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Portland, what's
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Hip-hop shows on KBOO-FM 92.7: "The Family Hours" with Cool Nutz 2:30-6 am Friday "After Hours Soundbox" with Deena Barnwell midnight Sunday-6 am Monday "The Sound Connection" with Tim Warren and Phil Bethune 10 pm-midnight Saturday "It ain't nothin' like hip-hop music/You like it cause you choose it/most DJs won't refuse it.../too much to gain to abuse it/the name of the game is rapture." --rapper Method Man The Hip-Hop Nation is a true American melting pot that crosses gender, racial, socioeconomic, political and religious barriers for the love of the culture. Headz often share a strong, familial bond, greeting each other with fist pounds and hugs. And, just like family, we argue, fuss and fight about which group is the dopest, who's the nicest on the mic, which producer makes the hardest beats and what is true hip-hop. The spirit of competition has always been the foundation of the culture, and it keeps the music, dances and slang fresher than they are in other genres. We want our family to be the best, and we want to receive props from mainstream society for being top dog. In 1998, this goal was achieved: Rap records outsold country albums for the first time in hip-hop's young history; Busta Rhymes and Rakim showed up on the soundtrack to the kids' movie Rugrats; Lauryn Hill (Spin magazine's artist of the year) set an all-time record for first-week sales by a female artist; and Def Jam had the balls to release Method Man's Tical 2000 on Nov. 17, better known as Super Tuesday, the annual holiday release date for major mainstream acts like Garth Brooks, Mariah Carey and Whitney Houston. Not only did Method Man dare to compete, but he wound up in the No. 2 slot, right behind Brooks. Chests swelled with pride and fists pumped in the air: Headz knew that hip-hop was destined to be the music of the 21st century. But here in Portland, our smiles stopped halfway and our joy wasn't completely fulfilling, because this city still refuses to acknowledge hip-hop as a true art form. For those folks with an understanding of Oregon's history, it comes as no surprise. Oregon has a track record of being hostile, both overtly and covertly, toward black people. The same inane sentiments that kept blacks from migrating to pre-WWII Oregon were visible this summer in news footage of police officers jerking a child from a black mother and spraying the woman with mace. Hip-hop came from the ghetto and remains a predominately black youth culture. Today Portland city officials put pressure on clubs that host hip-hop acts or have hip-hop as their primary dance music, making it difficult for headz to create and maintain an outlet for our art. This refusal to embrace hip-hop culture forces the scene underground, where it thrives in a vibrant, energetic community of artists, radio personalities, promoters and writers who exemplify hip-hop's against-all-odds ethic. On Dec. 16, DJ Bles, Jus' Family Records head Cool Nutz, Hungry Mob's Dave Parks, my man Dante, Ben Oramas of Phamsignaphi Entertainment, Deena Barnwell of community radio station KBOO-FM 90.7 and MCs Fellogem, Ray Ray and Anaxagorus convened in Willamette Week's conference room to squash sibling rivalries and discuss how to take hip-hop to the next level in Portland. For more than two hours, we dissected the causes impeding hip-hop's growth in the Rose City. The most glaring reason is that no commercial radio station here includes rap in its daily format. Radio is the easiest way to access music, yet most hip-hop remains an enigma for anyone curious about the art form because it is hardly heard on commercial stations. Despite the local and national sales of Jay-Z, Master P and DMX, the programmers at these stations continue to exclude hip-hop artists from their playlists. Barnwell, who hosts a weekly rap show on KBOO, says she knows why this town is lacking a commercial hip-hop station. "People that could sponsor an urban radio station don't even know there's a market out here for it," she says. "Portland's been pretty quiet up until the last couple of years." Fortunately, the inexhaustible efforts of Cool Nutz, a vocal advocate of local hip-hop, and Dave Parks, an astute grassroots organizer, help bring the noise to Portland in the form of rap concerts. These two are responsible for PoH-Hop, the largest hip-hop music festival on the West Coast, held every June at LaLuna for the past four years. The two-day event lets artists like Fellogem and Phamsignaphi's Frontline shine before the hometown audience. Of course, some of the acts give sub-par performances, but Cool Nutz and Parks still give them the chance to show the city what they have to offer. "I respect everybody's outlook on hip-hop," Cool Nutz says. "It's just like going to McDonald's. I don't like everything on the menu, but it still has a place because somebody else is going to like it." Deciding what groups to put in the lineup is a minor issue for Cool Nutz and Parks when they plan PoH-Hop, or any rap show for that matter. The major issue is Portland bureaucracy. The city can present many obstacles to having a hip-hop concert--mainly by forcing promoters to spend excessive amounts of money on "security." "If Vera Katz wants to say there's not going to be any hip-hop shows, and she conveys that to the police, it's a good chance there won't be anymore hip-hop shows," Cool Nutz says. Instead of making the effort to educate themselves about the culture, city officials have allowed their unjust fears of violence to dictate their actions toward hip-hop. The pressure has become so extreme that Parks is seriously considering not having PoH-Hop in '99. If bureaucrats were more in tune with hip-hop culture, they would understand that the murders of Tupac and Biggie Smalls in 1996 and 1997 have ushered in a peaceful era in hip-hop. Underground hardcore rap is no longer in, and black-on-black crimes have decreased considerably in the past year. Recently, the Roseland Theater housed two sold-out shows, OutKast and E-40, and folks in attendance had a good time, partying like crazy to the sound of the drum without any altercations. "If one incident would've happened at any of those shows," Parks says, "I guarantee you, no one in town would touch a hip-hop show for five years. If anything happens from here on, hip-hop is canceled." Even though the struggle is overwhelming at times, headz persevere and bring hip-hop to the people of Portland. Barnwell held an MC battle on the air recently. Cats from all walks of life gathered at the KBOO offices, sippin' "get-right juice" and puffin' the la-la in preparation for the throwdown. Sixteen competitors were given a minute each on the mic, and sparks flew as jokes were passed back and forth. Despite some flaws such as the wack crew HTK's no-show, occasional lagging instrumentals and a couple of white cats audacious enough to use the word "nigga," the night was crazy successful. Judges hit the floor laughing at the clever puns that Dialect, the ferocious DL, Dialog and MyG spit into the faces of the opposition. But all had to bow down to the eventual winner, Mike Crenshaw of Hungry Mob. Crenshaw truly possesses the gift, flowing poignant pieces from his dome to the microphone and ripping MCs to shreds with murderous, esteem-punching freestyle raps. Love was shown in the form of the $100 prize and respect from his peers. Those peeps who heard the battle were treated to a lesson on the essence of hip-hop. Hip-hop will continue to flourish in Portland whether or not the powers that be accept it. Right now, at various locales around the city, some kids are huddled together, rhyming their mouths dry. The LaNossi Fashions clothing store in Northeast Portland (5429 NE 30th Ave.) is a spot where random customers might catch aspiring MCs practicing their craft. Wise 1 was there one night recently--eyes blazing with passion, head nodding vigorously to a Ruff Ryders' beat--spitting his verbal dexterity for a room full of headz to hear. His face beamed when he completed his verse, and we blessed him with well-deserved fist pounds. Wise 1's fiery devotion to hip-hop infected me that night, causing me to reaffirm my vows to love this culture for life. We are BeBe's kids--we don't die, we multiply. And as we continue to add new headz to the cipher, the hip-hop foundation in Portland will grow stronger each day, each year. Like Cool Nutz says, "If we all around here bubblin', we can't be stopped." Word up.
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