By Terence Dick
In a recent column from the New York Times, Kelefa Sanneh takes a retrospective look at the year in music and remarks on a current divide in the world of hip hop. He points out two — not necessarily opposing but definitely divergent — tendencies in the form, both identified as reactions to questions of authenticity (by him and the musicians themselves). On one side, Sanneh points to Missy Elliott and the Roots, artists who stray from a focus on rapping in their music, yet maintain their hip hop credentials through an understanding of hip hop as a culture. He writes, “hip-hop is a sensibility, not a sound — it’s who they are, so it can’t be taken away.” On the other side, with Eminem as key figure, hip hop is identified with craft wherein rap is a practice to be mastered. Eminem’s much lauded skills qualify him as true hip hop and gain him entry and acceptance in that world. His movie, 8 Mile, dramatizes the struggle. The freestyle competitions that provide the dramatic core to the movie represent the apotheosis of this way of thinking.
This division, between craft and culture, splits the music in a number of different ways. Whereas the crafty rapper is in solitary pursuit of his crown, the cultured hip-hoppers identify with the social whole; they collaborate instead of compete. The former is exclusive; one has to prove oneself in order to qualify. The latter, inclusive. Rappers can sing, singers can drop hip hop beats, drummers can be as important as MCs and (in a curious corollary to Eminem’s situation) foreign white boys, such as Britain’s the Streets, can rap and, in a wholly unexpected way, participate in hip hop culture.
Both appeals, to craft or to culture, are means to defend the authority of hip-hoppers and, by extension, hip hop itself. Whereas one is dogmatic and conservative in its representation of the music, the other is fluid, acknowledging the power of the form but refusing to locate it in one act (rapping) and one location (American ghettos), allowing it to change and adapt as it intersects with different cultures. However, the utopian sentiments of the latter perspective remain grounded in the strictures of hip hop’s core practice, rapping (DJing, breaking and bombing no longer hold equal importance). Without the essentialists, those microphone warriors who battle for the title King of Rap, hip hop is in danger of floating away like a superficial style. The essentialists have a vested interest in the value of the music, that is what they defend when they exercise their skills. The cosmonauts of hip hop culture (those that explore the outer reaches) retain a sense of its value, but are less protectionist, more confident of their mutual possession (they have hip hop and hip hop has them) and thus confident in sharing and stretching and blending. It is not coincidental that musicians like Missy Elliott and the Roots are black and have an undeniable socio-cultural connection to the history of hip hop, whereas Eminem is white and must continually defend his place in the culture.
A recent interview in a Toronto newsweekly with Canada’s Swollen Members included the inevitable questions about “realness” and authenticity. Being Canadian and partly white, the Swollen Members are, for many, on the outskirts of hip hop. Like Eminem, they look inward, toward the centre, they aspire to belong and emphasize their identity, their realness. On the other hand, Missy and the Roots could be described as insiders heading out. Without ignoring the many black American rappers like Nas or Jay-Z who both have an unquestionable hip hop lineage and still conduct themselves defensively and skillfully, constantly sermonizing on their right to rap, the importance of realness to outsiders (for example, white and/or Canadian musicians) demonstrates not so much that outsiders want in, but rather, how to get in and stay there.
The craft merchants identify what is essential, what has utmost value, and they bestow value in their continued adherence. The culturalists recognize the same value and yet are willing to part with it (in part). These different takes on what is essentially the same belief (parsed as “keeping it real”) boil down to two different psychologies of possession and identity. For Missy and the Roots, you are what you are and that can’t be taken away. For Eminem et al, you are what you are but you can lose that.
There is no greater fear than the loss of identity. To become what you are not is akin to death; the loss of soul threatened by the soulless. This fear is socially manifest in the growth of any sub-culture or independent community. Once a community expands beyond its original constituency — and in the cultural realm where communication and the generation of shared meaning is tantamount, that expansion is almost immediate — challenges to identity are forthcoming. In music, this expansion is synonymous with popularity. In defence of the realm, discursive strategies like “keeping it real” arise.
There was a time when accusations of “selling out” arose wherever indie rock was heard. Nowadays, while “keeping it real” punctuates every rapper’s pontification; pronouncements that someone has “sold out” or is a “poser” are hardly heard amongst the corduroy clad brethren of the electric guitar.
