The New H. N. I. C.

The Death of Civil Rights and the Reign of Hip Hop

Todd Boyd

• Publisher: NYU Press
• Year: 2003
• ISBN:
  9780814739495
• Topic: Ciencias sociales
• Subtopic: Estudios afroamericanos

When Lauryn Hill stepped forward to accept her fifth Grammy Award in 1999, she paused as she collected the last trophy, and seeming somewhat startled said, “This is crazy, ‘cause this is hip hop music.’“ Hill’s astonishment at receiving mainstream acclaim for music once deemed insignificant testifies to the explosion of this truly revolutionary art form. Hip hop music and the culture that surrounds it—film, fashion, sports, and a whole way of being—has become the defining ethos for a generation. Its influence has spread from the state’s capital to the nation’s capital, from the Pineapple to the Big Apple, from ‘Frisco to Maine, and then on to Spain.

But moving far beyond the music, hip hop has emerged as a social and cultural movement, displacing the ideas of the Civil Rights era. Todd Boyd maintains that a new generation, having grown up in the aftermath of both Civil Rights and Black Power, rejects these old school models and is instead asserting its own values and ideas. Hip hop is distinguished in this regard because it never attempted to go mainstream, but instead the mainstream came to hip hop.

The New H.N.I.C., like hip hop itself, attempts to keep it real, and challenges conventional wisdom on a range of issues, from debates over use of the “N-word,” the comedy of Chris Rock, and the “get money” ethos of hip hop moguls like Sean “P. Diddy” Combs and Russell Simmons, to hip hop’s impact on a diverse array of figures from Bill Clinton and Eminem to Jennifer Lopez.

Maintaining that Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech is less important today than DMX's It's Dark and Hell is Hot, Boyd argues that Civil Rights as a cultural force is dead, confined to a series of media images frozen in another time. Hip hop, on the other hand, represents the vanguard, and is the best way to grasp both our present and future.

1
No Time for Fake Niggas
Hip Hop, from Private to Public

I came to bring the pain/hardcore to the brain.

—Method Man, “Bring the Pain”

Choppin’ Up Game

As long as I can remember, my father and several of his friends would get together on Saturday morning for a lively breakfast. Over the years the restaurant locations have changed constantly, and the participants have tended to come and go, depending on what was happening in people’s personal lives at a given time. What was constant was the intense conversations that would take place around the breakfast table. I have been fortunate on many occasions to be able to witness these breakfast sessions as an interested observer.

The meetings were certainly generationally specific, thus my words were limited to a few because I was simply too young to get in this game. It was not my place, and I never had a problem being quiet and listening, taking everything in like Absorbine Jr. These conversations were fascinating to me, so much so that I have tried to re-create the same atmosphere with several of my own friends over the years.

Their breakfasts would usually begin with my father’s playing Cannonball Adderly’s classic “Mercy, Mercy, Mercy” on the jukebox. This was like the sounding of the bell, so to speak. Let the games begin! The topics could range from the purchase of someone’s new car to some recent sporting event, but most often the conversations would have to do with race and race relations in America. These men, most of whom were born before 1940, had a very distinct view of the world, and though they seldom came to a consensus, the discourse itself was fascinating. Some of these men were Black Nationalists, some of them were Republicans, most of them were somewhere in between those two poles. This is what made for the lively give-and-take.

What was so important about these discussions was that they had a certain sense of freedom to them. The men were free to express their beliefs openly. You might get clowned for saying some bullshit, you might get dismissed as an Uncle Tom, regardless, it was open, and everyone knew the unwritten rules. Say what you want, just be able to defend what you say.

The freedom of the exchange had to do with the fact that these were discussions, in essence being held in private, although in public places. It was the men’s conversation, and no one else was listening. They could say what they wanted and, of course, this was not the case as it pertained to their place in mainstream America; certainly it was not the case when one considers the time they came up as Black men. Here they were free to discuss whatever, without the eye or ear of the proverbial “White man” interfering in any way. This is what made the conversations so lively; the freedom to say what the fuck you wanted to say, without fear of any sort of retribution or consequences for your words.

I am happy to tell you that most of what they had to say, sounded very much like Chris Rock.

