The Fugees Vs. Gangsta Rap: Gangsters, Cowboys, and Refugees

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The Fugees vs. Gangsta Rap: Gangsters, Cowboys, and Refugees

Nicholas Kramer English 404 Thesis Professor Robert Ness 4-20-05

“So while you're imitating Al Capone I be Nina Simone And defecating on your microphone.” – Lauryn Hill “Ready or Not”

In February of 1996 The Fugees (Wyclef Jean, Lauryn Hill, and Prakazrel Michel,

a.k.a. Pras), a relatively unknown group at the time, released their second album, The Score.

The album eventually went multi-platinum, quickly leading the group to national and even

international acclaim. The success of The Score is made more remarkable by the fact that it is

not gangsta rap, the prevailing subgenre that had dominated hip-hop since the late 1980s. The

Score, although seemingly similar in theme and style to contemporary gangsta rap, contains basic ideological differences that drastically shift the music’s impact.

These differences can be found in the Fugees’ lyrics, the cinematic interludes that occur between the songs, and in the choice of the two cover songs that appear on the album.

It is the purpose of this paper to discuss the ideologies of both The Fugees (as it is expressed on The Score) and mainstream gangsta rap. Gangsta rap, as will be shown, contains an inherent emphasis on place-specific identity and individuality, and, consequently, tends to glorify all aspects of its locality, including many negative trends in the culture of underprivileged black youth. On The Score, however, The Fugees stress universality over specificity in terms of their place-defined identity and assert their music as art with a message. This separates their ideology from the images they depict and allows them to question the social ills they describe.

Gangsta rap also denies its roots through the internalization of conservative discourse and the loss of communal responsibility to the resurgence of individualism in the 1980s. The

Fugees, however, reverse this ideological shift and reconnect their music with its roots in the ideals of both 1970s hip-hop and earlier African-American artistic traditions. Not only that,

The Fugees weave critiques of gangsta rap into their lyrics alongside social critiques, giving

their music a political weight denied to gangsta rappers by their anti-liberal discourse.

Commenting on the unprecedented success of The Score, Martine Bury of Vibe

Magazine accurately described its influence as “what amounted to a revolution within the revolution that hip hop was no longer” (378). Indeed, hip-hop, beginning humbly in the early

70s, eventually came to dominate both the music industry and pop-culture. In the process, however, hip-hop itself changed greatly over the 20 years before The Fugees arrived on the scene. Like any form of music, hip-hop evolved with the help of many individuals over several decades and was greatly affected by its environment. In order to understand any major change within it, one must first see how it developed.

In effect, hip-hop as we know it today had two separate beginnings. As a form of music hip-hop was born out of the local party scenes of The Bronx and Manhattan in the early 1970s. Local DJs from these low income areas, in opposition to their more successful counterparts in the city’s upscale clubs, would set up dance parties on the streets, in parks, or in project rec-rooms. Out of this environment came the man generally credited with

“inventing” hip-hop, Clive Campbell (better known as DJ Kool Herc), who began DJing parties in 1973. His innovative style quickly gained him a reputation in the Bronx party scene. Rather than playing singles or other well known tracks, Kool Herc would “cut” from one “break” to the next, creating a continuous stream of rhythm. The “break” in a funk or disco song is the point at which the rhythm section is highlighted. Usually the vocals and melody drop out and only the drums and sometimes the bass remain.

Herc wondered what would happen if he got two copies of the same record

and cut back and forth between them in order to prolong the break or sonic

climax. Unwittingly, Herc had stumbled upon the breakbeat, the starting point

for much hip hop, dance, techno, and jungle (drum ‘n’ bass) today. His serious

devotees, the dancers who saved their best moves for the break segment,

became known as break boys, or simply b-boys. (Fernando 15)

Herc’s style of mixing, which eventually eliminated everything but the “breaks,” was highly popular and inspired other DJs including Afrika Bambaaataa and Grandmaster Flash. Soon the new mixing style took over the party scenes of The Bronx and began to move into

Manhattan. As this occurred DJs’ sets increasingly became a demonstration of their skills, and parties developed into live shows which eventually expanded to include a DJ, his MCs

(“Masters of Ceremony or ‘mike controllers’” soon to be known as “rappers”), and a host of b-boys (15). Together, these crews, or posses, would tour around African-American neighborhoods holding parties and making mix tapes which were distributed as advertisements for their future shows.

During this early era, hip-hop came to embody a new collectivist spirit that echoed earlier forms of African American expression.

To many [hip-hop] meant liberation and a return to the real stuff: ‘70s dance

music had buried an emotionally charged, folk-based ‘60s soul music which

spoke in the victorious poetic rhetoric of civil rights and black power. All

those elements of black folk culture that had been denied by the elegance and

pretense of the ballroom or the club came back with a vengeance on the

avenues and in the parks [of New York City]. […] Most of all, rap put black

musical performances back on a collective basis, a social mix in which the

community’s ethos could be affirmed […]. (Szwed 43)

Afrika Bambaataa, one of the first hip-hip innovators, was especially effective in this respect.

As the leader of the New York gang The Black Spades, Bambaataa used his influence to

reverse the gang’s social role. Rather than detracting from society, Bambaataa’s group worked to keep “the drug dealers in his area at bay and [to form] the Organization, uniting several different projects against the threat of violence and drugs” (Fernando 15). This initial community effort eventually evolved into the Universal Zulu Nation, “an international hip hop movement that upholds such principles as knowledge, wisdom, understanding, freedom, justice, equality, peace, unity, love, and respect in their manifesto” (15).

In addition to this community activism, the nascent hip-hop movement also paid its respects to black artists and political leaders of the 1960s. John F. Szwed, writing about hip- hop’s artistic predecessors, cites writers such as Amiri Baraka, Sonia Sanchez, Stanley

Crouch, Gil Scott-Heron and the Last Poets, and others as forerunners of hip-hop (Szwed 9-

10). Along similar lines Joanna Demers notes that early hip-hop DJs “favoured an elite collection of soul, funk, and R&B for their samples […]. During the 1980s this soul repertoire was known as the ‘Old School’, and for numerous rappers and DJs epitomised an authentic black consciousness” (Demers 41). This collection included works by Norman

Whitfield, Marvin Gaye, Curtis Mayfield, James Brown, Funkadelic, The Isley Brothers, and even popular mid-60s artists like Harry Belafonte, Ray Charles, Isaac Hayes and Nina

Simone. Demers goes on to explain that this music so often sampled by the original hip-hop

DJs contained “a previously unheard-of level of racial and political unity” (44). This greatly influenced hip-hop’s original ideology, which would begin to change with the coming of the

1980s

The reign of the DJ was soon to end, however, as MCs, who rapped over the beat to escalate the party, began to gain increasing importance in the formerly vocal-less hip-hop music created by the DJs. According to Mtume ya Salaam in his article “The Aesthetics of

Rap,” “What began as simply an extra device to add excitement to the show eventually became the essence of the form” (ya Salaam 307). By the late 70s MCs had begun to overtake their DJs in popularity and importance to the music (Fernando 19). This trend was only exacerbated when, after the 1979 release of The Sugar Hill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight,” the first hip-hop single ever to make it onto the Billboard charts, record companies began signing hip-hop acts. While DJs were essential to the live production of hip-hop music, they

could easily be replaced by studio sampling techniques and drum machines. As a result record companies only wanted to sign, and pay, rappers because their voice would be heard

on the record, whereas DJs were a nonessential expense.

Consequently, 1979 saw hip-hop’s second beginning. The release of “Rapper’s

Delight” marks the birth of the hip-hop industry—the money making machine that supports, distributes, and drives the music today. Although major record companies were slow to embrace the new style of music, hip-hop artists were able to put out their music and build local and eventually national followings. Some were signed by smaller more adventurous labels; however, many more struck out on their own, starting up their own labels and recording studios.

Throughout the 1980s the hip-hop industry grew steadily thanks to the crossover success of acts like Run-DMC and the popularity of Def Jam, Tommy Boy, Cold Chillin’ and other hip-hop record labels. Hip-hop scenes sprouted up in cities all across the country, most notably in Seattle, Atlanta, Oakland and eventually The City of Compton in Los Angeles.

The expansion of hip-hop across America in the 1980s at first gave the music a unifying

undercurrent That complimented its 60s inspired ideology . This, however, would not last.

Hip-hop had been developed in a period immediately following the Civil Rights

Movement and as such expressed the solidification of a discourse of unity in the minds of

blacks across America. As hip-hop moved into the 1980s, however, it began to gain enough

popularity to make mainstream America, and eventually the big business of the major label

recording industry, sit up and take notice.

