The Line From H. Rap Brown To Hip-Hop Has Always Been Clear – Even If It Isn’t Stated

Growing up, my parents were not overtly activists or political. But there were clues. One clue was a book titled Die Ni##er Die, by H. Rap Brown. This word usage was jarring, because this was one of the most abhorrent words used against us growing up in Delaware. But here was a Black man documenting his life story using it. I was not told to read it, but it was there on a book shelf for me to ingest, as was Hip-Hop Culture.

Hip-Hop didn’t arrive here by accident or happenstance.

Far too often we talk about the culture like it started exclusively in the Bronx in this magical Big Bang of creativity. And that’s true to a point, but it ignores the foundation under the foundation. Before there were DJs entertaining the youth, there were young Black organizers, revolutionaries and activists telling the truth with the kind of rhythm and conviction that made crowds move without a beat. H. Rap Brown was one of the sharpest to ever do it, and Hip-Hop has been echoing him for fifty years.

H. Rap Brown, now known as Jamil Abdullah Al-Amin, quietly passed away over the weekend. He died in federal custody after a battle with cancer while serving a life sentence for the 2000 shooting that left one Georgia deputy dead and another wounded. He was 82.

Before prison, Al-Amin was a fiery force in the struggle for Black liberation. He led the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, better known as SNCC, during one of its most volatile eras. He later became the Minister of Justice for the Black Panther Party and traveled the country pushing Black communities toward armed self-defense and resistance. His words were blunt, controversial, and unforgettable.

“Violence is necessary,” he said in 1967. “Violence is a part of America’s culture. It is as American as cherry pie.” (Full quote below.)

Brown spoke with a pace that felt like percussion, hence the name “Rap.” He wasn’t performing, but he was warning, reporting, testifying and also provoking.

When people hear Chuck D, KRS-One, Ice Cube or Dead Prez, they’re hearing that lineage. They’re hearing the blueprint for political flow in Hip-Hop. Brown’s speeches were filled with repetitions and phrasing – basically bars – that now sound like the bones of rap lyricism. You can hear his cadence in everything from Public Enemy broadcasts to the young artists today who treat the mic like a tool for truth.

I was not the only one reading Die Ni##er Die!. His story, written while he was out on bail, was passed through Hip-Hop the way early mixtapes moved hand to hand. The book strikes the themes of state violence, poverty, community defense, identity, the full psychological weight of being Black in this country. Sound familiar? It is not university science that the rap albums from the late 80s through the 90s came out of the Civil Rights struggles from the 1960s. Brown, like Gil Scott Heron and The Last Poets, didn’t write a rap verse per se, but he might as well have.

You also can’t talk about Hip-Hop’s visual aesthetic without him and others like The Black Panthers. The leather, the stance, the posture, the dead-ass-seriousness. This is most evident in Public Enemy, but other acts had similar vibes. The Panthers and Brown weren’t a fashion statement. They were communicating discipline and readiness. Hip-Hop adopted the imagery, but the energy behind it came from people like Brown. These figures were not entertainers. They were revolutionaries willing to meet the state head-on.

“Freedom cannot be given. It’s not a welfare commodity. It’s something that has to be gotten and taken by the people who are oppressed,” Brown said in 1967 at the tender age of 24.

Not unlike Hip-Hop, the powers-that-be always respond.

COINTELPRO, the illegal government program, targeted Brown and people like him with the same intensity the criminal justice system later directed at Hip-Hop communities. Entire generations grew up watching the government dismantle Black organizations, fill prisons and treat young Black men like a threat before they even had a chance to decide who they wanted to be. That trauma, that constant pressure, became a core subject in Hip-Hop. “Tired of being trapped in this vicious cycle If one more cop harasses me, I just might go psycho,” Tupac Shakur warns on “Trapped.” The sentiment is the world Brown fought in during the turbulent 60s.

To some, Brown lived what ‘Pac rapped about. He had numerous run-ins with law officials, but the last one was full of controversy. The shooting of two cops and subsequent conviction effectively ended his life in the free world.

Brown’s later life, as Jamil Abdullah Al-Amin, was one at peace in Islam as a pathway to discipline. It was a deep lifestyle turn that mirrors what many MCs embraced over the years. Q-Tip, Yasiin Bey and a wide range of others brought Islamic principles, ideas and language into Hip-Hop. Brown is not the only one, but he was certainly a pebble in the pond that rippled for generations.

When we talk about Hip-Hop’s political backbone, we need to be honest about where it came from. We probably should be honest about the shortcomings on both sides as well. But that is another op-ed.

This culture didn’t invent resistance, but it inherited it. Hip-Hop repackaged it in a form that could reach kids in basements like me. H. Rap Brown isn’t mentioned enough in Hip-Hop conversations. Truth-tellers and revolutionaries are erased or forgotten.

In 2018, I wrote Jamil Abdullah Al-Amin in prison. I do not remember why exactly. But there was a strong push to free him, as he was very sick. Deep down, I believe I wanted to speak to him, get a perspective from his lips. He steadfastly maintained his innocence. He did not respond and I did not write again. Ultimately, I think I may have wanted to tell him “We remember you,” even when the culture doesn’t say the name out loud. You can hear him in the rebellion, if it is not pushed down by the algorithm. You can hear him in the confidence, if you’re in the streets. You can absolutely hear him in every artist who refuses to make themselves small just to survive.

Hip-Hop is the proverbial aftershock of the revolutionary, wild and often horrific era Brown helped shape.