It's Bigger Than Hip Hop: The Rise of the Post-Hip-Hop Generation (16 page)

Blacks in the inner cities share many of the characteristics of the colonized. As Norman Kelley, who has also elaborated on this colonial connection, describes in his essay “The Political Economy of Black Music”:

So essentially, the ghetto—with poverty, poor schools, drugs, police terrorism, et cetera—provides the raw materials needed to produce rap. Then, just as the gold and diamonds that are taken from Africa are primarily sold in the mother countries (Europe and the United States), rap is mainly purchased by a white audience, the parent companies’ citizens, if you will. “Economically, colonialism programmed African countries to consume what they do not produce and to produce what
they do not consume,” writes Nigerian Bade Onimode in
A Future for Africa
. This fact has deadly ramifications.

The middle-aged
, wealthy white executives that I met with in Manhattan—the decision makers of hip hop—I’d initially perceived to be very ignorant with regards to hip-hop culture, history, and ideology. I realized, however, that they were very knowledgeable, we just had different knowledge(s). They may have not understood the ghetto, or the Black experience, or the current struggle, or even Black music, but they had a rich—
rich!
—understanding of the tastes and values of white consumers. That is to say, by default, they understood white racism on an intrinsic level, which meant that they understood how to sell products to young white males. As Chuck D noted in his essay “Death of a Nation”: “It’s hard for me to support an 85% white teenage audience screamin’ ‘smoke that nigger’ and call it the shit.”

The idea of selling Black violence, misogyny, and sexuality to a white teenage audience conjures up the image of blues musician Tommy Johnson, who in the film
O Brother, Where Art Thou?
sells his soul to the devil. He has a photograph, titled “Tommy and fans,” where Tommy, a chocolate-colored brother, stands surrounded by a group of whites in KKK outfits. It is this reality that prompts M-1 of Dead Prez to explain:

Allowing white executives, not from the hip-hop culture, to control and dictate the culture is tragic because the music, and ultimately the culture, as we can see today, has not only lost its edge, but its sense of rebellion and Black improvement—the very principles upon which it was founded. In Byron Hurt’s groundbreaking documentary,
Hip-Hop: Beyond Beats & Rhymes
, former Def Jam president Carmen Ashhurst-Watson recalls:

As rap music began to show serious economic promise in the 1980s, major record labels, alien to the culture and unsure what would sell, began signing up a wide variety of artists—from Public Enemy to LL Cool J. However, soon after the acquisition of these artists, it became evident—through lyrics like “Better you than me / I’m a cop killer, fuck police brutality! / Cop killer, I know your family’s grievin’ (fuck ’em) / Cop killer, but tonight we get even”—that many of the recently signed artists had a political agenda that was in direct conflict not only with the label’s politics but with their bottom line as well. The result, as Ashhurst-Watson remembers firsthand, was a mass dismissal of artists who insisted upon challenging the status quo. Put another way, the labels were saying, “We want to make money off your art and culture, but we don’t want you to truly express yourselves if that means rage or challenging the politics of the status quo.”

Tragically, the history of African-American music has been one of white corporate exploitation and outright theft of Black artists and music. Even in the midst of the most virulent and vehement racism, whites still figured out “how to grow rich off of Black fun,” as one minstrel performer notes. And the main way to “grow rich” was from blatant theft. This stealing is a part of a system of theft that dates back to the immensely popular minstrel shows of the nineteenth century where whites would blacken their faces and imitate and pervert Black dance and music forms before white audiences. The evolution of this theft can be observed in the subtle historic categorizations of Black music and to more outright and blatant forms of larceny.

Blues artists responsible for countless gold and platinum records were constantly cheated. Many were paid as little as fifty dollars for an album and were denied royalties, even while their songs stayed on the hit charts for months at a time. To make matters worse, the lawyers who represented the artists were assigned by the labels—a clear conflict of interests. In the end, Black artists, like the sharecroppers who worked plantations after enslavement, always ended up owing the labels. Artists like Bo Diddley, who was cheated by Chess Records and stayed broke despite recording hits, has recently come out to speak up. When asked about why he chose to challenge his former label, he says, “I decided to tell it like it is. They’re the ones who should be ashamed, not me.” Diddley’s label, Chess Records, thought of its artists as childlike men who were interested only in Cadillacs and beautiful women, and who needed “plantation owners” to look after their affairs, as Marshall Chess, son and nephew of the founders of Chess Records, recalled. Through exploitation and a plantation-owner mentality, white businessmen were able to spin the blues into gold.

The jazz era was no different. Trumpeter Rex Stewart, who joined Duke Ellington’s band in 1934, echoed Mos Def when he asked, “Where the control is, the money is. Do you see any of us [Black musicians]
running any record companies, booking agencies, radio stations, music magazines?”

