Rap Vs. Hip Hop
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Chris L. Terry’s debut novel Zero Fade was on Best of 2013 lists by Kirkus Reviews and Slate.com, and shortlisted for the American Library Association’s Best Fiction for Young Adults. He lives in Los Angeles, and has contributed to Razorcake since 2006. Born in East L.A., like every good Mexican boy, Art was raised in the Imperial Valley of California, where he was bathed in cartoon and monster movie glory from both sides of the border. He began scribbling at a young age and later found out he could get paid meager wages to do artwork and illustration. He currently lives in Orange County CA and spends his time spilling ink on his drawing board and trying to sell his paintings. One Punk’s Guide is a series of articles where Razorcake contributors share their love for a topic that is not traditionally considered punk. Previous Guides have explored everything from pinball, to African politics, to outlaw country music. Razorcake is a bi-monthly, Los Angeles-based fanzine that provides consistent coverage of do-it-yourself punk culture. We believe in positive, progressive, community-friendly DIY punk, and are the only bona fide 501(c)(3) non-profit music magazine in America. We do our part. One Punk’s Guide to Rap Music originally appeared in Razorcake #96, February/March 2017. Original article layout by Todd Taylor. Adapted to zine by Matthew Hart. Printing courtesy of Razoracake Press, Razorcake.org This zine is made possible in part by grants from the City of Los Angeles, Department of Cultural Affairs, is supported by the Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors through the Los Angeles Arts Commission, and funded by the California Arts Council, a state agency. Learn more at www.arts.ca.gov. The art of peer pressure ctober 2012. I woke up when it was still dark and biked through Chicago’s Far North Side to catch a bus. I was Oteaching creative writing for a couple of nonprofits, and would sometimes spend half the day taking mass transit to different meetings, trainings, and classes. This morning, I was going to meet with a high school principal and sign paperwork that would allow two of my students to graduate. I was proud. From my window seat, I sipped coffee and watched the sun rise over beige buildings, then get sliced by newly bare trees. The bus crawled down to the West Side, the black section of Chicago with less name-recognition than South Side. I could have used more sleep, but I was excited to give Kendrick Lamar’s new album, good kid m.A.A.d city, my undivided attention during the hour-long ride. I was sucked in immediately by the first song, a precise tale of meeting a girl at a party, sneaking off in his mom’s minivan for a booty call, and getting cornered by gangbangers after parking on the girl’s block. good kid is about coming-of-age in Compton, California, where violence and vices can suck any young person in. Throughout the album, young Kendrick foams at the mouth after smoking laced weed, gets harassed by cops and gangsters who can’t believe he isn’t gang-affiliated, narrowly escapes arrest after breaking into a seemingly empty house with his friends, and sees one of those friends get shot by a rival. Kendrick Lamar is an astoundingly insightful and technically gifted rapper. Throughout this album, his perspective is that of an innocent victim of circumstance. This isn’t a deflection. Listening to good kid is an empathetic experience. It makes you feel like these extraordinary bits of bad luck can happen to anyone, and that fifteen minutes can determine the rest of your life. I’d been thinking a lot about how circumstances can narrow options while teaching high school students and incarcerated kids, who often had a heartbreaking amount of things in common. I led writing exercises that helped my students pinpoint their own turning 1 points. I’d been wondering about mine, too; about things I’m proud to have done, and questions I wish I’d asked. I was born in March of 1979, two months after the first rap record was ever released. That would be Rapper’s Delight by The Sugarhill Gang. It’s the song that starts off with some funky gibberish: “Hip hop the hibbit the hibbit to the hip hip hop ya don’t stop the rocking...” You know it. My parents didn’t play it in the hospital when I was born, but I feel like I’ve been hearing that song for my whole life. In my geekier moments, I’m pleased to be the same age as rap music. We’ve grown up together. Before I loved punk, I loved rap t started like most hip hop stories: with educational television. I For those of you not born at the ass end of Generation X, Square One was a public television show that used funny sketches to teach math. I loved it, maybe because my hippyish parents didn’t sanction much TV watching, and I had no real sense of my options. One evening in 1987, eight-year-old me was watching Square One when this skit came on with funky music and three guys standing outside of a snack truck, shouting about eating lots of burgers. In between verses, one of the guys imitated the beat with his mouth. Out in my suburb, it was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. At dinner, I tried to beatbox, too. Spaghetti flew. My dad told me to “stop spitting.” I told him and my mom about what I’d seen—the group was called The Fat Boys. That weekend, Dad took me to a record store in Boston, and I picked out my first tape, The Fat Boys Are Back. The Fat Boys were a New York rap trio originally known as The Disco Three. Their manager remade them as an approachable, humorous act, and this earned them success in an era when the mainstream still viewed rap as profane and far too black. 2 In the mid ‘80s, The Fat Boys were in a watch commercial, released the legendary “All You Can Eat” video (set at a Manhattan pizza buffet, of course), collaborated with The Beach Boys, and even starred as nurses in a movie called Disorderlies, which features a boob scene that my goon friends and I rewound a solid dozen times at my ninth birthday party. Run-DMC’s Raising Hell reminded me of rock bands like AC/DC and The Ramones, who used minimalism for maximum impact. The Fat Boys were essentially the prototype for the rapping cartoon animals you see in ads for macaroni and cheese, but I’d say that their music is more than just a novelty. Next time you’ve got a few minutes to kill, go online and pull up some of their videos and TV appearances. There are none more likeable. Raising Hell o paraphrase Notorious BIG, I let my Fat Boys tape rock until the tape popped, and was talking about it in my third Tgrade class when one of my classmates said, “Oh, you like rap? Do you like DMC? My babysitter likes them.” This led to my first moment of geeky jealousy, where I suddenly had to know everything about this cool new bit of pop culture. That night, I asked my dad about DMC. “Never heard of them,” he said, shaking his head. My father is a big music fan. By then, he’d already exposed me to music that I still love—Prince, Jimi Hendrix, Muddy Waters—by pulling their LPs from one of his many particle board record crates and cranking them on the living room stereo. Realizing that there 3 was interesting music that he didn’t know about was a big moment. I’d just found out that there was a whole world out there beyond my house. But Dad wasn’t going to be outdone. Later that week, I came home from school to find this purple and green record propped up on the hall table. On the cover was a photo of two black guys standing in front of a tall window in leather jackets and fedoras. Dad swooped in from the kitchen, snapped up the record, and led Run-DMC’s Raising Hell reminded me of rock me to the stereo by the piano. bands like AC/DC and The Ramones, who used “They’re not just called DMC,” he said. “They’re called Run- minimalism for maximum impact. DMC. I guess that’s their names.” “Which one is DMC?” I asked. Dad was already sliding the record out of the sleeve. “I don’t know. The clerk at The Coop didn’t tell me that.” He put the needle down and it was just two voices, louder than I was allowed to speak at home. The first guy shouted, “Now Peter Piper picked peppers,” then the other guy chimed in, “But Run write rhymes.” They went back and forth a couple more times, then these big drums with bells kicked in. Dad moved to block the record player, a habit from years earlier when my sister and I would dance to Michael Jackson. Run-DMC’s Raising Hell was my first LP, and I’ve still got that copy, complete with abrasions at the beginning of “It’s Tricky” from the time I almost lost my stereo privileges by trying to scratch it on the family record player.