“That’s Hip-Hop to Me!”: Race, Space, and Temporal Logics of Authenticity in Independent Cultural Production
Michael Gibson University of Arizona
ABSTRACT
In producer-saturated fields such as popular music scenes, claims to and
judgments of authenticity are ever salient in contention for limited resources and
prestige. By mobilizing meanings attributed to sounds, objects, individuals, and
ideas associated with the past, present, or future of a genre, cultural producer
groups are distinguished from each other and unified within themselves.
Observing the dynamics of these distinctions allows us to ascertain how artistic
professionals think of themselves and others, as well as begin to unpack the role
that authenticity work may play in the practice and warrants of cultural
production. Drawing on fieldwork and interviews from an independent rap scene
in the Midwest, I demonstrate how artists draw on collective memory, modern
convention, and projected futures to form competing, temporally-rooted logics of
authenticity by which to advance their positions.
KEYWORDS: Authenticity; Cultural production; Temporality; Hip-Hop “That’s Hip-Hop to Me!”: Race, Space, and Temporal Logics of Authenticity in
Independent Cultural Production
1. Introduction
In an upper middle class suburb 20 minutes outside of a mid-sized Midwestern city, bass heavy hip-hop instrumentals drown out the sound of Victor’s children playing in his back yard.
Posters of 1990s rappers line the walls around him. Like most of his neighbors, Victor is a white, mid-to-late 30s father and husband. Unlike those neighbors, he is a rapper and hip-hop producer with his own record label, Institute Recordings. Today, he prepares his setlist to perform at an upcoming local festival. Wade, the PR Director for Institute, will arrive soon to help.
Ten miles away, Lex, a prominent member of a hip-hop collective called The Syndicate, sits with his publicist in a city coffee shop. They discuss plans for promoting Lex’s new album, as well as the prospect of an appearance on the BET television network. Lex took two buses here this morning from his inner city home. Unlike Victor, he lives in a poverty-stricken neighborhood near childhood friends. Like many of them, he is a single, black man in his late
20s, residing near where he grew up. Some are rappers as well, but he is considered the most successful.
Downtown, eight miles from the coffee shop, Logan locks up his recording studio, clutching his sketchbook and laptop. The late-20s, black rapper, music producer, and designer is leaving for a gentrified strip farther south to meet Hank, a white rapper of the same age, who lives in that area. Logan spends much of his time there, experiencing its transition from impoverished neighborhood to prominent art and music scene. The pair will discuss a concert celebrating the one-year anniversary of their record label, Sword and Shield Records.
2 Much like these rappers occupy distinct geographic spaces and demographic categories, they approach cultural production in markedly different ways. In a major city, it is not surprising that independent artists – i.e., those peripheral to the mainstream music industry (Oware 2014) – would segregate along different criteria. Frequently, artists distinguish and affiliate via conceptions of authenticity. Although past work suggests that rappers foreground racial and spatial logics (Forman 2000), this study advances the concept of temporal logics of authenticity.
Race and space remain integral, yet temporality often mitigates or circumvents demographic distinctions in competitions for limited resources and prestige in the local field of production. As the rappers described above plan their upcoming performances, promotions, and recording, these logics guide their career strategies, as well as the company they keep.
It has been suggested that when claims to authenticity are salient, artists collectively construct agreed upon ideals (Grazian 2003; Peterson 1997); however, I argue that artists mobilize competing conceptions of authenticity strategically and ideologically to frame themselves and their music in relation to the history, conventions, or prospects of their field.
They do so not to legitimize the genre as a whole (Elafros 2013; McLeod 1999), but to vindicate and distinguish their own work within it. Just as entire genres compete for exposure (Mark
1998), artists within them compete for local and national industry resources. The present research turns towards hip-hop artists (alternately, rappers or MCs) in the Midwestern US. For rappers, the possibility of fame and fortune, as well as the dissemination of cheaper, more efficient technologies, has resulted in persistent competition. In such an environment, claims to authenticity – or “aesthetic legitimacy” (Elafros 2013) – are quite marketable (Grazian 2003).
Popular portrayals of rappers suggest that they seek “street credibility” by evoking particular images of struggle founded on black identity and urban experience (Kelley 1996;
3 Ogbar 2007). Though this was true for many popular rappers in the 1990s resisting the genre’s assimilation into the mainstream (McLeod 1999), many of today’s rappers emphasize forms of authenticity rooted in different characteristics of the music itself. The racial, ethnic, and class- based imageries for which the genre has been recognized still hold power, but the existence and importance of temporal distinctions of authenticity is absent in prevailing theory.
This paper presents a typology of temporal logics of authenticity derived from the conceptions of three groups of cultural producers. The following section will examine current sociological understandings of authenticity useful in understanding these temporal distinctions.
Then, following a discussion of methods, I will detail how different groups of artists mobilize temporality in social processes of authentication, or “authenticity work” (Peterson 2005). Some collectively construct “old-school” authenticity – emphasizing aesthetic styles of 90s and early
2000s hip-hop while shunning current conventions. Others adhere to current trends, legitimizing modern genre conventions which grant them accessibility and greater promotional and distributional outlets (Becker 1982). Finally, aspirations or “imagined futures” (Frye 2012) influence others to eschew current conventions while creating what they envision will be conventional in the future. The ways that these three groups distance themselves (or not) from conventional or traditional aesthetics guide their divergent conceptions of authenticity.
2. Theorizing Authenticity
2.1. Defining the Authentic
Authenticity has no objective standard, nor is it inherent in any object or actor. Instead, it is socially constructed, taking different shapes in different fields (Harrison 2008; Peterson 1997).
Authenticity, then, may be thought of as a field-specific measure of legitimacy, created and
4 manipulated through social processes, mobilized discursively and practically – a measure of
“credibility or sincerity,” which, when properly performed, appears “natural and effortless”
(Grazian 2003: 11). Cultural producers, consumers, artistic works, and styles of production may all be deemed authentic (or not) based on the standards of particular art worlds or scenes.
Commonly, this involves some combination of “sincerity, originality, honesty, or creativity”
(Salaam 1995: 303). By meeting locally relevant standards, individuals position themselves “in a particular status hierarchy among their peers” (Clay 2003: 1349), constructing symbolic boundaries – i.e., social barriers separating groups (Cerulo 1997). Actors’ social positions are thus determined not only by individual tastes (Bourdieu 1984), but by how they signal their association with the legitimate tastes of the local scene or field.
Much research emphasizes the ways in which actors signal legitimacy through consumption to shape identities and social positions (Clay 2003; Erickson 1994; Lamla 2009;
Mullaney 2012; Outka 2009; Zukin 2008). An emerging body of work explores cultural producers’ conceptions of authenticity, especially amongst musical artists. As new technologies provide more control over artistic output, the influence of record labels in shaping the authentic – an area in which they historically held ample control (Peterson 1997) – has waned. As such, the relevance of authenticity for independent cultural producers has increased. This is especially true amongst rappers, for whom authenticity has only increased in saliency (Forman 2000; Harrison
2008; Hess 2005; McLeod 1999).
