Remember what Commissioner Gordon did when he wanted to summon Batman? He took the “bat sign” and shined it over the city and Batman would know it was time to come through. I would imagine, in the comic book world, the whole city of Gotham knew that Batman was on the way upon seeing the brightly lit “bat” across the sky.

I designed the AllHipHop.com logo with that and other iconic symbols in mind. I wanted something that could be identified immediately, easily remembered and could be put on merchandise. With that, I decided to list my Top 10 Logos in Hip-Hop. This is an opinion so there is no right or wrong list. This is just mine.

 TOP 10 LOGOS IN HIP-HOP (IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER)

PUBLIC ENEMY

 

Chuck D, one of the most respected rappers ever, designed the logo for Public Enemy. For those that don’t know, Public Enemy is a rebellious, pro-Black group that has inspired people since the 80’s. the logo depicts a Black man in the crosshairs of a sniper’s rifle. It articulated perfectly the group’s message and music.

 

RUN DMC

 

Run DMC broke barriers in music that just about everybody today benefits from. A huge part of that success is their logo. The logo is simple and the colors are almost always red, black and white  (the same official colors of AllHipHop – not ironic). This logo has been a staple in music (not just rap) for since its incarnation in the early 80s. It is the only Hip-Hoplogo to appear on an adidas sneaker. Hey, I even made a hoodie that said “Run AHH.” Go figure.

 

EPMD

 

Through the rigors of time, this logo may have been waned in popularity, but not those in the know. EPMD’s logo remains a fixture in the rap game. It is a bit like Run DMC’s log in nature, in my view, but keeps its own distinct identity. To this day, group’s like Little Brother emulate the EPMD logo. Props to Eric Haze, the legendary Graf artist and designer. WU TANG CLAN

 

When I go to my original notion with the Batman logo, no logo quite represents the idea the way Wu Tang’s “W” does. Honestly, there’s not much to say about the Wu Tang logo. It has been on everything from apparent to stickers to tattoos on people’s bodies. Universally recognized and locally accepted.

ONYX

 

I’ll personally admit that there are a few logos that could be exchanged in place of the Onyx “madface,” if I was being “objective.” Still this is an all-time favorite of mine. Its bold, aggressive and highly representative of Onyx’s movement in the 90’s era. I love this logo and the colors.

 

HEIRO

 

I couldn’t talk about logos and not mention Hieroglyphics (Hiero), the West Coast collective of emcees. They are some of the most talented dudes, that have managed to endure the rigors of the game for a years and years. I certainly don’t know the inner workings of the group, but I know these dudes have been selling merch for the longest time and their logo is the cornerstone of their sales efforts. They even have Hiero jeans now! They weren’t lying when they rapped about “’93 Til Infinity.”

OUTKAST

 

There were several contenders for the final artist slot, but I had to include OutKast as my final logo slot. Now, I’ll admit, I don’t feel this logo speaks directly to the group artistically. But as a logo, it is easily identifiable and actually contrasts the true meaning of an outcast. Kings!

DEF JAM RECORDS

 

Of the record labels no logo comes close to Def Jam Records. The symbol historically represents the finest in Hip-Hop, especially when you recall the splendor of the 80’s. But, in the tough times, the simplicity of the the “DJ” and the brand overcomes. Lyor Cohen, the “Chief Caretaker of the Logo” really explains the reason why the Def Jam logo is so meaningful to the company.

 

Nuff said.

 DEATH ROW RECORDS

 

Death Row Records was the most daunting and intimidating label ever and their logo represented that notion. Personally, the logo isn’t as graphically bold as I would like it, but visually, it makes up for it with the striking nature of a man strapped to an electric chair. Typically in blood red, the logo signifies Suge Knight’s “affiliations.”

NO LIMIT RECORDS

Master P was a solider that was “bout it, bout it” and he used a logo to represent that. He simply used a tank. The tank was all that was required to push his agenda that there indeed were no limits to what he and his crew could do at that time. It has been some time since No Limit represented a blip on the charts, but show any Hip-Hop head the logo and it will make ’em say, “uhhhhhhhhh!”

 

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 entirely

flattering 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:

[email protected].

[Editor’s note: This post is a direct response to Tolu Olorunda’s

editorial entitled, “Rich

Kids in Hip-Hop: Who Let the Gates Open?“]Editor’s note: The

views expressed inside this editorial aren’t necessarily the views of

AllHipHop.com or its employees.I’m writing this because I’m so sick of limiting beliefs in rap music. I’m sick of the idea that you can’t make a significant contribution to the art form because your dad was a hip-hop pioneer (Diggy Simmons) or that you can’t be real if you’re a half Jewish kid from Canada who was on a teen TV show (Drake).

In his editorial Tolu writes, “The working-class kid in me wants to know why Hip-Hop fans would submit their precious time to the abuse of spoon-fed, pampered, nannied, chauffeur-carried brats who know next to nothing of growing up with no assurance [of] ‘where your meal’s coming from.’”