As the hip-hop industry grew throughout the 1980s, hip-hop artists attained increasing amounts of national exposure. Along with this increase in media attention came the problem of remaining connected to the poor, black, mostly inner-city, neighborhoods (‘hoods) from which they came. Since the 1982 release of Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five’s “The

Message,” which, according to Vibe Magazine’s Anthony DeCurtis, “set what is still the gold standard of socially conscious songwriting,” hip-hop lyrics have been expected to function,

according to Chuck D of Public Enemy, as “black America’s CNN” (DeCurtis 92-93). For many, hip-hop became “the news you’d never catch on the real CNN—including the slang, the jokes, the styles and attitudes—presented in the voices of the people who [were] living it”

(DeCurtis 92). As a result, rappers fell under increasing pressure to “maintain connections to

the ‘hood and to ‘keep it real’ thematically” (Forman 72). Consequently rap acts had to

“continually strive to reaffirm their connections to the ‘hood” in order to avoid the sin of

“selling out” to the established music industry (72). During the 1980s one of the main artistic

objectives of hip-hop in America was, as it remains to this day, to document and “represent”

daily life in the “ghetto.” Originally this included community loyalty which extended to the

larger ideal of national African-American unity. The prevailing discourse of the industry

would soon change, however, as gangsta rap shifted the ideological emphasis from commonality and community to specificity and individuality.

Although the hip-hop industry grew rapidly, before 1990 most hip-hop artists remained in “the underground”—i.e. outside the mainstream or popular music industry—and their ability to remain attached to local “underground” scenes directly reflected their commitment to not “selling out.” In this light, according to Greg Wahl, gangsta rap’s common depictions of violence, drugs, criminal activity, and misogyny become a major selling point. In his cultural analysis of NWA (Niggaz With Attitude), one of the first and most well-known gangsta groups, Wahl notes that the rappers intensified “the level of obscenity, violence, and misogyny” in their lyrics in an act of “commercial self- marginalization” (Wahl 3). According to Wahl, by doing so, NWA rejected any possibility of national publicity through radio-play or major label distribution. In an ironic twist, however, their self-destructive attachment to the underground brought NWA greater publicity as national-values protest groups began publicly denouncing the group. As a result NWA received national exposure without damaging their reputation for “keeping it real.”

The success of NWA and similar (mostly West Coast) rap groups in the late 80s paved the way for a new style of hip-hop. With the coming of the 90s the escalating “level of obscenity, violence, and misogyny” in the music eventually came to characterize gangsta rap as a whole. In fact, the violent and often criminal lifestyle that came to be associated with and depicted through West Coast hip-hop of the late 80s is what gives the subgenre its name—“gangsta” rap. Significantly, the heightened amounts of violence and obscenity did not usually have a negative effect on album sales. In fact, as with the case of NWA, the

obscenity frequently boosted popularity as it brought with it a sense of both authenticity and

“underground” appeal.

According to Murray Forman, however, this rise in hip-hop’s shock value was actually a side-effect of a parallel trend in the music. He argues that gangsta rap is defined, not by the fact that its lyrics tend to promote violence, criminal behavior, and misogyny, but by its use of regional affiliations and specific locations to define individual identity.

With the discursive shift from the spatial abstractions framed by the notion of

‘the ghetto’ to the more localised and specific discursive construct of ‘the

‘hood’ occurring in 1987-88 (roughly corresponding with the rise and impact

of rappers of the US West Coast), there has been an enhanced emphasis on the

powerful ties to place that both anchor rap acts to their immediate

environments and set them apart from other environments and other ‘hoods as

well as from other rap acts and their crews which inhabit similarly demarcated

spaces. (Forman 68)

In his article “‘Represent’: race, space and place in rap music,” Forman posits that until gangsta rap, hip-hop’s outlook tended to parallel its growth as an industry—specifically movement towards national unity and the ideal of a “hip-hop nation.” After 1987-88, however, the focus shifted from reaching outward, to turning inward. As Nelson George wrote in 1992, “rap [had] gone national and [was] in the process of going regional” (qtd. in

Forman 68). This shift in emphasis parallels Wahl’s rationale for the increase in violent and negative lyrics. Not only did the taboo language and subject matter help artists “keep it real,” it also, along with specific references to location, represented a documentary-like record of life not just in the ‘hood in a general sense, but in a specific ‘hood (the City of Compton in

the case of NWA). As a result gangsta rappers began to write specifically “about situations, scenes and sites that comprise[d] the lived experience of the ‘hood” (72).

While gangsta rap’s depictions of violence, criminality, and misogyny are not necessarily the central defining element of the music, they can be interpreted as a product of this extreme focus on specific locations (‘hoods). The “lived experience” that gangsta rappers were representing in the late 80s existed in an extremely hostile environment. In her book,

Nuthin’ but a “G” Thang, Eithne Quinn holds that an economic shift from heavy industry and

manufacturing to the service industry throughout the 1980s brought about adverse conditions

in many inner city areas, especially Los Angeles.

Changing models of capitalism, exemplified and exacerbated by neo-

conservative policies, impacted deeply on income and employment patterns

since the late 1970’s. In 1979, 13.8 percent of African Americans earned

wages that, on a year-round basis, placed them at or under the poverty level;

by 1989 (the year of NWA’s “Gangsta Gangsta”) that share had jumped to

36.7 percent. Many areas became increasingly impoverished as avenues to

upward mobility were closed off. In areas of south Los Angeles, semiskilled

and unionized manufacturing employment, concentrated in automobile

assembly, tire manufacturing, and steel production, faced a relentless stream

of plant closures. In the void left by manufacturing decline, and the removal

of blue-collar jobs to the suburbs and overseas, came a profusion of low-

skilled service-sector jobs. (Quinn 43)

Quinn goes on to cite numerous examples of gangsta rappers-to-be whose lives were affected

by this economic trend, including NWA’s Ice Cube, Snoop Dogg, Coolio, and J-Dee of Da

Lench Mob. This late 80s economy, in which it was increasingly difficult for young inner- city blacks to find decently paying jobs, provided few opportunities for African American youth. According to Quinn, “[w]ith time on their hands, no money, and few legitimate prospects, some [black youth] joined street gangs; some participated in the burgeoning underground drug economy; and some turned their energies to the local music scene” (48).

These three “reactions” to their economic and social situation provided both the motivation and subject matter for gangsta rap. At the same time, however, pressures to “keep it real” prompted many gangsta rappers to depict graphic images from their increasingly dangerous and crime-ridden ‘hoods.

Because gangsta rappers were reacting to the social and economic situation of the late

80s and early 90s, defenders of gangsta rap are quick to point out its role as social criticism.

The argument here is that by depicting “true-to-life” images of the ‘hood, gangsta rappers were attempting to critique the current social/political/economic situation. Through being shown the grim reality of ghetto life, hip-hop audiences were expected to infer that

“something was wrong” with the present situation. While this interpretation may carry some weight, it takes gangsta lyrics out of the context in which they were widely understood.

Gangsta images were documentary-like records of inner city life, but they also represented a means of “keeping it real.” The high levels of obscenity, violence, and misogyny fed into gangsta rappers’ localized identity. Consequently, although possibly not intentionally, the pride that accompanied this identity ran parallel to the images of criminal and other negative behavior. As a result, gangsta rap frequently seems to glorify the social ills it is supposed to critique.

This, however, is not the only argument against gangsta rap as social criticism. Quinn explores the superficiality of gangsta-criticism as she writes:

It hardly needs to be said… that gangsta’s critical questioning of conventional

thinking—if at times remarkably incisive and intricate—was partial,

inconsistent, and self-serving. If these artists gave voice to the real frustrations

and desires of poor and working-class people; if they poignantly called into

question depleted protest rhetorics; and if they insightfully commented on the

terms of their own cultural production: their vernacular theorizing was still far

removed from the practice of rigorous intellectual inquiry. Working from

inside the pop-culture marketplace in a retrenching conservative era, gangsta

rap was necessarily deeply implicated in the structures it exposed. (Quinn 38

my emphasis)

Quinn argues that regardless of gangsta’s critique of contemporary socio-political and

cultural landscapes, it was still shaped by the discourse it sought to reveal. G-rappers made

money rebelling against the system, but their rebellion was only superficial. Their critiques continue to work within the conservative capitalist ideology that emerged in 1980s America.

Ironically, gangsta rap internalized the very ideologies that created the socioeconomic situation it criticized, namely the preeminence of conservative economic policies in 1980s

America.

Quinn’s three “reactions” of African American youth to late 80s economic restructuring also help demonstrate this paradoxical mentality. Turning to gangs, drug dealing, and the music industry seems to be contradictory to American neo-conservatism, but beneath the surface, all of these reactions share an individualistic (and anti-liberal)

entrepreneurial spirit, which can be viewed as a direct result of the internalization of

conservative economic ideologies. Specifically in reference to gangsta rap this is evidenced

quite strongly by (1) g-rap’s economically self-serving increase in depictions of violence,

criminality, and misogyny (obviously present in the lyrics[see Appendix 1 & 2]), (2) its

fiercely individualistic outlook (represented by the stressing of specific locality [see

Appendix 3]), and (3) its entrepreneurial view of the hip-hop industry as “a hustle” like any

other business venture, legitimate or otherwise (Quinn 37).

