Hip-Hop: Generational Disconnect and Cultural Impact

Hip-hop is everywhere. The genre possesses a distinct function, operating as a perfectly accessible medium that simultaneously soundtracks a high school, middle-class house party and an authentic, bleak representation of inner city anguish. To most youth, rap is this generation’s interpretation of punk rock. Insubordinate. Aggressive. Crass. Yet, to many older individuals or parents, hip-hop is synonymous with ignorance. To them, hip-hop is the manifestation of musical illiteracy and immaturity of not particularly the African-American community, but youth culture as a whole. The disconnect mostly resides within the content and topics discussed within the music, and how said topics and content are presented. In the current climate, there seems to be no middle ground between teens and young adults

and their parents and/or peers where a compromise can be made. In addition, there lies an even more substantiate disconnect between classes, particularly those in the urban areas from which these artists tend to arise and the casual, suburban listener. Is the violent, negative subject matter and themes portrayed in hip-hop harmful for youth culture? A complex reflection of the era in which it resides, hip-hop contains adverse and harmful stereotypes based on manner the genre often chooses to confront certain issues. However, it can also function as a creative, innovative, and positive medium which helps combat similarly perceived typecasts.
Many of hip-hop’s negative stereotypes arise from the false notions of success and masculinity. Perpetuated by predominately male artists who have a false idea of both concepts, the result is either shallow and derivative or insightful and inspired.
Violence is one of the more controversial areas of focus that hip-hop has been notoriously scrutinized over and criticized for. Many feel as though the mode of expression rap employs in songs that mention gang activity or related activity possess a striking tendency to come across as the artist attempting to promote and encourage that lifestyle. Specifically, within the drill and trap scenes, movements based in Chicago and Atlanta respectively, aggressive behavior is rapped about with relative ease, allowing very little in the way of morality or stances on the subject to bleed through. Dangerously, violence in hip-hop is treated as a right-of-passage. A way of “handling business,” and proving oneself is “a real nigga.” This outlook is unbelievably detrimental and can yield precarious consequences.
This is not the case with all artists. Arguably the most famous rapper for the past several years, Toronto rapper Drake is known to infamously defy the expected tough-guy façade many artists portray in their music. In a recent interview with The FADER, Drake spoke on this very topic:
It’s never about toughening up. I don’t even know if that’s, like, cool, being tough and shit…Not being vulnerable is never gonna be my thing. I’m always going to share with you what’s going on in my life. (Neyfakh, Leon)
A true poet, Kendrick Lamar is the poster child for what hip-hop can accomplish when well-meaning intentions and knowledgeable clarity are applied to a genre of music some individuals are hesitant to call an art form.

With albums such as Section. 80, good kid, m.A.A.d city and To Pimp a Butterfly, Kendrick has been a light in the darkness for older hip-hop listeners as well as those searching for music with substance. In my opinion, To Pimp a Butterfly is one of the most important albums, regardless of genre, to be released in my lifetime. Speaking on a variety of subject matter including gang violence and fame, the bulk of the album unequivocally opens a discourse over issues nearly taboo in mainstream rap such as depression as well as a passionate, candid assessment of police violence. During an interview, Kendrick spoke on the themes within the album, saying, “These are issues that if you come from that environment it’s inevitable to speak on.” He added, “It’s just about balance. I don’t fault other artists. I don’t say that person should be doing that. As conscious as my music sounds, I would never point the finger because every day I make mistakes.” (Lynskey,

Dorian)

However, the overlying position on violence for many of these up and coming artists (Many of whom are in their very early twenties, barely out of their teen years) appears to be one of distaste and aversion to violence. A depressing, bleak reality to their day-to-day lives. It’s not something “fun” or “cool” to partake in, but a product of the environment. Most of the hip-hop music coming out of these lower income, primarily African-American communities can appear extremely nihilistic and confrontational at first listen. The immediate perception of artists such as 21 Savage or Chief Keef, whose lyrics depict explicit gang activity, leads many to dismiss them as misguided thugs. Conversely, many of these musicians are speaking on what they know best. What they’re surrounded by. What they see. It allows outsiders to peer in through a window and observe life through another individual’s eyes that many of us have never and will never experience. They take the death and confusion around them and craft into a method to rise above what’s expected of them and make a name for themselves.
Speaking perfectly on this point is Vince Staples, whose 2015 album Summertime ’06 was a complex, brutally honest, autobiographical portrayal of innocence lost in the summer of 2006. Speaking on outsiders possibly misunderstanding his music due to its content, Staples had this to say:
The only difference between me and them [Other rappers who speak on the same content] is that I’m smart enough to know I’m wrong. I’ve always known I was wrong. You can ask my mother. I’ve always known I was wrong. But I’ve never had a problem with it. So my whole thing is look what happened. Look what you made. (Kelley, Frannie, Muhammad, Ali Shaheed)
The way in which content associated with a lack of morality is depicted in music is key in how it is received by the average listener. In my opinion, the most interesting act in hip-hop today is Death Grips, a trio based out of Sacramento, California. Crafting truly disturbing, chaotic, and paranoia-inducing music that can barely be classified as hip-hop, upon first listen, the group’s music sounds like controlled noise. Abstract nonsense. However, when delving deeper into the sonic landscapes and lyrics, a new perspective is granted to the listener. Stefan Burnett, also known as MC Ride, the vocalist of the group, described Death Grips as, “The glorification of the gut…the id, summoned, tapped, and channelled [sic] before being imprisoned and raped by the laws of reason.” (Murray, Robin)
While not nearly as extreme, I view hip-hop in a similar light.
It’s frustrating and undeniably difficult to defend a genre of music that is indisputably misogynistic to a disgusting degree, freely referring to women as “hoes,” “skanks,” “bitches,” and “sluts.” The type of songs that wallow in self-aggrandizing materialism and idolize empty, money-orientated lifestyles. And yes, a genre of music seemingly obsessed with violence in an attempt to achieve a false sense of masculinity. Yet, I find hip-hop to be the only genre of music actively moving forward, changing with the times via bold, downright weird experimentation. As stated previously, a majority of rap mirrors the times in which we preside: Frantic, confused, shallow, and in search of something better. Nevertheless, the artists attempting to say something through their music allow me to remain hopeful. Whether it be Kendrick Lamar’s encouraging, introspective prose, or the pessimistic, frenzied Death Grips, hip-hop continues to be an unrecognized, misunderstood art, that with the test of time, may earn the recognition it deserves despite its overbearing flaws.