…But Is It Art?

 

 Rap music has almost always offended my sensibilities as a human being and a musician.  On the surface, it requires little-to-no-skill or talent, glorifies the worst of urban and American life, and, truthfully – just gets on my goddamned nerves. 

And hey – is it even music? Have I been not been just in my relentless attacks of its existence and the culture that accompanies it?  I’m disgusted at the complete assault on the English language that seems to come packaged with this so-called “phenomenon.”  Isn’t 50-Cent unforgivable for dropping the “s” in “Cents”?  And, hey, Nelly – if you’re going to take a pick-axe to my language, at least take that stupid Band-Aid off your face.[1]Is bling really something anyone should adorn, along with the jeans that these “Gs” seem to have to hold up around their waists because they’re 22 sizes too big and that’s “phat”? 

Sam Kinison lampooned rap music in a stand-up several years before he died: “(Rappers) all grab their dicks – you know why? Because they don’t play any fuckin’ instruments!” I took that assessment to heart, identified with it, and used it to bolster my claim that rap was not real music, and therefore, could be dismissed as pure drivel.  In fact, I was convinced that whoever came up with the idea of calling it “rap” simply forgot to add the “c” at the beginning of the word. 

I’ve come to the conclusion that I while I could feasibly sit at home and put myself through the hellish experience of listening to rap for hours in order to gain a bit of insight, I’m actually going to have to (gulp) visit a hip-hop club and experience the whole damned vibe.  I ask around, and Baby’s Mama suggests a place called Rosie O’Grady’s.  Rosie’s is on Morse Road, she says, and she even knows the weekend bartender. In one breath, she assures me I won’t have to dodge stray bullets and then in the next says, “It would be funny to just drop your ass off there and see how long before you call me to come and get you.”  I am already envisioning shady drug dealers and ex-cons, sizing me up and conferring amongst themselves about who gets to pull the trigger on this Uncle Tom, and now she’s going to stoke the already out-of-control flames of my imagination?  I decide right there and then I don’t like her anymore. 

It’s Wednesday night.  I’ve found a sitter for my little one.  And though I’m not too sure what I should wear, I’m spiffy.  I’m redolent of Axe Touch Shower Gel (because it’s manly, and I like to smell like a man – no pansy-assed Dial soap for me), Right Guard Arctic Refresh Ultra-Gel, and Tim McGraw cologne (which I’d lusted after and whined about until Baby Mama bought me a bottle for Christmas last year, and I use oh-so-sparingly). I’ve shaved with my trusty Mach3. I’m sporting my sexiest pair of Levi’s, my favorite satiny almost-dress shirt – which is black and has really cool subtle grey stripes printed vertically, and a silver-ish motif of birds lofting skyward from a tree that I cannot identify. I’m wearing my Italian-made Structures (fine leather dress boots that you can presumably only buy at the ever-upscale Sears).  I look good.  I’d fuck me if I were a girl. 

So what is music, anyway?  Well, to me, music is loosely defined as the offering forth of auditory coitus.  That’s right – ear sex.  When Pink Floyd’s David Gilmour coaxes those notes out of his guitar the way he does, shimmering and slicing like an aural scalpel, then that’s ear sex.  When John Lennon said that all we needed was love- that was ear sex. John Bonham’s and Tommy Lee’s very different but equally orgasmic percussive attacks amount to ear sex.  Why?  Because those examples are the embodiment of emotion becoming sound.  How much emotion can be conveyed in the steal-point-click arrangement of rap music?[2]

Merriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary defines music as “1 a: the science or art of ordering tones or sounds in succession, in combination, and in temporal relationships to produce a composition having unity and continuity b: vocal, instrumental, or mechanical sounds having rhythm, melody, or harmony.”  Well, already my theory that rap isn’t music is being shot to hell.  While I would challenge anyone to find the comparable instrumental harmonies in Snoop Dogg’s song “Drop It Like It’s Hot” that one would find in say, Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” I have to admit that if rap is nothing else – it’s definitely rhythmic. 

I found Ron Wynn’s article, “Is Rap Music? If It Quacks Like a Duck…” online after an exhaustive search for a no-nonsense approach to rap’s genesis and contribution to music and society as a whole.  Wynn, a writer for Nashville’s The City Paper, asserted that “Though still a stepchild to many in the family of music lovers, the pervasive presence of rap renders academic the cavils over whether or not it is “music.” Rap is created by people who are apparently expressing their experience of life through replicable patterns of sound and rhythm, that is, music. It is produced and distributed by the “music industry,” and its “consumers” respond like pop music lovers have over the several-generation evolution of the mass-market recording industry. So, since it walks, quacks, swims, and eats like a duck….”