Quinn’s chapter “Alwayz into Somethin’” outlines the entrepreneurial individualism

that pervades gangsta rap (41-65). In this tracing of gangsta rap’s history Quinn exposes its

intimate relations with the other two “reactions” to the economic situation of late 80s, specifically L.A. gangs and the cocaine trade.

The trope of the cocaine capitalist in gangsta rap, thus, comprises a number of

interwoven strands: the meteoric rise of the fledgling entrepreneur; the

rejection of traditional notions of communal responsibility in an age of

individualism; the “ruthless” start up business organization; and the marketing

and distribution of a “dangerous” product. (Quinn 57-58)

Quinn’s comparison of the inner-city drug trade with the hip-hop industry highlights the similarities in basic ideological mentality between conservative America and gangsta rap.

Gangsta rap’s subconscious conservatism explains not only its individualism and

entrepreneurial spirit, but also its abandonment of liberal/progressive politics, which is evidenced in the denial of communal responsibility. Through their survivalist notion of the hip-hop industry as merely a method for generating income, no different from any other, g- rappers frequently deny their position as both racial representatives and role models. This is

evident first and foremost in the nonchalance with which gangsta rap depicts violence, criminality and misogyny. Regardless of its function, the inclusion of such subjects in commercially distributed music could be considered potentially damaging to society, or at least to impressionable youth who will undoubtedly acquire the music regardless of age restrictions. In addition g-rappers’ denial of their position as racial representatives is evidenced in the widespread view within gangsta rap “that, for disaffected black youth, fighting freedom battles through…uplifting self-representations, is no longer a viable approach in view of persisting and entrenched political and economic disadvantage” (Quinn

35-36).

This view, however, exposes a striking disconnect in African American social and artistic thought. African-American art and politics have been thoroughly intertwined throughout history, from the Harlem Renaissance to the Civil Rights / Black Power movements. Rather than participating in and contributing to this progression, gangsta rappers instead reacted against their tradition. The effects of this break with tradition and internalization of contemporary conservative discourse are two-fold. First, the acceptance of this new discourse nullifies (or at least lessens) the impact of any social or cultural critique made within the context of gangsta rap. Second, the anti-liberalism that accompanied the

1980s conservative movement explains g-rap’s eventual abandonment of traditional African-

American liberalism and protest politics, resulting in a rejection of both communal responsibility and responsibility to the community. By ignoring their roles as racial representatives and abandoning African American art as a forum for serious social critique and political action, gangsta rappers (consciously or not) placed themselves outside traditional African-American forms of political and artistic expression. In the midst of

economic restructuring and widening income gaps, disaffected black youth, heirs to a long

history of communally responsible and politically active liberalism, lost touch with their

roots and instead turned to gangs, drugs, and “a hustle” known as gangsta rap.

By 1996 gangsta rap had reached the height of its popularity. That year, however, the

subgenre was rocked when, not six months apart, both Tupac Shakur and The Notorious

B.I.G., two of hip-hop’s biggest stars, were publicly murdered. Both artists’ violent lyrics

and “gangsta” lifestyles were cited by critics as cause for the crimes. Regardless of the

reasons, the two murders served as a wake-up call within the hip-hop industry as a whole,

paving the way for the rise in popularity of “conscious” hip-hop or “message rap”1 as an alternative to gangsta rap. Although The Fugees were neither the first nor the last conscious hip-hop artists, their prominence, along with the eerie timing of The Score’s release (less than six months before Tupac’s murder), allowed them to succeed where their predecessors had failed. They broke gangsta rap’s hold on the music industry, paving the way for this new politically conscious hip-hop subgenre.

The Fugees’ importance in this respect lies in their denial of gangsta discourse within their lyrics. As a result, The Score represents The Fugees’ specific efforts to distance themselves from gangsta rap. This very distancing, which will be further explored later in the essay, also places them in a position to directly critique the discourse of other hip-hop artists, specifically gangsta rappers. Hip-hop lyrics, from the early days onward, included “boast” or

“dis” raps in which a rapper lyrically promoted himself, his crew, or his DJ over other groups. The Fugees, however, place an ideological spin on their “dis” raps through

1 Message Rap: a subgenre of rap that overtly and explicitly engages with political and cultural themes relating to race, economics, social justice, history, etc. (Forman 89)

consciously avoiding any gangsta discourse in their own lyrics while also directly critiquing other rappers who further that discourse.

The Score contains a plethora of critiques against gangsta rappers. On the track

“Family Business” almost every verse, including the guest appearances by Refugee Camp

members such as Omega and John Forte, contains some reference to how hip-hop, and as a

result images of inner city black life, have changed as a result of gangsta rap’s influence.

Omega makes the first of such references in his opening verse.

Troops with scully hats and Timberland boots

No more break-dancing for loot.

Niggas hustle and shoot

(Omega – “Family Business”)

He makes reference to the b-boys who dominated the dance floors of the early hip-hop scene.

Rather than make money “break-dancing,” joining a DJ’s crew and touring around the ‘hood performing, most young blacks now turn to violence and crime as a means of financial support. This actually echoes the trend evident in Quinn’s “reactions” to the changing socioeconomic conditions of the late 1980s (see pg. 9-10 above). Similarly, Wyclef, at the end of his verse, says, in the voice of a “kidnapper,” “This ain't the seventies I'm far from a jive turkey” (Wyclef – “Family Business”). Again Wyclef references the change that had come over hip-hop since the days of “old-school” in the 1970s.

In addition, Refugee Camp member John Forte also references the loss of innocence within the African American community.

We used to jump rope,

But now we gun hope

Bustin' shots off of project roof tops

(John Forte – “Family Business”)

Whereas in gangsta rap the lyrics show violence and other negative trends in the African

American community from the first person [see Appendix 1 & 2], John Forte, instead decries the loss of innocence on a collective level. He uses the pronoun “we” to set himself up as a spokes-person for his community, yet the critical nature of his intent, i.e. his expression of a loss of innocence through the juxtaposition of the present with an image of the past, places him in a position where he has both the insider qualifications and the outsider insight to make such a critique.

Finally, the two most cutting examples of The Fugees’ condemnation of gangsta rap are made by Pras and Lauryn on the tracks “The Mask” and “Ready or Not” respectively.

Pras’ verse on “The Mask” is a story rap, depicting a situation that might have been in any gangsta rap lyric. The outcome, however, is purely Fugees.

As I rung the bell someone tapped me on my back,

I turned around and look it was a rookie in a mask.

He said, "I got a itch on my trigger,

Don't move nigga I'm taking you for murder."

See cops got two faces like two laces on my Reeboks.

My knees knock as I step back for a clear shot,

Well did you shoot him? Naw kid I didn't have the balls,

That's when I realized I'm bumpin' too much Biggie Smalls.

(Pras – “The Mask”)

As was mentioned earlier, “Biggie Smalls” (The Notorious B.I.G.) was one of the most popular rappers at the time of The Score’s release, and when taken in light of his usually violent lyrics, the outcome of Pras’ lyrics cuts much deeper than the average “dis” rap [see

Appendix 2]. Rather than falling into the standard gangsta pattern of resolving conflicts with violence, Pras shifts the situation’s outcome. His unwillingness to use violence sets up Pras’ comment as an ideological critique of gangsta morality.

Another direct critique of gangsta rap is in Lauryn’s verse on the track “Ready or

Not.”

Frontin' niggas give me hee-bee-gee-bees

So while you're imitating Al Capone

I be Nina Simone

And defecating on your microphone.

(Lauryn – “Ready or Not”)

Lauryn obviously distances herself, and The Fugees, from any gangsta pretense, while simultaneously exposing the contradiction created by gangsta rap’s inherent blurring of fiction and reality. She does this through the use of “frontin’,” a word traditionally applied to rappers who fail to “keep it real,” and the image of “imitating Al Capone.” This reference exposes the pretense that gangsta rappers put forth—the “front” that they are “keeping it real” when they rap about perpetrating crimes and committing acts of violence. Lauryn, in keeping with The Fugees’ avoidance of the actual term “gangsta,” makes reference to “Al

Capone,” a specific gangster, who, as the head of a large organized crime syndicate, was not

associated with a family legacy. As a result the use of Capone’s name calls up only the

negative aspects of gangsters and not any idealized vision of outlaw as hero, as would the

term “Godfather” (which Pras references in his verse on “The Mask”) or even the name

“Corleone” (the family depicted in the movie The Godfather).

