Crack Rap, and the war on drugs in hip hop [music]

Being a hip hop head, I’ve seen my fair share of trends come and go (missing persons notice: The Cool Kids and most of hipster rap). I cut my teeth on the standard 90’s era hip hop, back when “rap was something you did, hip hop was something you lived,” as we saw the rise of most of the modern veterans begin (e.g. Jay-Z, Nas, Biggie, Wu-Tang), while watching the late 80’s vets and collectives evolve into a new sound that mixed a level of street commercialism with a modicum of required consciousness (e.g. De La Soul, A Tribe Called Quest, Project Blowed). Moving forward into college, I came to love the indie scene, spending most of my days trolling the dusty record crates of local used record shops and reveling in the early days of Rawkus, on to the post-modern stylings of Definitive Jux, Rhymesayers, and others. So it’s a bit weird to stand here and say that my favorite rap these days is Crack Rap.

I guess you could trace Crack Rap all the way back to “White Lines” with Melle Mel describing the highs and lows of being on the blow, but I’d say that Jay-Z’s Reasonable Doubt was the first time a rapper took to bragging on the merits of being a coke dealer, while also dispensing warnings on living a life where both cops, users, and rivals made life a lonely, isolated experience amidst riches and luxury. Even back then, the rhymes, while heavy with emotion, were haunted with a sense of cold detachment that didn’t seek to glorify the craft or even attempt to reform the system (see: Public Enemy’s “Night of the Living Bassheads”). While other rappers were watching Scarface on repeat, reveling in the “live fast, die young” mentality, the dawn of the 21st century had a corps of emcees who came of age in an era after the war on drugs had already gotten its big push, and subsequently left its skeleton over the projects leaving behind a system that could recycle low-tier criminals while leaving the figureheads in place to keep the drug economy running. One need only to watch a season of The Wire to see the folly in law enforcement’s efforts. And with the early 2000’s dawning, emcees were being brought up in a world where crack and coke weren’t dangers, nor were they easy ways out. They were realities of life, and dealt with as lazily as a 9 to 5 career job. Where the 90’s had a golden age of pensive, self-reflective emcees speaking on raising themselves out of the masses, the 2000’s had emcees emerging with a cold, nihilistic view where luxury wasn’t a factor of happiness, and drugs were neither a boon nor a bane on their daily lives.

Enter the current genre of Crack Rap, one that peaked about 2 years ago and has consistently drawn a devoted fan base from a vast array of social circles. And sure, this is nothing new to hip hop, nor is the talk of guns, murder, and drugs anything controversial or even noteworthy. This is a document of the reality that many young people live in these days. But what has changed is the heart that inhabits the music. It’s grown cold, dark, empty. The Clipse, one of the central acts of Crack Rap, spit lyrics that use street slang and luxury lingo side by side, with Pusha T and Malice’s monotonous voices hinting at the emptiness behind any of the strutting they push out as a front. It’s not braggadocio, it’s a laundry list of the things they fill their lives with, while unmoved by the fact that they encourage the self-destructive nature of a drug that has long plagued their communities. At the same time, they’re wholly unexcited by the luxuries this life affords them. Furs, watches, fancy whips, these used to be the subject of entire songs with the impassioned sentiment of “I’ve got more money than you, bitch” behind it. Now, it’s a callous and uninspired name-drop-a-thon of high end consumer goods seems to say “of course I have money, so what.” Where Silkk Da Shocker used to watch Scarface 30 times a day on multiple tv screens, these emcees are bored, tired of this mentality and perfectly content to live their lives as pushers, with jail bids when necessary, only to come back and set up shop again to perpetuate the cycle.

Other acts like Rick Ross, Young Jeezy, have similar outlooks. And while it may be presumptuous to say that these men have ever actually dealt drugs or not, the fact remains that this music connects with people in a current timeframe where technology, economy, world events, yes even 9-11, have made for a world more content with keeping people at arm’s length, even keeping one’s own emotions at bay to survive in what is becoming an expanding global community, where everyone is coming closer together only to realize that we are all more removed from each other than ever. There’s poetry in these seemingly haughty, arrogant lyrics, with a glorified desperation that manages to be both cavalier and vulnerable. Where the 90’s were about celebration, self-discovery even in street rappers, this genre has paved the way for a static oblivion that manages to glorify nothingness in an enjoyable way.

The “Us against Them” mentality that the war on drugs fostered has turned inward, and given us a glamorized view of a war for a generation’s soul. Only it seems like those who would need saving are fighting on the wrong side, and winning in spades. All the while, creating music that’s both great to bump in the ride, but also to ponder the fact that crack and cocaine are now being used to push an image and a sound that’s both terrifying in concept, but invigorating to a genre that needed to shake off the dust and connect on a more visceral, striking level.