The color of hip-hop
Davey D
Is hip-hop culture black culture?
That was a question posed a few days ago during the Hip-Hop Congress' national conference at San Jose State University, and it set off a contentious and spirited debate that lasted for more than an hour.
Of course, hip-hop as we know it today, through rap, break dancing and DJing, is 30 years old, and thousands upon thousands of people from various ethnic backgrounds all over the world emphatically see themselves as members of the Hip-Hop Nation.
During the discussion, San Jose rap artist Poop and Piss referred to a KRS-One edict by emphatically stating, ``I am hip-hop -- I am hip-hop.'' He went on to argue that black or white was not an issue, passionately insisting that hip-hop had no color and that he had nothing but love for the culture into which he was born.
Today, hip-hop accepts a white guy such as Eminem, who is considered one of the most talented -- or dopest -- emcees ever to rap on the mike. The Bay Area's Filipino community has given us stellar DJs such as Q-Bert, Mixmaster Mike and DJ Apollo, who are credited with redefining the art of turntablism. And people participate in the various disciplines associated with hip-hop from East Oakland to Croatia to New Zealand.
In fact, hip-hop appears to be one of only a few activities that have brought together people from all races and backgrounds. But maybe that's not a good thing if our troubling tendency to ignore or deny the African origins of various cultural strains raises its ugly head again.
One white participant at the conference stated bluntly, ``Hip-hop was black, but it's ours now.'' He may have reached that conclusion because an estimated 70 percent of hip-hop's paying audience is made up of white kids, and hip-hop is seen and heard everywhere from MTV to car commercials.
But we need to recognize that hip-hop came out of racially oppressive conditions -- the same kind of pain and hurt from which blues music emerged in earlier generations. Both expressions are evidence of African-Americans re-creating aspects of the culture that was stripped from them.
Tersa N. Washington, an assistant professor at California State University-Stanislaus in Turlock, recently offered some in-depth ideas on this subject in a separate interview and presentation. She explained the African roots of everything from free-style cipher circles to break-dance moves and the philosophy behind those moves (``breaking'' into the spirit world) and key hip-hop words and phrases. She explained that the African oral tradition has manifested itself in rap and emceeing.
Words such as ``hip'' and ``rap,'' she pointed out, are spoken by the Wolof people of Senegal, to which many African-Americans trace their roots. ``Hip,'' ``hep'' and ``hippie'' translate roughly as ``open one's eyes'' or ``find out what is going on.'' ``Hop'' is a slang word for dance hall. ``Rap,'' which has long been used in the African-American community, means ``soul'' in Wolof. The term ``hip-hop'' was bandied about in the African-American community for several generations before hip-hop pioneer Lovebug Starski first used it to describe hip-hop activities in the early '70s.
Washington went on to talk about the importance of the village griot, or djelis, throughout western Africa. These revered community elders were responsible for passing down the history of the village through spoken word and rhythmic narratives known as ``praising.'' In many of these praise songs, we find the building blocks for today's rap.
A book could be written about the black roots of hip-hop, and in fact several are in the works.
But an overriding question remains: When does an activity from one culture suddenly become its own separate culture? It's a question that needs continuing debate.
Davey D
Is hip-hop culture black culture?
That was a question posed a few days ago during the Hip-Hop Congress' national conference at San Jose State University, and it set off a contentious and spirited debate that lasted for more than an hour.
Of course, hip-hop as we know it today, through rap, break dancing and DJing, is 30 years old, and thousands upon thousands of people from various ethnic backgrounds all over the world emphatically see themselves as members of the Hip-Hop Nation.
During the discussion, San Jose rap artist Poop and Piss referred to a KRS-One edict by emphatically stating, ``I am hip-hop -- I am hip-hop.'' He went on to argue that black or white was not an issue, passionately insisting that hip-hop had no color and that he had nothing but love for the culture into which he was born.
Today, hip-hop accepts a white guy such as Eminem, who is considered one of the most talented -- or dopest -- emcees ever to rap on the mike. The Bay Area's Filipino community has given us stellar DJs such as Q-Bert, Mixmaster Mike and DJ Apollo, who are credited with redefining the art of turntablism. And people participate in the various disciplines associated with hip-hop from East Oakland to Croatia to New Zealand.
In fact, hip-hop appears to be one of only a few activities that have brought together people from all races and backgrounds. But maybe that's not a good thing if our troubling tendency to ignore or deny the African origins of various cultural strains raises its ugly head again.
One white participant at the conference stated bluntly, ``Hip-hop was black, but it's ours now.'' He may have reached that conclusion because an estimated 70 percent of hip-hop's paying audience is made up of white kids, and hip-hop is seen and heard everywhere from MTV to car commercials.
But we need to recognize that hip-hop came out of racially oppressive conditions -- the same kind of pain and hurt from which blues music emerged in earlier generations. Both expressions are evidence of African-Americans re-creating aspects of the culture that was stripped from them.
Tersa N. Washington, an assistant professor at California State University-Stanislaus in Turlock, recently offered some in-depth ideas on this subject in a separate interview and presentation. She explained the African roots of everything from free-style cipher circles to break-dance moves and the philosophy behind those moves (``breaking'' into the spirit world) and key hip-hop words and phrases. She explained that the African oral tradition has manifested itself in rap and emceeing.
Words such as ``hip'' and ``rap,'' she pointed out, are spoken by the Wolof people of Senegal, to which many African-Americans trace their roots. ``Hip,'' ``hep'' and ``hippie'' translate roughly as ``open one's eyes'' or ``find out what is going on.'' ``Hop'' is a slang word for dance hall. ``Rap,'' which has long been used in the African-American community, means ``soul'' in Wolof. The term ``hip-hop'' was bandied about in the African-American community for several generations before hip-hop pioneer Lovebug Starski first used it to describe hip-hop activities in the early '70s.
Washington went on to talk about the importance of the village griot, or djelis, throughout western Africa. These revered community elders were responsible for passing down the history of the village through spoken word and rhythmic narratives known as ``praising.'' In many of these praise songs, we find the building blocks for today's rap.
A book could be written about the black roots of hip-hop, and in fact several are in the works.
But an overriding question remains: When does an activity from one culture suddenly become its own separate culture? It's a question that needs continuing debate.