In a society where the Black voice is often muted if not downright silent, these Saturday morning breakfast discussions were just the opposite. They were loud, boisterous, and quite insightful as well. It was as though these men were providing the commentary that had often been missing from the one-sided presentation that Black people received in the mainstream media. Although the conversations were decidedly pro Black, it was not beyond these men to criticize their own people. As a matter of fact, this was a featured point of the discussions.

Their criticisms, however, were spoken in the spirit of love, however biting they may have been. It was as though the mainstream was not getting it right because its agenda was suspect. The mainstream wanted to see Black people in a certain way. These men wanted to see Black people in a certain way too, but they used the negative always as a way of getting to the potential of the positive. It was understood that they came in love, not in anger or alienation, and it was expected that their comments be treated as such.

The furthest concerns from their minds were the thoughts of White people. They could not have cared less or, more to the point, they didn’t give a fuck about a White person’s opinion in these quarters. Considering the ever-watchful eye of the “White man” again, this was a rarified space, an exclusive space where the articulations of a distinctly Black discourse was the beginning, middle, and end of the discussion. This was an inherently private discussion and was intended to remain that way—thus the freedom of expression. As a matter of fact, my father was the only one liberal enough to even allow my young ears to hear what was being said. The others felt that this was simply too much for their young sons to hear. This was one of the only places where they could do their thing and they were not going to let anyone stop their flow.

Like these discussions among my father and his friends, much of what Black people say has been said in private. It is readily accepted for Black people of a certain generation that one had to put on a different face when dealing in White society, for one’s real face was deemed unacceptable. This is because Black people must fit whatever limited range of images the mainstream has defined for them. There is no real regard or interest in learning what these people are really about; instead, it is about fulfilling a stereotype of one sort or another. Thus, as a way of survival, many Black people began donning an alternative persona, one devised for the purpose of existing in a hostile White world. This is especially true in a generational sense, where those who have the knowledge of a longer history know of the beatings, lynchings, and other brutalities often visited upon those people who refused to participate in this elaborate game of racial charade.

Accordingly, in order to express one’s true feelings, these discussions often had to be held in private, where one would not have to look over his or her shoulder, or worry whether one’s comments might cause the loss of one’s job or, worst, one’s life. This Black private space became a highly charged arena, then, a place where all those things that had been operating latently could be expressed openly, albeit away from the gaze and range of White society. In my mind, this is where the notion of the underground was formed, literally from the Underground Railroad, and figuratively as it moved throughout the rest of the culture.

Hip hop has come to be the contemporary cultural expression that most obviously has no problem being loud and clear. This is true of the music and it is also true of the way that many African Americans now see themselves. Though generationally there are still those who were raised under the old regime and who still maintain their undercover posture, many contemporary African Americans refuse to couch their language, style, or overall attitude. To do so now is to be something other than yourself, to be what is thought of as “fake,” and of course, hip hop is all about “keepin’ it real.” What was often in the past said in private is now being regularly said in the most public of venues and hip hop has become the forum.

Why Blow up the Spot?

I’m expressin’ with my full capabilities/now I’m livin’ in correctional facilities.

—Dr. Dre (N.W.A.), “Express Yourself”

As N.W.A. said back in 1988, “Express Yourself”; in other words, freedom of speech is endemic to hip hop. Though it is important to be able to speak freely, many of this older generation have raised an objection to the openness of the hip hop’s voice. Do you want people on the outside to hear everything you have to say? It gets back to an age-old Black question about whether it’s appropriate to “put your business in the street.”

It has long been thought that to criticize other Black people in public was to assist in one’s own destruction. The argument goes that if you tear one another down in public, you are thought to be aiding and abetting the criminal enterprise of racism. It is felt that White society could use this against you and, moreover, it is simply thought to be in bad taste.

My father and his group engaged in their critique amongst themselves. No harm, no foul. No one else heard them anyway. Chris Rock, on the other hand, was right there on HBO and later on videotapes and DVDs for the world to hear. Though some of the same things were said, they were being said in public and this issue of public versus private was forced onto the agenda in a way that far transcended anything that had happened like this before.

Certainly, Richard Pryor spoke what had been unspeakable before he came on the scene. Yet, Pryor was talking about White people and their racism. Considering Pryor’s own immersion in the politics of Black Power, his private tutorial under the direction of Huey Newton, and the politics swirling around those times, his contribution to the discourse was taking place within a broader context in which many African Americans were now getting a chance to openly engage in a critique of American racism for the first time.