Well, the upper middle class kid in me wants to know why not? Why not? Where in the hip-hop rulebook does it say that if someone is born into an advantageous situation that their opinion is void? Or to take it further that their contributions are abusive?

I love hip-hop. I’ve dedicated my entire professional career to it. I used to subscribe to Vibe magazine when it was oversized. I put up posters on my wall. I laboriously made mixtapes using the radio, scotch tape and cassettes. I went to Hot 97’s SummerJam religiously. I transcribed lyrics into composition notebooks for fun. And I did this all from my privileged, upper middle class home. In my opinion, the gates to the almighty kingdom of hip-hop were never closed to the fortunate.

In fact, I know the gates have always opened wide for a rich kid who wanted to support their favorite artist by purchasing an album, shelling out for concert tickets and dropping some change at the merch stand as well. I guess money gets past the gatekeepers but thought provoking poetry gets turned away.

Hip-hop is not about exclusion. At this point, I’d like to turn it over to one of our forefathers, DJ Kool Herc. In the introduction to Jeff Chang’s book “Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop” he wrote:

“To me hip-hop says, ‘Come as you are.’ We are a family. It’s about you and me, connecting one to one. That’s why it has universal appeal. It has given people a way to understand their world, whether they are from the suburbs or the city or wherever. I think hip-hop has bridged the culture gap. It brings white kids together with black kids, brown kids with yellow kids. They all have something that they love. It gets past the stereotypes and people hating each other because of those stereotypes.”

Working-class kids, Tolu writes, can teach us about nihilism and fatalism while privileged youngsters don’t have “much to inform about life and hardship, about struggle and pain, about uncertainty and destiny.”

Are. you. kidding. me?

Ever hear the Notorious B.I.G. song “Mo Money Mo Problems”? Anyone who is living knows about life. We ALL know about hardship, struggle, pain, uncertainty and destiny. It’s mighty presumptuous to assume that you know what other people are or aren’t going through internally. Does Tolu know the pressure that comes with having to follow in massive footsteps?  People who come from success automatically have a bigger fear of failure because they have more to lose.  How about giving the little dudes some credit for putting themselves out there?

Tolu knocks Aubrey “Drake” Graham because he “rolled out the womb into a golden crib,” but does he really know Drake’s story? Is it remotely possible that he had hardships just like everyone else?

Here’s what Drake told me in an interview about how he started rapping.

“Actually the way I really started writing was my father was in jail and there was an inmate there that used to share my dad’s phone time. He had nobody to talk to. He used to spit rhymes to me over the phone I used to listen to him ‘til the phone would cut off. I would listen and I liked it. I liked the whole rap thing so I would start writing and we would start sharing it. Eventually my dad got out and from there I just continued it.”

I offer this, not because I want to prove Drake’s “street cred,” but because I want to challenge the assumptions fans and critics have about artists who don’t come from the most impoverished backgrounds. Just because Aubrey (as the close minded hardcore hip-hop types like to call him) doesn’t constantly rhyme about his father being behind bars that doesn’t mean that it didn’t affect him during his developmental years. It may have shaped his whole perspective on life. It may drive everything he does, every bar that he spits.

Why are people are so quick to dismiss others before they actually know where they are coming from?

Tolu likes Nas “for the wisdom sprawled liberally from his lips to our ears.”

So do I. But I don’t think that we should limit your wisdom providers to the people who come from the inner city. To quote Jay-Z, “that sounds stupid to me.” As someone who came from a “privileged upbringing” I felt the Ghostface Killah lyrics that he cited at the beginning of his editorial to my core (“All That I Got Is You”). No, I never had to “survive winters, snotty nosed with no coats” but that doesn’t mean that I didn’t know “cousins and aunts” who were there with “roaches everywhere.” It doesn’t mean I can’t comprehend or appreciate those words.

Likewise, someone who knows “real struggle” might be able to relate to Diggy’s desire to do something on his own, or Drake’s admission that he sometimes makes the wrong decisions or Kanye West’s passion for fighting what he believes in.

I, for one, would rather take my rappers rich and impassioned over poor and complacent any day.  Just because someone comes from poverty doesn’t mean that they have more value to give than the guy who appears to be rapping with a silver spoon in his mouth.

I think that it’s this train of thought that gives us rappers like Rick Ross, who’s embarrassed to admit that he held down a respectable job before making it big, and Plies, who hems and haws when asked if he was the valedictorian of his class.  We’re scaring off great wordsmiths.  We’re encouraging our “stars” to lie to us and in the end we’re only shortchanging ourselves.

I think that we should support, with our dollars, any artist that is living and rapping authentically, regardless of his current financial situation. In turn, we’ll get more artists that will make meaningful and purposeful contributions to our lives. Besides, after one successful album that wise street soldier that you love so much suddenly has way more in common with the rich kid than he does with you.

Instead of questioning, “who let the gates open” why don’t we just celebrate the fact that they are open and that everyone from the projects to the penthouse has an equal chance to make a difference.