Even though the tragedy at Virginia Tech has chased the Don Imus uproar off the front page and cable-TV screens, some of those who led the successful campaign to expel the crotchety shock jock from the airwaves aren't ready to let the issue fade. They have already set their sights on a new target: hip-hop music.
Emboldened by compelling Imus' corporate masters to finally cut him loose, many seek to continue the fight and exorcise those that they blame for popularizing racism and misogyny in other pop culture arenas. The Rev. Al Sharpton, one of the most outspoken advocates for Imus' dismissal, told CNN that the entertainment industry is on his radar screen.
"It would be wrong if we stopped here and acted like Imus was the only problem. There are others that need to get this same message," Sharpton was quoted as saying on CNN.com
There can be no doubt that he and others are referring to hip-hop music, and the idea is already gaining traction. Oprah Winfrey devoted two entire shows this week to the Imus controversy with many on her panel of journalists, activists and entertainment business figures laying the blame squarely at hip-hop's feet for popularizing the B-word, the N-word and other pejoratives in the American lexicon.
These attacks aren't new. Since its inception in the '70s, rap music has remained the most maligned and misunderstood of today's forms of pop music. Whether for racial, generational or artistic reasons, the music has been forced to overcome numerous obstacles to obtain its share of time in the cultural spotlight. Hip-hop music's founding fathers and mothers fought for time on radio, on MTV and in print. They had to wait until the late '80s for their artists to be recognized in awards shows and even longer to be featured as performers.
Along the way, there were the critics and naysayers who frequently took shots at elements of the music: They bemoaned its use of sampling, the rapid-fire lyrical delivery, rappers' hubris on the mic, the salty language, the emphasis on materialism and most of all, the violent depictions -- real or imagined -- of street life.
It's misleading to blame rap alone for creating an atmosphere where Imus and others could say what he did. At the same time, the critics are correct on several important points. Since hip-hop's golden era, the stylistic possibilities of the genre have narrowed considerably. Rap once boasted a De La Soul or Will Smith (whom Ice-T once labeled the Disney version of hip-hop) to counterbalance N.W.A. In today's world, the poppy counterparts that once offset the grittier artists have morphed into acts like Nelly or the Black Eyed Peas, who are more explicitly raunchy than their predecessors. In general, hip-hop has started to lean more heavily in the direction of there being one vision of what the music. It has become fixed in the popular imagination and this has fed the stereotypes that rap is dangerous.
Throughout the years, however, this negativity aimed at rappers was largely irrelevant. Hip-hop's popularity across racial lines and the concurrent sales strength made it impervious to criticism, valid or not. It really was the beat you couldn't resist.
But this time, the situation is much different. This renewed and emboldened assault on the genre is coming just when rap is suffering its worst sales decline since its birth. The Associated Press reported that according to industry numbers, sales of rap CDs dropped by 21 percent last year. In addition, 2006 was the first time in 12 years that no hip-hop record was among the top 10 sellers of the year. There hasn't been a rap superstar that has emerged since Eminem's withdrawal from the limelight. Critics have struck upon an opportune moment to attack their longtime foe.
With industry alarm bells loudly blaring, hip-hop must now endure stronger condemnations of the messages expressed in their product, but at the same time, find a way to reenergize a sagging widget to slay growing consumer apathy. This is a dangerous time, and rap's detractors are beginning to sense its weakness.
It's unlikely that hip-hop will shrivel from its challengers' salvos. The music is still too popular and too entrenched in pop culture. The threat that these criticisms ultimately pose is to compound the misconceptions and demonize an already maligned art form. It will delay rap's recovery and make it more difficult to access the media. It also guides people away from their own responsibility.
The dialogue on Oprah's show might have inspired optimism in many, but in the end, it yielded few practical solutions. Suggestions varied. Some sought metaphysical answers to a divided society's ills while others just wanted music industry people to get fired.
