Mention any rapper other Wayne and I get confused if they have "Little" in their name. "Little" what? Which Little is this? Is this Little Baby, Little Dicky or Little Pump? If you really want to confuse me, mention "Da Baby and Lil Baby in the same story. If you put a gun to my head and asked me to name five of their songs collectively I would just tell you to play “It’s so hard to say goodbye” an my funeral. I’m too far removed from a lot of the newer artists.
This, by all accounts, would mean I am an old-school hip-hop head now. I don’t shy away from this title. Actually, I used to lean into it a little too hard when I wanted to police the direction of the music. I’ve since learned to stop doing that and continue to encourage my fellow classic hip-hop heads forgo policing as well.
“This music isn’t real hip-hop” was my go-to response when discussing newer artists that sounded too different from the raw New York street rap of the late 90s. Late 90’s hip-hop was my litmus test and I employed it generously. Those of us who consider ourselves classic hip-hop heads tend to operate as if we are the ultimate and final say over what constitutes as authentic hip-hop. As my friend and fellow music writer, Shamira Ibrahim, wrote “The idea that "hip-hop heads" have authority over what music is good is overblown. Too many are stuck in the 90s and don't accept that art has evolved and requires an equal level of skill in a different capacity.”
Shots fired…as the kids say.
Hearing that you are stuck in the 90s is a gut punch, but Ibrahim is spot-on in her observations. We think we’re protecting the culture when in fact we are policing it and you cannot police what you love.
I can’t say, with certainty, when I realized I was policing a culture I claimed to love. I may have realized it when I finally came to terms with my rejection of southern rap and how that rejection stemmed from my inner struggle with respectability politics. This, of course, triggered more self-reflection. Self-reflection, though, is light. When it illuminates, you either process what’s revealed or make a deliberate choice to return to the darkness. In this case, the light revealed that my limited views of what constituted hip-hop robbed me of experiencing the vast expressions of an art form that only grows deeper when it’s protected rather than policed.
It’s the responsibility of those of us who love hip-hop to protect it from culture vultures, and the obligation of every protector to avoid policing it. I don’t know what it looks like to simultaneously police and protect something. The two actions feel inherently conflicting. Protection is more of an act of guarding something carefully with intentional love so that it may be whatever it is intended to be. Protection fosters potential. Policing, on the other hand, feels more like using violence, aggression, and force in an attempt to control something you are emotionally removed from. It’s void of emotional investment and rooted in the need to dominate and control. What has ever grown in such an atmosphere?
Loving hip-hop means allowing it to be free to change and grow—which requires protection and not policing.
