At the tender age of eleven, hip-hop transformed into a permanent fixture in my life, and eager to soak up as much of the culture as possible, I regularly watched BET’s Rap City ‘Tha Basement’ in the late 90s. Jay’s “Big Pimpin” was in regular rotation—a particular favorite. What was so entrancing about this video wasn't necessarily Jay, the half-naked women, or the lavish rides that were touted on camera. The most intriguing element of this song was the man rapping on the third verse, with a mink coat and a beautiful honey (then video-girl Gloria Velez) draped across his wide frame. Was it simply the effortlessly smooth southern cadence that captured my interest? Or could it have been the glistening grill that transfixed my attention? Despite my young age, I sense that there appeared to be more to him than met the eye. It wasn't until years later I discovered that the rapper that piqued my curiosity, Pimp C, hadn't even wanted to rhyme on ‘Big Pimpin’”, a record he’d initially esteemed “too pop” for his tastes, preferring the artistic style of “International Players Anthem” instead. With his Diamonds-and-Wood, chopped-and-screwed veneer, there were indisputable insights that Pimp C brought to the hip-hop audience that proved that you didn’t have to rock a Kufi in order to kick knowledge. There was political Pimp who unintentionally touched on the issue of prison abolition, the prison industrial complex, and solidarity with people on the inside in one of his last interviews: “If you got people and they’re locked up, send them some bread, send them some pictures. Write them a letter. If you ain’t got no bread, write them and tell them that you would if you had some you would send it to them. And stop being a bitch. It ain’t never too late to stop being a bitch.” There was the Pimp who kicked knowledge about the Motherland to a journalist without being prompted: “The reason why we like this jewelry, and these diamonds, and they don’t understand, is because we’re really from Africa, and that’s where all this stuff comes from, and we originate from Kings. So don’t look down on the youngsters because they want to have shiny things; it’s in our genes. We just don’t all know our history.” There was the Pimp who alluded to systematic racism and the draining of resources in the Black community: “Any Black man out here can get caught up. It ain’t no thang. Young Pimp ain’t no different than the next man; you know what I’m saying? Only difference is, I had something to come home to. I had people out here fighting for me. I had folks who were writing letters and wearing t-shirts.” Then there was also the Pimp who was critical of the direction of hip-hop and the corporatization of rap music: “We gotta clean this up, man. At the end of these records we listen to, we don’t get nothing out of them no more. We don’t get no social commentary. We ain’t getting no kind of knowledge out of these records. Everybody just talking about how many chains they got on and how much dope they sold. But the truth of the matter is this: I don’t believe you. Because I know you dude, and I know you didn’t sell no dope.” Due to respectability politics and the stereotypical image of what a Black intellectual looks like, Pimp C’s deeply profound statements are often glossed over. Pimp remains a legend not just because of the great musical legacy he left the rap world, but the gritty wisdom he dropped that alluded to his own understanding of social justice and the artistic integrity of hip-hop culture. Rest in power, homie. Thug Scholar is a Black queer feminist living in Chicago. Connect with her @Thug_Scholar on Twitter.
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ATS MagAgainst the Stream Magazine is an urban platform. We edify our readers by finding noble, pure, and true talent and giving it a stage to flourish. While we love bragging about the folks around us, we also tackle urban issues by giving real world solutions. Archives
October 2015
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