Hell No This Ain't A Synthesis

If you know a little about hip-hop, you know that there's a widely perceived divide between "conscious" rap, and the mainstream stuff you hear on the radio. The narrative goes that conscious rap deals with politics, and leads to progress, while mainstream rap deals with diamonds, guns, and crunk juice, and is destructive to the hip-hop community. Hence, artist after artist proclaims, "hip hop is dead,"and the realness of the music has been sapped by materialist industry automatons like, say, Souljah Boy.

That's the story of hip-hop that any good fan knows. But what we don't always acknowledge is how the very act of telling that story is productive for the conscious rapper. It is a means of acquiring, in the eyes of fans and fellow artists, authenticity. It is a way of distinguishing oneself against the mainstream, and, as such, superior to it. Calling oneself a conscious rapper, or calling hip hop dead, is an elitist act which not only makes presumptuous claims about what's good for hip-hop, but also reinforces one's own position as insulated intellectual, and is by and large an act of vanity (To be clear, the act of "conscious rapping" is a beautiful thing, but the category is not).

Put that on the backburner for a hot minute, and let's turn to Beyonce and Single Ladies. The impetus for writing this was a minor question: "Is Single Ladies a simple upgrade of an old Betty Page dance?" That question birthed a major inquiry: "Is Single Ladies just another example of pop music upholding the ideological status quo?" That question birthed pages and pages of debate on this blog. And by asking that question, the big question, we stabbed ourselves in the heart.

For that question assumes that pop music is, essentially, an ideologically reproductive discourse. It labels pop artists as the automated mouthpieces of traditional American ideology, which in this case means consumerist, masculinist, and heterosexist. And then it asks, what is Beyonce's role in furthering those causes? Thus, we find, built into our very question is the elitist, intellectual, bourgeois, and liberal viewpoint that mainstream culture is generally bad for the people, for it upholds the status quo of conservative practice. So far so good. So we ask again:

Is Single Ladies just another example of pop music upholding the ideological status quo?

But while this question allows us liberals to feel safe about out own position as "above" mainstream culture, we actually prevent any type of liberal change to happen. That is, our very question cuts off the potential mouthpiece of progress (Beyonce), by constructing her position in society as powerless and ideologically stale. The question collapses our own ability to see Beyonce as progressive in her politics. And if you know anything about Beyonce, then you know her politics are radical. So, we silence the radical thought.

Beyond that, by critiquing pop stars on the grounds of stale ideology, like critiquing mainstream rap, we reproduce our own social status as the liberal intellectual elite. That is, it's incredibly safe for us, the critics, to call out pop music on its consumerist and masculinist tendencies, because that doesn't risk the production of new knowledge, knowledge that could be potentially harmful to our own comfortable position. If we listened differently to what Beyonce was saying, then we might actually hear something we think threatening-- that her, a pop star, really does support the swift execution of white masculinist rule in this country. By carrying out our typical liberal critique, we silence that voice.

So, here's your choice: A) You can buy into mainstream culture, and support mainstream ideology, or B) You can stand at a safe distance, and criticize it, further limiting mainstream culture's power to actually accomplish change. Both are ready-made, easy, risk-free options. And in fact, both support the status quo. You can take the red pill or the blue pill, and both come in a nice, safe, palatable package. Hell, THEY'RE THE SAME FUCKING PILL. This is the way American cultural hegemony works- it doesn't hide, it isn't secret, it's not a conspiracy. What it is is, though, is a dirty trickster, and it will convince you that your liberal, safe, stance on these issues is progressive, when in actuality your position is merely one half of the dialectical unity between you, the liberal, and the object of your criticism, the mainstream. Thus, we remain on our untouchable, protected, liberal island, the island of whiteness, class, and intellectualism, and all the while real instances of consumerism, racism, homophobia, sexism, ableism, etc... continue to circle us like hungry wolves.

