Huh!? What!? -‐ Uncovering Community and
Identity through Beat’s, Rhymes, and Life in
Amsterdam
Donnie Adams Email: donnieadams@gmail.com Student Number: 5923654Graduate School of Social Sciences
Supervisor: Dr. Y.M van Ede (submitted on Jan. 28th, 2014)
1st Reader: Dr. Matthijs van de Port (submitted on Jan. 30th, 2014) 2nd Reader: Dr. Nienke Muurling (submitted on Jan. 30th, 2014)
Key Words: community, identity, hip-‐hop, Amsterdam, authenticity Word Count: 23, 469
Abstract: In the course of this work the role of identity creation and its relationship to community is examined through a search for the Hip-‐Hop community of Amsterdam and it’s system of maintenance. While the initial research proposal carried the intention of uncovering the characteristics of Hip-‐Hop in Amsterdam, this work’s purpose lies more in arguing for a base understanding of community and identity, which can work to unite all fields of study (especially the social sciences) and people in general. All begins, lives, and ends within our conscious and unconscious individual identity.
Table of Contents
A Moment in Hip Hop? ……… 04
Ch. 1 What is Hip Hop? ……… 09
Searching for a Space ……… 18
Ch. 2 Finding Us and Them: What is Community? ……….………… 28
The Community of Self ……… 44
Ch. 3 Is There a Hip-‐Hop Community? ……….……… 56
Ch. 4 What Am I Doing Here? ……….……… 62 References ………. 68
A Moment in Hip Hop?
Another unexpectedly cold spring day turned to a cold Easter night on the streets of Amsterdam. Riding my bike North from the De Pijp to De Duivel (the devil),
Amsterdam’s premiere Hip Hop bar a 7-‐minute ride away, I couldn’t help but to be enveloped in the eerily quiet streets; it’s 1AM on the second evening of Easter and most places never opened that day and, if they did at all, very few are open now. Along the way, the historic building fronts of Amsterdam seem to camouflage together in darkness and “Gesloten,” creating an uninviting shield of further
coldness to an already chilled evening. I reached every stop light of the route on the red, but there was no need to stop on the empty streets and that was disappointing because I was still a bit intimidated about going to sit in De Duivel alone and “spy” on my community.
I reached the turn and it truly was like the devil’s den. The only open establishment of any sort I’ve seen on the entire route, De Duivel begs your attention with its slightly-‐brighter-‐than-‐blood red paint making the frame of its near floor-‐to-‐ceiling and elbow-‐to-‐elbow front window bleed around the insignia and reflections of red spotlights. The music is bumping. As I ride by, I can see there are definitely more than 15 people inside. I locked up my bike, checked the microphone on my headphones, hit record, and headed inside.
De Duivel is a typical Dutch bar, in that it is long and fairly narrow. There is an open section of about 5 square meters in the front where you enter, then the bar starts to the right, taking up more than half of the width, ending soon enough near the back to have another open space close to the DJ booth elevated to the left of the 1 square meter stage at the right.
As soon as I stepped in and on to the wood of the battle-‐ridden floor, I noticed the DJ was playing an Eve song from the 90s then I glanced at the back and immediately saw a woman, Ayesha, I met two nights ago at a friend’s birthday party. We made eye contact immediately, so I gave a nod and smile, she responded with the same. The room was so dark, but there were lights everywhere. The infrared spotlights on the ceiling made the red walls even more red, while the soft halogen lights
showcasing the playfully deranged art hung around the entire perimeter of the room acting as a halo. Amidst the darkness, brilliant and beautiful light shines through the colorfully stained glass around and behind the bar and covering most of the back wall behind the DJ booth and stage. While the light is, at the least, objective, the insignia and symbolism on all of the stained glass pieces is of some sort of devil.
Almost everyone was seated all the time, except for the DJ and bartender, who were always standing, plus the occasional few that get up to dance. Of the thirty people inside, 10 took their coats off, about 12 were engaged in conversation, and no one, besides the woman I had previously met and the bartender, seemed the least bit inviting; scowling and nodding with the vibe of the music, huddled over a pile of tobacco and marijuana waiting to be rolled, lit, and smoked along with the rest of the ubiquitous joints. De Duivel is not a coffee shop and I’m pretty sure this activity is illegal, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen it in Amsterdam, but this place is small, right on a main strip, and a cop could easily walk in to the middle of that; they must have a pass.