Chris Rock, on the other hand, was talking about Black people and their pathologies to an audience that far superseded the primarily Black audience in attendance at the Tacoma Theater in Washington, D.C., that night in 1996. Some might suggest that many White people with less than noble intent might use the same criticisms that Rock made that evening against Black people. In this regard, Rock would be thought to cosign the racist stereotypes of poor Black people already held as true by a White establishment. The fact that another Black person was saying what many Whites felt but could not openly say gave credence to the view of African Americans as societal threat.

Rock was not affirming dominant views of Black people for a fawning White audience, though one cannot deny that the public nature of his discourse was available for all who would choose to use it in whatever fashion they desired. No, instead Rock was, in the spirit of old school cappin’ and new school dissin’ calling out his own people, signifyin’ on them for some of their own self-inflicted wounds. He, like the gathering of older men mentioned already, came in love, and he spoke to his in-house audience that night as though they were all part of a larger public Black conversation. Similar to a president’s State of the Union message but in a distinctly Black cultural style, complete with call and response, Chris Rock raps in an affirmative first- person plural to his well-schooled audience of brothas and sistas.

The show begins with Rock directly addressing this audience; he shouts out, “D.C.!!! Chocolate Ci-tay!!!” The setting for Rock’s show is quite significant here in that Washington, D.C., is of course the nation’s capital but more important because of its overwhelming Black population, it has also been called “Chocolate City.” This appellation was originally used by funk master George Clinton back in the 1970s, when he pointed to the increasing White flight from major urban areas across the country as the birth of the “Chocolate City with its vanilla suburbs.” “D.C.,” as it has long been referred to by many African Americans, was thought to be the model Chocolate City. Because location is of utmost importance in hip hop, Rock makes this immediate connection. Then the fun begins.

Rock mentions D.C. as the home of the Million Man March, the massive political demonstration organized by Nation of Islam leader Louis Farrakhan in 1995. He says that all the positive Black leaders were there and goes on until he gets to D.C. mayor Marion Berry. In his signature exaggerated cadence Rock says, “Marion Berry, at the Million Man March. You know what that means? It means that even in our finest hour, we had a crack head on the stage.”

Right off the bat Rock jumps into the mix, openly criticizing Berry who was convicted and jailed for smoking crack on camera, as part of an F.B.I. sting operation in the early 1990s. Rock inquires, “How the hell did Marion Berry get his job back?”

The political situation is indeed a delicate one. Berry was caught smoking crack on camera, true, but this came after a long and expensive federal entrapment mission into the mayor’s personal life. Smoking crack is certainly not the image of a mayor any of us want to see. Berry was an open target for criticism, not the least of which was his colossal case of bad judgment. Yet, the effort put into this by the feds far outweighed the severity of what is at the end of the day a personal indiscretion. It is said that more than $40 million over a ten-year period was spent to finally show grainy video footage of the mayor begging the female informant for sex, while he himself was “sucking on that glass dick.” It is hard to forget Berry’s surprise when he realized it was a sting. He began yelling quite simply, “Goddamn, the bitch set me up!”

Rock is well aware of this history and chooses to go in a different direction with it. There is some distance between the original incident and the moment at which Rock speaks. His critique is rooted in the fact that Berry got reelected after serving jail time, that the people of D.C. demonstrated such bad judgment when reelecting a former crack user after the fact.

As a matter of fact, Berry was lampooned on In Livin’ Color back in the early 1990s, not long after the initial event had taken place. This skit, with Keenan Ivory Wayans imitating talk show host Arsenio Hall and David Alan Grier playing Berry, was seen in one of the early episodes of the show. In one memorable passage, Wayans says to Grier, “I heard you got a new book and I hear it’s smokin’!!!” to which Grier sheepishly responds, “No Arsenio, I was caught smokin’ and I got booked.” Again, there is a sort of insiders’ humor to this skit that is certainly irreverent but is also quite funny considering the source. I suggest that a Saturday Night Live skit would not have been received the same way, because of all the racial connotations. The source and context of the critique make all the difference in the world.