So for those who are quick to proclaim Hip Hop Is Dead, or who believe that Single Ladies is just another sexy woman engaged in soliciting the male gaze, think about the power of your own gaze in constructing those stereotypical narratives. Think about the power of risk-free, procedural critique, which doesn't allow room for change, but rather encourages the further insulation of your own liberal values. Think about this, as you recede slowly into some irrelevant, white, safe middle distance, and your voice changes to that of the cranky old scholar, who's lost any ability to see the world other than the only way they know how.

Another case of malignant Upholsterization

I can barely see these guys

the best black box that I have known.

"This object perpetually attempts to sell itself on ebay."

Have you checked your emails lately?

Richard, here's the thing Richard. If you don't check your emails daily, you won't know your status as bidder in the auction. And if you win the auction, the box could sell itself before you even know it to be yours. You should be checking your emails at least daily. Because you won't have ever known it to be yours, the box.

I am imploring you to consider the ramifications. The simple fact that you have placed a bid on the box is alone cause for concern. Because it could be yours and it could take those pieces of you and put them inside, and you might not ever see them again, because the box moves on its own. In that way, it's bigger than you, the box, Richard. It kills via automation.

You must take advantage of this unique investment opportunity, Richard. To own the box, and to know it while you have the chance. To know death, this is what we offer, a unique investment opportunity. To know it, death, that is, and to give some small part of yourself over to it, before it moves on, automated, this is why you bid on the box.

We want you to be part of this thing, a unique investment opportunity. Please, keep checking your emails Richard.

The name of this sculpture is A Tool to Deceive and Slaughter, by Caleb Larsen, 2009. The box has an ethernet jack that automatically generates an auction for itself on eBay. When it's sold, it auctions itself off again. It's currently selling for $4000. You should buy it here.

yeleyeleyele

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For more info on Yele, click here.

That Was Then, This Is Now

Football steps into the cipher.






I attribute the chasm between these two exercises in football player chest-thumping to the intentions for distribution - something for the fans versus an inside joke that leaked onto the internet. I don't think we can use this for a 'things done changed' kind of argument about how rap or football has undergone a moral descent. The Miami thing is locker room talk with a beat under it, removed from the locker room and tossed into the public domain. Men have always joked about this kind of stuff - Walter Payton and Jim McMahon probably did it,  your dad and his bros probably did too -  they just didn't have the beat from an Aaliyah song and a bootlegged copy of ProTools to record it. Then again, I don't think it's a stretch to say that these amateur MCs are imitating rap as they perceive it, performing the role of rapper if you will. Maybe it's best to just sit back and remember that athletes are terrible fucking rappers and laugh. Jesus, these songs are corny.

Eternal Conflict #2: Geologist vs. Lover

Bloggers love this guy.

This song strikes a chord.

People think they can separate politics from personal. J. Cole says no.

Eternal Conflict #1: My Math Ain't Equallin'

I seem to be able to describe this song only by referring it to other cultural moments: the feeling of an 80's movie with Swayze; early Mariah song; Bladerunner. Usually that's the sign of a lazy writer, but I swear I'm trying. From what I understand, it's about the Rainbow Fish, who gave all her beautiful scales away until she had no more. Better yet, it's about how your greatest asset is also your darkest demon, or something. I'm feeling it, heavily.

(PS it's unclear whether the video lives up to the song)

I'm trying to calculate if this has any relevance to the epic, sweltering, improvised, and revelatory debate on how Beyonce figures in pop culture, happening in the comments section somewhere on this site.

"The things you own end up owning you."

I have attempted here to document the upholstering of the American male, to visually express the feminization and domestication of the modern man. For real though, this photograph was not set-up or staged. Sometimes everything lines up.

Long live Blake Hansen.

