While the Internet is busy changing the face of television and print media is busy dying, commercial hip−hop is becoming something fascinating, bizarre and captivating: A former corrections officer−cum−thespian weaves yarns about drug dealing alongside a college dropout who would be king, a happily married Muslim makes himself sound like a robot while confessing his love for strippers and the most famous rapper in the world nears his mid−life crisis.
Rap is turning into some bizarre, meta−textual, post−modern art form.
Nicki Minaj, the Barbie−chic force of nature taking the genre by storm, recently told an interviewer from Details magazine that she expects an openly gay rapper to become popular within her lifetime. A bisexual, female rapper predicting sharing the limelight with a gay man would never have happened as recently as five years ago.
There are countless factors influencing the changes in the genre — from the impact and spread of the Internet, to globalization and the coming of age of the first generation weaned on fully mainstream hip−hop. Hip−hop isn't just the music of the streets or the music that white kids listen to in order to think they're tough.
Although it also is both of these things, hip−hop gives a voice to an otherwise voiceless group: It's the new punk.
Think of Soulja Boy — I know, I know, most people rarely think of Soulja Boy, but I implore you: Just this once, think of him. Born in 1990, by 2007 he was Internet −famous (and probably hood−rich) and by 2010, he was a multimillionaire. People make fun of Soulja Boy, but without hip−hop, he would still just be a 20−year−old kid from Atlanta.
Everything about Soulja Boy is mind−blowing. I would bet that most people couldn't name one Soulja Boy song, we're talking full titles: The one you think you know the name of isn't called what you think it is; it's called "Crank That (Soulja Boy)" (2007). I'm not proud of the fact that I know a number of Soulja Boy songs, nor that I have a favorite. Or two. But despite the potential setback of no one knowing the titles of his songs, Soulja Boy is insanely successful, ridiculously wealthy and something of a kingmaker himself. When he made it big, he brought along with him a whole group of other ridiculously named, semi−skilled rappers that no one takes seriously (do not mock Gucci Mane, he's the best rapper you'll never take seriously).
Starting in the mid−'90s or so, people began pining for the "golden age" of hip−hop. Before hip−hop was of legal age, rap fans were already waxing nostalgic for what it had been when they were kids. It's true that without Public Enemy, A Tribe Called Quest or De La Soul, we couldn't have Kanye West, The Wu−Tang Clan or Nicki Minaj, but if all we had were the "golden age" groups and that particular style, commercial hip−hop would be mind−numbingly boring.
This column isn't really concerned with underground hip−hop. I'm going to explore Top 40 hits — the really commercial stuff. I don't care about street cred. We can argue about Brother Ali and J. Cole on my day off. Don't be mad if this is the only time I ever mention Flying Lotus. Let's be honest: That stuff is great, but right now, DJ Khaled is more important than DJ Green Lantern and Kanye is more relevant than Doom.
Being pretentious is easy, but it isn't a lot of fun. Now excuse me, there's a new Gucci Mane mixtape begging for a listen.
Or as Rick Ross would say, "This is just the intro/Allow my flow time to sink into the tempo."
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