Column: Hip-Hop is Dead. Long Live Hip-Hop.
by CHZA | 00.00.0000

[editor's note: see that whole "column" thing up above? That means that the following opinions may or may not belong to the writer, but that should they belong to anybody, they're his. In other words, this is not the collective voice of Filter, but the desperate cry of one angry man who Filter supports in his quest for abusing the First Amendment. Read on...]




Hip-Hop Hooray

A FUNNY THING happened on the way to pronouncing myself the definitive authority in all things hip-hop. I got told by one of my readers. And not just told like “You ain’t nuthin but a Chinese boy who wishes he could rhyme like Aesop Rock, but has to settle for a self-absorbed, self-congratulatory column poking fun at already established rappers instead,” but straight up put on blast for views that are—in the opinion of this reader—forever and fundamentally flawed. According to this reader, I had committed the atrocity of all atrocities: daring to link Biggie Smalls to the great James Joyce—he who single-handedly invented the term “stream of consciousness.” But even more troubling than any of my misused parallels were the egregious claims about the overall state of hip-hop—that it couldn’t get any better than the golden age of yore, when street poetry and grimy beats set a standard that hasn’t been touched since. This neglected narratee went on to say that it’s wannabe hip, pseudo-media types like myself who choose to perpetuate this myth of “old = good,” rather than try to appreciate and explore new horizons. Therefore, when a guy like Kanye West shows up, I pooh-pooh him—touting his beatmaking ability, and not his rhyming prowess—because not-so-deep down, I’m thinkin’ “DJ Premier/Pete Rock ripoff,” and that’s it.

The truth is, I couldn’t agree more. Well, at least the part about me being a wannabe hip, pseudo-media type. (Note to Def Jux: Still waitin on that mixtape deal.) So is hip-hop a flawed aesthetic, as this concerned citizen would also go on to argue? Absolutely. But you could say the same about indie-rock, or classic rock, or if you wanna get real nitty gritty, British literature. And as for attributing the genre’s current stagnation to limiting and inflexible criteria (such as my “dope beats + dope lyrics = doper-than-fuck record” equation), isn’t that like saying whenever some new kid on the block wants to dazzle us with some gimmicky rhyme-scheme or sample, we should all roar our approval, and dub him the savior of hip-hop? Fortunately for those of us who still like our music to reflect some true form of genius, the science of commentary doesn’t adhere to the rules of American Idol, where everyone—even those who can’t really sing—“deserve” to succeed.

No, the problem isn’t that the rest of us need to give the current breed of hip-hoppers a break, or to look at them through less finely tuned lenses. It’s that the existing culture no longer feels the same urgency or sense of purpose as it did when kids from the projects first set their aims towards being registered in the public consciousness. At its best, hip-hop is an emergent form of expression, meaning it teaches us truths without fully realizing the extent of its reflexiveness. To say that the Wu Tang Clan circa 1993 or De La Soul—by merely flipping some ill beats and inspired metaphors—couldn’t possibly have intended to tap into the pure hustle and struggle of a disenfranchised, disenchanted segment of society is probably spot-on. But isn’t the greatness of Ulysses also determined by the various responses and interpretations of the general reader, rather than Joyce’s own rigid conceptions? Because if that’s the case, then let’s call ‘em like we see ‘em, and recognize that nowadays, the motives of the Ja Rules and the Nellys are unmistakably clear—let the dolla holla back. They couldn’t care less about artistry, and neither does their audience. Hence the hundreds of radio-friendly singles without any redeemable albums to show for it.

Not that I have simply resigned myself to irretrievable glories. In its current state, hip-hop simply needs a lil’ bit of realignment—perhaps with other genres and artists that are compatible, but not constraining (See: Hymie’s Basement and their seamless combination of folk sound and hip-hop aesthetic). There’s no doubt about it—hip-hop is in a state of transition. But it may be only a matter of time before it’s 3 feet high and rising again. So long as we promise not to surrender our critical eye or stingy standards. Which reminds me of this memo I’ve been meaning to send to Kanye. Something to the effect of: You are hip-hop’s last great hope. Don’t fuck it up…


Next week: LL’s Spring Break Me Off

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[The CHZA has spoken. Got beef? Send your complaints, rants, and hate/fan mail to online editor Chris Martins.. He’ll make sure Chi gets the message.]