I guess I’m back on my very literal grind – this ax that I sharpen and swing from time to time against the malignant growths on Hip Hop. My goal in writing these entries over the past six years has been to fight fire with fire. To creatively use the same art of expression within Hip Hop to call out its recent fallout. To counter the curses and death that are readily spoken into us by literally and liberally speaking life into it, you know – since Hip Hop is dead.
It’s ironic how an art forum full of metaphors can serve as its own paradoxical allegory; but then again, that’s what Hip-Hop is all about. Between the lines and behind the bars, there exists and anecdotal antidote for its present condition that I will attempt to pull out with this entry. Rap is unique in that the records that are normally used to play music are what help originate it. The turntables, with their records and needles, helped deejays eventually produce tracks that the emcee would then run with on the mic.
In recent years though, these facts have been eclipsed by stranger than fiction imagery – twisted fantasies, if you will, of the artists’ warped sense of self-absorbance. In a downward spiral of greed and lust of material things, we are witnesses to substance abuse on record. Every album that’s chocked full of decadence and exorbitance shows the addiction of the artist. Self-aggrandizement is often a sign of both insecurity and immaturity.
So to deal with such issues, artists create fictitious worlds that, while meant to exorcise inner demons, feeds the diseases instead. Since we as listeners are along for the ride, we empower them to continue self-destructing as we feed into these conditions as well. The danger to us is that since we’re so close to the music, we are drawn in as collateral damage when these artists explode.
So as you listen to the music, ask yourself – what runs these emcees? What are the tracks really showing me about their afflictions? Lastly, will you continue to support what you hear just to fulfill your own temporary high?
~
Gift Rap
Though rap’s offshoot should
Get back to its roots, it’s a
Branch beneath itself.
*
Mourning Breath
a.k.a.
Fixated Asphyxiation
Hip Hop’s fresh breath of
Air has turned stale from the tuned
Fumes that exhaust us.
*
What Runs These MCs?!!
What else revs and runs these MCs
Besides irreverent schemes for C.R.E.A.M.?
Is the American dream for greed that much of a driving factor?
Do fast lane stunts rush a need for speed?
What happened to the Rev Runs and DMCs?…
Forget Rapper A, Rapper B and Rapper C – these cats aren’t the livest rappers.
They’re contrived, aspirin’ actors –
starvin’ artists tryin’ to eat.
To hide this fracture –
they guard their bars behind the beats.
But what’s supplyin’ the feed that they’re all plugged into?
Instead of runnin’ the tracks –
they’re the ones that are synthesized.
Instead of stunnin’ with facts –
their stunted acts have criminal ties…
As pitiful, subliminal lines epitomize the drugs they Ginsu.
Rather, they’ve drugged us with symbols
from the tracks they cut up –
the devil’s workshop is their idol worship.
They’ve dumbed down and numbed up
the critical mass of the public –
idle minds flatline as vitals worsen.
Thanks to flat lines and entitled cursin’ – “no substance abuse” is on the rise.
Read between these mindful lines –
I’m not talkin’ about beats and wordplay.
Real rap needs to be revitalized –
Hip Hop’s been beaten at H.E.R. game…
Who else used to love how H.E.R. worth sang the truth with songs of pride?
But if you look in H.E.R. somber eyes,
they’re bloodshot from these crypt keepers
Who took and shook a songbird confined
to the subplots of these script readers.
Too busy rippin’ speakers as flip bleeders – we need new life transfused.
Rather, we need new blood brought into the system.
Even these young bloods are lame ducks that just walk different…
Have we become so hobbled and indifferent –
can’t we see that new scribes are past due?!!
Rap’s too busy shootin’ up cats as if they’ve been immunized.
All the while, instead of booin’, we’re clappin’
‘cause we’ve been desensitized.
We’ve got minstrel cycles crampin’ the rebirth
of words that were once pregnant with possibilities.
It’s not all bad, though – I know I’m generalizin’
Right in the middle of a pitiful climate
But if I minimalized the chastisement, could you
visualize the predestined probability?
Could you see the destiny of awkward un-authenticity
That’s rewriting a legacy into an immodest litany?
VH1 honors pithily – look at what tomorrow’s
honorees are insipidly speaking into existence.
But back to the question at hand –
what runs these empty emcees are
reckless tracks and harrowin’ needles.
I’m not talkin’ records, fam –
I’m talkin’ sessions of crack and tracks from heroin needles…
Only their drug is the fame, fortune and perilous evils
wickedly leaking into feckless missions.
These dudes need extradition like that assailant Assange.
They’ve got an illegal license to kill so forget bails and bonds!
If their souls are for sale, sound the alarm –
I’m tired of these rope-a-dope emcees ringing in my crew’s ears.
I’m not saying money’s not important –
but maybe if they stopped chasin’ bank
and shelves of unfulfilling profits,
They wouldn’t be run by such misfortunes –
being “filthy rich” isn’t so fun once
wealth has filled one’s pockets…
Forget funds, we need self-fulfilling prophets
to speak life and liberty as we bring in the new year.