Ok, Ron.  I’ll bite.  It’s packaged to look and sound like music.  But I’m not convinced.  Just because you’re a high-falutin’ reporter guy doesn’t mean you know everything.  I’ll just go see for myself. 

A few minutes after 8pm, I pull into Rosie O’Grady’s parking lot.  There are no more than six cars parked.  I stall the inevitable and light one more cigarette.  The marquee advertises a karaoke night on Mondays, a mug night on Tuesdays, and ladies’ night on Wednesdays – hey, that’s tonight!  Since I won’t be here for Thursday’s reggae night, I don’t bother reading beyond that.  It occurs to me that I haven’t the slightest clue what to expect here. Is there going to be a live rap act, or perhaps, just a jukebox? Even better would be a live DJ that I can clandestinely bribe into sliding an Ozzy Osbourne CD into the player. Uh-oh, cigarette’s gone.  Let’s do this.

I’m immediately astonished.  It’s actually a nice looking place.  Rows of red bulbs line the ceiling trim, giving off a seductive glow.  An unoccupied VIP booth (roped off and elevated,  presumably, to accentuate its prominence) folds itself around a small round table with an empty ice bucket that I’m guessing has seen its fair share of Patron. I spot the bar – ah! The bar!  Four (giant) bottles of Grey Goose vodka serve as the back bar’s crown, each slickly backlit with a neon of different color.  I’m almost impressed. For some reason, I’m both taken aback and relieved that there really aren’t many people here.  I count four souls huddled at the bar and laughing frequently.  I zero in on a barstool to their right, and then see the barmaid. She’s white. 

Why does this surprise me?  Already I’m learning that either I really need to get out more, or I had preconceived notions on what I could expect to see here tonight.  I’m going to play the safe bet, and suggest both might be true. 

“What can I get ya, hon?” she asks. 

“Killian’s, please.” I’m determined to stick out like sore thumb.  Besides, I’d already had a Killian’s before leaving the house, and to dump a Corona on top of that would have been just…gross.

Upon reflection, it’s interesting (to me, anyway) to explore whether or not my dislike for rap music and hip-hop culture is a form of mildly entertaining self-loathing.  I am part black, after all. True enough, I am the only mixed-race kid in my family and was pretty much “raised white” (whatever that means); and my exposure to black culture, my agreement with the stereotypical socio-political expectations of blacks in America[3] and the number of black friends I’ve had over the years has been limited.  I know and tell jokes about every ethnic group, even blacks. But does that justify the upturned nose I offer to that genre of “music”? 

I note my comrades-in-drink.  On my immediate left, an old white guy sits, half-turned towards his court, telling jokes.  To his left is a black woman, 40-ish, who might have been vaguely attractive except for the missing teeth (which gave her a cartoonish “piano-smile”countanence).  She’s sandwiched between the Joker, and a hulking black man, laughing gregariously with the white guy.  It’s easy to gather that he’s with Piano-face.  A more diminutive black dude with cornrows, which are covered by a Reds ballcap turned at an angle,[4] rounds out the group, and I am convinced inside of 30 seconds that he thinks I’m a cop (I’ve heard it before – “You look like a cop”) and I won’t make it outta here alive. He’s sneering at me, I just know it. As soon as he starts fiddling with his cell phone, I know I’m in deep shit.  I immediately chide myself for not being smart enough to at least try to blend in – a FUBU shirt, baggy jeans, Lugz boots, a sideways ballcap – would it work? Once you hear me speak, probably not.  How many “thugs” are peeved by sentences that end in prepositions? 

I’m terrified that if I whip out my pad and pencil, I’m going to confirm Cornrow’s suspicion and wind up being the lead story on 10TV’s 11 o’clock newscast.  I can hear it now, “A very stupid Westerville man was found dead in a grease dumpster tonight after he thought it would be a good idea to be somewhere he shouldn’t have been.  Police say the victim was found with a mechanical pencil stuck in his neck. Coming up, Obama’s quest to make ‘Gin and Juice’ our new national anthem.” 

The barmaid, Linda, is a 30-year veteran of drink-slinging, and has been at Rosie’s for two years.  She’s mostly all-business, and dismissively sets about doing barmaid stuff once I’ve pulled from her all the four-one-one I’m going to get.  Fine, you just make sure I don’t go thirsty, lady – got it?

