Is there such a thing as a morally-conscious rap song?
I left work an hour and a half later than I was scheduled today, but I didn’t mind. It actually ended up being an okay thing because when I revved up my Lexus, the radio station (B96 - We Are Hip-Hop) played a song I hadn’t heard before - “Day Dreaming” by DJ Drama featuring Akon, Snoop Dogg, and T.I.
The track grabbed my attention from its first lyric:
Shirley Temple on ice
Pardonnez-moi, s'il vous plaît, I believe I may have misheard you, Monsieur Akon. Surely that frosty beverage was the oft-celebrated top-shelf champagne Cristal, or the urban-iconic cognac Hennessy, or Fergie Ferg’s beloved Grey Goose vodka, perhaps even a good-spirited reference to co-collaborator Snoop’s 1995 gin and juice homage. Ready to Tanqueray?
She makes it just right.
That extra grenadine got me feelin’ so nice.
Oh, you’re fucking serious?
I waited for the inevitable label-drop or even mention of nondescript rum or whiskey or whatever additive was sure to become the backbone of the next big gotta-order-it cocktail sensation, any excuse to “blame it on the a-aa-a-aa-alcohol” like Jamie Foxx and, you know, everyone in hip-hop.
It didn’t come.
But the chorus did.
Can you believe my fantasy girl is a go-go dancer?
No, sir, I cannot. Gentlemen, I know this station, I know this beat, I know this synthesized high-hat hand-clap, I know this flow, and this is hip-hop. In hip-hop, we talk about sultry strippers and hustlin’ hos and gold-digging baby-mamas; we don’t talk about go-go dancers - those nice gals who have somehow managed to possess both bangin’ bods and a sense of morality/self-respect, those ladies who must have earned PhDs since they figured out that they can pay the rent and buy Louis Vuitton without resorting to taking off their tops and/or giving lap dances.
I could have sworn there was no room for women of conscience in hip-hop lyrics.
Verse two ushered in Snoop D-O-double-G’s contribution. Tha Doggfather was true-to-form with his shameless luxury-flaunting and obligatory “nigga,” but Mr. Broadus offered up something else.
Then I took her to the gym so she could get in shape.
Snoopy, are you actually acknowledging that fantasy-quality women don’t come naturally with taut tummies and Versace runway thighs? Not only that, are you saying that you’re comfortable enough with this reality to actively support her rigorous pursuit of idealized beauty and physical health?
That’s not ‘hood; that’s, like, respectable. That’s an enviable trait. That’s a quality that women want in their men - the extension of respect as a peer that applauds her efforts and appreciates her commitment to, you know, making those Escalade payments.
Perhaps it is true that G no longer stands for “gangsta” but, rather, for “gentleman.” Perhaps Ne-Yo’s Year of the Gentleman and its “Miss Independent” single have signaled the antiquation of misogyny in hip-hop and the reformation of the perception of a “trill bitch” - as no longer defined by her dutiful servitude to the hustler and aggressive arrogance that turned her into a universally mocked and unflattering stereotype but, now, as defined by her perseverance and commitment to supporting herself and making her own way in the world. Ludacris took up the torch in the quest for “a lady in the street but a freak in the bed,” and it would seem that our cultural mouthpieces, including the OGs like Snoop, have now recognized that it’s not all ask and ye shall receive but a matter of creating an environment that attracts the type of women they desire and actually encourages women to aspire to the presentation and possession of a lifestyle that’s been deemed worthy (and practically fucking mandatory) in today’s climate of gender equality.
Our rappers got tired of the urbanized Tammy Wynette and ghetto-release Kimora Lee, of the ten-dollars-a-dance “a diva is a female hustler” chick who kept her man's business on the DL and spent his money. Our rappers progressed to the dream of having their own Michelle Obama - ladylike, refined, compassionate, nurturing, collected, composed, and (yes, I’m going to say it; don’t hit me) articulate. And then our rappers discovered that if they want Michelle, they can’t be like Erykah Badu’s man in “Tyrone”; they’ve got to be Barack.
