Book of Rhymes (26 page)

Rhythm is the foundation of rap, in the beats as well as in the rhymes. Rappers' flows, their distinctive vocal cadences,
establish reciprocal relationships with the beat. MCs can rap a little behind, or a little ahead, they can use their voices as counterpoint, or they can simply ride the beat where it wants to take them. But they must always respect the integrity of the rhythm by not letting the overall performance slip into complete chaos and disharmony.

Yes, rap is repetitive: The beats are usually in 4/4 time, and the samples are often constructed on short, repeated riffs. However, the departure from established rhythm patterns is just as important as the patterns themselves. One of the reasons, for instance, that Tupac is considered by many to be one of the greatest MCs of all time is that he mastered the skill of satisfying his listeners' rhythmic expectations with his distinctive flow while still finding ways to surprise them with unexpected departures from that pattern.

Rhyme is one of the few givens in rap lyricism. An MC must satisfy convention—and the audience—by rhyming words in some kind of discernable pattern. That said, over the years MCs have conceived an increasing variety of ways to quench the audience's thirst for rhyme while expanding their own lyrical possibilities. In most old-school rap, rhymes fell at the end of lines; nowadays, one is just as likely to hear a rhyme in the middle of a line, or a string of rhymed lines in a row. Also, the definition of which words rhyme with one another has expanded from the narrow, perfect rhymes of the past to half rhymes and other aural analogues that satisfy the expectation of rhyme while allowing rappers a much wider expressive range.

It isn't enough for rappers simply to use a simile or a metaphor; to stand out they must provide some spark of ingenuity. One measure of an MC's skill is in his or her ability to breathe new life into old forms by finding original things to say or at least new ways of talking about old things. For those rappers who continue to rehash old themes—the “money, cash, hos” Jay-Z once rapped about—the challenge is to find distinctive ways of addressing them, be it through an original metaphor or some other lyrical innovation.

This, in part, is why rap's relation to literary poetry is closer than that of many other forms of popular lyric. Rap wants to be understood. Mick Jagger intentionally slurs his way through “Rough Justice,” while Eminem clearly enunciates every word on “Stan.” Clarity might just be the reason rap is so often targeted for censorship. It doesn't hide behind the music; it almost always comes through loud and clear.

Wordplay, the creative application of rap figures and forms, is only the most obvious test of a rapper's skill. The best measure of virtuosity, however, might be sublinguistic, the manipulation of syllables and sounds. “I like being read,” Rakim explains. “The way you do that is by having a lot of words, a lot of syllables, different types of words.” This requires ingenious poetry, but it also requires mastery of physical qualities like breath control and articulation.

The voice is a rapper's instrument. Not all instruments, however, are created equal. Rap has its share of great voices: Chuck D, Tupac, Biggie, Q-Tip, Lauryn Hill. It also has its share of strange, limited, or undistinguished ones. Regardless of the tonal quality, though, voice matters. As KRS-One explains, “Rappers should always remember that their own voices are the true essence of Rap music, and it is that essence that gives the Rapper life.” More often than not, those rappers consistently listed among the greatest of all time are also gifted with tremendous vocal instruments. A great voice does not guarantee success, nor does a grating one damn one to obscurity.

A rapper who spits a series of disconnected couplets is generally considered less skillful than one who can develop multiple facets of a particular theme or idea. In its most evolved form, this takes the shape of narrative—rap storytelling. It could also mean sixteen bars on your lyrical skill or your opponent's weakness. It could mean an abstract idea refracted through a series of images and figurative constructions. Regardless of the specifics, rap audiences expect a sense of cohesion and wholeness from a rhyme.

Rap's image in the popular imagination is dominated by aggression: young black men talking about guns, drugs, and violence. Comedy would seem to have little place. Mobb Deep's Prodigy best expressed this attitude of straight-faced menace
when he rapped on “Eye for an Eye,” “I might crack a smile, but ain't a damn thing funny.” That said, much rap has an irrepressible sense of humor. Its wit is often displayed in conjunction with its aggression—sometimes to undercut it even to the point of parody; other times to render it more sinister still, as in the chillingly lighthearted way that the Notorious B.I.G. sometimes rapped about death. Without a doubt, rap has its share of comedians, from clown princes like Flavor Flav and Ol' Dirty Bastard to slow-flowing, sardonic wits like Too Short and Snoop Dogg. Hip hop's humor shares in the spirit of the tragicomic, an essential force behind black American cultural expression, from the blues to the dozens.

