On Broke With Expensive Taste

Album Artwork for 'Broke With Expensive Taste,' music by Azealia Banks

While hip-hop producers have always been forthright with their wide range of influences and sources, rappers have largely been less pronounced. Strangely, hip-hop actually abounds with stories of rappers excitedly meeting their favorite musicians from other genres (for example,  Tyler, the Creator’s Instagram account is riddled with selfies he’s taken with his favorite musicians),but within the music itself, these influences are often either strategically encoded in internal references or omitted altogether. Part of this variance between rappers and producers stems from the sheer historical fact that hip-hop production was frequently built from samples: you couldn’t quite hide your interest in soul music when you were audibly sampling Curtis Mayfield. But a larger part of this difference is the strange and tautological belief that rap is supposed to “sound like rap,” which has resulted in rappers incestuously offering only the rappers they listen to, but rarely revealing their favorite jazz singers, rock bands and movie soundtracks, among other things.

On her new album, Broke With Expensive Taste, Azealia Banks breaks rank with this established trend. Where other rappers have tried to deviate by securing features with their favorite non-hip-hop acts (see: B.o.B, Lupe Fiasco, Childish Gambino, Kanye West) or actively making rap songs with the elements of other genres (see: Tyler, the Creator, G-Eazy, Sean Paul), Banks goes all the way, embracing her influences in full. The result is genuine hybridity, songs that truly explore and embody the genetic potential of their origins.

In many ways, it’s a jarring listen. The album begins with “Idle Delilah,” a cheery song in which Banks raps and croons over a breezy, layered instrumental that features an uncharacteristic amount of live instrumentation (for her). It is a sharply built song, especially after considering its many moving parts – paced singing, boastful rapping, xylophone, guitar, off-kilter percussion, distorted samples – but its construction isn’t nearly as impressive as its execution. Banks seamlessly melds a tapestry of sounds without having to alter them. This lack of compromise and its superb execution are just plain uncanny, especially for an artist who wants to pack so many styles into one song (or into one album).

Yet, the album continues this parade of uncompromising gene splicing throughout. On “Gimme a Chance” Banks crisply raps in both English and Spanish, and is backed by a lively horn arrangement and an Enon sample that morph into a salsa arrangement .  Likewise, “Ice Princess” begins as a dark, bass-heavy trap session, then abruptly transforms into pulsating electronic dance-pop. This is not collage. Collage relies on the obviousness of its juxtaposition. Banks never draws attention to her wide-sourcing; she is singularly and obsessively focused on the results.

This obsession with the final result is most apparent in her rhyme patterns. Whether she is rapping or singing, Banks rarely lets syllables go to waste. “Heavy Metal and Reflective” and “Desperado” both have verses where Bank uses the same rhyme for an entire verse, each word cascading into the other like the wail of an ambulance. While this intensive focus limits the substance of her rhymes, it greatly amplifies their melody, which allows Banks to rap aggressively without dominating the tone of the song. This really cannot be overlooked. Azealia Banks has successfully made rap compatible with other genres without having to adjust her aggression: she makes rap blend in without making it fall back (or take over). She’s made pop-rap cool again by doubling down on the rap instead of the pop.

That said, Azealia Banks’ innovations in rap are just one dimension of this album. Alongside her rap experiments are experiments with seapunk. Banks has managed to scrub away the kitschy elements of the odd subgenre without sacrificing its playful essence. “Wallace” and “Miss Amor” are beautifully mixed tracks that evoke the sea without having to be overly submerged in corny aquatic sounds and watery samples.

The absence of kitsch may offend some seapunk purists, but purity and listenability aren’t always the same thing, which is made abundantly clear by “Nude Beach a Go-Go,” the album’s sole blemish. Banks’ reworking of the Ariel Pink song isn’t awful, but it is grossly self-indulgent, like a celebration dance after one’s sixth touchdown against a score-less opponent. Even on an album that is essentially the soundtrack to a tumblr page – complete and conspicuous indulgence in one’s favorite things – it is an outlier that beckons to be skipped.

Nevertheless, Broke with Expensive Taste is largely a triumph. After years of Twitter beefs, soured relationships with other artists, label mishaps and fan inertia, Banks proves that her initial promise was both deserved and understated. She’s much more than a foul-mouthed and proficient rapper from Harlem; she’s actually a formidable, well-rounded musician, with no boundaries. This revelation has benefited both her career and her music. Variously released over a year ago or more, “212,” “Luxury” and “BBD”easily could have become relics of another unblossomed rap career, but this album revitalizes them, repackaging them as the products of an uncompromising curator and creator of melody. If Banks can continue down this interesting path, she probably won’t be broke for long.

