Hip-hop is repressed expression. The voice of those who have had no voice. It is all at once angry, sensitive, funny, sad, and joyous. Hip-hop culture worships masses of distinct individuals. Whatever label one uses, hip-hop is conscious, thugged-out and mainstream. Everything for everyone.
There is no denying that New Orleans is a city infatuated with music. No picture would be complete without the soft wail of a trumpet or the bouncing roll of a second line moving down the street. The pulse is a beat, a backdrop behind the old melodies that seem to hang low in the air like humidity. Breathing in low basslines, it steadily spreads in a thick rise and fall.
Looking at the pavement I can imagine that the influence of New Orleans lent something to the birth of hip-hop, even indirectly. Louis Armstrong himself may have had a hand in shaping what would come to be rap. As sheets of music scattered over the floor of a studio, “Pops” recorded the first-ever freestyle. They called his improvisation a “scat” and added another note to Armstrong’s long list of creative accomplishments. I am certain that same energy surrounding the first scat still wafts through the air, floating in and out of clubs and settling into a gutter somewhere.
Satchmo found freedom in the rhyme and hip-hop in general has a lot to do with freedom. Without any instruments, DJs cut records to find their own sound. MCs used their words, uncoated in melody, to cut sharp and invade ears. The music wasn’t meant to be pretty. But beauty is found in its truth, in the raw expression that flows with ease. In a way, it marks a renunciation of traditional musical rules. Hip-hop has no one sound. It is a conglomerate of things learned and things wondered. Truly limitless, it defies any true sense of origin and refuses to explain itself.
Hip-hop has always been here. From the floor of the French Market to the slow “clack” of a streetcar, the music thrives in New Orleans. Like everything else about this place, the hip-hop scene remains radically diverse. Through the early days of UNLV, TRU, and PNC to the platinum-fronted Lamborghini-pushin’ Cash Money clique, New Orleans has seen many aspects of itself in hip-hop. From glamour to grit, street to CEO, artists display every aspect of the city. But, as much as I would love to see gold tanks parked outside the Desire projects, being a true “soldier” is a reality and every war has casualties.
At times boasting the highest murder rate per-capita in the nation and a poverty rate uncomfortably close to that of a Third World country, New Orleans is no easy place to grow up in. But great art often comes from great suffering. Hip-hop embodies that passion born of pain. It celebrates resistance in survival, making light of horrible situations. To those who have suffered in the streets, success is all the more sweet. It comes in the form of platinum and gold, iced-out fronts, 20-inch rims and sweaty twerks.
Of course, the people are still putting in work, still striving, still praying just to survive. The music reflects this as well. Often consumed with scenes of violence, rap pushes the pain of the ghetto in the public’s face. What often comes across as glorification is actually a cry for help. With no other outlet, no true governmental representation, hip-hop has become the main mouthpiece for the urban masses. As recently as the Amadou Diallo killing in New York, hip-hop has voiced the people’s dissatisfaction , demanding to be heard. The album Hip-Hop for Respect was released, voicing the tragedy of this crime and giving profits to the family of Diallo. Although some might shudder to hear it, violence in hip-hop is an essential reality. It’s not all money, cars and bitches.
Recently, New Orleans has found the global spotlight with club favorites, the Hot Boyz. Their undeniably catchy tracks often exhibit a fun-loving jiggy vibe. More glamour and glitz than bullets and clips, their tight, seamless rhymes and polished production have made Cash Money Records one of the most successful labels around. With more street credibility than you can shake a platinum-coated stick at, the Hot Boyz especially have brought the spotlight back to New Orleans, and redefined what it means to be “paid” in the 2G.
You can’t forget about No Limit though. The original rap superstars of New Orleans continue to bubble with hot joints from the 504 Boyz and P himself. Some say the label is dwindling. With the absence of Snoop and the rare appearance of Mystikal, it seems some of the heavy hitters have moved on. Snoop’s Doggy Style Records recently released the popular Snoop Dogg Presents Tha Eastsidaz, leading many to believe Snoop has headed back west for good.