Generally, claiming authenticity requires that artists accurately represent their own life – what Turino (2008) terms “dicent authenticity.” Lyrics and self-presentation must be “truthful” to lived experiences (Harkness 2011; Maxwell 2003). This truthfulness, or sincerity (Jackson
5 2005), should represent characteristics deemed legitimate in an artists’ field. For rappers, these characteristics are most often tied to space and race (Forman 2000).
“Spatiality” is a central organizing principle in the construction, presentation, and interpretation “of value, meaning, and practice within hip-hop culture,” including rap music
(Forman 2000: 66). Accurate accounting of one’s past – especially regarding one’s neighborhood or city – is often integral to being an authentic rapper (Smith 1997). Local communities – evoked colloquially as one’s “hood” or “block” – are prominent sites of listening to and performing hip- hop music, as well as frequent lyrical topics (Forman 2000). Failing to accurately represent one’s hometown is a sure way to be labeled inauthentic. Take, for instance, the career of the rapper
Vanilla Ice, which plummeted in the early 1990s once fans learned that he had falsified his own biography to include a fictional inner city upbringing (Hess 2005).
Of course, the Vanilla Ice story is just as much about race as space. His false biography represented in part an attempt to cater to black fans (Hess 2005). As a musical form created largely by black and Latino youth, rap, much like blues and jazz before it (Grazian 2003; Lopes
2000), has had a rocky history regarding race – inconsistently rejected by white performers and audiences, before eventual cooptation into the mainstream (Watkins 2006). Unable to claim authenticity on race alone, white rappers have utilized different strategies to break into the field of popular rap (Harkness 2011; Hess 2005), relying instead on neighborhood, style, or knowledge of hip-hop history. Still, while hip-hop studies often assume blackness as a baseline for authenticity in the genre (Harrison 2008), conceptions of the authentic have varied with time
(Smith 1997). Multiple “reals” exist for performers to be evaluated against (Jackson 2005).
Evaluative criteria, while often locally stable, may vary across times and fields (Harkness 2012).
In some fields, artists may prioritize recognition by peers; those in others might emphasize
6 consecration by gatekeepers or mass market acceptance (Bourdieu 1993). The boundaries of the authentic are sometimes rigid, other times malleable. Still, although individual actions and strategies are important in navigating conceptions of authenticity (as privileged in Harkness
2012; Jackson 2005; and others), the criteria themselves are constructed and acted upon at the group level.
This work aims to contribute to the rich literature on authenticity by foregrounding two important points. First, while logics of authenticity are often expressed and diffused discursively
(Harrison 2008; McLeod 1999), structural distinctions are apparent – i.e., group boundaries and structures often align along shared conceptions. Many artistic communities debate measures and functions of authenticity (Elafros 2013; Grazian 2003; Hesmondhalgh 1998), yet, groups of actors align around competing logics, constructing group boundaries based on these criteria.
Informal cliques and formal businesses (e.g. record labels) alike exhibit this. Second, and most central, artists structure and make sense of their art worlds via temporal distinctions. Space and race, while important, are often mitigated or superseded by these sensibilities. For example, a white rapper unable to successfully claim racial or spatial authenticity by typical hip-hop standards might model her music and self-presentation after a particular image of the past, privileging tradition in claims to authenticity. Similarly, a black rapper from an area deemed authentic might nevertheless foreground imagery of the genre’s future, privileging innovation to authenticate an unconventional sound. The following section will introduce a typology of temporal logics of authenticity, which will later be detailed as it emerged from fieldwork and interviews.
2.2. Time, Authenticity, and Production
7 Authenticity is important in distinction (Zukin 2008). Knowledge and appreciation of an art form’s classic works, techniques, and creators are often central to these distinctions (Elafros
2013; Grazian 2003). These past-based factors in authenticity work are well documented. Indeed,
“identifying with a particular collective past is an important part of the process of acquiring a particular social identity” (Zerubavel 1999: 91).
When artists emulate the standards of the past, they position themselves against present conventions – against “selling out” (Clay 2003; McLeod 1999). Thus, cultural producers face a challenge similar to what MacLeod (1987) identifies for inner city youth: “The path to conventional success leads in one direction; the path to a redefined success lies in another. [One] cannot tread both paths simultaneously” (p. 18). Adopting a present-based logic of authenticity by emphasizing current conventions typically reduces uncertainties associated with cultural production (Becker 1982) and increases profit in the process (Bourdieu 1992; Bourdieu 1993).
For this reason (and certainly others), some artists assert the legitimacy of present standards, privileging that which is happening “now!” (McCarthy 2009: 252). These artists typically command local markets, advancing what Bourdieu (1993) refers to as a “heteronomous logic of the market”: privileging sales and consecration as true markers of legitimacy.
Still other cultural producers pursue projections of their genre’s future, ignoring, for the moment, the “anticipated constraints” that this entails (MacLeod 1987: 61). For these innovators, the difficulties of defying convention (Becker 1982) may be perceived, but ignored. Through effort and optimism (Frye 2012) they might attain legitimacy in the short term with hopes of economic profit in the long term (Bourdieu 1992). Just as the modern jazz of the 1950s was viewed “as a rebellion against the popular and the commercial” (Lopes 2000), innovations in rap
8 and other genres today are perceived by many as steps toward more authentic (non-mainstream) music.
Artists differentially orient towards historical, current, or future periods in an art form’s development in their authenticity work. Table 1 outlines a typology of temporal logics of authenticity to this effect. The contrast of these competing logics regarding how actors approach and act on collective memory, convention, and innovation, as well as their accumulation of capital (Bourdieu 1984), illustrates authenticity’s multifaceted and malleable nature.
Emphasizing cultural producers’ own conceptions uncovers authenticity’s role in affiliation, performance, and production practices beyond expressions of taste alone.
3. Methodology
3.1. Case and Site
My case for exploring authenticity is hip-hop music (as opposed to broader hip-hop culture, of which the music is only one element (for instance, Clay 2003)). Like many genres, hip-hop began with a niche movement, but soon graduated to mainstream. Rappers today create music alongside artists from country and rock to reggae and electronic. Many have even entered acting or directing. Rap’s mainstream legitimacy is further demonstrated through its continued financial success. As one example, between 2000 and 2010, the top-selling musician across all genres was rapper Eminem (Gundersen 2009). Second place went to the Beatles, indicating that rappers can not only surpass other contemporary artists, but consecrated classics as well.
My site is the independent music scene of a mid-sized Midwestern metropolis (hereafter
Mid City). A post-industrial city of around 300,000 residents, Mid City represents a model US city in terms of hip-hop activity and resource challenges, typifying all but the very largest cities.