Advertisements

On All About the Beat , Kanye West and Aesthetics

All About the Beat - John McWhorter

Kanye West’s recent album Yeezus has all the elements of hip-hop that John McWhorter rails against in his polemic book All About the Beat: it’s loud, it’s infectious (not in the good way, in my opinion) and despite Kanye West’s claims to the contrary, it is very media friendly. Furthermore, it explicitly claims to be radical and revolutionary in terms of content, in terms of form and in terms of production (how it was produced as well as who is was produced by). For John McWhorter these characteristics of hip-hop are precisely what make it politically inert, hence the book’s subtitle and thesis: “Why Hip-Hop Can’t Save Black America.”

Quite honestly, I agree with this thesis: if Black America is to be saved – economically, socially, politically, existentially – hip-hop seems ill-equipped to be our sole savior. I could certainly see it playing a role, but given who it appeals to (not all Black people like hip-hop and the ones who do aren’t necessarily politically coherent) and how it appeals to us (through highly mediated networks of capital, cultural legibility, availability and taste), it would seem rather naive to attribute to hip-hop as a genre/practice/way-of-life too much revolutionary potential.

But the point of this post isn’t to agree with McWhorter’s thesis. In fact, I want to do exactly the opposite. Of interest to me is how McWhorter goes about building his argument, specifically his use of conservative ideas about the “truth” of the Civil Rights Movement and the “superficiality” of aestheticizing politics. By unveiling his sly conservatism I not only want to show how he misrepresents what hip-hop and its defenders claim to be doing, but I more crucially want to demonstrate that the politics of depth – a common conservative technique – is really just a way of depoliticizing and subsequently dismissing the political nature of surfaces.

Staying on the Surface

The central claim of All About the Beat is clear in the following statement: “Hip-hop is devoted to dissing authority for its own sake” (18). McWhorter frames this claim as an unveiling of hip-hop’s actual mission, a revealing of its true politics. It’s a clever move because McWhorter knows exactly how most defenders of hip-hop will respond to this statement: “No, hip-hop has a reason for dissing authority!” This outcry would then be followed by proof that hip-hop has a reason for dissing authority in the form of an argument for depth, for meaning. This would entail citing “conscious” artists then dissecting their lyrics to demonstrate a political consciousness. Expecting this move, McWhorter would then either dispute their lyrics if the lyrics are ambiguous/vague or ask “What have they done for the community?” If the artist has undeniably politicized lyrics and a clear history of helping the community, McWhorter resorts to his trump card: “Well, most people don’t listen to that anyway” (75). Finally, if the song is popular, he resorts to his ultimate ace in the hole: “It is just a sequence of words that sounds good, especially when seasoned with rhythm” (67). Translation: music is just music, nothing else, nothing more.

This is the actual structure of the book: Chapter 1 asserts that hip-hop artists don’t practice politics; Chapter 2 then says the ones who think they do (conscious artists) actually don’t; Chapters 3 and 4 then claim that even if they did, it wouldn’t matter because no one listens to them and these politics are incongruous with accepted or successful political practice; finally Chapter 5 says that hip-hop is “just music” and music can’t be political anyway. ”

I’ve outlined this argument because all of its possible moves are solely enabled by its original proposition: “Hip-hop is devoted to dissing authority for its own sake.” While this statement appears to be just a claim, a provocation to be proved or disproved, it is actually a judgment, a valuation of how politics should be practiced. Depicted with its politics on its face, that judgment would would look like this: “Hip-hop is devoted to dissing authority for its own sake and that is not an acceptable form of politics because it is aesthetic and aesthetics aren’t political.” McWhorter is not not just dismissing hip-hop’s alleged politics; he’s upholding his own. This technique and the politics it preserves are notoriously conservative, but we can avoid getting duped by remaining on the surface, by not assessing hip-hop in terms of depth.

A Reluctant Defense of Yeezus

Yeezus is an awful album. If my luck persists, I will never have to listen to it again. But beyond how it sounds, I think it’s more interesting to think about what Yeezus was trying to do. As I understand it, Yeezus is Kanye’s polemic against the various forces that have kept him provincialized within hip-hop and “black culture.” According to Kanye, throughout his career and even before it, he has attempted to push into other worlds – visual art, fashion, design, film, rapping, singing – and been met with opposition, disdain, ridicule and the like. We’ll call it “hate” for short.

This has some merit. Since College Dropout, Kanye’s attempts to open new doors have frequently been resisted by bizarrely zealous doormen, despite his artistic versatility and his earnestness. Of course, Kanye isn’t one to make a quiet entrance: he has always been loud and obnoxious. And no doorman likes an unpleasant visitor. But the force of the resistance to Kanye has often not been equivalent to the force he came with: while he’s knocked with only a brash smile and a loud voice, he’s been met with armed guards and German shepherds. Just look at the infamous Taylor Swift incident. What should have been just another silly moment at an already silly award show – the VMAs are such a joke – genuinely became his stigma. It’s strange: people actually despise the guy for possibly his most innocuous statement.

Meta yeezus SummaryAfter a career filled with these obstacles, Kanye finally confronted them headfirst. Forgoing the wit and cynical distance of My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, on Yeezus he simply yelps, summoning a vast collective of producers and writers from within hip-hop and beyond to transform that yelp into a breathless, 40 minute-long scream. Throughout Yeezus we hear Kanye rearticulate why he’s so upset, literally shouting out (at) hate in the form of corporations, racists, classists, sidechicks, clothing companies, critics and so on. No stone is left is unturned: he addresses Haters as a collective.

