Reflections on Jeffrey Ogbar’s Hip Hop Revolution

During the school semester, I try to read at least one book aside from the numerous assigned readings for my classes. This semester I’ve been working on Manning Marable’s biography of Malcolm X (Malcolm X: a Life of Reinvention). Listening to Ogbar speak on his book, Hip Hop Revolution, and subsequently examining hip hop, coincides brilliantly with Marable’s book and his critical examination of Malcolm X. The questions Ogbar raises about authenticity/”realness” and the ways in which hip hop artists adhere to “certain ideals—whether real or imagined” parallels the conflicting responses to the image of Malcom X by the white public and the African American community. In my opinion, images that reflect and/or attempt to define what it means to be Black in America (or, in this context, what it means to a Black male in America) must allow and incorporate many voices. Thus, as the “contested, competitive voices” of male rappers are using art as a medium for which they can construct or reconstruct images of Blackness (and, arguably, black masculinity), they are ultimately responding to and reflecting upon their contextual reality. Ogbar’s discussion on the cover of his book—the DJ Lord album cover—further explores these constructed images in hip hop and establishes their relation to Blackness and Black masculinity. Interestingly, Ogbar references an image of DJ Lord referencing an image of Malcolm X. In Lord’s image, both a reference to and interpretation of the iconic picture of X, he is holding a turn-table (instead of a rifle) and connecting his music and its purpose with, presumably, Black liberation and resistance. As X is holding a rifle for (physical) protection, Lord and other DJs, rappers, and hip hop artists are using their music (holding their turn-tables) for (psychological) protection against racial injustice.
From William Wells Brown to M-1, there is a rich tradition (some would argue an obligation) of using literature and music to not only speak-out against racial injustice but call the African American community to action. However, what is so fascinating to me (and, in my opinion, separates hip-hop and African American literature from other literary and musical genres) is the expectation for Black art to depict a communal/collective image of Blackness. In the context of hip hop, it is depicted via one’s authenticity or how one “keeps it real” (though different rappers have “different understandings of what ‘keeping it real’ means”). As Ogbar points out, the question surrounding Black identity and representation in Black art is not new. It was discussed by Black intellectuals and artists in 1926: how is the Black wo/man to be portrayed in Black art? Should Black art, literature, and music embody individualistic expression or a collective, group expression? Can it do both? In 2012, this question is quite relevant and reveals itself over and over again in public discourse on hip hop and its so-called “negative effects” on Black youth. For me, this is so problematic because it unmistakably simplifies notions of Blackness. During the Q&A, an audience member asks Ogbar, “How does one reconcile 50-Cent and Talib Kweli?” and Ogbar responds that hip hop allows both 50 Cent and Kweli to coexist within the same realm. One does not, and should not, have to have an “either-or” [false dilemma] mentality (read: such a question implies an over-simplified understanding of what it means to be Black in America).
Yet, the question comes up over and over again and it seems to only apply to Black art and artists. I am so uncomfortable when—particularly in the context of examining one’s artistic purpose, identity and expression— certain images (or notions of “real”) are expected/allowed to be the only representation or embodiment of Blackness. This “either-or” fallacy is not limited to [mis]representations of hip hop. It’s often applied when discussing Black film/theater and African American filmmakers (i.e. Spike Lee and Tyler Perry) and African American comedians (i.e. Steve Harvey and Dave Chappelle). One can (and should) critically examine and call into question certain characteristics of “ganster rap” or Tyler Perry’s Madea films because certain elements are extremely problematic. Yet, it’s overwhelmingly frustrating when people dismiss rappers like 50-Cent and Young Jeezy as “buffoons pandering to racial stereotypes” because they (50 and Jeezy) do not adhere to Dubois’s claim that “all art is propaganda and ever must be.” As well, it’s equally frustrating when the media and critics of hip hop, like Bill Cosby, only focus on “ganster” or “club” rap—caricatured as materialistic, violent, misogynistic, and homophobic—as a general representation of African American youth. Nothing annoys me more than arguments that harshly critique hip hop yet fail to recognize that prominent themes in hip hop are a direct reflection of [white] America’s obsession with materialism/consumerism, violence, misogyny, and homophobia.