“And all you
coon-a** rappers—ya’ll should all get lynched/
And all you
fake-a** gangsters—ya’ll should all get lynched/”
—NYOIL, “Ya’ll
Should All Get Lynched,” Hood Treason,
2007.
The stakes are higher than they’ve ever
been, and it seems some would hate nothing more than to see Ni**adry completely
blotted out from Hip-Hop music. After all, commercial Hip-Hop-sponsored buffoonery has helped make more millionaires than the Powerball and Bernard
Madoff’s Ponzi scheme combined. These are perilous times, but who’s paying
attention?
I’m more convinced now, more than I’ve
ever been, that many fans, artists, and executives would rather see Hip-Hop go
down the path of self-annihilation before they speak up against this spreading
tumor of tomfoolery currently making its way around the brow chakra of the
Hip-Hop body.
Artists have a moral responsibility to
project themselves in a light worthy of the support fans have afforded, but who
says the fans themselves—predominantly White anyway—aren’t particularly titillated
by the shuckin’ and jivin’ of these Black modern-day minstrels. And, of course,
no one is, in 2009, still unsure of the true intentions most major label
executives have for this culture of ours. Turn on the radio or BET and the
evidence abounds. Like drug dealers, the efficacy of their products isn’t
necessarily measured by the number of people opposed to it, but rather by the
number of those whose weight is behind it—who have become dependent on it, even
if death is slowly creeping around the corner.
In a recent satirical (but not so funny)
music skit, “Eat
that Watermelon,” spoof genius Affion Crockett enlists the assistance of
Nick Cannon and Queensbridge legend Nas, to drive home a sobering point—Hip-Hop
is inching closer to the totality of Ni**adry than it’s ever been. In the
intro, Nas delivers some poignant thoughts about the future Hip-Hop music is
prepared for if a critical intervention doesn’t take place sometime soon:
There is a period of great distress in the Rap
universe. There was a time when Hip-Hop was a form of empowerment. Now, the
corporate world is quickly diluting our culture for nothing more than profit.
With the ever-mounting forces of ridiculous dances,
ignorant behavior, and general buffoonery it’s only a matter of time before
Hip-Hop’s permanent annihilation.
Crockett and Cannon do their best to
portray an outlandish duo of coonish
rappers, but fail miserably—as their characters aren’t at all different from
what can be currently seen on music video channels:
They’re
blinged-out (chains, belt buckles, bracelets, etc.)—Check.
They’re laced-up
with doo-rags and sideways-flipped hats—Check.
They smile (on
cue) unnecessarily and almost uncomfortably—Check.
They dance as
wildly and uncoordinatedly as possible—Check.
They are
rewarded for their coonery with
cover-page features on Hip-Hop magazines—Check.
The video ends with
excessive running upon sight of M#### (the police)—Check.
At this, Nas reappears to give a final
warning: “Yo, check it ya’ll, this is Nas, and if that don’t stop—Hip-Hop is
dead.”
Well, with rappers nowadays making songs
like “Whip it Like a Slave,” how far are we really from that reality? And,
while on the topic, it was curious to read the many responses to last
week’s editorial on a popular Hip-Hop star disgracing the legacy of those
millions who died that he may live a life of freedom and prosperity.
More appalling was the response by the
producer of the song, Maestro, self-described as a “Grammy Award Winning
Multi-Platinum Producer, Songwriter, Motivational Speaker, and Trendsetter,”
who dismissed all criticism lobbed at his reprehensible record with the pathetic
defense that he “thought it was hilarious at the time.” This “motivational
speaker” (God help the children!), in a Twitter argument with a disgruntled activist, contended
that his actions were warranted because “Police officers didn’t protest when
Wayne said ‘beat it like a cop,’ so whats the big fuss now? We want to own
slavery only when it’s convenient. We reference it for reparations, mention it
to justify affirmative action but vilify it for lack of a better discussion
piece.”