I don’t know if the evolution taking place in hip-hop music’s lyrics is an accurate representation of what’s going on in the streets; I’m white, live in the suburbs (of Minnesota), and shop at Hollister. But I hope it is, and if it’s not, then I hope these artists are attempting to pave the way for social/domestic change and presenting a personal challenge to the dudes who buy their albums.
My excitement for and appreciation of joints like “Day Dreaming” stem from, of course, pure self-interest. I love hip-hop. I used to write and record hip-hop tracks (not saying if they were good or not). I enjoy music from plenty of other genres, but something’s not right if that urban poetry isn’t on my iPod.
By the by and for the record, I don’t propose to know everything about anything in the hip-hop scene. I don’t know who’s doing what, who’s doing whom, and for all I know, for every “Day Dreaming” or “Miss Independent,” there’s 200 “suck my dick, bitch” releases. But I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that what reaches my ears matters and may actually be the only thing that matters because there’s a good chance that if it got through to me, a billion other people are listening to it. As a strip club owner once admonished me, “perception is reality,” and I for one am all in favor of this gangsta-gone-gentleman perception being reality.
But let’s go back to focusing on my self-interest (of course). I love hip-hop. There was a time in my life when hip-hop was talking about me. The celebration of swagger, of stunting and flossing, of recklessly consuming drank and dro and blow, of Apple-bottom jeans and stripper poles… that was my world. I empathized with the artists lamenting the grind of the daily hustle. I got it. Then my life changed. My love of hip-hop, however, did not. And I found myself in a situation where I couldn’t reconcile the disparity between my behavior and the behavior my music encouraged. How could I walk away from a career in the adult sector and pledge sexual abstinence and go to AA meetings, but then comfortably listen to tracks promoting strippers and casual hook-ups and “one more drink”?
So to hear a song like “Day Dreaming” that manages to be both sonically satisfying and as close to morally conscious as popular hip-hop has been in a long time (if ever… but again, I don’t have a doctorate in rap) is pretty awesome. I think it’s great that these hip-hop heavyweights got together and produced something that doesn’t say we have to get drunk and our hallowed objects of desire have to be sexually explicit. Sure, go-go dancers aren’t nuns, but there’s a big difference between jamming out in a bikini and dancing topless or nude for the purpose of profiting from sexual arousal. I think abandoning the over-hyped worship of porn stars and strippers for the slightly-more clothed and slightly-more chaste go-go dancers shows an element of progress, both in terms of morality and respect for women. And, you know, that’s not to say that strip club patrons don’t respect women, but that is to say that not essentially demanding that women be nude or sexually-objectified in order to be appreciated and wanted does imply at least a modicum of respect. What’s more is that these MCs aren’t saying that they have, “in the parlance of our times” (The Big Lebowski reference, what up?), hit it. The go-go dancer is the fantasy girl. We the listeners aren’t subjected to a Lil’ Kim-rated blow-by-blow detailing of a sexual encounter. There isn’t a sexual encounter. What a foreign concept!
Yes, the fourth verse, T.I.’s time on the mic, does venture into familiar territory with lyrics about a big booty, G-strings, and what I’m pretty sure is a euphemism for oral sex (though not even close to being as clever as his “brain so good, could have sworn you went to college” line in “Whatever You Like”), but it’s still just hypothetical, still just what-I-would-like-to-do-if-given-the-chance, still just a fantasy. It’s not necessarily innocent, but it’s a far cry from Luda’s “Splash Waterfalls.” I won’t take issue with the mention of “double-Ds full of silicone and saline” because I happen to be a fan of breast implants (I’ll work that out with God in time), and I don’t think there’s a direct correlation between getting a boob job and being a slut, so it’s not my opinion that T.I. is implying that the go-go dancer must be promiscuous or whatever; the chick is just hot.
All in all and after many more words than I had ever intended to write (and four hours I could have spent doing… well, nothing else), I must conclude that “Day Dreaming” is good shit. I won’t succinctly recap my main points as I would in a proper thesis since this is, you know, an inconsequential blog post, and I didn’t really come up with a predetermined list of specific points anyway. I just do that stream-of-consciousness thing and shrug at wherever the hell I end up. It’s worked out alright for me so far.