9 Since its genesis in the 1970s, rap’s cultural and economic hubs remain primarily in the coastal cities of New York and Los Angeles, while other regions offer comparably fewer record labels and fans. Nevertheless, Midwest cities played an important role in the history of hip-hop as first adopters of rap on commercial radio (with other regions soon following), each still housing swelling ranks of artists and vast musical output. Still, Mid City today has limited resources for its many artists. There are no large record labels, only a handful of recording studios, and one rap radio station, all of which is true of many US urban areas. Despite the city’s size, the rap scene boasts no central hub and effectively lacks coordination. Instead, artists cluster in several cliques
– small record labels or collectives – with little to no overlap in membership. Questions of authenticity become more salient as these rappers and groups seek distinction in pursuit of what exposure and resources are available. Studying these artists ethnographically allows an insider’s look into the role of authenticity in independent cultural production.
3.2. Collection and Analysis
All participant and group names in this work are aliases. Data were drawn from three months (upwards of 165 hours) of fieldwork and formal and informal interviews. Observations took place in locations ranging from concert venues to street corners, restaurants to recording studios, and anywhere else rappers were found. I met my initial informant through a local music magazine some years prior, expanding to other artists using snowball sampling through referrals and encounters during observations. Throughout fieldwork, I collected physical and online concert advertisements, attending each event, observing upwards of 100 artists. I sought formal interviews with each artist I could, completing 35. These ranged from 33 minutes to two hours and 16 minutes. Eight informal interviews were also conducted in the field. All interviews
10 centered on the process of cultural production, including questions pertaining to tenure, goals, career practices, affiliations, perceptions of conventions, and the local scene generally.
The formal interview sample includes 23 black males, 10 white males, and two black females. Informal interviewees included seven black males and one white male. Racial divisions are representative of the scene, with roughly two-third black artists, one-third white. I encountered no Hispanic or Asian artists in my fieldwork. The relative lack of female participants is representative of the genre. While women played foundational roles in the history of rap, female MCs remain a smaller population than their male counterparts (Keyes 2004). One female Mid City rapper, Anna Marie, informed me that being “the only girl in a group of dudes,” often makes it difficult for women “to get, you know, your words in.”
Initially, I did not limit my study to a single focus. As such, I analyzed interview transcripts and fieldnotes by identifying inherent patterns. Themes regarding authenticity and time emerged naturally from the data, speaking to their saliency. Rappers discussed actions or beliefs which they deem authentic – or, analogously, “real” or “true” (McLeod 1999) – much of which related to conceptions of the genre’s past, present, or future. Additionally, artists’ reported goals and aspirations suggested perceptions of authentic career trajectories. Fieldnotes covered rappers’ interactions with one another, fans, gatekeepers, and local spaces, plus references to others in ways that suggest perceptions of (in)authenticity.
Most artists were affiliated with one of the three cliques that became the focus of my analysis. These three groups – Institute Recordings, The Syndicate Collective, and Sword and
Shield Records – comprised the core of the scene, as evidenced by their exponentially greater memberships, rates of performance, merchandise sales, and media attention. Two other collectives were present; however, they included few artists, of whom none performed and few
11 attended any events in Mid City. The rest of the city’s artists were unaffiliated with any known group and performed only rarely, if at all.
4. Results
4.1. Divergent Group Logics
Affiliations are strategically beneficial and often decisive in artists’ careers (Giuffre
1999). In the Mid City hip-hop scene, many artists affiliate around three logics regarding what constitutes authenticity, accordingly associating with one of three central cliques. Each group’s claims to authenticity took distinct forms, reflecting contending dispositions toward meanings associated with the past, present, and future of the genre. This structure – each clique associating with a different temporal logic – emerged naturally from the data, revealing strong coherence within groups.
Mid City artists draw on discourses of race and space, as is standard in rap (Forman
2000); however, these characteristics play different roles for different groups and are frequently secondary to temporality. Temporal logics can function as a “work around” for white artists who cannot claim racial or spatial authenticity, a mediating force for black artists striving to include white fans, and a primary concentration for artists aiming to shirk demographic logics altogether.
4.2. Institute Recordings and the Authentic Past
“The question of the moment: Will he have to rent, or shall he own it? Should he give his
heart, or just loan it? Can he solicit his art and stay a poet?”
-Victor, song lyric
12 Institute Recordings is an independent record label celebrating its 10th anniversary. The
CEO, Victor, founded the label in 2002 with his first album and has since released myriad local projects. Unlike other labels, Institute continues to release much of its music in CD format with some pressed on vinyl, all at great cost. Most Institute Recordings artists are white, around 30 years old or older, and have steady partners or spouses. They do not fit the traditional image of the young, black MC from the inner city – an image which has been perpetuated by artists, labels, and fans alike over the genre’s history. By championing old-school hip-hop aesthetics, these artists mobilize a past-based logic of authenticity to work around the prominent racial and spatial logics to which they cannot lay claim.
The headquarters of Institute Recordings is a small recording studio located in Victor’s garage in a well-manicured, upper middle class suburb. On my first attempt to visit the space, which I had scheduled some days prior, I arrived to an empty studio. While I waited outside,
Victor’s wife returned home with his children, her furrowed brow signaling that I should leave.
On my drive home, I received a hurried phone call. “Did you go by my house?” Victor asked.
“Man, you gotta call first [before showing up]. I picked up some roofing work today, so I’m not home.” Our brief phone conversation illustrated how Victor’s day job and his wife’s disdain often take precedence over his music. In fact, according to Wade, Institute’s second in command, after years of waiting for the label to turn a profit, Victor’s wife had grown frustrated with her husband’s efforts. The following day, I successfully met Victor. When asked about this lack of economic capital from rapping, he replied, “With music, I’ve barely broken even. But it’s the difference between work and love. I always tell people: if that’s why you’re doing this [making money], you’re out of luck.”
13 If the simplest route to money through art is following convention (Becker 1982), then
Institute Recordings may indeed be out of luck. Yet it is evident through the group’s discourse that money was never a driving goal. Despite the troubles it may cause at home, Victor’s love for hip-hop has not faltered. Indeed, he (like the others on his label) embodies what Bourdieu (1980) identifies as disinterestedness – valuing cultural capital or artistic credibility above economic gain. Still, he is no starving artist. His wife is a successful realtor and, in addition to limited music work, he owns a small roofing company, does yard work, sells vegetables, and even sold drugs in his youth to support his family. “Multitasking careers,” as he calls it, and living in a dual-income household allow him the luxury of recording and performing the “old-school” rap he enjoys with limited concern for how it may affect his ticket or album sales. Where other local rappers are lacking – see especially The Syndicate Collective (section 4.3.) – Victor and his labelmates boast a relative abundance of economic capital.
Wade has worked for Institute Recordings since its inception at the prep school where he and Victor first met. Though he moved his family to the West Coast two years ago, he still spends significant time in Mid City. After a concert on one of his many visits, he outlined the group’s conception of authenticity:
For Institute Recordings, it’s always been beckoning to the past. Even when we started,
we wanted to harken back to all the legendary, innovative stuff from back then. Victor
wanted to blend El-P and MF DOOM, [independent rappers of that era]; I wanted to be
Humpty Hump and Rakim [rappers from the period]. […] For us, the hot shit is ’95 to
2000. We’ve always been that way. That was always true hip-hop for us and that’s what
we wanted to recreate when we started Institute – something better than that pop rap you
hear today.