In preparation for this article, I sent out a survey to the constituent email list of Toronto zine, website (www.wavelengthtoronto.com) and weekly concert series Wavelength. This bastion of indie rock in all its ever-splintering sub-classes (space rock, improv noise, theory punk, fake rap, orch prog, avant folk, math funk, kraut dub, afrobilly, etc.) unites an ever-growing community of independent musicians and music fans. The survey posed a couple questions about selling out, street credibility and popularity vs quality. Guestimating that Wavelength has at least 100 subscribers (the number is probably much higher than that), I found it telling that only three people responded. Sure I sent it out a week before Christmas and I imagine most people, like myself, ignore mass emails that offer nothing in return, but if this were a different time, I would have expected a chorus of voices and rants and arguments all concerned with the sanctity of “the scene.” Instead, dada white-soul bluesman Alex Lukashevsky of Deep Dark United wrote, “selling out is impossible to define or defy in this day and age.” Electronic artist Beef Terminal replied with a full paragraph each on street cred and selling out, but was excessively liberal in his judgement of others:
“–I don’t believe any bands or individuals in the Canadian music scene have ‘sold out.’ If you look at those most often accused of such a thing, it’s usually people or groups who have signed to a major or something–but you can’t really accuse the Avril Lavignes and the Sum 41s of the world of selling out because they only fulfill their own place, meaning they would not be who they are without being on a major label. ‘Independent’ bands such as Do Make Say Think, Godspeed, Mean Red Spiders, etc. have stayed independent, and that is why they are who they are.”
This disinterest in drawing lines and acceptance of different economies has something to do with the inclusive notion of culture upheld by the likes of Missy Elliot and the Roots. However, while hip hop seems to be experiencing growing pains, wrestling with an ever-expanding audience, fighting to keep its history remembered, indie rock doesn’t have such problems. Most indie kids carry themselves proudly with an air of indifference and I attribute this absence of agitation in the indie nation to Nirvana and all that they wrought.
Nirvana’s appearance on the MTV Video Awards in the early ’90s turned the world upside down. Their entrance (and Guns ‘n’ Roses’ exit) marked a sea change in what was possible for a band. It was radical and beautiful to see a once dirty punk, van driving, basement gigging band become the biggest rock band in the world. It was also torturous for those invested in the rock underground. Kurt Cobain was one of those tortured souls. His recently published journals attest to his struggle with success and selling out. His suicide presaged the end of what was optimistically called “alternative” rock. An era of surprise ended and was replaced by the period of stability in which we now find ourselves. No one cocks an eye when the White Stripes win MTV awards and the charts are stocked with loogans singing neo-grunge. Punk rock appears at every level of the economic spectrum and independent bands are not shut out from the media but can have as high a profile as any manufactured and bankrolled pop star. Which means there is no inside anymore and no outside wanting in.
This flattening also means that “modern” rock (that is, contemporary, not classic, rock) is not on top. Rock has had its day. It will continue to inspire and entertain millions around the world, but it is no longer in ascendance. It is just there. There is nothing progressive about it; only variations on what we have. Hip hop, on the other hand, is nothing but new and fresh, new sounds, new producers, new raps, new voices. It’s a shock to see a veteran rapper. It’s commonplace to hype radical producers such as the Neptunes and Timbaland. Rap, especially mainstream rap, is a field ripe with experimentation and innovation.
What does this mean for music culture? Lukashevsky makes another interesting point when he writes, “authenticity is a non-value, only the newness of something has meaning these days.” While many may disagree, a lot buy into this sentiment. So tied up in novelty and being current, electroclash experienced backlash before anyone got to buy any records. For some, like electroclash mastermind Larry Tee, that was the point. Selling out is authentic. Fake is the new real. And you can keep it or leave it.
But apart from crass New York (self) promoters and the art students who have invites to the party, music is still based in culture and craft. Aside from the worry of getting paid or not getting paid (and according to two of my three survey respondents, indie rockers don’t get paid and don’t expect to), that which sustains us as individuals and a community, is shared and practiced. Success is a threat only when it distracts us. Other than that, bring on the benjamins!