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.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Week 5: Hip-hop Politics
This week I want to talk about two different readings from That’s the Joint. First of all, I really enjoyed Bakari Kitwana’s “The Challenge of Rap Music.” Americans frequently get so caught up in the prevalent media stereotypes about hip-hop music and “ghetto criminality” that they forget its potential for positivity. I had no idea that Russell Simmons and other leaders from the hip-hop community participated in a summit in 2001 to address issues facing the culture, and I wish discussions like this could happen more often. Hip-hop deserves to be examined and talked about with the same respect as other art forms. I also liked that Kitwana listed several events and artists that reflect positively on hip-hop; it is refreshing to see rappers reaching out to the people around them and using their fame to influence the community. However, Kitwana is right that more needs to be done in order for hip-hop to reach its “potential to impact social change.” If other industry leaders would begin taking responsibility like Russell Simmons, hip-hop could begin to break apart the stereotypes and become even more of a positive artistic outlet.
I was also fascinated by Clarence Lusane’s essay, “Rap, Race, and Politics.” I am an English major, so I love the way that Lusane breaks down different lyrics and analyzes them to find out what they reveal about the rappers and the genre as a whole. He very methodically illustrates the ideology in Arrested Development’s music and then Ice Cube’s, comparing and contrasting them and then explaining why neither method of addressing politics in hip-hop is sufficiently effective. Many of the people who criticize hip-hop have never given an attentive listen to the music, and after Lusane’s explanation, I had a newfound respect for Ice Cube and even began to try and identify with the political rage he expresses in his lyrics. I like that Lusane treats hip-hop lyrics as a valid art form and analyzes them with a critic’s eye, and I think I might want to work on a paper along the same themes.
I was also fascinated by Clarence Lusane’s essay, “Rap, Race, and Politics.” I am an English major, so I love the way that Lusane breaks down different lyrics and analyzes them to find out what they reveal about the rappers and the genre as a whole. He very methodically illustrates the ideology in Arrested Development’s music and then Ice Cube’s, comparing and contrasting them and then explaining why neither method of addressing politics in hip-hop is sufficiently effective. Many of the people who criticize hip-hop have never given an attentive listen to the music, and after Lusane’s explanation, I had a newfound respect for Ice Cube and even began to try and identify with the political rage he expresses in his lyrics. I like that Lusane treats hip-hop lyrics as a valid art form and analyzes them with a critic’s eye, and I think I might want to work on a paper along the same themes.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Week 4: Battle of the Sexes
The readings from Toure this week pointed out a very interesting distinction to me: the difference between male and female hip-hop artists. With a few exceptions (the Lauryn Hill piece comes to mind), the essays about female artists were positive, uplifting, and family friendly.
The Beyonce piece, for instance, in contrast with the piece about Jay-Z (to whom she is now married) really made me think. In the hip-hop community, women are often the better role models—confident, strong females for young girls to admire and emulate. Beyonce does not have a past full of sex tape scandals, DUIs, rehab stints, or bad relationships. She comes from a close-knit family of people who, although they have the inevitable ups and downs, still stand by each other. She is grounded, hard-working, and committed to her values. I’m sure parents would be thrilled for their daughters or sons to listen to Beyonce’s music. The same goes for Alicia Keys and many others. Although exceptions exist, and these women are not technically rappers, they are still identified as part of the hip-hop community.
The Jay-Z article, on the other hand, does delve into aspects of his talent and motivation, but it extensively discusses his court case for allegedly stabbing a record executive, his “beef” with other rappers, and his skills in a high-stakes card game. Jay-Z is actually one of the more positive male artists in the hip-hop community today, but even he has to keep up an appearance of toughness and “street cred,” and unlike Beyonce’s music, his is full of explicit lyrics. He simply is not someone many parents would feel comfortable with their children admiring.
I think this difference occurs because of the shifting male and female roles in the African-American community—a trend that Toure and other writers discuss. Because many black fathers abandon their wives and children early on, the mothers are forced to become the anchors of the family unit. Black women learn to be strong, reliable, and positive from a young age; they have no other choice if they want their families to survive. As a result, female hip-hop artists have grown up with values and confidence, and they refuse to compromise themselves for money or fame. Male rappers, however, often give in to violent, misogynistic, and criminal stereotypes in order to do well in the rap game. Many of them grew up without father figures, so they struggle to find positive role models—or to be positive role models.
Overall, the articles in Never Drank the Kool-Aid illustrate that many popular female hip-hop artists have a better, stronger sense of themselves, and this translates into their music. Best-selling male rap artists might be seen more positively in American society if they learned to be more like the women in hip-hop.
The Beyonce piece, for instance, in contrast with the piece about Jay-Z (to whom she is now married) really made me think. In the hip-hop community, women are often the better role models—confident, strong females for young girls to admire and emulate. Beyonce does not have a past full of sex tape scandals, DUIs, rehab stints, or bad relationships. She comes from a close-knit family of people who, although they have the inevitable ups and downs, still stand by each other. She is grounded, hard-working, and committed to her values. I’m sure parents would be thrilled for their daughters or sons to listen to Beyonce’s music. The same goes for Alicia Keys and many others. Although exceptions exist, and these women are not technically rappers, they are still identified as part of the hip-hop community.