14 For Wade and Institute Recordings, aesthetic legitimacy is associated with a particular reconceptualization of the past (Zerubavel 1999) – “true,” old-school hip-hop is authentic; conventional, “pop” rap is somehow less so. Their conception of old-school is worth noting. The classic era of rap, though debatable, is typically identified as beginning in the early 1980s with artists such as Run-D.M.C. and L.L. Cool J. (Salaam 1995). For Institute, however, old-school refers to the late 1990s – the period when the genre began approaching assimilation into the mainstream (McLeod 1999). This distinction highlights the group’s contempt for convention.
They appreciate old hip-hop, but privilege the music popular just before the genre bowed to conventional standards – that which was most “innovative” right up until assimilation.
Nevertheless, these artists’ love of (a collective memory of) the genre’s past runs deep, despite its lack of profitability in the contemporary age. As in many independent producer groups, they shun most internationally successful artists and revere underground artists (Hebdige
1979; Kawamura 2006) – those who “go commercial condemn themselves” (Bourdieu 1980:
262). This is not always without sacrifice. For instance, Warren, an Institute rapper and music producer, lamented the difficulties of concert promotion for artists with outmoded sensibilities:
“If we tell 20 people [about a concert], maybe two will show up.” Often, these attendees are spouses or other Institute artists. In this sense, they – begrudgingly – engage in restricted production, creating music primarily consumed by one another (Bourdieu 1993).
While all Institute Recordings artists root their claims to authenticity in the genre’s past, their reasons vary. Ben, who has been with the label for over half a decade, expressed discontent with the majority of the music he heard at a local hip-hop festival that had occurred the weekend prior:
15 I find it so frustrating and so boring. I felt like I watched at least 10 acts that just – I don’t
know what the difference was. It used to be that underground meant something
aesthetically to people. […] Now I feel like underground just means that you haven’t
gone mainstream yet, but you’re working on it!
According to Ben, concepts like “underground” have been coopted by artists seeking conventional mainstream success. These artists cling to convention in ways that make them indistinguishable, in an epitomic display of inauthenticity. According to him, part of what they lack is a political message. In his music, he tries to reclaim this:
I mean, NWA was pretty political, Ice Cube and Public Enemy [famous old-school
rappers]. So many rappers were. […] I think right now, people are begging for political
music again, but there’s just nothing there. One of the reasons we started [my band] was
we were having all these political conversations, like ‘What can we do?’ And the best
thing we could think of was to start a band, you know?
Aligning with a more political past, Ben and others seek a place in the lineage of these authentic rappers. However, the artists he references exemplify the racial politics of their time – decrying racial profiling, supporting the Black Power movement, etc. – while Ben and his collaborators emphasize less overtly racial political issues – for instance, decrying GMOs or supporting the Occupy Movement. Rappers’ self-presentation must accurately represent their racial, spatial, and class experiences (Harkness 2011). Thus, while Ben cites political
16 mobilization as a characteristic of old-school rap which he embodies, it remains in his favor to avoid the racial nature of this politicized past, lest he appear to misrepresent his own life.
Other Institute artists see old-school hip-hop as authentic for different reasons. Warren looked fondly on the simplicity and fun of bygone lyricists, as opposed to the themes of violence and greed he hears today:
To me, when I think of real hip-hop, I think of KRS-One [90s underground MC]. He’s
talking about his DJ or about how good of a rapper he is. He’s not talking about pulling a
gun on you – actually, he talks about not pulling a gun on you. That’s hip-hop to me! […]
[I] try to keep my subject matter on how good of a rapper I am and how much fun we’re
all having at this party. Those are things that I don’t hear anymore.
Warren’s fondness for old-school rap is different than Ben’s, but still sidesteps racial issues. The violence he references is regularly associated with black artists of recent decades. Fun and technical skill, however, are non-raced, timeless qualities with which he can align and avoid racial inauthenticity. Further, he constructs a selective image of old-school hip-hop and its artists to fit his purposes. While KRS-One’s lyrics today are anti-violent, Warren omits the period during which, as a member of the group Boogie Down Productions, the rapper’s work had a considerably more violent edge, before he took a more pacifist tone at the death of his brother in
1989.
The shared emphasis on hip-hop’s glory days that unites Institute is also evident in the spaces that these artists occupy. At Warren’s home recording studio, beside a large shelf of
Institute Recordings CDs, stood a wall of stickers and posters depicting the 90s rappers that he referred to as “real hip-hop.” A similar display was found in Institute Recording’s headquarters
17 at Victor’s home, where old-school rap posters surrounded images of Institute artists. By adorning their spaces with images of a particular cultural past, these artists not only display their preferences, but their legitimacy to visitors. The proximity of their own images alongside old- school rappers “suggests an association, a quasi-genealogical link” between the “modest footsoldiers” of Institute and “global stars” that they perceive as authentic (Wacquant 2004: 35).
Through discursive and visual references to old-school MCs, Institute Recordings engages in authenticity work. Their detailed knowledge and appreciation of the rappers of the past yields a form of “subcultural capital” – an insider’s knowledge conferring status in the eyes of others in the same subculture or unconventional group (Thornton 1995) – by which they seek differentiation from other groups. Yet, more than just illustrating individual tastes, these artists signal an association with past artists as a claim to authenticity in the local field. That visual and discursive signals of authenticity align is testament to their cohesive conception of the authentic.
Defying convention and modeling an old-school style, Institute rappers delegitimize contemporary rap on aesthetic and economic levels. Breaking with “prevailing artistic traditions”
(Bourdieu 1993: 40), artists who pursue economically viable musical styles are perceived as less authentic than those who bring in little income – what Bourdieu (1993) refers to as the
“economic world reversed.” Music is perceived not as work, but as “love,” which protects it from commensuration (Espeland and Stevens 1998). Major record labels often target fans of alternative rap through alliances with independent record labels (Dowd 2004); Institute
Recordings has not benefited from (or sought) any such arrangement. So, how can they afford to live without making money from their art? Victor’s “multitasking careers” seemed a unique response to this challenge; however, most Institute Recordings artists (including him) have steady jobs and working spouses. These combined incomes are apparent in their lifestyles. In
18 addition to stable household income, these artists boast economic capital in the form of assets such as reliable transportation and housing. Victor lives in a suburban community, Warren and his family live in a winding subdivision one hour away from the city, and Wade spends his time between Mid City and the West Coast with his family, for example. In fact, most Institute
Recordings artists live outside of the city, in surrounding counties or farther west. Their relative privilege has a sort of diffusive effect on experience – not suffering the black, urban struggle that typifies what is often thought of as authentic in hip-hop, they seek new means of legitimation, which they find in traditionalism. The economic security which stands between them and typical standards of hip-hop authenticity in part alleviates a need to bow to conventions, freeing them to make “art for art’s sake,” retreating to a constructed memory of the past for legitimacy. In other words, being unable to make the typical claims to rap authenticity via race or space, Institute artists mobilize a past-based logic of authenticity as a means to justify what might otherwise be deemed an inauthentic present.
