The B-Word

Reading Joseph G. Schloss’s Foundation, just like reading much of the other material for this course, made me feel extremely clueless. I thought I had a vague idea of what hip-hop was before I began this course, but every day I realize it is increasingly broader, more complex, and more contradictory than I ever expected. I never really understood what b-boying was before, or—gasp of disapproval—if I did, I believe I referred to it as “breakdancing.” But this book revealed my own ignorance to me.

Just a few of my thoughts and reflections while reading:

1. I really like what Schloss says in the introduction about how critiquing hip-hop is a form of battle. Hip-hop is all about earning respect through competition, so if someone is criticizing what you do—even in the academic world—it just fuels the fire to beat your opponent. This made me look at hip-hop criticism in a new light.

2. The entire premise of the book, encompassed in its title, is that b-boying is all about history—this “foundation,” which is a mystical set of notions passed from teacher to student. Schloss discusses how the history of hip-hop is so disputed and unreliable that it really has taken on mythical qualities; although b-boys and other hip-hop lovers cannot verify the traditions that they pass on, they become traditions nevertheless and are crucial to the form. The history constitutes itself, as in the b-boy “canon” of songs from the 1970s that are played over and over.

3. Schloss describes b-boy culture as a “meritocracy” in which dancers are judged based solely on their skills on the floor, without any preference to race, origin, or cultural identification. This seems like a very positive, liberating thing. But at the same time, Schloss also quotes several b-boys and b-girls discussing the role of authenticity in their art form. If someone learns b-boy moves in a studio, they say, and performs just as well on the floor as a true b-boy, he still hasn’t earned the title. If his motives are wrong, and if he doesn’t live within the culture, he cannot be a b-boy no matter how well he dances. I found this to be slightly contradictory.

4. Finally, I am embarrassed for ever having used the term “breakdancing” before. Although the word “b-boy” itself is disputed as far as meaning and origin goes, it is still an insider’s term. It just goes to show how prominent a role the media plays in shaping outsiders’ perceptions of hip-hop—I never would have compared “breakdancing” to the n-word. Luckily I have learned the error of my ways!

Art from a Can

I grew up in a suburb of Dallas, Texas, and I spent a lot of time in the big city. It’s not exactly New York, but it certainly has a more urban feel to it than Springfield. And, just like in other large cities, graffiti began appearing in Dallas while I was growing up. I have to admit that I’ve always had a fairly negative attitude toward it; most of the graffiti I saw was not very sophisticated—nowhere near as colorful or skillful as the pictures in Spraycan Art—and seemed to mar the spectacular beauty of downtown Dallas. Additionally, the kids at my high school who were involved with graffiti were often the same kids trafficking in drugs and guns (or so it seemed) and I did not understand their need to leave a “mark” on my city. In my mind, graffiti was needless vandalism—an angry kid spray-painting “F*** [Insert rival gang name here]” on a building I had to drive past every day.

However, when I read the introduction to Spraycan Art and looked at the pictures, I felt a sort of awe for this controversial art form. And how could someone not have that reaction to this of book? It depicts how graffiti pioneers turned New York City (and other places) into a giant canvas, risking punishment to spend hours decorating the cityscape with colors, pictures, and words they found meaningful. The images presented in the book truly spoke to me from an artist’s perspective; I don’t know how anyone could deny the creative validity of something like Aerosal Art (on a wall in Paris, p. 70).

I think it was very wise for the editors of Spraycan Art to let the pictures speak for themselves. It is one thing to read academic text about graffiti or to see poor imitations of it in big cities, but the art in this book is calculated and beautiful. I also enjoyed reading about how graffiti became popular in Europe; to me, it always seemed like a very American pastime. Additionally, I was interested to find that some cities have tried to treat graffiti artists fairly by providing them with designated places they can practice their craft without fear of penalty; this seems like a sensible way to reconcile freedom of expression with respecting buildings and public spaces. The only problem with that, I think, would be the question that always follows art: how do we determine what is valid graffiti, and what is simply angry spray paint ramblings on a wall, like what I saw in Dallas? I’m not sure, but I think everyone can agree that the images depicted in Spraycan Art are definite works of art.

Rhyme Time

First of all, my apologies for posting a little after 9 – I just got home from a weekend trip to Kansas City.

That being said, it should come as no surprise that I want to address the reading from Book of Rhymes; as far as hip-hop goes, it is an English major’s paradise. Adam Bradley’s name-dropping reads like a Who’s Who of British/American poetry and reminds me of studying flash cards for my G.R.E. lit test. The fact that he linked rap lyrics all the way from Grandmaster Flash to Lil Wayne with the great works of Shakespeare, Milton, Homer, Keats, Donne, and others shows that he is a scholar not only of hip-hop but of the entire English language. He picks apart rap lyrics with the eye of a poetry critic, using a poetry critic’s toolbox of terminology and strategy to understand what makes these rhymes work.