In addition to this, Lauryn’s rhyme also metaphorically reveals The Fugees distance

from gangsta rap in ideology. She points out that while other rappers are merely “frontin’” and “imitating” criminals, she is, and so too The Fugees are, (note the use of direct metaphor instead of simile) Nina Simone, a highly outspoken and respected musician. It is also somewhat significant, although possibly not totally intentional, that Nina Simone is African

American and spoke out in favor of the Civil Rights Movement, while Al Capone is white.

These critiques of gangsta rap, as well as others throughout The Score, are merely the beginning of The Fugees’ debunking of gangsta discourse. Before embarking on a deeper close reading of The Score, however, one must first gain an understanding of Sarah

Thornton’s notion of “subcultural capital,” as this idea is extremely important to understanding The Fugees’ ideological separation from gangsta rap.

Eithne Quinn employs this idea in her analysis of gangsta rap as she describes how g- rappers are able to create a marketable product from their “lived experiences.”

Since impoverished young blacks hold so much sway over America’s youth

trends, they are at great pains to pursue those income-generating pursuits that

can result from their youth practices, identity, and image. Black subcultural

responses to poverty and dislocations were, wherever possible, converted into

resources, and this conversion logic itself lent great vitality and credibility to

gangsta tales. (Quinn 53)

In a sense, g-rappers are “bilingual”—they occupy a unique cultural position. They have direct access (having grown up in the subculture of “impoverished young blacks”) to a

limitless supply of subcultural capital (e.g. intimate knowledge of gangs, ghetto life, prison culture, etc.). At the same time, g-rappers also possess enough pop-culture knowledge to convert, or translate, their subcutural capital into a commodity (recorded and/or performed music), which can be sold for profit (Quinn 56). If this idea is viewed in light of Forman’s definition of gangsta rap as being focused on specific locations (‘hoods), it becomes clear that the more ‘hood specifics—the more intimate knowledge of place-specific black culture—one has access to, the more subcultural capital one possesses. Specificity draws the producer (the gangsta rapper), and thereby the product (the music) and the consumer (the

fans/listeners), closer to that subcultural reality, which is highly desirable and therefore highly profitable.

When the idea of subcultural capital and the “bilingual” state of gangsta rappers is

applied to The Fugees, however, it becomes apparent that they are actually tri- (if not poly-) lingual. Not only do they tap into the subculture of the American ghetto (specifically the

‘hoods of central New Jersey), but they also have access to Caribbean-American immigrant culture. Wyclef Jean was born in Haiti and immigrated to the U.S. when he was nine years old. His cousin and co-rapper Pras is also of Haitian decent and their group’s name, The

Fugees, comes from “a term of derision, short for refugees, which was usually used to describe Haitian immigrants” (Bush). Consequently the group was highly influenced not only by African-American subculture, but also Afro-Caribbean immigrant subcultures. These multiple sources of inspiration allow The Fugees to enter into a dialogue between these subcultures as well as between subculture in general and popular culture. As a result they are in a position to stress universality and commonality rather than specificity and locality.

As was noted earlier, gangsta rap began in the late 1980s when a generalized, or universal, notion of “the ghetto” was replaced with what Forman calls “a localised and

specific… construct of ‘the ‘hood’” (Forman 68). Take, for example, NWA’s lyrical

allegiance to Los Angeles and the City of Compton. In rapping about the problem of police brutality, Ice Cube makes it clear that he is speaking directly from his experience in L.A.

Ice Cube will swarm

On any muthafucka in a blue uniform

Just cuz I'm from the CPT, punk police are afraid of me

A young nigga on a warpath

And when I'm finished, it's gonna be a bloodbath

Of cops, dyin in LA

Yo Dre, I got somethin to say

(NWA - “Fuck Tha Police”)

In general, The Fugees avoid these kinds of place specifics, i.e. “I’m from the CPT.” In a similar song entitled “The Beast,” however, The Fugees do make a few location references, but they are always generalized and varied. In one verse, Wyclef makes two references to

New York City, where he lived for several years, but he does so in the midst of many other location references, both actual and fictional, biographical and non-biographical.

Mista Mayor, can I say something in yo’ honor

Yesterday in Central Park they got the Jogger

Okay, okay.

Let's get the confusion straight in ghetto Gotham

The man behind the mask you thought was Batman is Bill Clinton.

Who soon retire, the roof is on fire

Connie Chung brung the bomb as it comes from Oklahoma

Things are getting serious, Kuumbaya,

On a mountain Satan offered me, Manhattan help me Jah Jah

(Wyclef - “The Beast” my emphasis)

The multiplicity of allusions to place and the fact the some are fictional dilutes any

specificity that could be drawn from these references. Whereas Ice Cube locates himself in relation to his place-allusions, Wyclef’s verse remains unattached to any specific place.

Later in the same song, Pras opens his verse with the line “The streets of corruption got me bustin’ and cussin’ in the concrete jungle.” Here, rather than drawing on an image of a specific city, Pras universalizes his depiction. He is writing about “the streets of corruption” in a U.S. city, but at the end of the line he uses the metaphor “concrete jungle.” This is a reference to Bob Marley’s song of the same title. Marley uses the oxymoronic metaphor to describe life in Kingston, Jamaica. Pras’ application of the metaphor to American ghetto life connects his personal experience to Marley’s and in doing so stresses the commonality between them.

In a similar vein, the chorus of “The Mask” contains “shout outs” to members of different ‘hoods. Although this bears similarity to the specificity of gangsta raps, the way in which place-names are used is quite different [see Appendix 3]. Each successive repetition of the chorus repeats the rhythm, but adds a new set of “shout outs.” The first chorus is as follows:

(M) to the (A) to the (S) to the (K)

Put the mask ‘pon me face just to make ya next day,

Feds be hawkin me

Jokers be stalking me,

I walk the streets and camouflage my identity,

My posse in the Brooklyn wear the mask.

My crew in the Jersey wear the mask.

Stick up kids doing boogie woogie wear the mask.

Yeah everybody wear da mask but how long will it last.

(Wyclef and Lauryn [Chorus] – “The Mask”)

When the chorus is repeated “Brooklyn” and “Jersey” are replaced, first with “Uptown” and

“Queens”, then with “the Bronx” and “the Isle” and finally with “Haiti” and “Jamaica.” The

place references in “The Mask” cover the range of The Fugees’ subcultural capital. They can

tap into life experiences within the subcultures of ‘hoods in New York City and New Jersey,

as well as Haiti and Jamaica. Again the multiplicity of subcultural influence produces a

universality that is absent from gangsta rap’s singular place-references.

Beyond their non-specific place references, The Fugees’ lyrics tap not only into

American ghetto life, but Caribbean culture and American immigrant cultures as well. In

addition, The Fugees are highly conscious of their place in the history of African American artistic and political expression. Throughout The Score, The Fugees make references to many

important African American leaders, including Louis Farakkhan (Pras – “Fu-gee-la”),

Frederick Douglas (Wyclef – “How Many Mics”), and Alex Haley (Wyclef – “Family

Business”). In addition to those figures, The Fugees also make frequent references to

important figures in African American and other minority musical traditions, including

Roberta Flack (Pras – “Fu-gee-la”), Carlos Santana (Lauryn - “Zealots”), and Peter Tosh

(Lauryn – “The Beast”). The most frequent, and indeed the most important reference of this type is undoubtedly Bob Marley. Within The Score The Fugees reference Bob Marley’s songs and lyrics no less than six times, far exceeding any other reference. They even go as far as to cover Marley’s “No Woman No Cry.”

The two cover songs that appear on The Score are extremely important to The

Fugees’ universalistic discourse. Each represents a conscious link with the past and

recognition of hip-hop’s place in the evolution of African American artistic expression. The

first is a version of Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly.” By updating this classic jazz song

The Fugees extend their references beyond just an inter-textual meeting. Instead, the cover opens a dialogue between past and present forms of art, effectively bridging the time gap that exists between them. In the same way that The Fugees’ lyrics tap into multiple modern subcultures, the cover of “Killing Me Softly” reaches back to African American history and tradition and brings it into the present through the act of artistic translation inherent in their updating of its musical style. Simply put, The Fugees make themes from the past relevant in the present through the musical translation of a jazz song into a hip-hop song.

Similarly, The Fugees’ other cover song is a hip-hop version of “No Woman No

Cry.” In this case, however, the cover not only connects with the past, but also with a parallel cultural tradition within the African Diaspora, namely reggae and Afro-Caribbean culture.

