By Jason Collins
Questioning where hip-hop is today is a huge topic. It’s so nuanced that it can be casual barbershop talk or pure academia. It’s an ocean of rap, graffiti, break dancing, and DJing on the surface, and as you dive deeper you see the counterculture that swims below and bursts forth to fight racism and oppression. It was an unapologetic space where African American’s could authentically express the realities of their lives. Think DMX dropping bars about gangsta life or N.W.A. saying F*** the Police in defiance of a system that’s rife with systemic racism. This leads to the question, is hip-hop still counterculture, or has it moved to the burbs?
Let’s be honest, it feels like the commercialisation of hip-hop has taken it from the streets and into the boardrooms of corporate America. Hip-hop began in the trenches of New York’s ghettos in the 1970s. It exploded as a counterculture that addressed the suppression of African American voices and stories. By the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, it moved into the gangsta rap sphere where the real, brutal issues of African American life were blown into the faces of white culture. But as hip-hop gained popularity and entered into the mainstream canon, a shift started to happen.
Already in 1996, De La Soul took issue with the way hip-hop started transforming from a necessary attack on the establishment to an obsession with white capitalist ideologies and lifestyles. In his track, The Stakes is High, he says, “I’m sick of talking about blunts / Sick of Versace glasses / Sick of slang / Sick of half-ass awards shows… / Sick of swoll’ head rappers / With their sicker than raps Clappers and gats / Makin’ the whole sick world collapse.” De La Soul was making a direct comment on the way hip-hop was unraveling as a counterculture, commenting on its slow march towards the mainstream beast.
When music about the struggles of African American lives shifts to a predominantly white audience, there’s something that gets lost in its purpose. It was a trade-off – the counterculture that stays true to its disruptive intentions and brings marginal fame, for the mainstream with success in the billion-dollar range. However, the rise of hip-hop into the burbs meant African American voices started to have influence in other areas like sports, fashion, and film, and TV. They became role models, even to white kids from the burbs. But does that mean it’s still a counterculture?
Probably not. This quote from Chris A. Robinson’s dissertation sums it up fairly well.
“There is something horribly wrong with a dominant community repeatedly co-opting the cultural forms of oppressed communities, stripping them of their vitality and form, the heritage of their creators, and then popularizing them. The result is bleached Pepsi culture masquerading as the real thing.”
That is the effect of counterculture moving to the burbs. The potency of a culture that’s rising up to challenge the oppressors almost becomes silenced by making it more palatable and commercial. Hip-hop became a viable tool to fuel the capitalist engines, and the artists jumped on board. Their lyrics shifted from unapologetic truth as we see in Public Enemy’s Fear of a Black Planet and Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five’s The Message to the meaningless mumbles Rae Sremmurd’s No Type or even Niki Minaj’s Anaconda. Sure, we still have gems that crop up, like Childish Gambino’s This is America and Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp a Butterfly, but the move to the burbs has softened the blow that initially landed on the oppressive capitalist system. I mean, let’s not even begin to talk about music ownership and the essential slavery of artists. Most of this doesn’t apply to rappers who exist in the underground realm. In fact, many of them are anti-mainstream hip-hop like Doomtree in their song Doomtree Bangarang.
There are three stages a counterculture goes through on its journey to the burbs. The first is the meaning created by people in the culture from which it derives, in this case, African American communities. The second phase shifts into the commercial realm but is still predominantly bought by African American people. In the final stage, the symbols of counterculture are appropriated by mainstream media. Nowhere is this more evident than in the use of hip-hop in television commercials. Everyone from Barbie to McDonald’s has featured hip-hop artists to boost sales. Back in the day, many artists didn’t see this kind of advertising as “selling out” because they were so poor. It was great to be getting any work or recognition. Even Wu-Tang Clan did an advert for St. Ides and RUN DMC has a whole song called My Adidas released in 1986. Hip-hop was still in the streets then. It was still counterculture. These days, it’s a marketing trick that says, “We don’t really care what you’re about. We just know you’re popular and can increase our market base.” Sure, those are my words, but you get what I’m laying down. The commercialization of hip-hop means it’s just another tool for white capitalists to get richer and profit off appropriation.
Let’s look at a few recent examples. Commercialization and capitalization aren’t bad things, but when they cross cultural boundaries without respect, it’s a problem. Bobby Shmurda’s performance for Epic Records is a prime example of this. There’s a room full of predominantly white people making the decision to sign him to the label. It’s the effect of moving hip-hop to the burbs. The majority population twists the counterculture into something palatable for their audience, and in so doing disrespects the history of an entire movement. In 1984, David Toop said, “The expression of [African American] people is transformed when it is re-packaged without any evidence remaining of the black historical experience.” The Memphis Bleek shampoo advert doesn’t need much explaining. It runs along a similar line as Bobby Shmurda’s example. The shampoo is for white women, and yet their hip-hop is being used to sell the product.
Another problem with hip-hop moving to the burbs is that representations of African American artists are created by white capitalists. Look at the Samsung Galaxy S7 Edge advert. Stereotypes are reinforced when Lil Wayne wastes expensive alcohol or purposefully dunks the phone in his fish tank. It triggers the idea that African American artists can’t handle their fame. There are few depictions of sophistication in hip-hop. Sure, it’s a counterculture that rages against the machine, but these representations create negative connotations. Interestingly enough, American rappers worked on adverts in Britain, too. Everyone from Notorious B.I.G to 50 Cent. They were represented as leaders of cool, and the youth loved it.
I’m not saying the move to the burbs is all bad. It has helped bring African American voices to the arena. The flow of cash within the community has led to empowerment in many ways. It means African Americans occupy space in the burbs. Think Rae Sremmurd’s No Flex Zone. The whole video takes place in the burbs. It’s a symbol of movement into a realm that was previously out-of-bounds because of systemic racism. Multiple artists use their profits to build their communities. The trouble with hip-hop moving to the burbs is the loss of that explosive anti-establishment power, not in its entirety but to a large extent. It’s moved to the burbs and transformed out of the counterculture space. What do you think? Has hip-hop moved to the burbs? Tell us what you think @kapitalmags