Bradley opens the reading by making the argument (badly paraphrased here) that rap is the greatest, richest embodiment and defender of rhyme. He points out that in many linguistic and literary art forms, rhyme has fallen out of fashion, so he makes a case for hip-hop as the last great rhyme frontier. I think he is exactly right, and I love how he describes rhyme as a kind of “coercion and reconciliation.” It’s all about manipulating the audience’s auditory expectations; as he explains, we would not want to listen to random words being read over a beat. But we love listening to rap, because it engages us both mentally and through our senses.

I have made the point several times in this blog that I think rap deserves to be treated more seriously and accorded the respect given to other art forms, and Bradley has certainly done this. He dissects rap with extensive, technical explanations, proving that these MCs are actually skilled lyricists who utilize poetic strategies that have been around since the ancient Greeks. Some might argue that certain rappers might not know what “anaphora” or “epistrophe” means; but the original poets who perfected these forms didn’t know that, either. They were subconsciously working with words in a way that pleased both the ear in the mind, the same way that rappers do today.

I absolutely loved the reading from the Book of Rhymes. My only question would be, what do we make of rappers who don’t write their own lyrics? Certainly they are just performers, and don’t deserve the same amount of respect as MCs who slave over their own verses, right? I’m sure Bradley took care to analyze only those artists whose originality has been verified. But I do wonder, when I hear clever rap lyrics on the radio, whether they were actually written by the people speaking them.

Great reading. One last thing… we really DO need to get this snack situation figured out!

I've Lost Track of Weeks: Commercialization in Hip-hop

Imani Perry makes several excellent points throughout Prophets of the Hood: Politics and Poetics in Hip-Hop, but one of her most perceptive arguments occurs at the very end of the book, in the concluding chapter “Bling Bling... And Going Pop: Consumerism and Co-Optation in Hip Hop.” Perry addresses what she calls “the moral panic” within the genre, a fear of musical decline that is “created by anxieties about mass production and capitalism and the threat to quality among avid listeners, or hip hop heads” (192). Many contemporary rappers, the most popular of which adorn themselves in expensive jewelry and designer labels and brag about their bank accounts, are no longer concerned with making quality music. Some critics worry that as time passes, hip-hop will continue in a downward spiral, with underground artists overshadowed by and unable to compete with commercialized, generic, “pop-y” hip-hop.

In exploring this dilemma, Perry articulates one of the most problematic contradictions in hip-hop: “How can the aesthetic requirements of and an allegiance to the hip hop community withstand the necessary aspiration of popular artists to have commercial success and make a name for themselves in music? How are the artists to attain mass appeal without sacrificing their cultural or ideological foundations?” (193) Indeed, sacrificing these foundations is one of the heaviest critiques leveled at hip-hop artists. Perry, however, makes some allowances for the natural, extremely American tendency to strive toward wealth and success. She seems to argue that perhaps we are too harsh in condemning commercially successful artists; as she explains it, commercialization is a reflection of American culture in general rather than hip-hop in particular.

Perry writes that “Perhaps the critic should just appreciate the achievements of young black people with global popular culture in their hands and understand that hip hop will never simply embrace one set of progressive politics… Even if we recognize that hip hop has the potential to revolutionize, it also has the potential to suffer co-optation. It constitutes a community too flexible and too fluid to imagine that it might have one sort of political or social influence” (197). Rather than condemning hip-hop as a dying art, Perry believes that it will continue to flourish and evolve through underground outlets, and that critics’ expectations unfairly demonize the desire for financial and popular success. At its best, she writes, hip-hop is local music; as long as artists continue to produce locally, the form will survive.

Week 8: Still More Politics... and Chuck D

Out of all the readings this week, Mark Dery’s essay “Public Enemy: Confrontation” interested me the most. First of all, I think Dery provides an excellent explanation of the political nature of hip-hop. Through an examination of both the aesthetics and the lyrics of Public Enemy’s music, he makes the case that “rap, by definition, is political music” (408). Few people would argue with this; rap, even when not overtly or literally political, is informed by the politics of power, commoditization, race, gender, and other considerations. However, Dery also argues that “In the final analysis, it is important to remember that while rap is political, rappers are not politicians. Like callow young men of all races, they often fall prey to macho posturing, misogyny, and xenophobia” (410). Interesting: the creators of political music need not be politicians themselves, and the vices in their music are not unique to their culture or genre. Perhaps we ask too much of rappers by expecting them to serve as political figures representing an entire community when they are merely artists or entertainers. So, this makes me wonder if we should always view hip hop music as something entirely separate from the artists who create it.