Black saxophonist and composer Ornette Coleman, who won the Pulitzer Prize for Music in 2007, has been a consistent voice against this exploitation:

The “existence” Coleman reflects upon is, in part, a classical component of capitalistic relationships. The term for this relationship, where the fruits of an artist’s labor are controlled by the employer, is “alienation.” Then and now, this alienation is the result of the employer owning and controlling both the means of production and the manufactured products that are the end result of the workers’ labor.

To complicate matters and to add insult to rape, many of the jazz executives despised the musicians and the music. Consider John Hammond, a descendant of the Vanderbilt family and a top executive at
Columbia Records, who signed Billie Holiday and Bessie Smith to a series of contracts where they were given a small flat fee for each recording and no royalties. Holiday, for example, was paid thirty dollars for six recordings—recordings that went on to sell hundreds of thousands of copies. What’s worse, Columbia designated Hammond as the “sole recipient of all royalties” from sales of a 1970s reissue of Smith’s albums. Hammond, if we adjust for inflation, made roughly $360,000 off that album alone.

The exploitation of artists continues even after their deaths. Recordings withheld from the market are often released with much publicity after the artist has died. Smith, for example, came out with an album after she had passed that was much talked about and acclaimed. Columbia made a fortune off of this, all while Smith lay dead in an unmarked grave. After a campaign by rock singer Janis Joplin and Juanita Green, a Black nurse, a few hundred dollars was raised for a headstone and a scholarship in Smith’s name. Columbia Records finally saw fit to put a measly thousand dollars toward the fund. Hammond, who had exploited Smith for so long, reluctantly contributed fifty dollars for a headstone.

The theft of Black music has been so rampant and pungent that a group of major record labels, overcome by guilt, founded the Rhythm and Blues Foundation in 1994 in an effort to help “victims of poor business practices, bad management and unscrupulous record companies,” wrote
The New York Times
. Kick-started with a $1.5 million endowment from Atlantic and $450,000 from Time Warner, the Washington, D.C.-based foundation promotes the importance of past musicians and gives annual awards; however, nothing is being done about the redistribution of the enormous wealth gained off the original exploitation. The R & B Foundation may be a step in the right direction, but it fails miserably at seriously addressing the gross theft that occurred.

The attempt by Atlantic Records is, at best, thoughtful, but it isn’t
nearly enough. Consider, for example, Ruth Brown, who received as little as sixty-nine dollars per song, with no royalties for a series that enabled the then-fledgling Atlantic Records to become an industry giant. Brown was one of the highest-selling recording artists of the fifties and was so instrumental in the success of Atlantic Records, it was often referred to as “the house that Ruth built.”

Similarly, today, with the billions of dollars that hip hop generates annually, the modern music industry is a house, a mansion, built by Black youths. And within that mansion, the same exploitation continues to take place. Norman Kelley writes:

What makes this even more troubling is the lion’s share of music industry profits that hip hop generates. With all other genres losing music, the music industry, for years now, has relied almost exclusively upon hip hop to stay afloat. “What is keeping some labels solvent, many executives agree, is hip hop and contemporary rhythm-and-blues,” writes Neil Strauss of
The New York Times
. According to
Forbes
, hip hop generates over $15 billion per year and “has moved beyond its musical roots, transforming into a dominant and increasingly lucrative lifestyle.”

There’s an image in John Gabriel Stedman’s 1790 book,
Narrative of a Five Years’ Expedition Against the Revolted Negroes of Surinam
, that is called “Europe supported by Africa and America.” The image depicts three nude women: an African, a European, and a Native American. The African and Native American women, both wearing shackles, are holding up a shackle-less European woman draped in pearls. This is the best way to think about colonialism and indeed the rap industry. More than that, though, Stedman also leads us to some of the answers.

Stedman, who was a soldier in a Dutch military unit, found himself in Surinam, a small country sharing its southern border with Brazil. In his book, Stedman describes the many abuses the Dutch inflicted upon the enslaved Africans in Surinam until something monumental happened: The enslaved Africans realized that their labor was supporting the entire Dutch economy and, led by the Surinam Maroons, resisted, rebelled, and revolted.

Blacks, not just in the hip-hop community and industry, but in all areas, need to realize the incredible power we yield over markets. Before we can even seriously discuss the content of the music, we have to own it. The “old white men” that I met with in New York, hip hop’s decision makers, don’t have the interest of the Black community at heart. We must also not make the mistake of believing that all Blacks have the best interests of Black folks. That’s why a consciousness that values the collective interests of the people is vital. Consider, for example, that Ossie Davis in 1971 said, “Cable TV is a new opportunity for those seeking their fair share of power, and the black man must do, at the beginning, what he has failed to do in the past—get in at the beginning.” Bob Johnson, founder of BET, followed through on Davis’s advice; however, because of a lack of collective consciousness, turned it over to Viacom, who, as Mos rhymed, “is runnin’ this rap shit.”