Rap Stays Losing: Musings for a Monday

Tell 'em why you mad, son!

The Commission, Uncle Paulie, et al....

Do you know what beef is?

What's beef?
Beef is when the fans decide to go to sleep
Beef is when your label says your profile's too discreet
Beef is when rap hits YouTube
Guaranteed to just be much ado...

One more time

What's beef?
Beef is when dumb rappers realize that they need to eat
Beef is when fake thugs be claimin' that they rep the streets
Beef is when rap hits YouTube
Guaranteed to just be much ado...

Check it...

Rap beef is played out. At least, as rap beef is currently waged. It has been for a while. Battling isn't, of course. Neither is earnest microphone conflict, the mutual animus that might give rise to a track like "Real Muthaphukkkin' G's" and worthy successors. Further, let's be honest: it's titillating when someone actually gets his kufi slapped off. I ride for all of that. In a genre so driven by hypermasculinity and historically enhanced by the playfulness and audacity that arises from it, a genre whose heritage of well-intentioned demonstrations of rapping superiority occupies a unique place in the culture, it would be generally detrimental to neglect this strain of music. But as with anything cheapened and distorted by weak derivatives, rap beef should be protected from the manipulations that obfuscate genuine articles.

And that, of course, means that we all stop indulging 50, and Ricky, and all the other rappers who like pretending that they're in the WWE. Pimpin' Curly is a nice bit, but it's undermined by the unembarrassed, patent manipulation which it conceals with a wink: 50 needs to be making those videos. He's got nothing else to do except bide his time, pick fights, and hope it all helps to sell the poorly crafted, boring records he periodically drops in between media stunts. Same for Ricky Rowss, only he wasn't ever as skilled or as relevant.

If rappers are going to beef, they should beef for real. I prefer this kind of shit:





(HT: Bol)

Go at someone for real (), not insincerely as you try to get the hip-hop-blogosphere echo chamber to write about it.

The unintentional self-parody that results from the mindless, tired rap beef is endemic of a mainstream rap culture that is lazy. I don't know if my disaffection has been amplified since moving to a part of the country where almost every popular song sounds like any number of artists could have made it or already have made five others like it, but now more than ever, rap seems self-satisfied and brazenly contemptuous toward its audience. What, you thought we wouldn't notice as everything started to sound the same?

To be sure, there is still creative, skilled hip-hop being made. Kidz in the Hall, Black Milk, the Roots, and Q-Tip all put out albums last year that sounded as though they took a lot of time and effort to produce. Ludacris made a great record that was stylistically a departure from the company in which I've placed it, but was no less obviously a product yielded by deliberate craftsmanship. Same goes for those mixapes from Elzhi, Jake One, Royce, and Wale. But then there is Soulja Boy. And Plies. And anyone unfortunate enough to be friends with DJ Khaled. There's Wayne and David Banner and Jeezy, all of whom, though somewhat distinct, are largely predictable. There is Illa J, whose mellow mood rap is as egregiously compulsory as a fleeting trap hit might be for some posturing southern dope boy. And, uh, Papoose, Saigon, Maino--fairly forgettable East Coast records that hit the internets, get the jail-cell intro from Kay Slay, and then get dumped into the waste bin of history. I am not trying to ride out on the South; I am riding out on rappers being boring, on feeling sated.

Just as beef is hackneyed, certain sounds have become regenerating, and this stale culture gives rise to knowing parody, which, in turn, has allowed The Lonely Island to make what, through almost an entire quarter of 2009, is the best rap album of the year. (Maybe second-best behind Cappadonna's.) Incredibad is not "good" rapping, but it strikingly recreates so many hip-hop modalities. The record is one which reflects an appreciation for and appropriation of rap's no-longer-idiosyncratic idiosyncrasies. That it is amusing is as much a sad referendum on hip-hop as it is a validation of the trio's active rap ears. Really, a lot of people could have made Incredibad; certainly a lot of rap bloggers. But that's not such a good thing. Hip-hop should be more interesting.

Christ, the Roots have been relegated to debasing themselves!

So, on this day of reflection--R.I.P. B.I.G.--let us remember a real MC and perhaps, for one day, reject the soft bigotry of low expectation which applauds so many people for doing so few things. Rap music used to be a lot more interesting.