The place looks a lot bigger on the inside than it does on the outside, and beyond the bar, I see a couple of rows of pool tables.  While my eyes scan my new surroundings, my ears tune into the music coming out of one of the many ceiling-mounted speakers.  Am I hearing…? I’ll be goddamned!  That’s “Pretty Fly for a White Guy” by the Offspring!  Simultaneous to this ironic observation, I spot the dance floor, backed by a giant projection screen and displaying the music video for the accompanying rock song.  I find out later (albeit, not much later) that once the live DJ shows up, the musical variety takes on a noticeable shift. 

The Hulk notices me laughing at the old man’s last, departing joke, and for some odd reason, sends over a Killian’s for me.  I raise my bottle in genuine appreciation and stiffen internally for the first beats of a song I don’t immediately recognize.  Turns out, it’s Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing,” re-mixed rap-like.  I guess it’s not so bad.  I guess. 

The next song I hear I definitely don’t know, and its hypnotically throbbing beat is vaguely seductive in its sway, electronically pulsing an image into my head – I can safely imagine a stacked, leggy blonde mynx in skin-tight lamé pants suggestively grinding her hips and shaking her ass to suggest copulating would be a heavenly experience –or, I simply need to get laid. 

The next thing I know, The Hulk is sitting next to me, buying me yet another round as we swap cursory introductions.  His name’s Kelvin Lindsey.  Turns out, Lindsey’s a former OSU football player.  He tells me he’s just turned 50.  The guy doesn’t look a day over 30. I call “Bullshit.”  He shows me his ID, and sure enough, he’s 50.  He’s warm, genuine, and I don’t feel so out of place now.  Hell, even the trigger-man is on this end of the bar now, cutting up with us.  I am now officially Having a Good Time. 

Alright, the sociological aspect of this little experiment has been completed.  It would be accurate to say that some of my hardened disdain for rap/hip hop and its culture is truly rooted in my aforementioned limited exposure to blacks, period.  I don’t know the first thing about black or rap/hip hop culture even now, except that if I’m going to get shot tonight, it’s probably not going to be by these guys. I’m definitely not a homie, but I’ve proved to myself I can hang with ‘em, yo.

But what about the music?

I strategize mentally on tactics for approaching the DJ. I see him back there, in his corner booth, elevated – well, I see his profile – the neon behind him is preventing me from seeing much more than that.  Should I sidle up to the booth and shout, “Yo, dawg!”?  Again, I stick out like a sore thumb here and no one’s going to believe I’m urban anything.  This might take some figuring…

…or not.  Before I can plot too hard, and fry the few brain cells I have left, the DJ is standing next to me, ordering.  Providence? Fuckin-A!

He’s not only agreeable to talk with me, he’s eager. He’s a slight man, dark as coal.  His wire-frame glasses and carefully-chosen casual attire suggest that he might be a bit of a nerd. He goes by the handle “DJ Exclusive,” and when I ask him if he can define the difference between hip hop and rap, he breaks it down for me.  “Hip hop has a real story to tell,” he explains, “like, they have a message.”  So? Doesn’t 50 Cent claim to have a story to tell? Isn’t he classed as a rapper?  “Opinions on that vary from person to person.” 

I’m right.  He’s a nerd, a DJ-ing, very articulate nerd.  He mutters nothing about “bitches,” and “gats.”  Instead, I fight to shake off the effects of the six or nine beers I’ve had so I can keep up with him.  But am I gonna worship his command over the English language or shake him down?  Breathe, focus, repeat.

OK, Mr. DJ Exclusive, let’s say we find someone from Montana, who’s never listened to either rap or hip hop – what CD from each would you present to said Montanan as a definitive example of each?  “Well, definitely, NWA’s[5] Straight Outta Compton would be my rap choice, and Tupac’s Makaveli would define hip hop, because he did some rapping, but most of songs were about the message.” Interestingly enough, my internet searches on Tupac have him considered largely as a rapper. 

Alright, sure.  But does this stuff have any real musical value?  Is it really music?  He straightens out a bit, “How do you define music?  I mean, there’s counting beats and stuff [for rhythms].  It’s music.  How is it not?”  I take another angle, and ask him where the musical talent comes in. 