I also enjoyed reading Chuck D’s explanation of his own hip hop aesthetics. This week’s readings, and the interview especially, helped me to understand the complicated technical elements of hip hop production. I find myself listening to rap music now with a more careful ear, attempting to catch the bass lines, samples, digital instruments, and asymmetry in each song. Chuck D also referred to the importance of layering in hip hop, which was discussed in Parodies of Ownership, and he points out that a “soul and funk” feel is essential to a good rap song. I have a great deal of respect for hip hop artists who take aesthetic responsibility for their own music and who actually understand what they’re doing, which Chuck D clearly does. I think many rappers today just speak someone else’s words on a highly-produced track and have no understanding of the complex technological process underlying their success.

Maybe that’s why we will never again have a “Golden Age” of hip hop.

Week 7: Location, Politics, and Art

Prophets of the Hood provided me with answers to questions and articulated several important theories about hip-hop which resonated deeply with me. First of all, Imani Perry gives a clear, sensible definition of hip-hop as “black American music” containing four characteristics: African American Vernacular English, a “political location in society” revolving around black life, a history in black American oral tradition, and roots in African American music. Furthermore, I found Perry’s argument against hip-hop as Afro-Atlantic music fascinating. In modern literary studies, there is a decided trend toward post-colonialism, and I agree with Perry that while examining global connections, influences, and culture is important, it can also deemphasize the crucial regional and local identities that inform art. So, while keeping in mind the contributions to hip-hop from other nationalities, we should also not ignore its role as black American music.

I also liked what Perry had to say about hip-hop’s aesthetic validity. According to him, in hip-hop, “there is, moreover, no mandate on the artist to be politically uplifting all the time, or even at all. The tension so created for the listener is a tension between ideology and art.” Although hip-hop can be politically charged, it has no responsibility to politics. Its primary responsibility is to aesthetics—the creative nature of the composition, the careful selection of sounds and beats, the poetic quality of the lyrics—essentially, the artistic effect on the ear when one listens to the music. Too often, Perry warns, critics want to interpret hip-hop lyrics as pure political texts; however, this ignores the equally important element of “artistic choice.” Hip-hop, then, is a blend between content and form, just like any other type of art.

And a final note: Perry points out that high school students in America continue to study misogynistic and racist texts as part of the English curriculum. As literary history has shown, society rejects many groundbreaking works at of art at the time of publication, condemning them for being “offensive.” It is not until years later that they become acceptable for scholarly criticism and included in the canon. I wonder if, several decades out, all students in America will learn about hip-hop lyrics and music as a legitimate art form worthy of study in spite of the controversy. I hope so.

Week 6: What's Class Got To Do With It?

Michael Eric Dyson’s Know What I Mean? helped me begin to place hip-hop in the broader context of class struggle. Class is a crucial factor in shaping culture, especially American culture, and examining social and economic infrastructures allows us to trace patterns in cultural development. The politics of hip-hop are impossible to separate from class issues.

In the chapter entitled “How Real is This?”, Dyson writes about the role of authenticity in hip-hop culture—a topic we have already explored in readings and in class—and emphasizes the importance of the class divide between “ghettocentric black culture and bourgeois Negro expression.” Dyson almost seems to envision a continuum of authenticity. At one end lie the poor African-Americans who grew up in poverty and who deeply value staying true to the streets; at the other end, the more educated and wealthier members of the black community are primarily concerned with elitism. This creates a sort of chronic class tension, and we certainly see it manifested in hip-hop. How many rap lyrics revolve around “street cred” and financial struggles? At the same time, how many of them criticize African-American criminality and encourage intelligence and social action? Many hip-hop artists struggle to find their place on this continuum; they want to establish their authenticity and reach audiences hungry for a taste of the “ghetto experience,” but at the same time, they want to write intelligent, verbally-savvy lyrics, or to celebrate the fortunes they have earned through rapping.

This conflict is strongly evident in scholarly criticism of hip-hop. The way Dyson sees it, many African-Americans from the Civil Rights era are more elitist, and they have developed an aesthetic that has no place for the “base,” profane lyrics of many popular hip-hop songs today. They think rappers should try to raise awareness for the black community and help people move forward, rather than celebrate and perpetuate the life of crime and poverty many black people still endure. However, Dyson believes that hip-hop as an aesthetic movement has integrity, in all its forms, and should be afforded the same amount of respect as any other rich, evolving, controversial artistic genre.

I am interested to explore this topic more in class, and to discuss how class and authenticity inform the politics of hip-hop.