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I often wonder how it must have felt to give birth to Hip Hop - to watch it crawl to the mic and take its first steps on stage. To raise it from inner city basement parties to 5th avenue soirées. Damn. Who would’ve ever thought Hip Hop would be living thanks to its fair skinned consumers and dying thanks to its dark skinned producers? It saddens me to watch Hip Hop continue to be puff puff passed on to its latest set of 21st century guardians who with or without knowing feed it only the best in recycled abuse.  

Will the real parents of Hip Hop please stand up? 

Sure, many will say that Hip Hop lives within today’s current roster of so-so MCs, but it’s only so long that Hip Hop can continue to breathe within another dying body. The idea of Hip Hop as a culture is quickly being eclipsed by its growing presence as a brand, cultivated and exploited by the greed of its franchise developers (Crunk Juice anyone?). Where’s a doctor when you need one? Yeah we’ve got some, but the lyrical and musical PHDs poised to revitalize Hip Hop are placed underneath a stack of unqualified applicants skilled in producing the freshest in baked facades. 

And we love it. 

Our longstanding relationship with Hip Hop has been traded in for a glamorous affair with rap’s wam bam thank you mams ready and willing to give us the quickie of our lives. 

Can we remain faithful to Hip Hop?  

Or will we continue to get fucked by look-a-likes, moaning until it feels like something real. And all the while, Hip Hop waits. Because the money needs to be paid, and the profit needs to be gained. And not too far down the block, a 7yr old proudly hollas “superman that hoe”, but we still tell Hip Hop to hang tight. That we need to get this out of our system…just a couple more years of acting a fool and it’ll be just like the beginning – the good ‘ol days. 

Time is tickin’ and Hip Hop keeps sittin’, waiting for your return. 

But…will you return?