Direct from the U.S. .…
… prison-industrial complex in New Jersey,…
…Lifers Group find a captive audience.
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Smoking with
the truth that the righteous say
Choking on
the games that the foolish try to play
We gotta roll with the blows from below
And give them
a show
Teach the truth
to the young
So they’ll never step back
Against the Flow
“Against
the Flow”, by rappers Upper Hutt Posse of New Zealand
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Hip-hop’s art of rebellion
can trigger a battle against racism or raise the white flag to hyper-consumerism
 From
Bogota to Beijing, hip-hop’s apostles are spreading “the word”, striking chords of
rage and rebellion in privileged and poor kids alike, in rich countries and poor.
The world, it seems, is in love with black America. But this is a treacherous affair.
Back in the homeland, a war is being waged against this very same group. One of the
frontlines is the prison-industrial complex—an expanding fortress, with the U.S.
rate of incarceration (682 per 100,000) six to ten times higher than that of most
industrialised nations. Of the two million prisoners, 49 per cent are black and 17
per cent are Latino even though they respectively represent 13 and 11 per cent of
the population. Almost one in three black men between the ages of 20 and 29 are caught
in the web of correctional control (incarceration, probation or parole). These men
lose their right to vote, lose their place as citizens, both in the eyes of the State
and in white society.
Outside of the penitentiaries, unemployment is a prison of its own. At seven per
cent, the rate may seem low, but look closer and you find that this does not recognise
the “disposable” part-time workers, generally composed of ethnic minorities and women.
About eight per cent of African Americans are officially unemployed, but the real
bombshell is reserved for black youth: almost 32 per cent cannot find a job.
Hip-hop is the “CNN of Black America”, raps Chuck D of Public Enemy. Read this line
with a metaphorical eye to catch a crucial but not complete reflection of the world’s
Janus-like attraction to rap’s art of rebellion. On the one hand, CNN offers constant
news coverage world-wide. In symbolic terms, we find rappers cast as reporters on
the frontline, offering live updates through their music of the trials, tribulations
and peculiarities of neighbourhoods and cities, from Lagos to Frankfurt. On the other
hand, global media networks, like CNN, just scratch the surface and cater to mainstream
political “tastes” by offering easily digestible nuggets of infotainment. Illustrating
this negative side, we find a few posses of Tokyo rappers and fans, for example,
literally burning their skin in tanning salons. This is an extreme example reflecting
the international mantra: “Be black for a day, wigger for an afternoon!” [Wigger
refers to white people who copy black fashions.]
Contradictory
impulses
Much like jazz
and rock ’n’ roll in the past, hip-hop has made working class U.S. youth in general
and African Americans in particular a cultural hearth for the international market.
Its iconic power takes many forms, depending upon the particular political goals
and constraints of its practitioners. For some, hip-hop is used to attack poverty,
oppression and government corruption. Other fans and musicians take aim at cultural
orthodoxy by glorifying gang violence, hyper-materialism and explicit misogyny. Often
these contradictory elements take shape simultaneously.
In the heart of advanced industrial countries, hip-hop serves as a liberation anthem
for those oppressed by racism and poverty. In the disadvantaged suburbs of Paris,
the lilting sounds of Senegalese MC Solaar radiate beside North African-inspired
rai rap, while NTM (Nique Ta Mère – “screw your mother”) besiege the fascism
of Jean-Marie Le Pen’s Front National party. Across the Channel, British Asian rappers
Fun^Da^Mental enshrine the right to self-defence against racist attacks, while German
hip-hoppers incite respect for their Turkish origins.
Yet at the same time, hip-hop is also just one of many commercial products or props
used for youth rebellion against the established orders of parents. The music, dress
and attitude are used to visibly divide one generation from another. In Thailand,
male teens speed through the streets in swanky cars, pumped on the raw energy and
anger of U.S. rap without the slightest connection to the underlying politics. In
Kathmandu, teens use rap’s breakbeats to break with tradition, perhaps temporarily,
in forging a “modern” identity.
As U.S. rapper L.L. Cool J rhymed, “there’s no category, for this story. It will
rock in any territory.” Cuba offers an “academic’s delight” in contradictions. Since
1996, the government has helped to sponsor an annual National Hip-Hop Conference
showcasing local and international stars, mostly from Latin America. According to
the U.S. hip-hop magazine The Source, Fidel Castro “sees rap music as the existing
revolutionary voice of Cuba’s future.” Yet hip-hop also challenges the socialist
vision when fans at concerts proudly wear images of the U.S. dollar bill on their
hats and shirts and scream “it’s all about the Benjamins” (referring to the image
of Benjamin Franklin printed on $100-bills).
Ironically, as post-Cold War hyper-materialism endangers the destiny of young people
everywhere, the contradictory message of hip-hop begins to make sense. A decisive
feature of the music/culture’s ethic is: to “want mine”, meaning a share of society’s
wealth. This desire operates at both the individualist and collective levels. Do
you want “it” (luxury, security, etc.) for yourself, or do you want a fair share
for your community or society? The urge is so complex that it’s difficult, if not
impossible, to find one without the other.
Take the case of South Africa, whose townships only recently produced some of the
most disciplined and inspirational fighters for social justice. Now in “mixed-race”
areas around Cape Town, gangs take their cue from gangsta rap, calling themselves
“the Americans” and “throwing up the W”, a hand signal from West Coast gangsta rappers
of the U.S. The South African example shows us that hip-hop’s art of rebellion does
not only lead to anti-racist and anti-capitalist rebellion, but it often falls victim
to the pitfalls of systemic oppression against which it attempts to rebel.
Hip-hop alone cannot rise up to the task of political transformation—this is pop
culture not a manifesto. However, by looking at the particular political situations
and aspirations of its musicians, we can trace its rise as an iconic power and its
demise when the assimilationist powers of the capitalist economy flatten out the
music’s richness to render it a message of personal gain.
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