After I got a beer, I went over to say hello to Ayesha. As Mobb Deep??? began to play, I mentioned that it seemed a bit slow and she proceeded to tell me, “Monday! It’s good music… it’s the best music, ‘cus on Friday and Saturday you have a lot of people comin’ in that wanna hear 50 Cent and all of that crap… and a couple of hits, you know, and whatever… but Monday through Thursday, you know because its so quiet, they can just make people happy with what they play instead of getting people
with crazy requests and all that crap because we know, we know!” I told her I was there doing research because I had my microphone on and I didn’t want to betray her trust, but at the same time I didn’t tell her I had a microphone on because I had already betrayed her trust and that of the whole space, but I wanted to capture the music.
A short moment later, I recognized a man I met at the same party two nights ago and he turned out to be Ayesha’s boyfriend. Of the six or seven women inside De Duivel, none seemed to be there alone. One woman was there with Ayesha and all the rest were there with a man they seemed to know already. Ayesha’s boyfriend began asking me how my housing situation was going. I told him that I had an apartment because my fiancée and I needed a bigger space and then he unleashed what was obviously the current trouble of his mind. He began a long tirade about the social housing system and how long he had been waiting for support with housing, only to get a tiny studio and be put back at the end of the waiting list. I wanted to get out of this conversation and at the same time I was completely engaged with the very socially marginalized, young, white, male, Hip-‐Hop fanatic I’ve been telling everyone about.
Regardless of my interest, I broke away from the conversation and found a spot along the wall in the center of the space. From there, De Duivel didn’t seem so uninviting anymore. It became clear to me that no one came there to have a good time that night necessarily. It seemed that everyone was there to release some stress, smoke, and listen to music they liked. Sure, this may be considered a good time, but it appeared to be far more consciously therapeutic then a night out at a bar. Everyone seemed to be breathing the atmosphere, consciously, almost like they were consciously creating it.
Without a doubt though, the master of ceremonies was the DJ. The DJ, a fat white man with glasses, manned the tables from above the crowd and if there was a center of attention at any point throughout the night, it was the DJ. When the DJ played “Party and Bullshit” by the Notorious B.I.G. De Duivel erupted in a simultaneous, “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!” and all eyes go straight to the DJ booth, as to say, “Good job. That’s what we wanted.” This interaction is curious. Who exerts the greater influence, the crowd or the DJ? Certainly, the crowd displays their approval to the DJ, but how much is the DJ working to actually gain the crowds approval? A moment of conflict may provide a better glimpse into this dynamic.
About 45 minutes into my time in the De Duivel the DJ was playing one of the rap anthems of the world, Shook Ones, by Mobb Deep. Immediately everyone showed their excitement for the song, rapping the lyrics before they even started. The song starts and now everyone is completely in the zone, many conversations have
stopped, eyes are up at the DJ, hands are waving, and maybe one head isn’t bobbing. People continue to zone out, probably conjuring up scenes of Eminem in 8 Mile, but about half way into the song the DJ makes a mistake and the record skips. Did I mention the DJ was using records and not CDs or Mp3s? A skip in a record is
something that probably creates a break in the flow less than half a second long, but the effect is tremendous. It seems as if something is being built between the DJ and the audience and when the record skipped it all came crashing down into a million little pieces and there was disappointment everywhere.
At once, the DJ looks up in shock at what has just transpired, he turns to the other two DJs sitting in the corner and gestures that he doesn’t know what happened and then points to one of the turntables as if to say, “There’s something wrong with this deck and that was definitely not my fault. The resting DJs respond with laughs, pointing, and left-‐to-‐right head shaking (the music is too loud to talk). The entire crowd again looks to the DJ and several people erupt into a, “Whoaaaaaa!”
Something extremely wrong happened. I saw millions of things happen this night in De Duivel and this was the only thing I can remember that was obviously not ok, preferred, expected, or appreciated. It was like the DJ was not there to simply play music, but through the act of playing music he was engaging in a very important conversation with the crowd and when the song skipped it was like he cursed during that conversation or picked up a different phone call while the crowd was talking to him. Nevertheless, at the exact same moment of disappointment there was forgiveness. The disappointment was certainly genuine, but so were the smiles that morphed from the frowns created at the original skipping of the song.