For some hip-hop purists the astounding popularity of D4L's 2006 chart-topping single “Laffy Taffy” spelled the end of hip hop as we know it. How could such a simplistic and, well,
dumb
song ever become so popular? What happened to lyrics with meaning? The fact is that rap has always catered to a broad range of tastes. For every song like “The Message” there was a “Fat Boys.” “Laffy Taffy” was recorded for the clubs—night clubs, dance clubs, strip clubs. Yes, it was low concept, but it
had a concept,
and within those shockingly limited constraints, it was a tremendous success.

High-concept raps—not to be confused necessarily with high-
quality
raps—are those that aspire to grand expressive range and purpose. That purpose may be to express socio-political messages (like so-called conscious rappers), or it may be to experiment with new lyrical forms (such as Immortal Technique's nine-and-half-minute lyrical horror story, “Dance with the Devil”) or to set a lyrical challenge for oneself (like
Long Beach's Crooked I did when he came up with
The Dream Tapes,
a series of a cappella freestyles he spit onto a bedside tape recorder just after waking up in the morning). Rap is at its weakest when it does away with a clear concept, an articulate vision of order and purpose. For rap to thrive, an audience has to be able to hear in the lyrics the reason that the rapper picked up the microphone.

Kool G Rap once warned that “biters are wanted like animals hunted.” Biting another MC's style is the greatest crime a lyricist can commit, and yet rap could not exist had it not borrowed heavily from other art forms. That both of these things can be true is rap's fundamental paradox. From the musical sampling that often comprises hip-hop tracks to the lyrical “biting” that makes direct use of other people's words, rap is filled with things that originally belonged to others. So what separates creative adaptation from outright theft? The answer lies in rap's originality.

As an art form, rap relies on repetition—but repetition with a difference. Its creative process consists of MCs taking ready-made things that are close at hand and transforming them to fit the pattern of their unique artistic vision. While biters might simply copy someone's flow, or even try to pass off someone else's lyrics as their own, true MCs have the ability to make what they take from others into something all their own.

 

You may disagree with some of these claims. If you do, that's fine with me because it's only in heated discussions among rappers, writers, and hip-hop fans that we'll finally appreciate
hip hop's poetry. None of the commandments that I've laid down is fixed; they are open to addition, revision, or rejection. They belong to every MC, but most of all they belong to the rest of us. As active listeners, we can affect rap's values by what we choose to hear. Even more important, we can shape these values—and with them, the future of rap itself—by becoming better listeners, sophisticated enough to comprehend rap's finest examples of lyrical invention and, in turn, to inspire the best MCs to continued heights of lyrical greatness. Will rap stand the test of time? The answer is in the book of rhymes.

THIS BOOK IS
the product of many hours spent listening to hip hop, reading poetry, and talking about both—sometimes separately and sometimes together. The idea for
Book of Rhymes
was born during late-night listening sessions with my friend Andrew DuBois. Many of the insights in this book are also his. We both had the privilege of studying poetry with Helen Vendler, a magnificent teacher; her influence is apparent throughout. I also wish to thank Henry Louis Gates, Jr., Cornel West, Werner Sollors, Larry Buell, and John Callahan, all great mentors who have shaped my thinking about literature and culture.

Robert Guinsler, my agent, worked tirelessly to find the best home for this book. We found it at Basic
Civitas
. I wish to thank all the folks there—in particular, Chris Greenberg,
the editor who originally took on the project, and Brandon Proia, the editor who saw the book through to publication, pushing for my best.

Claremont McKenna College offered me tremendous support while I was writing this book, through summer grants and a year-long research leave. Thanks to my Literature Department colleagues, past and present, for their encouragement: Audrey Bilger, Robert Faggen, John Farrell, Tobias Gregory, Seth Lobis, Ann Meyer, Jim Morrison, and Nick Warner. Thanks also to my colleagues in Black Studies, in particular: Dipa Basu, Hal Fairchild, Eric Hurley, Val Thomas, and Sheila Walker.

