Few could argue that there isn’t a disjoint between the Hip Hop of the twenty-somethings and present-day teenagers. While the transition from Eric B. & Rakim to Dr. Dre and Snoop Doggy Dogg seemed to be a giant step, but the evolution from Kris Parker to Chris & Neef to Hurricane Chris hasn’t been easy for many people to stomach.
Though some contest that today’s acts, particularly the teenagers, aren’t even worthy to be called rappers – let alone emcees, it’s my view that while there is room for everyone, however the umbrella term “rap music” is being quickly bastardized.
One of the things I do in my life besides writing about your least favorite rapper’s least favorite rappers, is dedicate a chunk of my time to working with troubled youth. Here in Philadelphia, we need it, with a murder rate that exceeds the weekly Soundscan numbers of most contemporary independent rap albums. I don’t claim to be great at what I do by any account - or even good, but I am proud to say that I’ve educated hundreds of young men on a culture that was here before them, and possibly after them, embedded in their blood from their parents. This is the demographic that is rarely marketed to – as white people and women are better proven to be consumers, but this is the market that is too often spoken for, as the hood regularly determines the authenticity of our stars.
This kind of work has made me question rap often. On one hand, the youth is told to believe truth. “Young Jeezy keeps it so real,” has echoed in my conversations and classrooms several times. However – when keeping it real goes wrong, you have 50 Cent’s “Ghetto Qua’ran,” where the realness, perhaps in defaming propaganda became “snitching.” In the middle, you have Lil Wayne, who connects to teen youth with his emotional vulnerability, his Ford Excursion-sized ego and his unpredictability. This makes him what Scarface, Jay-Z and 2Pac meant to earlier generations, respectively. However, oddly enough, a few kissing pictures and some perhaps-fraudulent mention of gang affiliation have seemingly earned Wayne some middle-ground. “He’s dope, but he’s a faggot,” is how several teens I’ve witnessed have analyzed Wayne’s merits. While there were always questions about Nas, Jay-Z and 2Pac’s reported street exploits, the suspension of disbelief was withheld due to incredible lyricism, imagery and conviction. With Wayne, his “pass” seems to be less challenged by the fact he grew up on a rap label, pampered by a mogul than reported claims of homosexuality – despite being a father who rhymes excessively about sex. Before I digress much further, there is a point – I think I’ve learned how to give the younger generation the education, and moreover the appreciate they so desperately need on where this thing of ours comes from.
On a trip earlier this year with my clients, I brought one of my favorite albums, Gang Starr’s Hard To Earn. No matter “DWYCK” or “The Planet,” I was told how antiquated my tastes where – and how Guru was barely a rapper. Even “Mass Appeal,” with its striking resemblance to Lil Wayne’s “Shooters” did nothing. I was faced with the strategy of getting our youth to appreciate our roots.
What one needs first is a rapper that has at least 15 years of experience in the game and some activity now. While rappers like Ice Cube, Erick Sermon, Dr. Dre, DJ Quik, Too Short and LL Cool J are to be commended for their endurance and longevity, they aren’t the best example. Today’s younger Hip Hop listener is innately taught to respect the hood narrative, birthed in hustler-turned-rapper tactics with enough wisdom to break the mind for a change or two. This yields five options that I have found foolproof:
Notorious B.I.G.
Nas
Jay-Z
Scarface
Outkast
The journey to real Hip Hop understanding begins with a contemporary album or song. I think that most teens lack the care or attention span to thrive off of lyrics alone. For instance, I’m curious at the impact of Kanye West’s shouting out of Big L in “The Glory” just as I was with the impact of The Game acknowledging MC Eiht or Jay-Z bigging up Kool G Rap in past verses. Today’s listener, living in the wounded attention span of Sendspace and YouSendIt, needs the real thing, right before their eyes – or ears.
That being said, Jay-Z’s American Gangster is a relevant, month-old example. When I’m with the teens, they’re immediately drawn to the hit singles they’re hearing so much of – “Roc Boys” and “Blue Magic.” Both play into the hustler manifesto, with catchy, contemporary beats that win over radio. I give them that, and start there. As the album progresses, I take a stop-off at “Ignorant Shit.” Though some of us remember the original – a feast after the fast of Jay-Z material, the polished completed version whets the appetite of old and new. Jay-Z’s opening lines speak to the youth, “When tops come down, chicks tops come down.” That has them at hello. The wordplay is straight from the textbook that Lil Wayne and Young Jeezy check out of the lyrical library so frequently, and it sets into much greater content to come. Few can argue, that while he’s at a disconnect from the Hip Hop fans since 2002 due to lack of exposure, that Beanie Sigel doesn’t make perfect sense in his bold tirade against censorship and studio softies. What’s more is Jay-Z’s closing lines that defend this thing of ours – citing Imus. The homonyms garner interest. “Do you know what he’s talking about?” is the icebreaker here as it would be when Young Jeezy or Rick Ross use coded language to talk about drug exploits. Those in the know know.
From there, ease into “Success,” the smartest, most nostalgic of American Gangster’s offerings. The song is pure wisdom – a cry out, weighing heaps of money against happiness, keeping the vultures at bay. Recently, as Nas eased into his verse at the end of the song, one of my clients asked, “Who is this?” “Nas!” brandished the other. While his voice might not be as recognizable to some youth – primarily due to lack of radio exposure, Nas’ name holds weight.
After exploring an album like this, I have found it worthwhile, in the same car trip or activity, to revisit the template. Whether Reasonable Doubt or Illmatic, both albums are easily traceable to the icons we know about today. Nas, who recorded some of Illmatic as a teenager, might be more accessible on the “this was him, then” factor, but many fans argue that the production of Jay-Z’s debut album has aged better. In my most recent tutoring, I opted for Nas by the simple fact it was in my car console.
When revisiting the archetypes, start with the hits. Whether “Ain’t No Nigga” or “It Ain’t Hard To Tell,” feed the children something they (hopefully) have heard in mixshows, old school lunch hours, or maybe from mixtapes of today’s bench-warming rapper trying to “go back.” I was stunned to realize that my own clients were familiar with “It Ain’t Hard To Tell,” even recognizing the Michael Jackson element. After calling that, I asked them if they valued the production, all agreed. From there, citing Large Professor’s sonic genius, we segue into “Halftime,” one of the most perfectly-timed lyrical displays with mentions of weed, women and wisdom, and suddenly Large Professor dwarfs the Jazze Pha and Mr. Collipark hit-makers the youth is accustomed to. After the teens approve, Illmatic plays through, and give or take a few outdated slang phrases, the wisdom, the delivery and the beats are timeless.
Without acting like a history lesson, you can take engaged listeners, at another time, further into the journey – to Main Source, Original Flavor, Gang Starr, A Tribe Called Quest and what have you.
I don't claim to know much, but I've learned a few things, and they're my "parkbench studies" on life. Hip Hop fittingly started in the parks, and like Nas, I was too scared to grab the mics, so I've observed from the benches of the inner-circle.