People were not only there to hear music, they were there to experience and uphold an entire set of expectations and this instance was just a glimpse into those
expectations. Furthermore, while the DJ is controlling the music, I may have been mistaken about him being the master of ceremonies; I think if he had made two to three more similar mistakes, he would have been taken off stage – seriously. This relationship was paramount to the function of De Duivel, as it is with DJs
everywhere, but how does all of this help answer the question, what is Hip Hop? What did Aisha mean when she explained De Duivel’s Monday night scene, “because its so quiet they can just make people happy with what they play instead of getting people with crazy requests and all that crap because we know, we know!” What is it that we (maybe she was including me to make a we or referencing the other people there) know?
Chapter One
What is Hip Hop?
Hip Hop is most typically defined as a combination of four elements: dj-‐ing, breakdancing, emcee-‐ing (rapping), and graffiti writing. Naturally, all of these
actions don’t usually occur at the same time, place, or space, but the definition sticks as observers try to encapsulate something larger than any one of the elements, a culture. The use of the term Hip-‐Hop is ubiquitous, but it often is not in reference to the combination of the aforementioned elements, but rather something more etheric. This fuzzy space of what Hip Hop means is often either ignored in academic writing and conversation amongst participants or simplified through the focus of the author/speaker. In Ian Condry’s Hip-‐Hop Japan he explains:
Some people complain that studies of hip-‐hop tend to put too much emphasis on rap to the exclusion of other elements, I agree that entire books could, and I hope will, be written on Japan’s break-‐dance, deejay, and graffiti scenes. My choice of topic is not meant to suggest that rapping is the most important part of hip-‐hop. Rather, I find rap particularly instructive because it is the most commercially successful aspect of hip-‐hop and because it involves a deep engagement with the language. Although I have titled the book “hip-‐hop Japan,” and in part I aim to provide a broad-‐based overview, I am acutely aware that this monograph captures only a small fraction of hip-‐hop’s diverse manifestations (Condry, 2006: 220).
Condry’s work focuses on “sites of performance, what artists and fans call the Genba, or the actual site, of the Japanese hip-‐hop scene, referring to the all-‐night dance clubs where the combined efforts of artists, fans, and promoters fed the fire”
(Condry, 2006: 2). While the commercialization of Hip-‐Hop is something I will touch on later in this work, it inherently escapes the underlying meaning fueling actor’s connection to what is called Hip-‐Hop. While rap (which is not the same as the accompanying music [beat], but is difficult to separate from it) may be the most
ubiquitous form of what is known as Hip-‐Hop, it’s not the rap itself that seems to be the attraction, but more of what is felt by the person engaging in doing it or
listening. Condry’s Genba clearly states it’s intention, members, and reason for being, whereas the scene at De Duivel is far more illusive in its comprehension and purpose, but it is by far and away considered the preeminent location for Hip-‐Hop in Amsterdam. So again, we arrive at the question, what is Hip Hop?
Anthropologists and sociologists deal with this and similar questions with a combination of creating a spatial (time or physical) or categorical/conceptual (culture, community, style) boxes to hold definitions, often in conjunction with demographical characteristics and unique observations and anecdotes. These efforts are often party to or completely motivated by the researcher’s admitted inability to deal with the vast scope of the issue on nearly any level. Condry explains:
I came to this project as a graduate student in cultural anthropology interested in the intersection of global and local cultures (and also as a fan of American hip-‐hop). After listening to some albums by the Japanese groups, Rhymester and Scha Dara Parr, I was struck by what unique perspectives they brought to their society. I decided that depicting what Japan looked like from the perspective of a Japanese rapper would add something I had yet to see in my years of studying Japanese culture. But when I began fieldwork in the fall of 1995, the number of potential sites was daunting. There were the places where the music was produced: record companies, recording studios, home studios, and in some cases on trains (some artists programmed beats using portable, handheld synthesizers). There were the places where the music was promoted: music magazines, fashion magazines, TV and radio shows, nightclubs, and record stores. There was also the interaction between musicians and fans to be observed at live shows or in mediated form on cassettes, CDs, and twelve-‐inch LPs. Besides, hip-‐hop includes not only rap music but also breakdancing, deejaying, and graffiti, and all of these aspects took their own shape in Japan. One of the tenets of anthropological fieldwork is that you cannot understand a people without being there, but in the case of hip-‐hop, where is “there” (Condry, 2006: 5)?
