The great body of Negro American slang--that unorthodox
language--exists precisely because Negroes need words which
will communicate, which will designate the objects, processes,
manners and subtleties of their urban experience with the
least amount of distortion from the outside.
--Ralph Ellison
You ain't got to like me/you just mad cuz I tell it
like it is/and you tell it how it might be...
--Puff Daddy
Sometimes, when I'm alone in my room staring at the wall,
my mind wanders to the memories of my first hip-hop experience.
I was a shorty when Sugar Hill Gang's "Rapper's Delight"
dropped back in the day and, like many others at the time,
I busted a move. "Rapper's Delight" was, and still is, an
exciting, dope track, but it wasn't impressive enough to
lessen my interest in the jazz, soul, R&B, funk and
rock that dominated my pop's record collection. Afrika Bambaataa
& the Soulsonic Force's "Planet Rock" changed all of
that. The ever-evolving innovations of hip-hop got me, tugging
at my soul like those old hymns sung by choirs in small
Baptist churches down South.
I have been open ever since. I have picturesque remembrances
of when B-boys kept it simple and fresh for the fly girls
at the live party in the park or the basement of somebody's
house. As I became older and more aware of the day-to-day
life bustling around me, I realized that much of hip-hop's
power lay in MCs' abilities to connect their witty, eloquent
sociopolitical discourses with what I saw occurring in the
streets. The violent crack trade infected the community
with extreme frustration, anger and hopelessness, and producers
trapped this vibe with their instruments: turntables, drum
machines and samplers.
By the end of the '80s, it was as clear as a cloudless
day that the ingenuity of hip-hop, from rock-the-dance-floor
joints to hardcore noise, was limitless. Yet, popular radio
stations, magazines and video channels showered contempt
on the art form, claiming that it was a fad and would soon
fade away. Rap music's financial success in '98 proved them
wrong. Once-upon-a-time naysayers transformed into hip-hop
proponents overnight, raising concerns that the history
of white appropriation of black music would repeat itself.
It is undeniable that the origins of 20th-century American,
and often global, popular music lie in the black communities
of the United States. However, black artists here have rarely
received props for their ground-breaking creativity during
their time. Close-minded music critics chose instead to
whitewash jazz, blues and rock 'n' roll, making them more
"acceptable" to mainstream audiences. Jackie Wilson's flair
and Little Richard's rock 'n' roll were evident in Elvis
Presley's steelo. The Beatles didn't know squat about harmonizing
until they hooked up with Ray Charles; Eric Clapton has
spent damn near his whole career emulating B.B. King and
Jimi Hendrix.
Unfortunately, this disrespectful phenomenon is happening
in Portland. As rock music becomes dust in the wind, its
aficionados are attempting to front as rap critics, writing
articles that mislead readers, pushing them to believe that
hip-hop's derivatives (electronica, drum 'n' bass, jungle,
etc.) are the ruling sounds of the Portland underground.
Praise is heaped on local artists who utilize the tools
of the hip-hop trade, especially the turntable, to provide
new interpretations of industrial music. Cats with no
urban flavor are hailed as the avant-garde, the new face
of hip-hop music.
What many new hip-hop critics, artists and listeners fail
to recognize is that hip-hop has remained true to its ghetto
roots by snuffing out previous appropriation endeavors with
a you're-in-or-you're-out dichotomy outsiders strain to
change. Wannabe MCs and DJs foreign to the inner-city environment
strive to manipulate hip-hop to fit their needs, proving
themselves ignorant of the true essence of the culture.
They seek the respect of real heads, not realizing that
those props are reserved exclusively for artists who breathe
hip-hop all day, every day, fully representing the language
and tenor of the culture with their own twist of originality.
Hip-hop's cliquishness is contradicted by the invite to
everybody to listen. And for those who comprehend the saying,
"Respect the game and it will respect you," comes an understanding
of what hip-hop truly is. It is knowing that the Portland
hip-hop underground emanates from the inner North and Northeast
neighborhoods and hearing the socioeconomic ills communicated
by crews like Jus' Family and Livesavas. It is watching
Mello-Cee sweat out the problems of the day on the turntables,
heating up the dance floor with blazing joints at the Boogie
Lounge's monthly hip-hop celebration. It is watching Tupac
Shakur's video for "Changes" and having tears well up at
the thought of another strong brother dying by the bullet.
And it is also the joy found inside those tears when I
see my 3-year-old homey, Derrick Purvy, glued to Tupac's
image on the screen, absorbing the words and movements of
the slain rapper into his young mind and then flipping into
rudimentary break-dancing moves. Derrick's familiarity with
the art form proves hip-hop will be the foundation of popular
music going into the 21st century. Hopefully, my pimping
of the pen will help maintain hip-hop's identity until either
Derrick's old enough to add his voice to the mix or the
ghetto ceases to exist. Whichever comes first, nah'mean?
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Willamette Week | originally
published June 9, 1999
|
