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Nicole
Duncan-Smith grew up on rap, worked in the rap industry
for years and is married to a hip-hop producer. She
still listens to rap, but says it no longer speaks to
or for her. She wrote the children's book ``I Am Hip-Hop''
partly to create something positive about rap for young
children, including her 4-year-old daughter.
``I'm
not removed from it, but I can't really tell the difference
between Young Jeezy and Yung Joc. It's the same dumb
stuff to me,'' says Duncan-Smith, 33. ``I can't listen
to that nonsense ... I can't listen to another black
man talk about you don't come to the 'hood anymore and
ghetto revivals ... I'm from the 'hood. How can you
tell me you want to revive it? How about you want to
change it? Rejuvenate it?''
Hip-hop
also seems to be increasingly blamed for a variety of
social ills. Studies have attempted to link it to everything
from teen drug use to increased sexual activity among
young girls.
Even
the mayhem that broke out in Las Vegas during last week's
NBA All-Star Game was blamed on hip-hoppers. ``(NBA
Commissioner) David Stern seriously needs to consider
moving the event out of the country for the next couple
of years in hopes that young, hip-hop hoodlums would
find another event to terrorize,'' columnist Jason Whitlock,
who is black, wrote on AOL.
While
rap has been in essence pop music for years, and most
rap consumers are white, some worry that the black community
is suffering from hip-hop _ from the way America perceives
blacks to the attitudes and images being adopted by
black youth.
But
the rapper David Banner derides the growing criticism
as blacks joining America's attack on young black men
who are only reflecting the crushing problems within
their communities. Besides, he says, that's the kind
of music America wants to hear.
``Look
at the music that gets us popular _ 'Like a Pimp,',''
says Banner, naming his hit.
``What
makes it so difficult is to know that we need to be
doing other things. But the truth is at least us talking
about what we're talking about, we can bring certain
things to the light,'' he says.
``They want (black artists) to shuck and jive, but they
don't want us to tell the real story because they're
connected to it.''
Criticism
of hip-hop is certainly nothing new _ it's as much a
part of the culture as the beats and rhymes. Among the
early accusations were that rap wasn't true music, its
lyrics were too raw, its street message too polarizing.
But they rarely came from the youthful audience itself,
which was enraptured with genre that defined them as
none other could.
``As
people within the hip-hop generation get older, I think
the criticism is increasing,'' says author Bakari Kitwana,
who is currently part of a lecture tour titled ``Does
Hip-Hop Hate Women?''
``There
was a more of a tendency when we were younger to be
more defensive of it,'' he adds.
During
her '90s crusade against rap's habit of degrading women,
the late black activist C. Dolores Tucker certainly
had few allies within the hip-hop community, or even
among young black women.
Backed by folks like conservative Republican William
Bennett, Tucker was vilified within rap circles.
In
retrospect, ``many of us weren't listening,'' says Tracy
Denean Sharpley-Whiting, a professor at Vanderbilt University
and author of the new book ``Pimps Up, Ho's Down: Hip-Hop's
Hold On Young Black Women.''
``She
was onto something, but most of us said, 'They're not
calling me a bitch, they're not talking about me, they're
talking about THOSE women.' But then it became clear
that, you know what?
Those women can be any women.''
One
rap fan, Bryan Hunt, made the searing documentary ``Hip-Hop:
Beyond Beats and Rhymes,'' which debuted on PBS this
month. Hunt addresses the biggest criticisms of rap,
from its treatment of women to the glorification of
the gangsta lifestyle that has become the default posture
for many of today's most popular rappers.
``I
love hip-hop,'' Hunt, 36, says in the documentary. ``I
sometimes feel bad for criticizing hip-hop, but I want
to get us men to take a look at ourselves.''
Even
dances that may seem innocuous are not above the fray.
Last summer, as the ``Chicken Noodle Soup'' song and
accompanying dance became a sensation, Baltimore Sun
pop critic Rashod D. Ollison mused that the dance _
demonstrated in the video by young people stomping wildly
from side to side _ was part of the growing minstrelization
of rap music.
``The
music, dances and images in the video are clearly reminiscent
of the era when pop culture reduced blacks to
caricatures: lazy 'coons,' grinning 'pickaninnies,'
sexually super-charged 'bucks,''' he wrote.
And
then there's the criminal aspect that has long been
a part of rap. In the '70s, groups may have rapped about
drug dealing and street violence, but rap stars weren't
the embodiment of criminals themselves. Today, the most
popular and successful rappers boast about who has murdered
more foes and rhyme about dealing drugs as breezily
as other artists sing about love.
Creekmur
says music labels have overfed the public on gangsta
rap, obscuring artists who represent more positive and
varied aspects of black life, like Talib Kweli, Common
and Lupe Fiasco.
``It
boils down to a complete lack of balance, and whenever
there's a complete lack of balance people are going
to reject it, whether it's positive or negative,'' Creekmur
says.
Yet
Banner says there's a reason why acts like KRS-One and
Public Enemy don't sell anymore. He recalled that even
his own fans rebuffed positive songs he made _ like
``Cadillac on 22s,'' about staying way from street life
_ in favor of songs like ``Like a Pimp.''
``The
American public had an opportunity to pick what they
wanted from David Banner,'' he says. ``I wish America
would just be honest. America is sick. ... America loves
violence and sex.''
___
On
the Net:
http://blackyouthproject.uchicago.edu
http://www.allhiphop.com
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