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

[editor's note: this is part one in a special CHZA series that attempts to parse out one of the most influential hip-hop groups of all time (the Wu-Tang Clan) by drawing detailed comparisons in membership to one of the most influential rock bands of all time (the Beatles). Ambitious? Yeah. Wrong? Probably. But see that whole "column" thing up above? As always, this is simply the desperate cry of one angry man who Filter supports in his quest for abusing the First Amendment. Read on...]


Chapter One: Birth of a Prince

TODAY he is mostly unimpressive, mostly nondescript...a shadow of his former greatness. But back then--then, meaning when the music grabbed you by the balls and refused to let go...then, meaning, "Holy shit, what is, this stuff that plays like Kurosawa, but sounds like Ginsberg?"...then, meaning revolution--THEN this giant among men cast a shadow. And not just one that parents tell their kids exists either on the bedroom wall or in their imagination. This shadow was not only larger than life, it was darker, more penetrating, more pervasive. At first, it was the shadow of George Martin. Later, it morphed into Geoff Emerick. But no matter what shape it assumed, this shadow would always recognize its one true master: The RZA.

That’s right. Without the slightest hint of irony (for the record, I don’t do irony...I do intellectual masturbation, I do condescension, I do yo’mama jokes...just not irony) yours truly just did the unthinkable: Suggest that the single most important producer in rock 'n' roll history, along with perhaps its most innovative engineer (apologies to Jim O’Rourke), has been overshadowed (so I’m a bit enamored with the word) by the accomplishments of someone who refuses to spell his name properly. But let the resume speak for itself: 36 Chambers. Liquid Swords. Only Built 4 Cuban Linx. Ironman. Wu Tang Forever. Three years; five lock-them-in-your-vault classics. All orchestrated, calibrated and masterminded by one extraordinarily off-the-hizzle prodigy. Oh yeah, and the muthafucka raps too.

It’s not just that the Wu Tang Clan were unique, or that they were one of the first to pioneer the hardcore, East-coast, claustrophobic-sounding hip-hop movement. What these Shaolin-lovin' mafiosos demonstrated more than anything else was that perfect synergy could be achieved as long as the members of a group were committed enough, skilled enough and ballsy enough. And while that other semi-influential band (I do sarcasm too) was fortunate enough to receive the services of not one, but two maestros, let’s try to remember that the Beatles are still undeniably John, Paul, George and err, Ringo--aka the Fab Four, aka the greatest band who ever lived--with or without the help of Geoff and the other George. The same, however, cannot be said of Prince Rakeem (RZA) and his troupe of miscreants. Because da Clan--despite the individual talents that they boast--are simply a more loudmouthed, less coherent version of the Funky Bunch w/out their commander-in-chief.

Which is not to compare Marky Mark to the RZA. There’s never been anyone quite like the RZA in rap music--too eccentric to be efficient, too off-kilter to be conventionally listenable. He would’ve been too far ahead of his time, if not for the simple fact that he chose to nitpick at the past. For behind his rawer-than-Michael-Corleone breakbeats and spooky-but-immensely-textured samples lay a series of vast and cryptic mythologies. Not ones wholly ignored or undiscovered--just underappreciated and misunderstood. Sure, there are the more prominent bearings of kung-fu films and Mobster ethic that he endlessly plundered. But I’m also referring to the entire funk tradition. And chamber music. And yes, the Blues. Myths from each genre that needed to be simultaneously embraced and dispelled. Yes, funk is (at its worst) kitschy. But RZA showed that it could also be edgy and bitchy and get under your skin. Likewise with classical music--the kind that dares to be sassy, with only a smidgen of classiness, instead of the other way around. And could blues be any less a declaration of the human experience, if it celebrated life and its assortment of indulgences just as much as it railed against its injustices? (The answer, in case you’re uncomfortable with these rhetorical questions, is a resounding no.)

So it’s funk+classical+working class angst...and it’s not the Village People? Nope, it’s a creation of the R-to-the-Z-to-the-A, a moniker which to some, may be awkward, nonsensical, or altogether unnecessary. To the hip-hop diehards, however, it’s shorthand for the gritty-but-Razor-sharp precision of a man who embodies the impetus behind a supergroup out to bring da ruckus. Like the Beatles and their devastating one-two punch? Nah. More like a murderous swarm of Killah Beez on the warpath...

Next week: A Wu Tang Retrospective. Chapter Two: The GZA.

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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.]