Chris Rock, on Some Other Shit

Though many White listeners would be surprised at the honesty of Chris Rock’s words, Black people have these sorts of discussions amongst themselves all the time. Again, it was the fact that many White people were listening, thus it was possible that these comments could now be used against Black people by those who were a lot less benevolent than Chris Rock was that evening.

For this reason, many African Americans have felt that Rock’s words were out of place, that he was affirming dominant stereotypes of Black people, that his comments should not have been made with so many White people listening. His critics can also point to the amazing success that Rock would come to enjoy in the aftermath of these statements, which for his critics, suggests that Rock was now embraced by the mainstream simply because he was willing to criticize Black people.

I am sure many of these critics would also point to the 1998 Vanity Fair cover on which Rock provocatively appeared dressed like a Black clown in a traveling circus. For those who would hold these views, who believe that Rock’s success is now only about being a pawn in the White man’s game, please look deeper. At the core of this cultural moment is an important lesson about the function of race in the post–civil rights era especially because it informs the way that we define Blackness in this moment.

The show begins with a shot of Rock’s dressing room door. As the door opens, the camera slowly pans down to frame the comedian’s feet. His black-and-white “Spectator” shoes stand out. With this focus on the feet, Rock begins his stroll to the stage. A series of images begin to appear, superimposed over the strollin’ “Spectators.” The images are of classic comedy-album covers featuring a range of comedic talents, styles, and eras, and offering a broad historical backdrop against which to understand Rock’s work. The album covers suggest a kind of comedy hall of fame and they also suggest a lineage and foreground the vast lexicon of comedy that has influenced a serious comic like Chris Rock. The album covers, in order, highlight some of America’s most regarded comics: Bill Cosby, Dick Gregory, Flip Wilson (as Geraldine), Richard Pryor, Steve Martin, Pigmeat Markham, Woody Allen, and Eddie Murphy.

Rock connects himself to a lineage, a tradition, and his most interesting choices are figures like Pigmeat Markham, Steve Martin, and Woody Allen. In demonstrating a connection to an older though often controversial Black chitlin’-circuit comic tradition with Pigmeat, Rock also makes a connection to figures like Steve Martin and Woody Allen, who seem to exist outside the worldview of many of the other Black comics working today.

Rock’s work is in contrast to what became of the originally spectacular Def Comedy Jam series on HBO. Though Def Comedy started out as a much-needed venue for the expression of Black comedy that was being ignored by the mainstream at the time, the show eventually ran its course and fell victim to an inferior group of comedians who tended to regard the idea of originality with contempt. These comedians began primarily recycling a series of worn-out clichés about Black sexual prowess, homosexuality, and supposed Black and White stylistic differences.

The redundancy of the routines coupled with the completely over-the-top audience participation soon made Def Comedy a caricature of what it had originally started out to be. So much so that, again, In Livin’ Color did a famous skit on the show that featured, among other things, audience members laughing so hard that someone’s head blew off in the process.

Whereas Rock’s comedy was rooted in thought, the comedians on Def Comedy clearly got props for how outrageous they could be and how loud they could make the audience laugh. The difference is that Rock’s work was about humor and wit, jokes that were not only funny but ultimately thought-provoking attempts to analyze a serious issue through the use of comedy. When hearing Rock and recognizing the potential truth, for instance, about the way that “ignorant ass niggas fuck things up,” one has the tendency to laugh so as to keep from crying.

Def Comedy Jam, on the other hand, was not about humor, but was all about getting laughs—and there is a profound difference. Whatever outrageous things someone could say to get the audience to explode was considered par for the course. There was very little thought involved and the emphasis was more on the physical, thus playing to a very different audience and playing for a completely different set of laughs.

One could say similar things about BET’s Comic View, which pursued as outrageous a course as did Def Comedy but could offer only a low-rent version of this, due to the fact that the comedians were restricted from using curse words because BET does not enjoy the same openness in this regard as HBO does. Thus these comedians tended to become even more physical and therefore much more stereotypical in their attempts to get laughs. As Rock himself stated in an article in Billboard magazine (September 28, 1996), “A lot of them don’t study jokes, but do real bad versions of Richard and Eddie.”

To compound matters, the show, which was always taped in Los Angeles, moved to Atlanta in the late 1990s in order to avoid the wrath of the labor unions in LA. BET paid a minimal wage to the comedians and refused to pay residuals for repeat broadcasts of the programs. Often the show would simply be an edited ...