Paid in Full

But hip hop is a broad culture encompassing many voices, and not all of them fall in line with the Puff Daddy notion of carpe diem. In fact, some rap groups are dramatically opposed to the commodification of hip hop culture. Following in the footsteps of Public Enemy, a new fleet of activist rappers have stepped to the podium to denounce capitalist materialism and preach about social equality. They bring up valid points about the declining morals of a generation of 2 Live Crew fans, but their socialist embracing message seem dated with the success of less altruistic but more cunning rap entrepreneurs who have succeeded in expanding hip hop’s audience, bringing money into urban communities, and promoting a message of self-endurance.

One group unhappy with the current status quo is The Coup. The Coup’s last album was supposed to feature a picture of front man Boots Riley blowing up the World Trade Center, though the art was changed after the events of September 11th. Riley has said that while he condemns the attacks, he believes in the Marxist notion that there will eventually be a violent revolution against the government, a revolution he advocates. Another rap group embracing military tactics for a people’s revolution is Dead Prez, whose last album featured the lyrics “I’m down on running up on them crackers in they city hall.” Political hip-hop occupies the fringe of the commercial rap market, well under the radar of your typical Source reader. But it does have a strong following with the college crowd and the legions of anti-globalization protesters.

The logic behind political hip-hop is rarely sound, but the sound is always inventive and engaging. The music echoes with deafening bass, air-raid style sound collages, and rap manifestos espousing the evils of the white-run, capitalist-driven political system, the white-run, capitalist-driven society around them, and the white-run, capitalist-driven persecution of Fidel Castro and his swell buddies down in Cuba. In such a forum, Mumia Abu-Jamal isn’t a murderer, he’s a martyr.

The best political rap group has always been Public Enemy. In fact, Spin magazine recently did a list of the 50 best bands of all time, and Public Enemy came in at number 8, nestled between The Clash and The Rolling Stones. Public Enemy was led by the energetic Chuck D, a student of the politics of the Blank Panthers and Louis Farrakhan. Through Public Enemy, Chuck D attempted to renintroduce black nationalism to black youth within a contemporary social context.

NWA followed Public Enemy into controversy, but for different reasons. While Public Enemy had talked vividly about the struggles of the black man in a white society, NWA talked about the struggles of the black man in the urban environment. NWA lacked the cohesive political idealogy of Public Enemy, but they at least matched Chuck D’s anger. Their anthem was “Fuck the Police,” a call to arms against police brutality and racial profiling. Whereas Public Enemy were quick to distance themselves from the steorotypical image of young black men as forty drinking gangbangers, NWA embraced the persona.

The political hip hop of Public Enemy died off and was replaced by the gangsta rap of NWA. PE’s attempt to create a political insurgency failed because their politics existed beyond an actual political movement rooted in political concerns. Don’t blame Public Enemy, they gave it a shot, but failed because they emphasized the government and society’s responsibility to uplift the African-American communities, while gangsta rap emphasized that capitalism in the form of hustling was the best means of personal empowerment.

Mainstream commercial hip hop hasn’t had any affect on politics either, but it has had a measurable effect on the businesses world. Hip hop albums are consistently in the Billboard Top 10, and as a genre it outsells nearly everyother music format. As hip hop has become more rooted in mainstream culture, every element associated with the music and culture has become commodified. Be it clothing (Tommy Hilfiger, FUBU), accessories (platinum watches, platinum chains), high-end automobiles (Bentley’s, tricked out SUVs), or 90% of the NBA, hip hop is everywhere you look. Hip Hop culture has moved from the streets of Brooklyn to the corn fields of Iowa, the suburbs of lilly-white America, and across the globe to England, Europe, and recently Japan. The spread of the culture is a direct result of the commodification of hip-hop.

Yet such commodification comes in theoretical opposition to the politics of a group like the Coup, who see such commercialization as yet another example of white-owned corporations taking advantage of a black-bred music. They argue that corporations will only release material that sells, not material that necessarily exemplifies the best of hip hop culture. Meanwhile, across the tracks, mainstream hip-hop sounds like the Wall Street Journal with a beat. Capitalism is the word of the day, and “mind on my money, money on my mind” is the motiff. The hustling mentality emerged from the street scene and the drug market that emerged in the eighties.

By the early eighties, poor cocaine consumers turned toward smoking free-base, which is cocaine at its basic alkaloid level. In free-basing, the cocaine is boiled in water and the residue is placed in cold water where it forms “base” or “freebase.” The chipped-off pieces are called “crack” because it often makes a cracking sound as it burns. The increase in the popularity of free-basing coincided with a dramatic decrease in the growth of coca leaves in Bolivia, Peru, and Columbia that drove down the price of cocaine. In 1980 the price of a kilo of coke was $50,000, in 1984 it was $35,000, and by 1992 it was down to $12,000. Crack took cocaine away from the ivory towers of rock stars and politicians and brought it within reach of poorer addicts.