My friend and former student Max Lipset dedicated himself to this book like it was his own, offering the kinds of indispensable insights and suggestions that only a true hip-hop head could provide. I'm deeply indebted to him.

A number of other students also informed and inspired this work, from the members of my Twentieth-Century Black Poetics seminars to the students with whom I've talked about hip hop over the years, both inside and outside of the classroom. I thank all of them, but particularly: Erika Andraca, Ryan Avanzado, Brentt Baltimore, Severine Beaulieu, Teo Bennett, J. R. Bonhomme-Isaiah, Monique Cadle, Jordan Crumley, Lisette Farve, Antoine Grant, Griffin Halpern, Moose Halpern, Kazumi Igus, Steven Kim, Ryan Larsen, Salim Lemelle, Brendan Loper, Candice McCray, Ryan Gaines McDonald, Courtney Moffett-Bateau, Kiki Namikas, Winston Owens, Aleksis Psychas, Ritika Puri, Glen Rice, Ava Robinson, Kevin Shih, Simon Shogry, Paul Snell, Jin Tan, Ramón Torres, Koko Umoren, Candace Valenzuela, Sean Abu Wilson, and Terrell Whitfield.

Many people have inspired, challenged, and sustained me in my love of hip hop and poetry over the years. In particular, I wish to thank: Jabari Asim, Emily Bernard, Jonathan Brent, the Bredie family (Jos, Carmen, Nick, and Chris), HV Claytor, Sam Davis III (
hipolitics.com
in '09!), Derek Foster, Justin Francis (big thanks for the author photo), Chris Free-berg, David Gallagher, Cruz Gamboa, Wil Haygood, R. Scott Heath, Jim von der Heydt, John L. Jackson, Jr., Shani Jamila, Ayinde Jean-Baptiste, Romulus Johnson, Mike Lipset, Ayanna Lonian, Megan McDaniel, James Miller, Kevin Merida, Martha Nadell, Lonnae O'Neal Parker, Renée Ann Richardson, Rossi Russell, Jonathan Tambiah, Ulrica Wilson, and David Yaffe. A special thanks to those who read and commented on all or part of the manuscript, including: Malik Ali, Glenda Carpio, Maggie Fromm, Michaeljulius Idani, Dimitry Elias Léger, Jim Morrison, Lance Rutledge, Sarah Spain Shelton, and Jason Shelton.

It is a pleasure and a responsibility to write about hip hop at a time when so many gifted writers and scholars are already doing it so well. I wish to acknowledge a few of them here: H. Samy Alim, James Bernard, Jon Caramanica, Jeff Chang, William Jelani Cobb, Brian Coleman, Kyle Dargan, Michael Gonzales, Bakari Kitwana, Adam Krims, Ferentz Lafargue, Adam Mansbach, Joan Morgan, Mark Anthony Neal, Imani Perry, Gwendolyn Pough, Marcus Reeves, Kelefa Sanneh, James G. Spady, Oliver Wang, and S. Craig Watkins. And, of course, none of us would have anything to write about without the many MCs—underground, aboveground, and in between—who are keeping hip hop very much alive. There are far too many artists to name, so I'll just say, “Thanks to hip hop.”

Finally, I thank my family for their love and support: my mother, Jane Bradley, and her partner, Kenny Wine; my late grandparents Iver and Jane Bradley, who taught me at home until high school; my brother, Jack Meyer, and his wife, Sarah Coleman-Meyer; my beautiful aunts LaVerne Tucker, Kathy Terry, and Catherine Terry; my late father, Jim Terry, and my stepmother, Beth Terry; Chuck Meyer and Sunny Meyer; my brother- and sister-in-law, Jason Shelton and Sarah Spain Shelton; and my in-laws, Bill and Mary Spain. Most of all, I wish to thank Anna, my remarkable wife, closest friend, and best critic. Her love sustains me.

“Baby Don't Go.” Words and music by Jermaine Dupri, John David Jackson, and Vincent Bell. Copyright © 2007 EMI April Music Inc., Shaniah Cymone Music, J Brasco, Universal Music Corp., Universal Music-Z Songs, and Nappypub Music. All rights for Shaniah Cymone Music and J Brasco controlled and administered by EMI April Music Inc. All rights for Nappypub Music controlled and administered by Universal Music-Z Songs. All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Used by permission.