As the question, what is hip-‐hop, lingers, a new question emerges; what is this space the social scientist reaches for that is so difficult to grasp? As Condry explains the approach to his fieldwork he describes the overwhelming diversity of his subject. Within his examples there are clues as to where “there” is. “There” seems to be spread between the seat of artist’s expression and the consumption of the products of that expression, but put in this light, what is hip-‐hop about this movement? Was Andy Warhol hip-‐hop? Could one just as easily be talking about Frank Mason Robinson (he designed the Coca-‐Cola logo 125 years ago)(www.wikipedia.org “Frank Mason Robinson,,” January 17, 2014)? Yes, hip-‐hop “passed all your tall social hurdles” (Mos Def, 1999: track 16) and completely exploded down mainstreams worldwide, but is this mainstream explosion, this chronic capitalization, is that what hip-‐hop is? Of course not! It’s just something that happens with popular products. Why is Coke popular is one question, but carbonated water, sugar, caffeine, phosphoric acid, caramel color (E150d), and natural flavorings is what it is (www.wikipedia.org, Coca-‐Cola: Ingredients, January 18, 2014, para. 33). Is there a recipe or formula for Hip-‐Hop?
Mos Def, a rapper from Brooklyn, New York states on his debut album, Black on Both Sides (a reference to the pejorative slang Oreo, where a black person is criticized for being black on the outside, but white within), “When you want to know where hip-‐ hop is going, ask yourself, ‘Where am I going? How am I doing?’ until you get a clear idea.” For Mos Def the answer to Condry’s question is simple: do not divide yourself from what it is you are trying to understand. How is Hip-‐Hop in Japan? Are you Hip-‐ Hop? Are you in Japan? Are you Hip-‐Hop in Japan? Well, how are you? While this may seem to be a gross oversimplification, it may be exactly the space necessary to investigate such a question. What can be seen that is not already known, being experienced, felt, or contemplated?
During my stay in Amsterdam I met, worked with, and befriended a Dutch rapper named Mathijs who goes by the moniker De Prof. When we sat down for an
interview my first question was, “How long has Hip-‐Hop been in your life?” Without a moment’s hesitation he answered, “12 years. No 14 years.” I continued, “How did you come up with that number?” He answered, “because I was 12 and now I’m 26.” He proceeded to tell a story of a guy selling burned CDs in school and when he inquired for a purchase he heard the name LL Cool J (an American rapper from Queens, NYC, New York)?, it sounded familiar, so he bought it, and thus had his “first Hip Hop CD.”
ME “So what album was it?”
MATHIJS “It was a compilation and Mama Said Knock You Out was the first song on the album. So I played it and I was like, “Damn!” …
[We both sing the first lines] “’Don’t call it a come back, Ugh!, I been here for years!’”
MATHIJS “And that was so dope because he only says ‘Don’t call it a come back’ and then he says, ‘Ugh!’ like he just said some amazing shit.”
ME “What did he say that made you interested even if you didn’t think it was amazing.”
MATHIJS “Well I did think it was amazing.”
ME “Why did you think it was amazing. What was attractive about it?”
MATHIJS “It sounded like raw, like hard!”
ME “Why did that sound good?”
MATHIJS “I don’t know, I just liked that.”
First, I ask Mathijs to date his relationship with Hip-‐Hop. This question alone is full of assumptions. Firstly, that we both know what is meant when I say Hip-‐Hop. This question comes at the very beginning of the interview. He doesn’t hesitate to decide if I know what I’m talking about, if I will understand his meaning of Hip-‐Hop, or any
other deliberation. As far as I could observe being there and listening back, there isn’t any doubt or lapse in communication between the two of us as the question is posed and the answer given. What did we share in that moment? Was it a silent agreement to keep conversation going no matter what – certainly not on my end. What is clear however is that on some level Mathijs equated Hip-‐Hop with music, music with a rapper.