The crack industry quickly filled the vacuum created by the ongoing loss of working-class jobs to the suburbs and then to poor Third World countries. Teenagers and adolescents were picked up from the streets and put to work in the trade— manufacturing, packaging, and selling illegal drugs. By 1992 it was estimated that as many as 150,000 people were employed in New York City’s drug trade.

The fallout from crack’s addictive power was felt most severely in the inner city. During crack’s heyday in the early nineties, 40 percent of crackhouse denizens were female. A vicious cycle was born of drugged out moms, incarcerated dads, and misguided children soon to follow in their footsteps. The free market of crack generated millions of dollars, though very little of that ever appeared in the hands of the common street drug dealer. But with this access to quick money, a voracious appetite was stroked for material possessions— fashion, cars, and women. An agenda of social change and civil rights was all but forgotten.

Out of this atmosphere was born the “gangsta” rap genre, tales of young drug dealers on their own in the face of growing adversity. This new generation recognized that rugged individualism was the true path out of the poverty. Nobody knows this more than Master P. Whether or not you admire the man’s musical skills— and trust me, few do —you can’t help but not respect his sheer business brilliance. Master P, like 99% of all rappers in the game, grew up poor in the projects, in this case the third ward Calliope projects in New Orleans. When Master P’s (real name Percy Miller, hence on “P”) grandfather came into an inheritance, P was given $10,000 that he used to open up an independent record store in Richmond, California named No Limit Records. By running No Limit Records, P was able to gain first hand knowledge of the music industry as a retailer, knowledge he used to wedge his way into the music business with the launch of No Limit Records. The first release from No Limit Records was P’s solo album “The Ghetto’s Tryin’ to Kill Me,” which sold over 100,000 units independently. P’s next solo album sold 200,000 units, also without major distribution. These two albums were significant underground hits and confirmed what P suspected — there was an audience for straight-ahead, unapologetic, hardcore rap. He soon moved No Limit to New Orleans and began concentrating on making records.

With his success, several of the major labels came to P offering him a deal. P eventually signed a straight pressing and distribution deal with Priority Records, keeping creative control of the record label in his hands, as well as a larger chunk of the profit.

Master P and No Limit records eventually went on to make millions of dollars using a consumer friendly approach of essentially releasing the same album over and over again, with rapping provided by either himself or lesser-talented family members. Nepotism was a wise business move, saving him the trouble of going out and finding real talent. While other “pretentious” artists kept their fans waiting a whole year for a new album, P rushed his albums out through the No Limit assembly line, pushing out upwards of ten albums a year, all masterminded by Master P himself and Beats by the Pound. Entire albums were recorded and released within two weeks. The musical integrity of such an endeavor is questionable, but nobody could argue against P’s business savvy.

Master P was certainly not the first rap artist to take business in his own hands. Suge Knight had already created a street-based record label by the name of Death Row years before, and underground gangsta rappers like E-40 had already showed that regional success could still equal big profits. But P’s empire was greater than any before it, as No Limit branched out into direct-to-video movies, toys, phone cards, phone sex lines, gas stations, and in the case of Ricky Williams, sports contracting. Thought the cookie cutter No Limit sound eventually lost it’s audience, P kept his money, and added a boost to No Limit’s credibility a few years later with the success of his son’s rap career.

The point here is that Master P was able to create a true commodity out of rap music and rap culture that he could easily market and profit from. In doing so he made a lot of money, and moved himself, his family, and his entire posse out of the hood and into a gated mansion somewhere.

It can be argued that the values that underpin so much hip-hop— materialism, brand consciousness, gun iconography, anti-intellectualism— are very much byproducts of a larger American culture. But it can’t be denied that many dangerous themes in hip-hop— anti-Semitism, racism, violence, and sexism— while not unique to hip hop, are certainly glorified by the music. Political hip hop at least addresses that youth should not disillusion themselves into believing long term success can be achieved through drug dealing, or any other illicit behavior. They also point out that the unfettered materialism in rap music is probably not to the benefit of a poor society that should be spending its money on food and family, not Nikes and gold chains.

That’s not to say, though, that gangsta rap originated these themes. The persona of the drug dealer as a glamorous rogue operating on the outskirts of the law came in part from the blaxpotation movies of the seventies and from the real lives of many famous New York drug dealers. Check out the magazine F.E.D.S. sometime if you want to read about the life and times of some of New York’s most notorious criminals.

In conclusion, it would appear to be to the benefit of young urban African-Americans to embrace the capitalistic virtues of mainstream rap. Political groups like the Coup may seem like revolutionaries in some circles, but the reality is that most of their listeners are just nodding their head along with the beat, not seriously considering an overthrow of the system.

Meanwhile, mainstream rap faces in challenge in overcoming some of the street themes that have long defined it. Regional groups like Outkast have already found that a less cliched gangsta style can move a lot of records, and other up-and-comers seem to reflect this move.