When it came time for hip-hop representatives to speak, Def Jam co-founder Russell Simmons, Warmer Music exec Kevin Liles and others sought to shift accountability, pointing out the music's excesses are a by-product of pre-existing cultural, historical and economic conditions. Dr. Benjamin Chavis, CEO and president of the Simmons' Hip Hop Summit Action Network, suggested that if we could end poverty and ignorance, we'd go a long way to resolving this problem. It sounds like Oprah's Angel Network has it's work cut out for it.
Simmons and Liles were equally ridiculous and disingenuous. They stonewalled and offered only canned answers about poets' freedom of expression and how they attempt to mentor young artists. Hip-hop's leaders, however, aren't the ones at fault. The real culprit, and the one who was only mentioned fleeting during the Oprah broadcast, is ourselves. If you want to find the person responsible for a culture of denigration and exploitation, you need look no further than the reflection in your iPod.
What some many are now deploring is really a repsentation of our own worst aspects. Hip-hop music is popular because it feeds us what we want. While the beats are infectious, the lyrical content and the performer's image are essential components that add to the allure. The tales of violence, thuggery and the glamorous nightclub life satiate our secret desire to break taboos and live frivolously. Listeners, especially middle-class whites, can revel in the machismo and the criminal fantasies, and freely engage in the process of de-humanization that they can't on an everyday basis. It's very similar to the oversimplified world that exists in professional wrestling.
There are dozens of "positive" rappers out there who don't refer to women as hos or work outside hip-hop's prevailing rubric, but by and large, people don't buy their records like they do 50 Cent's. This isn't because 50 is a better rhymer, more colorful lyricist or even has the best beats. He's just willing to act out the image that sells. "In this business of pimps, many hos get signed," Common once rapped. It isn't just gangsta rappers either. Hip-hop's top-selling disc of all time, the Fugees' "The Score," is filled with violent scenarios and rampant use of the N-word. Blaming the artists, the record companies or the media is a bit like blaming pornography on the pornographers. They only peddle what people want, and deflecting it away doesn't wash away the public's participation in the deal.
A realistic idea, albeit a loathsome one, is to promote a degree of self-censorship. Rappers would need to be met head-on and encouraged to stop using such language or they face repercussions from the paying public as a whole. Such a code of silence already exists among white performers, who would only dare to use slurs or misogyny in their lyrics lest they take their careers in their own hands. When Guns 'N' Roses' Axl Rose used the N-word in "One In A Million" in 1989, he faced a firestorm of controversy that didn't hurt his record sales, but permanently stained his reputation. If a rapper knew his/her bottom line would be hurt and label status would be placed in jeopardy, his or her message would surely change. It isn't a pleasant reality for a culture that prides itself on promoting freedom of speech.
Barring that, it comes down to listeners to take control. When rock fans finally grew disenchanted with glam metal and its equally hedonistic imagery, listeners sought out something new. Fashions and the music industry adapted to the new conditions. In the VH1 documentary on the history of metal, "Heavy," Warrant frontman Jani Lane frankly and chillingly condemns himself for succumbing to label pressure and writing the goofy single "Cherry Pie," a song whose simpleton lyrics and sexist video helped define the hair metal era. The song was once a hit that offered his band access to the rock world's largest stages and millions of dollars, but is now a crown of shame that Lane must endure for the rest of his music career. Lane was the one who wrote it, but it was the audience who have now made him ashamed of it.
Fans must not buy albums by artists whose lyrical messages or videos they deplore. Not in a blanket fashion, but on a targeted basis. As one of the people on Oprah's show suggested, people should refuse to dance to the songs when they are at the club. They should speak to their friends about why they object to this song or the rapper in question. It's time fans practiced free speech as well as artists.
As many have speculated, rap's sharp decline in sales might just be a signal that consumers are speaking with their wallets. Hip-hop's prevailing icons are no longer pleasing their core audience. This might the right time to make a change that allows consumers -- not activists, not the artists and not the industry -- to finally call the tune.
For More Info: Previous Columns:Note: David's music column, Soundbytes, appears Wednesdays in our Entertainment section. He welcomes your questions and comments