His memory of the moment was sharp, detailed, and seemingly fresh in his mind. As he recalls the first track on the album, the classic Mama Said Knock You Out, his excitement was obvious. A smile grew widely across his face as we both began to sing the lyrics in identical time and imitating the emphasis with which LL Cool J originally delivered the lines. Nowadays, rappers are often judged by their use of clever wordplay, similes, metaphors, and insults with great flows over the music, but here LL just exclaims “Don’t call it a comeback!” before he grunts to let you absorb the line. Hence, it’s funny as Mathijs points out that he acts as if “he just said some amazing shit.” However, as Mathijs points out, it wasn’t that what he said was necessarily amazing, but how he said it; “It sounded like raw, like hard!” This was the feeling that Mathijs connected with and the feeling that connected him with Hip-‐ Hop from that moment on. As we examine this recollection, what serves as the definition of Hip-‐Hop -‐ or more importantly, what was at the root of connection between Mathijs and LL Cool J? Certainly there seems to be identification with the rawness and aggressive nature of LL’s delivery. What is the root of that rawness in Mathijs, that aggressive nature? Whatever it’s root in Mathijs, he says this was when Hip-‐Hop entered his life, so the root of what connected him to this moment could not have possibly been Hip-‐Hop, unless of course Hip Hop is not music, the four aforementioned elements, the commercialization of artistry, or the frantic
networking occurring in Japan’s Genba scene. The engagement with Hip-‐Hop may be observed to live between a person and an event/thing, but another possible
Sitting down with Ashanti Richardson, a communications major, DJ, emcee (rapper), and photographer born in St. Maarten and raised in Amsterdam, we get another look at the illusiveness of saying what is Hip-‐Hop versus the ease with which it can be spoken about. I first met Ashanti in 2010 while she was Dj-‐ing after I performed a show bringing in the New Year. I was immediately struck by her use of vinyl records versus MP3s or CDs. Interviewing her three years later she highlights the personal nature of her relationship to Hip-‐Hop and what Hip-‐Hop means.
ME So, what is Hip-‐Hop then? And not necessarily what music is Hip-‐Hop, but what is Hip-‐Hop? What is the definition of Hip-‐Hop?
ASHANTI I think if that were a simple question then there would be a definition. I don’t think there is one definition at this point people never agree but to me Hip-‐ Hop is more like a way of life, a choice in living. Yeah, like keeping it real, but then, really, that right now is just a corny line that people who don’t keep it real use to seem like they’re keeping it real.
ME You said it would be a privilege to be seen as Hip-‐Hop, so if Hip-‐Hop is a way of life how do you know somebody’s living it?
ASHANTI Wow…
ME Or even that you’re living it?
ASHANTI Because I can’t necessarily define it for another person if their living it or, it’s kind of difficult to tell maybe that’s why I would not so quickly say I am Hip Hop. I think that it’s quite difficult for me. It’s like more like a feeling thing it’s just like you can never be sure if it’s the case or not but sometimes you just see someone or you meet someone and you have a conversation and you can really link and then you know (laughter)
ME Then you know (laughter)
ASHANTI Yeah, it’s kind of, it is kind of vague though, but you know, I think it’d have to be staying true to yourself as well. Like not trying to be something you’re not and just sticking with that.
Again we are confronted with an understanding of Hip Hop, which seems to be completely above the ubiquitous and static four-‐element definition and resting in a
space allowing for application to almost any person on the planet. Immediately Ashanti recognizes that the question is extremely difficult, but we had also been discussing the topic freely for more than 15 minutes at that point. She says it would be a privilege to be seen as Hip-‐Hop, in reference to those she clearly identifies with Hip-‐Hop (I mentioned KRS-‐ONE, Mos Def, and Talib Kweli)1, but at the same time
when it comes to describing what Hip-‐Hop is she doesn’t describe these people. Instead, she delves into an idea of authenticity, not necessarily authentically Hip-‐ Hop, but just authentic in general. While I won’t delve into the labyrinth of what is authenticity, suffice it to say that Ashanti is overwhelmingly claiming that Hip-‐Hop is something that can only be seen or experienced personally. As for the
commercialization, which Condry focuses on, Ashanti had this to say:
“… if you say like a Mos Def or a Talib Kweli, Black Star ummm, to me that’s Hip-‐Hop. And if you ask me how is Hip-‐Hop doing I think Hip-‐ Hop is doing just fine because I’m just selective in what I call Hip-‐Hop cus if you have like the whole 50 cent trap movement whatever like uh I don’t know lil john thing … to me that is simply not Hip-‐Hop if that would be Hip-‐Hop then I would say maybe Hip-‐Hop is sick it’s not okay but its not cus it doesn’t really have that much to do with Hip-‐ Hop because I think Hip-‐Hop is expressing yourself to me its something genuine and once you take that out and make it something purely commercial trying to reach as many people as you can just to make a lot of money that has nothing to do with Hip-‐Hop its just, its just marketing.”