4.3. The Syndicate Collective and Legitimizing Convention
“I live a lifestyle you niggas be writin’ bout. I’m livin’ with my niggas – I ain’t gotta
write it down. No notoriety. I seek it, they invited now. Police be watchin’ us, my niggas
get indicted, now.”
-Lex, song lyric
The Syndicate Collective relies on modern rap conventions. They create music in line with conventional hip-hop sounds and distribute music through popular rap websites. Founded in
2008 by friends and relatives from one of the more impoverished and segregated areas of the
19 city, The Syndicate today consists of young, black men still residing in the inner city, save for a couple young, black women. Rallying under the catchphrase “Everybody Wins,” the group aims to elevate each member through collective success. Membership is not formalized, but group boundaries are clear. Artists perform at the same venues and collaborate on one another’s albums. They also host collective concerts to showcase their talents. What unites them, in conjunction with race and class experiences, is a present-based logic of authenticity – to these artists, one must engage with the genre conventions of the day, remaining current and “fresh,” to claim authenticity. Ascribed characteristics like race and childhood neighborhood lend them certain credibility automatically – assumed racial and spatial authenticity. Their challenge is to maintain a genuine image – one aligning with inner city lifestyle – while using their music to build a successful career. One rapper, Aaron, put it well:
We come from the real, gutter streets. It’s not good where we come from. [laughs] You
know what I’m saying? But I learned from the big heads, know what I’m sayin, people in
the game [successful rappers]. That’s all people in the game are – survivors of another
life that they had previous to live and talk about it. That’s how you become a legend. […]
We hustlers down here, we gangsters, we G's. And we also smart businessmen at the
same time.
Presently, the face of The Syndicate is late-20s, black rapper Lex. A well-known Mid
City battle rapper and performer, he has seen local and national exposure through magazines, blogs, radio, and even national television. By collaborating with popular rappers, securing large crowds, and performing on radio and television, Lex’s career illustrates an authentic trajectory for a Syndicate artist – not confined to local recognition, achieving legitimacy as a rapper of
20 growing national prestige through conventional channels and consecration. His lyrics, in part, illustrate his conventionality and are representative of the group at large – replete with drug sale references, sexism, violence, and unbridled materialism, as is normative in mainstream rap.
Many Mid City rappers discussed Lex; his tireless work ethic – affectionately referred to as the “Lex grind” – had become legendary. When listing successful locals, Scott exclaimed,
“Especially Lex. Lex has been going above and beyond – industry features [collaborations with artists from the mainstream music industry], really doing his thing.” Calvin enthused, “Not too many people can put on a show and pack it like Lex can.” In addition to these two Syndicate rappers, Ben and Wade of Institute Recordings, Seamus of Sword and Shield, and other artists and fans brought up his career potential on several occasions. How was it that one artist controlled the attention of countless artists and fans in such short order? Strong ties with the local hip-hop radio station helped his local distribution and promotion, but more importantly, he mobilized a unique insider’s knowledge of the industry – a “feel for the game” (Bourdieu 1990:
9). In his own words:
I used to intern for a company that managed the promotional accounts for record labels,
[like] Interscope, Universal, and I think at some point Def Jam. […] A lot of stuff that
people are [still] trying to figure out, I learned from working for them. Like how to set up
a venue with your promotional materials to make sure that people see ‘em. Or, what are
the best spots to hit up for posters. How to talk to a DJ. Just stuff that you might take for
granted, I learned working for them. After I worked there, man, I really did just take all
of that and apply it towards myself.
21 It was true that Lex’s posters and songs were ubiquitous even at events he did not attend. When asked about how knowledge of the industry might influence his actual music, though, Lex grew cautious:
You want to keep what you do genuine, but at the same time [shrugging] you have to be
smart if you want to survive, and kind of reinvent yourself and stay relevant. […] If I see
there’s a Machine Gun Kelly [famous rapper] record that they’re focused on pushing,
then I’ll [pausing] – I can’t necessarily do what he does and I don’t want to bite [steal
from] him in any way, but I’ll try to see, “What do I have in my catalogue that can
compete? What do I have that holds a flame to that?”
“Staying relevant” and “surviving” are just as important to Lex’s career strategy as being
“genuine.” As a producer of a currently successful style of music, he must frame present conventions and the pursuit of economic gain as authentic. Mass acceptance, then, indicates true legitimacy (Bourdieu 1993) and utilizing industry standards is the “smart” way to achieve this.
Other Syndicate artists pursue comparable strategies. Max studies artists and firms, stating:
I see what they do and then I try to incorporate it to a low-scale. Or, ‘how can I make this
work for me?’ […] I just try to take my art and I try to turn it into a product without it
kinda like selling [pauses] selling itself out and being corny.
Similarly, Reed outlined his strategy of monitoring changes in the incomes of mainstream rappers (e.g. Drake and Chance the Rapper), as well as the career moves that precede them. “We
22 get emails with a booking list of artists’ prices,” he informed me. “So, we look at what [an] artist may have accomplished and think, ‘Maybe we should do this.’”
As conventional artists, it is less necessary for The Syndicate to depend on discourses of authenticity. As Peterson (2005) notes, “issues of authenticity most often come into play when authenticity has been put in doubt” (p. 1083). However, objective markers like booking prices, as well as the gatekeeper consecration which lead to increases, represent means to authentic ends.
(Reed, for instance, aims to make sure his parents and his “kids’ kids’ kids” will be financially provided for from his music.) Tapping into insider knowledge, they follow the strategies of successful acts. Modeling their actions after accomplished others, Syndicate rappers hope to reach the same success and freely commensurate their artistic production. Since they can claim racial and spatial authenticity by the traditional “rules” of hip-hop (being black and from the city), they are not deemed illegitimate “sellouts” in a way that Institute Recordings artists, for instance, might be if they expressed the same attitudes. This also lessens their need to actively draw on discourses of authenticity compared to other groups. Yet, they must always be sure to avoid inauthenticity, conscious of remaining “genuine” and not “selling out.”
The sound of Syndicate music is also influenced by their present-based logic. JP, for instance, was mindful of popular styles in planning his upcoming musical project. When I arrived at his recording studio – which doubled as his living room – one afternoon alongside his collaborator Charles, we saw JP bobbing his head to music, smiling. Wondering who produced the instrumental, Charles asked “Is that your beat?” JP’s smile grew as he replied:
Actually, I’m glad you said that. I’m trying to pick beats for my new mixtape [i.e., free
album] that people know but that aren’t super popular yet. Nothing overdone, but shit I
23 already know people like. This one is from that Kanye [famous rapper] and Khaled
[popular DJ] track.
