​Hip-Hop Needs Control

By Aazim Jafarey

Now that we are approaching the mid-2010s and the “Age of Social Networking” is truly upon us, there is a new barometer for determining the importance of a pop culture event: social networking traffic. If something is small yet still worthy of note it pops up in your timeline – a new Juicy J song, perhaps. If the event is of more widespread significance, it registers as a trending topic, a la #BreakingBad or “THIS SH*T IS FIXED AINT NO WAY” (after the devastating Spurs loss in Game 6). In the case of the power outage at last year’s Super Bowl, multiple trending topics might appear, and in the rare instance of something as pervasive as Michael Jackson’s death, Twitter may even crash altogether.

​Using this scale, Kendrick Lamar’s verse on Big Sean’s “Control” fell short of the top tier – but not by much. The day after “Control” was released, Twitter was flooded with comments. At one point every trending topic was related to Kendrick. His peers tweeted their acknowledgments, and pioneers like Big Daddy Kane tipped their hats and reminisced about the early days of hip-hop. Some fans posted pictures from the already-iconic “Source” photo-shoot in which “King Kendrick” dons a crown; others passed along memes mocking the rappers that K-Dot name-dropped (particularly Drake and J. Cole). The verse was so pervasive that it was even featured on an array of non-hip-hop websites, and by mid-afternoon everyone from Business Insider to TMZ had written about the Compton rapper’s verbal assault. (Of course, TMZ subtitled their article with “Lindsay Lohan’s a Pathetic, Porsche-Smasher”, so perhaps their inclusion should be taken with a grain of salt.)

Within 24 hours it was clear that Kendrick’s “Control” verse would be looked upon as one of, if not the, most notable event of hip-hop in 2013. The inescapabilty of the track was a direct result of two major factors: the content of Kendrick’s lyrics and the context within which the song was dropped. Taken by itself, the verse is certainly remarkable. Since the album “good kid m.A.A.d. city” was released in 2012, Kendrick has been a frequent contributor on other artists’ songs; the only other rapper with a comparable résumé is 2 Chainz. For this reason, the impeccable delivery and flow that he uses on “Control” are, although impressive, not particularly notable – for K-Dot, such technical skills have come to be expected. What sets this particular guest appearance apart are the actual lyrics that Kendrick viciously spits. For one thing, the verse is filled with nods to other hip-hop legends: the line “I don’t smoke crack, motherf***a, I sell it” is an inversion of an Eminem line, he references and then immediately shouts out West Coast legend Kurupt (the verse as a whole is at times reminiscent of Kurupt’s “Callin’ Out Names”), and, of course, the “Kendrick, Jigga, and Nas” line is an allusion to a lyric that Hov once spat and Nas later flipped on “Ether.” At times, the verse is straight-up poetic: “Live from the basement, church pews and funeral faces”; in other instances, it is bluntly egotistical: “I’m Makaveli’s offspring, I’m the King of New York/King of the coast, one hand, I juggle ‘em both.” (A random aside: while likely unintentional, Kendrick’s “King of New York” line reminds me of a Kanye bar from a 2008 song by then-G.O.O.D. music signee Really Doe, when ‘Ye spit, “I’m the king of the world, so the king of your city by default.”)

The true crux of the lyrics lies in his name-dropping; he is able to tip his hat to his peers (“I’m normally homeboys with the same n**** I’m rhyming with”) and then immediately declare, “I got love for you all but I’m tryna murder you n****s/Tryna make sure your core fans never heard of you n****s/They don’t wanna hear not one more noun or verb from you n****s…” He lists eleven MCs in a row, simultaneously labeling them as notable artists while also proclaiming his superior ability. Taken in totality, it is clear that this verse is not meant as a diss to these other rappers; at no point does he echo Tupac by proclaiming “f**k your b***h and the clique you claim.” Instead, Kendrick is attacking hip-hop as a whole; if no one else is willing to spark competition, then he will be the one to do so.

In this regard, the context of the song – modern-day hip-hop – is very telling. It’s 2013 and rap is a far cry from what it used to be. There is no denying that in the 1990s rap was much more competitive. The frequent collaborations that one sees today are a phenomenon that has steadily increased since the mid-2000s. Some of this change was necessary; after losing both Tupac and The Notorious B.I.G. (as well as countless of other talented MCs whose names are far-too-frequently forgotten) to gun violence, it was clear that the raw nature of hip-hop needed to be subdued. As hip-hop was growing accustomed to a bigger spotlight, artists who had been raised in violent environments were bringing the streets into the music industry, and creating a dangerous environment for their fellow musicians. However, following the deaths of Biggie and Tupac, it was necessary to quell the physical violence that had arisen, and as such there is no denying the decline in competition that resulted. The raw lyrics that appeared frequently in the ‘90s now seem restricted to underground artists, with only a lucky few able to attain commercial success without adopting a pop-friendly style.