Kanye tries to connect his screams to historical and ongoing screams for respect, self-dignity and opportunities, but if you listen closely – and I did – the screams don’t overlap too much. In a joke I wrote earlier this summer, I talked about how his song “Blood on the Leaves” uses apartheid as a metaphor for relationship conflicts. This kind of poor interlocking of disparate narratives occurs all across the album. Kanye actually thinks that his inability to push into new markets and new women and new houses in the Hamptons is akin to a Civil Rights struggle. It isn’t. It absolutely isn’t. Kanye West is a multi-millionaire with profitable stakes in various industries and he enjoys a level of privilege, comfort and luxury that is unmatched by most black people and most people in general. Quite simply, his haters are his haters; his struggle is literally mostly his struggle..

But it is a struggle nonetheless. In his dismissal of hip-hop, John McWhorter doesn’t offer the opportunity to recognize such struggles or even interrogate why people connect them to larger struggles. At the end of Chapter 4, his treatise on “real struggles” (i.e. the Civil Rights Movement), he writes, “Of course racism is still around. But in deciding what is possible today, black people must do their grandparents the courtesy of remembering what America was like in the old days. In this, black people will also do themselves a courtesy, in working from what is constructive and positive about our times. Smoking out one more indication that racism is still alive in subliminal ways must be less interesting to us than coping, dealing, building ” (139).

McWhorter’s reference to grandparents is telling. In this quote and the previously mentioned quote in which he states the thesis of his book, authority is essential. Because the atrocities that energized the Civil Rights Movement are “over,” black people must quietly “respect” the ones who experienced those atrocities and never make connections. Since nothing can be more unfathomable than the experiences of Black Americans before the 60s, no correlations should ever even be posited. This has a scary logic. Sure, being profiled at Barneys is certainly not akin to being beaten for simply existing and that’s just fact, honestly. But the way McWhorter articulates his point is insidiously programmed to preclude all grievances, even bad ones. To solely focus on the positive, as he asks us to, is to suppress the possibility of rage or a politics of rage that can emerge from it. Stated otherwise: McWhorter is saying, “Stop complaining!” This sounds very familiar to me.

Jacques Ranciere gives us further insight: “If there is someone you do not wish to recognize as a political being, you begin by not seeing him as the bearer of politicity, by not understanding what he says, by not hearing what issues from his mouth as discourse.” (Dissenus 38). The call to “stop complaining” is precisely such a denial of recognition. Kanye’s politics is a bad politics because it is self-centered and unreflexive. But it is a politics nonetheless. As bad a song as “New Slaves” is (politically) it is still a political utterance.  McWhorter denies a politics for an entire discourse, an entire field of thought and action. My concern is not just this act of denial and the masses who are affected by it, but how it works. In order to depoliticize hip-hop and subordinate it to a dubious historical narrative (authority), McWhorter must tacitly ignore the politics that hip-hop wears on its surface, the politics that are built into its aesthetics. And it’s bizarre that he constantly brings up the Civil Rights Movement, but he never thinks about its own aesthetics. It is not a coincidence that marchers and demonstrators often wore their “Sunday Best” and chanted church hymns rather than singing Elvis songs and wearing their pajamas.

Resurfacing: Fucking the Police

The phrase “fuck the police” has a cherished position in hip-hop, from N.W.A’s “Fuck the Police” to Lil Wayne’s “Mrs. Officer” to MellowHype’s “Fuck Tha Police” to B. Dolan’s “Film the Police.” Though the specifics of each song matter, I’m not going to go into them. What I want to point out is how ill-equipped McWhorter’s ideas are for interrogating why “fuck the police” has circulated within hip-hop for so long. Although believers in the Illuminati,  backpackers and label executives probably think otherwise, hip-hop is aggressively decentralized. There is no apparatus keeping “fuck the police” alive. People are saying it for a reason. And I don’t mean that in a deep way; I mentioned “Mrs. Officer” for a reason – It is literally a song about fucking a female police officer.

But there is a reason why “fuck the police” is so bolted to hip-hop in particular. Even if it has become something that hip-hop fans just say willy nilly, without provocation, performing it as police officers dutifully stand by the stage at a mega-concert, there is a reason why hip-hop fans say it, but Taylor Swift fans don’t. Stated differently, there’s a reason why there’s rap songs against stop and frisk and not country songs or indie rock songs or even R&B songs.

And my grand point is that McWhorter could never account for that reason. For him, aesthetics never matter because they can’t matter because he doesn’t want them to matter because if they do matter he’ll actually have to listen to a Kanye album and think beyond his constricted, constricting, conservative definition of politics. For McWhorter music must remain “just” music because if it turns out to be anything else, the world might become a lot less simpler than he pretends it to be.