Hip-Hop Dying to Grieve 50 Years Later
“Rap is to die for.”
Death’s sting will prolong without grief. Scott La Rock (25), Danny D-Boy Rodriguez (22), Charizma (20), Stretch (27), and Big L (24) are among the earliest golden era legacies whose lives were shortened by gun violence. And nowadays, many artists die while not yet in reach of heart or liver-related illnesses— Juice WRLD and Big Scarr.
Recurring tragedy forces us to reimagine the possibilities of hip-hop. 50 years later, remembering Pac and Biggie’s untimely passings invoke bleak visions from 96 and 97.
As of November 1st, 2022, we’ve painfully envisioned a new trajectory for Migos and Atlanta’s rap scene, one without Takeoff. Hip-hop is burdened to show up for dejected families, help rethink futures, and reallocate resources from disrupted lives and legacies. It can no longer hide hands faintly stained with dried blood.
Vulgarizing rap as a violent art form is a lazy assessment and faulty premise. It paints it with a broad brush, so we cannot do that here. Hip-hop, the culture, is considerably toned with unethical vehemence, and rap, as its epicenter, is the conduit for relaying violent stories and lyrics. We shouldn’t relieve ourselves of the responsibility to study its journey– acknowledge its hiccups and shortfalls and be honest about them.
In 2022, A.D. Carson, educator and assistant professor of Hip-Hop & the Global South at the University of Virginia, wrote about rap as a microcosm of American violence and a symptom of this country’s obsession with guns. But as participators and those who celebrate the art, we must stop–not only briefly– to tend to its ailments, as this is a world we live in. We have to slow down.
Our responsibility is to sit within the weight of heavy moments and actively grieve its losses– past posthumous albums and new-aged internet confabs, outside of mystifying and sensationalizing the unsolved murders of legends and theorizing about their career trajectories. Speedy tributes won’t patch up deep wounds. It needs a new language to manage its scars and heal what death has cut.
Unfortunately, violence is the lingo, the lexicon for storytelling and communication. Foul mouths go unchecked, and mistakes are forgotten as often as lyrics are. It’s the season's climate as opposed to the day’s weather. But if it can’t unlearn this language, in the meantime, it can learn to grieve well and create a culture that nurtures its stars rather than burdens them and evokes paranoia.
In rap– particularly the landscape of gangsta rap– over time, there has been a fixation with death and killing or using them as props to bolster invulnerability or ruggedness. We see this as early as Ice T’s “Cop Killer” in 1992.
A young Notorious B.I.G. titled his debut album in 94, “Ready to Die,” and penned lyrical confessions of his bouts with dying on “Suicidal Thoughts.” Rap zealots vividly know the uncanny opening lyrics. Trick Daddy’s first words in 2001’s “Can’t F* Wit Me” are known commonly from North to South Florida. In colorless, monotone vocals, Kendrick Lamar named 17 ways he could die in his song “FEAR” from DAMN in 2017. In “On The Floor” from his 2020 project, “Ion Feel Nun,” EST Gee boasts, “riding through Detroit in the same cat that I got shot in.” Machismo is tethered to coping with and enduring the reality of death.
Bravado is in the stories of gunshot wounds leading to record deals and streams rather than wheelchairs or the graveyard. Young Dolph knew he could maneuver his way out of death’s path and mocked it in 10-tracks and 31 minutes in 2017’s “Bulletproof.” Death is less of the end and more of an obstacle or intermission in the story.
Trailblazers are aging out of the game, where sixty years' worth of experiences are now packed into 20-30-year-old bodies.
As in the early rap days, careers lasting more than 10 years are rarities worth celebrating, and Jay, Nas, Snoop, and Dr Dre are all blessed with lives past half a century. Seeing gray hair has slowly become a privilege– more than experiencing boundless riches. Death is widening the chasm between eras, and young cats risk dying before grabbing the torches they’re entrusted with.
As well as this, an art form crafted by the youth attempts to seize a rapper’s life before they outgrow the mold. The fight to break through becomes the struggle to break out. But black men deserve to grow old. And one thing is sure— in the industry and systemically– they are deemed disposable. They must learn to walk within disposable bodies, and celebrate each other now rather than reserve flowers for the grave. Lean into extended periods of grief, because the culture will only pause briefly to acknowledge death and dispute whether you deserved it.
Compassion for black death usually waits until we arrive at a consensus for the reason someone dies. In the aftermath of Trayvon Martin’s murder in 2012, the country openly debated whether a black boy deserved to live. The trial was broadcast, and every secret lay defenseless in the eye of the public.
Strangely, most black men consider this could’ve been them and, at some point in life, have imagined all our experiences mirror one another. This may not be getting shot six times on our 21st birthday (Shéyaa “21 Savage”), being gunned down while buying cookies (Adolph “Young Dolph”), having 20 rounds dumped into the car we’re in while at a red light (Keyanta “Yungeen Ace”), or being at the opposite end of a fist, knife, or knee. But resounding in the inaccessible parts of the mind, a violent death was more imaginable than peaceful rest– even for the quiet one in the rap group (Kirshnik “Takeoff”).
If the longevity of the average rapper (today) determined Hip-hop's life expectancy, it regrettably wouldn’t have existed longer than most artists– some fade, and some, sadly, die. But it emits the work, legacy, and voices of dead men, like the eerie walls and portraits in a haunted house. And most of these are remnants of those slain by a bullet.
Mo3, Dolph, Trouble, and recent artists like Takeoff and JayDaYoungan, were met by bullets. Some during the peace in harmless routines– others while already drifting into havoc.
But even when inconvenienced by violence, rappers are blamed for their deaths because many think they invited it as if through some lyrical seance. Do our words really bring us closer to death? In the same way, men suspect women invite harassment in a culture that already rages war on their bodies. But trauma doesn’t need an invitation, and corrupt principles fuel the country’s engine.
We can agree that Hip-hop remains in the eye of a storm. We must realize that grieving connects the pain of losing someone with the reassurance that hope is accessible and can restore and heal us during their absence.
We grieve differently when we understand hope is present. We’re all dying to grieve, and someone repeatedly dying is how it’s mastered. If we can’t moderate killing, we can teach lament. And, 50 years later, we can eerily say hip-hop will live on, even if rappers continue to die.
Told by: Kwon