Moreover, the originality has declined. In the ‘90s artists were dropping incredible albums by taking unprecedented and unconventional approaches to hip-hop. By contrast, in 2013, many songs seem nearly identical, both sonically and content-wise. Topics like molly and twerking seem unavoidable, and many artists seem to piggyback off of the ideas of others in pathetic attempts to capitalize on what has made other people successful. This lack of originality is a topic that Kendrick himself has addressed. In late May, the Compton MC declared that “molly rap” had become “corny.” The repetitive nature of hip-hop has led to a severe decline in overall quality – how many times do we need to hear a rapper implore us to “turn up, turn up”? Kendrick’s “Control” verse flies in the face of all this – of molly, of “designer s**t,” of the complacency with which rappers collaborate with their peers instead of seeking to outperform them.

From a personal point-of-view, Kendrick is preaching to the choir. As an avid consumer of hip-hop, I am really turned off by the “state of rap.” Even when particular artists disappoint me, I am able to find other MCs to be excited about. While there are certainly some rappers releasing quality music (the Yeezus album was particularly phenomenal), 2013 was the first year since 2006 – the year that Nas famously decreed “Hip Hop Is Dead” – that the genre simply has not appealed to me. My roommate and I both largely turned our backs to contemporary rap this summer, opting instead to listen to old soul and funk records or contemporary soul gems like Quadron or Hiatus Kaiyote. On a typical day, a dozen new rap songs and perhaps one or two new mixtapes will be released. Many of these songs and projects blur together; there is little that sets them apart from what dropped the day before or what will drop the next day. By contrast, many of the songs that we encountered during what we dubbed the “Summer of Soul” stood out for different reasons – the upbeat funkiness of KC & The Sunshine Band’s “(You Said) You’d Gimme Some More” or the infectious smoothness of Bettye Swann’s “Make Me Yours.” Many of these songs often featured sections that, either musically or lyrically, were interpolated by later musicians. Instead of listening to carbon copies, we were finally listening to something truly original from artists who had created something. Where rap was becoming increasingly tiresome, soul music was (and is) a fresher alternative.

It was clear to us that hip-hop needed to be shaken up; that the genre as a whole was, essentially, sleep-walking. On “Control,” Kendrick takes it upon himself to be the force to wake everyone up. His declaration that “this is hip-hop” is simple, and yet just those four words evoke a sense of a lost era of rawness, of competitive edge – an era that Kendrick is doing his best to revive. At the risk of sounding meta, the fact that so many find his “Control” verse to be so important is, in itself, important. Enthusiasm in hip-hop is usually restricted to particular audiences. While a Chance the Rapper mixtape may cause excitement among younger fans, for instance; older audiences are often ambivalent. Kendrick’s “Control” verse, on the other hand, appealed to everyone: older rappers, younger rappers, older fans, younger fans, journalists, bloggers, etc. That so many people were talking about the verse is telling – there is, undoubtedly, a prevailing notion that it was about time someone shook things up. And for the verse to have come from Kendrick, one of, if not the, hottest rapper out there was especially promising. Things seemed, in the immediate aftermath, to be primed for change. Kyambo “Hip Hop” Joshua, co-founder and co-CEO of the famous management and production company “Hip-Hop Since 1978” and close friend of Jay-Z even posted a tweet proclaiming that Kendrick had spit “The most important verse since Kool Moe Dee killed Busy B on Sept 11, 1981 at Harlem World.” While the statement may have been a bit hyperbolic, it certainly reveals just how momentous the Kendrick verse seemed after a first listen.

Alas, the next few weeks quickly reminded hip-hop heads to not raise their hopes too highly. Many MCs painfully attempted to diss Kendrick for his verse, with NY rappers in particular offended by his “King of New York” line. Hearing Papoose diss Kendrick for being shirtless on his album cover (um, he was a baby?) was certainly a disappointing return to reality, a stark reminder that many had (and will continue to) misinterpret Kendrick’s intended meaning. (One notable exception is Joe Budden’s brilliant response). Still, the true consequences of Kendrick’s verse will likely only be revealed after a longer period of time. Hopefully, rappers heed his message and strive to release more quality music in the future. Until then, rap fans can take solace knowing that K-Dot is sitting somewhere with a pen in his hand and a crown on his head readying another verse to blow our minds.

 

Aazim Jafarey is a junior at Columbia University majoring in Urban Studies. Originally hailing from the Greater Boston area where he graduated from Phillips Academy, Aazim is an avid music listener and hip-hop enthusiast. In his spare time, he is a freelance rapper who records under the pseudonym, Lucid Dreams. You can check out his music at soundcloud.com/iseelucidly and can contact him at [email protected].