“Apparently,” it all started in 2014
when J.Cole released his critically acclaimed album, Forrest Hills Drive,
which included the aforementioned hit single. Not only was this unabashedly hip
hop album a critical success, but a commercial one, as the project was certified
platinum with no guest features, a feat that arguably hadn’t been accomplished by a
solo rap artist since MC Hammer dropped Please Hammer Don’t Hurt ‘Em in
1990. FHD's auditory scope also
enabled Cole to garner new fans outside of the multi-colored spectrum of hip hop
music.
At a glance, any forecast of Forrest Hill
Drive’s commercial success would’ve
seemed counter-intuitive, especially if you’ve observed the most lucrative
trends in hip hop music and culture over the last 20 years. Cole—who graduated
magna cum laude from St. John’s University—keeps a low profile. He hasn’t had
any known run-ins with the law, he didn’t get shot and live to record horror
stories about his experience after the fact, nor has he ever donned a mob alias
and told lies about moving keys of cocaine over seas.
Cole did not have to pander to a
pre-internet, white hip hop consumer who was born in the 1970s or 80s. This
demographic, for the most part, was more interested in paying for Nigger Horror
Stories, which are grossly exaggerated and caricaturish portrayals of Black
male death and genocide over highly infectious beats. This cartoonish sub-genre
of hip hop—which millions of hip hop fans, including myself, have consumed over the years—involved
a heavy preoccupation with guns and street pharmaceuticals, usually in the form
of cocaine.
However the American news media has
gone so far to eroticize the death and utter destruction of young Black males within the collective psyche of white America,
that it no longer stimulates the brain-numbing neural high that once accompanied rap music’s lyrical lynchings of Black males at the hands of
other Black males. Scarcity creates value, while abundance causes it to
diminish. The overwhelming consensus around the United States of America today
is that NIGGAS DIE EVERY DAY, B. Therefore in the minds of many people it’s no big deal, which means that
Black Death is too common, too frequent and too normal to be a musical commodity
in today’s global marketplace.
Young Black men who can be sentimental,
introspective, or just down right fun and goofy amidst the chaos and danger
that surrounds them are far more
interesting and far more compelling characters to customers in the global
market than a coke-peddling, pistol totting, hardened thug. How does a mere mortal relate to a
gutter god with no fears, insecurities, or inhibitions? The world is now less entertained and amused by the idea of a battered and bloodied God being crucified and more interested in the idea of him rising from the dead after said crucifixion with a new gospel for the planet.
After a while the Super Nigger routine becomes boring and lame,
because these paper tigers lack humanity and never go after the real tough guys who would not hesitate to take their lives. The goon's sense of hopelessness is malignant. He violently threatens his brothers and women, but lets the George Zimmermans of the world walk the streets with no fear. How many nightclubs across the
U.S. have been shut down as a result of the mindless violence that coke rap
often precipitates? It’s a cool genre for short-term hustlers, but it’s bad
investment for far-sighted business men.
The kicker is that in real life, Bob Marley
was far more of a gangster than 98% of the so-called gangsta rappers you can
name, but he never shot anyone but that sheriff in a song. He made music so
that people could dance, reflect, and push through life’s hard times with a
realistic sense of hope and jubilant feeling of purpose.
The corporate-manufactured Nigger
Monster is constantly reminding us that as much as he stacks his bread up to
Pepperidge Farm proportions through illegal activity, his inevitable demise is
right around the corner. So here we are now, watching the death of coke rap and
the glamorous Nigger Horror Story that once had crackers clutching their
popcorn bags in awe from cinematic tall tales of vice and crime. In a mutual
celebration of debauchery the Black artist relegates himself to a nigger, while
his white patron devolves into a nosy cracker from uptown searching for what he
believes lies at the very core of everyday Black Life.
None of your favorite coke-peddling
gangsters from the 1990s or Early 2000s can compete with Kendrick Lamar, J.Cole, or
Drake in today’s market place. Even the
original Snowman, Young Jeezy, has wisely sharpened his dialogue in order to
remain relevant in the emerging hip hop art world.
If you’re an aspiring Nigger Monster
looking to sell more hopeless ghetto horror stories to suburban white kids,
you’re wasting your time. They don’t get high off that shit no more. You should
find Marty McFly and have him send you back to 1998 in a Delorean. There, your choice of content will have more value.
However if you are an urban artist
with style, wit, humor, or an inspiring vision for the world, then this is your
time to capitalize and build a lasting legacy. Read often, live life, and work
hard. The Tastemakers have spoken.
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