EXODUS
Hip-hop, dancehall,
reggae, soul, funk with Kool DJ Mello, DJ Apollo, DJ Kutfather,
DJ B-Mellow, DJ Supreme, DJ Uni-T
1201 SW 12th Ave., 225-1201. Fridays. Cover.
griot (n.)--Oral historian, teacher and counselor in
West African traditional cultures.
ice grill (n.)--A cold stare.
Every so often, some kid leaves corny messages on my voice
mail, offering "corrections" to articles he peeps. What makes
the dude so funny is that he attempts to sound like the most
menacing human on the planet as a steady stream of ignorance
pours out.
The last one he left ran like this: "Yo. Kill at Will
was Ice Cube's first album, sucka."
Of course, this kid is as wrong as two right feet, but
he never drops a callback number so we can dialogue about
the issues. He and cats who face me with ice grills in the
clubs embrace hip-hop's negative side when dealing with
a beef, real or imagined. In fact, in spite of hip-hop's
thuggish mass-media image, the idea that brothers should
sit at a table and discuss problems peacefully is one of
the mainstays of the culture. If the youngsters outraged
by this column would do just that, they might be surprised
at what they'd learn.
A few weeks ago, I was knocking LL Cool J's Bigger and
Deffer in my Walkman. It had been at least 10 years
since I listened to the album. Things were basic then, from
the good rhymes to the beats. The complex simplicity of
"I'm Bad," "Kanday" and "Go Cut Creator Go" set standards
rarely touched by current favorites like Hot Boyz, Ruff
Ryders, Rawkus and the Roc-A-Fella crew. It is almost impossible
to find MCs and DJs nowadays who capture the fire that LL
and his peers had from the mid-'80s to the early '90s.
But this week, when Ghostface Killah's sophomore joint,
Supreme Clientele, first roared through my speakers,
I knew that kind of real hip-hop was being brought back
to the forefront with passion, summing up the past, present
and future.
Supreme Clientele brings back memories of rolling
around with my homeboys in '86, listening to KRS-One's lyrical
onslaught on Boggie Down Productions' Criminal Minded
for the first time. Ghost's brazen lyrics also bring to
mind close friends living the life Ice Cube described on
N.W.A.'s "Dopeman," which I absorbed as somebody's copy-of-a-copy
blasted through a car stereo long before Straight Outta
Compton dropped in 1988. And Supreme Clientele's
dancefloor bangers snap the neck much like Brand Nubian's
1990 debut, One for All. Those were the days when
hip-hop received no radio play and videos were only seen
on BET or Yo' MTV Raps. For years, brothers and sisters
have struggled to make sure the music reaches the masses,
through whatever media outlet available.
Though hip-hop is now widely recognized across the world,
younger heads in Portland face the same trial early pioneers
fought--there's a dearth of sources for information on the
culture. More often than not, these kids aren't willing
to tap into the hip-hop knowledge of people like 95.5 on-air
personalities Joe Thunder and E-Bro, two heads who paved
the way for others to follow. Younger heads should not forget
that hip-hop culture is based primarily on oral expression.
Information is going to be learned from people, records,
tapes and CDs rather than a library book. Elder heads are
the griots, the keepers of vivid sagas that make up hip-hop
history and tell the tale better than any book ever could.
We have stuck to the mantra "Keep it real," so the legacy
is passed on to the next generation.
So the next time you see an old head, sit down and rap
with them for a taste. Then you'll understand what it means
when I say, "I am hip-hop." Peace.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Willamette Week | originally
published February 16,
2000
|