The Jay-Z article, on the other hand, does delve into aspects of his talent and motivation, but it extensively discusses his court case for allegedly stabbing a record executive, his “beef” with other rappers, and his skills in a high-stakes card game. Jay-Z is actually one of the more positive male artists in the hip-hop community today, but even he has to keep up an appearance of toughness and “street cred,” and unlike Beyonce’s music, his is full of explicit lyrics. He simply is not someone many parents would feel comfortable with their children admiring.
I think this difference occurs because of the shifting male and female roles in the African-American community—a trend that Toure and other writers discuss. Because many black fathers abandon their wives and children early on, the mothers are forced to become the anchors of the family unit. Black women learn to be strong, reliable, and positive from a young age; they have no other choice if they want their families to survive. As a result, female hip-hop artists have grown up with values and confidence, and they refuse to compromise themselves for money or fame. Male rappers, however, often give in to violent, misogynistic, and criminal stereotypes in order to do well in the rap game. Many of them grew up without father figures, so they struggle to find positive role models—or to be positive role models.
Overall, the articles in Never Drank the Kool-Aid illustrate that many popular female hip-hop artists have a better, stronger sense of themselves, and this translates into their music. Best-selling male rap artists might be seen more positively in American society if they learned to be more like the women in hip-hop.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Week 3: Examing a White Rapper
I remember the first time I ever heard an Eminem song; I was eleven years old and my mom was driving me home from school. “My Name Is” came on the radio, full of bleeped-out words and a strange, nasally voice rapping. The song was unlike anything I had ever heard in the era of the Spice Girls and Backstreet Boys. I turned up the radio to listen more closely, but my mom quickly changed the station. “I’m not playing that junk in my car,” she warned me, “and I don’t want you listening to it at home, either.”
But within a few weeks all the kids at my school—black and white—were singing it, rapping the forbidden words on the playground, reciting the catchy chorus as they waited in line. And of course, since Eminem’s music was forbidden, I wanted to listen to it even more. When “The Real Slim Shady” came out shortly after, my two southern Baptist best friends and I got our hands on a copy, and learned every single word by heart. We did the same thing with the next few huge Eminem hits.
I grew up and stopped being an Eminem fan, mainly because as I gradually understood the lyrics better and became familiar with Eminem as a public figure, I didn’t like what I saw. I have been able to enjoy offensive music in the past, but to me, a song fantasizing about killing your mother or ex-girlfriend—even if not meant seriously—crosses the line. I also hated Eminem’s criticism of artists like Christina Aguilera and the homophobia in his songs. However, when I read Toure and Carl Hancock Rux’s pieces about Eminem, I pulled up some old Eminem songs on YouTube and listened to them for the first time in years.
I agree with Rux that white people like listening to Eminem because he allows them to enjoy the “hip-hop experience,” or their idea of what gangster life is like, but using a white guy as a mouthpiece. Listening to a white rapper is still “cool,” but it removes the white guilt that comes with being a fan of—and trying to identify with—black hip-hop. People also love the controversy Eminem causes, and the way he manipulates his public persona for attention.
Ultimately, though, I think two things made Eminem a successful hip-hop artist. First, like Rux says, he did something that hadn’t really been done—and even then not as well—since Vanilla Ice. He was a controversial white rapper. Eminem, in a way, has more credibility than Vanilla Ice; he actually grew up in poverty in an urban neighborhood, and he was “socialized as black,” as Rux puts it. But his second, and more important, strength is that he is truly a talented artist—in spite of how offensive his material can be. He has a gift for words, and his songs are the type that gets stuck in your head for days. So although I no longer consider myself an Eminem fan, I appreciate his skill and his highly unusual contribution to hip-hop.
But within a few weeks all the kids at my school—black and white—were singing it, rapping the forbidden words on the playground, reciting the catchy chorus as they waited in line. And of course, since Eminem’s music was forbidden, I wanted to listen to it even more. When “The Real Slim Shady” came out shortly after, my two southern Baptist best friends and I got our hands on a copy, and learned every single word by heart. We did the same thing with the next few huge Eminem hits.
I grew up and stopped being an Eminem fan, mainly because as I gradually understood the lyrics better and became familiar with Eminem as a public figure, I didn’t like what I saw. I have been able to enjoy offensive music in the past, but to me, a song fantasizing about killing your mother or ex-girlfriend—even if not meant seriously—crosses the line. I also hated Eminem’s criticism of artists like Christina Aguilera and the homophobia in his songs. However, when I read Toure and Carl Hancock Rux’s pieces about Eminem, I pulled up some old Eminem songs on YouTube and listened to them for the first time in years.
I agree with Rux that white people like listening to Eminem because he allows them to enjoy the “hip-hop experience,” or their idea of what gangster life is like, but using a white guy as a mouthpiece. Listening to a white rapper is still “cool,” but it removes the white guilt that comes with being a fan of—and trying to identify with—black hip-hop. People also love the controversy Eminem causes, and the way he manipulates his public persona for attention.
Ultimately, though, I think two things made Eminem a successful hip-hop artist. First, like Rux says, he did something that hadn’t really been done—and even then not as well—since Vanilla Ice. He was a controversial white rapper. Eminem, in a way, has more credibility than Vanilla Ice; he actually grew up in poverty in an urban neighborhood, and he was “socialized as black,” as Rux puts it. But his second, and more important, strength is that he is truly a talented artist—in spite of how offensive his material can be. He has a gift for words, and his songs are the type that gets stuck in your head for days. So although I no longer consider myself an Eminem fan, I appreciate his skill and his highly unusual contribution to hip-hop.
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