Whatever You Say I Am_ The Life and Times of Eminem - Anthony Bozza [64]
In a decade defined by conspicuous consumption, the division between rich and poor, addicts and dealers took on heaven and hell proportions in the cities. Profitable blocks—those with the most drug traffic—became war zones between rival dealing teams who would, as DMX put it in 1998’s “Ruff Ryders Anthem”: “Stop, drop, shut ’em down, open up shop / Oh, no, that’s how Ruff Ryders roll.” The dealers with the money bought more guns—big ones, such as the Israeli Uzi and the Austrian Glock, both designed for soldiers at war, which the drug game’s players are.
Instead of a long-term path to a middle-management position, the drug trade is a shot at a monied life for those who can’t make it in the system; a shot at the very dream in the heart of rap music. Selling drugs is in no way a viable alternative—there are two logical ends: one is a coffin and the other is jail, arguably just a different type of coffin. But for many enterprising young men who are marginalized by society for their race, death is a worthwhile risk for the power and riches to be gained, as well as the chance to flaunt them in a society that values them so much. As rap grew commercially viable, music became the alternative to the alternative—an equally competitive, legal occupation with the same spoils, a wider degree of respect, and less mortal risk. It is a shot at a different kind of independence.
“There’s a hyperbolic individualism in rap that has to do with the mistrust in relationships,” observes Shelby Steele, a research fellow at the Hoover Institute at Stanford University and author of the book A Dream Deferred: The Second Betrayal of Black Freedom in America. “All the central relationships of one’s life, with one’s single parent or whatever, are sources of pain, so therefore, there’s a self-sufficiency that meshes with the kind of simplistic capitalism of ‘every man for himself:’ It’s all a fabric of the alienation, the inability to make lasting, meaningful connections with human beings. Therefore, there’s a focus on things, on money, and a commodification of women, so their value to you is monetary. All of that kind of ugliness has to do with an underlying alienation. I don’t think the music is an informed embrace of capitalism, it’s an impulsive embrace of the self-sufficiency it seems to offer. Having said that, hip-hop has become this multibillion-dollar industry and produced the first generation of black entrepreneurs who really have access to the American mainstream, like Puff Daddy. So in an ironic sense, that’s good.”
A young G, gettin’ paid: 2Pac in 1995.
The crack boom of the 1980s also equaled more jailed young men. In the African-American communities, close to 20 percent of the male population was in jail or on probation by the end of that decade, leaving fewer male role models outside the prison system and far too many with lessons to teach inside. In the music that came out of this era, the street reportage of Run-D.M.C. that opened so many doors was bowled over by groups with an even grittier broadcast to air. Whether it was the agitprop genius of Public Enemy, the protogangsta philosophies of Boogie Down Productions, the unapologetic sex and violence of N.W.A, the ghetto storytelling of Slick Rick, the pulp fiction pimpin’ of Ice-T, or the sublime boast and groove of Eric B. and Rakim, rap’s message had hardened. These groups dove deep into the realities of poverty, drugs, racism, and American hypocrisy while hip-hop producers such