“Oh shit,” Charles replied, “I didn’t even recognize it!” A pleased JP nodded and turned back towards the computer, simply replying, “Perfect.” As he played more songs, it became clear that his mixtape would consist entirely of backing music borrowed from mainstream hits. Linkages to mainstream artists are important to the Syndicate’s authenticity work.
Connections are signaled in performances, as well. For instance, one night Max heavily quoted famous rappers Kanye West and Jay-Z into a spoken word poem, evoking thunderous applause. Incorporating these references into his lyrics, Max established a cultural point of reference for his own work. The audience’s positive response illustrated the success of this strategy. Instead of adorning their spaces with posters beside their own images like Institute rappers do, Syndicate artists perform over these artists’ music and drop their names in lyrics.
Through these practices they connect their own skill and success to the commercial rappers they emulate, signaling themselves as authentic and deserving of the same prestige.
In the pursuit of mainstream music industry success, The Syndicate Collective is aware that convention sells, benefiting from the fact that conventional standards are taken as granted
(thus lessening the need for them to explicitly justify their contemporary styles). This orientation ensures success in the local market (Bourdieu 1993), as evidenced by greater ticket and album sales, as well as more consistent coverage in local newspapers and magazines. Unlike Institute
Recordings artists, many of whom have working spouses, Syndicate artists are mostly single with part time jobs. Their relative lack of privilege motivates them in their music careers while signaling their pursuits as genuine and the desire to improve personal trajectories are prominent in their lyrics and discourse. Towards these ends, they monitor and emulate contemporarily
24 successful rappers. To them, the conventions of the present are both aesthetically legitimate and economically promising. An authentic hip-hop artist is one who elevates his own position through music, achieving the mass popularity necessary to secure economic capital. According to
Reed, successful rappers (like 50 Cent and Jay-Z) “understand the business aspect of it. Using the music as a stepping stone, not staying boxed in.” He went on to assert that these artists are
“using music as a step stool. I think that’s super important.”
Because they are consequentially awarded racial and spatial authenticity by fans and other rappers, Syndicate rappers’ pursuit of profit is less risky than it may be for other artists.
That is, the symbolic capital that they are conferred by nature of racial and class characteristics protects them from the potentially-damning consequences of seeking economic capital in the short term – a loss of legitimacy for pursuing convention (Bourdieu 1993). This, in conjunction with their relative lack of economic capital, allows them to claim a present-based authenticity.
These artists advance a “heteronomous logic of the market” (Bourdieu 1993) by privileging album and ticket sales over more symbolic of cultural markers of legitimacy (such as keeping alive traditional styles or attempting risky, innovative musical techniques). This approach ensures them greater profit in the present, which they legitimize via present-based logics.
4.4. Sword and Shield Records and the Authenticity of Innovation
“Only the true can consume the fumes with me. People find me unusual, usually. Stay in
my own zone, spaced out. Yeah, nigga, Logan and Malcolm, we break ground.”
-Logan and Malcolm, song lyric
25 Sword and Shield Records is racially heterogeneous and somewhat diversified in age and class. A lack of sex diversity persists (only one member was female). Artists originate from across the city and state, as opposed to the urban confinement of The Syndicate or the westward dispersal of Institute. However, they spent much of their time in developing urban areas; many had recently moved downtown or to gentrifying neighborhoods in the city. Some Sword and
Shield rappers had transitioned to the label from Institute Recordings, citing desires to do something different than what their former affiliates were attempting. While they implied that these differences were aesthetic, it is likely that what they truly sought was a renewed spatial authenticity via the new group’s urban image, as well as a new temporal logic of authenticity – one still distinct from the mainstream, but which may enable them to make money from their music someday.
At the time of my visit, they were nearing their first anniversary. The head of the label,
Logan, proclaims that his driving philosophy is innovation – pushing the boundaries of conventional hip-hop with a sound he described as futuristic. In an interview he elaborated this point:
I want the whole idea of [Sword and Shield] to be new new. Like, ‘let’s watch them,
cause that’s where it’s gonna go!’ […] It sounds like hip-hop, but when you listen to
these projects, these ain’t straight hip-hop. [Sword and Shield] is more about genres
blending and exploration and innovation. I hope that that’s it – that when it’s all said and
done, that’s what we’ll be known for.
To these artists, an authentic artist is one who explores, rather than resting on present conventions. Their projects draw on a wide variety of musical forms, foregrounding avant-garde,
26 eclectic instrumentals with complex rhythms beneath unique vocal styles and effects, distinct from radio-ready, conventional rap songs. Bobby, a young, black rapper preparing for his first release on the label, believes the music of Sword and Shield represents rap’s future. As consumer tastes change, he expects conventions to shift:
I feel like that’s hip-hop, man. That’s a new form of hip-hop. I wouldn’t [even] call it
hip-hop; it definitely has its influences, but I feel like more people are gonna be
influenced and inspired by [different] types of music. [Listeners’] ears for music are
growing. You know, people want to hear something different.
Sword and Shield represents an opportunity to engage with the alleged changing tastes of listeners and cultural producers alike. As conventions shift, the label aims to offer what consumers will seek. However, some conventions are difficult to subvert (Becker 1982) and, though they shun current aesthetic conventions, these artists are not above broader industry norms. By creating the music that they expect people will “want to hear” and presenting it through an official record label, Sword and Shield invests in anticipated future conventions with normative means of distribution and promotion.
At one point during my fieldwork, Logan appeared in a documentary film series highlighting unique local artists. At the screening, Sword and Shield operated a merchandise table with CDs, booklets, and patches, as well as t-shirts from their fashion company. Like
Institute Recordings artists, rappers on Sword and Shield make limited income from music alone.
However, rather than juggle jobs or benefit from working spouses, they engage in other artistic endeavors. Selling t-shirts for their design company simultaneously made money, cross- promoted their music, and drew a crowd for the screening.
27 In the film, Logan (like Victor) categorized music as love, not work: “A lot of people think I’m crazy for this goose chase of doing art, but it’s just something I love.” After the film, when an audience member asked how Logan was selected to be the subject of the film, the director replied:
We were looking for somebody that was a little non-traditional. Someone who had a bit
of an edge – had some grit. And someone who was not as concerned with the commercial
side of art and willing to do something new and different.
Logan and affiliates have cultivated an image rooted in noncommercial and non-traditional artistic production, distinguishing it from inauthentic present- and past-based logics. Logan and
Malcolm were apt to distance themselves from conventional hip-hop:
Malcolm: Shit is so fake – and I hate to use ‘fake’ because I don’t know the people
personally, I only see what they want you to see – but it just seems so unrealistic,
the shit that most hip-hop artists do. It’s like [sounding bored] ‘Okay, I’ll just go
back to same old shit.’
Logan: I don’t even listen to hip-hop like that, because of that right there.
Malcolm: I think with the commercial side, that’s what it has turned into – some straight
clown shit.