Mystikal has reportedly expressed interest in starting his own thang, Big Truck Records And Fiend, “Mr. Whomp Whomp” himself, has come out with Fiend Entertainment. It seems like an inevitable progression these days: artists become popular and start their own labels to have complete control of everything, including profits. Don’t count P out. The Master will no doubt bust out with some new, off da hook shit that will reinstate him in his position atop the hip-hop throne.
This trend toward artist-owned labels means more talent will find an outlet. As labels scramble to find the next big thing, new MCs and DJs get a chance to shine on wax. That’s good for hip-hop any way you look at it. One of the best things about the young art form is that there is so much talent out on the streets just waiting to get a deal. The true heart of the music has yet to find its way into stores.
One local place you might find some of this unsigned hype is El Matador on hip-hop night. Every Monday night beginning around midnight, everyone from college kids to Westbank players fill the French Quarter club to capacity. Led by DJ Matt Nyce, various DJs take turns moving the crowd. Here, eclectic groups of hip-hop heads gyrate to the latest sounds of the underground as well as the hometown club favorites.
One has to smile looking around the club knowing that without hip-hop, people such as this might never come together. And similarly it seems that there is a real effort to present both sides of the music, to make you think and move your ass simultaneously.
New MCs and DJs are born everyday. There is no single voice in hip-hop now. The music has become bigger than one could have ever imagined. The art form is constantly moving in different directions, reinterpreting its influences, finding itself in new ways. New Orleans hip-hop is young music in an old city.
Whenever Tipitina’s, the House Of Blues, or the Howlin’ Wolf fill to capacity for a rap artist playing New Orleans for the first time, or returning to the city for an enthusiastically sweaty crowd, the city revels in hip-hop. Rap fans have a passion that is hard to find in music today. The power of the art form is obvious when one notices how it draws people from all walks of life. More than ever, there is a tangible “Hip-Hop Nation” spanning nationality, race, sex and age. The culture supersedes one’s native face.
KWOTING KWELI
When the 2000 Okay Player.Com Tour came to Loyola University in New Orleans recently, I got the chance to sit down with one of underground hip-hop’s brightest stars, Talib Kweli. His words point to the heart of the art form as well as its future. Kweli got serious about rhyming at age 14. Up to that point, he remembers writing plays and poetry, but, “Rhymin’ was the thing when I got into junior high school.”
Now, the native Brooklyn MC formerly known as Genesis, who has spent time in Los Angeles, Cincinnati, and Connecticut, focuses completely on writing rhymes.
On a track called “What?” from Rawkus Records’ Soundbombing Vol. 1, he asks the question, “What part would a positive MC like me play if there was no negativity to keep the balance?” His positivity, he says, is a natural thing, a product of his parents’ love and direction. “I try to make music that’s relevant to the community.” After all, positivity is both relevant and a welcome departure from the harsh aspects of daily life. Like any artist, he simply, “Writes what reflects [his] life.”
Don’t get it twisted, Kweli doesn’t see his place in his-hop as a responsibility to uplift. “I just contribute to the jam,” he says. “I’m just who I am.”
Active in causes such as Free Mumia and the Hip-Hop for Respect album, Kweli sees the power of his position. “Anytime I can voice the struggle, I do–and I will,” he continues. “I’m involved in anything that’s gonna enlighten me.”
Addressing the statistic that reports something like 60 percent of hip-hop is bought by suburban whites, Kweli states the obvious. “Those are the kids that have money to spend on high-priced CDs. They have the money to consume more,” he says, “I see people buying dope music as a good thing.” He believes that as an artist, one should, “Try to be as pure and honest with yourself so anybody can relate to it.” It is easy to see that his music speaks to all types of people for just this reason.
The current tour features the Roots in a kind of hip-hop revue. Acts perform in front of a live band consisting of Questlove? on drums, Leonard Hubbard on bass and Scott Storch on keyboards. “The live band adds a lot,” Kweli says. “It’s been a great experience.
When asked where he thinks hip-hop will be in ten years, Kweli says, “Wherever the people want it to be.” His voice will surely resonate in the minds of many and inspire multitudes of expression for a long time to come.
THIS MONTH
Make sure you peep the hip-hop Friday nights at The Red Room (2040 St. Charles) and Butler’s (140 Milaudon), Monday nights at El Matador (504 Esplanade) and Thursday nights at House Of Blues (225 Decatur).
