Reincarcerate Yayo

Sizes 3XL-10XL only, of course

As I was making my way down an escalator in high school (yeah, we had those in my high school, OK?) after some unmemorable math class one day during senior year, I remember seeing some kid with whom I shared a meeting point at the intersection of the peripheries of our respective social galaxies talking to his closer friends rather loudly about some new Eminem album, The Slim Shady LP. Of course, I had heard "My Name Is," as the song was inescapable, but I remember finding it fairly boring, and the rhyming style a little too knowingly matter-of-fact for my liking. I also didn't really trust that this rapping white guy was anything more than a gimmick for MTV to pimp. So I initially passed on Eminem.

And as I am wont to do, I assumed that my opinion--that he was some pop star destined for momentary fame and fleeting relevance--was the correct one and that everyone else would eventually see the light. Well, I guess I can finally say it: Oops, my bad.

Yeah, I wasn't originally down with Eminem, and I missed the initial tide of fascination and appreciation in which so many people got swept up. Later, during college, as I further immersed myself in my tastes, I developed an appreciation for Eminem but it took three albums and a lot of compensating for lost time.

But like any discerning hip-hop fan, I was always uneasy about Marshall Mathers. I could not deny his writing ability, nor his lyrical prowess. He was funny and insightful and articulate of a cool sort of rebellious anger. The guy could even flow really well. But despite all of those admirable qualities, he relied on a transparent and condescending media machine to become a ubiquitous cultural presence, and the deliberate exploitation of the media industry, the simple taste of most people, and racial politics was all bothersome. But beyond the more serious and more complicated issues, worst of all was that Eminem was the guy who made it so that any weed carrier could (and still can) go gold and get his singles on MTV and radio just because.

Don't get me wrong, Eminem was obviously not the first weed owner. Nor was he the most musically influential. As we've decided elsewhere, that was likely the RZA or Eazy-E. But Eminem is the best-selling, most well-known rapper of all time, and he is the one that ushered in the contemporary hip-hop era in which you're nobody until somebody kills you some weed carrier gets a plaque on his wall while wearing your clothes, swigging your drink, and repping your production company. Furthermore, though Eminem used to have some interesting shit to say (before he got repetitive and boring), he's the reason that dudes like 50 have ascended while further elevating studio gangsterism and mindless opulence.

I hadn't completely understood the consequences of Eminem's come-up until I was in college, when Eminem got 50 put on and coalesced preeminent industry power at Interscope. In 2003, 50 dropped Get Rich or Die Tryin', a record that launched him and cemented Eminem (maybe Jimmy Iovine?) as the most powerful person in hip-hop (maybe that's changed now since Jay became a CEO and Em receded into the background to make shitty beats and act). It also introduced the world at large to the G-Unit, and that, my friends, is what this post is ultimately about.

With the commercial validation (a symbolic coronation of Eminem and Iovine) of the Shady/Interscope Plantation came the freedom to promote whatever mindless, forgettable, bullshit hip-hop Em and 50 were into or owed their friends. The significance of this phenomenon fully emerged at the Grammys that year when Eminem performed wearing a "Free Yayo" shirt. Suddenly, no-account G-Unit member and 50 Cent Assistant Secretary for Rolling Papers Tony Yayo was a household name. Kids who didn't know any better were duped into thinking that Yayo had been wrongly imprisoned; that he needed our support; that he was a legendary rapper who only needed that deserved chance to shine. It was horrible.


D-Block is calling his name, and I'm not talking about the Lox right now.

And it still is. 50, thanks to Eminem, has made "the game" (not to be confused with Big Meat) about songs for the clubs and fake thug bluster; about mediocre rappers crowding the talented out of the market; about weed carriers fronting like they own. Perhaps worse than any of these symptoms that have collectively come to define the failing state of hip-hop is that we have done nothing to stop the sorry trends. We blog about how mediocre some of these southerners are; we rip New York for getting stale; we use Yayo as a punchline. But we don't buy Little Brother tapes; we don't make Ghostface the King of New York; we don't keep the Yung Jocs of the world from hitting the airwaves and selling 500,000 ringtones.

Well I've had enough. Hopefully you have too. Enough passivity; enough loose objections; enough mediocrity passing for quality. The day that something like a Lil' Wayne becomes a highly touted record is the day that we, hip-hop fans, should know that something has gone wrong. And as we know, that day has arrived.

So the solution starts here and now: Reincarcerate Yayo. That's the message. Reincarcerate Yayo. That's the symbol. Let's leverage the slogan into something powerful, a means of expressing our frustration with the status quo. Reincarcerate Yayo!

Who's with me? If you are, start by letting me know in the comments section. And if you'd be interested in a t-shirt, let me know that too. Be sure to include your email address so that I can follow up with you. If enough people want one, I will get them made up and shipped out so that the movement can commence.