They, like Institute, accrue cultural capital in “disinterestedness” (Bourdieu 1993) – disregarding short-term economic gain while emphasizing cultural capital. Distinct from Institute, however, is
28 Sword and Shield’s emphasis on future conventions, revealing a drive for economic capital in the long-term.
Over coffee in a gentrified region of the city one day, the group discussed potential performers for an anniversary concert, sharing a desire to downplay hip-hop. At one point, Hank, a white rapper from southern Missouri who helped form Sword and Shield, lamented “It’s getting too rappy!” Logan affirmed, “Yeah, nobody wants that.” Though the majority of Sword and Shield artists identify as rappers, the label as a whole is careful to not be limited to that image, instead emphasizing an innovative fusion of rap with other genres. Hank explained,
“We’re not just a hip-hop label; we’re not an electronic label. Nothing’s off limits.” As authentic artists, then, they are not constrained by current genre boundaries.
Another important theme of the meeting was the conscious maintenance of the image of unconventionality. By organizing an event distinct from other local rap shows – e.g., relying on live instrumentation rather than DJs and exhibiting electronica, afro beat, and other genres in conjunction with rap – the group aimed to push the boundaries of typical rap performance.
Responding to the promoter’s concern that certain non-rap performers “might be out of place on the [concert] lineup,” Hank quickly replied “I’m okay with that if they are. Plus, it gives us more credibility.” Genre-blending and norm-bending are central to the group’s future-oriented authenticity work. The process is integral to their attempts to transfer legitimacy from the field of restricted production (Bourdieu 1993) – that is, only in the eyes of other local performers – to a broader audience.
The most important element of authenticity work for these artists is the ways they discursively mobilize their aesthetic, business, and even moral dispositions to distinguish from local and mainstream rappers. Just as Institute artists held varying ideals regarding the nature of
29 the appeal of old-school hip-hop, these artists discussed different qualities of future-based authenticity. Bruce, a mid-30s, black rapper and recent transplant from Institute to Sword and
Shield, explained that he likes to “use some 90s type beats” but accompany them with elements of “trance” music and digital sounds in what he called “next level type shit.” Perhaps a result of his time spent with Institute, Bruce embraces old-school musical elements but furthers them with newer, alternative sounds. Others, like Seamus, an early-30s, white rapper, feel that good hip- hop should be “gritty,” and “off-time, or [use] some kind of intriguing timing – some offbeat drums.” Conversely, “polished hip-hop sounds like everybody else. And, sadly enough, it sounds like, you know, the Cash Money [mainstream rap group and record label] and shit.” Again, distinction from mainstream hip-hop was important. This may be accomplished through the incorporation of unconventional instrumentals, be they “dirty,” “off-time,” or “unpolished,” as
Seamus prefers, or incorporating unexpected sounds and instruments, as Bruce described.
Inauthentic artists create conventional, “polished” hip-hop that sounds like “everybody else”; the authentic innovate and experiment with different musical approaches.
Sword and Shield artists also assessed the authenticity of national acts. Seamus was particularly vocal about artists he deemed inauthentic on the basis of being aesthetically displeasing or using “manipulative” business practices. Other Sword and Shield rappers were quick to compliment those who they found innovative. Bobby offered one such example:
People like Little Dragon [electronic group] and Flying Lotus [instrumental artist] – it’s
just a different feel. I’m really interested more in electronica kinda mixed with the hip-
hop and dubstep a little bit. […] It is electronica, but it has soul and it can be a little hip-
hop.
30 Sword and Shield Records is similar to Institute Recordings in its defiance of current convention. However, while Institute’s disdain is fueled in part by racial considerations (as discussed in section 4.2 above) Sword and Shield’s mixed race roster seems to allay this issue.
Instead, their logic of authenticity is shaped in part by anticipation of changing conventions. To them, authentic artists are not limited to the styles of the past or present, but recognize emerging tastes at the threshold of genre boundaries. Similar to The Syndicate, they have “ambitious career goals,” and through “sustained effort, unflagging optimism, and resistance to […] temptations,”
(Frye 2012: 1567) aim to advance their careers, while aligning around tastes and aspirations
(MacLeod 1987). Spatially, Institute Recordings artists move farther from the city proper and
Syndicate members largely remain in the urban spaces where they grew up, but Sword and
Shield artists occupy developing and gentrified spaces. After leaving an infamously impoverished area on the outskirts of Mid City some years ago, Logan moved his studio – the label’s eventual headquarters – to the redeveloping downtown Mid City. By frequenting emergent and gentrified areas like this, these artists, on the one hand, accrue cultural capital through hipness, and, on the other hand, face less racial segregation than the other groups.
Forming a record label in this setting allowed them to legitimately create and package their brand of authentic music with high hopes for success in these developing art scenes, until which point conventions shift, advancing their careers in the process.
5. Conclusions
Cultural producers legitimize their work in many ways. In the lucrative and ubiquitous hip-hop music industry, artists need no longer justify the genre itself, but rather their own place within it. This project explored how it is that rappers at the independent level navigate the field
31 of production in search of this legitimacy. Despite contestation between groups, there is no one, objective authenticity. Instead, artists utilize different temporal logics of authenticity crafted to their collective goals and tastes. I present a typology of these logics that are reproduced and mobilized within groups. In their authenticity work, they draw on meanings embedded within sounds, objects, individuals, and ideals associated with the past, present, and future to produce intergroup boundaries and intragroup cohesion regarding what constitutes an authentic cultural producer (Table 2).
Despite cohabitating the same field, these groups rely on different logics of authenticity to signal their ideals and aesthetics. For independent artists, “the only usable, effective capital is the (mis)recognized, legitimate capital called ‘prestige’” (Bourdieu 1980: 262). Some, like
Institute Recordings, seek prestige singularly. Others, like The Syndicate Collective or Sword and Shield Records, seek to convert this symbolic capital – as well as cultural capital acquired in the process – into (short or long term, respectively) economic success. All of them understand race and class based on social and geographic positions within a racial hierarchy intersecting with hip-hop. Temporal logics of authenticity are, in this sense, a tool used to navigate these positions and claim legitimacy. These logics are not “situational” (Harkness 2012) because their meaning and usage do not vary by circumstance; rather, they remain consistent within groups.
Artists in the first group, which I call Institute Recordings, favor a particular conception of old-school hip-hop as the legitimate form of the genre. In unambiguous defiance of mainstream rap, their music evokes their collective memory (Zerubavel 1999) of rap’s past. This logic of authenticity may result from privilege. The label’s primarily white roster has for the most part removed itself from the urban core of the local scene, yet laments a loss of the authenticity that originated there. Bourdieu (1993) has noted that conflict between “commercial”
32 and “cultural” producers in artistic fields often results in geographic separation; however, these artists have migrated not for artistic ideology, but as a result of their families’ upward socio- economic trajectories. The level of wellbeing that has allowed them to leave the city dulls the difficulties that plague other unconventional artists (Becker 1982), enabling them to shun convention with limited financial repercussions (even if other stresses, like a wife’s disdain, may sometimes force them to prioritize other employment over music). Steady family income, owned vehicles, and secure housing in upper middle class neighborhoods (all indicative of economic capital) are shared features in the lives of Institute Recordings rappers. While their contemporaries in other cliques lean on convention or innovation with hopes of economic payoff, this group draws on tradition to acquire that in which they may feel lacking – i.e., authenticity.