Whereas “Killing Me Softly” is a direct cover, The Fugees’ version of “No Woman No Cry” includes lyrics that have been updated and relocated to modern-day America. Each successive verse begins with a similar line, “I remember when we used to sit/rock in a

Goverenment/Project yard in […]” (Wyclef – “No Woman No Cry”). The final word, however, changes in each verse to reflect a different locality, “Brooklyn,” “Jersey,” and

“Trenchtown.” The first two are important locations in Wyclef’s life and reflect his

relocation of the song to ghettos of the U.S. The last verse is unchanged from the original

Marley lyrics. The juxtaposition of these three locations, the original with two from Wyclef’s

personal experience, connects him personally to Marley’s experience, and also works to

universalize the message. Marley wrote his song about dealing with ghetto life in Kingston,

Jamaica. Wyclef recognizes the universal experience that Marley touches on in the song and expands it by depicting himself through a reworking of Marley’s words. In effect, the updating of “No Woman No Cry” increases the universal appeal of Marley’s original by highlighting and enhancing the culturally transcendent message it already contained, while at the same time adding to the universality of The Fugees’ music by connecting it to an international African Diasporic tradition, rather than just African American tradition.

Another aspect of The Score that furthers the emphasis of universality (as well as the

social and political consciousness of the lyrics) is The Fugees’ consistent references to

religion. Again, rather than drawing from a single Americanized tradition, The Fugees tap

into several different “black” religious traditions, specifically Christianity, Islam, and

Rastafarianism. Almost every song on the album contains a reference to one of these three

religious traditions. This ranges from blatant references like Wyclef’s line in the chorus of

“Zealots,” “I beg that you pray to Jesus Christ, why? / O Lord, father don’t let him bury me,

whoa” (Wyclef – “Zealots”) to much more subtle allusions like: “Gun blast, think fast, I

think I’m hit / My girl pinched my hips to see if I still exist,” (Wyclef – “Ready or Not”).

Here, Wyclef compares himself to Jesus Christ through the image of placing a hand in his

side to tell if he is really alive (John 20.25-27).

In the first song on the album, “How Many Mics,” Lauryn exposes The Fugees’ deep spirituality in her line:

If only they knew that,

It was you who was irregular,

Sold your soul for some secular

Muzak that's wack, (Lauryn – “How Many Mics”).

By saying that other rhymes are “secular” Lauryn is setting her own lyrics, and with them

The Score as a whole, in opposition to “them kids who try to do this [rap] / for all the wrong

reasons.” Later in the same verse Lauryn connects her lyrics to the Bible, saying, “I’ll back this [verse] with Deuteronomy / Or Leviticus, God made this word / You can’t get with this”

(Lauryn – “How Many Mics”). Again she implies that Fugees’ lyrics bear a unique spiritual weight that separates them from other “secular Muzak.”

In addition to Christian biblical references The Fugees also connect themselves to

Islam as a whole and specifically to the Nation of Islam. The chorus of the track, “Family

Business,” contains a subtle reference to Islam. Although written in the rhythm and rhyme scheme of a Christian children’s prayer, the song calls the spirit of evil “Shaytan,” which is the Arabic word for Satan or the devil.2 In fact the word is even derived from the same

Hebraic root.

Just walkin' the streets death can take you away

It's never guaranteed that you'll see the next day

2 According to The Encyclopedia of Islam Shaytan “is a personal name equivalent to Iblis [Islam’s central devil figure] and its employment is parallel to the Jewish and Christian use of the name.” In the Islamic tradition al- Shaytan “is the one who tempts Adam and Eve, but his role in scripture extends well beyond this one myth.”” “A]l-Shaytan is the tempter and it is in that role that the emphasis falls within the Kur’an” (The Encyclopedia of Islam).

At night the evil armies of Shaytan don't play

So defend the family that's the code to obey

But if I fall asleep and death takes me away

Don't be surprised son, I wasn't put here to stay

At night the evil armies of Shaytan don't play

So the family sticks together and we never betray.

(Chorus – “Family Business” my emphasis)

In his verse on “Fu-gee-la” Pras, boasting of his lyrical skill, similarly references the line’s spiritual nature in an Islamic rather than a Christian sense.

Farakkhan reads his Daily Qu'ran

it's a phenomenon,

lyrics fast like Ramadan.

(Pras – “Fu-gee-la”)

Although these are cursory references, they do display The Fugees’ knowledge of Islamic

belief. Louis Farakkhan may be a name known to many, especially young African-

Americans, but a somewhat more in-depth knowledge of Islam is required in order to make

the pun “lyrics fast like Ramadan.”3 Pras’ relatively simple pun does not suggest that he is an

Islamic scholar, but it does highlight The Fugees’ understanding and recognition of the

diversity of tradition that exists beneath the surface of “black” culture.

3 Ramadan is the 9th month of the Islamic Calendar and is ordained by the Qur’an as a month of fasting. The act of fasting during the month of Ramadan is one of the Five Pillars of Islam. (“Ramadan” – Wikipedia, my empahsis)

The song “Fu-gee-la” also contains an example of The Fugees’ references to

Rastafarianism. Each repetition of the song’s chorus is prefaced with a short rhyme by

Wyclef.

Armageddon come you know we soon done

Gun by my side just in case I gotta rump

A boy on the side of Babylon, trying to front like you're down with

Mount Zion. (Wyclef – “Fu-gee-la”)

Most obviously, this pre-chorus makes reference to the Rastafarian ideas of “Babylon” and

“Zion.” For Rastafarians, Babylon, in its most general sense, refers to any oppressive system, which includes both political systems (governments) and socio-economic systems

(White/European dominated capitalism). Babylon is placed in opposition to the ideal of Zion, which has traditionally been taken to mean Ethiopia, the original homeland of all displaced

Africans. The concept of Zion, however, has generally come to refer to the Garden of Eden, or heaven on earth, whether that be an actual physical place, or merely a state of being, i.e. freedom from Babylon/oppression. As before, The Fugees access this knowledge and reference it, further increasing their universality.

Besides making references to these three religious traditions separately, The Fugees also, through both ambiguity and direct juxtapositions, bring them into dialogue with one another. In the song “Zealots” Pras’ lines, “No matter who you damage / You're still a false prophet” (Pras – “Zealots”) ambiguously refer to both Judeo-Christian religious traditions and to Islam. All three of these religions believe in a chain of prophets from Abraham to

Jesus and/or Muhammad, although they are not necessarily shared. Consequently all three religions have had to deal with, and as a result share a concept of, “false” prophets; although

they may not agree as to which prophets are “true” and which are “false.” As before with

Lauryn’s “secular Muzak,” Pras instills spiritual weight in his own words, and does so without privileging any specific religious tradition. The ambiguity universalizes the religious undertone of the song.

“Manifest,” the last song on the regular album before the “Outro” and credits, also contains verses that refer to multiple religious traditions, yet they do so much more explicitly.

The song opens with a verse by Wylcef in which he tells, in first person, the story of a modern Christ figure. Through his verse he not only sanctifies himself and his personal experience, but also exalts the lives of his listeners who can relate to the story he imparts.

I woke up this morning

I was feeling kind of high

It was me, Jesus Christ and Haile Selassie I

Selassie I said greetings in the name of the most high,

Jah Rastafari,

(Wyclef – “Manifest”)

In the story the Christ figure interacts with Haile Selassie I, the last Emperor of Ethiopia who is considered by Rastafarians to be the worldly embodiment of God or “Jah”. The juxtaposition of the two figures, both of whom represent God on Earth, again universalizes the song’s message. In this verse, Wyclef recognizes the multiplicity of religious traditions in

America, specifically “black” America, and through that promotes universality. The fact that any and all of the traditions can be drawn upon and intermixed to produce a singular piece of artwork works against the gangsta mentality of place defined identity. Instead, The Fugees

recognize that identity is created out of a number of conflicting factors and cannot be reduced to something as simple as the ‘hood from which one hails.

Beyond references to place, culture, and religion, The Fugees also explicitly deal with issues of universality in their communal rather than individualistic outlook. One of the most interesting manifestations of g-rap’s individualistic discourse lies in its frequent depictions of

violence and crime perpetrated against African Americans. NWA’s “Appetite 4 Destruction” includes the line, “Remember the first nigga that runs is the first to get shot,” and later “I

shoot down a million niggaz and shoot one more.” From these lines it is obvious that NWA

does not have much of a communal feeling for anyone, especially their own race. In another

example The Notorious B.I.G. makes similar references to black-on-black crime.

I've been robbin’ motherfuckers since the slave ships

with the same clip and the same four-five

Two point-blank, a motherfucker's sure to die

That's my word, nigga even try to bogart

have his mother singing "It's so hard..."

(The Notorious B.I.G. – “Gimme the Loot”)

Again, this is evidence of g-rap’s denial of communal responsibility in favor of capitalist

individualism. The Score contains critiques of this self-destructive individuality in several of the album’s “interludes.” These short skits feature overlapping monologues, the most

prominent of which are spoken by a “narrator” called Ras Baraka. In the final interlude, also called “Outro,” just before the credits, he relates an anecdote which turns into a rant about the stupidity of black-on-black violence and crime.

I remember one time I was so fuckin’ high, man. I just finished drinkin’ I

came home, started sniffin’. I just got up and fell the fuck out yo. Instead of

my brotha helpin’ me up he just start straight kickin’ me in the bathroom.

“Yo, git up, git up, git up. Mom gon’ git us yo. Git up.” (Yo what the fuck!?)

I wake up in the mornin’ man, layin’ in my throw-up and shit all over my

nose, man. You know what I realized? It’s easy to kill niggas, man. It’s easy

to kill niggas cause they look like you, they smell like you, shit they even live

on your same mothafuckin’ block. Only problem we have is killin’ the people

who don’t look like us—who oppress us. Shit. ‘ey, if you wanna impress me,

shoot the mothafucka who turned off my lights. You wanna impress me, shoot

somebody who makin’ my bills high all of the time. See it’s easy for cats to

kill other cats. It’s just the dogs they got trouble with. (Ras Baraka – “Outro”)

This rather depressing story exposes the hypocrisy inherent in gangsta discourse. Baraka goes on to express an answer to this outlook, saying, “It’s time fo’ us to stand up like men and women, yo. Word up. We gotta stand up and do somthin’ about this” (Ras Baraka –

“Outro”). This is placed in opposition to the individualistic gangsta mentality that results in brothas “kickin’,” “robbin’,” or shooting one another.

In direct opposition to gangsta individualism, The Fugees actively promote community and black unity in their lyrics as well. The song “Family Business” is probably the best example of this side of The Fugees’ discourse. The interlude introducing the track again features Ras Baraka who provides an uplifting speech promoting black unity.

Yo, kid. We gotta get our family together, man. You know. We gotta get

organized. We just can’t be out here, you know, high and smoked up and

whatever. We get our stuff organized. Whatever we gon’ do, we gotta do it

right, you know. We need captains and lieutenants; we need our brothers to be

brothers. (Ras Baraka – “Interlude #5”)

The interlude then fades out into a guitar riff followed by Wyclef’s first line, “Haitian

Sicilians” (Wylcef – “Family Business”). Ras Baraka’s comments outline the need for community within the ghetto; African Americans need to work together to promote their community and to help one another. Wyclef’s first line in the song just before the beat drops echoes this very sentiment, which eventually becomes the theme of the song. He uses an allusion to the plethora of gangster movies about the Italian American mafia to illustrate the unity that he desires within the African American community. The Sicilian mafia, or at least the image of them created by movies like The Godfather and Goodfellas, values family ties

over any other loyalty, and Wyclef cleverly combines that stereotype with the tightly-knit

mentality of immigrant communities and the African American practice of referring to one

another as “brothers” and “sisters.” In fact that very idea is expressed when Baraka says,

“We need our brothers to be brothers,” i.e. he wants African Americans to start not just

calling, but actually treating one another like family.

The use of the Italian Mafia as a metaphor for the imagined ideal of black unity

highlights an important distinction that The Fugees make in their lyrics. They actively

differentiate between gangsters, or the mafia, and “gangstas,” as they exist within popular hip-hop imagery. In fact, at no time on The Score do The Fugees refer to “gangstas.” Instead

they utilize a related metaphor to refer to the image of a black gangster. The Fugees, playing

on the movie mythology inherent in Wyclef’s metaphor of “Haitian Sicilians,” repeatedly refer to “gangstas” as “cowboys.” For them, the image of gangsters, or the mafia, carries a

universalist connotation that does not really apply to the average gangsta rapper’s mentality.

The individualist discourse fits much better into the lone gunslinger mythology of the

American Western.

This relationship is most evident on the track “Cowboys.” The song is introduced by an interlude in which Ras Baraka compares ghetto violence to a cowboy movie.

Yo, man, we just rolled up there, shit was ill, man it was ill. Yo, bullets

everywhere, guns, smoke, jokers fallin off they porches, just shootin…

straight cowboys, man… straight motha fuckin cowboys. (Ras Baraka –

Interlude #9)

The Interlude is followed by Wyclef’s introduction in which he asks, “So, you wanna be a cowboy?” Wyclef then rhetorically answers this question in the chorus of the track,

“Everyone wants to be a cowboy / Grab your gun boys / Ole-eee!” (Chorus – “Cowboys”).

Throughout the song, both Wyclef and Pras make references to well known Westerns and

Western stars, such as John Wayne, in their metaphorical critique of gangsta rap. At one point Wyclef notes that “Sundance Kid is the everyday purse snatcher.” Here he exposes an interesting problem produced by the image of a “gangsta” that also happens to apply to gangsta rappers themselves. The “gangsta” as an imagined character within music creates an ambiguity between the real and the fictional. Just as “the everyday purse snatcher” can become a cowboy in Wyclef’s lyric, so too can the imagery of gangsta rap re-imagine the average criminal as an idealized anti-hero.

The ambiguity highlighted through the cowboy metaphor leads to The Fugees’ next point of departure from the conventions of gangsta rap. In addition to their focus on universality, The Fugees also distance themselves from gangsta rap through their self-

conscious acknowledgement of their music as a fictional artistic construction. Gangsta rap,

on the other hand, exists in an ambiguous state between the actual and the fictional. G- rappers create fictional images of violence intended to be representative of real-life problems

in their lyrics, yet they also continually strive to “keep it real” which in turn gives their lyrics

the illusion of absolute truth. Through this the gangsta rapper’s persona within their songs

can be, and frequently is, mistaken for their actual identity. Thus, g-rap confuses the real with

the un-real.

The ambiguity of the reality depicted in gangsta rap songs can be glimpsed in the

introduction of the song “Fuck Tha Police.” The song is set up as a metaphorical trial in a

court staffed by the members of NWA.

Right about now NWA court is in full effect.

Judge Dre presiding in the case of NWA versus the police department.

Prosecuting attourneys are MC Ren Ice Cube and Eazy muthafuckin E.

Order order order. Ice Cube take the muthafuckin stand.

Do you swear to tell the truth the whole truth

and nothin but the truth so help your black ass?

(NWA – “Fuck Tha Police”)

Although this introduction creates a mock trial, the final two lines, which let listeners know

that NWA will “keep it real” in the following verses, also implies that everything that follows

is absolutely true. This includes both Ice Cube’s line, quoted earlier, about creating a

“bloodbath / Of cops,” and MC Ren’s similar comments about killing police officers.

Make ya think I'm a kick your ass

But drop your gat, and Ren's gonna blast

I'm sneaky as fuck when it comes to crime

But I'm a smoke em now, and not next time

[…]

I'm a sniper with a hell of a scope

Takin out a cop or two, they can't cope with me

(MC Ren – “Fuck Tha Police”)

The implication that these lyrics are true depictions of the rappers’ potential actions blurs the line between fact and fiction. The connection to inner-city black subculture created through this ambiguity may be profitable for the rappers; however, the blurring that occurs prevents listeners from discerning whether the lyrical depictions are supposed to be critical of violence against authority, or whether they are glorifying it. Finally, the fact that violence tends to be profitable in American entertainment adds even more weight to the argument that gangsta rap’s imagery tends to glorify violence.

In opposition to g-rap’s ambiguity, The Score is clearly and consciously set up as a

fictional performance. It is representative art and clearly not documentary. While The Fugees are usually critical of violence and also, as we will see, gangsta lifestyles in general, they do occasionally depict violence. Whenever The Fugees refer to any kind of violence or criminal behavior, however, they always do so in a way that expressly fictionalizes that violence in order to separate themselves from it, either by making the violence explicitly metaphorical, or by setting it in the context of fiction through juxtaposition with references to movies and/or television programming. As a result, The Fugees, unlike the majority of gangsta rappers, place themselves in a position from which they can criticize violence, misogyny, and criminal behavior without being accused of hypocritically glorifying it.

This fictionalization of The Score begins from very outset of the album. It is set up

structurally as a performance, a piece of art like a film or play. The first track, “Red Intro,”

begins with an introduction to the album as a whole.

Colombia/Ruffhouse Records present, a Refugee Camp production, Fugees:

The Score. And now for our feature presentation.

(“Red Intro”)

This line is immediately followed by a beep. Then the music begins, starting off Ras

Baraka’s introductory monologue. That first introduction is complimented at the end of the

“Outro” by the same voice reading the album “credits.” These two oral bookends are intentional references to the film convention of opening and closing credits. They suggest that what comes between them is a work of art and should be regarded accordingly. Although it might be possible to assume that the introduction was a reference to cinematic

documentary, thus inferring that The Score is meant to be completely true, it is still a far cry from specifically implying, as NWA does, that the songs are “the truth the whole truth / and

nothin but the truth.”

The Score’s connection to fictional film is further demonstrated in the album’s cover art [see Appendix 4]. As Roni Sarig notes in his review of The Score, its “cover art suggests a combination of” the movie posters from both “The Godfather and Goodfellas” (Sarig). This

undeniable resemblance, when placed alongside the aforementioned cinematic introduction and credits, solidifies The Fugees’ conscious effort to present their music as decidedly

fictional, in opposition to g-rap’s ambiguity.

This idea is echoed throughout The Score in The Fugees’ consistent fictionalization

of violence. Every instance of violence on the album is either expressly metaphorical or

juxtaposed with movie references that serve to suggest its fictionality. Examples of violence

as a metaphor range from Pras’ verse in “Manifest,” (“It's unpredictable, when my tongue performs like Jujitsu / Cut you with my lyrics, stab you with my pencil”) to Wyclef’s more subtle verse in the song “Zealots.”

The magazine says the girl [Lauryn] shoulda went solo,

The guys [Pras and Wyclef] should stop rapping, vanish like Menudo.

Took it to the heart, but every actor plays his part

As long as someone was listening, I knew it was a start,

For me to get a chance, grab my pen and revamp (bing!)

Do a cameo while everybody do the dance.

Quick now, cause you runnin' out of lucka

Playin' Mr. Big, I'm gonna get you sucka.

While you munchin at your luncheon, I'll be planning your assassination

Then hit you like the Dutchmen.

(Wyclef – “Zealots”)

It would be hard to mistake either of these examples of lyrical violence for a threat of actual of violence. Pras metonymically represents the scathing nature of his lyrics with the metaphor of stabbing someone with a pencil. Similarly, when Wyclef states that he will be planning an assassination, he really means he that he his planning an economic takeover of another rapper’s market share or fan base through the honing of his superior musical skills.

The effect of this obviously metaphorical violence is significantly different from the violence depicted in gangsta rap when, for example, members of NWA rap about killing police officers.

On the track “Family Business,” however, Wyclef does get somewhat graphic in his first person depiction of a kidnapping.

Nah fuck that!

Fifty-two pick up, no cops around

Fifty-two thousand in cash, I don't want no saving bonds

Have the money ready, I smell something fishy

Your wife's in my custody

One false move and you'll find her body in the sea.

That's the voice of the kid that's the kidnapper.

I do my work and then I catch my ticket to Jamaica.

Meet me in the alley, make sure you bring the money

This ain't the seventies I'm far from a jive turkey.

(Wyclef – “Family Business”)

This verse, however, is also fictionalized. The fictionalization lies in Wyclef’s separation of the voice of the rap’s speaker from his own. He does this through two lines; the first and less obvious of the two is the beginning of the verse, “Nah fuck that!” This line is in response to the chorus (cited above on p.27), which intones the song’s theme of black unity. This reaction suggests that the speaker in the verse is not meant to actually be Wyclef, but some

fictional character. This idea is furthered several lines later when Wylcef informs listeners

that the verse is in “the voice of the kid that’s the kidnapper.” The creation of characters to make a point within hip-hop lyrics was not new when The Fugees released The Score.

Wyclef’s specific statement that this crazed and violent verse is supposed to be fictional, however, serves to dispel any ambiguities as to whether he might actually perpetrate the

crimes he raps about. The Fugees’ clear separation of their actual identity from any potentially negative personas they may assume on their album demonstrates their defiance of gangsta conventions. This works in tandem with their critiques of gangsta rap and their universalist cultural message to make The Score into, arguably, the ideological antithesis of gansta rap.

The title, The Score, in fact, contains all of these very themes. The Score is the low- down, as in “Let me know the score.” It is the real, the actual; it’s what’s happening in the world. In that sense it is hip-hop, because it’s “keeping it real.” Yet The Score is also the fix, the cure for what the body needs, or craves. The Score is the resolution of gansta rap. It’s what you’ve (we’ve) been hurting for, and in that it’s not just hip-hop, but the cure for hip- hop’s ailment. Finally it is a piece of art and a piece of music—the piece of music. The Score is the source from which all of the parts are made. It is the conductor’s music, giving access to not one, but all of the parts; it is the bigger picture. The Score is unity; it is a clear vision

of the world, connecting that which is otherwise obscured. The Score is rapping, not gangsta

rapping, but wrapping, tying together disparate strands across cultural, social, and chronographical boundaries.

In February of 1996 The Fugees gave us The Score. They presented the world with

their own universalist take on what hip-hop was, what it had become, and what it could be.

Through their clever, thought-provoking lyrics, Lauryn, ‘Clef, and Pras successfully

integrated contemporary hip-hop with not only the ideologies of its intellectual and musical

roots (1960s and 70s African American radical political activism), but also parallel musical

and cultural traditions (Reggae, Rastafarianism, and Caribbean culture). The Fugees re-

opened hip-hop to the whole of the International African Diaspora at a time when it had been

plagued by an idiosyncratic obsession with regionalism. In the words of Martine Bury, “The themes they represent, together and separately, embrace a ‘be who you are’ message rather than pay lip service to gangsterism, capitalism, or even shallow Afrocentrism” (Bury 380).

Bury might have added ghetto-centrism as well. In their short time in the spotlight as a group

(they have all pursued solo careers and have only performed together once since 1997) The

Fugees were able to bring up issues that had plagued hip-hop since the late 1980s and present them to an international audience, selling over 10 million albums in the process (Roberts 6).

As Wyclef boasts “a refugee come to your turf, and take over the earth” (Wyclef –

“Zealots”). In that sentiment lies the essence of The Fugees, as well as, really, the American

Dream, and its corresponding dream of America as a melting pot.

Appendices

Appendix 1: [Excerpt from “Ready to Die” by The Notorious B.I.G.]

In a sec I throw the tec to your fuckin neck Everybody hit the deck, Biggie bout to get some wreck Quick to leave you in a coffin, for slick talkin You better act like CeCe, and keep on walkin When I hit ya, I split ya to the white meat You swung on like you slumber right you fell to the conrete Your face, my feet, they meet, we're stompin I'm rippin MC's from Tallahassee, to Compton Biggie Smalls on a higher plane Niggaz say I'm strange deranged because I put the 12 gauge to your brain Make your shit splatter Mix the blood like batter then my pocket gets fatter after the hit, leave you on the street with your neck split down your backbone to where your motherfuckin cheek drip The shit I kick, rip it through the vest Biggie Smalls passin any test, I'm ready to die!

Appendix 2: [Excerpt from “Gangsta Gangsta” by NWA]

I got a shotgun, and here's the plot Takin niggaz out with a flurry of buckshots Boom boom boom, yeah I was gunnin And then you look, all you see is niggaz runnin and fallin and yellin and pushin and screamin and cussin, I stepped back, and I kept bustin And then I realized it's time for me to go So I stopped, jumped in the vehicle It's like this, because of that who-ride N.W.A. is wanted for a homicide Cause I'm the type of nigga that's built to last Fuck wit me, I'll put my foot in your ass See I don't give a fuck, cause I keep bailin Yo, what the fuck are they yellin?

[…]

And all you bitches, you know I'm talkin to you "We want to fuck you Eazy!" I want to fuck you too Cause you see, I don't really take no shit [So let me tell you motherfuckers who you're fuckin with] Cause I'm the type of nigga that's built to last If you Fuck wit me, I'll put my foot in your ass

I don't give a fuck, cause I keep bailin Yo, what the fuck are they yellin?

Appendix 3: [Excerpt from “South Bronx” Boogie Down Productions member KRS-1]

Remember Bronx River, rolling thick With Cool DJ Red Alert and Chuck Chillout on the mix While Afrika Islam was rocking the jams And on the other side of town was a kid named Flash Patterson and Millbrook projects Casanova all over, ya couldn’t stop it The nine Lives crew, the Cypress Boys The Real Rock Steady taking out these toysAs ard as it looked\, as wild as it seemed

I didn’t hear a peep from Queen’s… South Bronx, the South South Bronx…

Appendix 4: [Cover Art of The Score and Movie Posters of The Godfather, The Godfather II and Goodfellas]

Appendix 5: [Transcriptions / descriptions of the Interludes included on The Score. Transcribed by Nicholas Kramer]

“Red Intro” – Opening monologue: [guy:] Colombia/Ruffhouse Records present, a Refugee Camp production, Fugees: The Score. And now for our feature presentation. (tone)

[Ras Baraka]

(music) Yo, this fucker I was wit the other day, I was chillin with scott and shit was like (yeh yeh, what happened)… inna minute we gotta sit in front of our crib with a shot-gun cause (word) jokers gonna be bustin up in here trying get food, clothing, shelter, (laughing) TV’s, forks, radios, whatever they get they hands on kid, cause shit is getting mad ill (that shit ain’t happen, man…) out here, man. Jokers runnin around like with masks on. It’s so (that’s fucked that) my man Petie think he like (kno’m say’n) Charlie Chan or Robert DeNiro or Bruce Lee or some shit. He be… (a gangsta) jumpin from behind trees on mo-fuckers or (Whachu wanna do kid!) cowboys, bang-bang or (Whatchu wanna do)whatever you know. Like my man, (I got the uzi at the house) he tried to shoot a joker he had a beef with, (kno’m say’n) he wound up shooting my man up in the hospital,(lemme smoke this ‘L’ then tell me whatchu wanna do) try’na be cowboys they can’t even shoot, try’na be gansters but when the BEAST come on the mo-fuckin’ block,(beat drops) EVERYBODY break out. Theys beat my man Bob G. up the other day—cops, pigs just (Man, FUCK po-po!) vampin on ‘em, yo. (It was good for his ass.) Er’body standin around (Niggaz ain’t doin’ right) just watchin’ that shit take place. (Then they ge’in’ smart) Just always take place. (Police Sirens) Because they

only gangstas when it come to being gangstas to they-self. They wanna be Corlione (Nigga I AM Corlione) or Luigi or Gambino (What… WHAT?) or Gotti or whatever the fuck that is. (I AM Gambino) Some people don’t even like me. You know what I’m sayin’. They run around call they-self Raheem or Fu-quan or Mustapha or no shit. Cause we think they got power. Fuck them, I got power. I got power, I got a family. I got family business on Avon, on Chancelor, on Prince St. Chadwick, on Stradford, Chancelor, uh,uh, Velsburg, all a the Brick-city four, that’s my family. We gonna settle the score, once and for all. I ain’t gonna sit around and let jokers kill me softly, kid. I’m goin’ out, I’m goin’ out like a bang and all these zealots out here, try’na steal it try’na bite and take what I got. Like all these big record companies, these, uh, corporations, these stores, they try to rob me. Nah, man, I’m goin’— I’ma get mine. And my girl, we gonna go out together. She gon-be a soldier, kid. When I go out, (My girl gon’ be a star.) she go out. We gon-make what we believe manifest. (Both ya’ll gon’ go out aight.) Fuck that, cause if you ain’t ready now, y’ain’t never gon-be ready. (I’m always ready)

Interlude 2: (part 1) Yo as I was sayin’, yo yo hold up kid, hold up, hold up. Yo, ready or not, kid they gonna move on us, and we gotta get prepared. We gotta get the forces together, man. We gotta get our family to-gether. Ready or not man, ready or not. They gon’ move on us. So I tell you what, better safe than sorry, let’s BE ready…

(Part 2 simultaneously) Yo, man, yo yo, I gotta tell you somethin’ man. If they do. Yo! I gotta do what I gotta do, man. I’ma haul ass down to Mexico, yo. Word is bond.

Interlude 3: [sirens] (Yo what the fuck goin’ on man?)

(money, money, money!) Yo kid, we can’t let these cops come around here, five-o come around here n’ just do whatever they want… rob jokers, steal from people, shoot us down. We gotta do somethin’ about this, man. I was with Floyd the other day, you know Floyd the cop he just get a hard-on for just shootin’ niggas.

Interlude 4: (Interaction of two young black men and the owner of a Chinese Take-out restaurant. They order chicken wings and Beef fried rice. The owner mistakes their “beef” order for slang “beef”… The owner then beats the two men up over the misunderstanding.)

Interlude 5: Yo, kid. We gotta get our family together, man. You know. We gotta get organized. We just can’t be out here, you know, high and smoked up and whatever. We get our stuff organized. Whatever we gon’ do, we gotta do it right, you know. We need captains and lieutenants; we need our brothers to be brothers.

Interlude 6: Yo, what you say? Yo, word to motha ya’ll, I punch you and bust your whole head, kid. I swear to god, this is Shannon Briggs. I get paid to knock people out, you-kno’m-sayin’. Yo Wyclef chill, don’t even hold me. Yo word to motha, I, word, yo, chill yo. I’m with the Fugees, what? kno’m-sayin’ WHAT!?

Interlude 7: Everybody gotta breaking point kid, and they’ll rat on you. The family niggas’ll rat on you. That’s why we gotta be prepared to take whoever out we need to.

Interlude 8: (bunch of guys hanging out at a club. Talking about how one of them fucked Michelle Leslie Brown. The girl walks by and they ask her. She replies “Hell no, eww!” The rest of the group then responds… “He’s a frontin-ass nigga, on three… one, two, three…”

Interlude 9: Yo, man, we just rolled up there, shit was ill, man it was ill. Yo, bullets everywhere, guns, smoke, jokers fallin off they porches, just shootin… straight cowboys, man… straight motha fuckin cowboys.

(Simultaneously) Yo yo yo yo, this’s what happened yo. Those goons puttin’ mother fuckas on they asses, kno’m sayn’? yo yo, you my nigga yo. Word is bond, you’re my nigga.

Interlude 10: Yo man it seems like we try’na get everybody, but they gettin’ us. You know what’m sayin’. But you know…no need to cry cause everything gon’ be aight, man, ‘s gon’ be aight, you know. You know it’s just ill, yo. Last night all I seen was bullets and feet runnin’ and backs you know. And when the smoke cleared there was a little joker on the ground, man. No- Had to be no younger than 13, 14 years old… blood pourin’ from his head, his mother on her knees cryin’, you know… cryin’ her head off. An’ ‘omor’ headline ‘s gon’ be the death of ano’a nigga, you know what’m sayin’, tha death of anova nigga, you know. That’s how it always is. We cryin’ for a afterlife while they just steal this one.

(simultaneously) [Crying] They got my nigga, man. They shot my nigga, yo. You know, why they hafta shoot my nigga, man? That shit wasn’t necessary, son… (sobs)… I’ma kill somebody, yo! I’ma kill ‘em… watch, watch! They’re got! (sobs)…

Interlude 11: Yo, my whole life spent lookin’ at myself through the eyes of a mothafucka that hate me.

So what man?

Drugged up most of the time. I remember one time I was so fuckin’ high, man. I just finished drinkin’ I came home, started sniffin’. I just got up and fell the fuck out yo. Instead of my brotha helpin’ me up he just start straight kickin’ me in the bathroom. “Yo, git up, git up, git up. Mom gon’ git us yo. Git up.” (Yo what the fuck!?) I wake up in the mornin’ man, layin’ in my throw-up and shit all over my nose, man. You know what I realized? It’s easy to kill niggas, man. It’s easy to kill niggas cause they look like you, they smell like you, shit they even live on your same mothafuckin’ block. Only problem we have is killin’ the people who don’t look like us—who oppress us. Shit. ‘ey, if you wanna impress me, shoot the mothafucka who turned off my lights. You wanna impress me, shoot somebody who makin’ my bills high all of the time. See it’s easy for cats to kill other cats. It’s just the dogs they got trouble with. You know’m sayin’? It’s time fo’ us to stand up like men and women, yo. Word up. We gotta stand up and do somthin’ about this. You know why? You let a mothafucka kick you five times, they gon’ kick you five times. You let ‘em kick you three times, they kick you three times. You let ‘em kick you twice, they gon’ kick you twice. You let ‘em kick you once, they gon’ kick you once. But if you break of the mothafuckin’ feet ain’t gon’ be no more kickin’ gonin’ on, kid. Ain’t no more kickin’. I learned that shit growin’ up in Newark, man. The brick city.

(credits)

Appendix 6: [Track list for included sampler CD of The Score]

Track 1 – Red Intro [introduction to The Score] Track 2 – Ready or Not [Lauryn’s Verse] Track 3 – Zealots [Pras’ Verse into Chorus] Track 4 – Fu-Gee-La [Pras’ Verse into Wyclef’s Pre-Chorus] Track 5 – Family Business [Interlude #5 into song intro] Track 6 – Family Business [Medly of Verses and Chorus] Track 7 – Killing Me Softly with His Song [Chorus] Track 8 – The Mask [Pras into Extended Chorus] Track 9 – Interlude #9 [into “Cowboys”] Track 10 – No Woman No Cry [“Jersey” Verse] Track 11 – Manifest [Wyclef’s Verse] Track 12 – Outro / Credits [Closing monologues of The Score]

Bibliography

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Musical Sources / Discography:

All tracks by The Fugees appear on: The Fugees. The Score. Columbia / Ruff House Records, 1996.

“Fuck tha Police” by NWA appears on: N.W.A. Straight Outta Compton. Priority Records, 1988.

“South Bronx” featuring lyrics by KRS-1 appears on: Boogie Down Productions. Criminal Minded. M.I.L. Multimedia, 1993.

“Gimme the Loot” and “Ready to Die” by The Notorious B.I.G. appear on: The Notorious B.I.G. Ready to Die. Bad Boy Records, 1994.

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