Hip Hop Culture for Grown-Ups
Rap music has come a long way. I’ve been walking alongside this river bank for quite a few seasons, and I can say with upstanding sincerity that this shit is nothing like it used to be. For better and worse. Mostly better, in my opinion.
Because things must change in order to stay relevant. If we want our beloved rap music cosmos to continue to pump into the future, we must allow it wiggle room to grow and transform accordingly. Like weed (the natural stuff, not the man-made super weed) — God put rap music on earth to be enjoyed by everyone. So, enjoy.
Many aspects of rap music are deeply embedded. They’ve always been there and will never go away. Like rapping about money. And bragging. And conflict in the music. And “reporting” on what’s going in in the street. Through all the changes and forced facelifts I’ve witness rap music endure, these facial features remain unscathed. Untouched. They are chiseled and etched and refuse to be whittled or worn. And we love these glorious aspects of our Hip Hop music. This is the fantasy that removes us from our realities every time we hit the play button. Or download some free songs. Never, in a million years, will a true fan of rap ask rap to change its original facade, no matter how much we may get persecuted for it.
Therein lies the problem…
As far back as in can remember, in addition to all the other staple elements mentioned, rappers rapped about sex, too. When I was a kid, jamming to my neon yellow, waterproof Sony Walkman, I didn’t understand the raunchy slappers I listened to. I just bobbed my head — like many of the girls on those particular songs — and sang along. Little did I know I was being bombarded with audio porn. The same audio porn that may have inadvertently taught me some of the moves I still use to this day. But that’s neither here nor there.
These days, truth be told, I’d rather not hear my favorite rapper of the moment whispering sweet nothings to me about how dope his dick is. I’m a grown man, and quite frankly, it makes me uncomfortable. I’m not the only guy that feels this way, I just happen to be the one with the balls to say it. Keep your dick out of my rap song, bro.
I’ve no problem with rappers flashing their fancy jewels and fancier hoes in my face. My skin has grown quite thick and I’m somewhat immune to the true dysfunction of this relationship. So when Rick Ross or Jeezy reminds me how broke I am, it doesn’t bother me anymore. I’ll even tolerate reruns of Yo! MTV Cribs, watching them frolic and flaunt their riches in my month-to-month face. But no longer will in put up with you telling me how many orgasms you deliver in the luxurious backseat of a car I can’t afford. That, my friends, is some ol’ bullshit.
I’m all for rap guys flipping their styles and shaking up their formats , but one technique I refuse to accept any longer is sensuous.
Rappers, save the pillow talk for your honeydips and prostitutes, as you connive them into an Uber, the official chariot of The Walk of Shame. It has no place warmly drizzled atop my beloved trap rap beats.
Words by Tony Grands