Because they are secure in their finances, they are free to do this with little concern for how their music might sell.
For these artists, economic capital from music is forgone in the short-term and not especially necessary in the long-term. Yet their past-based logic of authenticity may also function as a response to (internal or external) racial or class distinctions. (Indeed, Wade often mentioned race, referring to himself as a “white boy dreaming about battle rapping” in one freestyle session.) Though Institute Recordings does include some black artists, the disproportionate number of whites may help fuel the saliency of this logic. As their lives grow further from the images of the “old-school” rappers they revere (and traditional racial and spatial logics), a strong past-based logic of authenticity functions to justify their privileged present. Like
Grazian’s (2003) bluesmen, “white musicians need to justify their claims of authenticity to their audiences (as well as to each other), and while they cannot do so on racial grounds, an ideological orientation rooted in aesthetic exclusivity may provide a handy self-defense in the
33 absence of other symbolic markers of authenticity” (p. 157). Being a well-off, white rapper may seem less risky if one can claim authenticity in other ways.
The second group, a large collective that I call The Syndicate, represents a present-based logic of authenticity. These artists utilize modern industry conventions in the pursuit of mainstream success. In competitive fields, artists often act in entrepreneurial ways to increase exposure (Scott 2012). These rappers mimic the promotion, distribution, and aesthetic styles of successful artists from the national stage, legitimizing present conventions as a means to authentic ends. Like Institute Recordings, The Syndicate engages in authenticity work by citing and imitating artists who fit their conception of authenticity.
If, as Becker (1982) claims, cultural objects should be understood as “a choice between conventional ease and success and unconventional trouble and lack of recognition” (p. 34), then it seems these artists have opted for “ease and success.” However, whereas Institute artists are free to divert from convention with limited financial risk, The Syndicate lacks this freedom.
Unable to remain afloat exclusive of steady income, they would risk resources making alternative music. Instead, conventional hip-hop functions in part as a means to improve the socioeconomic trajectory of these primarily black, lower class artists. The relative uncertainty of their social worlds may inspire them to utilize links to “legitimate actors and institutions”
(Peterson and Anand 2004) and imitate previous successes (Bielby and Bielby 1994) to advance their careers. Their racial and spatial authenticity gives them added freedom to do so. They are able to focus on their music with less fear of missing out on necessary income. The mass acceptance and economic wellbeing of conventionally successful rappers justify behavior and style that otherwise might be perceived by fans or other artists as “selling out” or chasing profit.
Because of this alignment with conventional production and its benefits, it is less necessary for
34 these artists to mobilize their present-based logic of authenticity as frequently or adamantly as other cliques may defend their own.
The last group, a new record label that I have called Sword and Shield Records, aligns with a future-driven logic of authenticity. In creating self-proclaimed “futuristic” music, they claim to push the boundaries of convention while distinguishing from the styles of the past and present. Sword and Shield artists blur genre boundaries in ways that they believe represents the desires of a growing proportion of hip-hop fans. They also blur the racial boundaries to which the other two groups seem to adhere. In this sense, their genre-blending may serve as race- bridging in the local scene. These white and black artists operate in developing and gentrified areas of the city where racial and ethnic cultures overlap, yielding no small amount of cultural capital. Over time, hip-hop, like other genres, has grown to incorporate a broader spectrum of fans and cultural producers. Aesthetic trends have simultaneously evolved to incorporate elements of other musical forms. Sword and Shield aims to anticipate these changes and claim legitimacy under a future-based logic of authenticity.
Sword and Shield’s aspirations for the future of music influence their actions in the present. Their avoidance of convention, then, should not be perceived as privileged risk – as with
Institute Recordings – but strategic mobilization of perceptions of what may be conventional as genre frontiers fade. Though it might appear that Sword and Shield pursues different ambitions then The Syndicate Collective, in reality they enact a similar – albeit adapted – reliance on convention in accordance with perceptions of authenticity. Adopting a sort of strategy of preemption, Sword and Shield reacts to the shifting preferences of consumers rather than monitoring current successes. What is conventional and profitable can and does change (Becker
1982) and their novel approaches derive from expectations for the future while incorporating
35 small elements of past and present styles (Bjorn 1981). Authenticity functions to justify the risk of innovation as well as legitimize their music to consumers who may not (yet) appreciate the still-unconventional sounds they create.
Although the Mid City hip-hop scene was segmented along artist orientations – as has been demonstrated in other competitive cultural markets (Carroll and Swaminathan 2000;
Peterson and Berger 1975) – the boundaries that these cultural producers erected did not bar them from interacting and sometimes collaborating. Two had even departed one clique for another prior to this study, but maintained strong ties with rappers from each camp. Still, logics of authenticity remained consistent as participants discussed and traversed different contexts, illustrating their stability.
Temporal logics of authenticity naturally emerged from these data as distinct between groups; however, such logics are not necessarily expected to be mutually exclusive in every case.
In other fields, producers with contradictory temporal orientations may nevertheless be affiliated.
For instance, many cliques form based on locale, such as regional writing collectives in which authors with traditional, conventional, or experimental styles and techniques (and thus different claims to authenticity) align. Within music as well, several successful independent record labels house artists appearing to span this typology, e.g. Stones Throw Records, which releases traditionally-inspired soul and R&B records alongside future-driven (or “left-field”) electronic hip-hop.
This work has important implications for future discussions of authenticity in the sociology of culture and cultural studies. First, despite findings in other fields (Grazian 2003;
Peterson 1997), cultural producers do not always share agreed-upon ideals regarding what makes one authentic. Rather, they may rely on different, competing logics to distinguish themselves and
36 their work. For instance, rap has its own standard “rules” regarding authenticity – traditionally, that young, black men from the inner city are the most authentic. However, the independent artists discussed above met (or didn’t meet) these criteria to varying degrees and sought legitimacy in different ways accordingly. Second, standards of authenticity are not only based on possession or presentation of biographical characteristics such as race (Grazian 2003; Lopes
2000), age (Mullaney 2012), hometown or class background (Forman 2000; Smith 1997), etc.
Cultural producers may also draw on characteristics of objects – specifically, the degree to which cultural products align with traditional, conventional, or innovative styles in their field. These temporal logics may supplement or replace biographical logics, especially for those lacking in the ascribed attributes necessary to claim the latter. Constructions of authenticity shift with time
(Smith 1997) and temporal logics may represent the most recent product of this progression.
Theoretical conceptions should thus be expanded to account for them.
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