The condemnation of commercialized anything is a popular sentiment in
conversations about Hip-‐Hop, both academic and amongst the actors (artists and fans). Hip-‐Hop music has long been split between the underground and the
1 KRS-‐ONE was a popular and influential rapper in the 80s as part of Boogie Down Productions and for the past 20 years as a solo artist. KRS is known for his music, being instrumental in the evolution of rapping, and his work to cement the understanding of Hip Hop through the creation of The Temple of Hip Hop, a literary work and foundation “for the spiritual exploration of Hip Hop’s culture”
(www.krs-‐one.com/about. January 23, 2014, 3pp). Talib Kweli and Mos Def shared their first major release as the duo Blackstar, a reference to Marcus Garvey’s Black Star Line of ships taking African Americans “back” to Africa by way of Liberia. The duo’s self-‐titled album and previous features and mixtape work cemented them as the new leaders of the underground, conscious, back-‐pack Hip Hop sphere in the late 90s. Since then, they’ve continued to represent the anti-‐commercial, artistic, and positive identity of Hip Hop music.
mainstream within and beyond its ranks. A great deal of rapping concerns the condemnation (dissing [a slang for disrespecting]) of other rappers, rap styles, but more often the entire character of a person. This person can be a specific individual, but is more frequently a hypothetical person who personifies the polar opposite of character the rapper claims to embody. It is here where one can begin to see how Hip-‐Hop can be regarded as representing more than music, but, similarly to
Ashanti’s previous comments, as an entire way of thinking, acting, living, and dying. For instance, the song that caused an eruption in De Duivel during my first
observation, Shook Ones by Mobb Deep, has the following lyrics in it’s chorus and first verse by rapper Havoc:
To all the killers and the hundred dollar billers/ For real niggas who ain’t got no feelings…
I got you stuck off the realness/ we be the infamous you heard of us/ official Queen’s bridge murderers/ the Mobb comes equipped for warfare/ beware of my crime family who got ‘nuff shots to share for all those/ who wanna profile and pose/ rock you in your face stab your brain with your nose bone/ you all alone in these streets cousin/ every man for they self in this land we be gunnin’/ and keep them shook crews running/ like they supposed to/ they come around but they never come close to/ I can see it inside your face/ you in the wrong place/ cowards like you just get they whole body laced up/ with bullet holes and such/ speak the wrong words man and you will get touched/ you can put your whole army against my team and/ I guarantee you it’ll be your very last time breathing/ your simple words just don’t move me/ you’re minor we major/ you all up in the game and don’t deserve to be a player/ don’t make me have to call your name out/ your crew is featherweight/ my gunshots will make you levitate/ I’m only 19 but my mind is old/ and when the things get for real my warm heart turns cold/ another nigga deceased/ another story gets told/ it ain’t nothing really/ hey yo dun spark the Philly/ so I can get my mind off these yellow back niggas/ why they still alive I don’t know go figure/ meanwhile back in Queens the realness the foundation if I die/ I couldn’t choose a better location/ when the slugs penetrate/ you feel a burning sensation getting closer to god/ you in a tight situation now/ take these words home and think it through/ or the next rhyme I write might be about you
Son they shook ‘cus ain’t no such things as halfway crooks scared to death and scared to look chorus repeats
Living the life that of diamonds and guns/ there’s numerous ways you can choose to earn funds/ some get shot locked down and turn none/ cowardly hearts and straight up shook ones
He ain’t a crook son
He just a shook one (Mobb Deep, 1995, track 15)
