by this cultural
force in which they found source for rebellion, “saw it as being easier to go
to the mall and pick up a tape and learn about the culture that way, or they
could just watch Yo! MTV Raps in the
comfort of their living rooms and copy the culture that way.” [Chuck D, Fight the Power: Rap, Race, and Reality
(New York: Delacorte Press, 1997), p. 114.]
Hip-Hop’s descent into the inferno of
commercialism sped up at the start of the new millennium, and while many
wouldn’t go so far as Kweli, widespread concerns rung loud. By mid-last decade,
doubts of survival only increased in volume. (The simultaneous rise of Southern
Rap—merely coincidental.) A few from the East might have harbored deep
antipathy toward acts they considered impure and alien (if not downright
illiterate!)—as many around the country, lovers of all music types, feel of the
South—but most meant well in their criticisms. They saw the musical form of
their culture suffering from the greed of corporate oligarchs whose perennial
jump from fad to fad had landed Hip-Hop in their clutches. Detroit artist Invincible
makes the point with pith in ShapeShifters—
Quality control
… Quantity is sold
Based in
mediocrity: monotony’s the mold
At this intersection, the number of Rap
records with no meaning matched the number of companies embedding Rap
mannerisms, slangs, songs, dances, and artists in commercials and ad spots, on
banners and billboards. Rappers became proxy to reach the millions of youth
worldwide who looked to them as messiahs of sorts, saving souls and offering renewed identities. Only now, rather than
inspiring young people to resist the felicities of a market society, to seek
self-discovery as greatest of all commandments, rappers had one message for
this mass: buy. Buy cars, buy clothes, buy shoes, buy watches, buy bracelets,
buy sodas, buy credit cards, buy fast-food, buy liquor.
Am I a victim or
just a product of indoctrination?
They exploit it
and use me like a movie with product placement
In a sense, Rap artists became purveyors
of the same culture (of rancid capitalism and neoliberalism) that constantly
evoked terrible childhood memories, the same culture that had inspired so many
of those rage-filled rhymes lashing against the soullessness of a society that
calculates human worth with financial modalities. And fans, who could demand
better from artists and the companies sponsoring them, found more use nitpicking
vocal styles and stifling artists’ complex personalities. Many of them, ensconced
in the underground, refused to engage Hip-Hop in public forums.
The underground boomed with pure and undefiled acts, and this gladdened the gatekeepers, but the
ever-narrow criteria used for evaluation never sat well with public artists
like Talib Kweli, whose music and message had to travel through all corners of
the world, beyond the isolated quarters of narrow-minded bases bent on keeping
Rap one-dimensional and inorganic—
Kweli, you
should rap about this, you should rap about that
Any more
suggestions? You in the back
… You should
rap more on beat, you should rap more street
And never ever
get your mack on, please
Others, like Jean Grae, took less casual
tones when addressing the sorry state of self-satisfaction lapped up in the
underground—
You don’t like
the way I flow: “She needs more emotional”
I’ll give you
emotion: it’s you holding your broken nose
Death, here, not only came by a laissez-faire
state-of-affairs, but also by smothering and inhumane expectations that no true
artist can ever feel comfortable with. And all talk that Hip-Hop cannot be dead
if the underground still produced artists-with-a-conscience fell flat because
Rap, in public form, was eclipsed by the commercial, corporate junk promoted on
major radio and TV stations. The face of Hip-Hop wasn’t socially conscious
artists addressing the broadness of the world with well thought-out rhymes, but
half-naked, fully grown men and women entertaining humanity with tales of
drug-dealing, promiscuity, and extreme materialism.
MTV’s standard department could, for
instance, rebuff Invincible’s remarkable video, “Ropes,” which chronicled the
mental health trauma plaguing young people, complaining it contains “suicidal
undertones” and might be “problematic on the channel [mtvU] it was accepted for.”
But this channel wouldn’t shy, and never has, from proudly exhibiting the sick
and senseless reproductions of violence (verbal, sexual, and physical) from
so-called artists for whom Rap music is merely an economic venture.
“Death, when it comes,” Zygmunt Bauman
instructed two decades ago, “will brutally interrupt our work before our task
is done, our mission accomplished. This is why we have every reason to be
worried about death now, when we are still very much alive and when death
remains but a remote and abstract prospect.” (p. 4) Those who hoped to rail Nas
over red-hot coals for speaking prematurely had missed the point entirely. For
of what use is a prophet whose doom-filled exhortations only arrive once the
deed has come and passed. Hip-Hop—Is Dead, Nas said. Hip-Hop, however, wasn’t
dead but losing significance; in short, dying. And the burden of restoring
Hip-Hop back to rightful place as the speck in the eye of society fell on the
backs of all those who treasured the righteous rage of a young generation
caught off from the benefits previous generations had enjoyed.
But this message failed to arouse critical
engagement because, besides resentment over timeliness, guilt overwhelmed many
who hadn’t held up their weight of the bargain. And, on this issue, the South
felt most targeted. The whole world seemed to have its fingers directed
downward; and like the murderer who quietly jumps out the back window of his
victim’s bedroom, only to discover the whole neighborhood gathered around, a
good round of reverse-psychology mixed with unqualified and unprovoked
defensiveness was last hope to bail out the assailant(s).
“Unlike our distant ancestors and
‘people unlike us,’ we do not discuss cruel and gory matters,” wrote Bauman.
“We are abhorred by the flashes of realities we have chased down into the no-go
cellars of our orderly and elegant existence, having proclaimed them
nonexistent or at least unspeakable. Death is just one of those things that
have been so evicted.” (p. 129) For a culture stuffed to the teeth with tales
of death and death-defying deeds, a culture made sensitive from the annual
deaths of rising stars, the messiness of death-talk irritated many immediately.
Plus, if Hip-Hop was dead, the South figured, the culprits most likely would be
placed somewhere close to the scene of murder; and no other region could at the
time boast as great a regional command.
No doubt a deficit in intelligence
prevented a good deal of fans and artists from answering the clarion call to
run faster and work harder to keep Hip-Hop socially relevant and publicly
useful. What for them marked black attire, veils, grave diggers, mud, flowers, and
teary eyes, should have inspired a new awakening and resilience of spirit and
hope for better days. The Hip-Hop Is Dead declaration, if critical thinking had
found greater use, would have regenerated effervescent commitment from fans and
artists, for as Bauman announced:
Once the diffuse
and inhuman prospect of mortality had been localized and ‘humanized,’ one need
no more stand idle waiting for impending doom. One can do something, something ‘reasonable’ and ‘useful.’ … One can, in
other words, be a rational agent in
the face of (in spite of) the predicament that bars rationality. (p. 153)
Regretfully, the decade-long obsession
with infantilism had produced such deleterious results that criticism, once
lifted over one-dimensional ceilings, shot fast above the heads of those into
whose hands is entrusted the future of Hip-Hop. God, save us.
[Next week’s editorial would attempt a
conclusion to this series, and strive to steer hope for an indecisive
future.]
Tolu Olorunda is a cultural critic whose
work appears regularly in various online journals. He can be reached at:
