When I sat down to write this column, my original direction was to express my thoughts on why our era of hip hop is the true “golden age.” I was going to discuss how “socially conscious” rap had overtaken the bravado-style rap of Jay-Z and 50 Cent. I was going to articulate in grandiose terms how rap had shaken its restraints and embraced weirdness and “alternative” styles. You were going to read the thoughts of a privileged, suburban white kid attempting to dissect rap music, probably to the chagrin of anyone reading this. When I first sat down to write this column, Earl Sweatshirt’s I Don’t Like Shit, I Don’t Go Outside echoing through my headphones, I was prepared to lay out my argument about why “socially conscious” rap had finally and justifiably gone mainstream.
But then I began to think about what I meant by “conscious” rap. What did I mean by that label? How would I decide who fell into that category and who didn’t? Take for example two particular Chicago-based rappers: Chance the Rapper and Chief Keef. Both grew up as black men in the South Side of Chicago around the same time. Both emerged as witnesses of a community firmly gripped by violence. Yet, Chance has been glorified as a vanguard of the “socially conscious” movement in countless think-pieces, while Chief Keef is labeled simply as a “thug;” his music is viewed as “dangerous” or “vulgar.” What makes Chance the Rapper’s verses more conscious than those of fellow Chicago-native Chief Keef? How can two people from the same area rap about their experiences and about their place in today’s society, yet one is applauded and the other vilified?
Rap as a genre is inherently rooted in social awareness. When weaponized and directed against preconceived notions about society, rap can be just as politically powerful as it is lyrically powerful. Rap music emerged as a way to communicate the feelings of those confined to impoverished neighborhoods. Neighborhoods devastated as much by a vicious drug war than by the drug culture that war attempted to quell. Communities where violent crime was rampant, but largely ignored. Areas where minority populations were forcibly confined, yet given no political power. From these pockets, diverse rap genres erupted, shedding light on injustices, poverty, oppression and despair. It’s in this world where the likes of Kendrick Lamar, Chance the Rapper, Chief Keef and the thousands of rappers that came before acquired their lyrical edge. While you can argue that commercialization and creative evolution have combined to partially remove this passion from rap music, it is difficult to deny that rap is social commentary at its core.
But it’s dangerous to label one rapper’s music as intelligent or more conscious of his or her surroundings. In doing so, we risk stigmatizing the rappers who may not meet our arbitrary criteria of socially conscious, ultimately viewing them as unintelligent or unaware. A rapper can be overtly political in his or her intentions, as exemplified by Public Enemy’s “Shut Em Down” or Outkast’s “B.O.B.” Or a rapper could choose to focus on social issues, like Mos Def on “Mathematics” or Kendrick Lamar on “Blacker the Berry.” But placing one of these artists on a pedestal as a true “socially conscious rapper” is an injustice to those who simply rap about what they have seen in their own lives, those striving to use music as a way to manifest their perspectives. On the surface, a rap song that depicts violence without explicit commentary may be construed as glorification, usually leading to the attachment of labels ranging from “gangsta” to “thug.” Yet in reality, the artist may be attempting to come to grips with violence in his or her community, utilizing a medium that allows him or her to freely express certain harsh realities to a wide audience.
A rapper is fully conscious of his or her reality, whether we attach a label or not. People respond to personal experiences and the world around them in different ways, shaping their perspectives accordingly, and we should do our best not to invalidate those perspectives in the name of intellectual purity. By occupying an intellectual high-ground, we remove the humanity from what is entirely a reflection of human experience.
It is not my intention to attack someone’s musical preferences. It’s perfectly OK to choose our music based on personal preferences. Personally, I obsess over rappers who can weave social commentary into their lyrics. I chose Earl Sweatshirt’s music to fuel the inspiration for this column because of his deeply introspective lyrics and bitter, disjointed delivery. But at the same time, I listened to Lil Uzi Vert’s Lil Uzi Vert Vs. The World during my writing, not because I was looking for biting social commentary or political undertones, but simply because it’s a fun album. Yet I acknowledge that both of these rappers, no matter their lyrical intentions, are conscious human beings, sharing their unique thoughts or feelings on whatever they choose.
In an interview with The FADER, Kendrick Lamar discussed the problems he sees about labeling his music as “conscious,” and offered this interpretation of his music: “At the end of the day, I want people to recognize me as just a human being, period. I talk about whatever I feel and whatever I go through.” Rap is a human experience. Throw away your labels when you hit play.
Nathan Campbell is a junior majoring in environmental engineering. His column runs biweekly.