“Any moron can put ‘bird’ and ‘word’ together and make a rhyme,” I counter, unwilling to give up the fight, “and you just basically told me that sequencing the loops and drum beats isn’t anything more than point-and-click.  So I wanna know where musical ability comes in.”

He ponders a moment, and then admits, “That’s a real good question.  A tough question.” I have him – I’m going to win this argument!  I ask him about “gangsta rap,” and his take on its social contribution.  “It’s both a blight, and a valid form of expression,” he says. “I mean, these guys are telling a story too, really.  It’s raw, and it’s ugly, sometimes.  But it’s still expression.” This DJ’s no dummy.  It’s time to go for the jugular.

Well what about the 13-year-old kid out on the corner slinging dope because ol’ 50 told him to “get rich or die trying?”  Isn’t that a testament to the lack of validity? “That’s more of a parenting thing,” Exclusive tells me.  He’s unflappable, and if I poured hot water down his throat, he’d piss ice cubes- he’s that cool, that fucking smart.  I’ve put my tail between my legs now, and wave a white flag in concession. He senses I’m withdrawing and, to help me save face,  graciously steers the discussion to how hard it is to take someone seriously with overly-large t-shirts, ballcaps turned to the side, and pants so baggy you have to hold them up to keep from facing exposure charges.

And you know? I’ll be damned if he isn’t right.  As the interview winds down, my ears pick up the song coming over the speakers.  Is it ear sex? No, but there is something musical about it.  There’s an organized sequence of notes, it’s rhythmic, and it’s not altogether despicable. Ear sex it’s not –maybe closer to masturbation.  It wouldn’t be my preferred choice, but if I were stuck on a desert island, it would be better to have this than nothing.  I consider this on my drive home, punctuated by a stop at McD’s.

I believe it was composer Eric Salzman who said, “There is a music for everybody.”   

I would guess, then, that applies to the culture surrounding the musical genres.  When I think about it, some of the stigmas attached to rock and metal are pretty much deserved. 

Motley Crue did some horrendous things with women, as documented in their tell-all, The Dirt: Confessions of the World’s Most Notorious Rock Band. Norwegian black metal bands garnered infamy for burning down churches and killing themselves and each other.  GG Allin, a hardcore punker who was known for assaulting his audiences with urine, feces, and whatever else he could get his hands on, planned to gun down members of his audience and his band on his planned final concert – luckily, he died of a heroin overdose before he was able to carry out his farewell show. 

I’m still not a fan of rap or hip hop.  It’s still musically boring to me, and it’ll be a cold day in hell before I shell out one red cent for 50 Cent’s Get Rich or Die Trying (which I suspect would have sold considerably less if it had been titled Work Really Really Hard for Your Money, and Go to College) I still think it’s silly to wear those stupid baggy jeans.  But if nothing else, my excursion infused a nanoscopic amount of “live and let live.”

Merriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary also defines music as “2 a: an agreeable sound.”  Sure, I’ll live and let live – and as soon as I get home, I’m going to crank up Endgame, the brand-new CD by Megadeth.

 

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[1] “Hot in Hurr” – Give me a break.  Say it aloud, go ahead.  It doesn’t sound right, doesn’t feel right, and therefore isn’t deserving of the butchery levied by Nelly.  That must explain the Band-Aid – it’s a defensive wound, courtesy of the English language.  Go, English language!

[2] That’s right; I said “steal.”  How much money has Puff Daddy-P.Diddy-Puffy Who-the-hell-ever He Is Combs made by simply adding different lyrics and a hip hop drum track over hit rock songs?  Well, I’m not going to offer up a dollar figure, it’s a rhetorical question. I do remember reading that Andy Summers of the Police (who wrote “Every Breath You Take’s” hypnotic guitar riff) was pretty pissed off when he heard P.-Whoever’s remix of that song.  Can’t say I blame him.

[3] I almost feel they smack of reverse-racism and entitlement.  I mean, if whites suggested a White Entertainment Television channel, the outcry would be skull-shatteringly loud.  There can be an Ebony magazine, but not an Alabaster.  “Black Pride” and “Black Power” are acceptable slogans in society, but “White Power” and “White Pride” is not.  If a politician mentions trimming entitlement programs like welfare and the like, he’s accused of being a heartless racist, eager to destroy the lives of the downtrodden.  You can’t convince me these aren’t things you haven’t wondered about. 

[4] Signifying what? A gang affiliation? An indifference to symmetrical fashion?

[5] I guess this stands for Niggas with Attitudes…I’m not touching it.