YouTube search or download or do whatever it is you do when you want to hear a song. That is, if you want to hear it.
And since I mentioned The Big Lebowski, here are some quotes. Enjoy your laughter.
The track grabbed my attention from its first lyric:
Shirley Temple on ice
Pardonnez-moi, s'il vous plaît, I believe I may have misheard you, Monsieur Akon. Surely that frosty beverage was the oft-celebrated top-shelf champagne Cristal, or the urban-iconic cognac Hennessy, or Fergie Ferg’s beloved Grey Goose vodka, perhaps even a good-spirited reference to co-collaborator Snoop’s 1995 gin and juice homage. Ready to Tanqueray?
She makes it just right.
That extra grenadine got me feelin’ so nice.
Oh, you’re fucking serious?
I waited for the inevitable label-drop or even mention of nondescript rum or whiskey or whatever additive was sure to become the backbone of the next big gotta-order-it cocktail sensation, any excuse to “blame it on the a-aa-a-aa-alcohol” like Jamie Foxx and, you know, everyone in hip-hop.
It didn’t come.
But the chorus did.
Can you believe my fantasy girl is a go-go dancer?
No, sir, I cannot. Gentlemen, I know this station, I know this beat, I know this synthesized high-hat hand-clap, I know this flow, and this is hip-hop. In hip-hop, we talk about sultry strippers and hustlin’ hos and gold-digging baby-mamas; we don’t talk about go-go dancers - those nice gals who have somehow managed to possess both bangin’ bods and a sense of morality/self-respect, those ladies who must have earned PhDs since they figured out that they can pay the rent and buy Louis Vuitton without resorting to taking off their tops and/or giving lap dances.
I could have sworn there was no room for women of conscience in hip-hop lyrics.
Verse two ushered in Snoop D-O-double-G’s contribution. Tha Doggfather was true-to-form with his shameless luxury-flaunting and obligatory “nigga,” but Mr. Broadus offered up something else.
Then I took her to the gym so she could get in shape.
Snoopy, are you actually acknowledging that fantasy-quality women don’t come naturally with taut tummies and Versace runway thighs? Not only that, are you saying that you’re comfortable enough with this reality to actively support her rigorous pursuit of idealized beauty and physical health?
That’s not ‘hood; that’s, like, respectable. That’s an enviable trait. That’s a quality that women want in their men - the extension of respect as a peer that applauds her efforts and appreciates her commitment to, you know, making those Escalade payments.
Perhaps it is true that G no longer stands for “gangsta” but, rather, for “gentleman.” Perhaps Ne-Yo’s Year of the Gentleman and its “Miss Independent” single have signaled the antiquation of misogyny in hip-hop and the reformation of the perception of a “trill bitch” - as no longer defined by her dutiful servitude to the hustler and aggressive arrogance that turned her into a universally mocked and unflattering stereotype but, now, as defined by her perseverance and commitment to supporting herself and making her own way in the world. Ludacris took up the torch in the quest for “a lady in the street but a freak in the bed,” and it would seem that our cultural mouthpieces, including the OGs like Snoop, have now recognized that it’s not all ask and ye shall receive but a matter of creating an environment that attracts the type of women they desire and actually encourages women to aspire to the presentation and possession of a lifestyle that’s been deemed worthy (and practically fucking mandatory) in today’s climate of gender equality.
Our rappers got tired of the urbanized Tammy Wynette and ghetto-release Kimora Lee, of the ten-dollars-a-dance “a diva is a female hustler” chick who kept her man's business on the DL and spent his money. Our rappers progressed to the dream of having their own Michelle Obama - ladylike, refined, compassionate, nurturing, collected, composed, and (yes, I’m going to say it; don’t hit me) articulate. And then our rappers discovered that if they want Michelle, they can’t be like Erykah Badu’s man in “Tyrone”; they’ve got to be Barack.
I don’t know if the evolution taking place in hip-hop music’s lyrics is an accurate representation of what’s going on in the streets; I’m white, live in the suburbs (of Minnesota), and shop at Hollister. But I hope it is, and if it’s not, then I hope these artists are attempting to pave the way for social/domestic change and presenting a personal challenge to the dudes who buy their albums.