Imagine that: Nothing wrong with the
song because Black folks (proof?), as he sees it, have a history of holding
slavery at arm’s length—when not “convenient.” No mention that he just took
opportunism to a new low, by commercializing
the brutal, dehumanizing, and life-altering experience slavery was.
Fellow readers, these are Hip-Hop’s
rising stars. These are the hope for the future; the ones our children are
listening to—fools like these who argue, against all laws of logic, that
Ni**adry can be excused under certain—undefined—clauses.
Of course, it needs no mention that the
same folks who would green-light a song titled, “Whip it Like a Slave,”
wouldn’t waste no time overwriting the release of others that made similar
references about Jews, White men, or related special interest groups protected
by the big wigs whose stranglehold on Hip-Hop music successfully brought about
the obliteration of social consciousness in the mainstream sector.
Thanks to Young Buck, we
now know that Jimmy Iovine, chairman of Interscope Records, enforces upon
his artists’ creativity a “lyric committee” which is meant to censor and
censure all uncomplimentary remarks
made about certain groups, such as rogue police officers. According to Buck,
who was speaking to Hot 97’s Angie Martinez at the time (2007), “they wouldn’t
let me put that record on my album [because] they said it was too violent. … They
said… ‘you can’t put this out’.”
So, for instance, it’s very convenient
for Compton rapper The Game to go overseas and lead
a sea of White fans in chants like “F### Jay-Z… Old ass Ni**a,” and feel
good for doing so, but if he dared raise his voice against a Jewish rapper like
Asher Roth, complementing him with a racially equivalent invective, the results
wouldn’t be as rewarding. And even multi-platinum artists such as Kanye West
are constantly reminded that, in the music industry, the White man is not to be
f**ked with, as happened in the censoring of his verse on “All Falls Down” (The College Dropout, 2004), which went:
“Drug dealers buy Jordans, crackheads buy crack/ And the white man get paid off
all of that/.” Or with the phrase “White girl” being bleeped out in his popular
single, “Gold Digger” (Late Registration,
2005).
“Burning up the
branch and the root/
The empty
pursuits of every tree bearing the wrong fruit/”
But when these rappers sing gloriously
about the molestation of women, or brag out loud about the perpetuation of
social death in the communities that gave birth to them, or celebrate the crack
epidemic which has cut short millions of lives, they can always count on the
goodness and righteousness of their Christian-like
Masters.
They—the Masters—know that the rap game
has become very much like the shock-jock world of terrestrial radio, where the
public, having over
time become accustomed
to even the most repulsive ration of Ni**adry,require coon rappers to up the ante on foolishness, even if it means digging
deep into the graves of history, just to achieve a high—much like the lifestyle
crack fiends live. They understand that it doesn’t take much to convince a
commercial rapper that everything, no matter how traitorous, can be—and will
be—defended by an unenlightened fan base which, today, functions as proxies for
the masks behind the minstrels. And they know that many of these slave/rappers are
much too willing to prostitute themselves for a gold chain and spinning
rims.
But the tide is slightly turning, and
fans are increasingly feeling disgusted with the products being sold to them.
With this rise in consciousness, they want the artists to be aware of a few
facts:
As a rapper, you are an ambassador of
Hip-Hop. You represent this culture, for good or bad. You determine how an
international audience of spectators, critics, fans, and antagonists perceives it.
Your actions, in their eyes, directly reflect the music and message of Hip-Hop.
With your help, Hip-Hop would either wither and die, or flower and blossom. It’s
up to you to decide how best to repay this culture that has fattened your
pockets and blessed you abundantly. Choose wisely. Judgment day is coming, and
no coons, no clowns, no Ni**as will be spared!
“Read my lips:
It’s a new day running/
And it ain’t
coming/
‘Cuz it’s here
for the taking/
It’s been years
in the making/”
—John Forte, “Breaking
Of A Man
,” StyleFree, 2009.Tolu Olorunda is a cultural critic and a Columnist for BlackCommentator.com. He can be reached at Tolu.Olorunda@gmail.com.