That night in De Duivel, most people sang and mouthed the lyrics to this song, word for word. I just typed the lyrics in this paper from memory and checked with the song finding I made 7 mistakes, mostly prepositions (this accomplishment gives me a sense of pride). As you can see, there are a lot of words in the average rap song. There are probably more words in some rap songs then there are in some entire operas. Rap can be and often is, directly in the face of the issue, clearly stating its assumed identity, accompanying behavior, desires, and values. How does one go about defining the meaning or character of Havoc’s words? All of this you’re experiencing now, reading, without hearing the dark and eerie beat (produced by Havoc) the rap flows along. Through rap, Hip-‐Hop speaks for itself. Consequently, it is often easier to say what it isn’t than what it is. Mathijs made this point clear when I asked, “When did you first remember learning that Hip Hop might be something more than music?” He answered, “That happened as I was listening to it. I started knowing it’s not only rap. Because at first you just listen to rap, you know, I like the sound… As you get older you start to understand the lyrics and actually the emcees told me about Hip-‐Hop.” Conversely, when I asked him, “When was that moment you thought to yourself this is bigger than music,” looking for a specific anecdotal moment, he answered, “After Hip-‐Hop came djing and beginning to understand that’s a part of it and later on there was the dancing, the breaking, and the graffiti came last.” In the earlier response Mathijs states that emcees told him about Hip-‐ Hop, but in the next statement (this was the order of the questions as they occurred) he uses the term ‘Hip-‐Hop’ to refer to rap then he refers back to the four elements to
be able to say what Hip-‐Hop is if it’s bigger than music. At the very beginning of our conversation I asked Mathijs the direct question, “Are you Hip-‐Hop?”
MATHIJS “Yeah.”
ME “Why?”
MATHIJS “Because I think you are Hip Hop if you do something with Hip Hop and that could be listening to it, making it, dancing, breaking, whatever.”
ME “Do you have to listen to it a certain amount? What if I listen to one Hip-‐Hop song every month.”
MATHIJS “I do think you have to listen to it a certain amount, but being Hip Hop is not really something to reach like “now I am Hip Hop.” [Laughter] I think you know for yourself if you are Hip Hop or not… I think people listening to it a lot or making Hip-‐Hop I think that is Hip-‐Hop, if you live it, if you consider it a big part of your life.”
Again we have Hip-‐Hop compared to the entirety of a life, a present life, something you are when you are who you are, not who you were or who you’re going to be, but who you are right now, in physical/material reality and/or the feeling in your current intention.
Searching for a Space
Michael Jackson recognizes the diversity available in the examination of any facet of life a researcher may seek and gets deep at the issue in an attempt to find the
greatest value in ethnographic work. In his 2005 work, Existential Anthropology he states the following:
As I see it, an ethnography of events seeks to explore the interplay of the singular and shared, the private and the public, as well as the relationship between personal reasons and impersonal causes in the constitution of events (see Davidson 1980). As such, it approaches everyday life from an existential point of view – as a series of situations whose challenges and implications always ramify beyond the sociocultural (cf. Malkki 1997: 87)… When I speak of the sense of
an event, I mean the irreducibility of its meaning. When I speak of the significance of an event, I mean its social and ethical ramifications. (Jackson, 2005: xxvi-‐xxvii).
Surely, the sense or significance of an event may be terribly difficult to grapple with, but only because the event is a synergy of personal sense and significance, which on an individual level may be only as deep as a conversation. Later in my conversation with Mathijs he mentioned that his father died not more than two months before he got that first Hip-‐Hop CD, that LL Cool J, that Mama Said Knock You Out, that “raw” and “hard” sound that he didn’t know why he liked. The idea of this connection gets at the heart of that fuzzy space connecting the pieces carved out by social scientist.
Michael Jackson goes on to say:
Methodologically, it is difficult, if not impossible to produce systematic analyses of the struggle for existence in the way one might produce, for example, analyses of the Darwinian struggle for survival or ‘the lineage system’ of the Tallensi. The reason is that we can never grasp intellectually all the variables at play of any action or all the repercussions that follow from it, partly because they are so variously and intricately nuanced, and partly because they are embedded in singular biographies as well as social histories (Jackson, 2005: xxv).
