This is most definitely for girls with hips. If you've got ten minutes, take a peek. Might help with that attitude you've been swinging around that neck of yours. Give your roommate a break. You'll feel better, I swear. Directed in part by my boy, Amari Chris Johnson.
Book Review-- All About the Beat: Why Hip Hop Can't Save Black America
Guest Thickwit Adam Mansbach is the author of "Angry Black White Boy," and most recently, the novel "The End of the Jews." He received a 2008 Future Aesthetics Artist Regrant from the Ford Foundation. Though he is not a girl with hips, he sure does talk shit like he is. Here is his LA times review of the latest book by John McWhorter (no relation).
***************************************************************** Simultaneously smug and beleaguered, "All About the Beat: Why Hip-Hop Can't Save Black America" raises the question: Who, exactly, is claiming it can? No one -- academic, artist or critic -- has made any such argument since roughly 1988. This puts Manhattan Institute senior fellow John McWhorter in the awkward position of playing provocateur to an empty house, and gives his prose the tone of a petulant undergrad being shouted down in a dorm lounge. It also raises serious doubts about his engagement with either hip-hop or the large body of scholarship about it.
"[M]any hold on to the idea that hip-hop is ever on the verge of lifting black America up in a political revolution," McWhorter announces, one that will "lift poor blacks out of ghettos and create a new day." His constant assertions about hip-hop's true nature purport to prove why this cannot happen. It is "about attitude and just that," "in its very essence, angry," "all about that upturned middle finger," "about being oppositional regardless of the outcome," "all about the 'I' doing the rapping" and "about quick thrills and settling scores, rather than reasoning, discovering, and building."
Finally McWhorter asserts that "being art, especially popular art, hip-hop is automatically disqualified from being meaningfully political." If this were true, the specifics of McWhorter's musings would be irrelevant -- even to him. Why write a book detailing the case against a particular form if you believe no art can be political? Why not do something else with your afternoon?
Theory aside, McWhorter's claims that hip-hop is inherently angry and individualistic are profoundly ahistorical. Born in the Bronx in the early 1970s, hip-hop was rooted in the desire to foment a sense of community in the wake of economic deprivation and governmental neglect. It fostered artistic collectivity and friendly competition and changed the face of a city broken into gang fiefdoms, allowing young people to move through the five boroughs with new freedom.
The idea that hip-hop in 2008 is "antiestablishment" and "by definition about protest" is equally perplexing, given that so much of hip-hop has embraced the trappings of materialism in recent years. McWhorter glosses over a complex reality in which rappers are record label CEOs and corporate pitchmen, small-business owners and schoolteachers. Where's the rage and oppositionality in that?
As simple as it is, McWhorter's thesis shifts considerably beneath his feet. How to reconcile hip-hop's political impotence with the Hip-Hop Summit Action Network's success in preventing New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg from cutting $300 million from the schools budget? McWhorter does it by changing the terms of his argument: "[T]his money . . . is not going to make a significant difference in how well children are educated." So an effective protest is dismissed because McWhorter quibbles with its agenda.
Such sleight of hand is everywhere. McWhorter scoffs at numerous organizations on the theory that if they were effective, he'd know more about them. He divines the motivations of rappers, pronounces them facile and uses this as proof of their music's irrelevance. A complete litany of McWhorter's logical fallacies and unjustified dismissals would rival his book in length.
"All About the Beat" does not draw on a single interview, nor any discernible research beyond a cursory listen to an inscrutably peculiar grab bag of albums, mostly from the early '90s. Although he frequently parses lyrics, McWhorter's strategy is to isolate a line, then explain away its politics: "KRS-One thinks that the 'church and synagogue are all deceivin' us,' " he writes. "What he means is that we should be Muslims like him." Except that KRS-One is not Muslim. Rather, his lyrical critique of organized religion has been ongoing for nearly 20 years.
McWhorter's inept analysis continues. He interprets KRS-One's statement "I am hip-hop" to mean "[i]t's all about him," when the phrase is actually a cornerstone of the rapper's philosophy that hip-hop is embodied by all who love it. McWhorter concludes by noting that he doesn't "see KRS-One writing his own serious tome on hip-hop history." In fact, he has authored two books on the subject. KRS-One also spearheaded the Stop the Violence Movement and produced the all-star benefit song "Self-Destruction," which raised half a million dollars for the Urban League in 1989 -- a difficult act to position as lacking in activist intent.
