Gangsta rap died the night Pac took six bullets on that Las Vegas strip in ‘96. For young Black folks coming on the heels of the Civil Rights Movement and the repressive Reagan administration, gangsta rap was liberation. After the previous generation fought to dismantle racial apartheid in the South, only to be met with rapid economic de-industrialization in the 1970s, and the War on Drugs and Crack Era of the 80s, here was a specific genre of rap that catered to the frustrations of a new era dealing with rampant police brutality, the decline of social welfare, and mass incarceration. Gangsta rap gave you the nod to openly say fuck the police, throw your middle-finger to the sky, and know that sometimes it was justified not to give a fuck because the world didn’t seem to give one about you. Right now, trap music, the love child of gangsta rap, is at its cultural apex. While it wins listeners in terms of its heavy 808 bass and seductive cadences, it lacks the intense freedom that was provided by gangsta rap in its hey-day. Despite the lyrical detail of selling dope in the trap house, mainstream trap of the new millennium remains heavily apolitical in its stance, lacking socio-political depth and context. Early pioneers like UGK, 8Ball and MJG, and Three-Six-Mafia conceptualized for me the pitfalls, realities, and difficulties of getting out of the trap, but its successors fail to live up to their lineage. Currently, trap rappers like telling us that they’re in love with the coco, but they fail to tell us why. Despite rappers spitting bars about the hardships of trapping, my own listener’s response is energetic, but emotionally disengaged. While I can amuse myself to “Hard in the Paint”, nothing quite compares to how giddy I get when I blast, “When we Ride on our Enemies” or, “Beware of My Crew” in the ride. Trap music doesn’t capture my political and social frustration, but merely provides a temporary escape, to which I crash after the weighty beats end. In short, trap is simply now a performance, while gangsta rap was a code of conduct. NWA made me fall in love with Compton before I stepped foot in Cali. Pac explained why he called certain women bitches, and despite my personal womanist objections, I was deeply engaged. Cube made me understand why on one particular day that he didn’t have to use his AK. I’m still feening for that connection, that collective sense of rebelliousness, urgency, and unapologetic grit that only gangsta rap can undoubtedly satisfy. 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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