My excitement for and appreciation of joints like “Day Dreaming” stem from, of course, pure self-interest. I love hip-hop. I used to write and record hip-hop tracks (not saying if they were good or not). I enjoy music from plenty of other genres, but something’s not right if that urban poetry isn’t on my iPod.
By the by and for the record, I don’t propose to know everything about anything in the hip-hop scene. I don’t know who’s doing what, who’s doing whom, and for all I know, for every “Day Dreaming” or “Miss Independent,” there’s 200 “suck my dick, bitch” releases. But I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that what reaches my ears matters and may actually be the only thing that matters because there’s a good chance that if it got through to me, a billion other people are listening to it. As a strip club owner once admonished me, “perception is reality,” and I for one am all in favor of this gangsta-gone-gentleman perception being reality.
But let’s go back to focusing on my self-interest (of course). I love hip-hop. There was a time in my life when hip-hop was talking about me. The celebration of swagger, of stunting and flossing, of recklessly consuming drank and dro and blow, of Apple-bottom jeans and stripper poles… that was my world. I empathized with the artists lamenting the grind of the daily hustle. I got it. Then my life changed. My love of hip-hop, however, did not. And I found myself in a situation where I couldn’t reconcile the disparity between my behavior and the behavior my music encouraged. How could I walk away from a career in the adult sector and pledge sexual abstinence and go to AA meetings, but then comfortably listen to tracks promoting strippers and casual hook-ups and “one more drink”?
So to hear a song like “Day Dreaming” that manages to be both sonically satisfying and as close to morally conscious as popular hip-hop has been in a long time (if ever… but again, I don’t have a doctorate in rap) is pretty awesome. I think it’s great that these hip-hop heavyweights got together and produced something that doesn’t say we have to get drunk and our hallowed objects of desire have to be sexually explicit. Sure, go-go dancers aren’t nuns, but there’s a big difference between jamming out in a bikini and dancing topless or nude for the purpose of profiting from sexual arousal. I think abandoning the over-hyped worship of porn stars and strippers for the slightly-more clothed and slightly-more chaste go-go dancers shows an element of progress, both in terms of morality and respect for women. And, you know, that’s not to say that strip club patrons don’t respect women, but that is to say that not essentially demanding that women be nude or sexually-objectified in order to be appreciated and wanted does imply at least a modicum of respect. What’s more is that these MCs aren’t saying that they have, “in the parlance of our times” (The Big Lebowski reference, what up?), hit it. The go-go dancer is the fantasy girl. We the listeners aren’t subjected to a Lil’ Kim-rated blow-by-blow detailing of a sexual encounter. There isn’t a sexual encounter. What a foreign concept!
Yes, the fourth verse, T.I.’s time on the mic, does venture into familiar territory with lyrics about a big booty, G-strings, and what I’m pretty sure is a euphemism for oral sex (though not even close to being as clever as his “brain so good, could have sworn you went to college” line in “Whatever You Like”), but it’s still just hypothetical, still just what-I-would-like-to-do-if-given-the-chance, still just a fantasy. It’s not necessarily innocent, but it’s a far cry from Luda’s “Splash Waterfalls.” I won’t take issue with the mention of “double-Ds full of silicone and saline” because I happen to be a fan of breast implants (I’ll work that out with God in time), and I don’t think there’s a direct correlation between getting a boob job and being a slut, so it’s not my opinion that T.I. is implying that the go-go dancer must be promiscuous or whatever; the chick is just hot.
All in all and after many more words than I had ever intended to write (and four hours I could have spent doing… well, nothing else), I must conclude that “Day Dreaming” is good shit. I won’t succinctly recap my main points as I would in a proper thesis since this is, you know, an inconsequential blog post, and I didn’t really come up with a predetermined list of specific points anyway. I just do that stream-of-consciousness thing and shrug at wherever the hell I end up. It’s worked out alright for me so far.
YouTube search or download or do whatever it is you do when you want to hear a song. That is, if you want to hear it.
And since I mentioned The Big Lebowski, here are some quotes. Enjoy your laughter.