Ultimately, McWhorter's project is about obscuring structural racism by focusing on individuals and their failure to meet his myopic definition of political engagement. He plays a shell game, belittling lyrics about police brutality as "complaining . . . to a beat" in one chapter, then taking rappers to task for not focusing on "the things that get black men pulled into the criminal justice system" in the next -- as if police and judicial racism were not two of those things.
For McWhorter, hip-hop may be all about the beat, but only because he isn't listening. "We will not overcome by sitting around asking 'why' with attitude," he writes, with typical self-righteousness. But how can we if we don't ask why?
Today's thickwit is Ruby Bing Veridiano Ching. She is a writer, poet, performer, and member of touring spoken word crew iLL-Literacy. Offstage, she is a television host, arts educator, and a g-mail addict. She loves fashion, dope sneakers, and listening to M.I.A. Her first book, Miss Universe, is set for release in the fall. She can run a lap around the lake without stopping for air. ****************************************************************** I didn't grow up an artist. I didn't even know I had any ultra-special talents until I got into college and discovered that my love for writing could take me well beyond writing academic papers and killin' it in all my English classes. I was med-school bound, like any good Filipina daughter was expected to be. I even enrolled myself in a four-year program called Health TECH all through high school, At 16, I attended medical terminology competitions geeked out in khakis, Mary Janes, and that uniform navy blue blazer with the caduceus emblem crisply brimming on my lapel, ready to kick ass with my badass definitions, son. Like what! Yep, I'll still say it was bad ass, even though there was nothing nerdier than my lopsided bun and that damned panty-hose they made me wear during competitions. Oh dear. I definitely do NOT miss those days.
I kinda looked like this:
There was only one problem with med school: math made me cry, and I stopped enjoying science after I quite watching Bill Nye. Plus, I get mad queasy at the mere sight of a paper cut. Eeek.
When I discovered spoken word in college, my parents considered it a healthy hobby. You know, I was doing my poetry "thing". When I abandoned my med school pursuits to be involved with my community, write poetry, and raise my fist all day, poetry suddenly became a nonsense activity. Imagine the horror on my mom's face when I came home declaring, "Hey Ma, I don't wanna be a doctor. I'm gonna be a revolutionary instead, become a poet, and work non-profit, kay."
She gave me the biggest "WTF" eyes and asked how I expected to make money for anything that had the words non and profit right next to each other. "What, you gonna work for free??" I calmly replied, "No, Ma, I'm just tryin to help my people get free. Nawmsayin?"
Since then, I've helped to create my spoken word crew, iLL-Literacy, and after some failed attempts working non-profit, decided to become a full time artist and pursue iLL-Lit more aggressively. Three years strong, I'm proud to say we've traveled the world and back, have connected with communities from different parts of the globe, and continue to not only push our artistic development, but to maintain the mission to spark dialogue on race, class, and gender with our peers and supporters. AND I'm making a living out of the very thing I love.
Granted, I'm not ballin' out of control or makin' it rain anywhere (yet). There are those rough patches when I'm struggling with an empty gas tank, crunching numbers to figure out how I'm going to pay the bills for the month, and tearing over the newest Balenciaga spring collection reminded I can't even afford the knock-offs.
From time to time, my parents will nudge at me to ask when I'll get a real job, and the question comes up: "Come on, Bing, is it really worth it?"
And I proudly reply, "YES. IT. IS!!!"
When I receive letters from other young people who tell me how I've helped them see the beauty inside them, I know for sure, that I'm doing what God is asking me to do. More importantly, this art has taught me how to love myself, be happy, and develop a healthy relationship with the world.
I know I didn't end up practicing medicine. But this art taught me to heal. So, YES, it's worth it. It's worth it all. And I'm gonna keep going, dammit. Watch me now.
Two members of Rebel Diaz, emerging Hip Hop legends and international organizers were arrested after being assaulted yesterday by New York City police officers. Please see the full article for information on how to support them and our family. If you are in the NY area, you're particularly valuable. Our west coast prayers are with both brothers and Tere.
In just under a month, Def Jam will release Nasir Jones' ninth studio album. I'm not quite sure what to call it.