Thus, the diversity is broken down to a dichotomous ‘singular biographies’ and ‘social histories’ and consequently Jackson presents events as the quintessential moments to capture the crossroads of these phenomena. However, as one can observe in the attempt to define Hip-‐Hop, the idea of something that is being lived is very difficult to capture because of it’s personal nature, the personal perspective and ‘karma’ as Jackson calls it; but is it “impossible to produce a systematic analysis of the struggle for existence?” Some would argue that psychology as a science is that very systematic analyses of the struggle for existence. Regardless, it’s clear that any attempt at a systematic analysis would have to be based on a commonality shared between all human beings. Possibly there is a clue deeper in the question; what is the “the struggle for existence?” What exactly is entailed in this struggle for existence? Ashanti sheds some light on a potential understanding of what this
struggle for existence actually entails. In her continued attempt to define Hip-‐Hop she says, “Yeah, it’s kinda, it is kinda vague though, but you know I think it’d have to be staying true to yourself as well. Like not trying to be something you’re not and just sticking with that.”
ME So… let’s say uhhh… like Van Gogh, you know he was true to himself and could we call him Hip-‐Hop?
ASHANTI Uhhh, I wouldn’t necessarily call him Hip-‐Hop, could call him a lot of things…if he’s Hip-‐Hop then I’m Hip-‐Hop so hey.
ME So, alright.
ASHANTI Yeah, you know but uhhh I guess it’s more complicated than that, I think there’s a lot of things that for me have to be unconscious in my definition of Hip-‐Hop that I’m only coming to realize at this point. It’s just, a basic way of living in how you treat others and how you put yourself into this life to put it that way and how you conduct yourself and I bet that if you would ask me a lot of questions like these two sided questions, like is this Hip-‐Hop or that, I’d probably be able to answer all of them but if you ask me to like…
ME Yeah, give me one thing,
ASHANTI Well yeah, just one definition, cus I would say staying true to yourself, but then apparently there are people who are Hip-‐Hop and then aren’t true to
themselves, aren’t Hip-‐Hop and are true to themselves and it’s just that a lot of people try to pull off this style like Hip-‐Hop as a style and that’s where it kinda goes wrong… People take like an identity that they look up to or that they like and then imitate this style that can’t actually make the identity there own because it’s not their own.
ME Well whose it? Who does it belong to?
ASHANTI Well your identity doesn’t belong to anyone.
ME Well, I mean the Hip-‐Hop identity, like for these people who try to take it up and copy the style but they can’t because it’s not really their own identity why can’t they?
ASHANTI I think they just see a certain kinda, swag, a certain kind of
comfortableness in their skin, a certain kind of boldness, a certain kind of, in a way it’s like a little bit of a rebel or like standing up for yourself and you know, like, if you see someone that has their beliefs and stands up for their beliefs I think that that’s a
beautiful thing and it’s something you can look up to but imitating someone that has vast beliefs and stands up for them and if that would be like equality of justice or just uh consciousness like for me it’s being conscious about the world you’re in is a big deal and consciously conducting yourself is a big deal but if you try to imitate that without incorporating it into yourself and just trying to reenact that so you get a certain kind of prestige that’s when it kinda it goes wrong.
As Havoc begins in Shook Ones, “We got you stuck off the realness;” this is at the core of what it seems Ashanti is attempting to point out as Hip-‐Hop. What does it mean to be true to one self? Does it entail an internal dialogue, which determines the course of your actions, your external appearance and the content of your interactions with society? Do you give a cheerful smile and good morning shout to your neighbor when you are feeling completely depressed and angry? Is this ‘keeping it real?’ Is not everyone living a real life? Where are the demarcations for real and fake?
Ashanti notices during her comments that there are unconscious aspects of her definition of Hip-‐Hop. Is it possible that people are often unconscious of what being true to themselves actually means? Even more likely is that a person may not be completely aware of why they feel something is important or significant. Where do our definitions and understandings of the ideas which guide our life reside?
Again and again, Ashanti alludes to a way of living; an idea of identity as not only who you are, but also how you live. This is the intersection between Jackson’s ‘sense’ and ‘significance’ (Jackson, xxvii) whereas who you are would rest in the sense and how you live in society would determine a great deal of the significance. Jackson brings this to the event with the understanding that many people bring their sense and, as I would say, their own significance to the public sphere and therefor an interaction occurs which creates definition. However, as one can see with Ashanti’s attempt to grapple with the definition, the interpretation of events is still a very personal occurrence. While there may be a great amount of information and influences from the public spheres, close friends, family, media, and every other