Still Free

We've already mentioned the merits of the Freeway/Jake One collaboration, specifically Philly Freezer's excellent "Know What I Mean". Below, for your pleasure, a music video to accompany that banger. Unfortunately, Jake One is not in the video, and I have to wonder whether it was for logistical reasons or because having the white producer in the video would knock down street cred a notch or two. Regardless, their album is going to go hard, and if you haven't investigated Jake's thoroughly dope album White Van Music (in which everyone from M.O.P. to Busta Rhymes to Brother Ali raps over his beats) you oughta do so. His ability to produce beats that FIT the needs and personalities of a wide range of rappers from hardcore, mainstream and backpacker traditions ranging from the virtually unknown to major label heavyweights is pretty incredible. Ain't no one-trick pony.



THE TRUTH.

Beyoncé Page

Though this is far from well executed, it does illustrate a very clear point: things haven't really changed much since the fifties.

We've seen stranger...? She-Wolf follow up.

what dreams may come

Nate Robinson played professional basketball last night for the first time in 30 days. D'Antoni called his name, and he didn't move. He said he didn't understand his coach. He just sat there, on the bench, like he always does, until a teammate told him that the coach wanted him to play. So with 3 minutes left in the opening period Nate comes into the game. In total, he grabs 41 points, 8 assists, shooting 18 of 24 from the field. He hits the last two shots for the Knicks to force OT, and scores 11 points in overtime. He scores 19 of the Knicks last 22.

Over in Jersey, we call Nate High Risk/ High Reward. There's this feeling, that putting him in the game is like going for a three pointer to win-- if you hit, you're a hero, and if you miss, you deserved to be questioned on why you didn't just play for the tie, find an easier shot. He's the polar opposite of compatriot David Lee, who gives solid numbers every night, but lacks the turn-it-up ability of real superstars.

But we have to question this easy way of thinking, this racialized differentiation of David Lee, white, Mr. Reliable, and Robinson, black, the Sparkplug that Couldn't, the Brainless Wonderboy. These are the stereotypes of an NBA that has been "overrun" with black players who are "all athleticism and creativity, but no brains." This way of thinking speaks more to an American insecurity with the dominance of black athletes in professional sports than it does to any truth about the "racial essences of ballplayers."

Last night, Nate, 5'9", was practically walking to the basket. That he scored 19 of the Knicks last 22 is one thing, but he was doing it on layups. The Hawks periodically threw Mike Bibby (crafty veteran), Joe Johnson (superstar), Marvin Williams (young-star-on-rise), and Josh Smith (high-flying-shot-swatter), out to guard him, to no avail. Note that Bibby is the shortest of these men, at 6'2", while Smith and Williams are both 6'9", a full foot taller than Nate. With ease he dribbled around each, finding his way to the cup time and again, using hesitation moves to literally get uncontested 2-footers. When they tried fouling him, he still made the shots. When obvious fouls weren't called, he still made the shots.

Only after a long stretch of finding layups, already in full turn-it-up mode, did Nate take what traditionalists call The Bad Shot, a contested pull-up 30 footer with little time taken off the shot clock. Naturally, he sank it, hopping up and down towards a howling Knicks bench after the Hawks were forced to call timeout.

We must question The Bad Shot. We must free ourselves from the chains of tradition, and think, for a long while, about this Bad Shot. Statistical evidence has shown that being "On Fire" is a questionable proposition. Then we must also question statistics. Because "On Fire" is a feeling buzzing through a crowd, a general notion that when the ball leaves the hand, it will find the net. The and-1 play is its proof, that contact will do nothing to deter Hot Hand from scoring. But the deep 3, The Bad Shot, this is the true meaning of On Fire, and we must accept that in hindsight, it was always going in.

Which leaves us with Nate, still a Knick, still sitting on the bench for attitude problems, for making bad decisions, who, when given even a glimmer of playing time, leaves the net in a heap of ashes, who doesn't see the other 9 players on the court, but a clear and open path to the basket every time the rock is in his hands. Our only recourse is to blame ourselves for what we have done to him, for planting the seed in his mind that he is anything but a baller. For using him as the racialized and criminalized symbol of risky basketball. This is the side of Nate that remains unspoken, that who we think he is is actually just who we say he is. Last night, he was saying something to us.