For the most part, I've steered clear of the much anticipated and even more debated effort. Nas' iconography is built as much on hype as it is in his discography itself. If I got caught up in every Nasty Nas debate, I'd scarcely have time to memorize Streets Disciple Disc two. I certainly wouldn't have time to play ultimate frisbee with the QB's Finest LP. Considering the mid-nineties funk with Puff Daddy over Hate Me Now, the long term Jay beef turned marketing scheme, the minor squab with 50, and the pomp and circumstance of his marriage to his bossy wife-- my Nassip-o-meter doesn't really peak like yours do. It makes me very little nevermind until he's on my stereo.
Even the debate over the controversial album title didn't get to me until these last few incarnations. So the album was scheduled to be called Nigger. Yeah? As the wholly patriotic Thickwitness you know me to be, I could barely set down my copy of the First Amendment long enough to phone C. Dolores Tucker. Even when I did dial, the line was busy 'cause she was on Sharpton's call waiting.
Not to worry. I'm fairly certain that Nas, Def Jam, and Virgin Megastore are still protected under the Bill of Rights. Plus, how could I possibly be offended before hearing the album? If we negated Dick Gregory's autobiography before cracking the pages, one may never bear witness to the comedic and ethnographic genius therein. I think. I still ain't read the book. Which is why I can't really pass judgment on it.
I should say that everything in my Pan-Africanist upbringing taught against using the word. I don't think I'd even spoken it aloud until I was well into my teenage years-- not even in class read alouds of Mark Twain. Or Joseph Conrad. Or neighborhood rap alongs to Biggie or Jigga or Stevie Wonder. (Yes, even Stevie Wonder has said it on track) In recent history, I must admit that the N-word has made it's way into my vocabulary. Not my daily lexicon, but certainly my monthly. And every last time I use it, I feel guilty. The remnants of the word live in my chest as a reminder that I'm somehow betraying my grandmothers-- shame on me.
Conversely, I'm disappointed when tired discourse with which we're all familiar surfaces. We're still asking ourselves: Why affirm a word that holds such dismal history for the descendants of enslaved Africans in this county? What happens if white folks start using it? Will there be a series of VH1 celebreality dedicated to finding the truth?
But for me, Nas' album and the surrounding debate spurn a different set of questions: At which point does an artist gain authority to use a word consistently directed at him? Why are we comfortable hearing the N-word on each of his eight preceding efforts if we can't tolerate it as the title? What if the album, heaven forbid, actually spoke towards The State's niggardly spending on African-American education, health, and general well being? Would it be an acceptable album title then? Is Nas the speaker of his album title, or is it in the voice of say Michael Richards, or that kid on your block? Will there be a Tavis Smiley episode dedicated to paneling the truth?
Both sets of questions, however, fell by the wayside once I heard that he and the label had abandoned his proposed album title. What kind of biyatch move...?
First of all, I'd been looking forward to the release to see if the album could really withstand the enormous responsibility of its moniker. How monumental would it have been if the potential classic began to change the way the hood imagines itself? If it talked about the fact that young black men still feel like niggers -- If the album ignites a much needed discussion in the listenership, and sets down a new framework for evaluating our own complicated self affirmation, n-words just may gain their minds.
But the album isn't going to drop it like that. It's either called Nas or Untitled, depending on who you're asking. And that's what really springs my sprockets. Cause come on, Esco. It's courageous to begin the debate and see it through to the end. It's irresponsible art making if it's just the house that hype built. Which makes me wonder...
Based on my complicated history with the music of Olu Dara's son, I'd have to assume that the album is much more profound than Kelis' beadazzled slur lets on. Using Nas' preceding works as the (cough) blueprint, we can assume that there will be a good deal of autobiography. There will be an indictment or two of the way this country operates. The production will be reflexive of a midnight drive at high speeds down the BQE, and my boy Ramon Cabrera reliving each line as gospel. Nasir is the truth.
I think.
What burns deepest is the possibility that the album title could be swapped out for his own, given name. If the album, years in the making at this point, can easily be renamed-- if each track applies to both Nas and the antecedent title, something's worth inspecting. Is "Nas" a placeholder for "Nigger"? The man who was once God's son? Escobar? Kid Wave? Are we to distill that after nine albums QB isn't far from where it began? What does Nas lose if he becomes the epithet's stand in? What does he stand to gain?
And if the album remains untitled come July 15th, what does it say about our readiness to listen? How does one hear the truth in word, if she is to scared to look at it? Or will a blank spot on the album cover forever point to the word too taboo to say aloud?
